#How much more will we tolerate before we say enough

[aliencatwafers]

Be weary

While the Tik Tok ban is taking a lot of attention, it’s being used as a distraction and stunt to draw attention away from the mass deportations and raids set to happen this week.

I’m not saying the ban isn’t important, it reflects censorship and is being used by Trump to gain favor with people so he can say he brought it back. But, don’t let the ban distract you from the oppression immigrants and undocumented people go through, and that they are being heavily targeted this week. It’s common for governments to pull stunts to hide an atrocity happening. For instance, the terrible debate between Trump and Harris last year hid the fact that Gaza was being bombed and refugee camps were being invaded from the American populace. Governments love to do something to draw American attention away from what the government wants to do but knows they won’t have mass approval or don’t want attention. This is happening again with the Tik Tok ban and planned unbanning going at the same time frame as the mass deportations planned.

Trump is a very dangerous man and I am sickened that he is in office and people support him. I’m not shocked but am extremely disappointed that the country picked an incompetent hateful fascist that reflects racist rhetoric. He is destroying communities and will leave so much damage. The nation built off immigrant labor rejects the same people that built this nation (the US was built off exploited Indigenous, Black, Asian, Latin, queer, trans, disabled, women labor).

Remember: DO NOT HELP ICE!!

Remember: If you know an immigrant, NO YOU DON’T

Remember: Protect your neighbors and make sure they’re safe during this time

Remember: Legality is NOT morality

Remember: Pay attention to what the government puts in front of you, and ask yourself if something else is happening behind the scenes

Everyone always says that they would’ve fought the Nazis and help to hide the Jewish people if they were born in Nazi Germany. While what’s happening now is a different time period, take that pride that you’d do better than the Germans who allowed Nazis to get away with this, and actually do better. See humanity in immigrants and ask what they need. The government isn’t going to help you. Once they hurt everyone else, they will go after you. Speak up while you still can. Help vulnerable communities while you still can. Even reblogging is still activism by spreading awareness.

Do not let Trump get away with this.

Do any help you can.

Do what you can.

[floral-hex]

So this is my thing now, I’m afraid to go to sleep. This is kinda bullshit, brain.

[bi-writes]

ok reverse the TROPE !!!!!! sugar-mommy!f!reader x retired!simon <333 (18+)

he got discharged on a medical injury. his knee flares up now, phantom pains that shoot up his leg and pinch his spine. he feels like a failure--a lieutenant in his prime, and now he has to acclimate to civilian life and grit his teeth instead of drown the voices in his head out with gunfire.

he's been deployed as much as he could be just to stay away from this kind of place. so he didn't have to get on a train, or take the tube. so he didn't have to think about looking over his shoulder in the shops or learn how to pay a wifi bill. he hates going to the doctor's office, and he hates learning how to properly open his bank account, just to learn that there's nearly nothing in it.

the numbers just dwindle before his very eyes. the rent is too high, even in his shitty studio. when did cable cost that much? why can't he go to the pub for just a few pounds anymore? where is the compensation for giving more than a decade of his life in service of his country just to have to wait in fucking lines to get his medication and argue over the phone about where all his fucking money went.

maybe he never had any. maybe it's all lost somewhere. he'd ask his former captain, but he's halfway across the world, and over his dead body would he hold a hand out and ask for charity when he's 36 years old.

"don't get that one."

simon turns his head, a snarl caught in his throat. there's a pretty thing standing beside him, also staring at the array of ramen packages in focus. you take the orange package out of his hand and put it back on the shelf before reaching for a different package. it's got japanese characters on it, so he can't read the label, but you smile up at him.

"this one is way better. good price for it, too."

"'s more expensive."

"yeah, but you get eight packets in this one. that one only gives you five."

at the till, you notice him subtly counting the notes in his wallet. you pretend not to notice, rocking back and forth on your heels, but just as he picks up his bag to leave, you speak up.

"you wanna get a drink? on me."

and fuck, he could use a bourbon. on the first one, he thought your presence was pleasantly tolerable. by the fourth, he's staring down your shirt, dark eyes mapping out what the curves of your breasts might look like in the palm of his big hand. by the sixth, you're pressed up against a sticky bathroom wall and holding on for dear life as he pounds into you from behind, knickers in his back pocket, manicured nails digging slits into his tattooed forearm.

you sink those claws in that night; and you do not let go.

the third night you ask him out, he sees your flat for the first time. in a nice building downtown, doorman holding the door open for you. the elevator ride is long enough for him to see the tops of buildings, and when you step inside your flat, he swallows hard when he realizes you are way out of his league.

gorgeous leather seats and couch. large tv with surround sound. a french kitchen with a gas stove. your flat is filled with knickknacks and candles, low yellow lights and wonderful collections of art and little glass vases and sculptures. your home is filled with warmth, and you don't belong with him.

just as he thinks about backing out of the place, you turn and grip the lapels of his jacket, tugging him closer. you touch your nose to his over his mask, smiling, and you push the door closed behind him and press him up against it.

"so, which room do you wanna christen first? i thought we could start in the kitchen."

you're a woman that knows what she wants, he'll give you that; and he doesn't have it in him to say no.

the sun wakes him up in the morning. he doesn't remember falling asleep--he doesn't like to make staying over a habit. when he sits up on his elbows, he takes a deep breath, realizing his back hurts a lot less. the mattress of your bed is wonderful, much more supportive than the flat mess he has on the floor in his own place, and he blinks himself awake when you come out of the bathroom.

you're freshly dressed, makeup on, and you're putting on your jewelry when you see him. you smile at him, coming towards the bed, and you bend down to kiss where his mouth would be under the mask.

"good morning, simon. sleep well?"

"mmm..."

you take that as a yes, cupping his jaw, and you kiss him over his mask again before going to get some shoes from your closet. he doesn't comment on the fact that when you open it, he realizes the closet there is only for shoes...

"you hungry, baby? want some breakfast?"

"i--oh..." simon lays back down when his back tweaks, and you reach for him when you see him fall back in the mirror. you smooth a hand down the side of his body, frowning.

"why don't you stay in bed? i'll have my assistant bring you something."

"no, tha's--"

"i'm not asking, simon, i'm telling you," you coo. you pick up one of his hands and trace one of his scars with your finger. you have long, almond-shaped nails. there's pretty chrome nail art over the wine red color you wear, and he focuses on it as you kiss his knuckles gently. "will you wait for me to come home?"

"where y'goin'?"

"gotta work, honey," you wink down at him. "and i want you to be here when i get back."

"tha' so?"

"mhm," you smile. "right here. in my bed--" you lift the covers a little and peek, giggling as you put it back down after getting a glimpse at his cock resting against his lower stomach. "just like this, simon."

he doesn't remember if he ever goes back to his flat. he thinks he went one more time, to grab a few bottles of his medication, but the tick in his knee hadn't been so bad with the great physical therapy you started paying for and the warm massages you gave him every night.

and his back--your bed always contours perfectly against the muscles of his back, and he finds himself sleeping a full seven hours every single night.

not to mention his new work outs. simon hadn't been to the gym much since coming home, but he knows he must be burning hundreds of calories with you. you test his limits. as soon as you're home, you jump on him, and the stress relief your pussy brings him is just what he needs to get the edge off. you're a fiend, especially after a rough day, and the way you bounce on his cock in every room of your flat keeps him up at night sometimes with the most glorious wet dreams.

you're up late that night. you're curled up on the couch in one of simon's shirts and a glass of red wine, and there's a mountain of papers around you that you're focusing on reading. you have a huge presentation tomorrow, and everything needs to be perfect. simon comes into the living room, shirtless, and you smile when you see him standing there. he's wearing the new sweats you got him, but you can't focus on that too much when you're staring at his pudgy, toned stomach and his nice pecs. you bite your lip, taking a long sip of your wine, and simon hikes up his mask to take a bite out of his bowl of ice cream.

"gonna be up late tonight?" he asks, and you nod. "want me to sit with ya?" you nod again, lifting up your legs, and when he takes a seat next to you, you drape them across his lap. you lean over to give his scarred cheek a kiss, and when you turn back to your paperwork, a thought comes across your mind.

"we should get married," you say softly, circling a note over something. simon keeps eating, as if what you said doesn't phase him.

"why's tha', love?"

"tax benefits."

"mmm..." simon drops one of his hands and thumbs against your ankle. the flat is warm. his stomach is full. his body hurts less, and his heart aches with something nice. "olright then."

you smile.

"good. cause i already bought the ring."

NEXT

[xx-thedarklord-xx]

Drarry where the Golden Trio are having a slightly tipsy 'Hear me out' conversation as they passed around a bottle of Elvish wine that they nicked from Slughorn's office.

"What about Gordon Horton?"

Harry and Hermione shared a confused look.

"Come on! Keeper for the Chudley Canons?"

"You're supposed to pick people we know, Ronald."

"Well excuse me," Ron said, throwing his hands in the air. "I forgot that you two have no taste."

"No taste! I will have you know that my taste is sophisticated and refined. Clearly something you don't relate to."

"Oh, oh, I see. Well since your taste is so sophisticated then by all means tell us who is your pick."

"There's Merrill Medlar. She's the chief editor of—"

"Who the hell is that? What happened to people we know?"

Harry hadn't had enough wine to tolerate their constant bickering.

"Malfoy," Harry said loudly, interrupting what would have surely been a row. "What about Malfoy?"

"Which one?" Ron and Hermione said at the same time before glaring at each other.

"What do you mean which one?" Harry frowned. "The choice is obviously—"

"Lucius." They said in unison again.

"What?" Harry gaped at them. "Lucius is a right piece of—"

"Wait," Hermione held up her hands, eyes wide. "You can't mean Draco then?"

"Of course I meant—"

"Don't say his name! Ugh, I never want to know him as Draco," Ron said, shuddering.

"Maybe I do!" Harry said, unsure why he was getting heated.

The two of them shared a long look that said a lot more than he could translate and he kind of wished they were back to arguing. At least that was familiar.

"I think I would've rather you had said Snape."

Harry's mouth parted before it closed, and he gave a considering hum. "You know, in the spirit of a true hear me out, Snape would fit."

Hermione snickered as a choked gurgle escaped Ron.

"I was joking!" Ron cried, head in his hands. "Merlin if you ever shag Snape—"

"Shag?" Harry let out a strangled meep. "If I'm going to shag someone it would be—"

"Malfoy," they said together, and part of him wondered if they were really Fred and George under Polyjuice because it was getting freaky.

"I think I'm going to be sick," muttered Ron. "I knew we'd uncover some more about each other, but I'd honestly like to cover it right back up."

"We can pretend it didn't happen," Harry offered, biting his lip as he tried to think of someone else. "What about Charlie?"

"Charlie?" Ron frowned. "My Charlie?"

"Oh," Hermione said, brows lifting. "Yes, I can see it."

"No no," Ron shook his head. "We aren't doing this. Let's get back to Harry wanting to shag Malfoy."

"It's not that I want to shag—"

"I think it's more than that," Hermione said, voice low as if she was sharing a secret. "I think he likes Malfoy."

Ron collapsed backward as if he had been shot, groaned as if he had been too. "This is too much for me."

Harry rolled his eyes, taking a large mouthful of wine. He was going to need it.

"It's not that bad."

"Yes, it is, Hermione. If Harry wants to shag Malfoy and he likes him then they'll get married and have little spawns that look like Malfoy and they'll call me Uncle Ron and then I'll just have to like them because I can't be mean to a child, but they'll look just like him and then I'm going to have a complex—"

"I think you're having a complex right now."

"And whose fault is that? Huh, Harry?"

"I never said I wanted to marry him."

"You never said you didn't though," Hermione argued, tone suggesting she was on to something.

Harry sighed loudly as they continued to debate his future. A future that held Malfoy in it. The longer they talked the more he considered it.

It was true that he wanted to shag Malfoy, but it was also true that he liked him. He just hadn't really let himself think of how much.

"I think I'm going to find Malfoy," Harry said, staggering to his feet and rather proud that he hadn't fallen over. Maybe he hadn't drank as much as he thought he had.

"Great, just great," Ron cried. "My life is over. Might as well start calling me Uncle Ron."

The portrait closed right as Hermione said,

"I think you're being rather dramatic, Uncle Ron."

[yazmarina]

walk me through it

for the love circuit series

—you're used to being flirted with in front of the camera. but something about franco is really doing you in.

franco colapinto (f1) x fem!reporter reader

warnings/notes: smut, unprotected sex (no condom, yes birth control), guided masturbation, lewd photography, lots of flirting, franco is shameless (naturally), some Spanish sentences and phrases

a/n: will resume hit play for a bit after this one! enjoy franco girlies mwa

Your job was simple enough. Well, for today, at least.

Stand in the media pen, gather statements, and piece together a couple of stories later that evening for publishing first thing tomorrow morning. All in a day's work, like all the other days before.

You've grown immune to the charms of rich, adrenaline-seeking men. Didn't take you too long, the illusion breaking as soon as any one of them opened their mouths. Some you tolerate more than others, but some you'd rather steer clear of completely.

This isn't to say that you've brushed all of them off. You might have agreed to a date here and there but nothing ever stuck, the nature of your jobs a bit too similar and all too different at the same time. You've given up on the prospect that you'll somehow end up with one of the many Formula 1 drivers you've interviewed and spoken to. And you've spoken to a lot. You've had this gig since you were shipped off fresh from uni and one too many 'What happened there?'s and 'Tell me about qualifying's can put a damper on the romantic side of things.

But someone new's in town. Well, er, new in the paddock. And you'd be lying if you said you weren't even a little bit excited.

He's charming, that much you can already tell. He walks into the media pen like he's done it thousands of times before and you have to actively suppress a smile as he walks over. Confidence is always a plus. For the interview, of course.

"Hola, Franco. Antes que nada, enhorabuena," you greet warmly, extending your arm over the barrier to place the microphone nearer to him. Hi, Franco. First of all, congratulations.

Franc's eyebrows shoot up, a wolfish grin settling on his face. "Oh. I thought this was an English interview?"

You smile back. "It is, but I know my way around Spanish, as well."

"Ah," Franco nods. "Gracias, _______."

"You know my name?" You ask, momentarily forgetting that you're being taped and recorded. You clear your throat, ignoring the quiet snicker from your cameraman.

"Yeah, I've seen you around and watched some of your other interviews," Franco confirms, a hand settling on his hip as he leans against the barrier, closer to you.

You can smell his perfume from where you stand.

"Thank you, I've heard and seen a lot about you as well," you respond, trying to return to your original train of thought.

"Which is why I want to ask you how it feels on your first day as a Formula 1 driver," you quickly follow. "Have you done anything special to prepare for this weekend? Other than the obvious, of course."

Another easy smile spreads across Franco's lips. "I've definitely added to my training and done some new things to prepare. I haven't done a full F1 weekend before so everything will be new."

"We definitely don't have reporters like you in the lower Formulas," he adds.

You feel a violent blush rip up through your neck all the way to your cheeks. As if the Monza heat wasn't enough.

"Well, I'm glad you could meet me here," you manage to get out.

The thing is, Franco isn't even the most attractive driver you've met. He's definitely up there, but not the most.

That's a discussion you have with yourself semi-weekly: ranking the drivers in terms of attractiveness, factoring in personalities and general attitudes towards the people around them, specifically the media.

Look, people love to shit on the media and press, calling journalism all sorts of derogatory words, but you're just here to do your job, like anyone else. And it gets pretty fucking hard when your boss is ringing your phone every five minutes demanding four stories by tomorrow and drivers are sassing you out as if you asked them if they've murdered their whole family.

So, naturally, the way they treat you determines a big chunk of how you think your day is going to pan out.

And right now, Franco seems to be lifting your spirits just fine.

"What are your goals for this weekend? Are points on the horizon for you at your first F1 race?" You continue, trying not to stare at the way Franco starts to rub at the back of his neck, bashful all of a sudden.

"We'll try," Franco begins. He plants both his hands on the barrier and leans even closer. You have to physically take a step back.

You gulp. Franco smiles.

"Anything is possible this weekend."

-

"You broke the internet last night."

You scoff, sending your cameraman a vicious side-eye. It's crowded in the paddock today, everyone wanting to get a glimpse of the new rookie, it seems. Such is the eagerness for this young driver that even that 30-second clip of your interview with him blew right up in your face. Your inboxes at capacity, your own voice speaking back to you with every other swipe on your TikTok.

It's not all bad, though. A tweet with one of your Instagram photos attached to it captioned 'TE ENTIENDO MUCHO FRANCO ES MUY LINDA PERIODISTA' did weasel out a chuckle from you.

Your cameraman shrugs, gesturing with a jerk of his head in front of you.

"There he is. I'm sure he knows all about it."

You look over to where he's pointing and lo and behold, Franco is right there, chatting with a few Williams team members, his race suit hanging undone around his waist. He turns to you even before you can fully register that it's him you're looking at.

But your training kicks in even faster. A megawatt smile appears on your lips and you wave enthusiastically at Franco.

"Hi."

"_______," Franco says, face lighting up at the sight of you. Your name seems to fall even more effortlessly off his lips.

You reach over and pull him into a half-hug with one arm, but both his arms wind around you and you have no choice but to squeeze back.

"You saw?" Franco asks, a gleam in his eye as he pulls away. His hand remains casually on the small of your back.

"Saw what?" You know what it is he's asking but you'd like to hear it from him.

"We went viral, no?" Franco says with a laugh, reaching further around you and squeezing your waist. You lean into his touch, heart jumping as his fingers graze just underneath your cropped top.

"That's all because of you," you reason, pointing an accusatory finger at Franco. "I bet you say that to all the other reporters."

The Williams team members standing nearby burst out laughing and even your cameraman affords a snicker. A deep blush spreads across Franco's face as he rubs your side reassuringly.

"No, no, I don't. Just you," Franco admits with another lighthearted laugh.

"Sure," you say with exaggerated skepticism. You pull away from his touch, catching his hand before he slips it fully off of you.

"I'll talk to you later," you say. And it's fully intentional, the words you choose to say. I'll talk to you later. Not 'I'll catch you later' or 'I'll see you later'.

I will talk to you later.

Franco understands, giving your hand a squeeze.

-

Later that day, you pray that no one catches you grinning behind your hand as Franco takes the chequered flag at qualifying.

P11.

Almost there.

-

"Hi. Come in."

Franco beams at you from across the threshold, stepping into your room with slow, measured steps.

"Great qualifying," you compliment, eyes traveling down Franco's body, noting the way his team kit hugs his frame just right, his hands shoved into his pockets, exposing just his arms, veins and all.

Your eyes snap back up to his face when you hear the door shut in place.

"Q2 on your debut. Not bad," you go on, taking a step back. Franco takes one toward you.

"You're just repeating what you said at the media pen earlier," Franco points out. He reaches out and gently circles an arm around your waist.

Always straight to the point.

Like this morning.

You tried not to make it so obvious when you ran into Franco earlier, but all you could think about was The Message.

You were doing your cursory social media checks a few minutes after you had woken up, still snug in your bed and unwilling to get up just yet. A message in your Instagram inbox caught your attention, sitting at the very top of your 'verified followers' tab.

Franco Colapinto: hola, hermosa 😉

It took a minute for your motor functions to return, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as you pored over what to reply. You settled on a nonchalant greeting, asking if Franco needed anything.

You realized rather belatedly that this was looking a little familiar. You wished he wouldn't say the dreaded answer, the more-than-predictable response that every man liked to use.

Franco Colapinto: you, maybe?

You groaned into your pillow, not because you were repulsed by his answer, but because you liked it. If you were easy, then so was he.

You: i finish work at 9 pm tonight...? 👀

It's 9 PM now. Franco's in the room and your hand is running up his chest.

Easy.

"It's such an honor," Franco teases, backing you up further into the room. His hands feel heavy on your waist and your heart hammers against your chest.

"I get to work with people like you now," Franco continues, stopping right in front of the bed.

The kiss comes as a shock more so because of how good Franco kisses. One of his hands is now cradling the back of your head, keeping you in place while he licks into your mouth, groaning with every pucker of your lips.

You pull away for barely a second to get both of your tops off before you dive back in, seemingly too desperate and too starved for each other's mouths. Franco's hands are everywhere; they run down your arms, paw at your waist, tugging at the belt loops of your jeans.

You giggle as he pulls you even closer, your bare chests pressed against each other. Franco pulls back and peers down at you, reaching behind to unclasp your bra. You let it fall, already guiding one of his hands to your tits.

"Couldn't stop staring at them?" You ask, your voice rising with an innocent lilt.

Franco kneads at the mound beneath his hand, eliciting a moan from you. He grins.

"I wanted you to notice," Franco admits simply, kissing you again.

"Perv," you mumble against his lips. Franco laughs, already undoing his trousers.

You wiggle your own way out of your jeans, letting Franco get the shortest of glimpses at your baby pink underwear before you discard them off to the side.

"Mierda, you're so sexy," Franco compliments as you crawl backward onto the bed, laying back and letting your hair splay out beneath you.

Franco pounces on you like a man starved, bare atop your own naked body, his arms caging you in.

"Big moves from somebody so new," you whisper, carding your fingers through Franco's soft locks.

"I like to make a statement," Franco says with a shrug. He glances up momentarily, something piquing his interest off to the side.

"Is that your camera?"

You crane your neck to see where he's looking and sure enough, your personal DSLR is right there on the bedside drawer. You look back at Franco, an eyebrow raised.

"You wanna use it?" You ask, not expecting him to actually say yes. But a mischievous grin settles on Franco's face and you feel your heart skip several beats.

"Knock yourself out," you say.

Franco reaches for the camera and fiddles with it for a few seconds. His eyes scan over your body and you suddenly feel the urge to hide away with how hard he's looking.

"May I?" Franco asks, brandishing the camera. Your mouth falls open as you realize what he's asking.

"You can keep them for yourself. For your eyes only," Franco hurriedly adds, planting his knees firmly on either side of you.

You stare up at him, a million thoughts running through your mind.

"Just...touch yourself."

You gasp, stunned at his proposal. Franco watches through the LCD monitor, glancing up at you through his lashes. Your bottom lip slips between your teeth, and as if on instinct, your hand inches down slowly between your legs.

"You're in front of cameras all the time," Franco reminds with a smirk. "This should be easy for you."

You suppress a whimper at his words, your fingertips swiping through your slick folds. You're already soaked and you start to wonder if it started even before Franco got here.

The shutter clicks and the lens whirs, sharp against the soft breaths you're letting out. Franco is concentrated, snapping photo after photo as you rub yourself closer to release. But it's not enough. You need more.

"Franco...," you implore, peering up with bright, begging eyes.

"Slowly, mi amor," Franco coos. "Just where you like it. Right there."

Click.

"Harder now, but still slow. Yes? Feels good?"

You whine, eyes fluttering shut as your pleasure picks up again. Several clicks. You're panting now, the tendrils of release wrapping themselves around you.

"Faster, yes, like that," Franco eggs on. Your fingers speed up against your sensitive clit and a litany of Franco's name spills from your lips. Before you know it, he's putting the camera away. You reach for him, gripping the back of his neck as he smashes his lips into yours.

Franco bites down on your lip and you cry out, your orgasm washing over you like a tide. You arch against Franco, feeling his own stiffness heavy on your thigh.

You blink, Franco's face coming into focus, barely an inch from yours. He watches you closely, pupils blown wide and plump lips even redder. You hook your legs around his waist, letting him know that you're not done yet.

Franco is quick to pick up, smiling as lines himself up with you. The groan that escapes him is nothing short of delicious as he pushes himself in. You gasp along, the stretch a welcome sensation.

Franco wastes no time and pounds right into you, catching you by surprise. You let your head fall back against the mattress, a long, drawn-out whine erupting from deep within your chest as Franco licks a stripe up your neck.

Your whole body quakes with how hard he's thrusting into you but you're clearly enjoying it if your wanton moans are anything to go by. Franco meets your eyes and you pull him down, wanting nothing more than to drown in those lips of his.

It's feral and it's unrestrained, spurred on by the knowledge that this is more than unprofessional in your line of work. Not illegal by any means, but risky enough to warrant warnings from your coworkers. Never sleep with a driver unless you're committed.

Oh, well.

Franco groans loudly in your ear, movements losing their rhythm as he speeds up. You're clinging to him as if he'd disappear if you let go, your own belly tightening once more with that familiar feeling.

Franco. Franco. Franco.

He kisses you just as he finishes. Passionate, eager, heady. You feel him inside you, a different kind of elation filling you as you release all over him.

Franco pulls away to allow yourselves to breathe. He pulls out, rolling over to your side. You hug your folded knees to your chest, too lazy to get up and find something to deal with the mess.

"No hagas eso. Eso es demasiado doméstico," Franco jokes, moving closer and planting a kiss to your shoulder. Don't do that. That's too domestic.

"Relájate, estoy usando anticonceptiva," you reassure with a lighthearted roll of your eyes. Relax, I'm on birth control.

Franco hums, laying an arm over you. He pulls you close and you face him, reaching up to brush away some of his unruly hair.

He plants a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"Happy that you're a Formula 1 driver?" You ask, grinning.

Franco chuckles. "Very."

[deadsetobsessions]

Hera stood, waiting for her turn at last. The Queen of the Greek Pantheon traced the lines of neon green, its light reflecting against her true form in a soothing way. She’s no stranger to patience, to waiting. But there were little of those that had the gall to make her wait, and even smaller of that number that she would tolerate such behavior. Regardless, this was the one being she could not afford to offend and so, she waits. Her many forms, her divine self, perceived the room and compared it to her own halls of residence.

Olympus was much more intricate, carved of noble marble and inlaid with countless of priceless metals and gems and divinity. Twelve seats of power atop an engineering wonder, halls adorned with the brightest of the original flames, an hearth that was roaring at Hesta’s skillful hands.

In comparison, this throne room had been changed much since she was last here. Gone were the spikes of terror and screams of the damned. Now… it looked like the most bare throne room she’d ever bore witness to.

And yet, as she waited for the Boy King, Hera could feel the subtle thrum of impossible power. The new king did not flare his will and might like the previous tyrant, and for that, Hera approved. She has had quite enough of living with and under tyrants who cared only for themselves… and their bed achievements whilst failing spectacularly in their marital roles. Zeus was not a good life partner and Hera regretted ever saying yes to him many times in her immortal life. And yet… she loved him still.

The doors opened, and a small figure floated in, flanked by the previous King’s Knight. Perhaps that is what makes this Boy King so dangerous, Hera thought as she dipped into a bow, because he can turn the loyalest to his side.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted, in ghost speak.

“Heya, Hera!” The Boy King greeted her back, before waving the Knight away. Hera marveled, a bit, at the sheer confidence he had to dismiss his knight in her presence. Even the last king kept the knights around to ensure his power was always in display, always unchallengeable. The Boy King could destroy her with a snap of a finger and he knows it. He knows that she knows it.

“What did you need?” The Boy King asked, grin still on place as he floated to her instead of seating himself on his throne. Hera masked the bit of confusion she felt in pursuit of her goal.

“I have come here to ask of you a favor,” she began. “I am aware that… you are fond of this, the earth in which I reside in?”

Hera carefully picked her word. Everybody knows that the new King Phantom had laid claim to not only the Infinite Realms as is normal of his station, but an entire Earth as his haunt. He had the power to do so, she could finally see, now that she was standing before him. It would not do for Hera to get her strings cut because she claimed what is his.

“Sure. Why?” The Boy King tilted his head, narrowing that predator green upon her true form.

“Do you know of the Justice League, my lord?”

“Phantom’s fine,” he waved a hand. “And yeah, sure do! Why?”

Hera tilted her many forms in acknowledgement of the command. She bowed.

“My daughter, of a sort, is Diana Prince. Wonder Woman. She is… in grave danger. We can not exert our influence over a land that does not have our history. I can not interfere and aid her.”

“Oh, you want me to help her?” His tone was exasperated, and Hera spoke even more carefully in fear of offending him.

“Yes, if it pleases you. And it would be most gracious of you should Your Majesty have time to watch over her. I fear the danger will not leave her so quickly.”

There was a brief period of silence before King Phantom sighed. “And if it does not please me to do so?”

Hera looked up and locked gazes with evaluating green. “Then I am afraid I will be breaking a fair bit of cosmic law, King Phantom.”

He laughed. “Okay, yeah, I’ll check up on Wonder Woman.”

Hera blinked her many eyes, peacock feathers spreading in shock at how easily he allowed her favors. She did not even have to beg.

King Phantom turned to leave before pausing. “Hera, if you need help, just ask. Preferably without beating around the bushes next time. Also, Pandora misses you. You might want to hang around for tea later.”

Hera regarded him with the might of her divinity, which was but hardly a spec of his own kindness. The last one had not had her respect. Fear, yes. But never respect But this one…

“Yes, my King.”

“It’s just Phantom.” He shot back as he left, the Knight returning to his side once more.

Hera transformed into a more mortal form. She had not seen Pandora in a long time, the young woman had made quite an impression on her. Perhaps her old friend could be convinced in helping her punch Zeus and ruin her beloved husband’s day. Hera hummed, the green that used to flicker acidly against her divine form now only soothed. A reflection of its owner.

King Phantom is worthy of her regard.

——

Holy shit, a goddess asked him to check on the Justice League! She was super weird about it and talked in a really old way of speaking, but Danny hadn’t had anything to do for the past few days while entering the zone for his annual check up.

Danny waved away Fright Knight and dived into the portal that would take him directly to the Justice League and Diana!

He floated down from the portal, blinking at group of disheveled and injured superheroes surrounded by a group of demons. Belial?

“King Phantom.” Belial rumbled. Danny waved, not noticing the standstill his presence forced.

“Shite.” The British man cursed, drawing on his magic once more.

“King Phantom?” Diana Prince, Wonder Woman, said quizzically.

“Who?” Batman, Batman! That’s actually Batman, rumbled.

“High King of the Infinite Realms. We’re buggered if he decides to help Belial.”

“Wait, like the god of gods, that King Phantom?” Captain Marvel asked. Ancients, why are all of them electrical based? Danny hates electricity.

Danny floated closer to them, grinning in a friendly way before frowning as they tensed up.

“King Phantom. May I ask why you have graced us with your presence, my King?”

“Hey, Wonder Woman! Your mom asked me to babysit you!” He grinned, sharp and mischievous.

“What…?” The Flash asked, zipping to their side. “Her mom? Queen Hippolyta?”

“No, Hera,” Danny said, and watched Wonder Woman straighten at his words.

“The Goddess Hera.”

“Yep!” Danny rocked back on his suddenly formed legs instead of the whisp of a tail he usually kept in the Zone. He was also still floating. Danny sent a wave of ice and froze the rest of the demons in one fell swoop.

“The rest of you can take care of clean up, yes? Diana has to get some snacks, dinner, and then go to bed.” He pushed gently at Diana’s shoulders, nudging her towards the plane. She went willingly, respectful but amused.

——

Bruce, intellectually knowing that’s a king but only seeing a superhero teenager: *fills out mental adoption paperwork*

——

Hera, a goddess, terrified of misspeaking and dying as a result: he’s so strong even though he’s young omg powerful and could end my immortal existence

Danny, an unserious king: golly gee why is she speaking like a Shakespeare novel

——

Hera, thinking Danny’s gonna be dignified: pls watch over my daughter

Danny, who has a clone he sees as a daughter and therefore has no issues babysitting a grown woman: lol snacks, dinner, bedtime

Diana:… usually I’m on the other spectrum of this but it’s from a higher up so… okay?

——

Danny, terrifying gods and ancients: they’re my friends! The power of friendship!

[chuluoyi]

MARRIED ON PURPOSE

- gojo satoru x reader

"for one, i can show you incredible things!" jujutsu, madness, heaven, sin. the strongest sorcerer is sure to show you all of that during the whole duration of your six-month marriage contract.

genre/warnings: marriage of convenience, enemies to lovers, crack, fluff, slight satosugu angst/comfort, kamo!reader, very suggestive. gojo clan is portrayed as very traditional, meanwhile kamo clan is rather unpleasant here

note: the unholy amount of times i've edited this story *sigh* but okay i must drop it here or else i'm going to keep editing it and losing my mind. despite my misgivings and all, i really had fun writing this and i hope you enjoy it! wc. 5k !

a part of 1K MILESTONE EVENT

general masterlist

Some would say... marrying Gojo Satoru would be living the dream.

“Don't look that sour now, wife.”

“…sigh.”

A playful nudge at your side, a lighthearted voice— “You're going to make them question our veeery happy marriage, you know… We don't want that now, do we?”

But to you, it was more like nightmare dressed in a daydream.

It was peak comedy because why would you put marrying Gojo Satoru in your life plans? He was incorrigible, a child trapped in a man's body, and there was also the very fact that you hate him. His only redeeming trait was being born in the esteemed Gojo clan, and now held the title of the strongest.

You know you must have accumulated karma, but out of everything else, why must you end up in this predicament?

Hailing from the great clans of jujutsu society, both of you know well that marriage is the essence to make the clan greater. And when it involves the big three clans, its importance amplifies even further.

It was just that you two were too rebellious to follow it through, for one reason or another. Everyone knows Gojo Satoru was faithless to any woman, and you were not exactly thrilled with the idea of marriage as a whole.

He was the one who came to you, proposing this insane idea of a temporary marriage.

"Look at it this way," Satoru said with a wry grin, contrasting your puzzled frown on that fateful afternoon. "It's either me or Zen'in Naoya for you, isn't it? It's so clear which is the better man."

That was what grated you the most. You would be damned if you married the misogynist.

"What do you get from this arrangement, really?" you questioned begrudgingly.

His name would give you security, stop the harassment from your clan, and maybe even a better life, but you didn't quite get what he'd get from the offer he willingly extended to you.

Satoru flippantly shrugged. "Nah, you are not exactly my type, but you're still far better than the boring puppet my family have considered to be my wife."

"Who?"

"Don't remember her name. All she goes on about is that she'll be the good wife and mother of my child. Ew."

Seven hells. You scowled. Gojo Satoru and his penchant for chasing the thrill. Boring women would kill him before an actual curse would.

"And hey, for one," he shot you a smirk, visibly smug. "I can show you incredible things!"

"That's not the point! Gojo, do you even realize—" your voice rose, pulsating with righteous fury, "—how serious all of this is? My life, your life! We're going to be stuck—together!"

"Six months," he blurted, tilting his head slightly. His sunglasses slipped down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his sparkling eyes. "It's enough time to work through our shits, and by then if you have enough, we're through."

At that time, it seemed feasible. Both of you tolerating each other to avoid a much worse match.

. . .

BACK TO PRESENT—barely a week ever since you were paraded around as his wife, now you and Satoru were stiffly poised in the studio in your formal garbs, capturing your official wedding photos.

At that time, it seemed feasible, but now, it felt like a chore, as you realized that conversing with him either spiked your blood pressure so much that you wouldn't even be surprised if you ended up with hypertension or completely sapped your energy that you were left exhausted.

"Come on, show a smiiile," Satoru said in a sing-song voice, gesturing toward the camera as it flashed for the pictures. You were beyond appalled, shooting a glare in his direction.

"I am smiling, Gojo."

"Liar. You're pouting, wifey~"

Sigh… this really is going to be one hella of a ride, huh?

MONTH ONE, and you found out that Gojo Satoru is apparently as mad as people made him out to be.

"You've got to be kidding me!" you fumed, right after he hauled you into one of the rooms in his grand, traditional estate. Your glare pierced through him, a blood vessel ready to burst. "We never agreed on ‘consummating’ the marriage!"

You wrote him a goddamn contract. And the three conditions of this chaotic marriage are: one, it would only last six months; two, no personal feelings involved; and three, nothing borderline disturbing.

And this, you concluded, was the height of what could be called as disturbing.

"We will not," Satoru replied with a hint of disdain, grimacing, as if the notion didn't sit well with him either. The audacity! "We're just going to make it as if we are—"

"And why?! Why should I do that?!"

"Why else? Because my old fart believes that we indeed haven't done so."

"Then it's your fault? For failing to convince him? Why turn it into my problem!"

"Because, dear wife," he drawled, his tone taunting on the final note. "Now we're on the same page, in case you have forgotten."

Great clans and their hollow expectations spare no one, not even Gojo Satoru. They place importance in the most banal things, such as the continuity of sacred bloodlines and such.

The only alternative wasn't appealing either. Should you be found out that you married only to divorce... sigh, you didn't even want to know how big of a scandal it would be. One thing was certain: your clan would chop you to shreds.

You really had no choice, huh?

"Five minutes," you warned, glaring at him. "Make it loud. Make it so that no one wouldn't question this anymore."

Oh and sure he would. As Satoru pulled that shit-eating grin, you were in for another ride. You waited out until several maids were nearby, left the wooden door ajar, and began the show—

His hands wrapped around your waist—the feeling was peculiar, but you ignored it—and you let him pull you near that open door. He snuggled his face on your neck—his hair tickling you in the process, but you ignored that peculiarity again—as he started making suggestive noises. "Mm, you're so pretty, darling."

You could hear those maids gasp in surprise. And to add the flavor, you faked a moan.

This is... kinda fun? A twisted part of you suddenly found satisfaction in fooling the maids. A smile tugged at your lips as you shoved him away, and Satoru eyed you in surprise and irritation.

"Husband, you're... insatiable," you worded languidly, and he immediately caught on your act, grinning. "Anyone can walk by, you know."

"Oh? But that's the point." Satoru's bright blue eyes twinkled with utter mischief, and even you couldn't deny the exhilarating rush. "I want them to know."

And suddenly you got this very brilliant idea. You swiftly moved past him and sent the books and trinkets on his desk flying to the floor, causing questionable noises.

"Oh my!" a girlish voice exclaimed.

"The master! And the lady!"

Satoru shook his head, thoroughly entertained. And you rolled your eyes. Those nosy maids would finally have enough now, and this charade would end—

"What's happening here?"

The old fart. Both you and Satoru grunted in unison. You really thought you would leave it up to the maids to spread the word, but then you were taken by surprise when he wrapped his hands around you and flung the door open, slamming you against it—and damn it hurt!—offering everyone a front-row seat to your charade.

The maids squealed. His grandfather raised a righteous, demanding eyebrow. You wanted to scream.

"Hey, gramps," he greeted jovially, breathless, his grip on you tightening and you felt heat radiating from his palm. "Ah, sorry, opened it by accident—the wife here is feisty, you see."

Your veins felt ready to burst. Was this a part of his plan all along? How would you show your face before your grandfather-in-law now that he had seen this... atrocity?!

"So, yeah, we'll resume our business!" Satoru, the idiot, said it as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "See ya!"

With that the door slammed shut, but oh no, it was not the end.

"Mmmph!?" you protested, unintentionally loud and eyes widening in alarm when Satoru muffled your mouth with his hand.

The rotten bastard! You found it nearly impossible to breathe, shooting daggers at him. "Mmmrgh! Mmmrrgh!"

"Oh... so that boy really does it huh," you heard the elder mutter in thoughtful manner from outside—and you were in disbelief at how trusting he was—before rounding the stunned maids and barked, "What are all you doing here? Go!"

You nearly sagged with relief when Satoru loosened his grip slightly, allowing you to breathe, as his meddlesome grandpa finally stalked away. Done. This horrible act was over! But wait, why did he still had his hand on your mouth?

"That went splendidly!" he snickered, appearing rather pleased with what had unfolded. "Now, if only we work together like this more often—"

This is… my life now, you lamented the reality. The feeling of his calloused hand on you made you feel things, honestly speaking, but another emotion—and impulse—currently overpowered that.

Seething with resentment, you fiercely chomped down on his hand hard, causing him to swear and pull his hand out of you.

"You—you devil! You bit me!"

"Serves you right!"

Okay, he was bad. He was insufferable. But to be frank, sometimes it wasn't all chaos.

And what's more, by MONTH TWO, you realized that being married to Gojo Satoru also comes with several perks.

"Miss, please, you're trespassing—"

You looked at the police with the haughtiest look you could muster, unamused. "Don't you know who I am?"

"No, but it shouldn't—"

"I'm that man's wife," you declared regally, motioning towards a certain tall shuttlecock a few meters away. "Is that not clear enough for you?"

For one, no one can look down on you anymore, because should they try, you have the power to raise your chin high and declare yourself as the wife of the infamous sorcerer. The very moment you did, that nosy police stopped yapping, and let you through.

The cursed boy, Yuta and his classmate had just been trapped inside a barrier a curse user pulled down, and you were assigned to look into this case by the headquarters. As much as it boggled you—because certainly, the strongest sorcerer was enough to investigate this—you still had to do your job.

“What is this?” you asked Satoru, who was observing something far beyond what your measly ordinary eyes could see. “What happened here?”

He turned to you, all with bandaged eyes. “Hmm? Oh, you’re here too?”

“Don't act surprised. Answer my question, Gojo.”

"You’re too uptight, wifey," Satoru's lips curved upwards playfully. He had taken to addressing you with pet names as of late, if anything, only to get a rise out of you. "Isn't it the time for you to start calling me by my given name?"

You let out a weary exhale, exasperated. "I'm serious, did you find anything? Who is behind this?"

"Nah, nothing for you to worry about," Satoru waved his hand dismissively, grinning. "More importantly! Let's head back and have dinner! My treat!"

You weren't that oblivious. You noticed things too.

"What do you want tonight? Sukiyaki? Sushi?" he hummed nonchalantly. "Or shabu-shabu?"

You gave him the stink eye. "Is that all you think about? Food?"

"As a responsible husband, it's my duty to feed my wife, no?"

"News flash: temporary wife."

"But still my wife, regardless. I overheard you earlier. Being Mrs. Gojo is convenient, yeah?"

You ignored how a part of your jolted at the emphasis he placed on that word, grunting. "Nah, it's meh."

Call it a feeling or hypothesis. It was similar to how he treated his students. He always said the dumbest things, but it actually served to make them feel at ease.

Then it occurred to you, could this be actually his attempt to change the subject?

"You can't cheat your way out of this." You shot him a pointed look. "You know something. Tell me."

"Hmmm? And what would I get in return?"

"Don't make this difficult. I'm on this assignment too!"

"Nah, if you call me by my name, I might consider it."

Hah. You should really read a parenting book one of these days. Taking on your husband was more or less the same as facing a kid.

"Satoru," you tested, the name rolling out of your lips far easier than you thought. Somehow, using his given name felt like some sort of a leap of faith.

He stopped right in his tracks, turning to you. His glossy lips quirked into a meaningful smile, and you felt funny.

"Wasn't that difficult, was it?" he winked, and you covered the strange heat creeping onto your face by rolling your eyes and huffed.

Needless to say, he still didn't tell you even a clue. You finally gave up, thinking that if he insisted on not disclosing it, then so be it. You trusted him on this, even as he turned your help away, and you hated admitting it, because, well…

You’d trust him with your life. He knows how to handle this better than anyone.

Being a a woman in Kamo clan is, in fact, not any better than in Zen'in—you're regarded more as a commodity than a human being.

"When will you bear the child of the bearer of Six Eyes?" in your father's eyes, you were but a tool to tie the Gojo at his hip, and your worth probably wasn't even twice of Noritoshi's. You had known he would ask this when he summoned you to Kamo ancestral home, and you weren't that naive—you had asked Satoru to join you too. But your father had insisted him to stay at the foyer, while he dragged you into his chamber.

Just because you had seen it coming didn’t mean you liked it. "Is that all? Do you really make me come here just to ask me that?"

And what came next was like a crack of thunder.

"How insolent!"

You shuddered, hating how his voice still had control over you. You wanted to stay deviant, but you couldn't keep yourself from shaking. You thought you would have to endure this shit just like you did before, until—

"Now, now... That's my wife you're talking to. I'd watch your words, if I were you."

You had never whipped your head so fast.

There stood Gojo Satoru, your husband, in all his glory. He was smiling but it was clear that he was displeased, evident from his cutting remark, and most notably, how he had unveiled his striking cerulean eyes for all to see. Truth to be told, you didn't expect him to barge in here at all.

"Gojo-sama," your father bowed his head, displaying utter respect towards him, contrasting the blatant disrespect he showed towards you just now. Satoru paid him no heed, as took big strides towards you and seized your arm, prompting you to rise to your feet.

"What is this? Why are you yelling at her?" His voice lacked its usual hint of amusement or teasing, sending a chill down your spine.

"Gojo-sama, I apologize for my tone towards my daughter earlier. I was just trying to educate—"

“My wife. She is my wife now, and it would do you better to remember that,” Satoru asserted firmly, putting emphasis in the way he addressed you, his gaze hardening. "She is an adult. There's nothing left for you to educate her." Pausing, he added, "And the way I saw it, you were just unnecessarily rude."

"Gojo-sama, there were just certain things in our clan that—"

"Please, don't call on us again," Satoru interjected decisively with a light yet firm voice. You could swear your heart was somersaulting at the sight of him staring down your natural enemy. "I'm sure you're aware, but your daughter bears my name now, and she will get the respect she is due. I will have a word with anyone who fails to treat her accordingly."

Somehow or another, Satoru whisked you away from that hellhole, your hand tightly clasped in his. Your relieved sigh didn't go unnoticed by him, as he looked back to you.

"Have you gone soft?" he teased, eyeing you with a playful snort. "Did you forget who your husband is? You've got nothing to fear. Not even him."

"Thank you," you murmured. Your heart was still pounding and your mind blanked, rendering you unable to engage in your usual banters.

His clear blue eyes widened a touch, blinking at your display of vulnerability, Then, he wore the most innocent expression, even sporting a silly smirk—the hardness from earlier gone. "I was really cool, huh? Totally made you swoon I bet."

And in MONTH THREE, you realized, as he laced his fingers with yours, as his laughter filled the air, as calmness swelled on your chest, and as you loudly snorted at his remark, that—

You felt warm, so warm, in fact, and maybe—

"Pfft, you wish."

—maybe... being with him isn't so bad after all.

MONTH FOUR, and you finally found out that it was Geto Suguru.

Everyone knew that your husband and the criminal used to be the best of friends. You saw them during your high school days, and heck, you used to think that Geto was the better man.

You could only imagine what he must feel.

. . .

When he got back to your shared house after the whole ordeal—after he ended his best friend with his own hands, Satoru honestly didn't expect that you would be waiting for him.

"You okay?" you asked him, brows furrowed in concern. It was probably one of the very few times you had displayed emotions other than contempt towards him.

It felt strange because he was used to your jabs, and he was not sure what sort of expression he should pull now, because truthfully, now he felt empty. Blank. All he comprehended was that he had killed Suguru, that he was gone, and that was something he must do.

It would be just like any other day if hadn't just committed a murder. On someone he held dear.

"Of course, who do you think I am?" Satoru swiftly replied, sounding smug—or at least tried to. "I'm the strongest. I’m unscat—"

"No, not that." You frowned, meeting his gaze squarely. "After everything."

Satoru struggled to choose how he should react, partly because most of his energy had gone after walking Yuta back and reassuring him earlier, and by default, the two of you should be hellbent on hating each other and wishing for this contract to end soon.

"Aww, are you worried about me?" he quipped with a touch of sarcasm just because he had to, to show you that it wasn't enough to ruffle him.

Because he is still the strongest, even when alone. Especially when he is alone.

You let out a sigh, looking away. "Can't I?"

"Whoa, that's sweet of—"

"Don't fool yourself," you stated in straight-laced manner, meeting his gaze with a composed expression. "You're not okay. You might be Gojo Satoru, but no one will be after doing what you just did."

You might be Gojo Satoru, but no one will be after doing what you just did.

Despite himself, his smile fell, and his chest burns. What is this? Were you sympathizing with him?

Does that mean that you don't see him as the entity... that was the strongest?

Before now, Satoru remembered you as the most uncooperative Kyoto girl he had ever met. Your first meeting in high school sealed your fate as the two of you could hardly get along. You didn't mince words, you didn't take shit from anyone else—heck, sometimes when he thought of you, what came up to mind was an impenetrable diamond.

Which was why he chose you. You were someone he could trust. You were pretty in the eyes and certainly wouldn't bore him either. His reasons were purely based on logic. And after four months with you, Satoru came to a conclusion that you indeed fulfilled all his expectations, if not more.

And he felt comfortable, or dare he say, secure even. He felt like he had gained a friend, who could see past his bravado and wouldn't judge him for it.

"You're..." you sighed, casting a sympathetic glance at him, your forehead slightly creased. At that moment, Satoru couldn't help but think you were incredibly endearing, fretting over him. "...an idiot."

"Heh." I really am, aren't I?

"I never knew him well..." you chose your words carefully, hesitant. "Did you try to convince him, before this?"

He barked a bitter laugh. "I did, we even made a scene in front of freaking KFC," he remarked with a scoff. "He didn't listen to me, until the very end."

You wanted to tell him “You have done everything you could” but the words faltered on your tongue. You couldn't bring yourself to say it when you saw the faint quiver of his lips, the slump of his shoulders—the very sight of a boy grieving the loss of his friend.

Your heart pricked too, somehow, seeing that expression on him. And you once again realized that your silly, exalted husband was just as human as anyone else who made him think he wasn’t.

"And you know what he said in the end?" Satoru's tone was flippant, as if asking the most normal thing around, but carried a trace of grief, evident in the slight drop in his tone if you squinted. "He said he didn't regret it, not even a bit."

"I'm sorry," was all you could manage.

Satoru's smile was lopsided. Now that he had finally accepted it, something inside him finally bleeds, and it freaking hurts. The pain gripped his chest like a swirling inferno.

But then, you boldly clasped his hand in yours, gently tracing soothing circles on its back.

"What?" he peered at you, feeling a ghost of a smile forming.

"Consider this emotional support."

And he chuckled softly. Despite the lingering ache, despite the gloom he was sure he would carry for the rest of his life, he felt the pain was more bearable with you by his side, somewhat.

How?

You blamed it on the alcohol, because it was MONTH FIVE and you were kissing Gojo Satoru, daringly.

"We shouldn't be doing this," you rasped between kisses, breathless, as your own sinful hands plucked the buttons off his shirt. The intoxication might have played a part, but the intense heat coursing through you made it hard to think straight.

Satoru crashed his lips against yours again, consumed by blind lust. "Yeah, we shouldn't," he replied in a rush. His breath was hot as he trailed his lips down your jaw and neck next, savoring the softness of your skin.

You two had attended a banquet for the elite, and you were unbelievably beautiful. Standing by his side as his wife, you drew admiring glances, with everyone marveling at what a remarkable couple you made. The Gojo heir who was born with the legendary Limitless and the Kamo heiress, as lovely as her clan's name was powerful.

His deft hands roamed the curves of your body, exploring every inch of you. The warmth of his hands tickled something inside you as you closed your eyes to sink into this very moment. Next you knew, his bare body was against yours and you were stripped out of your evening dress.

Lust flickered in his honored eyes, as he took in the sight of you in your undergarments.

"You're really pretty, you know," he whispered. The intensity with which his eyes scanned your form made you nearly squirm. "Shame we don't always get along."

"You're one to talk," you retorted, a hint of exasperation in your tone, as you willed all other thoughts away. Thoughts like what comes after this. Thoughts like—

Is it heaven or sin, if you feel both at once?

His thumb tenderly caressed your plush lips, a hint of a smirk on his beautiful face.

He has long been thinking about your body. He was but a man, after all. He just didn't expect that you wanted this too.

There was always this tension, only this time, neither of you could hold it back anymore. Perhaps it was impulse—hell, most certainly it is, but there was another thing, something more that even Gojo Satoru still didn't dare to say out loud.

"Eager, are we?" he taunted when you leaned in, yearning for the touch of his lips on yours again.

You huffed. “Shut up and kiss me.”

A rush of heat flooded your cheeks at the slip of those words. You were about to rectify it, taken aback by your own boldness, but then he drew you close, silencing any further protest with a gentle hush—

"Too late, sweetheart," his husky voice entered your ears, lips curling into the most wicked smile, and you were in a trance. And Satoru was once again convinced, that choosing you as his wife was the rightest thing there was.

If the two of you went with this, then there would be consequences. Things would become more complicated, harder to sort out.

But, he decided, as he captured your lips in another heated kiss, everything else can wait.

MONTH SIX, and you were dreading the day of your divorce.

You brought this upon yourself. Whenever you reminisced about that night, you wanted to smack yourself in the face and bang your head against the nearest wall.

This marriage has a time limit. And you were doing it out of convenience in the first place.

You weren't supposed to… goddammit—fall in love with him.

But what's done is done, there is no going back in time. Awkward exchanges and lingering stares had been gnawing at your insides these days, and you were sure Satoru too must have noticed them too. You two used to be more relaxed with each other, and he'd even flirt with you, but weeks ever since that night of drunken passion, you almost reverted back to your high school personas—ignoring each other.

This was tough. You didn't like this. And more than that, you were faced with a more pressuring matter...

Gojo Satoru, with everything he possessed, could have had any woman he wanted. This arrangement with you was temporary in the first place, soon he would forget you and flit to the next woman.

The thought made your heart ache, because you had involuntarily gave your heart away to him. Siiigh… What a predicament you put yourself into, huh?

With just a month left together, maybe you should just make the best of it.

. . .

If you thought that things were any better with Satoru, then you were sorely wrong because he too, was debating with himself often nowadays.

Days spent with you were fun and fulfilling. You irked expression somehow had made its mark in his heart. You were pretty, fit to be by his side publicly and preferably, behind the closed doors. With you, he didn't feel the need to carry this facade of being strong—he could be a clown tripping over his own trap and you would amuse him with your deadpan expression.

And ever since that night, he was constantly reminded by how soft your skin was against his. It almost drove him crazy now that he was deprived of it.

How was it the last month already? He wasn't ready to let you go yet.

When he got back home later after his class ended and found you in the dinner table setting the food, all he could muster was, "Hey. Haven't eaten?"

You whirled around to face him in surprise. "Oh... you're back. Just about to. Want to join me?"

Of course he would. And yet as the two of you sat down, it was so painfully awkward Satoru felt like he was dying inside.

Why couldn't he pull off a smart line or two? Where did his suaveness go? He was smoother than this, surely, with his colorful history. One night of passion was supposed to enhance the relationship, not to derail it. What happened to you both?

The salt was near his side when you reached to grab it and bumped into his hand. "Uh-oh."

Turning towards you, he found your spooked expression and your adorable eyes widening in surprise. "S-sorry..."

It was just freaking salt! Salt! Why on earth were you apologizing?!

Enough, he thought. This utter madness of being jumpy with each other. He'd start from his side.

Does he want you to keep being his wife even after all this ends? Yes.

Why? All reasons already listed above.

Does this mean he likes you? Apparently and supposedly, yes. Because if it isn't then he doesn't know what this funny feeling driving him mad is.

With that sorted out, then he only had one more thing to confirm. He put down his spoon and crossed his arms together. "Tell me the truth. Do you like living with me?"

His question obviously took you by surprise. "Huh? What brought this on?"

"Just give me an answer."

"You're so pushy," you grumbled, lips pursed, and he felt like you were finally back to your usual dynamics somewhat. Good.

"Sooo, the verdict? Do you enjoy being with me or not?"

Because to him, it was a resounding yes and more.

Ignoring the warmth that surged to your cheeks, you rolled your eyes. "Surprisingly, not bad, yeah," you admitted, mustering the courage to meet his gaze. "You're annoying, an idiot, a bit crazy—"

"Hey!"

"—but eventually you're still... manageable," you added, feeling your face truly start to sizzle. But covered it up by looking down and playing with your fingers as you still had more to go on. "What I want to say is... I'm glad that I agreed to this—with you—because I can’t imagine it with anyone else."

An unfamiliar tingling emotion rushed to his chest as his face too started to heat up, letting your words sink in. Is he blushing? Oh God. He sure is. And so did he feel hella giddy.

Then it’s sealed.

Suddenly he procured a piece of paper from his work uniform and showed it to you. You first saw his lazily scrawled signature before it dawned on you.

The contract. You almost forgot that you made him sign that looming piece of paper. You were almost dismayed, thinking that he would end this right then and there, but then—

“Well, then… I suppose we no longer need this.”

Riiip~

Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when Gojo Satoru tore out your contract right in front of your face, the most brilliant of his devilish grin adorned his handsome face, as he took off his blindfold to see you far clearly than ever. Heavens, you are cute, he thought.

“Soooo~ seems like you’re stuck with me from now on!”

You gaped, awestruck at the blatant meaning of it all, feeling how your heartbeat started to pick up the pace, when he pulled the rag out of your feet once more by tilting his head to the side, looking at you with a winning smile.

“Let’s start over! What did they say again? Ah, yeah. Here’s to the first day of our lives!”

[writeriguess]

bakusquad (+shinsou) reacting to their children being disrespectful towards their so ? (it’s totally up to you)

author's note: Just a heads up—if the fonts look weird, that’s Tumblr’s fault, not mine. Everything looks fine in my word processor, so I’m not sure why it got messed up here. Sorry if it’s confusing!

𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐠𝐨𝐮 𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐢 – “You don’t ever talk to them like that.”

Bakugou prided himself on being a damn good father. He wasn’t perfect, sure—he had a temper, his words could be sharp, and sometimes he wasn’t the best at handling emotions. But one thing he would never tolerate was disrespect toward the people who mattered. And you? You were the most important damn person in his life.

So when his kid—𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙠𝙞𝙙—had the audacity to speak to you like that, it was like a switch flipped in his brain.

The air in the room grew thick, heavy with tension as Bakugou slowly turned toward them, jaw tight, crimson eyes burning with something unreadable. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“𝙀𝙭𝙘𝙪𝙨𝙚 𝙢𝙚?”

His kid faltered, shifting on their feet, but still had that bratty defiance in their eyes. “What? It’s not a big deal—”

“The 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡 it isn’t.” His voice was low, dangerous. “You think you can just say whatever the fuck you want to them and get away with it?”

His kid had inherited some of his stubbornness, but even they knew they had fucked up. “I was just mad—”

“I don’t give a shit.” Bakugou took a step forward, looming over them like an impending storm. “You ever talk to them like that again, and you’re gonna learn real quick what happens when I get 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 mad.”

His kid swallowed hard. Their defiance wavered, then crumbled under his intense stare.

“Now,” Bakugou continued, crossing his arms. “You’re gonna apologize. Properly.”

A beat of silence. Then, a muttered, “…Sorry.”

Bakugou narrowed his eyes. “Louder.”

“…I’m sorry.”

He let the tension sit for a moment before finally letting out a slow breath, some of the fire in his eyes dimming. “Good.” Then, he glanced at you, his face softening—just barely. His hand found the small of your back, grounding both you and himself.

“You okay?” His voice was quieter now, just for you.

You nodded, offering him a small smile.

Bakugou grunted, turning back to his kid. “You better remember this, ‘cause I ain’t repeating myself.” Then, with a sharp sigh, he ruffled their hair roughly, making them scowl. “Now go wash up. Dinner’s in ten.”

As they shuffled away, still embarrassed, Bakugou turned back to you, tugging you closer with an arm around your waist.

“Brat’s lucky they take after me,” he muttered. Then, softer, “You know I got your back, right?”

You smiled, resting a hand on his chest. “I know.”

And Bakugou? He’d make damn sure you never doubted it.

𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐦𝐚 𝐄𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐫𝐨 – “That’s not how we treat the people we love.”

Kirishima had always believed in being a kind, understanding parent. He wanted his kid to grow up strong, not just in body but in heart. So, when he overheard them talking to you with a sharp, disrespectful tone, it stopped him in his tracks.

For a second, he thought he misheard. But when he saw the look on your face—the hurt you tried to hide—something inside him tightened.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Kirishima cut in, stepping forward. His usual warm demeanor was absent, replaced by something much more serious. “What did you just say?”

His kid hesitated, shifting uncomfortably under his suddenly heavy gaze. “I was just—”

“No.” His voice was firm, his expression unreadable. “Try again.”

They huffed, folding their arms. “It’s not a big deal—”

“It is.” Kirishima’s jaw clenched as he crouched down to their level, resting his forearms on his knees. He wasn’t one to raise his voice, but the weight of his disappointment was loud enough. “That’s not how we treat people. Especially not someone who takes care of us, who loves us.”

His kid looked away, suddenly finding the floor very interesting.

“I get it,” Kirishima continued, his voice softening but still firm. “Sometimes we get mad. We say things we don’t mean. But that’s not an excuse to be cruel.” He reached out, ruffling their hair gently before tilting their chin up so they had to look at him. “You’re better than that, kid.”

A beat of silence. Then, a quiet, “…I’m sorry.”

Kirishima glanced at you, his eyes warm with something unspoken before turning back to his kid. “Not to me.”

They shifted awkwardly before mumbling, “I’m sorry.”

Kirishima finally let out a small, approving nod. “Good.” He patted their back, his usual grin making a return, though a bit softer this time. “Now go wash up. We’ll talk more about this later.”

As his kid scurried away, Kirishima exhaled, running a hand through his hair before turning to you. His hands found your waist as he pulled you close, resting his forehead against yours for a brief second.

“You okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

You nodded, offering him a small smile. “Yeah.”

Kirishima chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “They’re gonna learn to be as good-hearted as you, I promise.”

And when Kirishima Eijirou made a promise, he damn well kept it.

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐚 𝐀𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐨 – “I know you did not just say that.”

Mina prided herself on being a fun, understanding mom. She gave her kids the space to express themselves, encouraged their wild ideas, and always made sure they knew they were loved. But there were limits—clear, solid limits. And today? They had just crossed one.

It started off as a regular afternoon. You were in the kitchen, finishing up a snack for the kids when Haru, her eldest, let out an exaggerated groan.

“Ugh, why do we always have to eat what you make?” he complained, slumping in his seat. “Mom’s way better at cooking.”

Emi, his younger sister, snickered beside him. “Yeah, if it was Mom, we’d actually be eating something good.”

The words were sharp, dismissive. Maybe they didn’t fully realize it, but they hit hard. Mina saw the way you hesitated—how your fingers twitched for just a second before you covered up the hurt with a forced smile.

That’s when Mina’s expression dropped.

From where she was lounging on the couch, she slowly turned her head, pink eyes narrowed and dangerous. The atmosphere in the room shifted.

“Hold up,” she said, voice deceptively light. “I know you did not just say that.”

Haru and Emi froze. They knew that tone.

Mina stood, stretching her arms over her head before making her way to the table. “I must’ve misheard,” she continued, resting her hands on the back of Haru’s chair. “Because there’s no way my kids—my kids—would be so rude to the person I love.”

Haru shrank a little under her stare. Emi looked away.

Mina hummed, tapping her nails against the wood. “Wanna run that back?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Haru muttered, still trying to play it off.

Mina’s brow twitched. “Not that big of a—” She sucked in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. Lemme tell you something real quick.”

She crouched down between them, resting her elbows on the table, voice dropping into something firm and undeniable.

“You do not—ever—talk to them like that. I don’t care if you’re in a bad mood, I don’t care if you don’t like what’s for lunch, and I don’t care if you think you’re being funny. What you just did? Not cool.”

Emi squirmed in her seat. “We didn’t mean it like—”

“I don’t care how you meant it,” Mina cut in, tilting her head. “What matters is how it sounded. And it sounded mean.”

Silence.

Mina’s gaze softened just a little as she sighed. “Look, I love you both. But part of growing up is learning when to check yourself. And this?” She gestured between them. “This is one of those moments.”

She stood up, placing a hand on her hip. “So. Try that again.”

Haru hesitated before glancing at you, guilt creeping into his expression. “…I’m sorry.”

Emi sighed, glancing down. “Yeah… me too.”

Mina smiled, ruffling their hair. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

The tension in the air eased just a little, but Mina still turned to you, her expression softening. “Babe, you good?”

You nodded, though you still looked a little uneasy.

Mina frowned before wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close. “You should never have to deal with that,” she murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

She turned back to the kids. “And you two? You’re lucky I’m the fun parent. ‘Cause if your other parent was Bakugo, oof—you’d be grounded for a month.”

They both paled.

Mina grinned, clapping her hands together. “Alright! Now eat up. Without complaining.”

As they reluctantly dug into their food, Mina leaned in closer to you, voice playful but sincere.

“Next time they pull something like that?” She smirked. “I’m making them do all the cooking.”

𝐃𝐞𝐧𝐤𝐢 𝐊𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢 – “Nah, we don’t do that in this house.”

Denki always prided himself on being the fun parent. The one who made their kid laugh, who let them stay up a little past bedtime, who blasted music and had impromptu dance battles in the kitchen. But there were 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚 lines that couldn’t be crossed, and talking to you like that? Oh, hell no.

At first, he blinked, not fully processing what he just heard. But when he saw the way you stiffened, the way you shrank just a little bit under his kid’s sharp words, his usual carefree expression dropped.

“Whoa, whoa, hold up,” he said, stepping between you two with a forced chuckle. His tone was light, but there was a hard edge underneath it. “I know I didn’t just hear you say that.”

His kid rolled their eyes, still caught up in their attitude. “It’s not a big deal—”

Denki crouched down, resting his arms on his knees as he looked them dead in the eye. “Nah. It 𝙞𝙨 a big deal. You don’t talk to them like that. Ever.”

“But—”

“No ‘buts.’” His voice lost the usual teasing lilt, turning uncharacteristically firm. “They do everything for us. They put up with my dumbass and your stubborn streak, and they don’t ask for much in return. So the last thing they deserve is for you to be an asshole.”

His kid flinched, their bravado starting to crack.

Denki sighed, reaching out to ruffle their hair. “I get it. Sometimes we say things without thinking. I do it all the time.” He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood just a little. “But that’s why we learn from it. And right now? You gotta learn to own up to when you mess up.”

They hesitated, then muttered, “…Sorry.”

Denki tilted his head. “C’mon, you can do better than that.”

His kid huffed before finally looking at you. “I’m sorry.”

Denki grinned, standing back up and slinging an arm around your shoulders. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” He shot you a wink before gently nudging his kid toward the hall. “Now go do something productive. Like…uh, actually, I dunno. Just go.”

Once they were gone, he turned to you, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn. I feel like I just gave a TED Talk on respect.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “You handled it well.”

He gave you a lopsided grin before leaning in, pressing a quick, playful kiss to your cheek. “Yeah? Well, can’t have my favorite person feeling disrespected in my house. That just ain’t happening.”

And he meant every word.

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚 – “Try that again. The right way.”

Sero had always been the chill parent—the one who let things slide, who laughed off the little stuff, who never got too worked up over minor attitude. But this? 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 wasn’t little.

Hearing his kid talk to you like that made something inside him snap.

His easygoing smile disappeared as he slowly turned to face them, dark eyes unreadable. “𝙃𝙪𝙝,” he said, voice deceptively light. “You wanna try that again?”

His kid huffed, rolling their eyes. “I was just saying—”

“Nope.” Sero cut them off, standing up straighter, his usually relaxed posture gone. “Not like that. Not with that tone.”

They faltered, shifting under the weight of his stare. Sero wasn’t one to get angry—not 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮. But right now, there was something sharp in his expression, something that made his kid realize they’d messed up.

“We don’t talk to them like that,” Sero continued, his voice still calm but 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙢. “I don’t care if you’re mad, if you’re having a bad day, if the whole damn world is against you—that is not how you treat someone who loves you.”

His kid’s shoulders slumped, their earlier bravado fading. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah? Then say what you 𝙙𝙤 mean. The right way.”

A tense pause. Then, finally, a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

Sero nodded, crossing his arms. “Good. Now go take a breather, and when you’re ready to actually talk about what’s got you acting out, you know where to find me.”

His kid hesitated, then shuffled out of the room, leaving the air thick with the remnants of tension.

Sero let out a slow breath before turning to you, his features softening instantly. “Hey,” he murmured, reaching out to pull you into his side. “You okay?”

You nodded, leaning into him. “Yeah.”

His arms tightened around you, chin resting on top of your head. “They’re lucky I’m the chill one,” he joked lightly, lips quirking into a small smirk. “’Cause if Bakugo was their dad, oof.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You handled it perfectly.”

“Damn right I did.” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “Ain’t no way I’m letting anyone—𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 our kid—disrespect my favorite person.”

And with Sero, that was a promise.

𝐒𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐮 𝐇𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢 – “You don’t get to talk to them like that.”

Shinsou had never been the loud or overbearing parent. He didn’t believe in raising his voice to make a point—he didn’t have to. His presence alone was usually enough to command attention.

But when he heard his kid speak to you with a sharp, dismissive tone, something inside him went cold.

He didn’t react immediately. Instead, he set down his coffee, exhaling slowly as he turned to face them. “What did you just say?”

His kid faltered for a second before crossing their arms. “It’s not a big deal.”

Shinsou’s violet eyes darkened, his jaw tightening just a little. “It is,” he said, voice quiet but carrying weight. “And you know it.”

The room felt 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙫𝙮 in the silence that followed. His kid shifted, suddenly realizing they’d walked straight into something they weren’t prepared for.

Shinsou leaned forward slightly, keeping his gaze locked on them. “I don’t care how upset you are. I don’t care if you’re having the worst day of your life—you 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 take it out on them.” His voice never rose, but each word landed like a carefully aimed strike.

His kid bit their lip, looking down. “…I didn’t mean to.”

“Maybe not.” Shinsou finally stood up, crossing the room until he was standing beside you. His presence was protective, grounding. “But you still did. So now, you’re gonna fix it.”

A pause. Then, finally, “…I’m sorry.”

Shinsou nodded once. “Good.”

The tension in the air eased just slightly as his kid shuffled away, guilt written all over their face. Shinsou let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck before turning to you.

“You alright?” he murmured, his tone softer now.

You nodded, but he still saw the way your shoulders were a little stiff, the way your hands fidgeted. So, without another word, he pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around you securely.

“You know they love you,” he mumbled into your hair. “They just need to learn how to handle their emotions better.”

You sighed, sinking into his warmth. “I know.”

Shinsou pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head, his grip on you firm, unwavering. “I’ll make sure they do.”

And when Shinsou made a promise, he 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 it.

[pencil-n-pen]

YOU BEWITCH ME

꧁ ༺ ✧ ༻ ꧂

─────────────────────

Oh baby I am a wreck when I’m without you- I need you here to stay.

Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

──────────────────────

benedict bridgerton x eldest daughter! reader

summary: Benedict Bridgerton has been the least tolerable Bridgerton since you arrival to the ton. You are a lady of respectable means, though nearly forgotten by society due to some extenuating circumstances. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t stay away from him.

cw: time period typical treatment of women in society. btw when i say eldest daughter i mean SHE IS THE FIRST BORN OF HER FAMILY SHE IS NOT RELATED TO HIM NO INCEST THAT IS NASTY !!!! also no smut

a/n: i’m writhing on the floor foaming at the mouth im dying dead. my girlies from the books know that Benedict is a Tier One Yearner (tm) and im utterly obsessed with the dynamic of elizabeth bennet and fitzgerald darcy so i bring you the bridgerton version

i wrote this before i watched season two so shhhhh i didn’t steal her backstory from Kate’s i had no idea they were gonna be so similar T-T

please excuse the crazy long playlist my brain is infected

songs i listened to while writing: Somethin’ Stupid by Nancy and Frank Sinatra, Bewitched by Laufey, Line Without A Hook by Ricky Montgomery (these fools are yearning CRAZY) Amore mio autami by Piero Piccioni, Valentine- Live at the Symphony by Laufey & The Iceland Symphony Orchestra, Someone to Say- Reprise from the Cyrano Motion Picture Soundtrack, Hopelessly Devoted to You by Olivia Newton-John, The Way I Loved You (Taylor’s Version) by Taylor Swift, A Lovely Night by Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone, The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns, Sebastian Comberti, and Miriam Keogh

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title taken from Bewitched by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

✧˖°.

In your short time at the ton, you have met every Bridgerton. Eloise in particular is your favorite- her determination to carve her own path despite the vice grip societal standards have on her is nothing less than refreshing and inspiring. Violet, their mother, is the most likeable of all the ones you have met. Anthony is respectable, Colin is nice, and the children behave well enough for their age. That just leaves one left.

Benedict Bridgerton is the least tolerable and easiest to dislike out of his siblings and family. His cavelier disregard for anything of true substance —besides the art he covets so dearly— grates on you. His smirk prickles your skin whenever he flashes it at you (which is, of course, much too often) and his general manner of being make you desire nothing more than to leave whatever party or ball you are at and never return.

And he, no matter how hard you try, does not seem to get the message.

"Ah," He bows slightly as you enter, "The lady doth grace us with her presence."

You give a tiny curtsey —enough to appease Portia Featherington, whom you have arrived with— and a thin smile, which drops the second she is out of earshot.

"Mr. Bridgerton," You greet, purely out of formality and however might be eavesdropping, gossip is especially rife in this town, "How... nice of you to leave the comforts of your canvas to charm us ladies at this party. I'm sure there is someone else here in attendance who would wish to speak to you more."

Indeed, there are several ladies eyeing the pair of you. To Benedict, with very obvious heart eyes, and to you, barely contained sneers.

If only you could assure them you are of no threat to their dear Benedict. Not a threat to any gentleman well and truly looking for a wife, to speak plainly.

"But who would entertain you? It must be difficult, being here, so far away from your friends and family in..." He trails off, leaning in to you expectantly.

"Cheltenham," You respond, smile paper-thin.

"Cheltenham," He nods. "I hear they have the most magnificent gardens. We do have some impressive ones here in London, but we are not quite known for them."

"Oh, yes. You must be quite familiar with these gardens by now. I must suppose this is our third time having this exact conversation."

There. Right there, his smirk almost falters. As usual, your sharp-tongue and quick-wit catches him off-guard. It is the easiest way to disarm a one Benedict Bridgerton long enough to make a quick escape.

Except this party is rather boring (even though you have just arrived) and well. With almost no chance of possible suitors approaching you and your usual preference of lingering on the fringes of parties and analyzing what happens in them, there is little better to do than subject Benedict to whatever mood you are in.

"You'll forgive me," he affirms, "It is hard to find topics of conversation when one's partner is adamant on not continuing past formalities."

The usual flame begins to spark in your chest. "Oh? Then let us continue, if that's what you desire. I had believed you would want to save your best conversation for the ladies who are much more... diverting."

"My, my," He tilts his head, smirk widening. "Do you consider yourself plain?"

"I consider myself un-agreeable," You remark, words rolling so easily off your tongue. Something about arguing with Benedict specifically always makes your words easier to find, easier to say. "I think you will find that most, if not all, of the gentlemen here agree. Even Lady Whistledown writes of my abilities to repel any and all suitors."

"So I have heard," Nearly in sync, you both pluck glasses of wine off a passing tray, "I do worry, my dear Lady. You sound almost proud of this feat."

"I am. I have worked tirelessly for the title."

He takes a sip of his wine. "I recall several suitors calling upon you back when you first arrived, at the start of this season."

"Ah yes, well," You take a sip of your own, "Nothing makes a woman think of marriage like being fought over like a shiny new toy."

Benedict chuckles, looking down at his glass and then back at you. "I see now why you and my sister get along so well."

"I believe that was evident from the moment we met. Not just anyone deserves the right of befriending Eloise Bridgerton."

"Ah! There we go," He raises his glass as if toasting. "Something we both can agree on."

The conversation lulls into silence, neither of you bothering to start it up again. You merely stand, an appropriate distance apart, and watch. Benedict, likely watching his brother, who has taken to the dance floor, and you, watching a young lady who bears a rather striking resemblance to your one of your sisters.

A stab of homesickness plunges deep into your chest, so sharp and so quick you almost suck in an audible gasp. You haven’t seen your sisters in quite some time. Each of them married and in love and happy- something you worked so, so hard to achieve.

Even if it meant you yourself are likely to become a spinster.

Benedict notices your momentary grief. He follows your eyeline, and when he speaks next, it is surprisingly soft.

��Do you miss your sisters?”

You sip your wine, at the same time using the glass to cover the slight shine of tears that has risen in your eyes and to take a moment to gather your words.

“Do you miss Daphne?”

“Of course I do,” His voice is firm, almost vehement. “But I gather that the bond between sisters is different than sisters and brothers.”

The wine begins to settle in your stomach, rich and heavy.

“It is,” You say, nearly a whisper, “My sisters and I were all very close. I miss them a great deal.”

You allow your words time to hang in the air before continuing. “But they are all married now, and they are happy. Most of them have children of their own. They’ve all gotten fine lives for themselves.”

Benedict makes a noise in the back of his throat that has you turning to stare at him.

“You are the eldest, yes?” He asks, something you can’t identify in his eyes.

“I am.”

“And you have not yet married,” He continues, “I would think that the eldest would get married first, and her sisters would follow her lead.”

You stare down at your gloves. This topic of conversation has come up several times over the course of your stay —Especially because you’re staying with the Featherington’s, being old family friends of your father, and Portia does love a good piece of gossip— and it never gets easier.

“My mother died before any of us entered society. I was raised by our governess, and my sisters were raised by me. Our father has… little interest in the affairs of match-making and courtship and everything it is young ladies get up to.”

Benedict is silent while you speak, eyeing you curiously.

“And my mother had always spoken of how she wished for her daughters to marry for love. And with her gone, well,” You swallow harshly over the lump in your throat, “Somebody had to ensure that came true. How could I prepare my sisters for society and guide them to their matches if I was busy and married?”

He doesn’t respond for several long moments. When he does, there’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I had not considered you so selfless.” He admits, eyes flicking over your face. “I must say, I am quite surprised. So many layers to the ton’s most infamous suitor-fighter.”

And just like that, all the air seems to return to the room, and whatever momentary tension was there leaves, and you remember that you are speaking to Benedict Bridgerton.

You give him another fake smile. “We can’t all be so one-dimensional, Benedict.”

—

You’re not sure how you have found yourself a seat at the Bridgerton dinner table.

Of course, you are not surprised at all to have found yourself at dinner with the Bridgerton’s. Eloise is always insisting you come to dinner— the dowager Bridgerton has heard of her pleas so often that they’ve almost come to save you a seat- you are there at least once a week.

The surprise falls in the matter of who is sitting next to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You say, voice just loud enough for him to hear, “Your wine glass is a bit close to mine, don’t you think?”

The smile he sends you —that you can barely see from the corner of your eye— is sharp and full of teeth.

“Nonsense. I’ve found that a little proximity is good for things every now and then.”

“Every now and then,” You repeat, voice firm, “Somehow I find myself seeing you more and more.”

“Oh, surely there are worse fates.”

“Hardly.”

“Tell me- are you this sharp-tongued with all whom you meet?”

“Only the ones that deserve it.”

He raises his wine glass to his lips. “And what have I done to deserve such cruel wit?”

“Oh, don’t play ignorant to your intentionally aggravating behaviors.”

Benedict rests a hand over his chest in mock pain. “You wound me. Truly.”

The sip of wine you take is a little too large to be considered a sip. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Tell me,” He tosses back a generous gulp of wine, “Were you born this stubborn and sarcastic or did it come naturally over time?”

“Hmm,” You pretend to think, “I suppose I’d consider myself that of a fine cheddar. Only tasting sharper with time.”

Benedict laughs, a private thing, clearly already tipsy. “That doesn’t even answer my question.”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“I want to know what your sisters endured during their childhoods. My word. I can only imagine why you haven’t had any suitors since arriving here.”

Fear races up your spine at his words, a sudden a rather unwelcome reminder of why your father sent you to London.

“Yes, well,” You answer, your mouth suddenly dry and your hands sweating in your gloves, “They should know there is no accounting for someone’s personality.”

He’s silent for a few moments. It makes you nervous his silence, so you turn your head, just a little, to see what expression he’s wearing.

Only when you turn, he’s already staring. Not even the half-head turn that you’ve done. He’s staring. Right at you.

His brows are furrowed, little creases on the skin in between them, and his eyes are bright and searching.

“Are you alright?”

You have been in London for two months, one week, and three days.

Benedict Bridgerton is the first person to ask if you’re okay.

“Fine,” You say, smoothing out your features with force, “Wine does not always agree with me.”

He doesn’t believe you. But he doesn’t pry, either.

“Shall you be giving the wine a thorough lecture, then?”

“Wine does not have ears. A lecture would be wasted on it,” You pause, “However, if we can track down the winemaker…”

Your words have their desired effect. He laughs, this time a little louder than something just for the two of you to share, garnering a couple glances from Anthony and Eloise, so you sip your wine and pretend you did not just make Benedict laugh. A real laugh, not the fake one he does when you’re arguing.

You suppose there are worse ways spend an evening.

—

It is an almost pleasant day in London. Almost being that the temperatures are fair, but the weather overcast.

You find garden parties the most interesting of all the parties to be had by the high society families because it means you get to escape to the gardens. Of course, there are others milling about in them, but they offer much more privacy than a ballroom and have the added bonus of reminding you of your home in Cheltenham.

“What is it liked to be overlooked by society?” Eloise asks, ever lacking decorum. It is, honestly, refreshing. She does not beat around the bush or sugar-coat her words.

You think on her words before responding, taking the time instead to eye some rather nice roses. “Honestly? It is not as terrible as you might think. Everybody always says that spinsterhood is a fate worse than death, but if it’s anything like this, I can’t think it to be that painful.”

She nods, thinking over your words. “But didn’t you want to marry? You must be lonely.”

You elbow her side as you walk, arms entwined. “How could I ever be lonely with such incorrigible friends?”

You both laugh, raucous and cackling and nothing close to lady-like.

“Is there a pack of hyenas roving about the gardens?”

You hear the rush of footsteps swishing across the grass, then feel the brush of fabric on your arm.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You sigh, cutting him a glare, “What are you doing here?”

He loops his arm through yours, the same way that Eloise has done to you.

“Mr. Bridgerton.” You warn, tone sharp

“Oh relax,” His smirk is in high form, today, “I am protecting you ladies from those hyenas. We haven’t found them yet, have we? It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Eloise,” You pause, craning your neck about the garden, “Do you see a gentleman around here?”

Eloise snickers behind her glove. “I can’t say that I can see any.”

Benedict rolls his eyes. “Humor me, then.”

You continue walking. “I suppose we will. It’s good to engage in charity, dear Eloise. You must not think yourself above those less fortunate.”

He scoffs. “Since when do you consider yourself charitable?”

You flap your fan a few times. “I have a great many qualities. Do not fault me because you are so caught up in yourself to notice anything other than what you want.”

His fingers flex. “And what is it you think I want to see?”

You shrug plainly. “Me as I present myself. Unbecoming and, probably by the standards here, vile.”

“No.” He says, the word more of a sound, sort of ripped from his chest.

You look at him in alarm and he meets your gaze evenly. “You are a great many things- stubborn and irritating, but never vile.”

His words and the vehemence in which he said that stun you into silence. You’d never imagined Benedict, of all people, to take such an issue with that word. Vile. You’ve been called vile often over the course of your life, by mothers and suitors and other debutants and even on occasion your father. Its meaning has been mostly lost on you, the cruel nature in which it is said no longer barbed and painful. It is just a word, like every other word.

He’s staring at you, an almost pained expression on your face, so you figure you should say something.

“I see,” Eloise’s arm tightens on yours, “I suppose I should take your words to heart. I am glad to know that there is at least one gentleman who does not think me a vile woman.”

Benedict smiles, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes for a moment, something you don’t manage to place before it is gone.

“Ah! You called me a gentleman. Have I won you over?”

“For now, at least.”

—

You miss dancing.

Since you are the most un-agreeable lady in the Ton, you are seldom asked to dance, and since a partner is a requirement for the activity, you tend to spend most parties on the fringes, either talking with Eloise or merely observing.

Or arguing with Benedict. But you’ve found it a little harder to truly poke at him with any real malice or criticism since he defended your character so passionately that day in the gardens.

“You’re watching the dancers like they personally offended you.”

He always finds you at parties. Actually, he always finds you no matter where you are.

You gaze at him out of the corner of your eye. “I’m envious. Pay me no mind.”

He snorts. “Envious of the dancers? Whatever for?”

“I miss dancing. The only problem with scaring away all your suitors is that you also scare away all of your potential dance partners.”

You both observe them quietly for several moments, eyes tracking the flowing and sweeping movements.

“Do you,” he pauses, clears his throat when his voice cracks over the last syllable, “Like to dance?”

“Yes,” You admit, a tad embarrassed, “I always have. Most of society’s expectations for women are quite sedentary or still. But dancing is… its movement and passion. And sometimes, when your partner is agreeable and the music fair, it can almost feel like you’re not dancing at all. That there is no one else there, just the two of you.”

Your face heats, the realization that you’ve been talking so long about something you really do care about striking you. “Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually experienced that last bit.”

He inclines his head. “Where did you hear about it?”

“From my mother, as she regaled me on the day she met my father.”

You both stand, shoulder to not-shoulder, more like mid-upper arm, observing the spins and steps of the pairs of dancers.

“Would you dance with me?”

You snap your head to him. “Dance?”

“Yes,” He says, voice a little breathless. “I have yet to do my duty dance for the evening and it would be unfair to keep a lady from the dance floor.”

He extends a hand. “Especially if she longs for it.”

You stare down at his hand. “People will talk of you dancing with me. I would not want to bring reproach—“

“Dance with me,” He says again. “Please.”

Who are you to deny such an earnest request?

He marks a spot on your dance card- your first and only of the night.

As the next song comes a close, he leads you onto the the dance floor, and for the first time in awhile, you feel… conscious, of the eyes on you.

Everybody always watches for the who the Bridgerton’s dance with. Except now Anthony has Kate, and he is much less interesting than the second Bridgerton brother taking a partner to dance. Especially a partner with the reputation you have.

The song begins, and you glide your way through the steps.

“You didn’t have to dance with me. I’m sure we’ll—“ you pause, spinning, “—appear in Lady Whistledown’s review in the morning.”

He grasps your hand tightly. “Let them talk. I have never been the brother anyone is well and truly worried about.”

You begin to feel more and more alive and the song plays on. Movement— real, fluid, passionate movement thrums in your veins, the music jumping through the air.

But all good things must come to end.

Eventually, the music comes to a close, and you must curtsy, and allow Benedict to leave the dancefloor.

“You dance well,” He praises, eyes alight, “I see why you miss dancing. You glide like a swan.”

The smile that tugs at your lips is entirely involuntary. “You are too kind. I do not dance that well. I just have a passion for it.”

He raises a brow. “Oh come now, accept the compliment.”

You shake your head, chuckling a breathy laugh. “Then I must pay you one in return. Not once did you step on my toes or lose your way. Color me impressed.”

His face lights up, joy evident. “And the night grows better! A compliment from our dear spinster.”

“I have always proclaimed myself a fair judge, have I not?”

Benedict’s expression is alight with amusement. “You have. But that doesn’t mean I’ve been all that inclined to believe you.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no accounting for opinions, even if they are wrong.”

“I thought opinions above being right or wrong.”

“Only sometimes.”

Benedict looks all together too pleased with himself as he gazes at you, lips quirked up and cheeks still a little flushed from the dance.

He extends a hand.

“Care for another dance?”

You smile down at your gloves. “I couldn’t possibly. Dancing with me once could be forgiven, but twice? What would your mother think?”

“My mother happens to like you a great deal,” He says smoothly, “And I think I might enjoy dancing with somebody who actually dances.”

How could you refuse?

You place your hand in his.

“I’d be delighted.”

—

As has become a particular habit of yours recently, you’re lying away, staring at your ceiling and pondering Benedict’s actions.

Why did he ask you to dance? Why did he allow you the joy of two dances?

Why did he care?

Why can’t you stop thinking about it?

In your heart, and probably your mind, you know why. The warmth of his hands through the gloves and the dappling of the candlelight on his flushed cheeks is stuck fast in your mind for the exact same reason you’ve hated him since the moment you met:

You love him.

You didn’t love him when you met, but you know yourself. You know he is the type of man that you would love- the type that would break your heart because he is charming and kind, and he will never choose you. And why should he? You’re sharp and sarcastic and nowhere near the shining qualities and perfection of this season’s diamond- any of the season’s diamonds, really. You’re a spinster in the making with an attitude and standards.

It is a most unfortunate combination. For your upbringing to have made you so hard to love and have also instilled such a deep want for love and romance in your heart. You know you were not made for it, not for the kind your father sent you to London to get.

He wants you married to whoever will take you- only problem is, now no one will. Especially not Benedict.

But… could he?

You turn over in bed, smushing your face into the pillow.

No, you tell yourself, Don’t go down that road. Don’t even think about it.

You barely sleep a wink, that night.

—

The morning brings the post, and the post brings a letter from your father.

Not even Portia Featherington’s threats of grounding stop you from racing into a carriage to Bridgerton house.

You enter through the back entrance and upon seeing your disheveled appearance and tear stricken face, a servant rushes inside to fetch Eloise immediately.

The girl herself looks harried and concerned as she meets you in the back garden, a million questions etched in her face and streaming out of her mouth.

“My father,” You half-sob, “Has found me a husband. Baron Dunsmoor. He is— he’s horrible. He has had two previous wives, and then all died in childbirth. He is disgusting and revolting and treats women like, like cows.”

Eloise’s expression crumples. “What is, what can be done?”

You shake your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth. “It is too late. He’s ordered me to come home at once so the proposal can be made official.”

The younger Bridgerton girl grasps your shoulders. “What if you were to get a proposal? Here? Now?”

“Eloise!” You say, “Who are we going to find to marry me before tomorrow?”

Her eyes shine when she answers. “My brother. Benedict.”

The cruel, twisting stab to your gut that hearing his name, now, here, gives you is nothing short of agonizing.

If you were not crying before, you certainly are now.

“How could you say that?” You ask, breath hard and stuck in your throat, “He would— He will never marry me. That is, it’s cruel to even suggest that.”

“No, no I promise, he loves you, I am sure of it—“

“Eloise, please do not—“

“He has painted you, drawn you, I swear he must have illustrated your likeness more than—“

“Eloise!” You snap, patience thin and tears thick, “That is enough. Benedict will not marry me. I cannot—“

“Marry me.”

You snap your head up at the sound of a familar, rich voice, eyes meeting Benedict’s as he marches over to you eyebrows drawn tight and lips set.

He looks… distraught. Utterly wrecked.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” You gasp, “You—“

“Benedict. Please. You never call me Benedict.”

His words come out like a dying man’s wish, despite you being the one stuck in a hopeless situation.

“Benedict,” You start, “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?” He snaps, words and expression immediately becoming sharp and confused, “You would rather live a life with that wretched man?”

“Of course not,” You retort, “But it’s not that simple—“

“Yes it is!” He cries, throwing his hands up and taking another step towards you, “Tell me, honestly, if you wrote to your father and told him I had proposed and you had accepted, would he not choose my proposal over the baron’s?”

“Yes, but—“

“But what?”

“But I cannot accept!” You shout, aware of Eloise standing only a few feet away and servants no dough crowding to watch from the door, “I can endure a loveless marriage to a loveless man. I could not endure a loveless marriage to a man that I love.”

Benedict sucks in a gasp, and you refuse to meet his gaze. How can you, after saying that?

Birds chirp overhead. There is the distance noise of carriages moving about in London. Somewhere distant, a dog barks.

“Do you truly think our marriage would be loveless?” He says, voice scraped raw and quiet, “How could you not know the depth of my affection for you?”

You look up, taking a half step forwards, searching his face for any hint of a lie, for deception.

You find open, painful, vulnerable honesty.

“What reason would I have to believe that I had a chance?” You ask, voice hushed, “All we do is argue. I have been cast out by society and you are a Bridgerton.”

He reaches forwards, grasps your hands in his. Your breath hitches.

Neither of you are wearing gloves.

“I am so in love with you it makes my chest hurt and my bones ache. Eloise was right. I have drawn you hundreds of times because there is just so much inside of me and it has nowhere to go,”

His lips quirk up a little, almost sad, “I loved it when we argued, because it meant you looked at me. It meant I held your attention. And you are remarkably smart and so, so much more wonderful than you give yourself credit for. I would sooner burn everything I’ve ever drawn than let you marry that man, than let you believe that you can never marry for love.”

He squeezes your hands once.

“Please, marry me.”

Your eyes are burning with a fresh wave of tears, but there’s something warm and alive unfurling and beating in your chest, something that glows with every word he says.

You laugh a strange noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

“Yes,” You gasp, your smile practically splitting your face in two, “Yes. I will marry you.”

Benedict’s smiling too, the both of you looking like fools, smiling and laughing in his garden.

Eventually, he turns to Eloise. “You’d better go tell mother she has another wedding to plan.”

Eloise scoffs. “Oh, please. She’s been working on this one for ages. I’m absolutely positive everybody knew this was only a matter of time except the two of you.”

He looks baffled, and you note in the back of your mind that he’s still holding your hands, “What? I wasn’t that obvious.”

“You danced with her. Twice. In a row.”

“So?”

Eloise rolls her eyes. “You don’t dance with anybody, especially more than once. You’ve been making love eyes at each other over verbal spars for ages. It’s been disgusting to watch.”

You snort. “Then look away.”

“Absolutely not. You insult my brother too well.”

You laugh again, then look back to Benedict.

“My father, and the Baron—“

“I will write to him today,” he soothes, “And have the letter sent with the fastest post carrier. You’re my wife now. I’m not going to let anyone else have you.”

Your cheeks heat. “I’m not your wife yet.”

He shrugs. “Only a matter of time, my love.”

Eloise retches in the background, and Portia will be an absolute nightmare to deal with when you get back, and part of you still wonders if Benedict is serious, but none of that seems to matter.

Not with how he’s looking at you now. Not with your hands in his.

You’re really looking forward to that first kiss.

✧˖°.

──────────────────────

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[rafey-baby]

sweet treat 5

shy!reader really wants to tell construction worker!rafe how she feels but what if he doesn’t feel the same way?  

c/w: the L word, mostly fluff, her being an overthinker & getting a little jealous, pda, 18+ mdni!

wc: 2.3k 

sooo this is the last part! (might write some extras but i make no promises) & just wanted to say how much i appreciate everyone who reads my stuff. the first part was my first piece of writing on this blog and i was overjoyed by the warm welcome and all the kind comments, asks & reblogs (nothing goes unnoticed by me!) so thank u so so much for being so lovely <33

series masterlist

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

It’s been exactly two weeks since she came to terms with the fact that she’s in love with him.

She hasn’t been able to sleep all that well and has tried her very best to avoid Rafe, albeit fruitlessly since he insists on driving her home every day and on top of that, often invites himself over or asks her to stay the night at his— not accepting her excuses about being tired and having to wake up early.   

“Why don’t we jus’…be tired ‘n wake up early together then?” his grin is playful. And how is she meant to refuse that?  

And if everything he does wasn’t already suffocating her enough, he’s now helping with the renovation of the cafe since her boss wanted to expand the business; turn the small coffee shop into a bigger one in hopes of more space for new tables and seats, because the amount of clients they got was beginning to be too much for everyone to comfortably enjoy their stay. 

Therefore, she now has to work in the same building as him every single day because (unfortunately) the renovation work isn’t disturbing the current cafe from running nor decreasing the number of customers with a sweet tooth or a craving for their usual morning coffee.   

And none of this would be a problem, if Rafe wasn’t walking around all sweaty and dusty, biceps bulging whenever he’d lift wooden planks over his shoulder or carry around different equipment— looking as attractive as ever.

And with these newfound lovey-dovey feelings trying to break through the surface, she doesn’t know how she’s supposed to stop herself from ogling him or keep her rapid heartbeats to herself whenever he wanders over for a chat on his breaks. She tries to act as normal as she can, but she can tell that he’s starting to pick up on her excessive rambling and stuttering, flushed cheeks and anxious fingers fixing her hair every two seconds whenever he’s talking to her.  

In fact, she’s certain he can see right through her, knows that she’s hiding something. She can practically see how he wants to bring it up more often than not, but seemingly hasn’t found the right way to approach the subject yet, and she can sense that she’s running out of time— can’t tolerate lying to him for much longer.   

She’s been thinking this whole thing through over and over again, to the point of her head hurting while she bakes Rafe’s favorite lemon raspberry cookies as a distraction and because he’s been working so hard she wants to surprise him; see the soft smile that makes the whole world glitter whenever he graces her with it.  

And she wants to tell him, wants him to know how deeply she feels for him; how much she appreciates him but every time she tries to open her mouth, the words seem to evaporate before they’ve even begun to sprout on her nervous tongue.

Because what if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if this is all just a casual thing for him and she’s making it into something more than it is? These bleak thoughts turn her mood sour— a pout forming on her lips as she concentrates on topping the flamingo pink icing with fresh blueberries, adding the final touches to their most popular vanilla cupcakes.

And as she’s taking Rafe’s cookies out the oven, she comes to the conclusion that she really only has two options; she either tells him or she doesn’t.

If she tells him, there’s a very high possibility that he looks at her with a crease between his brows and words about not wanting for this to be anything serious hitting her against the face. And if she doesn’t, then…well she doesn’t really have anything to lose, does she? Except maybe the what ifs haunting her for the rest of eternity.   

She tries to get rid of the tormenting thoughts with a shake of her head as she sets the cookies off to cool down, and begins to place the finished cupcakes onto the display counter, trying her hardest to just forget about it all.  

- - - - - - - - - - - - -  

Later that day, when Rafe is contently munching on the cookies she plated for him and happily distracting her from work, someone approaches the counter; a girl with glossy lips and shiny hair.   

“Hi! Could I please get a mango matcha latte?” her eyes are as green as grass as she places her order.  

“Of course, would you like it with ice or no ice?”   

“With ice, please.”

“Coming right up,” she gives the girl a polite smile when her payment goes through.   

“You’re working on the renovation?” the girl’s attention then turns towards Rafe, making Y/N’s gaze flicker over to them as she puts blended mango into the bottom of a tall glass.  

“Yeah, the cafe’s gon’ be twice as big as it’s now,” he drawls, putting the half-eaten baked good down.   

“That’s so cool. You know, I’ve always wondered how construction workers are so strong. Do you go to the gym a lot?” a saccharine voice reaches Y/N’s ears, making her brows furrow while she measures the right amount of matcha powder, trying to appear nonchalant.   

“Uh, yeah, yeah, also think m’workdays sometimes count as workouts,” he scratches the back of his head as she lets out a giggle. It wasn’t that funny, Y/N thinks with a roll of her eyes.   

“Hey, I was actually wondering if maybe you’d wanna hang out sometime? Could give you my number?”   

Something muddy swirls in her stomach in response to the girl’s straightforward question. She doesn’t particularly appreciate the fact that she’s blatantly hitting on Rafe right in front of her, even if she’s painfully aware that they’re not together and the girl probably assumed they were just friends, which they are.  

However, she can’t prevent herself from turning grumpy from the mere notion of him being interested in someone else. After all, the girl is stunning and she wouldn’t really blame him if he wanted to at least consider her offer.  

“Uh, m’actually not available right now,” he offers an apologetic smile when the girl’s shoulders slump.   

“No? That’s a shame. Well, let me know when that changes?” she gives him a flirty smile that makes Y/N quietly scoff as she pours the milk into the mix.  

“S’not changing anytime soon,” she mutters under her breath, making both of their heads turn towards her.   

Fuck, did she really say that out loud?  

“Sorry?” the girl asks, muted jade settling on her suddenly tense form.

“Oh, um— jus’ that…here’s your drink,” she peeps out in her state of embarrassment, feeling Rafe’s eyes burning into the side of her face as she sticks a paper straw into the beverage; the ice cubes clinking together when she hands it out to her.

“Right, thanks,” she says before looking over to Rafe once more, seemingly expecting him to give her an answer of his own.  

“Uh…yeah, what she said. Not changin’ anytime soon,” his grin is wide, making the girl’s cheeks flush.  

And when it’s just the two of them again, she flits her eyes down— busying herself with a wooden container of tea bags she’s trying to organize, unable to face him.  

“What was, uh…what was that about?” his tone is taunting, an annoying smirk playing on his features.  

“Nothing,” she quickly dismisses, avoiding his gaze.  

“Nothin’? You’re tellin’ me you weren’t just real fuckin’ jealous two seconds ago?”  

“N—no,” she can’t even convince herself with the pitiful denial.  

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, m’all yours, alright?” he chuckles as he stuffs the rest of the cookie into his mouth.  

“How did you know I jus’ was cravin’ these?” he asks around the mouthful as she tries to brush aside the sudden tingle in her ribcage.   

- - - - - - - - - - - - -  

A few days later, when her shift is coming to an end, her other coworker already beginning to take orders and telling her she’s free to go, she drags Rafe behind the counter and practically forces him to taste test a new recipe she’s tried out; a walnut carrot cake with lime buttercream. 

“Wow, this is…amazing. The sourness in the frosting is so good,” his voice is muffled by his chewing and her heart warms in response to his commentary, never one to shy away from showering her in compliments.  

“You think so? I actually added the lime jus’ cause I know how much you like citrus fruits so, m’really glad you like it,” she beams at him.  

“Yeah? Made this jus’ for me, huh? Can I ask why m’gettin’ this special treatment all of a sudden?” his tone is playful, tongue licking over his bottom lip to clean up the bit of icing lingering there.   

“Well, cause I love you and—” she blurts out before her entire body tenses; mouth hanging open in shock and wide eyes slowly moving to look at him, trying to verify whether he heard it or not. Of course he did. She wasn’t exactly quiet now, was she?   

“You…you love me?” he raises his brows in surprise.  

“Uh…I— I didn’t mean to…I mean, you probably don’t feel the same so doesn’t really matter. Just— um...jus’ forget I said that. I don’t know why I—”   

“What are you talkin’ about? You think I spend most of my time with you cause I…what? Dislike you? You can be so silly sometimes, you know?” he scoffs, setting the golden fork down on the porcelain plate.  

She stays silent. 

“What I’m sayin’ is that m’obsessed with you. I mean, you’re even in my fuckin’ dreams, right? But listen, love has always been a little, uh, tricky for me cause m’relationship with my family has always been, uh, complicated? But if me wantin’ to spend every second of my day with you means I love you too, then, shit, maybe I do. But I need some time before I can really say that shit, you get that?” his words are honest and raw and she thinks her rattling heart is going to beat out of her chest.  

“I— um…yeah, of course. Take all the time you need,” she finally manages out.  

“Hey, c’mere,” he says before he’s practically dragging her dumbfounded form into his embrace; — beefy arms pulling her flush against his chest.  

“I mean, we’re basically already datin’ at this point, no? Wasn’t sure how to make it official without freakin’ you out but since you love me, think you’re all good, yeah?” 

She mumbles something incoherent in response.  

“So wanna be my little girlfriend or what?” he murmurs into her hair.  

“I— of course I do,” she speaks against his shirt.   

“Yeah?”   

“Mhm,” she hums before he tucks an index finger under her chin and lifts her face to look up at him—his thumb toying with her bottom lip before he’s leaning down and smearing a sloppy kiss against her mouth.   

“Shit, you’re so adorable, jus’ wanna swallow you whole sometimes,” he murmurs with a soft smile tugging at his lips and eyes twinkling with something syrupy in them.   

“I love you,” she mumbles, almost inaudible; words still too tender to consciously say out loud.   

“Say it again,” he practically demands.  

“Um…I love you,” her voice is nearly a whisper.  

“What was that? Think you can say it a little louder?” he teases.   

“Rafe, stop…you’re embarrassing me,” she whines, cheeks heating up.

“No, m’not. Jus’ wanna hear you say it,” his smirk is all big and smug and it makes her huff.  

“ILOVEYOU, okay?” the words mesh together like fluffy clouds in the sky and her volume is louder than he’s probably ever heard it, causing a couple of curious heads to turn and the lively chatter around them to quiet down some.   

“Yeah? You guys heard that? She LOVES me,” he’s nearly shouting, looking around with a stupid grin on his face— making her flush and hide behind her hands as a few customers cheerfully titter in entertainment.  

“Congrats, dude!” someone even yells.

“Oh my god, Rafe. Why would you do that?” her mortified eyes widen as she crouches down; trying to find shelter behind the pale-yellow counter. “M’never leaving my house again,” she complains with a glare.   

However, he doesn’t seem all that bothered by the whole thing, simply chuckling with dimples denting his cheeks— the light-hearted sound making her stomach flutter despite the humiliation crawling up her spine and making her want to vanish into the cracks on the floorboards.   

“Of course you are, m’your boyfriend now which means m’takin’ you out on a date tomorrow, yeah?” he lifts her up with a grip on her waist, pulling her flush against him while his fingertips slip underneath the hem of her shirt, smoothing over her bare stomach and making her let out a squeak.  

Then, he’s grasping her jaw in one hand and pressing his mouth on hers again— her protests withering away like a dead rose when he slips his tongue past the seam of her lips, dragging out an involuntary whimper from her, before she pulls away and hides her face in his chest when she feels multiple pairs of eyes staring at them.  

“Rafe, can we just go already?” she pleads, voice small before he’s guiding her out of the coffee shop; his hand resting on the small of her back and calming her down some. 

And despite the little scene he caused, she thinks she might just be the happiest girl on the island as he helps her climb into his truck with a honeyed kiss warming the apple of her cheek.

[bennetsbonnet]

I came across this screenshot of a YouTube comment about Pride and Prejudice on Pinterest ↓

Ordinarily, I don't go out of my way to pour scorn on other people's interpretations, and certainly not without good reason. But this one really, really irked me.

I don't know what's more depressing; that someone interpreted Mr Darcy and Elizabeth's dynamic in this way, or that 12,000 people apparently agreed...

...because there are two major problems with this interpretation:

Firstly, Darcy is an asshole.

Secondly, he's very much not a stupid man.

This isn't just my opinion. This is canon.

Elizabeth doesn't think Mr Darcy is a terrible person because she happened to feel like it one day. Darcy gave her every reason to think he had absolutely no redeeming features. I mean, their very first interaction, before (contrary to what adaptations portray) they had even said a single word to each other, was when he insulted her.

Not only that, Darcy knew what he was doing, as this excerpt from chapter 3 proves:

'Turning round [Darcy] looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said: “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.'

Darcy wanted Elizabeth to hear him. There is no mistaking that. Yes, Elizabeth should have listened to the repeated warnings she received from others that Wickham was not all he seemed and that, perhaps, Darcy wasn't so bad... but you can completely understand why she was prejudiced against him. I wouldn't forgive someone saying something like that about me in a hurry.

There are other examples of Darcy's rudeness to Elizabeth. His tone of voice is described as 'grave' and 'cold' when they dance at the Netherfield ball in chapter 18; when he visits Hunsford Parsonage in chapter 32, he ends their exchange in a rude manner '[Darcy] experienced some change of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice: “Are you pleased with Kent?”' and there are too many examples in the proposal in chapter 34, but for me the worst is, 'towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.'

If a man implied that separating my beloved sister from the man who loved her, was kinder to them both than the agony of him proposing to me... well, I don't think he would've walked away from that exchange. Elizabeth Bennet you are a better person than me.

Regarding the other point: Darcy's intelligence is never questioned. In fact, the narrator devotes time to ensuring we understand that in chapter 4:

'In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting.'

Again, this man knew exactly what he was doing. He wasn't sorry about any of it, and he certainly was not 'internally crying.' Mr Darcy was a conceited, spoiled rich man who needed to be made aware of his flaws and reflect on them in order to become a better person; or at least, improve enough that he ceased to give the impression that he was not, at his core, a compassionate man with many great qualities.

At the same time, Elizabeth was not a poor, innocent angel who was slighted by a man and who subsequently never did anything wrong. She didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of Darcy's unpleasantness, no; but she, too, was absolutely blind to her own flaws... until she read Darcy's letter.

I just think that if you don't grasp this fundamental aspect of their respective personalities and subsequent interactions, then how can the payoff possibly be satisfying?

Pride and Prejudice is, amongst many other things, a story about two flawed people whose love for the other shapes them into the best possible versions of themselves. It's really beautiful and it's a shame to think such a key part of it is being misinterpreted.

[bjlipss]

— i would love to go back to the old house;

★ synopsis: you and satoru make a promise to marry each other if you’re both still alone by thirty.

miyan’s notes: no curse au, no warnings, maybe some realness, just fluff and smut. wc: 3681.

you’re both seventeen, laying on the grass behind the school gym, where the sun’s dipped low enough to cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

it’s late spring—almost summer—and the scent of cut grass clings to your clothes, sweet and sharp. someone’s left a soccer ball abandoned a few feet away. the world feels lazy and endless, like nothing important could ever happen here.

you’re side by side, arms brushing but never quite touching, your pinkies just barely grazing sometimes when one of you shifts. satoru’s sunglasses are crooked on his face, and he doesn’t fix them. his white hair is fanned out messily over the grass, and there’s a blade of it stuck behind his ear. he hasn’t noticed.

he was dumped yesterday. you heard about it from someone else before he told you—his ex apparently said he was too much. too loud, too intense, too everything. it made you kind of furious, but you didn’t say that. you just sat with him today, like always.

your first real relationship ended last week. it wasn’t even dramatic. just two people slowly realizing they didn’t quite know how to hold each other anymore. still, it left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you’re pretending isn’t there.

he exhales, slow and dramatic. “you ever think we’re just… cursed or something?”

you snort. “that’s a little dramatic.”

“it’s me,” he says, turning his head toward you, and you can see the curve of a grin forming. “drama is my whole thing.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t say no. he quiets down again, goes back to staring at the sky with a look that’s a little more thoughtful than usual. birds are flying overhead in little staggered v’s, and there’s a faint breeze brushing your skin.

then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, he says, “if we’re both single at thirty, let’s just marry each other.”

you blink. the silence after feels loud.

“what?” you laugh, eyebrows lifting. “what kind of pact is that?”

he shrugs, still looking up. “a realistic one. we already know each other’s worst habits. you can tolerate me. that’s rare.”

“you’re an idiot,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “but sure. yeah. a backup plan. solid.”

you mean it like a joke. like a throwaway thing. but then he turns his head toward you, and his glasses slide down his nose just enough that you can see his eyes—really see them.

“no,” he says. “i’m serious.”

you stare at him. he’s not laughing. there’s something oddly earnest in the way he says it, like he’s offering something fragile and important without realizing it. like a promise he doesn’t expect you to keep, but wants you to want to.

your heart does a weird thing. tightens. pulls.

you swallow. “okay. me too.”

neither of you says anything after that. the sun dips lower. the breeze picks up. the world moves around you, but for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that quiet stretch of time, young and bruised and hopeful.

your pinkies brush again.

this time, neither of you pulls away.

—

years pass.

at first, the promise is a soft, silly memory tucked into the back of your mind like a note in a locker you never emptied. you think about it sometimes—on your birthday, when your heart gets broken again, when you see a wedding invitation in the mail and wonder how people keep getting so lucky. the pact becomes a kind of quiet comfort, a lighthouse in the distance. not real, but there. always there.

you go to university. he does too. different cities, different people, different rhythms. you both grow into yourselves slowly, awkwardly, like plants reaching for light in the wrong season. you learn how to love better. how to walk away when you need to. how to be alone and not hate it.

you date people who are kind. people who challenge you. people who hurt you in ways that teach you something. some of them ask about him, the boy in the old photos, the one whose name still slips out when you’re tired or wine-drunk. you always brush it off, say he’s just someone from your past. nothing more. nothing to see here.

he dates too. once, you find out through a mutual that he’s seeing someone seriously—a girl who’s smart and sweet and nothing like you. it bothers you more than you want to admit. but you never say anything. you just keep your head down, push it away like you do with everything else that hurts. you’re happy for him, you think. you should be.

life moves fast, and slow, and fast again. you move cities. he changes jobs. there are stretches of time where you don’t think about him at all—and then suddenly everything reminds you of him again. a song he used to hum under his breath. the way someone else laughs. a white-haired stranger passing by on the street, so close to the version of him you remember but not quite right. the ghost of him lingers, not haunting you, but following you in the corners of your life.

and then, there are the moments when life tangles your paths back together.

—

it’s your friend’s birthday—an old classmate who’s turned their tiny apartment into a chaos of people and warm lights. the kind of party that’s too loud, too crowded, but you’re here anyway because it’s easier to go than stay home. the tension of being alone hits you in the chest as soon as you walk in. everyone’s happy. everyone’s with someone. everyone’s moving forward, but you’re stuck at some point in the past, lingering in the gap between where you were and where you should be.

you almost don’t go, tired from work, emotionally drained. but you show up, because something tells you to. maybe it’s because you promised yourself you’d stop running from things that make you uncomfortable. or maybe it’s just the weird way life works, pulling you toward the people and places you’re not ready for yet.

you’re standing near the kitchen, sipping a drink you don’t really care about, when you hear it—a laugh that cuts through the noise, familiar and unexpected. a laugh you know instantly, one that hits you in the chest like a familiar song. it’s a sound you haven’t heard in years, but it’s like it never left.

you turn, the crowd of people blurring out of focus, and there he is.

satoru.

he’s leaning against the fridge, talking to someone you don’t recognize, his hair a little longer, his shirt untucked, uncuffed. still so him, but also… different. his face is older, but still beautiful in that effortless way, the same white hair, the same sharp eyes that seem to know you even from across the room.

he sees you. he freezes. and for a second, it’s like time holds its breath.

“hey,” he says, voice soft, almost surprised. “you look…”

he doesn’t finish the sentence. but you hear it anyway. you look the same. you look different. i didn’t expect to see you here.

you smile like you’re not unraveling. like it doesn’t matter that your heart just skipped a beat. “it’s been a while.”

he hugs you then, warm and solid. it lasts a second too long. too much unsaid between you both, but it’s all there in the tension of his arms around you. the promise is still alive in the quiet air between your breaths. but neither of you mentions it.

he leaves before you do.

—

months later, it’s a late-night convenience store in tokyo. you’re tired, bleary-eyed, the kind of exhausted that comes from too many late shifts and not enough sleep. you’re reaching for instant noodles and a bottle of tea when you hear the shuffle of footsteps behind you. you don’t look, too focused on the shelves in front of you. but then you hear it—his voice, soft but unmistakable.

“you live around here now?” he asks, stunned.

you freeze for a moment. and then you turn.

there he is, standing in the aisle like he’s part of some strange dream. his hair is tied back messily, longer than before. he’s holding a bag of sour candies, blinking at you like he’s not sure if you’re real or if his tired eyes are just playing tricks on him.

“yeah,” you say, suddenly self-conscious. “just moved a couple months ago.”

“me too,” he says, a little sheepish. “just moved last week. tokyo’s a lot different from what i remembered.”

you laugh, and for a moment, it’s like you’re both seventeen again, standing in the hallway after class, talking about nothing. only now, it’s quieter. more knowing. there’s a little more space between you both, but you don’t feel it as much as you think you should. he’s still satoru, after all.

you talk for a few minutes, small things. the weather. work. how both of you somehow managed to end up in the same city again after all this time. his hair’s longer now, and so is yours. there’s something different about him, something worn into the lines of his face, but you’re still the same. you’re still the same. the realization hits you like a wave.

when you say goodbye, there’s a small flicker of something in his eyes. like he wants to say something else. something important. maybe you do too. but you don’t.

you both go your separate ways, the moment slipping away with every step, but neither of you forgets it. not really.

—

another year passes. you’re invited to a mutual friend’s engagement party. you don’t know it’s mutual until you arrive and see him standing on the balcony, glass of wine in hand. his back is to you, but you recognize the way his shoulders sit under the weight of the world, the way his posture softens when he’s trying to relax.

you hesitate. for a second, you think about leaving. about turning around and pretending you never saw him, never heard that familiar laugh or felt that same ache in your chest. but you stay. something inside you says that this is the time. that maybe, just maybe, the universe is ready for you to have the conversation you’ve been avoiding for years.

you walk over. he turns, and his eyes widen when he sees you.

“this is getting ridiculous,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “we keep showing up like we’re being summoned.”

you laugh, but it’s a little more nervous than you mean it to be. “maybe we are.”

you talk for fifteen minutes, small talk mostly. his girlfriend is waiting inside—he doesn’t say that, but you can tell. he’s polite, but distant this time. something in his eyes is different, more guarded than you remember. and it’s strange. it feels like a wall has gone up between you both, and you can’t figure out why. you want to ask, but you don’t. it’s not your place.

something tightens in your chest, a quiet jealousy you don’t want to feel but can’t help. so you excuse yourself early.

—

and then there’s the funeral.

someone you both knew in high school. someone you weren’t close to, but close enough to go. it’s raining—of course it is—and your coat is too thin for the chill. the crowd is subdued, the kind of heavy silence you only get at funerals. you stand off to the side, trying not to draw attention, but then you spot him across the crowd.

he’s standing alone under an umbrella, his jaw clenched. his eyes are cast downward, but when he looks up, he sees you. his gaze sharpens, like he’s unsure if you’re really there. but then he steps toward you, slow and hesitant.

you don’t speak much. just stand side by side beneath the gray sky, the rain soft on your faces, like a veil between everything that was and everything that could have been. you don’t know if it’s the weight of the moment or something else, but it feels like you’re both seventeen again, standing in that quiet space between friendship and something more.

afterward, when you’re on the train home, your phone buzzes. a contact name that hasn’t been on your phone for a while.

satoru: thirty’s not that far.

you stare at the screen for a long time, the words sinking into your chest like a stone. the promise that’s always been there, waiting for the right moment to be spoken. but now, in the quiet of your apartment, you don’t reply.

you think about it. about everything. about how he said it, softer than usual, quieter than you’re used to. you think about his eyes, the way they followed yours. the rain on his umbrella. the years that have passed.

you think about his voice, and you wonder if he remembers the exact words. you wonder if he ever stopped.

—

… you almost don’t go. again.

the invitation sits unopened on your counter for days before you cave, peeling it open with the tip of your key. you don’t recognize the name on the envelope immediately, but inside, there’s a handwritten card. a friend-of-a-friend, someone you once shared a table with at a dinner party, who remembered your smile. you had forgotten about them, honestly. but here they are, inviting you into their life, into their celebration. their quiet reminder that life moves on, and people keep finding their paths while you still seem to be standing still.

“it’ll be nice,” your coworker says when you mention it offhand. “dress up, eat fancy cake, forget your life for an evening.”

you smile. nod. pretend it’s not terrifying—the thought of being surrounded by people who’ve figured it out—who’ve found their person, their path, their place in the world. the thought of seeing them again—the ones who chose their someone. and you’re left holding only the pieces of a promise, one you had never quite stopped waiting on.

but you go anyway. because you said you would. because maybe, just maybe, it will be easier to let go of things you’re holding onto by showing up. by being there.

the venue is small and beautiful, tucked in a quiet corner of the city. ivy climbs up stone walls, winding their way to the second floor, the kind of building that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something important to happen. soft music spills out from the inside, cascading into the courtyard where the last rays of the day spill gold over everyone’s skin, turning them all into something fleeting, something perfect.

you wear a color you’ve always liked on yourself, something soft and simple, but still carefully chosen. it’s funny—how you’ve started choosing your clothes more for yourself than for anyone else. how you’ve learned to dress for the person you’ve grown into, not the one you thought you’d be. you smile as you check your reflection one last time. and then, you spot it—lipstick on your teeth. for the first ten minutes, you don’t know, and then someone kindly points it out, their laugh light and warm. you laugh too, grateful for the small kindness. you take a drink from a glass of champagne that’s almost too pretty to touch, as if it should be saved for something special, and for a second, you almost feel like you belong here.

you don’t know many people at the party. that’s fine. you’ve never been one to throw yourself into the middle of things. you’ve always been the one to drift at events like these, skimming the surface, smiling politely, offering a few words here and there, but keeping your hands folded in your lap when you sit, staying small, staying unnoticed.

you make it through the ceremony. the vows are sweet. you clap when you’re supposed to. you eat a few hors d’oeuvres, and when the music gets too loud and the voices start blending into a buzz, you slip away to the balcony. it’s quiet out here. the city hums beneath you, distant and untouchable. for a moment, you let yourself breathe.

and then you hear it—laughter. soft, familiar. close.

you turn, already knowing. already feeling the weight of it before you see him.

he’s standing a few steps away from the doorway, talking to someone you don’t recognize. sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie a little loose like he’s just been letting the night happen around him. his hair’s still white—shorter now, messier, and there’s something about the way the years have softened him in places you never thought could soften. his eyes still hold that distant glimmer, the one you always tried to make sense of. but now, there’s something more grounded in him—something that matches the tiredness you’ve started carrying around yourself.

he’s changed. and he hasn’t.

your chest tightens.

then, like some invisible thread has tugged at his spine, he turns.

his eyes land on you.

and the world tilts, just slightly.

he goes still.

you don’t move either.

something deep in your ribs aches with how long it’s been, with how many almosts have collected between you over the years. so many moments where he almost looked back, where you almost said something, where life almost collided and made sense. but it didn’t. not then. and maybe not now.

his expression shifts—surprise first, then something warmer. softer. something like disbelief, but there’s a flicker in his eyes, one that you can’t ignore. maybe it’s a memory. maybe it’s hope.

“hey,” he says, stepping closer. his voice is quieter than you remember, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “i didn’t know you were coming.”

you swallow, suddenly aware of how dry your throat is. “me either. i didn’t know we had mutual friends.”

he lets out a breath that sounds too much like a laugh. “of course we do. fate’s had a weird sense of humor since we were seventeen.”

you don’t say anything. you just look at him.

his eyes scan your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. he looks at you as though you’re someone he never quite expected to see again, and it feels like he’s seeing all of you, not just the parts he remembers. he’s still beautiful in that effortless way—how he’s always been—but now, there’s something real in it. something tired, something weighted, something that speaks of the years between. of all the things that have happened since.

you speak first. “you look good.”

he smiles slowly, his mouth curving up in that easy way that always made your heart trip. “so do you. better than good.”

you roll your eyes a little. “still laying it on thick, i see.”

“you used to like that,” he murmurs, and there’s something vulnerable in the way his voice dips, something nostalgic, almost like he wants to reach back through time and pull out the version of you that used to smile when he flirted. the version that used to think it meant something. “used to smile when i flirted.”

“used to,” you echo. but your voice is gentler than the words. there’s a quiet understanding between you now. something that was there before, buried beneath everything that has passed.

a beat passes.

and then he asks, almost cautiously, “are you still with anyone?”

you shake your head.

his eyes flicker, searching yours for something. for a sign. “me neither.”

your stomach flips.

there’s something there in his gaze—something that feels like an opening, like a crack where the past might slip back in. you both stand there, framed by the golden glow of the setting sun and the hum of music drifting in from the party. it feels like the air around you is waiting. like the universe has been holding its breath, waiting for this moment, just to see what you’ll do now. to see what the two of you will decide to do with all the time that has passed, with all the unspoken things between you.

“you remember,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “what we said, back then?”

you don’t pretend you don’t. you nod. “yeah. i remember.”

his hands slip into his pockets. he shifts a little, as though unsure of himself, and his eyes stay locked on yours. “at some point i started to think it was just a joke. something we said to make the world feel less uncertain.”

“me too,” you admit, the words soft and honest. “but it never stopped feeling real.”

he tilts his head, watching you, and you can feel the weight of everything hanging in the space between you. “i kept waiting,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost unsure. “not on purpose. not always. but every time something ended, every time i felt alone again, i’d think—maybe we’re still heading there. maybe we just haven’t caught up to the promise yet.”

your breath hitches. it feels like the air is too thick. too much. too many years folded up between you.

“and now we’re thirty,” he says, a small, stunned smile tugging at his lips. “and you’re here. and i’m here. and i don’t want to waste more time pretending like i don’t want this.”

you look at him. really look at him. and suddenly, all the years, all the almosts, all the moments where you left too early or he looked back too late, they don’t feel like failures anymore. they feel like steps—each one leading you toward this. this moment. this chance to finally make good on something that’s been waiting.

you take one step now.

closer.

his breath catches when your fingers brush his, like he’s not sure if this is real, if it’s happening. And then, when you don’t pull away, when you stay there, your fingers lacing together as though it’s always been that easy, something shifts. The years that kept you apart, the missed chances, the long silences—they start to fall away.

you lean in.

and when you kiss him, it’s not loud, not dramatic, not bursting with fireworks.

it’s quiet.

it’s soft.

it’s like coming home.

it’s like finally keeping a promise you never really stopped waiting on.

[envy-of-the-apple]

Pass it Forward

Dark!Sung Jin-woo x reader

Synopsis: You gain a new client. Even though you're sure you've never met him in your life, he feels familiar

note: commissioned by a very lovely anon. ty so so much for being patient!!!!!

Word Count: 5.4k

(Warnings: implied kidnapping, implied drugging, stalking, violence)

You never wanted to be a hunter. 

Fighting magic beasts, doing raids, getting caught in red gates was all too much for your liking. Even if you did have an awakening, you doubt you’d go get tested. Besides, you weren’t a fan of hunters to begin with. You found most egotistical, violent. The higher-ranking ones especially thought they were above the law and above social order. You weren’t a fan of hunters. 

It’s a shame that your job revolves around them. 

Dungeons have created multiple industries. You may never get to explore one, but admiring the multiple finds hunters bring in is more than enough for you. 

It’s nothing more than a glorified appraisal shop. Still, you enjoy your job, because you’re introduced to finds no one has ever seen before. The store is a little on the higher-end, so your customers are mostly B and low tier A-ranked hunters, each looking to see what their finds are worth. 

It’s a nice job, the pay is wonderful, and if you can look past working with hunters directly, it’s not all that bad. 

There’s a tap on your desk. You glance up. 

She gives you a grin. 

“We got five new swords.” 

“Five new swords?” you repeat, staring back at your desk. “Amazing.” 

She scoffs. 

“C’mon be more excited!” Your co-worker whines. “It’s four more than my last haul.” 

“I am.” You assure, “Honestly! What grade were they?” 

“Bronze, mostly.” She deflates. “But they were all from a B-rank dungeon.” 

“A B rank dungeon.” You repeat. She frowns. You send her an apologetic smile. 

“Ignore my tone. I’m just exhausted. That’s amazing.” 

“Don’t bother, no one gets impressed when they have your numbers.” She sighs before immediately perking up. “Before I forget: your special customer’s waiting for you.” 

You roll your eyes, but you’re getting up from your seat. 

“Stop making it sound dirty.” 

“I’m not!” She argues, but there’s a grin on her face that follows you as you step out of the room and into the gallery. 

The gallery is breathtaking, as always. Most of the displays are the ones you set up. You can’t help but admire them as you pass through rows of gauntlets and knives and crystals. It’s your work and your pride. 

He’s in the same spot as always. You spot his blue hoodie a mile away, face always covered by a mask. The routine is the same as last time. You press a smile onto your face, stopping right behind the glass case. 

“Hello.” You say politely. “How are you doing?” 

As always, there’s no response. Instead, he’s placing a tiny sack onto the glass. Usually, he’s hauling around bigger items. His dungeon raid must not have gone too well this time. 

You peek into the sack. 

Two purple essence stones stare back at you. 

It’s only customary to bring out the loupe, to check the weight, the density. You already know these are S-rank essence stones. You’ve only admired these from behind the glass, but to actually touch and inspect one? It’s almost too much. 

“Okay,” you breathe, placing down the last crystal. “Each one is about 2.5 million won. Would 5.5 million be enough to part with these?” 

Unlike the other hunters, he doesn’t negotiate or groan or boast. He gives a tiny nod, so subtle you had to actively look at his face. 

Not like you could considering it’s buried in that mask. One of your most tolerable customers, and yet you barely even see his face. The only thing you can see of him are those eyes. It’s a familiar kind of blue. His eyes remind you of a hunter you once knew. 

“Great.” You pull away with a smile. “Please wait for me to get my manager.” 

It’s only ten minutes later when your manager is cheerfully sending the hunter away, still clutching the stones in his hands. 

“Everytime,” he sighs, and you watch the hunter’s disappearing back. “I don’t know how you do it, but keep it up.” He pats your shoulder. 

You smile, but you don’t know why this hunter keeps visiting this store, especially when he has such high-end items. You don’t know why he insists on working with you and only you. You don’t know why he hides his face, barely even looking at you. 

He’s an odd one, but which hunter isn’t?

On your off days, you visit the outdoor mall that’s just outside of the city. 

It’s a cute place. During hot summer days, they have free snow cones and ice cream, sales are almost always plentiful. You can spend hours milling around, walking from shop to shop, only to end up with nothing. 

You don’t mind it. It’s fun to waste your time on nothing. You let your mind wander from shop to shop, stopping to pick up trinkets and Knick-knacks, only to place them down when they’re far too expensive. 

One booth catches your eye. A lady with a practiced customer-service smile sits right behind it. 

Awakened? Take the free hunter’s exam to find out!

They’ve even taken malls now, hm? 

Hunter’s have completely overtaken culture. They’re everywhere: in media, podcasts, celebrities, actors, singers. Even D-list hunters are famous. They are completely untouchable by both the law and the public. 

When will people finally realize that’s a bad thing? 

There’s a scream. 

You barely turn around before you see the truck. It’s wobbly, unbalanced. The driver had clearly lost control, he’s wildly honking in his panic, you can see his pale and horrified face, barely obscured by the dirty glass. 

The truck is headed straight towards you. 

You try to move. You can’t. You’re frozen. Your feet have planted themselves on the ground, too stubborn to run. Fight or flight, most ask. What would you do? 

The answer is clear, now. Freeze. 

You blink, and suddenly, you’re not on the road anymore. The sounds of panic feel more distant. 

You moved?  Teleported? 

There’s a hand on your back, steadying you. You catch a glimpse of a blue hoodie. 

He’s not wearing his mask this time. 

“Youー” You barely have time to think before he’s gone, jumping back into the fray. You’re left on the side of the building, watching as everyone else picks themselves up. 

When you look down, your bag has fallen. 

You never even got a chance to thank him. 

Usually, the appraisal shop closes along with the usual work hours. Today, your boss had closed a big deal with a favored investor, and as a ‘valued’ employee, you had to stay behind. 

By the time you were freed to go home, it was already dark. 

You clutch your jacket closer towards your body, but it does nothing to stop your shivers. You can still remember the way that A-rank hunter looked at you. He never did anything. Never touched you, barely even spoke to you. 

He just stared with those beady black eyes. When you met his gaze for too long, his mouth would spread into this sick smile that made you want to slink behind your oblivious boss. 

It was horrible, you were just glad you got out when you could. 

All hunters were egotistical assholes. 

…Okay, you were being mean. Not all of them were horrible. You know a couple of C-rank healers who were the sweetest pair of girls you’ve ever met. There was also that D-rank kid who just started out and was already filled with so much motivation and charisma. 

That one nameless hunter wasn’t all that bad. 

You almost miss your step, narrowly avoiding stepping into a giant puddle as you think about that nameless hunter with the blue hoodie and the white mask. Blue eyes. You remember he had blue eyes. 

Almost silver. 

Pretty. 

He never once gloated over his rank, now that you thought about it, you didn’t even know his rank. It had to be high. B maybe even A? He looked strong, the kind that carried his strength with his silence. 

Also, he’d saved you. You can still remember the pulsing in your heart as the vehicle slowly careened it’s way to you, showing no signs of stopping, and you just stood there, stupid, idiotic, frozen. You’d be badly injured, or worse, if he hadn’t saved you. 

Not all hunters are bad. 

At least, he wasn’t bad. 

Just then, it started drizzling. 

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, feeling the droplets hit your head, as you clumsily pulled over your jacket’s hood. You know there’d be a slight chance of rain today, yet you hadn’t brought an umbrella. You assumed that you’d be home before the storm. 

You fiddle with your jacket a little more, unaware that you were the only person on the street. Usually, you’d be more aware of your surroundings, not so distant, thoughtful. 

You don’t notice him until he grabs your arm. 

You open your mouth, intent on screaming, but he’s faster, shirking a hand across your mouth to hush you into a pitiful whimper. You kick. It does nothing. He’s so much larger than you, pushing you forward until you’re trapped between him and the wall. 

Panic, you can feel it clawing up your throat, into your chest. You can feel his hot breath into your ear, a rasp of a laugh. 

“Shut up,” he snaps, impatient, angered and you can feel your heart sink even faster. “Wallet. Now.” 

He loosens his grip on your arm, just a bit. When you flinch, he squeezes down even tighter. You wince. 

“No funny business.” He demands. “Just reach into your pocket, nice n’ easy and—“ 

He releases his grip. Silent. 

You stay there, facing the wall, eyes shut and shaking for what feels like hours. 

Nothing happens. 

Slowly, you blink your eyes open. You look to the left, then to the right. 

The entire street is empty. 

You don’t think. You don’t care what happened. You don’t care that it might be a trap. You just run. You race down the street, past the flickering lamps, running up your apartment stairwell. You don’t stop until you reach your apartment, shoving your keys into the slot and slamming the door closed. 

When you’re sure you’re alone, when the only company you have is your rapid heartbeat, you sink down into your carpet and finally let yourself have a sob of relief. 

Hours later, when you’re calmer, showered, warmer, tucked into your blankets and a good book, you’d think back to that incident as well as your assailants strange disappearance. Everything about that interaction was so odd. 

Also, this may just be because of the panic, but you could have sworn your shadows were longer in the flickering lamplights. 

You only see him again a month after the vehicle incident. 

Your customer is in the same spot as always, right in the corner, always silently waiting for you to acknowledge him. He’s dressed differently this time. Instead of that iconic blue hoodie, he’s switched to a long black cloak. The only thing that remains of him was that stubborn mask that always kept him anonymous. 

Before you can say anything, he’s already dropping his latest findings onto the table. The sack makes you recalibrate. Buffer. 

You forget your words, silently reaching forward, aware of his eyes watching you the entire while. 

You take the chance, just then, meeting his gaze. Silver clashes onto yours. They remind of you a weapon, a sword, a dagger. Dangerous. 

You look back down again, staring at the treasure he brought you. 

This time, he’d brought weapons and mana crystals. A ton of mana crystals. You immediately total it in your head, the numbers getting higher and higher. After putting the crystals in their designated piles, you start on the weapons. The smallest of the weapons is a tiny blade. It’s featherlight, you can barely feel it. 

“Careful. It’s sharp.” 

He’s never spoken before. You jump at his voice. Deep, quiet. It suits him. 

You offer a tiny smile; it flutters on your mouth. 

“I will.” You give. 

You place it aside, tallying the total before reaching for the second smallest. An arrowhead with a tinted yellow metal. You balance it on your fingers, watching as a tiny drop of liquid balances along the arrow’s edge—poison. That would easily up the price for this. 

“Thank you, by the way.” You start, still not looking at him. “For saving me, that day.” 

As predicted, he’s silent, still as a statue. It’s more of a quirk than a flaw at this point. Out the corner of your eye, you swore you saw him stiffen, just the tiniest bit so you know he heard you. 

Eventually, you finish tallying up the worth of each item, handing him the total. He examines the price, and when he deems it acceptable, he gives a slight nod. You pack away the mana crystals and the weapons, promising yourself you’d put the weapons in that open part of the gallery you’d always wanted to fill. You doubt your boss would mind you taking the space—especially since you’ve snagged such rare items. 

You wait for him to accept the money and walk off. He reaches over the table, fingers itching to grab the packet. 

Then, he hesitates. 

“You get into a lot of trouble.” He suddenly says. 

It’s not an invitation for conversation. It’s a fact. The sun is yellow. The trees are green. Your eyes drift up to meet his. 

That same familiar blue. 

You think he’s talking about the day he saved you on the street, but somehow, you feel like he knows about the mugger incident. How? Was he there? Was he watching you— 

He takes the packet, slipping it into his cloak and turns away. You watch him until the doors shut behind him. 

You’re blinking, and then you’re laughing. No way, you’re overthinking this way too much. Of course he didn’t know. He was just worried, like any normal person would. You needed to stop seeing the worst in people. 

You ignore your shadows, the way they jumped when he was near. It was almost like they wanted to follow him out the door. 

Once again, your boss asked you to work in the back. 

You don’t mind the job, with rent reaching sky high prices, you know you needed it. You just wished he’d give you more of a heads up when he told you about the amount of work you’d have to do. You highly doubt you’d be able to organize all the dungeon artifacts in a few hours. 

At least, he was nice enough to give you a helper. 

“What is this?” Your co-worker asks. She’s one of the newer ones, hired just last month, so she’s less of a competent independent worker bee and more of a baby you have to keep your eyes on. It didn’t really matter if she wasn’t the brightest crayon in the box, you needed extra hands. 

You look up, spotting her messing with a grade-A trinket. 

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.” You say, glancing back down to your own pile. “The last person who did disappeared.” 

“What?” She drops it back in the pile, her voice is pitchy. 

Your mouth curls into a smile. 

“Kidding kidding.” You tell her. “But, seriously, grab the gloves over there before you start handling things. Most times, the hunters take care of runes and poisons, but they might miss something every one in a while.” 

She nods, the color returning to her face, before strapping on the gloves. Again, not the brightest crayon, but at least she’s a good listener. You can work with that. 

Above you two, the TV is running. Typically, you’d like to work in silence, maybe a podcast running if your boss allows it. However, the newbie insisted on playing the news, claiming there’s a new S-rank hunter that’s being revealed tonight. You heard about that. Although you were also curious, you felt it was a bit too soon for yet another S-rank to be announced. Wasn’t the last one unveiled just under a year ago? 

“I’m excited!” She pipes up with little prompting. “It’d be nice to see people excited for once, instead of upset of all the gates forming. At the same time, they are kinda’ getting to be a hassle. One popped up on my way from work, two weeks ago. It took me three hours to get home and I live thirty minutes away. Oh, and this other time, my boyfriend got stuck in a subway because a gate had formed right on the tracks. Can you believe that? Honestly, I—“ You hum along, half-listening to her ramblings as you find your eyes drifting to the screen. 

It was one of those old-fashioned TVs, the ones that were getting more and more outdated with every passing year. The images were grainy, a bit hard to focus on until you squinted your eyes a bit. 

Movement caught your eye. The camera was pointing right at the entrance of the Hunter’s Guild. The speakers were quieter than you’d liked, but you could hear the excited murmurings as the reporters talked to themselves of the newest S-rank hunter being revealed. 

Even your colleague had quieted down, just in time to watch as the doors swung open. 

You recognized him immediately.

For the first time, he wasn’t wearing that mask. His eyes were staring straight at the camera, his hands were up, his mouth was open. He was surprised. It was the first time you’d ever seen emotion on his face. 

It’s a little funny: Remembering that a human being is human. 

Cameras and lights flashed at him. He winced, backing away as people shouted ‘Sung Jin-woo!’ ‘Sung Jin-woo over here!’ ‘Sung Jin-woo have you already chosen a guild yet?’ ‘Sung Jin-woo are you—‘ 

“He looks like a model!” Your colleague gasped. “Was he in a movie or something? He seems a little familiar.” 

You shrug, turning back to your work. Strangely, you weren’t too surprised that he was the S-rank everyone was frothing over the mouth for. He’d always struck you as odd, out of place, otherworldly. 

Now, that you thought about it, you felt like you’ve heard his name before.  

After his reveal, he doesn’t show up at your shop anymore. 

He doesn’t need to. S-ranks have their own private tradesmen that give them better deals and ever greater packages. Those days of silently looking over the artifacts and essence stones he suspiciously hauls over your desk were long gone. 

He’s famous now. Everyone knows Sung Jin-woo, the 10th Korean S-rank hunter. You don’t tell anyone he used to come to the shop, looking to sell his items. Firstly, you don’t think anyone would believe you. Secondly, it felt like your way of repaying him; he seemed like a pretty secretive guy. 

Thirdly, it was like a secret for you: personally catering to an S-rank hunter was an honour. Despite how badly you think of hunters, the sheer magnitude of what an S-rank hunter is, is enough to even bowel you over. 

Despite having not seeing him for months, you still see his existence all over your screen. The ant raid, the numerous dangerous gates popping up left and right, red gates, double dungeons. He’s been everywhere, doing everything. 

He’s there, but he’s far away. Always in the back of your mind. A distant memory. You forget to pay attention to him, and eventually, he disappears. 

Hunters are a weird group of people. 

The D ranks are the most tolerable. They’re the most humble, down to Earth. They treat it like a job: just go in and out. C ranks are a little full of themselves, but they mostly leave people alone. High and mighty, think they’re on top of the world. B ranks are the same, but most have the skills to back it up. 

Anyone higher than that…those are typically the problems. 

“What’doya’ mean it’s only worth 150 million?” The hunter demands. 

A-rank. You can tell from the quality of his armour. Also, from his demeanor, the way he eyes you like a pest. The way he knows that if he crushes you right now, he’d get away with it. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” You say as softly as you can, “but I’m just repeating store policy. These essence stones are–” 

“Bullshit.” He hisses, the gaps of his teeth clench into nothing. “I worked my ass off for this haul, and all I get for it is 150 million? What, so you can just gimme a shitty deal and I’m supposed just to accept it, Bitch?” 

You knew nothing you would do would calm him down. Hunters are volatile creatures. They spend their days in caves, holed away from the rest of the world, fighting monsters beyond humane comprehension, and when they come home, society is expected to treat them like humans? 

What kind of humans would willingly do that kind of work? 

No, they were monsters. Just like the monsters they shred apart for jewels and crystals. 

You don’t negotiate with animals. 

It’s why you know there’s nothing you can do to prevent this from growing violent. Just by his look, you could tell he wasn’t even mad at you specifically. He was just walking around, waiting for someone to give him the tiniest reason. 

And then, you fell into his trap. 

Your manager was nowhere to be found. Your co-workers were all in the back, cowering from the yelling you know they can hear. No one is going to save you. You can’t even blame them. You’d do the same thing if you could. 

He raises his fist, ready to strike. You can see his power, fire sparks in his fingers. 

And then, something blue barrels into him. 

It’s a flash, you barely catch it before it zips from behind you and launches at the man. He and the thing are both sent crashing into the back, smashing into the display sets. 

It’s a bear. But it’s larger, almost looks like a hologram, even though you know it’s real. It’s pinning the man to the ground with force. You could feel it as it flew past you. 

The bear roars. It’s loud enough that it rings your ears. You cover your ears, keeping your eyes open as you watch the man kick the bear off of him, scrambling to his feet. 

“What the fuck!” He yells, staring at you with a deadly glare. “Are–are you some kinda’ summoner? Who the fuck are you?” 

This wasn’t your doing, though. You couldn’t summon. You weren’t a hunter. When you look around, the shop is empty. By then, everyone had fled. There was no one close enough that was controlling this creature. 

Which meant, whoever did that had the power to control beings far away….what kind of power was that? 

“Who cares.” He spits in your direction. It lands by your feet. “It’s just a B-rank. I’m gonna rip your precious pet apart. And then, I’m comin’ after you.” 

It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. You had to go. Earlier, this man just wanted to scare you a little. Now, it’s clear he wants to kill you. 

Your legs scramble across the floor. Your heart is thudding loudly in your chest, and you can barely hear the sounds from the fight. There’s more growling, there’s a spark of pain in your leg. You feel hands, the ghost of fingers trailing over your jacket, your clothes, about to pull you back into the fray. 

And then, everything’s gone. 

The silence happens all too quickly. You don’t realize it until you’re pushing past the glass doors when you slip and cling onto the railing. You expect to feel scorching heat from the A-rank’s hands–the unbelievable power from a man who foolishly thinks he is God.

Instead, you feel nothing but a freezing, calming chill. 

The shop is in total disarray. Dungeon loot worth thousands and thousands were scattered around like measly trinkets. The only things that were kept safe were the precious armor, each cemented into glass by a powerful rune. The bear was gone, the A-rank was unmoving on the ground, face-first into cracked cement. 

Like a Monarch of destruction, he looms right in the center of it. 

He’s turned away from you, but you know it’s him. You can recognize his features even from miles away. Sung Jin-woo is leaning over the body, once a monolith of destruction, now just as mortal as you are, inspecting it. You don’t have to see what happened to put the pieces together.

Slowly, things start to come back to life. The police are there in just a few moments. You can see the blue and red sirens flicker from the windows. A paramedic checks up on you a little while later, and you understand why you tripped. Sometime, during the scuffle, something had cut your knee. The pain didn’t set in until after the moment faded, when your breathing was starting to calm down, when you started to feel like a person again. 

The paramedics tell you it’s a minor scratch, looks worse than it actually is. You try to pay attention to them, but you can. Words filter in and out like muck. Your eyes drift, trailing over to the cops and the other paramedics that were checking on the A-rank hunter. He’d only passed out, he wasn’t dead. 

Sung Jin-woo is gone, by the time the police take your statement and release you. You shouldn’t be surprised. He’s a man of few words, you’ve known that of him for months now. Still, your mind lingers on the man who saved your life for the second time, even after the police take your statement, even after you’re manager tells you that the shop will be closed until further notice, even after your remaining colleagues fret over you. 

You’re still thinking of him, even when you step out of your co-workers car, thanking her for the ride home as you hobble up the stairs to your apartment. 

It takes you a moment to realize he’s in your living room, lingering next to the bookshelf. 

You don’t scream, even when your heart is pounding in your chest. The door shuts and clicks behind you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge your presence. 

“Do you have a favorite genre?” Sung Jin-woo asks. 

You stop, torn between thanking him and asking how the hell he’d even gotten in. His nonchalance keeps you from doing either. 

“Yes.” You respond. You don’t say what your favorite genre is. He doesn’t pry any further. 

He sets the book down, carefully tucking it back into its original place. 

“Why are you here?” Your voice wavers, even when you’re not sure why. All logic points to that he’s harmless. You’ve known him for months. You’ve spoken to him. He’s saved your life multiple times. He’s a well-known hero. 

And yet, that strange feeling of offness comes back. Your shadow is reacting to him, jumping every time he moves. 

“How did you get in?” You try instead. Just like last time, there’s no answer. 

Sung Jin-woo finally looks up at you. You expect to see that familiar shade of blue. 

His eyes are different. 

Blue and silver and so cold. 

Like all the light is gone, snuffed from his being.

“You should sit,” he tells you, soft voice, impassive tone, “you’ve been through so much today, you shouldn’t stress yourself.” 

You can’t do anything but listen. Odd, this is your home, but he occupies the space as though he owns it. When you take your seat, sinking in the cushions, he doesn’t follow suit, preferring to stand over you. You can’t tell if it was to provide comfort or to intimidate you further. 

It’s barely a touch. One of his fingers lightly grazes your injured knee. Before you can flinch or even scream, gentle green light emits from your bandages. The aching and soreness fades. When the light is gone, you hesitantly lift the bandages up. Your skin is untouched, unscarred, not even a blemish. As though you’d never gotten hurt in the first place. 

“How–how did you–” Your voice is dry and scratchy. You look up at him, mute, filled with questions but no clear answer. 

There’s a twitch of a smile on his face. 

“You don’t remember me, do you?” He asks suddenly. No presumptive buildup. Everything with him is cut and dry. To the point. 

It’s why you can’t keep up with him. 

“What?” 

“It’s okay, if you don’t.” He tells you, ignoring your questions, moving on as always. “I was a little disappointed when you didn’t recognize me, but I’ve changed a lot since that day. I understand that now.” 

This was the most he’d ever talked, but you can’t pay attention to that feat. You’re still lagging behind him, trying to understand what he’s trying to say. 

“It’s also my fault.” He admits, the ghost of a smile growing a bit the more he talks. “I never formally reintroduced myself. Whenever I tried to, I always found myself backing out. I just wished I’d kept better care of that dagger you gave me. That way I could’ve given it back.” 

Dagger? It sounded familiar. You rack your brain over and over again, turning over every corner, every nook, every cranny until–

How did you not see it sooner?

“You.” Your words feel like sand, sticking in your throat. “You were that E-rank…” 

His smile widens ever so slightly as an answer. 

It was years ago, back when you were still so enamored with the idea of hunters being good-standing Samaritans. You were standing right next to the road, like most other pedestrians, waiting for the light to turn red. 

He was standing there too. You noticed him because of the bandages, one on his face, the other wrapped around his arm. His hair was hiding most of his face, you couldn’t see his features. 

You also noticed him because he was standing way too close to the road. 

It snapped him out of whatever fog he was in. He apologized profusely for disrupting you. You had laughed it off, thinking nothing of it. 

It was easy to figure out he was a hunter, it was even easier to figure out he was a weak hunter. You saw the bandages stretching over his face and hands and skin. The slight limp in his step. You remember there was a raid near the area earlier. 

Sometimes, your employer allowed you to bring some trinkets home. Loot that’s barely worth paper. That night, you’d snagged a dagger. Lower than e-rank, honestly. Probably would’ve only lasted a few more hits. Nothing more than a rusty kitchen knife. You were just planning on framing it. It’d be useless in your hands. Honestly, the more you looked at it, the more of an eyesore it became. 

It was thoughtless. Nothing, on your part. But the way his eyes widened when you handed it to him. He clutched it like it was the most precious thing to him. 

‘Thank you. Thank you so much. How—how can I ever repay you?’

 You remember the words, they were forever etched in your brain. 

“Do you remember what you said to me that day?” He asks, now in the present.

You blink, and you’re sitting back down on that couch, looking at the ghost of your past. Someone you didn’t even know was still alive. 

“I—“ your voice fails “I-just.” 

“You told me to pass it forward.” Sung Jin-woo finishes. “You told me to help someone who needed it next time. I just don’t think you realize that person was you.” 

Too much was going on. Your brain couldn’t keep up. However, you just knew this conversation was headed to a place you didn’t want it to. 

“I’ve kept tabs on you.” A confession, but there’s no guilt. “You keep getting into trouble, again and again. I’ve saved you countless times and I’m afraid that one day…” He trails off. 

He’s shaking his head. “No, no, I won’t let that happen. Not again.” 

You stand. You don’t think you should be below someone who’s looking at you like that. Like you’re: small, tiny, insignificant. 

But if you were in his shoes, you’d probably think the same. 

You can feel it in the air, now. Heavy, close to crushing you to dust. You’ve never once been face-to-face with an S-class hunter, until now. You finally understand why they were so heralded in society. 

Power, unrelenting power. 

And when you look into his cold, dead eyes, it’s all focused on you. 

You don’t understand. But you do. Enough. 

“I’m sorry.” He tells you, but it doesn’t sound sincere, not when it’s watered down by that look in his eyes. 

“But you need to be protected.” 

Something materializes in his hand. A glass bottle filled with something red. 

Your vision blurs, before blacking out completely. 

“I can do that.” 

[alinathinkstoomuch]

DENIM DAY

pairing: aaron hotchner x fake!fiancee!reader summary: its denim day at work and you opt for the shortest miniskirt you own, but not before snapping a pic and sending it to your boyfriend who is not a happy bunny. warnings | an: suggestive, lots of teasing, allusions to a footjob LOL, hotch puts on tights for reader, hotch is whipped we all say in unison, yall this was going to go in a complete smutfest direction but i decided to behave... for now, established relationship word count: 2.3k

✧ masterlist

Hotch should’ve been relieved to not be out on a field case. To know that he’d be getting out of the office at a decent time, that there wouldn’t be extra forms or reports that needed to be completed because he was behind his desk all day. It should’ve been a pleasant reprieve – except that it wasn’t. Not in the slightest.

Not since he stupidly opened the picture you sent him.

Apparently, it was Denim Day at your office, and instead of opting for a pair of jeans like any reasonable person might, you’d decided on a skirt – if he could even call it that. He wasn’t sure there was enough fabric to qualify.

He wished, with everything in him, that your workplace had a strict dress code. But even if it did, it wouldn’t apply to you. You were in charge, after all. Hell, Denim Day was probably your idea.

And he vaguely remembered you mentioning shoots scheduled all week, which meant people. Lots of them. Models, makeup artists, photographers – all of them walking around while you were dressed in that ridiculously short skirt. All of them seeing what he was still trying to unsee.

He managed to make it through the rest of the morning with some semblance of focus, though his attention span had taken a noticeable hit. He read the same report three times, signed a form he wasn’t supposed to, and snapped at Anderson for no real reason – though in his defence, Anderson had knocked over his coffee.

By the time noon rolled around, his jaw was tight, his tie felt too constricting, and he’d definitely spent more time than necessary staring at the clock. He was just about to stand when Rossi strolled into his office, holding a printed menu like he was offering a peace treaty.

“We’re ordering from that little Italian place you like. You want your usual?”

Hotch shook his head, already reaching for his coat. “No, actually. I’m stepping out for lunch.”

Rossi’s brows lifted. “Stepping out? You?”

“Yes, Rossi. I do occasionally eat outside the building.”

“Of course you do,” Rossi said, clearly humouring him. Then came the smirk – that smirk. “Seeing your fiancée?”

Hotch exhaled slowly, fingers pausing on the lapel of his jacket. “She’s not my fiancée.”

“Eh. Technicalities.”

Hotch didn’t respond, mostly because the longer he stood there, the more obvious it became that yes – he was going to see you. That the whole morning had been a slow, agonising burn of frustration and that if he didn’t get in his car and head to your office soon, he might actually lose his mind.

By the time he slid behind the wheel of his SUV, Hotch had managed to convince himself – for exactly three blocks – that this wasn’t a bad idea. He told himself he was just going to check in, maybe have a quick lunch. A normal, professional, not-at-all unhinged visit to the woman who had sent him a photo in a skirt that had no business being worn in public.

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

This was ridiculous.

You’d done this on purpose. He knew it. You’d chosen that skirt knowing exactly what it would do to him, knowing how tightly wound he was, how much of your games he could barely tolerate when you were in sweatpants, let alone when you looked like that.

He tried to talk himself down, told himself that he should just turn around and go back to the office. Eat the damn Italian food. But as he pulled into the parking lot outside your building, he was already unbuckling his seatbelt.

And getting out of the car anyway.

The one small mercy was that your office was on the ground floor – no need for stairs. Not that anyone needed to take the stairs, not with perfectly functioning elevators in the building. But of course, you were the exception.

He’d learned the hard way that you sometimes insisted on taking the stairs “to get your steps in.” You’d even lectured him about it once, accusing him of being “alarmingly sedentary for someone who tackles serial killers for a living.”

He really, really hoped today wasn’t one of those days.

The front doors slid open as he stepped inside, the cool blast of air conditioning doing nothing to steady him. The office was its usual burst chaos. Racks of clothing being wheeled around, someone shouting about a missing pair of heels and a latte order gone wrong, but all of it blurred in the background as he spotted Bella at her desk near the entrance.

She looked up from her laptop, blinked once, and then grinned. “Agent Hotchner, didn’t expect to see you here today.”

He nodded, keeping his expression neutral. “Is she in?”

Bella didn’t answer right away. She tilted her head slightly, as if weighing how much trouble she wanted to cause. “She’s in her office,” she revealed, casually reaching for her phone. “Door’s closed, but I’m sure she’ll make an exception for you.”

Hotch ignored the insinuation. Or tried to. “Thanks.”

He started down the hallway, taking long strides to your door. When he reached the frosted matte glass, he could make out the faint outline of your silhouette behind it.

He raised a hand and knocked twice.

 “Come in,” you called out.

So he did just that.

And did he get there just in time.

You were bent over your desk, heels planted, back arched slightly as you read whatever was in front of you. At the sound of the door slamming shut behind him, you straightened immediately, nearly jumping out of your heels.

“Aaron!” you gasped, hand flying to your chest as you turned around. “You scared me.”

“Good.”

You circled behind your desk, all faux professionalism. “Did we have something in the calendar? Did I forget lunch?”

“You forgot pants.”

You laughed, pulling the measuring tape from around your neck and tossing it aside. “I’ll have you know I’m absolutely wearing pants. Under this one-of-a-kind denim skirt, thank you very much.”

He didn’t respond, just stared.

“Is that why you came all the way over here? To conduct a pants investigation? I’ll let you guess the colour if you’re so curious.”

“They’re red. And I got a full view of them the moment I walked in.”

You grinned, entirely unbothered, grabbing a stack of images from your desk before striding over to the whiteboard. “And?” you tossed over your shoulder. “Do you like them?”

He liked not seeing them anywhere but your apartment. Or his.

“You’re very quiet today, Hotch Hotchner. Something on your mind?” You pinned one photo up, then glanced back at him. “Have you had enough water?” you added sweetly. “And no – coffee doesn’t count.”

You pinned another image to the board, like you hadn’t just called him Hotch Hotchner and asked about his hydration levels while wearing a skirt that should not be allowed in a professional setting.

“Water,” he echoed finally. “That’s what we’re talking about now?”

“Well, we could talk about the real reason you’re here… if you’d prefer.”

His eyes moved down to your skirt and then back you to your face – your smug face because you knew exactly what you were doing. “I came here to see if you’d like to grab lunch.”

You turned back to the board, smoothing an image with a soft gradient of colours. "Lunch," you repeated thoughtfully. "Hmm. That sounds suspiciously wholesome for someone who's been undressing me with his eyes for the last five minutes."

Hotch sighed through his nose. "It's just lunch."

You glanced over your shoulder, eyes sparkling. "Right. Just lunch. And what if I said yes?"

"Then we go," he said, folding his arms. "I open the door for you. You roll your eyes at me. You make fun of my order. We eat."

"And then?"

“And then I bring you back here.”

You turned around slowly, lips quirking. "All very gentlemanly of you, Agent Hotchner.” You let a breath out, dramatic as ever. “Alright, I’ll bite. You can take me to lunch as long as I'm back before two. I have a very important meeting with Milan."

His eyes tracked you as you moved to a drawer on the far side of the room.

And bent over - again.

His jaw tightened, his hands slipping into his pockets, like that would somehow stop his mind from going straight to hell. You were still talking, something about calendar holds and fabric samples, but he couldn't hear a single word. 

Because that skirt? It should be classified as a weapon. 

Then you turned, holding out a small bundle of black fabric like it was nothing. "Could you give me a hand?"

He eyed it warily, already suspicious. Tights.

Of course it was tights.

Still, he took them without hesitation, because you could've handed him a live grenade with that expression, and he would've thanked you for it.

"My hands are super dry and the fabric always snags when I put them on. Honestly, it's a sensory nightmare. Could you do the honours?"

"Your hands are super dry?" he repeated, just as you reached for his jacket and started tugging him towards you, walking backwards until you perched on the edge of your desk, like it was the most reasonable place in the world to stage a wardrobe adjustment.

"Yes, it's gross, really. Skin's peeling off and everything. I'd usually slather them in hand cream, but l've been touching samples all day and I don't want to leave greasy fingerprints all over couture, so now I'm suffering."

That sounded almost half logical. Right up until you kicked off your heels, lifted one leg, and rested your foot just shy of his crotch. He tensed just as you pressed your heel the slightest bit closer. “Pretty please? You know I have delicate hands.”

He should've walked away. Should've told you to put them on yourself. Hell, he could've offered to go grab lunch and save you the trouble entirely. But what did he do instead? He lifted the tights – the ones made of delicately-thin fabric that somehow felt heavier than his gun – and began to bunch them up in his hands.

His eyes dropped to your legs, still resting against him like an invitation. All he had to do was take your ankle, lift it just a little higher, and he'd have a full view of the red lace panties he already couldn't stop thinking about.

If Rossi ever found out what he’d gotten himself into the one time he decided to step out for lunch, Hotch would never hear the end of it.

Before you could get him off with nothing but the arch of your foot, he forced himself to move, sliding the tights up your leg. “This is absurd.”

“You’re doing great,” you encouraged delightfully. “Though, should I be worried that you’re good at this?”

He didn’t look up. “Good at what?”

“Doing what you’re told.”

He could’ve argued, told you you’re wrong, but his mother raised him to be an honest man. You said things – ridiculous, flirty, completely inappropriate things – and he listened. You smiled at him, and suddenly, everything seemed negotiable. Boundaries, logic, professionalism, the whole lot of it.

Because it was you.

Because you could ask him to kneel in a room full of fire and he'd probably say yes, ma'am on the way down.

“I’m banning you from sending me photos while I’m at work,” he muttered, fingers dragging the fabric slowly up your calf.

“Oh yeah?”

His grip tightened a fraction. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to make a point. “You think I’m kidding?”

“I think,” you said, drawing the word out like it was your favourite accessory, right alongside lip-gloss and claw clips. “I should’ve sent you the one I took of me from behind.”

He froze. Just for a second. Then his hands moved again, dragging the tights up your thigh, and even he was a little surprised he hadn't torn them yet. You were smiling again, clearly enjoying your second-nature ability to make him weak in his fragile knees.

He shouldn't be taking you to lunch.

He wanted to – wanted to open the door for you, order your favourite, sit across the table while you made snide, flirty remarks and shamelessly stole the croutons off his salad like they were yours by right.

But the other part of him, the one you were clearly trying to provoke, had no interest in lunch at all. That side wanted to take you home and teach you a filthy, thorough lesson that had nothing to do with menus or linen napkins...and everything to do with that damn attitude that skirt had given you.

But you were at work. He was due back at work soon. And he figured there was no better way to get back at you – to beat you at your own game – than to make you wait. Make you squirm. Make you regret every single syllable that had left your pretty mouth since he walked in and caught you bent over, ass on display like it wasn't completely deliberate. Like he hadn't seen the phone in your hand. Like he hadn't noticed Bella reach for hers just before he walked in.

Because if you thought you were good at teasing, you had no idea what it looked like when he decided to play.

So, instead of acting on the thousand things running through his head, he let his touch soften, fingers smoothing out the tights and moving on to the other leg like his thoughts weren't indecent and laser-focused on exactly what he planned to do the second he had you alone.

He stepped back once he was finished. "I'll be at the front when you're ready.”

You blinked, lips parted like you were waiting for him to do anything but walk away.

And that was the best part. He didn't even look back as he adjusted his tie and headed for the door, fully aware of the way your eyes followed him.

Now?

You were the one with your composure slipping. 

And when he decided you'd waited long enough... he was going to make sure you remembered every second of it.

tags - @fandomscombine @dohmeti @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords

nanny!reader with a choking kink coming up next to an alina-blog near you!🌟

[mylordshesacactus]

Okay, I didn't want to clog up the notes of someone else's post with something tonally different because that's rude, but. I Need to elaborate some more about no-kill vs open-intake shelters because I feel like some people still don't get it.

I'm gonna use an example here: My cat, Nepenthe, came from a small municipal open-intake shelter (I don't use the term "kill shelter" because I think it's obscene and cedes ground to ARA fuckwits for no reason) in an area with a NOTORIOUSLY awful stray cat problem.

She was on the euthanasia list. She was next in line on the euthanasia list.

They would never have been cruel or manipulative enough to say it that baldly, of course, but...I can read. Status was "at rsk", with two days' grace before ticking over into "extreme risk", the red zone. The ones who have had the most time, the most chance, if the shelter ever runs out of cage space.

I have gone the fuck off on people who hear that and immediately assume I will tolerate them bashing or insulting that shelter.

Because here's the thing about Penny. She is my baby, my darling, light of my life, and if I hadn't come along, euthanizing her would have been not only necessary but an ethical obligation.

She was neurotic, traumatized, and unpredictably aggressive--not "I'm bad at feline body language and ignoring her subtle back-off signals" unpredictable, I mean "we showed footage to a professional feline behaviorist and their immediate reaction was 'oh that is NOT normal'" unpredictable. "Actual legitimate psychological problems" unpredictable. The previous three times she had met with potential adopters, she attacked them unprovoked and had to be recaptured by a vet tech wearing a bite sleeve designed for aggressive dogs. She was the textbook definition of unadoptable.

She could not be fostered. There was absolutely no way she could live in a home with small children, or older children, or an elderly person with thin skin, or anyone who would get upset if they were clawed in the face without warning every few days.

Now, here's some math for you, keyboard warrior writing up a condescending screed about how there's Never Any Excuse for euthanizing a healthy animal:

The average length of stay in that shelter, for a healthy cat, was roughly two weeks. Which means, on average, assuming fast turnover, a single cage space in that shelter can save the lives of 24 cats every year.

Penny, when I met her, had been there for 43 days. A month and a half. Three times the average length of stay.

I love her. She has improved my life immeasurably and there is nothing I wouldn't do for her. Her life is not more valuable than the lives of the other 23 cats who might have been saved by the slot she was taking up. Euthanasia, if space had run out, would have been the only ethical option.

(Yes, obviously I DID show up and I DID choose her. But frankly? I was a grad student with a psychology degree, studying to be a therapist, living alone, no plans to have kids, a private room where she wouldn't have to interact with other people or animals, de-facto engaged to a professional animal behaviorist; I was ACTIVELY LOOKING for an edge-case project cat, and could calmly and intelligently articulate my understanding of the seriousness of her behavior and my plan for helping her. You can't count on that happening. I was a fucking unicorn.)

No-kill shelters have the INCREDIBLE luxury of deciding who to save. They have the luxury of having all the time in the world to wait. And in the meantime, what exactly do you think is happening to the other animals? The ones they DON'T pick? The ones there's no room for? Do you think they magically don't need to be surrendered anymore? Does Santa Claus find them a home, perhaps?

You can't reduce the life of an animal to math. Good, ethical no-kill shelters can be wonderful resources--either taking highly-adoptable animals from open-intake shelters to free up space as efficiently as possible, or else taking in behaviorally or medically complicated dogs who need more time to find their perfect match than open-intake shelters can give.

But if you're going to shit on open-intake shelters, you don't get to be a fucking coward about it. So here. Prove how much smarter you are.

You've run out of space. Every cage is full. The cat cannot be fostered. You've filled all your available foster slots with other cats, to buy her time. The "no-kill" shelters are full--they pulled the cats they thought they could save, and the scruffy, psychologically-unsound, adult black domestic shorthair with chronic herpes? Nobody wants her. In this world her unicorn's not coming.

She's had three times as long as every other cat here. You have given her every chance, wrote her a lovely bio, moved other cats to other shelters to keep space open so you didn't have to make this choice; but she mauled someone else today and there's a sweet, cuddly, highly-adoptable tabby with no problem behaviors being checked in right now. If you can't put that new cat somewhere it's going to be euthanized without even being given a chance, even though it is extremely adoptable and would likely find a new home within a week.

You don't have a magic wand. You can't wish a conveniently empty second shelter into existence. Every option has been exhausted.

Look me in the eye, and tell me which one dies.

[bookshelf-dust]

promise to take care of my heart

carmy berzatto x fem!reader

gif by @emziess

word count: 1,830

warnings: nothing? a little swearing, but this is pure fluff and that’s all

synopsis: carmy wants to cuddle with you for the first time.

a/n: hi! new character, i know. but i’ve become rather attached to carm in the past few months and i had a cute idea for him and here we are. he’s bringing me so much comfort right now and now i’m gonna share that with you <333

————

“Why don’t you pick out a movie or somethin,’ bub?” 

“If I could find your damn remote, Carm, I would.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, eyes on his hands where they sit deep in the dishwater below. Good luck, he thinks. 

You scan the coffee table, the rug below the shabby couch. It’s not like there’s any use checking the tv stand because it’s still a fucking table tray. You know he doesn’t even own the full set of four table trays? He’s just got the one? That knowledge keeps you up at night. Just like how he doesn’t have a ceiling fan pull and has to get tweezers to change the speed.

You find the remote nestled in a stack of freshly organized books. You helped Carmen assemble a very simple bookshelf so that his stash of cookbooks wouldn’t have to live on the floor anymore. 

Just getting to help him turn his apartment into something other than a place to sleep brought you a contagious giddiness. Carmen’s chest aches with how much he’s laughed since he met you. 

Look at all my muscles, Carm. I’m practically ready for my dick now, don’t you think? 

Where’d you even get these? He’d looked down at the little allen wrench in your hand and said I don’t know, they were just here one day. 

Now you have a bookshelf, Bear. What a grown up. 

Carmen wouldn’t let you help him with the dishes after he cooked you dinner. He’d just kissed your shoulder and said, “Let me take care of it, alright?” with that little raise of his brows and quirk of his lips telling you not to argue because you’d never win. 

And when Carmen tells you to let him take care of something, well…you listen. 

You haven’t been dating very long, but it’s been enough that you’ve both developed this rhythm, this way of moving around and with each other and you just…work. 

He doesn’t understand how you can dial his shyness, his hesitance, so quickly, how you can make him feel like a human again so easily. But you do. 

You settle against the back of the couch, flipping through the tv guide (because Carm has never subscribed to any streaming services) until you find something worth listening to. It’s already a few minutes in, but you’ve seen the movie enough times that it doesn’t really matter. 

The overhead light in the kitchen switches off and Carmen pads out to the living room, socked feet dragging on the hardwoods. Your biggest pet peeve is people who don’t pick up their feet, but somehow it’s more tolerable when it’s him. 

He sits down on the edge of the couch. Just sits. On the edge. That means he wants to say something. You give him the time to psych himself up. 

Carmy chews on his thumb nail and rubs his nose before he turns to you, placing his hand on the couch. His blue eyes burn into yours, and the intensity of his gaze, trained on you, makes you feel like the most important person in the world. 

“H-hey, um…can we—could we snuggle, maybe?” He flushes at the fact that he just used the world snuggle. Richie would have his ass so quick if he’d heard him say that. 

Your grin is brilliant. You’ve never cuddled properly with Carmen before. Maybe a head on a shoulder or a leg tossed across another, but never a real cuddle session. “Fuck yeah, we can, Carm.” You giggle and the sound softens that bubble of fear in his chest. 

He bites the inside of his cheek, letting out the barest laugh. 

“How did you want t-to lay, Bear?” You blink at him. “Were you just gonna—” 

He starts to nod. “I was just gonna lay on your chest, honestly.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, that works.”

“Y-yeah.”

You snort. “Lemme’ stretch out for you and then you can be a teddy bear.” 

“Seriously?”

“Yes.” Carmen shakes his head at you. He lets you pull that shit because he likes it. Secretly.

When you have a pillow under your neck and are laid out on your back, Carm slips beside you against the back of the couch and clumsily settles on top of you. He doesn’t want to crush you or anything, so he settles between your legs, only allowing the weight of his torso to envelop you. 

One arm wraps around your back, the other cradling your hip, his curls brushing your chin. He turns his head to face the tv and lets out a satisfied sigh. 

On instinct your hand threads through his tangled hair, scratching at his scalp gently and sorting through any piece that feels knotted. 

“What is this?” Carmy asks, nodding in the direction of the screen. 

“The Wedding Planner. It has Jlo and Matthew McConaughey in it.” 

“Chick flick?”

You hum in agreeance. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t hate it. Jlo’s character is like you but if the restaurant was a wedding planning business and you were, you know, a chick.”

He laughs lightly against your stomach and you can feel the puff of air over your shirt. 

The weight of Carmen’s body on top of yours is easily the most calming feeling you’ve ever experienced. You can’t get enough of him. 

“This okay?” you ask, scratching his scalp a little more for emphasis. This is a new way of showing affection. Uncharted territory. 

“Hm?” He looks up at you briefly, blue eyes fluttering closed. “Oh yeah, feels nice. I like it.”

You grin and continue to play with his hair. He’s right. It does feel nice. It is. 

The next few minutes go by without any conversation, just silence. But it’s so comfortable. Carmen’s tired gaze is on the tv. You can feel him breathing, feel the way he scratches over your back absently. You don’t know if he’s aware he does it, but he nuzzles his nose against the soft of your stomach every now and then like it’s keeping him safe. 

“You know I thought about being a wedding planner?”

Carmy pushes up onto his elbows, looking at you with the smallest smirk playing on his lips. “Really?”

You playfully bat at his shoulder and he moves to lay back down, but not before pressing a kiss to your sternum over your shirt. “Mhm. Still think about it sometimes.” You pause, but Carm doesn’t say anything yet because he knows you aren’t finished with that thought. 

“I guess I just thought it’d be nice to help put things like that together? The organization would make me feel…complete, I guess. And you know I don’t like to help people in such an extroverted way? I like to be behind the scenes.” You laugh, a little self-deprecatingly. “Does that make sense?”

Carmen squeezes your side. “‘Course it does. And then you could come home and tell me stories about all the family drama you eavesdrop on.”

You giggle, and Carmy loves that he can feel it where he lays on your chest. He can feel your joy, and that’s fucking cool. “That I could.”

He rubs your back in small, gentle circles. “And you know, I happen to have some friends who make pretty good food and would be happy to help if you ever needed.”

“Oh, do you? Well, that’s very helpful, Mr. Berzatto. You’ll have to give me their number.”

Carmy laughs into your chest. A pure, genuine laugh. It’s such a beautiful sound, and you truly think you’d have it tattooed all over your body if that was even remotely possible. His glee makes you laugh, and then you’re both snickering like you’re teenagers doing something that’ll get you in big trouble. 

You reach for his hand, the one that’s resting on your hip now, and he lets you lift it towards your face. He bites his cheek, fighting the smile that rises when you press your warm and chapstick covered lips to his knuckles. 

“You have such pretty hands, Carmy.”

He pinches your back. “I still don’t get why you’re so fascinated by them.”

“Because they’re pretty. And, look—” You hold yours up to his. “—they’re so much bigger than mine. And I like your tattoos, obviously. I like that I know how talented you are with your hands and how capable. I’m very lucky to hold such capable hands, Bear.”

“Capable, huh?” He gives you a look, one that makes you want to both tackle him and smack him on the arm. Instead you roll your eyes and he raises up to kiss you. 

“Capable of being the world’s biggest pain in the ass.”

Carmy laughs. It’s that little chuckle, light and airy and like he can’t believe what he’s hearing but he wants to hear more anyway. He flops back down on your chest, making you let out a rather loud oomph. 

You take Carmen’s hand in yours again, rubbing over the dry patches on his knuckles, the scabs on the insides of his fingers, the scar on his palm. His whole life is written in these hands. 

You start massaging the pads of his fingers without even thinking about it. No one’s ever been that gentle with him—definitely not with his hands—and a little part of him melts at the feeling. 

You kiss the tattoo on the back of his hand and just look at his skin. You’re determined to memorize each line and freckle and fucked up cuticle he’s got. 

“At least your nails don’t look like Richie’s, Carm.”

His chest moves with the giggle that travels throughout his body. 

“Trust me, they didn’t look like that when he was still with Tiff.”

You grin, your eyes falling back on the television. Maybe Carm would be open to setting it on the bookshelf? That table tray has put in a lot of work. It deserves a break. 

Carmen can see why you’re so fond of this movie. It’s one of those that doesn’t require much thought, that has humor and feels more human than most. He knows he shouldn’t think it, but you having said what you said before makes him wonder if you’ll plan your own wedding…with him. 

Shut the fuck up, he tells himself. But maybe we’ll get there. 

You catch him smiling when they fuck up the statue in the garden and pretend not to notice. You both keep quiet now, but Carm reaches up and puts your hand back on his head.

Your fingers thread through his curls again, scratching at his scalp gently. Your other hand does the same thing to his back. You know it’s going to lull him to sleep. 

When you say it, he’s already dozed off. But you are so happy that you get to make him feel safe. That he’s comfortable enough to sleep on you like this. Lucky is an understatement. 

“Thank you for letting me in, Bear. I don’t think my life has ever been this beautiful.”

————

please let me know if you liked this! feedback is always appreciated!! comments and reblogs mean more than you know. <33

note: none of the gifs or images i use are mine! i get most of my images from pinterest or here, and gifs from about the same. please let me know if i ever don’t credit someone properly!