#mostly wanted to do a dramatic water image

[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

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella @satanxklaus @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @ashhlsstuff @sunfairyy @icanbringyouinhot @hi--have-a-nice-day @sesdeuxyeux @peachiestevie @biccaline @crayolacraycray @wencontre @peepawispunk

(Please let me know if your tag isn't working!!)

[blue-jisungs]

sylvanian family

# author's note ... probably the cutest shit ive written in a while </3 the jiwoong brainrot was STRONG n also !! the acc i mentioned is real -- i love their recipes n calico critters:((( its in polish but i believe they do have some englih trans included !!

# word count ... 778

jiwoong watched you scroll through some person’s tiktok profile, peeking through your shoulder. you were laying in his arms, his chin resting on your shoulder. he treasured peaceful moments like these, knowing that not only his schedules make it hard for you to have a moment for yourself but also his menace gremlin members. despite having separate rooms they seemed to love bothering him. and you.

he was close to dozing off, something so comforting about being able to hold you in his arms. at times like these you reminded him of his favorite childhood teddy bear.

a soft huff left your lips and you scrolled down once more.

“that looks delicious” his hum startled you a bit but you nodded, your hair ruffling his cheek.

you were watching a profile of a person who was posting baking recipes. lemon cheesecake, matcha pancakes, strawberry tart… they all looked mouth watering and beyond cute.

however, what mostly caught your attention were the sylvanian family figurines in the background. the author of tiktok’s called them their little helpers and they were always featured in the videos.

“i always wanted to have one…” you mumbled and shifted a bit, so now your head was tucked underneath his chin. jiwoong put an arm around yours, still able to see your screen.

“lemon cheesecake?” he blinked, looking at the step by step recipe “no problem, we can make one…”

“no” you laughed, vibrations echoing through his body too. a smile bloomed upon the sound “i meant those calico critters!”

“calico… what…?” he repeated in a small voice.

you let out a dramatic, annoyed sigh and rolled off him. now laying beside him on your stomach, you typed something in your phone and turned the screen to him.

jiwoong put one of his - now free - hands behind head and the other reached for your phone to pull it closer. his hand stayed atop of yours, brushing your fingers gently.

in front of him there was an image of small figurines of plush animals. rabbits, squirrels, cats… every animal that he could name. they were dressed in sickeningly cute attire: from overalls to dresses, most of them in pastel colors. he even noticed a set of figurines consisting of a mom sheep and baby sheep triplets.

“i’ve always wanted them so, sooo badly. my childhood friend used to have a house! i was so jealous. she had a house and, and a car! like for the figurines” you rambled and his attention shifted to you, smiling subconsciously.

having the comparison of the small figurines and you, he noticed some similarities. the general cuteness and desire to caress gently.

“but i never had one. they were so expensive… well, they still are” you sighed and turned your phone “oh, there’s a blind box! awww look, there’s one with a mushroom hat nooooo i’m gonna cry”

jiwoong scoffed in amusement, poking your hand with his finger. you showed him the picture.

he smiled upon seeing the little guy you were talking about.

“c’mere my calico critter. you look like one, you know?” he hummed and gestured you to come closer. your face lit up, phone dropping somewhere on his bed.

scooting closer, you rested your head on your hand. faces inches away, he had to raise his chin slightly since he was laying down.

“yeah?” you grinned, tilting your head curiously.

ah, you were going to be the death of his.

“mhm. you’re so cute like them. and i get cuteness aggression as well” jiwoong explained and you rolled your eyes dramatically.

“i don’t get cuteness aggression from them. it’s just… ugh” you giggled and kicked your legs “you can’t just say that!”

“oh, i can. they’re called sylvanian families? we’d be kim families then. or l/n families?” jiwoong pondered out loud “we’d be the black cats. no, i’d be the black cat and you’d be…”

“the calico cat” you finished his sentence excitedly and something told jiwoong that this specific one might be your favorite.

“right. and then we’d have kitty triplets. that just makes sense, doesn’t it? they’d have all of our colors” your boyfriend’s voice was soft.

you pouted, heart swelling in your chest. jiwoong never judged your inner child’s dreams and never batted an eye.

“i love you” you hummed, climbing on top of him. you poked his chest “don’t get surprised if i become poor one day. poor but rich in calico critters”

jiwoong scoffed and just pulled you into a tender kiss, making a mental note to buy you the house and the figurines later as a present. after all, who was he not to fulfill his baby’s wishes?

masterlist <3

taglist. @slytherinshua ,, @weird-bookworm ,, @haecien ,, @stryroses

[pumpkinmetaphor]

opinions on tamakao? :P (through and through kyokao shipper here but im curious)

I'm a middle school crush Kaoru -> Tamaki truther

Actually, have this snippet from a draft of a fic I wrote and never finished/posted in March 2022

―

“I think,” Kyoya says, “we have things to reconsider.”

Hikaru and Kaoru both look over. They’ve become accustomed to Tamaki’s bouts of depression, dramatic flairs and posturing, but usually they intend to cause it for humorous effect. Today’s episode, causing him to cultivate a woodlouse farm amongst the sheets of piano music in the back cupboard, was entirely unintentional. 

Kaoru doesn’t really feel it’s their fault. Hikaru didn’t mean to spill the coffee, after all. He hadn’t carried a tray before. And the girl he splashed made an awful lot of noise about the bottom hem of her dress being marked by the spillage. If she’d been paying more attention to her surroundings and less to insulting his brother, she would have seen Kaoru pick the pitcher up before he doused her in lemon water. And after all, how else did she expect to clean her dress? And if her friend paid more attention to where she was going instead of trying to grab the front of Kaoru’s uniform, then she would have seen Hikaru’s foot shoot out before he kicked the legs of her chair out from under her. And really, if the girls wanted to be treated like princesses, they surely shouldn’t have picked the hosts whose whole selling point is their mischievous, boyish charm.

That’s what Hikaru said, and Kaoru copied, anyway. Kaoru does a very good job at mimicking Hikaru’s unaffected cadence even as the guilt gnaws away at him. He’s not guilty about the girls, not in the slightest, but he can’t help continually glancing over to the cupboard. This was not behaviour that Tamaki was proud of.

“It wasn’t very nice,” Hani says. He makes the bunny toy do an approximation of an apologetic gesture, which they both cringe at. 

“They were regulars,” Kyoya says, making another note, “Were, being the operative word. They’re unlikely to return.”

“What a loss,” the twins sound, sardonically. Kaoru comes in a beat late and Hikaru gives him a look. 

“So, your sole achievement here has been delivering us a net loss of customers,” Kyoya responds, sharply. “If sabotage is your new USP, you’re welcome to leave. I can personally escort you back to the middle school building.”

Kaoru feels the guilt rise sickly in his throat again. He looks towards the cupboard once more, before looking down at Hikaru’s clenched fist. This is how it’s always going to end with them, after all. They both know that. Kaoru knows he wasn’t the only one lulled into the false sense of security that having friends for once gave them, and it betrays him more to see betrayal written on his mirror image than to feel it on his own face. Hikaru’s eyes flash towards him, and the feeling is mutual. 

“Well, yeah?” Hikaru stands sharply. Kaoru joins, in belated unison. “So what? This is a bore anyway. We’ve better things to do than sit around here and be lectured. We're leaving."

“No, no, no!” Tamaki all but tumbles out of the closet, hands waving. Woodlice are displaced in a frenzy and Hani yelps, covering his plate with his hands. He points, dramatically, at the twins. Hikaru sighs and sits back down, preparing for a sermon. “I simply won’t have it! Mommy, Mommy! Are you going to let them leave??”

Kyoya looks mostly nonplussed, but visibly relents. “I was considering writing them out of the will.”

“And you!” Tamaki jabs Hikaru in the chest before then, for equality’s sake, jabbing Kaoru as well. Both frown and sit, rubbing the forming bruises. “I will not have you two walking out on this family!”

This posturing isn’t uncommon either. The first time he heard Kyoya referred to as “Mommy,” Kaoru watched his brother almost swallow his teeth. Kaoru had a similar reaction the first time Tamaki pinched his cheek and called him his “son.” He seems to be under the impression that the club is a makeshift family, like those off American sitcoms Kaoru and his brother think are inconceivable, obviously some cultural abnormality. They’d been happy just to have a few friends who were, for the most part, worthy of their time. Family hadn’t really been on their radar, and yet they appear to have got it nonetheless.

However, both he and Hikaru make the same face when Tamaki calls them his “sons,” so Kaoru knows it must be for the same reason. Whatever that is.

“No, I won’t have this! I didn’t raise you two to be such ungentlemanly devil children!”

“You didn’t raise us at all,” both retort.

Tamaki continues, unperturbed. “I’ll just have to teach you! We’ll change direction! If you can’t be nice to girls then we’ll have to make use of who you can be nice to!”

Kaoru’s brain immediately goes to the only other gender he can think of on the fly. “Hah?”

There’s a finger flying and pointing in his face. Tamaki looks gleeful, grin spreading from ear to ear. “You can be nice to each other!”

Ah, Kaoru thinks. That makes more sense. 

“Great plan. How does that help us host?” Hikaru asks sardonically. Kaoru second-guesses himself. Actually, this doesn’t make much sense either now that he thinks about it but it makes decidedly more sense to him than flirting with boys. That would make them gay, from what limited knowledge Kaoru has researched on the subject. 

“Ye of little faith,” Tamaki simpers, hand to heart. It’s comical, really. “You have so much to learn about women.” Kaoru is with him there. He’s researched girls even less. “Women like a man who’s in touch with his own emotions. Women especially like men who are in touch with each other’s emotions, if you catch my drift. And the fact that you’re identical– that just means you have an advantage over the competition!”

“The competition of other guys pretending to be gay, you mean,” Hikaru says, drolly, at the same time Kaoru says, “That’s what girls like?” because, really, you learn something new every day. 

Hikaru looks at Kaoru. Kaoru looks at Hikaru. “Hard pass,” they both say, deadpan.

Tamaki tosses his arms in the air and wails, wails, before falling to his knees. This is extra comical, and the two stare at each other, lips pursed as they try to restrain themselves from bursting out laughing. After all, this is a serious subject. It’s a serious request. One that they have no intentions of honouring.

Kyoya clicks his pen. “Tamaki forgot to mention how funny it would be.”

Tamaki stops, mid wail, and gives Kyoya a curious look. The twins stop tittering. Many unspoken words are exchanged through a series of covert glances between people for whom telepathy is genetic and between those for whom it’s contagious.

“On second thoughts,” Tamaki says, tearing his gaze away from Kyoya’s to look back at the twins. He wipes his eyes. “Maybe that’s not a good idea. After all, it would be rather mean to take such advantage of the girls like that. It just wouldn’t be honest. The worst sort of prank really.”

“Prank,” Hikaru and Kaoru repeat, cautiously. 

“Well, yes, I suppose that’s how you could describe it.” Tamaki sighs, dramatically, before shooting them the most obvious look they’ve ever seen. “It would really involve tricking these poor girls. They’re just, hm, too gullible for that. It wouldn’t be nice.”

It’s obvious. It’s painfully obvious. They both lean in further. “Okay. We’re listening.”

“No no, it just wouldn’t be right. I’ll come up with something else. Something so very boring, something that isn’t a fun game at all.” Tamaki turns away, the back of his hand resting wearily against his forehead. He cracks an eye open and looks over his shoulder, instantly giving the act away. 

“Besides,” Kyoya supplies, smiling almost menacingly, “You wouldn’t be able to do it.”

They’re being wound up. They’re being baited. It’s reverse psychology 101. They fall for it, hook, line, and sinker. “What? Yes we could!” Kaoru insists. 

“It couldn’t be that hard,” Hikaru continues.

“Bet we could do it in our sleep,” Kaoru adds. 

Tamaki barks a laugh. “I don’t think we need to hear about what you do in your sleep,” he says slyly, and Kaoru for a sinking moment thinks that he knows before coming to his senses and realising that, unlike Hikaru, Tamaki cannot read his mind and cannot know about the carriages. Which brings Kaoru up at a loss for what he could actually be referring to. 

“It’s not easy,” Hani comments, “You’ll have to keep it up for nearly four years! It’s a toughie to keep an act going that long.” He sounds like he’s talking from experience, and the twins share a look. Perhaps this whole cute shtick is just a creepy cover. Hani proceeds to shovel a forkful of cake at the toy rabbit’s mouth and they determine that no one could be that good at acting. Except maybe themselves.

“We can do it,” they say, in unison. 

“Excellent! Superb!” Tamaki cheers, twirling once before plonking down between them. They were sitting thigh to thigh, so he mostly lands on their laps and both grimace as they’re forced to scooch to make room for him. 

“Now, the first trick is to perfect the physicalities of the move. The context will change depending on the conversation, but the move– the move has to be a signature.” Tamaki snaps his fingers in Hikaru’s face and Hikaru looks like he might bite them if they were any closer. “Watch and learn, my protégé.”

He turns to Kaoru and presses his thumb to the dent of his chin. Kaoru, in turn, swallows hard and goes cross-eyed staring down at the imposing digit. “Eyes up,” Tamaki coaxes, quietly, and Kaoru obeys. “You have to be able to look at each other like there’s no one else in the room.”

Tamaki leans in and, he’s right, there’s no one else in the room. It’s just Tamaki and Kaoru. And Hikaru, of course, but always Hikaru. This close, Kaoru can count every one of his eyelashes if he had the time. They’re blonder up close, and he has three sunspots under the bottom eyelid of one eye. Tamaki’s eyes are so blue, not sea colour so he may drown in them but verging on violet so as they may prove detrimental to his overall health this close. His focus isn’t on lip reading, instead honing in on the cupid’s bow arch of his upper lip, barely moving as he speaks so softly that Kaoru can’t hear it over the blood rushing to his face.

He understands then, with complete clarity, why girls choose Tamaki and choose for him to look at them like this, even with insincerity, every day, time and time again. It’s overwhelming to feel, even momentarily, this entertaining.

The girls have better impulse control and Kaoru’s never wanted anything he couldn’t take. Before he can remember to breathe, he closes the gap between their lips and kisses Tamaki, square on the mouth. 

There’s dead silence. 

Kaoru moves back.

Tamaki looks stunned, speechless for probably the first time in his life. Over his shoulder, the telltale vein is throbbing in Hikaru’s temple and he’s fisting his hand in his uniform trousers. Kaoru doesn’t look around, doesn’t care to see what anyone else’s reaction is. There’s only two people in the room that he cares about, and the sickly, guilty feeling starts threatening to gain legs and crawl its way out of his throat, regurgitate on the floor in front of them as an apology because he’s never had to apologise for anything before in his life and doesn’t know if his mouth is physically able to form the words. 

Tamaki stutters, once. That’s all he has time for before Hikaru reaches around, grabs him by the tie, and yanks him around to kiss him on the mouth too. 

Hikaru pulls back quicker, or at least seemingly so. Kaoru felt like his lips were joined with Tamaki’s for an eternity, but watching it happen in his reflection appears less cinematic, more grade school monkey bars. Tamaki looks like he’s going to short circuit, staring at Hikaru in grey-faced, stunned silence. 

Hani giggles sharply in the background. 

Slowly, Hikaru’s face spreads into an almost menacing grin and, slower, Kaoru’s face lifts to match it. Tamaki’s gaze flits between them, index finger hovering mid-air, halfway between accusatory and revelatory. He sputters, and their faces light up in synchronised entertainment.

“They can’t do that,” Kyoya says. He hasn’t even looked up from his clipboard. “The board will complain.”

[reachexceedinggrasp]

I have a feeling you might relate to this or you might have even related this on your blog already, but I was just thinking of that Ghoul quotation water water everywhere and not a drop to drink

I think probably my favourite, maybe ever, quiet point of characterisation in a sort of villainous or Beast love interest is his or her having a poet's soul... whether that is conscious or unconscious romantic meditation. It's like Kylo musing to Rey when he says 'You have that look in your eyes. From the forest. When you called me a monster' I love that sort of wistful observation, especially because it evokes such potent imagery ('when we fought together in the forest and then you marked yourself on my face'). Or more literally something like Ghoul citing a line of literature, even when none around except for Lucy would know what he's referencing, it's for his own arrestment and amusement, this is how he sees/interacts with the world

I guess in that way, it reveals something new about their perspective on the world, even when they're somebody seemingly cut off from it - monstrous, othered, repellent, ugly - when they're able to articulate a certain beauty which other characters may not remark upon. It's sort of covetous in that sense, but I think it also sort of helps explain what might interest them about a Beauty, after all, there's something they long for and value (spiritual, aesthetic, existential beauty).

I thought you might be able to relate 🥰

Oh, totally. And with Cooper and Ben, specifically, which is a parallel I hadn't actually noticed until you've just pointed it out, we're being shown their sensitivity as characters. Not in the sense of being considerate, but that they're aware and alert to beauty and meaning in the world despite currently occupying a narrative role which might make us think they're simply destructive or nihilistic figures. And despite the cynicism they're both ostensibly espousing.

Cooper quotes or alludes to literature practically constantly relative to how little he speaks, forever knowing people almost certainly won't understand him, and that's especially fascinating because he didn't make those kinds of references in the flashbacks. We could take this in a whole direction about how he created the Ghoul as a character to shield himself from the things he had to do to survive and is living within a meta-narrative deconstructing the reactionary anti-hero who overtook the white hat sheriff he used to play in his movies. The anti-hero he never wanted to be. He makes allusions because his life has become a story he's telling himself to stay sane. He's his own wry Dickensian narrator making asides to an imagined audience about dramatic irony and social commentary.

And an important part of his presentation to others before the war was painting himself as not sophisticated. Just a cowboy and then just a guy who plays a cowboy in the movies. He wants nothing to do with politics either in an interpersonal or broader sense, and disclaims any pretensions to being savvy despite being in a theoretically powerful position as a rich, well-connected film star. I do think he was genuinely naive, but I also think he often played dumb to avoid social conflict. He was complacent and the image he cultivated helped him remain complacent. Obviously he was very willing to be confrontational when he saw wrong or injustice right in front of him (he goes after Bud Askins directly to his face about marines getting killed by shitty equipment, he challenges Moldaver when she calls him out), but pre-bombs he mostly uses his empathic perceptiveness and charisma to keep everyone around him happy.

In the wasteland we often see him doing the opposite and deliberately riling people up in order to gather information and assess or eliminate them as threats, but he's also only gotten better at disarming people when he wants to. As a handsome charming film star he pretended not to know anything, as a scary intimidating monster he pretends he knows everything.

What I'm wondering about here is whether Cooper always had a secret nerdy side and read all the classics as a teenager or perhaps while waiting on sets when he was working as a stuntman, or whether he wanted to fit in when he started to make it in Hollywood and so tried to become cultured before realising that wasn't what anyone wanted from him. Or if he just spent 200 years alone and read anything he could find as a way to cling to his humanity. We know he was at least a bit intellectually curious before the war, because of his reading and retaining some article about studies on torture.

But YES, him quoting poetry and being so interested and insightful about Lucy, specifically is a huge part of how he's framed as a romantic figure. And he's already by far the most romantic figure in the show. If it were solely about his tragedy, you'd think they would emphasise the contrast between his pre-fallen and post-fallen state by stripping him of his heroic trappings, but they don't. He's actually more romantic post-'curse'.

It also gets me because he's an extremely smart, socially adept person who doesn't let others see him for who he really is both consciously and unconsciously on multiple levels and that layers of identity shit is my crack. He was a profoundly honest man who thought he was simple, but actually he was a glorious maze of contradiction and complexity waiting to happen who has now come into his own as a master manipulator.

[enbypotat53]

OKAY so I just spent an hour collecting screenshots, time for the analysis!

(AS ALWAYS, MAJOR SPOILERS FOR INANIMATE INSANITY EPISODE 18 UNDER CUT!!!)

So I'll be tackling this like the episode 17 analysis, breaking it up into parts (except probably many, MANY more parts), but I'll start with Inanimate Island! (This won't be chronological, mostly just a by-area thing!)

And by god, do we start off strong. AN ANTHONY KOS SONG RIGHT OUT OF THE GATE?? HOLY SHIT.

Mephone thinking back on everything, his regrets about how he treated the contestants, his fears.. just. Wow. STRONG opening. (Also his little infodump to Mepad whilst they're still asleep/booting up, me too bud. Me too.)

Gotta admit I got choked up as soon as we started, both from built-up emotions whilst waiting, and just.. how powerful this was?? He cares SO damn much about the contestants, and Cobs destroyed EVERYTHING. This was his life, his escape (and we'll get to that later). Jesus, dude.

SPEAKING OF.

FUCK THIS GUY.

Holy SHIT did Joshua Waters do a phenominal job voicing him. I don't know if I've said it before but the II crew did SO good when they recast Cobs. Genuinely I don't think I could've asked for anyone better - you KNOW a VA is great when they can make you feel PHYSICAL RAGE just by saying their lines, y'know? When I first saw the trailer I had to actually take a break because I felt sick to my stomach just HEARING how this fuckass corn cob speaks to Mephone. His frequent infantalisation (both of Mephone, the contestants, the creatorbots, AND the viewers), and his manipulation, just.. eugh. He's probably the most well-written villain I've seen in a WHILE. AND HE'S SO PATHETIC?? He's a disgusting manchild who abuses his creations because it's the only semblance of power he'll get, and IT'S GREAT. I HATE HIM (/POS).

And ngl the self aware "it's good, just don't watch S1" gag made me choke on my lucozade, so thanks AE.

AND HOLY SHIT?? MEPHONE ACTUALLY FINDS HIS VOICE AND REBELS?? I'M SO PROUD OF HIM 😭💙

Again, more of Cobs being an asshole, but bless the Shimmers - they were so damn naïve, I'm glad they were warned and managed to get away, they just wanted their child back, man :(

NOW ONTO THE SCENE THAT MADE ME AUDIBLY SCREAM AND PUNCH MY BEDROOM WALL.

THEY KILLED MY BOY. MY BABY BOY.

Fun fact: I sent this message to a friend 2 hours before the episode dropped

Yeah I'm not okay.

Not gonna lie, I had a feeling it might've gone this way but I was PRAYING it didn't. Fuck, man.. Mepad is one of my absolute favourites for a multitude of reasons - he loves the contestants with all his heart, he'd do ANYTHING to protect them, and even though we could see how angry he was at Mephone in episode 17, he still gave his life to save him (and by extension, everyone else). He's a goddamn hero, but I wish he didn't have to die (and yes, I will be drawing fanart to cope). Glad he had a moment to be a badass though, Mepad is the living equivalent of "when the calm one gets mad, you know shit's about to hit the fan" and I love him for that 💙

ALSO LOOK HOW DISTRAUGHT TACO LOOKS?? MY BABY GIRL NO 😭😭😭

You could tell how much she cared about Mepad, and their friendship was SO important to me. I'll touch on this later but end song hurt my soul, ngl

AND WE OF COURSE HAVE COBS' DEATH.

So 10 image per post limit on the app fucked me over yet again, but I wanted to also briefly talk about Toilet so no popcorn image :(

I honestly think this death was so damn fitting for Cobs. It simultaneously feels dramatic, yet so utterly pathetic. It doesn't take itself too seriously, yet it's so built up and suspenseful - this is the moment we've ALL been waiting for. Seeing this bastard get his comeuppance. And to see his demise be a consequence of his vanity? He believed himself to be above everyone - he placed himself on a golden pedestal, thinking himself to be untouchable; he never would've believed he'd fall for such a simple illusion from "feeble minds", yet he did. He's a washed up old hack, through and through. All that grandeur? Just a façade. And honestly? The popcorn scene was so damn funny. Suitcase just casually offering Mephone a part of his father's cooked corpse had me cackling like a madman, it makes Cobs seem even more pathetic than he already was; reduced to a soft, delicate, utterly flavourless food that (if we're thinking about real-life movie theatres and how much popcorn people leave on the floor) is commonly stepped all over by everyone around. He remains in death how he always was in life.

(As always this'll be part one of the analysis, so strap in, folks! This'll be a long one!)

[jacenbren]

Apologies for yet another nonsensical insomnia rant but the fact that Legato Bluesummers a) has never truly been a free man and b) cannot fathom ever living outside of servitude. really hurts man. Like ohhhhhh boy.

In the ‘98 anime (due to trimax being incomplete at the time), we never really got to see the real dark and nasty bits of Legato’s story, and trigun stampede hasn’t yet gotten a chance to really delve into his character. While Legato still served the same purpose as he did in the manga with similar events playing out, I think a lot of his character’s depth was missing in tri98—we never really learn why it is that Legato is so deeply devoted to Knives, and he’s portrayed as a lot more… theatrical?? than he is in the manga?? anyway. Tri98 Legato serves his narrative purpose and is a great villain, but he seems a bit shallow, for lack of a better word, mostly because we don’t actually get to learn a lot about him.

In comparison to his counterparts, trimax Legato is… kinda a loser. The second we meet Knives, Legato gets crumpled like a soda can and spends the majority of the series as a quadriplegic who sits menacingly in the shadows in his body brace/coffin thing (which I affectionately like to call his Bitch Cocoon). He spends his time being very weird and unlikeable and tormenting Vash in various ways, all while dramatically singing Knives’s praises, despite him being the guy who quite literally rearranged all of Legato’s limbs and permanently crippled him. All in all, despite being an absolute menace in combat and just a generally fucking unsettling guy, Legato’s kind of pathetic and really easy to dunk on at first. Just ask Elendira, who roasts the shit out of him on a daily basis because she’s bored and even “accidentally” chucks a glass of water at him! He’s an easy target!

However, I think this makes the absolute gut punch that is finding out why Legato is the way he is infinitely worse, which I absolutely adore from a narrative and storytelling standpoint.

Legato has been a slave since he was a child, in every way but name—well, he was literally a slave as a child, and more specifically, a sex slave. He grew up knowing nothing other than the absolute worst of humanity, instilling a hatred towards his own kind that would last his entire life. It’s made abundantly clear that Legato doesn’t value himself in the slightest, because he grew up as little more than a commodity, to use and dispose. When Knives razes the city Legato’s being held captive in, and goes to kill him, this is the first act of kindness he has ever received, and yet also the greatest unkindness—Knives has destroyed Legato’s life, no matter how abhorrently shitty it was. Legato has never lived a life outside slavery, so he has no idea what to do with himself.

So he turns to Knives. Millions Knives, whose goal is to eradicate the humans who have done nothing but make Legato suffer. Knives, who seems all too willing to put him out of his misery should he turn down Legato’s offer to serve him.

Legato cannot fathom a life without a master, without pain and suffering and servitude. He cannot comprehend the idea of freedom, and most of all, he can’t understand Vash. He can’t understand that someone whose kind has been used and abused by humans for centuries, who’s suffered for decades alone in the desert, could find it in himself to forgive and love the ones who hurt him so unconditionally. Vash’s very existence infuriates Legato, because Vash is a mirror image of him—a mirror image whose trauma didn’t swallow him whole and turn him into something despicable. Sure, Knives might’ve saved him, but he’s just another master to serve. Knives broke every bone in his body as punishment for disobedience, and yet somehow, Knives still favors his brother—who keeps running, who keeps refusing, who keeps avoiding his past—over Legato, who’s sworn to never disobey his orders again.

Vash is what Legato could’ve been. Vash is what Legato desperately wants to be. The problem is, Legato refuses to heal, and he doesn’t want to be fixed, either.

[stargazer-sims]

The Art of Redemption

(part 9)

previous // next // story index

—————

"You would've made a great parent," Stan says.

Stan and Beth-Anne are sitting at a table by the window in their favourite waterfront café. From their spot, they can see the wide wooden boardwalk and the grey expanse of the mist-veiled harbour beyond it.

The pewter coloured sky is promising more snow, but Beth-Anne doesn't mind. Winter is her favourite season. She loves how soft and harmless everything looks when covered by a fresh snowfall. The snow creates a dreamlike image with no deep shadows or sharp edges, and nothing that hints at the harshness of the real world.

At this time of year, the boardwalk is quiet and mostly deserted, and that's how Beth-Anne likes it best. She prefers an uninterrupted view of the sea, and it's much easier to gather her thoughts when there isn't a crowd. Even from behind a window, the sight of the empty boardwalk and the slowly undulating ocean water helps to settle her.

She's not entirely calm, but she reflects that she's certainly felt worse.

She has just finished pouring her heart out to Stan about the metaphorical roller coaster she's been on. She told him all about the confrontation between Brett and Nikolai, her chat with Brett afterwards and her misgivings about the stability of his home life, and her persistent worry that Nikolai isn't showing much progress in recovering from the incident, even after several days.

To add to her troubles, Eden's parents seem to have developed a sudden and deep-seated fear that their child will get seriously hurt at the rink, and informed her this morning that they want to pull him out of both group classes and individual training.

Although they didn't come out and say it directly, Beth-Anne suspects this has to do with Nikolai and his injury. The Seong family doesn't know Nikolai. He and Eden are definitely aware of each other, but they've never met. Still, if Evie and George Seong are even half as tuned-in to the skating world as their son, she doesn't doubt they know all about what happened at the Four Continents.

Predictably, Eden didn't take his parents' expression of their concerns very well. The skating-obsessed little boy had reacted by creating the most dramatic scene possible; refusing to take his skates off, throwing himself to the ice and howling for all he was worth when his mother and father came to pick him up.

Beth-Anne sighs. All she needs now is for something to happen to make Mariah cry, and her students will have completed a streak.

"I'd be a shit parent," she says to Stan. "I can barely cope with the six kids I've got, and they're not even mine. Well, five I guess, since Nikolai is hardly a kid. Four, if I lose little Eden."

"You're not going to lose him," Stan predicts. "Kid with that much talent? Christ, from what I've seen, some day he might even be better than Nikolai. His parents would be out of their minds to make him quit."

"Tell that to them."

"I won't have to. If he can't make it clear to them himself, what's gonna happen if they pull him off the ice will do the job. I've watched him skate, and I swear to God... that child's entire body language shouts pure joy when he's out there. What do you think would happen if they took that away from him?"

"I don't want to think about that," she says. "I can't think about another one of my boys fading away." Her throat hurts, and the half-eaten slice of raspberry cheesecake on the plate in front of her no longer looks appetizing. Her stomach clenches as if she might be sick. "Everything's so fucked up right now, and I don't know what to do."

"Beth, look at me." Stan reaches across the small table and covers her hand with his. "Take a deep breath, and then tell me how much of the shit that's going on right now is actually something you can control."

She tries to meet his gaze, but her eyes start to sting and she lowers her head so he won't have a full view of her if she starts crying. "I... I don't know."

"Yes, you do." Stan's tone is firm, but not unkind. "You have no control over other people's choices. You have no control over how they act or what they feel. The only person you have control over is you, and when shit gets bad, the only feelings and actions you're responsible for are yours."

"Yeah, but—"

"No 'buts'. You know I'm right."

"I guess."

"No 'guess', either."

"Sorry."

"Tell me something," Stan says. "Are you being kind and fair? Are you really listening to your kids and doing your best to understand what they need?"

"Yeah."

"And are you helping them get what they need?"

"Of course," she says. "As best as I'm able to."

"Then, you're doing fine." Stan squeezes her hand lightly. "Those three boys and Mariah, Katie and Ruby, they love you. Anyone can see that, and anyone can see how much you love them. You don't need to be able to fix everything. You just need to be present for them, and it sounds like you are, so how about you stop beating yourself up, yeah?"

"I want them to be happy. I hate it when they're hurting."

"I know." Stan still hasn't let go of her hand. He grips it a little tighter and adds softly. "Just like I hate it when you're hurting. You think I don't wish I could wave a magic wand and take all the pain away from you? If I could do that, I would, but I can't."

She turns her hand so she can finally grasp his fingers in return. "This is enough," she says. "You being here with me. Being my friend and listening to all my problems."

"It's enough for your students too," he tells her. "Most people aren't looking for miracles."

"Is it going to get better?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

"Yeah, but... can you just tell me, please? I need to hear somebody say it."

"It'll get better. It always does." He smiles. "Your boys will be fine. Little Eden will get to keep skating, and Brett will grow out of needing to be constantly reassured, and Nikolai won't grieve forever."

"And what about me?" she asks.

Stan's gaze on her is steady. "There's more on your mind than all the stuff with your boys."

It's not a question. He knows her well enough that he doesn't need confirmation. What he's really doing is offering her an easy entry into talking about it. Stan is good at that, getting people to open up to him.

She closes her eyes and concentrates on the warmth of his hand. Stan isn't a physically affectionate person, but he knows when she needs grounding and he knows how to do it.

He'd sat with her and held her hand for hours when she'd been recovering in the hospital after her accident. He'd read books to her, some in English and some in his native Czech, so that she could hear his voice without having to say anything in reply. He'd dried her tears like no one else in her life had ever done. Stan has never been repulsed by her scars, never been afraid of her past.

Stan Kovac loves her like her parents should have. There's never been any question in her mind about that. He's not her real father, but he's the father she needs.

"It's the nightmares," she practically whispers. "The nightmares are back. Flashbacks too."

"How long?" Stan asks.

"I've been having nightmares since Four Continents. The flashbacks... they started up again a few days ago."

"And the drinking?" he probes gently. "That too?"

She shakes her head. "No. I promised you I wouldn't, and I meant it. I almost slipped up, but I got scared. Of what would happen, I mean. What I might do."

"You should've called me."

"I was scared."

Her voice is barely audible, but Stan still catches her words. "I wouldn't have judged you, little bee. You know that," he says. "Milena and I would've taken care of you. You and your Nikolai both."

"I'm sorry."

"No," he murmurs. "No, miláčku. You have nothing to apologize for. You're doing your best, and I know you've been trying very hard to manage everything. No one should expect more from you than that."

She tries to keep it together, but hearing him use the same term of endearment for her that he uses for Alžběta, his own daughter, causes something inside her to break. She's been holding so much in, fighting so damn hard to be strong for everyone, when all she really wants is to let go. She longs for somebody to take over the fight for her, just for a little while, so she can rest and not have to worry or be afraid. She wants someone to protect her like a parent protects their small child, to shield her from all the monsters waiting in dark closets, hungry to destroy her.

Without warning, an involuntary whimper escapes her. She pulls her hand away from Stan's and presses it over her trembling lips instead. Her eyes are streaming tears, blurring the world around her so that her surroundings no longer have meaning.

Stan doesn't say anything. He stands up, pulls some cash from his pocket and places it on the table between their two unfinished dessert plates. Then, he’s standing next to her chair, taking the hand that's not covering her mouth. He leads her toward the door, and then outside into the chilly February air.

Out on the boardwalk, Stanislav Kovac who rarely hugs anybody, pulls her into his arms and holds her tight. The last vestiges of her self-control disappear. She buries her face in the scratchy, vaguely peppermint-scented warmth of his old wool coat and lets out all her frustration, self-doubt, exhaustion, pain and fear in sobs that threaten to take her breath away.

She has no idea how long they stand there, but eventually her tears run out. She feels drained, and she doesn't want to move. In the back of her mind, she even wonders if she can. It would be nice to stay in the safety of Stan's embrace forever, as impossible as she knows it is.

"Let's go home, little bee," Stan says.

She tries to reply, but the only sound her aching throat produces is a tiny, pitiful squeak. She wants to tell him she likes hearing him call her 'little bee'. The pet name he gave her years ago is hers alone, and it speaks volumes to her desperate heart.

"We'll stop by your house first," he continues. "You'll need some things if Milena and I are going to keep you for the night."

"Wh-what... what about Nikolai?" she somehow manages to ask.

"We'll bring him as well, if he wants to come," says Stan. "There's plenty of room for both of you. He can have the downstairs guest room, and you can have Alžběta's old room. We've redecorated it. I think you'll like it."

She moves her head against his shoulder in her best version of a nod. "Okay."

"You can have a nice meal and a hot bath and a good long sleep. If you're feeling better in the morning, then we'll talk. Okay? And if you think you need a professional, I'll help you get in touch with somebody."

She sniffles. "No. I had my fill of shrinks a long time ago. I just... I need to tell somebody everything. And I need someone to tell me I'm going to be okay, that I'm not too fucked up to be normal. That I'm not broken."

Stan strokes the back of her head, just once, smoothing down her windblown hair. "We're all broken, Beth. Every one of us in our own way, and that's all right. It's okay to be broken. The important thing is not to let yourself believe you can never be mended."

[starryybugs]

(so first sorry this is so long)

i love that cellbit is just repeatedly pushed towards melissa

the perceived difference between roier and messisa being roier is a passifist and melissa is not and has torn a mans throat out is great (im sure cellbit would love to see roier tear a mans throat out despite not being able to imagine it)

i love that cellbit is assumed by a lot of the supernatual characters to be melissas trophy husband (its not technically wrong if you think about it for a moment as a reader) but like the whole idea that roier is so whipped regardless that people can see thst hes in love with cellbit (im sure cellbit would demand to keep up the ruse after he finds out roier is melissa because what would people think despite roier wanting to be dramatic and kiss him at an event to prove a point and im sure he would let roier do whatever he wants)

i love the idea of after finding out him just sitting there thinking over everything roier did as melissa and how hot it was because it was roier doing it and probably how much he wants roier to do all that stuff again as himself. (and how much he wants to see roier covered in blood too probably)

i know you said she hands him a thing of water and a rag but i love the image of roier coming home covered in blood and jaiden holding out a hose and telling him clean himself off and juat him having to mostly strip and hose himself off in the backyard before he enters the house

i think former canibal cellbit would love to be turned into a vampire to be with roier forever but also fear regressing back into his old ways because of it

i love the idea of roier seeing cellbit while he is kidnapped and immediatly just fussing over him in their normal way despite just having torn a mans arm off and being covered in blood

god i love not quite fledgeling cellbit and roier (im sure reluctantly) having to let the federation finish whatever the fuck they started to do to cellbit

its absolutely no problem how long it is, I love it hearing your thoughts! and I'll go in order under the cut

1. it starts out with her specifically seeking him out, just because roier wants to show off in front of his boyfriend. and when he realizes that cellbit doesn't know and also cellbit is possibly in danger, it's the perfect way to keep him safe without scaring him away.

2. cellbits views of melissa and roier are so different that he wonders how they're even related sometimes. melissa has and will kill a man just for making a comment about him, and roier cried because he accidentally killed a spider one time. a lot of his thoughts on melissas actions and seeing her face and the look in her eyes really boil down to, "she looks like roier, if roier did this I'd fall in love all over again."

3. cellbit is most commonly assumed to be her trophy husband, but some also think hes her thrall/blood bag. it's debated for awhile but eventually everyone can see how absolutely devoted to cellbit he is, so trophy husband is the consensus. either way, it works out because it gets other supernatural people off of him. because people don't want to mess with what's melissa's.

cellbit gets worried about what people would think if its public that melissa was a lie, because he knows by that point it was roier's way of having freedom. but roier tells him he doesn't care about that and wants cellbit to be able to be public about his relationship with roier as himself.

4. cellbit does, in fact, fall in love all over again and his reactions would be funny to roier if he wasn't so worried that cellbit was falling out of love with him. and cellbit does remember seeing roier covered in blood at his rescue, right after roier asks him if he's alright, and then of course he asks roier to marry him

5. jaiden has absolutely threatened to hose roier down on some of the worse nights, specifically during the week they and bobby are staying at foolish and vegetta's because cellbit is missing and roier is tearing the city apart trying to find him

6. cellbit does consider becoming a vampire once he knows roier is one. mostly because he can't imagine having to say goodbye to roier, or roier living forever without him. the cannibalism is mostly behind him by the time all of this takes place but he doesn't mind the taste of blood as much as he hates the feeling of flesh between his teeth

7. roier absolutely turns into a doting, concerned mess the moment he sees cellbit behind that door. he drops the arm he's literally still holding and immediately goes to check him over, not even processing that cellbit is asking him questions until they're out of that damned building and he knows they're safe

8. neither of them want to go to the federation, but cellbit knows that they're the only ones who can help him and roier isn't going to let him go alone. are you crazy? roier still doesn't like being there, or trust them but when they say that there's a possibility that cellbit could either die or go on a bloodthirsty killing spree if it's not completed, he really doesn't have a choice

[brian-in-finance]

Instagram

How Lauren Lyle Got Ready for the 2024 BAFTAs

Behind the scenes with the Outlander veteran as she prepares for British film's biggest night.

LIA TOBY/BAFTA//GETTY IMAGES

"You can take this really seriously," says Lauren Lyle, "but the BAFTAs are meant to be a good time." That's just what the actress—a star of Outlander who's about to begin filming the second season of the series Karen Pirie; season one is streaming now—was aiming to do. She attended the awards as a guest of BritBox, which exclusively broadcast the show in the U.S., and took the opportunity to go all out in a dress by 16Arlington, accessories by Jimmy Choo, and jewelry by Messika. "I want to feel like myself," Lyle told T&C as she was headed to the ceremony, "just an elevated version."

Here, Lyle let Town & Country tag along as she prepared.

Jamie Salmons, Courtesy of BritBox

"When you first get the invitation, the question is what to wear. I immediately went to my stylist, Holly White, to get a brief. This time, we wanted to go minimal and modern. I wore 16Arlington, which is a very cool and sleek brand. I wanted to look good and make a statement, but also wanted to be comfortable. You want to turn heads without being obnoxious about it."

Jamie Salmons, Courtesy of BritBox

"Because the dress is slick and dramatic, I wanted to keep my hair up to allow the dress to have its moment, and my hair stylist, Fabio Petri, and I were leaning into something a bit 1990s, which feels right at the moment. We modernized it a bit, but that’s where the inspiration came from."

Jamie Salmons, Courtesy of BritBox

"My makeup, done by Mata Marielle, was similarly inspired; it was clean and fresh but with a nod to the '90s in the brown lip, which is done sort of how Claudia Schiffer used to do it. It’s a long day—carpet, ceremony, dinner, after parties—so you need makeup that won’t end up melting off of your face."

Jamie Salmons, Courtesy of BritBox

"There are times when you have like four days before an event, but this time wasn’t. We had about a month to plan and pull something together. The mad dash was today, because we started so early. You go through the process of picking outfits and from there you get ideas about the hair and makeup that’ll go with it. Everyone involved has their own ideas about what they want to bring to life."

Jamie Salmons, Courtesy of BritBox

"Last night was the nominees party, which was a really glamorous night at the National Gallery, and then a bit of an after party, where I was trying to find Margot Robbie. This morning, I woke up at 8 am to be at my hotel by 10 to start glam for a new day. I got to the hotel, I had a coffee and we started right away. Then we had lunch—a club sandwich and some fries—and it was time to get dressed."

Jamie Salmons, Courtesy of BritBox

"As far as accessories go, I have Jimmy Choo shoes and a bag, and Messika jewelry. I am dripping in diamonds, from my ears to my fingers. It feels fantastic."

Jamie Salmons, Courtesy of BritBox

"To keep going for a long night, I drink lots of water, I’ll have snacks, but mostly I’ll drink lots of Champagne. I have nothing but a massage tomorrow, so I can really go all out tonight. I have work to do later this week, but tonight I want to enjoy it and have fun."

"When it comes to events like the BAFTAs, more than anything you're hoping to have fun!"

Town & Country

Remember… you can take this really seriously, but the BAFTAs are meant to be a good time. — Lauren Lyle

[woodsfae]

B5 s03e07 Exogenesis table of contents • previous episode

I try to pay attention to ships' names because they can give hints to the nature of a character or a thematic element, but today's is pretty oblique. The shuttle Dyson. Is it for Dyson physics? The interactions of quantum elements with physical matter from a quick wikipedia romp. Or is it another dyson that I don't know the reference for? Fun theorizing.

This newly minted Lieutenant seems plot-relevant!

Marcus the Ranger is hanging out on B5, it seems. I wonder if it's one of those times they talk about someone to remind the audience they exist, but they don't show up in the episode.

Yikes! The Dyson people are doing weird alien bugs melding into humans shit. Dr Franklin's probably gonna do more coke-fueled medical work.

Corwin the new Lieutenant is going to get Susan Ivanova's best subtle grilling as to his allegiances. Can't wait. But till then, some Marcus harassing a sleeping vendor by quoting the Scottish play to him.

And then a meeting with another Ranger who gives him the funniest information report imaginable. Not so much sharing information as making sly allusions to what may be. Funny and dramatic. It is interesting seeing Marcus work. He's like a local liaison, coordinator, recruiter, and information gathered all at once. I guess you have to wear a lot of different hats when you're in a small start-up with limited staff and a ever-widening scope.

I love the sheer medical garb and ppe, and also like the new mesh arm and shoulder layer Dr Franklin is modeling. Also like the 3d imager! The alien bug is now wrapped around the dead guy's spinal column and is imaged like criss-crossing threads. I enjoy this medical mystery for Dr Franklin. He could use some enrichment, and if there aren't mass causalities it might be almost relaxing for him.

Looks like Marcus's absent colleague/contact has fallen in with a new crowd. A crowd of people all infected with this new-to-Stephen parasite? What would a parasite's agenda even be? And the vendor who wasn't feeling well is missing as well.

Listen new Lieutenant. Listen to me closely. Susan Ivanova is not hitting on you right now. She is the second in command of Babylon 5. Obviously she wants to informally assess a new Lieutenant under her command!

Funny that Garibaldi was enthused about the idea of hanging with Marcus and inviting him to things, but now that Marcus himself is asking him to do something, he doesn't wanna hang. And I actually laughed at Marcus's clever wordplay. He didn't lie at all, but strongly suggested that Garibaldi cares a lot about the issue and is asking Dr Franklin to help Marcus. He must have studied at the same Aes Sedai school as Delenn!

Shenanigans are afoot at the old vendor's quarters! His shirt is all jacked up and his back is pulsing! I don't like that! Or all the parasite-distributers with guns.

Stephen and Marcus are asking the same questions I am. What are the parasites' motives? What are their aims? What are their actual effects on the humans?

Dr Franklin thinks the parasite takes control of their neural system. I wonder if they are trying to transport themselves somewhere, or survive somehow. Garibaldi's point about why they would be targeting people from Down Below is a good one.

Marcus is sassy! I like him. He's very roguish. He and Dr Franklin will be fine. I hope they enjoy their field trip together!

I hope Susan is fucking with this guy right now. Just tormenting him over the roses because he panicked and lied and said he found them lying on her doorstep.

An unsettling conversation with the person who says he "was once Duncan, but is now Vindrizi." And he says they are just trying to survive. dun dun! This still has the potential to be a mostly enriching field trip for Dr Franklin. And it's a great further introduction to Marcus. I like him tremendously.

Susan's testing the insubordinate waters is kinda sorta subtle. But she does get the necessary information. He would report another officer whom he say speaking or acting against Earthdome. They will have to work around him!

Oooooh, gossiping about Susan Ivanova! Franklin likes her. Marcus is concerned that she seems more distant now than when he first came on board.

Marcus: "I sense in her a key as yet unturned." Dr Franklin: "What does that mean?" Marcus: "I don't know, but I think it will be fascinating to find out."

dude is just saying allegorical things and then admitting he doesn't even know why he thinks that. Lol. But somehow it's charming?? What a little smartass (affectionate). Dr Franklin thinks so, too. And I love that they're failing the reverse bechdel test (I jest, I jest).

Stephen is right that Marcus is not Ivanova's type. We all her know her type is blond and telepathic with a tortured backstory.

This has been a very fun plot. Stephen has two patients in one, and Marcus just took out two guards in one plot! And got Stephen's Link and triggered a security protocol! Finally, some backup is on the way. There's just enough time for Marcus and Stephen to discover the aliens' tragic backstory and suddenly be required to negotiate for their safe passage to the recently-arrived security team. But they do have wrap up their little prison break first!

Aha! Information sharing! The person who was once Duncan says that all the humans there volunteered, and that they will all have a better life this way.

Aww, and they have a hell of a backstory! Less tragic, and more epic. Living histories. Less parasites, and more a holy order of record-keepers.

This is a wonderful little story. Very epic. Another of those cool details of worldbuilding. Also it's fucking hilarious how Stephen Franklin is like "I will only allow this if I get to medically oversee it every step of the way."

Oh, and here does come the tragedy. Duncan's…symbiote? left him so Duncan could convince Marcus and Stephen they were telling the truth, but the separation caused damage and he wouldn't be able to rejoin without permanent damage. But at least he feels inspired to go really live and see some amazing things with the rest of his life. And I think he's wise to say that we should all wake up and decide to be special.

Lol, Susan wasn't fucking with the Lieutenant Corwin about the roses. Inadvertently, that guy has played a hell of a prank on both her and Marcus! Hah!

Ivanova, throwing the roses on the bar: "Keep em!" Marcus, beaming and picking them up: "Thanks! I will!"

Really laughed hard at that one.

Alright, I'm starting to see where some of you acquired your crushes on Marcus! He's cute and charming! And very nonthreatening. I wouldn't mind being buds with him. He seems genuinely really an entertaining person to hang out with.

This was overall an interesting and fun episode. I enjoyed theorizing about it. I can't discern a connection between the name of the shuttle the symbiote record keepers arrived in and any plot. If you have thoughts on that let me know! It also isn't often you see symbiotic relationships with bug-like critters. I know now that DS9 was accused of lifting a lot of details from the original B5 pitch, but I wonder if this isn't a nod back the other way, especially since Trill symbiotes were introduced in TNG, which predated the B5 pitch if I'm not mistaken.

next episode

[franstastic-ideas]

Mei, I am definitely looking at the Nimbasa Ferris Wheel event with the X-transceiver like I’m on The Office. Starry-eyed has an extra layer of cuteness knowing she wears space-buns. Nagisa could be a reference to something other than the water relation, but again, the kind of softness that matches.

The little gremlin! I like the fact spirit can have a double meaning as a “sprite” not so much in modern english, but more in word origin. And I see it mostly attributed to children. Nox is def related to night, the moon, ghost-type, honestly the mythology writes itself. You literally have an owl archer. And something in my brain ticks it as a good choice you went with Nox over Nyx or any other feminine-esque name despite also referring to a goddess for some reason, intentional?

Akari, The Skyfallen Luminary, and the one I could suspect to be your favorite bc it’s all kinds of pretty and fun. Honestly gorgeous all around. It’s not easy coming up with three word titles that captures everything you want in a way that feels alive or cool, but you’ve done it for sure. And Seraphina? I’m giggling even more I don’t need to google that to know the religious symbolism here, and with fire. Oh, PLA and Volo. You’ve started a whole thing here aesthetically. I’m bouncing off the walls from it tho, the research that goes into this is my jam, bread and butter.

Juliana (The Straight A's Scholar) GIRL PLS I’m bout to cry, I am not gonna get anxious over a Pokegirl y’all don’t KNOW what real college is like for hard science majors in your cozy Pokémon World (just got out of an exam) but FINE go be a scholar like in the old days. PHDs ain’t no walk in the park either irl. But alas, yeah, that’s Paldea for you, I GUESS I have to say congratulations. She’s a good girl, and bonus points for the culturally fitting nicknames.

This is not something I know how to express, but I read each name like it’s a title card of a movie flashing across the screen with a dramatic and lit up sequence with all the girls and little made-up animations and whatever else I picture that goes along with the backgrounds of the names and I go “hm yeah” *nods* that be them. So kudos all around!

Mei seems to be under the impression that she's in a shoujo rather than an adventure game. She sets off from Aspertia City with the hope that her journey will be filled with romance, that she will finally find her true love, her prince...

As much of a sentimentalist as she is though, do keep in mind that Mei still defeats Ghetsis at his worst.

I consistently refer to Mizuki as a 'horrid little creature', even though she's actually one of the taller girls. She moved to Alola from Kanto and originates from Lavender Town, so she has a camaraderie with Ghost-types.

You know that girl who asks Red or Leaf if they believe in ghosts and if told 'No', she replies, "That white hand on your shoulder... I'm just imagining it." That's Mizuki.

Akari's title is indeed one I hold in high favor, because of the multiple meanings behind it. Skyfallen of course pertains to her falling from the space-time rift, and a luminary is someone who inspires or influences others, referencing how Akari brings about change in Hisui.

But luminary can also mean 'angel'. When you pair that definition with her status as The Skyfallen, it paints the image of a guardian angel descending upon the region. Which is certainly what Volo sees her as.

Juliana, she's essentially the perfect student. She shows up to class on time, she loves every second of it, and she's entirely devoted to her studies. So much so, the grand majority of her Pokémon's names begin with the letter 'A'.

She has to do the intellectual heavy lifting between her and Arven. Juliana would be more than happy to tutor him, though.

[xtruss]

For a guy who takes such captivating photos of boats and coastal maritime settings—especially during ferocious storms—Benjamin Williamson has a surprisingly limited amount of experience being out on the water when the waves kick up and there’s a nasty blow.

He grew up in Mississippi, where he spent a fair bit of his childhood paddling around a lake in a canoe. When he was 16, his family moved to Maine, where he would go out on his father’s 23-foot catboat about 10 or 20 times a year. The family would mostly sail in and around Brunswick, but never when there was any significant breeze. “My mom was always terrified any time we’d heel over in the wind, so we didn’t get to enjoy it that much,” he says. “But I’ve always been on the water.”

Commercial Boats in Portland. Benjamin Williamson

It was in Maine around 2011 that he realized he had a knack for, and then a passion for, photography. He was taking walks around his house in Brunswick when he started picking up a camera for fun. Quickly, he says, he became obsessed.

“It was beautiful beaches and the fishing culture that involves a lot of lobstering,” Williamson says. “The lighthouses drew me in too. I thought those were really unique from an aesthetic perspective and culturally significant for the area. They tell a story about humans caring about each other.”

Taking photos became the only thing he wanted to do, even if his kit was, by most professional standards, quite limited. He started out by shooting with a Canon PowerShot and then upgraded to a Canon Rebel. “I had the lens that it came with, and for two years, that’s all I had for gear, but I would take tons of photos, and I would scour books that I checked out of the library,” he says. “I networked with other photographers and asked a bunch of questions like, ‘How do you edit a photo to make it look better?’”

The Fishing Shack on Bailey Island in Harpswell. Benjamin Williamson

At the time, he was married, but yet to have the three kids who are part of the family today. His wife was in school back then too, so he had time to take photographs and post them online. Within a few years, he got the attention of Down East magazine, whose team started requesting photos and then sending him on assignments. “My first assignment was a good one,” he says. “They sent me to Lubec to photograph a state park. I got lucky with the weather.” In 2016, the magazine offered him the job of staff photographer.

Since 2022, Williamson has been his own boss with Benjamin Williamson Photography. Half his business comes from hosting photography workshops and seminars, with the other half coming from print sales in gift shops, at craft fairs and elsewhere around Maine. Williamson says his specialties are lighthouses and lobster boats. He’s not shooting pure landscape images, he says. “It’s really about the places and spaces where man and nature come together and interact in beautiful ways.”

He has a serious knack for capturing weather events, which have fascinated him ever since he was a child. He remembers being a boy and running to the window when storms came through. He also was a dedicated viewer of The Weather Channel. “As a teenager, when the Internet came around, I would watch what the forecasters were talking about behind the scenes,” he says.

That passion now translates into his photographs, including two of the favorite images he has captured so far. An image (shown above) titled “December 23, 2022 Portland Head Light,” he says, includes “the most dramatic wave I’ve ever seen. That was an absolutely catastrophic storm. After the wave hit, I walked around to the lighthouse and saw lots of damage—a door blown up, a window blown out, the slate walkway washed away. It showed me how powerful these storms are.”

Portland Head Light, Cape Elizabeth. Benjamin Williamson

Another of his favorites is an image titled, simply, “Maine Lightning,” (shown at right). He shot it from the trunk of his car, with the hatchback open to protect him from the storm. It includes a purple-blue sky. “That’s the real color,” he says. “It was late twilight, with a bolt of lightning filling about two-thirds of the frame. It’s so picturesque, the structure of the bolt, the branching nature of it,” Williamson says. “I’ve seen a lot of lightning bolts, but never one that’s almost perfectly symmetrical like that.”

That particular photograph, he adds, is an example of how simply being in the right place at the right time and taking a lot of photographs can often yield an exceptional result. “Mother Nature was the artist for that one,” he says. “I was just lucky enough to be there at the right time to capture it.”

Lightning at Lookout Point in Harpswell. Benjamin Williamson

[ilikereadingactually]

A Sweet Sting of Salt

A Sweet Sting of Salt by Rose Sutherland

i have to get this out of the way first: i can't stand this cover. it doesn't match the book at all imo. this cover says "sexy YA romance," and doesn't say "queer historical fantasy" to me at all, and folks looking for sexy YA romance will be disappointed, and folks looking for queer historical fantasy will have a hard time finding it. but my feelings about cover design aside, i did in fact look closer at this book, and decided to read it, and loved the hell out of it! a very charming pearl inside an oyster. which is actually not a great metaphor, because i like the way oysters look aesthetically, and i do not like the way this cover looks aesthetically. i'll stop going on about it, i've typed enough words that the image has gone mostly above the fold.

so! this was a lovely book! it's set in the early 1800s in Nova Scotia, which i know nothing about, but that didn't actually matter to my enjoyment. it's not really about the history of the time, aside from the way of life and social mores of this little town by the ocean. which is a plus for me personally because i'm bad at/not terribly interested in historical Events, i'm always more compelled by the characters and their relationships. so i was very compelled here by Jean, unmarried twentysomething lesbian midwife; Jean's mentor/surrogate mother Anneke and her friend/surrogate brother/fellow queer Laurie; especially compelled by Muirin, the "mysterious" Scottish wife of Jean's neighbor.

i say "mysterious" in quotes only because it takes Jean quite a while to figure out what's going on with Muirin, on several levels--which is not a problem! Sutherland does an excellent job of keeping Jean's gradual understanding believable, while also giving the genre-savvy reader everything we need to see the story under the story. the dramatic irony is delightful. the slow building love story is delightful. the dips into historical queerness was delightful, well-balanced and given with nuance. the climactic tension was tense as hell, the resolution made me weepy, and best of all...selkies!! surprise, this is a selkie story, which is one of my favorite things. it's a struggle for me not to be one of those white girls who is uncomfortably woo-woo about what she thinks is the witchy pagan spirituality of her Celtic ancestors because one of her great grandfathers came over from Ireland. selkies bring it out in me though T^T

the deets

how i read it: an e-galley from NetGalley, which i read in one sitting after work yesterday, cuddled in bed. what bliss.

try this if you: saw The Secret of Roan Inish at a formative age and/or just are into selkies, love seeing historical queers find ways to be together, dig kidfic, or long for the ocean.

some bits i really liked: Muirin and Jean being relatable

Jean caught a glimpse of Muirin's back past his shoulder; she sat on the bed in the far room, gazing out the window at the sea. Jean couldn't have said why she was sure Muirin was looking over the woodlot to the bay, and not at the trees or the empty field behind the house, but she was certain of it, somehow. Muirin had grown up on an island, and she could be twenty miles inland and still have seagulls in her eyes., was the sort who'd pine if she were kept from the shore for long. Jean knew sea-longing too well not to have seen it in Muirin. Some people had salt water in their blood.

---

No, what Jean minded about going to church was the people. She was already beginning to chafe at beginning so closed-in with neighbors and didn't want to be in town long enough to have to come again next Sunday. She wasn't used to having to see and talk with a dozen different people and more each day anymore. Maybe in a bigger place it would be different? Where you'd see people but not know them all by name, and have them know you, too, and want to stop you to tell you all about their children, and their business, and their neighbor's business, too. Where you wouldn't have to wonder what they were all thinking about you, or guard yourself as close.

pub date: April 9, 2024!!

[rk-ocs]

No title, for this is not a thing defined by few words

When I was a kid, I used to play the Sims, and I did not GET the social meter. I didn't understand why it went down and that was bad, nor why friendship decayed over time when you didn't maintain connection with people.

I felt people could just connect, and it would stay on the level of friendship once you had suficiently leveled it. After all, you had bonding experiances as friends, why would it go back down to acquaintance?

I discovered the social part on the personality horoscope made it go down faster, and from then on my Sims were 0 social, and high activity or something, so I could could better focus them on leveling up their stats.

Maybe I was unintentionally making them in my image. Lol.

Now that I'm an adult and have been through a pandemic, the social stat makes a lot of sense. Your connections with people do weaken if you don't do things with them.

Even if that thing is just school, it's a shared experience that builds a bond with other people, that connects you.

It hurts to feel yourself slide into the roll of acquaintance.

Hey, remember when we were facinated by eachother. When we could make eachother laugh, and played games, and looked forward to being with eachother?

I miss that. I miss it when you were excited to talk to me to the point of starting the conversations. It feels like I'm always trying now, and maybe you will pick it up. You don't invite me anymore, and I wonder if I just show up and annoy you. Do you just put up with me?

Did I become borring? I know I have trouble topic switching, and maybe I've become like a CD on repeat, a set of songs you used to love but are now familar enough to be just background music.

Or maybe I'm suffocating. Always wanting attention, sending posts that I think intresting, and want to show you the cool stuff I've seen. Like shiny rocks. But I don't know if you see them anymore. You don't really react to them anymore, or any older stuff, so I have no idea. Maybe I've burried you in shiny rocks. Maybe the colour has gotten so varied that nothing stands out.

Maybe its that I'm insecue, and making a mountain out of a molehill. It's been going on long enough, that I don't think so. But then again, reading social situations is not my forte, and RSD could be kicking me in the ribs hard right now. I don't know. I'm not good at making friends.

Or maybe I failed to engage at something important, or maybe several important things, so caught up in my headspace that I missed the signs and squandered oppertunities. Maybe its something I failed to learn in kindergarten.

Maybe they are like plants and some are flowers, and therefore short lived, where others are like trees and last seasons. I thought I had trees. But plants need water, and die from too much or too little, and I am a bad gardner.

Maybe we outgrew each other. Maybe you know that, and I don't reconize it. Maybe I don't want to. Maybe I don't want to look down and face that hole in my heart. Maybe you pulled away long ago, and I am only just clueing in. How can one know? It's not like its the sort of thing you just TELL other people, even if there were the right words to tell someone in.

Maybe its not one thing, but a little bit of everything.

I miss you. I miss hearing your thoughts and telling you about mine, and talking about everything under the sun it felt like, up until too late at night. I miss it when we shared topics in common, both obligations and pleasure. I miss it when we went out and did things together. I miss you.

You didn't die.

Thats a thing. You learn how to deal with death, and you learn how to deal with a fight, some big dramatic event that changes things, but how do you deal with ghosts? A specter that still walks and talks, but whose connection to you is now mostly intangible?

Thats a thing the Sims didn't get right. Its harder to raise the social connection level from acquaintances to friends the second time. Whatever progress we make when we talk is set back by not talking too much after that. Its your life, I should try not to be pushy. I don't want to be TOO MUCH.

Unlike in the Sims, I can't check Relationship Stats, and so have no idea if we are in the 40's or 30's.

Sorry Sims. I was not great at making friends as a kid, which seems to have grown into not being great at making friends as an adult, but far more aware of why being lonley might make you start talking to yourself. I'm not that lonley, but I think the pandemic has made everyones social stats worse, and I notice it now in an absence of what was before. Sorry I made you like that, so caught up in your activities that you miss the people around you and don't notice until YOU MISS them.

I'm sorry I can't travel to the past. There's a lot of things I miss there. But it couldn't be my brain who looks to the past who hangs there. Sending my mind back in time, to when I had more confidence and less experience would be counter intuitive. The past self would be crushed under the weight of experience. I know that now.

To try to stop, to cut you out of my life is unthinkable, like cutting out a leg, or another important limb. I would never do that. I'm glad we met. You have enriched my life for the better.

I wouldn't want to time travel to stop it. Maybe try to repair- no that sounds wrong, it wasn't broken, to make it sturdier, enhance (maybe?)- our friendship into something that could be stronger today. But even with experience, I don't know what that would be, what would help instead of hinder, so its for the best I can't.

So I'm left wanting. Missing. And this self reflection that Ultimatly just brings more questions, and maybe I should sleep instead of writing this late at night or early in the morning, perspective dependant. You would probably tell me to get my sleep.

So, ok friend

I love you, I miss you

Stay happy.

[kcte]

"I think I'd like that. There's something about having a man helpless and at my will that's just orgasmic. You know what I mean?" Kate mused, as her mind floated to generated images of that very thought. Particularly, thoughts of him. "I don't think you, or any other man, would be able to handle what I'd do to you."

Her nose crinkled at his remark about royalty across the waters. She'd never cared for the monarchy, and believed if anything, it was purely a tourist trap. "I should think so. I've definitely got better taste in lifestyle choices than her. Poor Kate can never party again, never get fucked up, never meet strange men who appear from the depths of the water with such a — " Hot hot form. "Creative imagination." She found herself unaware at the added time to their handshake, but mostly because her fingers hadn't wanted to depart from his. "So, you're Harry and I'm Kate?" Her eyes narrowed, as she refrained from cackling at the irony herself. "Funnily enough, I think I'm more of the outcast though... which I guess makes you the royalty here." She teased.

"I'm already trespassing, why don't I add some light arson to the mix?" Unfortunately, that would be very on point for her character if she were to start a fire. However, that would be a story for another day, if they were to ever see each other again. As she listened to his spiel, she waited until he'd finished before she rolled her eyes dramatically. "Shut up," she said. "But you're right, I do take what I want." And in that moment, she wanted him — or rather the feeling he would provide her with. She'd never been opposed to trying it on with a stranger, and he was practically handing himself over on a silver platter. Well, she hoped he was. Leaning further inwards, she wasted no time in closing the gap between them and pressing a kiss to his lips.

Eyebrows raising at the suggestive undertone to her remark he couldn’t help but break out into a cheeky smile, amusement sparkling in his eyes. Well this girl was quite a piece of work and he was into it. “True, you can. I’ll be entirely at your mercy the whole time, totally unable to do anything, what a sight that would be.” Pulling a dramatically worried look, one hand going to his chest, as if appalled at the very idea even though it wasn’t ever going to come to fruition. The game of make believe was enjoyable as he fully lay down on the dock on his back, looking up at the blonde with the sun behind her head like a halo. Ironic considering the current topic. 

“Well there you go, you’ve just found yourself one. Not sure where I’ll find the armour though…might have to go through a couple of vintage stores. Maybe search for some long lost treasure, they usually have armour in them right?” His legs dangling off the dock were still dipped in the water even as he was laying down, making it entirely necessary that he kick his legs so splash a little. Lazily. As her hand came towards him he sat back up again, leaning on his far arm, using his other to shake with. “Kate, well isn’t that bloody ironic. Princess Kate - personally I think you’re a considerable improvement on the UK one but don’t tell anyone I said that. That would have me in the stocks a second time in one day. Nightmare.” A half smile, keeping her hand in his for a prolonged second. “Harry, nice to meet you Kate.” Not blind to the irony behind his name as well. 

Turning to look at where the joint went over into the grass he raised an eyebrow, chuckling. “You trying to light up my property? Damn. Brutal. Here I was thinking we were getting along so well.” Her face moved towards his, his smile widened, not stupid enough to not be able to pick up what she was putting down. “You’re going to let me have a second guess, well that’s very kind of you princess Kate. I can think of some things that might work. Assuming you don’t have anywhere you need to be anytime soon, I tend to like to take my time. I’m a generous person you see. Then again you strike me as the kind of girl who is more than happy to take what she wants, which is admirable.” 

[salesart]

falon'din waking up from uthenera because his temple flooded or smth I dunno