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fictionalsweethearts · 6 months ago

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THE COMMISSION | SEVIKA X READER | ARCANE

'The Commission' series: pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt.4, epilogue.

Synopsis: You've been her personal mechanic for two years, but your growing reputation in the field has earned you dozens of clients and commissions. Sevika was looking for something fresh, durable and of good quality, and when it came to her sexual appetite, she only accepted the best. So she turned to you for a special commission.

Contains: arcane!sevika, feminine reader, lesbians, lots of dialogues, arcane universe, cannon sevika, mechanic!reader, wlw, slow burn baby 💋, several parts btw

Word count: 1,862

Note: English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistake in my writing. Enjoy!

Sevika recognized your skills and abilities, you were an intelligent and astute bastard in an environment that being pretty was related to being naive. You knew how to use your looks to your advantage and enchant people with your words, your charisma and your talent. What was your talent? The mechanics, specifically the mechanics with Shimmer. You knew how to use the drug to your advantage, manufacture the best pieces by combining the quality of your products with the functional guarantee of shimmer. You managed to earn loyal customers who were looking for high quality prostheses, weapons and even… other types of products. You were a versatile inventor and Zaunites appreciated it. You came to the Last Drop for that particular reason that night, Sevika had summoned you for a check of her mechanical arm and a certainly special commission. You pushed your way through the crowd, the smell of alcohol and Shimmer in the air, and looked for the tall woman. You spotted her at the back, sitting with three other individuals, gambling with a cigarette between her lips and a confident smile curving them.

"Good night, Sev." You greeted, to which the woman put her attention on you, exhaling the smoke from her cigarette.

"Well, well, well... You're earlier than usual." She replied, gesturing you over. "Come; I have something to discuss with you."

Sevika shooed her gambling companions, her attention focused on you and on that brown overall that you wore at every maintenance meeting. You used to unbutton the top, revealing your arms and torso in a tank top and accentuating your waist. Certainly the fact that you were sweet to Sevika's eyes made the meetings with you more pleasant.

Sevika poured you a glass of whiskey. "Two ice cubes, and with a little soda, as you like." Said the woman, having learned your preferences after two years working for her. You put the toolbox on the table, the exclusive place where you were gave you some privacy and calm to work.

"I see that you remember my whims." You smiled, sitting down.

She pushed the glass towards you, watching you sit down. "Of course I do - I pay attention to detail." Her eyes scanned your attire, taking a quick drag of her cigarette. "You look good, as usual."

"I won't discount for flirting." You teased, leaning back against the cushions with a smug smile.

"It wasn't a flirt." She replied, a smirk playing on her lips. "I'm simply making an observation."

"You either flirt or fight, don't fuck with me." You smiled, sipping your glass. "The arm's acting up again?" You asked, aiming at her mechanical left arm.

"Yeah, it's been giving me a pain in the ass." She replied, rolling her left shoulder. "Not acting like it should; slower than usual."

"Mhm, tell me more." You asked, already putting the glass down to lean and start observing the prosthetic arm.

"It's been slower to respond to movements - and the strength has been weakened. It's also... overheating a little more often than usual."

'Overheating? It must be time for a thermal paste change." You assured, taking a screwdriver to start disarming the arm. "How's the shimmer working?"

Sevika rested her arm on the tabletop for you as you got to work.

"Shimmer supply is fine - no change there." She replied. There was a noticeable difference in the movement of her arm compared to the last checkup. "But I've been feeling a little... on edge lately. Shimmer usually doesn't affect me much with its side-effects... but..."

"Mhm?"

"I've been more irritable, frustrated." She replied, watching you closely. "It's like some kind of... primal urge of something."

"Huh. You sure it's the shimmer's fault?" You asked, you couldn't contain a smile. "Or maybe you need to visit the brothel more often."

"Trust me, I've been to the Pleasure House plenty of times." She responded playfully. "But you know damn well it's not the same thing."

"Huh, really? I thought you had your fair share of girls that could satisfy you."

It was no secret that Sevika was a regular customer in the red light district of Zaun, quite mentioned in the conversations among the people for being a fairly skilled woman in bed. Much more was said about Sevika than her lethality and character, her stamina in sex was mentioned, her fondness for the most vocal women, without preference between slim and chubby, but always testing the resistance of her bed partners. She's tireless said the hookers who had provided their services to her. And with the sexual appetite of a person like Sevika, the task of satisfying her was arduous.

"Oh trust me - they satisfy me, alright." She replied, her voice huskier. "But that's not what I need." She exhaled another plume of smoke. "I need to dominate someone."

"Geez." You stopped working on her arm, you rose your brows. "Getting honest, are we?"

"Only with you." Sevika replied, keeping her eyes on you. "You're one of the few people in Zaun I tolerate."

"Well, I don't think the arm has anything to do with your... sexual frustrations." You stated. "Actually, as soon as I change the thermal paste and grease the joints, your arm will work as usual."

You worked carefully on her arm, noticing the slight tremor in Sevika's right hand.

"I think you're overdoing Shimmer again." You said, unscrewing the last part to unclasp the prosthetic arm and pull it off. You laid it carefully on the table, continuing with your work. Sevika didn't complain, she trusted you enough to end up armless before you.

"That's rich coming from you. You probably have shimmer running through your veins right now."

"Huh." You smirked. "Too much work, too little energy." You excused yourself.

"I guess I can forgive you this time." She responded, watching you work with her prosthetic. "Besides, I need you to focus. I have a commission for you."

"A commission?" Your ears perked up, taking a sip of your drink. "Alright, I'm listening."

"I need you to make me something... special." She said, her voice low and huskier. "Do you think you can manage that?"

You scoffed. "What, a pipe?" You teased, but Sevika's answer dropped your jaw.

"A strap." She replied, her eyes slowly roaming over you. "Can you make one?"

You rose your eyebrows, certainly it wasn't the first strap-on you would make but it would be the first for Sevika. Many inhabitants of Zaun asked for prostheses or toys, you were a good manufacturer and your talent with the shimmer made your pieces reliable and high quality, but you certainly did not expect this type of request from Sevika.

You swallowed. "Sure, sure. I can." You said, your gaze fixed on the prosthetic arm.

"Good." She leaned back in her chair, taking another drag of her cigarette before continuing. "There are a few... specifications I want for it."

"I'm listening." you mumbled, annoyed with the way your cheeks blushed.

"7.5 inches, and it must have ridges along the shaft." She said, casually taking a drag of her cigarette. "Textured veins are preferable. Will you need a cast for that? I have a..." She shifted, pulling out a small pouch filled with coins - a small 'advance payment' for your services.

"A cast?" You asked. Your eyes were exorbitant before the coins that protruded from the bag, it was a good pay. Sevika never asked for discounts for your work, she knew it was worth every penny. "I mean, I don't really know any man I can use for a cast." You said sheepishly.

"You know you can get any Zaunite with a coin here." She teased. "Find a willing candidate - I'm sure it won't be too hard."

You were flabbergasted. "Are you suggesting me to hire someone to take a cast of his cock?" You asked with a subtle blush on your cheeks.

"I'm not suggesting, I'm telling you to." She replied, taking another drag of her cigarette. "This is a commission, and I'm paying you generously for it. You'll find a taker - I know you're a sweet talker when you need to be."

"I can't believe this." You sighed sharply.

"Oh, c'mon, you'll manage." She teased. "Just do what you do best. Seduce."

"What am I supposed to say? 'Hey, can I take a cast of your cock? It's for a commission of mine'."

Sevika laughed heartily, enjoying this way more than she'd care to admit. "That pretty much sums it up, yeah." She replied. "I'm assuming most men won't say no, at least not with a pretty face like that."

"Huh. I think you're observant enough." You couldn't refuse an order to a customer as loyal as Sevika, it was a good pay. You just had to gather courage and find a candidate to take the mold, there would certainly be no shortage of suitors. The only problem is how they would take the offer, they would probably try to take advantage of you. You frowned, tensing at the idea of dealing with horny swines.

Sevika observed your frown, noticing the tension in your shoulders. She leaned forward, catching your gaze.

"Relax." She said firmly. "I'll be there with you. If anyone decides to be... insistent, I'll put them in their place."

Your shoulders relaxed. You trusted her, more than people believed. And you knew that Sevika would protect your integrity throughout the process, since she was a woman who kept her word, and her sense of protectiveness was simply unmatched.

"I'll take the measurements of your hip and crotch then." You finally said, looking for a measuring tape in the toolbox.

Sevika smiled pleased as she stood up from her seat. You knelt in front of her, unrolling the measuring tape to take the hip and crotch measurements. As you moved around, your hands touched her thigh, and your face came a few inches from her crotch.

"Lift your hips slightly." You said, trying to remain professional.

She lifted her hips slightly, watching you closely. "This good?" She asked, her voice betraying no hint of emotion.

"Yeah." You nodded. "Poor women that will have to keep up with you on a strap." You mumbled.

"Oh, the ladies will be fine." She retorted, a smirk on her face. "They'll enjoy it, if they know what's good for them."

"I don't wanna hear any details, thank you."

"Fine, we'll move on." She agreed, her eyes still fixed on you. "You're too focused on the details. I'll handle finding the... talent for the cast then."

"Fine." You finished taking the measurements, standing up. The size difference when you looked up at Sevika was... intimidating to say the least.

"You're too short." she teased.

"You're too tall." you said back, picking up your toolbox.

Sevika smiled, knowing it was time for you to go and time for her to resume her gambling session. "Tanner will walk you out." She said. "Make sure she gets home safe." She ordered.

You followed Tanner out the door, glancing at Sevika who was leaning against the table and crossing her arms with a smile on her lips. "Take your time, doll, I trust your work."

To be continued...

#ssevika #sevika arcane #arcane art #arcane 2 #arcane fanfic #arcane #arcane smut #arcane sevika #sevika x reader #sevika x you #sevika x y/n #sevika smut #league of legends #fanfic #strappon #arcane s2 #arcane fanart

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goyardgoyangi · 1 month ago

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movie night with best friend! ino takuma

mdni (18+), read with discretion

You and best friend! ino takuma are sprawled on the couch, legs tangled beneath a shared blanket, bowls of popcorn and snacks scattered across the coffee table. The soft blue glow of the TV washes over you both as the credits for Fifty Shades of Grey roll, ending what was supposed to be an unserious pick for movie night.

It really did start as a joke— a dumb movie playing in the background while you talked shit and vented about your CS lab. Neither of you thought you’d actually watch it. But somehow, you did. And somehow, it was… weirdly entertaining?

Not because it was good. But because it was so bad.

“Can you believe some divorced middle-aged women are really into this shit?” Ino snorts, tossing popcorn into his mouth, nearly choking on a laugh. “Shit lighting and cold-ass metal handcuffs? That’s the fantasy?”

“You know,” you mutter, flicking a kernel of popcorn at him, “if divorced middle-aged women are really into this, they’re freakier than I thought.”

“Don’t forget the damn ice cube. Man acted like he invented temperature.”

You laugh, leaning your head back. “This whole movie is just two hours of annoyingly soft BDSM. Honestly, the pacing was worse than our lecture slides.”

That gets him going. “Oh my god, not the 48-slide presentation on recursion.”

You groan. “No, worse. That one time we spent four hours trying to debug a group project just for the TA to say ‘did you try running it in the terminal again?’ Like yeah, that would totally fix a segmentation fault.”

Ino barks a laugh, nudging your leg with his knee. “You’re still mad about that, huh?”

“Bro. He said we had a logic error, then gave us a 2.1 like it was a favor.”

You both dissolve into giggles. But then, somewhere between the laughter and the low hum of the TV, there’s a shift.

A glance. A silence.

“That ice cube scene had me questioning my entire existence,” you say, voice low, teasing. “You actually believe it’s that good?”

Ino tilts his head at you. “You tryna test it?”

You lift a shoulder, casual. “I mean… the takeout’s not coming for another 40 minutes. We could… experiment. In the name of science.”

He stares at you for a beat, a smirk playing on his lips. “What kind of science? ‘Cause our track record’s mostly just us suffering through broken code and pretending we don’t want to drop the class.”

You lean in slightly, your smile edged with something a little more daring now. “Exactly. We deserve to test a hypothesis that doesn’t end in existential dread.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “So you wanna see if an ice cube can actually make someone— what? Cum?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Just curious if divorced middle-aged women are full of shit or not.”

Ino pauses, his eyes flicking from your face to your mouth, then back. “Strictly for academic purposes?”

You nod solemnly. “Peer-reviewed results.”

He laughs under his breath, standing up and stretching. “Alright. One ice cube.”

You both agree, giggling like kids daring each other to jump off a high dive.

Ino grabs an ice cube from the freezer, holding it loosely between his fingers as water drips down his wrist. He raises an eyebrow at you, that familiar grin quirking at the corner of his mouth.

You lean back against the couch cushions, heart fluttering with a strange cocktail of nerves and excitement. “Okay,” you say, your voice a little breathy, “just… run it over my neck or something.”

He nods, stepping closer, kneeling on the couch beside you. The first touch is tentative— a glinting cube of ice brushing the curve of your collarbone. The cold shocks you, and you flinch, a laugh bubbling up from your chest.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, “that’s colder than I thought—”

But you don’t tell him to stop.

Ino’s touch is slow, deliberate. The ice trails over your skin in lazy lines, tracing along the dip of your neck, across the slope of your shoulder, and down toward your chest. The air shifts, charged with something unspoken.

“You’re shivering,” he murmurs, watching closely.

“I-It’s cold, idiot,” you stammer, laughing— though the sound catches in your throat when the ice drifts over the swell of your breast.

Your nipples stiffen under the chill, and you feel heat spark embarrassingly low in your belly. You’re not supposed to be reacting like this. This was a joke. A bit.

But Ino notices.

He doesn’t say anything right away— just watches you, his hand pausing for a moment as a single drop of melted ice rolls down your skin, disappearing beneath your top.

“Feels good?” he asks, voice quieter now, teasing— but not mocking.

You swallow. “It’s... weird.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, lips twitching. “Weird like debugging for six hours and finding out it was a missing semicolon, or weird like ‘we probably shouldn’t be enjoying this’ kind of weird?”

You shoot him a look, but you can’t bring yourself to deny it. Your body is betraying you. The tension in your thighs. The goosebumps..

He presses the cube just beneath your breast, not quite touching, just letting the cold proximity taunt your skin. You jolt a little and let out an unintentional noise, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and immediately slap your hand over your mouth, mortified.

“Sorry,” you blurt out, cheeks blazing. “It just— happened.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then: “That’s... kinda hot.”

You want to sink into the couch. “Don’t say it like that!”

“What? I’m serious,” he laughs, voice a little rough around the edges now. “I didn’t think that was even real. I thought that kind of reaction was like, a porn-only thing.”

“Well, it’s not!” you say quickly, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my god, Ino.”

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s thinking. You peek through your fingers and see the way he’s looking at you, not with judgment. With curiosity. Like he’s just discovered something entirely new.

You're so embarrassed you squeeze your eyes shut, as if that could dull the sensation— but it only heightens everything. Every glide, every flicker of cold across your heated skin feels sharper, more intimate in the dark behind your eyelids.

“Too cold?” Ino’s voice is low and smug, the sound brushing your ear.

“No,” you whisper, shaky. “Just... surprised.”

The ice moves again, circling lazily, spreading cold in soft arcs over your breast. Every motion makes your stomach clench, warmth pooling lower. You squirm under the touch, overwhelmed by how good it feels— how stupidly good.

“Your reactions are way too cute,” Ino murmurs, his grin is audible in the silence that follows.

You peek at him through half-lidded eyes, flushed and breathless.

He just laughs under his breath, fingers still steady, eyes focused entirely on you.

The ice has melted down to a smaller sliver now, slick between his fingers. He trails it over the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your top, and you shiver again, a soft sound escaping your lips despite yourself.

Your thighs shift. You’re hyperaware of everything— his breathing, your heartbeat, the dampness between your legs that has nothing to do with the melting ice.

“I can grab another one,” he offers, voice husky but careful, waiting for your reaction.

You nod again, unable to find your voice. Your skin’s already tingling, every nerve buzzing like you’re standing too close to a speaker. You’ve never felt like this from something so… simple. So stupid. A cube of ice.

Ino returns with a fresh one, crouching between your legs now as he leans forward. “Just tell me if it gets weird, okay?”

You nod a third time, cheeks burning, your breath shaky. “Okay.”

This time, he drags it lower— down your sternum, over your stomach, circling your navel. His eyes flick up to yours, reading your face the whole time, and when you don’t stop him, he tugs the hem of your shirt up, exposing more skin.

“You’re really warm,” he mutters.

“Thanks?” you squeak, trying to joke, but it comes out too breathy to land right.

The ice cube slips lower, tracing the waistband of your shorts. He hesitates, eyes searching yours again. “Still good?”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Yeah.”

His free hand steadies you, fingers splayed warm against your waist. The contrast is insane. Your body tenses, hips twitching the closer he gets to where you really want him.

It’s not even supposed to be serious, this whole thing started as a joke, an experiment. But the way you’re breathing? The heat pooling between your thighs? There’s nothing funny about it anymore.

When he pushes your waistband down just enough to reach the crease of your inner thigh, you tense. It’s instinct, your body coiling with anticipation as cold hits heat again. The contrast makes your toes curl. You suck in a breath and arch just slightly, chasing sensation before you can stop yourself.

The cube dips lower, and your breath stutters.

“Ino,” you whine, voice embarrassingly thin.

The ice finally presses lower, catching against your inner thigh before sliding up to your center.

The second it grazes over your clit, your body jerks, thighs instinctively trying to snap shut— but Ino’s hand is there, steady and careful, holding you open.

You gasp, back arching. It’s too much. Too cold. Too perfect.

And then it happens.

It’s not something you meant to do. It builds too fast, hitting harder than you expect. A rush of warmth floods out of you in a sudden, helpless pulse— and your eyes fly open in shock.

You squirt.

Your body trembles, caught in the aftershocks of this new pleasure, and the world around you blurs as the sensation pulses deep within your core. Each wave reverberates through your fingertips, sending tiny sparks up your arms and into your chest.

The chill of the ice fades, giving way to a warmth that pulls your back into a natural arch— spine curving, chest rising. Your nipples, flushed and tender from the ice, ache with sensitivity, and every subtle motion sends dizzying jolts of pleasure through you.

Your head tips back without thought, throat bare, your whole body aching forward into Ino.

Another moan escapes, soft and trembling, a lot more whinier this time, laced with the neediness building inside you.

Your body shudders, overwhelmed by a rush of sensation pulsing through every nerve ending. Instinctively, your fingers clench tightly beneath you, knuckles whitening as you reach out for something, anything, to ground you.

Sensing your need, Ino’s hand moves without hesitation, slipping gently into yours. His fingers entwine with yours like a lifeline, grounding you, anchoring you back from the overwhelming sense of pleasure.

His eyes flick down, then widen, completely captivated by your body.

The softness of your skin, the heat radiating from your flushed breasts, it’s impossible for him not to get hard. He tries to commit the moment to memory.

You look so damn irresistible, he thinks, heart pounding.

Your breathing comes in shallow pulls, your chest rising and falling as you reel from the intensity. But the high is short-lived. Shame creeps in slow, then crashes over you all at once— your skin burning, your throat tight, your face impossibly hot.

You slap your hand over your face, mortified.

“Oh my God— Ino— I didn’t mean to—”

“No way—” he whispers, pausing. “you just…?”

“Shut up,” you groan, curling into yourself, face burning. “We are never speaking of this again.”

“No, wait, hold on—” He sounds breathless now, stunned. “You—actually—? That’s —holy shit.”

You groan again, rolling onto your side to hide your face in the pillow. “It was an accident! I swear!”

“I’m not— judging,” he rushes to say, placing a hand gently on your hip. “I just… didn’t know it could happen like that. That really fast.”

You nod, cheeks flaming as you laugh nervously, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, right. You’re just saying that to make me feel better. I— I basically just peed in front of you. I want to die.”

But instead of teasing you, Ino’s smile softens into something almost shy. “Honestly? I really didn’t think that could happen… but, uh, it’s kinda hot. Promise.”

You wring your hands, cheeks burning as your eyes dart away, wanting to hide but also craving to hear him say it’s okay, to reassure you.

Ino reaches out and gently brushes his fingers against yours. “Well,” he says, voice teasing but warm, “some guys are into that kind of thing. You’re definitely not weird. So stop looking so miserable.”

You swallow hard, cheeks still blazing, your heart fluttering wildly in your chest— part mortified, part something else you can’t quite name.

There’s a beat of silence. You peek up at him— he looks flustered, pink creeping up his cheeks, eyes glued to where your shorts are still bunched low on your hips.

Then, quietly:

“Can I try again?”

#ino takuma #takuma ino #ino jjk #jjk ino takuma #jjk takuma #jujutsu ino #jujutsu kaisen ino #ino takuma x reader #ino takuma x you #ino x reader #takuma ino x reader #takuma ino x you #ino takuma fluff #takuma ino fluff #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut

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leviathanleva · 5 months ago

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Caffè Crema

[Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!FemReader]

It was all fine and dandy between you two. You fed him and he helped you move heavy furniture. Then he comes to you with a question because you'd been unknowingly avoiding his advances.

"Is it the scars?"

And you're not really sure how to answer.

[5.2k words]

[Smut, MDNI]

Chapter 2 "Tea and Sugar Cubes"

By ‘come over for lunch sometime’ apparently, Simon understood showing up at your door exactly at twelve the next day. Of course, he hadn’t brought anything with him and you knew it wasn’t because he was stingy, but because he didn’t get invited randomly to nice events such as a lunch enough to know what to bring. He’d shown up in another ratty hoodie and worn-out jeans, his infamous skull facemask obscuring the lower part of his face, his disheveled blond locks tucked under a beany.

Despite the unexpected visit, you welcomed him with a warm smile and even warmer intentions.

He looked very much out of place once he set foot in your small apartment because it was a girl space, adorned with fuzzy couch cushions and color-coded Tupperware. Everything was in its place, everything was somehow delicate. Even your toilet had smelled nice when he’d entered it to take a piss. And of course, when he’d come to the kitchen to wash his hands, your soap was pink.

Simon felt transported into a whole other dimension as soon as he’d entered your humble home, he felt bad for leaving his muddy boots in your corridor as if they’d spread a disease through your sanctuary. He’d offered to leave them outside your door, but after much insisting on your part, he’d left them as they are – a stark contrast to the pretty little sneakers you most likely slipped on in haste to go to the store.

And sure, it was a bit unnerving to have a stranger lingering in your home as you prepared lunch for both of you, but your heart wouldn’t budge when you thought of gently escorting him out. He looked so tired, the discolored crescent moons under his eyes were prominent, the lines on his features looked deeper than they had been yesterday. He looked like he needed a good meal and a good nap after, a hot shower too.

You’d glance at him every so often, picking up the décor from the coffee table in the living room and inspecting it, tilting his head ever so lightly to the side, like a confused pup, before setting it back down and picking another. You’d left the kitchen door wide open to monitor him, but the more you looked, the sadder the picture of him became. You’d throw a comment his way, asking him about how his night had been, if he’d had any breakfast before coming, if he’d like to have a coffee, only to receive one-word responses.

Unfortunately, once you were slaving over the stove you couldn’t peek at him without looking suspicious so you just let him be. Surely, he hadn’t come to rob the place. He didn’t look like the type, seemed too polite in his rough and tough way.

Soon enough your mundane questions received no answers and despite knowing you might look like an anxious rat turning around, you did so anyway.

Only to find him asleep on your sofa.

He was curled up like a fetus, one arm tucked under his head with his face smushed in one of your pretty cushions. He was too big for the couch, that much was evident, he looked almost comical for napping on your girly sofa if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d been so tired he’d fallen asleep in a stranger’s apartment. You took pity on him, of course, you did, and brought over a blanket from your bedroom to lay over him.

He didn’t even budge when you tucked him in, only murmuring a sleepy curse before his light snoring began again.

It broke your heart when his meal was finally ready and you woke him up with a gentle shake to his shoulder. The poor thing looked so disoriented that you had to bite into your cheek just to keep from giggling. He scarfed down the plate of food you’d prepared for him so fast that you worried he might choke. He didn’t though, he literally licked the plate clean, stood up, thanked you for the food, and headed for the corridor to put on his boots and leave.

Despite the weirdness, you didn’t want to seem desperate, chalking up his sudden departure as him being busy. You let him leave with a soft chirp for him to stop by any time because he looked like he needed it. You’d curled up on the couch after, your lunch forgotten, and breathed in his faint scent of cigarettes and musk as you tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Ghost just kept coming after that day, unannounced, like a stray who’d finally found a home. After the third or fourth time he’d showed up for you to basically feed, bathe and let him nap, you started to find him work around the apartment.

“Simon, can you move the fridge so I clean behind it?” you ask in a sugary voice, timidly standing at the entrance to the living room because you liked looking helpless in front of him. Something about male pride and all that.

He got up without a word and stalked to your kitchen before moving the fridge with ease.

“Good ‘nough?” He glanced up at you, still crouched with his hands gripping the underside of the fridge.

And maybe you were a bit of an ass for shaking your head, but you liked watching him doing everyday tasks and flexing his strength for you.

“Little more to the left, please.”

He did as he was told and much to his surprise, you were beaming.

“Thank you, Darling.” You coo and pat the rumpled tuft of hair on his crown before he stands up to his full height.

A shudder runs up his spine at your gentle gesture and soon enough he’s moving furniture and reaching the top shelves in your kitchen before you can even ask. Anything to get another dose of praise and a mellow, appreciative squeeze to his arm or pat on the head. And Simon wasn’t one to easily open up and speak of what he likes and doesn’t, and he’d be caught dead before he admitted to your soothing gestures causing his entire body to tingle, but the fact was that they did and he was addicted from day one.

He liked your cooking, loved your praise and smile, and that was enough to keep him coming. As his visits continued, he started bringing offerings – from a steaming mug of coffee from the café you’d first met at, to flowers.

“My mate said you might like these.” Were his words as he thrust the bouquet in your arms and headed towards your living room without another word.

You’d pressed those flowers in an old book lying around, memorializing them while he’d been curiously peeking over your shoulder, with one large hand resting absentmindedly on your hip.

Then there was that one night when you’d offered him a slice of cake for dessert after a filling dinner. Typical him had accepted the offer and wolfed down the treat within two bites. Meanwhile, you’d been doting silently on him from the other end of the table, snorting when he looked up at you with icing stuck to his upper lip. You’d reached over to wipe him clean only to have him lean into your touch, thinking you were trying to cup his cheek. He’d avoided your gaze like the plague when he’d realized what you were doing while you tried to keep your little heart from shattering at his touch-starved demeanor.

Touches became not only a show of praise, but a frequent display of affection after that incident. Whether you were watching a movie on your couch or you were cooking something up in the kitchen, you made sure there was always some sort of physical connection between you two and since Ghost hadn’t protested, you’d taken that as a sign to keep at it.

Soon enough, quiet dinners extended to watching movies together afterward, which would, in itself, end up with the old soldier snoozing on your lap, his nose buried in the plushness of your thighs as his large arms encircled your waist, locking you in place until he woke up. You didn’t have the guts to stir him awake considering you didn’t know if the last time he managed to get shuteye was two days ago on that very same sofa or the night before at his base. You’d just card your fingers through his hair and rake your nails over his scalp while he purred at you in his sleep.

He told you little about himself and his work, but from what you’d gathered, he came from a troubled home, dragged an awfully dark past with him, and had very few people he considered friends. Soap was one of them. You’d actually laughed when he’d first mentioned Johnny’s callsign, refusing to believe him until he’d pulled out his phone and called the bloke to confirm.

In a way, you pitied him. Whatever he’d gone through was unimaginable to you, you could see it resurface in his eyes sometimes when you left him by himself to tend to chores or to return to work on your laptop. You tried to help, anchor him back as soon as his mind started drifting, and for the most part, you succeeded. But some days were tougher than others and besides being a silent, warm, physical manifestation of comfort for him, with arms draped over his neck and cheek pressed into his crown as he had his face buried in your sternum, there was nothing more to do.

He had to ride out the nightmares alone in his mind.

Despite PTSD constantly nipping at his heels, Simon looked better. The dark bags under his eyes began to subside the more he stopped by, the defeated slope of his shoulders evolved into a relaxed slump. The best part was that he’d put on weight under your constant pestering to eat more. You could tell, especially when he was clad in nothing but an old tanktop while helping you around the apartment, there was a thin layer of fat splayed over the hard plates on his stomach. His chest had grown, the biceps on his arms weren’t just two balls of muscle stuffed under his battle-scarred skin, there was more meat there now.

And maybe it was because he’d figured out that you didn’t expect anything in return for your kindness, or maybe your cooking tasted that good on his tongue, or maybe he really liked the feeling of your soft curves pressed into him whenever you were curled up on the sofa. But he’d shown up sporting a duffle bag in one hand one day. He’d set it down by his feet while you’d eyed him curiously, returned your gaze with one of evenness and calm, as if his actions made so much sense, and then he’d walked past you to go wash his hands.

He just…didn’t leave after that.

Still, ever the gentleman of few words, he’d taken it upon himself to sleep on the couch. As generous as you were, the bed was something you weren’t willing to give up, and thankfully he’d understood that fact without you having to voice it.

You’d not heard a single complaint from him for anything – not when you’d burned the lasagna that one time, or when you’d asked him to practically rearrange your whole kitchen because you didn’t have the strength to do so by yourself. It was a blessing.

What wasn’t a blessing was how blind you were to Ghost’s attempts at seducing you. When he’d practically picked you up and laid you on his lap during movie night, you’d chalked it up to him needing physical contact because he was having a bad episode. When he’d passed you in the kitchen with the intent to get to the fridge, he’d made sure your bum got the full package of his dick glide past it. He probably hadn’t had enough space to pass, so you’d moved closer to the counter, completely missing his intention. When he’d come out fresh from the shower, covered in droplets of water that just accentuated his mouthwatering physique and with skin steaming and glinting with cleanliness, he’d stood before you in nothing but a towel around his hips. His excuse was that he needed a towel for his hair as well and despite that he was puffed up and showing off like a peacock, you’d missed it. You’d gotten up in a hurry, worrying that he’d get chilly and catch a cold if he stood as such any longer. You’d rushed to find him something for his hair, unintentionally stomping over his plan of mesmerizing you with his provocative state.

He wasn’t sure what he was doing wrong. Everything he’d tried on you had worked on other birds in the past. So why were you not falling for it? Were you just not interested? Was he mixing up the signals?

Ghost was at a loss.

So much so that he’d finally had enough of your ignorant nature and simply brought it up.

“Think I’m ugly, Bird?”

You pause halfway into scrolling on your phone, thumb hovering over the screen, frozen. Your eyes lift and roll to the left and you look at Simon with the most dumbfounded expression you could muster.

You’d just finished lunch, now both lounging in your living room as you tapped away on your phone while he silently watched a random documentary on the telly, sprawled over the sofa with you, curled up at his feet, knees to your chest and squishing a pillow under your chin.

“What?” You blurt out and shift in your spot, being mindful not to crush his toes even though he’d tucked them under your bum to keep warm. You shake your head, blink at him a few times as if he’d just thrown the most inappropriate comment your way, and repeat: “I’m sorry, what?”

Still as a rock, while propped up one elbow, he doesn’t say anything more, patiently waiting for a proper reply. You ogle him, left partly speechless by his sudden inquiry, and silently set down your phone on the coffee table before puffing out an awkward breath and crossing your fingers in your lap.

“No, of course, not. What?” You let out an uneasy snort, thumbs dancing over each other to ease the embarrassment forming in your gut. “Why would you ask me that?”

There’s a moment of nothingness that passes, with only the TV buzzing in your ear as you stare at each other. As always he’s as relaxed as can be when under your roof, slack against the cushions while you’re coiled like a violin string, waiting for him to clarify.

He picks up the remote to lower the volume, maybe buying himself time before continuing the tense conversation.

“Don’ wanna sleep with me is all.”

“I – Excuse – ” You lean closer as if you’d not heard the words that had tumbled out of his mouth so casually.

“ – Is it the scars?”

You nearly pounce at his assumption, ready to smother him in tender kisses and gentle caresses until he forgets what he was even talking about. But you don’t because you worry how he’ll react to sudden movements, you don’t want to trigger him into military mode. So instead, you slowly scoot over and reach for his hand, curling yours in his calloused palm and locking your fingers together before giving them a squeeze.

“Simon…no.” A mournful smile speckles onto your lips as you speak, a certain melancholy to your usually warm eyes. Your answer gives no room for protests or objections, as simple as it is, it carries enough weight to snuff out the demons of uncertainty that have been plaguing him. “Not gonna lie, it’s insulting you’d even think that.”

“What’s the problem then?” He asks, voice hoarse and rough, the usual combo that sends pleasant chills down your spine and butterflies fluttering through your stomach. He sits up, hand still locked with yours as he comes to loom over you.

“There isn’t any!” You all but whine in barely sustained aggravation and grip his shoulder, shaking it gently, emphasizing your words with each weak tug and push. “I just…didn’t think. I mean… I’m happy to just have you here, Simon. I didn’t think you wanted to…” The words get caught in your throat as your pulse picks up pace. You rip your eyes away from his chocolate browns and sigh something defeated.

How was this even a problem at the moment? How hadn’t you picked up on his hints?

Thinking back, you saw the signs, the not-so-subtle gestures he displayed to show his attraction for you, that he wanted more. You’d been too worked up in trying to get him to have enough rest and feed him, offer a pleasant home for him. In your mind, he’d registered more as a beaten stray dog than a human with feelings and desires.

He was literally a grown man with a dick and you’d been treating him like a child.

It was embarrassing, hard to swallow the more your memories pile up your head.

“You think a bloke’s just gonna move in with a pre’y bird like you and not wanna shag?”

He pushes you back with his mass then, eases you back into the cushions with one arm gripping onto the armrest of the sofa to steady himself, making sure he doesn’t crush you under his weight.

“I just didn’t give it much thought.” You force out a murmur, yielding to him until you’re stuffed into the sofa, fidgeting beneath his bulk with your knees protectively lifted over your chest and ankles crossed over your sex. “I didn’t want to push in case you just wanted comfort.”

Your attention turns to the TV screen and you focus on the fleeting pictures there, still refusing to face him properly as both your bashfulness and embarrassment flare inside your chest. It’s too much, there’s just not enough space for your pounding heart, hyperventilating lungs, and emotions under your ribcage, you feel like bursting any moment now. But it doesn’t happen, instead, you're trapped beneath a man you barely know who’s made your home his as well.

It all comes flooding the more you’re left to explore the logical side of your brain.

You knew barely anything about him, hadn’t seen his face fully bared once, hadn’t known him for more than a month or two. He was just a random bloke you’d bumped into at the coffee shop and now, fast forward, he was living with you. Yet your heart lurches with excitement and heat begins to gather between your trembling thighs at his actions.

“Piss off with that shite.” He grumbles bitterly before sliding one hand under your calf and pulling your legs apart only to settle comfortably between them, trapping you beneath him. “Wanted to bend ya ove’ the counter moment I saw you fussin’ ‘round in the kitchen cuz of me.”

One large palm comes to knead at the supple flesh of your breast. He hisses in delight at your lack of a bra and dips his nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling your familiar scent with delight. Of course, you weren’t wearing a bra, you were home. He was the intruder here, or was.

Intruder no more with his toothbrush in your bathroom and his clothes in your closet. A toothy smirk tugged on his thin lips at the realization.

Should have never been nice to him in the first place. Shouldn’t have let him inside your home.

Now you were stuck with him.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You mewl beneath him, words muffled into his shoulder as you tentatively wrap your legs around his waist, hands coming to rest on his back and toying with the idea of pulling off his sweater.

He picks up on your tugs all too quickly and is more than willing, pulling away from you enough to discard the article before squishing you under his bare chest. It takes him to run his clothed mouth over the column of your neck once before you’re purring against him, clutching at the vast expanse of his marred flesh, nails catching ever so gently on the swells of his scars and making him bite back grunts of approval.

“Thought I’d be a gentleman and wait till you came t’ me.” He’s rasping softly in the shell of your ear as his rough, needy paw travels down to your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your loose top and greedily mapping out the skin beneath. The fabric bunches up under his exploration and soon enough he’s pulling it over your head and you’re too lost in the heat of him to protest. “Didn’t expect you to be this bloody daft though.”

He presses the growing tent in his sweats against your pulsing heat, earns a choked-out moan in return that ripples through his body and awakens his skin with goosebumps. You jolt in his arms at the sudden feeling, only to be stilled in place by muscular arms.

He’s scarfing down your scent like a man nearly drowned and, having pulled his mask up, lapping at your neck with fervor, crooked nose pressing into your pulse point.

“Pre’y bird…too busy takin’ care o’ me to take care o’ yerself.”

Your back arches up, breasts squishing against his chest, skin on skin, the contact making his mouth water as he continues to slowly grind against you.

And you’re so drunk on him that you’re a hair’s breadth away from tugging your shorts down and pushing his head between your thighs. But a part of you refuses to relent, the same part that keeps screaming in the back of your head that you know nothing about him except his name and occupation, which is your God damned home.

You’ve had flings before, one-night stands, but none of the men you’d been with were anything like him. He was intimidating, a giant of a man that could overpower you so easily it was laughable. He was fucking dangerous, he was lethal, and he was currently grinding against you like he’d not seen a woman before in his life.

“You alright?” Simon halts his hungry nipping on your skin and leans back enough to look you in the eye. A hand goes up to steady your trembling arm that you’d no idea was trembling in the first place. “You’re shaking…”

You offer him a wry smile, spitting a soft half-truth between chattering teeth. Technically you are cold, but it wasn’t the reason for your trembling. He was. His presence.

“Just cold…”

He snorts at your lie, but still tugs the discarded blanket on the backrest of the couch over his shoulders, cocooning you completely as he settles back above you, pressing you down into the cushions.

“Don’ worry, pre’y girl.” His nose brushes against yours as he slowly lowers himself, mouth and stubbly chin brushing over your sensitive skin. “I’ll keep you warm.”

While one arm stays glued to his back you let the other one wander, settling on his cheek, fingers dipping under his mask and making him swallow back a grunt as he shudders.

Despite your mind hollering and red light blaring in your mind, you’re the one that seals your mouths together, pressing your lips against his and flicking your tongue over the scar running down to his jaw. He snarls in your mouth, tongue darting out to fetch yours when his fingers dip beyond the hem of your shorts only to find you already dripping for him.

When he starts rubbing gentle circles into your swollen clit, you see stars in the back of your eyelids. Instinctively, you try to close your thighs around his hand, ending up only squeezing him closer by the waist. A heady moan makes you break the kiss, lips swollen and glistening with saliva, heavy-lidded eyes looking up at him in a haze of need and something Ghost refuses to acknowledge as trust. But your pouty expression and quacking thighs are enough to push him past the little patience he’d been clinging to.

He hooks his sopping fingers on the waistband of your bottoms before tugging them down your legs, a satisfied grumble vibrating deep in his chest as you wiggle along to hasten the process. Dark orbs peek from under blond lashes as he takes the sight of you, with only a thin slip covering your leaking sex. His canines slip from under his upper lip as he watches you cover your chest and mumble out that you’re cold again, face turned away from him as your cheeks heat up.

“ ‘S okay, luv.” He coos and dives back in, surging with satisfaction when you cling to him the moment he was in reach. “ ‘M here. Got you.”

He doesn’t even bother to take off your panties, just moves the soaked strip aside before shrugging his sweatpants down enough for his pulsing hardness to spring free. And you’re a curious creature, your eyes slip down to look at him ready and waiting, hovering over your pretty cunt, tip swollen and leaking already.

“I’m not safe.” I stammer out while swallowing back a copious amount of saliva at the sight of him. “You gotta – ”

“ – I’ll pull out.” He reassures you hurriedly before he’s already sheathing himself into your welcoming heat.

Ghost’s jaw clenches with forced-back moans as he sinks into your fluttering pussy. Remnants of you slick dampen the thick dark hairs at his base when he finally manages to bottom out inside you, forced to bully his cock through your tight walls until the tip kisses your cervix and makes your toes curl.

His hands found their way under your ass, cupping both firm globes of flesh and pulling you flush against him. You come face to face with his chest, the difference in size making your coupling a bit awkward in this position, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In all honestly, the ghost of a smile on his lips told you that he likes hovering over you like this while you took whatever it was he gave you.

And you want to scold yourself for taking him so willingly, for your body betraying you so quickly when he’d technically not given you anything besides a few tiny gifts that hadn’t even been his idea. But you can’t help but whine up at him instead, greedy little sounds of protest because he’s waiting for you to adjust to being split open on his cock instead of just fucking into you and giving you what you need.

You’re wrapped around him like a snake, muscles contorting and fingers clutching at the slope of his spine as he starts to gently rock his hips, balls slapping against your flesh and making you pant in anticipation of how full they were.

“Si – ”

He kisses you with a desperation that knocks the air out of you, curling in on himself and propping you up enough to silence you before his name slips past your lips. He readily swallows your moans, letting you sob on his tongue as he works you open with thrusts far too tender for your liking.

It’s a death sentence, hearing his name honeyed by your sweet voice, especially now. He wouldn’t be able to take it, would crumble in your arms and slip past your fingers like sand.

Despite his rush earlier, his restrain told you more than you wanted to know. That he’s not just fucking you dumb into your cute little sofa, that there’s more there, an intimacy you’d been too kind to bring up to him in exchange for the efforts you’d poured into him because that’s what you’d wanted from the start. The knowledge turns your legs to pudding and you find yourself struggling to keep hold of him as he rocks into you.

With a teary-eyed expression and a cry from a particularly angled thrust, you free his back from the onslaught of your nails and reach between your bodies to press down on your neglected clit, seeking relief from the tension building up painfully in your belly.

He smacks your hand away with a grunt, dips his fingers between your folds instead and glares down at you as if you’d just made a grave mistake.

It was his job to make you come. He was to have your toes curling, you shouldn’t have to do anything, and the fact that you’d tried to get yourself off while he was right there was insulting. The rough pads on his fingers circle your sensitive flesh and you’re clawing at him in pleasure, blubbering out loving incoherences that make his ears tingle.

He’s not fast enough to lock his mouth over yours and swallow the broken calls of his name when your climax washes over you. You’re too slippery beneath him, skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat as your cunt locks around him like a vice and refuses to let him pull out the whole way. Writhing as you are, he barely manages to lock you securely beneath him as he speeds up, spurred on to near madness by your breathless, throaty call, his name on your tongue turned on loop and the precious words of encouragements dusted in between.

It’s too intimate, his real name being moaned in such a way, hits too close to home, does something deep in his gut and makes his legs weak. His tempo becomes uneven, hips sputtering, slapping against yours as he drives himself in until his tip is pressing against your core. It feels surreal, everything around him does – your touches, ever gentle even when you claw at him, your heat, willing and slick just for him, your voice ringing so potently in his ears it makes his teeth chatter.

It’s all too much, your existence overwhelms him, all of his sense and soon enough he’s forgotten that he has to keep you safe, has to pull out of your addictive heat. Instead, he’s rutting against you viciously, fangs bared and eyes closed as he drowns in your pleas for more and the weak fists that are thumping against his chest.

You’re in no better state, urging him on and coiling around him with a promise that you’ll take a pill first thing in the morning. Your high-pitched howling shatters into gaspy sobs when he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder and snarls as he jerks his hips. His spent floods your welcoming womb, his balls sucked dry by your convulsing cunt. He’d nearly fucked you off the couch with how selfishly brutal he’d gotten in the end.

Spurts of cum seeped out of you when he begrudgingly pulled out, a whine clawing its way up your throat when you feel his shaky fingers gathering up the leaking fluid before pushing it back inside you. He clambers down next to you, rolls on his side and crushes you against his chest and you know better than to protest even though you’d love to take a nice hot shower right about now.

He eyes you with something akin to tenderness before tucking you under his chin and pressing his nose into your dampened hair.

It’s fine.

You’d take a pill tomorrow.

<<< Chapter 1

Chapter 3 >>>

Masterlist

#x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost fanfiction #ghost cod #ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod fanfic #cod mw2

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cinder-stella · 16 days ago

Text

𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙗𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙬𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙚𝙧 𝙇𝙤𝙫𝙞𝙣’ 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙆𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙤… <18+ NSFW>

(Sometimes…when it’s really hot…you have no other choice but to generate your own breeze)

The air conditioning had died sometime around 1pm and so had Kento’s will to live.

Now, nearly 4PM, the apartment was a heat trap. Stale air clung to the walls. Sweat slicked along the back of his neck. Even the remote control felt sticky in his hand. He’d shed his shirt and pants an hour ago and hadn't moved from the couch since.

On the TV, a lion mounted its mate for approximately five seconds, then flopped to the ground like a sandbag.

“Five seconds,” Kento muttered. “Impressive.”

Across the room, you crunched loudly on an ice cube.

Crunch.

Crunch crunch.

CRUNCH.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You're going to break a molar.”

You crunched again, louder this time.

“Then you’ll have to spoon-feed me soup,” you said. “Very romantic.”

He let his head roll to the side. You were standing by the fridge, wearing those little shorts again—the ones that didn’t really cover anything. Your thighs gleamed. You were holding a cup of ice, chewing obnoxiously, completely unfazed by the heat. Your hair was a mess.

“Why are you enjoying this?” he asked.

“I’m used to it.” You shrugged. “You’re the one melting into the couch.”

“I’m acclimated to efficiency. Not hell.”

That earned a grin. You strolled over with the same casual stride you always had when you were about to do something stupid. Nanami braced himself.

You stopped in front of him and blocked the screen. He didn’t care.

“You’ve been watching lion porn for an hour.”

“It’s educational.”

“I’m changing it.”

You plucked the remote from his hand.

Your cold fingers brushed his and he flinched. “Put it back,” he said.

“Make me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You grinned like a predator. You climbed into his lap—sweaty skin meeting sweaty skin, his boxers strained around his hips, your body soft, warm and smug.

“Tough talk for a guy dying from a little heat,” you said.

“I am dying.”

You shift slightly and pause. “You’re hard.”

“I—well—It’s a cry for help.”

You snorted and kissed the corner of his mouth. His hands slid instinctively to your waist, thumbs dragging over your skin, slow like he was still deciding if he had the energy for this.

Then you rolled your hips once. That’s all it took for his resolve to crack. He groaned, low and guttural, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Still dying?” you whispered, lips brushing his ear.

“Ask me again in five minutes.”

☀︎

You ride him slow, your feet planted on the cushions, hips working with the kind of teasing rhythm that makes his breath stutter and his hands tremble on your thighs. He’s too warm, too wound-up, watching you like you’re something dangerous.

“You look like you want to beg,” you tease, bracing yourself and riding him harder. “You can, if you want.”

He exhales sharply. “Not a chance.”

“No?” You slow to a grind that makes him curse softly. “Then why do you sound like that?”

He doesn’t answer. Just pulls you in and kisses you like it’ll help him regain control. It doesn’t. You moan into his mouth, thighs trembling from the heat and pressure, breath catching every time he thrust up into you in that sharp, precise way that tells you he’s getting close.

You feel him stiffen just slightly—hear the way his breath stutters, his fingers gripping hard enough to bruise. “Kento,” you purr, leaning in close. “Are you going to cum already?”

He shakes his head, breath ragged. “N–no. I’m—f-fuck—”

“I can feel you,” you whisper, dragging your nails over his chest. “So desperate. So good for me.”

And then, just to ruin him completely, you wrap one hand around his throat—soft, careful pressure, more possessive than forceful.

His whole body jolts. His eyes flutter shut. He lets out a moan so deep and raw you swear you feel it in your own bones.

“Oh, Ken.” Your voice drops, thick with amusement. “Did you just—?”

His hips buck up into you in a desperate, stuttering rhythm. “Fuck,” he gasps. “I’m—I’m sorry—”

You feel it—the pulse, the warmth, the unmistakable spill of him as he cums hard inside you, his whole body trembling beneath yours.

Still dazed, still heavy-limbed, his hand slides between your thighs. He finds your clit with two fingers and rubs slow, tight circles. His mouth moves to your shoulder, teeth dragging gently, his voice low and wrecked, “Your turn.”

You don’t fight it. Not when he touches you like that. Focused, thorough, the kind of steady pressure that always drives you crazy. Your legs shake. Your head drops to his neck. You cum with a soft moan, breathing his name like it was sacred, back arching as you clench around him one last time.

☀︎

The apartment was dead quiet, except for the ceiling fan squeaking lazily overhead.

Kento exhaled into your shoulder. “That in-fact did not help.”

You smiled against his throat. “I’m kind of loving it right now.”

“I will combust right now if I don’t take a cold shower.”

You kissed his cheek, then reached behind him to grab another ice cube.

He didn’t even lift his head—just mumbled, “I swear, if you crunch that in my ear, I will—”

Crunch.

“…I’m breaking up with you.”

You crunched again. “No you’re not.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

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tarotwithavi · 4 months ago

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Facts about your future spouse

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How to choose a pile?

Close your eyes and take a deep breath and ask the angels to show you the right pile for you and open your eyes. The first pile that catches your attention is the right pile for you.

Don't forget to like and reblog to show support 🫶🏻

PILE 1

Their mother might be strict or might have german accent. She has a tough way with words.

You might meet them at UNI or an Educational Institute. You can also meen them in foreign land.

Italy or Italian architecture might be significant.

They have really attactive and big hands. It seems that they take good care of their hands.

They might have a butterfly tattoo somewhere on their body. Or butterflies might be significant.

They might have tanned or olive skin.

They might love dogs and can have dogs as pet. Especially white furred dogs.

They might have a uniquely shaped belly botton lol.

Women in their family wear a lot of red or red color might have some significance in their family.

They might have Leo, Capricorn, Gemini or Libra as their sun moon or rising.

They have an oddly specific pet peeve, like people who chew too loud or use too many emojis.

Their handwriting changes depending on their mood, and even they don’t understand why.

PILE 2

Your future spouse has a weirdly specific skill like solving a Rubik’s cube in under a minute or knowing way too much about a niche topic.

They will absolutely roast you for your bad decisions, but in the most loving way possible. A bit sassy and sarcastic.

They always find money in the most random places lol like pockets, couch cushions, even inside books they haven’t opened in years.

They have strong opinions about tea vs. coffee. they may prefer tea over coffee.

They have a really soothing voice, the kind that makes you feel safe, even when they’re ranting about something completely ridiculous.

They are the type of person who adopts strays—animals, plants, and sometimes even chaotic people who just need a little guidance.

They have a love-hate relationship with technology. They might be a genius at fixing things but also somehow manage to break their phone charger every two months.

You’re going to have an inside joke so ridiculous that saying just one word will send you both into uncontrollable laughter.

They have a very specific way of organizing things that only they understand. You’ll think their desk is a mess, but if you move one thing, they’ll notice immediately.

When they’re focused, they zone out completely.

PILE 3

They give the best pep talks, but in a brutally honest way. They won’t sugarcoat things.

They have a weirdly strong intuition. They might casually predict things without realizing it, like saying, "I have a feeling it's going to rain," and suddenly there's a thunderstorm.

If they start a book, show, or game, they have to finish it, even if they hate it. They’ll suffer through it just because they need to know how it ends.

They always get the perfect gift for people. It’s like they have a sixth sense for what will make someone’s heart explode with happiness. (Meanwhile, they’ll say they’re “bad at gifts.” Lies.)

When they’re really focused, they talk to themselves without realizing it.

They’ve gone through something really tough in the past, and because of it, they have become really resilient.

Their sneeze is either ridiculously tiny or absurdly loud. No in-between.

They always hum random songs but never realize they’re doing it.

They take their food way too seriously like personally offended if fries aren’t crispy enough.

They have an unreadable expression that makes it impossible to tell if they’re joking or dead serious.

#tarot reading #pick a card #tarot cards #free readings #tarot #free tarot #pick a pile #tarotblr #pick a picture #pick a photo #tarotwithavi #tarotwisdom #tarot witch #tarotcommunity #tarot readings #future spouse reading #future spouse #future lover #love tarot reading

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gf2bellamy · 3 months ago

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helloooo

ive recently been reading your spencer fics and i absolutely adore your writing! i was wondering if you could write a sick/comfort fic where the reader is sick and spencer takes care of them until they're feeling better

thanks x

sick — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship, reader is sick , reader has a headache and has a fever , mention of medicine a/n: hiii !!! i hope you like this <3

You felt awful. Completely and utterly miserable. Your body ached, your head throbbed, and no matter what you did, you just couldn’t get comfortable.

One second, you were burning up, the next, you were freezing. You groaned in frustration as you tossed and turned, trying to find a position that didn’t make you feel like a furnace or an ice cube.

Just as you were about to give up and resign yourself to a sleepless night, a soft knock echoed from your front door. You frowned, sitting up with a wince, your limbs sluggish from exhaustion.

Begrudgingly, you swung your legs over the couch, tugging the oversized sweater—Spencer’s sweater—down over your thighs as you shuffled to the door.

When you cracked it open, the last person you expected to see was standing on the other side.

“Spencer?” Your tired, bleary eyes widened slightly in surprise as you took in his familiar face.

He stood there, concern etched into his features, a plastic bag in one hand. His sharp eyes quickly scanned you from head to toe, taking in your fever-flushed skin, your disheveled hair, the blanket barely hanging off your shoulders.

“Hi,” he greeted softly, his brows furrowing. “Can I come in?”

You stepped aside without a word, widening the door as he entered. As soon as he stepped inside, he shrugged off his jacket and toed off his shoes, all while keeping an eye on you.

You barely had the energy to talk as you trudged back to the couch, plopping down with an exhausted sigh.

“How are you feeling?” Spencer asked as he set the bag down on the coffee table, his voice gentle.

“Good,” you muttered half-heartedly, sinking further into the cushions.

Spencer scoffed, settling beside you as he nudged your legs out of the way to make room. “Yeah, because your hoarse voice, the dark circles under your eyes, and the medicine bottles on the table all scream ‘good.’” His voice was laced with dry sarcasm, but his fingers were delicate as they brushed your hair back, pressing the back of his hand against your forehead.

You sighed at the cool touch, closing your eyes for a moment.

“Spencer,” you murmured, peeking up at him, “what are you doing here? You're going to get sick.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he dug through the bag, pulling out a bottle of medicine and a box of tea before turning back to you. “I was worried about you,” he admitted, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “And I don’t care if I get sick.”

Your lips parted, ready to protest, but Spencer’s hand lingered on your face. His touch was comforting, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to your feverish skin.

“Did you eat anything?” he asked, his voice quieter now, filled with concern.

You raised a lazy hand, pointing toward the half-empty sleeve of crackers on the table.

Spencer followed your gaze, frowning. “That’s not food,” he muttered under his breath. Before you could argue, he was already standing up. “I’m making you soup.”

You reached out instinctively, catching his hand before he could walk away. “Thanks, Spence,” you whispered, your grip weak.

He smiled down at you, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before heading to the kitchen.

Some time later, you found yourself curled up against him, your head resting on his shoulder as a movie played in the background.

Spencer’s warmth beside you was soothing, and as the movie played in the background, your exhaustion started to creep in again. You barely paid attention to the screen—your focus was on the way his fingers absentmindedly traced soft patterns along your arm.

“Feeling any better?” he asked after a while, tilting his head slightly to look at you.

You let out a small hum, neither confirming nor denying it.

You felt... calmer, at least. Maybe it was the soup, or the medicine starting to kick in. Or maybe it was just him.

Spencer chuckled softly, shifting a little to pull the blanket up around you both. “That bad, huh?”

You sighed. “Still feel awful. But this is nice.”

His lips quirked into a small smile. “Well, that's good.”

You nestled further into his side, letting your head rest more comfortably against his shoulder. Spencer didn’t seem to mind, if anything, he adjusted slightly to support you better. His arm draped loosely around you, his fingertips brushing over the fabric of his sweater that you were still wearing.

“You should sleep,” he murmured after a few minutes of silence.

“Can’t.”

Spencer didn’t push you. Instead, he gently reached for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. His thumb traced slow, absentminded circles against your skin.

“You know,” he started, his voice quiet, “there’s a study that shows listening to someone read can help with sleep. Something about the cadence of a familiar voice activating relaxation responses in the brain.”

You cracked one eye open, looking up at him. “Are you offering to read to me?”

He smirked slightly. “Would that help?”

You gave a small, tired nod.

Spencer reached for the bag he’d brought, pulling out a book—of course, he had a book with him. You weren’t even surprised. He adjusted his posture, letting you settle against him more comfortably before flipping the pages.

You weren’t sure when exactly sleep finally won over, but the last thing you felt before drifting off was Spencer’s hand squeezing yours, his voice lulling you into the best rest you’d had in days.

#criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x you #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic

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sg-the-mag-by · 5 months ago

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I love this theory as I make my Fairy OC who is Peri's best friend(later boyfriend) to be a non round baby because he was born the natural way for fairy babies(in my AU once Peri was born the Fairy Baby ban was basically lifted because fairies knew how to better handle super powerful baby fairies).

And it just shows how strong of a bond Peri would have to Timmy to this day.

I have a "headcanon" that Peri was born round because he was literally a wish. And the other fairies looked like normal(human like) looking babies (ie like Cosmo in the flashback of the episode “Fairly odd baby”). I know that in "canon" Cosmo and Wanda looked round as babies. However, in theory, both of them should not be round..?

In the episode where Timmy wished for some of the fairies to be the same age as Poof. And their "roundness" can be explained by the fact that magic was used in this case. As in the case of Poof's birth. And then it would be even more interesting. It would show how a normal birth differs from a birth with the help of magic. And how this affects the magic of the fairies with age. And it would also explain the theories about Poof/Peri's uncontrollable magic and that with age it only intensified.

#fairly oddparents #fop #fop new wish #fop cosmo #fop poof #fop wanda #fop peri #fop timmy #timmy turner #wished for fairy babies equal bouncy balls #and either all wished for anti fairy babies are cubes or that couch cushion anti wanda ate really did change her unborn son's shape

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amourquinn · 6 months ago

Text

( short fic ) 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑

pairing : boyfriend!quinn x fem!reader wc. 1k

genre : fluff warnings : nudity(?) it’s not explicitly mentioned

summary : you’re horribly sick and quinn takes care of you

the hum of the apartment heater filled the air, the vancouver rain tapping softly against the windows. the dimly lit living room was cocooned in warmth, but you could barely feel it. wrapped in a blanket, you sat on the couch, your legs curled up beneath you, a faint shiver running through your fevered body.

quinn walked into the room, his brow furrowed with concern. he had just come back from practice, his hair still damp from the post-skate shower, but his focus was entirely on you.

“have you eaten anything today?” he asked, placing a hand gently on your forehead to check your temperature. his touch was cool, a welcome relief from the heat radiating off your skin.

you shook your head weakly, your voice barely above a whisper. “i don’t think i can keep anything down.”

quinn frowned but didn’t press further. instead, he disappeared into the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a glass of cold water with three ice cubes in it. “try to sip on this, at least. you need to stay hydrated.”

you took the glass with trembling hands, but quinn quickly noticed your struggle and held it steady for you. “you’re burning up,” he murmured. “i think it’s time for another dose of medicine.”

you groaned, leaning back against the cushions. “i hate taking that stuff. it tastes awful.”

quinn chuckled softly, kneeling beside the couch so you were eye level. “i know, but it’s either that or i drag you to the doctor—and we both know how much you hate that.”

reluctantly, you nodded, letting him measure out the syrupy liquid into the small cap. he coaxed you into taking it, his gentle encouragement making the unpleasant experience bearable.

“you’re really good at this,” you said, your voice raspier than usual.

“at what?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he set the empty medicine cup aside.

“taking care of me. you’re sweet.”

quinn’s cheeks flushed a light pink, but he shrugged it off. “someone’s gotta do it, and I’m not going to let you suffer alone.”

⋆˙⟡

later that evening, as your fever continued to climb, quinn refused to leave your side. he sat next to you on the couch, your head resting on his shoulder as he scrolled absentmindedly through netflix, trying to find something to distract you from your misery.

you felt gross—your skin was sticky with sweat, your hair matted to your forehead. despite quinn’s reassuring presence, you couldn’t shake the discomfort.

“quinny,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

he looked down at you instantly, his brows knitting together. “what’s wrong, angel? are you feeling worse?”

“no, i just… i think i need a bath. i feel disgusting.”

quinn hesitated for a moment before nodding. “alright. let me help you.”

you blinked up at him. “help me?”

“you can barely stand on your own right now,” he said matter-of-factly. “i’m not letting you fall over and hit your head or something.”

you wanted to protest, but the truth was, he was right. you didn’t have the energy to argue, so you nodded reluctantly.

quinn ran the bath for you, adjusting the water temperature until it was just right. he grabbed a fluffy towel and set it on the counter, then turned to you, still wrapped in your blanket on the edge of the bathroom counter.

“okay,” he said softly, his voice steady and calm. “let me know if you need anything while you’re in there.”

but as you struggled to stand and remove the blanket, your legs wobbled beneath you. quinn’s hands were on you in an instant, steadying you.

“alright,” he said firmly. “i’m staying.”

you stared at him, heat flooding your cheeks—not from the fever this time. “quinn, i—”

“i don’t care,” he cut you off gently but with a hint of finality. “you’re sick. i’m not leaving you to handle this on your own.”

the vulnerability of the moment made you hesitate, but quinn’s unwavering gaze reassured you. he helped you undress with a tenderness that made your chest ache. there was nothing awkward or uncomfortable about it—just care and concern as he helped you step into the warm water.

you let out a small sigh of relief as the heat enveloped you, soothing your aching muscles and fevered body. quinn kneeled next to the edge of the tub, his sleeves rolled up as he held a washcloth.

“i can wash your back for you,” he offered, his voice soft.

you smiled weakly. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to,” he replied, his eyes meeting yours.

he worked carefully, his hands gentle as he ran the washcloth over your arms and shoulders, avoiding your gaze out of respect. when he moved to wash your back, you couldn’t help but close your eyes, savoring the sensation of his fingers massaging your trapezius.

“you’re spoiling me,” you murmured, your voice sleepy.

“good,” he said simply.

as he finished rinsing the last of the body wash from your body, you opened your eyes, looking up at him. his expression was soft, his eyes filled with an affection that made your heart flutter despite your fever.

“q?” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“yeah?”

“you should join me.”

his eyes widened slightly, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. “i—uh…”

you laughed softly, the sound weak but genuine. “i’m joking. mostly.”

quinn let out a nervous chuckle, shaking his head. “you’re delirious from the fever. that’s the only explanation.”

but there was a warmth in his gaze that told you he wasn’t entirely dismissing the idea.

by the time he helped you out of the bath and wrapped you in the towel, you felt a little more like yourself—exhausted, yes, but comforted by quinn’s presence.

he guided you back to the couch, tucking the blanket around you before settling down beside you.

“thank you,” you said, your voice soft but sincere.

“for what?” he asked, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“for taking care of me. for staying.”

quinn smiled, his hand lingering on your cheek for a moment. “there’s nowhere else i’d rather be.”

as you drifted off to sleep, your head resting on his shoulder once again, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for him—for his patience, his kindness, and the quiet way he showed he cared.

and even through the haze of your fever, you knew one thing for certain: quinn was someone you could always count on.

#[ 📁 ] short fic #quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes fluff #nhl hockey #vancouver canucks

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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 1 month ago

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Just a Check-Up||Mentor!Sebastian Vettel x Rookie!F1 Driver!Reader (Platonic)

Word Count: 1229

Summary— Y/N has been struggling silently with anxiety and burnout, too overwhelmed to even make a doctor’s appointment. Her mentor, retired F1 legend Sebastian Vettel, notices the change in her behavior and gently steps in, offering to book the appointment and take her himself.c

Sebastian noticed it first in the simulator room. You were sitting behind the wheel with your hands frozen at ten and two, eyes wide but unfocused, like you were a million miles away. Your head engineer was gently coaching you through a sector at Monza, but you weren’t hearing a word. When you finally blinked back into focus, you jumped like someone had shouted.

“Let’s take five,” Seb said casually from the corner.

You startled again. You hadn’t even noticed him walk in.

He watched you hop out of the sim and practically bolt for the hallway. And that was just the beginning.

By Thursday’s media day, you were barely speaking unless someone forced a quote out of you. You avoided eye contact, kept your head down, and brushed off every single “You okay?” with a weak smile.

Seb wasn’t buying it.

By Friday night, when you skipped sim work again with some half-assed excuse about your telemetry being fine, he finally cornered you outside the paddock.

“You’re not okay,” he said calmly, arms folded across his chest.

You flinched slightly at the directness. “I’m fine, I just… haven’t been sleeping.”

“That’s not the same as being fine.”

You looked anywhere but at him. “It’s probably nothing. Stress. Jet lag. I’ll bounce back.”

“Maybe. But if it’s not nothing, you should talk to a doctor.”

At that, your whole posture stiffened.

“I know,” you muttered. “I just… can’t.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Can’t?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I don’t know why, but the thought of calling to make an appointment makes me feel worse. Like… panic. My chest gets tight and I can’t breathe and then I convince myself it’s nothing and don’t call and then I feel even worse—”

Seb didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked at you, patient and steady.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Then I’ll make the call.”

Your head snapped up. “Wait, what?”

“I’ll book it. I’ll drive you. I’ll sit in the waiting room and pretend I love outdated magazines. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Your eyes burned.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said quietly.

“I know I don’t. I want to.” He said gently.

—

You sat in the passenger seat of his car two mornings later, heart pounding like you’d just done a quali lap.

Seb didn’t push. He let you pick the playlist, let you stare out the window and chew your thumbnail until it almost bled. Every so often he’d point something out a silly license plate, a weird statue on the roadside, a dog sticking its head out of a convertible and you’d murmur a laugh, grateful for the distraction.

The clinic was tucked into a quiet part of Geneva, with ivy crawling up the sides and flowers in clay pots by the door. It didn’t look scary. That only made you feel more ridiculous.

Seb took off his sunglasses as you walked in beside him. You hadn’t realized how close you were standing until your shoulder brushed his arm. You didn’t move away.

“Appointment for Y/N,” he told the receptionist. “With Dr. Meyer.”

The woman smiled. “Of course. She’ll be right with you. Please take a seat.”

You sat down rigidly on a cushioned bench. Seb flopped next to you and immediately picked up a magazine.

“Did you know wombats poop cubes?” he said, holding up a National Geographic with an incredibly unfortunate close-up of a wombat on the cover.

You blinked. “What?”

“It’s true. Look.” He pointed to the article like a proud preschool teacher.

A bubble of laughter escaped you before you could stop it.

“There’s my kid,” he said, grinning.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re not that much older than me.”

“I’ve got four kids and I moisturize. Don’t test me.”

Before you could retort, a nurse poked her head around the corner. “Y/N?”

You froze.

Seb gently nudged you. “You’ve got this. I’ll be right here.”

You looked at him, nerves tangled in your throat, and gave a jerky nod.

“Okay.”

The appointment was a blur.

You didn’t cry, but it was close. The doctor was kind, asked the right questions, and reassured you that you did have anxiety and that wasn’t something you had to tough out alone. You walked out with a referral, a starting treatment plan, and for the first time in weeks a tiny sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t broken. Just overwhelmed.

Seb was still there, legs stretched out, now reading about the benefits of bee pollen.

“Survived?” he asked, glancing up.

You nodded. “Yeah. Somehow.”

He stood, ruffling your hair like you were twelve. “Proud of you, kid.”

You blushed, ducking your head. “Thanks.”

“Now let’s get coffee. Or ice cream. Whichever feels like a reward.”

“Ice cream,” you said instantly, surprising even yourself.

He laughed. “Good choice. That’s how I knew you were worthy of my mentorship.”

——

You sat on a park bench later, sharing a tub of gelato with two spoons and sore feet, the sun peeking through the trees in soft, golden ribbons. A pair of kids were racing bikes down the path in front of you, and Seb pointed one out and said, “That one’s got better racecraft than you in the wet.”

You kicked his ankle lightly. “I will end you, Grandpa Vettel.”

“Violence from someone eating pistachio gelato? Classless.”

You snorted but went quiet again. He let the silence sit there, comfortable and unforced.

Then, you asked, “Did you always have someone to look out for you? When you were coming up?”

Seb took a long moment before answering.

“I had Michael,” he said finally, voice lower. “He was there when I needed him, and there when I didn’t. Always steady. Always kind. He could’ve treated me like a nuisance, or a threat, or just ignored me but he didn’t. He showed up. Every time.”

You turned your head, watching the way the light filtered through his curls as he stared off into the distance.

“Is that why you’re so nice to me?” you asked softly.

He looked at you then. Really looked. And he didn’t smile right away. Didn’t make a joke like he usually would.

“It’s part of it,” he said. “The rest of it is… you remind me of me. The way you push too hard. The way you carry every mistake like it means something about you instead of just being something that happened. I know that weight. And I know how much it means when someone steps in and helps you carry it.”

You blinked fast, eyes burning again.

“Seb…”

He reached out and gently squeezed your shoulder. “You don’t owe me anything, you know. Not a podium, not a championship, not a thank-you. You just… exist. That’s enough.”

You were quiet, trying to swallow around the lump in your throat. Finally, you whispered, “You really are the dad of the grid, huh?”

Seb grinned. “Don’t tell Fernando. He gets competitive about everything.”

You laughed, leaning into his side like it was second nature now.

You felt seen.

You didn’t speak for a moment. Then: “I’m glad it’s you.”

His smile was warm, soft. “Me too, kid.”

You leaned against his shoulder for a moment, and he didn’t move. Just let you sit there.

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capuccinodoll · 4 months ago

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The boyfriend act, part 6: "The one with the late night talk" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: After spending a couple of weeks tormenting yourself over your argument with Frankie, you finally open up to Santi. He offers you a different perspective—one that hurts, but one you need to hear. WC: 6.8k

A/N: TW!!! This chapter touches on sensitive topics such as mental health and references to self-destructive behaviors. If these subjects are difficult for you, please proceed with caution. Thank you so much for reading and for your support! I truly appreciate it. Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!! love you guys<3 If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

Tuesday, August 27th

August was dissolving, slipping through your fingers like the last ice cube in a too-warm drink. The days were heavy, pressing down on your skin, thick with the kind of heat that made everything feel slow and sticky. And the nights still belonged to it, summer—restless, humming, too warm to be comfortable but too familiar to resent. Inside, your apartment was quiet, the only real sound the steady, hypnotic whirl of the ceiling fan.

You kept busy. It was easier that way. There was always something to do: the new café down the street had changed the flow of foot traffic past the bookstore, drawing people in, pushing them through the doors in lazy waves. Customers wandered between the shelves, asking about novels they’d heard mentioned on a podcast, about poetry collections they’d been meaning to buy for months. You answered every question, made polite conversation, pretended you weren’t hyper-aware of how your own voice sounded when you used it too much.

Yesterday, a woman had lingered by the register, chatting about the café. She mentioned the owner—a charming man, she said, the kind of person who gave out free donuts on Friday mornings, which struck you as an objectively good and decent thing. You nodded along, made a mental note to stop by one of these days, even though you knew you probably wouldn’t.

But now it was tuesday night, and you were exhausted.

You collapsed onto the couch, grabbed the remote, pressed play. When Harry Met Sally. A movie you loved, though you weren’t really watching. Your legs stretched out along the cushions, arms folded against your chest, eyes on the screen but unfocused.

At the other end of the couch, Mr. Darcy curled into himself, his eyes dark and unblinking, watching you with something close to judgment. Because he knew. He knew that you were pretending. That you were acting like none of it had happened.

When Santi called, you told him you were fine. More than fine. And it wasn’t exactly a lie. You kept busy, your bank account was in better shape than last year. You knew how to work, how to keep your head down. If he asked about Frankie, you told him you hadn’t seen him—true. If he asked about Harry’s wedding, you lied, said you hadn’t decided yet.

Lying over the phone was easy. You’d always been good at it.

But then Santi showed up in person, unannounced, standing in your doorway with his arms crossed and his head tilted slightly, like he was already trying to figure you out.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his voice even, his gaze sharpening like he could see right through you.

“I’m just tired,” you said, and maybe that was true in a way, but not in the way he meant it. “Didn’t sleep well. Stayed up too late watching tv.”

He hesitated, like he was waiting for you to crack, to fill the silence with the thing you weren’t saying. But you didn’t. Instead, you pivoted—smooth, practiced—asked about Yov, about the wedding. He didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

And you told yourself you wouldn’t think about Frankie.

Except that you did.

At night, when the house was still, when you were alone, his face surfaced in your mind with alarming clarity. The last thing you’d said to him. The way his expression had changed the second he heard you. The way it had made something deep inside you twist and ache.

You felt guilty. It hurt, a slow, deep kind of hurt, like pressing a bruise just to see how much you could stand. But then you reminded yourself—he had hurt you too, in ways you still carried with you. That should’ve made it easier. It didn’t.

Across the room, Mr. Darcy watched you, his gaze unmoving. Like he knew. Like he could see the way your thoughts kept circling, caught in a loop you didn’t know how to break.

The movie flickered on, a blur of motion, of dialogue you’d heard a hundred times before but suddenly couldn’t follow.

When the credits rolled, you stood, crossed the room, reached for your journal where it sat on the kitchen counter.

You flipped to the right page—the one where you kept your list. Little things. Big things. Things that made you feel like you were moving forward, even when you weren’t sure you were.

You uncapped a pen, pressed the tip to the page, and wrote:

Have a New Year’s kiss. Just like Harry and Sally. Less romantic, I guess.

You stared at the words, then exhaled sharply, almost a laugh.

Then you rolled your eyes at yourself, shut the journal, and left it there.

Thursday, August 29th

Yov was out of town, and Santi called that morning while you were at the bookstore, his voice warm but edged with something careful, like he was trying to keep things light. He asked if he could come over later, maybe stay for the night. You told him yes, of course. But you knew there was something beneath the surface of the invitation, an intention that had nothing to do with food. He was checking in on you.

It wasn’t unusual, the dinners. He loved coming over, eating something homemade, stretching out on your couch to watch a movie, half the time falling asleep before the credits rolled. Sometimes you’d drink wine and end up crying with laughter over Scary Movie, even though you could both quote it word for word. But this time, you could tell—he had noticed something. A shift in your mood, a dullness in your voice that you hadn’t managed to hide.

Still, you weren’t complaining. You loved spending time with him.

You closed the bookstore a little earlier than usual and walked the two blocks to the grocery store, the sun pressing against your skin. It was warm, but not suffocating, which felt strange for august. You slipped in your headphones, letting music filter in as you walked past the park. It was quiet today—only a few people scattered under the old trees, some walking, others sitting on benches, faces tilted toward the sky.

And then you crossed the street.

At the intersection, your eyes flicked up, catching the traffic light without thinking. It was green, glowing steadily above you. For some reason, it hit you in the chest like a second heartbeat. The last time you’d seen Frankie, it had been right here. You could still see it in your mind—the green light, the blur of the quiet night, the way your hands had felt too empty as you stepped out of the car, a weight forming somewhere deep in your ribs.

Pointless, thinking about it now. You exhaled, pulled out your phone, and skipped to the next song. The first few notes played, something familiar, something that made you smile despite yourself. Just Like Heaven.

Inside the store, the air conditioning wrapped around you like a cold, weightless hand. A relief. You grabbed a cart and started down the aisles, scrolling through your notes app for the grocery list you’d made after Santi had texted, asking if you could make that spaghetti—the one with the sauce he always raved about.

Ten minutes later, you had almost everything. A bottle of rosé sat nestled between vegetables and pasta, but now you hesitated in front of the wine section, eyeing the rows of deep reds and pale golds. You wanted something good. Something that would feel nice in your hands as you curled up on the couch later.

Merlot. You reached for a bottle, ran your fingers over the label before setting it gently in the cart.

Maybe you’d grab something sweet for later too—chocolates, gummies. Something with nuts and caramel.

Eyes without a face faded out, replaced by the sharp, unmistakable opening of Toxic. Without thinking, you smiled, mouthing the words as you steered the cart down the cereal aisle. Your eyes drifted over the shelves, barely registering the neon-colored boxes, the cartoon mascots grinning at you from their spots. You weren’t really looking for anything there, just moving through the motions.

At the end of the aisle, you turned left.

And then, you saw him.

Frankie.

He was crouched at the far end of the aisle, head tilted slightly, eyes scanning a label like he was deciphering something complicated. He hadn’t seen you.

Black T-shirt, dark gray cargo pants, messy hair. You weren’t sure why you noticed that, why your mind cataloged the details like they meant something. But it did.

For a second, you froze.

Your fingers tightened around the handle of the cart. A quick assessment: the space between you, the angle of his gaze, the seconds you had before he looked up.

You turned.

No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just a sharp turn on your heel, a swift retreat in the opposite direction before he could lift his head, before his eyes could meet yours.

You’d buy candy somewhere else.

Santi dropped onto the couch beside you with all the weight of a falling tree, the cushions sinking under him, a rush of air brushing past you.

"Hey!" you groaned, swatting his shoulder in mock protest.

He just grinned, unbothered, reaching past you to grab his wine glass from the coffee table. You watched as he took a sip, settling in like he had nowhere else to be.

You picked up the remote and resumed the movie, the screen flickering back to life after the pause you’d hit when he disappeared into the bathroom, grumbling about his bladder. You’d made a joke about him getting old, and he’d laughed, but then he muttered something about making an appointment with a urologist. You didn’t ask for details.

Tonight’s movie was his pick. As Above, So Below. A group of overconfident explorers descending into the parisian catacombs, searching for the philosopher’s stone. Things go wrong, as they always do. They end up in hell itself. Santi loved this kind of thing. Honestly, so did you.

It was something you’d shared since you were kids—sitting cross-legged on the floor with your dad, watching horror movies long past bedtime. He had a deep, unwavering love for them, and your mother always scolded him for scaring you senseless. But you loved it, even when you had to sleep with the hallway light on for weeks, even when the images stuck to the backs of your eyelids like aftershadows.

You still remembered the night you watched The Blair Witch Project. Your dad had told you, very seriously, that it was real. That the film had been pieced together from actual footage, that the people in it were still missing. You and Santi believed him completely. You spent days afterward peeking around corners, flinching at the sound of snapping twigs, avoiding the woods near your house like they held something waiting just beyond the trees.

For days, you couldn’t shake it. The idea that somewhere out there, in some dark, endless forest, they were still lost. And then, one day, Santi came home from school, eyes wide, voice low.

“They found something in the woods,” he whispered.

You blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“Candles. Leftover wax, melted onto the ground. Bones. Like from some kind of ritual.” His eyes were wide, serious. “One of the guys at school told me. He said there’s probably a witch.”

You swallowed, trying to look unimpressed. “There’s no witch.”

“There must be,” he insisted. “That’s why I’m telling you—you cannot go near there, okay? Or you’ll get lost, and who knows when we’ll find you. I don’t know how to fight witches. Do you?”

You shook your head, lips pressed together, pretending to be indifferent. But during the next few years, you avoided that stretch of forest like your life depended on it. Even when you turned twelve and realized he had made the whole thing up, even when you knew, logically, that there was nothing out there in the trees, you still found yourself watching from a distance, something uneasy curling in your stomach whenever you passed by.

On the screen, one of the protagonists was panicking, struggling against the rope wrapped around his foot. His breathing grew ragged, his face contorted in fear. The music swelled, sharp and urgent. You squinted at the television.

Santi snorted next to you. “Come on, don’t be scared. Nothing’s happening yet.”

The living room was dark except for the glow of the TV, washing the room in flickering light. Even the small lamp beside you was off. Mr. Darcy, usually nestled against your leg during movie nights, was nowhere to be found—probably curled up in your bed, fast asleep.

“I know,” you murmured, shifting slightly, “but something’s going to happen.”

Santi let out a deep, satisfied sigh as he stretched out beside you, rotating his shoulder with a wince.

“God, I’m so full,” he groaned, then yawned. “But I won’t complain if you give me the leftovers.”

You turned to him with a smirk. The soft glow from the screen reflected in your eyes, and the slight haze of wine made the moment feel heavier, slower.

“You really have no bottom, do you?” you teased, reaching for the half-eaten chocolate on the coffee table. “Fine. You can take them. But only if you make me some of that stew you do later.”

Santi scoffed, sitting up a little. “What did you think of the last one I made? I changed the recipe—more cumin, extra celery. I was waiting for your opinion on it.” His expression was expectant, a little put out.

You frowned, trying to recall. “When?”

He blinked at you, then sat up straighter. “Are you serious?”

You shrugged.

“You couldn’t have missed it,” he insisted, narrowing his eyes. “I put so much more celery in. You didn’t taste it? And a little ginger. That was Yov’s idea.”

“Why are you so fixated on the stew?”

“Because it’s my thing,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest like he was deeply wounded. “I take your spaghetti seriously, right?”

You tilted your head. “I take your cooking seriously too. But I—wait, when? When we had dinner after going to the movies?”

“No, dumbass,” he scoffed. “When you and Frankie came over.”

Your mouth opened slightly. The realization hit you all at once.

Right. That night.

You had completely forgotten about Santi’s meal. If you were remembering correctly, you'd left the container in Frankie’s car.

Your gaze flickered back to the screen, where the protagonist was now screaming. You exhaled.

“Ah. Yeah. I forgot your stew in Frankie’s car.” Your voice was quieter, like the words had escaped before you fully thought them through. Then you turned back to Santi, offering a small, sheepish smile. “But I won’t complain if you make me more.”

Santi studied you for a beat, then tilted his head. “So, are you giving me the leftovers or not?”

“Yes. And some apple pie I made yesterday.” You lifted your eyebrows, watching the way his face lit up.

“Done.”

You settled back into the couch, shifting your gaze toward the screen. The movie was unfolding exactly as expected—each character trapped in their own personal hell, doomed by their own choices. You found a strange sense of relief in knowing this was something that could never happen to you. Not because you thought you were immune to disaster, but because you simply weren’t the kind of person who would put themselves in a situation like that.

The Paris catacombs? Sure, there were guided tours with clear paths and bright lighting—why would anyone willingly crawl through some secret, uncharted part of it, especially when history had already proven that people got lost down there?

You never understood that kind of thrill-seeking. Rock climbing? Fine. Trekking through forests, deserts? Sure. Skydiving, bungee jumping—adrenaline junkies, you got it. But willingly wedging yourself into a cavern, not knowing if you’d make it back out? That part never made sense.

Santi shifted beside you, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Have you seen him?”

Your eyes remained on the screen. The only two survivors were finally making their way out, and you felt your body relax.

“Who?”

“Frankie.”

The name landed somewhere uncomfortable, somewhere in your chest. Your eyes flicked to Santi for just a second before returning to the television.

“Oh. No.”

“I thought you were supposed to have dinner at Helena’s weeks ago.”

“As it turned out, no.”

“Why?”

You shrugged, still watching the screen as if it required your full attention. “Been busy. I think he has too. It’s all good.”

Santi didn’t say anything at first, just watched you like he was waiting for something more. You ignored it, eyes trained on the credits rolling up the screen.

“That’s weird,” he said finally. “I talked to Helena this week. She asked about you.”

You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around the remote.

“She also said Frankie’s been dodging her questions. She’s a little worried.”

You exhaled through your nose, lips pressing together as you casually scrolled back in the movie.

"Do you want to watch something else, or are you already falling asleep?" you asked, scrolling absently through the app’s home screen, your thumb hovering over different titles without really seeing them.

Santi shifted beside you. "No, let’s watch something else if you want. Pick whatever."

You nodded, though you weren’t really listening. Your focus had already drifted, your eyes moving over rows of movies and shows, not settling on anything in particular. You were just going through the motions, waiting for something to click. The thought of anything too heavy, too thought-provoking, made your stomach clench. You needed something easy, something you didn’t have to engage with beyond letting the sounds fill the space.

Eventually, your finger landed on Family Guy, and you hit play without much thought. The opening chords of the theme song played like muscle memory, a familiar noise cutting through the low hum of tension in the room. Your head felt a little fuzzy from the alcohol, pleasantly weightless in a way that made it easier not to think too hard.

Next to you, Santi exhaled, long and deliberate, before tilting his head against your shoulder. A few beats of quiet passed before he spoke again.

"Aren't you going to tell me what happened?" His voice was careful, measured.

You blinked at the screen. "What?"

"With Frankie."

"Nothing happened with him," you said automatically, too quickly.

Santi made a small noise, like he didn’t believe you for a second. "Right. Sure."

You turned your head slightly but kept your gaze forward. "Why—why would that surprise you, anyway? It’s not like we’ve ever gotten along." You let out a dry, humorless laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat.

"Exactly," he said, sitting up straighter beside you. "That’s exactly why I’m asking. I know you well enough to know when something’s off. And I know him well enough to know the same thing. You add those two things together, plus the fact that Helena sounded concerned when she talked to me earlier, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out something must have happened." He turned to look at you fully now, voice shifting into something closer to amusement. "I mean, I knew this whole plan between you two wasn’t exactly solid, but I didn’t think you’d manage to mess it up this fast."

You turned to him then, incredulous. "Seriously? You, Santiago—the one who’s been saying from the beginning that this was a terrible idea, who’s been acting like a prophet of doom about the whole thing—you’re surprised?"

Santi’s lips quirked up, eyes glinting. He looked, irritatingly, pleased with himself.

"Knew it," he said. "So what happened?"

You let out a breath, shaking your head before turning back to the TV. The theme song was over now, the first scene of the episode already unfolding. You folded your arms, pressing them tightly against your chest, like maybe you could keep whatever you were feeling contained that way. But it was still there, that dull, unwelcome ache settling back in.

"We had an argument," you said finally.

Santi waited a second, then: "About what?"

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you, weighing your options. Santi was staring at you, waiting.

You’d already talked to Emma about this. She had listened carefully, nodding at the right moments, offering up her own quiet honesty in return. She hadn’t sugarcoated things, hadn’t let you off the hook. She had even agreed with you—that yes, you had been cruel, whether or not Frankie had deserved it.

So you had already said the words once, already unburdened yourself. But the weight of not telling Santi felt different, heavier in a way that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with trust.

You wanted to tell him. Of course you did. He had been listening to you your whole life, letting you spill your secrets without fear of judgment. And he had never once betrayed you, never let anything slip where it wasn’t supposed to. Nothing you told him would reach Frankie. Nothing. You knew that.

But this—this was harder. It wasn’t just about Frankie. It was about you. About saying something out loud that you weren’t even sure you had fully admitted to yourself yet. It was one thing to talk about your insecurities with Emma. It was another thing entirely to lay them bare in front of your brother. To tell him that Frankie—of all people—had seen them before you’d even opened your mouth.

Still, what choice did you have? Santi wasn’t going to let this go. He never did.

"About Harry," you said finally, your voice flat, stripped of any real emotion.

Santi frowned. "Harry?"

You nodded.

"Why?"

You exhaled, suddenly hyperaware of the breath leaving your body, the way it felt too sharp, too deliberate.

"Because," you said, shifting against the couch, "I’m not as over him as I thought I was. And Francisco apparently decided that was his business. Thought it would be a great idea to ask me a million questions about it, maybe even offer up some unsolicited advice."

Santi folded his arms, his expression shifting from confusion to something more serious.

"What kind of advice?"

You turned to look at him then, and whatever was in your expression must have given him pause.

"Santi," you said carefully, "I’m going to tell you this, but you can’t say anything until I’m done. No opinions, no interruptions. You can ask questions, but don’t react until I finish. Okay?"

He straightened slightly, concern settling into the lines of his face. Then he nodded. "Okay."

You swallowed.

"The thing is…" Another breath. Another hesitation. "I haven’t been feeling okay. And it’s not just because of Harry, or Frankie, or any of that. It’s… more than that. It’s been going on for a long time. Years, even. It’s about me. It’s about the way I am, the way I live my life. Or, maybe, the way I don’t. I feel like I’m afraid all the time. And that fear—it limits me. It always has. You know that. You’ve seen it. Remember when we were kids, and you and Dad would invite me camping? And I’d always make up some excuse because the idea of sleeping in the middle of nowhere freaked me out? Or that weekend you wanted me to go rock climbing with you?"

He nodded, his expression unreadable now.

"And I hate that about myself," you admitted, voice quieter now. "Because fear holds me back. It keeps me from doing things that—who knows?—maybe I’d like. But how am I supposed to know that if I never try?"

Santi opened his mouth, but you didn’t give him the chance.

"No," you said, holding up a finger. "No opinions yet. Remember?"

He lifted his hands in surrender, pressing his lips together like he was physically stopping himself from speaking.

You exhaled, pressing your palms against your thighs. “Well, that’s just it. That’s the thing that’s been bothering me for a long time. Longer than I want to admit. And it—it doesn’t feel good. I don’t feel good about it.” You paused, fingers twitching like they wanted to pick at something, to fidget with the hem of your shirt, the couch cushion, anything. “And then there’s Harry.” You let out a small laugh, barely more than an exhale. “I really thought I was over him, or at least I told myself I was. But I don’t think I am. And I don’t even think it’s about him, exactly.”

Santi tilted his head slightly, watching you closely. You waved a hand, dismissing whatever concern you saw creeping into his face.

“It’s not really about him,” you clarified. “It’s about what he did. How easy it was for him to let me go. How easy it was for me to let myself fall into something I knew wasn’t going to end well. I wasn’t stupid—I knew he didn’t want anything serious. He told me that. But I still didn’t leave when I started to feel more than I should have. And I guess—” you swallowed, your throat suddenly tight, “I guess some part of me really thought that if I just waited long enough, he’d start feeling the same way.”

You shook your head, eyes flicking back to the TV screen. The cartoon characters moved in exaggerated motions, their voices playing somewhere in the background of your thoughts. You weren’t really hearing them.

“But he didn’t,” you added, quieter now. “If anything, he did the opposite.”

Santi didn’t say anything, and you appreciated that. He just sat there, listening, waiting.

You rubbed your hand over the couch cushion beside you, letting the soft fabric ground you before you spoke again.

“And then, when we saw him that day,” you continued, “Francisco basically laughed in my face when I told him I was going to the wedding. He thought it was pathetic. Told me I was a masochist. And I got pissed off, obviously. But the thing is, I hadn’t actually thought about it that much before then. I mean, yeah, I knew Harry was oblivious, that he probably hadn’t even considered how it might feel for me to be there. But I hadn’t really let myself think about how ridiculous it was that I said yes in the first place.”

You swallowed, tracing the seam of the couch absentmindedly.

“Francisco, though—he was vocal about it from the start. He never held back. He called Harry an idiot, told me it was obvious he knew how I felt and just pretended he didn’t. And that night at your place—” you hesitated, glancing at Santi, “I’d had a bad day. Like, a really bad day. I was already in my own head, already torturing myself by checking Harry’s social media, going down the usual spiral. And Francisco, of course, noticed. And he asked me about it on the way home.”

You sighed, rubbing your temple. “But it was the way he did it. He was relentless. He just kept pushing and pushing, like he was trying to get a reaction out of me, and I—I just felt awful. Like he was doing it on purpose. Like he wanted me to crack. Because…” You trailed off, staring blankly at the screen again. “I don’t know. It’s like he knows exactly which buttons to press to tear me apart. He always has. He finds my weak spots and then just—shoves them in my face.”

Your voice wavered slightly, but you didn’t look at Santi until you were finished speaking. When you did, your eyes felt heavy, glazed over with something you didn’t want to name.

Santi’s expression was unreadable. His voice, careful. “What did he say to you?”

You felt your heartbeat pick up, steady but noticeable, like a pulse pressing against your ribs.

"That I needed to get over it." Your voice came out unsteady, something raw beneath the words. "That I had to stop making Harry into this tragic hero who unknowingly destroyed me." You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeve. "But he wasn’t gentle about it. He wasn’t even neutral. He was the opposite. And I—" You hesitated, feeling the weight of it settle in your chest. "I know he’s probably right. I do. But that didn’t make it feel any less awful. It didn’t make me feel any less—"

You stopped. Your throat burned. Your vision blurred at the edges, a tear threatening to spill over. You blinked hard, forcing it back.

"He made me feel stupid," you admitted finally. "Like I was ridiculous for feeling this way in the first place. And that’s what really gets me—because I know he doesn’t actually care. It’s not like this was some act of concern, like he wanted to help me move on. He did it just to dig at me. To get a reaction. To remind me that I’m weak in ways he isn’t." Your breath came out unsteady. "What the fuck does he know about how I feel?"

Santi exhaled your name softly, the way he always did when you were teetering on the edge of something painful. Then, without a word, he wrapped his arm around you and pulled you in.

The warmth of it—his steady heartbeat, the way his chin rested lightly on the top of your head—worked like a balm. It didn’t erase the feeling completely, but it dulled it, took the sharpest edges away. You closed your eyes for a second, just breathing.

"I know your relationship with him is complicated," Santi murmured, "but, really… Frankie’s not that kind of person."

You pulled back, looking up at him in disbelief.

"He’s different with you," you said, shaking your head. "With me, it’s—something else."

"No, no, I get it," Santi said, his voice careful. "I’ve watched you two argue for years. But what I mean is… he wouldn’t ask you those kinds of questions just to be cruel. He wouldn’t push you about something painful just to see you suffer."

You scoffed, looking away. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because I know him." Santi’s tone was even, patient. "Better than anyone. I know he can be unbearable and insufferable, and I know he gets under your skin. But he doesn’t have an ounce of real cruelty in him. Whatever his reasons were, they weren’t to hurt you."

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Doesn’t seem like it." You ran a hand through your hair, shaking your head. "Why would he care so much, then? Why does it even matter to him? He doesn’t know anything about what it’s like to regret something this much."

Santi didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. Like he was deciding what to say, or maybe whether to say anything at all.

Then he sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, his eyes flickering to the coffee table before landing back on you.

"What has he told you about Rachel?" he asked finally.

You blinked.

"Not much," you admitted. "That she dumped him. Maia didn’t like her. Helena mentioned something, but she never gave me details."

"Yeah," Santi nodded, exhaling through his nose. "Well, Frankie and Rachel were together for almost two years. Longer, if you count the months they spent circling each other before making it official. It wasn’t perfect—none of them are—but this was… different. He loved her. I mean, really loved her. The kind of love that makes you a little unrecognizable, you know? I’d never seen him like that before. But it wasn’t good for him."

He looked at you then, more serious now, like he was weighing his words before saying them out loud.

"I don’t know if it’s my place to tell you this," he said, "but you’re my sister, and I trust you."

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him, still reeling from everything you already knew—and everything you didn’t.

"A few years ago, Frankie left the CAG after one of his closest friends died in the middle of a mission." Santi paused, his jaw tightening for a brief second. "It hit him hard. Too hard. Took him a long time to find his footing again. He came back to Austin, took a year off before he even thought about working again. And, you know, he got better. Kind of. But never fully."

You blinked at him, stunned. You had no idea.

All those years ago, when Santi had mentioned a friend who had returned to Austin, a friend who needed help—you’d never really thought about it. He’d never given you details. He’d talked about Will and Benny often enough, but Frankie had been a more distant presence, like an acquaintance who existed on the fringes of your brother’s life. Someone he never really brought up.

"And then, a few years later, he met Rachel," Santi went on. "And at first, we thought—okay, maybe this is good. Maybe this will be good for him." He shook his head. "But it wasn’t. She was… possessive. Controlling. Not good to him at all. But Frankie was in love, and what were we supposed to do? He was happy—at least in the moments where she let him be—so we let it go, even though we didn’t approve."

You could hear the resentment in his voice. The hindsight.

"But he was still up and down. And then, his dad died."

Santi rubbed a hand over his face, and when he looked back at you, there was something deeply weary in his expression.

"He spiraled," he said. "It wrecked him, just like you’d expect it to. And then—two months later, Rachel left him."

You felt the words hit you square in the chest.

Santi exhaled sharply, shaking his head again, looking indignant in a way you rarely saw.

"She told him he wasn’t what she wanted anymore. That he wasn’t enough. That he wasn’t acting like the man she needed. That he spent too much time holed up, too much time in bed." Santi’s voice turned hard. "Frankie was fucking depressed, and she had the audacity to tell him he was being selfish. That he wasn’t stepping up."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"Jesus," you whispered, closing your eyes. You could feel the sharp sting of tears, the words you had thrown at Frankie earlier coming back in painful flashes.

Santi let the silence settle for a second before continuing.

"Anyway," he said, his voice lower now, "she left. And two weeks later, Benny saw her at the mall, kissing another guy. He told us, asked if we should say something. If it was even worth it. And at first, we thought maybe we shouldn’t. But Frankie… he thought he could still win her back. He was talking about changing for her, about fighting for her. And I swear—" Santi let out a breath that sounded close to a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. "I’ve never been so angry at someone in my life. And the worst part?" He glanced at you. "She had been seeing that guy for months."

You felt something tighten in your throat.

"You told him?"

"Yeah," Santi said. "We had to. Even though we knew it would wreck him."

"And what did he say?"

Santi’s expression turned unreadable for a moment. Then he furrowed his brows, shaking his head.

"Nothing," he said. "He just nodded, got up, and walked away."

You didn’t say anything. A moment passed, stretched and heavy, and you felt Santi tense beside you. Like he was bracing himself.

You turned to look at him, already knowing he wasn’t finished.

"Less than a month later," he said, his voice quieter now, like the words had to be handled with care. "Helena called me. Said Frankie was in the hospital. He’d taken something—pills, a lot of pills. And he’d been drinking."

Your stomach twisted, a deep, sinking feeling settling in your chest.

"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "Are you saying he tried to—"

"I don’t know." Santi shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. "I never asked. And none of us did. He didn't wanted us to, he was clear about it. And I think we were afraid to." He hesitated, like he was weighing his words again. "And to ask him now, after all this time… I don’t know, it feels... it feels out of place. Because I really think he's in a better place now, so."

You just stared at him, eyes wide, unmoving. Something inside you cracked, like a hairline fracture deep enough to make the whole structure feel unsteady.

Santi exhaled and looked down at his hands.

"What I’m trying to say," he went on, his voice softer now, "is that if anyone understands what it feels like to be abandoned, to feel like you’re not enough—it’s Frankie. That’s why I don’t think he was trying to hurt you. I think he was just… misguided. Trying to help in the only way he knows how."

Your lips trembled, the weight of everything pressing down on you, thick and unbearable. A sharp breath caught in your throat, half a gasp, half a sob. You turned to Santi, searching his face for something—understanding, reassurance, maybe a way out of the feeling that had settled, heavy, inside your ribs.

He furrowed his brows, watching you carefully, a crease of worry between his eyes.

“I…” You barely got the word out before tears blurred your vision. A thick, aching regret filled your chest. “I said horrible things to him.”

Santi didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, one hand resting against the back of your head.

You let yourself sink into the hug, but it didn’t make the feeling go away. If anything, it made it worse—because you couldn’t undo it. Because knowing the truth now didn’t erase the things you’d said, the sharp edges of your words still lodged somewhere deep in your memory, in Frankie’s memory.

And yes, he had been cruel to you for years. Yes, you had convinced yourself that whatever existed between you was just mutual disdain, nothing more, nothing less. But now, everything felt different. Everything had shifted, changed color. And you hated the way it looked now.

You weren’t this person. The kind who threw words like weapons, who dug into wounds just to make them deeper. You knew too well what it was like to feel that kind of hurt.

“What did you tell him?” Santi asked, his voice gentle, careful.

You swallowed hard, keeping your face pressed against his shirt, as if not looking at him would make it easier to admit.

“That he must have a lot of experience feeling like shit. That he was nothing but a failure, a loser. That he was drowning in his own misery.”

Santi let out a quiet curse under his breath, his fingers moving absently over your hair.

“I was awful, Santi,” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

Santi exhaled. “I’m sure he knows you were angry—”

“Why?” You pulled away, looking up at him, your face tight with frustration. “Why would he believe that? We’ve never been kind to each other. Not once. Why would he think this time was any different?”

“Because you’re not cruel,” Santi said simply.

You shook your head. “I wanted to hurt him.”

“That doesn’t make you a bad person.” He studied you, his gaze steady. “I think… Unfortunately, I think you’re both a little messed up in the same ways, and that’s exactly why he recognizes it in you so easily. But that doesn’t make you a bad person. And it doesn’t make him one either.”

Silence settled between you. You lowered your gaze, your fingers twisting the hem of your sleeve.

“Do you think I’m fucked up?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Santi snorted, shaking his head. A small, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Not really. Not really, really fucked up. Just a little. Fixable.”

Despite yourself, you let out a weak, uneven breath—something that wasn’t quite a laugh, but close enough. You glanced up at him, the smallest trace of humor flickering in your eyes.

“What am I supposed to do, Santi?”

Your voice was so soft, so uncertain, that he visibly winced. He didn’t like hearing you like this. Santi sighed, his own exhaustion catching up with him, but there was something warm in his expression, something steady.

“Right now? You go to bed and get some sleep,” he said, nudging your arm. “Later? Maybe we figure out how to fix this. Talking to Frankie would probably be a good start, don’t you think?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll get back to you on that in the morning.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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