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fushitoru · 5 months ago

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chapter 9: the embers a bridgerton au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary ⸺dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, heir to a dukedom mr. satoru gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

genre/warnings ⸺ enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, eventual smut, suggestive, jealousy, misogyny, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly, all they do is bicker 💀, some historical inaccuracies, mentions of sex work

chapter summary ⸺ sukuna takes you on an excurion into town at night, where you both meet a stranger that gives you illustrative insight into gojo. on the other hand, satoru has to suffer his best friend's most terrible plan as of date (10k).

a/n MWAHAHAHA i'll see you at the end :) thank you for my beta readers @/angelina7890, @/purplegemadventures, @/hellowoolf, and @/sinn-clair for helping me salvage bridgerton!gojo efknwekfnw

also note that the warnings have been updated.

prev. the lake | next. the art gallery

general masterlist | series masterlist

Dearest Reader,

It seems that the Gojo name has once again stirred the waters of the ton—quite literally, this time. If you were not present at Surrey Park, then you have surely missed a sight that will be etched in the minds (and no doubt dreams) of many a young lady for weeks to come.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

The rhythmic sound of the carriage wheels against the dirt road filled the silence as you sat between Choso and Sukuna, gazing out of the small window. The events of Surrey Park, particularly the lake incident, replayed in your mind with an insistence that made your temples throb. You clenched your hands tightly in your lap, as if the sheer tension in your knuckles could chase away the image of Lord Gojo, drenched and smirking as though he hadn’t just caused your heart to stutter in ways you loathed to admit.

“What a ridiculous display,” Sukuna muttered, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the seat, his tone conveying pure disapproval. “That man cannot seem to go a day without making a spectacle of himself. I wonder if he has any sense of propriety at all.”

You tore your gaze from the window, startled from your reverie. “I hardly think it was his intention to fall into the lake,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction. The memory of Gojo's intense gaze before he walked away was still fresh, leaving you both flustered and confused.

Sukuna raised a brow, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. “Intentional or not, it is yet another reason why I cannot fathom what you—or anyone, for that matter—ever saw in him.”

You could not help but think Sukuna’s dismay was not deserved; after all, the man had fallen into the lake in defense of you. Thus, it was not as easy for you to color it obscene and vulgar as easily as Sukuna.

“Sukuna,” Choso interrupted with a stern look, though his tone was mild. “Let us not belabor the point. What matters is that our sister is no longer tethered to that man. Speaking of which”—he turned to you, his expression softening—“how fares your progress with Duke Nanami? Has he hinted at a proposal?”

You hesitated, shifting uncomfortably under your eldest brother’s watchful gaze. “He is... cordial and kind,” you replied after a pause, your voice measured. “Our conversations are pleasant, and he is undoubtedly a man of good character.”

Choso frowned slightly, clearly unsatisfied with your tepid response. “But is he inclined to offer for you?”

“I suppose,” you murmured, clasping your hands tighter in your lap. The truth, however, was far from what you conveyed. Despite Nanami's quiet, unwavering presence, your thoughts seemed to stray perpetually toward another—toward Lord Gojo, who could unsettle and vex you in equal measure with a single look or word. The mere memory of him emerging from the lake, every detail exaggerated by the sunlight, made your heart flutter treacherously.

Sukuna’s sharp eyes darted toward you, narrowing slightly as he leaned forward. “You suppose?” he repeated, his tone skeptical. “You are not typically this indecisive, Sister. Tell me, where exactly does your mind wander?”

You stiffened, heat creeping up your neck as you struggled to mask your turmoil. “I am simply... weighing my options,” you replied carefully, returning your gaze to the window to avoid his probing stare.

For a moment, Sukuna studied you in silence, his lips pursed in thought. But he said nothing more as the carriage finally pulled into the familiar drive of your family’s estate.

Once the carriage halted and Choso helped you alight, the three of you headed into the Itadori manor. However, as soon as you crossed the threshold, Sukuna’s hand lightly touched your elbow, indicating that you should linger behind. As Choso continued on to go to his study and fell out of earshot, you turned to him, a questioning look on your face.

“Sister,” he began, his voice low but not unkind. “Would you care to join me on an outing to town this evening? I have... matters to attend to, and I thought you might find it of interest.”

“An outing?” you asked, turning to him with curiosity. “What kind of matters?”

Sukuna’s smirk widened, his expression almost conspiratorial. “Let us call it a meeting of minds. A discussion on the state of affairs, if you will.”

Your heart quickened with excitement at the prospect. If you recall correctly, you have no plans of balls or any outings with the tons tonight, and you longed to engage with something outside of the season’s mundane practices ever since Gojo had similarly taken you into town. Sukuna had been long gone, and this ritual of yours—sneaking into town to experience political meetings—you had long been deprived of.

“I would be delighted,” you replied, unable to keep the enthusiasm from your voice.

“Good,” Sukuna said, a rare note of approval in his tone as he squeezed your arm lightly. “Then prepare yourself for something far more stimulating than insipid dances and idle chatter.”

The moon’s light shone over the two cloaked figures that were you and Sukuna. As the both of you sneaked towards an apparent meeting point that Sukuna had pre-established, your heart raced—not from fear, but from the thrill of doing something forbidden.

The brisk air bit at your cheeks as the sound of the faint crunch of gravel accompanied you both while creeping across the street.

"Keep up," Sukuna whispered, casting a glance over his shoulder. His expression held that mischievous glint you had come to recognize all too well, as though he relished dragging you into his escapades.

“I am keeping up,” you shot back, pulling your hood further over your face. “I only hope you know what you’re doing.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and unbothered. “Always.”

Soon enough, you spotted a modest carriage tucked behind a grove of trees, its lanterns dimmed to avoid attention. A figure stood waiting beside it, cloaked and hooded, though far more relaxed than someone trying to avoid detection. Sukuna approached the man with an ease that spoke of familiarity, slapping him on the shoulder as though they were old friends.

“Toji,” Sukuna greeted, his voice carrying a note of camaraderie.

“Toji?” you repeated under your breath, squinting your eyes as you studied the man. He was broad-shouldered, with an air of roughness about him that immediately set him apart from the polished gentlemen of the ton. His sharp eyes flicked to you briefly before returning to Sukuna, clearly unimpressed by the effort you’d gone through to remain inconspicuous.

“This the sister you’ve been talking about?” Toji asked, his tone casual as he nodded in your direction.

“Indeed,” Sukuna replied, smiling as he gestured toward you. “Miss Itadori, meet Toji Fushiguro, a man of many talents.”

“Many talents?” you echoed, shooting Sukuna a skeptical look. “And which talents are we referring to, exactly?”

Toji let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “She’s got a sharp tongue, your sister. I like her.”

You narrowed your eyes at the stranger, unsure whether to feel flattered or annoyed, but Sukuna merely grinned, ushering you toward the carriage. “Come on, we’ve got places to be.”

The interior of the carriage was cramped, but warm, the faint scent of leather and smoke lingering in the air. Toji climbed in after you, settling into the opposite seat with the practiced ease of someone who’d spent many nights in carriages like this one. Sukuna took his place beside you, leaning back as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re very familiar with him,” you remarked to Sukuna, your tone edged with suspicion. “I’d like to know why.”

Toji answered for him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Your brother and I go back. He’s got a knack for finding himself in interesting situations, and I’ve got a knack for getting him out of them.”

“Is that so?” you said, arching a brow amusedly at Sukuna. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Sukuna shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Toji’s got connections. And besides, Sister, you’ll be thanking me soon enough for dragging you into this.”

But you were not one to be fooled. You narrowed your eyes, prying deeper into your brother’s words. “What type of connections?”

He sighs, shaking his head and complaining, “Ah! Enough of that. Aren’t you curious as to where we’re going?”

Your skepticism could not be quelled with a dismissive remark, but you waved it aside anyway, acquiescing. “Fine, but do not think I will rest on the matter.”

Toji, who had been silent thus far, chuckled quietly, his sharp gaze flickering between you and Sukuna. “She’s got your measure, Sukuna. You’re not squirming out of this one so easily.”

“Never does,” Sukuna muttered under his breath before changing tack. “Alright, alright. Since you’re so eager to discuss weighty matters, tell me this—are you familiar with Wollstonecraft’s latest work?”

Your brow furrowed as you tried to recall. “The Vindication? Of course, I’ve read it. Why?”

“Then you’ll have some context for what you’re about to hear,” Toji said. His voice was measured, but there was a weight to it that made you sit up a little straighter. “This isn’t just idle talk—it’s about education, equality, and liberty. Ideas that don’t sit well with those who benefit from keeping things as they are.”

Sukuna nodded, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “It’s more than philosophy, though. These people are living it. Fighting for it.”

Your pulse quickened as the conversation took a turn you hadn’t anticipated. You leaned forward slightly as you met Sukuna’s gaze. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” you began, your voice tinged with both curiosity and eagerness. “Wollstonecraft’s arguments are bold, yes, but they’re also deeply practical. Education as the foundation of equality—what could be more sensible? Yet, it threatens the very structure of society.”

Toji gave a low chuckle, his sharp gaze resting on you with renewed interest. “Well said. And what do you make of it, then? The notion that the world might be turned on its head by ideas like hers?”

Your lips curved into a small, wry smile. “I think the world could use a little turning on its head. Though, I imagine the aristocracy would sooner go to war than concede such ground.”

“That they would,” Sukuna agreed, his tone almost amused. “But it’s not just the aristocracy. The changes Wollstonecraft envisions—education for all, women stepping into the public sphere—these ideas challenge everyone who’s comfortable with the way things are.”

“Which is precisely why they’re so powerful,” you replied quickly, your excitement bubbling over. “People cling to the status quo out of fear, but fear is not insurmountable. Surely, with the right voices, the right leaders, minds could be swayed.”

Toji smiled faintly, his expression unreadable. “Optimistic, aren’t you? Most would say such change requires more than just words. Sacrifices must be made.”

“I’m not naïve, Mr. Fushiguro,” you said, straightening your posture. “I understand that revolutions—whether in thought or action—carry a cost. But is that not the mark of true progress? To be willing to bear the burden for a better future?”

Sukuna exchanged a glance with Toji, the latter’s smirk deepening. “She’s quite the firebrand, isn’t she?” Toji remarked.

“She always has been,” Sukuna replied with a shrug, though the faintest hint of pride flickered in his tone. “Keeps me on my toes.”

You ignored their banter, your thoughts racing ahead to what lay in store. “This meeting,” you pressed, unable to keep the excitement from your voice, “who will be there? What will be discussed?”

Sukuna held up a hand to forestall your questions. “Patience. You’ll hear it all soon enough. But I’ll tell you this much—it’s not just talk. These people are doing what others only dream of.”

Toji nodded, his expression growing somber. “There are risks, of course. The kind of risks that come with challenging the very fabric of society.”

You nodded, your resolve solidifying. “I’m not afraid of risk. Ideas like these are worth fighting for.”

Toji studied you for a long moment, his gaze heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finally, he leaned back and crossed his arms. “You might just survive this night, after all.”

The carriage hit a slight bump in the road, jostling all of you, but it did little to break the energy that now thrummed in the small space. The shadows outside grew longer as the journey continued, but your mind was alight with thoughts of what awaited—a world of bold ideas and uncertain promises, one you were eager to step into.

The rest of the ride was quiet, save for the occasional jostling of the carriage over uneven terrain. When you finally arrived, Toji stepped out first, scanning the area before motioning for the two of you to follow. You found yourself in what appeared to be a modest meeting hall, the murmur of voices already audible from within.

Toji pushed open the door, revealing a room filled with a mix of people—some finely dressed, others in simpler attire, all seated in clusters, engaged in quiet but intense discussion. It was clear you had entered a space where class distinctions mattered little, united by a common cause.

“This,” Toji said, his voice low but firm, “is where the real work happens. You wanted to see it, didn’t you?”

You glanced at Sukuna, who gave you a reassuring nod, and then back at Toji. “Lead the way,” you said, your curiosity outweighing your reservations.

The smell of pipe smoke wafted through the air, accompanying the noise of friendly claps on backs, low murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs against the floor, and a warped sort of revelry that was present in the room. The place was almost like a tavern, and as you, your brother, and Toji made your way through the wooden tables filled with people, ongoers showed familiarity with Sukuna. The contrast with how he conducted himself here and the demeanor he adopted at balls was almost comical; whereas ladies of the ton would get an uncongenial countenance, Sukuna was even grunting in response to some of the greetings he received. It was truly a marvel to perceive, indeed.

While Toji directed you both towards an empty table for the sake of your privacy, you could hear tidbits of conversations, murmurs, and bold declarations alike surrounding you.

“Evening, Sukuna,” a burly man called out, raising his glass in acknowledgment. Sukuna responded with a grunt and a nod, his lips twitching in what might have been a hint of a smile.

As Toji directed you to an empty table near the back of the room, your ears caught snippets of conversation from the surrounding tables.

“I find Burke’s assertions about women rather daft,” a woman sniffed, her voice tinged with disdain. “To claim that their sensibilities preclude them from education—it’s an insult, not an argument.”

A man seated beside her chuckled, shaking his head. “Indeed. The irony is that these so-called rational men are the ones most ruled by their passions when challenged.”

At another table, a younger man spoke with fiery conviction. “It’s not just about reforming laws—it’s about changing the very way we think about liberty and who truly earns it.”

“And it’s not solely for the falsely-refined, immoral, and narcissistic rich; As Wollstonecraft mentioned, they are weak, artificial beings, spreading their corruption though the whole mass of society.”

You couldn’t help but smile faintly at the exchanges, the fervor and intellect on display so different from the superficial chatter of the ton. Toji and Sukuna, however, seemed unfazed, as though this kind of discourse was nothing new to them. You, on the other hand, were very excited; while Sukuna had taken you out on such excursions often, the extent of it was visiting restaurants in common clothes, and eating freshly baked bread and pastries. This was an entirely different scene, and every time someone echoed your thoughts—before, captive on your diary’s pages—out loud, your heart was set aflutter.

However, you were a bit wary about fully joining the discussion. While you were undeniably confident that you would be able to keep rapport with those debating, you weren’t fully aware of Toji’s position within the ton. Sukuna may have his trust, but you’d rather not risk joining in; after all, if Toji even were to spread the word about your scandalous…hobbies, Sukuna would not be entirely opposed to you leaving the season without finding a husband, as he’s made clear before.

Once seated, Toji leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests as you and Sukuna followed suit.“Quite the crowd tonight,” he remarked, his voice low as his sharp eyes scanned the room. “Seems the common folk are growing bolder.”

Sukuna grinned, leaning back in his chair as though he were entirely at ease. “It’s about time, isn’t it?”

You settled into your seat, your hands resting lightly on the edge of the table as you absorbed the atmosphere. The snippets of conversation, the passionate speeches, the clinking of mugs—all of it painted a vivid picture of a world far removed from the ballrooms and drawing rooms you had grown accustomed to. And yet, there was something undeniably captivating about it.

“What do you think?” Sukuna asked, his tone teasing as he leaned closer to you. “Not quite the spectacle of a ball, but it has its charm, doesn’t it?”

You glanced at him, your lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s… different,” you admitted, your gaze returning to the dais where the speaker was now gesturing animatedly. “But perhaps that’s what makes it so compelling.”

As you turned, you now noticed that Toji was observing you thoughtfully and you tilted your head, giving him a questioning look, to which he spoke up, “Well,” his tone light but probing, “discussion aside. How has the glittering world of the ton treating you, Miss Itadori? I hear you’re the diamond of the season. Must be quite the... adventure.”

You offered him a polite, practiced smile. “It has been... illuminating,” you said delicately. “The season has certainly provided its share of experiences.”

“Ah, I see,” Toji drawled, leaning back in his chair and giving you a look that suggested he saw through your carefully crafted response. “Illuminating. That’s a word people use when they’re too polite to say what they really mean.”

Sukuna snorted, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “She’s being diplomatic, Toji. If you really want to know what she thinks, let me tell you—she’s been dodging proposals left and right while trying not to throttle certain lords.”

Your lips parted in indignation, but Sukuna held up a hand to stop you before you could protest. “Don’t deny it, sister. We both know I’m right.”

Toji chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ah, now this is getting interesting. So, who’s the thorn in your side, then? Every diamond has one.”

You stiffened slightly but maintained your composed tone. “I wouldn’t say anyone is a thorn, per se. There have been... challenges, certainly, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Gojo,” Sukuna said bluntly, earning a glare from you. “The thorn is Gojo.”

Toji’s brows shot up. “Satoru Gojo? The golden boy himself? Well, that’s a surprise. What’s he done to earn your ire, Miss Itadori?”

You hesitated, unsure of how much to divulge, but Sukuna, ever the instigator, jumped in. “He courted her, dropped her, and now he’s lurking in the background like some lovesick pup.”

Toji let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Ah, that boy. Always knew he’d trip over his own arrogance one day.”

“Arrogance,” Sukuna muttered, “doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Toji smirked, swirling his glass thoughtfully. “Let me give you some advice, Miss Itadori. The one you hate, the one who gets under your skin, makes your blood boil? That’s usually the one worth keeping around.”

You scoffed, but it was half-hearted; you were intrigued. Straightening in your chair, you probed lightly, “And why, pray tell, would I want to keep someone who vexes me so terribly?”

“Because,” Toji said, leaning forward, his tone uncharacteristically serious, “the ones who challenge you are the ones who see you. Really see you. And from what I’ve heard, Gojo’s stuck around, hasn’t he? Defended you when it counted?”

You frowned, your mind flashing back to the lake incident, his swift intervention, the way he had looked at you—like you were the only person in the world. “That’s hardly enough to excuse his behavior,” you said, though your voice lacked its usual conviction.

Toji grinned knowingly. “Conflict like this doesn’t fizzle out quietly, Miss Itadori. Mark my words—this will blow up sooner or later. And when it does, when Gojo realizes he’s been an idiot and comes crawling back, what are you going to do?”

Your breath hitched at the thought, and you quickly dismissed it with a wave of your hand. “He won’t. He’s far too stubborn for that.”

“Maybe,” Toji conceded with a shrug, though his expression suggested otherwise. “But if he does, you’d better know what you want, because boys like Gojo don’t grovel often.”

Sukuna huffed, crossing his arms. “Well, I’d rather she find someone who isn’t an arrogant prick.”

“Maybe,” Toji said again, his tone calm but firm. “But sometimes it’s the arrogant pricks who surprise you the most.”

You shook your head, unwilling to entertain the notion any further. “This is all highly speculative and entirely unnecessary. Lord Gojo and I are... nothing.”

Toji’s words hung in the air, and though you tried to focus on the speaker at the front of the room, the uneasy stirring in your chest remained. Sukuna’s watchful gaze burned into the side of your face, and after a long moment of silence, you turned back to Toji, unable to resist asking the question that had been gnawing at you.

“How is it,” you began cautiously, your tone laced with both curiosity and a hint of suspicion, “that you seem to know Lord Gojo so well?”

Toji leaned back in his chair, his lips quirking in an almost imperceptible smirk. Sukuna let out a low chuckle, crossing his arms as he observed the exchange, clearly entertained. You really wanted to shoot a dirty glare at both of them, but you persisted, your gaze insistently honing on Toji.

“What makes you think I know him?” Toji asked, his voice carrying that frustratingly unhurried cadence that suggested he was enjoying your discomfort.

You narrowed your eyes, unwilling to let him deflect. “Because you speak of him with far more familiarity than most. And because you called him an ‘arrogant prick’ with such conviction that it could only come from experience.”

Toji laughed at that, a low, amused sound that rumbled from his chest. “Sharp as ever,” he remarked, glancing briefly at Sukuna, who rolled his eyes. “Fine, if you must know—I’ve known the boy since he was barely out of leading strings. My father did lots of business with his, as almost all families of the nobility do business with the Gojo dukedom. And for a time, I was … well, let’s say I was observing the business practices of the family.”

You blinked, surprised by the revelation. “Oh? Anything of note?”

Toji shrugged, his expression now unreadable at the mention of his family. “Gojo and I… crossed paths more than a few times.” He then snorted, now shaking his head at what seemed a ridiculous memory. “The boy was only four and ten when he was attending those meetings with the rest of the noble families, while the rest of the men in that room were at least two and twenty.”

“Ah.” You didn’t exactly understand how to analyze this; while you’re no stranger to the fact that Gojo was conditioned for the title of duke since his childhood, courtesy of Mrs. Tanaka, you were fazed by it every time.

“And,” Toji snorts, continuing, “the child would be the most ridiculous sight. Sometimes it felt that he was so enamored by the sound of his own voice that he hardly cared what the meeting was about.” Toji smirked, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed as if reliving the absurdity of the memory. “He’d sit there, bold as brass, making ridiculous suggestions—most of which were promptly dismissed, mind you—but he always had this way of... commanding attention.”

You raised a brow, trying to picture a fourteen-year-old Gojo confidently holding court among seasoned men of business and nobility. The image was surprisingly easy to conjure. “And no one thought to put him in his place?”

Toji let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, they tried. Believe me, they tried. But the boy’s wit was sharper than most men in that room. Even when he was wrong—and he often was—he’d somehow twist the conversation to make it seem like he was the only one making sense. Drove them mad.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the thought, though it was accompanied by a pang of irritation. Of course, Gojo had been insufferable even as a boy.

“He sounds as impossible then as he is now,” you muttered, earning a chuckle from Sukuna.

Toji tilted his head, a glint of something more serious in his eyes now. “Impossible, yes. But also... determined. Even back then, you could tell he had a weight on his shoulders. He wanted to prove something—to himself, to his family, to everyone in that room. I’d wager that’s still true.”

You frowned, mulling over his words. “And what exactly does he have to prove? He’s already a duke-to-be, with wealth, power, and influence beyond what most could dream of.”

Toji regarded you for a moment, his gaze steady. “Sometimes, those with the most are the ones who feel they have the most to lose. And the most to prove.”

Your chest tightened at the implication, but you quickly shoved the thought aside. “Well,” you said, forcing a lightness into your tone, “it seems Lord Gojo has always been consistent in his… unique qualities.”

Toji’s smirk returned, though there was a knowing edge to it. “That he has. But don’t mistake consistency for simplicity. That boy is a maze, and only a fool would think they’ve figured him out.”

You opened your mouth to respond but were interrupted by Sukuna’s low, dry voice. “Why are we wasting breath on that prick? We’re here for a reason, aren’t we?”

Toji laughed again, a deep, unbothered sound, and gestured for you both to follow him deeper into the meeting hall. “Fair enough. Let’s see if we can find you two a seat before you start debating the virtues—or lack thereof—of Lord Satoru Gojo.”

The sun was low on the horizon, casting the sky in a fiery orange glow as the two men rode side by side along the quiet trails bordering the Gojo estate. The rhythmic clopping of hooves on the dirt path filled the silence, punctuated by the occasional snort or whinny from their steeds. Satoru’s white steed carried him with its usual grace, while Geto’s dark horse moved with a steady, confident gait.

It was indeed a rare moment of calm. Before the season started, these silences would undoubtedly be filled with Geto’s mentions of gossip and business deals, in which investment in the Americas ended up being a damp squib. However, it seems that with the season has come Geto’s new target: his best friend himself, Satoru. And Satoru knew that this moment of calm was before the storm: Geto hopping on his arse.

And indeed, Geto, ever the opportunist, was not one to let peace linger for too long. His lips quirked into a smirk as he glanced sideways at his lifelong friend.

“So,” Geto began, his tone far too casual to be innocent, “why’d you defend her yesterday?”

Satoru groans inwardly; ever since that night of the ball after the Gojo house party, Suguru had been observing him amusedly. It even seemed that Nanami was taking interest in Satoru’s recent affairs; every conversation at White’s had seemed like Kento and Suguru were in collusion together, and it made Satoru very wary. However, outwardly, he continued, his gaze fixed ahead. “Who?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

Geto snorted. “Don’t play coy with me, Satoru. You know exactly who I mean—Miss Itadori. The lady you so gallantly saved from a rather damp fate.”

Satoru shrugged, leaning slightly forward in his saddle. He would be the air of nonchalance if Suguru didn’t know the subtle signs: his jaw clenching and his posture a bit too tight. “She was being pushed into a lake. Anyone would’ve done the same.”

“Ah,” Suguru drawled, his smirk widening. “Anyone. Of course. But it wasn’t just anyone, was it? It was you.”

“I was simply nearby,” Satoru replied coolly, though his grip on the reins tightened, the leather creaking faintly under his fingers.

Suguru let out a hum, as though he were considering his next move in a chess match. “Nearby? Satoru, you could’ve been halfway across the field, and you’d still have found some excuse to swoop in. It’s rather unlike you to involve yourself in such... trivial matters.”

Satoru’s jaw clenched briefly, but he said nothing.

“You stopped courting her, didn’t you?” Geto pressed, his tone light but with a sharp edge, something almost teasing yet with something to prove. “And yet, here you are, defending her honor like a knight in shining armor. I can’t imagine how she feels about all this... conflicting behavior.”

Satoru scoffed, finally cutting a glance at his friend. “I doubt she thinks of it at all.”

“Hmm,” Geto mused, humming prolongedly. His voice was dripping with skepticism as he drawled, “I doubt that.”

“I do not see how that is my issue,” Satoru responds bluntly, quelling the irritation inside him at being probed so…closely like this.

To Satoru’s reprieve, Geto had no immediate response. The two rode in silence for a moment, the quiet broken only by the rustling of leaves and the soft sounds of their horses’ hooves. Suguru, however, was far from finished, and Satoru felt that he was going to burst a vein.

“For someone who has the ton at his feet—every mama scheming, every daughter swooning—you sure are paying a lot of attention to one particular lady,” he said, leaning back slightly in his saddle. “A lady you supposedly have no interest in.”

This was enough. “Drop it, Geto,” Gojo said, his tone low and warning.

But Suguru wouldn’t have earned the title of being Satoru’s closest friend—and now it seemed, his greatest enemy—without crossing his boundaries further, pushing them in, and pulling at his strings. He wasn’t fettered in the least. He tilted his head, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “You know, it’s almost as if—dare I say it—you’re catching feelings.”

The words hit Gojo with the force of a thrown gauntlet, and for a moment, it felt like the air had been knocked clean out of his lungs. His fingers tightened around the reins instinctively, the leather biting into his gloves as his horse came to an abrupt halt. His pulse spiked, not from exertion but from something he refused to name. It spread through him like wildfire—hot, uncontrollable, and unwelcome.

Catch feelings?

At some point, Satoru was afraid he had. Holding your unconscious body in his arms and foolishly pretending to be your husband in some childish attempt to play house—but no, Satoru does not have space for a mere thing like feelings. No, more like mere infatuation that he was sure would have died out by ending your courtship.

But when he had been replacing the flowers by your bedside for the nth time, gazing upon your unconscious form once more, he had felt a sort of panic and lack of control. An unbidden feeling bubbled up inside of him, one that he quickly grew to realize, in the days leading up to the house party and you being roused from your state, that it was dangerous.

It’s an idea he’s instilled in himself since he was just a youth, and it’s a law he follows. Love and duty mustn’t cross paths; the covenant of marriage was a duty, a means to uphold the dukedom and his family’s legacy. To cross it with something like mere infatuation over how your eyes widened whenever Satoru said something outrageous, the traces of the smile you contained talking to other foolish suitors, the feel of your surprise when he walked closer to your chair, how dangerous it was for him to be alone with you in the library at night…it would certainly destroy him and the truths that he, Satoru Gojo, based his life upon.

His mind raced to rationalize, to shove the notion of feelings, something deeper than infatuation and a mere fancy, into some dark corner where it could wither and die. What nonsense. It wasn’t feelings. It couldn’t be. It was...what? Irritation? Protectiveness? The natural response of any honorable man when a lady’s dignity was insulted?

Yet, the memory of you standing by the lake crept unbidden into his mind—your face caught between fury and disbelief, the sunlight glinting off the strands of your hair that had escaped their meticulous arrangement.

And that damnable dress—how it had dared to hint at the curves he had so traced uncountable times his dreams with his hands, with his tongue—

He could still hear your biting words, sharp and unrelenting, even as they softened into something more vulnerable when no one else could hear.

His stomach twisted. No.

His voice was clipped as he snapped at Geto, desperate to redirect the conversation. “You’re starting to pry into matters that don’t concern you.”

But Geto’s smirk didn’t falter, and Gojo hated him for it. It was as if his oldest friend could see every crack forming in his carefully constructed facade, every thin thread of composure threatening to unravel.

“You could make a fine living consulting mamas on the ton’s gossip, you know,” Gojo continued, the words escaping him with uncharacteristic sharpness. “Perhaps even advising them on matchmaking strategies. Should I make introductions for you?”

The deflection was weak, and he knew it. His heart was still racing, his chest tight as if the very idea Geto had planted was a parasite sinking its teeth into his carefully guarded resolve.

Feelings. For you.

Impossible.

And yet, as Geto’s smirk grew wider, his eyes alight with amusement, Gojo realized with a sinking dread that he wasn’t entirely sure anymore.

Geto grinned, unbothered by the sharpness in his friend’s words, and appeared ignorant of the visceral reaction Gojo just had to the notion. “Oh, I don’t need introductions. I’ve already got your whole life figured out, Satoru.”

Gojo rolled his eyes, nudging his horse forward again. “She’s not anything special to me. That’s all there is to it.”

The silence that followed Geto’s pointed observation stretched longer than Gojo would have liked. It hung heavy in the cool evening air, punctuated only by the occasional snort of their horses and the crunch of hooves on gravel. Gojo didn’t dare look at his friend, his jaw clenched tightly as his mind raced. Catch feelings. The words echoed, taunting him as if Geto had struck a nerve he hadn’t even realized was exposed.

Gojo swallowed hard, eyes fixated blankly on the trees in the surrounding scenery, silent as his usual sharp wit suddenly dulled. His silence wasn’t the confident kind that usually unsettled others—it was uneasy, charged, the kind that gave too much away. He shifted in the saddle, his posture stiff, betraying the internal battle raging within him.

But Geto noticed. He always noticed.

And when Gojo finally glanced sideways at him, Geto’s expression had transformed. His dark eyes sparkled with a glint of pure mischief, his lips curving into a grin that promised trouble. It was as though he had just uncovered a hidden treasure—Gojo’s discomfort, his tells, his unwillingness to admit what they both knew.

“Oh,” Geto said, dragging the word out like a cat savoring the moment before pouncing on a mouse. His grin widened, a wicked gleam overtaking his features. “Oh, this is rich.”

Gojo scowled, his face flushing despite himself. “What now?” he snapped, though his voice lacked its usual commanding edge.

Geto didn’t answer immediately, his gaze sweeping over his friend with an almost theatrical sense of revelation. He leaned slightly forward in his saddle, the reins in one hand as his other gestured toward Gojo as if presenting him to an invisible audience.

“I’ve got it,” Geto said, his tone deceptively casual, though the glint in his eyes betrayed the mischief bubbling beneath. “If she’s not anything special, as you’ve so eloquently put it, then we can visit the brothel tonight. Right?”

Gojo’s head snapped toward him, his jaw tightening further, but before he could respond, Geto continued, his voice laced with false innocence. “Think about it—a little distraction, a reset, if you will. It’ll clear everything up for you, including how you’re feeling.”

The silence that followed wasn’t simply quiet—it was a palpable stillness, thick with tension. Geto’s grin only grew as he watched Gojo’s reaction—or lack thereof. His friend had frozen, the reins slack in his hands as he stared straight ahead, his profile bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun.

“What’s the matter?” Geto pressed, his voice practically dripping with faux innocence. “You’re not hesitating, are you? After all, if she means nothing to you, there’s no reason not to go.”

Gojo hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, and Geto pounced on it.

“You’ve got something to prove, don’t you?” he teased, leaning slightly toward Gojo. “Come now, Satoru. Let’s see just how unaffected you truly are.”

And then, like a man trying to prove something—to himself, to his friend, to the world—Gojo finally spoke, his tone clipped, almost defiant. “Fine.”

But Geto wasn’t fooled, and Gojo knew it. He could feel the weight of his friend’s amusement, his sharp gaze cutting through every layer of pretense Gojo had built around himself. And for the first time in a long while, Gojo felt like he was losing control of the narrative.

Geto’s grin widened, triumphant. “Good. Let’s make an evening of it.”

The carriage ride was tense, at least for one of its occupants. Gojo sat stiffly on one of the plush seats, his legs stretched out in front of him, though his right knee bounced incessantly—a restless, nervous tick that betrayed the calm expression he worked hard to maintain. His hands gripped the edge of the seat, his fingers curling into the fabric as he stared out of the window, his pale blue eyes unfocused.

“This,” Satoru finally said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a knife, “is a truly foolish idea.”

Across from him, Geto reclined with the ease of a man completely at peace with his choices, one arm slung casually over the back of the seat. He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Then why are you here, oh wise one?”

Satoru shot him a flat look, though the movement was stiff, lacking his usual flair. “Because you said so. And because if I didn’t, you’d never let me hear the end of it.”

Geto chuckled, tipping his head back against the carriage wall. “Indulging your closest friend for once in your life—what a burden.” He then sighed, as if truly wounded and continued to lament, “You’ve never once gone with me—or rather, anyone—for an excursion to the establishment.”

Satoru didn’t dignify that with a response, his gaze flickering back out the window. The city rolled by in a blur of dim lantern light and shadowed alleys, but he barely registered it. The air in the carriage felt stifling, pressing down on him despite the open window beside him. His jaw clenched as his thoughts raced, looping over the same nagging feeling that had been gnawing at him since Geto suggested this ridiculous outing.

“I don’t even go to brothels,” Satoru muttered, almost to himself. This was truly a foolish idea.

Geto hummed amusedly, crossing his arms and leaning back. “So you’ve said. But everyone indulges now and again, even you.”

Satoru turned his head sharply to glare at him. “It’s not a fancy of mine.”

Geto leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he grinned. “Not your fancy? What, women? Or fun in general?”

“Brothels,” Satoru snapped, though the edge in his voice lacked conviction. “They’re… I don’t know, pointless. The whole idea is dunce-like. Superficial company cannot satisfy me. I find the banter found in of these establishments lacking conviction, and if I wanted such artificial banter, I would have found it in the balls of the ton. I have never found engaging conversation with any of the ladies of the ton,” except for you, “and I daresay it would not be an oversight to observe that I would not get the company I desire at a brothel.”

“And yet here you are,” Geto quipped, gesturing grandly to the carriage they occupied.

Satoru sighed heavily, his leg bouncing more insistently now. It seemed as if the foolishness of this idea had cast a cloud over his heart, never truly leaving him and permeating him in a sense of anxiousness, as if something was truly amiss. “Just this once. I fear that you may never stop troubling me if I do not.”

“As if I’d believe that.” Geto laughed, leaning back again, clearly enjoying his friend’s discomfort.

When the carriage finally came to a halt, Satoru felt a sinking sense of dread settle in his chest. He stepped down with an unusual stiffness, his body tense and his movements robotic, as though he were forcing himself to go through the motions. The chill of the evening air hit him, but it did little to ease the heat creeping up the back of his neck.

Geto followed close behind, his hand coming down heavily on Satoru’s shoulder in a gesture that was equal parts encouragement and teasing. “Relax, Satoru. It’ll be fun,” he said, his tone almost sing-song as he gestured toward the entrance of the establishment ahead.

Satoru gave him a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure,” he replied dryly, though the tension in his shoulders made it clear that he was anything but.

As Geto led the way, Satoru lingered a step behind, his feet dragging just enough to make his reluctance palpable. He couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of unease, the quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him that this was a mistake. And yet, here he was—following Geto into the lion’s den, his heart pounding with a mix of dread and something else he couldn’t quite name.

Suguru and Satoru’s footsteps resound on the wooden floorboards. Feminine perfume wafts through the air, but Satoru finds it a bit too strong. Unbidden, the memory and trace of your scent of sandalwood flashes through his mind, but before he can linger on the memory of your scent got stronger the closer his nose inched to the delicate arch of your neck, Suguru stops in front of him, talking to a woman at the counter.

As if second nature to Geto, Suguru flirts with the madam in charge of the finances, but to Satoru, it goes in through one ear and out the other. He’s too busy observing the tacky decorations and abundance of flowers that seem to surround the place and the halls he can peer into. And there are women.

They crowd by, some loitering by their doors and peering at the pair that just walked in. They giggle to each other in groups, no doubt wishing that Geto may choose them today, but Satoru knows that it would not be the case, for he hears Suguru murmur something along the lines of the usual girls. While some of them are enraptured by Geto, there are just so many eyes on him.

He’s undoubtedly someone they haven’t seen before; he doesn’t look too young, one that would end the whole session too early. Gojo feels eyes on him, salaciously trailing up his body, but he is unfazed by it. It is rather the prospect of being in a room alone, of having to touch or being touched that has, for some reason, him nauseous for a reason he is yet to figure out. So he attributes it to the waste of coin, for he is sure not to take any enjoyment.

“Satoru, move along this way,” Geto waves him into the hallway he’s walking towards, now that he has sorted out the details with the madam. Begrudgingly—but not before running a hand down his face in exasperation—Satoru follows. It’s almost amusing how whoever Geto gazes upon seems to faint, his siren eyes carrying an allure to them that even makes these ladies shy. Satoru, on the other hand, keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling and traces the detail and design of the crown molding.

When it appears that Geto has finally found the room he intended for, he opens the door and walks into it.

The atmosphere inside the room was surprisingly plush, though it carried the same overpowering floral scent as the rest of the establishment. A low-burning lantern cast a warm, flickering light over the deep reds and golds of the furnishings, creating an almost intimate glow.

Suguru strode in first, his posture relaxed and his expression bordering on smug. He let out a low whistle as he surveyed the room. “Nice, isn’t it? I always tell them to reserve the best for me.”

Satoru followed reluctantly, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. He barely glanced at the room’s opulence, his focus instead on staying as close to the door as possible without actually leaving. “I suppose it’s marginally better than the hallway,” he muttered, his tone as dry as ever.

Suguru smirked, unbothered by his friend’s sour mood. “Come on, Satoru, don’t sulk. We’re here to unwind.” He dropped onto the sofa with a contented sigh, stretching out his arms along the backrest. “You’re supposed to sit, you know.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe instead. “I’m fine right here, thanks.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Suguru groaned, motioning toward the empty seat beside him. “Just sit down before you ruin the ambiance completely. I won’t tell anyone you’re enjoying yourself—promise.”

Reluctantly, Satoru peeled himself away from the door and took a seat at the far end of the sofa, as far from Suguru as the furniture allowed. He sank into the velvet sofa with all the enthusiasm of a man preparing for execution, his long legs stretched in front of him, his arms folded stiffly across his chest. He tried to laze back, be the appearance of equanimity, but inside he was anything but.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” Suguru teased, pouring two glasses of wine from a decanter on the side table. He slid one across the table toward Satoru, who eyed it skeptically before finally picking it up.

“This is still a waste of time,” Satoru muttered, swirling the wine in his glass but not drinking it. His gaze wandered toward the window, though the heavy drapes blocked any view of the outside.

Suguru leaned back against the sofa, crossing one leg over the other as he sipped his wine. “You say that, but you’re here, aren’t you? Deep down, you must’ve been at least a little curious.”

“Deep down,” Satoru said, casting Suguru a sideways glance, “I fear I may be losing what little sense I have simply by remaining in this room.”

Suguru laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the room and echoed as if to haunt and taunt Satoru. “You’re impossible. But I’ll give it ten minutes. You’ll relax. You always do.”

Before Satoru could retort, there was a soft knock at the door. Suguru’s smirk widened, and he set his glass down, rising to answer it. “Ah, perfect timing.”

Satoru tensed, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. He leaned back slightly, watching as Suguru opened the door with all the confidence of a man who owned the place. When the door swung open, two women entered with an air of familiarity and charm, their laughter light as they greeted Suguru.

“Back so soon, Mr. Geto?” one of them purred, her hair bouncing with each step. Her gaze lingered on Suguru, enraptured as though she could see no one else. His friend has that effect on women, Satoru supposes. He’s definitely no stranger to it.

“As if he could stay away,” added the other, her blonde hair catching the warm light as she smiled, all charm and sweetness.

Suguru offered a roguish grin, gesturing broadly to the room as he drew his legs apart impossibly wider. He was truly the epitome of a man relaxed and in bliss. “Ladies, your wit does me a disservice. I couldn’t possibly keep myself from such delightful company.”

The two women giggled, each draping herself over Suguru’s shoulders with the familiarity of longtime favorites. Their laughter chimed softly, though Satoru barely heard it. He was too busy trying to reconcile the absurdity of this situation with his growing discomfort.

“And who’s this?” the blonde asked, her curious gaze flickering toward Satoru, who sat at the far end of the sofa. His unease must not have been apparent to anyone but Suguru, because in Gojo’s periphery, he saw the other girl in between him and Suguru turn her head in surprise, as if she truly hadn’t noticed him but definitely seemed to like what she saw. Soon, she was moving out of Geto’s space and inching herself closer next to Gojo’s seat on the chaise, but Satoru kept his eyes trained on Suguru, awaiting his response to the blonde.

“Oh, that?” Suguru quipped, waving a hand in his direction as though introducing an unruly pet. “That is Satoru, a dear friend of mine—and a woefully inexperienced one at that.”

Satoru shot him a withering glare but said nothing, his lips pressed into a smirk as if to mask his unease and instead show amusement, an air of nonchalance.

“Do be kind to him,” Suguru added with a knowing smirk. “He’s not accustomed to such pleasures as these.”

The other woman rose with a soft laugh, gliding across the chaise with practiced elegance. “Then I shall endeavor to make him feel at home.”’

As she settled beside Satoru, he felt a strange prickle of apprehension, a sense of something amiss. Then he turned his head, and his breath caught in his throat.

It was you.

Or at least, it felt like you. The resemblance was so striking it bordered on cruel—the shape of her face, the curve of her lips, the lashes framing her warm eyes. She even smiled like you, though this smile carried a polished charm that felt foreign, detached.

“Good heavens,” she murmured, her voice light and lilting. “You’re dreadfully tense, aren’t you? Let me help you with that.”

Her words might as well have been spoken in another language, for they barely reached him. Satoru was still staring, his mind spinning as the room seemed to shrink around him. She shifted closer, the scent of her perfume—a cloying blend of florals—filling the space between them. It made his stomach turn, but not because it was unpleasant. No, it was wrong. It wasn’t your scent.

The memory of sandalwood hit him like a punch to the chest, unbidden and consuming. The delicate trace of it, how it lingered faintly whenever you passed by, how it deepened when he leaned closer, just enough to catch it at the hollow of your throat—

Her touch drew him back abruptly. Her fingers skimmed lightly along his arm, trailing upward to rest against his chest. “You must relax, sir,” she tittered, her tone teasing but soothing in equal measure. “Let me ease your troubles. There’s no need to hold yourself so tightly.”

But Satoru barely felt the pressure of her hand. Instead, all he could feel was you—the ghost of your touch from the salacious dream he’d had not long ago, a dream that had plagued him since. You, standing in his room in nothing but your night shift, your figure outlined faintly by the moonlight filtering through the window. He remembered how his hands had reached for you in that dream, the warmth of your skin beneath his palms, the sound of your breath catching as he—

“Sir?” Her voice broke through the haze, soft and curious. Her brow furrowed slightly as she tilted her head to meet his gaze. “Are you unwell?”

He blinked, forcing himself to focus, though it felt like dragging his mind out of quicksand. His throat worked, but the words caught. “I’m fine,” he managed, though the stiffness in his tone betrayed him.

Across the room, Suguru observed the exchange with a smirk, his chin resting lazily on his hand. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, I’m afraid,” he drawled, his amusement clear. “The man’s wound tighter than a clock.”

The woman beside Satoru laughed softly, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “No matter,” she said brightly, her hand trailing further across his torso. “We’ve ways of loosening even the most stubborn. You ought to be at ease, my lord,” she teases, “I have no aim to bite you.”

But Satoru wasn’t paying attention. His mind was still back in that dream, with you. It was an image he couldn’t shake, no matter how much he tried. And as she leaned closer, her hand pressing lightly against his chest, his thoughts screamed louder than ever: What am I doing here?

The woman’s touch began to drift lower, her hands brushing over his hips, and Satoru’s entire body went rigid, as though struck by lightning. A peculiar kind of heat climbed up his neck—not the kind born of desire but something closer to panic.

His chest felt tight, his breath shallow. The air in the room seemed to shrink, pressing down on him from all sides. Her laughter, sweet and tinkling, rang in his ears, but it sounded muffled as if he were underwater. He couldn’t do this—not with her, not with anyone. Not when her face, her scent, and even her touch were so painfully wrong. It was truly uncanny, something that put Satoru too much at unease

He knew he must get out of there.

In one sharp motion, Satoru stood. The movement startled the woman, her hands falling away as she looked up at him with wide, confused eyes. Similar to when you both tripped at the stream, you looking up at him, your bosom close to his—

“Sir?” she asked, tilting her head, her voice laced with surprise.

Satoru offered a dazzling smirk, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but was charming enough to serve its purpose. He gently took her hands in his, his fingers curling lightly around hers as he raised them to his lips. His kiss was featherlight, fleeting, and entirely calculated.

“My dear,” he began, his tone smooth as silk, though a faint tremor lay hidden beneath it, “while I deeply appreciate your gracious efforts, I am afraid I must take my leave. A rather urgent matter at home has just crossed my mind.”

She blinked, startled and unsure of what to say. “But—”

Satoru stepped back, his smirk widening as he released her hands with a flourish. “Do forgive my abrupt departure. You’ve been nothing short of delightful.” He inclined his head toward her in a courtly gesture, his gaze flicking briefly to Suguru, who was now watching him with one brow arched in amused disbelief.

“Geto,” Satoru said, his voice tight but steady, “it seems I must bid you adieu. Do enjoy yourself. You appear to be in good company.”

Suguru leaned back, his arms draped lazily over the back of the sofa, an almost predatory grin tugging at his lips. “You’re leaving already, Satoru? The night’s barely begun.”

“Oh, but the night is full of pressing demands. I fear I have just remembered a pending task in my ledgers expected to be resolved tomorrow” Satoru replied breezily, though his legs were already moving toward the door. “Another time, perhaps.”

Before Suguru could respond, Satoru slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind him with an almost frantic speed. The sound of his boots echoed down the hallway as he strode quickly toward the exit, his pulse racing as though he were fleeing some great calamity.

By the time he stepped outside into the cool night air, his heart was pounding, and his chest felt like it might burst. He inhaled deeply, letting the chill fill his lungs as he tilted his head back to look at the sky. The stars above were cold and distant, but they steadied him.

“Good grief.”

As the door clicked shut behind Satoru, Geto’s smirk deepened, his gaze lingering on the spot where his friend had stood moments ago. The tension in Gojo’s shoulders, the too-tight smirk that barely concealed his panic—it had all been immensely entertaining. Geto couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction. For all his bluster and charm, Satoru Gojo was, at his core, so damn oblivious to the raging currents inside of him.

He sighs inwardly, now excited. He couldn’t wait for the theatrics that would occur soon, for his friend was a ticking time bomb—one to explode very soon.

He leaned back further into the sofa, stretching his arms along the backrest as he glanced at the two women beside him. The blonde was frowning slightly, clearly perplexed by Satoru’s abrupt departure, while the one that had approached Satoru was still staring at the door, her lips parted as if to call him back.

“Don’t fret, my darlings,” Geto drawled, his voice low and smooth as honey. He shifted slightly, letting his arm curl around the blonde’s shoulders, his hand resting lightly at the nape of her neck. “Our dear Lord Gojo is... a complicated man.”

The blonde huffed, crossing her arms in mock indignation. “He didn’t even stay long enough for a proper introduction. Was it something I said?”

“Not at all,” Geto assured her, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin. “He’s simply overwhelmed by beauty. I’m afraid he’s not accustomed to the kind of attention you so graciously bestowed upon him.”

The other woman’s pout melted into a soft laugh, her earlier confusion replaced by amusement. “Well, that is rather charming, in its own way.” Geto turns his eyes away from the blond to look at the other lady and has to bite his cheek to stop the laugh from coming in.

He truly did a good job of describing your features to the madam when requesting her.

“Indeed,” Geto said, his smile widening as he turned his attention fully to them. “But let us not waste another thought on him. I, for one, am most delighted to remain in your company.”

His words seemed to ease whatever tension lingered, and the two women exchanged a glance before smiling in unison. The blonde leaned into him, her fingers trailing lightly over the fabric of his coat. “You’re far more gracious than your friend,” she murmured, her voice taking on a playful lilt.

“I do try,” Geto replied, his tone teasing as his other hand came to rest on the woman—the one previously attending to Satoru—’s knee. “And if I may be so bold, I’d say we’ve quite the opportunity here—one we shouldn’t waste.”

She comes closer to him, remarking while looking up at him through her lashes, “I would say you’re rather right.”

With that, the three met passionately in an exchange of limbs, certainly making do…even with the lack of a certain white-haired duke-to-be.

prev. the lake | next. the art gallery

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n HEY BRIDGERTON!GOJO POOKIES HOW ARE WE!! this chapter was sooo messy for gojo lmaooo. we're sooo close to the slow burn arc ending and this was a biiiggg epiphany for geto. now comes the next stage of the plan 😈

one thing i also wanted to clarify (and make sure everyone noticed) was that we got the reason why gojo dropped reader. he got a lil crush and got scared :( a lot of people have been asking me about it, and a lot of people were already commenting their theories, which nailed it completely on the head. whether surprised or not, i hope it makes sense :3

also idk if this goes without saying but if you didn't like that gojo agree to go to the brothel / dont agree with sex work / dont like that geto indulges / yadda yadda pls dont make it my problem <3 im just writing what was common at the time, it's not indicative of my views on anything

gojo after realizing the woman looked like you

reblog and comment to let me know ur thots! :3

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hairmetal666 · 1 year ago

Text

No one knows who writes the Hawkins High Tattler. It comes out every week, without fail, has for almost two decades. Everyone reads it, even teachers, even parents. It's caused more the one suspension, grounding, and even--famously--a shipping off to boarding school.

Steve's never let the Tattler get to him much. He's in it, of course, practically a new story every week. But it's just silly gossip.

Of course, Steve is also, currently, the titular Tattler, so. It's not like he's surprised when his name shows up.

It's his third year, his last year, and he knows everything that ever goes on at Hawkins High. It's pretty easy, honestly. Everyone thinks he's ditzy and vapid; nothing more than hairspray and polos. People will say anything around him, assuming he's not listening or not interested, and then bam. It's in next week's Tattler. No one even suspects him.

The confessions locker probably helps. Down by the theater, busted and unusable, the perfect place for people to leave tips, to tattle on their friends (or enemies, as the case may be).

That's what he's doing right now, checking the confessions locker. After 9:30 on a Friday night, the place silent as the tomb, perfect time for it. Pretty standard fare this week. The only thing of interest is that Eddie Munson was the person who broke all Ms. Click's pencils and left the stubs on her desk. This one, he laughs at, can't wait to publish it; can't wait to talk to Munson about it.

He gets a lot of stuff about Eddie. Most of it he doesn't publish because it's bullshit about satanic rituals--the nerdy kids he babysits play dnd, and there's no way Karen Wheeler is letting anything satanic happen in her basement--or about his sexuality, and one thing Steve doesn't do is out people.

Gathering up this week's submissions, he closes the locker with a soft clink, and he swears, swears he hears the squeak of a tennis shoe on the polished tile of the floor. He freezes, heart in his throat. Nobody has been here this late before.

Seconds pass but there's only silence. Confident he's only hearing things, he heads out, the parking lot just as empty as when he arrived.

---

He sees Eddie a few days later, when he's picking up the kids from the arcade. They typically exchange casual greetings, but as Steve waits, Eddie stands with him, offers him a cigarette.

"Read that was you who messed with Click's pencils. Good one."

Eddie shrugs, gives a little bow and a smile. "Happy to be of service."

"It was my class, when she found them. Never seen her so mad."

"No way," Eddie laughs. "Not even when Hagan drew dicks on all the textbooks?"

"Not even then, man. She was throwing pencil stubs everywhere."

"Fuck, sad I missed it." Eddie takes a drag, Steve's eyes following the movement, lingering on his mouth. Something warm and tingling builds at the base of his spine and he forces his gaze away.

"How long you in detention for?"

"I'm not. Swore it wasn't me, and Click doesn't want to admit she reads the Tattler, so. Not much they could do. "

"I've seen it sitting on her desk!"

"I know! She reads it when she has detention duty!"

They lean against Steve's car, laughing, and Steve feels good. This is good. He likes Eddie. He's funny and dramatic and smart and kind. He's not deserving of any of the mean things that get submitted to the Tattler.

The kids come streaming into the parking lot then, and Eddie stubs out his cigarette, says "see you around, Harrington," and Steve finds himself flushing for reasons he can't quite explain.

---

He starts seeing Eddie around way more. He's in school most days, smoking in the parking lot after the last bell, chatting with Steve in the hallways.

It shows up in the Tattler; big news that the King and the Freak are hanging out. Most of the submissions are about it, increasingly elaborate rumors about their supposedly deep, close friendship.

He wishes he could tell Eddie.

Eventually, Eddie invites him to smoke at the quarry. He doesn't hesitate to say yes, doesn't even bother to try ignoring the swoop in his stomach, the speed of his heart.

They sprawl out in the back of the van, Eddie's loud, raucous music pounding around them, sharing a joint back and forth.

Steve gets hazy, boneless, can't stop watching Eddie, the way his lips purse around the joint, his long hair glinting gold in the weak light of the camping lanterns, the pleased shine of his eyes every time he makes Steve laughs.

He likes Eddie so much. Everything about him, honestly. Butterflies ping in his stomach, happy and slow, and he thinks how nice Eddie's lips are, wonders how soft they must be. And he thinks--he's read the submissions, right--he knows the things they say about Eddie, and he wishes it was true, he wants--he wants--

He wants

---

Steve's running late to check the locker. Lost track of time at the diner with Eddie, and it's making him panic.

He stuffs the submissions haphazardly into the pocket of his hoodie, dancing with nerves, willing himself to grab them all and get out.

Locker emptied, he sprints towards the exit. He has a second to process someone barreling towards him in the dark, but he's going too fast to stop, can only brace himself as they collide.

It sends him sliding across the floor, Tattler submissions spilling out of his pocket like snow. He hits the ground, scrabbling for the papers, praying that whoever is here with him can't see them in the low light.

Hands grips his biceps. "Stevie, Steve, we have to get out of here" and there's a second where he's comforted by the familiar rasp of Eddie's voice before terror spikes again.

He pulls himself from Eddie's grasp, searching for any dropped submissions in easy reach. "Wha--why--what's--"

"I ran into Jason Carver and his band of idiots at the gas station. They're on their way to here to try to catch the Tattler in action."

Steve freezes. "I don't--that's not--I--"

In the deep silence of the empty school, they both hear the slamming of a door, a bitten off giggle. Eddie grabs his wrist and they run. Into the theater room, through a door Steve didn't know existed, to the backstage area of the auditorium.

"You should be safe here," Eddie says.

Panic spirals through him. "I can explain. I was just--I forgot a--I needed--"

"Harrington! I know, okay? I already know."

Steve can only blink at him, swallows rough in his throat. "What--Eddie, I--"

"I saw you. Weeks ago. Forgot my notebook in the theater room after Hellfire and had to run back for it. You were there, at the locker."

"You can't tell anyone."

"I'm not going to."

"No, Munson, you really can't. Nobody can know. Nobody--"

"Swe--Stevie, I promise. The secret's safe with me." He rocks back on his heels, chewing on his lip for a second before he continues. " I--I couldn't figure you out, you know? I saw you around with those kids and it didn't make any sense. King Steve, babysitting tiny nerds? But I saw you at the locker and..."

"You're giving me too much credit, man."

"I don't think so. You're never--fuck, Harrington--you're never mean. At least, not in the last couple years. You spread gossip, but you don't punch down, and you're funny as hell. Mean as shit too, but only to the people who deserve it."

His ears burn and he looks down. "Just because I have fucking--fucking editorial standards doesn't mean that I'm anything special."

Eddie scoffs. "Remember, Stevie, I was reading it a year before you were here. Cruel, vapid garbage. Always the most vile, pointless stories about people who couldn't defend themselves. And how many submissions have you gotten about me, for instance, that you've never used?"

Steve clenches his fists. "I would never--"

"I know. Sweetheart, I know. That's why I li--You're so fucking good, Stevie."

He laughs, ears burning. "I'm really not, Eddie. I try to write about fun gossip that can't hurt anyone too much, and nobody's found me out because they think I'm too dumb--"

Eddie reaches out then, fingers connecting softly with the edge of Steve's jaw. He can't help but lean into the touch, eyes flickering closed.

"You don't want to hurt people because you're fucking kind. You know how I know for sure? You must get submissions every week about me, and you've never once printed that I'm--" Eddie stops then, swallowing hard.

Steve's throat goes tight. He rests his hand over Eddie's, still holding his face. "Me too," he whispers. "Kind of. I like--it's both. For me."

"Oh," Eddie breathes, mouth lifting in a bright, beautiful smile that Steve can't help but return.

He's watching, sees when Eddie's gaze drifts his lips, making his breath hitch. He doesn't really think about closing the distance between them, slotting their mouths together in a tentative, gentle kiss.

"You're just full of surprises aren't you, Steve Harrington? Eddie asks when they part.

Steve blushes. "That's sort of the last of them."

"Sure. Next you'll be telling me you've played dnd."

"I have a character."

"What???"

"Human paladin. Dustin worked on it with me. Ready to get out of here?"

"Human paladin," Eddie gapes. "You know--you said--what's happening?"

Steve twines their fingers together, leading Eddie towards the auditorium exit. "Well, first we're going to walk out to my car and then we're going to my house, and we're going to look through Tattler submissions. Maybe makeout a little bit."

Eddie giggles. "What the fuck? Like. What the fuck, sweetheart?"

He turns to face Eddie, smile big and pure and bright with happiness. "If you're really nice to me, I'll let you help write this week's issue."

"Oh, oh. You're going to wreck me." Eddie mumbles, almost to himself.

"If you're lucky." Steve beams.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #ficlet #fluff #friends to lovers #secret identity #gossip column #first kiss #getting together #steve harrington writes a gossip column #steve harrington is lady whistledown #eddie discovers steve's secret identity #they makeout about it #obviously erica becomes the tattler when she gets to high school. obviously

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mostlysignssomeportents · 9 months ago

Text

You should be using an RSS reader

On OCTOBER 23 at 7PM, I'll be in DECATUR, GEORGIA, presenting my novel THE BEZZLE at EAGLE EYE BOOKS.

No matter how hard we all wish it were otherwise, the sad fact is that there aren't really individual solutions to systemic problems. For example: your personal diligence in recycling will have no meaningful impact on the climate emergency.

I get it. People write to me all the time, they say, "What can I change about my life to fight enshittification, or, at the very least, to reduce the amount of enshittification that I, personally, experience?"

It's frustrating, but my general answer is, "Join a movement. Get involved with a union, with EFF, with the FSF. Tell your Congressional candidate to defend Lina Khan from billionaire Dem donors who want her fired. Do something systemic."

There's very little you can do as a consumer. You're not going to shop your way out of monopoly capitalism. Now that Amazon has destroyed most of the brick-and-mortar and digital stores out of business, boycotting Amazon often just means doing without. The collective action problem of leaving Twitter or Facebook is so insurmountable that you end up stuck there, with a bunch of people you love and rely on, who all love each other, all hate the platform, but can't agree on a day and time to leave or a destination to leave for and so end up stuck there.

I've been experiencing some challenging stuff in my personal life lately and yesterday, I just found myself unable to deal with my usual podcast fare so I tuned into the videos from the very last XOXO, in search of uplifting fare:

https://www.youtube.com/@xoxofest

I found it. Talks by Dan Olson, Cabel Sasser, Ed Yong and many others, especially Molly White:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MTaeVVAvk-c

Molly's talk was so, so good, but when I got to her call to action, I found myself pulling a bit of a face:

But the platforms do not exist without the people, and there are a lot more of us than there are of them. The platforms have installed themselves in a position of power, but they are also vulnerable…

Are the platforms really that vulnerable? The collective action problem is so hard, the switching costs are so high – maybe the fact that "there's a lot more of us than there are of them" is a bug, not a feature. The more of us there are, the thornier our collective action problem and the higher the switching costs, after all.

And then I had a realization: the conduit through which I experience Molly's excellent work is totally enshittification-proof, and the more I use it, the easier it is for everyone to be less enshittified.

This conduit is anti-lock-in, it works for nearly the whole internet. It is surveillance-resistant, far more accessible than the web or any mobile app interface. It is my secret super-power.

It's RSS.

RSS (one of those ancient internet acronyms with multiple definitions, including, but not limited to, "Really Simple Syndication") is an invisible, automatic way for internet-connected systems to public "feeds." For example, rather than reloading the Wired homepage every day and trying to figure out which stories are new (their layout makes this very hard to do!), you can just sign up for Wired's RSS feed, and use an RSS reader to monitor the site and preview new stories the moment they're published. Wired pushes about 600 words from each article into that feed, stripped of the usual stuff that makes Wired nearly impossible to read: no 20-second delay subscription pop-up, text in a font and size of your choosing. You can follow Wired's feed without any cookies, and Wired gets no information about which of its stories you read. Wired doesn't even get to know that you're monitoring its feed.

I don't mean to pick on Wired here. This goes for every news source I follow – from CNN to the New York Times. But RSS isn't just good for the news! It's good for everything. Your friends' blogs? Every blogging platform emits an RSS feed by default. You can follow every one of them in your reader.

Not just blogs. Do you follow a bunch of substackers or other newsletters? They've all got RSS feeds. You can read those newsletters without ever registering in the analytics of the platforms that host them. The text shows up in black and white (not the sadistic, 8-point, 80% grey-on-white type these things all default to). It is always delivered, without any risk of your email provider misclassifying an update as spam:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/10/dead-letters/

Did you know that, by default, your email sends information to mailing list platforms about your reading activity? The platform gets to know if you opened the message, and often how far along you've read in it. On top of that, they get all the private information your browser or app leaks about you, including your location. This is unbelievably gross, and you get to bypass all of it, just by reading in RSS.

Are your friends too pithy for a newsletter, preferring to quip on social media? Unfortunately, it's pretty hard to get an RSS feed from Insta/FB/Twitter, but all those new ones that have popped up? They all have feeds. You can follow any Mastodon account (which means you can follow any Threads account) via RSS. Same for Bluesky. That also goes for older platforms, like Tumblr and Medium. There's RSS for Hacker News, and there's a sub-feed for the comments on every story. You can get RSS feeds for the Fedex, UPS and USPS parcels you're awaiting, too.

Your local politician's website probably has an RSS feed. Ditto your state and national reps. There's an RSS feed for each federal agency (the FCC has a great blog!).

Your RSS reader lets you put all these feeds into folders if you want. You can even create automatic folders, based on keywords, or even things like "infrequently updated sites" (I follow a bunch of people via RSS who only update a couple times per year – cough, Danny O'Brien, cough – and never miss a post).

Your RSS reader doesn't (necessarily) have an algorithm. By default, you'll get everything as it appears, in reverse-chronological order.

Does that remind you of anything? Right: this is how social media used to work, before it was enshittified. You can single-handedly disenshittify your experience of virtually the entire web, just by switching to RSS, traveling back in time to the days when Facebook and Twitter were more interested in showing you the things you asked to see, rather than the ads and boosted content someone else would pay to cram into your eyeballs.

Now, you sign up to so many feeds that you're feeling overwhelmed and you want an algorithm to prioritize posts – or recommend content. Lots of RSS readers have some kind of algorithm and recommendation system (I use News, which offers both, though I don't use them – I like the glorious higgeldy-piggeldy of the undifferentiated firehose feed).

But you control the algorithm, you control the recommendations. And if a new RSS reader pops up with an algorithm you're dying to try, you can export all the feeds you follow with a single click, which will generate an OPML file. Then, with one click, you can import that OPML file into any other RSS reader in existence and all your feeds will be seamlessly migrated there. You can delete your old account, or you can even use different readers for different purposes.

You can access RSS in a browser or in an app on your phone (most RSS readers have an app), and they'll sync up, so a story you mark to read later on your phone will be waiting for you the next time you load up your reader in a browser tab, and you won't see the same stories twice (unless you want to, in which case you can mark them as unread).

RSS basically works like social media should work. Using RSS is a chance to visit a utopian future in which the platforms have no power, and all power is vested in publishers, who get to decide what to publish, and in readers, who have total control over what they read and how, without leaking any personal information through the simple act of reading.

And here's the best part: every time you use RSS, you bring that world closer into being! The collective action problem that the publishers and friends and politicians and businesses you care about is caused by the fact that everyone they want to reach is on a platform, so if they leave the platform, they'll lose that community. But the more people who use RSS to follow them, the less they'll depend on the platform.

Unlike those largely useless, performative boycotts of widely used platforms, switching to RSS doesn't require that you give anything up. Not only does switching to RSS let you continue to follow all the newsletters, webpages and social media accounts you're following now, it makes doing so better: more private, more accessible, and less enshittified.

Switching to RSS lets you experience just the good parts of the enshitternet, but that experience is delivered in manner that the new, good internet we're all dying for.

My own newsletter is delivered in fulltext via RSS. If you're reading this as a Mastodon or Twitter thread, on Tumblr or on Medium, or via email, you can get it by RSS instead:

https://pluralistic.net/feed/

Don't worry about which RSS reader you start with. It literally doesn't matter. Remember, you can switch readers with two clicks and take all the feeds you've subscribed to with you! If you want a recommendation, I have nothing but praise for Newsblur, which I've been paying $2/month for since 2011 (!):

https://newsblur.com/

Subscribing to feeds is super-easy, too: the links for RSS feeds are invisibly embedded in web-pages. Just paste the URL of a web-page into your RSS reader's "add feed" box and it'll automagically figure out where the feed lives and add it to your subscriptions.

It's still true that the new, good internet will require a movement to overcome the collective action problems and the legal barriers to disenshittifying things. Almost nothing you do as an individual is going to make a difference.

But using RSS will! Using RSS to follow the stuff that matters to you will have an immediate, profoundly beneficial impact on your own digital life – and it will appreciably, irreversibly nudge the whole internet towards a better state.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/16/keep-it-really-simple-stupid/#read-receipts-are-you-kidding-me-seriously-fuck-that-noise

#pluralistic #rss #xml #standards #disenshittification #big tech #surveillance #accessibility

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brittle-doughie · 3 months ago

Text

The Fishercookie (Gem Mermaids)

To that one Anon that requested a Fisherman Y/N.

Every day, the Cookies of the Creme Republic harbor would see the fishing boat leave in the morning and come back at the dead of night.

In and out of the fishing boat with a varying haul, would be you. Donning your worn, but still quite reliable fishing gear, you make your way to your fishing boat with an empty net and always come back with at least something in it when you return.

Sometimes, it was something as small as a blue tropical fish or maybe something as large as a cloud yogurt squid.

The fishmonger cookie at the harbor would give you the coins that were worth the catch you hauled in. She always had something to say when you step through that door into her abode.

“The seas haven’t been kind to ya, eh?”

For when you hauled in little catches.

“Now THIS. This is a fine catch ya brought in.”

And for when you brought in significant catches.

It was standard business fare, until she mentions a particularly unique creature that you could catch on.

Something that would leave you bothered.

“Say, you’ve been gettin’ pretty good with your hauls lately. I don’t think I’ve had this much business since forever! You’re a miracle worker, ain’t ya?”

“But have ya ever considered catching something…special. It ain’t no nightsky squid or anythin’, but a mermaid.”

You felt your being tense up at the mention of them…mermaids.

“They used to be all gathered in this kingdom of theirs, until that no good Abalone Cookie done scattered them all! Now that place is nothing but a ship graveyard nowadays….but I think you might have what it takes to find one of those mermaids.”

“They sell for quite the hefty amount of coin. I happen to have a number of customers wonderin’ when you’ll be hauling in one of ‘em.”

“Hey, ease up on the fishercookie, why don’t ya? They’re probably tired of you tryin’ to hassle them for a mermaid again.”

You turn around to see Captain Caviar Cookie walk into the shop, the fishmonger cookie grumbled to herself.

“Ha, if it ain’t Elder Captain Caviar Cookie. I wasn’t doing anythin’ of the sort, I was just trying to give my good ol’ pal a bit of a nudge. You know how many Cookies will pay a lot of coin for one of them.”

“Well good luck with that, there haven’t been a single sighting of ‘em ever since forever. They’re better off stickin’ to fishing big, yeah? Not bigger”

“They have potential! How can ya grow if ya don’t push your limits once in a while?”

“If pushing limits means possibly gettin’ soggy and crumbling out there in the Black Pearl Island, then I’d rather they stay away from there for good.”

Captain Caviar placed an arm over your shoulders as he leads you out.

“‘Ey! At least think about it! Seeing a mermaid is a once in a lifetime opportunity!”

“Leave ‘em be already! Listen, friend. Ya don’t need to listen to Fishmonger Cookie back there, y’know? You can just fish how you always do. You can never be prepared for the sea, it will throw all kinds of surprises at ya.”

“I don’t want to be the poor lad to find your soggy remains out at sea, all because some Cookie pressured ya to find a mermaid. Nobody has seen a single scale of them in a long time and they ain’t just gonna appear to any Cookie.”

“Do your pal a favor and keep away from the Black Pearl Islands, alright?”

You agreed and nodded your head, you had no intentions of going to the islands to find mermaids.

“I’d knew you’d understand! Come on, let’s have a drink of seawater juice, it’s on me!”

You didn’t have to go to the islands…

———————————————————————

Because, one night, the mermaids found you first…

You had casted your line and was waiting for a bite when you suddenly felt thrashing to the side of your boat. Your fishing net had caught something!

You quickly go to pull out your catch!

Was it going to be something like a fish or something like a squid!

What you got instead baffled you.

“Hey! Let me go! Argh, I can’t break free!”

It was a mermaid! A real mermaid, here in your net! You thought these mermaids weren’t around anymore, yet here one was squirming in your net!

It must’ve been pretty terrifying in her eyes when she sees you, illuminated by the moonlight, pulling out a knife.

“N-no! Please! It can’t end like this! Please, don’t hurt me…”

A mermaid….

A rare sight….

Just think of how much Coin you could earn….

You raise your blade as the mermaid braced herself for the strike….

…

Only for her to be freed from the net as you cut the ropes with your knife.

She’s able to move away as she looked up at you. You wanted to say something, but she answers first by hurriedly swimming away underwater.

You held back on your words, instead to just take your current haul and head home as the mermaid watched from afar….

———————————————————————

The next night, you were fishing as per usual, believing that would be the last you’d ever see of that mermaid…when you have this urge to look around you.

You did so to briefly make out a shadow in the distance in the water before it seemingly dived back down.

This repeated for a while, you had the feeling this shadow wasn’t going to come any closer like this.

So this time, right before you left, you left a small gift in the form of a little plant you had on your boat. It wasn’t much, but you hoped that it cleared any misunderstandings that were there.

———————————————————————

“You…you forgot this…”

She tried to hand you back the little plant as she slowly swam to your boat. You shook your head and nudged it back to her, you wanted her to keep it.

She looked at you surprised as she gazed down at the little plant, a small smile on her face as she looked up at you again.

“I’m Aquamarine Cookie, what about you?”

———————————————————————

This became routine when the moon rises during your fishing trips, you’d arrive at a particular spot and Aquamarine Cookie would be waiting for you. You’d two spend the time talking to each other, learning each other’s interests and worlds.

The “whale” you were on was called a boat and she was really interested in gardens, the plant you had given her wasn’t anything she’s seen in the sea. You made it your personal goal to give her plenty of plants for her garden, even the smallest of sprouts was enough for her.

The interactions between the two of you would not go unnoticed for long, for shadows further away in the water were watching the two of you, only descending when you had to leave.

———————————————————————

Aquamarine didn’t join you tonight, a heavy drizzle accompanied you along with a purple mermaid instead. She was steadfast and suspicious of you and your intentions…

“My sister couldn’t stop mentioning you so much, are you really as she described?”

Aquamarine Cookie was talking about you to them? You nodded your head, you had no intentions of harming her or Aquamarine Cookie. This mermaid cookie didn’t seem to believe you, hardening her glare as the drizzle turned to full rain.

You didn’t budge.

“You will turn soggy at this rate.”

You didn’t move an inch, if that’s what it takes, then so be it. She sighs as she waves your hand.

“You’re a stubborn Cookie.”

The rain stopped as the sky slowly clears ups. You take a breath as you tried to remain standing.

“If my sister trusts you, then I will come to do so as well. I have seen the path ahead and I wish to see that it comes true…”

———————————————————————

And it seemed that the new faces didn’t there for you, for more of these sea born Cookies have appeared before you alongside Aquamarine. A golden one would soon join you, her form shining seemingly even in the night light.

“It’s the land Cookie, maybe I should surprise them…”

You were conversing with Aquamarine and Mystic Opal Cookie when you hear a sudden splash behind you!

“BOO!”

That got you as you nearly fell off the edge I fright! This makes the gold mermaid giggle as you collected your bearings.

“Haha, I got you good, didn’t I!”

You nodded your head agree with her, she did get you good there!

“Anyway, I had heard that my sisters were getting pretty persistent in visiting a land Cookie, so I had to come to see for myself. I can already see you’re pretty easy on the eyes, way less odd looking than the usual two legged Cookie!”

To be so casually complimented by a newcomer mermaid, you will admit softened your heart up a lot!

“What’s the matter~? Haven’t had a mermaid compliment you before?”

———————————————————————

The seemingly last one to come to you was different then the Gem Mermaids, it was a jellyfish cookie!

You were going to greet this face that joined you on your nightly fishing when she’s pulled you into the water!

“Oh my…! You’re in need of cleaning! Don’t worry about a thing, just leave it to me…!”

And that’s how you spent that fishing venture in the water as Frilled Jellyfish Cookie toon her time making sure that every speck of you was clean, all the while she’d talk about “her lady”.

While it was nice to hear her reminisce on good times, you learned almost nothing about her from all that. You gestured that you wanted to talk about her, which confuses the jellyfish cookie.

“My lady is…huh? You want to hear about…me?”

It was difficult for her at first, since she wasn’t familiar with talking about herself, but you were patient and in time, you got to know her better, like how tidying up was her responsibility in this old kingdom of hers…

———————————————————————

Though, it would be the last one that proved herself to be…interesting.

While you sat on the edge of the boat, talking to your mercookie visitors, the water behind you now housed a shadow as the mercookie slowly rose up from the water.

Without warning, you were grabbed by the mercookie and pulled back into the water, shocking the others as you barely had time to register what was happening.

You were underwater, grabbed by the collar as an angry red mermaid stared you down, her red trident aimed at you.

“Normally, I’d have nothing to say to a Cookie of the land. You are fortunate that my sisters and Frilled Jellyfish Cookie have taken a fondness to you, so I will let you explain what you are doing out here by yourself!”

You raised your hands up in surrender as you shake your head! You had no ill intentions whatsoever with her fellow mercookies!

She scanned your eyes for any hint of cracks in your words, but can’t seem to find any as her scowl falls. She takes you up back to your boat as you crawled back onboard, the other mercookies relieved to see that you were okay as they tend to you.

Crimson Coral Cookie watched on from afar, seeing how much her fellow mercookies cared for a land Cookie. It made her think if she went about approaching you the wrong way and can’t help but feel a pinch of guilt at immediately assuming you were up to no good once word reached her about you.

She had asked the others to allow her a night alone with you to settle things.

“I had asked my sisters to grant me a chance to try and do this in a proper way. I just…it takes time for me to let my guard down when it comes to anything with land Cookies.”

You sat on the edge of your boat and opted to listen as she explained herself.

You make it clear to her and for the others if she ever tells them of this encounter that you mean no harm to them, even if she didn’t fully trust you yet. You were willing to be patient and wait for the day that she can.

“Hm, perhaps you are as my sisters talk about, land Cookie. Oh! I…shouldn’t be calling you that anymore, would you like to share me your name?”

———————————————————————

Soon, you had the whole group of mercookies joining you on your fishing trips, talking and sharing with you little stories of their lives from what once was their kingdom.

Gone were the days of you sitting in silence waiting for a catch when you had them to help pass the time, even helping you by nudging some catches in your way.

Seeing how much they were comfortable around you, showing themselves to you willingly and placing trust in you is why you’ll NEVER listen to Fishmonger Cookie, even before Captain Caviar Cookie’s talk with you.

Not now, not ever.

#cookie run #cookie run x reader #cookie run x you #cr x reader #cookie run kingdom #crk x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader #cr kingdom #frilled jellyfish cookie x reader #frilled jellyfish cookie #crimson coral cookie x reader #crimson coral cookie #gold citrine cookie #mystic opal cookie #aquamarine cookie

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relicsongmel · 5 months ago

Text

Iris, Miles, and their mutual "secret"

The Ace Attorney fandom is no stranger to discussions of homoerotic subtext in the game's script—pretty much everyone who's spent more than five seconds here will be able to tell you that. Screenshots of lines that imply romantic tension between same-gender characters are all over the place, to the point that many fans are drawn to the series purely by its reputation as "the gay lawyer game." Some scenes are more well-known than others, but one I find brought up fairly regularly is this conversation between Miles and Iris:

This is optional dialogue that can be triggered by presenting incorrect evidence on Iris' Psyche-Lock during the Investigation portion of Bridge to the Turnabout. The argument here is that the "secret" Iris is referring to is the same as her own: that being, a romantic interest in Phoenix Wright. Which is definitely hilarious when you consider that Iris has known Miles for less than a day and she's already reading him for filth (granted, she could have been clued in by the similarly infamous "indispensable friend" line, and she's also exceptionally good at reading people despite Miles thinking otherwise). As a Narumitsu shipper myself I am not immune to enjoying that interpretation; however, I feel like there's a lot of nuance in this scene that isn't often addressed by the fandom at large. Which is unfortunate because watering it down to just Iris calling out Miles for being the gayass he is (to be fair. she's not wrong) does a MASSIVE disservice to both of their characters, and I'll explain why.

My bone to pick with the usual analysis of this scene is mostly centered around the larger conversation to be had regarding the treatment of female characters in fandom spaces. All too often they tend to play second fiddle to the male characters, and a similar principle holds true for ships with their canonical male love interests: mostly ignored in favor of the the more popular M/M ship(s). At best these women are sidelined, at worse they are flattened into wingmen for the boys (as is frequently the case with many AA girls and Narumitsu, Iris included), and at the absolute worst they are demonized for their perceived "competition" with whatever gay ship is most popular and therefore the Only Valid One for the male characters involved (as exemplified by some very "passionate" fans that I generally try to avoid interacting with). Whenever this scene gets brought up, the focus is almost always exclusively on Miles and what the interaction says about his relationship with Phoenix; Iris is only relevant insofar as she's the one initiating Miles' Homosexual Moment™—you could replace her with almost any other character and there'd be a similar level of neglect for their role in the interaction. Only very rarely will you see attention given to what Iris' question about Miles' secret means when she is the one asking it, and what it can tell us about her relationship with Miles/what she thinks of him, and vice versa (absolutely wild how even Miles himself is often flanderized despite being the fandom's golden child). It's all too characteristic of the systemic misogyny that has plagued fandom since its inception, which is deeply frustrating to me as someone who adores Iris as much as I do (if that wasn't obvious by now). So that said, let's dive deeper into what I think the missing link is here: namely, the Iris-Miles dynamic as it pertains to their relation to Phoenix.

Iris and Miles is one of my favorite relationships to explore in the whole series—but as I've described above, unfortunately a lot of people get it wrong in my opinion. Discussion about the two is frequently centered around Narumitsu Love Drama—which is a conversation worth having, don't get me wrong—but the elements at play there aren't always represented the way I envision them, which again, is frustrating. Take the idea of potential jealousy, for instance: it's pretty standard love triangle fare that can be (and often is) quickly turned into demonization when it's used in a shipping context, character assassination be damned (re: Narumitsu fanfic authors that project their personal dislike of Feenris onto Miles via his jealousy of Iris and/or how they tend to portray Iris unfavorably). However, it's not inherently a bad thing to explore: personally, I do believe that there is mutual jealousy between the two of them. Miles might not have the full context of Iris' history when this conversation takes place, but he's emotionally intelligent enough to pick up on what Iris means to Phoenix, and vice versa. And him being a jealous hoe about it isn't out of the question when you consider that he's a bit of a loner by nature and doesn't have many close friends or outlets for socialization outside of his job. The crucial element that's sometimes missed, though, is that Miles not only lacks the self-awareness to realize he's a jealous hoe...he's also a self-sabotaging jealous hoe.

And the same can be said for Iris, who is similarly introverted and doesn't often leave her home at Hazakura Temple.

The whole reason Miles is peering into Iris' heart in the first place can be found in this exchange, after he breaks her Psyche-Lock:

Miles uses the Magatama in order to gain the answers he needs to bring the truth to light and get Iris acquitted, and he does so for the express purpose of reuniting her with Phoenix so they can find closure—in fact, he reiterates this to her multiple times. He obviously recognizes how Phoenix is suffering from what happened between them (I'd argue he sympathizes with Iris' plight as well) and has resolved to do what he can to help him heal, but there's no reason for him to be so insistent that she rectify things with Phoenix when it does nothing but harm his own chances with him. Unless, of course...that's the whole point.

To convince Iris to reveal her secret so he doesn't have to face his own, because he thinks himself undeserving.

And Iris, noticing this because she empathizes with that feeling of unworthiness, calls him out on it in an almost uncharacteristically forward manner when she asks him what he's hiding.

Takes one to know one, indeed.

Iris highly respects Miles for taking on her defense despite the risk to his job as a prosecutor. She's willing to trust him after hearing he's a friend of Phoenix, hearing him out and letting him reason with her. She still keeps her cards close to her chest in some regards, but she's more honest with him than she's been with anyone else in her life apart from her sister. She sees his commitment to the truth and how it starkly contrasts with how she's lived her life to this point, and thinks that this is the type of partner Phoenix deserves—not someone like her, who only knows how to survive using lies and deception. She sees so much strength in him but still recognizes the insecurity lurking beneath his tenacity, which is why when he falters in his logic, she takes a leap of faith and gives him one last chance to examine his reasons for pushing the burden of his unspoken affections onto her, as if to say: "Look in the mirror. Is this really for me? Or is it for you? Do you really seek the truth for its own sake, or do you merely hope to find one truth so you might run from another?"

Her question to Miles is a gamble—a coin flip of self-sacrifice. If she loses and he presses on, she has to face the secret within her heart she's been suppressing for five years. But if she wins and he gives in to the truth in his, she has to live the rest of her life watching it unfold and knowing she threw away her chance to finally stop living in fear of her own love.

Either way, there's no escaping heartache for her anymore.

Miles and Iris both want what's best for Phoenix and prioritize their vision of his feelings over their own. However, they are also both deeply emotionally repressed people who find difficulty in being direct with their feelings, and are predisposed to self-sabotage due to childhood trauma. These tendencies may manifest in different ways for both of them, but the fact remains that such people would likely not compete for a person's affection in the traditional sense, which is exactly what we see with how Iris and Miles deflect their feelings for Phoenix. These selfless, lovestruck idiots toss that man around like a game of hot-potato because their mutual self-hatred for the ways they've harmed him has rendered them terrified of the reality of what he means to them, and desperate to find a way out of admitting to it. It's the most compelling explanation I can think of for why the usually unassuming Iris makes such a bold judgment about what Miles might be keeping locked away, and why Miles goes to such lengths to make sure she talks to Phoenix and tells him the truth—his agreement to defend her was conditional on that exact promise. They go through this whole song-and-dance of playing wingman to ignore their own feelings while still trying to bring Phoenix the happiness they think he deserves—and then they wonder why seeing Phoenix give the other one attention burns them up inside.

Because they’re dumb. And I love them.

TL;DR the Iris Psyche-Lock scene in BttT is so much more than just "haha Miles gay" and I wish people talked about it more. Also Iris and Miles are way more similar than they appear at first glance and if I think about it for too long it makes me physically ill thank you for coming to my TED talk

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solxamber · 7 months ago

Note

Helloo, I absolutely love you writing! Your understanding of the twst characters’ personalities is phenomenal 😭❤️

May I request both Ace and Malleus crushing on reader simultaneously, and both are aware that the other likes reader (reader is oblivious hehe). Ace gets super insecure since he isn’t powerful nor of royal status and believes there’s no way he can compete against him, meanwhile Malleus gets super jealous since Ace has been friends with reader ever since and is the most close with him.

Ace x Reader x Malleus (Love Triangle)

a/n: the giggle i let out when i saw this!! such a fun concept and thank you so much 🫶🫶

It started with a normal day: you laughing at one of Ace's jokes, completely unaware of the storm brewing behind you. The storm in question was Ace and Malleus glaring daggers at each other over your oblivious head.

Ace was slouched in his chair, shooting side-eyes at the imposing figure standing too close to your desk. Why does he have to hover like that? he thought bitterly. Malleus, for his part, was casting pointed glances at Ace’s casual posture, as if silently saying, Is this the best you can do?

Neither could deny the truth. They were both hopelessly, tragically in love with you. And they both knew it.

Ace prided himself on being the guy you could count on for a laugh. But today, he was on a mission: show you how amazing he was.

“So, anyway,” he said loudly during your study session in the library, “I totally aced—get it?—my magic exam. Got full marks.” He leaned back smugly, hoping you’d be impressed.

Malleus, who had been quietly sitting nearby (because of course he was), looked up. “Impressive, Ace Trappola. But I suppose it pales in comparison to wielding centuries-old magic and commanding legions of loyal subjects.”

Ace choked on his own smugness. “Yeah, well, I bet you don’t even know how to mix a potion without turning it into swamp goo, huh?”

“Actually, I mastered potion-making at a young age. I created an elixir capable of reviving withered flora.”

“Cool, cool. Can you tell me how any of that helps the prefect with our history homework?” Ace shot back, leaning closer to you.

Malleus frowned. “History is one of my strongest subjects.”

“Oh my Seven—” Ace groaned and threw his hands up. “We get it. You’re ancient!”

You looked between them, confused. “Are you two okay?”

“Perfectly fine,” Malleus said smoothly.

“Great! I was just explaining history to Deuce,” Ace lied shamelessly.

Lunch was another battlefield. Ace had secured a seat next to you and was recounting a funny story involving Grim, a mop, and a very angry caterpillar monster.

“…and then Grim screamed so loud, I think half the campus heard him! Right, Prefect?” Ace said, nudging you.

Before you could respond, the shadow of a tall figure fell over the table.

“Malleus,” Ace said with a forced grin. “Didn’t see you there. Like, at all.”

“I thought I would join you,” Malleus said, sitting directly across from you, his gaze unwavering. “Do you require assistance with your meal? Perhaps I could conjure something more fitting for your taste.”

“Okay, that’s just cheating,” Ace muttered under his breath.

“Conjuring food is a skill that requires great control,” Malleus said casually. “It’s a shame some rely solely on mediocre cafeteria fare.”

“Oh, so now the chicken nuggets aren’t good enough for you?” Ace snapped.

“They lack refinement,” Malleus said.

“Yeah? Well, you lack… I dunno, vibes!” Ace countered.

You blinked. “Ace, are you okay? You’re yelling about chicken nuggets.”

“Y-Yeah, I’m good,” Ace mumbled, shoving a nugget in his mouth to shut himself up.

The tension boiled over during a school festival. There was a dance competition, and both Ace and Malleus signed up for one reason: to win your attention.

Ace went first, pulling off a routine filled with flashy moves that he definitely stole from a popular video. The crowd cheered, and you clapped the loudest.

“Not bad, right?” Ace said, slightly out of breath but grinning. “Bet I’m the first guy you’ve seen dance like that.”

Before you could respond, Malleus stepped onto the stage.

“I shall now perform a traditional dance of my homeland,” he announced.

It was graceful, mesmerizing, and undeniably magical—literally. The lights dimmed, and green flames swirled around him as he moved with perfect precision. The crowd was silent, utterly captivated.

Ace stood next to you, slack-jawed. “I… I can’t compete with that.”

You turned to him with a smile. “I thought your dance was amazing too.”

Ace lit up like a firework. “Y-Yeah? You mean that?”

Malleus, mid-spin, glanced at you both. His expression darkened.

Eventually, the competition escalated to new heights of absurdity. Ace baked you cookies, only to find out Malleus had hand-carved you a jewelry box. Malleus enchanted roses to bloom eternally, and Ace countered by organizing a surprise karaoke night with all your favorite songs.

But when you tripped and both of them scrambled to catch you, the ridiculousness reached its peak.

“You caught their hand,” Malleus said, an edge to his voice.

“And you caught their other hand!” Ace snapped.

You, still mid-air, sighed. “Can someone just catch me completely next time?”

Despite their antics, one thing was clear: they both adored you. And while their rivalry was exasperating, it was also… kind of sweet.

Well, for you, anyway. For them? Not so much.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #ace trappola x reader #ace x reader #malleus draconia x reader #malleus x reader #ace trappola #malleus draconia

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xelasrecords · 1 month ago

Text

So, This Is a Mess

Caleb x Reader

You’re in a friends-with-benefits relationship with someone and Caleb knows. You know he knows, but that doesn’t make things easier.

Words: 4.5k

Masterlist | Read on AO3

The light is on when you drag your feet into your apartment. You try to be quiet, but Caleb appears from your room and catches your phantom. He rubs your shoulders, a soothing motion, a gentle reminder that he’s here. He sports an inscrutable expression on his face. This is how you cradle nothing in your palms. He doesn’t have to try hard; you float to him weightlessly and occupy the space around him until he leaves.

His skin sticks. It’s a balmy night. Wash away all remnants of dirt before you get to hold him back. Yes.

You step back. “I’m dirty. I’ll join you in bed after I clean up.”

Caleb lets his hands fall away. “Where have you been? I got my weekend off. I wanted to bring you to the new bakery down the street. Their apple pies smell heavenly.”

Guilt twinges in your stomach. You never have enough time with Caleb, yet you have wasted half a day for someone who doesn’t matter, his name just a string of numbers in your phone.

“Tomorrow?” you offer. “Wait for me. I’ll be right back.”

You spin on your heel. There’s nothing you would like to do more than rest with Caleb, but the persistent throbbing between your legs is distracting you. Too dry, the condom scratches, no lubricant, but do it anyway, we’re already here. It doesn’t happen often, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

If you suggest it first, you can save yourself from wondering whether he would continue despite your protests. You don’t have to discover how cruel men can be in times of need. His flesh needs yours. So what? You don’t always have to be in the mood to fuck. Simply insert his cock and off with the pounding.

Caleb must have known. Not everything, but enough. The bathroom mirror doesn’t lie. Lipstick that smudges your chin, hair that holds the proof of being wrapped around a rough hand, bruises smattering your breasts. Caustic marks from teeth and nails. His grip was strong, his sharp bites even more.

It’s good to forget. When Caleb has to return to Skyhaven, it’s good to be preoccupied with pain that isn’t inflicted by him. Caleb means well, but Caleb also hurts you. You collect pain like amulets, switching one out with the other so you’re not consumed by one constant all the time. It’s a cowardly move, sorry Caleb.

You pin your hair up and quickly rinse yourself under the shower head. A gentle, brittle-voiced reminder from another time rings in your ear: My precious granddaughter, you’ll fall sick if you shower with cold water at night. But Grandma is dead and you have grown to embrace the aches in your body. One more won’t hurt.

You have half a mind to insert a few fingers into you, bringing yourself to the climax that you were robbed of, but it’s too sore. He had told you to do it yourself after he was done, but you didn’t feel like putting on a show for him. He would have put down his phone and watch, sure, but spreading your legs for another man’s entertainment feels too performative and less focused on your bliss.

It’s not like you haven’t tried it. Even when the body you’re pleasuring is yours, the attention is still on him. Men get to have a lot of things without asking while you have to fight hard to keep them for yourself. What’s yours isn’t always yours. Anyway you don’t want to feel the shame washing over you after you tip over and listen to him cooing over how sexy you are when what you feel is akin to a commodity. At least sex workers get paid. You get to be sent home without being walked out. Taxi fare on you. Head clouded over the unfairness of this situation.

But you wanted it. It was a fair trade. You should stop pitying yourself.

You’ve kept Caleb waiting for too long. You sigh and spray dry shampoo on your hair before clothing yourself. Your satisfaction can come later.

Caleb is slouching against the bed headboard when you open the door. For a moment, you lean against the frame, watching him. This is the person you have hurt too. He’s never approved of you sleeping around, not on the basis that women who do are whores, but on the principle that you should be saved for the best. Caleb hasn’t yet found the best suited for you. You don’t care much about it. If this is your lot in life, you’ll accept it and march ahead.

Without a word, Caleb levitates you into the space between his legs and summons a hairbrush, parting your mussed hair with patience. Some habits don’t die, and despite the very adult things you just did, you wish to crawl back into Caleb’s embrace like a little child. He provides safety like no other when he consoles you. You can do no wrong in his eyes. He’ll always forgive you because you’re more important than your mistakes. He’s repeated this so often that it’s become a mantra of your own.

“Were you with the guy I caught here last month?” Caleb’s voice is deceptively light.

You nod. “I don’t juggle multiple guys at once. It’s too much work.”

“So you count him and me as one?”

“You’re different.”

“You’re right.” He chuckles louder than the conversation warrants it. “I’m clearly better than them.”

You smile up at him. “Yeah, and I’m not fucking you. That’s how I can tell. I’ve never felt you inside me.”

Caleb pauses his movement but quickly gathers the locks of your hair and lays them over your shoulders. “Is just sex enough for you?”

You lean back until your body is resting on top of his, the hard planes of his chest against your head as he wraps his large arms around your chest. “I don’t know. I don’t let myself think too much about it. I’d get depressed if I did. Then I wouldn’t know what to do next,” you say. “Do you hate me for this?”

“I can never hate you for anything.”

You frown. “That’s worse. I wish you could resent me a little. Infinite forgiveness is too heavy to carry.”

“Then stop doing things that make you feel guilty.” Caleb pokes your cheek. “You also have the option to be happy, choose it.”

What would that happiness look like? Being with him? Does Caleb truly believe choosing him would make you happy? You’re sure it wouldn’t work for the other way around even if it did. His joy around you glitches like a damaged mask. He forces himself to be happy for your sake and thinks you don’t notice. He can’t choose himself either.

Then there’s your dissatisfaction with him because Caleb can’t give you enough. He always offers you just enough truth, just enough sugar to keep you satiated for some time. You’re tired of chasing shadows whenever you’re with him. He never lets you exist beside him.

The men in your lives tend to give what they think is suitable for you without considering your needs. You can’t blame them for it. Not when you’re the common denominator here.

“I am happy.” You grab Caleb’s forefinger and point it to the middle of your chest. “With you like this, I am.”

“You haven’t laughed in a long time and I’m scared I’m the cause of it.” You can feel his ragged exhale against your ear. “You have been out of reach ever since you discovered that I’m alive.”

“I’m not out of reach. I’m literally surrounded by you right now.” You squeeze his bare legs as confirmation.

Caleb wraps them tighter around you. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

You do know. “I’m sorry.”

No matter how much you want him, you can’t have him. Caleb will always leave. He can claim he’ll give you everything and whisk you away to a faraway island where nobody knows about your existence, but those are whimsical dreams. He is tied to his fleet and you can’t let him in to see him walk away. There are things he needs to deal with before he’s free to be with you. You don’t want to tie him down. Better to be alone than to amplify each other’s suffering.

Caleb turns your body to face him and you jolt, the scars scrape against your clothes. Now that the pleasure is gone, all left on you are the marks of plunder. No, that isn’t the right word. You weren’t forced to do anything you didn’t want to, but you might have given more than you could take tonight. It’s often like this. You don’t know how far you’ve pushed until you take in the aftermath. The clean-up is more exhausting than the journey. What have you got out of this arrangement? You’re not even sated, not even happy.

Horror slashes across Caleb’s face. “You’re hurt. Where are you hurt?”

You shake your head and bury your face into his chest, inhaling the scent of aftershave that clung to his t-shirt. “Just generally,” you mumble.

But Caleb isn’t having it. He pulls you up again so he can scan your body, but there’s nothing he can detect unless he strips you. Your sex partner is careful that way. Can’t attract unwanted attention. It’d be an extra workload that he would have to put in. Not that you want it either. Keep things as easy as possible.

Caleb won’t take off your clothes. You used to imagine he would, but now you can’t breach the topic without shattering your fragile connection. One wrong move and he’ll retreat into space. One wrong move and he’ll deprive you of the outside world and lock you down. To be near or far from him strangles you in equal amounts.

“Caleb, I’m fine. These things happen.”

A concerned divot forms between his brows. “Tell me the truth. Do you like mixing violence with sex?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “I just want the sex.”

“No, pip-squeak.” You cringe at the nickname. It’s as if Caleb used it to remind you of your age, that you’re younger and more naïve and therefore should listen to him. It paints a jarring contrast from the topic you’re discussing. He runs his hand through his dark hair and takes a deep breath. “Have you talked about your preferences with him?”

You shrug. “I was on board the first time he did it to me. I wanted to try it too.” You want to be pushed. Tested. Feel everything instead of nothing. Sex can be a punitive relief if one is desperate enough.

“But did he ask whether you liked it?” Caleb presses. “Does he care if you don’t?”

You wave it away with a gesture. “My body gives away enough reaction.”

It doesn’t need to be said that when your body isn’t reacting enough, he’ll toss you aside. But that’s fine because he apologises and comes around eventually. He greets you with a relieved smile and pays for the lingerie he wants you to wear. It gives you as much relief in return that you’re still desired. You never kid yourself into believing there’s something more, so you shouldn’t expect an above-and-beyond treatment from a casual lay.

You must have learned this infinite capacity of forgiveness from Caleb.

Caleb cups your jaw and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “He doesn’t sound like a nice person.”

The defence slips out of your mouth before you can mull it over. “Occasionally he’s nice.”

“And how much more occasionally bad should you take?” asks Caleb softly.

He’s starting to infuriate you. No matter how bad this guy is, he is your choice. You decide who to sleep with. You decide how far you want to get hurt and which pain you want to go through. There’s less risk in toying with a near stranger than Caleb. They’re disposable, he’s not.

“Right now, there’s only him,” you say, your tone clipped. “Drop this subject. I’m tired.”

“You deserve to be with someone who cares about your interests,” Caleb insists. “Someone who sees you more than just a body to be used. A casual arrangement doesn’t mean he can treat you like an object. Love yourself more. You deserve better.”

You let out a humourless laugh. “Who will treat me that way? Introduce me to that person then. I’ll fuck him for you.”

Caleb grinds his jaw and pinches your chin to meet his gaze. “No.”

You climb on top of his thighs. “Why not? Scared that I’ll have a better sex life and leave you behind? Maybe you like me in this situation. You get to be my saviour after a boring fuck. Console me until I feel fine again.”

Caleb glares at you in disbelief. “Trust me, I get no enjoyment from seeing you sleeping with other guys.”

“So, what gets you off if cuckolding isn’t your thing?” If he won’t back down, you won’t either.

“You’re committed to being a menace tonight.” Caleb’s eyes flit across your determined expression and he shakes his head. “But sorry, I’m not in the mood to entertain you.”

This is exactly what you hate about him. Never says the truth. Never brave enough to claim what he wants. Does he think you would stick around forever just because he wills it? You feel like a side-piece in everyone’s lives. You’re wanted but not kept, as if there’s only so much of you they can handle before they run away screaming, regretting ever letting you in.

“I thought you wanted me, but you steer clear from me like you’d contract a deadly disease if you get too close,” you say.

“That’s not what I’m scared of.” At your challenging look, Caleb continues, “You don’t want to know the kind of thoughts I have about you when you’re around.”

You bunch his shirt into a ball in your fist and pull him closer. “Only when I’m around?”

Caleb tries to avert his eyes, but you yank at his shirt harder. He looks down, sounding hoarse. “No, not only then.”

With his lips in such close proximity, it would be so easy to steal a taste. His body is within reach also. Every cell in you calls towards him, and really, you would give yourself to him if things were less complicated. If you weren’t still tangled with another guy. The relationship is not exclusive, but you don’t want to do Caleb the disservice of not bestowing him your full care and attention.

But maybe a kiss is fine. Just one kiss.

“May I...” you trail off, your fingers dancing across his lips.

Caleb kisses your fingers and closes his eyes, his breathing harsh. Time stretches on for eternity before he finally speaks. “I don’t know.”

You bend down to press your lips against your own fingers, imagining it was him you were kissing. Your heart breaks for him and yourself, for the circumstances you’ve put yourselves in. “All right, I won’t force you.”

“We can cuddle,” murmurs Caleb into your skin. He doesn’t want to part from you. You don’t have to ask him to know that it’s true. A part of him is still naked for you to read. He hasn’t completely shrouded himself away. You hold on to this truth. “Like the old times.”

You wriggle into his arms and he holds you flush against his body, but it feels nothing like the old times.

Your limbs are too long now and you’re too aware of each other’s presence. Proximity has never quickened your pulse before. It used to be enough just to be embraced and fall asleep together. Now you’re restless, your mind reaching for the mirage that’s always out of reach.

“I can’t hold you too.” You tilt your head at Caleb, watching his Adam’s apple bob when your breath fans across it. If only you could graze it without implying anything romantic or sensual. It’s tough to know where the line is drawn and who is drawing the line. “You distanced yourself from me first.”

Caleb looks pained. “I thought it was for the better.”

“Then why didn’t you disappear again after I left?”

“I thought about it,” he admits. “But acting on my thoughts is harder when I’ve seen the extent of danger you are in.”

“The safest I am is by your side,” you echo his past sentiment. It’s not a statement you entirely believe in. You are the safest with him, but you also feel the smallest.

You try to remind yourself that being small can be a good thing. Being hard to catch is freedom in itself. If nobody notices you, you don’t have to notice them too. Then, the physicality of your existence can be erased temporarily. Contorting yourself to fit the shape of those who want you has always been your strong suit. This isn’t much different.

“Sometimes I wish you could stand behind me,” says Caleb. “Use me as your shield.”

“And let them break you? A broken shield wouldn’t do anyone good. You’d only be buying time before they get to me.”

Caleb catches your wrist, his eyes a fervid fire that’s been more and more familiar to you. “They won’t. I’ll protect you,” he swears. “Let me protect you from this guy too. Do you even know his name?”

“I have a feeling you’d know more about him than me.” You hold your gaze and Caleb glances away. You’re aware of the kind of things he’s up to to keep you safe. There hasn’t been any illusion of him being sweet and trusting since his revival. You still can’t decide whether you’re fine with this new constraint of freedom.

“I hate to see you keep getting hurt,” he says.

“Tell me that again when you’ve stopped hurting me,” you speak flatly. “I knew it’d be like this since I rang him up. This is manageable.”

Caleb winces. “You shouldn’t have to keep managing your pain. Eradicate it if possible.”

You roll your eyes. “Speak for yourself.”

“It’s impossible in my case.”

“Then you have no say in mine.” When Caleb is still adamant about looking everywhere but you, you repeat with more force, “Do not interfere with my relationship. I’ll cut you off if you do.”

His jaw drops. The betrayal in his face isn’t faked. “You’re choosing him over me. I thought I was different.”

You clamp his mouth shut. “I’m choosing my freedom.”

“What about me?” he asks. “Where am I on your list? I remember how you used to follow me around, loudly proclaiming that I was the coolest person you’d ever known. That you were so lucky to have me. You were so little that I could fit you in the palm of my hand.” Caleb’s smile is sad as he drops his head.

“I didn’t know I was a hamster.” You punch his shoulder lightly. “I don’t rank you. You’re just here, in my heart.” You grasp his left hand, the one that can still feel you, and hold it against the left side of your ribs. “You float in my orbit always.”

From the table, your phone chooses the most inopportune moment to buzz and your hand reflex chooses the most inopportune time to pick it up. It’s automatic, groomed by days of waiting by your phone just to get a short reply from him. When attention is dangled in front of you, you can’t help but bite it, convince him that you’re still interested so he won’t go away, never mind how desperate you must look.

Pride only hurts you in the long run and that isn’t the kind of pain you revel in.

“Is it him?” Caleb’s hand curls into a fist. He could punch through your ribcage and you would allow him. Offer him your beating heart to make him happy. As proof of love, as repentance.

You hum in affirmation.

“Do you have a text-based relationship too?” he asks.

“When either of us is bored.”

“Well, you’re not bored now.” Caleb snatches the phone out of your grasp. “He already had you. Is that not enough? Let me see what else he wants to take.”

Your heart pounds. Caleb witnessing your flirting is the last thing you need. You shift your body up the bed so your head is next to Caleb’s, and relax after reading the text. He merely apologised if he was too rough. Maybe should delay the next fuck until you’ve healed. Drop a text when you’re ready. He’ll wait.

Caleb scoffs. “What a polite gentleman.”

“I told you. He can be nice.”

The glare Caleb throws at you is eerily reminiscent of his scolding when you tried to get out of your study sessions. “Nice is offering to bring you to the hospital and fetch your medicine. Nice is not pushing you when you’re not into it.”

“He’ll wait for me to heal,” you point out.

Caleb slow-claps. “Congratulations, you’re dating a dog.”

“Give me my phone. I want to reply to him.” You try to take it back, but Caleb shoves it into his back pocket, fully knowing your hands aren’t grubby enough to venture to his backside. Not anymore. It won’t be an innocent mischief if you do.

“He said he’ll wait. Make him wait. Reserve your speedy response for me.” Caleb pats his pocket in triumph. “How often does he text you anyway? Every day?”

Having Caleb barring you does help. If you leave him on read, you can live in the fantasy that you hold all the power, that this time, he’s the one kept on his toes. The moment you send a message, you’ll have to play the waiting game again, anxiety multiplying as you imagine the things that keep him from sparing a few seconds for you. You should prolong this sweet spot as long as you can.

You’re grateful that Caleb sends you constant updates about his ever-changing schedule. At least with him, you don’t have to guess where his attention lies. Well, not as much. He also has his moments.

You hope he won’t disappear again.

“Not really,” you mutter.

He raises his brows. “Do you want him to?”

A familiar shame burns your face. Desperation turns you into a fool and it always, always shows its face to the person you want to hide it from the most. “It’s not like how I talk to you,” you hurry to explain. “We’re not close. We don’t cuddle like this. He doesn’t know how to comfort me like you do.”

This too, is desperation in its more rudimentary form. You don’t want Caleb to assume things that aren’t true and lose him completely. You don’t want him to be so furious that he cuts off all of your social network. You need to stabilise his emotions before they go haywire. He needs to be calm for you to be calm.

“No one knows you like I do,” Caleb responds in a low voice. There’s a ferocity in it that sends a pleasant shiver down your back. “He may have touched your body, but I’m the one who takes care of you. No one should be this familiar with every tic and quirk of yours. It’s my duty to know you and remember you. No one else’s. Don’t give your everything to him. You won’t have anything left in the end.”

“Do you think it’d be any different if I give myself to you instead?” you whisper.

Caleb nods. “Because I’ll give myself to you too. You won’t be alone anymore.”

You almost sob at his sincerity. It’s a promise he can’t fulfil, surely he knows that. Being with Caleb will still leave you lonely because he never completely lets you in. His idea of giving himself to you doesn’t mirror yours. The way he loves you is exhausting. You don’t want him to wreck himself for you. He never stops to think about the toll it has on the person who has to watch him break over and over.

You’re not that selfish.

“Caleb, I love you, but—”

He presses a finger to your mouth before you finish the sentence. “Don’t say you love me then follow it with a contradiction.” Caleb’s voice cracks and along with that, your resolve to set your foot down. “I’d rather go on with my life without hearing it from you.”

His eyes waver and you know that he’s waiting for you to refute, to tell him that you can say the three words and let them take shape as a lone entity, but—there’s always a but. Love is never easy between the two of you. It’s a fact set in stone from the moment you were set in the same household as him.

An urge to apologise bubbles up your throat. Would he accept an apology, or would you be gifting him an apple laced with poison?

In the end, you just nod. “Okay.”

It is not the answer Caleb is hoping for.

You turn your back against him so you won’t have to see what kind of poison he has bit into. You’re a bad apple. It must be tiring to deal with you. Only a matter of time before he weeds you out. There’s an expiration date to everything. People die and affection can be lost. You’re not the exception to the rule.

With caution, Caleb gathers his arm around your waist and kisses the back of your head. This kiss is allowed. It’s too solemn to escalate to anything more. You don’t look up, don’t make eye contact. Keep tears from spilling.

“For what it’s worth,” Caleb murmurs into your hair, “I love you too.”

You bite the inside of your cheek until blood explodes into your mouth.

You wish to forget it. The first time Caleb confesses without the protective film of platonic love shouldn’t be like this. You pat his hand with a steady rhythm. “There are better people to love out there.”

“My best is you. You’re my reason to live.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m not.” Caleb drags you into the concave space between you until every inch of your body is touching. Your stomach flutters from the firm press of his arm despite it all. “Go to sleep. I’ll patch you up if your body is still sore tomorrow.”

You want to talk more, but what else is there to say? You possess the power to hurt him, you have used it to your advantage, and Caleb just lets you. This proves that the closeness he yearns for will only ruin him.

Remorse twists in your gut without the ability to free itself and make things right. Caleb is better than you. He always makes you feel better. You suspect there’s nothing much you do that doesn’t make things worse.

You chant a litany of apologies into the night. Nobody can absolve you from this sin. It’s a burden you have to bear on your own.

Footnotes:

I wanted to write about the grey area in sex where it’s consensual but you can’t shake off the feeling of being used after, and how Caleb would realistically react to it based on the limited information he’s gleaned.

I like exploring how Caleb and MC’s codependency shows up in different scenarios. It holds so much power to either make or break them. Combine this with a reader who never puts themselves first, trapping themselves in the FWB relationship and adding to the distance from Caleb... It was fun to dig into how insecurity can derail the relationship you care about the most.

There are a few mentions of Grandma and death to show that the reader is still affected by her death. I think grief is sneaky this way, making itself known even when you don’t realise it’s influencing your thoughts and decisions.

At this point, it’s a rite of passage to put all my blorbos through a complicated relationship at least once. I wrote the first draft in one day because I’m obsessed with making Caleb suffer. Sorry. He’s just so angst-shaped to me. I can’t imagine him in a simple happy setting. Maybe one day. Canon source doesn’t even allow him to.

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#xela writes #caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb #love and deepspace #lads caleb #lads #lnds #caleb angst #caleb comfort #caleb fic #xia yizhou #love and deepspace fanfic

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roccoparondi · 10 months ago

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Something Borrowed (Michael Corleone x Reader)

Summary: Michael Corleone is the last person you expect to see at your best friend Connie’s wedding, and the last thing you expect to happen upon seeing him again after so many years is spending the night together. Maybe, it'll turn into something more.

Note: Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. No hate to Kay, she’s my girl, but wedding scene Michael drives me crazy🤭 She’s off living her best life elsewhere in this. Also, it was a lot of fun writing pre-everything Michael. Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Sexually explicit content involving unprotected sex. Light play fighting.

Champagne and giggles overflowed at Connie Corleone’s wedding to Carlo Rizzi. Plenty of red wine was passed around in pitchers for the old guard, of course. For you and the other women conscious of not staining the rainbow of cocktail dresses and flowing gowns that dotted the backyard, you opted for lighter fare in tall flutes that sparkled in the early autumn sun.

Perhaps you were a bit too enthusiastic about the drink offerings, having already exchanged three empty champagne glasses for ones filled to the brim with glittering gold when the bride engulfed you in a hug. With a delighted laugh, you returned the gesture, kissing her cheek.

“I wanted to say thank you one more time for coming!” Connie exclaimed, her cheeks flushed pink from the excitement of the day. “God, it breaks my heart we couldn’t have gotten you a bridesmaid dress in time, but you look gorgeous.”

“Me? Connie, you look like a princess.”

“I feel like one,” she giggled.

“When you see your gift from me—I’m sorry it’s not more, I haven’t—”

“Stop it!” she scolded. “You came all the way from Europe just to be at my wedding. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

You didn’t bother correcting her. Her version of events sounded much nicer than you just got lucky with when the Red Cross put you on a boat home. “Anything for you.”

“I won’t keep you. This is probably the first time you’re eating real food in years. Mama, Sandra, and Theresa made most of it.”

Connie was right. You tried to savor your plate, packed with pasta drowned in homemade sauce, antipasto and crusty bread, and sandwiches that towered with fresh cold cuts. The Corleones knew a thing or two about good food, and had the means to pull the strings for the unfathomable ration books such a feast required.

A familiar yet unexpected voice startled you when your fork pierced a piece of mozzarella. “Is this seat taken?”

“Michael,” you practically gasped, taken aback by his even attending the wedding in the first place, but also how good he looked in his uniform. Cap tucked under his arm, medals and decorations on his chest, the photos you’d seen in the magazine didn’t do him justice. Finding yourself again, you gestured to the empty seat across from you. “Go ahead.”

“I can’t remember the last time I saw you, but you look great,” he said, his gaze fixed on you as he set his plate and glass down. He took you in, the girl he’d grown up seeing around the house and at school, now, without a doubt, a woman.

“You too, Captain,” you said, nodding toward the double bars on his uniform.

He snickered at your little joke, making you feel a bit more at ease in his presence. “I’m surprised you aren’t in the wedding party.”

“Honestly, I wasn’t even sure I was going to make it until a few days ago. I only just got back to New York on Thursday,” you said.

“You volunteered with the Red Cross, didn’t you?”

You nodded. “I was in England, and then France after the liberation.”

“Clubmobile, right?”

“Did Connie tell you?”

He shook his head, smiling the slightest bit. “All the pretty girls worked the Clubmobile.”

A mortifyingly girlish giggle escaped your lips. You quickly brought your glass to your mouth, though the champagne in it was likely the culprit of your embarrassing reaction to Michael’s compliment. Averting your eyes to the dancing guests, you tried to ignore the warmth that spread across your face.

You allowed yourself to look at him again a few moments later, relieved to find he was still sitting in front of you, amused, maybe even endeared, by you.

“You’re such a jerk, Michael,” you mumbled, only because he was your friend’s older brother, and when you were younger and starry-eyed and figuring out what it meant when your heart wouldn’t quite beat right around a boy, it was him who those tender emotions were kindled in secret toward—until you had your first real boyfriend.

He grinned at your remark, and the two of you ate and caught up in between his various family members stopping by the table to say hello. You weren’t sure what to make of his seeing you before any of them—flattered, a bit confused as well, but he laughed at your jokes and moved his seat closer to yours, so you must have been doing something right when he finally asked, “Do you want to dance?”

“I’d love to,” you said.

The chaos from Johnny Fontaine’s unexpected arrival and impromptu performance subsided when Michael led you out to dance. He held you close, the way soldiers had at the dances the Red Cross put on for servicemen, all to boost morale, or, as the war went on, to offer a break from reality. Among the many rules meant to be followed—and typically broken in one way or another in the haze of war—was to keep some emotional distance from the enlisted men, for your sake and their own, but with bodies so close together, tender touches and soft whispers over songs of twilight and moonbeams, it was tough not to be caught up in romance’s alluring snare.

Even then, with the war behind both of you, something about being in Michael’s arms made you truly understand why some girls risked their assignments for a man. There was something in how he looked at you, different from your childhood together, even from a few minutes prior. You felt breathless despite the slow song you swayed along to.

“Did you like Paris?” he asked quietly, throwing you for a loop.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Paris?”

“You were in France, weren’t you?”

“Not Paris.”

“Where in France were you slinging doughnuts, then?”

“Little villages a few miles out from the front, mostly. More cows than people, but nice enough once the fighting stopped, and it was finally quiet—as quiet as it could get, anyway,” you said. “When Connie wrote you’d been wounded, I couldn’t help but think the worst. Plenty of guys out there—well, that article sure put me at ease. All the girls were jealous when I said I knew you.” You smiled. “I’m glad you’re alright, Michael.”

He glanced at your lips, and for an aching moment you were sure he was going to kiss you, but instead he gave you a smile, one that was real and made your heart flutter nevertheless, but left you disappointed.

“Where are you staying since you’ve been back?” he asked.

He seemed familiar with the hotel you were staying in when you mentioned it, offering to drive you back after the reception ended, and Connie and Carlo left for their honeymoon.

“It’s only until I can find a boarding hotel that has space,” you said. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be the Barbizon, but I’m not moving back in with my parents.”

“Here’s to that.”

The rest of the day and into the evening, Michael hung around you, unless he was pulled away by members of his family, each instance an annoyance to him. You knew they weren’t exactly supportive of his enlisting, but the situation couldn’t have been that bad, not since he was home, safe and sound at his sister’s wedding.

The Corleones, though endlessly kind to you, always been an odd family, and you learned through your friendship with Connie not to ask too many questions.

But Genco Abbandando was dying, and Vito insisted Michael go with the rest of the Corleone men to pay his respects to the elder. When you offered to take a cab back to your hotel, Michael promised the visit wouldn’t be long, suggesting you wait at the house with his mother until he returned to drive you into the city.

Your foolish desire to spend more time with him led to your waiting in the Corleones’ kitchen for a little over an hour, when you likely would’ve been showered and in bed in your hotel room by the time he arrived back for you, in one hell of a hurry to get you into his car and presumably get away from his family.

“Do you ever think about leaving New York?” he asked when the house was out of view.

You laughed. “Michael, I only just got back.”

“That’s not what I mean. The war—it wasn’t going to be forever, but it let you see what life could be like away from all of this, didn’t it?”

“Of course it did. I’m honestly not sure what I’m going to do with myself now,” you said. “How about you? Are you going back to school? Dartmouth, I mean.”

He nodded. “I start again the spring semester.” At a red light, he glanced over at you. “New England’s nice. Better than French cow country.”

“And do you suppose I could study in the department of pouring coffee and serving doughnuts?”

“You’re smart. I think you have a real future,” he said, the sincerity in his voice startling you. “All of that back there, that’s not for us. It never has been.”

You were silent for a few moments. “I guess you’re right.”

The city lights twinkling in the distance took the place of the stars they blocked out from the sky, growing larger as Michael crossed the bridge into Manhattan, the center of the universe. You’d never tell a soul how you cried just a few days prior upon seeing it again for the first time in years.

Besides his talk of the future, Michael kept the conversation light, and you could’ve sworn he was flirting with you. Working the Clubmobile, you learned quickly how to pick up on it, some men laying it on thick while others were irresistibly smooth. Michael could’ve easily just been teasing you, the way a friend’s older brother would, but when he pulled up to your hotel, either your ego or curiosity prompted you to invite him up for a drink.

You sobered up on the drive into the city, enough to remember you didn’t have any drinks in your room. The two of you would have to go to the hotel bar for that, but then you and Michael wouldn’t be alone, not how you wanted, anyway.

To your relief, he agreed.

With Michael in uniform, few questions would be asked by hotel staff as to why you suddenly had a man with you when you checked in on your own. It would have been easy to lie, claim he was your fiance who had only just gotten back Stateside. But you supposed you and Michael already looked the part, walking arm-in-arm through the lobby without an issue.

Your confidence soared on the elevator ride up to your modest room, which you let Michael into, knowing he wouldn’t judge the state of your accommodations.

“Mind if I make myself comfortable?” You didn’t wait for his answer, pulling your blouse from where it’d been tucked in your skirt. Slipping out of your heels, you sighed softly in relief.

“It’s your place,” he said, setting his coat over the chair in the corner and loosening his tie.

You grabbed his cap from where he set it down and placed it on your head, tilting the brim over your face a bit and posing in front of him with a hand on your hip. “How do I look?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed, giving you a once over, “I swear I saw you pinned up in some guy’s tent looking just like that.”

You laughed, taking the cap off and flinging it aside. “Oh, I don’t even know why I invited you up here!” Your laughter faded as something in your stomach turned sour, the situation feeling achingly too good to be true. Alone in a hotel room with Michael, the two of you entirely capable of making your own mistakes on the off chance he wanted you too. “Or why you even agreed to come up.”

“I didn’t come up here to drink.”

“No, you did it to be nice, because we’ve known each other for so long…” You sighed, sitting next to him. “I always figured you thought of me as your kid sister’s annoying little friend or something.”

He shook his head, saying your name softly in either protest or reassurance. His hand cupped your face as he turned it toward him, his thumb rubbing soft circles in your cheek. “Not for a long time. Especially not tonight.”

You kissed him, hands gripping his shoulders, closing your eyes as you melted in his embrace. Your skin feverish at his touch, you shuddered when his hand slipped up your untucked blouse until his fingertips reached your bra.

To say you hadn’t fantasized about Michael would have been an unconvincing lie to anyone who dared ask, but even in your wildest dreams, it was never quite like this, so bold and irreverent in the face of the tradition the two of you had just spent the day celebrating.

“I came up here because you’re beautiful,” he confessed against your lips, “because you’re the only familiar face I saw at my sister’s wedding that didn’t make me wish I were somewhere else.”

Silencing him with another kiss, your fingers raked through his soft black hair as your body pressed flush against his, unsure if you could withstand hearing more of his tender words without falling to pieces. You couldn’t, not so early in the night, but his desire grew difficult to ignore when he pulled you onto his lap. The pressure against your pussy made you moan, and with a hasty desperation, you shimmied out of your panties as he unbuckled his belt, freeing his hard cock within a few moments.

You slipped a hand between the two of you, pumping his length, feeling the way it twitched at your touch and gasping when Michael’s hips bucked. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, a whisper of an intent to devour you.

“I need you, sweetheart,” he groaned. “Need to feel you.”

Lifting your hips, you whimpered upon feeling his head brush your clit as you positioned yourself, slowly lowering as he filled you, cock throbbing against your walls that clenched around him. He assuaged the pain of taking all of him with a gentle kiss and soft praises, urging you to take your time, that you had all night together.

All night. The promise he would stay, at least until the morning, sent a teasing wave of pleasure through you. Gripping his shoulders, you tried to keep a steady pace as you rode him, wanted to show him that staying would be worth his while. He’d been right in the car, you wouldn’t be a virginal, wedding white bride. The both of you had seen and experienced too much to be considered innocent any longer, but it was something you shared, that no one else from that day would have understood.

Your thighs ached as you neared your climax, desperately chasing it despite the exhaustion that was creeping up on you. Crying out in frustration, you buried your face in the crook of Michael’s neck.

“I’m close,” you whined. “Michael, I—”

“I’ve got you,” he assured you, his hands making their home on your hips.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you let him guide your body, his thrusts doing most of the work while you rocked against him, seeking the friction against your clit that would bring you to release. It caught in your throat, a broken groan from your lips to his ears as you came, clenching around him, pleasure rolling through you, rattling your body like thunder. You barely caught your breath when he came, shuddering against you, practically cradling you against him as he filled you.

With a whimper, you lifted yourself off of him and rolled back onto the bed. Placing your hand on your chest, you felt your rapidly beating heart beneath your fingertips, focusing on it as it slowed the following minute or so and ignoring the stickiness between your legs, the evidence you slept with your best friend’s older brother.

Michael leaned over, brushing back the hair that stuck to your face. “What are your plans tomorrow?”

“Looking through the classifieds for a job,” you said honestly.

“Wanna put it off for a day?”

“With what money, Michael?”

“I’ll give you a line of credit.”

You grabbed one of the pillows from behind you, throwing it at him with a laugh. “Jerk!”

He grinned, pushing it aside to grab for one of your arms. You put up a weak fight, your breathless laughter giving away his almost certain win.

Having pinned you down beneath him, he pressed you for an answer. “So?” He kissed you. “What do you say, sweetheart?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “I guess I can clear my schedule for a dashing war hero like you.”

“Dashing, I like the sound of that,” he murmured, bringing his lips to yours again, softly, with a tenderness that promised more for tomorrow, and even the day after, if you’d have him.

You smiled. “Me too.”

#michael corleone x reader #the godfather x reader #michael corleone #the godfather #the godfather fanfic #the godfather imagine #michael corleone fanfic #michael corleone imagine

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fuddaroundandgetbueckets · 1 month ago

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Feeling for P, hopefully she gets some Azzi time soon!! She needs some well-deserved rest though. Sorry to edge you guys in this part, but good things come to those who wait fr fr fr fr fr. Second song attached is what I actually imagine them dancing to in the second part of this chap, not like that would realistically play at a block party but wtvr lol :) feedback is nice and appreciated! I just be doing this for the love of the game atp

Part 9 - Peaks & Valleys

Spring – 2022

Azzi didn’t know the exact moment she started falling for Paige. What she did know was the day she finally realized it.

In the weeks that followed Paige’s odd dissociative stint from her and their quiet rekindling in her room that night, they had wordlessly become closer than ever in their years of friendship. Hashing it out had soothed a wound for them they didn’t know was forming; an ache they both didn’t realize they felt as deeply as they did.

Where Paige was, Azzi could be found. When Azzi walked into a room, Paige was a few steps behind her if not at her hip. They ate most dinners together, Azzi chiding her blonde friend for the lack of vegetables she consumed; Paige, scrunching her face in disgust at Azzi’s fixation on sauteed mushrooms.

Most weekends, Azzi slept over at Paige’s. Their closets had started bleeding together entirely, beginning false arguments of who owned what first. They spent extra hours practicing together, running drills they had made up years ago in Azzi’s backyard. They studied together (Azzi studied, unassuming, as Paige stared at her), the younger girl even opting to take her online exams in Paige’s room while the blonde waited in the living room to hear her tired sigh through the thin walls telling her she was done.

They stayed up late, talking about everything and nothing, as if they just met. Geno yelling at Paige at practice; Azzi wondering how she would have fared if she took up tennis instead, Paige telling her she would have been the next Serena Williams; Azzi laughing at Paige’s attempt at an Australian accent, Paige continuing so she could keep seeing her smile; Azzi contemplating what would have happened if her parents never met, Paige admitting she wished her parents were still together.

As their team progressed in their season, practices got harder, and school weighed down on both of them. Their time together was a necessary reprieve from the world, as if they were each other's own personal oxygen tanks.

Time moved fast and slow all at once, and when they blinked, they were two days away from the 2022 National Championship against South Carolina.

In their shared hotel room, they lay on Paige’s bed with their shoulders touching. Both were quieter than normal, absently watching the local Minneapolis news anchors discuss the weather. Azzi could hear before she could see Paige start to pick at the skin of her thumb, a nervous habit of hers. Silently, she reached over and held Paige’s pointer finger in her hand.

Paige let her head fall back on the headboard, her eyes coming shut. Azzi stared at her for a moment, beginning to run her thumb over the finger she held.

“Nervous?” Azzi asked, though she knew the answer. It was better to have Paige talk than to have her ruminate in her thoughts.

Paige’s eyes remained closed, her lips in a flat line. “Yup.”

Azzi nodded, “Me too.”

“It’s so dumb,” Paige muttered. “I’ve played this team before. I know what to expect. I just feel all this pressure all the time, it sucks.”

“You do, but you handle it so well.”

“I don’t want to handle it well; I want it to be gone.”

“No, you don’t.”

Paige peered an eye on Azzi then. She huffed slightly, “Cause you know that for sure, huh?”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Be serious, Paige. You think anyone in this world knows you better than me?”

Paige pouted at that, replying glumly, “No.”

Azzi couldn’t help the soft smile that spread across her lips as she watched her friend. She shifted, turning more of her body towards Paige, not letting go of her finger. “You were made for this. You were made to hoop and be in the spotlight and win – so win,” Azzi said simply.

Paige sighed, feeling herself finally smile and roll her head to have a better look at Azzi. Unblinking, they stared at one another, Paige’s eyes twinkling in the soft glow of the TV. Azzi felt then the strongest urge to place a hand on Paige’s face and rub her thumb on her cheekbone. Her mouth felt dry, and she clenched the sheets beneath her with her free hand instead.

“Well, you have to win for you too,” Paige said after a few moments.

Azzi shrugged. “I’ll win for me, and I’ll win for you too.”

They smiled genuinely at each other. “Deal.”

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

The next night, Azzi found herself throwing up in her hotel bathroom.

Every few minutes, she heaved and watched her fingers shake from the contents of her stomach leaving her body.

Paige sat next to her, rubbing her back feverishly with one hand and squeezing her shoulder with the other.

“I’m so sorry, Az,” Paige said, voice cracking, “The doctor will be here any minute.”

Azzi choked on a sob. Her first National Championship ruined the night before from food poisoning. This was the first time since 2016 they had made it to the championship, and she couldn’t stop throwing up. She could almost laugh at the timing of it all if she weren’t so heartbroken.

“I think it was the brussels sprouts at dinner,” Azzi said, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. “Fucking brussels sprouts.”

Paige’s forehead fell on Azzi’s shoulder then, her hands continuing to rub her back. Azzi felt her shirt beginning to get wet from Paige’s tears.

Azzi swallowed, roughly rubbing at her eyes with the back of her wrists. She turned to Paige with red-rimmed eyes and wet eyelashes. “Play your fucking heart out, P. I mean it.”

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

The Huskies lost to South Carolina, 49 to 64.

Back in their hotel room, Azzi and Paige lay facing the other under the covers of Azzi’s bed, their fingers tangled together. Although she had been pumped with an IV earlier, Azzi’s face was pale, and her body felt weak. Not weak enough, however, as she reached over and rub the single tear that escaped Paige’s right eye.

Paige sniffed, twisting her mouth to stop the tears that she knew were coming.

“Thought I was done cryin’,” she laughed wetly. Azzi stayed silent as she wiped at the tear from her left eye now. Azzi felt her own eyes start to get glassy again.

“Just wanna be done cryin’,” Paige continued quieter now, and Azzi could tell she was talking to God. She cupped Paige’s face as her tears streamed faster, her thumbs struggling to keep up.

“Got no tears left, I swear,” Paige’s voice cracked, “Tried my best for you, I promise.” Azzi nodded wordlessly and watched as Paige broke out into a sob. She reached out now, pulling Paige’s face to the crook of her neck, feeling her tears wet her collar bone. Paige clung to her then, fingertips digging into the back of her shoulder blade and spine like she might disappear. Azzi held the back of her head like she was made of glass.

That was the moment that Azzi knew.

That moment, holding Paige so close, she finally realized. It was how she missed her when she was gone, even after all the time they spent together. It was the way she wanted to wish away every bad thing that has and will ever happen to her. It was the way Azzi thought Paige was the strongest person she knew, even while she wretched sobs in her shoulder. It was the way Azzi thought she looked so beautiful, with her bloodshot eyes and glossy skin. And it was especially in the way Azzi wished she could take away any pain from her for the rest of her life.

She had probably fallen for Paige a long time ago, but that was when she knew for sure. And all she could do was keep holding her.

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

Summer – 2022

It wasn't premediated by Paige to finally tell Nika how she felt about Azzi, she just...did.

Paige walked lazily in circles in Azzi’s family home in Virginia, the house quiet and empty. Her phone to her ear, she listened to the dial tone as she waited for Nika to answer.

“Yoooooo, my favorite American!” She heard Nika exclaim. Paige heard the smile in her voice, causing one to bloom on her own face.

“What’s up, Nik? Been a minute.”

“I’m good, I’m good. Chillin’ with my mom right now.”

“Tell her I said Hey.”

“Paige kaže hej (Paige says Hey)”. Paige could hear a muffled reply from Nika’s mom in the background.

“Are you home right now?” Nika asked.

“Nah, I’m at Azzi’s in VA. Her neighbors are having some block party so I’m just chilling ‘til I go out there. Thought I’d catch up real quick.”

Nika hummed, “Still attached at the hip, I see.”

Paige scratched the underside of her jaw. Now or never, I guess, she thought.

“Yeah, I actually gotta talk to you about somethin’ and you can’t be weird about it. Like you got to swear on your grandma or something you can’t freak or tell nobody or I’m never talking to you again.”

Nika scoffed through the phone, “Hey, chill. Leave my grandma out of this,” she paused. Paige heard Nika’s mom ask worriedly, “Što s bakom (What about grandma)?”

Nika ignored her mother. “So, what’s up?”

Paige walked past a mirror on the wall and flexed her triceps distractedly. In the most casual tone she could muster, she said, “I've been feeling this way for a while but...I like Azzi, like more than friends.”

It was quiet for several moments before Paige thought she heard a faint, high-pitched whistling sound. What she couldn’t see was Nika screaming into the nearest couch cushion, her mother staring at her in avid concern.

“Nika?” Paige asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious about her admission.

“Oh my fuck,” Nika said, laughing almost hysterically. “Jezik (Language)”, Paige heard Nika’s mom say next to her.

“Freaking finally, dude,” Nika said loudly, sounding positively giddy on the other end of the phone.

Paige rubbed at her temple, scrunching her brows. “Why are you yelling?” She paused. “And what do you mean, ‘finally’?”

“Dude,” Nika sounded dumbfounded, “I have been waiting for these words to come out of your mouth for damn near a year.”

Paige frowned. “Elaborate.”

“You don’t think it was obvious as hell?” Nika laughed incredulously. “I have literally watched you both make googly eyes at each other for months. You can’t even eat without each other. And she calls you to make sure you made it to class. And your chest gets all big and puffy whenever she talks to anyone else–”

Paige rubs the bridge of her nose. “Alright, I’m regretting telling you this.”

“No, I want to help you get your girl!” Nika replied, sounding a bit frantic, “Are you going to ask her out? Take her to dinner?”

“Dude, no. I don’t even know if she thinks about me like that,” Paige kicked at imaginary dust on the wood floor. “I’m telling you because you’re one of my closest friends and it’s kind of sucked to not talk about. I'm out here, staying at her place and I just gotta sit in my feelings. Don't be weird about it.” Paige knew she was downplaying how she felt entirely, but she didn't know how to articulate to Nika the sincerity of her emotions without sounding like a complete lovesick fool.

“Do you have eyes and a functioning brain?” Nika asked. “Obviously she likes you back, you’re both so codependent and weird.”

“Can you relax?”

“Paige – seize the carp. Or is it Diem? Whatever. Go get your girl.”

“That is just not what that phrase is at all.”

“Forgot when I asked," Paige could hear the eye roll through the phone, "Anyway, go be an active participant of your life. Are you going to wait for someone else to scoop her up or are you going to make shit happen?”

“I’m going to actively hang up the phone now.”

“C’mon man, don’t be a pussy–”

Click.

Paige inhaled sharply through her nose, rubbing a rough hand down her face. Although Nika’s response had been annoying, it felt good to say anything related to her feelings for Azzi out loud for once. She’d come to terms with the fact that she would simply have to get over her fear of her feelings for her best friend if she wanted Azzi in her life at all. She realized she would rather have Azzi in her life, and pining for her, than not have her at all. Her feelings for Azzi followed her around like a dull ache that she knew was never going away – the feeling had become an acquaintance at this point.

And sure, they were abnormally closer than majority of best friends. Especially over the course of this year, they had become a different level of comfortable with each other that was hard to explain to anyone. Paige couldn’t stop to think about it for too long; she couldn’t let herself get her hopes up. She would need Azzi to practically spell it out for her that she was interested before she dared even think about anything further. In confiding to Nika, at least she felt less alone in it all.

Stepping outside, Paige was hit with the muggy summer Virginia air. The sky illuminated purple with the last of daylight peeking through. The sounds of the neighborhood meshed together like a melting pot; cicadas chirping, people talking loudly with choruses of laughter, and relaxed R&B playing on a speaker that reverberated down the street. Paige tilted her head at the sound of a familiar laugh a few houses down.

Instantly, she spotted Azzi standing around several of her adult neighbors. Although seeing her just an hour earlier, Paige was taken aback by how much Azzi just…glowed. Her hair sat up in a ponytail, her strong arms and legs displayed through her tank top and shorts, and her skin was glowing in the way only a soft summer gleam could make it. If Paige could freely drool without looking like a freak, she would.

“C’mon,” she muttered low to herself. She unconsciously tugged on her earlobe before plastering on a smile as she came up behind Azzi, draping an arm over her shoulder. “Hey, everybody,” she said warmly. She locked eyes with Azzi as she turned her eyes, and her smile was blinding, dimples and squinted eyes on full display. Paige could tell she was mid-laugh prior to her coming up. She wanted to say something funny just so she could hear what she missed.

“Buckets!” Azzi’s older neighbor, Steve, greeted her excitedly. He must have been in his fifties with a full grey beard and old but kind eyes. “You want a beer? I won’t tell the parents, promise.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, feeling Azzi tap her thigh. Azzi smiled coyly, showing Paige the beer she had been hiding behind her leg.

Fuck it, Paige thought.

Fiveish beers each later, the two girls sat cross-legged facing each other between Azzi’s parents’ yard and Steve’s while the block party went on. They sat so close that their knees touched, a light buzz passing between them. To anyone passing by, they looked like they were potentially conspiring with one another the way their bodies were hunched toward the other, but in reality, they had been pulled close through the usual gravitational pull that orbited them.

“And what if you get stranded on an island, what would you bring?” Azzi asked, her tone serious.

Paige stared at her with a lazy smile, “Obviously a phone charger so I can charge my phone. And my IPad.”

Azzi raised a brow, “Really?”

Paige stared at her for a moment. “And you.”

Azzi let a giggle bubble between her lips, “Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

They looked at each other silently, unconscious smiles lingering on their faces. Paige, feeling bold from her tipsiness, leaned slightly closer. “Tell me you’d bring me too,” she said low, lazy smile never leaving her lips.

Azzi’s eyes bounced between her own, moving lower for a split second. “I would.”

Paige nodded and leaned back on her palms, “Good.”

Azzi’s eyes lingered over her shoulder then, looking on at the mixed crowd of adults and children dancing in the middle of the street. “We should join them; I love this song.”

Paige nodded, unsure how to relay to Azzi she would do anything she asked or wanted to do without saying it in those words.

Azzi stood and pulled Paige with her by the hand, their fingers staying intertwined as she dragged her toward the music. They grinned at each other as they came to a stop, faces illuminated by the streetlamps above. With the alcohol running through them, they danced freely and without inhibition to the fast beat of the song that played. Paige tapped Azzi on the shoulder, pointing across the crowd at her dad doing a horrible rendition of what one could assume was ‘the shopping cart’, and Azzi threw her head back with a laugh. If the feeling of happiness could be captured in a moment in time and bottled up, this would be one of them.

As the song transitioned to the next, the beat became much slower.

Paige watched as Azzi’s eyes closed, a faint smile on her face. Without thought, they both gravitated closer, their chests bumping every so often as they moved to the beat. Paige’s eyes traced over Azzi’s face slowly, tilting her head as she looked down at her. If she moved an inch forward, their noses would brush. Her hand reflexively reached out and landed low on the side of Azzi’s hip, her pointer finger hooking on the belt loop of Azzi’s shorts and tapping along to the slow beat with her other fingers. Her stomach fluttered and her mouth felt dry as she stared at Azzi like she was the last drop of water in a desert.

Spell it out for me, Paige practically begged in her head, please.

Azzi’s eyes fluttered open then, her hand landing on Paige’s bicep. Not pushing her away, not pulling her closer. Paige had grown taller than her this summer, and she had to lean up slightly as she told her in her ear, “This is nice.”

At the brush of their cheeks as she pulled away, Paige felt the hair on the back of her neck stand. The contact felt like a cold splash of water, although the summer air was so palpably thick. Being this close to Azzi was intoxicating to her, and she found herself leaning down to say low in her ear, “Yeah?”

She stayed with her head bent, tugging absently on the belt loop she held. Azzi turned her head slightly, letting their breaths mingle as they stared at one another, so close Paige could count the eyelashes on each of Azzi’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Azzi replied back, her face unmoving. From their position, it would be so easy for Paige to lean in and trail soft kisses on the underside of Azzi’s jaw, right under her ear, and down her neck, the way she’d been imagining for months–

“Alright guys, we’re wrapping up!” Someone bellowed from the front of the crowd. The party of people groaned but ultimately began congratulating each other on another successful block party this year.

Paige and Azzi blinked at each other. Paige straightened robotically, snatching her hand off Azzi like she had burned her.

“I call dibs on the shower first,” Paige said, suddenly feeling suffocated by the night air. Azzi just nodded at her wordlessly with slightly wide eyes.

Paige nodded stiffly at her, “Cool. Yup. See you inside.”

And with that, she turned briskly, leaving Azzi in the middle of the street who still had her arm up as if holding the ghost of Paige’s arm.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #uconn wbb #wlw #dallas wings #paige buckets #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #Spotify

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egittae · 1 year ago

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let's hope anodyne isn't behind this | lambert & duessel (axe +1)

@obsidiendo

It was straightforward, very much so.

This one house of Leicester, who Lambert managed to somehow remember the name of- Riegan, the same same from that house leader kid of the Golden Deer, had been boasting about its latest findings: a mine that somehow hadn’t been spotted until now, apparently rich with minerals and that could definitely offer a powerful boost to the territory’s commerce. It seemed almost too good to be true in Lambert’s eyes- he may have weak memory, but he does have enough knowledge to be aware that mines don’t just show up like that- but anyway. Good for them, right?

Until Lambert was given the information that for whatever reason, that mine seemed rather dangerous. There was no explanation on why exactly, with everything being fairly vague. And now he, alongside another teacher, had been given the task to approach the area for some recon- both to check if the reports about the mine were indeed real, and also have a better idea of why it was considered so dangerous.

“I can only hope that there are no monsters inside that thing. Mostly because fighting a monster inside a cramped, dark cave sounds like the recipe for disaster.” Lambert spoke out loud, standing just before the perimeter tape set by Riegan authorities to keep onlookers from getting too close. He couldn’t see much of the mine from there- just forest and rocks, but he could identify a path that would most definitely lead to its entrance.

It felt strange, how natural that felt to him. Faerghus has many mines too, doesn’t it?

Why was he so familiar with those aspects? Wasn’t he just a soldier?

Breaking into a sigh, he rested one hand on his hip- covered in armor, before facing his companion. A big, strong guy a little older than him who seemed like quite the battle veteran. He was a teacher of the Golden Deer, and Lambert needed him to tag along because as an Ashen Wolves teacher he didn’t have clearance to come by himself. He wouldn’t protest, though! A partner is always welcome for recons. “Did you get anything from those guards, Duessel? Any information on what is in there or is it a true case of look around and find out?”

Not that Lambert was against it, no. Even more if it meant ensuring the miners’ safety- which was his priority at this point. Resources were cool and all, but Lambert didn’t quite agree with the idea of them coming at the price of the miners’ safety.

“What could be in there to even justify all of this…I expect to see literal walls of gold and silver at this point.” He frowned. He couldn’t help but wonder if the authorities were hiding something from the public.

#[ good day my friend. how do you fare? ] (starters)#[ this is just the beginning. ] (threads)#lets hope anodyne isnt behind this - thread #[support] duessel

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gavramous · 1 year ago

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gaz is out of commission after a rough mission. a broken arm, some bruised ribs, and a minor concussion have left him on bed rest in a hospital close to base. he gets visits daily, from his sister who happens to live nearby, and from price, ghost, and soap, keeping him up to date with the happenings at work.

the recruits are a pain in the arse, as always, soap tells him. price lets him know that there's no update on makarov at the moment, but laswell is chasing a potential lead, so fingers crossed. but ghost, after he's asked how gaz is feeling, usually just sits there, reading a book. not that gaz is complaining, because, if he asks, ghost will tell him what's happening in the story.

he apprciates it all, their comraderie, their care for him. they don't have to visit him so much, with their busy schedules, but they do, and he treasures their relationships.

it's ghosts 'turn' to sit with him for the day. they don't actually hold any sort of consistent order for when they visit him, but price said that one time, and it's stuck. ghost had walked into gaz's room with two apples and sat down on the chair to gaz's left. he immediately pulled out a mean looking knife - how he was able to get that thing through the hospital to his room, gaz has no idea - and starts slicing the first apple.

"how'r you faring then?"

"horribly, sir," gaz tells him. he's said this every day since he's been admitted. he's not really doing horribly. well, not physically, at least. sure, his ribs still ache, but he's mainly just bored out of his mind.

"mm, you don't look too good."

seems ghost is over his pessimism. "how kind you are to me."

ghost tuts, and holds out a slice of apple for him.

"what's this?"

"an apple, garrick, you're not that far gone, are you?"

"oh, full of jokes today, huh? obviously i'm asking why you're cutting me up an apple like you're my mum."

"ought not to question your mother so much, hm? just take it."

so gaz does. he's never one to turn down fresh fruit. through his chewing, gaz thanks ghost. ghost hums in acknowledgement, and there's silence as gaz eats. once he's done, ghost cuts and hands him another slice.

ghost breaks the silence after a bit. "it's weird, you know that?"

"what is?"

"your addiction to apples."

"i'm not addicted."

"no?" ghost challenges. "you eat at least one every day."

"what are you even paying that much attention for?" gaz questions.

"can learn a whole lot from observation." ghost shrugs as he hands him another slice.

"yeah? from eating habits?" gaz takes the offered slice.

"like you wouldn't believe." ghost is obviously joking. okay, maybe it's not obvious, gaz isn't soap, with his eerie ability to read ghost's jokes and moods like an open book with size 60 font, but he's getting there. and he's pretty sure ghost is joking right now. so he chuckles and says, "you're full of it."

ghost waves his knife in gaz's direction. "watch yourself, sargeant," he says, eyes crinkled slightly, pleased that gaz understood he was joking.

ghost is a little weird like that, gaz thinks. he's subtle and dry with his humour, leaving it up to others to figure out if he's serious or not, and he always seems pleased when people get he's joking. maybe it's his way of being seen. gaz is assuming now, he knows, but he's got nothing else to do, cooped up in this room. he enjoys trying to decipher the way his friends work every now and then. he feels he understands them better this way.

"why'r you fueling my addiction then?" gaz jokes back, "you obviously disapprove of my habits."

ghost doesn't answer. instead, after a minute or so, he asks, "you want another slice?"

"yes please."

he's hit with a wave of appreciation for ghost in that moment. he's found somewhat of a family in this team, and he'll value it for as long as they're able to work together.

#this is my ghost and gaz besties agenda post! they are best friends!#ghosts love language is acts of service and gazs is being cheeky <33 #mw #gaz #ghost #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #cod #mw2 #cod mw #chittering #drabble #fic #kyle garrick #simon riley

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joejhang · 5 months ago

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scenes that we know happen but that i would give a lung to have written out by nora sakavic (or scenes i'd like to see from other povs)

andrew choking kevin after neil gets kidnapped from andrew's pov (i just NEED to know the fear and anger andrew must've felt in that moment. and kevin "you were always going to lose him" day like isn't that just so crazy)

aaron's trial from neil's pov (i would honestly love any pov of this but i feel like neil as someone who isn't very involved in the situation would provide the most insightful pov and GOD I'M FOAMING AT THE MOUTH the THINGS i would do to have a whole book about neil's sophomore year GODDDD)

the garter scene after nicky's wedding from andrew's pov (late-twenties neil is SO unserious i just know it)

nicky's wedding from literally anyone's pov (it would be just like. pure joy tbh.)

dan + matt's wedding from dan/matt's pov (again. see above.)

katelyn + aaron's wedding from aaron/neil's pov (i say neil pov bc i would LOVE to see how aaron and neil's relationship fares after they get over their beef. and i know neil would be happy for aaron and kate. and yeah obv aaron pov because again, see above.)

neil convincing andrew to go to aaron and kate's wedding from andrew/neil's pov (idk it could either be really sad or really funny)

kevin's phone call to jean in tfc from jean's pov (i NEED to know exactly the emotions jean was feeling when he saw kevin's name on his phone and heard his voice again)

the scene where andrew handcuffs neil after stuart dies from andrew's pov (this is genuinely one of my roman empires. the way nora wrote about this in the ec is genuinely embedded in the folds of my brain. neil kissing words into andrew's jaw. the sick gleam in his eyes that makes him look like nathaniel. i LIVE for andreil angst actually.)

andrew punching his pro team coach after he makes neil play injured from neil/andrew's pov (another roman empire. post-tkm andreil my SHAYLAS)

the angsty kevneil conversation in trk from kevin's pov (i'm just. so curious on kevin's perception of neil tbh.)

the robin cross arc from andrew/neil/robin's pov (i LOVE robin cross she's acc my favourite part of aftg lore. i would DIE to see her dynamic w andrew and neil. robin and neil friendship you are so loved by me)

neil buying his car w robin + i forgot who else was there from neil's pov (random but i just KNOW it would be funny)

the US court winning gold at the olympics from kevin/neil/andrew's pov (ugh the serotonin RUSH and the post-match andreil hug they have me in such a chokehold)

when allison and kevin find out that allison's son has a crush on kevin's daughter from kevin/allison's pov (HELLOOOO THIS IS ONE OF MY FAVOURITE AFTG EC CRUMBS IT'S SO FUNNY)

neil hanging out with amalia from neil/amalia's pov (TELL ME they wouldn't have the funniest dynamic)

wymack picking neil up from the airport after evermore from wymack's pov (idk it would be so fun to see how absolutely blindsided everyone is by neil's fucked-up lore)

practically any andreil scene in the series from andrew's pov (foaming at the mouth chewing on drywall clawing at the bars of my enclosure for it)

ok i know i said every andreil scene but this HAS to be included separately: THE BALTIMORE REUNION FROM ANDREW'S POV (oh this would make me crazy)

tetsuji and kayleigh in their university days from either pov (like this is just crazy. that they were like. good friends. they literally made a world famous sport together tf.)

nathan wesninski's trial (the one where neil has to testify) from neil/andrew's pov (the complexity of it all)

andrew yelling at bee after she wakes up in the hospital from andrew/neil's pov (it would be fun. i think.)

the birthday blood scene from andrew's pov (like i know nora's already said what andrew was thinking in that scene but like i reread it recently and it was actually crazy how PISSED neil was idk i would just love to see andrew's reaction to neil being THAT mad)

fall banquet riko roast from literally anyone else's pov (i just know i'd reread that shit religiously)

kathy ferdinand riko roast also from literally anyone else's pov (imagine watching neil "quiet boy" josten absolutely CLOCKING riko moriyama's shit on LIVE TV)

the twins' session with betsy from andrew's pov (after reading aaron's pov it just made me so much more curious to get inside andrew's head in that scene bc that was just crazy tbh)

the foxes' skiing trip from neil's pov (neil pov just bc he's the one i'm most used to. but yeah i NEED this)

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krems-chair · 7 months ago

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I've been thinking a lot today about how easily people condemn Solas for making the choices he did or for so regularly refusing the help and love his friends or a romanced Lavellan extended to him and how that's a very easy thing to do from behind a screen in a fictional game where you are able to (with very few exceptions) curate a world in which your allies are loyal and your decisions will go the way you'd like them to.

And yeah, it's a game and that's kind of the point, but if I were to look at it a little more deeply (and who am I kidding, I got back on this website exclusively to process the aftermath of Veilguard) I'd say that there's so much to be found in wondering if the protagonists in any of the other games would have fared better in similar conditions.

Apparently I can't stop making long posts, so buckle in.

What would Morrigan have become in a world where the Warden never stumbled upon her cottage with Flemeth, if she never got the chance to see more of the world and decide what she wanted out of it? With just her mother (who, coincidentally in this Solas-y discussion is also kind of Mythal) and no support, who is to say what she would have unleashed upon the Korcari Wilds one day when the confines of her cage became too much?

What about Leliana? She, too, suffered at the hands of a very controlling abuser who tried to convince her that one lifestyle was all that her future held. What do we think she would have become if not for a chance meeting in Lothering with someone who could help her face down the woman that molded her?

Fenris, a character MANY people are just fine with was incredibly ready to kill a mage on sight if need be, no questions asked. Where do we think his story goes if he doesn't have someone in his corner early on enough in the game? If he doesn't get caught by Danarius, he's almost certainly going to end up on a murder spree, and he doesn't even have Justice whispering in his head to do it.

Cullen. Just all of him. It's an absolute miracle he hasn't snapped by the time you encounter him in Inquistion, and even then you get the benefit of intervening at a critical point in his story several times over.

Almost every other character could face this analysis and I think we'd reach a result that suggests perhaps the only thing keeping them lovable is your playable character's investment in their well-being.

Enter Solas. We don't meet him when he's twenty to thirty something and on the precipice of falling down a dark path. He's been there for literal millennia already, and with the exception of one close friend he's been alone. And not even Felassan is enough because of the years Mythal had prior to that friendship to make Solas exactly who she needed him to be.

I've had shit friends before that aren't just good at isolating people, they're naturals. I barely made it through high school with my mental health in place (in fact, looking back, it almost certainly wasn't). When you think you've got a true friend and they need something of you, it's so easy to blindly follow them because you think your love is enough to mark someone's soul as trustworthy. Solas doesn't learn that lesson until it's too late, and even when he does he can't turn back: the spirit that was once Wisdom has been exposed to several of the worst ancient elves to ever exist and now he has to stand his ground rather than let it all fall, because that is what Pride would dictate. Admitting that the person you gave your love and labor and time to is a monster is hard. And he was alone.

Give me Morrigan after centuries with her mother. Show me Leliana after the years have become a blur and the only voice whispering in her ear is Marjolaine's. Show me the innocent mages that don't make it through if all Fenris has for years and years and years are the scars Danaris left him and the means to make more. Show me Cullen if he stays in a chain of command under a Knight Commander who knows exactly what he fears and holds it over his head for so long he forgets what it was like to be an excited kid begging the templars for training because he just wants to keep people safe.

We get companions in these games who are broken by the time they're twenty. Solas has spent thousands of years in servitude to a cause of a woman he believed to be his only friend. He doesn't know who he is without her influence, anymore, only exists physically in the first place because she asked it of him and then asked again and again and again. He doesn't have a witty band of merry fools to pull him out of that cycle. He has Felassan, but he has him during war after war after war in the hopes of freeing others from the very situation that torments him.

Trauma from war affects everyone touched by it, nevermind the fact that Solas is actively responsible for saving the lives of thousands and feels each life like a weight around his neck because maybe he can save them like he cannot save himself. We should always be worried about the people trying to do the most good. Who is looking out for them? Why are they so determined to help others? Could it be that it's something they wish others had done for them?

Solas certainly feels comradery with Felassan from working together to free slaves from the very people he helped put in power because Mythal told him it would be okay only to leave him with the pieces, but even the Solas that Felassan knows has been turned into an attack dog shying away from the touch of the very person it desires to be near above all others by the time their relationship forms.

The fact that Solas is able to try and show the Inquisitor who he is at all is a miracle as far as I'm concerned, a sign of a peaceful spirit of Wisdom who loves knowledge for the sake of it finally sensing that there might be a chance to embrace its nature again.

Yeah, if you give him what he has come to expect from people with power, if you let near-absolute power over the masses corrupt you, he's going to bristle and try to shut your inquisitor down.

But if you show him even the smallest bit of kindness? If you treat him like the starving wolf he talks about and feed him instead of fighting him? God, it shatters his entire existence.

It's called a cycle of abuse for a reason. Finding friendship, finding the love of your long-ass life can be the first step in realizing there's better out there. But the time it takes to learn that? When you're too weary to even reach out for help in the first place and afraid of every kind word or gesture because you've never known such tenderness (on a platonic OR romantic level, both matter so so much) before?

Part of the compelling tragedy of Solas is that it's almost Orpheus-like how he knows what he has been made into and still cannot stop himself from yearning for more, from turning around to see if just this once something has changed. You can't convince me that he hasn't spent years hoping that someone will hear the legend of the Dread Wolf and see it for what it is, a leash the Evanuris created for Mythal's whipping boy to ensure that even if he ever escapes them, the people he fought to save will hate him. And I cannot blame him for the shock and terror that consumes him when he realizes someone finally has.

You give me any of dragon age companions after the amount of time Solas spent under Mythal's thumb without your character's intervention and you tell me how that looks.

You tell me if they're able to change at the first sign of something that feels too good to be true.

And then, I want you to tell me they're any less worthy of trying to save, especially when you know how good their best can be.

Solas might be hard for some fans to love, but it's only because he serves as the perfect representation of the beast we are all capable of becoming when the love that sustains us, assuming we receive any at all, is laced with poison.

The journey out of that place, out of a literal prison of regret, is brutal, and I'm thrilled that even with the many things about Veilguard I'm still struggling with, we have the chance to let Solas try again with the help of those who love him not because he never fell down, but because they believe in the beauty of a future where he gets back up again.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months ago

Text

In The Cold

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, social dejection, mentions of religion, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: Your Christmas is set to be a lonely one, but you do your best to share the cheer with your only friend.

Character: Arvin Russell

Day Seven of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - cottage!core

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The tension is something you’ll never be used to. The silence is as bad as the hushed voices and the sneering side looks. It's all so suffocating.

So much as you might’ve earned your judgement, it cannot make them righteous. What was it the pastor extolled; ‘let he who be without sin...’ And why is it that the stones they cast are aimed at you and not the man who joined you in your misdeed? The very one who cozened you into the act?

Henry still sits on the town council, he still goes home to his wife and other children, he still gets a ‘good morning’ or a ‘good day’, and none bat a single eye along the pew. You can’t even get the same from him these days. He’s a stranger now that your dresses are too tight and your gait is wider and wobbly. Now that his adultery has grown inside of you and continues to, he runs from it.

You pay at the counter for your meagre fare. Janie fired you not long after the minister’s scolding and none-so-subtle remonstrance of straying innocence. Like your mother and father, she abandoned you to your dejection. You would not stain her Christian mantle.

The shopkeep, Ted, packs up your goods in the bag without a word. He drops your change on the counter and turns away as you gather it up. Despite that, you still thank him. You lift the bag and hug it above your bump.

You keep your head down as Esther steps up to the counter with her basket. She makes a comment about the holiness of the coming holidays. Of how Jesus’ birthday should be kept sacred. You know she means you to hear but you don’t show that you do.

You step out into the chilly winds as they swirl around with a gust of powder. You nearly collide with another as you do. The chuckle that comes with the near-catastrophe eases your nerves. In an instant, the weight is scooped out of your arms.

“There ya’are,” Arvin greets. He’s the only person in town who talks to you.

In fact, he’s the only reason you have a place to lay your head. He did up his old shed so you could live there for a while. A barter you insisted on. What would people think if you accepted his invitation to stay in the spare room? Surely worse than the already do. He does not deserve to be tainted by you.

“You all done for the day?” You ask as you keep your arms crossed.

“Oh yeah,” he answers brightly, “what’d you get? Anything good...” he sniffs the top of the bag, “I smell cinnamon.”

You chew your lip, “yeah...”

You glance at him. He wears his fleece lined denim jacket, the collar greyed with age and a button missing on the right chest pocket. It’s not really enough for that kinda cold. Knockemstiff lives up to its name quite often and the winter will be sure to freeze your bones.

“Sorry, I’m being nosy,” he chuckles. “You want some candy? Got some in my pocket. Mr. Callahan sent them in with Edwin.”

“Oh, no, I’m okay,” you blow into your woolen mittens. It’s bitter these days. “Um, I was hopin’... I could make ya dinner tonight. Since ya done so much for me. ‘Fraid I don’t got much else to give right now.”

“That’d be awfully nice,” he accepts with a bounce in his step, “here.” He shifts the weight of the bag into one arm and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a long shape wrapped in brown paper, the top twisted and tied with ribbon. “Butterscotch.”

“Arvin, I told ya--”

“I got lots,” he insists.

You take it with a thank you. You continue down the packed snow. He’s entirely oblivious to the way Charmain passes with a glare but you feel it in your chest.

“I was thinking, before the baby comes,” you swallow as the thought bubbles up from the pits of constant dread. “I should leave.”

“Leave?” He wonders aloud. He looks over at you as snow gathers in his hair, the cold nipping pink his cheeks. He’s two years older than you but looks and seems much younger than you. “Where to?”

“I got an Aunt a few townships over. She’s the only one still answering my letters. She never had no kids of her own. They all... none of ‘em made it, ya know? I been writing to her and that.”

“Oh,” his disappointment tweaks in his throat. “Well, you don’t gotta, you know? I don’t mind ya stickin’ ‘round.”

“I mind. You been so kind already. Once I got the babe, no one gonna take me then neither. No work here, and I’ll be lucky to get a pew on Sundays.”

“Yeah, well, all these folks be saying they’re godly and how do they act?” His tone edges hotly. “Ain’t godly to turn a soul out. My mama always said so. No soul’ll make it through this world with a dent or two, but the lord’ll forgive.”

“Mm, she sounds like a nice lady,” you say.

“She was,” he sniffs. “And so I wouldn’t be puttin’ no shame on her memory by bein’ selfish, ya know? So’s as long as you need it, the shed is yours. I told ya, though, there’s a room inside.”

“No, no,” you loosen the ribbon and peek inside the paper. The candy stick of twisted sugar is all shades of caramelly brown. You smell it and it plucks at your bottomless hunger. “I don’t mind it. Pa never had the stove goin’ less the snow was past our knees. He always says, if you’re cold, put another sweater on.”

“Huh,” he scoffs darkly.

“What?”

“Yer pa’s the reason you’re in my shed,” he harrumphs. “Sorry for sayin’ it, but I wouldn’t take no advice from a man who’d disown his own blood. He’s the one brought Henry ‘round. They still gettin’ drinks down at the tank.”

That information is more chilling than the cold. You didn’t know that. You try not to hear things about your father or the man who put this curse in you.

“I...” he begins crisply, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t gonna tell ya.”

“Woulda found out soon enough,” you shrug and shove the butterscotch stick in your mouth. You suck on it pensively. It’s sweet but you can hardly enjoy it as your eyes burn with a glaze of tears.

“So,” he coughs, “what’s for dinner?”

You pop your lip off the candy, “it’s a surprise,” you say.

“Oh, I like surprises,” he smiles, not that he ever really stops. Not around you.

“Well, I hope you like this one,” you drone.

💝

You wash the plates from dinner as dessert bakes in the oven. The smell of cinnamon fills the house as you hear Arvin tinkering in the next room. He’s always messing around with something mechanical. You’re not always sure if he’s fixing them or just taking them apart.

You dry and stack the dishes away. The old house is cozy, quaint. You know it belonged to his parents. It’s still strewn with their memories. As if he’s preserving them in those walls. So you do your best not to disturb it.

You take the pan out of the oven. The rolled-out dough is perfectly baked and the colour is pristine. The shape resembles their namesake; elephant ears. It’s only dough, sugar, and cinnamon, but so so delicious. Your grandmother used to make them. Despite your current predicament, you’re nostalgic for the simper days.

You put one on a plate and peek at the doorway. You pause to dig out the parcel you hid under the sink then bring both items out to the front room. You keep the latter behind your back as you approach Arvin. He sits on the floor in front of the burning firestove as he pokes at an old clock with a screwdriver.

“Here ya go,” you offer him the dessert. “I could make some coffee or tea?”

“Nah, I’m good,” he puts down the clock and tool, then wipes his hand on the cloth draped over his knee. He reaches up to the take the plate. “Smells good.” He brings the dish down to examine the pastry, “what is it?”

“Called an elephant ear. Not super fancy.”

“Looks good,” he grins. “And what’s that?”

He lifts the baked dough and bites into it as he angles his head as if to see around you. You bring your hand out and present the parcel.

“Merry Christmas,” you say. “I know it’s not much, and a bit early but it’s gettin’ real cold.”

He places the plate on the rug and claps his hands off as he chews. His dark eyes sparkle as he takes the bundle wrapped in brown paper. He brings it over his lap and carefully unties the twine. You sway on your feet and rub your stomach as you watch anxiously.

He uncovers the knitted scarf and cap. He already has thick gloves that he wears for his work. He feels the wool and examines it quietly. You’re suddenly very unsure.

“You made these? For me?” He looks up. You nod. “Wow, it’s... you lined the cap?”

“I had a few old pieces I repurposed,” you shrug.

“It’s...”

“Not too much. I know. I’m sorry. I don’t make too much these days. People only hire me if no one knows and it’s gettin’ harder to sneak around.”

He huffs and shakes his head. He lowers his chin and pets the scarf. “It’s everything.” He continues to examine your work. “I hope you don’t mind, my gift’s not ready yet.”

“Oh, Arvin, you don’t gotta get me nothin’. You done enough.”

“I want to,” he says. “Now,” he lays down the wool on the rug neatly and grabs his plate. He uncrosses his legs and stands. “Why aren’t you havin’ some dessert? You need to sit down. Let that baby rest. He mustn’t sleep very much with you titterin’ around all the time.”

“He’s already titterin--” you go to argue and stop with snort. “I think he knows we’re talking about him.”

You feel your stomach as the baby kicks. Arvin watches your hand on your belly as his brows rise up his forehead. “You think it’s a boy?”

“Could be. Not too sure. Oof.” You twitch as the baby kicks harder. Then wince again as Arvin puts his hand on you without warning. It’s surprising but not unwelcome. His warmth seeps through your dress.

“Oh!” He exclaims as the baby beats on your insides. “I can feel him.”

“It’s a bit early,” you reach back to brace your hips, “he usually waits ‘til I’m in bed.”

He keeps his hand on you, watching your belly as the baby continues his dance. He seems awestruck by the ripple under your skin. You’re more exhausted of it.

“I’ll have your present ready soon,” he says. “Promise.”

💝

Arvin’s truck rumbles up to the house. You were surprised when he drove it into town today. He doesn’t usually start it unless he’s going to fetch firewood or going off for long trips.

You open the shed door, a blanket around your shoulders as you peek out. His headlights shine through the greyness. It’s still early by your count, unless you lost track again.

He hops out and stomps through the snow. He waves at you as his hair curls out from under the cap you made him. He wears it every day. You’re happy for that.

“Merry Christmas,” he calls out.

“Christmas... it’s still two days away,” you stay behind the door to shield yourself from the winds.

“Two days!” He claps as he approaches. “Since you gave me my gift early, I got yours ready too.”

“Mine?”

“Mmhm. You’re not the only one who can do surprises. So pack a bag.”

“Pack...” you wonder.

“Ah, ah, just get a bag, alright?”

You can see him jittering in excitement. You hate to dampen that but you also feel bad. You made him a hat and scarf. He’s got something planned out that’s gonna at least cost him gas and his time.

“Oh...” you murmur.

“Don’t,” he wags a finger. “Really, come on! I wanna get there by dark.”

“Alright, I’ll be fast.”

You gently close the door and retreat. You can’t deny him. His words trouble you though. By dark? How far are you going? You don’t want him to do too much.

You don’t have a lot to take. A few dresses that still fit, some stockings, your sole pair of boots, your coat, and other things just in case. It doesn’t sound like you’ll be coming back tonight.

You come out in your coat and boots as Arvin keeps the truck idling. He meets you near the hood and takes your bag before he helps you up into the front seat. He gets in the other side and puts your bag between you.

“Do I get a hint?” You ask.

“Nope,” he shifts into gear. “Just hold tight.”

💝

It’s a few hours before Arvin stops. Your eyes scour the sentinel pines all around and fall upon the painted wood of the cabin’s face. The porch pillars are stained a dark blue as the siding stands as white as the snow. It’s only the edgework along the window frames and door that make it visible amid the winterscape.

You gasp, “Arvin?”

“Surprise,” he exclaims.

“What...”

“My grandfather built this place. Ma’s dad. I been workin’ on it,” he proclaims.

“Workin’ on it?”

“Yep! Ma wouldn’t want you raisin’ that boy in a shed.”

You mull his words and stare at the cabin. “Arvin, my aunt--”

“I know, she’s a nice woman by the sounds of it. She can always come see us but you know, not many place around that’ll be as nice as her. Not when’s they see a mother with no husband.”

You shrink down. He’s right.

“But I’m not--”

“Like I was saying,” he interjects, “you’re gonna be a mama. Means you need a proper house.”

He doesn’t wait for you to argue. You don’t have any to offer as you reel in disbelief. Why would he do all this for you? It’s not his baby. You’re not his problem.

He comes around and offers his hand. You climb out, gripping him tightly, as you flick away your tears. You sniffle and keep your head down as he leads you across the snowy yard.

“You’re upset?” He asks as he kicks snow off the steps.

“I’m... surprised,” you croak, trying to hide your face. “Arvin, it’s too much.”

“Not much at all,” he counters. “But I got a new stove in and the fireplace real nice since I redid the bricks. And I got it all wired up to a gas generator.”

“Oh,” you puff out as you climb the steps, still latched onto him. You hiccup as your tears flood over.

“Oh?” He echoes.

“Arvin,” you babble behind your hand. “Why-- why would you go and do all this for me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He tugs you toward the door.

“But...” you choke on your words.

You kick off your feet before you enter. He moves behind you, guiding you from behind with his hands on your arms. He stops you in a dark doorway. He lets go of you and you listen to him shifting around the dimness. He shines a flashlight into the front room.

“Once I get the lights on, it’ll look better,” he assures.

You shake your head, “it’s too much.”

“Nothin’s too much,” he argues again. “Look, you need this place and you need me. You need a husband, don’t ya?”

“Husband? Arvin, you can’t--”

“I wanna.”

“But--”

“Baby boy’s not mine. No one else needa know. Them folks in Knockemstiff, the don’t go so far. And the next one will be mine. Maybe a girl--”

“Next one?”

“Uh huh, gonna give this one lots of brothers and sisters,” he puts his hand on your stomach.

“I...” your heart sinks from on high.

He’s quiet, measuring the silence as you do too. You peer into the front room then wince as he turns the light in your direction. You shield yourself as it shines in your eyes.

“Well, you gonna tell me no?” His voice is low and silty. “Cause I don’t think no one’s gonna take you away from me. Ain’t no one else want you.”

It’s like a knife sinking into your gut. Your frown and grab his hand, trying to shove it off your stomach. Why would he say that? He twists free of your grasp and clings to you instead. He turns the light under his chin so it casts his features in a sinister glow.

“Without me, you and that baby’d be frozen to the side of the street,” he sneers. “All’s I’m tryna do is give you everything, you could at least do the same.”

#arvin russell #dark arvin russell #dark!arvin russell #arving russell x reader #the devil all the time #fic #december daze #navy and roo's sleepover #dark fic #dark!fic

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