#[again i'm sorry for the delay with everything!!]

[onaswife]

Always yours

Couple: Lia Wälti x reader

AU! Omegaverse, Omega x Alpha.

Note: Sorry for the delay, university evaluations have come out from where I didn't know, so it's a bit of a small thing.

You met your current girlfriend five years ago, when you played against each other in the Champions League. It was your sister who introduced you.

"You can't turn down every opportunity to meet new people, Liten," you sighed audibly. Of the two of you, Caro was the least shy, while you always tended to avoid meeting new people, so you were the first to leave the field and head straight to the locker room to avoid that social interaction.

That day, however, was different. You were going to say hello to Frida, who was your and Caro's teammate on the Norwegian national team, along with Ingrid, who had already joined you.

"You should swap shirts with one of them," Ingrid commented mockingly as she gently pushed you by the shoulder, while your sister laughed happily beside you.

"My second choice was Arsenal, remember that," you replied simply, walking quickly to where Frida was and hugging her. She squealed when she felt your body hit hers, until she recognized you and hugged you tightly.

As you separated from her, you congratulated her on the game you had played.

"Oh, let me introduce you to this girl right here." Frida walked past you and pointed to the girl you had guiltlessly ignored behind you, who was giving you a slightly shy smile. "Hello," her voice sounded low and almost timid, while Frida smiled widely at her side, as if she were introducing you to a puppy.

You stood a little awkwardly in your seat, as you formed a small smile and slowly raised your hand to shake her hand. "Hello…"

"God, does no one know how to say hello properly?" You heard Frida speak, finding it a little difficult to stop staring at the girl in front of you. "Not even a handshake? I understand that a hug is awkward, but at least that's it." Her voice now laced with frustration as she brought her hand to the bridge of her nose, gently pressing it, looking at us out of the corner of her eye.

You nodded slowly as you withdrew your hand from hers, looking anywhere but at her. "Nice to meet you, Lia. I'm Ingrid, and this is Caro, Y/N's sister."

You sighed as you extended your hand toward Frida's classmate, whose name you still didn't know, only that she was very pretty and short, although not as short as some people you knew (e.g., Pina).

"Nice to meet you, I'm Y/N," you smiled politely as you felt her soft palm against yours, while her fingers pressed against the back of your hand, making you blush. "Nice to meet you, I'm Lia."

After that somewhat awkward moment of greetings, you left your sister talking to Frida, Ingrid, and Lia, while you walked to the tunnel, where Alexia was already talking to Jenni, who was looking at you mockingly.

You grunted as you passed her, already expecting her usual jokes about you and your shyness.

"For such a tall, Scandinavian alpha, you're really shy. I thought you guys took control of everything, you know, like your sister used to say."

A few days later, you received a notification on Instagram, the social network you normally used for collaborations with brands and the like. It was a notification about a new follower, nothing unusual; you received hundreds of those every day, but this one was different.

"Shut up, Hermoso, I'm not in the mood for jokes," you murmured as you passed her.

Liawaelti has started following you.

You stared at the screen that was slowly fading in the palm of your hand, already sitting on the couch, where you had been lying minutes before.

You looked at your phone again, thinking about it. She had started following you, and you didn't follow many people in soccer, just close teammates and your sister.

You felt strange. As you checked her profile, you noticed several photos with her teammate, Caitlin, where they looked very close, along with other posts of Lia with Arsenal, on vacation, or with the national team.

You sighed, leaving the phone next to you on the couch as you leaned back against the backrest, thinking about everything.

"Why does it seem like you're thinking about all the mistakes in your life?" You jumped in your seat when you heard your sister's voice. You opened your mouth to ask her what she was doing there. "I called at least four times before your neighbor came out to scold me, so I let myself in with my keys. Is everything okay?" she asked, seeing you staring at the floor.

"It's okay, I was just thinking that my contract was running out and-"

"Don't even think about it, they want to renew your contract and they're going to," you sighed, listening to her words, as you made room for her on your side of the couch. As soon as she sat down, you leaned against her.

Caro was very protective of you, as was your other brother, Fredrik. They were competitive, they argued, they fought, but unlike you, you were their little sister. They still saw you as that 2-year-old who couldn't be away from one of her siblings because she'd start crying thinking she'd been abandoned, who would sneak into her older sister's room at night because she'd had a bad dream, or who always turned to her older brother when she got a small wound.

A week later, the first text arrived. A simple "hello," but it felt like something more to you.

You were both their favorite child, even though they always denied it in public.

And there you are, four years after that awkward start, now Lia's partner. Not much had changed in those years. You were still playing for Barcelona, ​​Lia was still playing for Arsenal. Both of you were still safe options for national teams, although you did go through a period of injuries, nothing you couldn't handle.

From that moment on, the two of you started talking more, making calls or sometimes arranging outings when their schedules coincided. You stumbled into their lives around the time Lia broke up with her partner, although you never knew, since you didn't want to ask.

That day was special, another Champions League match between you. Your team this year was the favorite to win the competition, but everyone knew Arsenal was coming off a great run in England and from previous Champions League matches. So it didn't surprise you much when, from the bench due to injury, you watched after 90 minutes as your girlfriend's team emerged as champions after 18 years.

It hurt you; you felt a little angry with yourself for not being able to play because of the injury, but you were also happy for your girlfriend.

You approached your team, watching as each of them seemed to want to cry at that moment, just like you. You remained silent, watching the English team celebrate with their coaching staff and fans, while all of you were lost in your thoughts.

It wasn't until the medal ceremony that you were able to talk to Lia. Although you didn't like her, simply because of the person who seemed to be clinging to her, like a parasite.

You clung to your jaw as Caitlin wrapped her arms around your omega's waist and rubbed her nose against your mark, making you instantly angry, not out of jealousy—you trusted your girlfriend—but more out of possessiveness.

You'd always liked that, showing others that Lia had chosen you as her alpha, so you tended to be possessive, so your scent was always present in hers, always leaving your hand on her body, or leaving kisses on her face when she was talking to someone you didn't like.

You approached slowly until you were behind Lia.

"Congratulations, love, I'm glad you won, you deserved it." You watched as Caitlin looked you up and down as she snorted and left, while your Omega hugged you tightly, letting you bury your nose in her neck, marking her with your scent and growling in the process.

"I would have loved to celebrate with you… I don't like playing against you in games like that, one of us always lose more," you sighed at her words, trying not to break down right then and there.

You pulled away, bringing your hands up to her cheeks, squeezing them a little. "You deserve it, so now go and enjoy your victory, champ." You placed a kiss on her forehead and both cheeks before letting her go, walking over to where your sister was, her gaze fixed on the grass. You hugged her, and she hugged you back, sinking into the misery you both felt at that moment.

That night, Lia invited you to the small celebration, but you didn't want to go, so you politely declined. Just because you were angry with yourself didn't mean Lia should be the one to pay the consequences. So there you were, lying in the hotel bed where all your teammates were staying, staring at the ceiling while your mind replayed the exact moments of when you lost your chance to play in the final, the moment the game stopped being your team's, and when they lost, all on repeat.

Until around 2 a.m., you received Alessia's message. She first attached a photo and a message, "Caitlin's drunkenly complaining to Lia. I think you should come over." You instantly got up, grabbed your jacket, and walked as quickly as possible to the hotel where they were staying and where the party was being held, which was less than a 5-minute walk away.

You arrived with your heart pounding. From what you knew, Caitlin was still hurt because Lia had broken up with her. Even though she was in a relationship with another teammate, she seemed to feel entitled to make your Omega feel bad, which you weren't going to allow.

You walked in, looking everywhere, trying to find her in the crowd, while keeping your face as serious as possible and regulating your breathing.

"You didn't take long," you looked to your side, seeing the blonde who had texted you.

"Where is she? Is she still bothering her?" Your voice sounded harsher than usual, even your scent was now more sour.

She just pointed you to a spot a little far away, but close to a corner. You didn't even say goodbye; you just walked up to them with the sole idea of ​​getting that woman away from your omega.

"Am I interrupting something?" As soon as the words left your lips, Lia turned around, her eyes shining at the sight of you and a huge smile appearing on her face. "You came, love," she said before colliding with yours.

As you hugged her, you leaned into her neck, smelling Caitlin's scent. You looked over Lia's shoulder, seeing her frowning at them. Your hand moved down to your omega's lower back, watching Caitlin grow more annoyed, while Lia gasped at the feel of your hand.

"I don't know what your intentions are, but for your own good, I want you to stay away from my girlfriend. She made it clear a long time ago that she no longer wants anything to do with you. Also, respect your relationship." Your tone surprised your girlfriend. She had never heard you be so curt with someone, while you felt so possessive over her, making her legs feel like jelly.

Without another word, you grabbed your girlfriend and dragged her out, muttering insults in Norwegian to the Australian woman who seemed to be cursing you from where you left her.

You reached the outside of the room, letting go of her and gently pushing her against the wall. She moaned as she felt the wall pressed against her back.

"I don't want that girl to flirt with you again. She doesn't understand that you're not hers anymore, you're mine." You pressed yourself closer to her body, biting her neck, hearing her moan your name in a low tone.

She brought her hands to your back, digging her nails into your spine as she gave you more access to her neck. "Mine," you repeated, biting her throat and pressing your hands on her hips, while your leg slid between her legs.

"What else do I have to do to make her see that you chose me? Fuck you in front of her? Let her hear you moan my name while you cum on my cock and not hers? That you always think of me when you cum or masturbate for me?" you said now, moving your hips against hers, hearing her gasp more and more frequently.

"God… love," her voice was more muffled, trying not to be loud and not be discovered. "I'm only yours… only yours…"

She gasped before feeling her back arch against the wall, a sign of her orgasm. You smiled sarcastically against her cheek, placing a kiss there.

"Show me where your room is, darling. I'll fulfill my role as your alpha and make sure everyone understands that I've already marked you as mine… and that I'm yours. I love you," you whispered against her ear, feeling the fabric of your pants stick to your thigh where she had previously rubbed against it. She just nodded, taking your hand and leading you to the elevator, where you started kissing freely.

[crehador]

the current state of the one with the clones is me whispering to clone!ichiro you have got to fuck him faster than this and him hissing back i am fucking trying?? because this 4p clone sex pwp is now

and there's still. there's still no fucking p.

[psychicthepsychic-daily]

BF: How stupid do you think I am?! Psychic: You really want an honest answer to that?

Psychic: Don't worry, I've got a few knives up my sleeve. Hex: I think you mean cards. Dearest: He did not. Psychic, pulling out knives: I did not.

Void: It kind of feels like you’re prioritizing work over our friendship. Psychic: Because I barely know you? Void: Fine, message received.

Psychic: I’m terrible at expressing myself. Kou: Don’t worry, actions speak louder than words! Psychic: Yes, but my actions are also bad.

Myth: You saved me! Why? Psychic: People would think I murdered you if I didn't.

BF: *in a jail cell* What about my Miranda rights!? You’re supposed to say I have ‘the right to remain silent’”! NOBODY SAID I HAD THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT! Psychic: *in the cell next to him* You have the right to remain silent, what you lack is the capacity.

Void: You need a hobby. Psychic: I have a hobby! Void: Fawning over Dearest isn’t a hobby.

[kingspuppet]

I miss writing and you guys so much. ;3; I hope you've all been doing well. 💙

[emmyrosee]

Rintaro feels guilty leaving this time.

You’re expected to deliver your twins any day next week, and he’s expected to fly across the country for a charity event he really can’t even think straight for. You've assured him you'll be fine, his sister is more than capable of taking care of you while he's gone, but there's a pit in his stomach about the idea of leaving you.

But you send him anyways. With a kiss on his cheek and a promise to call him every day (if he had it his way, it would be every hour, but you wouldn't go for it).

The trip goes smooth enough, and he's grateful for you staying true to your word and calling him every night. It does make the time pass, you're safe, but he's more than eager to make it home to you.

He practically pushes his teammates out the door, he's the first one on the bus, his knee bounces anxiously the entire time- especially when the bus driver makes a wrong turn into straight construction, thrusting them in traffic for far, far too long without any service.

But you won't call him, right? Why would you, you've called him at night every day he's been here, and nothing of note has happened (not that that’s a negative to Rintaro, he’d rather your days be mundane and boring than active in your pregnancy).

His heart finally starts again once they pull into the airport parking lot, all of the teammates trying to not be annoyed at the events of the morning and trying to stay focused on the next steps of boarding the plane in a few hours.

Rintaro sighs, slipping his phone out and immediately calling you, not taking notice of just how many notifications bombarded his phone.

The line ring once, twice, and his shoulders relax as you finally pick up the phone. "Rin?" You ask, and you sound like you're in discomfort. But he merely brushes it off. You are very pregnant, after all, surely discomfort is normal.

"Hey babe, just got service from being in the bus, we've got a nasty delay because the fuck-head made us miss our fucking flight, so I might be home later than expected-"

“Rin, I'm in labor.”

Silence fills the line.

“No you’re not,” he says simply.

“As much as I would love to be kidding, I’m not. I’m 10 centimeters, babe.”

How you’re so calm right now, is beyond him.

Him, on the other hand, leaps up with absolute panic, a screechy “WHAT?” echoing through the airport. It catches more than a few looks from other people, but all Rin can think about is you.

You in the hospital, legs up in stirrups and gown being the only thing adorning your body. There's probably nurses and doctors everywhere, and Kaiya and Akito on the couch at home with his mother, waiting for the news.

"WHEN?"

"My water broke a few hours ago, got to the hospital with your sister and now they're getting ready for me to push. Your timing truly is impeccable."

“And you thought now was the best time to tell me?!”

“I tried to tell you earlier, but you had no service!” You defend.

Fuck, he could scalp the bus driver for getting fucking lost.

"okay, okay, okay lets calm down-"

You snort, "yeah I'll get right on that."

"Please, for everything unholy, don't joke right now," he pleads, and he hears you offer him a laughy 'sorry' on your end of the line. "Are you okay? Do you feel okay?"

"Well I don't feel particularly good, for all intents and purposes." You direct your attention to something else and he hears bustling in the background, "Rin I have to start pushing. Stay on the line.”

"No! Wait for me, I'll-"

"Yeah I'm not waiting for you," you snip. “I'll... be fine. Just stay on the call okay? For me?

Rintaro tries not to pass out as you start pushing, doctors encouragement coming through on the line, followed with your grunts of agony as you try to bring your two new babies into the world. He knows you’re strong, you don’t need him there, but there’s something deep inside of him that hurts at the idea that you don’t, he’s so close yet no where near close enough to be right there next to you, and he anxiously looks around him as he tries to find a private place for him to cheer you on, call your name, scream it, his soul in agony over something he has no control over.

It could be four minutes or four hours, rintaro has no idea as you finally scream in agony as a small wail breaks over the line, one akin to Akito and Kaiya’s as the two of them entered the world all those years ago.

“Beautiful!” His sister cheers, “just a bit more for Sachiko sis, you’ve got this!”

“No more,” you weakly whimper over the line, and Rintaro tears up as he chews on his thumb.

“Baby,” he chokes, “you’ve got this, okay? You can do this, I’m right here.”

“No you’re not!” You scream.

“Yes I am! I’m right here okay? I’m not going anywhere!”

“Rin I need you-“

“And I’m right here. I promise. Just close your eyes, I’m there, okay?”

Hes not there. He knows you know that. But right now, he can’t feel sorry for himself. He goes silent and listens to the bustling of the doctors and nurses preparing to bring Sachiko into the world, and rintaro has no clue how long it’s been before you’re ready to push again.

“Ready, momma?” He asks, and you let out a sob.

“Im so tired, Rin.”

“One more big push okay?” He chokes. “Push!”

And you do. You let out another shriek as you start to push, rintaro can practically see your legs tremble and face scrunch and throat tight as you let out another blood curdling cry, and before he can think, another set of crying fills the line.

His twins are here.

And he’s not.

“Good job, angel!” He hoots.

“She did so good, Rintaro,” his sister assures.

“I know she did,” he says, hand clutching his heart.

“They’re so handsome Rin,” You babble, and instantly, Rintaro’s face drops. “Such beautiful boys, they're so sweet, so handsome…”

Boys?

Oh fuck. Rintaro briefly thinks back at all the purples and pinks in the closet at home.

Immediately, Rin tries to conjure up an excited tone, squealing out a soft “boys?” in confirmation.

“She’s messing with you," his sister snickers. You’re laughing exhaustedly too, among your sniffles of agony and above the screaming of the newest twin.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” he says, breathless and his chuckles easing out.

“You've got new baby girls, Rintaro," his sister coos.

“We got them, boys!” He announces, causing an uproar of cheers to come from his teammates. He feels his heart sink to his stomach as his throat begins to swell. “I’m so proud of you baby… my good girls.”

“They’re so beautiful, Rin. So beautiful," you cry.

He sits on his suitcase and tries to imagine them, desperately, tiny hands pawing at the air, crying at the newness of the bright light and the world…

All without him. He’s not there.

“Who was born first?” He chokes, desperate to keep his voice steady. It was a complete tossup with the names, whoever was out first or second is precisely how the names would fall. But he just needs you to keep talking to him.

You understand, and you answer shakily, “Sachie,” you sigh. “Sachiko was 20 minutes later.”

“Late; just like momma.”

“Watch it.”

He chuckles around a flood of tears, a hand coming up to bring his hand up to cover his face. Hot, bubbled tears slip down to roll over his thick fingers, trying to stay composed in the airport that’s bustling with too many people.

“Im so proud of you,” he chokes, eyes screwing shut. Not long after, a massive hand claps down on his shoulder, Komori’s eyes flickering with understanding and apology. He’s got nothing to apologize for, but Rintaro takes the kindness regardless and puts a free hand on top of his to squeeze the emotions out. “My amazing girl. Fuck, I can’t wait to see you.”

“Rin, I have to go,” you say, and he hears the gruff voice of the doctor. “I love you so much. Come home safe, you’re no use to me dead.”

“Okay, princess,” he sighs shakily, burying his face in Komori’s stomach to cry. “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby. You’re gonna be fine.”

He’s 99% sure he should be saying that to you, and not you to him. But regardless.

He waits for the line to die before taking the phone from his ear, blinking up at Komori with absolute heaviness in his heart.

“I should’ve been there,” he whimpers.

“You couldn’t control it, buddy.”

“But I should’ve been there. Not three cities over for some charity that I don't even care about."

It doesn’t matter the assurances Komori could try to pass him. It doesn’t matter that you’re okay, you’re strong and you don’t need him in this moment.

He should’ve been there to squeeze your hand, watch his two babies come into this world with you, kiss your forehead and whisper loving words in your ear.

And he couldn’t manage even that.

[night-raven-tattler]

The pains of being human

Summary: You're dealing with period related misfortunes, and you feel vulnerable... mostly because you reached a point where you had to share your predicament with someone you trusted (?).

Characters: Deuce, Floyd, Lilia and GN!Reader (separate, vague)

Warnings: mentions of menstrual products, food, medicine; discussions of periods and related symptoms (such as: bleeding, cramps, nausea, mood swings.)

By opening the document, you agree to Mx Tattly's terms of source confidentiality.

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You were in your dorm room, stuck in a real predicament: not stocking up on your menstrual products, and leaving the room to buy yourself some seemed too risky, fearing you might get a stain and embarass yourself in front of the whole school

It wasn't a very likely situation, but the anxiety was not worth it, so you relied the first person you were close enough with to help you out: Deuce

You shot him a simple text

"i am on my period, can you buy me some products? i'll pay you back when you get here"

and expected an awkward but supportive reply, since teenage boys and periods can be like oil and water sometimes or demons and cruxes...

But the text you received in return was... mildly surprising.

"yeah sure. pads? tampons?"

"what size do you need?"

"anything else you need? painkillers? something sweet?"

You even double checked the number to make sure you didn't text anyone else

He even knew about sizes! And he thought about painkillers! You were more and more touched with each message coming through

And, with the proper instructions, Deuce was on his way to Sam's

He was not embarassed for even a second: he was there on a mission, and he accomplished it successfully without any missteps

...Well, except of his little delay, caused by a pair of nosy boys, who received their proper threats from Deuce for interrupting his mission with their toxic masculinity

He knocked at your door, and for a second he was expecting his mother to open the door; after all, she was the only one he has ever bought these things for before you

You gratefully welcomed him in, waddling your way back to your bed as you inspected the bag he brought you

"Thank you, Deuce. You're a livesaver... How much did everything cost you?"

Deuce saw the tired look on your face, the heavy lids that indicated a lack of proper sleep, and he shook his head

"It's on me this time."

You scoffed, knowing Deuce was also on a budget; as much of a sweetheart and an honors student he was, Deuce deserved to be rewarded

"...I wanna think of a compromise, but my brain is too tired right now."

You groaned, closing your eyes as you rested them for a few seconds

Deuce shook his head at you again and clicked his tongue in fond exasperation

He wanted to be nice and offer you an out, but you were dead set on being nice to him...

"...A latte."

You opened your eyes, looking at Deuce in confusion

"I'm sorry?"

"I want a latte. One of those fancy ones from that café in town. When you're done with the, uh... bear week."

A small snort escaped you as you gave Deuce an amused look

"Bear week? Not shark week?"

Deuce's eyes widened slightly, and he looked away as his cheeks grew warmer

"...Mom never called it that. She always said that fighting a bear is more likely to happen than fighting a shark... and that it sounds cooler."

You nodded, feeling very inclined to agree with his mom, and decided to steal that phrase

You were very relieved to have someone as reliable as Deuce near you, and despite the fact that Deuce wasn't the most diligent person, he always made sure to carry one of your preffered products with him at all times

No matter what kind of teases he received from anyone for it, he knew he was showing a level of care not many would

And while helping you... he was helping himself

He was still dealing with the guilt of being so embarassed when his own mom sent him to buy pads; he couldn't help his mom with such a simple thing even after everything she's done

But he can be more careful this time... more appreciative

『••✎••』

The moment Floyd spotted you in the hallways was when things went downhill: Floyd didn't really bring sunshine and rainbows around with himself

By that point you were used to his shenanigans, but you still gave some interesting reactions

A gasp, a swat to his hand... but never tears

He wouldn't have yelled in your ear if he knew you'd burst into tears: he wasn't in the mood to deal with the aftermath

But he quickly put two and two together, seeing the way you were frozen on the spot, almost trying to pick between scolding him and saying something else

Unbeknownst to Floyd, you were simply trying to get back to your dorm after noticing a pretty sizeable stain on your pants from your period

And the anxiety from trying to go unnoticed put you on edge, making your reaction to Floyd so much worse

"...Please just get me out of here."

Your small plea came after a tense silence, in which Floyd was reading your expression with an almost uninterested look

But he still hoisted you over his shoulder without any hesitation, much to your embarassment

"Floyd...! Not like this, put me down!"

"Eh~? You're so hard to please, little discus!"

Floyd did not put you down, of course

It was causing a bit of a scene, so you decided that, in the end, you'll take whatever got you to your dorm room the fastest

"Alright, fine...! Just get me to my dorm then!"

"Boooring! Why can't we go somewhere more fun?"

Floyd complained while going in the direction of your dorm

"Because I'm not in the mood for fun, Floyd! I..."

Your cheeks turned red, realising you almost revealed something too personal

To your surprise, Floyd didn't point it out; he just pouted as he walked towards your dorm

You reached your dorm room soon thanks to Floyd's long legs, and you were able to change into fresh clothes, easing your anxiety and making you feel like crying from relief

Until you realised Floyd was still in your room, even after you told him you'd be having no fun together today

He looked you up and down, his face betraying his confusion

"Now can you tell me why you were smelling like blood? Did anyone do something? Do I get to deliver a revenge plan and squeeze some aquarium fish?"

Floyd's almost sadistic delivery did not phase you at all, and all you were thinking was that of course Floyd noticed

You had no other option but to explain

"I just... got a blood stain from my, uh... my period..."

Silence.

"...What do classes have to do with that?"

Your eyes widened as you came to a horrifying conclusion: Floyd couldn't know what period were, because he was a merman

You saw your short life flash before your eyes in horror at the prospect of having to explain periods to a teenager... when Floyd just burst into laughter

"Oh, you actually believe that! You are so funny!"

Much to your relief, Floyd's confusion was just a prank; he figured you had your period before you even said anything

He revealed that he took classes about humans, their customs and anatomy when he first decided to come on land

And he also dodged the pillows you threw at him with practiced ease

It was the last time you even talked about it: neither of you brough it up again, and you didn't know how to feel about it

On one hand, you were relieved, but on the other hand, you expected Floyd of all people to ask questions and be all annoying about it

But Floyd didn't really care about things like that

In fact, he found your periods hilarious: your mood swins in particular were funny, and he almost enjoyed making things that you could digest

And he would never admit it, but he felt proud when you seemed to feel a bit better after he helped you during your period

『••✎••』

Every once in a while, you found yourself being enveloped in a hug from behind from the old bat

He would either hand you a piece of homemade chocolate by him or some cute trinket he thought sould cheer you up

Lilia was a very cute individual, and he was surprisingly affectionate for someone who was definitely a teenager and not a retired war veteran attending highschool, so you never questioned it

...until you found Lilia wrapping his jacket around your torso gingerly from behind

"...There we go. Not too tight?"

His cute, softer voice vibrated through your back as he still was glued to you

"It's... not, but why did you..."

"Oh, haven't you heard? Jackets wrapped around waists are the latest fad! It's cool and chic!"

You didn't argue with him on it, especially after you tried to untie the jacket from your waist and were blocked by Lilia, who was still holding you from behind

The proximity was getting to you, and you felt your cheeks flushing, your knees growing a bit weak, your stomach doing flips-

Wait, no. That wasn't butterflies in your stomach, that was a sharp pain from... lower

As you put two and two together, Lilia started walking you down the hallway into a secluded classroom, his hand around your waist and making you two look as casual and unassuming as always

The moment Lilia closed the door of the abandoned classroom, you his your face in your hands from embarassment

"Oh, my god... This can't be happening to me..."

The tone in your voice betrayed how mortified you felt, but was glad that you had this realisation away from prying eyes

You didn't even realise the leak, since you were already using products, and it already felt like you leaked blood all the time...

Lilia only chucked at your realisation

"Khee hee... Someone was a bit caught off guard today, huh?"

Your pathetic whimper was the only answer Lilia received, and his eyes sparkled with mirth

He still brought out his magical pen and waved it gently in the air, muttering something under his breath

"Take that jacket off and turn around for me?"

You did as he instructed, but only because you felt more... dry, all of a sudden

Lilia hummed in delight as he saw the spot being gone, his spell working

"Good. No more damning evidence... Now all you gotta do is go on your merry way."

You sighed in relief and slipped onto an empty chair, letting the small rollercoaster of emotions settle down within you

Lilia was nothing short of a lifesaver, and he handled the situation with so much grace that it left you speechless

When you asked about it, he just laughed

"I'm no stranger to blood."

That was all he said... Not ominous at all /s

Still, you were very grateful at the way Lilia handled everything

Since then, he started being even more doting on you whenever you were in your period

He was almost... motherly in a way

And for some reason, the idea of Lilia as a parental figure didn't seem too far fetched...

He always was on the lookout for any other accidents and even tried talking you into trying the reusable alternatives for your products

What surprised no one was when he became even more eager to supplement you with nutritional food whenever you were low on energy

And so much more disappointed when your nausea made his food somehow even worse to be around

『••✎••』

[papayainsectorone]

Emotional Support Stranger

summary: stranded in a late-night airport hellscape with a dying phone and a delayed flight, you are one sarcastic comment away from a breakdown—until an unexpected laugh from the guy in front of her sparks an unlikely connection.

content: no real warnings

airport purgatory vibes™, emotional damage via sleep deprivation, crying in public (but make it sexy?), strangers-to-deliriously-flirty-to-???, phone battery anxiety, surprise first class reveal??, “wait... are you famous?” energy, terminal-based emotional intimacy, light angst, one shared headphone

word count: 3.3k

pairing: franco colapinto x fem!reader

You're standing in line at the rebooking desk, the strap of your carry-on digging into your shoulder like it’s punishing you for booking with this airline in the first place. Your phone's at 7%. Your charger is buried under everything you packed for what was supposed to be a nice trip, now turned emotional survival exercise. 

The clerk ahead of you looks like she'd rather be anywhere else on Earth. 

You're trying not to cry. 

Really, you are. 

You keep chewing the inside of your cheek, eyes burning as the guy in front of you hands back your passport and ticket with the words: 

“Thanks. Have a nice flight.” 

It breaks you. Not all the way, not loudly—but enough that the sarcasm slips out before you can stop it. 

“Yeah, hope it crashes.” 

Silence for a second. Then a laugh—quick and startled. 

You glance up, tense, expecting judgment. 

Instead, he’s smiling. 

And not in a mocking way. It’s this crooked little grin like he wasn’t expecting to laugh today, but you just made him. 

He’s... hot. You notice that, but not first. First, you notice how real he seems in a sea of people who are all pretending not to lose it. His hoodie’s a little wrinkled. His curls are a mess. He has dark circles under his eyes like you do. He’s leaning on the handle of his suitcase like he’s been here a while too. 

“Bit dark,” he says, voice light but low. 

You exhale—half a laugh, half frustration. “I’ve been in this line for hours, my flight’s delayed indefinitely, and the dude behind the other counter just told the guy two people ahead that the next flight out might be tomorrow.” 

You tilt your head toward the heavens—well, toward the buzzing lights—and add, “So, yeah. I'm in a bit of a mood.” 

“Fair.” He nudges your arm gently with his elbow. “You looked like you were about to leap over the desk. I was rooting for you.” 

Your laugh this time is more genuine, and your posture shifts just a little relieved not to feel entirely alone in your disaster. 

“Where are you headed?” he asks. 

You sigh. “San Fernando International. Supposed to be working.” 

He raises an eyebrow, then deadpans, “Maybe this is fate.” 

You scoff. “Or just hell with extra layovers.” 

That earns a grin. “That too.” 

You’re finally done with the rebooking desk. 

They couldn’t get you on another flight. Couldn’t even guarantee the one you’re already booked on will go at some point. They handed you a sorry-looking meal voucher like it was a prize for surviving airport purgatory. 

You spot him a few rows down—hood up now, slouched in one of those hard plastic seats by the gate, his suitcase serving as a footrest.

Without thinking much about it, you walk over and drop yourself into the seat beside him. 

It’s not graceful. More like a slow collapse. 

You lean your head back against the metal wall behind you, closing your eyes. 

“Bad news?” he asks quietly. 

You nod. “Worse. No news.” 

He exhales a laugh, not because it’s funny but because everything feels like a cosmic joke now. 

You crack your eyes open and glance at him sideways. “What time is it?” 

He checks his watch. “2:57.” 

“AM,” you clarify. 

“Yep.” 

You groan and rub your face. Your phone’s been dead for an hour, and the outlet near your seat refuses to cooperate, blinking out the second you plug in your charger. 

You try it again anyway, just in case the universe suddenly decided to cut you some slack. 

Nope. Still dead. 

He chuckles. 

You look at him. “Are you at least entertained? Or is your Spotify saving your life?” 

He holds up one earbud. “A bit of both.” 

You raise an eyebrow. 

He hesitates... and then offers the other bud. 

You blink. “Seriously?” 

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Better than both of us being miserable.” 

You take it. 

The bud is warm from his ear and weirdly, you don’t mind. There’s something oddly intimate about it, like sharing a hoodie or a private joke. 

The music is something soft. Guitar, a little lo-fi beat under it. 

“Okay,” you say, settling back, letting your arm rest between you, not quite touching his. “I expected, like... EDM.” 

He huffs. “And you seem like the type to listen to... what? Heartbreak ballads in a coffee shop?” 

You smile. “Only sometimes.” 

The next track fades in. You don’t know it, but it fits. Everything slows a little. 

You're both still for a while, music filling the space between you. 

Then, he clears his throat, quiet. “You know... I can deal with it if you need to rant. About the flight. Or the apocalypse-level service desk. Or life in general.” 

You laugh softly, your head turning toward him. “Are you offering yourself up as an emotional support stranger?” 

He grins. “Pretty much, yeah.” 

You let out a breath. “Okay. Here goes.” 

And once you start, you don’t stop. 

About the mess at the gate. The rude lady who snapped at you like your very presence was an inconvenience. About your power bank dying. About the overpriced water bottle. About how the vending machine ate your last coin and gave you nothing. 

You don’t think he’d laugh so hard at that, but he does genuinely, hand-over-mouth, eyes-creasing laugh. 

When you finally sigh again and slump further into your seat, he says, “Feel better?” 

You nod. “Weirdly, yeah.” 

He glances over, soft smile still lingering. “So… what work got you flying at ungodly hours?” 

You huff, eyes flicking up to the departure board like it might remind you where you’re even going. “Conference. I’m in engineering.” 

His brows raise. “Oh, cool. What kind?” 

That’s all it takes. 

You don’t even realize how fast your words come, about structures and materials and that one project you’re working on that somehow turned into your entire personality for the past three months. You don’t even register how animated you are, hands gesturing slightly, voice picking up momentum like a train rounding a bend. 

You don’t notice, because he never interrupts. Never glances away. Just watches you with this sort of quiet focus that makes it feel like everything you're saying matters. 

You only pause when your throat goes dry and you realize you're smiling a little too hard. 

“Oh my god. I’ve been talking for, like—what? Ten minutes straight?” 

He laughs softly. “More like fifteen.” 

Your face flushes. “Why didn’t you stop me?” 

He leans his head against the metal wall, smiling crookedly. “Didn’t want to. You look happy when you talk about it.” 

That stops you. In a gentle way. 

He shrugs like he didn’t just knock the breath out of you a little. “I like people who light up.” 

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just smile and nudge his shoulder with yours. 

And then—quietly—you say, “What about you? Why’re you flying?” 

His mouth quirks a bit. “Work too.” 

“What kind?” 

He hesitates, eyes flicking away for the first time. “It’s a bit... niche.” 

You nod, not pressing. There’s a flicker of something behind his expression—not embarrassment exactly, just a desire to stay in this moment where things feel easy, where no names or titles are needed. 

So you don’t push. You just smile gently and shift the topic. 

The conversation meanders from there. One of you asks something small, and the other answers. Then it flips. Back and forth, for what feels like hours—but the good kind, the fast kind. You talk about favorite snacks, worst travel experiences, weirdest dreams. The kind of things only a half-lit terminal at 5 a.m. makes feel profound. 

Then it drifts again into music, and eventually, quiet. 

His playlist becomes the soundtrack to your shared waiting. 

You hadn’t noticed when your eyes slipped closed, but you must have drifted. The warmth from his side, the quiet static of airport announcements, the fading adrenaline of frustration—it all lulled you under. 

You don’t notice when he gets up. 

You don’t stir when he approaches the gate desk with a soft-voiced question and a charm that’s more polite than pushy. You don’t catch the way he angles your boarding pass across the counter with just enough casual confidence to make it all seem easy. 

When he comes back, there’s something in his step—a quiet buzz of victory. But he says nothing. 

He just sits again.��

And the subtle motion—the shift of weight next to you—is enough to nudge your head, gently, down onto his shoulder. 

His breath catches a little. 

Not enough to wake you. 

Then, gently, he tips his head—just enough for his cheek to graze your hair. 

He lets it stay there, barely touching, like any more might wake you. And maybe he wants to let you sleep a little longer. Maybe he wants to stay like this a little longer too. 

But the intercom crackles overhead, sharp and abrupt in the hush of the terminal. 

Flight 227 to San Fernando International now boarding. 

You shift beside him, blinking awake, your hand rubbing over your face as you sit up a little too fast. “Shit,” you mumble. “Did I—was I drooling on you?” 

He smiles, still a little sleep-warm. “Just a little. Adds to the charm.” 

You groan softly, dragging your hoodie sleeve over your mouth, cheeks burning. “God, kill me.” 

But he just chuckles and stands, brushing the wrinkles from his jeans. “Come on. Looks like our ride’s here.” 

Your boarding pass is wrinkled in your hand, thumb dragging over your seat number again and again, a nervous tic you don’t even realize you're doing. The gate agent takes it with a pleasant smile, scanning it with a soft beep. Then her eyes flicker to the screen, and she pauses. 

“Oh, Miss,” she says, reaching for a pen. “Looks like you’ve been upgraded.” She scribbles something quickly over your seat number before handing it back, like it’s routine. 

You blink. “I’ve been what?” 

But she’s already turning to the next passenger, smiling as if it’s nothing. And maybe it is. But your brain—still fogged from sleep and that strange, dreamy layover haze—doesn’t quite catch up. 

You go with it. What else is there to do? 

The jet bridge feels colder than you expected, your hoodie not quite enough against the sting of early morning air. You wrap your arms around yourself as the line creeps forward, every step oddly slow and too quiet. You rub the sleep from your eyes, phone clutched in your other hand, still dead. Everything feels like a dream—like you’re watching your own life through a half-fogged window. 

Then, as you step into the cabin, the flight attendant greets you with that practiced, polished smile. “Welcome aboard,” she says, checking your pass once more. “You’re to the left.” 

Left. 

You hesitate at the threshold, feet sticking to the floor like you missed a cue. “Sorry,” you ask, brow furrowed. “This is… first class?” 

The attendant nods without blinking. “Yes. Welcome aboard. You’re in 1A.” 

She gestures with an open palm like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and somehow your body moves before your brain can catch up. 

You walk in slow steps, the plush carpet soft beneath your feet, the lighting warm, impossibly golden. It smells like leather and something faintly floral. You pass other passengers already settled in—pressed shirts, neat hair, a man sipping champagne at 7 a.m. like it’s juice. 

And then you see it. Your seat. Spacious. Sleek. With a blanket folded neatly across it and a glass already waiting on a tray beside it, bubbles rising in perfect spirals. 

You’re still staring at it when he appears beside you. 

“Would you look at that?” he says, voice low and amused as he slides into the seat right next to yours. 

You stare at him. “This is first class.” 

He shrugs like he doesn’t quite know what you’re talking about, dropping into the seat beside you with casual ease. “Huh. That’s wild.” 

You scoff, sipping the champagne that’s already making your head feel a little floaty. You study him from the corner of your eye. “You didn’t… do something, did you?” 

He raises a brow, feigning offense. “Like what?” 

“I don’t know. Pull some secret-string or bribe someone with your—” You gesture vaguely at his whole face. “—unfair cheekbones or something.” 

He lets out a quiet laugh, reclines his seat just a bit, and fastens his belt like he’s done this a thousand times. “I think you might be overestimating the power of my cheekbones.” 

You turn more fully toward him, champagne resting lightly in your lap. “So this is just a cosmic coincidence? We both got upgraded to first class?” 

His mouth twitches. “Maybe the universe owed us something after a seven-hour gate delay.” 

You exhale a soft laugh, but there’s still something curling suspiciously warm in your chest. Gratitude. Disbelief. And something quieter. Something that makes you want to lean into the seat beside him and pretend you’ve always flown like this. 

As the cabin doors close and the safety video begins, you find yourself watching him instead of the screen. His eyes track the window lazily, fingers idly brushing the armrest, his whole posture relaxed in that way people are only when they’re somewhere familiar. You’re starting to realize he fits here. 

You don’t. But next to him, maybe it doesn’t matter. 

And when the plane begins to taxi, the low rumble beneath your feet swelling with momentum, you grip the armrest hard—knuckles whitening, body stiffening without meaning to. Your breath stalls somewhere in your throat, chest locked tight like the air’s already thinning. 

He notices. He doesn’t say anything at first—just watches the way your fingers curl against the leather, the way your shoulders tense like they’re bracing for impact. Then, quietly, without turning his head fully, he murmurs, “I don´t know if i have to ask… but are you nervous flying?” 

You glance at him, surprised by the gentleness in his voice. It’s not pitying or amused—just there, open and real. 

You nod, small and sheepish, biting the inside of your cheek. “I think even more so being in first class,” you admit, the words slipping out with a faint, breathy laugh. “Feels too high up. Like I don’t belong here. Like if we fall, it’s further to the ground.” 

That makes him chuckle, quiet and low in his chest, the sound warm and steadying. “That’s a first,” he says, and then—without even looking down—he reaches over and takes your hand. 

It’s not a showy gesture. It’s easy. Effortless. Like he’s done it a thousand times. Like it just makes sense. His fingers curl over yours, firm but not tight, thumb brushing softly against your knuckles. 

His eyes stay on the cabin wall ahead of him, but his voice drops just a bit more, close and sure. “It’ll be alright.” 

And for some strange reason, you believe him. 

The plane lifts from the runway with a low, drawn-out hum that vibrates through the cabin. Your fingers tighten instinctively in his, but he doesn’t flinch or tease—just holds steady, anchoring you through the ascent. His thumb keeps moving in slow, absent circles against your skin. It’s quiet up here—strangely soft, like the world below has muffled itself entirely. 

After a few minutes, your grip relaxes, breath coming easier. He shifts slightly in his seat, his body angled toward yours, and for a while you both just sit there in the low hum of first class silence, warm hand in warm hand. 

“You alright now?” he murmurs eventually, voice dipped low with fatigue. 

You nod, turning your face toward him on the plush headrest. “Yeah. You’re—really good at that, actually. The whole handholding thing.” 

A crooked grin tugs at his lips. “Thanks. I charge per flight.” 

You smile sleepily, eyes heavy. “Put it on my tab.” 

A pause drapes between you. Not awkward—just easy. Shared. You both sink deeper into it, exhaustion softening your edges. Your legs stretch out a bit under the blanket the flight attendant tucked over you earlier. He shifts too, letting his head lean lightly against the headrest. 

You both speak again at the same time. 

“What do you do—” 

“Do you always fly nervous—” 

You both laugh, just a soft puff of air and amusement in the dim light. 

“Go ahead,” he says. 

You shake your head. “No, you.” 

He lets his eyes drift toward the window, a soft shrug rolling through his shoulder. “I was just gonna say… you look like you don’t sleep much.” 

That catches you off guard. Your brow creases slightly, but there’s no sting to his words. Just observation. Care, even. 

“Yeah,” you admit. “I guess I haven’t. Not really. Not in a while.” 

His gaze returns to you—warm, thoughtful. “You should.” 

You smile faintly. “So should you.” 

He smirks. “I will. Right here. Got everything I need.” 

The flight levels out and the lights dim further. One by one, the cabin falls into a hush of flickering screens and quiet breathing. His grip on your hand never slackens—not tight, just present, like a tether. 

Eventually, your eyes fall closed. 

His follow not long after. 

When the attendant comes by to check on passengers, she pauses—smiling faintly at the two of you, slouched toward each other, hands still clasped between the seats, asleep above the clouds. 

The plane’s descent is gentle, the soft hum of engines lowering as the city lights begin to twinkle beneath the clouds. Your hand still rests in his, fingers intertwined, and though you’re tired, the closeness keeps a quiet energy alive between you. You glance around the cabin, noticing how the few other passengers steal brief looks your way. Is it just the dim light, or do they seem to recognize him? You blink, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, but the feeling lingers—whispers, soft murmurs, and the faint clicking of a phone camera. 

When the wheels touch down with a smooth thud, he squeezes your hand lightly, a silent reassurance. As the plane taxis to the gate, you both stir, stretching out the sleep from your limbs. You gather your things slowly, the haze of tiredness still wrapped around you like a blanket. 

The moment you step into the terminal, the sensation of attention intensifies. People glance your way, some whispering just loud enough to catch your ear, others sneaking pictures when they think you’re not looking. You’re half-tempted to ask him if they know him, but he just smiles softly, not drawing attention. 

He steps in front of you, lifting your carry-on with an easy grace. “Let me,” he says, his voice low but steady. You nod, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and intrigue. 

By the baggage claim, the noise picks up. A young boy, no older than ten, approaches, tugging at his mother’s sleeve before gathering courage to step forward. “Can I have a picture?” His wide eyes shine with admiration. 

He chuckles, nodding. “Of course, mate.” He crouches down, smiling warmly as the boy’s parents snap a quick photo. 

You watch, puzzled but smiling at the easy way he handles it, the humility that doesn’t demand attention but quietly commands it. 

As you head toward the exit, the crowd grows thicker, flashes bursting like fireflies from outside. You spot several cameras aimed your way before you even reach the doors. He notices your widening eyes and murmurs, “Sorry.” 

Then, without breaking stride, he grabs your hand again, shoving a small, crumpled piece of paper into your palm. “Text me sometime, stranger.” 

You blink, heart skipping. “Wait—what’s your name?” 

He grins when looking back. “Franco.” 

With that, he steps outside, and the air bursts with a chorus of screams and the relentless staccato of cameras. 

You stand frozen, the crumpled paper warm in your hand, a small smile tugging at your lips as the noise fades behind you. 

[livwritessometimes]

I Have Not Given Up On Us Yet

: Part 16 (Max's Version)

: Who knew all Max needed to do was get drunk in order to get his life together

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…

It was almost 12 by the time Y/n had gotten the call, and by 12:05, she was on her way. The entire time, she kept thinking about how she almost didn't answer. What would have happened had she not?

By 12:30, she was in the station, standing awkwardly in front of the help desk, waiting for the officer in front of her to finish the phone call he was having. Looking around the station, she could feel her heart beating in her ears. There weren't many people there, just one other person waiting in the chair near the door.

"Hi, sorry for the delay. How can I help you?" said the officer. Snapping her attention back to the man, Y/n said, "umm...I got a call. I'm here to collect Max Verstappen." "Ahh you must be Y/n, right? Yes, just fill out this form and he's all yours. I'll send someone to get him," said the officer as he ushered someone to go get Max. "Umm, officer, is it okay if I ask why he was arrested?" Y/n said as she looked up from the forms. "He was drunk and got in an argument with the bartender. We detained him before things could escalate. He's lucky the bar didn't press any charges," said the officer as he excused himself to finish some work.

After filling the form, she handed the officer the paperwork. "Y/n!" Her head snapped in the direction of the voice. There stood Max, in a hoodie and jeans, looking sheepish, like a kid who got caught stealing candies before dinner. Once he confirmed it was her, he rushed towards her. "I can't believe you came!" Max said as he pulled her into a hug. Standing there stunned at this man's drunk antics, "Oh Max, you absolute idiot, of course I came," she said as she pushed him away and started to head for the door. She reached the door only to realize Max was not following her. "You coming or what?" She questioned. "Yesss, I gotta pee first," said Max as he made his way to the washroom. Y/n sighed at that and took a seat, waiting for Max to return. "Good look with that," said the officer she had interacted with before, walking away.

Max was quieter now. He had been since he returned from the washroom. He kept looking at Y/n and then looking away. It was fine for the first fifteen minutes, but now it was starting to annoy her. "If you wanna say something, just say it," she said before looking back ahead again. "Nothing, It's just, I- I feel so stupid," said Max as he rubbed his face, trying to sober up. Y/n looked at him, waiting for him to continue. "I didn't want you to find out about this because I thought you'd leave me," Max said before he stopped walking. She turned to face him as he continued, "But my dad, you know how he can be. He kept saying all this stuff. Like I'm not doing enough, I'm wasting my time. There are the years where I should 'Focus on my career' and I just-" Max took a deep breath as he looked up, struggling to find the right words. "I just, I thought maybe he was right. So I thought ending this was the right thing to do but then you left, and it didn't feel right. All of a sudden, the house was empty, and I kept telling myself that it was fine, cause I'm supposed to focus on my future, right? But it's not. I don't think it ever will be," said Max as he finally looked at Y/n.

She stood there, taking in everything he had to say. "Do you hate me?" Max asked. By now, his eyes were slightly red. "Cause it's okay if you do. I am used to messing everything up," he finished. Taking his face in her hands, Y/n said, "You didn't mess everything up." "When I realized how late I was, I had rushed to get back home. I was so scared that I was gonna upset you even more, and then I saw what you did and it made me feel so guilty. I thought to myself, maybe you are better off without me. Girls like you don't deserve guys like me," Max said as a tear rolled down his eye.

They stood there for a while, looking at each other, unsure of what to do next. Both had said things that hurt the other, and this was not something they could just forget and be done with. Slowly, Y/n let go of his face and grabbed his hand, pulling him in the direction of their apartment. "I'm not promising anything," Y/n said, looking at Max. "But I have not given up on us yet," she continued as they made their way home.

…

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[kugikizuchi]

"The doctor and his devoted assistant."♡

Warnings: I decided to make it so that the character in our story is not the main character in the game, two different personalities. Our character is a girl. This is done for convenience. Yandere. Partial Stockholm syndrome. Obscenity towards a young female employee. Sexual pressure. Slight compulsion. Excitement games. A vibrator. A weak current through the body. Binding. The girl's submission to the doctor. Murder and brutality. The orange text is Harley's words, the pink text is your words. English is not my native language, I'm sorry for any mistakes!

Volume : 8,2k. Sorry, I overdid it.

Have fun reading! 🐉

"Everything has to be perfect" - these were the words that were on your mind when you laid out Dr. Sawyer's supplies on the table, finally receiving the position of assistant to such an honorable person in the company. In your eyes, he was the epitome of rigor and perfection. His calm and tired voice could overshadow any fears that you might not be hired for this service, but also make you wake up and jump from his harsh cold tone and rare shouts at employees who did not satisfy his desires.

But you tried so hard to become the perfect employee by literally learning the doctor's daily routine. You were willing to do anything to stay in such a prestigious position at a toy manufacturing company. And unfortunately, Harley Sawyer knew about your fanaticism to prove to your family that you are an independent person.

The first few days were hard. It's even too hard.. Your legs are shaking from constantly wearing heels and running around the floors, but I would like to deliver certain reports to different employees. It annoyed you deep down that you looked like a dog on wheels even to yourself, forced to run back and forth just to earn the impossible trust from the owner. But despite the Doctor's indifferent gaze and the sometimes sarcastic smiles of other employees, you just smiled, brushing off all the problems.

What a pity you didn't see how Sawyer liked that you could barely walk on your already aching legs. It might have given him the motivation to finally give you a reward, but he was giving himself the opportunity to delay the moment to the peak of its accomplishment.

And unfortunately or fortunately, the "Peak Height" was reached after almost half a year of your working shift with this young man. You're tired of being the secretary who was always described in jokes and anecdotes as the boss's girlfriend, who was ready to do anything for his pleasure, descending even into the very niche of debauchery. The way you tried to talk to Harley at first, always saying respectfully, "Dr. Sawyer, please, could we talk a little bit about my work shift and my responsibilities?" You always got a calculating look from under the glasses of the man who filled out the next document for you and his slight manic smile that made you twitch a little. "No, Assistant, I don't have time for idle conversations right now if they have nothing to do with the idea of improving the company. And judging by your words and body gestures, you clearly don't want to talk about the happiness of the company, so please take this document and don't try to disappear for more than 10 minutes. It's just another building. You'll get there fast. "he said it over and over again, while you were biting your tongue in your mouth, so as not to spit out the poison. He never even addressed you by your first name, although it was always written on the badge like all employees, but he took it for a special occasion.

And now your patience was over, you were ready to start swearing if you even needed to turn on your artistry, because it's not just your boss who can pretend to be a second person. But as soon as you crossed the threshold of his office, closing the door behind you, the man seemed to be already ready for this meeting and, without looking up, ordered you to close the door in his usual empty manner. You did so, as if out of habit, which was reflected on the doctor's lips with a smile and a relaxed look, to which you flinched slightly, not knowing how you spoiled him with your obedience. As soon as you got closer to the main figure in this room, your body was pressed against the table, your hips were painfully pressed against the table, and your hands were twisted behind your back, while the second man's hand covered your mouth, preventing you from uttering a whisper or a cry of pleading for help, judging by your frightened darting eyes, while you were trapped between the table and the tall figure. "Don't shout or deny it, the more resistance you put up, the more brute force I'll have to use on you, Assistant. " he was talking and you couldn't understand - your legs were shaking so much from fear because of the current situation or from the discharge of excitement, being in such a precarious position that it was not clear whether you would really quit tomorrow, or remain an obedient assistant.. Unfortunately, you both knew the answer from his calm smile and your heavy breathing when the dialogue began, although no one let you out of the man's strange embrace.

And now you have achieved your goal. Isn't that right? Now you didn't have to run around the floors, rub your feet to the knees and whine to your friends about the idiot boss. No, you didn't even have to wear heels now, because they would only get in the way while you were sitting on the elder's hip, watching his well-honed hand movements with a listless look as he drew another monst- ...toy for children. The silhouette of a huge purple-colored cat loomed while you read its name, sometimes disinterestedly swinging its legs dangling from the edge of the chair. Your hips, waist, and hair suffered the most. When someone infuriated the doctor by bringing him to a white knee, you could only stifle a groan, which the elder never liked, while his hands squeezed your hips, moving to your waist and hugging tightly, as if the child did not want to let go of his favorite plush toy at night, which could ensure his safety in the dark. The most unexpected thing was when the sadist's elegant hands found their way to your chest, squeezing it, and someone else's lips stopped right in front of your ear, red with embarrassment and shame." What do you think is worse for those employees who can't even complete their assignments properly, like being fired or getting a lot of work, much more than usual? " he asked you, massaging your chest through the fabric of your shirt, forbidding you to wear any additional fabric in his office in the form of a jacket, vest or dressing gown, " I think it would be better for them to do more work than usual" you say, swallowing, having already learned that your words could often acquire weight and leave employees with torn nerves and a nervous breakdown, or, which was rare, because the company needed employees, to throw out completely poorly working people from the company.

But the worst part, as you convinced yourself, even though you were grinning nervously alone, was remembering the events that happened to you when you unknowingly flirted with some of the staff, leaving Dr. Harley in a bad mood. What can you say? He was furious. You could get used to the compressions that left bruises on your body later. But you couldn't get used to the man's jealousy when you re-entered his office, kicking off your heels and closing the door, as per the usual ritual. You wouldn't have entered this room knowing what was waiting for you. In less than 15 minutes, you were standing on trembling legs, leaning your torso on the table, not completely, but only with your waist and arms, whimpering and slightly swaying your hips from how pleasantly and painfully the elastic and smooth head of the vibrator slid, caressing your femininity, and the body of your boss pressed close did not give you a chance to move. And all I can do is choke on moans and sobs. Sometimes getting slapped on the hips, you twitched, whining, but rather from how at such moments it was pleasant and humiliating for a toy to torment your clitoris, pressing against your labia, but focusing on a lump of nerves, bringing you to tears and removing the vibrating object from your body again when you had a little bit left before climax, and your natural lubricant was already flowing down your legs, staining the floor. "Repeat what a good assistant should do and how he should treat his boss, even if he is not in charge of the company, but in charge of a subordinate" the man whispered threateningly in your ear, hearing with sadistic pleasure your hoarse apologies for allegedly cheating, which you did not allow, but in the perverted mind of the elder, you could do anything wrong, just to untie his hands and give him a reason to torment you and bring you to the edge of ecstasy. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Dr. Sawyer" you apologized in a trembling voice, moaning, rolling your eyes with treacherous pleasure when men's hands squeeze your bare breasts thanks to your removed shirt and bra, which makes you bite your tongue, which you shouldn't have talked much to other people, while your knees are weak from rough play with your nipples. "Please forgive my assistant, I will never again pay so much attention to those who do not deserve anything, but I will give all my attention only to the genius of science and surgery, you, Harley Sawyer" you begged with a hoarse voice, pleasing his ego, rolling your eyes when the toy returned to your clitoris. get the long-awaited orgasm, but the doctor's silence never ended such evenings of punishment and obedience. You could only lie down on the table with your chest, trying to catch your breath, and with excitement and horror you could hear the sound of your fly being unfastened and the almost lightning-fast pressing of the elder's erection with a languid sigh, which meant that for you it was not at all the end of re-education.

"You got what you wanted. You're not overworking anymore" the man said carelessly, holding you in his arms, while Rob ran a pencil over a piece of paper, drawing out different poses for an entity called "Yarnaby." "Yes, it's true and I'm grateful to you for that, but maybe you'll still give me at least a little contact with the staff, I spend time with you from morning until late at night" you timidly answer, looking away and not daring to get up from someone else's lap while his head rests on your shoulder. your shoulder, and your back is pressed against his chest. You hold your breath, hearing that grin right in your ear again, "Is there something you don't like, Y/N? You really wanted to avoid running around platforms and seeing the smirks of some employees. I'm just fulfilling your wish. "he was saying, which made your toes feel a little tight, because even though he fulfilled your wish, he did it in such a sophisticated way and turned everything around to his advantage, as always. Once again, you were left without the opportunity to argue your answer, sighing and continuing to rest in strangely caring and proper hands. You could only bite your cheek and reflect that both you and the young man know about your situation with trying to appear as a higher person in other people's eyes and that Harley would use this against you every time you had at least one thought about leaving him. Only sometimes, glancing at the notes on different sheets left at some time to the owners of this office, you are distracted from dark thoughts. And an intriguing question for you was - who is Riley and why do I need to check her every day on.. bouts of aggression?

You were distraught when you were fired from your job right after Sawyer went missing. You couldn't answer what hurt you more, the fact that he ran away, the fact that you were fired because of him or because of his possible report on you, because if he's not in the workplace, then you shouldn't be either. At least that's what he kept saying when he dragged her into his bed, arguing that if he had a day off, so did you. And it means that you will limp again later in the evening from making love to him. But now. You were broken and confused, returning to the apartment, which was now so lonely without yours.. A lover? You didn't even know what kind of relationship you were in with him before he disappeared. That's all you could say for sure. You've become more attached to him than you planned, wanted, or could have been.. It scared you and made you cry without the affection of your beloved doctor. And his sometimes persistent kisses.

But here. After almost a few years, returning to the factory with your employee, having overcome so many dangers and living creatures that you saw only with children and only with smiles, thinking that they were harmless. You could only realize with horror that all this was an illusion, and judging by the tapes that you listened to with bated breath with your colleague, each of the experiments suffered. And you suffered the same way because of your former boss Sawyer, which made your heart sink into your heels and you were ready to collapse on the floor, not realizing that you had always been so close to a real monster.

And now. While you heard your friend running away from the mechanical bodies, you only screamed faintly into the fabric of your skirt, which was torn off at your bottom and covered your mouth from the way the wires bound your body, tightening the same on your miniature figure, clasping your hands behind your back again, while other bare wires slid over your though and a body covered with clothes, but still sensitive to weak electric shocks. And these blows were imitation kisses, while you stared wide-eyed at the humanoid creature standing above you, not allowing you to move or get up from the table on which you were sitting like a prisoner. Just the way he likes it... You just stared with horror in your eyes at the TV, which displayed a single eye that described all your features and the fact that you had hardly changed in any way over the years. His mechanical hand rests on your chin and with deliberate tenderness presses on it, forcing you to swallow out of habit from the learned signal sign - to be closer to the boss, which you do, leaning towards the figure, not even giving yourself an account of the actions, but only mechanically doing the work itself. "I've been waiting for you for so long, my beloved assistant. You've missed and missed me too much, Y/N, but don't worry. I won't leave you alone anymore. Never. "

[sylusxyou]

Hey God, it's me again /ref

Sylus with a reader that has family related trauma. More specifically trauma stemming from an abusive father and due to this they have a lot of trauma responses. Flinching at sudden movements, cowering and hiding when breaking something, frantically apologizing for every little mistake, crying very easily, the whole nine yards. And like these responses come way before Sylus even knows the story behind them

oh my lord... i'm so sorry this has taken me a while. i had no inspiration to write this week, but it finally hit me today. i'm realizing i struggle with requests a bit because once my brain gets started in a direction it's nearly impossible for me to veer it anywhere else... with that said, it may not be exactly what you were looking for but i hope it's close and that you enjoy! content warning: mentions of physical abuse (slapping/hitting), angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, non-mc!reader word count: 2.8k divider credit: @uzmacchiato

Memories of shattered glass, shouting that rumbled through your body, and stinging redness across your cheek flooded your mind. You looked down at pieces of a vase that you assumed was worth more than you’d make in the next 5 years combined. Maybe longer.

As a kid you had learned to reign in your clumsiness. You were always aware of your surroundings and you honed your reflexes to catch or swerve when the inevitable happened. Surely as an adult you should be able to avoid situations like this altogether. You had let your guard down though. You were careless. 

Sylus had invited you over for dinner. When you arrived, he was wrapping up a meeting in his office. Kieran and Luke had instructed you to wait for him in the living room. Luckily, you brought a book with you everywhere you went. Legs a little restless from the drive over, you decided to take a few laps around the living room while you dove into the next chapter. 

You weren’t paying attention and now you were frozen in place, eyes unable to move away from the damage you had done. How were you going to explain this to Sylus? ‘I’m sorry, I was walking around with my nose in a book an ran into the side table.’ What a pathetic excuse. You momentarily considered running off, driving back home, before you had to face him. That was out of the question though. He knew where you lived and surely wouldn’t let you off that easily. You’d have to face the music eventually. 

In the distance you heard the sound of a door opening and closing. Footsteps moved your way and you immediately recognized them. Sylus was coming. Anticipatory tears began to form in your eyes. You stayed in place, refusing to face him as you felt him enter the living room behind you. 

“Is everything okay, kitten? I thought I heard a crash.” His tone of concern only made your tears well up more. He thought you were hurt. The minute he saw what you did, that concern would be replaced with anger, maybe even rage. You were certain of it. 

Your voice was barely a whisper as you replied, “I’m so sorry.” 

“Sorry?” Sylus began walking towards you. “What are you sorry for?” 

He came to stand behind you, his chest not quite touching your back, but close enough that you could feel the heat of his body. Over your shoulder he peered down to the ground, the destruction glaring back at him. 

There was silence between you as Sylus grabbed your shoulders and began to turn you towards him. You wanted to resist, close your eyes shut, hang your head, whatever it took to avoid looking him in the eyes. To delay what you believed was inevitable. It was no use though. You knew it would be better to just accept whatever punishment was about to be bestowed upon you. 

That’s not right. When your eyes fell on his face there was a soft smile. Not the kind he wore when he was playing with his prey. This was the kind he gave you every day when he held your hand or brushed your hair behind your ear. It should have been darker. He should be upset. Maybe he’s lulling me into a false sense of security…

Sylus looked at the small tears falling from your eyes. He slowly reached out his hand to cup your face and brush one of the water droplets from your cheek with his thumb. “Now why are you crying over a broken vase?” 

“That vase probably cost more than my annual salary!” You gasped. 

He chuckled, “Oh, it absolutely did.” 

You looked at him like he was crazy which only made him laugh more. He pulled you into his arms, one hand wrapped around your waist and the other cradling your head. “I don’t care about some vase. Things are replaceable and replacing it wouldn’t even make a dent in my wallet.” 

Sylus pulled back to look into your eyes. “I was worried you had hurt yourself. You didn’t get cut by the glass, did you?” 

His eyes scanned your body as you shook your head. “No, I just wasn’t paying attention and ran into the table.” 

“That’s good.” He placed a soft kiss on your forehead. “Sweetie, you could burn down this entire place. As long as you emerged from the ashes unscathed, I’d consider nothing lost.”

Warmth rushed through your body. You felt your heart pounding in your chest. This was completely bizarre. You wanted to smile and laugh at the ridiculousness of what he said, to bathe in the words that he used to tell you he loved you without quite saying it. But you couldn’t. This reaction was so far from what you had experienced in the past. It was hard to believe someone could respond to broken property with anything but anger. You couldn’t shake your shock. 

Sylus furrowed his eyebrows as he searched your blank face. “What’s wrong, kitten? Are you sure you didn’t get hurt?” 

You shook your head. “No, I’m okay. I just expected you to be angry.” 

He smiled and leaned down to press a soft kiss on your lips. “I find it very difficult to be angry with you.” 

This made you smile, finally feeling like you could breathe a little. 

Sylus gently squeezed your shoulders and began to moved back. “I need to go finish this meeting but I’ll be out soon and we’ll have dinner. I’ll send Luke and Kieran to come clean this up. Don’t touch anything. I don’t want you getting cut.” 

You nodded and watched him walk out of the room. As you sat down to wait for Luke and Kieran your mind drifted back to the look in Sylus’ eyes. Hardly ever had you been met with such gentleness in your childhood. Years of being attacked and hurt over the smallest mistakes had made your walls impossibly high. The way Sylus treated you made you wonder if it was time to start knocking them down a few layers. 

Some days later you found yourself in Sylus’ kitchen locked in a staring match, stillness between you as hardly mixed batter dripped from his face down to his clothes.

You had been eager to bake him the new chocolate chip cookie recipe you found. He had insisted on helping you. It was his kitchen after all and you were powerless to resist him. You hadn’t wanted to anyway. There was a certain domesticity to baking cookies together that made your heart flutter. If only the shady criminals he did business with could see him like this. 

Sylus’ kitchen was stocked to the brim the state of the art appliances. You had been so eager to try them out, especially the electric mixer. You had to make due with a hand mixer at your apartment, so when Sylus pulled out his fancy mixer you actually squealed. 

After dumping all of the ingredients into the metal bowl you excitedly went to turn on the mixer. However, in your excitement you had failed to realize the difference between your hand mixer back home and the appliance in front of you now. At home you had to use the highest setting from the get go. Here, that was the completely wrong move. 

Sylus wasn’t able to stop you before the contents of the bowl went flying everywhere. You quickly turned the mixer off and looked at him, mouth agape. Both of you had been hit but he had gotten it much worse. 

Everything had gone quiet. His mouth was drawn into a tight line and the only movement from his was the rapid blinking of his eyes trying to see through the mess on his face. 

You began to stutter, “Sylus, I-I’m so sorry! I w-wasn’t thinking. I got too-“

He cleared his throat to cut you off. One of his hands wiped across his face, smearing the not-quite-batter onto his fingers. Suddenly his hand moved towards your face to seek it’s revenge. You quickly turned your head to the side and squeezed your eyes shut. 

It was an involuntary reaction, one that made Sylus pause. There was something off about the way you flinched as you turned away. You were afraid and he noticed. 

You hadn’t really thought Sylus was going to hit you. In fact, you were becoming increasingly certain with each passing day that he would rather condemn himself to hell than cause you any pain. You couldn’t help it, though. Sudden movements, especially towards your face, had historically meant one thing for you. It was engrained into your brain. 

When the sting never came, you slowly opened your eyes. Your heart sank when you saw the look on Sylus’ face. 

“Kitten…” his voice was soft and broken, garnet eyes glassy. He knew. 

You gave a pitiful laugh, “Sorry, I overreacted.” The sad excuse for a smile on your lips did nothing to defuse the tension.

“Stop.” His voice was stern, but filled with empathy. He grabbed your hands and pulled you to the kitchen table where you both sat. 

Sylus’ hands squeezed yours like letting go would be the most painful thing in the world. “Will you tell me about it?” 

Avoiding eye contact, you sighed, “I’ve never really told anyone before.” The soft brush of his thumbs across your knuckles kept you grounded. 

Talking about it scared you. It would make it too real and you’d much rather pretend like it never happened. But as you sat with Sylus, the man who you were growing to love beyond what you ever thought possible, you wondered if you had any other choice. If you continued to avoid it, were you really allowing yourself to be fully loved? 

Sylus wanted to know everything about you. It was easy to talk about your taste in music or tell stories of times you’d embarrassed yourself at work. Talking about things like your father and how he abused you, that was much harder. 

As you focused on the feeling of his hands, though, your courage rose bit by bit. When you finally made yourself look Sylus in the eyes, your heart squeezed. The man in front of you continuously surprised you the more you got to know him. He was equal parts strong and soft, dangerous and safe, relentless and patient. He was a man who teared up at the mere thought of someone intentionally hurting you. 

Sylus wanted to love you with everything he could. You wanted to let him. It would be difficult, maybe even painful, to relive the past with him. But you knew at the end of it all he would hold you and show you what it meant to be truly loved. 

“It was my father,” you began, “though he wasn’t always that way. My mom died when I was six and he couldn’t handle the grief.” 

You laughed, though it was devoid of any real humor, “It’s a pretty cliche story to be honest. Dad was buried in grief and started drinking. It was a slow progression, just yelling or telling me I was bother. He didn’t hit me for the first time until I was seven.” 

Sylus scooted his chair closer to you, legs resting on either side of your own. His grip on your hands never loosened and the look in his eyes was a swirl of fury and devastation. 

“Keep going,” he urged. 

You took a deep breath and continued, “I was helping him with the dishes. It was my job to dry them. Of course everything he handed to me was dripping wet. It was inevitable, I guess, that something would slip from my grasp. I shattered a mug. It was one of my mom’s favorites which meant my dad used it almost every day.” 

Your hands were shaking now, but you willed yourself to finish, “I knew he would be mad. By then I was used to being yelled at. What I didn’t expect was for him to slap me across the face. He started apologizing immediately, hugging me while I cried. He promised he would never hit me again. That was a promise he was never able to keep, no matter how many times he made it.” 

Sylus pulled you up from your seat by your hands and sat you across his lap. One of his hands grasped your waist tightly as the other laid in your lap, continuing its soothing strokes across your knuckles. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry he ever laid his hands on you.” His voice cracked, the effort he was putting into not breaking down painfully obvious. 

You gently touched your forehead to his and smiled softly. “It’s nothing you need to be sorry for.  You have no fault in this.”

“Still, I-“ 

“It’s okay,” you reassured him as you pressed a finger into his lips, “it got better as I got older. Not because of anything he did. I was just able to learn what triggers to avoid, to get out of the house more, and he started to care less and less about where I was.”

Sylus shook his head. “I want to kill him.”

This made you laugh, “I’m afraid he beat you to it.” 

Sylus eyes widened and you let go of his hand to cup his cheek. “It wasn’t intentional. At least, the police didn’t think so. His drinking was out of control and by the time I was sixteen he had been heavy into drugs as well. I guess his carelessness caught up with him and what he mixed that day killed him.” 

Silence washed over the two of you again. For a few moments you just sat there together. The longer you stared into his eyes the harder it became to hold back the tears. You had tried to keep it light, to let the bitterness outweigh the hurt. But the way Sylus looked at you was disarming. He saw beyond the dark laughter and the emotionless retelling. He saw the pain that plagued you. 

He pulled you close and gently rocked you in his arms. Once the tears started it was difficult to make them stop. So you didn’t try. You let yourself come undone in the arms of the man you loved. Sylus didn’t ask anymore questions, didn’t urge you to continue speaking. He simply held you and whispered words of love and encouragement into your ear. 

‘It’s okay.’

‘I’ve got you.’

‘You’re safe with me.’

‘You’re so strong.’ 

It was hard to tell how much time had passed like this. Eventually the tears ran out and the air in the room felt less heavy. You pulled your face away from his chest, wiping the tears from your eyes. As you sniffled, you took a good look at Sylus’ face. A laugh began to rumble in your chest and, though you tried, you were unable to keep it from bursting from your mouth. 

Sylus look at you in surprise. “Did I miss something? What’s so funny?” 

“I’m sorry,” you giggled, “it’s just, I was so caught up in telling you my story and crying that I forgot.” You grabbed his face with both of your hands. “Your face is still a mess.” 

A wide grin spread across his face. “That’s right and I have you to blame, kitten. If I remember correctly I was just about to enact my revenge.” 

“Is that so?” 

“Mm, yes,” he hummed, “but before I get back to my plan, I need to clear something up.” Sylus leaned in so his face was inches from yours. 

His voice was barely a whisper as he asked, “You know I would never intentionally hurt you, right? Not emotionally and certainly not physically. I would rather die.” 

You gave him a quick peck on the lips and sighed, “I know that. I didn’t think you were actually going to hurt me. It was just an involuntary reaction.” 

“Good,” he replied, “we’ll work on that. But in the meantime…” 

His voice trailed off and the gentle, loving look in his eyes was replaced by something deeply mischievous. “You should run, kitten.”

As you and Sylus chased each other around his kitchen, cookie batter repurposed as a weapon, you felt a part of your heart begin to heal. It had been painful to relive the past, but you knew it was worth it. You were confident that before long, with time spent in Sylus’ warm and caring presence, you would stop expecting pain and start anticipating love.

[capuccinodoll]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I use the bathroom?"  

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

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

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

God, Santi would have loved it.  

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

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

You laughed softly to yourself.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.  

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

But you were Santi’s sister.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You rolled your eyes, nudging the box closer.

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

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

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

“You’re not gonna stay?”  

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

“Oh. You... you want me to stay?”  

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

“No, no—”  

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

“It’s not that—”  

“No, I totally understand—”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Francisco?”

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

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

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

“Knew about what?”  

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

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

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

“No.”  

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

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

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

“Yeah, um, grab two mugs.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a beat of silence.

“What?” he said eventually.

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

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

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

Then, from behind you, came his voice again. 

“Is something wrong?”

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

“No. No—why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head.

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t go through your drawers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mugs clinked together with a quiet thunk. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A true romantic. I totally believe you.”

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

So you asked.

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

The photo lit up the screen.

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

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

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

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

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

He lifted one shoulder like it didn’t matter.

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

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

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

“Me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he didn’t even notice.

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

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

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

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

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

He let out a disbelieving laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t, obviously. Why would you?

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

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

“What are you going to put on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Careful, Sherlock.”

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

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

“Told you,” he mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t say anything.”

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

“Forgotten?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

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

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

He shook his head, his gaze lowering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know what you mean but—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was staring at you now, unmoving.

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

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

“It is, actually.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, you sat there. Waiting.

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

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

“Do you like me?”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Don’t do that.” 

He frowned. “Do what?”

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

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

“Yeah.”

“Yes, what?”

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

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

“Just that.”

He gave a tired nod.

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

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

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

“You’ve got it wrong.”

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

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

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

“Not me,” he said.

It landed like a closing door.

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

“God, you’re so incredibly stubborn.”

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

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

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

“That’s not—”

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

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

“Try me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That much I’ve noticed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” 

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

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

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

Your heart beat louder in your ears.

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

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

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

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

“So—”

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

You leaned against the counter, arms folded.

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

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

“That’s not true, and you know it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alright.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised your head slowly, frowning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’d meant it when you said it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You did know that. But you said nothing.

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

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

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

You didn’t speak. So you waited.

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

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

“I did.”

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

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

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

And still, you couldn’t look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looked at you again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said.

He shook his head slowly. “It was.”

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

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

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

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

"You deserve to be cared for too."

After a moment, his eyes lifted to meet yours.

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

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

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

You exhaled, something like a laugh escaping with it.

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

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

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

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

His expression changed. Just slightly, but it did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, shit.”

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

“For now? That’s cruel.”

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

“So… why’d she go out with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god, you slept with her.”

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

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

He straightened, putting on a mock-defensive tone.

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

“How many times?”

“Um, I dunno. Three? Three, tops.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brow furrowed immediately. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

And Emma was always right. Annoyingly, unfailingly right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shook his head, once.

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “No?”

“No.”

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

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

And you weren’t ready to lose that.

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

His expression shifted,eyes crinkling as he smiled.

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

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

“Good.”

“Good,” he echoed. “Perfect.”

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

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

“Great,” you said. “Then prove it.”

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

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

You squinted at him. “Why tomorrow?”

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

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

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

“Fine. Tomorrow it is.”

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

“Perfect.”

There was a beat of silence, not awkward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did you think?” you asked.

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

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

He blinked, impressed. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “Wild, right?”

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

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

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

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

“I will,” you said. And you meant it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not even tomorrow yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he was gone.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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[cinnamongrl2006]

Bruce renting out a whole restaurant because he knows you hate the wandering eyes and the paparazzi when you go out. He takes you to the nicest place in all of gotham as an apology for being such a workaholic in the day and batman at night😔😔

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ •Husband!Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader•⊹₊ ⋆୨ৎ

Summary/contents: pure fluff; Bruce takes you out on a date to make up for lost time.

a/n: I loveee when you guys send me asks and requests, omggg!! Also love writing Bale!Bruce so much, he's the love of my life. Also, it took me like three days to write this I feel like all the fluff I write sounds impersonal, but you girls eat it up so...here you go!!

When you got a phone call from Bruce at four p.m. on a friday you fully expected him to call bearing bad news— delayed flights, injuries, unprecedented ammounts of work— and muttering apologies. You were pleasantly surprised when his voice did not come out strained, instead it dripped sweet like honey in a way that made your cheeks flush.

"Hello, pretty girl," His voice was slightly muffled by the electronic static of the telephone.

"Hi, Brucie. Is everything okay?" You tried to sound calm but worry etched itself in between your words like like veins.

He exhaled into the microphone and the speaker of your device crackled slightly. Your heart clenched in your chest for a second before he spoke again.

"Yeah, just tired. I'm on the plane home, though." You could feel the smile on his face from the way he spoke. He sounded calm, but there was something in his tone that unnerved you, you could feel there was something he was withholding from you.

"What are you not telling me?" You asked, your tone wasn't accusatory, it was supportive, curious.

"Huh— I'm not—" He chuckled and sighed. "I'm sorry, darling."

"About?" You knew exactly what about, he hated prioritizing anything but you, but he had to do it. You'd tried to make him see how hypocritical he sounded but relented when he wouldn't budge.

"I've been busy for so long, I practically ignored you for weeks...I just...am sorry."

"Bruce, I know you're busy, it's kind of your thing." You chuckled.

The speaker crackled again. "What I was getting at...are you free tonight?"

"Are you?" you retorted.

"I'm your man until eleven p.m. baby." He exclaimed.

"Got anything planned?"

────୨ৎ────

You were getting ready when you heard the familiar beeping and screeching sounds of the gates opening, and you rushed down the stairs— heels clicking furiously against the hardwood stairs— to meet him. As soon as Bruce stepped foot in the manor his bags were on the ground and you in his arms. He held onto the nearby furniture to steady himself.

"Careful, you could get hurt." His words were serious but his tone soft.

"No, how would I get hurt?" You perked up.

"What if I hadn't caught you?" He brushed your bangs out of your face.

"Don't be stupid."

The idea that Bruce would let you slip, let alone fall on the ground when he was around was nothing short of ridiculous, since when you walked on the street with him he'd take the side closest to the road, when you wore heels he'd keep a steadying hand on the small of your back. It was obvious he'd always be there to catch you when you fell.

He pulled away from the embrace and looked you over, his finger came up to brush your bangs away from your face again, lingering against your cheek.

"Are you ready to go?" He asked. His eyes holding your gaze hostage.

You hummed in confirmation and he steered you over to the garage.

On the phone he'd mentioned a reservation for dinner, and you'd groaned, said you didn't want cameras and prying eyes around for your date, not when you hadn't done this in so long.

You'd gotten used to the attention— you'd had to learn to deal with it if you wanted to be with Bruce— but that didn't mean the hungry stares and flashes everywhere didn't annoy you. But he had assured you everything would be fine and nobody would be watching you.

You eyed him as you got in the car and he looked at you before backing out of the driveway and onto the road. His hand rested on your thigh tracing little shapes absentmindedly as you sped through the city in his car. He noticed your unwavering stare and chuckled.

"Stop staring." He warned, a smile pulling at his lips.

"I just want to know what you did this time." You narrowed your eyes at him.

His arm flexed when he squeezed the flesh of your thigh and let out a chuckle.

"You'll see in—" he lifted up his watch to his face and looked back at you. "five minutes, hopefully. Forgot it was a friday."

City traffic was always bad in the weekends, especially at night. The Gotham city streets were flooded with cabs and ubers (filled with young people eager to get into whatever club they could) and couples going out to dinner— much like Bruce and you.

You got off the car in front of an upscale restaurant you'd talked to Bruce about before, and you were shocked to see there wasn't a line outside, in fact, it was empty inside.

You were about to protest, tell Bruce maybe you should go somewhere else if this was closed, but he got out of the car quickly and jogged over to your side, opening the door and helping you out. That's when you saw the Maitre'd was outside, welcoming the both of you in with a smile.

"Did you book the entire place?" You asked, leaning closer to him as the Maitre'd, a short, thin blond man, ushered you to your table.

You sat in a table near the bar, away from all doors and windows. It felt oddly calm, like all that existed in that momen was your husband and the food before you.

You listened as he talked about business deals, nodding along as if you understood— you didn't, but it was really hot when he went into detail about the things he cared about.

After dinner you drove back home, tipsy on the wine you'd had during your meal and fell asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow.

────୨ৎ────

Next morning you awoke to a sight you hadn't witnessed in a long time, Bruce was laying in bed beside you, the covers were wrapped around his waist lazily. The saturday morning sun filtered through the curtains and cast a soft glow on his features. His eyes were closed, long lashes brushing his cheeks. You could see some yellow and purple-ish marks on his arms and chest, and a stitched up cut on his side that, judging by the look of it, he'd sewn himself.

You rested your head on Bruce's chest and brushed the hair away from his face. He looked so peaceful in this light, so calm, you could almost forget the life you were leading. Because as much as you were aware that Bruce was an heir to a fortune and a vigilante, he was just your husband to you.

────୨ৎ────

requests are open!!

[ink-stainedkiss]

Hugs & Kisses

MDNI!

Synopsis: All of the Jjk men love Valentine’s day, but they all like it for a different reason.

Including: Satoru Gojo, Suguru Geto, Kento Nanami, Ryomen Sukuna,Toji Fushiguro,

A/N: sooo ik it’s been 4 days since valentine’s but let’s just close our eyes and pretend im not late. I got sick while on my trip and these past 2 days i’ve been stuck in bed. Sorry for the delay, forgive me 🙏🥲 also am i insane for writing this much on my first ever smut post??? Idk i guess i got way to invested, but i hope you guys like it💕

Word Count: 3.2 k

Contents: Smut!, p in v, oral [m! & f! receiving], doggy, mating press, breeding k!, fingering, cowgirl, Sukunas stomach mouth ;)), light sub & dom, light dom & sub, crying, overstim, teasing, dirty talk, orgasm denying,

Satoru Gojo loves Valentine’s day because he’s able to show you off proudly, drowning you in presents, kisses, and candy. Pda is his specialty, but it really shows when the day winds down and he has you all alone.

He’ll be so sweet, dragging you into every store, buying everything you touch, and not even blinking as he swipes his card. However, the loverboy facade drops the moment you enter your shared apartment. He will slam his lips onto yours, leading you blindly into the bedroom as he continues to explore your mouth. Clothes are discarded on the floor and Satoru is frenzied to get you on top of him.

Mumbling sweet words for only you to hear, he lifts your shirt over your head, noting the lacy blue bra you decided to wear. That only makes him more ravenous and it’s off in an instant. His tongue swirled around your mouth, both of his hands cupping your breast, grunting as your clothed cunt rubbed against his bulge. You had him trapped between your legs, but Satoru wouldn’t want it any other way.

He pulled away from the feverish kiss, staring up at you with a look full of deep affection,”How did I get so lucky to have you?” He whispered, now holding onto your face,”Are you getting sappy while I'm on top of you right now?” You joked, raising a brow. He chuckled, planting small kisses on your cheeks,”Is a man not allowed to express his love?”

Something darker flashes over your eyes and you lean in,”How about you express your love by letting me ride you?” Satoru flashed his pearly teeth and his boxers were off in the blink of an eye. He watched you as you hovered over his cock, smirking to himself, but it quickly dissolves into a thin line as he hisses out.

You must be soaking since you practically slid onto him,”Holy s-shit, you’re, hah-sooo tight.” You guys have fucked multiple times, so it’s not like this was a shocker to Satoru, still he basically felt like a virgin when you swallowed him up. Your walls were squeezing him so good, he could probably bust right here. Though that would ruin his cool-guy persona. Again, that thought died once you started to rock against his hips.

A shaky pant pushed past Satoru’s lips and he threw his head back onto the pillows,”Fuck,ngh-you’re killin’ me.” His words didn’t reach you and you continued to bounce on his cock. With a loud moan, you strained your neck back and put your hands on Satoru’s large thighs. A ring of precum began to surround the base of Satoru’s cock as you lifted up and down, creating lewd noises. You picked up your speed, making the man below you grow louder.

“S-slow, mfg-fuckkk, slow down,” He slurred desperately, though he didn’t mean it. He would probably start crying if you actually did. Satoru became more needy and started to buck up, meeting you halfway to slam his hard cock into your cunt.

Satoru’s cock twitched inside of you and you could hear his stifled whines,”Baby,hngh b-baby m’cumminggg!” He sprayed ropes of his cum into you, pairing your insides, but you weren’t done yet, so even as he squeaked and squirmed under you, you didn’t stop. Satoru’s hands had fallen off your waist, now laying next to his head. You were fully in control, riding him like the night wouldn’t end.

Tears slipped past Satoru’s eyelids, facing you with a pathetic look,”S’too much, mhg-fuckk,” He trembled,”Baby, ngh-ohhh shit. I c-can’t, I can't,” You gave him an evil smile, not pausing your movements whatsoever,”You’re the strongest right?”

Satoru gasped as you slammed down on his cock, but nodded quickly despite his weakened state. You leaned in close, your breath fanning his ear,” Then you are gonna fuckin’ take me like the strongest.”

⏦ﾟ♡︎

Suguru Geto loves Valentine’s day because after a full day of gifts and shopping, he sees you in a breathtaking set of lingerie.

He loved them all, each color complimenting you. Dark purple was his favorite, for an obvious reason. Suguru couldn’t wait a second before tacking you to the bed and tearing the thin fabric off. You’ll complain about the ruined outfit, but it’ll be your last thought as Suguru quietly apologizes into your skin, his soft lips gliding down your thighs.

“I’ll get you a new one,My love.” One he most definitely will deface the same way this one was. Geto chuckles at how squeamish and fidgety you are. You were never one for teasing and he knows it, but the desperate need on your face is all the pleasure Geto needs.

It’s a bit crazy how sweet Geto acts, kissing you, saying small praises, only to deny your orgasm. You were so so close, practically riding his face, but just as you were about to come loose, he lifted his tongue from your cunt. A gasp leaves your mouth and Geto just laughs,”I wanna have a bit of fun with you, so just try and hold it a bit longer.”

He says so calmly, as if he’s not rubbing your clit with excruciatingly tiny circles. That’s the least of your worries as he aligns himself with your achy hole,”Just relax.” His reminder doesn’t help and he slides himself into your pussy agonizingly slow. His cock immediately fills you up, forcing a pained moan from you. Geto placed his large hand against your stomach as he grinds into you, making the feeling ten times more pleasant. It was torture.

Geto bends down, placing soft and teasing kisses to your neck. Your panting as he picks up his pace. You try to focus on your other senses: the slapping of skin, Geto’s faint moans next to your ear, his hands gripping on your waist, the smell of sex in the room. Sight was out of the question since you were forcing your eyes closed. Pornographic moans racked from your chest as Geto reached his hand toward your pussy and rubbed your clit.

Your back arched off the bed. Your scream being stifled by your lip in between teeth,”Fuck! Mm’ close-mghh” Groaning loudly, Geto watched your desperate state. Your body jolted and jerked against his hold and it was obvious you were close. He had admired you too long and you stared up at him with water-filled eyes,”Geto-nngh-pleaseee let me c-cum.” The words came out like a cry, your voice scratchy and weak from moaning so viciously.

Geto carried your cheek gently, a hint of mischief in his eye as he debated on seeing just how long you could deny yourself release, but thankfully, he wasn’t a monster,”Go ahead, my love.”

The fire that pooled in your abdomen finally exploded. Chills ran up your skin and you let out a shattering cry. You screamed out Geto’s name as white light flashed over your closed eyes. By the time you opened your eyes, you were breathless. Chest heaving, you saw Geto staring down at the mess you made. The pool of pleasure below you was evident and you could only wince as Geto slid his cock in and out of your flooded cunt. The sounds were obscene, but it only fueled Geto.

You met his gaze with a tired look, body still shaking from the intense orgasm. Though Geto was far from done, it was clear from the spark of sinfulness in his eyes,”How many times do you think I could make you do that again?”

⏦ﾟ♡︎

Kento Nanami loves Valentine’s day because he plans the most extravagant date and spoils you rotten. He also fucks you like it’s your last night on earth together.

Since he spoils you the entire day, you return the favor by jerking him off properly. Taking his hefty cock in your hands, you watch as his eyes practically roll to the back of his head,”Fuck-just like that.” His hips buck into your warm palms, craving the friction, but if you are feeling brave, you pull away, leaving him with nothing.

Vulnerable whines sneak their way through his lips, but Kento will cover them with small coughs or grunts, opting to plead ask kindly for you to continue,”Honey, god- would you please keep touching me?” The slight worry in his eyes is enough to make you break, going right back to his cock. His grip on the sheets is iron tight, but he reaches for your head when you begin to take him into your mouth.

Kento uses your mouth to get off, though he adores you, he can’t help to submit to the utter pleasure you're giving him. So much to the point he craves to hear more strained moans and gags as he fucks into your mouth. When he cums, he’s not surprised to see you have swallowed every drop of his sperm. Your hair is a mess, salvia glosses over your lips, your cheeks are flushed, but you have never looked prettier.

Valentine’s day is always the day he thinks he’s ready for a kid. He would have you in a mean mating press, your freshly bought set of nails marking his skin. Between his battered breaths and choked out moans, he’ll babble on about how pretty you’d look with a baby bump. You're too lost in his furious pounding to question it, tears streaming down your face, and you don’t hesitate to agree.

“Gunna fuck a baby into you Sweetheart,” He grunts with each snap of his hips. It makes you gasp, but he silences your shock with another thrust. He abuses your g-spot over and over, the knot in your stomach tightening to its limit.

When you finally cum all over Kento’s cock, he doesn’t want to stop. He continues to bully your overstimulated pussy, rough thumb circling your clit and becoming more wild by your orgasm. By the time your high has calmed down, Kento is using his large fingers to gather any of cum that spilled from your fluttering cunt and sliding it back into you. A soft whine escapes your mouth, but Kento shushes you gently,”I hope our baby has your eyes, Honey.”

⏦ﾟ♡︎

Ryomen Sukuna loves Valentine’s day because loves the way your eyes sparkle at the new jewelry set he got you.

The set is priceless. (since he most likely slaughtered a leader back then and stole it from them, but the gesture is still sweet) He isn’t quite sure what the purpose of this holiday is, but he knows that by the end of the night you’ll be under him, so he doesn’t mind.

It was a bit romantic how he forced you to strip but said to keep the beautiful diamonds around your neck. They were covered in jewels, a blood red ruby being the center charm. You couldn’t help but think that was the reason Sukuna gifted it to you. Though, that’s not on your mind as you ride his stomach’s tongue.

Your hands are scrambling to find balance atop his chest,while his hands are firmly placed on your hips. His large tongue delves into your soaked pussy, finding new spots to tease with the hot organ. Sukuna continues to giggle below you, watching closely as your face screws in the utmost pleasure. He barely has to do anything, letting his adorable girlfriend try and take him whole.

You have already came on his tongue twice, but the feeling is far too good to stop. Your moans are like a symphony to Sukunas ears and as you grind yourself onto his stomach, he watches the light glisten over the large ruby hanging from your neck. He can see the saliva gathering in your mouth, but before it can fall out, he lifts your head with one hand, forcing you to look at him. You swallow harshly, still bouncing on his abs, which were wet with your juices and sweat.

“You said you could take it.” Sukuna restates, smirking at your fucked-out look,”Were you lying to me?” The words come out like a purr and Sukuna had to grip your jaw tighter to make you speak,”I-i can. fuckkk,” short hiccups interrupted your babbling as Sukuna’s tongue reached your cervix. A deep laugh rumbled in his chest as you slammed your eyes shut.

His large tongue curled inside of you, forcing a scream from you. Your vision darkened and your mind grew fuzzy. All you could feel was the tightness in your stomach growing so big until it washed over you like electricity. Your orgasm came like a flash, making you quake even as it slipped away. Sukuna swallowed your juices in an instant. Well his stomach did. The anatomy wasn’t important since he reached out a hand, swiping between your folds and admiring the stickers strands on his fingers. He placed his index and middle in his mouth, sucking your cum off his fingers with a satisfied hum,”Just as sweet as ever.”

You were weak and delirious, falling on top of Sukuna’s sticky chest. He mended your flesh, focusing mainly on your ass, but the short massage felt nice. Sadly, the sweet moment faded as his tongue exited your dripping cunt, and you felt him lift you up, rubbing his hard tip against your fluttering lips. Your eyebrows creased in a small plea, but Sukuna only clicked his tongue,”Did I say we were done?”

⏦ﾟ♡︎

Toji Fushiguro loves Valentine’s day because he gets to splurge his checks on his favorite girl, though it’s not as expensive, it still makes your heart flutter. Though he doesn’t mind when the decorations of balloons and rose petals are ultimately destroyed after he pounces on you.

It’s the same every year. Toji wants to be romantic, dropping his usual erotic style of sex just for the holiday, but the switch is almost animalistic the way he turns into a beast after just a few thrusts. You will be laying on the bed, letting out soft and delicate moans as Toji ruts into you, but in the blink of an eye, he will have you face down ass up. Your back is so arched it almost hurts, but you would be lying if you said you weren’t going to end up begging him to fuck you like this.

Toji pounded his cock into you with brutal force, ripping a choked moan from your throat. A beefy arm was wrapped around your hips and you could feel the fact that Toji was bulging in your stomach. He laid against your back, his hot breath fanning on your ear as he spoke,”Happy Valentine’s day, Doll.” He was already so lost in your cunt and Toji was pretty shocked to get out a full sentence.

Your gummy walls swallowed him whole, practically milking him where he kneeled. He groaned as he pulled out half way, a chorus of wet fluids and cum sounding out together,”God, do you hear her? She’s just begging me to fill her up.” A pathetic whine slipped from your lips and you put your face into the pillows as an escape.

A ‘tsk’ noise sounded from Toji and you felt his large hand card through your hair and yank you back up. He pulled you up hard enough to the point you were both kneeling, his arm now keeping you upright,”Aw, don’t get shy now,” He thrusted up into you, making you cry out,”Doll, we’re just gettin’ started.”

His cock rested inside of you, twitching and completely stuffing you. You opened your mouth, but only small moans and whines fell out. Toji hummed teasingly, gripping your hair and making your head fall onto your shoulder,”Gotta use your words. I don’t know what you want, if you don’t speak Baby,” You were so embarrassed, but so turned on.

“Ngh,plea-shit.” You were tearing up, so distressed to make your boyfriend fuck you,”Please, f-fuck me Toji.” He didn’t need to be told twice.

⏦ﾟ♡︎

Choso Kamo loves Valentine’s day because he gets to spend the whole time cuddling and showering you in affection. The chocolate covered strawberries and candy taste good, but what tastes better is your soaking cunt on his tongue.

Your hand is gripping onto Choso’s dark hair like a life-line, vision going in and out as he devours you. It’s somewhat your fault for making him so needy for you. You both had been out in public, having no time for privacy, and now that you two were home, Choso wasn’t going to let you go. His hands are wrapped around your thighs, dragging you closer and closer to his hot mouth. Choso eats you out all the time, but there was a certain lust that flooded his veins when he was denied of you for too long.

Your first orgasm was like white lighting, cracking down through your core and silencing the world around you. You only gained some grip of reality when Choso slurped your juices quickly, his tongue flicking over your puffy clit occasionally and making you jolt. However, you knew you were in for a ride when his hold on you grew tighter and he rose from his place between your legs,” One more? C’mon, Sweetheart, it is a Holiday.”

His mouth and chin was covered in your slick. There was a small cloud of desire that blocked his vision and before you could give a shaky answer, he was already sucking on your clit. Yelping, you wrapped your thighs around Choso’s head, making him groan. The sound reverberated through your cunt and forced another moan from you.

By the time your second orgasm came, you were already gone. You were shaking, mumbling nonsense, and overstimulated. Each swipe of Choso’s tongue makes you gasp. Choso drank up your fluid like a man lost in the desert, not wasting a single drop. Tears welled in your eyes as he dragged his tongue flat along your lips, making you whine,”c-cho, please-mfg,so good,” Tears slip down your face, your words barely making it too Choso’s ears. (which may or may not because your thighs were covering them)

He looked up again, but slid two of his fingers past your puffy folds,”What was your favorite part about today?” He questioned innocently, as if he wasn’t fingering you. You let out a gasp as his lanky finger grazed over your g-spot, but left just as quick,”mghhh, I-i liked the,” gasping as he kitten licked your clit,”The flowers!” You squeaked

“I liked the f-flowers, ohh fuck, and-hnghh, the dinner!” You yelped the last part as Choso dragged a long stripe on your cunt. He hummed against your heat, making you jolt,”I liked spending time with you today, it was nice seeing you smile so much.” Your teeth grated against each other as you nodded, craving more of Choso. You tried shifting yourself closer to Choso’s tongue as he gave your cunt occasional licks, but either he didn’t get the hint or was ignoring them, he didn’t give you what you wanted.

“I also liked the restaurant we visited, it was super-“

“Choso!” You interrupted him. He perked up, curiosity in his eyes. You squeezed your eyes shut, completely caving to Choso’s will,” Please. Just fuck me.” That time Choso finally understood, clearer than ever.

[infamous-if]

hi guys! I hate to do this but the public release of the demo will be delayed and released on September 8th.

Luckily I found an old copy of chapter 2 and have been working really hard to rewrite it again (and remember everything I changed) and trying to work quickly to finish it by today but I don't think that's happening :,)

I debated on going the route of just releasing what I have but I'd rather give everyone a completely finished demo instead of releasing a choppy half-assed chapter 2 that I'm going to end up fixing it up after the release anyway, it just didn't make sense to force it. Plus, I didn't like having people skip chapter 2 to play chapter 3, I did that only because I really wanted people to read chapter 3 since it's been a while.

Sorry. I know it sucks but losing the chapter 2 rewrite kinda fucked me up time wise and work wise. I will try really hard to get it done by today but I don't think I'll have enough time and I don't want to rush it either.

If I manage to finish it before the 8th I'll definitely release it sooner than that!! The 8th is just the latest.

Sorry again! I hope you can understand :,)

[anakinca]

Baby .... I want to read something like this where we have a picnic day with our beautiful general in a meadow with pretty flowers all around us. Anakin with his head in our lap as we stroke his wavy hair, put little flowers on him as he sleeps with a smile. A contrast of the strong general he usually is. 💗💗💗💗

It can be on Alderaan or Naboo wherever you prefer.

The reader can be a princess

—❝every star in the galaxy❞

anakin skywalker x reader

tw ; nothing, just pure fluff

a/n ; I FEEL LIKE I ALWAYS DISAPPEAR FOR MONTHS AND THEN REAPPEAR IM SO SORRY LMFAOAO 😭 i'm so sorry these requests are so delayed, i genuinely have been so busy and my writers block is so intense. BUT IM BACK, WRITING ALL REQUESTS, AND TAKING THEM AGAIN, SO MAKE SURE U SEND IN UR REQUESTS CUTIES. i hope you all enjoy this, angels <3

THE SUN WAS WARM ON NABOO THAT AFTERNOON—GENTLE AND GOLDEN. It was the kind that made you want to stretch out in a field and forget the rest of the galaxy existed. And, for once, Anakin had let you pull him away from everything. No comms, no strategy meetings, no troopers needing orders. Just you, him, your love, and the open meadow dotted with wildflowers.

The basket you packed was practically forgotten by now, just a few feet away, and half-emptied. Anakin had eaten exactly one pastry you made this morning before mumbling something about being tired and dropping straight into the grass with a groan. You’d tried not to laugh as he made himself comfortable, his head ending up in your lap like it belonged there.

Which, at this point, it does.

So many nights and days have been spent with his head on your lap, with your fingers carding gently through his hair. It's a solace of his he's never thought he'd ever get to experience. But, Force, he thanks the stars that he does.

It's what he looks forward to every time he gets to come back home to you. The feeling of your warm embrace and your touch, letting him know that he's finally safe.

Now he was dozing, one arm lazily wrapped around your lower back as you sit up in the grass, the other draped across his chest. His breathing was slow and even, and you could tell by the way his fingers twitched every now and then that he wasn’t fully asleep, but definitely far enough to let his eyes get the rest they desperately need.

You run your fingers through his soft, sandy curls, brushing them back from his forehead as the breeze rolled over the field. A soft smile pulled at the edges of your lips as you picked a few of the little flowers near your legs—daisies, mostly—and started tucking them gently into his hair. It was dumb. Silly. But he looked so peaceful like this, how could you resist?

And it definitely doesn't help how angelic he looks just about now. How could he ever be the one to call you an angel when he looks like this?

He mumbled something under his breath as you brushed a petal against his cheek, gently weaving them into his hair.

“Hm?” You hum questioningly, your thumb caressing his cheek gently. 

“’S nothing,” he murmured, still barely awake. “Keep doing that.”

You bit back a smile, brushing your fingers through his hair again, this time more deliberately. He sighed so gently, the way it sounded so reverent in it's own way. Like it was the first time he’d let himself exhale all week. 

It was a relieving contrast, seeing him like this. The man who usually stood so cocky and commanding, voice sharp and full of purpose, now curled into you like a tired little boy. His boots were off, his tunic soft and rumpled from where you’d tugged it earlier, teasing him for still dressing like he was about to lead his battalion into a war.

“You don’t look like a general right now,” you said softly, just thinking out loud as your fingers trace his every delicate feature. 

One of his lids opened, letting you see one of those ocean eyes that hold so much depth to them, the very ones you fell so deeply in love with.

The way he looked up at you held so much passion, that it was hard to express, and it made your very heart tighten. How could a man love so deeply, that you can see it even with only one of his eyes?

The corners of his mouth twitch, opening both eyes now as his lashes flutter a little, trying to blink the drowsiness away. “Good.” He murmurs.

You blinked. “Good?” You ask, a small laugh in your voice. 

Anakin shifted a little, turning his face so his cheek was pressed fully against your thigh, as that boyish grin you love so much appears on his face. “I don’t want to be a general when I’m with you.”

His tone hit you in a way you weren’t expecting. It's so gentle, honest. So utterly adoring. 

You let yourself trace the edge of his jaw with your thumb, watching the way his eyes fluttered closed again, thick lashes resting. “Then what are you when you’re with me?”

He was quiet for a moment, taking in deep breaths as he relishes in the peace—the peace of you.

“Just… me.” He replies in a whisper. 

While his words are so simple, you know him well enough to know how much meaning they really convey. And truly, he finds that he can just be when he's with you—that he can show his flaws and not be berated for them like he's been his whole life. That you'll love him despite it all, and that's everything to him.

Your heart did a little flip. You didn’t say anything, just leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple. He hummed in approval and relaxed even further, like he could melt right into you.

After a while, his voice floated up again, low and drowsy. “Are there flowers in my hair?”

“Maybe.”

He huffed, but there was no real protest. “You’re ridiculous.” He grins, though you know he doesn't mean it. If anything, he's enjoying this. A little too much at that. 

“And you’re beautiful.” You giggle, twirling one of his curls around your pointer finger.

The sound is music to his ears, and it makes his grin only grow wider. He's really found his peace. What would he do without that melodic sound that keeps him tethered to this very ground?

“You’re making it really hard to go back to the Temple after this,” he said, voice barely above a whisper now.

You kissed the top of his head and smiled against his curls. “Good.” You whisper back, wanting to keep him here in your arms forever. He's always told you that's a dream of his, to be able to never leave your embrace.

It's moments like these that Anakin knows he's found his home in a person. He cherishes these memories with every piece of him, and enjoys them with every fragment of his heart. 

How could he not? He's with the woman he loves more than every star in the galaxy combined, the one he holds so dearly. The one that he breathes the very air for, lives his life to see. Just your presence lights a flame in his heart he doesn't know if he deserves. 

But you let him know he deserves it, you always do. 

And under the blue Naboo sky, Anakin let himself rest—knowing he's safe, loved, and wrapped in a kind of peace he didn’t think he’d ever be able to have. Not in this life.

But somehow, with you, he's able to.

@thesassypadawan @anakinstwinklebunny @sydkneez @dessxoxsworld @nikiloveshayden @sweetcheesecakesblog @throughparisallthroughrome @fredswrite @divineani

let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from the tag list, angels <3

[keithyp00]

︵‿︵‿୨♡ Pretty Little Baby ♡୧‿︵‿︵

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warnings/Tags: slow burn, hurt/comfort, romance, emotional vulnerability, mentions of PTSD, minor language, soft!Bucky, pining and tension, kissing, implied intimacy, fluff, 1950s music, scars, body image

Song Inspiration: Pretty Little Baby by Connie Francis

Word Count: 2.4K

Author Note: Hello! Sorry this one is out so late... This is another Connie Francis fic (because her songs work for him so well <3) that I'm pretty proud of. This note is to tell you guys that I don't think I bombed my AP exam this morning so that's good! AND that my post for tomorrow will be delayed to Friday night because of my PROM! Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this one!

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

Pretty little baby / you say that maybe you'll be thinkin' of me / and try to love me / Pretty little baby / I'm hoping that you do~

~~~~~

Bucky Barnes wasn't supposed to fall in love. Not again. Not here.

The sunlight pooled through the tiny cafe window just enough to trace gold over the soft curve of your cheek. You sat tucked in the small booth located behind the counter- specifically for workers- like a secret waiting to be discovered, the vintage radio located next to you crooning out a low, crackling tune- something old. Something he vaguely remembered the melody of.

"Pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you~"

Your fingers tapped along the rim of your coffee cup, mimicking the tempo. You didn't see him at first. You never did. Not really. Not in the way others did- with their reverence, their suspicion, their fear. No, you had this gentle way of looking at him like he wasn't a ghost. Like he wasn't a man made of nightmares. You saw through the steel and the silence.

You saw him.

He'd been coming here for three months now. Tuesdays and Fridays. You always worked the morning shift, tucked in your apron and a smile so warm it melted his resolve. Bucky told himself the coffee was the reason he kept returning. Told himself the old songs reminded him of simpler times. Told himself it wasn't you.

But it was always you.

Today, you looked different. A little sad. Your smile not quite reaching your eyes.

"Hey, soldier," you greeted softly when he finally stepped forward to the counter, voice like a balm.

"Hey, doll," he murmured, almost under his breath. The nickname slipped out sometimes, like his body remembered the rhythm of a past life even when he didn't mean to.

Your lips twitched a little higher. You always liked when he called you that.

"Coffee?" You asked, already reaching for his usual.

"Yeah." He hesitated. "And... maybe a slice of that apple pie?"

You blinked. "Trying something new?"

Bucky shrugged, pretending it didn't take everything in him to break routine. "Thought I'd live a little."'

You gave him a playful salute. "That's the spirit."

As you turned to plate the dessert, Bucky glanced toward the radio. The song still played.

"Pretty little baby / You said maybe..."

It tugged at something in his chest. A memory, maybe. A fragment. He remembered holding someone close on a night like this. A whisper of perfume, the hem of a dress, the way music softened all the edges. But that wasn't this life. That wasn't now.

This was now. And you were here.

"Something wrong?" He asked when you set down his plate with slightly trembling fingers.

You smiled- small, too practiced. "Just... tired."

"Liar," he replied gently.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his. Startled. Then they softened.

"My roommate's moving out," you confessed. "And I can't afford the place on my own. I guess I'm worried I'll have to leave the neighborhood. Find a new job. Start over."

HIs fork paused halfway to his mouth.

"You thinking about leaving?" He asked carefully.

You nodded. "Unless something changes."

Bucky set his fork down.

Something about the idea of you being gone made his heart lurch in his chest. He didn't want to admit how often he built his week around these visits. How often he remembered the sound of your laugh hours after hearing it. How he had memorized the smell of this cafe because it smelled like you.

"You shouldn't have to start over," he stated.

Your smile faltered. "Sometimes, you don't get a choice."

He knew that better than anyone.

There was a beat of silence. Just the soft voice of Connie Francis filling in the cracks between you.

Bucky cleared his throat. "You like this kind of music?"

Your eyes seemed to light up- really light up- and for a second, the weight on your shoulders vanished.

"I love it," you smiled. "My grandmother used to play these old records. Connie, Doris, Patsy. She used to say romance was simpler back then."

He smiled, something wistful curing in his chest. "Yeah, I remember."

You blinked. "You remember?"

He hesitated, caught. And then slowly, he let the words fall. "I was born in 1917."

The world stilled. You stared. Then stared a little longer. His coffee cooling beside the both of you.

You didn't ask. Not about the arm. Not about the Winter Soldier. Not even about Steve.

Instead, you reached across the table and placed your hand over his flesh one.

"That must be a lot to carry," you said.

And somehow- somehow- that was worse than pity. It was kindness. It made something in his chest ache.

~~~~~

Weeks passed.

You didn't leave. Somehow, a friend of a friend needed a roommate- really just someone to help pay half the rent for a place they rarely ever stayed in. You moved three blocks away instead of thirty minutes. You still worked at the cafe. Bucky still came by.

Sometimes he came just to sit with you during your break. Sometimes you played cards behind the counter. Sometimes he helped you change the records on slow afternoons, humming low and quiet.

Once, he brought you a tiny potted plant with a tag that just said "for the sunshine behind the counter."

You nearly cried.

You started listening to more old songs. Started humming them around him. Started smiling wider every time he walked in. You didn't know when you fell in love with him. You just knew that one day, Bucky Barnes was no longer a customer. He was a presence. A comfort.

A heartbeat. And you were his. But neither of you said it. Not until the night it all came undone.

~~~~~

It was raining.

Bucky didn't show up for his usual Tuesday coffee. Then Friday. Then the next Tuesday.

You didn't have his number. You didn't know where he lived. You were just a girl behind a counter who somehow memorized the man behind all the pain.

When he showed up again, he looked wrecked.

Eyes bloodshot. Jaw tight. Hair damp from the storm outside. He didn't say hello. Didn't order coffee.

Just stared at you like he didn't believe you were real.

"I'm sorry," he said.

You frowned. "Where were you?"

"I... I couldn't come," he whispered. "I couldn't see you. I couldn't look at you and pretend I'm not broken."

Your chest tightened.

"You don't have to pretend," you said quietly.

He stepped closer. "I dreamt I hurt you," he confessed, voice breaking. "My mind... sometimes I can't control what I see. What I feel. I thought if I stayed away, I could protect you. But it just- hurt more."

You were shaking now. "Bucky..."

"I'm not what you think I am," he said. "I'm not a good man. I've done things that haunt me. I'm not fixed. I'm not even whole. I didn't want to let you close because I knew- I knew I'd start to hope. And hope is dangerous."

Tears welled in your eyes.

"Don't you get it?" You whispered. "I don't need perfect. I need you."

Silence.

Then his voice- ragged.

"You deserve someone better."

"Maybe," you replied. "But I want you."

That cracked something in him. Broke him open.

And suddenly, he was holding you like a lifeline, forehead pressed to yours, rain in his hair, in his lashes, on his lips. He was trembling- an earthquake in a man's body. And then he kissed you.

Soft. Desperate. Real.

Like he's been waiting a hundred years just to find someone who didn't flinch.

~~~~~

"Meet me at the car hop or at the pop shop / meet me in the moonlight or in the daylight / pretty little baby, I'm so in love with you~"

The record played again a week later.

You danced in your kitchen barefoot while Bucky cooked behind you. He was clumsy with a spatula but careful with your heart. His metal arm wrapped around your waist as you spun into him, laughter spilling between you.

"I like this one," he murmured into your hair.

"I know," you smiled, eyes twinkling. "You always hum it."

Bucky kissed your temple.

"Pretty little baby," he whispered, echoing the lyrics. And this time, when you looked at him... You didn't see the Winter Soldier.

You saw James Buchanan Barnes.

And he was yours.

~~~~~

The first time you saw him shirtless, it wasn't intentional.

You'd only meant to bring him coffee.

It was barely past nine on a Sunday morning- quiet, sleepy light pouring through your bedroom window, another morning where your roommate was in a city thousands of miles away for work- and you padded down the hallway with two mugs in hand and nothing but one of Bucky's old Henley's falling past your thighs. You hadn't expected him to be out of bed already. You hadn't expected to find him standing in your bathroom, door ajar, wiping steam off the mirror as sunlight caught every scar on his back.

The coffee nearly slipped from your fingers.

He turned at the sound of your breath catching, eyes wide, chest bare, metal arm glinting sliver-blue in the light. He looked like a statue- carved from war and grief, tall and scarred and too beautiful to be real.

"Sorry," he muttered, reaching for a towel.

You swallowed. "Don't- don't cover up-"

HIs hand paused. Towel clenched at his side. His shoulders tensed as if waiting for you to flinch. For you to turn away. For you to look at him and see a monster.

But you didn't.

You just stepped closer. Set the mugs on the counter. Reached up with trembling fingers to touch the edge of one older scar that curled itself across his ribs.

"Does it still hurt?" You asked.

His throat bobbed. "Not always."

You leaned in. Pressing a kiss just beside it.

Then another.

And another.

You traced the map of his wounds like a poem written specifically for you. He stood still, breathing shallowly, as your lips moved over the place where flesh met metal, where skin had broken and grown over again. His eyes fluttered shut. His hand trembled when it came to rest on your waist.

"Pretty little baby," you whispered, half a breath, the song still echoing somewhere in your heart. "I want all of you."

And he kissed you- raw and real and aching.

Like he couldn't believe he was allowed.

~~~~~

Later, when your head lay on his chest, your fingers drawing idle shapes over his sternum, he spoke.

"I used to think I wasn't allowed to want anything," he murmured. "After everything I did... I thought wanting happiness was selfish. I thought being touched would always feel like control. But with you-"

His voice broke.

"With you, I feel human again."

Tears pricked your eyes. You turned your face into his skin and breathed him in.

"Then stay human with me," you whispered.

He did.

He stayed.

~~~~~

Time passed in quiet, golden pieces.

You slowly moved out of your apartment and into his. You left a toothbrush beside his. He left a dog-eared version of The Hobbit on your nightstand and insisted it was better than the movie.

You started watching black-and-white films together on an old projector screen you borrowed from a friend. He fell asleep on your lap during Roman Holiday. You took a picture- his face soft, peaceful, your fingers tangled in his hair- and set it as your lock screen. He pretended to grumble about it.

But he smiled every time he saw it.

You learned that he liked lemon in his tea. That he still had nightmares, but fewer of them now. That he hummed Connie Francis songs without realizing it, especially when he cooked. That he never quite believed he was lovable- but was trying, every day, to let you show him otherwise.

~~~~~

Then came the letter.

It was from the VA. A mandatory psych review. Another round of red tape. Another cold reminder that no matter how far he came, the world still saw him as dangerous first and human second.

You found him sitting on the edge of your bed, jaw clenched, paper crumpled in one fist.

"Hey," you said gently.

He didn't look at you.

"I don't want to go," he said. "I don't want to sit in some room and explain why I flinch at loud noises or why I check the door five times before sleeping. I don't want to be studied."

Your heart ached.

You sat beside him. Laced your fingers through his.

"You don't owe anyone an explanation for surviving," you stated. "But if you go... do it for you. Not them."

He exhaled slowly. Then nodded.

"I want to be better," he said. "For you."

You cupped his face, made him look at you.

"You're already enough," you whispered.

~~~~~

Spring came slowly.

The cafe bloomed with lavender outside the windows. You reopened the patio seating. He brought you flowers on your lunch break- daisies, once. Then violets. Then roses.

"You're spoiling me," you teased, cradling the bouquet.

He smirked. "You deserve it."

You kissed him on your break. In front of the window. In front of half the neighborhood.

He didn't care who saw.

For the first time in nearly a century, James Buchanan Barnes didn't hide.

~~~~~

But healing wasn't linear.

Some nights, he still woke up gasping.

Some days, he paced the apartment for hours before he could settle.

Once, he got quiet for a week after seeing his reflection in a store window and not recognizing himself. You didn't push. You just stayed close. Made tea. Held him when he let you.

"I don't know why you stay," he said one night, voice rough.

You pressed your forehead to his.

"Because I love you."

He didn't speak. But his arms wrapped around you tighter than ever.

And you knew.

He loved you, too.

~~~~~

One summer night, as fireflies blinked outside the open balcony and the radio hummed in the background, he pulled you into a dance in the living room. Bare feet on cool wood. Fingers on his collar. Chin tucked into his neck.

You swayed. Slowly. Softly.

He kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your lips.

You tilted your head back to look at him.

"What are you thinking?" You whispered.

HIs blue eyes shimmered.

"That I want this," he said. "I want you. Forever, if you'll have me."

You laughed. A breathless, tearful sound.

"I've been yours since you walked into my cafe three months late and asked for a coffee with way too much sugar."

He groaned. "I said I was trying something new!"

You laughed and kissed him again.

"I love you," you smiled.

He closed his eyes.

"I love you more than I ever thought I could," he breathed. "And that terrifies me."

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

"Then let's be scared together."