#and be with the person who truly understood him

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 5: "The one with the red lights" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Despite your reluctance, you find yourself at Santi’s house for dinner. But Frankie presses too hard, pulling things out of you that you’d rather keep buried—until all that’s left is the worst version of yourself. WC: 10.1k

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The white ceiling stretched above you, blank and unfeeling, while your mind filled in the emptiness with shapes that weren’t really there. Faces, maybe. Or memories, distorted at the edges. You knew you were indulging in unnecessary pessimism, but you let yourself sink into it anyway. Surely you were entitled to a day like this every once in a while—one where grief sat heavy on your chest and refused to move. Unfortunately, your timing couldn’t have been worse. Not that you had chosen it; no one ever does. You don’t get to decide when your heart shatters for the second time, or when the pieces that were already broken fracture further, splintering into something even smaller, even harder to hold.

The day before, Frankie had left without much ceremony, tossing out a casual see you tomorrow as he passed you. You hadn’t answered. You’d been too consumed, too wrapped up in your own head, and he hadn’t pressed you on it. Just walked out the door like it was any other day. After that, the ghost of him lingered in the space he’d occupied, his scent still woven into the fabric of the couch where he’d slept. You hated it. Hated that it made your stomach twist, that it pulled you toward something you didn’t want to name. You forced yourself upright, inhaling sharply as if that could steady you.

Because, really, what was it about him? What had changed? He’d always made you uneasy—before, because you were simply too different, two puzzle pieces that would never click together. And now… now it was something else. Something worse. It had to do with the way he looked at you, the way he seemed to understand exactly what was happening inside your head without you having to say a word. As if he could see right through you, past all the sharp edges you put up to keep people from doing exactly that. And that wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all. Because the last person you wanted to be understood by was Francisco. The person who irritated you most, who had always known exactly how to push your buttons. And now, somehow, he had figured out where your soft spots were too.

And after he left, you did your best to pull yourself together. You pushed yourself up from the couch, stretching limbs that felt heavier than they should, and searched for something to fill the space. A book, a movie—something to quiet the restless ache in your chest. But nothing worked. The feeling stayed, creeping up the way it always did, slow and insidious, like ink bleeding through paper. A dull, familiar ache, resurfacing in waves, catching you off guard just when you thought you’d distracted yourself enough to forget.  

Eventually, you gave up. Skipped dinner, still drained from friday’s birthday and the weight of everything you were carrying. You crawled into bed early, exhaustion settling into your bones, hoping—without much conviction—that sleep would make things better. That maybe sunday would arrive with something softer, something easier to hold.

And now, it was sunday, and you had promised yourself—firmly, resolutely—that you wouldn’t do this again. That you wouldn’t let yourself spiral down this particular rabbit hole. But somehow, your phone was already in your hand, your thumb moving over the screen with quiet urgency, scanning for details, for scraps of information, anything that might offer some insight into this world that was no longer yours. That had never truly been yours to begin with.

Harry.

Harry looked happy, the kind of happiness that came easily to people who knew exactly where they were going. His profile was filled with snapshots of motion, of departure, of a life that never stayed still—deep blue lakes, endless seas, rivers cutting through valleys, mountains rising against wide open skies. He had always loved to travel. He had asked you to go with him, more than once, throwing out invitations like they were simple, effortless things. But you had always said no. Too much to do. The bookstore, your finances, some minor health concern—a cold, a flu, a vague sense of exhaustion that never seemed to lift.

Now, Harry traveled with Lisa. They stood together in front of massive cliffs, on balconies bathed in golden light. She fit so easily into the spaces you never stepped into, the spaces you had let slip through your fingers. In one photo, a caption read:

"I would recognize you in the dark. Always you. There I belong."

The words blurred almost instantly. Your vision swam, the sting of tears creeping in before you could stop them. You set the phone down beside you, face down on the mattress, as if that could somehow soften the blow. Then you pulled the covers over your head, curling into yourself, as if hiding could protect you from any of this. As if it could make any of it hurt less.

Then your phone vibrated, the screen lighting up with a new notification.

Santi: Be here at seven. I got that cake you’re obsessed with, so don’t even think about bailing.

A grimace—something between a smirk and a scowl—tugged at the corner of your mouth as your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then you typed:

You: Eat it yourself.

Silence. Then the three little dots appeared, pulsing like a tiny, judgmental heartbeat.

You let out a sharp exhale, tilting your head back against the pillow.

Santi: No

Santi: Don’t make me come drag you here

Santi: Consider yourself warned

His reply came almost instantly. He’d been expecting this.

You: I look terrible dude I’ll see you another day

You: Tell Yov I’m sorry

Santi: Too late, she’s already setting everything up 

You shut your eyes and pressed the phone against your chest, as if that might somehow shield you from the conversation happening in real time.

You: I’m serious

You locked your phone and let it drop onto the bed beside you, exhaling sharply as you rolled onto your side. Your hands tucked under your cheek, your eyes shut, as if squeezing them closed hard enough might make everything disappear.    

Santi: And so am I

Santi: Get. Out. Of. Bed.

Now what? Were you really supposed to drag yourself to Santi’s house and pretend everything was fine? Sit there, smiling, making small talk, acting like you weren’t unraveling from the inside out? And worse—look Frankie in the eye, knowing that just yesterday he had been prying into the most private corners of your mind?  

And how much had he read, exactly?  

Not that it mattered. Not in the sense that would be humiliating. Because Frankie wasn’t someone you were interested in impressing. If anything, he was the last person whose opinion you gave a damn about. You had spent years not caring what he thought of you, what he assumed about you, what conclusions he might have drawn from the glimpses he caught of your life.  

But then again.  

You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what kind of man he was—sharp, perceptive, the kind who could take something small, something insignificant, and wield it like a weapon if he wanted to. He had the power to tear you apart if he ever felt like it.    

And the truth was, you’d already embarrassed yourself enough.

The cab rolled away behind you, tires humming against the pavement, as you climbed the steps to Santi’s porch. You had wanted to look decent—you had tried. A long, scalding shower, ages spent drying and combing your hair, a careful hand smoothing makeup over tired skin. Just enough to bring some life back into your face, to soften the edges of the bruises that still clung stubbornly to your lips. The swelling had gone down, but the mark was still there, a smear of purple at the curve of your mouth. A fresh bruise was blooming just above your upper lip, darker now, more noticeable.

The summer dress you’d chosen hit just above your knees. Light, effortless. You hoped it would be enough to make you look put-together. Unbothered. As if there was nothing clawing at your insides, nothing unsettled under your skin.

Behind you, the sound of a car door shutting made your breath hitch. You knew before you turned. Of course you did.

You pressed the doorbell, inhaling through your nose, exhaling slow. Behind you, footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. Then, close—too close—you felt him at your back.

“You gave me a black eye,” Frankie said, his voice easy, almost conversational. He stepped up beside you, watching you the way someone watches an oncoming storm—half amused, half waiting to see how bad it’ll get.

From inside, Santi’s voice called, distant over the low thrum of music. “Coming!”

You gave in, looking at Frankie. Couldn’t help yourself. And yes, there it was—proof of your handiwork. The deep violet shadow blooming under his eye, the cut along the bridge of his nose, healing but still raw. No more swelling, but unmistakable evidence that, at some point, your phone had connected with his face.

You smiled, slow and sharp.

“Hi, Francisco,” you said, saccharine-sweet. “Nice to see you. How are you? Do people not greet each other anymore?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“You and I are way past formalities, don’t you think?”

Before you could fire back, the door swung open.

Santi’s eyes flicked between the two of you, amusement quickly giving way to confusion.

“What the—” His brows drew together. “What the fuck happened to you two? Are you okay?”

You stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around you as you leaned in to press a kiss to Santi’s cheek, neatly sidestepping his question. The air smelled incredible and that, more than whatever interrogation he was preparing, held your attention.

Behind you, Frankie pulled Santi into a brief hug, murmuring something low enough that you couldn’t quite catch it. Not that you cared. Whatever was said between them didn’t concern you.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?” Santi asked again, falling into step beside you as you made your way toward the kitchen.

Before you could answer, Yovanna appeared at the end of the hallway, her bright, welcoming smile instantly faltering when she caught sight of you. Her gaze flicked from your face to Frankie’s, concern replacing confusion.

“What the hell happened?”

You wrapped her in a hug, squeezing tight. Behind you, Frankie greeted her too, though his hug was more polite, restrained, as if wary of how much space he was allowed to take up here. Yovanna pulled back just enough to get another look at him, her expression shifting toward something almost amused.

“Damn,” she said, tilting her head. “You got the worst of it, huh?”

“Yeah, we got into a fight,” you lied breezily, propping yourself against the wall.

Santi shot you a look, eyebrows knitting together.

“With some drunks,” you elaborated. “Not that it means much, considering we were drunk too. Weren’t we, Francisco?”

Frankie turned his head toward you, one eyebrow raised, his hands settling on his hips like he was about to demand an explanation for whatever this was. His face was all curiosity and mild disbelief.

“I—”

“It was after the wedding,” you steamrolled on. “At a gas station. God, you should’ve seen us, it was ridiculous—”

“Oh, shut up,” Santi cut in, waving a dismissive hand.

Frankie bit back a laugh, tipping his head back slightly.

“Actually,” he said, as if suddenly feeling generous with the truth, “she hit me.”

Santi and Yovanna blinked at him.

“Right here,” he added, gesturing in a small circle beneath his bruised eye.

You let out an incredulous scoff, crossing your arms.

“I was naked,” you announced, tone scandalized, “and this pervert was just standing in my living room when he’d told me the night before that he was leaving.”

Santi looked between the two of you, his exasperation deepening.

“Stop it,” Frankie muttered, shaking his head.

“No, Santi should know,” you pressed on. “And while we’re at it, what’s with the whole going through my stuff thing? I swear to God, I’m sure—”

“Okay, enough,” Santi interrupted, slashing his hand through the air like a referee calling time-out. Yovanna, beside him, was practically vibrating with amusement.

“I’m hungry,” Santi continued, voice firm. “And you’re already late. Save the drama for later.”

An hour later, your plate sat in front of you, half-eaten, your fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass. The conversation had drifted, as it inevitably would, to your brother’s wedding. Across the table, Yovanna was talking animatedly about the preparations, her hands moving as she spoke, while Santi just stared at her like she’d personally hung the moon. He had that ridiculous, soft expression—the one that made you roll your eyes but also kind of want to cry because, well, love like that wasn’t exactly common.

Beside you, Frankie was quiet, his own glass in his hand, his plate already cleared. He wasn’t looking at you, but you could feel him there, as much a presence as the wine in your bloodstream.

“We were lucky we didn’t completely lose our minds,” Yovanna was saying, shooting a knowing glance at Santi, who nodded in agreement. “You know what they say—wedding planning is a trial for a couple. If you can’t survive that…” She shook her head, lips pressing together in mock seriousness.

“That’s true,” Santi agreed, his gaze lingering on her in a way that made you want to gag.

“Uh-huh,” Yovanna hummed, her eyes flicking from her fiancé to you and Frankie. Her expression shifted, just slightly, her amusement sharpening. “But, I mean, parties in general can be… intense. And I think you two might know something about that by now, don’t you?”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “I was wondering how long it would take for someone to bring it up.”

Yovanna just lifted a shoulder, clearly entertained. “Can you blame us?”

“No, she can't,” Santi chimed in. “And trust me, I have so many questions. Number one—what the fuck happened to your faces?”

“She hit me,” Frankie said immediately, lifting a shoulder like it was no big deal.

Santi rolled his eyes. “Come on, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Frankie’s grin widened. “She thought I was an intruder or something and threw her phone at my face.”

Santi turned to you, eyebrows raised in pure curiosity. Yovanna, beside him, stayed quiet, her gaze bouncing between the three of you like she was watching an increasingly ridiculous play unfold.

You exhaled, shifting in your seat, throwing Frankie a glare. “Okay, let me explain this properly.”

Frankie made a gesture like please, go ahead.

“So, after the wedding, we went to my place, and we were… kind of drunk—”

Santi raised a hand, cutting you off. “You both went to your place?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, and then I fell out of the car, which is why my mouth is messed up. Frankie helped me inside, and then I went to sleep—”

“You fell?”

You huffed. “Yeah. He gave me slippers that were way too big, and when I stepped out of the Uber, I tripped.”

Santi looked between you and Frankie, biting back a smile. “Well, you were also drunk, right? That might’ve been a factor.”

You rolled your eyes, and beside you, Frankie let out a small, knowing huff.

“She doesn’t look where she’s walking,” he said, like he had just uncovered some deep truth about you. “She just moves and expects the world to accommodate her, her eyes always on the clouds. I noticed that last night. That’s why she fell, not the slippers.”

You turned your head slowly, squinting at him. “Francisco. If I hadn’t been wearing those slippers, I wouldn’t have tripped.”

Frankie exhaled dramatically. “Oh, I’m sorry for trying to help with the fact that your feet were literally almost bleeding from your shoes. Would you have preferred that? Just say ‘thank you’ and move on.”

“No.”

“Jesus Christ,” Yovanna muttered under her breath, shooting a glance at Santi, who just shook his head, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

You sighed and turned back to them. “Anyway. I fell, got hurt, my dress was ruined, so we went upstairs, Frankie helped me clean up, and then he said he was going to leave—”

“I was going to leave,” Frankie interjected. “But I fell asleep on the couch before I could even order an Uber.”

“Right. Anyway, the next morning, I woke up, went to shower, and when I got out, I couldn’t find my phone. So I went to the living room, and there it was. And I was naked—”

“She had a towel on,” Frankie groaned, rubbing his temple.

“Naked,” you repeated stubbornly, “and suddenly someone speaks behind me, and obviously I panicked! What was I supposed to do? I didn’t think, I just reacted, and my phone happened to be in my hand, so I threw it.”

Silence.

And then: “Well, I get it,” Yovanna said, tilting her head like she was weighing the situation. “You freaked out.”

“Of course I freaked out! But he doesn’t get it.”

“No, no, no, no,” Frankie cut in, shaking his head, holding up a hand like he could physically block the accusation. “I never said I didn’t get it. Obviously, I do. But the way you’re telling it makes it sound like I did it on purpose, like I was out to terrify you.”

“And how do I know you weren’t?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Santiago snorted. “Okay, this is getting weird,” he said, rubbing his temple, amusement flickering in his expression. “Can we move on? I just want to hear about the party. Helena called me yesterday.”

Frankie straightened. “What? What did she say?”

You glanced at him, but he was already looking at your brother, his posture suddenly tense, like he was bracing for impact. His eyes were curious but edged with something else too. Concern.

“She sounded... happy. Surprised, mostly,” Santi said, dragging out the words for effect. “Asked a bunch of questions—what I thought, how I found out, if I saw it coming. A lot of questions, actually. Oh, and she also said she’s thrilled for me. That I have a beautiful, lovely sister.” He shot you a look, grinning. “And, well, I can’t lie. I may have gotten a little carried away. Told her I was also delighted about this whole ‘union made in heaven’ situation. And Frankie, man, you were already my brother before, but now… now it’s official. We are so much more.”

“Oh my God, Santi,” you groaned, throwing your head back. “You’re messing with us, aren’t you?”

Yovanna burst out laughing, lightly smacking your brother’s arm as he gave her a knowing smile.

Beside you, Frankie flushed. A deep, irritated pink creeping up his neck as he ran a hand over it—a nervous habit you’d noticed, one he did when he was overwhelmed.

“Of course not,” Santi said, his grin widening. “If you two get to have fun, why can’t I?”

“Fun?” Frankie scoffed, straightening up. “You think this is fun? We’ve been seeing each other for two days, and we’ve already collected enough bruises and near-death experiences to last a lifetime. That’s plenty.” So exaggerated.

Santiago just shrugged, barely suppressing a laugh at the absolute fury on his best friend’s face.

“Yeah. You’re matching.”

“Oh, cut it out, let them be,” Yovanna said, rolling her eyes.

“Well, anyway,” Santi said, his voice easy, casual, like he wasn’t dropping the weight of someone else’s curiosity into the conversation. “Helena asked about you guys. Wanted my opinion. I told her you were fine, that you—” he glanced at Frankie, leveling him with a look—“were doing well. That she didn’t need to worry, and that I’d come visit her soon.”

Frankie exhaled, sharp and short. “Good. Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I mean it. Even if you’re enjoying this way too much.”

Santi scoffed. “No worries. You know I wouldn’t screw with you about this.” He leaned back, tilting his glass slightly in his hand. “Now, are you gonna tell me how the party went?”

Yovanna’s lips curled at the edges, her eyes gleaming with something decidedly un-serious. “Did you guys kiss?”

The question landed between you and Frankie like a slow-falling coin. You turned your head toward him, almost on instinct, and he was already looking at you, his expression caught somewhere between apprehension and amusement. His face was still faintly flushed, like the conversation had warmed the room a degree too much.

Santi’s gaze flickered between the two of you, and his expression sharpened. “You better not be method acting with my sister.”

Frankie’s mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. “Never. It’s platonic between us, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” you said smoothly, returning the smile. “I’d call it the opposite of method acting, really. This is professionalism at its peak.”

Santi raised his eyebrows, his signature I’m-about-to-ruin-your-day expression settling in. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t call a situation involving towels and black eyes professional, but hey, who am I to judge?”

You groaned, rolling your eyes as Santi took a slow sip of his wine, barely suppressing a grin.

Yovanna, undeterred, steered the conversation back. “So? The party?”

This time, you forced yourself to give a proper answer. Frankie took the lead, his voice steady as he laid out the sequence of events with his usual matter-of-fact efficiency. You filled in the gaps, adding details here and there, but skirting around certain parts—the encounter with Frankie’s cousin, the kisses that followed. Frankie didn’t mention them either. You weren’t sure if that was a conscious decision or if he simply preferred to pretend they hadn’t happened. Either way, it felt like an unspoken agreement, and you weren’t going to be the one to break it.

From an outside perspective, everything had gone well. No disasters, no humiliating slip-ups. Just two people executing a plan. Yovanna seemed delighted by the entire ordeal, laughing at all the right moments, nudging you when Frankie said something particularly dry or sarcastic. Even your brother, despite his usual talent for being infuriating, had to admit you’d done a good job. In fact, too good.

“Helena was a little too excited when I talked to her,” Santi admitted eventually, his brow furrowing like the realization had only just settled in. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the last bit of wine in his glass. Then, after a pause, he added, “How exactly are you two planning to break up?”

There was a beat of silence. You glanced at Frankie, and he exhaled through his nose, shifting in his seat.

“We could say it just… didn’t work out,” he offered, his voice slow, careful. “Or that the feeling just faded.”

It was an answer, technically. But not the right one. Because the issue wasn’t how to break up—it was what was going to happen after that.

What was going to happen when Helena found out about the breakup, when the excitement wore off and disappointment took its place? Had either of you even considered that?

The questions started to wear on you, pressing down like a weight you hadn’t noticed until now.

You needed air. You stood up, murmuring something about stretching your legs, and Yovanna followed you outside.

The backyard was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of warm grass and something faintly floral. Yovanna lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly as she leaned against the railing. You stood beside her, arms crossed, letting the quiet settle between you.

For a while, the conversation stayed light—frivolous even. You talked about inconsequential things, things that had nothing to do with your fake relationship or her wedding or anything remotely demanding. It was a relief, an escape, and you let yourself sink into it.

But just as you were about to suggest going back inside, she stopped you with a gentle nudge of her shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, turning to face you more fully. “You okay tonight? You seem a little off.”

You sighed, tilting your head back to look at the sky. The stars were faint, barely visible against the city glow. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just tired. This whole thing is fun, I guess, but exhausting.”

She nodded like she understood, like she’d already known that was what you’d say.

“Are you guys going to Harry’s wedding?”

“I don’t think so,” you admitted, shifting your weight against the wall by the back door. “To be honest, things get kind of chaotic when I’m around Francisco, and I don’t know if I want to put myself through that again.”

Yovanna exhaled another slow drag of smoke. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s just... we shouldn’t be around each other. It’s not good for either of us.”

She hummed, unconvinced. “I don’t think that’s true. I think you two are fun. And I think you should admit that you like the chaos a little. You like the fighting. The drama. The making scenes.” She glanced at you knowingly. “I have eyes. I can tell.”

You snorted. “Yeah, maybe. Sometimes. The rest of the time? He just makes me feel bad. Really bad. It’s fun until he says something horrible or pushes the wrong button, and then I want to kill him.”

Yovanna gave you a long, thoughtful look. “What happened between you two? I’ve asked Santi, but he never has a real answer.”

“Nothing,” you said automatically, the lie slipping out before you had time to reconsider it. You thought about the first thing Frankie ever said about you, the way it had stung in a place you hadn’t known was raw. “We’re just not compatible. That’s all.”

Yovanna raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

“You and Santi, for example,” you continued, “you just work. It’s easy, it’s natural. You get along.” You paused. “Frankie and I are the same, but the opposite. We repel each other. It’s like we were designed to be at odds.”

Yovanna tilted her head, eyes sparking with something suspiciously amused. “That’s kind of romantic.”

You groaned. “Oh, shut up.”

Time started moving faster once you were back inside. Conversations drifted toward things you didn’t care about, but you let them happen around you, nodding occasionally, offering a well-timed laugh when necessary. Santi was in a good mood—you could tell by the way he gestured when he spoke, the relaxed slouch of his shoulders, the way his voice lifted at the end of sentences like everything was lighter than usual. He was happy. And that pleased you.

Because he deserved it.

The girl, the house, the family, the quiet sense of certainty about his life. He deserved all of it.

But inevitably, like clockwork, the moment you found yourself comfortable on the couch, your thoughts took a familiar turn. The same restless tide pulling you under. You thought about earlier in the night, lying in bed, scrolling mindlessly until you landed on pictures you hadn’t meant to see—your ex, his fiancée. Smiling, glowing, happy. Their future stretched out in front of them like a neatly paved road, no cracks in sight.

And then—

“So how are you getting home?” Frankie’s voice broke through your thoughts, low and secretive, like a question meant just for you. You blinked, turning slightly to find him beside you, arms folded, his body angled toward yours. His face was close—too close.

You glanced around. Santi and Yovanna were nowhere to be seen.

“They’re in the kitchen,” Frankie said, reading your mind. “What are you thinking about now?”

You hesitated. Held his gaze for a second too long before looking away.

“I’m thinking,” you started, pausing as you searched for an easy answer. “I’m thinking I want to go to sleep.”

Frankie made a quiet sound in his throat, unconvinced. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe that I’m sleepy?” You lifted an eyebrow, trying for something light. “I drank three glasses of wine.”

“No,” he said, watching you too closely. “I don’t believe that’s what you’re really thinking.”

You exhaled, tilting your head. “And what do you think I’m thinking, then?”

He smirked slightly. “Something self-destructive, probably. I can see it in your crazy eyes.”

You huffed out a laugh, nudging his shoulder. “I don’t have crazy eyes.”

Frankie just smiled, slow and knowing.

“But you are thinking self-destructive things,” he pressed. “Right?”

“Why?” You leaned in slightly, matching his tone. “Are you enjoying it?”

His smirk faltered just a little, barely enough to notice. His brows pulled together, the amusement in his face dimming.

“Not at all,” he murmured. “What kind of fake boyfriend would I be?”

You let out a short laugh, crossing your arms. “I can’t wait to break up with you.”

He arched an eyebrow, interest flickering behind his eyes. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” you nodded, your voice taking on an exaggerated lilt. “I’m going to prance around like Nicole Kidman in that photo.” You threw your arms in the air in a triumphant gesture.

Frankie huffed out a laugh. “So what are we doing about custody?” he asked, shifting to face you more fully. “I want Santi during the week.”

You scoffed. “No chance. I get the weeks. You can have him on weekends.”

“That’s not going to work for me.”

“I’ll have my lawyer contact you, Francisco.” You turned your face away, lifting your chin dramatically. “This is not the place or the time.”

Frankie leaned in again, his voice conspiratorial. “You always say that,” he whispered. “You’re always so busy when I want to talk about the important things.”

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh.

“First you take my dignity,” he continued, “and now Santiago. What’s next, Darcy?”

You turned to him, eyes wide. “Excuse me? That’s my son. Don’t confuse things.”

Frankie gasped, clutching his chest theatrically. “But he loves me.”

“He’s just a kid, he doesn’t know what he wants.” You waved a dismissive hand. “You bribed him, that’s all. He’s not yours.”

Frankie straightened, looking properly wounded. “I don’t care that I’m not his biological father,” he declared. “I love him—”

“What the hell are you guys talking about now?”

Santi’s voice cut through the air like a dull blade, rough with exhaustion but tinged with something closer to amusement than actual curiosity. He stood at the end of the hall, watching you and Frankie from beneath slightly furrowed brows. In his hands, he held two Tupperware containers, their lids sealed shut like he was offering contraband instead of home-cooked leftovers.

You straightened your posture, turning to face him with complete and utter seriousness.

“I’m sorry but this is private.” You shook your head solemnly.

Beside you, Frankie stifled a laugh, turning his face slightly like that might somehow disguise it.

Santi rolled his eyes, moving toward you with a slow, unimpressed gait.

“Sure. Well,” he said, setting the Tupperware down on the coffee table with an air of finality. “We made these for you.”

You reached for one immediately, lifting it to your nose and inhaling dramatically.

“I love you,” you murmured, then added, with more fervor, “I love you.”

Santi smirked, shaking his head. Before he could respond, Yovanna appeared at the end of the hall, her presence as effortless as ever. She moved toward the couch and perched herself on the armrest beside you, tucking her legs beneath her.

“Are you taking an Uber, honey?” she asked, her voice soft and unbothered.

“Yeah, I was just about to—”

“I’ll drive you,” Frankie interrupted, already getting to his feet. He grabbed his own Tupperware with the same efficiency as someone collecting evidence. 

You narrowed your eyes.

“What macabre plan do you have, Francisco?” You stood, crossing your arms. “Get rid of me so you can have Mr. Darcy all to yourself? It’s not going to work.”

Frankie ignored you, patting his pockets, searching for his car keys with the quiet urgency of someone trying to make a smooth exit. He found them and then—casually, effortlessly—reached out to clap Santi on the shoulder as he passed him in the doorway, like they were in some kind of silent agreement.

You watched them step outside, Frankie’s posture relaxed, Santi following with the sluggish reluctance of someone who had just endured an entire evening of unnecessary theatrics.

You turned to Yovanna, hoping for an ally. Instead, she just lifted her shoulders, gave you a half-hearted grimace that barely lasted a second before shifting into a knowing smile.

“I think your car is waiting for you,” she said after a beat, nodding toward the door where Santi and Frankie had already disappeared outside.

With no real choice in the matter, you stepped outside too, the night air cool against your skin. Your brother and Frankie were by the car, standing close, heads tilted toward each other in conversation. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but whatever it was, they were both engaged—gesturing, murmuring, nodding. The way Frankie’s brow furrowed and Santi rubbed at his jaw made it look like something actually interesting. Your curiosity sparked, but before you could linger too long, Yovanna’s voice cut in beside you.

“Okay,” she said, nudging you lightly with her elbow. “Don’t take too long to visit again, alright?”

You turned to her, nodding. “Of course not. Are you free this coming week?”

“For you? Always.”

You smiled, warmth bubbling in your chest. “Good, let’s get coffee.”

“Or a drink,” she amended, sighing dramatically. “I need it.”

You laughed, shifting your bag in your shoulder and the Tupperware in your arms to hug her, the container pressing awkwardly between your bodies. She smelled like perfume and warmth and something familiar.

When you pulled away, you started toward the car with her, trying—subtly—to catch fragments of whatever Santi and Frankie were talking about. It was something about Will and a car he’d just bought. Frankie was in the middle of saying something about the clutch, his voice low and even, when he abruptly stopped mid-sentence and turned to you.

“Ready?”

The word felt heavier than it should have, settling between your ribs. You glanced at your brother, mouth parting slightly, not sure what answer you were searching for. Yes?

Santi didn’t wait for you to say anything. He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around you, kissed your cheek. His warmth was familiar, grounding, the kind of comfort you’d had your entire life.

“Take care of yourself,” he murmured near your temple. “I’ll come see you in the week.”

You nodded against his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

When you pulled away, Frankie was already holding the passenger door open for you. That threw you off for a second. He wasn’t usually this polite. You hesitated, glancing at him, but he just raised an eyebrow like, What? Get in.

So you did.

You waved to Yovanna as you settled into the seat, and she smiled, giving you a little salute in return before stepping back toward the house.

Then, with a quiet thunk, Frankie shut the door.

For a couple of strange, suspended seconds, you were alone in the silence of the car, the interior dimly lit by the soft glow of the dashboard. You bit the inside of your cheek and carefully dropped your Tupperware in the backseat, watching as Frankie rounded the hood, slipping into the driver’s seat with an ease that made your stomach feel unsteady.

He turned the key. The engine hummed to life, the speakers crackling softly before Red light by The Strokes filtered through the space.

You rolled down the window slightly, letting the night air in, watching the house disappear as he pulled onto the road.

“So, how’s that list of yours coming along?” Frankie asked abruptly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You turned your head slightly, eyeing him.

“Are you asking if I’ve made any progress? I doubt it. In the last twenty-four hours, I haven’t gone clubbing, I haven’t camped in the woods, and I definitely haven’t gone skinny dipping. If that’s what you were hoping for.”

He hummed, hands steady on the wheel. “Well, you could cross off ‘kicking someone’s ass,’ if you count giving me a black eye.”

You exhaled sharply, unimpressed. “That was an accident. Get over it.”

“But are you actually planning on kicking someone’s ass?” He glanced at you, curious now. “How exactly are you planning to do that?”

“I didn’t say ‘kicking.’ I wrote ‘learn to.’ As in, learn to defend myself.” You folded your arms across your chest. “Were you even paying attention when you were spying on my diary?”

Frankie snorted. “Spying?”

“You barely even listen to me anymore,” you said, feigning exasperation. “We should break up.”

His laugh caught in his throat, rough and amused. “Nice try. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“I could set you up with someone else. A real girlfriend.” You straightened, only half-joking. “I actually know a couple of women you might like.”

“I told you—I’m not dating anyone,” he said, glancing at you like he was waiting for you to drop it. “Who are you now, my mother? I’m not going on one more date. With anyone.”

You smirked. “I could make you a Tinder profile. Craft it to perfection. I bet I could make you a success story.”

He shook his head, lips twitching toward a smile. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? It’d be fun,” you insisted, already forming a mental plan. Good photos. A witty but slightly mysterious bio. He was a pilot, for God’s sake—women ate that up, didn’t they?

“I tried it once,” he admitted, like he regretted saying it the second the words left his mouth.

You gasped, delighted. “No way. You were one of those guys, weren’t you? The ones who post a group photo, making women guess which one they’re supposed to be interested in.”

He shot you a look. “Sounds like you have some experience with that.”

“I bet you had a picture holding a giant fish,” you said, grinning wider as he made a face that all but confirmed it. “Jesus, Frankie. That’s typical.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “You know, if you have so many opinions on dating apps, why don’t you make yourself a profile? I really think you could use the 'going out' thing.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the window, arms crossed. “What makes you think I need it?”

Frankie hesitated. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed against the steering wheel, like he was trying to decide if this was an argument worth having.

“Well,” he said carefully. “If I’m being honest—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, raising a hand between you. “I have a faint idea of what you’re about to tell me, and trust me, I already know. So spare me the speech. I’m not in the mood to fight with you tonight.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

Frankie eased the car to a stop at the red light, using the pause as an opportunity to look at you—really look at you. His brows pulled together, the sharpness of his gaze pressing against your skin. “And you don’t actually know what I was going to say.”

You let out a breath, short and sharp.

“Nothing. Nothing's wrong.” You could hear the irritation threading through your own voice, but you didn’t bother softening it. “And yes, Francisco, I do know what you were going to say.”

“Is this about Harry?”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh, your hands slapping down against your thighs. Of course. Of course, he had to ask. He couldn’t just drive like before, couldn’t just let the silence stretch between you like a neutral space. When he’d come to pick you up in Dallas, the air had been thick with unsaid things, but at least he’d let you sit with them. Now, though—now he was prodding, poking, pressing in on a bruise that hadn’t even begun to heal.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t care,” he said, too quickly. “I’m just asking why—”

“What do you want me to say?” you cut in, turning toward him, exasperation spilling out of you. “Apparently, you already know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone was sharp now, defensive. “What are you talking about?”

You exhaled heavily, shaking your head.

“I hate it when you do that.” You turned your face toward the window, resting your chin in your palm, elbow wedged against the car door.

Frankie didn’t ask again. He just sat there, hands flexing against the wheel, his knee bouncing the slightest bit. But you could feel it, the weight of his attention, the questions hanging in the air between you. He was waiting for you to give in. To spill something you didn’t want to. And it bothered him—you could tell. The uncertainty, the not-knowing.

But in the end, he didn’t need to say anything. Because the way he looked at you, the way his eyes kept flicking toward your face, said enough. You knew exactly what he was thinking.

And when you turned back to him, catching the way his jaw tensed, something in your chest tightened.

Because he wasn’t going to let it go.

He wasn’t just going to drive you home, drop you off, and pretend none of this had happened. No, he was going to sit with it, turn it over, keep pulling at the thread until it unraveled completely. He was going to ask and ask and ask until he got the version of the truth he wanted. And the worst part was, he’d disguise it as concern—like this was about you, when really, it was about something else. Something that would probably hurt.

“I hate it when you act like this,” you said finally, voice quieter now, but no less pointed. Your eyes glowed in the reflection of the windshield, catching the red of the traffic light. “Like you’re above it all. Like you don’t already know I feel like shit about Harry. But you ask anyway, just to make me say it out loud.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” he said, softer now, shifting slightly in his seat. His right hand twitched off the steering wheel, hovering like he wanted to reach for you. But then, at the last second, he pulled back, curling his fingers into a fist before dropping his hand to his thigh. Like he’d thought better of it.

“You don’t act like it,” you said, your voice unsteady, throat tight. “You act like someone who enjoys figuring out my weak spots just so you can shove them in my face at the worst possible moment.” You swallowed hard, staring ahead. “Can you just take me home?”

Frankie’s jaw tensed, his hands gripping the wheel. The green light flickered on, casting a dull glow over the inside of the car. He didn’t hit the gas right away, just exhaled through his nose, long and frustrated.

“I was supposed to call a car,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “Is that why you insisted on driving me home yourself? So you could dig around in my life a little more?”

“No, I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, eyes locked on the road as he finally pressed the gas.

Silence stretched between you.

A few blocks passed before he spoke again, voice tight.

“I know you’re upset about the wedding.” His fingers flexed over the wheel, his knuckles pale. “But I’m not going to assume things unless you actually tell me.”

You scoffed under your breath, gaze fixed on the window, on the streetlights smearing past. “Yeah. Sure.”

Home wasn’t far now.

“I don’t like this,” you said after a moment.

Frankie glanced at you. “What?”

“This.” You gestured between you, your expression hardening. “Everything was better when we didn’t talk. When we just ignored each other and kept our distance.”

“I think the same thing,” he said immediately, no hesitation. He turned his head just slightly, just enough to look at you before shifting his eyes back to the road. “Because talking to you is so hard all the fucking time. You know that?”

You blinked, taken aback. It was such a strange thing to hear, like he’d just told you the sky had turned green.

“When in your life have you ever tried to talk to me, Francisco?”

“Yesterday. Now. Probably sometime friday,” he muttered, clicking his tongue in irritation, shaking his head like he hated that he was even engaging in this conversation.

Another red light.

The street was empty, quiet. The glow of the signal reflected off the pavement, casting red against the buildings you knew so well—the café on the corner, the park where you went on morning walks. Your house was just a few blocks away.

You turned in your seat, facing him directly. The car’s dim interior light barely caught the sheen in your eyes, the warmth in your flushed cheeks.

“That’s not how this works,” you said, your voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “You can’t treat me like shit for years and then expect me to just—what? Open up to you? Tell you about the worst parts of my life? We’re not friends, Frankie.”

“Of course not,” he shot back. “But I’ve seen you get small today. Yesterday too.” His voice wavered slightly, but not enough to make him sound soft. He wasn’t soft. He was pressing in, hard and insistent, like he was trying to carve something out of you. “You pretend really well in front of other people, and they buy it. But I don’t. And it fucking bothers me.”

Your fingers curled into fists in your lap. “Oh, it bothers you?”

“Yeah,” he said, exasperated now. “It bothers me because you don’t do anything about it. You just let it all pile on, and I—I get it, okay? I get it. The guy broke your fucking heart, but you let him keep doing it. Over and over again.”

His voice rose, his hands waving slightly as he spoke, his frustration sharp and cutting. His eyes burned into you, filled with something you didn’t want to name.

“And no,” he went on, “maybe he’s not the villain in this. Maybe he couldn’t help falling in love with someone else. But I don’t buy for a second that he didn’t know exactly how you felt. And that makes him a fucking asshole.”

Your breath hitched.

Frankie leaned in slightly, voice lower now, but no less intense. “And you’re so mean to me, aren’t you? Doesn’t take you a second to snap back, to bite my head off. So why don’t you use some of that energy and tell Harry to fuck off already?”

Your eyes stung. You blinked, and the first tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your skin.

The weight in your chest was unbearable, like something pushing down from the inside out, something clawing its way up your throat. You felt transparent, like every single bone and muscle in your body was on display, like he could see straight through you.

“I never told him I loved him,” you whispered.

Frankie stared at you for several seconds, his gaze unwavering, scanning your face like he was searching for the lie, like he couldn’t believe you’d actually said it.

Then, quietly but firmly, he said, “He knows.”

You shook your head. Your eyes dropped to your hands, resting limp in your lap, one over the other like you were trying to steady yourself.

“He knows,” Frankie repeated, shifting slightly toward you. “Because it’s obvious. Because you wear every single thought on your face, whether you want to or not. Because it’s all right there in your eyes. If he doesn’t know, then he’s either blind or an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

A frustrated breath left your lips. You lifted your hands, exasperated, only to let them fall back onto your thighs with a muted slap. Your eyes, glossy and burning, locked onto his, frustration rippling beneath the surface.

“So then what?” you said, voice tight. “He knew I loved him, and he still left me overnight to commit to someone else? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I’m telling you it’s fucking cruel to break someone’s heart and then send them a wedding invitation like nothing happened.” His voice was sharp, laced with something close to anger. “And that day, the way he acted so happy to see you, like you were just two old friends running into each other—does his fiancée even know what happened between you?”

You didn’t answer, but something must have flickered across your face because Frankie exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“We didn’t have anything serious, Francisco,” you said, your voice quiet, trembling but stubborn. “We were friends and—”

The traffic light turned green, but Frankie didn’t move.

You swallowed, waiting for him to break eye contact, to turn his attention back to the road. But he didn’t.

“Don’t give me that excuse,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less forceful. “Even you don’t believe it.”

A fresh wave of exhaustion rolled through you, but it came tangled with something else—something hotter, heavier. You straightened up, shifting toward him, closing the space between you, and you felt more than saw the moment he registered the tears slipping down your face.

“Why do you care about it?” Your voice cracked, the words tumbling out in uneven breaths. “What do you want me to say, huh? That even if Harry knew I loved him, he still didn’t choose me?”

“Yes!” Frankie snapped. “That’s life! He didn’t choose you, he broke your heart. Well, fuck him! Get over it!” His hands lifted in frustration, his voice pitched higher, sharper. “The sooner you do, the better.”

The words hit you like a physical thing, like a slap to the chest, like something clawing its way up from the inside.

A sound broke from your throat—something half a sob, half a breathless, wounded laugh—and before you even knew what you were doing, your fingers curled around the handle, and you shoved the door open.

The night air hit your skin, cool against the heat burning in your face, and you were out of the car in seconds, walking fast, heart pounding against your ribs.

You heard Frankie behind you, his voice calling your name, followed by the thud of the car door slamming shut. But you didn’t look back.

It didn’t take him long to catch up, his footsteps heavy against the pavement.

“Get back in the car,” he said, breathless but firm.

“My house is three blocks away.”

“I don’t care.” His hand brushed against yours, an attempt to stop you, but you jerked away from his touch like it burned. “I’m not letting you walk home alone.”

“Oh no,” you said, your voice wobbling with emotion, “why? Because Santi’s going to be mad?”

Frankie didn’t answer. He just reached for you again, this time more deliberately. His fingers curled around your arm, not rough, but firm enough that you felt the weight of his concern.

“Please—”

“God, just leave me alone!” You wrenched your arm away, shoving both hands against his chest, pushing him back a few inches. Your breath came fast, shaky, fury and heartbreak tangled together in your throat. “Fuck you, Francisco! Get the fuck out of here! Why are you still here? Why the fuck are you still here? Why won’t you just leave me alone? I’m so tired of you, just go away!”

You stepped forward again, your hands pushing against his chest, but this time, Frankie didn’t budge. He just lifted his hands, fingers brushing against your wrists, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you. The contact sent a shiver up your arms, and you recoiled, jerking your hands away as if you’d been burned.

“I’ll leave you alone,” he said quickly. “Just let me take you home.” His voice was tight, strained with something he wasn’t willing to name. He was trying to sound firm, but the way his eyes moved over your face—restless, searching—gave him away. “It’s late, and it’s dark.”

You shook your head, blinking against the tears threatening to spill over again. Your face felt hot, your throat raw.

“Stop pretending you care,” you said. “About me, about what happens to me. I don’t need this. I don’t need you talking to me like you’re some kind of—some kind of fucking therapist.”

Frankie exhaled hard. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t say anything else about Harry after this—”

You spun on your heel, turning your back to him, walking away.

A noise of frustration caught in his throat, something between a sigh and a groan, and before you could get any further, he was in front of you again, moving easily, stepping into your path. You stopped short, barely avoiding a collision.

Your breath came fast, uneven. You could feel how blotchy your face must be, your lips swollen, the bruise on your mouth sharper in contrast. Frankie's gaze flicked to it, and you saw the exact second he felt something close to regret—the slight pull of his brows, the way his mouth parted like he was about to say something and then thought better of it.

“You have to accept what happened,” he said finally, voice steady, though his jaw twitched. “For what it was. Don’t turn Harry into some tragic hero who hurt you by accident. That’s not what this is. It just—” he exhaled, shaking his head. “It didn’t mean anything. He didn’t choose you. So what?”

Your stomach twisted.

“You have no idea how I feel,” you snapped, your voice trembling, sharp with the effort of keeping it together. You dragged a hand down your face. “And why do you even care? It doesn’t matter. None of this fucking matters.”

Frankie shook his head. “I know how you feel. That’s why I’m trying—”

“Trying what?” You stepped closer, looking at him fully now. “To fix it? You can’t. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t need your pity, your useless advice. I know how this works. I know how people work. I’m good enough until the real thing comes along. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

His expression changed then—his eyes darkening, his mouth pressing into a line.

“That’s not true,” he said.

“Yes, it is, Francisco.” You said his name like it hurt. Like it was something you needed to spit out. “Because I’m always missing something. Because there’s always something I don’t have. And I know, I know that’s just life, that’s how it is, someone always gets left behind, someone always gets hurt. But why does it always have to be me?” Your throat ached from the force of your words, and when you spoke again, your voice sounded wrecked, on the verge of giving out. “Why do I always have to be the one to accept things as they are? Why am I the one who has to be mature, move on, be fine?”

Frankie exhaled, slow, measured. “You’re letting this define you.”

You let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “I’m letting this define me?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he insisted. “He wasn’t for you—”

“It does mean something.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does! And you have no idea what you’re talking about. You don’t know me, you don’t know anything about me or what I feel or what—” Your voice broke, and you swallowed it down. “You don’t know anything.”

Frankie’s gaze stayed steady. “You’re just—numb. You think no one’s ever going to choose you because you’re in a bad place right now—”

“Shut up.” Your hands pressed against his chest again, lighter this time.

“I understand,” he said. “I do—”

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t.

“Somebody’s going to!”

"Or maybe not!"

Frankie let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. He glanced to the side, then back at you, his jaw tight, frustration bleeding into every line of his face. His eyes were dark with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist.

"Okay," he said. "So what, then? You gonna spend the rest of your life wallowing? Feeling sorry for yourself forever?"

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides.

"You must have a lot of experience with that sort of thing, don't you?" The words sliced out of you, unfiltered, sharp enough to wound. Something ugly stirred in your chest, something raw and aching. The pain wasn’t his fault, not really, but he had pulled it to the surface, made it unbearable. And for some reason, you wanted him to feel it too. Even just a fraction of it.

"Feeling bad about yourself," you continued, your voice quiet but cutting. "Drowning in your own misery. Being a complete fucking loser."

Frankie didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink.

"Yeah," he said simply, his voice flat, like he was stating an obvious fact. He was looking at you as if he was waiting for more, like he could take whatever else you threw at him. Like he wanted you to.

"Then why should I listen to you?" You took a step forward, closing the space between you. "Why should I care about anything you have to say?" Your head tilted up, and from this close, you caught every micro-expression—his eyes widening, his brow tensing, his mouth parting just slightly, like he was about to speak but couldn’t find the words fast enough.

"I take things as they come from people who matter," you said, voice low but unwavering. "And you? You’re nothing to me, Francisco. Just an inconvenience I can't seem to shake, no matter how hard I try."

His throat bobbed, but he stayed silent.

"This whole thing," you went on, gesturing between the two of you, "this back and forth, this—whatever the fuck it is—it’s pointless. Because no matter how hard we pretend to be something we’re not, it doesn’t change reality."

You exhaled, your pulse hammering.

"And the reality is," you said, looking him dead in the eye, "you're nothing but a failure."

Frankie exhaled, but he didn’t move at first. He just stood there, staring at you, unmoving, like he was bracing for something. His expression didn’t shift, but there was the faintest sheen in his eyes, catching the dim light. He blinked once, hard, and when he opened them again, the gloss was gone.

Then, suddenly, as if some invisible thread had snapped, he took a step back. It was abrupt, almost involuntary, like his body needed distance from you before his mind could catch up. But he didn’t say anything. His mouth pressed downward for a second, his gaze dropping to the ground.

When he looked at you again, his eyes met yours—just for a moment, like he was memorizing something. Or maybe letting something go.

And then he turned.

No hesitation, no last words, just the quiet sound of his shoes on pavement as he walked back to his car. His shoulders tense, his head slightly bowed. You watched him go, your arms folding tightly across your chest, trying to hold everything in. The rising ache, the anger that curled at the edges of your grief, the way your throat burned with unshed tears.

He didn’t look back.

You waited until he was nearly at the car before you forced yourself to turn away. Your legs felt heavy as you walked, like you were dragging some unseen weight behind you. Your breath came too fast, your ribs constricting painfully. All you wanted was to disappear inside your bed, to sleep until your body forgot how it felt to be this exhausted.

When you reached home, Mr. Darcy was there, waiting. He brushed against your legs, his tail sweeping across your calf, his little face tilting up as if he could sense something unsettled in you.

You dropped to the floor.

The second you sat down, your shoulders caved in. Mr. Darcy curled into your lap, his soft purring vibrating against your hands, but it didn’t soothe you the way it usually did. You pressed your face into his fur, and the sobs that had been threatening to spill over finally broke free, shaking your whole frame.

Your words echoed in your head, bitter on your tongue, and you hated the way they tasted. Because you knew you had been cruel.

But it didn’t matter.

He had been cruel too.

And maybe—finally—he would leave you alone.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue

[manyu-ten]

Stans of all kind are lowkey a curse upon oneself because how are you gonna just be like "he isn't the only one who died young" but another person will say "its a trauma response not a temper tantrum".

Now, y'all. Both can be true. A temper tantrum can be a part of one's trauma response when the trauma in question is "I died at 15 and was lowkey catatonic before being pushed into a magical pit of green water". No shit the kid has shitty emotional regulation 😭. How many of us were happy with our families' versions of help when we were teenagers who felt like no one understood us?

Yeah, a temper tantrum is a clear sign of Emotional Dysregulation. Its also a sign of trauma. Thats two things that are both true, even at the same time.

As for Jason's actual death:

It was literally a turning point for Comics in general. I've tutored students from classes where DitF was taught in curriculums concerning the development of media and pop culture. Where it—in context of DC's pre-crisis, Infinite-crisis and post-crisis lineup AND in the context of the actual climate of DC Comics/real life fans in the 80s—was dissected.

Him dying young, as Robin, as an associate of Batman and the newly minted Nightwing, as a character explicitly shown to not want to give Rapists compassion—that was a big deal at the time. Not a mind bogglingly big deal. But it meant something to a lot of people one way or another. Tim's creation, from his background, to how he is associated with Dick to him eventually having his very own Robin run is a testament to what DC felt like they had to do after Jason was killed. Haunting the narrative for the character development of Bruce, Dick, Tim and even to a limited extent, Cass's relationship to Bruce during her og Batgirl run.

I think (this is a flexible opinion than can be changed and or added upon. Have comprehension y'all) the most significant (and truly, that may be stretching it a little) death of an underage hero in DC's lineup before Jason might have been Terra and part of the reason her death was so significant was because of the characters it introduced: Deathstroke, Jericho and Dick becoming Nightwing.

Modernly, we are influenced by our thoughts and behaviors concerning these characters by not just the actual comics, but the social climate (economic, political, parasocial, the avenues of trends in media) permeating the time in which each of these storylines were presented. We have predisposed notions of characters and their archetypes, as well as the facets of human sociability that they represent.

Implicitly, or with full discretion, we're inclined to give certain narratives, certain characters, more or less leeway than others. It doesn't matter which way you skew, we all tend to fall somewhere on the spectrum.

On Jason's standoff with Bruce:

He explicitly states that he knows Bruce loved him. What he wanted proven was does Bruce still love him, despite what he's done and if he shoots the Joker through the head.

It should also be noted, Jason says he doesn't care for the World in Lost Days, but, because we all have enough comprehension, we understand this isn't true, as he is shown still caring for other people.

Saying that he rejects every hand offered: yeah, he does. He probably doesn't feel like they are offering because they care about him specifically, only that they gotta save him from himself like some paradigm of their moral codes. Sometimes, he's just being a bitch. Which, real. Y'all do shit rationally all the time with no impulsive influence of emotion? Give me your tips. People on the internet in their 30s, with fully developed frontal lobes still irrationally react to things all the time. Why are you guys expecting a fictional, died and got resurrected 19 year old to have proper emotional regulation? The bitch didn't even graduate high school like guys, yeah he's wrong about shit. Yeah, he can throw a temper tantrum. But. He's also rightfully angry about some stuff.

Is rejecting the offered hand of one only worth criticism when the person is an obvious danger to others? When Dick places the blame upon all wrongdoings on himself (unfairly so) and chooses to walk the path alone, when Cassandra does the same (equally, unfairly so)—are they not dangers to others too? They are. It doesn't matter if it works out for them in the end—the point is that they WERE a possible danger. Self-flagellation or perceived guilt doesn't absolve you of possibly risking other peoples' lives and or livelihoods. As the saying goes, the dog that cries after the kill is no better than the dog who does not. (Kill is metaphoric here. Please understand this y'all 😭).

(Another aside: Everyone is so quick to call a character sociopathic 😭. Sociopathy isn't a diagnosable mental disorder, but more than that, in real life, one must have actually had a Conduct Disorder in order to fulfill part of the criteria to be diagnosed with ASPD as an adult. You could argue Jason had CD, but in most cases, you could also say the same shit as Dick. If Jason has childhood CD, so did Dick. People misunderstand antisocial behavior as a symptom of other disorders as stark evidence of sociopathy or psychopathy. Jason was antisocial in his New-Earth run in Lost Days and UtRH (and anything else predating BftC) but, arguably, so was Bruce and Dick to an extent. The only reason people are so adamant to point it out with Jason is because of his alignment and his stance on killing. I'm sorry guys, but some of the most antisocial, diagnosed with ASPD, literally psychopathic or sociopathic people I have ever worked with are Surgeons—especially Surgeons who work with convicted felons. They will save your life, put their all into the care of a patient and guess what? They still antisocial as fuck. Doing good things doesn't excuse you of being antisocial nor having other traits of psychopathy or sociopathy. You don't have to be a murderer to be antisocial and caring about the lives of others doesn't inherently mean you aren't antisocial. When you hear 'disregarding the rights of others' that doesn't pertain just to acts of abuse or violence but to the rejection of others' autonomy, their opinions and even their expertise in their own field.)

Anyway.

You kin to a character and a narrative that means something to you while disregarding or undermining another character—especially when that character breaks the mold of what fits your narrative.

It be like that sometimes.

Jason died at 15 and that is tragic, but the real tragedy is that when he returns he is stuck in a teenage temper tantrum the likes of which have never been seen. He's cold and calculating until something doesn't go his way and then he's lashing out and slamming doors. Except he's vigilante trained and has access to guns so his temper tantrum is realized in lives lost not new doors.

[shizuturnspages]

Hello! Can I get yandere sukuna, geto and gojo as a child with reader where reader were one of those normal human that got dragged into this sorcery stuff right?

(for sukuna make it during when sukuna was still a human, during the hieran era I think?)

And reader got hurt a lot, they got abused and even were betrayed and yet when they asked him about it, reader would smile and said.

"why do I work hard? Well for humanity of course! It's true that people hurt me, but... Just because one person hurts me doesn't mean that the rest of the world is to be blame"

"but why~? Like I said, for humanity"

"I, really love humanity"

"that's why, I'll protect everyone, even if they don't like me or don't know me, because I love everyone from the very bottom of my heart"

But then..

Reader got killed, by the people that see him as a nuisance

(as for sukuna maybe for being seen as one of the followers of witchcraft!)

A Heart That Loved Too Much

Synopsis: You loved too much. And because of that, you created monsters. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Sukuna, Gojo, Geto as Children with a Reader Who Loves Humanity—Only to Be Betrayed & Killed

Sukuna – The Monster Humanity Created

Sukuna was never born a demon.

He was born a child. A child who knew only hunger, blood, and war.

But you?

You were different. Strange. Soft.

"Why do I work hard?" you once asked with that ever-present smile. "For humanity, of course!"

"Even if they hurt you?" Sukuna had scoffed. "Even if they betray you?"

"Yes!" you had laughed, as if it was so simple.

"I love humanity!"

He hadn’t understood it then. He couldn’t.

But when they burned you alive for being a “witch”?

When they called you cursed—when they stabbed, beat, and ripped you apart in the streets?

When you still smiled, even as you died?

That was when Sukuna learned.

"Humanity does not deserve love."

And so, he became their monster.

A demon with four arms, each one strong enough to tear apart the world.

Not to avenge you.

But to erase the humanity you loved.

Because if you weren’t allowed to exist—

Why should they?

Gojo Satoru – The Boy Who Shouldered the World

Gojo was a child of the strongest.

Lonely. Isolated. Feared.

But you?

You were human. A normal, powerless human.

And yet—

"I'll protect everyone!" you had declared, bandaging your own wounds with shaking hands.

"Even if they hate me!"

"Even if they don't know me!"

"Because I love everyone!"

He thought you were dumb.

"Love won't save you."

"People don't deserve it."

But you never listened.

And then—

You died.

Killed by the very people you protected.

Gojo never cried.

He never got angry.

He simply… understood.

"The world is cruel."

"The weak will always die."

And so, when the world called him the strongest—

He made sure to become so strong that no one could ever hurt him the way they hurt you.

But it didn’t matter.

Because without you, being strong felt meaningless.

Geto Suguru – The Boy Who Wanted to Believe

"People are weak, Suguru."

That’s what they told him. That’s what Gojo believed.

And yet—

"I love everyone!" you had told him once, grinning despite the bruises on your face.

"Even if they hate me!"

"Even if they betray me!"

"Even if they kill me—"

"I will never stop loving humanity."

Suguru had wanted to believe you.

But when they murdered you—when they called you a curse—

When they threw away the one person who truly loved them—

That’s when he realized.

"You were wrong."

"Humanity does not deserve love."

And so, Suguru’s heart turned black.

Because if you weren’t allowed to exist—

Then humanity had no right to exist either.

[the-immortal-restless]

I have a cute headcanon/au that in certain hidden places on FFM, there are murals of Macaque. They are old and some of them aren’t finished.

Here’s where the angst is. (I’m writing this in more of a story way that in first person)

When Wukong started painting his shadows face, it was massive and heavily detailed, all from memory. It was a portrait he’d made in the deepest throes of grief.

He’d killed him not long ago… he’d killed His Moon… what was he thinking? Why could he hold back? What was wrong with him that he killed the only other person who could understand him?

He’d kept painting. Soon enough grief turned into frantic, he spent years on them, perfecting everything. He even placed candles and incense around them as if it was an altar to his precious moon.

Though he rarely remembered where, they were always hidden. Hidden from the world so that no one would take the last thing he had to remember his beloved by.

Until he realized something… He dropped the paintbrush in his hands in horror, he’d could believe it.

He didn’t remember, even just for a moment. He couldn’t remember what color his lovers ears were. His beautiful Moon’s most precious feature.

He began painting more frantically, worried he’d soon forget everything detail he’d once memorized. He tried to retrace his steps, find the other paintings, but Wukong had terribly best himself, not even he could find them. Soon enough, the worst came.

He couldn’t remember his lovers ears, his eyes, his laugh, or even his smile. He’d cried for weeks. He couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t he remember…?

Soon enough every being that occupied Flower Fruit Mountain told the others of their species about the Kingly Sun and his Warring Moon.

How the Sun had killed his lover by mistake, how the Sun had painted fantastic painting and built altars to beckon his Treasured Moon home. How the Sun had played in the fields and forests with his Moon in years past, how he’d come home arms filled with gifts for the Moon to be lavished in, how it ended with one blow.

How the Sun wept when his lover left his mind. They called it the Wailing Silence, when the only thing that ever came from the’s home was the sound of a mourning wail, when nothing and no one could cheer the Sun.

Eventually the Sun would break from his immobile grief. There was a heaviness to him but he learned to carry his unending grief and sorrow with a smile.

But then, centuries later, the stories twisted.

Soon, inhabitants of the mountain began to tell of how the Moon watched the Sun from the depths of his shadowy realm, from between trees and behind rocks. The Moon had risen, many tried to show the Moon to his altars, believing him a god or spirit brought on by the Suns devotion. But the Moon stayed stoic and ignored them, whether he understood them or not, was a mystery to them.

Eventually a Star appeared.

He looked strange, some of the onlookers would say, others saw him wielding the Sun’s Gold-Banded Staff and wondered if he was the Moon and Suns kin, after all the Sun had burst from a rock, who truly knew.

The Star had brought the Sun past the horizon, and the Star had met the Moon and brought him out of the shadows. Eventually both warmed to his light and taught him what they know.

And soon, the Star shined like they did.

[psychohoneywhiskey]

I'm not a writer, and English isn't my first language but I can't get these men out of my mind so:

Wade has been through some shitty situations in his life, being turned into a cancer-ridden monster, seeing his girlfriend being killed in front of him, and let's not even get started with his childhood trauma. But, by far, the worst moment of his life was the feeling after his roommate/partner/love of his life looked at him with a face full of hatred after he confessed his feelings to him.

Damn, he would have preferred if the man laughed at his face, got angry, or just straight up ignored him. But seeing that amount of hate, disgust, directed at him, is something he truly feels he will never recover fom.

He tried his best, fuck, he really did. He woke up, made him his favorite breakfast, bought nice clothes for him, bought him flowers, and treated him to a fancy dinner in an Italian restaurant Logan mentioned he wanted to go to a few weeks ago. And he should have known better, dammit. He is a mercenary, a broken, disfigured attempt of a person with more issues than attributes but fuck, did it hurt.

Logan stood up, and left the restaurant. And hey, the worst he could have done was reject him and move on, right? Right.

When Wade arrived home, everything that belonged to Logan was gone. His clothes, cigars, books (that of course Wade bought for him), even his fucking liquor, just disappeared.

He tried to look for him, damn, he tried. He went to every bar and motel in the near area, called Laura, and even went to the X-mansion. And after weeks of looking for him, he received a message with a photo attached, of Logan, kilometers away from the apartment kissing an unkown man outside of a shitty motel room.

And Wade, just gave up. What else could he do? Even if he acted as a dense fucking idiot all the time, he was sharp and smart as very few people out there. He knew how to take a hint, and fuck if Logan didn't make it fucking clear that he didn't even want to look at Wade. And that disgusted stare will follow him to the end of his very, very, long days.

So he closed up; he stopped meeting with his friends, his playful, childful, stupid attitude completely changed. He only talked to Althea and cared for Mary Puppins and then, when he distanced himself and none of his 'family' reached out to him, he finally understood he was the only one who cared. And they only tolerated him, for pitty or convenience, who fucking cares. He was tired, so fucking tired of being everyone's walking mat and at the end, receiving nothing. Being treated as a piece of shit at best.

Weeks pass, and someone knocks on Wade's door. Since he was not expecting anyone he warily opens the door. The TVA offers him a well-paid months-long mission to bodyguard an anchor being who had to leave his universe after being hunted down by a group of powerful criminals there. And well, he has nothing else to do so he accepts.

Only to regret it after he arrives to the TVA quarters and sees who the anchor being is. Of. Fucking. Course. It had to be an alternate Logan's version, and not any version, Patch.

And to make matters worse, the TVA explains that he will have to stay on a house with him for the future, what? Five fucking months, at least? Dammit. Him and his fucking bad luck.

The next months are going to be awesome, right? Right.

I love to daydream about Wade spending time with other Logan versions and just pissing everyone off. Cause let's be for real, most people treat him like shit and just expect him to take it and accept it and damn it if it doesn't piss me off.

I won't be writing more of this but I like to imagine Wade leaves a lot of money for Althea for her to take care of Mary Puppins and herself and leaves for months, only for everyone to see him appear on the news battling against some powerful aliens, criminals, whatever it is. Looking better, bigger, healthier, more lethal, fighting alongside Patch as natural as if they were one and everyone being surprised and regretful. And Logan being as remorseful and jealous as possible.

Maybe him leaving his universe for years just to heal and spend time with Patch, I don't know, endless possibilities.

I don't know why my brain does this, I love them being disgustingly sweet and then when I write anything is just pure angst, fuck.

[virginiaisforvampires]

OK, I want to weigh in on the Nicolas discussion. I don’t want to do it anonymously because I prefer conversations where we talk to each other in person, knowing who we are.  I am aware you have written several long posts on Nicolas already now and are likely sick of discussing him by this point.  And I can see you dislike him and that’s fine, though I am a bit scared to send this, only because I love Nicki.  We don’t need to agree though.  And I obviously know Nicolas is a (deeply! To say the least!) flawed being. Nicolas himself would obviously agree with that!  I know we will disagree as I believe human Nicolas truly loved Lestat, as much as was possible for a deeply damaged person such as him to, but I think I don’t think picking at an issue we have opposite viewpoints on is the way to find common ground here.

So I mainly want to say that there are those of us who love Nicolas and always did, for himself.  Nicolas was a very important character to me when I first read The Vampire Lestat when I was 12 - for himself, unconnected to Lestat, honestly.  Likely I didn’t understood the full depth of his cynicism then.  But I think I did have some idea.  In any case, I felt exactly the same way Nicki does about his violin playing, about myself.  And it’s way deeper than just the violin playing.  How Nicolas feels about that is a reflection of how he feels about himself and how he feels about the world, as I see it.  This is a way of perceiving oneself which was a way I saw myself that I had never seen written in fiction before or since and I had never heard any other real person speak that they perceived themself in this way, nor did anyone appear to understand how I perceived myself.  And I had had that kind of self-perception always (I have examples of how I felt aged 5 that would relate.)  As such, Nicolas was deeply meaningful to me because he remains a representation in art of how I see myself and of how I experience existence.  (I am not saying I am like Nicolas in all ways.  I have some of his nihilistic worldview, but I am 100% with Lestat in Lestat’s idealism and I am absolutely way more positive than Nicki, thankfully!  If only I could be with Lestat in his enduring practical skills too.  Alas, I have zero of Lestat’s skills in any area!)

Anyway, I don’t want to get into discussion of minute details of the books (unless you want to!  I’m happy to!  But I think it’s pointless when your stance is clear) but your posts have seemed to me to suggest there’s something disingenuous about people loving Nicolas, so I suppose I just wanted to say that isn’t the case for all of us.  I can obviously only speak for myself.  I’ll just say I love Nicolas for himself, for the beauty and the tragedy of his relationship with Lestat and for the fact that he is dead because that he is dead is the whole point.  (I love tragedy and would kill all the characters I love most in art in the end myself!)

Since the previous anon discussed Nicki’s turning, I’ll chime in on that one point and will say I think it is good for both Lestat and Nicki that Nicolas was made a vampire only because I think things would have been even worse for both Nicolas and Lestat had Lestat not turned him.  Nicolas would have resented Lestat and lived for even briefer a time as a mortal than he did as a vampire.  And Lestat, though I think initially he might have felt he'd done the right thing to not turn Nicolas... Nicki's end was awful enough as it was.  Imagine the alternative: which absolutely would have been Nicolas dying young as a mortal.  And then Lestat would always have felt guilt and would have wondered *What if I had turned him, could I have saved him?* - which would perhaps be an unendurable what if for Lestat, because the potential he'd have to live with there is that maybe they could have lived immortally together, and Lestat would never be able to know the truth - which was that would never have been the case.  But imagine how awful that would have been for Lestat to endure for eternity.

Anyway, Louis and Lestat are meant to be together for eternity.  I find it deeply frustrating when people pit Nickistat and Loustat against each other in any way.  And while I hope we all agree that Jacob Anderson has deepened Louis in a beautiful way, personally I find that as Louis becomes a character who appears less often in the books, the way you understand and feel his deep and true love for Lestat only increases.  I adore about book Louis how you can feel his love and empathy without him even needing to put every feeling into words.  He is so suffused with love, you feel it emanating from the pages.  I also find it deeply frustrating if anyone pits Nickistat and Loustat against each other as I feel that Lestat loved Nicolas and… even if you think Nicki never loved Lestat, I hope you would agree that Nicolas allowed Lestat space to express his true thoughts and feelings on deep topics in a way Lestat had never truly experienced before… and I personally think this experience of having space to be seen as his full self is part of why Lestat is later able to love Louis from the first moment with an unconditional love where he loves the entirety of Louis.  And that Lestat is able to love Louis in this way, as I see it enables Louis to love Lestat unconditionally in return, in time and then Loustat are able to have a love for eternity.

I don’t know how much detail to go into.  I guess I wanted to respond because I want to say people can love Nicolas and it be nothing against Louis or Loustat and also people can love Nicolas for his book-self.  Your post where you refer to Nicki’s main point being to serve Lestat’s narrative makes me sad, because I hope I can feel from TV Nicolas as I do from book Nicolas.  (Which obviously doesn’t mean everyone has to like him.)  I hope Nickistat is beautiful and has meaning in order to make how it ends all the more painful and tragic.  Obviously it could be that way.  We haven’t seen what the TV show will give us yet.  But I want all of the big emotions myself.  So that’s what I hope for.

I honestly cannot understand conversations that pit Nickistat and Loustat against each other.  Nicki is long dead when Lestat meets Louis and even longer dead on TV.  And by that point, for Lestat, I think Nicolas will remain forever a cipher to what a human life could have been for Lestat.  His only experience of mortal love and life and creating art as a mortal, and loving art created in the moment by another mortal he personally loved was with Nicolas.  The idea of them living together: loving, creating, laughing, growing old and dying is an eternal “what if” that can never be reached.  The only impossible in an eternity of possible.  It never would have been like that.  It’s as imaginary as a fairytale.  But the imagining of what that could have been can never be tainted by reality for Lestat as it is impossible to reach it.  

Towards the end of Nicki’s life, I love the dichotomy that Lestat simultaneously cannot stand the sight of Nicolas AND cannot bear the thought of him not existing.  I love to feel both emotions coexisting.  And I love also that it is kinder at this point for Nicolas to die rather than to suffer as he does too.  Just as it was a kindness for Lestat to shoot his mare.  

I desire all of the complicated emotions.

Wow.  I didn’t mean to do so long an ask.  I basically just wanted to do a post wherein I give the perspective of someone who loves Nicolas and also loves Loustat, to say it doesn’t have to be exclusive.  However, I will also add that it’s NEVER ok to send hate to anyone for any reason.  Let alone something as small as different views on characters.

Sorry this is long.  You don’t have to answer as you must be sick of Nicki discussion now.  But I needed to write this… maybe selfishly, for me.

Thank you for being respectful. Can I offer you some friendly advice to maybe explain why most of these Nicki anons are coming across as disingenuous?

I'm glad you sent this, because it's a perfect example of how things used to be with the old school fandom. You are one of the few who seems to enjoy the character for the character himself, which is perfectly fine. Like I've said, I don't care who likes who or why. Just don't ignore the canon facts and act like someone wasn't what they were or act like a relationship wasn't what it was — I'm not saying you are doing this FYI. I'm saying it's what these anons are doing, and that has always been my issue and the fact there are certain ones hellbent on pushing this nonsense and harassing the ones who dare to say "actually no that's not the truth." I am glad you appear to be level-headed enough to not fall into that category, but that brings me to my advice based on my own personal observations of this new fandom mindset.

My advice is to distance yourself from ones like these anons who prove their fixations on Nicki are only because of a ship war. I mean, they tell on themselves with their own words and their childish tantrums and their passive-aggressive trolling, and they are making other genuine fans, such as yourself, look like clowns. As I said, the same thing happened with Loumanders, and I genuinely felt bad for the few real ones, because the bad seeds did their absolute best to ruin the entire bunch with their delusional bullshit, and that's exactly what is happening now with Nickistat fans. They are making the character into an utter joke and making it an insufferable topic filled with out of control fanon and ignoring the literal book canon in service of pretending like Nicki was this sweeping wholesome and tender love of Lestat's life who loved him so much and was so much better than Louis and so good to Lestat (again why is Louis even part of the discussion?) and was just an innocent and misunderstood mentally ill victim of Lestat's cruelty, and the book canon directly contradicts all of that. Again, the Loumanders did the same thing. I don't know if you remember all my insane "Loumand tender love" anons? It's history repeating itself, which brings me to something else about which I want to caution you as I can see this is deeply personal for you.

I hope the show depicts the relationship within the parameters of the book canon — the good and the bad and everything in between — and does it justice exactly because of what it represented for Lestat. I do actually agree with some of your points about how the relationship impacted Lestat and how it did provide him an outlet he'd never before experienced, and that just makes what eventually happened all the more horrific for Lestat.

However, as I have cautioned other Nickistat fans, I would prepare myself based on what Rolin did with Loumand. One could argue the two relationships are different, because Lestat genuinely loved Nicki and by default that makes it a different situation, and I am also beyond irritated and frustrated when these relationships are stupidly pitted against each other, but within the parameters of what Rolin is doing overall? They're not different, because what Rolin is doing is twisting everything in the show to revolve around Loustat and warping all the other relationships to juxtapose them with Loustat. He's also using other characters in service of Loustat (*cough* Claudia *cough*) at the detriment of the character's own story and the character's original meaning within the books, but that's also another discussion entirely and so I digress.

Rolin deliberately made Loumand into something it never was, something way more toxic and grossly fucked up with zero book canon to support this specific choice, exactly because he was contrasting it with Loustat. So I wouldn't be surprised when Rolin makes Nickistat even more toxic and fucked up than what it was to also contrast it with Loustat, because he's got actual book canon examples of Nicki's abuse and toxicity to expand upon and like I've already pointed out, he's already depicted Nicki as a jealous and pathetic drunk. Yes, it was during Armand's fanfic, but there are hints to the truth bleeding out, and Rolin has already clearly paralleled Nicki with Louis in service of Loustat. He is turning this material into a soap opera with Loustat at the heart of it, and I have a very complicated feeling towards that overall, but I don't write the show.

So I just hope you understand where I'm coming from when I relegate certain things to certain corners wrt Nicki stans being disingenuous, and it's exactly because that's what the fandom is doing even when they pretend otherwise. Like I said, they tell on themselves by constantly dragging Louis into a narrative he was technically never a part of, because Lestat had not even met him yet. It is literally impossible for Louis to have had any bearing on what happened between Lestat and Nicki. The only way this impacts Louis is because it so grievously damaged Lestat to the point his trauma from Nicki dictated his actions toward Louis.

I had hoped it wouldn't be like this with Nicki, but I should've known better, because unfortunately this fandom is polluted with the new era fans who make everything about shipping and make everything about getting attention and make everything about being "controversial" and make (ironically enough) everything about morality and make everything about the new era of media consumption i.e. they have to put everything into little black and white boxes of this or that being labeled XYZ to make it palatable and to give them a platform of identity to say "look at me and look at how smart I am and look at how virtuous I am to call out XYZ and here's a trendy buzzword vomit post to prove how good of a person I am." It all goes hand-in-hand and has literally ruined fandom by and large. It's why the fandom cannot move on from the tale of S1. It's why so many fics are human AU. It's why everyone harps on Lestat's "abuse" over and over. It's why Armand's behavior is being excused as autism. It's why Nicki's behavior is being excused as vague mental illness. It's why Louis is perfectly innocent in everything. It's why Gabrielle is being twisted into something she never was. They literally cannot get past their own performative, virtue-signaling need for head-pats, and they cannot understand that the concept of fucked up gothic media about vampires cannot function with these cute little labels and cannot function in these cute little black and white boxes of morality. Did you ever read the article that stated IWTV is a prestige show with a CW caliber fandom? That has been the most accurate thing ever said about this show, and that is beyond sad and sickening.

That is why I appreciate you sending this, because you've shown a perfect example of how things used to be. To be honest, the fact you've seen my posts on Nicki and, not only haven't blocked me, but also had the maturity to share your own feelings without hiding behind anon and in such a respectful way says a lot. I really do appreciate that, and I really do hope others will take a cue, because it is possible to have a respectful discussion and to agree to disagree over someone's feelings on a fictional character without shaming or name-calling or slapping on a buzzword label to blackball a person from simply having an opinion you don't agree with.

I hope you feel free to drop by anytime. 🩵

[made-my-peace-with-all-the-bad]

Friendly reminder that Johnny Cade’s big life dream was to live a peaceful life in a house with his best friend. And at the end of the day it was unattainable. His dream, a dream of a garden and staring up at the stars every night, was something he would never get to have. Because he was destined to die young.

[zaahvi]

emotionally repressed dalish assassin meets the evil god he's looked up to all his life, folds immediately

[hythlodaes]

junelezen day twenty five - old friend

[aromanticasterisms]

no but actually. the parallels to other Twins in different nations of teyvat in relation to the traveler and their desire to reunite with their own sibling makes me a little bit bonkers. like.

diluc and kaeya as what the traveler has and fears, after we will be reunited [separation born from conflict that seemingly cannot be mended; they both care for each other but ultimately their opposing ideals mean they cannot be at each other's side in the same way that they used to, and no longer have the close bond they once did]

ei and makoto as what the abyss sibling experienced [a crushing loss not just of one's twin but the last remaining friend they had and the safety and security of their nation, coming out the other side traumatized, cold and jaded and making decisions that will ultimately hurt the people they claim to want to protect for the sake of an unattainable goal]

and lyney and lynette as what the traveler and the abyss twin used to have before they were separated [never apart for long, home is wherever we are together], what the traveler wants [their separation brief and quickly amended, continuing to be inseparable after they reunite], and also the choice they'll have to make [the twins being together in an organization the traveler inherently doesn't trust - does the traveler want to be by their sibling's side badly enough to throw their lot in with the abyss, and turn their back on everyone else they've met on their journey so far?]

[captain-astors]

Creature. (The rendered ones are referenced from manga panels)

[angy-grrr]

I don’t get why ppl keep saying bkdk is dead or Horikoshi broke off bkdk. If that were true, this extra would look very different as you pointed out multiple times. The extra was still heavily focused on them and I hate how ppl are letting one no dictate the entire relationship. Izuku asks him to be a special lecturer too. I think the no just needs more clarification but other than that it is mostly fine. If a ship were to be shut down by the creator, it would look very different. Same logic for if a ship were to be canon, it would look different than what we got in the end for izu///ocha. This extra was bad in different ways from ships. It was just a whole lot of nothing that doesn’t meaningfully add anything to the story but I guess we shouldn’t be surprised since it is an extra. It is still an ambiguous ending that can be pretty fixable by one shots by Horikoshi in the future or even better by fanfiction lol. Except for the Toga part. That is just inexcusable

himiko-chan :(

and yeah! like even tho 431 is terrible not only for pairs but also for the whole story, it only confirmed Katsuki feels something really strong for deku and he doesnt notice bc he doesnt consider himself to be that great; they keep talking, and they keep being in each other's lives with no problem -they also imply they will work on communicating their feelings, as the special lecture is about this topic and deku also thinks katsuki doesnt see himself in a high regard. This is actually something that could be used in the future, as their relationship and arc isnt completely finished -in the way that they arent at a point of no miscommunication, no yearning, etc. They still need something to work with in regards to themselves and each other in the process. When it comes to midoriya and uraraka, idk what exactly could develop from what 431 tell us -seems to be mostly about paying attention to the ppl in your life instead of just letting life happen I guess? But idk what conversation or arc they could have together that wasn't resolved already, it was a really weird choice to focus on them as if there needs to be more explored -which is why choosing to not make them talk to each other nor think of the other in these years is potentially interesting, like the only way they could actually need to talk things up or have a separated special moment is if they just stop being friends and want to talk more from now on. Like, if they kept their friendship these years and were part of the other's life, there wouldnt be a moment like this at all.

I think it hurt mostly ochako -and deku if we interpret it as "deku just wants to be teacher, he is super happy about it, and loveeees so much his ex bestie after 8 years of no contact and never thinking about her"-, more than the bkdk relationship.

It would be interesting to see those one shots, if he does them -I know he said he wanted to do more things and little drawings and content for it, but idk if he will do something elaborate or just one page of something silly. I think he still has to opportunity of working with the material and make something at least not this bad -or completely ignore 431 and just continue with their adventures like 430 implies lol If he wants to double down with the "romance" I have no idea how he could do it with what he has tbh, unless he just ignores the plot and their personalities.

[loverboybrightsideghost]

alright now that i've watched all of arcane. i immensely enjoyed it because it was very pretty to look at and had a lot of badass good music to go with it. however kind of nothing at all happened except the apocalypse and some gay dudes dying together. go girl give us nothing

[genderqueerpond]

amyeleven fivenyssa crossover

[phatcatphergus]

Another thing that lowkey makes me dislike the frubbo storyline sometimes is the way chat is so weird about it even off the server. Any time the topic of irl relationships comes up there are always chatters spamming about Fred and it’s not funny it’s just weird. Tubbo himself has had to tell them off for not separating real life and minecraft before. Even on the late night MaxGGs stream that just happened there was still someone who felt the need to bring up Fred in the middle of a genuine discussion and the stream was only at like 300 viewers. It’s a little sad how much fan reactions can sour the viewing experience but it’s not really possible to fully ignore stuff like that on live streamed content with chat right there on the screen.

People that do this shit make me angrier then I would like to admit as a God fearing woman who confesses my problems with anger regularly.

Part of it is because it’s a long and obnoxious pattern of fandom space that doesn’t seem to go away, but the fact that it’s been happening to Tubbo for so long and so persistently is something that truly enrages me. I don’t think there’s been a point in his career that people didn’t associate him with another person, and we all know how insane some of those beeduo people were. Even before beeduo people were asking about other people and bringing up Tommy when it wasn’t appropriate or needed. Especially referencing or talking about lore characters very much outside of rp.

People doing this shit is something I find it hard to just say “oh it’s just a constant, can’t do anything about it” and leaving it because Tubbo himself said he saw himself and his career as an extension of his friends and undermined his own achievements, goals and projects because of it.

The behavior isn’t new, but the fact that now people pushing tubbo into being associated with an NPC character is disgusting. It not only shows how little these people know of his lore, but also how they never saw Tubbo as his own person in the first place. Irl and in rp.

I will say that some of it is young fans trying to be funny or make a statement, but that doesn’t excuse them from the fact that it’s inappropriate. Especially when it’s in other peoples chat or during a conversation that has ZERO correlation.

I think the bottom line is that fandom spaces have never treated Tubbo well. They see him as a character that they can treat however they want and he only exists to “be with someone” or continue someone else’s plot both in rp and irl. He’s never been seen as his own person outside of his own fanbase and it will continue for however long this fandom space does.

[philsmeatylegss]

“Parasocial relationships are bad” “it’s not creators’ responsibility to cater to your feelings”

I genuinely am still heartbroken three years later about finding out what an awful human Shane Dawson was and is and I truly still feel angry and betrayed by him and I don’t give a shit if it is parasocial.