#that book was right you SHOULD make promises to yourself and then you should keep them

[thewinter-eden]

You Live Like This? - pt II

Series master list PART 2 INFO

pairing: Bang Chan x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: home invader!Chris makes good on his promise to rob your ex to avenge your painful breakup, only to find that you're already there trying to collect your belongings. In order to keep your ex-bf from including you as an accomplice in his inevitable police report, you have to pretend you don't know the robber who keeps flirting with you. (plus like a lot more)

warnings: camping, murder, Ateez mentioned, mature

word count: ~5k

It’s nearly four in the afternoon when the worn green sign comes into view, peeking out from overgrown tree branches on the side of the road.

Blue River Campground written in faded white letters, and dangling beneath it, a removable panel reading —no vacancies.

Reaching into the mess of your passenger seat, you push a disturbing collection of empty Red Bull cans and McDonald’s coffee cups into the floorboard, fingers blindly scrambling for the familiar plastic cover of your binder.

A handful of granola bar wrappers and the chicken nugget carton from your lunch later, you have the thick blue book in hand. Your eyes are firmly planted on the road when you drop the binder into your lap, steering your car off the back country road and onto the paved driveway of the campground.

As the park ranger booth appears around a bend of trees, you reach over and turn down your music.

After a long day on the road, entertaining yourself with a mixture of a dozen hand crafted playlist and a few chapters here and there of some audio books you’d struggled to find interesting, you’re eager to get out of your car and stretch your legs under the open sky.

When you drive up, a female park ranger slides open the window of the booth and grins down at you, folding her arms over the sill.

You hit the button to roll down your window, shooting her a polite smile as you flip open your binder and reach for the first printout that’s safely tucked inside a clear sheet protector.

“Hi there!” She greets you cheerfully. “What can I help you with today?”

You produce the piece of paper and hand it to her. “I’m checking in for a campsite. This is my reservation.”

She beams at you with far too much enthusiasm for someone who clearly doesn’t have air conditioner in the cramped little station. “Great! Lemme get you checked in.”

As she turns away from you to clack away at a keyboard that sounds like it’s had one too many sodas spilled over it, your eyes fall to the binder in your lap.

Taped to the inside cover, words faded from time and sun exposure, is that little Post-It Note.

‘Had a great time last night. Coffee later? Also, text me your ex’s address. - Chris.’

It’s been six months since that terrifying and strange evening, where a lunatic had broken into your house to rob you blind, only to end up on your couch, with you asleep in his arms.

Sometimes you can’t believe it wasn’t just a dream that you’d concocted after enduring the perfect storm of finding your boyfriend cheating on you, losing your job, and having to sell your house all in seemingly one fell stroke.

But you know it wasn’t.

You know it was real.

Because that hadn’t been the last time you’d seen him.

“Alright!” The park ranger chirps, distracting you from the confusing amalgamation of emotions that the little yellow sticky note always sets off. “I’ve got you all checked in! Check out is no later than 2pm tomorrow. Here is a map of the campground,” she passes your reservation back with a sheet of printer paper that bears a grainy black and white map. “You’ll hang a left down there at the gate, and then a right at the bathrooms. The campsites are numbered, you should be able to find yours, no problem. Camp hosts will be floating around until 9pm if you have any questions!”

Taking in the bubbly onslaught of information with an awkward smile, you wait until she leans back into the booth and stops for a breath. “Okay, thank you,”

“You can purchase firewood if you need to, but it’s cash only.”

“Okay.”

“Obviously gathering or cutting down your own firewood is prohibited.”

“Yes, of course.”

“And there’s fresh water outside the bathrooms.”

“Okay, great.”

“Alright! Have a great time!”

You’re not even sure which polite response you manage to rattle off before you urge your window all the way back up and pull away from the station before you even bother to slide the reservation and the map back into their designated sheet protector.

The forest drive is winding and beautiful, and soon enough, the campsites appear. You roll through the spots, passing dozens of campers already there and setting up or completely finished and working on dinner until you roll up to spot 25.

You park in your own personal little gravel lane and take a deep breath. You’re a little nervous. You’ve gone on a few experimental camping trips to teach yourself how to get into the routine of it, but this is the first time you’ve committed to a multi-day roadtrip without any hotel reservations to fall back on until you reach your destination.

To calm yourself, you focus on sliding the pages into your binder, your eyes falling on that sticky note again.

Six months since Chris broke into your house and scared the bejeezus out of you and your dogs.

And as monumental a memory as that is, it’s not the only absurd memory you have of Chris.

Not in the slightest.

There hadn’t been coffee after. In the mess of waking up in disbelief that you had nearly been robbed, but had a movie night with the criminal instead, and being unable to dwell on it because you had to focus on having somewhere to live after your house sold, the events with Chris kind of disappeared into a hazy memory.

You’d sent the address as requested—facetiously. In all honesty, you’d just thought he was flirting. That the address was an excuse to get a conversation going, and you’d find yourself merely teasing about his criminal endeavors until he got up the nerve to properly ask you out for coffee.

But you’d sent the address, your own little private joke, and he had sent a thumbs-up emoji.

Just that.

Like you were some stranger confirming an appointment.

A thumbs-up, nothing more.

You didn’t reach out to him again. Mortification had prompted you to delete his number and pretend you’d never met him, and that’s exactly what you did. For about two weeks.

FIVE (AND A HALF) MONTHS AGO

If anything good can come out of this absolute crap show that your life has turned into, it’s that your superhero of a realtor somehow got your house closed on in less than two weeks. She’d warned you that you would probably have to dump a couple thousand dollars into sprucing up the place to increase interest, and you’d been drowning your financial sorrows in a cup of old tea, wishing it was a dry red wine, when she called you back.

In less than eight hours, she had news for you. Somebody wanted your house at face value, for not a dime below your asking price.

House sold, as is.

You spent the next two weeks on pins and needles as all the paperwork went through, waiting for the buyers to back out of the deal. Your realtor warned you not to get your hopes up. First attempts usually dry up when they see the monthly payment and sales tax.

But it never happened.

The paperwork went through.

The deal closed.

Twelve hours later, there was money in your bank account.

Mortgage deducted, realtor paid, closing costs settled, you were still left with a sum you’ve never before had behind your name.

Things were looking up.

Until the text came in.

‘Come get your shit before I throw it out.’

Woosung.

The ex who slept with your best friend when he decided you were too emotionally unavailable for him.

You considered sacrificing your belongings to the garbage, except you know you left a bracelet and a pair of earrings there that were handed down from your grandmother. He has clothes that you don’t necessarily care for, but he also has your favorite mug—gifted by a coworker—that says ‘Today’s Yoga Pose is a Downward Spiral’.

Everything else, the various books and toiletries and overnight kits, you can do without.

You tried to avoid the interaction.

‘Just mail it to me.’

‘I’m not paying for postage to mail your crap.’

‘I’ll pay for it. Or leave it at the front desk of the spa.’ You don’t work there anymore, but your friends do, and they’ll accept your belongings for you long enough for you to come pick them up.

‘I’m not going to pick through the apartment to find your stuff. Come get it tomorrow.’

You don’t know why he’s being so hostile about the whole thing, when he’s the one who threw your relationship down the drain, but you know him well enough to recognize when he’s not going to be talked out of (or into) something.

So you begrudgingly make a plan to swing by tomorrow, leaving off all the choice words you want to punctuate the message with, and resign yourself to a miserable day that you will have no chance at salvaging once you’re surrounded by all of those memories again.

You’ve been in his apartment building a million times. Enough to exchange passing greetings with his neighbors, to call one of their dogs by name when they scoot by you in the hallway, headed out to the parking lot for a walk.

You say the usual prayer when you stand in the struggling elevator and stare at the expired safety inspection certificate, and mimic the familiar strangled ding as it arrives at his floor with a shudder.

He opens the door after three knocks and about ninety seconds of awkward silence.

And then he’s there.

Standing in front of you.

Your perfect boyfriend, who, with all his little faults, only ever indicated that you weren’t quite working out when you found him in your best friend’s bed.

He kicks the door open and stands aside, a can of Coors in hand and a distracted look on his face. “Be quick about it. I don’t have all day.” He mutters, and promptly leaves you in the entry way to return to a well-dented spot in the couch to stare at an ESPN rerun booming through the TV set.

You were wrong.

This isn’t as painful as you thought it was gonna be.

He’s slouched on the couch, one sweatpants leg hiked up over his knee, covered in chip crumbs, and instead of being flooded with sweet, loving memories, you’re looking at the future you almost had.

Pulling a number of reusable grocery bags out of your backpack, you don’t bother taking off your shoes and cross the room to the kitchen. “It’s ten AM, Woosung.”

“Thanks, mom.” He doesn’t even look at you.

It occurs to you that this may be some form of grief, some part of him heartbroken by you ending your long term relationship, but it’s none of your business all the same.

You pull open the cupboards and begin your search for your favorite mug. After shuffling through a collection of beer glasses and novelty cups from movie theaters and sport events, you find the familiar red ceramic shoved in the back.

Next, you make your way to his bedroom.

It’s a disaster zone of dirty laundry and half empty pizza boxes and enough aluminum cans to single handedly win World War II, but you push down your distaste at the squalor and the smell of body odor and pick your way through stale jeans and takeout boxes to what used to be your side of the bed.

You remember his life being cleaner.

Or maybe it had been your presence that had kept the laundry in the hamper and the trash in the garbage can.

At some point in the two weeks since you left him, he’s filled your personal drawer in the nightstand to the absolute brim with condoms.

Unimpressed and somewhat disgusted, you delve your hand into the avalanching pile of foil packets and can’t bring yourself to care when they spill out over the sides. In your blind search for the little satin drawstring that holds your jewelry, your fingers touch something lacy.

A pair of women’s panties, pink and sexy and not yours is hooked on your thumb when you draw your hand out.

They’re not your size, not your color, and absolutely placed there on purpose.

He made sure you came, made sure you had to get your belongings from that very drawer, and planted an entire nightclub vending machine in there for you to find.

You toss the offending lingerie carelessly onto his pillow and keep searching.

Surprising even yourself, the only thing that truly bothers you about all this is the disturbed sense of worry that those panties belong to your former best friend, which disgusts you on too many levels to count.

So, all in all, it’s a good week. You sold your house, got some money in your pocket, retrieved your valuables, and got all the proof you needed that losing your boyfriend is likely the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

The hurt and betrayal and anger leftover from the breakup is fodder for your therapy sessions and nothing more.

The moment you have your grandmother’s jewelry in hand and headed for your pocket, you hear a panicked shout from the living room.

Dismissing it as some masculine indignation towards whatever fight he’s watching, you move to the closet and push through the hanging shirts to find one of your nice evening dresses and one of your coziest sweaters.

As long as you’re here, you might as well grab the things you’d wear again.

Some of the other things that have been defiled by memories of Woosung—your red nightgown, the lacy shirt you’d worn to his promotion ceremony at work—you leave on their hangers.

He can give them to his next conquest for all you care.

“What are you doing in my house?”

That shout doesn’t sound like something aimed at the TV.

“Get out before I call the police!”

There’s no way.

You drop your slowly filling tote bags at your feet and hurry to the doorway just in time to hear the anger in your ex-boyfriend’s voice crumble into terror.

“No, wait! Okay, okay, take it easy.”

Peeking around the door frame, you see a figure shrouded in black facing away from you, and in front of him, Woosung still on the couch like he’d been shoved.

His eyes are wide with panic, darting from the person’s face to his waist, where you can only assume the man is holding a weapon.

“Please,” Woosung starts. “Please, my girlfriend is here. Please don’t hurt me, just take what you want.”

While you’re struggling with the insinuation of that attempt at bargaining, the figure in the living room turns towards you.

Black hoodie.

Mask over his face.

A gun in gloved hands.

Goddammit.

He really meant it.

And you gave him the fucking address.

The man surges towards you.

“No!” Woosung lurches forward. “No, wait! Don’t hurt her!”

Well, that’s something, you guess.

The man in black pauses and twists around to flash the gun at him again. “Don’t move.”

When Woosung falls back against the couch with his hands up, a panicked squeak crossing his lips, the man spins back to you and reaches out his empty hand, shoving you forcefully back into the bedroom. Before he slams the door shut in your face, he shows you the gun. “Stay here,” he snaps. “Don’t make a sound.”

You have no intention of calling for help.

If he’s going to make you wait in the dirty bedroom while he scares the shit out of your ex boyfriend, you’re happy to practice your fake tears until he’s finished.

The door bangs shut and latches.

Beyond, you hear Woosung utter another frightened shout, and then the sound of duct tape ripping off a roll.

Woosung’s proceeding arguments are comically muffled by tape obviously being stuck over his mouth.

Approximately five minutes later, the bedroom door opens again and you utter a short, loud cry just for good measure.

“Shut up!” His hissed voice carries down the hall before he shoves the door closed. The moment he’s locked inside with you, the man throws off his hood and yanks his mask off.

Chris.

Big surprise.

His eyes are laughably wide. “What are you doing here?” He whispers, dropping the gun and the roll of duct tape on the bed. “I thought you broke up with him!”

“No, please, stop!” You should be an actor.

Theatrics tabled for the moment, you cross your arms and narrow your eyes at him. “I did. I’m picking up my stuff.” You nod to the bags on the floor. “I can’t believe you’re actually robbing him.”

He studies the grocery bags at your feet, the ambivalent tension in your posture. “Oh.” He scrubs his hands through his hair with a wry laugh. “I told you I would. Somebody’s gotta defend your honor.”

That single thumbs-up emoji stands in jarring opposition to the sweet smile he’s giving you.

“Really?” You quirk an eyebrow. “Because you seemed so committed to our night together.”

He shrugs almost bashfully and checks his watch. “I had to get some things in order and plan the heist before I could offer my heart and soul to you, babygirl. I couldn’t have you thinking I deliver only empty promises.” The smirk he flashes at you is dangerous.

You’re unimpressed. “And you had to do it the day I show up here?”

He throws his hands up helplessly. “What was I supposed to do? I went to your house three days later and it was empty.”

Instead of informing him that he could have texted you, which he was fully capable of doing, you form a sly smile and give him a simple thumbs-up.

Chris stares at your hand with sheepish recognition. “I was gonna text you,” he says. “As soon as I finished up here, I was gonna take you for that coffee and give you the good news.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, now you’re in a pickle. What did you do with him?”

He blinks, like he’s not sure what you’re talking about. It sinks in a second later. “Oh! He’s duct taped to the furnace. He’s not going anywhere, trust me, I know how to tie people up.” He shoots you another wink, which lands without impact.

“What’s the plan now, hot shot? Now I’m an accomplice.”

Chris watches you stare him down, awe blooming in his expression. “You’re a whole different person when you’re not scared of me. God, you are hot like this, anybody ever tell you that?”

The rather flattering moment is somewhat dampened by the fact that it’s between you and an armed home invader. “I don’t want to go to jail tonight, Chris. Clean this up.”

He scoops the duct tape and the gun of the bed, nodding calmly. “Don’t worry, I have a plan. I’ll keep you in here, use you as leverage to keep him compliant, and make it seem like we don’t know each other. Make it good, alright? Put your hand over your mouth and make scared noises.”

This is not how you expected your morning to go.

You can’t believe he decided to rob your boyfriend in broad daylight.

When he just stands there, waiting for you to agree to pretend to be a victim of his egregious crimes, you utter a long sigh.

So far, your survival rate with altercations involving Chris is 100%. Last time had been surprisingly decompressing in its own way, and if this time involves scaring the dirty sweatpants off your ex, you’ll happily call it a two for two.

“Fine. Is that real?” Nodding to the gun in his hand, you feel only the slightest bit of apprehension over the fact that somebody could be accidentally shot in the middle of all this.

He’d convinced you that murder and battery were charges too hot for his lifestyle, but you can’t be sure that he or Woosung won’t unintentionally do something stupid. You can just imagine your ex boyfriend, day-drunk and high on delusions of grandeur, grabbing the gun out of Chris’ hands and trying to be a hero.

He waves the weapon at you. “It’s a real BB gun.” A cheeky grin. “Airsoft. Harmless. Don’t worry.”

Eyes rolling to the ceiling, you sit yourself on the unmade bed and glare at him. “Whatever you’re gonna do, do it fast. I have appointments this afternoon.”

He nods and dons his mask and hood once again, like a misguided version of Batman, and puts his hand to the doorknob. “Let me hear you, babygirl.”

Your responding deadpan is lethal.

Bringing your hand up to cover your mouth, you pray for your poor vocal cords and do your best impression of Weepy Girl Held Hostage.

“Shut up! Stay still!” He snaps in a genuinely good Christian Bale, which only furthers your Robber Batman agenda, and amuses you to no end.

All in all, it’s the best possible outcome for having ventured into a den of painful nostalgia to collect your things.

Chris disappears into the hallway, letting in the sounds of Woosung’s enraged terror, and closes the door behind him.

The next series of noises tell their own story.

Drawers scraping.

Picture frames falling off the wall.

Cabinets banging.

Woosung’s muffled screaming.

“I told you to keep it down.” Footsteps nearing. “I guess you don’t care about your girlfriend.”

Muffled groaning.

The door opens and Chris reappears. You give a theatrical yelp and shove a stack of comic books off the bed for good measure.

“I got his Play Station and his laptop.” Chris tells you, showing you his backpack. “What else should I grab?”

Now you really are an accomplice. “You’re actually robbing him?”

He shrugs. “He has more stuff than you did.”

At your offended sneer, he laughs and shakes the backpack at you. “Come on, tell me how to hurt this asshole. He’s in there crying all over his duct tape. I’ve only got like ten more minutes before I wanna be out of here. Give me something good.”

Taking a second to think, you mentally catalogue all of the things in this apartment that Woosung might bitterly miss. It is true that he has more irreplaceable valuables than you did, and part of you wonders if you should be the bigger person and protect the things that matter to him.

Unfortunately, the bigger part of you isn’t that virtuous. “He’s got a bunch of signed sports paraphernalia. There are display cases in the dining room with signed baseballs. They’re legit and he never stops bragging about them.”

Chris’ eyes light up over the top of his mask. “Perfect! Be right back!”

The door slams shut on your embellished cries of fright.

Furniture shoved across the floor.

Something banging against the wall.

Glass shattering.

Woosung pleading stupidly past his gag.

You should be sympathetic. You should be thinking of when Chris broke into your own house and scared the life out of you, when you thought you were going to be assaulted and robbed.

But you’re not.

You know this is mostly harmless.

And Woosung deserves this.

He’d stepped out on you with your own best friend and blamed you for it.

When are you ever going to get the chance to avoid the sweet taste of revenge like this again?

All you have to do is sit comfortably in this nasty pig pen of a room, scrolling through your Pinterest feed with mild disinterest.

You use your time to relax a bit and enjoy a moment of online retail therapy while your ex shits his pants at the mercy of your masked avenger. With a comfortable sum in your bank account, you allow yourself exactly two frivolities—Ateez is having a comeback.

You put their latest album in your cart and scroll through tour dates.

Woosung screams.

You pick a seat and add the ticket to your cart.

The pathetic cry you give when the bedroom door opens again is a little distracted but seems to do the trick well enough. Woosung keeps pleading pathetically as the door closes.

“Having fun in here?” Chris asks lightly.

You hum a noncommittal response, still staring down at your phone. “You almost done?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a couple thousand in here for sure.” Chris zips up his backpack. “Thanks for the score.”

Finishing your checkout before the vendor times out, you manage a smirk. “You can settle my fee with my bookkeeper.”

“Oh, funny.” He rolls his shoulders, stretching his arms before slinging the bag across his back. “I’ll go back in there and do my whole threatening routine and then I’ll head out. I hope my services have been satisfactory?”

You pocket your phone and finally give him your attention. “Yes, Chris.” You respond dryly. “Thank you for robbing my ex of his valuables and his dignity. How can I ever repay you?”

In the face of your unconcerned wit, he just chuckles down at you with almost a look of fondness in his crinkled eyes. “You’re a gem, babygirl. Just say yes.”

Confusion wrinkles your nose. “To what?”

“Coffee. Later. I’ll text you.”

“Oh, you will?”

He lifts his hands defensively. “I will. I’ve kept my promise. I can approach you, all deals settled now. I’ll text you.”

A short laugh scrapes up your raw throat. “What makes you think I want to get coffee with a seasoned criminal?”

“Just my bad boy charm and devilish good looks.” He says with a wink, and then his cocky self-assurance melts into a series of awkward chuckles. “I hope you will. I’d like to see you again. You’re the most interesting girl I’ve ever robbed.”

“Well, take me now, sailor.” You utter flatly, but there’s a rebellious fluttering in your chest that assures you that you will be accepting his invitation if it ever comes. Even just for the sake of the experience.

How often are you gonna go on a date with someone who breaks into your house and helps you punish your ex?

“Coffee, then.” You agree. “Later.”

Before he leaves, you tell him your name. It’s dumb, foolish, to hand a criminal personal information, but he already has your phone number and he doesn’t exactly knock to enter anyway. And you can’t have him calling you babygirl in public, no matter how much it seems to tickle him.

He gives you one last long look and repeats your name back to you. “Take care of yourself,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

He leaves a few strips of duct tape for you to cover your mouth with for appearances, and then he’s gone.

When Woosung comes in to rescue you moments later, you snatch up your tote bags and make a show of fleeing his apartment in a rush of frantic distress.

The police contact you a few hours later to request a statement, which you politely decline on the basis of being traumatized and having no interest in enduring a criminal case with your cheating ex boyfriend.

They don’t bother you again.

Chris texts you a few days later, when you’re interviewing for a new apartment, and the coffee date comes and goes. He shows up in jeans and a button down, no mask in sight, calls you babygirl in public anyway, and is the perfect gentleman.

You share flirty banter over his tea and your mocha, trading relationship horror stories back and forth; he hears all about your adventures in getting back on your feet, you learn about his dreams to become a personal trainer and outdoors enthusiast. He pays the bill, kisses your cheek, and promises not to sully your good name with ties to his criminal lifestyle.

It ends, just like that.

You get a few texts here and there over the next few months—checking up on you, offering humorous anecdotes as he passes various milestones towards getting certifications and experience for training, and offers interest in your own responding updates about your life.

Nothing more than that.

He lives on the second page of your messages, the banner of his rare text notification ranging in impact from excitement to disinterest as time goes on.

You’d liked him, in a thrilling sort of way that promised no commitment, but he was right—his past (and current) indiscretions aren’t good for your future.

And the heart racing excitement of seeing his name appear on your lock screen always spirals into disappointment when his flirty tone is undermined by a three-day-old read receipt and only revived by a “Hey! How’s it going?” five weeks later.

It gets old.

It turns sour.

Sometimes you ignore him.

He’s friendly and sweet, but uninterested in forming an actual connection, so all you can do is stop letting yourself think about him as you fall asleep, stop imagining running into him again, stop daydreaming about him rescuing you from Woosung’s occasional “been thinking about you” texts.

Time passes, and Chris becomes nothing more than the occasional painful tug on your silly little heartstrings.

NOW

Camping is a new hobby for you. After finding out what it feels like to have nothing, to wonder where your next meal is coming from, bouncing from friends’ couches to family’s guest beds, your slowly accumulated life feels like a luxury that can be yanked from you at any moment.

You get a new job and develop an obsession for managing your finances. Half a dozen savings accounts, allowances for hobbies and expenses, long term goals and short term goals and a healthy padding for emergencies.

You get a comfy little apartment and furnish it sparingly. You don’t need excess. You want to appreciate living minimally, to learn how to survive without frivolous comforts, just in case you ever have to lose everything again—and one day it dawned on you.

What better way to appreciate the little things in life than to sleep under the open sky and make your own food over a fire you started with your own hands and gaze at the stars instead of just doom scrolling?

You invest in camping as your new exploration of self. You teach yourself basic wilderness skills. You booked a few local campsites to learn the ropes.

And then, when it came time to hammer out travel plans for the Ateez concert you had booked while Chris was exacting revenge on your ex, you found the perfect opportunity.

An app, called ShowTripper, that let you turn your destination into a journey. When you selected camping as your preference, it showed you a route of sites and allowed you to book them right there, all at once, neat and organized.

So here you are.

On a four day roadtrip to a concert you’d booked on impulse, camping all along the way.

Your gear is minimal and easy to set up. Once you’re out of your car and working through your mental checklist, it’s only twenty minutes before you’re standing back, hands on your hips as you proudly scan your small tent, folding table, and camp chair.

There’s plenty of time before nightfall to get a fire started and make something light for dinner. Fortunately, considering your subpar culinary skills—none of which naturally translate to open fire cooking, by the way—you’re not especially hungry after your fast food lunch and gas station snacks throughout the day.

And you know it’s only because it’s your first day on the road, but you’re not too tired yet, so instead of digging your food supplies out of your car, you fasten all of your tent zippers with tiny colorful padlocks and use a bike lock to secure your table, chair, and tent to each other.

No one has ever bothered your campsite before, but in your defense, you have been robbed on occasion.

It helps you find some peace of mind every time you venture to wherever the bathrooms and showers are if you know that your site is an inconvenient one to burglarize.

Pocketing your little bundle of keys, you sling your backpack over your shoulders, grab your vintage film camera from your passenger seat, and take a hike through the campground.

The sky is big and blue overhead, obstructed by a sparse tree cover, and the sun is just starting to make its colorful descent. Birds chirp pleasantly above you, squirrels darting through the bushes in search of dropped food, the occasional strolling camper shooting you a friendly nod as you pass by.

It’s a nice space.

You like one of your local camp grounds a little better, only because it sits on a lake instead of a river, but this one is no less beautiful.

Gradually filling your film roll with shots of your surroundings that you know will develop with sun spots and discoloration due to a light leak somewhere inside the old camera, you take your time exploring.

The techs at the drugstore where you develop your film always leave a note about the poor quality, informing you that your camera is broken and needs repair, but you’re ridiculously fond of the defect. You found it on a shelf in your local thrift store, greasy and grimy and hailing from the eighties, and you’d instantly fallen in love with it.

The unique spills of color and lens flares that cut through every photo give each image a touch of genuine character that could only be replicated by modern manipulation.

Ever since you found it and cleaned it up, it’s been your favorite method of documenting your outdoor excursions. You already have a small bookshelf of photo books littered with notes and memories from your few adventures, and it’s one of your most motivating ways of unwinding some evenings just to sit and flip through them.

By the time you circle back to your campsite, your neighbors have arrived. They’re parked on the other side of a cluster of bushes in a van, appearing to be a group of rowdy young men who are loudly rushing their way through setting up a number of large tents.

Paying them no mind, comforted by the shrubs and trees that separate you, you focus on starting a fire in the pit. A bundle of store bought firewood, a handful of kindling, and two matches later, you have the beginnings of a cozy little cook fire.

Within half an hour, you’re settled in your folding chair with a steaming plate of canned ravioli.

The sun is nearly set. Once you finish your dinner, you’ll grab your toiletry Kit and head for the bathrooms to wash up, and then you’ll be cozied up in your sleeping bag, drifting happily to sleep with the first leg of your solo adventure successfully under your belt.

You are self sufficient, independent, and brimming with satisfaction.

“There’s no. Way.”

You are fucked.

to be continued

< last part | next part >

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[thebluebygracieabrams]

btw everyone was right about this is me trying. it fucking slaps

[forcemascexperiments]

I think it's funny how men just jerk off sometimes nonchalantly. Like that's such a dude thing to do. Jerkin it while doing nonsexual shit like playing minecraft, listening to music, reading a book, sometimes even in public restrooms. Just jorkin that thang. Lol. No, no, every dude does this, I promise. Yes, really. It's just a funny little quirk all men have and so you should really consider it as a part of your transition. Take your t dick between your pointer and middle finger and jerk it for a bit every time you shower or scroll on your phone or take a piss -- actually, how about you do it right now. Uh, we're both men. Of course it's fine. Don't make it weird. Yeah, there you go. Just like that. Good b- job, dude. And if both of your hands are busy, you can just put a vibrator in your pants and keep it on low. Just enough to keep your cock nice and hard. Yeah, man, every guy I know does this. Whether you're doing the dishes, going for a walk, going shopping, you can always get off to keep yourself nice and dumb and masculine. Always make sure to stop before you cum though.

[a-b-riddle]

Part 2

Can't stop thinking about reader finally cutting them loose.

For three days there was nothing but radio silence. In those three days you had told yourself that it was a grace period. Time for Simon to cool off and realize how much of a bastard he was for saying all those things he obviously didn't mean. Johnny coming back over with a bouquet of flowers and endless apologies and cuddles.

Simon didn't apologize for his harsh words.

Johnny didn't call you later, as promised.

For three days you jumped at every single notification, silently hoping it was one of them. Any of them.

But it wasn't.

And you, unfortunately, got the answer to the question you had been asking yourself for months.

Did they still want this?

The answer was clear.

You didn't let their unofficial dismissal get to you. You still had shit to do. A life to get on to. A book signing to go to.

Jesus.

A book signing. A book you wrote. A book that was being published and released the day of the expo. You weren't expecting a huge line because this was your debut novel, but with the help of some ARC readers who had took to social media, there had been a bit of a storm brewing.

You had listened to John when he had mentioned writing under an alias. Don't know how crazy people are out there. They'd do anything to get close to you, Dove. Just better to protect yourself where you can. You almost hated yourself for listening to him now. Now you would just have to keep writing under your pen name.

You were getting ready to close up shop early when your phone finally pinged.

Kyle.

Fuck.

Of course it was Kyle. The one who hadn't treated you like you were constantly bothering him. Not the one who made you feel guilty for agreeing to your arrangement. Nor was he the one who fucked you and left you. No. He was just the one who just wasn't there.

Maybe that was just as bad.

What are you up to today?

That was it. Almost two weeks of radio silence and that's all he had to say? It just added more evidence that you were making the right call in ending this now. It had already carried on for too long.

You had two things on your to-do list and you wouldn't let Kyle's sudden reappearance deter you.

E-mail the publisher back.

Change the locks.

You didn't have the strength to face them again. If they groveled, it would be too easy to take them back. One against four wasn't much of a fair fight. And if they didn't care to fight for you... you don't know if you could survive it. Coming face-to-face with the proof that it didn't bother them to give you up even though it was killing you.

No. Cutting it off completely was the best thing to do.

So you didn't respond.

You left Kyle's text unanswered as you e-mailed the publisher back that everything was set for your flight on tomorrow morning. You would spend Thursday adjusting to the time difference and Friday you would rest up before the expo this weekend. She assured you that you would need to rest up your writing hand. Whatever that means.

You left Kyle read as you closed up shop several hours earlier than usual. You needed to drop off the bank deposit before you started on task number two.

You didn't bothering responding to Johnny when he had texted you when you were leaving the hardware store, purchase in hand. Asking if you were free Friday. Promising dinner. 'In or out. Your choice.'

It was almost second nature when you got home to pull up your phone. Ready to text one of them to see which one of them could come over and help.

Fixing a leaky sink? Nothing Johnny hasn't seen before. Need help moving furniture? John won't mind when you change your several times on what should go where. Kyle would always come in with take out the moment you mentioned you were hungry and whenever you felt like going for a walk when it was a bit too late in the evening, Simon was the first to volunteer as your personal guard dog.

But asking them to come and change the very lock you planned on using to keep them out seemed... counter productive, if not downright petty.

You were almost done with the lock when your phone sounded off. Only this time it wasn't a text. Someone was calling you.

You almost faltered when John's name came on your screen.

Fuck.

That almost got you.

You almost answered it.

Almost.

You clicked on the 'Sorry, I can't talk right now. Options, before finishing up your work.

And just like that, you were done. No help needed. You had changed the lock. Even adding on a deadbolt. Replacing the flimsy chain Simon had taunted you about. If someone wanted to get in here, that wouldn't stop them.

Well, now you didn't need to hear it anymore.

Not that you would really hear it again...

Your flight was in twelve hours. Although that seemed an ample amount of time you hadn't even begun to pack. You had luckily narrowed your outfits down, but now was the task of folding it nicely into your suitcase rather than just stuffing it in there.

On my way. We need to talk.

It was too late for talking. Three days too late. Several months too late.

The last message sent was four weeks ago. A new Thai place had opened up close to your apartment that you were wanting to try. All of them had given you excuses.

Not my taste, Dove.

Cannae do it tonight. Next weekend? Next weekend didn't happen either.

I can do tomorrow. Kyle ended up bailing. You forget the excuse he used.

Simon hadn't even bothered to reply.

The final nail in the coffin of your relationship. Almost two years wasted with nothing, but a broken heart to show for it. And the worst part is, they had all chipped away at your heart, leaving you to deal with the final blow that would shatter it.

Im sorry. I can’t do this with you anymore. wish you all the best.

Your fingers made quick work in blocking their numbers. It was best. If they wanted to reach you, they couldn't. On the other side of the coin, if they didn't care to reply, you wouldn't spend countless hours crying over the fact that none of them had been affected the same way you had.

You would deal with getting them their belongings that they had left behind another time. You had big things, great things happening for you. You were cutting your loses. You were cutting them loose.

You just hoped you didn’t regret it.

[connorsui]

The flowers arrive like clockwork.

Every two weeks, without fail, a fresh bouquet is delivered to your doorstep. And the arrangement always changes—

soft peonies, vibrant sunflowers, the classic elegance of white roses.

But the note is always .... the same, scrawled in familiar, slanted handwriting.

"For you, love. Keep them close. -S"

You press the latest note between your fingers, running your thumb over the ink. The paper is stiff and crisp. A stark contrast to the delicate petals resting in the glass vase on your kitchen counter.

Simon ... never forgets.

No matter where he is—somewhere far, somewhere dangerous, somewhere he won’t talk about—he remembers. Remembers you. Remembers that the loneliness sinks in deeper when his own house is too quiet, when the bed is too cold, when the weight of his absence presses down on you like an iron hand.

And so, the flowers come. A silent reassurance.

A tether to him.

However, what you don’t know is that thousands of miles away, buried in the monotony of deployment, Simon keeps a single flower from each bouquet. A small, fragile thing, tucked into his chest pocket.

It doesn’t belong here—delicate against the hard edges of military life, a stark contrast to the scent of gunpowder and sweat. But he watches it, tracks the way its petals curl inward, the way the color fades at the edges.

Because if it’s dying here, then the ones back home must be too.

And Simon doesn’t allow things to wither in his absence.

So he orders another bouquet. Makes sure it arrives before the last one is nothing more than brittle stems. Makes sure you don’t spend a single day without something beautiful waiting for you.

Because he knows you.

Knows that you don’t just place them in the vase carelessly—you trim the stems, change the water, arrange them just right, fingers brushing over petals like they mean something. And they do. Because they’re from him.

Knows that when the blooms start to wilt, you don’t throw them away immediately. You linger. You press the petals between the pages of books, tuck them into old letters, keep them as if they hold some part of him.

And maybe they do.

When Simon comes home, it’s always quiet. No grand reunions, no declarations. Just the steady sound of his boots crossing the threshold, the slow exhale as he sheds his gear, as the weight of war is left at the door.

And the first thing he does—before he even pulls you into his arms—is check the flowers.

Sees them fresh and bright, standing tall in their vase, just as they should be.

And he exhales, tension bleeding from his shoulders, because he kept his promise.

You turn from the counter, watching him as he takes it all in. His eyes flicker to you, to the bouquet, back to you.

Then, soft as a whisper, “Did you like them?”

You smile, stepping forward, pressing yourself into his chest as his arms encircle you, his scent wrapping around you like something safe. Something whole.

You bury your face into his shoulder, voice muffled but sure. “Always.”

And he believes you. Because Simon doesn’t deal in pretty words or hollow gestures. He deals in actions, in quiet devotion, in making sure that no matter how far he is, you never feel the absence of him.

Not when his love still lingers in every petal, every bloom.

[forcaleb]

a dose of love and laughter — caleb

warnings — fluff, sick!reader, caleb taking care of you, angst (like really small part)

notes — a 360 from my previous fic im crying LMFAO \\ tags: @aomiiine

caleb loves doting on you.

no matter how many times you tell him you’re a grown woman who can take care of herself, caleb always finds a way to step in and handle things for you.

“caleb, i promise i can take care of myself while you’re at work,” you say, letting out a small cough. his hoodie keeps you warm against the cool breeze of the air conditioner. you came down with a cold last night, and caleb has been insistent on taking the day off just to look after you. “i don’t want you missing work because of me.”

“but princess…” caleb sighs. “i’m worried you’ll get worse if i’m not here. what will you do if your fever spikes, hm?” he gently brushes your hair back, his touch soft. “let me stay, okay? let me take care of you, just like i always did when we were kids.”

you can’t argue with that. having someone look after you, especially caleb, is comforting. he’s always been good at taking care of you when you’re sick.

his pleading gaze makes you give in. “okay, fine. but if any of your underlings blame me for their colonel being absent, i’m kicking your ass.”

“don’t worry, princess,” caleb chuckles. in one swift motion, he lifts you into a bridal carry, making you squeal in surprise. he sets you down gently on the couch and tucks a warm blanket around you. “you stay here, okay? i’ll go make some porridge.”

you nod and settle into the couch, your favorite tv show playing softly in the background. as much as you hate to admit it, having caleb take care of you brings back warm memories from your childhood. and his porridge is as delicious as you remember.

as you’re about to doze off, you hear caleb’s footsteps approaching. you squint, catching a glimpse of him.

“sleepy already, pipsqueak?” he says softly, setting a bowl of porridge on the table. “want to eat now?”

“only if you feed me,” you declare. caleb laughs, and you hide your smile under the blanket, trying to keep a stern look.

“okay, okay,” caleb agrees, amused. “what would you do without me?” he helps you sit up gently, leaning you against the cushions. taking a spoonful of porridge, he holds it up for you. you open your mouth and savor the warm flavor. “good?”

“mhm,” you hum, swallowing before giving him a smile. “it’s really good. just like i remember.”

“you remember?” caleb asks, sounding surprised.

“yeah, of course i do!” you exclaim, almost choking on the porridge in your excitement. caleb quickly hands you a cup of water. after taking a sip, you continue, “i tried recreating it when you were gone, but i could never get it right.”

caleb’s expression softens, a hint of sadness in his eyes. “really?” he glances down at the porridge, avoiding your gaze. “maybe i should make a recipe book for you. that way, you can make all of caleb’s specialties anytime.”

“hey,” you say gently, placing your hand under his chin to lift his face. “what’s wrong? why do you look so sad?”

he leans into your touch. “just… thinking about you being sick all alone, with no one to take care of you.”

you giggle softly. “why are you upset over that? you know i’m good at taking care of myself.”

“yeah?” caleb asks, a teasing glint in his eyes. “so, you don’t want me to feed you right now?”

“wha-” you quickly grab his hand, stopping him from leaving. “of course i want you to feed me! i’m sick, caleb! i can’t believe you’re joking with a sick person right now,” you say, feigning indignation to lighten the mood.

it works. caleb’s laughter is so genuine that it nearly brings tears to your eyes. you’ve missed his laugh, his smile — everything about him. even though it’s been weeks since you reunited, you still haven’t gotten over how much you missed him.

“you’re contradicting yourself, pipsqueak,” caleb teases. “so, can you take care of yourself or not?”

“hmm,” you pause, pretending to think. “i can take care of myself. but when you’re here, i’d rather have you take care of me.”

caleb blinks, then bursts into laughter again. “why are you laughing? i’m serious!” you protest.

“i know, i know,” he says, wiping a stray tear of laughter from his eye. he gently pats your head. “i’ll take care of you. i promise.”

[umadosedepascal]

DIRTY HOLIDAY | Pedro Pascal X f!reader | One Shot

Written by Santa Trindade

Banner by @missyorkswhore

Made in Brazil

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader

Summary: You go with friends spend the holidays in Mexico, such a coincidence to be at the same resort as Pedro. What a world, so small huh?

wc: 3.7k

rating/warnings: [little surprising plot] [Pedro being Pedro][unprotected PIV][oral sex m/f] [alcohol comsuption] [Curse words]

a/n: C’MON GUYS. Do I need to explain myself after yesterday pictures and videos? NO. FUCKING HELL NO. wtf Pedro.. WHY is he so fucking hot??? WTF. 😭

You are going with your friends to Mexico to spend the holidays this year. It was a tough decision to make because you always spend the holidays with family, but this time you decided to try something new away from home since your whole family always judges you. Your dad always comes to you saying, “You’ve been drinking a lot, my baby; slow down…”

All you want to say is that you are a grown woman and do whatever you want, but every year you keep behaving as an angel to them.

You and your girlfriends get on the airplane on the 24th, heading to Mexico for 2 weeks.

All of you are very excited and feeling some freedom in the air.

“Hell yeah, the first thing we get there will be a round of tequila shots… you gotta deal with me…” and your friends laugh with your sassy attitude.

A promise is a promise. You check in, change to your bikinis, and go to the bar by the pool.

“Hey buddy, 3 shots of tequila, por favor?”

The barman looks at you with half-closed eyes. “ID first, my ladies; you look under 18…”

Although you are all over 27, actually, you three hand your IDs on the counter and look around the pool waiting for your drinks.

One of your friends comes to you and says, “Hey, isn’t that guy from….”

Your jaw drops, your legs start trembling and shaking, trying to hold on to something and not to fall… “YES?”

Pedro is lying down on a sun chair in red shorts, drips of water are running down to his bare chest, and he is really deep into a book.

“I need my shot RIGHT NOW!” You say loudly to your friends, trying to compose yourself at the same time.

They know you have a crush on him and talk nonstop about his work, so this is going to be a wild trip if you get to meet him even for a second.

“Second round is on me; let’s do it,” one of your friends says.

All you can think about is him. You don’t stop to look in his direction and try to plan how to approach without being a silly, stupid, drunk idiot.

The most down-to-earth friend of yours tries to calm you down, saying that you will have your chance, etc., but you are so far away in your thoughts that you ask for a large margarita and tell them you're going to take a sun chair as close as possible to him and see what happens.

“You crazy! But yeah, good luck; I hope he’s not a dick with you…” one of them tells you, hopeless, not trying to hurt your feelings.

“Dick? Yeah, I want some dick… You laugh, already buzzed, walking towards the chair right next to his.

As long as you get near him, by himself, still deep into the book.

You already worked up the courage and asked, “Hi, is this chair taken?”

He gives a side eye, looking at you from head to toe. “No darling, all yours…”

As you sit on the chair, you can hear your friends from the bar cheering like party animals.

You look at him saying, “Jeez, these people know how to party, huh?” Hoping he didn’t see you before taking shots with them a few moments ago.

“Yeah, yeah… young people... having their time…” he says with a smooth voice.

You feel relief because he didn’t see you before with them and anxious at the same time because YES, you could start a chit chat with him.

“Erm, yeah…” You don’t know how to keep this going and pick anything that you find inside your ecobag just to create other possible ways to talk.

Lay down on the chair, put on your Ray-Bans, and open the FUCKING MAP of the resort.

Jesus, what am I doing? Should I say I know him? Should I just ask what he is reading or maybe wait for another brief comment coming from him?

You can see by the side of your eye that from time to time he looks at you, but very, very fast, you just hold that giant map, feeling like you're on mushrooms with empty thoughts on your mind.

You’ve got your friends getting drunk and cheering for you from the bar and the hottest guy in the world by your side.

Think wisely…

You grab your drink from the side table and sip it.

“Is that good?” He asks you.

Pretending like you got scared, almost dropping the fancy glass on the floor… “Did you just.. talk to me? Um, well, I had better ones. But this one isn’t bad at all…” you describe your drink with a shy smile.

What the fuck did I say???

He chuckles, closing his book and now sitting down on the chair.

“Hm... 3-star review? I’m getting one myself; I like cheap stuff.”

You simply just give a “ha” to him as he stands up and walks towards the bar.

Your friends get wild; at this point, they might think he is going to talk to them for sure.

You immediately look at them trying to mimic something like, “Nooooo, noooooo, don’t say shit, you motherfuckers!!!”

You are in a panic because you know them and what they are capable of, especially under alcohol influence.

But they understand wrong; they know you always need a hand in terms of trying to flirt with someone else.

You see one of them approach him, saying something and looking at you at the same time.

You are screwed up. You know.

The only thing you can do now is wait for your end, getting big gulps of your drink and trying to calm down.

He comes back with a wild smile on his face saying, “I just met your friends over there; they told me things... you don’t need to hide anything…”

You sit down quickly. “What? Hahaha, they… They are buzzed; don’t believe in what they say…”

He keeps looking at you with half-closed eyes. “Hmm,” he sits on his chair sipping his drink and says, “Yeah, it’s not that bad at all…”

You simply don’t talk for some moments; your anxiety is building up like a pressure cooker.

Until then… “Hey Pedro… I’m sorry… I just wanted to say hi, but I’m already drunk, and I don’t know how to start a proper conversation. They probably told you I’m a sucker for you… and the ‘dick’ thing as well. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a stalker; I don’t want to bother you. I just think you're awesome, and it was a stupid idea to come over right here, right now.” You run over words.

“Wow, wow, wow, they just told me to be nice to you, haha, because you care... about me.” Pointing to himself.

After you say all that with a flushed cheek, you let out a loud laugh looking at your friends that are already out of sight. You get more desperate saying sorry a million times, trying to compose yourself.

“What more did they say?”

“That you are awesome and know everything about my stuff, but with moderation… I don’t know what they meant, but yeah, I just didn’t catch your name…"

You tell him your name with eyes open and disbelief that your friends, for the first time, did a good job, but not you… not you.

“What’s the dick thing you told me?” He asks you with a smirk.

“Aaah, nothing… being a dick… that’s it.” You say, looking to the ground with shame.

He grabs you by the chin and says, “I would never be a dick to a beautiful girl like you…”

You feel a shiver down to your spine when he touches you like that.

Oh shit…I’m already wet without even getting into the pool.

“I, I think I need to… brb…” You leave everything behind and go straight to the toilet, locking the door and sitting there.

Breathe in, breathe out.Ok, I will just grab my stuff and disappear…What did I do?

As soon as you open the door, Pedro is there waiting…

“I usually don’t do things like that; it can be the vibe, my drinks, or even Xmas. I don’t know…” He says, grabbing your hips, pushing you back to the toilet, and closing the door behind him.

“Is that what you wanted? hm" He rubs his beard on your face, searching for your mouth.

He guides your hands to his growing bulge while running his right hand from behind you, rubbing one finger over your pussy.

You moan when he rubs his finger roughly against you…

“So wet already for me…” he says in between sloppy kisses.

“Since the moment I spotted you here, yeah…” you whisper, with both hands stroking his cock over the shorts…

Then Pedro takes you slowly to the sink and sits you there, spreading your legs…“Let me see what you got, beautiful… spread more…” putting your bikini bottom aside and lowering to the same level.

You grab his wet hair with one hand while he tongue darts you deep, sucking your lips and moaning low with pleasure…

You don’t even blink, just looking down at him savoring you, such a tease.

No fucking way this is happening…

You can feel his nose rubbing against your clit; you are getting close to the edge, but suddenly people knock at the door…

“Oh dammit…” You murmur disappointedly.

Pedro stops his worship on you and tells you with a low voice, “My room isn't far... want to see what naughty presents Santa has for you?" His fingers trace small patterns on your thighs, making you shiver.

“But we need to be discreet… What’s your room number? I meet you there…”

Pedro chuckled softly, his breath tickling your ear. "Discreet, huh? I like the way you think." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your earlobe as he whispered, "Room 217, second floor."

Luckily nobody is at the door anymore, so you sneak out the toilet.

You try to find your girls just to quickly freak out and disappear again, but there's no sign of them.

You come back to the pool area, and Pedro isn’t there anymore; you bite your lip, get a deep breath, take your stuff, and go towards the elevator.

Room 217

You knock twice.

The door slowly creaks open, revealing Pedro standing there, his shirt half unbuttoned, revealing his chiseled chest. He's holding a bottle of tequila and two glasses. His eyes roamed over your body hungrily.

Stepping aside to let you in, he whispers suggestively, "Merry Christmas to me, indeed." He gently shut the door behind you, his free hand trailing down your arm. "Hope you like tequila..."

“Hm, yeah, better be careful… right?

Pedro's eyebrows shot up, a devilish grin spreading across his face at the memory. "Ah, but that was just a sample of what I can do sober. Imagine what I'm capable of now, all loosened up." Doing a little dance…

Then he pours two generous glasses of tequila, sliding one towards you before picking up his own. "I've got a list of naughty things I want to do with you..."

Oh, he wants to play a game…I’m just gonna faint 😮‍💨

“Oh… tell me more…” You push him to the sofa, sitting on his lap.

A deep, sexy chuckle escapes his lips as he lets you push him onto the sofa, his hands immediately finding your curves. "Mmm, you're being a naughty girl..." He takes a sip of his tequila, then offers you the glass. "You first."

“My list? With you... it is an extensive list. Better you tell me yours first…”

Pedro leans back into the sofa, a confident smirk playing on his lips as his hands continue their exploration of your body. "Well, since you asked..." He takes another sip of tequila, his eyes never leaving yours.

The motherfucker is a tease; I knew it… I knew it!!!

His hands wander up and down your body possessively as he continues. "I want to see those perfect lips wrapped around my... gifts." He punctuates his words with a gentle bite to your neck.

"Then I want you bent over this fireplace mantel while I take you from behind, watching your reflection in that mirror across the room.” His fingers trailed along your waistband suggestively.

“Wow…You really don’t waste time on your list, huh?” You start unbuttoning his shirt all the way down.

He chuckles, his eyes locking onto yours as he sees you unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his chest and abs one button at a time. He helps you finish the job, tossing his shirt aside. "Guess not..." He growls, pulling you closer.

Pedro's lips curled into a wicked smile as you slowly head down towards his chest, his hand lightly gripping the back of your neck.

"Well, since you asked so nicely..." you murmur approvingly, pressing your lips against his nipple.

He let out a low groan as you began to suck, his other hand coming up to gently stroke your cheek. "Fuck, just like that..."

You let out a soft laugh. “So… you like some worship on your nipples, huh?”

A deep, sultry chuckle escaped his lips, his voice husky with desire. "You're learning my secrets, aren't you?" His hand urges your head towards his other nipple. "Not just my nipples... but every part of me deserves some worship."

“That’s how I make my way down…” you whisper.

His breath hitches as you whisper your intentions, his body tingling with excitement. "Well then, I can hardly wait to feel those heavenly lips trailing lower..." He guides your face down his torso, his abs clenching instinctively under your touch.

As you kiss and nuzzle your way down his abdomen, Pedro's hands rest lightly on your head, his fingers gently guiding you. "Lower... lower... yes, just like that..." He hisses as your lips brush against the waistband of his red swim trunks.

You slowly peel back his zipper, the sound echoing in the room. Pedro's breathing grows heavier as you reach inside and wrap your hand around his thick, hard length. He lets out a low groan as you pull it free, his eyes rolling back in his head. "Fuck... oh god..."

Pedro's cock twitches eagerly as you firm your grip, the skin velvety soft, a prominent vein runs along the underside. The head is broad and round, flushed a deep red, with a tiny slit oozing with pre-cum. His hips giving an involuntary thrust forward, seeking more of your touch. "Don't tease me, beautiful..." He breathes out, voice strained with lust. "Put those gorgeous lips to work."

As you bob your head up and down, Pedro's hands tighten on your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin. He starts to thrust gently…”Fuck... You look so beautiful with your mouth full of me..." He pants, his abs flexing with each thrust. His hands move to cup your jaw, his thumbs caressing your cheeks as he guides your movements. The wet sounds of your sucking fill the room, mixed with his guttural groans.

I take you out of my mouth for a few seconds. “You taste so good, but I don’t want you to reach the edge, hottie…”

His breath catches at your words. "Mmm, teasing me now? You know exactly what you're doing..." His tone is a mix of both frustration and deep satisfaction. "Yeah, don't make me come just yet…”

“Yes, let’s work on your list…” You say, sitting back on his lap, cleaning the corner of your mouth with his precum.

Pedro's eyes darken with desire as he watches you clean your mouth with his precum. "Fuck, you're so naughty... I love it." He reaches out and runs his thumb over your lips, spreading it around before leaning in to claim your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss.

“So…What did you say about the fireplace? Second of the list…”

Pedro smirks mischievously. "Ah, the fireplace... I was thinking we could move our little session over there." He stands up, lifting you with him effortlessly. "I want to bend you over the mantel and fuck you from behind, watching your reflection in that mirror across the room.”

Pedro carries you to the fireplace, setting you down gently on your feet. He spins you around and bends you over the ornate wooden mantel, the cool marble pressing against your skin. "Keep those elbows locked," he commands, a firm hand on the small of your back.

Not happy with that, you just suggest, “Why don’t you just take me to the bed?”

"Because the bed is too ordinary," Pedro murmurs, running his hands down your thighs possessively, "I want to do this here, where I can watch myself take you in the mirror." He steps back to admire the view, his eyes roaming over your arched back and rounded bottom.

With a mischievous tone, you ask him… ”and you like to watch yourself?”

"Right now I’d love watching myself fucking you," Pedro confesses, his voice low and husky with desire. "Seeing my cock disappear into your pussy, feeling your body shake as I pound into you... it's fucking incredible." He reaches out to run his fingers through your hair, tangling them in the loose strands.

"And the mirror," he continues, his other hand reaching out to the mantel to steady himself as he lines himself up with your entrance. "Watching myself push into you, feeling your tight little hole squeeze around my dick as I fuck you hard against the mirror... fuck, it's going to be perfect."

With a deep grunt, Pedro thrusts forward, sheathing his hard length inside you in one smooth motion. He pauses for a moment, savoring the feeling of being buried inside you before he starts to move, his hips slamming against your ass as he fucks you hard against the mirror.

"Look at us in the mirror..." He reaches around to cup your breasts while continuing his steady pace. "Watch how beautifully you take my cock. Those whimpers you're making... fuck, you're perfect." His pace quickens, his breath becoming ragged against your ear.

His fingers pinch and tug at your nipples as he fucks you relentlessly, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room. The mirror fogs up from your panting breaths and his sweat, obscuring parts of the reflection but not enough to hide the lewd scene unfolding before it.

In between moans, you beg him to take you to the bed; you can’t stand your legs anymore with so much pressure.

Pedro growls, pulling out of you abruptly and spinning you around to face him. He lifts you up and carries you to the bed, tossing you onto it before climbing on top of you. "I need to be inside you again, now."

He settles between your thighs, his hard cock pressing urgently against your slick folds. "Wrap your legs around me," he demands, easing the tip of his shaft teasingly along your slit. As you comply, he grips your wrists, pinning them above your head with one strong hand.

Pedro leans down, capturing your lips in a fierce, dominant kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, claiming your mouth as his other hand guides his cock to your entrance. In one powerful thrust, he buries himself inside you again, swallowing your gasp with his mouth.

He breaks the kiss, his eyes blazing with lust as he begins to move, thrusting into you with deep, measured strokes that make the bed creak beneath you. "Fuck, your pussy feels amazing," he grits out, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot inside you.

Pedro quickens his pace, his grip on your wrists tightening as he chases his release. The room fills with the sound of his hips slapping against yours and your breathy moans. "I'm going to fill you up so full," he pants, nipping at your jaw. One of his hands slides between your bodies, finding your clit and circling it with his thumb. "I want to feel you come on my cock…”

"Fuck, you're getting tighter... Is this what you need, baby?" His thumb presses harder against your clit as he fucks you with deep, forceful strokes, the intensity in his eyes unwavering. "Come for me..."

Pedro feels your walls clench around him, and he growls, "That's it, cum on my cock." He slams into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go. His thumb circles your clit frantically as his release builds. "Fuck, I'm close..."

With a loud grunt, Pedro explodes inside you, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his hot seed. His thumb presses hard against your clit, sending you over the edge as you scream in pleasure, your pussy milking his cock for everything he's got.

He stays buried inside you, his thumb slowly circling your sensitive bundle of nerves as he nuzzles his face against yours, breathing heavily. "Damn it, I will tell your friends you are amazing… they were right..." He murmurs, his voice muffled against your neck.

After a moment, Pedro slowly pulls out of you, his softening cock slipping free from your still-quivering pussy. He collapses beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms and holding you close. "Can we keep up with this list?" You say.

He kisses the top of your head, his heart still racing from their intense encounter. "I think we should keep going, yeah. There are a lot more things on that list I want to try with you." He pulls out his phone and starts typing, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Hey, I need to check on the girls...” you say, worried about them being away for a couple of hours already.

Pedro looks up from his phone, his expression softening. "Of course, go check on your friends. I'll be here when you get back. But don't be too long, okay?" He says giving you a little wink.

As soon as you go back to your room, you find your friends passed out on the bed.

Well, I guess you will leave a note at the door saying thanks for the little help, and you guys will catch up on the next day because you won’t sleep in the same room for a while… The list is endless.

😈

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Thanks for being here and read our delusional fics, likes are appreciate, comments even more. If you want to ask anything, blast it!

[kisses4reid]

scare | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,, (part 1)

synopsis - you’re in a relationship with some one else and have a pregnancy scare, both your own reaction and spencer’s makes you realise that you’re not happy.

genre - bau!reader x spencer, friends to lovers, multi-part, pregnancy scare, reader has sort of a douche bf, one sided love (at first), angst and fluff

warnings - pregnancy talk, mentions of sex, unhealthy relationships, stress, sickness

w/c - 1.4k?? take a guess cause that’s mine.

a/n - i’ve got 9 weeks free. yeah, i have a job. and yeah, i have about 6 other hobbies i enjoy. but am i gonna make promises i can’t keep about writing more?? yeah. i am. here, enjoy. (pls lemme know abt mistakes it’s rlly late at night rn.)

The plane whirrs, small chatter from Morgan and who you assumed to be Penelope over the phone humming along with the music you try to distract yourself with. It isn’t working.

Because every song has its own special and quirky musical instrument that happens to sound like a message notification. And you keep getting your hopes up.

Your left leg started to bounce, your fingernails found their way to your anxious teeth. And Spencer noticed.

He noticed about halfway through the case, when you stopped talking as much, started drinking an influx of water, started discreetly taking pain medication. At first, he thought it was a simple stomach bug, and he knew your stomach didn’t agree with a lot of travel. But then you started getting nervous.

Spencer glanced at you a few times before moving, sitting next to you (attempting to be discreet). He can’t be discreet though, because every time he’s around you, his body does this weird thing where it can’t decide whether it should be instantly calm or instantly more nervous. Your presence stopped his fidgeting hands, his tired thoughts. But god, when he looked at you, it’s like his heart wants to see you for itself.

And right now his heart hurt, why were you scared?

You barely noticed Spencer sit down, usually you would, but your phone was annoyingly blank, silent. You turned it off and on three times, and re-entered the plane’s wifi password five times.

And now your stomach was grumbling, and not in the way that those nice small sandwiches can help out with.

“Are you okay?”

You jumped, taking your earphones out and staring at Spencer surprised. You laughed nervously, quietly, “Spencer! Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine.”

His warm eyes searched yours and for a second you could ignore the tight feeling in your chest. It made you think back around 8 months ago, when Penelope, your childhood best friend and now co-worker, created a pros and cons list for both Lloyd, and… Spencer.

It was unprofessional and inappropriate, especially when you decided to listen because you had nothing better to do. And especially when she started making some good points.

He squinted his eyes, and you sighed.

“Sorry, I’m just a bit antsy. Feeling a bit… off.”

You felt sick, and stressed, and like your thoughts were going to be the cause of your death. Because you’ve never been sick like this. And to your overworked brain, it only meant one thing.

Spencer’s a great profiler. And although the team collectively agreed to not profile each other, it becomes hard for Spencer when the girl he’s in love with is so obviously in distress. Even worse when he can’t be the hero.

“I can leave you to sleep if you want.” He says, getting up to leave.

“Oh, no. That’s okay. Honestly, I think sleeping would just make it worse.”

Ah, right. Travel sickness, Spencer thought. He gaps his mouth slightly and nods. He relaxes into the couch and looks over to you, heart picking up slightly as pieces of hair fell from your loose ponytail.

You looked over to the table he was previously sat at, the book you gifted him last Christmas open and nearly finished. You smiled to yourself, but it was bittersweet.

“You’re actually reading it?” You asked, looking back at him with slight surprise.

“Of course. I’ve read it 6 times already, it’s a great pallet cleanser- Just like you said in that Christmas card!” He smiled childishly, like he was recalling the first snow.

“I know right! It’s so simple but interesting, I mean I’ve only read it three times but to me I always found it to clear my head.”

Spencer angled himself towards you, “Did you know that the author actually interviewed his daughter’s teachers to see what ages teachers were more invested in compared to class sizes? He said in an interview that depending on a students intelligence, there’s an underlying emotional connection made between student and teacher,” he took a breath, “It plays into the intelligence to ego ratio that so many people claim isn’t true. Which I’m not trying to say you have a big ego, or that I do-“

You waved you hands, “Woah, woah. Why would I think you’re talking about me?”

He furrowed his eyebrows, “Well, you’re very intelligent.”

“Oh!… Thanks for thinking I’m intelligent, or smart.” You shrugged, “But I think you insulted yourself. You don’t have a 187 IQ for nothing do you?”

“You remembered my IQ?” He laughed nervously. His smile warms your chest like a candle. Like that candle he got you randomly in April, after you mentioned your favourite one being used up by your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend. Ugh.

You smile falters for only a second, “Of course. You only mention it to every person that second guesses you.”

He nods and smiles, “Must be my ego.”

You laugh, subconsciously bumping your shoulder with his. But- Jesus. Your stomach is queasy.

“Hey, uh, do you want some travel sickness pills?” He reached over for his satchel but you grab his forearm and smile as convincingly as you can.

“No, no. We’re landing soon, but thank you.”

You’re overreacting.

That’s what he said. When you texted your boyfriend of a year and a half that you thought you were pregnant he said, You’re overreacting. Two words, two hours after your first text, on his day off.

Maybe you are. You started feeling sick on a slightly more gory case, it’s lasted ever since the case started, you get travel sick as well.

The headaches are from the computer screen and stress. The stress is from fatigue. The fatigue is because of the lack of sleep. The lack of sleep is because of the headaches.

Why do you always do this? Always thinking that there’s something wrong with you. Always being the biggest person in your own life, selfish.

But… what if?

There’s a sudden squeak from behind you, and you instantly snapped out of it. You took a deep breath and looked at your surroundings. You were at your desk, standing, the strap of your bag clutched in your hands - god, your knuckles were white. Your eyes darted in surprise and confusion, and you jumped once again when Spencer spoke into the silence.

“You okay?”

“Um…”

You didn’t look back at him, only looking down at your shoes and taking a deep breath. You plastered on a smile despite the bile collecting in your throat.

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve gonna go, the bus leaves at um…”

You took out your phone. He didn’t even respond to your text asking him to pick you up.

“I’ll drive you home. But uh, I gotta pick up some groceries. I hope you don’t mind.”

He curved to your desk and gently took your bag from your hands, glancing at the way you traced your knuckles and how the leather strap now had slight wrinkles in it. He smiled, warmly. And he started walking like you rejecting the idea wasn’t an option.

Which is wasn’t, because he knew you too well.

“Well, a cucumber actually has 3% more water than watermelon. So if you really want a refreshing snack, cucumber is your man.”

You smiled and raised your eyebrows in interest. He’s had many vegetables and fruits in the basket, not a lot of protein. Explained a lot.

My man, you thought with a smile.

My man, you shivered.

“I don’t like cucumbers.” You said like it was distraction, and he nodded, picking up some kewpie mayo as he you around to the next aisle. He glanced at you,

“I know. You say it’s tasteless. I like it.” He shrugged.

“I know.” You smiled, and he smiles back.

God, you wish you could bask in it, the warmth. But your chest was still tingly, and your heart hadn’t stopped aching ever since you got excited about an email notification.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay? I noticed you’ve been tense for like… a week.” He grabbed some pasta sauce and put his hand on your shoulder to turn you around - you obviously looked too far into your own head.

“Yeah, just feeling-“

“Y/n.” He turned to you, stopping your venture into the dairy aisle. His eyes were hard, worried. The fluorescent lights swayed slightly. A worker walked by the end of the aisle with a trolley full of food.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t,” he lifted one arm, wanting to rest his hand on your upper arm, to help you, “Don’t say sorry. Just tell me what’s going on.”

“I have been feeling sick. That’s true. And I’ve been stressed and, thinking a lot. A lot.”

It felt weird to nearly tell Spencer about your relationship problems. It was like complaining to a doctor about healing crystals. It was like a slap in the face. Maybe that’s why you never did tell him about it, because it was facing your fears.

It was the pros and cons list made by Penelope.

But I’m overreacting.

“It’s nothing.”

Spencer sighed. You had that habit, of nearly opening up, and then shutting the door just as he was about to walk in.

You heard his sigh.

“Okay. I gave Lloyd my car because he has the day off, and he likes going to his friends houses on his days off. And, I told him something that should probably freak him out. But he doesn’t really care. I don’t think he really cares, about anything. At least about me.”

You started walking, because holy shit you’ve never said that out loud before, and Spencer followed you,

“Y/n, if you want to tell me something-“

“I think I’m pregnant.” You stopped, and started picking at your fingers, acting as if it was admitting to not knowing your left and rights, or that you don’t really like coconut.

His eyes widen, and his heart drops. It was like his worst nightmare coming true- jesus, how could he even think about himself right now? The girl he loved felt trapped with a man she thought might be the father of her baby.

Spencer gulped, “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

You looked at each other, scared, you more than him. And then you cringed,

“God, I’m sorry Spencer. I shouldn’t have said anything-“

“No- Y/n, it’s fine. I’m glad you told me-“

“I haven’t even, like, taken a test yet-“

“Wait so-”

You spun on your heel and looked at him exasperated.

“So… let’s go get some tests.” He said (he hopes) calmly. He was really trying, to pretend to be calm and collected. That’s what you needed, a clear head to replace yours.

He paid for everything, even the 5 pregnancy tests and the over sized lollipop you put in the basket to ease your nerves later on.

The moon was high, you were about three hours late to get home now, and your head was attacking itself with rambles and aches and honestly, you were sick of it.

You shivered, huddling in your jacket and drawing only slightly closer to Spencer. His silence was like a hook, drawing you in closer and higher and taking every word you had been thinking that day to the tip of your tongue.

You looked up to him. His hair fell into his eyes, the breeze reddening his cheeks slightly.

It’s Spencer. You’ve known him for nearly 6 years, but it feels like you’ve known each other for ever. You know everything about him, and he knows everything about you. Well, not everything. He doesn’t know how you feel in your own apartment, how every anniversary had been forgotten even when it was the ‘1 year’ mark, how you felt like you were raising an over grown child who could drink.

He knows you’re strong, but admitting all that? I’d look weak.

You have looked weak in front of Spencer. He stayed overnight in your hospital room, he held you when you watched a little girl die, he wiped your tears when you watched a sad short film during your break.

You couldn’t hide anything from him.

“I don’t think I’m pregnant- Well, I mean I might be, but there’s a very low chance,” You started, Spencer’s jaw clenched for a millisecond, “I’ve just been feeling sick and… it could be because of stress from work, or just general stress- like, I don’t know.”

Spencer moved the grocery bag to his other hand.

“Kids are great, don’t get me wrong. Some people don’t get the chance to have kids. I mean…” You gulped, and Spencer finally looked down at you. But now, all you could do was stare at the car park’s concrete floor. Speaking out loud was like clearing your brain, the fog was lifting. “Lloyd doesn’t want kids. I do, at least in the future, not right now. I just hope it’s not with-“ You cut yourself off, and slow down a bit. Spencer matches your pace.

I just hope it’s not with him.

He gulps, and clears his throat, looking down at you with understanding eyes, “With everything that’s going on.”

“Yeah… yeah. You know, my job, my…” It’s no use lying to Spencer. He knows. He’s known, for a long time.

Your chest was tight, and you made eye contact with the pregnancy tests lying on top of Spencer’s groceries. The thought of going home, rushing to the bathroom, avoiding your boyfriend who was already waiting angry, made your throat close up. Because only now, when you were three hours late from work and ignoring his one attempt at a phone call, Lloyd texted, ‘I think you need to calm down.’ It was a bare minimum, and finally Spencer could see you realizing it.

No, ‘Wre you okay?’, ‘What’s making you think this?’ ‘Where are you?’

No. He was making you out to be the crazy one, the one to be over thinking, over bearing, too much.

You were confused. To put it blankly. And scared. And questioning your life decisions. And honestly you just wanted to curl up in a ball and to have Spencer make you bad cucumber salad at his warm apartment.

You looked up to Spencer but he was already looking down at you, reaching for his keys and nodding, “You can come to mine, it’ll be okay.”

taglist (open) - @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es @0108s22m @aurorsworld @theoraekenslover @c-losur3 @littlelearningbrat @khxna @laurakirsten0502 @cultish-corner

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 5: "The one with the red lights" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Despite your reluctance, you find yourself at Santi’s house for dinner. But Frankie presses too hard, pulling things out of you that you’d rather keep buried—until all that’s left is the worst version of yourself. WC: 10.1k

A/N: Hope you enjoy this one 🤍 and don't forget to let me know what you think! I looove reading your comments <3 If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

The white ceiling stretched above you, blank and unfeeling, while your mind filled in the emptiness with shapes that weren’t really there. Faces, maybe. Or memories, distorted at the edges. You knew you were indulging in unnecessary pessimism, but you let yourself sink into it anyway. Surely you were entitled to a day like this every once in a while—one where grief sat heavy on your chest and refused to move. Unfortunately, your timing couldn’t have been worse. Not that you had chosen it; no one ever does. You don’t get to decide when your heart shatters for the second time, or when the pieces that were already broken fracture further, splintering into something even smaller, even harder to hold.

The day before, Frankie had left without much ceremony, tossing out a casual see you tomorrow as he passed you. You hadn’t answered. You’d been too consumed, too wrapped up in your own head, and he hadn’t pressed you on it. Just walked out the door like it was any other day. After that, the ghost of him lingered in the space he’d occupied, his scent still woven into the fabric of the couch where he’d slept. You hated it. Hated that it made your stomach twist, that it pulled you toward something you didn’t want to name. You forced yourself upright, inhaling sharply as if that could steady you.

Because, really, what was it about him? What had changed? He’d always made you uneasy—before, because you were simply too different, two puzzle pieces that would never click together. And now… now it was something else. Something worse. It had to do with the way he looked at you, the way he seemed to understand exactly what was happening inside your head without you having to say a word. As if he could see right through you, past all the sharp edges you put up to keep people from doing exactly that. And that wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all. Because the last person you wanted to be understood by was Francisco. The person who irritated you most, who had always known exactly how to push your buttons. And now, somehow, he had figured out where your soft spots were too.

And after he left, you did your best to pull yourself together. You pushed yourself up from the couch, stretching limbs that felt heavier than they should, and searched for something to fill the space. A book, a movie—something to quiet the restless ache in your chest. But nothing worked. The feeling stayed, creeping up the way it always did, slow and insidious, like ink bleeding through paper. A dull, familiar ache, resurfacing in waves, catching you off guard just when you thought you’d distracted yourself enough to forget.  

Eventually, you gave up. Skipped dinner, still drained from friday’s birthday and the weight of everything you were carrying. You crawled into bed early, exhaustion settling into your bones, hoping—without much conviction—that sleep would make things better. That maybe sunday would arrive with something softer, something easier to hold.

And now, it was sunday, and you had promised yourself—firmly, resolutely—that you wouldn’t do this again. That you wouldn’t let yourself spiral down this particular rabbit hole. But somehow, your phone was already in your hand, your thumb moving over the screen with quiet urgency, scanning for details, for scraps of information, anything that might offer some insight into this world that was no longer yours. That had never truly been yours to begin with.

Harry.

Harry looked happy, the kind of happiness that came easily to people who knew exactly where they were going. His profile was filled with snapshots of motion, of departure, of a life that never stayed still—deep blue lakes, endless seas, rivers cutting through valleys, mountains rising against wide open skies. He had always loved to travel. He had asked you to go with him, more than once, throwing out invitations like they were simple, effortless things. But you had always said no. Too much to do. The bookstore, your finances, some minor health concern—a cold, a flu, a vague sense of exhaustion that never seemed to lift.

Now, Harry traveled with Lisa. They stood together in front of massive cliffs, on balconies bathed in golden light. She fit so easily into the spaces you never stepped into, the spaces you had let slip through your fingers. In one photo, a caption read:

"I would recognize you in the dark. Always you. There I belong."

The words blurred almost instantly. Your vision swam, the sting of tears creeping in before you could stop them. You set the phone down beside you, face down on the mattress, as if that could somehow soften the blow. Then you pulled the covers over your head, curling into yourself, as if hiding could protect you from any of this. As if it could make any of it hurt less.

Then your phone vibrated, the screen lighting up with a new notification.

Santi: Be here at seven. I got that cake you’re obsessed with, so don’t even think about bailing.

A grimace—something between a smirk and a scowl—tugged at the corner of your mouth as your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then you typed:

You: Eat it yourself.

Silence. Then the three little dots appeared, pulsing like a tiny, judgmental heartbeat.

You let out a sharp exhale, tilting your head back against the pillow.

Santi: No

Santi: Don’t make me come drag you here

Santi: Consider yourself warned

His reply came almost instantly. He’d been expecting this.

You: I look terrible dude I’ll see you another day

You: Tell Yov I’m sorry

Santi: Too late, she’s already setting everything up 

You shut your eyes and pressed the phone against your chest, as if that might somehow shield you from the conversation happening in real time.

You: I’m serious

You locked your phone and let it drop onto the bed beside you, exhaling sharply as you rolled onto your side. Your hands tucked under your cheek, your eyes shut, as if squeezing them closed hard enough might make everything disappear.    

Santi: And so am I

Santi: Get. Out. Of. Bed.

Now what? Were you really supposed to drag yourself to Santi’s house and pretend everything was fine? Sit there, smiling, making small talk, acting like you weren’t unraveling from the inside out? And worse—look Frankie in the eye, knowing that just yesterday he had been prying into the most private corners of your mind?  

And how much had he read, exactly?  

Not that it mattered. Not in the sense that would be humiliating. Because Frankie wasn’t someone you were interested in impressing. If anything, he was the last person whose opinion you gave a damn about. You had spent years not caring what he thought of you, what he assumed about you, what conclusions he might have drawn from the glimpses he caught of your life.  

But then again.  

You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what kind of man he was—sharp, perceptive, the kind who could take something small, something insignificant, and wield it like a weapon if he wanted to. He had the power to tear you apart if he ever felt like it.    

And the truth was, you’d already embarrassed yourself enough.

The cab rolled away behind you, tires humming against the pavement, as you climbed the steps to Santi’s porch. You had wanted to look decent—you had tried. A long, scalding shower, ages spent drying and combing your hair, a careful hand smoothing makeup over tired skin. Just enough to bring some life back into your face, to soften the edges of the bruises that still clung stubbornly to your lips. The swelling had gone down, but the mark was still there, a smear of purple at the curve of your mouth. A fresh bruise was blooming just above your upper lip, darker now, more noticeable.

The summer dress you’d chosen hit just above your knees. Light, effortless. You hoped it would be enough to make you look put-together. Unbothered. As if there was nothing clawing at your insides, nothing unsettled under your skin.

Behind you, the sound of a car door shutting made your breath hitch. You knew before you turned. Of course you did.

You pressed the doorbell, inhaling through your nose, exhaling slow. Behind you, footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. Then, close—too close—you felt him at your back.

“You gave me a black eye,” Frankie said, his voice easy, almost conversational. He stepped up beside you, watching you the way someone watches an oncoming storm—half amused, half waiting to see how bad it’ll get.

From inside, Santi’s voice called, distant over the low thrum of music. “Coming!”

You gave in, looking at Frankie. Couldn’t help yourself. And yes, there it was—proof of your handiwork. The deep violet shadow blooming under his eye, the cut along the bridge of his nose, healing but still raw. No more swelling, but unmistakable evidence that, at some point, your phone had connected with his face.

You smiled, slow and sharp.

“Hi, Francisco,” you said, saccharine-sweet. “Nice to see you. How are you? Do people not greet each other anymore?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“You and I are way past formalities, don’t you think?”

Before you could fire back, the door swung open.

Santi’s eyes flicked between the two of you, amusement quickly giving way to confusion.

“What the—” His brows drew together. “What the fuck happened to you two? Are you okay?”

You stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around you as you leaned in to press a kiss to Santi’s cheek, neatly sidestepping his question. The air smelled incredible and that, more than whatever interrogation he was preparing, held your attention.

Behind you, Frankie pulled Santi into a brief hug, murmuring something low enough that you couldn’t quite catch it. Not that you cared. Whatever was said between them didn’t concern you.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?” Santi asked again, falling into step beside you as you made your way toward the kitchen.

Before you could answer, Yovanna appeared at the end of the hallway, her bright, welcoming smile instantly faltering when she caught sight of you. Her gaze flicked from your face to Frankie’s, concern replacing confusion.

“What the hell happened?”

You wrapped her in a hug, squeezing tight. Behind you, Frankie greeted her too, though his hug was more polite, restrained, as if wary of how much space he was allowed to take up here. Yovanna pulled back just enough to get another look at him, her expression shifting toward something almost amused.

“Damn,” she said, tilting her head. “You got the worst of it, huh?”

“Yeah, we got into a fight,” you lied breezily, propping yourself against the wall.

Santi shot you a look, eyebrows knitting together.

“With some drunks,” you elaborated. “Not that it means much, considering we were drunk too. Weren’t we, Francisco?”

Frankie turned his head toward you, one eyebrow raised, his hands settling on his hips like he was about to demand an explanation for whatever this was. His face was all curiosity and mild disbelief.

“I—”

“It was after the wedding,” you steamrolled on. “At a gas station. God, you should’ve seen us, it was ridiculous—”

“Oh, shut up,” Santi cut in, waving a dismissive hand.

Frankie bit back a laugh, tipping his head back slightly.

“Actually,” he said, as if suddenly feeling generous with the truth, “she hit me.”

Santi and Yovanna blinked at him.

“Right here,” he added, gesturing in a small circle beneath his bruised eye.

You let out an incredulous scoff, crossing your arms.

“I was naked,” you announced, tone scandalized, “and this pervert was just standing in my living room when he’d told me the night before that he was leaving.”

Santi looked between the two of you, his exasperation deepening.

“Stop it,” Frankie muttered, shaking his head.

“No, Santi should know,” you pressed on. “And while we’re at it, what’s with the whole going through my stuff thing? I swear to God, I’m sure—”

“Okay, enough,” Santi interrupted, slashing his hand through the air like a referee calling time-out. Yovanna, beside him, was practically vibrating with amusement.

“I’m hungry,” Santi continued, voice firm. “And you’re already late. Save the drama for later.”

An hour later, your plate sat in front of you, half-eaten, your fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass. The conversation had drifted, as it inevitably would, to your brother’s wedding. Across the table, Yovanna was talking animatedly about the preparations, her hands moving as she spoke, while Santi just stared at her like she’d personally hung the moon. He had that ridiculous, soft expression—the one that made you roll your eyes but also kind of want to cry because, well, love like that wasn’t exactly common.

Beside you, Frankie was quiet, his own glass in his hand, his plate already cleared. He wasn’t looking at you, but you could feel him there, as much a presence as the wine in your bloodstream.

“We were lucky we didn’t completely lose our minds,” Yovanna was saying, shooting a knowing glance at Santi, who nodded in agreement. “You know what they say—wedding planning is a trial for a couple. If you can’t survive that…” She shook her head, lips pressing together in mock seriousness.

“That’s true,” Santi agreed, his gaze lingering on her in a way that made you want to gag.

“Uh-huh,” Yovanna hummed, her eyes flicking from her fiancé to you and Frankie. Her expression shifted, just slightly, her amusement sharpening. “But, I mean, parties in general can be… intense. And I think you two might know something about that by now, don’t you?”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “I was wondering how long it would take for someone to bring it up.”

Yovanna just lifted a shoulder, clearly entertained. “Can you blame us?”

“No, she can't,” Santi chimed in. “And trust me, I have so many questions. Number one—what the fuck happened to your faces?”

“She hit me,” Frankie said immediately, lifting a shoulder like it was no big deal.

Santi rolled his eyes. “Come on, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Frankie’s grin widened. “She thought I was an intruder or something and threw her phone at my face.”

Santi turned to you, eyebrows raised in pure curiosity. Yovanna, beside him, stayed quiet, her gaze bouncing between the three of you like she was watching an increasingly ridiculous play unfold.

You exhaled, shifting in your seat, throwing Frankie a glare. “Okay, let me explain this properly.”

Frankie made a gesture like please, go ahead.

“So, after the wedding, we went to my place, and we were… kind of drunk—”

Santi raised a hand, cutting you off. “You both went to your place?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, and then I fell out of the car, which is why my mouth is messed up. Frankie helped me inside, and then I went to sleep—”

“You fell?”

You huffed. “Yeah. He gave me slippers that were way too big, and when I stepped out of the Uber, I tripped.”

Santi looked between you and Frankie, biting back a smile. “Well, you were also drunk, right? That might’ve been a factor.”

You rolled your eyes, and beside you, Frankie let out a small, knowing huff.

“She doesn’t look where she’s walking,” he said, like he had just uncovered some deep truth about you. “She just moves and expects the world to accommodate her, her eyes always on the clouds. I noticed that last night. That’s why she fell, not the slippers.”

You turned your head slowly, squinting at him. “Francisco. If I hadn’t been wearing those slippers, I wouldn’t have tripped.”

Frankie exhaled dramatically. “Oh, I’m sorry for trying to help with the fact that your feet were literally almost bleeding from your shoes. Would you have preferred that? Just say ‘thank you’ and move on.”

“No.”

“Jesus Christ,” Yovanna muttered under her breath, shooting a glance at Santi, who just shook his head, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

You sighed and turned back to them. “Anyway. I fell, got hurt, my dress was ruined, so we went upstairs, Frankie helped me clean up, and then he said he was going to leave—”

“I was going to leave,” Frankie interjected. “But I fell asleep on the couch before I could even order an Uber.”

“Right. Anyway, the next morning, I woke up, went to shower, and when I got out, I couldn’t find my phone. So I went to the living room, and there it was. And I was naked—”

“She had a towel on,” Frankie groaned, rubbing his temple.

“Naked,” you repeated stubbornly, “and suddenly someone speaks behind me, and obviously I panicked! What was I supposed to do? I didn’t think, I just reacted, and my phone happened to be in my hand, so I threw it.”

Silence.

And then: “Well, I get it,” Yovanna said, tilting her head like she was weighing the situation. “You freaked out.”

“Of course I freaked out! But he doesn’t get it.”

“No, no, no, no,” Frankie cut in, shaking his head, holding up a hand like he could physically block the accusation. “I never said I didn’t get it. Obviously, I do. But the way you’re telling it makes it sound like I did it on purpose, like I was out to terrify you.”

“And how do I know you weren’t?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Santiago snorted. “Okay, this is getting weird,” he said, rubbing his temple, amusement flickering in his expression. “Can we move on? I just want to hear about the party. Helena called me yesterday.”

Frankie straightened. “What? What did she say?”

You glanced at him, but he was already looking at your brother, his posture suddenly tense, like he was bracing for impact. His eyes were curious but edged with something else too. Concern.

“She sounded... happy. Surprised, mostly,” Santi said, dragging out the words for effect. “Asked a bunch of questions—what I thought, how I found out, if I saw it coming. A lot of questions, actually. Oh, and she also said she’s thrilled for me. That I have a beautiful, lovely sister.” He shot you a look, grinning. “And, well, I can’t lie. I may have gotten a little carried away. Told her I was also delighted about this whole ‘union made in heaven’ situation. And Frankie, man, you were already my brother before, but now… now it’s official. We are so much more.”

“Oh my God, Santi,” you groaned, throwing your head back. “You’re messing with us, aren’t you?”

Yovanna burst out laughing, lightly smacking your brother’s arm as he gave her a knowing smile.

Beside you, Frankie flushed. A deep, irritated pink creeping up his neck as he ran a hand over it—a nervous habit you’d noticed, one he did when he was overwhelmed.

“Of course not,” Santi said, his grin widening. “If you two get to have fun, why can’t I?”

“Fun?” Frankie scoffed, straightening up. “You think this is fun? We’ve been seeing each other for two days, and we’ve already collected enough bruises and near-death experiences to last a lifetime. That’s plenty.” So exaggerated.

Santiago just shrugged, barely suppressing a laugh at the absolute fury on his best friend’s face.

“Yeah. You’re matching.”

“Oh, cut it out, let them be,” Yovanna said, rolling her eyes.

“Well, anyway,” Santi said, his voice easy, casual, like he wasn’t dropping the weight of someone else’s curiosity into the conversation. “Helena asked about you guys. Wanted my opinion. I told her you were fine, that you—” he glanced at Frankie, leveling him with a look—“were doing well. That she didn’t need to worry, and that I’d come visit her soon.”

Frankie exhaled, sharp and short. “Good. Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I mean it. Even if you’re enjoying this way too much.”

Santi scoffed. “No worries. You know I wouldn’t screw with you about this.” He leaned back, tilting his glass slightly in his hand. “Now, are you gonna tell me how the party went?”

Yovanna’s lips curled at the edges, her eyes gleaming with something decidedly un-serious. “Did you guys kiss?”

The question landed between you and Frankie like a slow-falling coin. You turned your head toward him, almost on instinct, and he was already looking at you, his expression caught somewhere between apprehension and amusement. His face was still faintly flushed, like the conversation had warmed the room a degree too much.

Santi’s gaze flickered between the two of you, and his expression sharpened. “You better not be method acting with my sister.”

Frankie’s mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. “Never. It’s platonic between us, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” you said smoothly, returning the smile. “I’d call it the opposite of method acting, really. This is professionalism at its peak.”

Santi raised his eyebrows, his signature I’m-about-to-ruin-your-day expression settling in. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t call a situation involving towels and black eyes professional, but hey, who am I to judge?”

You groaned, rolling your eyes as Santi took a slow sip of his wine, barely suppressing a grin.

Yovanna, undeterred, steered the conversation back. “So? The party?”

This time, you forced yourself to give a proper answer. Frankie took the lead, his voice steady as he laid out the sequence of events with his usual matter-of-fact efficiency. You filled in the gaps, adding details here and there, but skirting around certain parts—the encounter with Frankie’s cousin, the kisses that followed. Frankie didn’t mention them either. You weren’t sure if that was a conscious decision or if he simply preferred to pretend they hadn’t happened. Either way, it felt like an unspoken agreement, and you weren’t going to be the one to break it.

From an outside perspective, everything had gone well. No disasters, no humiliating slip-ups. Just two people executing a plan. Yovanna seemed delighted by the entire ordeal, laughing at all the right moments, nudging you when Frankie said something particularly dry or sarcastic. Even your brother, despite his usual talent for being infuriating, had to admit you’d done a good job. In fact, too good.

“Helena was a little too excited when I talked to her,” Santi admitted eventually, his brow furrowing like the realization had only just settled in. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the last bit of wine in his glass. Then, after a pause, he added, “How exactly are you two planning to break up?”

There was a beat of silence. You glanced at Frankie, and he exhaled through his nose, shifting in his seat.

“We could say it just… didn’t work out,” he offered, his voice slow, careful. “Or that the feeling just faded.”

It was an answer, technically. But not the right one. Because the issue wasn’t how to break up—it was what was going to happen after that.

What was going to happen when Helena found out about the breakup, when the excitement wore off and disappointment took its place? Had either of you even considered that?

The questions started to wear on you, pressing down like a weight you hadn’t noticed until now.

You needed air. You stood up, murmuring something about stretching your legs, and Yovanna followed you outside.

The backyard was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of warm grass and something faintly floral. Yovanna lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly as she leaned against the railing. You stood beside her, arms crossed, letting the quiet settle between you.

For a while, the conversation stayed light—frivolous even. You talked about inconsequential things, things that had nothing to do with your fake relationship or her wedding or anything remotely demanding. It was a relief, an escape, and you let yourself sink into it.

But just as you were about to suggest going back inside, she stopped you with a gentle nudge of her shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, turning to face you more fully. “You okay tonight? You seem a little off.”

You sighed, tilting your head back to look at the sky. The stars were faint, barely visible against the city glow. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just tired. This whole thing is fun, I guess, but exhausting.”

She nodded like she understood, like she’d already known that was what you’d say.

“Are you guys going to Harry’s wedding?”

“I don’t think so,” you admitted, shifting your weight against the wall by the back door. “To be honest, things get kind of chaotic when I’m around Francisco, and I don’t know if I want to put myself through that again.”

Yovanna exhaled another slow drag of smoke. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s just... we shouldn’t be around each other. It’s not good for either of us.”

She hummed, unconvinced. “I don’t think that’s true. I think you two are fun. And I think you should admit that you like the chaos a little. You like the fighting. The drama. The making scenes.” She glanced at you knowingly. “I have eyes. I can tell.”

You snorted. “Yeah, maybe. Sometimes. The rest of the time? He just makes me feel bad. Really bad. It’s fun until he says something horrible or pushes the wrong button, and then I want to kill him.”

Yovanna gave you a long, thoughtful look. “What happened between you two? I’ve asked Santi, but he never has a real answer.”

“Nothing,” you said automatically, the lie slipping out before you had time to reconsider it. You thought about the first thing Frankie ever said about you, the way it had stung in a place you hadn’t known was raw. “We’re just not compatible. That’s all.”

Yovanna raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

“You and Santi, for example,” you continued, “you just work. It’s easy, it’s natural. You get along.” You paused. “Frankie and I are the same, but the opposite. We repel each other. It’s like we were designed to be at odds.”

Yovanna tilted her head, eyes sparking with something suspiciously amused. “That’s kind of romantic.”

You groaned. “Oh, shut up.”

Time started moving faster once you were back inside. Conversations drifted toward things you didn’t care about, but you let them happen around you, nodding occasionally, offering a well-timed laugh when necessary. Santi was in a good mood—you could tell by the way he gestured when he spoke, the relaxed slouch of his shoulders, the way his voice lifted at the end of sentences like everything was lighter than usual. He was happy. And that pleased you.

Because he deserved it.

The girl, the house, the family, the quiet sense of certainty about his life. He deserved all of it.

But inevitably, like clockwork, the moment you found yourself comfortable on the couch, your thoughts took a familiar turn. The same restless tide pulling you under. You thought about earlier in the night, lying in bed, scrolling mindlessly until you landed on pictures you hadn’t meant to see—your ex, his fiancée. Smiling, glowing, happy. Their future stretched out in front of them like a neatly paved road, no cracks in sight.

And then—

“So how are you getting home?” Frankie’s voice broke through your thoughts, low and secretive, like a question meant just for you. You blinked, turning slightly to find him beside you, arms folded, his body angled toward yours. His face was close—too close.

You glanced around. Santi and Yovanna were nowhere to be seen.

“They’re in the kitchen,” Frankie said, reading your mind. “What are you thinking about now?”

You hesitated. Held his gaze for a second too long before looking away.

“I’m thinking,” you started, pausing as you searched for an easy answer. “I’m thinking I want to go to sleep.”

Frankie made a quiet sound in his throat, unconvinced. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe that I’m sleepy?” You lifted an eyebrow, trying for something light. “I drank three glasses of wine.”

“No,” he said, watching you too closely. “I don’t believe that’s what you’re really thinking.”

You exhaled, tilting your head. “And what do you think I’m thinking, then?”

He smirked slightly. “Something self-destructive, probably. I can see it in your crazy eyes.”

You huffed out a laugh, nudging his shoulder. “I don’t have crazy eyes.”

Frankie just smiled, slow and knowing.

“But you are thinking self-destructive things,” he pressed. “Right?”

“Why?” You leaned in slightly, matching his tone. “Are you enjoying it?”

His smirk faltered just a little, barely enough to notice. His brows pulled together, the amusement in his face dimming.

“Not at all,” he murmured. “What kind of fake boyfriend would I be?”

You let out a short laugh, crossing your arms. “I can’t wait to break up with you.”

He arched an eyebrow, interest flickering behind his eyes. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” you nodded, your voice taking on an exaggerated lilt. “I’m going to prance around like Nicole Kidman in that photo.” You threw your arms in the air in a triumphant gesture.

Frankie huffed out a laugh. “So what are we doing about custody?” he asked, shifting to face you more fully. “I want Santi during the week.”

You scoffed. “No chance. I get the weeks. You can have him on weekends.”

“That’s not going to work for me.”

“I’ll have my lawyer contact you, Francisco.” You turned your face away, lifting your chin dramatically. “This is not the place or the time.”

Frankie leaned in again, his voice conspiratorial. “You always say that,” he whispered. “You’re always so busy when I want to talk about the important things.”

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh.

“First you take my dignity,” he continued, “and now Santiago. What’s next, Darcy?”

You turned to him, eyes wide. “Excuse me? That’s my son. Don’t confuse things.”

Frankie gasped, clutching his chest theatrically. “But he loves me.”

“He’s just a kid, he doesn’t know what he wants.” You waved a dismissive hand. “You bribed him, that’s all. He’s not yours.”

Frankie straightened, looking properly wounded. “I don’t care that I’m not his biological father,” he declared. “I love him—”

“What the hell are you guys talking about now?”

Santi’s voice cut through the air like a dull blade, rough with exhaustion but tinged with something closer to amusement than actual curiosity. He stood at the end of the hall, watching you and Frankie from beneath slightly furrowed brows. In his hands, he held two Tupperware containers, their lids sealed shut like he was offering contraband instead of home-cooked leftovers.

You straightened your posture, turning to face him with complete and utter seriousness.

“I’m sorry but this is private.” You shook your head solemnly.

Beside you, Frankie stifled a laugh, turning his face slightly like that might somehow disguise it.

Santi rolled his eyes, moving toward you with a slow, unimpressed gait.

“Sure. Well,” he said, setting the Tupperware down on the coffee table with an air of finality. “We made these for you.”

You reached for one immediately, lifting it to your nose and inhaling dramatically.

“I love you,” you murmured, then added, with more fervor, “I love you.”

Santi smirked, shaking his head. Before he could respond, Yovanna appeared at the end of the hall, her presence as effortless as ever. She moved toward the couch and perched herself on the armrest beside you, tucking her legs beneath her.

“Are you taking an Uber, honey?” she asked, her voice soft and unbothered.

“Yeah, I was just about to—”

“I’ll drive you,” Frankie interrupted, already getting to his feet. He grabbed his own Tupperware with the same efficiency as someone collecting evidence. 

You narrowed your eyes.

“What macabre plan do you have, Francisco?” You stood, crossing your arms. “Get rid of me so you can have Mr. Darcy all to yourself? It’s not going to work.”

Frankie ignored you, patting his pockets, searching for his car keys with the quiet urgency of someone trying to make a smooth exit. He found them and then—casually, effortlessly—reached out to clap Santi on the shoulder as he passed him in the doorway, like they were in some kind of silent agreement.

You watched them step outside, Frankie’s posture relaxed, Santi following with the sluggish reluctance of someone who had just endured an entire evening of unnecessary theatrics.

You turned to Yovanna, hoping for an ally. Instead, she just lifted her shoulders, gave you a half-hearted grimace that barely lasted a second before shifting into a knowing smile.

“I think your car is waiting for you,” she said after a beat, nodding toward the door where Santi and Frankie had already disappeared outside.

With no real choice in the matter, you stepped outside too, the night air cool against your skin. Your brother and Frankie were by the car, standing close, heads tilted toward each other in conversation. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but whatever it was, they were both engaged—gesturing, murmuring, nodding. The way Frankie’s brow furrowed and Santi rubbed at his jaw made it look like something actually interesting. Your curiosity sparked, but before you could linger too long, Yovanna’s voice cut in beside you.

“Okay,” she said, nudging you lightly with her elbow. “Don’t take too long to visit again, alright?”

You turned to her, nodding. “Of course not. Are you free this coming week?”

“For you? Always.”

You smiled, warmth bubbling in your chest. “Good, let’s get coffee.”

“Or a drink,” she amended, sighing dramatically. “I need it.”

You laughed, shifting your bag in your shoulder and the Tupperware in your arms to hug her, the container pressing awkwardly between your bodies. She smelled like perfume and warmth and something familiar.

When you pulled away, you started toward the car with her, trying—subtly—to catch fragments of whatever Santi and Frankie were talking about. It was something about Will and a car he’d just bought. Frankie was in the middle of saying something about the clutch, his voice low and even, when he abruptly stopped mid-sentence and turned to you.

“Ready?”

The word felt heavier than it should have, settling between your ribs. You glanced at your brother, mouth parting slightly, not sure what answer you were searching for. Yes?

Santi didn’t wait for you to say anything. He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around you, kissed your cheek. His warmth was familiar, grounding, the kind of comfort you’d had your entire life.

“Take care of yourself,” he murmured near your temple. “I’ll come see you in the week.”

You nodded against his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

When you pulled away, Frankie was already holding the passenger door open for you. That threw you off for a second. He wasn’t usually this polite. You hesitated, glancing at him, but he just raised an eyebrow like, What? Get in.

So you did.

You waved to Yovanna as you settled into the seat, and she smiled, giving you a little salute in return before stepping back toward the house.

Then, with a quiet thunk, Frankie shut the door.

For a couple of strange, suspended seconds, you were alone in the silence of the car, the interior dimly lit by the soft glow of the dashboard. You bit the inside of your cheek and carefully dropped your Tupperware in the backseat, watching as Frankie rounded the hood, slipping into the driver’s seat with an ease that made your stomach feel unsteady.

He turned the key. The engine hummed to life, the speakers crackling softly before Red light by The Strokes filtered through the space.

You rolled down the window slightly, letting the night air in, watching the house disappear as he pulled onto the road.

“So, how’s that list of yours coming along?” Frankie asked abruptly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You turned your head slightly, eyeing him.

“Are you asking if I’ve made any progress? I doubt it. In the last twenty-four hours, I haven’t gone clubbing, I haven’t camped in the woods, and I definitely haven’t gone skinny dipping. If that’s what you were hoping for.”

He hummed, hands steady on the wheel. “Well, you could cross off ‘kicking someone’s ass,’ if you count giving me a black eye.”

You exhaled sharply, unimpressed. “That was an accident. Get over it.”

“But are you actually planning on kicking someone’s ass?” He glanced at you, curious now. “How exactly are you planning to do that?”

“I didn’t say ‘kicking.’ I wrote ‘learn to.’ As in, learn to defend myself.” You folded your arms across your chest. “Were you even paying attention when you were spying on my diary?”

Frankie snorted. “Spying?”

“You barely even listen to me anymore,” you said, feigning exasperation. “We should break up.”

His laugh caught in his throat, rough and amused. “Nice try. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“I could set you up with someone else. A real girlfriend.” You straightened, only half-joking. “I actually know a couple of women you might like.”

“I told you—I’m not dating anyone,” he said, glancing at you like he was waiting for you to drop it. “Who are you now, my mother? I’m not going on one more date. With anyone.”

You smirked. “I could make you a Tinder profile. Craft it to perfection. I bet I could make you a success story.”

He shook his head, lips twitching toward a smile. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? It’d be fun,” you insisted, already forming a mental plan. Good photos. A witty but slightly mysterious bio. He was a pilot, for God’s sake—women ate that up, didn’t they?

“I tried it once,” he admitted, like he regretted saying it the second the words left his mouth.

You gasped, delighted. “No way. You were one of those guys, weren’t you? The ones who post a group photo, making women guess which one they’re supposed to be interested in.”

He shot you a look. “Sounds like you have some experience with that.”

“I bet you had a picture holding a giant fish,” you said, grinning wider as he made a face that all but confirmed it. “Jesus, Frankie. That’s typical.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “You know, if you have so many opinions on dating apps, why don’t you make yourself a profile? I really think you could use the 'going out' thing.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the window, arms crossed. “What makes you think I need it?”

Frankie hesitated. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed against the steering wheel, like he was trying to decide if this was an argument worth having.

“Well,” he said carefully. “If I’m being honest—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, raising a hand between you. “I have a faint idea of what you’re about to tell me, and trust me, I already know. So spare me the speech. I’m not in the mood to fight with you tonight.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

Frankie eased the car to a stop at the red light, using the pause as an opportunity to look at you—really look at you. His brows pulled together, the sharpness of his gaze pressing against your skin. “And you don’t actually know what I was going to say.”

You let out a breath, short and sharp.

“Nothing. Nothing's wrong.” You could hear the irritation threading through your own voice, but you didn’t bother softening it. “And yes, Francisco, I do know what you were going to say.”

“Is this about Harry?”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh, your hands slapping down against your thighs. Of course. Of course, he had to ask. He couldn’t just drive like before, couldn’t just let the silence stretch between you like a neutral space. When he’d come to pick you up in Dallas, the air had been thick with unsaid things, but at least he’d let you sit with them. Now, though—now he was prodding, poking, pressing in on a bruise that hadn’t even begun to heal.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t care,” he said, too quickly. “I’m just asking why—”

“What do you want me to say?” you cut in, turning toward him, exasperation spilling out of you. “Apparently, you already know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone was sharp now, defensive. “What are you talking about?”

You exhaled heavily, shaking your head.

“I hate it when you do that.” You turned your face toward the window, resting your chin in your palm, elbow wedged against the car door.

Frankie didn’t ask again. He just sat there, hands flexing against the wheel, his knee bouncing the slightest bit. But you could feel it, the weight of his attention, the questions hanging in the air between you. He was waiting for you to give in. To spill something you didn’t want to. And it bothered him—you could tell. The uncertainty, the not-knowing.

But in the end, he didn’t need to say anything. Because the way he looked at you, the way his eyes kept flicking toward your face, said enough. You knew exactly what he was thinking.

And when you turned back to him, catching the way his jaw tensed, something in your chest tightened.

Because he wasn’t going to let it go.

He wasn’t just going to drive you home, drop you off, and pretend none of this had happened. No, he was going to sit with it, turn it over, keep pulling at the thread until it unraveled completely. He was going to ask and ask and ask until he got the version of the truth he wanted. And the worst part was, he’d disguise it as concern—like this was about you, when really, it was about something else. Something that would probably hurt.

“I hate it when you act like this,” you said finally, voice quieter now, but no less pointed. Your eyes glowed in the reflection of the windshield, catching the red of the traffic light. “Like you’re above it all. Like you don’t already know I feel like shit about Harry. But you ask anyway, just to make me say it out loud.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” he said, softer now, shifting slightly in his seat. His right hand twitched off the steering wheel, hovering like he wanted to reach for you. But then, at the last second, he pulled back, curling his fingers into a fist before dropping his hand to his thigh. Like he’d thought better of it.

“You don’t act like it,” you said, your voice unsteady, throat tight. “You act like someone who enjoys figuring out my weak spots just so you can shove them in my face at the worst possible moment.” You swallowed hard, staring ahead. “Can you just take me home?”

Frankie’s jaw tensed, his hands gripping the wheel. The green light flickered on, casting a dull glow over the inside of the car. He didn’t hit the gas right away, just exhaled through his nose, long and frustrated.

“I was supposed to call a car,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “Is that why you insisted on driving me home yourself? So you could dig around in my life a little more?”

“No, I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, eyes locked on the road as he finally pressed the gas.

Silence stretched between you.

A few blocks passed before he spoke again, voice tight.

“I know you’re upset about the wedding.” His fingers flexed over the wheel, his knuckles pale. “But I’m not going to assume things unless you actually tell me.”

You scoffed under your breath, gaze fixed on the window, on the streetlights smearing past. “Yeah. Sure.”

Home wasn’t far now.

“I don’t like this,” you said after a moment.

Frankie glanced at you. “What?”

“This.” You gestured between you, your expression hardening. “Everything was better when we didn’t talk. When we just ignored each other and kept our distance.”

“I think the same thing,” he said immediately, no hesitation. He turned his head just slightly, just enough to look at you before shifting his eyes back to the road. “Because talking to you is so hard all the fucking time. You know that?”

You blinked, taken aback. It was such a strange thing to hear, like he’d just told you the sky had turned green.

“When in your life have you ever tried to talk to me, Francisco?”

“Yesterday. Now. Probably sometime friday,” he muttered, clicking his tongue in irritation, shaking his head like he hated that he was even engaging in this conversation.

Another red light.

The street was empty, quiet. The glow of the signal reflected off the pavement, casting red against the buildings you knew so well—the café on the corner, the park where you went on morning walks. Your house was just a few blocks away.

You turned in your seat, facing him directly. The car’s dim interior light barely caught the sheen in your eyes, the warmth in your flushed cheeks.

“That’s not how this works,” you said, your voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “You can’t treat me like shit for years and then expect me to just—what? Open up to you? Tell you about the worst parts of my life? We’re not friends, Frankie.”

“Of course not,” he shot back. “But I’ve seen you get small today. Yesterday too.” His voice wavered slightly, but not enough to make him sound soft. He wasn’t soft. He was pressing in, hard and insistent, like he was trying to carve something out of you. “You pretend really well in front of other people, and they buy it. But I don’t. And it fucking bothers me.”

Your fingers curled into fists in your lap. “Oh, it bothers you?”

“Yeah,” he said, exasperated now. “It bothers me because you don’t do anything about it. You just let it all pile on, and I—I get it, okay? I get it. The guy broke your fucking heart, but you let him keep doing it. Over and over again.”

His voice rose, his hands waving slightly as he spoke, his frustration sharp and cutting. His eyes burned into you, filled with something you didn’t want to name.

“And no,” he went on, “maybe he’s not the villain in this. Maybe he couldn’t help falling in love with someone else. But I don’t buy for a second that he didn’t know exactly how you felt. And that makes him a fucking asshole.”

Your breath hitched.

Frankie leaned in slightly, voice lower now, but no less intense. “And you’re so mean to me, aren’t you? Doesn’t take you a second to snap back, to bite my head off. So why don’t you use some of that energy and tell Harry to fuck off already?”

Your eyes stung. You blinked, and the first tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your skin.

The weight in your chest was unbearable, like something pushing down from the inside out, something clawing its way up your throat. You felt transparent, like every single bone and muscle in your body was on display, like he could see straight through you.

“I never told him I loved him,” you whispered.

Frankie stared at you for several seconds, his gaze unwavering, scanning your face like he was searching for the lie, like he couldn’t believe you’d actually said it.

Then, quietly but firmly, he said, “He knows.”

You shook your head. Your eyes dropped to your hands, resting limp in your lap, one over the other like you were trying to steady yourself.

“He knows,” Frankie repeated, shifting slightly toward you. “Because it’s obvious. Because you wear every single thought on your face, whether you want to or not. Because it’s all right there in your eyes. If he doesn’t know, then he’s either blind or an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

A frustrated breath left your lips. You lifted your hands, exasperated, only to let them fall back onto your thighs with a muted slap. Your eyes, glossy and burning, locked onto his, frustration rippling beneath the surface.

“So then what?” you said, voice tight. “He knew I loved him, and he still left me overnight to commit to someone else? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I’m telling you it’s fucking cruel to break someone’s heart and then send them a wedding invitation like nothing happened.” His voice was sharp, laced with something close to anger. “And that day, the way he acted so happy to see you, like you were just two old friends running into each other—does his fiancée even know what happened between you?”

You didn’t answer, but something must have flickered across your face because Frankie exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“We didn’t have anything serious, Francisco,” you said, your voice quiet, trembling but stubborn. “We were friends and—”

The traffic light turned green, but Frankie didn’t move.

You swallowed, waiting for him to break eye contact, to turn his attention back to the road. But he didn’t.

“Don’t give me that excuse,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less forceful. “Even you don’t believe it.”

A fresh wave of exhaustion rolled through you, but it came tangled with something else—something hotter, heavier. You straightened up, shifting toward him, closing the space between you, and you felt more than saw the moment he registered the tears slipping down your face.

“Why do you care about it?” Your voice cracked, the words tumbling out in uneven breaths. “What do you want me to say, huh? That even if Harry knew I loved him, he still didn’t choose me?”

“Yes!” Frankie snapped. “That’s life! He didn’t choose you, he broke your heart. Well, fuck him! Get over it!” His hands lifted in frustration, his voice pitched higher, sharper. “The sooner you do, the better.”

The words hit you like a physical thing, like a slap to the chest, like something clawing its way up from the inside.

A sound broke from your throat—something half a sob, half a breathless, wounded laugh—and before you even knew what you were doing, your fingers curled around the handle, and you shoved the door open.

The night air hit your skin, cool against the heat burning in your face, and you were out of the car in seconds, walking fast, heart pounding against your ribs.

You heard Frankie behind you, his voice calling your name, followed by the thud of the car door slamming shut. But you didn’t look back.

It didn’t take him long to catch up, his footsteps heavy against the pavement.

“Get back in the car,” he said, breathless but firm.

“My house is three blocks away.”

“I don’t care.” His hand brushed against yours, an attempt to stop you, but you jerked away from his touch like it burned. “I’m not letting you walk home alone.”

“Oh no,” you said, your voice wobbling with emotion, “why? Because Santi’s going to be mad?”

Frankie didn’t answer. He just reached for you again, this time more deliberately. His fingers curled around your arm, not rough, but firm enough that you felt the weight of his concern.

“Please—”

“God, just leave me alone!” You wrenched your arm away, shoving both hands against his chest, pushing him back a few inches. Your breath came fast, shaky, fury and heartbreak tangled together in your throat. “Fuck you, Francisco! Get the fuck out of here! Why are you still here? Why the fuck are you still here? Why won’t you just leave me alone? I’m so tired of you, just go away!”

You stepped forward again, your hands pushing against his chest, but this time, Frankie didn’t budge. He just lifted his hands, fingers brushing against your wrists, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you. The contact sent a shiver up your arms, and you recoiled, jerking your hands away as if you’d been burned.

“I’ll leave you alone,” he said quickly. “Just let me take you home.” His voice was tight, strained with something he wasn’t willing to name. He was trying to sound firm, but the way his eyes moved over your face—restless, searching—gave him away. “It’s late, and it’s dark.”

You shook your head, blinking against the tears threatening to spill over again. Your face felt hot, your throat raw.

“Stop pretending you care,” you said. “About me, about what happens to me. I don’t need this. I don’t need you talking to me like you’re some kind of—some kind of fucking therapist.”

Frankie exhaled hard. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t say anything else about Harry after this—”

You spun on your heel, turning your back to him, walking away.

A noise of frustration caught in his throat, something between a sigh and a groan, and before you could get any further, he was in front of you again, moving easily, stepping into your path. You stopped short, barely avoiding a collision.

Your breath came fast, uneven. You could feel how blotchy your face must be, your lips swollen, the bruise on your mouth sharper in contrast. Frankie's gaze flicked to it, and you saw the exact second he felt something close to regret—the slight pull of his brows, the way his mouth parted like he was about to say something and then thought better of it.

“You have to accept what happened,” he said finally, voice steady, though his jaw twitched. “For what it was. Don’t turn Harry into some tragic hero who hurt you by accident. That’s not what this is. It just—” he exhaled, shaking his head. “It didn’t mean anything. He didn’t choose you. So what?”

Your stomach twisted.

“You have no idea how I feel,” you snapped, your voice trembling, sharp with the effort of keeping it together. You dragged a hand down your face. “And why do you even care? It doesn’t matter. None of this fucking matters.”

Frankie shook his head. “I know how you feel. That’s why I’m trying—”

“Trying what?” You stepped closer, looking at him fully now. “To fix it? You can’t. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t need your pity, your useless advice. I know how this works. I know how people work. I’m good enough until the real thing comes along. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

His expression changed then—his eyes darkening, his mouth pressing into a line.

“That’s not true,” he said.

“Yes, it is, Francisco.” You said his name like it hurt. Like it was something you needed to spit out. “Because I’m always missing something. Because there’s always something I don’t have. And I know, I know that’s just life, that’s how it is, someone always gets left behind, someone always gets hurt. But why does it always have to be me?” Your throat ached from the force of your words, and when you spoke again, your voice sounded wrecked, on the verge of giving out. “Why do I always have to be the one to accept things as they are? Why am I the one who has to be mature, move on, be fine?”

Frankie exhaled, slow, measured. “You’re letting this define you.”

You let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “I’m letting this define me?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he insisted. “He wasn’t for you—”

“It does mean something.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does! And you have no idea what you’re talking about. You don’t know me, you don’t know anything about me or what I feel or what—” Your voice broke, and you swallowed it down. “You don’t know anything.”

Frankie’s gaze stayed steady. “You’re just—numb. You think no one’s ever going to choose you because you’re in a bad place right now—”

“Shut up.” Your hands pressed against his chest again, lighter this time.

“I understand,” he said. “I do—”

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t.

“Somebody’s going to!”

"Or maybe not!"

Frankie let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. He glanced to the side, then back at you, his jaw tight, frustration bleeding into every line of his face. His eyes were dark with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist.

"Okay," he said. "So what, then? You gonna spend the rest of your life wallowing? Feeling sorry for yourself forever?"

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides.

"You must have a lot of experience with that sort of thing, don't you?" The words sliced out of you, unfiltered, sharp enough to wound. Something ugly stirred in your chest, something raw and aching. The pain wasn’t his fault, not really, but he had pulled it to the surface, made it unbearable. And for some reason, you wanted him to feel it too. Even just a fraction of it.

"Feeling bad about yourself," you continued, your voice quiet but cutting. "Drowning in your own misery. Being a complete fucking loser."

Frankie didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink.

"Yeah," he said simply, his voice flat, like he was stating an obvious fact. He was looking at you as if he was waiting for more, like he could take whatever else you threw at him. Like he wanted you to.

"Then why should I listen to you?" You took a step forward, closing the space between you. "Why should I care about anything you have to say?" Your head tilted up, and from this close, you caught every micro-expression—his eyes widening, his brow tensing, his mouth parting just slightly, like he was about to speak but couldn’t find the words fast enough.

"I take things as they come from people who matter," you said, voice low but unwavering. "And you? You’re nothing to me, Francisco. Just an inconvenience I can't seem to shake, no matter how hard I try."

His throat bobbed, but he stayed silent.

"This whole thing," you went on, gesturing between the two of you, "this back and forth, this—whatever the fuck it is—it’s pointless. Because no matter how hard we pretend to be something we’re not, it doesn’t change reality."

You exhaled, your pulse hammering.

"And the reality is," you said, looking him dead in the eye, "you're nothing but a failure."

Frankie exhaled, but he didn’t move at first. He just stood there, staring at you, unmoving, like he was bracing for something. His expression didn’t shift, but there was the faintest sheen in his eyes, catching the dim light. He blinked once, hard, and when he opened them again, the gloss was gone.

Then, suddenly, as if some invisible thread had snapped, he took a step back. It was abrupt, almost involuntary, like his body needed distance from you before his mind could catch up. But he didn’t say anything. His mouth pressed downward for a second, his gaze dropping to the ground.

When he looked at you again, his eyes met yours—just for a moment, like he was memorizing something. Or maybe letting something go.

And then he turned.

No hesitation, no last words, just the quiet sound of his shoes on pavement as he walked back to his car. His shoulders tense, his head slightly bowed. You watched him go, your arms folding tightly across your chest, trying to hold everything in. The rising ache, the anger that curled at the edges of your grief, the way your throat burned with unshed tears.

He didn’t look back.

You waited until he was nearly at the car before you forced yourself to turn away. Your legs felt heavy as you walked, like you were dragging some unseen weight behind you. Your breath came too fast, your ribs constricting painfully. All you wanted was to disappear inside your bed, to sleep until your body forgot how it felt to be this exhausted.

When you reached home, Mr. Darcy was there, waiting. He brushed against your legs, his tail sweeping across your calf, his little face tilting up as if he could sense something unsettled in you.

You dropped to the floor.

The second you sat down, your shoulders caved in. Mr. Darcy curled into your lap, his soft purring vibrating against your hands, but it didn’t soothe you the way it usually did. You pressed your face into his fur, and the sobs that had been threatening to spill over finally broke free, shaking your whole frame.

Your words echoed in your head, bitter on your tongue, and you hated the way they tasted. Because you knew you had been cruel.

But it didn’t matter.

He had been cruel too.

And maybe—finally—he would leave you alone.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue

[wayneskluv]

Wonder Woman's daughter x Bat-fam - Chapter one

summary: Your mom—Wonder Woman—just dropped you off at Wayne Manor like a kid because she apparently couldn’t find a “suitable babysitter.” Never mind that you’re a fully grown adult and more than capable of taking care of yourself. Now you’re stuck in a mansion full of brooding vigilantes, chaotic adopted siblings, and a butler who’s already silently judging your life choices.

You survived battles, monsters, and Olympian family drama—but can you survive living with the Batfamily?

word count: around 1.6k before i made final touches on tumblr editor

pairing/s: platonic!alfred x reader, platonic!damian x reader (he's a child in this fic!) and then maybe romantically dick x reader or jason x reader perhaps even tim. probably not bruce x reader. if anyone has any preferences, do let me know!

warnings: basically none at the moment. haven't pre-read. no beta, we die like jason todd. damian being a bit of a demon brat. demigod!user.

a/n: all images edited by me! if there’s an artist i haven’t credited, please let me know! i usually get my images from pinterest, and the credit is.. not great. if i’ve written something twice or misspelled something please PLEASE don’t hesitate to tell me. i very much appreciate it. but please be kind! i promise the next parts will be longer, this is sort of an intro into it. even if they aren’t longer, i’ll write a few.

# ── chapter one's POLAROID design - DAMIAN’S:

WAYNE MANOR is.. a lot.

It’s not just the size—though the sheer magnitude of the place is ridiculous—it’s the atmosphere. There’s a certain weight to the air, something woven between the old wood and polished marble, between the paintings of long-dead Waynes and the ever-present shadows stretching down the halls. It’s a house of ghosts, of past lives and quiet grief, but also of something more. Something alive.

You follow Alfred through the halls, the weight of multiple sets of eyes trailing behind you.

“So,” Dick says, effortlessly slipping into step beside you, “how long are you crashing with us?”

“Not sure,” you admit. “Mom was vague. Something about a ‘diplomatic mission’ and ‘needing someone to keep an eye on me.’”

Jason makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re a grown adult. You need a babysitter?”

“Right?!” You throw up a hand. “I told her that. But apparently, my ‘tendency to attract trouble’ means I need supervision.”

Tim, still lounging on the couch with his coffee, raises an eyebrow. “You’re in good company, then.”

“I fail to see why we should be responsible for you,” Damian mutters, arms still crossed. “You’re more than capable of defending yourself. Do you require assistance dressing yourself as well?”

You smirk. “No, but thanks for the concern.” How old was this kid?

Damian bristles. Jason outright laughs.

Bruce, who had been silent up until now, finally speaks. “You’re here. You’ll train, patrol, and follow house rules. No exceptions.”

Ah. There it is. The Batman speech.

You tilt your head. “Define ‘rules.’”

Jason grins.

Bruce ignores him. “No reckless fights, no engaging Gotham’s rogues without backup, and no breaking my city.”

You cross your arms. “Define ‘breaking.’”

Tim groans into his coffee.

Dick pats your shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

You look around at your newly acquired dysfunctional family and resist the urge to sigh.

Mom really did just dump you here like a stray dog, huh?

—

You’re led to your new room—temporary room, you remind yourself—as Alfred sweeps open the door with his usual poised efficiency.

The space is huge. Bigger than necessary. A four-poster bed, heavy oak furniture, a massive window overlooking the eternal Gotham gloom. Everything is dark wood, old money, and class. The whole place smells faintly of leather-bound books and expensive cologne. It’s… nice. In a cold, excessively rich, mildly haunted sort of way.

Alfred clears his throat. “I took the liberty of preparing the room to your specifications. If anything is unsuitable, do let me know.”

Your specifications. Right. You’d told your mom you didn’t need anything, but she must have sent a list anyway, because there’s ambrosia nectar in a crystal decanter on the desk, a thick training mat rolled up in the corner, and a wardrobe that probably contains battle-appropriate outfits tailored to your measurements.

She really did just drop you off and send instructions like you’re a dog.

“Thanks, Alfred,” you say, running a hand over the desk. Solid mahogany. You could probably suplex a god onto it, and it would hold.

He nods approvingly. “Dinner is at seven. I trust you will have no issue finding the dining hall?”

You smirk. “I don’t know. This place is a maze. You sure I won’t end up lost and starving in the east wing?”

He doesn’t blink. “Then I shall inform Master Wayne that a search party may be required.”

Alfred departs, leaving you to take in the ridiculousness of your situation. You sit on the bed—comfortably firm, definitely high-thread-count sheets—and drop onto your back, staring at the ceiling.

Your mother owes you so much for this.

—

You spend the next couple of hours getting familiar with your prison.

It’s quiet for a while. Peaceful.

Then the knocking starts.

“Hey, Newbie.”

The door opens before you can answer. Dick. Of course it’s Dick.

He leans in, all easy grins and big brother energy. “Figured I’d check in. You settled?”

“As settled as I’ll ever be,” you say, sitting up.

Dick saunters in like he owns the place (which, okay, technically he used to). He glances around, nodding at the Amazonian touches. “Mom went all out, huh?”

“She thinks Gotham is held together with duct tape. She’s probably right.”

“Oh, definitely right.”

Before you can ask what he actually wants, another figure appears in the doorway.

Jason.

He crosses his arms, giving you a slow once-over. “So. You’re an Amazon.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

Dick chokes on a laugh. Jason grins.

—

The next few hours are a crash course in Batfamily survival.

Tim appears just long enough to tell you that “if you touch my coffee, I will kill you” before vanishing into the night like a cryptid.

Damian tests your reflexes by casually throwing a knife at you in the hallway. You catch it without looking. He says nothing. Just nods and walks away.

Jason decides to test your strength. By handing you a gun. You crush it in your bare hand. “…Well, okay then.”

Dick drags you into the living room for an impromptu movie night. Apparently, it’s a tradition. Jason spends half the movie making snarky Amazon jokes. Damian complains about historical inaccuracies.

By the time dinner rolls around, you’re half-convinced you’ve walked into a madhouse.

Alfred serves a massive feast (courtesy of your inhuman dietary needs). You sit at the table, surrounded by Gotham’s weirdest vigilantes, eating like an Amazon in the middle of a completely normal family meal.

It’s bizarre. It’s horrifying.

It’s… weirdly nice.

Bruce, sitting at the head of the table, barely says anything. He’s watching you, but it’s not that usual piercing Batman stare—it’s more like a curiosity. Maybe he’s wondering what kind of trouble you’ll stir up. Maybe he just doesn’t know what to make of you. You’ve barely had a real conversation with him, just him dropping you here with all the grace of a father figuring out how to deal with his kids’ newest problem. But then again, Bruce Wayne isn’t exactly father of the year.

Dick’s usual charm is in full swing as he tries to make small talk. “So, you’re a demigod, huh? You’re gonna have to teach me some moves sometime. You know, to keep up with all the crazy stuff we have to do around here.” His smile is big, open—like he’s trying to make you feel at home, but you can tell there’s a nervous energy under it. He keeps glancing at you, like he’s trying to figure out how to approach someone who could probably snap him like a twig. You almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

Jason, sitting next to you, shovels food in with no care for finesse. “So, you’re Wonder Woman’s kid. That explains the whole glowing warrior princess thing you’ve got going on. What do you actually do with all that godly power? Sit on mountaintops and brood or do you, like, break people’s faces for a living?” His voice is laced with amusement, but there’s a sharpness in his eyes. He’s testing you.

“You’d be surprised,” you say coolly, setting your fork down. “I’ve had a bit of experience with face-breaking.”

Jason laughs. “Good, because Gotham needs a lot of that.”

Damian, who had been silently poking at his food, suddenly looks up from his plate. His eyes narrow with some strange mix of suspicion and mild interest. “You will be trained, I assume?” he asks, not bothering to hide the condescension in his voice. “Or do you believe that your divine abilities will suffice?”

You almost choke on your drink. “Oh, I’m definitely trained, kid. What, you think just because I’m half-god I don’t need to learn how to fight like a human?”

Damian’s lips curl up into something that might be a sneer, but it’s more like the equivalent of a raised eyebrow from someone who’s always trying to one-up everyone. “I suppose that’s a good attitude, for now.”

You raise an eyebrow back, feeling the tension between you two starting to spark. “Keep thinking that.”

Tim, who’s been glaring into his phone the whole time, suddenly looks up. His expression is the usual deadpan, but you catch a flicker of curiosity. “You know,” he says, tapping on his screen, “if you really want to get the most out of this place, you’ll have to figure out which of us is your mentor. Bruce is… well, Bruce, so don’t expect much from him. But if you’re looking for a solid training regiment, maybe ask Dick or Jason. Just—don’t get too attached to the idea of normal training. This is Gotham, and we all have our… quirks.” He’s about to say more when Bruce interrupts with a sharp look.

“That’s enough, Tim,” Bruce says softly, but with authority. The room falls silent for a moment. Tim’s eyes flicker up at Bruce, then down at his phone. No more words from him.

It’s… strange. You’re used to the chaos, but this feels like a whole other level of dysfunction. They bicker like siblings, but there’s this undercurrent of something deeper—loyalty maybe? You can tell that whatever happens between these people, they’re bound by something stronger than just the weight of their shared lives.

You take a breath and cut in, trying to ease the tension. “Look, I’m just here for the short-term. All I need is a place to crash and a bit of guidance while Mom does whatever it is she’s doing.”

“Short-term?” Damian asks, raising a brow. “How short is short-term?”

You glance over at him, the corners of your mouth tugging into a smirk. “Not long enough for you to start calling me ‘sis,’ if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He glares at you. “We shall see.”

The dinner continues, awkwardly at first but slowly finding its rhythm. There’s a comfortable noise in the air now—the kind that only happens when people are used to each other’s company. And while you’re still very much the outsider in this strange little family, for the first time since you arrived, the weight of the world outside feels just a little bit lighter.

@hjgdhghoe @linnygirl09

[luminiamore]

EX WHO? PT. 2

ex husband eren yeager (he's really ur husband tho) x black babymomma reader

warnings: ur pregnant, yay! softttttt fluffly cute shit., smut

a/n; ultimately decided to release this one first, love u guyssss

moodboard

pt. 1 (can be read as a stand alone though)

masterlist

You honestly should’ve seen this coming. Pregnancy wouldn’t be any easier the second time around, you should have known that. You can feel the pain in your back brewing with each moment that passes in the stiff chair you’re sitting on. The doctor still hasn’t called your name yet, and that’s adding to your already sour mood. Your husband sits beside you, his right hand rubbing on your growing baby bump as he tries to comfort you.

“Just a little longer, mama.” The sound of Eren’s cooing soothes your nerves a little. It’s not enough to make you feel better, though.

You wince, tugging on the ends of your braids to distract yourself after feeling a piercing cramp in your lower abdomen. “Ren.. I’m tired and in pain. Can we please leave?”

You figured you should hate your husband for putting you in this predicament. Pregnant. In pain. And craving toothpaste for some reason. But you can’t find it in yourself to feel that way.

Not when he’s been so attentive and patient with you on those days you feel like death. Not when he buys you gifts almost every week for even carrying his child, just like he did the first time. Not when he’s such a loving partner right now, as every part of you wants to scream and go home.

“No, baby, we can’t keep rescheduling.” He presses a soft kiss to your head, his left hand rubbing circular motions on your knuckles. As he looks down, he can’t help but think about how beautiful the contrast his pale skin has against yours.

Everything about you is so alluring to him, from how you carry yourself down to the melanin coating every inch of your body. It’s no wonder you’re pregnant again. He thinks it would’ve happened soon had you two never gone through that break. He reminds himself to focus. This isn’t what you need right now.

“Just lay your head on me and think about how happy you’ll be when you find out if we’re having a boy or a girl. Raqi’s gonna love her new sibling.”

The baby. This is all for the baby, you reassure yourself. He’s right. Eren can feel the tenseness leave your body, slowly but surely. A smile graces his face when he feels the weight of your head on his shoulder. Though he can’t read your mind, he knows you’re thinking about the baby, listening to his exact words.

That’s another thing he noticed about you. How pliant you’ve been lately. He’s not concerned, really. It’s not as if you constantly banter or argue with him for the fun of it. But recently, it’s as if you trust him to guide you completely without complaint. You don’t question him when he tells you anything. You don’t even protest with a better idea of your own.

It could be your hormones, he considered that to be a factor. It could also be because he kept his promise of being there for you and cutting back on work, so your trust in him increased tenfold. He wonders if he should address it. Talk to you and see if you’re even aware you’ve become more like that.

His forest eyes glance down to peek at your face. While your eyes may be closed, he can still tell you’re not sleeping. You’re pretty close; the cute pout forming on your two-toned lips as you breathe gives it away. You’re not wearing any makeup, just your natural self. Your lash extensions still sit gorgeous on you, but you last went for a refill about 3 weeks ago. He makes a mental note to book an appointment once you both get home.

Your beauty is unmatched. A sight for sore eyes is what you are.

Eren decides you didn’t need to know anything.

“𝜗𝜚, Yeager?” The doctor was ready for you both, shaking him out of his thoughts. He hates to move you from your position. You look so peaceful. So, why not carry you? He eyes the woman who called your name before he responds for you, “Right here.”

You’re shaken awake when you feel a large arm snake around your knees and another on your mid back. You almost have a panic attack when you feel yourself being lifted up abruptly before you start moving. Instinctively, your arms wrap around your husband’s neck before snuggling into him deeper. God, you’re so cute.

The walk to the doctor’s room was short, and Eren made quick work of laying your body down on the examination table once you had made it inside. You’re awake now. Eren watches you settle into the examination table, your tired eyes fluttering open as you adjust to the cool surface beneath you. You groan softly as you adjust, the cool paper crinkling beneath you.

The sterile scent of the doctor’s room is familiar yet unwelcome as it blends with the lingering discomfort in your body. You really didn’t wanna be here. Despite your exhaustion, you muster a faint smile at your husband.

“You okay, mama?” Eren whispers, crouching beside you, his thumb stroking your cheek softly. He wants to ensure you’re as relaxed as possible, knowing the upcoming scan would stir a mix of emotions for both of you. “Mmhm,” you hum, still too groggy to give much more than a nod. Though your body aches, the idea of seeing your baby gives you a soft nudge of excitement. Fuck, you’re really pregnant. Again. Somehow, the idea is still so surreal to you.

The doctor returns with a warm smile, already prepping the ultrasound machine. “Alright, let’s take a look and see how your little one is doing.”

Eren’s grip tightens slightly on your hand, a silent reassurance as the cold gel touches your belly, sending a shiver through your body. When the doctor presses the scan on you, the black-and-white image immediately shows up on the screen before you. It’s not your first ultrasound, but every time you see your baby, you can’t help but gasp.

You watch as your husband’s eyes are locked onto the screen. His face softens as he watches the baby’s small movements, his mind already racing with the list of gifts he’s gonna spoil your child with. He squeezes your hand again, this time more firmly as if trying to ground himself in the reality of the moment. “There’s our baby,” he whispers, his voice filled with wonder.

The doctor’s voice breaks through the trance you and Eren are in. “Everything looks great so far. Baby’s healthy, growing well.”

You feel a wave of relief wash over you. It’s a familiar feeling, this mix of overwhelming joy and nervousness that pregnancy brings. Every scan and every check-up feels like a small victory. You think about your daughter, Raqi, and how she will react when she finds out if she’ll have a little brother or sister. The thought makes you smile a bit wider.

“Are you ready to find out the gender?” the doctor asks, glancing between you and Eren.

Your heart skips a beat. You turn your head to look at your husband, who’s already looking at you with that boyish grin you fell in love with. You nod, “We’re ready.”

Laying down on your king-sized mattress, you hear Love Island playing on your TV at a low volume. The room feels cozy, warm, and peaceful—a stark contrast to the discomfort you’d dealt with earlier at the doctor’s office.

Your thoughts are absent, and you’re attempting to distract yourself enough to avoid thinking about the pain you’re experiencing. Eren sits at the foot of the bed, gently massaging your soft feet and softly kissing your painted white toes.

He’s not paying attention to anything but you and the little girl growing inside you. “Should I start spoiling her now?”

You giggle, the sound making his heart swell and his dick jump in his sweats, “Ren, she won’t be due for another 5 months at the very least.”

His movements start to slow as he answers, “Does it matter?”

You don’t notice how Eren is looking at you, eyes hooded and intensely staring at your lower body. He has to remind himself to be gentle with you and take things slow. But how can he? You’re not even doing anything remotely sexual, just existing. And yet, he can’t help but want to defile you in every way possible.

“Oh please, you spoil her already by talking to her every night like she’s listening,” you tease, your eyes half-closed as you sink deeper into the plush mattress. Oblivious to the unwavering gaze your man is sending your way.

Eren hums, not stopping his foot massage. “I told you, mama. She’s always listening, you’ll see. She’ll come out knowing everything I’ve told her.”

His words make you chuckle, but you know he means it deep down. The care and devotion Eren show to your unborn daughter remind you just how lucky you are to have him by your side. You sigh pleasantly when his fingers rub a sore spot on your soles.

“You know,” Eren begins, his voice low and thoughtful, “I was thinking about what I said earlier about Raqi and how she’s gonna react to the baby. I think she’s gonna go crazy.” He pauses, his hand now moving to rub slow circles on your stomach. “She’s been asking for a sibling for months now.”

Your daughter hasn’t noticed a change in your belly yet. It’s not easy to blame her for her hyperactive mind at her age. You think she has a superstition or a really good gut feeling because she sometimes hugs your belly. Not you. Just your belly. A small smile tugs at your lips as you think about it, “Yeah, I think so too. You think we should tell her when she gets back from her sleepover tomorrow?”

You think Eren is thinking about a response when he stops speaking for a moment. That is until you let out a yelp when you feel him place a kiss on your thigh, inching close to where your panties are. “Let’s make it a surprise?” A shiver runs down your spine as you feel his lips brush against your skin, the sensation so thrilling.

“Baby...” Your body heats up as you whine and react to his touch. At that point, Eren knows he doesn’t have to do much more to make you pant underneath him. He feels that you are deserving of this. Your pretty pussy deserves to be taken care of. You deserve to lie down and let your body fill with pleasure that only he can give you. I mean, you’re carrying his baby. A few mind-numbing orgasms are the least he could give you.

He isn’t one to beat around the bush, “I wanna make love to you, mama. Will you let me?”

“Ren... I can’t-” You try to explain that you can’t really move that much. But as he continues to press gentle kisses closer to your panties, the thought starts to leave your mind. He hasn’t fucked you in about two weeks, out of consideration for you. The sexual frustration finally catches up to you.

“You don’t have to do anything. Just breathe and let Daddy take care of you, yeah?” he murmurs, brushing his lips against the fabric of your panties. The warmth spreads through you, making it hard to think straight. Nevertheless, you nod. Your breathing becomes slightly heavier when his fingers finally hook into your panties and pull them down your brown legs.

Eren keeps his promise. He doesn’t let you move a muscle, his tatted arm taking your ankles and pulling them over his shoulders. He didn’t have a shirt on, causing you to feel his bare skin against yours, and it’s nothing short of electric. “Words, mama.”

Eren is hungry, desperate for a taste of you, when his green eyes unwaveringly lock onto your leaking hole. Fuck, you’re dripping. His lips are drooling with your lower ones. He feels his mouth salivating, and honestly.. he thinks he’s falling in love with you again. You, the mother of his child. You, his perfect wife. Is he dreaming?

When he hears you let out a pathetic whimper at the sensation of the cool air on your sensitive clit, he answers his own question. This is real.

You’re getting restless, your body aching for your husband to just do something. Anything. “Yes... Yes, Daddy. Please.”

His wet mouth hurriedly attaches to your twitching clit. Eren hums approvingly against your sensitive folds, his hot breath fanning across your clit. He traces the swollen bud with the tip of his tongue before sucking it between his lips, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue.

You’re mewling, your eyes rolling back each time he dips his long tongue teasingly inside of you. You’re overflowing into his mouth, and Eren doesn’t hesitate to devour everything you’re giving him with pleasure.

What lies between your legs should be criminal. It’s making a mess of him. His hair already inching to fall out of his lazy bun, and his pink lips are glistening with your arousal, so much so that he can hear little drops falling onto your shared bed.

“Taste so sweet, baby.” His words are muffled. Eren never once removes his face from your cunt, though you can still make out his words. “Look so pretty, too. My wife. My perfect wife.”

You’re babbling, mindless nodding at his words. “Fuck- Ren!” You can’t help but cry out when Eren slowly eases two thick fingers inside your messy mound, quickly curling them to reach his favorite spot. His pace is deliberate and careful as he penetrates you with his digits.

Regardless, the intense pressure is still there. You couldn’t arch your back at it even if you tried. You’re stuck. Forced to take everything being given to you by your lover.

His eyes snap up to you, and what a sight it was. Your bonnet was halfway slipping off your head, your eyebrows scrunched so cutely, and your mouth open in a perfect ‘O’ shape out of pleasure.

He watches a line of drool slowly cascading down your glossed lips. One of your tits was hanging out, bouncing slightly with every pump of his fingers. Shit, he could cum at just the sight of you.

“I love you so much, mama. I’m so grateful for you. For our little family.” The swirling on your clit is still ongoing, and you’re starting to wonder if the man below you is even breathing properly as he speaks. You can’t dwell on it for long before you begin to feel a familiar fire pooling in your lower abdomen. You’re so sensitive.

You can tell your husband feels it, too. “Swear I’m the happiest when I’m with you.” His fingers don’t speed up; rather, he fucks them inside your warm walls with more purpose. More conviction.

“I- I love you, t-too. I - Ah! M’gonna cum Rennie!”

The obscene slurping of your dripping cunt only increases at his following words, “Yeah? Give it to me, baby. Give Rennie everything.”

Who are you to deny your husband? Your brain short circuits when you finally release all over Eren’s mouth, your mouth opening even wider to release a silent moan. You would’ve been bucking uncontrollably if a large palm hadn’t been gripping your soft hips. He groans when the essence of you impales his taste buds.

Eren pulls his fingers out of you slowly. That seems to be the theme tonight, not that you’re complaining. You let out a weak cry as he continues to softly suckle on your clit because the taste of you is simply addicting. He can never get enough.

Your eyes are pleading when you call out to him. “Ren- Baby.. I need you.”

His eyes roll back into his head when those words leave your panting mouth. He pulls away from you with a resounding pop! Watching your legs plop down on the mattress just to slowly crawl up to the top of the bed next to you.

“You need me, mama?” He carefully turns you on your side, facing him as you both cuddle into each other. You didn’t even notice when he took his sweats off, but that’s honestly the least of your concerns when you feel his fat tip leaking with pre-cum press against your folds.

You’re nodding so fast you think it might give you whiplash. “Put it in, plea- Oh!.”

Eren is pushing his leaking cock inside of you before you can finish your sentence, “Anything for you, baby.”

And he means that, beyond just fucking you. Your husband would do anything for you.

You’re soaking, so there isn’t much resistance for Eren. You both let out a desperate groan when you feel his tip pressing right where your cervix is, deliciously grazing your sweet spot in the process. He pulls his back delicately before slapping against you harshly, creating a wet, squelching sound.

Your cries are heaven to his ears. Your lips look so plump and perfect he wants to bruise them. So, he does. Eren grants you a deep kiss that knocks the breath out of your lungs as you struggle to return his vigor.

How your hands scramble to reach for his to ground yourself is so adorable to him. He couldn’t imagine himself being in love with anyone other than you. Couldn’t imagine himself being with anyone but you. He continues his onslaught on your poor pussy, whispering sweet praises of,

“You’re so perfect, mama.”

“I’m so in love with you, baby.”

“Fuck, you and this pretty pussy were made for me.”

Eren’s gaze never once left your face as he snakes his hand to softly rub your clit. Watching every scrunch, every contort, into pleasure all because of him. The panting of your breath as you simply lie down and let him have his way with you... Fuck. Eren knows that he won’t last long inside your tight warmth.

You’ll never get used to the feeling of being so.. stuffed.. so full... His slow strokes never once falter inside of you. The sounds you both were making were nothing short of lewd; with each stab to your womb, he was bringing you closer and closer to your second orgasm of the night.

“Augh! Daddy- I love you, I love you so much-”

“My pretty girl, I love you so much more. Cum for me, mama. You deserve it.”

You’re trembling, your body violently shaking as it listens to your husband outside of your own will. You’re creaming all over him, a sticky white paste forming at the base of his cock the more he thrusts into you. You’re crying, he notices. Light tears slip down your puffy cheeks, and he can’t tell if it’s due to the pleasure or all the emotions you’re feeling right now.

Your pussy has him in a tight grip, refusing to let go of him. Eren isn’t far behind you, your release naturally triggering his own. His heavy breathing accompanies his soft moan as he dumps his thick seed past your puffy lower lips.

Both of you stay there, sweating and soaking up the afterglow. After a moment, Eren kisses your forehead tenderly, his lips brushing softly against your damp skin. His arms wrap protectively around you, pulling you even closer if that were even possible. You can do nothing but nuzzle into his hot chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“You okay, mama?” His voice is low and soothing, breaking the comfortable silence as he strokes your back gently.

Your response is a hum, too blessed to form words, but the way you melt into him reveals everything. He chuckles softly, placing another kiss on your head. Eventually, he makes a slight shift, but his hand remains on your waist. “You’re everything to me, you know that?”

You lift your head to look at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. “And you’re everything to me, too, Rennie,” you whisper back, smiling softly.

For a minute, you just gaze at each other, and there is no need for further words. Everything he needed to say had already been told in the way he touched you, held you, and cherished you tonight. You really couldn’t ask for anything more.

[mayanneaa]

gossip girl - ᴊᴊ ᴍᴀʏʙᴀɴᴋ.

PAIRING : jj maybank x reader

SUMMARY : you train jj to be a proper gossiper.

WARNING(S) : established relationship!! slight swearing but it's pure fluff!, not proofread

A/N : xoxo. my tummy hurts so fucking bad. also this one's ending might be a little shitty forgive me pls (divider by @roseraris)

WC : 1k

masterlist.

“JJ!” You exclaim, skipping through the Chateau, looking for your boyfriend. The air is sticky, filled with the smell of wood, salt, and beer.

You make your way through the living room and spot your boyfriend in the back, lying on one of the hammocks.

He covers his face with his arm, slowly swinging.

“Jay, you have to hear this!”

JJ sits up the second he hears your voice, his eyes almost shut. “Hi, baby.”

He extends his arms, and you quickly hug him, leaving a peck on his lips.

“Okay, so you better hold on to this hammock, because—”

“Woah, woah. Wait,” he says, rubbing his eyes and moving in the hammock, trying to give you some space. “What’s going on?”

You grit your teeth while sitting on the edge of the worn-out material, not being able to keep this to yourself any longer. “Ugh, remember when I told you my mom asked me to go help the Jones? They just moved back here but without Ben.”

JJ furrows his brows, “Ben? The father…?”

You nod, “Yes! Well, their daughter is our age, and, by the way, she’s super sweet! Maybe I should invite her over here—”

“You’re drifting off the topic, baby.” JJ reminds you, now fully awake and interested in your story.

“Yeah, right. When I got there, she seemed kinda sad and annoyed, so as the good person that I am, I asked her what was wrong, and she spilled the whole tea! Everything!” You ramble, animating with your arms, and JJ watches your every move with a slight smile, clearly amused.

“She said her father cheated on Ms. Jones with a girl who’s barely 20! Do you understand that?!”

JJ giggles under his breath, lying back down. “Yeah. That’s so fucking messed up…”

“Right?” you say before you take a deep breath, “She mentioned that that side chick used to live here and that we might know her, but i have no idea who could that be.”

“Damn, you gossip like an old lady.” Your boyfriend says, pulling you to his chest. You gasp, dramatically placing your hand on your heart.

“I will find out. I mean, who cheats on such a beautiful woman like Ms. Jones? Especially this… this Ben? He looks like he sneaked onto the Earth—”

“Woah, woah, chill!”

You sit on the couch in your living room, sipping the juice from the recipe you just tried out and trying to get through a book when you get a notification.

With a sigh, you reach for your phone to read the message you got from JJ. He’s supposed to pick up his hoodie, which he left there last week.

A few minutes later the comfortable silence gets broken with the loud ring of the bell.

JJ doesn’t even hesitate, he just comes in without a second thought. You take a look at his face and can immediately tell he’s not in the best mood. He immediately comes up to you.

“Hi,” you say as he leans in to kiss the top of your head. “What’s up?”

He grunts, “I had to go and fix the AC at the Jones house. They were talking so fucking loud my head feels like exploding—”

You let out a gasp, and your eyes glisten. “At the Jones? What were they talking about?”

JJ squints his eyes, “Uhh I don’t know? I stopped paying attention after some man joined in.”

You look at him, disappointment mixed with disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Well, yeah, they were arguing so I just did my thing and left.”

You groan. “You are kidding me. JJ, you could’ve heard something about the drama!”

He widens his eyes, a sheepish smile crawling onto his lips. “Ohhh, right… I’m sorry, baby.”

Your lips form into a pout, and JJ raises his eyebrows. “Nuh-uh, don’t pout at me for this. I’m not a gossiper, you know that.”

“Well, I know, I know…”

“But I promise I’ll tell you anything I hear.”

You sigh and hug him, breathing in his scent. “You better.”

You don’t even know when did you drift off to sleep, sitting on the back porch at the Chateau. The soft breeze and whistles of wind put you to sleep like a lullaby.

The front doors close with a loud crack, announcing that JJ has returned from the shop. You and the Pogues were supposed to have dinner tonight, and your boyfriend had to go and buy all the missing ingredients.

“Baby, you won’t believe it!”

You slowly open your eyes, eyelids fluttering from the orange sunset sky. You hum, and JJ runs outside, the grocery bag still in his hand.

“Did you get everything?” You ask, stretching your arms with a yawn.

“Yeah, I think so, anyway…” He speaks so fast you have to gain your consciousness quickly in order to understand what he’s saying. “Guess who I met at the store!”

You squint, trying to come up with a name in your mind, still fogged up with sleep. “Rafe?”

JJ shakes his head and you click your tongue.

“Topper?”

“No!” he gets a bit frustrated, a sight that makes you laugh. “What was a thing you were super invested in?”

Your eyes widen. “The Jones?”

JJ’s grin grows even wider. “Yes! Oh my God, would you believe that the man I saw is actually Ms. Jones’ new boyfriend? And that’s not the best part. He’s Ben’s cousin who’s much more successful too! This man owns four different restaurants and has three houses in Asia, Europe, and South America. He’s crazy rich!”

You gasp. “Wow. You really clocked all of this, didn’t you?”

He looks at you, a proud look on his face. “Duh. It was so much fun!”

JJ starts to tell you the story about how he had to follow them in different isles to hear everything and in the meantime, you check the grocery bag.

“…Then they moved to the dairy fridges, so naturally I went after them and—”

“JJ.”

“Huh?”

“You forgot half of the products...”

[sweetdispatch]

We need to talk - Q. Hughes

part 1 pairing: Quinn Hughes x girlfriend!reader summary: Quinn and his girlfriend have a heart to heart conversation about what happened in the past two days warning: mentions of sex (nothing graphic), swear words note: continuation to the "The card", thank you for request and pushing me to make second part!

When you woke up, Quinn wasn’t by your side, which was unusual because he loved to cuddle you in the morning, especially when he had a free day and didn't have to rush on training. You were laying in bed thinking about the past two days. You and Quinn had an argument. He used the card. You said a safeword. You two promised to talk about it in the morning.

You groaned at the thought of having a confrontation with Quinn. The last thing you wanted was to talk with him about it. You felt embarrassed that this stupid argument had a domino effect and now, you had to explain yourself. You started to wonder if there was even a point of giving him a cold shoulder. It was, you had full right to do it. 

After 30 minutes, you decided to start the day and have the conversation behind you. You couldn’t be mad at Quinn forever. He deserved to hear your point of view and why it hurt you that much. You went into a closet to pick clothes for today and went into a bathroom. You stood in the shower longer than always, trying to collect all your thoughts of what you were planning to say to him. 

You stepped out from the bathroom and took a deep breath before you left the bedroom. There was no turning back now. Immediately you went into the kitchen to make yourself a cup of mint tea. You tried to cut the coffee and you were drinking tea every morning. To your surprise, you saw an already prepared drink on the kitchen island in your favorite mug.

“I heard you going into the bathroom so I made you a tea so you don’t have to wait until it’s ready” You heard Quinn’ words and turned to see him sitting on the couch and reading a book.

“Thank you” You grabbed the cup and took a first sip.

“Also, I bought your favorite donuts. You have them on a plate next to the sink” You looked there and saw three chocolate donuts.

“You didn’t have to go to the bakery and buy them. I would eat something from the fridge” 

“But I wanted” He shrugged. 

You took the plate and mug and sat next to him on the couch. You started scrolling your phone while eating to occupy your mind. You wanted to turn on the tv and watch your tv show but you were too scared. The atmosphere in the living room was tense and the last thing you needed was another argument.

“You can turn on the tv. I don’t mind and you know it” Quinn said, not even bothering to look at you from the book he was reading. 

“It’s fine. I’m almost done” You replied.

After 5 minutes, you finished your breakfast and went to wash your plate and mug. You were doing this longer than always. Everything not to start the conversation about what happened between you in these past two days. You turned off the water and took a deep breath. Quinn finished a chapter and put his book back on the coffee table. 

“I think we need to talk about what happened” He started.

“Yeah, we need to” You replied and sat again on the couch trying to keep your distance. 

There was a silence between you two. None of you wanted to start this unpleasant conversation. 

“I think we should start from the beginning” Quinn took a deep breath. “Why were you so mad after the argument?” 

“Are you serious?” You looked at him and you saw that he didn’t have a single clue. “You said that I’m not doing anything. I get it, you might not see it but I’m cleaning the whole apartment. I’m cooking for you. I’m always washing your suits. I’m doing everything for you to make your life easier so you don’t have to do it and focus on hockey” 

“I never asked you for that” He replied.

“I know, but I’m your girlfriend and I want you to have everything done so you can rest after games” You fought back.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I understand why you got mad but I never asked you for that. Although I really appreciate it. I never saw you doing this and I took everything for granted. It was wrong from my side and I’m truly sorry” Quinn grabbed your hand. “I’m really sorry, I just… I don’t even know what I was thinking when I said it. As I’m thinking now, you’re doing everything here. Sorry for saying that”

“Thanks for saying this but it would be nice if you would start noticing it. It really hurt me when you accused me of not doing anything” You squeezed his hand. 

“I will. I promise to be a better boyfriend and be grateful for the things you are doing. I guess… No, no excuses. What I said was wrong and I need to be better for you. You deserve the world” He brought your hand and placed a kiss on top of it.

“Okay, we sorted things out, it’s time to do something different” You tried to stand up but Quinn stopped you.

“We have to talk about what happened yesterday when we had sex. I know you don’t want to but I need to know for the future” 

“Quinn, drop it. It’s embarrassing” You covered your face in your hands.

“It’s not. We have the word to use it. I just want to know what I did wrong to push you to say it” He gently grabbed your wrists to look at your face. “Please”

“It was too much. I felt overstimulated and overwhelmed by your actions. I needed to cum really badly but at the same time I was too fucked and I said it so you could stop. I’m sorry for this” You said and looked at your legs. Quinn placed his fingers under your chin and you were forced to look at him. 

“Don’t apologise. You had full right to say it. I should be the one to apologise for pushing you too much” 

“I like when you’re rough and dominant but I guess orgasm denial is not my thing” You joked and heard him laughing.

“I’ll remember for the next time. I’m really sorry for the past two days. I was terrible for you” He admitted. 

“Stop it. It was just a misunderstanding between us and things like this happened. Glad we could sort things out” You smiled. 

“Are we alright?” Quinn asked you.

“We are alright” You leaned and pecked his lips. “How about staying on the couch all day and just enjoying the moment of peace?” You proposed.

“I’m up for it” He kissed you again. 

Quinn laid on the couch and pulled you closer to him so could place your head on his chest. You were listening to his heartbeat while he was scrolling through Netflix to find a movie to watch. You two laid in comfortable silence while a movie was played in the background. From time to time, Quinn was placing kisses on top of your head. You were glad that you two were back on the right track. 

[francixoxoxo]

MDNI; nsfw smut headcanons!!

Billy doesn’t have all the time in the world, but whatever he does have, he wants to spend it with his girl. So whenever you and him get more than a minute alone, best believe that man is jumping on you!! Billy knows how to make it last, but with the hectic life he leads, he’s got real good at quickies. Give him five minutes and he’s gotten an orgasm or two out of you, pumping his fingers into your cunt or laving his tongue over your clit. Give him ten, and he’s bending you over the nearest surface, his chest to your back so he can whisper sweet words while he fucks you into tomorrow. Sometimes he’s laying down his jacket on the ground for you to lay on, or even lifting you against the wall, his hands holding you up under your ass. Stark comparison to the man who gently buttons your shirt back up, fixes your hair, sends you off with the sweetest of kisses to your forehead and promises for later. Billy knows every bit of your body like the back of his hand, and he doesn’t want to wait for the “right time and place” to get you off. Well, that doesn’t mean he isn’t keeping you up all night the moment he gets the chance to really take it slow.

Finnick has a bad history with intimacy, if you could even call it intimate. He didn’t even think he’d look forward to it with you; as healthy as it is, he just didnt feel right mingling something he associates with pain, with you. But after the first time, oh, his mind is changed. He only ever wants it with you. He’s not into anything degrading, anything harsh. His experiences with that have never, ever been good, and he can’t bring himself to want that with you. Finnick’s loving, he’s gentle, that man takes his sweet time. He takes his time roving his hands over your form, murmuring praise to you. He’s damn experienced, sadly. He knows every trick in the book to get you to come; a hand pressing on your lower belly, a pillow under your back, just the angle that’ll make you wail. No matter how aggressive or rough you ask him to go— because honestly, he wouldn’t ever suggest it first, I feel like he gets enough of that from clients that he can’t get with it, especially not with someone he loves so much— he’s telling you just how perfect you are, just how amazing you feel around his cock, and just how beautiful you look underneath him. Finnick’s also probably the best ever at aftercare; showering with you and washing your hair, or just cleaning you quickly with his own discarded shirt, grabbing you a bottle of water and snuggling up close. Of all the experiences he’s had, he still enjoys the afterglow the best.

Coriolanus likes control in almost every aspect of his life. Your sex life is no different, but frankly, once he discovers the feeling of you on top of him, he makes an exception. It has to be his favorite, watching you fuck yourself over his cock, your freshly manicured nails scratching the back of his head. The snarky, brattish side of you had always been his favorite, the side that snipped back at his comments and curled her lip when he was being stupid. When you get tired and your rhythm ticks off, he’s grabbing your hips, bullying his dick up into you while you groan into his neck. He’ll kiss the bruises and wipe the tears afterward, when you’re cleaned and wrapped up in his blankets. And and and lingerie, don’t get him started. Coriolanus insists on buying you a new pair every occasion; birthday, you get a maroon, lacy set. Anniversary, obviously you get a blood-red crotchless pair. He passes a bill, you’re out to celebrate? Coryo hums that maybe you should open the gift when you get home. He has good taste, your husband. by the time you step out of the bathroom you change in, he’s already rock hard in his slacks, reaching for you. Sure, he loves buying you lingerie and clothes, but he likes ruining them just as much.

I’ll just say it bro Sejanus is huge. Not just in stature but his ahem. His weiner. He’s stupid thick, and the first time he pushes in, he can tell you’re already gone. It takes a minute to get used to, no matter how often you have sex, but Sejanus is a patient guy. He smatters kisses along your shoulder and your chin, and once he starts to push his hips into yours with purpose, his forehead rests against your cheek. He’s gentle, this boy, attentive, listening to every cue he can pick up to make sure you like it. Just because he knows he’s a lot for you to take, he’s sweet and careful, murmuring that you’re doing good as his cock stretches your walls to the brim. I think Sej would be a bit quieter, he’s more focused on listening to you than talking himself, but that doesn’t mean he lets a handful of groans and “fuck, you’re perfect”’s slip. Honestly, fucking Sejanus is being trapped under him, his large frame locking you in place, his burly arms bracketing your face like walls. When this man’s inside you, there’s not much that can get him to stop or distract him. He’s also totally the type to crack either a very lame dad joke or an awful dirty joke during sex, your breathless giggling prompting his own laughter, even if he’s literally balls deep. Afterward, he pulls you to him, grabbing onto you like you’re his personal teddy bear, mumbling that you can both shower in a minute, but he just wants to hold you. You end up in soft, quiet conversation about everything and nothing, filling the scarce space between your faces with silly thoughts until one of you dozes off.

[legendofmorons]

Fic bingo

Twilight- too many beds

And/or

Mutual pining

Twilight and the seven beds

Have you ever pine so hard you manage to sleep in the same bed despite there only being two of you and seven beds? Well, now you have ;) .

"This has gotta be one o' the most buck wild things I've ever seen." Twilight says as he looks around the room you have booked for the night.

Separated from the group you and Twilight were lucky enough to find an inn but you are in a room with seven beds.

Two people don't need seven beds!

"At least we have choices?" You offer weakly.

The entire situation feels like a fever dream, and frankly, the only thing keeping you from laughing in shock is the man at your side who seems utterly flabbergasted. You can't exactly blame him, though.

"Who needs seven beds for two people?" Twilight asks.

You shake your head, "I have no idea, maybe they get a lot of divorced couples?"

"That dosen’t make a lick of sense, darlin'." Twilight says as he looks around.

"At least it's a new and exciting problem?"

"I wouldn't call it excitin', but new is one way to describe it."

"Alright cowboy, just pick a bed." You snort.

"Just one?" He asks easily.

"Unless you plan to take up more than one bed."

"I reckon I might."

You laughs and roll your eyes. "Pick your beds then."

"After you," Twilight says with a smile, motioning to the array of options and watching you.

"What a gentleman." You offer as you begin to stalk towards the most comfortable looking bed.

"I don't s'pose you have the story of the child and the three bears?"

You look over, tilting your head. "Goldilocks? She was kind of a jerk but I don't remember there being seven beds."

Twilight laughs.

You find the bed that's most comfortable and immediately collapse on it. Sinking into the mattress is like heaven.

You prop yourself up on your elbows and let yourself watch Twilight touch every bed. It's a little funny, but you watch him eliminate every bed except the one you're on.

"How can all the beds be so bad?" Twilight huffs.

You snort, "Who knows."

"I guess I'll use this one." Twilight says, settling on the bed closest to you that he all but dissappear into the overly soft and fluffy bed.

You bite back a smile.

The bed you're on is the most comfortable... and he looks comical and also rather miserable. You make the choice to ignore any feelings and offer to share the way you would for any of your friends.

"Well, why don't you try this one?" You ask.

Twilight eyes you with what looks like suspicion, "That's your bed though."

"We can share. If all the others suck and this one dosen’t it makes sense."

He purses his lips, searching your face for any hesitation or discomfort. He seems to be pondering your offer.

Does he not want to share?

Should you offer to take the floor?

"Are you sure?" He asks.

You nod, offering a smile. "As long as you promise not to bite me or something else ridiculous."

"I don't bite my friends." He says solemnly.

"Good?"

Twilight stands, looking at you as he approaches the bed slowly. There's a hesitancy you don't understand but he seems to be trying to keep you comfortable.

He's so sweet.

Twilight sits on the edge of the bed and sighs in relief. "This is amazin'."

"I know, right?" You grin at him.

"How's that story go again? Too soft too hot?"

You shake your head, "No, Twi. It's the first bed was too hard, the second was too soft and the third was just right."

"You're sure you don't mind sharin' with me?"

"Unless you actually have fleas like Legend says I'm sure it's fine." You say immediately.

"I do not."

"Then it's fine."

Twilight offers you a smile, "Alrigh', I belive you."

"You better."

"Is it bad to say I just wanna eat and go to bed?"

"Not at all, come on cowboy let's get some dinner."

"Lead the way, I'll follo'."

"Oooh, you feel brave then?"

"I trust you," Twilight says with an earnestly that makes your heart twinge and your cheeks warm.

You lead him out of the room and downstairs to where the tavern is.

Dinner is peaceful, and you allow yourself to spend the night soaking up his presence. He's such a hoot to be around, and having his attention is perhaps more heady than it should be.

Getting ready for bed is easy. Ignoring the six other glaringly empty beds as you settle down next to him is the hard part. But really, if you close your eyes, you don't have to see it.

-------

You wake up to the sound of a stifled laugh.

You groan, pressing your face into the fabric it rests on only to find something firm under it.

There's wight across your back.

Oh.

You realize you are sprawled on your stomach with your face atop Twilight's chest and his arm over your back.

"There are six beds what are they doing?" A famillar voice whispers.

You pry open one eye to see the others in your room, Legend and Hyrule closest to you.

"I think it's sweet." Sky says, "They look comfortable."

You sigh heavily, trying to push up on your elbow but gasping a little when Twilight pulls you back down with a low growl.

Twilight moves so his other arm is around you now too, keeping you close.

"No." The rancher mutters, still asleep.

"We'll come back." Wild says with a smirk.

"I want the story." Legend says, "There are six other beds."

"Get out." You huff, melting into Twilight's embrace.

Wild and Time herd the group out, though not before the sailor gets some pictures and Legend makes obnoxious kiss faces.

Twilight groans, eyes fluttering open. "Was' i'?"

"Hey." You say.

"Darl'?" He yawns.

"They found us and had some thoughts about all the beds." You shift so you can peer up at him.

"Hm. Ya wan' go back t' sleep?" He asks.

"Yeah." You say.

"G'night."

"Sleep well, Twi."

[angelltheninth]

Michael Robinavitch Makes Take a Break From Work

Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, age-gap, established relationship, co-workers, being tired, overworking, teasing, cheek kisses, headaches, banter

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Another medical show for me to obsess over. So many cool (hot) characters here. Enjoy, comment, reblog, all that good stuff.

Robby couldn't find you anywhere and it was already pretty late. What was worse was that you weren't answering your phone at all, which only added to his worry. In the last few days he'd been seeing you less and less, yes the work was piling up, especially with the recent strings of fights breaking out, but he still wanted to have some time with you.

The last place he looked was where he found you, over your little desk, with a lamp shining at you and the stack of papers and medical records. A cold cup of coffee was in the corner, almost gone.

"I kind of suspected you were here but I really wanted to be wrong. Working late again are you?" Robby's heavy, warm hand pressed against your shoulder, then another giving you a massage. "You're gonna get all stiff if you keep sitting like that. The posture's gonna ruin your spine too."

You chuckled and leaned back, head tilted to look up at him. "Don't worry about me Robby. You know I don't mind awkward physical positions." You teased and winked up at him.

He chuckled knowingly, his hands pressing a little harder, pressing a pleasant sounds from your lips. "Doll, you've only been working here about half a year and in that time there's one thing I've learned about you. How insanely nimble and stubborn you are. But you need to rest every once in a while. As new doctor you should know that. Or did you spend your medical school partying and studying just before tests?"

You thought back to those days, endless hours spent in front of a book, the cheap instant ramen you ate even though you knew how bad it was for you, the sleepless nights... definitely not as much partying or fooling around. You were a good student.

"No parties. Mostly getting as much studying in as humanly possible." You reached for you coffee and drank the last of it. Robby shook his head and sighed. Taking the cup out of your hands he set it back to the corner and pressed his thumbs against your temples.

Again, a soft, pleasant sound left you.

"More like inhumanly possible if the coffee intake is the same as what I've observed. Just because you're in your mid-20s doesn't mean you have to push yourself beyond what's good for you. It's probably not helping your headache either." You groaned under the scrutiny of his words. He was right, absolutely right and it irked you. "Let's go home. I'll make you tea and we can sleep until our next shift. And I do actually mean sleep this time. Promise."

Your cheeks heated up slightly but honestly you felt a little too tired to do anything but sleep once you got home. Even with all the caffeine in your system, it would have inevitably lead to an energy crashout and you can't afford that.

"Always looking out for me. My big, strong man." You kissed his cheek and felt a smile grace Robby's lips.

"Someone has to right? We look out for each other now, doll." Hand in hand he walked through the mostly empty halls, the cold lights illuminating your path.

Dividers by: @/bredasbendystraws