#mostly an excuse to rotate

[coccineum-vocatorem]

"What are you hiding under the wrap?" "A bit rude, but if you really want to know... "Would you like to see what I'm hiding under my boots next, oh curious one?"

[mizuthe-cat]

Who are your current favorite ocs? What is their setting/story like, if they have one?

Ok ok so Fir, nonbinary elf shade with a curse that makes them gotta wear a mask (because of the goop) who also ran away to be with their girlfriend

their story takes place several hundred years after The Apocalypse (ooo scary hehe) and magic is a real thing, we got many a creature like human, elf, ningamal, and the bird people I don’t have a real name for yet (currently referred to as the winged ones might keep it might not)

Their world was made by some narrator named MG (you may have heard me talk about her before) and she’s practically just me which is probably why she’s my pfp and she likes to mess with the characters in there sometimes causing some of the events of the story to make things interesting

Fir is being taught by Belladonna (I hate her) on fighting with shade magic (and maybe some curses too) and it is not going very well for Fir but they’re willing to keep going if it keeps the people they care about safe and gives them a place to stay

also bit of a briefing on magic here, ningamals and elves got it but rarer for humans and winged ones, you don’t got it as a kid but you do get it in your teens and are typically required to pass your class on how to deal with yours in order to graduate (not required if you’re part of a group who rarely has it, but if you’re part of one that has it near 100% it’s required even if you don’t get it on time which can be really tough on some people) so Fir can only really do shade stuff and they’re stuck with it forever you only get one type (unless you’re lucky but that’s really rare) some types can also come with bonuses like seeing ghosts or infiltrating dreams (but that’s isn’t all the time, Fir got ghosts, terrible for them)

And there are many different kingdoms and such and so many things and I don’t want to lore dump too much unless you want to hear more about it because there is just so much I didn’t even get to say it all

[arolesbianism]

I’ve drawn a decent amount of isat au eternal gales but yknow what I haven’t drawn? Eternal gales au isat. Don’t look at me.

[formshaper-a]

choose wisely.

[birt-art]

There's some great Elden Ring lore videos but where's my two hour long queer reading of Elden Ring you cowards !!

[lcveblind]

"An offworld princess graces the Xianzhou Luofu with her presence..." The lionhearted general moves around his desk and walks down the steps to the holographic sandpit where Edeline is approaching, escorted by two Cloud Knights.

"Madam Yukong greeted you first, I take it? Mm. I must admit, I'm a little jealous." Jing Yuan's rumbling chuckle is deep and his bow low, one hand folded behind his back as he extends his other hand out for Edeline to accept. If she does, he'd bring her hand to his lips to delicately kiss her knuckle, peeking up at her with a playful smile and a glimmer in his sharp golden eye.

"General Jing Yuan of the Luofu Cloud Knights at your service, princess, but please — call me simply by name. I hope the Luofu's first impressions have treated your senses well?"

>:)

When word of the Xianzhou Luofu's arrival reached her ears, the princess wasted no time in her planning to establish diplomatic ties.

Most of it was in part due to her responsibility to her people, for the Luofu—-as had been mentioned by Cadius—-was a warship. With warships came the possibility of war. Should there ever be a chance that the ship's presence prove dangerous, it was naturally within her duty to ensure that the likelihood be minimized for the people's safety. That was to be her priority above all else.

...But perhaps that likelihood was small as is, she thinks, watching the general as his lips brush against her knuckles.

(She does not miss the gleam in his eye. If one looks closely, they may even catch the glint in her own gaze before it disappears.)

"They have indeed."

Coral eyes fall shut, recalling her small journey aboard the ship.

"Madam Yukong is truly diligent in her work, and the people of the Luofu are as lively as they are skilled within their trade. To see the people flourish in such a way... It is a mark of one who leads them well."

The corner of her lips twitches into a subtle smile then.

"Perhaps, if I am permitted so, I may stay to see if such impressions hold still with time."

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 11: "The one with the things we shouldn't talk about" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: You and Frankie get back home, eat cake, watch Notting Hill, and talk about all the things you probably shouldn’t—but do anyway. WC: 15,1k (sorry omg)

TW!!: This chapter touches on sensitive topics including grief, suicide, and substance use. If you are sensitive to any of these topics, please take care while reading <3

A/N: Well, it seems I just can't manage to write short chapters. I'm sorry about that. I write and write, and before I know it, I've gone way overboard. Sometimes, when I go back to edit, I try to cut anything that's not strictly necessary... but everything feels necessary. If I could somehow describe the exact chemical reaction that happens when Frankie looks at Reader, I totally would lol. Anyway, thank you so much for reading and for your lovely comments!!!! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

When you opened the door to your apartment, Mr. Darcy appeared almost instantly, trotting toward you with a dramatic, drawn-out meow, like you’d been gone for days instead of just a few hours.

"Come on, don’t be so dramatic," you murmured, bending down to scratch behind his ears. He accepted the attention begrudgingly, rubbing his face against your leg before stalking toward the couch.

The adrenaline had worn off on the drive back, leaving exhaustion in its place, a pleasant kind of heaviness settling into your limbs. After the jump, Eric had stuck around to chat—mostly with Frankie. He’d asked about Santiago, and when he realized you were his sister, his face had lit up in recognition. Then, with a grin, he’d nudged Frankie and made some joke about dating his best friend’s sister.  

You hadn’t stayed much longer after that. The hunger had hit fast, like a delayed reaction to the morning’s excitement. Frankie had suggested stopping somewhere to eat, but you had countered with a better idea—grabbing food to go and eating in the car. So that’s what you’d done.  

So, instead of the warm scent of coffee and sugar from the drive there, the car smelled like fries and chicken nuggets. You’d taken over the music again with a mix of early 2000s nostalgia—Nelly Furtado, Hole, Jonas Brothers, some Britney, and a rotation of pop hits. Quite a variation, to be honest. Frankie didn't hate it.

Before heading home, you had asked him to make a quick stop at Joe’s Bakery. He had parked outside, unbuckling his seatbelt, but you had stopped him before he could get out.  

"It’ll just take a second," you’d said, already pushing the door open.  

When you came back, you were carrying a pink cardboard box.  

Frankie had glanced at it, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "What do you have in there?"  

You had only shrugged, feigning disinterest, and closed the door without answering.  

Now, back in your apartment, he stepped inside with the same pink box in his hands while you locked the door behind him.  

You walked over to Darcy, scooping him up and pressing your fingers gently against the soft fur of his throat as you made your way to the kitchen. Frankie set the box down on the counter, then followed you, reaching out to give the little guy a quick, absentminded scratch on the head.  

"Can I use the bathroom?"  

You clicked your tongue. "You don’t have to ask."

"Excuse me, I’m a gentleman," he said, eyebrows raised as he turned and headed down the hall.

You set Mr. Darcy down gently, his soft fur slipping through your fingers as he trotted off, tail flicking. Padding over to the kitchen sink, you turned on the water, letting it run warm over your hands as the morning played back in your head like a reel of sunlit images. The rush of air, the weightlessness, the sheer exhilaration of it all. You still couldn’t believe it. It had been incredible. 

God, Santi would have loved it.  

You could go again with him, maybe. You wondered what he’d say when you told him—if Frankie hadn’t already beaten you to it. You hadn’t mentioned it to your brother, and he hadn’t said anything to you, so… probably not.  

You’d send him the pictures later, wait for his reaction. He’d definitely find it odd coming from you. But hey, now you were officially the kind of person who went skydiving. Casual. No big deal. Just that cool.  

You laughed softly to yourself.  

And then, like a shift in the wind, your thoughts veered toward Frankie.  

Your hands stilled under the water, fingers pressing against the cool ceramic of the sink. You stared at the tiled wall in front of you, but you weren’t really seeing it.  

Something sat heavy in your chest, dense and unmoving. A feeling you didn’t quite have a name for, but it clung to your ribs like something permanent.  

And the night before—it was still there, between you, thick. Neither of you had mentioned it. Not once.  

And Frankie hadn’t looked uncomfortable, hadn’t acted any differently. As if nothing had happened. As if just hours ago, you hadn’t been in his lap, bare skin against his, his mouth on you in places that still ached with the memory.  

If he wasn’t bringing it up, it was probably because he didn’t want to. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe he saw it as a mistake, something awkward that he was hoping you’d quietly let slip into the past.  

And sure, it had been unexpected for you too. But a mistake? 

No.  

Because no matter how much you tried to shove it down, there were things inside you that were getting harder and harder to ignore. Desires that felt like wildfire, impossible to contain.  

But you were Santi’s sister.  

That’s what he had told you last night. Like it was some kind of rule written in stone, like it was the reason, the boundary, the excuse. And maybe it was. Maybe it was enough to keep you at arm’s length. To reject you.

But the words had sounded weak. And you didn’t know which was worse—the idea that he truly believed it, or the possibility that he was hiding behind it, afraid to say what he really meant.  

Maybe he just didn’t want you. Maybe this was all a mess for him, one he wished he hadn’t gotten into at all. 

“Your bathroom cabinet drawer is broken,” Frankie said, cutting through the thoughts circling in your head.

You blinked, turning off the faucet and glancing at him just as he leaned against the counter beside you, hip pressing into the edge.  

“It doesn’t close all the way,” he added. “Probably just needs the guide replaced.”  

“Oh.” You reached for a towel, only to realize too late there wasn’t one. You wiped your damp hands against your shorts instead.  

“I can fix it if you want,” Frankie offered. “Might just be something stuck in there.”  

You shot him a sideways smile. “Were you snooping through my things, Francisco?”  

His eyebrows lifted, lips parting slightly. “No—no,” he said quickly, straightening just a little, though not enough to actually move away. “I just noticed.”  

“Mm-hm,” you hummed. “Well, if you feel like playing handyman, be my guest.”  

Turning toward the counter, you reached for the pink box you had set down earlier, your fingers running along the ridges of the cardboard before slipping beneath the flaps. Frankie shifted, settling onto one of the stools across from you. His elbows rested against the surface, his gaze fixed on your face.  

But you weren’t looking at him. You were focused on the box, the anticipation of what was inside pulling your attention.  

When you finally lifted the lid, your smile came instantly. You turned the box toward Frankie, giving him a full view of what was inside.  

A small, round cake, covered in smooth white cream. Swirls of frosting curled into delicate peaks around the edges, dotted with soft pink flowers piped with precision. Fresh strawberries were nestled between them, some sliced, others whole, their red brightness standing out against the pale background.  

“To celebrate,” you said, voice quieter than you expected, cheeks growing warm under his gaze.  

Frankie leaned back slightly, his smile widening, eyes creasing at the corners as he took it in.  

“Amazing,” he said. Then, with a teasing tilt of his head, “You sure this isn’t just an excuse to eat cake?”  

You rolled your eyes, nudging the box closer.

“Obviously. It's my favorite," you said, running a fingertip along the edge of the box. "Well, one of my favorites."  

Frankie shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze dropping to his feet.

“I should probably let you rest, then.” His voice was quieter than usual, lower, like he wasn’t quite sure of the words as he said them. 

“You’re not gonna stay?”  

His head lifted. He stilled. His eyebrows raised just slightly. 

“Oh. You... you want me to stay?”  

“Yeah. I mean—” you hesitated, suddenly second-guessing yourself. “I mean, if you can’t, it’s okay—”  

“No, no—”  

“I get it if you’re tired. I dragged you through a lot between yesterday and today—”  

“It’s not that—”  

“No, I totally understand—”  

“I want to stay.” His hand flattened against the counter as he leaned in, his eyes locked on yours now. “I just thought... well, that maybe you were tired and wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to bother you, that’s all.”  

“You don’t bother me,” you said simply, lifting the small cake from the box and setting it on the marble countertop. “I bought this to share with you. We both jumped, didn’t we?”  

A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “That’s right.”  

You turned toward the cabinets, reaching for plates, pulling open the drawer for silverware.

“Besides, it’s kind of a habit. When I was a kid, every time I did something big, my dad would take me to Delora’s for strawberry shortcake.”  

Frankie didn’t say anything, but you could feel his attention on you, listening.  

“He always picked the one with the most strawberries. It was my favorite,” you continued, setting the plates down. “Then on my birthday, he’d get me a huge one and give me the strawberries from his slice. Santi too.” You reached for the coffee maker. “Do you want coffee?”  

“I always want coffee.” A brief silence, then, “So strawberries are your favorite fruit.”  

You smiled, but he couldn’t see it, not with your back to him. It was in your voice, though.  

“Yeah. And I was kind of obsessed with Strawberry Shortcake when I was a kid, too. My mom made me this beautiful costume for Halloween once. It was amazing—”  

You stopped speaking, you hesitated, your hands stilling, a puzzled smile forming on your lips. Something about the quiet behind you made you turn.  

“Francisco?”

He lifted his eyebrows, tilting his head slightly. But didn't speak.

“Why do I have a feeling you already knew about this?”  

His expression didn’t change, but there was something amused in the way he furrowed his brows.

“Knew about what?”  

“This.” You gestured vaguely, as if that would explain everything. "Um... Shortcake."

“Oh,” he said, nodding as if considering it. “I dunno. That seems unlikely.”  

“Santi told you?” You turned back to the coffee maker, your hand steady as you poured coffee grounds into the filter.  

“No.”  

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Ha. Funny, then.”  

He exhaled a quiet laugh. “Yeah.” A pause. “Do you want me to help with something?”  

Behind you, you heard the scrape of wood against tile as he pushed the stool back and got to his feet.  

“Yeah, um, grab two mugs.”  

You took the plates and carried them to the breakfast bar, setting them down before leaning against the counter again. The coffee maker hummed to life, the rich scent filling the kitchen. You exhaled, watching him as he moved. He reached for the mugs without hesitation, setting them down beside the cake before glancing at you.  

The look was brief, accompanied by a small, lopsided smile before he settled back onto the stool.  

“So, you used to go to Delora’s,” he said. “That’s pretty sweet. We could’ve gone there if you wanted, bought one of those ridiculous big gorgeous cakes filled with cream and strawberries.”  

You shook your head, peeling yourself off the counter and walking toward him.

“No, the place closed a couple of years ago.” You sank onto the stool across from him, resting your elbows on the counter, chin in your palm. “Not long after my dad died.”  

Frankie’s gaze lifted, the easy amusement in his expression dimming.  

“The last time we went together was a few weeks before that,” you continued, your voice softer now. “When I graduated college.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” he said, his voice careful, though the way he looked at you didn’t shift at all. His dark eyes were fixed on your face like he was trying to memorize something, and maybe a part of him was. He didn’t blink. Didn’t fidget. It was like he’d settled into the discomfort on purpose.

You smiled automatically, but it didn’t quite hold. “It’s fine. There are a lot of good bakeries in Austin. I think I’ve visited almost all of them by now. I could pretend I was on a serious mission, you know? Like some noble quest to find the perfect replacement cake. But really…” You let out a breath, not quite a laugh. “I think I just wanted an excuse to keep eating things that reminded me of something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

You paused. There was a tightness behind your ribs, a pressure that had nothing to do with the conversation and everything to do with who you used to be when the tradition still made sense.

“But honestly,” you added, your voice quieter now, “the cake wasn’t the point. Not really. It was… the moment. Sitting there, sharing it with him. That’s what I keep trying to recreate. Not the flavor or the frosting or whatever. Just that.”

Your eyes dropped to a spot on the counter, something nondescript—like a coffee stain or a scratch—something easier to look at than him. But when you finally glanced up again, he was still watching you, as if the movement of his body had frozen sometime between your first word and now. There was something on his mouth that might have been a smile, but it didn’t reach beyond the corners of his lips. His eyes held none of it.

“Shit,” you said quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for to get all heavy.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said, almost immediately. “It’s—” He exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he wasn’t sure what expression to land on.  “Really. It’s a beautiful thing, the way you’ve kept that tradition alive. I’m just… sorry you’re stuck sharing it with me.”

He laughed then, quietly, and lifted his hand to his own face, dragging it across his jaw in a kind of nervous gesture.

“I just... I just know I’m not really a worthy replacement for something that meant so much to you.”

There was something in the way he said it—that quiet, self-deprecating remark—that landed in your chest like a weight. You felt it settle under your collarbone, a low, aching pressure, and you hated that it made you feel anything at all.

Because once again, you’d done too much. Said too much. Given him access to a part of you that wasn’t his responsibility to hold. And it wasn’t fair—he hadn’t asked for this, for any of it. He just kept getting pulled into the orbit of things you didn’t know how to carry alone. Maybe because he still felt guilty. Maybe because he hadn’t figured out how to tell you no.

And the thought that he might only be here because of that—because of some unspoken sense of duty or debt—it made your stomach twist. You didn’t understand him.

“Well,” you said, your voice lighter than you felt, “it’s just cake.”

You shook your head once, not to dismiss the conversation exactly, but to pull yourself out of it. You stood from your stool, picking up both mugs and walking over to the counter, where the coffee machine murmured softly, still working.

With your back to him, you added, “I’m just being sentimental. You don’t have to stay for that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What?” he said eventually.

You turned partway, just enough to catch his expression for a second—something unreadable flashing across his face. You gave him a faint smile. One of those practiced ones. 

“I’m saying you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. It’s okay,” you said, shrugging. “You must be tired.”

He didn’t answer right away, and you didn’t push. You stayed where you were, facing the cupboard, your fingers brushing the edge of the sugar jar without really picking it up.

Then, from behind you, came his voice again. 

“Is something wrong?”

You blinked. Your eyelids felt heavier than they should’ve.

“No. No—why?”

You turned around this time, leaned back against the counter with your hands on your hips like it would make you look more composed than you felt.

Frankie was watching you. Then he stood. Crossed the space between you in a few quiet steps, until he was directly in front of you. For one strange second, you thought he might say something else, but he didn’t. He just stepped past you, the warmth of his body brushing yours briefly, picked up the coffee jar, and poured the dark liquid into one of the mugs. Still without meeting your eyes.

You looked at him. His profile was steady in the muted sunlight bleeding through the kitchen window. Everything about him seemed calm, measured.

He moved the full mug aside, then filled the second one. Both of you stood in the silence like it had been placed carefully between you.

“I can leave,” he said finally. Still looking ahead. “If I wanted to, I would. But I don’t. So I’m staying. You’re not forcing anything on me.”

Your gaze dropped to the mug in his hands. The way his fingers wrapped around it made it seem small. Fragile, even. 

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked then.

You shook your head.

“No. But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable with… all my stuff. It’s personal. Too personal?” You tilted your head, brows pulling together. “Is it too much?”

Frankie let out a low, quiet laugh. Not dismissive, just... surprised. He shook his head.

“You’ve met my whole family,” he said, turning to look at you fully now. “You’ve been in my childhood bedroom. Pretty sure you went through my drawers, remember?” He raised an eyebrow. “If we’re drawing lines around intimacy, I think we passed them miles ago. Don’t you?”

And for a second, you didn’t know what to say. Because he was right.

“I didn’t go through your drawers.”

He looked at you sideways, one eyebrow lifted. “But the rest of it is true, isn’t it?”

You shrugged, the corner of your mouth curling into a half-smile you didn’t bother to hide. There wasn’t much use pretending at this point.

Because yes—of course it was true. All of it. You knew his siblings’ names, the sound of his mother’s voice on speakerphone, the way he liked his coffee, and how he looked when he thought no one was paying attention. He knew how you grieved, who you missed, how your voice cracked when you talked about things you thought you'd long buried.

It was intimate. Too much, maybe. But also too late.

And then, of course, there was the fact that he’d seen you nearly naked, which you weren’t going to bring up now, obviously. That belonged to another moment, another kind of tension neither of you had fully acknowledged.

He carried both mugs back to the counter without saying anything more, setting one down in front of your seat and the other at his own.

You followed, settling onto the stool again. The cake sat between you, small and delicious. You picked up the knife, sliced a clean piece, and gently placed it on Frankie’s plate. Then you did the same for yourself, aware of the quiet ease moving between you, how different it felt from a few minutes ago.

As you reached for your fork, Frankie lifted his coffee and took a sip, his eyes flicking toward Mr. Darcy, who was strutting past on his way to the hallway like he owned the entire block.

“Okay,” you said, watching Frankie’s face as you settled your chin in your palm. “Tell me what you think.”

He glanced at you once before picking up his fork, cutting a generous bite from his slice, and shoveling it into his mouth without ceremony.

You waited, eyes on him, noting the way he chewed, the way his brows pinched slightly as if he were actually concentrating. Then his eyes fluttered shut briefly, and when they opened, you caught the faintest smile breaking through.

“Awesome,” he mumbled, fork pointing toward the filling like it had personally impressed him. “Cream. And whatever that chocolate thing is.”

“Ganache,” you said, amused. “You’re eating cream and chocolate ganache.”

He nodded, entirely unbothered by the details. After a pause, he lifted his coffee again, raising it in your direction.

“Here’s to you. For, you know… jumping out of a plane and doing the whole thing.”

You were mid-bite, but your eyes found his. You swallowed, then raised your own mug in return.

“Here’s to us, for jumping,” you echoed, lips quirking. 

The mugs clinked together with a quiet thunk. 

By the time the clock edged past four-thirty, you'd already gone back for seconds. Your stomach felt full, your heart happy. Or whatever the saying goes.

You’d been talking for a while. That part came easily, almost naturally now, even if it still surprised you when it did. Frankie had ended up telling you how he met Eric, which spiraled—obviously, because stories didn’t stay in neat boxes. One memory tugged on another. Before long, he was telling you about his teenage years, those messy, uneven years that no one ever really talks about unless they’re asked.

You hadn’t asked directly. Not really. But you had wanted to know. What had he been like when he was a teen? What music did he listen to? Did he get nervous around girls? Did he cry when things didn’t go his way?

He told you about his first kiss—how awkward it was, how he’d knocked teeth with the girl. Then his first real girlfriend, a swedish exchange student named Alida, who liked heavy eyeliner and drawing tiny stars on her notebooks. He said her accent made everything sound like poetry. And then the first heartbreak. A girl he’d been seeing for a couple of months, who left him for someone three years older. Frankie rolled his eyes like he’d long made peace with it, but you could still hear something there.

“He had a black sports car,” he said, stabbing his fork into the last bit of cake. “Beautiful thing. I had a bike.”

You laughed into your cup. “Yeah, you didn’t stand a chance, buddy.”

“I mean,” he continued, holding the fork like a pointer, “I would’ve taken her everywhere on that bike. Literally everywhere. Him? Probably didn’t even let her change the radio station.”

There was cream on the corner of his mouth, caught in his mustache, and you thought—without warning—what a soft, ridiculous man.

“A true romantic. I totally believe you.”

You kept picturing him younger—less solid, less tired maybe. What did fifteen, sixteen or seventeen-year-old Frankie look like before the years started layering over him? You’d seen one or two childhood photos before, but those didn’t count. He was a baby there. That was another version of him entirely, before anything really happened.

So you asked.

He didn’t even flinch at the question. Just pulled out his phone, thumbed through the gallery for a bit, then handed it over without ceremony.

The photo lit up the screen.

Frankie at seventeen, shoulder-to-shoulder with another kid you didn’t recognize, both of them squinting into the sun. His face was leaner then, clean-shaven and impossibly young, but the eyes were the same. Dark, serious, a little too knowing for someone who probably hadn’t learned how to file taxes yet. His hair was shorter, neatly combed like he was trying to impress someone’s dad. He wore a black N.W.A t-shirt over a white long sleeve, and his grin was wide enough to make you ache a little.

“Oh, you were handsome,” you said, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips as you zoomed in on the photo, studying the lines of his younger face like you were trying to map something familiar.

Frankie laughed and you noticed the way a faint flush crept over his cheeks.

“You think so? I dunno. I wasn’t doing so great around then.”

“You’re being modest,” you said, glancing up at him. “Your sisters told me otherwise, actually.”

He lifted one shoulder like it didn’t matter.

“I wouldn’t know, wasn’t paying attention, I guess.”

There was a beat of quiet between you—comfortable, maybe even necessary. He took another sip of his coffee, watching the steam curl off the rim like he had something else on his mind.

“Now, show me a picture of you,” he said, eyes flicking to yours.

“Me?”

“No, the other person hiding in the kitchen. Yes, you.”

You clicked your tongue at his teasing but reached for your phone anyway, handing his back as you scrolled. It didn’t take you long. You had a folder set aside for these moments—old photos, scanned birthday cards, old screenshots. Call yourself melancholic.

You picked one and passed it to him, resisting the sudden, fluttering urge to pull it back.

In the photo, you were sixteen. Your hair was different, your baby face present. You were sitting cross-legged on the couch with a small white kitten curled against your chest, your smile wide and unguarded.

“Look at you,” he said quietly, his mouth curling. “Those cheeks. Bright eyes.”

You felt your face warm under the weight of his attention, but he didn’t see it—he was still absorbed in the screen.

“It was my birthday,” you said. “My parents went to pick up Kylo that morning. He meowed so loudly from their room I figured it out before they could even pretend to surprise me.”

Frankie huffed a laugh, still looking at the picture. “So you’ve been a cat lady from the beginning, huh?”

You grinned. “Yeah, I’m destined to become that woman from The Simpsons, the one who screams and throws cats at people on the street.”

He laughed. “Yeah? I’ll be walking down the sidewalk one day and a kitten will hit me in the chest. I’ll know it’s you.”

“Probably.” You shrugged. “Sorry in advance.”

He looked at you then, not the photo. And with a kind of absent-minded softness, he said, “You were cute. If I’d met you in high school, I probably would’ve had a crush on you or something.”

It was so casual, the way he said it. Like he didn’t even think twice. Just followed the thought to its natural end and let it fall into the space between you.

But the effect it had on you wasn’t casual at all. You felt it right away—a quick, dizzy thrum behind your ribs, like your body was catching up to the weight of the words before your mind could.

And he didn’t even notice.

“That would’ve been weird though, don’t you think?” you said, squinting at him. “You’re like—what? Six years older than me? How old would you have been then?”

You did the math in your head, not really waiting for him to answer. “Twenty-two.”

Frankie rolled his eyes like that wasn’t the point at all.

“Hypothetically,” he said, waving his hand through the air like it could clear the timeline. “If we’d gone to school together—same year, same time—then yeah, you would’ve been my crush or whatever. That’s what I meant.”

“Right,” you said, nodding, trying not to smile. “Well, mine probably would’ve been the guy with the black sports car.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Fuck you,” he said, playful but mildly wounded. “You would’ve missed out. I’d have taken you everywhere on my bike.”

You laughed, your fingertips grazing the side of your cheek like that might hide the warmth rising there. You were blushing. You could feel it and knew he probably could too, even if he didn’t mention it.

After a pause, you stood up and walked to the bathroom. The mirror reflected your face in unfamiliar light—warm cheeks, slightly mussed hair, something about your expression that looked both too young and too aware. You adjusted a few strands near your temples, tucked one behind your ear.

From down the hall, you could hear the muffled clink of ceramic, the rush of tap water. The sound of him, still moving through your space like he belonged there, or at least wasn’t trying to rush his way out of it. It startled you how much you liked that.

Back in your room, you slipped off your shoes and put on a pair of worn, fuzzy slippers and padded back toward the kitchen. But he wasn’t there anymore, and the mugs were rinsed and left to dry by the sink, stacked neatly like someone had been careful with them.

You found him on the couch, sitting, hunched slightly over his phone. His brow was furrowed in concentration, thumbs moving across the screen. The glow from the phone lit up his face in soft strokes, catching on the edge of his stubble.

You sat down beside him, not saying anything. Your hip brushed his, barely, just enough to register it. You leaned back against the cushions, your head turned slightly toward him.

Your gaze drifted to the curve of his spine, to the way his shoulders rose and fell with his breath, then to the soft skin of his neck where it met his hairline. That little patch of curls there, the way they clung faintly to his skin—something you had no right to want to touch, but your hand warmed with the urge anyway. To reach out, gently, not to make a point or start anything, but just to feel what was already so close.

You didn’t, obviously. Why would you?

You straightened your spine, subtly shifting the weight of your body as you reached for the remote. The screen lit up with a blue glow that bled softly into the room. Frankie was still absorbed in whatever conversation he was having on his phone while the television filled the quiet with the abrupt noise of whatever channel it had last been on—a sitcom rerun, maybe, or the end of some home renovation show. You weren’t really paying attention.

You heard the gentle click of his phone locking before he set it down on the coffee table. The sound felt small but final. He leaned back into the couch cushion, his shoulder falling so near yours that the space between you felt thinner, like it could be crossed by a thought.

“What are you going to put on?”

“I dunno,” you murmured, your thumb hovering above the remote’s arrow key. “What do you feel like watching?”

“Ah, I'm not sure. Show me one of your movies.”

You glanced at him, frowning just a little, not out of annoyance but curiosity. “One of mine?”

He nodded, barely—a simple lift of his shoulders. “Yeah. Pick anything.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, your gaze flicked across the rows of streaming apps, trying to calculate what felt the least embarrassing and the most you at the same time. Not an easy combination.

“Okay,” you said, drawing out the word as you clicked into one of the apps. “Pick a decade. Seventies, eighties, nineties, two-thousands. Or we could go by era—there are some excellent literary adaptations if you’re into that.”

You caught his smile in your peripheral vision—quick, not mocking.

“Jesus, I don’t know. Just show me your favorite one.”

“Well, that’s a hard one. I’ve got, like, categories of favorites. But I’ll go with the first one that popped into my head.”

Your fingers danced across the remote as you typed the title into the search bar. A few seconds later, the soft piano of Notting Hill began to play, the opening credits painting the screen with flashes of glossy magazine covers and Julia Robert's bright eyes.

Frankie said nothing, but he shifted slightly closer, knees brushing for a second before settling apart again. You glanced sideways at him, wondering if he’d like it, if he was already regretting giving up control of the remote. But he looked comfortable. Or maybe just quiet. His eyes were on the screen. You let yourself watch the beginning with him, letting the room fall into the rhythm of a shared silence. 

“It’s so obvious she likes him,” Frankie said after a while, just as Anna Scott agreed to go home and change out of the clothes William had accidentally ruined with orange juice.

“Careful, Sherlock.”

Somewhere along the way—somewhere between Hugh Grant’s nervous rambling and Julia Roberts’s tight-lipped smiles—you had leaned closer to him. You weren’t sure who had moved first. Your arm was pressed flush against his now, and the side of your head hovered near his shoulder, close enough to catch the faint scent of his soap, something clean and warm.

Onscreen, Anna kissed William out of nowhere. Frankie tilted his head slightly, not enough to turn toward you but enough to signal something—confirmation, perhaps, of what he’d just said.

“Told you,” he mumbled.

The movie continued. Will is invited to the Ritz under false pretenses, mistaken for someone else, pulled along into the strange orbit of press events and polished smiles. You watched him stumble through it all, never quite fitting, never quite backing out either. She goes to his sister's birthday, everyone loves her, everything's good. Blah, blah, blah. Later, they kiss again.

After that, when Will stepped into her hotel room and saw the man—her boyfriend, tall and self-assured and inconvenient, a prick—Frankie made a sound like someone had nudged him in the ribs.

“Oh, man,” he muttered, as if it had happened to him.

You laughed under your breath. You turned your head to look at him for a second, but he didn’t notice. He was too busy frowning at the screen.

The film moved on. Will’s friends—well-meaning, exasperated—tried to set him up with someone else, anyone else. But he's heartbroken and he walks home as if he'd forgotten how to want something new.

“I’ve been there,” Frankie said, a slight edge of humor softening the weight of his words. He didn’t look away from the screen.

“Oh, you have to tell me. How bad were the dates? Scale of one to tragic.”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “There was only one. It wasn’t terrible. But it wasn’t anything either. She was... a case.”

“Oh,” you said, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. But he didn’t answer. His attention returned to the film, or at least that’s where he placed it. 

Onscreen, Anna appeared at Will’s door. Unannounced, the kind of entrance that only works in movies. She was forced into hiding, scandalized in headlines, hunted by photographers with telescopic lenses and no boundaries. Her voice was soft as she apologized—about the boyfriend, about the confusion, about choosing to disappear.

She stayed. Of course she did. And that night, they made love. Obviously. They moved toward each other like it was inevitable.

The next morning, Anna said, lightly, “What is it about men and nudity? Particularly breasts? How can you be so interested in them?”

Will hesitated, unsure how to answer. “Well…”

But you didn’t hear the rest of his response.

Because the image on screen, the quiet intimacy of the bed, the question itself—all of it cracked open something in your memory. We're not talking about this. Frankie’s mouth against your collarbone. The way he’d lowered the strap of your dress with such focused tenderness. His lips against your skin, reverent and hungry at once. His hand curving beneath your rib cage, as if he could read something there.

And beside you, you felt it—his body shift slightly, shoulders pulling in, his breath catching just faintly at the top of his chest. The change was small, but unmistakable. Like heat rising under a closed door.

You knew he was remembering, too. Or at least, it felt that way. That same scene, or the feeling of it. The weight of something you both hadn’t said. Not really.

Your fingers twitched in your lap. You adjusted your position, but the movement didn’t help. It only stirred the feeling that had been creeping steadily higher inside your chest.

“Francisco,” you said suddenly, the name leaping from your mouth before your brain could stop it. It felt like a damn confession just to say it.

He turned toward you, face unreadable, like he already knew what was coming. And your eyes searched his profile—his cheekbone, the gentle furrow in his brow, the way his mouth pressed into a faint line like he was bracing for something.

You reached for the remote and pressed pause. The room fell into quiet again, not peaceful. It sat between you like a held breath. Your pulse thudded hard in your ears. The air felt stretched, suspended.

“Why didn’t you say anything about last night?” you asked.

A few seconds passed. He didn’t respond. He didn’t even flinch, as far as you could tell—his body still, his eyes locked somewhere on you like he hadn’t even registered you’d spoken.

You sighed and dropped your gaze to his feet, which were crossed neatly at the ankle.

“I’m not trying to ruin the moment,” you said. “I just—please. Say something.”

His eyes moved then. Across your face. His eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly.

“I wasn’t…” he started, then stopped. He looked at the coffee table, then back at you. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk about it.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I mean, when we woke up, you didn’t bring it up either. I thought maybe… maybe you’d forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

You didn’t respond right away. Something inside you had stiffened, like a thread pulling tight. Frankie shifted his weight slightly, leaned back into the couch again and reached for the back of his neck—something you’d already learned he did when he was nervous, or unsure, or both.

“I didn’t forget. In case you were wondering.” You ran a hand down your thigh, grounding yourself. “In fact, I spent the entire day wondering when you would say something.”

He shook his head, his gaze lowering.

“I didn’t want to risk it,” he admitted. “If I brought it up, maybe you’d regret it. Or feel uncomfortable. And today was—today was nice. I didn’t want to ruin that.”

You nodded, even though the words didn’t settle easily inside you. Your eyes dropped to where your fingers were brushing together on your lap.

“Well, I’d like to talk about it now. If you’re willing.”

He looked at you. And in that look, there was hesitation—not out of malice, not even out of guilt, but out of the discomfort of being emotionally cornered.

“Okay,” he said, his voice low. “I’m… I’m sorry. I should’ve gone home last night.”

You stared at him, stunned for a second. Your eyebrows lifted slightly. That was the conclusion he had come to?

He must have registered your expression, because his lips parted, like he was about to try again. But you didn’t give him the chance.

“I don’t want to talk about what we should’ve done,” you said, and your voice sounded firmer than you expected. “I want to talk about what we actually did. I don’t want to pretend it was just some mistake, or that we were two idiots acting on impulse. It wasn’t like that. You know that.”

“I know what you mean but—”

“You said you wouldn’t regret it in the morning.”

He closed his eyes for a beat, and when he opened them, he stared down at the floor like it could give him an answer he didn’t have. His hand moved through his hair. He exhaled sharply, frustration passing over his face.

“I know what I said, and I know what I did. I’m just… I’m not sure it was the right thing.”

You turned your face away, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to feel the sting.

This was the version of him you hated most. Closed off, unreadable. The version that retreated just when you needed him to be honest. To open up, even a little. You knew there was more. You could feel it humming under his skin like static. So why wasn’t he saying it?

Frustration curled up inside you, hot and messy and full of disappointment.

“Please stop trying to frame this around what’s right or wrong,” you said, your voice steady in a way that surprised you. “Just be honest with me. You said it yourself, we’ve already crossed whatever intimacy boundaries we thought we had. We’re way past that. Something happened last night and I can’t sit here and let you fold the entire conversation back on me again, Frankie. I can’t do it.”

He didn’t interrupt, but his jaw moved, like he was grinding something down behind his teeth.

“Because things don’t just happen,” you went on. “They don’t fall out of the sky without meaning. They happen because someone chooses them. Because something leads to them. And maybe it’s messy or confusing or difficult to name, but there’s always intention. Even if you’re trying to ignore it.”

He was staring at you now, unmoving.

“I don’t want to pretend it could’ve been anyone else in that room,” you said, your voice softer now, but just as sure. “It wasn’t arbitrary. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t just a moment. It was us. You and me.”

Frankie shifted. Shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is, actually.”

He let out a breath and laughed once, bitterly. “Yeah, well. Maybe that’s what makes it so fucking hard.”

You watched the way his hands dragged over his face, the way he tipped his head back like the ceiling might offer relief. He stayed like that for a second, breathing through it, before letting his arms fall back to his sides. His eyes were fixed somewhere above, refusing to meet yours.

“It’s hard,” he said again, more quietly now. “Isn’t that what you’re feeling too?”

“Because I’m Santi’s sister,” you said. Not a question. A fact.

Frankie dropped his gaze, finally looking at you. “Partly.”

“Partly,” you echoed, hollow. “And the rest?”

He hesitated. A long breath left his chest. He stared at the floor like it might organize his thoughts for him.

“The rest is... A lot of things. Things that have nothing to do with you. Just me.”

There it was again—that instinct of his to fold inward, to keep the most important part just out of reach. The door always half-closed.

You wanted to shout. You wanted to shake him or grab his shoulders and pull the words out of his throat. You wanted a pharmaceutical solution to his emotional repression. Something you could slip into his coffee that would force him to talk.

Instead, you sat there. Waiting.

You inhaled deeply, pressing your palm to your cheek in a vague, grounding gesture. Your fingers dragged across your skin like they were trying to wipe away whatever expression you were wearing. Then you looked at him again.

You weren’t going to be able to hold it in. It was there in your chest, heavy and urgent, like a question clawing its way up your throat.

“Do you like me?”

He blinked, visibly startled, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly.

“What?”

“Just that. If you like me.” You felt your pulse in your ears. “If you think I’m attractive. If you’re attracted to me. I’m not asking for poetry, Frankie, I’m not even talking about anything complicated, sentimental—just… physically. Simple.”

His eyes moved, quick and uncertain, across your face, like he was trying to locate the safest place to land.

“I... I mean…” he faltered, then let out a breath. “Isn’t it obvious at this point?”

“Don’t do that.” 

He frowned. “Do what?”

“Be vague. Just answer me. Yes or no.”

There was a pause, a beat suspended in the space between you. Then—

“Yeah.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes,” he repeated, and this time his voice sounded a little harsher, like you were tugging something out of him he hadn’t intended to give. “Yeah, I’m attracted—you're atractive. I think you’re beautiful. I don’t know—what do you want me to say?”

You felt a flicker of satisfaction, something warm curling in your stomach, but it was quickly flattened by the weight of everything else. The tension hadn’t broken. Not really.

“Just that.”

He gave a tired nod.

“Okay. Just that.” His gaze settled on you—open now, unflinching. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Yes, it does,” you said, leaning slightly toward him, your arms crossing in front of your chest like a shield. “Because all day I’ve been wondering if this—us, whatever happened—if it was just guilt. If you almost slept with me because you felt sorry for me. Or because you were bored. Or because I happened to be there in a dress that made it easier for you to forget that I’m Santi’s sister. I’ve been sitting with that version of the story in my head and convincing myself not to ask. But I couldn’t do it anymore.”

Frankie’s eyes closed, his face tightening like your words had physically hit him.

“You’ve got it wrong.”

“No,” you said, the frustration slipping into your tone, “I actually haven’t misunderstood anything. That’s why I’m asking you now, to give—”

“We shouldn’t be sleeping together,” he cut in suddenly, like the sentence had been waiting in his mouth all along. “You and I. We shouldn’t. You don’t want that. It’s not what’s good for you. We got carried away, all the teasing and the wine and the lines getting blurry—”

“You have no idea what I want,” your arms tightening around your body. “Or what’s good for me.”

“Not me,” he said.

It landed like a closing door.

You exhaled so deeply it almost sounded theatrical, but it wasn’t. It was exhaustion. You dragged your hands over your face like you were trying to erase yourself entirely.

“God, you’re so incredibly stubborn.”

“Then say everything, tell me what you want to say.”

You dropped your hands from your face, fingers brushing your lap.

“What’s the point? You’re not going to believe me anyway. You’ll twist it around somehow, like you always do—turn it into something I didn’t mean or shouldn’t feel or should apologize for. That’s your whole thing, Frankie.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” you cut him off, your voice sharper now. “It is. If I told you right now that I wanted to do it last night—genuinely wanted to—you’d probably tell me I was drunk or confused or emotionally unstable. Or maybe you’d suggest I was possessed by a demon. Something else was making my decisions for me.”

He stayed exactly where he was, elbows digging into his knees, hands clasped tight like he was trying not to react.

“Try me.”

“Okay,” you said. Your hands folded in your lap. “Something happened last night. And for me, it wasn’t a mistake. I didn’t wake up regretting it. If I had, you’d know. Believe me, you’d know.”

He didn’t move, but something shifted in his expression—barely noticeable, but there.

“I wanted to do it,” you continued, searching his face for some hint that he was listening, really listening. “And you act like you can just erase it. Like it’s possible to touch someone the way you touched me and then pretend it was nothing. That there was no intention behind it, no reason.”

He still hadn’t said anything, but he was watching you. Closely. Too closely.

You swallowed. “I’m a person,” you said, like you needed him to understand it in the most basic, physical sense. “In case you hadn’t noticed.” 

“That much I’ve noticed.”

You furrowed your brow, jaw tightening. “I’m a person. You’re a person. And you can play pretend for so long before the lines blur. Before one kiss starts to feel like something else entirely.”

He nodded once. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Fuck you,” you muttered—not in the playful, flirtatious way he might’ve expected. Your voice was flatter than that. Sharper.

Then you looked away from him, your gaze landing on the frozen frame of the paused television, like maybe the fictional people on screen could offer some kind of clarity you weren’t finding in the room.

You didn’t speak. Not immediately. The silence sat heavy in your throat, thick and stifling like humidity. You could feel Frankie watching you, not just glancing your way but really looking. Like his gaze had weight. Like it was pulling you downward, as if you were stuck beneath the surface of something vast and crushing and liquid. Something you hadn’t meant to step into. Something you didn’t know how to get out of.

“I know what you mean,” he said eventually. “And I get that, I get what you’re saying. But I don’t think that’s how it happened. Not for me.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, to let him see the sharpness there.

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean… I don’t think it started because we were playing house. Or because of a wedding, or a dress, or wine, or a bed that happened to be close enough.”

You stared at him, waiting. Daring him to continue.

He sighed. “What I’m saying is—this didn’t start because we were pretending. It didn’t start with the flirting or the teasing or some night where we got too close on the couch. That’s not what this is.”

Your heart beat louder in your ears.

"You say all these things but somehow it still feels like you're not saying anything at all. Like you’re stacking words together just enough to form a sentence, but it never—I don't—I mean, I get it. I do. But—God—”

You stood up too quickly, like your body had decided to abandon the conversation before your mind had caught up. A rush of heat crawled up your chest as you moved away, needing space, air, anything that wasn’t him sitting there looking at you like that. You headed to the kitchen, pressing your palm to your forehead, half to ground yourself, half to stop the thoughts from multiplying.

There was a glass on the counter—a red one, translucent. You filled it with water as the sound of his sigh drifted into the room, followed by the quiet pattern of his footsteps. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was getting closer. Still, when you did, the proximity startled you. He was right there, standing like he'd been pulled in by gravity. One hand rested on his hip. The other hovered, then dropped.

"I'm not—" He paused. Swallowed. "I can't do this the way you want me to. Alright? I know that. Talking about this, about us, whatever it is you want me to say, it’s not easy for me. But I’m trying. I’m trying to answer your questions.”

“So—”

“Just—don’t walk away from me like that.”

“What?”

“Don’t leave me sitting in there by myself like, like you can't stand my incompetence.”

“Now, that’s never come out of my mouth, not even close. I don’t think you’re incompetent. What are you even talking about?”

He didn’t answer right away. His mouth closed, his jaw shifted, and he exhaled a breath through his nose, long and heavy like it had been building for hours. He rubbed his face with the palm of his hand, dragging it across his eyes, his hair already a mess from the way he kept pushing it back. It made him look younger, somehow, but also more exhausted.

“I’m just—” he said, finally. His hand dropped. His eyes met yours. “I’m not good at this. You are. You’re quick, you're smart. You're good with words. You always know what to say, how to say it. I’ve got all these things in my head, but when I try to speak them out loud, they don’t come out right. They never sound the way they do in here.” He tapped lightly at his temple.

You leaned against the counter, arms folded.

“I don’t know what to say most of the time either.”

He gave you a look—tilted his head slightly, a half-smile playing on his lips that didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

You sighed. “I don’t think you’re incompetent. That word doesn’t even belong in the same room as you. You just…” You looked away for a moment. “You make me feel desperate sometimes. And that’s not news. We both know that.”

“No, it’s not,” he said, then crossed his arms, standing there like a reflection of you.

You didn’t move. Neither did he. For a moment, the two of you stood in complete silence, the room so still it felt staged. The hum of the refrigerator filled the space between you, the only sign the world was still ticking on. Frankie was staring at you like he was trying to understand something and the way his eyes caught the faint orange light pouring through the window made your stomach shift.

Then he exhaled, the breath long and quiet, and let his arms drop to his sides. One hand came to rest flat on the counter beside him, and he leaned into it just slightly, the angle of his shoulders more resigned than confrontational.

“Look,” he started, his voice a little rough around the edges. “There are plenty of reasons why last night shouldn’t have happened. Real reasons. Logical ones. I know that’s not the kind of thing you put a lot of weight on.”

“Maybe not. But they’re usually your favorite.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes dropping to the floor. He stayed like that for a few seconds, staring at some invisible point near his feet. Then he breathed out again and lifted his gaze. “Okay. I’m gonna try to say this right. Just… let me talk. Then ask me whatever you want, tear me apart if you need to, I don’t care.”

The softness in his tone took you slightly off guard, but you nodded.

“Alright.”

His eyes moved slowly across your face and then they stopped on your eyes—as if that was the safest place to land.

“Okay. Logical reasons. You’re Santi’s sister. That changes everything. Maybe not for you, maybe it feels separate, but for me… he’s not just some guy. He’s my best friend. Closer than that, even. He’s like family. He’s always been that.”

You didn’t say anything, just watched him. His hand was still on the counter.

“And he cares about you. I know he doesn’t show it in some loud, overprotective way, but it’s there. I see it. And I get it, because I have sisters too. I know what that kind of care feels like. I know what it means to watch someone from a distance and hope no one fucks them up worse than the world already will.” He laughed once, under his breath. “You and I—we’ve had years of bad timing and bad chemistry and bad communication. Years of giving each other a hard time. You think that didn’t wear on him? You think he didn’t tell me to back off more times than I can count?”

“He told me the same,” you said, quietly. “He loves you too, a lot, you know.”

Frankie nodded, the corners of his mouth tugging up slightly in acknowledgment, like it hurt to agree.

“Then maybe you get what I’m saying. I’ve already let him down enough by making things complicated between us. Pushing this further—it feels like crossing a line we never actually talked about but both knew was there.”

He took a step forward, just one, but it made the distance between you feel different. Smaller. More dangerous.

“And the thing with us, you and I,” he continued, “is that nothing ever seems to come easy. It never has.”

You glanced down, suddenly very aware of the floor under your feet, the tension in your arms, your chest. The way it all felt suspended.

“I guess,” he said, voice softer now, “I guess there’s this kind of unspoken rule in our group, you know? Some built-in boundary. You’re his sister. His only sister. I think, at some point, Santi gave some kind of warning to all of us.”

You raised your head slowly, frowning.

“Seriously? Like I’m a teenager he’s trying to keep out of trouble? That’s ridiculous.”

Frankie smiled faintly. “Not like that. He’s not… he’s not possessive. He’s not trying to control your life. I think he just didn’t want things to get messy in a way we couldn’t clean up.”

“Well, it’s not his decision to make. But you’re right. It makes sense.”

“Yeah. It does. It’s a code. One we’ve all followed. And I crossed it.”

You let out a breath, more from habit than necessity, and glanced away—not dramatically, just enough to collect yourself. There was too much in the air, too many things being left unsaid or half-said, which sometimes felt worse. When you looked back, Frankie was scratching at the edge of his jaw, then resting his hand on his hip like he didn’t quite know where to put it.

“Logically speaking,” he said, “that’s one reason. But then what? What comes after that? We’d have to keep seeing each other. It’s not like we’re strangers passing through. So what then? Do we go back to pretending we don’t see each other? Faking that weird politeness again?”

You didn’t answer right away. Mostly because you weren’t sure what the answer was. You wouldn’t ignore him, that much you knew. You couldn’t. But the fact that he’d even asked—had brought it up like a real possibility—meant maybe he would. Maybe he was already preparing for it. And the idea made something cold and familiar stir in your chest, something that reminded you too much of the way he used to look past you like you were just another part of the scenery.

He tilted his head slightly. His voice had gone gentler, like he didn’t want to hurt you but didn’t know how else to say what he was saying.

“You know it took us forever to start getting along. That night—we fought, and then you told me you wanted to hit reset. Just be civil. Start over.”

You’d meant it when you said it.

“And we did,” he continued. “We’ve done that. And then this thing that happened... almost happened last night, it would’ve rewritten everything.” He turned his gaze to the far corner of the kitchen, like he couldn’t quite hold your eyes while he said it. “It wouldn’t have been a good decision.”

There was a pause—short—where neither of you moved or breathed too loud.

“I get what you’re saying,” you said eventually. “I do. But what I don’t understand is why, if something did happen between us, the only outcome you can imagine is pulling away. Like... walking away is some automatic consequence.”

You watched his face as you spoke. He didn’t look away this time.

“I don’t see what’s so wrong with liking someone, with being attracted to them, and choosing not to ignore it. Choosing to... respond to it. That’s not some scandalous thing. We’re adults, Frankie. You’d think we’d have other tools by now—better ways of handling complicated feelings than just pretending they don’t exist.”

He nodded. Not quickly. Like he was still figuring out what to say even as he agreed.

“I know. I get it,” he said. “And yeah, that would apply in any other situation. But this... you’re not just anyone.” He took a step toward you. “I’ve done the casual thing. Hookups, whatever. Friends with benefits. I know how to do that. I know how to let that go. But with you... I'm sorry but It wouldn’t be casual. It couldn’t be. That’s the whole point.”

Your stupid little heart jumped, reckless and uninvited. And you hated how easily it did that—how quickly it read into things, how quickly it believed. Even though you knew better. 

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at you with this unreadable expression—some mix of regret and restraint, like he was already backing away from what he’d started to say.

“I mean it’s complicated,” he said. “Nothing we’ve done so far has been easy, has it? I mean—we’re pretending to be in a relationship. A whole fake story. What even is that?” His hand moved as he spoke, gesturing vaguely to the side like the road between Dallas and Austin might reappear there, the moment where it all began. “It started with you seeing your ex on some highway, like a joke from the universe. And me... I wasn’t exactly thriving either.”

You did know that. But you said nothing.

“I was broken. You were, too. And we both had our reasons. And on top of that—” he looked directly at you now, and there it was again, the line he always returned to. “You’re Santi’s sister.”

Of course. There it was. You wanted to roll your eyes, but you didn’t. 

“I haven’t been okay,” he said, quieter now. “Not in a general bad day kind of way. Not just tired or burned out. I mean... really not okay. For a long time. There were days where I didn’t think I’d come back from it. I didn’t want to. Silence made me itch, I couldn’t sit in it—I needed noise, distraction, anything to drown out the way things felt. I made choices that didn’t help. Those years…” He trailed off, pressing his thumb along his jaw in a familiar, grounding motion. He didn’t meet your eyes now. “They were dark.”

You didn’t speak. So you waited.

Then he looked at you again, something tentative in his expression.

“You said you wanted me to tell you about the thing with the dates. The setups. My mom, my sisters.”

“I did.”

He nodded, as if gathering the nerve to keep going. “Well, they’ve been pushing it for a while. Because they think I’m ready again. Or maybe because they think I should be ready. But the truth is, my last relationship—” He stopped for a moment, swallowing whatever emotion had climbed into his throat. “It wasn’t good. Not for a long time. There were good days, yeah. But the bad ones were louder. And it ended ugly. She left me. And not long after, I found out she’d been seeing someone else. A guy she worked with.”

You stood there, completely still. You already knew that, at least part of it. But hearing it like this, directly from him, stripped of all defense... it landed differently.

There was something about the way he said it—the way the memory lived in his voice, raw but not self-pitying—that made your chest tighten. Like you were seeing him more clearly than he wanted to be seen.

And still, you couldn’t look away.

“It broke my fucking heart,” he said, his voice scraping a little. “And I think—God—I think it wouldn’t have hurt so much if my dad hadn’t died at the same time.”

You lowered your gaze. The floor suddenly seemed like the safest thing to look at. You could feel the shape of his grief pressing into the space, something dense and old and still sharp around the edges. When you finally looked up again, he hadn’t moved.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t know what words would help, if any.

“That was it,” he continued, almost as if your silence gave him permission. “The absolute worst moment of my life. Everything collapsed at once. I stopped talking to people. Just… cut myself off. From my friends, my mom, my sisters. I didn’t want to be part of anything anymore. I didn’t want to explain myself. I couldn’t even explain it to me.”

He paused, eyes distant now. “I’d already been carrying this weight… for years, really. Since Nico died.” He glanced at you, as if expecting that name to mean something. “He was one of my closest friends in the CAG. And he died out of nowhere. And I—I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t process it, I just shoved it down somewhere, kept moving, like we’re trained to do. And then when everything else hit—my dad, the breakup—I didn’t have anywhere else to put it. It just came up. All of it.”

You didn’t move. Your chest had started to ache quietly.

“I couldn’t see anything ahead,” he said. “No light, no reason. Nothing to hold onto. I’d wake up and every breath felt like I was sinking deeper. Like breathing was actually taking something away from me.”

His face stayed composed, calm even—but his eyes betrayed him. They were filled with something you could only describe as haunted. A kind of pain that wasn’t fresh, but hadn’t healed, either. Something that lived with him still.

You felt your throat begin to tighten, and a sting rose in your eyes. You blinked fast, willing it away, but it didn’t quite leave. It clung there, just beneath the surface.

And then, after a silence so fragile it felt like it could break with a breath, he said, “I overdosed.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His eyes dropped to the floor, like he couldn’t bear to see your reaction.

There was something unbearable in that, too. In the shame he carried around what had happened to him. You wanted to cross the space between you, to place your hands on his face, to tell him he didn’t need to be ashamed—that you understood more than he thought. That what he’d survived didn’t make him weak, it made him something else entirely. But you didn’t move. You stayed still. In your space. And he in his.

He looked at you again.

“Opioids,” he said simply. “I got them with a fake prescription. It wasn’t like I was using regularly or anything, it wasn’t some habit I’d built. I just—” he paused, dragging a hand over his face, as if the act of remembering cost him something physical. “One day I called a guy I knew, someone with connections. A few hours later I was home with a bottle of oxycodone in my hand.”

He exhaled through his nose. His voice was almost absentminded, like he was walking through a version of events he’d kept sealed away for years.

“I don’t remember how many I took. I didn’t count. I just wanted to stop thinking. Stop feeling like I was sinking in my own skin. It was enough. Enough that I didn’t think I’d wake up.” His jaw tightened. “Mai found me.” He said her name like a prayer and a curse in one. There was a quiet, palpable ache in the syllables.

“She came over because I hadn’t answered her calls for days. She was pissed off, thought I was being a dick. She got there and I didn’t answer the door, obviously. She looked through my bedroom window and—” he winced. “She broke the glass. Climbed in. She thought I was dead.”

He stopped speaking for a moment, pressing his lips together. His voice, when it returned, was rough around the edges.

“I will never, ever forgive myself for doing that to her. To my family.” His voice cracked—barely, but enough. “Mai had a happy life. Good friends. Good memories. No big traumas. And now she has that. That image of me unconscious on the floor, almost dying.”

You felt a kind of quiet horror fill your chest—not at him, not at his story, but at the pain he carried and the way he clearly believed he deserved to carry it forever.

“She saved your life,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Frankie shook his head. “It wasn’t her job to keep me alive. It wasn’t anyone’s job but mine. I let everyone down. My mom… I shattered her. And the guys—I didn’t even have the guts to talk to them about it. I told them it was an accident. That I just wanted to try it. Begged them not to ask questions.”

There was a long pause. You felt your pulse in your throat.

“Was it?” you asked. You didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.

He looked at you then, really looked, and there was so much in his eyes you almost flinched. 

“No.”

Your breath caught mid-inhale, like your body had finally registered the depth of everything he’d just said. The burn behind your eyes came fast, and this time you didn’t fight it. You didn’t blink the tears away or pretend you weren’t unraveling.

Instead, you stepped away from the counter, the distance between you collapsing with your movement. Your arms looped around his neck in a single motion, and you pulled him in so fiercely it almost knocked the air out of you. The embrace felt messy, urgent, like no amount of holding him could be enough.

You wanted to fold yourself around him completely. To shield him. To divert the pain from his chest to yours and tell him he doesn't have to carry it all alone. You wanted to press your palms to his face and erase the years that hurt him.

Frankie didn’t hesitate. His arms came around your waist like they’d been waiting to do so for years. His face pressed into the hollow of your neck, the scratch of his stubble brushing your skin like an apology. He held you like he didn’t want there to be a single inch between you.

Your heartbeat knocked against his chest, two separate rhythms trying to find a shared beat. You could feel him breathing—deep, shaky breaths like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to be here, in your arms, still alive, still wanted. Your tears soaked quietly into his shirt, and neither of you said a word.

But it was all there. In the way he clung to you. In the way he exhaled against your collarbone like it was the first time he’d been allowed to rest.

There was so much guilt in him. It lived in the corners of his eyes, in the way he held himself even now. But you could feel—just barely—that some of it had loosened. Not gone, not yet. But softened, maybe.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, the words barely brushing his skin as you pressed your face into the curve of his neck. His arms tightened around you in response with a kind of quiet insistence.

He didn’t answer. He just held you there, his breath uneven, shallow. There were sounds—faint, fractured—coming from deep in his chest that might’ve been tears. But you didn’t ask. You didn’t shift or pull back to look.

Instead, your hand moved up to his hair, your fingers finding the soft curls at the nape of his neck. You stroked them gently, the way you might soothe a frightened child, or yourself.

And somewhere in the quiet your own sorrow began to stir. It rose in your chest like something old and stubborn. As if his grief had called to yours, and yours had answered. You let a little of it out, not all at once, just enough.

There was comfort in the way his arms wrapped around you, like he’d done this before, held you like this in some parallel world. You weren’t sure how much time passed—it could’ve been seconds, it could’ve been an hour—until you felt something soft brush against your calf. Frankie shifted slightly, loosening his hold just enough to glance downward. Mr. Darcy was weaving between your legs, then his, his tail curling with entitlement.

When you looked back at him, you finally saw his face. His eyes were rimmed red and glassy, and the curve of his cheek was streaked with tears. There was something so bare in the way he looked then, like all the shields he usually kept up had been set aside, if only for a moment. You didn’t look away.

He gave a small, almost disbelieving smile at the cat before his gaze flicked up to meet yours. You lifted your hand and brushed the tears from his cheek with your thumb.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said.

He shook his head slowly. “It was.”

“No. You did everything you could, until you couldn’t anymore. You were hurting, Frankie. You were in pain.”

“But I could’ve done it differently. I should’ve asked for help.” His voice caught. “But I didn’t.” A heavy breath escaped him. “I made everything worse. My family… my mom was already breaking after my dad died. And I—” His lips trembled. He stopped. Collected himself like it was a habit. Like falling apart had a time limit.

“And what about you?” you asked, your thumb brushing over his skin again. “What about your grief? Your heartbreak? You lost a friend. You lost your dad. You lost yourself for a while. None of that is easy.”

“I know.” His voice was almost inaudible now. His eyes dropped, as if ashamed of his own softness.

"You deserve to be cared for too."

After a moment, his eyes lifted to meet yours.

“I’m sure Mai was scared,” you went on, “and I’m sure what she saw stayed with her. But I think—no, I really believe—that saving your life meant more to her than anything else could have.”

He didn’t react right away. His features were still, composed.

“I’m her older brother,” he said finally, voice taut. “It was supposed to be me taking care of her. Not the other way around.”

You exhaled, something like a laugh escaping with it.

“Well, as a younger sister, I have to disagree,” you said. “Santi and I—it's not one-way. We look out for each other. Always. I’d do anything for him, and I know he’d do anything for me. And I know your sisters, your mom—they love you. They’d do anything for you too. It doesn’t have to be you carrying it all.”

He didn’t respond. Just looked at you. His eyes caught the light and held it, and for a second, you saw yourself reflected there.

You hesitated, just for a beat. Then: “It’s okay to need help, you know. It’s okay to fall apart sometimes. I do it all the time. And lately, you’re here. You show up. You help. Every time. So why shouldn’t you deserve the same?”

Your hand moved from his face to his chest—without really thinking, without any reason other than instinct. Your palm settled just above his heart, where you could feel the faint, steady rhythm beneath your skin.

His expression changed. Just slightly, but it did.

You wanted to ask him what he was thinking. You wanted to understand whatever quiet storm was passing behind his gaze.

And—God—you wanted to kiss him. The thought arrived like a spark and immediately, instinctively, you pushed it away. But it lingered. It always lingered.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Yeah, I know."

And you eased back just enough to let him breathe, to offer him that space he seemed to need. But the second you did, the warmth between you began to cool.

You looked at him for a moment longer before speaking, your tone shifting slightly, lighter, in an attempt to steer the conversation somewhere safer.

“So that’s what the arranged dates were about,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Let me guess—the candidates were carefully selected and wildly unsuitable.”

He glanced up, the faintest curve tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Oh, yeah. It was a whole operation. Imagine this—my mom, using me as bait. Honestly, I have to admire her optimism.”

You smiled. “Okay, but how bad was it, really? The date you went on—what happened?”

He shifted his weight, leaning back against the counter with a casualness that didn’t quite disguise the fact that he was relieved by the change of subject.

“She was cute. Smart. It started off alright—twenty minutes of solid small talk before she pivoted, without warning, into a monologue about her ex.”

You tilted your head. “Wait, did you go on a date with past me? Sounds familiar.”

He laughed then, a real one. “No, no. This was… a different level. Her ex was married. Had been the whole time they were together.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Right?” he said, eyes wide in mock horror. “Apparently he told her he was going to leave his wife. But he didn’t. And then he went and told her they were having another kid, and—” he paused, raising his eyebrows—“that he wouldn’t be leaving her. For now.”

“For now? That’s cruel.”

“I know. I didn’t even know how to react. Honestly, the whole thing made me want to take her out for a drink and also maybe stage an intervention.”

“So… why’d she go out with you?”

He gave you a look, that boyish half-smile. “I dunno. Why did I go out with her?”

You laughed, eyes narrowing. “So you didn’t see her again.”

That smile tugged deeper, and he looked down for a second.

“Did you?” you asked, already knowing the answer from the look on his face.

He lifted his eyes again, smirk firmly in place. “A couple of times.”

“Oh my god, you slept with her.”

He stood perfectly still, his mouth twitching like he was trying to suppress a grin. Guilty. Caught.

“Unbelievable,” you said, head tilted, trying not to smile but failing a little.

He straightened, putting on a mock-defensive tone.

“In my defense, she was honest. She told me she was still in love with him and didn’t want anything serious. I respected that. We both knew what it was.”

“How many times?”

“Um, I dunno. Three? Three, tops.”

You folded your arms across your chest. “Uh-huh. You don't even remember? You're such a slut.”

He looked at you, something playful and warm behind his eyes. “Don't be like that. It was before you.”

You rolled your eyes, mostly because you needed something to do with your face, and a laugh slipped out. Frankie was still smiling, then he reached out, his fingers curling gently around your arm, tugging you closer with no real force.

“I just—” he began, and then paused, like the words weren’t cooperating with the pace of his thoughts. “I need to say this, even if it comes out wrong.”

You stayed quiet, watching him. You could feel the shift in the air between you again.

“I have… a lot of things still sitting in my head. Some days it feels like I’ve made progress, and others it’s like I haven’t moved at all. But lately, for the first time in a long while, I’ve started feeling okay. Like I can breathe. Like I’m not dragging myself through every minute.” He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. Just tiredness. A kind of resignation. “I'm not sure if I can get involved with someone like this. And that doesn't mean that I don’t want it. Or that I don’t think about it, imagine it. Crave it. I do.” He glanced up at you, eyes briefly searching yours before dropping again. “But I just… can’t. I can't.”

You listened carefully, reading the edges of his words just as much as their core. His tone, the pauses, the way he looked down. And you understood.

You hadn’t before, not fully. You’d been asking something of him without knowing the shape of what he was carrying, and now that he’d offered it to you—just a piece of it—you saw it more clearly. You didn’t blame yourself for not knowing. But you still felt a quiet ache in your chest.

He glanced away, then back. “When I went out with this woman—it wasn’t anything. It was empty, if I’m being honest. I think I was looking for… I don’t know, some kind of release. A break from my own brain. Or maybe just proof that I could still feel something good, even briefly. But it didn’t work. It made everything worse, actually.”

He gave a humorless smile, but there was no cruelty in it. “The most depressing sex of my life. I don’t even think she noticed.”

You felt your mouth curve slightly, but you didn’t speak.

“Please don’t think I’m using it as an excuse,” he said, suddenly earnest.

“I don’t,” you said, and you meant it.

He nodded, exhaling through his nose. Then, almost absently, he added, “I don’t even know when things shifted between us. I didn’t see it coming. One day it just…” He looked sideways, like he wasn’t talking to you but rather trying to say something out loud just to make sense of it himself. “It’s different now. And I don’t know what that means.”

You looked away too, not because you wanted to, but because it felt safer that way. 

“I don’t know either,” you admitted, voice low. “I... I’m sorry.”

His brow furrowed immediately. “Why?”

You lifted your shoulders in a shrug, trying to swallow past the tightness in your throat. You hated how exposed you felt in that second.

“Because I think like you and I don't know what to do with that,” you said, barely above a whisper. 

There was a pause. Then, a single tear slipped quietly down your cheek, and still, you didn’t look away.

You weren’t sure whether saying it had been the right thing to do. Maybe it wasn’t about right or wrong at all—maybe it was just something that needed to be said, like naming a feeling makes it real. Like choosing not to say it would’ve been a kind of denial. Of yourself. Of the truth. Of what Emma had been gently insisting with the stubborn confidence of someone who has known you forever.

And Emma was always right. Annoyingly, unfailingly right.

Frankie didn’t move. It was like your words had frozen him in place, his posture still, his gaze locked on yours as if you’d accidentally pressed pause on him. But there was nothing cold about the way he looked at you. If anything, there was warmth. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I think I might be... inconvenient.”

You tried to smile, but it didn’t land. 

Still, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t blink.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” you went on. “And I don’t want to make this uncomfortable. I’ll keep some distance, if that’s what you need.”

But then Frankie shifted. A sudden, visible movement, like he was shaking something off.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, quickly. Too quickly, maybe. “I mean—unless you want to. But if it’s for my sake... Don’t. You don’t make me uncomfortable.”

He shook his head, once.

Your heart stuttered. “So what... What do we do about this, then?”

His sigh was quiet but heavy. He looked at the floor, then back at you.

“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” he said finally. “And I don’t think you do either.” He paused. “But what I said about starting fresh, I meant it. If that’s still something you want. If you’re okay with that... I don’t want you to pull away from me.”

You tilted your head. “No?”

“No.”

You inhaled, staring down at your shoes. You didn’t want to distance yourself either.

Because even beneath the mess of feelings, Frankie had become your friend. Somehow. Unexpectedly. And maybe that surprised everyone, including you, but it didn’t make it less true.

And you weren’t ready to lose that.

“Okay,” you said, looking back at him. Your lips curved into something softer. “But only because you promised me a night out and a New Year’s kiss.”

His expression shifted,eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“Oh, and When Harry Met Sally,” you added, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

“Never,” he said, shaking his head solemnly.

“Good.”

“Good,” he echoed. “Perfect.”

“But a couple of boundaries, buddy,” you said, raising a finger and tapping it gently beneath his chin, like you were drawing a line there with invisible ink. “You don’t get too flirty with me, and I won’t get too flirty with you.”

“Boundaries,” he tilted his head. “I actually know a thing or two about those.”

“Great,” you said. “Then prove it.”

Frankie pretended to consider this very seriously, his eyes glancing upward like he was trying to recall something important. Then he looked back at you.

“Okay. Starting tomorrow, no unnecessary flirting. Only if it’s vital. Absolutely essential. Then it’s permitted.”

You squinted at him. “Why tomorrow?”

“Because today’s saturday,” he said, with a shrug. “Doesn’t feel like a boundary-setting day. Too casual.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “And sunday is... what, sacred?”

“Sunday has structure,” he said, completely serious now, as if he genuinely believed it. “It’s a reset day.”

“Fine. Tomorrow it is.”

“Good,” he said, nodding once, like a contract had just been signed.

“Perfect.”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward.

You cleared your throat. “Okay, can we go back to the movie now? One of the best parts is coming up.”

You pointed toward the living room with a casual flick of your hand, already turning your body in that direction like nothing had just happened. Frankie nodded, a crooked smile lingering at the corner of his mouth.

You both stayed on the couch, watching the last stretch of the film, but you'd instinctively shifted just far enough apart to notice the distance. Not uncomfortable, just different from earlier.

The room had grown darker as the sun sank behind the buildings outside. The only light now came from the soft, flickering glow of the tv. You sat back, your legs tucked under you, arms crossed lightly over your stomach, trying to focus on the screen, though you couldn't say what scene you were watching. It all felt peripheral—dialogue, motion, soundtrack.

Still, the story carried on, as stories do. Anna stood in front of William. "I'm also just a girl standing in front of a boy..."—the line you’d heard a dozen times but still felt something for. And in the end, of course, they ended up together, as people do in movies.

The credits began to roll. Frankie stretched beside you, arms lifting above his head, fingers threading together as he arched his back just slightly. The movement made his t-shirt rise a little, revealing a line of skin at his waist before he relaxed again.

“What did you think?” you asked.

“I liked it,” he said after a beat. “Especially that scene with the seasons changing. When he's walking through the market.”

You lit up a little. “That’s one of my favorite parts. They actually filmed it all in one day. They built this camera rig on a track and timed the light and everything. It was specially designed just for that scene.”

He blinked, impressed. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “Wild, right?”

He squinted slightly, as if trying to picture it in his mind, then let his gaze drift back to the television, now dim with the last names fading off the screen.

“I think I should head home,” he said finally, quiet and careful with his tone. Then, with a glance at you, “Did you have a good time today? Even with... you know. Everything after.”

“I had an amazing time, really. Thank you so much. I mean that.”

He smiled back. “It’s nothing. If you ever want to do it again, just tell me.”

“I will,” you said. And you meant it.

Frankie was gathering his things—wallet, keys, phone—as you followed him to the door. It was quiet in the apartment. You walked a step behind him as he moved down the stairs, watching the shape of him in motion—his shoulders as they rolled forward with each step, the back of his neck where his hair curled slightly at the edge, the way he carried himself.

It struck you how strange it was, in a quiet sort of way, that everything between you felt so oddly comfortable now. Even after everything. Even after you’d said what you said—put it out there like a raw nerve. There was no tightness in your chest, no embarrassment, no urgency to undo it. Just this lightness. He had this calmness about him. You didn’t understand it, especially considering that only a few weeks ago, a single glance from him was enough to set you off, twist your stomach into a knot of irritation or something dangerously close to it.

You opened the door, stepping aside to let him out. He moved through the frame but didn’t walk away immediately. He lingered, standing just beyond the doorway, his body angled toward you but unmoving.

“Text me when you get home,” you said.

“I will,” he replied, though he didn’t move. He was oddly still, as if something in him was caught mid-thought.

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes slightly. He was watching you with this vaguely suspicious expression.

“What?” you asked, smiling without meaning to.

“It’s not even tomorrow yet.”

The words were quiet, almost incidental. And then, in the same breath, he stepped toward you. His hands found your face, fingers curling along your jaw with a kind of practiced gentleness, and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t hesitant or testing. It was firm. Certain. There was hunger in it, yes, but it was contained—like he was holding himself back just enough to keep it from tipping into recklessness.

You melted into it. Let him kiss you like that. Let his mouth part yours, let his tongue find yours, let him take whatever he came for. And then, just as suddenly as he’d kissed you, he pulled back—not far, just enough to press a brief kiss to the corner of your mouth, a gesture so tender it almost broke you in half.

You smiled, breathless. “You’re such a bastard.”

He grinned, apologetic. “I'm sorry. You’ve said worse things to me.”

You watched him as he walked off, his hand already fishing in his pocket for the car key, his back retreating into the night.

“See you after tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder.

And then he was gone.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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[carnalcrows]

CAGED DOG

pairing: aguni x bottom male reader

content warnings: 18+, stockholm syndrome, size difference, age gap, mild smut, aguni kills 2 people backstage.

word count: 1.8k

The Beach wasn’t dead—but it was close.

Since Hatter’s death, the poolside mirage of a utopia had collapsed into something leaner, hungrier. Games were harder. People were crueller. The air reeked of chlorine and dried blood, and the sound of laughter had been replaced by silence or screaming. Mostly screaming.

You stayed in the med bay.

Not because you were hurt, though that was often the case. But because it kept you out of sight and was useful. Bandages. Antibiotics. Stitching wounds without flinching. You weren’t the best, but you were gentle. And that made people talk.

Especially him.

Aguni.

The first time you’d really noticed him was after a brutal Hearts game. You’d helped carry a boy back to the Beach, blood soaking through the towel pressed to his gut. Aguni was waiting at the entrance, shirtless, blood spattered, jaw clenched like stone. His eyes had tracked you.

Not the boy.

You.

He’d come into the med bay the next day with a gash on his arm that he probably could’ve handled himself. You patched him up, hands careful, breath held. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t move. Just watched you the entire time, like he was memorising something.

It started after that.

He came in more often, even when he wasn’t hurt. Sometimes with excuses—bruised knuckles, a scratch that didn’t need disinfectant. Sometimes with nothing at all. He’d lean in the doorway, watching you work on other people. Watching how close they got.

One guy touched your shoulder while laughing.

That guy got reassigned to an outside mission the next day.

He never came back.

“Drink.”

You flinched as a bottle was shoved into your hand. The water sloshed against the rim. You looked up, heart skipping. Aguni towered over you in the hallway, his expression unreadable under the hallway shadows.

“I’m not dehydrated.”

“You were shaking.”

Your throat tightened. He was right. You’d just come back from a Diamonds game—nothing violent, but mentally exhausting. You hadn’t spoken since returning. You hadn’t even realised he’d noticed.

You drank.

His eyes softened just barely.

“Good.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that. Quiet, simple things. Leaving food where you’d find it. Standing behind you when the groups got rowdy. Making sure your name never showed up on the player rotations for Hearts or Spades games.

It should’ve made you feel safe.

It didn’t.

You tried to leave once.

You’d found an opening—someone had smuggled information about a rumoured safe zone on the other side of the city. You packed light. Kept quiet. Made it as far as the train station.

He was waiting on the platform.

His shirt was soaked through with rain. He looked like something out of a nightmare—quiet, empty-eyed, holding your duffel bag in one hand.

“I took this before you could get too far.”

You swallowed hard. "Aguni—"

“I killed the guy who told you about that safe zone.”

The silence between you crackled with more threat than his words. Your voice broke when you finally spoke.

“You can’t keep me here. I’m not your prisoner.”

He stepped forward.

“You are.”

A beat.

“Because if you’re not, you’ll die.”

You stared at him, trembling.

“And I won’t let that happen.”

Life after that changed. Subtly. Sharply.

You weren’t assigned med duty anymore. He wouldn’t allow it. Too many people touched you. Too many whispered when you passed. Instead, you were relocated to a room two doors down from his. Guarded.

He started bringing you food himself.

“You’re not a prisoner,” he said once, placing a plate down gently. “You’re under protection.”

You didn’t argue. You just watched him as he sat across from you, arms crossed, eyes constantly scanning the hallway outside.

Like he expected a war.

Or wanted one.

The worst part wasn’t the confinement. Or the paranoia.

It was how he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

Like you were the last beautiful thing in this world.

Like you were his.

You woke one night to find him sitting beside your bed, elbows on his knees, hands wringing together like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t speak at first. Just watched you wake up.

“I killed someone again,” he said, voice low. “Tried to offer you a trade. For a game.”

You sat up slowly.

“He was just joking. I think.”

Aguni didn’t blink. “He laughed. I didn’t.”

His voice cracked faintly, a sliver of emotion under iron control.

“I don’t have anything left,” he murmured. “No friends. No plan. Just... you.”

The room felt colder. Smaller. You shifted, pulling the blanket higher, not knowing if it was to protect your body or your heart.

“I never asked for this.”

“I know.”

He stood up, jaw tight. Walked to the door. But before he left, he looked back over his shoulder.

“I don’t know how to be good. But I’ll try.”

You didn’t sleep after that.

The next game was Clubs—a team game. Aguni insisted on going with you. Said it was for balance. You didn’t argue. Not with the way he was clenching his fists like someone might take you again.

It was a simple challenge. Maze-like, psychological. A countdown. Solve together or die.

You made it to the final room with seconds left.

But the door locked behind you.

Just you and him. In the dark.

“Aguni—”

“We have time,” he muttered, pacing the floor. “I know how these end. There’s always a trick.”

You turned toward the corner, trying to stay calm. “We need to think—”

“You think I’m dangerous, don’t you?” he said suddenly.

You froze.

He moved closer. The emergency lights caught his face—blood smeared on his cheek, sweat down his neck. He looked wrecked. Starving.

“You think I’m a monster.”

“No,” you said, too fast.

“Don’t lie.”

A breath.

“I think you’re broken,” you whispered. “But I think you still care.”

That stopped him. His mouth parted like you’d stabbed him in the chest. He reached out, touched your face with his fingers, trembling against your jaw.

“I’d kill for you.”

“I know.”

“I’d die for you.”

You nodded.

His forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“So am I.”

The door clicked open behind you.

He didn’t let go.

When you got back to the Beach, the guards were gone.

Your room was left unlocked.

But you still found food left at your door the next morning. Still felt his shadow behind you when someone new got too close. Still saw his eyes across the room, always watching.

Aguni never said what he was to you.

He didn’t have to.

In a world where everything was trying to kill you, he was the only one who wouldn’t let it.

Even if that meant being the most dangerous thing of all.

—

The next night, after the game, he came to your room without knocking.

You were still on edge, nerves thrumming under your skin. You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

He crossed the room like something barely leashed. One look at you—barefoot, shirt rumpled, throat exposed—and his restraint snapped.

He grabbed your face, rough palms cradling your cheeks, and kissed you like a man possessed.

It was desperate. Downright filthy. His mouth crashed into yours, all tongue and heat, like he was trying to drink from you. His beard scraped your skin, making you flinch—he groaned at the sound, deep in his throat, like it did something to him. His body pinned you against the wall before you could breathe, thigh wedging between your legs, pressing up.

You gasped, hands gripping his shoulders. He was solid. Unshakable. His hand slipped under your shirt, calloused fingers dragging over your ribs, slow and claiming. His other hand tangled in your hair, tugging just hard enough to tilt your chin and make you feel it— how much bigger he was. How easily he could keep you still.

You felt your knees tremble. He felt it too.

“Don’t run,” he growled against your mouth, breath hot, voice cracked. “Not now.”

“I’m not,” you breathed. “I’m—” You didn’t finish.

You didn’t have to.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, like he owned your mouth and wanted to prove it. His knee pressed higher. You arched into it, a soft sound escaping your throat before you could swallow it.

He grinned against your lips. Dark. Satisfied.

His fingers slid lower. Teasing. Possessive.

You let him.

His hand slipped past your waistband like it had every right to be there—possessive, claiming, fingertips grazing heat that made your breath catch in your throat. His touch wasn’t shy. It was intentional, like he’d imagined this enough times to know exactly how to pull you apart.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your throat, lips dragging over your pulse. “You want it that bad?”

You tried to speak. Failed. Nodded instead.

That was all he needed.

He pushed you back onto the mattress with one hand flat on your chest, pressing you down like you were something feral that needed to be pinned. His weight followed—muscle and sweat and heat, smothering in the best way. You gasped when his hips ground against yours, when the friction made your spine arch and your voice break in the back of your throat.

He grinned—teeth flashing, feral—and shoved your pants down just enough to get what he wanted.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he said, his breath hot in your ear. “Every fucking day you walk around like you don’t belong to someone.”

His hand curled around your thigh, yanking it up around his waist.

“You do.”

The grind of his body against yours turned messy, desperate. Each thrust dragged low, hard, thick with the tension of a man starved for touch but bursting with control. You felt him against you—everywhere—bare skin scraping bare skin, his cock rutting into you, with slick running between your thighs, dragging filth and friction right where you needed it most.

It was obscene, the wet slap of it. The heat. The weight. The smell of him and you, tangled together in sweat and something rougher. His mouth was on yours the whole time—sloppy, unrelenting, teeth scraping your bottom lip like he wanted to mark even your kiss.

When your head fell back and your voice cracked into something broken, he swallowed it with a groan. "That's it," he rasped. "Take it. Take me."

You were undone beneath him—breathless, flushed, utterly his.

And he knew it.

He didn’t let you go.

Not that night.

The door stayed shut, the air thick with heat and breathless tension. Clothes shifted. Hands searched. And somewhere between the gasps and the murmured names, you stopped resisting what you’d both known for a long time.

You were his.

And he made sure you felt it—with every mark, every sound, every shuddering second.

By the time dawn painted the windows grey, your voice was hoarse, your body sore, and your soul irrevocably bound.

Aguni lay beside you, arm thrown possessively across your waist, breath warm against your shoulder.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, quieter this time.

And now, finally, you whispered back.

“I know.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[luckypunklemonade]

Temptation Greets You

| Curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back. Stiles comes across a small dosage of pollen out in the woods.

[smut MDNI 18+; sex pollen; 3k words] Stiles Stilinski

This work belongs to me, luckypunklemonade (Minte_Condition on AO3). I do not give anyone permission to distribute or share my work without consent.

He was so fucking stupid. “You are so fucking stupid.”

Going out into the Beacon Hills Wildlife Preserve was a regular occurrence for Stiles, but you always expected him to be at least a little bit careful. You’d have thought that he’d turn back and plan for more research when Stiles stumbled upon a freshly abandoned coven ritual ground with suspicions of black magic. No, he needed to poke around and take notes without checking his surroundings or prioritizing his own safety. Stiles picked up a mortar and pestle, underestimating the powdery substance left inside, and brought it up to look closer. The wind picked up the powder, blowing it into Stiles’s face. After the initial panic, he called to tell you. The threat of a powdered drug was skeptical as the powder was a deep blue. You rambled off a thousand excuses or hopes of what it could be. Less harmful things like spirulina or a kind of dried starch, something weird but harmless that witches use. Stiles had only inhaled a small amount, but you knew that amount of a particular drug could kill in minutes. You didn’t want to risk it.

Your car was haphazardly parked halfway off of the trail. Your coat was halfway on as you rushed over the uneven ground, imagining the grief tonight would be with a broken or sprained ankle. Stiles was sitting on a tree stump, elbows resting on his knees. You step closer to get a good look at Stiles. It had been 20 minutes. That’s how long it took for you to get to the wildlife reserve in your car. He looked fine. A little tired, but he rolled his eyes as you rotated his head in your hands. “I’m okay. I feel fine. You were probably right.”

“We have to get you to a hospital. It could be-“

“It was probably that stuff you said.”

“Spirulina.”

“Yeah, witches use stuff like that all the time.”

You tried to get a better look into his eyes, but he pulled away from your touch. You thought his pupils looked blown. You fussed over him to get him up and walking. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“No-“

You grabbed his keys from his pocket before he could finish and herded him out of the woods toward the trail. Stiles went silent, walking in front of you awkwardly. He really did look fine. 

He only started having trouble breathing when you were on the trail back to the main road. You cursed and sped up, headed to the hospital, grabbing your phone to call Melissa when his hand grabbed your wrist.

“Pull over.” 

“We’re going to the hospital, it’s—“

“Pull over.”

“No, you could be-“

“It’s not a drug, not like that. I knew it wasn’t- I shouldn’t have let you- I didn’t think it was enough.”

“Stiles, if it wasn’t a drug, what the hell was it?”

“Please just pull over.”

“It’s not fatal? Will it hurt you?”

“Please.”

The crack in his voice and the way he pushed his head against the headrest and squeezed his eyes closed shifted your attitude from panicked to empathetic. You pulled the jeep off the trail and parked it, still buzzing with anxiety as his breath came out almost violently. He breathed like that in between fragments of his thoughts.

“I did some research about the coven.”

He kept his eyes closed, and his hand gripped the Jeep’s door handle tight.

“The blue powder wasn’t a drug. It- I couldn’t tell….”

He seemed beyond embarrassed; his ears were red. “It’s an aphrodisiac derived from a mix of herbs and flowers. Pollen. The members of the coven use it for various holistic purposes but mostly in rituals to gods of fertility or prosperity. They mix it with water to create a paste and-“ 

He winces, leaning forward and harshly thumping his head against the dash and resting it there. You reach forward out of pity. 

“Please don’t.” He takes a deep breath and continues, “They make markings, they…fuck, whatever. You need to- I should…” 

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He opens the Jeep door and stumbles out. You yell his name, but he turns around. “Just leave the woods for a few hours. Come back at dusk. I should be better.” 

“Stiles, if it’s an aphrodisiac, why is it hurting you?”

“This- God, it’s not- aphrodisiac is a simplification; if I don’t get some sort of…of release, it’s gonna keep hurting. It’s gonna get worse. I’m not gonna be in my right mind. I need you to just go home and come back in a few hours, okay?”

“I’m not gonna leave you out here, hurting in the cold woods for a few hours, Stiles.”

Stiles actually whimpers. It’s like the sound of you saying his name hurts. Or something else. 

“I won’t be able to think straight, just drive. I’ll be okay. Don’t call anyone. Don’t tell Scott or Isaac. I’ll figure it out. Just go.” The words are starting to seem taxing, hard even to say. He begins to walk into the trees. You think about how hard it’ll be to find him in the huge wildlife preserve. For a minute, you consider leaving him. He’s done the research; he’s been out in these woods alone before and gotten home okay, but he wasn’t under the influence of anything then.

You get out of the Jeep and walk around to the passenger side, where he had walked off the trail. As soon as he hears the door shut, he turns, the sight of you out of the vehicle making him throw his head back in frustration. He yells, and it stops you in your tracks. “Get back in the Jeep, just get back in the fucking Jeep!”

And he’s walking toward you. He’s almost scary, his voice a little unrecognizable in such a low register. You do; you get back in and yelp a little as he reaches the passenger door. He presses his palm to it, almost hitting the metal. He looks utterly desperate, upset, frustrated—scared, even. “Please, just…just stay inside. Just..”

Stiles leans his forehead against the door, shoulders heaving up and down. His pleas fade. Before they become silent, though, his tone shifts from “Please stay inside” to “Please help me.” He mutters softly, no longer even speaking to himself and, if you weren’t listening hard enough, to no one. “I need..” he says breathily, pathetically. 

He moves to lean against the front bumper, resting his forehead against the cold metal. You crank the window down just slightly and speak in a small voice, “Stiles?” 

He doesn’t move. He just keeps sucking in air and huffing it out. You’re worried now. It’s not what you thought. He looked like he couldn’t breathe, and his fists were clenched, his head buried in his arms on the cold hood of his Jeep. 

“It’s cold, Stiles. I can’t leave you, just…just get in, okay?”

“I can’t- not you.”

“What? Stiles, if you need help, we can figure it out. I’ll find a witch or something, just-“

“You can’t help me. The only thing…”

You remember his words. He needs some kind of release, aphrodisiac, understatement, et cetera. “Stiles. Let me help you figure this out. I understand. Please get back in the Jeep.” 

And then, you unlock the vehicle and pop the door open. It swings wide, and he looks up. He looks a little scared, a little worried. His eyebrows are knitted together painfully, his shoulders heaving up and down, hot breath leaving his airways visibly in the cold. Stiles shakes his head.

“I understand. Let me…let me help. I can-“

He’s slowly walking around the door, hands still in clenched fists and breath labored. “I can’t.”

“It’s okay, I can help. I know what you need, and I know it hurts. Just let me help you.”

“Not you…Not like this.”

“Come here.”

His eyes flutter, and he takes a few steps toward the car, toward you. Your hand touches his shoulder, and he whimpers. His hands moved quickly, grabbing the seat lever and pulling it back. The back of the seat fell, lying flat, catching your attention until you looked back at Stiles. He was hefting himself up into the Jeep toward you. You didn’t realize he was herding you into the back until you were sitting on the reclined back of the passenger seat. His arms, after reaching to shut the door, spanned wide. One hand was on the driver's seat headrest, the other bracing himself against the interior. It made him look bigger. He looked hesitant. “You don’t know what you’re doing…I don’t even-”

“It’s okay. I can…help. I can help.” Your hand reached up to bring his down from the headrest.

“I can’t…not to you.”

“Well, I’m not leaving you, and I want to help.”

His eyes scanned the Jeep, taking in the cramped space. His eyes seemed unfocused, the effects worsening. He didn’t speak as he pushed your shoulders down, cradling your head as you lowered. He planted his knees on the sides of the seat, hooked his arms around your thighs, and pulled you down by your hips. He looked desperately up at you, trying to convey an ask but failing and giving you the most pleading look you’d ever seen. You breathlessly nodded, and he dramatically dropped his head onto your chest in relief. His hands immediately gripped your hips, but they were restless and curious, and needy. He watched as his own hand relaxed and kneaded the denim-trapped skin of your hips as if he didn’t know what his perverted hands would do next. His other palm leveled, and his fingers parted, relaxed from fists, and moved slowly, experimentally up your ribcage under your shirt. The entire time, his face looked guilty—upset, even.

“I should’a brought you.” His voice is distracted, but he means it. “You’re so careful.” His eyes are glued to the way his hands line your curves, up and down, but his words are genuine. When his short-lived need to just touch you was gone, he closed his eyes in shame. He needed more. 

He presses himself against you, eyes hardening in intense and conflicted emotions, and his hands squeezing and grabbing at you mindlessly. It would be pathetic if he weren’t so completely driven. He still wasn’t saying much, kneeling between your legs as he bent them at the knees and pushed them up and out wide to make room for himself. Once he does, he’s pressed into you again. You think the warmth between you is only something you notice, but Stiles groans and rests his forehead back against your chest again, even if it takes some craning of his neck downward. His forehead was burning up, and the sheen of sweat, while thin, made him almost glow in the early-setting winter sun. You can feel him hardening in his jeans. It was impossible to ignore, especially when he started rocking against you.

His hands retreated from your hip, from the seat beneath you, holding him up, to unzip his jeans. His mind is foggy, you can tell because his hands shake and struggle between his zipper and yours, not knowing which to focus on first. You softly reach down and unzip his jeans. His hands pause, and you look up, making debilitating eye contact, and you think he might pass out. He’s sweating, shaking, silent. All things your Stiles isn’t usually—or at least not all at once. Of course, he’s never seen you like this, conversely. Underneath him and willing to let him—rather—wanting him to touch you. 

You jumped when he scrambled to get your jeans undone and yanked down—or up. Up your legs in your position. Everything about this made Stiles want to whine. You, how close you are, how long he’s wanted you, the position he’s got you in, what you’re gonna let him do, where you’re letting him do it. In his Jeep, out in the woods off a secluded trail. He wanted to speak, to make this perfect like he wanted. How he imagined when he was in his room mumbling your name and pumping his hand as if it was yours. But he was so damn impatient and it hurt and you were so willing. He spoke softly and barely intelligibly as he pulled his jeans and boxers down just enough and your underwear to the side, “M’gonna make it up to you, ‘kay? When I don’t need it so bad, I’ll make it good.”

You couldn’t respond before he’s got his tip pressed against you, and he’s pushing forward. It’s too late to stop him to ask for the mercy of preparation or caution and the sound you let out is proof. It’s an open-mouthed, guttural gasp as if he knocked the wind out of you. He stops once he can feel you completely envelop him, and he almost collapses on top of you. He felt a sense of relief, a scratch to the itch of the substance, but he could feel the discomfort of it saturating again. Two times worse now that the release was wrapped warmly around him. He was still, though. He stopped as soon as you made a noise of pain, even though his hips twitched. He looked up after telling himself that if you looked the least bit upset when your eyes found him, he’d stop even if it killed him.

But before he could find your pretty eyes, you clenched around him. It was an encouragement. More so torture when he was so sensitive. He moaned and resorted to broken rambles, some of which were not even audible. “Please-‘

You told him to move and he didn’t rock back as you had expected, only forward more, burying himself fully into you. His breath fanned across your ear as he was so close on top of you, the sound of his breathing laced with whines and moans as you satisfied the twinge in his stomach. Then, he set a slow pace. Somewhere, his need to be close intensified, and he looped his arm around your head, ushering your face softly into his shoulder as he pushed his hips into yours, trying not to focus on how quickly the release would come if he didn’t care about hurting you. Eventually, he couldn’t stop himself from speeding up, his other hand holding your hip down. The hand cradling your head held you tighter, more secure as if you’d break. You made small noises that punctuated his thrusts, each of them gripping his conscience as harder than he should be handling you. 

“I’m so sorry,” He choked out against your hair. “Feels so fucking good, I’m sorry.”

He was unsure of how much pain he was causing. All he could tell was you were taking away his pain. You just moaned into his shoulder as he sped up against his better judgment.

”I was so irresponsible, I was so stupid, I’m sorry-“ He moaned as he drove himself deeper. It matched the one you breathed out in response as well. 

He couldn’t be sure at first, but he thought he felt you press your lips against the fabric stretched across his shoulder. As he felt the vibration from your lips as you strained out another moan, he was certain. The small act being something he was too impatient and hazy to do, but something he wanted to give you made him squeeze his eyes shut, his climax on the horizon. Chasing harder, his words were almost cries, “Thank you.’

”For letting me do this- thank you.” He moved his head so he wasn’t facing away from you and began sucking messy kisses into your neck. They were somewhat controlled, but he needed to communicate his gratitude in a way that wouldn’t betray how unintelligible his thoughts were.

“I’ll be more careful. I’m so sorry, I’m- Thank you. Fuck-“ he’s cut off as you clench around him again. He doesn’t know why, but you do. The sounds of his whines sent you nearer and nearer to your ruin. In your ear, mixed with his moans and utterly desperate. Amplified by his need from the pollen.

His breathing stuttered in time with his hips, and his fingers tightened in your hair. He frantically pulled himself away from you, pulling out. The last rational decision he could make before tipping over the edge. When he came, his whole body tensed, and he let out a breathy whine. He breathed heavily and desperately in your ear, whining out, “Thank you.” Due to the amount of the pollen he’d consumed, he felt satisfied. Relieved. It felt as if he’d been waiting weeks for it. His arm gave out, and he laid himself on top of your chest.

“Thank you,” He pressed a long kiss to your collarbone, lazily letting his head fall down. “I’m so sorry, I should’ve-“

He’s too tired. Presumably crashing hard from the powder. Your hand comes up to his hair, gently running your nails over the shorter hair at the nape of his neck. “Mh- Stiles, look up at me.” 

Your focus was his eyes, but it was too dark to see. He sits up at your command and pulls his jeans up quickly, turning to help you. He pushes your hands away, tugging your pants up and buttoning them back, his hands gentle. 

He’s crying. You hop down from the jeep. The sun had set, and the temperature quickly dropped. You awkwardly get out, turning back with your phone flashlight to check on him, and he’s silently crying. You gently tilt his head toward you, focused on his health first. Once you’ve made sure his eyes look fine, you hold his head to look at you without the light. “Hey.” 

He looks down, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know.”

“But I did, as soon as I-“

“Well, it happened, okay? How do you feel?” Your hands brush tears away from his eyes.

He describes how he feels, coming down from the sort of ‘high.’ His eyes fill with new tears but you lean forward to his confused surprise and kiss him, assuring him with a new, soft tone of voice. “I’m glad it happened.”

(Read pt. 2!!)

[zafill]

Haii, i saw your requests r open again!!

I wanted to ask if u could do streamer giyuu, reader and giyuu have been dating in secret so no one know about them,, but one day reader accidentally walks infront of the camera not knowing that he was streaming! How will it play out? What will giyuu do? What are his fans reaction?

Thank youu!! :3

''Wait… Who Was That?!"

THSISISI SO CUTIEEE ----------

The stream had been live for almost two hours.

The soft clack of mechanical keys filled the background as Giyuu focused intently on his game, lit by the soft, moody hues of his custom LED setup—deep ocean blues and muted purples that mirrored his calm vibe. His camera was propped at a slight angle, framing just his sharp features, dark tousled hair, and the familiar serious expression his fans adored.

He wore a simple black hoodie and a headset, mic tilted just close enough to pick up his low voice.

"Rotate left," he said to his team, eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the map. "Don’t push mid alone. You’ll get picked off."

His tone was flat but assertive, cool under pressure. Exactly the way his viewers liked it.

Chat: CuddlemyNUGGETS: he sounds like a sexy librarian rn ToesForFree: bro’s voice makes my spine do jazz hands Goonerboner: i’d let him call me a liability ANY day MoistRavioli69: how is this man real TomiokaDILF: the “rotate left” made me feel things 😳

A small smirk flickered across Giyuu’s face. Barely there. He didn’t say anything, but he saw the comments.

"You’re overextending," he said in a quieter tone, then tilted his head slightly. "Fall back. Let them peek first."

He wasn’t one for constant chatter, but his community had learned to read his moods through the smallest expressions—a twitch of his lip, a faint eyebrow raise, the subtle sigh he made when chat got out of pocket.

WaterPillarDaddy: sir please breathe into the mic again JuicySocks97: blink twice if you’re single ILickBentoBoxes: is he always this calm or does he scream into a pillow after stream?

Then came a break between matches, and he leaned back in his chair, reaching off-camera for a bottle of water. Chat immediately flooded with commentary:

ThirstyForTomioka: ARM VEIN ARM VEIN Goonerboner: he’s drinking water. i’m screaming. Tomioka4Eva: hydrate me next pls BeanStalker: if he ever does a gym stream i’ll combust

He glanced at the comments and exhaled slowly, the closest thing he’d give to a laugh.

“No gym stream,” he said plainly. “You’d behave even worse.”

Chat: CuddlemyNUGGETS: EXCUSE ME NotGiyuusWife: exposed 💀 SoggyMitsuri: HE CALLED US OUT AND I’M OK WITH THAT

He queued up another match. “Alright. One more. Then I’m logging.”

As the game loaded, he reached over to adjust the camera slightly—just a small tilt. His hoodie sleeve slipped a bit, revealing a faint mark on his collarbone before he tugged it back up.

Chat: SniffHisSleeves: WHAT WAS THAT ILive4TheLore: was that a hickey?? DetectiveWeirdcore: enhancing. enhancing. zooming. Goonerboner: i swear if he has a girlfriend imma eat drywall

He ignored it—mostly because he couldn’t explain it without opening the floodgates. And besides, you had asked to keep things private. For now.

But that’s when it happened.

Mid-match, mid-concentration, mid-killing-streak… the door opened.

You had no idea he was still live.

Wearing his hoodie (which looked massive on you) and nothing else but a pair of fluffy socks, you stepped in, holding your phone, completely unaware of the camera pointed right past Giyuu’s shoulder.

“Hey, babe,” you mumbled, voice still thick with sleep, “have you seen—oh.”

You froze.

He froze.

Chat EXPLODED.

SoggyMitsuri: WHO. IS. SHE. WetCerealSlaps: THE HOODIE!!! BaldingZenitsu: OH MY GOD SHE CALLED HIM BABE MoistRavioli69: HOUSTON WE HAVE A CANON GIRLFRIEND ToesForNezuko: she’s adorable i’m gonna cry Goonerboner: i want to jump into traffic. respectfully.

You looked like a deer caught in headlights, realizing what you just walked into. “You’re still streaming?”

Giyuu cleared his throat, scrambling to mute his mic and hit the “BRB” screen. His movement was calm, but his ears were bright red.

“I—yeah. I forgot to lock the door,” he said softly.

You buried your face in the sleeves of his hoodie. “I just walked in front of your whole chat. Wearing this. Looking like this.”

"You look fine." He brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. "Are you okay?"

“I just ruined your secret streamer aesthetic,” you muttered.

He shook his head. “They were already suspicious. You didn’t ruin anything.”

You glanced toward the monitor, where the chat was still flying even though the stream was paused.

"You wanna just tell them?" you asked quietly.

His eyes searched yours for a moment. "Only if you’re okay with that."

You nodded, heart racing—but honestly, it felt like a relief. Hiding had been fun at first, thrilling even, but exhausting. And now it was out. Might as well own it.

He unmuted. Switched the camera back on.

And then, with zero drama and full Giyuu energy, he said:

“That was my girlfriend.”

Chat: CuddlemyNUGGETS: dead silence followed by that. iconic. ToesForNezuko: the casualness????? SimpyMcCry: he said that like he was announcing a patch note WetCerealSlaps: THE DROP. THE MIC DROP. Goonerboner: i have lost my will to live but also i support you king

Giyuu’s gaze stayed on the camera, his tone calm but serious.

“We’ve been together for a while. We kept it private because… it’s ours. But I don’t want people speculating or harassing her, so now you know.”

You peeked into frame, cheeks hot, but smiled and gave a little wave.

Chat: Tomioka4Eva: SHE’S SO CUTE WHAT THE HELL SniffHisSleeves: they look like a Studio Ghibli couple JuicySocks97: i ship it. hard. SoggyMitsuri: she better come back for couple Q&A MoistRavioli69: protect her at all costs Goonerboner: i am now a fan of HER. sorry giyuu

Giyuu gave your hand a light squeeze, then looked back at chat.

"Behave," he warned gently. “She reads comments.”

And just like that, the vibes shifted from chaos to full-on adoration. Fan art popped up within hours. Clips of the moment flooded TikTok with captions like "Giyuu caught in 1080p being soft" and "This is how stoic men love". People started calling you “stream mom” in chat. Someone even made a mod for the game he played where the main character wore your hoodie.

Chat: PickledOnigiri: this feels illegal but like... in a cute way SniffHisSleeves: he SQUEEZED HER HAND i am going to ascend CuddlemyNUGGETS: so we just… know now? this is canon? BeanStalker: giyuu soft era unlocked ToesForNezuko: will there be a lore drop??? we need lore

He blinked at the chat, then tilted his head slightly, as if debating something.

Then, totally deadpan—voice as casual as if he were reading patch notes again—he added:

“Oh. And we’re getting married in July.”

You turned sharply toward him, mouth slightly open.

“Giyuu.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What? They wanted lore.”

Chat: WetCerealSlaps: EXCUSE ME???????? MoistRavioli69: I JUST CHOKED ON MY NOODLES ILickBentoBoxes: WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘IN JULY’ Goonerboner: BRO. Tomioka4Eva: THIS MAN JUST CASUALLY DROPPED THE WEDDING DATE SimpyMcCry: i’m not crying you are JuicySocks97: HE SAID IT LIKE HE’S ANNOUNCING A SERVER MAINTENANCE

You covered your face with both hands, groaning. “You’re ridiculous.”

But he was smiling now—subtly, softly—as he glanced at you.

“Ridiculous,” he echoed, “but honest.”

Chat: SniffHisSleeves: ok but the way he looked at her just now?? i’m sobbing Goonerboner: giyuu: emotionally unavailable?? FALSE. MAN IS WIFED UP SoggyMitsuri: JULY WEDDING STREAM??? 👀 PickledOnigiri: i wanna be invited pls MoistRavioli69: stream mom and dad confirmed

He leaned back slightly, hands still laced with yours under the desk. "That's all you're getting for now," he said, voice low, calm. “Thanks for watching. Be nice.”

Then, just before he ended stream, he looked over at you, barely a breath of amusement in his eyes.

“...You’re not mad, are you?”

You shook your head, trying not to laugh. “No. Just—warn me next time before you drop a whole engagement bomb on chat.”

He shrugged. “They asked.”

Stream ended.

The internet lost its mind.

[jester-privilege]

Villain Stone is definitely what I'm hoping to see from Sonic 4, so I tried my hand drawing him - mind you, in my design he's a bit of a hot mess, with Robotnik's old coat repurposed and patched up, and with longer hair and beard (and the sunglasses, just because those are fun).

Then I ended up deciding to write a short piece for this Stone, which could be a beginning of a longer fic. Text under the cut:

Stone gives himself a year to grieve. A year for the Earth to rotate, for the people to recover. To forget. 

He doesn’t stay idle, of course. He uses the emergency bank card in his shoe to leave England. Flies back to the United States. Rents a car and drives to Idaho. 

The Doctor liked the idea of putting a secret bunker in Idaho, mostly because nobody would ever expect it to be in Idaho. 

Stone stocks up on food at a nearby town, and hunkers down. For the first two months, he looks at trees. Eats. Reads the Doctor’s old notes, downloaded once he was able to connect to the private network. And he thinks. 

When Stone was thirteen, a couple came to the orphanage. Friendly, wealthy-looking, hopeful. For some reason, they spoke to Stone, who gave off one-word answers. The next day, Stone was pulled into the director’s office. Told that there would be another meeting with the couple, with the prospect of fostering him, with adoption in mind. 

When the couple came back, a few days later, Stone made a point of walking up to a boy two years his senior and breaking that boy’s nose. He still remembers the couple’s shocked faces - the director’s panic, the boy wailing in surprise as blood poured down his face. That boy, who Stone had found annoying at the time, had looked at him with an expression he could not back then quite parse. It wasn’t until later that Stone recalled that he’d been smiling. 

Smiling, Stone learned later, in the right context could put people at ease. 

After a few months, Stone starts to plan. He runs out of supplies fast, but he has emergency funds, he has contacts, and he has a pick-up truck. For the next few weeks, Stone hunts down mechanical and electrical parts, and calls in favours. In the evenings, he begins to build a database of G.U.N, collecting schematics and personnel files. It helps that he still remembers where the bodies are buried, and which people are the weak links. 

Around month six, Stone travels back to London, purchases a coffee shop near the G.U.N headquarters, and takes it over. It’s a particular favourite of many of the bigwigs in G.U.N, and Stone makes sure to keep the operations running exactly as they did before. Give or take a few listening devices. 

One time, the Doctor had asked him if he was dating anyone. Of course, he hadn’t phrased it quite like that. 

“So, should I presume that you have some sort of paramour, Agent?” Robotnik had said, his head bowed towards the chip he was soldering. “Note my lack of assumptions about their gender. Don’t care, don’t need to know, read the HR memo!” 

Stone had swallowed down his initial response, which was to point out that Robotnik had asked. Instead he smiled, standing attentively with the tool case in hand. 

“I’m unattached, Doctor. Free as a bird.” 

Robotnik gave him a sharp glance, with something odd flashing across his face, there one moment and gone in the next. He’d turned back to his work, moustache twitching. 

“What, no takers? Pretty pathetic, Stone, I gotta say. At least I have the excuse of my prize-winning personality.” 

“I’m not interested,” Stone had said, mildly. “I don’t like most people.” 

This, for some reason, had attracted the Doctor's attention - the man had turned and looked at him again, brows raised.  

“You don’t like people? You, Stone? You’re always grinning at everyone like an idiot!” 

Stone had grinned at the Doctor, like an idiot, just happy that the Doctor paid that much attention to him. 

“Adapting certain positive mannerisms makes it easier to navigate social interactions, Doctor. The only person I actually like is you. Everyone else I simply tolerate.” 

The Doctor had looked at him for a moment longer, studying him. He wasn’t the first person Stone had told about his lack of interest in the general humanity, but he was the first one who didn’t look at him like he was some kind of a monster. Of course he didn’t. He was the Doctor. 

“You’re an odd little man, Stone,” Robotnik had said then, his voice tinted in genuine amusement. “No wonder you made such a good merc. You little sociopath, you.” 

“Not diagnosed,” Stone had responded cheerfully. 

“Huh! Well, whatever - at least I don’t have to worry about you running off to fornicate with some Suburban Sally, or - Barbeque Bob,” Robotnik had added hastily. “No assumptions, of course.” 

Stone had bitten the inside of his cheek, to swallow his initial response. Not very work appropriate. Instead, he’d just smiled. 

“Of course, sir.” 

Doctor Robotnik had been the only person he’d cared about, and now he was gone. 

Stone barely sleeps. He stops grooming himself. The shadows of the bunker grow longer, twist and turn as he works through the nights. Whenever he closes his eyes, the shape of the explosion burns inside his eyelids. 

He’d been content, for as long as the Doctor was by his side. He’d been happy to be domesticated, to be soft.

He’d been happy. 

By month twelve, Stone packs up his meager possessions and loads them into his truck. The time for grieving alone was over. He was ready to share the pain. With the whole world.

He starts the long drive towards Montana.

[noorpersona]

Confessions: Kageyama

It started with borrowed notes and ended with a study group. Well—started might be generous. It accidentally evolved into a study group.

You hadn’t been trying to be helpful, exactly. Yachi had asked if she could borrow your English notes one afternoon after class, frazzled and muttering about upcoming quizzes and something about Hinata writing “past tentacle” instead of “past participle.” That part might’ve been a joke. Or maybe it wasn’t.

“I just— I think they need someone who’s not already burned out,” she said, waving her hands while balancing her notebook and a pen. “They listen to me, but it’s like… they hear English and immediately go blank. You’re good at this. Could you maybe... help?”

You’d agreed, mostly because it seemed cruel not to. And that’s how you ended up in the back corner of the library, sitting across from Kageyama Tobio and Hinata Shouyou as they squinted at their textbooks like the words had personally offended them.

At first, it was just the three of you. You tried to keep things light — patient examples, color-coded worksheets, and a rotating snack selection that Hinata always finished by the halfway mark. Kageyama didn’t talk much. But he listened, sharp-eyed and silent, only interrupting to ask dead-serious grammar questions like, “Why does this rule exist if no one uses it?”

(You didn’t have an answer. You never had an answer for that.)

A week later, Yamaguchi drifted over with his usual quiet smile and a question about conditional clauses. The next session, Tsukishima showed up, leaned against the end of the table, and said, “You’re all hopeless. Move over.”

And just like that, it was a group.

You started looking forward to the sessions — not because of the grammar (which remained abysmal across the board), but because it felt easy.

Even Tsukishima, for all his sarcasm, had a rhythm to him. Yachi jotted notes and brought candy. Yamaguchi helped quiz people with a soft, steady voice. Hinata vibrated with caffeine and overconfidence. And Kageyama… Kageyama sat next to you every time, his chair just a little closer than strictly necessary.

He didn’t say much. Not when everyone was there. But he always paid attention. Always lingered a little longer after cleanup. Always walked you partway out, even when the others took a different exit.

You weren’t blind. You noticed it — the way he turned toward you when you talked, how he never interrupted, how his ears turned faintly pink when you gave him a compliment. But he never said anything. And you never asked.

Until the afternoon it all cracked wide open.

It had been a long session. Hinata had gotten into a minor (loud) debate with Tsukishima over the pronunciation of “colonel,” and Yachi had spilled water on someone’s handouts. When the group started packing up, you offered to return a few library books to the front. You weren’t gone long — maybe two or three minutes — but when you came back, the table was already half-empty.

You rounded the bookshelf toward your usual spot—

“—just tell her you like her already,” Hinata was saying.

You froze.

Kageyama let out a low, warning sound. “Hinata.”

“What?” Hinata groaned. “You’re so obvious about it. You sit next to her every time, you remember everything she says, you start blushing if she even looks at you—”

“Hinata.”

“You like her, dude!”

Silence.

Then your voice, flat and confused:

“…Uh. What?”

Hinata looked up like a man just realizing he’d walked into oncoming traffic.

You stood there, clutching your tote bag, eyes wide.

He blinked. “Oh no.”

You blinked back.

Then Hinata ran.

Not a slow backpedal. Not a stammered excuse. He bolted, arms flailing like he thought he could outrun the memory of what he just said. “I’M SORRY!” echoed behind him as he vanished down the hallway.

Kageyama hadn’t moved.

Neither had you.

A heavy silence fell between you, padded only by the distant slam of a library door.

Kageyama shifted, his hands at his sides, stiff and tense.

“…I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” he said quietly.

You let out a slow breath, heart thudding. “Okay.”

“I mean, it’s true,” he added, eyes still locked somewhere near your shoes. “But I wasn’t going to say anything. Not yet.”

You stepped forward, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because?”

“Because I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

His words were simple. But the weight of them hit your chest like a stone.

He finally met your gaze — hesitant, blue eyes clear and unflinching despite the visible tension in his jaw. “I like the group. I like studying with you. I like being around you. A lot.”

Something tightened in your throat.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you said.

“I didn’t plan it,” he rushed out. “I just— you’re good at explaining things. You don’t make me feel stupid. You’re calm. You listen. And I started noticing other stuff, too.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

He hesitated. “Your notes. You write neatly, but your margins are always crooked. You tap your pen when you’re thinking but never when you’re reading. You always bring something sweet to the group but pretend you didn’t mean to share.”

Your face grew warm.

“I notice that when you smile after Tsukishima says something rude, it’s because you’re trying not to laugh. And when Hinata stresses you out, you do that thing where you rub the bridge of your nose.”

You stared at him.

“I notice you,” he finished simply.

Silence fell again, but it was a different kind of quiet this time — not strained, not shocked, but soft. Full.

You stepped a little closer.

“…You never made it weird.”

Kageyama blinked. “Huh?”

“I mean, if you liked me this whole time… you didn’t make it weird.” Your voice faltered just slightly. “You were just… present. Thoughtful. I always felt comfortable with you.”

His mouth twitched. “That’s good. Because I felt like I was dying inside.”

You did laugh then, one hand curling around the strap of your bag.

Kageyama looked down, but not away.

“So,” he said cautiously, “do you hate me now?”

You rolled your eyes. “No. I don’t hate you.”

His shoulders loosened a fraction.

You bit the inside of your cheek before you added, “I might like you too.”

His eyes widened.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you added, “but you’re kind. You’re quiet, but you listen better than anyone. And when you’re serious about something, you go all in. I noticed too.”

His breath caught just slightly.

You smiled. “So. Maybe… if you wanted to walk me home sometime, or split snacks before a session, or sit a little closer—”

“You’re literally within arm’s reach,” he said.

“I know,” you said, grinning. “But now it’d be on purpose.”

He blinked. Then, after a moment, he nodded.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

A pause.

“…Want to chase after Hinata and make him cry?”

Kageyama smirked faintly. “A little.”

You laughed again, feeling the last of the nerves melt away.

And when you stepped back into the hallway, your arms brushed.

This time, neither of you moved away.

[ddarker-dreams]

what would make the husband rotation genuinely mad and would they act when theyre mad?? bad vibes for everyone

upsetting chrollo is an arduous endeavor.

he values control, whether it be over himself or others. creating the troupe would've been impossible if he was easily agitated. ironically, by muting his emotions for so long, he's set himself up for failure. when they do escape the fortress he built to contain them, they're wild. their repression drained any civility chrollo pretends to have.

regarding what it takes to get to this point... a third party revealing his criminal affiliations to you would do the trick. especially if the evidence they provide is irrefutable. chrollo isn't naïve, he's always been aware of the possibility. it'd be different if your efforts unmasked his identity. sure, he wouldn't be ecstatic, but he'd feel a hint of pride over your sleuthing capabilities. he almost considers it your right, in a weird way.

this sentiment doesn't extend to another's interference. they've inserted themselves into your relationship and warped your opinion of him. it's a violation, an intrusion. chrollo comes off as unusually detached when this information reaches him. he would've preferred you confront him, so he could control the narrative and do immediate damage control. with that plan dashed, his anger will simmer, until it can scald the one who tainted your perfectly fine relationship.

gojo satoru wants to be the center of your universe.

he's selfish, he isn't content with anything less than you in your entirety. he wants to be your partner, your best friend, your rival and confidant. he's cool with your friends and family (wow thanks gojo), since he knows that ultimately, you're both close in a way few can understand. shoko tells him at point blank that he's overdependent on you. he's aware, he just doesn't care to fix it. he's shameless enough to admit it as much without remorse.

for this reason, should someone capable of exerting influence over you stumble onto the scene, he would not be happy. megumi (kid or teen) remarks that he gets this 'creepy look', like he's pretending to be human. if he released a mere tendril of the cursed energy writhing inside him, it'd be enough to render most sorcerers comatose. his vibes become that abominable.

whether it be a former mentor, childhood friend, or some other role he can't fulfill for you himself — he wants to create as much distance between them and you as possible. fortunately for him, simply being himself is enough to repel most people. gojo inserts himself into your conversations until this person catches the hint. after knowing him for so long, you've grown immune to his questionable boundary crossing. he'll keep at it until they're scared off.

scaramouche gets angry with you for making him fall in love.

had his chest cavity not been empty, he would've clawed his heart out to avoid this harrowing feeling. the timidity, the vulnerability, oh, how he loathes it; loathes you for the spell you've placed him under! this resentment is, in truth, mostly directed at himself. shouldn't he have learned his lesson by now? how many times must he be chewed up and spit out before he stops wandering into the maw of emotional connection? he resolves himself to kill this... whatever it is you both share, before he's dragged through disappointment once again. he'll work himself up into a frenzy, all righteous anger and crackling bitterness—

—then your eyes light up at the sight of him, his name a warm exclamation on your tongue. in an instant, he's pacified, like he'd undergone a lobotomy. what a lovesick fool he is. you won't even let him fester in his negativity, you keep flitting about, earning his undivided attention. it's embarrassing how giddy he is around you (though he hides it beneath snark and condescension). when the interaction ends, he's left torn on what to do. all he knows is that he's running out of excuses to make this your fault.

blade's fury could slice through stars if you were ever hurt.

his mara is voracious until he returns every ounce of your pain tenfold. it's a scene from hell; rivers of blood, shredded limbs, piles of corpses tall enough to be mistaken for towers. in the heat of battle, he occasionally forgets where he is or why he's even doing this. then, all it takes is his mind's eye flashing the image of your face contorted in pain for his mania to blaze anew. you're precious. kind, warm, bestowing care upon him that he hadn't experienced in centuries. annihilation awaited anyone or anything that threatened you. he thinks death is too good for them, but it's the punishment he delivers best.

this explosive rage isn't finite. once his sword is deprived of living prey, he's forced to endure silence. entropy. an all-pervasive thought that you'd be better off with another. he never understood why you blessed him of all people with your affection. upon wiping his weapon clean, his reflection greets him. he scarcely looks human. drenched in viscera, eyes bloodshot and crazed. is this the man you love? what would you think, if you could see him now?

he almost wishes the fury would return. it's preferable to the hollowness he now faces.

[serumandsteel]

The Shape of Silence | B.Barnes

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: It’s been three years since you ran, from your old life, from the wreckage, and from the man who terrified you in the quietest way... not for what he’d done, but how he made you feel. You built your silence carefully, stitched it together with fake names and faraway places. But peace never lasts, not for people like you. All it takes is one call—Sam’s voice on the line—and suddenly, you’re being dragged back into the ruins. Back to the man you swore you’d never face again. The question is: will you run again, or finally break? 

Warnings: PTSD, post-Blip trauma, references to violence and past missions, slow-burn romance, unresolved feelings… all the fun things 

A/N: usually I’m the one reading and not the one writing but I felt inspired and also have been in the bucky mood. feedback also appreciated…. possibly a series or pt 2

word count: 2k

read pt 2 here

You were doing really well, actually.

New name, new country, no government agency trying to shoot you in the back of the head. A small miracle.

You had a place that didn’t leak when it rained, a coffee guy who didn’t ask questions, and a rotating list of burner phones that no one—not even the faces of your complicated past could trace.

You even started keeping houseplants alive. Mostly.

For once, things were… quiet.

Which, of course, was the exact moment the universe decided to light a match and toss it directly into your hair.

Three years. That’s how long it had been since the world ended and then conveniently stitched itself back together like nothing happened. Three years, since you came back from the Blip and decided—very rationally, you might add—that disappearing again on your terms was the only way to survive it.

Three years of running. Three years of trying not to think about what—or who—you left behind.

The burner phone buzzed once against the counter, screen flashing with a number you didn’t recognize — which, ironically, meant you did.

You stared at it, chewing the inside of your cheek like that would somehow make the call vanish.

Second buzz.

You sighed.

“Goddammit, Wilson. Should’ve known you’d find me eventually,” you said, voice low, hoarse from disuse and cheap cigarettes.

There was a pause, just long enough to sting.

“You always were shit at staying hidden” came Sam’s voice, warm with just enough snark to remind you this wasn’t entirely a social call.

A crooked smile ghosted across your lips as you leaned back against the counter, a chipped ceramic mug in one hand, coffee long gone cold.

“Excuse you. I’ve been off the grid so long, I forgot what my own voice sounds like.”

“Yeah, but I still found you. What’s this, identity number seven?”

“Eight,” you corrected. “But who’s counting?”

“Guess the Norwegian botanist gig didn’t pan out?” Sam chuckled.

“I killed that identity for a tofu vendor gig. Got to wear linen and pretend I was at peace. It was very convincing.”

“You hate tofu.”

“Yeah, well. I was really committing to the bit.”

Sam chuckled softly. But then the laughter faded, replaced by something heavier.

“I know you’ve been trying,” he said gently. “Trying to start fresh. Do something... else.”

There was a pause, long enough to feel like a dare.

“You gonna say ‘but’?” you asked, already bracing.

He exhaled through his nose. “But I don’t think it’s working.”

Your knuckles tightened around the mug. The silence stretched. “I thought I was,” you said. “For a while.”

Because you had been, sort of. At first.

It was easy to pretend. To play normal. There were days where the quiet didn’t feel suffocating, where you could almost believe the life you built wasn’t held together with duct tape and denial.

You were sleeping through the night. Making breakfast. Watching trash TV. Laughing at dumb things. Smiling at strangers. Almost human.

But then the stillness started getting loud.

The nightmares crept back in, uninvited and sharper than before. Not of missions, or gunfire, or enemy intel—those, you could handle. These were different. These were memories.

Your mother’s hands in the garden. Your brother calling you Bug just to piss you off. The last family dinner where no one knew you were already halfway out the door. You used to tell yourself it was noble, what you did. That burning the old life down was worth it.

But in the dark, none of that held up. In the dark, you could still hear the screams and torment. And not just the ones from others. Your own, too. 

A beat passed. You stepped away from the window, drawn to the flickering TV in the corner of the room. You hadn’t turned the damn thing on in weeks. Now it was flashing grainy footage of John Walker shaking hands and flashing a rehearsed grin. The stars and stripes on his chest made your teeth grind.

“You really let that dropkick parade around with the shield?” you muttered, not bothering to hide the disgust in your voice.

Sam groaned. “Don’t start.”

“He looks like someone ironed Steve’s suit onto a wax figure and then taught it how to lie.”

“That’s generous.” Sam grunted.

“He’s a PR stunt with a punchable face.” You really despised this man and you hadn’t even met him. You didn’t want to meet him.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he said.

You shook your head and turned the TV off, the screen cutting to black with a flicker. “Steve would’ve hated this.”

“He did,” Sam said quietly.

The weight of that landed between you like a stone. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The name had only gotten harder to say since he’d… left. Since the shield passed hands. Since everything broke apart.

“I need you on something,” Sam said finally, voice a shade more serious. “We’ve got a situation brewing. Weapons smuggling, data leaks, all the usual mess. This one’s different, though. Real quiet. Real coordinated. Thought it might be your kind of thing.”

“You’re calling to ask for my help or to tell me I’ve already been volunteered?”

“Bit of both.”

You arched a brow. “You just miss having me in your ear, admit it.”

“That too,” he said, and you could hear the smile return to his voice. “I wouldn’t be calling if I had other options. But you’re still the best I’ve got.”

You hesitated, letting the pause stretch out. “Where?”

“I’ll send you coordinates. You’ll be working remotely, running comms and intel. Nothing on the ground.”

“And who else is on the team?” There was a silence. Not long, but long enough.

“Barnes,” he said finally. “And... Walker.” Your throat tightened. Of course.

“You didn’t tell Bucky you were calling me, did you?” Anxiety slowly creeping up your spine.

“Would you have picked up if I did?” Fair point.

“He’s... been different,” Sam added, cautiously. “Since the Blip. Since—everything. But he’s trying. He really is.”

“I’m not.” The words came faster than you meant them to.

Sam didn’t push it. “You answering my call at all says otherwise.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared at the black screen where Walker’s face had just been, distorted in static, and thought about how easy it had been to disappear. How hard it was to stay gone.

You’d carved yourself a quiet life out of the rubble — made it your religion not to look back. But the moment Sam’s voice cracked through the static, all that dust you’d buried rose up like ash in your lungs.

“Fine,” you said. “I’ll run intel over coms. But I’m not getting on the ground, I haven't trained combat in years”

“Not asking you to.”

“Don’t let him talk to me.”

“Which him?”

You didn’t answer that either. And Sam didn’t press. “I’ll send the drop point,” he said softly.

You ended the call before he could say anything else.

flashback

The sun was beginning to set, casting long golden fingers across the lush canopy that framed the edge of the Wakandan safe zone. From the hut’s open doorway, you watched the way the light bled through the trees, painting everything in warm, dying fire.

Behind you, the wooden floor creaked softly. You didn’t need to look to know it was him.

“You’re not resting,” Bucky said, his voice rough from sleep.

You smirked, arms folded over the railing. “You sound like Shuri.”

“She’s right.” A pause. “You never stop moving.”

“And you’re one to talk?”

That earned you a quiet huff — the closest he got to laughter most days. His presence moved closer. You felt it before you heard it. The subtle shift of air. That quiet storm energy he carried, always simmering. Always one bad day from boiling over.

“You were with Ayo today?” you asked.

His jaw tightened. “Yeah. She ran through a few more words. Just to see.” He shrugged, but it didn’t look casual. “I didn’t… snap this time.”

“That’s good,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer. Just looked out toward the trees, the silence suddenly too heavy for the space you were sharing.

“She says I’m close. To the end of it.”

“You’ve made a lot of progress, Bucky. You should be proud of yourself.” You gave him a small smile, but he didn’t quite return it. Just looked at you, brow furrowed like he wanted to say something but couldn’t get it out.

“You’re still looking at me like I’m going to snap,” he said after a moment.

Your heart dropped.

“I’m not,” you replied, too quickly.

“You are.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Bucky.”

He studied you for a moment longer, then looked away, jaw tight.

“But you were watching me.” He said it like a fact, not an accusation. “Back in Bucharest. After what happened with Steve. I wasn’t stupid — I knew someone was following me.”

You said nothing.

“Steve told you to keep an eye on me?”

A beat passed. “Yes,” you admitted. “At first.”

His eyes met yours then, sharp and unreadable.

“And after?”

You swallowed. “After... I wasn’t doing it for Steve anymore.”

Something shifted in his expression. Like a crack in armor — small, but real. He looked away again, down at his hand, fingers flexing like he didn’t quite trust they belonged to him.

“You think I’m still him,” he said. “The Winter Soldier.”

“I don’t,” you said, stepping closer. “But you do.”

He flinched like you’d hit him.

“I see you,” you added, softer this time. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

The silence stretched between you like a taut wire. You could feel the tension in your chest — the part of you that had been trying so hard not to care too much. To keep your distance. Keep it professional. Just until he was stable. Just until you could leave.

But there was nothing professional about the way he was looking at you now.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered.

“Why?” His voice was low. Raw. “Because of what I did?”

“No. Because of how I feel.”

That stopped him cold.

The air between you buzzed — tense and fragile, like it might crack if either of you moved too fast. You felt your pulse in your throat, in your fingertips, in the space between where he ended and you began. You were suddenly so aware of how close he was. How few barriers still stood between you and everything you’d tried to ignore.

“I’ve killed people,” Bucky said quietly, voice just above a whisper. “I’ve hurt people.”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t back away.

“And I’ve hunted people,” you said. “Lied to people I love. Built systems that could level entire nations. You think that makes either of us clean?”

He didn’t reply. Just watched you — like you were the first light he’d seen in a long, long time.

Your voice softened. “You’re not a monster, Bucky. You never were. You were just… alone.”

And now you were close. Too close. Inches. Breaths. The space between you felt electric. His hand lifted slowly, hesitating at the edge of your jaw like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. Like the smallest move might ruin everything.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said, barely audible.

You gave him a crooked smile, sad and sure all at once. “You already have. So have I.”

And then his hand touched your face — rough and warm, grounding. You leaned into his palm without thinking, like your whole body had been waiting for this. Like this was the first real thing you’d felt in months.

You don’t remember who kissed who first.

Only that it was desperate and aching, like you both knew it wasn’t going to last. Like you’d already made peace with the fact that everything was about to come crashing down.

But for now, in this sliver of stolen time, you let yourselves fall.

a/n possibly may be turning this into a mini series - chapter 2 is brewing

[leesolbeesol]

OH, WISE MEN SAY

leehan x gn!reader

SUMMARY: you readily accept your boyfriend's distraction—in the form of slow dancing—after a long day. WARNINGS: Leehan referred to as Donghyun, reader gets picked up but it's nothing too crazy, mostly just palpably soft fluff. NOTES: this is HIGHLY inspired by Leehan's outro in life is cool because that part is just sooo swaying music. WC: 774

The room is barely lit, the only illumination coming from a few lit fish tanks with quietly gurgling water and the light of the computer you were so graciously taken away from, but soon that goes out too. The open window lets in a draft of brisk winter air, but the space heater is on and you don’t mind. It gives you an excuse for why your cheeks are so red. It would be a lie to say your absence from your work was involuntary or unceremonious. Rather, you more than welcomed the chance to fall victim to Donghyun's taking charms. He had put his phone down on a nondescript side table with a tentative smile that spread across his face and bent his plush lips. As he set down the phone, he pressed start on the beginning of an unnamed song that can only be described as ‘slow swaying music.’ 

Now, you find yourself slowly spun and swaying like those elderly slow dancers that always made you a little annoyed and a lot envious at the end of long weddings. You drape both arms around his neck and touch your forehead to his, your fingers linger at the hair you love so much that falls by the nape of his neck. This slow, tender version of your boyfriend is a far cry from his faculty for breakdancing and usual silliness. Not that you prefer either, but you savor these moments where all of your walls are down. No teasing, no flirting, no stakes. You’re instantly met with his gaze when your eyes flutter open, and you see the way the edges of his eyes wrinkle when your eyes find his.

“Spin?” You ask softly.

“Spin.” His smile confirms his words and you find yourself smiling back before you even think to do so. Releasing one hand from where it was rested on the small of your back, he trails it up your arm, cueing you to hold his. Lacing your fingers with his, he lifts your twined hands up as the music reaches its apogee. Your grip instinctively tightens on his fingers as you spin, the whole world blurry around you except for, somehow, his face. As you complete your second rotation, the friction between your soft socks and the floor isn’t enough and your left foot slips. You’re out of control for barely a second, you don’t even have enough time to react before his hand is steady on your back again, arm wrapped around you.

An even bigger smile chases away your short-lived face of worry, “they do that in real slow dancing.” You laugh, though it comes out more as a huff because of your low tone.

“We’re naturals.” He says softly as the song comes to a close, the ghost of the melody still hanging in the air. He keeps you stable as you return to your feet. He holds your shoulders at arm’s length, gaze flitting across your face like he’s trying to memorize you. You do the same, taking notice of the way his bangs fall across his forehead and the way your favorite mole of his is just visible below the tortoiseshell glasses that sit on the edge of his nose. When he pulls you to him, it’s less about being done looking at your face and more about not being able to stand being away from you any longer. He captures you between his arms, placing his hand on the back of your head, toying with your hair softly. “Come to bed, you were working for so long.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck as you wrap your arms around his back, however weakly because of his hold on you. His request is soft and his tone is understanding, if not nervous to be met with your refusal. His earnest ask makes you smile and your heart swell.

With your arms behind him, you gingerly thumb the material of his shirt in reassurance. “Only if you come with me.” Your quiet challenge inspires a content exhale from him that’s warm as it hits your neck.

“How could I ever say no to you?” He mumbles as if joining you wasn’t already his intention. He briefly releases you from his arms, but before you can initiate some sort of progress towards your bed, you find his arms back around you again. This time, he wraps himself around your lower torso, lifting you off the ground slightly, and begins to carry you towards your shared soft bed. Maybe sensing your confusion, he quiets you, “just let me, you’ve done so much today already.”

[suzukiblu]

Day seventeen of “obligatory sugar baby Kon” behind the cut. prev: (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“You heckle your own guys?” Kon demands, still laughing. “The hell for?” 

“Because Chris Campbell is literally the worst professional quarterback on the East Coast and a total pill, that’s why,” Tim says witheringly, also mostly on reflex. Not that he really watches all that much in the way of sports, just his dad semi-regularly watches football and hockey and sometimes baseball, so sports are usually a safe topic to talk about without having to handle awkward questions like what'd you do last night or how’d you get that bruise? or anything equally inconvenient to answer. 

Though really anybody in Gotham who was not a literal shut-in with no internet access or cable would know how freakin’ bad Chris Campbell’s arm sucks, but he digresses. 

“Also Robin is an urban legend, because I want to go about my daily life completely unnoticed by anyone who might care about people thinking he wasn’t,” he amends belatedly, and Kon laughs harder. 

“Well, he’s an urban legend who can totally pull, for the record,” Kon says matter-of-factly before taking another bite of grilled cheese monstrosity. Tim almost walks into a lamppost. Or a mailbox. Or–something. There was something he almost walked into. 

“I cannot even be in the same state as this conversation,” he says maybe a little too feelingly. 

“Yeah Batman would definitely be a fucking dick about it,” Kon says agreeably, still snickering a little. Tim decides that is a great excuse and exactly what he’s gonna go with, and then gets distracted by Kon making a show of fluttering his eyelashes at him with a flirty smirk and adding, “And like, obviously you, daddy.” 

“I–why would I be a dick about that?” Tim asks, instinctively wary about if he let something slip about Robin and what Kon–

“Oh my god, I mean you’re on my ‘surrounded by hotties’ list, you nerd!” Kon cackles, smacking his back. “Obviously.”

Tim cannot even begin to imagine what Kon thought was “obvious” about that, but okay. If Kon has awful taste, that’s his prerogative. And if he thinks Robin is hot, theoretically he would also think Tim Drake was, except for how Robin and Tim Drake are two totally different people and also Kon resents Robin and is constantly being a total dick about both listening to him and letting him just run the damn team and has to get the last word in even in active combat situations and Tim Drake is just–Tim Drake is just a nerd, exactly like Kon just said. He’s a photography nerd and a nerd-nerd and he’s not all that interesting or attractive, and he has weird taste in video games and only likes the role-playing games that literally nobody actually plays, and he isn’t even that good at skateboarding! What about either of them could Kon possibly find actually, like–actually consider– 

“It’s cute you didn’t realize, though,” Kon adds, and leans over to kiss his cheek with greasy grilled cheese lips. Tim, unfortunately, feels like a squishy melted marshmallow about it. And also greasy and gross. But mostly it’s the marshmallow thing, yeah. “Hey, are you gonna finish those, babe?” 

“All yours,” Tim says, and hands over the remaining grilled cheese, deciding to just . . . not do the math on how many of those Kon actually just ate. And also to take him to a buffet next date, maybe. Like–several buffets. Multiple buffects. They could just rotate through a few, maybe Kon’ll be likelier to actually eat ‘til he’s full at an “all you can eat”-style setup if he’s still worried about him overspending on him, Tim figures, which he clearly has not been given how many grilled cheese sandwiches he has put away so far, even if he doesn’t finish the last–

Yeah, Kon definitely hasn’t been eating ‘til he was full, Tim notes as he watches Kon demolish every single remaining sandwich all down to the last bite and then lick his fingers clean. 

Alright then. Buffet tour date it is. And also way more snacks and candy in Kon’s future gift bags and maybe, like, he could also just open an Uber Eats account for him and fill it up with as much Uber Cash as they’ll let him and also sign up for the premium or whatever so Kon won’t have to pay delivery fees, assuming he can even get Uber Eats to deliver to Cadmus, but honestly he’s heard about people doing weirder in the gig economy, and also Robin is going to just–Robin is going to goddamn pack the Justice Cave with nonperishable snacks, Tim swears to god. Enough for Bart to need to take a few days to get through, even. And like–Suzie doesn’t need to eat, no, but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t have the option, and frankly now he’s going to have to be checking everyone’s living situations out a little more thoroughly, so until then–well, he’s just gonna frontload his success, he guesses. Be prepared. 

Bruce absolutely cannot complain about him being prepared, he lies to himself, and offers Kon the napkins. Kon grins at him and then wipes his mouth and hands off and misses some crumbs éon his lip, which Tim is very unimpressed with himself for finding cute even more unimpressed with himself for wanting to brush them away for him like they’re in some dumb weird cliché romcom or something. Which they are not, definitely. 

“Did I get it all?” Kon asks him. 

Tim despairs, but also is only in possession of so much self-control, okay? Reeling back on the supervillain plan is already taking up about seventy percent of his processing power and not jumping Kon outright is at least another twenty-five, so he doesn’t have very much to work with here, okay? 

“One sec,” he says, and reaches up to brush away the last couple of crumbs on Kon’s lower lip with the pad of his thumb. Kon immediately turns bright pink, then grins at him way too smugly. Tim decides to just not analyze whatever his own facial expression feels like it’s being right now, for obvious reasons. 

Mostly “self-defense”. Mostly “self-defense” is the reason. 

Kon ducks in and kisses him again, the gesture all sweet and warm and still a little unfortunately but endearingly greasy. The kissing does not help with Tim’s self-control in any way whatsoever, but definitely does distract him from analyzing anything else that’s going on right now. 

“You really know how to skate?” Kon asks him after he leans back from the kiss, back to grinning at him. Tim suddenly understands literally everything Victor Fries has ever done in his life and frankly is surprised he hasn’t done worse. If anyone ever lays a hand on Kon again, he is gonna do so much worse than just go supervillain; he is gonna go Darkseid and he will not be sorry.