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[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 13: "The one with the day after" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: The aftermath of your night with Frankie isn’t what you expected—and maybe that’s not a bad thing. As you settle into this new rhythm, your thoughts rearrange themselves somewhere between interruptions, selfies, and a lingering cold. WC: 15.6k

A/N: Let's breath. You said you liked the long chapters—so here’s a long one. I hope you enjoy it; this one’s for my spicy girlies <3 Thank you for all your comments—I read every single one, even if the notifications don’t always hit my inbox and I take a while to reply. It means the world that you're enjoying this story, I absolutely enjoy writing this!! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! (also, If you've asked me before to tag you and your tag isn't on the list, please send me a message and let me know! Sometimes I miss comments!)

Frankie reached out, his hand brushing against the cool, empty space next to him. His fingers lingered there for a moment, as if the sheets might give something back to him —some sign you were still close. But you weren't. He opened his eyes, squinting toward the doorway. His heart gave a small, restless lurch.

He called your name. No answer.

He pushed himself up on his elbows. That uneasy feeling—the one that curled bitterly at the edges of his stomach—started to creep in. The light felt too harsh, too loud. He closed his eyes against it, squeezing the bridge of his nose, willing himself not to overthink.

Then: the sound of a door closing softly. Barefoot steps brushing against the hallway floor.

You appeared, standing there like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. Hair loose, face bare and fresh, wearing only the white T-shirt he had thrown you the night before and the red panties he could still vividly remember sliding down your legs. 

"Hi," you said, your voice hushed, touched by sleep. You smiled, and for a second the sunlight caught the edge of it, made it look almost golden. You crawled back into bed, curling onto your side to face him.

Frankie dropped onto his back again, turning his head toward you, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

"I thought you'd left," he said.

You reached out, running your fingers lightly along his jaw.

"No," you said. "I just went to wash my face." Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth. "I hate waking up with makeup still on."

He tipped his head slightly toward your touch, hungry for it without realizing. "Did you find anything useful in there?"

"Not really. But I had makeup wipes in my bag."

He huffed a quiet laugh, something easing in his chest just watching you. Your face looked softer, almost unbearably tender, and maybe he could have resisted reaching for you—but he didn’t want to. He didn't have to. He pulled you into him, your body tucking against his like you belonged there.

For a while, he drifted. He wasn't entirely sure if he had fallen asleep or just let himself hover somewhere close to it. You were still there when he opened his eyes again, your breath brushing against his bare chest in steady, even puffs.

Frankie leaned down, pressing a light kiss against your cheek. You smelled so good. Warm, familiar, sweet. It wasn't perfume. It was just you.

"Hey," he said, voice low and a little rough, "you still want to try that coffee I told you about?"

You pulled back just enough to look at him. "That would make me really, really happy."

And Frankie thought: good. Good, because he was already thinking of ways to make you stay.

“Hey,” you said, just loud enough to pull his attention back to you. Frankie turned his head, his gaze landing on you.

You pointed toward the piece of furniture in front of the window, your finger aimed precisely at the object sitting on top.

“You do have a lava lamp,” you said, a grin spreading across your face.

He looked over, then back at you, his mouth already pulling into a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, chuckling, his voice a little raspier than usual. “Yeah, I do. It's old, my dad gave it to me when I was like twelve.”

Fifteen minutes later, Frankie was standing in front of you, watching you like he was waiting for some verdict that might change the course of his day. He had placed a cup of coffee in your hands barely ten seconds ago, his fingers brushing yours briefly, intentionally or not.

You took a sip and then closed your eyes, tipping your head back.

“Yes,” you said, with a soft, satisfied sigh.

You didn’t say anything else.

Frankie arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. “Yes? That’s it?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, lifting the cup again to your lips, the corner of your mouth curving into a smile.

He let out a short laugh, cradling his own mug loosely between his hands. He tilted his head a little, as if studying you from a new angle.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” he said, voice warm and teasing.

You turned your head to look at him fully, narrowing your eyes with exaggerated suspicion before giving him a flirtatious grin.

“Sorry,” you said, tapping his bare stomach lightly with your fingertips. “I was busy savoring it.” You gave a small shrug, playful, self-assured. “It’s amazing. I never thought I’d say this, Francisco, but you were right.”

There was a tiny pause, a hitch in the air between you. Frankie stepped closer. He thought of something clever to fire back, something to match the spark you lit in him so easily, but the words never quite made it to his mouth.

Instead, he set his coffee down on the counter without looking away from you, then reached for your face, cupping it between his hands. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, grounding him more than they grounded you. Your eyes caught his like they had no other choice.

He kissed you, and it wasn’t rushed or impatient; it was simply inevitable. His lips found yours with a kind of easy certainty, the world narrowing to the soft, tender pressure between you. His hands slipped down to your waist, fingers pressing into your hips.

You fit against him so naturally. The thin fabric of the shirt between you did little to hide the way your body warmed his skin.

You lifted your arms, looping them around his neck, and the kiss deepened instantly, a small, involuntary sound vibrating from your throat into his mouth. It rattled something loose inside him.

It was ridiculous, honestly, how easily you could unmake him. How one sound, one kiss, could turn his blood into something reckless.

There had always been a part of Frankie that stayed careful, measured — even with the people he loved, even in the bright, stupid recklessness of his twenties. Lust had always been something he could control, contain. It never unraveled him like this.

But with you, it was different. With you, there was no polite distance between desire and need. No moment of standing still, thinking better of it.

Apparently, he was the kind of man who lost his mind over a kiss. The kind who forgot how to breathe when your hands touched the back of his neck. The kind whose body wanted things long before his mind had time to catch up. The kind who felt a desire bigger than his own body. 

And maybe, today, he didn't mind at all.

Frankie pushed you against the counter, his hands finding your thighs easily, lifting you in one smooth movement until you were perched at the edge, your legs parting instinctively to fit around his hips. Your breath caught as you pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers sliding down his abdomen like you couldn’t help yourself.

"Let's do it again," you said, a wicked glint flashing in your eyes. It wasn't even a suggestion.

Frankie laughed under his breath, a sound more strained than he meant it to be.

"What?" you teased, the innocence in your voice barely covering the hunger underneath. "You told me to use my words, didn't you?"

He smiled at you, or at least tried to. The expression faltered slightly as he felt your hand slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. His body went tight with anticipation.

"Yeah, I did say that," he murmured, voice low against the side of your neck, his teeth grazing the sharp line of your jaw. His hands tightened briefly on your thighs. "Then tell me, baby. Tell me what you want."

He could feel it in the way you shivered against him —the way you responded to being asked, like it made you braver.

"I want to feel you," you whispered, your fingers stroking the back of his neck, playing with the soft curls there. "I want to have you in my mouth."

Frankie pulled back enough to see you clearly, the way the sunlight poured over your features, the way your pupils were blown wide with desire.

"And then," you said, your voice breaking slightly on the next words, "I want you to fuck me. Like you mean it. Like you know exactly how bad I need it. Tell me, have you thought about it?"

He went quiet for a moment, letting your words sink in. They sounded strange in his mind, coming from you—words he never thought he’d hear you say. It felt odd, hearing you say something like that about him. And yet, the feeling passed almost as quickly as it came, slipping through the cracks before he could hold onto it.

He decided, almost instantly, that he liked the sound of your voice like that. So he smiled, lopsided and undone, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

"Sometimes," he breathed, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, "I forget how goddamn good you are with your words." His voice dropped lower, rougher. "Now show me what else that mouth of yours is good for."

You bit your bottom lip, smiling against his skin, before sliding off the counter, sinking to your knees in front of him. The sight of you like that —willing, gorgeous, utterly unbothered by the fact that he was already shaking inside— knocked the air from his lungs.

Frankie rested one hand against the counter to steady himself and brushed the other along your cheek, the gesture reverent even as the tension between you grew unbearable. You weren't looking at him. Your focus was entirely on the task in front of you, on your fingers curling around the band of his boxers and easing them down, revealing just how ready he already was for you.

He could see it in your eyes, too — the same raw need tightening his chest, threading through his veins.

Your hand wrapped around him and began moving, measured and excruciating, and Frankie had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, letting the pleasure override whatever guilt or hesitation might have still been clinging to him.

When you flicked your tongue over his tip, he opened his eyes immediately, refusing to miss a second of it. You looked up at him, smirking a little, like you knew exactly what you were doing to him —and maybe you did.

He didn’t care. He was too far gone to care anymore.

You leaned in, your mouth hovering just above him, watching his reaction closely. One hand steadied you on his thigh, the other moving with cruel, perfect precision. Frankie tangled his fingers in your hair, less to guide you and more because he needed something — anything — to hold onto.

Then, you took him into your mouth, inch by inch, the heat of you making him curse under his breath. When you pulled back, dragging your lips over him, he almost said it — almost told you to take your time—but he caught himself just in time.

He knew you didn’t want instructions. You didn’t need them. You knew exactly what you were doing—and you were going to ruin him with it.

Your mouth moved with increasing certainty, every shift of your lips, every glide of your tongue drawing Frankie deeper into the kind of pleasure that made rational thought impossible. Your hand stayed at his base, fingers firm, your grip confident and perfect, squeezing just enough to make him shudder under your touch. Your mouth was so warm around him it almost hurt, like the heat itself might undo him.

His eyes caught yours —bright, sharp, impossibly dark—and you didn’t look away as you adjusted the rhythm, your own need matching the urgency rising between you. Frankie dug his fingertips into the edge of the counter, grounding himself there, every muscle in his body pulling taut like wire.

"You're so beautiful," he choked out, the words escaping without permission, barely more than a rasp between the uneven breaths stuttering out of him.

You pulled back, releasing him with a soft, wet sound that made his stomach tighten even more. You stroked him once, twice, your fist gliding slick over him, before licking your lips, messy and unbothered. Drool shimmered on your chin, a bright thread against your flushed skin, and without missing a beat you grabbed the hem of his white T-shirt — the one you'd slept in — and wiped your mouth with it.

Frankie thought he might die right there, from the sheer brutality of how beautiful you looked.

There you were: cleaning yourself with his shirt like you were scrubbing away any lingering innocence he might have imagined clung to either of you. He felt wrecked by the sight, by the effortless way you ruined him without even trying.

When you leaned forward again, flicking your tongue against him in a teasing stroke, something in him snapped. His hand tightened in your hair, pulling you back, forcing your eyes to meet his.

"Stand up," he ordered, his voice low, cracked open by need.

You obeyed immediately, the quickness of it making his blood roar. Maybe there were some commands you didn’t mind after all.

The second you straightened, Frankie caught your mouth with his, the kiss messy and insistent, hands greedy as they mapped the curve of your hips, the soft weight of your ass. He hoisted you onto the counter again like you were weightless, like it was the easiest thing he’d ever done.

Kicking his boxers off his ankles without even glancing down, Frankie’s hands found the hem of your shirt —his shirt— and pulled it over your head in one swift movement, tossing it aside.

You leaned back on your hands, chest lifting with every breath, eyes half-lidded and glittering as you watched him.

Frankie pressed his mouth to the side of your neck, kissing the skin there hard enough to leave a mark, breathing you in. He moved lower, tasting the slope of your collarbones, the soft, sensitive skin along the tops of your breasts. You smelled like soap and sweat and him, and he didn’t know if he wanted to worship you or devour you whole.

Maybe both.

He paused, just shy of kissing the spot where your skin begged for it.

"Shit," he muttered, voice thick with frustration, eyes squeezed shut like he could will away whatever was clawing at his mind.

You stiffened under him, fingertips sliding up to the back of his neck. "What? What's wrong?"

Frankie opened his eyes, looking at you like it physically hurt him to pull away.

"I'll be right back," he said, peeling himself off your body like it required an impossible effort.

You sat up straighter as he backed toward the hallway. "Frankie, what is it?"

"I'll be back, don't move," he called over his shoulder, already halfway gone.

Frankie wasn’t a man who prayed. Not really. But in that moment, he would’ve dropped to his knees and begged whatever god was listening to let there be a condom left somewhere, anywhere. Preferably in the nightstand.

He yanked open the drawer, heart hammering, scanning the cluttered mess. Empty. He clenched his jaw.

He knew it, he had known it —last night he'd used the final one, and had briefly, irrationally, thanked the universe for his own foresight. But hope was a stubborn thing.

"Fuck," he hissed under his breath, slamming the drawer shut.

He checked the bathroom too, frantic now, rifling through shelves like maybe he had forgotten a secret stash. Nothing.

It wasn't like he could even blame himself. His sex life had been non-existent for months, maybe more. There had been no reason to keep a stockpile.

Still, he cursed himself the whole way back to the kitchen.

And then he saw you.

Still perched on the counter, wearing nothing but those tiny red panties, your hair messy, looking like some fever dream he'd conjured.

You smiled when he came back into view, and reached for him.

"I—" he stopped just in front of you, feeling like an idiot. "I don’t have any more condoms."

Your smile faltered, a tiny ripple of disappointment crossing your face.

"Oh."

"We can—" he started, fumbling, desperate to not lose the moment.

"I'm on the pill," you cut in, calm, your hands brushing down your bare stomach to rest lightly at your hips. "And I’m clean. If you want—"

"You sure?" he blurted out, faster than he meant to.

You bit back a laugh.

"Yes, Frankie. I'm sure."

Frankie exhaled, a short laugh shaking through him. "Well, I’m clean too."

"Yeah, I figured," you teased, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and bright.

He kissed you back properly, this time with both hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you might vanish.

Your panties shifted under his touch, and you lifted yourself without hesitation, letting him peel them off and toss them aside, forgotten.

“I’m naked, running around my house, and you’re laughing at me,” he said against your lips, amused.

You smiled, light catching your teeth, and he kissed you again, tasting the laughter on your lips.

Your hands roamed — over his shoulders, the nape of his neck, his chest — while he lifted one of your legs, resting your heel on the counter, the other leg draping over his shoulder like you belonged there.

"Don’t think just because I like you that you’re getting special treatment," you murmured.

Frankie grinned against your mouth. "I don't expect it."

He cupped your waist with both hands, steadying you, anchoring himself. He would need every ounce of control he had left to survive this.

Carefully, he shifted his hips closer, the thick head of him brushing against you, and you broke the kiss to watch — to actually watch — as he started to push inside you.

Your breath hitched, your hands tightening, and Frankie thought, incoherently, that he would never forget the look on your face right then, not if he lived a hundred years.

His hips began to move, cautious at first, almost like he was testing the strength of what was happening between you.

Frankie watched where your bodies met, watched the way you grew slicker each time he pulled away and pushed back in. It was hypnotizing, enough to make his mind empty out completely.

Your breathing was ragged, the sound of it filling the kitchen, and when you looked up at him, your pupils were wide and glassy, lips kiss-swollen and parted like you couldn’t catch enough air.

He felt something coil tight in his chest — something reckless and unfamiliar — and it unnerved him, but not enough to make him stop.

A low moan slipped from your mouth, almost involuntary, and you threw your head back, exposing the long line of your throat.

Something inside him broke apart.

Frankie moved faster, driven by the sight of you unraveling right in front of him, by the noises you made every time he pushed deeper.

The room filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, wet and urgent, with your breathing getting sharper, quicker, and the soft, almost desperate cries you couldn’t hold back anymore.

He crushed his mouth to yours in a kiss that felt like it might actually leave bruises. When you bit his bottom lip as he pulled away, he made a low, broken sound in the back of his throat.

"Those fucking sounds you make," he said roughly, his voice cracking apart as his pace became more reckless, more wild, the sound of his hips meeting your body growing louder.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, clutching him like you were afraid he might disappear, leaving shallow half-moons in his skin.

Your heel slipped from the edge of the counter but Frankie caught you without hesitation, grabbing your leg and hitching it over his hip, tugging you flush against him.

The new angle had you gasping, your body shuddering beneath his, every nerve ending lit up, and he could feel you trembling as he buried himself inside you again and again.

Little broken sounds escaped your mouth every time he moved, high-pitched and involuntary, and when you pushed forward abruptly, there was a sharp gasp of pain.

"Ouch," you whimpered, your forehead resting briefly against his shoulder.

He paused, instincts cutting through the haze in his mind.

You had bumped against the edge of the counter.

Frankie's hand came up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone in a rare, tender gesture.

"Shit, sorry," he whispered, kissing your temple, his chest tightening at how small you felt against him in that moment.

Without any warning, Frankie slid you off the counter, catching you easily when your legs buckled under the weight of what you'd both been doing.

He noticed it right away —the way you trembled, your knees brushing against his as you tried to steady yourself.

His hands found your hips again, grounding you, and he turned you around. One hand smoothed down your spine, tracing the curve of your back like he was committing it to memory, until he reached the small tattoo just down there. His thumb pressed into it, soft and possessive, and he felt you shiver in his hands.

He pushed you forward, guiding you until your palms and stomach flattened against the counter. With his knee, he nudged your legs apart, shifting you into place like you were the only thing in the world he knew how to handle right now.

For a second, he just looked at you —took in the sight of you bent over, waiting for him, the muscles in your thighs tense, your back arching into the air. He swore under his breath, almost undone by it.

Frankie lined himself up behind you and slid back inside with a breathless curse, gripping your hips tightly enough that he wondered if he'd leave bruises.

It didn’t take long for him to build back the rhythm he needed, the sound of your bodies clashing filling the kitchen, raw and chaotic. You made a noise —high and desperate— and the sound shot through him like an electric current.

"I want to see you," you gasped, shifting, pushing yourself up so your back pressed against his chest.

His hand moved instinctively, skimming up your belly, palm flattened over your ribs, then higher, gliding over your breasts with reverence he wasn’t sure he deserved.

You turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, and he saw it —the way your face was flushed and open, like you were unraveling right there in his arms.

His fingers slid up to cup your jaw, holding you there, forcing you to keep looking at him. You moaned, louder this time, your body tightening around him as he moved harder, each thrust pulling another broken sound from your throat.

Your right arm reached up blindly, finding the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.

Frankie’s breathing grew ragged, his movements growing uneven, messy around the edges.

Your voice broke the air —a soft, involuntary "yes," barely louder than a breath.

He squeezed his eyes shut, too overwhelmed to look at you, but your words clung to him, dragged him closer to the edge.

"I know you're close," you whispered, voice low and certain, like a secret only you were allowed to know. "I can feel you."

He kept one hand firm on your jaw, anchoring you to him, while the other slid down your front, his fingers finding the delicate spot between your legs with practiced ease. He felt the way your body trembled, the way you clung harder to his arm, your nails pressing into his skin.

"Francisco," you whispered — the way you said it, almost broken in two.

"I know, baby," he breathed out against your hair, voice fractured, helpless.

You fell apart then, a choked cry leaving your mouth as your body caved against the counter. Frankie moved instinctively, pushing you down gently, bending you at the waist in front of him.

“Where do you want it?” he asked, his voice uneven, broken slightly by his own ragged breathing.

You didn’t answer—didn’t even seem to hear him, really. You were somewhere else entirely.

“Baby,” Frankie said again, softer this time.

“Huh?” You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes hazy.

“Where do you want it?”

You blinked, and for a second, he thought you might not reply. But then you said, “I—I, um, inside,” the words barely more than a whisper.

“You sure?” 

You didn’t say anything this time. Just let out a soft, aching sound and closed your eyes again, your body answering for you.

His hands gripped your hips like he might lose himself otherwise, thrusting into you with a desperation he couldn't contain anymore, every nerve in him strung tight and burning.

He threw his head back when he felt you clench around him, his heart hammering, the sounds falling from your lips driving him straight over the edge. The air between you was a collage of broken moans and harsh breathing, bodies colliding over and over.

His rhythm faltered as he felt himself giving in, gasps tearing from his throat as his climax crashed through him. Frankie kept one hand pressed to your shoulder, the other bracing your waist, and he pulled you back into him as the last shudders rolled through his body. He kissed the curve of your shoulder, the damp skin of your neck, like he could somehow say everything he felt without speaking at all.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The aftershocks hummed through your bodies, your breathing slowly beginning to settle.

When he finally pulled out of you, he caught sight of the mess between your thighs, evidence, and his stomach twisted painfully with a kind of wild affection he wasn’t ready to think about.

"Stay here," he said, voice rough, thumb tracing your spine. "Don't move."

He stepped away reluctantly, running a hand over his face as he made his way down the hall.

His heart was still pounding, his blood still running fast and bright in his veins, like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that it was over.

He found a towel, wiped his face, then brought it back for you.

You were waiting exactly where he'd left you, eyes hazy and mouth pink from kisses. He cleaned you up carefully, then leaned in to kiss you, soft and slow.

"I really need a shower," you said, your arms looping lazily around his neck.

He smiled and nodded, feeling like he'd just survived something that might wreck him all over again if he wasn’t careful.

Frankie watched you lower yourself onto the sofa. Your hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, and you were dressed in his clothes— a black cotton T-shirt and pijama shorts. You dug around in your bag, pulled out a lip balm, and applied it with absent-minded precision, your eyes unfocused, as if your mind was somewhere else entirely.

The phone on the coffee table vibrated sharply, breaking the fragile stillness. You picked it up, thumbs moving lazily over the screen, typing something you didn’t seem particularly interested in.

Frankie lowered himself onto the cushion beside you and switched on the TV, stretching his legs out, one hand resting lazily against his stomach. He could still feel the heavy satisfaction of breakfast sitting in his gut.

After the shower, he'd made another pot of coffee because the first one... well, had gone stone cold. So you had sat at the kitchen table across from him, eating breakfast with a kind of quiet, ravenous focus that made him strangely tender toward you. You chewed through a piece of toast, staring at it longer than necessary, like you were solving a puzzle only you could see.

Now, he was warm and half-asleep, the room around him vibrating gently with the television’s glow. He ran a hand through his hair — still faintly wet — and yawned into the back of his wrist. His thumb pressed idly against the remote, flipping through channels without focus until something made you shift beside him.

"Oh, leave that one," you said, tossing your bag behind you carelessly and setting your phone face-down on the table.

Frankie hesitated, glancing at the TV. It was Friends, some old episode he half-remembered from a lifetime ago.

He was about to make a joke about it when he felt your hand, warm and light, pressing into his ribs. He turned his head toward you, and found you already looking at him, your mouth twitching.

He gave you a crooked smile. "I— I don't know if I can do it again yet—"

"What?" you cut in, your voice high with amusement, a real smile stretching across your face now. He blinked at you, bewildered, for a second too long. "I'm trying to get you to lie down so we can watch TV," you said, laughing. "What the hell did you think I meant?"

Frankie exhaled a short, embarrassed laugh and glanced away, scratching the back of his neck.

"Oh," he muttered. "Right."

You let out another bright little laugh and pushed at his shoulder until he slid down the sofa, stretching out lengthwise, his body heavy and pliant under your hands.

You climbed in beside him, nestling into the space between his arm and his ribs like it was made for you. As you adjusted, you squeezed his arm, teasing.

"What?" you said, grinning. "Tell me, Francisco. What were you thinking just now?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, smiling without looking at you, his eyes darting back toward the TV.

"So smug," you muttered, laying your head against his chest, draping your arm over him. "You're letting it go to your head, aren't you?"

He snorted, shaking his head in mock defeat.

"I just misunderstood you," he said.

"I didn’t even say anything," you pointed out, still laughing under your breath. "I just touched you."

"Yeah," he said, "but you're full of surprises, aren’t you?"

"Mhm. Sure. Whatever you say." Your hand played idly with the fabric of his t-shirt, tugging and smoothing it down again. "Right now I'm just full of toast and coffee. And very, very sleepy."

You let out a breathy sigh, your voice low and easy now, sleep already threading into it.

"Don’t let me pass out, okay? Emma’s leaving at eight. I need to be home before two."

Frankie made a low sound of agreement and slid his hand up into your hair, his fingers moving through it slowly, carefully. On the TV, the canned laughter echoed through the room.

He thought about how strange it all was, but also how strangely right it felt. As if this had been inevitable, written into the way things had always been, even though he knew, deep down, that wasn’t true. It hadn't always been this way, and pretending otherwise would only make the conversations you were eventually going to have even harder. Conversations about last night. About this morning. About the impossible weight of it all, sitting on his chest like something too large and too familiar to ignore.

He knew it wouldn’t be about admitting anything — there was no point anymore in telling you he liked you, that you made him feel every difficult, beautiful, complicated thing a person could feel. That part was obvious. It had bled through the spaces between you without needing to be named. But the rest of it — the consequences, the questions neither of you had the courage to ask yet — still blurred at the edges of his mind, a mess he wasn’t ready to sort through.

There was one thing, though, that he understood with perfect clarity: he didn’t regret any of it. Not a second. No matter how messy it could get.

It wasn’t as if this had happened out of nowhere. God knew he had thought about it — about you — for the last two weeks with a stubborn persistence that bordered on cruel. He buried himself in work, in meaningless tasks, anything to keep his hands busy, to keep his mind elsewhere. Hell, he even tried to quit smoking. But every night, without exception, you returned. You slipped into his mind at the edges of sleep, no matter how tightly he tried to close the door against you.

Sometimes the pull to reach out was unbearable. To call you. To show up at your door with takeout and ask you to put on one of those movies you were always talking about. He'd picture it sometimes — your bare feet on the coffee table, the way you’d laugh, the way you’d look at him when you weren’t trying to be careful. But every time, the same thought stopped him: maybe you didn’t want that. Maybe you needed space after what had been said between you.

And then there was Bill.

Frankie had known from the beginning what might happen. Santi had mentioned you were spending more time together for work. It seemed inevitable. A matter of days, maybe weeks, before something shifted between you and Bill in a way it hadn’t with him. It would be easier that way. Cleaner.

He should have let it happen.

But when Emma started listing all of Bill’s perfect qualities at the bar last night, something inside him recoiled. It was pathetic, the way he sat there, wanting to vanish into the cracked leather of his chair, knowing he couldn’t compete, knowing he shouldn’t even try. You deserved simple. You deserved someone who didn’t make everything harder.

Still, somehow, against every better instinct, he had stood up from the table. Some invisible thread tugging him, pulling him toward something he didn’t even understand yet. He didn’t wait for you to appear next to him, didn’t expect you to. And he certainly hadn’t prepared for what came next — for the look in your eyes, for the quiet, reckless thing in his own voice when he asked if you wanted to leave with him.

As if the choice had already been made. As if some part of him — some deep, stubborn part — had been choosing you all along anyway.

On the TV, Ross was grinning, his too-white teeth catching the studio lights.

Don’t fall asleep, Frankie thought, his mind sluggish. Stay awake.

He let his eyes close for just a second.

Just... a... second.

The sharp sound of the doorbell dragged him out of it. He blinked hard, his whole body protesting the movement, the heavy pull of sleep still thick in his limbs. You were draped across him, completely still, your breathing steady and soft against his chest.

He stretched one arm out toward the coffee table and fumbled for his phone. 1:45 p.m.

Shit.

You’d both been asleep for over an hour.

The doorbell rang again. Frankie shifted carefully, easing out from under you, doing his best not to wake you. You made a small sound but didn’t stir beyond that, your face slack with the kind of deep sleep that only comes when you stop fighting it.

Frankie padded toward the door, rubbing the heel of his hand over his face. His body felt too warm, too heavy, like he'd been underwater. He peeked through the narrow curtain hanging by the window.

His heart slammed hard against his ribs.

Santi was standing outside, looking right at him through the glass, raising his eyebrows like he was in on some joke Frankie didn’t know he was telling.

Frankie backed away from the door instinctively, putting more distance between himself and the window.

"Uh, just a minute," he called out, his voice cracking slightly.

Without thinking, he hurried back toward the sofa, panic crawling up his throat. He hoped — prayed — that from the porch Santi couldn’t see anything, couldn’t piece together what had just happened, what he was about to walk into.

He crouched beside you and pressed his hand lightly to your shoulder, whispering your name once, then again.

You didn’t wake.

"Shit," Frankie hissed under his breath, glancing nervously over his shoulder toward the door.

He touched you again, a little firmer this time. You stirred, blinking at him with a foggy, confused expression that made his heart twist.

"Santi’s here," he murmured urgently.

You sat up immediately, your whole body jolting into awareness.

"What?" you said, your voice still rough from sleep. Your hair was messy and dry now.

Frankie handed you your phone, practically shoving it into your hand. "Go to my room. Now."

Without waiting for more, you clutched the phone to your chest and disappeared down the hall, moving quicker than he'd ever seen you.

Frankie exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he made his way back to the door.

When he pulled it open, Santi didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped inside like he owned the place, brushing past Frankie without hesitation. Frankie shut the door behind him and trailed after him into the living room, feeling a strange mixture of guilt and dread collecting under his skin.

"You look good," Frankie said, trying to sound casual. His voice felt like it caught a little on the words. "I figured you'd still be nursing a hangover."

"It's all appearances," Santi said, waving a hand as he dropped heavily onto the sofa, his body landing with a thud. "Inside I'm dying."

Frankie let out a short laugh and slumped down next to him. "You're old."

Santi tilted his head back, laughing properly now, the sound low and easy. "You're not exactly a spring chicken either."

Frankie shook his head, smiling despite the tightness gathering in his chest. Santi clicked his tongue in mock disapproval.

"Anyway," Santi said, stretching his arms out in front of him, "I came by to see if I could borrow your mower."

"You’re telling me you dragged your hungover ass across town at nearly two in the afternoon for a lawn mower?"

Santi shrugged, completely unapologetic. "You said it yourself, man. I'm old. I like my lawn neat." He made a vague sweeping gesture with his hand. "And besides, you're the only one of us responsible enough to actually own a functional mower."

"What happened to yours?"

"Engine’s toast. It’s dead. Beyond saving."

Frankie nodded, letting the tension in his shoulders ease a little. "Yeah, no problem. You don’t have to ask."

Santi gave a quick nod of thanks, his eyes drifting lazily across the room. He went still after a second, his gaze catching on something, next to him.

Frankie followed his line of sight.

His stomach dropped.

Santi was looking at the bag — a deep red one with a little silver star keychain dangling from the clasp — sitting right there, between them, like a fucking silent confession Frankie hadn’t thought to hide.

Santi’s mouth twitched into a half-smile.

"Wait a second," he said, his voice light, teasing. "Are you... with someone right now?"

Frankie blinked, his brain stumbling over itself. "Huh?"

Santi nodded toward the bag. He didn't look suspicious, only amused, but that didn’t make Frankie feel any better.

"I, uh…" Frankie cleared his throat, searching for something neutral to say. "Yeah," he managed, aiming for casual. It could be anyone’s bag. It didn’t have to mean anything. Maybe Santi wouldn’t recognize it. God, he prayed Santi didn’t recognize it.

Santi grinned, slapping him lightly on the thigh as he pushed himself off the sofa.

"Man, you could’ve said so. And I'm here interrupting. No wonder you ghosted last night."

Frankie’s face burned hot. He scrambled up too, his hands finding his hips in a nervous, restless gesture. A laugh — shaky and a little too loud — broke from him.

"Come on," he said quickly, spinning toward the door like there was nothing unusual about any of this. "I’ll get you the mower."

Santi followed him out without another word, the two of them stepping into the afternoon sunlight. When Frankie handed over the mower, Santi just grinned at him, that same mischievous glint in his eyes, and winked before climbing into his truck.

He didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t have to.

Frankie stood there for a moment after the truck pulled away, the hum of the engine fading, feeling like his heart was still lodged somewhere between his chest and his throat.

You waited until you heard the front door shut and counted a few seconds, standing there barefoot in the stillness of his room. Then you stepped out.

In the living room, Frankie was slouched on the sofa like his body had folded in on itself. His head tilted back against the cushions, one arm thrown over his eyes like he couldn’t bear the light, or maybe the moment.

“Hey,” you said, your voice quieter than usual as your feet padded across the floor.

He didn’t respond right away. You sat in the armchair next to the sofa, knees angled slightly toward him.

“What happened?”

He exhaled. Slowly, he leaned forward, elbows braced on his thighs, hands clasped. His eyes found yours.

“What did you hear?” he asked.

You gave a small shrug. “Just that he came to get a mower. Then I couldn’t hear anything. You started whispering.” You paused, tilting your head. “Why? What was it?”

Frankie shook his head, one short motion, like he wanted to shake it all off. “He asked if I was with someone.”

You blinked. “And what did you say?”

“That I was.”

“Francisco—”

“He doesn’t know it was you,” Frankie interrupted, waving one hand loosely in the air. “He thinks it was someone from the bar.”

“You told him that?”

“No. He assumed. I just... didn’t correct him.”

“Oh.”

You folded your arms, your gaze drifting to the coffee table between you. There was a stain near the edge of it—maybe old coffee, something long dried. You stared at it for a moment like it might hold an answer.

When you looked back at him, his face had shifted—like something inside him had turned heavier. He wasn’t meeting your eyes anymore.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently. Your voice felt different coming out of you—quieter, less certain.

He pressed his lips together and nodded, but it wasn’t convincing.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just feel weird about lying to him. It’s not sitting right.” He looked at you then, really looked, his eyes scanning your face like he might find some relief there. “It doesn’t feel good.”

“I know,” you said softly. You leaned back in the chair, resting your hands on your thighs. Your fingers toyed with each other, knotting and unknotting in your lap. “It doesn’t feel great to me either.”

Frankie reached up, scratched the back of his neck. His mouth parted slightly like he wanted to speak, but nothing came out.

You let a few seconds pass. Then you said, “You know we’re not doing anything wrong, right?”

Your voice was quiet, but steady. He looked at you again.

“We’re adults, Frankie,” you continued. “And we’re not hurting anyone.”

“I know we’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, leaning back into the cushions like he was trying to make space between the two of you, physically if not emotionally. His hand swept through his hair, raking it back, then falling to his lap. “But still—he’s my best friend. I know him. And I’m telling you, without a doubt, he wouldn’t want me anywhere near you like this.”

You tilted your head, a crease forming between your brows. “Like what? He spent years trying to get us to be civil. I imagine he’s just relieved we finally figured out how to be in the same room without yelling.”

Frankie let out something like a laugh, but it didn’t land—more of a breath that twisted in his throat, the edge of a smile flashing and then fading before it could mean anything.

“Yeah,” he said. “He wanted us to get along. As in, be polite. Exchange basic human niceties without biting each other’s heads off. Not… this.” He gestured vaguely between you, not even bothering to name it. “Not sneaking around. Not ending up in each other's beds.”

You gave a short, thin smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Right. Because I forgot I was supposed to ask for his approval before sleeping with you.”

He groaned, your name low and exasperated in his mouth, dragging a hand over his face like he could rub the tension out of his skin.

“Come on,” he said, looking at you now. “I know you don’t agree with what I’m saying, but can you try—just try—to understand where I’m coming from?”

His hair was a mess now, sticking up in every direction. It made him look younger.

You didn’t answer right away. You let the silence open up between you, a long breath of distance, before responding.

“I do see,” you said finally, your tone clipped but not cruel. “Your best friend showed up at your house, and meanwhile his sister was hiding in your room after having sex with you. It’s awkward. I get that. Of course I get it.”

Frankie looked at you, then down, his gaze landing on your hands like they held something he couldn’t figure out. He inhaled again, deeper this time.

“But you think I’m making it into a bigger deal than it is,” he said. “You don’t think it really matters.”

“That’s not true,” you said quickly. You shook your head, almost defensive. “That’s not what I think.”

“Be honest with me.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes drifted to the far wall like you were trying to find a neutral place to anchor your thoughts. A few hours ago, everything had felt light. Easy, even. Now, it was as if someone had flipped a switch and nothing felt simple anymore.

“We’ve had this conversation. I do understand what you’re saying. But I think you keep framing it like something catastrophic has happened. What exactly did you do wrong? You were nice to me. You’ve been sweet with me. What’s so terrible about that? If I like it—and I do—what’s the harm in you liking me back?”

Frankie was quiet for a second, eyes still on you. Then, voice flat but not cold, he said, “Let’s just say you’re right. Even then—it wouldn’t matter. He still wouldn’t want someone like me getting involved with you.”

You blinked. Your expression shifted.

“Someone like you?” you asked, eyebrows lifted. “What’s that supposed to mean? What’s wrong with you?”

He looked at you for a long moment, his expression thoughtful but not entirely present, as if part of him had already begun pulling away. You could sense it—the quiet, almost imperceptible construction of a barrier between you. Not cruel. Just protective. Defensive.

“He knows me better than anyone,” Frankie said. “He’s seen the worst of it—every stupid thing I’ve done, every time I’ve blown something up that I cared about. He’s my brother. I know he loves me. But don’t think for a second that he wouldn’t want something better for you,” he added. “He knows what I’m still trying to fix. No matter how much he cares about me, don't fool yourself—he’d still want more for you.”

You let the silence stretch out for a beat.

“I think you’re confused,” you said calmly. “What makes you think he gets to decide what’s good for me? What I want, what I need—that’s not his call to make. That’s mine.”

Frankie exhaled and tried to respond, but you cut him off before he could get the words out.

“No,” you said. “And I don’t understand why you’re acting like this now, after last night? You let yourself feel something for five minutes and now one knock on your door and you're back to default mode.”

“It’s not like that. It isn’t.”

“It looks exactly like that,” you said. “You told me we should have boundaries. Then you kissed me and then you didn’t speak to me for two weeks. Two full weeks. You acted like you’d made peace with that decision, like you were fine with keeping your distance forever.”

He didn’t answer. 

“Why did you ask me to leave the bar with you last night?” You asked, voice louder.

“What?”

“Why, Francisco?”

He stared at you, his jaw set, confusion mingling with something harder.

“I wanted to be alone with you.”

“Why?”

He pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing at them like the motion might bring clarity.

“What do you mean why? Because I like being with you.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter now. “But you have my number. You know where I live. If you wanted to be with me, you could’ve shown up literally any other time. You waited until we were all sitting there, until we were surrounded by the people we’ve been hiding this from. You barely even looked at me the whole night. Like just being seen near me was risky. And then Bill comes up, and suddenly you stand, and next thing I know, you’re asking me to come with you.”

Frankie looked at you like he wanted to protest but didn’t know where to start.

“I...I don’t know,” he said, his voice caught somewhere between honesty and deflection. “It just happ—”

“Do you want to know what I think?” you interrupted, and your voice trembled near the end of the sentence. Frankie didn’t say anything. He just watched you, his eyes heavy with waiting. “I think the rules we agreed on, the distance you kept, felt perfectly reasonable to you. Until you thought there might be someone else.”

“That’s not true,” he said instantly, a little too quick.

“Yes, it is.”

“You don’t know wha—”

“Then tell me!” Your voice cracked, not from anger, but from something more fragile.

“I just... I'm sorry,” he said, his voice rising, cracking under the weight of it. “I just know that last night I needed to be near you. And I didn’t know how to stop that.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open, the words hitting you harder than you’d expected. There was a pause, one neither of you filled.

Then you said, “Yeah, well. That turned out to be one hell of a mistake, didn’t it?”

“It wasn’t a mistake for me,” he said, his voice clear and steady. His eyes didn’t move from yours. “Not for one second. I don’t regret it. Not last night. Not this morning. Not crossing that line with you.”

Something in your chest pulled tight. You blinked up at him, and the heat behind your eyes was instant, unforgiving. Tears clung to your lashes, not falling yet, just gathering, making everything shimmer.

“Then what are you doing?” you asked, your voice firm, but uneven at the end. “You’re constantly contradicting yourself. You say one thing, then act like none of it matters. You look like it’s killing you when Santiago comes up. But then you turn around and say you don’t regret any of it. So which is it? What are you going to do?”

“I just—” he exhaled hard, his posture faltering. “I don’t want to lose anyone.”

“You’re not going to lose him.”

He didn’t answer, not right away. His mouth opened and closed again. You could see the words catching behind his teeth, whatever truth he had trying to find a way out.

“And if you’re really this scared of Santi’s reaction,” you added, the edge still sharp in your voice, “then maybe you don’t know your best friend as well as you think you do.”

“I—”

“Or maybe this is just easier for you. Maybe it’s more comfortable to hide behind all this guilt and fear than to just say what you want. Because honestly, I don’t think you’ve thought about any of this without trying to put a label on it first.”

Frankie dropped his gaze, like he was following some invisible thread unraveling at your feet. The silence between you stretched, but it was not tense. When he looked back up, his eyes had softened.

He held out his hand, palm open, fingers curling slightly in a wordless invitation. You watched his hand for a moment, deciding. Then you placed yours in his, your fingers slipping between his like it was muscle memory.

He gave a gentle tug and you rose, knees brushing his. In one fluid, practiced motion—like he’d done it in a dream a hundred times—he drew you into his lap. His arm came around your waist, the other finding your wrist, thumb resting in the hollow there like he was memorizing your pulse.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words barely above a whisper. His gaze didn’t waver this time. “This… it’s new to me. And I keep stumbling through it. Especially when it comes to Santi. It messes with my head. Makes everything feel strange.”

“I’m not exactly in the right place for any of this either,” you said, your voice low but steady, even as your chest tightened. “Yeah, it’s over between me and Harry. Fully, completely. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for this.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “You think this is easy for me?”

“Then what do you want?” he asked. His voice was quieter now. “Do you even know what you want out of this?”

You looked at him, and your throat went dry. The question made your mind turn to static. You didn’t answer right away. There were too many things happening in your head at once, and none of them felt solid enough to touch. But something in you clicked toward honesty, maybe because it felt like anything else would be pointless.

“I don't. I’m just as scared as you are,” you said finally, your fingers touching his arm. “I don’t have it figured out. But I know I feel good when I’m with you. I feel safe. And I didn’t expect that. Not with you, of all people.” You gave a small, startled laugh, as if the truth of it surprised you even now. “You understand me in ways that... I don’t know. I didn’t see it coming.”

You inhaled deeply, searching for your next words.

“I don’t know if I can define what this is right now. It’s too soon for me to wrap it in a neat explanation. But I know I want to live whatever this is without pretending it’s not happening. Without tiptoeing around it. I just don’t know if you’re ready for that. And I... I can see how much this is weighing on you,” you said, your voice quieter now, as though afraid too much volume might crack something between you. “I don’t want to be the thing that adds more weight. I don’t want to be something you have to carry around like guilt.”

His response came fast, too fast, “You’re not. God, you’re not. You’re not making anything worse.”

“Maybe that’s what you want to believe but something about all this is getting to you. What happened didn’t feel wrong to me,” you said, almost in a whisper now. “Not for a second. But a few moments ago? The way you looked at me, like you were already trying to undo it in your mind... I hated that.”

Frankie nodded, the motion subtle, like he was still working through the shape of his thoughts. His gaze dropped to your lap, settling there. He stayed quiet for a few breaths, and you didn’t push him.

When he spoke again, his voice was low.

“That’s not how it happened in my head,” he said, eyes still not meeting yours. “I swear, it wasn’t— I don’t regret this. Not even a little. It wasn’t some heat-of-the-moment thing. I had time to think, to think about you. Two weeks, actually. And I used them.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, lopsided and understated, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to show it yet.

You felt something light bloom in your chest. “So you thought about me?”

He gave a short, almost embarrassed snort. “Just a little.”

That made you laugh, a warm sound that belonged entirely to this version of the two of you—this strange, unfolding thing neither of you had a name for yet. You leaned in, your hand finding the familiar line of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your palm. His skin was warm. You kissed him, your mouth brushing his like you’d done it a hundred times before, like it didn’t still terrify you a little. His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you in with a quiet urgency, like he needed to feel more of you, like just the kiss wasn’t enough.

You pulled back, just enough to look at him. His eyes were on you now. Alert.

“Don’t overthink it, okay?” you said, your voice softer now.

He nodded again, this time without hesitation, and kissed you once more—quick, grounding.

“We’re just pretending, after all,” you murmured against his mouth.

He smiled.

When you opened the door, Emma didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at you, really looked—her eyes dragging slowly over the length of you, from your shoes to the crown of your head. Her gaze lingered on your face for a beat too long before she finally spoke.

“No way,” she said, sitting up straighter on the couch, clutching Mr. Darcy to her chest like he might need to hear this too. Her expression flickered—shock first, then glee. “You look criminally guilty right now.”

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, ears burning. A giggle escaped your lips, light and uncontrolled, almost like someone else had let it out. Embarrassment was a warm thing in your throat.

You told her everything. Naturally. Or, well—almost everything. The version with soft edges and edited scenes. Not for lack of trying on her part; she asked pointed questions, raised her eyebrows, made dramatic gasping noises until you were both doubled over in laughter.

Her excitement was instantaneous. She got so animated that her own cheeks flushed, her hands moving as she repeated things back to you in disbelief. But when the laughing ebbed, when the story was laid out like puzzle pieces between you, she reached for your hand. You let her take it.

“But you know you can’t rush into this, right?” she said, quieter now, as if saying it too loudly would tip everything over.

“I know,” you replied, your voice softer too. You leaned back into the couch. “We talked about it, in the car. It was—god, it was a whole conversation. I told him I didn’t want this to spin out before we even knew what it was. I said I’d write him sometime this week.”

Emma didn’t even blink. “Right. You’re going to write him tonight.”

You laughed immediately, half out of horror, half out of recognition.

“I’m not!”

She gave you a look, all sharp humor and affection, her lips pulling into a knowing smile.

“Yes, you are. You’ll pretend it’s casual. Something cute. Like a question about flight times or—what, turbulence? You’ll make it sound logistical.”

“I’m not that transparent,” you said, nudging her with your shoulder. “Besides, I saw him this morning. I’m trying to be chill. I’m maintaining mystery.”

Emma snorted. “Babe, any mystery you had died sometime between last night and sunrise. Pretty sure there’s no going back after someone’s seen you naked and sweaty and probably begg—”

“Oh my God, Emma.”You groaned, burying your face in your hands. 

When you finally uncovered your face, you looked at her—still flushed, still warm, but smiling now.

“I’m not calling him. I’m not writing him,” you said. “We agreed to talk later in the week.”

Emma raised an eyebrow, eyes glittering with mischief. “Which means you’ll call him tomorrow. Monday. A whole new week.”

You stared at the ceiling. “I won't!”

You didn’t. You didn’t need to. Because the next morning, while shelving a stack of biographies alphabetically—something that should have been soothing, or at least numbing—your phone vibrated in your pocket.

You wanted to believe you could’ve waited. That you could’ve finished straightening the line of uneven spines, wiped the thin film of dust from a few neglected covers, completed the task like a well-adjusted adult. But you didn’t. Not even close.

You fished your phone out of your jeans in a practiced, clumsy movement, nearly knocking over a memoir about mountaineering. The screen lit up in your hand. A message. Of course it was from him.

A photo.

Frankie.

It was a selfie, taken from a slightly awkward angle, like he’d held the phone low, somewhere near his chest. He was wearing those dark aviator sunglasses you’d teased him about once, and a pair of heavy headphones—the kind with the padded ear cups and the mic curving toward his mouth, like he was narrating something important from the sky. Behind him, the cockpit of a small plane blurred into view—wires and dials and sky outside the glass. His expression was technically serious, but you could see it, just at the edge of his mouth: that crooked thing he did when he was trying not to smile.

His hair was a mess. It looked soft, too, falling in uneven tufts over his forehead like he’d run a hand through it and then forgotten to fix it. Below the image was a single line of text:

Think about adding ‘flying lesson’ to your bucket list.

You smiled. Not thoughtfully, not hesitantly—your face just did it, all at once, without asking permission. The kind of smile you feel in your ribs. It was stupid how easy it was.

You typed back:

[You]: I will. Let me know if you know anyone good at it <3

[You]: Are you working right now?

You slipped the phone back into your pocket, or tried to. It buzzed again before your hand left the fabric.

[Francisco]: I know a guy

[Francisco]: And I’m not texting while flying, if that’s what you’re asking.

You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened a little anyway.

[You]: Okay. Let me think about it.

Read.

You stood still for a moment in the middle of the aisle, the dusty silence of the bookstore briefly folding in around you like a blanket. Then another buzz.

Typing…

Typing…

[Francisco]: Do you have anything to do tonight?

That afternoon, after locking up the bookstore and folding the security gate down with both hands, you walked three blocks to the supermarket and wandered through the aisles like someone with all the time in the world. You bought candy. Frankie had once mentioned, offhandedly and with a shrug, that he liked gumdrops and chocolate-covered peanuts. So you found both, holding the bags in your hands for a beat longer than necessary. 

Later, sometime just after eight, he showed up at your door holding a greasy paper bag that smelled like heaven. Burgers, fries, something carbonated in two cups with plastic lids and too much ice. He grinned when you opened the door and held up the food like an offering. 

You ate at the kitchen table, your knees bumping occasionally under the wood. No music, just the soft ambient sound of the refrigerator humming in the background, and Frankie making you laugh. He told stories about his coworkers, about mishaps during training sessions, the absurd things people said on radio calls, or when one of them once dropped a walkie-talkie in a porta potty and tried to fish it out with a wire hanger. And you found yourself leaning forward with your chin in your hand, smiling like someone on a first date. But this wasn’t a date. This was Frankie.

After dinner, the two of you migrated to the couch without really discussing it. The overhead lights were off, the living room soaked in the amber hue of the table lamp. He picked the movie—Christine, some weird eighties horror about a car that could think for itself and kill people. You rested your head on a pillow at one end of the couch and stretched your legs across his lap, trying to act casual about it. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you caught him resting his hand lightly on your ankle at one point, his thumb tracing a mindless shape there.

By the time the credits rolled, your mind had moved away from the film entirely. You could feel your heart beating in your throat. The idea had crept in during the last twenty minutes—quiet at first, then louder: Should I ask him to stay?

It was ridiculous, maybe. Or maybe not. You’d slept at his place once... Yeah, you did. He’d crashed at yours, too, drunk after a wedding. But both times had been circumstantial, convenient, semi-justified by context. This would be different. This would be you asking for something. You inviting him in, not out of necessity but because you wanted him there. With you.

“I should get going,” he said, cutting into your thoughts with the calm certainty of someone who hadn’t just thrown your internal world into chaos. He stretched his arms over his head, the hem of his T-shirt lifting just enough for your eyes to catch skin. He turned to look at you, his smile soft, almost apologetic.

“Already?” you said, glancing at your phone. 10:23 p.m. You looked back at him, not quite hiding your disappointment.

“Yeah,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “But I had a really good time.” He reached for your chin, touching it gently, his thumb brushing your skin. “I’ve got an early morning.”

“Oh,” you said, quieter than intended.

For a second, it felt like he was going to kiss you. The way his body turned toward you, the quiet tension in the air between you—it was almost unmistakable. But then he looked away, instead fixing his gaze on Mr. Darcy, who was perched sleepily on the armchair like he was the one responsible for chaperoning the evening.

A few minutes later, you were walking him downstairs. You opened the front door and he stood on the threshold, one hand braced casually against the frame, his eyes soft in the dim porch light. You thought he might say something else, but instead, he just looked at you for a long second, and then—

He kissed you.

His hand came up to cradle your face, warm and certain. His lips were soft, unhurried, the kiss full of something quieter than urgency but no less intense. You reached up, your fingers brushing the back of his neck, and he leaned into you—deeper, steadier. One of your hands found his chest, the other resting lightly against the fabric of his jacket. His hand was at your waist now, grounding you.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes met yours—deep brown, coffee, the kind of color that turned darker at night, pupils wide in the dim light. You could feel your own breath catching.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping back a little, as if needing more room to explain. “Oh, I won’t be around this weekend. We’re going to Boston—me, my mom, and Mai. Going to see Luna. Henry’s not feeling great. He’s been having a rough time, I think.”

“Oh no, what happened?”

“They’re not exactly sure. Or maybe they are and Luna’s just not telling us everything yet. It’s all kind of recent.” His gaze shifted off to the side, then came back to settle on you again. “She’s the oldest. She gets this way sometimes. Like it’s all on her to manage. Doesn’t always let us in.”

You nodded. “That must be hard. Being far away.”

“It is,” he said quietly. “I wish we were closer. I’ve been wanting to spend more time with Jamie too. At first, the trip felt like it might be... intruding? Like we’d be in the way. But then my mom said Luna actually asked us to come. And I dunno, something about that made me want to go even more.”

“When do you leave?”

“Friday morning.” He nodded once, almost to himself, then glanced at you again, studying your face like it calmed him somehow. “I was thinking—when I get back, we could pick up where we left off with your list.”

You smiled. “I’d love that. Which item?”

“That’s up to you. What do you feel like doing?”

You tilted your head, squinting slightly like you were concentrating very hard. Frankie laughed.

“All right,” he said. “You can tell me when I’m back.” His smile lingered as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “You’ve got time to think it over. Or add something new.”

“I will,” you said, grinning now.

He started walking backward toward his car. “But I’ll see you before I go, right?”

You leaned against the doorframe. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

“You can’t shake me off that easily anymore.”

You laughed. “Good.”

The week passed quietly, the days folded in on themselves—work, errands, evenings spent helping Bill—and you didn’t really register their passing. Everything felt muted, like background music playing at low volume. You were content to let it be that way.

On Tuesday, Bill showed up at the bookstore just before your lunch break, holding a cappuccino in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.

“Coconut cake,” he said, placing it carefully beside your laptop. “Thought maybe you’d want to come to dinner tonight. Julie’s been asking.”

You said yes before really thinking about it. 

He lived just ten minutes from the you, in a two-story house that looked like it had been loved for a long time. The porch light blinked once when you rang the bell, then glowed steady, casting a soft yellow halo over the front steps. Inside, the floors creaked under your feet in a way that felt more like a welcome than a warning. The rooms were layered in warm colors—muted greens, soft terracottas—and every surface had their touch: a worn mug left on a windowsill, stacks of books arranged without order, a half-burned candle that still smelled faintly of pine. A dog named Arthur, the size of a small bear, greeted you with the enthusiasm of someone who truly believed you’d come just to see him.

Julie took your hand and tugged you through the house, her voice spilling out in quick, enthusiastic bursts. She showed you Bill's room, then her's—pausing reverently by a shelf of books to point out her favorites. Meanwhile, Bill moved around the kitchen, tossing garlic into a pan, stirring something thick and fragrant. He poured you wine without asking. The food was really good. Not just passable or “dad good.” Actual, proper, you’d-pay-money-for-this good.

The night stretched on without effort. You laughed, a lot. And the more time you spent with Bill, the more clearly you saw what people loved about him. He was kind in a way that felt active. Intentional. He listened when you spoke, remembered things you’d only said once. He was an excellent father—that part was undeniable—and probably an even better friend. Whatever Emma or Santi thought they saw, you didn’t feel it. There was no subtext in his glances, no lingering pauses or suggestive remarks. If he harbored some quiet affection for you, it wasn’t the kind that asked to be noticed.

You asked yourself if maybe you were missing something. If you were brushing past a nuance you ought to catch. But no. You were a good reader of people—better than most. You’d known when others were pretending not to want things. Bill didn’t strike you that way. He simply liked having you around. And you liked being around him.

On Wednesday, Frankie texted you mid-morning: Dinner tonight? I’ll pick you up.

He picked you up at eight, punctual. He asked what you felt like eating, and you told him to choose. You meant it, too—you didn’t want to make decisions that night. You wanted to see what he thought you’d like.

He drove you to a grill, the kind of place you wouldn’t have looked at on your own. Inside, it smelled like smoke and rosemary and something vaguely citrus. The lights were and made everything feel slightly warmer. It was, really good. The food was better. He ordered for both of you after checking if that was okay. You said yes before he could list the options.

You spent nearly two hours there, not in a hurry, not really aware of the time at all. People who worked there knew him—not just nods of recognition, but real, easy conversation, the kind you only fall into when someone has been showing up for years. You liked watching that version of him: at ease, occasionally distracted by someone calling his name. You liked seeing what the world looked like when he was inside it.

When you left, the air was colder than you remembered. You pulled your sleeves over your hands as you walked to the car.

In the driver’s seat, he turned toward you but didn’t start the engine.

“You wanna come to my place?”

You looked at him. His voice had wavered just slightly when he said it.

He added, “To spend the night, if you want.” Then glanced away, and back again. “No pun intended.”

You laughed, because he looked genuinely unsure for a second.

You didn’t mind, either way. If he had a motive, you weren’t in the mood to dissect it. You might’ve had one too.

“That sounds good,” you said. “But I should swing by my place first, grab a few things. That okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with a little smile, already reaching for the gearshift.

When you got back to your apartment, he walked in behind you. He stayed by the couch, crouched beside Mr. Darcy, who purred so loudly it almost sounded fake. Frankie scratched behind his ears and didn’t rush you. He just stayed there, one hand still on the cat’s head, while you tucked a few things into your bag and closed the windows for the night. Before leaving, he pressed a soft kiss into Mr. Darcy’s fur and whispered something you didn’t quite catch.

At his place, you ended up on the sofa with a movie playing—something neither of you really paid attention to. Your legs brushed a few times, but nothing happened. Eventually, your eyes began to flutter closed, and Frankie noticed before you did.

“Want to go to bed?” he asked, like it was a real question.

You nodded.

But once you lay beside him, the sleep slipped out of reach. Your mind went suddenly alert, wide open. The awareness of his presence just inches away took up all the space. Not in a tense way, but in a heightened one. You stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, barely breathing.

Just a week ago, you weren’t even speaking to him. You’d wondered what he was thinking, where he went when he disappeared into himself, and whether any of it had anything to do with you. The space between you had felt like something structural, something permanent.

Now you were lying next to him, your body relaxed, as if this had always been a possibility. As if there hadn’t been days—weeks—of restraint and awkwardness and keeping track of how long it had been since you last made eye contact. Somehow, without really noticing it, you’d stepped past all of that. And this? This felt absurdly easy.

And it wasn’t like anything outrageous had happened. He’d invited you to stay over, and maybe something more would happen, but even so—it didn’t feel dangerous. It felt like something between a joke and a dare, playful, not overwhelming. There was nothing unraveling inside you. You weren’t spiraling. And it was... nice.

He shifted beside you on the pillow, turning just enough to catch your expression.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Frankie asked, his voice dipped in amusement. “You’ve got those eyes. Crazy eyes.”

You blinked. “What? I do not.”

“You do,” he said, grinning now. 

You laughed, moving toward him instinctively, resting your cheek against his chest. You angled your head to look up at him, your chin pressing into the fabric of his T-shirt. His hand found the small of your back, easy and grounding.

“Call me crazy again and see what happens,” you said, lifting an eyebrow.

He widened his eyes in mock fear. “Oh no. What are you gonna do, eat me?”

“Worse.”

“I’d honestly like to see that.”

You kissed him. Just a brief press of your lips at first but it didn’t stay that way. Your tongue teased the inside of his lip, and he let out a low sound that vibrated under your cheek. His hand tightened on your waist, then slid lower, anchoring you to him. You lifted your leg over his hip, instinctive and teasing. His breath caught, and when you reached down between you, pressing over the fabric of his clothes, he hardened against your palm with a quiet, involuntary groan.

You smiled against his mouth.

Then, without warning, you pulled away. Your leg slid off him. Your hand retreated. You rolled onto your side and adjusted your head on the pillow, your back now facing him.

“Good night,” you said lightly, amused by your own cruelty. You smiled into the darkness, knowing full well he couldn’t see it.

He didn’t respond right away. You could feel his hesitation, feel the shape of his attention still focused entirely on you. The heat of it.

A few seconds passed.

“Okay,” he said finally, voice lower now, like he’d sunk into the mattress. “Good night.”

You heard the faint rustle of the sheets as he turned behind you. And then everything went still. Except your heart, which hadn’t quite settled yet.

Ten seconds went by. Nothing.

Another ten. Still nothing.

You stayed where you were, wrapped in the kind of silence that starts to feel personal. You didn’t say anything. Not yet. You wanted to see if he would break first. He didn’t.

Finally, you shifted, sitting up.

“Mhm. Sorry—it’s kind of warm in here,” you said lightly, like the heat had crept up on you. “Do you mind?”

Frankie turned just enough to glance at you over his shoulder.

“I can turn up the AC. Or grab the fan?”

You shook your head, smiling, already tugging at the toes of your socks. “I’m good.”

You peeled them off, one by one, and tossed them beside the bed. Then your fingers found the waistband of your pajama shorts. Without hesitation, you slid them off and flung them toward the far side of the bed—his side. You didn’t look to see where they landed.

Lying back, you stared up at the ceiling. He hadn’t moved. His back was still to you. Either he was very committed to pretending not to notice, or this was his idea of restraint. You watched the curve of his neck for a moment, the edge of his jaw. You let a smile creep onto your lips.

Then you took the hem of your T-shirt in both hands and pulled it upward, lifting your hips to free it from under you. As it passed over your head, you felt a light breeze—barely there—touch the new skin exposed to the room. You balled the shirt loosely in your hand and tossed it, purposefully, to land just in front of him.

Still nothing.

You sighed like you meant it, settling again on your side, back turned to him, your eyes falling shut with calm.

A few seconds passed. The mattress shifted behind you.

Then you felt it—his hand, warm and cautious, settling lightly on your waist, fingertips barely skimming your skin. His chest hovered just out of reach.

His voice landed beside your ear. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

You shrugged, eyes still closed. Said nothing. Made no effort to face him.

And then—without warning—he yanked you toward him with a single, fluid pull, his hand firm at your stomach, his body suddenly pressed against yours. You gasped, surprised, and then let out a laugh that broke in the middle.

He was laughing too, quietly, into your neck. His hand moved up, steady, his palm resting just under your breast, his thumb brushing the curve of it like it was an accident.

His mouth found your shoulder. He bit you gently, just enough to make you squirm. Then he kissed the spot, soft and maddening.

“Would you look at that,” he murmured. “You’re ticklish.”

His voice vibrated against your skin.

You twisted a little in his grip, breath hitching.

“Not fair,” you said, your voice muffled.

He grinned into your shoulder. “I’m not trying to be.”

You reached back without thinking, your fingers threading through his hair, guiding him closer. Your head tilted, cheek brushing his as you glanced over your shoulder. It was dark, not pitch black, but muted—just enough moonlight slipping through the window to see his face. His eyes were the clearest thing about him, steady and unblinking, watching you.

Then his hand moved. First, it skimmed across the softness of your stomach, his fingertips tracing lazy shapes on your skin, like he was getting reacquainted with it. You felt his breath at your shoulder before his mouth found it, his lips moving upward along your neck, mapping the curve of your jaw before finally reaching your mouth.

The kiss was patient, unpressured.

He slipped one arm beneath you, anchoring himself to your ribs, pulling you closer so your back rested snug against his chest. The press of his body made something flutter low in your belly.

And then his other hand dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, fingers parting you gently, brushing between your folds. You breathed against his mouth, the sound fragile, instinctive. He circled your clit with the same quiet focus, like he wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere, just happy to be here. The sensation bloomed across your body, sharp and tender. You arched against him, seeking more, feeling the firmness of him pressing against the curve of your ass.

Your breath caught in your throat as his fingers continued, moving in tight, even circles. Every nerve in your skin lit up, your nipples tightening in the cool air, your body reacting in ways you didn’t have to think about. Frankie exhaled behind you, uneven, his hips shifting closer. He pressed himself against you like it was involuntary, like he couldn’t help it. You pushed back into him, greedy for the friction.

Then, with a low sound in your ear, he guided one finger inside you.

You gasped, your hand tightening in his hair.

“This from the tickling?” he murmured, amused, voice rough and almost hoarse, as if speaking cost him something.

You let out a quiet laugh, tipping your head back toward him, guiding his mouth to yours again. His kiss was messier now, more open, his tongue coaxing yours as he slid a second finger inside you. He moved them with precision, pressing into the spot that made you keen softly, his palm catching against the base of your clit with every stroke.

The pressure built in waves, your hips moving in small, instinctive motions, trying to follow the rhythm he gave you. He was fully hard now, pressed flush against you, and your whole body was humming, breath shaky.

Then, without warning, he withdrew his hand.

Your mouth parted, confused—but he didn’t leave you hanging long. He kissed you again, soft and sweet and then just a little smug.

“Open,” he said, his voice low and sure.

You obeyed.

He slipped his fingers into your mouth, and your tongue met them willingly, curling around the taste of yourself, tasting the salt and heat of what he’d done to you. He watched you, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. You didn’t look away.

He liked the way you looked right then. And you liked that he did.

When he pulled his fingers from your mouth, he brought them to his own without thinking, like tasting you was a kind of instinct he couldn’t resist. Just a second—then he was reaching for the drawer beside the bed, fingers brushing quietly through whatever else was inside before he found what he needed. He set the condom on the table, its presence casual but charged—he bought more, you thought—and began undressing with a calmness that made you ache.

You slipped your panties down your legs, kicking them to the floor before lying back into the same position, your cheek resting against the pillow, the sheets cool under your skin.

You heard the sound of the foil tearing behind you and then the mattress shifting under his weight as he came back to you. You rolled slightly onto your side to meet him, propping yourself up on your elbow. Frankie didn’t say anything. He just looked at you for a second like he was grounding himself, then slid his arm beneath you and drew you close, the contact warm and comforting.

His other hand moved your neck, fingers settling gently at the base of your skull, thumb grazing your throat. He kissed you in little fragments—several short, breathless kisses that weren't feel hurried.

You could feel him nudging at your entrance, his body flush against your back. You ran your hand across his arm, your palm pressed over the muscle of his forearm, and held on as he began to push inside you.

It was different this time. Not rough, not wild—just something else entirely. Every thrust was measured, grounded, like he was trying to feel everything, like he didn’t want to miss a single second of you. And for some reason, that made it hit deeper. It wasn’t just physical—it was intimate in a way that made your chest tight.

He moved into you with precision, hips meeting yours again and again, his pace unshifting but strong, the repetition making your whole body throb. You closed your eyes. Let your head fall forward. You could feel your pulse between your legs, in your throat, in the tips of your fingers.

His mouth found your shoulder, then your back, kissing a line down your spine in between thrusts. When he bit gently at the skin just below your neck, you let out a sound you hadn’t meant to make. He kissed the spot in apology or affection—you weren’t sure which.

There was no chaos in this. No rush. Nothing pulling you away. It felt like the only thing in the world was his body against yours, his hand holding your waist.

You breathed in deeply, not to calm yourself but to hold the moment a little longer.

Because for the first time in a long time, you felt entirely unguarded—like being touched by him was not something you needed to analyze or defend against. It was just good. Good in the kind of way that didn’t demand anything else from you.

You pressed your hips back against him, and he let out a soft, fractured breath near your ear. And everything inside you felt like it was finally allowed to let go.

The week slipped in quietly.

Frankie left early Friday morning. He sent you a picture from the plane—a blurry shot of the wing against an overcast sky, a coffee cup in the frame. He didn’t write much with it, just a short caption and a little airplane emoji. Still, it made you smile. 

You spent the weekend indoors, your body still weighted by a lingering cold that made everything feel just slightly out of reach. Reading gave you a headache, so you let yourself drift between reruns of half-forgotten reality shows and movies you’d seen a dozen times. You dozed through some, watched others with a kind of passive affection. You stayed in pajamas longer than you meant to. You ate soup from a mug. It was quiet. Not unhappy, but not particularly anything.

On Sunday afternoon, Frankie texted to say he was staying in Boston for a couple more days. He didn’t elaborate. You asked about Henry, and he replied that he was doing fine. Just that. It wasn’t that you expected more, exactly—it was just that something inside you had already started picturing his return. You didn’t realize how much you’d been counting on that until it slipped a little further out of reach.

On Monday, you stopped by Bill’s to pick up a coffee. The light outside the window was pale and wintry, even though it was barely autumn. You closed the bookstore early—not because you had to, but because your head was still pounding slightly and your limbs felt heavy. You told yourself it was just residual exhaustion. Nothing serious.

When you got home, Mr. Darcy greeted you with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t seen you in weeks. He hopped onto the couch and pressed himself against your leg like a loyal, if slightly overzealous, nurse. His version of affection included a surprising number of claws. At one point, he kneaded your arm so hard you winced, but you didn’t push him away. You just scratched behind his ears and told him he was forgiven.

Santi came by on Wednesday, despite the message you'd sent that morning insisting you felt fine. He showed up mid-afternoon with a brown paper bag in one hand, a crumpled plastic bag of medicine in the other, and a look that said arguing would be pointless.

“I’m staying for a few hours,” he said simply, stepping past you into the house. “Just enough to take care of you. Like the excellent big brother I am.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled anyway.

You curled up together on the couch, a shared blanket over both your legs, and watched reruns of That '70s Show. At one point, your head tilted against his shoulder, and you stayed that way for a while, letting your eyes trace the patterns in the ceiling or the soft flicker of the TV screen.

But then his breathing changed and when you glanced up, you found him dozing. His chin tucked slightly toward his chest, his arms crossed loosely over his stomach like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all.

You smiled. Gently, you shifted away from him, pressing your fingertips against his arm as you moved.

His eyes flew open, confused and almost startled. He blinked at you, disoriented.

“You fell asleep,” you whispered, amused. “That’s all.”

He sat up straighter, rubbing his face and stretching out with a groan.

“Ah. Sorry. This couch does things to me.”

You stood, gathering the empty mugs from the coffee table.

“You can stay if you want,” you offered, already halfway to the kitchen.

“Thanks, but I should probably head out. Yov’s waiting for me.”

You nodded, catching the way his posture changedas he prepared to leave. He moved slowly down the hallway, announcing casually, “I need to pee.”

You stayed in the kitchen a while longer, rinsing out the mugs and placing them neatly on the drying rack. Mr. Darcy was weaving around your legs in tight little figure-eights, purring.

Santi reappeared beside you, looking a little less tired. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded. “I feel better.” You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him. “I told you, I wasn’t even that sick.”

He crossed his arms, leaning against the fridge.

“You say that every time. You always downplay it. You act like it’s wrong to admit when your body needs rest.”

“No, Santiago,” you said, drying your hands and heading back toward the living room. “You men just dramatize everything. I still remember that time you had the flu and acted like the world was ending.”

“Because I was dying,” he called after you.

“You had a fever,” you shot back. “Not the plague.”

“I felt really bad,” he muttered behind you, the faint sound of his steps following yours to the door. “And for the record, the flu can be deadly.”

You paused, turning back just enough to shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“Yes, I know,” you said. “But you still exaggerate.”

Santi let out a short, unbothered laugh as he picked up his keys from the ceramic bowl in the foyer. And you stepped toward the coat rack and reached for his jacket, a puffy black thing he insisted on wearing regardless of the actual temperature. You handed it to him wordlessly.

He raised an eyebrow but took it from your hand anyway, his smile softening. You opened the door and stepped halfway out, but he didn’t follow. When you looked back, you saw he was still in the doorway, not moving, eyes fixed on something next to him.

You stepped closer to him again. He didn’t speak, just lifted his hand slowly, pointing toward the coat rack. You turned, following the direction of his gesture.

Your bag. You’d hung it there last night without thinking, and the little keychain attached to the clasp, the silver star with a tiny scratch on one side.

Santi reached out and touched it with the tip of his index finger. 

“Nice bag,” he said, low.

“Uh, thanks,” you said, softly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. He didn't.

Then, he gave your arm a gentle squeeze as he stepped past you, finally heading out.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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[willoryn]

If you think Lucifer isn't the greediest man in the world when it comes to you, just remember that he can clone himself to feel as much if you as possible all at once.

Shout out to @heart-of-the-morningstar and @damsel-loves-machines (I hope it's alright to tag!) for inspiring this xjcncn I have been infected with the Luci clone brainworms.

Fem!reader x Lucifer, multiple partners, double vaginal penetration, nipple play

You didn't know just how much you thought you could take. But as it turns out, it was quite a bit.

You were laid back on the bed. Two of Lucifer's clones were latched onto each of your breasts, their forked tongues flicking and circling your sensitive nipples. And between your legs was your Lucifer. The man himself getting to do the honors of fucking you senseless.

You cried out his name as the feeling of his cock ramming in and out of you, over and over, combined with the sensation of your nipples being so lovingly worshipped made your head spin.

But it was only the tip of the iceberg. Lucifer needed more. So much more.

"Sweetheart..." His raspy voice dripping with desperation. "M-More... I need to feel more of you... please?"

You nod, ready for anything he had in store for you. And oh, did he have something~

A fourth Lucifer appears behind you and your Lucifer stops for just a moment, just long enough for the fourth Lucifer to lift you up and slide beneath you. You now lay back against his chest.

You were going to question what was happening, until you felt the fourth Lucifer press his tip to your already filled entrance. You look up at your Lucifer, your heart pounding with anticipation. You knew what he was asking... and you'd be lying if you said you weren't excited~

"Is this okay?" He asks, searching your eyes for any sign of doubt.

You nod almost as soon as the question leaves his lips.

Tentatively, the fourth Lucifer pushes his cock into your already occupied pussy, stretching you in a way you thought would be more painful. But the sting quickly subsided when they began to move.

And then you saw stars.

The alternating thrusts of their cocks moving in and out of you, one after the other, left you delirious with pleasure. Unable to even take a single breath. All you knew to do was just stare at Lucifer, slack-jawed and in disbelief that a man, no, the very devil himself could bring you such euphoric pleasure. God, you wished you could see the way you looked right now. Stuffed full by two of your lovers... completely at their mercy as they pump in and out of your cunt, so greedy to fill you that they can't even wait their own turns.

"Fuck-! Oh my god~!" Your Lucifer moaned. Getting to feel your pussy around his cock twice, and with the added pressure of another member being inside you making it even tighter for him... it was overwhelming to say the least. He knew he wasn't going to last much longer. "C-Cumming-! I-I'm gonna cum~!"

He must have been speaking for the fourth Lucifer. Because you felt the one behind you start slowing his thrusts and his cock swelled a bit inside you before cumming, making your pussy slick with his hot seed. When he pulled out, you almost bit your lip in disappointment at the loss. You quite enjoyed being filled to capacity by your loves.

But there was still your Lucifer to attend to.

The fourth Lucifer grabbed your hips and held you in place as your Lucifer's hips moved like pistons. His cock slamming hard into you, made all the more easy and slick by the fourth Lucifer's cum that was now being pumped out of you by your Lucifer, who was aiming to fill you with a second load.

"So good... so good~!" Lucifer growls. "Gonna cum again-! f-fuck~! CUMMING~"

You join Lucifer in his orgasm. Your own body tightening around his as he fills you again. Lucifer's lips crash into yours in a messy kiss. As you two catch your breath together, the two Lucifer's tending to your breasts disappear. The fourth one gently lays you back down against the mattress and kisses your sweaty forehead before disappearing as well.

"That wasn't too much, was it?" Lucifer asks you softly, pulling you into his arms.

"No," you sigh against his chest. "It was perfect..."

You go to sleep in Lucifer's arms that night feeling so full and satisfied.

[violenteconomics]

I am in dire need of more of that AU that The First years get The upperclassmen toxic traits,i realy want more of It,like;

A way to include octavinelle and scarabia,maybe like,3 First years(Ace,deuce,Jack) get some of azul's toxic traits,other Three(epel,ortho and sebek) get Jamil toxic traits and yuu get both

Second thing

More reactings please,i NEED The staff,ALL The dorms and even the relatives seeing The First years developing those toxic traits,the overblots+Trey and cater for deuce getting their toxic traits right back at their face i beg you🙏🙏

anything 4 u, baby.

(but for real, though, this is an AMAZING idea, love you so much for tilling the ground for my brainwormies, mwah mwah 😘)

(also, this might get REALLY long, so hang tight!)

it was just a seed at first — a tiny idea that stuck around despite the first-years not even realizing it was there. but as the poison from their actual housewardens starts to develop into something truly deadly, so does that seed. it shows up later... but it makes itself known nevertheless.

ace, deuce, and jack have all worked for azul at the mostro lounge at one point, and though it was a very brief moment in time, it was just long enough to worm its way into their heads.

it starts with ace trappola, who's already pretty slippery with his words. but working at the mostro lounge, taking subconscious note of all the underhanded deals azul is making, he starts to pick up new... skills, let's say.

it starts small, with ace starting to give out certain favors to his fellow freshmen to earn some money. if you give him ten thaumarks, he'll do one of your everyday chores for you — dusting your room, cleaning your bathroom, making dinner, what have you. if you give him fifteen thaumarks, he'll do your homework if you don't feel like doing it, or take class notes for you if you don't feel like showing up. if you give him forty, he'll help you with something less-than-moral and definitely against the rules (he did it once back at the atlantica memorial museum — he can do it again).

there's an obvious power imbalance in all of these scenarios, but ace effortlessly words in a way that makes it seem like it's a win-win situation, when in reality, it's more like a zero-sum game.

it gets to the point where ace builds a black-market sort of reputation, and all of the freshmen know that if you need something done, ace is the person to go to.

...but then, something shifts.

at some point, ace starts a black-mailing campaign for the people who paid for the forty-thaumark favor. if you don't want your secret — one that might get you expelled, suspended, or worse — getting out, then you can pay for ace's silence with a favor or more money.

the worst part is: there's no way out. if you try attacking ace, it'll seem like you assaulted him for no reason, since if you try to explain he was blackmailing you, you'll have to tell them what he was blackmailing you with, which you obviously can't do — or else what was even the point? the same rule applies if you try tattling on him to one of the teachers or the housewardens or anybody else. and ace is a better liar than most people will ever be in their lifetime, so it's a losing battle even if you do manage to get someone to take your side.

so if you want to cross the bridge, my sweet, you've got to pay the toll.

(it's not even about the money anymore, really. riddle's thirst for control and azul's desire for recognition have clashed inside of ace in the most violent way, and now, it's all about the power it gives him over other people. and after how powerless he's felt this entire school year, being thrown left and right by overblot after overblot with no say at all, this is a power trip he never wants to come back down from.)

but ace realizes he's making quite a few enemies with his little money-making strategy, and he needs someone to help him just in case someone does come up with a plan to wipe him out. i mean, just look at azul — even with all of the loopholes and leverages in the world, even he was taken down eventually without outside help. if he wants this to last as long as possible, he needs... incentive for people to listen to him.

his own jade and floyd.

his own red-and-black collar.

using his riddle rosehearts-born dominance, and taking advantage of deuce's trey-and-cater-born passiveness, ace convinces deuce spade — one of the strongest people he knows — to help him in his economic ventures.

and deuce, seeing this as a way for ace to vent some frustration and unwilling to be on the other end of ace's ire, hesitantly agrees.

he doesn't piece together that ace is acting suspiciously like azul, but he still recognizes his own role in this whole scheme. ace is running a business, right? and deuce has only ever worked in one business before. he remembers what jade and floyd were like back when he worked under them, and so he uses that experience to inform his new position.

deuce becomes known as ace's right-hand man. he'll hunt you down if you don't pay, and he's not afraid to use force to "compel" you to. there have been stories about cat beastmen getting thrown up into trees and being left there for hours. about students getting forks "accidentally" thrown at them in the cafeteria with such precision, it doesn't really feel like an accident. about a student with a spade on his face who can throw back any attack sent his way with just as much force.

and there's nothing you can do about it, because he's in service to someone who has made himself pretty powerful. ace's silver-tongue gets deuce out of any and all trouble he inevitably finds himself in — and is ace is so brutally honest, why wouldn't people believe him? so even if you try to do something to deuce, ace has his back no matter what — and he'll win almost every time.

you mess with deuce, you mess with ace, which is already bad enough. but if you fuck around with ace, you better be prepared to find out with deuce.

they're a pair — that's always been true. but never before has that fact been so threatening.

jack howl comes next. we all know how much jack despises octavinelle's business model. but, begrudgingly, he will admit there are a lot of things he can learn from octavinelle. and more knowledge is never bad. as long as he doesn't actually use it, it should be fine.

(jack is more dangerous than ace and deuce, in a way — his toxicity is insidious in a way it just couldn't ever be with them.)

with excellent hearing, eyesight, and memory, he silently keeps note of every bribe he hears being taken. every lie he knows is being told. every mistake that gets swept under the rug. it's not long before he starts actively looking for it. it's not long before jack's uncovered dirt on almost every freshmen in school. it reminds him a bit of his time working at the mostro lounge. but instead of memorizing orders from customers, he's memorizing all their dirty secrets.

it's to protect himself, jack reasons. after all, it was only his input that put a stop to leona and ruggie's plans back during the spelldrive exhibition. he's just... preparing for another disastrous event, that's all. it's just precaution. insurance.

if it's not, then he'll have to accept that leona's overblot bothered him more than he thought. that he was weak enough to let it.

(and jack can't face that yet.)

and if, once in a while, ace comes to him looking for a little bit of information, then well, that's just lending a friend some advice. nothing wrong with that.

epel, ortho, and sebek don't have any direct ties to jamil, but they are certainly... impressionable, aren't they?

sebek zigvolt is a bit dense, certainly, but even he can see how well jamil takes care of his master. and with a master that's as ditzy and forgetful and all-over-the-place as kalim, that can't be easy. even if they are merely humans, and their experiences can't even begin to compare when it comes to serving a fae prince, sebek reckons that he can learn a thing or two by observing them. so that's exactly what he does.

one day, when kalim spills food on the floor in a hilariously ridiculous move, sebek notices something few others ever would. jamil gives the tiniest twitch of annoyance — the same way silver, in all his stoicism, often does when sebek gets too loud — but then he's back to being perfectly dutiful and polite and says "i'll go get a napkin."

it's... admirable, honestly. sebek doesn't put it into practice right away, but it stays in his mind long after he first sees it.

and then, after malleus's overblot, sebek's emotions feel like they're on fire. after being stuck in a world where it took just the tiniest crack to shatter a perfect illusion, he's wary of nearly everything that disrupts his day. now every single slight against him, no matter how unintentional it may be, feels like a personal attack on his very life. but sebek can't show these ugly emotions so outwardly — that would be dishonorable behavior that could damage malleus's reputation. instead, he resorts to subtle methods that can't be easily traced back to him like putting in frogs in schoolbags and setting brooms on fire or replacing shampoo bottles with tar.

but his repressed feelings of anger start to build to the point where he's now feeling unprecedented resentment towards... well, almost everybody.

when sebek has very first negative thought about malleus in history class — "reckless bastard" — he instantly hates himself for it and throws up then and there because how dare he.

he tries to shut them out, but the more he does, the more these intrusive thoughts start to bombard him with their uncharacteristic cynicism.

he looks at lilia from across the breakfast table, and his first thought is: heartless liar.

he spots leona lying in the botanical garden and he thinks: brainless cretin.

he even sees jamil, walking through the halls, and his mind screams: manipulative bitch.

but sebek shoves it all down because he's in no position to say that. it gets to the point where he's walking around as a silent, unfeeling husk, because to be anything else would be like inviting his inner demons to visit him on the outside. he pushes his emotions down as far as they'll go, and that's just going to have to be enough to get him through the day.

ortho shroud begins to follow a similar principle. his idia-inspired pessimism has led ortho to see others as less like people and more like characters. it's easier to think of every school day as a dungeon in an rpg. it's easier to convince himself that the other students are taunting him because they're programmed to be that way than face the reality that they just don't like him.

but the problem with seeing life as a video game is that you start seeing others as just ways to complete your objectives. like npcs or maps.

and when it comes to using people, jamil viper is king. or, for ortho's purposes, the ultimate survival guide.

ortho shapes himself into a model night raven college student — kind, charming, and sweet for the teachers, but just mischievous and rude enough to still fit in with the students.

he goes to housewarden meetings with idia to "gain leadership experience", taking notes and hearing out of every single little idea he can get his hands on (these are the people who have not just survived, but thrived. they must be doing something right). one time, riddle even pats his head and praises him for his proactiveness.

his classmates adore him for always been willing to help and being so calm about even the worst outcomes.

ortho makes himself as available as possible to the rest of ignihyde, brushing off homework or studying to help them with whatever they need — fixing game consoles, wiring in controllers, checking the internet connection, et cetera.

eventually, everyone believes in him almost as fiercely as scarabia believed in jamil, once upon a time.

ortho doesn't like telling all of these lies, but it's necessary to protect himself. it's like grinding to earn coins until you have enough money to buy that special armor in the shopkeeper's store.

...or maybe it's more like those cheesy dress-up flash games ortho used to play all the time — fleshing out the perfect outfit and hairstyle and makeup that'll earn you the most points.

if people feel like they need him, he'll be able to breeze through school without any more problems. he's put the whole system on easy mode! it feels a bit like cheating, almost.

it is like a game, isn't it? it's fun.

(at some point, ortho forgets how to stop.)

as for epel... well, he knows that his sudden snappish behavior towards the other pomefiore students won't go unnoticed for too long. but this is one of his only ways of venting, so he needs it to go under the radar long enough for him to... to squeeze out all of this sudden venom that's built up in him.

epel's not oblivious. he knows how sebek and ortho have changed over the weeks, and he knows why. but epel can't pull off "repressed" like sebek, and neither can he suddenly turn into the best person ever like ortho. but they do have the right idea about taking inspiration from jamil, so epel can fall back on what there is left: gaslighting.

every time kalim blacked out, jamil blamed it on him being sick. every time someone thought kalim was being awfully uncharacteristic, jamil called it a "mood swing". every time someone asked jamil about why kalim was acting so weird, jamil claimed ignorance.

at least, that's what yuu tells epel.

and it's perfect.

so now, every time someone confronts epel about his overly critical behavior, he lies and says he's doing it for their own good. you need pressure to make a diamond, after all. and besides — vil won't settle for anything less than absolutely perfect.

("i'm just trying to catch your mistakes before he does. and i think you and i can both agree that i'm a lot nicer than he is about it.")

every time vil confronts epel about all of the complaints he's been hearing from the other students about how epel's been tearing down their ideas for outfits and hairstyles with no mercy, and disregarding all of their achievements as "not good enough" to be proud over, epel dons a confused face.

("vil, between studying for tests and the crazy physical regiment you have me do, i barely have time for myself. you honestly think i have the energy to criticize other people?")

epel even starts turning people against each other so they won't focus on him. epel subtly threatens to take away the upperclassmen's position in the hierarchy, which sets up the other underclassmen as a threat, and epel grouses to the underclassmen that the upperclassmen look down on them for not living up to pomefiore standards, under the guise of regular teenage bitching.

but all of this, combined with their self-entitlement, leads to a mini-war in pomefiore. but since this is, well, pomefiore, where being perfect and poised is the standard, the others make sure never make it obvious in front of vil or rook.

epel plays everybody like a fiddle, and ensures that none of it can be traced back to him. it's a good way to get out his frustration. and hey — it seems like everybody's upped their game along the way. vil seems pretty happy that everybody's improving in their efforts so greatly, practically overnight!

epel wakes up with a feeling of accomplishment everyday. for once, it seems he did something right.

now if only rook could stop looking so somber...

then we come to yuu, whose inner darkness has been left to fester all year. if people think they can treat them like a ragdoll, it's only fair they do the same.

there's a lot yuu doesn't have, but one thing they're really lacking is a bit of respect. that's what it means to be magicless in an arcane academy. you're at the bottom of the food chain.

and look at what a bit of self-interest can do for you! yuu studies in the library until late into the night, burning the metaphorical candle at both ends, learning everything they can about magic until they're more well-versed in it than most students in the school. yuu starts making potions that aren't nearly as good as azul's, but they're cheap and work well enough. they start making study guides for others with their new-found knowledge, even if they do bristle with the fact that a damned study guide is what caught them in azul's tentacles in the first place. they start learning anything and everything, clinging to whatever scraps of knowledge they can write down.

with this, they successfully make their case for why they should join ace and deuce's business. eventually, they're just as feared as they are among the other first-years.

but that's not enough for yuu. the power of fear is nice, but the power of controlling other people would be much more cathartic.

so that's what they do. while ace is more focused on monetary gain, yuu uses their mountains of blackmail to convince others to do whatever they want.

if crowley throws another ridiculous task at them, yuu simply hoists it off to somebody else to do. if ramshackle dorm needs a few repairs, it's only a matter of contacting a few people before a whole construction crew paid off by somebody else comes knocking at their door. and they'll do it, if they don't want to get kicked out of the school or have their reputation ruined.

but somehow, even with all of this, yuu sets themself up as the nicest out of their little trio. they're willing to let payments slide from time to time. they listen to their clients' problems. they take constructive criticism and always seem to improve in their potions and study guides based on feedback. and if you do do yuu a favor, they'll give you certain favors right back.

so even when yuu is a covetous, greedy, all-consuming shark, the students still think they're so very, very nice. because compared to ace and deuce, what else is there to think?

but this can only go on for so long. and yuu knows that.

one day, they get called to the headmage's office. yuu is already going through their contact list — a list that's quadrupled ever since they joined forces with ace and deuce — to see who'd be willing to do them a teensy little favor for them, but when they step through the door, they pause.

inside the office are all the housewardens, their vices, the teachers, and everybody else yuu has grown to know over the past year.

yuu narrows their eyes as riddle steps forward.

"yuu," riddle starts sternly, "from one housewarden to another, i believe we need to talk."

^

(i will address everyone's reactions in a reblog, because this is honestly getting really, really long, lol. but don't worry, the reactions are coming! 🥺)

(but i should mention that there is already a good reblog of the original post by @thenumberhuntress which addresses the upperclassmen's reactions that you can find here. go read it. it's peak.)

(once again, thank you for the great ask! this was fun to make!)

[a-caterpillars-world]

We're always together, and never alone!

This concept has been driving me insane since I first saw it, and I wanted to get something out quick before the actual episode drops, so here's this. I was right, that rendog sure can cope with the grief settling in.

[hudson-fabulous-hornet]

I'm gonna throw this incorrect quote at you. I'm not gonna outright make a request for you to draw it since I don't know if you're doing those, I only just started looking at your blog ang saw a post on it

Have a good day

[Smokey: May luck (and this picture of Ray eating shredded cheese at 3 in the morning) be with you.]

> All good man can never go wrong with - ah shit! I just slipped and fell and drew it !1! Fuuuuuccck!

[marclef]

Day 25. almost free. almost done.

it is Fake Peppino Friday... but for some reason, the sound of clucking is in the distance? that's strange..... perhaps one of these little Fakelings has something to do with it.

around a nearby town, strange rumors started popping up, about an old abandoned building that had stood vacant for a good few years. but odd sounds had been heard from within, the sounds of hard work, heavy objects being moved, and inhuman, almost cluck-like cries. nobody knew what it could have been, and none were brave enough to investigate. until... one day, out of nowhere, the building appeared somehow cleaner, and a large sign had been hung out at the front, with the bright, colorful words:

CHIK'N PLACE!!!

who was the culprit? well, one step inside this newly refurbished restaurant and you will be greeted by its very enthusiastic owner...

the often-excited, very sociable Poultrino! she started off as all of the other Fakelings, a strange, gooey blob-like creature with hunger and curiosity. but soon after going out into the world on their own, she stumbled across a runaway definitely wild chicken, which she chased after with great interest and then gobbled up with glee. but, the feathery snack awakened a strange feeling in her, such a delicious taste, she wanted to share it with all the world! and thus gave rise to the fifth and final Fakeling...

and now, all customers are happily welcomed at her humble Chik'n Place! there is chicken of all kinds there; chicken wings, fried chicken, chicken nuggets, living chickens, anything you could possibly want, as long as it is chicken! (and all VERY legally obtained, she wouldn't THINK of pilfering chicken from other establishments for her own....) and not to worry, she is very polite and welcoming to anyone who wishes to visit! as long as you are not also a chicken, or a tasty bug or rat.

their appearance and body are quite unique amongst the Fakes as well! and though she is still made out of simple Goop like the others, her "skin" is fairly soft and smooth, almost feeling like soft fuzz despite having no real feathers! her legs, tail, and "fleshy" parts are the same gooeyness as standard Fake Peppino though. despite her strange appearance, most customers assume she's simply in costume, and very few are any the wiser as to their true nature.

though, one more very important fact to mention... you didn't think they worked alone, did you? of course not, all that Chicken isn't going to serve itself! which is why the first person to enter her restaurant was taken happily hired as the first employee!! say hello to Sue, Poultrino's favorite and only employee!! (credit goes to my wonderful friend @plebbicinnabun-arts for coming up with her! 😊✨)

she helps prepare and serve many of the chicken dishes! (and makes sure that the stuff that's served is actually edible when possible...) and not to worry, her boss treats her with great care! she is paid well in a salary of both "human currency" and delicious chicken-based foods! it might just be very strange trying to explain her job to friends and family.

but together, these two help run the Chik'n Place, and Poultrino finds decent success at running a business! her Papa is very proud of her.

[batbabydamian]

Hey, I started reading Robin son of Batman because of your recommendation (I literally have a print of your post on my phone to not forget lol). Honestly? One of the best things I ever read!!!

Thank you for opening my eyes! Damian has been one of my favorite characters for over a year, but I didn't read/watch much of him because of school, life (and probably an executive dysfunction in the mix).

Maya is incredible. I loved her.

I haven't finished all the issues yet, but do you have any other recommendations?

WAH this makes me so happy, i'm glad you still gave it a shot even with how busy life is!! ;v;

i’d love to give reccs, and i’ll try to go a beginner friendly route! tbh you can pick up whatever here, but since you've read R:SOB i’d immediately follow up with Batman and Robin (2011) #1-8! this first arc is what’s referred to in Maya’s introduction, and it's just. so good.

Main Books

Batman and Robin (2009)

Dick as Batman with Damian as his Robin!

#20-22 Tree of Blood: Dark Knight vs White Knight arc is done by Tomasi and Gleason, the team for the next Batman and Robin series

*Batman and Robin (2011)

Bruce and Damian figuring out their relationship as both Batman & Robin and father & son

imo you can enjoy the ride and read straight through this but i’ll add context to avoid as much confusion as possible since there’s the occasional tie-in or offscreen events, like Damian’s death nbd

Batman Incorporated (2012) #1-10

events leading to Damian's death - affects Batman and Robin (2011) from issue #18

kind of a tough read especially with how Talia's written, but a lot of iconic bits like Batcow, Damian's vegetarian declaration, Alfred the cat, "We Were the Best, Richard."

Robin (2021)

another self-discovery adventure, particularly after Alfred’s death and a fallout with Bruce (and questionable writing choices from his last Teen Titans run)

Batman and Robin (2023)

currently ongoing! after a number of events, Bruce and Damian are back as a duo

Damian Dynamics!

Batman: Streets of Gotham (2009) #7, 10-12

arc where Damian meets one of his first Gotham friends, Colin Wilkes

Batgirl (2009) #5-7, #17

Steph and Damian dynamic! "the bad cop, worse cop" dysfunctional duo

Red Robin (2009) #13-14

early Tim and Damian dynamic that of course includes fighting haha. funny enough, accidentally my first intro to Damian LOL

Teen Titans (2003) #89-92

Dick!Batman has Damian join the Teen Titans. Start of Damian and Rose Wilson dynamic that’s extended in Robin (2021)

Batman: Gates of Gotham (2011)

Damian meets Cass and has a brief team up

Gotham Academy (2015) #7

Damian meets Maps Mizoguchi! they have a few other meetings, but outside of that the series itself is a great read!

Robin War Event (2015)

Robin War (2015) #1, Grayson (2014) #15, Detective Comics (2011) #47, We Are Robin (2015) #7, Robin: Son of Batman (2015) #7, Robin War (2015) #2

Duke and Damian dynamic! not exactly beginner friendly but these are the main issues in order for the event! you can also read the TPB version for everything including Tie-Ins

Nightwing (2016) #16-20, #42, #43

#16-20 Nightwing and Robin arc!

#42 Dick on a mission to save Damian! the one appearance of "Wiggles" the dragon

#43 Dick, Roy, and Damian team-up

New Talent Showcase 2018 "Catwoman: Pedigree"

Selina, Damian, and Alfred the cat

Batman: Prelude to the Wedding - Robin vs. Ra's Al Ghul (2018)

Selina, Damian, and Cheese Viking - Damian's fav game shown in Nightwing: Rebirth (2016)

Monkey Prince (2022) #1-4

Marcus Sun Shugel-Shen's main comic, but Damian features as a fun dynamic here before they're in more serious circumstances in Batman VS Robin (2022)/Lazarus Planet event

Superman (2016) #10 - 11

the beginning of the Super Sons! featuring Maya!

Super Sons (2017)

solitary arcs but there’s a few event tie-in issues later

Adventures of the Super Sons (2018)

literally more Super Sons adventures lol galactic shenanigans yeehaw

Challenge of the Super Sons (2020) 

Super Sons time shenanigans feat. the Justice League

Robin 80th Anniversary (2020)

"Boy Wonders" - brief Damian feature as Tim considers his next step in life

"My Best Friend" - Jon's thoughts on Damian and their dynamic

"Bat and Mouse" - refers to Damian's unfortunate Teen Titans (2016) run at the time of release which follows up with Teen Titans Annual #2 where Damian briefly gives up Robin

Extra Comics!

Superman/Batman (2003) #77

Kara and Damian in a Halloween team-up! also the appearance of "Li'l Matches" lol

DCU Halloween Special '09 "Cavity Search"

Damian out on a solo mission for Halloween night. Immediately after is Tim's Red Robin story "Then and Now: Our Father's Sins" which is more somber in contrast but also a good read!

DCU Halloween Special 2010 "Robin the Vampire Slayer"

a Dick!Batman and Robin story featuring the vampire Andrew Bennett

Cursed Comics Cavalcade (2018) "The Devil You Know"

Halloween themed comic with a sweet short story of Damian alongside Solomon Grundy

DC's Terrors Through Time (2022)

"Trick or Treat" a Super Sons Halloween story

"The Haunting of Wayne Manor" Damian and Deadman story - in the end, Boston kinda refers to Nezha's possession of Damian in Batman VS Robin (2022) which was happening at the time of this release

Batman: Li'l Gotham (2013)

lighthearted series that instantly makes me smile with the silliness and Dustin Nguyen’s art i love this dearly

Secret Origins (2014) #4 "A Boy's Life"

a retelling of Damian's origin story

Detective Comics (2016) #1001-1005

Batman and Robin vs the Arkham Knight (unrelated to the game)

Truth & Justice (2021) #6/#16 - 18 Digital First version

cute story of Damian’s birthday! Juni Ba’s art is so fun!!

DC Festival of Heroes: The Asian Superhero Celebration (2021) “Special Delivery”

short story about Damian! and poisoned pizzas. completely forgot the artist Sami Basri drew Rebirth Damian here before catboy Damian lol Cass’s story “Sounds” is also cute! Marcus makes his first appearance in "The Monkey Prince Hates Superheroes"

DC VS Vampires (2021)

Damian makes appearances throughout this elseworlds book, but the one-shot DC VS Vampires: Hunters (2022) is vampire Damian-centric!

Batman: Black and White (2021) #5

“Father & Son Outing” short story written and drawn by Jorge Jimenez!

Batman: Urban Legends (2021) #20-23

#20 “My Son” Talia and Bruce focus

#20 - 23 “The Murder Club” 4 Parts

Tiny Titans (2008) #33, #39, #45, #47

a few appearances but SO CUTE, LOOK AT HIM

*Batman and Robin (2011) reading guide

i'm mostly trying to avoid the "what did i just walk in on?" kinda feeling when i first started reading comics LOL i'll list the comics where events take place, but you don't necessarily have to read them to go through this book since things are usually explained as quickly as possible in the first page or so

#0 Someday Never Comes

Talia and baby Damian before he grows up to meet Bruce

#1-8 Born to Kill

just an incredibly solid arc for Bruce and Damian!

#9 Court of Owls Tie-In Issue

Damian VS a Court of Owls Talon. While Bruce is occupied with a home invasion of Talons, Alfred makes a call for allies to protect targeted Gotham public figures from Talons. During Batman (2011) #1-11

#10-12 Terminus

Damian challenges the previous Robins sans Steph

Batman Incorporated (2012) is occurring at this time where Talia has placed a bounty on Damian and there's small mentions of that

#13-14 Eclipsed/Devoured

mostly solitary arc! end of it leads into the Death of the Family event

#15-16 Death of the Family Tie-In Issues

Damian and Joker face-off... Alfred's been kidnapped by the Joker, and Damian goes looking for him. During Batman (2011) #13-17

#17 Life is but a Dream - Death of the Family Epilogue

a sort of subconscious check-in through the dreams of Damian, Alfred, and Bruce. Nightwing (2011) #17 features Damian encouraging Dick after Death of the Family events

#18 Undone "Requiem"

Bruce dealing with Damian's death from Batman Incorporated #8

other reactions to Damian's death: Dick in Nightwing (2011) #18, Tim in Teen Titans (2011) #18

#19-23 Denial, Rage, The Bargain, Despair, Acceptance

Bruce through the stages of grief with some batfam appearances in each. also introduces Carrie Kelley into continuity as Damian's acting tutor.

Batman (2011) #19-20 also addresses Bruce's loss

#23.1-23.4

these could be skipped - villain stories, also related to Forever Evil event.

#24-28 The Big Burn

optional Batman and Two-Face/Harvey Dent arc, #23.1 is part of this story!

Damian's resurrection and return

#29-32 The Hunt for Robin

Ras took Talia and Damian's bodies from their graves, and Bruce goes after him.

-> Robin Rises: Omega

continues events from #32. if you don't want to jump to this, basically, Glorious Godfrey and a bunch of parademons from Apokolips are here for a chaos shard which Ra's put in Damian's sarcophagus. at some point, Bruce gets a hold of the shard where he sees a vision that leads him to believe Damian can be resurrected. Godfrey ends up taking the shard, along with Damian's body since it was emitting the same energy.

#33-37 Robin Rises

Bruce hellbent on retrieving Damian from Apokolips and reviving him

-> Robin Rises: Alpha

necessary to read and continues events from #37! Damian's back with a bang lol

#38-40 Superpower

Damian adjusting to having superpowers and being alive again

Annual #1 2013 Batman Impossible

sweet (and funny) one-shot of Damian sending Bruce on a meaningful scavenger hunt around the world while Damian gets to be the cutest Batman for a bit

Annual #2 2014 Batman and Robin: Week One

one-shot takes place during Damian's absence. after Bruce and Alfred find a mystery gift left for Dick, Dick recounts a story he had told Damian from his Robin days.

Annual #3 2015 Moonshot

one-shot Batman and Robin adventure on the moon!

...and of course after Batman and Robin (2011), Damian's story continues in his first solo Robin: Son of Batman (2015)!

[loopyarts]

Some young adult Dick Grayson Robin sketches.

[cuz-reasons]

Summary: Calaba had a rumor about her going around, that she actually cared for the amnesiac outsider.

been wanting to write Ingo with the other wardens for a while so heres something with Calaba

[piratekane]

Kate pauses, the coffee pot titled over her to-go mug as the freshly-brewed dark roast starts to fill it. “Another undercover assignment? For both of us?” Lucy carefully takes the pot from Kate, leveling it off before all 8 ounces end up on the counter. “Cool, right? A joint undercover operation. Thelma and Lousie, teaming up to take on the bad guys.”

i do, you do, we do - the imagined opening and closing scenes of NCIS: Hawai'i season 3, episode 4 (aka The Newlyweds episode).

[lutavero]

For Maddie @reyesstrand, I was your Tarlos Secret Santa this year! 🎄🎄🎅🎅 I was so elated when I got your name in the assignment email, it was so much fun to create for you! I debated on what kind of set to make for you exactly, but then this au just wouldn't leave me alone, for months by now!! And now, at last, I had an excuse to write it down. :'D

I found life (I found you)

Their first meeting is the furthest thing from the romantic ideals most people have in this city.

See, if your city is teeming with superheroes, you for sure wouldn’t be able to help yourself and imagine more and more cliché and romantic encounters. Getting rescued from a supervillain, flying through the air while held oh so close after said rescue mission, getting flirted with by the kind and selfless masked vigilante, maybe even getting a hand kiss in front of the reporters… you possibly imagined it all before even if you’d be ashamed to admit it to anyone.

No, the way TK meets Striker is the complete opposite of these dream scenarios.

♦♦

A Tarlos vigilante!AU,

[Read the rest on AO3.]

[tachyon-omlette]

okay before I lose my thought (MASSIVE Rise of the Beasts spoilers re: Unicron)

in my opinion rotb handled Unicron perfectly.

when I first watched the full trailer & saw Unicron my second thought was "oh no" (my first being "YOOOOOO") because in the bumblebee-rotb timeline it seemed extremely early to be involving him. I went into the movie almost resigning myself to the thought that it would end with Unicron being destroyed & never seen again, because he was advertised as the main Big Bad.

but the truth is, Scourge was the main Big Bad. and while Unicron made several appearances and had more than one line, the primary thing he did was loom over the narrative like the slow approach of death - he did more than haunting the narrative, I think, but aside from his interactions with the Terrorcons and his arrival at the final scene, he was largely uninvolved in the main conflict, and was in the end defeated momentarily rather than destroyed.

what we did see of him was always displays of power: the destruction of the Maximals' homeworld, his ability to supply the battlefield with endless Terrorcon footsoldiers, his mindscape-meeting with Scourge wherein he tortured Scourge for failing him from Primus knows how far away. hell, even Scourge, Battletrap, and Nightbird themselves were living proof of Unicron's power - ruthless, near-invincible supersoldiers who've killed enough Cybertronians and Cybertronian-adjacent lifeforms to steal and wear their badges like a bounty hunter collects trophies. on-screen all of this is done through Unicron's power, the extension of his will - and not, notably, by Unicron himself.

this wasn't Unicron's moment to shine, only to be destroyed so early in the narrative.

this was the moment that painted a target on Earth, and on Optimus Prime. this was the moment that established how Unicron is accustomed to taking thralls from other worlds while also killing off the ones he already had, laying the potential groundwork for Galvatron or even Sideways. this was the moment that showed off just how powerful Unicron and his allies are without cramming it into the first fifteen minutes of another movie down the line, and when he appears again we'll already know just how fucked the protagonists are.

this was the setup to Unicron's moment to shine. though I'd hoped Unicron would get more screentime, rotb ultimately handled Unicron with the severity he deserves; for that, it was perfect.

sidenote: I got very big "then perish" vibes at the end of the movie, when Unicron said smth like "think about this, Prime. I could give you anything you want." and Optimus responded with "then DIE!!". it was dramatic in the moment but remembering it got me a good laugh

[alectoperdita]

What you can't bury

Part 18 of Lure

Rated: E Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters Pairing: Jounouchi Katsuya/Kaiba Seto Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Tags: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Organized Crime, Internal Conflict, Power Imbalance, Power Dynamics, Blood and Torture, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Sex as Coping Mechanism, Unhealthy Relationships, Trauma Bonding, Codependency, Porn with Feelings, Porn With Plot, Explicit Sexual Content, Degradation, Masochism, Impact Play, Asshole Spanking, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Breeding Kink, Sex Toys, Rough Sex, Painful Sex, Mild Painplay, Punishment, Cock & Ball Torture, Mild Breathplay, Come Feeding, Praise Kink, Under-negotiated Kink, Somnophilia, Sexting, Dick Pics, Semi-Public Sex, Workplace Sex, Light Bondage, Nipple Play, Nipple Clamps, Mildly Dubious Consent, Sounding

As discontent swells amongst the Aoryu-kai's ranks, those wishing to seize power for themselves emerge. They threaten everything—Kaiba's leadership position, the tiny sliver of peace Jounouchi's managed to carve out for himself, and whatever tenuous bond exists between the two of them.

Will saving Kaiba's hide save Jounouchi too? Or is this finally his chance to escape from under the kumicho's thumb?

Read Chapter 5 on AO3 Series Masterlist

Saruwatari dropped his pipe with a clatter, kneeling to unlock the chains from the hook fastened to the ground. Sobbing quietly, the beaten man collapsed on the ground and curled in a fetal position as soon as Fuguta released his hold. He wouldn't walk under his own strength any time soon. Instead, Saruwatari looped his burly arms under his armpits and dragged him out, leaving a grisly red trail in their wake. Fuguta said nothing and produced a handkerchief. With the demeanor of a waiter cleaning spilled food, he wiped up the spots of blood on the tabletop. Hirano watched everything transpire with saucer eyes, his face further blanching. His body further locked up when Seto turned his gaze on him. "Sit."

[starflungwaddledee]

Ok, for an AU I'm cooking up, what if my OC Periwinkle (who is actually a fragment of Void Termina's power with the full extent of their memories and abilities, though they are nice, until you physically smack/smack talk/hurt the feelings her friends out of malice (she's able to sense emotions), then she will not hesitate to bonk you with a live explosive (expert with the Bomb copy ability) and "give you a proper lesson on not hurting my friends".) met your Galacta Knight? How would the situation play out? (Maybe Galacta comes to her universe then destroys her friend's cooking utensils, and she decides to spare the vandal no chill at all.)

hmmm i'm not suuuper comfortable answering questions like this, sorry! especially with folks who i don't know well... i don't really know your oc and i'm also not comfortable just being like "well he k-words (the oc)" to strangers who might not find that fun, yanno?

i think you'd have to characterise him in a way that suited you and your story/oc/au/needs, and then decide from there! like... what you described with the cooking utensils... no, my version of him wouldn't do anything like that haha. so you'd need to make your own charactisation where something like that worked!

i'd enjoy being That Person With The Evil Galacta Knight Characterisation and i'm happy to answer general questions about my personal hcs of him for sure, but i certainly don't have any sort of monopoly on making him nasty. i feel like there's actually a significant amount of evidence in canon itself for him to be Not Nice! so you can of course characterise your own version of him however you like too!!

the galacta knight that i personally headcanon (who is mostly present in awtdy au) is simultaneously chill and unchill. if someone minds their business and doesn't get in his way or interrupt his plans- which revolve around kirby and meta knight in awtdy au- he doesn't really care about them. this is kind of evident in the way he overlooks bandee's potential entirely.

however if they are a threat to him or his plans, he deals with them. he also sometimes takes a sadistic interest in figures he can project the things he hates onto. in our headcanons in particular he has a specific hatred of dark matter and mages, if that works for you and gives you anything to chew on! fwiw in the star allies arc of awtdy void termina is never released, because galacta knight lays eyes on hyness for 0.2 seconds before fileting him like a fish.

he's just not really a hesitater. and that takes most folks- who want to talk, who want to monologue, who maybe have the hope this can be sorted out- by enough surprise that he generally gets in there first.

[pyroselkie]

I was tagged by @transactinides but the original op disabled reblogs, so:

rules: shuffle your On Repeat liked songs playlist and post the first 10 tracks, then tag 10 people ✨

Gymnopédie No. 1 - Erik Satie

WHAT YOU GONNA DO??? - Bastille, Graham Coxon

Sunlight - Hozier

Life Will Change - Lyn (Persona 5 OST)

Adore - Free the Robots

Fighting Trousers - Professor Elemental

Siren - Kailee Morgue

Vampire Money - My Chemical Romance

BULLY IN THE ALLEY - Kimber's Men

Woe To the People of Order - The Shiny Snivy

@rinmession @scolek @v4mp123 @aguahouse @kanameows @capadipdap @morphogenetic-velvet @dontsteponthatfish @nacisses @scin7illa

[tanasha-not-yet]

based on this scene