mrssunshlne

[mrssunshlne]

The boyfriend act, part 18: "The one with the Halloween party" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: It's Halloween here, and a lot comes out after dark: witches, zombie lovers, fights in costume, and most of all; you, Frankie, and a few surprise words. WC: 14.1k

A/N: Hi everyone <3 I’m back! Thank you so much for your patience. I’m hoping to finally have time now to read and reply to all your comments. Let me know what you think about this one hehe. Tag list CLOSED <3. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

Friday, October 30th

At eight o' clock, Frankie knocked on your door.

“Oh,” you said, before you had time to arrange your face. Your eyes landed on his upper lip and didn’t move.

A tingling sensation rose in your chest. 

“What?” He gestured vaguely toward his face. “You don’t like it? ’Cause I ain’t getting rid of the mustache too.”

You shook your head, laughing, instinctively mirroring him by resting your shoulder against the other side of the frame.

He had shaved. Not all of it, just the beard. The mustache stayed. The funny thing was, you hadn't asked him to. You would've been perfectly happy with a bearded Phantom.

Your hand rose instinctively, skimming the fabric of his shirt; soft, delicate white cotton stretched beneath the open denim jacket that defenitely wasn't part of the costume.

He didn’t move, but his body leaned toward yours.

“You look like the guy from Narcos."

He laughed. “Yeah? That supposed to be a compliment?”

You smiled. “It is. I mean it. I like it.”

He studied you for a second longer, a playful smirk on his face.

“This really does it for you, huh?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he was already stepping forward. One hand reached behind him to pull the door closed as the other settled on your waist, guiding you backward into the room.

“I just learned something new about you,” he said, and his voice was close to your ear now, smug as his lips brushed along your neck.

A surprised laugh escaped you caught between protest and desire. You brought your hands to his face, cupping his jaw, his cheeks still unfamiliar without the beard; soft skin beneath your fingers.

“Not now, Erik,” you whispered, lips brushing against his. “Or we’ll be late.”

You were angling your face as you pressed the lipstick to your mouth, standing in front of your bathroom mirror. Fingertips tapping crimson into your lips. It was a deeper shade than you usually wore, but it matched the vibe.

Behind you, Frankie was standing quiet, almost ghostlike in the doorway, and now leaning against the frame. He didn’t speak. He just watched you. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest.

You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror, and your pulse ticked upward in response.

Because he looked... startling. Like a character pulled directly from one of your period novels, some romantic antihero with hidden injuries and a complicated moral compass. Oh, your imagination was going crazy. The crisp white shirt, the fitted black vest, the narrow trousers; it was all technically a costume, but it stopped feeling like one.

“I’ll be done in a minute, okay?” you said, eyes flicking to his in the mirror. “The party’s at ten, we’ve got, like, twenty minutes. I just need a little blush.”

You tried to keep it casual, assuming the silence meant he was bored or impatient. Maybe both. He wasn’t usually one for standing still.

Your costume was almost complete. The corset fitting snugly, cinching your waist just right, and the sheer white garter stockings. Your shoes weren’t perfectly era-accurate, but they were close enough; you���d hunted them down during a bleary-eyed 2 a.m. internet spiral and had felt irrationally proud when they arrived. Your hair had taken ages too, pinned and curled and pinned again.

Now all that was left were the lips, and the blush. The final details.

“You know,” Frankie said, finally, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward you, “we don’t actually have to be on time. No one shows up to these things when they’re supposed to.”

You capped the lipstick and set it aside. And when your eyes met his reflection again, there was a smile pulling at the edge of your mouth before you could help it.

His eyes were on you, not just your costume, you, and that did something dangerous to your chest.

He reached for your hips and stepped in behind you. The soft press of his chest against your back made you exhale, a little unevenly. Leaning down, he gently kissed your shoulder, like he was testing the temperature, and then kissed you again, this time just beneath the curve of your neck.

“We can afford to be a little late, don’t you think?” he murmured.

You tilted your head back, letting it rest against his shoulder. The scent of him, that clean, woody cologne you liked, rose up around you, and your eyes fluttered closed without thinking. Your heart was already racing.

“Don't start,” you were already forgetting what time it was.

Without warning, Frankie’s grip tightened, fingers pressing into your hips. He turned you gently but firmly to face him, eyes scanning your expression.

Your hands slid up his chest before reaching behind his neck, fingers weaving into the hair at his nape. But before you could speak (or lean in closer) he bent and lifted you easily, your back brushing the edge of the mirror as he set you down on the sink. The porcelain was cold beneath you, but the sensation barely registered. You didn't even cared. Your legs came up around him immediately, welcoming the press of his body, the heat of it.

“You look so damn good,” he said, urgent, right at your mouth. He kissed you, just once, before pulling back an inch.

“And what are you gonna do about it?”

You watched his face shift in real time, the moment his expression dropped, his eyes darkened, pupils wide and shining in that way they only did when he was looking at you like this. With hunger.

You cupped his face between your hands, the tips of your fingers pressing against the skin just beneath his ears. Lipstick be damned; it was already smudged, already transferred to his mouth. You kissed him fully, fiercely, tasting everything you’d been stockpiling since the second he’d appeared in costume at your door. Every part of you leaned into it: your mouth, your hands, your thighs tightening around his waist.

And still, even in the middle of all that wanting, there was a part of you standing back and watching him, seeing him. He looked like he’d stepped out of a fantasy. But the truth was, you wanted to undo it all, peel away the layers until there was nothing left but his skin, his weight, his breath against your throat.

And still, you knew you wouldn’t. Not yet.

His hands slid up your thighs and when his fingers hooked beneath the garter’s elastic, you let out a small gasp. He pulled it back and released it with a sharp little snap. The sound and the feeling made you shiver.

Frankie pulled back just enough to catch your mouth again, but this time only briefly, his lips trailing downward, over the line of your jaw, down your neck. You tipped your head to the side to let him in. He reached the curve of your neck and lingered there, teeth grazing just enough, before moving lower, to the place where your cleavage swelled against the top edge of the corset.

He bit gently at the exposed skin, and you felt all the pressure of it.

“I’m gonna have a real good time getting this off you later,” he murmured, lips brushing the inside of your breast.

You smiled, deciding that nothing truly catastrophic would happen if you were a little late to the party. Probably.

But then, Frankie took a few steps back. Put some distance between you like he needed the space to really look at you. His eyes swept over you in a way that felt annoyingly performative.

“I’ll get the Uber,” he said.

This fucker.

“Francisco.” His name sounded like a warning, or maybe a sigh.

He stepped toward you again, all mischief and heat. His hands landed on either side of your hips, not grabbing, just there.

He leaned in close, close enough that you felt his breath on your cheek before he pressed a quick kiss there, feather-light and smug.

“You said you needed blush, didn’t you?”

You wanted to hit him. You really did. But he had your lipstick smeared across his mouth, red and shameless, and the sight of it made you laugh instead.

The club was bigger than you remembered. Taller ceilings, harsher lights. Or maybe it only felt that way because of how packed it was.

Mai had been waiting at the entrance when you arrived. She was already flushed from the crowd and the vodka, talking quickly with glitter-painted hands and pink lips. She looked beautiful tonight.

“They oversold like crazy this year,” she said. “I don’t think it’s, like, technically legal, but whatever.”

You laughed, but then glanced at Frankie, whose looked amused and a little bit confused. He smiled anyway, a little crookedly.

The music was better than you’d expected. The drinks too. You’d lost count after your second, though you were still upright, still articulate. Santi always said the Garcías could hold their liquor like it was a matter of pride. That and good hair. And hell yeah he was right.

Mai had stuck around for the first thirty minutes, along with her friends, laughing and posing for photos. She’d taken a dozen pictures.

“Wait—what’s your Instagram again?” she’d asked, already typing.

That had been an hour ago. Maybe more. Now, you stood by the bar with your third red mojito in hand, ice melting faster than you could drink it. Frankie was behind you, one arm looped around your waist, drawing you into his chest. You leaned into him almost without thinking.

“This shit’s actually good,” you murmured, lifting the glass and inspecting what was left. A lime wedge floated near the bottom, lazy and sunken. Your voice sounded like someone else’s over the music, but he must have heard it.

He said something but the words got swallowed by the bass before they reached your ears. You didn’t ask him to repeat it. You just drained the rest of your drink and reached for the bar behind you, setting the glass down among empty cups and bottles.

When you turned back to him, his hand trailed from the curve of your stomach to your lower back. His mask caught the shifting lights, full Phantom of the Opera, just as he’d promised. Not once had he mentioned taking it off. Not even when he got too warm, or when it tilted sideways while dancing.

He didn’t love this kind of night, you knew that. The chaos, the people, the noise. But he was here. He had danced with you without complaint, taken blurry photos with your phone ten minutes ago while you waited for drinks. He was trying. Really trying.

And you loved it.

You rose onto your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Just a small one. Enough to make him turn toward you.

“So?” he said, raising his voice just enough to cut through the pulse of the music. “You gonna do it?”

By do it, he meant checking off another item from your list. Kissing a stranger.

It had come up in the car on the way there, half-joking. You both agreed it was the perfect setting; the anonymity of a costume party, the haze of drinks and music, the absence of real consequence. Sure, Emma wasn’t there to help vet the options (her talent for sniffing out red flags in record time was legendary) but you liked to think you had a pretty decent radar of your own. And besides, Frankie was here. So was Mai, technically, although she was now dancing two meters away, tossing her arms in the air like she was made of helium.

You nodded, eyes scanning the crowd.

“What about the one in the corner?” you asked, gesturing with a lift of your chin.

Frankie turned to look. “The pirate guy?”

“Yeah. He looks decent, right?”

He clicked his tongue. “Sure. Right. I mean... He is. Though I think I’ve got a better shot at kissing him than you do.”

You scoffed, your mouth half-open, ready to argue, ready to say something about how pirates were bisexual at heart or maybe just a defensive shut up. But then you looked again.

The pirate was making out with the guy next to him. The one in leather straps. You blinked, then laughed.

“Okay. Fine. You choose someone.”

He shook his head, smiling, not smug.

“That’s not how it works. You’ve gotta want to kiss him.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically.

“Yeah. Kiss him. Not want to marry him, Frankie. Just kiss him. He has to be a stranger, that’s the whole point.”

He leaned back a little, hand still resting on your hip, and swept his eyes across the room. He was taking the task seriously.

And you let him look, because part of you liked the idea of Frankie scanning a room full of masked men just to find one worthy of your five-second dare.

He scanned the crowd for a few more seconds, brows slightly furrowed in concentration, then turned back to you with defeat around his expression.

“I’ve got another idea,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

He tilted his head. “Why don’t you go show off over there and wait for the right one to come to you?”

You laughed. “I’m sorry—what?”

He shrugged, grinning now. “I’m just saying, it’d be easier. Go dance. Reject the ones you don’t like, kiss the one you do. Natural selection. I’ll be right here, keeping an eye on you.”

“Um, I'm not even sure that's what natural selection means. Also, that’s so embarrassing,” you said, automatically stroking his sleeve. “Seriously. It’s like putting myself in a glass case with a sign that says ‘available.’”

He let out a laugh.

“Baby, that’s literally how this works,” he said, tugging you closer by the waist. “You dance, you flirt, you kiss a stranger. Textbook stuff.”

You stared at him for a second, unsure whether to smack him or kiss him again.

But annoyingly, he had a point.

In a bar, maybe you could walk up to someone, tap them on the shoulder, exchange names and see where that led. But here, everything operated on instinct. Eye contact, movement, some vague chemistry you couldn’t explain but could absolutely feel. This wasn’t about strategy. It was about putting yourself into the current and seeing who swam toward you.

“Fine,” you said, stepping back and narrowing your eyes at him. “I’ll do it. But don’t go anywhere.”

He raised both hands. “I’ll be right here. Watching you like a hawk.”

You rolled your eyes again, but your cheeks were warm.

Frankie watched you walk away, arms loose at your sides, a little bit insecure. And he stayed where he was, leaning back against the bar like he had no plans of moving anytime soon. And he didn't.

You didn’t look away from him until you reached the edge of the dance floor. Only then, when the music swallowed you whole, he turned to order another drink.

But even after that, after the bartender handed him something cold and too sweet for his taste, his eyes returned to you almost instantly. He found you easily. There was no need to scan the room.

You were right in the center of it all, eyes closed, hips swaying to the rhythm of the music. You didn’t look self-conscious. You didn’t look like someone ticking something off a list. You looked... at ease. Lit up from the inside. Frankie smiled despite himself when your eyes fluttered open for a second and landed on him before drifting shut again.

The lights above shifted from purple to red to gold, and your white dress changed with every color, like it was part of the set design.

Yeah. It felt almost unfair. The way you looked. The way you moved. The fact that none of it was for him.

Frankie inhaled deeply and stayed rooted to the spot. He didn’t move. He wasn’t a stranger.

He had plans, anyway. More than you knew. Earlier that week, he’d started bookmarking places to go camping, scrolling through travel blogs with half his brain while feeding the cat. He kept circling back to the same one, the spot he’d gone to with you and the guys a few days back. Remote, quiet, tucked just far enough into the woods to feel like you’d disappeared from the world. There was a river. A hidden bend where no one else had shown up all day. And yeah, Will and Bennys cabin was close enough in case of emergencies. 

It seemed perfect. Camping and skinny-dipping, two birds with one secluded, tree-lined stone.

And yeah, maybe he was pretending not to care so much about the idea of escaping the city with you for a weekend. Like it wasn’t sitting in the back of his mind, taking up space all day.

But he had logistics to figure out. A kitten to think about. Bingley had already developed a routine and would not, under any circumstances, appreciate a spontaneous disruption. Frankie was starting to accept that he’d need to find a sitter. Someone he trusted.

Only one name came to mind. Will.

Will was the only person who knew about you, really knew. The only one Frankie had talked to, even a little. The only one he wouldn’t have to lie to.

He hadn’t thought about what he’d say to Santi yet. If he asked. If he looked at him with that older-brother expression and demanded to know what the hell Frankie thought he was doing going camping with his sister, alone.

Maybe he’d say you were just working through your list. That was true enough. But the list was still half a secret. And Frankie wasn’t entirely sure you’d want your brother to know how much of it involved him.

Now, Frankie’s gaze hadn’t left you. He was watching the way your dress clung to your waist, how the corset curved with each movement of your body. It made his chest feel like it had been pulled open just slightly, like something inside was too soft to touch.

Mai appeared beside him, cheeks flushed and breath uneven like she’d just run from somewhere, or danced her way across the room.

“What are you doing?” she asked, frowning as she followed his line of sight. Then, with more urgency, “Why is she dancing alone?”

Frankie shook his head, unconcerned. He didn’t take his eyes off you.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” he said mildly, “but we’re in the middle of something.”

“Oh yeah?” she arched a brow. “You doing it right now?”

She already knew about the list. She’d found out about an hour ago, when she plopped down next to you both and overheard your conversation over that first drink. At first, she was baffled. Openly skeptical. But Pam jumped in to explain and within ten minutes they’d declared they wanted to do the exact same thing. Stranger. Kiss. Tonight.

Frankie had told them it wasn’t the same. He’d tried to explain why. They told him to stop overthinking it.

“Oh, there goes one,” Mai murmured now, tilting her head toward the dance floor.

A man was moving toward you. Tall, confident. Dressed like Indiana Jones, down to the weathered hat and leather satchel. He had a charming face. He didn’t look nervous. But Frankie, suddenly, did.

This, he thought, might’ve been a mistake.

But he didn’t say it. He didn’t do anything except press his lips into a practiced smile and keep watching. You hadn’t noticed the guy yet, you were still lost in the music, your eyes shut, a smile playing on your lips.

You looked soft. Unaware. A little too breakable.

Frankie lifted his drink, the one the bartender had handed him five minutes ago, and took a long sip. His fingers curled tighter around the plastic cup than necessary.

Indiana Jones touched your waist.

You opened your eyes, surprised, maybe a little unsure at first, like your body hadn’t fully caught up with what was happening. But then you smiled. Hesitant, but... natural. Or it looked like that.

He was saying something to you. Frankie couldn’t hear it from where he stood, but he could imagine it easily. A cheap pick up line. Some tired line dressed up as charm. Indiana Jones had no idea he was starring in someone else's checklist. No idea he was a task waiting to be completed.

Frankie took another sip of his drink.

Beside him, Mai laughed.

“You guys are weird,” she said, shaking her head like it was affectionate, but also a little bewildered.

Frankie managed a smile, though it came out warped at the edges. It didn’t stand a chance of convincing anyone.

“Yeah? No way,” he muttered, eyes still locked on you.

Then, instinctively, he looked away.

Near the DJ booth, a couple dressed as zombie lovers were devouring each other’s faces. A few feet away, a circle of friends in glitter and face paint were mid-story, loud with whatever gossip had just dropped.

Everything in the room felt heightened, overly saturated. Too loud or too bright or too much.

He looked back at you.

You were dancing again, closer this time. Too close. Your arms were looped around Indiana’s neck, and his hands rested firmly on your waist, like he’d known you longer than the two minutes he actually had. Your face was tilted up toward his, and you were smiling like it was some private thing, like the rest of the room had disappeared. Your noses were nearly touching.

Something sharp bloomed in Frankie’s chest, bitter and bright and unmistakably possessive.

His first instinct was to set the drink down and go to you. Not ask. Not think. Just walk over, tap the guy on the shoulder, and pull you away without needing a reason. But the intensity of the urge caught him off guard. It felt too real. Too sudden. Too much like crossing a line he wasn’t supposed to admit existed.

Instead, he lifted the cup and downed the rest in one long sip, the taste of it flat and burning.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like seeing someone else’s hands on you. Didn’t like how close you were standing, how you tilted your head slightly when you smiled at the guy, how comfortable you looked, like this was just something people did, like it didn’t mean anything.

And maybe it didn’t. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? It was just a kiss. Just another item on your list. Something to be done, checked off, maybe laughed about later.

Frankie reminded himself of that. He was here for it, technically. He was the supportive fake boyfriend. Loyal and chill and completely unfazed, even if no one in this club knew he was playing that role, and Mai was beginning to give him looks like she was trying to piece together a very strange puzzle. Something open, maybe even slightly kinky. He couldn’t tell.

He ran his tongue along his upper teeth, exhaled, and tried to smooth out the tension in his brow.

Then, just for a second, you looked at him. Not long, obviously, but enough. And he gave you a small nod, like this was fine. Like everything was going exactly as planned.

Indiana Jones moved his hand up your jaw, thumb resting against your cheek in a way that felt unnecessarily tender. Frankie’s stomach twisted.

The guy leaned in. And from where Frankie stood, it looked exaggerated, cinematic. Inch by inch, like he’d rehearsed this moment in front of a mirror.

Another Inch. Then another.

And then, he kissed you.

It was a full kiss, not a brush of lips. Indiana held your face with one hand and the small of your back with the other, moving with the music like the two of you were the only ones left in the room.

Frankie’s heart seemed to trip in his chest, missing a beat, maybe two.

Was time stretching? Or was he just hyper-aware of every second now? Because the kiss kept going. And going.

And fucking going.

He was fairly sure the chorus of the song had passed. Maybe two choruses, at this rate. Still kissing.

Frankie looked away, jaw tight, breath caught somewhere too high in his throat. He didn’t try to hide the sigh this time, it slipped out, heavy and involuntary.

The zombie couple was still dancing, now swaying like they were drunk in love. The loud group of friends had given up on talking altogether, too busy singing along and throwing their arms around each other.

Frankie stared past them, pretending not to care. Pretending he wasn’t standing there, waiting for you to come back.

“I think your girl’s calling you,” Mai said.

Frankie turned toward her, brow furrowed, then followed the direction of her eyes.

You were still with Indiana Jones, his arm still around your waist, his posture a little too proud, but your hand was raised behind your back, fingers flicking in a subtle wave. Just enough for Frankie to know it was meant for him.

Something unspooled in his chest.

He didn’t hesitate. He set his empty cup down on the bar, took his mask off and gave it to Mai, and stepped away without a word.

He pushed into the crowd, weaving through glittered shoulders and bouncing limbs, his eyes fixed on you the whole time.

You kept your eyes on Indiana. He’d taken a half-step forward, smiling again, like he thought the moment between you wasn’t over. Like he assumed he still had a chance to finish what he started.

Then Frankie appeared beside you, close enough to touch. His hand found your waist without hesitation and he used it to guide you back from Indiana's reach.

“Baby,” he said, his voice loud enough to carry over the music, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where’d you go? C'mon, we have to go.”

There was that slanted smile again. Eyebrows drawn together like he was confused, but not angry.

You smiled back, fingers brushing your cheek.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, voice light, almost amused. “Yeah. Let's go. Didn’t realize—”

“Wait, don't,” Indiana said, stepping closer, one hand lifting slightly like he was about to touch your arm. “Where are you going?”

Frankie tightened his grip. He didn’t answer. He just turned and started walking, and you moved with him, not dragged, not pushed, but definitely taken.

You glanced over your shoulder, offered Indiana a quick, almost apologetic “sorry” you didn’t mean, and let Frankie lead you away from the lights and the people and whatever had just almost happened.

He stopped once you were far enough. His hand came up, touched your cheek like he was checking for something. Heat, truth, regret.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, cheeks warm.

“So?” you said, lifting your chin. “How did I do?”

Your hands found his chest, familiar territory now, and stayed there.

Frankie’s mouth tilted into something between a smile and a smirk.

“I’d say you did great,” he said. “You?”

You pressed your lips together, considering it. Then sighed.

“It was good,” you admitted. “Too good. And I hated every second of it.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You hated it? Why?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “Maybe I’m just too much of a romantic. All that pretending, it makes me feel like I’m breaking some rule.”

He laughed, the sound genuine.

“Well, at least you tried,” he said. “One less thing to wonder about.”

You placed your hands on his shoulders, tilting your chin up.

His hair was a mess now, still vaguely neat around the sides, but the front had completely lost its shape. He looked like he’d just escaped something or someone. Like a tragic figure from an old novel. A haunted Victorian hero. Mr. Rochester type of guy.

And then there was the mustache. That damn mustache.

“Okay,” you said. “Now. Delete the kiss.”

He blinked. “What?”

“The kiss. Delete it,” you repeated. “With your lips.”

He was still frowning, trying to work it out, so you rolled your eyes, and said, a little softer this time: “Kiss me, idiot.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, but he didn’t argue. He leaned in immediately, mouth catching yours in a kiss that felt nothing like pretend.

His hands gripped your waist, unevenly—one higher, one inching lower, close enough to brush your thighs, and his body pressed into yours as your back hit the wall behind you. Tile. Cold. Definitely the hallway by the bathrooms. You didn’t care.

His tongue moved with urgency, like he was making up for lost time, or canceling out what happened before.

When you finally pulled back, your palm slid across his cheek, fingers tracing the edge of his jaw.

“Where’s your mask?” you asked.

“Mai,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “She’s got it.”

You nodded. Your eyes stayed on him, quiet now. You weren’t smiling exactly, but your lips had taken on a shape he couldn’t quite read.

“What?” he asked. “What are you thinking?”

Almost shyly, you said: “I was thinking… do you think we could go back up to the roof?”

With one firm push, Frankie shoved the roof door open and motioned for you to climb out first.

It wasn’t exactly graceful, more like a rushed escape. You crawled up and out, holding two empty glasses, fingers carefully curled around the rims. And Frankie followed close behind, one hand gripping a half-full bottle of gin he’d stolen from the bar a few minutes ago.

He nudged the door shut with his foot.

You turned to look at him, nodding toward the handle. “It’s fixed now.”

He glanced at the handle, then stared at it like it for a couple of seconds.

“Right. It is.” he muttered. “I didn't noticed. Didn’t really think that through.”

You laughed. “What if... Wait, were you actually going to lock us up here again?”

He pointed at you with exaggerated indignation.

“Excuse me. You locked us up here the first time, remember? That was all you.”

You didn’t respond. Just walked toward the edge and set the glasses on the ledge.

“Oh, look,” you said, gesturing toward the street below. “They’re fighting down there.”

"Yeah, right." Frankie came up beside you, placing the gin bottle next to the glasses, expression skeptical, until he saw it. “Shit,” he said. “It's true.”

A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk. Two guys in full costume (Mario and Luigi, of course) were being held back by a group of people in varying degrees of cosplay. It was oddly theatrical. Like watching a live-action cartoon.

You laughed. “They’re really committed to the bit.”

But the fight didn’t last long. A couple of police officers showed up, breaking it up with the casual boredom of people who’ve seen worse. The scene lost its energy immediately, and the crowd began to scatter.

You sighed.

“What a shame. I was rooting for you, Luigi!” you called down, cupping your hand around your mouth like a megaphone.

Luigi glanced up, squinting toward the roof, but either didn’t spot you or didn’t care enough to try. He made a vague gesture with his fist and walked off with someone in a lab coat trailing behind. Maybe Einstein. Maybe a vet. Hard to say.

Frankie laughed beside you as he poured gin into the glasses.

“Why do you think they were fighting?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Princess Peaches, probably.”

He laughed again. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You pressed your palms to your cheeks, eyes wide. “Wait. That would’ve been an amazing costume. Mario and Peaches. You already have the mustache, how did I not think of that?”

He turned toward you, mouth twitching.

“Or you could be Luigi. I feel like the mustache would suit you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think so?”

“Definitely.”

You nodded. “ Yeah. It's true. Honestly, if I were a man, I think my mustache would be phenomenal. Like, showstopping.”

Frankie tilted his head, studying you.

“Well, you’ve got great eyebrows,” he said, completely serious. “And eyebrows are like, just mustaches for your forehead.”

You choked on a laugh. “Oh my God. You’re right.”

He lifted his glass. “To mustaches on your forehead.”

You tapped yours against his. “And mustache on your lips.”

You both drank, the gin sharp and unapologetic in your mouth. It burned a little going down, but you managed not to flinch. You didn’t usually drink it straight, preferred something sweeter, lighter, mixed with something fizzy. But somehow, right now, it worked.

There was a quiet stretch of stillness between you. The wind, faint, tugged at your hair. And below, the city moved like it always did, distant and bright and unaware of you.

“This view hasn’t changed much,” Frankie said, almost absentmindedly.

You turned to him. His gaze was steady, locked on the skyline.

You followed his eyes. The city really did look the same. But the moment didn’t. It felt like the first time you'd been up here, except now, the man beside you wasn’t a mystery anymore. He wasn’t someone you didn’t know how to talk to.

You smiled, softly, without speaking. And Frankie didn’t say anything either. He just stayed beside you, quiet, like that was enough.

It wasn’t the kind of silence that needed filling. Not with him. The awkwardness had worn off a long time ago. So you let it stretch. Let it shape the moment.

You sipped slowly from your glass, cautious with the burn, and watched the people far below, tiny and disconnected, like ants.

This felt better than the party downstairs. Better than sticky floors and strangers' hands and music that demanded too much of you. Better than kissing strangers.

Well. Stranger, singular.

You’d only kissed one person. And it hadn’t been terrible. It was something you could call interesting, maybe even fun if you were being generous. The idea of it, anyway—of letting go, of giving in to the chaos. That version had been appealing.

But the real thing?

Nothing. No spark. No jolt of anything real.

And maybe that had less to do with the kiss itself, and more to do with the fact that, while it was happening, all you could think about was the man who wasn’t kissing you.

You heard the scratch of a lighter. Turned your head.

Frankie had a cigarette between his lips, and the flame briefly lit up the lines of his face. Orange, gold, almost bronze. His brow was furrowed, focused, and for a second, you felt an overwhelming urge to touch him. Or maybe bite him. Hard to tell.

But you didn’t move.

He inhaled, exhaled, turned his head away from you as the smoke left his mouth. Your eyes stayed on him anyway.

He looked over at you.

Didn’t speak. Just watched you for a moment. His eyes traveled across your face like he was gathering data.

He took another drag. Blew it in the opposite direction. And then looked at you again, more directly this time.

“You want to know something?” he asked.

You nodded instantly. Of course you did.

When didn’t you want to know?

“That day I went to pick you up in Dallas,” he said quietly, a small, uneven smile tugging at his mouth, “I was having a pretty shitty day.”

You turned your head toward him, but didn’t say anything.

“My whole week had been awful, actually. I was bored, pissed off, barely sleeping. And that morning, I’d woken up way too early. Couldn’t stop thinking about Nico. August first. The anniversary of his death.”

He didn’t look at you as he said it. And your eyes dropped to your hands. Guilt bloomed in your chest. But you didn’t say anything.

“I was in bed thinking I was useless. Like—I couldn’t do anything right. Couldn’t fix anything. Couldn’t even sleep. It felt like something so heavy was pressing down on me, you know?” He exhaled. “And I know myself. I know when my thoughts start heading somewhere dangerous.”

He glanced at you, then looked away.

“So I did what I’m supposed to do. 'Cause I know the steps. Got out of bed. Took a shower. Kept telling myself, just keep moving, don’t stop. And I remember standing there in the shower just begging the universe to cut the shit. To give me something, even something small. Please, just let something change. Let something interrupt this, even for a second. A sign that things might get better. Or just... shift. Even a little.”

He shook his head and took a sip of gin.

“So I decided to go for a walk. Figured fresh air would help. But right as I was locking the door, Santi called and asked if I could go pick you up at Emma’s.”

Your mouth tugged into a soft smile. You closed your eyes and shook your head.

“I had no idea,” you said, quiet now. “I’m sorry.”

He looked vaguely embarrassed, like he hadn’t expected to tell you all this.

“It’s fine,” he murmured. “Honestly, I thought it was kind of funny. I remember thinking, Well, anything’s better than being home, and maybe—” he laughed a little to himself, “maybe I could take it out on you.”

You snorted. “How naive.”

He laughed under his breath. “I just think it’s kind of funny.”

“What?”

“This whole thing. The snowball we’ve made out of it.”

You smiled, tilting your head. “Oh, absolutely. Look at you. You were just trying to distract yourself on a bad day, and now here you are—dressed like the Phantom of the Opera.”

You reached up and gently pinched his cheek.

He rolled his eyes. “And with you, of all people.”

You gasped, mock-offended, and gave him a soft punch on the arm.

Frankie laughed again, leaning away like he was dodging a real blow. But almost immediately, he shifted back toward you, closing the distance.

His arm looped around your shoulders, pulling you into him. And he kissed you.

One hand holding your chin steady, the other anchoring you to his side. It wasn’t rushed.

You reached for him without thinking, arms sliding under his jacket, fingers spreading across his back as you pressed in closer. The heat of him settled over you like a blanket.

You opened the door to your apartment, laughing, the sound still bubbling out of you when two meows echoed from the living room.

Darcy and Bingley were curled up on the couch. Well, they had been. Darcy had already jumped down, clearly recognizing the rhythm of your footsteps on the stairs and the click of your key in the lock. Bingley followed right after, tripping over himself in his rush for attention, always one beat behind the older cat, always desperate to catch up.

Your body felt light. Electrified in a pleasant, floaty way. Even the corset, which had started the night as a mild form of torture, now felt like part of the spell you were under.

Frankie followed close behind, and he was still in a good mood too, his hand brushing yours every few seconds, like he couldn’t help it.

It was three in the morning. You’d spent the last hour and a half up on the rooftop, stretched out side by side under the sky, until Mai had called Frankie. After that, you made your way downstairs again.

You stayed at the party a little longer. Lucy (one of Mai’s friends) had brought what she described as “actually good” weed, and for once, you’d felt curious enough to try it. Just two puffs. Enough to feel something, not enough to tip you over.

Frankie smoked too. And then you danced for another hour, laughing more than moving, a dumb smile stretching your mouth so wide you could actually feel the ache in your cheeks. At one point you touched your face and realized how sore it was, like your muscles weren’t used to this kind of happiness.

But by then, all you could think about was getting home.

So Frankie called the Uber, and you spent the whole ride curled up in the back seat together, your phone between you, taking blurry selfies in the darkness, half-laughing, half-whispering, and Frankie kept saying, “Send me that one,” and “Wait, send me that one too,” over and over again.

Frankie was by the stereo now, standing next to the bookshelf, half-shrouded in lamplight. At some point while you were in the bathroom, he’d connected his phone, and when you stepped back into the room, a piano was already filling the space.

He closed his eyes as the notes settled in, raising his hands in theatrical gestures. He looked ridiculous in his costume. Lovably ridiculous. You could see that he knew it, and that made it better.

Nina Simone’s voice came through the speakers.

Just in time, you found me just in time… before you came, my time was running low…

You let out a soft laugh and leaned your elbows over the back of the couch. Behind you, Darcy and Bingley wrestled over a vibrating toy mouse, their tiny paws tapping against the floor.

Frankie held out his hand. No words. No question. Just the open palm, waiting. And you didn’t hesitate. Lately, you never did, not with him, not in moments like this.

You took it, and he pulled you gently toward him until your body fit against his, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder. He moved with an unstudied ease, guiding you across the floor as if this kind of thing happened all the time. It didn’t, of course. But maybe it should have.

You let your eyes fall shut as he spun you, the room becoming a blur of light and shadow and sound. It felt right, and not just metaphorically. You were literally spinning, your thoughts a little unmoored, but you weren’t afraid of it.

And when he steadied you again, you didn’t let him hold you for long. You pushed at his chest, not forcefully, just enough to tip the balance, and he stumbled backward and let himself fall onto the couch, laughing as he landed.

He stayed there, eyes tracking your every move. That ridiculous smile was still on his face, and he realized it matched yours.

His hand twitched with the instinct to reach for you again, to pull you down with him, tuck you against his side, kiss your shoulder or your neck or your mouth. But he didn’t.

Maybe, he thought, this was the part where he stayed still and looked at what was in front of him.

You were still moving, hips swaying, when you turned to him with that look, that half-knowing expression that always made something in his chest pull tight.

You pointed at him, not sharply, your index finger in the air between you.

“Baby, you’re gonna miss that plane,” you said.

Frankie blinked, a little thrown. His head tilted slightly as he studied your face, trying to work out if this was a reference he was supposed to catch. But you looked so sure, so vivid, that he didn’t ask. He just smiled back.

Because suddenly it was like a light had flicked on in the room, or maybe just in his mind. But he just kept smiling like maybe he’d figure it out later.

He couldn't take his eyes off your face. He saw you clearly. Not just your face or your body, but the entire feeling of you. The way you filled a space, the way you made everything feel warmer, real.

You laughed. “Have you ever seen that movie?”

You stepped closer, and without saying anything else, you let yourself collapse gently into his lap. His hands moved instantly, one settling against the small of your back, the other curving around your thighs, holding you there like he was afraid you'd drift away.

You curled an arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. And he turned his head, wanting to meet your mouth with his, but you didn’t notice. Or maybe you did. Either way, you pulled back, your eyes drifting to where your hand now rested against his chest.

“It’s a trilogy, actually,” you said. “About two people who meet on a train in Europe and spend the whole day together before one of them has to go back to the States.”

He watched your lips as you spoke.

“The guy, Jesse, he leaves. But he promises he’ll meet her again at the station in a couple of months. Only… she doesn’t show up.”

You looked up at him, your eyes searching for recognition. Frankie searched his memory, but nothing surfaced. Maybe he’d heard of it, maybe not. But he didn’t want to stop you.

“Years later,” you continued, “they meet again in Paris. She sees he’s written a book about the night they spent together, and she goes to see him talk.”

“Why didn’t they meet at the train station?” he asked.

You pursed your lips. “Um, she had her grandma's funeral I think.”

Your fingers threaded through his hair, carefully tucking a strand behind his ear.

“But they spend the day together again. And he has to catch a plane, again. So they’re at her place, and this same song is playing.” You nodded toward the stereo, where Nina Simone’s voice was still echoing around.

“Right before the end,” you said, quieter now, “she looks at him and says, ‘Baby, you’re gonna miss that plane.’”

His fingers curled around your thigh, thumb pressing in just enough to make sure you felt it.

“And he does,” he said, half under his breath, eyes on your mouth.

“Yes, he does,” you replied, smiling. “Even though he has to leave his wife for it.”

Frankie pulled a face. “Dick move.”

You laughed, throwing your head back the slightest bit. The sound of it settled into his chest like warmth.

“Yeah, it's kind of bittersweet,” you said. “But it's one of my favorite movies. The first one, more than anything.”

He grinned. “You have to start showing me these things, because I never know what you're talking about.”

Your eyes rolled—soft, playful, nothing mean in it. “I already told you we have to watch them, didn’t I? But when you come to see me, the last thing you think of is watching a movie.”

He furrowed his brow, smirking. “And can you blame me? You want us to pretend I’m the only one who’s horny here?”

You raised both eyebrows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My intentions are always pure.”

Frankie let out a snort.

“Well, that’s too bad,” he said. “Because I really like you a lot and I think about you in both pure and impure ways.”

You laughed again. “Oh, really? Such duality.”

Without thinking about it too much, he shifted his weight and, in one smooth motion, dropped you onto the couch. You landed on your side with a soft thud and an indignant little gasp, but you didn’t protest. He slid down next to you, his body curving naturally along the line of yours.

He didn’t speak, not right away. Just leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. You let out a sigh and settled with your back to his chest.

Frankie closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. He wasn’t tired, not exactly. His body was heavy, sure, and he could feel the weed in his bloodstream, but it wasn’t sleep that pulled at him. He just didn’t want the night to slip away.

He pulled you in, even though you were already pressed against him so closely it hardly seemed possible. But he needed it, the contact, like it might help hold in whatever was pressing at the edges of his chest.

And then the feeling came. Sudden, insistent, impossible to ignore. The urge to say something. To say it.

“I really can't stop thinking about you,” he said quietly, his mouth close to your ear, not quite touching.

You didn’t respond. He glanced down and caught the flutter of your eyelashes as you blinked slowly, your fingers tracing a path over his hand, still resting on your chest.

“It’s becoming a problem,” he added. His voice stayed soft, almost careful.

“Hey, that’s mean,” you whispered, like he’d wounded you, even though he could hear the smile tucked behind the words.

He smiled too. You couldn’t see it, but it was there.

“No, I mean… I really can’t stop thinking about you,” he said again, slower this time, not as if he were trying to convince you, but like he was just now understanding it himself. “I think about you all day. When I wake up. At work. When I’m doing nothing. When I’m trying to sleep. It’s constant. It doesn’t fit in my body anymore.”

There was a pause. Long enough for the air to shift a little, for him to hear the soft sound of your breath.

“…What do you mean?” you asked, voice quiet, tentative.

He swallowed. “It means it’s bigger than my body. It’s getting so much bigger than my body.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough for him to feel the movement. “And what do you mean by that?”

Frankie let out a breath of laughter. “You’re the rom-com girl. What do you think I mean?”

You snorted, half-buried in his arm. “Are you really going to make me decode you at four in the morning on a Friday?”

“No,” he said, brushing his lips lightly against your hair. “Because it’s already Saturday.”

You groaned. “Oh, right. Saturday. Damn calendar cop.”

Frankie grinned again, and this time he didn’t try to hide it.

His hands were firm at your waist, fingers brushing over the tight fabric. He slid one beneath the edge of your corset, just enough to feel the warmth of your skin.

“This must be bothering you, isn't it?” he murmured, his mouth near your neck now.

You shivered. He smiled. He liked that.

“You want me to help you take it off?” he asked.

You laughed softly. “Actually, yes. These things are complicated, you know?”

You pushed yourself up on one palm, your hair falling slightly over your shoulder, your body curved toward him.

He grabbed your hips and guided you to stand, following a second later, grounding himself against the floor even though his feet didn’t quite feel like his own. Still, there was no way he was giving into sleep. Not now. Not with you standing in front of him like a dream made physical, eyes wide, hair slightly messy, wearing that dress like an invitation he hadn’t fully understood until this second.

He stepped toward you and wrapped his arms around your waist, hands sliding lower until they settled on your ass, pulling you flush against him. You gasped, a sharp inhale against his neck, and he nearly groaned at the sound. But then your hands came up to his shoulders, your fingers around the back of his neck, and you lifted your face to kiss.

His hands gripped tighter, and a sound escaped him. Half a moan, half a sigh. The pressure of your body against his, the weight of your mouth, the way you moved... it jolted him fully awake, like flipping on a switch.

He began walking, guiding you backward down the hall, barely breaking the kiss. His palms roamed beneath your dress, over your hips and thighs. And your hands were in his hair now, fingers curling tightly, tugging hard enough to make him lose his breath.

There was urgency in it. He felt it in your hands, in the way your mouth pressed against his. And he understood that, because the same thing was happening to him.

As you stepped into the room ahead of him, Frankie instinctively looked down. His eyes scanned the floor, half-focused, checking for small shapes or bigger ones that might dart between his feet or sneak into the room before the door could close. He’d learned; sometimes the cats were faster than gravity.

But there was no sign of Darcy or Bingley. So he closed the door behind him.

Then, without much thought, he reached for your waist and turned you around, placing your back to him. He nudged you gently forward until your knees hit the mattress and you sank onto them, your hands following as you steadied yourself on all fours.

Frankie climbed up behind you, eyes fixed on the lacing of your corset. His fingers found the ties; he fumbled at first, then adjusted, undoing one knot at a time. The fabric loosened slowly, piece by piece, until the whole thing gave way and slid off your back. He let it fall to the floor beside the bed and, almost unconsciously, traced his palm down the line of your spine, still covered by the fabric of your dress.

“Better?” he asked, leaning forward so his mouth hovered just above your shoulder. He let his chest rest against your back, just for a moment, to feel the warmth of you.

You nodded, and he stepped back, bringing you with him gently by the arms. His lips brushed your neck as you tilted your head, a quiet sigh escaping you.

He reached down and gathered the skirt of your dress, lifting it carefully. And after a second, you took the cue, slipping it off the rest of the way and shrugging it down your arms. You tossed it aside, and it landed in a soft heap next to the corset.

Frankie placed his hand on your now bare back, his thumb sweeping lightly across your skin, then nudged you down again, careful, steady, like he didn’t want to startle you.

Your skin was impossibly soft. It always was. He never got used to that.

He pulled back just enough to take you in fully, his hand drifting down to rest on the curve of your ass. Then, half instinct, half reverence, he let his palm fall with a soft, open-handed slap. Not hard. Just enough to make you inhale.

And then he saw you.

Just you.

Kneeling in front of him in nothing but your white panties and sheer white garter stockings. The elastic pressed into your thighs just slightly, indenting the skin there in a way that made something inside him short-circuit.

Jesus Christ.

His breath caught in his throat.

It wasn’t just arousal—it was awe. Like he wasn’t sure how he’d ended up here. You looked unreal, like something imagined too vividly to actually exist.

He got off the bed, though every part of him protested the distance. His body was wound tight, buzzing with tension that had nowhere to go yet. But he crouched down beside the mattress anyway, reaching for your ankle. His fingers wrapped around it like he was afraid you'd vanish the second he let go.

One shoe, then the other. He set them gently on the floor, even though his hands were trembling, shaky with how badly he wanted you, how close you'd been for hours, how long he'd been holding himself back. His patience was a thin thread, and he could feel it fraying with every passing second.

He stood back up and tugged at the top of his costume, shrugging out of it like it offended him now. He left his pants on... he'd meant to take them off too, but something in him refused to wait any longer. The sight of you on the bed, half-undressed, warm and soft and breathing steadily in front of him, pulled him back.

He climbed behind you on the mattress, hands already on your ass before he could think about it, fingers sinking in like he needed to feel how real you were. Your skin was warm and firm and impossibly soft. Without thinking, he brought his mouth down and bit into you—not hard, but deep enough that he felt it in his jaw. He didn’t even register the sound he made.

You moaned, and dropped your chest onto the bed, your arms stretched out in front of you, your knees still anchored, ass raised. The image of it lodged somewhere in his brain he knew he’d never get rid of.

Frankie pushed his fingers under the garter straps at your thighs, tugged them back, then let them snap against your skin. A sharp sound, a gasp from you in response. His mouth was back on you immediately after. Biting, kissing, dragging across skin.

He reached up, slipping his hand beneath the band of your panties. His fingers pressed in, touching but not yet taking, and he exhaled sharply, forehead nearly resting against your lower back.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his voice catching. “I could eat you in one bite.”

You laughed, a real one, not just breathy, and turned your head, giving him a sideways glance.

“Then do it.”

A laugh rumbled low in his chest. He slid his fingers under the garter strap again, loving the tension it created against your skin.

“Fine,” he said. “But these stay on.”

After a second, his hand came down on your ass again, harder this time. The sound cracked through the room, and your body jolted forward. You started to turn toward him, eyes seeking his, but Frankie held your hips in place.

“No,” he said, tightening his grip. “Stay still.”

You stilled. His fingers moved lower, tracing the backs of your thighs, sliding between them. He used one hand to push your legs farther apart, guiding your body into the shape he wanted, the shape he needed you in.

He pulled back. Got off the bed. His hands were shaking again, this time from restraint. He yanked off his pants, boxers the only thing left between him and the aching need that had been building in him for what felt like hours.

He climbed back onto the mattress, this time lying flat on his back, shifting down until his head was between your thighs. He looked up at you from there. Dark eyes, hungry. And reached for you, wrapping his arms around your legs, tugging you backward until your knees straddled him and your hips were just above his mouth.

His fingers hooked into the edge of your panties, pulling them aside. And then he looked.

You sat up above him, hands threading through his hair, pulling it back from his forehead, the touch so gentle in contrast to the way his heart was hammering in his chest.

He couldn’t pretend to be composed. Not now. You were soaked, shining under the light, and the sight of you like that, open, ready, waiting for him, knocked something loose in his gut.

He didn’t waste time. Didn’t tease.

He grabbed your ass, hard, and pulled you down with a strength that made you gasp. His mouth found you instantly, tongue pressing deep, tasting, devouring. You were warm and wet and tender against him, and the second his tongue touched you, something inside him unspooled.

You moaned above him, hips twitching against his face. Your thighs trembled faintly against his shoulders, fingers tangled in his hair. Frankie could feel every single shiver rippling through your body. Every grind of your hips. Every breathless, broken sound you tried to bite down, but couldn’t.

His tongue moved in steady, hungry strokes, licking and circling, savoring every inch of you like he couldn’t get full—because he couldn’t. He was addicted to the way you reacted. The way you gasped when he sucked, the way your thighs clenched and then softened again, the hitch in your breath when he flattened his tongue and dragged it all the way up your slit, or wrapped his lips around your clit and pulled gently, just to see what it would do to you.

You started moving. Hips shifting forward, cautious at first, but quickly gaining rhythm, desperate now. And Frankie groaned into you, a deep sound vibrating against your skin, and you moaned back, louder this time, your hands gripping his hair with new intensity.

He slid a hand between your legs and slipped two fingers through your wetness, then inside you, deep, curling up until you choked out his name. Your hips bucked, your whole body hot and electric above him. He locked you in place with his other arm, grounding you to him, keeping your body right where he needed you. Right on his mouth, right on his fingers.

You were coming undone on top of him, and Frankie loved it. Loved the honesty of it, the wildness, the way nothing in you was hidden in that moment. No pretending. No filters. Just you—desperate and beautiful and completely his.

“Frankie—fuck—” you gasped, your hips trembling hard against his face.

He pressed his mouth tighter to you, tongue working faster now, synced with the push and curl of his fingers.

You were soaking him. Shaking. So goddamn close he could feel it, could taste it, and he needed you to fall.

“Come on, baby,” he rasped against you, voice hoarse. “Come for me. Be as loud as you want.”

And when you did—when your whole body locked up, thighs tightening around his head, your mouth dropping open with a strangled cry that cracked into a deep, uncontrollable moan—Frankie didn’t stop. He kept going, dragging you through it, letting you lose yourself completely, using him however you needed, for as long as it took.

He was rock hard beneath you, pulsing in his boxers, the ache almost unbearable. But he didn’t care. Not yet. Not when you were breaking apart like this. Not when you were melting in his mouth, in his hands.

Eventually, you collapsed forward, breathless and shaking. Spent.

Frankie held your thighs in his hands, mouth still brushing against your soft, slick skin, kissing you gently now. Like he couldn’t quite let go of the taste of you.

He smiled against you, eyes half-lidded as he looked up at your ruined body.

“Fucking gorgeous,” he whispered, almost to himself.

He smiled at you, eyes heavy with heat, and slowly pulled his fingers out of you. You dropped onto the bed, back against the mattress, chest still heaving.

Frankie shifted onto his knees and crawled over you, positioning himself above you, body casting a shadow across your flushed skin.

“Open,” he said quietly, holding his hand up toward your face.

You did. You parted your lips without hesitation, and he slipped his fingers into your mouth, wet from you. You closed your lips around them, tasting yourself on his skin.

Frankie groaned, low and guttural, the sound vibrating somewhere in his chest as he felt the heat of your mouth, the pressure of your tongue.

He bent down, mouth dragging along the line of your neck, kissing and biting, his breath warm against your skin. Your body was hot, fevered almost, and he felt drunk on it—on you.

With a wet sound, he slid his fingers from your mouth and looked down at your face.

You reached up and brushed your hand across his cheek, just for a second, before tugging his face down toward yours and kissing him. Barely a brush of lips. But then your tongue pushed into his mouth and Frankie all but melted. Like something inside him gave up the fight, like he'd never actually been fighting at all.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers curling into the back of his shoulder, and the kiss turned frantic, needy. He pressed his hips down, grinding against you, his cock hard and pulsing, straining against the fabric of his boxers.

Your legs parted automatically, pulling him in closer, locking around his waist like you couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you.

Frankie pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and a little bloodshot, lips swollen from kissing, like he’d been lit from the inside.

“Pure intentions, huh?” he whispered, mouth tilting into a crooked smile.

You let out a soft laugh, your eyes half-lidded, your fingertips still stroking along his cheekbone. 

You pulled him in again, brushing kisses along the curve of his mouth, the corners, soft and quick, teasing.

Frankie’s eyes fluttered closed. It felt like falling. Like being pulled into something you weren’t sure you’d survive, but didn’t want to stop.

“Wanna know a secret?” you whispered against his lips.

He nodded, though he wasn’t even sure you noticed. His thoughts were spinning.

You kissed him again, and murmured, “You, my friend, belong with me.”

He opened his eyes, lids heavy. He felt wrecked, in the best possible way. High on you. High on everything else. Hard and strung tight, his heart pounding in his chest like it was trying to get out.

He parted his lips to say something, anything, but nothing came. His head was full, completely full, of things he wanted to tell you, but none of them would settle into actual words.

You smiled at him, that quiet, knowing kind of smile, and kissed him again. Just a press of your mouth to his.

When you pulled back, your hand moved to his cheek.

“So, Francisco? What are you gonna do about it?”

He laughed, barely. It came out low and breathless, somewhere between a groan and disbelief. But his body responded faster than his brain. His hand was already moving down.

Your eyes dropped, following the motion as he pushed his boxers down just enough to free himself, hard and swollen, head flushed. He stroked himself a couple of times, breath catching, and then leaned back just enough to move.

Your gaze flicked to his cock again and he swore under his breath, he couldn’t wait anymore.

He dropped to his knees, hooked his fingers under the waistband of your panties, and dragged them down your legs. They landed somewhere beside the bed, forgotten. His boxers joined them a moment later.

Then he was climbing back over you, the heat of his body settling between your thighs again. He took himself in hand, rubbing the head through your slick folds, coating himself in you. It was more than just preparation. It was teasing. It was control. It was watching your chest rise and fall, the way your lips parted when his tip brushed just a little too close to your clit. He leaned down, mouth on your chest, tongue swirling around your nipple while he kept grinding his cock against you. He bit lightly, just enough to make you gasp, and then kissed the spot after like an apology.

And then, he lined himself up.

You wrapped your legs around him again, locking him in, keeping him close as he started to push in. Inch by inch. The stretch was slow, thick, deep. You felt like everything; tight, warm, perfect. He cursed under his breath and dropped his forehead to your neck, your fingers tangling in the back of his hair, stroking, grounding him as your body adjusted around him.

He started to move, slow at first, wanting to feel every part of it, every part of you. His eyes stayed on your face, on the way your cheeks flushed and your breath caught with every thrust.

Your hands roamed over his chest, up his arms, around his neck, soft and careful. It made him feel worshiped. It made him feel like this was more than sex. And it was, so he started to move faster, need taking over now, his hips snapping forward with more urgency. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, messy and rhythmic and desperate.

Your moans came louder, throatier. Your eyes half-lidded, glossy, your head thrown back and nails digging into his back as he drove into you. You were completely open to him, and it wrecked him, absolutely ruined him, in the best, most brutal way. Your body clung to him like you couldn’t help it. Instinct, not choice. Every time he thrust into you, your hips tilted to meet him, chasing the friction. 

He grunted into your neck, rough and shaky, like the sound had been dragged out of his chest. There was nothing careful about him now. No hesitation. Just need. Your name and a curse was the only thing he could manage to say.

Your fingers raked down his back, mouth open against his shoulder, gasping. Whimpering. You bit him and he groaned, sharp, guttural—and fucked you harder.

The rhythm got messier. Faster. Less about control. His hips snapped into yours like he needed to bury himself as deep as he could; bodies slapping together, wet and filthy and warm.

You were everywhere; your smell, your breath, the heat of your skin. He couldn’t look at you without falling apart, so he did. He looked at you. Watched the way your mouth trembled when he hit that spot just right, the way your eyes fluttered shut and your thighs squeezed tighter around his waist like you didn’t want to let him go. Like you couldn’t.

“God, baby,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel so good.”

You whined, needy and open beneath him. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Even if the room had caught fire around you, he’d still be here, fucking you into the mattress.

Your body jerked beneath him, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he felt the tension building inside you. The tremble. The way your legs started to shake again, your nails digging into the meat of his shoulders.

“Shit,” he groaned, voice raw. “I know, baby.”

You nodded, wordless, breathless, and he reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit like he’d done it a hundred times before. He circled it in time with his thrusts, never breaking rhythm. Never looking away from you.

“Let go,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Come for me. Just—fuck, come for me, loud, baby.”

Your body arched under him, mouth falling open in a moan that was loud and broken. You clenched around him, pulsing, and he nearly came right then; swallowed a curse, tried to breathe through it, but your orgasm tore something loose in him, and he gritted his teeth as he pushed through the edge.

He didn’t stop.

His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from tipping over, but they were deep and heavy, his hips rolling into yours. His hand gripped your thigh, the other splayed over your hip like he needed something to hold on. You were still clenching around him, body twitching from aftershocks, but you didn’t tell him to stop. You didn’t push him away. You took it, took all of him, with your legs still wrapped tight around his waist, pulling him back in every time he tried to draw out.

He was soaked in sweat, sliding down his chest, face hovering over yours as he fucked you with need that had no elegance left. No rhythm. Just instinct. Just hunger.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice almost unrecognizable. “You—god—”

He didn’t even finish. He just groaned, deep, and drove into you harder. Deeper. Like he couldn’t get enough, like he hadn’t had enough even after all this. The room was thick with heat, the air dense with your moans and the slick sound of skin on skin. His stomach tensed with every thrust, every pull of your body around him, every breathless whimper that escaped your lips.

Your nails were back in his skin, your hands tugging at his hair, your mouth open beneath his; kissing him, biting him, begging him without words.

Your eyes fluttered open, glassy and dazed, meeting his, and that was it. He saw the wreckage on your face, your lips swollen, your cheeks flushed, your pupils blown wide, and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

He panted against your jaw, his rhythm faltering, hips starting to stutter. He was close. He was so fucking close.

You smiled, breathless, pulling him closer with your legs.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” you whispered, over and over again.

He cursed, and his whole body locked up as he buried himself as deep as he could go. His hips snapped into yours once, twice more, and then he was coming, hard, spilling into you with a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a groan, his face buried in your neck. His body shook as the pleasure ripped through him, hot and endless, every muscle going tight before finally unraveling all at once.

He stayed like that for a moment; completely still, completely inside you, his body slumped over yours, his breath ragged and fast against your skin. Your fingers were in his hair, gentle now, stroking, soothing. Both of you glistening, wrecked, and buzzing from the aftershock.

And when he finally lifted his head to look at you, his lips red, his eyes dark, his body still trembling faintly... you smiled.

And he knew.

He was yours now. Completely.

You had curled into Frankie, cheek resting against his chest, listening as he did his best to explain why Tenacious D was, in his words, Jack Black’s masterpiece.

His voice was low, tired, almost raspy, like it always got when he was sleepy.

“And then fucking Dio shows up,” he said, making a vague sweeping motion with his hand, though his eyes narrowed like he was making a serious point. “And Meat Loaf is his fucking dad? Fucking incredible.”

You smiled against his skin.

“I like School of Rock.”

He turned his head, frowning.

“But you haven’t seen Tenacious D,” he argued, pointing at you. “You have to see it.”

He stretched out beneath you, folding his arms behind his head, his eyes wide and glassy.

The blanket had slipped down around your hips. You shifted slightly, one hand trailing across his ribs.

“Should I turn off the light?” he asked, not moving.

“No,” you said, sitting up, propping yourself on one elbow. “Actually, I was thinking of taking a shower. Want to come?”

Frankie furrowed his brow. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

“But it’s like… five in the morning?”

You laughed, leaning back against him again. His hand found your shoulder, his thumb moving in a lazy circle.

“I know,” you said. “But my hair smells like smoke. And that party was full of so many people and… smells.” You looked up at him. “And I’m pretty sure we smell like sex.”

He clicked his tongue, unbothered. “So? I like that smell.”

“Francisco.” You gave his chest a gentle smack, rolling your eyes. “Don’t be gross.”

He smiled and closed his eyes.

“No, no,” he mumbled, waving a hand in the air. “See, I totally get it, I do, but it’s late and I can’t even keep my eyes open. Look at me right now.”

“Frankie.”

“Let’s just go to sleep.”

“Okay, but picture this: tomorrow you wake up, and your hair’s clean. You smell like soap. You go straight to coffee, no distractions, no regrets. Or we can stay in bed until noon. No judgment either way. But we'd be clean.”

“We can do that anyway,” he muttered.

You clicked your tongue in mock disapproval.

“Fine. Go to sleep.” You pushed yourself off his chest. The sheet slipped down your body as you sat up, and the sudden exposure made you shiver. You reached for the robe draped over the edge of the bed and slipped it on as you stood.

Behind you, Frankie let out a groan. He rubbed at his eyes like a child refusing a nap. Then, reluctantly, he pulled back the covers and got up.

You turned.

“What are you doing?” you asked, trying not to laugh.

“Going with you,” he said, already walking past you, completely naked, like it wasn’t worth discussing.

You followed him to the bathroom. He was already in front of the mirror, studying his reflection with curiosity, as if unsure of what he expected to find.

His hair was a mess, flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. His lips were swollen. His eyes, red-rimmed and heavy-lidded, blinked at himself like he was still adjusting to the lighting.

You met his eyes in the mirror and smiled.

“You could’ve stayed in bed. Really.”

He turned slightly toward you.

“By myself? Alone?”

You laughed, unable to help it. The way he said it made it sound like you’d suggested something cruel, rather than a perfectly reasonable offer.

Also, he looked tired and slightly grumpy, and you loved it.

You shook your head and turned on the shower, adjusting the handle with small, precise movements until the water reached the perfect temperature. Steam began to curl in the air almost instantly, fogging up the mirror in patches. Frankie couldn't see his reflection anymore. He snorted.

You slipped out of your robe and left it on the dresser. Behind you, the tile was cool under your feet as you stepped into the stream.

The hot water hit your skin with an intensity that made you exhale, loosening everything: your shoulders, your spine, the tension in your thighs. You tilted your head back and closed your eyes, letting the water run over your face.

You felt Frankie before you saw him. The curtain shifted slightly, the air moved. Then he was there, stepping in behind you with visible reluctance, a crease between his eyebrows like the heat was somehow a personal inconvenience.

You tried not to laugh. The entire shower became a quiet game of holding back your smile, watching him out of the corner of your eye while he pretended not to enjoy it.

But he did enjoy it. You could tell by the way his eyes drifted closed every time he turned his back to the spray, how he sighed when your hands slid over his shoulders, gentle, soothing, and he leaned into them without saying anything.

You asked if he wanted you to wash his hair, and he nodded once, eyes still closed. He looked soft like that. Sleepy and grateful. A little helpless, which made you smile again.

You ran your fingers through his hair with care, massaging his scalp the way you knew he liked, and his face stayed relaxed the whole time.

When the water finally shut off, you reached for a towel and wrapped it around yourself. Frankie followed your movements, grabbing his own towel and securing it loosely at his waist.

Back in the bedroom, you looked for clean pajamas and started your usual nighttime routine. Moisturizer, body lotion, drawers opening and closing again and again. But Frankie didn’t say much. He pulled on a pair of boxers, brushed his teeth in the half-lit bathroom, and then collapsed onto the bed with a sigh.

But he didn’t fall asleep.

In the bathroom, you brushed your teeth and opened a drawer to search for your hair dryer. You found it tangled with the cord of your straightener, and muttered something under your breath as you tried to free it.

Just as you were plugging it in, Frankie appeared in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame.

“What are you doing?”

You looked at him in the mirror. “Drying my hair. You want me to dry yours after?”

He sighed, heavy and dramatic. “Baby, it’s late. Come to bed. It’ll dry on its own.”

You smiled as you turned to face him.

“Jesus, you’re so impatient.” You shook your head. “I’ll be there in a minute. Go.”

He clicked his tongue and placed one hand on his hip.

“No,” he said, fed up, but then walked away without another word.

You turned back to the mirror and got to work. There was no chance you were going to bed with wet hair. It always felt cold and sticky against the pillow, and by morning it would be doing something strange and unmanageable. So you dried it, even if you rushed a little, hoping to minimize the noise for his sake.

When you finished and unplugged the dryer, the apartment fell quiet again. You walked back to the bedroom expecting to find him sprawled across the bed, but it was empty, the sheets still slightly rumpled from earlier.

You padded down the hallway, following the flicker of the television. In the living room, the screen glowed in soft blues and whites. Frankie’s foot was the first thing you saw, sticking out from under the arm of the couch.

You walked over and leaned against the back of it, peering down at him. He was lying flat on his back, arms crossed like he was in a protest. His eyes were open, unfocused, as if he’d been staring at nothing in particular for a while. Bingley was curled up on his chest, purring softly, and Darcy sat on the floor in front of the them, tail flicking, clearly calculating the best angle to launch himself up.

You smiled. “Hey.”

Frankie turned his head slowly to look at you. “All dry?”

You nodded. “Yeah, Meryl Streep. Let’s go to bed.”

You pushed away from the couch and started walking back down the hallway. Behind you, you heard the click of the TV turning off, followed by the soft shuffle of Frankie’s footsteps trailing behind you.

You lay down and pulled the blanket over your body, and a moment later, Frankie walked into the room, holding Bingley in one hand.

He placed the kitten gently on the bed. Bingley stayed completely still for a few seconds, frozen. And then Darcy padded into the room, tail raised with lazy curiosity. The moment Bingley saw him, he carefully jumped off the bed and approached him, slow, nose twitching as he moved in to investigate his friend.

Frankie didn’t wait. He reached for the light switch, and the room went dark.

You felt the shift of the mattress as he climbed in beside you. Then, without hesitation, he found you beneath the covers and pulled you close, one arm circling around your waist.

You didn’t resist, of course not. You wrapped yourself around him easily, resting your face near the curve of his neck, breathing in the clean scent of soap and him.

“Did you have a good night?” he asked, softly. His voice was gentle now, in the darkness.

You nodded, your cheek brushing against his skin. “Yes. I did.”

“Me too.”

There was a brief silence. You listened to the sound of the Darcy and Bingley exploring in the room. They were under the bed, playing or just messing around.

After a few moments, Mr. Darcy leapt onto the bed and circled once before settling at the foot like it was his rightful place. You waited for the soft sound of Bingley joining him, but instead, a sharp meow floated up from the floor.

“Bingley, come here,” you said.

He meowed again.

Frankie pulled back from you, laughing softly, and a moment later, he placed the tiny kitten beside Darcy.

In a second, Frankie was close again, his arm sliding around your waist like it had never left. You felt his hand move slowly along your arm.

You closed your eyes, and the seconds passed as your body slowly began to relax.

“I didn’t like seeing you with someone else,” Frankie said then, absently.

You opened your eyes, though your lids were heavy and the darkness made it hard to focus on anything.

“Mmm?”

He exhaled, and pulled you closer still, his chest against yours.

“I didn’t like seeing you with someone else,” he repeated. “I didn’t like you kissing someone else.”

“No?”

“No.”

You let your fingers trail lightly across his chest, the warmth of his skin sinking into your palms.

“I didn’t like kissing someone else either,” you whispered.

Frankie let out a laugh. “Too romantic for that, huh?”

You smiled. “Exactly.”

You couldn’t see his face, but you felt the subtle shift of the mattress as he moved, turning onto his side to face you. Then came the press of his lips against the corner of your mouth. His fingers brushed your jaw, holding you there while he kissed you again, just once more.

You reached for him, arms wrapping around his torso, and he relaxed into you almost instantly. You felt it in the way his shoulders dropped, the way his breathing began to ease; longer, slower, deeper. Sleep was tugging at him one breath at a time.

There was a faint snore from him.

“Good night, jealous,” you murmured.

He moved, barely. A brief spasm.

“Mhm. Good night, baby, I love you.”

You stilled.

Your heart stopped, then picked up again in an uneven rhythm.

The words hit you like a stone tossed into still water.

You blinked. Your eyes opened wide in the dark.

But it was too dark to see anything, and by the time you processed what he’d said, he was already snoring beside you.

Completely, deeply asleep.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @thedilfdiaries @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @deatt @yslgreen @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @brittmb115 @sukivenue @awkwardmebaby @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @suzysface @picketniffler @gaypoetsblog @merz-8 @doblasftcisco @ultra-nina-bella @satanxklaus @readingiskeepingmegoing @copperhalfcent @ashhlsstuff @sunfairyy @icanbringyouinhot @hi--have-a-nice-day @sesdeuxyeux @peachiestevie @biccaline @crayolacraycray @wencontre @peepawispunk @berryispunk @billionairecowgirl @blub-senpai @madpanda75 @joelmillerpascal @thatdbeagoodsticker @dtftheavengers @jessthebaker @yourallaround-simp @vingtetunmars @deatt @pedges-world @vickie5446 @whitewolfstar01 @littlenicpascal

[mrssunshlne]

Fool, moron, loser. Gun, glory, sad ending. We may have taken different paths, but it was our destiny to end up together.

[mrssunshlne]

SQUID GAME (2021–2025)

S03E02: The Starry Night

[mrssunshlne]

no but hyun-ju's character is so fucking impactful in today's political climate specifically. squid game really said here's a trans woman who is incredibly kind hearted and gentle but capable of great violence when it's needed. she's gotten herself into a bad situation because she has no other way to fund her transition and that's not framed as something stupid and shallow, but as a heartbreaking reality that many people face irl. her past as a military man is one of her greatest strengths. she protects the weak and the elderly. she dies for two women she befriended in a BATHROOM a few days prior.

[mrssunshlne]

writing is so fun

[mrssunshlne]

Yeah

[mrssunshlne]

sometimes writing isn’t about talent. sometimes it’s about sitting in your chair and suffering for 45 minutes until a single sentence crawls out of your skull

[mrssunshlne]

if a butch ever calls me "poor baby" in a condescending tone, i'm folding on sight. attitude gone. knees weak. suddenly so, so quiet.

[mrssunshlne]

breakfast

[mrssunshlne]

It's Juneteenth yall. And I'm not letting this day go unmarked.

Black people fight for everybody. We stand in solidarity with women, lgbt people, poor people all over the world of every skin color and background. Every religion and nationality.

Today, stand with us. Be with us. Tell a black person you love them. Hug a black person (with consent). Ask that hot black girl out today. Make a black person smile. Black lives matter to everybody and you matter to us.

Stand with us on Juneteenth like we stand with you all year round, and I hope a happy Pride month continues for all of us

💝

[mrssunshlne]

every Tommy Miller scene [ 1/? ]

[mrssunshlne]

happy Juneteenth to black fans in fandom specifically 🫶🏿 love yall

[mrssunshlne]

might fuck around and drink the daily recommended amount of water

[mrssunshlne]

warning : spoilers for materialists, mentions of SA

The Materialists made me feel sick. Not because it was brutal, but because it was so pleased with itself. Because it inserted sexual assault into a story and called it honesty. Because it took one of the most common, devastating violences women endure and treated it like a stylistic device. Something to add gravity. Something to sharpen Lucy’s arc. Something to balance the tonal ledger.

But the camera doesn’t stay with Sophie. The film doesn’t sit with her. It doesn’t honor her. It doesn’t even keep her in the room.

Instead, it sweeps her under the rug. Lets her scream offscreen. Refocuses its gaze on Lucy’s existential unraveling, as if Sophie’s assault were just a detour. A single, dark tile in the mosaic of someone else’s story.

And this, this is the part where I become “difficult.” The one who ruins the vibe. The one who stands in the lobby after the credits roll—not charmed, not impressed, but angry. Not because I misunderstood the message, but because I understood exactly what it did.

Sophie is not a character in this film. She is a device. A hinge. A pivot point in another woman’s narrative. She is allowed to scream once, cry once, accuse once, and then she is folded into the margins of Lucy’s development like a crumpled receipt at the bottom of a designer bag.

And I am tired—so tired—of watching women make films about women, only to find that they, too, have learned to replicate harm in the language of symbolism. Still finding a way to include sexual assault and call it nuance. Still using violence against women to prove the film has something to say.

The film says it wants to interrogate love. Modern dating. Transaction. Commodification. And yet, the moment it gestures toward sexual assault, perhaps the most violent transaction of all, it refuses to slow down. Refuses to linger. Refuses to look at the wound it’s created. It moves forward like it’s made a point. Like it’s said something brave.

But that’s the lie. That’s the wound that doesn’t close.

Because it didn’t have to be there.

It wasn’t built toward. It wasn’t unpacked or allowed to shift the narrative. It didn’t complicate Lucy’s values. It didn’t challenge the structure. It didn’t change anything.

It happened. It hurt. And then it vanished, like a whispered statistic. One in three. And if it’s so common, why frame it like a twist? If it’s so honest, why not sit with it?

I am exhausted by this kind of cinema, the kind that pats itself on the back for including trauma, but never dares to show what it costs. That uses assault not as a rupture, but as a rhythm. As a beat. As evidence that the film is serious.

But it isn’t serious. The brave thing, the truly difficult thing, would have been to stay with Sophie. To give her more space, not just to suffer, but to exist. Not just as an idea or a burden for Lucy to feel guilty about, but as a woman. As a person who was hurt in a way that does not resolve on cue.

But that would have complicated the arc. That would have meant disrupting the aesthetic. That would have meant stepping outside the dress and the lighting and the curated sadness. And cinema hates when women’s pain disrupts the aesthetic.

I know what the defenders will say: it’s not glorifying it, it’s reflecting it! But reflection without care is not art. It’s replication. And replication, without critique, is complicity.

You cannot say sexual assault is part of dating culture and then treat it like background noise. You cannot claim to care about the “brutal honesty” of modern romance while reducing a woman’s assault to a plot beat designed to deepen someone else’s arc.

It’s not brave to include it. It’s not radical. It’s not thoughtful to throw it in and then move on. It’s cowardly. It’s insulting. It’s violent.

And the fact that so many critics call this bold, that they nod solemnly and say “finally, someone’s telling the truth”, only makes me angrier. Because we’ve always told the truth. Women have been telling it for decades. In essays. In whispers. In voicemails. In buried tweets. In hospital reports that no one reads.

But it never counts unless it’s curated. Unless it’s stylish. Unless it’s packaged as prestige. Unless it’s part of a clever genre subversion from a director with Oscar buzz.

Sophie’s assault didn’t challenge anything. It upheld everything.

It was a narrative performance of harm, a stylish nod to the suffering we’re expected to endure quietly. And I will not be grateful for that. I will not call it honest. I will not applaud the inclusion of trauma that serves no one but the film’s own self-satisfaction. In Materialists, assault isn’t the rupture. It’s the justification. The sacrifice required to give the film emotional weight. It’s the shadow cast on a carefully arranged frame so the director can murmur, “See? I’m paying attention.”

But I want to say this:

Paying attention means not using us.

Paying attention means not discarding us.

Paying attention means knowing the difference between representation and reproduction.

And this film reproduces harm. Elegantly. Quietly. Beautifully. But harm, nonetheless.

It tells me Sophie matters because she got hurt, but only until Lucy learns something from it. It tells me assault is part of the system, but not worth lingering in. It tells me one in three is enough to include, but not enough to center.

And that is what I cannot forgive: the idea that trauma must be seen, but never felt. Referenced, but never grieved. Aestheticized, but never honored.

I’m not asking for purity. I’m not asking for silence. I’m asking for accountability. For films that don’t use our wounds as wallpaper. For stories that don’t treat a woman’s pain like it’s just another step in someone else’s plot. I’m asking that if you include our pain, you let us stay in the room.

But Sophie is not allowed to stay. She is written out.

And Lucy gets a ring.

If telling the truth about dating means re-traumatizing women in increasingly aesthetic ways, then perhaps the truth isn’t the goal at all. Perhaps it’s still the same thing it’s always been:

Critical praise.

Aesthetics dressed up as daring.

A film that wears trauma like silk.

A director who says, “I had no choice,” when in fact, she did.

She chose this.

And I choose to say: it didn’t make the film better.

It made it cruel.

And if I sound angry, it’s because I am. If I sound repetitive, it’s because the movies are. If I sound like I’ve ruined the vibe, it’s because the vibe was built on silence.

I don’t care how clever the final shot was. I don’t care how well Dakota Johnson wears the dress. I don’t care that it was based on a statistic.

I care that you turned that statistic into a subplot and called it cinema. I care that you built the scaffolding of your film on another woman’s pain, and never looked back. I care that you didn’t have to include it, but you did. And you called that choice necessary.

It wasn’t.

It was violence.

And I will not thank you for it.

[mrssunshlne]

From a state hearing in Texas

[mrssunshlne]

[mrssunshlne]

Enemies to "I accidentally came across you while you were vulnerable and scared and I'm not a total asshole so I tried to help you" to "accidental mutual uncovering of softer sides and vulnerabilities" to "I can't be mean to you anymore, not out of pity but because it would feel weird betraying that brief truce we had" to "Fine I'll make an effort to be nice to you now I guess" to "actually now that we're not actively hating each other you're not so bad I guess" to "i think we're friends but I'm not going to say that because I'm afraid you're not gonna feel the same way" to "oh you also think we're friends? Great" to lovers