#Jamie wanted her to stay SO BAD | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

woewriting · 1 year ago

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turning point (g!p)

pairing: tara carpenter | reader summary: tara calls you to rescue her from a bad date and things take a surprising turn. word count: 3726 warnings: mdni, +18 only! no ghostface au, reader has a dick, friends with benefits (?), clothed sex, language, smut in general. a/n: will you guys believe if i say the date part was inspired by a terrible date my coworker had? because it was and @wesstars is the proof of it!

masterlist

When the 7th episode of season 4 of Stranger Things started you felt your phone vibrating somewhere in between the cozy blankets. As you blindly looked for it, eyes focused on the TV in front of your bed, you felt it vibrating once again, but this time more than once.

Holding the phone in your hands, the name “tara” followed by a small heart emoji showed on the screen with 4 messages attached to it. Pausing the episode, you unlocked the device.

tara ♥︎ can you come pick me up? please this is the worst date ever 😭

Sewing your eyebrows together, you were quick to reply, asking for her location.

tara ♥︎ im at the motel near the campus, green valley or something chad is showering and i told him i’d take an uber home because i wasn't feeling well and didn’t want to stay anymore please come fast

Typing a simple “omw”, you grabbed your hoodie, throwing it over the white tank top you usually wore to sleep along with sweat shorts that easily became a second skin.

It was easy to spot the building as a gigantic green neon sign took over most of the illumination of the empty street. You parked in front of it, patiently waiting for your best-friend as you sent a message letting her know you arrived. The place seemed expensive and well cleaned, unlike most cheap motels that took over the right side of the street near the campus of your college, still, it didn't appetize you to walk in.

Soon, the younger Carpenter ran towards you, sighing in relief when she jumped into the car.

“That bad, huh?” You asked with a laugh, setting the first gear ready to go back home.

“You have no idea.” Tara whined, turning on the heat, complaining about how cold it was outside in a whisper. “I'll tell you everything when we get home.”

“I'm watching Stranger Things.” The focus on the road in front of you as you took a right turn didn't allow you to see the indignation expression on her face, more dramatic than it was necessary.

“Is Stranger Things more important than me?”

“I’m about to find out what happened at the Hawkins Lab…” You continued, trying to convince her of your cause, but her next words made you look at her with raised eyebrows, a convinced smile of someone who won drawing her lips.

“He has a small dick.”

“I'm all ears, princess.”

The return home didn’t take more than 10 minutes, especially with empty roads and yellow sign lights. Tara started telling about her date from the second it started, which was 5PM, the exact time she started to get ready. Honestly, none of that was necessary to reach the part that it all went downhill, but you didn’t dare to interrupt, you paid attention to every word Tara was saying as you carefully parked your car in your designated spot.

The second the elevator stopped on your floor, Tara had finished telling you about the dinner part of her date.

According to her, the food wasn't bad, but the place was crowded and the music playing was so annoying that it became a bit too much for her. It was already hard to pay attention to anything Chad was saying as the others' conversation was caught in the middle, stealing her attention, all she could was nod and smile, like one of the Penguins from Madagascar.

You laughed at her indignation and the small wrinkle in between her eyebrows, opening the door and giving her space to walk in. Kicking your shoes away, the both of you automatically walked to the door at the end of the small hallway of your apartment, the episode 7 of Stranger Things’ last season still on pause when you sat on the bed being followed by Tara; Jamie Campbell’s beautiful blue eyes on the screen.

“... and after we got to the motel, things were heating up and his hands were on my ass and he kept pushing me against him and…” Tara stopped talking after noticing the disgusted expression on your face as you made yourself comfortable on the bed. The girl sat right by your side. “I will not spare any details.”

“I’m seriously considering automatically deleting every explicit part of it.” You retorted, shifting uncomfortably against the headboard.

Despite the years of friendship you and Tara had, from Junior High all the way to college — where you both were right now, nothing touchy ever happened between the two of you, not even a single, drunk kiss at parties. You two were close, of course, but not this close, and hearing the vulgar words easily slipping out of her mouth was creating a weird feeling inside your chest.

“I don’t care.” The girl rolled her eyes, moving closer to you. “Continuing, Chad is gentle, nice, and it feels good to be with him, but ugh… I couldn’t even feel anything when I was sitting on his lap.” You let out a small laugh, scratching your eyebrow. That wasn’t the first time Tara rambled about a bad date, but this was Chad, a common friend, and someone that the young Carpenter had a genuine interest in. At this point, that interest had disappeared into thin air. “And when he removed his pants, he had this military patch underwear and black socks on and it was a huge turn off.”

“Black socks really do sucks…”

“I know!” The exasperated way she agreed with you made you laugh, her hand resting near your knee. “Can you believe he didn’t want to take them off? He said he has cold feet.” Her face fell against your thigh, a tired sighing leaving her mouth, hot breath hitting your bate skin. “I should’ve ran when he said that.” Tara mumbled.

Your hand naturally rested on her head in a soft petting, “You really should have.”

The brunette moved a little, laying on her side with her cheek still resting on your leg to feel the soothing moves of your fingers on her hair. The new position gave her a small vision of what's beneath the thick fabric of your shorts, the hem of black boxers peeking through. She looked away, crimson color on her cheeks as she continued the events of the night.

“But, it’s Chad, so I decided to ignore that ridiculous sock and continue.” You nodded your head. “He removed that equally annoying underwear and I swear to God! It was smaller than my hand, and my hands aren’t that big! Look.” To prove her point, she held your other hand, measuring it with her own. She intertwined your fingers together after you agreed with her, resting them both on her chest. “But I was like… okay, it’s not big but maybe he can be good with his tongue.”

“Oh, God.” You choke, closing your eyes. “I will never be able to look at him again.”

“Imagine how I feel!” Tara whined. “But then I thought to myself, he’s a terrible kisser; if he doesn’t know how to use his tongue on my mouth, imagine how bad it’ll be when he use it on my pu—”

“Okay! Let’s not use those explicit words, please.” You interrupted her, shifting again. “But damn, is that guy good at anything?”

“He has a nice body… from the waist up.” This time neither of you could hold back the laugh, the delightful sound of her laughing mixed with yours filled the room for a couple minutes, your hand still playing with the soft strands that spread across your leg. “Chad is a nice guy, but… that’s not enough for me, you know? I crave touching, feeling something. And he was so small I would barely feel anything.” Tara cried out, covering her face with her free hand as the other still held yours against her chest.

“I’m not a sexual freak or anything but I agree, at least the kiss has to be good. So that’s when you messaged me?”

“I wish.” It was your turn to sigh loudly. “We kept going and when I asked him to wear protection, you won’t believe it…”

“He didn’t have any?”

“Oh, he did.” She bit her lower lip, hand still covering her eyes as the images played like a broken record behind her closed lids. “After that awkward moment where he put it on, he got soft.”

“Maybe it was too tight or something, that can be an annoying bother.” You tried defending your friend, but the girl denied with her head, pursing her lips together, deciding if she should say it or not, but after all the details she already had shared, this one wouldn’t matter either.

“It was loose. It was the smallest size and it still was big for him.”

“Jesus Christ. I am deleting every photo I have with him. I can’t bear looking him in the eyes after knowing all of that.” Once again, your laugh filled the bedroom, making Tara look at you with narrowed eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Is it me?” You tilted your head to the side in confusion. “Am I the problem?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe I’m a terrible kisser and that’s why it didn’t fit.” She explained, looking at you.”Do you think I’m hot?”

“Where did that come from?”

“The deepest part of my curious brain.” Tara sat back up, resting her hand and yours on her thigh. “Now answer me, am I hot?”

“You are hot, Tara.” You rolled your eyes. “I’m sure the problem wasn’t you. Maybe he was just nervous to be with you, I don’t know.”

“That does make me the problem.” Her eyes never left yours, looking for a small sign of a lie that was never found; after all, you did find Tara hot. “Why did you never kiss me?”

You let out a deep sigh. “Because we’re friends.”

“You kiss your friends. Amber, Mindy, and I’m sure you tried to kiss my sister once too.”

“Please, don’t bring that to the table.” The pinkish tone that colored your cheeks made the other smile. “And it’s different, they’re just friends, and you’re my best friend.”

Tara moved on the bed, sitting on her calves, still looking at you, and still holding your hand.

“Kiss me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Kiss me.”

You let out an awkward, breathy laugh, trying to pull your hand from hers and moving away just a bit, but the brunette was determined, you could see it in the dark brown eyes.

“Stop joking around, Carpenter.” You said one more time, her slender fingers tracing random patterns on your thigh with her free hand, feeling the goosebumps all over your skin, big bambi eyes staring at you. “Tara…”

“Please…” She cried out, the tip of her fingers trespassing the hem of your shorts, only a few centimeters away from your clothed cock. You could already feel it twitching inside your boxers just from those small touches. “I just wanna prove to myself that I can do it and that there’s nothing wrong with me. You, as my best friends, should help me with that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, I truthfully believe you can get someone hard.”

“Then why wasn’t he hard?”

“Maybe it was just a bad day or he was nervous, I don’t know.” You repeat what you said earlier, hoping that it was enough for the small girl. It clearly wasn't though.

“But we were having fun! He was sweet, polite, respectful, and paid for dinner and the motel, which was not cheap. It makes no sense!” She whined like a spoiled kid. Tara sat on your thighs, holding your face in her hands. “Lemme touch you. Please.”

“Can’t we just watch Stranger Things and forget about this terrible date?” You asked in hopes she would let that stupid idea go; she obviously didn’t.

“We can, after we kiss.” Tara fixed herself on top of you, moving up. Your hands instantly grabbed her waist, before she could sit on your hips. “You know I won’t stop.”

“You’re like the donkey from Shrek.” You writhe under her.

“Please…”

“Dear Lord.” Your head fell back, hitting the soft headboard. “Why does it have to be me? And now?”

“Because you’re my best friend.” The girl shrugged. “Plus, you never let me see it.”

“I swear you have the strangest obsession with my dick.”

“I’m just curious about it.” Feeling the loosen on your grip, Tara moved slightly up, sitting right on top of it. “And I can definitely feel it.” The brunette pushed herself down, biting her lower lip.

“Please, stop moving.” You whined, trying to hold her still, but she was determined, you could see it in her eyes. It wasn’t going to take long before your underwear became a bother. “Tara, I’m warning you.”

“You sound so hot, you should use that tone with me more often.” Her hands grabbed you by the collar of your shirt, wrinkling it, pulling you closer until her mouth was yours. You didn’t stop her or kissed her back, but your grip on her waist grew stronger. She smiled against your lips, one of her hands sliding down your body, nails scratching your belly under your hoodie, threatening to trespass the waist of your shorts. “Can I touch you?”

You gulped hard, staring at the brown eyes that looked soft, unlike her hands. “Are you sure you want to do this? There's no point of return.” Tara nodded fast, not giving a second thought to it, playing with the waist of your shorts. “You can touch me.”

When you gave Tara permission to touch you, you thought the girl was going to wrap her hands around your soft shaft, but all she did was kiss you, slowly and enticing, and this time you kissed her back. Your hands on her waist helped her move against your lap, grinding on you at a torturous pace.

You wanted to turn around, change your positions so you could control whatever it was about to happen, but you allowed her to be in charge; this was all about Tara proving to herself she’s not the problem, right? So you held back the urge.

Tara’s hands moved up again, wrapping around your neck as she got closer, pushing herself down on you, moaning against your parted lips when she felt your dick pressing on her even though you weren’t hard.

Her kiss trailed down your neck, gently nibbling on the skin there. You threw your head back, moving your hands down her ass, under the skirt of her dress to push her harder against you, increasing her hips’ speed.

“Fuck…” You let out a sharp breath, completely affected by the delicate touches coming from your best-friend, and that only made her more eager to pleasure you.

“Do you like this?” Tara whispered in your ear, softly biting on your lobule, tracing the cartilage with her teeth. All you could do was nod. She could feel you slowly getting hard against her ass.

Licking your lips, you thrust your hip up in a strong move, making the both of you moan lowly. You could come just with that friction if she continued moaning with her mouth so close to your ear, only for you to hear it.

Tara’s hands trailed down your body once again, but this time she pushed down the elastic of the waistband of your gray shorts, in a silent request for you to remove it. She lifted herself just enough for it to slide down your legs, pooling just before your knees, the black boxer still hugging your thighs tightly.

She didn’t want to look down, too shy to do so, but when she sat back against your bulge, it was impossible to not look at it. She pursed her lips together, the moan choked in the back of her throat as she felt you pressing hard against her. A wet spot taking form on the dark, thin cloth the more she rolled her hips on you.

It was an agonizing pain to let Tara in control of the situation. You could feel the warmth and wetness dripping for her cunt, you would easily slide in her, if she allowed you to. But you didn’t know how far she wanted to go with you, after all, this was just a test to see if she could get you hard, and she definitely could as she felt you twitching against her in desperate need to release.

This could've stopped here and now, you were hard after all, but in a bold move, her hand slipped into your underwear, her hand holding your dick in a hard squeeze that almost made you scream against her mouth. Pulling your length out, Tara wrapped her hand around your shaft, moving it up and down in a provocative way, smiling against your parted lips. Her eyes were dark, staring at you with luxury dripping from the brownish just like she was dripping on your thighs. You could feel the hot, thick liquid oozing on your skin as she rubbed herself on you.

“Fuck, Tara.” You breathed out again, broken, lewdly.

The brunette dipped her hand in her own underwear, eyes threatening to close as she rounded her swollen clit with two fingers, but she kept them open with a wicked expression on her face. Tara pulled her dress up, giving you the privileged view of her ruined underwear, the white fabric completely transparent. You couldn’t help yourself as your finger traced the wet stain, Tara’s mouth hanging open at the agonizing slow touch.

“Stop.” She asked in a trembled voice, shakingly holding your hand with flushed cheeks. “I don’t wanna cum like this.”

“And how do you wanna cum?”

Letting go of your hand, she watched with focused eyes as you took two of your fingers in your mouth, sucking at the slick that coated them with a satisfied hum. Tara seriously considered saying she wanted to ride your face and fall apart on your lips, but she just, messily, removed her underwear. A thin line of arousal followed the cloth as she tossed it somewhere in your bedroom, your mouth watering at that.

Tara pulled your boxer slightly down just enough for your member to be released, proudly hitting your lower belly, before placing herself on top of your cock, the blood flowing in your veins reverberating against her clit, making both of you choke on your breath. She fitted your length in between her slick folds, almost crying at the warm feeling.

She started grinding on you, shaking at every small move.

“This feels so fucking good.”

Throwing her head back, Tara supported her weight on her arms, gaining a fast pace. Your hands held the skirt of her dress up, giving you the perfect view of her shining cunt, smearing herself all over your cock. You could feel that tight knot on your stomach at that.

Moving one of your hands up and taking the dress with it, you crossed a barrier when you exposed her perfect tits, holding the stiff nipple with your thumb and index finger in a hurtful squeeze, earning yourself a crying moan that only made you throb against her center, while the other hand bruised the skin of her ass. You could see the red marks of your fingers all over her waist.

Pulling her torso towards you, your lips wrapped around her other nipple, trembling your tongue on the hardened nub, making Tara’s hands pull on your hair, keeping you close to her chest. Her hips started to lose speed, squirming in your arms as she neared her release; you weren’t going to last much, not when she started whispering your name over and over, shakingly violently in your arms. You came right after her, shooting thick ropes of cum directly into your hoodie.

Your arms were fast to hold her against you, keeping her body close as you came down from your high together. Tara's head fell on your shoulder, her hot breath tickling the skin of your neck, you could feel her smile.

“You okay?” Being the first one to break the silence, you asked in a soft voice, running your hands up and down her back, feeling her heart beating like crazy; yours weren't different, smashing itself against your ribcage.

“I'm great.” She mumbled out, weak and out of breath. “Are you okay?”

Feeling the nod of your head, she pulled away from her hiding spot. When you met her eyes, a pinkish color was filling the skin around her cheekbones, coloring the freckles that spread across her face, and unlike you were wondering inside your head, things didn't look awkward after that; Tara still had that familiar, warm look in her eyes when she leaned in to place a chaste kiss on the corner of your lips.

“Are you proud of yourself?”

“For making you cum without barely touching you?” Tara laughed in a proud voice, avoiding looking down as she felt your length still comfortably placed in between her slick folds.

Your hands were firm on her waist when you lifted her hips, guiding the tip of your cock against her sensitive bundle of nerves before slowly sliding in her cunt at the same time she fell back on your thighs, trying to catch her breath at the sudden invasion. A small smile on her face at the feeling of being full, her velvety walls clenching hard around your shaft, still recovering from her orgasm.

“For the fact that I'm still pretty hard.” Pressing kisses over her jawline, you thrusted up, a surprised moan escaping her throat. “Can you feel it? How hard I am? How good I'm filling you?”

“Yes…” She choked out, wrinkling your hoodie in her fingers, trying to find support on your shoulders when your hands forced her up, your member coated in a thin layer of her arousal before sliding her back down. “I'm very proud of myself.” The breathy confession made you smile against her neck, softly biting on her jugular before your movements gained a steady rhythm, mixing with the wet sounds and the melody tone of her voice calling out your name for every neighbor to hear.

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capuccinodoll · 1 month ago

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The boyfriend act, part 14: "The one with the nightly calls" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: With Frankie in Boston, the small phone calls at night begin to carry more weight. Meanwhile, things get harder for him. But it doesn’t take long before he’s close to you again. WC: 16k

A/N: I have nothing to say… just thank u for reading and sooo much love to all of you!! Don't forget to let me know what you think, your feedback really matters <3 If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! (also, If you've asked me before to tag you and your tag isn't on the list, please send me a message and let me know! Sometimes I miss comments!)

Wednesday, October 16th

Frankie called you after dinner. He’d been in Boston for almost two weeks now. He left on a Friday—the fourth Friday of the month.

The first night he called, it felt casual, like a passing thought. He told you about his day, the kinds of things he did and saw, because you hadn’t spoken at all that day. The next night, at almost the exact same hour, he called again. He didn’t seem to notice the pattern. But by the third night, you were already waiting for it, your phone close by, your chest pulling quietly toward the sound of his voice.

Tonight, you took a shower and got into bed with Mr. Darcy. You already knew your phone would ring, maybe not right away, but soon. And when it did, it would be him.

Sometimes the conversations meandered. He’d talk about Jamie, mostly—how they spent hours walking, sometimes talking, often in silence. Frankie didn’t say it outright, but you could tell he was trying to anchor Jamie to something steady, something outside of the hospital walls and the quiet fear threading its way through their days. Because Henry, his dad, was sick. Not just the kind of sick that passed with time, but the other kind—the one people didn’t like to name until they absolutely had to. They were still waiting on tests, on confirmation, but everyone knew. It hung there between them.

Luna seemed steadier with her family around. Frankie told you that most evenings they all sat together in the living room, watching movies with the lights low and the volume too high, like maybe sound could shield them from dread. Helena didn’t want to go back to Austin just yet. But Frankie wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay. Work was waiting, and so was everything else he’d pressed pause on. Still, every time he mentioned going back, Luna reminded him—gently, but firmly—that it was okay to leave when he needed to. That it didn’t make him a bad brother. That love could stretch across state lines and that being present didn’t always mean being in the same place.

With Jamie, Frankie seemed lighter somehow. He’d tell you stories every night—about the park they discovered not far from Luna’s house, where the trees were tall and gold-tipped, and how Jamie insisted on racing him from bench to bench, laughing so hard he nearly fell over. They rode bikes, Frankie jogging beside him when the hill felt too steep. He taught Jamie how to cast a fishing line, how to use his fingers to tie little knots that held. There was something grounding in it, he said, using your hands like that. Jamie clung to him with a kind of unspoken admiration that made something in Frankie’s voice catch when he talked about it. One night, Jamie asked him if he’d take him flying someday—really flying—and Frankie said he would. In Austin, he promised. When they came to visit.

Each night he’d give you pieces of his day, and you’d offer yours in return—your routines, the small details of your work hours. You told him that Santi had been trying, with the kind of stubborn optimism only he could sustain, to organize a group trip somewhere not too far, somewhere quiet, maybe on a weekend.

“When Fish gets back,” he had said, like it was obvious.

You’d seen Emma a few days ago too. She wasn't that subtle about this new thing going on with you. She never was. She tried, in her own way, to keep her thoughts to herself, but she had a certain look when she did—eyebrows tight, lips curved, like biting back smiles and words.

“I’m not going to say anything,” she told you one afternoon while you were pushing a cart through the grocery store. That night you were making pasta—she was on sauce duty, claiming it was the only white sauce worth making. “I know how you get. All bashful and avoidant every time I bring him up.”

“I know what you think,” you said, grabbing a bottle of olive oil and dropping it into the cart. “You think we’re rushing things. You don’t have to say it. I can see it in your face.”

“Rushing?” she said, eyebrows lifting. “He’s in another state. You talk once a day, maybe twice. I don’t think it’s too fast. I think you’re moving the way people move when something it's... you know.” She turned away from you, scanned the row of spices, distracted. “What I do think is that you haven’t realized that you’re probably already dating.”

You blinked. “We’re not dating.”

“Oh no?” she turned back, one brow still raised, like a challenge. “Then what exactly are you doing?”

“We’re… friends. More than friends. For now. I dunno. Don’t name it.”

Emma smiled, but not in a mocking way. It was softer than that.

“More than friends,” she echoed. “You should see the way you sound at night when you talk to him. You get this voice. All careful and… sweet. ‘When are you coming back?’ ‘How’s everything over there?’” she teased, doing a vague imitation of your voice that didn’t sound like you at all, but you let her have it.

You laughed, half-guilty, half-exposed. “I dunno. It just sounds too serious to say things like that.”

“To say what? That you miss him?”

You looked away, pretending to search the shelf behind her for something—anything—your fingers trailing along the edges of jars you didn’t need.

“I think he’d like to hear it,” she added, quieter this time.

And you didn’t say anything, but you wondered if maybe he would.

So the days passed quietly. The nights followed suit—predictable, comforting, marked now by something you hadn’t anticipated relying on. Each evening, almost without exception, his call came at the same time. Not by agreement, not because you’d asked him to. It just kept happening, like some new law of nature.

Tonight was no different. You were already in bed, the lights off, your room wrapped in the soft blue glow of the TV. Some show played faintly in the background, but you weren’t really watching it.

Your eyes were half-shut, your body sinking into the warmth of your comforter, your breathing deepening without your permission. It wasn’t even that late—barely past nine—but the day had pulled at you from every direction, and you felt the weight of it in your bones.

When your phone buzzed, you didn’t startle. You simply reached for it under the covers, your fingers brushing past Mr. Darcy, curled at your side. He flicked his tail in protest.

You didn’t need to check the screen. You already knew. But you did anyway, as you always did.

[Frankie🍾 ]

The contact photo was one you had taken right after the skydive. His hair had been wild from the wind, his cheeks flushed from adrenaline. He wasn’t looking straight at the camera—his smile was off to the side, crooked in that way you had started to recognize as entirely him. He was still wearing the black jumpsuit, the straps hanging loose around his shoulders like he hadn’t had the energy to take it off yet.

You pressed accept and stretched out, your voice sleep-rough as you spoke.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he said. You could hear the smile in his voice. “Were you asleep?”

“No. Almost. I’m in bed.”

“Long day?” he asked, and then you heard it—the brief crackle of static, the soft inhale. He was smoking.

“You?”

“Not really. I’m out in the yard. Bambi’s trying to lick my face.”

You laughed, quietly. “Leave him alone. Those are dog kisses. That means he loves you.”

“Well, I hope Mr. Darcy doesn’t hold it against me when I come back. Do you think he’ll know?”

“Oh, he’ll know,” you said, smiling into the dark. “He’ll smell the betrayal. You’ll have to earn his forgiveness.”

“Mmm. You know him best. What’s the strategy?”

“The obvious one,” you murmured. “Food. Kibble and wet tuna. He’s kind of basic like that.”

“Reliable,” Frankie said. “I like that in a man.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, just listened to the soft night sounds on his end of the call—the wind, maybe, the distant creak of something wooden, the faint thump of paws on the grass. You imagined him out there, sitting outside like the previous nights, Bambi pressed against his side. You imagined the glow of the cigarette, how it lit up his features for brief seconds at a time.

“And what about you?” he asked.

You turned slightly, shifting beneath the covers. “What about me?”

“How am I supposed to deal with you?”

For a moment, you didn’t speak.

“I think I’m easier,” you said eventually. “Just seeing you would be enough.”

There was a beat, and then you heard him exhale through his nose, amused. The kind of quiet, private laugh he gave when he didn’t want to sound too affected.

“I’ll be back this weekend. Maybe sooner.”

You smiled into the dark, instinctively, and tried to temper your voice. “Really?”

“Yeah. Mai and I. Mom’s staying a bit longer. She wants to be around to help Luna and Henry with Jamie while they take care of everything else.”

“How are they doing?”

“Better,” he said, and you could hear the thoughtfulness in it. “Or, I don’t know—better within the context of everything. Henry’s holding up. Luna too. They took Jamie out for a walk today, just the three of them. She said it helped. Like things made sense, even if only for an hour.”

“That sounds nice,” you said. “I bet Jamie loved that.”

“He did,” Frankie said, and there was a warmth in his tone. “Then when they got home, he asked me to take him to the movies. Invited two of his friends. He planned the whole thing himself—texted their moms and everything.”

You smiled. “He really likes having you around.”

“Yeah, he does,” Frankie said, and he was laughing now, low and incredulous. “I think he thinks I’m cooler than I actually am. We saw some video game movie. The boys were hyped. I was just… lost.”

You laughed. “You’re getting old.”

“Maybe. Do you have any idea how many words I didn’t recognize tonight?”

“How many?”

“Definitely more than three. Jamie tried to explain them all, but when I tried to use one in a sentence, he told me I was ‘cringe’ and should just stop.”

You laughed again. Mr. Darcy shifted beside you, unimpressed by the noise.

“You’re officially out of touch.”

“I think I’ve made peace with it,” he said. “If it means I get to be the uncool adult who buys popcorn and lets them talk through the previews, I’ll take it.”

“Come on, tell me one of the words.”

There was a pause. Frankie made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

“Please don’t make me do this.”

“Okay, I’ll wait. You can tell me when you’re back, then.”

“I’m not making any promises,” he said, amusement spilling through the line. You heard the faint inhale of a cigarette, the soft exhale that followed. “My mom says hi, by the way. Actually, they all do. But she wanted me to tell you that her hello is the most enthusiastic. Like, she made a point of that.”

You grinned. “Tell her I say hi too. To everyone. But especially her.”

“I’ll pass it on. Bambi—hey, hey, off,” he muttered, the sound of shuffling fabric and a low thud in the background. “Goddamn, I swear. He’s trying to climb on top of me. Anyway—what did you do today?”

“Nothing thrilling,” you said. “Work was the same as usual. After that I stopped by Bill’s. It’s almost finished now. It’s looking really good. Just needs the shelves filled and maybe a few more touches.”

“That sounds nice,” he said, and you could hear him settling again, like he’d shifted into a more comfortable position.

“Yeah, I think it’ll be a great space. After that Julie said she was craving burgers, so we got burgers. Then I came home. I had a headache so I took something for it and stood under the hot water for a while. That helped. And now I’m here. TV on, lights off. Mr. Darcy’s asleep at my side. Very thrilling night.”

He laughed softly. “That’s good, though. That you’re okay. God, you have no idea how much I miss my bed.”

“Are you not sleeping well?”

“Not really. Jamie wears me out in the best way—he’s got me running around after him like I’m twenty again. I forgot how much stamina kids have.” There was a pause, and a sound like he’d scratched his jaw. “But even when I’m tired, it’s hard to actually sleep. I sort of just lie there.”

You frowned a little, your voice gentler. “You should go to bed early tonight. Take a hot shower. I know I sound like one of those people who don't get it but, that helps me. Maybe it works for you too?”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that. Although I need to know—how hot is this magical shower supposed to be? Because when you say hot, you mean skin-peeling, bone-melting hot.”

You laughed. “I don’t know, Francisco. Hot enough for you. Warm enough to trick your body into relaxing. And then don’t get stuck in front of the TV like you always do.”

“You’re watching TV now.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have trouble sleeping,” you countered, tugging the blanket higher over your chest. “The moment we hang up, I’m out. Like a light. I’ll sleep better than a baby.”

“Are you mocking me?” he asked, half-playful, but with just enough mock offense to make you laugh again.

“I would never.”

“Oh, I have screenshots,” he said. You could hear the grin in his voice. “You think I don’t, but I do.”

“Fake screenshots. Fabricated evidence.”

“Sure, sure. Who does nothing fears nothing—or something like that.”

You didn’t speak for a few seconds. The warmth in your chest had started to climb, spreading outward.

“Well,” you said, trying to keep your voice even, “go try to sleep, okay? I miss you. Call me tomorrow.”

It came out faster than you intended, like the words had been waiting behind your teeth for too long.

There was a pause on the other end. Not long, but long enough to make your heart jump once, then again.

“What?” Frankie asked.

“Get some sleep,” you repeated, more carefully this time. “Call me tomorrow.”

“No.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “No? What do you mean no? You’re not going to call me?” you asked, voice light, teasing. “Or you’re not going to sleep?”

There was a pause before Frankie answered. On the other end of the line, you heard the soft rustle of wind or leaves, and then the familiar sound of him inhaling. A breath in. Then a quiet exhale of smoke.

He laughed softly. “Sure, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Ah, okay.”

“And I miss you too.”

You closed your eyes and felt the heat rush to your cheeks, your mouth curving helplessly. You were glad the lights were off, as if that could somehow protect you from how young and exposed you felt in that moment. There was something embarrassingly teenage about it—your heart beating a little too fast, your body betraying you.

You let out a soft laugh, not bothering to hide it. If he heard it, let him.

“Okay,” you murmured, “ now go to sleep.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You get really commanding sometimes,” he said, voice low. “But I’ll listen to you. Just this once, just tonight.”

“Mhm. Return to Ithaca, Odysseus.”

Frankie smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling up almost involuntarily. He could feel the heat rising in his face, and he didn’t bother to hide it. At his feet, Bambi was curled up, eyes lifted toward him, the whites gleaming like thin crescents in the low light.

“See you soon,” he said, voice low.

“See you soon, Francisco,” you said. Then the call ended—cut clean, final.

He stared down at the screen, thumb hovering over your name. Your contact photo was still the one he’d taken the day you went skydiving—your hair a mess, the sky swallowing the plane behind you, your smile too big for the frame. He remembered the way you had turned to him, half-nervous, half-thrilled. How he hadn’t been able to look away.

“If you keep grinning like that, it’s going to get stuck,” said a voice beside him.

Frankie startled. He hadn’t heard her come out. Luna.

She laughed, full and unbothered, and he stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray before tucking his phone into the front pocket of his hoodie.

Luna sat next to him, cross-legged, her shoulders brushing his lightly. She tipped her head back and looked up, at the sky.

“Jamie passed out like a log,” she murmured. “I’m guessing you’re wiped too.”

“A bit.”

She tilted her head to look at him properly, her expression gentle.

“You’ve got shadows under your eyes. I keep hearing you come down here after midnight.”

“Not me. Maybe the house is haunted.”

That made her laugh again. She let the silence settle for a moment before asking, “Did you tell her you’re flying back tomorrow?”

He exhaled, drawing a hand over his mouth. “No. I thought maybe—”

“Frankie.” Her voice was gentle. Not scolding, not pushy. “It’s okay. You need to go home. We’re okay here. All of us.”

He hesitated. “I told Jamie I’d take him to the museum.”

“You can take him next time.” She reached out, laid a hand on his forearm. “He’ll understand. He’s a tough kid. And honestly, he’s had the best time with you here. You’ve given him something special. I should thank you for that.”

He smiled, eyes fixed on the horizon like something might move out ther.

“It’s nothing. I .. I like it here,” he said, pausing. Then, quieter: “And sometimes I miss you. A little. You know that, right?”

Luna let out a soft laugh, folding her arms across her chest. “Do you? That’s news to me. You barely even call.”

Frankie turned his head, gave her a look that hovered somewhere between amused and exasperated. “The phone works both ways, Luna.”

“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She nudged his knee with hers, a teasing gesture. “Speaking of phone calls... how’s your girl?”

“She’s okay,” he said, voice neutral, almost too casual.

“Did you tell her Mom says hi? You know she’ll ask me if you did.”

Frankie laughed under his breath. “Yeah. I passed it along.”

Luna leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her.

“Another reason you should head back. She’s waiting for you.” Her voice was light, but not unkind. She tapped him on the shoulder. “And you’re turning red, by the way. I can see it even in this light.”

“Jesus,” Frankie muttered, rubbing a hand across his face.

She ignored that. “Sofi wants to make a bet,” she said with a grin. “She says we should guess how long it’ll take before you pro—”

“Oh, my God.” He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. When he looked at her again, there was a faint plea in his eyes. “Please don’t.”

“Why not?” Luna laughed, unbothered. “We like her. That’s supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it? That we all like her?”

Frankie shook his head like he was trying to dislodge the whole conversation. There was something boyish in the way he looked down at the floor, something almost shy.

“Relax, I’m joking,” Luna said, her voice light, almost airy. “It just wouldn’t be as much fun teasing you if you didn’t turn that exact shade of red every single time.”

Frankie took a step back, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah, okay.”

She kept looking at him, her smile lingering. Then her gaze shifted—first to Bambi, who was lying at her feet with his tail starting to sweep rhythmically across the floor, then back to Frankie.

“How are things with her?” she asked. “Is she good to you?”

Frankie laughed quietly. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor.

He knew what she meant. Not just the words, but what lived underneath them. Is she different from Rachel? That was the real question. Of course Luna would never ask that outright—she was too tactful for that, too soft in her own way—but he could see it in the set of her mouth, in the steadiness of her stare.

“She is,” he said eventually. “She’s better than I probably deserve.”

Luna tilted her head, frowning slightly. “What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked away. “She’s… patient. With me. More than she needs to be. Sometimes I say things, or do things, and I know they don’t come out right. I confuse her. And still, she tries to understand me. Always.”

“And you don’t think you deserve that?”

“I think I can be difficult,” he admitted. “Hard to be around, sometimes.”

“Mm. That's not true.”

“I’ve been worse than usual lately,” he added. “But I can talk to her about it. She listens.”

He looked over at his sister, and she gave him this quiet, knowing smile. Frankie hesitated, the memory creeping up before he had a chance to decide whether or not to share it.

“You know,” he said, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling for a moment. “You know we didn’t get along at first. At all.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“There was this fight. Not just a little disagreement. A real argument. We were in the car. I was driving her home, and… I said things I shouldn’t have. I pushed too far. She cried. I could tell I was making it worse even while I was doing it, but I couldn’t stop. I think I felt—desperate, or something.”

He paused, shaking his head slowly, like he still couldn’t believe himself.

“We were talking about something, about her life, something that mattered to her, and I just bulldozed through it. She got out of the car and walked home in the dark. I left. I didn’t go after her. I went home and felt like absolute shit.”

Luna didn’t interrupt. She was still watching him.

He reached down, brushed his hand along Bambi’s back.

“A couple days later, I went to her place. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I had to show up. And she was upset too. Not just about the argument, but everything that came before it. She told me I’d hurt her. Not just that night—over the years. And she was right. But then she asked if I’d forgive her too. She said she wanted to start over.”

He looked at Luna then, his voice softer. “And I told her, ‘Okay. Fine. Let’s try.’ And we did. But I still don’t know what she sees in me. I don’t feel like I’ve earned it.”

He stared ahead, posture still, his breath leaving him in a quiet exhale through his nose. Not quite a sigh. Something smaller. More contained.

Luna parted her lips, about to speak, but Frankie beat her to it.

“And I don’t mean it like a rational thing,” he said. “Not like a clear thought I tell myself—‘you don’t deserve this’—it’s not that. It’s more like... even when everything’s good, when I’m with her and I actually feel happy—I... I..." He stopped abruptly, as if startled by what he had just said. “I mean... like, like there’s this feeling underneath it. Like I’m doing something wrong by being there. Like I’ve stolen someone else’s seat.” He glanced at her, but only briefly. “Like I don’t belong next to her. Like I don’t deserve her.”

Luna didn’t move for a second. Then she tilted her head, the corners of her mouth pulled down in something between sympathy and disbelief. Frankie looked away again, eyes flicking down to the dog lying at their feet.

“And so I leave,” he added, voice lower now. “I pull away. I don’t mean to. I just… I don’t know how to hold it all without feeling like I’ll break something. And she never blames me. Somehow, she gets it.”

Luna closed her eyes briefly, pressing her lips together. When she looked at him again, there was a wrinkle between her brows.

“Why wouldn’t you deserve someone who’s patient with you? Who actually listens to you?” Her hand moved to his arm, light pressure just enough to make him feel anchored. “None of what you’re telling yourself is true. You know that, right?”

Frankie wanted to nod. He wanted to meet her eyes and say yes, he knew. But instead, his head tilted a little, the motion uncertain, unfinished.

She didn’t wait. “Well, you have to start knowing. Because someone made you believe the opposite. Someone taught you not to expect anything good. They conditioned you to settle for the scraps they gave you and convinced you that was all you’d ever get. And it wasn’t just one conversation or one mistake. It was years of it. Of being made small.”

Her voice didn’t waver, even as her fingers gripped his sleeve tighter. “Of course it’s going to take time to undo that. Of course it’s hard to believe anything else. But you can. And you have to. Because this—” she gestured, vaguely—“this doesn’t get to be the end of the story.”

Frankie looked at her, his face unreadable but not closed off.

“And I know it’s not going to be easy,” Luna said. “But you have to try. Because if what you have in front of you is something good, something that makes you better, you don’t just get to let it slip through your hands.”

She paused, watching him closely, like she was trying to gauge whether the words were landing where they needed to.

“Yeah, she’s patient,” she went on. “She obviously cares about you. But people have limits. You keep handing someone your doubt over and over again, eventually they get tired of carrying it.”

She exhaled, slowly, as if remembering something. Or maybe trying to forget. “It’s awful. That feeling of being with someone but not knowing where you stand. Wondering if they love you, or if they’re just staying because it’s easier than leaving for good.” Her gaze lifted, her expression hardening just slightly. “I’ve lived it. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

She leaned in a little, her tone shifting—not cruel, but pointed. “So figure it out. Be brave about it. Don’t leave her sitting in the dark, trying to guess how you feel. If you do, you will lose her. Don't fuck it up.”

Something tightened in Frankie’s stomach. That peculiar mix of dread and longing. He wanted to explain—wanted to say, I’m not sure she’s even mine to lose. That whatever this was between you—this warm, electric, confusing thing—hadn’t been defined, hadn’t been claimed. It felt real, sure. It felt important. But you hadn’t named it. You hadn’t promised anything.

Still, he didn’t say any of that. Because the truth made the story more complicated, and right now, he needed it to stay simple. At least on the surface.

But she was right. He knew that in his bones.

“You’re flying out tomorrow,” Luna said, gently shifting the subject. “I’ll drive you to the airport. And after you’ve settled, you’ll call me. Let me know how you’re doing.”

Frankie gave a small nod, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I will,” he said. “But answer the damn phone.”

Luna let out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I always answer the phone.”

Frankie smiled—briefly, instinctively—but the expression faded almost as soon as it had appeared. A sharp, jarring sound echoed from inside the house. A thud. Deep and unmistakable, like something solid hitting the floor. Then a low groan followed, wounded and human.

Luna was on her feet in an instant. Frankie had already moved, pushing the door open, moving into the hallway with purposeful strides.

Just beyond the entrance, at the base of the staircase, Henry was slumped on the floor. His posture was hunched, arms hanging limply at his sides, one hand weakly pressing against the side of his head. There was blood—on his forehead, smeared across his cheek—but it wasn’t immediately clear where it was coming from. His eyes were wide, unfocused.

Helena knelt beside him, her voice hushed but panicked, her fingers carefully brushing hair away from his brow as she inspected the injury. From the edge of the living room doorway, Mai stood frozen, her hands clenched tightly in front of her. She looked like she wanted to move forward but couldn’t. Her skin had gone pale. She hated the sight of blood. Always had.

“Oh my God.” Luna’s voice cracked as she rushed over to Henry, already crying. “Henry—baby—what happened? Are you okay? Your head—”

Henry blinked, his mouth moving, struggling to find words. Nothing came out at first. He looked like he didn’t know where he was.

Frankie crouched down beside him, steady hands reaching to guide Henry’s chin upward, tilting his face gently into the light. His touch was careful, instinctive.

“I was coming up the stairs,” Henry said at last, voice uneven, breath catching at the end of each word. “I—I don’t know what happened. I got dizzy. Then everything just… went.”

“Okay,” Frankie said, nodding, reassuring. “You’re alright. Doesn’t look like anything’s broken. Just stay there, alright? Keep still.” He turned briefly to Luna, who was already pulling her phone from her back pocket, hands shaking.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” she said, more to herself than anyone else, her eyes full of panic and tears already streaking her cheeks.

Behind them, a small voice broke through the noise.

“Dad?”

Frankie turned. At the top of the staircase, Jamie stood barefoot in his pajamas, holding onto the railing. His face was pale and rigid with fear, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Jamie,” Frankie said, standing up, moving toward him with soft, cautious steps.

He reached the boy and tried to take his hands, but Jamie pulled back, sudden and stiff, his eyes still locked on his father’s crumpled form at the bottom of the stairs.

Frankie hesitated. He didn’t know what the right move was—whether to stop him or let him come down. Jamie moved first, stepping down without a word, and Frankie followed just behind, arms half-raised in case he needed to catch him.

When Jamie reached the landing, he froze. Then, without warning, he burst into tears. His small fists clenched and unclenched in front of him, twisting into each other like he was trying to hold something in—but it was too late. The fear and confusion had cracked through.

Frankie stood near him, his chest tightening, unsure if reaching out again would help or scare him more.

Then he reached out, his hand finding Jamie’s small shoulder. The boy flinched at first—just a reflex—but then turned and collapsed into him, his face pressing hard into the front of Frankie’s shirt. His small hands clutched at the fabric, fingers tightening as the sobs overtook him. He was trying not to cry, Frankie could tell, trying to swallow the sound down into himself, but it kept escaping in short, hiccuping gasps.

Frankie wrapped his arms around him without hesitation. There was nothing precise about the way he held him—just instinct and care, the way you’d hold something fragile that you didn’t want to break. He turned and lifted him off the floor, arms anchored beneath his knees and back, careful not to jostle him too much, carrying him upstairs like he was still the five-year-old who used to fall asleep in the backseat of the car.

Inside Jamie’s bedroom, the air felt smaller, quieter. Frankie set him down gently on the bed and shut the door behind them. For a second, neither of them spoke. The sound of Jamie’s sniffling was soft now, like he was trying to push the noise down deep inside himself.

Frankie crossed the room and knelt in front of him, his knees hitting the carpet with a muted thump. He reached up, cupping Jamie’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing the boy’s flushed cheeks.

“Jamie,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

He did. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet, mouth still trembling at the corners.

“It’s okay. Your dad’s okay.”

Jamie blinked at him, and Frankie could see the skepticism land instantly.

“That’s not true,” he whispered, voice shredded at the edges. “I know he’s sick.”

Frankie’s hands stilled. There were no words at the ready. No script. Only the sharp realization that lying wouldn't work.

“I know.”

Jamie’s voice cracked in half. “Is he going to die?”

Frankie felt something pull tight in his chest. It was like his heart had been tied up in cloth and dipped in water—heavy, sodden, impossible to wring out. His eyes burned, and he blinked, fast and hard, willing it away.

“He...” He tried again, forcing steadiness into his tone. “He’s sick. But he’s getting help. The doctors are really good. Remember what your mom said? They're the best. She wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true.”

Jamie didn’t respond right away. He just kept crying, softer now, quieter, like his body was getting tired of holding it all up.

“But he got hurt,” he said, voice tight.

“I know. But that—” Frankie leaned in a little, pointing to his own forehead. “That was just a cut. Up here. It looked worse than it was. You remember when you fell off your bike? That scrape on your knee? All that blood? It looked huge, but it wasn’t. Just messy.”

He nodded, barely. His eyes didn’t leave Frankie’s.

“It was scary,” Frankie continued. “But it was only a scare.”

Jamie hesitated. “How do you know it’s just that?”

Frankie glanced down. The pads of his fingers were stained red. He curled them into fists and tucked his hands into his lap like they didn’t belong to him. Then he looked back up.

“Because I checked. With my own hands. It was bleeding, yeah, but it wasn’t deep. Just a surface cut.”

The boy searched his face, eyes darting between his mouth and his eyes, like trying to catch a lie midair.

There were two knocks at the door, and then it opened a beat later without waiting for an answer.

“Jamie,” Luna said softly as she stepped into the room. “Honey, are you okay?”

Jamie didn’t say anything right away. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist, his face still damp, expression uncertain. Then he gave a faint nod. Luna walked across the room and crouched beside the bed, brushing a hand through his hair.

“We’re going to the hospital, with daddy,” she said, watching his face closely, “but everything’s alright. Okay?”

Jamie looked up at her, then past her to Frankie, his mouth parting just slightly.

“Can I go?” he asked, barely above a whisper. The room fell quiet.

Luna didn’t answer right away. She glanced at Frankie—one of those looks that lasted less than a second but held a full conversation inside it—and then turned her eyes back to her son.

Frankie cleared his throat, adjusting where he knelt.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out and tapping Jamie gently on the calf. “What if we finally watch that movie you asked about yesterday? The one with the animals. Remember?”

Jamie’s eyebrows knit together, uncertain.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice thin.

Frankie shifted a little, resting one arm on the mattress.

“You know the one I mean, right?” he said, feigning confusion. “The movie with the animals and the board game... How was it called again? Tumanji?”

Jamie blinked at him for a second—then his mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile appearing.

“No,” he said, voice still a little hoarse but brighter. “Jumanji.”

Frankie snapped his fingers. “Ah. That’s it. I always mix it up with that other one. You know, the one where the guy gets stuck inside a board game and becomes a tomato.”

Jamie gave a short, surprised laugh, the kind that sneaks out before you remember you’re supposed to be upset. “That’s not a movie.”

“You sure? Sounds like Oscar material to me,” Frankie said, raising an eyebrow.

Luna gave him a look—half grateful, half exasperated—and smoothed her son’s hair again. Jamie’s body had relaxed by then, shoulders dropping just slightly, a flicker of lightness beginning to return to his face.

He turned to Frankie again. “Okay,” small but clear.

Thursday, October 17th

The morning passed quietly and the bookstore felt half-asleep. You spent most of it rearranging the same shelf three times, more for something to do than out of necessity.

Nancy stopped by before noon. She came every few weeks, always with lipstick on, her earrings matching her outfit. She was in her seventies—sharp as ever— with the kind of silver-white hair that looked like it had absorbed sunlight and kept it, somehow. You liked her. She had a warm, sturdy way of being that made you feel less alone in your skin. She always brought up Piero, her husband, who sounded like the kind of man who made tea before you asked and let you have the last cookie. They sunbathed on their patio every afternoon, she said, beneath a striped umbrella. She talked about it fondly, like sun and silence were sacred, like afternoons stretched longer when you spent them side by side with someone who knew where all your scars were and loved you anyway.

She told you she used to teach math but had always preferred stories. “Numbers are always perfect, but people are interesting,” she said once. She kept journals—dozens of them, she claimed—stacked in boxes in her attic. You told her you’d love to read one, just to see how someone like her had seen the world when they were younger.

Before she left, she narrowed her eyes at you playfully.

“How old are you, sweetheart?” she asked, leaning slightly over the counter.

“Twenty-nine,” you answered, your voice soft, the way it always was when someone surprised you with affection.

She smiled as if you’d given her the exact answer she was hoping for.

“I’ll bring you the one I wrote when I was your age. Maybe there’s something useful in it.”

Later, the stillness cracked open. A group of teenagers tumbled into the store like a wind you hadn't prepared for. They made a mess of the juvenile section, speaking too loudly, touching everything with the kind of reckless hands that had never had to shelve anything. You asked them more than once to be careful, using the voice you reserved for rules you wished didn’t need saying. One of them dropped a copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower like it meant nothing at all.

They didn’t buy anything. They left the shelves in chaos. Normally, you would have accepted it as part of the rhythm of the place—books always moved, never stayed where you put them. But today it stung. There was something careless about their presence. Putting the books back felt like an apology you weren’t sure who to give to.

Later, a man came in asking for a book. He couldn’t remember the title, just that it was about a man, something existential, maybe something to do with murder, or exile, or the sea. You suggested The Stranger by Camus.

“No, no, not that one,” he insisted, shaking his head like you’d misunderstood him completely. And then he described The Stranger to you, again, nearly word for word.

You didn’t correct him. You just let him keep talking. Because some people need to arrive at the truth on their own.

By the time the sign on the door read closed, your whole body ached with the kind of exhaustion that comes from quiet tasks performed for hours on end. You moved through the familiar routine almost without thinking—lights off, blinds drawn, register counted, the keys pressing cool and metallic into your palm as you locked up.

At home, you undressed slowly, letting your clothes fall where they wanted to, and stepped into the bath. The water climbed around you, and for a moment, everything felt still again. It was the kind of warmth that softened you, let the tension uncurl from your shoulders, made you forget how much your feet had hurt.

Afterward, wrapped in your robe and already feeling better, you padded into the kitchen with the light kind of optimism that sometimes appears when you're clean and your hair is damp and everything feels slightly reset. You opened the fridge, thinking about pasta or maybe something with melted cheese.

What you found was something closer to satire than sustenance: one pathetic lemon, the skin hardened like old leather, and a wedge of cheese in the kind of condition that made you feel vaguely judged by your own refrigerator. You laughed out loud—just once, flatly—then let the door close with a gentle thud.

You could’ve ordered in. Of course, that was always an option. But something about the quietness of the evening made you want to cook. Something comforting, something with cheese and butter or... bolognesa, but the really well done one, like the kind of meal Emma would send you videos of in the middle of the night with messages like we NEED to try this. So you got dressed, pulling on jeans and a nice shirt, trying to look like someone who might bump into someone they used to love at the grocery store, even though that wasn't true.

It was already six, the sky dipped in pale pinks and oranges, the air still a little bit thick. You moved quickly, maybe too quickly—partly because you were hungry, partly because the idea of dinner had already taken root in your mind and you wanted to see it through.

On the way back, your grocery bag hung from one shoulder, slightly digging into your skin. The sun was almost fully gone. You tilted your head back to look at the sky, letting the dark soft colors press into your mind.

You were still looking up when you reached your block. And then, without warning, your attention snapped downward. A figure. Familiar. Standing just outside your front door, hands tucked into his jean jacket pockets, head tilted slightly, like he’d been waiting a while.

You frowned, not quite alarmed but confused, and started walking faster, your footsteps picking up rhythm against the sidewalk.

He rang the doorbell just as you reached shouting distance. And then he turned.

“Frankie?”

His eyes found yours. He smiled, and something about it made you stop walking entirely, just a few feet away from him now. You adjusted the strap of the bag on your shoulder, your smile echoing his. For a second, neither of you said anything. You just looked at him. Like you were reading his face.

He looked different. That’s what struck you first. Not bad—just different. The tired kind of different. His eyes were glassy and faintly red around the rims, like he’d slept too little or thought too much. Maybe both.

You noticed it immediately.

He crossed the short distance between you and gently slid the bag from your shoulder without asking, his fingers brushing against your skin. You let him. You watched him in the soft dusk light—his profile, the quiet concentration on his face as he adjusted the weight of the bag—and something in your chest softened.

You stepped closer. Without overthinking it, your arms wrapped around his neck, your body leaning into his with a kind of quiet certainty. He held you the way he always did: arms snug around your waist, pulling you into him. He pressed a kiss to your cheek. You felt the heat of it long after his lips left your skin.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice low, your face turned slightly so you could get a clearer look at him. “I thought you weren’t coming back until the weekend.”

He smiled, barely. “Or sooner, I said.”

You opened the door and stepped aside so he could come in. The small suitcase in his hand bumped against the frame as he passed, and you watched him carry it up the narrow stairs, placing it just inside the apartment, next to the door. You realized then that he probably hadn’t even gone home. Most likely, he’d come straight from the airport.

You set the groceries on the kitchen counter, the plastic rustling against the marble. When you turned back around, he was standing beside the couch, looking at you as if he was trying to remember something important. Your smile hadn’t left yet.

“Well?” you said, stepping toward him. “How are you?”

That’s when it shifted.

His mouth twitched, a near-smile interrupted midway. His shoulders fell, not all at once, but in degrees, like gravity had started pulling harder. His eyebrows knit slowly, his whole expression beginning to slide. His eyes—always expressive, always easy to read if you knew how to look—began to shine. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else might notice. But you did. Of course you did.

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching for him without hesitation, both hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing lightly across the skin beneath his eyes.

He didn’t answer.

He just looked at you. Close up now, you could see it more clearly—how tired he was. His eyes rimmed with red, the faint trace of tears that hadn’t yet fallen. The kind of exhaustion that lived deep in the bones, behind the eyes, beneath the skin. And something more.

Then you pulled him into your arms again, tighter this time. He dropped his face into the curve of your neck, and you felt his breath catch slightly as he exhaled. You pressed your hands into his hair, threading your fingers through the messy strands, and held him there.

At first, his breathing came in short, uneven bursts. You felt it in the way his chest rose and fell against yours, in the way his arms clung to you a little too tightly, as if you might disappear if he let go. But you didn’t move. You just held him, one hand in his hair, the other splayed across his back.

Eventually, his body began to ease. Not entirely, but enough. His breaths evened out, becoming quieter, steadier. He pulled back just slightly, enough that your faces were no longer touching, and you tilted your head to look at him properly. He did the same.

Your eyes scanned his face. The sharp line of his jaw, the subtle crease between his brows that seemed to have taken up permanent residence. You reached up and brushed your fingertips along his cheek, a gesture so gentle it barely registered.

He kissed you. It wasn’t rushed or hard, but there was urgency in it nonetheless—like he'd been waiting to do it, or needing to. His lips met yours and you responded instantly, your mouth moving with his as the space between you disappeared again. You tilted your head and the kiss deepened. But then he pulled back, leaving your lips warm and a little dazed.

You studied his face, your expression shifting into something you hadn’t planned. Tenderness, yes, but also a quiet ache for him.

You reached up and brushed your fingers through the side of his hair.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice soft, your thumb grazing the edge of his jaw.

He let out a breath through his nose.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, but then paused. “I mean… I’m just tired.”

You didn’t believe him, not fully, but you didn’t push. You let your hand rest against his cheek, tracing light, absentminded shapes along his skin.

“We can talk about it later,” you said. “If you want.”

“I’d like that.”

You smiled, small and reassuring, and nodded. “Now tell me—are you hungry?”

He squinted slightly, the ghost of a smile creeping across his lips.

“Starving.”

“Good,” you said, patting his chest before stepping back. “Now I’ve got the perfect excuse to make something that’ll impress you.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched you cross the room.

About thirty minutes later, you were standing at the stove, carefully pouring the chopped vegetables into the pot where the tomato sauce had already begun to simmer. You’d pulled up a recipe Emma had texted you weeks ago—something she’d raved about that night she sent five voice notes in a row.

The ingredients were simple—onions, garlic, bell peppers, crushed tomatoes, some ground meat you’d picked out after asking the butcher three separate questions, and just enough red wine to make it taste richer than it actually was. Still, there was a method to getting it right. Things had to be done in order, in the right way, or it wouldn’t come together. You were focused on that now, adjusting the heat beneath the pot until the bubbles at the surface softened. You stirred gently, watching the sauce thicken, hoping the meat would turn tender enough to fall apart with a fork. The pasta would come later, once the sauce had earned it.

The smell was already blooming through the kitchen. You leaned in, eyes fluttering closed for a second, just to take it in.

Then, the sound of a door opening, then closing again. The quiet shuffle of feet along the hallway.

Frankie appeared a second later, leaning into the wall next to you, one shoulder pressed casually against it.

“That smells really good,” he said, eyes drifting toward the stove.

You looked at him and smiled. He was wearing those soft gray-and-black striped pajama pants you’d seen once, paired with a plain white T-shirt that clung just slightly to his chest. He’d pulled them from his suitcase before heading into the shower.

“Thanks,” you said, eyes drifting to the damp patches forming on his shoulders. “Your hair’s still dripping. You’re getting your shirt all wet.”

“I can shake it out, if you want,” he offered, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Before you could stop him, he tilted his head and gave it a little shake like a dog just out of the rain, droplets scattering into the air, some landing on your cheek.

“No!” you laughed, holding your hands up in protest as he moved a step closer.

He retreated, still grinning, and reached up to push his damp curls back from his forehead.

“I’ll dry off,” he said. “I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“So impatient,” you teased, pressing a hand lightly to his stomach as he passed behind you. “How was the shower?”

“Hot,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yeah, but don’t you feel renewed? Like your whole nervous system just reset?”

He tilted his face toward you, that crooked little smile still playing on his lips. “I’ll let you know after dinner.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he wasn’t looking. Earlier, you’d adjusted the water for his shower, turning the handle just right, testing the temperature with your wrist like you were preparing it for a toddler instead of a grown man.

“Not so hot,” he’d said, already pulling his T-shirt over his head. And then, as soon as the water hit his skin, he let out an exaggerated groan. Sure enough, seconds later came a low, satisfied sigh, like he'd just entered some kind of heaven.

You didn’t comment on it. But now, standing in front of him, you gave a soft shake of your head and said, “Come here,” brushing past him gently and catching his arm as you went.

He let himself be pulled, trailing behind you. You brought him into the bathroom and pointed to the closed toilet lid.

“Sit,” you instructed. He did.

Frankie looked at you with mock suspicion. “What are you going to do to me?”

His voice was cautious, playful, like he half-expected you to pull out a pair of scissors. You didn’t respond, just reached for a clean towel and began pressing the soft fabric into his damp hair, patting and squeezing gently, your movements steady but firm. His head dipped forward under your hands, shoulders relaxing a little as you worked.

“Look at you,” you murmured, a teasing edge in your voice, “like a child.”

He gave a snort in response, a quiet puff of breath.

“I hadn’t finished drying myself,” he said, his voice a bit muffled, like he was talking more to the floor than to you.

You didn’t answer. Just kept working. After a moment, you tossed the towel onto the edge of the sink and knelt to open the cabinet beneath it. Frankie stayed where he was, watching quietly now, as you pulled out a small hair dryer and plugged it into the socket by the mirror. You glanced back at him, holding it in your hand like a weapon.

“Bend your head a little,” you said, and he did, obedient.

The dryer clicked on with a soft hum, not too loud, and warm air began to rush over the back of his neck. You ran your fingers through his hair as you dried it, lifting and separating the strands, moving with a rhythm that felt almost instinctive. Your fingers grazed his scalp as you worked, massaging without thinking, just because it felt right to do.

After a few minutes, he exhaled slowly and said, “You’re going to put me to sleep.”

You smiled but didn’t stop. Instead, you nudged his chin up with the back of your fingers, tilting his head so you could reach the front. He opened his eyes, just barely, as if it took a real effort. You met his gaze briefly before moving your eyes again, concentrating on what you were doing.

He didn’t say anything else. He just looked at you. And you didn’t feel the need to break the silence.

After a while, you clicked off the dryer, the hum falling away like a thought slipping from your mind. The room felt quieter now, the only sound was the faint hum of the television playing in the living room. You wrapped the cord carefully around your fingers, looping it into a neat coil without rushing, then set it down on the cabinet.

You turned back to Frankie. He was still sitting, head slightly tilted, watching you in that unblinking way he had. You ran a hand through his hair.

“All done,” you said quietly, offering him a faint smile.

He stood with a soft grunt, lifting his arms above his head to stretch. The hem of his shirt shifted slightly, exposing a thin line of skin. You were just about to open the door when you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist. You turned, caught off guard, and he pulled you toward him in one fluid motion.

His hand came up to your face, cupping your cheek with a familiarity that made your breath catch. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief, tender, almost shy. Then, without waiting, he kissed you again, this time properly.

You smiled into it. That unconscious, reflexive smile that made your cheeks ache a little. He felt it and smiled too, the curve of his lips brushing against yours. You slid your hands up the front of his shirt, fingertips gliding over the fabric, settling on his shoulders. The cotton felt damp under your palms.

You pulled away, just enough to see his face clearly, to speak without your lips brushing.

“Your shirt’s still wet,” you murmured, your voice lighter now, teasing.

He gave a dramatic roll of his eyes but didn’t release you. His arms stayed around your waist, grounding you there. And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Apparently, you were a damn good cook. The kind that surprised even yourself. Because an hour later, Frankie was sitting across from you at the small kitchen table, setting his fork down with a soft clink against the plate. He reached for the wine glass with the same hand and took a sip, his eyes closing briefly like it really hit the spot.

The apartment was quiet, save for Al Green playing on the speaker in the living room—How Can You Mend a Broken Heart drifting across the place, soft and clear.

Dinner had been easy. No heavy conversations, nothing you had to tiptoe around. Frankie seemed lighter now, more himself, in a dry T-shirt this time. He told you stories from his days in Boston, sticking to the parts he liked, the positive ones, wich were a lot. He asked about Bill then, about how things were going at the coffee shop, and you gave him the short version. Not because you didn’t want to talk, but because there wasn’t much to say. And you didn't feel like talking about Bill.

Mr. Darcy took the dinner invitation too, hopping into the spare chair between you like he’d been formally seated. He spent half the meal squinting at the table’s edge, trying to sniff his way into a bite, before giving up and curling himself into a quiet loaf.

“This was amazing,” Frankie said finally, leaning back with a sigh, like his body needed to announce how satisfied it was.

And honestly, it had been amazing. The meat had turned out just the way you’d hoped. Tender, flavorful, melting on the tongue in a way that made you close your eyes for a second. The vegetables soaked up the wine and seasonings too. And Frankie had eaten like a really starving man, which maybe wasn’t far from the truth. You had no problem refilling his plate twice, then again when he scraped up the last of the sauce with a piece of bread.

You tilted your head and smiled. “I’ll accept that compliment. Graciously.”

He laughed, and then nudged your foot under the table with his, a quiet, almost instinctive gesture. You looked up just as a yawn slipped out of him, unfiltered.

“So, how’d you sleep last night?” you asked, raising your glass, swirling the last sip of red wine before bringing it to your lips.

Frankie paused. He didn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t,” he said eventually, with a small, apologetic smile.

You tilted your head again. “You didn’t?”

He shook his head, and his fingers began to move around the stem of the wine glass, drawing quiet circles.

“Henry had an accident.”

You didn’t speak at first. You watched him carefully, expecting an explanation to follow, but it didn’t. He just sat there, eyes fixed somewhere near your hands.

So you shifted in your seat, and then you asked: “What happened to him?”

“He fell down the stairs,” he said. “He got dizzy.”

Your stomach turned. Frankie gave a faint nod, as if trying to convince himself more than you.

“It wasn’t terrible,” he added quickly, “just a few stitches. Nothing broken. But the fall was bad enough that they kept him at the hospital for observation. He hit his head.”

You winced, your mind catching on the small detail.

You remembered what Frankie had told you last week—about the tumor. A small mass, tucked inside Henry’s frontal lobe, as if that part of the brain had quietly betrayed him. It had started with the dizzy spells, sure, but then there was that evening—he’d gotten confused during dinner with some friends, blanked out while telling a story he’d told a dozen times before. Then the blurriness came, the sudden jolts in his chest, the racing heartbeat. Frankie had listed the symptoms without drama, just a steady recounting. The headaches had been going on for months, along with the exhaustion and his growing inability to concentrate. Tests followed, more than one. And more still to come. They hadn’t reached a decision about surgery yet. But they would soon. One way or another.

Frankie’s voice cut back in, quieter now. “Jamie saw him.”

Your gaze flicked to his face.

“On the floor,” Frankie continued, eyes fixed on the tablecloth, tracing the pattern with the edge of his finger like he needed something tactile to focus on. “Henry was just lying there, blood all over his face. And Jamie—he just cried. He asked me if his dad was going to die.”

You inhaled sharply, instinctively. “Frankie…”

You wanted to reach across the table and touch him. You almost did. But something held you in place.

He looked up at you then, and his eyes were watery but not spilling over.

“I didn’t know what to say, I felt like an idiot. Like some useless bystander in the middle of this thing that’s eating him from the inside out.”

You said nothing.

“I couldn’t lie to him,” he went on. “He’s just a kid, but he’s not stupid. And he deserves more than some empty reassurance. I couldn’t look at him and say, No, your dad’s not going to die, because how the hell would I know that? What if I said it and I was wrong?”

His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t fall apart. He just looked at you, like he was still waiting for someone to tell him the right thing to say.

“What did you tell him?”

“That Henry had good doctors looking after him. And it’s true.” He gestured vaguely, his hand moving in the air like the thought couldn’t quite land. “But the feeling—it was awful. Just awful.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand in a soft, steady motion. He turned his palm upward, and his thumb found your fingers like it was second nature.

“He’s so little,” Frankie murmured. “Just ten. Still thinks the moon actually follows him when he walks home at night. He’s not supposed to know what it means to be scared like that. Not really. Not yet. He’s not supposed to be worried about things like this. He’s supposed to be, I don't know, riding his bike or forgetting to do his homework. Not standing over his dad wondering if he’s going to die.”

Your fingers traced over the curve of his knuckles. “I’m sure you were good with him. And I'm sure it helped him a lot to have you there with him. I don’t think that kind of presence goes unnoticed. Even at that age, kids know when someone shows up for them.” Your voice was soft, as were your fingers stroking his hand. "There are things that no one can protect him from, but you can be there for him. And I think he'll always be grateful for that, to know that his family was there. Whatever the outcome of all this."

Frankie didn’t reply at first. You saw something pass across his face—tiredness, maybe, or something more complicated. Then a faint smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, barely there.

“We watched a movie after they left for the hospital. Luna and my mom went with Henry. So it was just the three of us. Jamie, Mai, and me. We put on Jumanji.”

“Oh yeah? Does he like Jumanji?”

“He loves it,” Frankie nodded. “Though he didn’t make it to the end. Fell asleep halfway through. Mai and I just looked at each other and decided to let him be. I stayed on the couch with him till they got home.”

He glanced down then, his eyes landing on Mr. Darcy, curled up beside the table with his head resting on one outstretched paw.

“I didn’t sleep at all,” he added quietly. “Not when they came back, not even after I got into bed. I just laid there with my eyes closed, trying to feel normal. It wasn’t until eleven in the morning that I even looked at the time.”

He sighed, not dramatically, but like something heavy was pushing out of his chest. Then his gaze returned to you.

“I needed to come back,” he added. “I wanted to stay longer too—mostly for Jamie. But Luna said she’d take care of it. She’s good like that. She drove me to the airport. And the whole time, I was just thinking... I had to see you.”

The words settled into your chest with more weight than you’d expected. You blinked once, then again.

And suddenly, guilt crept in. You thought about how much time you’d taken earlier, moving through the kitchen like you had nowhere to be. You’d cooked like it was a weekend, like this was just another evening. You’d focused on simmering and seasoning and letting the wine reduce just right, and he—he had been running on fumes. Barely holding himself up.

He’d crossed the country running on nerves and zero sleep, and you’d made him wait for dinner.

Your eyes dropped to your lap, and your voice softened. “Frankie, I didn’t know. I would’ve—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted gently. “Being here feels... good. Normal. And that helps more than you think.”

“But you must be exhausted. I’m sorry.”

Frankie smiled. “No, I’m okay. Honestly. I think that shower of yours worked some kind of miracle.”

You shook your head lightly, resting your chin in your palm, elbow anchored to the table.

“Oh, so now you believe in the healing power of water,” you said, with a faint smirk.

He laughed. “Between that and three servings of your cooking, I’m practically a new man. Almost.”

“Almost?”

He shrugged, a little dramatically. “Well, I’m sort of counting on you to escort me to bed. In case that part wasn’t clear.”

The comment caught you off guard and made you laugh out loud.

“Wow. Bold of you.”

“Me?” he said, leaning forward like he had every right to be amused. “Come on, Shortcake. Don’t act innocent now. We both know you’ve been using me for my body.”

You burst into laughter again, covering your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to suppress the grin that had already taken over your face.

“Alright,” you said, rising to your feet. “Get up, I’ll take you to bed.”

From his seat, he didn’t move, just looked at you with exaggerated offense. “So you’re not denying it?”

You turned to face him, hands finding his shoulders, your thumbs brushing over the fabric of his T-shirt. He was warm under your touch, and his eyes flicked up to meet yours.

“Something tells me that even if that were the case,” you said, voice low, “you’d be completely fine with it.”

He chuckled, head tilting toward your hand. “Ha. You're right,” he said. “Got me.”

“Such a slut,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, though the smile hadn’t left your face.

You turned toward the table, beginning to stack the plates absentmindedly. Behind you, Frankie stood up too, and without needing to say anything, he joined in, making quick work of the task. It took barely two minutes—your movements wordless but coordinated.

Then, before you could stop him, he was at the sink. You told him to leave it, that it could wait, but he shook his head, already reaching for the sponge.

“Bad manners,” he said over his shoulder. “Can’t just eat three plates of your food and leave you to clean up alone.”

So you didn’t argue again. Instead, you stayed beside him, leaning your hip against the counter, your arms crossed loosely over your chest. He told you about the day Jamie convinced him to climb a tree in the backyard, how he scraped his elbow and Jamie laughed so hard he nearly fell off the branch above him. Mr. Darcy circled your feet as he spoke, issuing small, dramatic meows, clearly under the impression that it was dinnertime for cats too.

Once the counters gleamed and the dishes were stacked neatly in the rack, the two of you drifted down the hallway in easy, familiar silence. Going to bed together didn’t feel like a decision, exactly—it felt like a continuation of the evening. Like the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask what to do or where to go. He just followed you.

In the bathroom, you watched his reflection in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, his hair soft under the light, a slight crease between his brows as he concentrated. You stood beside him and picked up your toothbrush. Washed your face. Moved around each other without bumping into one another.

Later, you opened the quilt on your bed, fluffing the pillows absently. Frankie stepped into the room carrying Darcy in his arms like a baby, muttering something about him being spoiled. He set him gently on the mattress, where the cat immediately made a low-pitched grunt of satisfaction and curled up without ceremony.

You began to undress, turning your back toward Frankie out of instinct. And it was only when you felt the cool air touch your skin that you realized your face had grown warm. You weren’t used to this part—the exposed version of yourself, no lights dimmed, no rushed urgency to distract from the fact that he was watching you.

But he didn’t say anything. He just lay back on the bed with his arms folded behind his head, his eyes resting quietly on you, steady but unintrusive. You felt them on your back like sunlight through a window. Not harsh. Just there.

You pulled the T-shirt over your head, the fabric brushing lightly over your skin as it settled around your torso and hips in soft folds. Then the pajama shorts slid into place. The air in the room felt nice against your skin.

You climbed into bed, moving across the mattress on your hands and knees until you reached his side. Frankie was already lying down, one arm bent beneath his head, eyes watching you as if he’d been waiting for you to arrive. You asked him to switch off the lamp on the nightstand, and he reached over to do it without a word. The room shifted into semi-darkness, shadows cast against the walls.

Then he asked if you could put something on the TV—just for a while, he said—and you didn’t argue. You reached for the remote, flipping through the titles.

“See?” you said, bumping your hand gently against his stomach. “You always end up watching something before bed.”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth curving upward without effort, and didn’t deny it. You let your head rest on his chest, the weight of you melting into him like it had always belonged there, your ear tuned to the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart. You scrolled through the options until you passed You’ve Got Mail.

“That one,” he said.

You turned your head slightly, gave him a sideways look. “Tom Hanks again?”

He nodded like it was the most obvious choice in the world, and you remembered—of course—the time he confused You’ve Got Mail with When Harry Met Sally, and how he still owed you a viewing of that one. You pressed play anyway.

The remote ended up somewhere between you both, half-lost in the sheets. You adjusted your position slightly, shifting until your hand came to rest against his stomach, the warmth of his body seeping into your palm. You tilted your head to look at him, just to make sure he was okay. His smile had softened, his features quieter now, the tiredness more visible around his eyes.

You leaned up to kiss him—just a small kiss, one that lingered more in feeling than in time. Then another, closer to the corner of his mouth, which made him exhale softly. You felt his hand move across your back, not hurried. His fingers settled in the space between your ribs and your hip, that narrow, delicate stretch of skin that always seemed to hum a little under touch.

You lowered yourself back down, head on his chest again, eyes turned toward the screen. Meg Ryan was typing, oblivious to the irony of her anonymous confidant being the man she resented most in real life. The small bookstore, the way she poured herself into it, the quiet sense of being edged out by something bigger and more impersonal—you understood it. You smiled faintly at a comment made by the woman who worked with her, something dry and sweet and accurate.

After a while, you noticed Frankie’s breathing had changed. It had deepened, evened out. You felt the full rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. You looked up and found him fully asleep, his face softened in that way people’s faces only do when they’re truly resting, the tension drained from his brow.

You reached for the remote again and switched off the television. Then you adjusted your position without really thinking, curling closer to him, your arm draped across his middle.

Within moments, your own body followed his into sleep.

Friday, October 18th

You rolled onto your back, the sheets shifting beneath you, and laughter spilled from your mouth as Frankie’s teeth grazed your neck. Your hands reached for him instinctively, fingers weaving into the softness of his hair. He laughed against your throat, and the sound sent something warm crawling down your spine.

The alarm had gone off ten minutes earlier—seven a.m.—but it had hardly mattered. He’d been awake an hour before that. When you’d asked him why he hadn’t woken you, he said, simply, that you looked like you needed more sleep. So he got up, used the bathroom, then came back to lie beside you. Awake. Still. Waiting until you woke up.

Now his hands trailed across your stomach, and at first you laughed again, your body twitching under the softness of his touch. But the laughter thinned quickly into silence, replaced by something else. Something heavier, slower-burning. His mouth traveled from your neck to your jaw, the sharp little bites replaced by warm, open kisses.

He adjusted his weight over you, settling into the space you made for him without question, your legs curling around his hips. Like your body already knew how this was supposed to go. You pulled him closer without speaking.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t something you eased into. It was immediate, almost greedy—the way someone kisses after too much waiting, too much wanting. Your hands came together at the back of his neck, fingers tightening against the heat of his skin, and his tongue brushed yours, coaxing a response that felt like surrender. You kissed him back like you needed to prove something. He moaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, and the room was full of heat and breath and the wet, open sounds of two people lost in each other.

Then there was a soft thud beside you, something landing on the mattress with a little bounce. You pulled back instinctively, your lips parting from Frankie’s with a sound that felt too loud in the quiet. Both of you turned your heads at the same time.

Mr. Darcy had made himself comfortable on the bed, his front paws neatly folded like he owned the place.

You laughed under your breath, the sound caught somewhere between affection and exasperation. Frankie shifted back slightly, still close but no longer pressed against you.

“Close the door,” you murmured, your voice already taut with frustration and want.

Frankie let out a breath and peeled himself away from your body. You watched him move without meaning to, your gaze dragging to the unmistakable bulge pressing against the front of his pants. He reached for the cat, pausing with his hands hovering in the air, expression torn between hesitation and amusement.

“He’s going to be mad at me,” he said, eyes flicking toward yours.

“What?”

“Darcy.”

You sat upright, your body still tingling with everything unfinished, and let out a quiet laugh. “He’s not going to be mad.”

“Cats get offended. You know that.”

You rolled your eyes and got up, the air around you cooler now without him so close. You bent to scoop Mr. Darcy into your arms, your fingers sinking into his thick, soft fur. He didn’t protest. He never really did with you.

“I know,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of his little head, “but I don’t think he’s going to take this personally.”

You stepped out into the hallway and set him down gently, giving him a fond stroke between his ears before straightening. When you turned back, Frankie was already waiting. He closed the door behind you with a quiet click.

You hadn’t even finished turning when his hands were already on your hips—firm, certain, hungry—and he walked you backward without saying a word. The backs of your thighs met the edge of the mattress, your balance faltering just slightly.

And then there was only him again.

You landed on the mattress with a soft bounce, sitting first and then rolling back, your hair fanning out over the sheets. Frankie followed, his body settling over yours with ease, like gravity made the decision for him. His hands bracketed your waist, grounding you there as his mouth returned to your neck—small, scattered kisses pressed into your skin.

His hands shifted, thumbs brushing lightly over your ribs before gathering the hem of your shirt and tugging it upward. You arched your back to help him, lifting your arms above your head as the fabric slipped off and disappeared somewhere behind him. His fingers moved without hesitation, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts—no pause, no teasing—and he dragged them down in one swift motion, underwear and all, until the fabric was a memory at the end of the bed.

You laughed, the sound breathy and full of something that felt like disbelief. Your whole body buzzed, cheeks flushed and chest warm as your hands roamed over him—his arms, the curve of his shoulders, the warm plane of his stomach under his shirt. He kissed you again, deeper this time, his breath uneven and catching as he pressed his body to yours. The feel of his clothes against your bare skin made you restless, every second tightening something inside you.

You broke the kiss with a smirk. “So desperate.”

Frankie tilted his head slightly, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and it hit you low in your stomach—how much you wanted him right then, how much you liked watching him like this.

One of his hands slid along your waist, then down the curve of your hip and thigh, fingers firm against the softest part of you. He squeezed gently, just enough to make you bite your lip. His eyes stayed on yours, that maddening smile still tugging at his lips as his hand moved higher. He touched you where you needed him, his fingers slipping between your folds—just enough pressure to make your breath catch, to make your teasing dissolve into something quieter and hungrier. Your legs parted instinctively, your body answering before your mind could catch up.

He laughed under his breath. “And I’m the desperate one?”

You were about to say something back—some clever response—but you didn’t get the chance. He dipped his head and kissed your collarbones, his mouth hot against your skin. The kisses trailed downward in a lazy, almost reverent pattern, until he reached your breasts. He opened his mouth over one nipple, drawing it in with soft pressure, his tongue moving in slow, careful circles that made your back lift from the mattress. A moan slipped out of you, unrestrained, and you closed your eyes, your hand tangling gently in his hair.

He released you with a quiet pop, breath warm against your chest, and didn’t pause before continuing down, mouth brushing over your stomach, your navel, lower still, until he was right there, in front of you.

And you didn’t dare breathe.

You leaned back onto your elbows, your arms trembling just slightly under your weight, trying to keep yourself upright so you could see him. Your eyelids fluttered halfway shut, lips parted as if you might say something, though the only thing leaving your mouth were uneven, stuttering breaths. You were already unraveling, and he hadn’t even really started.

And still—still—he wore that fucking smile. That smirk that tugged at one corner of his mouth like he knew exactly how this was going to end and how badly you were going to fall apart in front of him.

You shifted beneath him, restless with anticipation, your hips tilting up on their own. Frankie’s hands gripped your thighs firmly, grounding you.

“Hold still,” he murmured, the grin vanishing from his face like a curtain pulled shut, his voice edged with mock severity. Like he was scolding you. Like you were misbehaving.

You were opening your mouth to say something back—something witty or obscene or both—but then his lips met you. Right there. No warning. No space for speech. Just him.

His mouth closed over your clit, his tongue moving in steady, broad strokes, soft but focused, like he was tasting you and thinking about it, like he could memorize the shape of you with his mouth alone. The air left your lungs in jagged exhales. One of your hands found the back of his head, your fingers threading into his hair, not pulling yet, just holding. Needing to touch him, to anchor yourself to something solid while the rest of you dissolved.

He devoured you like he hadn’t eaten in days. There was nothing hesitant about it—just his tongue, his lips, the heat of his mouth, working you with a pace that sent electricity firing down your spine. He kissed you, licked into you, sucked at the most sensitive parts of you like he was possessed by the need to make you come apart. A low sound came from his throat, something close to a growl, and the vibration of it nearly undid you. You cried out and your hips bucked, but his arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you in place, his grip unyielding but not rough.

And somehow—somehow—he still managed to be gentle. You were burning up. Every inch of your skin too hot, your thoughts too scattered to hold onto. You couldn’t take it anymore.

With a desperate sound—half-groan, half-command—you sat up and reached for him, grabbing his hair and tugging it back, not harshly, but with enough force that he lifted his head.

He released you with a slick, obscene sound. His mouth was wet, his lips flushed, and his eyes met yours—dark, gleaming, the kind of look that made your knees weak even though you were already lying down. His breath caught in his throat. His cheeks were tinted pink, heat radiating from him like a second sun.

You reached for his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric with something that felt like insistence. He didn’t resist. As you tugged it upward, he shifted easily, dropping to his knees on the mattress so you could pull it over his head. The shirt landed somewhere behind him with no ceremony. Then he placed his hands on your waist and pushed—not harshly, but with just enough force to send you tipping back against the pillows.

He stood beside the bed and undressed in one fluid movement, pants and boxers sliding down together, left pooled on the floor. Your breath caught—just for a second—and heat bloomed in your chest, rising to your face. The sight of him made your stomach tighten.

Frankie climbed back onto the bed, one hand wrapped around himself, moving with quiet pressure as his eyes drank you in. The way you lay there—waiting, open, flushed—clearly affecting him. His breathing shifted. His pupils darkened. For a moment, he just hovered there, like he was taking a mental picture.

Then he leaned down and kissed you. Not with hunger, not yet. As if he wanted to be tender before losing control.

But then he pulled back.

“Where are you going?” you asked, your hand reaching instinctively for his arm.

He glanced toward the door.

“Wallet,” he said. “I’ve got a condom in there. Just a second.”

You didn’t let go. “I’m on the pill.”

He paused. Just for a beat. His expression changed—something unreadable passed through his eyes before he gave you a half-smile, crooked and curious.

“I know. But are you sure?”

You nodded, your fingers tightening slightly on his skin.

“Yes. Unless you’ve been with someone else in the last two weeks.”

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You think I have that much game?”

“So no?” You were smiling already, because you already knew the answer.

He grinned, then settled over you again, the heat of him returning like a tide.

“What do you think?” he said, voice close to your ear. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“There hasn’t been anyone else these past two weeks?”

“No. No one.”

“Good,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. “You’re dirty, you know that?”

You let your head fall back, a breathy laugh slipping from your lips. Frankie was still looking at you and his hands shifted on your thighs, guiding your legs open. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he settled between them, his body warm and solid and so unbearably close.

He lined himself up with you, the pressure unmistakable, and stayed like that for a second longer than necessary. His eyes didn’t move from yours. You felt the first inch of him press in, a careful tease of sensation, then retreat. Then again. Your breathing stuttered, lips parting as he rocked forward one more time, deeper this time—until he was all the way inside you.

The stretch of him made you gasp. Your arms went around his shoulders instinctively, anchoring yourself to the firm heat of his body. He buried his face in your neck, not kissing, not speaking, just breathing against your skin like he needed that closeness just as badly as you did.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You felt him in every part of you. Your legs curled around his waist, the tension in your muscles easing as you adjusted to him.

Then he started to move. Gentle thrusts at first—unhurried, almost reverent—but they built gradually, gathering heat with every motion. You felt your breathing pick up, a soft ache forming deep inside you, the kind that was only ever satisfied by more.

Frankie pulled back just enough to look down, eyes trailing over where your bodies met. Your own gaze followed his—tracing the sweat on his chest, the flex of his arms where they braced beside your head, the slight furrow in his brow, the pink flush creeping down his neck.

Your heart thudded hard against your ribcage, a wild, fast rhythm that echoed through your whole body. The sound of his hips meeting yours—the sharp, wet cadence of it—wrapped around you like heat, made your hands tighten on his back, your legs press harder into his sides.

“Harder,” you whispered, your voice shaky, breathless. “Faster.”

His eyes met yours again, and something lit behind them—something raw and dark and beautiful. He didn’t answer, just gave you what you asked for. His pace shifted. The thrusts turned deeper, rougher. The bed hit the wall behind you in time with every movement, and your body arched up to meet him without thinking.

Little cries spilled out of you, rising and falling with each motion. Your skin felt too tight for your body, your chest too small to contain the rush of feeling inside it. Every nerve ending sparked to life under his touch, under the way he pressed into you like he couldn’t get close enough.

You weren’t thinking anymore, not in words. You were all sensation and sound. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed, the heat of his breath on your neck as he sank his teeth into your skin—harder this time, almost too much.

“Don’t stop,” you said, not even sure if it came out as words or just sound. “Don’t stop, please.”

He didn’t. His rhythm didn’t falter. You felt the world tilt around you, narrowing to the shape of his body over yours, the pulse between your legs, the wild flutter of something huge and inevitable building inside your chest.

“Yes,” you breathed—maybe out loud, maybe not. It didn’t matter.

His skin was flushed and slick against yours. Your nails pressed into his back without thinking, dragging down the slope of his spine. He made a sound in response—something caught between a moan and a gasp—and then he lifted his chest from yours, just slightly, like the heat had become too much.

His hands framed your face, but his hips kept moving, pulling you with him. His eyes dragged down your body, like he needed to memorize every inch of you, and you reached for him, one hand curling around his arm, the other flattening against his stomach. The muscles jumped beneath your touch, taut and flexing with every movement.

Something was building low inside you, quiet at first. But then his hand slipped between you, his palm resting on your belly like he wanted to feel what you were feeling from the outside. And then—his fingers. His thumb circled your clit with an unsteady rhythm, the pressure sending a hot jolt through you so fast it knocked the air from your lungs.

A choked cry tore from your throat before you could hold it back. Your hands gripped his arms instinctively, like if you let go, you'd float away entirely.

Frankie thrust deeper, harder. Your body moved in sync with his, like there was no boundary anymore between where you ended and he began. The feeling in your abdomen swelled and then you were falling into it. Your mouth opened in a soundless gasp, your whole body locking around him as the orgasm ripped through you in pulses that felt too intense to contain.

“Fuck,” he groaned, and there was something raw in his voice, as if he couldn’t hold himself together either. “Where—oh, fuck—”

He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, his hips still working, but messier now, rougher. His breath stuttered as he came, and you felt it—the warmth spilling into you, the throb of it, how every part of him seemed to stutter and collapse in the same breath.

You wrapped your arms around his back, your legs still spread beneath him, your chest rising and falling against his. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move for a long moment, except to breathe. You both did. And then, finally, gently, he pulled out of you.

You exhaled at the loss, an ache already beginning to take shape where he’d been. But then he kissed you. Softly, his lips brushing yours with a sweetness that made your heart clench.

Was it wrong—was it selfish—to feel this sense of quiet satisfaction? To think, even for a second, that you were glad he was back, alone, with you? That he was here, in your home, within reach, surrounded by your things. That you had him to yourself, even if just for now.

Frankie let himself fall beside you, his body heavy with leftover heat, the curve of his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. He hadn't caught his breath yet. Neither had you.

You turned toward him and propped yourself against the curve of his shoulder. Your hand found the line of his jaw, fingers skating gently across the stubble there.

“Well,” you said, “looks like you slept really well.”

A low sound caught in Frankie’s throat—half a laugh, half a hum—and he let his eyes close for a moment.

Thirty minutes later, you were both in the kitchen. You sat across from each other at the small breakfast bar, twin cups of coffee resting between your arms. Your hair was damp but not dripping, his too, curling faintly at the ends after the shower.

Darcy was chewing noisily near your feet, tail brushing across the floor every so often. Frankie was absorbed in something on his phone, his brow drawn together in focus. You sipped from your cup while scrolling the morning news, the headlines half-forgotten as soon as you read them.

Then your phone vibrated in your hand.

Santi.

You glanced up, your expression shifting. Frankie looked up too, a flicker of recognition passing across his face. You lifted a hand slightly to let him know it was fine, and picked up.

“Hey, Santi?”

The noise on the other end told you he was outside.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a little rushed, “how are you? Are you at the bookstore already?”

You checked the time. Almost nine. “I’m good. Not there yet, though. Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering.” A beat. “What’s going on?”

You leaned back slightly. “Not much. What’s up?”

“I talked to Frankie early yesterday. I think he got back.”

You flicked your eyes up to the man sitting across from you, who looked especially focused on not looking up just then.

“Yeah?” you said. “That right?”

“Sort of. I thought he was coming in today, but whatever.” You heard the soft thud of a door closing on his end. “We’re heading to Will’s cabin with Yov. He and Benny are going early. Since Fish is back already, I thought maybe we could head out this afternoon. Before dinner. It’s only about an hour away. What do you think?”

“Oh. Yeah? What time?”

Across the table, Frankie raised his eyebrows in your direction and tilted his head slightly, a question embedded in the movement. You met his eyes for a second and bit down gently on the inside of your lip.

“Around six. Maybe a little after? Could be seven,” Santi said.

“Yeah, I—um—yeah.”

“If it doesn’t work for you, that’s fine. Maybe you’ve got plans or something.”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then found your voice again. It came out lighter than you intended. Too eager, maybe. “No, it’s not that. I like the idea. Six works. That way I can get a few things packed and maybe close the bookstore a little early.”

“Perfect,” he said, the smile clear in his voice. “I’ll check with Frankie just to be sure.”

You hesitated. “It’s okay. I’ll be ready then.”

“Good. That’s good.” He paused, and the background noise on his end seemed to quiet for a second. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah. Bye. Take care. Love you.”

His reply came faintly, like he wasn’t quite near the phone anymore. “Love you, too.” And then, the call ended.

You set your phone down on the counter. The screen darkened. The room filled back up with the sound of Mr. Darcy still gnawing at his breakfast and the soft hum of the refrigerator. You looked across the counter at Frankie.

“What was that about?” he asked, eyes narrowed slightly with gentle curiosity.

You opened your mouth to answer, but his phone buzzed before you could speak. It vibrated sharply against the surface, and when you both looked down, Santi’s contact photo was lit up on the screen. Determined.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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moonstruckme · 7 months ago

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Hellooooo

Mae, could you maybe (absolutely no pressure or anything!!!) write something with Vampire!james x reader when he once again feeds from her and actually takes too much or so? Not like so much that it’s really bad or so but like too much, you know?

I haven’t thought about it a lot so I’m sorry that it’s so incomplete. The rest is yours to decide (as always)

(Sorry that my request is so messy, it’s the middle of the night for me)

Wasn't messy at all gorgeous! Thanks for requesting <3

cw: blood, lightheadedness/near fainting

vampire!James x fem!reader ♡ 682 words

You don’t notice it happening. You suppose that’s probably by design—vampires are supposed to drain their victims, after all, and that biology doesn’t account for your gentle boyfriend and his willing bloodbag. You’re not cognizant of any change between when your mind feels pleasantly fuzzy and when it starts to slip away from you altogether, dark spots blotting your vision and your bones losing their solidity. James notices, though, when you turn to mush in his hands.

“Shit.” His voice is garbled by fang and slurred by gluttony, his arms encircling you to better prop you up. You feel a warm droplet of blood trudge down your front as he takes his mouth from you in a hurry. James swears again, wetting the wound to close it. “Shit, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

You make some somnolent sound of reassurance, but it doesn’t seem to do its job well. James is panicky and upset, trying to calm himself enough to figure out what to do with you.

“Okay.” He kisses your face, eyes watery. “I’m sorry. You’re okay. Let’s lay down, yeah? Come here.”

You’re not really up for following instructions, but James does the work himself, laying you sideways on the couch and propping your head on a pillow.

“Stay awake, angel.” He lifts your legs some, holding your ankles in one hand while the other strokes up and down your leg soothingly. “Can you do that for me?”

You hum. You’re feeling better already. It’s not like usual, where the fuzzy feeling starts to fade as soon as James takes his lips from you, but you’re beginning to feel more solid. “James, m’okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” he says, voice hoarse with emotion. “How do you feel? Do you want some water?”

“I feel better.” You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “Just a little…a little weird. Hey. Jamie.” You cover his hand on your leg with yours. Your boyfriend’s expression looks tormented, his eyes glassy with self-loathing. “It’s okay, lovely. I’m fine, I just need a minute.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t stop,” he admits in a near whisper.

“I should have let you know.”

“How were you supposed to? I was drinking you dry.” His voice thins. James closes his eyes, agonized. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. That was dangerous. I could’ve killed you.”

“You wouldn’t have,” you tell him gently.

“I could have, I—”

“James.” You sit up on your elbows. Your boyfriend’s brows bunch concernedly, but your head feels fine. Maybe your protectiveness of James is just more substantial than anything else in you. “You wouldn’t have, baby. Really. I know you’re worried you’re going to lose control or something, but that’s not what happened. We just both let it go a little too far. And when you realized what was happening, you stopped without even thinking about it.” You make your voice firm. “This was just a fluke. It was bound to happen at some point, but you’d never really hurt me. And everything turned out fine, right? Didn’t it?”

James breathes out. “I don’t know,” he says uncertainly. “Are you fine?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You give him a smile, reaching out your arms.

James hugs you but doesn’t meet you halfway. He presses you back into the couch instead, his arms wound tight around your middle and stubble scritching against your cheek.

“You promise you’re okay?” He turns his head to kiss your ear. “Be honest.”

You rub his back. “I promise. I just needed a minute. It’s normal, you know?”

James sighs, his body sinking into yours. “Nothing about this is normal.”

“I guess. But I was talking about, like, blood donation. This happens all the time in those cases.” You lie there for a minute, you soothing your palms over his back and him with his arms wrapped around you. “I feel fine to sit up now, by the way.”

“No way.” James kisses the shell of your ear again. “You scared the shit out of me, baby. I’m never letting you up off this couch again.”

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razzlerdazzler · 1 year ago

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Hi!! (●’◡’●)ﾉ! Can I request some hcs for Jack Frost having an s/o that's a guardian and the spirit of spring? Thank you and have a good day/night!!<33

Jack Frost x Spring Spirit Guardian Reader Relationship Headcanons

Hello, I'm sorry this took so long, I hope you like it :)

Since both of your seasons are so close together, you both see each other very often

Sometimes he visits an area that you've already been through and makes a little snowstorm so the children can have another snow day and he gets to see you again and spend more time with you even though you just spent time with him very recently

He likes to call you nicknames, especially ones that are related to your season like petal, sunshine, dewdrop, sprout he uses this one to tease you, especially if you're tall or short

You both like to watch and play with the new baby animals that are born during spring

Whenever you two spend time with the other guardians, he likes to watch you interact with the people that he considers family, and they're all happy for the both of you

Bunnymund likes to tease Jack about your relationship since both of your seasons are very different, however this usually results in him covered in snow

If you have any little helpers or companions, he loves them and loves to spend time with him and will treat them as if they're his children

If you allow it, he'll even let them join him on his adventures while he brings winter to different parts of the world

He tells you about his sister and how he died protecting her

He likes to go sledding with you and making snowmen with you

Every little while he likes to make a snowball and toss it at you, causing you two to have a snowball fight

He also likes to make flower crowns with you, and he even makes some out of snow and frost and gives them to you

He loves PDA and loves to just hold you and cuddle with you

Whenever you two are cuddling or just being affectionate with each other like holding hands, he always notices how warm you are compared to him and his heart just melts everytime, he loves how warm you are compared to him

He absolutely introduces you to Jamie

He likes to make images of stuff you like on frosted window panes, usually it's your favorite animal, flower, or anything that reminds him of you

He worries about you and is protective of you, even though he knows that you can defend yourself, he can't help but worry a little bit, especially after dealing with Pitch and his past of not being believed in, he doesn't want anything bad to happen to the person he loves

He'll absolutely help you with whatever you need, whether it's helping you stay believed in or even if it's just comforting you or giving you moral support, he's willing to help you however he can

He'll always listen to any of your problems and whenever he sees that you're upset, he'll comfort you, either by cuddling you or by distracting you to get your mind off of whatever you're upset about, even if it's just for a little bit

He likes to ask you questions about the flowers and plants he sees, and loves to watch your eyes light up with glee as you answer his questions. He loves watching you get all excited and passionate

If anybody looks over at him while he's around you, they can't help but notice him looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky

#rise of the guardians x reader #jack frost x reader #rise of the guardians #rotg x reader

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puck-luck · 10 months ago

Text

code-breaker | jack hughes

warnings: pining!, unprotected p in v, lots of miscommunication but it is resolved duh, lmao uhhhhh jack fucking his best friend's sister maybe? kind of a big plot point fasho, a lame excuse for a squirt, cum on da body (chest), eating come, lots of banter, tiny TINY bit of angst and insecurity on fem!reader's part pairing: jack hughes x zegras!reader request: cappy's "sister of the best friend, lake house, etc. sister makes the first move and the guy tries to turn her down out of loyalty to the other boy and she gets a little hurt and insecure thinking he's rejecting her and she's like "am i really that bad?" with her voice craking and he's like fuck then... smut!" wc: 4327

Jack is here.

Jack, who you’ve been in love with since your twin brother started hanging out with him when they were in NTDP together. Jack, the New Jersey Devils’ prized star, the number one pick. Jack, the most annoying and most attractive brother of the esteemed Hughes family from Michigan. Yes, that Jack is here– ‘here’ being your apartment that you share with your brother in Anaheim now that Jamie has moved out and away.

Jack is here. You are here. Trevor is not.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” you tell him awkwardly, still holding the door open and blocking the doorway. You’re all too aware of your lazy, solo-movie-night outfit as you stand in front of him. You’re clad only in a big shirt, one that normally reaches the middle of your thighs but has ridden up since your hands are raised and resting against the doorframe, and your favorite pair of panties. You did laundry earlier and showered, your big exciting thing of the day being that you could but on your favorite underwear and be lazy as soon as you finished the chore of folding your clothes. “Trevor’s in New York right now.”

“I know,” Jack says, a hand on his suitcase. The other is clenched by his side. “I have a meeting in LA tomorrow so he said I could stay here while he was gone.”

“Oh,” you reply, feeling silly. It would’ve been nice if your brother had told you that Jack was coming and staying here while he was gone, considering you’d made plans to be alone all night tonight. Trevor always does shit like this– he makes plans and then forgets to tell you until someone shows up or he has to leave to meet them. It’s frustrating. “Come on in, then.”

You move to the side, gesturing for Jack to enter the apartment, and he does. His suitcase rolls in behind him, just a little carry on, and he leaves it beside the door where he kicks off his shoes.

Your hands make their way to the hem of your t-shirt, tugging at it. “I’ll, uh, go change into something more–”

“No, don’t worry about it,” Jack interrupts, waving you off. He clears his throat. “You don’t have to change on my account. I’m interrupting your night of–”

He looks to the couch and the coffee table, littered with a bowl of popcorn and a bottle of wine that you had been drinking out of, straight from the spout. Your movie is paused on the screen, a silly Disney Channel movie that had come out when you and Trevor were children and still hadn’t lost its touch yet. You’re hoping that Jack doesn’t recognize the screencap, but Mel’s Lemonade machine fills the screen and if he’s seen Lemonade Mouth at all, he’ll know what movie you’re watching.

“Disney Channel and wine,” Jack finishes, pinching his lips to hide the amusement in his voice.

You frown, even though you want to burst into laughter with him. It is silly, what you’re doing, but you were supposed to be alone and who are you to be ashamed of your guilty pleasures?

“Don’t make fun,” you admonish, crossing your arms with a pout. “I thought I had the apartment to myself.”

“I’m not making fun!” Jack denies, holding his hands up in surrender. “I think it’s nice that you’re having a me-party.”

He’s referencing the other time he’s interrupted when you’re having a movie night on your own, when you watched The Muppets (2011) at the lake house because the boys were out on the boat and you had gotten a nasty sunburn the day before, so you’d stayed in. Jack had come back early because he was hungry, making the boys drop him off at the dock before going back out, and caught you red-handed with his favorite kind of pretzels and a half-full bottle of margarita next to the blender.

You blush, glaring at him slightly. “Shut up, Jack.”

“No, this is perfect,” Jack continues, glowing a little as his shit-eating smile builds. He walks over to the couch and plops down, grabbing the bottle of wine and taking a swig before wiping his mouth. “I’m already dressed for a lazy night in, I shouldn’t waste it.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re such a dick,” you complain. “You know you don’t want to watch this movie with me.”

“Why not?” He challenges, another tilt of the bottle pouring the fruity liquid down his throat. He spreads his legs when he sits as all the boys do, taking up as much space as he can.

“Because you won’t like it,” you say. “And because I wasn’t planning on having you here.”

“Were you planning on having someone else here?” Jack teases. “Popcorn, red wine, a movie, no pants… I think I see the writing on the wall.”

“No, God, shut up, Jack!” You repeat with a huff, returning to the couch and curling up against the opposite arm, far away from the boy. “Just be quiet while I watch my movie. If you’re good, I’ll let you have some popcorn.”

Jack wiggles his eyebrows at you, sticking out his tongue. You pull at the bottom of your shirt again, making sure that your panties aren’t visible when he looks over. This is already humiliating enough– you don’t need your long-time crush seeing your underwear, too.

You hit play and turn the volume up loud enough to drown out any comments Jack might make. You’re lucky the movie is short, because he’s an antsy boy who loves to talk, just like your brother, and you can tell that he’s anxious to start another conversation.

As the credits roll, you mute the television and turn to him. “What?” You demand, sitting in criss-cross-applesauce and shoving your hands into your lap to stretch your shirt over the space between your legs.

“You really didn’t have plans tonight?” Jack asks. “It’s a Saturday night and you live in LA. You’re in your twenties. You didn’t want to have anyone over?”

You flush, but it’s less out of embarrassment and more out of anger. “Judgemental much, Hughes? Not all of us have people throwing themselves at our feet any given day of the week.” You grind your teeth, clenching your jaw and taking a deep breath. You stare at him, refusing to break eye contact. Jack shouldn’t be allowed to form opinions on your life. You know exactly what he’s insinuating– why aren’t you out there getting laid, Y/N? and it’s frustrating because it’s the same question you ask yourself whenever your friends text about their recent hookups or whenever Trevor brings a girl back to the apartment.

More than anything, you don’t want Jack judging you. You know that your Saturday night plans are lame, but that’s why you wanted to be alone.

Jack falls quieter, your reaction diluting his crooked, toothy smirk that he reserves for the people he knows well. “I’m surprised you don’t have– people. Throwing themselves at you.”

He’s awkward when he says it, too awkward not to make you suspicious.

He’s avoiding eye contact, picking at his nailbeds.

“Would you?” You ask, directly to the point. You’re making a point, too– you’ve known Jack for years and he has never, not once, implied that he thinks you’re desirable.

Jack says nothing, running his fingers through his hair and looking down.

You nod to yourself and stand from the couch, still tugging at your shirt. You’re pulling it even lower now, the neckline dipping and stretching as you cover your legs up as best you can. “That’s what I thought,” you say quietly, a cold feeling washing through your chest and pressing down on the skin that your heart beats beneath.

“I would,” Jack calls, just as you walk away. You’re positioned right in front of the door that leads to your bedroom when he says it, head hanging towards the ground so that he doesn’t see the frown on your face.

His silence was a rejection and his afterthought is even worse. Nonetheless, you turn to face him. This time, it’s your silence that rings throughout the space.

“I would,” Jack repeats. “If, y’know. You weren’t–”

“Trevor’s sister,” You say, filling in the blanks and finishing his sentence. You nod, a tight, close-lipped, and pointed smile on your face. “You don’t have to explain, Jack. I realized a long time ago that my world would always revolve around Trevor.” Your hand is on the doorknob now, twisting it and cracking your door open. Your bed is right there and you can collapse into it in mere seconds, able to let your tears leak into your pillow silently as you remind yourself that you’re not as good as your twin brother once again, just as soon as you get these words out. “I know I can’t do or say the things I want to with the people I want to because they’re always thinking about Trevor.”

You could add, And why would you be any different? You know him best. Of course he’s the one you’re loyal to, but you decide against it. It’s too petty. It’s too mean. It’s too– real.

You look at him one last time to bid him goodnight, already craving the following day when his meeting is over and he heads back to Michigan, far away from you and your un-desirability. The tight smile returns to your face, trying to smooth out your upset yet resigned features. It’s always the same thing. It’s not Jack’s fault, really, it’s not. You’ve imagined this conversation in your head many times and each time you think rationally, you know that this is how it has to be.

He’s Jack Hughes, for God’s sake. You’re just Trevor Zegras’ less successful, lesser known twin sister.

“Trevor would kill me,” Jack says on a whim. “Really. He would. He would stand me up and punch me, right here.”

You’ve got one foot in your bedroom and one foot out. Despite the ice piercing through your chest, you can’t find it in yourself to be rude and close the door on him. You turn to face Jack again.

He’s sitting forward on the couch, hands clasped in front of him like a prayer. He moves them when he talks, lowering them and spreading them and gesturing with them. He’s always done that, ever since you’ve known him– it’s another way that he calls attention to himself and takes up space. It’s part of the reason why he’s so charming– he knows how to use his hands, how to touch someone to politely get them to move or to pull them closer or to playfully shoo them away.

“If I had a sister, I’d do the same thing to him,” Jack continues. “It’s just– we can’t go for each others’ family. It’s against the code.”

You nod, slowly, exaggeratedly just to show him how nonsensical that sounds. “You realize it’s not up to Trevor to decide who you go out with,” you say. “That’s kind of your choice, Jack.”

“It’s not that simple.”

You shrug, then look away. Outside the living room window is a dark night, leaves blowing with the wind.

“It could be,” you say after a moment. You’re not surprised to hear how resigned you sound. You learned to live with this a long time ago, so you know that pointing out how easily things could change is futile. You say it anyway. “If you wanted it to be. But, I get it. I’m your best friend’s sister. Maybe if I wasn’t, you’d consider–”

“I have considered,” Jack interrupts. “I’ve– well, you’ve seen it. All the guys have.”

You’re lost. It’s like he’s speaking in code. “I’ve seen what?” You ask, monotonous and silently yearning for your bed. Your patience is growing thin.

“You can’t be serious,” Jack responds with a laugh. He buries his face in his hands, muffling the noise. “Are you?”

“I’ve seen what,” you repeat, straight-faced and not entertaining this sudden bout of humor from the brunet boy.

“How I look at you when you’re in those tiny little swimsuits on the boat, or how I laugh when you make one of your stupid jokes that aren’t funny to anyone but you and Trevor,” Jack says. “You really never noticed?”

Now he’s just dangling your hopeless crush in front of you. You assumed he had noticed sometime over the years, but this is overkill. He’s never felt the same– that much is clear. It’s cruel that he thinks he can lead you to believe otherwise as a means to further tease you for being alone tonight.

You shake your head. “I never noticed because you never did any of those things, Jack. You’re just saying that to say it.”

He’s up in a flash, coming towards you and placing a hand flat on your bedroom door to prevent you from closing it and ending the conversation. “I can’t believe you don’t believe me,” Jack says.

“I don’t think it’s funny that you’re making fun of the little crush I’ve had on you since we were kids. You don’t feel the same way and I’m not an idiot.” You move to close the door again, but Jack pushes it open again.

“You– I’m not making fun,” Jack stammers out, looking surprised. He leans forward, narrowing his eyes. “You have a crush on me?”

Your jaw drops and your face flames with humiliation. You thought he knew that you liked him and that he was making fun on purpose– and now you’ve accidentally revealed your massive, well-kept secret to his face. This was never supposed to happen. “You didn’t know?” You hiss, covering the lower half of your face with your hands.

“You have a crush on me,” Jack repeats, a smile spreading across his face. He steps closer, prompting you to back away.

“No. No,” you moan out, feeling positively ashamed and destroyed. Tonight is not turning out as you hoped it would.

Jack’s still smiling, closing your bedroom door softly behind him as he follows you into your room.

You knock into the edge of your bed and sit, sinking into the mattress. Your hands are still pressed over your mouth as Jack kneels in front of you, prying your hands away from your face and holding them gently.

“You have a crush on me,” Jack says for a third time, his voice soft and subtly optimistic. The corner of his mouth curves up into the tiniest of smirks and you swear your face couldn’t get any more red.

All you can give him is a frown and a devastated wobble of your bottom lip.

“Well, this changes everything,” Jack says, regaining his ability to joke, it seems. His next question is rhetorical and makes you swallow hard. “Who gives a fuck about Trevor when you feel the same way I do?”

“You’re– you’re serious,” you say, still a thread of disbelief sewn into your words. “You weren’t kidding. You actually– thought about it.”

“Thought about it?” Jack asks. “Fuck, Y/N, I almost told you right before you left last summer, but then you said you were talking to that guy.”

You roll your eyes– that guy had only been in your life for about a month and you had only mentioned him because Jack had mentioned a girl he wanted to see. You tell him such– “I only brought him up because everyone was talking about their romantic interests and who they were interested in, I didn’t want to seem like a loser. You had some girl, too, Jack.”

“Some girl– that was you,” Jack reveals incredulously. “I thought I was being so obvious.”

“You weren’t obvious at all!” You deny, mouth open in a scoff.

“I thought that you mentioning that guy was your way of letting me down easy!”

“Yes, Jack, because I was going to reveal my feelings for you in a room full of both of our brothers. Good idea. You fucking idiot!”

Jack laughs aloud, throwing his head back. His face scrunches up and he smooths his face with his big palm at the end of his amusement. He fixes you with a look of glee and astonishment– something only hindsight can bring to his expression. “We’re so fucking stupid.”

You shake your head, laughing with him for a moment before he swipes a thumb over your cheek, which stills you.

“Fuck,” he sighs, smile still gracing his face. “I can’t believe–”

“Me neither,” you say.

“Can I–”

“Absolutely.”

Jack’s rising up, kissing you and laying you back on the bed so that he can completely cover your body with his own. One of his hands cups your cheek, while the other grips your hip, atop your underwear but underneath the big t-shirt that is now riding up your body as you move. Your hand is on his bicep and his chest, clutching his sweatshirt. The strings dangle down into your space, brushing against your clothes and tickling you.

His hands memorize you like a topographic map, clutching at your dips and curves and anything else he can get his hands on.

“Wanna take this off,” You mumble against Jack’s mouth, tugging at the collar of his sweatshirt.

Jack pulls back immediately, reaching behind his neck to grab the collar of his top and bring it above his head. He balls it up and drops it somewhere on the floor.

“That, too,” you tell him, about his t-shirt, before he can bend back down and kiss you senseless again.

Jack chuckles and pulls it off, too, leaving him half-naked just like you. His chest is tanned and swollen from his recent workouts in Michigan since his shoulder surgery, something that Trevor had told you about but about which you’d never checked in. You’re gentler on that side of his body, especially as he comes back down into your space and you get to touch him. You run your hands over his muscles. You feel out the ridges of his body, trying to match his own confident movements as he feels you up.

One of your hands makes its way to his v-line, something you’d seen over plenty of boat trips. You’d always wanted the opportunity to touch it, to trace it, to watch it bend and flex as he rolled his hips. You’re being afforded that opportunity now and it is sweet.

“I thought you might like that,” Jack murmurs. “Caught you staring once. Was the same day you wore my favorite red swimsuit out.”

“I still have it,” you tell him, gasping a little when his hand slides up to your chest. He tweaks your nipple, then his hand retreats.

“Mm, a treat for tomorrow,” Jack says. “I’m gonna have you walking around in that thing all day just so I can look at you. For now…”

He trails off, pushing the bottom of your shirt up and leaving your lips to attach his to the freshly revealed skin of your torso. He kisses up your body with each inch he reveals, between your breasts and up your neck. He pulls your shirt off, letting it join his own on the floor, and gets his first proper look at your tits.

“Been waiting to see these,” he continues, eyes fixed on your chest like he’s being hypnotized. He places his hands on you and squeezes, feeling your supple flesh between his fingers. You moan out at the sensation, the noise spurring him on. “Wanna know a secret?”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding and tugging at his joggers, hoping he’ll get the hint and remove them.

“‘ve wanted to come on these tits since I first saw it in a porno,” Jack reveals, still mesmerized by your chest. “Thought about it a hundred times.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Come on my tits all you want, but you have to fuck me first.”

“Guess your Saturday night wasn’t so boring after all,” Jack says before he stands from the bed and tugs his pants off. He joins you again, wrapping your legs around his waist and kissing over your face. He grinds against you, his clothed cock sliding against your damp panties in a way that has you both keening into each others’ mouths.

“Guess not,” is your reply, cut short by another moan when Jack’s hand claims your chest again.

You move without speaking after that, fueled only by the desire coursing through your veins after years of pining and aching for the other.

Jack feels you out and eventually discards his own underwear before removing yours, returning to the missionary position that you had assumed as soon as you had first kissed. It’s sweeter this way– and you both need to see the other’s face, to feel their breath mix with your own. Your chests are flush together, your nipples scraping against the defined and broad swoops of his skin. You grind against each other for a few minutes more, his dick sliding between the wet lips of your pussy with nothing blocking it. He groans into your ear as your juices coat his length, eyes closed in a grimace that is completely charged by his pleasure.

“Condom?” is the last thing he asks, with you shaking your head and replying, “Pill.”

He lines himself up, mouth agape with a choked breath as he thrusts into your tight, wet heat. Your head finds the mattress beneath you, your back arching up as he fills you. You can feel his veins sliding against your walls, the blunt and weeping tip of his cock poking at your deepest parts.

He moves like a man possessed and fighting the beast– like he wants to let loose but at the same time, restraining himself. When you tug on his hair, the subtle waves that he’s been growing out over the summer and hiding beneath his hat in every picture you’ve seen, and whine out his name, Jack’s control vanishes.

He starts to piston his hips into your cunt, burying his face into your neck and letting out ecstasy-fueled whimpers each time you clench down. He curses in your ear, voice a little higher than it normally is, and the intimacy and vulnerability of the moment has your heart clenching.

“J– J–” You chant, mewling as his cockhead drives against the back wall of your pussy in hard thrusts that make your head spin.

“So good,” he grits out, kissing over your neck and catching your earlobe between his lips for a moment before dropping it. One of his hands is splayed over your hip, the other securely planted next to your head. “So tight.”

“Coming,” you warn, your fingers finding his bicep and clenching, fingernails digging into his skin so much that you won’t be surprised if you break skin. Your voice is high, too, octaves higher because of the pleasure you’re experiencing.

“Fuck, yeah, baby, come on my cock,” Jack pants out, the hand from your hip coming to rub circles over your clit.

It sends a shock up your spine and has your hips bucking up to meet his, your entire lower half shaking as your climax approaches. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and your vision goes spotty when you do come, just seconds after his groaned encouragement. Your entire body tenses, freezing with Jack still inside of you, making it damn near impossible for him to continue pumping his hips.

He slides from your opening as you’re coming, bringing some of the slick with him in a feeble excuse for a squirt. His dick bobs, hard and an angry red that might be the most beautiful color you’ve ever seen in your hazy, post-orgasmic state.

Jack comes up to straddle your stomach, stripping his cock quickly with a tight fist, chest heaving. You know he wants to come on your chest, having already given him permission, but your mouth opens and your tongue lolls out in an invitation that Jack can’t deny. He shuffles up further on his knees, his whimper sounding pained as his milky cum spurts from the tip of his cock and lands along the flat of your tongue and your lips.

His spurts grow weaker, although he’s still stroking his dick in a fervorous pace, whining a little more at the oversensitivity. His cum makes his way to your chest, just dripping down the length of his shaft and pooling over your tits.

You reach up with one hand and trace your fingers through the seed, causing Jack to sway a little on top of you at the sight. His cheeks are flushed and pink, eyes blue and clear like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Your fingertips brush your nipple, spreading the cum over it before you bring your hand up to your mouth and suck the remaining liquid off of your skin, swallowing it with a hum.

Jack is off of you in a flash, pulling you on top of his lap and joining your lips. The last of his cum, painted across your tongue in a thin layer, mixes with your spit as he kisses you. He’s desperate, filling your mouth with his tongue until you can barely breathe, tasting himself on you until it’s indistinguishable– where you end and he begins.

It takes a long time for Jack to finally pull away, for you both to come down from your highs and take a breath.

In typical Jack fashion, he can’t stop himself from joking around.

“Trevor’s really going to kill me now,” he says. “There’s a chance he’ll never let us be in the same room again.”

You laugh, knowing already that neither of you will be willing to let this– whatever this is– go just because your brother has something to say about it. “In that case, we’ll just have to sneak away.”

notes: I WANTED TO NAME THIS "BFB" AFTER THE VICTORIOUS SONG SOOOOOO BAD!!!!! but alas. it's best friend's sister. maybe some other time. blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. well now wait that's a good idea...

#puck-luck's fics #andy writes anything🍄#jack hughes #jack hughes smut #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes x you #jack hughes x y/n #jh86 #nhl smut #nhl fanfiction #nhl fic #hockey smut

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lizard-on-a-window-pane · 1 year ago

Note

hi!! this is the same anon from earlier and i saw you wanted to write for james potter. and i’m so sorry if you’ve done something similar. so maybe after a quidditch match, win or loss, all james wants to do is lie and bed with reader and hug her. but they’re not dating and he ends up confessing too, still tired, he doesn’t even realize he’s admitted his feelings

thank you again for your time:))

-can i be ‘🎀 anon’? lolol

hi lovely 🎀! thanks for your sweet words and adorable requests 😊 i hope you like it!

pairing: James Potter x reader tags: fluffy fluff, some angst, gn reader if you want word count: 1.9k

Cuddles and Confessions

So close. So bloody close. And to bloody Slytherin to top it off? The defeat stung worse than any other James could remember.

As he lumbers back up toward the castle after the match, frustrated and furious, some Slytherin fans jeer at him from across the lawns. It pushes him over an edge, and he turns to — well, he’s not sure to what; berate them? beat them up? — a strong hand grabs his shoulder and turns him back around.

“Easy, mate. They’re idiots but they’re not worth it,” Sirius says easily. Sirius of all people being the voice of reason has James realizing maybe he needs to calm down.

James falling into step with Sirius without a word, the two make their way back up to the castle.

When they get to the common room, it’s packed with mad and sad-looking Gryffindors consoling each other, complaining about bad calls, bad-mouthing the Slytherins: a typical post-match defeat.

“Thank Godric,” Sirius sighs, heading immediately to a small table stacked with firewhisky. He grabs two glasses, but James stops him before he fills the second one.

“No thanks, mate. Don’t really feel like the company,” he says, scanning the room. He admits to himself there is one face that would have made him stay, one person whose company was actually the only thing he wanted right now. But he doesn’t see you. So he stalks off, bounding up the stairs to his currently empty dormitory.

He’s lying on his bed, tossing a ball up and down when he hears a soft knock.

“What?” he yells, the harshness of his voice even surprising him a bit. Surprise shifts to horror when your beautiful, blushing face peeks around the door.

“Hi, Jamie,” you say shyly. “I’m sorry. Sirius said you wanted to be alone. I should’ve listened. I didn’t mean to annoy you. I’ll just —”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he rushes, going over to you and pulling you into his room. “I’m so sorry, love. Please don’t go.”

You smile a bit at this, looking down at your feet before nodding slightly.

“Ugh, I’m a prick. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” His voice is soft now, warm and enveloping as you look into his pleading eyes.

“It’s okay,” you chuckle. “I get it. Rough night, huh?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, smiling for the first time all day. You had a way of bringing that out in him.

“Want a hug?” you offer. He nods immediately, internally cringing for being so uncool in front of you.

“Yes please,” he half laughs.

You step close to him, and even this increased proximity has him reeling. He can’t wait to feel your warmth around him, to smell your hair as he nuzzles into you.

He’d been hoping to win tonight’s match for more reasons than one. He hated Slytherin for starters. He loved winning for seconds. But also, he had been hoping a Gryffindor victory party could be the perfect place to finally tell you how he feels about you. Firewhisky flowing, adrenaline pumping, maybe he’d finally have the courage he was supposed to have as a Gryffindor and tell you the truth.

You bring your arms up around his shoulders, pulling him close to you, bringing one hand to his messy hair and scratching comfortingly. James’s large body immediately melts into yours. He hums into the crook of your neck, and you giggle.

“Thanks for coming to check on me,” he whispers into your shoulder, holding you close.

“Why would I want to be downstairs wallowing with everyone else when I could wallow with you?” you tease, pulling back slightly to be face to face again. He hates how much he just wants to pull you back into him.

“Oh, I’m much better company than those wankers,” he plays along.

“Yes, I’m sure. Seems you’re quite chipper from your greeting.”

He cringes and whispers “sorry” again. You shake your head quickly, wanting him to know you’re only teasing.

The silence stretches a bit too long, neither of you knowing what to say. It’s especially awkward because your hands are still on his shoulders, his on your hips.

“So what were you doing?” you ask, coming up with nothing better.

“Just lying in bed, wallowing,” he confesses.

“Sounds fun,” you chuckle. You break apart from him, the tension becoming too much and head over to his bed, plopping down onto it. He laughs and follows, sitting close next to you. “What do you want to do?” you ask, your voice low. “I came to cheer you up, but I think I’m doing a bang up job so far,” you chuckle, scrunching your nose.

Before thinking about it, James brings his hand up to your face, lightly tracing his finger down your nose for you to relax it.

“You’re not,” he says earnestly. “I’m already better, just having you here.” He thinks he feels your face warm where his hand still caresses it but pushes the idea down, not wanting it to be wishful thinking.

“So what do you want to do?” you ask again gently.

“Honestly?” he asks shyly. Nervous was a weird look on him, usually so cocky.

“Of course,” you giggle in your warmest tones, wanting him to be open with you, relishing in the intimacy you seemed to be building.

“I want to keep lying in bed wallowing.”

You stiffen immediately, chiding yourself for misreading his nerves. He wanted you to leave; that’s why he seemed shy.

James sees — and feels — you tense at his words, and luckily for him, he realizes right away what you’re probably thinking. He continues before he can stop himself, dreading your leaving more than dreading saying something stupid.

“With you,” he adds hastily. He feels himself blush, hates it, but pushes on. “I want to lie in bed and wallow… with you,” he repeats more softly.

“Oh,” is all you can think to respond.

“I mean, just hang out, you know. I just… you just… I just like hanging out with you. And even just your hug made me feel better,” he rambles sweetly.

You smile and pull away from him a bit. Before he can be disappointed, though, you’re pulling him with you as you shuffle further back onto the bed, lying down and bringing him horizontal with you by the shoulder.

You’re lying next to each other, both tense, facing the ceiling, your sides grazing but nothing more. You look over at him, and he looks at you, and you both look away like idiots.

You take a deep breath, reminding yourself he literally just told you he wanted to be here with you, clinging to that to give you the courage for what you were about to do. You turn toward him and bring your hand up to his hair. His eyes snap to yours. First they show shock but that quickly melts to adoration. Then they show nothing at all as they close in comforted bliss. You chuckle softly and see the corners of his mouth tug up at the sound.

“Feels nice,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” you whisper too. He just nods.

You shuffle closer to him, and he turns his body towards yours. Your arm is cramped now between your two close bodies, so you do the reasonable thing for comfort, you tell yourself, and wrap your arm under his shoulders. His face coming to the crook of your neck, you miss the huge smile that breaks out on it at the contact.

He’s lying on your shoulder now, the rest of his body flush with yours. Your arm is around him, your hand coming up to continue playing with his hair. James brings his arm over you, hugging you close, and you place your arm on top of his.

It crosses James’s mind that friends don’t cuddle. But he stops his internal monologue in time to savour the moment rather than over-analyse it, which he’s bound to do later.

You just lie there in silence for a bit, the tension having eased considerably.

In your warm, comfortable cocoon, you bring your face closer to the top of his head on your shoulder and nuzzle him a bit. He just hums in response.

“You’re comfy,” he says. It sounds muffled, his mouth squished against your shoulder. You laugh, and it shakes him up and down the slightest bit.

James loves the feeling of your vibrating chest just below him. He can’t help himself and tickles you where his hand rests near your ribcage. You laugh louder. You hold down his arm to stop him and playfully shake him off a bit to protect yourself from more tickling. His grip tightens in response, and he’s almost on top of you by the time he’s done adjusting himself.

“No, no, don’t go,” he chuckles. “I’ll stop.”

Your laughter has mostly subsided, but your voice is raspy as you respond, “Promise?” He nods into your shoulder. “Fine. I’ll stay if you behave.”

He laughs, squeezes you, whispers, “Promise.”

Any tension that had been left has dissipated completely, and you fall into easy chat as you hold each other close. Your hand continues playing with his hair, tugging it when he says something stupid. His arm draped over you occasionally squeezing you more tightly whenever either of you says something nice. You go over the highlights of the match, lamenting the result. Without realizing it, you start talking about any and everything else, and by the time the conversation lulls for the first time, both of you chuckling lightly, James wonder how much time has gone by. Not enough, he thinks to himself, wishing this would go on forever.

The quiet, your hand in his hair, your warmth radiating around his body, it all soothes him into a half slumber. It washes over him how exhausted his body is from the match, how tense it had been from the fury at its result.

“This is nice,” he slurs.

“Mmhmm,” you hum.

“I’m not even mad anymore.” He sounds astounded even in his sleepy tones. You chuckle.

“Good.”

“Mmmm. We’ll prank the Slytherins tomorrow. And I’ll think of another time to tell you how I feel.” Your hand halts its motions. James is still completely relaxed, and you realize he’s pretty much half asleep, not truly realizing what he’s saying.

You don’t want to take advantage of him in this state, but you want to be honest with him too, and he clearly wanted to talk to you about whatever this was.

So, you warmly whisper, “How do you feel, Jamie?”

“I love you,” he mumbles. You’re melting at his words, and you can’t wait till tomorrow to say them back. You shift your weight so you’re more facing James than under him, and this rattles him a bit more awake. His drowsy eyes are heavy initially but then they startle slightly. Before he can worry or regret, you hold his face gently in both your hands, your thumbs caressing his cheeks.

“James…” He just looks deeply into your eyes, his eyebrows furrowed, not saying anything. “I love you, too.”

His face shifts as if in slow motion. His eyebrows rise; his lips smile widely; his eyes crinkle.

“You love me?” He sounds equal parts giddy and disbelieving.

“Yeah, I love you, you grump.” He chuckles. “You love me?” you echo.

He takes his time responding. Scanning your features adoringly. Eventually, finally, calmly and assuredly he says again, “I love you,” nodding as he closes the little distance between you.

Your kiss is slightly awkward at first, your lips smiling automatically at his words before realizing they’re being called on to take on new, intoxicating shapes.

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter fanfic #marauders #marauder x reader #marauders fanfic #james potter fluff #james potter imagine #harry potter fanfic #sirius black

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thehealthyfearofeverything · 1 month ago

Text

The Kitchen Sink

SYNOPSIS; “ “No books today?” The pretty redhead asked. “No.” you mumbled. ”

You go to the library.

Chapter three || A Great, Good Place.

Warnings: Death, depression, violence, murder, panic attacks, mentions of EDs but otherwise not specified.

Your ears were ringing. You stayed on the curb, and your ears were ringing. Ambulances and police cars surrounded the gymnasium. Jamie was sent to the hospital. You had Nettie’s glasses chain wrapped around your hand, the thing was thin and discolored. He looked so small. Tobey had given you his jacket before he was picked up by his Father. The way he clinged to you. Nettie was picked up shortly after by her stepfather. It’s just a broken arm, his grandmother could wait for him in the hospital.

Mama… Where is Mama?

The body bag.

You were alone. This was different from how Mom died, that woman was complex; filled with all the nasty side effects of motherhood that society preferred to ignore. Mom killed herself. At least she had the decency to do it when you weren't home, at least she had the courtesy to send you to the grocery store for some cheap laundry detergent.

Mama was killed. Shot twice to the back of her head right in front of you.

It took you years to find out why Mom took her own life, to properly digest that she was suffering from untreated postpartum depression. And it took you even longer to stop with the ‘what ifs’ that it didn’t matter if you realised it sooner, Mom would have killed herself regardless.

Mama wasn’t Mom. Mama was murdered and you saw it happen. And there was nothing you could do about it, there was no ‘what ifs’ when it came to Mama.

She wasn’t the only casualty. Many parents were left without their children and many children became orphaned.

Oh god you were an orphan.

In your first life, after mom’s funeral you still had your grandpa. He was old and cranky, and smelt of tobacco, but he held onto life until you graduated from highschool. You were eighteen then, and finally had access to the money Mom left for you.

What would happen now?

Gothem’s foster care was shit, most children would rather be homeless then placed in foster homes. You couldn’t go to Tobey’s father or Nettie’s mother's. They already had a lot on their plate and Jamie was being raised by his grandmother.

No you couldn’t burden them like that.

Maybe you could get emancipated? No, you shook your head. Even in Gotham no sane person would allow a fourth grader to be an independent minor. You didn’t want to be homeless and you didn’t want to be in foster care. But right now you had to choose the lesser of two evils.

The police were busy and so were the few paramedics that still lingered in the streets. Distantly, somewhere to your right reporters were being held back by some officers. Batman and his brood had left once the vehicle that held the Joker departed.

You could leave.

It was concerningly easy to leave the crime scene. Maybe that's why villains like the Joker were able to leave Arkham so easily, incompetence and underestimation.

The journey home was long and quiet. And it allowed stew in your thoughts. Once it’s noticed that you’re no longer at the crime scene with the other distraught and newly orphaned children CPS or the police would come after you. For now however you just wanted to go home.

You still had the keys to the apartment, it weighed heavy in your pocket. You’ll have to be quick; in and out, just grab what is needed.

The apartment was just how you and Mama left it. Your backpack was still by the front door next to mama work shoes. The carpet was still the ugly shade of brown that it always was. You closed the front door. The apartment was still drafty but mama was’t here to warm it up. She would never lounge on the couch and peer over her book and watch you do school work. Or sing bad karaoke or encourage you to write.

You haven’t written anything recreational since waking up in this world, but you told mama about the stories you wanted to write. And she always listened, you thought briefly and foolishly that one day you would write again.

Now that’s a mere pipe dream.

Nevermind that.

You’ll need your birth certificate, your social security card, the emergency fund mama keeps under the kitchen sink, and a change of clothes. In your first ife a few months after graduating and shortly after your grandfather's death you were evicted from your apartment for a little over a year. Back then you drifted between sleeping in motels and couch surfing, it was hard but you learned a few tricks.

You couldn’t couch hop right now, your best bet was a homeless shelter– a Wayen funded homeless shelter. Preferably one for kids. The better funded library was in the university district and that was near the crime scene. Then again all the better funded anything was in the upper districts.

You left the building with little fanfare and with a heavy heart. You didn’t knock on Tobey’s door, you couldn’t bring yourself to. And besides he might not even be home.

It had started to rain on your journey

You trip going up the stairs of the huge library. The library in the Narrows was small; a hole in the wall nestled in between an alley. And more often than not it would be closed for ‘maintenance.’ Ever since taking over Birdie’s body you only entered that library twice. You looked up at the dark lettering looms above the entrance: GOTHAM CITY PUBLIC LIBRARY.

Now, back in your first life the library in the town you grew up in was never really empty, even on slow days. There was always some kind of foot traffic outside, and the library would host events and fundraisers every other week. There’s kid corners— where the library would invite some person of importance to read to the local children, Writer’s groups, book clubs, etc. it was impossible for that library to be empty, so when you entered Gotham Public Library the first thing you thought was ‘sad.’

You stood in the entryway of the library, dripping water onto the marble floor. Your mouth parted slightly as you surveyed the massive space. Perhaps, when you’re not soaking wet, you could come back here. Lose yourself in a book and forget that you were alone, twice orphaned and barely feeling human.

You could excuse the library in the Narrows because that part of the city was crimaly and cartoonishly underfunded and crime riddled, but this was the ‘good library’ and no one was in there.

It’s clean unlike the one in the Narrows, the lights were dim. Your eyes flickered to the right where the librarian’s desk was neatly pressed against the far wall. Seeming to wrap around to a side you couldn’t fully see from your position. Inching closer to the desk, and spying various pamphlets stacked across it. You grabbed a few that looked particularly useful.

There was light coming from an office in the back, but the shades were drawn shut, so you couldn't see who was inside. “ No, listen Red, you’re gonna head left then…”

A woman's once muffled voice rose with irritation before lowering back to an incomprehensible murmur.

The lights might be on a weird setting but the sign at the door said that the library was open, so you're doing what you want. And if they’re closed then the doors should’ve been locked. It's the universal rule in Gotham.

You snorted as you flicked through the pamphlets. Salvation Army…Soup Kitchen…Harvest House…Youth Shelter…

Huh, many of these charities exist in your world as well. Back in your first you had no other choice but to go to the soup kitchen, or the salvation army. You were alone than, with no living family. Now in this life you had truly thought that you wouldn’t need theses services again. Mama worked hard to make sure you wanted for nothing, not that you asked for much. And even after all her hard work, you still ended up on the street.

You lingered on the shiny image of happy children printed across the last pamphlet. you brushed your fingers along the edge before flipping it open to give it a closer read. Of all the options presented before you, surely a youth shelter was the best option?

Physically 9 but mentally 25, you were still legally a child. It would be another eight years before you were considered an adult by anyone, seven years before you could legally get a job. Despite the complete upheaval your life had recently undergone, you still wanted to at least finish school! The youth shelter seemed the best option, especially given you age.

You were familiar with how bad Gotham’s foster system was, there were kids in your class that would just disappear. They would be there one day then gone the next, and rumors about what happened to them ran rampant. But even if the shelter forcibly placed you with a family…well, you could always disappear.

With that in mind, you made your way to the door, that's when you noticed her. Sitting at the reception desk, the woman had finally left her office. You must have been too focused on the pamphlets to notice her. She’s wearing much warmer clothes than you, which makes you a little self conscious about going back outside in your school uniform. Her red hair is cut around her shoulders and she looks to be in her mid twenties.

You try to sneak past her. You keep your head low and your hands in the pockets of Tobey's jacket. you glanced at the darkening sky through the glass doors, if you hurried maybe you could make it to the shelter before nightfall.

Silently you pray that she doesn’t notice you. Not that you did anything wrong but still, you’d prefer not to be noticed.

Her cheery voice catches his attention as you almost make it to the doors.

Fuck.

“No books today?” The pretty redhead asks. You looked over your shoulder to see an amused grin on her lips, her eyes never leaving her phone. You turn around to fully face her.

“No,” You mumbled.

There’s an uncomfortable pause, then she finally looks up from her phone and at you though her oval-shaped glasses. There’s a curious glint in her eyes, that flashes with something you're too emotionally stunted to name as she glances you over.

“Not many people come around here, so I know my regulars. You’re new.” She was smiling, her voice is light, but her gaze kept returning to your face once–twice–three times, as if making sure you're really there. It was similar to the look Mama gave you when you told her that you had depression, she never left you alone much after that. Not that you could blame her you did kill yourself.

“I came from the Narrows.” You said. “ My class… field trip.” you trailed off. Shit, that was a crappy lie.

The woman nodd, but she didn't seem convinced. No doubt because any school trip should have ended a long time ago. Still she doesn't call you out.

“ So I take it you won’t be a regular?”

“There’s a library closer to home but it's not as big as this one.” You said. “ Though this one is better funded, so there's that.”

She nodded in understanding, “ Yeah, the city often underfunds its programs so we mostly rely on public donations.”

You nodded just to be polite, but you really wanted to leave. Small talk had never been your forte, even when your physical body matched your mental age. You clocked it a while ago, she was trying to keep you here. It was a strategy used for flight risk individuals, keep them talking until the authorities arrive. Was that what she was doing on her phone?

Did this woman realize that you escaped the crime scene?

“ Is Red Robin your favorite hero?” she asked suddenly. You looked at her dumbly before you realized that you were wearing Tobey’s jacket— his Red Robin themed jacket.

“He’s cool I guess, this is Tobey’s jacket, he’s the fan.”

To your relief the woman breaks out into a bemused smile and laughs. It;s bright and airy and filled with mirth, just like how Mama’s used to be.

“I’m Barbara Gordon, it’s nice to meet you.”

Oh,

Oh, no.

Maybe she noticed your wide eyes, and the color drained from your face, but before she could ever ask ‘ what’s wrong you bolted out of the library.

You should have realized it sooner, of course the first person of the batfam is Barbara fucking Gordon. you thought that you would never interact with any of them, and maybe it was just a one off thing.

But you really should have noticed it sooner.

God you were fucking stupid.

You did not reach the shelter before nightfall. To further rub salt in the wound, every step you took seemed to urge the rain to fall heavier and harder. Much to your chagrin, you were fairly certain that the last few minutes had seen the falling of hail instead of rain.

Given that it was mid-August in New Jersey, you grit your teeth and cursed out whatever weather-altering villain was responsible for the sudden drop in temperature.

Your luck did seem to change upon arriving at the Youth Shelter.

You were greeted by a portly, older woman who gasped at your waterlogged appearance and all but dragged you inside. She introduced herself as May, the main nighttime caretaker of the shelter. May had you shower, and in clean clothes, with a hot bowl of soup within an hour. The woman was so determined to help, that you were afraid she’d strip you of your clothes and wash you herself.

As it was, currently you were sitting at an empty table watching May huff and run back and forth. Muttering to herself about getting a bed ready. You dropped your gaze and stared at the bowl of soup between your hands. Simple tomato soup, with a side of mouth-watering garlic bread that probably had been better hours before when it was fresh. The warmth was welcome against your cold skin.

You slowly ate, and used the soup as an excuse to remain silent when May finally sat at the table with you. You… didn’t feel hungry, you never really did like to eat. The only reason why you didn't starve to death is because Mama and your friends would put food in front of you. Mostly eating was habitual, something you did because everyone would worry if you didn’t.

“What’s your name?” She asked softly, as if you would throw yourself out the nearest window.

“Mama called me Birdie”

Tag List:

@jsprien213 @vxsire @sick2mystmch @not-aya @seemeee3 @wendee-go

A/n: ask box and tag list is open!

A/N: this chapter is finally out sorry that it took so long to write, life has been kicking my ass, pare that with writers block, gruesome stuff my guy.

PART 2 — HERE— Interlude

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luveline · 2 years ago

Note

hiiii not sure if your requests are open but if they aren’t just ignore this😭

imagine getting into an argument with james, sirius, and remus because you brought a stray kitten or something home and you really don’t have the room for a kitten

“but look at him🥺”

“no”

“🥺”

“… no” *less convincingly*

You hold the kitten in your hand. Remus strokes her head, her little damp ears. “It's not about that, Remus, I just couldn't leave her there, the box was falling apart and… I thought that only happened in movies.”

Sirius leans forward on his knees to give the kitten a stroke of his own. “She's lovely,” he murmurs, scratching under her chin and grinning when she moves into it for more. “It's too bad the flat's so small. Otherwise we could keep her.”

She's tortoise shell with a white half circle around her mouth, eyes squinted closed as she shivers. You've wrapped her in a tea towel like a blanket. She is, without a doubt, that cutest and saddest creature you've ever seen. “Where is she supposed to go, Siri?” you ask gently.

“People love cats.” Sirius puts his hand on Remus' thigh casually, giving it a loving squeeze as he settles in. “Everybody wants a kitten.”

But not everyone will be nice to a kitten. She feels like your responsibility now; how can you leave her? She's burrowed into you from the moment you picked her up, shushing and murmuring, your knees sodden in the puddle of rainwater beneath you both.

“We have to keep her, please,” you say.

There's a mutual surprise. “Dove, we can't,” Remus says. “The bathroom barely fits the toilet, shower, and sink, we'd never be able to have a litter box.”

“It wouldn't be fair,” Sirius agrees, “on us or the kitten, she'd have no room once she turns into a cat.”

You bring the kitten close to your chest and show them her helpless face. “But look at her,” you say softly, widening your eyes gently, your brows bunched together in the beginnings of heartbreak.

“No,” Remus says, shaking his head sympathetically.

You frown at him and Sirius in turn, your bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly.

“No,” he says again, sounding unsure.

Sirius rubs his leg. “Stay strong, my love.”

“There's just not enough room.”

You fear you may be losing this battle, and if they really don't want a cat, maybe you shouldn't force them. But then your trump card comes out of the bathroom with a towel around his neck, shirtless, grey joggers low on his hips, and you know you still have a chance.

“Wow, Jamie,” you say, not having to act very much to give your voice a hoarse rasp, “you might need to shower again.”

His smile is magnetic. “Yeah?” he asks, immediately delighted by such a brazen comment. “How's the little sweetheart? Reckon we can leave her alone?”

“She's cold still,” you say.

James visibly melts at your sad tone, while Remus rolls his eyes. “She's just trying to get you on her side, James. I've said we can't keep the cat and she's–”

“Taking advantage of her feminine wiles?” Sirius suggests.

“Cheating,” Remus finishes.

James leans over the back of the sofa between your head and Remus to kiss behind your ear, a brief press of the lips. “Why should I care? Doesn't she deserve her own way?”

“It's not as though I'm lying,” you say guiltily.

James laughs and kisses your jaw. You bring your shoulder up to your chin and flush with heat at such a simple thing, trying your hardest not to jostle the kitten in your hand as he wraps an arm around your front, resting his face against yours. The wet curls of his hair are cold on your skin, and the straight line of his jaw digs in. “I know,” he says.

“Catch on, Jamie,” Remus says.

“Shan't, won't.” Another kiss to your cheek.

“Please, Remus, I promise if you don't want her then I won't make you, but if it's about room, of course there's enough. The four of us manage to squeeze in, don't we?” You lean into James’ embrace, eyes melty-soft. You're practically batting your eyelashes at him.

Sirius flops into Remus’ lap with a resigned sigh. “If you don't say yes, I will anyway. Look at her.”

You don't know if he means the kitten or you, but you choose to believe it's you he's complimenting, and you react accordingly, your little smile pushing Remus completely over the edge.

He sighs. “Yes, alright. Fine.”

You pass James the little warm parcel of fur and use your freshly emptied hands to grab Remus by both arms. “Thank you! Aw, thank you, Remus. Sirius. I'll be so absolutely clean and if it does seem too small I promise, I won't make anyone suffer.”

“I never thought you would,” he says. “If you really want to keep her, I can't stop you. I'm your boyfriend, not a prison warden.”

“Well, we share a home–”

“I know,” he says warmly, “it's alright. Keep your kitten, dove. Looks like you've found her for a reason.”

You laugh happily and gather him up for a hug. “Oh, I love you.”

“What shall we name her?” Sirius asks around you.

“I'm not fussed. What do you like?” James asks.

Sirius meets your eyes as you and Remus pull apart. “You always get your way, hmm? Why don't you name her?”

Oh, you could hug him to death too. He looks comfortable where he is, his face on Remus thigh, hair fanned out over his joggers, and you don't want to disturb him (he's not quite as tactile as the others), so you stroke a curl from his cheek and offer him a cheeky smile. “Don't you have any ideas?” you ask.

“About you, or the cat?”

You laugh at his teasing. “Which one do you think?”

Remus nudges you in the ribs. “Don't start. If we're keeping your cat, we need to go out, don't we? You'll have to go get dressed again.”

You give them all a glowing smile and clamber off of the sofa to find your shoes.

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inbloomwriting · 5 months ago

Text

Everything to me - Chapter 3

Chapter three - Raspberry

Chapter 1 II Chapter 2

Plot: Jamie Tartt is a lot of things: professional footballer, the island's top scorer .... sexually, extremly handsome. But one thing he never saw himself as was a dad. Too bad he has to deal with the consequences of his own actions. This fic follows reader and Jamie as they navigate life and turn from practially strangers to parents. Pairing: Jaime Tartt x female reader Warnings: Pregnancy, swearing, mentions of food and alcohol, slight mention of sexual intimacy (nothing graphic), strained/toxic parental relationship Notes: I do not have a set uploading schedule. Please bear with me as I work on this story. I know hardly anything about pregnancy, all my information comes from google. Sorry it took so long to update this. I tagged everyone who showed interest in future parts and/or asked to be tagged. Please let me know if you want to be taken off or added to the taglist. Likes, reblogs, comments are all much appreciated.

Jamie sleeps like a rock. It’s a new discovery for (Y/N) as she tries to unravel herself from his tight grip. She doesn’t remember falling asleep cuddled up to each other, in fact, she doesn’t remember falling asleep at all. It’s like one moment they were talking about the baby and the next she wakes up to the sun pouring in through the window and Jamie’s quiet snores filling the room. And his arms wrapped around her like a vice.

God that man is clingy.

And, whereas with any other man, this would scare her off, there is something about Jamie that makes the whole thing endearing.

Maybe it’s the fact that they are not dating, not even trying to. It takes some of the pressure off. All she has to be is a good mum and a good friend and while those two things are hard enough as they are, at least there are no romantic feelings involved, no expectations to uphold when it comes to being a girlfriend, a partner.

Jamie sleeps like a rock, doesn’t even so much as twitch when she slips from his grip and rests his arm back on the side of the bed she used to occupy just moments earlier. Even the squeaky floorboard doesn’t wake him as she makes her way downstairs.

A sweet smell permeates the air and makes (Y/N)’s mouth water. This heightened sense of smell is both a blessing and a curse. Mostly a curse. Most smells make her nauseous these days. Not today though, this one just makes her hungry. It smells of sugar and vanilla and all things sweet and warm.

Simon’s smiling face greets her as she rounds the corner into the kitchen. She wonders if this man ever stops smiling. He’s the personification of a ray of sunshine.

“Good morning, come have a seat. I’m making waffles.”

Waffles. (Y/N) can’t remember the last time someone made her waffles for breakfast. Dad did, sometimes when she was little, and stayed with him for the weekend. But then the waffle iron broke and he never got around to buying a new one. So pancakes and bacon it was. Beans sometimes. Sausages if he was feeling particularly fancy.

“I’d love some, thank you! It smells amazing.”

“Yeah? Oh, thank god. I was afraid the smell would be too much and make you feel sick. Only realized that after I poured in half the vial of vanilla essence though.”

The sheepish look on his face puts a smile on (Y/N)’s face. It’s nice someone cares about those little things.

“Never had to deal with anyone pregnant so I don’t know these things but I had a quick Google last night and it says 8 weeks means a heightened sense of smell. Also, the baby is the size of a Raspberry.”

If she didn’t know any better, (Y/N) would swear that Jamie and Simon must share some DNA. Both of them so clumsy in the way they care but infinitely endearing.

“Yeah, Raspberry or Blueberry or Kidney Bean. So tiny."

“Crazy isn’t it? To think it’s gonna be a proper human soon enough.”

She nods her head in agreement as Simon places a plate stacked with two thick fluffy waffles before her.

“You’re telling me. I know this is all happening inside my body and it’s still insane to think about. Doesn’t feel real.”

Simon regards her with soft eyes. There is warmth in there but something else. Something she can’t quite place. Georgie had the same look last night. Like they know more than she does. And fuck, maybe they do. They’ve done this before. Lived enough of life to know what the hell they are doing.

“Are you alright? “

(Y/N) was never big on sharing her feelings with anyone, let alone strangers. Life, and both her parents really, have taught her that talking about your feelings only makes you vulnerable. And being vulnerable usually ends in pain. So what you do is you take your insecurities, your fears, your sadness and you put it in a tiny little box and then you put on the lid. You tie a ribbon around it with a neat bow on top and then you take that box that holds your feelings and you bury it. And then you spend your whole life living like the protagonist in an Edgar Allan Poe story and that box becomes a beating heart under the floorboards of your life.

And the beating never ever stops.

“Sure. I’m good.”

She thinks he knows she’s bluffing but lets it go anyway. Opening up to Jamie is scary enough, takes up enough of her bravery. Simon is lovely and if she was another person altogether she’d love to share her worries with him, he seems like the best listener. She’s not someone else though, she is just herself and she can’t bring herself to talk.

“Okay. Just want you to know that if you need anything or — anyone. Georgie and I are always there to help. I know I’m not Jamie’s real dad but I do feel like that is my son. I don’t have children of my own and I only met Jamie when he was a pre-teen already so I don’t know much about babies but if you guys let me I am sure I can be a phenomenal grandad. My mum always used to say I was already born a little old man so this feels like I finally get a chance to be what I was always supposed to be. My time to shine has come.”

A harmony of their laughter fills the kitchen. God, is this whole family made up of the sweetest people on this entire planet? Do they make them in a damn factory or something?

“I will hold you to it. When the baby is screaming and I need some sleep I’ll come drop them off with you then.”

“Oh, I’ll be ready with some bedtime stories and lullabies.”

“You are sweet, Simon. And I really appreciate the offer. God knows Jamie and I don’t know the first thing about being parents so we can take all the help we can get.”

“Do you want to hear a secret?”

“Sure.”

“No one knows what they’re doing. As long as you try your best that’s all that matters. Kids are forgiving if they know you care.”

People always say that but there’s a little part of (Y/N) that believes those words to be untrue. Did her mum try her best and this was the outcome? Or did she just not care to do more, to be better? And which of those scenarios would be worse?

Jamie’s sleepy voice pulls her from her spiraling thoughts. “Morning, love.”

He places a soft kiss on the top of her head. So sure, so unbothered as if they do this all the time. Is this what it feels like? Being able to show your feelings and show affection without wondering what consequences it may bring? Without fearing that it makes you too vulnerable?

His hand finds her stomach and gives it a soft rub “And good morning to you, baby.”

It will never not be endearing to her to hear him talk to the baby. And neither will the way he pronounces the word ever lose its magic to her. That is his pride and joy there. His babeh.

“Aw Waffles, sweet!”

As Jamie plops down next to Simon and stuffs his face with vanilla waffles, leaving a slight dust of powdered sugar on his lips, (Y/N) is certain that all his worries are unjustified.

Jamie is all his dad and none of his father. Every inch and every fiber of him is a product of the love that Georgie and Simon have raised him with. He is them in the way he smiles and cares and the way he feels joy so freely and unabashedly.

And if only a smidge, only a sprinkle of that love is extended towards her child, that kid is gonna grow up so adored it won’t know where to put all of that love.

“Think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Like pregnancy barf or meeting mum nausea? “

Leave it to Jamie to put a smile on her face even when the world around her seems to crumble and fall.

“You gotta stop calling it that.”

“Alright, but you have to tell me which one it is so I know if I should hand you a barf bag or give you a pep talk. I’m getting awfully good at them if I dare say so myself. Learned a lot from Ted, yeah?”

If this was just the pregnancy making her nauseous everything would be so much easier. Ginger drops and rest would do the trick. But this is so much worse. This sharp feeling cursing through her veins, gnawing at her bones and devouring her like a hungry wolf. There truly is no one capable of breaking your heart like your own mother.

“Let me hear that pep talk then.”

As he navigates the car up the long driveway, flanked by big ornate mansions with brass iron fences and perfectly symmetrical hedges, Jamie regards (Y/N) from the corner of his eyes.

“Okay, well you don’t need to worry. Things are gonna be just fine. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Cause mums love me and middle-aged women love me. It’s cause they think I’m charming,” he says and glances at (Y/N) for a second. That radiant cheeky smile of his taking over his features. Oh, she hopes their kid gets his smile. “Which I am.”

“So charming, really.”

“You’d know,” Jamie replies and nods his head in the direction of her belly.

His laughter echoes through the car as she gives him a soft slap against the shoulder. There’s just something about Jamie that makes life feel a little lighter, a little more effortless. Even if it's just for a moment, just pretend. It does take the heavy weight off of (Y/N)’s heart for a second.

The car rolls to a stop in front of the gorgeous white house (Y/N) pointed out to him when they turned into the street. The lawn looks immaculate, the hedges are trimmed to perfection. This plastic palace all grand and gaudy. It never felt like home even though (Y/N) spent most of her life growing up in these very halls.

But really what is it that makes a house a home? Love and laughter and memories you want to return to. This is just four walls and a roof.

“Hey,” Jamie speaks up and places a hand gently on hers. “It’ll be alright but even if it won’t it will.”

“Huh?”

“I mean — look if she reacts badly, that sucks. But you have me, yeah? Always. Me and Rebecca and my Mum and Simon. Once we tell them I know the team will be obsessed with our baby, they’ll love her so much.”

“Or him.”

“Or him, yes. Ted is going to freak out, I know he’s going to want to hang out with our kid all the time. Roy? He’s already the best old geriatric uncle the world has ever seen. He won’t admit it but he’ll be really happy for us. Sam, Issac, Keeley, Higgins? All of them will be just a call away if we need help. I’m not sure about coach Beard though, he scares me not gonna lie.”

“I think he’s hilarious actually.”

“It’s because you’re smart and understand his jokes.”

“You’re smart too!”

“Nah, I just talk a lot and hope I end up saying the right thing. Anyway, what I mean is, this is your mum, yes, but in the big picture, she is just one person. And if she doesn’t love our baby there are so many other people who will. This baby will never, not for one second have to wonder if they are loved, because they are. So much.”

And as easy as it is for him to make (Y/N) laugh, as easy it seems to be to make her cry. Good tears though. Tears that say “I believe you that things are going to be alright”. Tears that say “thank you.”

“Jamie Tartt, of all the footballers that could’ve accidentally knocked me up, I am so glad it was you. You are going to be the best dad.”

“And you’re already the best mum. Well tied with my mum, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

(Y/N)’s childhood home feels cold, Jamie notices. There are hardly any pictures and those that are there are posed and awkward. He can tell it’s (Y/N) on those pictures but they don’t feel like her. There is no happiness in them, no joy. None of that sarcastic charm she exudes. He passes by a lifetime of being told how to sit and how to smile and what to do and probably what to say as well. It makes him feel miserable. And it puts things into perspective. It makes sense now, her worries and fears. If you grow up surrounded by nothing but the cold you eventually start wondering if you’ll ever be capable of creating warmth.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” (Y/N)'s Mum asks as she sits down at the head of the table. There’s something scary about this woman. She demands attention like a god-given right. She extends nothing in return. Her eyes are sharp and intense. It makes Jamie feel like she can see right through him down to all his insecurities and faults. She’s fucking terrifying.

“I wanted to talk to you about something.”

He hates the way (Y/N)’s voice has become so small and timid ever since they stepped foot into this mansion. Hates that there is nothing he can do to make it better and take this weight off of her. Nothing but be there. So he does that at least. Be there in all the ways he can be.

It’s so silly really, how his heart beats just a little faster when he touches her hand underneath the table. When she welcomes the soft gesture. When she returns his gentle squeeze. And when she links her fingers with his.

So silly. Stupid little treacherous heart.

“Well, I gathered that much. I just wish you would’ve called ahead of time so I could’ve made some food.”

“Made some food? Since when do you cook?”

The look her mother throws at (Y/N) could freeze a lake solid. It’s mean and chilling and Jamie wishes he never would’ve pushed (Y/N) to come here. Hates himself a little for putting her in this situation.

“I did attend several cooking classes last year. See, if you’d visit me a bit more often you’d know that.”

And if she wasn’t such a raging bitch, maybe (Y/N) would visit her more often, Jamie thinks. Fortunately, he’s gotten much better at impulse control lately, well ever since Ted arrived really. The old Jamie would’ve blurted out those thoughts with no care of any consequences.

The old Jamie probably wouldn’t have stepped up to be a dad though.

“Anyway, I would’ve liked a little warning. Especially if you’re bringing someone.”

Being at the receiving end of that icy glare feels awful, Jamie decides as (Y/N)’s mother regards him with a mix of disdain and humor. Her eyes sparkle with a sense of smug superiority. Jamie is used to people underestimating him. They think he’s stupid. Some dumb footballer with straw filling the places where a brain should be. Quite honestly it doesn’t bother him, never had. He’s the first to admit that he can be dumb when it comes to certain things. He’s no poet and he has never been particularly good at math. But this woman and the way she looks at him rubs him the wrong way. She knows nothing about him and yet she thinks she’s got him all figured out. Flesh and bones and all.

“Yeah uh, sorry about that. It was a spontaneous thing really. We would’ve called — “

“Sure, whatever you say. James was it?”

His name sounds like venom dripping from her lips. James. He hasn’t been James since the moment he was born and Georgie first kissed his tiny head and whispered “You’re my little Jamie.” Not that he remembers that but it’s a story his mom has recounted to him many times.

“Jamie, yes.”

“Right, Jamie.”

An uncomfortable silence settles upon the room. It crawls into the cracks and crevices of their conversation. It spreads and festers and discomfort grows around them like mold on damp walls.

“Mum, we’re here because I wanted to tell you I’m pregnant.”

The confession shoots through the silence like a bullet. Cuts through it like a knife through a flimsy ribbon. If this was a movie they’d put in a freeze frame or underlay the scene with some dramatic musical score. But this is real life and it comes with no editing and no soundtrack.

No, it just comes with a bellowing laugh from (Y/N)’s mother. It’s not the kind of laughter that makes you want to laugh along. The kind that makes you feel like sunshine has erupted inside your ribcage and wraps you in a warm blanket. It’s not like (Y/N)’s laugh. This one is mocking. It’s ridiculous. It’s meant to make you feel small and dumb. It breaks his heart to know this is the laughter (Y/N) grew up with.

“You can not be serious. Pregnant?”

A short, quiet “Yes.” leaves (Y/N)’s lips. Jamie gently squeezes her hand in return. I am here. He says. I will always be here. She squeezes back. He hopes it means “I know.”

“You stupid little girl.”

(Y/N)’s hand grabs his more tightly. A lifeline to hold on to. Crescent moon shapes stamped into his skin. But if this is the price he’ll have to pay in order to be a good partner in all of this then he’ll pay it 10 times over. Of all the things in this world, all the ways to describe her, stupid is not one Jamie would ever think of.

“Hey, don’t talk to her like that.”

Maybe a little bit of old Jamie is still there. The good parts. The protective, opinionated parts maybe. Not reckless but brave.

“She is my daughter and I will talk to her as I very well please. But you’re right. She is not a little girl, she’s a grown woman. Which makes this even worse. You should know better, (Y/N). Getting pregnant by some — some guy.”

“Some guy? Excuse me?”

“Well you’re not her boyfriend, are you? You are just some guy with no obligation to her. And if you wake up one day and realize what a massive mistake you made then you can just leave. She’ll be stuck being a mother forever.”

It boils his blood to hear those vicious words hurled at him and (Y/N). Mistake? Sure this baby wasn’t planned but they’re not a mistake. Not for one single second did Jamie think of his child as a mistake. A surprise. A shock even. But never a mistake.

“I know you don’t know me and quite honestly I don’t think I want to know you either but I can tell you one thing. That is my baby and I love it now and I will always love it. It is not a mistake. You can judge me, you can judge her and you can judge our decisions but stop talking about my child like that. That is just uncalled for. I know my word doesn’t mean anything to you but I was here from the moment (Y/N) told me she was pregnant and I will be here for the rest of my life. That is a promise.”

She has the audacity to scoff at him and completely ignore everything he just said. Instead, she moves her cold hard gaze towards (Y/N).

“What do you want me to say? Congratulations? Well, you’re not getting those here. Your father would be so — “

Before she can finish the sentence a shrill screeching sound cuts her off as (Y/N) pushes away from the dining table.

“I gotta get out of here.”

“Oh, what is this now? You’re just going to leave because you don’t get the reaction you hoped for? I can pretend if that’s what you want me to —”

“Mum, I am not running. I need to go! I am nauseous as fuck and if you don’t want me to empty my stomach onto your dining table just let me leave. I didn’t come here asking for your approval, I just thought you should know you’re going to be a grandmother. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go throw up in your bushes.”

Jamie is hot on her heels, grabbing both their jackets and (Y/N)’s bag in the process as he rushes after her. Though even in the chaos and hurry he doesn’t miss the look of absolute shock and bewilderment on the older woman’s face. It feels like a small victory but it does paint a little smile on his lips.

“Oh don’t do that. I’m disgusting.”

“I’ll be watching you push out a whole damn baby. This is nothing compared to that.”

If it weren’t such an absurd situation, that comment probably would’ve sent her spiraling but really it’s the least confusing part of today. Of course, Jamie wants to be around for the birth. Now that he mentioned it, (Y/N) thinks she shouldn’t be surprised. Of course, he’ll be there. He’s been there for it all so far of course he’ll be there when the baby enters this world.

It’s almost a little dreamy and magical to think about. Almost. Because life doesn’t let her think too much about it before it sends another wave of vomit up her esophagus.

“I don’t mind holding your hair while you puke, you're growing a whole human it’s the least I can do. But I gotta ask you something.”

“What’s that?” (Y/N) asks and wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her sweater. Desperate times, desperate measures. At least that’s how she tries to justify it to herself.

“Is that hedge purposely cut to look like a dick?”

He nods towards one of the boxwood trees at the edge of the property that (Y/N) has no doubt her mother hired a gardener to trim and shape and care for.

“Holy shit, it does.”

“And cut too. You think your mum knows?”

And suddenly the nausea is gone and forgotten about and in its place, a flurry of giggles takes over.

“Hey, are you okay?” Jamie asks once they both calm down a little.

Is she okay? Not really but this too will pass and it’s not like she expected anything else from her mother. Ever since (Y/N) was a little kid she remembers her mother dulling all her joy and whimsy. Why should things be different now?

“No. But I will be.” and when he takes her hand in his and places a soft kiss on her knuckles, for the first time since turning into this very street, she truly believes in those words.

“Good. Now do you wanna go home or do something else?”

“Home sounds good but uh — do you want to stay? Watch a movie or something? I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Another kiss to her knuckles sends her heart into a little frenzy. Teeny tiny somersaults all around her ribcage.

“Yeah, can I pick? “

“Fuck no.”

“Alright, was worth a try.”

“It was a dream? That’s it?”

The ending credits to The Wizard of Oz play on her little TV screen as (Y/N) and Jamie sit on her couch, a bowl of microwave popcorn long devoured and now empty resting between them.

“I mean, you can interpret it however you want.”

“Meh, didn’t like that one very much. Next time we should watch the Muppets treasure island. That’s a good one.”

There truly is something so sweetly endearing about Jamie’s childlike qualities. His unintentional goofiness and his ability to make even the worst day turn into an okay one. An “all in all kinda good” one.

“Okay, fine. Next time we’ll watch the Muppets. It just — my dad had the Wizard of Oz on DVD. One of the few movies he had. So whenever I’d stay with him we’d watch it together. I think I just wanted to feel close to him today.”

“Hey,” Jamie chimes up and gently nudges her shoulder with his. “I didn’t know your dad but from what you said about him he seemed like a fun guy. A good guy. So I think your mum is wrong. He’d be proud of you. I know that.”

And for the second time that day (Y/N) thanks whatever cosmic power there is for putting Jamie in her life. For making him the person who goes through all of this alongside her. For making him her partner in this crazy adventure. For making him the father of her child.

“Thanks, Jamie. I really appreciate that you stood up for me and the baby. It’s not that I didn’t want to, I just froze. Every time I talk to her I want to say so many things but they get stuck somewhere on the way from my brain to my mouth.”

“It’s okay, I get it. It’s like that with my dad too. We’ll just have to be each other’s voices then I guess.”

“That sounds like a good plan to me.”

He does it again then, that tiny insignificant kiss on the top of her head. It means nothing.

But it means everything.

“Hey uh — I’m not really tired yet. Do you wanna start that Muppets movie now?”

“Uh yeah? Absolutely. I’ll never say no to Kermit. He is THE frog.”

Just a little while later, while Kermit and Miss Piggy sing a love song on screen while hanging off a cliff, (Y/N)’s eyes fall shut, her head resting gently against Jamie’s shoulder.

For the second time in less than 24 hours (Y/N) falls asleep in Jamie’s arms. And though she might not realize it right then, she has never felt more safe and secure ever before.

Maybe things really will be alright.

“Now I know that life can take you by surprise, And sweep you off your feet. Did this happen to us, Or are we just dreaming? Love led us here.”

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