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demonic0angel · 5 months ago

Note

Normal City spirit Danny except villain attacks are pretty much like horrific migraines or something for the poor dude. So basically he becomes Gotham's warning system. Like it takes a while for people to realize they've got their own mothman now except theirs is a white haired boy who looks like he's going through hell.

(At this rate, I should publish this lmaooo. A series of short events where Gotham Spirit City Danny watches over random Gothamites. It gets long 💀. Also, cw: kidnapping and physical violence towards a minor at the end)

Joel the gas station employee eyed the homeless looking teen that was across the store. Said teen was staring at a pack of yogurt covered pretzels, looking dazed as he just stared mindlessly.

Joel wanted to ask if he was actually alive, but decided not to, since this was Gotham and everyone was crazy.

He continued to count the coins in the tip jar, but out of the blue, he heard a voice.

“You should go to the back room.”

Joel looked up. “Sorry?”

The teen stared at him with bright blue eyes like glowing stars. In fact, he kind of looked like he belonged to the Waynes. But that wasn’t possible, because Joel didn’t recognize him at all.

Unless he was new? But surely not… Bruce Wayne usually gave some warning before. And this kid looked homeless.

“You should go to the back room,” the boy said again.

They stared at each other. Then Joel nodded stiffly and went. He wasn’t about to question the sudden order. Not in Gotham. But before he could leave entirely, the teen called out again, “I like your pin.”

Joel turned again slowly. “What?”

“I like your pin,” the boy said, pointing to the pin in Joel’s apron that said, ‘he/him motherfucker’ over a trans flag.

Joel blinked and then smiled. “Thanks!”

The boy gave a small smile back and waved a hand for him to shoo. Joel raised an eyebrow in exasperation but nodded and moved.

Just as he ducked behind the counter to move to the back room, there was a commotion and a sudden eruption of noise and gunshots nearby. It was clearly some sort of robbery, since there was a pretty successful bodega nearby that was run by an asshole. Several bullets hit the glass of the gas station window, striking exactly where Joel was standing just moments ago.

Joel’s jaw dropped.

When he looked back at the shelves, the kid was gone and so was the bag of pretzels. The perfect amount of pay was left on the counter. Extra tips included.

————

Lina stared at the boy who was sitting on the swing. However, he wasn’t swinging, just staring at the night sky.

When she looked up to see what he was looking at, she saw a surprisingly clear sky with sparkling stars. She watched in wonder for a moment before she looked away.

Lina wasn’t supposed to be outside right now, but her friend had told her that there was a cat that wandered around the playground at night. Lina had wanted to see it, so she snuck out. Now she kind of regretted it, being so cold while it was night. But since she was already out, she was determined to wait for the cat to come out.

“Mister,” Lina said, because her mom always told her to be polite, “Are you going to swing?”

The boy turned to her and then asked, “Want me to push you?”

Lina perked up and nodded. They switched places and the boy pushed her on the swing gently. He didn’t push her as high as he could’ve, but she didn’t mind. She was still waiting for the cat. Lina told the teen as such, and he smiled at her gently, freckles across his face glowing ever so slightly like stars whenever her flying shadow passed over his face.

“That’s nice, Lina. I’m sure it’ll come soon.”

And sure enough—

“Meow!”

“Kitty!” Lina called, and she jumped off the swing in her excitement. But before she could crash onto the ground, she was plucked from the air and gently deposited onto a flat surface. Lina turned to thank the boy, her heart pounding, but when she whirled around, he was gone.

She blinked. Where was he?

Something soft brushed against her legs and she looked down, where an orange tabby was rubbing against her ankles, mewing softly for attention.

She pet the cat for a little while. A feeling washed over her, like a gentle call from her mom to come home, and Lina said goodbye to the cat and turned back to the empty playground.

“Thank you, mister!” She called. She knew it was him who had brought the cat here. A feeling like fondness washed over her again and Lina skipped all the way back home. Her mom was still asleep and the TV was still playing, but things were good. Lina crawled into her mom’s arms and slept the entire night away, dreaming of cats and stars.

————

Elizabeth sighed as she tried to straighten her poor back. Ever since last year, her bones seemed to be feeling weaker and weaker by the day. She suddenly missed her husband, when he would’ve held her hand and they would’ve walked to wherever their hearts lead them together.

She clutched her cane and started moving again.

“Excuse me,” a voice called. “Do you need some help?”

She turned and stared at a young man. He looked scruffy and somewhat dubious, but Elizabeth had an excellent judge of character. In his eyes was a sort of kindness that she hadn’t seen in a long time.

She nodded. “Please. I’m trying to get to my doctor’s appointment.”

He tilted his head but reached out to steady her gently. Together, they walked slowly as he supported her. “Why not call for a taxi, ma’am?”

“It’s not dependable,” she said. “And I cannot get off or on easily. It’s easier to walk.”

That was a lie, but what could she do? She was too tired and too weak to call for a taxi and exit on and off of it by herself.

The young man nodded. “I see. Where’s your doctor appointment, ma’am?”

She pointed to the direction and together they walked. At first, it was pleasantly silent, but she eventually asked, “Tell me about yourself, son.”

The young man laughed lightly. “There’s not much to know. I’m just someone who’s trying to get by and help others.”

“That’s a good cause, sonny. This world could always use more kindness,” she patted his hand with her crooked fingers and he gave her a small and brilliant smile.

“I’m glad. I hope to make a difference every day.” She was focused on their feet as she tried to keep steady as to not inconvenience her helper. “Oh look,” he suddenly said, “we’re here.”

She looked up and true to his word, they were in front of the clinic she used for checkups. She blinked.

She was old, but surely she wasn’t old enough to hallucinate, was she? How on earth had they gotten here so fast?

She wasn’t able to question it as the young man led her inside. Elizabeth confirmed the appointment and she had expected him to leave once he had completed his task, but he stayed with her throughout. He sat down with her in the waiting room and they chatted about anything and everything under the sun.

Elizabeth had no children and no siblings. Her husband had died and her friends were also getting old. She was lonely, but this young man was accompanying her throughout the appointment and she felt endlessly grateful that Gotham City had not snuffed out another bright light just yet.

When she was called in, the young man still followed her inside and talked to her physician for her.

She was suddenly reminded of her father, who had died when she was 42. Her father had done everything he could to provide for her and her mother until he died from murder. She was starkly reminded of his protection and how she had mourned it when it was lost.

Elizabeth felt for the first time in a long time, like she was a young girl being protected by her father again.

When the appointment was over and Elizabeth was prescribed new medications, she was led outside by the young man again.

“Thank you so much, dear,” she said, a little teary eyed, “I appreciate the company and the help.”

The young man guided her to her apartment and said, “I’m just doing whatever I can as one person in this world. It’s the only thing I can do, y’know?”

They parted on good terms and it was only later as she sat in her home, that she realized that she had never asked for his name.

There was nothing to remember that kind young man by other than her waning memory and his act of kindness.

In her pocket, however, was a mysterious card for a free taxi service funded by Wayne Enterprises.

————

Tom and his friends were playing a game of heroes, with Red Hood as the hero and the other Bats as the villains. Tom was lucky enough to win the game of rock-paper-scissors and was Red Hood, valiant and brave with a pair of guns in order to protect Crime Alley.

“Alright, Batman!” Tom crowed. “This’s the end of the line for you!”

Maria, the only girl of the group, glared at him theatrically and flapped the ends of the jacket tied around her neck. “Red Hood, I’ll defeat you! For Justice!”

She waved her hand and their friends, who filled in the place of the other Bats, rushed at Tom with a war cry. Tom grinned and ran away from them with a loud laugh.

They passed through several alleys in their game of play, passing by no one but a boy with black hair and a girl with red hair. Tom didn’t really pay attention, just trying not to be tagged. But it didn’t matter, because no matter what, Red Hood was always able to get away and save the day!

Tom cheered as he pretended to shoot the Bats with his toy guns that he got for Christmas last year, and his friends all groaned and pretended to die dramatically. George, who was playing Red Robin, engaged in a fake battle with him as the others laughed and watched.

Tom was completely enthralled in their pretend play, when he suddenly froze with the sound of a car door being opened far too close and the sound of footsteps.

Oh no. Tom immediately grabbed at George and they were bolting down the streets they came from. They ran like their lives depended on it, because it quite literally did. But it was too late. Davis, one of the slower runners, was captured.

Tom turned and gasped at the sight of Davis struggling and kicking within the hold of a trafficker. “No! Get away from him!”

“Get the kids!” The man shouted as Davis screamed, and they all screamed as more men rushed into the alleys to grab them.

Tom screamed for Red Hood, Batman, anybody and popped off his fake guns. It did nothing but make loud sounds from the tiny amounts of gunpowder in it that Tom was saving. Still, he needed to do something. The sounds didn’t scare the men as they grabbed at him next.

Tom scratched and bit and struggled, but it was useless as he was hauled into the back of the van. Even as he knocked against the van’s door, making even louder noises to draw attention, it was hopeless as he was tossed inside. Jim, the smallest member of their group, was crying and Maria was knocked out, slumped next to a shuddering George. Alan and Davis were also captured and they were trembling.

There were also two other people, one with black hair and one with red hair. They seemed angry, and the teenage boy seemed especially cold while the young woman looked furious.

Tom glared at the traffickers. “You won’t get away with this! Red Hood is going to kill you!”

After all, Red Hood hated anyone who hurt kids. With him in Crime Alley, kids were now secure and safe under his protective wings.

Tom was immediately backhanded. He fell back, pain bursting from his cheek and he whimpered, tears in his eyes. Alan grabbed at him worriedly and pulled him away from the traffickers’ hands.

“Shut up, brat! Just wait and see! The Red Hood ain’t shit in these parts!” Then the door of the van closed. Tom and George lunged forward to bang on the door to no avail.

“Red Hood! Red Hood!! Help!”

As the van began to move, Tom choked back his tears. No, he couldn’t cry.

He was Red Hood for today. He was supposed to be brave.

Maria woke up then and started crying. The sound set off the other kids and Tom barely resisted crying too. Suddenly, the woman with red hair in the corner of the van opened up her arms. “Shh, shhh, come here.”

Realizing that there were adults in the situation, Jim and Maria went into her arms. She rubbed their heads and soothed them softly. Alan and George looked at her and the boy next to her with hope.

“Hey! Can’t you get us out?” George asked urgently.

The woman shook her head, but gave a small smile. “We’ll be okay. You just have to have hope.”

Tom bristled, scared for his life and irritated by the presence of other adults. His tears hadn’t fallen yet, but it was a very close thing. “So you don’t have anything? Figures.”

The boy spoke up, “Red Hood will come get you. You’ll be just fine.”

Tom looked down at the dirty floor of the van. How could he believe that now? He wanted to believe it, but what would he do if it was only false hope? If he and his friends got hurt, it would’ve been his fault because he was the one who led them too far away from home.

The boy gave a small smile, similar to the woman next to him. In fact, they were both weirdly comforting and familiar, like old family friends. He opened up his own arms and said, “Come here.”

Tom inched closer and leaned against him, as George and Alan also came closer. Davis squished himself between the two and all of them were being comforted by the two older people. Tom sniffed, and the teen started talking in a comforting tone, rubbing at his back.

“You’ll be okay. Close your eyes. When you wake up, Red Hood will be here to save you… that’s it. It’s alright, we’re here to protect you. Gotham City is on your side, little ones….”

When Tom snapped awake, he was shocked to find himself being held and carried by Red Hood. “Red Hood?!”

Tom startled, but the Red Hood just readjusted his grip and said, “Careful, kid. Your friends are over there.”

Tom leaned over Red Hood’s broad shoulders and looked for his friends. True to his words, they were next to Batman and the other Bats and Birds. Maria was being held by Batgirl and excitedly gesturing, while his other friends were chattering away to Batman, who was smiling.

Red Hood began to approach them.

“You did good,” Red Hood suddenly said. Tom looked up at him and the Red Hood tilted his helmet downwards at him. “You made a ruckus and got my attention. Good job.”

Tom looked guiltily down at his hands. “No… I was the one who led my friends too far… I got us captured.”

“It’s not your fault,” Red Hood said. “You’re not to blame because some sick ass— er, some sick jerks decided to take kids. You did good and that’s final.” He ruffled Tom’s hair.

Tom giggled and then nodded, chest warm. He couldn’t believe he was meeting his idol and was saved by him too! Then he asked, looking around for the woman with red hair and the other teen, “Where’re the other two?”

“Other two?” Red Hood asked curiously. “We only saw you six kids alone in the van.”

Tom paused for a moment and then shook his head. “Never mind. Musta been my imagination.”

Gotham City was a mysterious place. Who was Tom to question it?

However, he still silently thanked the two strangers. He was sure that they had been the ones to help them.

Some distance away, two spirits stood on the roof of a nearby building and watched the commotion.

“It’s a good thing we were able to find Jason in time, huh, Jazz?”

“Mhm. I’m glad those kids are going to be okay. Thank goodness the Bats responded in time.”

“Of course. With my protection and your help, we’ll help them save this city. So…. Meet up next week?”

“Yep! See you then, Danny!”

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #danny phantom x dc #dcxdp #dp x dc crossover #ask #danny fenton #jazz fenton #anon ask #gotham city spirit danny au #jason todd #ty for the ask :3 #this got so long #crime alley spirit jazz au #brief mention of cassandra cain and tim drake

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steddielations · 1 year ago

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Steve acts on instinct.

There’s this guy in all black walking in front of him, he’s too busy looking down at his phone to notice, but Steve doesn’t trust that lamppost. He’s been going for daily runs, he likes to keep it simple during the off-season, and that post has been getting more rickety every day. Now it’s swaying dangerously in the wind and he knows it’s about to tumble.

There’s no time to call out to the guy, so Steve just plows forward and tackles him out of the way.

They fall in a messy heap and Steve unfortunately lands heavily on top.

“Holy shit! What the— ugh!” The guy heaves in pain and Steve hurries to scramble off of him.

“Sorry, that post was about to fall on you, man. You alright?”

Pieces of grass stick to the guy’s long hair as he takes stock of Steve and what happened. With a labored breath, he surprisingly jokes, “Guess I’m lucky the best football tackler alive happened to be right behind me.”

It’s sarcastic as shit but Steve smiles with a tug of amusement as he offers his hand. “Baseball, actually.”

“You’re in the wrong league, man,” he lets Steve pull him to his feet and groans on the way up. “Well, nice to meet you, Baseball, you pack a hell of a first impression. I’m Eddie.”

Steve would appreciate his ability to joke so soon after taking a hit, but people are starting to gather around. There’s already phones pointed at them that probably caught the whole thing on camera. Steve’s used to public attention by now, knows the press is going to have a field day with this and he hates causing a scene, but he wants to make sure Eddie is okay.

“Just Steve is good. You wanna…? This way,” he gestures toward the sidewalk and thankfully, Eddie seems just as eager to get out of there too, shuffling next to Steve as they round the corner.

He’s wearing so much metal jewelry, it’s like a costume, the jingle jangle of his every step accentuating how shaken up he seems. They get far enough behind a building and Steve stops to have a real look at him and… well he’s interesting to look at.

It’s like he hopped off the album cover of an 80s rock band, or one of Steve’s Bon Jovi posters that he hid under his bed in high school. Way too much leather and way too much hair for the California sun, all disheveled with grass and dirt.

“You sure you’re okay? Here, you got a little…” Steve’s hand hovers until Eddie nods that it’s okay from him to pluck the grass from his hair and lightly brush the dust from his shoulders. Eddie watches him the whole time, his eyes big and dark, an intensity in them that Steve can’t quite read but he can feel. “Didn’t hit your head or anything, did you?”

Steve lowers his hands, stepping back a little when he realizes how close they are. Eddie’s eyes follow him, a slight quirk to his lips that makes Steve feel the heat of the sun a little warmer on his face.

“I’m touched by your concern, sweetheart, but my brain has been through worse damage than a little bump.”

Steve frowns at the ladder, but the first bit definitely makes him feel the heat. He’s admittedly a bit out of practice but he can still recognize a come on. One that he definitely invited with all the touching and indulgent looks.

Then Eddie starts profusely thanking him for the whole ordeal, asking to treat him somewhere nearby for lunch. It’s not that Steve doesn’t want to, he’s very interested actually, and thankful that out of all the jewelry Eddie’s sporting, there’s no wedding ring. That’s why he’s reluctant because he’s all sweaty at the moment. Not to mention, he didn’t finish his run yet.

“Surely saving my life was enough cardio,” Eddie jokes lightly and Steve snorts.

“I saved you from a minor concussion, maybe,” and okay he’s gotta accept now.

The place is small and unassuming, burgers and sodas type joint. Steve’s likely to be recognized there, which he doesn’t mind meeting fans in public just preferably not now, it might be jarring for Eddie.

He heads for the booth tucked in the back corner, the most private looking spot that Steve had his eyes on too. They get a round of sodas from the waitress and right away, Eddie starts thanking him again.

“I noticed that lamppost wobbling days ago,” Steve sparks a conversation instead of accepting any more thanks, “I was planning to let it fall on me so I could sue the shit out of the city.”

He’s pleasantly startled by the big cackle that gets out of Eddie, “Any chance to stick it to the man. I admire that.”

“‘Course I would’ve really stuck it to ‘em and donated it back to the community,” Steve adds.

“Giving the people’s money back to the people, imagine Big Brother’s horror. Noble guy.”

Eddie seems to bubble with contagious delight that doesn’t match his whole leather and chains thing at all, but it fits into the somewhat magic of him. It's a wonder to Steve.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” Eddie ventures, a glint of recognition in his eyes that Steve’s seen a thousand times. He doesn’t ping Eddie as much of a sports guy and he’s not vain enough to assume everyone knows who he is. Eddie’s probably seen him while flipping the channel past ESPN or something. Or maybe an ad for that Netflix thing he did documenting last year’s season.

“I think I’d definitely remember you.”

Steve didn’t mean it as a come-on, just that Eddie’s appearance really isn’t forgettable, but he can tell by the wicked little grin Eddie sports that it was taken as one. Steve likes that even better.

“Have you ever modeled, or anything? You’ve got the looks for it.”

Biting back a smile of his own, Steve shakes his head. “I bet you say that to everyone who saves your life.”

“None of them were half as good looking." That sounds concerning but Steve’s distracted by Eddie swirling his straw in his drink, regarding him with a long look. “Really though, I just feel like I’ve seen you before.”

Steve’s done a few covers of Sports Illustrated, but he doubts Eddie has ever picked up a copy of that, so he shrugs. “Must’ve been in your dreams.”

Eddie laughs softer this time. “You trying to sweep me off my feet or something?”

“Already did.” Steve leans back, enjoying the way Eddie’s eyes follow him.

Conversation sparks and it never really dies out. Eddie just grabs topics out of thin air, talking about the city and what they like to do and movies and his amazement that Steve knows all about D&D because he’s a nerd magnet. Eddie’s personality spills through everything he says like it can’t be contained. He’s talkative in a good way, not to a point where Steve can’t get a word in. He listens intently, has a way of putting all his attention onto Steve like he’s the most interesting person he’s ever spoken to.

It’s surprisingly easy to relax. Not because Eddie has a super calming presence or anything, his energy is just all-encompassing, it’s hard for Steve not to get sucked in and hang on to every word he says. It’s one of the rare times in public that he’s not hyper-aware of everyone around him and too paranoid of having a photo snapped and taken out of context to even enjoy himself.

That happens a lot, being one of the only professional athletes who’s open about his sexuality. The media is extremely invasive with his private life. If he’s seen with any guy friend, there’s a whole press storm about Steve Harrington’s “secret beau” within the hour. It’s ridiculous and he tries so hard to keep his lovelife under wraps that maybe he’s been neglecting it entirely, at least that’s what Robin says.

Of course, that’s when his phone lights up with a message from her. His heart sinks a little when he sees the title of the article she sent to him. He quickly shoots her a text and locks his phone without reading it.

“Everything alright?” Eddie notices the shift in Steve’s mood right away.

“Yeah just,” he sighs, bracing for the inevitable part when Eddie realizes Steve isn’t worth the hassle of all this, “Someone filmed us earlier and now it’s all over the press. I’m really sorry, I totally get it if—”

“Nah, don’t worry about it, it’s fine. I figured that would happen,” Eddie brushes it off, but Steve shakes his head.

“I don’t think you understand, it’s—”

“Wanna bet?” Eddie smirks for some reason, “I’m fine with it, I promise.”

He tosses a chip into his mouth and picks right back up with the story he was telling.

Steve is stunned for a moment, wary that maybe Eddie doesn’t fully grasp how deep this goes. But he stays there with Steve, seemingly thrilled to keep talking with him even when a family comes in and keeps staring their way, obviously building up the courage to come over and ask for a picture. Eddie’s acting like Steve’s the only person in the room and that’s enough to assure Steve that he’s really fine with it.

He’s so locked into Eddie, he barely registers when the older son from the family’s table finally wanders over and asks for a picture.

Steve is in the middle of wiping his face with a napkin, about to greet him when suddenly, Eddie pops up and asks Steve to excuse him for a minute.

“C’mon little man, let’s do it,” he says and much to Steve’s confusion, the teen excitedly goes with Eddie to his family’s table.

Steve watches, utterly baffled, as they start snapping photos and expressing what big fans they are and Eddie takes it with such bravado, laughing and chatting like he’s with a group of friends.

What the— Steve grabs his phone, opening the article Robin sent him at lightning speed.

At first, he wonders how the press was able to find out Eddie’s full name so quickly, then he sees the words "troubled rockstar" and "recovering star" so many times, it becomes abundantly clear.

Oh.

He’s not so worried about the troubled part, everyone has their shit and he doesn’t read into any of it. Those are Eddie’s stories to tell Steve if he chooses, not some tabloid. But the rockstar part connects a lot of dots that have come up in the last couple of hours since meeting Eddie and—

Yeah, just. Oh.

Part 2

#what if they’re both secretly famous and clueless about each other #this is called ‘Upstaged’#part two soon #steddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #steddie fic #stranger things #steddie ficlet #rockstar eddie munson #baseball player steve harrington #famous steve harrington #meet cute #saved your life trope #famous eddie munson #rueswriting

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capuccinodoll · 1 month ago

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The boyfriend act, part 9.2: "The one with the wedding" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Something’s changed, you can feel it, and you can’t fight it. Frankie keeps his promise—he accompanies you to Harry's wedding. Surprisingly, your ex isn’t the focus of the night. Instead, it's the strange, new dynamic between you and your companion that ends up tangled up in your house. Part 2 of chapter 9. WC: 12.4k

A/N: Oh God... enjoy. Hope you like it—it really helped me a lot to write this chapter this week! Love you love youuuuuuu!! Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!!If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! love you <3

The air inside the party was heavier, charged with warmth from too many bodies pressed together, energy buzzing against your skin. The lights had shifted since you last looked, dimmer now, streaks of blue and violet slicing through the dark like something alive. You stepped into it, absorbing the dizzying warmth of the room. Frankie wasn’t beside you anymore. You didn’t look for him. You didn’t let yourself.

A song was playing—something with a slow build, something from the two thousands. You didn’t recognize it, but it didn’t matter. You let the sound settle over you, let it fill the spaces between your ribs. Without thinking, you moved. Not a dance, not exactly, just the natural sway of a body finding its own rhythm. You let your eyes slip shut, your lips curving in something close to a smile.

And then, just for a moment, there was nothing heavy in your chest. No aching, no lingering weight. Maybe it was fleeting. Circumstantial. Maybe it was the red wine, or the champagne, or Frankie. Maybe it didn’t matter. Somewhere nearby, Harry was spinning Lisa under his arm, and the sight of it didn’t hit you like it did before. The thought sat there, light and untethered, and it felt—God, it felt so fucking good.

Your feet didn’t hurt this time. At least not yet. Right now, all you felt was motion, the firm thrum of music in your bones, and the sharp, electric clarity of being completely, wonderfully untangled from everything else.

And then, again, that warmth. That familiar pressure, retracing its path over your skin—your waist, the soft dip beneath your ribs. He liked to put his hands there. You’d noticed.

Your eyes fluttered open, and Frankie was beside you, balancing two glasses in one hand like it was second nature.

Under the neon lights, he looked like a decoy made especially for you.

He didn’t say anything at first, just extended one toward you, expectant. You took it without hesitation, lifting it to your nose, inhaling the faint bite of alcohol before glancing up at him through your lashes.

“It’s not poison,” he said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the music. “That’s in the past.”

“In the past,” you echoed, and took a sip, the fizzing liquid settling on your tongue before you swallowed. You stepped in closer, resting your free hand lightly on his shoulder. “That I do know. Your attacks are different now.”

Frankie exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Are you still at it? You sound almost... defeated.”

“I’m not. I’m just—curious.”

“That much I can tell.” He lifted his drink to his lips, tilting it back, his throat moving as he swallowed.

Your gaze followed the movement without thinking, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the way the lights shifted over the contours of his neck. A pulse flickered just beneath his skin, and for a ridiculous, fleeting second, you thought about sinking your teeth into it.

You exhaled, shaking off the thought, and lifted your chin. “Well, what are you waiting for? Show me those moves, or I’m going to start thinking you’re all talk.”

He looked at you then. Held your gaze. One, two, three seconds. And then, slowly, a smirk edged onto his lips—mischief, something else underneath it.

Without breaking eye contact, he lifted his glass and tipped the rest of his drink back in one smooth motion. You followed suit, feeling the sharp heat of it slide down your throat.

He peeled himself away from you, took your empty glass along with his, and set them on the nearest table.

Something curled inside you. Expectation. Anticipation. He was coming back, moving toward you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from absorbing him fully—the disheveled mess of his hair, the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell as he took those final, closing steps.

God, you wanted to touch him. You wanted to press your fingers into the mess of his curls, trail your hands down the solid plane of his torso, the soft belly right there, show him you weren’t afraid to.

What the fuck.

What the fuck was happening to you?

His body crashed into yours, the force of it pushing you back a step, knocking you slightly off balance. But before you could even process the stumble, his hands were already on you, both palms firm around your waist, steadying you. And then he was moving again, feet shifting forward, pulling you along with him, deeper into the swell of bodies that didn’t notice you, too wrapped up in their own worlds, their own dramas, their own little universes.

Your hands found his chest, instinctively pressing against the warmth of him, feeling the solid weight of muscle beneath your fingertips. Frankie slid one hand upward, brushing from your elbow to your wrist, his touch slow, deliberate. He peeled your hand away from him, laced his fingers through yours, his grip warm.

“This music isn’t going to do us justice,” he murmured, the sound curling against your ear.

He was right—the song blaring through the speakers was all wrong. Too fast, too shrill, the beat frenzied in a way that didn’t suit this.

“That doesn’t matter,” you countered, tipping your chin up at him. “Or you can’t do it?”

Frankie exhaled sharply, something between a laugh and a scoff, and without warning, he let go of your hand. Instead, he grabbed you by the sides and, in one fluid motion, started moving with you, pulling a surprised laugh from your lips.

Somehow, you understood what he wanted without needing to be told. Your body responded to his, falling in sync, matching his rhythm. His hands framed you, adjusting you exactly where he wanted, where he needed. His hips led the way, and yours followed instinctively, as if this had always been muscle memory, as if you had been built to move like this with him.

A grin spread across your face, wide and unguarded, and when you looked up at him, you found his gaze already fixed on you, his dark eyes drinking you in, like he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

The scent of his cologne wrapped around you, seeping into your skin with every small shift between you. It made something stir in your chest, something reckless, something dangerous. Without thinking, you arched into him, pressing closer, as if there were any space left to close.

There wasn’t. Not anymore.

Then, his fingers curled around yours, firm, insistent. In one swift movement, he spun you, pulling you back against him, his arm sliding across the front of your body, locking you in place. Your head tipped against his shoulder, your breath catching for a fraction of a second. The sensation was dizzyingly familiar—how many times tonight had he positioned you like this, as if he wanted you pressed to him, as if his body was something for you to fall into?

His mouth skimmed your ear. “Does this meet your requirements?”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment before you tilted your head, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

“I’m on my back to you again,” you murmured. “I think that tells me something about the kind of man you are.”

His lips parted. “Don’t be a tease.”

“Why not?”

His hands flexed, fingers pressing into your ribs—not rough, not demanding, but enough to send heat coursing through your veins. Enough to make your pulse hitch. The pressure anchored you, shattered you, pieced you back together in the span of a heartbeat.

He turned you again, your body yielding to the unspoken command in his touch. But this time, you didn’t let him take the lead.

Your hands shot up, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer before he had the chance to do it himself. His breath stuttered, just slightly, just enough for you to notice. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, and you felt it—his hesitation, his control, the way he was holding something back.

A smile curled at your lips just as his hands found their way to your lower back, pressing, keeping you there. Like he had no intention of letting go.

You shut your eyes for a beat, as if the darkness behind your eyelids might offer you clarity, a sharp-edged thought, something to arm yourself with. But your mind was a useless, static-filled thing, buzzing in your ears, drowning beneath the erratic pulse in your throat. Whatever words you might have thrown at him had disappeared, leaving you unarmed, exposed.

So you turned to the only thing left.

You couldn't fight, but you could touch. You could bring your hands to the sides of his face, feel the heat of his skin under your palms, and close the space between you. You could press your lips to his, soft and deliberate, tilting your head just right, angling yourself toward that sliver of vulnerability in him you’d always known was there.

Frankie exhaled sharply against your mouth—you had him. Right there, in your hands, in the way his lips moved against yours; not rushed, but desperate all the same.

You needed to stay in control. Not let yourself fall on the sword you were wielding. But he got closer, somehow, his hands sliding up your back, mapping bare skin with his fingertips. One settled at your waist, fingers pressing in like he needed proof that you were there. The other skimmed higher, threading through your hair, twisting a strand around his fingers, pulling—just enough to make your breath catch, to tip your head back, to drag a sound from you that you hadn’t meant to give.

And he heard it. Of course, he did.

His breath came harder now, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that burned through whatever restraint he'd tried to hold on to. And for all your careful control, you weren’t sure if you had him exactly where you wanted him—or if he had you.

Frankie pulled back, his mouth slipping from yours with infuriating ease, a lazy, knowing smile settling on his lips. He didn’t let go of you completely—his fingers still tangled in your hair, keeping your head bowed, like he was admiring his own handiwork. The moment stretched until you let out a breath, your hands sliding back to his neck in some attempt at regaining control.

You were just about to say something—something halfhearted, a weak protest dressed up as wit—when the music changed. I Feel It Coming by The Weeknd.

Frankie hummed in approval. “Now we’re talking.”

He released your hair, his hands settling on you differently now, shifting with the rhythm, guiding you into it with him. Like it had never been a question, like it was inevitable.

You followed his lead because what else could you do? You weren’t going to step away now, make up some flimsy excuse and disappear. That would be an admission, wouldn’t it? That all of this had an effect on you. That you could be pulled into him like the tide, no resistance. And from the way he was watching you, that knowing smirk carved into his face, he already suspected as much.

Then the lyrics came through the speakers, weaving their way into the space between you.

Tell me what you really like

Baby, I can take my time

We don’t ever have to fight

Just take it step by step

Your throat tightened. A slow, creeping warmth curled its way up your neck, not the pleasant kind but the kind that came with the quiet, unbearable realization of being seen. Really seen.

I can see it in your eyes

'cause they never tell me lies

I can feel that body shake

and the heat between your legs

You closed your eyes, willing the moment to dissolve into something less intense, less unbearable. But your breath hitched anyway, unsteady, shallow. Overloaded, overwhelmed. Just for a second, but it was enough.

And then you felt him again—his cheek pressed against yours. A quiet anchor. Your eyes fluttered open, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck, holding onto something tangible. You exhaled again, this time steadier, firmer.

Like you could pretend, for now, that you still had the upper hand.

You’ve been scared of love and what it did to you

You don’t have to run, I know what you’ve been through.

The lyrics blurred into background noise. Instead, you focused on your breathing, each inhale smoothing out the jagged edges of your pulse. Frankie’s body was solid against yours, unmovable. A wall you could lean on.

Without thinking, you let yourself sink into him, resting against the breadth of his shoulders, the warmth of his chest. His arms tightened around you, not possessive, not urgent—just encompassing. Holding you there as the music stretched on, your bodies swaying in time, your feet moving without effort, without thought.

You lost track of how long you stayed like that, how many verses passed before the spell was broken. Maybe the song had ended. Maybe it had been cut short. You weren’t sure. All you knew was that, suddenly, the air shifted.

A new beat crashed through the speakers, shaking you out of the hazy moment. Everybody by the Backstreet Boys. A sharp contrast, like being yanked from a dream before you were ready. And with it, the rest of the world reappeared—people you hadn’t noticed before, bodies moving in every direction, laughter spilling into the space you had occupied so quietly with Frankie.

He stepped back, just a little. When you met his gaze, he was smiling, but something deeper in his expression made your stomach tighten.

A sudden yell broke through the music. Both of you turned just in time to see Henry at the center of the room, shouting, his movements exaggerated as he threw himself into some half-choreographed dance. A group of men circled around him, clapping, hyping him up as he mimicked the mummy dance, his hands waving stiffly in front of him.

Frankie let out a short laugh. “We have to admit, he sure knows how to have a good time.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “Yeah.”

Your eyes stayed on Henry a second longer, watching his antics, his complete lack of self-consciousness. Then you turned to Frankie, and before you even realized you were going to say it, the words slipped out.

“I want to go home.”

Frankie didn’t question it. He just nodded. Then, with a quiet sort of care, he peeled his hands away from you, stepping back fully.

“I’ll hit the bathroom first,” he said. “Then we’ll go, okay?”

You nodded. “I’ll wait for you at our table.”

Frankie gave you one last glance before turning, disappearing into the crowd with unhurried steps. You exhaled, pressing your lips together as you turned on your heels, moving toward the table with a weight in your limbs that hadn't been there before.

When you sat down, another breath escaped you—longer this time, like you were letting the entire night spill out through your mouth. The music pulsed around you, loud, but the space beside you remained empty. Everyone else was still on the dance floor, their bodies jumping, twisting, losing themselves-

You stretched your legs out under the table, your gaze drifting to your shoes, the heels scuffed from hours of wear. Then, a shift in the air beside you caught your attention.

“Enjoying the night?”

You looked up. Harry had dropped into the seat next to you, his grin loose, his shirt untucked and rumpled. His cheeks were flushed, sweat beading along his hairline, and a pink boa hung lopsided around his neck, the feathers clinging to his skin.

“Where’s your guy?” he asked, voice warm, teasing.

“In the bathroom,” you said, a little louder than you’d intended, the alcohol softening your tongue. “We’re actually about to leave.”

Harry’s brows lifted, his expression exaggerated with the sluggish enthusiasm of someone too many drinks in.

“Already? So early?” The last word slurred slightly, stretching at the edges.

You frowned, the corners of your mouth twitching as you glanced toward the bar. What time was it?

“We have to get up early,” you answered, more for yourself than for him.

“Right, right.” He nodded as if he understood, though his heavy-lidded gaze suggested otherwise. “Well, again, thanks for coming. Honestly, I didn’t think you would. Thought it might be… awkward.”

You let out a short breath, not quite a laugh, not quite agreement. “Life goes on, I guess.”

Your eyes flicked toward the other side of the room, past the shifting bodies and flickering lights, toward the hallway leading to the bathrooms. Frankie was still gone.

“Yeah,” Harry murmured. “That’s right.”

Something about the way he said it sent a small, sharp doubt through your chest. You turned to him suddenly, searching his face, feeling the question settle at the tip of your tongue before you could stop it.

“Can I ask you something?”

Harry nodded, the movement a little loose, a little unfocused. He was drunk. You were drunk. But the question had already lodged itself in your throat, and you couldn’t swallow it back down.

“Why did you invite me?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “If you thought it might be awkward, why?”

He blinked at you, then smiled, like the answer was obvious. “Because it’s all good between us, isn’t it?”

You studied his face. The same face you used to trace with your fingertips, the same eyes that once felt like home. But now, looking at him, there was nothing. No rush of warmth, no nostalgia curling in your chest. Just the vague recognition of something.

“Actually, I’m not so sure about that.”

Harry exhaled, his posture tipping forward slightly. “I know I hurt you.”

You went very still.

“You know,” you said, the words pressing out of you before you could think better of them. “How much?”

His lips parted slightly, like he hadn’t expected the question, like maybe he thought whatever damage he’d caused had been inconsequential, forgettable. But then he smiled—an old, familiar smile, the kind that had once undone you completely—and met your gaze.

“Were you in love with me?” he asked. “I think I knew.”

Something twisted in your chest. Not pain, not exactly. Something colder, sharper. Disappointment, maybe. Or anger. Or both.

“You invited me to your wedding.”

“I knew you’d come.”

Your breath caught, your pulse stuttering. Your expression didn’t change, but something in your body must have shifted because he tilted his head slightly, watching you too closely, like he was trying to read you.

Before he could say anything else, your gaze flickered past him, drawn by movement across the room. Frankie. He was weaving between guests, making his way back toward you, and then—he saw.

He stopped short, his dark eyes landing on Harry, then shifting to you. A flicker of something unreadable passed over his face, but he didn’t come closer. Instead, he nodded once, a silent message. It’s fine. I’ll wait.

And something in you deflated, because no, it wasn’t fine. You wanted to tell him no, tell him to come now, to pull you out of this conversation before it unraveled any further. But Frankie just shifted his weight, slid his hands into his pockets, and watched. Giving you space.

The last thing you wanted.

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Harry said, pulling your attention back to him. His voice was softer now, coaxing. “It’s not like that. Look—”

His hand slid over yours, sweaty and familiar in a way that made your stomach twist, though not in the way it used to. You glanced down at the contact, at the weight of his fingers pressing lightly against your skin, before looking back up at him.

“I know you and I are good friends,” he continued. “And you understand that these things can’t always be controlled. I love Lisa. I do. That doesn’t mean I didn’t value what you and I had.”

Your throat felt tight. “I have to go,” you said, pulling your hand back.

But Harry only smiled, unbothered, like he was already a step ahead of you.

“I’m sure we’ll cross paths again. If the opportunity presents itself.”

Your brows knitted together. “Excuse me?”

You turned instinctively toward Frankie, your chest tightening with something close to urgency. Was he watching? Did he understand what was happening here? Across the room, Frankie was still looking at you, his gaze steady, assessing. But from that distance, you had no idea what, if anything, he was reading from this exchange.

Harry let out a quiet laugh, tilting his head at you. “You know what I mean.”

You stared at him, your pulse drumming against your skin.

“This is your wedding,” you said, disbelieving. “Your wife is right there—” You gestured vaguely toward the dance floor, where Lisa was spinning under someone’s arm, oblivious.

“I’m—I’m kidding,” Harry said quickly, shaking his head. “Relax.” Then, with a sigh that was just a little too performative, he leaned back in his chair. “See, this is exactly why you and I were never going to work out. You never knew how to take a joke.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Your jokes aren’t funny.”

“Oh, what, I don’t make you laugh anymore?” He teased, tilting his head at you, his smirk lazy, lopsided.

You let out a sharp breath, something between a scoff and a laugh, but there was no humor in it.

“You’re drunk and embarrassing yourself, Harry. That’s enough.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Pf, I bet that—”

“Let’s go home.”

Frankie’s voice cut through the noise, sending a jolt of relief down your spine. When you turned, he was standing behind Harry, his expression unreadable but serious, his hand extended toward you. Without hesitation, you took it, fingers slipping into his, pushing up from your seat without so much as a glance at the man beside you.

Frankie didn’t wait. He turned toward the exit, guiding you with him, and you followed, eager to put distance between yourself and whatever this conversation had been turning into.

But before you could get far, fingers curled around your arm, halting your steps.

You spun, pulse spiking, and found Harry looking at you with that same smug amusement, like this was all some inside joke you weren’t in on. His mouth parted slightly, like he was about to say something—something you were certain you didn’t want to hear—but before he could, Frankie moved.

Still holding your hand, he stepped closer to Harry, leaning in just enough that you could see the shift in his posture, the subtle tension in his shoulders. He murmured something low enough that you couldn’t make out the words over the thumping bass, but whatever he said, it landed.

Frankie's mouth was close to Harry’s ear, and whatever easy amusement had been stretched across Harry’s face vanished in an instant. His fingers slipped from your arm like he’d been burned.

You felt the curiosity tighten in your chest, a sharp pull. What had he said? What could have possibly warranted such an immediate shift? You barely had time to register the thought, and before you could begin to piece together an answer, Frankie was already guiding you away.

He didn’t say anything. Just turned and started walking, pulling you with him.

You followed, quick-footed, your eyes fixed on the back of his neck, on the way the curls at his nape shifted as he moved. The music faded as you stepped into the wide hallway, plush and quiet. And your steps slowed, your grip in his loosening. He turned then, sensing it, looking at you. The lighting was soft, wall sconces casting a golden glow over everything, their reflection flickering in Frankie’s eyes. His expression was unreadable—brows drawn, mouth pressed into a firm line.

"Are you okay?" he asked, taking half a step closer, his hand still holding yours like he hadn't realized he was doing it. "What did he say to you?"

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing," Frankie said. "Don’t worry about it."

"Frankie."

"Yeah?"

He said it with a smirk, and just like that, the tension fractured. His attempt at seriousness was transparently bad, his lips twitching at the corners, the glint in his eyes giving him away. You tried to keep your expression flat, but it was impossible—your mouth betrayed you, stretching into a smile before a small laugh escaped.

Frankie’s restraint crumbled entirely. His smirk broke into a grin, wide and pleased, and somehow, it felt like the only thing in the world that mattered.

Frankie gave your hand a light squeeze, tilting his head toward the exit. A quiet gesture, like a nudge in the right direction.

"Come on," he said, shifting his weight, already prepared to move. "Tell me on the way."

But you didn’t move. Instead, you stood there, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips. You squeezed his hand in return, a subtle press of your fingers against his, before giving his arm a gentle tug—just enough to draw him in, close enough that you could see the question forming in his expression before he even voiced it.

His brows pulled together for half a second, barely noticeable. "What?"

"I have to go back inside," you said, your voice light, like the thought had just occurred to you. "Will you wait for me? Just a second."

His hesitation was immediate. “Uh… why?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, already retreating. “Call for a car. I’ll be back in a sec.” You pointed a finger at him, as if making him promise. “Wait here for me, okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

And then you spun on your heels, your steps quick and light, not quite a run but close to it. You slipped back toward the entrance, ducking past a group of guests mid-conversation, their chatter faltering briefly as they registered your sudden movement.

Frankie remained where you’d left him, hands shifting to his hips, his expression unreadable. His gaze stayed fixed on the doorway you had just disappeared through, his mind already flipping through possibilities.

What the hell were you up to?

Had you gone back for Harry? Lisa? Did you forget something? Your bag? No, your shoulder—your bag was still there a second ago. So not that. Your phone? No, he was pretty sure he’d seen it in your hand earlier.

Then what?

After a few seconds of standing there, arms tense at his sides, Frankie exhaled sharply and pulled his phone from his pocket. His fingers moved over the screen, tapping through the app with an efficiency just slightly off from his usual pace.

No, he couldn’t order a car yet. What if you didn’t come out? What if he had to go back for you?

He glanced back toward the entrance. Shifted his weight. Waited.

One minute.

Two minutes.

By the third, his patience had started to thin, a restless energy creeping into his limbs. He ran a hand over his jaw, exhaling through his nose. Then, with a newfound sense of resolve, he took a step forward, heading toward the entrance. If you weren’t back yet, he’d go in and find you himself.

But just as he neared the door, it swung open, and there you were, practically bursting through it. A grin stretched wide across your face, your steps quick, hurried—definitely running now.

Frankie barely had time to process the scene before you zipped past him, a laugh tumbling from your lips. You had a paper bag clutched tightly in your arms, held close to your chest like something precious, and when you glanced up at him, your eyes crinkled at the corners, bright and alight with mischief.

“Come on, come on,” you said breathlessly, urgency laced with amusement. Your heels clicked against the floor, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of the night.

For a beat, he just stared at you, then instinct took over.

Without a second thought, Frankie moved. His stride quickened as he took off after you, falling into step just behind. When you reached the hotel doors, he was already there, reaching forward to pull one open before you could even slow down. The doorman gave him a questioning look, but Frankie barely noticed.

Outside, you kept moving, your heels clicking against the pavement, a few hurried steps carrying you just past the hotel entrance before you finally came to a stop. Your breath came fast, your cheeks flushed, your whole body alight with the kind of exhilaration that made you feel a little untouchable.

Frankie pulled up in front of you, chest rising and falling like he wasn’t quite sure if he should be amused or concerned. His hands settled on his hips, his head tilting slightly, that familiar furrow forming between his brows.

“What exactly—”

“I stole champagne!” you blurted out, eyes shining. “And wine!”

Frankie’s mouth parted slightly before he let out a laugh, one of those short, incredulous ones that got caught in his chest. He glanced at the bag clutched against you, then back at your face, like he was still trying to understand what kind of person would be bold enough to rob an event of its alcohol supply and look this pleased about it.

“What?” he said, half-laughing. “How?”

You waved a hand like the details were unimportant.

“We’re not just leaving empty-handed. Where’s the car?” You cast a quick glance down the street, shifting on your feet, still buzzing with the thrill of it.

Frankie sighed, shaking his head, but there was something almost affectionate in it. “Jesus.”

“Come on,” you urged, already tugging at his sleeve.

Frankie didn’t move, standing there like he was still trying to process the absurdity of the situation.

“Haven't ordered yet.” Then, as if just remembering himself, he held out his hands and plucked the bag from your arms with practiced ease. He peeked inside. Four bottles.

“Damn,” he murmured, eyebrows lifting. “You’ve got fast hands.”

You giggled, the kind of breathless, slightly manic laughter that only came from getting away with something you absolutely should not have. A cool breeze swept over your bare arms, and a shiver ran through you just as—

“Hey! Come back here!”

The shout made you freeze. Your head snapped toward the hotel entrance, where Henry stood pointing an accusatory finger at you, his expression an almost comical mix of outrage and disbelief. Two other men flanked him, their faces still catching up to whatever chaos had just unfolded.

Henry, however, had already reached full comprehension. His usually pristine suit was a disaster, smeared with something white and unidentifiable. His face, normally so composed, was equally streaked with whatever disaster had befallen him. His hair was wild, like someone had either yanked it or he’d been through something emotionally catastrophic.

Your eyes widened. Then, without thinking, you let out a tiny, startled squeal, grabbed Frankie’s arm, and bolted. Laughter tore out of you as your feet hit the pavement, your body moving on pure adrenaline.

Frankie barely hesitated before falling into step beside you, the bag of stolen goods bouncing in his grip.

“You can’t take my Dom Pérignon!” Henry bellowed from behind, the sound of his footfalls closing in. “Come back here, you crazy bitch!”

“I can do whatever I want, Henry, the world is free!” you called back over your shoulder, breathless and delighted.

Frankie, despite running, turned his head slightly to glance at Henry, eyebrows pinched together in amused confusion.

“Your champagne is overrated anyway!” He said, voice loud and cutting through the night air. Then, as an afterthought: “You’ll never be a Backstreet Boy!”

Henry skidded to a stop for half a second, rage visibly bubbling over. Then, with renewed fury, he surged forward, picking up speed.

"Fuck!" Frankie swore under his breath, the laugh that had been creeping up his throat breaking free as he pushed himself faster.

You stole a quick glance over your shoulder, your pulse hammering, your grin stretching so wide it made your cheeks ache.

Your feet pounded against the pavement, so quick they barely felt like they belonged to you. The rush of air lifted your hair, tugging it away from your face. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d run like this—maybe high school, maybe longer.

Frankie ran beside you, his stride matching yours, never overtaking. His arms were locked tightly around the bag, the muffled clink of glass bottles rattling with every step.

You turned a corner, breath coming sharp, pulse hammering in your ears. Another few steps, then you cut across the street. Behind you, Henry had slowed, swiping at the streak of cream on his face, watching you with something like exasperation. His friends skidded to a stop beside him, breathing hard, hands braced on their knees.

“There! A cab, a cab!” You pointed, laughter spilling into your voice. Across the street, a yellow car approached, its neon sign glowing FREE against the windshield.

You threw out an arm, signaling it to stop, and it did—brakes sighing as it pulled up beside you.

Henry said something, gesturing in your direction, but his voice was lost to the blood rushing in your ears. You met his gaze briefly, a teasing smile lingering at your lips, before pulling open the back door.

You motioned for Frankie to get in first, and he did, the bag still clutched against his chest. You slid in after him, shutting the door behind you.

The driver glanced at you in the rearview mirror, waiting. You gave him your address, voice still uneven with breath.

Frankie tipped his head back against the seat, eyes slipping shut for just a second. His chest rose and fell deeply, his face still flushed from the run. The cab lurched forward, merging into the current of traffic, city lights washing over the windshield in streaks of gold and blue.

"You almost got my ass kicked," he said, eyes closed, mouth tilted in a half-smile.

"You didn’t have to say all that to him," you shot back, laughter still catching in your breath.

"No, but if they caught up to us, who were they going to take it out on?" He cracked one eye open, looking at you like the answer was obvious.

"Fair point."

He turned his head fully now, watching you, his gaze dark and sharp, like polished obsidian.

"What the hell did Henry have on him?"

You hesitated, biting your bottom lip, knowing how ridiculous it was going to sound.

"I threw pie at him."

Frankie blinked. "Pie."

"Lemon pie," you clarified, the words tipping into laughter. "He was waiting for a drink and I came out from behind the bar. He saw me. I tried to make up some bullshit excuse, but he wasn’t buying it. So…I threw the pie at him. And then I ran."

For a second, Frankie just stared at you, and then he burst out laughing, his head tipping back against the seat. The sound rolled through his chest, deep and warm, until you felt it in yours too, something unspooling between you in the dim glow of the passing streetlights.

You pushed the door shut behind you, exhaling as the tension in your shoulders eased. The quiet hum of your apartment settled around you like a second skin. Frankie made his way into the kitchen, setting the bag down on the counter. One by one, he pulled out the bottles, arranging them in a neat little lineup, the glass clinking softly against the marble surface.

Mr. Darcy let out a meow, lying on the floor without moving, clearly in a relaxed state.

Bracing yourself against the wall, you slipped off your heels, letting them drop carelessly to the floor before padding barefoot toward the couch. You sank into the cushions, head tipping back, eyes slipping shut.

"I'm so tired. What time is it?"

"Twenty past twelve," Frankie said, his voice drifting closer. You cracked one eye open just as he moved past you, his legs brushing yours before he settled onto the couch beside you. He glanced at his phone, then locked it with a sigh, tilting his head back against the cushions. "I could've sworn it was like 2 am."

"Exactly," you said, stretching your arms above your head. "Which means we need a glass of wine."

Without hesitation, you pushed yourself up. Frankie huffed out a quiet laugh, watching you with something like amusement.

"I thought you didn’t want a hangover."

"I'm fine," you insisted, making your way into the kitchen. "I’m still not at the point I want to be, you know? That perfect middle ground—buzzed, happy, warm." You reached for the cupboard, fingers grazing the cool glass as you pulled out two wine glasses. "You want one, don’t you?"

"Yes, ma’am."

You set the glasses down in front of you, picking up the bottle of wine, rolling it in your hands to read the label.

"Ornellaia. Tenuta dell'Ornellaia. Bolgheri. 2002." You glanced up at him with a smirk. "Fancy, whatever that means."

You uncorked the bottle, filling each glass just enough, then lifted one to your nose, inhaling deeply. Across the room, Frankie watched you with the kind of expression that made it seem like you were amusing to him in ways he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

"I'm afraid you're a criminal," he said.

You snorted, crossing the room toward him with both glasses in hand.

"As Fiona Apple put it, it’s a sad, sad, sad world."

You sank into the couch beside him, pressing a glass into his hand. His fingers brushed against yours—just a flicker of warmth, fleeting and barely there—but still, it sent a spark up your arm. You ignored it. Or pretended to.

Frankie took the glass without a word, swirling the deep red liquid in slow, practiced circles. He lifted it to his nose, inhaling, then took a sip, letting the flavor settle on his tongue before swallowing. His expression didn’t shift much, but there was something thoughtful in the way he tilted his head, processing.

"I hate it when insufferable people have good taste," he said, face utterly serious.

A laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. "Look at you. Ooh la la la."

He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, then leaned forward just enough to set the glass down on the coffee table. In one smooth, unhurried motion, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the armchair nearby. Then he shifted back into the couch, settling deeper, his posture easy, unguarded—legs spread, arms resting lazily at his sides.

Your gaze drifted over him without meaning to, tracing the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the relaxed angle of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows that never seemed to disappear completely. You let your eyes wander, cataloging every detail like you might need them later.

The white shirt clung to him in a way that felt almost unfair. It wasn’t tight, not exactly, but it fit him just right—draping over his frame like it had been tailored with only him in mind. The fabric stretched slightly across his chest, shifting with each breath, and where it met the waistband of his pants, it pulled just enough to hint at the shape beneath. His pants were much the same, fitting him comfortably, though in the way he was sitting—leaned back, legs spread, completely at ease—some things stood out more than others.

Your gaze drifted lower, to the solid line of his thighs, then up again, tracing the broad plane of his stomach. He looked… comfortable. So much so that for a second, you had the ridiculous urge to stretch out and rest your head there, let yourself sink into the warmth of him.

Instead, you said, “I like your outfit.”

Your eyes were still fixed somewhere around his torso, your body tilted subtly toward him, one arm slung over the back of the couch, your legs tucked neatly beneath you. Whether you were leaning into him consciously or unconsciously, you weren’t sure. It didn’t really matter.

Frankie glanced down at himself, then back at you. “Thanks. You gave me an excuse to wear it.”

“It looks great on you.”

He studied you for a beat, then exhaled through his nose.

“I bought it a while back. Most expensive shit I’ve ever paid for in clothes.” He stretched his arms out along the couch, grazing yours, the movement making his shirt pull ever so slightly at the seams. “So it better look good, right?” He shot you a crooked grin.

“That’s right.” You took a small sip of wine, your lips curving. “Lucky for you, I didn’t get any blood on it.”

Frankie let out a quiet laugh, his head tipping back, his chest rising and falling.

Your eyes caught on the movement of his throat, the way his Adam’s apple shifted when he swallowed.

“Do you want to see my list?” you asked, dragging your gaze back up to his face. “I’ve added a couple of things.”

He turned his head toward you, dark eyes curious. “Yeah? What?”

Without answering, you set your glass down on the coffee table and pushed yourself up, padding across the room in search of your journal. It was right where you’d left it—tucked neatly against the framed photo of Mr. Darcy and Santi on the bookshelf by the window. You grabbed it and made your way back, settling in next to Frankie again. This time, when you curled your legs beneath you, your back fit neatly into the space between his arm, stretched across the couch, and the solid warmth of his shoulder.

You held the open journal out to him. “Here. Take a look.”

Frankie hesitated, glancing at you. “May I?”

You rolled your eyes. “Like you asked last time. Yes. You can.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth as he took the journal from your hands, already flipped to the right page. He read through the list carefully, his gaze steady, his fingers absently tracing the edge of the paper. Maybe he was genuinely paying attention, or maybe the wine was making it harder for him to focus.

His eyes landed on one item in particular. “Have a New Year’s kiss. Just like Harry and Sally—but less romantic?” He glanced at you, one brow lifted.

You nodded. “Less romantic. Too much pressure.”

He hummed in acknowledgment, then frowned slightly. “Who’s Sally? Is Harry—wait. Is he that Harry? Harry? The one from the wedding?”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“No, it’s a movie. When Harry Met Sally.” You turned your head, watching his face for recognition. There was none. “The one with Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan.”

Frankie blinked at you. “Um, Tom Hanks?”

Your expression twisted in confusion. “What?”

“The one with the bookstores?” Frankie asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

You let out an exaggerated sigh, clicking your tongue. “That’s You’ve Got Mail.”

His lips twitched, the hint of a smile forming. “Didn’t realize I was talking to a rom-com scholar.”

“Didn't you ever see When Harry Met Sally?”

Frankie’s smile stretched wider, something lazy and amused settling in his expression. “Clearly not, sweetheart.”

He shifted, reaching down for his wine glass. Lifting it to his lips, he took a slow sip, then settled back into the couch. His gaze found yours again, dark, something unreadable flickering behind it.

“We can watch it if you want,” he said, his tone quieter now.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. But not now. I don’t think I can focus on anything that lasts more than an hour.”

You tilted your head at him, a teasing glint in your eye. “You say that to all your girlfriends?”

The laugh that burst out of him was sudden, cracking through his chest. His head tipped back for a second, the sound filling the small space between you.

“Okay,” you said, your own smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I’ll hold you to that promise. But in the meantime—yes. A New Year’s kiss. Not much more context than that.”

Frankie nodded. “Less romantic.”

“Exactly. I don’t need it to mean anything. Just a kiss.”

“Like kissing a stranger in a club? You could kill two birds with one stone and cross kiss a stranger and New Year’s kiss off your list at the same time.”

You shook your head, lifting your glass. “No, no. Those are two completely different things, Francisco.” You took a sip, savoring the wine.

“Well, I’m no stranger. But I can help you with New Year’s.”

You blinked. “Um?”

He shrugged, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“I can kiss you on New Year’s if you want.” He said it so simply, so matter-of-fact, that it almost sounded like a business arrangement.

A smile tugged at your lips, inevitable. “You’d do that?”

“We were kissing an hour ago, weren’t we? Why wouldn’t I? I don’t see the problem.”

You hummed, nodding absently, your eyes dipping to your glass. He had a point. You took a sip, then glanced back at him.

“That’s true. But we’d have to be in the same place that night.”

“That can be arranged.”

You let out a breath, tilting your head. “Right.”

Frankie watched you. “Now, if you want to kiss a stranger, that’s as simple as a night out, don’t you think?”

You opened your mouth to reply but realized, suddenly, that he was closer than you’d thought. The space between you had shrunk, or maybe it had never been that wide to begin with. You shifted in your seat, tucking your knees to your chest, settling deeper into the warm space between his arm and his body.

“That’s true,” you admitted.

He tipped his head slightly. “Does it have to be any stranger?”

“Well, not any stranger,” you said, considering. “A decent stranger. Not a dangerous one.” You took another sip, then added, “I talked to Emma yesterday. She said we could go out when she comes to Austin—she has a good eye for strangers.”

Frankie let out a low laugh. “She senses vibes?”

“Exactly.” You grinned. “You can come too, if you want. I don’t know if you like those kinds of places.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, like he was actually thinking it over. “

Do you want me to come with you?”

“If you don’t want to, it’s okay,” you said, too quickly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He huffed, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, I’ll go with you.” He lifted his glass, taking a sip before adding, “That way, if you need someone to pull some asshole off your back, you can use me.”

You laughed, softer this time, warmth pooling in your chest. “I'd like that.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence was comfortable, the kind that settled easily between two people with no urgency to fill it. Your eyes lingered on the page in your lap, the list of things you’d scrawled down, while Frankie lifted his glass to his lips again, tilting his head back slightly as he drank.

After a moment, he asked, “Why is it so important to kiss a stranger, though?”

You let out a breath, shifting your legs, stretching them out a little more comfortably.

“I don’t know. It’s not like it’s some grand, life-changing thing. It’s just one of those little experiences I’ve never had. I’ve never felt confident enough to just—go up to someone and kiss them. I think I’m too much of a romantic for it.” You laughed, shaking your head at yourself.

“Ah, I get it. Like an act of liberation or something, right?”

“You could call it that.” You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

He hummed in response, a low, quiet sound, and for some reason, the warmth of it lingered in your ear.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Mr. Darcy stir from his spot on the floor, stretching lazily before padding off toward his food bowl in the kitchen. You watched him go for a few seconds, then exhaled, a thought tugging at the edges of your mind.

“Actually,” you said, breaking the quiet, “I almost did it. A couple of years ago.”

Frankie’s eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

“Kissing a stranger,” you clarified.

“Oh, when?”

“A few years ago. Emma and I went with another friend to a Halloween party downtown. It was a great night, mostly. But at some point, I lost them in the crowd and spent forever trying to find them.” You let out a quiet laugh, the memory coming back to you in pieces, hazy at the edges. “I was drunk, obviously. Somehow, I ended up going through a door, thinking it led to a patio or something. And then the door shut behind me, and I realized it didn’t open from the outside.”

Frankie tipped his glass toward his mouth, watching you over the rim.

“I panicked. And then this guy scared the shit out of me.” You shake your head, remembering the jolt of it, the way your breath had caught. “Turns out he’d come up earlier and wedged something in the door to keep it from locking. And I—totally oblivious, completely useless—ruined his plan.”

Frankie laughed, setting his drink down.

“It was actually a terrace,” you went on, “not a patio or anything. And my friends were nowhere to be found. I tried calling them. No answer. He tried calling his friends too, I think.” You exhaled another laugh, quieter this time. “He was dressed as Zorro.”

He smirked. “Sexy.”

You grinned. “Yeah, but no hat.”

“He can be forgiven.”

“We were stuck there for at least an hour and a half. Maybe longer. Just talking. Flirting.” Your voice had softened, slowed. “I told him a lot about my life. And I wanted to kiss him. Really badly.” You hesitated, then admitted, “But I didn’t.”

Frankie’s eyes flickered over you. His voice was quieter now. “Why didn’t you?”

Your hand drifted to Frankie’s torso, fingertips tracing absent-minded patterns over the fabric of his shirt. You toyed with one of the buttons, turning it between your fingers as if the movement might help pull the memory into sharper focus. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed content to let you linger there.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I didn’t. And before I could even think about it, a security guard showed up and—well, that was it. He told us we had to leave. And then he asked for my number.” You exhaled. “And I panicked. I was tipsy, nervous, trying to process the whole situation, and then out of nowhere, Emma came barreling toward me, screaming my name. So I ran.”

Frankie’s mouth twitched at the corner. “You ran.”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Full-on ran. Didn’t even ask his name. Didn’t give him mine. Nothing.” You pressed your lips together, the weight of the ridiculousness settling in. “So, somewhere out there, there’s a guy who knows way too much about my life but has no idea what to call me.”

“You should’ve looked him up. Put up a sign or something. ��El Zorro Wanted.’”

You laughed. “Right. And what, just hope he rides in on a horse to claim me?”

Frankie grinned. “Would’ve been romantic.”

“Yes, if somewhat unrealistic.” You pressed a finger against his belly, just lightly. “But I know I’d recognize him if I saw him.”

Frankie laughed, tipping his head back slightly. “Oh, you think so?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Before he could respond, Mr. Darcy meowed from the kitchen, his voice sharp and insistent. You glanced over and saw him sitting upright next to his water dish, his eyes wide with the kind of urgency you had come to recognize immediately.

You sighed, detangling yourself from Frankie’s warmth and standing up. He watched you go, and when you reached for your empty glass, he handed you his without a word. You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a brief second before you turned and walked toward the kitchen.

There, you placed the glasses on the counter and crouched down beside Darcy, who was still stationed by his dishes, staring at you with clear disapproval. Floating in his water bowl was a single, tragic piece of food—utterly unacceptable, in his opinion. You already knew what he wanted before he so much as twitched an ear.

“Okay, okay,” you murmured, swapping out the water for fresh. When you set the dish back down, he inspected it briefly before brushing his head against your hand. You smoothed your fingers over the soft fur between his ears, a silent apology for the offense.

From the living room, the sound of the television clicking on drew your attention. You glanced back to see Frankie, remote in hand as he navigated YouTube. He looked focused, his eyes fixed on the screen while his thumb moved over the buttons at a measured pace.

A few moments later, the speakers crackled to life. First, the sound of voices and laughter. Then, a melody—light and happy.

This Must Be the Place, by Talking Heads.

Frankie moved first. His shoulders bounced to the rhythm, his eyes squeezed shut, his face twisted in exaggerated concentration, like he was feeling the music with his whole body. You laughed at the sight of him, the unabashed joy of it, the way he gave himself over so completely. Before you could react, he reached for your hand, fingers curling around yours as he pulled you into a messy twirl. The movement sent a dizzy sort of delight through you, spinning your balance just enough to make you stumble forward with a breathless laugh.

His hands found your waist, feather-light at first, just a teasing brush that made you squirm as he tickled at your sides.

“Francisco!” you yelped, half laughing, half breathless, trying to swat him away, but he only grinned, pulling you closer, setting the rhythm for you both.

It took only seconds for your body to sync with his. Bare feet against the floor, moving in tandem, your laughter tangling with the music as you mirrored his steps. He danced like a drunk man at a party—goofy and unselfconscious, his hips swaying exaggeratedly, arms lifting at just the right moments. And you, tipsy and delighted, couldn’t help but match his energy, your body light and free, your head tilting back as giggles tumbled out of you.

He spun you again, this time with a little more flair, his grip firm as he turned you effortlessly, sending a rush of dizziness through your limbs. The music swelled, bright and glittering, filling the space like drops of color spilling onto the floor.

Frankie laughed—really laughed—before pulling you back into him, your body colliding softly with his, breath warm against your temple. His hands settled at your waist, grounding you, his chest rising and falling against your back as the song played on, wrapping you both in its golden haze.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, your hands drifted up his chest, fingers trailing over the fabric stretched across his shoulders. Your arms looped around his neck, fingertips slipping into the curls at his nape, twisting there, just slightly, just enough to make him shiver. His breath hitched—so faint you might have imagined it.

He was watching you, his mouth curved at one side, that lazy, knowing smile playing at his lips, and maybe it was the way he was looking at you, or the warmth of the room, or the hum still alive in your body from dancing—but you didn’t think too much about it.

You rose onto the tip of your feet and kissed him.

It surprised him—you could feel the way his body tensed, the way his breath caught—but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t hesitate. If anything, he reacted in the opposite direction entirely. His hands locked around you, one gripping your waist, the other pressing firm against the small of your back, dragging you in until there was nothing left between you but heat and breath and the sharp, electric rush of contact.

His mouth opened under yours, the kiss deepening so effortlessly it made your head spin. You tilted your chin, parting your lips just slightly, and then his tongue was there, teasing the seam of your mouth. The first taste of him sent a spark up your spine, something hot and liquid pooling low in your stomach. A sound slipped from your throat—small, needy, completely unintentional.

That seemed to tip something over the edge.

Frankie exhaled sharply, his hands gripping harder, his kiss turning feverish, hungry. He moved forward, walking you back step by step until your shoulders hit the wall, his body pressing into yours. His fingers dragged down your spine, lower, lower—until his palm cupped your ass, his grip firm, hard, his thumb pressing into the curve of your hip.

You gasped against his mouth, your pulse hammering, your skin burning everywhere he touched you. It wasn’t enough. It was suddenly, overwhelmingly not enough. The need was blooming fast inside you, hot and insistent, demanding more.

Frankie’s mouth left yours only to drag along your jaw, his lips brushing over sensitive skin before he latched onto the curve of your neck. His kisses were warm, wet, his breath hot as he worked his way down, open-mouthed and eager, sucking just enough to make you shudder, biting just enough to make your pulse spike.

Your breathing turned ragged, uneven, and when you reached for him, your hands trembled slightly, fingers slipping into his hair like you’d been aching to do all night. The curls twisted between your fingers, thick and soft, and when you tugged, just a little, Frankie let out a sound against your throat, something rough and needy that sent heat flooding through your limbs.

Then he pulled back, just enough to look at you. His face was flushed, his lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His eyes—god, his eyes—were darker than you’d ever seen them, blown-out with something raw and desperate, something barely held together. He looked wrecked.

You barely had time to take him in before he was kissing you again, fast, consuming, like he couldn’t stand the space between you any longer. His tongue slid against yours, stroking deep, and you gasped into his mouth, the sensation making your stomach twist tight with heat.

His grip on you was unrelenting. One hand still cupped your ass, kneading as he pulled you closer, while the other squeezed your waist, fingers digging into your skin as if to keep you exactly where he wanted you. Then, with a slow, agonizing drag, his hand moved higher, following the curve of your body, grazing over your ribs before settling at your shoulder.

And then—without a word, without warning—he hooked his fingers under the thin strap of your dress and pulled it down.

The fabric slipped easily, pooling at your waist in a whisper of movement, leaving you exposed, bare against him. Your breath caught as your breasts brushed against his shirt, the contrast of heat and fabric making you shiver. Frankie groaned, his head dipping back to your throat, mouth trailing lower, lips skimming over your collarbone as his fingers drifted down to your cleavage.

A moan spilled from you before you could stop it, your back arching, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging hard. Frankie exhaled sharply at the sensation, his hands moving over you with something just short of desperation, like he was memorizing the shape of you, like he couldn’t stand not touching you.

Frankie’s grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass as his other hand slid to your hip. Then, with a fluid, practiced motion, he lifted you, pressing you against the wall with his body, holding you there with nothing but strength and urgency. Your legs locked around his waist instinctively, your dress riding up over your thighs as you moved.

And then—you felt him. Hard, unyielding beneath you, pressing against the thin barrier of your underwear, sending a pulse of heat through you so intense it stole the air from your lungs.

Your eyes fluttered shut as your hands found his face, fingers splayed along his jaw, tracing the shape of him before dragging him back to you. You kissed him like you needed it to live, mouths crashing together, breathless and messy, all tongue and heat and want.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest, and then suddenly, he was peeling you away from the wall, holding you effortlessly as he walked. The motion sent a fresh wave of friction between your legs, a sensation so deliciously torturous that a sigh slipped from you.

Your mind swam—desire and alcohol tangling together, clouding your senses, making everything feel heightened, electric. Every inch of you was aware of him, of his hands gripping you firmly, of the way his breath came ragged against your skin, of the sheer heat radiating off his body.

You didn’t realize where he’d taken you until your eyes blinked open and your mouth broke from his. The room was dark, the air thick with the weight of what was about to happen. Frankie nudged the door shut with his foot before carrying you to the bed, lowering you onto the mattress with a care that sent something hot and unbearable curling in your stomach.

Your chest rose and fell in deep, uneven breaths, your skin buzzing, your nipples pebbling as a shiver passed through you. Above you, he stood at the edge of the bed, his gaze heavy, raking over you like he was committing you to memory. His lips were parted, his hair a mess from where your fingers had been, his entire body taut with restraint.

The light in your bedroom was soft, a muted glow spilling through the window, casting everything in pale blue and silver. Frankie lingered above you, his gaze locked onto yours, something unreadable shifting behind his eyes—hesitation, maybe, or something heavier.

But then you sat up, just slightly, your body tilting toward him, pulling back just enough to give him space, to show him he could reach for you again.

And he did.

His hands found your hips first, thumbs pressing into the curve of your waist, grounding himself in the warmth of you. Then, as if drawn by gravity, you fell back against the mattress, offering yourself up like an invitation.

Frankie moved, positioning himself over you, his weight settling between your legs as his mouth descended to your neck. His lips were warm, teasing, a soft drag over your pulse before opening against your skin, kissing, tasting. You gasped when his teeth scraped along your collarbone, a gentle bite soothed by the heat of his tongue as he moved lower.

Lower.

Your breath hitched when he reached your chest, his mouth ghosting over the swell of your breast before closing around your nipple. His lips sealed over you, sucking with just enough pressure to send a sharp pulse of pleasure straight through your stomach. A quiet, aching sound slipped from your throat, and when his tongue flicked against you, a fresh wave of heat shot between your legs.

Frankie groaned, the sound vibrating through your skin, and you felt the way his body reacted—the way his grip on you tightened, the way his fingers curled against your ribs as he sucked harder, the way his hips rolled just slightly against yours, pressing, teasing.

And then—his leg.

One of his thighs slotted between yours, the fabric rough against the thin lace of your underwear, pressing exactly where you needed him most. Your back arched instinctively, a shudder ripping through you as you moved against him, chasing the friction, chasing him.

His mouth never left you, his hands never stopped mapping you out, like he was determined to unravel you completely.

The hunger in you was unbearable. It twisted deep in your stomach, pulsing in time with the frantic rhythm of your heart. For a fleeting, ridiculous moment, you thought it might break free from your chest entirely.

And then you snapped.

Your hands found Frankie’s shoulders, fingers digging in, pushing him back with a force that surprised even you. A soft, wet pop sounded as his mouth pulled away from your skin, his lips flushed, his breath coming out in a rough exhale.

You didn’t give either of you a moment to think. You pressed harder, guiding him onto his back until he was lying beneath you, sprawled out on your bed, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. His eyes flickered up to yours and before he could say a word, you climbed over him, knees settling on either side of his hips, palms pressed flat against his chest.

He was firm beneath you—solid, unrelenting, there—and for a second, you just felt it, the heat of him seeping through layers of fabric, the pressure of his body beneath yours.

Frankie let his head tip back slightly, his throat exposed, his breath catching in his chest. And your gaze dropped, drawn to the place you’d been watching all night, the place that had tempted you again and again.

Without hesitation, you leaned down and latched your mouth onto his neck.

You bit—just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath, his hands twitching at your waist. You kissed him there, tongue dragging over the mark you left, mouth moving against his skin like you wanted to devour him whole, like you could eat him alive and it still wouldn’t be enough.

And then, as if possessed by something outside of yourself, your hips moved.

Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was both. But the moment you felt him—hard beneath you, pressing exactly where you needed him—it became impossible to stop.

You rocked against him, chasing the friction, the feeling, the unbearable, pulsing ache. And Frankie watched you, his eyes locked onto the place where your bodies met, his fingers gripping your waist, urging you on, helping you, pressing you harder against him.

His mouth parted like he was about to say something, but then—he sat up.

One hand braced against the mattress behind him, the other sliding up your side. His lips found your chest again, hungry, impatient, and he took your breast into his mouth, sucking, licking, dragging his tongue across sensitive skin as your movements turned frantic, desperate.

Heat built between you, unbearable and intoxicating, a tension so thick it felt like you might shatter under the weight of it. And god, you wanted to shatter.

“Francisco,” you murmured, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as the air between you seemed to crackle.

He pulled back, his face raw, his expression one of devastation. His eyes locked with yours, something passing between you—something unspoken, heavy, like a secret he hadn’t meant to reveal, or a confession that had slipped out before he could stop it.

A soft sigh escaped his lips, and then his hands—those hands that had been so sure, so confident before—settled on your hips as if trying to keep you from moving. Trying to stop something that neither of you were sure you wanted to stop.

“Baby,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, a murmur that almost didn’t reach your ears. “No.”

You froze, your body stilling, confusion rising in you. Your chest ached, your pulse fluttering unsteadily as you tried to understand what he meant. Had you even heard him? His words felt distant, muffled by the weight of everything else that pressed down on you.

And then, before you could gather yourself, his hands lifted you—effortlessly, as if you were nothing more than a feather in his grasp—and pulled you off of him, placing you beside him on the bed.

You blinked, disoriented, vulnerable, your heart thundering against your ribcage. You tried to focus, to find words, but all you could manage was his name, your voice thin, fragile, barely more than a breath.

“Frankie,” you said, a quiet plea.

He turned his face toward you, and the look in his eyes made something cold and painful twist in your stomach.

“We can't,” he said, almost too softly, his voice cracking like a broken thing.

He leaned in closer, but then, just as quickly, he pulled away, retreating to the edge of the bed, his back to you.

Your body felt like it was on fire as you sat up, knees pressing into the bed, hands reaching out for him, desperate to bridge the space that had grown between you. You touched his back, fingertips brushing his skin.

He jerked away like your touch had scorched him, a visible flinch, like he couldn’t bear the heat of your skin against his.

“Frankie.”

“We can't,” he repeated, his words barely audible.

“Why?”

“I can’t,” he said, turning his head just enough for his gaze to meet yours. There was something in his eyes—something deeper than confusion, maybe regret, maybe guilt. His jaw tightened, and the words seemed to choke him. “I-I can’t.”

"That's not—"

"I shouldn't. We shouldn't."

"Why?" The question slipped from you, quieter than you'd intended, almost lost in the space between the two of you. But it rang in your ears, your breath stilling as you waited for him to answer. You were stunned by the sudden distance, the barrier he'd just put up between you.

He exhaled sharply, staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on something you couldn't see, something distant. When he finally turned back to you, there was an edge in his gaze, something that wasn’t quite regret but more like hesitation, like he was struggling to keep his thoughts in order.

"We're drunk, baby. You're going to regret it in the morning."

"That's not true," you said, but the words felt fragile, like you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. Your heart was beating erratically, a mix of frustration and desire coiling tightly in your chest.

"It is."

"Are you going to regret it in the morning?" you pressed, your voice thinner now.

He looked at you for a beat, silent, like he was trying to decide whether to lie, whether to say something easier. Then, almost reluctantly, he shook his head.

"No."

Your hand moved instinctively, reaching for him again, your fingers brushing his back. He didn’t pull away this time.

"Frankie—"

"You don’t really want this."

"I do."

He shook his head again, his brow furrowing as he looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.

"No. It’s been a complicated night, and we’ve had too much wine."

"This has nothing to do with the night, or the wedding, or anything."

He sighed, a deep, frustrated sound, and closed his eyes for a moment. When they opened again, there was a kind of resignation in them.

"You’re Santi’s sister," he blurted, and as soon as the words left his mouth, you felt something inside you snap—an illusion.

Frankie’s eyes locked with yours, but there was something pained in his gaze now, something that made your chest tighten. The way he looked at you—it was as if your mere presence in that moment, sitting in front of him, bare and vulnerable, hurt him more than it should have.

"That didn’t seem to bother you before," you said, your voice firm, holding steady despite the twist of anger in your stomach. "You’ve done worse things to me than this. You never cared that Santiago was my brother."

"This is different."

You stared at the ground, your heart sinking as the words echoed in your mind. Different. It wasn’t a word you wanted to hear. It didn’t make any of this easier to understand.

"Okay," you whispered finally, your voice soft, resigned. You nodded, though you weren’t sure if you believed yourself.

“I should go,” he said, turning away from you, pressing the heels of his hands against his face like he could wipe away whatever had just passed between you.

You didn’t mean to make a sound, but one escaped anyway—something caught between a sigh and a whimper. Frankie turned at once, his gaze finding yours and holding it, his dark eyes scanning your face like he was trying to decipher something written there in a language he half-understood. For a moment, he just looked. And then he moved.

He stepped toward you, reaching for your dress. His fingers pulled the strap back over your shoulder, smoothing the fabric into place like it mattered, like it made a difference. Like it wasn’t already too late for that.

“I don’t want you to leave.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, and you saw the way they landed.

Maybe it was just exhaustion, or the alcohol swimming in both your systems, making everything feel softer and sadder than it really was.

After a beat, he nodded, the motion almost imperceptible. “Okay.”

He took a step back, then another, eyes still on you as he pulled off his shoes and let them drop to the floor. You sat up, watching him with a quiet kind of curiosity, the crease between your brows deepening. And then you understood.

You exhaled, sinking back onto the bed, shifting just enough to make space. A moment later, the mattress dipped under his weight.

You turned your head, finding him beside you, his face illuminated only by the faint glow filtering through the window. He was looking at you the way he always did—like he saw something you didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“No,” he said. “Don’t be. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You swallowed. “I like being with you.”

His lips parted, just slightly. “I like being with you too.”

For a second, you hesitated. Then, spurred by the lingering hum of wine in your blood, you reached out, your fingers grazing the sharp line of his jaw. His breath hitched, but he didn’t move away.

You let your eyes slip shut.

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

#capuccinodoll #the boyfriend act #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier fanfiction #francisco catfish morales #francisco morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales x reader #francisco morales smut #francisco morales fanfiction #francisco morales x you #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales smut #triple frontier #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction

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anythingneverythingnstuffs · 2 months ago

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neighbor!reader x simon 'ghost' riley pt 9

masterlist

You woke up alone in your bed the next morning. You didn’t remember how you got there, and you were wearing the same clothes that you had worn the day before. It only took you a few groggy seconds to realize what must’ve happened last night. It was all coming back to you.

Simon. Simon was gone. He must have already left.

As you sat up from your bed, you noticed a piece of paper and a key on your nightstand. With a soft sniffle and shaky hands, you picked up the paper and began to read:

Love,

If you’re reading this, it means I’ve already left. I’m no good at saying goodbye, but then again, I’ve never really had anyone worth saying goodbye to.

Anyway, I’m leaving you a key to my flat. Feel free to come and go as you please, anything in the pantry is yours. Try not to miss me too much, yeah?

Yours, Simon

Tears definitely didn’t cloud your vision as you read his note. He must have- had he stayed the night? How did you get back to bed? When had he written the note?

You were still wearing last night’s clothes, so that meant no funny business happened. Not that you would have been opposed to any funny business. Specifically with Simon, your incredibly handsome-

Ugh, fuck. And he was going to be gone. For months.

After rereading the note a few times, you glanced down again at your nightstand where the single shiny key sat. The key to Simon’s apartment. The key he had left you after giving you permission to come and go as you pleased, to help yourself to his pantry, and to not miss him too much.

It seemed you were already failing at that last bit. Whoops.

At the same time that you were waking up with the realization that he was gone, Simon was already hundreds of miles away. Leaving you like that, without a real proper goodbye, that had been the last thing he wanted to do. He didn't want to leave quietly, like a ghost in the night.

But Simon knew better. He knew if he had said goodbye to you properly the next morning before he left, as early as he would be leaving, that he might not have been able to leave at all. Leave you at all.

He had gotten barely any sleep the night before. Instead, after you had fallen asleep in his arms, he held you. For hours. Only when he knew he had to go back and pack up the rest of his things did he finally tuck you into your bed.

An hour later, he had come back into your apartment to get one last look at you before he left and to leave you something. It was better that you were still sleeping. He had already written his note to you, and the spare key he had made specifically for you was in his ungloved hand as he walked back into your bedroom.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley truly lived up to his name. After giving you one final glance, the note and key left on your nightstand, he made his way out of your bedroom. He only stopped to give your cat a few pets. He was going to miss the feline, too, surprisingly.

“Take care of ‘er, yeah?” he had mumbled to your cat.

“Ghost! Did ya hear me?”

Ghost’s head jerked up at the mention of his name. Had someone spoken to him-?

That was when he realized that both Soap and Price were looking directly at him, as if they were expecting him to answer a question they had asked. Had they asked him a question?

“Sorry, mate, must’ve missed that last bit.”

“I said, are you ready for this one, Ghost?” Soap repeated, giving him a nudge on the arm with his elbow.

Was he ready for this? He had to be. He had to be ready, he had to complete this mission, and he had to get back home. Safely. To you. It had only been a few hours, but he already missed you so much.

It was now a week after Simon left for his deployment. Mission. Whatever it was that he did. He was gone, you didn’t really know when he’d be back, you didn’t know how to contact him, you didn’t know if he was even still alive-

All you did know is that you had a key to his flat. A key he had given you, the trust that must have come with leaving a key to his home to you, his neighbor. You really were just his neighbor. His friend, too, perhaps. Right?

Feel free to come and go as you please. Those were his words. You had no reason to feel guilty entering his home.

Anything in the pantry is yours. You knew that much of his food had already been tossed, the stuff that would go bad in the time he was gone like milk and whatnot, but he always did keep a well-stocked pantry of non-perishables. Stuff that wouldn’t have had to have been tossed.

With a resigning sigh, you got up from where you had been sitting to grab that damn key. It was time to put it to use.

Unlike other times when you had visited Simon’s flat, you didn’t check yourself in the mirror before you left yours. He wasn’t there to see you, no need for any extra primping or preening you might have done a time or two before seeing him.

You told your cat to hold down the fort before making your way over to Simon’s.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley was in a classified place doing classified things with people that were most certainly also classified. Nonetheless, it was a week after he had left for his extended deployment. His team was finally given the okay to breathe, and they were taking full advantage.

It wasn’t until finally unlocking his cell phone after one long ass week that he received a notification from his at-home security system. Someone had entered with a key. He only gave one person a key to his flat.

You.

Smiling under his signature balaclava, he tapped a gloved finger on his phone screen. Seconds later, there you were, in his living room. You were sitting on his couch, but you weren’t sitting where you usually sat. You were sitting in his spot.

Simon couldn’t help a twinge of pride when he noticed that.

In that moment, he really wanted to send you a message. To tell you that he was okay, that he was missing you, but hoped that you weren’t missing him too badly, just like he told you. It was a bad idea. He couldn’t risk you somehow getting caught in the crosshairs, you didn’t have a burner phone or anything he could send messages to.

But he could check his home security system app on his phone while connected to a secured VPN.

It was strange. Ghost had never missed someone while he was out on deployment. All of the people that mattered most to him had always been his brothers in arms, especially after coming of age and joining the armed forces. His family… Well, he had his chosen family.

It was a different feeling, missing someone while being away from them. Simon didn’t like it. But, in the week that he had been gone so far, he had realized one thing.

He had never had someone to look forward to coming home to. And that was a whole different kind of motivator to get the job done, stay alive, and (maybe most importantly) come home (to you).

Simon let out a soft sigh as he watched you flip through channels with his TV remote, wearing one of his jackets that probably looked like a blanket on the screen to anyone who didn’t recognize that piece of clothing, especially with how it fit you. It didn’t. It fit him, but there you were, making it work anyway. It probably still smelled like him (it did).

One week down. He didn’t know how many more to go.

first

#simon ghost riley #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x you #simon riley #simon riley x you #ghost mw2 #call of duty #simon ghost riley x you #simon 'ghost' riley x you #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon 'ghost' riley imagine #neighbor!reader x simon 'ghost' riley #simon riley imagine

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marylxvrr · 5 months ago

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" THE KING'S OBSESSION PT 2"

read part 1 here

𐙚 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 — a ruthless ruler who commands loyalty from all, yet becomes a desperate, obsessive mess when it comes to you, willing to destroy kingdoms just to keep you by his side . . .

𐙚 Trigger Warnings: Obsession, power imbalance, emotional. manipulation, implied captivity, and threats of violence.

The days that followed were a blur of confusion and fear. King Adrian's presence was constant—his emerald eyes watching your every move, his voice a mix of soft affection and sharp command. No matter where you turned, there he was, offering gifts, his touch lingering just a moment too long, his gaze filled with an unsettling intensity.

Yet, amidst the fear, a part of you couldn’t deny the care he showed. It wasn’t the care you wanted—he was overbearing, controlling—but he was attentive in ways you hadn’t experienced before. He noticed when you were tired, ordering meals and rest for you. He noticed when your hands were calloused from work, having ointments brought to your chambers. It was overwhelming, suffocating, but undeniably genuine.

One evening, as you sat in your modest quarters, the door creaked open, revealing Adrian. He stepped inside, his presence filling the room. You stood quickly, heart pounding.

"Your Majesty," you said, your voice trembling.

"Adrian," he corrected, closing the door behind him. "When it’s just us, call me Adrian."

You swallowed hard, nodding slightly. "Adrian," you repeated, the name foreign on your tongue.

He smiled faintly, though the intensity in his gaze didn’t waver. "You’ve been avoiding me."

"I haven’t," you lied, keeping your eyes on the floor.

He stepped closer, and you instinctively backed away until your legs hit the edge of the bed. "Do you think I don’t notice?" he murmured, his voice low. "I see everything, Y/n. Every glance, every step you take to avoid crossing paths with me."

"I’m just—" you started, but he cut you off.

"Afraid," he finished for you. "You’re afraid of me."

You didn’t respond, your silence speaking volumes.

Adrian sighed, his expression softening. "I don’t want you to fear me," he said, reaching out to gently take your hand in his. You tried to pull away, but his grip was firm yet not painful. "I want you to love me."

"Love isn’t something you can force," you said, your voice trembling.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you saw a flash of frustration in his eyes. "I know that," he said, his tone sharp, but it softened as he continued. "But you will, Y/n. I’ll make sure of it."

Before you could respond, he sank to his knees in front of you, his hands still holding yours. The sight was shocking—this powerful king, the ruler of empires, kneeling before a mere servant.

"You’re all I think about," he admitted, his voice raw. "Every moment, every decision I make is with you in mind. You’ve become my world, Y/n. And I can’t—won’t—let you go."

Tears welled in your eyes, a mix of fear and something else you couldn’t quite place. "Why me?" you whispered. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because you’re everything I’ve ever wanted," he said, his emerald eyes locking onto yours. "You’re kind, selfless, strong... everything this cold, cruel world lacks. You make me feel alive in ways I thought I never could."

"Adrian, this isn’t right," you said, your voice cracking.

He stood, pulling you gently to your feet. His hands cupped your face, his touch surprisingly tender. "I know it’s not fair," he said. "But I’ll give you the world, Y/n. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Just stay by my side."

His words were a plea, but his gaze was a command. You felt trapped, caught between fear and a flicker of pity for the man before you. You didn’t know if you could ever truly love him, but as his thumb brushed away a tear from your cheek, you realized he would do whatever it took to make you try.

"I’ll show you," he whispered, leaning closer. "I’ll prove that we’re meant to be."

And as his lips brushed yours, soft yet insistent, you knew your life would never be the same again.

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#fanfiction #male yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere oc x reader #yandere x reader #yandere male

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purinipod · 4 months ago

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clingy bf sukuna headcanons

despite his aggressive and mean exterior to everyone else, sukuna is surprisingly sweet and caring with you. he might tear someone apart without hesitation, but when it’s just the two of you, he’s soft, protective, and attentive, showing a tenderness he never lets anyone else see. with you, he’s not the fearsome sukuna—he’s just yours.

clingy bf sukuna who won’t let go of your hand while walking. “you’ll get lost without me.”

clingy bf sukuna who sprawls across your side of the bed and smirks. “guess you’ll have to sleep on me instead.”

clingy bf sukuna who calls you five times when you don’t answer his texts. “just making sure you’re still alive.”

clingy bf sukuna who slides his arm around your waist the moment someone else looks your way. “just reminding them who you belong to.”

clingy bf sukuna who always steals your hoodies (which are too small for him) but says it looks better on him. “you’ll get it back when i’m done.”

clingy bf sukuna who insists you sit next to him at every meal. “food tastes better when you’re close.”

clingy bf sukuna who won’t let you sleep if he’s not tired. “you’re staying up until i’m done talking to you.”

clingy bf sukuna who grabs your chin and forces you to look at him. “eyes on me, not anywhere else.”

clingy bf sukuna who drags you back into bed if you try to leave in the morning. “where do you think you’re going? i’m not done with you yet.”

clingy bf sukuna who shows up uninvited to wherever you are, acting like it’s no big deal. “what? i missed you.”

clingy bf sukuna who insists on sharing your drink but refuses to let you have a sip of his. “yours tastes better anyway.”

clingy bf sukuna who stares at you while you’re busy with something, waiting for you to notice him. “are you done yet? i’m bored.”

clingy bf sukuna who refuses to sit across from you, always choosing the seat next to yours. “you’re too far away otherwise.”

clingy bf sukuna who gets annoyed when you don’t text him goodnight. “how am i supposed to sleep if you don’t say it first?”

clingy bf sukuna who tugs you into his arms randomly throughout the day. “just needed to remind you who loves you the most.”

clingy bf sukuna who playfully grumbles when you touch his hair but leans into your hands anyway. “don’t stop, or I’ll make you regret it.”

clingy bf sukuna who demands to know every detail about your day. “you’re with me now, so nothing else matters, but tell me anyway.”

@purinipod pls don’t steal or translate any of my work

#jjk x black reader #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x black reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #sukuna x reader #sukuna x black reader #sukuna headcanons #jjk headcanons

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sockmeat · 1 year ago

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Never done this before so I’m not sure I’m doing this right but I saw you take requests for Lucifer so I wanted to try.

How about a romantic Lucifer x good human reader where reader somehow ends up in hell while still alive and meets Lucifer and he falls for her.

In the first episode it said that he never got to see what good came from humanity so maybe he finally does when getting to know reader.

(Sorry If I did this wrong ^^“)

𓆩♡𓆪

✼__________________________________________________________✼

𝐅𝐄𝐌 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 -- 𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥… (𝑯𝒂𝒛𝒃𝒊𝒏 𝑯𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒍)

(𝐰𝐜): 428

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Thanks to some asshole friends, you're stuck in Hell with no way out. Thankfully, you find a nice hotel to stay in, but the owner's dad is going to be making visit and he just so happens to be the king of Hell.

(��/𝐍): Can you tell I'm just cycling through the same 3 images......

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): Wrote this while I was tired so it might be trash fair warning

𓆩♡𓆪

♡ You ended up in hell after a sleepover with your friends, where they were playing around with an old book of portals they found and went too far. You were the one singled out and thrown in and now you have absolutely no way of going back.

♡ You heard of the Hazbin Hotel and how they were trying to redeem sinners and figured that was your best shot at being safe and finding a way to get back to Earth, so that's how you ended up there.

♡ Charlie was not only excited to show her father her hotel and hopefully get some support, but maybe also get some input on how she could help you.

♡ You and Lucifer met when he first visited the hotel.

♡ You were very nervous about it; you weren't sure what kind of man the king of Hell would be.

♡ But the second he burst into the room and greeted Charlie with a big hug, you relaxed significantly.

♡ He went on to greet Keekee, then Razzle and Dazzle, then Vaggie before he saw you.

♡ He looked instantly surprised to see you, then confused.

♡ He asked Charlie, very bluntly, what a human was doing in Hell of all places.

♡ You stepped in, introduced yourself as kindly and smoothly as you could to the literal king of Hell, and explained how you got there.

♡ Sleepover, creepy old book, bad friends, Hell.

♡ The day went on and Lucifer found interest in you.

♡ Not only were you a human in Hell, but you were so considerate there was no way you even deserved to be there.

♡ Lucifer watched your interactions with the others with something swelling in his chest. He could barely work up the nerve to talk to you himself, he wanted you to treat him the way you were treating them, but he didn't feel confident that he could be normal under that attention.

♡ When it was finally time for him to leave, Lucifer was surprisingly reluctant.

♡ Even with Alastor up his butthole about being like Charlie's new dad, Lucifer wasn't certain when he'd see you again.

♡ He couldn't exactly just find you wandering around the pride ring. And when was the next time he would be invited to the hotel?

♡ But, eventually he left, with a plan to make more excuses to visit the hotel.

♡ He stuck true to his gut and did visit, getting closer to Charlie and you in the process.

♡ Win, win!

𓆩♡𓆪

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer x reader #lucifer magne x reader #lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar x reader #my writing #headcanons #x f reader #x fem reader #x female reader

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darktrashsoulbear · 5 months ago

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The Abyss Of Affection

Aemond Targaryen x wife!reader

Summary: Aemond discovers the book his sweet wife has been obsessed with and after reading one of the scenes, a plan begins to formulate (fluff)

This was inspired by a conversation I had with the wonderful Hannah @gwaynesprincess

House of the Dragon Masterlist

Taglist

Warnings: Allusions to smut

Word Count: 2308

Divider Credit: @saradika-graphics

Not entirely show canon as Jaehaerys is alive, Maelor exists and people are happy

Any likes, comments and reblogs are always always appreciated :)

His calculated footsteps echoed in the hallways of the keep’s royal chambers, following the elder of the King’s brothers - Prince Aemond Targaryen - back to his chambers after an incredibly taxing day filled with fulfilling duties that were not his own and patrolling the city atop his beloved Vhagar, the Queen of all Dragons. Many would argue a dragon fit for a true king, Aemond would agree. Finally rounding the corner, he greeted the familiar face of Ser Steffon giving a cordial nod as he made his way through the doors of his chambers, removing his cloak as he went.

The sight that greeted the prince was not surprising yet still brought a small, fond smile to his face. Laying on her side of the feather bed was his sweet wife curled up under the various blankets spread across the bed to combat the chill in the air as the citadel switched black ravens to white and summer turned to winter. Aemond made quick work of stripping out of his leathers and into a loose night shirt and breeches ready to join his wife in slumber.

Just as he was about to blow out the candles beside where they lay, he noticed a book beneath the blankets next to his sweet wife’s sleeping form. He picked it up ready to place it on the small table on her side of the bed before taking a look at the title and realising it was the book that had so often stolen her attention away from him during the nights they spent together before the fire. The prince’s insatiable curiosity, it seems, also extended to what on earth his sweet wife could be reading in the non-academic books she so loves.

Flipping over to one of the pages he remembers her completely raving about with her lady in waiting, he began to read and as he continued, a plan began to formulate.

She was met by a chorus of “good morrow, Princess” to which she responded with decidedly less vigour and an almost petulant expression as she discovered that her husband was in fact not in their shared chambers. This prompted the other ladies in the room to barely suppress their giggles knowing how not seeing her husband in the mornings can dampen her mood - not that the Prince fairs any better himself.

“Do any of you happen to know where my dear lord husband is at such an hour?” she discontentedly drawled.

The handmaidens exchanged uneasy glances with one another which, of course, did not escape her watchful gaze and she probed further with a single raise of an eyebrow. Silence ensued for a couple of very awkward, tension-filled seconds until the Princess’ lady in waiting - Elaena - stepped closer and stated that “we are not at liberty to say, Princess,” adding a slight curtsy at the end.

Again silence ensued only interrupted by her own chortle “what in the name of the seven do you mean ‘not at liberty’, forgive me but I am utterly confused.”

“I’m afraid Prince Aemond has forbidden us to speak of it Princess and he reminded us that if you demanded… well Princess he said for us to remember that his orders outrank yours,” Elaena hesitantly explained, shoulders visibly tense at her admission.

An even longer silence commenced, this one not so easily interrupted. Instead the Princess slightly nodded her head and proceeded to load some fresh fruits onto her plate before biting into a strawberry that was surprisingly ripe given the season. She sat with a contemplative look on her face, her ladies worried she was deeply hurt when really she was wondering what the best way to punish him would be, perhaps…

She was pulled from her musings by a knock on the chamber doors which one of the handmaidens - Lyla - was quick to answer. She carried a written message delivered by a page boy and with mild curiosity the Princess unravelled it and began to read.

She then very calmly got up, retreating to the sitting chambers with her beloved book and instructed her handmaidens to leave her, and on their way to “inform Prince Aemond that if he wishes to have an audience he may do so in our private chambers, I am not a dog to be called to heel and told to wait in the dragon pit until he finally chooses to descend from the sky”.

Suddenly Queen Helaena turned to look directly into the Princess’ eyes causing her to startle. Helaena grasped her arms in a gentle hold and decided that “you will be very happy with it,” and while not always understanding but being kind to Helaena’s ways, the Princess confidently nodded in affirmation.

“I’m certain I will be sister,” followed by a soft squeeze of the Queen’s hands she quickly let go to ensure she didn’t crowd the gentle soul beside her.

Turning her attention to Maelor, the youngest of the King and Queen’s children, she scooped him into her arms and brought him to her lap where she proceeded to grab the second less than perfect dragon (Daeron’s first attempt) and began to play with him. Entirely encompassed by the babe's soft giggles she failed to notice the shadow of her husband nor feel the piercing but fond gaze he stared at the two of them with - giving him a few ideas of his own.

Finally sensing his presence, his sweet wife turned towards him and pinned him with a markedly less than sweet gaze. After returning Maelor to his mother, the princess stood, brushed off her dress, said her goodbyes to the children with the promise of visiting again soon, squeezed Helaena’s hand and strode straight past her dear husband without so much as a look in his direction.

Aemond Targaryen, the incredibly formidable man that he is, immediately turned and followed (and after speaking with her lady in waiting) trailed a step behind knowing that if he got any closer he may well be subject to a more physical attack.

“Sweet wife - ,” his mouth slammed shut, the sound of his teeth clacking together audible as she turned around to face him and he thanked the seven that they’d at least made it to the hall outside their chambers to give a small amount of privacy.

“How can I be of service to my Prince? Shall I draw you a bath, change your linens, perhaps wash them too? After all, your commands should certainly be obeyed by all who rank lower than you lord husband!” and Aemond’s moment of stunned silence was all she needed to turn and push the door to their chambers open, her hair almost whipping Aemond in the face. After clearing his throat and righting his already perfectly placed doublet, the prince followed after his wife. This time the nod to Ser Steffon was slightly more stiff and definitely less cordial.

Upon entering their chambers, it became apparent that his sweet wife was just getting started on his torture as she began shedding her day clothes to ready herself for dinner that night as it had become customary for the royal family to dine together per the Dowager Queen Alicent’s request. As he walked in she turned to look at him, again raising a single eyebrow, a silent demand for him to explain himself and explain he did - after he managed to bring his eye back up to meet hers.

Aemond nervously began to describe how he had to go patrol the city earlier than expected that morrow and after his wife’s further probing he let out a sigh as he admitted that he was hiding something from her but he insisted she could not know. Instead he decided to avert her attention by apologising for his blunt and insensitive instructions, insisting his mind was incredibly preoccupied and he meant none of it.

After a beat, his sweet wife looked back up at him and simply agreed that it was foolish of him before continuing to prepare herself for dinner. With the guilt still weighing down on him, Aemond tried once more to draw a further reaction from her and informed her that “we will not be dining with the family tonight, my heart, it shall just be the two of us so please do not feel obligated to wear something that will placate my mother”. The huff of air Aemond let out could have rivalled Vhagar’s as his Princess finally met his eye and gave a smile of her own.

The Princess very quickly decided that she would never again allow her husband to guide her through the gardens, at dusk, alone with no idea of where on earth he was going. She marvelled at how her Prince had spent the entirety of his life growing up within the walls of the keep while she had only moved here three years past when their betrothal was finalised and yet she knew the gardens a lot better than he did. They walked in silence with the occasional mumble of “I’m sure it was this way”, “perhaps it’s actually that way” and what she is sure sounded like a “seven hells this is so embarrassing”.

Eventually, the Princess abruptly stopped walking causing Aemond to turn back to look at her with wide eyes as though he was expecting her to end the night and head back into the castle (which definitely seems tempting) but instead she drew herself closer to him tracing circles on the back of his hand with her thumb and sweetly asked him to tell her where he wanted to go and she would lead the way. Confusion clouded her eyes when she saw her husband’s gaze darken with disappointment at not being able to keep the location secret before giving a rather reluctant nod and mumbling the area of the gardens.

This again caused her to still, as not long before setting off on their adventure she’d gotten to her favourite scene in the romance novel she was currently re-reading which described the relationship between two lovers from flea bottom snook into the castle’s garden and had a picnic beneath a section where two trees intertwined to look like a heart. She let out a small laugh at the coincidence before leading him in the direction of the garden’s that she learned the trees actually existed in when she went searching after her first time reading the book.

As they stepped through the clearing, fingers interlocked, Aemond’s sweet wife stopped dead in her tracks. The scene before her bringing an onslaught of tears to her eyes and Aemond’s own eye drank in her reaction feeling his chest expand with pride. The scene was exactly as described in the books - granted the royalty version - with a table in the middle of the clearing, the heart trees standing right before it. A small fire was lit as the air was cool and biting and she thanked the gods for giving her a husband intelligent enough to organise for a canopy to be set up over the table. Even the food was some of the meats and fresh fruit described in her book.

After taking it all in, the princess - now thankful for there being no escort - fisted her husband’s nicest leathers and brought him down for a bruising kiss, whispering thank you’s and I love you’s in between.

Aemond’s own heart was beating out of his chest as they finally pulled away from one another and he helped her into her seat before taking his own next to her, never letting go of her hand - not even when they began to eat, opting to do it with his left hand instead, and certainly not as his sweet wife moved from her own seat into his lap, playing with his hair and telling him just how wonderfully he had done.

If you asked anyone who crossed paths with the Prince and Princess that night, they’d tell you that never before had they ever encountered two individuals looking so shamelessly in love. They’d express their shock as they witnessed their Prince, the fierce rider of Vhagar, laugh freely with his lady wife with his arm firmly wrapped around her waist and the Princess’ hand rubbing up and down his back.

As the Prince once again encountered Ser Steffon, he greeted the guard with a slightly more reserved smile than his wife received and instructed him to have a good night while he ushered his giggling wife inside. Once they were out of sight Ser Steffon let out a small chuckle of his own before walking a few paces down the hall, away from the door.

As the very smitten couple climbed into bed the Prince once again asked his sweet wife if everything met her standards to which she simply pulled herself up and decided on showing him how pleased she was instead - but not before ensuring the punishment she decided on earlier was carried out.

#in my fluff era (it probably won’t last long)#angst will always call me back I fear #if anyone sees any typos no you didn't 😭#darktrashsoulbear writes #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #ewan mitchell

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diejager · 1 year ago

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if you’re still writing for the monster 141, what about a bay hybrid reader, who is just on the edges on going into hibernation because the base is in a colder area/remote snowy location

I’m gonna assume you mean bear?

Cw: bear hybrid!readr, hibernation, binge eating, hoarding, tell me if I missed any.

Winter was creeping closer and closer by each day, your instinctual need to sleep away the cold calling to you louder than the prior days. There was a bone-deep exhaustion that clung to you, the heaviness that cold weather brought to you was a constant and nagging feeling that urged you deeper in the nest you’d built yourself in your dark room. Your curtains drawn, lights often closed and locks installed, you’d spent the weeks preparing, hoarding soft pillows, thick blankets and clothes from people you were familiar with.

They were surprised when you brought it up, blinking tiredly and occasionally yawning in the afternoon, stumbling between everyone’s rooms with a small plea on the tip of your tongue. You took whatever they were willing to give you: a blanket from Price and Rudolfo, a shirt from König and Gaz, a jacket from Ghost and Horangi, and a pillow from Soap and Alejandro. As long as it smelled like them, a lingering reminder that you weren’t alone in your humid room, their musk grounding and safety. You wouldn’t be alone.

Price had known you were - like most bears - prone to hibernation, taking between one to three month of your year sleeping away the cold, sinking into your mountain of fabric and sleeping off the coldest months. Your time depended on the year, the warmer it was, the less you slept, and the colder it was, the longer you slept. It might’ve been a bother in people’s eyes - humans - but it was instinctual, a primal part of your brain that still clung to your ancestors who strayed from the path of being normal bears. You couldn’t ignore the pull, the call to sleep, it wasn’t possible for a bear like you, and you were fortunate to have such accommodating teammates.

You grew hungrier, your stomach becoming an endless pit, an abyss that kept taking dish after dish, stocking up in fat and calories that you’d burn during your sleep, keeping you sustained and alive without having to wake up. You ate whatever you that was within your reach, the cold bread, the warm milk, the leftover of two days ago or Soap’s surprisingly good cooking, nothing was safe when you were a big and grumpy and hungry bear near hibernation. Ever supportive and helpful, Soap and Alejandro would jump in to cook for you, hooking Gaz and Rudolfo into being their sous-chef whenever they were free. It was the delicious scent of home cooked and warm meals that brought you to the kitchen, if it wasn’t a call for fixing up someone, it was the smell of good food.

You were ravenous, gulping down the many, many plates the duo - occasionally quartet - placed on the table, their chests puffed up pridefully at your quick eating, you were practically breathing them in. Your constant eating helped you pack some weight, your skin stretched to accommodate your growing amount of fat that would ultimately burn over the months. And when the day came, you were low on energy, grumpy and easy to anger, your patience running paper thin, bidding your goodbyes and see you soon, wrapping your arms around them and teasing them about missing you during your lockdown.

You’d sleep through the cold winter months and wake up to a warmer and busier time, to a welcoming and excited team that had spent the better half of winter waiting impatiently for the TF’s medic to wake up.

Taglist: @craxy-person @crowbird @dead-cipher @iwannabealocalcryptid @iizx7y @mxtokko @capricorn-anon @perfectus-in-morte @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @angelcakes-22 @ramadiiiisme @ramblingsofachaoticthinker @im-making-an-effort @love-dove-noora @jinxxangel13 @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @mul-pi @danielle143 @beau-min @makayla-666 @urfavsunkissedleo @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @luvecarson @petwifed @randominstake @heartelysia @jggykhug09090 @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @call-me-nyxx @sans-chara @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @thigh-o-saur @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

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monicfever · 1 day ago

Text

ben poindexter as your boyfriend. 𝜗𝜚 hc’s

cw ᝰ .ᐟ obsessive tendencies ,, dark themes ,, gn reader unless i slipped up somewhere ,, headcanons ,, i mean he’s a murderer so

BEN POINDEXTER AS YOUR BOYFRIEND... is obsessed with you. not the “likes your selfies” kind — more like memorized your schedule, cataloged your facial expressions, and would absolutely kill for you without a blink. no hesitation. no regret.

he has a tracker on your phone. not because he doesn’t trust you — he just doesn’t trust anyone else. he tells you it’s for your safety, and when you raise an eyebrow at him, he just shrugs and kisses your forehead. “i’d rather know where you are than bury you, baby.”

he gets jealous. so easily. and he hates it. hates how tight his jaw gets when you laugh at someone else's joke. how his fists curl when someone makes you smile. but he’s so good at holding it together — until you’re alone. then he’s pacing. spiraling. pulling you into his lap just to feel your heartbeat under his hand. “you’re mine, right?” he’ll ask, low and tight.

ben does everything for you. carries your bags. makes your coffee. walks you to class. waits outside your job. doesn’t matter if he’s had the worst day imaginable — he’ll still show up to tuck your hair behind your ear and ask if you’ve eaten.

he gets scary when he thinks you’re pulling away. it’s subtle at first — quiet stares, clenched jaw, questions masked as concern. but the second he’s sure something’s wrong he snaps. cold. sharp. wounded in that dangerous way. looks at you with that unhinged grief behind his eyes. like it’s betrayal. like it’s death.

he’s weirdly soft in private. you’re the only person who gets to see the version of him that’s quiet and needy and kind of broken. he sleeps with his head on your chest, fingers clinging to your shirt like you’ll vanish if he lets go. sometimes he just stares at you, like he’s memorizing you in case you disappear.

always brings you little things he finds throughout the day. not flowers or jewelry — no, ben’s gifts are weirder. more him. a vintage matchbook he liked the design of. a cool rock he found on the sidewalk. a bullet casing from his last mission. “made me think of you,” he says, dead serious.

his love language is acts of service — intense ones. fixes everything in your apartment before you even notice it’s broken. goes grocery shopping and memorizes your favorite brand of literally everything. remembers how you like your tea down to the exact amount of honey.

can’t sleep unless he’s touching you. even just a pinky finger brushing yours. if you roll away in the night, he subconsciously follows, pulling you back like a heat-seeking missile. “where you goin’, sweetheart?” he mumbles, half-asleep.

keeps a photo of you in his wallet. it’s old, kind of faded, maybe creased in the corner — but he looks at it constantly. you catch him doing it once, and he just shrugs. “keeps me sane.”

loves forehead kisses. won’t ask for them. won’t say a word. just leans down a little and looks at you with that tilted-head stare until you get it. and when you comply? his whole face goes soft like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth.

has a surprisingly dark sense of humor. says the most horrifying things in the most affectionate tone. you’ll say “i’m cold” and he’s like, “want me to burn the world down for you?” you laugh. he doesn’t.

likes watching you do normal stuff. brushing your teeth. folding laundry. humming while you cook. he sits quietly, just watching — so still it’s unnerving. to him it’s peace. it’s you alive.

plays with your fingers absentmindedly. twists your rings around. traces the veins in your wrist. holds your hand even when you're just sitting on the couch doing nothing. asks what every little scar is from. “this one?” he’d question. “fell off my bike.” a pause. “want me to go back in time and kill the pavement?”

notices everything. you don’t even realize how closely he’s watching until he casually mentions things like, “you switched shampoo, didn’t you?” or “you tapped your foot three times before locking the door today. usually it’s four.” and it’s not judgment — he just keeps mental notes on everything that makes you you. so if something changes, he knows. and if something’s wrong, he really knows.

he’s extremely routine-oriented — and he builds you into his structure. once you’re part of his life, you’re in it.

your coffee order gets timed to the minute. your text messages get categorized in his head (green = happy, yellow = something’s off, red = drop everything).

he gets agitated if plans change too suddenly, but if you’re the reason? he softens instantly. you ground him. you’re the only thing that doesn’t throw him off.

he gets attached fast. his BPD makes it so once he feels something for you, it’s intense. there’s no casual dating. no half-measures. he goes from “i think i like them” to “i will absolutely die if they leave” in under a week. he’s so good at hiding just how deep it runs.

he replicates your habits without meaning to. if you fidget with your sleeves, he starts doing it. if you use a certain word a lot, it shows up in his vocabulary. he mirrors you because it comforts him.

he hyper-fixates on your favourites. if you say you like a snack once, he’ll buy ten. you compliment a song? it’s on every playlist he makes. you wear a certain lip balm? he’ll go out of his way to buy backups. he wants to memorize what makes you happy so he can recreate it. perfectly. every time.

he spirals when he thinks he upset you. even slightly. a weird tone in your voice? a shorter text reply than usual? his brain jumps to you hate me. you’re going to leave. i ruined it. he’ll pace. his routine will fall apart. instead of lashing out on you he gets quiet. self-destructive. unless you pull him back in with something soft — a touch. a word. a look. then he clings like a shadow.

he makes you things with his hands. little wood carvings, origami, folded napkin animals — he fidgets constantly, and you’re the outlet.

his hands don’t stop moving, so they move for you. you’ll come home and find a tiny heart made of safety pins on your nightstand. he won’t mention it, but he’ll watch to see if you notice.

he always asks for reassurance, but never directly. he’ll say things like, “you still like having me around, right?” or “you’d tell me if i was being too much?” and it breaks your heart a little, because he’s so desperate not to be a burden. you always answer the same way: “you’re my favourite person.”

can’t fall asleep without saying goodnight the same exact way. it doesn’t matter how late it is, how exhausted he is, how bad the day was — he has to say it. same tone, same words, same kiss on your temple. if he doesn’t it eats at him. he’ll lie awake, heart racing, staring at the ceiling like something terrible’s going to happen because he broke the pattern.

refuses to let anyone else drive you anywhere. he doesn’t care if it’s your friend, your boss, your own damn parent — if he can’t be the one driving, he’s deeply uncomfortable. he’ll sit by the door with his keys, ready to go.

has ‘rules’ for loving you. like brushing your hair off your face with his left hand only. or always kissing you three times before you leave. he doesn't need to do it — he has to. if he breaks the pattern, his brain tells him something bad will happen to you.

saves every single voicemail and text you send. even the dumb ones. especially the dumb ones. he replays your old voicemails when he’s spiraling.

he screenshotted the first time you said “i miss you” and keeps it in a locked photo album. you’re proof that something good happened to him once.

gets overstimulated easily, but hides it around you. if the lights are too bright, the room’s too loud, someone’s tapping a pen too much — he’s unraveling inside.

but if you’re talking to him? smiling? holding his hand? he’ll grit his teeth through it, just to stay in your orbit a little longer.

has a favorite version of you, but it’s not what you’d think. it’s not when you’re dressed up, or being cute, or saying nice things. it’s when you’re sleepy. messy. barely awake and murmuring nonsense with your face squished into his chest.

“you’re not real,” you mumbled once. “i made you up.” he still thinks about that. hopes it’s not true. but if it is? he’s glad you dreamed him.

collects your words like scripture. if you ever say something sweet to him, he will not forget. he repeats it to himself, over and over, like a mantra.“you’re safe with me.” ,, “you’re not too much.” ,, “i like you exactly the way you are.” he mouths the words in the mirror. sometimes he believes them.

panics if he forgets anything about you. can’t remember your shoe size? his heart races. doesn’t know if you take your coffee with sugar that day? hands start shaking.

his whole sense of safety is tied to knowing you. so if anything slips, it feels like the whole foundation is cracking.

he loves you in patterns. in rituals. in coffee orders and folded blankets and kisses placed in the exact same spot on your shoulder every night.

gets annoyed when you shower without him. he doesn’t even want to do anything — he just sits on the toilet lid with his chin in his hand while you’re in there like, “you left me out here alone for twenty-three minutes.” you open the door to steam and a pouty six-foot weapon of a man sulking.

gets weirdly quiet when you’re on your phone too long. not mad. just a little neglected. you look up and he’s just sitting there like a sad cat, hoping you’ll notice. you say “benny, you okay?” and he melts like, “...m’here. just waitin’.”

clings after arguments like his life depends on it. doesn’t matter if it was something small or serious. once things settle, he’s already reaching for you, forehead pressed to your collarbone. “not mad anymore.” he murmurs. translation: don’t leave me.

keeps weapons stashed in every room ‘just in case.’ under the bed. behind the fridge. in your car’s glove box.

memorized your ex’s face and car within the first week. he won’t say what he did with that information. but he didn’t like how they looked at you at the grocery store that one time. he made sure it wouldn’t happen again.

he hates parties.not because he’s antisocial, because he can’t relax when you’re in a room full of strangers.

he’s watching everyone — every glance, every shift, every hand that moves too close. he stands behind you the whole time, hand at your lower back, barely talking to anyone.

texts you “where are you?” even when he knows where you are. he saw you leave. he knows you’re at work or running errands or at the gym. but he still needs to hear you say it. needs the proof. the reassurance. you say “i’m fine, benny,” and he responds with “miss you.” (you’ve been gone 20 minutes.)

calls you his “person.” not partner. not babe. just “my person.” says it in a tone that sounds more like my reason for breathing.

won’t let you walk on the street side of the sidewalk. you’ve tried switching sides — he’ll switch with you immediately. doesn’t matter where you’re going. doesn’t matter if the road is empty. “nope,” he’ll mutter, hand on your hip. “you don’t get hit. not on my watch.”

he has a folder on his computer labeled “them.” inside: blurry security cam screenshots of you walking alone at night (yes, he tapped into feeds), saved texts from people who’ve upset you, and a detailed list of names he keeps tabs on. you don’t know it exists.

takes everything as a threat. you flinch at a loud noise? he’s already scanning the room. someone bumps into you too hard in a crowd? he steps between you like a human wall. you say “i don’t feel safe,” and he’s already reaching for his coat.

he doesn’t yell unless someone talks down to you. he’ll take endless shit from people when it’s about him. but the second someone disrespects you? his voice goes sharp. dark. you see it flip in his eyes like a switch — “you wanna repeat that to me?” and suddenly the room’s ice cold.

he’ll sit in complete silence beside you while planning murder in his head. someone made you cry? he holds your hand gently, rubs circles into your palm, kisses your wrist — and behind his eyes, he’s already figured out the five best ways to ruin their life.

he keeps track of your patterns better than you do. you get headaches before rain? he brings you meds before you mention it. your trauma responses show in tiny shifts? he spots them immediately and gets you out of the room.

he might be unstable, but when it comes to protecting you — he’s the most focused man alive.

stares at your contact name before calling you, like he’s bracing himself to hear your voice. thumb hovering over the screen, eyes soft and far away. sometimes he doesn’t even call. just stares. like maybe that’s enough to survive another hour.

doesn’t know how to be casual. you say “i like your shirt” and he’ll buy five more. you compliment his cologne once? he never uses another one again. every word you say means something to him.

loves when you wear his clothes a little too much. he acts all chill but inside he’s screaming. watching you walk around in his hoodie with the sleeves over your hands? ruined. he has to sit down.

he has no idea what a normal reaction is. you get a weird DM? he’s already tracking the IP address. you trip and scrape your knee? he’s acting like you got shot. “you’re bleeding.” he mutters, completely still. “baby, it’s a scratch—”

gets scary quiet when you’re in danger. like full military-mode, voice low and flat. grabs your hand. pulls you behind him. “stay down. don’t move. don’t look.” and you listen — because in that moment, he’s not your sweet clingy ben. he’s the weapon the government built.

has trauma responses built around you. you’re late? his hands start shaking. you stop responding? he spirals. he doesn’t just worry— he catastrophizes. his brain jumps to body bags. blood. everything he’s lost before.

so when you walk through the door, totally fine, he just grabs you. holds you so tight it hurts. “don’t do that to me again,” he whispers. “please.”

doesn’t forgive people who hurt you. ever. you may move on. he won’t. he keeps the memory. files it away like a grudge on ice. and if he ever gets the chance to settle the score? he’ll do it without blinking.

knows all your “tired” cues. you yawn a certain way when you’re really worn out vs. just sleepy. you go silent when your brain’s overwhelmed. so he’ll quietly turn the lights down, warm up your hoodie, and run a bath without you even asking.

obsessively keeps the place safe. deadbolts, alarms, cameras, backup flashlights, reinforced doors. not because he’s paranoid. because you live there. and nothing — nothing — is allowed to hurt you where he sleeps.

he does not know how to regulate jealousy. like. at all. you compliment someone? he’s quiet for hours. you laugh too hard at someone’s joke? he stares them down until they suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.

he gets clingy after. full body contact. face buried in your shoulder. won’t let go. “you like me better, right?” you tease him and say “maybe…” his whole face drops. “dont.”

and if he sees them in public, he’s pulling you closer with a hand on your waist like mine. mine. mine.

he repeats the same three phrases every time you’re hurt. like it’s a spell: “you’re safe.” “you didn’t do anything wrong.” “i love you so much it hurts.”

he checks in constantly. not just “are you okay?”but “did you eat today? do you need quiet or company? can i hold your hand right now, or just sit near you?”

started 4.23.2025. finished 4.23.2025.

( masterlist. )

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fortunxa · 9 months ago

Text

Fourteen days

[sequel to ‘Blue hair, blue eyes, blue lights’]

Jinx x fem!reader / modern AU

summary: They say the longer the wait, the sweeter the kiss. But, darling, I’m starving, so don’t keep me guessing.

cw: around 4k words but could be mediocre, mild nsfw

author’s note: I’m alive! Sorry for the delay in posting, I’ve been hustling :( But here’s the awaited sequel, so buckle up ;)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

“Uno, motherfucker!”

Jinx is… competitive, to say the least. As of right now, we’re lying on my bed, legs tangled, and playing UNO while it’s pouring outside. It’s well past midnight, and I stopped trying to shush her victory cheers after the second round. She has a way of making her presence known and commanding your attention, but truthfully, she isn’t hard to miss anyway. Every aspect of her exudes an unapologetic ‘Look at me!’ aura—from her infectious laughter to her bold fashion sense. Even her braids have a life of their own, swirling and swaying with every step she takes. She’s unforgettable.

But I’ve come to discover a more delicate side of her in her most vulnerable moments. It’s almost like she transforms into a different person, both in terms of her personality and, surprisingly, her appearance. Her features become softer, more child-like, her eyes wide and innocent. The way she effortlessly switches from one persona to the other is impressive to witness. On the flip side, she has a tendency to become obsessive and possessive, which resulted in us spending almost every waking moment together. You may call me crazy, but it makes me feel needed. Ultimately, isn’t that what we all want?

These are just a few of the observations I’ve made about her in the past two weeks. My mind’s file on her is growing exponentially, tucking away every information I learn about her in a safe place—from her preference for orange juice but hate for oranges to her strained relationship with her older sister, which makes my room the designated hangout spot whenever we’re stuck inside. Jinx is a complex person with many layers, and while I can’t claim to know everything about her just yet, I do feel like I have built a stable foundation of understanding what makes her unique. I certainly know enough to start falling for her.

“Alright, alright, you win. Again,” I say with a small smile playing on my lips and twenty cards in my hands. My phone is buzzing beside me—probably another message from my mom asking us to be quieter—and I ignore it. I still remember her face when she asked us how we met, and Jinx jumped up, telling her all about the police chase, earning a nudge in the ribs from me. It’s a miracle she still lets us hang out, but with the number of times the blue-haired girl sneaked in through my window, I don’t think it would’ve changed much if she didn’t.

I feel a yawn building up, but before it reaches the surface, I’m pinned against my bed. “And what do I get for winning?” Jinx teases as she straddles my hips, and I certainly feel awake now. Another thing that I learned about her is how touchy she gets, but it still catches me off-guard at times. My heart rate quickens, and I’m sure she feels it pulsating through my wrists. She smirks at my dumbfounded expression and lowers herself even more, brushing her nose against mine. “Cat got your tongue?”

This proximity between us takes me back to the night we met when we almost shared a kiss. Fucking almost. Although I’m familiar with many aspects of her, I’m still a stranger to the way she tastes. Is it sweet like the Skittles she keeps stealing from me or, on the contrary, sour like the Warheads? Perhaps it carries the freshness of her toothpaste or the fruity allure of her cherry-flavored chapstick. I need an answer to the question that’s been consuming my thoughts as of late, and I need it now.

Just when I’m about to get it, my phone buzzes again, and—you guessed it—Jinx pulls away and casually snatches it off the bed, reading the message. I feel like I’m about to explode.

“Aw, why didn’t you tell me that we woke your mom up?” she innocently asks as I stare at the ceiling with a blank look. I suddenly feel self-conscious. Maybe I was misunderstanding our connection since the beginning. Maybe she never wanted us to take it further. And maybe this is another thing that I need to learn about her—she’s just flirty, and there’s no ulterior motive behind her actions. How fucking stupid was I to think otherwise? I’d be fine if she wanted to stay friends, but this whole teasing is starting to make me feel like a toy. I need clarity.

��I guess I was too focused on our game,” I finally mutter as a reply, putting the UNO deck away before standing up to grab us two fresh pairs of pj’s. When I turn to face her again, she’s already watching me with a worried expression.

“You okay, toots?” I’m not. Jinx walks over, and her bare feet make a thumping sound across my carpet. She positions herself in front of me as her eyes analyze my demeanor, and I feel vulnerable under her scrutinizing gaze. I wonder if now’s the time to be open about my feelings, but as I take in her cerulean eyes—I stopped calling them blue as they’re so, so much more than that—I can’t bring myself to face the rejection.

My cowardice wins.

“I’m fine,” I say with a tight-lipped smile before presenting her with a nightshirt. She opens her mouth, presumably to push her investigation further, but decides against it. Her eyebrows knit together at the newfound awkwardness.

We change into our nightwear, and Jinx snuggles under the comforter while I head to turn off the lights. I remember her fear of the dark, and quickly turn on the nightlight, casting a soft pink glow across the room. I find myself wondering if she cares enough to remember the little things about me, too. I slide into bed alongside her, making sure to maintain a respectful distance between us. The air is filled with an uncharacteristic silence, broken only by the gentle patter of raindrops outside and our quiet breaths.

I flip on my side, my back toward Jinx as I try to fall asleep. I can sense her restless shuffling as she tries to find a comfortable position before she settles by wrapping her arms around my torso. She’s flush against me, and I let out a sigh—screw it. I turn around and face her before pulling her frame into my chest. Her grip tightens, and a shuddering breath escapes past her lips. I’m not a mind reader, but I know that the sudden sour mood brought her feelings of uneasiness, and a plethora of negative thoughts, igniting her own insecurities. I rest my cheek on top of her head and close my eyes. My hand finds its way into her hair, and I start massaging her scalp gently. When she finally relaxes, it doesn’t take long for me to hear her soft snores.

I don’t remember dozing off, but the morning light filtering through my window comes too early as I slowly flutter my eyes open. My eyelids feel heavy, and my bed is unexpectedly empty, fueling my disoriented state. I sit up groggily and rub the sleep from my face before scanning the room in hopes of catching a glimpse of Jinx, but she’s nowhere to be found.

Right as I’m about to sink into self-pity over her Irish goodbye, my bedroom door suddenly bursts open. I jump, and my tired eyes lock with her cheerful ones. I guess she never left after all.

“You’re finally awake! Good morning!” she exclaims with a radiant smile while skipping over to me, her slightly gapped teeth proudly on display. Her braids are tousled from sleep as she settles on the edge of the bed, presenting me with a plate of freshly made chocolate chip pancakes. “Made your favorite. And don’t worry, I already cleaned up,” she adds, and my heart swells as my eyes flicker between her and the breakfast she prepared. She does the same, a giddy smile on her face and her lower lip caught between her teeth. Yet, as I remain silent, her shoulders slump and the sparkle dims, replaced by a nervous fidgeting of her hands. “It’s okay if you don’t like–”

I interrupt her by pulling her into a tight embrace, expressing my gratitude. At first, Jinx is taken aback, but she soon returns the hug, burying her face into my neck. The scent of vanilla extract lingers in her hair—probably from messing with it during her cooking—and her skin radiates an unusual warmth, bringing a small smile to my face.

“Okay, trinket. Dig in and get some energy,” she says, pulling away as she walks over to my vanity mirror and starts unbraiding her hair. Well, don’t mind if I do. “It’s your college move-in day after all!” She giggles happily, and I almost choke at her words. It isn’t just move-in day; it’s my imaginary deadline of making her mine slowly ending. Despite my lack of progress, she has kept her word in showing me fun—however this friendship goes, I will be sure that I’ve felt alive at least once in my life.

“Shit, I forgot! What time is it?” I scramble to find my phone, which has been lost somewhere under the pillows. I leap to my feet, unsure of what to grab first as I start flailing around. “I still need to finish packing and–and load the boxes into the car, and I–”

“Woah, slow down!” Jinx grabs my shoulders and grounds me in the middle of the room. She takes a deep breath and urges me to mirror her actions. “What am I here for?” Her hands trail up my neck and rest on my jawline, leaving me breathless again. “Finish eating first, then we can worry about the rest. Capiche?” I nod, and she pats my cheek with a grin. “Good girl.”

I’m left flustered, and she resumes untangling her hair as if she didn’t just say the hottest shit I have ever heard in my life. I try to keep my cool and finish my breakfast, but my imagination is running wild with all the scenarios I could be a good girl in. I pick out some fresh clothes for the day, trying my best to act casual while my thoughts are anything but.

“I’m just going to freshen up. I’ll be back in a few,” I say and head to the bathroom, hoping that a cold shower would tame my heat. But, on the other hand, there’s a part of me that’s begging for her to join and do it for me.

She never does—obviously—but I come back with a clearer head. Jinx’s hair is now completely down, her vibrant blue waves cascading to the floor. I see her struggle to part it evenly and decide to step up.

“Here, let me help you,” I offer as I gently take the comb from her hands, carefully brushing out any leftover knots before dividing her hair into two even sections. As I work on the base of the first braid, I steal glances at her in the mirror’s reflection. Her eyes are closed, and she occasionally lets out content hums, seemingly lost in thought.

“For the record, toots,” she speaks up as she now deftly weaves the second braid with practiced fingers, “I don’t let just anyone touch my hair.” My brain is slowly putting the meaning behind her words together, and a smile tugs at my lips as realization dawns on me—I’m special. Despite my best efforts, I fail to conceal my grin. Jinx communicates a lot through body language, so when she explicitly says what’s on her mind, it stuns me a bit.

“So, I’m not just anyone, huh?” I tease and concentrate on finishing the braid.

“Clearly you’re my getaway driver,” she retorts with a smirk, and I nudge her shoulder.

Once we’re done working on her hair, we begin filling up the boxes and clearing out most of my room. It’s a mix of emotions knowing that I’m moving away, even if it's only temporary. But what really tugs at the strings of my heart is the thought of not being able to spend as much time with the blue-haired troublemaker. With my upcoming college schedule and her still torn between taking a gap year or not, the idea of our bond weakening is the most difficult part to imagine. If I’m lucky, perhaps life will allow our connection to endure and flourish.

“Sheesh, I don’t remember packing rocks. Did you?” Jinx huffs as she loads the last box into my car. I laugh and shut the trunk.

“It’s my books, dummy,” I reply and get behind the wheel as she takes the passenger seat.

“At least you’ll be too busy reading to hook up with anyone,” she mutters, connecting my phone to the car, and my cheeks flush. Totally normal thing to say to a friend.

The song Jinx chose is blasting through the speakers as I pull off. We fall silent, but I can see her bopping her head to the music in the corner of my eye, lost in her own world with her feet on the dashboard, which she had decorated ‘the Jinx way’ as she called it. Meanwhile, I’m filled with embarrassment as I realize that I haven’t even checked the released college roommate assignments. How awkward will it be if I introduce myself to my bunk buddy after moving in? On a scale of one to ten, I deem it a seven. I don’t even remember filling out the housing application, for fuck’s sake.

We’re halfway there when we decide to take a quick pit stop, and I pull over on a backroad underneath a row of trees. Jinx gets out of the car with an indecipherable expression, and I follow in confusion. I’m no stranger to her mood swings, but I still get concerned. She’s walking around in circles, kicking at the dirt and stray rocks caught in the crossfire of her boots. When I open my mouth to call out for her, she beats me to it.

“Can I talk to you about something, toots?” she asks as she whips around to face me. I simply nod, and she continues, “Somewhere private.” She climbs into the backseat as I look around the empty road. Doesn’t get much more private than this, but I digress. I shut the door behind me and get comfortable.

“So what did you–” I don’t have a chance to finish as she straddles my lap, and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach as I recall what happened the last time she did this—her teasing won’t stop unless I speak up, but when I take notice of the whirlwind of emotions flashing through her eyes, my hands subconsciously fall to her hips, tracing soothing circles on the soft skin. I realize I’d rather be stuck in limbo than lose her altogether.

“Is there something wrong with me?” Her question takes me by surprise, and my eyebrows shoot up. She squeezes my cheeks with one hand, turning my face upwards.

“W–what? Why would you think that?” I stutter as her gaze skims over my features.

“Why won’t you make a move already?” Her voice is wobbly, and I’m left speechless. My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of the water as I rack my brain for the right words.

“I wasn’t–I’m not sure if you want me to,” I finally reply, and she makes a face.

“Look at us, Y/N” –she gestures to our current position– “you’re a smart girl, don’t act clueless now.”

Realization hits me like a train. Jinx needs loyalty and devotion—she needs me to show her how much I want her. She wants to know that despite her complex character, I’ll stick around and fight for her. In retrospect, it all seems so simple and obvious.

“Jinx?” My voice is barely above a whisper as I look into her eyes. She can only hum in response. “I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to kiss you.” Her grip on me loosens in surprise, and her wide eyes are blinking rapidly. “I’m giving you those three seconds to stop me if you change your mind.” She stays silent, and I begin my countdown.

1…

2…

When I finally taste her, I realize how badly I’ve been starving.

My hands cannot bring her close enough to me as I snake my arm around her waist and rest my free hand on her jawline. I’m not holding back anymore. If she wants devotion, I’ll show her exactly that.

I’m furious—furious that I’d been denied this pleasure for so long, but my lips move against hers as if they’d already danced this way before. It’s effortless, like the gliding of a pen on paper from an inspired writer’s hand, and she’s the muse.

It’s not a gentle kiss, the way first ones usually go. It’s hungry, rough, and precisely what was needed to let out the pent-up tension. It’s swirling tongues, dripping saliva, and smudged lipsticks. Without ever pulling away, I carefully lay her on her back, and my fingers sink into the soft flesh of her thighs. Her colorful nails claw at my back, and I groan into her mouth, digging my hips into hers. We’re both breathing heavily through our noses, and my attention shifts to her neck by biting and sucking on the tender skin, letting my hands roam over her curves freely, mapping out her body.

A trail of hickeys is forming on her collarbone, and she’s a moaning and whimpering mess under my touch; it’s a blissful sight. She locks her slender legs around my hips and pulls me further into her, chasing more friction. Watching her become so needy thrills me even more, and my hand tentatively falls to her clothed crotch. Her jaw slacks in anticipation as my fingers ghost over the area where she needs me most, and her back arches into me in response. I want to watch her unravel beneath me, shaking limbs and sweat dripping from her temples.

But she’d teased me too many times for me to grant her this relief right now.

I relish the feeling of our closeness with one last peck and catch Jinx’s lower lip between my teeth, pulling on it slightly before letting go, earning a faint whine from her.

We’re both panting and trying to catch our breaths as I hover above her, my palms firmly planted on the seat on either side of her face, propping myself up. I can’t help but admire my work. Her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are swollen, her smudged plum lipstick matching the bruises on her neck—still, she’s absolutely beautiful. She watches me through half-hooded eyes with her pupils dilated, and I smirk at her breathlessness.

“Leaving me high and dry, trinket?” she asks, and her hands fall to my hips, trying to pull me back in.

“Call it payback,” I reply before hoisting her back into my lap, and she yelps in surprise.

Jinx grips my shoulders to steady herself, and I try my best to smooth out her disheveled hair. I start peppering sweet kisses to her bruised skin, and she lets her head fall back with a pleased sigh. I pull her back in so my lips can find hers once again. It’s much slower this time, grounding us in the moment, and there’s that delicate side of her peeking through with each swipe of her tongue. When I pull away and take notice of her peaceful state, I know it was all worth the wait. I caress her cheek with the back of my hand, and she leans into my touch.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve craved this?” I whisper, and an amused glint flashes through her eyes.

“Two weeks isn’t that long.” She’s giggling now, and this sound alone is enough to bring a smile to my face.

“It is when you’re right in front of me, and I’m unable to touch you properly.” My thumb starts working on cleaning up her smudged lipstick, and her features soften as she mirrors my actions.

Sitting in the backseat with her feels like a full-circle moment. This is where it all began—a simple thrill-seeking witness turned getaway driver for a blue-haired menace.

Fourteen days.

It took me two weeks to make her mine.

I can’t help the dumb smile tugging on the corners of my mouth as I start driving again. Jinx’s head is on my lap, the same way it was the night we met, and she’s telling me which houses she’s planning on tagging next. The drive goes by quickly as we exchange our opinions on what the Montana spray paint smells like—I say cotton candy, she’s hellbent on bubblegum—and before we know it, I’m parking outside my future college.

“Oooh, look how fancy,” Jinx speaks up as she analyzes the building, and she’s absolutely right. The size itself is intimidating, and I can already see myself getting lost in the halls. The architecture looks modern with futuristic touches, and the campus is surrounded by grass and cherry blossom trees. If it wasn’t for my scholarship, I wouldn’t even dream of affording to study here. “Is now a good time to tell you that I’m your bunk buddy?”

I turn my head so quickly I almost give myself whiplash, and I stare at her as if she grew a second head in the last thirty seconds.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I grab her arm in disbelief, and she shakes her head with a smile, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

“Surprise!” She laughs while I’m still processing her confession. “My mechanical engineering scholarship got accepted, so I filled out your housing application and requested myself. Then I filled out mine and requested you. I didn’t think it would work, but, holy shit, isn’t that awesome?”

Any sane person would feel violated by this. But me? I’m fucking delighted.

“You’re a gift that keeps on giving.” My hands cup her cheeks as I pull her in for a kiss, the excitement getting the best of me. One kiss turns into two, then three, and before I know it, I’m peppering her whole face in them as she laughs. When she finally settles, there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Wanna test out the beds?”

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