#but things can be easy if i plan things out

[unholyhelbig]

Can we please please PLEASE have part two of Brackish?

Title: Brackish [Part Two] | Read Part One Here

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanov/Romanoff

Word Count: 3454

Warnings: Mentions of torture, mentions of mind control, mentions of ice baths, cannon typical violence, nightmares, physical testing, murder, KGB conditioning, Horrible grammar I don't proofread!

Summary: Agent Romanoff is sent into an interrogation room to break the only prisoner they pull from a Hydra compound, but things don't go exactly as planned.

[A/n: Totally wasn't expecting the response the first part got, thank you so much! Truthfully this ask and the draft was sitting in my inbox for months. This is just a bunch of fluff. I don't know where to take it from here. Hopefully you enjoy!]

You’d woken up screaming, something that never bothered Daniel Whitehall. There were stretching corridors that were damp from broken pipes and water buildup. It smelled thickly of metal and never offered any kind of warmth. It carried your agony like a music box, or a greeting card. It had amused him- his men. So, you did your best to swallow your distress. But sometimes it was impossible to tamp things down in the bridge between sleep and alertness.

It had been three days and you still expected to be jerked back into the reality. A frigid tub of ice and metal under Whitehall’s hand. You must have lost your grip on reality and the Avengers Tower, Agent Romanoff and her rigid kindness, was all a mental tactic, to account for the trauma. You’d finally been broken.

But no: Right now, as you woke up screaming as the hours rolled into the fourth day, she was there. The bed was too soft. You’d learned, and sleep did not come easy. But you drifted off in spurts and woke with air caught in your throat. Never yelling. Never in such a panic.

You didn’t remember what had startled you, but there was a cool hand against your cheek and another one splayed against your chest and worried green eyes peering into yours. You moved to fight back, wanted to push the limbs away until you realized who they belonged to. Until you breathed in that polished scent.

“Sorry, I’m sorry” You whispered, your fingers ghosting over her wrists.

She was a busy woman. You’d realized that over the past 72 hours. Agent Romanoff was in high demand, her signature was required on countless documents and many with downturned eyes stalked up to her with a nervousness that you didn’t quite understand but, you were beginning to.

After some persistent pushing from Natasha on the second day, you’d agreed to blood tests, to EKG’s and other medical trials to make sure you were relatively healthy after years of captivity. She’d promised to stay, and she did. While a certain heat and embarrassment colored your cheeks at the unspoken request, she saved your dignity that morning by not brining it up.

Natasha frowned, didn’t say anything but applied a short pressure to your jaw with her thumb before guiding a glass of water to your hand as she lowered herself to the bed. “Sip this, all of it until it’s gone. Don’t gulp, it’ll hurt your stomach.”

You nodded, doing as you were told. She watched you carefully until you finished the glass. You wanted to cower under her scrutiny, but your heartrate had slowed by the time you’d drained the water and she’d taken it the moment it was empty, her hand on your knee as a grounding source. She was like that, you’d learned, attentive and able to read what you needed though you’d not found your voice to ask.

There wasn’t a clock in the guest room. You didn’t know what time it was, but no morning light seeped through the crack in the door and sleep still clung to you like a heavy blanket. You let out a deep breath and pressed your head against the wall behind you, tempted to let your eyes droop shut, but stopped from the fear of another scream ripping through you.

“The nightmares won’t go away. They’ll come less and less, but they’ll always be there.” She swallowed audibly, ran her fingers over a raised pink scar from a blade, or a bullet, or some type of metal that could easily tear skin against her exposed muscle. “What you went through isn’t easily forgotten. You can manage the symptoms, push it to the back of your mind during your waking hours but it’s hard to fight that kind of thing when you’re asleep. You’re guard can’t always be up.”

You nodded, working your hand through your damp hair. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“You didn’t” Natasha assured “Would you like me to stay?”

More than anything. It felt like crossing a line. There wasn’t a chair in the guest room. It was fairly sparce. A bed and a nightstand and lamp that had bathed you both in a soft golden glow. It would be easier to tell her no, to ask her to leave. But your chest wouldn’t forgive you for that.

So, you scooted over, looked at her expectantly, going as far to peel back the duvet. Natasha huffed out something akin to a laugh and laid in the spot that you had just vacated. You could feel the heat of her skin, the closeness of her as you lowered yourself down next to her. She paid you a mercy by turning the lamp off.

The two of you lay, shoulder to shoulder, breath synchronized. You couldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t. Your entire body was wound up. While Agent Romanoff’s presence was a balm, it also wound you up like a spring. You were conscious of every movement. Every twitch of your finger and tense of a muscle.   

“It scares me that I can’t remember things.”

You could hear Natasha turn her head in the dark, the shift against the pillow. Her breath was warm against the side of your face. Your fingers curled against the fabric of your shirt, a stone on the center of your chest. You couldn’t remember feeling this comfortable- this at ease- in a long time.

“Do things come back when you sleep?”

It was her job, you knew, to pull things from you. In exchange for a bed and warm meal, you’d give her anything. She had quiet eyes and a quietness to her that gave away the fact that she was examining you methodically. But there was something else there that you couldn’t pinpoint. Something caring.

You turned onto your side, facing her, curling up more for your own comfort. “More of a feeling than a memory. Being there, I recall everything. Whitehall, his brainwashing, his tests and his tortures. His why’s and his motives are foggy. It was like he just wanted to inflict pain. But at his core. At Hydra’s core, I know that’s not true.”

Natasha adjusted on the bed, turned to face you. Inches apart. Her nose was close enough in the dark to bump against your own. Neither of you spoke for a moment, hands brushing closely like a bridge uncrossed.

“I worry that they changed me in way’s that can’t be unchanged, but can’t recall who I was before they’ve changed me. That they kept me alive because they were… succeeding in something that they hadn’t before.” You let out a heavy breath, it splayed hotly against Natasha’s chest, warmed her. “That deep down inside, something uncontrollable is there.”

Natasha made a small noise in the back of her throat that could only be described as a whimper. Tentatively, she’d shifted in the quiet, had found the edge of your jaw in the darkness and traced the sharpness of it with her touch. You let your eyes flutter shut, leaned into it.

Soon, her palm was against your cheek, warm from the prospect of sleep. Her hold soft as she pulled you forward, the initial shock of the swift movement replaced by that detergent scent and the instant comfort. An undignified grunt escaped you when you slotted so perfectly against Natasha’s front.

You’d learned rather quickly that she liked to show her protection.

When your blood had been drawn, the tech on the medical floor insisted of her credentials but quickly blanched with a glare from the Black Widow herself and the assured hand at the base of your spine. You’d shown your strength during the physical trials as they monitored your heartrate during a mile run, and Natasha had watched with a warning stare as another tech adjusted the censors.

And now, she wrapped her arms around your center and hooked her leg over your own. She was tense until she felt the coolness of your nose against her pulse point, the way you nuzzled against her, sighed into her comfort instead of tensed, as if she feared of rejection.

“We’ll figure it out.” Her voice was a rumble, your ear this close to her chest. “Get some sleep. I’ve got you.”  

There was a sensor under your collarbone, one on either side of your chest, and another directly under your ribs. Two more that had been stuck to your abdomen. The adhesive was unbearably itchy, and you had half the mind to tear them away. A huff pulled uncomfortably at you. Another huff earned you a sharp glare from the woman wrapping your hands.

Natasha was on her knees for you. Not for you, but certainly in front of you. Either way it made you blush profusely. She worked with intention, making sure that the next trial they were putting you through was safe enough for you to participate in. A tech had offered to do this for her. For you. But she’d refused.

“Stop pouting, sweetheart. This is the last one and then they’ll leave you alone for at least the weekend.”

“Promise?”

Natasha sighed and her exhale was hot against the skin on your chest, forming a valley of goosebumps. You swallowed back a shiver. “No. Now sit back.”

You did as you were told, all the while, another SHIELD tech kept a keen eye on the both of you. Nameless, faceless, dressed in black. You almost preferred them this way. Whitehall was a constant for you, a villain that always signified a form of hurt and anguish. The constant revolving door of men and women made it impossible to link a test with a face.

Natasha was almost the opposite. You were starting to associate that piney, vanilla bergamot scent of hers with safety. It scared you. Her hands were assured and so were her movements. You were very aware that she had been with you nearly all hours of the day since you’d been pulled from the wreckage of all you’d known for possible years. Stockholm syndrome, some would call it.

You approached it with reckless abandon. You didn’t care. She was warmth. She was opposite of ice baths and frigid water that you choked on until you blacked out. She was lean muscle and healed scars and tender green eyes. She made it easier to think. She gave orders that were easy to follow: To sit back. To Stop Pouting. To Get some Sleep. You could do those things. Those things were easy.

“We’ll start at a weight of fifty and steadily increase until you cannot support the bar any further.” The nameless, dark-eyed man said, not looking up from his tablet. “If at any point, you feel uncomfortable during the test, please alert me or Agent Romanoff. Do you have any questions?”

You shook your head, laid back on the cool bench and adjusted yourself until you stared up at the metal ceiling. It looked taller from this angle, impossible to reach. Black weights were saddled on either side. Agent Romanoff’s presence was at your six the entire time. Lingering, watching with careful and apt attention.

“Alright. You may begin. Make sure not to lock your arms.”

The bar was nothing in your hands, a slight nuisance, if anything. Ever-so-slowly the weight was increased: Fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty. All the way to 700 before another huff left your lungs, chin tipping towards Natasha as you stared up at her. Pouting. You were absolutely pouting.

They were being methodical about this, and that also meant it was taking ages. One of Natasha’s brows was quirked and she worried the nail of her thumb between her teeth as they upped the weight to a solid 1,000. You adjusted your hold on the bar. Nothing more, nothing less. There was no strain, no sweat. No spike in heartrate.  

“Okay. I think we know enough.” Natasha finally barked. “Right?”

“But I-“

“Right?”

Sure, it had only been a few days, but you knew that tone and it was enough for the SHIELD agent to snap his jaw shut and for you to replace the bar before sitting back up. The test, you were sure, was far from over. But there was such a finality in the demand.

You knew you had some strength to you, sure. Daniel Whitehall wouldn’t keep you locked up the way he did, in a steel-enforced cell, if that weren’t the case. The binds you’d sometimes recall were much too thick for anyone that had the normal stamina, someone who could survive his trials. You don’t remember being tested like this before, your limits pushed.

The SHIELD agent tapped at his screen, letting out a non-committal noise “Well, your strength is remarkable. You say you don’t remember a thing? I think you could benefit from some memory recovery sensory therapy.”

Natasha rumbled in the back of her throat, snatching the tablet from the man before shoving him roughly from the room. You watched the display with raised brows, the protective edge to her that you knew was there, but hadn’t been privy to at this degree. He protested, but didn’t’ overtly stop her. Not even when she slammed and locked the door with the waggle of her fingers and the lowering of the blinds.

“The know at all’s from logistics get on my nerves.”

She wouldn’t look at you, instead clicking off the screen and throwing the tablet onto the counter. There was a light blush to her cheeks. You peeled off your shirt, almost in habit now, leaving you in nothing but one of the agencies issued sports bras. The adhesive was getting too irritating.

Your eyes lingered on her. “Uh-huh, is that all?”  

“Yes, that’s all.”

But when those deep green eyes snapped up to yours, the way her breath hitched betrayed her. You’d effectively flustered the Black Widow herself and it brought a sort of heady confidence to you that you quite enjoyed. You ripped the sensor from below your ribcage away, the stickiness making an odd noise as it pulled away.

“I don’t know what you’re smirking about, what he was suggesting is out of the question. They’ve run enough tests on you to determine that Hydra didn’t place any type of chip in your brain. They didn’t change your bone density or alter your blood chemistry. With your added strength, your speed.” She closed the distance between you, ripping another sensor off with little abandon, her hands cold against your skin. “We’re looking at an infinity stone.”

You grunted under her touch, fingers soothing over the spot she’d just torn, a silent apology. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Wanda Maximoff, do you know her?”

You shook your head, remaining still as she moved to the next sensor. Agent Romanoff pulled with the same quickness as before, but was softer with her hands, instantly using the coolness of her palm to quiet the sting that soon followed. You’d given up peeling them away yourself. Instead, you peered up with her with watery eyes, blinking and doe-like. They’d melt her if you weren’t careful, and it seemed like you never were.

“Hydra conducted experiments on Wanda and her twin brother Pietro using something called the Mind Stone. A very powerful mineral that ultimately should have killed them, but it didn’t. It changed their DNA and gave them abilities. Pietro super-speed and Wanda the ability to manipulate the world around her.” Natasha’s voice was smooth as she spoke, the final sensor ripped away, you watched her do it, frowning at the red mark it left behind.

After a few moments of labored silence, she dragged her touch feather-light against your jaw and guided your attention back to her own. “They think Whitehall got ahold of the power stone, and they think it was used to torture you for years to replicate the success achieved with the Maximoff’s.”

“I don’t think he was very successful,”

Natasha’s grip tightened on your chin, not enough to wound, never enough, but a soft warning. “Nonsense. You’re more capable than you think.” Her thumb ran over the blush that was suddenly running across the bridge of your nose and your cheek. “Let’s take a break from all these boring trials. I want to show you something.”

There was a basement that resided below the cacophony of spruced up cells in the Avengers tower. You’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Agent Romanoff and watched as the numbers descended. Her scent had soothed you, even as the cold infiltrated the elevator and reminded you too much of a metal tub, safe for the water.

It jolted to a stop before the anxiety swirling in your lower belly could solidify. Natasha led you into another corridor that looked like all the other corridor’s in the tower. She walked with no urgency and you followed with the same pace. Finally, you reached another non-descript door, only accessed by the card on Agent Romanoff’s belt.

You were hit by the sharp scent of decaying paper, quiet leather and dust. There was a coolness here. A dull light that Natasha flicked on. A heaviness that reminded you of a library. There was a history here that told you it hadn’t been accessed in a long time.

Copy boxes lined bookshelves bracketed to the walls, a single table with a few chairs sat pushed in the corner. Natasha seemed to know exactly where she was going, exactly the files she was looking for. “We’re a multi-trillion-dollar organization, yet, all of the incriminating evidence about the Avengers exists in this singular room.”

You flinched, eyes meeting Natasha after she hauled the off-white box to the center of the table. You watched her carefully, not moving from your rooted spot at the edge of the doorway. You blinked at her, mouth slightly agape. She was trusting you with this. She was trusting you with this?

“Natasha you can’t… you don’t have to…”

“I want to. Come, sit.”

The chair was frigid against your skin, the whole room kept tepid to preserve the documents. Natasha sat adjacent to you, your knees brushing in a surge of warmth. Neither of you moved to pull away. She pushed the box to the far end and pulled out the first file, edging her fingers against the manila.

Before she could pry the cover back, you gripped her hand, squeezed it with fervor. “Wait, you can’t do this. Agent Romanoff, if you… if you tell me this, and I’m- if Whitehall did something that fundamentally changed me and I turn around and betray you, then I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

“Mm” She hummed, frowning down at the file. “There’s more to you than that.”

“And if there’s not? I don’t even have a name, and you’re about to trust me with everything from your past, everything you’ve worked so hard to scrub. I can’t let you do that.”

“You’re not letting me do anything, darling. I didn’t scrub anything, I embraced it.”

Her other hand engulfed the one that had covered the one that had grasped her own. You hadn’t realized that you were squeezing so hard for purchase. Goosebumps covered your entire body, and you were trying not to tremble. It felt as if your bones were trying to claw their way from your skin. You ground your teeth together to keep them from clacking.

Natasha’s hand left yours for only a moment, peeling the cover of the file back, moving it in between the both of you. “I was born in Stalingrad Russia, indoctrinated into the Red Room by a man named General Dreykov. The Red Room was a program designed to create sleeper agents utilized by the KGB. Young girls were taken against their wills and molded into perfect killing machines.”

Your thumb moved over her knuckles, scarred from years of strain. She grasped back, grounding herself.  

“For years, I was just that. Ruthless. Cruel. I spilled an impossible amount of blood because that’s what I was trained to do. It was a cycle. Wake up, kill, sleep. Wake up, kill, sleep. Sometimes they’d throw a little torture in there just to spice things up.”

You knit your eyebrows together, a small whimper escaping you.

 “Tough room.” Natasha gave you a sad smile “milaya devochka, eventually, someone saw through the dripping ledger and what Dreykov had done. They saw me. That made a world of difference when the programming I had was all I’d ever known.”

You swallowed thickly, fingers tracing a raised pink scar at the edge of her palm. You let out a shaky breath. “And you… can be that person for me?”

“I’d like to be.”

[Dt: @ima-gi--na-tion, @l0nelyish, @taliiiaasteria, @ahintofchaos, @redhoodte]

[bloomzone]

📕 𝟓𝟎-𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞

March 1st ! If you’ve been slacking, if your study habits have been messy, or if finals are creeping up way too fast this is it. I did a 20-day productivity challenge before, but now, with finals staring me down and less than 90 days to go, I need to actually get my flip together.For the next 50 days, I’m locking in. This isn’t about aesthetic study sessions or fake productivity or like those 10s filming study routine 💁🏻‍♀️ . It’s about deep focus, real progress, and making sure you n i walk into finals prepared, not panicked.

before we start! what are the ..

🔴 Things You Need to Avoid

When you’re pushing yourself to study, it’s easy to fall into traps that make the process feel harder than it needs to be. One of the biggest things to avoid is procrastination. It’s tempting to delay tasks and distract yourself with less important things, but the truth is, the longer you wait, the more overwhelming it becomes. Putting things off only builds stress and leaves you with less time to focus on what truly matters.Another major pitfall is burnout. While it might feel like working non-stop is the key to success, the reality is that exhaustion doesn’t lead to productivity. If you push yourself too hard without breaks or balance, you’ll find your focus slipping, and your energy drained. Instead, aim for deep, focused study periods with scheduled rest to recharge. The key is working smart, not just hard.u also NEED to stay away from passive studying. Reading over your notes without actively engaging with the material might feel like you’re making progress, but it’s not enough. True learning happens when you interact with the content whether that’s through active recall, practicing problems, or teaching the concept to someone else. It’s about getting the information out of your head, not just in.And then there’s multitasking, which can be deceiving. You might think that juggling multiple tasks or subjects at once is a sign of productivity, but in reality, it dilutes your focus. Instead, concentrate on one subject at a time and give it your full attention. By focusing deeply, you’ll achieve better results in less time.Finally, avoid over-planning. It’s easy to get stuck in an endless loop of scheduling and rearranging without actually doing the work. While having a plan is crucial, it’s more important to take action. Don’t get paralyzed by perfection; start moving forward, and adapt as you go.

💡 What You Need to Succeed

Success in a challenge like this comes down to preparation, mindset, and consistency. First and foremost, you need to set yourself up for success by organizing everything you need. Having your books, notebooks, and study tools ready at your desk isn’t just about being prepared—it’s a psychological trigger that helps you get into the right mindset. When you see your space ready for work, it subconsciously tells your brain that it’s time to focus.But it’s not just about the materials. Your environment matters. A cluttered space can lead to a cluttered mind, so make sure you have a clean, quiet place to study. This is where you’ll spend most of your time, so make it a space that supports your work rather than distracts you. Even something as simple as proper lighting and a comfortable chair can make a huge difference in your ability to focus.It’s also essential to have the right tools. Flashcards, sticky notes, mind maps, or even physical planners whatever helps you engage with the material actively is what you should have at hand. You don’t need to follow a one-size-fits-all strategy, but it’s about finding what works best for you. What will make the material stick? What will make you more engaged and less likely to zone out?Consistency is key, too. This isn’t a sprint y'all u need to commit to a study schedule that’s manageable and realistic. Establish a routine that you can stick to every day thats what my teachers say everyday whether it’s an hour in the morning or a few hours in the evening. Building consistency will help you develop the discipline needed to push through tough moments, especially when motivation runs low.Finally, don’t forget about your energy. Sleep, food, and overall well-being are the foundation of any successful study routine. Without proper rest, your brain can’t absorb or retain information. Make sure you’re getting enough sleep to let your brain recharge and consolidate what you’ve learned. Likewise, pay attention to your body when you're well-rested and nourished, you’ll feel more alert, focused, and motivated. Let's cb !

📕 𝟓𝟎-𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧

( starting March 1 – May 9)

0️⃣1️⃣ Week 1: System Reset & Strategy (March 1-7)

🔹 List everything you need to study before finals.

🔹 Identify weak areas & high-priority topics.

🔹 Create an adaptable study plan (structured but flexible).

🔹 Set non-negotiable study hours per day (📚 2< hours).

🔹 Organize notes & resources so you’re not scrambling later.

🔹 Test different study environments & methods to maximize focus.

0️⃣2️⃣ Week 2: Deep Focus & Active Recall (March 8-14)

🔹 No passive studying (no just reading or highlighting).

🔹 Prioritize active recall (practice papers, Q&A, teaching concepts).

🔹 Use visual memory aids (mind maps, charts, bullet points).

🔹 Track distractions & eliminate what kills your focus.

🔹 Keep a focus log: What breaks your concentration? Fix it.

0️⃣3️⃣ Week 3: Technical Subjects and theory based subjects (March 15-21)

📜 Literature, history , philosophy... and theory-based subjects:

➖ Read critically, summarize, and debate ideas (not just memorize).

➖ Work on structured arguments & analysis for essays.

📈 Math ... problem-solving subjects:

➖ Use timed practice to simulate exam pressure.

➖ Write key formulas & rules on flashcards.

➖ Break down problems into step-by-step solutions.

🔹 Study difficult subjects when your energy is highest.

0️⃣4️⃣ Week 4: Writing & Expression (March 22-28)

🔹 Summarize topics in your own words every day.

🔹 Create one-page cheat sheets for major topics. (for revision nothing else 💁🏻‍♀️)

🔹 Write mock essays & structured answers (practice depth).

🔹 Focus on clarity & argument-building (make your writing strong).

🔹 Challenge: Can you explain this concept in 3 sentences?

0️⃣5️⃣ Week 5: Self-Testing & Performance Check (March 29-April 4)

🔹 Take full practice tests under exam conditions.

🔹 Time yourself: Work on speed & accuracy.

🔹 Identify weak spots and revisit them.

🔹 Grade your own work harshly—improve where needed.

🔹 Find patterns in mistakes and create strategies to fix them.

0️⃣6️⃣ Week 6: Memory & Retention (April 5-11)

🔹 Daily mini-revision of past weeks’ topics (keep everything fresh).

🔹 Use mnemonics, stories, & memory associations.

🔹 Sleep optimization for memory consolidation (good sleep = better recall).

🔹 Try retrieval practice before checking notes.

🔹 Apply concepts in real-life situations (where possible).

0️⃣7️⃣ Week 7: Peak Productivity & Stamina (April 12-18)

🔹 Push study hours (without burnout).

🔹 Use study sprints: 2-3 intense sessions per day.

🔹 Reduce fake productivity (low-value tasks don’t count).

🔹 Prioritize high-impact topics.

🔹 Simulate exam pressure—train yourself to think fast under stress.

0️⃣8️⃣ Week 8: Advanced Questioning & Strategy (April 19-25)

🔹 Study past exam patterns : what do they repeat?

🔹 Learn what examiners actually want in answers.

🔹 Debate answers with yourself or others (argue both sides).

🔹 Find alternative explanations for complex topics.

🔹 Challenge: What’s the hardest question you could get? Be ready.

0️⃣9️⃣ Week 9: Mastery & Confidence (April 26-May 2)

🔹 Final review: Focus only on weak spots.

🔹 80/20 Rule: What 20% of topics will help the most?

🔹 Do “last-minute style” studying—but without panic.

🔹 Take simulated exams with time limits (test performance).

🔹 Train your brain to stay confident under pressure.

🔟 Week 10: Exam-Specific Prep (May 3-May 9)

🔹 Prioritize final polishing, NOT cramming.

🔹 Review summaries, key formulas, & essay structures.

🔹 Optimize sleep & energy (don’t mess this up now).

🔹 Have a "cheat sheet" in your mind for each subject.

🔹 Last 3 days: Light review, no stress, trust your prep.

last tip !

There will be moments when u feel like giving up, when the material seems overwhelming or the effort too much. That’s when your mindset needs to kick in. The difference between success and failure isn’t about natural talent or born smart it’s about your ability to keep going when things get tough I'm talking about the material not burnout out .The truth is, hard work, perseverance, and adaptability are what lead to success not innate ability.Think of each week as a building block, each day as a step forward. Every time you study, you’re not just learning the material you’re evolving. You’re becoming more disciplined, more capable, and more confident. Even on the days when you feel like you’ve made little progress, remind yourself that you’re making small, consistent strides. These small changes compound over time

good luck !

@bloomzone

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 7: "The one with unexpected visit" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: You plan your weekend, preparing to tackle the clutter—the disorganized clothes in your closet, the ones strewn at your feet, but most of all, the chaos in your mind after an unexpected visitor shows up at your door. WC: 10.4k

A/N: Okay. Here it is. 😭

Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!!If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! love you <3

Friday, August 30th

“This place is packed,” Santi muttered beside you, his gaze sweeping over the crowded tables, each one occupied by people leaning in close, lost in conversation or absorbed in their laptops. The low hum of chatter filled the air, punctuated by the occasional hiss of the espresso machine. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm sugar hung thick, comforting, almost intoxicating. The display case by the register was lined with golden croissants, glistening danishes, and—most importantly—rows of perfectly round, sugar-dusted donuts.

“The donut thing must be true,” he added, still scanning the room like he was making a tactical assessment.

“No, I heard the coffee’s actually good. Though, yeah, maybe the donut thing too.”

“I hope so. I want my free donut,” he said, flashing you a grin.

Ahead of you, two people stood in line. The café itself was like something out of a storybook—warm, inviting, all soft golden light and mismatched wooden chairs. A chalkboard menu hung above the counter, the handwriting slightly smudged in places, as though someone had changed their mind halfway through writing “oat milk.” A framed picture of what appeared to be the owner’s dog hung beside it, wearing a tiny apron.

“When’s Yov coming back?” you asked, nudging forward as the line inched along.

“Sunday. Why? Trying to get rid of me already?”

“No,” you said, smiling. “You can stay with me if you want. Tonight.”

Santi nodded, his gaze fixed ahead. “I’d love to, but I can’t.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why?”

“Dinner at Will’s place.”

“Ah.” You nodded, as if that explained everything. “Well, I guess I’ll be alone again.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” he laughed, nudging your arm playfully. “As if you don’t love being alone.”

“That’s true,” you admitted, raising your eyebrows. “Now that you mention it, maybe I’ll use the night to finally sort out my closet. Do you have any idea how many t-shirts must be buried at the bottom of everything?”

“Wow,” he said dryly. “You really know how to have fun on a friday night.”

“Next,” the man behind the counter said, his voice carrying over the soft hum of conversation and the clatter of ceramic cups.

You and Santi stepped forward. He ordered an espresso. You ordered a latte. Simple, predictable.

But beside you, you could feel Santi hesitating, his fingers drumming lightly against the counter, his weight shifting from one foot to the other. Like he was holding himself back.

“And I’ll have a blueberry muffin too,” you said, sliding your gaze toward him, leaving space. An opening.

Santi didn’t say anything.

The man behind the counter gave you a knowing smile. He looked like he was in his early forties, maybe late thirties. His light brown hair was touched with soft gray at the temples, and his eyes—large, dark green, almost too deep for their color—had the kind of quiet presence that made you think he was good at remembering faces. He was tall, too, though he moved with an easy, unhurried air.

“This your first time here, right?” he asked, punching your order into the register.

You nodded. “It is. I, uh—” You gestured vaguely toward the sidewalk behind you. “I have a bookstore just a few doors down. Right next to the florist.”

Recognition flickered across his face. His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Ah, Vandspell Books—that’s yours?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve been meaning to stop by,” he said, wiping his hands on a dish towel before leaning slightly against the counter. “My daughter loves to read. She’s in that stage where she’ll devour an entire book in a day.”

That got your attention. You smiled, suddenly much more invested in the conversation.

“Really? What’s she reading now?”

“Anne of Green Gables. She’s ten.” He hesitated, as if considering something, then added, “Do you have any recommendations?”

Your mind immediately began sorting through titles, but a quick glance behind you told you there were already three more people waiting in line.

“Oh, I have lots,” you said, shifting your weight slightly. “You should bring her by. I’d love to talk books with her.”

His face lit up, as if the idea genuinely delighted him. “Of course. I’m Bill, by the way.”

You told him your name, then gestured toward your brother. “This is Santi.”

“Nice to meet you, Santi,” Bill said, then tilted his head. “You want anything else with your coffee?”

Santi opened his mouth, hesitated. “Uh…”

“Pick some donuts,” Bill interrupted. He gestured toward the display case behind him, where an array of golden, sugar-dusted, chocolate-drizzled, and rainbow-sprinkled donuts sat under the soft glow of the pastry case lights. “On the house.”

You turned just in time to see Santi’s expression shift. You smiled.

With coffee in hand and two paper bags filled with still-warm donuts, you and Santi stepped out of the café and onto the sidewalk. The air outside was delicious, the kind of perfect morning where the sun felt warm against your face without being overbearing. A breeze moved lazily through the streets, carrying the scent of fresh bread from a bakery down the block, the faintest hint of lavender from the florist next door.

And, as it turned out, everyone had been right about the coffee. It was good—really good, the kind that made you close your eyes for a second just to savor it. The donuts, too. You had chosen one with plain icing, while Santi, walking beside you, was already biting into his, the chocolate coating cracking under his teeth.

“You look happy,” you observed, watching as he chewed, looking for all the world like a contented child.

Santi laughed, brushing a stray crumb from his shirt. “I’m happy in the mornings.”

You reached the bookstore and pushed open the door, the small brass bell overhead letting out a familiar chime. Immediately, the scent of books wrapped around you—old paper, faint traces of vanilla from the spines, something earthy in the air like dust settling in sunlight. The morning light streamed in through the tall windows, pooling in golden patches on the wooden floor.

You took a sip of your coffee and moved behind the counter, switching on the computer, unlocking the register, setting everything in place for the day. Santi made his way to the couch on the left, the one tucked against the universal classics section. He sat down with a sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him, his gaze drifting across the shelves.

“Thinking about something?” you asked, noticing how still he’d gone, how his eyes seemed focused on something only he could see.

“Not really,” he said, leaning back. Then, after a pause, “Just remembering how dad used to read Henry James to us.” His mouth quirked up at the corner. “And Poe. That man was out to terrify us.”

You laughed, the memory slipping in as easily as if it had happened yesterday—those slow, humid summer mornings, your father behind the counter, his reading glasses sliding down his nose, the two of you sprawled out on the floor, half-helping, half-distracted.

That first summer, when you were seven and Santi was twelve, you had spent the mornings at the shop mostly because there was nowhere else to be. Santi had been having a rough year at school, and your parents had decided bookstore shifts were a more constructive punishment than being stuck at home. You, naturally, had followed him. It had been the off-season, slow and uneventful, so your father had pulled The Turn of the Screw off the shelf and started reading it to you in pieces, depending on how long you could sit still. He hadn’t expected you to love it, but you had. You’d finished the book quicker than he planned. And after that, the habit had formed—morning readings of Poe, a little May Alcott, sometimes Dickens. Always, at the end, your father would close the book, clear his throat, and say in that particular, expectant voice, Well, kids, what did you learn?

“Yes,” you said now, settling onto the couch beside Santi. “I remember every story like it was yesterday.”

“Well, you have a better memory than me,” he admitted. “I’ve forgotten a few.”

You rolled your eyes, standing up.

“Take the book, then.” You crossed to the shelf, letting your fingers trail along the spines, stopping when you found the one you wanted.

“Really?”

“Yes, Santiago.” You pulled the book free and handed it to him. “Read it again and tell me what you think of it now that you’re old.”

He laughed, flipping absently through the pages. “Change of perspective, huh?”

“That’s what they say.”

Santi made a quiet sound, thoughtful, tapping his fingers against the book’s spine. “Something I remember, though.”

“What?”

“The way Henry James talked about it.” He paused, searching for the phrase. “Change of perspective.”

You laughed. “You mean 'points of view’?"

Santi nodded.

You raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“Nothing. Just an interesting thing to think about. How we all have different points of view. How stories—experiences—can be—”

“Oh, shut up,” you said, swatting his arm as you walked back to the counter.

Santi just grinned, flipping open the book.

Saturday, August 31st

“What about this one?” you asked, holding up a shirt to the light filtering through the blinds. Mr. Darcy, curled at the foot of the bed, blinked at you in slow, feline disinterest. You stretched the fabric between your fingers, tilting your head as if seeing it from a different angle might reveal something new. “I think this color looks good on me,” you mused, glancing at your reflection in the mirror. “Don’t you think?”

Mr. Darcy did not respond. His eyes drooped closed, an infuriatingly serene expression settling over his face.

With a sigh, you pressed the shirt against your chest for a final moment of consideration before tossing it onto the “stay” pile. The bed was covered in these small mountains of fabric, some meticulously folded, others crumpled in a way that suggested their fate was still undecided.

“You’re not being much help,” you told the cat. He responded by shifting slightly and sighing—a real, proper sigh, as if he too were exhausted by the ordeal.

You picked up the last two sweaters that had been holding you hostage in indecision for the past twenty minutes. One was soft and familiar, a shade of blue you always liked on other people but never felt quite right in. The other was oversized and cozy but had a tiny stain near the collar you would never actually get around to fixing. With a sharp exhale, you placed them both in the “go” pile.

This had taken so much longer than you expected.

Yesterday night, full of unwarranted optimism, you had yanked everything from your closet in a single dramatic motion, watching as shirts and dresses tumbled onto the floor in a heap of fabric and regret. At first, you moved with purpose—lifting, sorting, folding—but soon, fatigue crept in. You had far more clothes than you realized, and the sheer volume of it all became overwhelming. Then your stomach growled, and you told yourself you’d take a quick break, have dinner, then get back to it.

Except you didn’t.

Instead, you ate too much, stretched out on the couch for what was supposed to be just a moment, and woke up (many) hours later with Mr. Darcy sprawled across your chest, his full weight pressing into you like a tiny, indifferent furnace. Your mouth was dry, your limbs heavy, and the mess was still waiting for you.

Now, after a long shower and a strong coffee, you had finally pushed through. The bed was covered in neat stacks, some slightly more chaotic than others, but it didn’t matter. Most of these clothes were staying.

Humming along to the song drifting from the speakers in the living room—Perfect by The Smashing Pumpkins—you began folding the last of the pieces, tucking them carefully into drawers, smoothing them into place. The sun had started to set, golden light spilling across the room, stretching shadows across the floor. Mr. Darcy let out a soft sigh in his sleep.

You rolled your shoulders back, stretching your arms overhead. The apartment felt quieter now, softer. As if, for the first time in a while, there was a little more space to breathe.

When everything was finally in place, you stepped back, hands on your hips, surveying your work with quiet satisfaction. The closet doors stood open, revealing rows of neatly folded clothes, the bed cleared of its previous chaos. It felt good, in a small but tangible way, to have imposed order on something.

Mr. Darcy chose that moment to stretch luxuriously, arching his back, his tail curling in the air. He let out a slow, deliberate meow, as if announcing his presence.

“Oh, now you’re awake,” you said, sitting down on the bed just as he slinked over to rub his head against your leg. His purring started up instantly, a low, soothing vibration under your fingertips as you scratched behind his ears.

“You’re a sweetie, you know that?” you murmured, pressing your forehead lightly to his.

He responded with a small, almost reluctant meow.

“Of course you know,” you said. “You’re the cockiest little thing in the world, and I love you for it.”

Mr. Darcy accepted this praise for a few more seconds before deciding he had better things to do. With a final flick of his tail, he hopped off the bed and padded out of the room. You followed his lead, heading into the bathroom.

Your reflection in the mirror was flushed, your skin still warm from the shower. Strands of hair clung to your neck. You ran your fingers through it absently, shaking it out, then padded barefoot to the kitchen.

The clock on the microwave read 5:37 PM. You hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day, which explained the hunger curling in your stomach. You opened the fridge, scanning the shelves, your eyes landing on a carton of eggs. Maybe pancakes. You could make pancakes.

Just as your fingers brushed against the milk, the doorbell rang, muffled beneath the music playing in the living room.

You cursed under your breath, shutting the fridge with a little more force than necessary before glancing toward the window.

“I’m coming!” you called, raking a hand through your t-shirt, smoothing the fabric over your stomach as you walked toward the door.

You glanced down at yourself—Santi’s old, faded Soundgarden t-shirt, worn soft with time, and a pair of shorts. Not exactly presentable, but it was just your brother. What did it matter? You only hoped he’d had the decency to bring food. A bowl of his stew, preferably.

You opened the apartment door and made your way downstairs, still prepared to greet him with some sarcastic remark about how he always showed up unannounced. Your fingers curled around the handle of the front door, pulling it open with a practiced ease, your lips already forming the beginnings of a smirk—

But then, you saw who was standing there.

Not Santi.

Frankie.

The smirk disappeared instantly.

Your gaze rested on his face, searching for something—an emotion, a clue, anything that might tell you what he was thinking. But if there was something there, you couldn’t decipher it. All you could tell was that he didn’t want to be here. Or maybe it was something else entirely, something you weren’t perceptive enough to name.  

“Hi,” he said finally, shifting his weight back slightly. “How are you?”  

There was a hesitation before you answered. “Fine.” Your eyes dropped before they could linger too long on his face, skimming down his body instead. No cap. No glasses. A gray T-shirt, black cargo pants. His car was parked behind him, engine off, as if he wasn’t sure how long he’d be staying. “You?”  

“I was wondering if we could talk for a minute. About the other night.” His voice was steady, careful. “If you want to. If you can.”  

Your pulse jumped, an uncomfortable awareness settling in your chest. You hoped the heat rising in your cheeks wasn’t visible, but it probably was.  

You nodded. “Yeah, sure. Do you want to come up?”  

You stepped aside, gesturing toward the stairs with a thumb.  

Frankie nodded once, silent, and crossed the threshold. As he passed, you caught the faintest trace of something—clean, warm. You exhaled through your nose and turned to close the door behind him, hesitating a beat longer than necessary. A small, quiet breath left you before you followed him upstairs.  

At the apartment door, you pushed it open and stepped inside first. He hesitated for half a second before following, his eyes flickering to the floor, scanning for the cat.  

“Sit,” you said, already walking toward the kitchen.  

He wordlessly lowered himself onto the couch, elbows resting on his knees. You opened the fridge, the sudden cool air brushing against your skin as you scanned the shelves.

“Do you want something to drink? I have coffee, tea, juice, um—”  

“Water’s fine.”  

“Okay.”  

You poured two glasses—one for him, one for yourself—and returned to the couch, setting them down on the coffee table. You almost sat beside him. Almost. But at the last second, something made you change your mind, and you lowered yourself into the couch across from him instead.  

Silence stretched between you, thick and unmoving. Neither of you seemed to know where to begin.  

You were just about to reach for something, anything, when he let out a breath and spoke first.

“I owe you an apology.”

Frankie’s voice was steady, but there was a tightness in his jaw, in the way his fingers laced together, elbows resting on his knees like he was bracing himself. He was looking at you now, fully, not shying away. “For the other night and… for everything. I’m sorry.”

Your brows pulled together. “Everything?”

The word sat between you, unanswered.

Everything felt too big, too vague. How far back did he mean? Since the other night? Since years ago? Since always?

His gaze dropped to the coffee table where the glasses sat untouched. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he were weighing his words, as if the right ones might suddenly appear among the condensation rings forming on the wood. When he lifted his eyes again, he looked more sure of himself.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard about Harry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said all that shit. I—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I had no right to get in your business like that. And it won’t happen again. You can trust that.”

There was something about the way he said it—without defensiveness, without expectation—that made you believe him.

“I know I don’t have an excuse,” he continued. “But I do know how you feel.” His fingers flexed against his knees before his hands finally relaxed. “I’ve been there.”

His gaze dipped again, like the weight of saying it out loud was too much. “I’ve been abandoned. And I found out the hard way that it was pointless to spend every day crying, wondering why.”

Your mouth opened before you fully registered the thought.

“Rachel.”

The name landed between you, quieter than you meant it to be, as if it had slipped out on its own.

Frankie nodded. You noticed the smallest movement in his expression—the way his eyebrows twitched slightly, how his throat bobbed as he swallowed. A moment of remembering.

“And I know you’re not me, and Harry’s not Rachel,” he said. “But I couldn’t help it. It felt the same. Like I was watching something repeat itself right in front of me.”

“It’s not the same.”

“I know.” He nodded quickly, closing his eyes for a second, like he needed to reset. “I know.”

Frankie rubbed his palms over his thighs, exhaling through his nose. “Seeing you hurt over him reminded me of myself, and I—I—”

“Do you wish someone had demanded you get over it? Would you have preferred someone to yell it in your face?”

The question came out softer than you expected. Frankie’s head tilted slightly, his lips parting just enough for a breath to catch. Then, slowly, he let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

“I wish they’d been less careful with me,” he admitted. “Everyone acted like I was this fragile thing they couldn’t say certain shit to. Like if they said the wrong thing, I’d just… break.” His eyes flickered to yours. “Honestly? If I could go back, I’d tell myself to get over it. That it didn’t make sense.”

“But that’s not how it works,” you said gently. “You can’t force yourself to get over something. And you can’t force other people to, either.”

His jaw shifted slightly, the muscle tightening before releasing again. “I just would’ve liked some honesty. You know what I mean?”

You held his gaze and nodded. "Yeah, I get it. But, what, did you think I wanted the same thing? Everything you said that night wasn't new to me."

“I just... I know I have no right to tell you what to do. Or give you advice," he said, quieter now. "And even beyond that, I know the way I spoke to you was wrong. I was insensitive. And for that, I’m sorry.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I got caught up in it. I saw how much you were hurting, and I—I messed up.”

His hand dropped, and when he looked at you again, something in his expression had softened.

“You and I… we’re not exactly made for each other, are we?” His lips quirked, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “And I don’t even know what it is that makes us like this. But whatever it is…” His voice grew quieter, like he wasn’t sure he wanted you to hear the last part. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

For a moment, you considered the easy way out. You could tell him you understood, that you had been unfair too. You could nod, accept his apology, smooth over the jagged edges between you.

But the truth was, you were tired. Tired of this, tired of swallowing words, tired of pretending you didn’t feel the way you did. And, honestly, you had no idea when you’d get another chance to say these things to him. Knowing yourself, probably not anytime soon.

You took a breath, tried to shape your thoughts into something measured, something that wouldn’t unravel into a mess of frustration and regret. But overthinking it wouldn’t help. It never did.

So you just said it.

“You make me feel stupid,” you told him, and even though your voice was steady, it felt like tearing something open. “Almost all the time. Since the very first day.”

Frankie blinked, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s like nothing I do is ever good enough for you. Like all my choices are inconsistent, irrational. If I wanted to be sad about Harry, if I wanted to cry over him, why couldn’t I? Just because something similar happened to you? This pain is mine, Frankie. I get to decide how I deal with it, how I suffer through it. That doesn’t mean I’ll carry it forever. That doesn’t mean I need you—or anyone—to rescue me from it.”

His expression didn’t change, but something about the way he was breathing, the way his hands were clasped so tightly between his knees, told you he was listening.

“And I get it,” you continued, exhaling sharply. “In some messed-up, roundabout, very us kind of way, you were trying to help me. But you…” Your throat tightened, but you pushed through it. “You have this particular way of hurting me. Like you know exactly where to push, which strings to pull to completely disarm me.”

Frankie didn’t move. He just kept looking at you, so still it was almost unnerving. And as the words left your mouth, you felt something uncoil inside you, a weight lifting. But it wasn’t enough.

You straightened, rolling your shoulders back, bracing yourself.

“Can you be honest with me?” you asked. “Really honest? No bullshit, no deflections.” You gestured vaguely with your hand, like you were wiping the excuses away before he could even reach for them.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then, he nodded. “Yeah.”

“Tell me how you feel about me.” The words landed heavy in the space between you. “Tell me how you feel about the way I treat you. Tell me what it does to you, being near me. What you feel, and what you’ve felt all this time.” You inhaled, grounding yourself. “Right now, Francisco. I’m asking you for honesty.”

For a second, he just stared. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right. Or like he was trying to figure out if this was a trap.

And then he seemed to decide that, whatever it was, it didn’t really matter.

“I…” He exhaled, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I feel bad.”

His gaze dropped to the coffee table, avoiding yours like he was embarrassed to be admitting it out loud.

“I feel inadequate. Out of place. Like when you’re a kid and you go to a birthday party and no one wants to play with you.” His fingers flexed, then stilled. “Like I’m failing a test over and over again.”

You were quiet for a few seconds, letting his words settle, letting them exist in the space between you. If he had felt that way—if he felt that way now—you had never noticed. Not even once.

“I didn’t know,” you said finally, careful with your tone, as if the wrong inflection might break whatever fragile honesty was hanging between you. “I mean… I never thought anything I said actually got to you. All these years, you always seemed so sure of yourself. Like you wanted to prove that between the two of us, I was the one who wasn’t enough.”

Frankie lifted his gaze, meeting yours. His expression didn’t shift, but something in his posture did—something subtle, something you almost missed.

“What made you think that?” he asked. “What made you believe that what you said didn’t affect me?”

“You.” 

Frankie blinked, caught off guard.

“You make me feel small,” you went on, voice steadier than you expected. “Like I don’t know what I’m talking about, like I’m constantly getting it wrong. Every time we’ve argued, you always seem to know exactly what to say to hurt me, like you have some map of my insecurities, like you know exactly where to press.” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “And I’ve always felt like you win. No matter what I say to you, no matter how angry I am, it never feels like I’ve landed a hit. You always turn it around, always make it worse for me. And then it’s like you’re fine—like you’ve already moved on, like it didn’t even matter. Like you enjoy knowing you won, until the next time we see each other and do it all over again.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted slightly before he exhaled, dropping his gaze to the floor. He pressed his lips together, jaw flexing, and when he looked back up, something unreadable had settled into his expression.

“I didn’t feel like I won the last time we saw each other,” he said. “If that makes you feel any better. Or any of the other times, really.”

You let out a quiet breath, looking down at your hands, suddenly unsure what to do with them.

“Shit,” you muttered. And then, because it felt right—because it felt true—you lifted your eyes to his and said, “I’m sorry.”

His brows twitched slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I’m sorry for everything I said to you,” you continued. “It wasn’t true. None of it. I was just—I was mad, and I was hurt, and I wanted you to feel just as bad as I did.”

Frankie’s lips curled at the corners, a small, wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

You shook your head. “That’s not—” 

“It’s okay.”

“No, that’s not okay,” you said, shaking your head, as if you could physically reject the thought. “Because something like that—what I said to you—no one deserves to be treated like that. And it wasn’t true. Not even a little bit. I don’t actually think those things about you, Francisco.” You swallowed, your throat dry. “I just wanted to hurt you.”

Frankie exhaled, looking down, shaking his head as if he could shake off the weight of it.

“I deserved it.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “I… I didn’t know I made you feel that way. That it was that serious for you.” His hands flexed against his knees, knuckles pale with tension. “I didn’t know, or maybe I just didn’t let myself realize it. Not until the other night, when I—When I made you cry.” A pause. Then, barely above a whisper, “Jesus Christ, I’m such a fucking asshole.”

He pressed his fingers against his temples for a second before looking back at you. “All this time, all these years, I knew we were hurting each other. But I didn’t think—I didn’t think anything I said could actually wound you like that.”

“You didn’t realize?” The words left your mouth before you had time to temper them, sharp and incredulous.

Frankie nodded, almost to himself. “We fought, we pissed each other off, and in you, all I ever saw was anger. I thought, yeah, she hates me. So I figured that was all I was provoking—just that. Just anger. I never thought I was really—” He hesitated, exhaling through his nose. “I never thought I was actually hurting you.”

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “That’s what always got to me the most,” you muttered. “How come you always knew where to hit? How to cut?”

Frankie’s eyes rested on yours, unreadable, and then drifted down to your hands. You were twisting your fingers together, restless, wound tight.

He let a breath pass before answering. “The first time we actually argued was that day at the lake, remember?”

You did.

You nodded, and Frankie went on. “I took your life jacket by mistake. And when you found out, you just—tore it out of my hands without a word. We hadn’t even talked much before that. Barely knew each other. But that moment felt like… like it told me everything I needed to know.” He wet his lips, glancing at you briefly before looking back down. “I went after you, asked you what the hell your problem was, and you said I needed to be more careful. That I should keep my hands off your stuff. That I always managed to screw things up.”

His fingers tapped absently against his knee.

“Later that day, you lost the parking ticket, and we argued again. And I—I remember throwing it back at you. That you were the one who always screwed things up. That you were careless. That you needed to pay more attention.” He gave a small, breathy laugh, shaking his head at himself. “After that, I don’t remember the specifics. Just that it was always like that between us. Always fighting, always picking at each other, always knowing the worst possible thing to say. And Santi losing his mind over it.”

He glanced down at the side of the couch, where Mr. Darcy had stirred, stretching lazily before padding toward Frankie’s feet. Frankie reached down, scratching lightly behind his ear, gaze unfocused.

“I didn’t know the things I said were touching a nerve,” he said finally, still not looking at you. “But I did know that the things you said to me were.” His fingers stilled in the cat’s fur. “It always felt like you knew exactly where to press. Like you could see my insecurities before I even admitted them to myself.” He finally looked at you, his mouth curling in a wry, humorless smile. “And if you think about it too much, it’s almost funny. Because our attacks—our words—they’re the same. They always have been.”

You followed his gaze to your cat, who had curled up beside his feet again, content. Your thoughts tangled together, unspooling into more questions than you could keep track of. Would he answer them?

“Yes, I understand that. What I don’t understand is…” You stopped, your throat tightening so suddenly it caught you off guard. You swallowed hard, willing yourself to push through the burning behind your eyes. “What I don’t get is… why?”

Frankie looked at you, his expression unreadable at first, then shifting into something closer to confusion. “What?”

You blinked rapidly, a thin sheen of wetness gathering in your eyes.

“From the very beginning, you never liked me.” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Since the first day, the first moment we met. You made up your mind about me on the spot. Why? You didn’t know me. You knew nothing about me, and yet somehow, you decided I was—” You stopped, struggling to find the right words. “—not worth your time. Not worth being kind to.”

His expression didn’t shift at first, just deepened into something unreadable. “I don’t... I don't know what you mean.”

You let out a breath, something like a laugh but without the humor.

“Francisco.” His name felt strange in your mouth, too formal, too intimate at once. “Come on.”

"No... I mean, I know it was weird, but that's not how I—"

“From the very beginning, you hated me.” A tear slid down your cheek, warm and humiliating.

“I didn't,” he said quietly.

“You did. Since the first time we met.”

His gaze flickered over your face, searching, like maybe the answer would be written there instead. “The first time we met?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated. “I... I don’t know if we’re talking about the same thing.” He glanced downward, rubbing his palm over his jeans, like the answer might be tucked somewhere there. “I—”

“We are.” Your arms folded tightly over your chest, and a single tear slid down your cheek.

Frankie watched it fall, his expression still, like he was afraid to move. “Are you... are you talking about the party?”

Your breath came out unsteady. “Yes. When Santi introduced us.”

Something changed in his posture, a nearly imperceptible shift. He straightened, his head tilting slightly.

“You decided,” you went on, voice gaining weight, strength, “that I wasn’t enough. That I was something you just didn’t care to bother with.” You swallowed against the ache in your throat. “Why? What was it about me? What made you so sure, right away, that I wasn’t worth respecting?”

The last word broke in your mouth, and you turned away, unable to keep looking at him.

Another thin tear traced the curve of your cheek, warm against the cool air. Frankie shifted, pushing himself up from where he sat, his movements unhurried but purposeful. He didn’t hesitate—he crossed the space between you, lowering himself beside you, close enough that you could feel his presence in the subtle press of air, the quiet weight of him.  

He didn’t touch you, not really. Just the faintest brush of his fingertips against the edge of your jaw, a barely-there pressure, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Like he was testing the shape of the moment, waiting to see if you would pull away.  

“That’s not true,” he murmured. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Something burned beneath your ribs, something twisting and insistent, and you shook your head, exhaling sharply. A thin, bitter smile flickered across your lips, but it barely lasted a second. It collapsed the moment your eyes found his again, replaced by something heavier, something almost resigned.

“I heard you, Francisco.” Your voice was quiet, steady. “I heard you that night. Talking to Will.”

Frankie’s expression barely shifted at first. He was watching you carefully, trying to read you, as if unsure whether this was an accusation or something else entirely.

“What are you talking about?”

You studied his face, searching for any flicker of recognition, but there was nothing. Not yet.

“After dinner, when everyone went down to the bonfire,” you started, measured, watching for his reaction. “Benny stayed behind to help me with the dishes. I was already feeling off—because of you, because of how you looked at me when Santi introduced us, because of how you acted during dinner. Like there was something wrong with me. Like I was—” You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your throat, but forced yourself to continue. “Like I was something unpleasant that you had to avoid.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, but there was a shift in his features—subtle, almost imperceptible. He looked puzzled. But still, not like he knew.

You exhaled through your nose, gathering yourself before speaking again. “I wasn’t in a good mood after that. So after we finished, I went to the bathroom. And that’s when I heard you.”

Something in Frankie’s posture stiffened slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting you go on.

“You and Will were outside, talking near the bathroom window,” you said, watching him closely now, waiting for something in him to give. “I wasn’t trying to listen. But then I heard you talking about me.” You swallowed. “You were telling him there was something weird about me. That I had... something.”

A pause. The air in the room changed. Frankie’s gaze darkened—not in anger, but in something closer to realization.

“Will told you not to be like that,” you went on, voice quieter now. “He said I was Santi’s sister, that you should at least try and talk to me. And you—” You stopped, bracing yourself, because saying the words out loud after all this time felt different, sharper. You forced them out anyway. “You said you’d rather sacrifice yourself in another way.”

And then—there it was.

His expression shifted, something cracking open behind his eyes. His brows lifted slightly, and his mouth parted like he might say something, but no words came. He pulled back just an inch, like the memory had physically landed in his chest. His gaze dropped to the floor, breath measured, something about the way his shoulders rose and fell too precise. He shook his head—at himself, at the situation.

When he finally met your eyes again, there was something different there.

“What else did you hear?” His voice was careful, but there was something uneasy in the way he asked.

“Just that,” you said simply.

“Nothing else?”

You shook your head. “Does it matter?” Your voice was steady, but there was an ache behind it. “You were clear.”

Frankie dragged a hand over his mouth, exhaling as his gaze flickered to the floor again. For a moment, it felt like maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all.

Then, finally, he looked back at you.

“It’s not what you think,” he said.

“I heard you, Francisco,” you said, voice steady but sharp at the edges. “I heard you clearly—”

“I know,” he interrupted, nodding, inching closer. His voice was quiet but urgent, like he was trying to get ahead of whatever was coming next. “I know you did. But it’s not what you think. I didn’t—I never thought those things about you, I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Just—just listen to me.”

Your stomach clenched. “Why the hell would you say it then? If you didn’t believe it, why did you say it?” You could hear your own voice rising, the frustration bleeding through. “Because from where I was standing, it made perfect sense. The way you looked at me that night, like I was something disappointing. Like I wasn’t what you expected or wanted me to be. And then to hear you say it out loud to Will—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “It all lined up.”

Frankie held your gaze, unblinking.

“It’s not what you think,” he said, firm, his voice low. And for some reason—against all logic—you almost believed him.

You swallowed. “Then tell me the truth! Tell me what happened!”

Something flickered across his face, something uncertain. His posture stiffened just slightly, and his eyes darted away, just for a second, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go down this road at all.

He hesitated. Then, finally:

“I can’t,” he said. The words came out carefully, cautiously. “I can’t tell you. But you have to believe me when I say that what you heard wasn’t the full story. It wasn’t even the full conversation. I—” He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I said those things so Will would drop it. So he’d stop insisting.”

Your eyebrows knitted together. “Insisting on what?”

Frankie’s jaw tightened, his gaze shifting slightly, landing on Darcy, who had perched himself on the coffee table, lazily observing the conversation. He didn’t answer.

Your patience frayed at the edges. “Francisco.”

His eyes finally met yours again.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I promise. Just—not right now.”

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t you just tell me?” You leaned in slightly, closing the space between you, your face inches from his. He had nowhere to look but at you, no way to slip past the moment, no escape. “I asked you for honesty.”

His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to steady something inside him. His eyes had darkened, locked onto yours with an intensity that sent something twisting in your stomach.

“It was a weird night for me,” he said finally, his voice rough at the edges. “A weird week. I—” He exhaled, shaking his head, running a hand down his face as if he could wipe away the memory. “Please, you have to believe me. Yes, I said those things to Will, but no—none of it was real. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t think those things about you.” His voice caught slightly before he pushed through. “I barely knew you. We’d exchanged, what? A few words? An introduction? I wasn’t sitting there analyzing you, deciding what I thought of you. And whatever impression I gave you that night, whatever you think I believed—I swear to God, it wasn’t that.”

You let out a shaky breath, something sharp and unsatisfied curling inside you.

“How am I supposed to believe that?” Your voice wavered but held. “How do I know you’re not just lying to make this easier, to convince me I misheard, that this was all some kind of misunderstanding?”

“I—”

“You ignored me all night,” you went on, your heart picking up pace. “When the others spoke, you were fine. You looked cool, easygoing. But when I spoke?” You let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “It was like you forgot how to be a person. Like you wished I wasn’t there at all. You barely looked at me, and when you did—” You hesitated, feeling the heat rising in your cheeks. “It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So tell me, Francisco. How can I fucking believe you? You deliberately ignored me all night. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Are you seriously going to deny it? Do you think I’m stupid?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, something unreadable passing through his expression. And for a moment, all you wanted was to know exactly what was going through his head. To break him open and sort through whatever the hell he was keeping from you.

But it wasn’t that easy.

“No, not at all. I... I just... Fuck. Yeah.” He dropped his gaze, running a hand over his jaw for a moment before looking back up at you, his eyes filled with nerves. “I know I acted weird that night, I do. But it wasn’t because I didn’t like you or because I thought anything bad about you. And I know I probably sound like I’m making excuses, but I swear I’m not. I mean it. I’m serious.”

"I'm sorry, but I don't believe you. Are you seriously trying to tell me that something happened that night that made you act weird only with me? Just me? Come on, Francisco, don't fuck with me."

"I'm sorry, I really am. I didn’t think I was being that obvious. I didn’t think you noticed how I was feeling that night. And I never would have imagined that you thought my attitude meant I didn’t like you. Honestly, I remember feeling like you were the one ignoring me all night. If I had realized back then that it looked like I was ignoring you on purpose, things would have been different."

"That's not believable, Francisco, seriously. Just stop."

"I'll tell you everything, I promise. Just... not right now. The conversation with Will, that whole night—I’ll explain it all, really."  

You snorted, glancing to the side for a moment before looking back at him.

“Please, trust me,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I’ll tell you, I will, but not right now. I can’t.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But if you trust me—” He stopped himself, inhaled sharply. “God.” He shook his head, stepping back slightly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You have no reason to do it. I know that. But please—please, just trust me.”

"Why should I trust you? I know I have no real reason to. But give me one. Why should I trust you?"

Frankie stared at his hands for a few seconds, trying to come up with an answer (or maybe an excuse?) to give you.  

"I don't have one." He met your gaze, his eyes full. "I... I only have my word. And if you decide not to trust me... I get it."

You stared at him for a long time, searching his face, studying every shift in his expression, every flicker of hesitation. You were ready to call bullshit, to let yourself hold on to the anger, to the version of him you had carried around for so long.

But you couldn’t.

Because somehow, against every instinct, every logical explanation—you believed him.

Whatever else Francisco was, he wasn’t lying. Not right now.

“All right, okay,” you said finally, your voice quieter now. “I don't know what's wrong with me, but I trust you. But you’ll tell me. You will. You promise.”

Frankie nodded. “Yeah. I’ll tell you. I will.”

"And I won't wait too long. I mean it. I think I deserve an answer. I do."

"Yes, you do. And you will get one, I swear."

You stared at him in silence, your eyes locked on his, like lie-detecting machines. Frankie didn’t look away. He held the gaze until it felt like it was too much.

Then, ee exhaled heavily, running a hand down his face before looking at you again. “Jesus… are you telling me this all started that night?”

You let out a small, humorless breath, crossing your arms.

“I don’t know what super secret reason you had, Francisco, but you were a dick to me. That’s just how it was. Whether you like it or not.”

His lips pressed together, his gaze fixed on you like he was trying to piece something together.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “I really am. I just… I thought this was all because you didn’t like me first.”

You turned to him with an incredulous look, eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”

His mouth twitched, just barely.

“I didn’t like you,” you admitted. “But only because I thought you were a rude, arrogant pain in the ass. That’s all. In fact, you have yet to prove to me wrong. ”

Frankie let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Is that why you didn’t give me a slice of cake?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, glancing at him. “And how do I know you’re not still that smug asshole, huh?”

Frankie held your gaze for a second, then shrugged.

“You don’t.” His expression softened just slightly. “And if you wanted to take some distance after all of this, I’d get it.”

Your breath hitched. “Really?”

He nodded. “I haven’t exactly been good to you. Not at all. I’ve hurt you, disrespected you. And yeah, it’s been mutual, but… I’d understand. If you wanted me to step back.”

You swallowed, something thick forming in your throat.

“I’ve been mean to you, too.”

A ghost of a smirk played at his lips. “Yeah. You have.”

“Remember when I threw that dart at you?”

Frankie groaned, rolling his eyes. “I still have the scar. Of course I remember.”

You looked at him then, amused, but it didn’t last. The lightness of the moment faded as quickly as it had come, replaced by something heavier pressing against your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. You blinked hard, but it was useless—your eyes were already burning. “About the other night. I’m really sorry. You’re none of those things. I don’t think you’re a failure. And I—I feel awful about what I said, Francisco.” You let out a breath, your voice wavering. “And I really like your family. Your mom is… she’s wonderful. No one with a family who loves them that much could ever be a failure.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and before you could wipe it away, Frankie moved. He didn’t hesitate this time.

His arm came around you, pulling you in—not forceful, not demanding, just steady. Solid.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and warm against your hair. “It’s all right.”

You closed your eyes for a second, listening to his heartbeat, to the rise and fall of his breath.

“I’ve been a jerk to you,” he continued. “I just hope someday you can forgive me. For all the times I made you feel small or stupid. You’re none of those things. Never have been.” He let out a quiet breath. “I was—I'm just an asshole.”

You pulled away from him, your breath still unsteady, the warmth of his proximity lingering on your skin. When you looked up, his expression was tight, conflicted. There was something guilty in the way his gaze dropped for a second, like he wished he could take back whatever had just passed between you.

“Maybe,” you said, a small smile curving at the corner of your lips, though it wasn’t entirely lighthearted. “Then again, maybe we’re just too different. Or similar, at times.”

Frankie tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes fixed on yours, steady and unreadable.

“Maybe,” he said, his voice even. “That must be why you make me so uncomfortable sometimes.”

A small, puzzled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Your eyebrows pulled together.

“What do you mean?”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you could see the realization hit him, the regret arriving a beat too late. His shoulders shifted, a quiet exhale leaving him as he glanced down at the cat beside him, as if Mr. Darcy might somehow provide him with an escape route. But then something like amusement flickered across his face, and a breathy, almost reluctant laugh followed.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, finally looking at you again. “It’s strange. You make me nervous, I guess. Like, I don’t know how to talk to you, what to say. Maybe it’s the arguments, maybe it’s my self-esteem, who knows.” He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, as if it wasn’t something that had been bothering him for a long time.

You raised an eyebrow. “Huh. I wouldn’t have guessed.” A pause. “Although, now that I think about it, you do come across like you have a hard time talking to women.” The words were teasing, but your gaze stayed on him, curious.

He huffed, shaking his head. “I grew up surrounded by women. Believe me, a man learns things,” he said, eyes steady on yours, serious but with something wry beneath the surface. “Even if he doesn’t want to.”

You let yourself smile then, dropping your gaze to your hands. There was something about this—about him, about the quiet between you—that felt different than before.

Mr. Darcy rubbed against your legs, then made his way toward Frankie, stretching out lazily before flopping onto his back, belly exposed, trusting. Frankie ran a slow hand through the soft fur, absentmindedly scratching along the cat’s ribs.

Funny, you thought. Mr. Darcy already trusted him enough to show him his ridiculous little belly.

Maybe—just maybe—you could consider doing the same.

“Frankie?” you murmured, watching the sharp lines of his profile, the way the dim light carved shadows across his face. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, absentmindedly pinching at the skin around your nail, a nervous habit you hadn’t been able to break.

He turned to you at once, eyes steady, dark, unreadable. “Yeah?”

You hesitated. Swallowed. “I want this to end.”

A crease formed between his brows. “What?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, as if that could encompass everything—the biting words, the unresolved tension, the years of something tangled and unsaid. “The fights. The confusion. I’ve had enough of it. I don’t want it anymore.”

Frankie was quiet for a moment, watching you carefully, his expression serious but thoughtful. Then he nodded, once.

“Right.” His voice was steady. “I don’t want it either. And I get it. If you want me to stay away, I will. I’ll tell Santi. I’ll stay out of your way if that’s what you—”

“No,” you interrupted, leaning in just slightly, just enough for him to notice. “I don’t want that either.”

That caught his attention. His posture shifted, the tension in his jaw loosening. “No?”

You shook your head. “I think Santi’s had enough, too. I don’t want to put him in the middle of this, make him feel like he has to split his time between us. It wouldn’t be fair. Don’t you think?”

Frankie exhaled, nodding. “Yeah.”

You glanced down at the coffee table between you, the two water glasses still untouched, condensation pooling at their bases.

“I just… I don’t like this. It doesn’t feel good, for either of us. Maybe we could try again. Be normal. Be… cordial.” Your eyes flicked back up to him. “We’re doing it right now, aren’t we?”

Frankie let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Look at us. Talking like regular, well-adjusted people. What’s next? Respecting each other?”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched into a smirk. “Actually, I’d like that.”

“So would I.”

“But it’s not going to be easy,” you said, crossing your arms and straightening slightly. “This is years we’re talking about. You don’t just patch up a road that broken overnight.”

“I’m aware of that, ma’am.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Really?”

He lifted his chin, his shoulders squaring as if accepting a challenge.

“That’s right,” he said smoothly. “Let me make it up to you.”

Your brow furrowed. Suspicion prickled under your skin as you studied him. “How?”

Frankie didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looked at you, a slow, knowing smile tugging at his mouth, something familiar sparking in his expression. You recognized it immediately. It meant he was up to something.

“Are you still making your list?” he asked.

You blinked. “Yeah…”

“Good.” He leaned forward slightly, the space between you shrinking just enough. “If you let me, I could help you with that.”

Your lips parted, then curled into a grin. “You’re telling me you’d go to a club with me just so I can kiss strangers?”

Frankie laughed, deep and genuine. “If that’s what you want. Do you?”

Your gaze dropped, landing on Mr. Darcy sprawled between you, tail flicking lazily. You considered it for a second longer than you meant to.

Then you looked back up at Frankie.

“Not yet,” you said.

“Okay. Just think about it. Pick something, and I’ll do it with you.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “Anything?”

“Anything.”

“Really?” Your skepticism sharpened the word, your head tilting slightly as you studied him.

“Just say it.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stood there, watching him, searching his expression for any sign of hesitation. Was this just him being polite, trying to smooth things over? Or did he actually mean it? Would the weight of the last few years—the fights, the misunderstandings, the things he knew you’d overheard—make him agree to anything just to prove a point?

The thought was almost amusing.

Your list was long. Some things were easy, some a little more complicated. Others, though, would be downright painful in the oppressive august heat.

How far would Frankie really go? He’d said anything. But how much did anything actually mean?

“Okay,” you said finally, drawing the word out just a little, watching the way his shoulders stayed loose, the way his eyes remained locked onto yours, waiting.

“Anything, then,” you repeated, testing him.

He didn’t blink. “Uh-huh.”

“Good.” The corners of your mouth began to curve upward, the anticipation stretching into something almost giddy. You let the moment breathe, dragging it out just long enough to watch a flicker of uncertainty cross his face.

Then you said it.

“Skydiving.”

Frankie made a sound—something between a cough and a laugh, caught in his throat. His eyebrows lifted slightly, his expression somewhere between surprise and intrigue.

“Skydiving?”

“Yes.” You nodded, resolute.

For a second, he just looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back. Then, to your astonishment, he nodded.

“Perfect. We’ll go skydiving, then.”

Your breath hitched slightly. Your smile faltered, just for a moment.

“Really?”

Frankie shrugged, still watching you. “Yeah. If that’s what you want to do.”

“Good. Yeah.” You nodded, though the certainty you’d felt a moment ago was already beginning to waver. “Skydiving. I want... Skydiving.”

Frankie watched you closely, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “We can do something else if you want.”

“No, no.” You shook your head, as if saying it more than once would make it true. “Skydiving. I want that.”

You stood up, grabbing your glass of water from the coffee table and carrying it with you toward the kitchen. The condensation on the glass chilled your fingers as you took a slow sip, trying to steady yourself.

Behind you, Frankie got up too. His footsteps were unhurried as he followed, his presence easy, unintrusive. He stopped in front of you, shifting his weight slightly as his hand settled on his hip. His grin had stretched wider, like he was already enjoying whatever came next.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll figure out all the details this week and let you know.”

You watched as his gaze drifted past you, landing somewhere on the wall behind you. He seemed to be thinking about something, his lips pressing together briefly before his eyes flicked back to yours.

“I think it’s a good idea, you know?” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Starting the list up here,” he tapped his fingers against his temple, “and then working your way down. I mean, after this, going camping in the middle of the woods is going to feel like nothing.”

You considered that, then nodded. “Yeah. That’s true.”

His smile deepened, like he could see the shift in your expression, the way you were already beginning to believe it. “See? It makes sense.”

There was a beat of quiet. A comfortable one.

Then Frankie’s posture changed, his shoulders squaring just a little as he took a step closer. His voice was softer now, more deliberate.

“Well. Thanks for talking to me.” His eyes searched yours. “And for listening to me.”

You exhaled, glancing down at your glass before looking back at him.

“It’s okay, really. I needed it too.”

Frankie’s head tilted slightly. “Yeah?”

You lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Yeah.” A pause. “And I really hope things will be different from now on.”

He nodded, slowly, his gaze dropping to your feet as if grounding himself. “Me too.”

But he didn’t move just yet. He stayed there, hand still on his hip, eyes lingering on the floor like there was something else on his mind.

You watched him in silence, a dozen new questions forming, waiting on the tip of your tongue.

But they could wait. You could ask them another time, another day.

Now you knew you could.

“Well, I’ll leave you alone,” Frankie said suddenly, shifting his weight before stepping back. His voice was casual, like he’d just remembered he had somewhere else to be. He was already turning toward the door. “I’ll call you, okay?”

“Yeah—oh, Frankie,” you called after him. He stopped, glancing over his shoulder, brows lifting slightly.

“Santi told me your mom was asking about me,” you said. “That she was a little worried. Is everything okay?”

Frankie exhaled, running a hand over his jaw like the question had pulled something heavy to the surface.

“Things are complicated,” he admitted. “But don’t worry. I’ll tell her something—”

“I’ll go to dinner with you,” you interrupted. “At her place. If you want.”

His expression shifted, something flickering behind his eyes. “Oh—you don’t have to, really.”

“I know,” you said. “But I will. I don’t mind. Besides, I promised her.” You lifted a shoulder, watching him carefully. “Really, it doesn’t bother me. I like your mom.”

Frankie studied you, his gaze steady, assessing. Like he was waiting for you to crack, to take it back, to say you were just being polite.

You didn’t.

After a few beats, he nodded. “Okay. I’ll talk to her, then.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling.

“Okay,” he echoed, and this time, there was something softer in his voice. He smiled back. “See you, then.”

“See you.”

He pivoted on his heel, crossing the room in a few strides. The door creaked open, and just like that, he was gone.

You stood there for a long moment, gripping your glass a little tighter, your mind catching up with everything that had just happened.

Were you actually going to throw yourself out of a fucking plane?

Jesus.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella

[mymoonisgrey]

mr. steal your girl

❤︎ ໋𓈒 in which satoru’s plans to steal you away from your girlfriend work, after a while.

warnings. 18+, smut, cunnilingus, p in v, satoru’s a smart manipulator, ooc, reader is bi and had a girlfriend, polygamy. based on this ask.

wc. 4.3k

A throuple. A polyamorous relationship. Not once in your life had you ever imagined yourself in one.

You’ve been with your girlfriend for a while now, and she’s wonderful—steady, kind, patient. You’ll admit that.

But a part of you has always yearned for something else. The kind of love that feels all-consuming. A man’s presence—protective, overwhelming, the low timbre of his voice settling deep in your bones, large, calloused hands engulfing yours, that brand of devotion you only ever see in movies.

Then Gojo Satoru waltzes into your life and tilts your world off its axis.

He’s thrilling, all spark and adrenaline. Just being near him sends a rush through your veins. Those striking blue eyes pull you in, make your head spin before you can even think.

It starts as a friendship.

You meet him at a bar, introduced through a mutual friend—Shoko Ieiri, who, for the record, is the human embodiment of lesbian energy. At first, you hang out in a group, once or twice. Then, somehow, it becomes a daily thing. Eventually, you’re comfortable enough to start meeting up with him alone.

“Trust me, you should really try the taro-flavored one,” he says, sliding the boba ice cream toward you with an easy smile. “I’m a sugar expert. And sugar varies, y’know?”

You hug your torso, lips quirking. “I know it tastes good. My girlfriend likes it.”

Satoru stills. The word hangs between you, and for a fraction of a second, his smile falters—so subtly you almost miss it.

Then, his expression smooths out, his interest sharpening into something even keener.

“Girlfriend?” he repeats, slow, as if tasting the word.

You nod, oblivious to the calculations running through his mind. “Mhm! I’ll bring her next time. You can meet her.”

A million possibilities unfold in his head, different ways this could go, all of them leading to the same outcome. Because he wants you—pronto.

His fingers graze the ends of your hair, his smile going languid, lazy.

“That,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “would be interesting.”

You didn’t think much about that interaction with Satoru at the time.

When you finally brought your girlfriend out to meet your friend, the connection between the three of you was instant—undeniable. Before you knew it, you had become a trio.

Satoru was always around, whether at your place or taking you both out. He spoiled you endlessly, never hesitating to drop money on gifts, meals, or spontaneous trips. He was the perfect masculine presence—charming, dependable, larger than life. Neither of you questioned it. Not at first.

You had no idea there was a motive behind it. Neither did she.

Then, one night, he brought it up.

“You know,” he starts, casual, almost offhanded. “We could just—make this a thing.”

You blink.

“Huh?” you mutter, sitting cross-legged, leaning back on your arms. Beside you, your girlfriend’s brows knit together.

Satoru swallows—an act, you realize later. He stares at both of you with a glassy, hopeful gaze, playing it up just enough to seem sincere but not too eager.

“I like you both,” he says. “So, if you’d like… I mean, I won’t take it personally if you say no—”

“Yes.”

The word leaves your lips before you can think, your back straightening as you nod.

Your girlfriend turns to you, eyes wide. But when you meet her gaze—soft, certain—she understands.

“…Yes,” she echoes.

Satoru smiles, slow and knowing. Then he stands smoothly, gathering you both into his arms—his grip just a little tighter around you.

It was a slow burn—he did think your girlfriend was cute, but you? You were everything. He could already picture it: kids, a settled life with you, lounging together in his clan’s estate. You, as his madam.

But he was patient. He took his sweet time, gradually pulling you further away from her without making it too obvious. It started small—sitting with you more often than she did, attending to every little need you had, hanging on to your every word. Then, the gifts.

“What’s all this?” you laugh softly, staring at the orange boxes with their fancy ribbons, the velvet-lined cases. You’d never been gifted something so luxurious before.

“They’re yours, honey.” He smiles, genuine, his heart pounding beneath his chest. “I picked everything based on… what you like.”

Your heart soars, your lips curling into a smile as you hug him tightly. “I love you. Thank you.”

Satoru exhales through his nose, his eyes fluttering shut in a rare moment of vulnerability. “Mmm, I love you more,” he murmurs, his voice thick with devotion. He feels your eyes drift around, searching for something else.

His brow furrows. “I got her something too, don’t worry. It’s in her bedroom. When she’s back, I’ll give it to her.”

You nod, your smile warm, though your gaze lingers on the gifts in your lap. Part of you wonders—does she get the same? You assume she does. After all, Satoru’s generous.

He is, but only because he knows exactly what he’s doing. The gift for her? A simple diamond tennis necklace—barely a dent in his pocket. Not that it matters. This is all part of the plan.

It’s been going on for months—slowly, almost imperceptibly, Satoru has worked his way into your life, taking more of your attention, making you feel more at home with him than with your girlfriend. At first, it was subtle—the way he’d help you with everything, anticipate your needs before you even voiced them. But now, you’re beginning to notice the gap widening, the emotional distance growing between you and her.

Your girlfriend is becoming… strange.

She picks fights over the smallest things now—dirty dishes left in the sink, the couch cushion being out of place, your clothes tossed on the floor. It’s like every moment is an argument waiting to happen. Her moods shift at the drop of a hat. “I’m not in the mood,” she sighs. “I don’t feel like it today.” Even her complaints about Satoru—small, unimportant things—start to irritate you.

Satoru, on the other hand, never complains. He’s there when you need him, always helpful, always attentive. He’s not the one causing problems, and he never starts a fight. Everything he does seems to smooth over the tension.

But today… Today something shifts. Satoru’s patience snaps.

You’re out running errands, leaving Satoru and your girlfriend alone in the house. When you return, you find Satoru cornering her in the hallway. His face is expressionless, but there’s an undeniable hardness in his eyes.

“Honey,” Satoru says, his voice smooth, but with an edge that cuts through the air. His gaze never wavers from hers. “We need to talk.”

Your girlfriend glares at him, exhausted. “What now?” Her tone is laced with resentment.

“You’ve been really fucking hard on her lately,” Satoru continues, his voice deceptively gentle. He crosses his arms over his chest, his posture almost predatory. “What’s going on with you?”

“Hard on her?” she scoffs, her eyes flashing with anger. “Oh, so now you’re playing the ‘knight in shining armor,’ huh? Tell me, why does everything have to revolve around you two, huh?”

Satoru’s lips curl into a tight, almost amused smile. He leans in, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What do you mean?”

She laughs bitterly, shaking her head. “You’re always together. It’s like I’m invisible! It’s like I wasn’t even your girlfriend too— she was my girlfriend first! why are you just… swooping in like im not here?!” Her voice cracks with frustration, but her hands ball into fists at her sides.

Satoru tilts his head, his expression cool and controlled. “You’re being irrational,” he says, his tone deceptively soft. “Maybe if you treated her better, she wouldn’t feel like she has to pull away from you.”

Her eyes widen, disbelief flashing across her face. “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

Satoru doesn’t flinch. His gaze hardens. “I said maybe you should stop acting like a bitch towards her,” he states with calm finality.

Her face pales, and for a moment, she looks like she might explode. “Excuse me?” she whispers, barely holding back her fury. “You think you can talk to me like that? You think you can just come in here, into our relationship, and tell me how I should act?”

Satoru’s smile remains unchanged. “I’m not telling you what to do, but you’re making things difficult for her. You’re pushing her away, and it’s your fault.”

“You have an ulterior motive, don’t you?” she spits, glaring at him. “You’ve been plotting this from the start. You want her all to yourself.”

Satoru raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. ��Is that what you think? Really?” He takes a step closer to her, his presence overwhelming. “You’re the one who’s been making it hard for her, not me. But if you’re too blind to see that, then that’s your problem.”

She shakes her head, muttering under her breath. “I think you’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

Satoru’s smile widens. “Maybe I have.” His eyes flick to the door, a silent invitation for her to leave, to walk away. “But you know what? That’s your choice.” He doesn’t wait for her to respond before he turns, walking away like he’s won.

Your girlfriend stands there, her body trembling with anger and frustration. She breathes heavily, looking at the door, before storming out without another word.

You return home, bags in hand, and freeze at the sight of your girlfriend standing outside. Her expression is clouded, her shoulders hunched, and she looks as though she’s just been torn apart.

“Hey… Are you okay?” you ask softly, approaching her, your voice filled with concern.

Her eyes flash with irritation. “Are you seriously asking me that?” she spits, shaking her head in disbelief. “You really don’t see it, do you? You’ve been so wrapped up in him, in Satoru, that you haven’t even noticed me. I’m right here, but you don’t care. You don’t even fucking care anymore.”

Your heart sinks, confusion and frustration rising. “That’s not true. I’ve been trying—”

“No! Don’t give me that!” she snaps, her voice raw with emotion. “You’ve been all about him. He’s always there, always helping, always doing for you. What about me? What the fuck do I get?”

Your eyes widen as the weight of her words settles in. “That’s not fair. You know how much I care about you.”

“Do I? Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it,” she sneers, taking a step back. “It’s like you’ve forgotten everything. Like I’m just the other option, the one who gets pushed aside because you want him. You think I don’t see that?”

“Don’t talk like that,” you say, your voice wavering, emotions thick in your throat. “I’m not choosing anyone. I never wanted this to happen.”

“No, you didn’t,” she mocks. “But it’s happening anyway. Because you don’t see it. You don’t see me anymore.”

Tears spring to your eyes, but you blink them away, fighting back the lump in your throat. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“Well, you are.” Her words hit you like a punch to the gut. “You’ve already hurt me.”

Before you can respond, she spins on her heel and storms away, leaving you standing there, feeling the weight of her words settle heavily on your chest.

Inside, Satoru watches from the window, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he watches the scene unfold.

You rush inside, groceries in your arms, your mind a whirlwind of confusion and emotion. The door slams shut behind you with a soft thud, but the weight in your chest feels heavier than anything you’ve ever carried. You fight to keep the tears at bay, but they burn at the edges of your vision.

Before you even reach the kitchen, Satoru is there—appearing as though he was waiting just for you. His hands are quick, steady, and gentle as he takes the groceries from your hands, setting them down on the foyer table with a careful precision. His eyes meet yours, searching for the storm brewing in them.

You don’t even have a chance to respond before his arms are around you, pulling you into his warmth.

“My heart, come here.” His voice is a soothing whisper, an easy contrast to the fury that still bubbles beneath your skin.

You crumble against him, the dam breaking, and sobs rack your body uncontrollably. It’s as if all the frustration, all the pain, all the love you’ve been withholding explodes at once. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, a steady presence, even as your body trembles with the weight of everything that’s happened.

“She’s being fucking unfair!” you choke out between ragged breaths, the words barely making it past the tightness in your throat.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. His hand brushes through your hair, slow and gentle, as though each stroke is meant to calm the storm inside you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his own breath steady and warm against your skin.

“I know.” His voice is soft, tender in a way that makes your heart twist. “She’s not seeing it, baby. She doesn’t see how much you’re doing, how much you care.” He holds you tighter, his grip firm yet comforting. “But I do.”

You pull back just slightly, enough to look up at him. His eyes are sharp, a mixture of understanding and something darker, something protective. He wipes away the remnants of your tears with his thumb, his gaze never leaving your face.

“She’s pushing me away, Satoru. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to make her understand,” you whisper, voice raw, the weight of it all crashing down on you again.

His smile is small, but it holds a certain promise in it—a promise that makes your chest tighten and your heart race. “Don’t worry about that. Let me handle it.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the words get stuck. There’s something in the way he says it, something confident and unwavering. His hand moves down your back, his fingers brushing against your spine in a way that sends a ripple of warmth through your body.

“I’ll fix this, okay?” he murmurs, eyes darkening just slightly. “She’s not going to ruin what we’ve built. Not when we’re this close. You and me… we’re untouchable.”

You want to say something, to question him, but the sincerity in his voice and the way he holds you makes it hard to think of anything but him, anything but this—the safety, the comfort, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, everything could be okay again.

The thought makes you dizzy. And in the quiet of his embrace, you let yourself be swept away by the weight of his devotion.

The three of you sit on the bed, the TV playing in the background, but the quiet tension in the room thickens with every passing second. Satoru’s arm is wrapped around you, pulling you closer, while your girlfriend watches, her hand inching toward his thigh.

Satoru notices first, his eyes flicking to her before he shifts slightly, pulling you into him even more. “You’re getting ahead of yourself,” he murmurs, voice low and commanding. His touch is steady, reassuring, as if to say it’s always been you, not her.

Your girlfriend hesitates, her fingers brushing his chest, but Satoru doesn’t react. Instead, his lips find your neck, kissing you softly, purposefully ignoring her advances. Her frustration is palpable, but she pushes forward, her fingers finding their way to his lap. She leans in to kiss him.

Satoru pulls away slightly, the edge in his voice sharp as he grabs her wrist. “Not yet,” he warns, his gaze unwavering. His attention shifts back to you, his lips capturing yours in a possessive kiss. Your hands tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin, to drown in him.

Your girlfriend, still sitting beside you, looks lost. She reaches again, trying to touch him, but Satoru doesn’t let her. With one hand still on you, his other gently pushes her back. “I said no,” he repeats, his voice dark with an authority that leaves no room for doubt.

You moan as Satoru’s hand slides between your legs, slipping under your clothes to find you already wet for him. He takes his time, teasing you, while your girlfriend stares, her breath catching in frustration.

The more Satoru touches you, the more your body responds. His fingers slide inside, slow at first, but he picks up the pace, bringing you to the edge. You can barely keep your composure, his lips never leaving your skin, his movements relentless.

And then, without warning, your girlfriend’s gaze shifts—no longer hungry with desire, but with a mixture of confusion and jealousy. Satoru’s full attention is on you, and he isn’t even looking at her. She’s no longer part of this equation.

As Satoru picks up speed, his breath ragged in your ear, you come apart under his touch, body trembling, desperate for more. He pushes deeper, claiming you fully, making it clear that you belong to him.

The room falls silent except for the sound of your breathless moans and Satoru’s steady pace. Your girlfriend sits motionless, helplessly watching as the last pieces of her place in this dynamic crumble.

Satoru wastes no time, maneuvering you onto your back on the bed. His hands are rough, skilled, as he strips you of your clothes with an urgency that matches the fire in his eyes. He kisses his way down your body, his lips burning trails on your skin as he works his way lower, lower, lower.

“Look at these fuckin’ tits,” he growls, his voice low and thick with desire as he takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking greedily. The sensation makes you gasp, your body arching up involuntarily. You can feel his knee pressing against your cunt, the heat of him seeping into you, sending electric shocks of anticipation through your veins.

Your girlfriend, watching from the edge of the bed, stays silent, her eyes narrowed, hands clenched into fists. She’s hot and bothered, her body reacting despite the anger twisting in her chest. She’s fed up with the whole situation—tired of being the afterthought. She hates the way Satoru devours you, but she can’t tear her eyes away.

“Ng—Satoru…” you moan softly, your breath hitching as his mouth works its magic, sucking your nipple until it’s slick and swollen. His lips leave your skin with a soft, wet pop as he shifts his attention lower, his knee pressing harder against you, reminding you of how he owns every inch of your body.

He lifts your legs, spreading them wide as he moves between them, his eyes dark with intent. “Fuck,” you yelp as he finally lowers his mouth to your cunt, his lips and tongue finding your clit with practiced ease. His tongue flicks at your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking it into his mouth as he hums with approval, the vibrations sending shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

“Pussy’s all mine,” he mutters into your heat, his voice muffled as his tongue works relentlessly. You can barely process the words as your hips begin to squirm under the relentless pressure, his grip locking you in place. Your feet flail, trying to gain some sort of control, but Satoru has you right where he wants you—completely at his mercy.

“Sat—Satoru—” you pant, your body trembling, feeling the tension coil tighter in your stomach. His tongue is relentless, his mouth working you down to the bone, and you’re losing yourself to him.

“Down, kitty,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing despite the intensity of his actions. “Let me eat.” His words send a shiver down your spine, the commanding tone making your heart race even faster.

Your hands dig into the sheets, fingers curling tightly as his mouth continues to devour you. Every flick of his tongue, every gentle suck of his lips, drives you closer to the edge, and all you can do is surrender to the pleasure. His grip on your hips tightens, ensuring you stay locked in place, and you feel your body trembling, the first waves of your orgasm crashing over you.

As you’re lost in the pleasure, you catch a glimpse of your girlfriend—her expression a mixture of frustration and arousal, her eyes dark with something you can’t quite place. The tension in the room shifts, the air thick with everything unspoken. But Satoru’s focus is entirely on you, making it clear who truly holds his attention.

You’re pulled back from the edge, gasping for breath as Satoru pulls away, his lips glistening, his eyes wild with hunger. He looks up at you, his face smug but tender, a twisted combination of possessiveness and affection. “Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

Your girlfriend, still sitting on the edge of the bed, watches, her chest heaving with a mix of frustration and desire. But she says nothing, the distance between the three of you growing ever wider.

Satoru’s movements slow for a moment as he looks down at you, his dark eyes gleaming with possessiveness and hunger. His thumb traces your bottom lip, tugging it gently as a lazy smile spreads across his face.

“You look so fuckin’ beautiful when you’re helpless like this,” he mutters, his voice dark and gravelly. “Can’t get enough of that sweet little pussy of yours.” He groans, his hips rolling slightly, teasing you just enough to make your body twitch. “You’re all mine, baby. No one else gets to feel this.”

You whimper beneath him, your hands fisting the sheets as his words make your core tighten with need. Satoru lowers himself, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks again, his voice dripping with desire.

“Say it,” he commands, his breath hot against your skin. “Say you’re mine. Tell me you love how I fuck you like this.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe out, your voice a mix of desperation and pleasure. “I love it, Satoru—fuck, I love how you make me feel.”

He chuckles low in his throat, a wicked grin curling on his lips. “Good girl,” he purrs. “So fucking perfect for me. No one’s ever gonna make you feel like I do, not even your girlfriend. You’re mine, and you know it, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, your hips lifting to meet his thrusts, feeling him fill you completely. His words sink deep into your mind, pushing you further into the haze of pleasure. “Yes, Satoru… only you…”

“Damn right,” he growls, his thrusts growing faster, more brutal. “I’m the one who makes you come apart, not her. Every single inch of you belongs to me now. You’ll never be able to leave me after this, baby.”

His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging in as he pulls you against him with each powerful thrust. He watches you with rapt attention, his eyes devouring you as you squirm beneath him, your body moving in rhythm with his. He groans, the sound deep and throaty as he leans down to kiss you again, hungry and demanding.

“You wanna come again, huh?” Satoru whispers, his lips brushing against yours. “You can’t get enough of me, can you? I know you’re close… you’re so fucking tight around me. You love how deep I fuck you, don’t you?”

“Y-yes!” you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please, Satoru, I need you… need more.”

His eyes flash with satisfaction. “I’ll give you more, baby. I’ll make you come so hard, you’ll forget your own name.”

He picks up the pace, slamming into you relentlessly, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. “Tell me how badly you want it. Tell me you want me to fuck you raw.”

“I want it so bad,” you moan, your body trembling as you feel your orgasm build. “I want you to make me yours, Satoru. I want everything.”

With that, he groans, his thrusts growing even more intense as he drives into you harder, faster, pushing you into a state of pure bliss. “That’s it, baby,” he growls, “Come for me. Let me feel how fucking tight you are around me.”

The wave of pleasure crashes over you, your body spasming as you scream his name. Satoru follows close behind, his grip on you tightening as he fucks you through your orgasm, his own release flooding you as he grits his teeth in satisfaction.

You feel yourself being gently lifted, your body weightless in his strong, warm arms, and you’re dizzy from the overwhelming sensations of pleasure. Satoru moves you up the bed effortlessly, his chest pressed to yours as he cradles you in his embrace. His lips brush your temple, soft and tender, as he whispers, “Let’s stay like this for a while. I’ll clean you up and feed you in a bit, my love.”

You nod, feeling a wave of contentment wash over you, your body still humming from the intensity of everything. The soft comfort of his touch is like a balm for your overstimulated body, and you lean into him, closing your eyes for a brief moment.

But then, your gaze shifts, and you look around the room, your mind catching up with the reality of the situation.

“Where’s—”

“Gone.” Satoru whispers, his voice low and soothing as his lips press against your neck. His arms tighten around you, drawing you closer. You can feel his steady breath against your skin, and for a moment, everything feels impossibly right.

Your heart flutters in your chest, and you hug him tighter, the full weight of his words sinking in. Gone. It’s just you and him now.

“Finally,” he breathes, his voice soft but full of satisfaction.

for the anon that requested this, i hope its up to your liking and expectations. :) tried my best. pls let me know what you think through the inbox 🤍

© All Rights Reserved mymoonisgrey

[hockeyluvrr]

BLENDER || lh43

MAIN MASTERLIST

summary: Love was never the problem-but distance, doubt, and heartbreak were. You tried to hold on. So did he. But when love stops being enough, what's left?

based on the song BLENDER by 5SOS

warnings: arguments, emotional tension, swearing, miscommunication, jealousy, confrontation, desperation, uncertainty, breaking up, heartbreak, emotional limbo, unresolved feelings, basically all the basic angst stuff lol

notes: holy shit, this came out of nowhere ngl... this is my longest fic yet and I love it so much. shoutout to my 5sos girlies, this is for you (mostly me though 🤭)

word count: 6,410

The fight had been over for an hour, but your phone was still buzzing.

LUKE: can you just pick up?

LUKE: i don’t want to end the night like this.

LUKE: please.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the notification. Your body still felt tight, wound up from everything you’d just screamed at each other. The distance was getting to both of you. Maybe it had been from the start.

This was supposed to be easy. A summer fling that accidentally turned into more.

You met Luke last July, when the air was thick with humidity and the nights bled into each other without much consequence. You didn’t think twice when it started—just a guy and a girl caught up in something fun, something fleeting.

But then August came, and instead of ending things, you found yourself tangled in his sheets, whispering promises neither of you had planned to make.

So now, months later, you were here—staring at his name on your phone, wondering if loving someone like this was supposed to feel like free-falling with no parachute.

Another buzz.

LUKE: i’m calling.

The screen lit up with his name, and you swore under your breath before finally answering.

“What?”

A beat of silence. Then, his voice—tired, frustrated, but still laced with something soft. “You actually picked up.”

“I figured you weren’t gonna stop until I did,” you muttered, shifting in bed. Your voice came out flat, but you weren’t sure how else to talk to him when your heart was still beating too fast from the argument.

Luke exhaled sharply. “I don’t get why you’re acting like I don’t care.”

“You don’t get it because you’re never here.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, raw and aching.

His silence was louder than the words themselves.

“Y/N…” He sounded exhausted. “You know I can’t just—”

“I know, Luke,” you cut in. “I know you have a career. I know you can’t just drop everything for me. But I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one trying.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You sat up, gripping your blanket. “I call. I text. I make time. But when was the last time you put in the effort? When was the last time you planned something instead of just squeezing me in when it was convenient?”

His breath hitched, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the words.

The silence stretched.

You should’ve let it sit. Let him stew in it. But instead, your voice broke when you whispered, “Do you even miss me, Luke?”

The question must’ve hit him harder than anything else, because when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “Are you serious?”

You didn’t answer. You weren’t sure you could.

“Of course I fucking miss you,” he snapped. “Every damn day. But I can’t just—” He cut himself off, cursing under his breath. “I don’t know what you want me to do, Y/N. I can’t fix the distance. I can’t fix my schedule. I can’t—”

“I don’t want you to fix it,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I just want to matter enough for you to try.”

The silence came back, heavier than before.

You closed your eyes. “I can’t do this right now.”

“Wait—”

“I need space, Luke.” Your throat tightened. “Just… goodnight.”

Then, before he could say anything else, you hung up.

You threw your phone onto the nightstand and curled up into yourself, letting the weight of it all crash down.

Outside, the city lights flickered through your window, but they didn’t feel warm. Not tonight.

Not when you weren’t sure if this was just another fight—

Or the beginning of the end.

———

You didn’t sleep.

Not really, anyway. You drifted in and out, your mind replaying every second of last night’s fight, twisting his words in a way that left a hollow ache in your chest.

By the time morning rolled around, your phone was still dark. No texts. No missed calls.

Luke had listened when you said you needed space.

You weren’t sure if that made you feel better or worse.

With a deep sigh, you pushed the blankets off and sat up, rubbing your hands over your face. The apartment was quiet, save for the occasional hum of traffic outside. It felt unnatural, like the silence had taken up permanent residence in your head, stretching far beyond last night.

You hated how much you missed him.

Even now, your body was wired to check your phone first thing in the morning, waiting for one of his lazy, half-awake messages. Morning, pretty girl. Wish you were here. Call me when you wake up.

But today, there was nothing.

It shouldn’t have surprised you. You were the one who ended the call. You were the one who asked for space.

So why did it feel like he was the one pulling away?

With a groan, you flopped back onto the pillows and stared at the ceiling, replaying the fight in your head. Maybe you’d overreacted. Maybe you should’ve let him explain instead of throwing accusations like knives. You knew his schedule was hell. You knew long distance wasn’t easy.

But at the same time… when was the last time he really made you feel like a priority?

Before you could spiral any further, your phone buzzed.

Your heart jumped.

But when you grabbed it, the screen didn’t show Luke’s name.

It was your best friend, Riley.

RILEY: u up? brunch. now. no excuses.

You hesitated. Normally, you’d decline, opting to stay curled up in your thoughts. But today, with the weight of last night still pressing on your chest, you needed the distraction.

YOU: be there in 20.

—

The café was small and familiar, the kind of place you and Riley had claimed as your own years ago. The smell of coffee and syrup hung thick in the air, and the morning crowd buzzed around you.

Riley spotted you before you even reached the table. “Oh, yeah. You look rough.”

You rolled your eyes as you dropped into the seat across from her. “Thanks.”

She pushed a mimosa toward you. “Drink. Then talk.”

You didn’t argue. One sip turned into two, and before you knew it, you were spilling everything—how Luke had called, how you fought, how you hung up first. How he hadn’t texted since.

Riley frowned. “So you told him you needed space, and now you’re mad that he’s giving it to you?”

You groaned, slumping in your seat. “Not when you say it like that.”

“Well, how else am I supposed to say it?” She arched a brow. “Did you expect him to blow up your phone? Show up at your door?”

You hated that you didn’t have a good answer.

Riley sighed, softer this time. “I get it, babe. I do. Long distance sucks. And I know you’re tired of feeling like you’re the only one putting in the effort. But you guys love each other, right?”

Your stomach twisted. Love.

Neither of you had said it yet.

Riley noticed your silence and leaned forward. “Wait. Have you guys even talked about—?”

“No,” you cut in quickly, suddenly regretting this conversation. “It’s not like that.”

She gave you a knowing look but didn’t push. “Okay. So what is it like?”

You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. “It’s…” You struggled for the right words. “It’s messy. It’s intense. It’s too much but never enough at the same time.”

Riley nodded like she understood, even though you weren’t sure you did.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, she reached for her phone.

“What are you doing?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, with a pointed look, she turned the screen toward you.

Luke’s latest Instagram post stared back at you.

Your chest tightened.

It was a photo of him at practice, mid-laugh, sweaty and effortless in a way that made your heart ache. The caption was simple. Back at it.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing emotional.

But all the comments blurred together in your head. Can’t wait to watch you this season! Missed you on the ice! Looking good, Hughesy!

It was a reminder that, while you were sitting here overthinking everything, Luke was out there living.

Like last night never happened.

Like you didn’t happen.

You swallowed hard. “So what? He’s just… moving on?”

Riley gave you a sympathetic look. “Or maybe he’s just waiting. For you to reach out first.”

You stared at the screen, your stomach twisting into knots.

Maybe she was right. Maybe you should text him.

Or maybe the cracks were already too deep to fix.

———

It had been three days.

Three days since the fight. Three days since you hung up on Luke. Three days of absolute silence.

You told yourself you wouldn’t be the one to break first. If he cared, he’d reach out. If he wanted this to work, he’d try.

But every hour that passed without his name lighting up your phone chipped away at your resolve.

You were starting to wonder if maybe this was how it ended—not with a dramatic goodbye, but with a slow, suffocating silence that swallowed you whole.

And yet, even with the weight of it pressing down on your chest, you still couldn’t bring yourself to text him first.

Instead, you did the worst possible thing.

You checked social media.

Luke wasn’t the type to post often, but his teammates were. And there he was—in a video on Jack’s story, laughing in the background, surrounded by friends, a drink in hand like the last three days hadn’t meant anything to him.

You stared at the screen, your grip tightening on your phone.

Maybe this was stupid. Maybe you were reading too much into it.

But the longer you watched, the worse it got.

Because then she appeared.

A girl you didn’t recognise—blonde, wearing a Devils jersey far too oversized to be her own—sidling up next to Luke, whispering something in his ear. He didn’t move away. Didn’t look uncomfortable. Just smirked, shaking his head at whatever she said before taking another sip of his drink.

Your stomach twisted.

The worst part wasn’t the fact that she was there. It wasn’t even the fact that Luke didn’t seem to mind.

It was the fact that, for the first time since you met him, you had no idea where you stood.

You weren’t his girlfriend, not officially.

Not really.

Because when the summer ended, neither of you had wanted to put a label on it. You told yourselves it was easier that way—no pressure, no expectations, just whatever this was.

But now, as you watched him on that screen, looking so effortlessly unbothered, it hit you like a fucking freight train.

Maybe you’d been wrong.

Maybe you weren’t something worth holding on to.

The buzzing in your head was so loud that you almost didn’t hear Riley calling your name.

You blinked, barely processing that she was standing in the doorway of your apartment. “Are you even listening?”

You swallowed hard, locking your phone before she could see the screen. “What?”

She sighed, stepping inside and dropping onto your couch. “I said we’re going out tonight. You need a distraction.”

“I don’t need a distraction,” you muttered, even as you stared blankly at the wall.

Riley rolled her eyes. “Okay, so what? You’re just gonna sit here all night, refreshing Instagram like a psycho?”

Your silence must have been answer enough.

She groaned. “Y/N. Come on. I love you, but this? This isn’t healthy. You don’t even know what’s going on.”

You clenched your jaw. “I know enough.”

She gave you a long look, then sighed. “Fine. If you’re not gonna let it go, then at least don’t let him be the only one having fun tonight.”

You hesitated.

Riley saw the crack in your resolve and jumped on it. “Just a couple drinks. That’s all I’m asking.”

You weren’t sure why you agreed. Maybe it was the fact that you’d barely left your apartment in days. Maybe it was the need to feel something—anything—other than this ache in your chest.

Or maybe, deep down, it was the smallest, most pathetic part of you that wanted Luke to see you moving on, too.

———

The bar was packed. Music pulsed through the speakers, and the air was thick with the smell of alcohol and too many bodies crammed into one space.

It should’ve felt suffocating.

But instead, with a drink in your hand and Riley’s laughter ringing in your ears, you almost managed to forget.

Almost.

At least, until your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You knew who it was before you even checked.

LUKE: are you out?

Your heart nearly stopped. After three days of nothing, this was how he chose to reach out? Not an apology. Not an explanation. Just that.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and typed back before you could think better of it.

YOU: why do you care?

His response was instant.

LUKE: where are you?

You stared at the message, pulse pounding in your ears.

He had no right to be asking that. Not after ignoring you. Not after letting you sit with the weight of this fight while he went out, acting like he didn’t care.

So instead of answering, you did the stupidest thing possible.

You let some guy buy you another drink.

You didn’t know his name. Didn’t care. He was tall, attractive, and most importantly—he wasn’t Luke.

And if you felt the burn of guilt in your chest when he leaned in closer, when his fingers brushed against yours. You shouldn’t even feel guilty, right? Luke’s been doing the same thing.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Until your phone buzzed again.

LUKE: Y/N.

One words. Your name. That’s all it took to make your breath hitch.

Because suddenly, it wasn’t just a fight. It wasn’t just a rough patch.

This was a game.

———

The tension had been simmering all night.

It started with Luke’s text. One simple word that crawled under your skin, wrapping around your ribs like a vice. But what pissed you off the most wasn’t the message itself.

It was the fact that he suddenly cared.

After three days of silence. After her in his Instagram story. After making you feel like you were the only one suffering through this distance.

And now, here he was, acting like he had a say in what you did.

So you ignored the text.

And maybe you let that guy keep flirting with you a little longer than you should have. Maybe you let his hand linger at the small of your back when he leaned in to talk. Maybe you even laughed a little louder, tilted your chin just enough that if Luke somehow saw—if he was watching—he’d know exactly what you were doing.

It was petty. It was reckless.

But so was loving someone who could make you feel this small.

The tension cracked the second you stepped outside the bar.

Luke was waiting.

You nearly tripped when you saw him, heart slamming against your ribs. He was standing near the curb, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like he was trying to grind his teeth into dust.

Your stomach flipped. He was here. He actually came.

But you weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.

His eyes locked onto you immediately, flickering down to the guy who had followed you out. And in that moment, the simmering tension didn’t just build. It exploded.

“The fuck is this?” Luke’s voice was low, controlled—but you knew him well enough to hear the storm brewing beneath it.

You blinked, still caught off guard by the fact that he was here. “What?”

Luke’s jaw tightened. “Who the hell is he?”

The guy next to you—God, you didn’t even remember his name—shifted awkwardly. “Uh—”

“Not your business, Hughes,” you cut in before he could finish.

Luke’s eyes snapped back to you. “Not my business?”

“You heard me.” Your pulse was pounding, but you forced yourself to hold your ground. “You don’t get to disappear for three days and then show up acting like you have any right to be pissed.”

Luke let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “That’s funny, because I could say the same thing. You tell me you need space, ignore me for days, and then I see you all over some guy?”

“I ignored you?” You scoffed, anger bubbling to the surface. “That’s rich, Luke. Where the hell were you? Oh, right—too busy playing NHL golden boy, letting some random girl hang off you—”

“What girl?”

The fact that he had the audacity to act confused made your blood boil. “Don’t play dumb.” You crossed your arms, nails digging into your skin. “The blonde. The one in your jersey.”

Luke stared at you for a moment, then let out another disbelieving laugh. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“She’s Jack’s friend. She was at the game. I barely talked to her.” He shook his head, eyes dark with frustration. “Jesus, Y/N. You saw a story and what—just assumed the worst?”

You hated the way your stomach twisted at that.

Because maybe—just maybe—he was right. Maybe you had let jealousy cloud your judgment. Maybe you had let the silence between you turn into something uglier than it was ever meant to be.

But that didn’t change the fact that this wasn’t just about her.

It was about everything.

The late-night calls that were always cut short. The weeks without seeing each other. The way it felt like you were constantly reaching for him while he was always a step too far away.

“You let me assume the worst,” you muttered, voice shaking despite yourself. “Because you never do anything to prove me wrong.”

Luke’s expression flickered—just for a second. And in that second, you saw it. The guilt.

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“What do you want me to say, Y/N?” His voice was quieter now, raw around the edges. “That I wish I could be around more? That I fucking hate the distance just as much as you do?” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You act like this is easy for me. Like I don’t miss you every goddamn day.”

Your throat tightened. “Then why don’t you act like it?”

He stared at you, breathing hard, like he was trying to find the right words—but they never came.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

There was always so much left unsaid.

Neither of you spoke. The tension that had been simmering all night was now crackling in the air between you, but this time, there was nowhere left for it to go.

The guy you had walked out with cleared his throat. “Uh—”

Luke’s head snapped toward him. “Leave.”

“Luke—”

“No, it’s fine.” The guy held up his hands, clearly deciding that whatever this was, it wasn’t worth the drama. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You didn’t watch him leave. You didn’t even care.

Because all of your attention was on Luke.

On the way his shoulders were tense, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes locked onto yours like this was some kind of battle neither of you knew how to win.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you exhaled. “So what now?”

Luke hesitated.

And that hesitation—that tiny moment of uncertainty—made something inside you crack.

Because if he didn’t know, then maybe you already did.

Maybe you’d known for a while.

Maybe you just hadn’t wanted to say it out loud.

You swallowed hard. “I can’t keep doing this, Luke.”

His face fell.

You regretted the words the second they left your mouth.

I can’t keep doing this, Luke.

Because now they were out there, hanging heavy in the space between you, and you couldn’t take them back.

Luke’s face twisted, like the weight of them had hit him straight in the chest. He shifted slightly, like he wanted to move closer but didn’t know if he was still allowed to. “You don’t mean that.”

Your throat tightened. Didn’t you?

“I don’t know,” you whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the city around you. “I don’t know what I mean anymore.”

That seemed to snap something in him. His jaw clenched, frustration bleeding into his voice. “So what? You just want to walk away?”

Your stomach twisted. That wasn’t what you wanted—not really. But maybe it would be easier. Maybe it would hurt less than this constant, suffocating ache in your chest.

“I don’t want to,” you admitted, voice cracking. “But, Luke… I don’t know how to keep this from falling apart.”

He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Then we figure it out.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “And how do we do that? Because I’m fucking exhausted. I’m tired of feeling like I’m the only one fighting for this.”

That made something flicker in his expression—something wounded. “That’s not fair.”

You scoffed. “Isn’t it?”

His eyes darkened. “You think I don’t fight for this? You think I don’t want to be with you?”

“I think you want me when it’s convenient.” The words came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. “When you have time. When it doesn’t get in the way of your schedule.”

Luke took a step closer, shaking his head. “That’s bullshit.”

“Is it?” You could feel your control slipping, the frustration bubbling over. “Because I spend every day waiting for you to call, waiting for you to show up—and half the time, I’m left wondering if you even remember I exist.”

Luke’s brows furrowed, his expression torn between anger and something softer, something that looked like guilt.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered, voice tight. “You have no fucking clue how hard this is for me too.”

“Then tell me.” Your voice cracked, raw and desperate. “Because all I know is that I feel like I’m constantly reaching for you, and you’re never there.”

Luke let out a frustrated breath, his hands flexing like he didn’t know what to do with them. “I don’t know how to do this, okay? I don’t know how to give you everything you deserve while I’m a thousand miles away.”

Your chest ached at the confession, at the vulnerability underneath the frustration. But it didn’t change anything.

“I’m not asking for everything, Luke.” Your voice softened just slightly. “I’m just asking for something.”

Luke shook his head, exhaling sharply. “I—fuck.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to pull himself together. “I don’t know how to fix this, but I can’t lose you.”

Your heart clenched.

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Neither of you knew how to fix it. But neither of you could bear the thought of letting go.

Luke’s gaze searched yours, desperate and pleading. “Tell me what to do.”

Your throat felt tight. “I don’t have the answer.”

For a second, neither of you spoke. The tension was suffocating, your emotions teetering on a knife’s edge.

Then, suddenly, Luke moved.

He reached for you like it was instinct, his hands cupping your face, his forehead pressing against yours. His breath was shaky, his grip almost too tight—like he was afraid you’d slip right through his fingers.

“I love you.” The words were barely above a whisper, but they hit you like a punch to the chest.

Your breath hitched.

Because he’d never said it before. Neither of you had.

You felt your resolve cracking, splintering under the weight of those three words.

But love wasn’t always enough.

And as much as you wanted to believe this was the turning point—the moment everything changed—you weren’t sure if this was a beginning or just the messiest part of the end.

Because Luke had never said those words before.

And you’d spent so long wondering if he ever would—if he ever could.

Now, here they were, hanging in the air between you like a lifeline you weren’t sure you could reach for.

I love you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, feeling the way his hands trembled against your skin. He was holding you so tightly, like he thought you might slip through his fingers if he let go.

And maybe he was right.

Because as much as you wanted to say it back—as much as you felt it—you weren’t sure love was enough to fix this.

Your throat felt tight. “Luke…”

He shook his head quickly, like he already knew what you were going to say. “Don’t. Just—don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

Your heart twisted. “I do mean it.”

Luke’s breath hitched, but before he could say anything, you continued.

“I love you, Luke.” The words tasted like the truth, and you hated how much it hurt to say them. “But I don’t know if that changes anything.”

Luke exhaled sharply, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were desperate, searching. “Of course it changes things.”

You swallowed hard. “Does it?”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to ask that. “It has to.”

Your chest ached. Because you wanted to believe that. You wanted to believe that loving each other was enough to make the distance bearable, to make the jealousy fade, to make the ache in your chest disappear every time he left.

But love wasn’t a bandage. It didn’t erase the late nights spent staring at your phone, wondering if he’d call. It didn’t undo the fights, the silences, the way you felt like you were constantly fighting a battle you didn’t know how to win.

Luke must have seen the hesitation on your face because his grip tightened. “Y/N, I need you to tell me what to do here.” His voice was quiet, but it was raw, edged with frustration and fear. “Because I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know how to make this work.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know either.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Neither of you had the answers.

You loved him, and he loved you. But love alone wasn’t fixing anything.

Luke clenched his jaw. “So what? We just give up?”

You inhaled sharply. “I don’t want to.”

“Then don’t,” he pleaded. “Stay.”

Your heart cracked straight down the middle.

Because God, you wanted to stay. You wanted to hold onto him and pretend like love was enough. You wanted to ignore the distance, the fights, the uncertainty.

But how much longer could you keep pretending that love was enough to stop this from falling apart?

Tears burned at the back of your eyes. “Luke, I don’t know how to keep doing this.”

His expression twisted, something breaking in his gaze.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment.

The silence felt heavier than ever before. Stretching between you, thick and suffocating.

Luke’s hands were still on you, but his grip had loosened—like he knew, deep down, that he couldn’t hold on forever.

But neither of you were ready to say it out loud.

Not yet.

“I can do better,” he said suddenly, voice hoarse. “I’ll—fuck, I’ll make more time. I’ll fly out every chance I get. I’ll call more. Whatever you need.”

Your chest ached at the desperation in his voice.

Because he meant it. You knew he did.

But the problem was never him meaning it.

The problem was reality—the way life always seemed to get in the way, no matter how much either of you wanted to pretend otherwise.

You swallowed hard. “Luke…”

“Just give me a chance,” he pleaded. “One more chance to make this work.”

You hated how badly you wanted to say yes.

Because you did. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that one more try would be enough. That if you just held on a little longer, fought a little harder, things would get easier.

But history had already proven otherwise.

Still, when you looked at him—at the raw emotion in his eyes, the way he looked at you like you were slipping through his fingers—you couldn’t bring yourself to say no.

Not yet.

You exhaled shakily. “Okay.”

Luke’s shoulders sagged with relief, and before you could second-guess it, he was pulling you against him. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his face buried in your hair, like he was trying to memorise the feel of you against him.

“I love you,” he murmured again, like saying it enough times would make everything okay.

You squeezed your eyes shut, gripping the back of his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

And you did.

But deep down, you had a sinking feeling that love wouldn’t be enough to save you.

Not this time.

———

You should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

For a little while, it almost felt like things were okay. Luke called more, sent you stupid texts throughout the day, made an effort to remind you that he wanted this, that he wanted you.

And maybe that should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Because even when he was trying—when he was doing everything he promised he would—the ache in your chest never really went away.

It wasn’t just the distance. It was the exhaustion. The weight of trying so hard, only to feel like you were running in circles.

Like you were holding onto something that was already slipping through the cracks.

And now, standing in his apartment, you felt the final thread start to snap.

Luke was frustrated. You could see it in the way he raked a hand through his hair, in the way his jaw kept clenching like he was trying to hold something back.

“Jesus, Y/N, what else do you want me to do?” His voice wasn’t raised, but it was edged with something sharp, something tired. “I’m trying. I’m here. What more do you want?”

You exhaled shakily, heart pounding against your ribs. “I don’t know.”

Luke let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You have to know. Because I can’t keep guessing what’s going to make you happy.”

Your stomach twisted. “This isn’t just about me.”

“No? Because it sure as hell feels like I’m the only one bending over backward to make this work.”

That stung.

Because you had been trying. You had been fighting for this.

But maybe that was the difference.

Luke thought fixing this was about doing things—calling more, texting more, showing up when he could. And sure, those things mattered. But that wasn’t what was breaking you.

It was everything in between.

The distance that couldn’t be closed by a few extra phone calls. The silence that still felt heavy, even when you were together. The way you still felt alone, even in the moments he was right in front of you.

It wasn’t about effort anymore. It was about the fact that maybe—just maybe—you weren’t supposed to keep fighting for something that hurt this much.

Your throat felt tight. “I don’t think we can fix this.”

Luke froze.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then, his expression hardened. “So that’s it?”

Your chest ached. “Luke—”

“No, seriously. That’s it?” He let out a sharp breath, stepping back like he couldn’t stand being this close to you anymore. “We hit a rough patch, and you just decide it’s not worth it?”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. “This isn’t just a rough patch.” Your voice wavered. “We’ve been fighting for months. We keep trying, and it’s not working.”

Luke shook his head, eyes dark with frustration. “No. You keep doubting us. You keep looking for an excuse to leave.”

That felt like a slap.

“Do you think this is easy for me?” Your voice cracked. “Do you think I want to feel like this? To feel like I’m constantly begging for something that’s never enough?”

Luke’s expression flickered—like maybe, just maybe, he finally saw how much this had been hurting you.

But the worst part?

You knew it was hurting him too.

That was what made this so fucking unbearable.

Because this wasn’t about not loving each other.

It was about the fact that love had stopped being enough.

Luke’s hands flexed at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, but it still felt like a punch to the gut.

“You really want to do this?”

No.

God, no.

But what choice did you have?

Your chest felt like it was caving in, but you forced yourself to nod. “Yeah.”

Luke inhaled sharply, like he’d been punched.

And just like that, it was over.

The fight drained out of him all at once. His shoulders slumped, his eyes flickering toward the floor. “Okay.”

You weren’t sure which hurt more—the frustration, the fighting, or this.

The emptiness.

The realisation that there was nothing left to say.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “I should go.”

Luke didn’t stop you.

And somehow, that was the worst part of all.

———

The apartment felt too quiet.

Your suitcase sat half-open by the door, clothes spilling out of it. You hadn’t unpacked since you got back a week ago, pathetically trying to cling onto something you weren’t ready to let go of.

But what was left to stay for?

Your hands shook as you opened it further, starting to finally unpack. Your chest felt hollow, like the fight had carved out a part of you that you weren’t sure would ever feel whole again.

You had been the one to walk away.

So why did it feel like you had just lost everything?

You had told yourself that this was the right decision. That love—no matter how deep, no matter how real—wasn’t always enough. That some things just didn’t work, no matter how badly you wanted them to.

But God, it hurt.

Your phone sat on the bedside table, untouched since you got back to your apartment.

Luke hadn’t called.

And you weren’t sure what hurt more—the idea that he was too angry to reach out, or the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he had already accepted this.

That he was ready to let you go.

You weren’t sure you were ready to let go of him.

But you had already done the hardest part. You had walked out of his apartment, out of his life.

Now, you just had to figure out how to live with it.

———

The silence in the apartment was unbearable.

Luke had never noticed how loud it was when you were here—the hum of your voice on the phone, the sound of your laugh echoing from the other room, the way you always seemed to fill the space in a way he never had.

Now, it was just quiet.

And he fucking hated it.

His hands flexed at his sides as he paced the living room, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.

You were gone.

And it wasn’t a stupid fight. It wasn’t a rough patch.

This time, you weren’t coming back.

Luke had thought about calling you. Had stared at his phone for so long that his vision blurred, the screen taunting him with your name.

But what would he even say?

That he was sorry? That he still loved you? That he wanted to take it all back, but he knew deep down that nothing had changed?

That no matter how much he wanted to fix this, some things just weren’t meant to be fixed?

Luke sat down heavily on the couch, staring at the door like he half expected you to walk back in.

But you wouldn’t.

And he wasn’t sure how to live with that.

———

Time was supposed to make this easier.

That’s what everyone told you. That eventually, the ache in your chest would dull, and one day you’d wake up without the weight of him pressing against your ribs.

But weeks had passed. Then months.

And Luke still felt like a ghost in your life.

He was everywhere and nowhere all at once. In the song that played in the coffee shop, in the hoodie still shoved in the back of your closet because you couldn’t bring yourself to throw it away. In the fleeting moments when you reached for your phone before remembering that he wasn’t yours to call anymore.

You had moved on, technically. You did all the things you were supposed to do—went out with friends, filled your days with distractions, pretended like the hole in your chest wasn’t still there.

But every time you saw his name in a headline, every time you heard his voice in an interview, it hit you like a punch to the gut.

Because you still missed him.

And no matter how much time passed, you weren’t sure you’d ever stop.

———

He didn’t talk about you.

Not to his teammates, not to his family, not even when Jack asked in that quiet, careful way that made Luke’s jaw tighten.

Because if he didn’t talk about you, maybe he could pretend like he wasn’t still thinking about you.

Like he didn’t check his phone some nights, scrolling mindlessly, hoping to see your name somewhere even though he knew he wouldn’t.

Like he didn’t still hear your voice in the back of his head sometimes, teasing him, laughing, telling him you loved him.

It was pathetic, probably. Holding onto something that was already gone.

But Luke had never been good at letting go.

He threw himself into hockey. Into practices, games, anything that kept him too exhausted to think about the way his apartment still felt empty without you.

But some nights, when the adrenaline faded and the silence crept in, he wondered.

If you still thought about him. If you still missed him the way he missed you.

If this was really over.

Or if maybe, just maybe, it never really would be.

[thydungeongal]

Hi! Yours and @vixensdungeon's posting about how it is cool to take a bunch of your stupid little guys, and throw them in a stupid big dungeon, and then roll on some big stupid tables, shake it all, and see if they live and what kind of treasure they can pull out without much regard for "narrative arcs" or whatever has today inspired me to grab an OSR-style rulebook at my local store. (Black Powder and Brimstone, if you're curious, apparently it's very hot off the presses).

Now, your posting was enough of an inspiration for me to get the general vibe, but to my ass that hasn't actually fun anything more lightweight than Blades in the Dark, can you give some practical tips on how to run this sort of game/system that's more focused on emergent play than complex rules toys and GM curation?

So, this is just a grab-bag of advice about running games in this style:

As you have identified, these games have fewer rules toys for players to interact with. Black Powder and Brimstone is apparently based on the rules of Mörk Borg so if I remember my Mörk Borg correctly what it does give you is a very broad framework of handling things that carry risk. These games tend to have fewer rules in the style of "if a character rolls this number they get to do a cool thing," and more often in the style of "if a character does this thing they have to roll or bad things happen." Ability checks and saves and so on are more often tools for managing risk: because characters can't reliably push the buttons on their character sheet to avoid danger, you might want to communicate to your players openly that avoiding danger more often boils down to a question of choice. As Mausritter puts it, "the dice are your enemy, a good plan doesn't require dice."

That said, you as a GM want to allow your players to make informed choices. Many newer OSR/NSR adventures are really good a this, adding sights and sounds and smells coming in from other directions to their room descriptions so that player characters have some idea of what to expect and can thus make informed decisions.

A forgotten part of the tradition of D&D and its old-school editions are player roles, and while I am personally very bad at enforcing these roles, they can make your job as a GM so much easier. You as a GM are already bringing the game, and while OSR/NSR games are often on the simpler side to GM you absolutely should divvy up some of the work between your players. The most common player roles are caller and mapper, the caller being the player who communicates what the party is doing to you (this reduces the mental overhead of having to take input from multiple people while keeping everything together) and the mapper being the player who draws the map (the latter may be unnecessary if you have an easy way to share maps with your players, but as @vixensdungeon will tell you, even if you can share maps there is a joy to be found in players accidentally drawing a shitty map and getting fucked because of it).

Prewritten modules are your friend. While it is absolutely fun to design your own dungeons and I heartily recommend trying it at some point, there is something to a module that has been written by someone who has no way of knowing your party composition and what tools they can bring to an adventure, and then seeing the party try to navigate that adventure. Also, they are a fantastic prep-saving tool.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

That Italicized Oh Feeling (Olivia Benson x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Once Babs points it out to her, Liv has a hard time denying what's staring her right in the face. Why does she seem to have all the symptoms of a crush around you?

Words: 5.9k

Warnings: Normal SVU cases, swearing, jealousy, alcohol

Olivia wouldn’t have even thought about it if Babs hadn’t said anything. If Elliot hadn’t fed into it. If you hadn’t laughed in that way of yours, your eyes sparkling with mirth at the whole thing. It would have been so easy to continue on and never investigate any of those things about herself. She could have lived in blissful ignorance.

But your existence wouldn’t let her.

Keep mentioning you

“You can just ask her, you know?”

Olivia’s mouth snapped shut.

“Ask who?” she asked.

Your name made her still. Elliot was looking at her with that expectant gaze that made her shift her weight from foot to foot.

“Why would I ask her?” she asked.

“You keep bringing her up,” he replied.

She blinked, mouth snapping shut. Any argument was gone from her lips. She hadn’t thought she was bringing you up that often. It wasn’t even a conscious thought. But maybe she had.

Shaking her head, she turned away from him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, El,” she said.

“You’re usually much more convincing,” he called after her retreating back.

Keep thinking about you

After a long day at work, Olivia knew that sinking down onto her couch with a large glass of wine might not be the cure to her thoughts, but it didn’t hurt. Her head fell back, a long sigh parting her lips before she took a long drink from her wine. Some cases ate at her more than others.

With her eyes closed, the image of you from that day flashed through her mind. The way she saw your heart break right there in front of her. Lips parting, eyebrows drawing together, eyes widening. The soft light hitting the tears gathering along your lower lids.

It was stupid how beautiful you were even when upset.

She took another long drink from her wine before standing up. Food was a good idea if she planned on drinking at the rate she was. Her mind flitted away from the task, wondering what you were eating tonight, if you were eating tonight, if you needed a drink as much as she did.

Placing the order for takeout, she sunk down again, cradling the glass in both hands, forearms resting against her thighs. Staring into the dark red liquid, she swirled it, trying to read what was to come in the future like it was tea leaves.

You’d done so well that day, fighting for the kids she hadn’t be able to be there for. Finding you in the precinct with a group of them, keeping them distracted and entertained as they waited for the parents to come find them, she’d let herself watch you. Even now she could see you. All soft smiles and patience, sweet voice and twinkling eyes. That image was burned in her head.

The knock on the door broke her form the replay of your actions that day. Standing, she opened the door, offering money to the delivery man before taking the food back inside. Sitting, she unpacked it, knowing she’d ordered more than she needed. But clutched in her hands was your favourite and she couldn’t even remember ordering it.

She ate the entire thing, working out why you loved it so much. It was almost like having you there with her. It was a surprisingly comforting thought.

Trying to impress you

Olivia wasn’t one to spend a lot of time in the gym. She’d done enough to always get through the physicals she had to, but it wasn’t her preferred hobby. That was, until she’d found out you liked to go down there when you were especially frustrated with a case to try and work it out of your system.

You were on the treadmill, steady pace as you glared. She could practically hear the gears turning in your head. Doing her best to act as if she wasn’t paying attention to you, she walked past, heading to the weight station.

She was strong. She knew she was. She wanted you to know it too.

Warming up, she glanced over her shoulder to find your head titled as you watched her. She shot you a small smile before she turned away, pretending to focus on her own workout.

She couldn’t understand the burning desire to show off in front of you. But she was willing to indulge it, if only to take the edge off so she could focus on the case too.

Taking her place at the bench press, she lay down. She focused on the weight in her hands, muscles working. It was easy to ignore your presence, even if she wanted to know if you were watching.

“Shouldn’t you have someone spotting you?”

She heaved the bar back onto the stand before sitting up. You were standing by her, sweat slicked skin and bright eyes, staring down at her.

“I’m fine,” she said, wiping the back of her hand over her forehead.

“Really? Because with weights like this you could do some serious damage,” you said, finger running along the bar her fingers has so recently been curled around.

“I can handle it,” she said.

“And as impressive as that is, I’ll just be wracked with guilt if I saw this and did nothing and you had an accident,” you said.

“You think I don’t have this?” she asked, a scoff of a question.

“Maybe.” You shrugged, “or maybe I just wanted an excuse to get a closer seat to the show.”

Heat spread over her skin. She lay back down, not having a smart remark, having gotten essentially what she wanted. You were completely focused on her as she showed off her strength. There was something addictive about doing it under your watchful gaze.

Gazing at you

Your head tipped back, the laugh on your lips light and airy. Your hair caught the morning light, shining like something out of a dream. Your lips were curled up in a delighted smile, all soft edges and sweet curves.

Olivia felt her heart constrict just looking at you, chin resting in the palm of her hand, pen clutched loosely in the other. She’d been watching long enough to know she was procrastinating her paperwork. You were a nice distraction.

You shook your hair back from your face. Leaning over, her eyes caught on the way the neckline of your shirt dipped. Shadows and light played over your skin and she found herself hypnotised. She couldn’t look away.

You were so beautiful.

Someone passed between you and her, breaking her gaze. Shaking her head, she looked back down at her report. It was hardly as captivating as you were.

A movement in her periphery, her eyes darted back up, finding you as you turned towards her. Your gaze landed on her and she watched as your lips pulled up on one side. She should have been embarrassed, being caught watching you. She would have.

But your eyes swept over her and she found herself preening. Leaning back, she offered more of herself to your gaze. She didn’t even think about it. She wanted you looking at her the way she looked at you.

A blaze of heat went through her.

Your smirk only made it worse. Turning away from her, she let the disappointment fade away, eyes lingering on you. There was no reason you should be so captivating, but she was finding it hard to look away.

She always seemed to find it hard to look away from you.

Seeking you out

Olivia was staring at the board, the faces of the victims staring back at her. Arms crossed over her chest, her lips pursed. Elliot was at his desk, watching her with that heavy gaze that always made her skin itch, like he could see more than she wanted him to.

You had taken the morning off. Something about an appointment you couldn’t get out of. Curiosity had been eating away at her all morning. Then, when you’d breezed in, it was with a cheery hello, nothing more. Now, sequestered upstairs, she could feel your presence even if she couldn’t see you.

“What’re you thinking?” Elliot asked.

Something he wouldn’t appreciate hearing.

“Didn’t someone have something on the fingerprints?” she asked.

“Yeah.” His eyes darted up to where she knew you were sitting.

It was all the excuse she needed.

You looked up from the food you were in the middle of consuming, a sub from the bodega down the street. Wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, you grinned. Something in her chest calmed, while butterflies erupted in her stomach.

“What’s up?” you asked, leaning back.

Something in her chest settled seeing you. She straddled the chair across from you, eyes sweeping over you. You let her without question.

“You had the report with the fingerprints, right?” she asked.

“Sure, it’s sitting on my desk,” you replied.

She watched you suck on your fingertip, tongue flicking over it to remove the sauce before you reached for a napkin. With your hollowed cheeks and your pretty eyes watching her, heat skittered over her skin.

“You need help finding it?” you asked.

“Your desk is a mess,” she said, letting herself smile at you.

“Organised chaos,” you shot back, “c’mon Benson. Surely you can find a measly file on your own.”

“Indulge me,” she said.

“I always do.” Your hand lingered on her shoulder as you passed by.

“Subtle,” Elliot said as she walked past, following you back to your desk.

She ignored him, the idiot, refusing to admit to what he was saying. Or implying. Wanting you to join them help put another predator behind bars wasn’t weird. It didn’t have to mean anything.

It didn’t.

Protective

The man shouldn’t have even managed to get into the building. Let alone with a gun. He should have been stopped before he could even enter the building. Someone was going to have their ass handed to them.

But he was practically foaming out the mouth, shouting for someone, his face a splotchy red.

Olivia had been standing with you, grabbing a cup of coffee, chatting about your plans for the weekend. She wouldn’t say she’d been fishing for information but she did keep prodding for answers. She was curious about what you got up to outside of work. There was no way she would admit to thinking about it as often as she did.

At first, she’d ignored the shouting, nudging you to keep talking. With her eyes on you, it was easy to block out the rest of the world. You smiled and she found herself leaning closer.

When the first shot rang out, she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

It was instinct, the way she reached out, forcing you down. Her body covered yours, eyes scanning over the precinct, trying to find where the shots were coming from. Your fingers curled around her forearm, digging in.

She crowded you back against the wall, hidden under the table. A roar punctured the air. She could feel the tremble in your body, keeping herself between you and the danger. She wasn’t about to let anything happen to you.

He crashed through the doors, huge and imposing, lunging forward as he screamed. Your sharp inhalation of breath was loud to her ears, even with the rage. The gun in his hand was being waved around indiscriminately.

It was Elliot who took him down. Of course it was. Testosterone meets testosterone.

She extended a hand to you, helping you to your feet once the man had been disarmed and thrown in lock up. She could feel the tremble in your hand. When your gaze met hers, it was wide eyed, the glisten of tears already receding.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” you said, hand hitting her bicep.

“Do what?” she asked.

“Put yourself in danger,” you said.

She might be able to tell your legs were shaking, but your lips were pressed together and you were fierce. It took her breath away.

“Reflex,” she said with a small shrug.

“I can’t have anything happen to you,” you said, “what would I do if it did?”

Something warm bloomed in her chest.

Butterflies

You laughed, bright and happy, fingers curling around the drink she’d just deposited in front of you. Closing a case always brought out this lighter side in you, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders and you could breathe again. She slid into the booth beside you.

Your thigh was pressed against hers, shoulder brushing her. You were leaning over the table, uncaring of how sticky it was from spilled beer and drunken antics. Elliot was leaning back, debating you about the joys of living in a dorm at college.

“You’re coming at it from the perspective of a father,” you said.

“Well, I have to,” he said back.

“Consider how much growing your kids will go through. They’ll learn to be adults when they don’t have the crutch of you and Kathy to fall back on,” you said.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he said.

“Wouldn’t it be nice not to do their laundry?”

He just raised an eyebrow at you.

“Liv, back me up here.”

You turned to her, grinning right in her face. It happened in a moment, the flutter of something exploding in her stomach. She blinked, looking down at you, not sure what to do with the feeling. You were still smiling. Each bump of your shoulder only made it worse.

You turned away, but your hand landed on her thigh as you tried to lean further over the table, using it to steady yourself. It was like a shot went off in her heart. It was making it impossible to follow the conversation.

“None of you are fun,” you said, falling back in your seat, reaching for your drink, letting her leg go.

“Or maybe we all appreciate not living in close quarters with other young people,” Munch said.

“I guess I’m the only one who had any fun in college,” you said.

Your hand landed back on her thigh as you shifted, the butterflies going crazy in her stomach. She lent into it, letting herself feel every flap of their wings. With you, it was a pleasant feeling.

Leaning closer

Sitting together in the car, Olivia was doing her best not to keep glancing over at you. Your gaze was trained out the windshield, staring at the front door of the building the both of you were watching. She’d found herself doing that a lot, stealing glances at you when you weren’t likely to look back.

“Who do I have to screw to get a place like this?” you asked, “sorry, that’s not appropriate. Ignore me. I’m tired.”

“Someone with a lotta money,” she replied.

You turned to look at her, lips already pulling up into a smile. She could see how tired you were, dark circles beneath your eyes. It was the early hours of the morning, still dark enough for the street lamps to be lit. She liked you like this, a little loose, a little less filtered than usual.

She liked seeing the inside of your brain.

“Know where I can find one of them?” you asked.

“If I knew that I wouldn’t be out here. I’d be in there, sleeping easy,” she said.

“No you wouldn’t,” you laughed.

She laughed too, finding herself tipping towards you. You were already leaning towards her, head bent like your conversation was intimate. Her eyes dipped down to your lips then back up. Your fingers brushed over the back of her hand.

“You could never give up this job,” you said, voice quiet, “you’ll never stop fighting for the victims.”

She found herself falling into the well of your gravity. You were looking at her like she was something impressive, something wonderful, and she found herself drawing closer. She wanted to feel the heat of your skin, the heat of your gaze, the heat of your admiration.

“That guy look shifty to you?” you said, breaking her out of her thoughts, your gaze having strayed over her shoulder.

She turned away, only just realising how close she’d grown to you. She hadn’t even noticed how far she’d lent towards you. And yet she had known she wanted to be closer.

It was probably for the best that the suspect decided then to try and sneak out. She didn’t have to investigate her feelings if she was distracted by the job.

At least that’s what she told herself.

Blushing

“Yeah yeah,” Olivia called to whoever was trying to hammer her door down.

She’d just closed a case, returning to her apartment to try and catch up on all the sleep she’d lost from her nights awake hunting the sick bastard who did that stuff to those women. Halfway to sleep, the knocking on her door was unappreciated. She was going to kick the ass of whoever had interrupted.

She pulled open the door, coming up short when it was you on the other side.

“Hey, sorry, I know it’s late,” you said.

It was the early hours of the morning but she wasn’t going to get pedantic with you.

“I just… I didn’t want to be alone tonight and so I came here,” you said, “I can go.”

“No, no.” She held the door open wider for you, “come in.”

You slipped past her into her apartment and she could see the heavy slump in your shoulders. You dropped onto her couch, a long sigh passing over your lips.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. We got the guy so I should be fine but every time I close my eyes I just see…” You passed a hand over your face.

“It happens. Some cases stick with us more than others,” she said, sitting beside you.

You fell towards her, head coming to rest on her shoulder. Your cheek pressed to the bare skin of her shoulder, warm and soft and lovely. The weight of it was comfortable. Her irritation dissipated, enjoying the feel of you there with her.

“You’re so good at this,” you sighed.

“Good at this?” she asked.

“Catching the bad guys, not letting it fuck you up,” you replied, “making me feel okay.”

“You are okay,” she replied, finding her fingers running through your hair.

You sat up, turning to look at her. Drawing your legs up, you rested your chin on your bent knees, your gaze sliding along her bare skin. She let you look your fill, not sure what you were seeing.

“How are you still so gorgeous even when you’re woken up in the middle of the night?” you asked, almost a sigh, a small laugh at the end, “it’s just not fair.”

She laughed, even as her cheeks heated. Shaking her head, she let her hair fall forward, hiding her blush from you. Your fingers ran along her forearm, more of a brush than a touch. Peeking up at you, she found you leaning closer.

“I bet you get told all the time, but you really are beautiful,” you said.

She felt herself blush harder.

“Sorry for coming here and waking you up,” you whispered, “you were the only one that was going to make me feel normal again.”

“You know you’re always welcome,” she said.

“Especially if I keep complimenting you?” you asked, lips pulling up into a small smile.

“Those don’t hurt,” she replied.

“Then I think you should know, this nightgown is making it hard to focus on your face,” you said.

Your fingers brushed the silk of her nightgown, right over the warmth of her thigh. Her face was on fire and your eyes were sparkling.

“It’s very pretty,” you murmured.

“Flatterer,” she scoffed.

You pulled back, curling up enough to rest your head on the back of the couch as you gazed at her.

“You mind if I crash on your couch? I know there’s not exactly a plethora of hours left tonight but… my place is too quiet,” you said.

“Let me get you a blanket.”

When she lay down in her own bed, the light from her living room chasing away the dark, she listened to the sound of you settling, wondering if her proximity gave you any comfort. She hoped it did.

Finding excuses to touch you

Olivia’s fingers were soft as they reached out, gently moving your hair out of your face. It had fallen as you’d lent forward, eyes scanning over the file she’d placed on your desk. You glanced up, lips quirking up into a smile. She snatched her hands away, clutching the edge of your desk as she lent against it.

Her fingers itched from the feeling of your soft skin against her fingertips. She was still close enough to feel your warmth. You weren’t even looking at her and she felt the impulse to reach out again.

You looked up at her again, from under your eyelashes.

“Good catch,” you said, “but look at this pattern.”

Her hand rested on your back as she lent forward, looking at the file with you. You lent into her touch, your cheek coming to rest on her bicep. Her heart stuttered in her chest, but you didn’t seem to even notice.

It was like the long nights when her head would drop onto your shoulder. She wouldn’t even think about it, tired and eyes itching, head heavy, sinking into you. When her defences came down she sought out your warmth, wanting to feel you breathe beneath her.

“Gonna go bring him in?” you asked.

You were gazing up at her, lips curling up in a small smile that had her head swimming. Her fingertips brushed over your cheek, brushing your hair away again. You lent into her touch, just until she snatched her fingers away again.

Something warm bloomed in her chest along with embarrassment.

“Good job,” she said before she swept out of the precinct to pick up the perp.

Feeling hot around you

A wolf-whistle rang out across the precinct. It was late enough that the place wasn’t busy. Olivia’s head snapped up, eyes darting from Elliot to the where his gaze was focused. He was leaning back in his seat, grinning as he turned his head towards her.

You were waving away the whistle, a shy smile on your face. In the floor length dress, clinging in all the right places, you were a thing of beauty. She found her breath tumbling over parted lips. A rush of heat went through her, leaving her reeling.

“I take it you’re not going to chase down our suspect,” Munch said.

“Not unless he happens to show up at the restaurant I’m going to. Or the show,” you said with a small shake of your head.

“Hot date?” Elliot asked.

“You offering?” you shot back.

You paused by Olivia’s chair, hip cocked, hand coming to rest on the back of it. You were close enough she could smell the scent of your perfume clinging to your skin. Her skin was heating just from having you so close dressed like that. Looking like that. Leaning forward just enough to draw her eyes to the shadow of the curve of your breast.

Heat washed over her. She felt sweat gather at the skin on the small of her back, climbing up the back of her neck, spreading across her chest. You weren’t even looking at her, resting against her desk as you talked to the boys. But she was so aware of you there, right in touching distance.

“Right, well, try not to have too much fun without me,” you said.

Your chin dipped down, catching her gaze. The wink you shot her went right through her, warmth spreading in her lower stomach.

“Have fun,” you said, voice lowering just for her.

Elliot was giving her another very knowing look once you’d disappeared into the Manhattan evening.

“What?” she snapped.

“You’re looking a little flushed there. Feeling hot under the collar?” he said, that self satisfied grin on his stupid mug.

“Go chase up the ME report.”

His laughter haunted her, cooling the fire you’d left in her veins.

Craving your attention

“And why would they do that?”

Olivia was watching you from her desk, pen clenched between her teeth. You were sitting on Munch’s desk, feet continually kicking at his chair as you stirred your coffee.

“To keep the masses from realising they hold the power to control their destiny in their hands,” Munch replied, “wake up to the group mind think they force us to live in.”

“Sure but… why?” you asked.

The curl of your lips told her you were teasing him, just feeding into his conspiracy theory riddled mind. Still, she would have liked for you to be playing with her instead. She could be just as fun.

“Mass control of the population lets them test experimental drugs for biowarfare in third world countries,” he replied.

“Right. So why did they kill JFK?” you asked.

You didn’t even look at her.

“He was going to shake things up. Watch the way people responded to him. They loved him. He was going to end the mass control before they could pump chemicals into our drinking water,” he replied.

Why weren’t you looking at her?

“Now I’m being poisoned too? When will the madness end?” You scrunched up your nose at him.

Why weren’t you asking her?

“When we can all see the truth they work so hard to obscure,” he said.

She watched you make eye contact with Fin, a shared eye roll she wasn’t invited to partake in. Why wasn’t she invited? Why were you ignoring her? Had she done something to piss you off?

“Keep making that face but you’ll wish you had your freedom soon,” Munch said.

She wanted you to look at her.

“And when I do, you’ll be my first port of call,” you said, patting him on the shoulder.

She wanted you to touch her.

“Now, I’m going out for lunch. If you need me, no you don’t,” you said.

She wanted to get lunch with you.

You left her disappointed. Sweeping out of the precinct, she felt herself stewing in her want. She felt itchy, a desperation clawing up her throat, choking her with want. She wasn’t used to this feeling, a craving she couldn’t seem to sate. No amount of your attention was ever enough, even when she gorged herself on it.

She wanted to drown in it. To revel in it. To let herself split apart from how much of it she received.

Being denied was a feeling she wasn’t able to reconcile. An ache in her bones, a pang in her gut, a twist in her heart.

She was driving herself mad.

Flirting

Sliding into the chair across from you, Olivia glanced down at the paper you were reading.

“Defenestrate. Three down.”

You glanced up, the smile ready on your face. Her foot nudged yours under the table.

“Smarty pants,” you said, but it was so soft it made her heart squeeze.

A flash of blue had her reaching out, grasping your hand. With a soft brush of her fingertip, she smeared the ink stain on your skin.

“Having fun there?” you asked, a slight prod, teasing her as her finger continued to trace over your skin.

“I can think of something more fun to do with you,” she replied.

Your gaze swept over her as she looked up at you from under her eyelashes. Your eyes were sparkling, badly hidden amusement on your face.

“Did you need something from me, detective?” you asked, voice lowering.

She lent closer, her fingertips finding the pulse in your wrist. She could feel it thrumming, fast enough to let her know you weren’t as cool as you appeared. You pressed your wrist more firmly into her touch.

“Am I making you nervous?” she asked, almost a whisper, forcing you to lean closer to catch her words.

“Beautiful women always make me nervous,” you replied.

You were so much better at this than she was.

Her fingers returned to your hand, threatening to intertwine with yours. Her foot nudged at yours again, a gratified purring in her chest when you let yours rest against hers. You were leaning closer, that small smile on your lips ruining her.

“Must be difficult when you look in the mirror then,” she said.

You laughed, soft and beautiful and fond. Your hand moved forward, linking your fingers through hers. Her heart stuttered in her chest.

“How about you follow me home so you can find out?” you said.

You were definitely better at this than she was.

“Gonna protect me from all the big bad beautiful women?” you asked.

“How about some hands on exposure therapy?” she suggested.

“Careful, Liv, or I’ll think you’re serious,” you said.

You flipped your newspaper over to her as you drew your hand back. Standing, you shot her a wink before making your way down the stairs. She looked down at your half finished crossword.

Maybe she was beginning to be serious.

Getting jealous

The air of celebration was palpable. The sick pervert had been put away for a long time and the team had rolled into the usual bar. You were grinning from ear to ear, your laughter coming easy, shoulders loose and light.

And you were talking to Alex.

Olivia had been keeping half an eye on you through the night, the itch to monopolise your attention back. You were so beautiful when you were full of joy. She wanted to celebrate with you.

Instead, you’d ended up in a shadowy corner, Alex’s lips at your ear as she whispered something to you. Your smile was naughty, and when you laughed it was throaty.

Heat crept over Olivia’s skin and something in her stomach clenched. Her fingers tightened around the glass of her beer. You tipped your head closer to Alex, dragging your eyes up to meet hers as a smirk flirted with the corner of your lips.

Alex’s hand reached out, making contact with yours, sliding up, lingering longer than was appropriate. You shifted your weight, growing closer to her. When you took a sip from your own drink, she watched blue eyes focus on your mouth.

“That’s a sour look for someone who just took another perv off the street.”

It was a struggle to tear her eyes from you, focusing on Elliot again. The look he was giving her was so full of understanding it almost made her hit him. She didn’t like the clawing feeling in her chest. The whole thing was getting ridiculous.

“Mind your own damn business,” she said.

“Bet you wouldn’t be saying that to her,” he said, lifting his drink in your direction.

“You don’t know that,” she said.

You laughed again, stealing her attention and her gaze. Alex tucked your hair behind your ear, unaware of the daggers Olivia was glaring at her. You fluttered your eyelashes at her.

“Good thing looks can’t kill,” Elliot muttered, “although it looks like Alex might need witness projection again.”

“Keep talking like that and you’ll need it,” she snapped.

“Touchy,” he said, hiding his knowing smirk behind the neck of the bottle as he drank.

She drained the last of her beer then slammed the bottle down on the bar. Ignoring his continued prodding, she strode towards you. Your gaze was lazy as it dragged to her, your smirk deepening.

“I need to talk to you,” she said through gritted teeth.

“We’re in the middle of-“ Alex began to say before you cut her off.

“Sure.”

Olivia held Alex’s eye, a sense of triumph filling her. Your hand slipped into hers, tugging until she turned away, leading you somewhere more private. Somewhere you wouldn’t be interrupted. Somewhere she could be alone with you. The back corner of the bar. Away from prying eyes.

“What’s up?” you asked, leaning against the wall, looking up at her.

“You and Alex,” she said.

“What about me and Alex?” you asked.

She gave you a look, unimpressed, not playing games with you. She didn’t have the patience. Not as her heart began to tear itself apart just remembering the way the blonde had touched you.

“Am I not allowed to have other friends?” you asked, “or am I not allowed to flirt with other women?”

“So you were flirting?” she asked.

“I didn’t know I had a reason not to,” you said.

That shut her up pretty quickly.

“Liv.” Your voice softened, “what’s going on?”

She hated the pity, the softness, the uncertainty. It scrapped against the jagged edges of the sharp feeling in her chest. Shoving your shoulders against the wall, she looked down at you, really taking you in. She let herself feel it all, all the things she’d been pushing down for months, all the little things she’d begun to take notice within herself, all the things that led back to you. And all you did was look up at her with your pretty eyes and pretty lips, waiting, waiting so patiently.

So she kissed you.

Luckily for her, you kissed her back, hands sliding around her waist, pulling her closer. You didn’t try to stop her or question her. All she knew was that she’d been wondering what it would be like to kiss you for longer than she’d been able to admit to. And now she was.

You sighed into her mouth, such a nice sound it made her kiss you deeper. You were so soft against her, even as you kissed her with a mouth she hadn’t known you’d possessed. Dirty and hot, making her feel weak and desperate, even as you gave her what she wanted. She wanted more.

You made her greedy for things she couldn’t put into words.

She whimpered when you drew away, wanting more, ever more, from you. You were looking at her like she was something precious, like you were blowing her mind, like you understood her hunger.

“Liv,” you sighed.

“Can’t we just?” She lent forward to kiss you again.

You laughed, your hands on her shoulders keeping her back. The sharp sting of rejection bit at her skin until she saw the way you were gazing at her. Your fingers were soft as you tugged on the ends of her hair, fond and easy.

“I’m afraid I’m going to be annoying and ask you what’s going on again,” you said.

“I…” She didn’t have an easy answer.

“Is it maybe that you don’t want me flirting with anyone who isn’t you?” you prompted.

“No, you’re allowed to flirt with whoever you like,” she said.

“But you’d like it if it was you I wanted to flirt with,” you said, not asking, the confident tilt to your head both frustrating and endearing.

“You’re not making this easy on me,” she said.

“I really like you Liv, but I thought I wasn’t your… type,” you said.

“I’m beginning to think I don’t know what my type is,” she said.

Your fingertips brushed over the apple of her cheek, gentle in a way she wasn’t used to. With men, it wasn’t quite like this. It wasn’t so… soft.

It was hard to believe she’d been living without this for so long.

“All I know is that the way I feel about you can only mean one thing,” she said.

“What’s that?” you asked.

“Babs might have been right about some things.”

She muffled your laughter with her next kiss.

[captain-kit-adventuress]

No, mutual aid and general strikes are not the only shot left at staving those things off, but I don't have the bandwidth right now to spell out why.

We need an entire roster of solutions, of which mutual aid and general strikes can be a valuable part, because this is a multi-faceted problem, and honestly, if you're going to talk about leftist solutions to avoid violence, this is stuff you should know and already be involved with, or should at least be curious about researching in greater detail.

We are definitely not at the point yet where we need to be having the conversation about "it's this or violence!" I'm going to give the benefit of the doubt and assume no one here is advocating for accelerationism, because the Glorious Revolution is also not going to solve our problems, at least, not as currently portrayed.

Please know different ways of advocating for yourselves than just relying on neighbours and and strangers, and withholding labour. There is no point in going zero to sixty and missing out on all of the potential solutions in between.

One major, crucial step I haven't been seeing is calls for volunteers to help in building robust networks of support (even for mutual aid and/or striking), many of which already exist, and which a lot of leftists new to this sort of activism don't seem interested in doing. Ignoring that (beyond donating money, I mean) only sets up whatever mutual aid and general strike activity you have planned to fail. Mutual aid isn't going to get very far if there's no supply reserve (food, toilet paper, clean water, etc.) or solid network for distribution. And general strikes may actually be more dangerous now because it's looking like it will be very easy to get fired and you won't be able to rely on things like the NLRB and the EEOC and the DOL in general to back you up, which is when that mutual aid you haven't planned for becomes even more important so people aren't starving and homeless in the meantime.

A lot of the "solutions" I've seen proposed rely on normal channels to support them, but if you're going to go outside of the system, you have to first figure out how to do that without tanking the movement. Do you have a plan for if you can't use USPS, or UPS, or FedEx, or anyone else, for example, if normal package distribution channels fail (like if you need to send food or supplies to people who don't live close by)? And that's just one facet of providing larger-scale mutual aid. Do you have major networks in various cities to help support getting aid to the people who need it in rural areas, of which there are still an overwhelming amount in the US? Do you know how best to use a small amount of resources to make a big impact even if it's just in your local area, other than just having a plan in your head that's never been tested in the real world? Have you tried it when things are still accessible now or are you going to rely on making it up as you go along when push comes to shove, which puts a lot of the most vulnerable people you'll need to help in danger?

You don't start planning for this stuff when things are already bad, you get it in place as much as possible before then. I'm willing to bet that if anyone who wants to get involved mutual aid (like food banks as one existing example) or the labour movement would look beyond a simple internet search or their social media bubble, which trends toward echo chambers even under ideal conditions, they'll find that these resources already exist, or are at least being planned for, and they're perfectly happy for people to help but may need it in ways that don't seem obvious. That way, when push comes to shove, mutual aid and labour are already a well-oiled machine which can scale up--and the time for planning that is now, not the moment it's desperately needed--rather than getting off the ground in the first place.

Look for the helpers. Don't despair and assume that there's nothing between "things are bad and need to change" and "we're on the point of violence because things went bad so quickly." There need to be lots of points of entry to slowing this down, first.

votes don't influence policy, and now there's no way for anyone but 1% of the wealthiest to leverage buying power.

the only power anyone has left is withholding labor.

to do this we will absolutely require alternative sources of water and food.

if, as is so much more likely, everything falls apart, we will still need water and food.

Mutual Aid + General Strike are literally our only shot to stave off mass mayhem and aimless violence.

[official-penis-posts]

Hello Mx Penis blog,

I had sex for the first time (yippee). We used a condom and pulled out but I'm also a very neurotic person and now I'm worried that I could be pregnant. I guess it would just be nice to have a reminder that people have safe sex all the time and don't just get pregnant from an act of God. Sorry this is such a heavy topic on a comedic account lol.

People do have safe sex all the time and they don’t usually get pregnant. However, depending on how important it is to you that you do not get pregnant, you may wish to a second birth control method, like perhaps oral contraceptives, and you can also track your cycle to figure out when you are most likely to be ovulating and avoid having intercourse during those days if possible.

If it’s possible for you to do so, you might want to also purchase some Plan B and have it at your home, because sometimes penis-havers occasionally do really stupid things like take the condom off after they come and keep fucking you and not think about why you actually asked them to wear the goddamn condom in the first place.

Condoms are quite effective at preventing pregnancy, but it is hard to use them effectively in the long-term. In the heat of the moment one or both of you will suggest skipping the condom, and you won’t get pregnant, and then you will think it’s OK to do, and then you will start having sex without a condom more frequently, and then you WILL get pregnant.

Unfortunately I don’t know how to advise you how to get these additional birth control methods because I don’t know what country or what state you live in. In some locations this is very easy, and in some it is nigh unto impossible.

Godspeed. I hope you have a lot of great sex and that you don’t get pregnant until you want to!

[c4tluver02]

the perfect gift <3

warnings: none!

wc: 1.6k

Summary: You love books and Steve just happens to get you the best gift of all time!

☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。*。☆。☆。☆。*。☆。

One of the things Steve loves about you is your love for reading. Whenever he calls and asks what you were doing it's always reading. His favorite is when you read aloud to him. Your soft voice saying the words always calms him down. Steve himself wasn't much of a reader at all before he met you but somehow someway you got him into it. If you read a great book you would immediately recommend it to Steve. In a way you read every book in hopes of giving it to Steve for him to read. The thought of you two having your own little book club made you so happy, so of course Steve had the perfect idea of getting you a book. A book that was not only read by him before you got to it but annotated. All of his thoughts that he would share to you once you had both read the book would now be on a page. 

His plan started when you called him.

 “Hi sweet girl, what's up?” Steve asks happy to hear your voice

“Hi Stevie, I was wondering if you wanted to go to the bookstore with me?” Despite you asking him to go with, what you really meant is if he could drive you both there. But that was neither here nor there.

“Yeah no problem, I’ll get ready and head over?” He asked.

“Yes, perfect!” You respond with a cheerful tone that immediately makes Steve grin from ear to ear. Anything to make his girl happy!

- 

Once Steve gets to your house he knocks on your door. He steps back a bit and as he does you open the door. You step forward to give him a hug. 

“Are you ready?” Steve asks as you're still in his arms.

“Yep, let me just get my bag really quick.” You reply, giving him a quick peck on the lips. It's enough that Steve got a taste of your fruity lip gloss. 

“So what type of book are you looking for?” Steve asks as he opens the car door for you. 

“Hmm I am not exactly sure I am thinking of a thriller? I honestly have no clue, really anything that looks good.” Steve wishes you could give him a list of books that way he knows he's at least picking one you'll like. But you don't, so Steves on his own and hopefully he can pull this off without you figuring him out. 

You two make it to the bookstore and head inside. Of course you know all the aisles by heart and immediately go to the fiction aisle. Steve is like a lost puppy following behind you just looking around. He feels like it's pretty easy to tell he isn't a frequent customer. He doesn't know all the areas like you do and by the way he grabs onto your belt buckle anyone could tell he hates to be away from you. But Steve bravely decides to go to a spot that had a book you had said you wanted last time you two were there. He not only has to get it without you noticing but he has to buy it without you seeing him. 

“Hey, I think I left my wallet in the car. I am gonna go get it really quick okay?” Steve says playing a normal facade. 

“Mhm ok.” You say completely not listening as you are already on the fourth page of a book you picked up. 

Now is Steve's chance to go quickly, find the book, pay for it and run it to his car. When he reaches the aisle he finds the book and lucky for him it's the last one. He peeks his head up trying to look over the bookshelves to see you still engrossed in the book you had when he left you. Steve pays for the book and runs to his car. How he did all of that without you looking around is a miracle he thinks. 

Steve walks back up to the area you were in the last time he saw you, you weren't there. Steve is officially freaking out now. He must have not been as slick as he thought. Did you see him buy the book? Did you see that he waited in line to pay for it? He wasn't gone for too long was he? A million thoughts passed through his mind as he walked down to look for you in the aisles. He stops in his tracks as you are walking up to the place he just was to buy your book. 

“Steve, someone took the last of the book I was looking at last time.” You pout into his chest. Steve rubs your back relieved his plan had somehow worked out. 

“I'm sorry baby. We can always come back another day when they restock it?” He says trying to give you a positive look on it despite the last copy being in his back seat. 

“Yeah you're right. It's okay I found two books so I guess I'll live!” You say as you lock your hand with his and walk up to the front. 

Steve pays for your books even though you told him he didn't need to. But he will never stop treating you. What type of boyfriend would he be if he did that? 

-

Steve drives you two back to your place and how can he say no when you ask him to stay for dinner? You guys cook a nice home cooked meal and Steve's cheeks hurt from how much he's been smiling. Even something as simple as cooking dinner with you makes him unbelievably happy. He can't wait till the day you guys do this every night. You both make a perfect pair in every shape and form. The happiness that surrounds the kitchen as you cook is something that comes so naturally yet so enjoyed. Steve couldn't ask for anyone better than you. His perfect girl. Once dinner is done Steve decides it's time he goes home and start on your book. 

He doesn't think he's ever read a book this quickly in his life but he can't stop from the excitement he feels of giving this to you. He writes and highlights important things and little thoughts he has here and there. It's funny how much he sees himself turning unto you. The endless calls of you telling him you stayed up so late reading your eyes were burning always sounded crazy to him. Yet somehow here he is sharing the same feeling. Although this book is for you he is enjoying it very much. He's glad he can read something before you versus the other way around. To have something worth sharing is everything Steve wants and more. 

It only takes him a week to finish the book and annotate. Steve truly hopes you like it. He’s never done something like this and you've never voiced that you even like his comments on books. But despite the little voice in his head he is overjoyed to give you this. 

Steve knocks on your door as he waits with the book in his hand. “Steve? What are you doing here?” You ask unknowing that he would be coming over. 

Steve opens his mouth to respond but before he even has a chance to say it you say-

“You found the book I wanted!” Steve is already glowing from happiness at your reaction as you jump in pure excitement. You can't believe he went out of his way to get it for you. 

“Yeah, I uh, made a few edits to it though.” Steve says sheepishly, scratching at his neck. A little bit of anxiety is finally creeping up to him as he gives you the book. 

You look up at him in surprise as you take his hand and drag him into the living room. You feel like you could cry. The act of him buying a book you mentioned you wanted more than a week ago was enough to get you emotional. But the fact that he did something to it was even more heart wrenching. You open the cover to see a note from him. As you flip through a few more of the pages you see his handwriting scattered on the pages. Tears welled up in your eyes at the sight. You can't believe how compassionate and thoughtful he is. 

“Oh Steve.” You say barely getting a word out, too full of emotions.

“If you don't like it we can go get you a new book. I dunno I thought it would be cool but maybe it’s-” You stop him mid sentence with a big hug.

“It's the best gift I've ever gotten.” You say as you give him a kiss. Your hands are holding his jaw and all the fear leaves Steve. He is so happy that you're happy and enjoy your gift. 

“Good. I’m glad you like it.” He says smiling.

“Oh I don't like it, I love it. I can't believe you would do something like this for me. I know this took some time.” You say holding his hands. 

“I bought it last week. I was the one who took the last copy.” Steve's smile turns into a giggle as he sees your face drop. 

“Oh my god! You sneak! You didn't go to find your wallet at all did you?” You say giggling as all the pieces click together. 

“Nope! I bought the book and ran to put it in my car. I think it was the most stressed I've ever been.” Steve responds in a playful tone. His hand clutched against his chest in dramatics. 

“I was so deep in the book I didn't even realize.” You gasp as you finally see his whole plan come to life. 

You give him a big hug. Extremely thankful you have him as your boyfriend. “Thank you so much baby.” You say hugging him even tighter.

Steve picks you up a bit just enough to allow you to put your legs outside of his. When you let go you pepper his face in a million little kisses. Within each kiss an ‘i love you’ comes out.

"Anything for you." Steve says before kissing you back.

[rcklessheavn]

𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐫 ── ★ ˙🏎️ ̟ !!

f1 driver!matt x influencer!reader au

summary: after influencer!reader is invited to give interviews at the grand prix event, she meets matt and everything changes for both of them.

intro pt1 pt2

warning: none

wc: 2.2k

note: i know ive taken so long but i am new to the F1 world and really really wanted to educate myself properly, so i am now writing as a fan!!! i still have a lot to learn so bare with me :)

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐨 ༉‧₊˚.

Three knocks on your door jolted you awake. For a moment, you couldn’t remember where you were—or why you were sleeping on what felt like a giant marshmallow. Seriously, this bed was the perfect level of comfort for any mortal human.

“Y/N! If you don’t hurry up, you’re going to be late for practice!” Hailey’s voice came through the door, sharp and urgent.

“No, Mom, I don’t have practice today. Remember?” you mumbled into your pillow, clearly still half-asleep. But then your alarm—set the night before—blared, dragging you back to reality.

You jumped up with a start, just as Hailey knocked twice more, her hand poised for a third. You scrambled to open the door. “Sorry, sorry! In my defense, I did set an alarm... and woke up.” You flashed her an innocent smile, but she just rolled her eyes. Clearly, this wasn’t her first rodeo with you—which was exactly why you loved her so much.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, unfazed. “Now, we’ve got practice and an official paddock tour, but first—breakfast. Get ready. Chop chop!” She clapped her hands for added drama.

You couldn’t help but laugh as you made your way to the bathroom for a shower.

The first time you stepped into this suite, it felt like you’d walked into a palace. Everything was so elegant, so delicate—it practically screamed luxury. Even the toilet paper felt like it cost a fortune, and that’s no easy feat. You couldn’t believe you were here, experiencing all of this. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and you were going to make the most of it.

“Okay, I’m done!” you called as you emerged from the bathroom, fully ready to face the day. Makeup done, hair styled, outfit on. You’d kept it low-key—just a casual yet cute look, with a Ferrari hat to show off your passion. No need to go overboard, since you weren’t expecting to run into anyone just yet.

“Well, that was faster than I expected. Eager much?” Hailey teased, glancing up from her phone, probably checking if the Uber had arrived (it had).

You just shook your head, chuckling. She knew exactly how to push your buttons.

You grabbed your phone and double-checked your purse. Wallet? Check. Charger? Check. Portable charger? Check. Camera? Check. Extra batteries and SD cards? Check and check. Tylenol? Check. Various lipsticks, glosses, and liners? Check, check, and check. Powder and extra blush? Check and check. You mentally went through your checklist, sure you hadn’t missed anything... until you froze.

The passes. You mentally smacked your forehead. Almost forgot the very thing that would let you experience all of this.

“Okay, ready to go?” you asked Hailey, who gave you a nod, standing up from the couch.

Time to get this day started.

Arriving at the paddock felt surreal. As you stepped out, you were greeted by the sound of a huge crowd of F1 fans. Polite smiles all around, you made your way through the crowd—but then, you heard your name being shouted. You turned and saw a teenage girl waving at you. You glanced at Hailey, silently asking for permission to approach, and she nodded.

“Y/N! Y/N!” the girl called out, her face lighting up.

You smiled and waved. “Hi! You know me?” you asked, surprised.

“Yes! Yes! Are you kidding? I love your content! I saw your Instagram post yesterday! I swear I’m not stalking you, I just happened to already have plans to be here, and somehow, I low-key manifested meeting you!” She spoke so quickly, her excitement palpable. “Is it okay if I take a picture with you?”

You chuckled, taking her phone. “Of course, we can!” You smiled. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“I’m Emiliana,” she said, her bright smile warming your heart. “Thank you so, so much!”

“It was so nice to meet you, Emiliana,” you said, still smiling. “I’ve never had a fan interaction before. You’ve made this trip so much more special.” You waved as you walked away, and she waved back with a grin.

As you entered the paddock gates, Hailey turned to you with a proud smile. “Wasn’t that your first fan interaction?”

You took a deep breath and turned back to glance at Emiliana one last time. “Yes, it was,” you said, smiling up at Hailey. She pulled you into a side hug.

“I think Monaco is already changing your life,” she joked, and you laughed.

“Maybe I’ll end up on Vogue or something,” you joked back.

You both made your way further into the paddock, and you took a deep breath, pulling out your camera to film some b-roll. As you were filming, a woman approached you.

“Hello, I’m Claudia! You must be Y/N, right? And Hailey?” She asked, and you blinked in surprise. Then you saw her Ferrari badge, and everything clicked.

You extended your hand to greet her. “Yes, hi! It’s nice to meet you, Claudia!” you said, a little too cheerfully, but Claudia seemed pleased by your energy.

“I’m with Ferrari,” she said, holding up her badge, “and I’ll be with you both this morning. Practice starts in 45 minutes, so we’re going on a quick track tour. Our car is waiting, so we need to hurry. After that, we’ll head back to the Ferrari quarters and watch practice. Does that sound good?”

Her words were like music to your ears. You nodded eagerly, and Hailey spoke up.

“Sounds perfect. We really appreciate it!” she said, and Claudia smiled.

“Is anyone else coming with us, or…” you trailed off, your curiosity piqued.

“Well, not really. Each team can select one to three creators they want to sponsor or collaborate with, and due to the connection with Matthew Sturniolo and his brothers—who have huge platforms—they’re usually on board for this. They come every year, so they know the drill.” She led you toward the car.

“So, I was chosen as the third creator?” you asked, a bit surprised.

“Yes, but not at random. At Ferrari, we focus on quality over quantity. We’ve been closely following your content, and your passion for our team really stood out. We knew we could achieve something big with you,” she explained, her tone formal yet warm.

Those words hit you hard, and a warm sense of pride washed over you. You had no idea what you’d done to deserve this, but you were certainly not complaining.

You walked past the garage where all the cars were, sneaking a quick peek. None of the drivers seemed to be around, so your body relaxed a little, saving the anxiety for when you came back.

Outside the track, the car was waiting for you. You climbed in, and the driver, Francisco, introduced himself. Both you and Hailey returned the greeting. You pulled out your camera and started filming for your vlog. The ride was mostly quiet, with Hailey asking a few questions here and there. You knew the answers to most, but you paid close attention to the ones you didn’t know.

Then Claudia spoke up, her voice cutting through the silence. “So, Y/N, why Ferrari?”

You smiled, leaning back a little. “Truthfully, I grew up alongside Ferrari. My dad’s a huge Schumacher and Vettel fan, so when race season rolled around, he’d make sure to explain everything to me and my brother. He thought my brother would be the one to sit down with him and watch the races, but to be honest, I was the one who never missed one.” You chuckled, reminiscing about your childhood. “My favorite movie growing up was Cars, so that probably explains a lot. Yeah, I guess red’s been my color since I was born,” you said with a proud smile. Both Hailey and Claudia smiled at you, and you were pretty sure even Francisco grinned.

As you finished your story, on your way back, you noticed the paddock approaching. Your heart began racing again, knowing that any driver could be there right now.

“Who’s your favorite, then?” Claudia asked as you reached your destination, getting out the car.

“Hard question,” you said, glancing up at her. “I really love a lot of them, but Charles Leclerc and Matt Sturniolo have really changed things for the Tifosi. Especially Matt. He has a talent and passion I admire—honestly, I’m surprised he isn’t a world champion yet.” You said it casually, trying not to sound like a crazy, obsessive fan.

“Maybe this year,” Claudia said with a knowing smile.

“Maybe,” you replied, walking past the Ferrari garage.

You had peeked at it before, but now, standing in front of it—knowing you were about to walk inside—it felt utterly surreal. Everything you’d dreamed of, being in a Formula 1 paddock in Monaco, part of the guests, all of it had come true in this moment.

“Shall we go in?” Claudia asked, coming up behind you with Hailey. Apparently, they were already buddies now.

Too afraid to say anything wrong, you simply nodded. Claudia led the way, starting her tour from the ground floor. You took a closer look at both Charles and Matt’s cars. They were even redder in person than you’d imagined. Claudia introduced you to the mechanics and engineers—everyone was so welcoming. The middle floor had the pit wall, with a slight balcony overlooking the track. Finally, the guest area was on the top floor, and, unexpectedly, there were two familiar figures sitting out on the balcony.

“And here I thought we were meeting later tonight,” you said, a little too confidently, to your amusement.

“OMG! Y/N!” One of the figures jumped up, meeting you halfway at the door.

“HI NICK!” you chuckled, embracing him. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

“I know! I can’t believe we live in the same city and still haven’t hung out!” Nick said, laughing. He turned to introduce you to the person beside him. “Oh! This is my brother Chris. Chris, this is Y/N. I think I’ve mentioned her to you.”

Chris stood up and stretched out his hand. “Oh yeah! You were watching her this morning. Nice to meet you,” he said with a polite smile.

“It’s nice to meet you too. I love your brand! Big fan, not gonna lie,” you admitted casually, and Chris just smiled, clearly pleased.

“Are you excited?” Nick asked, giving you a spot to sit beside them.

“Yes, totally! It’s my first time, so I’m super hyped right now,” you said. Just then, you heard Claudia’s voice behind you.

“Hey, guys!” she greeted Nick and Chris, who waved back. Then she turned to you. “Y/N, is it okay if we leave you here with the guys for a bit? Hailey and I need to talk about some business things, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’m not in trouble, am I?” you asked, half-joking.

Claudia chuckled, shaking her head. “No, not at all. Just call me if you need anything,” she said, then left, leaving you with your new friends.

Before practice started, you decided to take a few pictures, handing your camera to Nick.

“Can you take some pictures of me?” you asked, and Nick’s face lit up, clearly excited. Photography was definitely his thing after all.

Meanwhile, on the ground floor, the two Ferrari drivers were getting ready to head out. They were bantering about who was better—Spider-Man or Batman. This definitely wasn’t their first time having this debate. Matt, bored of the conversation, glanced up at the balcony, maybe to wave at his brothers, but instead, he noticed a new figure posing for a photo. Nick was clearly assigned to be the photographer.

“Yo!” Matt said, playfully hitting Charles on the arm, clearly distracted. “Who’s that?” he asked, catching his teammate’s attention.

Charles turned to look where Matt was pointing and shrugged. “I don’t know, probably just one of those influencers they invite every year,” he muttered.

Matt sighed, a hint of curiosity in his voice. “She’s wearing a Ferrari hat.” He paused. “Do you think she’s a fan?” He tried to mask the excitement in his voice, but the hopeful look in his eyes betrayed him.

“I don’t know, man. Maybe she’s wearing it for promo or just as a benefit for her,” Charles shrugged, sounding uninterested.

Matt let out a disappointed sigh but kept it to himself. He wasn’t one to show his emotions so easily.

Charles looked at him, lifting an eyebrow in playful teasing. “Are you interested, Matthew?” he asked, a sly grin spreading across his face.

Matt swatted Charles’s hand away, rolling his eyes. “No. Why? Are you?” he shot back, his tone light but challenging.

“No, bro, I’m taken,” Charles laughed, stepping back toward his car to get ready. “You should be too,” he shouted over his shoulder, still chuckling.

The sound of Charles’s shout made you turn around, and in that split second, your eyes met Matt’s. You felt a jolt of nervousness before quickly turning back to your conversation with Nick.

Matt held your gaze for a brief moment, a sudden rush of electricity surging through him. Racing cars were an electric sport, but this—this was something different, something he couldn’t quite explain. And he liked it.

“Matt, they need you now, you ready, man?” Nate, Matt’s performance coach, called from behind him, breaking the moment and making Matt drop his gaze.

“Very,” Matt responded firmly, shaking off the unexpected rush.

Chris’s voice pulled you out of the daze you’d slipped into after locking eyes with Matt for the first time. “Ready to experience your first F1 weekend?” he asked with a grin.

You sighed, smiling back at him. “More than ready,” you assured him, eyes drifting to the track ahead.

a story by rcklessheavn

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ series link

⋆˙⟡ tag list

⤷ authors note: ok this was wayyyy too long so i had to divide this, pt. 3 will be out sooner than this one was. i hope the length makes up for my absence!! thank you for your patience :)

@courta13 @matthewsroses @mattswifeyy @sturniolomatthewb @nessabarretswhore @nickmillersn1gf @mattslefttoenail @thecrawlys @tuttifruttixx @obsessedwiththesturniolos @period-queen1 @pair-of-pantaloons @b4by-hon3y @idkwhatthisis2009 @malsmind @matts-247 @baileysturnz @sturniololover1738 @emely9274 @stitchlover324

[ldydeath]

Don’t Look Back | Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon)

Summary: Jiyong is stressed on tour and says something he can’t take back

Warnings: mild language 

Author’s Note: Hi guys! This is a part one of a two part collab fic. My best friend, the lovely and talented @wcnderlnds wrote part two, go check out her post to see how it ends!

PART TWO HERE

Everything was too much. You knew that, Jiyong knew that, but you couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t protect him. He should’ve never taken on this tour so close to his enlistment. You knew he wanted to do this one last thing for his fans, something to remember him by. But the stress was about to swallow him whole and there was nothing you could do to stop it. You glanced down at your buzzing phone and sighed.

Jiyong’s face appeared on the screen, you knew he was calling because you weren’t in Japan yet. You were two hours away by flight and the show was still hours away, but you’d promised you’d be there. You answered the call, his voice filling the line before you could even say hello.

“Are you coming to the show tonight?” Jiyong’s voice whined through the phone and you let out a sigh, your hand rubbing your temples.

 You had hours of work to finish in order to get to the airport and you weren’t sure you were going to make it. The tour was nearing the end and you’d promised you’d be there for the last leg. Japan, the Europe dates, and the final night in Taiwan but work wasn’t letting you get away easy.

“I’m going to be getting in right as the show starts at this rate.” You sighed before slamming your hands down on your keyboard.

“You’re still at work?” You could hear the disappointment in his voice and slowed your typing. “I just have to finish some things before I’m gone for three weeks.” He let out a sigh and you chewed on your bottom lip, waiting for him to tell you not to come. 

“Okay, I’ll let you go. I miss you.” the phone went dead before you could reply. 

You slammed your phone down in frustration, trying your best to clear your thoughts so you could at least get to the airport in time to not miss your flight. You missed him too, you hated being apart for as long as you had been.

 At least he hadn’t told you to not bother, that was a step in the right direction, unlike his dates in North America. An ongoing theme throughout this tour was his back and forth on wanting you there. You knew he was going through a lot, but it didn’t excuse his behavior towards you. 

Deciding they could finish the rest without you, you left, making it to your plane just before doors closed and sat down in your first class seat. Of course he had gotten you the best seat money could afford. As you were getting situated, your phone buzzed and you stilled, almost afraid that it was work calling you back. A sigh of relief escaped your lips when you saw who it was from. That sigh turned to a groan when you read his words. . 

If you can’t make it, just stay home. I’ll be back before I head to Europe and we can just fly out together.  

You didn’t know why he was pushing you away so much, you knew how lonely he’d been all tour. At least you’d be there in time for the show to start, you could hang out and see Japan after. He was there for a couple days anyway and you’d already made plans to sight see before you headed home. 

I’m on my way. Plane taxiing now. See you soon. You hastily replied back before shutting off your phone and sliding your eye mask over your face. 

You had just enough time to catch a nap before you’d be whisked off to the show. In true Jiyong fashion he’d had a car sent for you once he’d realized he couldn’t pick you up himself. You turned your phone back on once you were in the car to see several missed calls and texts from Jiyong, Daesung, and his management team. 

Well, that wasn’t good. You ignored everyone else blowing up your phone and dialed your boyfriend's number. Straight to voicemail. He was probably just getting into costume for the show. That was all. Everything was fine. It didn’t stop your heart from racing, the nerves settling in the closer you got to the stadium. 

One of Jiyong’s managers met you outside and led you backstage. It wasn’t hard to find Jiyong, he was standing by his entrance spot, his shiny jacket sparkling in the lights, your nerves settled as you saw him. 

“Hey” You grinned, that grin faltering as soon as your eyes met his. 

He looked exhausted. When was the last time he’d slept? Or eaten? He was so thin. You should’ve been here sooner, you could’ve forced him into a bed with a bowl of soup and not let him get up for a few days. You hadn’t seen him this bad off since that night he’d fainted over a year ago. Your heart dropped into your stomach and you reached for him, wanting to beg him to cancel the show. You knew he wouldn’t though and he smiled at you before turning away, your arms falling pathetically to your sides. 

You hesitated before following his crew to the side stage, your favorite spot to watch Jiyong. It always amazed you how quickly he could transform from the exhausted man you saw a few minutes ago to the king of the stage. His fans were none the wiser to how he was truly feeling as he used up every ounce of energy he had on that stage. But you knew, and you caught every stumble, every large inhale, how many times he looked up towards the ceiling. 

Once the show was over Jiyong headed over towards you, grabbed your hand and led you towards his sitting room. He looked up, eying the team of people following behind the two of you closely and shook his head before leading you inside and closing the door on them. He took one swift step towards you before his lips were on yours, his arms winding around you tightly. You could almost feel the weight of the day falling off him as you kissed him back. 

This is what he needed, after all the long days and sleepless nights. You. He knew he was being needy and a bit all over the place with his emotions but now that you were finally here he was going to do everything in his power to make it up to you. 

“Jiyong” You whispered as you broke the kiss, your hands sliding up his chest as you looked into his tired eyes. “Come on, let's get you changed and get some dinner. I’m putting your ass in bed tonight.”

The annoyance that crossed his face was alarming, he’d always appreciated you being the one looking out for him. He’d been off all day though, you reminded yourself as you stepped around him, moving to collect his hoodie. He took it from you wordlessly, stripping out of his sparkly red suit jacket and sliding the hoodie over his head in one swift movement. 

“I don’t want you to be here if you’re just going to baby me.” Your eyes widened as you looked over at him. Surely you’d heard him wrong.

“I’m not babying you, Jiyong. You’re clearly not sleeping and when was the last time you ate?” He glared at you, folding his arms across his chest. 

“This morning. I’m fine.” 

“That’s bullshit, Jiyong. You’re not fine.” You pulled out your phone, pulling up the various missed calls. “If you were fine you wouldn’t be crying out for help when I’m on an airplane. What’s going on with you?”

He glanced down, running his hand through his already messy hair and let out a sigh. “You were supposed to be here for this, not come at the end and start worrying about me.” He glanced up, all the pain you thought maybe you’d imagined was visible on his face. “I needed you here.”

“I had to work!” it was a lame excuse and you knew it but it was all you had. They wouldn’t just let you take months off work to let you follow Jiyong around the world. 

“I told you I’d take care of you. What do you think that fucking ring meant? You don’t have to work.”  His icey tone caused you to flinch, he’d never been this angry with you before. You glance down at your ring, absentmindedly twisting it on your finger.  

“We talked about this, Jiyong. I’m not going to quit my job and sit at home worried about you for the next two years. After the wedding, we agreed to revisit that topic. Don’t throw it back in my face now. I’m here. I’ve been here for you every night regardless of the distance.” 

You two had had your share of fights before, but this felt different. Like you were both toeing a dangerous ledge and if you weren’t careful someone was going to get hurt. You held his gaze daring him to say something. Anything.

“Maybe it’s not good enough.” Your eyes widened in shock, your heart thumping so loudly in your chest you were sure he could hear it.

He didn’t mean that. You knew he didn’t mean that, but all rational thoughts had seemed to exit your brain as his words cut you so deeply. All you wanted to do was hurt him back.

“Not good enough? Being awake at three in the morning when I have a meeting at seven to make sure you’re ok, that you’ve eaten, isn’t good enough? Hopping on a flight to be here with you wasn’t good enough? I have supported you through everything, Jiyong. I have loved you through all of it. If that’s not good enough then I don’t think anything will be. Maybe you should take this back, if I’m no longer good enough.” Your voice cracked and you willed yourself not to cry, he wasn’t going to see your tears today.

You slid the ring off your finger, holding it out for him. He blinked, looking down at the ring. This isn’t what he wanted, he had always wanted you. He’d be damned if he broke in front of you right now, though. If you were just going to give up on him because of one bad day, then fine. He moved over to you, snatching the ring out of your hand and slid it onto his pinky. 

You shook your head, moving towards the door. “If you walk out that door don’t come back.” His sharp voice broke the silence in the room and without looking at him, you opened the door, walked out and slammed it behind you. He closed his eyes, letting out a long exhale. He’d really fucked this up, hadn’t he?

tag list: @wcnderlnds @alosss-blog @sooyasya @dprvivi @infinetlyforgotten @mirahyun @loveesiren

[thereallucifer666]

He noticed her trying to catch the trick and fail, and it caused him to snicker slightly. So she liked to get to the bottom of things, figure out what made things tick. He admired that quality about her. Might make it more difficult to prove he was actually the Devil though. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

"Thank you. Maybe I'll teach it to you sometime," He said, tantalizingly holding that above her to keep her interest. If she wanted to get to the bottom of things, he'd let her. But he wouldn't make it easy on her either.

No matter how she tried to hide it, he caught that blush. Her body was honest, even if she wanted to hold herself back. He had promised her that he wouldn't cross that line again if she didn't want to. However, he didn't make a promise not to flirt with her relentlessly. And he planned to exploit that to the highest degree. She was immune to him. With others, he didn't have to try and win their attraction. But he did with her. And that was positively thrilling to him.

"You sure? I can be very...," He paused and gave her a once over, glancing down her body before meeting her eyes again, "....descriptive."

It should've startled Lucifer how quickly he'd grown interested in Chloe, but he couldn't bring himself to care. She was different. For whatever reason, she was immune to his abilities. He was ecstatic to learn what else was different about her. One would think that running a huge criminal enterprise would make life interesting and it certainly had it's perks. But being an immortal, ageless being certainly took a lot of risk out of the game. Hell, if he somehow got cornered by a wat team and riddled with bullets, the only thing that would do is make him annoyed.

She was a risk. She was a gamble. Something was different about her and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. Not only that, she was able to match wits with him without completely drooling over him, as his desire ability had a tendency to work even when he wasn't trying. Taking her hand, he repeated the dance move again and slipped another card into her pocket. A mere slight of hand, but a good one nevertheless.

At her request, Lucifer's lips pulled into a small devilish smirk that usually made women--and some men--weak in the knees.

"No, I didn't forget," He purred. "Thought they might be of use to me later."

And, just to make sure his words couldn't be misconstrued, he pushed his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip as he grinned at her, indicating his plan for her garment was exactly what it sounded like.

[gpcwsl]

Can you do something for Katie and Caitlin that’s just wholesome with domestic moments around the house and like just appreciating the little moments. Things like when they were posting the videos on snap of them chilling on the sofa, cooking etc

Caitlin Foord x Katie McCabe

The little things

WC: 606

MasterList

Warnings: short.

Song: Banana Pancakes - Jack Johnson

It was rare for Katie and Caitlin to have a day off together, just the two of them, with no training, no media duties, and no one else around. So when it finally happened, they decided there was nowhere else they’d rather be than curled up at Katie’s place, doing nothing and everything all at once.

The morning started slow—lazy, even. Caitlin had woken first, but instead of getting up, she just shifted closer to Katie, wrapping herself around her like a koala. Katie, still half-asleep, grumbled something unintelligible but didn’t push her away. It wasn’t until Cooper decided it was breakfast time and jumped onto the bed, meowing loudly, that either of them actually got up.

Katie stretched, scratching the back of her head as she watched Caitlin crouch down to give Cooper attention. “You spoil him more than me, you know.”

Caitlin grinned, scooping up the cat and rubbing her face against his fur. “He deserves it.”

Katie rolled her eyes but smiled, grabbing her phone and snapping a quick video for Snapchat. She captioned it, Fighting for my own cat’s love before posting it.

A few minutes later, Caitlin added her own, a zoomed-in shot of Cooper blinking sleepily in her arms. Sorry, Katie, he’s mine now.

The morning drifted into afternoon, both of them moving through the house with an easy rhythm, cooking together in the kitchen—well, more like Katie cooking while Caitlin hovered around, sneaking bites of anything she could.

“Oi, wait till it’s done!” Katie swatted at her hand as Caitlin tried to steal a piece of grilled chicken straight from the pan.

“You took too long,” Caitlin defended, grinning as she backed away.

Katie shook her head but couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. She grabbed her phone again and started recording, catching Caitlin in the act as she popped another stolen bite into her mouth. “This one,” she narrated dramatically, “can’t be trusted in the kitchen.”

Caitlin stuck her tongue out and leaned over to press a quick kiss to Katie’s cheek—off-camera, of course—before getting back to her mischief.

After lunch, they crashed on the sofa, Caitlin stretched out with her head in Katie’s lap, mindlessly scrolling through her phone while Katie played with her hair. Cooper jumped up, settling on Caitlin’s stomach, making himself comfortable.

“Great, now I’m really stuck,” Caitlin murmured, tilting her phone up to record a quick Snapchat of the two of them. Cooper blinked at the camera as Caitlin narrated in a whisper, “Send help, I’m being held hostage.”

Katie snorted, leaning over just enough to nuzzle into Caitlin’s hair before whispering, “Shame, I was just about to get up and make tea.”

Caitlin immediately grabbed her hand. “No, no, I take it back. You’re my favourite. Tea, please.”

Katie rolled her eyes but didn’t move right away, instead pressing a lingering kiss to Caitlin’s temple before finally sliding out from under her.

The day passed in moments like that—little things, quiet and domestic. There were no grand gestures, no big plans, just them existing in the same space, appreciating each other in the simplest ways. And if the world only saw the playful Snapchat updates—the lazy sofa moments, the kitchen antics, Caitlin curled up with Cooper—they didn’t need to know about the real magic of the day: the stolen kisses, the warmth of hands finding each other without thought, the way Caitlin’s sleepy voice softened when she mumbled, “Love you,” right before drifting off in Katie’s arms.

Because some things weren’t for the camera. Some things were just for them.

[taeaura]

Thomas Hewitt | Possessiveness, Desperation, and Jealousy

Yeah...Thomas has attachment issues lololol

Thomas' possessiveness is really just a progression of his desperation. For example:

Stay with me, I don't want you to leave

Mutates into

You're my possession - Of that, my love, there really is no question

Okay, yeah, I'm using lyrics to get my point across, so what?

Because of his low self-esteem, Thomas gets jealous without realizing it. He's anxious about his potential future with his S/O, with constant worries surrounding abandonment and comparison.

What if you get hurt? What if you push too far, explore too deeply and find something you hate? What if turn to hate him? He can't have that. No, no, no, no, not here; Not now.

You really are his special someone. He's in love with you, his Momma'll make sure to tell you. Thomas' favorite thing is how sweet you are with him; Buttering him up with compliments {all of which you find to be true statements, though he disagrees}, and variations of physical affection. One thing that never fails:

"You're so handsome, Tommy."

Goddd, does it make him blush. He gets all giddy and shy - a bit aroused, depending on the situation.

What if that stops? What if when he finally reveals himself, you run away? You scream and shriek in terror? Is he really that ugly?

What if I make you feel sick?

That's a question he asks himself a lot. You're all he has {outside of the family}, and he plans to keep it that way {excluding potential future children}.

I explored this a bit in a previous post:

'You can't leave. I won't leave you leave - I have nothing. I'll prove to you how good I am - How good I can be, I swear. You can live with us on this farm, just like momma always dreamed of. You're not leaving me; Not after you've met momma, not after the countless times you've saved me from callous assholes out here. No - I couldn't..' -- He had to keep you. Keep you here; In the basement; In the barn; Maybe in a spare bedroom - His bedroom. It didn't matter. You could would not leave.

_____

At the root of his issues, Thomas is a scared, concerned, insecure man who's been starved of proper connection. Healthy, reciprocated emotions that don't burn out when he does something wrong. Once he's found someone worth opening up to, he'll treasured them. After years of believing they'd never meet, here they are.

Are you an angel? Have I been rewarded?

Or has the Devil sending one of his succubi to ravish me down to the rings of Wrath and Ptolemaea?

Although Thomas' thoughts are not as religiously-driven as those above, he often treads in waters of similar questioning:

Do I deserve this? - Am I being tricked? - They'll leave eventually..

--

Overtime, his anxiety turns to desperation - And soon, that desperation turns into jealousy.

Someone could compliment you, and it'd set him off. Especially if it's a man. He's so scared you'll find someone better than him, and he's envious of how easy it is not only for you to interact with people, but how easy it is for them to interact with you. He wants to interact with you so badly! He wants to tell you how beautiful you are, how grateful he is for you {even if you two aren't in a relationship yet}. He wishes he was approachable - Not that he's comfortable with causal conversation, but he wishes it was plausible in his situation.

--

One afternoon, a {soon to be} victim complimented you; 'Called you 'attractive' in whatever fancy way they put it. You scoffed a bit, albeit amused, followed by a small 'thank you.' - Boy, Thomas couldn't've been more peeved. How dare you? After all he's done to make you comfortable? Really, this is how you repay him?

He had to take a minute to himself, realizing how irrational he sounded. How were you supposed to know the sacrifices he made? It's not like he could tell you..though he wishes he could, just so you would be proud of him.

After his anger calmed down, he was left guilty and worrisome - It wasn't anyone's fault. The stranger couldn't have known his feelings for you, and he doubted you're aware either. That being said, that 'charming' victim made a delicious dinner that night ;)

_____

Thomas thought he had his emotions under control, but he was greatly mistaken. Momma had sent you out to grab things from the {wilting} garden just a few minutes prior; You'd gained enough trust from her to be left unsupervised outside - Though, she kept tabs on you though the windows.

Thomas was just finishing up in the basement when he walked up to the main floor; Oddly enough, he was looking for you. One random evening {a day he couldn't quite remember}, he'd overheard you talking to Henrietta about a locket you had once - A dainty one that complimented your skin ethereally. One of the victims, a nice gal from out of town, had a locket similar to the one you described; And he planned on giving it to you.

As he searched around the home, he found no trace of you. His anxiety quickly picked up; What if you'd left? No, Momma wouldn't lose you that easily, you'd have to be somewhere. He made his way outside, carelessly throwing the front screen doors open, albeit a bit aggressive. After a few minutes of pacing, he finally found you in the garden - Just as you were supposed to be.

The knot in his stomach relaxed, just as his shoulders did. There you were: Safe and content. He clutched the locket within his right hand, the chain dangling from his stressed fingers.

Unbeknownst to you, Thomas stood a few feet away, just..staring. His mind raced with incoherent thoughts: Would you like the gift? What if you were confused, or even worse, disgusted? What if the locket wasn't to your liking? He was quickly pulled from his thoughts when you finally noticed him.

"Hi, Thomas." You acknowledged, he really was just some big, awkward hunk, huh? "Did you need something?"

He quickly shook his head, bringing his hand forward. He twisted his wrist so his palm could face upward, revealing the locket.

You wiped some sweat off your forehead with your dirt-covered gloves and stood up. Your knees had gotten a bit dirty, but your pants provided a solid-enough layer between skin and soil.

"Is this for me?" You naively asked. Of course it was for you, he wouldn't just hand something to you that he intended on keeping.

He nodded, slightly nudging his hand closer as if to say 'take it.' - Which you did.

"Might be a bit difficult to put on, the jump ring's a bit small."

Were you..asking him to help? Was that it? He wasn't too sure, but he took the chance anyway. He gently grasped the split chain, folding it cautiously around your neck. He fumbled a lot with the chains..he didn't know how to handle such a small mechanism despite his sewing hobby; But eventually, he connected the jump rings.

You adjusted the locket to your liking, turning to face him with a thankful smile painted amongst your face.

"Thank you, Tommy."

Oh god..there it was. You knew he liked being called 'Tommy', you must've. He felt teased, just a bit. Mostly shy, though. He swallowed and gave a small nod.

Gosh, you were gorgeous, at least he thought so. He wanted so badly to tell you - Just like that piece of shit victim previously had. Okay..they weren't that bad, but he didn't want to acknowledge that. His jealously started to fester again, soon overriding his yearning.

God fucking damnit, why do I have to be so restricted? He thought to himself, an anger bubbling beneath him.

"Are you alright?" You hesitantly asked, tilting your head just a bit.

Was he alright? No, he was not 'alright.' He felt silenced. Restricted in his own body. How hard could it be to tell you how much he liked that locket on you?

His throat strained, trying to make any sensible noise - Yet all that came out were gurgles and incoherent mumbles. He shook his head, obviously overwhelmed and fed up. Instead of straining too hard, he pointed at the necklace and nodded - He really did think you were the most beautiful creature in the word, the locket only amplified that.

"You like it?"

He nodded once more.

"Aw; Well, thank you, Tommy. That's very kind of you."

He nodded a final time, making a mental decision: You were never going to leave him. He'd do anything and everything to make you happy, including small things like this.

That piece of shit nobody couldn't treat you like I could; They'd only make you happy chopped up, seared, and served right at the dinner table.

He'd make sure that would never happen to you. That no one besides him or the family would make you laugh, cry, smile; Not like he could. You two would be one, one way or another - Even in death. He'd make sure of that.

_____

Boo lame boo 🍅🍅🍅

I'm not too proud of the one-shot but my brain isn't giving me anything different.

We will, however, get more possessive Tommy as I finished up pt. 2 of Proprietorial 😈

[softspiderling]

illicit affairs - interlude

pairing: rafe cameron x reader

summary: We’re so back.

word count: 643

author’s note: remember me???? before we fully dive into s2 of illicit affairs, i wanted to do a little interlude. pick you up where we left off, bring the right emotions in the game. you feel me. see u again soon

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

INTERLUDE

“You guys know the drill and the house. Find your room, feel at home, and don’t bother me for like an hour, I need some shut eye.”

Rafe’s voice was already distant as you walked towards your room - the biggest guest room the house had, with an en-suite.

Nassau greeted you with incredibly sunshine when you first arrived. Since Rafe’s family had taken the private jet to Spain, the four of you had to fly commercial, which always brought some stress. Adding your aversion to flying, you were tired when you arrived. Still, it felt freeing, when the plane had taken off, like you were leaving all your problems at home. Your parents weren’t exactly thrilled about this trip, but you didn’t leave them much room for disagreeing either: your mother still felt bad for what had happened at the Spring Fling and your dad knew the best right now was to give you some space.

Rolling your suitcase into the room, which was severely overpacked, you let the door shut behind you, before you flopped down on the bed face first, sighing softly. You nearly dozed off, when you heard the door creak open, it was so quiet, you had nearly missed it with the whirring of the AC.

Peering an eye open, you saw Rafe slipping into the room, quietly shitting the door again. While you hadn’t exactly talked about how things were going to be while you were here, you had assumed things were on pause, given how risky it was to do anything, while sharing a roof with Kelce and Topper.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Getting some shut eye.”

As if that answered any questions you had.

Nevertheless, Rafe got on the bed next you, nudging you until you were slotted against his side. You were too tired to argue, eye lids heavy. You had left early in the morning, and all the excitement of getting here had left, leaving you with exhaustion, and with Rafe’s thumb rubbing soft circles into the skin under your top, it was easy to fall asleep.

When you stirred awake again, you were disoriented. The sun was low, shining into your room and someone’s warm body was pressed to your side.

Right.

“Hey,” you mumbled, gently nudging Rafe, but he only groaned, burrowing deeper into the pillow.

“Five more minutes.”

“Rafe, I think we’ve slept for like, over an hour,” you said, reaching for your phone to check the time.

“Then we can stay up even longer tonight.”

“Rafe.”

Rafe sighed, before he stirred away, looking at you with bleary eyes, clearly grumpy.

“Is there any way I can convince you to sleep a little longer?”

His voice was low, and gravelly from sleep, as he splayed his hands under your top against your backside, while you tried to squirm away, laughing.

“You know that Kelce and Topper are always only a few feet away, right?”

“The house is bigger than that,” Rafe grumbled, but slowly sat up, running a hand through his hair. “Do you think I can go lay down in my room some more?”

Before you could answer his question, you could hear someone racing down the stairs, before music blared out of the stereo.

“So what are the plans for tonight? I need some drinks!”

“I guess resting time is over,” you mused and Rafe only groaned, his head falling back on the pillow, pulling the blanket over his head to drown out Kelce’s music. Snickering, you get out of bed, flipping open your suitcase to find something to wear.

“I’m gonna kill Kelce,” Rafe said from under the blankets and you rolled your eyes, amused. If the four of you got back from this trip in one piece, you’d be surprised.

Ignorance is bliss.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

author's note: ooop