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missarchive · 6 months ago

Note

Hiya!

It's me again. I hope you are well <3

I'd like to request a Hannibal x reader (preferably female or undisclosed) who is Hannibals new therapist. But she catches that Hannibal is like... SUPER unethical. Perhaps not that he's a cannibalistic serial killer, but she gets a feeling that he's not exactly safe to be around.

Therefore, she tries to withdraw their sessions, saying that she does not get the impression Hannibal actually wants to be helped or change his behaviour (she tries to play it off that she doesn't want their sessions to be unprofessional, which seems to be his angle). Of course, Hannibal doesn't like that idea and does some despicable shit to get her back (blackmail, murder, etc)

Thnx!

who? hannibal x gn!reader

category: angst

content warnings: NSFW MDNI!! dark themes, cannibalistic references, mentions of death, stalking, aggression, kidnapping

The air in Hannibal Lecter’s office was always meticulously curated. Subtle notes of bergamot and sandalwood mingled with the faintest hint of old books, creating an atmosphere that was as inviting as it was disarming. You’d thought at first it was his way of making his clients feel comfortable, but as weeks passed, the room began to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a spider’s web—artfully spun, deliberately designed. You weren’t entirely sure who the prey was meant to be.

“Dr. Lecter,” you began, keeping your voice measured as you adjusted the cuffs of your blouse. “I’ve noticed something peculiar in our sessions.”

Hannibal’s dark eyes lifted from the notepad he wasn’t really writing in, his head tilting slightly like a predator feigning curiosity. “Have you?” he said, his voice as smooth and rich as aged cognac. “Please, do elaborate.”

You hesitated, the weight of his gaze pressing against you like a physical force. It wasn’t just his intelligence that unnerved you, though that was certainly part of it. It was the way he seemed to already know what you were going to say—as if he had been inside your head long before you even stepped through his office door.

“It’s my professional opinion,” you continued, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, “that these sessions aren’t serving their intended purpose. I don’t believe you’re interested in exploring meaningful change.”

His lips curved into the faintest semblance of a smile. “And what, may I ask, led you to that conclusion?”

Your fingers tightened around the armrest of your chair. “I think you find these sessions entertaining rather than enlightening. It feels less like therapy and more like a… game.”

Hannibal’s smile widened imperceptibly. “Life is, in many ways, a game, is it not? One of strategy, of observation, of opportunity.”

You suppressed a shiver, holding onto your composure with an iron grip. “Be that as it may, I don’t think our continued sessions would be ethical.”

His expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. “Ethics can be such a mutable thing,” he said softly, leaning forward just enough to blur the boundaries of personal space. “What is ethical to you may be anathema to another.”

“Dr. Lecter,” you said, your voice firm despite the way your heart was pounding, “I’m withdrawing from our arrangement. I’ll refer you to another therapist if you’d like, but I don’t believe I can—”

“You feel unsafe.”

The words hung in the air between you, more statement than question. Your stomach tightened, but you forced yourself to shake your head. “That’s not it,” you lied. “I simply feel our dynamic risks becoming unprofessional.”

Hannibal regarded you for a long, unnerving moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stood, moving with the kind of deliberate grace that made you feel as though every step he took was a calculated act. “I see,” he said, turning to the window and clasping his hands behind his back. “If that is your decision, I will respect it.”

Relief coursed through you, but it was fleeting. Something about the way he said it felt off, like the calm before a storm. You rose from your seat, smoothing your shirt with hands that trembled only slightly. “Thank you for understanding,” you said, heading for the door.

As your hand closed around the cool brass of the doorknob, his voice stopped you cold.

“Before you go, Dr. l/n,” he said, his tone as polite as ever but carrying an edge that set your nerves on fire, “may I offer one last piece of advice?”

You turned slowly, your pulse quickening. “Of course.”

His smile returned, small and chillingly sincere. “In the pursuit of understanding others, one should take care not to reveal too much of oneself. Vulnerability is a currency, and in the wrong hands, it can be… terribly costly.”

The words followed you out of his office, sinking into your skin like cold iron. It wasn’t until you were in the safety of your car that you allowed yourself to exhale, the tension in your chest finally breaking like a wave against the shore. But even as you drove away, the feeling lingered: the sense that Hannibal Lecter wasn’t done with you yet.

The days that followed felt like a haze, a fog of unease that never quite lifted. You told yourself you had made the right choice, that withdrawing from Hannibal Lecter’s sessions had been necessary. But there was an unshakable weight in your chest, a whisper that he had known all along what you would do. That he had been preparing for this moment, for your withdrawal, long before you had ever made the decision.

In the quiet of your apartment, the phone was always within arm’s reach. You had set it to silent, the fear that he might call a persistent hum in the back of your mind. Every ring, every vibration, seemed to mock you, reminding you of his final words. Vulnerability is a currency… it can be terribly costly.

Weeks passed, and you managed to convince yourself that you had escaped his grasp. But then, one evening, the phone rang.

Your breath hitched when you saw the name on the screen.

It was him.

You stared at the display for several seconds, heart racing in your chest, a surge of cold dread sweeping over you. Then, before you could convince yourself to silence it, your finger slid across the screen, answering without thought.

"Dr. l/n, it’s been far too long."

His voice, smooth and familiar, filled the space around you, and you could almost feel him in the room with you, his presence crawling beneath your skin. You tightened your grip on the phone, trying to steady yourself. "I… I thought we agreed that our sessions were over, Dr. Lecter."

"Did we?" His voice was tinged with amusement, as though the very idea of agreement had never truly mattered to him. "You’re still thinking of it as a session. I suppose that’s part of the problem, isn't it?"

Your pulse quickened, but you kept your voice steady. "What do you want from me?"

"Ah," he murmured, and you could almost hear his smile in his words. "Always so direct. But I would prefer to think of it as something more than a simple want. You see, I am curious about something—something I neglected to ask during our last conversation."

"Which is?"

A pause, long enough to make the silence unbearable. "Why did you choose to walk away?"

You didn’t answer immediately. The question hung in the air, its meaning far deeper than the surface of the words. You hadn’t realized until that moment how much his absence had unsettled you. "I felt our dynamic wasn’t healthy."

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and unsettling. "Isn’t that the nature of all human relationships? The power dynamics, the tension… they’re what make them interesting. And you, my dear, are quite… interesting."

Your breath caught. You hated how easily he saw through you, how much he could manipulate your words, your feelings, as if he were a marionette master pulling invisible strings.

"You know," he continued, his voice low and dangerous, "I find it fascinating that you would choose to withdraw when I offered you something so… rare. An opportunity to explore parts of yourself that most would never have the courage to examine. And yet, you left."

"Because I realized I wasn’t prepared for whatever it was you wanted from me," you replied, your voice firmer than you felt. "I’m not your plaything, Hannibal."

"You are not a plaything, Doctor," he said, a trace of something darker in his voice. "But you are a puzzle. And puzzles, I find, are best when solved."

The air in your apartment seemed to thicken with his words. You knew, even before he spoke again, that you had made a mistake answering the phone. The last shred of safety you had felt, the illusion of escape, was now shattered.

"Think about it, my dear. I’m sure you’ll come to realize that we are far more alike than you care to admit."

You felt the ground beneath you shift. Something had changed. And in that moment, you weren’t sure if you had been running away from him, or if he had been waiting for the right moment to pull you back into his web.

"Goodbye, Dr. l/n." His voice was smooth, final. "I look forward to seeing you again."

The call ended, leaving you in a thick silence that suffocated the air from your lungs. Your body trembled as you set the phone down, your hand still shaking. You had known, deep down, that it wouldn’t be the last time you heard from him.

At first, you told yourself you were imagining things. The faintest glimpse of him on the street, his figure disappearing down a corridor before you could confirm it was really him. The soft scrape of a chair across the floor when you were alone in your office, only to find the room empty when you checked. But the unease never left. It lingered like the faintest scent, always just on the edge of your awareness, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching you.

It started small. A book on your desk that hadn’t been there before, its cover embossed with intricate, foreign designs—an impossible coincidence, or so it seemed. Then, a note left on your windshield, a single sentence scrawled in elegant handwriting:

"Some puzzles are worth revisiting."

You’d scanned the parking lot, your heart pounding in your chest, but there was no one in sight. No evidence of how it had gotten there, just the unsettling knowledge that Hannibal Lecter had been close enough to leave it for you to find.

The fear began to settle into your bones, insidious and suffocating. Everywhere you went, you felt his gaze, the sensation of being watched constantly hanging in the air like an invisible thread. You changed your routine, took different routes to work, and started locking your doors with an obsessive precision. But nothing seemed to matter. The feeling of being stalked only intensified, the distance between you and him growing smaller with each passing day.

You found yourself walking home through the quiet streets, the chill of the evening air biting at your skin. The usual sounds of the city—the distant hum of traffic, the faint murmur of voices—seemed muted, distant. Your footsteps echoed in the silence, and it felt wrong. Too quiet.

You turned the corner to your apartment building, heart racing as the darkness seemed to close in around you. And that’s when you saw it.

A shadow, standing just beyond the edge of the streetlight. The shape was unmistakable. Tall, slender, poised. Even from a distance, you knew it was him.

You froze, your pulse thundering in your ears. For a moment, you wondered if your mind was playing tricks on you—if you had finally lost touch with reality. But the figure didn’t move. Didn’t speak. It simply watched you, its presence oppressive and suffocating.

You took a step back, then another, but the shadow didn’t follow. It just lingered there, like a predator biding its time, waiting for you to make the next move. You wanted to run, to escape, but your legs felt like lead, as though they had turned to stone beneath you.

The air shifted, the hairs on the back of your neck rising in response to the subtle change in the atmosphere. The figure turned then, slowly, as if it had been waiting for your acknowledgment.

And then, you heard it—a voice so smooth, so utterly calm that it felt like it could break you.

"Dr. l/n," Hannibal’s voice drifted toward you, too soft to be a true threat, but carrying the weight of something far darker beneath it. "You’re still running."

You could see his eyes now, gleaming in the dim light. They were locked on yours, the intensity of his gaze impossible to escape. There was no fear in him—just a cool, calculating presence that made your insides twist with terror.

"You’ve been avoiding me, but you can’t outrun what’s already inside you," he continued, his tone almost gentle, as if offering you some twisted comfort. "No matter how far you go, it will always be there, won’t it?"

Your throat tightened, the air thick with a sense of inevitability. He had found you. He was here. You weren’t sure if you were more frightened of the fact that he knew you so well, or that you couldn’t escape him.

"Why are you doing this?" The words came out as a choked whisper, the panic rising in your chest like a tidal wave. "Why can’t you just leave me alone?"

"Because, Doctor," he said, his voice low and full of something almost tender, "I’m not done with you. I’ve only just begun."

The words hung in the air, and in that moment, you understood the true weight of his meaning. He wasn’t stalking you out of simple obsession. No. He was drawing closer, weaving his presence into the very fabric of your life, until there would be no escape.

He took a step forward, and you felt your body tense, as though preparing to flee, but your legs refused to move. The distance between you both was closing, each step of his calculated and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world to claim you.

"I told you before," Hannibal said softly, his breath now almost a whisper against the cold night air. "In the pursuit of understanding others, one must take care not to reveal too much of oneself."

He smiled then, the darkness around him deepening, and you realised with chilling certainty that you had given him far more than you ever intended.

One morning, you arrived at your office early, determined to confront your own mind and wrestle back some semblance of control. You couldn’t keep living in fear, and you couldn’t keep hiding from the truth. You had to be done. Done with him. You knew, deep down, that you would never be able to escape the haunting presence of Hannibal Lecter unless you made it final.

You made the decision then, as you sat at your desk, your hands steady for the first time in weeks: you would call him, tell him to leave you alone, to end whatever twisted connection had formed between you. You would refuse him. You would refuse him in every way, and you would be done with it all.

The phone felt cold in your hand as you dialed his number. Your heart thundered in your chest, but you clung to the hope that this would end it. The line rang three times before he picked up.

"Dr. l/n, I had wondered when you would reach out again." His voice was smooth, as though the distance between you both had not been filled with terror and hesitation. "I trust everything has been well since our last meeting?"

Your voice was tight but resolute as you replied, "No, Dr. Lecter. It hasn’t. I need you to stop—stop watching me, stop trying to manipulate me. I’m done with this. I’m done with you."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence on the other end of the line. And then, just when you thought he might speak, you heard the subtle sound of him exhaling, as if he were considering your words carefully.

"You misunderstand me, Doctor," he said, his tone calm, but underneath it, you could hear the faintest trace of something dark, something dangerous. "This is not something you can simply walk away from. I do not allow people to walk away from me."

The words sent a chill down your spine. But you couldn’t back down now. You had to stay strong.

"I’m not afraid of you anymore," you said, though your voice wavered just the slightest. "I want you to leave me alone, Dr. Lecter. If you don’t, I will go to the authorities. You won’t get away with it."

Another pause, longer this time. And then, his voice came, colder than it had ever been. "You believe that you are in control. But you are not. You never have been."

And before you could react, the line went dead.

The silence that followed was oppressive. Your heart pounded in your chest, your thoughts racing, but before you could process what had just happened, there was a knock at the door. It was too early for any patients, too soon for anyone else to be here. You stood frozen for a moment, uncertainty flooding your mind.

You forced yourself to move, to rise from your desk, though your legs felt like they might give way beneath you. With each step toward the door, a sense of dread twisted your stomach. You peered through the small window in the door and, for a brief, terrifying moment, you thought you saw him—his face, as calm and calculating as ever, framed by the glass.

You swung the door open, and your breath caught in your throat.

It wasn’t him at the door. But it was someone.

A man, tall and broad, wearing a dark suit that seemed out of place in the sterile office building. His eyes were dark and unblinking, his presence suffocating in its intensity. He smiled at you, but it wasn’t a smile that offered any warmth.

"Dr. l/n, is it?" The voice was soft, but there was a hardness behind it, a finality that made you feel small in its presence.

"Who are you?" you demanded, stepping back instinctively. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, your pulse quickening as an icy shiver ran down your spine.

"That’s not important," the man replied, and in that instant, you knew exactly who had sent him. Hannibal had never intended for you to simply walk away.

Before you could react, before you could scream or make a run for it, the man lunged forward, his grip closing around your wrist with inhuman strength, yanking you back into the office. You tried to fight, to push him off, but his hand was unyielding, crushing your arm against the desk as he pinned you down.

You struggled, your mind racing for some way to escape, but the door slammed shut behind you. The last thing you saw before everything went black was the faint outline of a figure in the doorway—Hannibal. His dark eyes locked onto yours, unreadable and still. There was no panic in him, only that cold, calculating smile.

"You should have listened," he whispered.

#missarchive #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal x reader #hannibal

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madschiavelique · 2 years ago

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you know those perfumes that are supposed to be based on “pheromones” or whatever that are supposed to make you more attractive?

imagine that… with Miguel… who already has extra sensitive smell… I’m just— 😳

OMG anon i TOTALLY see what u referenced right here. the man will be on his knees

summary ➤ you got one of these pheromones perfumes that went viral and Miguel notices it pairing ➤ miguel x gender neutral reader

content warnings ➤ none in particular, just miggy sniffing u word count ➤ 841

You had seen some reels on instagram or some tik toks where lots of people, especially women, were trying on these perfumes with pheromones, and you'd managed to get hold of one of these famous things out of sheer curiosity. You examined it a little, wondering what effect it might give, then decided why not give it a try? After all, that's what it was created for. So you applied it to basic heat points, focusing on your wrists, the inside of your elbows and, of course, your neck. Determining for yourself whether it worked was impossible, you needed someone else to try this, so you simply wandered around the society as you would do on the basis, a few glances turning towards you as you strolled to Miguel's office. You entered the office as if nothing had happened, making your way to the platform where Miguel was silhouetted in his usual busy-man way. Most of the spiders in society had a keen sense of smell, as did you, but this scent was designed to attract the noses of a targeted audience, so you wondered how he would react. "Hi gorgeous," you smiled, the platform slightly raised just three meters above you as you walked towards it. He did not even turn around, his eyes deeply anchored on his holopad and mind burried in work, mumbling all the same as you came within a few steps of the platform, stopping in your tracks: "Hey cariño,” he sighed, sliding something from one holopad to the other, “how are-" But he immediately stops his sentence, and you can hear him inhaling a sharp but short breath. You smile, he noticed really quickly. He pivoted slightly on the side, showing you his profile, eyebrows furrowed, sniffing again a little more slowly, his chest swells as his lungs fill with the slightest ounce of it. His head turns to yours on the spot, his eyes immediately landing on yours. "What's that?" Touché. He'd taken the bait, and hard. He turned fully towards you, beginning the descent from the platform. "What's what?" you asked, concealing your excitement incredibly well, as if the questioning made you genuinely confused as you pulled every string of your web to perfection for your little prey to get stuck. He didn't even wait until the platform was completely ashore before stepping off, pressing the pace towards you. "That," he repeated, his eyebrows furrowing as each step closer to you made him smell that inebriating scent. "What do you mean 'that'?" you say, a little laugh that's half confused and half amused taking hold of you. "You changed something," he said, fluttering his eyes as he finally reached your height and the smell became more and more powerful.

Once he was close enough to you, he closed his eyes, taking another deep breath as he opened them again the next second. Is it you, or has his pupil dilated? He took hold of your wrist, bringing it close to his lips and smelling the perfume on it, pressing his nose against your skin until it wrinkled and closing his eyes tightly just to be poisoned by the smell that seemed so exceptional. He opened his eyelids again, a slight tinge of red beginning to take hold of his irises. He gave you a look of new interest, lips parted as his eyes locked on yours. "Did you... buy a new lotion?" You let out a little breath of laugh from your nose, pretending not to understand a single thing he was saying. Most of the spiders in society had a keen sense of smell, as did you, but this scent was designed to attract the noses of a targeted audience, so you wondered how he would react.

"'No? What's the matter?" you ask as he listens intently, "What's changed?"

He stepped closer, his body towering over you as he tilted his head, bringing you face to face with him. Yeah, his pupils were truly dilated.

"There's something new, you..." he seemed to consider his words for a moment as he inhaled, moistening his lips, "smell different."

He came to smell your cheek, the skin of his nose brushing against yours and sending little shivers down your spine.

"Really?" you asked, smiling softly. You weren't regretting this discovery at all, and Miguel seemed to be of the same opinion. "How so?"

His eyelashes placed butterfly kisses on your cheek as he moved down a little further into the crook of your neck, the sensation of his breath spreading over your warm, scented skin sending little tingles up the back of your skull.

"It's..." he breathed, coming to place his hand previously on your wrist at the small of your back and pulling you towards him to get closer, "intoxicating."

You felt the warmth of his lips kiss tenderly down your neck, the distinct sensation of his canines tracing the warm skin of it as he let out a sigh.

"Lyla," he grunted against your skin, "Lock the door please."

Definitely a good investment.

#madschiavelique ⟢ ݁ ˖‧˚₊ ☁︎#mads' requests ⟢ ݁ ˖‧˚₊ ☁︎#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x you #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x gender neutral reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel x reader #atsv x reader #miguel ohara #miguel x you #miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel x y/n #miguel spiderman #miguel atsv

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child-of-the-cosmos · 5 months ago

Text

Part 1. > Here. Part 2. > Here. Part 3. > Here.

The daycare was shut down a long time ago, replaced by some... movie theater thing? Not that it matters to you, for all you know, the daycare itself could just be a rumor. One of those things that get made up into a story somebody tells the other person.

You tried searching something about it up on the web. Of course, you came up empty. But... those teens yesterday. They were talking about it- them?? Something about this big animatronic that used to watch over them as a kid. And you were sure they said something about a daycare.

But... maybe you were mistaken?

You sat down a semi heavy box in the storage room connected to the back of the theater, located in the plex.

It mostly just held old dvds (as if people still used them anymore, but you guessed it was better than paying those high subscriptions most companies had nowadays), and other stuff the theater might need. Including exrta cleanings supplies, and whatnot.

Just, the usual stuff you'd see in a place like this.

You thought back to the daycare. You don't know why, but something bothered you. A manic bot? But those teens were obviously recalling only good times with... whatever it was. Missing kids? You couldn't find anything about that. And... they just, removed a whole daycare???

You thought about how many people would kill for a good babysitter these days- most bots that are programed for that, well, that's all they're programmed to do. Maintain the health and safety of the child until their guardian came home. Something like that, at least.

But the bot those teens talked about? It- they?? Sounded... animated. More... involved with the caretaking.

...

You were really started to feel bad for just, listening to their conversation like that. But it was interesting! Who wouldn't be interested in something like that.

You could name quite a few people. But weren't one of them.

You stretched, looking around the dimly lit room. It was big. Spacious. Had a lot of boxes piled up. None of them named, though. You guessed the maintenance bots had something to do with that.

You pursed your lips, looking around again. This place... was once connected to the daycare, right?

You took a step deeper. No one was around... didn't see any cameras... geez, there was dust everywhere. The stuff in here had to be old.

You stretch one more time, before letting your arms fall to your sides. Yeah, you were definitely about to snoop.

--------------

It had been about a full tem minutes of snooping, which was a lot on work time. But, whoever was over you barely ever kept up with you... so... yeah.

You could hear some animated movie distantly playing in the background. Thin walls. They must have just quickly built something up to have somewhere to put the theater.

You sigh. You still hadn't found anything. Zip. Zero. You were losing hope. And fast.

You were about to leave, but then something catches your eye. Something shiny?

You walk over to a pile of boxes, much deeper in the storage room. They were stacked on top of each other, as most things were here. But that didn't matter to you. No, what mattered right now was the shiny bell hooked to some sort of red ribbon, hanging a little out of one of the boxes.

Definitely not something for the theater.

You smiled. Finally, something interesting.

You carefully removed the boxes on top, finding even more stuff. Shirts, cups, even glowing the dark wrist bands. All having the same sun or moon themed design. Oh, yeah. Jack pot.

As you took out the contents of each box, you were careful to put it back just the way it was. Gotta be discret. Or at least try. Finally, you get to the boxes with the ribbons.

You take one out, feeling it. "What is this? Silk? Some sort of satin?" You quietly mumbled to yourself, flipping the fabric in your hands.

You decide to take one with you, there were tons. One wouldn't hurt... maybe. Hopefully. If they take it out of your paycheck, it's fine. The little bell on the end made it worth it. You found yourself shaking it a little as you walked around, looking for more boxes like the ones you just went through.

Your eyes don't land on it at first, in fact, you miss it three times- far to absorbed in your little mission to find more cool or interesting stuff. I mean, a glow in the dark jacket?? That was nice. It was also themed like everything else you found so far.

But then, you see it. Something. On the farthest back wall. Laying haphazardly against some more boxes. Like it was just, thrown there at some point. One of its triangles??? On its head, had act poked through a box.

You wanted to run. To just turn around, pretend you didn't see anything. Go back to the theater, glance at the movie every now and then.

But you couldn't. You were in too deep now. You needed to see this thing up close.

You take out your flashlight that was hooked to your belt, and point it at it. It was too dark in the place they had set it in to get a good look at it without it.

Wow. Okay. Yeah. Creepy.

Tattered clothing, blank eyes, horrifying smile... you didn't get why any kid would want to get close to this thing. At all.

You walk closer, there was a crack on it's left eye. If you looked closer, you could pin point exactly where the impact-

You slip.

You reach for air as you fall, any box being too far away to grab.

Your head lands on it's chest with a loud bang.

You grab it in pain, failing stand from how much it hurt. Bone to metal definitely didn't mix.

When you had hit your head, you faintly remember hear some sort of... click. Almost like when you click a pin. It was quiet, but not quiet enough to be unnoticed.

You squint at it's chest. A button? Oh, it had more than one.

You sigh, beginning to stand back up, but freeze.

Your eyes lock with its. And it speaks.

"Who... are you? W-where... am I??"

#no word count because i literally just wrote this on here #didn't read over this either #so I'm sorry if there are any errors #will look over later on #anyway whoo!!#writing again!!#just a bit #fnaf #dca #sundrop #moondrop #sundrop fnaf #moondrop fnaf #fnaf daycare attendant #y/n #writing #my writing #*runs away*#Behind the Theater

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gdesignsme · 2 years ago

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jpgacademy · 1 day ago

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year ago

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Designated Person | 10

Pairing: Francisco “Catfish” Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 10: Flat Tire

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 6.9k+ (nice)

Tags / Warnings: reader pov, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, angst, food & eating, blackout, movie references, car problems, alcohol & alcoholism, 12-step programs, lying, conflict avoidance, crying crying crying sorry, internal conflict, monologue, toxic relationships but listen we're tryna get better, journal entries, nightmares, ptsd, flashback

Notes: WHAT UP PARTY PEOPLE?? MAKE SOME NOIIIISE (insert dallas buyers club matthew mcconaughey scream crying in his car). Sorry for being a bummer lol sometimes growth hurts but we're gonna get thru this I swear. Ok thank u let me know what you think!!!

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Blackouts work like magic.

One second you’re perched on a barstool, trying not to sway or slur your words while ordering another drink, and the next you’re jolted awake by the thud of a door closing.

Heart pounding in your chest, you sit up and look around, breathing a sigh of relief to see you somehow made it to your bedroom last night.

You grab your phone off the side table, swiping away the missed calls from Frankie and Leah, then discover that you apparently re-downloaded a dating app in your alcohol-induced fugue state. Judging by the number of reply messages in your inbox, you must have hit up every man in the tri-county area who was “looking for a good time.”

Perfect. Of course you did. Why wouldn’t you? Bad decisions and dick has never ever steered you wrong.

You read one typo-filled exchange between yourself and Russ K, 34, before deactivating the account and uninstalling the app.

When you set your phone back on the nightstand, you notice a mason jar filled with ice water and frown. Beside it sits a small plastic container holding four neon orange tablets and two white tablets. A sticky note on the table reads ‘Went to a meeting, be back this afternoon’ in Frankie’s handwriting.

Alarm trickles through your veins and inspires a wave of nausea you can’t ignore. Clasping your hand over your mouth to hold down the rising bile, you jump out of bed and beeline to the bathroom.

After emptying the sparse contents of your stomach into the toilet, you lean back against the cool tile wall and search the ceiling for answers. How did you get home last night? Did you say anything to Frankie?

You think about the ice water and over-the-counter pills left on your nightstand, then think about the note Frankie left. However you got home, he must know you were hammered. Which means you definitely interacted with him while blacked out. Do you even want to know what you said to him?

Mortification twists your stomach when you imagine the possibilities. You could have tried to fuck him or murder him or anything in between. Given how you feel about him right now, it’s impossible to predict. That fact alone makes your mouth start to sweat again.

So… no, you don’t want to know what you said to him when you were drunk. You don’t want to know how you got home or why the fuck your hair is damp. All you want is to get through this fucking day without hurling again. Maybe greasy food and a NASCAR nap, too.

With this new clear goal in mind, you pick yourself up off the bathroom floor and set about making your low-stakes dream a reality.

—

You wake on the couch to the soothing lull of commentators giving a play-by-play of the Rays versus Yankees game. A thick web of fatigue clings to you, fighting against your efforts to open your eyes and sit upright.

“Hey.”

Instinctively, you look towards the noise at the other end of the couch, locking eyes with Frankie. His face droops with this wounded expression that gets under your skin. Diverting your gaze to the TV, you cross your arms and try to keep your demeanor aloof despite the deep ache in your chest.

“How are you feeling?”

You choke out a humorless laugh and shake your head, keeping your eyes trained on the screen. A few tense seconds go by before he accepts that you will not be answering his ludicrous question, so he takes an alternative approach.

“I brought home cubanos from that place you like. For, um… for family dinner. If you still wanted to do that.”

Home, he says, as if the word meant something to him. As if he didn’t match every brick you laid in the foundation of this relationship with paper mache blocks. As if he didn’t take a wrecking ball to whole fucking thing regardless.

Maybe to him home is just a place he rests his head at night, not where he anchors his heart. A matter of physical location rather than a feeling. You, on the other hand… never felt quite at home in this house until he started living here.

Are you crazy for having felt like that? Like home was a space you held with him and him alone?

Your parents were right. You make too much of things. You’re overdramatic.

Why would he love you? Why would he choose you over his wife? You knew what you were getting into when this started.

Stupid girl.

“I understand if you don’t want to, though.”

His voice brings you back to yourself. You blink hot tears from your eyes, then wipe them from your cheeks, trying to hold yourself together despite the whisper of ‘stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl’ at the back of your head.

“Can we… can we at least talk about it?”

You wince as a fresh batch of tears surges up your throat. Rising to your feet, you shake your head and manage to choke out, “Just forget it,” before fleeing to your bedroom.

—

I slept most of the day yesterday so it took me forever to fall asleep. Also Frankie was walking around the house all night. At 11ish, I heard him talking on the phone, then I think someone picked him up. I texted him to see where he went because I’m unfortunately still his designated person. He said he was with someone from AA and he’d be back soon, just needed to talk. I couldn’t fall asleep until I heard him come in at 1. He wasn’t stumbling around so I’m guessing he was sober??? Hopefully he was. I don’t want this to get in the way of his recovery. Which I sort of hate. I wish I could delete the feelings I have for him. I wish I didn’t care. But I guess I do, so… I don’t know. This fucking sucks. Leah said I should kick him out, but I don’t want to fuck up his program. Maybe I’ll talk to Ralph today and see what he thinks. The thing is… the more people I talk to, the more I just want to talk to Frankie. Nobody makes me feel like he does. More than the lies, this is what bothers me the most. The fact that I can feel this way and he just doesn’t. I don’t understand how he can’t feel it, too. I thought this was real. But I guess I always do. I guess he’s just a really good liar and I am just a stupid girl.

Tossing the notebook aside, you sit up to grab your mug off the side table. Wisps of steam rise from the coffee and dissolve into the air. The image blurs as a thick, wretched sensation twists up your throat.

God fucking damnit.

Every time you think you have no more tears left to cry, you prove yourself wrong. They just keep coming. Yesterday you waded in and out of these sudden fits where crying was all you could do. It reminds you of all the other times he broke your heart, but especially the last time.

After Angie caught the two of you fucking, part of you hoped that maybe she would leave him. From what you understand, though, he convinced her to stay. Called you a mistake. An ‘isolated incident’ or whatever. Fucking asshole.

Anyway.

Seeing each other became logistically and emotionally difficult. Participating in an affair is much easier when it’s still a secret, for obvious reasons. He tried to see you when he could, which wasn’t nearly as frequent as you wanted. When you did see him, he was drunk. You’d pick him up from the bar, or he’d come over after Angie went to bed, but he was always at least five drinks in and counting.

You bailed him out of jail twice in those six months. Once for drinking and driving, once for getting in a fight over a fucking pool game, of all things.

He seemed so walled-off from you, too. Like he detached from his emotions when he saw you. Maybe it was because of the liquor, but a million other reasons are just as likely. After sex, he would leave. The sex was… well, it was still good, but… different. Rougher, impersonal. It felt less like making love and more like fucking.

You still loved him, though. You still had fantasies of having a real, normal relationship with him. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, you still wanted to believe that he was meant to be with you.

Stupid girl stupid girl stupid girl

And then, well…

Your phone starts to ring. It’s Ralph.

You take a few quick sips of your coffee, then set the mug aside to answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey, kiddo. Do you have a minute?”

His tone, less jovial than normal, gives you a small burst of anxious energy.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I just got off the phone Mr. Morales and he briefed me on the, ahhh… situation over there.”

Unsure what to say, you fold an arm over your belly and stare down at your lap.

“I understand that things are a bit tense due to an incident that occurred on Saturday, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” you nod, voice wavering, “Yeah, I, um… I overheard him talking to Angie, and… well, basically I found out he’s been lying to me.”

It sounds so pathetic when you say it out loud.

“Uh-huh. He lied about the nature of his relationship with Mrs. Morales.”

“Correct.”

You prepare for Ralph to tell you it’s not a big deal. Brace yourself for the inevitable scoff, or for him to accuse you of overreacting.

So he lied to you, so what? You knew who he was. You knew he had a family to keep together. You should have known better than to get involved with him. Stupid girl, why would you put yourself in that position in the first place?

“And this isn’t the first time he lied to you about this particular matter, am I understanding correctly?”

“Well…” you frown and shake your head, “No, not really. When we were together before, he was pretty explicit that he wouldn’t leave her. I just… I just thought… I don’t know. It’s dumb. I’m fucking dumb.”

Ralph doesn’t respond right away, so you add, “Sorry. I’m still in my feelings.”

“Don’t sweat it, I think I’m picking up what you’re putting down,” he pauses here to clear his throat, then recounts, “Before, he told you leaving her wasn’t a possibility. And despite my warning going into this, the two of you re-established your romantic relationship, he told you that kind of relationship was effectively over with his wife. Which wasn’t true.”

“Correct.”

“Ok. Got it. Has Mr. Morales exhibited any unusual or suspicious behavior since the incident on Saturday?”

After thinking about it, you tell him, “I wouldn’t call this suspicious exactly, but yesterday he left a note saying he was going to an AA meeting, which isn’t normal. And late last night someone picked him up. I texted him to check in and he said he was with someone from AA, talking.”

“Do you believe he was being truthful?”

“Yeah, I do,” you shrug, “I mean, I’m obviously not the best at detecting his bullshit, but I’ve seen him under the influence more times than I can count and he didn’t seem… like that.”

“Well, that’s good. And it’s good you checked in with him, I take that as a positive. You are still responsible for him while he’s on parole.” He sighs, “Which brings me to my next question. Are you thinking you want to continue serving as his designated person, or should we start looking for alternatives?”

A lump rises in your throat. You swallow it down, wincing at the tears that burn behind your eyes, “I, um… I’m not sure yet. Can I have a few days to think it over?”

“Sure. How about this. Why don’t you take some time, maybe go to one of those Al-Anon meetings I told you about, and I can stop by Saturday to have a sit down with you and Mr. Morales. Does that sound agreeable?”

“Ok,” you nod, “Yeah, that sounds good. We can do that.”

“Alrighty then. I’ll shoot you an email with some details sometime today and we’ll go from there.”

“Thanks, Ralph.”

“Call me if anything comes up, ok kiddo?”

“Will do.”

After hanging up, you put in a load of laundry and wander around the house, stopping by the fridge to stare at the cubano Frankie brought home for you yesterday. You roll your eyes with annoyance as you grab it, then you return to the couch and put on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

—

By the time Frankie comes home, you’re four feature films deep in your angsty post-breakup movie marathon and feeling indignant enough not to surrender the common space to him.

His eyebrows do this little surprised jump when your eyes meet his, and he glances at the TV, “Reality Bites?”

You don’t respond, just curl deeper into the couch and return your attention to Ethan Hawke’s spiteful cover of Add It Up.

He kicks off his work boots and walks into the kitchen, coming back a minute later to ask, “If I make something for dinner, will you eat it?”

Your stomach rumbles at the thought of food. Without looking at him, you shrug.

Accepting the non-verbal answer, Frankie returns to the kitchen and starts bumbling around, cussing and grumbling under his breath. Eventually, though, he seems to get the hang of it.

Just as the end credits of Reality Bites start rolling, he enters the living room holding two plates and sets one on the coffee table for you, then takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch.

You sit up, crossing your legs as you pull the offering into your lap, and toss the remote control to his side of the dividing cushion. He wordlessly searches for something else to watch while you study the avocado-filled hot dog buns.

“What is this?” you ask.

“Completo. Hot dog topped with good shit, basically. Avocado, tomato, onion, condiments.” He selects play on Moulin Rouge, then looks at you and shrugs, “Ma would make it for me when I had a bad day.”

You stare at him for a moment, then roll your eyes and shake your head as you turn to the TV, “I see what you’re doing.”

“What’s that?”

“Kissing my ass.”

He chuckles, shifting a little, “Yeah, well… yeah.”

The movie starts to play. You don’t mention that this will be the second time you’ve seen it today because he probably knows that. After taking a bite of the completo, you hum at the mix of flavors and textures as you chew.

“Good, right?” Frankie says through a mouthful.

“Mmm,” you nod in agreement.

He swallows, glancing between you and his food before asking, “Can I ask why you haven’t kicked me out yet?”

When you contemplate how to answer, the reasons all snarl into a tight knot of which you can’t quite make heads or tails.

“No.”

“Fair enough,” he murmurs, letting his gaze linger on you, “Do you want me to give you some privacy, or…? Because I can go—”

“It doesn’t matter, Francisco, just stop talking.”

“Ok, but—”

You hold your hand up to him, “Shhhhhh.”

He sighs, but accepts the silence. Tension resides in the air at first, but slowly dissipates as you clear your plates, then settle into the couch. And although your eyes stay trained on the screen, you can’t make yourself pay attention.

You keep wondering why he lied about being with Angie. He’s never had a problem making that clear in the past, even if it meant breaking your heart. Is it because he lives with you? It’s possible he didn’t want to risk getting kicked out, so he kept it a secret.

Then why get involved with you again? Did he think this was the best way to stay in your good graces? Has he been manipulating you this whole time?

It’s possible. It’s also possible you’re another one of his bad habits he can’t kick. A coping mechanism. Disposable, like always.

You remember the night you asked him to come over so you could talk to him about something important. He promised to be there at eight o’clock, which is when you planted yourself on the front porch swing to wait for him. At nine o’clock, his truck came rumbling down the street and parked in front of the house.

“What’re you doing out here?” he smirked as he climbed the porch steps.

“Waiting for you,” you glared at him, observing his fluid movements when he plopped down beside you.

“I went and got a drink, lost track of time.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and drew your stiff body closer to kiss your cheek.

Something hot flared in your chest, and you distinctly remember wishing he would show up sober for once. This wasn’t the scab you wanted to pick, though.

He tilted your chin up, pressing his lips to yours, breath heavy with whiskey, then pulled back to frown at your lackluster response. His body swayed a little as he studied you, “What?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Ok,” he leaned away from you with a scoff, “Well, I’m here. Talk to me. Tell me how I fucked up this time.”

You winced, “Don’t do that.”

Crossing his arms, he stared at you, all fucking wobbly and drunk, irritation folding his facial features. He shrugged, “Do what?”

“That! You’re being an asshole.”

“Oh, I’m being an asshole?” he mocked, “How’s that?”

Rage simmered beneath your skin. You let out a chuckle of disbelief, shaking your head as tears pooled in your eyes. After taking a moment to gather yourself, you spit out, “Do you love me?”

“Do I—?” he furrowed his brow like he didn’t understand, shifting in his seat, “Do I love you?”

“Yes, Frankie. Do you fucking love me or not?”

His indignation melted. Shoulders slumping, gaze going soft. He swallowed hard and looked out at the street as if searching for an escape hatch. Emergency brake. Make it stop.

“Because I love you. I’ve been in love with you for so long… and-and I still don’t know what the fuck I am to you.”

He seemed frozen, staring at something a million miles away without sparing a reaction.

Nine months later, you can still feel the frantic vibration of your bones when you moved closer and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. When his eyes met yours, they were so cold and vacant that you barely recognized him. You tried to get through anyway.

“I need you right now, Frankie. But I need all of you. I can’t be on the back burner anymore. I need you to be with me or I need to let you go.”

“You know I can’t do that. I can’t be with you, not like that.”

“But you could, though. You could. We could do this, we could make it work, start a life together—”

“I won’t leave her,” he shook his head, “I have a family—goddamnit, you knew what this was when it started.”

You sobbed, letting your hands fall away from his face, and his eyelids fluttered with the ghost of an emotion that you didn’t understand.

He started, “I don’t—” then paused, tapping his clamped lips. His bloodshot eyes flicked around the porch and settled a million miles away again, “I don’t love you.”

With this declaration, he took his chisel to you, lined it up in just the right spot, and gave it one firm tap. You crumbled at his feet. Shattered into dust.

He got up and drove off while you were still bawling on the front porch swing.

Onscreen, Toulouse-Lautrec shouts, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!”

It hits you square in the chest.

With tears brimming your eyelids, you jump up and flee to your bedroom before he can see them.

—

Terrible nights sleep. Every time I drifted off, I was in the bedroom at my parents house but it wasn’t in my parents house. He was there but he wasn’t there. I don’t know how to explain it. I felt his presence but knew it wasn't him. I kept my eyes closed because I was scared to see, but I could hear him getting closer and closer. When I opened my eyes I woke up. The feeling stuck to me. It took me forever to fall back asleep and when I did it started over.

Frankie didn’t go to work this morning. I don’t think he slept well either. Heard him walking around all night again. Idk if I should ask him what his deal is. I don’t want to talk to him about it yet and he’ll probably try to do that. Which is weird for him. A year ago I’d give anything for him to open up like he’s been trying to. But it hurts too much right now. It’s so messy. I’m all tangled. I need to straighten myself out before talking about it.

I think I’m going to an al-anon meeting today and I’m nervous. Not sure what to expect. Keep worrying they’ll tell me I don’t belong there or make me talk about him. I don’t know if I belong there. I don’t know if I belong anywhere.

Pulling back from your notebook, you stare at the last sentence for a while before closing the cover and setting it on the end table.

Frankie walks out from his bedroom and rounds the corner to the living room, looking suspiciously formal, wearing slacks and a white dress shirt. His dark curls have been combed into a neat side part. It even looks like he trimmed his facial hair.

As he peeks through the front window curtains, you blurt, “Are you wearing a fucking tie?”

He looks surprised to hear you speak, raising his eyebrows as he glances down at himself, then up at you, “Yeah. I have a uhhh… a deposition today.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Not really either. It’s normal, I guess. They’re just asking me questions on the record.”

Nodding, you study his nervous demeanor, watching him reflexively go to lift his hat, faltering a little before running his fingers through his hair anyway.

A desire to comfort him trickles through you, extinguishing the glowing embers of contempt inside your chest.

“How is the case going, do you know?”

The corner of his mouth pulls back into a kind of grimace. He takes another peek out the window, then steps back and shrugs as he approaches the couch, “The lawyer says they’ll probably offer a plea deal once this is over. We’ll see what that looks like.” He sits down at the other end of the couch, pulling out his phone to keep an eye on the little car on his rideshare app, “He thinks maybe they could agree to a reduced sentence.”

You pick at your frayed cuticles, holding your tongue for as long as you can before asking, “How are you doing with… everything?”

When you glance at him, his face is crooked with contemplation. He shifts in his seat and crosses his arms, lips parting with an answer. A notification dings on his phone.

“My ride’s here,” he murmurs and meets your eyes with an apologetic expression, “We can talk about it later?”

You give him a non-committal smile, “Good luck at your thing.”

—

The woman who gave you your new member packet, apparently the leader of the meeting, looks around the room and announces,

“This afternoon, our fearless speaker will be Taylor. Everybody please welcome Taylor.”

From the back row, you sink down in your metal folding chair and glance around at the attendees, joining in when they start to clap for a woman approaching the podium.

“Hi everyone, my name is Taylor. I’m a member of Al-Anon.”

The room responds in unison, “Hi Taylor.”

Taylor smiles and shakes her head, looking down at a small stack of trembling notecards. Her round shoulders raise with a deep breath. She closes her eyes for a moment, exhales, then looks up at the room.

“If you would’ve told me a year ago I’d be the speaker at an Al-Anon group, there’s no way I’d believe you. But here I am,” she chuckles, “Wow. Thank you everyone for coming in today. I see so many familiar faces and some not so familiar faces and I’m grateful to see all of you. I’m proud of you for coming to this meeting today.

“One of the biggest preconceived notions I had when I started attending Al-Anon meetings nine months ago is that they would help me support my alcoholic husband. At the time, he was about a month into sobriety and had just started going to AA meetings. He was struggling like hell and a friend of his asked if he wanted to go to an AA meeting with him. So he did.

“I’ll be honest, when he suggested I go to Al-Anon, I was annoyed. I really was. At that point, we’d been married for five years. He tried quitting, oh, I don’t know… six times in that five years? Three 90-day inpatient rehab stays, two arrests, more sleepless nights than I can count.”

Taylor pauses and looks down at her notes, then back up at the room as an amused smile spreads across her face.

“What it always reminded me of was this story my husband told me. Every so often, he goes through these phases where he gets very very interested in a particular subject. It completely takes him over. All he wants to do is read about it and talk about it and… well, you get it.

“When he was in his Greek mythology era, he told me about Sisyphus, the king of Ephyra. Sisyphus killed people who visited his palace, which angered the gods because they considered it impolite, which is the understatement of the millennium, but that’s neither here nor there. When Sisyphus died, Hades punished him to an eternity rolling a boulder uphill. He would fight his way up this steep hill, pushing the boulder with all his might. The boulder was enchanted, though, and every time the it got near the top, the boulder would roll back down the hill, then he’d have to try again. So he does this over and over and over for eternity. Infinite frustration and exhaustion.

“Sometimes it felt like that with him. With my alcoholic. Like I was stuck in this loop, fighting like hell to push his dead weight to the top of the hill. Just when I got a scrap of hope, it went tumbling back down. Over and over and over again. I structured my whole life around his relationship to alcohol. Checking in with him constantly, making sure I didn’t say or do anything that might trigger another relapse, putting myself on the back burner to accommodate his needs. So when he suggested I try going to Al-Anon meetings, I expected it to be another chore catering to his sobriety. I thought I would come here and learn all the ways people support the alcoholic in their life the right way. Because I obviously wasn’t doing it the right way. If I was, he would have years of sobriety under his belt.

“Regardless, I agreed to go, and quickly discovered my preconceived notions about Al-Anon were wrong. Al-Anon doesn’t exist for us to better service the alcoholic or alcoholics in our lives. Sure, we’re all here because of the alcoholic in our lives, but the point is to better service ourselves. I think that distinction is important.

“When I came home from my first meeting, I went through the new member packet Mario gave me, and found a handout that said: Detachment is neither kind nor unkind,” Taylor nods at the memory and looks around the room, “That struck a chord with me, that phrase. Detachment is neither kind nor unkind. It didn’t make sense to me at first. I thought, how is detachment neither kind nor unkind? It went against my instincts completely. How was I supposed to help my husband if I detached from him? Isn’t love about being attached to someone, sticking together through thick and thin?

“Attending meetings and working the steps helped me get a better grasp on the concept. I came to understand that, in Al-Anon, detachment can mean two different things. The first is separating the person you love from their alcoholic behaviors. The second is a little harder to define, but it centers around the idea that you are separate from other people, and their actions do not control yours. Let me show you what I mean, though.

“In my relationship with my husband, we were entangled,” Taylor laces her hands together and holds them up for everyone to see. “Wherever he went, I went, too.” She moves her clasped hands back and forth. Spreading her hands apart, she says, “I didn’t want to be apart from him. But what I found with detachment is,” she flattens her hands palm-to-palm, “We can be close without being entangled. That way, if he goes to a dark place,” she moves one hand away from the other and shakes her head, “I don’t have to go with him if I don’t want to.”

Taylor looks around the room, allowing her words to sink in, then returns her attention to the stack of notecards and flips to the next.

“When we detach in this way, it both relieves us of our perceived responsibility for their actions and emotions, and grants them autonomy to make their own choices. They deserve dignity and freedom, which is difficult to obtain if we try to manage their lives.

“So often in our marriage, I thought that loving my alcoholic meant rescuing him from himself. I thought that if I exerted myself hard enough, pushed him up that steep hill long enough, we would get to the top together. But the effort was Sisyphean. It didn’t matter how much time or effort I put into controlling the direction of the boulder. It would always roll downhill, because the boulder was enchanted. Even if I spent an eternity trying, even if I begged and screamed and pleaded with the boulder, it would still be enchanted. And, you know… maybe that’s ok. Maybe he’s not meant to sit at the top of the hill. It’s not his fault, either, and I came to realize that instead of getting frustrated at him for being enchanted, I can meet him where he is and love him anyway. If I don’t like that place, I don’t have to stay there. When I detach with love, I grant myself autonomy as well as him.

“Putting the metaphor aside, I’ve used this in practice by no longer lying for him. If he’s at an AA meeting and our daughter asks why he’s not home, I tell her the truth. When my family or friends ask how everything is going, I don’t try to make it seem easier than it is so he can save face. I confide in them with sincerity because that is what I need. I’ve stopped giving him advice unless he asks for it, because I’ve learned here that most times people don’t need advice, they just need someone to listen and be present. I’ve stopped trying to take the reins when I think he’s making poor decisions, because he doesn’t need someone to do it for him. He needs to learn to do it himself. Part of learning is making mistakes and growing out from beneath the consequences.

“Detachment is neither kind nor unkind, it’s a tool we utilize to free ourselves and the alcoholic in our lives. Al-Anon doesn’t exist to teach us how to help the alcoholic in our lives, although the tools it gives us can aid in their recovery as well as ours. This fellowship exists to help us, the families of the alcoholic, so that we may lead more joyful and serene lives. Thank you.”

Applause erupts from the crowd, and you join in, watching Taylor glow with pride as she steps away from the podium.

—

Damp, hot air pours in through the rolled-down windows, carrying with it the earthy scent of algae-bloom off East Lake Tohopekaliga. Driving along the slow, steady curve, you pass by sprawling oak trees, their eaves all draped in spanish moss.

Your hope was that taking the scenic route home would clear your head, but it’s not doing the trick. Something shifted inside you during the meeting. You can’t quite put your finger on exactly what shifted or why it happened, although your circular thoughts give you the sense you’re on the precipice of understanding.

You keep thinking about the speaker, Taylor, and the lesson she relayed from her podium. Her situation is different from yours, but you know it all the same. You know how it feels to dig your heels into the dirt, struggling like hell to push someone in the direction you think is best. You know how it feels to see him tumble to the bottom time and time again. And for what? It’s not like he’s any better off because of your efforts. It’s not like you are, either.

How many times have you betrayed yourself for the sake of his favor? How many times have you put your needs aside to tend to his?

Calm blue-gray water flickers behind the trees you drive past. It looks peaceful. Further up the road, you spot a public access point to the lake and turn into the lot, hitting a bump. When you do, a loud BANG reverberates through the car. The steering wheel shakes as you slow to a jerky, lopsided stop.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you fume, shifting the car into park. Folding forward onto the steering wheel, you pinch your eyes shut and take a deep breath, then exit the vehicle to look at the damage.

The front driver’s side tire sits flat against the pavement. You stare at it and shake your head, muttering, “God fucking damnit,” before walking to the trunk.

You open it and pull up the mat to the spare tire well. It’s empty.

“Fucking of course. Jesus fucking—”

Cutting yourself off with a furious groan, you pull out your phone and go through your contact list, pointedly scrolling past the F’s to pause at Leah, who’s over an hour away, then Marla, who’s busy enough as it is. You even briefly consider Rory, but the idea makes your stomach lurch.

You could just do it all yourself. Order a car on one of those rideshare apps. It would take forever, though, and you’ve never changed a tire before.

Frankie is the logical choice. The first person who came to mind, if you’re being honest. Something hard and stubborn inside your chest throbs when you hover over his name.

It’s pride, you realize. Maybe a little fear. You don’t want to ask for his help. You don’t want to burden him. You don’t want to be disappointed if he says no.

All the same, you dial his number. He picks up on the second ring.

“H—”

“Are you at the house?”

“I am.”

“Are you busy?”

“Nothing I can’t put off ‘til later. Why?”

“My fucking tire blew out, and my spare is in the garage,” you sigh and throw your head back, propping a hand on your hip, “Is there any way you can bring it out to me?”

“I, umm… yeah, of course. Where are you?”

“East Lake Toho.”

He snorts, “Christ, what’re you doing all the way out there?” In the background, you hear the floorboards creaking, mapping his way through the house. Before you can respond, he asks, “Spare tire in the garage, need me to grab anything else?”

“Uhhhh…” you wrinkle your nose at the trunk, “I don’t know, I have a jack and the tire iron thing.”

“That should do it. Wanna drop me a pin? I’ll have to get a ride out there.”

“Yeah. I can pay you back if you need to order a Lyft or whatever.”

“Just take it off my tab,” he jokes, the back door squeaking open behind his voice, “Hang tight, I’ll be there in a bit.”

You turn around to lean back on the bumper, “Ok, I’ll be here.”

After hanging up, you share your location with him, then wander down to the dock. It rattles around as you teeter to the end and sit down, letting your feet dangle over the edge.

Cattails and lily pads have been cleared from the shoreline near the boat landing, giving you a clear view across the lake, broken up here and there by thick swaths of aquatic vegetation. The glassy surface of the water reflects the hazy blue sky, and stagnant air sticks humid to your skin. Insects buzz and birds sing and somewhere far away you hear a boat motor chugging across the lake.

When you think of serenity, this is what you picture. Stillness and calm. Peace. You inhale the scene, allowing it to stretch out inside you and unfurl your tensed muscles.

As soon as the unease evaporates from your body, fatigue takes over.

Lying back on the dock, you stare up at tall, fluffy clouds littering the sky. Your eyelids grow heavy as you watch the slow-moving parade of shifting giants, the warm air lulling you into comfort until you let your eyes drift closed.

Your awareness fades in and out while you sleep. At one point, a car door shuts, then the car drives off. Vaguely, you know it’s Frankie but can’t lift your limbs, syrupy thick with lethargy. You hear grunts and metallic clattering. Some time later, your trunk slams shut.

When the dock starts wobbling around beneath you, you blink your eyes open and sit up, scrubbing your hands over your face as a yawn overtakes you.

“Hey sleepyhead.”

You glance over your shoulder at Frankie, who comes to sit down beside you with a groan. He’s back to his usual attire, jeans and a t-shirt, baseball cap firmly in place atop his head.

Still groggy, you yawn, “I couldn’t make myself wake up.”

“Not sleeping well?”

“Fucking awful, honestly.”

“Yeah, I know.”

You frown at him, searching his face until he gives you a little shrug, at which point you mumble, “Oh. I forgot that I, umm… yeah. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he tells you, squinting up at the sky before dropping his eyes to his hands as he fiddles with his wedding band, “Same here. The—the sleep part, not the nightmares.”

“Yeah, I know. I hear you pacing around at night.”

“Oh… sorry, I didn’t realize—”

You push yourself up straighter to watch his legs dangle next to yours, “It’s fine.”

Quiet settles comfortably between you. Near the dock, you see a cluster of bubbles rise to the surface of the lake and burst. The ripples flatten out and calm returns.

A question swells in your ribcage. Just a small pocket of air at first, maybe the size of a pebble. The longer you sit and stare at the water, though, it expands. It works its way up your throat, taking up more and more space with each passing second until you can’t contain it any more.

“So you were lying to me, right? About not being with her?”

He meets your gaze, dark eyes all remorseful and gooey, then he nods, “Yeah. I was lying. To both of you.”

Folding your legs up onto the dock, you look away in the hope that he won’t notice the tears starting to come. When he speaks, his voice comes out hoarse and quiet.

“How much do you want me to tell you?”

The question replaces the air in your lungs with a vibrating sensation. Another cluster of bubbles dissolve on the surface of the lake. You manage to croak, “I don’t know.”

He doesn’t respond. You sense that he’s waiting for you to make the next move.

Your mind wanders to the front porch swing that night you forced him to choose. He felt so far away. Until he told you differently, you were so certain he was in love with you.

“I don’t know how to trust your words as truth, Frankie. All the way back to the start, I don’t know what was real and what was bullshit and I am fucking—” your voice cracks from the emotion burning up your throat.

He goes to comfort you, but pulls back before making contact.

Every cell inside you aches for him to bridge the gap. You follow the instinct, grabbing his shirt to curl into his shoulder. As soon as you do, he wraps his arms tight around you, bringing you in closer.

A wave of moth-eaten hurt wells up your chest.

“Why?” you sob, “Why did you do this to me? I don’t understand—”

He starts to rock you in a slow, soothing motion, burying his face in your hair as you cry into the collar of his shirt. In the background, behind your racing thoughts and shattered breaths, you hear him whisper on repeat: I’m sorry, baby… I’m so sorry.

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butchsophiewalten · 10 months ago

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There's this interconnected web of Walten Files Information that keeps coming back into my mind which I meant to make a post about a while ago. Which is as follows:

-We know from the Richie audios in Findjackwalten/caretakerlibrary that Rosemary had already been banned from (or at least highly discouraged from entering) Bon's Burgers by the 1st of July, which is quite a ways away from when she disappeared on the 19th. I definitely wouldn't put it past her to sneak into the restaurant during its off-hours, but we know at least that her being there wasn't formally sanctioned.

-From the way he talks to and interacts with Susan in TWF4, it seems that Bon's 'Selection Process' for who he 'beautifies' is not arbitrary, nor is it necessarily opportunistic. Which is to say that he's not picking people at random, and he's not picking people only because they would be an easy target. He watches them, and chooses them based on criteria they exhibit which appeal to him. In essence, he picks people he likes, who he thinks belong in his Wonderland.

-There's a near-undeniable but Implicit fixation that Bon has on Rosemary, which we only learn through many, many small things. The 'shrine' we see him create for her in Souvenir is relatively elaborate, (in that it seems to contain more than one object that is associated with her,) and he put her in Sha, which is the companion animatronic to his Bon. Rose's death scene in TWF2 also makes it seem like he spoke to her, as the Bon animatronic, before killing her. What he says exactly is notable, too. "Rose broken. Will fix you. You will beautiful." It's, one, an explanation of what he's doing. Bon did this for Susan too, but not in the 'physical world,' before he actually hurt her. Also, it's comfort. A soothing reassurance. I'll fix you. You'll be beautiful. Then also, of course, he calls her Rosie. "I know where he is, Rosie," is a line that haunts me forever, thinking of it coming from him.

This all paints a specific sort of picture in my mind. I like to think that Bon likes Rosemary a lot, and that she's a favorite of his, because she designed The Showstoppers. I think he likes Susan quite a lot for a similar reason, she was the woman who gave him his flesh and his bone. Who forged the vessel that he now lives for. But Rosemary is the artist who made it what he loves. She was the visionary who made him Beautiful.

So I think that Bon had his heart set on Rosemary for Wonderland. And it makes me wonder if the contentions between her and Felix that kept him away from her really pissed him off. But the core of my 'theory' here is just that Bon wanted her in the restaurant, that night. That she maybe wouldn't have been there at all, if someone hadn't asked her to be.

#chirps #I have a small addition to this theory/observation #which is just that I think Rosemary's death was very violent and slapdash because Bon was very excited #and he was maybe being very indulgent. He was enjoying himself #Which I say because Rose's death led to the shutdown of the restaurant. And I definitely don't think Bon wanted that #especially not before his project was complete.#I've seen some people question why Rosemary would be in the serial disappearances restaurant in the middle of the night to begin with #and risk leaving her daughter behind #which frankly isn't the most unreasonable criticism #and this is the answer which makes the most sense to me

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sibsteria · 4 months ago

Text

Your web, I’m caught….

Mikey Way x Fem!Reader x Patrick Stump

part three

Warnings/Content: heavy angst, alcohol, hurt

Summary: Everyone always kisses and tells at some point….(not proof read) @bulletsmichaelway

1 | 2 | 3

Full of nicotine, adrenaline and maybe just a drop of anxiety, you enter back into the bar through where you came. Instruments safely locked away in the van and a new lease on life for tonight, you decide to let go of all the bother- to just try and have a fun time tonight or so you thought.

''Beer?'' You nudge Frank, smiling slightly.

''It's like you live inside of me!'' Frank sort of exclaims, dragging you to the bar.

''Ew.'' You scrunch up your nose, faking a disgust.

''Vodka shots or Everclear?'' Frank's eyes twinkle with mischief, a look you have seen way too many times to count.

''I thought we were getting beers for now?'' You squint, giggling a tad, you never believed it wohld be just beers anyway.

''When have you ever believed that?'' He rolls his eyes, ordering six shots of Everclear, and four beers. You raise your eyebrow, four beers?

''What!'' He looks offended, ''You got two hands, right?'' You chuckle, putting your forehead on his shoulder.

''Right.''

Pete is staring for across the bar, eyeing up Frank. You know Patrick is here, right? Are you flirting with some guy, right in front of them? Of course, you don't owe anybody anything but...still?

You body three shots each, before downing half of a beer bottle.

''God, I hate you- I fucking hate Everclear!'' You scream over the music, it somehow getting louder as each minute passes.

''No, you don't! You hate me later when your head is in someone's toilet!'' He downs a full beer like it's water, you shrug, getting rid of the rest of your half drank bottle the same way.

The rest of the guys show their faces, drinks in hand, you gesture to the dance floor.

Ray shakes his head, smiling ear to ear, he is no way drunk enough- and he probably shouldn't try as he is the designated driver.

Gee bites his lip, debating it, holding up a finger as if to say 'one moment' before getting himself some shots.

Mikey looks at you, the loud music seems to disappear as you look in his eyes, flashes of colour igniting inside them from the lights above. You put your hands together, praying and giving him a pout. He tries to hide a smile, failing miserably. Rolling his eyes he walks over to you, grabbing his hand and yelling for Frank to follow. Letting go when you find a good enough space.

The shots from earlier catch up with you within five minutes, being shared between Mikey and Frank as the music roared. Mikey's way of dancing is refined and shy, twirling you occasionally, small hugs from behind. Whereas Frank seems to think you're his guitar, throwing you out with one hand before spinning you into him, nearly crashing to the ground a few times.

As Frank picks you up, spinning you around, causing you to spill your beer a little, you laugh ferociously.

''Y/n!'' A yell calls out, discombobulated as you find your footing again, you turn towards the sound, Gerard has joined the party leaving Ray talking to a pretty girl at the bar.

''Gee!'' You scream, tackling him into a hug, nearly taking him down.

''Hey, sugar-'' He giggles at you as you twirl around, now in the middle of the three boys, letting the music take over you. Ray finally joins the group, the cute girl in tow.

As time goes on, Mikey gets undeniably smashed, his cheeks are flushed and he can barely stop laughing. He looks kind of cute like this. He's stumbling a little, you catch him, stopping him from hitting the deck- or maybe you just wanted an excuse to touch him.

''Hi.'' You whisper in his ear.

''Hm?'' He blinks at you, like he can't see, his glasses are missing- you notice them in his pocket.

''How much have you had?'' You giggle, letting go of him as he can stand on his own now.

''I made a mistake.'' He ignores your question, talking to Gerard next to him, you frown a little- does he not realise your here?

''Huh?'' Gee looks at him as he speaks.

''Made a mistake.'' Mikey mumbles.

''Like what?' Gerard eggs him on, expectantly.

''Y/n.'' That's all you need to hear before you walk away, a mistake? Is that what he really thought?

Tears prick your eyes, no, not tonight. He's just drunk.

Frank notices and holds out his hand, you accept.

You didn't hear the rest of the conversation, deciding to let dancing win the argument inside your head.

''How?'' Gerard is totally clueless.

''We...I..had sex and-'' Gerard's mouth hangs open.

''What!'' He roars, ''You had sex with my best friend?'' He looked a little angry now. Mikey sobers up a little at the outburst, his brother's spit spraying in his face with anger, realising what he just spilled.

''Yeah, and I made a mistake-''

''What the hell, dude, you can't just fuck with her like that-''

''No! I...I fucked it up.'' Gerard looks at him, confused. ''I was s'pose to treat her well, clean her up and stuff-'' Gerard gags a little at the thought of you covered in Mikey, ''but I just panicked and left.''

If Gerard thought he saw flames before, he does now.

''You, what!'' His heart breaks at how sad you must have been.

''I know, I-''

''Do you love her? Like her?'' He interrogates.

''No! Yes, I mean- I do like her, I-we keep kissing and stuff and she looks so pretty-'' He groans in frustration.

''Fucking figure it out.''

''I do, like her. You know how I am with relationships-''

''I don't care, you figure it out- what you want. Don't touch her until you figure it out, I don't want her to feel any more broken than she does. You don't sit there and console her, catching her tears. She may seem tough but...she's a sensitive person, Mikes.'' If you were there you may have gave him a smack up the head for spilling your secrets, but it was the truth. Even though you know Mikey is struggling with whatever this is you have blooming- you aren't doing yourself any favours by continuing to kiss him- you should probably stop that.

''Fine! I'll leave her alone, whatever.'' He rolls his eyes, he knew there was no point trying with you- better to fuck it up now rather than later. No matter how much he hated what his brother was saying he knew it was true. He wasn't someone who liked relationships, having only lost his virginity last night too- maybe that was why he liked you so much. You probably don't even like him that much, thinking about it.

The rest of Fall Out Boy finally catch you in the crowd, Pete having glared a little too hard in your direction.

''She's replaced us.'' Joe shrugs, jokingly.

''That's it, we come all the way here, Patrick practically begging God for her to be here and she's replaced us.'' Joe's dry humour, as always.

''Hey?'' Patrick yells out at the insult.

''She's so different.'' Andy tilts his head, you were more confident, a little lot more crazy than usual.

''She's still so beautiful.'' Patrick smiles at you, in your zone, laughing without a care in the world, or so it looked to everyone else.

''Think we should go over there?'' Pete grumbles, still suspicious of you and Frank.

''What, a good old fashioned kidnapping?'' Joe smiles at the idea.

''Never hurt anybody.'' Andy shrugs.

I hear you calling and it's needles and pins (and pins)

The boys, wade through the crowd, Patrick stopping himself from running to you.

I wanna hurt you just to hear you screaming my name

You are throwing your hair around, carefree and fucked up, you don't notice the rose fall from your hair.

Don't wanna touch you, but you're under my skin (deep in)

A hand taps you on the shoulder, you notice the rose they are holding in their hand before you look up to meet their face. Your breath hitches, the same feeling you got when you looked at Mikey. Patrick stands there, a cute little blush on his face, sheepish and kind.

''Thank you.'' You attempt take the rose from his hand, before you can he slides under your wrist and up to your elbow on your other arm, stepping closer to you. You swallow, heart beating faster as his breath fans against your face.

''Patrick-'' You start but are cut off.

''Don't say anything...just....'' He tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, along with the stem of the rose. You subconsciously lean into his touch a little, a familiar comfort giving you a shudder or tingles.

I wanna kiss you, but your lips are venomous poison

The lyrics to the song playing scream in your head as Patrick looks at you as if you created the universe.

''Patrick, I need to tell you-'' You glance away, looking for Mikey, you don't want to hurt anyone-

You find the back of Mikey's head, as he turns around you see something that tears you in two.

Mikey has his tongue down the pretty girl from the bar, the one Ray had his eye on.

Oh, so you lose your virginity and think you're too good for me? She thinks. I thought we had something going.

She had no regret's for what she was about to do now,

You're poison running through my veins

She looks at Patrick, he looks down at her, politely awaiting her words. His caring eyes and pretty face swarming her sight.

She grabs his collar, pulling him down to her lips, sliding her hands around his neck as he puts his hands on her waist. He wastes no time in deepening it, their bodies slotting together like they were moulded to. She isn't thinking about Mikey at all anymore, just Patrick- how he tastes, how he smells, how he wraps his arms around her more, pulling her in deeper. Her nose bumps against his as she opens her mouth the tiniest bit, his tongue swiping against her lips, giving a soft tug with his teeth. He kisses her like he used to, full of meaning and more passion than fathomable. A moan gets stuck in his throat as she kisses down his jaw and down his neck- sucking in his skin, biting and licking until a small mark forms in a pretty obvious place.

''I really fucking missed you.'' She gasps as he swears, his glasses are crooked, foggy and his cheeks are dusted with pink.

''Fucking missed you too, 'Trick.'' The nickname she gave him coming out of her mouth as easy as blinking, her skin buzzed and her insides twisted together as she looked at his face.

Mikey still had his mouth on the girl, eventually getting noticed by Frank.

''Hey- what the fuck, dude?!'' He drags Mikey off her by his shirt, Frank is beyond pissed.

''What!'' Mikey is utterly confused.

''She fucking told me you guys fucked! Dude, she really likes you, why would you do this? And Ray? You better hope he didn't see this.'' Frank stands, intimidating, it didn't matter that Mikey was taller than him- if looks could kill.

''Oh.'' The colour drains from his face, he did kind of disrespect Ray.

''Oh?'' Frank looks like he's going to punch something, something called Mikey.

''She said she likes me?'' Frank groans, nearly smacking his head in disbelief.

''That's all you heard? She probably doesn't anymore, even if she didn't see this, I'll be fucking telling her, man. What did she ever do to you?'' Frank felt like it was his job to be protective over her, his heart tugging at the fact she could be crying somewhere.

He doesn't know how to answer Frank's question.

''Nothin'...'' He mumbles.

''Fuckin' thought so.'' Frank shoulder barges him as he walks away, on a search for the girl. Mikey squeezes his eyes shut, in total regret.

''You want a drink?'' Patrick mumbles into her ear before kissing her temple.

''Mhm.'' She nods at him, closing her eyes, leaning into him. He grins down at the girl before walking to the bar, a certain joy in his step.

She starts to look around, none of her best friends anywhere to be seen.

''Found you.'' A monotone, recognisable voice, void of his usual swagger.

''Pete...hey.'' I smile, he doesn't smile back, I tilt my head at him slightly.

''I saw you, with that short guy, Patrick still loves you y'know?'' He stands, arms crossed over his chest.

''Short guy..?'' You mumble, Mikey isn't sho- ''What, Frank?! No way. Dude! You are so wrong- and short? You're one to talk, Wentz.'' You bump his shoulder.

''Wait so...you're not flirting with him?'' He looks a little calmer now.

''Not with Frankie, he's just a friend.'' I giggle, rolling my eyes, I suppose I can keep Mikey a secret for now.

''Oh. Okay.'' He shrugs, smiling.

''Besides-'' Before you can tell him anything, Patrick comes up behind you, putting an arm around your shoulders. Pete grins like it's Christmas Day, he was always the biggest Patrick-Y/n shipper. His eyes are shining at the two of you, he does a small clap.

''When did this happen? Yes! Patrick, I knew you could do it!'' He laughs, slapping Patrick on the back.

''Actually-'' I start.

''She kissed me.'' 'Trick blushes, looking down.

''This calls for a celebration.'' You weren't exactly together, you'd only kissed him. Will you get back together with him? How would this work, he still lives in Chicago? You would have to talk about this when you're sober.

''Slow down, Petey.'' I giggle, getting dragged to the bar.

Was this all a little fast? I mean, kissing Patrick? Dismissing Mikey? Your head feels a heavier as you battle with yourself.

I see Frank a couple of people down, shouting his name, I motion for him to join us.

''Frankie!'' You give him a hug, happy to see someone who doesn’t care about who you’re kissing and who you’re not.

''Y/n, I love you, and because of that- I need to tell you something, and you're not going to like it-'' His eyes are full of pity, a grimace painting his features.

''I saw him...if that's what you were gonna' say...I saw what he- doesn't matter.'' I shake my head, I'm not going to let this upset me.

''Oh..shit...are you okay?'' He rubs my shoulder, I take a deep breath.

''I think? I mean, if he really didn't like me he could have just told me, y'know? If all of it was just sex then...there's no reason I should beat myself up about it.'' He breaths out a sigh.

''Just...don't go leaving the band because of him-''

''I just joined, officially, babe- I'm not going anywhere.'' I giggle. So far, Pete and Patrick were too focused on their own conversation, but Patrick must have heard that last sentence as he turns over to us- a questioning look on his face.

''Oh, 'Trick, this is Frank- he's one of my best buds.'' You nod at him.

''Nice to meet you, the guitarist, right?'' He holds an unsure hand out at him to shake.

''Yeah! You're Patrick? The ex?'' Frank looks at you, you know that look, he grins at Patrick- full of mischief.

''Oh, um, yeah-'' Patrick wasn't expecting that, Frankie can be rather blunt.

''Leave him be Frankie.'' You warn.

''Was he good to you? He didn't break your heart did he?''

''Yes. He was good to me.'' You roll my eyes, punching him, not too hard but enough for him to yelp.

''Just gotta' vet 'em, Y/n.'' He chuckles.

''Wanna' hang with us tomorrow?'' Pete smiles at me, Patrick puts his arm around my waist, kissing me on the cheek.

''Absolutely, I gotta be home before twelve, though.'' Your face falls at the realisation the weekend is over soon, back to reality you go.

''Shit...'' Frank mutters looking behind me, you turn your head, trying to peek.

''Hi....'' Mikey gives an awkward half smile, his insides twisting at the sight in front of him.

''M-...Mikey.'' You avoid his eyes as much as you can, biting your lip trying to distract yourself from the discomfort in the air.

''So, he told you?'' Mikey swallows, looking at Frank, he almost looks upset.

''Didn't have to...'' You suck in a breath, dropping the fact you had seen him.

''Told you what?'' 'Trick looks at you confused.

''Nothing, doesn't matter-''

''What are you doing with him?'' Mikey mentions towards the singer stood, still with his hand on your waist, a small growing anger embeds itself in Mikey's guts.

''What do you mean? Are you serious, Mikey?'' You scoff at the audicaty.

''I-I didn't mean it! It was a stupid mistake-''

''And you would know all about stupid mistakes, wouldn't you!'' You had heard him and he knew that now.

''Y/n, no- that wasn't, I didn't say-'' Mikey's lip starts trembling a little.

''Save it.'' You hold back your tears, this is so stupid.

''Okay, did we miss something here?'' Pete starts, talking for his friend who is just stood in silence.

''Y/n...I promise I didn't mean it like that, you weren't a mistake, please-'' He steps closer to you, Patrick's hand slightly grips you a little firmer.

''You had your tongue down that girl's throat!'' You step out his grasp, face to face with Mikey.

''This your boyfriend, Y/n?'' Patrick's voice wobbles a bit, unsure, but a pinch of anger can be heard.

''He is not my boyfriend and he never will be.'' You spit in Mikey's face, his heart shatters, it's pretty clear to him what he feels for you in this moment.

''Please don't say that- it must have meant something to you-'' Mikey's mouth carries on spewing.

''So it was this guy? Not Frank? Jesus, Y/n.'' Pete face is hardened as he speaks.

''It was before I knew you guys were here and...before I knew about 'Trick-''

''Okay, am I going crazy- shut him up Y/n, this is between us.'' Mikey glares at Pete, arms crossed over his chest.

''The fuck?'' Pete growls.

''Did you...sleep with him?'' Patrick mumbles.

''Yes! But-'' You scream a little, this is a very overwhelming experience.

''It's okay...you...it's not your fault. You didn't know.'' Patrick tries to be understanding.

''Didn't know what? Who are you?'' Mikey furrows his eyebrows at him.

''Her ex or well...maybe something more as...we did just kiss.'' Patrick didn't know what came over him, between looking at the guy staring daggers at him and the distress that Y/n was in- maybe he was looking for a little bit of trouble. The way this guy was talking about him- he felt the need to get a little defensive. You look at Patrick, he would never act this way on a usual day.

“Hey..Patrick-“ Your eyes harden on him a little before you are interrupted.

''You kissed him?'' Mikey's face contorts into something.

''You kissed that slut! Or did I go blind?'' You roll your eyes.

''I didn't mean it, I said I was sorry!''

''No you didn't!'' You don't notice the tears fall down your face.

''Shit! I'm sorry! Please, I am so sorry....Y/n....'' Mikey tries to grab your hands but you pull them away from him.

''Just go...'' You scoff, grabbing Frank by the hand as you storm off, he's the only one you trust to see you this vulnerable right now. Ignoring everyone calling after you, you walk out the front entrance, a cigarette handed to you before you can even ask, you pat your pockets down for a lighter- coming up empty. Frank puts your cig between your lips before cupping your jaw lightly, leaning down to light it up with his own.

''Thanks.'' You muffle, inhaling.

''Boys, huh.'' Frank tries an ironic joke.

''I wanna go...not home, just...somewhere that isn't here.'' I sigh, blowing out my smoke into the fog and cold, a strong breeze coming your way.

''I can get Ray to drop us off at my house, no one's home.'' He suggests, and it sounds perfect. No Mikey, no past from Chicago...just normalcy.

''Sure.'' You shiver a little, before you know it he's hugging you as you silently cry into his shoulder.

...

The drive is silent, not uncomfortable, just peaceful- Ray refrained from any love ballads and heartbreaking songs- just good old rock. The three of you manage to fit up front, Ray driving, then you and Frank on your right.

You pull up outside his house, Ray placing a palm on your shoulder before you can follow Frank out the van.

''A moment?''

You look at Frank and he nods, ''I'll leave the door open.'' he kisses your hand before going inside.

''Seems your in a tough place right now.'' He starts.

''Yeah...seems that way...'' You sigh, looking at your lap, where your fingers lay twiddling.

''I've heard a lot of things tonight, from a few different people- before we left. I'm not as absent as people may think, I observe a lot of things, y'know?'' You nod, ''I think you know what to do...I see the way you look at him.'' You roll your eyes.

''C'mon don't give me that, you love him- it's clear as day and I think it's about time you make some decisions.''

''Who?''

Mikey Patrick [REDACTED]

(a/n omg a choose your own adventure)

#mikey way lovers come get your food #fall out boy #andy hurley #fall out boy x reader #frank iero #gerard way #joe trohman #mcr x reader #mcr #mikey way #mikey way is sooooo hot #mikey way imagine #mikey way x reader #patrick stump x reader #frank iero x reader #Spotify

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