#let me know if i should tag anything else

[capuccinodoll]

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

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

A/N: Hope you enjoy this one 🤍 and don't forget to let me know what you think! I looove reading your comments <3 If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You: Eat it yourself.

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

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

Santi: No

Santi: Don’t make me come drag you here

Santi: Consider yourself warned

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

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

You: Tell Yov I’m sorry

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

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

You: I’m serious

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

Santi: And so am I

Santi: Get. Out. Of. Bed.

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

And how much had he read, exactly?  

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

But then again.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled, slow and sharp.

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

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

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

Before you could fire back, the door swung open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What the hell happened?”

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

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

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

Santi shot you a look, eyebrows knitting together.

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

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

“I—”

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

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

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

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

Santi and Yovanna blinked at him.

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

You let out an incredulous scoff, crossing your arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankie made a gesture like please, go ahead.

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

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

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

“You fell?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. You’re matching.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yovanna raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

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

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

You groaned. “Oh, shut up.”

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

Because he deserved it.

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

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

And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frankie just smiled, slow and knowing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not going to work for me.”

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

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

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I was just about to—”

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

You narrowed your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For you? Always.”

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

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

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

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

“Ready?”

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

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

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

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

“I love you too.”

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

So you did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turned your head slightly, eyeing him.

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

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

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

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

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

Frankie snorted. “Spying?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why? What's wrong?”

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

You let out a breath, short and sharp.

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

“Is this about Harry?”

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

“Why do you care?”

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

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

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

You exhaled heavily, shaking your head.

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

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

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

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

Because he wasn’t going to let it go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence stretched between you.

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

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

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

Home wasn’t far now.

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

Frankie glanced at you. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

Another red light.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My house is three blocks away.”

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

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

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

“Please—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach twisted.

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

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

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

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

“That’s not true,” he said.

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

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

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

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

“It does mean something.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

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

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

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

“I understand,” he said. “I do—”

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t.

“Somebody’s going to!”

"Or maybe not!"

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

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

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His throat bobbed, but he stayed silent.

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

You exhaled, your pulse hammering.

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

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

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

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

And then he turned.

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

He didn’t look back.

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

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

You dropped to the floor.

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

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

But it didn’t matter.

He had been cruel too.

And maybe—finally—he would leave you alone.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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───・requests are open ┊ ex bf!chris x reader (headcanons), more here

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݁ ⩩ ˓˓ Ex Boyfriend!Chris . . . who still instinctively pulls you into his side when you walk through a crowded space, his hand settling on your lower back like it’s second nature.

The amusement park is alive with flashing lights and laughter, the crowd thick as you push forward. Before you even register it, Chris’s hand settles against the small of your back, guiding you through the throng like it’s second nature.

It’s seamless. Automatic.

He doesn’t realize what he’s done until you glance up at him, amusement dancing in your eyes. The moment stretches—just long enough for him to notice, to hesitate—before he drops his hand like he’s been burned.

“Sorry… habit, I guess,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets. But for a second, it almost feels like he wants to reach for you again.

⋅ ┈ ⋅ ˖˙˖ ⋅ ┈ ⋅

݁ ⩩ ˓˓ Ex Boyfriend!Chris . . . who teases you just to see if he can still get under your skin the way he used to.

You slip into the kitchen with a sigh, pressing your hands against the counter as you take a much-needed break from Nick and Madi’s endless antics. Hanging out with them was always fun, but sometimes… it was a lot. And before—when things were different—you’d just slip away, finding refuge in Chris’s room or curled up next to him on the couch until you were ready to rejoin the chaos.

But now, that wasn’t exactly an option.

“You hiding?”

His voice startles you, and you glance over to find Chris leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, amusement written all over his face.

“No,” you lie, grabbing your drink from the counter. “Just… needed a second.”

Chris hums, stepping further into the kitchen. “Yeah, they can be a lot.” His smirk grows as he leans against the counter beside you. “Back in the day, you would’ve just dragged me away with you.”

You huff, shaking your head. “Yeah, well. Things change.”

“Do they?” His voice is lower now, teasing, but there’s something else underneath it—something knowing...

You swallow, refusing to look at him. “Don’t start, Chris.”

He chuckles, nudging your arm lightly. “Relax, I’m just saying. Kitchen’s a downgrade from my bed, don’t you think?”

Your jaw clenches, but before you can snap back, Nick’s voice calls from the other room, dragging your attention away.

Chris smirks. “Guess your break’s over.”

You shoot him a glare before pushing off the counter. “You’re annoying.”

He grins. “You used to find it endearing.”

⋅ ┈ ⋅ ˖˙˖ ⋅ ┈ ⋅

݁ ⩩ ˓˓ Ex Boyfriend!Chris . . . who still gives you his jacket without thinking when it gets cold.

The night air is colder than you expected, the chill creeping through the thin fabric of your sleeves. You barely suppress a shiver, wrapping your arms around yourself in a weak attempt to keep warm. Before you can say anything, something warm and familiar is draped over your shoulders.

You glance up in surprise, fingers gripping the thick fabric. Chris isn’t even looking at you—his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, gaze set ahead like nothing happened, like this wasn’t second nature to him.

“You didn’t have to—”

“You’re cold,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around the edges of the jacket. “Chris—”

“Just wear it,” he cuts in, voice firm but quiet. And there’s something in his tone—something final, something that keeps you from arguing.

So you don’t. You sigh, pulling the jacket tighter around you, letting the warmth of it sink into your skin. It still smells like him—faint traces of cologne and something undeniably Chris.

And even though you know you should shrug it off, hand it back, remind him that things aren’t the same anymore… you don’t. You just keep walking, pretending not to notice the way he glances at you from the corner of his eye.

⋅ ┈ ⋅ ˖˙˖ ⋅ ┈ ⋅

݁ ⩩ ˓˓ Ex Boyfriend!Chris . . . who still automatically reaches for your hand when you trip.

It happens so fast. One second, you’re stepping off the curb, the next, your balance shifts—and before you can react, Chris is already there. His fingers wrap around your wrist, steady, firm.

You both freeze.

For a second too long, his grip lingers, warm against your skin. Then, as if realizing it at the same time you do, he lets go—too quickly, like he touched something scalding. Hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, he clears his throat.

“…Reflex,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze.

You shake your head, biting back a smirk. “Sure, Chris.”

His jaw tightens. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say, grinning now. “You just don’t have to look so panicked about it.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You almost ate pavement. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You hum, tilting your head. “Right. Because Chris Sturniolo saving me would just be so tragic.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head as he starts walking again. “Next time, I’ll let you fall.”

But you don’t miss the way his fingers twitch—like he’s already prepared to catch you again.

💌 : @emely9274 @gemzyy

© estellesdoll

[tan1shere]

omg yesss i clicked on the wrong account😭 but i love ur writing and would love to see ur take on smth like that! maybe smth based off of that one lyric from the weeknd “Wanna fuck a skinny model right before her runway show, And we did it on the floor, that's why she walkin' kind of funny” yk ? sorry for the mix up!

Your Secret

Billie Eilish x vs female reader !

A/n: you're completely ok love ! I hope you enjoy <3 - update I went into vs today and ugh I'm thinking of another similar fic 😩

Summary: It wasn't Vitorias secret anymore. It was yours.

Warnings: smut, use of the name daddy, dunno if there's anything else to report yall should know the deal by now !

Tags: @trulyy-yourzz @eilishslut @chrissv4mp @n0vabug @dollyvuu @dollarbils @sweetcherriexs @bilsdillldough @mystiquemm

Masterlist

Was it wrong? Possibly, but you couldn't care less. Whenever you had a show she was there watching, but you ofcourse had to have your fun before hand. She claimed you looked extra tasty in your outfit and needed to do unspeakable things to you. It was your secret. Nobody even knew you were together, nor suspected anything. They might've known you were friends but that's common in the celeb world. Everyone knew everyone.

You were about to go on in 15, but you feel hands on your waist in your dressing room. You knew it was her hands. "Hi." She spins you to face her. "Hey." - "you smell good." You breathe out, then in. Taking it in. "Yeah?" She says going to kiss your neck. "Bub-" She hums in response. "Not the neck we talked about this." But she wasn't playing. Not today. You'd always say to leave hickey's in spots you two could see, but considering the time she had, she gave 0 fucks today. She needed to ravish you and fast.

"Bills-" Ears were off. Not hearing a single thing coming out of your mouth. "P-please." You then moan as you feel her bite, her grip on your waist tightening. She was feral today. "Babe, I-" she turns you around, backing you up against a wall. Your heart picks up, what if someone came in. "You, we-" She pulls back. "You've never complained before when we do this?" Shes right you don't, but something seems more dangerous today. That and the fact your covered in purple and red splotches. Her body presses against yours more and you feel it. "Billie." She smirks. "What?" She knew what, but time was ticking and she needed to fuck you.

You stay silent. "I know you can feel it hm?" You swallow. Deciding to give in and let her do whatever she needs. When all of a sudden, you're laying on the carpet and her body is hovering above yours. Yet you can still feel it with how close she is. And it's driving you crazy. Your needs growing by the second, but you hear her belt jingle, as she unbuckles it. Everything was speedy, you probably had about 10 minutes left, maybe less. Her fingers move to the lingerie you were wearing, just moving it to the side as she gets the fake dick out.

You were glad there was a time limit, because she'd forever tease you, taking as much time as possible until you were a mess for her. But, she now realizes she could just snap her finger and you'd be on your knees, in a puddle. You feel the tip of it against your folds, her moving it to your entrance soon after. Hastily slipping in, and not surprisingly with ease. Her finger moves down to your pussy. "You're very wet, wonder why." She was too cocky for her own good. Her pace instantly harsh but you sure as hell didn't mind.

"Who got you wet huh?" Her face was so close to yours, moving her lips down to your cheek. Your neck. "Y-." But her hand grips your jaw. "The word I'm after starts with a completely different letter. You know this." You gulp, closing your eyes. "Daddy did.." You silently say, breathing heavily as she picks up speed. "Didn't quite catch that, what?" You open your eyes to look right at her. "Daddy, made me this wet." Her cockiness returns, smirking down at you. "Good girl, much better. And who's going to make this pretty angels legs shake?" You choke on your spit as she snaps her hips, harder.

Your head spins as you try get out the answer. "D-daddy." You stammered, feeling your release approaching. And within seconds you're leaking all over the fake cock. Breathing heavily as you come down from the high. She pulls out, earning a whine from you. She takes it off, going to grab some tissues to clean you up. Adjusting your outfit back the way it was. She gets you to stand, chuckling as you wobble. Giving your lips a sloppy kiss. "3 minutes, angel!" Someone calls, you swallow. Having no time to do all you needed to. Luckily there was only two hickeys.

Unluckily they were both in visible spots. Your heart still beating fast, you put the white wings on and go for the door. "Hey baby." Billie says, sprawled out on a couch in your dressing room. She had been watching you struggle to put the finishing touches on, very amused at her work. "Just remember who got you like that as you're walking out. All those eyes on you for the wrong reasons need to know who you belong to." She winks. You bite your lip. This was not going to be easy to do. Wasn't much of a secret anymore either.

[ragnarockz]

*rings bell at the counter*

This is the smut prompt diner, yes? I just want to be sure I've got the right place!

I'd like to try the #4, and I'll get a big order of #8

Could I also possibly get an appetizer of Agnes eating out Vidal... Pretty please

*tips you a generous, crisp $20 bill*

Keep the change

You've come to the right place! 😉

🛎 one order of smuuuuuuuuuuuut comin' right up! #4. "be a doll and do a spin for me, won’t you? you just look so adorable." and #8. "don't be shy now, sit on my face."

MAKE SURE YOU DRINK THAT SMUT HOT, ALRIGHT?! ☕☕

"Be a doll and do a spin for me, won’t you? You just look so adorable,"

Agnes whispered as she gripped the armrests of the living room chair; her gaze never straying off of Vidal in front of her. The agent was showing off her latest shopping haul of new dresses. Some were casual, some more business-like, even though, Agnes noted, she never wore anything like that to work. It made her excited knowing she wasn't going to be seen looking this good in front of all the guys back at the precinct.

Agnes gave another low whistle as Vidal turned; the hem of the dress ballooning out and then settling down straight when she stopped again. Her back was to Agnes; giving the detective a few of the keyhole cutout in the back of the dress. The detective traced every muscle, every curve of Vidal's back. Her fingers gripped the armrest a little tighter, white-knuckling at the sight of her partner before her, showing off just how goddamn good looking she was. Showing off outfits she knew she had bought for her eyes only.

"I think you should keep that one on for a little while longer,"

Agnes whispered again as she tried so desperately to peel herself off of the chair. Vidal was looking over her shoulder now, at Agnes. A sly smile grew on Vidal's face, her head nodding in silent agreement. This dress was going to get dirty before she even had a chance to take the tag off.

"Let me guess, O'Connor...you wanna take this to the couch?"

Agnes, now at her full height on her feet, nodded her head roughly. She was eager, ready to go. She wanted to chase the moment, the spark that ignited before it was lost on her. Her ponytail bobbed against her back with how hard she was nodding her head, causing Vidal to laugh as she moved alongside Agnes. They made their way over to the couch. Agnes plopped down first and spread herself out. She was trying to give Vidal her own show; with her double extra large 'women want me, fish fear me' tee shirt and her basketball shorts on. Vidal bit her lip, looked down at Agnes on the couch. It always did something to her whenever Agnes spread herself out like this; taking up space and demanding control.

It was fucking hot.

Agnes brought her hands up, curling her fingers and moving them in unison in a 'come here' motion. Her gaze was hungry; her body read that she was ready for Vidal to move in,

"Don't be shy now, sit on my face."

Vidal's expression changed; serious to the point that Agnes sat up a little more. Vidal was matching the hunger in Agnes' eyes, eye-fucking her with just the same amount of intensity if not more. Agnes cleared her throat, brought her hands down and waited.

It was almost painful; the sensation building inside of her like a geyser ready to burst. Vidal took the hem of her dress and brought it up, collecting it in her arms, bunching it so that her upper thighs and lower abdomen was exposed. Vidal kept her gaze on Agnes' face and Agnes, kept her gaze on the fact that Vidal hadn't been wearing underwear the entire time.

The detective let out a loud exhale through her nose, bit her lip and continued to stare. What else was she to do? It was up to Vidal to take her seat. Her brain was burning, memories flooding back to every other time she had eaten out Vidal. How warm she was, her taste, the feel of her pubic hair. Saliva pooled in Agnes' mouth and she couldn't wait any longer for her to put it to good use.

Vidal, of course, took her time. She carried the bottom of her dress still as she got closer to the couch. She made a motion with her head, a almost half-nod that signaled for Agnes to scoot down so that she could take her rightful seat on the detectives face. Agnes did as she was told, quickly of course. She never wanted to waste a second. where she could be tongue-fucking her partner.

Agnes left enough room as she could for Vidal to comfortably take her seat, thighs and legs placed on the outside of Agnes' head. She squatted as close as she could, making sure she was angled just right. She watched as Agnes' arms, hands came up to wrap over her thighs, holding her down even harder, deeper. Vidal moaned softly as she felt the tip of Agnes' nose brush against her clit; could feel her breath against her skin.

Vidal waited in the same pained longing Agnes had done, just waiting to feel her tongue.

Bursts of light found their way behind her eyelids and she clutched to the hem of her dress like it would pull her back up to reality. She almost always forgot how sloppy, how messy Agnes was. Her tongue and lips found no rhythm; moving out of time. Licking, sucking, kissing, even biting was interchangeable. Never once did any of those actions follow any sort of suit. And the noises; god. It made Vidal want to shove her fist in her mouth so she could only hear Agnes eat her out instead of her own moans and whimpers.

The only time a true routine was established was when Agnes' tongue traced its steady way up into her cunt.

Bursts of light turned into stars; kaleidoscopes of shapes. It felt like all of a sudden Vidal had ultra sonic hearing; picking up every sound Agnes made with her mouth as she devoured her. All Vidal could find herself doing was holding the bottom of her dress up to her chest so that she could watch Agnes between her legs. Her brow was furrowed in concentration; sweat shone on her temples. Her hair was a mess; ponytail definitely escaping its elastic band.

It was the only time Vidal didn't scold her for being a messy eater.

[sweetteaanddragons]

Thank you for tagging me!

Titles generally come last for me, so I'm afraid none of these snippets have one.

T - Post Order 66 AU involving Obi-Wan on Corellia, and an unbeknownst to even himself Force sensitive kid Han Solo

The problem with the old man making a habit of doing things like saving street kids from two-credit thugs with his weird tricks was that eventually, somebody was always going to snitch. “Hey,” he called, palming the cylinder in the robe’s pocket.  It rolled into his hand - lighter than he had expected, and warmer, and when he drew his hand from the pocket and pressed, blue light shot out of it in a blaze. Everyone in between him and the stormtroopers abruptly found other places to be. “Jedi.” The word echoed from all corners of the street. That was the rumor some snitch had sold. Jedi. One Jedi. Which meant if Han was out here holding a lightsaber . . . Well. No need to hunt further, right? One Jedi, right? Solo. He was good at that. “Heard you were looking for me,” he said. Then he was flinging himself down the nearest alleyway because if there was anything else he was good at, it was knowing how to run.

H - yet to be named Mistborn: Wax and Wayne fic where the title characters were instead born in Era One.

Hindsight suggested that Steris should have realized that Waxillium Ladrian was not who he pretended to be when he had agreed to marry her. If her dowry had not been enough to convince three previous men to overlook her deficiencies, there was no reason for Lord Ladrian to be any different - unless, of course, he was not actually Lord Ladrian and had no intention of sticking around to put up with her deficiencies for longer than it took to claim her dowry. She had plans for if Lord Ladrian proved to be a cruel husband; she had plans for if he brought home children not her own. She did not have plans for if his dear friend Wayne shrugged off a crossbow bolt to the eye in the midst of a rival house’s assassination attempt. That was not a Misting ability. That was a Terris ability. A very, very forbidden one. Lord Ladrian did not seem at all surprised. . . . Lord Ladrian had always been abnormally prone to risking metal jewelry, a touch of fashion unusual to him. She could scream, she supposed. There was still a ball ongoing beyond the balcony door. She could scream for help, and the two of them would run off into the night - . . . and she would have another broken engagement to show for it. “We should throw the body over the railing,” she said through half frozen lips. “It’s dark enough for anyone to mistake the blood for spilled wine until I can clean it in the morning.”

E - AU where most of the sons of Feanor die in the first battle but successfully retrieve the Silmarils; Caranthir is slowly dying of a poisoned wound and trying to prepare bby!Tyelpe for kingship.

Even after the incident, Tyelpe played a lot of chess with his uncle.  He did most things with his uncle these days, sticking to him like the forge ash once had to his father and grandfather’s hands. It was better to stick close; his uncle said it was the best way to learn things and that Tyelpe needed to learn things as quickly as he could. He wished fewer of those things had to do with talking and more of them had to do with the forge. “There’ll be time for the forge,” his uncle promised him, wincing a little as he leaned forward to move a piece. “But I can’t help you much with that. You already know most of what I let Atar teach me. I’ve scrounged up as many of his and Curvo’s old notes and apprentices as I can; you can learn from them . . . later. Once I’ve taught you everything I can.” Tyelpe, quite deliberately, moved one of his rooks into his uncle’s traps. He did not look away from his uncle as he did so. He had learned his lesson about that. His uncle did not sigh. He would have, before they came here; he didn’t now. He did say, “You can’t keep getting rid of pieces just because you don’t want to keep track of them, Tyelpe.” He knew that. But he could make stupid moves on the chess board every time his last uncle said something stupid about . . . later. It was important that his uncle not get any even stupider ideas about already having taught Tyelpe everything he could. “Move the piece back,” his uncle ordered. “Try again.��� He thought about not moving. But then his uncle’s hand twitched as if to do it himself, and his own hand jolted forward immediately. It was one thing to make a point, and another thing entirely to make a point that would once again force his uncle to lean across the board.

N - yet another deaging fic . . . this time targeting Elrond in the Second Age.

Not even a very paranoid mind could have construed the soldiers as hiding which puzzled him more than anything else. The soldiers were right there in the middle of the forest clearing, carefully spread out around Artanis and what he could only assume was Gil-Galad the king. Maglor waited in the thicket, trusting his hard won woodcraft to hide him from their eyes and trying to marshal his scattered thoughts. Artanis had tired of their scattered meetings. It was her right. She had decided to turn him in to the king’s justice; that was her right too. He would have expected her to wait with the Sindar and her husband, but - it was her right. But. Surely he was owed the courtesy of an ambush instead of . . . this? Unless . . . was he meant to see this? Did she want him to run? But what kind of fool was Gil-Galad if he had accepted that such a trap as this would work? Maglor had sent the children to Gil-Galad under the assumption he could keep them safe. A fool could not keep them safe, even if long years had passed since the term children had rightfully applied. The king spoke a few words. The guards moved to a new formation. With the movement, his view shifted. He could see Gil-Galad and Artanis better now. Could see how still Artanis was standing, could see the weapon at her waist - Could see the child sitting against Gil-Galad’s legs, slumped and tangled like a broken puppet. The safety of the thicket was a memory in an instant. The guards were rustling into action, but he didn’t care. “Call it off, Artanis,” he said, his own voice strangled and desperate in his ears. “Call your illusion off.” It was an illusion. He knew it must be the moment conscious thought surpassed instinct; it was a glamour sung up from memory at worst, not something real. It had been long since any image so small and young of Elrond, whether of him well or shattered, could have been real. The image’s head had jerked up at the sound of Maglor’s voice. “Artanis,” he begged. Elrond’s - the image’s eyes still showed faint traces of weeping, but the tears were gone now; his eyes were empty, empty, empty, but they were locked onto Maglor all the same. “This is no art of mine,” she said. Of course it was. Of course it was, this was bait to catch him, it wasn’t - it wasn’t - None of the guards had fired their bows. None of them had approached. “Maglor?” The voice was cracked and thin. Desperate. Elrond, he decided, though he might be the king of fools for it. Elrond’s voice was cracked and thin. Elrond’s voice was desperate. Elrond’s voice that was so, so high and young.

Tagging @cycas and @bowditch and anyone else who wants to participate with the word FIND.

WIP Word Train

Rules: tagger gives a word, then for each letter of that word you share an excerpt from your WIPs that start with that letter.

Tagged by @queerofthedagger Thank you! My word is HOME (which is very fun considering I've been working on some fics with that as their theme)

H - This is Not a Second Chance (Celebrimbor gets dragon-amnesia post-fall of Nargothrond and gets found by his father and uncles; canon still happens after that and I try to make all the readers cry)

He did not know what that word Tyelpë meant. Could only hold the dog and shake as that one order - run, run, run - began to fade away, leaving him empty and hollow. “Help,” he said, the word a cracked whisper. The word choked with smog and burning and terror that erased every thought. He held tight onto the dog as he spoke. “Help.”

Time after that turned into a blurr. There were hands that lifted him up. Gentle, careful of his burns and scratches, cradling him close. More words, some in a language he understood and others in a language he felt that he should know but could not remember. The dog left when he was placed onto a horse. He cried but did not know why. 

Had he run far enough? Had he been caught? 

“Easy, Tyelpë,” said the moonlight-haired elf. “We’ll be at Amon Ereb soon. Just hold onto the horse and trust me to lead, all right?”

He said nothing. The elf’s words fell on him like snow: cold, making him shiver, disappearing through the gaps in his mind. 

O - Oh Sing, Defiant Stars (all SoF survive the kinslayings but Maglor gets amnesia at Sirion and still does a twin kidnapping; very NOT canon-compliant)

One hand was made from metal, glinting like polished brass. The lord, Lindir guessed, from how everyone else backed away or bowed to him. The leader and the one who would decide how best to hurt him. 

But the lord’s hands, when he reached out, only ghosted over Lindir’s shoulders. “Laurë,” he said again, that strange word.

Should he bow? Lindir had not bowed for the orcs no matter how much they kicked him, but they had been servants of Morgoth. These were elves - but they were also murderers. The words stayed stuck in his throat, and all he could do was stand there, dumb and shaking, eyes dropping to the ground. He couldn’t look at the red-haired lord, or the beautiful horses, or the bright, eight-pointed star that decorated the deep red banners. His heart ached. His head screamed, as though something deep within the back of his mind was trying to tear it apart. 

“Bring the healers,” ordered the lord. He may have said other things, but Lindir could barely focus on his words.

M - To Haunt These Golden Halls (Maedhros searches and grieves for his lost brother; Maglor misunderstands and thinks he's happier without him - happy ending don't worry)

Maglor said nothing, could only stare up at his brother, drinking in the sight of him. Centuries upon centuries had dulled his memories, tarnishing the image of Maedhros. Now, there he stood, alive again, and there were a thousand things Maglor wanted to say. 

I missed you, I’m sorry I could not reach you in time. That I threw it away. I was right to throw it away. Do you forgive me? I’m sorry I was not enough to keep you in life. Please say you forgive me. Maedhros, Maitimo, Nelyo, I missed you. 

His mouth stayed locked shut. 

Would Maedhros yell at him now? Chase him out of the garden? Welcome him and kiss his forehead, like he had when Maglor was small and woke up from a nightmare? He tensed and waited. 

But Maedhros only stared down at him and said, “What is your name, stranger, and what are you doing at my home?”

E - Little Crab in the Big City (Fëanor forgets his crab son in the Valinor shopping district and so Maglor and Bilbo go on an adventure together. Maedhros is never trusting his father to babysit ever again)

Even Aman, with all its power, could not prevent a mortal mind from slowly breaking down. Or so Gandalf had sadly warned him. 

The crab scuttled a little to the left and then a little to the right, giving Bilbo a few more clicks of his claw. Above their heads came the cry of a bird - a seagull, perhaps, though Tirion was far away from the coast - and the poor thing hid behind Bilbo’s leg. 

“There, there, do not fear. I will not let such a well-mannered creature such as yourself become dinner.” Bilbo held out a hand. “A busy street such as this is no place for someone so easily trampled. Would you care to travel with me?”

The crab let out a series of fast clicks, eagerly scurrying forward. Carefully, Bilbo lifted him up and placed him on his shoulder, wrapping one long end of his scarf around the crab to keep him warm. 

“Excellent. It has been far too long since I’ve had a companion on an adventure.” Bilbo opened up his notebook and readied his pen. “Now then, where was I? Oh yes…”

Tagging, with your word being CRAB: @dreamingthroughthenoise @lordgrimwing @beatles4ever65 @thelordofgifs @camille-lachenille @whovianofmidgard @leucisticpuffin @awwyeah107 @veilder @starspray and anyone else who wants to. No pressure, of course!

[amarguerite]

I think maybe my take away from this national nightmare is that American voters are on average trapped on the first level of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs l. and the price of groceries is literally the make or break issue for most, to the point where it doesn’t matter why the grocery bill is higher or who can control that or how it can be controlled

[decideroffacts]

imitation

[my-life-is-falling-apart]

I'm guilty as charged for leading you on a lie that I know is easy to see

In which Grian believes his friends would hate him if they knew he was a Watcher.

In this fic everyone knows about The Watchers, but to everyone but Grian (because he knows more about them) their just god-like entities who make them do murder games

Title from Fine, great by Modern Baseball

Takes place after session 4, before session 5 (Wild Life)

AO3 version

Grian had stayed in the server after the others left, and was about to leave when he tripped over something but he caught himself before he fell.

"That was close...huh?!" Small wings covered his eyes, he felt feathers tickling his ears. Oh no. No no no! Grian tried peel the wings away from his eyes but they wouldn't budge.

He sighed before giving up and opening his new eyes that appeared on his wings. With the eye above his hair he looked at his wings, once bright and colorful were now a purple and black shade.

"That was a pathetic attempt." Grian turned towards the voice."You?! Of all you guys it could be..." He said annoyedly. "I wouldn't talk to me like that if I were you." The Watcher said. Grian rolled his eyes, "What do you want? I'm kinda busy right now."

The Watcher sighed "Busy with what? Because look we'll forgive you running away if you just join us again already!" He glared at them, "Yeah that's a hard no. I'm busy because I'm going to my friends soon." They laughed at him.

"What" Grian said getting more annoyed. "You really think those mortals are your friends Oh please, tell me you don't actually believe that?!" They said with a cruel laugh. Grian sighed "Just shut up and go away!"

"Look I'm not here to fight, I'm here to make you see reason." The Watcher said. You, reason?! Ha! The Watcher's are the opposite of reason. He didn't dare to say it out loud though, because that would end badly and sometimes he knows when to shut up. "And just how are you gonna do that oh great one" he said sarcastically.

"Watch your tone!" They jabbed a wing at Grian, who jumped back with a glare. The Watcher toke a deep breath "Do you honestly think they'd still be friends with you if they, I dunno, found out you're a Watcher?" Grian froze "..." "That's what I thought." They said.

"They- they would! Because unlike you guys, they actually care about others and actually like me for who I am!" He shouted.

The Watcher sighed "That's exactly why they'd hate you. They care to much about each other to ever like you, so save yourself from that inevitable betrayal and just join." Grian shook his head "NO! JUST GO AWAY!" They glared at him.

"If you're sooooo convinced being a mortal is better, then you'll suffer the consequences." He backed away slowly "So can I just lea- AAAA!" The Watcher gave him a harsh shove, making him fall over.

Grian stumbled backwards, his extra eyes and wings disappearing, and fell. He sat up "You have got to be kidding me. YOU COULD'VE HAVE JUST OH I DON'T KNOW LET ME LEAVE!?"

He shouted in a random direction. Grian sighed quietly They have a point...Not that I would join them but they probably right that the others would hate me if the knew about... this.

Which is why it's a secret. No one has to know and everything will be fine.

[acoustic-crayons]

Poor Junior, all he wanted was to learn archery from his uncles, and now he's in the hospital with his dad

[Pic inspired by @renjaminnifer's post]

[freshiegayboi]

All the Sanses playing "never had I ever" and it getting steamy. Except Blue has drunk every single time for anything they could think of. Everyone has a conniption.

you. you get it /lh

went with the ever fun Blue and the Bad Sans Poly for this, just to keep it funky lol enjoy!!

(this one gets a little nsfw, so its under the cut for talk about kinks and suggestive stuff. please do not read if you are under 18!!)

~.~

Laughter filled the castle, and had been for a couple hours. The longer the drinks were brought out, the louder the gleeful sounds got, until Nightmare finally cut them off. Water only, but as a consolation he permitted them to play a few group games, without his supervision.

He knew they were less likely to try anything violent with how drunk they'd all gotten, but he was also fairly likely to come back to something less than innocent if he didn't give them something else to do.

It was Horror that had recommended Never Have I Ever, a simple game that while usually had alcoholic drinks accompanying it, was easily supplemented with weird sodas. Blue had agreed easily; surely it couldn't get too bad.

Now armed with ranch, bacon, bubblegum and other various flavored sodas, they started in almost immediately on the most hardcore things they could think of.

"Never have I ever kissed someone until they couldn't breathe!" Killer said, smirking as both Horror and Cross blinked, then took a drink, grimacing at the taste of synthetic bacon. All of them did a double take, however, when Blue also took a drink. He didn't seem to notice them all staring at him until he glanced up from his phone, his sockets widening.

"What?"

Killer shook himself out of his shock, waving a hand. "You're just a lot more kinky than we thought, Baby Blue, that's all! Your turn Dusty~"

Dust gave him a look, then signed a quick "Never have I ever spanked anyone."

This time Killer took a drink, gagging at the horrendous taste of fake bubblegum, as well as Cross. But they all stared as, once again, Blue took a drink with them.

"...Blue?" Horror asked, Blue startling as he realized they were all staring at him again with something only definable as total shock.

"What? I like impact play!"

Horror blinked, but shrugged. "Alright. My turn, I guess. Never have I ever... Used a knife on somebody."

Killer raised a brow, Horror huffing a laugh as he supplemented a "Sexually."

Dust took a drink. Killer took a drink. Blue took a drink.

And once again, they all stared. Blue stared back, perplexed through the state of being drunk off his ass, and finally said...

"...I've literally done all these things with you guys."

And well. There was truth to that, wasn't there?

[glittercakes]

Since it’s Halloween, how about we do a spooky (and also kind of sad) headcanons set, concerning the Portrait Ghosts of Luigi’s Mansion?

(TW for fire and death, including that of several children and a dog, as brief mentions of decapitation and a heart attack. Yeah, pretty morbid compared to my regular stuff, but that’s Luigi’s Mansion for you!)

The loud majority of them were friends and family of E Gadd, perishing when their mansion burned down during a party, after the house was struck by a mysterious bolt of lightning (which was strange, because there wasn’t even a storm). The only reason that E Gadd (who was about 20) survived was because he was away at the time. He built the Portraitficationizer in order to try to seal away their souls and let them rest.

Spoiler Alert: It did not work.

The mansion that Luigi would end up exploring was largely based on the original home of the Gadds (not an exact replica, but there’s still some similarities)

To go into more detail:

Neville Gadd: The husband of Lydia, the biological father of Henry, Orville, and Chauncey, and the adoptive father of Elvin, taking him in after his parents died in a car accident when he was ten. He died in an attempt to save his wife and unborn child.

Lydia Gadd (née van Gore): The wife of Neville, biological mother of Henry, Orville, and Chauncey, and the adoptive mother of E Gadd. She died while pregnant with her youngest son.

Chauncey Gadd: The unborn child of Neville and Lydia, and would-be younger brother to Elvin, Henry, and Orville. He wasn’t even alive yet when the fire happened, and was instead born as a ghost with help from Madame Clairvoya.

Albrecht and Giselle Whirlinda (née van Gore): Lydia’s younger sister and brother-in-law. They died in each other’s arms when the fire reached them.

Sebastian Shivers: The loyal butler of the Gadd family. He was at the direct epicenter of the fire, which is why he is so afraid of it.

Melody Pianissima: E Gadd’s friend and girlfriend of Biff Atlas. She accepted her fate and was able to play one last song, going out in a literal blaze of glory.

(Bonus: The song she played is actually the Luigi’s Mansion theme, and Luigi (thanks to his odd attunement to the supernatural) was able to hear it throughout the mansion and finds himself humming along to it)

Mr. Trevor Luggs: A neighbor of the Gadd family and brother of Miss Petunia. He knew he was about to die, so he decided to go out doing what he loved, eating and eating until his heart gave out.

(Bonus: In my version, he plays a large role in the reveal of E Gadd’s connection to the portrait ghosts. Instead of rice, he appears to be eating a strange dish. Later, when E Gadd says he’s making “pickled dandelions with barnacles in a diesel marmalade”, Luigi recognized that as what Mr. Luggs was eating, prompting him to press the issue and get E Gadd to reveal what’s going on)

Spooky: The beloved dog of the Gadd family. He stayed with his family right until the very end.

Bogmire: He was never alive to begin with, and was instead a being born from the fear and despair that all the victims felt the night of the fire. Of course, he’s not too sure what to fear or despair these days…

Biff Atlas: A friend of E Gadd’s and the boyfriend of Melody Pianissima. He sadly was not strong enough to escape from the flames.

Miss Petunia Luggs: The elder sister of Mr. Luggs and neighbor of the Gadd family. She was taking a shower during the incident, and she slipped and fell in the tub while trying to run away.

(Bonus: The reason she looks like a pig as a ghost is due to a curse placed on her by a jealous beauty pageant rival, making her soul a reflection of her greed. Petunia did not take her seriously until it was too late, and Clairvoya was unable to reverse it.)

Natasha “Nana” Gadd: The mother of Grimmly and Neville and grandmother to his four sons. The scarf she was knitting only served as kindling for the fire.

Slim Bankshot: A neighbor of the Gadd family. He was playing pool against himself when the incident happened.

Henry and Orville Gadd: The twin children of Neville and Lydia, brothers of Elvin and Chauncey. They picked too good of a hiding place and were trapped at the time of the fire.

Madame Clairvoya: A member of the Tribe of Ancients, who died of an illness long before the other ghosts, unable to warn them of their untimely demise. She watched over the house in the past and helped the recently deceased adjust to their new circumstances, even helping to create Chauncey.

Uncle Grimmly Gadd: The older brother of Neville and uncle of Elvin, Henry, Orville, and Chauncey. He was alone at the time of the fire, which suited him just fine.

Privates Redford, Greenley, and Blueson: They were never alive to begin with, instead being toy soldiers that belonged to a toy maker/dark magician before being purchased by Neville and Lydia as a gift for the twins.

(Bonus: Their creator is the father of the one who cursed Petunia, and they got their magic due to being descended from the Tribe of Darkness.)

Sue Pea Whirlinda: The daughter of Albrecht and Giselle and cousin to the Gadd boys. She was napping in the guest room, and she had a quick death of smoke inhalation.

Jarvis McJarvis: A ghost of a man who was decapitated long ago, whose head has taken to living in a jar. Nobody really knows what his deal is, not even Clairvoya.

Sir Weston Chilton: A neighbor of the Gadd family. He was so traumatized by his death in the fire that he took to staying in the cold storage, as it reminds him of the freezing mountains he used to explore.

Vincent Van Gore: The father of Lydia and Giselle, and grandfather to their respective children. He was driven mad as a ghost, and eventually unlocked the secret to giving his creations the life that was stolen from him.

And the culprit of all this? None other than King Boo. E Gadd managed to offend him and his Boos in some way, so he decided to take revenge by destroying his home and family. This is what prompted E Gadd to take such an interest in ghosts, to make sure nothing like this happens again (Although, considering that this is E Gadd, his methods are not necessarily the best…). When King Boo went to free Boolossus, he decided to also free the Portrait Ghosts to not only help with his scheme against the Mario Bros, but also to torment E Gadd some more.

After the events of the game, Luigi convinces E Gadd to release the ghosts from their paintings (except for Boolossus and King Boo, for obvious reasons) and uses the money he gathered from the adventure to build them a new mansion, allowing them to live the rest of their afterlives in peace.

And that’s it! Let me know what you think!

[fishedeyelenz]

Billy Lenz headcanons 2

Part two baby let's go

TW: child abuse, animal death again :( though I don't really get into the details of either of it

Grew up in a kind of suburban/rural like area, not totally isolated but definitely a bit remote, so a lot of things that happened in the Lenz household went unnoticed by the wider community

Lived close by to a pig farm as a child, hearing their grunts and squeals all day and all night. He quickly adopted the sounds, and now grunting and squealing and snorting are a stim to him. Though, because of this he often got compared to pigs by his family as a child :( he did sometimes sneak away to the pig farm to look at the pigs to get away from his house

Had a crooked broken nose. He either got it broken by one of his parents or Agnes broke it in self defense

As stated in the last part, he loves movies, and one of his absolute favorite ones is the shining. Jack Nicholson is one of his favorite actors, and he watched most of his filmography- exept one flew over the cuckoo's nest. He can't handle that one, it's too real for him

Likes those adult oriented animated movies that came out during the 70's-80's like Fritz the cat, Fantastic planet, Rock and rule, and so on. He also very much enjoys who framed Roger rabbit and cool world, though not really for their technical breakthroughs (perv)

I can see him also appreciating eastern block animated films if he ever got his hands on them, like Russian fairy tale animated films and early Hungarian folk tales, János vitéz etc.

Last unicorn enjoyer but prefers the book to the animated movie (though he enjoys both)

Doesn't really like Disney animated movies though (exept for Roger rabbit). The ones that came out during his adulthood were too "kiddie" for his tastes, and the ones from his childhood trigger him greatly

Has Italian heritage

Hates hippies, though likes a couple of bands that can be considered to make hippie/stoner music like Pink Floyd and the Doors

Yes he relates to Pink from the acclaimed concept album/rock opera movie Pink Floyd's The Wall why do you ask

Every weed is scary weed to him, don't let this man bake

Cat's are his favorite animal, aside from pigs, and he would feed the local stray cats as a child

Would honestly be catkin in a modern au

Garfield is his favorite mediocre but cute Saturday morning comic strip <3 he relates to Jon a lot

Doesn't like children, they freak him out, he would never want to have children and that's for the best

Has an appreciation for naive/amateur/outsider art, and he himself does make his own collages and drawings from time to time, whenever he's mentally stable enough to do that. His works are crude, both technically and thematically, and there is a very morbid quality to them. One of his great inspirations is Henry Darger

Has hoarder tendencies

Loves soft things, like blankets, pillows and plushies. His nest in the attic is like the most comfortable pillow fort there is

Yes the plushies are stolen directly from children

Honestly has his own collection of small, tinny , insignificant shinny things he found/stole. If he ever gets his own place his house would look like Howl Movingcastles room just more... Dirty and covered in cat hair

Liked to lay out all the things he stole from the girls in the sorority house on the attic floor, and admire his spoils from time to time

Yes he is a panty snatcher why do you ask

Doesn't like people staring/looking at him, though he himself has a staring problem

Is afraid of dogs, he got bitten by a stray dog one time when he ran away from home when he was just three years old. A stranger who just so happened to be passing by saw what was happening and defended him, killing the dog in the process. Then he took Billy right back to his family home, like any good Samaritan would. Sometimes Billy's nightmares have bloody, gaping black dogs in them.

[quietlywatchingwritingreading]

Thoughts that came up in a discussion with @robocatfan:

"I'm not sure Clotted Cream Cookie has never had a romantic thought about anything apart from finances." *several seconds later* " Oh god thats a pun isn't it? Thats a pun with his relationship with financier cookie. I did not mean it but I must share it"

Also, we had discussed Grand Madeleine Cookie and Light Cream Cookie's relationship. I think it is incredibly cute, but i'm also 90% sure that the relationship has a B plot where Clotted Cream Cookie does not pick up anything about this relationship until 2 days before the wedding.

[abeinginsand]

"null moon" + s2 lark and sparrow getting ready for a fight, maybe not one that can have a happy ending. in canon or an au.

if you feel like angst

(+ I Come With Knives (acoustic version))

Thanks so much for the request, Anon! It was a fun palette and interesting idea to work with. Also, I love the sound of that song and added it to my playlist :) Warnings: Scopophobia (due to the Doodler's eyes), non-graphic character death (there's a flame silhouette and gravestones).

Wanted to try something a little different than usual and attempted a little animatic! (Video info below)

Link to separated frames Audio: Howl by Florence and the Machine Summary: Lark and Sparrow prepare for their last encounter with the Doodler. As a last resort, they have prepared manual set-off explosions. This ends up either destroying the doodler or making it leave successfully, so the sky is back to normal. Unfortunately, they do not get to see the return of that sky from their childhood... Video Text: Frame 1-2 - Go on one last search Frame 3 - A Last Resort, Lark & Sparrow Scene, Howl by Florence and the Machine Frame 4 - One Last Reload Frame 5 - One Last Light Frame 6 - One Last Round, One Last Spell Frame 7 - One Last Fight Frame 8 - One Last Defeat...And Frame 9 - One Last Frame 10 - One Last Surprise End Frame - The Return of A Normal Sky, The Loss of Two More Lives, the graves say "Lark Oak Garcia" and "Sparrow Oak Garcia"

[cleaverqueer]

Nathan and Rich!! Here's some questions, you can pick one to answer or as many as you'd like:

How they met? Doesn't have to be set in stone but just ideas you're playing around with :)

How's Rich's relationship with his ex-wife?

Any specific kinks Nathan is into? Also does he go by Nate or is it only Nathan

Thanks Jed! :) I appreciate the interest ^^ sorry i took so long to reply, i was gathering my thoughts!

this got longer than i thought it would so ill throw it under a cut!

cw discussion of kinks including BDSM

i dont have much plot yet, just characterization, but i like to think they met by chance- something like, Nathan picking up his little siblings from the library that Rich works at, or going to the same bar, or something casual like that and they hit it off :) I really want them to have a slow burn kinda thing, especially since Nathan gets a crush first, and i want him to have to convince Rich that his interest is genuine. Plus i think Rich turns him down a time or two because he thinks Nathan deserves 'someone better', which to him meant someone younger and prettier, like himself.

Rich doesnt have much of a relationship with her anymore, he could never find it in himself to tell her the real reason he kept so distant when they were married, even as close as they were emotionally. Deep down i think she could only assume the reason he wouldnt sleep with her was because he was cheating, though she couldnt find proof that wasnt there. Eventually they had a falling out over it, and when Paula moved out, they stopped talking. When the papers came in the mail he just signed them.

and uhh! hm, specific ones? Mmmmm leather for sure. And hes definitely a masochist, so things like spanking and hair pulling and biting, as well as harder kinks like being smacked around, bruised, drawing blood, though for all of this he prefers a hands on approach over tools like idk a crop or knife. If youre not willing to break his skin with your teeth, youre not the one for him lol (it should be noted that Nathan doesnt let anyone leave marks that last longer than a day or two except Rich <3) also a handful of others he'll discover later :)

[elliestoybox]

Ok i just caught up on chapters 21-22 of aqua and like

Its not as rage inducing as the last batch i read but man ... they're still aqua lmao and i have questions

Dont you love explicitly admitting this shit has to be incest? Like also the way its worded implies that kaitos descendants wouldnt count which us weird lol. Also like how the fuck would kaito pass down his blood?? Idc how sexy any of us think he is that man didnt interact with anyone and the like maybe 7 women he even remotely regularly talked to are either dead or revived lesbians

This is genuinely funny to me and like..... i actually think the idea of that disco ball fragmently reflecting its victims inward is really cool ...when you think about it ...and not at how they actually show it ...it still made me laugh out loud at how dumb it looks when it was 1st shown

Ok but like actual real question- which one is which in this page? Like the more i look the more confused i get. Like at 1st i assumed the right one was lucia because it makes sense she would be more agressive than scared and also because they gave her bigger boobs. But then i went a couple of pages back to try to see if there are ANY design differences and it looked like lucia had denser bangs?? This is why you need to make your characters distinct, kids.

Also they didnt explain at all why laurent getting ditched by a girl made him kiss a boy and invite him to his secluded house 13 years after like are you actually going to say that being scorned as a child made him commit gay?? (Can you tell im not excited for this subplot lmao)