#but that wasn’t before I spent the first few days on it back in October 2024

[weatherera]

Sentient Amalgamation

[capuccinodoll]

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

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

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

Wednesday, October 16th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “We’re not dating.”

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

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

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

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

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

“To say what? That you miss him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Frankie🍾 ]

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

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

“Hi.”

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

“No. Almost. I’m in bed.”

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

“You?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what about you?” he asked.

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

“How am I supposed to deal with you?”

For a moment, you didn’t speak.

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

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

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

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

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

“How are they doing?” 

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

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

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

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

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

You laughed. “You’re getting old.”

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

“How many?”

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

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

“You’re officially out of touch.” 

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

“Come on, tell me one of the words.”

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

“Please don’t make me do this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you not sleeping well?”

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

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

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

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

“You’re watching TV now.”

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

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

“I would never.”

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

“Fake screenshots. Fabricated evidence.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Frankie asked.

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

“No.”

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

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

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

“Ah, okay.”

“And I miss you too.”

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

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

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

There was a beat of silence.

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

“Mhm. Return to Ithaca, Odysseus.”

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

“See you soon,” he said, voice low.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A bit.”

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

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

“Not me. Maybe the house is haunted.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm. That's not true.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Behind them, a small voice broke through the noise.

“Dad?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay. Your dad’s okay.”

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankie cleared his throat, adjusting where he knelt.

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

Jamie’s eyebrows knit together, uncertain.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice thin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, October 17th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frankie?”

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

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

You noticed it immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s when it shifted.

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

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

He didn’t answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He let out a breath through his nose.

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

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

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

“I’d like that.”

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

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

“Starving.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sit,” you instructed. He did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankie paused. He didn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

“Henry had an accident.”

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

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

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

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

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

You winced, your mind catching on the small detail.

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

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

Your gaze flicked to his face.

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

You inhaled sharply, instinctively. “Frankie…”

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

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

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

You said nothing.

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

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

“What did you tell him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh yeah? Does he like Jumanji?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Almost?”

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

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

“Wow. Bold of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That one,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Within moments, your own body followed his into sleep.

Friday, October 18th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Darcy.”

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

“Cats get offended. You know that.”

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

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

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

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

And then there was only him again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you didn’t dare breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then he pulled back.

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

He glanced toward the door.

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

You didn’t let go. “I’m on the pill.”

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

“I know. But are you sure?”

You nodded, your fingers tightening slightly on his skin.

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

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

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

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

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

“What about me?”

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

“No. No one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then your phone vibrated in your hand.

Santi.

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

“Hey, Santi?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” you said. “That right?”

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

“Oh. Yeah? What time?” 

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

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

“Yeah, I—um—yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Bye. Take care. Love you.”

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

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

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

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

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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[mountttmase]

I Bet You Miss Her

Note - Hey guys 🩷 just a cute little baby fic today and thank you to the anon who sent the request in, I hope it’s okay for you 😘 feedback would be appreciated 🩷

Pairing - Mason Mount × Reader

Word count - 5K

Warnings - angst and fluff

Mason always loved a pre-season party, getting everyone together after weeks apart and excited for the season to start usually meant he was in his element but this year was different. You weren’t with him this time.

That didn’t mean he didn’t see you everywhere he looked. That when he watched one of his teammates wrap their arm around their significant other he didn’t feel a pang of emptiness because you weren’t by his side. He knew he should be there with you and he knew this was all his doing but being here hurt more than thought it might.

He felt lost. His arms limp by his sides as he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands now they weren’t wrapped around yours. His eyes glued to the floor as he knew he’d still be looking for you even though you were miles away and as he stood with Licha and his family he was trying his best to act normal and not let his inner turmoil spill over.

‘So Mase, where’s y/n?’ Muri asked, a bright and friendly smile on her face as she wrapped her hand around Licha’s bicep and the sound of your name sent shock waves through him. He’d been expecting it for a while but he wasn’t sure if he wanted your name brought up in conversation or not. On the one hand he was desperate for someone to bring you up so he could imagine you once more and have an excuse to talk about you but he also knew the memories would just be too painful just like they always were.

‘Oh uh, she’s on a work trip. She’ll be back in a few days’ Mason lied smoothly. His lips pressed into a tight line as he fiddled with the last button on his shirt but thankfully she bought his excuse.

‘Ah amazing, she doing so well for herself. I bet you miss her though’ she pouted and her sympathy just made him feel worse somehow.

‘Yeah, yeah I really do’ Masons whispered and it was like the words hit him in his soul. Gulping back a lump that was rising up his through far too quickly for his liking before raising his glass to his lips in a final attempt to disguise his emotions.

Today had been a lot.

It was officially three months since the breakup and Mason couldn’t have felt worse if he tried.

Nothing had caused the pair of you to break up, nothing big at least. The move from London to Manchester had been tough for the pair of you and you knew he was finding it hard to settle. The constant injuries meant he spent more time with the United staff rather than his teammates that he should have been bonding with and unbeknownst to you one of them was having more of an effect on him than you knew.

What started off as bickering as you were both on edge became bigger arguments as the season wore on. Mason spending longer hours with his new friend on the physio table and at first you didn’t mind because it gave you a chance to cool off but soon enough it got to the point of no return for him.

You always figured the fighting was a phase and something to move past but the morning of a big away game, his first start since October the year before, he’d told you he couldn’t carry on and felt it was best if the pair of you ended things there so it didn’t get any worse.

You were blindsided, it never being in your head that he would end things as you knew you loved him enough to work through it but as soon as he left for the game you packed your car until it was full and made your way back home to London later that evening.

It felt like he was taking the easy way out. Not giving you a chance to fight or say anything back, just telling you he was done and running away so he didn’t have to face the consequences but if that’s what he wanted then that’s what he would get. Driving back to your best friend's house who was ready to welcome you with open arms whilst you cursed his name all night. Confused as to how you’d even got here but you were hoping that when he returned home he’d feel just as awful as you were.

The game went terribly, Mason not really ready to play the amount of time he had been given and even though he wasn’t really to blame the loss hit harder than most. Not speaking a word to anyone unless he had to on the flight home and once he was back in his car he finally let his emotions get the better of him. Slamming his head onto the steering wheel before letting the first few tears fall.

This felt like rock bottom.

Mason knew you were gone as soon as he got home. Your car was gone and your house keys left in the dish on the console table told him as much when he walked in, but he could also feel you were gone. Your presence had been sucked right out of the home you’d built together and Mason felt awful instantly. He’d known since he stepped onto the plane yesterday morning that he’d made a mistake and all he wanted after an awful 12 hours or so was for you to make him feel better like you always did.

He tried every way known to man to try and get a hold of you but nothing seemed to be working. Even contemplating sending a messenger pigeon if he thought that might have worked but after five days of nothing from you he knew you were done. He’d made his bed and now he just had to lie in it no matter how uncomfortable it was.

In the end he figured he’d just wait for you to come to your senses and reply as you must be missing him just as much as he was missing you but the call never came. Just days that turned into weeks of waiting and waiting and soon enough the inevitable questions as to your whereabouts came.

Muri wasn't the first person to ask after you and she wasn’t the first to have been lied to by Mason. Everyone who mentioned you he managed to fob off with a different excuse and at this point you’d been on more girls trips and work trips than he could shake a stick at. He was running out of excuses though and he’d told his mum you’d been ill for so long that she was threatening to come and look after you herself but Mason always had it covered.

He was surprised he’d managed to get away with it for this long without someone coming back at him, thinking word must have gotten back to you eventually but no one ever questioned him and his spiral of lies just kept getting deeper. Too embarrassed to admit he’d let go of the best thing to ever happen to him so he kept going until the excuses no longer sounded plausible.

Where were you? Oh, yeah she’s at the dentist, she’s gone back home to visit her family for a few days, she’s already got plans she can’t cancel he lied but before he knew it he was paying for his sins.

It was 11pm a few days after the pre-season party and Mason was just about to get ready for bed. Switching his tv off and taking his snacks back to the kitchen but that’s as far as he got. The sudden sound of pounding fists on his door startled him and he froze in fear for a moment before he quickly pulled up the doorbell app on his phone. It was clearly a little slow to alert him to someone being outside but was met with a sight he thought he’d never see again.

He was running to open the door in a flash, pulling it open so quickly you almost fell inside as you were still aggressively slamming your fists on it and once you’d gathered yourself Mason swore he’d never seen you so mad before.

‘Why are you telling everyone we’re still together?’ You demanded, your voice loud and hard and he felt his tummy drop as the seconds went by. A deep feeling of regret but also love for you swimming through him and he didn’t quite know what to say.

‘Wha… what are you doing here?’ He asked, trying to avoid the question a little bit he knew it was for nothing. You were beyond furious.

‘Work trip, funnily enough’ you laughed but he knew there wasn’t an ounce of humour in it. Clearly word had gotten back to you and at this moment he didn’t know if he was happy about it or not. ‘Now answer my question’

‘I- I don’t know-‘

‘‘Keep my name out of your mouth, Mason. You broke up with me, remember? You don’t get to do this’ you cut him off, ready to turn around and leave as you had nothing else to say to him but as soon as you looked away his helpless voice ran through the air.

‘Baby please-‘

‘Don’t’ you snapped, holding your finger up so he would stop talking. Your voice now cold compared to what it just was and Mason realised in that moment he’d rather have you angry at him than whatever this was. ‘Just don’t. You don’t get to call me that’

‘Don’t go, I fucked up but we can fix this’ he pleaded but you didn’t come here to talk. You came to tell him to leave you alone and you weren’t prepared for this at all.

‘No we cant-‘

‘Baby please-‘

‘No Mason! Why are you doing this to me? Have you not put me through enough?’ You shouted as you turned back to him fully, your emotions getting the better of you as you tried and failed to hold in a sob and your hands were now balled up into fists as you were so frustrated with the boy in front of you. ‘I’m trying to move on with my life but I’ve got people asking me about you all the time and bringing you up cause you’re still living in some weird fantasy land!’

‘Please baby, please don’t cry I can fix it’ he whimpered as he moved closer to you but made sure to take a step back so he didn’t get too close.

‘There’s nothing to fix! We’re done!’

‘No we’re not. Don't say that okay, you’re mine’ he sobbed as he ran his fingers through his hair erratically. ‘What do you want from me, huh? What is it cause whatever it is I’ll do it now. You want me on my knees? You want me to beg for you back cause I don’t care I’ll do it’ he told you, lowering himself onto the ground in front of you but all it did was make you sob harder. ‘I don’t care that you hate me, I don’t care that you think we’re done. I love you and I'm not giving up on us ever when I know we can work this out’ he cried. ‘Why won’t you listen to me’

‘Because you’re a coward, Mase! You broke up with me before an away game so you could run away. You didnt fight for me then and you don't get to fight for me now’

‘Please’

‘No’ you told him, hoping that could be the end of it so you turned in your heel and ran away. Knowing that he’d be delayed by a few seconds if he wanted to get up and chase you but by the time you’d got in your car and looked back he hadn’t moved from his spot. His chest now pressed to the floor as he’d slumped forward with his head hidden in the crook of his arm and you could see his back moving erratically up and down from what you presumed was him crying.

There was something in you that made you stop, something that made you want to get out of your car and run back to him. To stand him up and hold him and tell him everything was fine and you were still his but you didn’t. You couldn’t.

That didn’t mean you didn’t think of him over the next few days. Hours spent in your friend's box room as you didn’t have the heart to find your own place yet but the sound of his voice and the memory of him being so heartbroken was etched into your brain and you couldn’t seem to move on from it.

You’d never seen him so distraught before in all the time you’d known him. On his knees in front of you begging for another chance and you’d just ran away and left him sobbing on his drive after pouring his heart out to you.

You hated the way he still occupied your thoughts. Before things had gone wrong you believed he was your forever and would have done absolutely anything for him but all that had changed and right now you didn’t think you could ever fully move past this unless you sat with him and spoke to him properly. No matter how much it hurt.

Mason was absentmindedly watching whatever was on tv when his phone alerted him to someone being outside. He didn’t hear a knock or anything moving outside so he quickly opened the app to put his mind at rest when he was met with your face. Your hand rising and falling as you thought about whether or not you should press the bell but Mason wasn’t about to give you a choice and shot up from the sofa to pull the front door open

You weren't expecting him to suddenly be there, a hopeful look on his face as he tried to control his breathing and you felt your heart leap at the sight of him.

‘You’re back’ he whispered, watching you wrap your arms around yourself as you looked down at the floor and all he wanted was to wrap you up in his own arms. To kiss you and promise you he’d never hurt you again as he hated how you looked so fragile and nervous but he was taking you being as a positive sign.

‘Yeah’ you breathed, nodding lightly. ‘I was just about to knock, I um… do you think… do you think I could come in?’

‘Of course you can’ he nodded, pulling the door open wider before shutting it behind you. Watching you glance around the house you used to call a home before you stood playing with your fingers. ‘Can I get you anything? You want a drink or-‘

‘No, I think it’s best we just talk and get this over with’ you told him. walking right by him to get to the sitting room and the familiarity of the place hit you immediately. Nothing had changed, he even still had the same pictures of the pair of you in the frames by the fireplace and you felt your tummy drop at the sight of them. They felt like they were from a different life at this point and you didn’t know if you’d ever get to be like that with anyone ever again.

Mason sighed before joining you, his shoulders slumped as he thought maybe you’d come here to listen to him and let him put things right but from just that small awkward interaction he knew you were done. He was just praying to anyone and anything he could change your mind somehow.

‘I’m sorry’ he mumbled as he took a seat opposite you but you weren’t here to listen to that again.

‘I don’t want an apology Mason, you’ve said that a million times now. I want an explanation’ you told him calmly. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing… and everything I guess’ he sighed, running his hand over his beard before scratching the back of his neck. All of his tells to let you know he was nervous. ‘Things were rough for a while, I think we both can agree on that’ he said and you nodded lightly. Things had been hard but never once had you thought about ending things with him. ‘It was just a hard year for me… and then were was Jason’

‘Jason?’ You asked, confused as to who he was talking about as the only Jason you knew was Mason's physio and he’d always been sweet to you when you’d seen him so you were confused as to why he was being bought up now.

‘Yeah, he’d been on at me for months about ending things with you’ he confessed and you felt your heart sink. ‘It's my fault, I saw him most days and we got pretty comfortable around each other so I said some things that looking back now I shouldn’t have. It was just guy talk you know? I didn’t mean anything by it at first, we were just moaning about our other halves but then he broke up with his girlfriend and he was going on about how much lighter felt now he was single and maybe I should do the same so we could be single together’

‘What?’ You breathed. Not knowing if this was a joke or not but you knew Mason and you knew he was open to everyone so it was no wonder he took advice from some he thought he could trust.

‘I know, and I know it doesn't make me sound any better. I get that. But we were arguing over stupid things and I had him in my ear constantly like I just lost it’

You didn’t know what to say. You understood a bit better now but it still didn’t make things easier.

‘But I knew it was dumb, maybe in the back of my mind that’s why I did it when I did cause you’re right. I was a coward and I wanted to run away but I knew It’s not what I wanted as soon as I got on the bloody plane to leave. I didn’t get chance to talk to you or do anything until later that night and I tried to call you but I never heard from you’

‘You didn’t even really give me a chance to fight for us. You told me what you wanted and left as quickly as you could. I didn’t exactly feel like giving you a chance to explain anything after that’ you told him quietly and he nodded knowingly. His face crumpling as he tried and failed to hold it together and you couldn’t lie and say the way he was wasn’t having an effect on you and his watery eyes were like a dagger to your heart.

‘I know you don’t believe me, but I’ve never stopped loving you’ he sobbed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye so he could stop crying but it only made your eyes sting in return. ‘That day when I finished things, well I didn’t just hurt you. It's like I tore my own heart from my chest and I’ve never been able to numb that ache. Why do you think I lied and told everyone we were still together?’

‘Cause you’re certifiably insane’ you whispered. Your heart leaping at the way he let out a little chuckle as he wiped his eyes and when your eyes locked you felt your resolve crumble further.

‘Well yes, there’s that, but I couldn’t admit what I’d done to anyone cause I was embarrassed’ he gulped. ‘And I didn’t want to admit it to myself half the time. You’re way too good for me, I know that. Fuck everyone knows that so why would I want to tell everyone I’d thrown away the best thing to have ever happened to me. I know exactly what they’d say and how dumb I felt even just thinking it to myself so I made out you were just busy or something’ he shrugged. His confession melting your cold exterior slightly before he was scratching the back off his neck again. The cogs turning in his brain as he tried to make you believe in whatever way he could.

‘Mums been asking after you loads, I kept saying you were sick or had an appointment. She even sent me those special immunity tea bags to give you like they’re in the cupboard and everything’ he laughed and you felt your heart warm at how kind his family were. You’d missed going to visit them but didn’t want to reach out and have things be weird but now you were glad you hadn’t as clearly they were none the wiser

‘Does she know now?’ You whispered but he just shook his head awkwardly. The bridge of his nose turning a bright red out of embarrassment but your heart was hammering as you always found that to be one of his cutest tells and it was like you had to restrain yourself in your seat so you didn’t reach over to grab his face and kiss him.

‘No, she still thinks we’re together. I'd actually like to keep it that way’ he told you and even though you knew it was coming you weren’t ready to accept what he wanted to say. At least you didn’t think you were.

‘Mason-‘

‘Please’ he pleaded. His big brown eyes melting you even further and even though you promised yourself you’d be strong he was making it difficult. ‘Please, y/n. I said it the other night and I’ll say it again. I really would do anything for another chance and I’ll get down on my knees again if you want me to’ he told you and the tiny smile on your face must have given him the courage to push forward a little bit. Sliding off the sofa before getting himself settled between your thighs and resting his hands on them gingerly. You felt your heart thump as he looked up at you through his lashes and you knew you were putty in his hands at this point no matter how much you didn’t want to be.

‘I’m the biggest idiot known to mankind and I let you go when I should have held you closer. I know I can make you so happy, we were happy once were we?’

‘Yeah, we were’ you agreed quietly cause deep down you knew you really were and you knew I wouldn’t take much to get back there.

‘So we can do it again, right?’

‘I don’t know Mase’

‘Why? What’s holding you back?’ He questioned and at this point you didn’t even know. Only a few seconds away from just agreeing with anything he said as the hopeful look on his face was destroying you but you knew you had more to say.

‘Cause it hurt’ you whispered. ‘I hurt when you left me, it still hurts now’

‘It hurts because it matters’ he whispered, tucking some hair behind your ear and the gesture made you shiver. ‘And it matters because we still love each other. If you didn’t care anymore then it wouldn’t hurt’ he told you and you hated but loved the way he had you on strings. ‘Please baby, please. I can’t be without you anymore it’s killing me’ he told you, his voice wobbling as he looked down into your lap.

You couldn’t take it anymore, reaching down to cup his jaw so he’d look at you and the tears rolling down his cheeks broke your heart. You knew he was right, it hurt because you still loved him but looking at him so devastated between your legs hurt more than anything else.

All you wanted to do was make him feel better and you knew there was only one way to do it. Leaning down and pulling him up slightly so you could drop a sweat kiss to his lips and you knew he was surprised as he froze for a beat.

You both sat there for a few moments, foreheads touching with your eyes closed as it hit you what was happening but the smile on his face made you giddy so when he lent back in you let him take the lead. Kissing you gently as he gripped your thighs, almost making sure that you were actually there and he wasn’t dreaming but you were holding onto him just as tightly before pulling back to catch your breath.

‘I didn’t think I’d ever get to kiss you again’ Mason whispered but you couldn’t reply, Mason pulling you down onto the floor next to him before rolling himself half on top of you so he could kiss you again but the pair of you giggling didn’t help. ‘Is this really happening?’

‘Trust me when I say this, but I came over here with the intention of just putting things to bed and going back home’ you told him. Watching his face drop as things turned sombre. ‘But you’ve just made me realise I am home’ you told him, watching him pout slightly as he was so emotional. ‘I’ve been lost without you Masey, and yeah what you did sucked but I know you’re sorry yeah? I can see it all over your face’

‘I really am’

‘I know you are, and it’s okay. I forgive you’ you whispered and it’s like you felt his body relax under your fingertips.

‘Are you sure? I feel like I haven’t said half of what I wanted to’ he gulped, almost as if he couldn’t believe you’d forgiven him so quickly but you didn’t see the point of prolonging everything.

‘That’s okay’ you whispered. ‘You’ve said enough for me, life isn’t always about big apologies you know? I’d rather you make up for things with actions not words’

‘And I will’ he confirmed before leaning down to kiss you again. You tummy flipping at how gentle he was being with you and even before things had turned sour you couldn’t remember the last time you kissed like this. The last time he made you feel like this but you knew the feelings had never died, other stupid things had just gotten in the way.

You pulled back soon after, the pair of you just looking at each other in awe as you shared tiny kisses and soft stares before you felt his hand on your waist. You’d missed his touch and the feel of him made you wonder what else you’d missed in your months apart.

‘You won the fa cup’ you giggled, your eyes burning again as you thought back to the pictures of him looking so happy with his team mates. A nice end to a hard year he’d suffered and even though you’d been mad at him you knew how much it meant for him to win a domestic trophy and you couldn’t not be pleased for him.

‘I did yeah’ he laughed, tears springing to his eyes once more. ‘And we didn’t get to celebrate it together’

‘We’ve got time to, it’ll just be a little late that’s all’ you shrugged and he nodded down at you enthusiastically.

‘We do’ he breathed. Kissing your forehead before cradling your face so he could look at you properly. ‘And you’re going on work trips?’

‘Yeah, a week or two after I went home I got promoted’ you smiled, rolling your eyes lightly as the pair of you knew it was something you’d been working towards but in your mind it was still a little way down the line.

‘I’m so fucking proud of you’ he told you sincerely, pecking your lips quickly before looking at you again and the smile on his face melted you. ‘Looks like we’ve got a fair few things to celebrate then’

‘I think so, and you know how I like to celebrate’

‘Chocolate cake?’ He questioned, an eyebrow raised but he knew he was right. It was always your little tradition and how you celebrated the small wins.

‘Chocolate cake’ you confirmed with a smile and his bright eyes made you melt.

‘I’m gonna get you the best chocolate cake I can find, yeah. Only the best for my girl’ he smiled before his face dropped a fraction. ‘You’re still my girl aren’t you?’

‘I’m still your girl’ you told him, stroking his cheek as he looked at you softly. ‘Even though I was mad as hell I was always your girl Mase. And I always will be’

‘You and me against the world, sweetheart’

‘Of course, but I have a condition’ you told him, watching him raise his brow at you questioningly. ‘If you get upset again, please talk to me so we can work it out’

‘I will baby, I promise’ he told you sincerely and you knew he meant it. ‘I don’t ever want to be without you again, yeah? I fucking hated it’

‘Me too’ you laughed, pulling him down into a soft kiss that you couldn’t help but smile into as you felt him melt. ‘Now what’s happening with that chocolate cake’

‘Come on, we’ll get it together. Not letting you out of my sight now’ he told you, helping you up from the floor so you could make your way to the car, your heart finally home with your forever person.

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed if you feel like leaving some feedback it would be much appreciated 🩷

[metamorphicmuse]

War-Time Love (Based on a True Story)

Here's a real letter which was written by a World War 2 veteran to his lost lover, a fellow soldier. While rarely documented, this attestation to love among soldiers stands out as a tender, if impossible, reminder that it did occur. I've imagined they must have been part of the Special Services Branch based on historical details. The letter is a real artifact. The images are imagined but no less real.

Dear Dave:

This is in memory of an anniversary–the anniversary of October 27th, 1943, when I first heard you singing in North Africa. That song brings memories of the happiest times I’ve ever known. Memories of a GI show troop–curtains made from barrage balloons–spotlights made from cocoa cans–rehearsals that ran late into the evenings–and a handsome boy with a wonderful tenor voice. Opening night at a theater in Canastel–perhaps too much muscatel, and someone who understood. Exciting days playing in the beautiful and stately Municipal Opera House in Oran–a misunderstanding–an understanding in the wings just before opening chorus.

Drinks at “Coq d’or”–dinner at the “Auberge”–a ring and promise given. The show for 1st Armoured–muscatel, scotch, wine–someone who had to be carried from the truck and put to bed in his tent. A night of pouring rain and two very soaked GIs beneath a solitary tree on an African plain. A borrowed French convertible–a warm sulphur spring, the cool Mediterranean, and a picnic of “rations” and hot cokes. Two lieutenants who were smart enough to know the score, but not smart enough to realize that we wanted to be alone. A screw-ball piano player – competition – miserable days and lonely nights. The cold, windy night we crawled through the window of a GI theater and fell asleep on a cot backstage, locked in each other’s arms– the shock when we awoke and realized that miraculously we hadn’t been discovered. A fast drive to a cliff above the sea–pictures taken, and a stop amid the purple grapes and cool leaves of a vineyard.

The happiness when told we were going home–and the misery when we learned that we would not be going together. Fond goodbyes on a secluded beach beneath the star-studded velvet of an African night, and the tears that would not be stopped as I stood atop the sea-wall and watched your convoy disappear over the horizon.

We vowed we’d be together again “back home,” but fate knew better–you never got there. And so, Dave, I hope that where ever you are these memories are as precious to you as they are to me.

Goodnight, sleep well my love.

Brian Keith

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~~What follows below is my imagined story of these two lovers, with the names changed to protect the dignity of the dead.~~

As Time Goes By

Nathan had never expected to be here.

One week ago, he was just another soldier in the North African campaign—following orders, keeping his head down, surviving. His uniform was dust-streaked, his boots worn, his days spent waiting. Then someone heard him singing. Just a quiet song in the barracks, something to fill the empty space between letters from home and the next long march. But it was enough. A lieutenant pulled him aside, asked a few questions, and by the next morning, his papers were signed. He was being transferred.

Now, he stood beneath a makeshift spotlight, on a stage stitched together from sandbags and salvaged wood, dressed in the same uniform but with a different purpose. The GI show was a ragtag affair—curtains made from barrage balloons, footlights crafted from tin cans and spare bulbs. Soldiers filled the seats, some smoking, some waiting, some already half-drunk.

Nathan exhaled, shifting slightly under the warmth of the light. His heart pounded. It wasn’t the audience that made him nervous—he’d sung before, in another life, in school productions and local revues. It was him - Matthew.

Nathan had only been in the troupe a few days, but he knew exactly who Matthew was. Everyone did. He was the leading man, the showrunner, the one who kept things moving, cracking jokes between acts, slipping effortlessly into character when the stage needed him. Matthew owned this world.

And yet—Nathan had felt his gaze on him all evening.

It had started the first day he arrived, during rehearsals. Matthew, watching. Matthew, teasing him—just a little, just enough. Trying to figure him out. But tonight was different. Tonight, Matthew sat in the front row, expression unreadable, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on Nathan as if he were waiting for something.

Nathan closed his eyes, took a breath. And he sang.

*You must remember this, a kiss is still a kiss…*

His rich tenor voice lifted through the dimly lit theater, wrapping around the men in the audience, filling the spaces between them, touching something unspoken. The song wasn’t new, but it was fresh in their minds—the war had seen to that. Casablanca had only come out last year, and everyone had felt something in it, even if they didn’t say it aloud.

But for Nathan, and maybe for Matthew too, it was something more. They had grown up knowing that love stories didn’t belong to them. They had spent their youth on stages where the romances they played were never theirs to keep. They had studied love, rehearsed it, recited it in iambic pentameter, and pressed their lips to women in the dim glow of theater lights, knowing it was all just an illusion.

And yet, here they were. In uniform. In a war zone. Listening to a love song that felt like it belonged to them for the first time.

Nathan didn’t see the audience anymore. Didn’t see the dim glow of cigarettes or the quiet, reflective faces of men thinking of sweethearts back home.

He only saw Matthew.

Matthew, who had been caught off guard. Matthew, who had spent weeks running this show, calling the shots, knowing exactly what to expec5—until now. Because Matthew hadn’t expected Nathan. Hadn’t expected this voice, this moment, this feeling curling inside him like something dangerous and real.

The lyrics rolled over him, soft and certain.

*The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by…*

Nathan let the final note hang in the air before stepping back from the microphone, his pulse still pounding in his ears.

The applause came—steady, appreciative, a welcome break from war. But Matthew didn’t clap. He just sat there, staring at Nathan, eyes shadowed, expression unreadable.

And Nathan? Nathan finally understood.

He had never been the leading man before.

But tonight?

Tonight, Matthew had looked at him like he was.

----------------------------------------

A Series of Almosts

Things progressed as they usually do.

A glance, held a second too long before Nathan turned back to adjusting the microphone stand. A casual joke at mess, Matthew’s voice pitched just a little lower than usual, meant only for Nathan’s ears. A brush of fingertips when one passed the other a prop backstage, neither lingering but both aware.

A small but meaningful liberty—the kind afforded to soldiers whose jobs weren’t measured in miles marched or rifles fired. It was never much. But in a place where nothing belonged to them, these moments were their own.

Until the night they almost had too much.

They had minutes—maybe less. Matthew had pulled Nathan into the stockroom under the guise of looking for spare canvas, the pretense so thin it may as well have been an open invitation for trouble. The dim light made it easier to forget they were still in uniform, still in the war, still being watched even when no one was there to see.

Nathan was the first to falter. “You know this is a bad idea,” he murmured.

Matthew, standing close enough that their breaths mingled, barely smirked. “That never stopped us before.”

Nathan swallowed. He didn’t move away. Matthew lifted a hand, slow enough to let Nathan stop him. He didn’t. His fingers brushed over Nathan’s sleeve, tracing the place where their hands had met a dozen times before—only this time, neither of them was passing a prop or adjusting a collar or making an excuse. This time, Nathan let him.

This time—The door creaked.

Nathan barely had time to move before two lieutenants stepped inside, both of them carrying the casual air of men who weren’t looking for anything but had already found exactly what they expected.

“Ah, there you are,” the first said, too cheerful, too pointed. He didn’t bother asking why they were here.

Matthew straightened just a little too fast, stepping back to grab a crate, as if this had been nothing at all. “Sir.”

The second lieutenant didn’t even glance at the crates. Instead, he leaned against the nearest shelf and sighed, as if settling in for a long, excruciatingly dull conversation. “You know,” he started, “I was just saying the other day—logistics out here are a damn mess. I mean, supply routes, requisition forms, the whole thing. Just a nightmare, really.”

Nathan stood completely still.

The other lieutenant made a noise of agreement, shaking his head. “And don’t even get me started on fuel rations. God, the paperwork.”

Matthew nodded along, expression perfectly neutral, but Nathan could see the tightness in his jaw.

Neither lieutenant was looking at them anymore. They didn’t have to. The message was clear.

We see you. We won’t say anything. But don’t be stupid.

After droning on about the various papers to be pored over before the night shift, the first lieutenant clapped his hands together, as if that thrilling conversation had settled all matters of logistics and rationing for the evening. “Well. I think we’ve spent enough time on that.”

His gaze flicked to Matthew, then Nathan. Pointed. Brief. Final.

Then he turned for the door. The second lieutenant followed, but not before muttering something under his breath—too soft for Nathan to catch, but it made Matthew’s jaw twitch.

Then they were alone again. The air had changed. Nathan exhaled, forcing himself to look anywhere but at Matthew. His hands were shaking, so he grabbed the nearest crate and made himself useful. Matthew, beside him, did the same.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them had to. They had been given a warning.

They had also been given a choice. And the next time—when they had another moment, when there was another quiet place, when fate gave them the smallest sliver of privacy again—

Nathan knew exactly what choice he was going to make.

----------------------------------------

A Quiet Favor

The base was quiet.

No rehearsals, no performances, no last-minute scrambling to set up a stage. Just soldiers moving through their routines, mail being sorted, the distant sound of a radio crackling out big band music from someone’s tent. No show tonight. No show tomorrow.

Matthew leaned against the doorway of the officer’s quarters, one boot resting against the wooden frame. He had spent just enough time building an easy rapport with Lieutenant Calloway—the kind of officer who liked things running smoothly and saw no reason to make a problem where there wasn’t one.

“The base is quiet today,” Calloway muttered, signing off on a requisition form.

“That it is,” Matthew agreed, casual as ever.

Calloway sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t a bad officer. He was a man who appreciated the things that kept his soldiers from losing their damn minds, and the Special Services troupe had been doing just that—keeping spirits up, making the long weeks a little more bearable.

Matthew and Nathan? They were the best part of the show. Nathan had that voice—the one that made men pause mid-drink, made them lean forward without realizing it, made them forget where they were for just a moment. And Matthew? Matthew made it all work. He was the one who made Calloway laugh even when he didn’t want to.

Were they inseparable? Yes. Did Calloway care? Not even a little.

He exhaled, looked up, and smirked. “Let me guess. You want to get off base for a few hours.”

Matthew grinned. “Could be nice to stretch our legs.”

Calloway eyed him, then flicked his gaze toward the motor pool. The captured French convertible sat under the shade of a canvas tarp, a sleek little thing in dire need of a proper wash. It had been one of many vehicles left behind when the Vichy forces surrendered—now a “general-use” car for errands and, occasionally, small liberties.

“Lunch at the coast,” Calloway said, voice dry, as if he already knew the excuse Matthew was about to offer.

Matthew tilted his head. “Something like that.”

A pause. The lieutenant tapped his fingers against the desk, then sighed. “Take the convertible.”

Matthew barely held back a smirk. “Obliged.”

Calloway pointed at him with the end of his pen. “Back before sundown. I don’t want to have to explain why my best performers disappeared into the goddamn Mediterranean.”

Matthew gave him an easy salute. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Nathan was waiting by the barracks, already knowing, already anticipating. He straightened when he saw Matthew approaching, a faint hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “We got it?” Nathan asked.

Matthew tossed him the keys. “We got it.”

And just like that—They weren’t soldiers. They weren’t performers.

For one afternoon, they were just two men with a borrowed car and the open road ahead of them.

----------------------------------------

A Stolen Afternoon

The road curved, dipping toward the coastline, the sea stretching wide before them—deep, endless blue, sunlight glinting off the waves like scattered gold.

Nathan slowed the convertible as they neared a small cove, a secluded stretch of beach where the sand sloped gently into the water. The wind carried the scent of salt and warm earth, the air thick with the kind of quiet only found far from war.

Matthew grinned before the car even stopped moving. “Come on,” he said, already reaching for the door handle. Nathan barely had time to cut the engine before Matthew was out, boots crunching against the sand as he stepped onto the beach, hands on his hips like he was staking a claim on the entire Mediterranean.

Nathan shook his head, smirking as he climbed out, stretching his arms above his head. The sun felt different here—hotter, brighter, like it had never known war, never known uniforms or rules or anything beyond this moment.

Matthew turned back toward him, then glanced at the waves, then back at him. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Nathan raised an eyebrow. “That the water’s probably freezing?”

Matthew’s grin widened as he hastily untied his boots. “Only one way to find out.” And then he bolted.

Nathan laughed, kicking off his boots before running after him, sand shifting beneath his feet as they raced toward the shore. Matthew hit the water first, letting out a startled yelp as the icy Mediterranean crashed around his ankles.

“Jesus—that’s cold.”

Nathan skidded to a stop just as the waves rolled over his own feet, hissing between his teeth at the shock of it. The heat of the sun had lied—the water was sharp and biting, enough to make his skin prickle.

Matthew groaned dramatically, running a hand through his wet hair. “That’s it. I’m staying right here. No deeper.”

Nathan snorted. “Coward.”

“Smart,” Matthew corrected, stepping back to stand beside him.

For a moment, they just breathed it in. The war felt impossibly far away. There were no uniforms here, no lieutenants watching, no stockrooms with creaking doors. Just the rhythmic pull and retreat of the waves, the soft laughter of gulls, and the sound of their own breathing blending with the tide. Nathan started to lose himself in thought, and Matthew edged closer to rest his forehead on Nathan's.

Another cold wave crashed at their knees. Matthew sighed. “I’m starving.”

Nathan shook his head with a small smile. “We’re on a beach in the Mediterranean, and you’re thinking about food.”

“I can appreciate both.”

With that, they waded back onto the warm sand, settling near the car, where their makeshift meal was waiting—ration tins and two bottles of Coke, still lukewarm from the heat of the day.

----------------------------------------

Nothing

Nathan cracked his open, the fizz hissing softly in the still air. He took a sip, grimacing. “Tastes awful.”

“Yep,” Matthew agreed, doing the same. He lifted his bottle slightly. “To stolen afternoons.”

Nathan met his gaze, watching the way the sun lit Matthew’s profile, the way the light made everything golden and unreal, a moment slipping between reality and something else entirely.

“To stolen afternoons,” he murmured, lifting his own bottle in return. They clinked them together gently, letting the sound vanish into the waves.

The sun sat higher now, warming the sand beneath them, casting light over their skin, their uniforms, their discarded boots beside the car.

Nathan had leaned back, hands pressed into the sand behind him, his bottle of cola resting half-finished beside his knee. He was still gazing out at the Mediterranean, watching the waves roll in, slow and steady. Matthew had finished eating a few minutes ago, but he hadn’t moved.

He was watching Nathan. Had been for a while.

Nathan must have felt it because, after a long silence, he sighed and let his head tilt toward him, his expression unreadable. “What?” he asked, though his voice lacked curiosity.

Matthew smirked, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

Nathan held his gaze for a second longer before exhaling through his nose. He stretched his legs out, letting his bare toes dig into the warm sand, his body easing further into relaxation.

Matthew shifted, leaning back on one arm while his free hand absently traced lines in the sand between them.

It wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

It was the weight of a stolen afternoon, of borrowed time, of knowing what he wanted and not knowing if he’d ever have it again.

Matthew cleared his throat. “You’re quiet.”

Nathan made a soft, noncommittal sound. “Mm.”

Matthew tilted his head. “Thinking?”

Nathan smirked, glancing at him. “Not everything is thinking, you know.”

“Mm.” Matthew mocked his answer, a teasing glint in his eyes. “So what is this, then?”

Nathan exhaled, tilting his face toward the sky. “Existing.”

----------------------------------------

A Test

Matthew watched him for another long moment. The sea breeze shifted Nathan’s hair, and the way the sunlight caught on his cheekbones, the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat as he breathed—

Matthew’s fingers twitched against the sand. He sat up.

Nathan barely moved, only watching as Matthew shifted onto his knees, brushing sand from his trousers. The tension was there, but it wasn’t sharp. It was slow. Heavy.

The kind that sank into your bones and made you feel alive in a way you couldn’t explain.

Nathan didn’t move, didn’t speak as Matthew reached for his wrist.

A test. A question.

Nathan let him.

Matthew traced his thumb over the inside of his wrist, slow, deliberate. Felt the warmth of his pulse beneath his fingertips.

Nathan exhaled through his nose, his lips parting slightly.

Matthew watched his mouth.

Nathan swallowed. “We should—”

“I know.” Matthew’s voice was quiet, but sure.

His fingers slid higher, barely brushing over Nathan’s palm, and Nathan let him.

The tide pulled in.

Nathan’s breath hitched as Matthew leaned in, close enough that he could see the sunlight reflecting in Matthew’s eyes, catching in the lighter strands of his hair.

They weren’t careless.

They weren’t reckless.

They were just here.

Matthew let the moment sit, let it breathe, watching Nathan watching him, feeling the way Nathan’s fingers curled slightly, barely resisting, barely holding back.

The waves lapped at the shore.

Nathan licked his lips.

Matthew made a choice. He didn’t kiss him. Not yet.

But he leaned in, until their foreheads touched, until the sun-warmed space between them was gone, until Nathan sighed—deep, surrendering, wanting.

And then—finally—Nathan lifted his hand, resting it lightly against Matthew’s jaw.

An answer.

A yes.

And this time, Matthew took it.

Nathan didn’t move at first. Not away. Not closer. His fingers rested lightly against Matthew’s jaw, as if testing the weight of his own decision—of his own want. Matthew let him.

The Mediterranean air was warm against their skin, the waves rolling in, the sand shifting beneath them. It was safe here. As safe as the world would ever allow.

Nathan inhaled, slow, steady. Matthew could feel the breath against his lips, the barest quiver of hesitation between them.

Then—Nathan closed the distance.

It was careful. Measured. Deliberate.

A kiss like something discovered, not taken.

Like something they had been waiting to find.

Matthew exhaled against his mouth, leaning into it, feeling Nathan—really feeling him—without the weight of war, of uniforms, of fear pressing between them.

For one afternoon, they were only this.

Matthew's fingers curled against Nathan’s wrist, holding him there as their lips met again—slow, savoring, as if learning the shape of something they weren’t allowed to name.

Nathan sighed against him, his thumb barely brushing against Matthew’s cheekbone, and something in Matthew’s chest cracked wide open.

They didn’t rush. Not this. They let the moment linger, let it settle, let it exist in a way neither of them had ever been allowed to exist before.

And when Nathan finally broke away, it was with a breathless sort of laughter, forehead still pressed against Matthew’s, eyes half-lidded in the golden sunlight.

“God,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly, his lips barely brushing against Matthew’s again. “We’re idiots.”

Matthew grinned, breath still uneven. “Biggest ones in the damn war.”

Nathan exhaled, a small smile curving at the corner of his mouth. But his fingers lingered against Matthew’s jaw, as if committing the moment to memory.

Matthew knew they couldn’t stay here forever. Knew that the sun would lower, and the car would have to return to base, and that this moment—this impossible, stolen, sacred moment—would have to end.

But not yet.

Not yet.

Matthew shifted, pressing one more kiss to the corner of Nathan’s mouth.

Then, just as deliberately as before, Nathan pulled him down into the sand, where the waves rolled in and the world disappeared.

----------------------------------------

How Long Do They Have?

Long enough to breathe.

Long enough to linger.

Long enough for Nathan to keep his forehead against Matthew’s, their breath still uneven, their bodies still tangled, their fingers still grasping for something neither of them wanted to let go of.

Long enough for Matthew to let out a quiet, shaky laugh—a sound of wonder, of disbelief, of something unspoken but deeply felt.

Long enough for Nathan to trace the edge of Matthew’s jaw, his thumb skimming the damp skin at his temple, his lips parting as if to say something—but not saying it.

Long enough to not need words.

Long enough for Matthew to close his eyes, to sigh as Nathan shifted against him, as the heat of the sun and the warmth of each other blurred into one.

Long enough to memorize this.

Because there would not be another afternoon like this. They both knew it.

Nathan could feel it in the way Matthew’s fingers curled, but never fully grasped—never fully held him in place. Matthew could feel it in the way Nathan’s breath caught, but never turned into words—never became something permanent.

They had minutes. Maybe longer. But the sun was inching toward its descent.

And Nathan—who had spent his whole life waiting—did not want to wait for the moment this would end.

So they did not move. They only breathed. They only existed in the space they had made for each other.

Because they had made this, together. And if all they had left was his fading golden hour—then they would not waste a second of it.

----------------------------------------

The Cooldown

The sun hangs lower now, stretching golden fingers across the sand, spilling light over them in a quiet benediction.

The afternoon wind shifts, cool against their warmed skin, stirring the waves into a gentle call.

Nathan’s fingers flex, brushing against Matthew’s knuckles, and then he exhales, stretching. He turns his head toward the sea, as if remembering where they are, as if remembering that the moment is still theirs.

Matthew watches him for a beat longer. Still memorizing. Still holding on.

But then— Nathan tilts his head back toward him, a slow, contented smile on his lips.

"Come on," he murmurs, his voice still drowsy, still wrapped in warmth. "The water’s waiting."

And just like that—he is reaching first this time.

Nathan rises, shaking off the last remnants of stillness, of surrender, of rest, of love settled deep in his bones

Matthew exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head as he watches him go. But he follows. Of course, he follows.

They leave their uniforms folded in the sand, wading into the Mediterranean with the same ease, the same inevitability that brought them to each other.

Nathan moves first, stepping forward until the waves lap at his ribs, his head tilting back as the water cools the last traces of fire from his skin.

Matthew watches, standing just behind, before a smirk pulls at his lips and—with one decisive motion—he splashes him.

They push, pull, tumble, weightless in the salt and the sun, until breathless gasps turn to easy floating, until the playfulness settles into something quieter, something softer.

And for a while, there is nothing but the lull of waves, the endless stretch of the horizon, the feeling of existing completely, entirely, within a moment that cannot be taken from them.

The war will call them back soon.

The car will carry them away from this place, this day, this version of themselves that exists only here, in this golden light, in this fleeting, eternal afternoon.

But not yet. Not while the sea still welcomes them. Not while their bodies are still weightless in the salt and the sun.

Not while they still belong to this moment.

And so they go, to wash themselves clean, to cool the fire on their skin, to step together into the waves, knowing that no matter what happens next—

They were here.

This was real.

----------------------------------------

The Ring, The Promise, The Memory of the Sea

They return to base regretfully.

The drive back is quieter than the drive there, the air thicker, heavier, full of something unspoken. The road winds ahead, dust curling behind them, the scent of salt still clinging to their skin. They do not rush, but they do not linger.

The world is waiting for them again. By the time they arrive, the golden hour has faded into the cool edge of twilight. The moment has passed, but the weight of it remains.

Lieutenant Calloway watches them approach, standing near the barracks, arms folded. He doesn’t look annoyed. He doesn’t look surprised. "How was the swim?"

Matthew, ever quick, ever the showman, gives a casual smirk. “Good, sir. Refreshing.”

Nathan glances at him—just a flicker, just a beat—before nodding. "Yeah. It was good."

Lieutenant Calloway looks at them both. He sees more than sun-kissed skin. He sees more than wet hair and salt-streaked arms.

He sees the change in them.

The way they stand just a little closer. The way their voices are too steady, too careful. The way they look at each other without looking at all.

But Lieutenant Calloway is no fool. He does not ask what he already knows.

Instead, he exhales, gives a short nod, and mutters, "Good. Glad you made it back before dark - barely. Get some rest. Big show coming up."

And just like that—the world returns.

The normalcy.

The routine.

The performance of daily life.

Nathan sings again. Matthew charms a crowd again. Their days resume, full of staged laughter, careful movements, rehearsed lines.

But the sea has not left them. The rising and the falling of the tide still pull at them.

It stays in Nathan’s voice, in the way he sings just a little differently now, in the way Matthew hears something new in every note.

It stays in the weight of their gazes, the brushes of their hands when passing a prop, the slow, lingering minutes before sleep takes them at night.

And then, one night, after a show, Matthew finds his chance.

The world is quieter in the wings, where the only light is the glow from the stage beyond. The last soldier lingers off, laughing in the distance. Nathan is rolling up a spare cord when Matthew catches his wrist, tugs him back into the shadows.

Nathan stills, looking at him, questioning. He sees something raw in Matthew's eyes, something full of urgency.

And then—Matthew presses something into his palm.

A ring.

Cheap. Small. Nothing. Everything.

Nathan exhales a soft laugh, looking down at it, laughing, touched. “What the hell is this?”

Matthew doesn’t laugh. He watches him—serious, steady, certain.

"I mean it," Matthew says, voice low, voice careful. "After the war. We'll find each other."

Nathan blinks, his fingers curling around it instinctively. He swallows, tries for something easy, something light, but it doesn’t come. Because Matthew means it.

Nathan doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say, I promise.

Because promises in war are fragile things.

But he slips the ring onto his finger. And Matthew sees that for what it is.

A vow. An answer.

A quiet yes when the world does not allow them to speak it aloud.

Nathan keeps it. Wears it.

And within a few weeks, he is gone. His unit is called to a new front.

Because that is how war is.

Because the world does not stop for love.

Matthew watches him leave. Nathan does not look back.

But Matthew knows— That Nathan carries the sea with him now.

That Nathan carries that day with him now.

That Nathan carries him with him now.

And somewhere, in the folds of a uniform, against the skin of his hand, the ring remains.

A promise.

A memory.

A hope that, one day, the sea will bring them back to each other.

[dedeinthewild]

paul aron x reader, bestfriends to lovers

~ “Remind me never to travel with you again,”

summary : Paul and his photographer’s carefree road trip through Spain ended in an unexpected detainment in Qatar. With nerves high, they spent hours waiting, teasing each other to pass the time, until they were finally free to continue their journey, together as always.

The second-to-last race of the season awaited them in Qatar, a land where sand reigned supreme and the heat was unrelenting. After two months of downtime, filled with travels far and wide, it was finally time to get back on the road.

Staying put for long wasn’t something Paul and ___ did often, especially when they had a passport ready to use and suitcases always half-packed.

After a few weeks at home spent at family dinners and waking up late—she wouldn’t stir until he returned from his morning run and began making breakfast—they had hopped on the first of many planes.

Their first destination was Spain. In October, it was still warm and pleasant. They rented a car without much of a plan, updating their itinerary on her laptop whenever they stopped for gas.

Paul drove, and drove, and drove some more, while she handled the music, took photos, and rambled on about anything that came to mind. She knew he was just like her in that way. In two weeks, with only their return flight and each other as constants, they explored the entire southern coast of Spain, along the Costa del Sol.

They lived on water, paella, and thread bracelets they couldn’t resist buying from roadside stalls and souvenir shops.

Even Paul, the Estonian, managed to get a bit of a tan during their half-day beach stops, where he would always lie back with his T-shirt folded under his head.

“You should put on some sunscreen,” she warned him.

“I did,” he lied blatantly, hands tucked behind his neck.

“You did not,” she said, narrowing her eyes as he opened one of his to meet her gaze with that playful look he reserved just for her.

“I did not,” he admitted with a smirk.

They were so carefree, chatting as they strolled through picturesque towns and nodding along to Spanish dialects they didn’t understand. He would watch her as she looked around, camera in hand and her old backpack slung over one shoulder, a bandana wrapped around the strap.

The sun had kissed her nose, leaving it slightly red, and her freckles were more visible now, something you’d otherwise notice only up close.

Traveling with her was something else entirely. Sure, Paul loved being with Karl—losing luggage and playing pranks on him mid-flight—but nothing compared to being with her.

She was a completely different person when they traveled, far from the ambivert he knew. She was open, ready to embrace every moment, legs tucked under her on the car seat, her hair often braided, and always smiling.

And if there was one thing he loved most about her, it was her smile.

“Got everything?” she asked, hands on her hips, standing outside the Airbnb where they’d spent the last two nights. “Passport, passes, and IDs?”

Paul checked his pockets, rifled through the documents, and nodded, doing one last sweep of the small apartment to make sure they hadn’t left anything behind.

“All set,” he confirmed, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Wanna stop downstairs for breakfast?”

Downstairs was Málaga’s best café, renowned for its dreamy lattes and the most delicious pastries they’d tasted on this trip.

“Will you kill me if I say yes?”

“I would’ve killed you if you said no,” Paul replied with a grin, grabbing the car keys and pocketing them before helping her with her suitcase and heading down the stairs to the street.

“Karl said his flight leaves Tallinn in ten,” the Estonian said, showing her his phone.

She nodded, listening, as they entered the café and ordered their usual. She paid with her phone while Paul checked their flight tickets and team emails.

They settled into their favorite corner seat, near the window where they could watch people pass by, and savored their breakfast before driving to the airport to return the car.

“You feeling alright?” Paul asked as they stood on the escalator leading to their gate. He glanced at her while tying his hoodie around his suitcase.

“As alright as I can be before a flight,” she replied.

It wasn’t a secret that she was afraid of flying, and Paul knew this well. During turbulence, she often buried her face into his shoulder, clutching his arm for comfort.

“We’ll be fine, as always,” he reassured her with a slight smile.

Those might have been famous last words because, after a smooth flight, hell awaited them.

As always, they had settled into their usual seats, Paul refusing to let her sit anywhere but by the window, even though she preferred the aisle. He always took the middle seat to keep strangers at bay.

The flight had been uneventful—a shared playlist on their AirPods, a few moments of sleep, and some playful photos that would inevitably make it into a photo dump.

But once they landed and joined the passport control line, smiling and chatting, two customs officers approached them.

“Could you please step aside?”

The officers escorted them away from the queue into a small room.

They’d been detained.

“So, what brings you to Qatar?” one of the officers asked, arms crossed, his holstered gun visible at his hip. He placed their suitcases on a table for inspection.

“I’m a driver, and she’s my photographer,” Paul replied, mirroring the man’s stance with a sigh.

“Can we have all your documents?” the officer asked. ___ handed over their passports, flight tickets on her phone, and the media passes for the race weekend.

“You’re coming from Spain, and your flight was randomly selected for a passenger inspection,” the less intimidating officer explained, asking for permission to open their suitcases.

“What were you doing in Spain?” they asked.

“Road-tripping. We were on a break from the racing season and decided to travel,” she replied calmly, hiding the natural nervousness anyone would feel in that situation.

“May I open your suitcases?”

The taller officer motioned for Paul to sit, likely cautious about his imposing height. She, on the other hand, appeared calm and cooperative, hands in her pockets and glasses slipping slightly down her nose.

The agents emptied their bags and left to verify their tickets, passports, and passes, leaving them alone in the room.

“What’s Karl saying?” she asked, slumping into her seat, running her hands through her hair after letting it down.

“He said the team’s working on getting us out of here,” Paul replied, arms crossed, his cheeks slightly flushed.

“Calm down, Paul. It’s okay,” she said, checking the time on her phone.

“I just don’t get it. Maybe someone else is trafficking drugs, and they’re keeping us here,” he fumed, one hand on his knee and the other supporting his head, frustration evident.

An hour passed. A bottle of water. Another hour.

“My back hurts,” the driver groaned, standing to stretch, revealing a sliver of skin at the base of his back.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have gone to Spain,” she teased, tying her hair into a ponytail to cope with the heat.

“And why’s that?” he asked, yawning.

“We’ve been away for two weeks, and you’re exhausted.”

“It’s not the trip; it’s those damn agents,” he muttered.

She smiled, noticing the cluster of bracelets around his wrist as he paced the room, lost in thought.

“Make it meme?” she suggested, holding up her phone, and watched as he pulled out his own and joined her on the bench.

Another hour and a half. A packet of peanuts.

Paul was busy folding the peanut wrapper into a paper plane while she took a call from her mom, who was worried they hadn’t arrived in Qatar yet. When she hung up, Paul handed her the paper plane, smiling, his blue eyes locked onto hers.

“Remind me never to travel with you again,” she joked, standing between his knees.

“You have so much fun with me,” he teased, leaning back to get a better look at her.

“You drive like Dominic Toretto, got mistaken for a trafficker… shall I go on?”

“I’m good-looking, funny, educated. I always treat you—”

“And you have an enormous ego. Almost forgot that one,” she laughed.

Two hours later, after being interrogated again to cross-check their story with Airbnb bookings and team contacts, the agents finally returned with their documents.

They were both half-asleep and achy from the plastic chairs, but they leapt to their feet as soon as they saw the officers.

“You’re free to go. Welcome to Lusail,” the less intimidating agent said.

“All thanks to me,” she whispered outside, rolling her eyes as Paul flexed his biceps, acting smug.

She pretended to bite him, laughing as he chuckled and stretched one last time before slinging an arm around her shoulders.

“The longest day of my life,” he muttered.

“You know what they told me while I was alone?” she asked, amused.

Paul nodded, spotting Karl waving at them in the distance.

“They thought I was a legit photographer, and you were forcing me to help you get into the country.”

Paul burst out laughing, dragging his suitcase along, his exhaustion overshadowed by the absurdity of the day.

“To me, it’s the opposite way around,” he said.

She gave him a playful punch in the side as Karl waved more dramatically, trying to catch their attention.

They really were a mischievous pair. But no one fit together as well as they did.

~ not a request, but when it comes to paul I'd write anything :)

[beware-of-pity]

Sins of the Father(s) I

Masterlist

-Next

Bruce Wayne (Battinson) x Reader

Crossposted on Ao3

Summary:

Bruce and you had known each other for as long as you could remember. His father and yours had been best pals and business patterns before Thomas Wayne and his wife Martha had met their demise in that dark ally when Bruce was just nine. You, on the other hand, were not privy to what he had gone through after your father was mysteriously assassinated while conducting his political campaign as he ran for senator of the state of New Jersey after years as Gotham's mayor. Upon the demise filling both of your lives and that of the people of Gotham, Bruce swore vengeance against all criminals, an oath tempered by a sense of justice for which he trained himself physically and intellectually, all to become Gotham City's guardian and protector. Now, two years into this project of his, which you've been kept in the dark of, you've both lost sight of one another. In hopes of getting closer once more, you invited him for Sunday's lunch. Unbeknown to your doubts, he comes.

Chapter I: The Deal

. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🦇་༘࿐

 The air was crispy, and the gravel of the pathway churned under the wheels of his polished, black, vintage sports car. The last days of October had brought nothing but continuous rain and chills of cold air, but to his luck, this Sunday morning was mostly filled with grey clouds littering the sky and a hint of mist in the air. What a better sign that winter would soon be upon Gotham. As he stirred the wheel to direct his car towards the closed gate where beyond laid a mansion too familiar to his liking, all he could think about was why he had accepted your invitation for Sunday’s lunch. Maybe it was because you had practically begged him on the phone or because it wasn’t the first time he had turned you down in a month. Eventually, his guilt over the neglect he was ensuring over your relationship got to him, which prompted him to call you back and accept the invitation. Despite the night of fighting crimes and the darkness lying beyond the shadows the Saturday night before; for the sake of the occasion, he had turned in ‘relatively’ early from his nocturnal schedule to get some sleep before having to drive to Bristol Township, a few miles outside of Gotham City. Still, he would lie if he were not to say that his eyes did sting a bit at the strong light of the day, which he had almost forgotten the feels of as it grazed his skin. Fortunately for him, he always had a pair of sunglasses lying around, even in the car he barely drove.

He cursed your father, at times, for having built your family home so far away, but he knew he never did so in bad faith. It was as if he was still joking with him, like when he was still alive - how they would banter like a father and son would, which they had been for a time. Your father and his had been close friends and business partners when they were both alive. Best pals, they would call each other, so your families had spent a lot of time together. He fondly cherished those memories of his childhood, coming from a time when he remembered what genuine happiness felt like, which had now turned into a ghost of the past. The Sundays spent at the now burned-down Wayne Manor, the lunches, the dinners, the times you two played together, chasing each other around in the gardens until you would fall and scrap your knee and cry bloody murder - but also like how you would not want anyone but him beside you as your mother cleaned your wounds and bandaged those up. How after that you would not let go of his hand, how you would follow him around like a puppy, or a chick following its mother. He supposed it was because you were younger than him and sought out someone your age to help you through the world. But now? He barely saw you, and what he mostly heard from you came from the news, seeing as you had become a relatively known public figure, or your scarce and few phone calls, which he admitted were not few because you didn’t call, but because he barely had the time to answer them. Maybe it was that which had brought him to accept your invitation, and despite how he had been beating himself up for doing so during his ride here, the moment the mansion had come over the horizon and grazed his eyesight, something else too stirred in him.

Longing. Longing for a past that was just that, the past. For a time that would no longer be, one he would never get back because the world had taken it from him. Now the question was….was he willing to let himself back into what he had left behind to become the darkness that fought what lurked in it?

He didn’t have the time to think of an answer to that question, as he pulled the car into its lowest gear, allowing it to stop in front of the gate where a security guard was stationed. When he presses to the window, with a second double-take, seeing him inside, the guard smiles and greets him.

“Welcome, Mr Wayne. They’ve been expecting you” Bruce strains a smile, an unfamiliar sight on his face, as the guard waves him in.

When he parks at the front of the double door of your family home, a valet opens the door for him, who he leaves the keys of his car so he can move it out of the way, before he turns to the door, now open and with a butler he knows all too well, smiling down at him in front of it. “Mr Wayne, how good to see you again” Michal, your mother's butler, had practically raised him to a degree, or so he would think, just as Alfred had done, so the awkward pull he felt made him feel a stir of uneasiness. Could he be normal for a minute? He chastises himself; he doesn’t want people who he had been around all his life to suddenly think he had snubbed up and was too good to be in their presence because of how reserved he had become.

“It’s good to see you too, Michal” The same strained and small smile he gave the guard at the gate is back on his face, this time, less tense than the previous one “Please, please, come in, it’s too cold to be standing around” Michal hushed him inside. Seems like the heater of the house had been turned on, the drastic change of air making him shiver slightly “Let me take your coat” he allowed for it to be pulled from his frame. His dark, rich material suit, which Alfred had forced upon him, made him feel like a stuffed turkey at the Kentucky Derby, but he had allowed it so when Alfred had reprimanded him about keeping appearances, even with people he considered family. As he looked around the familiar environment he had not been in for a long time, he had not noticed the approaching figure beside him. A detective he was, and he could not feel a snooping mother crawling around.

“Oh, Bruce!” Your mother Marcia always had a fondness for him, especially before her son, your brother, was born, and often had coddled him and rinsed him with affection like he had been her own. His mother and yours had shared the same friendship your fathers had; he knew she had been especially heartbroken at the loss of her friend and for her to go through the same thing with her husband, made Bruce deeply feel for her.

“Mrs Estermont” the lines on his often hardened face, softened. The more he stayed here the more he felt himself melting out of his usual cold and unpassed self. His jaw relaxed under the motherly kisses she was bestowing on his stubbled cheeks “Oh, please. Marcia’s fine. No need for formalities, dear” she said. Bruce strained another smile “Marcia then”

Before he could put another word in, your mother was calling for your siblings to come and greet him. “You must see them, they’ve grown so much I’m sure you won’t recognize them,” she said, obviously proud of the two.

Indeed, it was a drastic change to now have a twenty-year-old boy and a nineteen-year-old girl standing in front of him when he mostly remembered them as a seventeen and fifteen-year-old duo. Had time passed so fast? Or maybe it was him losing time…

“Uncle Bruce” your sister’s voice brought him back to the reality now standing in front of him. Elena was the youngest, and now she had grown into a pretty young woman. He remembered her with brown shoulder-length hair, which she now sported Into a black wolf cut, delicately styled and many earrings, too many than he remembered. Your brother was no different; he too had grown his hair, and not only that, as he now stood taller than he had last time, though still not as tall as him.

“You two look good,” he said, his voice lighter than usual “You’ve certainly grown” While your sister gloated at his praise, your brother smiled mischievously “She’s still short” He knew well how this would end if he did not put a stop to it before it was too late. So, before your sister could protest, he said calmly “She will grow, in time” he said “No need to rush, huh?”

Your mother smiled “Bruce is right. No need to rush nature”, she said “Now, off you go and don’t cause any trouble”

He watched as the two scouted off, now just him and your mother again.

“You look pale, and you look thin” she pointed out bluntly but with a hint of underlying concern in her words. He sighed “I’m fine”, then he smiled slightly “Nothing a good lunch cannot cure, am I right?”

Marcia nodded her head, happy with his words “I suppose you’re right. I should be happy you even came. (Y/N) would have killed me had I asked her to ask you another time”

Bruce raised a brow slightly but kept neutral about her words “Had I had the time I would have come” he reassured “I know” she strained a smile “I just worry”

“Of course, you do” reassurance was what your mother needed most now and he wanted to give her as much as he could “And it’s my fault, I should have been around more” he shook his head. He only had himself to blame for the predicament he found himself in. She, in turn, shook her head as well “Nonsense, deary. You’re a grown man now, it’s normal for you to have taken over every responsibility your father once held.”

Bruce wasn’t sure if he would ever tell her that his connection to your family wasn’t the only thing he was neglecting. The stocks of Wayne Enterprises had been plummeting as of late, and he didn’t know how many papers he had to sign in those meetings with his accountants, Alfred forced him to attend, to recover the losses his negligence had been the cause of. And again, once more, there was no one else to blame but himself. He would be lying if he were to say he did not particularly care about keeping the company afloat. He used the funds he got out of it to fund his nightly crusades, making his bat suit, his gadgets, and the construction of his Batcave - all funded by the company his father had built, which he was currently sailing into a slow bankruptcy. He wasn’t sure your mother would take kindly to such revelation when Alfred didn’t, something his butler always reprimanded him for. He only nodded along to your mother’s words, as if in agreement.

“How’s (Y/N)?” He asked. Your mother sighed, a hint of exasperation in it “she’s….as busy as ever” she said “It was as hard to get you to accept your invitation as much as it was to get her out of Gotham to visit me”

Bruce chuckles drily - that sounds like you. “Does she not visit you often?” He asks “less and less these days,” She says, “It’s always an excuse with her. ‘I have a hearing on Tuesday’ or ‘I need to prepare a speech for Friday’”

It was obvious your mother was not pleased with you avoiding coming to visit, even with good reasoning “It’s a wonder I got her here today, and even now, she’s cooped up in her father’s office, working”

That catches him off guard slightly. He looks at her, thrown, to which Marcia catches on quickly “It’s hers now” Bruce didn’t know if he could understand the emotions your mother filled her words with “In his will, he gave it to her” fondness though was surely one of them.  He could see her, spacing in her thoughts slightly “I still cannot get myself to go in there” something significant in his voice as it quieted “I know.” There’s a finality in his words, the underlying understanding between the two deeper than they both realised. He could almost see it atop the staircase in Wayne Tower, the double doors of his parents’ room locked in a thick chain coiled crudely through the handles, a padlock sealing whoever stood in front of them off from whatever was beyond. He shakes the memory out of his mind

“Do you mind if I….?” His voice trails at the end, but the unsaid words were louder than those he spoke “If you want”, the warmth in her voice was almost a reassurance to him “Only if you think you…” She, too, it seems, cannot bring herself to finish her sentence, but Bruce understands what she wants to say more than if she had said it. “Bruce?” Her calling to him stops him in his tracks before he can step into the staircase “Please….talk to her” Bruce's expression falls slightly. He had not willed himself to admit so, but he had been slightly excited to see you again, but the mention of your father's office and your mother’s plea of conversation brought a wave of mixed emotions.

A sense of nostalgia for the memories he had shared with your father in that office, but also a pang of sadness at the absence he now felt. “….I will,” he replied, his voice slightly quieter. The wooden stairs creaked under the weight of his steps, though the sounds were muffled by the carpet covering them. He made his way to the office, his thoughts swirling in his head. He remembered the times he had spent in there with your father, discussing business and politics or just chatting over a glass of expensive bourbon that he probably was too young to drink. Your father had taught him a lot of things, preparing him to become the man he could have become in his father’s stead had things gone.. differently. Those memories now seemed distant and bittersweet, marred by grief and pain. As he reached the door, he raised his hand to knock, but before he could do so, he heard the sound of your voice from inside. Your mother had not told him you were with someone.

He paused, listening to the tone of your voice and the words you were saying, trying to decipher what was going on behind the door. "I don't care what you think, you've never taken this seriously" your voice was strained and serious "I will not take the fallout of the consequences of your actions coming to bite back at you” Though he knew it was wrong of him, he pushed towards the door to listen in. "you don't understand, you've got to help me out" he didn't know this other voice "I...I didn't kno-“ "you think i should throw myself at your feet to help you out after you lost me half of my father's assets to my uncle?" you asked, "for the sake of you?" you asked almost incredulous. He could almost sense it, the anger and disappointment in your voice, but also a hint of resignation.

“I didn’t know what I wanted��� the other woman’s voice was now quiet and closed in “only what was expected of me” "You think I care?" you asked "You've helped your husband ruin my life, content yourself with that, aunt” His brows picked at the dressing of the woman, the realization of what he was listening in dawning on him . He could hear the deep sigh you let out "I'm part of the City Council now, I cannot just go around and get involved in marital spats" Bruce's ears perked up at the mention of you being part of the City Council. He felt a pang of guilt at missing out on this important development in your life which he had learned from the news on the TV. But it also filled him with pride. He always knew you had the potential to make a real difference in Gotham….like your father.

The room went quiet for a moment before the hushed conversation continued "I'll see what I can do", you said quietly, "but I cannot make any promises and remember, you’ll owe me for this” The tension in the room seemed to lessen, and he could almost feel so even from the outside. After a few moments, the sound of footsteps approached the door. Bruce instinctively let go of the doorknob, walking a few steps back as if he had just arrived, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. The door opened, revealing your aunt, who appeared relieved yet sombre. Mascara ran down he slashes, a clear sign of her previous distress, and her hair had become slightly untamed. The fried end caused by the bleach in her hair was seriously not helping her in making her look better. She caught a glimpse of Bruce, surprised by his presence, but quickly composed herself and gave him a thin smile. "Bruce....how you've grown," she said quietly. He nodded in acknowledgement, his eyes darting briefly to your office before looking back at your aunt. "Ms. Estermont" he greeted her, his voice calm and polite. He couldn't help but wonder what had just transpired between you two. “Bruce?” Your voice called from within, a hint of surprise and perhaps, he wanted to believe, excitement. Your aunt seemed to sober “I’ll go” she said “it was nice seeing you again, Bruce” Bruce gave her a polit nod of acknowledgement, moving aside, watching as she walked away, his thoughts still on the conversation he had overheard. As soon as she was gone, he turned his gaze back towards your office, his heart pounding slightly in his chest.

Sitting down in the same chair your father used to sit in, you cut his very image. The dark leather almost engulfs your frame in it. Bruce took in the sight, of you sitting in the very same chair your father had once occupied, a pang of nostalgia mixed with sorrow filling his heart. You looked so much like him, with the same intense gaze and determination etched on your features. The image of you, so reminiscent of your father, tugged at his heartstrings. He had always been fond of your father, who had been a mentor and a friend to him. Seeing you now, taking up the reigns and sitting in his chair, was a bittersweet reminder of the past.

"Bruce" you smiled "Come in,come in"Bruce hesitantly stepped into the office, his eyes locked on your smile. He tried to push aside the guilt he felt for overhearing your conversation, replaced by the warm feeling he always got when you smiled at him. He will not mention what he had heard, he had decided. 

"I'm glad you could make it" you said "i don't think I could go another month without seeing you” His heart skipped a beat at your words. It warmed him to know that you missed him just as much as he had missed you in these past months. "It's good to see you too" he replied, a rare, genuine smile spreading across his face. "two months,huh?" you asked "we saw each other last in August, it's October now” Bruce nodded in agreement, realizing just how much time had passed since the last time he had seen you. "Yeah..." he admitted, his voice softer than usual. "Life just seemed to get busier and busier." It was the excuse he had been telling himself for the past few months, but deep down, he knew he had been avoiding you, trying to hide his alter ego from you. "I'm sure you are, now more than ever,no?"

His heart skipped a bit at your words. What did you know? Have you figured it out? Is that why you had asked him here? Was this all a ploy-

“I mean, I heard about your stocks plummeting, I’m sure you’ve been busier than ever with the company” You finished your sentence and he mentally beat himself up for what thoughts he just had. Even if you had figured it out, why was he suddenly thinking of an escape plan? You were his childhood best friend…the last thing you would do is turn in him to the authorities.

“Yeah…” he fidgeted slightly with his hands, his heart still racing from the spiral he had gone through. You smiled "I'm just glad you accepted my invite," you said "I've missed you, and....I've been worried” Bruce's heart squeezed at your words. He could hear the worry in your voice and could see it in your eyes. He knew he had been distant, and he felt guilty for making you worry. "I've missed you too," he said quietly, taking a few steps closer to your desk. "please, sit" you said, "make yourself at home, it is, after all, no?" With the many times he had spent in this house, his name might as well be on the lease.  He settled into the chair, allowing himself to feel at ease in your presence. As he sat there, he realised just how much he had missed being in your company. The soft lighting in your office, the familiar scent of old books mixed with the faint smell of your perfume, the tickling of the old cloak. It all brought back a wave of nostalgic memories.

"you haven't changed anything, I see," he said, his voice as always never above a murmur "I couldn't bring myself to," you said "It feels like, he's still here even after all those years, watching over me as I took in his steps”

Bruce's heart ached at your words. He could hear the hint of sadness and nostalgia in your voice, the pain of your father's absence still fresh in your mind. "He would be proud of you, you know that right?" he said gently, his gaze fixed on you. "I'd like to think so too," you said "but I still have a long way before I feel like I've reached the point where he would tell me that” He leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the edge of your desk. "You're being too hard on yourself," he said, his voice soft but earnest. "From what I've seen, you've already accomplished so much.” The truth in his words was so that you could not dispute them "You're on the City Council now" he added, a note of admiration in his voice. "You're making a real difference in Gotham. Your father would be absolutely proud of you, just like I am.”

"you've heard?" you asked with joy “I entered in September when the session began but I will be sworn in in January, I participate how I can for now, but I’m planning on building a coalition”

“that seems like a plan” he said “"You should feel proud. Not just anyone can be on the City Council. It's impressive, really”

You scoffed “It's certainly a job when you're opposing people like Mitchell and his second-in-command Tomlin,” you said, slumping slightly in the chair, that was almost too big for you ", especially with the upcoming elections. Oh, god, help me so, if he puts forward another motion to discuss to take away from Reál's rising numbers”

Bruce listened intently, noticing the exhaustion in your tone. The mention of upcoming elections and Mitchell's continuous attempts to undermine Reál's progress was concerning. "Don't let him wear you down," he said, his voice firm and supportive. "You're smarter and more capable than he is. You just need to stay focused and strategic.”

"easy for you to say when you don't have to deal with him almost every day" you retorted "god, I hope he loses so I won't have to deal with him”

“That’s one way to see it” he said with a hilt of his mouth “The better way. I need him out of my hair” you pointed

you turned your wrist to look at the time"Lunch is in about an hour" you said "can I offer you anything? Coffe? Wine?” To which he shook his head “I’m fine” “Oh, come on, Bruce. You can ask for anything,” you said “Don’t be shy” He watched as you stood to walk to the cabinet your father kept his ‘indulgences’, as he used to call them. “Alright, fine” he relented “cup of wine, red”

The cup in his hand felt heavy even when it wasn’t filled even halfway, the cristal shone in the light coming through the heavy curtains “Come with me?” he raised a brow at your question and only then did he notice you had reached in a drawer for the pack of cigarettes now in your hands.  He hadn't expected you to have cigarettes hidden in your office, especially considering how strongly you had opposed your father's smoking habit in the past. His gaze flickered between the pack and your face, wondering if this was just a one-time thing or if you had developed a habit yourself. Perceptive as ever, you took his silent question as your eyes locked “I always told him those would kill him” you fiddled with the packet “In the end he did die…just not from them”

The reference to your father's passing brings a pang of empathy to his chest. He remembered the countless times you had scolded your father, trying to discourage him from smoking. He could hear the resignation in your voice now, accepting the fact that your father's death hadn't been caused by cigarettes but by something else altogether. “Were those his?” He asked “yes” you paused “Now they’re mine” He knew the consequences of smoking all too well, and the thought of you giving in to that habit both concerned and frustrated him. “….I’ll come with you” he said, his voice betraying a hint of resignation and reluctance as he stood from the chair

“Jesus Christ, is it cold” you said once you were both walking in the back of the house, the gravel shifting as you walked along the path. You two were both covered in your coats and yet it seemed the weather was getting the better of you two. Bruce shivered slightly as the cold air hit him. He wrapped his coat tighter around his body, a contrast to the warm feeling he usually felt with you. "Yeah, it's freezing" he agreed, his breath visible in the cold air. He sipped at his cup, hoping for the wine to warm him slightly.

He watched as you placed the cigarette between your lips, the familiar taste of tobacco filling your mouth, he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. He knew how much you had fought with your father about his smoking habits, and now here he was, watching you indulge in this killer of a drug. Once lit, you took a long drag, feeling the nicotine fill your lungs. The harshness of the smoke stung your throat, but you welcomed the familiar sensation. Once exhaled, the smoke dispersed into the cold air, creating a cloud around you two. “I didn’t know you smoked” he pointed “You never told me when you called”

“I don’t” you said “This…is a once in-blue moon kind of thing” “It’s still a thing” he pointed out “Please, Bruce, spare me your cloak of self-righteousness” you huffed “Your objectivity over what I do died the day you pulled away from me” your words were biting…..but they were not untrue. He winced slightly, wanting to rebuff but the words died right on the tip of his tongue “I’m sorry” is all he could master “It’s fine” you reassured “We’re not children anymore….we cannot spend every waking moment together. I understand that”

“Still” he protested “I feel like I’ve abandoned you in a way”

You exhaled your previous drag “You can make it up to me”

He raised a brow “How?” Curiosity waned at him, awaiting your response and suggestion

You smiled with an underline of mischievousness “How about lunch?” You asked, “I’m free next Thursday”

Of course, his first response was to run away and tell you no. Could he commit again to something that wasn’t his vigilante work? But you…you weren’t just someone, you were his friend, his constant and comfort, who had been with him through thick and thin. He couldn’t just ditch you as he had in the past year after his activities had picked up after he had befriended Gordon and the signal was put into place. His grip on the glass of his cup tightened slightly. He pondered your offer for a moment, his mind racing to find an excuse. "I appreciate the offer," he said, his voice laced with a hint of hesitation. God, he hated this, he hated that he couldn't be honest with you about everything. He nodded against his best interest “Thursday then”

He only hoped he would not regret this.

A/N: I will make a master list soon, if anyone wants to be tagged in future chapters, please comment so. This is written with in mind The Batman (2022) and The Penguin (2024), so spoilers ahead. The first few chapters take place before the events of the movie.I tried to get Matt Reeves' characterization of him as best as I could. I absolutely love that we got an inexperienced, wet, always on the verge of tears, Bruce. He's so hot.

[saveahorserideaneddie]

Long time no see…

wow it’s been a while…

for starters: i just want to say thank you to @lenaboskow and @mazzystar24

the two of you have stuck by me through the whole rollercoaster that has been my break from tumblr and i don’t think i would have wver come back if it wasn’t for the two of you, so thank you both for being such amazing, talented, beautiful, gorgeous friends to me through it all ❤️

and to those who have sent me kind asks/messages while i’ve been gone, thank you all for the kind words of support and encouragement as well- you are each appreciated so deeply and i can’t thank you enough!

so… a few things have happened while I’ve been gone

the first of which being my 22nd birthday in october which thankfully was spent with AC and a hot shower after having been without power for 12 days in the aftermath of Hurricane Helene; despite the inconvenience of having no power or water in those 12 days, i was still immensely lucky to have been safe and received no damage to my home unlike countless others who unfortunately are still recovering from the storm.

the other major-ish life update from my time away:

i adopted a puppy!!!

in early october (in fact, while we were still without power), I adopted this precious little girl (called ellie) from my local humane society.

she was around 3 months old when i adopted her, and in the beginning of January, she turned 6 months.

she has been a massive help in managing my anxiety and depression, keeping me company and giving me something to love and care for, and in the few months i have had her, she’s already wrapped me around her paw

i could not have asked for a better fur baby than her ❤️ she is probably the best thing that happened to me in 2024, and I cannot wait to see all the adventures life takes her on.

In other news; I’m back!

I had made the decision a few months ago to step away from tumblr as the landscape leading up to the s8 premiere of 9-1-1 was immensely difficult and taxing on my mental health, and I realized that it wasnt healthy to feel the way I so strongly did about the show or the fandom, and I needed to take a step back, alter the way i approached the show and fandom, and refocus on other things.

one of those things was refocusing on my job. shortly before i took a break, i had started a new job and was still very much in the training phase when i made the decision to take a break from tumblr. since then, i have been focusing on establishing myself as a reliable hardworking employee at my job, and i’ve also been focusing on the future;

i currently plan to take a flight attendant training course to become certified, and eventually find work with an airline.

because of this, 9-1-1 and the fandom have taken a back seat to more important things.

that being said, i still watched the entirety of 8a (not live, but a few days after airing once i had the chance to grill sarah and addie about what happened each episode- i have a lot of opinions on how things have gone and seem to be going but now is not the time nor place for that). i have still posted the occasional fic on ao3, and i am still working on my various wips as i am able to

i eventually realized how much i truly did miss being a part of the fandom, and have made the choice to come back, but going forward, i’m going to be doing things differently:

1. i will not be engaging in speculation or anything of that nature about future episodes- all it does is give me anxiety that manifests through frustration and i don’t want to continue feeding into that

2. i am going go be returning to my original philosophy of “the block and delete buttons are my friends.” in the last few weeks before my break, i found myself engaging more and more with toxic fans rather than just blocking them or deleting their replies to my posts- that won’t be happening anymore: if you come on my page being toxic or rude, you will be blocked and ignored because i do not have time for that shit

3. i want to branch out to other fandoms- this will remain a 9-1-1 blog first and foremost, and the majority of what i post will be related to 9-1-1, but i will also occasionally make posts about other fandoms/media that i have an interest in

4. most of what i post will either be fic related, headcanon related, or memes. as stated above, i do not have a healthy relationship with spec, and therefore i am not going to foster that by actively involving myself in it.

all that said, i’m really gald to be back, and i’m looking forward to being involved again! i hope everyone who stuck to the end of this long ass re-introduction post is having a wonderful morning, afternoon, or evening wherever you are in the world <3

[da-rulah]

Rituale Septem - Day 3: Gluttony

Pairing: (Terzo x f!reader)

Summary: Secondo's acting out of character, but you can't focus on that when Papa has invited you to a dinner at his private quarters, with a few surprises up his sleeve...

Rating: Mature, MDNI 18+

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: A whole lot of teasing, indulging, alcohol consumption, food porn, feeding kink, food play, temperature play, cunnilingus, spit kink, p in v sex, cream pie

If you suffer with any disorders relating to food, please be wary this is a chapter literally dedicated to eating and feeding. There is no mention of EDs or troubles with eating, but if you struggle in this area, please be cautious. Your mental health is more important than a chapter of a fic. If you want to skip but want plot developments, DM me privately. I’m happy to share 🖤 

AO3 Link | Series Masterlist

A/N: I’m hoping to heal some of the trauma caused by the Olive Oil fic, with this one... 🤭 This is one of my favourite things I've ever written, and definitely the most erotic. Heavily inspired by @her-satanic-wiles's & @angellayercake's food fics. (Seriously, we need more of this kink. I had no idea I even had it until reading theirs...)

Prev: Day 2 - Sloth | Next: Day 4 - Wrath

October 27th 

Something felt different. 

There was a staleness in the air, the kind you feel after you’ve just been shouted at by your headmaster in front of a classroom of peers; that cold, shy embarrassment. For some reason, you couldn’t hold eye contact with Secondo today. When you’d arrived at the office that morning, Secondo was already there as usual. But upon your entry, he looked up from his desk over the top of his spectacles (ones you had teased him about needing due to his old age and spent the first month reminding him he should be wearing despite your jeers), and followed you to where you sat. Normally he wouldn’t even look up, grunting a greeting in your vague direction and allowing you to get on with your work. But his silent eyes tracked your every move until you were sat, somewhat settled for the day at your own desk.  

You looked up at him, and his mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile at you, but thought better of it. Instead, he opted for small talk – which you knew he despised. He’d told you before that a conversation with no purpose was for drunks and the simple minded. And well, he was neither. 

“Did you enjoy your day off, Sorella?” he asked, and you couldn’t quite tell if it was sarcasm or if he genuinely wanted to know. You didn’t realise he’d known it was anything other than a sick day, unsure of what Terzo meant when his note told you he would ‘handle’ Secondo. 

“Um... y-yes, thank you Papa. I’m sorry it was such short notice...” you stuttered. He waved his hand in the air and shook his head to convey indifference. 

“No matter, I hope you got the rest you needed.” 

“I-I did,” you blushed, thinking back over what exactly had constituted as rest yesterday... 

An uncomfortable silence settled over the two of you, a feeling of being watched creeping up on you every so often. When you looked, you would find Secondo’s eyes focussed on your face. It was as if he were waiting for something, his expression flickering between multiple emotions at the speed of a flipbook. 

You saw what looked like a hint of anger, mixed with vague sadness and a delicate softness that was incredibly uncharacteristic for such a usually steely man. It made you feel as if you were intruding on his thoughts, like you were wrong for trying to figure out what was running through his mind today. And so, every time you found yourself attempting to figure it out and holding his gaze, you quickly averted your eyes back to what you were doing. 

“______...” You looked up at him, brow furrowed in bewilderment – rarely did he use your name if it wasn’t first accompanied by ‘Sorella’. It felt strangely too familiar. “I would... I would hope you would be able to talk to me. If something was... on your mind, I mean.”  

You sat quietly, processing. Was this a dream? Had Secondo been possessed by some kind of kind demon? You took entirely too long to respond, eyes squinting in suspicion.  

He sighed then, removing his specs and dumping them on the desk, leaning back in his chair.  

“I must be getting old,” he chuckled to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing at his painted eyes as old men often did. “I just meant... Don’t be scared to ask if you need a break. You work hard, don’t think I don’t notice it.” 

“Don’t you like that everybody is scared of you?” you asked with an awkward laugh, trying desperately to lighten the mood because this felt too intimate, too much like an emotional connection that up until now you believed was entirely one-sided. You cared for Secondo, as your Papa, your boss – hell, even your friend. Six years of being at his beck and call, catering to his every whim to his exact specifications was always bound to create some kind of bond. But you never thought for a moment that he might reciprocate that.  

Secondo chuckled darkly, “I do, yes,” he leaned forward on his arms then, giving you his full attention, “but not you.” 

You fought the urge to ask him why he was saying this now, why all of a sudden, he had decided that you needed to know he cared. Instead, you continued to stare at him, eyes glazing over with a sheen of tears you were determined you’d never let slip. Not in front of him. He didn’t need to know what that alone meant to you – particularly in such a tumultuous time. 

“I-I’m not... scared of you, I mean. You don’t scare me, Papa,” your voice quivered with unspoken emotion. Had he known you were wavering and doubting your position, maybe crying in front of him at his sudden sincerity would have made sense but he didn’t, and so you held back. He didn’t need to know that his kind outburst had affected you so. 

“Perfetto... (Perfect...)” he nodded to himself, satisfied with your answer, and reaching for his spectacles again, placing them on the end of his nose and getting back to the notes on his desk. 

You blinked away your tears, willing your body to not betray you and allow them to disappear on their own now that Secondo wasn’t looking at you. Thankfully, they did, and you could see clearly again.  

“Sorella,” he was back to calling you by your title, business mode reactivated, “I’ll need your help later this evening. After dinner, to catch up on some missed work yesterday. If you don’t mind...” 

Inwardly, you groaned. The thought of having to join him after spending the evening at dinner with Terzo... Well, it felt embarrassing. Terzo would need to go easy on you with whatever he had planned in order to avoid detection. You could really do without Secondo catching on that you were sleeping with his brother, much less why. But reluctantly, you agreed with an “anything you need, Papa.” 

Secondo was under no illusions that he would be spending any time with you this evening at all – but that was the point.  

He and Terzo had a plan, and you were falling into the trap. 

Your heels tapped on the stone floors of the hallway where you knew Papa’s chambers resided. Your heartbeat quickened in your chest with each pace, coming ever closer to the large arched door at the end of the hall.  

As you walked, you could hear music. Effortlessly, it flowed through the halls, riding atop an aromatic scent you couldn’t quite place – other than it being vaguely familiar, as if coming home to your mother’s cooking after a long time away. 

The music grew louder as you drew nearer, grandiose and full of rich strings and stunning woodwind instruments. You couldn’t discern what exactly it was, unfamiliar with the style personally but enjoying how it seemed to relax your mind and still your fluttering heart.  

Knocking on the door, you made sure to be loud enough to be heard over the music, and took a step back, flattening out any wrinkles in your dress. The same dress, in fact, that you had worn to the clergy dinner only a week ago. Shoulders exposed, breasts pushed up and on display, glove-like sleeves that hooked around your middle finger in a point and wine red fabric hugging every beautiful ripple of your body. Except this time, you donned a black satin choker, tied at the back with a striking, yet small red gem dangling from the middle. Glass, of course; as if you could ever afford a genuine article. 

The door opened, and the music poured out into the hallway as if wrapping itself around you to pull you inside. It sounded like... opera. The beautiful bass notes of the male vocalist called to you, singing with so much longing. Mixed with the aromas of unmistakeably Italian food cooking away in the background, your head swam with a heady sense of passion. In dim candlelight, Papa Terzo stood leaning against the door frame, freshly shaven and moisturised with pristine paints in place as if they’d been redone before your arrival.  

He wore a long-sleeved dark green shirt, rolled up to the elbows and tucked into black slacks, showing off a broadness to his shoulders only those who had been intimate with him would notice. His dress shoes shined in the light of the hallway, significantly brighter than that behind him, and his hands were covered with his black leather gloves, a change from the white he wore day to day. But what you had noticed first – ridiculously so – was the white, frilly apron he had looped over his neck and tied around his waist, cinching him in deliciously, yet comically.  

He smirked smugly at you as he leaned, watching as your eyes dragged over his form slowly and allowing his own to do the same across your body. He didn’t have to behave at this dinner – he could ogle as much as he pleased. When your eyes met his, you smiled brightly. 

“I like your apron,” you started with, flicking at the frills over the skirt of it. 

“Sì, grazie. It was my father’s,” he gleamed, amused at his own joke. You couldn’t possibly imagine Papa Nihil ever wearing something quite so hideous, let alone being the kind of man to understand how to light a stove. “I hope you like Italiano, Principessa,” he winked, the innuendo not lost on you. 

“I find myself craving it more these days,” you flirted. He laughed at that – oh, how he loved when you humoured him. He could flirt back and forth like a ping pong match all day, every day.  

“Please, accomodati! (Make yourself comfortable!)” He stepped aside, however, not enough to give you a clear path – your bare shoulder brushed against his chest, and you triumphed in the way he seemed to tense at the contact while you remained aloof. 

His chambers were as regal as you had imagined, and you took a moment to soak it in.  

Far larger than your own small abode, it was filled with opulent furniture donned in fabric of his papal colour – a royal purple. His couch and chairs in his living room looked like they’d been stripped out of renaissance paintings and reupholstered with purple velvet. In front of the couch, an opulent wooden coffee table with a fresh fruit bowl placed in the middle of various berries and apples, all greens, purples and reds. The couch sat opposite a large fireplace carved into white marble with veins of black and gold, open wood fire burning welcomingly. Either side of the fireplace were two arched doors, that you assumed led to a bathroom and bedroom. To the other side of the living space, you noted a small dining table with purple upholstered dining chairs, matching purple runner draped over the table.  

He’d set candles up on brass candelabras in the centre, place settings made and ready with a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket. The kitchen lined the far wall, hidden by a half wall and overhanging cupboards but open enough that you could see the pots and pans bubbling and steaming away on the large stove.  

As you became enamoured in the details of his apartment – the speaker playing the beautiful opera music you’d heard from outside, the fire crackling away on the far wall, the bookshelves filled with trinkets and books he’d collected over the years, the portraits that hung on the walls of his elder brothers – you were too distracted to realise he had shut the door, creeping up behind you. 

It wasn’t until you felt his gloved hands on your bare shoulders that you knew he was so close, the smell of his cologne – something akin to the spice of whiskey and the woodsy scent of fresh pine – filling your space and overtaking the smell of the cooking food. You could feel his lips ghosting over your skin, following his fingertips as he breathed you in.  

“I’ve seen this dress before, no?” he mumbled deeply against you, pressing his lips to where your neck began. You shivered a little at his touch, your eyes instinctively closing in content.  

“You seemed to like it when I last wore it,” you teased, relaxing into his hold as his hands ran down the glove-like sleeves, lacing his fingers with yours. The leather felt soft in your palms, the warmth of his hands radiating through them. 

“You noticed,” he mused, knowing full well he hadn’t been subtle in the slightest. You hummed in affirmation, letting him wrap his arms around your waist, and in turn, yours. He swayed to the opera playing in the background, your body naturally moving with his as his presence engulfed you.  

The moment felt incredibly intimate, his body heat turning your cheeks a hue of pink he couldn’t see from behind you. His chest pressed against your back, and he leaned into you as his lips continued to press feather light kisses to your neck.  

“I like this dress very much, cara mia,” his kisses became a little more sensual, his hips swaying like you’d seen him do on stage many times before, “sei così bella che potrei mangiarti (you look good enough to eat).” 

“But it would be a shame to let whatever you’re cooking go to waste,” you smiled, turning your head to look at him. His beautifully mismatched eyes met yours, and he settled his chin on your shoulder, the swaying coming to a stop. “I didn’t realise you would be cooking.” 

He stood up straighter then, feigning offense. “Do you think me incapable, principessa?” he pouted. 

“Of course not, Papa. I’m sure you’re capable of many things,” you played along. He chuckled, lowering to whisper in your ear. 

“You have no idea, principessa...” 

To your disappointment, he let you go, taking a step back, his warmth and the smell of his cologne disappearing. He walked over to the dining table, pulling out a chair and gesturing for you to take a seat. You did as instructed, not missing the way his eyes focussed on your hips swaying with each step. You made sure to sway them a little more than usual, your steps slower than your regular pace.  

Terzo felt his heartrate quicken ever so slightly, the beauty of how your body moved in that sinful dress of yours overwhelming. He let you sit, pushing your chair in like a gentleman before he turned and disappeared into the kitchen.  

While he pottered around in there, blissfully mumbling to himself you focussed on the opera music flowing through the air. The mood he had set within these four walls was like something from a romance novel – seductive and enticing, a feeling of anticipation tingling within you. You weren’t sure what he was planning, but judging by the indulgent scents of the foods cooking, you had guessed he was going for a specific sin tonight. 

Gluttony. 

He was barely gone for two minutes before he sauntered back in, untying his apron and revealing that his shirt was unbuttoned one button more than usual – enough to allow a peak at the chest hair you became acquainted with just the other day, along with a glint of a gold chain, Grucifix pendant weighing it down. He draped it over the back of the chair opposite you and reached for the black napkin folded next to the ice bucket. 

“For the lady?” he asked with a smirk, holding the wine up as if offering, “’Ponkler’ by Franz Haas. 2016; a very good year.” His accent sounded thicker, snobbier as if put on to tease. You decided you’d play into his game, test him a little and see if he would trip up. 

“What is the bouquet like, may I ask?” you feigned a terrible classic British accent, tilting your nose up at the bottle. Terzo’s eyes glimmered with amusement. 

“Small ripe red fruits, white chocolate, cloves and alpine flora – made with pinot noir grapes and from the South Tyrol region of Italy. It’s quite smooth,” he explained. Damnit, he did know what he was talking about. “Would the lady like to taste?”  

“Please,” you smiled warmly. Terzo lifted the bottle by its neck, then used the napkin to hold the base as he uncorked it. He lifted your empty wine glass, pouring a small amount and swirling it around to oxygenate it. You expected him to hand you the glass, but instead, he gently placed the bottle back into the ice bucket and sat on the edge of the table to your side, looming over you.  

With his now free hand, he curled his finger under your chin. “Open,” he commanded, and you didn’t argue, lips parting for him as you held his gaze. He lifted the glass, sitting the rim against your bottom lip, and agonisingly slowly poured the wine onto your tongue.  

Your heart rate quickened, every nerve ending in your body suddenly aware of the proximity of him leering over you, touching you, commanding you. He was in control, more so than he had been when you’d first slept together. Everything was carefully thought out, planned, and so elegantly seductive. 

He was right – you could taste the ripeness of the fruits, the smooth and sweet white chocolate elements... It didn’t have that sharpness to it, one of the things you didn’t mind about a red wine but would avoid if you were able. You basked in the taste for a moment before swallowing when Terzo set the glass back on the table.  

“Well?” he asked, expectant, still sitting on the edge of the table with his thigh dangerously close to your own.  

“Buonissimo (very good,)” you grinned, ignoring your heartrate and keeping your breathing as steady as possible. He laughed, impressed by your Italian pronunciation. 

“Perfetto (perfect),” he stood, grabbing the wine bottle to pour you another glass to enjoy with a little more in this time, and one for himself. “I’ll get the appetiser, shall I?”  

Before you had time to answer, he sauntered off into the kitchen once again, leaving you to calm yourself of the pounding heartbeat in your ear drums. After another moment or two alone, soaking in the atmosphere of the beautiful opera music and warm glow of candlelight, he came back with a plate balanced on the tips of his fingers, held up high with a fresh black napkin draped over his arm.  

Ever the showman. 

“To start, roasted pepper and goat cheese bruschetta...” he announced, placing the plate down as close to the centre of the table as he could with the candelabra in the way, and taking a seat opposite you. On the plate were six baguette slices, brushed with expensive olive oil and seasoned with salt and pepper then topped with fresh goat cheese and roasted peppers marinated in a honey vinaigrette – or so he had explained as he’d sat.  

You couldn’t fault his presentation. It looked like a professional set up, the way the six slices were laid out almost like a flower, a small pot of extra vinaigrette in the centre. He leaned in on his elbows as you picked up your first slice, anxiously awaiting your review. 

In the first bite, you all but melted into your seat. The mixes of sweet and tangy within the roasted peppers and the fresh creaminess of the cheese were so welcoming, almost homely in nature. You were immediately whisked off to a balcony in Italy, overlooking acres of farmland with a fresh summer breeze blowing through your hair. 

You polished off the first slice, enjoying each bite more so than the last.  

“Good?” he asked, and all you could do was moan in agreeance as you chewed. “Bene,” he grinned, “here, let me.”  

He stood and moved his chair closer to you, and on instinct you swivelled your hips to face him. His legs parted, scooting forward until his thighs ran parallel with yours. Then, he removed the glove from his right hand, and lifted another slice of bruschetta to your lips.  

Terzo feeding you felt like a level of intimacy you had never had with another before, like you were so willingly submitting to him and entrusting him with your most basic of human needs. He never, not once let his eyes slip from where your lips parted, gently taking a bite. He saw the way your tongue skimmed the surface for crumbs or remnants of dressing, and it made his chest tighten. All he could think of, was kissing those beautiful lips... 

With your last bite, the slightest amount of vinaigrette dripped from the slice to the corner of your mouth and Terzo didn’t hesitate, swiping his bare thumb over the drop and bringing it to his own lips, sucking as he held eye contact with you.  

It was the single most erotic thing you had seen him do so far that evening. And heat burned inside you.  

As you finished your last bite, you realised he hadn’t had a slice of his own yet – a travesty. You must insist he try one, right now. And so just as he had, you lifted another slice, and leaned in further to him, raising it to meet his black painted lips.  

“Open up, Papa,” you instructed coyly, smirking as a natural response to the smug smile on his own face. Wordlessly, he parted his lips for you, arousal heating up his own body more so with your boldness. He would never let someone do this, never willingly be fed but for you, he would make an exception.  

“Grazie, principessa, (thank you, princess),” he thanked you as he chewed, leaning forward to press a kiss to your lips so feather light you couldn’t help but chase him a little. But he just chuckled at you, sitting back to finish his mouthful.  

Before long, the plate was empty of bruschetta.  

“If that appetiser was this good, I look forward to whatever tricks you have left up your sleeve, Papa,” you teased, dabbing a napkin on the corner of your mouth.  

“Oh, there are many...” he smirked, “but first, a palette cleansing. More wine, Principessa?” He turned back to the table, lifting your glass again but instead of handing it to you, or even pressing the glass to your own lips like he had already, he took a mouthful himself.  

You were about to swat his shoulder for stealing from your own glass but he didn’t give you the option, instead leaning forward, fingers curling into your hair at the back of your head, and pressing his lips to yours. Naturally, you melted against him, lips parting to kiss him as if he wasn’t holding a mouthful of wine but when he parted his own lips, you were soon reminded that he most certainly was.  

Slowly, he shared some with you, careful not to spill any. It had warmed in his mouth, but you didn’t mind – the eroticism of the act itself was enough to heat your cheeks and earn a soft whimper from you. Once again, you could taste the berries, the grapes, the white chocolate... and something inherently him. 

He sat back, swallowing the small amount he still had and letting you follow suit. Your mind swam with lust, desperate for more kisses, more wine, more flavour – anything he was willing to give you. Your thighs squeezed together as your core was set alight with arousal; and yes, he did notice. But ever the gentleman, he said nothing.  

“I think our entrée is almost ready, cara mia,” he winked, standing from the table again and grabbing the apron from the back of his chair. Quickly, he tied it around his waist, forgoing throwing the bib over his neck and wondered back off into the kitchen.  

You stood, taking the time to pour both yourself and Terzo another glass of wine, coming slowly to the end of the bottle. You took your glass in hand, and wandered over to the stereo that Terzo had on top of a bookshelf. You needed to focus on something, anything other than the arousal he’d stirred up in you already, so you ventured over to see what he was playing.  

However, upon inspection the ancient boombox was playing a cassette tape, with a white sticker on the front, handwritten title in Terzo’s signature cursive.  

‘Principessa.’ 

The opera songs you were listening to weren’t from one singular performance but were in fact a mixtape of chosen songs from multiple operas. And he’d made it for your dinner – for you.  

Before you could think too much on the matter, you felt his strong arms wrapping their way around your waist again, his chin resting on your shoulder. Only now did you notice; he had removed his other glove. 

“I wasn’t sure you would like opera, Principessa,” he began, “but I think it adds a little... romanticismo to the evening, sì?” You stayed quiet, instead opting to sip from your glass while you thought of a reply. 

“I suppose I never gave it much of a chance, maybe because I can’t understand them,” you thought aloud. That much was certainly true – in the years you’d spent with men who spoke Italian, you had only picked up choice phrases – nothing so complex as this. 

“I see, well... This is a song from ‘La Traviata’, which loosely translates as ‘The Fallen Woman’,” he explained, his warm breath tickling your ear, smelling vaguely of the wine you shared... “This song is called ‘Un dì felice, eterea’ or ‘One day, Happy, Ethereal’. Alfredo falls in love with a courtesan, Violetta. In this song, he’s confessing his love to her. 

“In essence, he is saying ‘on one very happy day, you fell into my life and ever since, I’ve lived with unknown love. That love is the pulse of the universe, torture and delight, torture and delight...” 

His arms around you feel hot, burning into you as he surrounds you. It’s beautiful, the male vocals are stunning and grand. You can hear Alfredo’s longing, his confession heartfelt and passionate. It’s almost present in the way Terzo’s arms tighten around you as Alfredo sings, except you tell yourself you’re being ridiculous. It’s merely the atmosphere, the scene he’s created. It’s nothing but a fabrication, a ruse to fulfil tonight’s sin.  

And then, Violetta begins to sing.  

It’s a contrast, a surprising staccato soprano after the tenor. Her voice doesn’t sound like it longs for Alfredo; it sounds like she is... shooing him away?  

“Is she... rejecting him?” you ask, turning your head to look at Papa. His smile widens. 

“A good ear... Sì, she is telling him to forget about her, friendship is all she can offer him,” his eyes search your face for a moment, before they settle back on your own with a different demeanour, one you can’t discern. “She is saying ‘honestly, you must find someone else. Someone who knows how to love you.’” 

A breath of silence passes between you as you listen to Violetta’s staccato vocals. Eventually, the pair begin to repeat a line from Alfredo’s verse together.  

“This is where she admits feelings for Alfredo,” he whispers, eyes fixed on yours. There’s a tension there, a battle behind his eyes that looks to be saying ‘kiss her... just kiss her...’ 

But he doesn’t. Instead, he retreats. 

“Come, Principessa. Your entrée is getting cold,” he gently taps your behind as he wanders back to the table, moving his chair further from you and you can’t help but feel disappointed. He removed his apron once again, resting it on the back of his chair. You sit together, and realise he had already plated your entrées and placed them at your seat. “Lamb and rosemary ravioli. Made fresh, of course,” he smiles tenderly at the food on his plate, as if it reminded him of a fond memory. 

Your first bite, and you can’t believe the flavour he’s packed into such a tiny little parcel of pasta. It explodes, tender lamb mixed with the earthy notes of rosemary, hints of the onion and olive oil it was cooked within. You couldn’t help the moan you let slip, warmed from the inside out and transported back to that balcony in the Italian countryside.  

“Papa, where did you learn to cook like this?” you asked, very much aware of the effort that fresh pasta and homemade ravioli would take to create. He had made it all from scratch, and you couldn’t understand where he’d found the time, let alone learned the craft. 

He smiled down at his plate once more, memories dancing through his mind to the music in the background.  

“Mia nonna,” he said, before flickering his eyes up to show a vulnerability you hadn’t seen before. His answer threw you for a loop. You thought for sure he had perhaps attended a class during his time in Italy, or it was just a hobby of his before he became Papa. But now it made sense; the familial tie to cooking explained the heart that he so clearly put into every flavour.  

“We were close. She and I spent a lot of time together after mia madre (my mother) passed,” a sadness flashed across his face, quickly replaced with a mask of happiness, “I was far younger than i miei fratelli (my brothers), and she would look after me when they were busy with Ministry things. She always told me I needed to learn to cook, to ‘impressionare una bella signorina’ (‘impress a beautiful girl’) she would say,” he chuckled to himself. 

He didn’t know why he was telling you this; you didn’t need to know anything about his childhood, and yet, perhaps the setting he had created for himself was all too realistic. Maybe he was fooling himself into thinking this was more than what it really was – a scene in an opera of his own writing. Still, he felt comfortable enough to share this. He knew you would think no less of him for telling you something of his childhood. 

“She taught you well, Papa,” you smiled, allowing him a moment of tenderness. You figured he may need that, his life so full of duty and obligation. 

You both finished your entrées in silence, the music creating a comfortable backdrop. You shared the odd smile, little moans of satisfaction with every few mouthfuls, until eventually you had cleared the plate. 

When Terzo brought out dessert, your mouth watered... He carried a tray, filled with little bowls and a plate in the centre, towered with biscuits. In the bowls were different flavours of what you assumed were gelatos, scooped into almost perfect spheres. He set the tray down in front of you, and brought his chair back to directly beside you, slotting you between his thighs like he had earlier that evening.  

“For dessert, an assortment of gelato – unfortunately not homemade. I make terrible, tasteless gelato...” he laughed, “but paired with homemade ricciarelli biscuits. Those, I made.”  

Casting your eyes over the assortment, there were at least six different flavours to taste. Your sweet tooth was tingling, and the butterflies in your stomach were fluttering away with Papa’s thighs encasing your own again.  

“The biscuits are almond biscuits, I find they’re much more delectable than eating gelato with a spoon,” he began, already scooping a generous amount of a yellow coloured gelato up with one of the biscuits. “Mango first, my favourite.”  

He began as if to feed it to you like he had the bruschetta, except he moved it away, sticking the end between his teeth and leaning back. His eyebrow quirked up in expectation, and he beckoned you to him with two fingers. Ah, so the fun was beginning again... 

With a cheeky smile on your face, you leaned forwards, spreading your palms over the meat of his thighs. Slowly, you parted your lips, engulfing the gelato covered end of the biscuit and biting into it with a hum. The chill of the gelato soothed the heat in your cheeks, burst of flavour melting into the biscuit as you chewed. They complimented each other beautifully – fresh fruity flavour with light and airy biscuit.  

Terzo watched intently, half of the biscuit still stuck between his teeth, leaning into the back of his chair. He marvelled the way your lips parted, revelled in the hum you made at the taste hitting your tongue. Satisfied with the show you’d put on, he ate the rest of the biscuit.  

He repeated this with several different flavours, allowing you to take each from him while he watched over, and over. He adored your lips, could watch them move all day. But he wanted to touch them, to taste them, to feel them on his. With every bite you took from his own mouth, he wished he’d forget the food and kiss you right there and then. 

But this was about the gluttony of it all. It was about the greed, the excess. He would keep feeding you until he was satisfied. But still, just a taste... 

When you expected him to pick up another biscuit, he didn’t. Instead, he picked up his wine glass, draining the rest of the glass quickly, as if he needed the extra confidence. Then, he scooped two fingers into the bowl of strawberry gelato, leaned forward and pressed them to your lips. Shocked by the sudden chill you didn’t move for a second, but that was fine – he didn’t want you to. Instead, he ran his fingers along your lips as if he were applying lipstick and coated them in gelato. 

Terzo sucked the remaining gelato from his fingertips and moved towards you, pressing his own painted lips to yours. There was nothing sweet about it, save for the gelato. It was messy, indulgent, slow. His tongue laved at your lips, removing any trace of strawberry he could find. And you – you got too caught up in the kiss itself, gripping onto the open collar of his shirt and whimpering into his touch.  

Your body lit up, like your veins pumped gasoline in place of blood and Terzo had lit a match. Every tiny little touch, every look, every seductive little show he put on that evening had led up to an inhumane level of arousal that you didn’t realise would snap as quickly as it had. You thought you had this under control. You thought you had him where you wanted him.  

You did not. 

But it would be a lie if Terzo tried to say he also had control. That was not something he knew well around you. In every aspect of his life, he had control. Too much of it, even. Sometimes he despised it and yet when he was with you, he could lose it. He didn’t need to have control – he could let himself go and succumb to you. And so, he did, messily kissing you and groaning against your lips when your hands settled back on his thighs and gripped so tightly.  

He pushed on your waist to sit you back in your chair, standing up and towering above you. That look on his face was back; easily mistaken for rage but it was determination, need. It made your core clench, thighs pressing into each other.  

“I enjoy my food, cara mia. I like to indulge,” he began, darkly hovering barely an inch from your face, “I like to play with my food too, in the right setting, with the right person. And here you are; ready and willing, eh?” 

You nodded, breathless. You were so willing. 

He shoved two fingers into a chocolate gelato, depositing a large amount onto his tongue before he dived in again for another deep kiss. The ice-cold texture mixed with the warmth of his tongue against yours was maddening. He didn’t break away again until it had melted completely, and you both were able to swallow whatever you could take from each other.  

The act was lewd; filthy, even. But oh, how it turned you on... 

With the gelato disappearing between you, he decided your lips were not enough for him anymore and began to trail open mouthed kisses down your neck and collarbone, covering the expanse of your neck and adding new, fresh patches of purple to accompany the now yellowing ones he’d left just two days ago. He liked marking you, making sure you remembered it was him who had left them. You let your head fall back, enjoying how his lips still felt cold on your skin that burned under the heat of your passion rising and rising...  

In your bliss you lost yourself, only coming to when you felt the sting of ice-cold strawberry gelato being dragged across your collarbone, quickly warmed by Terzo’s tongue chasing the trail. The sensations heightened your arousal to new levels, awakening something in you that you’d never once explored before. But at the taste of strawberry on his tongue as he lapped it off your chest, Terzo groaned and fell to his knees between your feet as if it were him receiving this array of pleasure. 

With the hand that didn’t have fingers covered in gelato, Terzo reached around to your back where you arched off the chair and dragged the zipper of your dress down, pulling the material to expose your bare breasts to him. He reached behind him, this time dipping into a pistachio flavoured gelato and trailing a line with it between your breasts, where he immediately dove in, lapping at the skin as if he was a man starved.  

He was losing composure at an alarming pace, already filling out his briefs, blood rushing to his length. An indulgent swine at the best of times, this was where he lost himself; in the finest things he could possibly indulge in. Good food, good wine, and you.  

In his reverie he reached behind him, grabbing a handful of gelato and using that very same hand to cup one of your bare breasts, smearing chocolate gelato over you. Your nipple peaked at the temperature, freezing cold as you gasped, watching him with wild and blown out eyes as he mouthed at the area, sucking on your nipple and the surrounding breast until the smear disappeared, his hand still coated in dripping gelato of multiple flavours.  

Watching him like this was charging every possible nerve in your body, your core wet and ready for him whenever he might finally get there. For now, the pleasure he was able to give you through stimulation of your nipple alone was enough to have you gasping.  

“Mangia, amore mio... indugia, per favore... (Eat, my love... indulge, please...)” he begged from his knees, reaching up to paint your lips with the mess from his fingers before slipping two past them to rest on your tongue. You sucked the sweet mixture from them, wanting nothing more than a burst of flavour and pleasure together as he worked on your breasts below.  

Your mind felt hazy, a buzz from the few glasses of wine you’d shared now having an effect and mixing with the lust that clouded your mind of any rational thinking.  

“Papa...” you whined around his fingers, cleaning them off one by one. You didn’t know what you were whining for, other than more. More of everything. More gelato, more wine, more of him.  

"A moment, cara...” he said, pushing his fingers to your lips in a ‘silence’ gesture, and raising back to his feet. He left you alone in the chair, half exposed and half mad with want as he disappeared back into the kitchen for one final time, re-emerging with a new, freshly uncorked bottle of red Ponkler wine. He knelt before you again, drinking straight from the bottle by the neck before handing it to you to do the same. You did so gladly, enjoying the buzz it gave you and the taste of it on your tongue. 

With his hands now free and wiped clean, he ran his fingertips up your bare calves, under the hem of your dress and past your knees until he was able to push the dress up, revealing your thighs to him. He dove his head down, pressing sloppy, open mouthed kisses to the skin as he rose further and further up, parting your legs to slot between them. You slumped against the chair, taking another gulp of wine and watching with hooded eyes and a knowing smirk as Terzo finally realised... 

You weren’t wearing any panties... 

“Shit...” he breathed, unaware he’d reacted aloud. 

“Can’t wear panties with a dress this tight,” you smiled, biting your lip. His gaze on yours changed, as if clouding over with a dark smoke. He looked positively ravenous, and his actions proved your theory. He gripped onto the top of your dress this time, pulling it down and over your hips to fling it from your legs before parting them again and slotting himself right in between.  

He reached behind him for one of the small bowls of gelato – a salted caramel flavour – holding it in one hand while he used his other to scoop another generous amount onto his fingers and draw lines of sweetness along the inside of your thighs. The cold made you shiver, but once again, his tongue warmed you, cleaning up his own mess and drawing ever nearer to your centre where you were desperately dripping for him.  

When his cold, caramel coated fingertips finally grazed over your clit, you keened under his touch. Your back arched at the shock and pleasure, until you were met with a warm tongue to replace the cold, and Terzo was lapping up the melted gelato.  

His tongue felt heavenly on you, finally a reprieve from the torture of waiting, of being teased on and off all damn night until finally you had both just snapped. His fingers were long forgotten, smearing the rest of the caramel gelato over your thigh as he pushed them open. Neither of you cared about the mess you were making, simply too far gone. Instead, he focussed on the sweetness pooling between your legs, and how you were the most divine thing he had tasted all night.  

His tongue laved over your clit over and over again, drawing circles, flattening against you, writing what you assumed to be Italian curse words letter by letter... Every so often, he would pour some melted caramel gelato from the little bowl still in his hand directly onto your clit, lapping it up like a parched animal by a riverside.  

“P-Papa...” you mewled, your hand fisting into his beautiful raven hair as you clutched the wine bottle in the other. The dance between hot and cold, the feeling of sweetness oozing over your core had you experiencing this like no other time you had – and Papa’s skill was certainly unmatched.  

You would take swigs from the wine bottle every so often, still desperate to taste something for yourself, to continue to spoil yourself in the name of gluttony.  

“Principessa, you taste sweeter than the finest gelato italiano,” he growled into your mound, “this is the nectar I would make my wine with... I’d be drunk on you every fucking day...” 

The moan that slipped from your lips at his words was pornographic, and he had put an idea in your head that you couldn’t push away the more he lapped at your centre. Slowly, you raised the bottle of wine over your chest, catching his attention as he continued to work you, and you began to pour it over yourself.  

The red liquid trickled over your collarbone, over and between your breasts, and began to run slowly down to where Terzo’s mouth was engulfing you. When the liquid mixed with your own juices on his tongue, his mind broke. He slurped and drank from you, the mess unavoidably dripping to the floor when he couldn’t catch it all. It stained his shirt, dripped onto his pants and between his knees and he loved every second of it. Watching as you doused yourself in not just his expensive, decadent wine but the very symbol of the Dark One’s own blood...  

It was intoxicating in every sense of the word.  

As Terzo dove his tongue through your folds, drinking every drop he could from you like the sweetest of fruits, two of his fingers slipped easily inside of you, curling the way he knew you liked having already committed your sensitivities to memory during your first encounter. When he hit your g-spot you jolted, forgetting about the wine and sitting up suddenly, half a bottle still sloshing inside the bottle. His free hand kept you planted by your hip, pushing you into the hard wood and upholstery beneath you. You didn’t have time to think about the red wine staining the fabric right now – the thought never even crossed your mind.  

As if he’d eaten nothing all evening, Terzo was starving for more of you. He was relentless, and the pressure was building inside you more and more, winding so tight you found yourself holding your breath. With his fingers inside you and his mouth engulfing you, you were seconds away from slipping from the precipice.  

“P-Papa... I’m gonna...” you panted, breath stuck in your lungs as if he’d wound his hand around your throat again and squeezed.  

“Do it,” he instructed, his voice dark and gravelly against your clit. And you snapped.  

You writhed in place, held down still by a strong hand on your hip. He didn’t let up, continuing with the same speed, pressure, and calculated curl of his lips, tongue and fingers. Your whole body set alight, arms dropping numb at your sides and barely grasping onto the neck of the wine bottle, which clanged against the legs of your chair. You cried out a slew of profanities and whimpered ‘Papas’ as you rose and fell.  

If Terzo hadn’t already been driven quite insane by your little trick with the wine, he might just have taken the leap when you came... Your body gave him flavour in excess, covering his chin with more of your sweet juices. He drained you completely, and slowly allowed you a soft comedown from your unimaginable high.  

He sat back on his heals, wiping his mouth and chin on a napkin from the table. His paints had long since melted away, a grey hue now wiped onto the black napkin as he caught his breath. He looked up at you sat slumped back in your chair and realised looking at you at all had been a mistake. His poor weeping cock, aching in his briefs, couldn’t take the sight of you, and he found himself on the brink of begging you to let him have you right there in the mess you’d made of the floor. 

“We’re not done, Principessa,” he growled, standing up and dragging you by the hand to your feet with him. Stood before him now, naked save for your heels and the glove-like sleeves of your dress, you felt like a feather, still floating from your climax. Terzo’s hands settled on your waist to steady you, letting you wrap your arms around his neck, grasping the wine bottle tightly. You could feel how much he needed you, pressed against your lower stomach... 

“Take me to bed, Papa...” you slurred, pulling him towards you for a slow, deep kiss that knocked the air out of the room around you both. His hands slid from your waist, cascading to your hips until eventually he hooked his hands behind your thighs and lifted you, crossing your legs around his waist and holding you tightly. He was far stronger than you had anticipated, his biceps tightening in the dark green of his shirt. 

“As you wish, amore mio,” he grinned, carrying you through the living room and past the coffee table, where you reached down and picked up the fruit bowl you’d seen earlier. In the spirit of gluttony, you would put it to good use, already picking off singular grapes to pop between his teeth before you leaned in to kiss him, sharing the grape juice as he bit into each one. 

Soon enough he was throwing you down onto a beautiful purple bedspread, satin upon satin with layers of black to compliment. Terzo took the fruit bowl and wine from your grasp, placing them on his nightstand before turning his gaze back to you.  

Wordlessly, he leaned in to kiss you again, chasing you when you crawled back to lie against his pillows without breaking away from your lips. He crawled over you, strategically placing himself between your legs and pressing his clothed thigh to your centre again. You hummed in vague pleasure, grateful for any and all friction as arousal began to build once again.  

His Grucifix pendant dangled over you as he leered, a peak under his shirt visible where the shirt billowed from his chest. You wanted him out of it already, you wanted to see him just as bare to you as you were to him.  

You rolled the sleeve-like gloves you were still wearing down your arms one by one, kicking your heels off to the floor at the foot of the bed, and reached for the buttons of his shirt. He let you, taking his time to pepper kisses to your shoulder, your collarbone, your breasts – all still vaguely tasting like wine. Before long, he was shrugged out of an open shirt, and letting you graze your palms over the definition beneath, tickled by the dark chest hair of a born-Italian man. 

He let you explore, undoing his belt with one hand as he propped himself up on the other, pulling it from his belt loops. You wanted to help then, reaching down to palm his length for a moment and enjoying the groan at some kind of relief that he let slide. But waiting wasn’t on the cards tonight – not anymore. And so, you unbuttoned his slacks, undoing his zipper, and pushed the hem of his trousers down along with the waistband of his briefs, until you could no longer reach, and he kicked them off for you.  

Lips attacked yours again and hands roamed the expanse of your body as yours did his. You lost yourself in each other, finding it all too easy to submit to him. His kisses lingered on your lips as he trailed back to your neck, kissing along the satin of the choker you were still wearing.  

“A woman like you deserves real jewels, Principessa,” he moaned against your skin, “whatever you desire should be yours.” Your entire body purred under him, your organs fluttering in delight. You were never one for a gifts or expensive things but surrounded by the finery that was Terzo’s apartment you found yourself absorbed in his world, excited at the empty promise of such luxury.  

He reached for the bottle of wine beside the bed, taking a quick gulp and holding it in his mouth. His fingers came and tapped on your lips, and on cue you opened wide for him where you lay beneath him. He smirked and spat the wine directly onto your waiting tongue, allowing you time to swallow before kissing you, tongues colliding messily and falling into another deeply passionate moment. 

But frankly, you were done waiting. You were done with being the centre of attention. Just because this was your ritual didn’t mean that whoever you chose to perform it with had to come second to you. Terzo was putting in all of the work, worshipping you and as much as you adored it, craved it even when he wasn’t there... you wanted to worship him back. After all, he was your Papa... Your leader, head of the Satanic Chruch. He had cooked for you, opened his home to you, had you climaxing harder and faster than any partner. Time to give him a break. 

Terzo’s length was pressing against you and being so close, yet so damn far was frustrating you to no end. Grinding against him was earning you harsher kisses, deeper moans but you needed him; now.  

When you pushed him off you and put the wine bottle down, he looked at you with confusion, worry flashing through his face. Had he gone too far? Were you having second thoughts about this? Did you even want to continue this ritual?  

Before he could panic, you pushed his shoulders, rolling him over to his back and swinging your leg over him to straddle his thighs. He didn’t fight you, in fact he looked ridiculously smug below you when he realised what you had done – his mind slower to catch up with the alcohol flowing through his veins taking effect.  

“I haven’t thanked you for dinner yet, Papa...” you smirked, sitting up straight as he watched in awe. “Besides... I can’t wait any longer. I need you,” you whined. 

“Take what you need, Principessa,” he curled his finger under your chin, guiding your lips back to his. Oh, how easy it was to be sucked back in, to forget just for a moment about the ache between your legs, how desperate you were to sink down on him when his lips felt like this. 

But when his cock jumped against your stomach, you were reminded instantly.  

Without parting your lips you shuffled forwards, hovering above him and grinding your hips along his length. Your arousal coated him, the warmth and the slide too good to not moan into your mouth, his bare hands gripping at the flesh of your ass to guide you. You reached between you and took his length in your hand, guiding him to your centre before slowly, with foreheads and noses pressed against each other, you finally sank down on him.  

With your hips sat flush against him, chest to chest, you had never felt so close to him. Your arms wrapped instinctively around his shoulders, both of you wrapped in each other’s arms as you adjusted. It didn’t take long after the way his fingers had stretched you earlier, and so you began to rock your hips where you sat.  

You swear, the feeling of Terzo filling you was unmatched. Able to control how you rode him, where you felt him was beautiful. And to top it all off, Terzo was so far gone himself, all he could do was grip onto your hips and desperately mouth at your neck, over the litany of purple and yellow bruises he had left. 

It was all a little much for him, his mind swirling with thoughts of you and how intimate everything felt to be wrapped up in you like this. He’d had countless partners, of course, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt so close to any of them. It scared him, terrified that he was allowing himself to get too close, that you were tearing through the walls he had put up years ago to block his emotions from the outside world. To your dismay, he leaned back, slapping his back against the pillows below him and covering his half-painted face with his hands as he groaned into them. But no, you weren’t going to settle for that, and so you slowed your pace and demanded his attention back on you when you reached for a deep red apple in the fruit bowl by the bed.  

He peeked out from behind his fingertips to see you still sat upright as you ground your hips into his and staring down at him, taking a large bite from the crisp apple as you rolled your hips. The innocence of simply eating fruit whilst performing such a lewd act twisted into the ultimate sin. Had he not known any better, he could have sworn you were in fact Eve and he Adam, plucked from the Garden of Eden and being tempted into sin.  

“Più bella di Eva... (More beautiful than Eve...)” he whispered to himself, but you caught it – and your heart leapt. Your reaction was visceral, out of your control. All you could do was roll your hips faster, whining at the taste of the sweet apple. With your free hand you prop yourself up on his chest, leaning forward to press the apple to his lips and let him taste. He obliged willingly, no tempting necessary. He gave in to sin so readily. 

As he chewed, his eyes dropped to where his cock was disappearing in and out of you with each roll of your hips. He’d never seen anything so beautiful, never been more hypnotised in all his life.  

“Cazzo...” he moaned, “You feel so good, Principessa... Made for your Papa, eh?” His hands roamed over your body, caressing every inch of you.  

“Eat, Papa... Enjoy it,” you groaned, pushing the apple to his lips again for another bite. He did so without further encouragement, this time running his tongue over the thumb that held the apple, licking the juice where it gathered. He groaned at the taste, swallowing the bite and taking another from you. He’d let you feed him all day, every fucking day. He’d let you take care of him any time.  

“Will you cum for me, Papa?” you whined, desperately barrelling towards an end yourself. 

“Why, Principessa? Do you need it?” he teased breathlessly, knowing that was exactly what you needed. 

“Please. Please, cum for me Papa...” you begged, thighs burning with exhaustion.  

“Together, hm? We dive off the edge in each other’s arms, amore mio,” he promised, reaching a hand between the two of you and circling his fingers on your clit. Immediately you clenched around him, hips stuttering but you were so grateful for the added stimulation.  

The apple fell from your grasp, hitting the floor somewhere. You planted both hands on his chest, using every bit of energy you had left in you to roll your hips as he held you by your waist, slamming up to meet your grinding in rhythm. The sound of skin slapping together filled the room, the opera music a distant atmospheric hum in the background now.  

“Oh, dolce lucifero all'inferno... (sweet Lucifer in Hell...)” he growled, gripping your wrist on his chest and holding on for dear life, fingers circling your clit over and over and over like a man possessed. If you came, he could let go. He couldn’t let go until he felt you come apart around him.  

Like a crashing tsunami, your orgasm washed over you. How desperate you were to keep up a rhythm, but Terzo had to take over for you, slamming up into you with vigour to keep you stimulated as you came around him. Your walls clenched on his length, body stiffening and muscles tensing as you cried out for him. Your nails dug into his pecs, tugged at his chest hair. You made the prettiest noises for him... 

Terzo couldn’t hold back anymore, finally being squeezed so tightly that he’d have cum whether he wanted to or not.  

“Fucking SHIT,” he shouted, grip on your wrist becoming almost painful as he bucked up into you, doubling you over until you collapsed onto his chest breathless. He allowed himself a final few thrusts, slower and each less powerful than the last, until he let his length slip from you, feeling the mess he’d made seeping onto his pubic bone.  

You lay on his chest, fluttering and clenching around nothing. You weren’t sure how he did it, but every orgasm with Terzo knocked the wind out of you. All of your limbs felt numb, tingling with pins and needles while you regulated your breathing.  

Terzo wrapped his arms around you, holding you close and pressing kisses to your forehead mixed with muttered praises and hushes when you’d whimper involuntarily. He kept reminding you he was there, comforting you, letting you float back to earth. ‘But who was there for him?’ you thought to yourself. 

Without giving the idea too much thought, you raised a hand to his still painted cheek – albeit, incredibly smudged – and marvelled at the man before you. From the nose down, his paint had vanished, succumbing to the napkin. But his eyes, still painted were dishevelled just as his hair, wild and messy and falling over his forehead, sticking to it with sweat. His eyes watched yours, curious as to what it was you were seeing that had you so transfixed. He could only assume you were so exhausted and still drunk enough that your brain wasn’t registering what you were looking at. 

But no, you saw him. And how beautiful he was...  

You reached for him, pressing your lips to his gently in a silent thank you. A thank you for being there for you, for helping you with this ritual. For making you feel like you weren’t crazy, or a spoiled brat for never hearing His voice. For making such an effort to ensure the completion of such an important ritual. For taking care of you, every step of the way so far.  

Neither of you said a word for the rest of the evening, opting to lay in each other’s arms for a while, just comfortable... Until you realised just how sticky you felt, remnants of wine, gelato, sweat and bodily fluids now drying and making you feel frankly disgusting.  

But Papa wouldn’t let you get up, seeing how exhausted you had become when your eyes could hardly stay open. Instead, he brought a washcloth and bowl of warm soapy water to you, wiping you down where you lay and drying you with a fresh, soft towel. He tucked you into his sheets with a kiss to your forehead, and disposed of the bowl and washcloth.  

He’d been gone for ten minutes, cleaning himself up a little before blowing out candles and switching off the music, when he came back to find you completely sparked out. He chuckled quietly – he knew you couldn’t last, not after filling up on wine and decadent food, then climaxing twice like this. But a pang of guilt shot through him. He should have been here, with you. He didn’t want you to fall asleep alone tonight.  

He took one final mouthful of wine and climbed into bed next to you. To Hell with the inward battle of ‘should he? shouldn’t he?’. He wanted to be curled up next to you, and he had the strangest feeling you would too.  

He slung an arm over your waist, shuffling until his chest pressed against your back. When he felt your arm cover his and heard a soft sigh from your lips, he could finally relax for the evening, stripped bare of his paints, clothes, and the wall he had built around himself.  

He was beginning to let you in... 

Secondo tapped his foot on the stone floor, watching the clock tick on above his door. Hours, he had sat here. Paperwork littered his desk, his spectacles forgone and sitting atop the papers. 

He had no right to be irritated – he knew this would happen. He planned for this to happen. But a small part of him had thought maybe you would show, that you would surprise him. He thought maybe you were just that loyal to him. 

When the clock read 11:24pm, he finally gave up. You hadn’t showed up to help with the work you had promised you would. Anger simmered in his gut, too easily wound up. This was a set up, and yet... he still found himself slamming his office door shut, and stomping back to his chambers in a foul mood.  

And you should never go to bed angry... 

Prev: Day 2 - Sloth | Next: Day 4 - Wrath A huge thank you to @her-satanic-wiles for beta reading, and @adinferix for fine tuning the Italian translations! 🖤

Tag list:

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[lostintheuniverseslies]

6am Happiness

I originally posted this on ao3 in October but took it down and deleted that account. The explanation of why is here if you’re curious. I’m not sure if I want to put it back on ao3 under my original account so in the meantime I thought I should put it here. Keep in mind it was written before 8x06.

Rating: G • 2.1K Words • BuckTommy

Buck woke slowly, warmth pressing against him. A heavy weight on his chest, a hairy leg tangled with his own, an arm draped across his stomach. He smiled sleepily, humming in contentment as his fingers found their way into Tommy’s soft hair, threading through it without thought. Even after nearly a year of this—of them—it still didn’t feel real.

A few weeks ago, during a slow morning at the firehouse, Chimney had asked how things were going with Tommy. Like every time Tommy’s name came up, Buck had grinned, unable to stop himself, launching into a mundane story about Tommy picking up his favorite snacks and toiletries while grocery shopping. They didn’t officially live together, but Buck spent more nights at Tommy’s than in his loft. It was such a small thing, Tommy grabbing the stuff without being asked, but it filled Buck with a joy he couldn’t quite contain or explain.

For once, Chimney hadn’t teased him. He just smiled, maybe a little endeared, and told Buck how happy he was for them. Then he mentioned something that sent Buck spiraling—how, without him, Buck and Tommy might not have ever met.

Chimney had been the one to save Tommy’s life during his probie year. That little detail unraveled into a list of coincidences and near-misses, a collection of times Buck and Tommy had almost crossed paths but didn’t. If Chimney hadn’t saved Tommy that day…if Tommy’s transfer had started later, after Buck had already joined the 118…if Chimney hadn’t called Tommy in to drop water on that neighborhood…if Tommy hadn’t been there to save Cap and Athena…

The thought that they might not have ever met was painful. But somehow, worse than that was the idea that they could have met sooner. They could have had more time.

When Buck brought it up one night, Tommy had smiled, shaking his head. We met at the right time, he’d said.

Buck had frowned. Why do you think that? Wouldn’t you have wanted to meet earlier if we could have?

Of course I would, Tommy had admitted. But then he’d explained how lost he’d felt after leaving the 118—struggling with his identity, his sexuality, himself. If they’d met sooner, if Tommy had acted on his attraction, there was no guarantee he would have treated Buck the way he deserved. I had to grow as a person, he’d said simply. I had to figure myself out. And now? Now, I can love you the way you’re meant to be loved. And he planned on treating him right as long as Buck would let him.

That conversation had ended in a heated kiss, one that led them to the bedroom. But Buck’s thoughts had kept going long after. He’d wanted to tell Tommy that he could love him forever, that he wanted forever. Because for the first time in his life, Buck was sure. Sure of what he felt. Sure of Tommy’s feelings for him. Sure that, for once, he wasn’t fighting for love or attention—he wasn’t chasing it. It was there, always. Waiting for him.

Nine times out of ten, when Buck looked at Tommy, Tommy was already looking back with a fondness Buck was still getting used to.

Buck wanted this forever. He wanted lazy mornings tangled up together, movie nights curled on the couch, holding Tommy like he was now, arriving at family gatherings and leaving them together. He wanted Buck and Tommy to be a permanent thing. Every time he left Tommy’s place, a pit settled in his stomach. His loft hadn’t felt like home in a long time. If he was honest, when he thought of home, Tommy always came to mind.

“You’re thinking too loudly for it to be…” Tommy grumbled against his chest then lifted his head long enough to see the nightstand clock and groaned. “Six thirty in the morning.”

Buck laughed, fingers running through Tommy’s hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Evan,” Tommy sighed sleepily. “Why are you up so early? You promised to sleep in if I stayed up with you to finish the movie marathon.”

“I woke up thinking about you,” Buck admitted. “I couldn’t help it.”

Tommy’s lips quirked. “Good or bad?”

“Good,” Buck assured him.

Tommy hummed, shifting against him to readjust into a comfortable position. “Wanna share?”

Buck hesitated, not sure how to put into words. Before Tommy, he might have rushed into things—he had with Taylor, scared of losing yet another person. But Tommy was different. This was different. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t second-guessing himself. And even though they hadn’t quite hit a year yet, Buck knew.

“I love you,” Buck said, voice steady. “I loved you long before we said the words. And I was just thinking about how easy it is to love you. How, no matter how far down the line I look, I see you in my future. A future where we’re happy and thriving. A future where we get married and build the family we always deserved. I was thinking about how much I love you, how much I want to be with you, however long you’ll have me.”

Tommy lifted his head, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. “Evan…”

“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” Buck said quickly. “Not now, not months from now. I just want you to know—when you’re ready, I’m ready. I hate leaving. I hate going back to my apartment. I hate being apart from you. I haven’t thought of that place as home in a long time because you’re not there. So, when or if you’re ever ready. I want to move in with you.”

Tommy exhaled sharply, resting his forehead against Buck’s chest. That worried Buck. Tommy rarely ever let his composure slip, and when he did, he always tried to hide it.

“Baby,” Buck whispered, cupping his face. “Look at me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Tommy lifted his head, eyes glassy. “Nothing’s wrong.” His voice was thick, rough. “You—god, do you have any idea how perfect you are?”

“Tommy—”

“I mean it, Evan. Ever since you walked into my life, you’ve made me feel like I'm worth something.”

“You are worth something. You’re worth everything.”

He knew Tommy’s history—how his worth had always been measured by what he could be for others. For his mother, it was the son who protected her from a drunk-raged father. When she passed, he became the son who made himself small and quiet to hide from a drunk father who needed to blame someone for his own failures. At 18 Tommy became a man who served his country while secretly battling with his sexuality. Then he became the firefighter who Captain Gerrard treated like a son as long as Tommy did everything he said and remained the straight white man whom he believed Tommy to be.

Leaving the 118 for Harbor Station gave Tommy the courage to work on himself and become someone that a younger him could have relied on. He became the calm, confident, and snarky Tommy Buck has come to love. But it was still a mask like the others. A way for Tommy to be himself while concealing his fears and insecurities from those around him.

Tommy shared his experiences with past partners and how they only liked the mask. Anytime Tommy lowered it even a fraction, they bolted. He kept that mask up as long as possible in front of Buck.

But four months into their relationship, Tommy responded to a bad call. When his shift ended, he hopped in his truck and drove, not realizing where he was until he had knocked on Buck’s door. He tried to backtrack and pretend everything was fine but Buck wouldn’t let him. He pulled Tommy inside the apartment and they went upstairs. He held Tommy in bed and coaxed him into sharing what happened. It was the first time Tommy dropped his mask and cried in front of Buck. He even shared all the things he believed were ugly about himself and why he didn’t want Buck to see this side of him.

Buck assured Tommy he was the most beautiful man Buck had ever seen, a way to break the tension in the air and it got Tommy to laugh and made his body finally relax.

It was perhaps that night when Buck knew wholeheartedly that Tommy would be the one to always have his heart.

“I love you,” Tommy said in the present with conviction. “I want all of it, Evan. I want you. Move in today. Marry me tomorrow. I don’t care. I just know I want you.”

Buck had no control over the goofy smile that spread across his face. It felt much like the one when Tommy agreed to come to his sister’s wedding with him. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” Tommy surged forward, kissing him, breathless and sure. “We can pack your stuff right now.

Buck laughed, pulling him into another kiss. “We have plans today.”

“Screw them.”

“Tommy,” Buck said, cradling his face. “We have all the time in the world to move my stuff over. I’m not going anywhere. Let’s go back to bed, wake up in a few hours where we can make out and maybe have some morning delight. I can make us breakfast and we'll laze around until we have to meet Eddie and Chris for lunch. We can share the good news with them. When we have dinner with Maddie, Chimney, and Jee tonight, we can tell them the news too. Then tomorrow, we can go get all my important things and figure the rest out later since I have a few months left on my lease.”

“Break it,” Tommy said.

Buck gave him a furrowed look. “Tommy, if I break it then it’ll stay on my record for 7 years. It’s unlikely I’ll be able to rent anywhere else.”

“You won’t ever need to rent again. I own this place and if we grow out of it with a second or third kid then we’ll buy a new one. You’ll never need to rent again.”

“Are you absolutely sure?” Buck asked, the words an echo in his ears as he remembered Tommy asking the same thing so long ago.

“Evan, I will marry you right now if you let me.”

Butterflies filled his stomach and Buck knew he was done for. “If you say anything about marriage again we’ll end up at the courthouse before noon.”

Tommy smiled mischievously and opened his mouth to say something but Buck covered it with his hand.

“I want to. I really do," Buck said with a groan. Why did he have to be the level-headed one at the moment? “But you deserve to be proposed to. You deserve to be wooed. We deserve to have a wedding with all our friends and family and a two-week honeymoon away from work and all the stresses life gives us. I want to marry you right now but we deserve all of those things too.”

Tommy sighed and Buck removed his hand. “Fine. But I might end up proposing first.”

Buck laughed. “Okay, fine. Whoever proposes first gets to decide what wedding cake flavor we have.”

“Oh, it's so on.”

"And no half-assed proposal either."

"Never," Tommy said, aghast.

If there was one thing Buck learned over the last year it was that Tommy had a flare for dramatics when the occasion rose.

Buck wrapped his arms around Tommy’s shoulders and pulled him onto his chest, wrapping his legs around Tommy to get him close. “I love you,” he said softly.

“I love you too,” Tommy replied contently. They fell into silence, the few hours of sleep they had before waking up finally hitting them as their breathing slowed down. “I love you so much, Evan.”

Buck smiled sleepily. “I love you so much too.”

Tommy drifted off shortly later but Buck stayed awake, thinking about the ring he saw a few weeks ago when out with Maddie. She clocked him right away and asked if he and Tommy were at that stage yet. He told her he didn't know but admitted that he believed Tommy was the one. Maddie smiled softly at him and told him life was short and if he was sure, she would support them no matter when they decided to take the next step.

Buck kissed the top of Tommy's head and as he fell asleep, thought about the way he would propose. There was no way in hell Tommy would get there first. Not when Buck got his hands on a clipboard.

[jezabelle9299]

Rise and Shine S.R x FEM! Reader

Overture- This is a part 2 of Morning Sunshine, which if you'd like to read you could do Here, but if you don't feel like doing that the gist is that these two are roommates on a long case (separate beds they're awkward enough without being under the same comforter), and when Spencer wakes up Reader is already up getting ready, so they decide to get breakfast together. But Spencer is very sleepy, and starts drifting off again.

CWs-Spencer falls down, but he's fine.

A/N- Someone actually requested this! It made me very happy and I would like to give that person a very small kiss on the nose. Also it's technically Halloween, so happy Halloween! I'm beginning to think I may not finish all of these before the end of the month (but I may die trying) Anyway, this is day 23, and if you'd like to read the other things I did this month you can do that here: October Writing Master List

You let Spencer sleep in an extra 15 minutes, long enough for you to finish your makeup– before trying to wake him up again. You agreed to get breakfast and coffee before the morning briefing, and if you were going to make it in time, he needed to start getting ready. 

“Hey Spencer?” You called out to him, and although you were only a few feet away, he didn’t respond. 

“Spence?” This time he only turned over in response, so you leaned over his bed to gently shake his shoulder, lowering your voice a little bit so as to not startle him. 

“Hey, come on, we gotta go if we’re going to make it to the briefing on time and still get breakfast on the way.” He turned his head towards you, sleepily grumbling a little bit. 

“5 more minutes Sunshine?” That he’d never called you before. He wasn’t very into nicknames outside of occasionally calling you and your colleagues by their last names. And you could see the very moment he recognized it in himself, his eyes shooting open, and him immediately sitting back up in bed. He registered your slightly shocked expression and threw the blankets off of himself. 

“Ah— I mean I— I’ll get ready now.”  He stumbled to get out of that bed so quickly, he didn’t even notice his leg caught in the sheets until he went tumbling to the floor. 

“Oh my god Spencer are you ok?” You rushed over to him, trying to pull the rest of the bedding off of him.

“Yeah-yep, I’m fine. How about I meet you in the lobby in like 10 minutes?” He spoke while still collecting himself from the floor. 

“Sure, I’ll see you then.” You gently closed the door behind you, and made your way down to the lobby to wait. Spencer however, spent the first minute screaming into a pillow because he was so mad at himself that he not only let the nickname he preferred to keep confined to his thoughts slip in front of you, but that he immediately fell down after. Like a baby deer learning to walk. 

When he came down to the lobby, his face was still as red as could be. But you didn’t say a word about what happened earlier, leading him with his cute little message bag to the cute little cafe down the street. You got your food and coffees, and then after the waitress made sure everything was ok, you decided you could now tease him just a little bit.

“So Sunshine, huh?” He almost choked on his coffee, and you felt just a little bit bad for bringing it up. 

“I’m so sorry about that, I wasn’t thinking– I didn’t mean to call you–that.”

“I didn’t think you liked nicknames.”

“Generally I don’t.”

“So what got me the honor of such a flattering one?”

“I don’t know, you’re just so warm? I guess?” Warm, bright, the light of his life— it was all semantics really.

“Aww, thank you. That’s really sweet, Spencer.” 

You took a glance at the clock on the wall, and realized you needed to be at the briefing in less than 20 minutes. Everyone on the team knew you were sharing a room so if you both turned up late, they’d have a field day. You could make it on time, but you raised your hand when the waitress walked by so you could get the check. 

“Oh the two people at that table already paid your tab. They said you were a very cute couple.” She said it in a way that was so sweet and genuine, you really weren’t sure who you were picturing when you looked towards the door, where the waitress had pointed. 

Yet there they were, Derek and Emily, smug as ever. Spencer followed your line of sight and all of the color drained from his face. They each gave you small waves before putting their sunglasses back on and walking out. 

“Alright, we’re getting made fun of this morning anyway, you might as well finish your coffee.” Spencer grumbled while picking up his own mug again.

[youkissedareaderinthedark]

Part of It

Synopsis: Y/n has been the social media manager for the Argentina National Team for a few months now. She’s unofficially everyone’s favorite employee

young fem argentine reader x platonic argentina national football team

A/N: this fic will be regarding the entire team, but it will mainly feature: Alvarez, Fernandez, Molina, Garnacho, Messi, and De Paul, because those are the players I know the best.

more a/n: also please don’t be surprised if some of the info in this fic is false and the players are ooc, im not based in argentina so I could easily get a lot of these things wrong

. so

. for as long as you can remember, the only thing you’ve loved more than playing football is being behind a camera

. as a kid whenever you weren’t on the pitch itself, you were recording your teammates and friends, creating their own personal highlight reels

. and like every other kid in Argentina, you spent your entire childhood playing football

. but it wasn’t until you were a teenager when you started to discover your love for camera work

. it started when a teammate of yours asked you to record something for social media, initially as a joke

. but then the video got a couple hundred views, and you quickly began to love the feeling of creating something people can visually enjoy

. your teenage years were filled with football and videography

. then by the time your senior year came around, you knew you wanted to by apart of both scenes however you could in the future

. leading to your commitment to Cordoba National University with a major in communication and media studies

. you graduate in 2021, and spend a few weeks looking for jobs

. then you find Cordoba fc and their opening for a new social marketing manager

. you get hired within two weeks of applying as a social media manager

. because the Cordoba community is pretty small, you can spend a lot of time getting to know the players and the fans really well

. you learn a lot there, as it’s your first work experience for a professional football club

. you work there till the end of sepetmber/mid october, because through a few of your co-workers, you learn that Central Cordoba has an opening for social media manager

. which of course, you applied to and by the end of November, you’re part of the Central Cordoba staff

. it was a lot of fun; hanging out with players, befriending other staff, traveling with the team, and obviously, managing their social media

. you prove to be extremely efficient there, bringing in thousands of new fans

. which builds your reputation as an employee a lot

. and suddenly, you’re getting offers for different clubs around argentina

. only 1 stands out to you though

. Argentina’s national team offer

. because apparently, due to the world cup occurring at the end of the year, the communications directors wanted more publicity before the competition

. you obviously reply back, and a few weeks later you’re invited to their headquarters for an interview

. at first, you didn’t think you got the job because it took a while to hear back from the directors

. but then you wake up to yet another email waiting for you

. and you are officially argentina’s social media manager

. your first day is technically in april

. but you don’t meet any of the players until the end of that month

. you didn’t even know you were gonna meet the players that day so you were severely unprepared

. one moment you were making coffee with your co workers

. then lionel messi walks in beside rodrigo de paul

. they caught you by surprise

. both of them were really nice though

. you eventually learn that they all are

. your job mainly consists of filming the team together and managing the their social media accounts

. this is how you get to know each of the players

. you click with julian the most at first because of the age similarity

. he becomes your best friend within your first week

. any meetings that the both of you are included in are spent sitting on opposite sides of the room because you were told your friendship is “a disturbance to the work environment”

. you guys make it up by being attached to the hip before and after practices though

. a third of your camera roll is funny candid’s of julian

. you guys are bus seat partners and make fun out of annoying the other guys

. enzo is another close friend of yours

. you guys are always gossiping about something

. “did you hear about the new intern?”

. “apparently, somebody was found with somebody else in the break room after the meeting last week”

. “I swear he wasn’t even sick that one time, he was just at a party the night before”

. he tries to convince you to dye your hair like him

. and when you refuse, he lets you make up for it by helping him tone in

. you guys are always laughing together, no matter what the situation is

. you and molina have such a playful relationship

. you’re always making fun of him for no real reason

. he’s just trying to defend himself

. you do it for all of them, but his birthday photo dump is always the worst

. you two are always wandering around headquarters, looking for either someone to bother or something to entertain yourselves

. it always ends it great content though

. you have a soft spot for alejandro

. mostly because he has a crush on you and tries to play it off

. but you’ve known since the first few times of hanging out with him

. when you’re filming concent for the argentina pages, you’ll see alejandro trying to show off at least three times a video

. you find it hilarious

. the other guys tease him relentlessly for it

. you two are still good friends regardless

. he tries to be protective of you even though he’s literally four years younger than you

. again, you find it hilarious

. and he always gets shit from the other players

. leo is such a dad to you it’s funny

. he was so nice the first time you met him, and after that he unofficially adopted you as a daughter

. even though he’s only like 13 years older than you

. shows his care in small ways

. making sure you never get hit with a ball when you’re sitting in to a practice

. coming into your office when you’re both in headquarters to check on you

. making sure you’re safe when you’re traveling with the team

. whether it be just assigning another player to look after you or a whole ass bodyguard

. also protecting you from de paul

. because even though rodrigo acts as a bodyguard to both you and leo, he still likes to mess with you a lot

. he’s like an older brother to you

. super playful

. always teasing you

. agreesive type of love

. this is where messi comes in again

. insisting he puts you down and lets you do your job

. rodri also tries to convince you to get tattoos

. honestly that’s a whole team thing

. playful peer pressure is real there

. anyway

. you, julian, and enzo are such a trio

. getting up to the most random shit in other countries after games

. you guys were two seconds away from jumping into a canal in italy

. but then here comes leo

. scolding you guys like his children

. and sending you back to the hotel

. also, you have a jersey from almost every player on the team because before you got your own jersey, you always just picked someone random to wear on game days

. but then rodri started frowning when he saw you in julian’s jersey because apparently, you hadn’t worn his shirt in a few games

. and now you have a separate drawer just for jerseys

. oh and the world cup

. that was so fun for you

. traveling with the team to qatar

. hanging out in stadiums during practice, half upset because it felt like a million degrees

. but half in awe because holy shit you’re in qatar for the world cup

. you’re on the edge of your seat for every game

. the final almost killed you

. you were almost crying on the bench next to the other staff

. totally worth it though

. you started sobbing when montiel made the last penalty kick

. because you knew these guys, you knew how much they wanted it, how much they deserved it

. it was a mess of hugs and tears after that

. julian grins into your shoulder in a hug

. rodri tackled you

. enzo is basically jumping up and down with excitement

. you don’t think you’ll ever see alejandro that happy again

. you and molina are crying together

. and messi gives you the biggest hug

. it’s so fun celebrating with the team

. spraying champange with gonzalo

. singing along to music with paulo

. dancing around with lautaro

. and coming back to argentina after that

. seeing all the fans in buenos aires, looking around and seeing argentine pride everywhere

. surreal

. there’s definitely no feeling like it

. which is why you’re so sad when it’s time to go back to your clubs

. you came to an agreement with central cordoba to go back and work for them during the argentine league

. then coming back to the national team when it called

. so you can’t wait for next season

[lainiespicewrites]

Coach Sy part 4 "The Date"

Here it is folks! Sy and Alayna's big first date and other things ;) Enjoy let me know what you think! No I promise I'm not stopping here!!

Warnings: cursing, alcohol consumption, Smut! (p in v) , creampie, Dom Sy

Reblogs and comments are always welcome! all mistakes are mine! it's late and I definitely did not proof read because I was on a roll and excited about posting it! I'm sorry in advance for any grammatical errors

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was another busy week. We were headed into the second week of October and that meant midterms were right around the corner. And so was fall break. Half of my students were anxious and stressed, they had test anxiety and were worried where this would put them on the class ranking. The others, I couldn’t get them to focus. They had one foot out the door ready for the long weekend, Ready for pumpkin patches and fall leaves. Surely plotting their next instagram post or tik tok or whatever it was they were doing now. 

I actually didn’t see much of Sy during the week, the boys were up against another difficult team this friday so he spent most of his lunches watching tape for practice. We kept things professional when we did run into each other though. It helped that I wasn’t sure how far he wanted to take it after what he’d said saturday. He wanted to be a gentleman. I guess that meant he wasn’t going to kiss me again either until he took me out on a date. I could handle that. But it didn’t mean it wasn’t torture. Logan may be kind and sweet and the perfect gentleman. But he’s also a big fucking tease. And he was doing it on purpose!

I ran into him on Wednesday afternoon in the hallway. I was on my way back in from picking up lunch. He was on his way back to his classroom. He immediately smiled when he saw me

“Well there’s a sight for sore eyes, late lunch darlin?” He asked, leaning against the wall in the hallway. I blushed.

“Hey handsome, yeah, busy afternoon just got the chance to go pick something up.” I responded. Then added “I’ve missed are lunch dates, I haven’t seen much of you this week,” I bit my lip softly waiting for him respond. 

“Yeah, me too, I’d much rather be having you for lunch,” He winked. “But I don’t think that’d be very work appropriate.” He smirked. I felt my face heat up and my eyes went wide. 

“Sy!” I scolded trying so hard to hide my laugh. He cupped the my jaw and brushed his thumb over my cheek. 

“Saturday’s only a few days away Darlin’, I waited over a year for you. Just a few more days and you can see as much of me as you want,” He drawled out chuckling softly. 

My face went completely flush and my heart rate sped up. This had to be what a heart attack felt like. God this man knew what he was doing. My skin felt like it was burning and simultaneously I was puddle on the floor for him. 

“You talk big game for a man that won’t even kiss me,” I teased, finally finding my voice again. I watched him as his eyes flickered behind me and he quickly turned to see if we were alone. 

“I can’t baby, you’re like a drug or something. If I get started with you again I’m not gonna be able to stop. And this aint the right place for that sugar.” He smiled softly. He let his hand fall back to his side. We were in the middle of the hallway surely we couldn’t stand like this forever and not get caught. And he was right. Faculty dating isn’t against the rules. But at the rate we were going we would be fired if we took a step closer to each other right now. 

“I do that much for you?” I asked, unable to hide smile. 

“You do more than that sugar, you’ll see soon enough. I gotta head back to my classroom and get some work done. I’ll see you at the game Friday! You go eat darlin, don’t need you passin out on us,” he gave me one last soft smile before we parted ways and I headed back to my office.  

On thursday night I went to dinner with the girls. And gave them all the details they’d been waiting for. 

“Girl I would have melted! He did not!” Skyler gasped. I laughed and hid my blush behind a sip of wine. 

“And in the middle of the school hallway, you guys are like teenagers,” Hayley shook her head, but smiled. “You better be back by curfew saturday night,” she smirked. I took another bite of the cake we were sharing for dessert and smiled skyler shook her head. 

“I don’t think he plans on taking her back to her house unless he’s staying the night,” She joked. 

“My god you guys can we get through one dinner without discussing my love life,” 

“No, it was non-existent until he came along and we are fully invested. This is better than TV!” Skyler laughed. “Seriously though, I hope you have so much fun saturday night, you haven’t been out on a date in… well a really long time! You deserve this!” 

“He does know you’re like horrible at bowling though right? Like when we used to go in high school your best game was like a 72, you might as well as just dropped it right in the gutter!” Hayley laughed. 

“I tried to tell him! I chuckled. “If anything there will be a lot of laughter. And it’ll be an excuse for him to put his hands on me again.” I wiggled my eyebrows. Hayley rolled her eyes and skyler almost choked on her drink laughing. I love my friends so much! 

Friday felt like it dragged on forever. Sy was busy all day again so I’d only heard from him in his usual “Good morning” text. We were busy in the office starting sign-ups for the first senior college campus field trip, and I skipped lunch so I was starving by the time I packed up my office at the end of the school day. Just as I was about to lock up my office there was a knock on my door. 

I looked up and saw a few of the boys on the football team standing outside of my office. 

“Derek, Matt, Tyler, Can I help you boys?” I smiled. 

“We just wanted to thank you for being at our game last week Ms. P, You’re the best!” Derek spoke first. He was such a sweet kid. He was a shoein for a football scholarship at one of the big universities. 

“Yeah and we heard you were gonna be there tonight too! That’s awesome, Coach says you’re our good luck charm and I think he’s right. No one’s got as much spirit as you!” Tyler laughed. 

“You boys are just trying to butter me up to write your college recommendation letters,” I chuckled. “That’s so sweet of you to say, thank you! I can’t wait to watch you guys play tonight!”

“You rock Ms. Plummer! Oh and uh,” Matt smirked  and stepped out from behind the other two boys I hadn’t noticed he was holding a bouquet of flowers. “Coach sent us to deliver these,” He said extending the vase out to me. 

“Thank you Matt,” I smiled taking them from him and setting them on my desk. “You guys better get home Coach will have your head if you don’t take care of yourselves before the game!” They all smiled 

“We’ll see you tonight Ms. P!” Derek called as they left the office. Shook my head and smiled to my self as picked up the flowers and finally closed up my office. 

Once I got home from work I set the flowers on the counter and noticed there was a little card attached. I pulled off the little envelope and took out the card. 

“Flowers for our gorgeous good luck charm. It’s gonna be a great game! Can’t wait to see you tonight Sugar ;)”  I could feel my cheeks heating up and I smiled to myself. He was too much sometimes. But I loved it. I ate a quick dinner, changed into some jeans and put on Sy’s hoodie I still had from last weekend. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.  I sprayed on a little perfume that he had complimented a while ago. And then headed out the door to get to the game a little early. 

I don’t know why I was trying to impress him. I already had him. But I really enjoyed having his attention. And I missed it so much this week while he was busy. The spot next to his truck was open so I parked next to him. It was starting to feel natural. I liked it. It felt like we belonged together. I shook my head. I was getting ahead of myself. 

When I headed toward the field I found him immediately. He was standing on the sidelines talking with the other coaches while the boys were warming up. I walked along the fence that ran along the outside of the track and stood leaned against it waiting for him to see me. One of the other coaches saw me first and smirked. He sent me a little wink before he nudged Sy and nodded in my direction. Sy raised his eyebrow and turned to see what Nick was looking at. I smiled and and waved shyly. “I’ll be back, Nick get the boys started on the next defensive drill, I want ‘em good and focused tonight!” He said barely looking back to catch his assistant coaches response before he strode over to the fence giving me a toothy grin. 

“Hello beautiful,” He smiled as he leaned his hip against the fence. 

“Hey handsome, looks like the boys are in good shape for the game tonight!” I said. He looked out at the field and watched them for a minute and nodded. 

“Yeah, we’re lookin’ even better now that our good luck charm is here. The boys couldn’t wait to give you your flowers.” He chuckled, turning back to face me. 

“Yeah? I’m sure THEY couldn’t,” I smirked. “Thank you they were beautiful, and the card was sweet Sy, you didn’t need to do that.” 

“Gentlemen always, sends flowers on the first date,” He teased. 

“Yeah but it’s not until tomorrow,” I joked. 

“Okay, so maybe I felt bad that i’ve been a little busy this week, just wanted you to know that I’m eager to see you again. I’m always thinking about ya,” he smiled

“Sy,” i blushed

“It’s true, I’m always thinking about your pretty little smile. And those lips.” He paused “The way you taste. And those tits,” He smirked wiggling is eyebrows. 

“Oh my god,” I blushed and folded my arms against the fence hiding my face. “You are ridiculous!” I mumbled against my sleeve. He chuckled. 

“Is that my sweatshirt?” He asked raising an eyebrow. I lifted my head to meet his gaze biting my lip softly. 

“It might be.” I said shyly. 

“So you’ve been thinking about me too,” He smirked. 

“It’s kinda hard not too,” I admitted. He smiled and holding my gaze for a moment before looking back at the field, then behind me at the bleachers. 

“It’s probably not appropriate for us to show PDA around the students like this huh?” He said sadly, “I wanna kiss you so bad,”

“Well, it is technically after work hours, and theres no harm in a good luck kiss.” I smiled batting my eyelashes playfully. 

“I like the way you think Darlin,” He smirked cupping my jaw tilting my face up and pressing his lips to mine softly. We stayed like that for a few seconds breathing each other in. It’d been a long week. Finally we pulled away when one of the players whistled from the sidelines. Sy chuckled and shook his head. 

“Good luch coach.” 

They didn’t need it, the boys played amazing. The predictions would be that this would be a close scoring game, but our team shut them out. The final score was 54 to 10. They had 4 straight consecutive wins this season. They were undefeated so far and if they won again next week it would be the first time in 15 years we’d headed into an undefeated season. Sy was really soaking it up after the game. 

“Well look at you Cowboy.” I smiled waiting against my car as he walked out to his truck after everyone had cleared out. “You’re famous around here now.” 

“Nah, the boys deserve all the credit, they’re the ones putting in the work.” He said humbly. 

“I saw you celebrating you out there, You love this!” I grinned, looking up at him as he stopped right in front of me. “You’re a damn good coach, they wouldn’t be this good without you,” I put my hand on his chest and the other on his shoulder pulling him closer. 

“With a beauty like you cheering us on we’re unstoppable baby,” He said softly grabbing my belt loops and pulling me against him kissing me roughly. I let him bit my lip and slip his hands down to squeeze my ass before I pulled away and pushed him back softly with my hand on his chest. 

“Slow down Tiger, you haven’t taken me out yet remember?” I smirked. He groaned dropping his head to my shoulder breaking heavily against my neck. “Whats got you all riled up captain?

“You showing up in my hoodie, kissing me like that, acting all shy,  you’re such a tease baby,” he growled. 

“Me? And your little stunt in the hallway this week wasn’t teasing? I couldn’t focus for the rest of the day! And I couldn’t kiss you then!” I pouted. He smirked. 

“Yeah I guess that wasn’t fair was it?” He brushed my hair back away from my face and placed a gentle kiss on my forehead. “Okay, we better get out of here before I try and take you home with me again,”

“One more day Logan, you did this to yourself!” I winked. “It’ll be worth it.” He chuckled.

“I’ll pick you up around 7:30 for dinner, the bowling thing starts at 9 is that okay?” He asked. 

I nodded “That sounds perfect Sy! I’ll see you then,” I said walking  around to the drivers side of my car and opening the door. 

“Get home safe, Text me when you get home.” He said as he got in his truck. 

“I will!”

The next day I was so anxious. Logan and I had been out together before but this was different. I could barely eat I was so nervous. I sat around trying to get some housework done, but I couldn’t even nervous clean. So I sat down and tried to get some reading done, but then there was a spicy scene in the book I was reading and, well my mind wandered to Sy and I was nervous all over again. Finally 6 o’clock rolled around and I let myself start to get ready. I pulled on a pair of tight jeans I hoped he’d like. Not that it would matter. By the end of the night I knew  they’d be off.  I put on a dark green v neck. I’ve noticed he seems to like that color. We would eventually have to switch to bowling shoes so I just put on a pair of converse and paced while I tried to figure out what to do with my hair and how much make up I should do. Then I panicked again because, Should I pack a bag? 

It’s very likely I’ll end up at his place again. Unless he doesn’t want me to stay over. I don’t want to assume. Maybe I should text him. No because I didn’t want him to know I was thinking about what we’d be doing later. But I was. And I’m sure he was. This was Ridiculous. I picked up my phone and sent a quick text. 

“Do gentlemens let their ladyfriends sleepover on the first date?” I sent. That sounds so stupid, He’s gonna think your stupid. He’s literally gonna call you and cancel the whole thing. My phone buzzed and I jumped a little lost in thought and anxiety. 

“When they’re lucky enough to have a date as sexy as you they do ;)” He replied. Okay so maybe I’m not stupid. 

“Would it be unladylike and presumptuous for me to be prepared for said occasion?” I texted back. Instead of texting my phone rang. I answered him quickly

“Hello?” I giggled. 

“Hey Darlin’ I was just getting ready to come pick you up and I was thinking, Do you wanna stay at my place tonight?” I could hear the smirk in his voice. 

“Sy,” I chuckled “You didn’t have to.” he shushed me. 

“Listen baby, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but the way we’ve been going at it this week, I figured I may as well formally ask.” He was holding back laughter.

“I’d be honored to stay with you tonight, I’ll pack a back,” I teased.  He chuckled 

“Good girl, I’ll see you in 20 baby,” we hung up and bit my lip shaking my head to myself. He was so damn cute! I finished getting ready and threw a few overnight essentials in a bag. Just as I was double checking everything there was a knock on my door. I grabbed my purse and bag and opened the door to see Sy with another bouquet of flowers and a big grin. 

“Hey gorgeous! You ready?” He smiled. I nodded. 

“Yeah! Those for me?” I blushed. 

“Told ya, Gentleman always brings flowers on the first date.” He smirked proud of himself. They were a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses. 

“Your momma raised a good man!” I smiled. “They’re beautiful, I’ll go put these in some water and we can go!” After I found a vase and set them on the counter next to last nights flowers we left for dinner. He took me to a local burger joint. It reminded me of one of the restaurants in Grease. He’d genuinely put thought into this! We ate dinner and even shared a milkshake. 

“You’re such a dork!” I laughed when he leaned across the table to take a sip. 

“You like it or  you wouldn’t keep me around,” He joked. 

“Yeah I guess you’re right.” He laughed and his eyes flickered to my lips. 

“Hold still sugar,  you got a little something,” He took his thumb and swiped the ice cream off my bottom lip and then brought it to his lips sucking it off. I swallowed hard and bit my lip “Got it,” He winked. 

“Mmhmm, you did,” I stuttered. 

After he paid for dinner he drove us to the bowling alley and we got set up on a lane for the night. We also got a little wrist band for the bar. “I”m gonna go get a beer sugar you want anything?” He asked. 

“I’ll take a wine cooler, whatever they got!” I smiled. I set up our screen putting our names on the board and started our first game. I felt him wrap his arm around my waist and he pulled me close pressing a kiss to my neck. 

“You ready?” he asked handing me my drink? I nodded biting my lip and trying to control my breathing. I didn’t want him to know how easy it was for him to make me lose my mind. He chuckled and kissed my cheek letting go of me and picked up his ball.

Sy was up first and I watched as he stepped up to the lane. He drew his arm back and let the ball come forward dropping it perfectly in the middle He hit all but two pins in the far left. Of course he was good at this. “Damn Sy, I didn’t realize you were a professional at every sport.” I joked. He chuckled. 

“A couple buddies and I used to play on a league in high school. It’s been a while.” He picked up his ball again when it came back through and stepped up to the line again and it spiraled down and curved perfectly knocking down the last pins.  “Guess I still got it!” He smirked. I rolled my eyes and took a sip of my drink. I grabbed my ball and stepped up to the line. Well, I’ve made myself look stupid before and he’s still here so, here’s to embarrassing myself! I threw the ball and it dropped hard immediately rolling toward the right gutter. I sighed heavy and dropped my head in shame. I could hear Logan trying not to laugh. 

“Shut up,” I said when I turned around waiting for my ball. 

“That was a good try,” He snickered. 

“I’ll get the next one!” I said confidently. I did not. This one rolled more to the left skated along the edge and knocked down two pins. I winced but laughed at myself when I turned around. 

“You hit em that time!” I laughed. 

“We can’t all be perfect like you Sy!” I joked. He shook his head his chest shaking with laughter. 

“I can help you if you want,” He smiled sweetly. I wasn’t going to give into him that easily. Not yet. 

“No! I can do it,” I said stubbornly.  He just laughed. We went on like that for a while. The next turn He bowled a strike. I knocked down 4. He picked up another spare. I got 6. He got another strike. I threw another gutterball. When it was my turn again I downed the rest of my drink and stood up grabbing the ball. I walked up to the line and stood their for a second. I stared at the pins and the turned back towards Sy and pouted. 

“Okay I give up, help,” He smiled standing up from the table and walked up behind me. 

“Come here baby, Stand a little more to the right of center.” He moved us over and grabbed my hip so I was completely pressed against him. He slowly ran his hand down my arm gently grabbing my wrist. Guiding it back to show me how to throw the ball. He was saying something but I honestly couldn’t hear the instructions he was giving over my heartbeat pounding in my ears. “Just like that and let it go okay.” he smiled. I nodded and he guidded me again helping me throw the ball. This time I knocked down all but one. “Thats my girl!” He said spinning me around and kissing me passionately. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders kissing him back. He pulled away quickly and smiled. “I knew you could do it.” We finished the first game and of course Sy had Won. He got me another drink and he switched to water so he could drive us home.  The second drink was starting to hit and I kept calling him over to help me and teasing him by pressing my ass against him everytime he was behind me. At the end of the last game he was behind me helping me throw again. I was definitely a little buzzed. 

I pressed my ass against him grinding against him to  whatever song was playing on the old jukebox. But he was done with my teasing. He growled in my ear squeezing my hip tight. And after I let go of the ball he turned me around crashing his lips to mine. I smirked when we pulled away. “What do you think you’re doing darlin, hmm?” he smirked.

“Just having fun Sy,” I ran my hand down his chest and his stomach. He grabbed my wrist stoppinig me before I could get any further. I pouted. “Buzzkill,” He shook his head. 

“You’re in for it when we get home darlin, don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” we left the bowling alley and got back in the truck. I was  so excited for him to get us home. 

“Such a naughtly little girl teasing me in public like that. You like misbehaving don’t you,” He growled when we were on the main road back home. His hand had been on my thigh the whole drive. His fingertips softly massaging the inside. 

“I think you like it when I do,” I teased. I reached over and ran my had across his lap and smirked when I felt the bulge in his jeans. I playfully squeezed him and he cursed under his breath. 

“What am I gonna do with you.” He groaned. He pulled into his drive way and threw it into park. He jumped out and ran to my side of the truck. I had just enough time to unbuckle my seatbelt before he pulled me out and threw me over his shoulder. 

“Sy!” I laughed. He smacked my ass. 

“You asked for this sugar!”  He carried me into the house and took me straight to his bedroom. He dropped me on the bed and flipped me over onto my stomach. I squealed playfully as he pulled down my jeans and panties tossing them to the side. “You wanna be a brat and misbehave. You’re gonna learn baby.” He brought his hand down with a loud smack on my ass. “Bad girls get punished.” I could feel myself dripping already. God it was like he was straight out of a romance novel. But he was real. This was happening. He gave a hard slap to the other cheek and I whimpered. He rubbed over it soothing it gently. “You like this don’t you, when I take control?” I moaned inresponse. 

“Words sugar,” He smacked my ass again and I yellped not ready for it. 

“Yes Sir!” I choked out. 

“That’s my good girl, now stay just like that, Ive been dying to bend you over all week.”  I heard him unzip his jeans and then felt him press the head of his cock against my folds. He didn’t give me time to adjust this time. He just slammed into me. 

“Fuck Sy!” I moaned as he started a relentless pace. He tangled his fingers in my hair as he fucked me from behind pulling me up against his chest. 

“I love when your like this, when you’re so needy for me. You’ve been aching for my cock all week. And You’d do anything to get it.” I blushed. Fuck he was right. I moaned as he thrusted harder. 

“Say it,” he growled in my ear. 

“Mm fuck I need your cock Logan,” I moaned. I heard him groan and felt his fingers pressing against my clit as he reached around to help me reach my climax. 

“I know baby, and you needed me to make you cum didn’t you, I’m gonna let you cum baby all you have to do is ask.” It felt so fucking good. He was so intense. His words his motions. The things he was doing to me was too much. 

“Please Sy,” I begged.

“Please what baby?” He smirked as his thrusts became sloppy. I groaned feeling it build up inside me. 

“Please let me cum!” I moaned. He Pushed me back down so my face was against the mattress and grabbed my hips thrusting into me. 

“Let go baby, I gotcha, I’m right here baby, cum for me. “ his name tumbled from my lips as my walls clenched around him and I reached my climax. He wasn’t far behind. A few more thrusts and he was cumming inside me. Growling in my ear telling me how good I was. 

“Fuck,” He breathed pulling out and laying on the bed next to me. He pulled me on top of him, combing his fingers through my hair. “Well, I’d say that went well,” He smirked. I shook my head trying to catch my breath. 

“You’re an idiot.” I laughed. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That's it Please let me know what you think! There's more to come and let me know if you want to be added to the tag list :)

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[gummydummy19]

Month six: Army nurse (October)

Summary: Sy is too grumpy and proud to ask for help, so you do what needs to be done.

Content Warnings: fluff, grumpy sy, bad writing idk lol APOLOGIES

Word Count: 2900+

(this is part six to my series: A year in apartment 6B)

October 4th:

“Can I doodle on your cast?”

It was Sunday. The most sacred day of the week. The weather had been getting gloomier recently, but you didn’t mind in the slightest. Fall was your favourite season by far.

You and Sy were hanging on the couch, 4 hours into the Harry Potter marathon you finally convinced him to partake in.

“Hmm?” He groaned sleepily

“Can I draw something on your cast?” You repeated your earlier request

“Like what?”

“I don’t knoooww…I’m bored” you whined

“You’re kidding right? You nagged my damn ear off about these movies and now you’re bored?”

“Well not bored bored just, I need something else to do while we’re watching.”

Sy huffed as he ran his palm over his face and down his beard, clearly debating you request.

“Oh pretty pretty please with a cherry on top?” You begged

“Fine! But I better not catch you drawing a dick or some shit” he grumbled, making you chuckle as you jumped up to get your markers.

October 10th:

'Syverson, I swear to god if you don't pipe down and eat your damn veggies Im gonna tie you down and make you.'

The man was stubborn as a damn bull, but so were you damnit.

“Is that a promise, darling?” he replied with that damn smirk of his, making you roll your eyes as you tried to hide the inevitable blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Can it and eat” you rushed out, pointing your fork at him.

You wanted to help him. That’s what good friends do. Sure, some days you debated to either push him down the stairs or kiss him silly. But neither of those seemed very friendly of you, so you settled for just helping him.

It didn’t seem to bad at first, but the longer that damn cast stayed on, the grumpier he got.

You understood he was a man of pride, you really did, but there really wasn’t any shame in allowing you to help him from time to time, at least that’s how you saw it, but try explaining that to captain grumpy…

October 17th:

“I said I was fine didn’t I?” Sy grumbled, trying to manoeuvre himself through the kitchen on his crutches.

'Would you stop acting like a damn child?' You yelled

'Then stop treating me like a damn child!'

“Im not! I’m just trying to help!”

“I don’t need your damn help! I’m a grown man and I was doing just fine before you came along”

Okay, that stung.

'Fine!' Have it your way!' you huffed, 'Aika, c'mere girl' you called out, allowing Aika to walk past you and out the door before you slammed it angrily behind you.

You walked through the chilly, orange tinted streets with Aika trotting proudly beside you, glancing up at you every few seconds.

'He such an ass...' you grumbled, hugging yourself tighter as the cold fall breeze huffed passed you, helping you cool off.

Part of you had hoped having Sy back in the apartment would ease your ‘crush’ or whatever it was you had going on. You spent months trying to convince yourself you were just horny and alone. Fantasising about your hot roommate while he was away was just a way of coping. Right?

Except that since Sy came home your feelings had been all over the place. You worried about him like crazy. Which kinda scared you. You were nobody to him, so why did it matter to you wether or not he ate his damn vegetables?

Every time he made a flirty comment, you thought maybe he felt it too, but then when you offered to help him, he’d get all grumpy and cold. Sometimes you just felt ridiculous for even trying.

Your internal rant got interrupted when you felt Aika’s leash tug on your arm, bringing you to a rather abrupt halt.

“Wha- Aika come on.” You called, looking back at where she was currently sitting.

For a second you wondered why she had stopped, but then you noticed something.

She was sitting right next to some run down costume store. Nothing special at first glance, but then you noticed something in the window. For $29.99 including fake stethoscope and the promise of at least 4 jaws on the floor per room you walk into; a mildly sexist, hot nurse outfit.

“What do you think, Aika?” You looked down at your furry companion and you swore she nodded in agreement.

You've never bought something so fast in your entire life.

October 21th:

“what...what are you doing? Is that one of my chopsticks?!' You shrieked as you entered the living room, only mildly horrified by what you were currently looking at.

Syverson was sitting on the couch, well, sitting wasn't exactly the proper term for it. He was damn near folded in half. His big, muscly body bend over his stretched leg with one of your chopsticks in his hand, trying to poke around his cast.

“My foot itches,” he grumbled “Can you please just help?”

The past couple of days you tried avoiding Sy. He hadn’t apologised, neither had you. You figured it was one of those things you best ignored, but as he sat there whining for your help, you couldn’t help but make a snarky comment.

'Oh so, now you need my help?' you commented, rolling your eyes as you stepped closer, Aika still by your side.

You took the chopstick from him and carefully prodded around inside his cast. Sy fell back on the couch, groaning in relief.

'Little lower...just a little-Ah! Right there, sugar! Fucking hell...'

His words alone made your cheeks glow bright red, let alone the damn sounds he was making...You desperatly searched for a change of topic, when a certain scent hit your nostrils.

'Hey uh...Sy? When did u last shower?' You asked, retreating the chopstick and giving his big toe a poke. Sy propped himself up to look at you, raising his eyebrow at your comment.

“A proper shower? Must have been months.” He replied, chuckling at your grossed out face

'I've washed the important bits, don't you worry, sugar.' He winked

“Judging by this smell, I seriously doubt it.' you replied, trying to ignore yet another one of his flirty comments. Sometimes it felt like he knew what went on in your brain. Every dream, every fantasy. It felt like he saw right through you.

“It ain’t that bad.” He said, just when Aika stuck her nose near his foot, quickly retreating once she smelled his cast.

“See that? Even our dog won’t go near it!”

Normally, Sy would have been quick with a response, but he was busy trying to ignore the way his chest fluttered when you said ‘our dog’.

'You smell ripe, old man. This could be used as a fucking nuclear weapon. One whiff of this and the entire middle east would wave a white flag in a second.' you stated

'Hey, watch your mouth young lady!' Sy shot back with a raised finger.

'I could help you, if you want.' you carefully suggested

'Help me with what?' He grinned, knowing exactly what you were saying.

'Help you wash...'

'My important bits?' he teased

'Oh forget it' you groaned, turning away making Sy laugh

Before you could get too far, Sy got ahold of your wrist and tugged you back, making you sit down next to him.

“If you really wanted to see my dick that bad, you could’a just asked, sugar”

'I'm just worried your dick is growing a second dick"

That actually made him chuckle. The sound made your heart soar a little and you tried to ignore it.

“Well both of my dicks are fine, thank you very much”

He sat up, his face mere centimeters from yours. His fingers danced along your face, brushing some stray hairs out of his way. His voice got real low and quiet when he said,

'Besides, I'm not allowed to get this cast wet.'

Your eyes grew wide, as they gazed into his devilish ones.

He was doing this on purpose. He knew how he made you feel, the effect he had on you, he knew.

It took ever fibre in your body to shake yourself out of it.

“Okay, first of all, I meant when the cast comes off and second of all you’d be wearing underwear you moron” you stated, “and you damn well knew I meant that.”

Sy tried to hide his grin as he looked down and gave Aika a pet on her head.

“Why do you insist on helping me so much?” He asked, rather serious all of a sudden

“Because, well…I don’t know, we’re roommates” you mumbled,

“Doesn’t mean anything” he said dryly

That pissed you off a bit.

“Well, it does to me.” You replied, “Your family lives far away, and I know for a fact you’re far too proud to actually ask anyone else to come and help you.”

Sy didn’t interrupt you, so you continued, getting a little more riled up as you spoke.

“I live here now, wether you like it or not. It might not mean shit to you, but it means something to me. I’m a good roommate and an even better friend. Im not gonna let you rot away. I wanna help you because I’m a decent fucking person and it’s the bare minimum I can do.” You rambled before adding, “Oh and truth be told, Sy, I figured you’d do the same for me if the roles were reversed, but I’m strongly debating that right now.”

You don’t know when exactly you got upset, but suddenly you wanted to be anywhere but here.

“I’m gonna take Aika for her walk now if you-”

“Could you please drive me to the hospital on Monday?” Sy interrupted you

“What?”

“My cast comes off on Monday, I’d appreciate it if you could drive me.” He stated again

“I uh, yeah sure. I can get a day off from work.”

“Thanks” he muttered, scratching the back of his head

And just like that, Sy had finally apologised to you.

October 23rd:

“My colleagues are throwing a halloween party next week, you should come. Get out the house, socialise, that sorta thing?”

You were driving Sy back from the hospital, where he had finally gotten his cast removed. The doctor said he needed at least 4 weeks of physio-therapy, but he should be fine, which was a huge relief.

“Not really a big fan of parties, sugar.” He replied “plus, I aint got no custume.”

“You have your army clothes, don’t you? I could splatter some ketchup on you if you want.” You joked, making him crack a smile, showing off his fangs in the process.

“Or a vampire…” you mumbled, staring at his pearly whites.

“What?”

“Uh, n-nothing!” You replied, focussing back on the road, “So what do you say, huh? I think a party would do you good, Captain grumpy.”

“Hmm…what are you going as?” He asked, brow raised as per usual.

“Ill tell you if you let me cut your hair.” You suggested

“Like hell! You ain’t touching my hair, woman!”

“What if you just let me wash it then?”

“You really wanna get me naked, don’t you?” He joked, making you role your eyes

“I meant over the sink but whatever, dumbass”

“Fine, ill let you wash my hair if you tell me what you’re going as.”

“And let me cut it?!”

“Okay fine! And Ill let you cut it! Just tell me already.”

You smirked at your small victory before saying, “I’m going as a nurse”.

Sy’s eyes twinkled at the thought of you in a nurse outfit

“Ill go with you if you wear it while washing my hair” he smirked

“You’re an actual dog, Syverson.”

October 28th:

“Are you sure you know what your doing?” Sy asked unsure

He was propped on one of your high chairs over the sink at the kitchen island. You had a pair of scissors and a bunch of hair products scattered all over the marble top.

“Sure, can’t be that hard, can it?” You smiled, “now just relax”

You checked the temperature of the water on your hand before gentle running the tap over Sy’s dark head of hair. Your free hand softly wove through his locks, nails massing into his scalp.

“Oh fuck…” he muttered under his breath

“Too hot?” You asked

“N-no no, s’perfect sugar. Feels nice.”

His eyes were closed and you could see the tension seep out of his body as you rinsed out his hair.

A proud smile tugged at your lips with every appreciative hum that came from him.

You studied his face carefully as you took your time washing and conditioning his hair. Not a lot was said, but you didn’t mind. The silence allowed you to look at his beautiful face. Every scar, every spot, every hair. He was so gorgeous it almost hurt your eyes. Peace was a good look on him.

When his hair was all rinsed out, you gently towel-dried it, before draping the towel over his shoulders and grabbing the scissors.

Your fingers tangled through his locks as you studies his hair carefully, trying to figure out a starting point.

“Alright so, I’ll just trim up the sides a little and just shorten the general length. Sound good?”

“Whatever you say, Sugar…” Sy hummed, making you grin.

You were enjoying his compliant behaviour until you accidentally closed your first a bit too tight, pulling the root of his hair so hard his head yanked back a little, making Sy groan in what you presumed was pain.

“Oh shit, sorry!” You rushed out, soothing his scalp gently over the sore spot.

Sy let out a yelp that turned into half a groan before it became a couch as he jumped up and faced away from you.

“I-uh…gotta go to the bathroom real quick, I’ll be right back.” He mumbled before walking off, pulling the towel off his shoulders and holding it against his crotch…

…hmm…weird?

October 31rd:

“I just don’t wanna go alone, Sy, come on! I don’t know a bunch of people there”

You yelled from down the hall. Sy was sitting on the couch in the living room, the same spot he’d been sitting all day.

His leg had been killing him all day. You just knew it.

Ofcourse he would never tell you because first of all, he can’t stand it when you’re right and second of all he didn’t wanna ruin her night. If he told her, she’ll stay home and miss the party, and he didn’t want that.

“You’ve been sitting on the couch all day! It’s gonna do you good to get out of the house” you spoke, standing closer to him now.

He finally looked up from the tv to see you standing in your nurse costume, stethoscope hanging over your shoulders, knee high socks hugging your thighs, heels just the right height…

It’s a shame you’re not a real nurse because Sy’s was definitely experiencing some shortness of breath…

“Nah, sorry Sugar, but you go have fun” he said, trying his best not to sound like he was in excruciating pain “I’m gonna go take a shower”

“A cold one”, he silently added.

“Fine, I’ll see you later then.” You watched as he made his way to the bathroom

It was clear from the way he was walking that he wasn’t doing good.

You heard him turn on the water as your rummaged through your purse, double checking if you had everything you needed.

After doing a final mirror check, you were about to walk out the door but you were stopped by a loud thud and a yell coming from the bathroom.

“Sy?!” You yelled out a little panicked, but you didn’t get any response

Before you could stop yourself you rushed to the bathroom and barged in, seeing Sy laying on the bathroom floor in nothing but his boxers. (A pair that looked a little familiar to you for some reason, but that’s besides the point)

“Sy, what the hell?! Are you okay??” You rushed to his side, quickly checking him for injuries

“Damn leg won’t do what I want it to” he groaned out

“How many painkillers have you taken today?”

“Took my last one this morning…m’all out…” he mumbled

“Sy you should have told me, I could have stopped by the pharmacy!”

“I’m a grown ma-”

“Yeah yeah you’re a grown man, I’ve heard it!” You interrupted “a grown man would have made sure he had enough pain meds!”

“I have some extra’s in the cupboard for emergencies.” You said, “I’m gonna get you some and then I’m gonna run you a bath and you’re gonna let me help you for once.”

“You don’t have to, really…”

“Oh relax, you can keep your boxers on but I’m not letting you shower by yourself when you can barely stand”

“What about your party?” He asked

“What about it?” You replied calmly as you walked out the room to get his meds.

A good 20 minutes later the smell of pumpkin spice and cinnamon filled the room along with the calming sounds of the water.

At first he had whined about not needing a bath bomb but you just knew he secretly enjoyed being pampered as much as you loved pampering him.

You were sitting next to the tub, absentmindedly running your loofah over his muscular back when suddenly, amidst the silence, you couldn’t help but let out a chuckle.

“What’s so funny, Sugar?” He asked, raising his brow as he stared at you.

“You finally got me to give you a bath in the stupid costume…”

A/N: AAAAAAAAA ITS FINALLY POSTED IM SO SORRY PLS DONT HATE ME IM SORRY IF ITS BAD ALSO JDHHDUZFZSFXFC Im currently on vacation and I swear I wrote like 95 procent of this on my phone at the pool and Im now finally posted this from my moms laptop so HAVE MERCY ON ME PLSSSS xoxo as always comments and reblogs are very highly appreciated!

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[wynterdyno]

Hello. I hope everything is fine with you!

Can I request the story of Steb with a girl originally from Zaun, but who works as an inventor in Piltover. Suppose, as a child, she was lucky enough to cross a bridge and her talent was noticed by one of the masters. She creates useful everyday inventions. (It is possible, if it will be easier, toys for children.) sfw / nsfw as it will be more convenient for you. I just need more stories with this fish...

English is not my language, I hope I made myself clear. Thanks in advance!!!

First time really writing a fanfic, this will be cross posted on Ao3 and Tumblr, Ao3 link on my account <3. This will be around Christmas idk what they call it in the show and idc, I never played LoL. Steb uses sign language but idk about it sorry if this is bad </3. He also has a tail. Pov second person.

Word count: 865

Warnings: None? kissing mentioned briefly? SFW

You sigh, looking down at the contraption before you. You wanted to have it out before October, so kids would see it and ask for it. Unfortunately, late September already, and you hadn’t gotten anywhere. Scowling you stand up, deciding a break would be good for you. 

You weren’t sure where you were headed, until you found yourself facing down the bridge into Zaun. You frowned, thinking of times long past spent down there. You hadn’t returned since moving to Piltover but you wondered frequently if life had changed. You thought about the kids who lived down there and frowned again. You knew that the toys you spent so much time on wouldn’t be seen by kids down there. You wondered if you should lower your prices, but seeing as you were barely scraping by, lowering the prices wasn’t an option. Turning away you walked back to your house. 

Pushing open the door you wondered if he was home yet or not. Hearing the shower running you guessed he was. You sat down on the couch with a sigh, letting your mind start to wander. Glancing at your desk, seeing schematics for the puzzle cube you’d been working on, you frowned deeper. You weren’t sure how long went by but you jumped feeling hands on your shoulders. You looked up, seeing him. He offered you a warm smile before moving around to sit beside you. You reached out to hold onto his hand. He seemed to sense your thoughts and shifted slightly so you could see his face. He looked concerned. 

“What?” You asked him, sounding more annoyed than you meant. He frowned and reached out with his other hand to cup your face. You sighed, placing a hand on top of his. “Sorry, things aren’t going well with my project.” You apologized sheepishly. He seemed pleased with it but you could read him better. He was worried that you were pushing yourself too hard. He pulled his hands away and signed to you,

What’s wrong?

You looked at him blankly for a moment. 

“It’s… not working. I can’t get it to work. I wanted it out by October, so people would get it for Christmas but… I can’t get it to work.” You said, taking a deep breath before returning Steb’s gaze. He looked thoughtful.

You’ll be able to do it. Take a break for now. Think about it for a few days. The solution will come to you. He smiled warmly at you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders gently. You nodded, feeling re-encouraged. 

“Thanks… for being there for me… always.” You thank Steb quietly, leaning into him. You felt him smile against you, nuzzling into your neck gently. 

The days went by, after 2 weeks you had succeeded in getting the puzzle cube to work and be solvable with a little bit of effort. Surprisingly it sold exceedingly well in October and November. 

“Steb! Ooh! I’m so happy it’s selling so well!” You cheered when you saw him again. He gave you an encouraging smile, the scales under his eyes fluttering briefly. You hugged him tightly, and he hugged you back just as tightly. You pulled away after a moment, your eyes shining. “Thanks for encouraging me when I thought it wouldn’t work.” He simply nodded. 

Weeks later you and Steb were sitting on the living room floor. He was reading, in the dim light from the Christmas tree lights. You stared into his eyes, enthralled with the way the lights reflected in his eyes, shining like the stars in the night sky. You shimmied closer to him, leaning your head on his shoulder, enjoying the comfortable silence between you. He lowered the book briefly to wrap one of his arms around you, his tail curling around you comfortably. You sighed softly, feeling truly content to sit with him, whether he was paying attention to you or not, you enjoyed simply sitting with him. Tilting your head up you can see the little twitches of his ears, and scales fluttering occasionally across his cheeks in reaction to whatever he was reading. You didn’t really care, watching his reactions was enough to entertain you.

After a surprising amount of time he glanced down at you, perhaps feeling your stare. You continued to stare at him, looking into his cool blue eyes. He put the book down and leaned towards you, nuzzling his nose against yours. You kiss his cheek affectionately giggling inwardly as his scales flutter in reaction. It's always amused you how his scales flutter when he's flustered. You also found it strange how easy it was to fluster him. “You’re so pretty,” you mumbled, “I love you.” You could see a small blush pushing its way through his usual green skin tone and turning his cheeks faintly pink. 

I love you too. You’re prettier. He signed back affectionately. You wrapped your arms around him, pushing him down and laying practically on top of him. He wrapped his arms around you, his tail curling around your legs. You kissed his cheeks, multiple times on each side, giggling at how he squirmed. He is surprisingly ticklish, but made no move to stop you.  

[lunarubra]

Pairing: Cillian x OC (Jiyan Fabris)

Summary: In this AU set during the summer of 2010, Cillian has just wrapped up the final Inception premieres. Now, he and Jiyan are traveling through Italy, seeking some peaceful downtime together.

Warning: Fluff, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Hospitalisation, Mention of Suicide, Angst, English Not My First Language.

Words: 4599

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Chapter 2 - Praeteritum ambulans in nobis

STACK.

The cue ball hit the red 5-ball, but instead of a clean shot, it bounced off the side of the table and accidentally hit the solid green ball, which rolled straight into the pocket.

"Sagbab," Jiyan cursed under her breath.

Cillian chuckled before taking a sip of his beer. "Not your sport, Fabris?"

"Oh, shut up. You’re just lucky we’re not playing darts. I would’ve annihilated you," she retorted with a playful glare.

They were out at what was supposed to be an Irish pub in Trieste. It had become one of Cillian’s odd little traditions during his stays abroad—he would search for the most Irish-looking pub or bar in whichever city he was visiting and spend at least one evening there. The pub in Trieste hadn’t exactly disappointed him, but calling it Irish would’ve been a stretch.

A few days earlier, they had left Venice and come to stay with Jiyan’s mother to spend the final leg of their trip with her family. From there, they'd fly directly to Dublin. Cillian had to start prepping for a movie he would soon be filming, along with another overseas project that would keep him busy through October and November. Jiyan, on the other hand, had just wrapped up her PhD and was waiting for her final evaluation.

After two days of sightseeing, where Jiyan had taken on the role of tour guide, and plenty of family time spent with Mika and Solin, they decided to take an evening for themselves. It was a chance to enjoy some quality time before they returned to their routine in Ireland—though calling Cillian’s actor life a "routine" was a bit of a stretch.

Jiyan didn’t have a clear plan for what came next. She had finished her PhD, and several universities had already approached her with research offers after her publication in May. But there was nothing from Trinity College, where she had been working recently. Aside from Cillian, she had no strong ties to Dublin, and that uncertainty weighed on both of them. Cillian had encouraged her to accept a very promising project at La Sorbonne in Paris, but she had turned it down. Eventually, they sat down and had a real conversation about it.

She had told him, in that calm and resolute way of hers that left little room for debate, that over the past few years she had never paused—not even when Samyah died—to think about what she truly wanted. Now that she had finally finished her PhD, she was happy. She hadn’t expected Ireland to be the place where she found her balance, but here she was, and she wasn’t willing to disrupt that stability for another research project in a different part of Europe. She had some savings, a master's degree, a PhD, and a successful publication. She spoke more languages than most academics, including a few dead ones. For now, she wanted to take her time and look for something that genuinely fulfilled her. She deserved that.

Cillian could only nod, admiring the strength and certainty of the woman in front of him. He was relieved, too. He realised with a touch of surprise that he would have moved without hesitation to wherever her next project took her. His work was flexible enough, and with the experience he had now, he didn’t need to be anchored in one place to secure good roles. The thought of a long-distance relationship didn’t sit well with him. He wasn’t good at keeping distance from her.

Jiyan huffed, bringing him back from his thoughts. She was glaring at the pool table as if it were to blame for her not winning, or for the balls refusing to follow her will. Cillian smirked, amused by the way she pouted—she looked incredibly cute. Setting his beer down on a nearby shelf, he stepped behind her, pulling her close. He kissed the side of her hair, breathing in her intoxicating scent of amber, spices, and sea salt.

"You’re rushing the ball, Aji," he whispered into her ear.

Though she kept pouting, unwilling to admit he might be right, her body instinctively arched into his embrace. She tilted her head to the side, giving him more room to stay close.

"I don’t like pool," she muttered stubbornly.

Cillian chuckled softly. "Come on, for once I’m the one who gets to teach you something, not the other way around."

He guided her arm from behind, savoring the closeness and the way she leaned into him. His pulse quickened—he’d grown so intensely drawn to her that even the smallest touch set his blood on fire. It was clear she felt the same, as her gaze met his with a playful, suggestive look that said, Are you sure you want to teach me here?

He swallowed hard, trying to focus, and finally helped her aim. Together, they hit one of his balls, sending it smoothly into the left corner pocket with a satisfying swish.

She turned to him, almost disappointed. “Show off.”

“You’re doing great. It’s okay if you’re not perfect at everything,” he teased, kissing her sweetly. But what he intended to be a quick, cute kiss quickly deepened into something slow and intense, stirring something primal inside him. He felt his jeans tighten uncomfortably. When they finally broke the kiss, they lingered, simply staring at each other. Jiyan’s tan skin hid her blush, but her dilated pupils gave her away. Cillian could tell she was just as affected.

But once again, something outside their little bubble shattered the moment.

“Jiyan?” A voice broke through their conversation, startling them. A young man stood nearby, his gaze fixed intently on her. Cillian felt Jiyan freeze beside him, her fingers tightening around his arm like she needed an anchor—or perhaps a shield.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath. The moment stretched awkwardly, a silent pause in which Cillian felt distinctly out of place, like he was intruding on a scene he wasn’t meant to witness.

“Kareem?” Jiyan’s voice carried a note of surprise, edged with something harder to pin down—discomfort, maybe, or a flicker of unease. Before Cillian could process it fully, her words shifted into a language he didn’t understand. The rhythm was familiar, though. Kurdish? Turkish? Arabic? 

And then it clicked. Ah, so this was him, Cillian thought, the puzzle pieces snapping quietly into place.

He loosened his embrace slightly, sensing the tension that now coursed between Jiyan and the man—Kareem. Yet her fingers stayed locked on his arm, clutching as if to ground herself against the swell of emotion that had unexpectedly crashed over her.

Recognizing the unspoken need for privacy, Cillian decided to step back. Jiyan had told him once that she hadn’t spoken to Kareem since moving to Dublin. Judging by the startled looks they exchanged, this encounter was as unexpected for Kareem as it was for her. Gently, he took her hand—still clutching his arm—and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her curls.

“I’m going to grab another pint,” he said softly, his tone warm and reassuring. “I’ll give you two some space to talk.”

“Cillian…” she murmured, unsure whether she wanted to thank him or plead with him not to leave her alone.

“I’ll be right across the pub, watching the match,” he reassured her, offering a small smile that he hoped would steady her. “Take your time.”

As he released her hand, Cillian turned to Kareem. Extending his own, he offered a polite introduction. “I’m Cillian. Nice to meet you, Kareem.”

Kareem blinked, seemingly jolted out of his daze. He hesitated briefly before taking the offered hand. His accent was rich, an intriguing blend that Cillian couldn’t quite pin down—part Middle Eastern, part Mediterranean. “Nice to meet you too,” Kareem replied, his words slow, as if he were still processing the situation.

Jiyan wasn’t sure how to process the sight of Kareem standing in front of her. The shock of seeing him again had left her momentarily speechless.

“You’re back,” Kareem said tersely, switching to Farsi.

“Yeah, I mean…” She took a steadying breath, trying to collect herself. “We’re here visiting Mum and Mika. Flying back to Dublin in a couple of days.”

“Dublin…” he repeated, his words lingering in the air before he added, “You never called.” His voice was emotionless as he sat down at a nearby table and began pulling out tobacco to roll a cigarette.

“You didn’t either,” she replied flatly, lowering herself into the chair across from him.

They sat in silence for a moment, staring at each other. It felt oddly like a scene from a cowboy movie—a Mexican standoff, tense and unyielding.

“And you’re good?” Kareem asked, raising an eyebrow as he tapped the freshly rolled cigarette against the table to pack the tobacco tighter.

“Yeah, yeah.” She fidgeted with her hands, still avoiding his gaze. “I’m fine. We’re fine. I finished university.”

“Congratulations,” he said, the word falling flat, his tone devoid of genuine warmth. Jiyan could tell his interest wasn’t really in her academic achievements. “You staying in Ireland?”

“For now, yeah,” she said. “I’m taking a break. I need some time to figure things out.”

Kareem let out a harsh chuckle, shaking his head with exaggerated sympathy that teetered on mockery. His frustration simmered just below the surface, threatening to spill over. “So now you’re taking time?” he asked, his voice sharp with anger. “Now you’re taking time?”

“What do you want me to say, Kareem?” Jiyan ran her hands through her hair, her frustration mounting. She still couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, and she didn’t feel ready for this—not now. “Yeah, I’m taking some time for me. I… I’m in therapy. I want to be better. A lot has happened—”

He cut her off with a bitter, scornful laugh. “A lot has happened? Really, Jiyan?”

“You’re angry. You’re still angry,” she said quietly.

You’re still angry at me. The words hung unspoken, but they weighed heavily between them. Having Kareem in front of her again was stirring up conflicting emotions—an undeniable pull, but also a sense of relief. It felt as if she could finally confront him, perhaps mend the bridge that had always lingered, broken, between them.

“Of course I’m angry!” Kareem snapped, dragging her back into the moment. “You just disappeared, and now what? You’re happy, just like that? Like nothing happened? Like my sister didn’t die? Like you—”

“Don’t say that!” Jiyan interrupted, her voice low and threatening, her words seething through clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare say that, Kareem, or I swear I’ll punch you.”

She swallowed her rage, fighting to stay in control. They both knew exactly how to hurt each other. Kareem, even if he regretted it later, was an expert at cutting her where it hurt the most. Years ago, she’d been just as skilled at that game. But she didn’t have the energy anymore—didn’t want to wield that kind of pain again.

“Punch me? Go ahead, Jiyan. I’m right here,” he taunted, his voice daring her.

Jiyan looked at him closely for the first time. He was shaking, his pain radiating off him in waves. She imagined she probably looked just as raw, just as frayed. They were both exposed nerves, all their hurt, anger, and betrayal laid bare. They’d both been destroyed by Samyah’s death, drowning in grief and guilt. But Jiyan had found tools to help her navigate the wreckage. Kareem hadn’t. He was still lost, still drowning.

“Don’t make me the villain here,” she said, her tone softening. “Just don’t. It won’t make you feel better.”

“You shut me out, Jiyan,” he said, his voice quieter now, trembling with hurt. “After everything—after ten years together—you just shut me out.”

His head dropped, his gaze fixed on the table. The weight of his words settled heavily between them, unspoken truths and unhealed wounds pressing down on the air like a storm about to break.

“You shut me out too” she said, hurt in her voice. 

After a few seconds, she looked around, realizing too late that half the pub was staring at them. No one could understand their argument, but two Middle Easterners speaking loudly in Farsi wasn’t going unnoticed. She could feel the tension in the air, expecting someone to call the cops if they didn’t calm down soon.

She glanced across the room and saw Cillian watching her, his untouched beer in front of him, his eyes seemed to ask, Are you alright?

She nodded back, a silent, It’s alright, I’ll be there soon.

“Come on,” she said, standing up and turning back to Kareem. “We’re going outside before someone calls the cops. And you’re going to listen to me.”

Kareem, who had followed her brief exchange with Cillian, shrugged. Without a word, he got up, grabbed his freshly rolled cigarette, and headed outside. Jiyan sighed and cast one last glance at Cillian. His concern was evident, but she offered a faint smile before following Kareem.

Outside, the cool air was a welcome change. Kareem leaned against the wall, already smoking.

“The Irish prince isn’t coming along too?” he muttered.

“Shut up, Kareem… just shut up and just listen,” she said sharply. “You are not alone. We were both wrong, but you’re not the only one who’s hurt here. Whatever happened between us—it wasn’t just my fault, alright?” Her voice rose with exasperation.

“It’s true. I shut you out before I left. I couldn’t anymore—I just couldn’t—but you shut me out first. After Samyah died…” She faltered, steadying herself. “I know a piece of all of us died with her, but it was like you were the only one allowed to grieve. Living with you felt like living with a stranger. We were both not okay, but it felt like you blamed me. Like she wasn’t my sister too.”

She paused, taking a deep breath to keep herself composed. She wouldn’t break now, not here.

“And I ran away,” she admitted, her voice softer now. “I know. And I’m sorry if I hurt you. I am so sorry, Kari.”

Kareem exhaled a stream of smoke, his eyes unreadable as he studied her. “I know you felt like it was all on you,” he said finally, his voice quieter. “But I never said it was your fault, Jiyan.”

“You never said it wasn’t,” she replied, her voice numb, the weight of the words settling heavily between them.

“Yeah,” he admitted, the truth difficult to swallow. He nodded slowly, his voice laced with regret. “I’m sorry.”

He was looking at her now, his expression searching, as if trying to piece together a puzzle that refused to come together.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry for being such a dick. I didn’t know what to do. I never thought…” He paused, his voice breaking as he swallowed hard to suppress a sob, tilting his head back to look at the sky.

“She really broke us,” he said quietly. “I was—still am sometimes—so fucking angry. At everyone. At the world. At you. At my sister.”

He glanced down, his hand coming up to rub his temples as if to hold himself together. “And then, when you were in the hospital…” His voice cracked, and he pressed a hand over his eyes. “I was part of it too, Jiyan. I should’ve been there. If it weren’t for your mum calling me, I wouldn’t have even known. You didn’t call me,” he said, his voice breaking again, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his words.

All the anger he’d unleashed earlier seemed to have drained away, replaced by a quiet, aching exhaustion. Hurt, raw and unguarded, lingered in his expression as he finally looked at her again.

Jiyan hugged herself, trying to swallow all the memories she had avoided confronting for years. “I couldn’t,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. Only then did she realize tears were spilling down her cheeks. “I just couldn’t. I didn’t even have the words to explain how I was feeling. You’d already lost your sister—how was I supposed to tell you that...” Her voice broke, her sobs cutting her off.

A hand settled on her shoulder, pulling her closer. Kareem held her, letting her cry, knowing they had both become experts at avoiding this moment—avoiding admitting how deeply they had failed each other.

“After you got out of the hospital, when you moved in with your mum and refused to see me,” he began, his voice tight with hurt. “When you sent Mika to pick up your things from my flat… I knew, Jiyan. Even before Samyah killed herself, I knew we hadn’t been a couple for years. Even with the open relationship, it was like we were running away from admitting the truth. But the way it ended—it felt like it was all happening again. Like I’d failed all over again.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Kareem. You’re not a failure—you’ve never been,” she said, cursing under her breath as she straightened up.

She ran her hand through her curls, her fingers trembling. “When I was at my mum’s, I just… I shut down. I think I spent a whole month not talking to anyone. I didn’t have the strength to face you. I felt like the failure.”

Kareem looked at her, his hand firm on her shoulder as if to steady her. “What a mess we are, eh?”

Jiyan chuckled weakly, drying her eyes. For the first time in years, she felt like she was standing in front of one of the closest people she’d ever known.

“I know I never said it before, and I’m ashamed that I didn’t. But it wasn’t your fault, Aji. None of it was your fault.”

She said nothing more, just nodded, another wave of tears threatening to spill. She stared down at her shoes, trying to hold herself together.

“Aji…” Kareem said softly.

Jiyan finally met his gaze. And in his face, she saw the echoes of Samyah—the same eyes, the same lips, the same dark curls. She had always thought they shared the same smile, the same spirit. He wasn’t just her older brother; he had been her first boyfriend, her closest confidant, her partner in rebellion. How much had changed.

“I missed you,” Kareem admitted. “Not us being together—” he paused, looking up at the night sky. “But the three of us…”

“It’s hard to imagine anyone else could understand you like that, isn’t it?” Jiyan said, finishing his thought.

Kareem nodded, a small, pained smile flickering across his face. “I know I was the first to disappear,” he admitted. “But when you left—for Ireland, after everything…”

“I thought I’d already lost you, Kari,” she interrupted, taking a deep breath. “After everything that happened, we were both wrecked. And we couldn’t figure out how to face it together. Then, when I ended up in the hospital, I just… I couldn’t anymore. I don’t even remember half of those months. My mum didn’t know what to do with me. Somehow, she convinced the university not to drop me from the PhD program. That was the only thing that kept me going.”

Her voice wavered, but she pushed on. “When the opportunity in Ireland came up, I knew it was an escape. But I needed it. I don’t know how you stayed here, facing all of this every day. I had to run. I couldn’t breathe anymore—I couldn’t stay another day in this place.”

“I’m still not sure why I stayed either,” Kareem admitted, exhaling. “When you left, I wanted to say ‘screw it’ and leave too. But somehow... I didn’t.”

“You’ve always been braver than me,” she said softly.

“Nah,” he teased, his voice lighter for a moment. “Just slower. And terrible with planes. Maybe I could’ve crossed the border to Slovenia, but they’re even more boring than here.”

She chuckled, unsure of what else to say. They stood in companionable silence for a moment, leaning against the wall, watching the street across from them. It was always easy with Kareem in some ways—it always had been. Even when they were hot-headed teenagers, they rarely fought. Between the three of them, Kareem had been the one to pull Jiyan and Samyah out of trouble, the reluctant voice of reason.

In the past few months, as therapy forced her to untangle her emotions, Jiyan had reflected often on her relationship with Kareem. She wouldn’t dismiss what they’d had, but she saw more clearly now that they were always better as friends than as partners. He would always be someone she cared about deeply, and she knew the feeling was mutual. Still, she had to admit—when she left for Ireland, a part of her had been relieved to be single again. The way she’d ended things, though, still weighed on her. Now, seeing that Kareem’s resentment wasn’t about their breakup but the lack of closure, brought her a strange sense of peace.

“So, Ireland?” Kareem asked, breaking the silence.

“Save the jokes,” she said, shaking her head. “I still don’t know how I’m surviving in a place where it rains all the time.”

“And are you happy?” he asked, glancing at her.

“Yeah,” she replied, nodding slowly. “I still have moments when it all comes rushing back, but I’m happy there. It’s easier. What about you?”

“I’m better,” he said after a pause. “Not always, but I’ve been working for an NGO, helping migrants. It’s helped me deal with everything.”

“Wow, Kareem,” she said sincerely, touching his arm. “That’s… wow. I’m so proud of you.” “Always so eloquent,” he teased, his smile wry but warm. “Yeah, well, I had to stop feeling like an asshole at some point.”

She laughed softly, her smile lingering as they let the silence stretch out between them. It felt easy, natural, in a way she hadn’t expected. They’d said more to each other in these few minutes than they had in the entire year following Samyah’s death.

“And the guy? Is he good to you?” Kareem asked suddenly, breaking into her thoughts.

“Cillian?” Her smile softened, spreading across her face.

“Aww, look at you! So, it’s serious, huh?” he teased.

She playfully punched his arm, just as Cillian, as if sensing he was the topic of conversation, stepped out of the pub. His eyes found her immediately. She smiled at him, feeling lighter, like a weight had been lifted.

“Yes, it’s serious,” she answered Kareem, still smiling at Cillian, unaware of the look in Kareem’s eyes as he watched her.

Cillian walked over, his concern evident as he approached. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I know I told you to take your time, but I just wanted to check if you’re alright.”

“It’s alright, mate,” Kareem said, attempting a British accent but falling short.

“I’m not British,” Cillian replied, stiffening slightly.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Sorry. I’m Persian—not a big fan of the British myself.” Kareem grinned, extinguishing his cigarette against the wall. “Anyway, I should go. I’m already late to meet some friends. I only came to grab some tobacco.”

He turned back to Jiyan, hesitating for a moment before pulling her into a hug. He held her close, the connection between them finally beginning to mend. “Just let me know next time you move, alright? And call me sometimes,” he said in Farsi. Switching to English for Cillian’s sake, he added, “Nice meeting you, Cillian. Next time you’re in town, let’s play pool. We both know Jiyan’s terrible at it.”

“Hey!” she protested, laughing.

“You know I’m right,” he chuckled. “Call me when you’re back on that sunless island, alright? I’ll try to visit—have to see what makes you stay there over Venice.”

With a wink, he shook his curls and pulled up his hood. “Alright, I’m going,” he said with a final smile. “Bye, guys. I see you soon, okay?”

She nodded taking him in and everything that just happened, almost as she just found him again and he was already gone. But she felt lighter, she never expected they could finally sit down and talk about some of what happened.

“Bye, Kareem. Take care, okay?” Jiyan told him.

Kareem just nodded before turning one last time, crossing the street and jogging toward the bus stop on the other road.

“Are you alright?” Cillian asked gently, his voice soft with concern.

Jiyan turned to him, her green eyes puffy and red, their usual spark dimmed by the weight of the evening. Without a word, she stepped closer, seeking the comfort of his embrace. He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, holding her tightly as if shielding her from the heaviness she always carried.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, his touch a quiet, steady reassurance. He wished he could lift the weight of the past that resurfaced so often, the hurt that lingered beneath her strength. But all he could do was stand beside her, as she faced it all with the fierce resilience he admired so deeply.

For a long moment, they stayed like that—her head resting against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady and calming. Slowly, she pulled back, her gaze searching his. Their foreheads touched, their breaths mingling, and in that shared closeness, the world seemed to pause. It was just the two of them, finding solace in each other.

“Yeah, I’m good,” she whispered, brushing a light kiss against his lips. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, gently tucking one of her unruly curls behind her ear.

“For being you. For letting us talk… For always knowing how to be here.”

“You do the same for me,” he said simply, his voice warm.

“I hope so,” she replied softly.

“Did it help? Talking with Kareem?”

She paused, reflecting, before nodding. “Yeah, it did. Even if he ran off at the end, we talked, we listened, and we apologised. It’s… a start.”

“He’s important to you,” Cillian said easily. “I’m glad you saw him tonight, even though I know it wasn’t easy.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, her lips curving into a small smile. “But I don’t want to talk about it anymore tonight.” Rising onto her toes, she kissed him again. “Even if I’m glad I met him, I want to enjoy these last moments of peace with you before you go back to being a world-famous actor doing whatever it is you do.”

He groaned dramatically, remembering all too well that their quiet escape was coming to an end. Soon, they’d return to Dublin, where preparations for his next film awaited.

Taking his hand in hers, Jiyan grinned. “How about a walk to the port? I know a spot where it’s not too windy. We can lie down, watch the stars… and if we’re brave enough, maybe even skinny dip.”

Cillian arched a skeptical brow. “No way. You know how much of a baby I am about cold water.”

“It’s summer, Cill…”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s dark, the water’s cold, and who knows what’s lurking in there,” he replied, dead serious.

“Such a scaredy cat,” she teased, laughing as she held him closer, his arm slipping easily around her waist.

Together, they began to walk under the quiet night sky. With Cillian by her side, the air felt lighter, her thoughts less tangled. For the first time in what felt like forever, Jiyan realized she wasn’t running from anything anymore. Instead, she was moving toward something—toward herself, toward peace, toward love. And in that moment, she felt free.

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Thank you so much for taking the time to read. Your feedback, in any form, makes me happy. See you at the next one :)

amazing dividers from cafekitsune

[bellewintersroe]

Max Verstappen x HornerDaughter!

part 10 here’s the LINK to part 9. Thank you for reading! Sorry for a bit of a boring filler chapter, I’m gonna really start building on Leni and Max’s relationship from now on, maybe throw in some more drama and complication cos I love it muahaha

Social media start to see something between Max and his team principles daughter, Leni. Max (especially after a few drinks) can no longer hide how he feels towards her.

Taglist: @ironmaiden1313 @callsignwidow @fangirl125reader @norassimpingzone @roseseraj @eugene-emt-roe @copper-boom @its-elias-world @cassiopeiia24@larastark3107 @maxxiemoo @crashingwavesofeuphoria @18754389

Austin, Texas October 22nd:

Max somehow felt even more out of bounds than he ever had before. I didn’t know how to act, I mean the first few days were kinda awkward. Whenever we spoke it felt like there was something else behind the eye contact we’d make, like there was that familiar tension lingering. ‘Just don’t ignore me’ his words played in my mind over and over. Whenever he was around I could feel the squeeze in my chest, the urge to just smile at him or say hello. “Hi Max.” I did a double take, breaking off from the conversation with Daniel and Heidi. “Hello, Leni.” His smile grew, I broke the eye contact, smiling to myself. When I glanced back at him, he was doing the same, a smile that made my stomach feel all fuzzy. “You excited for the race?”

“Yeah, actually-” he held is breath, bringing his hands together. I awaited his response patiently. “I need you- we need you to help with something.” My face flushed at his correction, tongue pressed to the inner side of my cheek.

“Mhm, what’s up?” I desperately hoped I wasn’t burning such a red colour right now, not as red as Max, because it was painfully obvious. Both of us knew exactly why it was happening, but it was unspoken. “There’s a piece of tare-off that’s gone inside the car, I thought you might have small enough arms to reach it.” I laughed at his response. “Oh great, I can try my best.”

The whole time I was reaching in, it was lucky my dad wasn’t there because I wasn’t bent to an angle that was rather… promiscuous? “Max- my skirt.” I breathlessly laughed, arm still inside the car trying to reach wherever the hell this tare off had gone. I could tell Max was getting a little stressed, he had to be out there soon and nobody could reach this stupid film out.

“Oh, got it.” He reached for the end of my dress, holding it firmly back down to preserve my modestly. My finger tips touched the film, leaning deeper in before retrieving it. “Ah, got it.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Everybody was treating me like the woman of the hour, I kinda loved it.

“There you go.” I handed it back to the gloved driver. Max pulled me in for a sudden hug, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “I love you, Leni.” He proudly announced. Despite the playfulness. “Yeah, don’t let Christian hear that!” One engineer called out as I rolled my eyes, watching them kick start into preparation again. “Thank you.” He rubbed my arm, before breaking apart a little awkwardly. “It’s okay, now you just have to win.” I teased, feeling his eyes lingering over my face. His plump lips were pulled into a smile, one that slightly reached his eyes as his eyelids dropped heavy. He looked beautiful, I couldn’t resist looking back up to him, despite how intimate the moment oddly felt.

“I’ll try.” He shrugged, “good luck.” I gently smiled, nodding before leaving him to get in the mindset before a race. Whatever was between us was lingering there thick. It was distracting enough for me, so I couldn’t imagine how he felt.

I’d spent the race in a mixture of the Red Bull garage, the paddock and the Mercedes garage. A traitor moment of me, I know, but my long time friend Mick, and his girlfriend Laila were here so I enjoyed some time with them, taking lots of pictures with the endless amount of cow boy hats there seemed to be lingering around this place. It felt too stereotypical to say that, but why did the grid have so many laying around?! Half of them were probably Daniels.

After another successful race from Max, the celebrations obviously began in full force. “Leni, Leni, look at this.” Lando smirked, pulling me by my sleeve to one side where I glanced down to a tik tok. “You have tik tok?” I laughed, bringing the cigarette up to my lips.

“You smoke?!” “Only when I’ve had a drink.” I muttered. “I’m telling Christian.” He tutted. “That’s right, bum your way up to a Redbull 2024 seat.” “No way- anyway. Look at this video.” He held the tik tok out to me again, I took his phone in my hand, eyes widening to see the pictures. Lando was snickering like crazy, especially when the audio began playing. “It seems Max Verstappen has been in close contact with Red Bull’s team principles daughter. Leno Horner who is 22 and stunning may I add seems to be taking over the paddock this season and it seems Max in particular has his… well.” The girl backed off to show the picture of Max’s eyes on my eyes whilst I bent over to retrieve the plastic from inside the RB earlier in the day. “-Eyes on her. Max is recently single after his split from Kelly Piquet, and Leni has been single (I believe don’t quote me on this) for some time now. Could we be seeing a new WAG entering the paddock anytime soon?!”

“Will we?” Lando glanced to me with a smirk. My jaw opened to speak. “What’re you guys looking at?” Max questioned and u physically jumped, closing Lando’s phone and shoving it back into his hand. Simultaneously I tossed the cigarette onto the floor before.

“Nothing.” I seriously answered causing Lando to crack up further. I didn’t even have time to react to the video, Max most definitely heard what was blasting and I was emotionally traumatised, embarrassed from the whole exchange.

“Sounded like nothing!” Max nodded, standing beside me and nudging his hand towards Lando’s phone. “Mate, you don’t wanna see the video.” Lando childishly laughed as I pursed my lips, preventing a nervous giggle from escaping. “Mate, I already heard it!” Max spluttered out as I cracked out a laugh. “You don’t wanna see it though.” Lando nudged me. “Why not?!” The Dutch man glanced between the pair.

“Trust me. I’m saving you from a lifetime of embarrassment.” Lando dramatically spoke. Max rolled his eyes and took the one. Lando snickered as he unlocked it for the other driver. “I’m going now-” I began.

“Wha- no Leni, what is it?” Max was dumbfounded, pulling the audio up to his ear. I cringed. “Don’t listen to it.” I swatted his hand back down. Max took my hand in his free one, holding it bay. He looked amused at the video, but I could see vividly the horror contort on his face when he glanced down to see what he’d already been looking at prior. My ass. Lando was laughing like a teenager, taking the phone back from a red faced Max. He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or hide from embarrassment. “Well hey, she has a good ass- if you don’t mind me saying.” “Yeah, I’m not denying that.”

“Max! Deny it!” I laughed, my hand slipping from his grasp. The two boys shared a look and I felt my face warming. “Oh, I’m not even- I’m going. You’re both gross.” I teased playfully nudging Max. Just as I backed off to playfully go find somebody else, Max hurried forwards. “Are you actually going?” He breathlessly spoke. “It is late, I’m kinda tired.”

“But- I didn’t upset you did I? You know with that video?” He innocently spoke. My heart melted and I found myself laughing at his worried tone.

“No, not at all. You know I don’t listen to that kinda stuff.” “Me either.” He awkwardly laughed, walking beside me. “But… stil.” He shrugged. “No it’s fine, Max. I stare at peoples bums all the time.” I shrugged, pushing my way through the double doors where I could make my way to the back entrance.

“I’ll come back with you.” Max commented, scurrying up beside me. “Are you sure? I thought you said you were getting Lando shots?”

“Yeah.” Max waved it off as I paused, standing to face him. Max’s eyes were slightly glassy from being intoxicated and he was a little wobbly.

“He’ll be fine. I’d rather leave, make sure you get back alright, you know? You are more fun than half those people, anyway…”