#Furniture Certification

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[iso-updates]

PEFC Multiple Site Certification: A Path to Sustainability and Market Leadership in Furniture Industry

Customers are becoming more and more concerned with environmental responsibility, ethical sourcing, and sustainability in today's market. Furniture producers and merchants can show their dedication to these principles by obtaining certification, primarily via the Programme for the Endorsement of Forest Certification (PEFC). 

The PEFC Multiple Site Certification provides a simplified method for companies with several locations to guarantee that all of their branches or sites follow sustainable forestry practices.

With an emphasis on the advantages, the certification procedure, the furniture industry's applicability, and how it may improve furniture companies' total value proposition, this guide offers a thorough analysis of the PEFC Multi-Site Standard.

Overview of PEFC Multiple Site Certification

Through third-party certification, the PEFC, a global organization, promotes sustainable forest management. Its guidelines are intended to guarantee that forests are maintained in a way that protects ecological balance, conserves biodiversity, and upholds the rights of nearby populations.

Organizations that operate in several locations but wish to maintain consistent sustainable sourcing and forest management practices across all sites can apply for the PEFC Multiple Site. It offers an economical and effective means of extending certification to several places while upholding a consistent set of sustainability requirements.

This accreditation guarantees that sustainable practices are implemented consistently throughout all branches of the furniture industry, where businesses may have several manufacturing facilities, warehouses, and retail locations.

Why Is PEFC Certification Important for the Furniture Industry?

Given how dependent the furniture business is on raw resources, sourcing critical, especially wood, is imperative. In the global supply chain, illegal logging, deforestation, and environmental degradation are major challenges. Furniture companies may demonstrate that the wood and wood-derived products they use come from sustainably managed forests by obtaining PEFC Multiple Site Certification for Furniture.

Businesses may meet the increasing customer demand for sustainably produced items by obtaining PEFC certification. Reducing environmental effects is only one of its goals; fair trade practices and long-term forest management are also supported.

PEFC Multiple Site Certification's Benefits for Furniture Companies

Steady Sustainability at Various Locations: The multiple-site accreditation guarantees consistency in environmental initiatives throughout all company sites. This accreditation supports your brand's values and objectives by helping you uphold a consistent commitment to sustainability, regardless of the number of factories, distribution facilities, or retail locations you operate.

Economical: It can be expensive and time-consuming for large furniture companies with several sites to secure separate certificates for each location. A single audit that covers all sites is made possible by the consolidation of the process through the PEFC Multiple Site. This is a more effective approach to guarantee sustainable operations since it lowers expenses and administrative difficulties.

Increasing Market Rivalry: In the market, sustainability is quickly becoming a crucial distinction. Products derived from sustainably produced resources are becoming more and more popular among consumers and corporate clients. Furniture firms that achieve PEFC accreditation might differentiate themselves from competitors without the same certification and draw in eco-conscious clientele.

Obtaining Entry into New Markets: Regulations governing the import and sale of uncertified wood and wood products are becoming more stringent in many global markets, especially in North America and Europe. By guaranteeing that your furniture satisfies these areas' sustainability criteria, PEFC certification can help you get access to new markets.

Enhanced Management of the Supply Chain: PEFC accreditation promotes supply chain traceability and transparency. Businesses that have certifications are required to keep records and paperwork attesting to the sources of their supplies. This enhances supply chain management and assists businesses in reducing the risks associated with unethical sourcing and illicit logging.

Brand Reputation and Customer Trust: Certification contributes to the development of trust, as customers place a growing emphasis on sustainability. Customers will understand from your PEFC accreditation that your company is dedicated to environmental sustainability and ethical sourcing. This can build enduring client loyalty and improve the reputation of your business.

How Does Opting Furniture with PEFC Certification Help Enhance Livelihood?

Certification of sustainable forest management takes time. To complete the procedure, a substantial amount of time, money, cooperation, and communication are needed. For the millions of tiny, family-owned, and community forest owners that make up around 20% of all forest owners worldwide, this may be a barrier to entrance (IUCN, 2018).

Additionally, compared to larger-scale wood producers, smallholders have distinct demands and confront various difficulties. However, their involvement is essential to the goal of sustainable production. These smallholders not only oversee millions of hectares of forest, but they also frequently interact with forests directly, depending on them for both their livelihoods and the security of their food supply.

That is the reason forest certification is now attainable and available to foresters of all sizes, and why smallholder inclusion is so vital to PEFC. Access equity is essential to our organization's founding.

From Forest to Showroom

A complete value chain's worth of labor goes into creating a stunning new piece of PEFC-certified furniture that you bring home. Although ethical and thoughtful timber harvesting begins in the forest, the history of your new Furniture Certification in UAE goes well beyond that. Its timber has been chopped and shipped. It has been exchanged and processed. It has been crafted into an item that you would find appealing or practical enough to purchase and list for sale.

PEFC's work begins in the forest, and we continue to be there at every turn. The PEFC chain of custody certification guarantees that all supply chain links have undergone rigorous oversight and independent audits to guarantee that approved materials are traced and kept separate from illicit sources. 

Every business that deals with wood in a recognized supply chain likewise pledges to respect the PEFC's criteria, and they undergo yearly audits to ensure rigorous adherence.

Challenges and Considerations

Although PEFC Multiple-Site Certification has several advantages, it does come with a high cost in terms of management supervision, time, and resources. Among the difficulties businesses might encounter are:

Initial Costs: Staff training, audits, and planning might come at a high cost upfront, even if multiple site certification ends up being more affordable in the long term.

Preserving Uniformity: Careful oversight and administration are necessary to guarantee that every site regularly complies with PEFC guidelines. This is especially difficult for big businesses that have locations across several states or nations.

Supplier Compliance: A major source of raw materials for furniture firms is their suppliers. It can be challenging to make sure all suppliers adhere to PEFC requirements, especially when dealing with foreign vendors.

The Bottom Line!

A strong tool for furniture manufacturers wishing to show their dedication to sustainability and ethical sourcing is the PEFC Multiple Site Certification for Furniture. By guaranteeing that every location follows the same set of sustainable practices, companies may boost their competitiveness in the market, increase supply chain transparency, and cultivate customer confidence.

With the growing demand for environmentally friendly furniture, PEFC certification provides a clear route for businesses to become pioneers in sustainable furniture production in addition to satisfying legislative obligations. 

The certification procedure is a worthwhile attempt for any forward-thinking furniture firm, even though it does entail a time and resource commitment due to the long-term benefits of market access, cost savings, and brand recognition.

[ozzgin]

Dumbass!Reader getting lost on their way to the job interview and ending up in the depths of Hell instead.

You assumed the devilish fires and the tormented souls adorning the grand halls were some sort of eccentric corporate furniture. You also didn't really question it when the recruiter, a gargantuan beast with horns and hooves, handed you a pitchfork and asked you to join him to the punishing pits.

Then you saw the work hours.

"Wait...forever? This isn't Home Depot?"

Somewhat confused, the monstrous fiend searches through your CV again.

"It says you have a fork certificate."

"Yeah, a forklift," you clarify, pursing your lips in disappointment. Wasted a bus ticket for nothing.

"Are you sure you don't want to work here? I've seen you spearing the sinners back there, you're a natural."

"Well..." you hesitate a little, smugly arranging your tie. "How much was the pay again?"

[punctuallypunch]

Qualified Upholsterer / Okleveles Kárpitos

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Speedrunning Marriage Fraud || Ace Trappola

You get isekai’d as the heroine in a romance novel, but instead of dreamy suitors, you’re stuck with a yandere cryptid, a billionaire with no impulse control, and a knight who thinks he's in a Shakespearean tragedy (and more).

Your solution? Commit marriage fraud with your best friend, Ace Trappola, and hope no one asks for a marriage certificate.

Series Masterlist

You should have known better than to leave your apartment. You should have listened to your instincts, that deep, primal voice that told you the outside world was a dangerous and unforgiving place. But no. You just had to touch grass.

It had all started with an innocent desire for fresh air. You had gone to the park, found a nice spot, and opened the novel that a colleague had given you—probably as a form of psychological torture disguised as a gift. From the summary alone, you knew it was going to be a lot, but you had no idea just how much your soul would suffer.

The heroine was a noble who clearly did not want to be in this story. Every single page was filled with her staring off into the void, giving half-hearted responses to the five men vying for her attention, like she was a protagonist who hadn’t realized she was in a romance novel yet.

And the love interests. Oh, the love interests.

The (Discount) Yandere Viscount (who had never heard of stealth)

His idea of "obsessively watching over the heroine" was lurking in the shadows like a particularly uncoordinated cryptid. Every single time he tried to “stalk” her, he tripped over his own sword. At one point, he dramatically whispered, “I will protect you… wait, don’t run!” before faceplanting into a bush.

2. The Childhood Acquaintance (who was delusional)

This man had spoken to the heroine exactly once when they were both six years old, but somehow convinced himself they were soulmates. He carried around the same handkerchief she had given him more than 15 years ago like it was a sacred relic and refused to take no for an answer.

3. The "Genius Strategist" Prince (who had the IQ of a raisin)

The man had already planned their wedding, their honeymoon, and the names of their three children within four minutes of meeting her. When she told him she wasn’t interested, his brain blue-screened and he simply repeated, “Ah, you’re just shy.” No, sir. She is not shy. She just isn't interested.

4. The Brooding Duke of the North (who was a caricature of a chaebol heir from a K-Drama)

He believed love could be bought. He once gifted her a solid gold chair because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.” He bought an entire carnival just so she wouldn’t have to wait in line. At one point, he threw money at a random tree, and you weren’t even sure why.

5. The Drama King Knight (who needed to calm down)

He was so powerful but refused to use his strength unless it was for dramatic effect. He got scratched by a cat once and collapsed into the heroine’s arms like he had been mortally wounded. His sword had the power to split mountains, but the only time he ever drew it was to dramatically point at the moon while monologuing about destiny.

And the villainess? She wasn’t even that bad. Compared to these five disasters, she looked like a sensible person.

Somehow, despite all odds, the heroine chose Ace Trappola, her childhood friend, which you had to respect. That was the one good decision this novel made. But just when you thought there might be some semblance of satisfaction—an assassin appeared out of nowhere (sent by the villainess of course) and killed her.

That was it. That was the ending.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you weren’t sure if it was grief for the heroine, sheer frustration, or physical pain from how hard you had been laughing at this disaster of a novel. It was the most ridiculous, nonsensical, brain-cell-destroying thing you had ever read. You could feel your neurons committing arson inside your skull.

You snapped the book shut and decided that was enough stupidity for one day.

It was time to go home.

As you trudged back, your brain still processing the absolute war crime of a plot you had just read, you heard it.

A faint rumbling.

A presence.

And then—

“OUT OF THE WAY, SONNY!”

A blur of gray hair and unholy speed tore through the park, the sound of wheels screeching against pavement like a demonic banshee’s cry. You turned your head just in time to see a grandma on rollerblades, moving at a velocity no elderly person should legally be able to achieve.

For a split second, you locked eyes.

And in that moment, you knew.

You were not surviving this.

Before you could even process what was happening, she collided into you full force, sending you into a full aerial somersault before you crashed into the bushes like a ragdoll. You barely registered the thundering roar of her departure as she continued skating into the sunset, leaving you for dead.

Now, as you lay crumpled in a bush, your body feeling like it had been hit by a sentient freight train in orthopedic shoes, you had to accept the consequences of your actions. The world had punished you for your hubris.

She. Didn’t. Even. Stumble.

Your body ached, your limbs refused to move, and as darkness crept into your vision, your last conscious thought was, How is a senior citizen more sturdy than me…?

And then, everything went black.

The first thing you noticed upon waking up was the suspiciously pleasant smell. It was fresh, like lavender and high society, with a hint of expensive tea and wealth you’d never personally known.

Your groggy brain latched onto the first thought it could process:

Damn. Hospitals really upgraded their budget.

Then, half a second later, a much more terrifying realization hit you.

Oh God. The ambulance bill.

Your eyes snapped open in unfiltered financial terror, hands clutching at the sheets as you prepared to calculate your medical debt down to the last miserable cent. You were already accepting your fate as a lifelong indentured servant to the healthcare system when—

The ceiling was too ornate. The bed was too soft.

And there was a man sitting beside you, holding your hand.

Your breath caught in your throat as your vision sharpened. Red hair. Heart earring. A cocky smirk, even in his sleep.

You knew that face.

You knew that godforsaken face.

This wasn’t a hospital. This wasn’t even your world.

Somewhere in the heavens, a cosmic entity was laughing as you stared at Ace Trappola, the very same Ace Trappola from the cover of the book you were reading before you got absolutely trucked by a grandma on rollerblades.

Your will to live immediately evaporated.

This couldn’t be happening. This was not real. There was no way that the trashy dumpster fire of a novel you barely got halfway through had decided to swallow you whole and spit you out as its heroine. You were a victim of circumstance. You hadn’t even wanted to read the book. Your colleague had shoved it into your hands with a laugh, saying, “It’s so bad, you’ll love it.”

And now? Now you were going to die in it.

While you were still reeling from this existential horror, Ace stirred beside you, stretching like he’d just taken a refreshing nap instead of being complicit in your suffering.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” he said.

You almost threw up in real time.

NO. NO, HE DID NOT JUST SKYRIM YOU.

Before you could even begin to unpack that offensive introduction, Ace leaned back in his chair, regarding you with an amused grin.

“Man, you were out for so long,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself at your expense. “We were starting to get worried.”

He paused, then snickered. “Not that I can blame you, though. You got knocked out real bad after Sir Drama decided to pick you up and carry you across a puddle—y’know, because chivalry—and then you started struggling and he, uh…” Ace coughed, failing to smother his laughter. “He might’ve… dropped you on your head.”

Your soul left your body.

The sheer force of your disgust, fury, and resignation compressed into a singularity of unparalleled despair.

You had already suffered a head injury in this world and it hadn’t even been five minutes.

Meanwhile, Ace—clearly unbothered by your silent mental breakdown—casually reached out and ruffled your hair like you were some kind of small animal.

“Try not to scare everyone like that next time, yeah?” he said, standing up with a stretch. “Anyway, I’ll let you rest. See ya, drama queen.”

And just like that, he walked out.

The door clicked shut.

And you were left alone.

You sat there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, dead inside.

Then at the overly luxurious furniture.

Then at the mirror across the room.

You knew what you would see before you even looked.

White nightgown. Perfect noble lady bedhead. The very same reflection that haunted you from the novel’s terrible cover.

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaled, and let out the most guttural, primal scream into your pillow.

This was real. This was happening.

And worst of all—

You were about to be pursued by five of the worst men to ever disgrace the literary world.

Tears pricked at your eyes.

You needed a plan.

You needed a way out.

You needed to reject them.

You needed to survive.

With renewed determination, you wiped your tears, hardened your heart, and began plotting your escape.

The moment you accepted that you were, in fact, trapped in this flaming disaster of a novel, you immediately went into damage control mode.

Step One: Gather Allies.

Your first course of action was to round up every single sane person in your immediate social circle—which, in this case, meant the heroine’s original friend group. You weren’t sure how well they’d take this, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

So, within the hour, you managed to corral Ace, Deuce, Riddle, Cater, and Trey into a private room like some kind of organized intervention.

They were all staring at you expectantly.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the sheer stupidity of what you were about to say.

“Listen,” you began, voice firm. “I need help. Serious help. I am being actively hunted by five of the worst men to ever exist, and I need to figure out how to reject them before I end up dead in an alley.”

There was a pause.

Riddle, bless his soul, was the first to react.

He patted you on the back, nodding solemnly. “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow a spine. It’s about time.”

You blinked. That was the most support you had ever received in your life.

Meanwhile, Trey and Cater exchanged amused glances, Ace looked way too smug for comfort, and Deuce was already looking at Ace like he was onto something.

“You need to get rid of them?” Trey asked, as if he were merely discussing pastry ingredients.

“Yes,” you stressed. “Immediately.”

Riddle hummed in approval. “Good. Then let’s strategize.”

You, Riddle, Trey, and Cater huddled together like you were planning a war campaign.

Ace and Deuce, on the other hand, were having a separate conversation entirely.

A conversation that consisted of Deuce elbowing Ace repeatedly while Ace sat there, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Then, with the casual arrogance of someone who absolutely had an ulterior motive, Ace stretched his arms and leaned back.

“Y’know,” he drawled, cutting into your very serious rejection plan, “we could make things way easier if you just tell ‘em you’re already taken.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Ace smirked. “You'd just need a fake lover, right?”

“…Yes?”

He shrugged. “I could do it.”

The room went silent.

Deuce’s face twisted into an undisguised scowl of "That's not what i meant." Riddle raised an eyebrow. Trey hid a knowing smile behind his hand. Cater was visibly entertained.

You, on the other hand, were experiencing about five different emotions at once.

On one hand, Ace clearly had a crush on the heroine—for you. Which meant using him for this felt slightly scummy.

On the other hand, game was game, and survival was survival.

And you were not above exploiting every advantage you could get.

“…Alright,” you agreed, shoving your morals into a dark abyss.

Ace grinned like he’d just won a bet.

Deuce looked one second away from committing homicide.

And just like that, Operation “Escape Horrible Men” was officially underway.

The first lunatic to cross your path was, tragically, the childhood acquaintance—if you could even call him that. This was a man whose entire personality was built on a single act of kindness you had allegedly performed when you were six, like some kind of feral pigeon imprinting on the first human to throw it bread.

He had the look of a man who had been living exclusively off delusions and a diet of unattainable dreams, and you could already feel your soul attempting to evacuate your body at the sight of him.

It all started when you, Ace, and Deuce were having a perfectly nice day at the market. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and you were engaged in the kind of casual battery that only true friends participated in—swatting at each other, shoving, stealing food mid-bite, and slinging arms over shoulders like a group of rowdy idiots. It was peace. It was joy. And then he appeared.

Like a cockroach that had survived a nuclear apocalypse, he inserted himself into the conversation with an ease that defied all reason, his hand creeping onto your waist as if that was something people just did.

The audacity. The sheer gall. The unmitigated temerity.

On instinct, you physically rejected his existence. You shoved him off with enough force to make a statement, then slammed your heel down on his foot. You were not the original heroine. You did not believe in suffering in silence. You believed in equal opportunity violence.

But this man—this absolute buffoon—had the mental resilience of a particularly dense brick. He simply did not process rejection.

You walked away. He followed. Like a stray cat you accidentally fed once, he clung to your side, ignoring all signs that he was unwelcome.

You showed Deuce a cool charm for his sword; he inserted his completely unsolicited opinion.

You cracked a joke to Ace; he forced out a laugh like you had told it for his benefit.

At one point, you were fairly certain he was just mimicking your breathing patterns to convince himself you were soulmates.

Alright. You had tried being civil. Time to be petty.

You turned to Ace with the kind of dramatic flourish that only came with years of consuming terrible romance novels, throwing yourself into his arms like some damsel in distress. Ace, to his credit, took exactly one second to process before he immediately understood the assignment.

He leaned in close, breath brushing against your ear like he was whispering something scandalous, and you, in turn, made a show of gasping, clutching his shirt like he had just recited the most romantic poetry in existence.

Then he hand-fed you a pastry.

It was too much. Too intimate. Too stupidly effective. You let out a little dreamy sigh, delicately biting into the pastry like it was a love declaration and not just your breakfast. Ace, ever the performer, brushed a crumb off your lips with his thumb.

Deuce, at this point, was convulsing with laughter in the background, nearly choking on his own spit.

But the acquaintance? The parasite? The man who had lived the past decade of his life under the assumption that you were his? He was seething. His face was twisted like he had just swallowed a whole lemon rind and all.

Time to twist the knife.

You turned to Ace with the most lovestruck expression you could muster and, in a voice dripping with sugar and malice, cooed, “Darling, when are you going to propose? I simply cannot wait to be engaged to you”

Ace visibly blue-screened for a moment. You could hear the Windows error noise in real-time. But he was nothing if not quick on his feet.

In a devastating move, he took your hand in both of his, looked into your eyes like you personally invented the concept of love, and murmured, “My love, I’ve searched the entire kingdom for a ring that shines as brightly as your eyes, but nothing has been worthy of you yet.”

That was it. That was the final blow. The childhood acquaintance physically recoiled, his reality shattering like fragile glass, his world crumbling like an over-soaked sponge cake.

“You’re… dating?” he whispered, trembling, as if he was the protagonist in a tragic opera.

You and Ace turned to him in perfect synchrony, all wide eyes and lovesick smiles, and in the most disgustingly sweet voices you could manage, declared, “We’re soooo in love~”

He ran away crying.

It was magnificent. It was euphoric. You turned to watch him flee, skidding into the distance like a wounded deer, while Deuce collapsed against a stand, wheezing.

And then, just for a moment—barely a second—you caught Ace watching you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder like nothing had happened.

One down. Four to go.

The invitation to the ball had arrived with the pomp and circumstance of an execution notice.

You had already survived assassination attempts (by fate and by your own refusal to engage with the five unhinged men vying for your hand), but now you were being asked to waltz? Like some graceful noble lady who had spent her entire life twirling through candlelit halls and not someone whose idea of “dancing” was flailing in the kitchen at 2 AM while waiting for instant noodles to cook?

You tried to tell yourself, maybe the original heroine’s muscle memory will kick in.

It did not.

You attempted a single spin in your room and promptly tripped over the hem of your dress, landing face-first into the carpet with all the elegance of a sedated goose. The reality was undeniable—you needed help.

Unfortunately, Deuce and Riddle, your two best hopes for structured, competent lessons, were drowning in their official duties. That left you with Trey(thankfully), Cater, and Ace.

Ace. The man who claimed he could “totally waltz” but then proceeded to move like he was dodging invisible potholes. He swore he was just "freestyling," which, sure, was a thing people did—just not in 18th-century ballroom dancing.

Trey, ever the responsible elder brother figure, took pity on your plight and offered to teach you. You gratefully accepted, placing your hand in his, and the two of you began to move across the floor. Or, rather, Trey moved and you decimated his toes with every step.

Ace, watching from the sidelines, looked like he had been personally wronged by the universe.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His grip on his drink? White-knuckled. If he had been any tenser, his soul might have ascended on the spot.

Cater, in contrast, was having the time of his life.

Sipping tea like a smug little gremlin, he watched the spectacle unfold with the kind of amusement normally reserved for reality TV drama. He did not care that Ace was clearly dying inside. In fact, it was making the tea taste better.

Meanwhile, Trey suffered.

He suffered so much.

You stepped on his foot. Again. You stepped on it without intent. Without malice. But with the weight of a hundred failed dance lessons.

“Ah, you’re getting there,” Trey said with the patience of a saint, even as he subtly tried to guide you away from his crushed toes.

Ace twitched.

The evening ended with you being marginally better at dancing and Ace looking like he had been force-fed an entire lemon tree.

The next day, you arrived at Ace’s estate with the singular goal of dragging him into town for shenanigans.

Instead, you were met at the entrance by his butler, who, with a knowing wink that immediately put you on edge, informed you that Ace was “currently practicing” and that you were "free to go in and see for yourself."

This, of course, set off all your mental alarms.

You pushed open the door just a crack, peeking inside, and what you saw nearly short-circuited your brain.

There, in the middle of the room, was Ace Trappola.

Dancing.

With a coat hanger.

He held it like a real partner, moving across the floor with surprising grace, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pressing into a frustrated pout whenever he missed a step.

You felt something unfamiliar rise in your chest. A warmth. A flutter. A sense of being deeply, irreversibly touched.

You immediately squashed the feeling. Crushed it under your heel like a bug. Incinerated it. You refused to let sentimentality win.

So, naturally, you cleared your throat and went straight for the teasing.

“Wow, Ace. I didn’t know you and the coat hanger were so close.”

Ace startled so hard he nearly dropped the poor inanimate object.

He turned to you, face flushing an almost adorable shade of pink, before scowling and attempting to play it cool.

“I—this—I wasn’t practicing for you or anything!” he scoffed, crossing his arms as if that would somehow erase the memory from your brain.

“Oh, of course not,” you said, nodding sagely. “You were obviously training to impress the coat hanger.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck. Refused to meet your eyes.

“…You wanna practice together?”

And that was how you found yourself dancing with Ace in the dim glow of the evening light, his hands warm against yours, the two of you laughing every time you stumbled.

It was awkward. It was messy. It was weirdly fun.

And somewhere in the background, Ace’s butler was already reallocating the estate’s budget for your wedding.

You had successfully survived the dance.

This was, by all accounts, a miracle.

There had been no toe-crushing disasters, no tragic falls, no wardrobe malfunctions that would have made the noble ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about you for decades. Not even a single case of you flinging your arms out too enthusiastically and smacking a duke’s son in the face.

You had defied fate.

And it definitely helped that your partner had been Ace—as much as that bruised your pride to admit. He was annoyingly decent at making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet, even though he kept smirking the entire time like he was waiting for you to say something ridiculous like "Wow, Ace, you're so talented and charming and handsome, what would I ever do without you?"

You would rather perish.

So, once the dance ended, you immediately excused yourself and found a nice, solid chair to collapse into. Ace, good little fake boyfriend that he was, offered to get you both drinks, which was a very convenient excuse for you to not be near him for five minutes.

And that was when the Genius Strategist Prince swooped in.

You did not see him approach. You did not sense his presence. It was as if he had teleported into existence like some eldritch being fueled purely by narcissism and misplaced confidence.

One moment, you were sitting peacefully, and the next—

He was there.

The cursed arm wrapped around your shoulders. The infuriating smirk. The unbearable arrogance wafting off him like overpriced cologne.

Oh, this was bad.

"You looked quite beautiful on the dance floor tonight," he murmured, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Almost like a queen-to-be."

This man had the audacity—the sheer, unholy nerve—to look at you like you were supposed to giggle and blush at that line instead of chewing through your own tongue in an effort not to commit a crime.

You had one option.

You fled.

You simply stood up and walked away, directly towards the only person in this cursed ballroom who could save you from this richly perfumed disaster of a man.

Ace.

Ace, who had perfectly timed his return with two glasses of something that was hopefully strong enough to erase the last ten seconds from your memory. Ace, who took one look at your expression, saw the absolute horror trailing behind you, and immediately understood the assignment.

Without missing a beat, he wrapped an arm around you.

Possessive. Protective. The very image of a devoted fake lover.

You had never been so grateful for his dramatic streak.

The prince, who had followed you like a particularly persistent case of food poisoning, bristled.

"Remove your arm," he commanded, his voice low and sharp.

Ace did not remove his arm.

In fact, he pulled you closer, tilting his head just slightly in a way that perfectly balanced smugness and challenge.

"Why should I take my hand off my partner?" he asked.

You, who had spent your entire life developing a survival instinct specifically for escaping situations like this, felt the distant whisper of a self-preservation alarm. That was still the crown prince, after all. Ace was many things—irritating, reckless, an absolute menace—but he was not immortal.

Fortunately, before you had to say anything, help arrived.

Across the ballroom, Riddle nodded.

To your left, Deuce gave a subtle thumbs-up.

The plan was in motion.

Phase One

From the far end of the ballroom, Trey, the royal chef, emerged, balancing an enormous cake on a silver tray. It was a towering, masterful creation—a true work of art, layers stacked high, delicately sculpted sugar decorations shimmering under the chandelier light.

A cake that, in mere moments, would be used as a weapon of mass destruction.

Trey took one fateful step.

Tripped (As planned)

And the entire cake, in all its elaborate, multi-tiered glory, toppled over.

Straight. Onto. The. Prince.

Ace immediately shielded you from the debris. His hand was firm on your back as he turned you slightly away from the chaos, and when you glanced up at him, he was grinning.

Smug. Smug. Smug.

Something in your stomach did something.

You ignored it.

The prince, meanwhile, stood there in horrified silence, cake and frosting dripping down his very expensive, very now-ruined clothes.

And then came Phase Two

Deuce, moving with the "concern" of a man who absolutely knew he was about to ruin someone’s life, rushed forward.

"Your Highness," he said earnestly, holding out his own coat, "you should remove your clothes."

The entire ballroom went silent.

The prince, still picking fondant out of his hair, turned slowly.

"What?"

"You’re covered in cake," Deuce explained, voice so painfully genuine that you nearly choked.

The prince, who absolutely would rather die than undress in public, refused.

Which was unfortunate. Because Deuce, bless his heart, did not take no for an answer.

He grabbed the prince’s jacket.

And pulled.

The ballroom collectively inhaled.

Because underneath—where there should have been the broad, powerful shoulders of a “warrior prince,” where there should have been toned muscle sculpted by years of battle and strategy—

Was nothing.

Not just nothing—an outright betrayal of physics and expectation.

The prince was built like a malnourished Victorian ghost.

His coat—once the source of his so-called “strong, masculine presence”—had been heavily padded. Not just lightly stuffed, but outright engineered to create the illusion of bulging biceps and warrior-like stature.

Biceps, it was now evident, larger than his actual head.

The ballroom gasped.

The prince, red-faced and humiliated, did what any reasonable man would do when faced with public disgrace.

He ran.

You, Ace, Deuce, and your co-conspirators high-fived.

And the next morning, Cater, journalist extraordinaire, published an excruciatingly detailed article titled:

"From Brawn to Busted: The Prince’s Muscle Mirage!"

2 down. 3 to go.

It had been a regular morning. A peaceful morning. A morning where you had intended to do nothing more than descend the stairs like a normal, functioning member of society, have breakfast, and not make a complete spectacle of yourself before noon.

The universe had other plans.

One moment, you had been confidently stepping forward, and the next—

Betrayal.

Your foot had missed the step. Gravity, that treacherous, fickle force, had seized its chance. You had plummeted like a sack of potatoes launched off a moving carriage, limbs flailing, dignity abandoning ship before you even hit the floor.

And then you hit the floor.

Hard.

Ace, your beloved thorn in the side, had stood over you, blinking, until you groaned and weakly waved a hand to signal that you were probably not dead.

And that was when he had completely lost it.

He had laughed for ten minutes straight. A full, wheezing, tears-in-his-eyes, struggling-to-breathe kind of laugh, slapping his knee like an old man who just heard the funniest joke of his life. The servants had peered around corners in confusion. One poor maid had whispered, "Should we call a doctor?" Not for you. For Ace, because he was about to rupture a lung.

"You're fine," he gasped out eventually, still giggling like a goblin. "It's just a sprain, right? But your ego— oh, your ego is never coming back from this one."

And that was how you had ended up here.

Ace had decided—without your input, without even a semblance of human decency— that you were now a particularly large handbag.

He carried you everywhere.

There was no logical reason for this. You could still walk. You had one (1) slightly messed-up ankle, you were fine. But Ace, seeing the opportunity to be the worst person alive, had simply hoisted you up like a particularly unruly sack of flour and declared, "Guess you're stuck with me, huh?"

And he had not put you down since.

Which led to your current predicament.

You had planned to meet Riddle, Trey, and Cater for tea in the gardens, because you were a person of class and refinement, not some gremlin carried around like stolen treasure. But did that stop Ace? No. Of course not.

The three of them had been waiting peacefully in the garden, cups of tea in hand, enjoying their serene afternoon—

And then Ace had strolled in, with you draped over his shoulder like a particularly expensive piece of luggage.

Silence.

The kind of silence that one might expect after watching a clown cartwheel directly into the king’s court.

Trey looked concerned. Riddle looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. Cater, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looked entertained.

And you? You had given up.

"You could just let me down, you know," you muttered, swatting at Ace’s shoulder in what you hoped was a dignified manner, though it probably looked more like a dying fish flopping around.

Ace grinned, because of course he did. "Nah. Too late. You’re furniture now."

You scowled. "Then put me near the table so I can actually reach my tea, you absolute menace—"

Ace ignored you completely.

He dropped into a chair, still holding you.

This was your life now.

Trey, who had likely woken up hoping for a quiet afternoon, cleared his throat and asked, very diplomatically, "So… sprained ankle?"

"Tragic accident," Ace said, like he was recounting the tale of a fallen soldier. "There I was, just minding my own business, when—boom. Disaster. Absolute catastrophe. They will sing songs about this one for years."

"You were laughing," you deadpanned.

"And now I'm grieving," Ace shot back.

Riddle, who had quite frankly had enough of both of you, massaged his temples.

Meanwhile, Cater, who had pulled out his camera at some point, was taking photos.

"This is gold," he muttered, already plotting his gossip column.

And then, just as you were mid-swat, trying to smack the smirk off Ace’s face while he cackled like a heathen, Riddle sighed under his breath, voice heavy with exhaustion and despair.

"They're so obvious," he muttered. "Sevens save us all."

Trey nodded solemnly. Cater just grinned.

It had been a perfectly normal day.

Which, of course, meant disaster was imminent.

You were standing in the grand hall, sipping a totally normal, non-poisoned cup of tea (probably), when you felt it. That eerie, spine-chilling sensation. The distinct, unsettling awareness that you were being watched.

Slowly, you turned your head.

A pair of glowing eyes peered at you from behind an indoor potted plant.

You sighed. Loudly. "Viscount, I can see you."

"Tch," the Viscount hissed, stepping out of his entirely inadequate hiding spot. "So perceptive… as expected of my fated beloved."

As if to ruin the illusion entirely, he tripped on his own cape and had to grab onto the plant for support. The entire thing tipped over with a thunderous CRASH.

Silence.

A servant slowly turned to look at him, unblinking.

The Viscount, sprawled across the floor, cleared his throat. "Pretend you did not see that."

You rubbed your temples. "What do you want?"

He rose to his feet dramatically—or at least, he tried. His foot got tangled in his cape again, and he had to do an awkward little hop to untangle himself before he could finally regain his dignity (what little he had left).

"I have come to confess," he intoned, "the depths of my undying love for you."

A dramatic wind blew through the hall. (Despite the fact that all the windows were closed.)

You braced yourself. This was going to be painful.

"From the moment I first laid eyes upon you," the Viscount continued, stepping forward (but nearly tripping over a rug). "I knew that you and I were bound by fate."

He gripped his chest. "Your beauty, your grace, your ability to evade me every time I attempt to watch over you from the shadows… truly, you are like a rare and precious bird, always just out of reach!"

"You mean because I run away every time you try to talk to me?" you deadpanned.

"Exactly!" he said, passionately. "Such a clever game of cat and mouse we play!"

You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.

Cater was, once again, taking pictures of this entire trainwreck. Deuce had just pulled out a chair, grabbed a snack, and was watching like it was a soap opera.

"But no more!" the Viscount declared. "Today, I shall break this cycle and claim my rightful place at your side!"

He took a bold step forward—

—and promptly slipped on the fallen leaves from the potted plant.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Then—THUMP.

He faceplanted straight into the marble floor.

Cater wheezed. Deuce actually fell out of his chair. Riddle was muttering something about public executions. Trey looked like he was reconsidering his entire life.

But the Viscount?

He slowly pushed himself up, nose bleeding, expression unfazed.

"A minor setback," he rasped, wiping the blood off his face with his own cape like some kind of tragic war hero. "Love… is pain."

You exhaled deeply. "Alright, you know what?" You straightened your posture, voice heavy with overwhelming sorrow. "My dear Viscount… if only you had come to me sooner."

His breath hitched. "You mean—?"

"If only fate were kinder," you continued, placing a hand on your chest. "If only my heart were not already…taken."

Fake gasps echoed through the hall.

The Viscount staggered. "No… it cannot be!"

"I am afraid so," you whispered. "For I… I have already pledged my love to…"

You spun dramatically—and pointed straight at Ace.

Ace, who immediately choked on his drink.

Ace, who had agreed to fake date you but was now staring at you like you had just struck him with a bolt of divine judgment.

Cater’s camera zoomed in on his expression.

You turned dramatically, seizing Ace’s arm with a grip that could bend steel. "My darling fiancé, my heart, my sun and stars!" you declared, throwing yourself against him like a maiden in distress. "Forgive me for not introducing you sooner—this is my betrothed, Ace Trappola!"

Ace made a sound like a cat getting drop-kicked across a room.

"WHAT."

The Viscount looked like someone had just run him through with a broadsword.

"I know," you said, voice trembling with unspeakable woe. "It seems impossible. Unthinkable. But love, my dear Viscount, is a force beyond comprehension. Who are we to fight against fate?"

Ace was still making distressed noises. Riddle looked like he was five seconds away from committing homicide.

"No—no, this cannot be!" The Viscount staggered back, clutching his chest like he had just been mortally wounded. "You would choose him over me?"

You gripped Ace’s collar, pulling him until your foreheads nearly touched. "How could I not?" you whispered. "Look at him. Look at his—his, um. His face!"

Ace mouthed: WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

"His personality!" you continued, wildly grasping for reasons. "His—his unparalleled ability to be so Ace-like at all times!"

"I hate every single word coming out of your mouth," Ace muttered.

"And most of all," you gasped, voice hushed. "The way he carries me when I sprain my ankle. A true gentleman. A man among men."

The grand hall erupted into chaos.

Ace visibly short-circuited. "I— WHAT??"

Cater's hands visibly shook as he tried to keep taking pictures. Deuce had fully dropped his snack. The Viscount let out a dramatic, heartbroken wail.

"Engaged?!" the Viscount gasped. "But how? When?!"

You clutched Ace’s hand tighter. "Last night."

"LAST NIGHT??" Ace screeched.

You shot him a look. Ace, whose entire face was on fire, gulped and quickly switched tactics.

"Aha… aha… yeah, totally!" He threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning through his existential crisis. "We got engaged last night! Super romantic and all that! Just me and my beloved—" his voice cracked, "—who I love so much!"

You patted his chest reassuringly. "See? True love."

The Viscount staggered back. His entire world was shattering. The intensity of his emotional turmoil was so strong that he tripped over his own cape again and went tumbling down the nearby staircase.

It took twenty entire seconds for him to hit the bottom.

More silence.

Then, from below: "Love… is pain…"

Ace, still holding you, whispered, "What did you just do to me?"

You turned, smiling sweetly. "I just made you my fiancé, Ace."

Ace felt faint. His heart had been going a normal amount of fast when he agreed to fake date you, but this? This was illegal.

Meanwhile, Cater was already writing the next article.

The night had started so normally. Just you, your expensive, holy-grail skincare routine, and the unwavering determination to emerge from this ritual looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. You had your headband on, your fluffy robe wrapped around you, and the greenish-white sludge of your face mask setting into a crusty layer of beauty and self-care.

Then Ace Trappola happened.

He kicked the door open like he was the protagonist of a spaghetti western, took one look at you, and lost his entire mind.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" he gasped, immediately doubling over in laughter. "Oh my god, you look like a haunted doll."

You did not hesitate. You lunged at him like an apex predator.

And despite all his athleticism and street-rat reflexes, Ace had not been prepared for an attack from a fully masked-up, vengeance-driven individual armed with a whole tub of premium skincare.

"WAIT—NO—"

It was too late.

You straddled his lap, pressed his shoulders down onto your bed, and slathered the mask onto his stupid, laughing face with all the delicacy of an artist painting their magnum opus.

"See?" you said sweetly, coating his nose with a dramatic flourish. "Now we’re both glowing."

Ace wanted to talk back— wanted to make a joke, to tell you off, to do anything but sit here like a dumb, frozen idiot while you cupped his face, held his chin so gently, and smoothed the mask over his cheekbones like he was something precious and breakable.

And he was losing it.

Your legs were slung over his lap. His back was against your bed. Your hand was on his jaw, tilting his face however you wanted. And Ace, the very same Ace who laughed at every romantic in the kingdom for being cringe and stupid, was about two seconds away from throwing his dignity out the window and leaning into your touch.

Because all he could see, smell, and feel was you.

Your voice kept going, rambling about something stupid and inconsequential—some royal drama, a new gossip column, your thoughts on different brands of facial cleanser—but Ace couldn’t process a single word because his entire stupid, traitorous heart was screaming at him to just—just—

The revelation slammed into him like a meteor. A deadly, world-ending, history-changing impact that reduced his brain cells to rubble and left behind only the smoking wreckage of a man who was well and truly screwed.

This was not a platonic feeling.

This was the opposite of a platonic feeling.

And yet, instead of saying anything, instead of introspecting like a sane person, he just let you keep talking, let himself bask in the feeling of your fingers on his face, let himself sink into the sheer stupidity of his predicament.

By the time he could regain enough motor function to think about moving, it was too late.

You had both somehow, inexplicably, fallen asleep.

The morning arrived with the unmistakable sound of high-pitched giggles.

You cracked open a single bleary eye, your body heavy with sleep, and—oh.

Oh no.

Ace was snuggled up against your arm, his face relaxed in a way you had never seen before. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced by something painfully soft and vulnerable.

His hair was a mess, sticking up in ridiculous angles, but somehow, it made him look even cuter. His cheek was squished against your shoulder, his arms curled slightly around yours, one leg lazily slung over yours like he had every right to use you as a makeshift pillow.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t even weird.

It felt… right.

And that was when it hit you.

Like a meteor. Like an act of god. Like the universe itself had conspired to wait until you were at your most defenseless before smacking you in the face with one singular, undeniable truth.

You were in love with Ace Trappola.

You. Loved. Ace.

How unfortunate.

You had half a mind to violently shake him awake, make him take responsibility for making you feel this way—but then he muttered something in his sleep, something unintelligible, and shifted closer, pressing his nose against your arm.

You stopped breathing.

The maids were still standing at the door, watching, waiting for you to react.

You slowly raised a hand.

And, with the elegance of a queen issuing a decree, you waved them away.

Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

The Duke of the North was an annual disaster. Like a migrating bird that exclusively flew south to be annoying, he only visited the capital once a year—and every single time, it was to do one thing: propose to you.

This would have been flattering, except for the fact that you had been rejecting him since the dawn of time. Yet, for some reason, he was deeply convinced that, one day, you would simply change your mind upon seeing him standing there, brooding dramatically in his tailored, imported-from-a-country-that-doesn’t-even-exist coats.

He did not take rejection well.

Of course, you never answered his letters. Why would you? His correspondence was a tragic novel in real-time, each letter trying and failing to sound aloof, with absolutely zero success.

"I suppose you are busy, as I am also very busy, thinking about extremely important things, such as war and finance and not at all about why you have not replied to me in the last six months." "Should you choose to acknowledge my existence, I will, of course, consider taking time out of my incredibly packed schedule to respond (though I have already cleared next Tuesday for you, just in case)." "It is of no consequence to me whether you reply. However, I have sent my fastest courier, so you may want to respond before he breaks his legs trying to reach me before nightfall."

Pathetic.

And now, as expected, here he was again.

And as always, he came prepared.

This time, he had doubled down on his "love can be bought" philosophy.

A solid gold chair—because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.”

An entirely new breed of horse, bred specifically for you, because "standard horses are beneath you."

A fleet of ships. Why? No one knew. You were not a sailor. You had never even been on a boat.

Riddle, who had been an unfortunate witness to this entire spectacle, had been slowly turning redder and redder, not out of anger, but out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. He looked like he was debating whether to intervene or let natural selection take its course.

Meanwhile, the villainess, who had been throwing you dirty looks since the Duke’s arrival, stood nearby. It didn’t take long for you to realize why—she liked him. She wanted him.

You turned to face her. Slowly. Deliberately.

Your expression said: “Lady, I don’t even want him.”

Her expression said: “You lying harlot.”

And before you could even think of clarifying that you had no interest in this walking gold reserve, the situation somehow got worse.

Ace appeared out of nowhere, grabbed your hand, and, with the audacity of a man who had never once in his life considered the consequences of his actions, declared with full confidence:

"Oh, sorry, we already got married."

Riddle choked on air.

The Duke froze, mid-proposal, like a glitching NPC in a poorly coded game. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were about to say something but his brain was actively refusing to process the information.

"You," he said hoarsely, like someone had just stabbed him in the chest. "What?"

You nodded solemnly, forcing yourself to look as heartbreakingly sincere as possible. "We even have a dog," you said.

Ace, who had waited his entire life for a bit like this, effortlessly raised the stakes.

"Two dogs," he added, gripping your hand even tighter.

You smiled sweetly, as if recounting precious memories of a long and happy marriage. "Three, actually."

The Duke’s breathing audibly shortened.

Riddle buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Oh my god, make it stop.”

"WHAT?!"

Ace sighed, the weariness of a devoted husband weighing down on him. "We also have six kids."

The Duke, who had already been dangerously close to a stroke, seemed to visibly glitch.

"SIX?! BUT IT HASN’T EVEN BEEN A YEAR!"

Ace, seeing an opportunity and deciding to go all in, dramatically gestured at a group of stray cats on the street.

"There they are," he said, with the utmost conviction.

The Duke followed his gaze, slowly, hesitantly, as if he already knew he was about to regret it.

There, on the sidewalk, were six very dirty, very chaotic stray cats.

One of them, making full eye contact with him, immediately started hacking up a hairball. Another was biting its own tail, because it had seemingly forgotten that it was attached to its body. A third was somehow climbing a wall upside down, defying both gravity and logic.

The Duke completely lost his mind.

"YOU—YOU HAVE—YOU’VE BIRTHED FELINE OFFSPRING?!"

Riddle made a strangled noise. His entire body convulsed with the effort of holding back laughter.

Ace did not hesitate. "Yeah, we just love them so much," he said, as if this were a completely normal and factual statement. "Fatherhood changes a man, y’know?"

"Don't forget our youngest," you added helpfully, pointing at a cat stuck in a flower pot.

Ace wiped an imaginary tear. "That's little Gregory. He's the smart one."

At this point, Riddle was not even trying to stop laughing anymore. He had completely given up, his usual decorum shattered beyond repair.

The Duke, however, looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously. His face twisted into pure devastation. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately closed it, shaking his head in silent agony.

And then, without another word—he left.

Ace, smug beyond words, turned to you, grinning. "That went well."

Riddle, who had just witnessed a full-scale psychological takedown using nothing but sheer absurdity, wiped a tear from his eye. "You two are insane," he muttered, shaking his head.

Ace didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.

Ace doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

He’s always liked you. A little.

A manageable amount. A totally ignorable amount. The kind of dumb little crush that normal people have. The kind you lock in a box, throw into the ocean, and then blow up the ocean for good measure.

But then you woke up from your fainting accident and became his worst nightmare.

Because somehow, in that brief unconscious state, you became ten times more interesting. More chaotic. More fun.

You met his sarcasm with even faster comebacks. You encouraged his bad ideas. You had absolutely no self-preservation. You went from exasperatedly tolerating his nonsense to actively participating in it, and it was the worst thing you could have possibly done to him.

Because now?

Now he’s the one barely keeping up.

You match him perfectly—step for step, disaster for disaster. If he’s instigating, you’re escalating. If he cracks a joke, you one-up him. When he nudges you in the ribs, you shove him into a bush.

And when you grab his arm, lean in close, and whisper, "Hey, let’s cause some problems," his brain just shuts the hell down.

He’s so ruined.

And the thing is?

Ace has done this to himself.

Because when he suggested pretending to be your lover, he genuinely thought it was a great idea. A genius plan, even.

He’d fake it, get it out of his system, and then tragically move on once you found someone else.

Except now he’s holding your hand in public.

Now he’s whispering in your ear just to make you laugh.

Now he’s calling you ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ and ‘my love’—and you play along like it’s a game, and every time, his heart detonates like an unstable potion.

At this point, if you actually fell for someone else?

Ace thinks he might literally die.

No, really. He would simply perish. Collapse. Expire. He would crumple to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been violently severed and haunt the castle as the world’s most bitter, lovesick ghost.

Cupid was somewhere, rolling on the floor, wheezing.

The other day, you smiled at him for too long, and he forgot how to walk and almost tripped.

You called him ‘Acey’ once, and he almost bit through his own tongue.

One time, you said, "I feel safest when I’m with you," and he blacked out for a full thirty seconds.

You took a sip from his drink the other day, and he had to go lie down.

And now you’re standing beside him at some stupid jewelry stall, pointing at a necklace with that gleam in your eyes, and Ace is staring at you like an absolute idiot.

He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you look under the market lights.

How he’d buy you every single piece of jewelry in the damn kingdom if you asked.

How his entire soul is in shambles because he’s standing next to you thinking, "Oh no. I actually, genuinely, idiotically am in love."

Ace Trappola, Ace ‘Fake-Dating-Was-A-Good-Idea’ Trappola, is staring at you thinking:

"Oh, Trappola. You absolute dumbass. You’re in love."

And then you turn to him, all bright-eyed and smiling, and ask, "Ace, do you think this would suit me?"

And he almost chokes on his own tongue.

Because yes.

Yes, it would suit you.

So would every other necklace in existence. So would a crown. So would the title of Supreme Ruler of the Universe, if he could somehow get that for you.

But instead of saying that, he just shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to look normal, and mutters, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you like it, just get it already."

And you laugh.

And Ace Trappola is never going to recover from this.

The worst of the lot finally appears.

You had dealt with the Brooding Duke who thought love could be purchased, endured the Prince who wept into his lace handkerchief at every rejection, and even managed to shake off the Yandere who believed true love was an elaborate chess game. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the Drama King Knight.

He stood before you in the garden, his impractically long cape billowing in the completely windless afternoon, because he had, no doubt, hired a peasant to stand just off-camera fanning him.

His sword—which was capable of splitting mountains but had only ever been used to dramatically point at celestial bodies—glinted in the sun. He looked at you with eyes that had definitely rehearsed this exact expression in the mirror for three hours.

"Fairest of all," he said, already halfway through a monologue you did not want to hear. "I have braved the perils of—"

You sighed dramatically, cutting him off. "A single brush of your hand might shatter my frail mortal bones."

The Knight visibly trembled. His gauntleted hand hovered in the air like he was about to faint. "You’re right… I must protect you. From myself."

Riddle, standing beside you, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Do that. From very, very far away."

And for a moment, it seemed like that would be enough. The Knight turned away, his cape swishing dramatically. You could practically hear the imaginary background music swelling, the curtains closing, the credits rolling.

Then he whirled back around. God, why do they always whirl back around?

"But if I cannot be with you in body," he declared, voice shaking with raw emotion, "then I shall remain by your side in spirit. Our souls, forever entwined. Our hearts, eternally wed!"

You blinked. "What."

"Yes!" He threw an arm toward the heavens, pointing at the sun like he was about to challenge it to a duel. "We shall be together in spirit! No matter where you go, I shall always be watching! Always waiting! Like the moon follows the tide, I shall—"

Alright. You had tried to reject him normally. You had been reasonable. But clearly, reason had no place here.

Riddle sighed. "Do whatever you're about to do. Just… make it quick."

You nodded grimly. If this was how it had to be, then so be it.

You squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and clutched your chest like a woman stricken with a terrible, unknowable curse.

"No," you whispered. "You don’t understand."

The Knight faltered. "Understand… what?"

You threw an arm over your eyes. "I am cursed! Any man who loves me shall be turned into a… a… a goose."

Silence.

The Knight blinked at you. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His sword, which had been dramatically trembling in his grip, clattered to the ground.

"A… a goose?" he repeated.

You solemnly nodded.

And then, as prearranged, Deuce rushed off to fetch the goose.

The Knight looked between you and Deuce’s retreating figure, his expression one of dawning horror, like a man realizing he had proposed to a person who was actually an eldritch horror in disguise.

Deuce returned, struggling slightly because the goose had absolutely no interest in being part of this nonsense.

But this was not just any goose. This was the Emergency Goose.

Ace, hiding behind a tree like the gremlin he was, gave you a solemn nod.

Deuce carefully lifted the goose, revealing the final touch—the little red heart painted onto its cheek.

Riddle rubbed his temples. "I hate that you were prepared for this."

"This," you declared gravely, "is Ace."

The Knight reeled. "No. That… That cannot be!"

The goose honked.

"Yes," you continued, "he loved me once. And this was his fate."

A perfect beat of silence.

And then, from behind the tree, Ace whimpered, "Save me."

The Knight—a man who had once stood before a charging wyvern and laughed in the face of death—let out a shriek so bloodcurdling it startled every bird within a five-mile radius.

And then, cape billowing, he turned and ran.

Not a noble retreat. Not a dignified exit. No. Full-speed sprint. He shoved a confused maid out of the way. He leapt over a market stall. A small child pointed and laughed as he fled, but the Knight did not slow down, because his heart—once so full of love and poetry—was now full of terror.

Terror of you.

Terror of your goose.

Terror of the idea that at any moment, he too might sprout feathers and begin honking at the moon.

You, Ace, Deuce, Riddle, and the goose watched him vanish into the horizon.

A long silence followed.

Deuce set the goose down. The goose, finally free from its obligations, pecked him on the shin and waddled off.

Ace emerged from behind the tree, cackling. "Did you see his face?! Bro really thought I turned into a goose!"

Riddle sighed the sigh of a man who was simply too tired for this nonsense. "You two are the worst people I have ever met."

"You love us," you said.

"I do not."

Ace slung an arm over your shoulder. "You totally do."

Riddle turned on his heel and stormed off in the opposite direction.

But you saw it. You absolutely saw it.

A single, fleeting twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Freedom. Sweet, unshackled, unburdened freedom.

No more men in capes dramatically reciting poetry at you. No more gold furniture being delivered to your doorstep. No more wild-eyed knights trying to prove their devotion by fighting literal bears in your honor. No more deranged suitors appearing at your window like particularly uncoordinated bats.

You were free.

And yet—

As you stood in the gardens, bathed in the golden glow of your well-earned peace, you felt… unsettled. Uneasy. Almost—upset.

Which made no sense. You had spent months rejecting these lunatics. You had faked engagements, lied through your teeth, orchestrated elaborate hoaxes, and weaponized a goose. You had done everything in your power to be rid of them, and it worked.

So why, in the face of your glorious victory, did you feel like you'd lost something?

And then, like a lightning bolt to the brain, it hit you.

Ace.

This meant no more holding hands in public to “convince” people. No more cheek kisses for the sake of believability. No more stupid, infuriating, wonderful Ace, grinning at you like you hung the damn moon.

It was over. Your fake dating/marriage/engagement (depending on the day and the level of your theatrics) had served its purpose.

And now it was gone.

The realization hit like a carriage crash.

You were an idiot. A complete, utter idiot.

Because somewhere between the first fake kiss in front of a suitor, the first time he laced his fingers through yours, the first time he winked at you like you were his favorite person in the entire world, you had fallen for him.

And now, standing in the wreckage of your successful campaign of repelling suitors, you realized that it was either confess right now… or take this to your grave.

Your horribly embarrassing, entirely unavoidable, painfully obvious feelings for Ace Trappola.

Ace is happy for you. He really, really is.

You’re finally free. No more unhinged declarations of love from men who have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. No more dodging elaborate marriage proposals like a rogue in a dungeon raid. No more looking over your shoulder, expecting some cape-wearing lunatic to be reciting poetry in your honor.

Most of them think you’re taken. One thinks you’re cursed.

It worked. You’re safe. You’re free.

So why does Ace feel like he’s the one who lost?

He was kind of hoping it would take longer. Just a little bit. A few more weeks, maybe. Another month, if he was lucky. Because every day you had to pretend to be his meant another day you were in his arms. Another day he got to hold your hand in public and call it necessity. Another day he could press a kiss to your cheek without consequences. Another day of you being his.

And now? Now it was over.

And he doesn’t know how to go back.

How is he supposed to just… be your best friend Ace again? How is he supposed to look at you and not wonder what it could’ve been? How is he supposed to stand beside you like nothing has changed when everything has changed for him?

Because now, every time he looks at you, he just wants to grab you and kiss you until you’re the only thing he can taste. He wants to pull you close, whisper all the things he never let himself say. He wants everything.

But most of all, he knows—knows deep in his bones—that if you ever fall for someone else, it will destroy him.

He has to confess right now or take it to his grave.

You’re running like a madman. Like some kind of deranged romantic heroine who’s just realized she’s been in love with her childhood friend all along. Your dress is catching on every stray branch, your hair’s a mess, and you probably look like you’ve barely survived a war. But none of that matters.

Because Ace is running too.

You see him, just as wrecked as you, his coat unevenly buttoned, his hair windswept, his face flushed and frantic like he’s been sprinting for miles. And maybe he has. Maybe you both have—metaphorically and literally.

You skid to a stop, panting, staring at each other like two idiots who have finally realized the answer to a question they should’ve known all along. Ace looks at you, his breath shuddering, his eyes wide and teary like he can’t believe you’re actually here. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that you’re both half out of your minds with feelings, but you throw caution to the wind.

You’ve survived up till now on sheer audacity. Maybe it can take you further.

So you kiss him.

And for a second, there’s nothing. Just the stunned stillness of the world as you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.

And then he’s grabbing you, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His hands are tangled in your clothes, your hair, desperate, shaking, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever, like he’s terrified it’s all a dream and any second now, he’ll wake up.

You pull away for air—and he chases after your lips, stealing another kiss before you can even take a full breath.

This one is deeper, slower, but just as desperate. It’s like he’s pouring everything he’s ever felt into you, like he’s afraid to stop, like he’s trying to tell you everything he never could with words. And you get it—because you feel the same way.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and shaking with emotion, you press one more soft kiss against his lips, and then you say it.

“I love you.”

Ace lets out a watery laugh, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins like a fool. His eyes are shining, and he cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

“What took you so long?”

And then he kisses you again.

The morning after your dramatic, borderline cinematic love confession, you and Ace walk into the usual meeting spot grinning like absolute fools.

You’re both trying to act normal, like the world hasn’t completely shifted on its axis, like Ace hadn’t kissed you breathless under the stars, like you hadn’t confessed to each other in a moment so romantic it could’ve been a grand finale scene in a novel. But normalcy is impossible because the second you walk in, hand-in-hand, everyone immediately knows.

Riddle, the most composed of the group, simply pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales sharply, and mutters, “Great Sevens, finally.” His tone is not congratulatory—it is the tone of a man who has suffered for far too long, who has borne witness to the sheer idiocy of your mutual pining and is just relieved that he no longer has to endure it.

Trey, ever the calm and collected one, gives you a small, knowing smile and nods. “Congrats,” he says simply, because Trey has probably seen this coming since the very beginning. He is the type of man who could predict the weather based on the way the wind blows and has likely bet money on this exact outcome.

Cater, on the other hand, reacts as expected.

“LET’S GO, MY MAN!” he hoots, high-fiving Ace so hard that Ace actually staggers backward. “Finally out of the friendzone, huh? This is a historic moment. A certified win.” He’s already pulling out his camera, preparing to document this for the masses, and you barely manage to swat it away in time.

And then there’s Deuce. Sweet, exhausted Deuce.

He doesn’t cheer, or exclaim, or even try to congratulate you. No, Deuce just sits there, staring at the both of you like he’s just been freed from an unspeakable burden. Like he’s been carrying the weight of Ace’s obliviousness and denial on his shoulders for so long that he no longer knows what to do with himself now that it’s over.

“I don’t have to hear him deny his feelings anymore,” Deuce whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I’m free.”

Ace shoves him.

And as your friends start heckling you, teasing you, yelling at you to get a room, you turn to Ace, grinning at him as he grins right back.

And in that moment, you can’t help but think back to the mysterious, rollerblading grandma who is the reason you even ended up here. The woman who defied all logic and physics, who sent you hurtling into this world with nothing but sheer willpower and questionable urban transportation.

You close your eyes, sending a silent thanks to her.

She was a real one.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Beyond the 305 || LS2 {4}

Summary: Australia GP - need I say more?

Warnings: nsfw, fluff, implied smut, angst

WC: 2.8k

One || Two || Three || Four

There really was a new appreciation for the effort Logan put in everyday for not just his team but for you too. You never understood how exhausting it must have been for him to balance his training and race preparation, media and sponsor duties, and flying home to you every spare moment. Now that you were travelling with him full time you finally got to see just how much added pressure it had put on him.

The London apartment, no, flat, as they called it here, was spacious enough for two people and one large dog, but it was a quarter of the size of your home in Miami. It took some getting used to, walking the length of the space in a matter of seconds or catching your toe on the furniture to avoid stepping on Sooty’s tail. But you wouldn’t change it for the world when you got to curl your body around Logan’s every night and wake up to his kisses.

“What’s your plans today, sweetheart?”

The sunrise here was watery and pale compared to Miami but it still managed to catch the blonde streaks of hair on Logan’s head. He was already dressed and ready to go for his morning run and you could hear Sooty’s paws on the wooden floor as he paced by the front door with his leash between his teeth.

“Not a lot. At 3 I have to take Sooty to the V.E.T.S,” you spell out knowing the black labrador would start sulking if he heard the word. “He has to have some extra shots now if we want to take him to Shanghai.”

Everything took more preparation when you didn’t have the usual support people around. There were different certificates needed for Sooty and new regulations for each country. It wasn’t like you could just drop him off at Dalton’s for the week. The usual help was across the Atlantic and Lily would probably be happy to have Sooty except she would be able to take him to her uni classes. Your big baby needed companionship or he would whine and howl to get attention.

“I’ll come with you,” he said with a kiss before grabbing his AirPods from where they were charging beside the bed.

“I thought you had your podcast today?”

“It’s a long flight, Alex figured we could record it on the way.”

You smiled at the thought of going to Australia for the first time. You pictured warmth, beaches and sun like you were accustomed to. It was more exciting than the other destinations so far this season. Your smile faltered as you remembered you really needed to finish packing for the evening flight and you tossed the blankets back.

“You can go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he said as he pulled his shoes on. “It’s only 6.30.”

“If I don’t finish packing now I will lie awake stressing about it anyway.”

The suitcases were already on the floor of the closet, his clothes folded neatly inside. One half was William’s team uniforms, the other were his personal clothes. The second suitcase only had a garment bag with a cocktail dress for a night out before the circus began.

“I thought you said you started?” he asked as he grabbed your waist and looked over your shoulder.

“I did start,” you pointed out. “Just didn’t get much past there. Someone distracted me.”

Logan’s hands started to roam your body exactly like they had the last time you tried to pack. “You should have more self control,” he teased.

“I’ve never been good with that around you.”

Logan turned you in his arms and grinned. “And I’m goddamn glad.”

His head started to dip down and his lips were already pursed for the kiss he was more than happy to distract you with, when Sooty started to cry at the front door. A deep groan exhaled as he dropped his forehead to yours, the moment stolen from him.

“I’m coming, Soot,” he said over his shoulder before looking back at your lips. “I’ll see you in an hour, honey.”

Logan stepped away with hesitation in his eyes and your hands fell back to your sides as you sent him a flirty wink. “Run faster.”

His lips kicked up and he returned the wink. “Yes, ma’am.”

—

Logan found you sat on the floor in the closet when he returned with a sweat soaked shirt in his hand and a very happy dog at his side. The smell hit you as Sooty bounded into the room and you understood why he was so happy when you almost gagged.

“Sorry, sweets, he rolled in something at the park.”

“Something seriously dead,” you coughed, waving your hand to try to get some fresh air. “Oh my god, Soot, that is rancid!”

Logan caught his collar before he could jump onto your lap and started to guide him out of the room. “Come on, buddy, showertime for both of us.”

The water started running and you heard Logan’s soothing voice through the walls as he calmed Sooty down. Like most dogs, he loved water but hated baths. While they were busy, you finished off folding the last items you were taking and closed the suitcase with a satisfied huff, just in time to hear your name being called.

“We’ve got a runner!”

You dashed out of the room and grabbed an old towel from the linen cupboard before making chase. Logan’s towel hung precariously low on his hips and he struggled not to slip as he ran through the flat behind Sooty. Your laughter filled the room as Logan tried to herd Sooty into the towel you held open, but he was too agile and skidded out of your reach. Logan wasn’t as lucky and failed miserably as he tried to avoid the collision.

“I’m so sorry, are you okay?” he gasped as he pulled you onto his lap and felt your body for any bumps.

“I’m fine.” Your giggles grew as Sooty bounded back over and shook out his fur. “At least we don’t have to dry him now.”

Logan laughed, holding you tighter as he realised his towel had been lost and he was sitting naked beneath you. He swallowed deeply and your eyes started to follow a rivulet of water as it rolled down his chest.

“Soot, time for a nap,” he ordered, his voice dropping with the heated look in your eyes. Paws padded across the floor before his cuddly toy squeaked under his head and Logan rose to his feet, your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you back to bed.

Pillowy kisses warmed your neck as Logan’s hands lifted your shirt up, breaking away only long enough to pull it over your head. Dropping to his knees, he dragged your leggings down and left sweet kisses on your hips before he kissed his way back up your body.

“I love you,” he whispered as his lips finally met yours and he stole your breath with his tenderness.

“I love you too, always.”

He smiled at the promise. “I’ll hold you to that, sweetheart.”

Wrapping your legs around his waist, you pulled him closer until your bodies were flush together and you felt his hard length press to your core. “Or you could just hold me.”

—

The atmosphere was jovial and Logan was relaxed going into race week. Oscar had escorted you and Logan around his hometown with Lily, showing the best spots to eat and the quieter beaches to visit with Sooty. The boys hadn’t been able to resist karting at the track Oscar had learned to race after media day ended. They had tried to get you and Lily to join but you were happy to play referee to their on-track battles.

“Logan looks more relaxed this year,” Lily commented as you both enjoyed a lemonade ice block in the shade of a tree.

“He’s got some experience now but I think that’s going to come with its own pressure. People are still expecting a lot from him, I just hope he has a car that can help him meet those expectations. He was just starting to get the hang of the last one and then the season was over.”

“It sounded like the car was going to be better this year from what Osc said.”

“I'm sure that’s what Alpine told Gasly and Ocon too,” you said with a laugh.

“Serves them right,” Lily giggled. “Alpine, not Pierre.”

“What about Estie Bestie?”

Lily wrinkled her nose at the nickname. “I only met him a couple of times but I definitely wouldn’t call him that.”

It took a lot for Lily to struggle to find something nice to say about someone, she was the sweetest, most soft spoken woman you knew. So it was enough to suggest he was someone you probably wouldn’t go out of your way to meet anytime soon.

“I do wish the guys would include Lo more. I know it hurts him to see pictures of the others getting together. Not that he says anything, he’s too polite,” you said with a sigh. “He was so happy when he was invited to play padel at Testing.”

Your eyes found his blue helmet as it raced around the track, neck and neck with Oscar’s orange one. It was amazing what he could do when given an equal piece of equipment, you would never have been able to tell that they were on opposite ends of the driver standings when watching them call a draw at the finish line.

The boys abandoned their helmets and dropped to the grass beside you and Lily laughing about something Oscar had said on the walk over. Sooty was in heaven as he rolled onto his back and welcomed the fresh hands for belly rubs.

“We should get a dog.”

Lily didn’t look impressed at Oscar’s suggestion and you distracted yourself by offering Logan some of your ice block before it completely melted.

“Just something small, like a Jack Russel,” he continued. “They can’t be that hard to look after, right?”

You barely contained your laugh as you shared an amused look with Logan that he returned, but Lily caught it.

“Just ask them,” she pointed out. “It’s like having a child, isn't it? I’m studying, you’re working and travelling, who will look after it?”

“It is a full time commitment,” you agreed. “And it takes a lot of planning to have everything prepared for travelling. I actually think a child would be easier, they only need a passport to get on a plane.”

Logan nudged your knee with his and winked. “Should we test that theory out?”

“We haven’t even set a date for the wedding so calm your loins, babe,” you said with a pat to his thigh that triggered Oscar to snort.

“Okay, no dog,” he conceded, a relief to Lily’s ears. “You guys wanna get dinner?”

You were about to take up the offer but Logan shook his head and said, “we have somewhere to be.”

“We do?”

“I didn’t ask you to pack a nice dress for it to get left in the hotel. I have something special planned,” he teased. “And no, I’m not telling you, it’s a surprise.”

Try as you might, he didn’t give you a hint of what he had organised.

“You look gorgeous, sweetheart.”

Logan was struck by your beauty and his luck as you stepped out of the room in a dress that accentuated all of your features. His mouth went dry at the thought that he had the pleasure of spending the rest of his life with you.

You stepped closer and ran your palms down the clean lines of his dress shirt that had the top two buttons undone. The baring of skin showed the necklace he wore, a gift from your first anniversary. He had far more expensive pieces of jewellery but he favoured that one the most because it came from you.

“Are you sure we have to go? You’re too handsome for your own good.”

His eyes traced the peek of your tongue and it rolled across your lips suggestively and he felt his pants tighten. He did debate cancelling it all to take you straight back to the bedroom you had left but he finally wrestled his thoughts back under control. “Unfortunately, but I might cancel dessert and have you instead.”

A town car was already waiting at the front of the hotel and as it drove along you watched the city as the sun set and the street lights brightened. Melbourne was beautiful.

“We should set a date for the wedding,” Logan suddenly said as the car pulled up at the city waterfront. “Everything is so uncertain this year but you’re the one constant in my life. If I lose everything else I’ll survive, but I will always need you.”

You laced your fingers with his as you stepped out of the car and thanked the driver. “You’ll always have me, wedding or not.”

He smiled and kissed your ringed hand, leading the way to a yacht moored at the pier. “I know, but I kind of look forward to calling you my wife.”

“Kind of? I hope you’ll have more enthusiasm with your vows.” Your words were light and your smile teasing before you released his hand to board the private boat.

The light mood lasted well into the night and your heart was as full as your stomach when the boat finished its harbour cruise. You wished that mood could last all weekend, but the universe had other plans.

yourusername

yourusername date night with my favourite human @/logansargeant 💙 thank you @/lilyzneimer for babysitting our boy, Sooty, not Oscar.

You knew that look of defeat when he emerged from James’ office, it saturated his soul and leaked out through his pale blue eyes. You could count on your hand the number of times Logan had cried in front of you and your heart ached at the thought of adding another to the tally. Without a word, laced your fingers with his and walked back to the privacy of his driver room. The door shut, the sound as muted as the mood, and you opened your arms to let him fall into your embrace as he confirmed the rumours were true. Logan’s hands clutched the back of your shirt in his fists and he buried his face in your neck. “Alex is racing.”

Your heart broke at the despondent tone and you drew soothing circles across his back. He had known it was a possibility going into the meeting but had hoped his principal wouldn’t put him in a position to give up his seat for the race. Unfortunately his prayers had gone unanswered.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” you murmured as his tears hit your shoulder. “I can’t believe they are even allowed to do this.”

“James didn’t want to ask, but he’s right, Alex has the best chance for points - his history shows that clearly,” Logan rasped through the lump in his throat. He felt humiliated, disappointed and angry all at once, but he was expected to grin and bear it for the team as a united front.

Your brows knitted together and you cradled his face in your hands so you could look him in the eyes. “He gave you the choice?”

Logan shrugged. “I mean, it didn’t feel like it, but I did say yes.”

“Yes means nothing if it’s under duress,” you stated bluntly, a familiar fire warming your stomach at the thought of his kind nature being taken for granted. “Just say the word, baby, and I’ll take him to church.”

Logan shook his head and the gaping wound that had been cleaved into his chest closed a little at your protective nature. He knew you would march right back into James’ office and argue until you were blue in the face, but he feared it would only make things worse for his future prospects in the team. This was his battle to face and he was going to play the long game, even if it took playing the fool for one race.

“I know you would, sweetheart,” he said with a sniffle, wiping his eyes and swallowing down the emotion. It would have made his father proud. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said with a kiss, tasting the salty tears on his lips. “Tell me what you need.”

“Just…stay with me?” Logan took a few steadying breaths and rested his forehead on yours as he screwed his eyes shut. “The cameras, I can’t deal with them alone. I can already feel them zooming in on me, wanting a reaction.”

You draped your arms around his neck and tangled your fingers in his hair with a reassuring smile. “Let’s disappoint them all then. Shall we?”

He took a deep breath and forced his lips to tip up into a hesitant smile that slowly grew more substantial the longer he looked at you. “Yes, ma’am.”

[cherbii]

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS | Gojo Satoru

summary ➜ you could easy forget your old fling, and boss, but when there’s a new p.a swooning for him, you can’t help but want him back, and want what you two used to have.

warnings ➜ language, smut! dirty talk, p in v, unprotected sex, blindfold sex, semi-public sex, office sex, oral (F), cum eating, thigh fucking, praising, multiple orgasms, fingering, mdni

[part 2]

Your fingers nimbly clicked against the keyboard of your computer, eyebrows drawn together, met with a crinkle in focus. You sat in your office, one that matched everyone else's. Though it was more of a small boxed off area, where people could pass by as they pleased.

Your one hand moved swiftly to the mouse before clicking, then your printer began to whir, the green light flashed before it was spurting out inked paper, warm like a fresh loaf of bread. You patiently waited for all pages to be printed before sliding them into a file, kicking yourself off of your office chair and striding towards your bosses office.

Satoru Gojo was your boss, the enigmatic and charismatic head of the department. Though his boss was Nanami Kento, Gojo was the second in command, and he held a commanding presence that demanded both respect and attention.

Your heart skipped a beat as you approached his office, your mind racing with anticipation. You turned the corner to reveal his personal assistant, Mei.

She had tightly curled, blonde hair that framed her face perfectly, and her curvy figure was accentuated by the form-fitting pencil skirt she wore. Mei glanced up from her file as she stood outside the office door, waiting. "Can I help you?"

You cleared your throat, trying to gather your thoughts. "I need to discuss the new project proposal with Gojo. It's urgent." Your tone was strong, firm, and no sense of messing around.

"Of course," Mei replied, giving you an slow nod. "Go right in; he's expecting you." She hummed, and gave you a tight lipped smile, you often got the feeling she didn't like you.

Taking a deep breath, you entered Gojo's office. The room exuded an air of power and authority, with dark wooden furniture and shelves lined with impressive accolades and certificates. Gojo himself was seated behind his large, imposing desk, his piercing blue eyes fixated on the documents before him. His perfectly styled silver hair added to his allure, making it hard to focus on anything else.

"Ah, come in," Gojo said, looking up with a smile that could charm anyone. "What can I do for you?" His eyes pierced through you, through the shades he wore, they were the same eyes that—no, you swore to forget the past.

Summoning your confidence, you began to discuss the project proposal, explaining your ideas and suggestions with passion and clarity. Gojo listened intently, nodding occasionally and asking insightful questions.

As the conversation progressed, you found yourself drawn to his genuine interest in your work and his ability to challenge your ideas, making you see things from different perspectives.

Unbeknownst to you, Mei lingered outside the office, stealing glances through the partially open door. Her heart sank as she observed the undeniable connection between you and Gojo. She knew she had feelings for him, but witnessing your professional rapport filled her with both envy and admiration.

As the meeting came to an end, Gojo complimented your work and encouraged you to move forward with the proposal. With a grateful smile, you thanked him for his support, feeling a sense of accomplishment and validation.

In the days that followed, you found yourself working more closely with Gojo, collaborating on various projects and growing closer as colleagues. The chemistry between you two was undeniable.

Mei couldn't ignore the growing attraction between you and Gojo, and her heartache became evident as she tried to mask her feelings. But she was no stranger to facing challenges head-on, and she wasn't about to let her emotions hinder her professional growth.

Determined to prove her worth and showcase her talents, Mei threw herself into her work with renewed vigor. She took on more responsibilities, impressed Nanami with her efficiency, and showed her mettle as a capable and dependable professional.

As time passed, Mei's dedication and resilience caught Gojo's attention. He began to notice her in a new light, admiring her tenacity and unwavering commitment.

You had always been ambitious and driven, striving to prove yourself in the workplace. But seeing Mei's rapid rise and the attention she garnered from Gojo ignited a competitive streak within you. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of resentment towards her, and it became clear that the feeling was mutual.

Mei, aware of the growing tension between you, didn't shy away from the challenge. She matched your competitive spirit with unwavering determination, pushing herself even harder to outshine you in Gojo's eyes.

Each achievement she earned, every accolade she received, served as a constant reminder of your own insecurities and shortcomings.

As the rivalry between you and Mei intensified, it began to affect the office dynamics. Colleagues noticed the subtle hostility between you, creating an uncomfortable atmosphere within the team.

However, Gojo remained oblivious to the underlying tension, preoccupied with the demands of his role. At least, that's how it seemed.

On a random Tuesday, as you were engrossed in your work, Mei approached your desk with a triumphant smile on her face. She couldn't resist the urge to gloat about her latest accomplishment, aware of the effect it would have on you.

"Did you hear?" Mei asked, feigning innocence. "Gojo praised my recent presentation. He said it was one of the best he's seen in years."

You clenched your fists, struggling to maintain your composure. "That's great for you, Mei.” You replied curtly, trying to hide the bitterness in your voice.

Mei's smile widened, and she leaned in closer. "It seems Gojo has taken quite an interest in my work. I guess some people just have what it takes."

The words stung, fueling your growing envy. In that moment, you made a silent vow to prove yourself, to show Gojo that you were just as capable—if not more—than Mei. The rivalry had reached its breaking point, and it was time to confront your feelings head-on.

Determined to gain Gojo's attention, you dedicated long hours to perfecting your projects, leaving no room for errors. You poured your heart and soul into your work, channeling your jealousy into a relentless pursuit of excellence.

As weeks turned into months, Gojo noticed your transformation. He recognized the fire in your eyes, the drive that pushed you to go above and beyond. He appreciated your work ethic and the passion you exhibited. But unbeknownst to you, Gojo was also aware of the growing tension between you and Mei.

One day, he called you and Mei into his office for a meeting. As you both entered, the atmosphere was palpable with unspoken animosity. Gojo, ever perceptive, sensed the underlying tension and decided to address it head-on.

"I've noticed the competitive dynamic between the two of you," Gojo began, his voice carrying a hint of sternness. "While I appreciate your dedication and drive, it's crucial to remember that we are a team. Our success lies in our ability to work together, not tear each other down."

You kept silent, not saying a thing, it was true. Very true. But you had a heart made of steel and was too stubborn to back down.

The short meeting was kept curt, Gojo called your name. "Wait, please stay, I have something I need to discuss with you." Gojo's voice rang out as you were about to leave, you didn't miss the nasty snarl Mei sent your way before she left. You went back to your previous chair, hovering before Gojo spoke again. "Come here, I don't bite."

Your eyes widened for a second before you slowly walked around the massive desk, to where Gojo sat, inclined on his seat with a boyish grin, legs spread. His pale hand patted his lap, an invitation. "I don't think I should." You insisted.

"Oh come on. It's not like you haven't sat on my lap before. Hell, you even came all over it—when? Like a year ago. Don't be shy now." He moved his sunglasses down, sending you a wink. His one foot kept the office chair swivelling, side to side, slowly.

You felt warmness creep up your neck and prayed he couldn't tell, suddenly, your shirts collar felt as though it was choking you. "Sir, that's rather unprofessional." You held your walls high.

Gojo chuckled. Laughed. "Oh, but we're far from that. So come. Now." That was an order, and you knew it.

Your legs felt stiff as you walked closer to him, to have his being hand grip your wrist and yank you, chest first onto him. Your hands awkwardly pressed against his shoulders as you straightened your back.

"See?"

"What do you want, Gojo? Last I remembered, you were the one saying that this can't happen again due to your power. What's changed?" After your words, the black in his eyes swelled, shamelessly looking at your lips that held a coating of your favourite lipstick, one he often fantasised being smeared across the both of you, on different parts.

"You've changed,” his thumb went to your lips, collecting the lipstick before dragging his thumb down your chin. His lips were left parted after he spoke, before closing when he took a swallow, eyes momentarily fluttering closed, before his bright eyes shot to yours. "I see you begging for attention, don't think I haven't noticed. I see the look in your eye whenever I'm with Mei."

You pursed your lips, now you knew he noticed though to be quite frank, you thought you were subtle. Gojo let out a chuckle, his body reverberating underneath you. "And what look is that?"

Gojo's tongue darted out, wetting his lips. You watched his tongue's movements, the shine of his lips, mind wondering to what other liquids would make his lips wet. "The same look in your eye now, like you want me to bend you over and fuck you for everyone to know who's cock you belong to."

At Gojo's words, you scoffed. "Who said I belong to you?"

"Alright. Tell me, have you fucked anyone else since out time together?"

"Yes, I have actually." Your chin raised, taking pride in that (for some reason), you felt Gojo's hands move from where it still was on your wrist, to the lower part of your back, where he began to tug free your blouse from your pencil skirt.

"Did they make you cum?"

He pulled the rest of your shirt out, immediately going to pop open the lower buttons, stopping short when it was halfway done before letting his hands fall to the side, limply. Your mouth felt dry as you tried to swallow.

Your head tipped down, and that's all Gojo needed to know. "Use your words."

"No." Your voice was quiet when you spoke, staring at the fingers that toyed with his black tie.

"Ah. Well, have you touched yourself?" You nodded, Gojo did as well, just much slower, "Did you cum then?" Another nod. "When last did you touch yourself?"

Why was the room feeling hot all of a sudden? Gojo's hands were now removing the small blazer you wore, then going back to un-buttoning your shirt. You let him. You'd always. You cleared your throat before speaking. "Last night."

Something in his eyes flashed. "Who did you cum to? Hmm? Who was in your pretty little mind as you fucked your pretty pussy?" His tone didn't hold any playfulness now, it was far more malicious. "Was it Geto? I know you two used to fuck around a lot. Or was it Nanami? You want an older man, huh? Such a slut."

"I-It was you." You blurted, a sense of embarrassment washed over at you. The night sky twinkled from city lights, a beautiful view you could see from the floor to ceiling windows in Gojo's office. "I came, because of you."

Gojo smirked. He knew it was because of him, in some way, he hoped you only came because of him. "I see. Well go on."

"W-What?"

"What were you thinking about? My mouth? Fingers? Cock? Where did this happen? Tell me, baby. Set the scene for me." He slowly removed your blouse, exposing your lace covered tits.

"Um," your skin felt hot to the touch from your immense blushing. You didn't want to tell him, yet you also wanted to. Because it wasn't ordinary vanilla sex, it was a whole lot more spicier. "Your cock, and i-it was in here and...I was—I was uhm..."

"You were what, pretty girl?"

"Your blindfold. The one you used to wear around. Yeah, I had that on." You watched him smirk again before feeling the chair roll back, Gojo's arm moved to open a drawer before retrieving the exact blindfold.

"This one?" You nodded. "Can I put it on you?" Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head. You bit your lip before accepting.

Carefully, Gojo placed the fabric over your eyes, now, you were visually impaired. All your other senses spiked.

A gasp fell from your lips when you felt yourself being picked up and placed on the floor, hands flying out to hold onto his arms. Then, you felt your skirt being pulled down, exposing more of your stockings and your panties. Your body got pushed back as you fell onto the desk, messing up piles of paper, yet Gojo didn't care.

A warm body pressed between your legs and a hand cupped your jaw before hot breath that smelt of mint caressed your ear. "Continue your story." Gojo whispered in your ear.

"It was just like this. Y-You fucked me many times, I think I came three times, but someone walked in, I don't know who,” you mumbled. You wanted to rip the blindfold off when you felt him move away, but then your ears caught sound of fabric ruffling before you soon felt warm flesh touch your own. "It actually started with your mouth."

You could recall vivid flashbacks of your dream, how real it felt. How hot and passionate it all was. Instead of your bullet vibrator you used, it was his lips, tongue and teeth lapping away at your cunt.

You felt his hands ball around your stockings, knuckle grazing over your clothes pussy before your stockings got ripped. "Can I?"

His finger brushed over the spot where your leg met your pussy. You hurriedly nodded before blurting out a yes. The cold air hit your puffy clit before anything else, then his even colder fingertip that elicited a gasp from your lips. It rubbed tantalisingly slow circles.

You almost forgot what it was like to have someone else's hands on you. You let out a groan of pleasure when you get his thumb join, pinching your clit that sent your legs into a spasm.

"Fuck, Gojo." You moaned, his fingers flicked, pinched and rubbed away at your clit. You felt a blow of air meet your swelled bundle, legs closing on reflex only to enclose around his head. His hands pried your legs further apart.

"Try again." He mumbled, before he lolled his tongue out, watching saliva dribble onto your clit before he sucked his all up and spat it out again.

"Satoru, oh god." Your hands flew to his hair, with a vice grip as your thighs humped on his face.

Even through the dark fabric, you could feel his eyes watching you, the way your plump lips fell open as he started to suck on your clit, teeth grazing over, adding to the stimulation. You could hear the suckles he made, and the groans that left his lips. You remembered him briefly saying pleasuring a woman turns him on.

His hands were wrapped around your thighs as you ground your pussy onto his face. And that's all it was. You grinding into him while he ate you out like a starved man. It didn't take long for you to squirm under his hold.

"I'm gonna cum." You threw your head back as your legs twitched.

Your lower belly started to bubble and before you knew it, your cum was dribbling down his chin. His lips moved down and slurped your hole, tongue plunging into your pulsing pussy to drink all your juices.

He stood up, your legs still on your shoulders. At this angle, the bottom of his boner wedged between your pussy lips. "How many times did you say you came?"

"We-We're not done?" You shrieked, though you still felt your hole clench and you were sure he could feel in on the shaft of his dick.

You failed to miss the bead of pre-cum that grew on his tip, slowly running down a vein and onto your pussy lip. A high pitched moan left your lips when you felt his hips move back, then your walls stretched open as he thrusted into you at a decent pace.

"How many times did you say you came again?" He snarled, he grabbed both your ankles and drew your legs together, the flesh of your thighs squeezing your pussy which pressed against his cock, he held your legs straight up as he began to piston in and out of you. A beautiful moan left his lips at the new pressure. "Answer me, slut."

"Three! Three times!" You squealed as his thrusts became faster, balls slapping against your ass. Oh how you missed this, his cock splitting you open as you became a mess underneath him.

"Then three times it is,” he bent his body around your legs, his free hand fisting the fabric of your bra before snapping it loose. Your breasts spilt from their confines, jiggling roughly as he fucked you harder. "Fuck, so beautiful. Better than I remember."

"Satoru, too—too fast,” you moaned, fingers clawing at the wooden desk, back arching against it. Short huffs of air left your lips, already so sensitive, you were close. "Gonna cum s-so soon."

"You can take it, I know you can,” he cooed, finger slipping between your thighs and provoking your clit. "You're already taking me so well, your pussy is swallowing me up. Good girl."

Your slick bubbles popped, wet sounds, slapping and moans bounced around in the office. Your hands were making a mess of his papers, now torn or crumpled.

"G-Gonna—!" You didn't get to finish your words before hot liquid squirted onto your thighs, he opened your legs and allowed for your squirting to spray onto him. His name fell from your lips like a mantra.

He quickly pulled out, closing your legs against before fucking your thighs, not a minute later, his cum was spraying onto the front area of your pussy before he dropped your legs, grabbed your hips and turned you around.

"You did so well, baby,” he kissed your shoulder. Hand flattening your sweaty hair. You could feel the wetness you made on him press against your ass. "One more,” he nudged your legs apart, before slowly inserting his cock again. "I know you still have one more for me."

"Gentle, please." You mumbled. Your head was spinning, your body ached yet yearned more. Gojo pressed soft kissed to your neck then moved your head to him. You felt his lips meet your own, you gladly welcomed him. It was slow yet open mouthed and nasty kisses.

He begin to rock his hips again setting another fire to your core. You hadn't even noticed when the blindfold got slipped off.

Even at the awkward angle, he still continued to kiss you, one hand threading through your hair while the other rubbed your throbbing clit.

This time, this round was passionate. It could easily have been mistaken for more than pent up lust. Your stomach rolled, you were closer than you've ever been. Gojo could tell by the way you failed to kiss him back, how your legs wobbled all and you moaned into his mouth.

Before he knew it, he felt your warm liquid run down his cock. He broke the kiss, letting his teeth sink into the flesh of your shoulder while you rolled your head back to allow him more space. He moaned your name, his thrusts became short and sloppy.

"In me, please." You begged.

"You on a pill?" He mumbled against your skin.

"No, but I need it in me, I'll take one tomorrow." Your pleas worked, a gasp left your lips when you felt fuller than you ever have.

Your stomach felt warm with the new secretion. Gojo pulled out and watched you drop onto the floor.

"Fuck me," he whispered. "You did so well." He gently made you face him, pressing a kiss to you're forehead. He helped you clean up and dress yourself.

As he was about to walk you to the door, the both of you heard the unmistakable sounds of heavy footsteps. Your eyes widened and your heart dropped.

Well shit.

[thegoldencontracts]

Hear me out:

MC is basically a Tsum Whisperer and basically see a Tsum Azul out in the wild.

((It waved tiny contracts and is aware of his cuteness))

So they bring it back to Azul.

I'm hearing you out and you're absolutely right.

Tsum-Whisperer

Summary: You seem to have a unique talent for making tsums move— all you need is a flute! So, of course, you use it on Azul's tsum. And the little creature seems to take a liking to you!

Notes: Tsum! Azul's so cuteeee <3

You had many regrets pertaining to your life. Many, many things that you longed to undo. Things never come to fruition; wastes of time.

Right now, however, learning to play the flute certainly wasn't one of them.

The tsums could be—put lightly—a tad overly energetic, restraining them often proving to be almost impossible. You'd seen the painstaking efforts some had taken trying to do just that, only to fail miserably.

So, when you looked up from playing a little tune on the flute to see a crowd of tsums gathered around you, it was quite the relief.

An easy way to get them under control. One that didn't involve getting into fights with a literal plushie, or trying to make said literal plushie play Call of Duty. You always made sure to keep an eye out for any stray tsums, in case you could help bring them back.

And right now, you were face to face with Azul's tsum.

...You didn't really know how. Usually, the tsums didn't just— Just directly approach you like this!

Still, there you were, huddled up as the tsum climbed up to your knees, making firm eye contact with those beady eyes of its.

And it pulled out a contract. Very cutely.

"Aww," you crooned. "Hi there, tsum tsum!"

Azul Tsum smirked. That damned creature knew how adorable it was.

"Do you need-"

It nudged the contract towards you. Was this some sort of trick? Had Azul put it up to this to make you sign something?

"Nice try," you said, pushing the contract away—gently, of course. "I'm gonna take you back to Azul, got it?"

It pouted, jumping up in anger. As expected.

You just played your flute, instantly calming it as it started following you.

Now, for the trip to Mostro Lounge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Making it to the VIP room was easy enough, even if you had to pay for a drink in the process. The hard part would be dealing with Azul. That infuriatingly suave yet ultimately cold businessman; a man who effortlessly ensnared Azul into his webs of honeyed half-truths, before practically devouring them whole.

...And your crush. Yes, it was odd, but you would process that some other time! For now, you had a Tsum to return.

"Special delivery!" You said as you swung open the door to the VIP room. Neatly organized columns of paperwork were piled up on Azul's desk, a few certificates and generic marketing posters hung up on the wall. The furniture was almost painfully pristine, leaving you with the odd yet clearly untrue feeling they'd never been touched; as if the chairs were never sat upon, the drawers never used.

It felt almost inhuman, as did Azul's perfectly corporate smile as he looked up from the study guide he was drafting to meet your gaze.

For a split second, though, it seemed like that smile was meeting his eyes.

"Is there something you requi- Oh, thank you kindly," he said, as you plopped the tsum onto his desk. "Please claim reimbursement for your obligatory drink, along with a twenty-percent-off coupon for your next drink here as repayment."

Almost robotically, he pulled an off-white envelope with a lavender seal from a pile of identical envelopes—not to be confused with the seven other piles, each of which contained envelopes with a slightly different shade of off-white, only able to be differentiated by the color of their seals—and handed it to you.

You ripped open the envelope, causing Azul's face to crumple in a mix of disgust and discomfort for a split second before it returned to the corporate smile, and revealing a perfectly uncrumpled bill atop a coupon that looked much too fancy to be called a coupon. How— Azul.

"Do you really have a pile of these lying around?" You asked, stepping a bit closer to the desk. There was still quite a gap, the VIP room was spacious, after all, but you were just a bit closer to Azul now.

The tsum, sensing an opportunity, instantly jumped up at you, landing on your arm with the contract back in hand. Azul let out an almost calculated chuckle.

"It wants you to sign, it would seem," Azul said. "Do you truly intend on crushing this little creature's hopes?"

Was he amused? Did he have ulterior motives? Secretly annoyed? You simply couldn't tell.

The tsum nudged the contract closer to you, still refusing to depart from your arm. You were quite thankful the flute was in your bag, out of its reach.

"I- uh- don't have a problem signing, but- a pen-"

The tsum handed you a pen. Azul's expression still hadn't changed a bit.

"It seems you've run out of excuses," Azul said with a laugh. "Do indulge the creature's wish now."

And so, unable to resist, you signed. If this was how you got scammed by Azul—

The tsum unfurled the contract. In sloppy, large letters, it said:

'Be frens?'

You laughed.

"Would you look at that?" You said. "It just wanted to be friends. How cute."

"Indeed," Azul said.

"Way cuter than you and your contracts," You said jokingly. A scowl briefly crossed Azul's lips.

"Does cuteness truly matter?" He said. "There are many factors that determine my clear superiority over the little creature."

"Are there, now?" You said, raising an eyebrow. Azul's face fell in displeasure. A genuine displeasure, not the manufactured slight judgement to establish an air of superiority, or the clearly feigned hurt for the sake of being a pedant.

"Do you truly believe I'm inferior to the tsum?" He said. It took quite a few seconds for the underlying emotions to dawn upon you.

"You're- Jealous of the tsum?" You asked. In an instant, Azul realized you'd caught on, scrambling to compose himself.

"Well- I- er- it's merely a creature-"

"It's alright, r-really!" You said hastily. "I don't actually think you're worse than the tsum. You've got a lot going for you, like your smarts, work ethic, talents, soft voice, good looks—"

Damnit. You'd said too much.

"Er, pardon?" Azul said, looking less creeped out and more... Flustered. Like he was overjoyed yet embarrassed.

No, no. It was probably all in your head. Just-

"I gotta go!" You said hastily. "Bye, Azul!"

And with that, you dashed out the VIP Room, after you left, Azul smiled fondly, looking at the tsum with a sigh.

"I really was quite foolish to envy you," he said. "After all, one cannot date a Tsum."

[angelicsjn]

Rugby bits are the best!

Can I request Laten bringing you home to meet his family for the first time in a break from university

He cares about his family so much and I’d love to know more about how they’d react to their boy getting a gf and how they’d treat her

LATEN REED.

A N: I love Latennnnn.

A B O U T: You meet Laten's family!

W A R N I N G S: None.

Laten's mom had been waiting for this moment — she's so excited. Her boy fell in love, how crazy is that.

She knows what he's like, how hard he found it to connect with others, so when he tells her about you (before you knew it was a relationship, lmao) she was beyond excited and had been waiting to meet you since.

But between uni, rugby, life, work, you name it, you both never found the time to go and visit his family. So in between that space, his mom added you on social media and would like the majority of your stuff, commenting things like, 'Beautiful!' underneath your selfies and posts with Laten.

Much like Laten, she's an aggressive lover, and loud about it, too, she loved you before you both met.

"Thank you, the dinner was amazing." You said, a polite smile across your lips as you drank from your glass of water. Laten and his younger brother, Daniel, played with the dog as their mom set her gaze upon you, "I'm so glad that I've finally met you. Laten has said so much about you." Her words caused a blush to creep upon your cheeks.

Laten didn't seem like the type to talk about people like that, especially somebody like you, his partner. But he does, all the time. You reminded him that he can love. You looked over his way, his smile wide as he picked up the dog with a laugh, Daniel running after them as they shot out the back door.

"He changed after his dad died. I'm glad he's met someone who understands him." You sat quietly and thought on her words, you didn't know about his dad. He never said anything about him. Suddenly you felt guilty, you could have been there for him, understood him better, maybe you wouldn't have judged him so harshly when you first met. "I'm sorry for your loss." Was all you could muster up to say, but she shook her head and smiled, "It's just life. Can't control it."

From then on, you looked at Laten differently. It made more sense as to why he is the way he is; his unemotional availability and then how suffocating his love can feel at times; he doesn't want to lose anymore.

As you looked around his bedroom, photos of him and his friends from school stuck to the wall around certificates and a shelf full of trophies; clearly he's always been a winner. The room is a dark shade of blue with the bedsheets to match and you could tell that he hadn't had it decorated in years, the paint scuffed on the edges of the wall and the furniture chipped at from years of use. It felt cost and it's scent was all him, your favourite scent.

"You good?" He asked, walking in with his towel around his waist, the water dripping from his curls of honey and down his body, he looked almost edible. You watched as he gathered his PJs and got himself dry and dressed.

"Yeah. You?" You asked back, he turned his back to you as he shot a quick, "Yep." Once he turned back, he sat on the edge of the bed and stroked your leg gently, "I knew they'd like you." He smiled, his green eyes twinkling,

"I'm glad." You said sincerely, at first you were worried but as soon as you stepped into their home, you felt welcomed automatically. "But my mom won't shut up about marriage now..." He laughed a bit, but you couldn't unsee the look of curiosity in his eyes as he watched you.

"We're a bit young for that, don't you think?" You questioned, not knowing what to say. He smiled and lay down on the bed, putting his arm underneath his head, his bicep flexing. "One day." He said before squeezing your leg gently.

[scoonsaliciousupdates]

10.2 Bucky

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Lily McIntyre, trainer for new SHIELD recruits at the Avengers Tower, has been in love with her best friend, Bucky Barnes, from the moment she met him. She's been content with her role of the #1 girl in Bucky's life, even if it means she has to sabotage a romantic relationship or two. It'll be worth it when he realizes that they're meant for each other, right? There's just one small problem: Lily McIntire never expected Bucky Barnes to fall for You.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, Bucky invading privacy and getting the wrong idea, then not letting Major get a word in edgewise.

Word Count: 1.4k

Previously On...: You thought the envelope may have come from Rand, but after talking to him, you're pretty sure he didn't send it.

A/N: Sorry for the delay-- was running errands and thought I would be back in time, but then I got held up at a train crossing :P

If you ever feel so inclined to support my work, hop on over to buy me a coffee; it's much appreciated! <3

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

He was about fifteen minutes early to pick up Major, but if he was being honest with himself, he couldn’t wait to see her again. He missed her every second he wasn’t near her, talking to her, holding her, just being in her presence. He was down bad for the girl, that was for sure, and he was going to take every extra minute he could get with her.

Opening the main door, he walked into the lobby and waved to Zadie as she was having a group of teenagers sign a waiver before arranging to have them go to a room. 

“Hey, Sergeant Barnes!” she called out to him. “Major’s back in her office if you wanted to go surprise her. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind the interruption.” Zadie waggled her eyebrows at the implication, and Bucky stifled a laugh as he made his way back toward the door she’d pointed to.

The door to Major’s office was partially closed, and Bucky knocked, the force of it pushing the door open to reveal the empty office. Bucky stepped inside and, seeing her purse on the edge of her desk, assumed she must have stepped out to use the restroom; he was fifteen minutes early in coming to pick her up, after all. She would have thought she had time.

He used the opportunity to take in her space, the sophisticated office furniture colored in deep, earthy tones that gave Bucky a feeling of calm, similar to what he felt in her presence. He admired some framed medals on the wall from her time in the military, as well as some certificates of accomplishment, and he was pleased to see the orchid he’d bought her resting in a place of pride by the window. 

He ran his fingers over the fuchsia petals, smiling to himself before turning toward her desk.

That was when he saw it. The envelope that had Major so worked up earlier in the day, her name and The WarZone’s Midtown address written in blocky, all caps. He took a step toward it, hand outstretched, but then pulled himself back. No, he thought. He wasn’t going to go through her private work documents. It was none of his business, really.

But… she had been so upset earlier. Maybe there was something he could do to help. He could just take a quick peak; that would totally be fine. He tilted the envelope and a stack of documents and photos came pouring out onto Major’s desk. At first, he couldn’t make sense of what he was looking at, as if the input from his eyes wasn’t making its way to his brain. 

Every piece of paper that had come out of the envelope was about… him. He found himself flipping through the pages, barely allowing the contents to register. They were all photos of him, back when he was still the Asset, committing horrendous crimes. Each document was a report of something he’d done, a person he’d killed. As he flipped through them, his stomach fell through the floor, shame heating his face. Why did she have these? How did she get them?

Had she been looking into him? When she had told him, during their first date, that she would wait for him to tell her about his past when he was ready, had that all been a lie? But why? What would she have to gain from it?

He heard footsteps approaching and in seconds, Major was walking through the door of her office.

“Hey, you!” she exclaimed, her face lighting up in happiness when she saw him standing there. “You’re early! I hope you weren’t waiting too long on me. Just wanted to freshen my face before dinner tonight.” She walked around to where he was standing and draped her arms around his neck, leaning up to kiss him, but Bucky stood still, only turning his face from hers.

She pulled away from him, her expression concerned. “Bucky, what’s wrong?” 

Without thought, his eyes darted to where the documents and photos lay spread haphazardly across her desk. He watched her gaze turn to follow his line of sight, and he saw her posture seem to deflate. 

“Oh,” she breathed out. “Oh, Bucky, honey– I really didn’t want you to see those.”

“I’m sure,” he spat, and was rewarded when she pulled back from him in surprise. “Wouldn’t do you any good if I knew you were digging into my past, would it? Much better to keep me in the dark about it, right?”

“Bucky, what–” she began, but he interrupted her:

“Was all that talk about wanting to wait until I was comfortable with telling you about my past just a lie? Were you so goddamn curious, you couldn’t even wait to find all the gory details for yourself? You wanna know how many people I killed that didn’t make it into those files, because I promise you, sugar, there’s a hell of a lot. You want to know about the time Hydra sent me to kill an ambassador, told me to leave no witnesses, and I took out his wife and his two kids, too? ‘Cause they couldn’t have been more than ten years old. That kind of thing get you off, doll?”

She took a further step back from him, a look of disgust and confusion on her face, and Bucky suddenly didn’t want to deal with it. “You know what?” he said, stepping around her and walking to the door, “Fuck this.” He stormed out of her office and as he stomped through the lobby, he could hear Major calling after him, but he was beyond caring at this point. 

He slammed through the front doors of The WarZone and back onto the street. Hopping onto his bike, he threw on his helmet and kicked it into gear, speeding away from Major and his past as fast as he could.

* 

He reached upstate in record time; he was fortunate he hadn’t gotten pulled over for speeding. He certainly wouldn’t have taken that very well. He stopped at an intersection– one direction would take him back to the Compound, but the other would lead him into town. He considered his options for a split second before making his decision.

A few minutes later, he was pulling up to the front of a modest, but charming farmhouse. His safe haven for when life at the Compound got to be too much for him to handle, and he needed some peace and quiet to just decompress and be himself. He definitely needed that right now.

Bucky walked up the front path and onto the well-tended porch before giving the front door a series of strong knocks. Stepping back, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacked and waited, his eyes resting on the porch swing he had helped build two summers ago. He should probably check the chain to make sure it didn’t need to be oiled.

The door opened and there was Lily, a balm to his ragged psyche. 

“Jamie,” she breathed, obviously surprised to see him. “What are you doing here? I thought you had dinner plans with Nat’s friend.”

Bucky grunted and poked the toe of his boot at a floor board that stuck out a little higher than its neighbor. “Don’t really want to talk about her right now, Lil,” he said. “Can I come in?”

Lily’s eyes widened as she stepped aside, making room for him to enter. “Yeah, of course. Um, I was just thinking of ordering some takeout. Are you hungry? I could get some pizzas.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said as he followed Lily into her kitchen, “that sounds good.” He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of one of her kitchen chairs. “Let me pay this time, though, okay? Since you’ll have to order an entire second pizza just for me.”

Lily smiled at him softly as she picked up her phone and navigated to the delivery app. “Obviously,” she told him with a hint of teasing in her voice. “Ham and pineapple on one, pepperoni on the other?” 

Bucky sat down and stretched his arms over his head. “It’s like you read my mind.”

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

[biplusco]

Indochine Collection - Connoisseur's Bedroom Set

🎨📚🏮🧭

Hello there!

It’s new CC time! Yay!!! We're excited to share our latest Collection with you all! This time around, we've taken inspiration from the Indochine interior style in Vietnam, which blends both Eastern and Western elements. Developing this Collection was an absolute blast!

We're starting off the Indochine Collection with the Connoisseur's Bedroom Set. Featuring 9 new objects, including wooden furniture with elegant metallic details and clean, straight lines in their design. From the framed medals and certificates to the easel and art supplies, the Sims living here must very creative and studious at the same time.

Luxe-Weave Bed | 9 swatch

Classic Study Desk | 5 swatch

Elegance Chair | 5 swatch

Wisdom Tower | 5 swatch

Artisan Easel | 5 swatch

Artistic Oasis | 2 swatch

Overachiever Display | 1 swatch

Shooting Star Award | 1 swatch

Muse Statue | 1 swatch

Be sure to stay tuned for our next post, where we'll introduce you to the family living in our Indochine Collection home. We're so excited to share their story with you. Oh, this is going to be interesting…

📍GET THE SET NOW ON PATREON

[ohkate]

@sleepymick I agree. I think sometimes the writers did things for comedic affect without thinking the fans would be clocking their canon mistakes. Like him not spelling Gallagher right in the tattoo. He spelled it right when he spraypainted it on the wall in season 1.

So even if we take season 11's word on it and he didn't know what a social security number was, it's not because he's dumb. It's because his entire life he's not needed it. They've never had bank accounts or jobs so he would have no use of it. It's not like good ole' Terry had a file folder with his kids birth certificates and ss cards safe at home.

Mickey was surprised when Ian said he had a bank account because it's so rare for the people in his life to save responsibly or to have anything that was legitimate or on the grid. It's all about now and surviving through today. Cash. Goods he can sell for cash.

It's part of why he doesn't think long term about consequences, either. When Ian talks to him about having a gun and possibly going back to jail, he doesn't flinch. Those are tomorrow problems. His whole life was pretty much just trying to figure out the day to day living. Hustling. Those are the skills he learned. And he's exceptional at them. If he'd actually had the opportunity to do other types of learning, I have no doubt he'd be above average. No, I don't think he's smarter than Lip. I don't think he's a super genius. But I think he's exceptional at the world he's grown up in and, if redirected, it could have taken him far in either the business world or in a trade. Especially if it had to do with numbers.

He'd have been a great carpenter or architect. He's shown a propensity for drawing and being creative. He'd do what he wanted without answering to anyone. He'd be bored working in an office making other people money. But if he was a carpenter or architect, he'd be able to do the geometry in his head to make cuts and put together furniture or home building. He'd also be a good negotiator for his own contracts.

[iso-updates]

Significance of FSC MSC in Choosing Sustainable Wooden Furniture

In the event that you're on the lookout for wooden types of furniture, wooden barstools, or lumber-feasting tables. Understanding a big motivator for FSC in furniture and why it is important can assist with settling on additional well-minded decisions as a customer.

In this complete aide, we'll dive into the universe of the FSC certificate in furniture, investigating its importance, the significance of FSC Multiple Site Certification in UAE in furniture, and the effect of unreasonable forest practices on both the worldwide environ and your prosperity. Toward the finish of this article, you'll figure out why that is important.

What Does FSC Certification in Furniture Mean?

FSC, with regard to furniture, represents the "Forest Stewardship Council." It is an internationally perceived, non-benefit association devoted to advancing capable forest management. The FSC sets exclusive requirements for environmental forestry service works, guaranteeing that wood and wood items come from responsibly managed forests.

Importance of FSC Certification in Furniture

At the point when you see the FSC-certified label on wooden furnishings, it means that the wood utilized in the product comes from forests that meet the FSC's severe rules. These rules envelop the environmental, social, and economic parts of forest management. Fundamentally, FSC MSC for Furniture ensures buyers that the wood utilized is obtained responsibly, with negligible adverse consequences on the environment and other supply chain networks.

The furniture business has a critical layout in wood, the majority of which comes from the felling of trees. Chopping down trees unscrupulously likewise seriously influences untamed life, native clans, and the water table. With environmental change representing an up-and-coming danger to our survival, we can't enjoy unseeing deforestation for furniture.

Then again, we as a whole require a seat to sit on, and a bed to stay in bed, and that's just the beginning. In this manner, we need sustainable wood' that satisfies the current requirements without forfeiting the things representing things to come.

To guarantee that furniture is produced using sustainable wood, the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), an independent, non-profit organization, laid out two thorough certification systems:

FSC Chain of Custody (FSC CoC) Certificate, and

FSC Sourced Wood Certificate.

Why Look For An FSC Certification As A Consumer? 

Environmental Responsibility: Picking furniture with FSC accreditation safeguards our planet. Impractical logging practices add to deforestation, which, thus, prompts territory obliteration, loss of biodiversity, and expanded fossil fuel byproducts. By choosing FSC-certified wood, you are supporting sustainable forest management, decreasing the carbon impression, and assisting the battle environment with evolving.

Moral and Social Contemplations: The FSC certificate isn't just about trees; it's additionally about individuals. The FSC guarantees that forests are made do with deference to indigenous freedoms, laborers' privileges, and local networks. By picking FSC-certified furniture, you are embracing moral and fair labor works, adding to social value, and safeguarding the rights of forest subordinate networks.

Top-Notch Durability in Wood Furniture: FSC-certified wood frequently flaunts greater sturdiness. This implies that the wooden furniture, barstools, or feasting tables you buy are naturally managed as well as durable, giving you an incentive for your cash.

Compliance with Guidelines: Many nations have guidelines and regulations concerning the import and offer of wood products, with an emphasis on unlawful logging counteraction. By choosing FSC-certified wood, you guarantee compliance with such guidelines, keeping away from potential legitimate issues related to non-certified product items.

If your furniture has an FSC logo, it implies that the wood implied in its development has come from moral sources. Furthermore, what precisely do moral sources mean? It implies that the furniture organization utilizes materials from lawfully reaped forests and mindfully managed sources.

For organizations to accomplish the FSC for Furniture Products certificate, one should observe rigid rules. They need to exhibit their reaped materials:

Do not affect the water quality,

Do not come from uncommon and safeguarded trees,

Recharge the green cover, and

Do not involve profoundly harmful synthetic chemicals in its creation.

Why is FSC Wood Good for the Environment? 

Trees are superheroes in our battle against ozone-harming substances. As per the FSC, each cubic meter of wood utilized as a substitute for different materials retains a normal of 1.1 lots of carbon dioxide that would somehow stay in the environment. 

Responsible wood creation likewise utilizes less valuable energy resources than some other standard material used to make retail furniture, for instance, multiple times not exactly that expected to deliver steel and is a sustainable and effectively recyclable asset. In FSC-certified forests, seedlings are planted to supplant the trees that are felled, ensuring that forest size and habitats are maintained.

In this way, if you're quick to work on your environmental certifications and construct moral credibility with clients and colleagues, picking retail show units produced from FSC-certified wood is an easy decision.

Wooden Retail Display Furniture is Durable, Flexible & Attractive 

Besides the vital environment considerations, wooden retail show units likewise look awesome. There's nothing tricky or counterfeit about wood; a provincial material's apparent as warm, unwinding, and reliable characteristics that form trust in a brand. Also, it's tough and flexible, as well.

Sufficiently able to endure the mileage of regular client communication, wood can without much of a stretch be cut into all shapes and sizes and painted, oiled, or stained to make tone and surface. This makes it a reasonable and versatile long-term venture. May would contend that wood is more appealing with age, truth be told.

Conclusion

Picking FSC-certified wooden furniture is a strong method for supporting reasonable forest management and capable industrialism. By understanding the meaning of the FSC Multiple Site Certification in UAE, you pursue an educated choice that benefits your quick climate as well as the worldwide environment.

Multiple Site Certification guarantees that your wooden furniture, barstools, and feasting tables are produced using environmentally managed wood, defending forests, untamed life, and the rights of indigenous networks.

Also, FSC MSC certified furniture is frequently of more excellent and solidness, offering durable worth. Embrace the meaning of the certificate in your furniture decisions and add to a more sustainable future.

[calaisreno]

May Prompts 2024

Dear Writers:

It's nearly May! The month of merry little thoughts, divine mistakes, and frivolous whims.

Time to set aside that fantasy trilogy that's been stuck in the mud all winter, the six-act tragedy in blank verse you've been labouring over--and write some random bits and bobs!

Visit your mind attic. Pull open the drawer where you hide your terrible ideas and scenes that are waiting for the right story. (I know you have such an attic and such a drawer because I do as well 🙄) Dig around— not with the idea of spring cleaning, which will only produce an empty drawer and a tidy attic— but because it's a treasure hunt.

Dust off the lawn furniture, put on your sandals, take your laptop outdoors. New environs, new inspirations.

The point is this: Last year* some of us wrote and shared a month of little daily fictions. There were drabbles and 221Bs and flash-fiction and mini-epics. There were prompts, which some of us used as a starting place, and sharing of minifics amongst ourselves, which led to more inspiration. 

Wanna see some more?

I've been hoarding ideas since last year and am now opening that drawer. I plan to write a short something every day in May, and will share my words with whoever wants to be tagged. If you'd like a daily prompt, I will be supplying that. 

No pressure. While some structure creates opportunity and creativity thrives within structure, this exercise is not meant to create anxiety or trigger your inner completionist. (My internal taskmaster is taking the month off.)

No judgement. No prizes for reaching 31, no awards for creativity, no certificates of participation. Just cheering one another on.

No rules. Use the prompt or don't. Write 100 words or 1000. Any fandom, any characters, any headcanon. Or your own original creation. Write every day or whenever an idea strikes. Share or don't. 

No guilt. Fail gleefully, write terribly, get out of the boat and swim.

Correction. One rule: write some words. 

*Credit goes to @notjustamumj for last year's inspiration. Eternal thanks for that idea!

Please reblog! I'm tagging a few people who participated last year or expressed interest, but I’m sure I’m leaving someone out. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged for prompts and sharing.  

@raina_at @lisbeth-kk @keirgreeneyes @allsovacant @totallysilvergirl @meetinginsamarra @jrow @elwinglyre @bertytravelsfar @helloliriels @gregorovitchworld @peanitbear @mydogwatson

[astra-ravana]

Acquiring, Keeping, and Caring For Cursed Objects

So, you want a cursed object? Maybe you're a collector of haunted artifacts, a chaos witch who loves a challenge, or just someone who thinks “possessed” is a selling point. Whatever your reason, handling cursed items is an art—one that requires knowledge, caution, and maybe a good exorcist on speed dial.

Where to Find Cursed Objects

If you’re looking to acquire an object with questionable spiritual history, try:

Thrift Stores & Estate Sales

• Old mirrors, antique dolls, and Victorian jewelry are prime candidates.

• Look for items with a strange energy or eerie backstory from previous owners.

• Cursed objects tend to feel either cold or warm.

Online Marketplaces

• eBay and Etsy occasionally feature items labeled as “haunted” or “cursed.”

• Be wary of fakes—if it comes with a certificate of authenticity, it’s probably a gimmick.

Abandoned & Historical Sites

• Be very careful when taking objects from old buildings, cemeteries, or battlefields. Some spirits don’t appreciate being relocated without permission.

Occult Shops & Witch Markets

• Some practitioners sell intentionally hexed, haunted, or enchanted objects.

• Check the seller’s reputation before buying something that might decide to rearrange your furniture at night.

How to Identify a Cursed Object

Not all creepy antiques are cursed, but some red flags include:

Unexplained Bad Luck - After bringing the object home, things start breaking, people fall ill, or your cat suddenly hates you.

Disturbing Dreams & Nightmares - If an item gives you visions of past tragedies, or whispers in the night—it’s probably cursed.

Strange Physical Reactions - Feeling cold, dizzy, or heavy near the object? That’s a sign of a strong energy attachment.

Moving or Vanishing on Its Own - If the object relocates itself, refuses to stay put, or vanishes and reappears, congratulations—you have an active one.

Electronic & Environmental Disturbances - Flickering lights, draining batteries, and objects falling for no reason are classic signs of spirit activity.

Safely Keeping a Cursed Object

If you want to coexist with your new haunted acquisition (without getting hexed into oblivion), follow these guidelines:

Set Boundaries-

• Speak to the object (yes, really). Tell it:

“You are welcome here, but you will not harm, scare, or disrupt my space.”

• Reinforce with protective symbols (salt, runes, or sigils).

Keep It Contained-

• Glass cases help contain energy.

• A dedicated altar or place of honor makes the spirit feel welcome and appreciated.

• Iron boxes can trap aggressive spirits.

• Mirror boxes can function as a trap for many spirits.

Regular Cleansing & Offerings-

• If the spirit is sentient, occasional offerings (coins, incense, or flowers) can keep it calm.

• Empower the spirit through regular acknowledgement.

• Smoke cleansing, bells, or singing bowls can balance energy without removing the curse/spirit.

• Marshmallow root makes spirits happy and calm.

Have a Backup Plan-

• If things go wrong, have banishing components (like black salt, rue, or black tourmaline) ready.

• A witch, priest, or medium can help if the object becomes too hostile.

• Consider 'rehoming' objects that become too dangerous to a more willing collector.

• Burying, throwing into fast moving water, or burning will neutralize most objects. Some spirits may just be made furious by the disrespect, however, so be wise.

Owning a cursed object is like having a supernatural roommate—you need rules, respect, and an exit strategy. Whether you’re collecting for curiosity, magickal experimentation, or sheer thrill, just remember: some spirits are happy to stay dormant… until they’re not. Happy haunting!

[lilyissuswritings2]

Head Of The House

Listen, it's Bruce's manor, right? It's literally Wayne Manor, birthright, yada yada yada. He owns it.

But it's not his house.

It's Alfred's house, and Alfred's rules. Alfred has the last say because, he's been there longer than Bruce and Bruce trusts his judgement.

Also, because I feel like even though Bruce is super organized when it comes to stuff about his kids and being Batman, this man has no idea where stuff like his birth certificate is

He's just kinda never needed to find it? Like, he knows it's somewhere. But Alfred knows where it is.

When the kids wanna ask for something for the house(painting the rooms, new room furniture, new pets) they do have to ask Bruce, but they also have to pre-ask Alfred to make sure it's okay.