#we have this rotation hole | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

capuccinodoll · 3 months ago

Text

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I use the bathroom?"

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

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

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

God, Santi would have loved it.

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

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

You laughed softly to yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.

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

But you were Santi’s sister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You rolled your eyes, nudging the box closer.

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

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

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

“You’re not gonna stay?”

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

“Oh. You... you want me to stay?”

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

“No, no—”

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

“It’s not that—”

“No, I totally understand—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Francisco?”

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

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

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

“Knew about what?”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, um, grab two mugs.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a beat of silence.

“What?” he said eventually.

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

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

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

Then, from behind you, came his voice again.

“Is something wrong?”

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

“No. No—why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head.

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t go through your drawers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mugs clinked together with a quiet thunk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A true romantic. I totally believe you.”

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

So you asked.

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

The photo lit up the screen.

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

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

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

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

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

He lifted one shoulder like it didn’t matter.

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

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

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

“Me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he didn’t even notice.

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

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

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

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

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

He let out a disbelieving laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t, obviously. Why would you?

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

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

“What are you going to put on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Careful, Sherlock.”

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

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

“Told you,” he mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t say anything.”

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

“Forgotten?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

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

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

He shook his head, his gaze lowering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know what you mean but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was staring at you now, unmoving.

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

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

“It is, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, you sat there. Waiting.

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

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

“Do you like me?”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Don’t do that.”

He frowned. “Do what?”

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

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

“Yeah.”

“Yes, what?”

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

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

“Just that.”

He gave a tired nod.

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

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

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

“You’ve got it wrong.”

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

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

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

“Not me,” he said.

It landed like a closing door.

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

“God, you’re so incredibly stubborn.”

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

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

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

“That’s not—”

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

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

“Try me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That much I’ve noticed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

Your heart beat louder in your ears.

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

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

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

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

“So—”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

You leaned against the counter, arms folded.

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

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

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised your head slowly, frowning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d meant it when you said it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You did know that. But you said nothing.

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

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

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

You didn’t speak. So you waited.

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

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

“I did.”

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

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

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

And still, you couldn’t look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked at you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said.

He shook his head slowly. “It was.”

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

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

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

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

"You deserve to be cared for too."

After a moment, his eyes lifted to meet yours.

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

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

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

You exhaled, something like a laugh escaping with it.

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

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

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

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

His expression changed. Just slightly, but it did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, shit.”

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

“For now? That’s cruel.”

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

“So… why’d she go out with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god, you slept with her.”

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

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

He straightened, putting on a mock-defensive tone.

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

“How many times?”

“Um, I dunno. Three? Three, tops.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brow furrowed immediately. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

And Emma was always right. Annoyingly, unfailingly right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shook his head, once.

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “No?”

“No.”

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

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

And you weren’t ready to lose that.

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

His expression shifted,eyes crinkling as he smiled.

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

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

“Good.”

“Good,” he echoed. “Perfect.”

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

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

“Great,” you said. “Then prove it.”

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

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

You squinted at him. “Why tomorrow?”

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

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

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

“Fine. Tomorrow it is.”

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

“Perfect.”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you think?” you asked.

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

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

He blinked, impressed. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “Wild, right?”

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

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

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

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

“I will,” you said. And you meant it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not even tomorrow yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he was gone.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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

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

449 notes · View notes

sirianasims · 1 year ago

Text

Psssst! Hey! Yes, you! We need to talk about clubs:

Using the Clubs for Immersive Gameplay

Of all the systems that Sims 4 has, the club feature is probably one of my favourites (Restaurants are a close second, but they're not why we're here today!) Clubs are one of the easiest ways to increase your immersion when you play and make the random townies that show up on community lots just a tiny bit less random.

The Basics

Often, people are mostly concerned with the groups their active sims are in. You might already have a club to keep track of your sims' closest friends, study group, or baby daddies, we don't judge here.

Clubs are also a great way to automate what you want your sim to be doing with less micromanaging, but for immersion, we're actually more interested in clubs for the sims you don't (or rarely) play.

WTF are the neighbours doing?

Most of the pre-made clubs are kinda meh. I prefer to add my own so I can make my community lots just a bit more lively and make sure people's activities make just a tiny bit of sense because the autonomy in this game is not great. These are just for inspiration based on clubs I often add to my own game:

A group of teens who meet at the retail clothing store to try on clothes and gossip about Nancy's nose job or whatever.

A local bowling league (complete with uniforms) who meet and bowl - just don't fuck with The Jesus.

An HOA of Karens who meet at the park to clean, raise property values, and be mean to people.

Geeks and gamers who meet at the local arcade to awkwardly flirt over pizza.

Comedians who meet at the local comedy club - you can even use the club doors to make a VIP backroom only for the performers.

Sports teams - such as a basket team who meets at a local basket court, or a swim team who meets at the local pool (you can even give them tiny matching speedos!)

Scouts! The scout feature is cute but it's a rabbit hole, boo! But you can make a Scouts club, complete with uniforms, and have them show up in parks where they can do various activities and work on their badges. Add a teen or two to supervise the younglings, their parents will be so proud, aww.

A sorority or fraternity in university who meet up at the local bar in matching varsity jackets to make all the other students feel inferior.

A group of old ladies who meet at the park to knit or cross-stitch and brag about the accomplishments of their descendants.

A "business" club, usually CEOs, lawyers and such, who meet in fancy bars to hold important business meetings and probably commit white-collar crimes, so predictable.

If you have a sim with an office/work from home job and you'd like to pretend they actually go to work, you can make an office building and a group of "coworkers" who'll show up to drink coffee, chat, and work on computers next to them in the office. It'll even simulate rotating desk assignments for an instant capitalist hellscape!

The possibilities are endless, and I find the club feature really useful to add little interesting scenarios to the background of my gameplay.

Thanks to SQOTD for inspiring this!

📩 Simblr question of the day: according to you, what are the most underutilized gameplay features in the sims games you played, dlc included? - @simblr-question-of-the-day

#tips and tricks #siri procrastinates #sqotd

1K notes · View notes

niuniente · 3 months ago

Text

A mind-bending discovery from the James Webb Space Telescope (JWST) is shaking up our understanding of the cosmos—suggesting that our universe may have been born inside a black hole.

Astronomers analyzing data from the JWST Advanced Extragalactic Survey (JADES) found something unexpected—ancient galaxies don’t rotate randomly. Out of 263 early galaxies, about 66% spin clockwise, while only 34% spin counterclockwise. In a universe with no preferred direction, we would expect an even 50-50 split. So why this strange imbalance? Scientists believe this could be a hidden fingerprint from the moment the universe was born—one that may link back to the spin of a black hole in a parent universe.

A Universe Inside a Black Hole? This discovery aligns with an idea called Schwarzschild cosmology, which suggests:

Our Universe is Inside a Black Hole: We exist within a black hole’s event horizon, a part of a larger "parent" universe.

Black Holes Birth Universes: According to Nikodem Poplawski’s torsion-based model, black holes don’t just collapse into singularities—instead, their spin and twisting spacetime create new universes.

The Big Bang Was a "Bounce": Matter collapsing into a black hole may have bounced back outward, causing the rapid expansion we see as the Big Bang. The spin of the parent black hole may have imprinted its rotation onto the galaxies in our universe—explaining the JWST’s observed spin bias.

RESEARCH PAPER: Lior Shamir, "The distribution of galaxy rotation in JWST Advanced Deep Extragalactic Survey", MNRAS (2025)

#space #cosmology #astronomy

315 notes · View notes

rottiens · 1 year ago

Text

⊹ ˚. GOJŌ SATORU┊18+ , consensual video recording + taking pictures, established relationship, bf gojo, unprotected sex + creampie (ofc), dirty talk, canon au. . divider creds: cafekitsune.

You struggle to stay still. With your legs stretched to aching, your flat feet crushing his bare chest and with his thick cock splitting your pussy. It's hard not to want to subtly move at least to release a little tension, when Satoru places the phone in between the two of you and fixes the camera angle talking to himself, complaining about the dim lighting in the room with the curtains closed.

He looks so focused, tongue carving his upper lip back and forth as if performing a task of utmost importance and you find it inevitable not to squeeze around him a little, impatiently.

“Babe, just take the picture,” you tell him desperately at this point, your arousal dripping down your ass cheeks onto the mattress, aching with need to start getting fucked.

Satoru, however, takes his time. He grunts, gasps and moans to himself as he pulls out of you almost completely where only the swollen head is left in your visibly fluttering hole, then proceeds to make a short video where he simulates fucking you; he thrusts his hips in a deep rotation that has your toes curling up and your breath coming in gasps into your lungs.

He plays his thumb over your clit back and forth, talking dirty to the camera before ending the video and tossing the phone to the side of the mattress which bounces gently.

“Okay, I'm ready now,” satoru chuckles releasing tension, taking one of your feet off his chest to bring it to the level of his mouth and bending his back leaves a fleeting, love-filled kiss on your ankle. “I just wanted to have something to remember you by while I'm gone.” Something more than the dozens of pictures he has in his gallery of you, you want to remind him.

Satoru begins to fuck you slow and deep, with the help of his free hand massaging your clit and spreading your juices all over your outer lips.

“I know,” your back arches seeking more of the pleasure. “It'll only be two weeks.”

“That's a long fucking time.” He thrusts his hips in such a way that your skins meet in a loud clap.

For someone whose love language was touch, you knew where that concern was coming from so this time you nod your head. Satoru settles your feet on top of his shoulders and pushes forward bending your body into a new posture, shaping you so that his cock now reaches deeper places inside you.

“Do you feel it twitching?”

“Uh huh,” you reply with your mouth open, gasping his breath sneaking inside.

“I'm going to cum soon, sorry. Recording you made me so hard.”

“We should do it more often then,” you tease, with a hint of seriousness sinking your fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck, tangling in the white strands to manage to pull his hair and bring him closer to your mouth. Satoru groans.

“I'm going to miss you so much,” he gasps sucking on your lower lip, his teeth digging into the soft flesh to then muffle the stinging pain with his warm tongue licking it.

“I know. Me too.”

Satoru licks your mouth half open, gasps the moment your lips meet and grunts after you clench tightly around him letting him know you were going to reach your orgasm soon.

“I'm gonna fucking cum in you,” he murmurs in warning, sweaty forehead resting on yours.

“Fucking cum in me, Satoru.”

#wr #ventoru #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru smut #gojo smut #bf gojo #jjk x reader #jjk smut #wr.gojo

1K notes · View notes

absurdthirst · 10 months ago

Text

Fucking Fungus {Joel Miller x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: SEX POLLEN, dub con, post apocalyptic world, scavenging, guilt, shame, desire, Joel having a bad attitude, mentions of periods, rough sex, neediness, unprotected sex, cream pie

Comments: Coming across Wymore, NE, you hoped to find some much needed supplies for the coming winter but you find that the fungus has mutated in dangerous and frightening ways. Needing to insure that there are more hosts to infect in a very basic kind of way.

🎊🎉🎊🎉🎊🎉Happy Birthday @storiesofthefandomlovers!!!! I love you and hope you have the best damn day! In thotty tradition, here is a sex pollen to celebrate another year around the sun!🎊🎉🎊🎉🎊🎉

**Follow @absurdthirst-writes and turn on notifications to stay up to date on all new fics.

|| MasterList || Joel Miller MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The world has changed in the past twenty years. None of it for the betterment of humanity. The crunch of the dried leaves grinds under your boots and your head rotates left and then right as you watch, listen. Waiting for any sign of life or more importantly, danger. The weight of your rifle is heavy in your hands, although you hold it down, unassuming but ready to be lifted at a second’s notice.

“I don’t know why you don’t just hook it over your shoulder.” Ellie snorts, her backpack bouncing slightly on her back from the steps that seem so unencumbered by worry. Why should she worry when there are two fully armed adults on either side of her. Her own personal guard in a manner of speaking. “There hasn’t been anything out here for daaaaaays.” She drags the word out like it's the most horrible thing in the world that it’s been peaceful.

Joel snorts, rolling his eyes as you glance over at him and then look back out at the surrounding terrain. “Yeah, that’s why we are on guard.” He grunts, even though his own rifle is on his shoulder. His hand gripped the shoulder sling loosely but he had only just put it up there half an hour ago after you had taken your turn relaxing as much as you can. “it’s too fucking quiet.”

He’s right. After the disasters that had been Kansas City, you had tried to avoid major cities, but even in the small towns, you had come across plenty of cordyceps and clickers. You hate the clickers with a passion.

The isolation can account for a lot of the silence. Miles stretching between remnants of civilization. The crumbling buildings and overgrown roads give the entire midwest a sense of peace. It’s unnerving.

Your grip adjusts, head rolling around your shoulders slightly to try to loosen the knot that builds up in your shoulders after so long. The weight of your pack isn’t as heavy as it should be, the rations not exactly filling since you had to escape that one clicker in Du Bois, Nebraska. Your pack had been ripped and most of the food you had been carrying was lost.

You glance over at Joel, noticing the way his shoulders seem to hang, almost a reflection of the way you feel. “We need to risk a larger town.” You murmur quietly, knowing that his first instinct will be to argue with you. You stumble slightly over a rock and hiss when you feel the hole in the sole of your boots.

“Too dangerous.” Joel snorts, shaking his head even as he watches you regain your footing. “I’ve got some duct tape in my bag.” He reminds you, knowing that you should probably reinforce that shoe before you lose the sole all together.

“It’s not just shoes.” You protest, trying to ignore the way that Ellie groans obnoxiously loud and stomps her foot.

“Come on, man!” She throws her own arguments into the ring. “I need tampons! We could find them if there was jack shit out here, but there’s not. Do you want me to attract wild animals?” She presses, glaring at Joel who looks equal parts horrified and unconvinced. She cracks an evil grin. “Circling us in the wild as I just leave behind a trail of blood? Aaaaand tears.” She adds, lifting her brows. “Periods are really emotional things.”

Biting your lip to keep from snorting, you watch as Joel; normally stoic, no bullshit Joel, can’t seem to string together the words to respond. His eyes slide over to you, almost pleading with you to say something.

Your brows lift in question and he twitches slightly, his dark eyes unhappy with you not immediately jumping in to save him. “We could use the food if we can find any.” You rationalize, smirking when his brows pinch together and he looks like he had just been betrayed.

“Clean underwear!” Ellie adds. “Or….cleaner. And a heavier fucking coat.” She shivers slightly and you can see that is the moment when Joel caves. He acts like a prick most of the time, but he’s got a soft spot for the kid. He won’t admit, maybe not even to himself, but he looks over at the faded and nearly rusted out sign.

You continue walking, not pressing any more and you can hear the grumbling thoughts that are rolling through Joel’s mind. The now half hearted protests about why this is such a bad idea but you wait for the sigh.

Almost even with the sign is when it comes, heavy and it sounds almost pained. Like he is going against everything he believes in. “Stop.” He huffs, shuffling to pull his bag off his back and kneeling down with a groan and the small pops of fifty plus year old knees. Unzipping the pocket where he keeps the Atlas and flips the worn pages to Nebraska. Glancing back at the road behind you and then at the sign before looking at the map. Tracing the route that you had already traveled before looking ahead at the towns that were on highway 77.

Ellie doesn’t say a word but she practically bounces on her toes as she waits for his decision. You know that he’s going to agree, it’s just a matter of which town he chooses. He knows the truth of the situation. Winter is going to come quicker than any of you want, your food supply is low, you could probably all use a new set of boots, and all of you would kill for a halfway decent musty mattress to sleep on. Four walls and a hopefully non-leaking roof over your heads would be the icing on the cake.

“Wymore is coming up in fifty-eight miles.” He taps the map and looks up at you to see what you think.

Ellie shuffles slightly and instead of grinning, you crane your neck to look at the map yourself. “It looks like it’s bigger than the last few towns, but at least it’s not like we are running into Lincoln.” You hum before you nod. “I say we try.”

“Yessssss!” The teenager pumps her fist in excitement and she grins when Joel rolls his eyes. You’ve noticed that like any normal teenager, her favorite activity is annoying any kind of parental unit and pushing boundaries. This applies to Joel whether or not he likes it. “I want to find another joke book too.”

Joel groans but you just turn around, grinning yourself as Joel mumbles under his breath, stuffing the map back in his pack and zipping it up. Joel and Ellie are alike in a lot of ways, especially their penchant for mumbling.

You resist the urge to offer him a hand up, knowing he will be even more pissy if you do. For someone who complains about being older, he gets downright grouchy when he’s reminded of that same fact. “Well then, the quicker we get there, the quicker we don’t have to hear ‘are we there yet?’.” You snort, making Ellie grin shamelessly as she shrugs, knowing she will do exactly that.

“So let’s get going.” She doesn’t wait for anyone, just setting off down the road and leaving the two of you to catch up with her.

****

It takes you nearly three days to get to Wymore. All of you are tired, but Joel is the one who barely sleeps, even when you force him to lay down. It’s as if he cannot stop trying to protect Ellie, and also you, long enough for him to rest. He gets upset when he has to sleep, staying up until he is nodding off. The coffee supply has been exhausted and it’s probably a good thing. He would drink it all day to the point where his hands would shake from too much caffeine. Still he just wouldn’t trust you to make sure that no one snuck up on you for a few hours until he was past the point of being useless.

The first signs of the town are a welcomed relief but it’s also an added source of tension. Each mile that you had traveled had added to the fear that this might be the time that you fail. That something goes wrong and someone else dies. The road here has not been easy and the losses have weighed heavily on all of you. Joel still won’t even mention Tess and you hate it when you wake up in the early morning hours to find him staring down at the broken face of his watch with a look that breaks your heart.

Every approach into a new area can mean danger, either from the clickers or from humans and honestly you don’t know which one you fear more. Your gun is back in your hand, the weight of it familiar and comforting as you pass the first gas station, the windows busted out and dried fungus clinging to the building.

“Fuck.” You hiss, uneasy at the presence of the fungal vines, even if they look like they aren’t active.

“I wonder why it looks pink.” Ellie frowns as she squints at the building. “It’s usually an ugly brown color, right?” She looks towards Joel for confirmation, but he’s busy frowning at the building himself.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea.” If the cordyceps have spread this far out of town then there’s a possibility there are still active branches closer to the supplies that you are looking for.

“Come on man.” Ellie groans, kicking a dirt clod. “There’s nothing for miles. It’s probably all dead.”

You know that Ellie is probably right, but it’s a risk. You bite your lip, looking over at Joel. “Why don’t we sweep the town and we can see?” You ask, knowing that if everything is dead, you could desperately use the rest. Cordyceps rarely return en masse when the vines have withered and died. It could be a safe place to recharge and for Joel to sleep for more than ten minutes at a time.

You’ve stopped walking as you talk, Joel looking around as he contemplates your alternatives. To be honest, there aren’t many and both of you know it. Not without a lot of backtracking which none of you want to do.

Joel sighs and you know that he’s going to agree. He turns to Ellie. “Don’t fucking touch anything until we say it’s alright.” He points at her for good measure, as if his finger would impress the importance of his words. “Got it?”

“Got it.” She huffs. “Jesus, you act like we haven’t done this before.” You roll your eyes and look away, knowing you shouldn’t encourage her right now.

It takes hours to make your way into the center of town. Not because you are blocked by clickers or avoiding humans, it’s because you are stocking up. It’s like the fungus took over this town and just let it rot. Nothing inside the first few blocks of town is disturbed. No looting has been done here, plenty of supplies to be had.

Both you and Joel have been cautious but slowly optimistic as you’ve found boots and heavy jackets, gloves and hats. A new pair of clothes have been rolled into everyone’s bags and you’ve even grabbed another pack to fill with the mylar sealed packs of camping food from the sporting goods store. It was a miracle that nothing had been ransacked, but it makes you wonder exactly what the fuck happened here. Did the army sweep through and round up all the residents right away? It would make sense, but then why were there dead spores of the fungus here? You haven’t seen one body so far and it makes you nervous.

“This place is a fucking gold mine.” Ellie grins like a kid in a candy store, perhaps because you’ve actually found candy and she has been sucking on the jolly ranchers until the top of her mouth is raw. “Now we just need to find a place to sleep. I want my own room.”

Glancing over at Joel, you expect him to immediately tell her no, but he doesn’t say a word. Continuing to look around like he is expecting a clicker to pop out from the doorway of the local McDonald’s, now completely covered in that strange pink fungus. It’s like he doesn’t even hear her as he frowns at the building.

She takes that as approval and immediately starts talking about how she’s going to spread out. Making you snort when she talks about sitting in her underwear for an hour. There hasn’t been a lot of privacy out here on the road, so you can understand that desire.

“Joel.” You murmur his name softly, knowing that the best thing you can do is to find the motel and get settled down for the night before the sun sets. Even if this town is as safe as it appears on the surface, you would rather not be fumbling around in the dark . He doesn’t look over at you, still staring at the overgrown building as if it’s holding the secret. Maybe it reminds him of the Boston Museum, ominously covered with the tentacles of the fungus and the horrors that you had found inside it. “Joel!”

“What?” His head whips around, body tense as he’s ripped out of his thoughts. Relaxing when he finds you and Ellie staring at him. “We need to find the motel.” You remind him, nodding towards the sun getting lower in the sky. “I think we could all use a good night’s sleep.”

He stares at you for a moment, his eyes searing your face, looking for some hidden meaning beneath your words before he glances over at an eager Ellie. “Yeah, sure.” He agrees, adjusting his rifle to sling it onto his shoulder and adjusts his now much heavier pack on his back. “Probably on the other side of the main drag.”

His new boots thump against the cracked pavement. The roads leading deeper into the town is the guide towards what will hopefully be a comfortable bed and at least eight hours of sleep.

Your own new boots feel pretty good, but maybe a day or so here, going through supplies and really making sure that you can take on the coming winter would be a good thing. Allowing you to break in the shoes without blisters. You’ll have to talk about it with Joel after Ellie sequesters herself for the night.

It’s about another fifteen minutes before you get to the small motel that looks like it will be a good place to spend the night. Half the building is covered in another large cluster of the fungus, the pink hue looking particularly bright in the fading sun.

“We’ll get some keys.” It will be better than breaking down doors, especially since the motel wasn’t equipped with the keycards that the high end hotels had started switching to before society came crashing down.

The bad news is that the motel doesn’t have any adjoining rooms, so Joel and Ellie get into a small spat about her having her own room, Ellie eventually winning after promising that she will block the door with a dresser and he’s allowed to sweep the room before she locks herself in. Half the building is so overtaken by the vivid pink fungus that you swear looks like a big splat of bubblegum thrown over the walls.

She doesn’t even want to have dinner with you and Joel, making the man go through the room and then telling you both goodnight and shutting the door in your face. Making you laugh as Joel frowns at the door, rethinking this entire situation.

“Well, you can have a room to yourself too.” You offer, smirking as he cuts his eyes towards you. You know that Joel would rather everyone sleep where he can keep his eyes on them, so you getting privacy is off the table.

“Shut up.” Joel grunts, walking down towards the next room and kicking it open, watchful even though you’ve both already been in the room and deposited your bags. It’s a nice room, two double beds so each one of you can stretch out and relax.

You laugh quietly and decide to walk down the railing towards the portion of the building that has been overtaken by the fungus. Your curiosity about this variant is finally getting the best of you and you want to get a better look at it.

It’s thick. The tendril that is draped over the metal railing of the second floor, wrapping around it and up the support column. You bite your lip, tilting your head when you see the withered remnants of some kind of flower. What kind of fungus sprouts flowers?

You jump when something touches your back, whirling around to find Joel behind you, holding his hands up. He smirks at you, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Fuck you.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes and he huffs. “What are you doing?” He asks.

Turning back towards the fungus, you sigh. “This is different from any other kind I’ve ever seen.” You comment, stepping closer to it only to feel Joel reach for your arm to pull you back. “It’s dried out.” You remind him, jerking your head towards the husk of the cordyceps. “Have you ever seen anything like this?” You know that he spent a lot of time sneaking out of the Boston QZ, it’s possible he had seen it before.

He grunts, relaxing his hold on you and he shuffles slightly closer, looking at the flower buds that extend from the tendrils. His own suspicions about anything fungus related is deep, but it’s dried. “I haven’t.” He admits after a moment, narrowing his eyes slightly and trying to think if there is any reason why this pink coloring has the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

“So it’s something new.” You bite your lip and lean in, feeling the disapproval radiate off of Joel in hot waves but you ignore him. Tilting your head and reaching out to touch one of the dried flowers.

“Don’t-”

The second your finger touches the wilted bloom, it bursts open, spurting you and Joel behind you in a cloud of pink dust. You gasp, holding your breath but there’s no hope for not inhaling the pollen.

“Fuck!” Joel coughs, shaking his head and backing up so quickly he hits the side of the building and reaches out to drag you away from the lingering cloud of dust and starts to practically beat it off the two of you. “We need- we need-” He leans over and starts coughing, obviously having inhaled just as much of it as you had.

“We’re okay.” You gasp, shaking your head and brushing the dust off your clothes. “We- it’s dead. Right?” You hate that you are asking that, but you hadn’t expected that from a dried out fungus.

“It- we should clean up.” Joel blinks, the pollen making his eyes itch and that has to be the cause of the rush of heat that slides over him. It’s just adrenaline. Fear. Anything that would scare both of you would make the slight nip in the air disappear and make you feel like your skin is superheated.

The water is gravity fed. The large cisterns on the roof are still full and while it’s not warm, perhaps a cold shower might be better right now. Joel drags you both to the room and locks the door, although he doesn’t push a dresser in front of it in case Ellie needs you in the night.

In the bathroom, you are shaking as you start to strip down, worrying about how stupid you just were and if you completely fucked yourself. The anxious fear covering the way your skin seems to burn and feel so sensitive to everything. Shuddering when your hand brushes over your thigh as you push your jeans down and kick them off before you pull your shirt over your head and remove your bra.

Clean up. Get the pollen off your skin and cool down. Your body seems to be working on overdrive. Your nipple hard under the cold water and instead of gasping in shock, you moan softly. Enjoying the sensation and reaching for the bar of soap that is still wrapped in plastic.

Hurry up, hurry up. Joel paces around the room, his hands curled into fists. Practically sweating even though the air is cool as the sun sets. His body feels like it’s on fire, like he is battling a sickness.

Over and over again, he goes through the symptoms of the infection of the cordyceps, there’s no veining, he’s stopped and checked his eyes and reflection in the peeling mirror about twenty times in the five minutes you’ve been in the bathroom. And he doesn’t fucking think the fungus makes his cock harder than a fucking rock in his jeans.

He’s not thought about sex in months. Nothing beyond fleeting moments of attraction to you that he swiftly buries under guilt and responsibility. Normally, it is when you’re bent over and your ass is presented to him in such a way that he thinks about sinking into you from behind, or when your shirt pulls tight over your breasts and he imagines cupping them in his hands as you sit on his cock. Immediately dismissed and ignored as he reminds himself of how he had failed Tess, he doesn’t deserve to find warmth and comfort in your arms.

Now, it’s all he can think about. The urge to palm his cock makes his fingers twitch and he almost moves his hand over his crotch before he flinches back to reality and tries to examine his face in the mirror again, wondering if his eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep or if he is infected.

Scrubbing your body is nearly painful, wanting to stop and touch yourself, but you can’t. You need to get this done and get out so Joel can shower. Still, despite the cold water, you feel like you are on fire when you shut off the water and realize that you didn’t bring your bag into the bathroom. You will have to go out there in nothing because you can’t put those clothes back on. Not until they have been washed.

Moderately dry, you hear Joel bang on the door. “Hurry up.” He growls, making you clench your thighs together at the raspy tone and hating how it spears through you. You know Joel isn’t interested in you, hasn’t ever looked at you like that and the crush that you had on the man had been buried deep.

“I’m done.” You don’t have a chance to be embarrassed as you open the door and Joel practically shoves past you into the bathroom and slams it behind him. “Fuck.” Your annoyance cools the heat for a moment, but it’s only temporary.

The water is icy, but still, Joel curls his hands into fists against the shower wall. He’s fucking hard. Harder than he had probably ever been in his entire life, even when he was a horny teenager and would have fucked anyone who let him between their thighs. He’s not felt like this ever. The need to touch himself builds to the point where his hips are rocking into thin air against the spray of the water. Want clawing up his throat and pooling in his stomach in a heavy knot.

You don’t dress, you can’t. Crawling under the covers of one of the beds, you listen to Joel groan in the bathroom, it’s muted over the sound of the shower but it’s sexy. All of his sounds are sexy, from the low grunts he gives when he’s stiff and sore, to the huffs and groans of annoyance. It’s all sexy to you. The rasp of his voice when he’s not spoken for a few hours.

Closing your eyes, it’s easy to give in, to let your hands drift over your skin. He’s not here, you can take care of this frantic need that is swirling inside you. You just need to slide your hand between your thighs and ease it. It wouldn’t take much more than a few swipes of your fingers against your pulsing and aching clit.

Trying to fight it, you concentrate on your breathing, in and out. Inhaling slowly and holding it so you can exhale when the burn in your lungs tells you that you’ve reached your limit. It helps, but not much. Not when you’re imagining Joel in his shower. Touching him. Being free to touch him and having his hands on your body in return.

Your hands slip over your breasts, squeezing them hard enough to moan softly and your legs shift to press together. Clenching around nothing and wishing that you were full while your hands start to move down over your stomach.

The first touch is almost a relief, your entire core quivering as your fingers press against your clit. It’s overwhelming and not enough. You need more, fingertips pressing and rubbing around the puffed up bundle of nerves. You’re already soaked and can feel it dripping down your slit.

Spurred on by that insatiable need, you slide your fingers around your entrance and start to press them inside. Biting your lip to keep yourself from moaning. Imagining that it’s more, that it’s a cock that is starting to break you open and fill that void that is aching.

You are so caught up in the bliss of that first stretch of your fingers that you don’t hear the shower turn off. The quiet curses coming from the bathroom are muffled by the rush of blood in your ears, the feeling of relief coursing through your nerves and taking over. You don’t hear the click of the lock and the turn of the handle. The door opening doesn't even register as you plant your heels on the bed and push your hips up, needing to get your fingers deeper, not quite reaching the spot inside you that craves fullness.

You don’t hear him until he chokes out a sound that is pained and low, like he’s injured. Your eyes pop open as you lurch up off the bed, your fingers ripping themselves out of your cunt hard enough to make you whimper. Fixed on Joel’s towel draped body, tented over his waist.

“Joel, I-” “Fuuuuuck.” He growls, his eyes closing and his hands bunches into fists, one holding his towel and the other by his side. “I’ve tried to not think about you, about touching you.” His words are rasped out, strained against his vocal cords. “I’ve goddamn beat into my brain that you aren’t to be thought about this way and now, I can’t stop.” His stomach clenches and his body twitches as he struggles to keep still.

Your chest heaves and you see his eyes drop down to your uncovered tits. His jaw clenching and his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows. “I - I need to touch myself.” You admit breathlessly. “I - it hurts so bad and I need something inside me.”

Joel groans again, shuddering so violently that you can see him shake from where you are. “I’ve jerked off in the shower twice and it's still hard.” He drops the towel, revealing his hard and leaking cock, making you whimper at the sight and clench around nothing. “I think that- that we- that the flower-” “I don’t care.” You moan, shaking your head and crawling to your knees and shuffling forward. Showing him all of you and so goddamn desperate to touch him that you think you are about to explode. “Touch me, Joel. Fuck, touch me, please.” You beg, your hands on your own body. “We-” He shakes his head and his face changes, morphs into pain.

“Fuck me.” You hiss, watching as his resolve breaks. His cock bounces as he lunges for you, hard and swift, driving you back to the bed with a bounce. Almost as if he is attacking you.

He’s not gentle. His mouth finding yours in a harsh kiss, your permission unleashing the coils of restraint that he had tried to put on himself. His grip bruises as he hauls you up the bed and settles between your thighs.

You’ve always attributed Joel with rough gentleness. The type of man who would make you ache and then hold you close. Groaning in pleasure when you find out that is exactly what Joel Miller is like. His hands spreading your thighs with a desperation that proves he is just as afflicted by this fungal pollen as you are. His cock hard and pressing against your folds as he rocks his hips forward to line up. Almost unable to find the hole with his eagerness to sink into you.

“Joel, hurry.” Your hands shake, holding onto him and urging him closer to you, frantic with need now that you know that you are going to have him inside you.

“Goddamn, I’m trying.” He hisses, hating to let you go so he can take his cock in hand. Rocking into his own grip as he shuttles his hips forward. “I’m fuckin’ trying, sweetheart.”

You whimper when you finally feel him pressing against your entrance, choking out a sound of need that is animalistic. Only to cry out in bliss as he pushes inside you without another delay.

He groans, eyes cinched shut as he slides inside you to the hilt, burying himself in your heat and feeling that coil in his stomach tighten even more now that your walls are around him. Immediately starting to move just as soon as he fills you, driving by that need and burning in his very veins.

It’s exquisite, the pain and pleasure blending and fusing in your stomach, nerves alight and responding to every small movement. You can’t get enough of him, you need more. Wrapping your legs around his hips, you rise to meet his harsh thrusts. Clenching down around him every time he hits that spot deep inside you that you couldn’t reach with your fingers.

He shouldn’t be inside you, he shouldn’t be touching you, but now that he is, he can’t stop. Turning his head, he presses his lips to yours and slides his tongue into your mouth. Needing more. Kissing you like he had imagined a thousand times before. Giving into every urge he has had since the day he met you and repressed before right now. Snapping his hips forward sharply and pulling every groan out of your mouth to swallow down.

Every thrust makes it better, eases that burning in your core, your cunt slick and squelching every time he drives into you. He absorbs every sound you make, almost greedy for them. His hips jarring as they slam into you. Rocking you both up the bed.

“Oh god,” breaking away from the kiss, you moan into his ear. Closing your eyes as he pants and puffs while he fucks you. “So deep, so deep, Joel.” Your nails drag down his back, making him hiss in pleasure and pain.

“Shit.” He groans your name, lost in the rhythm of his thrusts and the building pressure. “You needed this?” He growls, making you clench down around him hard and whimper his name. “Yessss.” You agree, nodding against the pillow. “Needed it so bad.”

“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight.” He huffs, burying his face against your neck. Continuing to pound into you, and not letting up even though his back is screaming in pain. His body won’t let him do anything but rock his hips. Driven by a need that overrides everything else.

His words make you burn, making you even more desperate for him. Your hips rock up and legs tightening around his waist even more. Loving how his cock stretches you out and scrubs against every nerve in your cunt. Lighting up your body until you are gasping on the edge of that much needed orgasm.

Every plunge into your body brings him closer to cumming, desperate to feel that emptiness, that wrung out filling once he has filled you. He shouldn’t cum inside you, he knows that, but he’s not going to be able to stop himself. He can barely pull back enough to rock his hips back into you.

His arms have banded around you, holding you into place as he fucks you. Deep and primal, as if he is trying to fuse the two of you into one. His cock punches into the depths of your body that you never imagined anyone reaching, but he touches it with ease. Your body pulsing with that need to come apart.

“So close, I’m so close, baby.” You whine, body starting to tremble underneath him. “So close.” Your nails dig into his shoulder, grounding yourself to him in desperation. “Joel.”

“I gotcha.” He groans, eyes closed and his breath fanning against your skin. “I’mma take good care of you, sweetheart.” He promises. “You’re gonna cum all over my cock, ain’t cha? Just like you wanted.”

His words throw you over the edge, that need built up so tight inside you that it busts on the next thrust. Lights careen and collide behind your eyes, bright and beautiful as your whole body ignites into pleasure like you’ve never experienced before. Crying out loudly and soaking him in a wave of your juices. Cumming harder than you ever have before.

Joel growls your name, his hips stuttering as you come apart around you. Unable to hold back any longer. He buries himself deep into your hot passage and paints your walls with sticks ropes of his seed. Panting against your lips as he empties himself body and perhaps his very soul into you.

Both of you pant, relieved and exhausted from the pure exertion of need as you had taken from each other. Joel presses into you, trying to catch his breath, but the fire is still burning low in his belly, his cock still not softening as it twitches inside you.

“Oh fuck.” You feel that same desire still curling in your stomach, not satisfied by the intensity of the orgasm that you are still coming down from. “Joel-”

He huffs and shakes his head. “Don’t-” he presses his lips to your again, body screaming as he starts to move again. “Shhhhhh.”

The need still burns and both of you are still locked in its fiery grip, not yet free from the desire that washed over you from a burst of pollen.

****

“What the fuck man, open the door!” The thudding on the door finally penetrates the bone deep sleep you had finally fallen into. You don’t know how many time Joel fucked you, or how many times he had spend himself inside you as you blearily open your eyes.

Joel grunts, slowly opening his own eyes and unwinding himself from the tangled together position that you had passed out in. The knocking on the door keeps on. “Joel!” Your name is also shouted, Ellie starting to sound somewhat panicked when neither one of you is immediately opening the door.

“Fuck! I’m coming.” He drags the top blanket off the bed and wraps it around his waist before flinging the door opened to blink into the harshness of the sun. “What?” He growls roughly, making Ellie’s eyes blow wide with shock.

“Holy shit, what happened to you?” She demands, pushing into the room and stopping short when she sees you sitting up in the only bed that has been disturbed, the sheet anchored beneath your armpits. “Oh shit, you fucked.” She gasps, turning and shooting Joel an impressed grin. “Way to go, old man, you made a move.” Her grin quickly turns into an expression of mild disgust when she realizes that she’s congratulating you two on having sex. “Uh, I’m gonna go now.” She huffs, wrinkling her nose and pinching it. “It smells in here.” Waving her hand in front of her face, she darts back out the door and Joel just stands there for a moment before he rolls his eyes and goes to shut the door before he thinks better of it. Sticking his head out of the room, he shouts after Ellie. “Stay away from the fucking fungus!”

You snort, grinning to yourself as your body starts to ache. Fucking fungus indeed.

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller tlou #joel miller the last of us #sex pollen

764 notes · View notes

discountlittlebro · 2 months ago

Text

Prince who wears his knights armor and is cracking jokes and Knight who thinks his pretty boy needs to see exactly what being a knight is. Tells him to come visit down at the barracks and he’ll show him what being a knight really is.

Ofcourse he stupidly agrees. Thinks they’ll all rough house a bit, but it’s so much more than that. He’s thrown in a circle and his knight, his protector, is leading it all.

“See down here? We don’t have a lot of time for relationships and boys get pent up really easy. Don’t we boys? So we have a bit of a system. We wrestle, and loser is pussy for the night, and we’re not assholes so don’t worry. If wouldn’t fair if it was the same person every night, we rotate fighters.”

The prince is listening, nodding his head and something about this just seems so barbaric. A lot of them are bigger than he is, taller and more muscle. Towering over some of their own.

“Still think you wanna be one of us, pretty boy? You can backdown, go back to your room and pretend this didn’t happen.” There’s a few grumbles from the men, obviously not wanting him to leave.

And what kind of prince would he be if he backed down? No, a prince stands his ground and fights. Although, it’s barely a fight. He’s matched against 5 others, while the rest of the guard cheer. He watches as a big man pins two easily, tries to evade his own knight grabbing at him and shoving him to the floor.

“Your loss, your majesty. Are you going to make good on that deal?” He reads above him, cheeky smile on his face but ready to snap at the other men and tell them to leave if he changes his mind.

“I’m…a man of my word. I lost, let’s just get this over with.”

It feels like hours of hands gropping him, spreading him open. He feels a tongue on his cunt, lapping and sucking at him in a way he hasn’t felt before. His body is covered in a sheen sheet of sweat, he doesn’t even have control of his own hands. They’re grabbing his wrists and moving his tired arms to jerk themselves off. Two knights are taking turns fucking his mouth, all he can taste is the salt from their skin as his nose is buried in the musk of their pubes. It muffles his whines when somebody decides to shove their fingers in his ass, prepping him to take even more cock than he already is.

He’s surrounded by a frenzy of sensations. One knight might give him gentle kisses on his thighs while another bites down as if he means to take a chunk, one plays his nipple soft and gentle while the other is being pulled and twisted. He can barely think when his mouth is flooded with cum, when it splatters against his stomach and chest and leaks of his holes.

He’s panting, and tired and then his knight is ontop of him and he wants to tell him he can’t go anymore but he’s shushing him.

“You did so good for us, our perfect boy. Here’s your reward.”

And his knight works him through an orgasm that has his back arching and mouth falling open in a silent cry, the only thing he’s able to get out are the tears that are flooding his cheeks. He thinks he’ll never come back, never play knight again, but now the men are cleaning him up, petting his hair and lifting a water bottle to his lips, singing bis praise and placing gentle kisses all over his body. Swearing to always protect him with their life, and as his knight carries his broken but spoiled body back to his room, he thinks he might visit again real soon to play again.

#prince/knight #Prince X knight #royalty kink #royal kink #t4t ns/fw #t4t kink #nsft t4t #t4t nsft

299 notes · View notes

butch-corvid · 1 year ago

Text

it was my girlfriend’s idea, and I didn’t want to be seen as transphobic. I told our friend that she could do whatever she wanted with my girlfriend’s cockhungry cunt, I just didn’t want to touch that thing when it went inside her. I loved my girlfriend. I wanted her to be fulfilled. and it was still a lesbian threesome. and I wouldn’t have to interact with my girlfriend’s “new friend” at all if I didn’t want to.

only, having my girlfriend on top of me, moaning into my mouth every time another rough thrust rocked her forward, feeling the way she shook with pleasure when speared all the way full of girlcock…

look, I was only wet because my girlfriend was on top of me, moaning like a whore, eyes welling up with tears when our third bottomed out. so when my girlfriend asked if I could rotate so that we could 69 while she got fucked, I was only thinking with my pussy. I didn’t realize the tgirl my girlfriend picked up would be leaning over me, balls nearly resting on my forehead. I ended up inches away from a thick, throbbing cock as it pistoned in and out of my girlfriend’s hole. so what if, while I was eating her out, my tongue slipped a couple times and brushed against her friend’s shaft? so what if the smell of her cock made me buck my hips up against my girlfriend’s mouth? so what if I eagerly stuck my tongue out to taste my first load of real cum, dripping out of my girlfriend’s well-bred fuckhole? i was just curious. her cock was right there. i didn’t have to like it.

so what if, after all that, my girlfriend uses her position on top of me to hold me down and force me to cum while her friend slides her cock, slick with my girlfriend’s cum, into my mouth, and starts to violate my throat?

i guess i’d just have to get used to being a spare hole

#mine.#cnc.#identity.#breeding.#lesbian nsft #t4t breeding #lesbian breeding #t4t nsft #transfem supremacy.#transfem supremacy

2K notes · View notes

redflagshipwriter · 4 months ago

Text

Snatching Snitches 5

masterpost

Raven contemplated the hole she was digging and decided that the only way out was further down. Things had escalated rapidly. Helping Robin get his ugly cat back had seemed like a nice deed, and then when she learned it was actually a ghost, it had seemed funny to register it as Dick’s cat. It was a harmless prank to saddle him with the cat he didn’t seem to like much.

And then it turned out to be the ghost of a human child who, so far as she could tell online, appeared to actually still be going to school. What the fuck was going on with that? Was the carboy dead or not?

‘I’m a terrible person for thinking that’s even funnier. This is literally a Schrödinger bit’

Raven smirked to herself as she waited for Robin to get back with the super-secret adoption paperwork that Bruce kept in his study to cry over whenever he and Dick had a fight. He was definitely going to notice that it was missing, but she was willing to bet that Bruce would think that Dick had done it himself. Those idiots couldn’t communicate about feelings if their lives depended on it. She was going to get away with this, no sweat. She just had to keep going until the end. Sure, the consequences would get worse the more she did, but that wouldn’t matter if she pulled it off.

“I might be going down, but Dick is going to be planted,” she muttered to herself, stretching out her hands and then rotating her wrists. She cracked her neck. That had been a lot of paperwork.

The air buzzed to let her know that Robin wanted to come back. Raven opened up a portal and he slipped through, much like a cat himself. Granted, it would be hard to convince a cat into one of those preppy blazers. It was a real flashback to Dick’s mathlete days. Raven choked down a laugh as Robin lifted his face to confront her directly with a crisp envelope in hand.

“Here.” He looked like a combat accountant and he only came up to her collarbone. God, she loved working with the trainees. It was a perpetual joke that no one else was in on.

Raven took the envelope with a smirk and a flick of the wrist. “Thank you.” She hadn’t been willing to steal from Batman personally. “I’ll take this to get filed.” She held the paper up a little higher and marveled at how light it was. This little paper was going to be so goddamn funny.

The little boy looked like a half-scale doll of a businessman with his hair slicked back. It was difficult not to laugh when Robin nodded gravely. “You are an admirable colleague.” Beneath the tightly-leashed exterior, Robin was awash with sincere gratitude and warmth, with a hint of admiration. It was a significant improvement on the resigned scorn he had for the other kids in the tower.

‘His diction is just like Dick’s. I’m gonna have a war flashback to infiltrating that museum internship program to find magical forgeries.’

His crisp little businessman tone aside, that was… sort of touching feedback. She nodded back at him. “Your professionalism is also appreciated. I’ll file a personnel request in a few minutes..” Raven had been thinking it over while she waited. “We need to move quickly. I’m going to have a field trip to train one or two of the new kids. You’ll be my assistant.”

Robin’s nose flared, but he otherwise did not react to the, as he would see it, unfortunate need to have tagalongs. “That will suffice,” he agreed, the pompous little pussycat. The air around him soured with regret.

She sent him back in another portal and then sat at her laptop to file a request for him on a mission. Someone in the Batcave approved and filed the request within minutes. Pretty typical for them. The next request was for Suzie, and then the last member of the group… Robin’s little Superboy friend, actually. If there were a lot of ghost fights, it would be a good chance for him to see more aerial combat. Supers were a little overly confident if you didn’t deliberately let them get their asses handed to them by someone else who could fly.

When she was done with administration work Raven spun around on her chair and stretched out her shoulders before she got up to do a little magical research into Amity Park. The human world wasn’t generally very safe for non-life, so there might be some relevant background information. She wanted to know the magical landscape before she brought Secret there. Sure, she was already dead, but she was still basically an elementary schooler. She was learning a lot and maturing, but she would never actually hit 10 years old. Raven had a significant duty of care.

Unfortunately, she hit a dead end with that line way too early and had to look into the online resources. It looked like nothing of note had really happened in Amity Park history, so it had to be a modern era problem.

“Who the…” Raven furrowed her brows and scowled at the screen. “Who are these losers?” She sneered at the government website. They had an inventory of their weaponry on their private server that seemed ridiculous and unnecessary. “Good thing I asked for a Super, we might need a shield,” she muttered to herself. “I don’t know if this would harm Suzie if it hit her…”

The tiny girl herself drifted through the wall not an hour later, blonde hair floating in an invisible breeze. “Hi, Raven.” Her blue eyes were bright with interest. “You have a mission for me?”

Raven tried not to sneeze on the smoke. “Secret,” she said evenly. It always sort of fucked her up to see dead kids, even if they were still wandering around and having a better afterlife than their life had been. “Yes, I do. We are looking into a custody situation for another ghost. There’s something really strange in this place– it is full of ghosts. There’s nothing in the history to justify this level of spiritual saturation.”

It was really bothering her, actually. This type of thing usually took a long time to accumulate.

Suzie’s mouth dropped open for a moment. “So you need me to act as a warder?” She beamed. “Guide someone to the afterlife?” Her smoky sleeves floated around her body in a mock embrace and then billowed out like wings. She was adorable.

…She should probably not suggest that around Robin. He might make her cry and undo all of Raven’s work to engender confidence.

Raven kept her tone even. “I don’t think that’s what we want to do, but it would be foolish not to bring you along to get your expert opinion.”

As expected, the child puffed up with pleasure at being trusted. Nurturing that confidence had been a trial, and Raven wasn’t going to let a chance pass by.

“This is Danny,” she said, and beckoned Suzie over to look at her screen. “He died a few months ago, but on the official record? He’s alive and well and attending school, although his grades have dropped.”

Damian was going to have to dig into his allowance to get tutoring for his new kid.

Suzie hummed, fascinated. “He’s a big kid,” she said, cocking her head. “Like fourteen?”

Raven hid a wince. “That’s right, he died at 14,” she agreed. “He was caught up in a summoning and taken to Gotham two months ago in a secondary form.” She kept a subtle eye on Suzie, watching her emotional state. This was probably a sensitive topic. “If possible, we are going to transfer custody to one of the Gotham vigilantes. I’ve already contacted an afterlife young ghost protective center.”

‘Had no idea that existed until this morning, but whatever.’

The little ghost went silent for a long moment and considered that, bobbing faintly in the air. “I suppose if they think the placement is fine,” Suzie said slowly. “I would feel better seeing the ghost. Danny. What was the secondary form?”

She didn’t smile, because she was a hardass bitch. “A housecat.”

Suzie giggled. “That’s cute,” she said, and then hummed as she tipped her face up to think. “It sounds like he was vulnerable. Becoming something cute and small is a way to be safe. I’m glad that we are looking into it.”

“Yes,” Raven said, and switched her tabs. “There are two factions of ghost hunters in this city, one of which is actually Danny’s parents. So I will be doing a home check with Robin while you and Superboy do recon of the general area. Depending on how good they are, you may or may not catch their attention.”

Suzie stared. “His parents.”

“His parents.”

Suzie’s eyes darkened. “I wonder how he died.”

Given that she had been murdered by her adoptive brother, the odds were good she was thinking the same thing that Raven was.

It was an effort to keep her voice neutral. “That’s my first question,” Raven agreed. “I don’t like it. It’s very convenient that these ghost hunters suddenly have ghosts in their vicinity after years of failure.” She pulled up their neon website. “They have to be complicit in hiding the death, at the very least.”

“Or seriously negligent.” Suzie crossed her legs in the air and hugged her ankles, bent over into a tiny shape to peer at the screen.

Raven inclined her head, but she couldn’t quite buy that anyone would fail to notice their child had died in the house a few months back. “I want you to look at these images of suspected ghosts off the GIW servers and tell me if you know anything about any of them.”

“Right!” Suzie nodded in determination. Her emotions spilled out in the air, wholesome and sincere. “I’ll do what I can.”

Raven’s answering smile was real. “I know you will.” She hit print.

Not an hour later, Raven gave up on her books for the day and rolled her neck out. “I’m going to run an errand,” she announced. “What do you want to do?”

Suzie looked up from the folder she had made to mark up entity photos with her questions and comments. “I’m fine here, I’ll leave when I‘m done,” she said vaguely, and then immediately went back to what she was doing.

Raven nodded and went to her closet to pull out a suit. She styled herself to be as boring as possible and then took herself to Gotham city hall.

The receptionist looked up at the clack of Raven’s heels approaching. “Good evening,” she greeted, radiating the overwhelming impression of normality and reasonability. “I need to file a certificate of adoption on behalf of a client.”

“I can take that.” The clerk indicated the sign in sheet. “Would you put your name and time of visitation down?”

“It’s better if I don’t.” Raven leaned her elbow on the counter and flourished the envelope, smiling faintly. “Here you go.”

The clerk paused, but Raven’s general aura was too powerful for her to protest that it was irregular. “Thank you.” She opened it and pulled out the paperwork. Her eyes widened and brows went up when she read the names. “That’s…”

“Overdue?” Raven asked dryly.

“All in order,” came the correction. A stamp came out and was pressed firmly on the bottom of the paper. “I’ll have this filed before the end of the day. Will there be an announcement in the newspaper?”

“No, it’s better not to,” Raven said, really coaxing.

The clerk took a deep breath. The exhalation where she would have told anyone else “It is a requirement” came out silent. “I can see why,” she said instead. “Thank you. Will that be all?”

It really felt like there should be more fanfare. But Raven shook her head. “No, that’s all– Actually, can I get more of those papers, blank forms?”

Maybe she wouldn’t need them! But something was very odd with little Danny Fenton. If he was somehow passing for living… She might have to have him adopted via the human court system as well to avoid compromising his education.

…How the fuck was she going to pull that off?

Raven worried over the problem on her way back to the tower, scowling up a storm cloud of negativity that sparked rain. She slammed her way back into her room and was faintly grateful that Suzie had already cleared out. Raven pulled up her stub of a file on Danny Fenton and started adding more biographical information. She’d seen there was a sister in the same school, but Raven found the first photo.

“...Hm.” She added the photo and went looking for photos of the parents. Danny had blue eyes and black hair, which really wasn’t a common combination. It was weird that his sister had red hair. She didn’t get it from their dad, it turned out, who was a black-haired brickhouse of a man. Raven’s heart rate picked up with excitement as she searched up images of Madeline Fenton. Her university affiliation photo showed a beaming middle aged woman with subtle white in her red hair who apparently lectured on occasion. Bit premature, those white hairs, since she was only 39. Not much older than Raven’s Teen Titan’s cohort, as a matter of fact. Oh, fuck. A delicious timeline came together.

“And 14 years ago…” Raven mumbled to herself, feeling a wicked idea come together. Oh, fuck yes. She full-on villain cackled at the throwback photo of Madeline Fenton at age 25, when Dick had been 22 and in love with any redhead with a pulse. “She’s hot,” Raven said with relish, and slapped her hands on the desk in delight. It was the first full body photo she had found online, and Madeline Fenton was a goddamn fox. “Oh, Dick would have. He would have.” She cracked her knuckles and set in to do something truly heinous as a backup plan. “Now I just need someone to help me falsify DNA results.”

It was a late night, but it was going to be so worth it.

The adoption hit squad landed in Amity Park at 9 am local time on Sunday, ready to investigate Danny Fenton's unliving situation.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #snitches the cat au

348 notes · View notes

stevie-petey · 1 year ago

Text

episode nine: the good

Soon it’s just you and Steve. You work around one another, anticipating each other’s next move, never getting in the way. Soft music plays from the record player that sits in the den. Steve puts on one of his father’s old records, gentle rock and delicate jazz. You hum to yourself, he hums with you, and it’s a peaceful morning. Until Richard and May Harrington walk in. Neither of you notice them at first. Steve is too busy spinning you around, playfully dipping you as the music comes to a grand crescendo. You’re laughing breathlessly, but soon your laughter turns into a yelp when Steve sees his parents standing in the doorway and drops you.

Summary: the party battles the horrors of high school and leave you stranded, tw: applying for college is harder than fighting literal demons (you would know, youve done it), jonathan joins your nightmare blunt rotation, max worries you, and steve solidifies his position of Best Boyfriend in the World as you slowly fall apart (though is anyone really surprised ??).

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: cursing, allusions to previous character death

Words: 11.2k idk how or why i needed to say so much

Before you swing in: we're here !!! FINALLY at the end of season 3 <3333 im so so so excited to present to you the groundwork for what i have planned for season 4 ;) it will be ... a lot. the season is huge, its difficult and scary, and i did my best to try and capture its dread and ominous sense of doom in this chapter. please enjoy and bear with me as i prepare for season 4. unsure when i will be done planning her, but i PROMISE itll be worth it !!

“Are you sure Ms. Bote is nice?”

“Yes.”

“And that Mr. Cune won’t question the hat?”

“Yes, Dustin.”

“And you’re absolutely sure we have lunch together?”

“Yes.” You tighten the straps on your mary janes and give your brother an exasperated look. All morning he’s been freaking out about his first day of high school. You understand his fear, it’s scary starting at a new school, but you’ve answered all his questions a million times by now and Steve is supposed to be here any second. “We need to go, buddy.”

Dustin shoves a pancake into his mouth, wiping his face with the back of his hand in a disgusting manner. “Wait, but what about my backpack–”

“I have it, Dusty!” Your mother walks into the kitchen and hands it to him. She kisses his mess of curls and strokes your cheek. “Are my darlings ready for their first day of school?”

“No.” You and Dustin say at the same time, which your mother frowns at.

Dustin adjusts his backpack and gives you an odd look. “Why are you nervous? It’s not like you’re being blindly thrown into a den of hormonal creatures out for blood. You’re old now, they’ll leave you alone!”

“Trust me, the college admissions process is a worse monster than school bullies.” You grab your own backpack and start heading towards the front door. “I have to start planning what to write, I–I need more clubs, and projects, and–”

The anxiety overwhelms you. It always starts like this: talk about college, you fall down a hole of uncertainty and dread and fear. It’s been like this ever since Jonathan moved away. The minute the Byers moved, you threw yourself into preparing for college. Rationally, you know it’s your poor way of coping with all the sudden change in your life. You don’t need a psychological research journal to tell you that. In a futile attempt to control your future, you’ve become obsessed with college.

New York University, specifically.

Jonathan has always dreamed of attending, and when you met him, it became your dream, too.

“Okay, dear. Settle down, now.” Your mother places a hand on your shoulder and laughs nervously. She has about five seconds before you collapse into a mess of college admissions rambling and despair. “Let’s go outside and find that wonderful Stevie!”

Your body is shoved out the front door alongside Dustin’s. Steve’s car is parked, he stands outside it, arms crossed and a grin on his face. Your body relaxes when you see him, the buzz of anxiety dims. He’s wearing his Family Video vest, the green makes his tanned skin glow.

“She’s doing it again.” Dustin tells him, tossing his backpack into the backseat.

Steve winces. He knows exactly what your brother is referring to. He’s been at the other end of far too many anxious phone calls at three in the morning. “College?”

“Yeah, she almost had a meltdown in the kitchen.”

“I can hear you both, you know.” Though you try to seem fine, keep up the annoyance, you stand next to Steve and rest your head on his shoulder anyways. He wraps an arm around you and kisses your forehead.

Steve rubs your arm and makes a sympathetic noise. Your mother, seeing how he holds you, squeals. “Oh, stay just like that, hold on!”

“Mom, what–” But your mother ignores you and runs back inside the house. You look at Dustin, terrified. “She’s not…”

He shakes his head at you. He leans against the car next to you and crosses his arms, mimicking Steve’s earlier stance. “She’s mom. Of course she is.”

“What are you guys talking about–” A flash of light momentarily blinds Steve, and he flinches. “Woah, alright.”

“Smile, kids!” Another camera flash, and your mother coos as you, Steve, and Dustin awkwardly shuffle into frame. It’s not that the three of you dislike being near the other, it’s the fact that it’s seven in the morning and neither you nor Dustin are ready for the day ahead. Steve smiles, though. “That’s it! Everyone say, ‘happy first day of school’!”

A mess of incoherent mumbling follows your mothers command, but she doesn’t let it bother her. She takes a million pictures, preens when she sees Steve smile even wider, and she has to hold back tears. Her babies are all grown up. Dustin is a freshman now, and you’re a senior.

“Alright, Mrs. Henderson,” Steve has to quickly blink, trying to regain his eyesight. He adores the woman, he knows he’s become her favorite, but he really needs to get you to school before his shift at Family Video starts. “I have no doubt you’ve already taken the best picture ever.”

“Aw, just one more–”

“Mom.” Dustin clears his throat, urging her to stop, and she sighs.

Your mother kisses Dustin’s head, then yours, and wishes you a good first day before getting into her own car to drive to work. “Bye, kids!”

You all wave at her, and Steve opens the car door for you. Once you’re seated, he goes to the driver’s side and tells Dustin to get in the back. The engine starts, soft music plays from Steve’s radio, and soon the three of you are driving towards Hawkins high.

“No Robin?” You ask Steve after a few minutes of silence. He’s grown rather close to the girl, working together all summer, so you had expected her to drive with you guys to school. When you and him officially got together, Robin made the two of you promise that you wouldn’t abandon her. It was an irrational fear, you love Robin dearly, but you made sure to spend time with her and Steve equally anyways.

“She has band practice this morning,” Steve responds. “So it’s just me and the Hendersons today.”

Dustin shoves his head in between the two of you. His seatbelt strains against his chest, but he doesn’t care. He’s on a mission to get as much information as he possibly can. He refuses to go into high school blind and pathetic. “Steve, you were once popular.”

“Why the past tense? I mean, I’d consider myself still pretty well liked–”

“I need you to tell me what you did that led to your demise so I can avoid doing the same.”

You snort and Steve sighs. The kid really keeps him humble. He stops at a light, looks at Dustin through the rearview mirror, and shakes his head. “What makes you think it was anything I did?”

“Kid’s got a point,” you say from the passenger seat. Steve gives you an offended look and you raise your hands in surrender. “Hey, all I’m saying is that I also don’t really know what happened. You’ve got a track record of pissing off the wrong people. One minute you were King Steve, the next you were shunned.”

Steve groans. “You people have no faith in me.” He can feel you and Dustin staring at him, unbelieving. He hates when the two of you team up against him; it makes it harder for him to lie. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to tell you what happened. Not because he’s embarrassed, or ashamed, even.

He knows it will only upset you. Reopen wounds.

But you and Dustin keep staring at Steve and there’s still at least ten minutes left of the drive. Weighing his options, Steve figures it’s best if he just tells the truth. Like ripping off a bandaid, knowing the pain will be there regardless of how long you stall. “Okay, fine.” He scratches his nose, clears his throat. “It was, uh. Because of Billy.”

The temperature in the car drops. It’s suddenly ice cold.

Dustin slowly leans back against his seat. Steve faces ahead, eyes on the road, but he watches you from his periphery. No one has mentioned Billy since his death, at least not in front of you or Max.

Especially Max.

They wait for you to react. To tense up, ball your hands into fists and wipe away tears. They expect the guilt you’ve barely kept hidden to resurface, but you don’t do any of that. Instead, you surprise them. “Can’t believe you let a mullet defeat you.”

Steve isn’t sure if he’s allowed to laugh at first, worried it’s some bizarre test of yours. But he sees the smile on your face, albeit forced and terse, but he knows you’re trying. So he plays along, relieved that you’re doing what you can. “I don’t know, I thought the mullet looked pretty good.”

“Get a mullet and see how fast I leave you.”

Dustin nods in agreement, Steve shakes his head with a laugh, and the temperature in the car returns. There’s still a slight chill in the air, there will always be a slight chill, but you pull your jacket tighter around you and ignore it.

When you get to the school, Dustin stares at the hounds of teens all walking through the parking lot. He gulps, tightens his hands around his backpack, and you try to ease his apprehension.

“Hey, look at me.” He does, and you extend your arm, offering a handshake. Dustin eyes you wearily, but reluctantly he shakes your hand. You nod at him, hand firm around his. “It’s just you and me. And Lucas. Max, too. Unfortunately, possibly Mike. Copy?”

“Copy.” Dustin releases your hand and salutes you. He pushes his hat down, takes a deep breath, and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Let’s go.”

“Good luck, little Henderson.” Steve salutes him as well before turning to you. He presses his lips to yours, hums, a soft smile on his face. “And good luck, angel.”

Ignoring Dustin’s dramatic gagging in the back, you squeeze Steve’s hand and smile back at him. “Thanks, honey. Have a good day at work.”

Dustin nearly falls out of the car with how fast he scrambles out of it. He’s about to ban all forms of physical affection between you and Steve. It’s disgusting. No one wants to see any of that. You follow after your brother and exit the car.

You only make it a few feet before Steve rolls down the car window and shouts, “I love you!”

A few students in the parking lot turn, and their faces contort into shock when they see none other than Steve Harrington. He waves at them, cocky as always, and you’re both mortified and so in love. He may have lost his crown, but he will always be the king. While Dustin ducks his head down in embarrassment, you wink at Steve. “I love you, too!”

“You’re going to be the reason I end up getting thrown into a dumpster on my first day.”

“Aw, is Dusty-bun jealous?”

“Go die.”

–

The entire day it feels like you’re missing something.

When you get to homeroom, there isn’t a seat saved for you at the front. When the physics teacher drops his chalk five times within the first five minutes, there isn’t anyone to tease you for your poorly contained snicker. In the library, you’re forced to sit in a corner because there’s no one to share the plush sofa with.

There’s no one who whispers answers to you during calculus. No one who hooks their foot around your desk’s leg. No one who doodles in your notebook just to get you to laugh.

Jonathan’s absence is palpable.

You knew it would feel weird, starting senior year without him, but you didn’t think it’d feel so lonely, either. Empty. Unfinished.

By the time lunch comes, you’re slowly losing your mind. You need someone to talk to. Robin and Nancy don’t share any classes with you, Jonathan had been your only real friend at Hawkins, and now you’re paying the price.

You’re the first one at the lunch table, which you figure is a good thing. Earlier in the week you and the party had all agreed to sit together at lunch, you’d been excited to finally share the same school building as them. However, you hadn’t wanted to hover over them. You wanted them to branch out, meet new people, so lunch was your agreed upon time with them.

The lunch room fills with students and you wait anxiously for the rest of the party. You’re excited to see them, ask how their days are going, maybe even gossip about the freshmen, but when they arrive it’s almost as if a tornado rips right through you.

“There you are!” Dustin finds you first and slides into the seat next to you, nearly causing you to face plant into the ground. “Look, we gotta talk.”

You frown. “Okay, is everything–”

“We can’t stay and eat.” Mike cuts to the chase, not even bothering to sit down. Lucas stands behind him, quiet and nervous.

“What, why?”

“Eddie Munson wants to meet us.” Dustin says the boy’s name as if you should know him. But you don’t, and now you’re really confused. What does he have to do with any of this?

“Eddie…?”

Mike rolls his eyes at you. “Eddie Munson, Hellfire club, DnD?” When he sees that nothing he’s saying makes any sense to you, he huffs. “Seriously, do you not know anything?”

You throw a chip at him, hurt. “I was in choir, not some stupid DnD club.”

“Hellfire club isn’t stupid–”

“Anyways!” Dustin cuts the fight short. There isn’t time for you and Mike to argue right now. “Eddie is the dungeon master, and he’s recruiting us to join his party! We–we gotta go and meet him, Y/N. He doesn’t just let plebe freshmen like us join.”

“He’s legendary.” Mike says, and sadly you know he means it. It’s not often someone has the boy’s full admiration. Mike is hard to impress, and this Eddie guy seems to have him wrapped around his finger already.

Dustin stares up at you, eyes pleading to understand, and you know you can’t ruin this for him. Only hours ago he had been terrified of his first day, and now he’s almost vibrating with excitement over the possibility of joining some club. There will be people there like him, others interested in what he loves, and you can’t let your own loneliness ruin that.

“Well,” you clear your throat, try to appear excited for the boys. “Go see Eddie, then.”

“You sure?” Dustin doesn’t want to just leave, he knows you were looking forward to lunch today. He’ll stay if you need him to, he’s sure Mike can talk his way in with Eddie.

You smile at him, force your voice to be light. They’re growing up. You all are. “I’m sure, it’s your first day. You’re supposed to be joining a bunch of clubs, it’s a good way to make friends. I’m proud of you. Seriously.”

Dustin isn’t entirely convinced, but Mike has already grabbed his arm to go and find Eddie. He turns to Lucas, beckons him to follow. “C’mon, dude.”

“I’ll-uh. Follow in a sec.” Mike gives him an odd look, but Lucas is already sitting down next to you. Seeing this, Mike gives up and leaves with Dustin. As soon as they’re gone, Lucas lowers his voice and leans in close to you. “Hey, do you, uh. Know Jason Carver?”

The scent of chocolate ice cream infiltrates your nose, the sound of it colliding into the teen’s pants rings in your ears. The memory of it is tangible, and you have to hold back a laugh. Yeah, you know Jason Carver. “I mean, we aren’t friends, but we know each other. Why?”

“Do you…” Lucas looks around, making sure Mike and Dustin really are gone, before he continues. “Do you think he’d let me join the basketball team?”

You’re surprised. Sure, Lucas has always shown an interest in the sport. He plays with Steve sometimes, they trade cards, but you didn’t think he’d be interested in the school’s team. “Oh.” Then, you realize why he’s stayed behind. “You don’t want to join Hellfire, do you?”

“I know I’m just a freshman, and–and Mike would probably call me dumb for wanting to even try out, but. I don’t know. I think… I think I could be really good on the team. Might make high school easier.”

“Then you should go for it,” you reassure Lucas. He’s always been so careful to not upset others. He’s loyal, down to his very core, you understand the fear that doing something for yourself brings. “Jason isn’t so bad. A bit much, but kind. He’s a team player, and I think they'd be lucky to have someone like you.”

Lucas smiles shyly at you. “Really?”

“Really. Now, go and find the guy. Ask him when try-outs are, and I’ll talk to Steve about practicing more with you. How’s that sound?”

“You’re the best!” Lucas gives you a quick hug, already getting out of his seat, and runs right into Max. They collide, he manages to save her from falling, and he laughs sheepishly. “Sorry, you okay?”

Max nods, silent, and immediately you and Lucas know that today is one of her bad days. Her eyes are sunken in, it doesn’t look like she got any sleep last night. She sits down next to you, and you nod at Lucas, signaling to him that it’s okay if he leaves. You’ll take care of her.

Lucas hesitates, unsure, but reluctantly leaves when you nod at him once more, urging. If it was anyone else, he would stay, but it’s you. Besides Lucas, you’re the only other person Max talks to. You’ll stay with her, Lucas deserves to go and branch out like Mike and Dustin are.

“So, did you know about Lucas wanting to join the basketball team?” You turn to Max once the boy has left. She shrugs, picks at the food in front of her. It’s the most response you’ll get from her, and you sigh. “You don’t want to be here either, do you?”

She looks up at you, alarmed that you caught on so fast, and you just shake your head at her. You dig into your backpack, take out some cookies you baked the night before. They were supposed to be for all the kids today, but they’ve all left and Max needs them more right now. “Here, take these. Go to the left stairwell, next to the choir room. No one goes there during lunch, it’s quiet.”

“Thank you,” Max exhales with relief, taking the baked goods from you. Tears lump in her throat, she doesn’t know how you always manage to do this. To see through her, always say the right thing.

“Of course, my dear.” You risk touching her face, she’s cold, but she closes her eyes and breathes in at the comfort. “I expect to see you at Bookstrordinary after school today, though.”

Somehow Max laughs, and the action hurts her to do so. It’s becoming harder and harder to bear the sound of her own happiness. But she nods at you, understanding that it’s an order she can’t disobey, and leaves.

Then it’s just you at the lunch table. Alone.

Nancy is at yearbook, she’s told you all about her grand plan of reforming the club into something more than just homecoming polls and gossip panels. Robin is at yet another band practice, preparing for the annual back to school pep rally later this week. Steve is at Family Video, bored out of his mind, both of you wishing he were here instead.

And Jonathan is across the country, at an entirely different school, aching to be near you again.

The thought of him in California only intensifies the loneliness that you feel. The feeling overwhelms you, and before it can swallow you whole, you dig through your backpack once more. Your fingers shake as you rustle through the notebooks and textbooks, and they clutch desperately at your walkman when you finally find it. The mixtape Jonathan made for you before he left sits within it.

You quickly place the headphones over your head, muffling the sounds of the cafeteria around you. Your fingers find the play button with practiced ease, and soon the beginning notes of the Beatles play through the wire and into your headphones.

The song soothes you, it quiets what you don’t want to hear; it makes you smile. The mixtape is all you’ve been listening to ever since Jonathan left. Though it can never replace his presence, it’s enough for now.

You stare at the empty seats around you. John Lennon’s voice floats through your ears.

Welcome to senior year.

–

Miraculously, it’s Nancy you lean on the most as the autumn leaves turn orange and the summer’s heat dies down. She finds you later during your first week, grabbing lunch from your locker, and she stops you.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to spend another lunch alone.” Nancy has never been one to greet someone. She always gets straight to the point, a quality that you normally admire.

However, you feel embarrassment rise within you, slightly off put by the cruel words. Sure, you’re not necessarily thrilled that you’ve spent your first few days of senior year alone, but you didn’t need Nancy reminding you of that. “Hello to you too, Nance.”

“Shit, I didn’t mean to offend you.” She holds her notebook close to her chest and looks down in shame. It’s weird, there’s a distance between you that has only seemed to widen despite how hard the two of you try to bridge it. For a while things were good, great, even. She was genuinely your friend, but sometimes insecurities can hurt the ones people love the most.

“Not really sure how I was meant to take that.” You close your locker and try to excuse yourself. You’re exhausted, you hardly slept the night before. “Look, I should go. I stayed up all night working on stupid college applications and I just… I’m tired.”

Nancy’s posture straightens, eager to grab onto any opportunity to amend things with you. “I can read over whatever you have.” When you raise your eyebrows at her, she quickly backtracks, worried she’s overstepped. “I–I mean, that is, if you want. Not that you need the help! It’s just–”

She forces herself to stop. She’s rushing her words, messing it all up. Her shoulders drop, Nancy takes a deep breath and looks you in the eye. She never apologized for her words earlier this summer. The way she sneered venom at you, but she’s carried the guilt of it ever since. “I’m… trying. I promise I am.”

Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers have never handled vulnerability well. It’s what made you stand out against them, set you apart, and you can’t help but find this quality in them endearing. You know that Nancy is trying to go back to how things were, before one phone call between the two of you revealed the unspoken resentment she held.

You never blamed her for any of it. But you know she blames herself, and Jonathan’s absence doesn’t help; both of you miss him, neither of you can afford to lose anyone else.

So you try as well.

“I’ll let you read over what I have only if you let me read what you’ve written as well.” You nudge her shoulder with yours, getting her to finally smile. “I’m curious to see what that brain of yours has thought of already.”

Nancy laughs, relieved. “Definitely nothing as creative as whatever you’ve written.”

“We’ll see about that, Wheeler.”

Soon you find yourself in the yearbook room. Nancy introduces you to some kid named Fred, who moons over her the entire time you’re there, though she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy reading through your ideas, and you find yourself admiring her side profile. The way her eyelashes kiss her brows, the soft cherry on her lips.

Nancy is beautiful. You understand how Jonathan and Fred and Steve and countless other guys in Hawkins have lost their minds over her.

You read through portions of Nancy’s writing, and the two of you sit quietly side by side editing the essays. She marks some things down, crosses out some lines, and you do the same. It’s lovely, being by her side again. You hadn’t realized just how much you missed her following the events of this summer.

“So, New York University, huh?” Nancy eventually breaks the silence.

You nod, humming as you skim over a line that you particularly like. Circling it, you respond. “Yeah, it’s been my dream school ever since I was young.”

Though you’re applying to other schools as well. A few state schools, some in Virginia, close to your father. But New York is truly where you hope you’ll be next fall.

“Jonathan mentioned that you like psychology, right?”

“Yup,” you cross out an extra word. “Particularly child psychology. Figured that after everything we’ve been through, especially the kids, it’d be useful if at least one of us has any idea what’s going on inside our minds.”

Nancy chuckles. “Fair.”

It falls quiet again, but you don’t want the peace to end. “I heard from Jonathan that you’re looking into Emerson.”

“He tells you everything, doesn’t he?” Though this time Nancy’s question is asked with fondness, slight exasperation and humor mixed in.

“Mhm, we’re a package deal. You tell one of us something, then the other is bound to know eventually.” You look up at Nancy and lightly touch her arm. “Though he still keeps some things from me when it comes to you, don’t worry.”

She laughs again, and finally you allow the silence to settle upon you. It’s a comfortable one. There isn’t a tension underlying it. For the first time in a long time, you’re able to simply sit next to Nancy and feel that she wants you there with her.

After that day, you and Nancy spend almost every lunch period helping each other with your applications.

Steve helps you, too. In his own ways.

While he can’t help you write the essays, he lets you call him at two in the morning to rattle off application ideas so you won’t forget them. He doesn’t complain when you wake him up and he has an early shift the next day. Instead, he listens. Steve offers you his own tired input and indulges in whatever you need to feel that you’ll succeed; he’s the most doting, patient boyfriend you could ever ask for.

And, secretly, Steve adores it. Especially when you call him some nights just to have him come over and hold you.

Those are his favorite nights. Tonight is one of them.

“Why does college exist?” Your cheek is pressed against Steve’s chest as you lay in your bed together. The steady rise and fall of his breathing is melodic.

He plays with a strand of your hair, you feel him shrug. “‘Dunno, but you’re almost done.”

“Yeah, just have one more application to send before I get to spend four agonizing months waiting to find out if I even get in. How fun.” Sarcasm drips from your lips. You’ve spent the last two months obsessing over it all, which words to write in your essays, which clubs to join, which teachers to beg for recommendation letters.

And now you have one application left. Then you’ll be forced to wait, without any control of the inevitable outcome.

You’ve never been someone comfortable with letting go of control.

“Everything will be fine, angel. NYU would be stupid not to let you in.” Steve reassures you with a kiss to your temple, then to your cheek, the tip of your nose, the dip of your brows. As he kisses you, he envisions doing this a year from now, in a small, rundown apartment with sirens wailing outside and a fire escape that creaks in the wind. The song of New York City.

Eventually Steve’s lips will find yours, and the conversation will be long forgotten. It’s how most of your nights end now, lost in the kisses as his breath mixes with yours. Hands will wander. Sighs will leave parted mouths. Quiet, soft, aware of the precariously thin walls.

You haven't slept with Steve, at least not yet. Though you’ve been together a few months now, it still feels too soon. He’s your first boyfriend, your first kiss, your first real love, and Steve doesn’t want to rush you. If all you ever do together is lazily kiss and breathe each other in, then Steve will happily part your lips with his and draw soft sighs out from you.

In the morning you’ll awake with Steve’s lips on your neck, his eyes shining up at you, and in the morning sunlight, before you’ve fully woken up, the air between you is sacred.

–

“I sent in my final application,” you’re whispering, not wanting to wake up your mom who has fallen asleep on the couch. It’s nearly midnight in Indiana, but in California it’s only nine and Jonathan has just finished his school work for the night. “NYU, it’s done.”

On the other end you hear shuffling as Jonathan leans against his kitchen wall. Will sits at the table with El, he sketches the early stages of a painting and she studies grammar. Jonathan watches them, his mom is in bed, and he forgets for a moment that he’s on the phone with you.

“Bee?” You say the childhood name so softly, so tenderly with concern, and it brings Jonathan back to himself.

“I’m here, sorry.” He clears his throat, his head is still slightly muffled. Jonathan met a guy in woodshop this week, his name is Argyle, and somehow during lunch he found himself in the back of the guy’s van with a blunt hanging loosely from his lips. The smoke dulled the ache of missing Nancy, of missing you. Jonathan can’t tell you this, though. You’d kill him, and he hates disappointing you. “What were you saying?”

You frown slightly, he sounds different. There’s something in his voice, it’s raspy and he sounds distant. The sound is lonely, he sounds lonely. Jonathan isn’t really here, despite the fact that he’s talking to you. The last few phone calls have been like this. You don’t know what to do.

When Jonathan left, the two of you promised to call each other every Friday, a compromise. A way to create distance, yet tether you to each other. Jonathan calls you every Friday, Nancy gets him every day the rest of the week, and it works. This is how it’s always been ever since early September.

At first you guys would talk about how your weeks had gone. Jonathan would complain about the California heat and you would tell him about how Mike and Lucas had crashed your date with Steve one night. Laughter would float over the telephone lines. Teasing, whispered “I miss you’s” and spoken goodbyes with the promise of talking again next week.

But last week when you called, the teasing was gone. The laughter was minimal. You had complained about an exam that day and Jonathan had given one word responses that had worried you. It had been odd, but you thought that maybe he’d been tired that day. Everyone has a bad day, you know this.

Yet it’s Friday again and Jonathan couldn’t feel farther away from you.

“I mailed my NYU application in, bee. You send in yours yet?” Voice light, cheery. You do what you can to try and keep him afloat. You try to grasp at the good that’s left between you. Remind Jonathan that you’re right here, still with him, without scaring him away. “You remember our plan, right? Me and you in New York, together.”

Since you were kids the plan has always been to go to college together. Back then, neither of you could fathom a reason to ever be apart. You were invincible, the same way all kids think they are before the world tells them otherwise.

But you and Jonathan aren’t invincible, you never were.

You can hear the way your question suffocates him. The breath that he holds, stilted and torn, suffocates you as well.

Nausea punches Jonathan, the smoke from earlier suddenly fogs his throat. He doesn’t know what to do. Nancy wants him to go to Emerson with her, he promised you NYU when he was twelve, and California has his mother and Will.

“Yeah, yeah. I–I mean, I sent mine in. Last week.”

Jonathan is lying. You’ve known him for almost six years; he always stumbles over his words when he lies.

Part of you wants to ask him why he’s doing this, lying to you and pulling away. Another part of you, the larger, more naive part, doesn’t want to believe it. You clear your throat, swallow down the hurt, and choose naivety. “Oh,” your tone is too pinched, too put together. You clear your throat again. “That’s–that’s great! I, um. Surprised you didn’t read the essays to me. Have me edit them, like we’ve always done.”

Jonathan leans his head against the wall and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s never been able to lie to you, he knows you’re desperately trying to overcompensate, as you always do. He hates it. He hates himself. “Yeah, well. Got excited, I guess.”

You hum, words failing you, and the line goes silent.

Dread replaces the laughter that night.

–

Before you know it, it’s Halloween and the party has infiltrated Steve’s house.

The holiday falls on a Saturday, and the party deems itself too old to trick or treat. When they find out that Steve’s parents won’t be home that weekend, they demand to spend the night at his house and watch horror movies.

Steve fights back, complains that he doesn’t want them taking over his living room, but his complaints fall on deaf ears. That, and Dustin ropes Robin into their plans.

“Oh, God. Don’t open the door!” Dustin shrieks, throwing popcorn at Steve’s TV as he covers his eyes with a blanket. He cowers against Lucas, who shoves him off, and Mike snickers. Max sits on the couch, outside of their fort, and watches the boys. None of them try to get her to sit with them. They know they’re lucky that she even showed in the first place.

“I can’t look.” Robin’s voice carries over, you can almost picture her cringing as she holds a pillow to her chest. Mike chose a particularly gory movie, and the kid’s mind frightens her.

A loud crash sounds, then a woman screams. You figure the protagonist did open the door and has now died, though you can’t be sure. You’re in the kitchen with Steve, taking out the final batch of oatmeal raisin cookies from the oven. The smell wafts through the home, bringing warmth to a house that Steve has always found cold, and he places his hands on your hips.

“You spoil the kids too much,” he presses his nose against your cheek and kisses you. “They invade my home and you bake them delicious goods.”

You set the tray of cookies down onto the counter. “As if the cookies aren’t for you, too.”

“That isn’t important. We’re focusing on my hostage house, Y/N.”

“‘Hostage house’, quite the alliteration there.”

Steve now kisses your neck, distracting you as you plate the cookies. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“Don’t make me come in there!” Dustin screams, and Robin echoes him with her own disgusted yelling.

You laugh at their theatrics while Steve rolls his eyes. He really hates that his house has become the party’s source of entertainment. He just wants to compliment his beautiful girlfriend in peace. Who would punish a guy for that?

In his moping Steve almost misses you walking back into the living room. He follows, stumbles over his feet, never wanting to be more than a few inches away from you. You’re magnetic, always pulling him in.

Mike is the first to grab a handful of cookies. Lucas and Dustin follow quickly after. They shove the food into their mouths and you scoff at their lack of manners. They’re such boys, growing taller every day, and they’re just as disgusting as they were when they were kids.

“Want one, Max?” You hold the plate up to her, noticing that she hasn’t moved from her seat. She shakes her head at you, eyes never leaving the screen. Lucas and you share a look, the same concerned expression on your faces.

The moment is broken by Robin, who grabs a cookie and practically melts. “Holy shit, Y/N. You bake these regularly?”

“Usually once a week,” you shrug at her. “Though I once baked six batches during finals week.”

“God, that was a good week.” Dustin hums, lost in the blissful memory.

Robin grabs your arm, eyes wide with enthusiasm. “I will give you my firstborn child in exchange for my own batch of cookies.”

Steve pokes her shoulder. “You already promised your firstborn to me after I agreed to cover your weekend shift.”

“I can have twins.”

You laugh at her. “That’s a terrifying thought.”

Robin sticks her tongue out at you, causing you to laugh even more, and Mike puts the next movie on. Everyone settles back down, you lay with Steve in the lovechair with Robin in front of you. Max has the couch to herself, the boys are sprawled on the floor in a mess of pillows and blankets, and for the first time in months you feel a certain warmth having your family together.

Sometime during the night the clock strikes twelve.

It’s November 1st, 1985.

Steve’s nineteenth birthday.

Robin snores softly on the ground, arm underneath her head as a makeshift pillow. Mike, Dustin, and Lucas are all curled up against one another, their faces young again. Max sleeps softly on the couch, her hand dangles over the edge, grazing Lucas’ outstretched arm and open palm.

Steve lays beneath you, he isn’t quite asleep yet. You’ve come to learn the rhythm of his breaths as he sleeps. The way they slow, the pattern steady. You lift your head up, wanting to admire him, and find that he’s already looking at you.

“Hi, angel.” He whispers, smiling sweetly.

You smile back, you always smile back at him. “Hi, honey.” Doing your best to remain quiet, you crawl up the length of Steve and nuzzle your way into his neck. You kiss the dip just above his collarbone, causing him to shiver. “Happy birthday.”

Arms encase you, pull you deeper into the body you lay on. Steve’s body heat warms your face, warms your bones, and you wish you could stay like this forever. In Steve’s arms, the scent of him overwhelming your mind, his touch calming you.

“Thank you,” he kisses the top of your head. He lingers, his lips soft. The two of you stay like this, his head against yours, your chin tucked into the alcove of his neck. Your breathing syncs with his, his fingers trail up and down your spine. Your fingers splay over his chest, warming his ribs.

In the morning, Max wakes everyone up.

“My mom will be worried,” she kicks Mike, nudges Lucas’ shoulder. “Wake up, idiots.”

Steve groans, squinting his eyes against the morning light. He tries to roll over and block it out and nearly shoves you off the seat in the process. “Steve!” He manages to catch you in his sleepy state, but his movements are slow.

“Sorry!”

You clutch your chest, heart pounding. “You’ve done that way too many times now. I’m starting to think you want to throw me onto the ground.”

“Lucas once promised he could catch me if I jumped into his arms.” Max says, then she points to a scar on her knee. “Turned out he couldn’t.”

“Hey!” Lucas sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I really thought I could do it.”

Mike stretches. “Your fault for trusting him, Max.”

Lucas shoves him and the two start to wrestle on the floor. They’re a tangle of lanky limbs, knocking into Dustin who still hasn’t woken up yet. They roll on top of the boy, and he wakes up to Lucas’ knee in his face. “What the hell?”

Dustin joins the fighting now, and Robin throws a pillow at them. “Guys! It’s too early for this!”

They don’t listen.

It takes a lot of pleading, negotiating, and bribes in order to break the fight up. It takes even longer to wrangle the kids out of Steve’s home, much to his dismay. They leave a mess of strewn popcorn all over the carpet and pillows missing feathers. You stay behind, offering to help clean the mess, and Robin rushes out an apology and happy birthday to Steve as she runs out the door to get to work.

Until Richard and May Harrington walk in.

Neither of you notice them at first. Steve is too busy spinning you around, playfully dipping you as the music comes to a grand crescendo. You’re laughing breathlessly, but soon your laughter turns into a yelp when Steve sees his parents standing in the doorway and drops you.

“Dad!” Steve immediately bends down to pick you up, endlessly apologetic. He ducks his head, eyes on you, though his body doesn’t turn from his father. “I’m sorry, angel. You alright?”

You reassure your boyfriend that you’re fine, more worried about the fact that you’re dressed in clothes from yesterday with horrendous bedhead meeting his parents for the first time. Richard eyes you in Steve’s arms. He has a look of disinterest on his face. “Son.”

“What, uh.” Steve clears his throat, curls a protective arm around your waist. He didn’t mean for this to happen. His parents were supposed to be gone until Tuesday. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Right.”

Father and son stand in front of one another. Neither speaks. Steve feels like a little boy again, scrutinized underneath his father’s intense gaze. Never good enough. Never worthy of anything other than berating and lectures.

You wring your hands nervously, unsure what to do. The air is thick. Steve looks so much like his father, it’s almost uncanny. They have the same build, the same moles that dot along their handsome faces. Only his father is dressed in a suit, the lines in his face are hard, weathered. He’s who you picture Steve would’ve been, in a different universe where you were never his friend.

May Harrington gave her son all of her delicate features. The soft turn of his nose. The plush, pink lips. His doe eyes, his smile. The only feature that separates her from her son is her honey blonde hair. She’s beautiful, elegant and poised, and when she steps towards you, you can smell lavender perfume. “You must be Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Hi, Mrs. Harrington.” You’re quick to meet her where she stands. You’re nervous, you have to discreetly wipe your hand on your pants before shaking hers. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you. Your banana bread is lovely.”

The woman smiles, it’s so much like Steve’s that you want to cry. “Thank you, dear.”

“Of course, and I apologize for meeting like this. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Richard makes a mean, gruff sound. He shakes his head, steps next to his wife. He doesn’t like you, you can feel it by the way he blocks his wife’s view of you. “Oh, no. I’m sure you didn’t.”

“Dad–” Steve steps forward as well, blocking his father’s view of you. He’s angry, his shoulder blades close together. He doesn’t like how the man is treating you; you’re too good for such cruelty.

“What did I tell you about bringing your hookups to the house, son?” Richard sneers, turning his nose up at you. That’s all he sees you as. Just another one of Steve’s flings, one of the girls from his past.

“Y/N is not just some hookup,” Steve clenches his jaw, tries to steady his breathing. He doesn’t want to fight with his dad in front of you. Not when he was having such a good morning, spending his birthday with your hands wrapped around his neck and your giggles singing in his ears. “She’s my girlfriend, and I love her.”

Richard chuckles, he doesn’t believe his son. “Okay, you love her. I’m sure your mother and I will walk in on you with some new girl next week.”

“Dear,” May places a hand on her husband’s shoulder. She sees the way you shrink into yourself at the man’s words. The insecurity that he brings. She sees how her son’s eyes ignite with fury, she watches as he does whatever he can to put the flame out for her sake and yours. “It’s Steve’s birthday today.”

“Is that why you insisted on coming home today?” Richard turns to her, she has his full attention now. His eyebrows are drawn together, annoyance paints his body. “You told me you had a board meeting tonight.”

“Why don’t we talk about this upstairs?” May suggests, relieved that she’s turned her husband’s anger onto herself rather than her son. Richard sighs, but he doesn’t argue as he marches up the stairs without so much as a second glance towards you. When he’s gone, May smiles at you sympathetically. “I apologize for my husband’s behavior. We had a long flight, I’m sure he’s simply jetlagged.”

“Yeah, that’s why he’s such an asshole.” Steve scoffs, tired of his mother’s excuses for her husband. He can be cruel to Steve, he doesn’t care. He’s been cruel to him his entire life. But if his father so much as breathes near you again, Steve will hurt him.

Your hand reaches for Steve’s, sensing what he’s thinking. You return May’s smile, you’re not at all angry with her. “It’s okay, really. I was an unexpected guest, and I should go.”

Steve pulls you into his chest. “What, no–”

“You may leave, if you’d like.” His mother gently interrupts him. “Though I must admit, I really do wish to know you better. If you’d allow me to, that is.”

“I’d love that more than anything.”

“Then I will plan a dinner for the next time my husband and I are in town.” May tells you, admiring your honesty. She can see why Steve has become so infatuated with you. There’s nothing hidden within you; you wear your heart on your sleeve, your sincerity a welcomed rarity. She turns to her son, rests her palm delicately against his face. “Happy birthday, my beautiful boy.”

Steve leans into her touch, weak for his mother as any son is. You turn away, it doesn’t feel right to watch this moment between them.

In the car Steve profusely apologizes for his father’s behavior. Over and over again, he laments how sorry he is and that you’re more than just some fling to him. “You’re everything to me, angel. I love you so, so much.”

“I know, honey.” You grab his hand that rests against the stick shift. His father’s words had hurt, but you knew that they weren’t true. Steve is yours, he has been for longer than either of you realize. Nothing will ever undo the love he has for you, the foundation of trust it was built upon. “You’re everything to me, too.”

When Steve pulls into your driveway, you tell him to park and come inside. His birthday gift is in your room. You had planned to give it to him later tonight, but his parents’ unexpected arrival had soured things. “I know you have to go home, but…”

“I’ll never say no to you.” Steve’s already unbuckling his seatbelt to follow you inside. He greets your mother with a kiss to her cheek, ruffles Dustin’s hair as he sits at the dining table doing homework. His movements are easy, leisurely. You notice now how at home he is in yours, far from the boy who cowered before his father only twenty minutes ago. The realization is bittersweet. He deserves to feel at home in his own house, not just yours.

Inside your room Steve sits on your bed and holds his hand out, eager. “Okay, wow me, Henderson.”

“You really know how to talk to a woman.” You tease him, rustling through your drawer to find the gift you’ve hidden. Steve is nosy, he’s been trying to find his gift for at least two weeks now. When you’ve found it, you clutch the gift in your hand and hold it behind your back. “Alright, you know the drill by now. Close your eyes.”

Steve complies with a smirk, biting back suggestive comments. He loves this tradition with you, making the other close their eyes before their gift. Something light is placed in Steve’s hand. It’s circular, sturdy. He thinks he can smell leather.

“Okay, open.”

In his hand is a bracelet. It’s a simple strip of leather, nothing embellishes it besides a button to secure it. Though it’s plain, Steve can tell that it’s expensive. The leather is supple, its color is dark and polished. The silver button that clasps the two ends together is heavy.

He loves it, he does, but he can’t help feeling like that there must be something more to it.

As if reading his mind, you gently prompt Steve to turn it over in his hands. “Look what’s on the inside, honey.”

He does, and his heart stops.

The leather has been stamped. The word constants is spelled out across the length of the band. It’s a hidden message, only for Steve to know, and while he’s sure you have your own explanation for why you chose the word constants, he loves it already. “Oh.”

You sit next to him and laugh softly. “You’re my constant, Steve. Everything in my life has changed, or will change, but you… You’ve always been there, I know you’ll always be there. With me. My love, my lucky charm, my constant.”

Tears well in Steve’s eyes. He doesn’t bother wiping them away, too busy admiring the bracelet in his hand. He can’t believe you’re real, that you’ve thought of this for him. That you see a future with him… It’s everything he could’ve asked for. A security he’s always longed to have. His entire life he’s been told he’s too much, too overwhelming, and yet you want him to stay anyways.

“And you’re my constant?” He asks you, fingers grazing over the letters again.

You nudge his shoulder with yours. “Well, I’d like to think that I am.”

He laughs, wet and full of love, and he can’t take it anymore. Steve throws his arms over you and you collapse into your bed, laughing together as he presses his lips wherever they can reach.

“You are,” he says in between kisses. Your laughter lights him. “You’re my constant, too.”

–

The autumn leaves fall and the trees are barren as winter arrives.

You spend winter break trying to maintain your promise to Joyce. After finishing the hell that was applying to college, you have so much unexpected free time that at first you don't know what to do. But then her words echo in your mind, the promise to live the life that you deserve, so you start doing things for yourself.

Slowly you read through all the books in your room that you hadn't had time for before. You start running again in the mornings, the winter air crisp in your lungs. You and Dustin do homework together at the kitchen table, making sure neither of you get left behind. You try new recipes to bake, delivering the treats to the ones you love. It’s nice, rediscovering the pleasures you once had long before the Upside Down came into your life.

Christmas comes and you do your annual rounds, delivering everyone’s favorite treats on Christmas Eve. It’s during your run to the Sinclair home that Lucas asks you to come inside to talk.

“What’s up?” You ask him, unwrapping your scarf and warming your hands in your sleeves. Lucas gestures to his kitchen table, silently asking you to sit. When you do, he takes a deep breath and joins you.

Something’s bothering him. You can see it in the way he carries a weight on his shoulders. How they droop as he sits, exhausted. You reach across the table and grab his hand, offering whatever comfort you can give him. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me.”

“It’s…” Lucas purses his lips, his breath shakes. “It’s Max. I’m–I’m worried about her.”

He tells you everything. He tells you how distant she’s been, more than she’s ever been before. He tells you how she’s missed dates he’s planned for her, how she refuses to talk to him anymore. She hasn’t been to any of the party’s hangouts, Mike and Dustin haven’t seen her ever since winter break started.

Max has had bad days, weeks, even months since losing Billy. But she’s never had the bad days without at least one good day following. To break the monotonous cycle of self-loathing and grief and guilt. She would always come back, even if for a moment, alive and bright and reminiscent of the girl had been.

“I can feel her slipping away,” Lucas looks down at the table. He’s afraid that if he looks at you then he’ll start crying. He doesn’t want you to worry, he knows how much you already deal with and do for them, but he’s terrified. “I know… I know that you helped Will, after he was flayed. Do you think you could maybe talk to Max? Just… Remind her that we’re here for her? I can’t–I can’t lose her.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” you squeeze his hand in yours, trying to stem the stream of tears he fought so hard to force down. Lucas loves Max with everything within him. Anyone can see that. You’d do anything to bring the girl back to him, to bring her back to all of you. “I’ll talk to her.”

I’ll keep an eye on her. Watch her when you can’t.

Lucas hears it. He exhales, nods his head.

You leave. Max was the next one on your list of deliveries anyways.

It’s nearing dusk by the time you get to the trailer park. You haven’t seen Max’s new home, she’s only recently moved. She had been too embarrassed to tell anyone that her mother lost their old house. The only reason you even know she moved in the first place is because Lucas and Dustin stalked her walking home.

A dog barks as you bike past. Snow has started to fall, tomorrow will be a white Christmas.

“Oh, hello, Y/N.” Susan Hargrove’s skin is pale, her eyes sunken in when she answers the door. Her voice is thin, her frame is strained. The death has been hard on her, too. Billy’s father leaving only made everything worse.

“Hi, Mrs. Hargrove.”

The woman winces. “Please, Mayfield will be fine.”

You immediately correct yourself, apologetic and ashamed, when Max’s voice calls from within the home. “Just let Y/N in, mom.”

Susan sighs, and you wish you could do more. Instead, all you can offer her is the container of coconut bites you’ve made for them. Max told you they remind her and her mother of California, and you always make sure to have some ready every week for them. Offer some semblance of joy in the gray of their lives.

Max sits at the kitchen table. Her head is down as she works on something. She has her walkman next to her. Susan leaves the two of you alone, excusing herself to go lay down after a long shift.

You sit next to the girl and take a deep breath. This won’t be easy. Max is prideful, stubbornly independent, and has never accepted sympathy from anyone. You’ve always admired her fiery personality, but the fire has dimmed and the smoke is beginning to choke her. Talking to her will be like pulling teeth out.

“Brought you your favorites.” You shake the container in your hands. It serves as a peace offering, almost a bribe to start the conversation.

“Thanks.” Max doesn’t look up.

You swallow, tuck your hair behind your ears. “Of course. I was doing my usual delivery rounds. I, uh. Stopped at the Sinclair’s.”

The pencil in Max’s hand freezes. Her knuckles tighten, though the shift is subtle. She’s always been too smart for her own good. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Erica likes my brownies. Mrs. Sinclair, too.”

“And Lucas?” She knows why you’re here.

“I made him chocolate chip cookies. You know how much he loves them.” Max doesn’t respond. Of course she knows how much Lucas enjoys chocolate chip cookies. She knows everything about him, but she doesn’t say anything and goes back to writing. Faintly you hear music coming from the walkman. You point at the device. “New song?”

“Kate Bush.”

“Oh.” This is going worse than you imagined. “Look, Max–”

She doesn’t waste any time. “I know Lucas sent you. I don’t care.”

“He’s just worried about you, we all are–”

“I’m fine.” The tip of the pencil snaps. “Shit.”

“Max.” You’re pleading with her to listen. Her skin is fluorescent now, paler than you’ve ever seen. The bags underneath her eyes are swollen, dark and ghostly. She’s lost weight. You can’t remember the last time you saw her eat. “Please.”

“What do you want me to do?” Though there’s anger in her voice, Max’s eyes plead with you, too. Her mask slips for just a moment, but you see it. Underneath her indifferent exterior, she’s just as terrified as everyone else is. She can feel herself fading, the guilt of Billy’s death slowly eats her alive. She doesn’t know what to do, though. How do you continue to live after death has infiltrated your home?

The chair beneath you scraps against the hardwood floor. You stand up, walk over to Max and kneel in front of her. You keep your movements slow, worried you’ll scare her away if you get too close too suddenly. “I think you should talk to someone, honey.”

Max turns away. She can’t. If she told anyone what goes on inside her head, they would never forgive her. You would never forgive her, and it would break her.

Your hand falls to Max’s knee. The warmth from your palm combats the ice in her veins. You’re looking at her as if she’s worth something. As if she didn’t wish for her brother’s death. As if she hadn’t sent a grieving father into a spiral, a desperate mother into a trailer park. But Max allows your touch, so you try to get through to her again.

“You know, I was actually talking to Ms. Kelly a few weeks ago. The school’s guidance counselor.” She had met with you to discuss your grades and college options. When she had seen how you picked your nails until they bled, she suggested seeing her every few weeks. Alleviate some of your never ending stress. You had denied, uncomfortable with the idea. But maybe she could help Max. “She seemed nice enough. I’m sure she would be open to talking with you.”

“I don’t want to see some shrink.”

“Hey, I want to work with kids your age someday. Don’t call future me a shrink.” You poke Max’s leg playfully, and the corners of her mouth twitch. She doesn’t want you to see that it’s working. “C’mon. Have at least one meeting with her. When winter break ends, all I ask is that you try. For me and Lucas. We’re your favorites, after all.”

“If I agree, will it get you to shut up?”

You’re fine with this. It isn’t ideal, you aren’t sure Max will even actually try to open up to Ms. Kelly, but it’s a start. For too long now you’ve stayed silent, allowing Max to grieve on her own. Grief is hard, it takes and it takes and it takes. Yet it’s been almost six months and you’re not sure how much left grief can take from Max. “I think I can be okay with that.”

You’ll take whatever you can get. You’re worried. You got too caught up in your own life, you had gotten lost in your own haze of grief and anxiety. Missing Jonathan, grappling with change and growing up as you applied to college. You weren’t there for Max like you should’ve been.

But you’ll fix this. You always fix things. It’s what you do. It’s what you have to do. It’s how you love; you take care of those around you.

And who are you if you can’t?

–

Jonathan calls you high for the first time in late January.

Though he doesn’t tell you that he’s high, you know. His words are slurred, slowed, incomprehensible. It’s late in California, even later in Indiana, and the stark feeling of guilt slices into your ribcage the same way the Demodog’s claw did. The feeling cuts deep into your skin, nicks your bone.

“Jonathan?” You hope your voice brings him back to you. You try to cut through the smoke that fills his mind, that leaves him stumbling over his words. “Bee, can you hear me?”

“‘M here.” Jonathan sniffs, smacks his lips, yawns. “Where’re you? Can’t find you, bug.”

You close your eyes. He’s looking for you, and you aren’t with him. “I’m in Hawkins.”

“Thas’ far.”

“Yeah,” you choke out a laugh. It constricts in your vocal chords, but you can’t let Jonathan know how much it hurts to hear him so disoriented. “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay. California sucks.” He hiccups, you’re surprised he’s managed to call you tonight. Even in his drugged up state, he still somehow remembered to call. “Don’t think Nance will like it.”

He’s referring to the spring break trip. Nancy told you about it earlier today, how she and Mike will spend the week in California to see Jonathan and El. She had been a bit hesitant to tell you, afraid you’d be upset for not being invited, but you reassured her that it was okay.

You’ve had a road trip planned with Jonathan ever since you were fifteen. The moment the two of you graduate, you’ll drive all across the country for one final adventure before college.

Nancy can have spring. Summer will be yours.

“She’ll love California because you’re there.” She talked about the trip nonstop today. Her glow had come back, momentarily, her eyes alight. She truly loves Jonathan, she misses him even more than you do.

“Only disappoint her.”

“What do you mean?” You’re not sure where this is coming from. You know Jonathan is high, that his thoughts may not be coherent, but he sounds distressed about Nancy. You thought things had been good between them. They were planning a future together.

“Is’ hard, with her.” Jonathan manages to get out, but his speech is becoming harder and harder to understand.

You frown. “What’s hard, bee?”

The line disconnects. Jonathan doesn’t bring the conversation up again, the next time you call. You don’t ask him what he meant. You don’t think you want to know. There had been something deeper behind his words.

Will calls you a few days later in tears. The kids are meaner in California than they are in Hawkins. They tease El, make her life hell, and he’s upset that he can’t do anything to stop it. He cries to you, his tears soak your face through the landline, and the guilt creeps back in.

It will never truly leave.

You do your best to console him, offer him advice, but that’s all you can do. All you have are your words. Will and El are hours away, hundreds of miles separate them from you. It's nauseating, feeling so useless. For as long as you’ve known Will, you’ve always been able to protect him. To help him, dry his eyes.

You’ve always been there for your boys, for Jonathan and Will. For El. But you can’t get to them, they’re too far away, and it kills you. You’re sixteen again, trapped in Jonathan’s car and frantically trying to keep yourself together as everything around you falls apart.

Steve becomes your lifeline.

He always answers when you call. Every time Jonathan, high and lonely, hangs up your conversations, you call Steve. He answers, he hears the exhaustion in your voice, and he always sneaks in through your window later that night. He knows it’s the only way you’re able to sleep these days.

He sings to you when you wake up from a nightmare. They’ve become about Max, losing her. She’s only met with Ms. Kelly a few times, but you can tell that she already wants to stop. That you’re pushing her too far, pushing her away from you and everyone else.

Steve takes you for drives when you get blisters from pacing your room, anxiously waiting for your college decision letters to come in. Soon your entire life will be decided for you by one single piece of paper.

Two weeks before spring break, Jonathan calls you. He’s sober.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve spoken to him sober. The thought alone depresses you, makes you yearn for childhood again.

“I think Nancy wants me to come to Hawkins,” he tells you. “Would you… would you like that?”

More than anything.

You press the phone against your ear and imagine that it’s Jonathan’s hand instead. Your skin hasn’t forgotten how his felt against it. “Of course I want you to come to Hawkins, bee.” But it can’t be that easy, you know nothing ever comes easily. “Can you afford it, though? I–I mean, God. I miss you, you know that, but I know it’s been hard for your family these last few years.”

Jonathan’s head falls back against the wall behind him. You always understand. He hates it, sometimes. “It’s worth looking into if it means I get to see you and Nance.”

There’s an air of authority in Jonathan’s voice, as if he truly believes what he’s saying, and it surprises you. He’s taking initiative after months of floating away. Hope sparks within you, the cold hand of dread lessens its grip around your neck.

“Well, I can’t argue with that logic.” You say. Jonathan laughs, you’ve missed the sound. It’s been so long since you last heard it.

Conversation drifts after that. You tell him about the latest Spider-Man arc you’re reading, he inserts his own opinions, and it’s lovely. You haven’t had Jonathan like this in months, all to yourself, his smile aligned with yours. Sober, steady.

The phone call with Jonathan reminds you of all the good that is still yet to come.

College decision letters arrive next week. Your best friend might be visiting for spring break. Your boyfriend has planned a picnic for your anniversary tomorrow. You have your first meeting with Ms. Kelly the following day. It was your idea, figuring it was only fair that you see her since Max has agreed to keep going.

And Joyce made you promise that you’d live your own life. You’re trying to get better, you really are.

It just takes time.

⌑ series masterlist

⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎

⌑ thank you for reading ! feel free to like, comment, reblog, or send in an ask so we can chat <3

#steve harrington x henderson!reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things rewrite #slowburn #angst #nya #m's writing #im so scared for season 4 bro #also less steve centered chapter i apologize class

480 notes · View notes