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kitten4sannie · 10 months ago

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middle of the night

pairing: boyfriend! san x fem! reader

genre: pure smut

summary: these days, san can never seem to get a good night’s rest, that is, until he’s able to completely unload himself inside his pretty little girlfriend. good thing you‘re laying right next to him.

w.c: 2.1k

warnings: mean dom! san, subby painslut! reader, both of these mfs are nymphos, somno that turns into full blown sex (they have an established agreement and there is strict consent involved), san’s got a big curved cock as per usual, pet names/name calling, praise/degradation, manhandling, tit play, spit, finger sucking, pussy slapping, marking, possessiveness, spanking, vaginal/anal sex also known as the two for one special <3 (psa: never switch from ass to pussy irl btw), rough altered missionary/doggy/back to missionary, san puts reader in a headlock (muahahahah), creampies, squirting, breeding kink, bulge kink, dumbification, brief oral, san eats his own cum out of reader, this is really filthy btw i should be locked up :3c

a/n: i literally can’t stop writing bc of the horneee that is constantly brought upon me against my will 😞 it’s all san’s fault </3 also i realized i’ve only written one fic about somno like two thousand years ago even tho it’s in my top ten kinks so i gotta fix that <3 *screams* i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed coming up with it~

song recs: angel by massive attack - beware by deftones (GRRRRRRRR BARK BARK)

San couldn’t seem to stop tossing and turning in bed, forcing his eyes shut and waiting for one side of his pillow to grow far too hot for comfort, before letting out a frustrated groan and rolling onto his other side, his cheek squished against the feathered pillow. Squinting at the glowing analog clock on the bedside table across from him, San blinked a few times, his eyes getting used to the darkness inside the room. It was already nearing dawn and he still hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep. There had to be some kind of solution.

It was then that you shifted besides him, emitting a soft moan and rolling onto your back, your loose tank top lowered just enough so that one of your tits had popped out of it, creating another obstacle for San to overcome, one that wouldn’t let him fall asleep until he confronted it.

“Fuck,” San whispered to himself, pushing the covers down far enough to confirm his growing problem. With half-closed, tired eyes, your boyfriend watched his cock repeatedly throb upwards against his loose black sweatpants, as if it was begging him to do something, and quick.

Hs thought back to a conversation you had earlier that week, one you brought up after he had just got done fucking you all over the house in every position imaginable. Like many of your sex marathons, it was initiated because of something simple — you being bent over the washing machine to fill it up with a load of detergent, which, of course, led to San filling you up with his own load in every possible area of your house, including the back patio when you tried to water your poor succulents.

“Sannie, you might as well fuck me when I’m asleep too, at this point,” you giggled, running your fingers through San’s soaked hair, admiring the way he looked in between your legs, with his mouth and tongue exploring your leaking, cum-filled cunt.

“You mean that, angel? My dumb slut wants me to fuck her even dumber in her sleep?” he asked in between licks, humming softly as he continued to languidly clean you up after the destruction he caused to your used hole. It was his favorite pastime, besides rearranging your insides and painting them white with his seed, of course.

Moaning at his mean words, you tugged on his hair, rubbing your soaked pussy in his face like you always did. “Yes, I mean it, baby. Now, shut up and clean up your mess.”

Before San knew it, he was hovering over you, your thighs wide open and resting against his own, your loose, nonexistent sleep shorts tossed to the side so that he could eagerly rub his slick cock along your plush folds, his thick, calloused fingers exploring every inch of your heated skin, groping at your soft thighs, your hips and waist, eventually getting distracted by your tits, rolling your tank top up over them until they spilled out into his greedy hands. He squeezed and rolled them around, bringing his drooling mouth down to your chest to drag his hot tongue up and over your tits until they shined with his spit, pinching your puffy nipples in between his teeth until you whined out in your sleep, feeling your arousal leak out onto his pulsing cock when he finally pushed inside.

“Mmn, my angel is such a good little cocksleeve, so fucking wet for me even in her sleep,” San sighed lovingly to himself, sucking one of your tits into his mouth, spitting on it for good measure, before exchanging it for the other, moaning around your soft flesh, his eyes never leaving your pretty flushed face, even though you weren’t even awake to look down at him.

Unable to hold himself back, he began to buck his hips wildly into you like he always ended up doing when your tight, warm cunt sucked him in the way it did, the headboard beginning to bang loudly against the wall behind it. Grunting, San licked up from your spit-laced chest to your neck, sucking and biting into it, leaving his mark on you. “My baby, my sweet girl, you’re mine, all mine, even when you’re dreaming,” he whispered against your slick skin, slowly pulling back when he heard the breathy gasps you were letting out turn into full-blown moans.

“S-sannieee, I’m so full,” you voiced in a sleepy tone, reaching up to rub your tired eyes, studying your boyfriend’s rosy cheeks and lips, the way his drenched hair stuck to his forehead, a few drops of sweat landing on your face, unable to look away from his intensely dark, lust-filled gaze. “Is my pussy making Sannie go crazy?”

A low growl erupted from San’s throat, a vein starting to grow taut against his skin, now that he was pounding into you with abandon, reaching up underneath your thighs to forcibly fold you in half like you were nothing but a doll for him to use. “Your slutty cunt always drives me crazy, princess, so be good and take responsibility, hm?”

Barely able to breath now that you were akin to origami, your brain grew delightfully fuzzy from the lack of oxygen, encouraging the hazy, half-asleep state you were still in and the oversized cock that was being driven relentlessly into your cervix to work in tandem until pleasure overtook your body to the point of orgasm. “Fuck, Sannie, baby, fffuuck, I’m cumming…!”

“Oh, my dirty girl, creaming yourself so soon?” San mused with his lips quirked into a shit-eating grin, his dimples and canine teeth on display. Just as your eyes begin to disappear underneath your fluttering eyelids, San suddenly grabbed you by the chin, reaching down in between your sweaty bodies to smack his hand down roughly against your spasming cunt. “Look at me when you’re squirting on my cock, baby. You know better.”

“S-sannie, it’s so, oh my god–” you cried out, opening your mouth to moan and instead feeling his thumb slide over your tongue, your lips closing around it. You continued to suck on his thumb as he fucked you through your first mind melting orgasm of the night, biting into it when he smacked your cunt again with his free hand.

“Owww, bad girl.” San watched you lick and suck on his thumb with a lecherous smile plastered on his red, sweaty face, rubbing his other thumb roughly into your puffy clit, rolling it in circles until he felt your thighs trembling nonstop against his moving body, suddenly stopping his movements to sheath himself fully inside you, groaning heavily as he flooded your pulsing cunt with his hot load. “Mm, you feel that, princess? I’m pumping all my cum into this slutty womb of yours, so I can get you nice and knocked up for me…You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Just as he pulled his thumb out of your drooling mouth, you clasped your hands onto his cheeks, looking up at him hearts in your teary eyes, and begging, “Yes, Sannie, I like it, love it so much. Can I have more?”

And there it was. You might’ve been the love of his life and his beautiful angel of a girlfriend, but you were still his personal breeding bitch at the end of the day — and in the middle of this hazy, sleepless night.

“Oh, yeah?” San hummed, slowly pulling out of you and running his fingers through his wet hair, just for it to fall back into his half-lidded eyes, watching as his cum began to flood out of your gaped, fluttering hole. He wanted nothing more than to eat it out of you, his mouth watering at the thought of tasting the warm saltiness mixed with your sweet squirt on his lips, but he still had to pursue his mission of pleasing his baby. “My little slut still hasn’t had enough?”

“No, Sannieee, I need your cock in my other breeding hole. Please?” you whined softly, pouting up at him, hoping you’d get your way now that you were fired up and desperate for him to fill and own as many of your holes as he could before the both of you fell victim to drowsiness.

San closed his eyes to ground himself for a second, not even fully prepared for the filth that you exuded, despite being quite the pervert himself. When he opened his eyes back up, he looked down, his curved cock now painfully stiff and twitching upwards into his heaving abdomen, somewhat winded from how hard he had been fucking you just a moment ago. “Head down, ass up, little slut. Don’t make me ask twice.”

And just like that, you were lying with your head pressed into bed, drooling heavily from both ends, getting saliva onto the arousal stained mattress, your sopping wet cunt pushing out all of San’s load and causing it to drip down your inner thighs, your weak, bruised knees wobbling beneath you, your ass being relentlessly pounded into by your ravenous boyfriend. “Gonna cum, gonna cum–”

Your warning was cut off by a sharp gasp, just as San’s hand collided with the side of your reddened ass, his fingers grabbing into the soft, sensitive flesh until you whimpered pathetically. “You’re such a filthy slut, aren’t you?” he growled between gritted teeth, smacking the other side of your ass and making you cry out before you could answer him properly. He suddenly pulled out of your ass and forced himself back into your cunt, stuffing you completely full, hunching over you so that he could put you in a headlock, loose enough so that you remained conscious, but tight enough so that you could feel deliciously dizzy. “You’re my filthy slut. All mine to fuck raw, to ruin, to breed. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whispered hoarsely, opening your mouth up to accept his tongue inside when he closed in on you, feeling breathless once he manipulated your body until you were back underneath him, your legs near your head, his cock so deep inside your cunt that the tip of it created a prominent bulge inside your stomach, one that San was already palming as he began to shudder, his lips, teeth and tongue attacking your neck again to leave more marks, darker ones that you would have to put concealer over before you went to work the following morning. “That’s it, that’s it, cum inside me, San, please, make me yours!”

“You’ve been mine since the beginning, angel, but I’ll make you mine again, and again, and again,” San exhaled onto your lips, wrapping his arms protectively around you, his cock completely sheathed inside you, his tip just about kissing the entrance of your cervix, your bodies so entangled together, neither of you knew where the other began. You gazed into each other’s hazy eyes, moaning into each other’s open mouths, as another seemingly endless flood of thick, hot cum claimed your womb. “I love you so fucking much, it hurts.”

“I love you too, San,” you sighed back, caressing his heated face, your fingers slipping into his hair just as he began to lower himself down, shuddering at the sensation of his lips and teeth making their mark on your chest, abdomen, hips, then gasping when he made his way to your center, his hot tongue slipping inside your pulsing cunt.

Like every time before, San ate his warm load out of you like a starved man, his nose nudging your sensitive clit as he moved his head in an up and down motion, coaxing more of the saltiness onto his tongue, reaching up to rapidly rub your clit just because he could, pleased with the way you began to cry and shake, your warm squirt pouring down his throat. He swallowed it all down with a low, pleased groan, dragging his tongue up and over your used, puffy cunt to collect the last few drops of nectar, before he finally felt tired enough to collapse down onto the bed next to you.

With the last ounce of his strength, he pulled you into his arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then to your lips, letting you taste your combined essence. “Bedtime?” San whispered, cradling and rubbing your cheeks with his thumbs, looking at you with a fondness that bordered obsession. He chuckled softly, giving you a dimpled smile. “I promise I won’t wake you up again.”

“You won’t wake me up, but you still might fuck me in my sleep? Huh, nympho?” you teased jokingly, cradling his face back, so close that you breathed in the same air, your eyes never leaving his, despite how heavy your eyelids began to feel. “I need my sleep, you know.”

San was in a similar state, starting to drift off, his hands leaving your face so that he could wrap them protectively around you. “Sorry, baby. I’ll try to be quieter next time,” he murmured, letting out a soft giggle, pressing a kiss to your lips just as his eyes began to close. “Just don’t be mad at me when you wake up with my cock still inside you…”

Leaving a kiss on his nose, your eyes started to close as well, completely relaxing into your boyfriend’s warm embrace. “I’ll be mad if it’s not still inside me.”

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gen tags: @dazzlinglight @thefinerthingz3 @cosmiczen @choerryge @arusio @ethicalz @jinsonaz @kitty4hwa @purplechannie @jazzymoore @kodzukein @asjkdk @chanst1ddies @createyour0wnworld @roarmingi @simeonswhore @k0rean-big-mini0n @bls-luv-me @igotlockedout @fl0r4f4wn @miriamxsworld @woosmaid @kawaiikels @azcon @allofuswantgwinam @breezy-simp @eastleighsblog @singularity777 @san-realblkwife @kawennote09 @feuille-et-pain @slut4hwa @owjohny @hijeongguk @lilramennoodle @leo-seonghwa @staytinydegenerate @greenymar @8tinytings @baguette-atiny @lvnderhazes @knucklesdeepmingi @soobiverse @jeongwangjessmina @ja3hwa @actuallyalien @aggiebackstage @doom-fics @koalakoala8 @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna

#dividers made by @ioveartfilm #cultofdionysusnet #cromernet #ateez #ateez smut #choi san #san ateez #san smut #san x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #kpop smut

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vaneshifts · 8 months ago

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Idk if I've talked about this before, but I saw someone post about why people who have been trying to shift for so long might not be shifting (this might not apply to everyone, but it really clicked with me). They only explained why, so I'm gonna talk about the solution I came up with.

They specifically said that it was not tough love, but psychological facts: it's possible that your mind registers shifting as a goal in THIS reality.

Think about that for a second. This is the part that really got me when I started to think about it. When you are here, in your CR, your goal is to shift, right? So what if our minds interprets that as a goal IN THIS REALITY, as simple as going to bed thinking "oh, I'm going to unload the dishwasher in the morning." Because shifting is just aligning with your DR self, and guess what?? Your goal in your DR is not to shift! That blew up my brain a little bit.

"But i want to shift" you know how everyone keeps saying "you are already in your DR"? I interpreted that for so long as motivation. It's not. It's the process. To align with your DR self, just like aligning with another person in your CR you have to have the same goals.

So your goal is no longer to shift. Stop thinking like that. Your goal IS NOT TO SHIFT. Waking up where you are meant to has never been a goal, but an expectation. Your goal is to wake up and go downstairs to have breakfast with your DR friends or family. Your goal is to wake up and get to class on time to ace that Defence Against The Dark Arts quiz you totally forgot to study for until the night before. Your goal is to wake up and win that Oscar, to break that curse, destroy the One Ring, you fucking name it babes.

I don't know if this is really dumb and obvious, but it wasn't for me before, so I really hope this post helps someone else too.

#araenia talks #reality shifting #desired reality #loa #shiftblr #shifting community #shifting #shifting diary #shifting blog #shifters #shifting mindset #shifting motivation #anti shifters dni

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earl-of-221b · 3 months ago

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Nezha 2 spoilers - on the character of Sheng Gongbao.

More on Sheng Gongbao, because I think what the movie did in introducing this classic antagonist's parent and kid brother may feel really random at first, but totally recontextualsies him to be (1) an even closer foil to Ao Bing and (2) a new foil to Nezha.

Ao Bing

In Nezha 1, Shen Gongbao explains his nature to Ao Bing so he could share the similarities of their situations: that he is a leopard demon, and demons suffer the same disrepute and disadvantage of dragons in the world of cultivation. That's why he did all this scheming from Ao Bing's birth to set him on a path that can diverge from his own - so he can prepare his disciple to advance where he can't - so Ao Bing can climb higher on the cultivation ladder. Shen Gongbao would benefit from Ao Bing's advancement as the master who trained, raised, and sponsored him to advance on the celestial stage. Ao Bing's father and people would also benefit from Ao Bing's ascension.

The foil Shen Gongbao plays for Ao Bing is being a demon - underpriviledged, undesired, having to struggle and claw his way in everything, being twice as good and yet not good enough, all because of what they are and how they were born. But he's known to Ao Bing only as his master and senior, someone who understands how the world works and whom taught Ao Bing his martial arts and magic.

In Nezha 2, the characters Sheng Zhengdao, the father, and Sheng Xiaobao, the kid brother, are introduced. This immediately changes the reading of Shen Gongbao. Not only is he a master, senior and an 'adult' in the complicated and cruel cultivation world - but he is also a son. Not only is he a son, there is an intricate backstory about what kind of son he is - he's the son who left his home and backwater town to go to celestial university, he's the first in the family to be accepted into the Chan Sect, the son who achieved human form, the over-achieving son, the son with a career, the son who made it, the absolute pride of the family. The eldest son who's family think he is living it up.

He is..........decidedly not. This is where the 'demon' storyline comes back: he has hit wall after wall. He's done dirty quid pro quo. He's been decieved, used, and even cowed by the system. One can't be treated fairly as a demon. Since he cannot make it any further by himself, he's resorted to relying on Ao Bing.

However, Sheng Gongbao's new role as a 'son' now paints him in an interesting light to both Ao Bing and Nezha. We instantly see that his motivation isn't just about feeling oppressed as a demon and wanting to be recognised for his merits. There is also clearly some insane filial piety driving him - because his position and ascention is supposed to benefit his kid brother and aging father back home! He is not just doing it for himself. He did all that dirty quid pro quo, being used as a tool, cowed by the system....because he needed to be the good son for his family. Because the truth is he has not made it at all. But if only he trains the perfect disciple, more perfect than himself...if only he gets him accepted into the celestial word...if only Ao Bing becomes a god of the Fengshen Bang...if Sheng Gongbao is reocognised as one of the 12 Golden Gods.........

On and on. His foil to Ao Bing as a son adds an extra dimension to Nezha 1. Ao Bing trained his whole life (being given the advantage of being the 'Yang pill') to advance his father's and people's position. To the point of being convinced, even if for a moment, that levelling Chentang Guan and killing all the people to keep the shameful secret of his dragon nature, was the only way forward...This now sounds very similar to his master. This is the solution his trusted, experienced master sold him. In Nezha 2, we learn Shen Gongbao has done terrible things for the celestial Wuliang (his senior cultivation brother)...it follows he would unload that same treacherous cycle onto Ao Bing.

2. Nezha

In a broad sense, Sheng Gongbao as the son becomes 'young,' a former protagonist himself, the hero of his own story, with his own parents and brother to appease. What I found endlessly interesting, is that with this new role, Shen Gongbao explicitly becomes a foil to Nezha as well. But the specific foil to Nezha in this case is 'being a son who will go on a total rampage out of love for his parents/family.'

With the knowledge of his parent's 'deaths,' Nezha goes on a total rampage out of love for his parents and the pain of losing them, that ends in beating up dragons and locking them in a huge magic furnace, completely playing into the hands of the evil celestial Wuliang. When our hero Nezha mitakenly fights the Eastern Dragon King Ao Guang, with the threat of his unfinished flesh body being disintegrated (he's not ready to fight in that condition yet!) - what does he say? He says "I don't care if I'll die, so long as I kill you!" The urge to avenge his parents is stronger than his self-preservation. But it's a twist. His parents are alive!

In the furnace scene, Nezha is offered a chance to save his parents who are getting cooked into cultivation pills by Wuliang. To accept a pill that makes him lose his memory and fall under the control of Wuliang. But Nezha's mother bats that thing out of Wuliang's hands, that's stupid and her son will never be a puppet for nefarious gods! Nezha, in the end, comes from a loving and supportive family who knows and understand him. They accept him for who he is. They would never stand for it. And so Nezha is protected from being manipulated.

Upon the Chentang Guan plot twist, it's revealed Shen Gongbao actually has the same reaction Nezha has when he thinks his family has died. Except for the point that his kid brother really does die - right in front of him! After whisking away Nezha's parents, Sheng Gongbao steps out again to the war-torn Chentang Guan, to fight off a thousand demons and the three traitor dragons. All by himself. There's dialogue, Nezha's parents ask Master Shen Gongbao what is he doing - where is going - why doesn't he take shelter with them?! And Shen Gongbao answers with bitter acceptance, "What's the point? My family's gone." And he goes out to fight. To take a last stand. To die.

Going back to Nezha, doesn't that reveal Sheng Gongbao's deepest motivations as the same as our hero's? He wasn't really doing it - all of it - entirely for himself. Now that his father and kid brother are dead, there is no reason to strive further. Shen Gongbao can let go of being one of the 12 Golden Gods or whatever. He's going to go out into danger, satisfy the urge to avenge his father and brother, and die.

Which takes me to the very delicious, delicious, diabolical end credits scene. The villainous Wuliang goes to a terrible prison where Shen Gongbao and his barely-ok father are alive. In a scene that totally parallels Nezha's choice in the furnace, he presents the same offer to Shen Gongbao. Accept a curse on his mind and body that will enslave him to Wuliang in exchange for his father's life.

But Shen Gongbao doesn't have the same honesty, understanding, protection from his father...because all this time he has been away from home...not returning because he hasn't made it...his father under the impression he is living it up as a celestial...his father not even conscious...

His kid brother died.

He has just this one family member left.

A person he was supposed to be doing all this for, to make proud.

A person he was ready to get revenge and die for.

After all he has already done - what is a little curse on Sheng Gongbao for the benefit of his father?

#nezha #nezha 2 #哪吒 #哪吒2 #哪吒之魔童闹海 #sheng gongbao #Where Nezha escapes the oblivion pill in the furnace - Shen Gongbao will willingly take on the curse in the prison.#Anyways.#Get ready for Mind-Controlled angst in Nezha 3!!!!#*UNGODLY LEOPARD SCREECH*#I am ready for the horrible awful scene where Ao Bing is begging his master who apparently has no clue who he is and is totally ok using #lethal moves on him #aldkfj;ladkjs;laksjdf;lakdj

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capuccinodoll · 2 months ago

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The boyfriend act, part 8: "The one with Dante and Beatrice" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Things are a little different in Frankie’s mind. Apparently, you’re in there more often than you think. WC: 12k

A/N: I hope you like this one <3 I want you to know that from Frankie's perspective, things have been getting complicated for quite some time. Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!!If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! love you <3

He wanted to give you space, time. He told himself that over and over again, like a mantra. And if there was one thing he'd been unwaveringly certain about, it was that all of this—this charade, this carefully constructed performance—would end the second you asked him to stop. It would keep going for as long as you wanted, for as long as you needed. Until you got tired of it. Until you got tired of him.

Frankie wasn’t sure what he expected when he got in his car that afternoon and drove to your place. He had no plan, no rehearsed words, no real sense of what he was walking into. All he knew was that the past few weeks had been unbearable, spent in a strange limbo of guilt and something else—something more insidious, more consuming, something he refused to name. And it was starting to drive him out of his mind.

That morning, he’d woken up groggy, his head pounding dully from the night before. He’d had a few drinks, nothing excessive, but enough to leave him sluggish. The guys had been at Will’s place, and they’d stayed late, shooting the shit, letting time pass the way they always did—until Santi asked how things were going. Casual, but not really. And Frankie didn’t lie. Why would he? Why should he? So he told him everything, laid it all out like an offering, and when it was over, he felt an immense weight lift from his chest.

He told Santi everything. Let it spill out like a confession, every detail that had been pressing on him, rattling around in his chest like loose change. And when he was finished, he felt lighter, relieved in a way that made him a little sick. Like he had unloaded something heavy onto someone else and could finally breathe again.

Santi listened, nodding, his expression unreadable. Then he said, flatly, “I get it. But she's my sister, and I love you both so just... Stop.”

Frankie nodded. He hesitated, then asked about you—had you said anything? Had you mentioned him? If you had, what had you told Santi?

But Santi was brief, uninterested in being the middleman. He shrugged, took a sip of his beer, and said, “I dunno know. Go ask her.” A casual pat on the back, like that was the end of the conversation. Like the solution was that simple.

Frankie thought about it all night.

Would you even answer the door? Or would you tell him to fuck off before he could get a word out?

The questions followed him into sleep, looping over and over in his mind. He passed out on top of his sheets, still in his jeans, the heat thick and suffocating, pressing down on his skin like a punishment. The next day, he woke up feeling like hell, his head pounding. Took a painkiller dry, then stood under the shower until the cold turned his skin raw.

And then he went to you.

And you opened the door. You let him in.

And for a brief moment, he thought that was it. That you’d sit down together, have a rational conversation, lay everything out cleanly, like two people sorting through a mess they’d both agreed to finally put to rest.

But that wasn’t what happened.

Instead, you told him everything. You let it spill out, sharp and unfiltered, all the ways he had made you feel, how hard it had been, how unfair. But most of all, you told him that you had heard him. That years ago, you had overheard him talking to Will.

That was the part that stunned him, the part that felt like ice water down his back.

Because all these years, he had been confused about everything—about you, about why things between you had always felt sharp and unsolvable. He had never quite understood the root of it, never really asked himself why. And now, hearing it from you, it was so clear. It had been his fault. All along, it had been him.

He wanted to explain. He wanted to tell you why, to make you understand. But he wasn’t sure he could yet. He wasn’t sure he wanted to open that door—to expose himself to a different kind of vulnerability, the kind he had been avoiding for years.

And from your perspective, it was all just confirmation. He was exactly who you had always thought he was. A smug, careless asshole who had pushed you too far, again and again, until you finally snapped.

That’s why he wasn’t surprised when you told him you were tired. Tired of this thing between you, whatever it was. Tired of the constant tension, the sharp edges, the way it never seemed to settle into anything that didn’t leave one of you bleeding.

“I want this to end,” you said, watching him carefully, like you were waiting for some kind of reaction. He felt a flicker of something beneath his ribs—sharp, immediate, gone too fast to name.

“What?”

“This,” you repeated, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “The fights. The confusion. I’ve had enough. I don’t want it anymore.”

For a moment, he just looked at you. Silent. The light filtering in through the window softened the lines of your face, turned your skin softer, almost glowing. He had the sudden, ridiculous urge to reach out and trace his fingertips over your cheekbone.

He didn’t.

“Right,” he said instead. “I don’t want it either. And I get it. If you want me to stay away, I will. I’ll tell Santi. I’ll keep my distance if that’s—”

“No.”

You cut him off before he could finish, stepping just the slightest bit closer, and it sent a prickle of confusion up his spine.

“I don’t want that either,” you said.

Try again. Be normal. Be cordial. It made sense, didn’t it? Two people with history deciding to rewrite it, to turn it into something easier, something less jagged. Like normal adults who could be in the same room without pressing on old wounds.

And yet—he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. Couldn’t understand why you wanted to try again. Why, after everything, you were even slightly interested in salvaging this.

But he wouldn’t ask. He wouldn’t say it out loud. Because some small, irrational part of him was afraid that if he did, you’d stop and really think about it. You’d realize that whatever you were doing was pointless, that he wasn’t worth the effort.

And then you’d look at him and say, Actually, Francisco, fuck you. I don’t want to see you ever again.

If you told him that—if you looked him in the eye and said you’d changed your mind, that this was pointless, that you didn’t want him in your life at all—he would understand. Of course he would. But for some reason, the thought of it settled uncomfortably in his chest, heavier than he expected.

So instead, he would help you with your list.

That, at least, made sense. He knew about those things, the ones you had written down. They were his kind of thing—outdoor activities, experiences that required skill, control, an understanding of risk. He had been trained for almost all of it. If you wanted to go climbing, he could take you. He’d make sure you placed your feet right, that your harness was secure, that you knew how to read the rock beneath your hands. If you wanted to go camping, he would set up your tent or help you do it yourself, show you how to choose the safest place to sleep, rattle off a list of survival tips without even thinking. And if you wanted to go skinny dipping—well. He knew where to take you for that too. Somewhere like Hippie Hollow Park if you were feeling bold. Somewhere more secluded if you weren’t.

And yet, somehow, the first thing you wanted to do was skydiving. That one actually surprised him.

Still, sure. He would do it with you. No hesitation. He had a guy in Lexington, an old friend who was an instructor. It took him all of ten minutes to send a message that same night. By the time he put his phone down, it was settled. All that was left was for you to pick the day and time.

But he didn’t text you. Not right away. He figured he’d bring it up sometime during the week. When? He didn’t know. And he didn’t have to think too much about it because by the time monday rolled around, Helena showed up at his door unexpectedly—just as he was getting home from the airport, exhausted from a twelve-hour day, six of which had been spent in the air.

He wasn’t complaining. He knew plenty of retired pilots who had taken up instructing in other places, and most of them were barely scraping by—too many hours, not enough pay, burning themselves out for companies that didn’t give a shit. Frankie, at least, had gotten lucky. The school that hired him paid well, better than most. Flight hours, ground hours—it was all compensated fairly, which wasn’t something a lot of guys could say.

Frankie felt he was luckier than he had any right to be, really. Because when he was discharged a couple of years ago, there had been nothing reassuring about his future. Nothing. He'd left his position before even turning thirty-five, his mental health hanging by a thread, his sense of purpose unraveling faster than he could stitch it back together. Everything felt like a sacrifice, and worse than that—he felt like a failure. All the time.

So, yeah. He was lucky.

Lucky to land a decent job—fifty five bucks an hour, flying from twenty to thirty-five hours a week, some days busy, others quieter. He preferred the time in the air. The ground felt too loud, too heavy. But up there, everything stilled. Up there, he could breathe. His body remembered what it was built for.

Lately, though, he was tired.

He’d spent the last few weeks pushing himself past ten-hour days, taking on extra students, filling his schedule until there was barely enough time to eat, let alone think. Because every time he came home, the silence felt suffocating. The walls pressing in, the weight of something unspoken settling on his chest.

And maybe—maybe—the fight with you had a little something to do with that.

But he wanted to give you time, didn’t he? That was the whole point. That was why, when he saw Helena standing outside his house that afternoon, arms crossed, wearing the easy kind of smile that meant she wasn’t actually mad at him—yet—he felt that strange pull in his stomach. Not quite guilt, not quite dread. Something heavier, more tangled.

Frankie smelled like the wind. His hair was tucked under a cap, still messy at the edges, and he was wearing dark sunglasses even though the sun had already started sinking behind the houses. His back ached in a way that made him feel older than he was, but Helena barely gave him a second to register any of it before she was stepping forward, wrapping her arms around him in a brief but warm hug.

“I’m just coming to check in,” she said lightly, stepping past him into the house. She scanned the living room, eyes sharp, like she was taking an inventory of every single thing that had changed since the last time she’d been here. The place was tidy. Suspiciously tidy. “You’ve barely answered your phone.”

Frankie sighed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

“I haven’t been ignoring you,” he said, already anticipating the direction this conversation was about to take. “I’ve just been busy. And when I get home, I... sleep.”

Helena hummed, like she didn’t totally believe him but was willing to let it slide for now.

“Just take care of yourself,” she said, and then, as if she’d only been waiting for a beat of silence to slip the question in naturally, “Have you seen her? How’s she doing?”

He smiled despite himself, because of course she would ask. He looked at his mother with something like amusement, something like fondness.

“She’s fine. And yes, I know what you’re going to ask.”

Helena raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Do you?”

“Yeah.”

That seemed to satisfy her, at least a little. She nodded, glancing around the room again before saying, like it had only just occurred to her, “Wednesday, seven o’clock.”

Frankie frowned. “You already picked a day?”

“Well, yes. But if that doesn’t work, Thursday. Or—” She waved a hand, brushing off her own urgency. “Just let me know when she can.”

“This week, you mean?”

“Yes, this week,” she said, like it was obvious. “I’m visiting aunt Eli this weekend.”

He shook his head, smiling. “You’re a busy woman, huh?”

“Yes,” she said, leveling him with a look. “And I answer my phone too.”

She poked him gently in the stomach, and he laughed, nudging her hand away.

Later that night, Frankie pulled out his phone and typed out a message. He was already bracing himself for you to say no, to suggest some vague future alternative that would never quite materialize.

Instead, your reply came quickly.

[🍓]: I like wednesday :) tell your mom we’ll be there

Frankie read the message again, then set his phone down on the nightstand. His hair was still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends, and he was wearing what he usually wore to bed—that is, just his underwear. The air in his room was cool against his skin, but he didn’t bother pulling the covers over himself. Instead, he lay there for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, then reached for his phone again.

He stared at the ceiling for maybe five seconds before picking his phone up again.

[F] Okay, I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.

Your reply came almost instantly.

[🍓]: Okay. And what should I wear?

Frankie hesitated for a second, then typed:

[F]: Hopefully clothes

A beat. Then:

[🍓]: 🙄

[🍓]: I meant… what kind of clothes

[F]: Idk, something nice

[F]: Dress like you always do

[🍓]: Are you saying I dress cute?

He thought about playing dumb. But teasing you was starting to feel as easy as breathing.

[F]: Actually, yeah

The three little dots appeared immediately.

Then they disappeared.

Frankie grinned, waiting. A few seconds later, they reappeared—only to vanish again.

Okay. This was fun.

Finally, after a long pause, the dots came back, and this time, they stayed.

[🍓]: I’ll wear something nice then

And of course, you did.

When Frankie pulled up outside the bookstore on wednesday, you stepped out wearing a fitted white tee and a black mini skirt that just barely skimmed mid-thigh. There was something effortless about it, something that made the whole thing look even better—like you hadn’t tried too hard, but still, somehow, had nailed it. Your purse hung off one shoulder, and as you reached him, you did a slow turn, walking a few steps back and forth in front of him, hands wiggling at your sides.

“So?” you prompted, tilting your head. “What do you think?”

Frankie was leaning against the hood of his car, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes flicked over you, taking in every detail, and then, before he could stop it, a slow smile spread across his face.

He nodded, the dimple in his cheek making an appearance. “Yeah. Works for me.”

You stopped right in front of him, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of your perfume. Your arms crossed over your chest, and your eyes, darker in the dimming light, pinned him in place.

“That’s it?” you asked. “That’s all you have to say to me? I’m supposed to be your girlfriend, you know.”

Frankie exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly as if giving your words some serious consideration. Then he nodded again.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “Even though there’s literally no one watching us right now, huh?”

“That’s not true,” you countered immediately, jerking your chin to the left. “See?”

Frankie followed your gaze. Down the block, an old woman was making her way in the opposite direction, moving at a glacial pace.

He snorted. “You think she’s our audience?”

“She could be.”

“She’s not even looking.”

“And you’re willing to take that risk?”

Frankie arched an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued by your persistence. Now that you’d decided to stop arguing with him at every possible opportunity, was this what was going to replace it? This playful, harmless kind of provocation? The teasing that didn't sting, the banter that made your eyes light up instead of narrow?

If so, he didn’t mind. Not at all.

Because as much as you liked pushing him, he liked pushing back. Seeing how far he could take it before you finally tripped over your own words. And if he had to admit something—it was that you were good at this. Always had a comeback, always knew exactly where to poke to throw him off balance. But he had his own strengths. And he could win, too.

The way you were looking at him now—he recognized it instantly. Slow, measured, a devilish little glint in your eyes. You were trying to fluster him, the same way you had that night at the hotel bar on Helena’s birthday, when you leaned in just a little too close, held eye contact just a little too long, waiting to see if he’d be the first to break.

“So?” you prompted, that knowing smile still curving your lips. You were in a good mood, clearly.

But Frankie knew how to play this game too.

Without a second thought, he reached for you, both hands slipping around your waist as he pulled you in—closer, closer, until your body was nearly flush against his. Your hands collided with his chest, and he felt your palms settle there, warm through the fabric of his T-shirt. Your smile faltered for just a fraction of a second. You held it, but he could see the effort.

Yeah. He had you now.

He leaned in, just enough to catch the faint, sugary scent of your lip gloss—cherry—and the way the light from the streetlamp above made your lips glisten. He watched, satisfied, as your smile twitched, threatened to waver.

“Sweetheart, you look breathtakingly beautiful,” he murmured, letting his voice drop lower. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. I’m so lucky to be yours.”

Your cheeks darkened instantly.

And that—that—was his victory.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he straightened up, peeling himself off the hood of the car and pulling you with him, keeping a firm hand on your waist. He reached for the door handle, swinging it open smoothly.

“Now... baby?” he said, eyes flicking down to yours, “get in the damn car. We're late.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, face still suspiciously warm, and lifted a hand to give him a light tap on the shoulder.

“Thank you. Whatever.” You waved a dismissive hand. “You look good too.”

Frankie barely managed to hold back his laugh as he shut the door behind you.

On the way to Helena’s house, you were quieter than before. Not in an uncomfortable way, not the kind of silence that stretches awkwardly between two people who don’t know what to say. This was something else—an easy, unspoken quiet. Still, Frankie kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye, subtle but frequent, like he was checking for something. You didn’t notice.

In his mind, a dozen thoughts churned. Had he overdone it? The whole performance, the teasing, the things he’d said—was it too much? He wasn’t sure. Maybe you were annoyed. Or maybe you weren’t thinking about it at all.

He drove through the streets downtown, passing familiar landmarks, getting closer to his mother’s neighborhood. The sun was beginning to dip lower, casting long shadows over the pavement. The air in the car was warm, tinged with the scent of something faintly citrusy—your perfume, maybe.

“Everything okay?” he asked, curiosity outweighing restraint.

You turned your head to look at him, smiling softly, genuinely.

“Yeah. Why?”

He shrugged, glancing at you before returning his eyes to the road.

“You’re quiet, that’s all.”

“Ah, I’m just a little tired. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“No?” He flicked his eyes toward you again. “Why not?”

You hesitated. He felt it more than saw it. The way the air shifted slightly, how you didn’t answer right away. He tightened his jaw without meaning to. He could feel you looking at him now, studying his face like there was something there worth inspecting.

“What?” he asked, turning his head just enough to smirk at you.

“I dunno,” you said finally. “I had a weird dream, and then I couldn’t get back to sleep. And then Mr. Darcy broke a glass in the kitchen, so I got up and just started my day.”

Frankie exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.

“Did he hurt himself?”

“Nope.”

“So,” he said, dragging out the word, “what’d you dream about? A nightmare?”

“Nevermind,” you said, shifting to look out the window. “I can never make sense of my dreams, anyway.”

“Tell me.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “No. It’s embarrassing.”

He frowned, exaggerated, amused.

“Oh, come on. How bad could it be? Did you pee yourself?”

You gasped, reaching out to swat his arm. He grinned but kept his eyes on the road.

“You totally did,” he said, nodding to himself. “I can hear it in your silence. You peed your pants.”

“I did not pee my pants!” you shot back, crossing your arms over your chest. “And I’m not telling you what it was about, anyway. You’ll just have to wonder forever.”

He let out a long, dramatic sigh, shaking his head.

“No, don’t say that. Now I won’t be able to sleep. I’ll lie awake at night, tormented. Wondering—what could my fake girlfriend have possibly dreamed about?”

“And how’s your mom?” you asked, shifting the conversation onto safer ground.

Frankie’s response was brief, almost dismissive.

“She’s fine,” he said. “Waiting for you.” He didn’t elaborate, didn’t offer any additional details. Just left it at that.

Five minutes later, Helena greeted you at the door, pulling you into a warm hug, her arms wrapped tightly around you before she pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“Oh, look at you,” she said, leaning back just enough to take you in, her hands still resting lightly on your arms. “You look absolutely stunning, darlin'. So beautiful.”

Your face grew warm almost instantly.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice quiet, slightly embarrassed.

Frankie watched from the side, noting the way your shoulders tensed, the way your gaze dipped slightly. The flush on your cheeks made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

“You look beautiful too,” you told her, voice sincere. “I love your dress.”

Helena cocked her head to the side, clearly pleased.

“Oh, really? Thank you, sweetheart. That’s so kind.” She stepped back, ushering you inside. “Come in, come in.”

Frankie, lingering behind, cleared his throat. “No hug for me?”

Helena rolled her eyes but turned to him anyway, pulling him into a firm, affectionate embrace before kissing his cheek.

“You look handsome too,” she said, pulling back slightly to study him. Her eyes narrowed. “But you look different. Did you do something to yourself? Get a haircut?”

“Maybe,” he admitted.

She nodded slowly, then reached up, brushing her fingers against the sharp line of his jaw.

“I know what it is,” she mused, her voice teasing. “You always get cuter when you’re in love.” She winked at him.

Behind them, you laughed softly, watching the interaction unfold with something close to fond amusement. Frankie turned his head just slightly, just enough to catch the expression on your face, before exhaling and stepping toward you. His hand found the small of your back as he guided you further inside.

Helena led the way into the living room.

“So, where’s Mai?” Frankie asked as they walked.

“She’s on her way,” Helena said. “She went to the movies with Pam.”

Frankie motioned toward the couch, silently telling you to sit. You did, and a moment later, he dropped down beside you, his body landing a little too close, his thigh just barely brushing against yours.

“Ah,” he said, for no apparent reason.

Helena took the armchair next to you, leaning in slightly, her gaze warm, affectionate.

“How are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m good, thank you,” you said, mirroring her smile. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m wonderful,” she sighed, settling back. “Even better now that I have the two of you here. For a second, I thought something had happened—you know how Frankie is. Not exactly the most attentive on the phone.”

You turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, yeah. What are we gonna do?”

He was reclining against the couch now, one arm stretched across the backrest behind you. You glanced at him, at the way his shirt pulled slightly across his chest, at the way his fingers tapped absently against the cushion. For some reason, your gaze drifted downward before snapping back up. He shifted in his seat, like he’d noticed.

“Why don’t you just give me your number?” Helena suggested with a smile. “That way we—”

“Okay, c'mon,” Frankie interrupted suddenly, grabbing your hand before you could process it, pulling you up with him. “I’ll show you my old room. Until Mai gets here.”

“Francisco,” you muttered, glaring at him.

You turned to Helena instead. “Do you need help with anything?”

She stood too, shaking her head. “No, no, everything’s ready. You’re my special guest, sweetheart. Don’t worry about a thing. Go on, go.” She waved a hand, already half-smiling at the whole interaction.

Frankie, still holding your hand, tugged you gently toward the hallway. You sighed, letting him lead you.

“You didn’t have to cut her off like that,” you muttered under your breath, the words meant for him alone.

Frankie didn’t acknowledge the reproach, didn’t slow down or look back. He just kept walking, pulling you along with him like it was inevitable. His grip wasn’t rough, but it was unyielding, like he knew you wouldn’t follow if he let go too soon. The house felt quieter away from the living room.

Upstairs, he stopped in front of a door—varnished wood, gleaming under the dim light of the hallway. Without a word, he pushed it open and, in the same motion, released your wrist. He tipped his head toward the room, an unspoken instruction.

You stepped inside, arms crossed, your gaze adjusting to the dark. Behind you, Frankie shut the door and switched on a lamp perched on his bedside table. The room shifted under the glow, details surfacing in the soft light.

“Do you have any idea what would happen if my mom got your number?” he asked, leaning back against the desk by the window. His arms folded over his chest, and he watched you move through his space, the sight of you here—among his things—unsettling in a way he couldn’t name.

The room was warm, familiar in the way all well-lived-in spaces are. The walls, a deep kensington blue, were cluttered with posters—Pearl Jam, Wu-Tang Clan, Alice in Chains. You took them in, then drifted toward the bookshelf, running your fingers over the spines of neatly arranged books and notebooks. Star Wars figurines stood like sentinels between them and a couple of sports trophies sat beside them, dust catching in the light.

“Oh, I dunno,” you mused, tilting your head, “would she… talk to me?” You shot him a glance. “I didn’t know you were a Star Wars fan.”

A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah. Exactly. She’d talk to you. She’d call you. And we don’t need that kind of closeness, given our situation.”

“Our situation,” you echoed, rolling the words around your mouth like they were foreign to you. Then you turned fully, closing the distance between you and him with a measured step. You tilted your head, studying him. “Well, you’re probably right. But you didn’t have to cut her off and haul me off the couch like that. That was rude.”

He shrugged, the motion effortless, indifferent. “It was the first thing that came to mind. I’m sorry.”

“Good,” you said, as you moved through the room, taking in every detail as if committing it to memory.

Near the desk, a basket ball rested against the leg of a folding chair, a black duffel bag slumped beside it, the fabric worn at the seams. The bed—narrow, neatly made—sat in the center of the room, facing the window. The dark gray comforter was pulled tight, a sharp contrast to the scattered items around it. On one bedside table, the lamp cast a soft glow, grounding the space in warmth. On the other, a picture frame leaned against a small stack of books, their spines creased from use.

Frankie stood a few steps away, arms still folded, head tilted down slightly, his gaze steady on you. There was something guarded in the way he watched, like he was waiting to see what you would find, what conclusions you might draw from the objects that had quietly accumulated over the years.

You wandered to the dresser, your attention caught by the corkboard mounted just above it. Photographs, ticket stubs, and scraps of old notes filled the space, overlapping in a way that suggested years of quiet additions rather than any real attempt at curation.

“No way,” you said suddenly, stepping closer, your fingers hovering just above a small, slightly faded photo. “This is you?”

Frankie moved beside you, following your gaze. The picture showed a little boy, no more than three years old, grinning at the camera, his face lit with pure, unfiltered joy. From the chest down, he was covered in mud, tiny fingers gripping a garden hose.

“It’d be weird if it wasn’t me, don’t you think?” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Yeah, it would be pretty weird.”

Your eyes drifted upward, landing on another photograph—an even younger version of him, maybe two years old, perched on his father’s lap. He was mid-laugh, his smile so wide it turned his eyes into crescents. His dad, leaning in, was pointing at the camera, as if directing him where to look.

“Oh,” you murmured, something warm settling in your chest. “You were so cute.” You lifted your hand slightly, gesturing toward the photo with the tip of your finger.

Frankie stared at it, something shifting in his expression. The smile that surfaced was small, almost absentminded.

In that photo, Gabriel would have been close to the age Frankie was now. The thought struck him in a way he hadn’t expected, settling deep in his ribs.

He didn’t let himself think about him often—not for too long, not in any real way. The memories had sharp edges, capable of cutting through even the best intentions. He told himself he was lucky, that he’d had the kind of dad people spent lifetimes wishing for. But no matter how he framed it, the truth remained: he had lost him. And no matter how many times he tried to reach back through memory, to anchor himself in the past, he would never see him again in this life.

Most of the time, he was fine. He moved through his days with ease, followed the usual rhythms of his life without slipping too deep into the spaces where grief still lingered. He had learned how to exist in a version of reality where his dad was no longer a part of it. And most days, it was almost easy. Almost.

But then, without warning, something would pull him back. It could be anything—a smell, a sound, a fleeting glimpse of a stranger on the street with the same posture, the same salt-and-pepper hair. Sometimes it was the scent of coffee, and for a split second, he’d expect to hear his father humming under his breath, flipping through the newspaper at the kitchen table. Sometimes it was a phrase, a turn of speech, something small and unremarkable that sent his mind reeling backward.

Once, it was toast crumbs on the floor.

He had been walking through the kitchen, barefoot, when he felt them under his heel—tiny, uneven grains pressing into his skin. The sensation triggered something immediate and sharp. His mind conjured the memory before he had a chance to resist it: his mom, sighing in exasperation as she swept under the table, grumbling about how his dad never remembered to wipe away the mess after breakfast. And sure enough, every time you moved a chair, there they were—scattered remnants of toast from the morning, a predictable constant.

But now, the floor was always clean. There were no crumbs anymore.

No one forgot to sweep. No one was there to be scolded.

Frankie crouched down without thinking, pressing his fingertips to the specks of bread as if touching them would anchor him to something. He stayed like that for too long, staring at them, his chest tightening, his throat burning with something too large to swallow down. And then, before he could stop himself, he was crying—suddenly, violently, without preamble.

Because that was what grief was, mostly. A quiet, steady thing that made itself small enough to carry until, inevitably, it found a way to remind you of its weight.

“You look a lot like your dad,” you said suddenly, pulling him out of his own head.

Frankie exhaled through his nose, his gaze flicking back to the photograph. “You think so?”

You nodded, studying the picture again. “Yeah. Same eyes, same smile. Same head full of hair.”

A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. “That’s a great compliment. Thank you.”

“It is,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “You’re welcome.”

Your eyes met for a second too long, something unspoken stretching between you before you looked away. You spun on your heels, crossing the room to the bed and sitting down with an easy drop, the mattress shifting under your weight. You pressed your palms into the comforter at your sides, fingers splayed behind you, staring absently at your feet.

“It’s nice of your mom to keep your room the way it was,” you said, glancing around again. “Do you ever sleep in here?”

Frankie walked over and sat beside you, his posture relaxed, knee bumping lightly against yours.

“Not so much anymore,” he admitted. “But I stayed for a couple of weeks after I left the CAG.”

You turned your head toward him, brows pulling together like the question had come to you suddenly, urgently.

“And where do you live?”

“At my house.”

“And where is your house?”

“In my neighborhood.”

A sharp sigh escaped you, and you let yourself fall back onto the bed, arms sprawled out as you stared at the ceiling. Frankie laughed, watching you with something like amusement. You turned your head, meeting his gaze for a few beats longer than necessary before sitting up abruptly, as if realizing something all at once. Heat crept up your neck.

You cleared your throat, stealing a glance at him from the corner of your eye.

The smile on Frankie’s face widened slightly. He shifted, propping himself up on his arm, leaning a little closer, just enough to make you notice.

“Old Enfield,” he finally said.

Your brows lifted. “That’s nice.”

“Hartford Road,” he added. “Two bedroom, one bathroom.”

“Are you trying to sell me your house?”

He smirked. “A couple of trees in the yard for Darcy to sharpen his claws on.”

“Oh,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I bought him some toys for that.”

Frankie tilted his head slightly. “I guarantee it doesn’t feel as good as a solid tree trunk.”

“No?”

“No.”

“How do you know? Is that how you handle stress? You come home all tense, and the first thing you do is scratch your tree?”

A slow, amused smile crept onto your lips, your eyes bright in the warm lamplight.

Frankie huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah? Imagine how many trees I’ve torn up since I met you.”

Your mouth parted slightly in exaggerated offense, and you let out a sharp gasp. “Really? What does that even mean? You must think about me a lot.”

Frankie snorted. “How smug.”

A teasing smile curled at the corners of your lips. “If it bothers you that much, it must be true.”

"Sure."

"I bet you think about me."

"I really wouldn't take it as a compliment."

"Why not? Isn't your mind a good place for me?"

Frankie exhaled a quiet laugh, something just shy of a scoff.

“I can think of plenty of places you’d rather be.”

"Oh I dunno," you said, glancing around as if considering your options. "Seems pretty comfortable in here."

"For you, maybe." He tapped a finger against his temple. "Imagine being me. Living with a restless woman pacing around up here all day."

"Oh, baby. I've been there. All. My. Life. You can keep her, if you want."

Frankie let out a sharp laugh. “What, and lose my mind in the process?”

"Wow, Francisco." You turned to him fully now, studying his face in the low light. "Does she really get to you that much?"

"Oh, I bet you'd love that."

"Look at us," voice light, teasing. "Getting to know each other."

Frankie exhaled sharply, tilting his head as he settled back against the mattress. His hand rested just behind yours, close enough that the heat from his skin registered against your own.

“You really woke up in a particular mood today, huh?” he murmured. “Not bad for someone who barely slept and, you know, wet the bed.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“I did not wet the bed,” you said, dragging out each word for emphasis. “Jesus, let it go.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you tipped your head back, closing your eyes.

Frankie smirked, but it faltered when his gaze drifted—unintentionally at first, and then not at all—to the exposed curve of your neck. The soft skin there, the way the dim light caught the angle of your jaw. His stomach tensed, a sharp, unwanted awareness settling into his chest. He looked away fast, like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, fixing his eyes on the floor.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He wasn’t supposed to be looking at you like that. He wasn’t supposed to notice the slope of your shoulder or the way your breath moved through your ribs. His eyes weren’t supposed to track your every shift, like his body had decided on its own to be attuned to yours. But it was happening, whether he liked it or not.

It hadn’t always been like this.

Once, things were simpler—sharper, with cleaner edges. He hadn’t tolerated you, and you hadn’t tolerated him. That was the nature of things. You hardly spoke, and when you did, your conversations were clipped, necessary, transactional. Sure, he’d always known you were attractive—he wasn’t fucking blind—but it had never been something that lingered, something that rooted itself in his thoughts. The way you grated on him had left no space for anything else.

Yeah. That was the dynamic. A bad relationship, plain and simple. No subtext, no buried tension.

But something had shifted between the trip to Dallas and now. If Frankie had to pinpoint the exact moment, he’d place it right on Helena’s birthday. Because ever since that night, something had been moving inside him, spreading through his chest like a slow-burning fire, like an untamed creature waking up after years of stillness.

A different kind of curiosity.

The urge to understand what went on in your head, to know what you thought about when you were quiet, when your gaze lingered somewhere far away. A desire to pick apart the details of your life, the things you held close, the things you refused to share. And that morning, after the party, when he caught the shift in your expression—something breaking behind your eyes, something pulling you inward and shutting you off—he recognized it immediately. Because he had seen that same look staring back at him in the mirror more times than he could count.

And the second he recognized it, something unfamiliar and unsteady took root in him. A pull, an absurd, inexplicable need to get you out of that place—to drag you away from whatever was weighing you down, from whatever was making your world feel so suffocatingly blue.

After that, he started thinking about you more often. Too often. And it unsettled him, the way his thoughts drifted to you without permission, how your voice lingered in his mind long after a conversation ended. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

And then there was the argument in the car. That had been worse than he expected. Not just because he’d been careless—insensitive, pressing too hard on things that weren’t his to touch—but because your words had struck something raw in him, something buried deep. And instead of feeling angry at you for it, he only felt the sharp sting of truth. It hurt, yeah, but it wasn’t the kind of hurt that made him resent you. It was the kind that made him resent himself a little more.

The weeks that followed were filled with thoughts of you, tangled and persistent, full of doubt and questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

And then he went to see you.

And the moment he did, he knew—whatever had changed, whatever had started that night at Helena’s birthday, it wasn’t something he could ignore anymore. Because it was here now, settled into his ribs, pressing against his lungs every time he looked at you.

And there was something different about you too. Frankie couldn’t ignore it. The way you looked at him—out of the corner of your eye, like you were in on some secret he hadn’t been let in on. You’d done it in the car, then again downstairs, and now, here, in the dim glow of his bedroom. It was subtle but persistent, like you knew something he didn’t.

The strangest part was that it didn’t bother him. If anything, it only deepened his curiosity. This version of you—relaxed, playful, teasing—was unfamiliar but undeniably intriguing. It made him want to look closer, to figure out what had shifted between you.

He glanced at you again. And there you were, already looking back at him.

“What did you dream?” he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.

Your head tilted slightly. “Why do you care?”

“I didn’t, at first. But you’re being so secretive about it, and now I’m… curious.”

“Too curious for your own good, I assume. Like a cat.” You crossed one leg over the other, shifting your weight, angling your body toward him.

Frankie held your gaze, resisting the instinct to look anywhere else.

“That’s another thing I have in common with them,” he mused.

A small laugh escaped you. “Oh yeah? Sharpening your claws and letting curiosity win?”

“Aha.” The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Well,” you said, eyes flickering with something unreadable. “If I were you, I’d be careful. Last time Mr. Darcy let his curiosity get the better of him, he broke a glass.” You paused, watching him closely. “And you don’t want to break anything, do you?”

"I'm still deciding."

You studied him, head tilted slightly, lips pursed just enough to suggest amusement.

"I'll tell you, but only if you give me something in return. A fair trade, don’t you think?"

Frankie clicked his tongue, considering.

"Wel, it depends," he said, scratching his chin with the hand that had been resting in his lap. "What kind of information are we talking about?"

"Tell me what you were talking about with Will."

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It's not that interesting."

"Come on, tell me." You leaned in, just a fraction, your gaze locked onto his. "I deserve to know, don’t I? It’s about me. Tell me, and I’ll tell you about my dream."

"I’ll tell you anything but that—for now."

"Why?"

Frankie exhaled, deep and measured.

"Alright. Don’t tell me your dream, then." He turned his head, fixing his eyes on the far wall, where an old, faded Soundgarden poster hung.

You stiffened beside him. He felt it. And even though he tried to resist, his gaze found its way back to you.

"I’ll tell you," he said, softer this time. "I promise."

"When?"

"I just need to be sure about something first."

"Sure about what?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, studying your face as if searching for something. His eyes traced the slope of your cheek, the set of your mouth, the way your lashes flickered as you watched him. Then, as if deciding against saying more, he dropped his gaze to the floor and let out another sigh, this one heavier.

"We should head down," he murmured, shifting to stand.

You stayed where you were, frustration bubbling beneath your skin. He moved toward the door but didn’t open it right away. Instead, he turned, waiting for you. His hand rested on the handle, fingers tapping once.

"C'mon," he said.

Your body moved before your mind fully caught up. You stood abruptly, crossing the space between you in two quick strides. But instead of simply following him, you reached out, placing your hand firmly over his on the door handle. Then, without hesitation, you pushed it open yourself, forcing him to step back, now standing just beside you.

His brows knit together, lips curving into something both amused and perplexed.

You stopped, inches from him, the back of your shoulder nearly brushing his chest. Then, tilting your head slightly, you looked up at him, your voice lower now, almost conspiratorial.

"It was a wet dream."

Then you walked out, not waiting for his reaction, not sparing him even a glance.

Frankie stood frozen in place, mouth slightly open, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. His hand remained on the door handle, grip slack, his gaze fixed on the empty hallway where you’d just disappeared.

Had he imagined it, or had you actually just told him that—No. No, you were messing with him. That was all.

It was simple. You wanted to get under his skin, to push him just enough that he’d slip up. You wanted to know what he and Will had talked about, and this was your strategy. It made sense, really. A calculated move. If you could make him uneasy, stoke his curiosity, you might get him to spill something. Let something slip. But Frankie wasn’t an idiot—he wasn’t going to fall for it.

At least now he understood what you were doing. And honestly? He didn’t mind. If this was how you wanted to play it, he could match you, step for step.

After a long moment—he wasn’t sure how many seconds had passed—he finally moved, stepping out of the room and heading downstairs. He could hear Mai’s voice, light and animated, drifting in from the living room. She was talking to you.

When he walked in, his sister looked up, her face brightening. She stood from her spot beside you and crossed the room to meet him, wrapping her arms around his torso in a warm hug.

“How are you?” she asked, patting his back with quick, affectionate taps.

“Good, good,” he murmured, catching your gaze for half a second over Mai’s shoulder. Then he pulled back, looking down at his sister with a small, affectionate smile. “You look cute, huh?”

“Thanks, you too,” she said, pinching his cheek between her fingers before letting go. Then, with a sly grin, she jabbed him lightly in the stomach. “Now, tell me—what were you doing upstairs with your girl, huh? You know the door should always stay open.”

Frankie snorted, shaking his head. Before he could answer, Helena appeared in the doorway, a bottle of wine balanced against her shoulder.

“Come on, dinner’s ready,” she announced with a smile.

Thirty minutes later, you were all seated around the dining table, the conversation ebbing and flowing around books and different editions of classics. It wasn’t a surprise, really. Frankie’s mom was a literature professor, you owned a bookstore, and you’d studied literature. Naturally, the discussion revolved mostly around the two of you. Frankie sat back, watching, listening, while Mai occasionally glanced at him with raised eyebrows and an amused little smirk.

“I’ll come by as soon as I can,” Helena was saying, raising her wine glass to her lips. “Promise you’ll save me a copy?”

You nodded. You were seated next to Frankie, but you’d barely acknowledged him all evening.

“Of course,” you said easily. “It’s a promise.”

The book in question was a limited edition of Madame Bovary—one of the best, reliable translations and beautifully restored prints.

“Thank you, darlin',” Helena said. “Although I still believe nothing compares to reading in the original language, don’t you think?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you agreed, setting your wine glass down on the tablecloth. “That’s why I took Italian lessons. I wanted to read The Divine Comedy .” You laughed, a light, melodic sound. Frankie’s eyes flicked to you, drawn there without thinking, but your attention remained on his mother. “And when I finally did, it was incredible. The words sound different—almost like music. It’s not the same in English. So much gets lost in translation.”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” Helena nodded enthusiastically. “I read it in Italian too! Such a stunning piece of work. Dante was something else.”

“I love it,” you said. “And the story with Beatrice is just—well, it’s fascinating. Or, I suppose, their non-story.”

Helena smiled at that, something fond in her expression.

Mai, looking between the two of you, arched an eyebrow. “What happened with Dante and Beatrice?” she asked, half-laughing at the intensity of the discussion.

“Oh, it’s terribly romantic,” Helena sighed, reaching for her daughter’s hand. “They met as children—very young. And by all accounts, Dante fell in love with her at first sight. But they never really spoke. Almost never interacted at all. He only ever saw her, passing by on the street.”

Mai frowned slightly. “That’s kind of—”

“Then,” Helena continued, “Beatrice married someone else. And she died young, at twenty-five. But Dante never forgot her. He wrote about her, again and again. And in The Divine Comedy, she becomes this celestial figure. A messenger in Hell, guiding him through Purgatory. And when he finally sees her again, it’s as if he’s nine years old, looking at her for the first time. And in Paradise, she goes to heaven—because that’s where she belongs. Like an angel.”

Mai blinked. “That’s...depressing.”

Helena sighed, shaking her head as if she’d heard this take before. Frankie let out a quiet chuckle, the sound barely audible over the clinking of silverware. You, sitting beside him, smiled in amusement but said nothing.

“What?” Mai demanded, raising her eyebrows. “She died. And anyway, how did he even know it was real? She married someone else, didn’t she? For a reason.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Helena said, her tone affectionate but certain, “we’re talking about centuries ago. Marriages weren’t exactly love matches. Most were arranged. I think Dante himself was engaged as a child.”

“That’s true,” you chimed in, setting your wine glass down. “Beatrice was married off at fifteen, and Dante was engaged by the time he was twelve. They saw each other once when they were kids, and then years later, they passed each other in the street. She greeted him—just a simple hello—and that same night, he dreamt of La Vita Nuova.” You paused, pressing your lips together for a moment, as if carefully recalling the details. “I think they might have crossed paths twice more after that, but by then, I think she was already married. Dante could never have done more than dream about her.”

Helena exhaled softly, her expression wistful. “It was an impossible love.”

Mai looked vaguely amused. “Even if it was unrequited?”

Helena nodded. “Unrequited, unrealized—it doesn’t matter. He loved and idealized her in his own way. She became his muse.”

Mai nodded, unconvinced. “I get it. Still, he kinda sounds like a creep.”

Helena exhaled sharply, already losing patience. Frankie had seen this a hundred times—the exasperation, the incredulous little shake of her head, the way her lips pursed before she spoke. It was fun.

“He never even went near her, Maia,” she said, waving a hand for emphasis. “It’s not like Dante was some kind of obsessed pervert, lurking around corners. He respected her. He didn’t follow her, didn’t bother her.”

“And how do you know that?” Mai pressed, her tone deliberately provocative.

Helena let out a dramatic sigh and gave her daughter a light smack on the hand.

“You do this on purpose!” she accused, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Then, suddenly, you spoke. “And what do you think?”

Frankie looked at you, caught off guard. “Me?”

“Yes. What do you think? About Dante and Beatrice.” You were looking at him, really looking at him, your gaze steady and expectant.

He blinked, the remnants of his earlier smile fading as he processed the question. From the other side of the table, Helena and Mai turned toward him, equally interested. It seemed they were curious too.

Frankie hesitated, eyes flickering from your face to some vague point behind your shoulder, as if the answer might be written there. Then, after a few seconds, he met your gaze again.

“I think…” He exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. “We’ve all been through it.”

There was a beat of silence, but his eyes stayed on yours, just a fraction too long.

Helena gasped, her expression scandalized. “Frankie!”

He turned toward her, confused. “What?”

“You can’t say that in front of your girlfriend!”

You and Mai burst into laughter at the same time.

Frankie frowned. “Say what?”

Helena gave him an exasperated look. “We’ve all been through it? Are you saying you have your own Beatrice out there somewhere?”

Frankie froze, mouth slightly open, eyebrows raised. For a second, he’d forgotten—forgotten that, in his mother’s mind, you were his girlfriend. Forgotten that he wasn’t just speaking to you, alone.

“Oh,” he said, almost under his breath. Then, clearing his throat, he added, “Right. She’s my Beatrice.”

Your eyes widened slightly, amusement flickering across your face as his gaze returned to you. A small, knowing smile started to unravel at the corners of your lips.

“But with a happy ending, right?” Frankie added, tilting his head ever so slightly, a smirk forming.

You lifted your chin, watching him with something that looked a lot like affection—but softer, more playful, something almost unspoken.

“Clever, huh?” You raised an eyebrow.

“That’s right, honey, don’t let him off the hook,” Mai teased, narrowing her eyes at her brother like she was onto something.

Frankie let out a dry laugh. “Shut up.”

Mai grinned, triumphant.

Then you tilted your head slightly, eyes flicking to Helena. “Now that I think about it… didn’t they say Dante might’ve had narcolepsy?”

Helena’s brows lifted in consideration.

“Oh, I’m not sure,” she admitted, tapping a finger lightly against her wine glass. “But I think some people speculate that would explain his blackouts and visions.”

“It would make a lot of sense,” you said, thoughtful. “So much of what he wrote about involved sleep, passing out… hallucinations.”

Helena nodded, already intrigued.

“That’s true, that’s true.” Her eyes brightened. “Now you’ve got me curious—I’ll have to look into that.”

You smiled, lifting your glass to your lips, taking a small sip before setting it down. Then you exhaled, something soft and fascinated in your expression.

“It’s amazing,” you murmured. “Dreams, dreams and all that.”

Frankie was looking at you.

He wasn’t sure why, but the way you said it—like you were half here, half somewhere else entirely—made his stomach turn over. The side of his mouth twitched, something close to a smirk, but his gaze was steady, fixed. Unrelenting.

And yet, you didn’t even glance at him. Your eyes stayed on Helena and Mai, following their conversation, nodding along as they spoke. Whatever pull you had on him, it was effortless. Completely unintentional.

He dragged his attention back to the table just as Mai started complaining about a recent freelance project—a website for some clothing brand—that had turned into a disaster when her laptop decided to die mid-edit.

Dinner, all things considered, was a success.

After the plates were cleared, Helena announced it was time for dessert and returned moments later with a chocolate and strawberry cake that looked unfairly good. She uncorked a bottle of late-harvest wine, grinning as she held it up. “Sauvignon Blanc, to elevate the chocolate.”

Frankie poured himself a glass, just one. He still had to drive, even if, at this point, with the way you were acting, he could’ve easily finished the entire bottle.

By the time the evening wound down, the warmth of summer had settled thick and golden over the front porch. The air clung to bare legs, and a gentle breeze ghosted over your neck, light and fleeting.

Helena pulled Frankie into a hug, pressing a kiss to his cheek, her palm lingering against his face for a moment. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” she said softly. “And pick up the damn phone every once in a while.”

Mai hugged him next, squeezing him tight before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “And don’t be an idiot with avoidant attachment,” she added pointedly.

Frankie rolled his eyes, but there was affection in it.

With you, they were just as warm, maybe even more so. Helena hugged you like you were already part of the family, reminding you to come back soon. She patted your arm as she stepped back, eyes bright. “I’ll stop by the shop for my book, okay?,” she promised, “and I’ll buy you a coffee while I’m there.”

Frankie stood by, watching the exchange, resisting the sudden, inexplicable urge to cut in. To say you had to go. To say something.

But he didn’t.

Now, you were in the car.

As always, music poured from the speakers, filling the quiet space between you. It had a certain magic to it at this hour—the way the city lights blurred past the windows, the hush of the late-night streets, the familiar warmth of a song that somehow felt perfectly timed. Drive by The Cars.

Neither of you spoke as it played, the soft, melancholy synth weaving through the silence, until the lyrics seemed to catch both of your attention at once.

Who's gonna pay attention

to your dreams?

A small, knowing smile pulled at your lips. You turned your head, resting your chin against the palm of your hand, elbow propped on the door as you looked out at the city.

Beside you, Frankie let out a quiet huff of laughter, his gaze flicking toward you for a second too long. He could tell you thought it was funny too.

“C’mon.” His voice was low, edged with amusement. “Spit it out.”

You glanced at him, but his eyes were fixed ahead, steady on the road.

“What?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just nodded, as if confirming something to himself, then kept driving in silence until you rolled up to a red light.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” he said then, finally looking at you. This time, fully.

You blinked at him. “What am I trying to do?”

His gaze was unreadable, the dim light from the dashboard catching on the sharp angle of his jaw.

“It’s obvious.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “A wet dream, you said?” His eyes flicked down your frame, slowly, then back to your face, his expression smug. “Wet. So you did wet the bed. I’ll take that as confirmation.”

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head, crossing your arms over your chest as you looked at him. Amused, despite yourself. Trying to appear unimpressed but failing.

“I won’t tell you anything about it without a fair exchange, Francisco.”

“Yeah,” he said easily. “Not interested.”

“You don’t look that way.”

He scoffed, lifting a shoulder. “What do you mean? Look at me. I don’t care.”

You tilted your head, studying him.

“Is that why you went quiet at the table?”

Something flashed in his eyes, something quick and unreadable, before he turned his head back toward the road.

“Apparently, you’re more interested in my interest than I am, baby,” he murmured. His voice dipped just enough to make your stomach pull tight. Then, a small smirk. “Why’s that?”

His head tilted slightly, gaze lowering, and your eyes instinctively followed the movement.

You said nothing. Just faced forward again, and he did the same.

When the light changed, Frankie pressed down on the gas, the car gliding forward into the quiet, empty streets. Neither of you spoke for the rest of the drive.

You probably hadn’t even dreamed anything. You were probably just making it up to get under his skin. And he didn’t care.

Right?

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to ask. Wasn’t going to give you the satisfaction.

So he kept his eyes on the road, hands steady on the wheel, and let the silence settle between you.

By the time he pulled up in front of your house, he just turned the car off without thinking, like some part of him knew he wasn’t leaving just yet.

Neither of you moved.

The car sat still, parked beneath the dull glow of the streetlamp, filling with the kind of silence that wasn’t entirely comfortable, but wasn’t tense either.

You sat with your hands in your lap, absently twisting your fingers together, and Frankie leaned against the driver’s side door, resting his head in his palm, his elbow propped up. His gaze flickered out the window, scanning the empty sidewalk, but every few seconds, his eyes found their way back to you.

Then, as if remembering something, he straightened.

“So,” he said, voice cutting through the quiet, and you turned toward him. “About skydiving—there’s a place about an hour from here that’s really good. An old friend of mine works there, said they’ve got some spots open this month.”

Your lips parted slightly, a quick inhale.

“Really?” A smile was already tugging at the corners of your mouth. “When?”

“As soon as you want, I hope.”

“This weekend?” you asked, eyes lighting up. “Do they work weekends?”

Frankie chuckled at your enthusiasm, shaking his head.

“Yeah, of course they do. You wanna go this weekend?”

“Are you kidding?” You turned in your seat fully now, excitement buzzing in your voice. “Of course!”

He laughed at that, his own grin slipping easily into place.

“Alright, done. I’ll book it early tomorrow.” He reached for his phone, unlocking it with one hand. “I can send you the website if you wanna check it out.”

You nodded eagerly. “Yeah, definitely. God, that’s crazy.” You exhaled, leaning back into your seat, eyes still shining.

“I think you’re gonna love it.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure,” he said, glancing down at his screen as he tapped something in. A second later, your phone buzzed.

You picked it up, lips pressing together as you bit back a smile.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “So am I.”

Then your brow furrowed slightly. “How much is the jump?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Your head snapped toward him. “Why?”

Frankie just waved a hand, already setting his phone back down.

“Hey, no,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m sure it’s not cheap. Just tell me and—”

“No, no.” His voice was firm, his eyes locking onto yours, dark and steady. “Don’t even think about it.”

Your mouth opened slightly, but he cut you off before you could protest.

“Consider it my conciliation gift.”

You stared at him for a second, watching the way he sat there, relaxed, like it was settled. Like you couldn’t argue even if you wanted to.

Your fingers tightened slightly around your phone.

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head again, but softer this time. Less like you were disagreeing. More like you didn’t know what to do with him.

Frankie just smirked.

Silence settled again, but this time, it didn’t feel charged. Just easy.

Frankie could tell you were thinking about something. He recognized the way your gaze lingered outside the window, the way your fingers lightly traced over the hem of your skirt, absentminded, like whatever was on your mind had wrapped itself around you completely.

And you weren’t in a hurry to leave the car.

He hesitated, debating whether to ask. Then, before he could overthink it, he did.

“You okay?” His voice was quiet, careful. He reminded himself to tread lightly, to not push too much, to not ask something that might put you off. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

You didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled, slow and measured, before speaking.

“Harry’s wedding is on friday.”

Right. The wedding. He’d forgotten. But you hadn’t.

From the tone of your voice, it didn’t sound like it hurt the way it used to, like the wound had at least stopped bleeding. But you still cared.

“Oh,” he said, dragging a hand over his mouth. He wasn’t sure how to phrase his next words, wasn’t sure what was the right thing to ask. “And how do you feel about that?”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, almost like you found his question funny, and turned to look at him with something warm in your eyes.

“Please don’t do that.”

Frankie frowned slightly. “Do what?”

“Tiptoe around me.” You tilted your head, giving him a look, affectionate but teasing. “I know our fight was... ugly. But you don’t have to treat me like I might break. I’m okay, really.”

He sighed through his nose, shifting in his seat. “I just don’t wanna sound nosy. Or ask something I shouldn’t.”

“I know.” You nodded, your voice softer now. “And I appreciate that. But I promise you can ask me about this.”

Frankie watched you for a second before nodding back.

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, bracing himself before speaking again.

“Do you wanna go?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Your fingers tapped lightly against your chin, your eyes unfocused, staring ahead like you were untangling something in your mind.

Then, finally, you let out a small breath.

“I feel a little silly,” you admitted. “But I think I do.”

Frankie leaned back against his seat, brow furrowing slightly.

“Why?”

“I know you’re right.”

Your voice was steady, but something in your expression wavered as you turned to look at him. The dim streetlight outside cast a soft glow across your face, catching the shine in your eyes, making them look almost luminous in the quiet darkness of the car.

“There’s no real reason to go,” you admitted. “No logical one, at least. It’d be... masochistic, probably. But at the same time, I feel like I need to bury all of this. Just see it. See it with my own eyes. Put a bow on it and give it away, let it go. You know?”

Frankie didn’t say anything, just listened, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel.

“I think I’m close to that,” you continued, more to yourself than to him. “I wasn’t before. I wasn’t that night, when we argued, but after that... I don’t know. I think fighting with you even forced me to face it.” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, almost amused. “Because I realized I was still hurting over something that didn’t make sense. I mean, yeah, it was painful, but that’s it.”

Frankie shifted slightly, glancing at you. “Don’t take what I said that night too seriously. I was—” He paused, searching for the right word. “Rude.”

“Maybe,” you acknowledged. “But you weren’t wrong about some things.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the distant hum of passing cars. You exhaled, more certain now.

“I wanna go,” you said simply. “Put this behind me once and for all. See it with my own eyes.” You pressed your palms against your thighs, as if grounding yourself in the decision.

Frankie nodded, like it was that simple. “Okay. If you want to go, let’s go.”

You turned to him, frowning slightly. “You don’t have to come with me, though.”

“What do you mean?” He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want me to?”

“No, it’s not that.” You shook your head quickly. “I just mean—I’m already dragging you into this skydiving thing, and everything else on my list. I don’t want to take up your whole weekend.”

“I don't mind.” The words came easy, deep and certain, like he didn’t even have to think about them.

You studied him for a beat, like you were searching for a lie, for some sign that he was just saying it to be nice.

Then, as if trying to call his bluff, you said, “Surely you have other things to do. Hasn’t Santi texted you? He bought a new grill. He sent me a pic.”

Frankie smothered a laugh, shaking his head.

“I don’t mind going with you. I mean it.” His voice was even, assured, like there was no room for argument. “Besides, we made a deal, didn’t we? And if I remember correctly, I told you—I don’t break my promises.”

“Yes, you did.” Your voice was light, but there was something behind it, something teasing. The kind of softness that made him want to keep talking just to hear it again. Your eyes lingered on his face, studying him like you were trying to memorize something.

Frankie shifted slightly, leaning in just a little.

“And anyway,” he added, his voice dropping an octave, “I know you’re going to look incredible in whatever dress you wear. I’d be an idiot to miss that.”

Your lips curved, the smile slow and knowing, your eyes locked on his. Neither of you moved, caught in something suspended.

Frankie could feel the weight of it settle between you, something warm, something he shouldn’t want but did anyway. He couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to.

“What time?” he asked, voice quieter now.

“The wedding starts at five. At the Marriott.”

“I’ll pick you up at four-thirty.”

“Okay.”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“I know.”

You held his gaze, the air between you thick and charged, like the last moment before a storm breaks. Then, just as he thought you might say something else, you reached for your seatbelt, unfastening it with an easy click. But instead of moving away, you leaned in first, just enough for him to catch the faintest hint of your perfume, just enough for his breath to catch.

And then your lips were on his cheek, warm and soft, gone too soon.

Frankie exhaled, gripping the steering wheel like it might keep him grounded.

You pulled back without hesitation, opening the door and stepping out. The night swallowed you in one smooth movement, but before you turned to leave, you dipped down, peeking through the open window.

“Goodnight, Dante.” Your head tilted, the corners of your lips still curved, your eyes bright beneath the streetlights.

Frankie let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. “Goodnight, Beatrice.”

You didn’t linger. Just turned and walked toward your door, your steps unhurried, your silhouette framed by the dim porch light.

Frankie watched you the entire time.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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yshaik · 10 months ago

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trashmouth-richie · 2 months ago

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➶-͙˚ ༘✶ eddie x female reader | casual? yeah, casual | 18+ smut

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ grocery store coworkers au where eddie and reader meet, become friends and it’s casual…so very casual. a kiss, a high feel up, shared cigarettes and christmas presents? casual very very casual….

You spent well over an hour primping and fussing over your hair. Hunched over in your tiny vanity mirror meticulously plucking your eyebrows, and smudging the perfect amount of eyeliner on your eyes for tonight.

Tonight... the night that you had a real date with Eddie.

The two of you had been seeing each other casually. A single kiss after a night of beer and darts with his friends, an occasional feel up over clothes behind the dumpster when you were both really horny after smoking a joint during your break at the grocery store.

But other than those two.. maybe three, minor.. teeny tiny little hookups, you and Eddie had never truly been on a date.

You told him you didn’t care, that what you had now was fine, that you were both still getting over bad relationships. Him with Chrissy and you with Billy. After all that’s how you got close to begin with.

A smoke break during a late night stock shift, you might have been a little too vulnerable, might have been the raging hormones from your monthly visit, but all it took for the tears to start was unloading cases of Billy’s favorite beer and you were losing it.

“Hey, I’m gonna go take my break..” Eddie announced cigarette already in his mouth as he leaned into the cooler, “whoa, you okay?”

You looked at him with tear stained cheeks and wet lashes, “huh? no mm fine.”

Eddie knew better. He comforted you after dragging you up to the roof, and waited in silence for you to tell him what happened.

He nodded along as you told him everything Billy had done, the yelling, the screaming, the fighting. Punched holes in doors and finally a bruise on your cheek that made you pack up and leave him for good.

You cried and wept into his shoulder as he rubbed your back. He was quiet for a while, and you started to apologize for ruining his break, he opened up about his own bad luck. He said that he had been single for over a year and he still couldn’t get over his ex. That he found her screwing around on him in their bed when he came home from work.

“So we’re both running away from something, huh?”

“Oh no, I sprinted.” You both laugh and you wipe your nose with the back of your hand.

And from that night of spillage of guts and admissions of not being okay— you and Eddie grew to more than coworkers at a barely-making-minimum-wage grocery store.

He started showing you his favorite music, and you showed him your favorite movies. Casual. Casual. Casual.

Sharing cigarettes and salty chips on lunch, casual. Rubbing vaseline on Eddie’s chapped lips because he refused to own a tube of chapstick, casuaaaal.

Silly Christmas presents of a more ‘manly’ solution for chapped lips being a small jar of carmex from checkout aisle 8. He had gotten you a copy of his favorite tape, and a handwritten coupon for a free oil change in exchange for a container of those oatmeal chocolate chip cookies you had brought for the potluck last month. Casual with a capital ‘C’.

It was a laid-back, more than friends but not dating, sort of ‘thing’ you had with him, and you were comfortable with that.

But tonight was not casual, tonight was it. He asked in his nonchalant sort of ‘Eddie charm’ way, coming up behind you while you mopped up a mess of spilled milk.

Wanna go for pizza?

Sure, when?

Tomorrow night.

Alright sounds good, I’ll ask Dustin if he wants to go.

No, be ready at 6 o’clock, I’ll pick you up for our date.

Date?

Date.

That’s all he had said before shooting you a wink and walking away, whistling.

The tables were turning on this whole ‘casual’ thing and

your stomach flipped with excitement at the thought of it.

Sonny’s Pizza Parlor was hardly a fancy dive but you could care less. When Eddie came to pick you up, he knocked on the door wearing his black leather jacket and a light wash of denim jeans, his eyes went wide when he saw you in a simple yet attractive, black denim skirt and silky scarlet blouse.

“Wow,” he blushed, “look at you.”

“ ‘s too much isn’t it? I can change.”

Eddie held your wrist as you tried to turn back into your house to put on something a little more relaxed.

“No no no, you look beautiful,” he said, his dark eyes full of hunger “seriously I— damn, sweetheart.”

Your cheeks heat and he leads you to the van, hand in yours, his thumb rubbing your knuckles, letting go to open your door, but lacing your fingers together once he started driving.

The pizza was good, and the beer even better. The conversation was always easy with Eddie and tonight it wasn’t any different, but you noticed his cheeks burning bright and his lips seemed to be soft despite him licking them, like he had actually been using the carmex you had gotten him.

Something about the way the red lamp shade from the overhead light looked on Eddie’s hair made him look almost ethereal. As if you had been wearing a dark shade of glasses before, and tonight was the first time you had actually gotten to look at him.

He popped his thumb into his mouth to lick off a dollop of pizza sauce and cheese grease and you nearly climbed across the table to suck it clean for him. The corners of his mouth were begging for your lips, your tongue. His neck held muscles you weren’t aware one could have. And you watched with wet panties as he swallowed each slug of beer. Your pussy bobbing and pulsing along with his throat.

You were affecting him the same way.

When the atmosphere in the parlor got humid and you grabbed a menu to fan your face, Eddie watched with drool pooling on his tongue as your blouse fanned open just a tiny bit. Showing a peek of cleavage from a valley of tits he had only felt through a collared work shirt when he was stoned.

He adjusted himself as discreetly as he could in a tight pair of jeans. Flipping his aching cock up into his waistband, nearly coming when you perched your lips into a soft ‘o’ to blow on a piece of pizza. Jesus Christ. Time to leave.

It was early when you stepped into the fresh air outside of Sonny’s. Eddie paid before the waitress could hand him the bill, and you were thankful, even more thankful that you were wearing black so the little spot you’re sure you left on the chair was covered up.

Casual was out of the window. Gone gone gone.

Eddie didn’t play any music on the way back to your place and honestly the tempo of any sort of music would have your already hard nipples ripping through your shirt. You had never been this worked up before. Not with Billy, not with anyone.

And Eddie was the same.

Small talk was non-existent as he pulled behind your car in your driveway. But he let you decide how the night went as you practically drug him inside. Thank God your bedroom was on the main floor, thank God you didn’t have a roommate or anything to trip over because once you both crossed over your welcome mat, your needy hands were on each other like magnets.

“Eddie,” you purred as his eager mouth left your lips stinging and buzzing to kiss the juncture of your neck, “fuck.”

“Yeah?” He choked out against the column of your throat, hoisting you up in his arms as you maneuvered your skirt higher, pressing you flush against your front door, “Like that? Didn’t think I’d make it through dinner, so fuckin’ pretty.”

“Should have done this sooner,” you breathe between silky sweet moans, “needed you sooner, but now is good, now is.. now is great.”

He laughs at the base of your throat before sucking gently, adding his teeth like he was sucking juice from a peach. “been wanting you for a long time baby.”

You’re clawing at his shoulders to shove his leather jacket off, your mouths stay connected as he starts to work the buttons on your blouse carefully. “How much do you like this?”

“Like what?” you ask in a blissed out haze from the taste of Eddie’s lips on your tongue. “You? What you’re doing to me? Yeah I like it a—”

“No, this…your shirt— fuck it, I’ll buy you a new one.” with one harsh yank, Eddie rips your top open, buttons scattering and pinging all over the floor like a Yahtzee game.

He looks at you for any fear of being too much but you are just as hungry for him as he is you.

The pair of you stumble to the bedroom— because that’s exactly what it was, there wasn’t any grace in the way you were trying to unthread Eddie’s jeans and simultaneously get that goddamn jacket off. Your shirt is discarded somewhere on the back of the couch, or the shoe rack, you didn’t really look at where you had tossed it.

He peels your little pointed toe boots from your feet and nearly trips over them and his own before going into what he thought was your room but was the enclosed back porch.

Eddie laughs into your chest as you point him towards your bedroom like a captain at sea. Your bed is made for the first time ever, dresser drawers are shut properly. You’re sure he wouldn’t care about the mess that is your sock drawer inhabiting mostly mismatched pairs and holey singles that you just can’t convince yourself to throw away.

You wiggle down from him to finish your attempt at unbuttoning his Levi’s. When you were both high and feeling eachother up it was only over clothing but you still remember the girth he housed in those boxers and the solid feel of his chest beneath your fingertips.

“Eddie, holy hell,” you squeal, with wide eyes. He’s tangled behind his shirt and you work his boxer briefs down to his ankles, “you just carry this thing around all day?!”

“What,” he asks after nearly suffocating in his crisp white shirt, his hair staticky and a mess, “my dick?”

Your hand wraps around him and gently tugs and jerks his velvet skin, your thumb brushing over his head and painting his precum all over it. “Yeah, your dick, wow.”

He’s groaning and grabs your elbow to stop you, “d- shiiit, don’t, mmm, don’t do that, I’ll fill your hand in about 3 seconds.”

“Noted,” you say with a wicked flash of your teeth, as you unhook your bra and let it fall.

“Baby, baby, baby…” he moans, placing his hands on each boob to act as a holder, “these are fuckin’ perfect, skirt off, now.”

You spin so he can unzip you, taking the opportunity to rub the fat of your ass along his shaft, and he groans again, stopping to move your hair from your neck and kiss his way to your shoulder and back again. The skirt falls, revealing a tight pair of cheeky lavender silk panties, a matching set to your bra.

Eddie smiles wolfishly as you turn your head to catch his reaction, he licks his lips as you playfully bite your finger, “these stay on.”

Liplocked, the two of you make it to the center of your bed. Before you can even reach for him Eddie has you on your back caging you in, a serious look on his face. “How long have we known each other?”

“Seven… no eight months,” you pant beneath him, “but does it really matter at this point? We’re both naked.”

“Yeah,” he admits, kissing your sternum and lightly licking, “You’re right, it doesn’t…yet it does.” He keeps his mouth on your skin, kissing and sucking and biting and teasing over each of your breasts, loving your little noises.

“I want you to know I’ve wanted you for seven or eight months, but I knew you weren’t ready for me, or for this.”

You want to object, want to tell him he’s wrong and that you could’ve been fooling around for those months but he cuts you off before you could even begin.

“You weren’t baby, and that’s okay. I waited, patiently. Well— not counting the time on break where we felt each other up like teenagers,” you both laugh lightheartedly but he continues, making a snail trail of his tongue down your body. “The thing is, I would wait for you seven or eight more months if that’s what you needed from me, I’d put on my clothes right now and leave if you told me too.”

You’re leaning up now on your elbows, watching his dark hair form a curtain around your body as he keeps going lower.

“I know you didn’t think I knew, but before that night on the roof I could hear you crying in the cooler, or in the mop closet, and I wanted to tell you so bad that I wanted you, and how much I wanted ro wipe those tears away. I seriously considered finding whatever prison Billy is currently in and beating the shit out of him.”

“Oh Eddie—”

“I would, but anyway, I want you. Tonight, tomorrow, as long as you’ll have me, and I promise that you’ll never cry behind a closed door while on the clock because of me.”

He sits up then, right above your clothed pussy, “no more casual?” he asks, eyes bleeding into yours, his mouth hovering over your aching core.

Godddd this man. This perfect fucking guy who worked a dorky ass job just like you, who you could laugh with and joke around even minutes from fucking. You weren’t ready when you met, weren’t ready even a few weeks ago, but now… here with him, you’ve never been more ready for this.

“No more casual,” you whisper, keeping your eyes on him and lacing your fingers with his the little bit you could, “I just want you Eddie, only you.”

That devil smile appears again and your body flushes with heat allover, “good girl.”

With that he dribbles a long wet line of spit into your already soaked panties and lowers his mouth. You moan his name and he pins your canting hips in place. He runs his tongue up and down your clothed slit, smearing the wetness around and groaning when you inch your pussy closer to his mouth.

“Mine mine mine,” Eddie moans repeatedly as his nose, lips and tongue all devour you, rubbing until your left soaked and on the verge of tears from being overstimulated.

“Please,” you whimper, “I can’t, I can’t.”

Eddie keeps it up, locking you down in place until your panties are wringing wet, nearly drenching your sheets. He sits up on his knees and you know it’s coming, finally, fucking finally.

But then the rubbing continues, and you groan audibly almost pouting because all you want is to feel him inside of you.

“Eddie, please please..” you’re babbling and it’s not even making sense, but he’s smiling stupid as his cock slides between your puffy clothed lips.

He’s teased and taunted you enough and you’re about to tackle him to the floor and take what he’s trying to hold from you. You’re huffing in pouty annoyance and he finally gives up this game, a smile on his face that he can’t even begin to hide.

Yanking your wrecked underwear to the side Eddie slides into your weeping pussy. Your room is filled with heated moans and slapping skin, “Jesus Christ, you’re tight.”

Your breath is ragged when he moves and he makes sure you’re okay, peppering kisses on your knee as he pulls your leg over his shoulder. You grapple for any bit of him you can reach, settling for his hips when he releases your leg and balances his arms around your body.

Eddie kisses you softly and rolls his hips, “you’re perfect, fuck— so so beautiful.” His lips feel like satin, that carmex really doing its job and you giggle at the thought of him applying it tonight in hopes the date would end up like this.

The coil inside of you is ready to spring after a long drag of his cock out and your finger rubbing your clit. “m’ close.”

“Yeah?” Eddie breathes, his hips pistoning faster, his thrusts getting sloppy, “cum for me, cum all over me.”

You release and cry out, moaning between closed lips, your legs shaking involuntary. Eddie isn’t far behind you, kissing your neck and speaking nonsense as he pumps you full. “Shit, oh fuuuck.”

He’s out of breath and laying on top of you, his breath fanning your skin as you run your fingernails up and down his back, tickling his skin and twirling the ends of his hair between your fingers as he softens inside of you.

Sleep washes over the both of you, and when you wake Eddie is holding you close to his chest. His lips are pressed into your hairline, arms cocooned around you like you might float away if he didn’t hold you so tightly.

You revel in it. looking up at his sleeping form, his tattoos that wrap from his shoulders to around his ribs. He was everything and more compared to Billy.

Where Billy was rough in bed, taking and never giving—Eddie was a giver. So much so that you wondered if his knees hurt from kneeling in the shower while he ate you out until the water went cold and you had come twice on his tongue.

Showering at three in the morning turned out to be the best idea you had ever came up with. You washed his hair, and braided it while the leave-in conditioner sat for the suggested fifteen minutes.

Laying side by side, he told you about his family when you asked, because you realized you really didn’t know because he never talked about them. Eddie learned that you snore, just a tiny bit, a little nasally sound that stopped once he held you close to his chest.

The night and early morning was spent just like that, talking about the things neither of you shared with anyone else. And it was perfect.

—

Eddie wakes to a sweet voice in his ear, a gentle kiss to his neck. “Good Morning handsome,” you whisper to him, silently adoring the way he’s curled in around your pillows, “are you hungry?”

He smiles, knowing exactly where he was and the voice of the girl who stole his heart nearly eight months ago. “‘m starving.” Wrapping you in a hug he pulls you back to bed with him. Kissing your lips, your cheeks, your neck, tickling your sides.

Opening his eyes when he has you pinned down he licks his lip, “is that syrup? Or are you really just that sweet?”

“Pancakes. Eggs. Sausage patties. I made them all hoping you’d like one of them.”

Eddie grins, kissing you slow and deep, his tongue sweeping over yours in a passionate grace. “You know what they say, you make a hungry man a meal and he’ll never leave.”

He was it for you. Stars aligning just right for the first time, and damn it felt good to be lucky for once.

“Good,” you say back, kissing him quick and biting his lip, “because casual really isn’t my thing.”

thanks for reading ♥️

all time tag list: @bastardstevie @dashingdeb16 @lexr86 @pretendthisnameisclever @what-the-jams

@littlebibibliophile @kellsck @emxxblog

#eddie munson #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #eddie smut #eddie munson fanfiction

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floralhuqzz · 1 month ago

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Mine, Not Yours (Joe Goldberg x reader(fem)

authors note: this is based on Joe in season 3, there’s no spoilers in this chapter!!

MASTERLIST

Hello, you…

You don’t belong here, do you? Not in this loud, neon hellhole called Los Angeles. You’re not like the rest of them—the ones with fake laughs and even faker smiles. No, you’re different. I can tell. You walk through this bookstore like books matter. Like words matter. You didn’t just pick up Bukowski because someone on Instagram said it made them look deep. You chose it because you meant to.

And I wasn’t watching you.

At least, not at first.

Okay, maybe I was. But you stood out. Among the airbrushed, sun-kissed masses, you were a breath of East Coast fall in the middle of this dry, endless summer. A sweater in 80-degree heat. Coffee instead of green juice. A soul instead of a personal brand.

You walked up to the counter, fingers dancing along the edge of your book like it was something sacred. I asked if you needed help. You smiled. And something in me snapped.

Not in a bad way.

Not like before.

Not like Beck.

No, this is different.

I’m different.

See, I have a wife now. Love. A son. Forty. Henry. A perfect little family. A fresh start. I’ve changed. I’m a good man now. I read the parenting books. I don’t kill people anymore. I’m better.

But you… you’re a problem.

You’re the kind of problem I used to have a solution for. But I can’t solve you. I can’t touch you. I shouldn’t even be looking. And yet—here I am. Looking. Watching. Wanting.

You’re asking me something. My brain is fog. I try to answer, I do, but all I can focus on is the way you tilt your head when you’re curious, like you’re trying to read between the lines of a page I haven’t written yet.

God. What is it about you?

You say your name, and it echoes. (Y/N). A name like poetry. Like music. Like danger wrapped in silk.

I remind myself to breathe.

You walk out. You don’t even know what you’ve done to me.

But now I do what I’ve always done.

I follow.

I observe.

I learn.

Because that’s what love is, right?

It’s not stalking if you care.

Right?

You leave the shop, and I tell myself I’ll just make sure you get home safe. Just this once. Then I’ll forget about you. I’ll go back to my wife. My son. My perfect life.

But I know that’s a lie.

Because the second you walked in…

You rewrote everything.

⸻

You cross the street without checking twice. Dangerous. Not smart. Not in this city. But of course you don’t know that yet. You’re new here. Still learning the language of fast cars and shallow smiles. Still figuring out which neighborhoods will chew you up and which ones will let you pretend you’re whole.

I’m not following you.

I’m just walking.

Coincidentally. In the same direction. Keeping a respectful distance. Noticing things a boyfriend would notice—if you had one.

You don’t.

I already checked.

That night, after you left the bookstore, I stayed late. Told Love I had to close. She believed me, of course. I do the inventory. She trusts me.

I watched your name flicker on the receipt paper, and that was all I needed. A breadcrumb trail into your life.

(Y/N) (L/N). 24. East Coast transplant. New to LA. Instagram private. Smart. Cautious. Not like Beck. Not like Love.

You don’t put yourself on display.

Which only makes me want to see more.

So, yeah. I’m here. Walking the same block. Same coffee shop. You just moved into this neighborhood. Right above the florist. I watched the movers unload your books. So many of them. First editions. Worn spines. Like they’ve been held. Loved. Like you love them.

You love stories.

What would you do if you knew you were in one?

“Shit—sorry!”

Your voice. Real. Right here.

You bumped into me. Just like that. A jolt through my spine like electricity. My phone hits the ground. You bend down quickly to pick it up, apologizing again, eyes wide and soft.

“Oh god—I didn’t see you. I wasn’t looking.”

I manage a smile. The kind that says it’s okay, I forgive you, I could never be mad at you.

“Don’t worry. It’s kind of my fault. I get distracted when I’m reading,” I say, holding up a book I wasn’t even reading before now. Lolita. Not the best choice. I shove it back into my bag.

You laugh. “You read while walking?”

“Guilty.”

And there it is. A pause. You look at me longer this time. Eyes scanning my face. That look people give when they think they’ve seen you before, but can’t quite place you.

“You work at the bookstore on Melrose, right?”

So you noticed me, too?

I nod. “Yeah. Manager. Joe.”

“(Y/N). I came in a few days ago—”

“I remember.”

You look away, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Nervous habit. Or shy. Either way, it’s real. It’s not performative. You don’t know what you’re doing to me, and that makes it so much worse.

Or better.

“It’s kind of crazy running into you,” you say, “I was actually gonna stop by again. You had a recommendation list I didn’t get to finish reading.”

I know the one. I made it after watching you leave. Books for the curious. For the lonely. For people who don’t know where they belong.

“I can give you the full list,” I offer. “Coffee? It’s not far.”

You hesitate. But not for long.

“Yeah. Okay. Sure.”

So simple. So easy.

And just like that…

You’re mine.

No. Not yet. That’s old Joe thinking.

I have a wife. A child. A life.

But I also have you now.

And that changes everything.

⸻

#fanfic #reader #joe goldberg #joe goldberg x reader #you show

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kingkat12 · 6 months ago

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enigma (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, piv sex, sub!Roman, blindfold, handcuffs, riding, handjob, edging, banter, Roman likes tits tihi, name-calling (for a second lol), fluff sort-of?

summary: after Roman became the CEO of Godfrey Industries, he hasn't been able to let off any steam... so it seems he might need some help figuring out how to channel his frustrations

word count: 4,713

a/n: celebrating 600 followers w the return of sub!Roman!!<33 y'all seemed to like can i watch, so see this as a part 2? gif by @godfreysteel!!! THANK YOU, and hope you enjoy;)

Roman Godfrey was a man of many mysteries— many I didn’t want to uncover. Yet the enigma of how to get him to properly unload after work was one I spent many months figuring out.

After work, Roman would usually come home with a lot of pent-up anger he tried not to take out on me. He’d sit with a shake in his leg, he’d huff at the slightest inconveniences, and blow up without warning over small disagreements. He was no longer the man I had known him to be, now too frustrated with the position of CEO his mother had forcefully bestowed upon him to function properly. Still, I knew that the man I had fallen in love with was buried somewhere beneath the rubble of chaos going on in his life.

So I started out simple.

When Roman would come home, I’d make sure to hurry to the door and hang his jacket up for him. It was a small thing, nothing major, yet a kindness which eased him with the following kiss hello. Now that I had introduced a form of routine, now that he expected something pleasant the minute he got home, there was a new ease in his step.

Nonetheless, I knew the day would come when that wouldn’t be enough anymore. Roman was still fidgety and frustrated with his dealings with Dr. Pryce at work, so I realized I had to find a new way to have him release the pent-up energy in his body.

At first, it was easy. When it felt like a surprise, before Roman pieced together that I had an ulterior motive, it could be done with a simple run of my hands through his hair after dinner on the couch. He’d be hard in no time— I could see the way his cock swelled with interest beneath the restrictions of his suit, and the green of his eyes nearly swallowed me before he pounced.

I wondered why I hadn’t used sex as a solution earlier. Why I hadn’t let him take all this energy out on me in bed before. Roman wouldn’t even bother getting out of his suit sometimes, as he was too impatient to get any form of release— and impatient, he was.

His long, slender fingers would twist into the hair on the nape of my neck, holding me in place as he pushed deeper into me, feeling me clench around his cock in a mix of desperation and utter satisfaction. It was perfect, satisfactory for us both, and it was the best bandaid in the world until it one night got to his head. Giving Roman the power to take anything out on me was seemingly not the best way to go, especially after he had avoided doing just that for so long— now I knew the reason why; “Look at you, taking my cock like the pretty little whore you are… All for me, hm? Just— hah, for me?”

My eyes widened; he knew I didn’t like him calling me any names of sorts. Why had he even said that? I managed to grab a fistful of his hair, yanking him off me as he yelped. “Nope. We’re done tonight,” I huffed, getting up from the bed as Roman protested.

“Come on, I didn’t mean that!” He was a panting mess, cock twitching at the denial of hot, wet friction. “It just— fuck, it was a thing I said in the moment, you can’t fault me for that!”

This was the night that it hit me that I had been slaving around to accommodate him… almost to the likes of a whore. I turned to Roman after getting dressed, watching as he sat up in the bed with a frown. The more I looked at him, the more I saw the spoiled, arrogant man that was constantly on the front pages of gossip magazines for bad behaviour with staff and other associates. “You don’t get to talk to me like that,”

Roman sighed, moving closer to the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, mind still fogged up by his arousal. “Come back here, take that shit off… Let me make you feel good, okay?”

I folded my arms over my chest, narrowing my eyes— “No. I’m tired of you not being able to regulate your emotions like a grown adult, and I most certainly will not stoop so low as to let you call me names!”

Roman groaned, raising his voice; “I didn’t mean it, for fuck’s sake!” I could see the usual anger blooming in his big, green eyes, and I hated the sight of it. “I don’t think you’re a whore, my mind just turned off, and it slipped! I wouldn’t fucking be with you if you were one, who do you think I am?!”

I was sure Roman didn’t realize he was digging his grave with every new word spilling past his kiss-swollen lips. “Who I think you are…? Who I think you are?” Finally, it was my time to rage; “I think you’re a spoiled, entitled, whiny man! And quite frankly, I’m tired of walking on eggshells around you!”

Roman jaw fell, his hands now clutching the duvets to keep himself calm. “… Go on,”

“Go on?!” I wasn’t sure why. “I don’t care to accommodate your bullshit anymore, okay? If anything, I should be putting you in your fucking place!”

This time, when Roman didn’t say anything, I could feel the switch in the atmosphere. It was as though the air got thicker, harder to inhale— I saw the way Roman’s pupils dilated, the way his ears perked up in intrigue.

Oh.

That night, I allowed Roman to sleep next to me after he pleaded with me to accept his apology. I told him that the next time he said anything like that, I’d bite his dick off.

… That seemed to shut him up.

But as for the enigma? I had cracked it. I had cracked it big time— finally, I knew exactly what he needed, and how to give it to him.

It wasn't hard to find a moment when Roman was seated in his home office, busy answering a couple of emails. A few kisses here and there, a dirty word in his ear, and he was ready to sit still for me; but not without putting up a fight, of course.

“I know what you think you’re doing,” Roman huffed, not fighting the handcuffs anymore. His compliance finally allowed me to secure his hands behind his back, wrists locked behind his office chair. “You think this is some sort of kink-thing that will work on me like magic, like reverse psychology. But I can tell you right now that this is something I’m trying out for you and not for me. So don’t get any weird ideas about me, okay?”

Roman’s innate denial was almost comical. I straightened my back, leaning down to press a short kiss to his neck. “It’s not weird,” I cooed, circling him. “You should’ve just told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That you need someone else to take the control once in a while,” I sat down in Roman’s lap, untying his expensive silk tie as I innocently batted my lashes at him. “You just need a little time off, don’t ya?”

His jaw clenched, watching me with narrowed eyes. “Don’t push it,” he mumbled. “I’m doing this for you.”

“Oh, Roman,” I treaded the tie between my fingers, biting back a laugh. “The game is over now, don’t you see? I figured you out!” Pressing a short kiss to his nose, feeling him scoff, I slowly covered his beautiful green eyes with the fabric. I immediately missed them, but I knew it was necessary for his immersion. He was too proud of a man to give in so easily. “Why don’t you just let me take care of you…” I tied the tie, securing the knot before leaning in to whisper into his ear; “… Properly?”

Roman remained silent, too shocked to speak, but his interest was unmistakable— I could feel him hardening beneath me, a tight jolt of his cock bumping into the underside of my thigh. Bingo.

I angled myself in his lap, slowly grinding my hips up against his bulge; there was a rough breath, almost a groan, as though he was still fighting the idea of completely letting go. “You don’t need to do this,” Roman said, voice unsteady. “You don’t have to.”

It was as though he didn’t trust me not to judge him. “And you don’t need to be so nervous,” I cooed, grinding my hips down against him once more. “Trust me.”

I could see his jaw clenching, but the shaky breath that followed unveiled everything. “I don’t even know what you want to do to me. Don’t get too excited, okay? Don’t do anything crazy,”

It was impossible not to roll my eyes. Roman didn’t see it, anyway. “I’m not doing anything to you, per se,” My fingers trailed down his shirt, unbuttoning the top button. “I just want you to relax and enjoy. Can you do that for me?”

I could see the goosebumps appearing along the exposed skin of his forearms, his shirt bunching up at his biceps. “Sure,” Roman mumbled, attempting not to sound too excited— yet the jump of his cock against my ass gave it all away.

“I’ve been thinking a long time about how to alleviate your stress…” I got to the end of Roman’s buttons, now trailing my hands up his bare, toned chest. “I thought I needed to let you take it out on me in bed, but I knew that was a misstep the second you got too greedy and called me a whore—“

“Come on!—“

“And that‘s fine,” I leaned down, pressing a kiss to his exposed collarbone. “When I let you run wild, your imagination follows. I should’ve known better than to give you more power… Especially now that I know you crave it taken away from you.”

Roman was starting to become fidgety, his hands fighting the restraints. “Nonsense,”

“Really?” I straightened up, lolling my head to the side as I watched the man of my life struggle to face his situation. This was the root of all his problems, wasn’t it? I sighed, pressing a short kiss to the soft pillows of his lips— I no longer heard the clanking of the metal handcuffs against the back of the chair. “You got this job sprung on you despite your wishes not to… Bet you wish it could’ve gone to someone else.”

Roman had finally quieted down. I longed to see the look in his eyes, but I didn’t need to in order to know I had hit a home run. “And I’m sorry about that,” I breathed, hooking my hands beneath the edge of my top to wry it off, tossing it somewhere on the floor. “I’m sorry you don’t feel like you can talk about it, but I’m here to make you feel a little better. You’re not the CEO of anything in here, you’re allowed to relax.”

I saw the way Roman’s shoulders slumped, the way his breathing got a little softer. My poor boy. I would’ve felt even more sorry for him if I didn’t feel the way his cock was twitching with excitement at the way I was talking to him.

I knew I sealed the deal when I sat up in his lap, letting one strap of my bra fall over my shoulder as I brought him closer— it didn’t even take a second before Roman’s lips sealed around my breast with a wanton moan.

Roman’s tongue circled my bud as I did my best not to let my legs give in to a tremble— I knew this usually drove him crazy. The enigma of men. I held onto the chair, one hand going up into his hair to tug at the tips of his dark locks. Roman let out a soft grunt against my skin, his hips bucking up as his hands instinctively fought the handcuffs. I knew he wanted to grab at my waist, squeeze my ass, knead at my other breast— I knew him too well. The restraints only seemed to make him more desperate.

I pulled away, realizing I was panting as I fixed my bra. Roman threw his head back a little, a small smirk present on his plush lips— “You really know how to get me going, don’t you?”

I shrugged, now trailing my hands down to his restricted cock. “You’re easy like that, Roman,”

He let out a shaky breath, hips keening against the warmth of my hands. “Am not,”

“Yes, you are,”

“Nope,”

“Keep fighting me and I’ll leave you like this,”

That seemed to shut him up. Roman straightened up in his chair, softly clearing his throat as it dawned on him that I was dead serious. “Would you really?”

My God— I didn’t think it was humanly possible for him to get harder right now, but the threat of me leaving him hot and bothered seemed to do it for him. I wondered whether his zipper would split open soon, as the constraint only got tighter. “If you don’t shut up soon, I will,”

“You wouldn’t,” Roman echoed, his voice growing weaker. “… Would you really?”

Seeing him get this excited only did the same to me— I needed to get him out of these pants before it was too late. This was Armani, for fuck’s sake. I placed two fingers against Roman’s mouth, knowing he’d get the memo— with a small huff, he wrapped his lips around my small digits, letting them rest against his warm tongue.

The sight of it sent shivers down my spine. “You talk too much,” I said, my free hand unbuckling his belt and discarding it somewhere next to my top. The second the zipper was rolled down, Roman let out a sigh of relief against my fingers, his head rolling back just a little.

“If you promise to stop snarking, I’ll take my fingers out. Hum if it’s a yes,”

As expected, Roman did— when my fingers were out, I leaned forward to brush my lips against his, feeling his shaky breath seep out of his lungs. “Kiss me, at least,” he pleaded. “I feel like I’m gonna fucking burst.”

I leaned forward, watching him part his lips on a soundless intake of breath as my gaze darted to his mouth. I cupped his cheek, my thumb brushing over the softness of his skin— it was surprising to see how he was responding to it. I hadn’t ever been given the opportunity to lead; had he maybe just been scared to be seen as vulnerable?

“I’ll kiss you in a second,” I breathed, my mind returning to Roman’s aching cock— I watched his breath hitch when I gently tapped the tip of it with my finger, and his head shot to the left as his breathing got heavier.

My heart was thumping hard in my chest at the sight, and I got the confidence to bring my palm to my mouth, slicking it with spit before I brought it down the length of his cock. Roman let out a breathy hah, pushing up into my fist.

Oh, this was almost sweet— I pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, slowly working my fingers around the shaft. “Is this okay?” I asked, pulling away when I sensed his wish to turn back to me.

Using his senses, Roman somehow managed to find the tip of my nose, nudging it gently with his. “Yeah,”

I was relieved to know he wasn’t seeing the deep blush creeping up my cheeks. The small drop of pre-cum that had built up on the tip of his cock spilled over, now running down the back of my hand, and it brought me back from my moment of shyness— I had gotten him this worked up. I never thought I’d be able to do that, especially not to Roman. So, with a newfound confidence, I leaned forward to grant him his wish of a kiss.

As he was still blindfolded, his muscles hitched with caution, yet his cock twitched in my hand at the softness of our reunion. Roman quietly moaned into the kiss, easing up further in my hold as I continued my slow strokes along his thick shaft.

However, what I didn’t expect, was for his usual instincts to kick in, and I was left with my breath caught in my chest as Roman placed eager kisses down my jaw. I had a feeling he didn’t think I would have control for longer than this— “Rome,” I cooed, tilting my head upwards to give him access as his kisses trailed down my neck. “Give it up.” It was impossible to deny that it felt good, and I was unsure how I was supposed to will myself to stop him. “You’re not in control, Roman.”

He hummed against my skin, the instinctual fight against the handcuffs echoing throughout the room. “But I want you,” he breathed. “I want to see you, want to touch you—“

Fucking hell. I should’ve known Roman would get greedy. So I decided I needed to go to more drastic measures; I unwinded my grip around his cock, getting up from his lap to a string of protests.

It felt as though all my nerves were on fire as I watched him buck up into nothing, panting at the lack of contact; “No,” he breathed, whimpering. “Come back, I’ll— I’ll sit still, okay?”

“Hmm…” I slowly tapped my foot against the floor, making my frustration audible. “That’s not enough.”

“Come on!” Roman was whinier than ever, throwing his head back as he struggled against his constraints. His mind was fighting the idea of letting go, yet his cock was twitching with immense interest. Silly man— he didn’t want to recognize this wish to surrender.

… This meant I had to force it.

I stepped towards him, watching as his breath hitched in anticipation. Now that he was blindfolded, his senses were heightened. “Tell me what you really want, Roman,”

He took a second, brows drawing together. “You know what I want,”

“No, not that,” I placed myself behind him and pressed a kiss to his ear, hearing him whimper as I reached down to wrap my fingers around his cock. “What do you want?” I whispered into his ear, listening to his quiet moans.

“I want— shit, no, I can’t!—“

“Yes, you can,” I sped up my strokes, and Roman’s lips parted in a mix of confusion and pleasure as his head rested against my shoulder. “Tell me.”

I knew he was close to breaking, I knew I had him exactly where I wanted him; Roman turned to me, almost for comfort, as he whimpered against the crook of my neck. “I just— want a break… from being in charge,” he breathed. “I’m so tired of the fucking— responsibilities—”

My heart swelled as I pressed a kiss to his forehead. This only proved that I had been entirely correct in my deductions. “I know,” I cooed, slowing my strokes to give him time to breathe. “It’s okay to be tired, it’s okay… Just let me take care of you for once, hm? It’s not weak to want… relief.”

“Relief,” Roman echoed, huffing against my skin. “You planning on giving me that tonight?”

I had to bite down on my lip not to laugh, resorting to a scoff. “If you keep snarking? No,”

The denial was surprisingly effective— Roman’s cock twitched in my hand, followed by a sharp, breathy moan, which was the sign he was close. “Something tells me you secretly like being told no,” I teased. “You probably haven’t heard that word much, have you?”

“Shit, maybe— yeah, you’re right,”

“Of course I am,” I ran my free hand through his hair, feeling him panting against the crook of my neck. “Wanna cum?”

“Yeah... Yeah—“

“Well, too bad," I removed my hand; "Not yet,”

Roman’s head rolled forward as he let out a loud groan, hips bucking up into nothing as I moved away from him once more. “Fuck you!” he yelled, fighting his restraints. “Fuck— God!”

I hadn’t been this entertained since I saw the last episode of Sex and The City for the first time. “I’m gonna be nice and act like you didn’t just cuss me out,” With a smirk I was happy he didn’t see, I sat back down in Roman’s lap as I tapped my fingers against the tip of his cock, watching his breath hitch as his thighs clenched. The droplet of pre-cum connected to my finger like a string of saliva, and I gazed in awe as I toyed with it— he wouldn't let me do this if he wasn't beyond horny, so I seized the moment to explore. “I think you’ve had enough now… don’t you think?”

Roman nodded, his plush lips parting as he tried to steady his breath. “Yeah,”

I never thought I’d like being in control like this. Yet I reveled in it as I wrapped my hand around his slick length again and watched his breath catch in his throat. Roman was so raw, so vulnerable, fucking finally— “What do you want, then?”

“Fuck me,” he breathed, his head tilting back as he fought a string of moans. “Fuck me, just— fuck me.”

“Wait… me fucking you?” I had to rub it in, I couldn’t help myself. Thankfully, Roman didn’t see the evil grin that spread across my lips. He had taunted me like this many times before, anyway. “That’s unheard of in the Godfrey vocabulary.”

Roman would’ve gnarled back more insults if he wasn’t so damn horny— “Don’t make me say please,”

“Well… That was never the plan,” I shifted, pulling my underwear to the side as I raised my hips, letting the tip of his cock slowly brush against my sex— I hadn’t expected to be this wet, actually. Neither did I expect the broken moan that escaped Roman, whose hands were fighting the handcuffs in a flash of instinct. “I know that making you say please would make you want to kill me after we're done here, so I’m not gonna do that… I’m just trying to take care of you, remember?”

It was only when I sunk down on Roman’s thick length, draping my arms around his neck, that I heard a weak little yeah from him. I knew he was long, long gone now. Doing my best not to shudder, I pressed a loving kiss to his cheek; “Are you finally gonna— hah, let me do that?”

Roman nodded, turning, his lips now placed parted against my jaw; “Yeah,”

The few times I had been on top didn't compare to this time at all. There was something so thrilling about slowly sliding up and down the length of Roman's cock, feeling his choppy heaves of air against my skin as he fought the primal thrust, pound, fuck. It was exhilarating to hear his need for me when I ran my fingers through his hair, the small whimpers falling off the tip of his tongue.

Blindfolded, with no possibility to touch, feel, hold me— I knew this was driving Roman absolutely nuts. Still, he was yielding, surrendering to his deepest, darkest wish to finally, fucking finally, have no control in the world. At long last, he had no other task than to sit still, enjoy, and feel good. With a sigh of relief, Roman's lips found mine with the utmost gentle touch that made me clench around his cock, which coaxed out the most delirious moan from him.

His mind was so, so gone, his senses on absolute fire when I pulled my hips up along his cock, keeping just the tip in me. Roman groaned as his hips jerked forward, giving up the fight against his instincts. "Shit—You tease!"

"Really, now?" It was no longer possible to keep my voice steady, too drowned in the pleasure. "You do this to me all the fucking time, Rome. Call it karma."

Roman whimpered— "Sorry,"

That was almost too sweet to ignore. I fought my wish to coo at him, to cup his face and pepper it with kisses, and instead opted to stroke my fingers through his hair and shortly kiss his lips. "No need," I whispered, pulling away to watch his breath hitch when I slid back down his length, the thickness of his cock filling me up once more.

"Fuck— Fuck!" Roman was so close, I could feel it.

Who would've thought this would be the thing to break the great Roman Godfrey?

His jaw was tight, and the sound that escaped his chest was somewhere between a moan and a sob— I would've been worried, had he not been smiling. Roman's head tilted back, his body now relaxing, giving in to the pleasure as I enveloped him to the hilt with a small breath. I leaned forward, putting my hands on his chest for support; I fucking loved this. Because finally, I understood him better— Roman's hunger for power was made clearer to me than ever before, and the all-taking high of being able to do something like this to another person corrupted my mind as well.

Like this, I could drag him into me, squeeze him tight around my walls when I slowed my pace, and simplest of all— I could choose when to kiss him. And Roman wouldn't dare to deny me now, with how he was desperately chasing his high.

"Thank you," was all he managed to say, smiling against my lips in complete and utter ecstasy. Something told me he was grateful I had staged a coup of dominance. "I needed— needed this, thank you, thank you, I— shit, shit!" Roman buried his face in the crook of my neck, the soft fabric of the tie around his eyes pressing against my skin as he let out a loud cry, spilling into me with a small shudder.

Roman's cum was warm as always, and it felt like a consolation prize for all the bullshit I had taken from him these past weeks; it slowly seeped out of me as he tried to catch his breath.

I brought my fingers to the nape of his neck, gently twisting his hair in my fist, knowing he liked a little sharp twinge of something to bring him back from a climax that strong. "You did good," I cooed, stilling my hips as I softly kissed the shell of his ear. "Good job, Rome."

And with that, Roman sunk into the chair, no longer fighting his restraints or the blindfold— he let his shoulders slump as he let out a sigh of true relief, a feeling he had been chasing since the day he got his new job as the CEO of Godfrey Industries. "If you ever speak a word of this... to anyone," he breathed, struggling to talk through the quiet heaves of air. "I'll have your head on a spike."

I rolled my eyes; "... Lovely," Who the fuck would I ever tell this to? Silly, silly man.

I couldn't help but laugh as I brought my hands forth, untying the tie around Roman's eyes. It slowly fell over his nose, and the hard glare I had expected from his green eyes wasn't there— instead, there was a look of pure and utter admiration. I had a feeling his heart was swelling at the thought of finally having met someone who dared to go against him like this. "But if you don't tell anyone..." Roman practically blushed; a sight I hadn't seen before. "We could... do this again sometime?"

I leaned forward to kiss the tip of his nose, holding back a grin of victory. "So you liked it?"

"... Don't push it,"

"Say it, or I'll tell the whole world,"

"Yeah, right!"

"... I bet the newspapers are dying to know the fact that Mr. Roman Godfrey likes to be bound and fucked—"

A loud groan followed from Roman; "Fine!"

"Fine, what?" This was too much fun.

"Fine, I liked it! A lot!"

I grinned, slowly inching off his softening length. "There you go," I cooed, watching the blush on Roman's cheeks deepen.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he grumbled, trying not to let his breath hitch. "Now, get me out of these fucking handcuffs so I can get you off too."

Finally, Roman wasn't an enigma any longer, having made himself and his intentions clearer than the bright rays of the moon... and who was I to say no to such an offer?

"As you wish,"

#roman godfrey #roman godfrey x reader #hemlock grove #bill skarsgård #fanfic #x reader #fanfiction #bill skarsgard #oneshot #smut #bill skarsgård x reader #bill skarsgard fanfiction #bill skarsgard smut #hemlock grove fanfiction #DRUNK ANON ARE U SEEING THIS #THIS WAS SO MUCH FUUUUN OMG #I LOVE ROMAN WHEN HE'S WHINY SORRY #forgive me my loves

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urbanflatrate · 2 years ago

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karlachismylife · 8 months ago

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A Spot of Lunch || The Queen of the Clan pt.4

CW: fem!chubby!reader, stalking, animal aggression (no violence)

Paranoia wasn't something you have ever associated with the vast grassy planes of sunlit savanna. An unsettling feeling of being constantly watched, followed, stalked seemed more suitable for the claustrophobic confines of a big city with its tall concrete walls and sleepless eyes of neon signs and late night windows peering blindly into the darkness - or maybe even a cold, isolated cabin among winter woods, with howling wind and creaking floorboards eerily masking the steps of whatever was looking through the frosty glass planes from the other side.

An open space full of busy with their own survival wildlife and sun burning every little patch of shadow anyone could hide in never crossed your mind as a place for a worry of unwanted following.

And yet you felt it.

You've learnt to distinguish this creepy sensation of being watched by something from the constant presense of your crew's cameras and curious looks of the animals. Even coming face to face (from afar, obviously) with the lion pride that was your main target for the documentary and attracting their attention left a different aftertaste - sure, you did feel like prey looking into the big eyes, adorned with a nature-given eyeliner, twinkling predatorily at you from the muzzle of a huge feline partially covered by the tall grass, but it still was just an animal watching you and gauging if you and your weird pack of two-legged companions were a better dinner option than an antilope.

What watched your back when you were sorting through your footage in camp or unloading the rover for another static filming, didn't feel like an animal.

"Well, we didn't even have that much visitors in camp for the last few days, so I'd say we're pretty safe," Kir, the shoulder you're used to rely on at this point, listens to your concerns carefully as he accepts heavy equipment from your arms - you reached a suitable place to have some food, so a temporary camp is being prepared. "Besides, we're always staying together out here, right? I'll look after you for now. Let's see if you still feel this shadow of yours when we get back to homebase, and then we'll look for a solution again. Maybe it's just the savanna getting to you, city cookie."

You scoff and roll your eyes at him, but his reassurance helps shake the unpleasant feeling from your scruff a bit - Kir has a point, the crew is being careful about animals and it's not like there are any other humans in these parts nearby, so you'll probably be alright. Definitely feels nice to have someone who doesn't simply dismiss your concerns and is ready to take more precautions if the initial ones fail to work.

"Maybe it's a heatstroke or something," you mutter awkwardly, now almost ashamed of how serious you make it all sound when no one else is having such problems. Kir immediately turns around, a big duffelbag on his shoulder, skin glistening with sweat, and gives you a disapproving look.

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that. This isn't a hike outside your hometown, every concern you have is worth looking into. Better be overcautious than become someone's dinner, especially when you're already a total snack," finally having gotten you to smile, he winks and hurries to the main camp. When you reach the others to set up your lunch break, a hat lands on your head - you lift your eyes, almost covered by it, and of course, it's still Kir, wiping his forehead with a smile. "No heatstroke for you, cookie. Go have some water."

The hat is a bit sweaty on the inside, but it keeps the sun away better than the scarf you couldn't tie properly this morning.

As you all sit around in the shadow created by a lone acacia and chew on your not so bad meals - apparently, veteran participants of these trips have experience not only in getting close to animals unnoticed or navigating vehicles through uneven sandy terrain, but also in making quite the unappealing looking canned food taste good - quiet human chatter mixes together with the birds calling each other out and little chirping mice sneaking around your camp in timid curiosity. A fit of laughter bursts here and there. Your worry melts into nothingness in the heat, you feel safe as you look at your crew.

These people are doing what they love, and you notice that the dull apathy that was eating at you to the point of taking a break in your studies slowly steps away. Surprisingly, your impulsive idea turned out to be not so bad - maybe you'll take additional courses when you return, to be able to move here, work at the sanctuary, watch-

"Psst, look," a gentle nudge makes you stop digging into the little bowl you have with your mighty fancy teal spork (your 100% recycled plastic pride and joy), and you look up to where Kir points with his chin and puckered lips. "Even I recognize that snout already."

So do you, of course.

A wide, happily grinning, sniffing vigorously at the direction of your temporary camp, round-eared snout with a thick mohawk of a lush mane.

"Finally brought a friend," chuckles Kir next to you - and he's right, shoulder to shoulder with your old pal Stinky stands another hyena, spotted so generously that its fur seems almost brown, as does its shorter, but even thicker than Stinky's mane. Pure elegance shines through the stance of its long legs and the whole form, especially compared to its bulky mate.

And there they are - the most enchanting, heart-stealing, soul-charming dark eyes you've ever seen an animal have.

"Shit," you nearly choke on the corn you forgot you had in your mouth before swallowing anxiously, and try to muffle your coughing, afraid it might scare the animals away; but instead they only tilt their heads in an adorable way and watch as you scramble to shove your food bowl into Kir's hands and grab your camera.

It takes you less than two minutes to sneak to your bag (not the one that was sprayed - that one is banished to lay alone next to a rover far, far away from where you eat, God) and grab the camera, but when you turn back, both hyenas seem to have lost all interest in you and your camp, rolling around together in the patchy grass and partaking in a ritualistic play.

Subtle breaths of warm wind bring over quiet growls and occasional sassy cackles from the scuffle, nips and paw slaps exchanged in equal amounts. The sight is nothing short of adorable: two members of one of the most dangerous species on Earth tossing each other around like playful cubs, almost as if they're fighting over-

"Hey, look, they've got something!" One of the other camera operators points out gleefully with her spoon and you close one eye, focusing your camera on the pair. They definitely are fighting over some scrap, and just as you zoom in on their scowling mouths, Stinky jumps to its feet, yanking something that looks like a piece of hide in attempt to wrestle their toy from the other one's maw. "Hey, can you see what it's about?"

You hum, squinting as you meddle with the settings - it's quite hard to make out what it is, some brown-ish rug, stretching between two pairs of powerful jaws, clenched and pulling in a simple game of tug-of-war. Just as you take a series of quick shots, that dark, lean hyena also gets up and twists its neck, trying to snatch that thing from his broader mate - and it rips.

In your lense you see loose strings hanging from the ripped edges of the torn toy.

"Huh, looks like a piece of cloth!" Curious, you zoom in some more, taking several fine portrait pictures of Stinky's big, displeased-looking snout. Its ears flatten a bit as it shakes its head, sand flying off the fluffy mane and landing on the dark hide of its buddy. The latter seems to be much more content with the end result of the playfight, already lying back on the warm ground comfortably, long frong legs crossed in an effortlessly graceful way and half of the desired prise being chewed enthusiastically before it's dropped with a yawn. "Maybe someone lost a scarf? No pattern though..."

You point your camera at the unbelievably stunning dark-furred hyena and take more photos, almost holding your breath at the beauty of the animal resting on the dusty ground. Its slightly lazy gaze slowly trails over the surroundings and then lands on you.

And then, you swear, it winks at you.

You press the button on your camera automatically, capturing this moment for you to stare at later, when you'll start doubting your own sanity. A lopsided smirk stays on the hyena's muzzle for a second longer - and then it's gone.

"What the hell..." you mutter under your nose, lowering your camera with a dumbfounded look and stare at the embodiment of innocence the cheeky fluffball is now. Almost as if they both heard you, Stinky perks up too, and you finally notice that whatever they were playing with is now hanging off its pleased snout shoved through a neat round opening in the material. So it's definitely something man-made. A shirt that's been shredded by predators' teeth until only the collar or a short sleeve remained?..

You shudder at the thought about how the hyenas got their sock-clad paws on the thing and what happened to the owner. Maybe it's just been discarded after researchers used it to wrap a hyena's head when they darted and collared one of them. Or it just fell out of someone's backpack on the bumpy road. Or...

A loud whoop interrupts your heavy thoughts and your eyes snap back to the furry menace, only to find it clearly posing for you, slumped over its pal's back and resting its chin between the other's fluttering ears. Surprisingly, the darker - maybe you'll call it Chocolate, it seems almost toothrottingly sweet from afar - hyena doesn't seem to mind much, waving its tail with a black brush on end languidly and laying still until you take a few pictures. Even though the rag Stinky can't seem to let go clearly gets in its eyes no matter how many times it tries to brush it away with an endearing ear movement.

Of course Stinky just drops its toy altogether on Chocolate's head the second something else attracts its attention - the way it perks up and loses that trickster grin, looking directly behind you, startles you, but almost twisting your neck to look over your shoulder proves futile. It's just Kir.

"Sorry to ruin your fun, cookie, but we'll have to get moving in a few, thought you'd want to finish your meal," he sighs with an apologetic smile, clearly not immune to the cuteness of the hyenas himself, and hands you your bowl, immedietely earning a growl.

A growl much closer than you'd expect from where your visitors stayed.

You jump, nearly dropping both your camera and food, and quickly turn back to see both hyenas, tails and manes belligerently fluffed up, just a few meters away. Kir steps in front of you immediately, shielding from the animals, but it seems only to aggravate them more.

Maybe it's not the brightest idea you get, but your adrenaline-high brain offers you a memory of Stinky obeying when you raised your voice at it.

"Stay down you two! Shoo! Get back!" Leaning around Kir's muscular shoulder, you wave with your spork at the unfriendly couple.

Somehow, it works.

They almost look upset, tails slowly hanging down and ears lowered - they even lean their whole bodies to the ground as they back away. Stinky is clearly more reluctant, and you would be melting at the sight if your heart wasn't still racing after the scare.

"You get back too, Stinky. Or I'll sign every picture of you with your nickname in all the wildlife magazines!" Perhaps it's your tone making the animals nervous, but Chocolate suddenly lets out a short giggle. Still feels nice to have someone appreciate your humor, especially when it earns him a nip at the scruff from Stinky, finally distracting him from you. "And you don't laugh at Stinky! What, you think there won't be enough of me for the both of you? I'll make fun of every fucking four-legged menace if you keep growling like that!"

An barely started new scuffle between the two stops abruptly, two pairs of huge wet eyes looking at you with almost human perspicacity. Remembering too late that a direct stare can provoke an animal, you avert your gaze, but it's unnecessary: even from the corner of your eye you see both hunched figures slowly gaining speed as they further away from the camp.

"What, you a hyena whisperer now?" Kir lets out a subtle relieved breath and you par his back gratefully, exhaling yourself. "Probably got scared of me because of my size... well, now that's you've proven your dominance, how about you finish your food? I'll pack everything for you, so don't rush."

Still glancing over your shoulder in case the predators come back, you mutter your thanks to Kir and nod at the other members of the crew who praise you for keeping your cool against the animals again.

"Didn't know they teach you that in school nowadays," jokes one of the older scientists with some canned food juice staining grey stubble around the corners of his mouth. "Good job, kid. Hyenas are all about hierarchy, if you show them you're more dominant, there's little they can do. Just maybe don't get into actual fights with them, you know?"

"Not planning to," you chuckle and finally get back to your food. While you chew absentmindedly, wandering around the camp being taken down, your legs bring you to where your slightly rough (and fluffy too, to be fair) around the edges neighbours left their tattered toy.

Just a weird shaped brown cloth, punctured in several places with the deadly weapon hyenas carry in their mouths and with clearly manufactured seams. That round hole Stinky utilized also has neatly finished edge, like clothing would have.

Huh. Weird. Somehow that chewed up and slobbered snippet looks familiar. Can't really quite put your finger on it though.

Part 3 | Part 3.5 | Part 5

Series masterlist | Main masterlist

A/N: Please, don't use any of this story as a guide to handling any animals, wild or not. Although I try to use real documentaries and stories of hyena whisperers as a reference to how hyena-human interactions can look like, it's still fiction. Use actual guidelines provided by authorities as to how to behave in contact with stranger animals.

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