#i just thought this was neat. predictably

[w1w2]

The Price of Affection

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Minatozaki Sana x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 9k

Synopsis: Sana has always been certain, until now. Faced with the weight of what she’s lost, she finds herself chasing after the one person she never thought she’d have to fight for. But as Y/N moves forward, the question remains. Is Sana too late?

Req by Anon

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Sana never thought she’d miss Y/N.

She had told herself, convinced herself, that this would be just another inevitable ending. People came and went in her life like passing seasons, brief, fleeting, inconsequential. Attachments had never been something she allowed herself to hold onto, because they never lasted. They never stayed.

And Y/N? Y/N had been no different.

At least, that was what Sana had believed.

That her absence would be just another space to fill, another quiet departure in a long, predictable cycle. That within days, maybe weeks, the memory of her would fade, just like all the others had. That the weight of her presence in Sana’s life, no matter how real it had felt in the moment, would become nothing more than a passing indulgence.

But the silence she left behind is different.

It lingers in places Sana never expected. In the bedroom, where the space beside her feels emptier than it should. In the kitchen, where the absence of absentminded humming, of laughter half-hidden behind the rim of a coffee cup, makes the air feel heavier. In the echo of footsteps across marble floors that once had company, in the muted quiet of a penthouse that now feels like something lifeless, something hollow.

She wakes up to it.

To the sheets that are too neat, the bed that is too cold. To the space where Y/N used to sleep, where her warmth used to linger long after she was gone. To the dull gray sky beyond the city skyline, stretching into the horizon, devoid of color.

She tells herself it's a habit. That she isn’t missing Y/N, just the presence of someone. That it’s the disruption of routine that unsettles her, the absence of familiarity, the loss of something she had grown accustomed to.

But she knows she’s lying.

Because she had woken up to empty beds, and it has never felt like this. It has never stayed like this. It has never settled beneath her skin like an ache she can’t shake, like a presence that lingers long after it should have faded.

She moves through her days the same way she always has, composed, controlled, untouched. No one notices that anything is wrong. She attends meetings, shakes hands with business partners, signs deals with her usual effortless precision. She speaks when necessary, smiles at the right moments, moves through the world as if nothing has changed.

But everything feels off.

Because she keeps catching herself looking for Y/N.

At first, it’s subtle. A glance toward the kitchen, expecting to see her perched on the counter, absentmindedly sketching while drinking her coffee. A flicker of instinct, reaching for her phone, expecting to see a message waiting for her, something insignificant, something unnecessary, something Y/N would have sent anyway.

She tries to ignore it.

But then, one night, she makes the mistake of checking her messages. And they’re all still there. Conversations from weeks ago, months ago. Unread messages she had never bothered to respond to.

Remnants of something she thought she had let go of.

"I hope you know you’re ridiculous for buying the whole collection just because I said I liked one dress." "You never say what you’re thinking, but sometimes I think I almost see it."

She should delete them. Erase them. Pretend they were never there.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she scrolls through them, lingering on messages she had barely glanced at when they were first sent. Messages she had dismissed without a second thought, because she had assumed Y/N would always be there to send more.

She hesitates.

And then, before she can stop herself, she types a message.

A single sentence.

“Come back.”

It sits there, fragile, damning, waiting for her to press send, waiting for her to admit something she isn’t ready to admit.

Her throat tightens, something unfamiliar clawing at her chest. Something dangerously close to regret.

She deletes it, tosses the phone onto the couch, and runs a hand through her hair. She tells herself to move on. To do what she always did.

To replace Y/N.

Or at least, she tries to.

The first time Sana takes someone new to an event, it’s supposed to be effortless.

She tells herself it will be. That it’s nothing new, nothing unfamiliar, nothing she hasn’t done before. This is how it works. A cycle that has never been broken, a routine she has perfected over the years. She finds someone, someone poised, elegant, a presence that fits seamlessly into her world. She takes them to dinners, to events, to the places where her presence is expected, where she must be seen, where the image of Minatozaki Sana must remain intact.

Tonight is no different.

The woman beside her is stunning. She wears luxury as if it was made for her, leans into Sana’s touch with practiced ease, holds conversation with the kind of effortless charm that should make her desirable. She laughs at all the right moments, offers fleeting touches that linger just long enough to be suggestive. Everything about her presence is tailored for a night like this.

And yet, Sana feels nothing.

She sits across from her at dinner, watches the way the candlelight reflects in her eyes, listens to the lilt of her voice as she speaks. But her mind drifts, slipping away from the conversation as if it holds no weight, no meaning. It feels like listening through water, muffled, distant, just enough to recognize words but never enough to care.

She doesn’t even realize she’s zoned out until the woman tilts her head slightly, amusement flickering in her expression.

“You’re quiet,” she observes, voice smooth, sweet, practiced. “Thinking about something?”

Sana blinks, startled back into the present. And for a split second, she expects to glance to her right and find Y/N.

But Y/N isn’t there.

She never will be again.

The realization settles into her bones, cold and unyielding, pressing against her chest like something suffocating. She grips the stem of her wine glass, fingers tightening just slightly as she forces herself to respond, to move past the moment, to pretend that it doesn’t matter.

But it does.

The night drags on. The dinner stretches endlessly, a blur of conversation and laughter that doesn’t reach her ears. The woman smiles at her, touches her arm when she speaks, but Sana barely registers any of it. By the time the evening comes to an end, she realizes with detached indifference that she has already forgotten her name.

That should have been the first sign.

But she doesn’t stop. She keeps trying.

A different night. A different woman. A different attempt at moving on.

A party, hazy with champagne and artificial laughter, where Sana allows herself to fall back into habit.

This one is easier. There are no expectations beyond the night itself. No need for polite conversation, no need for calculated interactions. Just fleeting indulgence, just a temporary fix, just something to take the edge off the weight she refuses to acknowledge.

She picks someone quickly. A woman with soft lips and eager hands, someone who looks at her like she already understands the game. There is no hesitation when Sana leans in, no second guessing when she takes her hand and leads her away from the noise. This is familiar. This is predictable. This is what she knows.

The penthouse is silent when they step inside.

Sana doesn’t turn on the lights. Doesn’t give herself time to think. Thinking leads to remembering, and remembering is the last thing she wants to do. Instead, she shrugs off her coat with a slow, measured grace, gestures for the woman beside her to follow as she makes her way toward the bedroom.

It’s easy. It should be easy.

The woman follows without hesitation, stepping into her space like she belongs there. She’s beautiful, poised, the kind of effortless that should be attractive. The kind that should be enough.

But the moment hands skim over her waist, the moment Sana's lips ghost against jawline, the moment she feels warmth pressing against her, it isn’t.

She waits for the rush. The familiar sense of control. The distraction. The comfort in knowing that this, at least, is something she has always been good at, taking without giving, indulging without letting anything slip past the carefully constructed walls she has built for herself.

But all she feels is nothing.

The woman moves against her, fingers tracing the hem of her dress, lips curling at the corner in a way that should make her pulse quicken, should make her breath hitch, should make her want.

But it doesn’t.

Because this is wrong.

Not because of her. Not because she isn’t enough.

But because she isn’t Y/N.

And it isn’t that Y/N had ever touched her, because she never did. Sana never let her.

It had always been her choice, always been her control, always been the unspoken rule between them. Sana was the one who dictated every moment, who decided what was allowed, who set the limits and never let them be crossed. Y/N had never reached for her first, never traced soft touches along her spine, never let her hands wander over Sana’s skin, because Sana had never given her permission.

She had told herself it was safer that way. That distance was necessary. That control was the only way to keep herself from slipping, from feeling, from losing.

But now, standing here, with someone else’s hands on her, someone else waiting for something Sana suddenly realizes she cannot give.

She understands.

Y/N never touched her. But Y/N would have.

If Sana had let her.

If she had let down her walls. If she had given Y/N the space to reach for her. If she had allowed herself to want in return. If she hadn’t been so afraid of what it might have meant to let someone hold her for once, to let someone take and not just be taken from.

The woman shifts against her, hands smoothing over her sides, waiting, expecting. She leans in, lips brushing against Sana’s, soft and slow, but Sana jerks away before the kiss can happen.

It’s instinctive. Immediate. A visceral rejection that slams into her before she can think, before she can stop it.

The woman blinks, startled. “Did I—?”

“It’s not you.” The words slip out before Sana can stop them, before she can make them softer, before she can dress them in something less raw, less honest.

A beat of silence.

Then the woman exhales, reaching for her coat with a sigh of quiet understanding. “I should go.”

Sana doesn’t argue.

She doesn’t stop her, doesn’t offer an apology or an excuse, doesn’t do anything except stand there as the woman smooths her dress, picks up her purse, and leaves without another word.

The sound of the elevator fades into silence, and then? Then, there is nothing.

Sana closes her eyes, exhaling slowly, pressing her fingertips against her temples as if the pressure might ease the weight pressing against her ribs. She doesn’t move for a long time, doesn’t let herself acknowledge the truth she has spent weeks ignoring.

But it’s there, settling into the marrow of her bones, refusing to be ignored any longer.

She doesn’t want someone new.

She wants Y/N.

And she has never wanted anything she couldn’t have, until now.

Sana has always been good at getting what she wants. At taking, at winning. But this isn’t something she can fight for, isn’t something she can steal back with a well-timed move or a carefully chosen word.

Because love isn’t a battle. And Y/N isn’t something to be won.

Maybe if she had realized that sooner, things would be different. Maybe if she had reached for her with both hands instead of holding her at arm’s length, she wouldn’t be standing here now, choking on regret.

But regrets don’t change the past, and Y/N isn’t waiting for her anymore.

Hating Sana should be easy.

It should sit heavy in Y/N's chest, thick and suffocating, an anger so absolute it drowns out everything else. It should be all consuming, the kind of rage that burns, that flays, that leaves nothing behind but scorched earth and the satisfaction of knowing she never has to feel this way again.

But hatred requires fire.

And all Y/N has left is ashes.

She should want to erase Sana, to purge her from her life the way Sana had so effortlessly erased her. She should want to strip her name from her memory, to unlearn the way her voice sounded in the quiet of night, to forget the weight of her presence, the scent of her perfume, the way she carried herself like she owned the world and somehow, for a fleeting moment, had almost convinced Y/N that she belonged in it.

She should hate her for making her believe. For making her think, even for a second, that she was anything more than another beautiful thing to be collected.

For letting her go so easily.

She tries to hate her.

She reminds herself of the way Sana never chose her, the way she had stood there in silence when she should have spoken, the way she had let someone reduce Y/N to nothing and hadn’t even flinched.

She remembers.

She forces herself to relive it, over and over, like pressing on a bruise just to prove that it still hurts.

And it does. God, it does.

But the hurt never twists into something sharp. Never hardens into something solid enough to hold onto. Instead, it lingers, soft, aching, unbearable in its quiet devastation.

Because the truth is, Sana wasn’t cruel.

Not in the ways that mattered. Not in the ways that would make this easier. She never made promises she couldn’t keep. Never told Y/N things she wanted to hear just to placate her. Never led her on, never whispered words of love that weren’t real.

She never lied.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because Y/N was the one who let herself believe. She was the one who filled in the spaces between what was said and what wasn’t, the one who mistook the weight of a lingering glance for something deeper, the one who let herself hope.

And hope is the cruelest thing of all. 

Because it let her think she was different. It let her believe that maybe, just maybe, she meant something more.

And now, standing in the wreckage of what never was, she isn’t sure what hurts more, the fact that she wasn’t, or the fact that she had ever thought she could be.

She should hate Sana. But all she can do is grieve her.

And grief is exhausting.

It lingers in the quiet, settles into her skin, weighs down her limbs until even the simplest things feel impossible. It follows her from room to room, curling into the spaces Sana used to fill, whispering reminders of all the ways she was never enough.

Maybe that’s why she does it.

Why she moves through her apartment with methodical precision, pulling dresses from hangers, unclasping delicate necklaces, slipping rings from fingers that once bore the weight of something she had never been able to name.

If she strips it all away, piece by piece, then maybe she can convince herself that none of it ever meant anything.

The designer dresses, the ones that had fit too perfectly, tailored to her without her asking, without her needing to speak a word. They had been carefully selected, delivered in pristine boxes, worn to events where she had stood at Sana’s side like something beautiful to be admired, something that looked like it belonged even when it never truly did.

The jewelry, the delicate chains, the diamonds that had glittered under chandeliers, the rings she had worn absentmindedly, twisting them around her fingers, never quite able to shake the feeling that they were less of a gift and more of a mark.

The luxury handbags, the silk scarves, the perfumes that had smelled too much like Sana’s world, too much like something she had been allowed to borrow, never something she had owned.

One by one, they disappear.

She folds them into boxes, bags, anything that will take them away from her. Some she sells, watching as strangers hand over bills in exchange for things that had once been carefully placed into her life. Others she donates, leaves behind without a second thought, refuses to acknowledge as she closes the door behind her and walks away.

By the time she’s finished, the apartment feels different.

The space is emptier now, stripped of everything that had tied her to Sana’s world, but it doesn’t feel like freedom. It feels like a funeral. Like she is mourning something she never really had, something that had never truly belonged to her, something that was slipping through her fingers even now, even after she had spent so much effort trying to rid herself of it.

She tells herself this is what she wanted.

But even as she stands in the middle of her newly reclaimed space, arms wrapped around her own body, breathing in air that should have felt lighter, she still feels her.

Sana lingers.

In the spaces between. In the silence. In the way Y/N still turns toward her phone without thinking, still expects the sharp hum of Sana’s voice breaking through the quiet, still feels the weight of something missing, even when everything of hers is gone.

Sana is gone.

But she isn’t.

Because getting rid of things doesn’t erase the memories attached to them. It doesn’t change the fact that Y/N was the one who let herself believe. It doesn’t stop her from remembering.

And worst of all, it doesn’t make her stop wanting.

The envelope sits on the counter, thick and heavy, filled with neatly stacked bills, the last remaining evidence of what she had left behind.

She could use it. She should use it. Stretch it out for months, let it keep her afloat, take the security Sana had unknowingly given her and turn it into something she could build a future with.

But the money feels tainted. It isn’t freedom. It’s a leash.

It feels like a debt she never agreed to owe, a weight in her hands that is heavier than the fabric of any dress, heavier than the cold metal of a diamond ring, heavier than the silence that still stretches between them.

Even now, after everything, Sana still has a hold on her. Even now, she can’t quite shake the feeling that this isn’t truly hers, that nothing ever was, that even now, she is still playing a role Sana had set out for her, still existing in a life that had been shaped by someone else’s hands.

She wants to be free of her. But then, she opens her closet.

It’s still there.

Tucked away in the back of her closet, hidden beneath coats and sweaters, wrapped in a garment bag that hasn’t been touched since the night it was given to her. Everything else is gone.

Except this.

Her fingers hover over the bag’s smooth fabric, hesitant, uncertain, as if touching it might unravel her entirely. As if one moment of weakness will undo everything she’s tried to forget.

She should get rid of it. She should pack it away with everything else, let it slip from her grasp like all the other remnants of Sana’s world, convince herself it means nothing, because that’s what it should mean.

But it doesn’t.

Because this dress was different.

This dress wasn’t a transaction.

Sana had given it to her once, not as a payment, not as another indulgence to add to her collection, not as something meant to remind her of her place. Just as a gift.

A simple thing, and yet, nothing with Sana was ever simple.

Y/N remembers the moment too clearly, burned into her memory like something unwilling to fade. The way Sana had handed it to her, carefully, deliberately, without the usual flippancy that came with her wealth. There had been something hesitant in the way she’d let her fingers linger at the edges of the fabric, something almost unreadable in her expression, something that made Y/N feel like the air had been pulled from the room.

For the first time, Sana hadn’t dressed her like something meant to be displayed. She had given her something and asked for nothing in return.

And that? That had been the cruelest part. Because Y/N had let herself believe. Just for a second. Just for the length of a heartbeat.

She had let herself think that maybe, just maybe, Sana had seen her as more than something to be possessed.

She had never worn it. Never dared to.

Instead, it had stayed buried in the back of her closet, hanging like a secret, like something fragile, like the ghost of a moment she refuses to name.

She stares at it now, her breath uneven, her chest aching in ways she doesn’t want to acknowledge.

It’s just a dress.

That’s what she tells herself. 

It’s just fabric. Just silk and thread. Just another meaningless thing.

But her hands tremble as she brushes against it, her throat tightening as if her body knows the truth even if her mind refuses to say it.

This isn’t about the dress. It’s about everything it represents.

About the way Sana had looked at her that night. About the silence that had stretched between them, thick with something unspoken, something neither of them had been brave enough to say. About the fact that, for once, Y/N hadn’t felt like she was being bought, but like she was being given something real.

She should let it go. She should force herself to forget, to leave it behind, to move on with the rest of her life and pretend that this, that Sana, hadn’t left something irreversible inside her.

But she doesn’t.

She can’t.

So instead, she lets it stay, hidden in the dark, untouched and waiting. Like the part of her that still isn’t ready to let go. Like the part of her that still isn’t sure she ever will.

Y/N throws herself into anything that dulls the ache.

She works late, picking up extra shifts, burying herself in her art, pretending exhaustion is enough to drown out everything she doesn’t want to feel. She surrounds herself with people who don’t know her as Sana’s, people who don’t whisper about the way she used to exist in someone else’s orbit.

Here, she is not someone’s trophy. Not someone’s mistake. Not someone’s anything.

And yet, Sana lingers.

She exists in the spaces between conversations, in the moments when the world quiets just enough for Y/N’s mind to betray her. In the way laughter feels different now, like it doesn’t quite reach the parts of her that once felt full. In the way the city, despite its chaos, despite its endless movement, somehow feels emptier.

Y/N passes by an expensive restaurant and remembers the way Sana had guided her inside once, hand pressed lightly to the small of her back, an instinctive gesture that she should have never let herself read into. She catches the scent familiar to the Sana's perfume in a crowded subway and stiffens, pulse spiking before logic catches up with her. Other time she hears her name spoken in a voice that isn’t hers and turns too quickly, disappointment sharp and cutting when she realizes it was never Sana to begin with.

The memories won’t leave. And the feelings, they refuse to die.

It terrifies her.

Because no matter how much distance she tries to put between them, Sana is still there. Not physically, not in any tangible way, but in the parts of Y/N that haven’t yet learned how to be without her. In the echoes of a past she hasn’t figured out how to silence.

And worst of all, she knows the truth.

If Sana ever tried to reach for her again, if she ever appeared in front of her, offering apologies wrapped in beautiful words, promising things she never could before, Y/N isn’t sure she would have the strength to walk away.

But she has to.

Because she is done waiting. Done hoping. Done believing that she is something Sana could ever hold onto.

She will not be someone who waits to be chosen. She will not be someone who stands still in the shadow of what could have been. She will not let herself break just to make room for someone who never once gave her a place to belong.

So, no.

No matter how much it hurts, no matter how much of Sana lingers in the cracks of her being, she will not go back.

Not this time. Not ever.

And if Sana ever expected otherwise, if she thought Y/N would be waiting, arms open, heart willing, then she never really knew her at all.

Because Y/N is gone. She has already made her choice.

But Sana? Sana isn’t ready to accept it.

She tells herself it’s fine. She tells herself this is expected, that Y/N has always been proud, always sharp-edged, always someone who makes a point when she’s been hurt. This is her pushing back, proving that Sana’s absence wounded her. And Sana? Sana is supposed to chase. That’s how this works.

So she does.

She doesn’t let herself hesitate when she types the first text. It’s careful, deliberately casual, like she’s testing the waters without diving too deep.

“Can we talk?”

Sent. Read. Ignored.

Sana frowns at the screen, but she doesn’t panic. Not yet. She knows Y/N. She’s being stubborn, holding onto her anger like a weapon, waiting for Sana to try harder. She wants to be pursued. She wants to feel wanted.

So Sana calls.

Once. Twice. 

Straight to voicemail.

She stares at her phone, at the missed calls, at the silence where Y/N’s voice should be. The air in the room shifts, tightening around her, pressing against her ribs in a way that feels unfamiliar. It’s just her pride, that’s all.

Still, she tries again.

“I miss you.” Another text, stripped of anything but truth.

She sends it before she can think too hard, before she can weigh what it means, before she can let herself hesitate. The word miss is foreign, unfamiliar, an admission she isn’t used to making. But it doesn’t matter, not if it gets Y/N to answer.

But the message stays unread.

Minutes stretch into hours. Hours into days. The silence swells, heavy and absolute.

And for the first time, a feeling Sana can’t control begins to unfurl inside her chest. Something restless. Something sharp. Something dangerously close to fear.

She grips her phone, thumb hovering over Y/N’s name, torn between calling again and forcing herself to stop. Y/N has never done this before. Never ignored her completely. Never shut her out so definitively that Sana was left with nothing but the echo of her own attempts.

This isn’t a game. This isn’t stubbornness.

This is different.

She forces herself to breathe, to steady the tremor creeping into her fingers, to resist the urge to shatter the fragile calm she’s barely holding onto.

She reminds herself of who she is, who she has always been. The one who leaves first. The one who never waits, never lingers long enough for absence to carve itself into her ribs. She has always been the one walking away, never the one being left behind.

But this time, it’s different.

This time, she’s the one being abandoned.

The thought unsettles her, sends something cold through her veins. It’s foreign, unnatural, this creeping, gnawing ache of being the one reaching out, of being the one wanting.

She shouldn’t feel like this. She shouldn’t feel anything.

And yet, she finds herself dialing again, despite everything, despite the silence that has already answered for Y/N.

Straight to voicemail.

Again.

Sana exhales sharply, pressing the phone against her forehead for a brief, suspended moment before setting it down on the desk with deliberate precision. Her fingers tighten into a fist against the polished wood, nails biting into her palm, her mind racing against something she doesn’t want to name.

This should be the part where she lets go. Where she shrugs it off, moves on, buries whatever this ache is beneath something sharp and dismissive.

It should be.

But it isn’t. Because this is the first time in her life that she wants, really, truly wants. And she doesn’t know how to let it slip through her fingers.

She isn’t ready to lose.

Not her. Not like this.

The night air is a quiet, unrelenting thing against Sana’s skin, slipping through the seams of her coat, chilling her fingers where they hover over her phone screen. She shouldn’t be here, she knows this. Knows it in the same way she knows Y/N won’t answer, won’t pick up, won’t so much as acknowledge her attempts. And yet, she’s still standing outside, her back pressed against the cold metal railing, eyes flicking up to the apartment window that remains stubbornly dark.

She exhales, slow and measured, watching the way her breath curls in the night air before disappearing. Then, before she can talk herself out of it, she types.

“Can you come out? I know you should be home right now. Let’s talk it out, please.”

Sent.

She stares at the message, willing the word read to appear beneath it. The seconds stretch long, an ache in the spaces between.

Nothing.

Her grip tightens around the phone, and for the first time, something uncomfortably close to regret needles its way into her chest.

She wants to tell herself that Y/N just isn’t home. That she’s out, phone forgotten somewhere, unaware of Sana standing here like some lovesick fool waiting for an answer that isn’t coming. But she knows better. She knows Y/N. 

And still, she waits.

She isn’t sure how long she stands there, motionless except for the occasional glance at her screen, her nails tapping restlessly against the cool glass. Minutes? An hour? Time has a way of losing meaning when you're stuck between hope and inevitability.

Then, just as she’s about to convince herself to leave, light spills through one of the windows. Warm, golden. A stark contrast to the cold settling deep in Sana’s bones.

Her breath catches.

A silhouette moves behind the curtain. Just a flicker of motion, brief enough that it could be nothing. But it isn’t. She knows it isn’t.

The curtain shifts.

Not much. Just enough.

Y/N steps into view, half hidden by the fabric, her features cast in soft shadow. She’s close enough now that Sana can see the tension in her frame, the slight furrow in her brow, the way her lips press into a thin line, undecided.

And then, for the first time in what feels like forever, their eyes meet.

A moment. A second. Maybe two.

Sana lifts a hand, an instinctive, almost hesitant motion, the beginnings of a silent plea. But before she can do anything more.

The blinds fall shut.

Deliberate. Definite.

The light remains, glowing stubbornly behind the thin fabric, but Y/N is gone.

Sana doesn’t move. She can’t. Something cold and sharp curls in her chest, something she doesn’t know how to name. Her phone feels heavier in her grip, her earlier message still unanswered, the silence surrounding her feeling far more final than it did before.

She knows she should leave. Knows that standing outside Y/N’s apartment, staring at a window that won’t open, won’t change anything. But even as she finally exhales, forcing herself to move, there’s a weight in her chest that refuses to settle.

The car is still waiting at the curb, sleek and silent, its dark windows reflecting the glow of the streetlights. The driver stands beside the door, straight-backed and expressionless, used to these late-night whims, to the way Sana drifts through the city like she’s searching for something she’ll never find.

She doesn’t meet his gaze as she approaches, just tugs open the door and slides into the backseat, the leather cold against her skin.

“Home, Miss Minatozaki?”

A part of her wants to say no, wants to tell him to drive aimlessly through the streets until the ache in her ribs dulls. But she swallows the impulse, exhales slowly.

“Yes.”

The city moves around them as the car pulls away, neon lights casting fractured colors on rain-slick pavement. The low hum of traffic, of distant sirens and muffled laughter, presses in from all sides. Sana leans her head back against the seat, staring at her own reflection in the tinted glass.

She looks how she feels. Hollow. Restless. Like a ghost caught between what she had and what she lost.

Her grip on her phone tightens.

She doesn’t text again. Doesn’t call. But she wants to.

Instead, she does the only thing she can do, she searches.

It takes longer than she expects. Y/N has never been easy to find, never been the type to leave a trail. But Sana has resources. People who owe her favors. She makes a few discreet calls, has someone look into it, and eventually, a name comes up.

She stares at the address on her screen for a long time. Three days, to be exact.

Three days of opening the maps app and closing it again. Three days of almost typing a message, of almost calling, of almost convincing herself she should just let it go.

But she doesn’t.

The place is small, tucked away on a quiet street she wouldn’t normally set foot on. It’s the kind of café that smells like cinnamon and fresh bread, where the chairs don’t match and the walls are pinned with sketches from customers who have stayed too long. The air is thick with warmth, the sound of soft laughter and the hiss of steamed milk curling through the space.

Sana feels out of place the moment she steps inside.

The bell above the door jingles. Heads lift. A few customers glance at her, then back at their drinks, their conversations. But the girl at the register, bright-eyed, young, too observant, pauses mid sentence.

And then, as if pulled by something inevitable, Sana’s gaze finds her.

Y/N is behind the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy, moving through the space like she belongs. And she does. She fits here in a way that Sana has never seen before, something softer, something quieter, something so effortlessly hers that it makes Sana’s throat tighten.

For a moment, she hesitates. For a moment, she almost convinces herself to leave before she’s seen.

But then their eyes meet.

It happens too quickly for Sana to prepare, too fast for her to slip into the carefully curated indifference she wears so well. She knows her expression must give her away, knows Y/N can see the way her lips part, the way something raw flickers across her face.

For a second, just a second, Y/N stills. A flicker of hesitation, the kind that makes Sana want to reach across the space between them, to say something, anything.

But then, Y/N’s gaze hardens.

She turns without a word, disappearing into the backroom, the door swinging shut behind her.

Sana exhales slowly, pulse roaring in her ears.

She waits.

She doesn’t know why she does. Maybe she’s still expecting Y/N to come back out, to say something sharp and cutting, something that would hurt but at least mean acknowledgment. Anything would be better than this suffocating quiet.

But the minutes stretch.

The café moves on around her, unaffected. Customers chat, cups clink, the scent of espresso lingers in the air. Only the girl at the register keeps glancing at her, like she’s debating whether to say something.

Sana tightens her grip on her coat sleeve, forcing herself to breathe through the restless ache curling in her chest.

Then, footsteps.

Not Y/N’s.

An older man emerges from the back instead, wiping his hands on a towel, eyes lined with exhaustion. The manager, she assumes. He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at her with something close to sympathy.

And Sana knows.

“I think it’s best if you leave,” he says, voice careful. Polite.

Sana nods stiffly. Her throat feels tight as she steps back out into the cold.

Y/N isn’t coming back.

And for the first time, she wonders if she ever will.

The thought stays with her, clinging to her ribs like something desperate, something suffocating. It follows her through the empty streets, through the quiet hum of a city that does not care for broken hearts. She feels it in the spaces between each breath, in the hollow ache in her chest, in the way the world keeps moving even when she cannot.

But she cannot stay frozen. Not when this is all she has left.

This is her last chance.

Sana tells herself this as she steps through the doors of the gallery, the warmth of the space pressing against her skin like something tangible. The murmur of conversation hums around her, soft but constant, the sound of glasses clinking against each other, of quiet admiration, of a world that has nothing to do with her.

She moves carefully, hovering near the edges, fingers curling around the delicate stem of an untouched champagne glass. Her gaze sweeps over the room, past the abstract paintings and charcoal sketches lining the walls, past the patrons in tailored suits and flowing dresses. She isn’t looking at the art.

She’s looking for her.

Y/N stands near the center of the room, her presence magnetic even in the low, golden lighting. She’s dressed beautifully, effortlessly, the soft fabric of her outfit draping over her frame in a way that makes something inside Sana twist. There’s a quiet confidence in the way she carries herself, in the way she gestures while speaking, in the way she smiles at someone, too easily, too warmly.

Sana swallows, throat tight.

She watches as Y/N moves through the space with the kind of ease that makes it painfully clear, this is where she belongs. This is her world, her success, her life. And there is no room in it for Sana.

But still, she waits. For a glance. A flicker of acknowledgment.

Anything.

She tells herself Y/N must have seen her by now. That she has to know Sana is here. But Y/N never looks her way. Not once.

Minutes stretch long. Sana remains frozen, feet rooted to the spot as the weight of being ignored settles over her. It’s suffocating, suffocating in a way she’s never known before.

It makes her restless. It makes her reckless.

Her grip tightens around her glass as she takes a step forward, then another. The crowd shifts around her, voices overlapping, a gentle sea of movement that carries her closer.

The distance between them shrinks.

She can hear Y/N’s voice now, can see the way her lips curve slightly as she speaks to someone, the way her fingers trace the rim of her own champagne flute. Sana’s breath catches, fingers trembling at her side.

She’s close enough now. Close enough that she can reach out.

But then, Y/N moves.

Not toward her. Not to acknowledge her. 

Away.

Deliberate. Effortless. Clean.

She turns her back before Sana can speak, before she can even breathe, and just like that, Sana is left standing there, looking at the space where she used to be.

It’s a dismissal. A rejection without words.

Sana exhales sharply, something unsteady in her chest, something desperate that she can’t quite name.

The next morning, Sana wakes up to an ache that sits heavy in her chest.

It follows her through the day, through every unread text, every call that goes straight to voicemail.

She tries again. And again. And again. Each attempt is met with the same silence. The same refusal. The same cold, unwavering indifference.

She should stop. She should let it go.

She knows this.

But she doesn’t. She can’t. Instead, she presses send on another message, her fingers hesitating only briefly over the keyboard before she forces herself to type out the words.

“I know you don’t want to talk to me. But please, just tell me if I should stop trying.”

Minutes pass. Then hours.

The message stays unread.

Sana stares at the screen for too long, eyes tracing the sharp edges of Y/N’s name, the empty space where a reply should be. The rejection settles deep in her stomach, raw and relentless, gnawing at something she didn’t even know she had left in her.

For the first time, she understands what it means to be left behind.

Truly. Completely.

And it hurts.

She knows this is what she deserves. She knows she has no right to expect anything, no right to be angry, no right to feel this sharp, ugly ache blooming inside her.

But that doesn’t stop it from swallowing her whole.

Still, she doesn’t give up. Not yet.

She wants to try one last time.

As the hours stretch thin, as the city quiets, as everything else winds down into the hush of the night, she makes her choice.

It’s late. The kind of late where the world feels half-asleep, where the streetlights hum softly in the distance, their glow spilling onto empty sidewalks. The air is thick, heavy with the weight of something inevitable. The kind of silence that lingers before a storm, before something breaks, before something ends.

Sana stands outside the apartment building, the weight in her chest growing heavier with every second. She moves toward the elevator, pressing the button with a hand that feels too unsteady. The doors slide open, and she steps inside, watching the numbers climb. Each floor that passes only adds to the pressure building behind her ribs.

By the time she reaches Y/N’s door, the hallway is quiet. The air smells faintly of old coffee and something floral, like someone had lit a candle hours ago, long before the night settled in. A light hum of music seeps through one of the doors down the hall, muffled voices from a television playing in another unit.

Life continues, unaware of the way her world is unraveling.

She tightens her grip on the sleeves of her coat, fingers curled into the fabric, trying to steady herself. She doesn’t know what she’s going to say. She just knows she has to try.

One last time.

Her hand lifts, knuckles hovering over the door for a moment before she finally knocks. Once. Then again, firmer. The sound is swallowed by the quiet.

She waits, shifting on her feet, heart hammering against her ribs. Seconds stretch too long, enough to make her think, maybe she’s not home. Maybe she won’t answer. Maybe this is it.

And then she heard it, footsteps. Soft against the wooden floor, growing closer.

The door creaks open.

Y/N stands in the dim glow of the hallway, barefoot, swallowed in an old sweater that hangs loose over her frame, sleeves tugged past her hands. Her hair is slightly disheveled, shadows lingering beneath her eyes, exhaustion carved into every line of her face.

She looks like she had been waiting for the night to end.

Like she had been hoping, praying, that this wouldn’t happen.That Sana wouldn’t come.

For a moment, something flickers in her gaze, something unspoken, something that remembers. A crack in the walls she’s built, a brief, fleeting hesitation.

But then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

Her shoulders square. Her lips press into a thin, unforgiving line. The softness fades, replaced by something distant, something cold.

She doesn’t step back. Doesn’t open the door wider.

Doesn’t invite Sana in.

Instead, she exhales, sharp and steady, her eyes flickering past Sana for the briefest moment, scanning the empty hall as if making sure there are no witnesses to this wreckage. Then she moves, not inside, but forward.

She steps out onto the doorstep, closing the door behind her with a quiet, final click.

A barrier. A choice.

A message.

She is making it clear, Sana is not welcome here.

"You need to stop this."

Y/N’s voice is quiet, but it doesn’t waver. There’s no anger, no bite, just exhaustion, raw and unfiltered. Like she has nothing left to give. Like she’s been carrying the weight of this conversation long before Sana ever knocked on her door.

Sana barely holds herself together. The cold seeps through her coat, but it’s nothing compared to the chill creeping into her bones at the way Y/N is looking at her, guarded, braced for impact.

“I just need to talk to you,” she pleads. Her voice is softer than she intends, edges smoothed over by desperation.

Y/N exhales sharply, arms crossing over her chest. It’s a flimsy shield, but a shield nonetheless. A line drawn between them. A boundary.

"You never chose me before."

The words cut, a clean slice through the fragile hope Sana had been clinging to. Y/N’s voice isn’t loud, but it doesn’t have to be. It lands like a final verdict.

"Why should I believe you will now?"

Sana flinches. It’s instinct. A reaction to the undeniable truth pressing in on her from all sides.

Because Y/N is right.

Because it doesn’t matter how many nights Sana has spent lying awake, replaying every moment, rewriting every mistake in her head. It doesn’t matter how much she aches, how much she wants, wanting doesn’t change the past.

And the past is brutal.

She opens her mouth, closes it, swallows around the knot in her throat.

"I messed up."

The words feel foreign, unfamiliar. Maybe because she’s never said them before. Maybe because she’s never really had to.

But she says them now.

"I was afraid," she admits, voice barely above a whisper. "I wanted you more than anything, but I didn’t know how to keep you."

She hates how small she sounds. Hates how exposed she feels. But she watches Y/N anyway, searching for something, anything, a crack in the armor, a flicker of hesitation. A sign that this isn’t over.

Y/N doesn’t move. She doesn’t soften.

She just stands there, staring at Sana with an expression that gives away nothing, offering her nothing. And then, the silence.

God, the silence.

Not the kind that holds hope. Not the kind that lingers with unspoken words, with something left to salvage. No, this is the silence of someone who has already let go. Sana feels it like a blade, sharp and precise, cutting through the last of her resolve.

And when Y/N finally speaks, her voice barely above a whisper, it destroys her completely.

“How am I supposed to believe you?”

She isn’t looking at her anymore. She stares at the ground, jaw tight, fingers curling into the sleeves of her sweater like she needs something, anything, to hold onto.

“How am I supposed to trust that this isn’t just another moment of you wanting me because you can’t have me?”

Sana feels it, something inside her splintering, a fault line giving way beneath the weight of all the things she never said, all the things she never did.

“That’s not...” Her voice catches. She swallows, shakes her head, tries again. “That’s not what this is.”

But it doesn’t matter, because Y/N doesn’t believe her.

And really, why should she?

Sana has never given her a reason to. No matter how much she wants to rewrite the past, no matter how badly she wishes she could undo every mistake, the truth remains: she made her choice long before this moment.

And Y/N? She learned how to live with it.

Y/N exhales, slow and deliberate, as if steadying herself, as if preparing for what comes next. Then she speaks, and the words don’t shake, don’t waver, don’t leave any space for doubt.

“Please.”

Not a question. Not hesitation. Not a door left cracked open.

An ending.

“Just let me go.”

The words slice through Sana, sharp and clean, and for a second, she forgets how to breathe. But before the pain can settle, before reason can catch up with impulse, she moves. Her fingers wrap around Y/N’s wrist, tightening instinctively, as if holding on will somehow stop this, stop her, stop the inevitable.

“Please,” she whispers, voice unraveling, breaking at the seams. “Just give me a chance.”

She has never begged before. Not for anything. Not for anyone.

But for Y/N? She would.

She would fall to her knees, strip herself bare, offer up every last piece of herself if it meant rewriting the past. If it meant she didn’t have to lose her like this.

For a single, excruciating moment, Y/N doesn’t move. She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t turn her back.

Sana feels it then, the slightest hesitation, something fleeting, something fragile, like the lingering warmth of a touch before it’s gone. But it vanishes just as quickly as it appears, slipping through her fingers before she can even hope to hold onto it.

With quiet finality, Y/N pries Sana’s grip from her wrist. It isn’t harsh. It isn’t cruel. It’s careful, almost gentle, and somehow, that makes it worse.

The loss is immediate, sharp, a phantom ache in the space where she used to be.

And then Y/N turns.

She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t hesitate.

She walks away, the door closing behind her with a soft, unremarkable click. It shouldn’t sound so final.

But to Sana, it is deafening. 

She stands there, frozen, staring at the place where Y/N used to be. She should say something. She should stop her. She should reach for her, knock on the door, do something.

But the words, like everything else, come too late.

Her breath trembles in the cold. Her hands curl uselessly at her sides.

She should leave. She should turn around, disappear into the night, let the city swallow her whole like she was never here.

But she doesn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, she stands there. She lingers. She waits, as if Y/N might change her mind, as if the door might open again, as if the universe might grant her mercy for once in her goddamn life.

But nothing happens.

There is only silence. And in the absence of everything she should have said sooner.

She whispers it. Too soft. Too late.

But true.

“A chance to show you that I love you.”

[meadowlarkx]

"The Thimble's Bucket List," Little Housewolf by Medrie Purdham

[captainbuzzard]

was clearing out my phone's gallery and once again realized how much art i never posted here, so here's a stijn strongbody!

[ID: a digital line drawing of Stijn Strongbody, a middle aged Japanese man with four sheep's horns, and, barely visible before the canvas cuts off, four arms. he holds a pencil in one hand as he looks off to one side with a good-natured, contemplative expression.]

[sarlias]

It's been awhile since I've spent an entire book wondering how the MC can be so stupid. I get that she's 17, but please rub your brain cells together occasionally.

Pretty cover art though

And for a character who constantly talks about how selfish the upper class is, she sure is selfish herself.

I think I might be so disappointed because I read the prequel novella Queen Song first and I actually really liked it and I liked Coriane. Maybe it's a sign that the writing improves and I should keep reading the series, I don't know.

Cal was truly the only bearable character in the book for me, I kind of wish it had been written from his PoV instead. WAIT I forgot about Lucas... he was also good.

[crushed-oranged-angered]

Teen Wolf Motel California

So many thoughts about Teen Wolf Motel California

[sleepyhoon]

TWO MOONS - L.HS

pairing. plug!heeseung x reader

genre. smut, 18+ content, one shot, drabble. MDNI!

word count. 4k+

warnings. drug & alcohol consumption, partying, swearing, sex while intoxicated, short smut [ dry humping, multiple orgasms, oral (f. receiving), fingering ]

synopsis. based off of this hard thought! plug!heeseung who likes you so much that he's convinced himself that you're kinda evil.

a/n. sorry this took so long lol hope u enjoy regardless :) no part 2 so plss dont request it but maybe some drabbles!! also not fully proofread so pls disregard any typos or grammatical errors hehe

Never in his life did Heeseung predict he’d be getting bitched around by a girl arguably much shorter, physically weaker, and far less intimidating than him. And yet here he was, shirtless in his kitchen at two in the morning on his third attempt of baking edibles all because you were too scared to smoke a little weed. 

Fucking ridiculous.

It’s his own fault, really, he should’ve known that innocent, good girl persona you put on was all an act you use to control people – specifically men. Stirring the dessert batter in the mixing bowl, Heeseung shakes his head at the memory of you tilting your head and batting your eyelashes at him as you spoke, your perfectly manicured nails – that you probably got some desperate bitchboy to pay for – tracing and lightly scratching his bicep.

“So,” you started, dragging out the ‘o’, “how much do you charge for edibles?”

Heeseung shakes his head, tracing the rim of his half-empty red solo cup as he responds, “Edibles aren’t my forte. You don’t smoke?”

“Not my forte,” you say in a mocking tone, making Heeseung chuckle. “It’s just too much, you know? The smell, how quick it kicks in…not for me. But, uh, if you don’t make them I’ll stop wasting your time, then.” You give Heeseung a friendly pat on the shoulder before turning on your heels, fully prepared to disappear back into the party and find someone who actually meets your needs.

“Wait!” Heeseung stops you, tugging on your arm until you’re back to facing him. He can’t fucking believe this bullshit manipulation tactic you’re using on him is actually working, he’s literally pulling on your arm like a child so you won’t leave him.

You raise a brow at him as you wait for Heeseung to continue, taking note of his sudden nervousness, “Yeah?”

“Uh…are you into, like, brownies? Or…”

The smirk you gave in response said enough, you’ve got him exactly where you want him.

He’d spent the next few hours browsing the aisles of Target, checking his phone every so often and checking off each ingredient as he tossed them into the bright red shopping cart. To make matters worse, you hadn’t even requested normal brownies, you wanted some shit he’d hardly ever heard of before: blondies. 

It was bad enough that Heeseung already couldn’t bake for shit, and here you were demanding he’d make something he’d never even tasted before; you really are a master manipulator.

His third and final attempt at baking the blondies were a success, his three roommates taste-testing the fresh batch as a final confirmation.

“I can’t even taste it,” Jake says, his brows shooting up in delight, “you sure you’re not forgetting the main ingredient?”

“That’s the whole point,” Heeseung explains, cutting the remaining batch into neat squares, “YN doesn’t want the taste to be too strong, she likes when it’s more subtle and takes awhile to kick in.”

“Are you her wife or her plug?” Sunghoon jokes from his spot on the couch, taking a small bite of his own blondie.

“Neither,” Jay inserts himself into the conversation, taking a seat next to Sunghoon, “I’m sure he wants to be both, though.”

“Fuck off,” Heeseung snaps, momentarily narrowing his eyes at his roommates. “We just met, I’m just trying to get to know her.” He sets the knife down, reaching into the wooden cabinet to retrieve ziplock bags.

“You’re already her bitch, what else is there to know?” Sunghoon half-jokes, resting his feet on the ottoman.

“I am not her bitch.”

He totally is, if the way he’s hurrying to send you a picture of the freshly made blondies is anything to go by.

Heeseung * 2:47 AM

[Attachment: 1 Image] Yooo

YN * 9:06 AM

omggggg  ur the fucking best how much??

You didn’t respond until the following morning, causing Heeseung to nearly jump out of his skin once he woke up to your texts. He turns on his side, elbow propped up against the mattress as he formulates a response.

Heeseung * 10:31 AM

1 for 10 or 2 for 15. venmo or cashapp But lmk if you want more 

YN * 10:40 AM

no cash? :(

Heeseung’s about to go on a long winded explanation about how money transferring apps are quicker and more convenient than accepting cash when you interrupt him by sending a photo.

YN * 10:41 AM 

[Attachment: 1 Image] plsssss i don’t trust cashapp and ive been having issues w my venmo acc :(

It’s a photo of the bottom half of your face, lips formed into a cute pout with your camera angled low enough to show off your cleavage. You weren’t even trying to be discreet, setting your forearm underneath your chest to make your boobs sit higher, the cheetah print material of your bra peeking out from under your too-small tank top.

Heeseung swallows hard, staring down at the photo with his pupils blown wide as his trembling fingers type out a response.

Heeseung * 10:50 AM

Actually you know what don’t even worry about it lmao Consider it a gift When r u free for pickup Or i can bring to u Either or is fine lol

YN * 10:59 AM

omg :o are u sure?  don’t want u to lose out on money >.<

Heeseung * 11:11 AM

It’s fine dw about me baby U picking up? Or want me to drop off On campus is too risky

YN * 11:12 AM

thank u hee!!!!!!! im done with classes around 4:30 i’ll pick up around then if that works also u responded at 11:11…angel number u must be my angel :o

There you go again with your subtle manipulation tactics that Heeseung swears won’t work on him. If there really is angel out of the two of you, it definitely wouldn’t be you, but Heeseung’s not too sure he’d be considered one either. After all, in the twelve minutes it took him to respond to your message, he spent ten of them fucking into his fist as he stared at the photo you sent.

His mind conjured up countless scenarios; leaving hickeys and bite marks across your chest, slipping his dick between your tits as you held them together for him, cumming all over them, fucking anything. Desperate wasn’t even the word.

Heeseung * 11:13 AM

Must be :)

After a month and a half of being your personal baker slash bitchboy, Heeseung really is convinced that you’re using him, yet he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything he’s grateful, fully aware that if it weren’t for him being your plug, the two of you likely never would’ve crossed paths despite attending the same universities.

There wasn’t an ounce of school spirit in his body, so he had little to no urgency to attend any of the sporting events you cheered at or one of the many school-sponsored events you were required to attend. Meeting you at that party not too long ago had been his first encounter with you ever, and you clearly left him with a great first impression on him.

Since that night, he’s found himself conjuring up a new batch of edibles for you every week; brownies, cupcakes, cereal bars, whatever the fuck you wanted, and half the time he’d do it for free if it meant he got to give it to you in person.

He still hasn’t convinced you to actually smoke, though, but maybe it’s for the best. The mere thought of getting high with you and how you’d stare him down with half-lidded eyes was enough to make his dick hard — in fact, it already has. Several times.

Enough time has passed to the point where it’s obvious to everyone, yourself included, that Heeseung has genuine feelings for you that go beyond a physical and sexual attraction. Sure, he’s still convinced that you’re a little bit evil and definitely manipulative, but he considers it part of the fun. He’s also deluded himself into having the “I can fix her” mindset that he’s been using to justify his actions of ignoring your red flags.

However, even if he can’t “fix” you, it wouldn’t be a huge loss. Red is his favorite color, after all.

“You sound…crazy, and she sounds crazier,” Jake leans against the kitchen counter, raising a concerned brow at Heeseung as he takes a sip of his drink.

“I’m not crazy,” Heeseung corrects, “and YN is…I don’t know, honestly. Leave her alone, dipshit.”

Jake throws a hand up in defense, glaring when a fellow partygoer accidentally bumps into him, nearly causing him to spill his drink. “Rather be a dipshit than a bitchboy.” He mutters loud enough for Heeseung to hear before groaning, “Wow, speak of the devil.”

Heeseung turns, following Jake’s line of sight until he spots you walking through the front door. Stunning as always, your khaki mini skirt and black halter top fitting as if they were custom designed for you and only you.

Despite extending you an invitation to Sunghoon’s birthday party, Heeseung was fairly certain you wouldn’t show up tonight, assuming you’d be consumed with cheer practice or one of your many extracurricular activities to attend. Yet, here you were, a wicked grin on your face as you made eye contact with Heeseung.

He gulps in return, eyes wide as he watches you walk over to him and Jake.

You stand beside Heeseung, shooting him a quick smile before directing your attention to Jake, “Sunghoon! Happy birthday, king!”

Jake side-eyes you, briefly glancing at Heeseung before responding, “I’m not…you know what? Nevermind, thanks.” He takes this as an opportunity to exit the conversation, giving Heeseung a light pat on the shoulder as he leaves.

“Didn’t think you’d be here.” Heeseung comments, leaning against the kitchen countertop.

You shrug, “Wasn’t doing anything else, figured it wouldn’t hurt to stop by for a little. Besides, I wanted to see you.”

“Yeah?” Heeseung asks, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“Yeah,” you respond, taking a step closer and resting your hand on his bicep, “got anything for me?”

Fuck, Heeseung knew he should’ve made another batch of brownies or some shit. He seriously hadn’t been expecting you to show up tonight, otherwise he would’ve been prepared.

He shakes his head, “Not this time, you should’ve told me you were coming; I would’ve made something.”

You groan, momentarily tilting your head back, “I just wanted to surprise you.”

“Consider me surprised,” his hand lands on your waist, pulling your body until your flush against him, “why won’t you just smoke with me?”

You grimace, shaking your head in response.

Heeseung rolls his eyes, “Just once? I know your first time wasn’t that great, but, I really think you’d like it if you tried again.”

“I don’t know, Hee…”

“Tell you what,” Heeseung starts, clearing his throat, “smoke with me just this once, and your next few purchases are on me.”

It isn’t much of an offer considering most of the shit he gave you was either free or already extremely discounted, but your eyes light up regardless. “Really?”

Heeseung nods, “I swear.”

You think it over for a moment, the pros instantly outweigh the cons and lead you to accept Heeseung’s desperate offer. 

A few minutes later, you find yourself in a comfortable lounge chair with Heeseung in his backyard, grateful that the remaining partygoers opted to stay indoors, giving you privacy and alone time with him.

You’re sitting sideways on his lap, trying your best to ignore the feeling of his dick pressing right against your ass, neatly rolled blunt in one hand as he uses the other to fish a lighter from his pocket. “You’re nervous,” he comments.

You shake your head, “I’m not.”

“You are, I feel you shaking.”

“I’m fine, just kinda cold. Go on.”

Heeseung studies you for a moment, eye contact strong and intimidating as ever as he brings the blunt to his parted lips. You watch carefully as he brings the lighter towards the tip, focusing entirely too much on the concentrated look on his face as he lights it. Slowly, he begins to rotate it as the end continues to burn, taking a few small puffs here and there.

Satisfied with his creation, Heeseung takes a long, slow drag, inhaling the smoke into his lungs before titling his head away to exhale.

“Your turn,” he says, offering you the blunt.

You hesitantly stare down at it before accepting; it was intimidating to say the least, the scent alone strong enough to make your head hurt. Heeseung watches you patiently, eyes darting between your lips and the blunt in silence.

Deciding you need a little bit of encouragement, he brings his thumb to your lips, parting them slightly as his free-hand wraps around your wrist, “You’ll be fine, trust me.” 

Under the guidance of his calloused hand, you finally bring the blunt up to your lips and briefly inhale before immediately exhaling.

Heeseung chuckles, shaking his head, “How’d that feel?”

You ponder for a moment, passing the blunt back to Heeseung, “I don’t feel anything. Literally nothing.”

“I mean, yeah, you didn’t even inhale it.”

You roll your eyes, “Why are there so many steps? This is why I prefer edibles.”

“I’m just showing you that you have other options, babe.”

“Yeah, well I’m sticking to my baked goods. You can have the rest of that, I don’t want anymore.”

Heeseung’s well aware that you’re a woman of your word, and the chances of you ever smoking again were a definite zero, so trying to get you to change your mind was pointless. However, there is one thing that may just work on you.

“Mind if I try something?”

You perk up, “Try what?”

“I do all the work but you still get high.”

You raise a brow, “That’s possible?”

He nods, “All you’d have to do is take deep breaths.”

Taking a deep breath, you accept Heeseung’s offer with a sigh, resting a hand on his shoulder as you adjust yourself on his lap. “Fine.”

Here goes nothing.

He guides the blunt back to his lips, taking a long drag as he holds the smoke in his mouth. He tilts his head upward towards you, taking your chin in his hand, signaling for you to part your lips. You follow his command and part your lips open, just enough for Heeseung to close the distance and allow the smoke into your mouth, his lips barely brushing against yours in the process.

You take in a deep breath, eyes closed shut and inhale the smoke, careful not to exhale too quickly and have a repeat of your previous attempt.

“How was that?” Heeseung asks, taking note of your sudden silence.

Truthfully, it wasn’t bad. The smell is still too strong for your liking and requires much more effort than biting off a piece of dessert and calling it a day, but it wasn’t bad. You’re certain that Heeseung shotgunning it into your mouth only added to the experience.

“Not bad,” you admit, “probably because you did all the work.”

He chuckles at that, “I’ll always take care of you, remember that.”

Heeseung is having the time of his life, thoroughly convinced that he finally has some power over you. Here you were sitting on his lap in his backyard letting him blow smoke into your mouth. Sure, it may have taken a lot of convincing and begging on his end to get to this point, but none of that matters; baby steps are still movement.

As if the night couldn’t have gotten any better, you’re asking Heeseung to shotgun more smoke into your mouth over and over. He’s careful to maintain a calm and nonchalant demeanor as he does so, not wanting to come off as too eager out of fear of scaring you away. Or even worse, giving you back that power you have over him.

On the fifth time, you swipe your tongue across Heeseung’s bottom lip when he passes the smoke into your mouth, a low groan escaping from him in the process. He’s fully hard in his jeans by now, and there’s no way you can’t feel his dick pressing right into you. Despite the cold weather, your entire body feels warm all over, Heeseung only adding to the pleasure.

You should’ve taken Heeseung a bit more seriously when he said you’d still get high from this; after a few minutes, your limbs were already starting to feel lighter and weaker. A delicate, cloud-like haze fills your head; your vision blurs slightly and it takes a few minutes for you to fully relax.

Heeseung, attentive as ever, remains silent and still has he watches you; primarily due to the fact that you squirming around on his lap is only adding to the uncomfortable tightness in his jeans. One wrong move, and he’d surely be cumming in his boxers.

You rest your forehead against Heeseung, pressing a firm hand against his chest when he moves to blow more smoke into your mouth. He hums, staring up at with a concerned look on his face.

You close your eyes, mumbling, “Heeseung…”

He hums again in response, still holding the smoke in his mouth.

You open your eyes briefly before closing them again, balling up the collar of his shirt in your fist as you lean down to press your lips against his. He opens his mouth on instinct, as if it were a second nature, parting his lips slightly and exhaling the smoke into your mouth once again.

Heeseung absentmindedly sets the blunt down, his hands moving to your waist to pull you closer to him until your tits are pressed right up against his chest. He groans into your mouth at the feelings, tilting his head to allow himself further into your mouth. 

You cup his face in your hands, hips moving forward as you slowly begin to grind yourself against him. “Fuck,” he moans in a low voice, “keep doing that.”

You grind down harsher this time, capturing his moan in your mouth in the process. With each movement of your hips, a shiver descends down your spine at the friction; Heeseung is painfully hard, and from what you could feel, he was definitely packing. Bigger than what you would’ve expected.

It all feels too good; you grinding against him, the state of his high, your tongue in his mouth. It’s all so overwhelmingly euphoric that Heeseung hardly realizes how close he is to literally cumming in his boxers.

His body was always overly sensitive whenever he got high, and often avoided any sort of intimacy that involved another person due to how embarrassingly quick he would finish, and tonight doesn't seem to be any different. What makes matters worse is the fact that Heeseung was already desperately attracted to you and had been dreaming of this moment since he’d first met you.

He pulls away quickly, cursing under his breath, “YN, h-hold on,” he stutters, “slow down, please.”

You don’t listen; in fact, you can barely even hear him with how caught up you were in your own head. “Hmm? Say that again?”

“S-slow – ah, fuck – slow down for a sec, baby.”

His grip on your waist tightens, and despite the urgency in his tone of wanting you to slow down, he makes no effort to still your hips move you off of him. Fuck it, it is what it is.

“Why?” You question, tilting your head, but you’re a few seconds too late.

Heeseung’s entire body shivers, hips jolting upwards as he comes on himself, making a mess of his boxers. While that alone was definitely embarrassing, Heeseung is more annoyed over the fact that you’ve regained your power over him. His priorities were definitely fucked, but he didn’t even care; he could clean himself up later, but the damage to his ego would take longer to repair.

Your hands fly to your mouth in shock, eyes widening as you process what’s just happened, “Oh, Heeseung…” you mumble into the palm of your hands.

He throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut as he runs a hand down his face, “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding.”

“It’s okay! It happens! No big deal!” You try to reassure him, but it goes in one ear and out the other.

Sure it happens and maybe it isn’t a big deal, but it is for Heeseung. He’s not the type to bust a nut over someone squirming around in his lap for ten minutes, this shit was fucking insanity.

“I’m seriously not like this, I’m just overly-sensitive when I’m high. I swear, I-”

“It’s fine, Heeseung,” you interrupt, standing from his lap, “if anything, I’m flattered! Why don’t you, uh, get cleaned up and I’ll see you later?”

“YN, come on, don’t do this.” He pleads, following you and you make your way towards the sliding door. 

“I told you, it’s fine! I’m not like,” you pause, opening the door with a loud grunt, “mad or weirded out or anything.”

You slip back into the living room, Heeseung hot on your tail with every step. “Let me make it up to you!”

You sigh, “Honestly, I don’t think you have it in you to do that right now.”

“I do! Just let me, please.”

“Heeseung, please drop it. I said it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, at least let me eat you out or something!”

“Heeseung!” Your eyes widen at his lewd, shameless offer, “Lower your voice! We’re in a fucking party surrounded by people!”

He smacks his teeth, “I don’t care. Please, YN.”

“You don’t have to make it up to me, you do not owe me anything.”

A beat of silence passes, then he says, “Then do it for me. Please.”

Even though Heeseung was the one literally begging to go down for you, there is a possibility of him having some sort of power over you; or maybe you just have a soft spot for him. Either way, you end up lying in his bed twenty minutes later, skirt bunched up around your waist as Heeseung’s wet tongue circles your clit, desperate attempt at coaxing a second orgasm from you.

He hadn’t even realized he’d grown hard again just from eating you out, and would likely end up cuuming in his boxers again just from doing this.

“Fuck,” he moans into your folds, pulling away slightly to pepper kisses on your inner thighs, “been waiting so fucking long for this.”

“Yeah?” You question, your grip on Heeseung’s hair tightening.

This earns a low groan from him as he nods against your skin, “You have no idea.”

Deciding he’s spent enough time away from your cunt, his lips make their way back onto you; his tongue falls flat against you, dragging your wetness upwards towards your swollen clit before wrapping his lips around the sensitive bud.

Your body shivers, a beam of sweat dripping down your forehead as your second orgasm approaches. You’ve been eaten out before, countless times, but never like this. It was almost as if Heeseung was doing it for his own pleasure rather than your.

He teases your entrance with his finger before sliding two of them in with ease, curling them upwards and immediately hitting the spot you needed him the most.

“H-Heeseung…hold on…”

He hums, but he’s not really listening, too occupied with kitten-licking your clit and pumping his fingers in and out of you. The knot in your stomach finally snaps and you’re gushing against his hands and mouth, Heeseung only takes this as a sign to continue lapping at your cunt. You have to literally grab him by the hair and drag him away from you.

He stares up at you, pupils blown wide and his chin coated in your juices, but he definitely looks happy. “What?” he asks.

You struggle to catch your breath, “You’re hard again?”

He looks down at his crotch momentarily before shrugging, “I guess.”

“You…don’t you wanna do something about that?”

His eyes flash down to your cunt for a split second, “It can wait.”

You scoff, “Well, I need a minute.”

Heeseung nods in agreement, impatiently drumming his fingers on his bed as you flop against his mattress. “Ready?” He asks once a minute has passed.

“No.”

He sighs, then sighs again, and again and again until you let out a frustrated groan. “Go get me a glass of fucking water.”

“Okay!” He shouts while standing, exiting the bedroom in a hurry. Maybe you really do treat him like a bitchboy, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

[ilium-ilia]

simon riley x fem!reader | drabble | intersecting lines | morbid thoughts | death and the macabre | erotic morbidity? | blood kink taken to the extreme | two sides of the same coin can never look in one direction, but that won't stop them from devouring each other whole anyway

You only learned that you should be disgusted with blood when it first stained your underwear.

Thick endometrium and stale ichor, expunged from your body like a pest, sticky between your thighs, rotting in the core of you—keep it quiet. You'll make the men squirm if you open your pretty lips about it. Suffer in silence. Wrap agony with a pale, baby pink bow and grin with teeth as iridescent as pearls; nothing less. Everything more.

The boy in your biology class cringes at the frog you slice open during lab. Heart long since stilled, webbed hands and feet pinned open and wide, tender stomach ready to dive into—he gags, and the sympathetic puker that is his partner nearly spews over his shoes.

Later that year, after sustaining a bloody nose during a football game, he grins—wears the crimson proudly as it pours into his lips as if he realizes for the first time that iron tastes and awful lot like victory.

Blood is a fickle bitch.

It haunts your dreams. A wide, open sea of red that pours down your throat, coagulating in your chest, spilling into your stomach until you're bloated. Clawing for the surface, the sky asks why you aren't satisfied—have you not had enough death to satiate your hunger? They speak as if this is what you wanted; a choice you actively pursued, and not someplace you ended up.

As if there would be anywhere else that would welcome you with open arms.

Hands wrapped tight around a wheelchair, you gently lead your patient down the hall. She said she wanted to go for a walk, but her legs don't quite work the same anymore. You don't mind. It gets your steps in, and you're able to hide from the EVS tech who can't quite keep his eyes off of your ass.

She tells you about her grandson. Freshly jellied just two months ago—a tiny thing with predictably small hands and fingers and a scent she can't ever get enough of. She asks if you've ever experienced anything like that, and you smile and say you have.

You don't tell her about the blood that stains your shoes, or how it belonged to a seventeen year old boy, or the glass that was lodged in his throat, or how he couldn't live even after you patched him up.

Oh, I could never do something like that.

It's the default expression someone shares when you talk about your work. Tight lips, clenching jaws, twitchy feet—they speak like they don't know how beautiful blood is, like pomegranate juice flowing beneath overgrown thumb nails, or the fortitude it takes to see beauty when nothing but death has been shoved down your throat your entire life.

So you look for something else to sear your throat instead. A good pint, usually.

Shoved in the corner of a dilapidating pub, far out of the way, on the fringe of a wicked swing shift—the glass warms in your lips. Your hands tap against the table. No matter how many times you wash your hands, you can't get the stench to go away. Of blood. Of an emergency department.

Death approaches you with a black jumper, blue jeans, and eyes darker than a moonless night—his name is Simon Riley. Something he grunts out when you ask who the fuck he thinks he is for joining your table uninvited. Unfazed, sipping on his glass of whiskey neat, gaze fixated on the football game that drones on the telly too far for him to properly see.

You let him stay only because he smells familiar. Gun powder and cigarette—nicotine thick on his skin that even the faintest sniff leaves your blood buzzing. A culmination of all things dark, of things that get most people to flinch away, of things you lean into because you learned to smile through the fear and now you crave it more than anything else.

That night, you let him fuck you, only because you're curious to see if his blood tastes any different than your own.

Cock buried deep enough inside of you to snuff out the ache, you unhinge your jaw to fit him all in. Maw closing around his neck, teeth dipping where they shouldn't, you expect him to squeal like a stuck pig—instead, he laughs. Lips red like rose petals and viscera, Simon laughs. Wipes his fingers along his shoulder. Shoves them down your throat.

Yeah. Nasty fuckin' girl. Knew you were. Nothin' good ever smells this sweet.

Your whole life you have spent mending people—sewing them back together—that you never once stopped to think what it felt like to be torn apart. Simon does it beautifully. Practiced hands clawing through your cunt, dipping where you need him to, cleaving you clean in two just to lick you clean with the flat of his tongue. Trembling fingers trace every scar on his body as he skewers you, chest vibrating with each thrust, blood yearning to spill free just as he releases into you.

He kills for a living. The antithesis of you. The zenith of what you should despise but can't. Bullet through brain, knife through throat—he visits you before his boots have the time to shake off the gore. When he's still feverish with a fresh kill, and in desperate need of something sugary sweet to cleanse his pallet before he can't tell the difference between the taste of offals and rot.

Still, you work. Bedside manner. Water cups. Smiles over screams. Inhale blood. Wipe down the bed once the body is gone—bring the next one in. No need to glove up, you're not afraid of the cancer; not anymore.

No matter how hard you suppress it, you know that in the end, you get to go home. Cheek to Simon's chest, middle finger tracing his sternum, pressing into his xiphoid process, hand bouncing with each beat of his heart. You smile through the gushing blood and sour sweat as he pushes his fingers into your mouth.

Atta girl. Just need that dumb brain of yours turned off every now and then, huh? Yeah, me too, sweetheart.

Deeper. Enough to claw into your throat. Thick cock in your cunt, fresh blood on your lips, a grin peeling over sharp canines—your death rattle arrives with an arching back. With tense fingers in taut skin. With a whisper against your skin.

La petite mort.

Little death.

And as Simon drips on you—fresh, and red—you can't help but think about how good it feels to love something that death can touch.

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 1: "The one with the proposal" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader

SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: The journey from Dallas to Austin is tense but tolerable, as you and Frankie do your best to ignore the mutual disdain simmering between you. But everything derails when a chance encounter with Harry—your ex—and his fiancée pushes you to tell a spur-of-the-moment lie. Frankie’s reaction makes it clear he’s not on board. WC: 14.3k

A/N: Okay, here's my new baby! And I fucking love it! I hope you enjoy this story as much as I've been enjoying writing it. Also, just a heads-up: I’ve taken some creative liberties with the characters. While this story is inspired by the ones in Triple Frontier, it barely follows the events of the movie, and the characters themselves aren’t portrayed exactly as they are in the film. PS: I’d love to hear your thoughts—your feedback means so much to me! Knowing what you think truly motivates me to keep going. So don't hesitate and let me know <3 Also, if you want to be on the tag list, let me know. And don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifs :)

When Santiago’s message arrived, you read it three times, as if repetition might change the words or soften their impact.

[Santi]: Hey bubs, mornin. I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to come get you. I’ll meet you at home later tho. Frankie will pick you up, same time as planned, don’t worry:)

The words seemed to pulse faintly on the screen, a quiet disruption of the neat plan you’d constructed in your head.

Frankie. He wasn’t your first choice—or your second, or third. If you were honest, he didn’t even make the list.

That morning had started with a sense of calm, a kind of orderly anticipation. The steady hum of the fan in the corner of Emma’s room, the cool sting of the shower water, the first sip of coffee, sweet and bitter all at once—it all felt like the clean slate of a well-prepared day. You’d zipped your suitcase shut with a satisfying finality, placed your carry-on by the door. Nothing left to chance.

The plan was simple: you’d take the bus. Predictable, unremarkable. But Santiago had insisted earlier that week, his voice crackling through the phone with a kind of rare, unguarded enthusiasm.

“We can stop for lunch, you know? Like we used to do with dad. Maybe even take a detour if we find somethin' cool,” he’d said, his tone warm, almost playful.

You’d been leaning against Emma’s kitchen counter at the time, a glass of wine in one hand, a cube of cheese in the other, and your phone between your cheek and your shoulder. Emma raised an eyebrow from across the room, silently prompting you to explain.

“Everything okay with Yovanna?” you teased, your voice carrying just enough edge to feel like a joke, even though it wasn’t entirely one. “Or is this an excuse to run away for the day?”

“Fuck you,” he laughed, the kind of laugh that came easily between you two. “I just want to spend time with you. It’s been ages since we really caught up. I miss you like hell.”

That stopped you. He wasn’t wrong—months had passed since the two of you had talked properly, beyond the surface-level exchanges over meals or texts.

“Okay,” you’d said, your voice softer than before, though you avoided looking at Emma. “I miss you too. I’ll wait for you then.”

And now, this. No Santiago, no shared lunch or detours. Just Frankie, an unwelcome rewrite of the day you thought you had mapped out so clearly.

You sat back against the bed frame, rereading the message one last time. Frankie will pick you up. Frankie will pick you up. Frankie. Frankie. Fucking Frankie. Now the plan had unraveled, and the disappointment felt sharper than you wanted to admit.

You let the phone fall to the bed beside you, the screen dimming as it landed.

Emma lay stretched out next to you, her head tilted toward the TV, where an episode of Friends played on low volume. It was one of those episodes you both knew by heart, the kind you could recite without effort. The one where everybody finds out. The blue light from the screen washed over her face, softening her features, making her eyes look brighter than they really were. Without looking away, she reached out and hooked her arm around yours, a quiet gesture that felt like home. She’d done the same thing when you were teenagers, sharing the lumpy couch in your parents’ living room, giggling over something trivial while your mom cooked dinner in the next room.

“What happened?” she murmured, her voice soft but curious, as if she could already sense the shift in your mood. The laugh track bubbled in the background, filling the space between her words.

“Santi’s not coming,” you said, glancing at the TV without really seeing it. “He sent Frankie.”

You felt a pang, not just from the change in plans but from the weight of the goodbye looming in the background. You’d learned to carry that feeling since Emma moved out of Austin—this persistent ache, like a thread pulling tighter with every visit that ended. On most days, it faded into the background. But today, it stuck to you, clinging like a damp sock you couldn’t quite shake off.

“That Frankie?” 

“I doubt he knows any others.”

“How convenient,” she said, her voice low with mockery, though her arm squeezed yours gently. “Well, call me when you get there. And try to be nice to him, if you can manage it.”

Emma turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of her eye. “And don’t take too long to come back and visit me, okay?” 

“You could always visit Austin, you know."

“It’s more fun if you come here. You get to be a tourist,” she said, with that breezy logic she always used to disarm you. “I already know Austin. That’s not so exciting.”

You snorted, more out of habit than disagreement. She wasn’t wrong. Emma rarely was.

The rest of the evening passed in near silence, broken only by the low murmur of the television. First, another episode of Friends, then one of The Nanny. The rhythm of the shows was familiar, the kind of easy, forgettable comfort that didn’t require much from you. At some point, Emma shifted closer, resting her head on your shoulder. Her breathing slowed, deepened, a steady rise and fall that seemed to sync with your own. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. There was something about her presence, her weight against you, that felt like a reminder—you were understood here, even when you didn’t have the words to explain yourself. She wasn't just your best friend, she was your sister.

The sharp blare of a car horn shattered the calm, breaking through the evening like the crack of distant thunder. You flinched, your body instinctively tensing, the warm cocoon of the moment dissolving in an instant. Emma didn’t stir much, her eyes still closed, her arm still draped over yours. You nudged her gently, tapping her arm until she groaned softly and sat up, squinting against the glow of the TV.

“I think he’s here,” you said, your voice low but cutting through the quiet.

Emma stretched in one graceful motion, her arms arching overhead before she bent down to grab the bright lavender Crocs she kept by the bed. The shoes, adorned with an assortment of decorative pins—a blue flower, a miniature coffee cup, and a small plastic dinosaur—were an oddly perfect reflection of her: delicate, energetic, and just the right amount of ridiculous, in the best way. 

“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” she said, her tone casual, but there was a softness to it, an unspoken understanding that made the impending goodbye feel heavier.

Outside, the heat clung to you immediately, the air thick and sticky, humming with the faint buzz of cicadas. Your gaze landed on the car parked in front of Emma’s house, and something in you tensed. It wasn’t Santi’s car, of course, and it wasn’t Santi standing there waiting.

Frankie was leaning against the hood, arms crossed, his whole posture radiating impatience. He looked as though he’d been sculpted there, his bored expression so exaggerated it almost felt theatrical. The heat shimmered in waves around him, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care. He wore a rumpled gray shirt that looked like it hadn’t been ironed in weeks and a pair of dark sunglasses, their reflective lenses hiding whatever was going on behind them. The cap was familiar, too—plain, worn, the same style you’d seen him wear before, though this time in a faded gray that matched his shirt.

For a fleeting, irrational moment, you thought maybe this was all a mistake. That Santi might suddenly appear, stepping out from behind the car or walking up the driveway with that easy laugh of his, telling you it had all been a joke. But the driveway remained empty, and Frankie, noticing you, straightened up with a kind of deliberate slowness.

He started walking toward you, each step measured, as if he were pacing himself for an obligation he didn’t particularly want to fulfill. His movements had the casual indifference of someone who would rather be anywhere else, but was too resigned to argue.

“Where’s Santi?” you asked as you approached, the question coming out sharper than you’d intended.

Frankie didn’t answer immediately. He simply closed the distance between you with deliberate, unhurried steps. Then, without a word, he grabbed the suitcase from your hand in one fluid motion. The gesture caught you off guard—not because he took it, but because of how mechanical it felt. He didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge you in any meaningful way. It was as though you were just an extension of the bag he was moving, an obstacle to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

“He couldn’t make it,” he said at last, his voice flat, almost dismissive.

He hauled the suitcase toward the trunk and tossed it in with a thud that seemed louder than it should’ve been. The sound echoed briefly, underscoring his lack of finesse. He slammed the trunk shut with a single decisive motion and turned back toward the driver’s seat, his body language broadcasting that he considered the interaction over.

“He didn’t tell me anything about it,” you said, your voice rising slightly, tinged with disbelief. You stayed rooted to the spot, your feet planted as if the weight of the confusion had sunk into the concrete beneath you.

Frankie paused, his hand on the car door.

“It was a last-minute thing.” 

Before you could respond—before you could even begin to untangle your frustration into something coherent—he opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and pulled it shut behind him with a force that made the air shudder.

You turned back toward the house. Emma was watching from the porch, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her expression hovered somewhere between curiosity and bewilderment, her head tilting slightly as you approached.

She hugged you tightly, holding on a beat longer than usual. When you pulled away, her eyes searched yours, silently asking questions you didn’t have answers for.

“I’ll call you when I get there,” you said, though you weren’t sure what the call would entail—whether you’d laugh about all this, or vent, or just let her voice fill the empty spaces.

Her lips twitched into a faint smile, one tinged with resignation.

“I love you so much,” you added, your voice quieter now. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I always do. I love you too. Take care and call me as soon as you can."

She stepped back as you turned toward the car, your feet dragging slightly with each step.

Now, an hour and a half later, the car sped steadily toward Austin, the scenery blurring into a series of indistinct shapes. Frankie hadn’t said a word since you’d left Emma’s house, and the silence had settled in the car like a heavy fog, pressing down on you with every passing mile.

You’d considered speaking—several times, in fact—but every potential conversation starter you thought of seemed pointless. What was there to say to him? You barely knew each other, and what little you did know felt more like a series of grudges than shared history. The only things you had in common were your mutual love for Santi and, apparently, your mutual irritation with each other. Neither felt like enough to bridge the yawning gap between you.

You stared out the window, the dry, flat landscape sliding by in endless monotony, like a movie stripped of plot and color. Pale beige fields stretched into the horizon, broken only by the occasional cluster of power lines. The sameness of it all seemed to lull the world into a kind of dull, static hum.  

The only relief came from the music spilling softly from the car’s speakers—classic rock, its grainy tones unmistakable even at low volume. The sound was tethered to Frankie’s phone, resting in the cupholder beside him, the screen glowing faintly every so often with an incoming notification he didn’t bother to check. A Fleetwood Mac song began again, its familiar opening chords filling the silence for the third time since you’d left.  

You shifted in your seat, glancing at him from the corner of your eye before turning your attention back to the road ahead.

“Do you like this song?” 

“I think so.”

“It’s played three times already.”

“It’s a good song,” he said softly, his voice low enough to be mistaken for an afterthought. 

You turned back to the window, letting the conversation dissolve into the space between you. He hadn’t said it to be defensive—just matter-of-fact, like the song itself was reason enough. You folded your arms across your chest, the seatbelt digging slightly into your side.  

Then, your mind wandered back to Santi, to the message that had upended your day. What had he been thinking? Of all his friends, why send Frankie? The question rolled over in your head, each repetition more insistent than the last. Was it an oversight? A logistical decision made in haste, without considering how you’d feel about it? Or was it intentional? That idea sat uneasily with you, gnawing at the edge of your thoughts. He knew how strange things felt between you and Frankie. Hell, everyone knew. They’d all been there, witnessed it firsthand—the arguments, the uncomfortable silences, the way your personalities seemed to clash as naturally as oil and water.  

The possibility that Santi might’ve chosen Frankie on purpose—maybe even as some misguided attempt to force you into tolerating each other—bothered you more than you wanted to admit. You shifted again, suddenly restless, as the car hummed along the empty stretch of highway, the silence between you growing heavier despite the steady background of Fleetwood Mac.

Over the last few years, Frankie had been a fixture in your life, the way someone else’s shadow might be—not yours, but unavoidable. Being your brother’s best friend meant your paths crossed often enough, though you both seemed to approach these encounters with mutual disdain. You didn’t like him, and he didn’t bother pretending to like you. Disgust was the word that came to mind when you thought about how he looked at you. Not exaggerated or theatrical, just a cool, unflinching disgust, as though he found something about you fundamentally wrong. 

The last time you’d spoken more than a handful of clipped, perfunctory words to each other was in Santi’s kitchen a few years ago. That was the breaking point. The fight. It wasn’t dramatic, not really—no yelling, no slammed doors—but it was the kind of exchange that changed things irreversibly. After that, you decided you didn’t want to think about him, let alone look at him, ever again.

And that was the end of it. You stopped trying to explain. You'd come to accept that to Santi, Frankie was probably nothing like how you saw him. You weren't sure what it was about him that rubbed you the wrong way, but you knew that with your brother, Frankie surely couldn't be as unpleasant as he was with you. 

So, you ignored him. Every time you saw him, you made sure your gaze passed over him like he was just another fixture in the room. And he did the same. It was as though you were two people occupying the same space, but never truly sharing it.

Why on earth, then, had he agreed to come and pick you up?

The silence in the car stretched on, and you settled into the uncomfortable rhythm of it, letting it fill the space between you and him. Frankie’s eyes stayed fixed on the road, and his thumbs twitched restlessly over the steering wheel.

Finally, he broke the silence, but his words felt like a formality.

“We'll stop for lunch,” he said, his voice low, almost indifferent. His gaze flickered to you for a brief second, enough to make sure you had heard, before returning to the road. “I haven’t eaten anything all day. Do you mind?”

You were starting to feel the pangs of hunger yourself, but you didn’t let that soften your response. You couldn’t. 

“No,” you replied, your voice curt, colder than you intended.

Frankie nodded, the movement barely noticeable. He turned his attention back to the road, his expression unchanged, as though you hadn’t spoken at all. His calmness was maddening. 

For a moment, you considered breaking the silence again, saying something just to disrupt his steady composure. But then you thought better of it. There was still a long way to go, and the last thing you wanted was for this trip to feel even more suffocating than it already was. So you stayed silent, the weight of your irritation pressing down on you, knowing that with each mile, you were only getting closer to end of this torture.

Fifteen minutes later, the engine turned off  and you looked over at the driver's side, half-expecting Frankie to say something—anything—but he was already in motion. Before you could open your mouth, the door swung open, and he was out of the car, his body moving with an urgency that seemed to come from some invisible force, as though he were escaping the confines of the vehicle. For a moment, the empty passenger seat seemed to expand, making the car feel smaller, quieter. 

You stayed there a second longer, watching as Frankie made his way across the parking lot. His steps were steady, deliberate, almost too casual, as if walking away from you might somehow erase you from the moment entirely. He didn’t look back, didn’t pause to see if you were following. And honestly, you weren’t in any rush to do so. There was no reason to catch up with him. He clearly didn’t want you there, and you didn’t want to be near him either. This trip wasn’t about you; it was about doing your brother a favor.

The parking lot was modest, just enough space for the few cars scattered about. It wasn’t anything remarkable, just a typical lot for a small, unassuming restaurant. The faded lines barely marked the spots, and you counted five cars parked across the patch of asphalt. The windows of the restaurant were perfectly clean, and you could see people inside. A couple of families were chatting animatedly at their tables, and a few solitary diners were hunched over their food, their focus far from the simple meal in front of them.

With a sigh, you walked toward the entrance. Above the door, the sign Jimmy’s buzzed softly in red neon, its glow a little too bright for the evening light. Next to it, a yellow arrow with tiny, flickering bulbs pointed inside, inviting anyone who passed by to come in. "Eat here!" The sign seemed eager, almost enthusiastic in its attempt to catch attention.

You pushed open the door, the bell chiming brightly above your head as you stepped inside. The rush of cool air from the air conditioning met you instantly, a welcome contrast to the heat that still clung to your skin from the car. The coolness was almost too sharp, sending a slight shiver down your spine as you paused just inside the doorway. Your eyes took a moment to adjust to the softer light inside. The diner was small, but it had a cozy, familiar feel, with colorful walls and a few tables scattered around. The noise inside was a comfortable hum, punctuated by the occasional clink of silverware, low conversation and the music in the background.

It didn’t take long to spot him. Frankie was seated at the bar, absorbed in the menu in front of him. His posture was casual, but there was something about the way he held himself, his shoulders slightly hunched, that made it feel like he was a little too withdrawn, like he didn’t want to engage. 

You walked toward him slowly, the sound of your footsteps softened by the tiles beneath you. You were just about to sit next to him when he looked up, his gaze meeting yours briefly before returning to the menu. His voice was flat, almost bored as he spoke, as if the interaction was nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

“Go find a table,” he said, his tone neither rude nor warm.

You frowned, taking the menu from his hand without a word. His gaze didn’t follow you as he stood up, stretching slightly as he rose from the bar stool. There was something about his movements—relaxed, yet sharp—that made you feel like you weren’t really a part of whatever was going on. His shirt clung slightly to his back from the heat of the car, the evidence of sweat still visible on his skin, and you couldn't help but notice the fine hairs on his arms standing on end, a subtle sign of the sharp contrast between the stifling heat outside and the chill of the air-conditioned room.

“I’m goin' to the bathroom. Be back in a sec,” he added casually, his voice even, before disappearing down the narrow hallway to the right. No expectation of a response. No glance to see if you were still standing there, just a simple statement. He was gone before you could offer anything in reply.

You were left standing there, the laminated menu in your hands, a slight weariness creeping in.

With a sigh, you turned on your heels and began scanning the room for a table. There was still at least an hour and a half of travel left, plus however long you'd spend eating. Why hadn’t Santi given you a heads-up? You could’ve taken the bus or the train, something that didn’t involve sitting in a car with anyone but him. But no, that wasn’t even an option, apparently. 

You spotted an empty table near the back, next to the window, and as you walked toward it, the decor around you caught your eye. The place had a playful, nostalgic vibe, as if it were trying to channel the spirit of another time. Framed posters of Grease, Fame, Footloose, and Saturday Night Fever hung on the walls, adding to the feeling of a throwback to the ‘70s and ‘80s. It was all very upbeat, almost theatrical, like a movie set. The tables were red and white, and a jukebox stood in the corner.

You glanced at the posters, half wondering if the owner had lived through that era or just loved the aesthetic of it all. Either way, it gave the place a sense of warmth and a bit of character, a stark contrast to the outside. 

Suddenly, a voice cut through the quiet murmur of the restaurant, sharp and unexpected, and your name echoed in the air. You froze, the sound ricocheting in your chest, followed by a rush of emotions you didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone feel. You could feel the familiar tension ripple through your muscles, a mix of surprise, confusion, and something deeper you couldn’t quite place. Slowly, you turned to face him, every step feeling like it took an eternity.

“Harry,” you said, the name falling from your lips like it belonged to someone else, someone distant. A smile flickered across your face—perfectly timed and just the right shape, though it felt hollow, as fake as the kindness you were trying to project. Your lips tightened, a familiar mask of politeness slipping over your expression, one you wished you didn’t have to wear. “What... what are you doing here?”

His smile was instant and disarming, his surprise clear, and his happiness so genuine it made your chest tighten. For a moment, it erased the absurdity of seeing him here, of all places, in the middle of nowhere. The coincidence felt cruel, as if the universe was playing a cruel joke on you.

The last time you saw him, three months ago, it felt like a lifetime ago—a goodbye steeped in heartbreak. You’d clung to him, tears soaking his crisp white shirt as he whispered reassurances: “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. I care about you.” But the words he didn’t say cut deeper: he cared for you, but he loved her.  

It had been a casual fling, no strings attached—or so you told yourself. Then came the day he confessed: he was in love with Lisa, a friend you’d never met. They were getting married. His words, calm and rehearsed, felt like a gut punch, but his excitement betrayed him. He was happy. You weren’t.  

You tried to be strong, to tell him you were fine, even as you broke down. Because you loved him, and you couldn’t bear the thought of him with her.  

And now, here he was, smiling like nothing had happened, curiosity in his eyes—oblivious to the wreckage he’d left behind.  

In front of him, Lisa was sitting with a big bright smile. You’d seen her face before, her perfectly curated Instagram photos, her flawless smile that could have been lifted straight from a movie. But in person? She was even more striking, the kind of beauty that didn’t need filters or captions. The kind of beauty that made everything around her seem insignificant, that made you feel small just standing next to her. Her presence was magnetic, the sort of thing that pulled your gaze despite every instinct telling you to look away.

Suddenly, the air conditioning hit you like a blast of cold, sharp enough to make you flinch. But then again, maybe it wasn’t the air conditioning. Maybe it was just your body freezing in place, rigid with surprise and something much harder to define. You didn’t know how to respond. Harry was talking—his voice was there, filling the space, but the words barely reached you. They felt like distant echoes, the kind that might have meant something once but now were just noise, reverberating uselessly around you.

“What are you doing around here?” he asked, pulling you back from the tangle of thoughts you were trying so hard to keep at bay.

You blinked, trying to center yourself, but it was like you had forgotten how to breathe properly.

“We’re... I’m just passing through, heading back to Austin,” you said, your voice sounding too steady, too rehearsed, even to your own ears. Your heart was lodged somewhere near your throat, threatening to choke you if you said too much. “I went to visit Emma.”

“Ah, Emma. How is she? Is she still in Dallas?”

“Yep,” you answered, the word sharp and clipped, offering nothing more. 

The silence hung between you, thick and uncomfortable. You could feel it stretching, wrapping itself around your words, making them heavier than they needed to be. Finally, you exhaled, the air coming out in a slow, resigned sigh.

“What about you guys? What are you doing around here?”

You didn’t really want to know, not at all.

“Lisa’s grandparents live in Waco,” Harry said with that wide smile of his, the one that always made you feel like you were watching the world tilt on its axis. He looked at Lisa like she was the center of his universe, as if everything that mattered began and ended with her. “We went to take the invitation to them personally and I met the rest of the family while we were at it.”

You didn’t smile. You couldn’t. Your lips pulled tight, the gesture feeling almost painful, like your face wasn’t sure how to form the expression anymore. The words were there, though, just beneath the surface.

“Right, right.” You swallowed, forcing the words out despite how hollow they felt. “How cool. You must be so excited—a summer wedding, then?”

You’d known for weeks—September 13th. The invitation, with its sparkling gold lettering, had made your stomach churn. You buried it under junk mail, unable to face seeing him so happy, so certain of what he had.

But you couldn’t say that, could you? You couldn’t tell him that the mere thought of them together, of their future, felt like a knife to your chest. So you forced a smile, a tight, lifeless thing, and let the conversation carry on.

"That's right," Harry said, laughing as his gaze flickered to Lisa, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Even though we wanted to enjoy the early days of fall, Lisa wanted to get married around summer, mostly because of her parents. They got married during summer too."

Lisa laughed softly, the sound like a note held too long, then spoke, her voice low and warm.

"It's not just that," she said, her hand resting lightly on Harry's. You found yourself looking away, unable to hold the image of them together for too long. "Everything looks more beautiful during this season, doesn't it? Even the days last longer."

Her voice was thick with something you couldn't quite place—familiarity, maybe. Or maybe it was love, that unspoken thing that you couldn’t ignore, even if you wanted to. The way they fit together made everything else seem smaller, less important. And yet Harry’s eyes shifted to you, seeking something. Approval, maybe. He didn’t say it, but it was clear. His look said: Don’t disagree.

"That's true. Summer is beautiful," you replied, feeling the words slip out too easily, forced through your teeth. Your voice came out softer than you intended, and you felt Lisa’s smile hit you like a jolt. It was stunning—perfect in a way that seemed almost too much, like she’d been born to smile in that exact way. You hated her for it, just a little.

"We look forward to seeing you there," Harry said, breaking the moment, his words direct and heavy. "We haven't received your confirmation—you’re going, aren't you?"

How could he ask that, not see how unnatural this felt? But Harry wasn’t cruel—just unaware. You’d never told him you loved him, never made your feelings clear. To him, this was normal. He thought you’d be fine.

“I... um—” 

“Don’t worry about going alone,” he said, that same nonchalant tone that had once made you smile. "You always meet people at weddings."

Heat flooded your face, burning like a slap. The words stung, but his obliviousness made it worse. You wished the ground would swallow you whole—or anything to escape. Instead, you laughed—a thin, brittle sound that barely masked the pain.

"Ah, no, that’s not it," you lied, your voice trembling just enough for Harry to notice. "That's covered."

“Oh, is it?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow, his interest piqued. He leaned forward, a relieved smile crossing his face.

"Sure," you said, forcing a confidence into your tone that you didn’t feel. "I’ll... I’ll go with my boyfriend."

Harry's eyes widened a little, and then the smile appeared again—this one more genuine, more curious. He tapped the table, an excited gesture that made your stomach twist.

“You don’t say?” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “And who’s the lucky guy?”

You wanted to crumble. You wanted to say nothing, because the truth felt too big, too overwhelming, and there was no way to say it without everything falling apart. But you couldn't. You just couldn't.

As if by some celestial miracle, you saw Frankie emerge from the hallway, his attention absorbed by the screen of his phone, scrolling, unaware of anything around him. His timing was perfect, and relief washed over you, as if fate had sent him. He wasn’t supposed to be here, yet there he was—a lifeline in the chaos.  

For a moment, he seemed to glow, his familiar, worn cap catching the harsh lights like a crown. You’d never been so glad to see someone. Then his eyes met yours, and his expression shifted—confusion flickering as he took in your frantic stance, the mess of emotions written on your face.  

Before you could stop it, before you could make any sense of what was happening, a smile stretched across your face—too wide, too fast, like a reflex you hadn’t been prepared for. It was probably a little too sharp to be anything but forced, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t help anything.

"Frankie," you said, the words tumbling out with more enthusiasm than you intended. It sounded too bright, almost exaggerated, but there was no stopping it now. "This is Frankie... Frankie, my boyfriend.”

You weren’t sure what you were doing, but it didn’t matter—you needed to make something clear. Frankie tensed beside you, glancing your way, trying to read the situation. His eyes met yours, and you silently begged him: Help. Please.

For a moment, he studied you, his gaze flicking between you and the couple. Then, as if something clicked, his expression shifted to understanding. He realized what he had to do and adjusted instantly.

"Right," he finally said, his voice low, the smile on his face still a little unsure but polite. "I’m Frankie."

Harry extended his hand with a practiced smile, warm but a touch too bright. Frankie hesitated, his gaze shifting from Harry’s hand to your face, brow slightly furrowed as he tried to assess the situation—or his role in it.  

You stepped closer, tapping his waist lightly, a subtle signal to act. He blinked, refocusing, and finally took Harry’s hand, his grip firm and deliberate. But in his eyes, there was a flicker of discomfort—one only you noticed.

“Frankie,” Harry said, his voice carrying a weight of something too calm for the situation. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, I'm Harry.” Then, he nodded enthusiastically, dropping his hand back to the table. “And this is Lisa."

Lisa smiled, her gaze bright and almost blinding.

“Nice to meet ya, Frankie,” she said, her voice the epitome of warmth, her charm effortless, her presence just... perfect. Oh my God, just stop it!

Frankie finally turned his attention back to you, though it wasn’t immediately clear if he was still processing the social niceties or deciding how best to carry this conversation forward. His voice shifted slightly as he spoke again.

“Same here,” he said, his tone unfamiliar to you—something smoother, almost softer, like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. 

He moved closer, just a bit too close, slipping his arm around your waist with ease, sending a flutter through your stomach. His hand rested lightly against your side, his palm warm at your back. You froze, unable to focus on anything but the pulse of his touch, the way he effortlessly played the boyfriend role.

It felt wrong, uncomfortable.

Confusion and relief mixed inside you, unsure if the relief came from the act itself or the distraction it provided from the situation.

"Well," Frankie broke the silence. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need to leave soon. I want to make sure this beautiful woman gets some food before we go—otherwise, she goes bad."

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the way he phrased it. 

Harry chuckled, his easy laughter filling the space.

“Yeah, I believe you,” he said, his grin still wide but with a spark of curiosity. He shot a look at Lisa, then back at Frankie, narrowing his eyes just a touch. “That’s the main reason we stopped. Though I’ll admit,” he added, glancing down at the table with a mock grimace, “I was the one really starving.”

The awkwardness of the moment barely registered for Harry. He seemed to think everything was going smoothly, unaware of the small cracks in the facade that were threatening to show. Frankie, however, was more aware than anyone, and you could see it in his eyes—the way his face shifted from the casual smile to something more guarded, something more carefully neutral. 

Frankie gave a short, almost amused laugh, pulling his arm back from your waist with a light tap. His tone was polite, more deliberate than before.

“Yeah, I’m sure you can relate,” he said, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Keeping your lady happy, that's what it's all about, isn't it?” 

You tried to smile, but it came out thin, tight around the edges. Your legs became weak. 

Harry’s laugh was light. He buyed it.

Frankie straightened up slightly, offering his hand to Harry in that careful, calculated way that now seemed practiced, even though it hadn’t been moments ago. His movements were calculated, polite, but entirely different from the Frankie you knew. The way he was acting felt like an entirely unfamiliar version of him—Thank God.

“Okay, thanks for the chat, but we bett—” 

"Yeah, of course," Harry interrupted, still upbeat and completely oblivious to the tension. "It was nice meeting you, Frankie. Take care of her, alright? She's... well, you know. A special one."

Frankie’s smile stiffened, the edges barely moving as he gave a short nod. His eyes flicked to you for a fleeting second, his expression tight and controlled, though something was definitely off.

"I will, man," he replied, voice steady but carrying an underlying edge. "I’ve got her covered. Don’t worry. She’s in good hands."

“Bye, Harry,” you said, turning to him with a friendly but somewhat distant smile, your hand lifting in a wave that felt too casual for the weight of everything you hadn’t said. “And you too, Lisa. Good luck with the wedding!”

Lisa smiled warmly. “Thank you,” she replied, her voice smooth. “Let us know if you're coming."

“Yeah. Hope to see you at the wedding. You too, Frankie,” Harry said, just before you thought about starting to walk to the table at the back of the place.

Frankie looked confused, and looked at you for an answer, or for you to say something.

"Sure," you said, taking him by the arm, ready to leave. "We'll definitely be there!"

You moved in silence toward the booth, Frankie's hand resting at the small of your back, guiding you like an automatic reflex. The low hum of conversation in the restaurant seemed to fade as you both reached the table, and you were strangely relieved that the high backs of the seats shielded you from Harry’s view. 

He dropped into the seat across from you, his presence as loud and brash as ever, even without a word. When you looked at him, it struck you how quickly he'd reverted to the expression he always wore around you—furrowed brows, lips pressed into a thin, almost unnatural line. It wasn’t clear if it was annoyance, confusion, or just him being him.

“I’m so hungry,” you said, flipping through the laminated menu like it might hold the answers to something bigger than lunch. “I really want a burger, and some fries.”

He didn’t reply immediately, his stare heavy on you. Then:

“What the fuck was that?”

You sighed, closing the menu and flattening your hands on the table as if bracing yourself. His face was a familiar mix of wide eyes, creased forehead, and that particular grimace that always made you feel like you’d said something wrong.

You shrugged. “My ex.”

“Okay? And?”

“And that’s it. Nothing else.”

Frankie leaned back with a dramatic exhale, the leather of the booth creaking under him. He shook his head in disbelief, his jaw tightening.

“Since when am I your boyfriend?” he asked, his tone sharp with irritation. “Last time I checked, I was doing your brother a favor.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said quickly, cheeks warming. You picked up the menu again, trying to will your face back to neutrality. “Thanks for playing along, anyway.”

He sighed—loud, pointed. You glanced up, and sure enough, he was staring at you, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the table. Not impatient, exactly. Calculated.

“You’re not going to tell me what the fuck that was?”

You ignored him, letting the embarrassment swirl hot in your stomach as you fixed your eyes on the menu. Burgers. Burgers. Burgers. Burgers. Fries. Onion rings, maybe.

“Hey,” he said sharply, snapping his fingers in front of your face.

You blinked, snapping your head up to look at him.

“Oh, are you talking to me?”

Frankie gave you a look so exaggerated you almost laughed, except you knew he wasn’t joking.

“Who else would I be talking to? You think I’m out here monologuing? Who are you, fucking De Niro?”

“Hey!” you snapped, slamming the menu down on the table. The sound echoed between you, a sharp punctuation that sent a ripple of air across his forehead, lifting the dark strands just slightly. “Don’t talk to me like that, Francisco. Who do you think you’re talking to? We’re not friends.”

He snorted, the sound sharp but oddly soft at the same time, pulling off his cap and placing it on the seat beside him. With a low groan, he ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching briefly in the strands. His gaze found yours again, his posture seemingly relaxed but betraying a subtle tension. You could see it in the way his shoulders didn’t quite settle, in the way his eyes didn’t blink as he studied you.

“I know, we’re not friends. But I just lied for you. Why? Who was that? And why are you acting so weird?”

Before you could answer, he straightened in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “No, wait. The real question is: why are you acting weirder than usual?”

You folded your arms, leaning back until you felt the booth press into your shoulders. Your gaze flicked to the front door, the thought of walking out taking root in your mind. Leaving felt easier—safer. Honestly, you’d rather trudge all the way back to Austin on foot, the heat and endless asphalt blistering your skin, than sit here and explain yourself to Frankie. He wouldn’t care. Worse, he might care just enough to make you regret opening your mouth.

When your eyes returned to him, though, his expression surprised you. Serious, yes. But not angry. He was watching you with an almost disarming calmness, like he’d decided he had all the time in the world to wait for your answer.

You sighed, the sound shaky as it escaped your chest.

“It’s my ex,” you said, barely above a murmur.

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Your ex. I got that part. And?”

“And his fiancée.”

“Aha,” he nodded slowly, like he was piecing something together, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Why did you lie to them?”

You swallowed hard, the pulse in your neck thudding too loudly in your ears.

“Because...” Your voice wavered, and you hated it. “Because... Um, he told me I might meet someone at the wedding.”

Frankie blinked, his confusion shifting into something closer to disbelief.

“What?”

“God,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as heat crept up your neck. Your hands dropped to your thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans. “We dated for four months, and he broke up with me to get engaged to her. Then he invited me to their wedding. When I said I’d go, he told me not to worry about showing up alone, because I’d probably meet someone there.”

Frankie’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out, so you pressed on, a flush of anger sparking under your skin.

“So, I panicked,” you admitted, your voice sharpening. “I told him not to worry, that I’d bring my boyfriend. And then you showed up, and it just—it made sense in the moment, okay? That’s it.”

“It made sense to you to say I was your boyfriend?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “You couldn’t have said I was someone else? Made up something better?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me!” you hissed, your eyes widening as your voice rose, though you kept it just shy of shouting. “I panicked, okay? I’m sorry! What was I supposed to do?”

He stared at you for a moment, his face a mix of annoyance and bafflement, before leaning back again. You could see the wheels turning in his head, though whatever he was thinking, he wasn’t about to share it with you.

You sank deeper into your seat, glaring at the table like it might offer some kind of solace. But all you could feel was the mortifying heat of his gaze, still fixed firmly on you.

Frankie scratched his forehead, his fingers dragging slowly down to his chin, where they rested briefly before falling to the table. His expression was skeptical, as if he were trying to solve a particularly irritating puzzle.

“Okay,” he started, his voice even but edged with disbelief. “So, you dated this guy for three months—”

“Four months,” you corrected, your tone clipped.

“Right. Four months. And then he left you to get engaged?”

“Yeah.”

Frankie leaned back, his posture deceptively relaxed, but the sharpness in his eyes gave him away.

“You’re telling me he cheated on you, and you’re still planning to go to his fucking wedding? Are you out of your mind?”

He propped his chin on his left hand, elbow planted firmly on the table, and his gaze locked onto you. There was something in his expression that made your stomach twist—a combination of pity and incredulity that made you feel stupid, even if he hadn’t said the word outright.

“No, he didn’t cheat on me,” you replied, lowering your voice as you leaned forward slightly, not wanting anyone else to overhear. “We weren’t in a serious relationship. We were just... casually dating. He was always in love with her, but they couldn’t figure things out. I knew that. He told me.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted, his disbelief evident.

“He told you he was in love with another woman, and you still kept dating him?”

“No,” you shot back, frowning. “He told me after a while—around the time we broke up. I would never date someone who was in love with someone else.”

“But you were in love with him, weren’t you?”

There it was. That tone. The one that suggested Frankie thought he had you all figured out, as if your life and feelings were nothing more than a series of obvious moves on a chessboard he could read from across the room. He was so infuriatingly arrogant, so sure of himself.

You narrowed your eyes, but the involuntary twitch of your eyebrows betrayed you.

“I had feelings for him,” you admitted, your voice stiff with frustration.

Frankie tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking into a half-smile that made you want to smack him.

“Okay, let me make sure I’ve got this straight: this guy you casually dated for four months left you for another woman, got engaged, invited you to the wedding, and you, still hung up on him, agreed to go but invented an imaginary boyfriend so you wouldn’t have to show up alone. That about right?”

“I’m not in love with him,” you snapped, crossing your arms defensively and shaking your head.

“I don’t believe you."

“I don’t care what you believe."

“You want to know what I think?”

“Are you deaf?” you said, your lips pressing into a pout. “I just told you I don’t care.”

“I think you’re crazy for going to that wedding,” he said, leaning forward slightly. His voice dropped lower, as though he were sharing a secret, though his words carried no sympathy. “Do you want to torture yourself or something? Are you a masochist?”

The word slipped out like a dagger, his eyes narrowing as he studied your reaction, his face drawing closer, his voice almost a whisper.

You exhaled sharply, a mix of frustration and disbelief, biting your lower lip as you turned to look out the window. The distant hum of cars on the road outside felt like the only thing grounding you in the moment.

When you looked back at him, your voice was steadier, quieter.

“We’re friends. Things between us ended well. Why wouldn’t I go to his wedding?”

“So he broke your heart, and you’re still going to his wedding. Got it.” Frankie leaned back slightly as he said it, his tone deliberately even, but the words were sharp enough to make you flinch.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, anger mixing with a deep, familiar embarrassment.

“Why the fuck do you care anyway? I already told you everything. Make fun of me all you want, but stop interrogating me and leave me alone.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted, his expression shifting into something maddeningly amused. A slow, sarcastic smile spread across his face, the kind that made your stomach twist in irritation.

“You got me involved in this, remember?” he said, his voice light, almost playful, which only made you angrier.

“It was just a little lie, that’s all.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“Well, you didn’t think it through,” he said flatly, reaching across the table to grab the menu you’d abandoned. He straightened it out in front of him, his fingers smoothing the creases, and his eyes scanned the options with an air of exaggerated focus.

For a moment, you thought he might actually drop it. But of course, he didn’t.

“I wonder what he’ll think,” Frankie said suddenly, his tone casual but cutting, “when he sees you show up to the wedding alone.” His eyes stayed on the menu, but his words hung heavy in the air between you. “You should’ve come up with something else. Be more witty next time. Or, I don’t know, just don’t go to the wedding. That works too.”

Oh.

Your stomach churned at the thought, the weight of it pressing down on you as your mind raced through the possibilities. He was right, of course. What were you going to do? There was no way you could actually show up to the wedding now. You’d have to turn down the invitation at the last minute, make up some absurd excuse about why you couldn’t make it. Or maybe you wouldn’t say anything at all. Harry didn’t deserve an explanation. He wasn’t entitled to one.

The silence stretched between you, uncomfortable and loud. You didn’t answer him. What could you say? You felt silly, even ridiculous, sitting there, replaying the moment over and over in your mind. Of all the places in the world, did you really have to run into Harry there, in the middle of the road, with Frankie of all people?

None of this would’ve happened if Santiago had come to pick you up like he was supposed to. If he’d warned you he couldn’t make it, you would’ve saved yourself the humiliation. You wouldn’t have had to deal with Frankie’s smirking face or his infuriating commentary.

You stared at the table, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of it. God, why did everything have to turn into a mess? Why couldn’t things just go smoothly for once?

Frankie didn’t seem to notice—or care—that you hadn’t responded. He flipped a page of the menu, his expression unreadable now, as if he’d already moved on. But his words lingered, heavy and persistent, refusing to leave you alone.

With your appetite nearly nonexistent, you ordered a hamburger. It sat heavy in front of you, unappealing and far too big. You nibbled at it slowly, methodically, as if chewing it down might somehow help you swallow the rest of your humiliation. Across the table, Frankie made quick work of his own meal. He ate like someone who hadn’t seen food in days, the kind of eating that could make anyone watching feel small.

When he finished—barely ten minutes in—he leaned back in his chair and fixed you with a look. Not an outright stare, but enough of one that you could feel the weight of his impatience.

You didn’t care.

Instead, you turned your attention to the fries on your plate. Picking up each one with deliberate slowness, you savored them, your gaze drifting toward the window. Outside, the road stretched on endlessly, shimmering in the summer heat. Frankie sighed, low and exasperated, every few minutes, but to your surprise, he didn’t rush you.

When you finally stood to leave, Harry and Lisa were nowhere to be seen. Relief swept over you like cool water. If you’d had to exchange goodbyes with them, you were sure you’d lose every bite of food you’d managed to stomach.

You followed Frankie out to the car. His footsteps were quick and purposeful, the kind that demanded anyone trailing behind him keep up or risk being left behind. Once inside, the tight, enclosed space of the vehicle made your skin crawl. You clicked your seatbelt into place, but the snugness of the strap across your chest only added to your discomfort.

For a fleeting moment, you considered bolting. What if you just opened the door and threw yourself onto the hot, sticky asphalt? You’d roll a little, maybe scrape a knee, but at least you wouldn’t be here.

The car started with a low rumble, and Frankie turned up the music without a word. The sound wasn’t loud enough to drown out your thoughts, but it added a layer of noise, a distraction you didn’t ask for but didn’t resist either.

Your gaze shifted to the scenery blurring past the window. You rested your forehead against the cool glass, welcoming the breeze coming in through the lowered window. The air smelled faintly of gasoline and sun-warmed earth.

Frankie drove in silence, his hands steady on the wheel. His thumbs tapped along to the rhythm of the song playing faintly in the background—Rebel Yell by Billy Idol. You stared at the horizon, but your mind kept circling back to him.

He probably thought this whole situation was hilarious. You could see it in the way his eyebrows had lifted earlier, the way his lips twitched with incredulity every time he asked about Harry. He didn’t need to say it—he thought you were foolish, and maybe you were. You felt it, deep in your chest, that heavy, sinking shame that told you he was right to think so.

What the hell were you going to do?

Not going to the wedding wasn’t an option, not unless you wanted Harry to think you were still upset—or worse, that you still cared. But going? Going alone? That wasn’t an option either. You could bring someone else, maybe. But who?

Harry knew all your friends, and you didn’t have many male ones left who weren’t married, taken, or entirely inappropriate. Your brother’s friends? Sure, because that would work out great. Another one of Santiago’s buddies, strolling in on your arm. You ran through the list in your head. Will? No. Ben? Ben had a girlfriend.

It was hopeless. Every scenario felt more humiliating than the last.

God, you wished you could disappear. Or better yet, transform into something simple and unbothered. A worm, maybe. Worms didn’t have exes. They didn’t have weddings to dread.

You were spiraling, and it must have shown on your face because Frankie spoke up, his voice breaking through your chaotic thoughts.

“We’ll make a stop to fill up the tank, okay?” His tone was casual, distracted, as he turned left into the gas station lot.

“Sure,” you mumbled, barely lifting your head.

The car slowed to a stop, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. For a moment, the world outside felt steadier than the one inside your head.

You followed Frankie out of the car, your steps slower and more hesitant than his easy stride. He moved with the kind of casual confidence that seemed effortless, his shoulders relaxed and his head bobbing slightly as he hummed along to a song that had been playing a few miles back. The heat pressed down on you, thick and relentless, but he didn’t seem to notice.  

You lingered by the passenger side, arms folded across your chest. Your gaze flitted to the gas station shop, where shelves of snacks and cold drinks promised brief relief from the sweltering air. For a fleeting moment, you considered going inside—maybe grabbing a soda, or even just standing under the blast of an air conditioner. But then you thought about how much longer that would draw out this journey. The idea of extending your time in Frankie’s company, even by a minute, was enough to keep you rooted in place.  

So you waited, watching him in silence. He moved with the kind of efficiency you’d expect from someone used to things like this—mundane tasks, long drives, solitude. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t dawdle either. He glanced at you once as he replaced the nozzle, his expression unreadable, and then he climbed back into the car without a word.  

You followed suit, settling into your seat and pulling the door shut with a soft click.  

The miles ahead stretched out endlessly, yet the closer you got to Austin, the more your thoughts swirled. You cycled through possibilities, none of them good. Each option felt like another layer of embarrassment, a new way to showcase just how deeply you’d tangled yourself in this ridiculous situation.  

Eventually, your mind settled on one solution—a compromise of sorts, though it was far from ideal. You turned it over and over, weighing the risk against your pride. It felt heavy in your chest, but the closer you got to the city, the harder it became to ignore.  

Finally, as the familiar outline of Austin came into view, you forced yourself to speak.  

“Frankie,” you said, your voice tentative. You turned to look at him, your hands fidgeting nervously in your lap.  

He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What?”  

“You know,” you began, cautiously, “Santi loves you a lot. You’re one of his best friends.”  

“I know.” 

“And you must love Santi too, right? I mean, you’d do anything for him.”  

At that, he glanced at you, his brows knitting together in confusion. The kindness in your voice must have thrown him off. But what really seemed to unnerve him was the faint, almost hesitant smile you were giving him.  

“Of course I love him,” he said slowly, his tone edged with suspicion. “What do you want?”  

You smiled a little wider, tilting your head. “Why do you think I want something?”  

“Because you’re smiling at me like that,” he shot back, returning his focus to the road. “And it’s creepy. Stop it. You’re scaring me.”  

“I just think,” you said carefully, “that it was really nice of you to go all the way to Dallas to pick me up. You didn’t have to, you know. I could’ve taken a bus or figured something out. But you did it anyway. You did me a favor today, and I just—”  

He cut you off with a dry laugh, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. A bead of sweat had formed there, glistening in the harsh afternoon light.

“If you want to call it that,” he muttered.  

“I mean it,” you insisted, leaning slightly toward him. “You didn’t have to do this. You could’ve said no, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. Why?”  

His grip tightened on the wheel, and he shot you another quick, sidelong glance. His expression was guarded, like he wasn’t sure where this was going or if he wanted to know.

“I dunno,” he said finally, his tone clipped. “Because Santi asked me to. Because I had nothing else to do. Does it matter?”  

You pursed your lips, staring straight ahead as your thoughts spiraled. Why were you nervous? It wasn’t fear—definitely not fear of him. But still, there was something about Frankie that unsettled you, something sharp-edged and unyielding in the way he looked at you, like he could see more than you intended to show.

You forced yourself to steady your breathing, trying to reason with your own hesitation. It didn’t matter if he was intimidating. It didn’t matter what he thought of you.

“I think you should come to the wedding with me,” you blurted, the words tumbling out before you had the chance to second-guess them. As soon as they were out, you snapped your gaze away, focusing intently on a crack in the dashboard as though it held the secrets of the universe.

“What?” Frankie’s tone wasn’t as surprised as you’d expected—it was more amused, like he thought you’d just said something profoundly ridiculous.

“You should come to the wedding with me,” you repeated, forcing yourself to look at him this time.

He turned his head briefly, his eyes scanning your face, his expression unreadable. He seemed to be studying you, trying to decide whether you were joking or if you’d completely lost your mind. Finally, he clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“No,” he said flatly.

“Frankie.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, his voice rising slightly in exasperation. “Did you hit your head or something? Have you completely lost it?”

“No, just hear me out,” you said, raising a hand in what you hoped was a calming gesture. He shot you a wary glance but didn’t interrupt. “It’ll just be a favor—a small favor. I swear, if you do this for me, I’ll give you whatever you want. Wathever. Um, well—not whatever you want,” you corrected quickly. “Something reasonable. Something human. Please.”

Frankie snorted, a small, incredulous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re asking me to pretend to be your boyfriend at the wedding of a guy who dumped you? And you’re the sister of one of my best friends?” He shook his head, laughing quietly, like he couldn’t quite believe the words coming out of your mouth.

You sighed, the weight of your desperation pressing down on you.

“Santi will understand,” you argued, your tone bordering on pleading now. “He will. And it’s not like I’m asking for much—just come with me for a little while. We don’t even have to stay all night. Just long enough to…” You trailed off, realizing how pathetic you sounded. “Just long enough to make it believable.”

“Sorry, no,” Frankie said firmly, cutting you off. “I’m not getting dragged into your drama. And honestly? I think it’s stupid for you to go to that wedding in the first place. What are you trying to prove? My answer is no. Invite someone else.”

Frustration burned in your chest, rising up to your cheeks as his words landed. You could feel your face heating, both from embarrassment and anger.

“I can’t invite someone else,” you snapped. “You’re my boyfriend, remember? That’s what Harry thinks. He saw you. They saw you. And you did a pretty good job pretending to be nice to me today—can’t you do it one more time? Just this once?”

“No—”

“I’ll do anything you want,” you interrupted, your voice insistent. “I mean it. Any favor you can think of. Just name it.”

Frankie tilted his head, giving you a skeptical look.

“I’m not interested in any favors from you,” he said bluntly. “I don’t need anything.”

“Then do it for Santi,” you said, desperate now.

Frankie laughed at that, a low, disbelieving sound that only irritated you further.

“What does your brother have to do with any of this?”

“He’s your best friend,” you said, leaning toward him slightly, like you could will him to understand. “And you love him. And I’m his sister.”

“Uh-huh,” Frankie said, still smirking. “So?”

“So, doesn’t that mean you should help me?”

Frankie’s laugh grew louder, his shoulders shaking slightly as he glanced at you.

“You’re really reaching now, aren’t you?”

He turned to look at you then, the movement deliberate, his eyes narrowing slightly as they met yours. There was no malice there, but the firm set of his jaw told you all you needed to know—there was no convincing him. He understood the weight of your request, the quiet urgency stitched into each word, but it didn’t sway him.

“I’ve never asked you for help before,” you said, your voice softer now, almost brittle. “In fact, I’ve refused your help plenty of times. You said I was childish, remember? Well, fine. Maybe I’m being childish. But now I’m asking. Just this once.”

He shook his head slowly.

“It’s not the same thing,” he said, his voice low and steady, like he was trying to explain something simple to a child. “And you are being childish. Like I told you—no. The answer’s fucking no.”

You blinked hard, swallowing against the sting of rejection that settled heavy in your throat.

“Okay, fine,” you replied, the word clipped, your voice devoid of emotion. You turned your face away from him, angling it toward the window, not wanting him to see the look on your face—humiliation, maybe, or something closer to defeat. “Thank you.”

Frankie sighed, long and low, his hands flexing around the steering wheel as though he were squeezing the last ounce of patience from himself. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the low hum of the car and the faint thrum of your pulse in your ears.

The rest of the drive passed without a single word exchanged. You stared out the window while Frankie focused intently on the road, his grip on the wheel tight and unyielding.

When the car finally pulled up in front of your house, the relief that washed over you was immediate and overwhelming. You reached for the door handle, your fingers trembling slightly, and stepped out into the humid air.

Frankie followed, moving around to the back of the car with the same mechanical precision he’d had all day. He popped the trunk and pulled out your suitcase, the effort seemingly as uninspired as when he’d loaded it hours ago.

He carried it to the door and set it down, his movements brisk, almost dismissive. You stood there, arms crossed, your body angled away from him, unwilling to meet his gaze.

“That’ll be all,” he said finally, his tone flat, his sunglasses obscuring his eyes on your face.

“Thank you,” you murmured, barely audible. “I’ll let Santi know I’m home.”

“Good.”

You didn’t look up as he turned back toward the car. You didn’t watch him leave, but you heard the sound of his door slamming shut, the low rumble of the engine as he drove off.

As the noise of his departure faded into the distance, you stayed rooted to the spot for a moment longer, the weight of the day pressing heavy on your shoulders. The heat prickled against your skin, and your head ached faintly, a dull reminder of how much you wanted this day to end.

You grabbed the handle of your suitcase, pulling it inside as the silence of the house enveloped you. You needed a shower—cold water to wash away the heat, the frustration, the embarrassment of it all. You needed to be alone, to let the day dissolve into nothingness behind a locked door.

Nearly two weeks slipped by, lost in the haze of your routines and the background hum of self-destructive thoughts.

What were you going to do? Probably nothing. You wouldn’t go. That was the easiest answer, and maybe the only one that made sense. What choice did you really have?

Still, Frankie’s words stuck in your head, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. What are you trying to prove? he’d asked. And after a few restless nights, staring at the ceiling and replaying the conversation, you realized he was right. You did want to prove something—to Harry, to yourself. You wanted him to see you happy, radiantly happy, at his wedding, as though it didn’t touch you at all. You wanted to seem light and unbothered, the kind of woman who could be at her ex’s wedding without flinching.

Except you did care. Of course, you cared. You hated that you cared. And you hated Harry for putting you in this position. How could you not be upset? The man had left you only a few months ago, and now he was marrying someone else. It wasn’t normal—none of it was. But you couldn’t shake the question gnawing at the back of your mind: why did you have to be the one left hurt?

And Frankie. You’d hated the way he’d looked at you when he said it; What are you trying to prove? What the hell were you trying to prove? like he couldn’t believe how foolish you were. If you hadn’t wanted to see him before, you definitely didn’t want to now. You resolved to talk to Santi, to tell him how uncomfortable the trip had been—without blaming Frankie, exactly—and to ask, kindly but firmly, that he warn you if Frankie would be around in the future.

It was humiliating, this whole situation. But you were sure about one thing: you never wanted to see Francisco Morales again.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving your kitchen in soft shadows as you stirred sugar into your coffee. Your gaze stayed fixed on your laptop, on Harry’s wedding invitation glowing on the screen. You’d read it so many times it felt permanently etched into your mind. But now, you’d decided. You weren’t going.

Your finger hovered over the trackpad, guiding the cursor to the “RSVP not attending” option. You paused, just for a second, your chest tightening. Then, before you could click, the doorbell rang, sharp and sudden, making you flinch.

Setting the mug down, you crossed to the window, peering out at the sidewalk. The sight below made your brows knit together. That couldn’t be right. Surely, you were imagining things.

You slipped on a pair of shoes and headed downstairs, opening the door without much thought.

“Francisco,” you said flatly, his name sitting awkwardly on your tongue. “What are you doing here? Did something happen with Santi?”

He dragged a hand over his mouth and shook his head, slow and deliberate.

“Can we talk?”

“About what?” Your tone was sharp, incredulous, your expression twisted like he’d just said something absurd.

He looked different somehow. Neater, you thought, though you hated yourself for noticing. His hair was slightly shorter, his beard more trimmed than usual.

He sighed, long and heavy, like he’d been forced into something he didn’t want to do. The sound made you laugh, a sharp, derisive snort. As if he had the right to be irritated. He’d shown up unannounced, at night, on your doorstep. If anyone should feel fed up, it was you.

“I’m going to help you,” he said finally, the words clipped and begrudging.

“With what?”

“With your ex.”

“What?” The confusion on your face deepened. “Harry?”

Frankie glanced to the side, as if checking for onlookers, before returning his gaze to you and nodding.

“Are there other exes you need help with?”

His question was thick with sarcasm, and you rolled your eyes in response.  

“Well, I don’t need your help anymore. But thanks,” you said quickly, your voice tight, as you began to push the door shut, inch by inch.  

Then his hand was on it, stopping you.  

“Wait,” he said, and this time his voice was different—tinged with something almost like desperation. “I’m serious.”  

You paused, narrowing your eyes at him through the gap.

“Why would you help me? You were very clear the other day,” you said, your tone sharp. “There’s no point in me going to the wedding.”  

“True, there’s no point,” he said, his gaze steady on yours. “But I know you well enough to know you’d love to go anyway. To show Harry how great you’re doing. Am I wrong?”  

“You’re wrong,” you shot back instantly, too quickly.  

Frankie sighed, the sound dragging out like he was trying to buy himself time. He glanced away for a second, then back at you, his expression suddenly resolute.  

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.  

You blinked at him, stunned into silence for a moment.

Then, with a raised brow, you asked, “Are you sick? Do you have a fever, Francisco?” You brought your hand up toward his forehead, but he flinched back dramatically before you could touch him.  

“What are you up to?” you asked, pulling the door open wider, suspicion laced in your tone.  

Frankie stood there, his posture stiff, his expression uncomfortable, like he was holding something in that might burst out if you pressed too hard.  

“May I come in?” he asked finally, his brown eyes soft and glinting, almost boyish.  

You hesitated, studying him for a few beats, letting the curiosity outweigh your disdain. Then you stepped back and opened the door fully, sealing the moment with the soft click of the latch behind him.  

Frankie climbed the stairs ahead of you, pausing at the top to wait as you opened the door to your apartment. He stepped inside, scanning the space.  

Your living room was warm, cozy but cluttered—books and mugs scattered across the coffee table and nearly every other available surface, interspersed with pens, pencils, and random odds and ends. Behind the sofa, the kitchen was visible, small but functional.  

You stood back, watching him take it all in. His expression was unreadable, but you imagined him silently judging the chaos. You almost wanted him to—let him think it was messy, or that your style was lacking. You didn’t care.

He didn’t belong there, in your space. Everything about him seemed incongruous with the world you’d built for yourself—his presence like a mismatched puzzle piece, forcibly shoved into place where it clearly didn’t fit. He was out of tune with your reality, standing in the warmth of your living room like he’d wandered in from an entirely different life.

You crossed to the kitchen island, where your half-drunk coffee sat waiting. Sliding onto the stool, you gestured at the one across from you.

“Have a seat.”

Frankie hesitated but eventually sat down, his movements stiff and reluctant, like he’d rather be anywhere else. His expression was tight, uncomfortable, like he was a vampire catching the faintest whiff of garlic in the air. His eyes landed immediately on your laptop, still glowing with Harry’s wedding invitation.

“I see you’re taking the wedding well,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You sighed audibly, refusing to take the bait.

“What do you want?”

As you waited for him to answer, you lifted your coffee to your lips. It had already cooled, the bitterness more pronounced now that it was lukewarm. Another thing he ruined for you, you thought bitterly. Your fucking coffee. 

“I’ve been thinking—”

“Congratulations,” you cut in, deadpan.

Frankie’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and unamused. He didn’t even blink, just stared at you like he was waiting for you to get it out of your system. You shrugged, feigning indifference, though the weight of his gaze made your skin prickle.

“I’ve decided I’m going to the wedding with you,” he said finally.

You raised an eyebrow, lowering your mug to the counter.

“You decided? I thought you didn’t want to go with me.”

“I don’t,” he said. His fingers brushed the edge of your laptop, tracing a line along it.

“But you’re still here,” you said, your voice laced with suspicion.

Frankie exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly.

“I’ll help you… if you help me.”

“If I help you? With what? Don’t tell me you’re finally going to therapy,” you blurted out, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

Frankie straightened in his seat, his back stiffening like you’d just landed a verbal jab. For a moment, it looked like he might get up and leave—walk out and never look back. But instead, he stayed. He clenched his jaw, his eyes locking on yours with a determined, almost defiant look.

“I had dinner with my family tonight,” he began, his voice measured but tense. “With my mom and two of my sisters—”

“Is that why you look like that?” you interrupted, tilting your head.

“What?”

“Like you finally took a bath,” you said, your smirk widening.

Frankie exhaled sharply, his patience visibly fraying. “Can you shut up and listen to me for a second? I’ll be brief.”

You held up a hand as if to say, Fine, go on.

“They’re nice, my family, but they won’t leave me alone,” he said, his tone growing more frustrated. “All through dinner, they kept asking me these awkward questions, trying to convince me to go on these dates they’ve been setting up with their friends’ daughters or coworkers or whoever.”

Your smile widened, thoroughly amused. “Why? Why don’t you just go? Come to think of it—”

“No,” he cut you off, his voice sharp. “I already agreed once, and it was a disaster. I’m not doing it again. And I’m not about to get into that with you.”

“Good,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Because I’m not interested.”

Frankie sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair.

“Every time I see them—for over a year now—it’s the same thing. They won’t leave me alone. And look, I get it. They’re trying to be helpful. But I’ve had enough.”

Your curiosity piqued at that. “What happened a year ago? Why?”

Frankie’s face tightened, his upper lip curling slightly as if the question had caught him off guard.

He frowned, his brows drawing together, before finally muttering, “That doesn’t matter.”

The dodge only made you more curious, but you let it go, watching as he leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.

“The point is,” he continued, “I got fed up. So tonight, when they started in on me again, I told them to back off. That I didn’t need them setting me up on dates because… because I already have a girlfriend.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, their weight sinking in.

Oh.

“Oh,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyebrows lifted just enough to show your surprise, though you tried to mask it.

Frankie shifted in his seat, his gaze falling to his hand resting on his knee. He shook his head slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible motion, as though he was trying to block out whatever he feared you might say next.  

“Funny,” you said, your voice light with mockery. “And your mother believed you?”  

When he looked up at you, his expression darkened. The amused smile playing on your lips ignited a flash of irritation in his eyes. You looked entirely too entertained by the situation, and it made him bristle.  

“Hardly,” he admitted, his tone sharp. “I don’t even think I convinced her. That’s why I need your help.”  

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly, as though creating space from whatever absurdity was about to come out of his mouth.

“You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?”  

Frankie nodded once, curtly. “My mom’s birthday is in a few days. She’s turning sixty. She’s having this big nice party, and she told me she wants to meet my girlfriend then.”  

You crossed your arms, still trying to gauge whether or not this was some elaborate joke.

“When’s the party?”  

“Next Saturday.”  

Your eyebrows shot up, and your lips parted in disbelief.

“Francisco,” you grumbled, the word low and heavy. “That’s in three days.”  

“I know,” he muttered, matching your tone. His jaw tightened like he was already regretting the entire conversation.  

“And what did you tell her?” you demanded. “What did you say when she asked?”  

Frankie’s hand moved to the counter, his fingers drumming once before he let them still.

He hesitated, and then, in a resigned voice, said, “I told her yes. That I’d bring my girlfriend to her birthday.” He paused, meeting your gaze. “So she’d finally leave me alone.”  

You pushed back from the stool, standing in one swift, exasperated motion. Your hands flew to your hips, your whole body radiating irritation as you glared at him.  

“Oh, so you just assumed I’d help you, didn’t you?” you snapped, your voice loud in the otherwise quiet apartment. “What if I said no?”  

“I knew you wouldn’t say no,” Frankie said, meeting your anger with calm certainty.  

You let out an incredulous laugh, your head tilting back briefly before you fixed him with a sharp look.

“My God, what’s wrong with you? You don’t know what I’m thinking.”  

He didn’t flinch, though you could see his patience thinning in the slight twitch of his brow.

“I know you well enough to know you’ll say yes,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, as though he were stating the obvious.  

The sheer audacity of it made you want to scream.

Frankie rose from his spot, his movements deliberate and quick. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the room, closing the space between you with purposeful strides. He stopped in front of you, standing taller, looking down at you with an intensity that was hard to ignore.  

“I know you want to go to the wedding,” he said, his voice firm. “I know you asked me to go with you, and you were persistent. And anyway, I think you owe me.”  

You blinked, incredulous, a small laugh escaping your lips despite yourself.

“I owe you?”  

Frankie’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he took a small step closer.

“Don’t forget that the only reason you didn’t make a complete fool of yourself in front of Harry was because I decided to help you. I played along. If I’d wanted to, I could’ve exposed you in front of him and his fiancée. I could’ve made it worse.”  

“Thank you so much, Francisco, you're a fucking angel,” you spat, your tone thick with sarcasm, though the incredulous smile on your face betrayed how absurd it all felt. “What do you want me to do? Give you a hero of the century award?”  

Frankie’s expression didn’t waver; he was dead serious. “No. Come with me to my mom’s birthday and we’re even.”  

You froze for a moment, processing his words, the sheer audacity of them making your heart skip a beat. This was beyond ridiculous.  

"You're fucking crazy! Are you serious?" you demanded, unable to hide the disbelief in your voice. "It’s not even close. Harry’s my ex something, nothing more. And you’re asking me to go with you to a family event, full of your relatives, and you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend in front of all of them?”  

Frankie’s eyes flicked upwards, his impatience seeping into his expression. He rolled his eyes.  

“It’s not like we’re getting married,” he said, dismissive, his voice tinged with frustration. “You’re exaggerating. It’s not the first time I’ve taken a girlfriend to a family thing. What are you, fifteen?”  

You crossed your arms, giving him a skeptical look. “I don’t know, by my standards, introducing a girlfriend to your family seems like a pretty serious thing.”  

Frankie exhaled through his nose, clearly growing more insistent. He looked at you with unwavering intensity, his gaze now pointed, as if trying to break through the walls you were building between you and this ridiculous proposition.  

“I’ll take care of that,” he said, his voice steady but with a finality that made it clear he wasn’t backing down.

You stood there for a moment, the room stretching in a strange, suspended silence. You weighed his words in your mind, the absurdity of the situation tangled with a strange sense of reluctant curiosity.  

“Are you really going to accompany me to the wedding?” you asked, your voice quieter than you’d intended, the question slipping out like something you hadn’t meant to say aloud.  

Frankie nodded, a reassuring, almost teasing gesture, as though he was certain he had already won.

“I’ll help you catch the bouquet and everything,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling in a grin that almost made you want to punch him.  

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, your voice edged with irritation.  

“And yet, here you are, still going with me to that wedding.”  

Frustration rose in your chest, pooling in your throat like heat. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the rush of emotion that threatened to spill over. How utterly insolent. How impossible.  

“Fine,” you finally spat out, barely containing the anger simmering beneath your words. “I’ll help you. But you’d better make my time count, Francisco.”  

He flashed a half-smile, the kind of smug, self-satisfied smirk that made your fingers itch to slap him. You wanted to say something else—something cutting, something that would make him regret this entire conversation. But you couldn’t.  

Instead, Frankie reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen a couple of times before handing it to you.

“Give me your number.”  

You took the phone from him with a swift, almost startled motion, your fingers brushing against his as you punched in your number. The action felt mechanical, as if you were moving through a script you didn’t want to follow. When you handed it back to him, you watched him tap the screen, adding you to his contacts with deliberate motions. His fingers moved quickly, but you couldn’t catch the name he gave you. It was probably something ridiculous, something that made you cringe even without knowing it.

He didn’t say anything, just slid the phone back into his pocket, and turned to head for the door. But before he reached it, he stopped and looked at you, his eyes meeting yours once more.  

“I’ll text you,” he said abruptly, almost as if it were a last-minute afterthought.  

And then, without waiting for a response, he opened the door and left, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet stairs. You stood there, still staring at the empty doorway, the weight of his words hanging in the air long after he was gone.

With one click, you confirmed your attendance.

tags: @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti (a few of the tags aren't working, idk why, fix it tumblr!!!!)

beautiful divider by @saradika-graphics 💗

[astrayas]

Reheat (Pt. 1)

Pairing: Nanami Kento x fem reader 

Summary: Nanami takes your request to spice up your sex life seriously.

Was originally going to be a oneshot, but it got so long that I had to separate it into two parts.

୨୧𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄୨୧ Read Part 2 Here ୨୧𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄 𓐄୨୧

Warnings: MDNI, smut, oral (both receiving), spanking, toys, vaginal fingering, soft dom Nanami, mild bondage

18+!

Ao3 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

Nanami Kento is perfect.

Really. 

He’s a neatly polished statue of a man who dropped the smoothest lines, bought you the biggest flowers, orchestrated the grandest dates. When you were ready for the next step, he took you to bed on the finest sheets.

And it’s been nothing but that flawless finery ever since. At first, the sex was exciting; he played rough and dirty the only place he knew he could, and he found a new way to leave you shaking every time. Now, though…

Well, it’s not bad. Really, it’s not bad. But somewhere down the line, your sex life became so…professional. Each session lasts the same appropriate amount of time. He sticks to the same acceptable foreplay. He likes the same reliable positions and patterns, executed exactly the right way, each and every time. 

It could be worse. Part of that routine requires satisfying you, after all. It’s good. Really, it’s good.

…God, it’s boring.

It’s boring and plain and predictable. When did it get like this? When did he trade in the possessive grabbing for shallow kisses, the adventurous positions for faithful missionary, the spanking and biting and dirty talk for…efficiency? 

And when did you start going along with it?

So many toys in the closet collecting dust. So many steamy conversations, all featuring a wild and dominant Nanami, forgotten once the sex actually starts. 

But there’s no point in staying up late just once, right? Vanilla’s actually a pretty complex spice, didn’t you know?

The thoughts rise and bubble at the forefront of your mind, bursting only when Nanami nudges you on the shoulder. He peers at you over his reading glasses, the soft light of his nightstand lamp casting shadows in the hollows of his cheeks as he sits next to you in bed. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks. “You’ve been staring at that wall for a while.”

“Oh!” You clear your throat and tear your eyes away from the blank bit of wall you’ve been locking onto. “No, no. I just…I’ve been thinking…”

He presses a finger to a stopping point in his book and looks up to meet your gaze. That crease between his brows is starting to deepen. 

“Thinking about what?”

“Um…”

Shit. You weren’t planning to actually have this conversation tonight. You were just thinking about it. But Nanami’s eyes are fixed on you for good now, and they’ll stay there until you say something. So you take a breath and hope you only trip over a few words.

“Do you ever think our sex life—“ You stutter when he tilts his head. “—might have gotten too…vanilla?”

“I thought you liked vanilla,” he counters, his tone even, his eyes analytical. Not an insult. A genuine question.

“I mean, sometimes,” you sigh, sliding down the headboard and setting your own book aside. “And the sex is still good.” Really, it is. “But it’s a little, uh, too good.”

“...It’s too good?” 

“It’s…neat. Nice and neat and to the point.”

“To the point?” he repeats, each word a little shorter than the last. 

You suck in a breath and force a smile. You rest your hand on his in a bid to show him that you’re not criticizing him. You just want…a different kind of spice. His eyes flick down to your hand before meeting yours again, his pinched brows pushing that crease even deeper.

“Just…what about all those toys we have, you know?” you continue, jerking your head in the direction of the closet. You can hear the faintest breath hitch in his chest. “And remember the things we used to do? When you’d take over and get rough and tie me up and bend me over the—”

“I get it.” He coughs and closes his book. This time, his eyes flit to anything but you as he sets it on the nightstand along with his glasses. “I remember. I just always thought you…liked vanilla,” he says again.

“Sometimes,” you say again, too. “But with all the other…flavors…out there, why only stick with one?”

You watch him with a tight chest and busy hands, which bunch up the sheets around you. He’s quiet and methodical as he stands up and starts his nightly stretches. That mid-brow crease is a mile deep now. Neither of you say anything else until he’s satisfied with his routine and slips back into bed. 

“Other flavors,” he muses. It’s not clear if he’s speaking to you or himself. “Hmm.”

Is he…mad? Embarrassed? Unbothered? It’s so hard to tell; his face might as well be perfectly chiseled stone. And not that he’s a man of many words on a good day, but those words have been especially clipped since you started bringing up spices and flavors.

“Well. Goodnight,” he says with no ceremony, flipping off his bedside lamp. You stare at what your own lamp is still letting you see of his face.

“Um? Are—are you good?” you ask, sinking fully under the sheets. “Anything you wanna talk about? Questions? Comments?”

“I don’t believe so,” he answers before he closes his eyes. Nothing but a feathering muscle in his jaw contradicts his words, but even that disappears soon. “I see I’ve been misunderstanding you. So now…I need to think.”

“...Well, alright,” you mumble, and with no blank wall to stare at in the dark, your thoughts race behind your closed eyes instead.

“Goodnight.”

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

You wake up feeling uneasy the next day. Nanami doesn’t seem particularly bothered—just distracted—as he’s getting ready for work, but he never acknowledges last night’s conversation. He leaves without a word, apparently deep in thought, that brow crease already sunken into his skin. But that feeling doesn’t start gnawing at your chest until you notice he doesn’t text you on his lunch break, which is abnormal for him. 

When he gets home, though, he greets you the same way he usually does. With a quick peck on the lips. 

“Welcome home,” you chirp, forcing a chipper lilt. “How was work?”

You watch him carefully as he answers you, pretending to busy yourself cleaning a particularly stubborn spot on the kitchen table. 

“It was work,” he grunts. “Shitty.”

A brisk answer, you note to yourself. He’s usually complaining about something specific by now. Then you notice, to your dismay, that he’s already loosening his tie. Shit. He normally gives himself at least an hour before he gets out of his work clothes. But there goes his jacket. And he’s unbuttoning his shirt. And now his tie is fully off, too. 

He’s planning to just get into loungewear and read for the rest of the night, is that it? He really is mad, right?

“Kento?” you blurt out.

“Yes?” He watches you with painful neutrality as he sets his tie on the table.

“Are you…upset? After what we talked about last night?”

He finally stops unbuttoning his shirt to look at you. His expression is calm, pleasant, but that line between his brows…

“Of course not, love.” He graces you with just enough of a smile to suggest he means it. 

“But—”

“I take it you’ve been cleaning this table?” he redirects, sliding a long finger across the polished wood. You regard both him and the table with a raised brow, then you plant a hand on your hip. What is he doing?

“Um. Yes. But—”

“Good. Then I’ve got something in mind.”

“...What?”

He doesn’t answer, pausing only to unbutton the rest of his shirt and…throw it directly onto the floor. You stare at it for a moment before looking back up at him in his thin undershirt and coming to a realization.

It’s been a while since you’ve looked at him like this. 

Just admiring his form. Under the bright kitchen light, his plain white shirt is but the first layer of the canvas before you, serving to draw your true attention to the sharply cut muscles that lie beneath.

A form truly worth admiring. In all your time together, not once has he let himself slip out of shape. His hard work has woven itself into his very being, evident in everything from his posture to his gait to the veins that crawl across his hands.

And evident, of course, in his body itself. As a tall man, the taper from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist stands out even more. His arms, now freed from that button-down business shirt, show off their contoured shape and strength, such hard muscles sitting just beneath such smooth skin.

Muscles that betray none of their power as he lifts his undershirt up and away, too, and walks up to you, lifting a gentle hand to your face. 

His touch is different tonight. It’s…lighter, every finger like a feather tickling your skin as they glide across your cheek, brush your jaw, slip down to your collarbone, and snake back up the nape of your neck. Every movement a soft, delicate dance. You sink into the sensation, hypnotized, frozen under the goosebumps dotting your skin.

So you’re no less than shocked when he gathers a fistful of hair at the base and pulls on it. Hard.

You only get half a second to yelp before your neck cranes back, subject to the mercy of his hand. Had you not screwed your eyes shut, you may have seen what kind of devilry might be dancing in his eyes before his lips land on the underside of your jaw and drag themselves down, down, down, the heat of his breath caressing your skin before his teeth sink into the tender crook of your neck.

This time, you answer with a whimper. What just happened? When did he manage to herd you toward the edge of the table? And when did his knee find its way between your trembling legs, acting as your source of balance while it pushes against your sex?

You flounder for answers before he lets your neck go, loosens his grip on your hair, and finally gives you the chance to look into his eyes. 

Funny. That crease is gone. But his eyes, typically cool and composed, burn with more than simple desire. It’s something deep, primal, base.

Hunger.

Once you’ve gotten a good look, he gives your bunched up hair another solid, hard tug. Your head snaps back again, and a groan crawls its way out of your strained throat.

“Say the word, and I’ll stop,” he whispers, his lips back against the base of your neck, his teeth dangerously close. “You’re in control.”

You take a second to answer, swept up in the rush of arousal that floods you like a long-awaited rain. How long has it been? When was the last time he played rough like this, much less even spoke of it? 

But that second must have bled into a few more. Because his fingers start to free themselves from your hair. His knee inches back from your core, leaving it aching and cold. Before he can pull any other part of himself away from you, though, your hands fly to both sides of his face and capture it in a firm hold.

“Don’t…stop,” you breathe, your voice soft but steady. “Don’t you dare stop.”

For a moment, he’s silent. Flecks of light dance in his deep brown eyes as they bore into you, and the corner of his mouth twitches just a bit. And then he answers with a sound you rarely hear from him.

A chuckle.

“That’s what I thought.”

He steps in closer again. His body presses firmly against yours, trapping you between himself and the table, fanning embers you’d feared had cooled between you. He’s not saying a word, but his very presence is still so domineering as he reaches for something behind you. After a thorough throat clearing, you find it in yourself to speak.

“What are you—”

“Turn around.”

Electricity shoots through you. You’ve lost your words again, but you don’t need any right now. All you have to do is obey. 

So you do. You turn around and face the table you were scrubbing to hell just a few minutes ago, the embers in your stomach growing into flames when you catch a streak of speckled yellow slipping out of your sight.

His tie.

His lips find their way to your neck again, leaving kisses in no discernable pattern as he slides a finger down your spine. You gulp ever so slightly.

“So you want it rough?” he purrs against you. “You want the old days back?” His hand snakes down to the small of your back, resting on it like he knows it’s his. 

“You want me to order you around, make you whine and beg for more, own you?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter. 

His tie brushes past your hands, swinging softly behind you until it slows to a stop. He’s paused again. You meant what you said. You do want it. But your squeak of an answer probably wasn’t convincing.

“You sure?” he asks. He presses a gentle, reassuring kiss to your shoulder. “I don’t want to push you.”

You close your eyes, taking a moment to savor his soft lips, the heat of his bare chest against your back. Not even a kiss on your shoulder made it into your vanilla routine. Is that why you’re nervous? Because this kind of contact is new again?

You push back against him, smiling when your backside meets his growing length. If this is new, then you’re ready to explore it all over again. You take a breath and steady your voice.

“I’m sure,” you whisper. “I want it all, Kento.”

You reach behind yourself for that bulge you felt a second ago. It doesn’t take long to find it. You stroke him over his pants, your smile growing into a full grin when he curses and groans.

But it’s just a momentary slip. He clears his throat, and the hand he’d left on the small of your back pushes into your skin while he lays another between your shoulder blades. Both are tense and hard when they urge you down.

“Then bend over.”

That electricity surges within you again, branching out into bolts of lightning that reach deeper, lower than your stomach. There it is. That voice, that voice, the one he used when everything was new. A voice lower and deeper than usual, full of calm authority, tinted with growing hunger. You’d almost forgotten how sweet it sounds in your ears.

It’s a siren song that directs your every movement, and you bend over until your torso is flat on the table. He palms your ass over your dress, taking his time, caressing and grabbing and squeezing it before he directs himself back to the hands lying next to you at either side.

“First, since you’re so grabby right now…” he tuts, securing your hands behind your back. “I think I’ll go ahead and take care of that.”

You feel his silken tie wrap around your wrists one, two, three times, then a couple more, your breath hitching when it’s tied and tightened into a firm hold. You flex your hands and strain your wrists. You won’t be wriggling out of this easily. Nanami gives the knot one last tug for reassurance before he runs his fingers through your hair.

“Comfortable?” he asks. “Not too tight?”

“Comfortable,” you confirm. Without any hands free to grab for it, you push yourself back a bit and against the bulge still stuck beneath his pants. He hisses, grabs your ass, and pushes you back, his fingers digging into your soft flesh.

“Good,” he simply says, disregarding your little display. “Because I’ll be keeping you like that for a while.”

Finally, he lifts your dress up to your back, pushing some of it under your bound wrists. You turn your head away from his line of sight, smiling again, waiting for his response. 

The quiet, low hum he lets out is the only indication that he might have been close to cracking.

“Nothing under this dress…” he whispers. “Were you expecting this to happen tonight?”

The flutter in your chest almost stops you from answering.

“I don’t know,” you admit, lifting your head from the table to speak. “I was hoping, I guess…because I couldn’t figure out how you felt after we talked last night. You didn’t really say anything, Kento.”

“Oh…” he murmurs. His hold on you softens. “I’m sorry, darling. Truth be told, I was happy you brought it up.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you grumble.

“I know,” he coos. “We’d just been sticking with vanilla for so long that I thought it was your favorite…flavor. So I started thinking so much about what I wanted to do to you that I forgot to actually communicate.” His hand, strong but gentle, runs up and down your back before combing through your hair again. “Can you forgive me?”

“If you keep this up, then yeah. All is forgiven,” you giggle.

He lets out a low chuckle, too, and rubs your bare ass a few times before giving it a firm smack. You gasp in response, a little from surprise, a little from excitement. He’s just set the tone for the rest of the night.

“Then let me be very clear about my intentions tonight,” he croons, that velvet voice flowing over you like sweet ganache. The hand he’d brushed through your hair gathers it into another messy pony and gives it a pull. A hard, sharp pull demanding obedience.

“I’m going to do as I please, right here.” Another smack against your ass, and another, and another, each a little harder than the last. Stinging, intoxicating, delicious heat radiates from your skin when he stops. 

“You’re going to do as I say.” His hand glides to your entrance, a single finger slipping and sliding up and down, teasing you. The moment you start to moan, he wipes off the slick he’d gathered against your thigh. “And you won’t cum until I say you can.”

You shiver at his words, almost overwhelmed at all the control he’s demanding over you. It’s flowing so naturally from him. Like he’s picking up right where he left off.

Has he been aching for this, too?

Your thoughts screech to a halt when he smacks your other cheek, letting it burn as much as the first.

“Do you hear me? Do you understand?”

“Yes,” you mewl, squirming under his hands. “Yes. Do it all. Please.”

He hums in approval and leans over, his finger just barely dipping inside of you. 

“I’ll do everything for you,” he purrs. His chest meets your back again, and his lips brush the shell of your ear. “In return, all I ask is that you communicate with me, too.”

And while he’s still leaning over you, on you, his finger slides all the way in. You gasp and groan as that lightning strikes something even deeper within you, sparking a wild flame.

“Tell me how you’re feeling.”

Another finger slips in.

“Tell me when it’s too much. Tell me when it’s not enough.”

His fingers pump inside you, angling down toward your stomach, stoking your fire.

“Tell me what you want.”

“I want you!” you keen, so breathless already, every nerve in your body a live wire. “I want you to take control. I want you to fuck me like you used to!”

His fingers slow inside you, but you can feel his smile spread across your skin. Then, he shares just one note before he pulls them out, slides his hands underneath you, and flips you onto your back:

“Good girl.”

[fishnapple]

Random facts about your person

(I did the reading with the intention for future spouse/partner/ lover)

This is a general reading meant for multiple people. Take only what resonates and leave out the rest.

Your feedback is much appreciated. If you find the reading resonated with you, leave a comment, I’d love to know 🎐

About me | Masterpost Book a reading with me - KO-FI(→ personal reading)

1. Amethyst

• They had changed their living place a lot since childhood. So much moving and travel that they developed some kind of weariness concerning moving, but they still have to do it. Their life is geared towards moving, getting out of confinement.

• Could have an unstable and lonely childhood due to the moving and also due to their caretakers and people around them being emotionally distant. The theme is distance, be it physical or emotional distance.

• They have a feeling that something about them is fundamentally different from their peers, which can result in the feeling of isolation.

• Don't have many friends, but their friends are loyal. Your person could have more older friends than younger friends.

• Secretive, doesn't easily show their true self and their true thoughts and feelings to others. You could be in a relationship with them for years but there will still be some dark corners in them that you can't reach.

• Could receive inheritance from their father's side.

• Once believed in something, it will be hard to dissuade them from it.

• Secretly spiritual, believe in higher beings and spirits, the governing rules of the universe, etc. Have an uncanny intuition, could be psychic. Theirs dreams usually have profound meaning and predictive quality. They could learn things just by sleeping and meditating.

• They actively fight for their beliefs. Could have some disagreements with religious systems.

• Had pondered the possibility of becoming a monk or a hermit at some point. The desire could still linger somewhere in their subconscious.

• Not too keen on being in a leadership position but still be placed in one anyway. Reluctant leader but actually good at it. People could sense a hidden intensity in them so they are intimidated but respect them.

• Look neat and polished. No frill, practical style but not sloppy, still have a certain aesthetic to it. Remind me of a cat, self-grooming.

• They feel cleansed both physically and emotionally while taking a shower. Could have several showers a day.

• Their hand writting is beautiful but hard to read.

• Give off a clean, quiet image but people can still feel some intense sexual energy underneath. Like a nuclear reactor under a calm lake.

2. Agate

• Could appear aggressive and intense at first sight but actually a softie inside. But they only show this soft side to their closest person.

• Love food. Love tasting it, talk about it, making it, and making bonds over it. The best way to make them fall for you probably is through food. Their mood is affected by the things they eat and vice versa, their mood affects their appetite greatly.

• Materialistic, money, assets and good food give them emotional security and satisfaction.

• Usually emotionally stable and calm. They can regulate their emotions well.

• Easily obsessed, with things, with people and situations. Over indulgence could be an expression of a deep sense of emptiness that they don't know how to express in a more healthy way.

• Their energy feels young, look young for their age, or could actually be young in age. There's a childlike quality to them. In their way of thinking, speaking and actions.

• A certain part in their body is considered small compared to normal standards. Likely their hands or fingers or their mouth. Delicate and smooth.

• They rarely have hidden motives behind their actions and words, pure intentions. But somehow are usually viewed as cunning, calculating and sneaky, like they always have hidden tricks under their sleeves. On a lighter note, usually seen as smart, good with words.

• Love to learn, curious about everything, they like to probe deep into the stuff, the people they're curious about.

• Good with animals, animals love them. The one that gets approached by pets of other people. Could own a large pet.

• Their job could involve lots of foreigners. Talking, publishing, writing, negotiating. They're usually favoured in their job.

• Robust constitution, recover from sickness quickly, likely due to their optimism.

• Have hobbies that are considered strange by many. Likely have a collection of strange, quirky things that are considered useless or trash by other people. Odd taste.

• A hoarder. 'Just in case they can come in handy in the future' mindset.

• Might not be too enthusiastic about the idea of commitment and having children. But if they become a parent, they will be their child's best friend and will invest themselves completely in raising the child.

• Deliver jokes with a serious face. Odd timing. Make serious thing sound like a joke while making jokes sound like something serious. You will want to scream, from laughter or from frustration.

• Could have social anxiety.

• For all their childlike and quirky attitudes, they are loyal and serious in love. They are detached when it comes to romance, could take a long time to completely fall in love with someone. They don't like falling, once fallen, it's hard for them to get up and get out.

3. Prehnite

• They feel like their life is governed by some outside, inexplicable force that they can't grasp. Like some higher beings always watch and pull them in a certain direction.

• Strong manifestor. They work hard to get what they want and life treats them well for it.

• Not very in tune with their emotions. They have experienced some losses that prevent them from fully connecting with their inner child. But can appear very calm and down to earth.

• Could have a smothering mother and an overbearing father. Their parents are controlling and demanding.

• Could work in a bank, good at managing other people's assets and money.

• Balanced feminine and masculine energy. As in, they embrace both feminine and masculine traits equally. But whether they express those traits in a healthy fashion is another story.

• Have a tendency to lean on excesses. Emotionally, physically.

• Generous with their money. Also are lucky in money matters. They could lose money fast but gain it back just as fast.

• Like to be the dominant one in bed or at least have control over their partner.

• Like to decorate their living space. It's their sanctuary. They would love a harmonious colour palette and many frivolous decorations. Good taste.

• The way they love is discreet and intimate.

• Will want to stay at home a lot. Usually invite their partner or friends over their home to hang out.

• They have an indescribable fear concerning children. Not that they don't like them or avoid them. But it's more like the feeling of not doing enough, the fear of not being able to provide safety and care for the children. Whatever loss or pain they had as a child, they don't want other children to have that same loss and pain so they can be hard on themselves in their ability to take care of children. 'If I'm not (insert attributes) enough, then I'm not qualified to have children', that kind of thinking.

• Except for the above fear, they are confident in themselves. That comes from having learnt the lesson of facing peer's pressure.

• Have many friends from many different countries and from many different professions. But the friendship doesn't stay too long or too deep. The majority is surface level friendship.

• Teaching might come naturally for them.

• Love learning about different cultures, likely speaking more than one foreign language.

• Travelling is their way to reconnect with themselves. Can be pretty spontaneous, they just pack their bag and go without much prior planning.

4. Flourite

• They talk with their facial expressions more than words. One stare and you can immediately understand what they're trying to convey. Emotionally expressive.

• But could also rationalise their feelings a lot. They 'see' their feelings in their head than 'feel' them.

• They could have lost an important masculine figure in their childhood. That event taught them to be independent. To be their own authority.

• Can have a big ego. Not yielding to other's will. Quietly stubborn.

• Could have moved away from their homeland or at least, have that desire. They want to escape something, a restriction, a rule, an old wound.

• Internally, they don't feel secure about themselves, something is always lacking for them. They seek to build a foundation, alone, but it's actually more fulfilling when they do it with someone else.

• Have a sharp primal instinct. They base a lot of their decisions on the reactions in their body. And those decisions are usually proven to be right. So they could be choosing their partner based on that instinct.

• Could have had many flings and physical connections in the past.

• They considered their ideal life partner is someone that they can have a harmonious living routine with, not just based on physical attraction or compatible personality. They understand the importance of habit compatibility in marriage.

• They take good care of their hygiene and appearance, can be a little fussy.

• Devotional in a practical sense. They will make sure that there's no discomfort in your life. Whatever work or adjustment needed to be made in order for the relationship to work, they are willing to do it, only AFTER they had carefully considered the prospect of the relationship. If they don't see a practical future for the relationship, they will likely tell their partner upfront and end the relationship early to avoid further heartaches.

• Have some creative hobbies that they practice daily.

• Get projected a lot on. People look to them like a saviour or the solution for their problem. This make them wary of codependency.

• Powerful manifestor. Their sheer faith and willpower are enough to make anything happen.

• Something about the snake. They could have a fascination with snake, have a tattoo related to snake or they have a fear of snake.

5. Obsidian

• Cool tone, dark colours suit them best.

• They love the dark, the twilight moment of the day where light and darkness bleed into each other. It gives them tranquillity. Like to walk or swim in the dark, at night.

• Their aura feels like a cool breeze in the middle of a summer night, once in a while, you can catch the sight of white butterfly wings fluttering in and out of vision.

• Can absorb emotional energy around them so they are tired and stressed easily.

• Have a pure, innocent look. Their eyes could be watery, big, full of emotions.

• People could perceive them as vulnerable and timid, someone who is having deep pains inside. Someone who needs saving and guidance.

• NGL, some people can view them as sexually innocent, which could result in some bad intentions. Could also be one of the reasons why they don't like the company of human very much.

• They are very private and prefer solitude over the company of people.

• Have a slow and sensual way of talking. Likely talking less than the other person, a good listener. People feel validated by talking to them.

• They also move slow. Their outer life seems uneventful and slow, but their inner life is very rich and constantly changing. Imagine sitting at the beach at night, everything is quiet and dark but life beneath the surface has just waking up and busy.

• Beautiful, a haunting beauty that make onlookers focus only on them and nothing else.

• Have some daily rituals that are unique. Could have a messy living space. Things unused stay in places unchanged for a long time. Likely forgotten. Not very practical in the day to day details.

• Have rich imagination that can startle people. If they ever write some songs or poems, they will have deep lyrics with ethereal tunes.

• They learn from actual experiences better than textbook information. It is likely that they weren't appreciated for their true talent during their school years. They get more recognition later in life, when they are more independent and are free to work in their own method, where they are allowed to focus on their subjects of interest only and can produce great results from their work.

6. Red jasper

• Fiery and masculine energy, at least in how they deal with the world in general. Fast walker, fast talker.

• Like to be in the position of power and likely in one. Want to be admired and looked up to.

• Could be egotistical and have a superiority complex. Secretly or not so secretly believe that they are better than other people. The frustrating thing is, most of the time, the way they act and the result from their work prove that to be right.

• Could have many enemies, not surprising with the above attitude. But they win their enemies by overpowering them, brutally, and then give out a helping hand afterwards.

• Clever and sarcastic. Like to debate and argue or express their thoughts. Need constant mental stimulation. A voice that can make others listen.

• Generous to a fault. They have a simple mindset about money and possessions. What they have, they share. An abundance mindset, what is lost will be provided later.

• Passionate and a little forceful. Their masculine side is stronger so they can appear domineering and lacking tact. They want actions and results, not poetic musing and teasing that lead to nowhere. The one that leads to somewhere, they will consider.

• All their softer sides are hidden and likely will be projected to their partner. So they likely are attracted to soft, nurturing people.

• Yearn for love but also don't want to get close to love. A fateful love at first sight might be their hidden wish.

• Protective of their privacy and home. They will want to keep their loved one safely at home while they are out there, taking on the world.

• Have a love for art. Likely, visual art, abstract art, impressionism and surrealism are their favourite. Like to be creative but are afraid of criticism.

• Don't like to show their emotional side to the world.

• Nostalgic about the past. The past stays in their heart for a long, long time, both good and bad memories.

• Hide their eccentricity well. People won't suspect them at first glance. Could only show it when their consciousness is wobbly, like when being drunk or sleepy. Could act more childish and silly in those times.

Love.

[andorappreciation]

There have been times where the struggle seemed impossible... Together, unrested, daunted by the lack of news or trailer, we have waited…and waited…

But the day has finally come when all these edits and drawings, these metas and fics…will help the Andor fandom countdown to the Season 2 premiere!

Sunday, April 6th to Thursday, 17th (ahead of all the Star Wars Celebration excitement) @andorappreciation will be hosting 12 Days of Andor: a fandom-wide event celebrating our resilient, creative, talented community and the long-anticipated return of our favorite rebellious show.

Prompts

April 6th, Day One: Networks Either Change or Die Dive into the interconnectedness of this complex narrative. Find the ties that bind characters, factions, and plots. Parallels, theses, and themes… obvious or unhinged, make your case!  Alternate Prompts: Symbolism || Elements

April 7th, Day Two: Everyone Has Their Own Rebellion Themes, politics, messaging--there were many reasons for Andor’s success, but chief among them was what the show had to say, both about our world and the world of Star Wars. Examine Nemik’s Manifesto, or offer your own treatise on Luthen’s methodology, but whatever you do, don’t lose your nerve! Alternate Prompts: Underrated Quotes/Dialogue || Sacrifice

April 8th, Day Three: I Show You the Stone in My Hand, You'll Miss the Knife at Your Throat Mon Mothma was speaking for more than just herself here– dualities and split identities are a throughline in Andor. Whether it’s Vel Sartha playing as the spoiled rich girl or Lonnie Jung literally posing as a double agent within the ISB, explore the world of deception and the webs of lies that hold the Rebellion and the Empire together. Alternate Prompts: Underrated Scenes || Ambiguity

April 9th, Day Four: Kill Me, Or Take Me In The last words of the first season, uttered by the show’s protagonist. With this ominous bargain, we were all left to speculate wildly about the upcoming second and final season. Here’s your chance to share those theories and predictions, from the most sound hypothesis to the crackiest wish fulfillment!  Alternate Prompts: Penultimate Moments || Death

April 10th, Day Five: They Don't Even Think About Us But we bet you do right? Everyone has their own rebellion, yes, but everyone also has their very own Glup Shitto. Are you a Time Grappler Stan? A Blue Noodle boy? Show your love for your Andor Shittos!  Alternate Prompts: Underrated Side Characters || Nature

April 11th, Day Six: That's Just Love...Nothing You Can Do About That Just like with every good story, the relationships among the characters are what draw us in and keep us hooked. Whether it’s a fraught love story or a complex connection between mother and son, Andor is rife with intricate interpersonal relations and, ultimately, a hell of a lot of love. Share your feelings about the relationships you find most compelling!  Alternate Prompts: Doomed by the Narrative || Echoes

April 12th, Day Seven: We Are Healthcare Providers Are you fascinated by the crushing bureaucracy of the ISB? The ponderous gears of the Imperial war machine? Do you simply love Dedra Meero and think she's neat? Share your thoughts about the Empire and the unique way that Andor explores the banality of evil! Alternate Prompts: Character Arcs || Morality

April 13th, Day Eight: "Pilgrim" Are you the biggest Nicolas Britell fan ever? Have you memorized every interview with Denise Gough? Have you watched everything Diego Luna is in? Show your appreciation for the incredible cast and crew that make this show come to life!  Alternate Prompts: Favorite Quotes about the show || Behind the Scenes

April 14th, Day Nine: Pockets, Piping, Some Light… Tailoring From the rich costumes to the lavish sets, Andor gave us some truly sumptuous designs to sink our teeth into. Explore the details of costumes, sets or both!  Alternate Prompt: Hidden Details || Colors

April 15th, Day Ten: Peezos… The Greenie Green Ones Run up to Arkie’s and pick up some shit posts! Just make sure you don’t look like ‘you’re a part of it’. Alternate Prompts: Favorites (episodes, characters, etc) || Humor

April 16th, Day Eleven: You’re My Ideal Reader Have a fic that you just love? A gifset that you stare at until your eyes water? A manifesto with not enough circulation (in your opinion)? Spread the love and recommend your favorite metas, edits, fan art, podcasts, gif sets, fics, whatever you’d like!  Alternate Prompt: Alternate Universe || Time

April 17th, Day Twelve: ONE WAY OUT!  You’re free! Hopefully you can swim! AKA: Dealer's choice || Free Day

How It Works

We have included multiple prompts for each day to provide optimal opportunities for fan work creators of all kinds. Pick a prompt and create to your heart’s content! When the day arrives, post your work!

Feel free to tag us @andorappreciation! We will also be tracking #12DaysofAndor2025

Do’s & Don’t’s

DO

Have fun, be creative and follow us for all the glorious content!

Please reblog!

Pop some peezos. The greenie green ones!

DON’T

Repost work that is not yours or work without credit

Post work without proper tagging/warnings

Post offensive material including non-con or bigotry

Any questions, concerns, or clarifications can be submitted via ask.

Sincerely,

@andorappreciation

ALL CREDIT FOR THE INCREDIBLE CASSIAN BANNER AND B2 DIVIDERS GOES TO LOVELY MOD @ninsletamain

[vandme12]

Gosh, I just want to say I really love your works 🥺💚💚 Can I request for a Ronin x reader, but when Ronin thought that the reader was only a writer, turn out she was a retired serial killer that decide to just disappear without any track

TW : Blood, Gore!

Being a serial killer is boring.

Not in the way people think—blood, gore, the messy art of it. That part’s fine. Fun, even, if you're in the mood. But the rest? The routine. The predictability. The way everyone thinks they're special, right up until they bleed like the rest.

It’s the people that ruin it. Always talking. Always begging. As if their lives are a unique little miracle and not just meat wearing memories. And the killers? Worse. Self-important, self-obsessed, desperate to be legends when all they are is noise. You got tired of the noise.

So you left.

No goodbye notes. No calling cards. No poetic monologue to stroke your ego. You disappeared, clean as a ghost. Let the world breathe easier without you. Let the cops think they won. You quit while you were ahead—because it wasn’t worth the headache.

And now? Now, you’re just a writer. A curious little writer asking all the wrong questions on all the wrong forums. Boring. Harmless. At least, that’s what they think.

A reporter by day, a wannabe writer by night.

Daylight’s for lies—polished stories wrapped in neat little headlines. You smile, you nod, you write what they want to read. Crime scenes scrubbed clean with words like tragedy and justice. You ask questions, but never the ones that matter. Not really.

Night’s different. At night, you ask the real questions. The ugly ones. How much pressure does it take to crush a windpipe? How deep do you cut to hit the carotid without a mess? Can you drown someone quietly?

Research, you tell yourself. Research for the book.

And maybe that’s true. Maybe that’s all it is. Or maybe—maybe you’re just wondering how much of yourself you left behind when you walked away from the knife.

Either way, you push too far. Ask too much. And that’s when he finds you

A thousand bodies.

Give or take. You stopped counting after the first few hundred—what’s the point? Numbers blur. Faces fade. Only the methods stick. And you? You got creative.

Guns are lazy. Quick, sure—but cold. Too clean. Anyone can pull a trigger. You did it anyway. Execution-style, drive-bys, a whisper of a silencer pressed against a temple. Sometimes you missed the mess. Sometimes you didn’t.

Poison? Elegant. Cruel. Slow if you want it to be. Arsenic in their coffee. Cyanide under the tongue. A little aconite when you’re feeling poetic. You liked to watch them choke. Let them wonder who hated them enough to make it personal.

Blades were intimate. Knives, scalpels, box cutters—anything sharp enough to split skin. You liked the feel of it, once. Warm blood over cold steel. Different blades for different moods. A fillet knife when you wanted precision. A rusted machete when you didn’t.

Blunt objects were… cathartic. Crowbars, hammers, tire irons. There’s a certain honesty in breaking someone with your hands. In feeling the crack of bone vibrate through metal. Some people deserve that kind of violence.

Arson? That was a phase. Fire eats evidence. Fire doesn’t talk back. Whole families reduced to ash because you got bored and wanted to watch the sky burn. You liked the smell. You don’t admit that part. You hated them.

You’ve killed with ropes, with wires, with your bare hands. Pushed people off bridges. Crashed cars. Drowned them. Some slow. Some fast. Some still haunt you. Most don’t.

It wasn’t about the method—it was the act. The promise that anyone could die, and you were the one to prove it.

And you were better at it than anyone else.

But it got old. The thrill dulled. Even chaos starts to feel like a routine. So you quit. Disappeared. Became a ghost.

SO YOU'RE A SERIAL KILLER. SUPPOSEDLY.

A reporter by day, an aspiring writer by night—you tell yourself it’s just research. Writers ask weird questions all the time. That’s normal, right?

Like: – How deep do you bury a body to avoid detection? – How many pounds of pressure does it take to snap a human neck? – What’s the best way to dissolve evidence without setting off chemical alarms?

Totally normal. For a crime novel.

Until one night, your screen flickers. A message pops up.

ERROR! UNKNOWN: "don't be so obvious smh You're Gonna Get Caught."

…What the fuck?

Before you can blink, a new window opens—dark, minimal, the kind of place where bad ideas bloom. A chatroom. And not just any chatroom.

A serial killer chatroom.

You may be slightly fucked.

And at the center of it? Some guy with the username "goreboy." Annoying. Flirty. Dangerous. The kind of person who makes murder sound like a joke—until you realize he’s not joking.

"Goreboy."

The name alone makes you roll your eyes. What is this—2005? But he’s… interesting. In the way a car crash is interesting. Loud, cocky, all teeth and bad jokes. He types like he’s flirting with everyone and threatening them at the same time. A mess.

You tell yourself you’re only sticking around because he’ll make a great character. A little chaos for your novel. That’s all.

And he is chaotic—annoyingly so. Constantly cracking jokes like murder is just a Saturday hobby. But the more you watch, the more obvious it becomes:

He’s an amateur.

Oh, sure, he’s got the attitude down. Talks big. Acts bigger. And to his credit? He’s good—scary good—at covering his tracks. You’ll give him that. No digital footprint. No sloppy evidence. He knows how to vanish when it counts.

But the actual killing? Sloppy.

Messy crime scenes. Overkill for no reason. He’s all instinct, no finesse. Blood everywhere because he likes the aesthetic—amateur hour. Once, he bragged about botching a clean hit because he got "bored halfway through." You almost closed the tab right then.

And yet… you keep watching.

Because for all his flaws, there’s something addictive about him. He talks like he’s untouchable. Like the world’s a toy, and he’s the only one smart enough to break it right.

A stupid little punk with too much charm and not enough caution.

You should leave.

But you don’t.

You don’t know how it got to this point—playing truth or dare with a guy named Goreboy in a serial killer chatroom. It’s stupid. Juvenile. And yet, here you are, fingers hovering over your keyboard, heart thudding in your chest.

“I thought we’d get on with our game,” he says, his words lazy, drawn-out—like he’s been waiting for you. Like he’s already decided you’re his favorite toy. "I like you, darlin'. I wanna hear those interesting things pinging around in that pretty little head of yours."

Cocky bastard.

“You want to do it now?” you type back, knowing full well you shouldn’t be entertaining this.

"Heh. Why not? You got somethin' better to do?"

You don’t. And maybe that’s the problem.

“…No.”

"Didn't think so." His reply is instant, smooth—like he already knew your answer. "Alright then, let's hear it. Truth or dare?"

You hesitate. You could pick dare, let him spin something ridiculous, let the game stay light. But that’s not why you’re here, is it?

"Truth," you type, pulse quickening.

A beat. And then—

"What's your body count?"

The words slam into you. "How many have died by your hand? C'mon, don’t be shy."

You pause. He thinks you’re a writer—some curious little reporter playing pretend. But that question? It cuts too close. He has no idea who he’s playing with.

"Enough to call me a serial killer," you say, because it’s true—and you’re not in the mood to lie.

Ronin whistles low through the screen, all teeth and trouble. "You love bein’ so fucking cryptic, huh. You sure you’re not a cryptid?"

You blink. Give the screen a look like it’s grown a second head. What?

"I did say it."

You could leave it there—let him chase the question in circles, let him wonder. But you’re feeling generous. So you tip your hand, just a little.

"It’s more than you."

Silence. Or as much silence as a chatroom allows. You imagine him on the other side—grinning that lazy, shit-eating grin, probably leaning back like nothing ever touches him. Like you didn’t just twist the knife.

"Yeah?" He doesn’t let it go. Of course he doesn’t. "You wanna spit it out, and we can do a li’l comparison?"

And then—because he can’t resist—

"’Cause hey, I might jus’ add an extra body to the count if you keep actin’ like this."

Threat. Flirtation. A dare wrapped in velvet. He’s waiting to see if you’ll bite.

You lean back in your chair, lips curling into a smug little smile. The silence on the line is thick—waiting. You can picture him, wherever he is, sprawled out like he owns the world. Like nothing touches him. But you know better. You can hear the edge in his breathing, just under the surface.

“I doubt you could hit that rate easily, Goreboy.” Your voice is sweet, saccharine—a blade dipped in honey. “Devil’s butcher… Ronin, right?”

You giggle—soft, teasing, just enough to hook him deeper. You shouldn’t be doing this, poking the beast for fun, but he makes it too easy. Too fun.

“You want numbers?” you purr. “I’ve got a whole record, babe.”

His laugh cracks through the call—low, rough, the sound of a man who thinks the world’s a joke, and he’s the punchline. “A record, huh? What, you keep a scrapbook?”

You hum, light and playful. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Yeah,” he drawls. “I would. So spill, princess. You got me curious.”

He thinks you’re bluffing—cute. You stretch the moment, let him squirm a little. Then, soft as a secret, you say:

“A thousand.”

Silence. Then—

A sharp, manic laugh tears out of him, wild and raw like he can’t quite believe you. “Darlin’—what a lie.”

You tilt your head, smiling like the devil’s favorite little tease. And then, because you can’t help yourself, you switch to that syrupy, baby-soft voice that you just know will get under his skin:

“Awwh… didn’t anyone ever teach you to watch the news?” You giggle, bright and wicked. “You should. It’s a good habit, y’know.”

Ronin’s laugh is still buzzing in your ears—low, rough, all jagged edges and bad intentions. He leans into the call like he’s got all the time in the world, voice dripping with the kind of arrogance only a man who’s never truly been outmatched can pull off.

“A thousand, huh?” His words curl around the edges of his grin, smooth and syrupy. “Darlin’, you really expect me to buy that?”

You don’t answer immediately. You let the silence hang, heavy and sweet—make him sit in it. Toy with the moment the same way he’s been toying with you. And then, just because you know it’ll get to him, you giggle. Light. Careless. Like none of this really matters to you.

“Aw, poor baby.” You drag the words out, soft and mocking. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to watch the news?”

His laugh snaps sharp and manic—too loud, too sudden, like he can’t quite control it. “You’re real fuckin’ funny, you know that?” He pauses, but you hear the way his breath catches—just a hitch. Just enough to tell you that you’ve sunk your claws in. “You should’ve led with that. Hell, I would’ve rolled out the red carpet.”

You smile—a wicked little curve of your lips he can’t see, but you know he feels it. “What can I say? I didn’t wanna scare you off.”

“Scare me?” He barks out another laugh, and you can practically see the glint in his eye. “Darlin’, I don’t scare easy. ‘Sides…” His voice dips, lower, rougher, crawling under your skin. “I’d love to see you try.”

He’s cocky—of course he is. The Devil’s Butcher, the monster under everyone’s bed. He’s used to being the one with blood on his hands, the one pulling the strings. But you can hear it—feel it. That itch, that heat curling at the edges of his words. He’s curious. He’s hooked.

And you? You’re not done yet.

“I doubt you could hit that rate,” you purr, leaning into every syllable. “Even if you tried.”

That gets him. Oh, he doesn’t say it—but the line goes quiet for a beat too long, and you know you’ve struck something raw. When he speaks again, his voice is smooth, easy—but there’s an edge beneath it now. Something sharp, something real.

“Big talk, princess.” His tone is all lazy challenge, like this is nothing more than a game. But you know better. You always know better. “Y’gonna back it up? Or you just blowin’ smoke?”

You hum, tilting your head like you’re actually thinking about it. Let him stew in the silence a little longer. “What do you think?”

“I think—” and here, his voice shifts—dropping to something darker, deeper. “I think you’re real good at playin’ pretend.”

You giggle again, light and cruel. “Awh… someone’s cranky.”

Another pause—just a flicker of quiet, but you hear the breath he drags in. The way his composure frays at the edges. And then, so soft you almost miss it—

“You’re up, Goreboy,” you purr, voice dripping with sweet venom. “Truth. What’s your poison?”

Ronin chuckles low in his throat—a dark, syrupy sound that sticks to your ribs. “That’s a good one. Heh.” There’s a pause, a deliberate stretch of silence before he leans in, all teeth and bad ideas. “Alright, darlin’. What’cha gonna give me?”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “What do you like to do… outside of killing people?”

Another laugh—this one rougher, dirtier. Like he can’t quite believe you’d ask something so tame. “What d’ya think a guy like me gets up to?” He drawls it out, lazy and thick. “I work. Eat. Sleep. Kill. Think about death ‘n dreamin’—and then I do it all over again. Same shit, different body count.”

It’s the answer you expected. Still, you play along, lips curling into a wicked little smile. “That can’t be all there is to you.”

“What if it is?” His voice sharpens—still playful, still easy, but there’s a hook buried somewhere beneath it. “Would’ja still be here? Or are you just lookin’ for somethin’ to fix?”

Oh, he wants you to bite. Wants you to flinch. But instead, you let the silence stretch—sweet, syrup-thick—before you lean in, matching his darkness with your own.

“What if I wanted someone to get worse with?”

Ronin’s laugh slithers through the call—low and slow, like he’s savoring every delicious syllable you feed him. "Music to my fuckin’ ears," he drawls, voice slick with danger, with promise. "Most people?" He scoffs, dripping venom. "They wanna clean me up. Make me nice. Sweet. Boring." He spits the word out like it leaves a bad taste. "But you?" His voice dips lower, curling around the edges of something darker. "Nah. You’re smarter than that. You wanna roll around in the dirt with me."

You hum—soft, teasing, the sound curling like smoke. "What’s the fun in fixing something that’s already perfect?" You make sure he hears the wicked edge to your smile, the sharpness beneath the sugar. "Besides…" A pause—long enough to make him hang on your every breath. "I’m not looking for some big, sentimental fairytale." Another beat, just to keep him waiting. Wondering. "Though…" and you drag the word out, slow and sweet, like you know exactly how far you can push him—"it’d be nice to settle down. With the right person."

His breath hitches—barely, but enough. You’ve hooked him deep, and you both know it.

"Settle down, huh?" His tone twists—half-mocking, half-starved, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or take you apart. "I gotta warn ya, darlin’—I ain’t the white-picket-fence kinda guy."

You giggle—dark and dangerous, the sound laced with just enough cruelty to make his blood run hotter. "Good." Your smile sharpens. "I’d probably burn the fence down anyway."

His laugh drips through the call again—sickly sweet and razor-sharp. You can practically see the grin on his face, cocky and too damn pleased with himself. "Burn it down, huh? Ain’t you just a little firestarter," he purrs. "Keep talkin’, darlin’. I’m hangin’ on every word."

And oh, you know he is.

"Your methods…" You draw the words out, tasting them, letting your voice curl around the edges of your smile. "They're good. Messy, loud—definitely leaves a mark. But…" You pause just long enough to let the disappointment sink in. "You’re missing a little something. Y’know—if you’re really going for the whole ‘Devil’s Butcher’ vibe."

He clicks his tongue. "Tch. Bold of you to critique, sugar. You think you can do better?"

You laugh softly, dark and syrupy, like you’ve already thought about it. "I know I can." The words slide out, sweet and cruel. "Crowbars? Classic. Brutal. But predictable. I mean, ‘Antichrist’—nice aesthetic, I’ll give you that—but where’s the spectacle?" Your voice dips lower, mockingly sweet. "Where’s the art, Ronin?"

He makes a low, thoughtful sound, like maybe—just maybe—you’ve got his attention in a way no one else has. "Go on," he says, voice rougher now. Hungrier. "I’m listenin’."

"If you really want to earn the title," you continue, slow and deliberate, like you’re peeling back layers just for him, "you gotta lean into it. Meat hooks, maybe. Something that tears. Skin’s fragile, baby—play with it. Or—" and you giggle, sharp and bright, like you’re already imagining the blood—"—why not a bone saw? Nothing says ‘commitment’ like cutting down to the marrow."

His breath stutters—just a little—and you swear you hear the faintest groan under his breath. "You really got a mind for this, huh?"

"Someone’s gotta keep you on your toes," you tease, then lean back with a sigh that’s just this side of disappointed. "But hey—maybe you don’t need my advice, cutie." You let the pet name slide from your tongue like silk, knowing it’ll dig under his skin in all the right ways. "You’ve done fine on your own so far."

"Cute, huh?" His voice drops lower, almost a growl. "You keep talkin’ like that, sweetheart, an’ I might just take you up on all those suggestions."

"Who said I didn’t want you to?" You smile—wicked, daring—because if there’s one thing you’re learning about Ronin, it’s that he’ll chase anything that teases the edge of danger. And you? You’re dangling right over it.

"Your turn. Truth or dare?"

"Truth," you drawl, already tasting the weight of the question he’s about to throw at you.

His voice hums low through the call, lazy but sharp around the edges. "Best kill you've ever had."

Your smile twists—dangerous. "There was this guy… by the coast."

Ronin hums again, waiting.

"He was laughing at me," you continue, voice soft but with an undercurrent of something mean. "Like I couldn’t do it. So, I did. I watched him drown—slow. He wasn’t laughing when the water hit his lungs."

A beat of silence. Then—"Creative," he says, but there’s a lilt to his voice. Doubt. "I don’t buy it."

Your head tilts, and you give the screen a cold, strange look—like you’re deciding whether to laugh or rip him apart. And maybe both. "What?" The question is sweet, threatening—like a blade hidden in silk.

"What do you mean, ‘you don’t buy it’?" A breathy little laugh slips out, all teeth. "I get it, gorebaby… You thought I was some cute little writer just lookin’ for creative ways to kill ‘cause, hey, it’s all ‘for the book,’ right?" Your voice drips mockery, sharp and saccharine. "Did you invite me here to see how I play, or just to keep yourself entertained?"

He doesn’t answer immediately—but you hear it. The low, rough chuckle, curling dark and sweet through the static. He knows. And worse—he likes it.

"What the fuck d’you think?" His tone is smooth, but there’s something simmering beneath—interest. Curiosity. Hunger.

His smile deepens, wicked and knowing. "It’s not your turn yet, cutie." He lean closer, voice dropping low and silky. "Shouldn’t you be tellin’ me a believable kill, darlin’? Or are you just stalling?"

You stretch out the silence, letting it hang heavy between you both—just long enough to make him impatient. Then, with a sweet, venomous lilt, you break it.

"Alright, gorebaby," you purr, "since you’re so curious… Let’s play."

You start simple. A man in a parking garage—cold concrete, colder steel. "He begged," you muse, dragging the memory back like it’s a bedtime story. "Didn’t think I’d do it. But once the knife went in… well, it’s amazing how fast people stop laughing."

Ronin makes a sound—low and thoughtful. "Knives," he muses. "Classic. Personal. But c’mon, darlin’—you can do better."

"Better?" Your voice dips into something darker. "Alright."

The next one’s messier. A sleazebag who liked to corner women in alleys. You describe how easy it was to lure him—how stupid men are when they think they’ve already won. "He didn’t see the crowbar ‘til it was too late," you murmur, each word laced with syrupy amusement. "Bones crack real easy if you know where to aim. And once he stopped moving? Well, let’s just say I got curious about what’s underneath."

He exhales—sharp, quiet. Interested. You can almost picture him—head tilted, eyes gleaming like he’s savoring every word.

"Still with me, Devil?" You tease, voice sugar-sweet.

"Barely," he drawls, and you catch it—just the faintest hitch when you mention the break, the blood. He’s hooked.

So, you push deeper.

"Then there was this preacher," you continue, tapping your fingers against your desk like you’re counting bodies. "One of those real righteous types. Thought he was legit" You laugh—sharp, wicked. "I let him pray, y’know. Hands folded and everything. Guess the Devil answered first."

There’s a pause—just long enough to hear the way Ronin’s breath stirs against his mic.

"You’re makin’ it hard to focus, darlin," he admits, his voice rougher, lower. "Keep talkin’."

So, you do.

A drowning—slow and deliberate. "It’s fascinating," you muse, "how long the body fights when it wants to live. But the eyes… that’s the best part. Watching the light fade—knowing you did that? Feels better than any high."

His laugh slips out—dark and jagged. "You’re twisted," he says, and there’s a heat to it—a little more breath in his voice than before. "I like that about you."

You lean closer, voice curling sweet and deadly. "Funny," you hum. "I thought you wanted someone to be worse with, not just keep up."

He breathes out a soft, breathy curse, and you know you’ve got him. "Careful, darlin'," he warns, but there’s no threat in his voice—just that delicious, dangerous edge of wanting. "I might fall for you if you keep talkin’ like that."

"Aw, poor baby," you mock softly, then giggle—cruel and sweet. "And here I thought you were the Devil. Didn’t anyone teach you not to play with fire?"

"Took you long enough," you purr, fingers dancing across the keyboard like you’ve got all the time in the world. "I’m [Insert Name]—if you wanna see my work, just turn on the news."

And he doesn’t disappoint.

"No shit?" His voice hums through the call, low and velvet-smooth. "Didn’t peg you for a hands-on kinda girl. Thought you were just here to take notes."

You giggle—light, cruel, and just for him. "Awh, what’s the matter, Devil?" you tease, leaning closer to the mic. "Did it hurt your ego to find out I’m not just some cute little writer?"

A beat. Then, that wicked laugh of his spills out—slow, sharp, and laced with something dangerous.

"Cute?" he drawls. "Baby, I ain’t ever thought you were innocent."

You tilt your head, lips curling into a smile. Time to twist the knife.

"Still," you muse, dragging the words out like honey, "I gotta admit—when I hit my thousandth, it was kinda .."

He goes quiet. You let it linger. Let it burn.

"After all," He sigh, fake-pouting, "you were my inspiration. Kinda sad you quit…"

His breath catches—just barely—but you hear it.

You giggle again—soft, sweet, but there’s something off about it. Something wrong. Then, just as quickly, your smile fades.

"Although…" Your voice drops, quieter—almost thoughtful. "That thousandth kill?" You let out a sigh, hollow and cold. "Didn’t know it’d be the last one. Turns out…" You tilt your head, as if considering your own words. "It wasn’t fun anymore."

Ronin doesn’t speak. He’s listening. Hanging on every word like you’ve wrapped a noose around his curiosity and pulled it tight.

"I hated it," you confess, and your tone twists—half-bitter, half-bored. "Killing didn’t feel good after a while. It was boring." You scoff, like the very thought annoys you. "So, I quit. Just like that."

A beat of silence. Then, you laugh—sharp and bright and dripping with malice. "And here I thought you’d get it, Gorebaby. Guess not."

His breath crackles softly through the mic, but he’s still silent. You lean in, voice honeyed and cruel.

"I killed because I liked it," you continue, dragging each word out like you’re savoring it. "The blood. The mess. The way people break when they realize no one’s coming to save them." You hum, nostalgic, like you’re reminiscing about a favorite vacation. "No moral code. No fancy rituals. I didn’t need a reason—I was just… there."

You giggle again—high, light, and absolutely unhinged. "And I loved it, Ronin." The way you say his name—like it’s something fragile you could break—makes his breath hitch just slightly.

"HAHAHAHA!" Your laughter rings out, wild and unchecked, like you’re reliving the thrill of it. "But hey, it’s fine. I’m retired now, right? Outta the game. Mostly."

You drawl the last word like a promise you might break.

"Still…" Your voice softens, but there’s a razor edge underneath. "If you ever need some tips, Devil, just ask." You smile, sharp and sweet. "I’d be so happy to help."

Ronin snorts, low and mocking. "No shit." His voice drips with that signature arrogance—sweet like poison, sharp like broken glass. "What makes ya think I need pointers from Missy Bitchy herself?"

The way he spits the words—like you’re nothing but a joke—should annoy you. Should. But you know better.

You laugh, slow and syrupy. "Aw, Gorebaby…" You drag the nickname out, teasing like he’s just another plaything. "Did I hurt your fragile little pride?"

"Fragile?" He scoffs, but there’s heat under it, something twitching and raw. "Darlin’, I’ve been paintin’ these streets red since you were still playin’ pretend."

You hum, tilting your head. "Cute. But you and I both know…" You let your voice drop to a purr, soft and deadly. "I don’t play pretend. I finish what I start."

That earns you a low, wicked chuckle. "Is that right?" He leans in, voice dropping to something darker—something dangerous. "Then maybe you oughta prove it."

You giggle again—sweet, cruel, promising things no sane person would ever want. "Careful what you wish for, Devil…" Your smile sharpens. "I might just make you beg for it."

"It’s gonna be fun," you purr, voice dripping with wicked promise. "These next six months… let’s see if we self-destruct or fall in love."

You stretch back in your chair, knowing damn well how dangerous you sound—how dangerous you are. And judging by the silence on the line, Ronin knows it too.

He doesn’t speak right away. For once, you’ve left him quiet—left him thinking. But when he finally does respond, his voice is lower, rougher—like he’s already too far gone.

"Darlin’…" His laughter is soft and slow, like he’s savoring the taste of your words. "With a mouth like that, even Satan’d be on his knees."

You giggle—soft, sweet, and utterly sadistic. "Who says he isn’t already?"

[im-so-normal-iswear]

The lack of yandere/non-yandere metal sonic and espio is a crime.

Can I have them react— it can be separately or not —to gn Y/N that is a fourth wall breaker.

Like during a fight between metal sonic, reader just began to randomly talk to nothing or he just thought they're talking about him but actually talking to the views, so he said "Enough chit chat. Die." To Y/N and reader just say: "dude, I'm not talking to you. Im talking to the audience!" And metal sonic be like: "tf u mean???" Our metallic hedgehog is confused as hell.

And to Espio. Oh Espio... he thought you had an imaginary friend the more he observes your behavior. So when you said something like: "Dude think he's completely invincible when I can clearly see the outline of his figure, don't you agree? Oh yes you, I'm talking to you. Person behind that screen." Y/N... what screen are you talking abou? There's no such thing as screen here. The more he observes you will leave him so very confuse.

Woah, that's a long request! I hoped I did not overwhelmed you.

A/n: i dont think metal sonic is able to talk but since the ask specified it im putting it in

Metal Sonic/Espio x Fourth-Wall-Breaker Reader

Metal sonic:

The clash of energy fills the air as you dodge Metal Sonic’s sharp claws, the sound of his limbs slicing through the atmosphere like a razor. His glowing eyes lock onto you, and you can hear the wirring of machinery as he ran calculations through his processor to predict your next move. But instead of fighting back, you stop in the middle of the battlefield, throwing your hands up in a dramatic gesture.

"Alright, folks," you begin, turning away from Metal entirely, "this guy is like, a total edge-lord, but i guess you people are used to it, after all more than half of you guys are head over heels for Shadow."

Metal Sonic pauses, hovering mid-air, his processors stuttering for a moment as he attempts to comprehend your behavior. "...What?" His voice is sharp, but filled with confusion.

You turn to him, blinking innocently. "What? Oh no, not you. I’m talking to the audience."

There’s a long pause. "...Audience?" He repeats. "There is no one else here but you and me."

"Oh, Metal," you sigh, shaking your head as if he’s a toddler who just doesn’t get it. "There’s always someone watching, or, reading in this case." You mutter the last part more to yourself. "Like, you don’t think this fight is just happening in a vacuum, do you? Someone’s reading this right now! Probably rooting for me, too."

His thrusters whir louder as he tries to process your words. "You are speaking nonsense. There is no logical-"

"Oh, there’s plenty of logic!" you interrupt, pointing a finger at him. "Like, for example, you’re basically Sonic’s evil doppelgänger, but you still have a cool factor because robots are inherently neat. And let’s not forget your whole ‘I will surpass my original’ arc. Very compelling stuff."

"I am the real Sonic," he snaps, suddenly defensive. "But this irrelevant chatter will end now. Die."

You roll your eyes, sidestepping his attack without effort. "Dude, I just told you, I wasn’t even talking to you! Stop making it about yourself."

Metal Sonic halts again, his metal claws still raised mid-swing. "...You were not speaking to me?" His voice glitches slightly as he repeats the question.

"Nope," you reply cheerfully, tapping your temple. "I was breaking the fourth wall. Talking to the readers. You know, the people behind the screen. By the way, hi there! Thanks for reading so far."

Metal Sonic stares at you. "What… is a fourth wall? What screen? You are delusional."

"Delusional?" You laugh. "If I’m delusional, then what are you? You have literally convinced yourself your the 'original' of someone else, crazy delusional if you ask me"

For a moment, Metal Sonic’s circuits nearly short out as he tries, and fails, to process your words. He recalibrates himself, his voice monotone "I do not understand your nonsense. It is irrelevant. I will terminate you now."

"Okay, but you’re really just proving my point," you say, hands on your hips as he rushes toward you again. "See? Perfect villain behavior! You’re predictable, but in a way that makes the plot move forward. Classic stuff. Oh, and to whoever’s reading, place your bets now! Will he explode in a dramatic fireball, or will he retreat while promising to get stronger?"

Metal Sonic’s screech of frustration echoes across the battlefield, but his confusion never quite leaves him.

Espio:

Espio moves silently through the forest, his form practically invisible in the dense shadows. He’s been observing you for a while now, fascinated, and increasingly baffled, by your behavior. As a ninja, he prides himself on understanding people’s intentions, but you? You’re an enigma.

"Alright," you suddenly announce, breaking the silence. "Let’s just address the elephant in the room. That invisible trick? Super cool. But you’re not actually invisible, Espio. I can see the outline of your figure. You’re like... one of those cheap cloaking devices from a sci-fi movie."

Espio freezes, his position no longer concealed. "What?" His voice is calm but laced with confusion. "How did you-?"

"Don’t worry about it," you interrupt, waving him off. "Anyway, what do you all think? Pretty impressive, right? I mean, I get the whole ninja aesthetic, but at the same time, it’s kinda predictable. Personally dont see what you see, actually... Hm... Maybe..."

Espio steps forward cautiously, his eyes narrowing. "What are you doing? Are you talking to yourself?"

"Exactly!" you exclaim, spinning around to face nothing. Or at least, that’s how it looks to him. "On a technicality I mean... The person reading this knows what I’m talking about. Right? Like, you’ve definitely got a little crush-crush on the guy haven’t you? Oh, don’t be shy. I’m talking about you."

Espio tilts his head slightly, his usually composed demeanor cracking. "There is no one else here."

"Well, duh," you say, rolling your eyes. XOf course you can’t see them. You’re part of the story."

"The story?" His voice falters slightly, and for the first time, you see genuine uncertainty on his face. "Are you suggesting this is some form of illusion?"

"Not illusion," you correct. "More like a narrative construct. You’re a character, and I’m a character, but I’m the one who knows it. You follow?"

Espio stares at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You believe someone is observing us?"

"Not just believe, know," you reply, tapping the side of your head. "I mean, they’re probably laying on their bed reading this instead of doing some work they should really stop holding off on. Hey, reader, hope you’re having a good day! Seriously though, stop procrastinating"

Espio’s hand instinctively moves toward his weapon. "You are either incredibly insightful or entirely delusional."

"Oh, Espio," you sigh dramatically. "That’s what makes this so fun. I get to say all the stuff that you’re too serious to notice. Like how you’re totally the ‘stoic and mysterious’ type. Fans love that, even if your not too popular."

He lowers his weapon slightly, though his suspicion remains. "Your behavior id unusual. Are you speaking to an imaginary companion?"

"Imaginary? Please. They’re as real as you or me. Well, okay, maybe more real, depending on how you look at it."

Espio exhales deeply, clearly trying to make sense of your words. "You are… unlike anyone I’ve ever met."

"And that’s what makes me the protagonist," you say with a grin. "Now come on, ninja boy. Let’s get back to whatever plotline we’re supposed to be following. Oh and reader, hows it feel for one of your favs to be tmone of the most underappreciated characters? Im sympathetic" you put a hand to your heart in mock solemn before stretching up and walking off.

Espio watches as you stroll ahead, his confusion only deepening.

[floweycidal]

the whole thing's devastating in itself, but would you guys believe me if i told you this part specifically makes me so super sad

flowey doesn’t allow himself to feel the snow. not really. he won’t talk about how the cold steadies him, or how it stirs memories of simpler times. he avoids thinking about the quiet. the way the world slows down under the weight of winter, how everything feels softer, almost bearable.

the peace feels too close. too easy.

thoughts like that aren’t for him. perhaps they never were. they belong to someone else. and flowey doesn’t get to be him. not anymore.

so, instead, he ignores it. kills it in its infancy. turns away from the idea before it drags up pieces of a life he refuses to remember. he acts like happiness isn’t something that should happen to him. a mistake. an error in the system that needs to be corrected.

there’s always this jaggedness to his words, something sharp enough to keep anything tender at bay. if something feels good, he cuts it down to size—turns it bitter, spits it back out as cruelty. it’s instinct by now, as natural as breathing.

that’s what flowey does. he tears things apart before they can convince him he deserves more. after all, it’s much easier to laugh at the world than to feel it.

this is just the way things are. the way they have to be.

the softness never feels right anyway. it’s awkward, like trying to cup water in clenched fists. like touching something delicate with hands meant only to destroy.

he’s flowey. he has to be flowey. and flowey doesn’t get to savor things. he doesn’t stop to enjoy the way the snow hushes the world or let the cold bite just enough to remind him he’s alive.

he knows better.

there's almost comfort in that. in shutting things down, in turning them brittle before they can take root. it’s neat. predictable. safe. no dangerous hope worming its way into places it doesn’t belong. no warmth overstaying its welcome. just the same old ache he’s carried for as long as he can remember—steady, familiar, dull.

manageable.

because if he let something good in… what then?

would it stay? refuse to leave? would it start to matter?

would he start to matter?

flowey knows exactly who he is. the villain. the failure. the one who tried to make things right and only made it worse. if there was ever a chance to be anything else, it’s long gone. whatever good might have existed in him has been buried beneath years of mistakes, smothered by everything he couldn’t save.

he had a plan once. a way to undo it all. make things right again. but it didn’t work. he didn’t work. he couldn’t save chara. couldn't save the monsters.

couldn’t even save himself.

and this… this is what’s left.

flowey. the version of him that learned to survive by not needing anything. the one who gave up on hope, joy, and peace because letting them in would mean the walls he built were never needed at all.

it would mean that somewhere inside, there’s still something soft. something worthy.

and he doesn’t know how to live with that. he’s not even sure he wants to.

control is all that makes sense anymore. he decides when the pain comes, how much, and from whom. he decides. no one else.

he’s built everything on that control—this image of who he’s supposed to be, what he’s supposed to feel. but what if he stopped? what if he let the bitterness go? what would be left?

just asriel?

and what would that mean? that there had always been another way?

no. he can’t let that be true.

so he copes. he compartmentalizes. keeps things boxed up neatly. flowey and asriel. good. evil. pain. hope. life. death. they don’t touch. they’ll never touch. he’d lose control if they did. and control is all he has left.

he makes sure to break things down before they have the chance to become anything real. he’s always the one to close the door first—better to leave than to be left behind.

if not, he might remember what it’s like to be exposed. vulnerable. weak.

and that’s something he cannot accept. the possibility that asriel is still in there. that there’s still a way back.

that maybe… he was never as far gone as he wants to believe.

it’s almost funny, in a way, because he’s already changed, whether he knows it or not. the fact that he’s still here, still witnessing the world after everything that’s happened, proves he’s not as detached as he wants to believe.

the fighting stopped. the cycle ended. the monsters are free. and even if he won’t admit it, even if he’s not ready to come to terms with it—there’s a quiet kind of peace in that.

even so, he will dig in his heels. even so, he will play into the role in a war that’s long over. even so, he won’t let anything awaken the barest trace of what it once meant to be asriel.

he is flowey.

the snow will keep falling. it’ll land on his petals.

it doesn’t stay.

neither does he.

because it’s easier that way.

[pallastrology]

observations on aquarius

artwork by jules pierre van biesbroek

aquarius moons, like other air moons, can treat their emotions kind of like a puzzle; they turn them over in their hands and really break down and analyse their thoughts and feelings. aquarius moons in particular tend to be very focused on the wider impact of their actions and emotions, which, while a testament to their kind and caring nature, can get in the way of them experiencing their full emotional range and the insight that comes with that.

a lot of people with aquarius dominance can go through life feeling dreadfully lonely. though (depending on individual placements) they often pride themselves on being different, or not needing to follow the crowd, deep down they can feel they don't belong, or aren't 'normal'. really, their uniqueness is what makes them beautiful, and while their journey isn't always predictable, they generally find their tribe along the way, and become people with a strong sense of self and steady values that guide them and their relationships.

aquarius on the ascendant tends to have a reputation for looking 'alien-like' or asymmetric, and while the second one especially can be true, my opinion is that a lot of aquarius risings have a doll-like beauty, with very fine and neat features, not unlike virgo risings actually. what sets them apart is that they are more expressive with their style, more congruent and more open to showing their true selves through their clothing. they are prouder and stronger that way, almost more dramatic.

mars in aquarius is a placement that has a strange relationship with anger and assertiveness. they tend to be very cool people, in that they're stoic, relaxed, grounded and pragmatic; they aren't as controlling or fearful as a fixed mars tends to be. but they can be quite detached from their anger and agency, and so if they aren't self-reflective, they don't see how it can affect those around them when they are angry. they are prone to anger at the state of the world and are sensitive to justice - or injustice, rather - but can be erratic in how they display this, at times seeming uncaring.

jupiter in aquarius is a placement that brings a lot of kindness, a lot of generosity, but a strict will and a clear vision. they are dreamers at heart, like a lot of aquarian placements, but if it's channeled properly, jupiter in aquarius gives the native the power and confidence to succeed. the other interesting thing about this placement is that the native tends to love to work; as long as the work means something to them, as long as it does good. they absolutely cannot work just to make money, it's bad for their souls.

aquarius in the sixth house can bring health issues that appear suddenly, are hard to diagnose or treat, or come and go. they may have unusual symptoms or reactions to things, and the phrase 'when you hear hoofbeats, think horses' doesn't tend to apply so well to them. somewhat nervous individuals, aquarius in the sixth house natives can be sensitive to lifestyle factors that help or hinder their health, and so they need a solid (if maybe a little unconventional) routine to really flourish.

aquarius suns are some of the funniest people i've ever met. they have a real deadpan, dry sense of humour and their serious delivery just makes the joke land better. although they may have unconventional taste in material, they don't tend towards the inappropriate and in fact are very even and fair in their roasts. maybe for this reason, they aren't the best roasters, but at least you know you won't be traumatised if an aquarius roasts you...

venus in aquarius gets a reputation for being distant, 'away with the fairies', even unromantic, but i don't think that's true at all. while they are a more grounded and cerebral placement for venus to be in, these natives are incredibly sweet. when they love someone, they will tell them so in a thousand tiny ways. they're the type to take their time getting to know every part of you, down to your microexpressions and innermost worries and favourites.

[prophecyofgray]

not til next summer at the earliest (don't want to splurge on a bunch of new editions all at once because 1. that ruins the fun of it 2. my bank account wouldnt like that) but i think these dutch editions of TUC are my next targets >:]

so um. at what point does it have to stop.