#and endless “what if” and regret and “what could have been”

[sugary-daydreams3]

Grief trapped in blue sunglass lens [Gojo's funeral fanfiction]

Summary: Now that the students and Jujutsu associates healed their physical wounds, they have no choice but to face the elephant in the room. Satoru Gojo is gone and everyone deals with the void in their own way before the funeral begins.

Word count: 6.4k

Series: Lost chapters I wish Gege wrote about

A/N: Made this because me and many other people didn't get to see a Gojo funeral nor the character's feelings on him being gone. This is one of my biggest gripes with the ending of JJK. I had no problems with Gojo dying but I feel that how he was handled physically post Yujo fight left much to be desired.

So I decided to write about (mostly) everyone's coping with Gojo's death and a funeral service for him. Forgive me if the funeral may seem culturally inaccurate. Hopefully, no characters come across as too OOC, but some of these characters are hard to get right when they don't have much room to shine their personality in canon.

Glossy nails trail the white engraved letters and numbers above the matte black. She forgot to give back his credit card.  The last time she used it was Hallo-- 

Hall-- 

October 31st. 

October 31st. 

October. 

That fucking month with that fucking day. Like an alarm that keeps ringing and a clock that won’t move forward fused together. 

The month of horror, trick or treating, and bloody exploding eyeballs. The month were kids face real horror, not those stupid dumb skeletons, werewolves, and vampires. The kind of horror that will make someone either sample death or have it as their final meal. 

31st should have ended with her rocking the clothes she picked up eight hours before that fight. Gojo should have been eating endless candy and telling them “Job well done!” in that stupid annoying comforting voice of his. Not boxed away and expecting his students to come out on top in the chilly wild. 

She didn’t even see him die. She didn’t get to say her final words to him that just would have amounted to... 

“If you die your card is mine forever. So die, okay?” 

She couldn’t even say her fucked up, dark, cruel joke that was a mask of “Please don’t fucking die”. 

Why couldn’t I move? 

Why wasn’t I awake? 

Why wasn’t I present? 

Who wants to hear recollections of what happened between October 31st and December 24th? She wanted to help out with the Culling Games. She wanted to see the great battle of Sukuna vs. Gojo. She wanted to finally meet this Yuta kid and see everyone’s reaction to him coming back. She wanted to save Megumi when Yuji couldn’t. Picking up the pieces of Yuji’s mistakes. Being that deciding factor that could have prevented so much bullshit. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Why wasn’t I here? 

Her only eye stings, blinking two tears to fall on the muted black card. The heartache trails down to the 2754 of the four-part row of digits. Nobara quivers her lips as she tries to swallow down pills of regrets, exclusion, and despondency. 

Residing dust forces a couple of coughs out of Inumaki. He waves off the floating particles and goes for the next book off Gojo sensei’s shelve. He grabs the spine of the book and slowly pulls it out.  

He gave up being curious on the subject matter of these books once he cleared the first row. Just of bunch of thick, mind-numbing pieces on Jujutsu, Cursed Energy, or Autobiographies on retired sorcerers.  

Turning from the back cover, in red bold letters his purple eyes reads: Learning Sign Language for your students. Written by... sounds like a random Japanese woman with some fancy doctor degree. 

Narrow eyes widen as confusing experiences lingering in his memory begin to click and warp into sense.  

On the third day of his first year, he remembers cringing at Gojo’s attempt to speak random rice ball ingredients to him. That was his “way” of trying to connect with him. Offended, Inumaki wrote him off and ignored any potential conversation to have with him at that point. 

Around early June, he walked up to see Gojo silently greeting him with fluid movements of his hands and fingers. As fluent as someone who been signing JSL for several years. Was that the reason he stopped trying to conversate with him three weeks prior? 

Taken back, Inumaki slowly signed back, leading to having their first full conversation ever. It ended with Gojo patting him on the shoulder and Inumaki turning to watch his goofy sensei walk off in a cheerful mood.  

Inumaki caresses the book and notices the personal sticky notes poking out of many pages. He looks behind him to see Panda pre-occupied. Inumaki sets the book in his bag, setting it aside to read through later. He shakes his head and stares at the half empty shelve for a long moment before continuing his duty.  

Panda was busy distracting himself with Satoru’s doodads instead of effectively cleaning out his office. Throw in the fact that it was a journey to simply carry things that would have taken him a few seconds to put away had he been in his original big body. But the funeral starts in a few hours so he has to stop monkeying around soon.  

Panda frowned. There was barely any time to “monkey around” ever since Satoru died. It seems like when he died, he took the fun and security with him. Did most of his friends grow to be so powerful from the battle on Shinjuku? Sure, they’re practically monsters at this point.  

But for a long time, Satoru’s level of strength gave them breathing room to take off the sorcerer mask sometimes. Now that he’s gone, there was no room to be a kid anymore. His friends are teenagers cursed with adult responsibilities; the rest of their adolescence stripped away like a bloody band aid.  

He’s a panda so he doesn’t really understand that feeling. However, he sees it with the forced smiles he’s greeted one second with frowns pulling them down moments after. Desensitized responses they all show in public contrasted with the quiet weeping he hears going on late night campus walks. It will always give him emotional whiplash. 

Life after Satoru was a canvas board of still grey with overwhelming dark blue surrounding it.  

Panda opens a brown box to see a bunch of stuffing peeking out. Dropping down, he turns the box around to see in black marker: Spare stuffing for Panda. 

Panda releases a deep sigh. He feels his stitches ache all over. 

Loose blue strains spills over the wholesome photo of her and Gojo that day. A day where her biggest concern was not looking stupid in front of the cute, strong, funny teacher at the Tokyo campus of Jujutsu High. A day where her classmates bickered with coal still in their eyes. A day when Mai was cranky and alive. When Mechamaru... 

Miwa shuts her eyes as her tears soaks her eyelashes. Blurry eyes open to take in the photo that seem like centuries ago, when it was only since September. Gojo’s peace sign and shared chipper smiles fill the holes in Miwa’s heart for a moment. Her thumbs zoom in on Gojo and lingers over his tall figure dominating most of the selfie. 

A small smile forms behind the isolated blues. “Gojo...” 

Kusakabe groans, rubbing the back of his head whenever his mind wanders to that blue eyed trouble maker. There were days he enjoyed the consistent stillness without that loudmouth breaking it. Then there were others where the silence was drowning; his cheery, obnoxious voice completely void to lift up everyone’s spirits when needed. Today was one of those days. 

Twirling his toothpick, he remembers the countless times Gojo annoyed the hell out of him with his comments and pranks. There wasn't a day where he wouldn’t drag one of the Jujutsu faculty and staff in his shenanigans. So bad that one-time Gojo went too far and it ended with Kusakabe wishing he was dead. 

Be careful what you wish for, I guess. 

Kusakabe looks up at the passing clouds trailing through the blue. For such a day for Jujutsu High, the sky didn’t reflect the collective feeling. The man bats his eyes as the ambient nature lures him into a still mind. 

“Kusakabe!? Are we serious right now!?” One of the higher ups barked. 

Gojo shakes his head, “Is there ever a day you guys don’t bitch about--” 

“I agree that sending me would be a horrible idea.” Kusakabe interrupted. Gojo turns to see Kusakabe wearing a “Yes sir. No sir.” attitude. He knew he was lying.  

Kusakabe has been looking forward to a sorcerer mission like this ever since he met him. A mission where all you do is investigate and gather information, no risking your life, no fighting at all really. More like a trip out on Japan’s quiet grassy countryside with a side quest of being an undercover sorcerer representing Jujutsu High.  

Gojo steps forward. “Kusakabe is our best grade 1 sorcerer. He’s no fighter and a nice guy for the most part. He would be better to talk to lame country folk than I am...” 

The elders remain silent. Kusakabe can feel the tension rising. “Gojo, you don’t have to--” 

“I got too much other shit going on to do some boring mission in the countryside. If you send me instead of him then you guys are more senile than I thought.” 

“Gojo!” Kusakabe quickly turned to the many shoji screens hiding the higher up’s bodies. The fact that he had no idea how they were reacting put his worry in overdrive. 

One of the elders sighs, “We don’t feel like arguing with you on this. If you truly think Kusakabe of all people would fit this mission then so be it. But if he fails this, he will suffer the consequences. His mistakes are not on us.” 

“When is it ever on you?” Gojo bounced back. 

“Dismissed.” The other elder said. 

Once they left the room, Gojo wraps his arms around Kusakabe shoulders and bellowed out his carefree laugh. “Don’t forget to bring me back some gifts. You owe me afterall.” 

Kusakabe lowers his head away from the blue and moving white to face the cracked, washed solid grey.  

His heart didn’t ache for Gojo. Tears didn’t trail down for him either. But the crumbs of memories made him appreciate the little explosive highlights he gave his boring, uneventful life. Like those popping candies that felt like fireworks in your mouth.  

Yeah, Gojo was those popping rock candies. 

Hakari holds the stack of yen as the various fights go on the multiple T.V. screens. Licking his thumb, he counts through the overwhelming amounts of money from his lucky bets. Although he’s been hanging around Jujutsu High more as of recent, lately everything has been about Gojo, his death and preparing for his funeral. All of the mope and serious mumbo jumbo was getting to Hakari, so he retreated to his fight club. 

“When does it start?” Kirara asked, her pink french tips gently caressing his ashy blonde thick hair.  

Hakari shrugs, “Donno. Seems like everyone is too depressed to talk n’ shit.” 

Banding up the yen, Hakari montages the times Gojo left him feeling the fever he often seeks out of many.  

Training him so hard he puked the rest of that day. Pushing him to go after Kirara and teasing him about his crush. Giving him shitty relationship advice. That one time they did that silly pose where they flashed their teeth then flexed their muscles for the camera. Cheating Gojo out of thousands of yen over a wrong move during Blackjack. 

Hakari traces the numbers of the yen, smirking over the fun times that crazy man with the blindfold gave him. 

Two streaks of damp wet are noticed when the wind sway past Ijichi’s jawline. Another dam of woe threatens to burst until he quickly wipes his sore undereye. He doesn’t even know why he’s getting so emotional over someone who and still-- 

Not sill. Damnit brain, get with the program. 

Someone who used to bully him relentlessly ever since they were kids up until just a few weeks ago. To him, Gojo was nothing but... 

Why are you still here? Need me to punch you to get the message? 

You failed you’re driving test again? You can’t even do that? Go join a local circus at this point. 

Shoko is out of your league, man. You don’t even have the balls to talk to her. How can you expect her to like you. 

Ijichi, don’t piss me off.  

A guy like that doesn’t deserve his tears. Nope, not at all... 

The only person I trust to catch me if I fall is me and, um, Ijichi I think. 

Wanna go out for some hot cocoa? It’s freezing today. 

Well, well, well. You finally took Shoko out for dinner, huh? I guess the world is ending soon. So, how did it go? 

Look, Ijichi may be a wet doormat but he’ll get things done for us and the students. C’mon guys, give him more credit than that. 

Ijichi huffs a stuttered breath. Nope. Nope. No. No. No-- 

You’re the man I trust the most. That’s the only reason I need. 

Ijichi breaks down. A new coat of tears staining his dry skin. His wrung heart soaked again with a grief too complex to explain. 

Cigarette smoke brush past Shoko’s dry, dull brown hair. No tears had nor will shed for her childhood friend. She wasn’t a crier, even when she was little. When her father died a long time ago, not one tear dropped.  

Instead, there was heavy rocks that magically weighed in her chest. A weight too heavy for her slim body to carry. A weight she dismisses publicly but can’t ignore in private. So, in true Shoko fashion, she grabs a pack of ciggies and breaks her 11th vow to never smoke again. Looking out on the campus field, her eyes strain with stress and lack of sleep. Her heavy heart was to blame this time. 

“Can’t believe I’m being peer pressured right now.” Gojo says in a jokingly nervous tone. 

Shoko lifts up the cigarette, unlit and waiting. “I’m tired of being “The Smoker Chick” of our school. It’s always so lonely smoking by myself.” 

“Regardless if I smoke this or not, you’ll always be “The Smoker Chick”.” 

“Gojo please.”  

Gojo sighs and contemplates the nicotine stick itching to ruin someone’s lungs. He was far from being a goody too shoes but smoking wasn’t his thing. 

“You’ll look so cool doing it. It’ll just be between us.” Shoko persisted. 

Gojo rolled his eyes and snatched the cig from her. He placed it between his perfect, straight whites and waited a moment before turning to Shoko. Shoko stood in disbelief until Gojo snapped his fingers in front of her. 

“Well hurry up and light it!” Shoko quickly digs in her pocket and lights the white end. It takes a few seconds for the cigarette to burn before smoke waves out of the tip. Gojo inhales then blows out a line of smoke effortlessly. Shoko gasps, “How did you not cough?” 

“Duh! Look who you’re talking to.” 

“Oh...yeah. Right.”  

The juxtaposition of Gojo’s divine-like aura and angelic appearance partaking in the trashy, commoner act of smoking was a sight to behold. Almost like he gave a middle finger to his reputation as the strongest sorcerer and decided to be a normal dude for once. Shoko remembers judging Gojo’s bougie attitude during freshman year. She saw his snobbish nature a mile away before he even introduced himself to the class. One thing about Gojo though, he never failed to surprise her with his willingness to bring himself down from heaven. 

Shoko is dazed by Gojo puffing out a few quick smokes before she is presented a hit. 

“This shit tastes awful. How do you smoke these every thirty minutes?” Gojo barfed his tongue out. 

Shoko giggles and breathes in the loud smoke that always hugs her brain. “Helps me stay numb to the bad stuff in the world.” 

Although that was Gojo’s first and last time ever smoking, their budding friendship springs tenfold. 

Shoko was back at that same spot they wasted their youth a decade and so ago. Only there was no arrogant, annoying but funny classmate to secretly cast her judgement on anymore. What only remains is a cigarette and a woman who had an uneventful life outside of being a sidekick to Gojo’s adventures. 

She takes another hit, her tongue recoils at the cigarette taste. Now she gets what he meant back then. 

The drizzling rain show no signs of giving nature a break from the drab, cold atmosphere. Megumi lays against his cushioned but firm mattress, his brain refusing to move his body. Tears quietly drip down to damp the grey sheets, adding to the collection of wet dots on his bed. The air condition overpowered the pitter-patter behind the window. The dull sound clearing his head to reflect his whirlwind called life these past couple months. 

Countless memories punched his mind. There was so many foggy, forgettable memories of Gojo growing up. His attempt to give them meaning and higher resolution gave him a slight headache. 

First his sister then-- 

Gojo.  

He saw it while being a few feet away; Gojo’s blood forming small puddles, leaving his body with his life tagging along. The tired whisper of “My bad, Megumi.” a few moments before his eyes went still. He couldn’t even respond due to that curse going on about some dumb speech after almost getting both of them killed. 

Sukuna.  

Heat overwhelmed his body as soon as the name rung. He hates him. He hates him. He hates him. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Red and blue hatred evolves into purple flames the longer it sits, burns, and melds. Never has he felt so much rage off a name alone. 

Blood on his hands without the purpose and maliciousness to back it up. Sukuna was gone but the damage will never fade away. It’s here to overstay it’s welcome and haunt him forever.  

“Good riddance.” Maki lets the intrusive thoughts travel to whispers.  

Alone in the tidy bathroom, she struggles to create grief over someone that just annoyed her most of the time. The only one she believes deserved her grief was her sister, Mai. 

Don’t get her wrong, she respected the hell out of Gojo’s strength. But the only solid memories she has of him is sending her favorite junky snacks whenever it was her time of the month and excused her from class that week.  

Other than that, he was like a gnat that wouldn’t get out of your face. Loud for no reason. Failed to read the room. Teased her about Yuta, even during the time he went to Africa. Pestering her about dumb school shit. Yeah, that’s the Gojo she knows. Not this revisionist history almost everyone on campus is crafting for him now that the bastard is gone gone.  

Yuta and Gojo had a closer relationship than others students, which unfortunately, makes him stricken with the depressing “Gojo is gone” epidemic too. But compared to him and the Jujutsu High students and staff, he actually has good reason to grieve.  

It’s just too overwhelming to deal with for more than an hour. She had to get a breather from seeing someone she cares about so defeated emotionally. She seen Yuta cry before but not to this extent, not this long either. 

Another round of sobs scolds her indifference to Gojo as they breakthrough the thick bathroom door. Maki looks down and moves her toes against the maroon bathroom rug to build back her patience and tolerance. Letting out a short breath, she pushes herself off the sink and keeps her stoic disposition.  

A blank, emotionally collected expression that means well beneath the surface.  

Yuta cries drag out as he lays on the floor. Maki shifts when she places a palm against his back, not sure how to handle his anguish and piercing sobs. 

Thankfully, Yuta’s dorm was positioned to be isolated at the end of the hall. The other male student's dorms are spaced out from each other so he didn’t have any direct neighbors. But still, his mourning was loud enough to hear muffles across his front door. 

“Yuta.” Maki said.  

She didn’t know what to say exactly. She, like many other Zenins, weren’t the best when it came to nurturing. Even though she feels nothing about Gojo dying, she feels everything seeing her best friend so ...devastated. 

Yuta looks up at her for a long moment, tears trailing by the second, lips quivering, throat tight with words he can no longer say to his sensei. He hugs her waist and cries into her chest.  

“I used him, Maki. He’s gone and the first thing I did was use him. It should have been--” 

“Stop. Don’t finish that. It shouldn’t have been anyone else instead. He did what he had to do for us to win.” Maki comforted. Yuta shakes his head, unable to accept logical reasoning. 

“I-I-I...” He sucks in his breath after every attempt to speak. "I didn’t even get to say--”  

Yuta hurls, his mouth seconds away from bursting open. Maki quickly goes for the bucket and puts it under his head. He pukes for the third time today, projecting out yesterday's lunch and dinner that he ate too little of. Maki sighs and pats his back to get him to vomit it all out. Ever since he returned back to his original body, Yuta has been puking whenever he thinks about the most fucked-up stunt he ever pulled. 

Once Yuta was done, he sobs tamed down to a string of lingering cries. He didn’t bother to change his shirt or wipe the corners of his mouth. Maki grabbed a tissue and cleaned up the small bits of vomit around his mouth. She heads back into the bathroom to clean out the half-filled blue bucket yet again. 

Looking up, he sees a framed picture of him and Gojo during his time in Africa. Gojo had him in a headlock whilst making him laugh about something he hates that he can’t remember. Yuta heart swells, the picture clearly being taken off guard by Miguel. Another wave of sorrow drowns him the longer he stares at Gojo in his white dress shirt, sunglasses, alive and well... 

Yuta face scrunches, a fresh sting of tears falling down. He lays down on the cold floor, allowing the grief to lure him to sleep. 

Yuji rubs over his face, a stubborn migraine pinching his thoughts. Snot leaking to tease the tip of his tongue. Eyes in desperate need of a bottle of eyedrops to make up for the tiny streams it released the past few hours. His mind was active but his body was lazy, lying on his bed through the whole morning. But he had to get this eulogy done, if nothing else. 

“He was unserious when things were tense. He trolled...whether you were a man, woman, or child. He’d... He’d... He-- dammit!” 

He turns on his stomach and picks up the paper again. He reads over the line again, then two more times to write it on his memory. 

“Hell, he’d even walk in your dorm to check on you only to leave with your house slippers moments later.”  

Again. 

“Hell, he’d even walk in your dorm to check on you only to leave with your house slippers moments later.” Yuji groans. 

“Don’t say hell, that might not fly well.” He scolded himself. 

Yuji sets the paper on his nightstand so his brain can have a break. He read over his eulogy so many times that his mind is starting to slip with the constructed presentation he went over since last night. It doesn’t help that throughout this practicing, he’s been crying whenever he gets lost in thought about Gojo-sensei. Maybe he needs to cool down a bit. 

On the edge of his window sits one of Gojo’s many blindfolds. Yuji reaches over with minimal effort and caress the fabric. Black cotton comforts his fingertips while Yuji gives this simple thing a soft gaze. The very first thing he noticed about that strange looking man on that life changing night. 

Scenes of warm and fun premiere from his memory bank, each starring Gojo sensei. Smiles to laughter with jokes, ease, and good food in between. 

Sensei steals a fry from Nobara’s-- 

Sliced open. Blood dripping down white baggy pants and black combat slippers. Torso on the ground. Harsh ice blue still yet soft. Live and unskippable. Live with no rewinds. Sukuna’s joy celebrated in the wrong body. No more rough ruffles on the head. No more boring lessons elevated by high-energy humor and multiple tangents of his glory days. 

Yuji winces and attempts to rub out the migraine and horrible memories intruding the good. There is a knock on the door. “You’re not naked are you?” Nobara voice is heard from behind the door. 

Yuji shakes his head as if Nobara could see. “No.”  

Nobara walks in, remnants of rain dripping from her raincoat. She had a blank face, her usual energy turned down a few notches. “Hey.” 

Yuji barely lifts up a wave, still smoothing out his nerves. “Hi.”  

“So everyone is either busy or depressed so you’re my last hope around here.” Nobara confessed. Yuji lifted up the eulogy, “Can’t. Too busy.” 

Nobara sucks her teeth then observes Yuji’s face. “You look like you’re more in the too depressed camp than the too busy one.” 

“Yeah, that too.” 

Nobara walks over and grabs the eulogy. Yuji lays back down, “Since you’re here, I need to clarify one last thing for my speech. Did sensei buy you those tampon things or those purple diapers?” 

Nobara stops reading and shoots him a look. “Why are you broadcasting my period for the whole Jujutsu High to hear?” 

“It’s supposed to be one of the many things Gojo did for us as students. I couldn’t think of anything else, cut me some slack.” 

Nobara sighs, “He used to get me pain meds and a bunch of tampons whenever my cramps would go into overdrive. And it’s called pads, not purple diapers.” 

Yuji nodded and formed a curve of a smile. “Thanks, Kugisaki.” 

“I could go and hang out with some girls I know from other schools but it looks like the rain is getting worse. What time is the funeral anyway?” 

“It’s in four hours, around two I think.” 

Nobara nodded, “Guess I’ll just go back to my dorm and sulk like everyone else. See you later.” She gets off to leave. “Oh, save me a seat too.” 

Yuji nodded with a frown, not having enough optimism left to give fake smiles. “Sure, see you.” 

Alone again, Yuji picks up the worn white sheet with creases and wrinkles. Headache tamed, he decides to recite again. You can never be too polished. 

“Gojo-sensei was a...” 

Todo sheds single strings of tears while many games of ping pong against Gojo replays in his mind. Besides Mei Mei, Gojo was his common partner in his favorite sport. Now that he’s gone, he had no one to slam “cheating” allegations to in an intense game during the humid, long summer afternoons. 

Ui Ui sniffles as he looks down, avoiding the blunt reality of the casket up ahead. He wasn’t the biggest acquaintance of Gojo but a few moments of the past built a friendly nature between them. His briberies of fried bananas to get direct access to Mei Mei. Being a one-man audience (he slept through his blindfold) for spoken word poetry he wrote about his sister when no one else bothered to hear. Gojo never failed to match his childish energy when other adults or big kids were “too busy” to entertain him. The boy’s quiet sniffles prompted a head rub from his older sibling. 

The pointy ends of Mei Mei’s red nails pierce through her left palm. Her right palm comforts the juvenile emotions of her baby brother. Her face remains calm but blue fire bursts in her heart.  

1.5 Million yen. All that rich fuck had to do is pay me 1.5 million yen back and what does he do? Fuck around and die. Hmph! He probably died to cheap his way out of his debt. Damn you Satoru Gojo. Damn him. 

Ino stood with his ski-mask firm against his chest, looking forward with respect. Gojo was more like an older brother than a co-worker. Despite the pain he feels, he refuses to look away from the body. 

Momo stands next to Miwa, people watching the many guests standing in line to pay their personal respects to the body. As soon as she came, she made sure to grab the nearest seat and keep her head down. Dead bodies always freaked her out. People always assumed she be fine with that kind of stuff since she gives “witchy” vibes but no way. It was the way the body just sat there, all sense of spark or fire vanished. Also, that silly fear that a dead body will raise and walk towards her. God, she hopes they close the casket soon.  

Kirara hugs on to Hakari’s arm as she quietly weeps to herself. Hakari wasn’t the “comforting” type but all she needs from him was his arm and shoulder for support. During the time it was her vs. the conservative Jujutsu World when she decided to transition, Gojo was one of the few who had her back. She has his support from the moment she began dressing feminine all the way to the moment she began going by Kirara. It wasn’t a problem for Gojo to call her by her true name right away since he thought her dead name was forgettable as hell. 

Sure, Gojo wasn’t perfect and had his moments where his views were a bit dated, but he was willing to own up to his mistakes and learn for the better. She’ll never forget the stereotypical girly shit he would buy her because he didn’t know her personal taste that well, not that she even knew at the time either. Corny gifts and unconditional support are why her mascara and eyeliner were messy all around her under eye.  

Most attendees dressed in purple while others sulked in black. Ages from teen to end of the road mingled together within a pot of grief, visible respect, and reservation. Some felt internal relief that the bastard was gone. Some cried harder than they would if their actual father died.  

Gojo lied still in a polished classic black casket, wearing a blank emotion that he would hate everyone to see. His cut, pieced back by Shoko, was barely noticeable. If you weren’t given the details of his death, you’d probably would question how he died. The line to view his body was beginning to reach its end, preparing everyone to mentally checkout for an hour and a half. 

A collected Megumi stared at Gojo in a distracted haze. It was stupid, but he felt like Gojo was playing some sick prank and he’s going to pop out and yell some stupid shit any second now. The longer he stares at the body’s lack of movement, the confirmation rings hollow in his mind. Thankfully Nobara and Yuji kept to themselves, because he’s not in the mood to make idle small talk to take their mind off the obvious.  

Yuta’s sorrow could be heard faintly throughout the large quiet space but not loud enough to distract from the ceremony. His tears took all of the moisture from his face, leaving him paler than usual. Messy black hair clashed with his neat tux that took forever to fit him in. It was a miracle for Maki to get him in that, let alone bring him here. 

 It was a tough sight to see as Yuta was now regarded as the strongest sorcerer of the upcoming generation. Yuta usually had a friendly, shy demeanor around his peers while being focused and stoic during battle. It was rare to see such a rock morph into glass, his pieces laid for the whole institution to see.  

Yuta could care less, the repercussions of his public image being in an awkward, pitiful state wasn’t even a thought in the thick of his pain. He could repair that with time and his rapid growing reputation. This is the last time he’ll ever see Gojo-sensei and his heart can’t take it. 

Throughout most of the service, Yuji idly stares at Gojo-sensei’s memorial card. A portrait of him wearing a bright, goofy smile placed above the December 7th, 1989 - December 25th, 2018 felt like visual whiplash. Yet, he kept staring at it until a microphoned call of his name lifts his head up. 

“Itadori-kun, are you still going to read your eulogy for us today?” Ijichi directs, slightly confused of Yuji’s zoned out state. 

“Oh, yeah, for sure. Just...” Yuji grabs the piece of paper from Nobara’s lap and scoots through the aisle. He walks up to the podium, feeling stares and invisible opinions hover over his back. He gently grabs the mic from Ijichi and sets his eulogy across his face.  

Looking up, the stares feel more intense as the rows and rows of straight-faces set social anxiety in his stomach. It was weird, he usually had no problem speaking publicly to an audience, he was a social butterfly after all. Funerals love throwing everyone’s vibe off, even a generally confident one like his, he assumes. 

“Um, hi guys—hi everyone.” 

He quickly goes over the first line to trigger his trained memory to make the speech sound fluent and genuine. He prays to whoever is listening to not let his mind go blank at a time like this. 

“Gojo sensei was a goofball.”  

The silence screams for a moment as the opening line registers in everyone’s minds. A few chuckle, most keep their solemn unimpressed looks, while others are not even on this planet. Yuji clears his throat. 

“He was unserious when things were tense. He trolled you whether you were a man, woman, or child. Hell, he’d even walk in your dorm to check on you, only to leave with your house slippers moments later.” Many students laughed at the last comment. Yuji looks up and chuckles along, a confidence block stacked. 

“He wasn’t a teacher who sugar-coated things, his words were more salt-coated. It stings from being so blunt, but it was needed in order for you to have more flavor.” Yuji takes a quick scan and sees that more people are in tuned with his words. Second block stacked. 

“Growing up, I only had my grandfather for family. So while I kinda knew what it was like to have a dad, I spent a good portion of my life taking care of him during his last years so I forgot what it felt like. Gojo reminded me of that feeling.” 

“He gave life advice outside of teaching. He would take us out for ice cream after missions. One time, he bought those weird tampon things and sea salt caramel ice cream for Nobara during her...y’know.” Nobara gives him a look after he shoots a nervous chuckle her way. 

“He would walk Megumi’s dogs on Saturday mornings. He’d crack a joke in sign that only Inumaki-senpai would understand. He was tough on me, Hakari-senpai, and Okkotsu-senpai during training because he wanted us to take advantage of the potential we couldn’t see. He was...” 

Yuji looks up to see Yuta staring at him with teary but curious eyes, desperate to know what he’s about to lay on the crowd next. Yuji directs a small, sympathetic smile at him then looks down. 

“He was our constant entertainment during the long, boring hours of our jobs. He unlocked the laughter and ease that we often hid to condition ourselves so we could endure the next mission. He made hell feel like home. He was our Gojo-sensei when the world just saw him as Gojo Satoru.” 

Tears don’t hold back on some folks faces. What they expected to be a generic but appropriate eulogy turned out to be an off-beat, heartfelt, kinda corny eulogy written by a dude who loved his teacher. A rare case of a dude who isn’t clever with words evoking more emotions out of a crowd more than any writer ever could. 

“I’m sure some of you struggle to move forward with this loss. Some of you may simply be here to pay respects and move on with their lives preferably without sensei. Or you may be like me, someone just going through the motions and may not know what to do, say, think, or feel. But Gojo-sensei is gone and all we can do is reflect on the echos of his existence.” 

Yuji lets out a deep breath, satisfied to have gotten through his eulogy, the weight off his shoulders. His eyes flickers to see many nodding at his last statement. He scans through his last sentence and nods to himself to bring it home. 

“Thank you, Gojo-sensei, for being the goofball with the blindfold and thank you all for listening.” Everyone except the elders clapped for Yuji, moved by his honest words and pure approach. Yuji didn’t register the applause nor Ijichi’s transition to the next segment since his heart was pounding against his left chest. 

There was another wrinkle added to the eulogy when he goes to sits back down. He stares at his knees to contemplate his social triumph. Nobara looks at him and pats his upper back while Megumi simply gives him a blank look, jailing his “Good job.”. Yuji breathes deep through his nose and gives himself little nods, back in his own world to process those past few minutes. 

The rest of the service goes smoothly, time moving quicker due to Yuji black flashing through the seemingly unbreakable ice. After the main service, many students and staff agreed to meet at the school yard where the funeral bonfire repast will be held. 

While Gojo was being cremated, the bonfire turned out to be a lively celebration of life after so much grief wrung at the service. Snow trinkled down amongst the light conversations, coping dark humor, taste bud-rising food and drinks, and tear stains. Taking a break entertaining his peers, Yuji looked up to admire the floating ice. His irises went up and down, low right and high left, no different from when he saw snow as a kid. Laughter and smiles were behind Yuji, but all he can feel was the snow nurturing the child he locked away. 

Ashes leave out of the hands of many, gliding above the flowers revived by spring. Cherry blossom petals dance with Gojo in the gentle wind. The early days of April was always Gojo’s favorite time of the year, it was only fitting that his departure was during its peak.  

The new year of Jujutsu High begins without the blindfolded goofball to kick it off with overwhelming enthusiasm and junior high-level jokes. Second years, third years, and even the students that graduated are moving forward after months of mental detours. Now, there was a fresh set of first years oblivious to the horrors and traumas that awaits them. It’s a pity they won’t have that funny man in the sunglasses to help them endure their next twelve months of hell.  

[mononijikayu]

don’t they know it's the end of the world (cause you don’t love me anymore) — geto suguru.

You blinked, the knot in your chest tightening as you took in his face, his solemn expression that didn’t match the usual carefree look he wore. Was he already saying goodbye in some way? You shook your head slowly, the smile coming to your lips, though it carried a mixture of sadness and certainty. "Sugu, how could you even think about that?… I could never forget about you."  “It can happen, you know. Life happens.” He smiles in a small timid manner.   Your voice was soft, but there was no doubt in it. "No, you’re wrong. You’re the most important person in my life. How could I forget someone like you?"

GENRE: alternate universe - canon divergence;

WARNING/S: gen, afab! reader, angst, fluff, friendship, friends to lovers, eventual romance, slice of life, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, sad ending, physical touch, pet names (sugu, buttercup) mentioned character death, depression, mourning, loneliness, pain, grief, internal conflict, post-hidden inventory at the end, letting go, break up, meeting each other again, depiction of childhood, depiction of romance, depiction of internal conflict, depiction of complicated relationship, depiction of loneliness, mention of grief, depiction of depression, mention of internal conflict, non! sorcerer reader, sorcerer! suguru;

WORD COUNT: 10k words

NOTE: im soon back at university, so im rush writing everything and so im exhausted all the time too. so if im not updating, its because im probably regretting my life decisions. though, in any case, i will still publish as much as i can. im about two/three finished with valentines fics, but im tortured by sukuna because i have a standard with him and i can't escape it. anyway, i wrote this for suguru's birthday. he would have been thirty-five today!!! i hope you enjoy this fic!!! i love you all!!! see you on the sixth!!! <3

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if you want to, tip! <3

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IF YOU COULD DESCRIBE WONDER, IT WOULD BE BEING BY SUGURU’S SIDE. No one else could understand it, you like to think. What the two of you had, it was certainly a language made for two. It was a life that was built for the purpose of being known by you both. And you like to think that he feels the same way too.

You and Suguru had been together since you were kids, bound by an unspoken connection that neither of you ever questioned. Because, there was nothing to question about it. Nor could words even describe it all. It was too unique, too intriguing. And yet, it only belonged to the two of you.

It all started on a warm afternoon at the school playground, where laughter and shrieks filled the air as children ran around in endless games of tag. It was a long while ago, and yet it felt like yesterday to you. You could feel your eyes twitching as you watched from where you stood, permeating with desire and anxiety. 

You had been standing alone for a while, just a bit near the jungle gym, watching all the kids giggle and run about, with the zeal of youth dashing along with them.

As you watched them there with eager eyes, you kept wishing you could join in too, you wished you could run amok with joy too. But that heavy weight of fear blossoms your hesitation. It held you back from a lot of things, including making friends.

Yet, why wouldn’t you feel like this? You were new in town, and you didn’t know these kids. You didn't know any life lived in this place before you had come. Everything was new for you, as much as you were sure it would also be new to them. 

How would they even react to you, knowing you aren’t a familiar face they were already comfortable seeing? How would you interact with them, anyway? It’s not like you could just jump in and smile and just jump in easily? This is a sea and if you plunge so deep, you could drown. And you didn’t want that to happen. Not here, not when you were starting a new life. 

But then, that’s when he found you.

"Why are you just standing here?" a voice asked.

You turned to see a boy with dark hair, a little messy from running around, and warm, curious eyes. He wasn’t out of breath, despite the wild chase of tag that had just ended. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his tiny shorts, and he looked at you like he was trying to figure you out.

"I….I don’t know how to approach them." you muttered, kicking at a loose pebble. "I’m not sure how to come and tell them I want to play too, so I….."

Suguru blinked, then without hesitation, he grinned and reached out a hand to you. "I see…..Then let’s play together! I don’t care if you’re slow. I’ll just run at your speed, if that would make it easier on you."

Your eyes swiftly widened, surprised by the easy kindness in his voice. "Really?"

"Yeah!" he said enthusiastically. "I’ll even let you tag me first."

That was the beginning of everything, that was certain.

During recess, the world belonged to just the two of you. You ran hand in hand across the playground, unbothered by who was faster or slower. You hummed little tunes under your breath, and he giggled at the way you always skipped a step ahead before doubling back to him. You hopped, he ran, and sometimes, in the joy of it all, you tripped over each other’s feet and tumbled into the dirt.

And if one of you scraped a knee? The other sat down beside them without hesitation. If you fell, Suguru would plop down next to you, crossing his arms stubbornly. “I’m not playing if you’re not playing. That’s just how it is!

And you would do the same for him, because what was the fun in anything if he wasn’t right there beside you?

Nothing was ever quite complete without each other.

It wasn’t a good day unless you were together.

Even as you grew older, nothing changed.

The playground turned into quiet walks home, but your hands still found each other without thinking.

"You still hold my hand like we’re kids, Sugu," you teased one afternoon, fingers laced together as you walked home. The sun hung low in the sky, spilling warm golden light over the quiet street. Your shadows stretched long behind you, linked together like a promise.

Suguru glanced down at your hands, his grip tightening just slightly. "Yeah? You don’t like it?"

You smiled, squeezing back. "I never said that, you know!"

His grin was soft but sure, a mirror of the way he had always been with you. "Good. Because you’re still my favorite person."

And really, wasn’t that all that mattered?

══════════════════

IF YOUR BIRTHDAY COULD BE A HOLIDAY, SUGURU WOULD MAKE SURE OF IT. Your birthday has always been special, you know that much. But now more than ever, especially because, for as long as you could remember, Geto Suguru had been by your side for most of it. Now, it was even more special than before. 

The years blurred together in a collage of memories: the laughter, the excitement, the simple moments that felt so big when they were shared with him. There were so many pictures, pictures of the two of you, year after year.

You were always together. His presence in every single one, a steady anchor through the passing time. One that was the only constant throughout the world that keeps on changing.

Whether it was the early mornings, when you both rushed around the house, throwing together last-minute gifts for each other in the midst of the chaos of birthday preparations, or the quiet evenings spent chatting under the stars, those moments were always colored by Suguru’s unique way of making everything feel more important. 

He never treated your birthday like just another day. To him, it was an event, something that deserved to be celebrated with the utmost care. After all, it was the day you were born—the day you were with him. And to Suguru, that meant the world.

He didn’t just show up for your birthday. 

No, he took it as seriously as he would a test. 

He planned it meticulously, down to the smallest detail, as though the day had to be perfect.

"I thought you might like this, buttercup!" he’d say with a grin, always just a little too proud of whatever thoughtful gift he managed to get you, even if you’d both picked it out together the day before. "I’m pretty sure you’ll love it." 

And every time, no matter how simple the gift, the thought behind it always felt like the most meaningful gesture.

On your birthday mornings, you’d wake up to the smell of something delicious.  The pancakes, bacon, whatever it was that he knew you’d love, always cooked with that special touch that made it taste even better. He would rush in, hands full of wrapped presents, bright eyes sparkling like a child eager to see your reaction. 

"You ready?" he’d ask, bouncing on his heels.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight— Geto Suguru, the one who always had his life together, who always so composed, turned into a ball of excitement for just one day.

Even in the evenings, as the day began to fade and the sky turned dark, you would find yourselves sitting together outside, wrapped in blankets under the stars. He’d listen to you talk about the year that had passed, what had changed, what had stayed the same while you both sat in comfortable silence, the kind only the two of you shared.

"Make a wish, okay?" he’d say when it was time to blow out the candles, the way he’d always said it every year. But there was something about the way he said it then, with that little smile on his face, as if he already knew your wish without needing to hear it.

Suguru didn’t need grand gestures. For him, it was always about the little things, the way he made sure your favorite song was playing when you entered the room, the way he’d insist on carrying your cake even though it was ridiculously heavy, the way he refused to let anyone else help you with the birthday prep, because it was his job to make sure everything was just right for you.

And he didn’t think it was just about the day itself. To Suguru, your birthday wasn’t just a celebration of your life; it was a reminder that you existed, that you were here, and that the world—his world—was just a little bit brighter because you were in it.

Every year, as he gave you your gift, no matter how big or small, you could always see that gleam in his eyes. The beautiful gleam that said. "This is important. This is you, this is us, and I’m going to make sure you feel special, because you are."

For Suguru, your birthday wasn’t just another day in the calendar. It was the day you were born—his day to remind you just how much you meant to him, and to celebrate the fact that, all these years later, you were still by his side. 

And when you looked back at all the memories, all those years of birthdays spent with him, you couldn’t help but smile. They weren’t just your birthdays, they were his to celebrate too.

He celebrated them just as fiercely, just as passionately, as if it were his own day to remember. Because, to Suguru, every birthday spent together was a blessing. And he never took that for granted.

But this year, it felt different.

Not because of the cake or the candles. Not because of the way your friends sang off-key, their voices melding into a perfect disaster. No, this year was different because, when the party had quieted down and the night was winding to a close, Suguru handed you a small, neatly wrapped box.

He was sitting beside you on the couch, his beautiful lilac eyes watching you closely as you held the box in your hands, the soft rustle of paper the only sound between you. You could only look at the beautiful box in front of you for the longest time. He clears his throat.

“Are you really not saying anything?”

You looked at him suspiciously, fingers hesitating over the ribbon. "You didn’t have to get me anything, Sugu."

"I wanted to, buttercup." he said simply, nudging the box closer. "Go on, open it."

So you did.

Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, the light catching on the fine chain, making it shimmer. But what caught your attention was the tiny charm hanging from it—a miniature book, small enough to rest in the center of your palm, its metal etched with tiny details that made it look like it had real pages inside.

You blinked up at him, surprise evident in your expression. "Sugu…"

He looked uncharacteristically shy, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s nothing fancy, but… I thought it’d be nice. Y’know, for us."

"For us?" you repeated, tracing your fingers over the book charm.

Suguru nodded, watching your reaction closely. "Yeah. Because we always read together. Because of all those afternoons spent sharing a book, arguing over who gets to turn the page first—"

"You always turn the page too fast, you know." you interrupted with a pout.

"And you always get distracted by random things in the margins, buttercup." he shot back, smirking. “We’re both not good at it.”

You huffed. "That’s called appreciating the details, Suguru."

"Sure, sure." he laughed, shaking his head. "Anyway, that’s the first one."

You tilted your head. "First?"

He reached over, taking your wrist gently in his hands as he fastened the bracelet around it, his touch careful, warm. "Every birthday from now on, I’m giving you a charm. One for each year. Something that means something to us."

Your breath caught for a moment.

"You’re serious?" you asked, looking up at him.

Suguru met your gaze, his expression unwavering. "Completely." Then, with a lopsided grin, he added. "You’re stuck with me for a long time, you know."

You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face. Everything about you just felt warm, especially when you looked at it, knowing he put a lot of thought on this beautiful present. The bracelet felt light on your wrist, but the promise it carried felt heavier. This was solid, real, unshakable. Just like your relationship with him, ironclad for all your lives.

"Good." you said, squeezing his hand before letting go. "Because I wouldn’t want it any other way."

And back then, with Geto Suguru beside you, his promise wrapped around your wrist and his warmth wrapped around your heart, you believed it.

You really, really did.

══════════════════

ALL BIRTHDAYS ARE HAPPY, WELL THEY SHOULD BE. But this morning, this birthday of yours, it was not something that just truly felt odd. You had tried to put it off, knowing that it wasn’t the right place or time to talk about it. You could feel it, you know you do. Something was wrong with your best friend. 

Geto Suguru had been unusually quiet all day, even when he was trying to be casual and jolly, smiling at you. But you knew there was something going on and you couldn't put your finger on why. The excitement of the day had dulled a little, as the two of you moved through the motions of cake and presents, but something in the air felt different.

It wasn’t until later that afternoon when everything changed.

You had walked him to the train station, like you always did, ever since he moved to another part of the city. Though this time, there was an unspoken weight that drowned between you, a heaviness that neither of you could shake. Geto Suguru, usually so confident and carefree, seemed distant, his usual smile a little more strained.

"I got in." he said, as the train pulled up to the station, his voice barely above a whisper, yet somehow carrying the weight of his words.

You paused, unsure of what he meant at first. "Got in?"

He nodded, his eyes avoiding yours for a moment before meeting your gaze. "To Jujutsu High School. I’m going to Tokyo."

Your heart skipped, the reality of the situation sinking in like ice water. 

He was going to leave you, you were going to be separated. 

Your Suguru was heading to Tokyo to train, on the other side of your world.

For the first time in years, you wouldn’t be by each other’s side every day. The thought was almost impossible to process. Not when you had been together for so long, just being bubbles in each other’s circle. Your lips parted, you wanted to say something. But you didn’t know what. You were too stunned to speak. 

"Wait, you’re leaving? When?" you whispered, your voice suddenly became small. 

“Tomorrow.” He whispered, his tone almost blossoming with shame. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I don’t….I didn’t want to ruin the time and I didn't think it was going to come any time soon, but it just….”

"But… but today’s my birthday, Sugu."

Suguru gave you a sad smile, his hand reaching out to ruffle your hair. "I know. I’m sorry. But it’s not goodbye forever, okay? We’ll keep in touch, I promise."

You nodded, but the lump in your throat made it hard to speak. Suguru was your rock, your constant. The thought of him being so far away, in a completely different city, felt like the world was shifting beneath your feet.

He took a step closer to you, lowering his voice. "I didn’t want to leave without giving you something special." He pulled out a small box from his pocket, holding it out to you. 

You took it from his warm hands, your eyes brimming with questions. When you opened it, a soft gasp escaped your lips. Inside was a new charm for your bracelet—a delicate purple colored buttercup, its petals etched with such fine detail that it looked almost real. It was beautiful. And soulful. Almost glistening as brightly as his eyes.

He smiled gently, a warmth in his eyes as he slipped the charm onto your bracelet. "It’s a buttercup," he said softly. "My nickname for you. So I thought…I thought it would be perfect."

You stared at the charm for a moment, the lump in your throat thickening. "You still call me that…"

Suguru’s smile grew tender. "Always will. And whenever you look at it, I want you to think of me, okay? Think of me often."

You blinked away the tears threatening to spill and smiled back at him. "I will, Sugu. I promise."

He pulled you into a tight hug, holding you close for just a moment longer than usual. "Take care of yourself, alright? And don’t forget—I’m just a train ride away. Osaka is not that far. So when you need me, call me. Okay?"

“Okay.” You squeezed him back, trying to imprint the moment into your memory, trying to hold onto the feeling of him next to you. "I won’t forget. I’ll think of you every day."

Suguru pulled away slowly, his fingers brushing the side of your face. "I know you will."

The train’s loud engine roared to brutish life, and the sound of the wheels on the tracks made your chest tighten even further. You watched Suguru stand by the window.

His beautiful face illuminated by the soft afternoon light as the train slowly started to pull away. Your feet felt rooted to the ground, your mind racing with so many things you wanted to say, things you didn’t know how to say.

But before you could stop yourself, something inside you snapped. You took a step forward, then another, and then you were running, your heart pounding heavily in your chest, your breath coming faster as you pushed yourself harder, faster, chasing the train like you could somehow outrun the fear that gripped your heart.

"Suguru!" you called out, your voice shaking, but loud enough for him to hear.

He turned around in surprise, his eyes wide as he saw you running toward him. The train was moving faster now, but he didn’t hesitate. You could see how his face lit up with a mix of disbelief and hope, his hand pressed against the window.

"Sugu!" you shouted again, your heart racing even harder, your legs moving as if they had a will of their own. The distance between you seemed so large, but you weren’t going to stop.

He leaned closer to the window, his hand now reaching out, as if trying to touch you through the glass. You could see the concern on his face, his bright lilac eyes filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite name, but it made you move faster, faster than you thought you could.

When you finally reached the side of the train, you stopped just short of losing your breath. You pressed your hands to your chest, feeling your heart pounding, and you looked up at him, eyes shining.

"I love you, Suguru!" you blurted, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Geto Suguru froze, his eyes wide in astonishment, as though he hadn’t expected you to say it—that particular thing, not now, not like this. You watched him, your heart hanging in the air between you, waiting for his reaction, wondering if you had made a mistake.

But then, his expression softened, and a smile broke through the surprise. It wasn’t just a smile you see. It was his smile, that beautiful smile that only belonged to you. The one that made everything feel like it would be okay, no matter what. He nodded slowly, a little chuckle escaping his lips as he leaned closer to the window, as if pulling you in even from a distance.

"I love you too, buttercup!" he said, his voice full of warmth, his eyes soft but certain.

And just like that, everything that had felt so heavy was lifted, the weight of the unspoken tension, the distance between you, all of it faded into the background of that moment. You smiled back at him, breathless but relieved, and the world around you seemed to slow down.

The train started to pick up speed again, and Suguru gave you one last look, his smile still lingering as he waved.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" he called out, his voice carrying over the noise of the train.

"I will!" you said, a smile tugging at your lips. "I’ll always think of you."

And with that, the train pulled away, leaving you standing there, heart full, the buttercup charm on your bracelet gleaming softly in the fading light. 

That train carried your heart with him.

But you were sure that you held his heart here too.

You looked at your buttercup charm, smiling.

“Come back to me soon, okay?”

══════════════════

THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT HOW MUCH HE HAD CHANGED. And all he could do was wish that you didn’t see it, that you would never find out the truth. All he could pray for was that you didn’t notice the light in his eyes dying or the bitterness of the taste from the curses he was forced to consume still on his tongue.  

Geto Suguru has always been a powerful force of nature, a rock withstanding everything in his way. In a way, he was also your rock, your steady presence in your life. No matter what was happening around him, he was there, unwavering, holding everything together with that quiet strength of his. 

But recently, something in him had started to shift. Something he wasn’t prepared to admit to just yet. Ever since Amanai Riko’s death, the change had been subtle at first, there were those small signs that he was struggling, pulling away just a little more each day. But now, as the days passed, it became harder to ignore.

Geto Suguru was slipping.

And he didn’t know how to stop it.

He didn’t know how to be more than this.

He didn’t know the way out of it.

He found himself lost in a fog of thoughts he couldn’t quite articulate, his emotions tangled in a web he couldn't find a way out of. The burden of loss weighed heavily on him, crushing him in ways he didn’t know how to handle. But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let you see it. Not today. Not on your birthday. Not on your last day together.

He had made it a point, from the moment you walked into the room, to be the Suguru you knew. He plastered on that familiar smile, spoke to you like everything was fine, and made sure the day went on like any other. 

But the moment you looked away, or when you laughed, or when he caught you looking at him with that softness in your eyes, a heaviness settled deep in his chest. He wanted to say something, to tell you what was really happening, but the words felt like they were caught in his throat, unable to escape.

You had no idea what he was battling inside.

And he couldn’t bear to burden you with it—not on your special day.

It was the evening, the sun sinking low in the sky, and you both sat together on the balcony of his apartment, watching the colors in the sky shift from gold to deep blue. The breeze was warm, and you had your head resting on his shoulder, the same way you had for years. You both sat there in a comfortable silence, but Suguru’s mind was anywhere but there.

"I’m really glad we could spend the day together, Sugu." you said softly, your voice like a melody that brought him back to the present. “Thank you for coming to visit me, even with your busy schedule.”

Suguru nodded, his smile barely there as he kept his gaze on the horizon, afraid if he looked at you too long, you would see the cracks he was trying to hide. "Me too, buttercup." he said, but even to his own ears, the words didn’t sound right. They didn’t carry the weight they should have.

You could feel the subtle shift in his energy, the way he wasn’t fully present. He wasn’t the Geto Suguru you knew, the Sugu who would always make you laugh, who would hold you close and whisper silly things to keep your spirits high. He was distant, almost like a shadow of himself. And you knew he hated it, even without saying it to you.

"Sugu." you said quietly, sitting up to look at him, your hand gently touching his arm. "You okay?"

Suguru flinched, the question catching him off guard. He gave a small, forced laugh, trying to brush it off. "Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess. I’ve….been very busy."

But you didn’t buy it. You knew him better than anyone else, and you could see the lie in his eyes. But he wasn’t ready to talk, not now, not on the day that was meant to be yours, not on the day that he wanted to protect you from his own chaos. He didn’t want you to see him like this, not when everything was supposed to be perfect.

He wanted to be strong for you, wanted to be the Geto Suguru you deserved, the Geto Suguru that you love, the Geto Suguru you knew. But the weight of the world felt like it was crushing him from the inside, and he didn’t know how to hold it together anymore. 

You reached up to touch his cheek, the gesture so simple but full of the warmth you had always shared. "Sugu… you don’t have to hide from me. Not now. Not ever."

He froze at your touch, his lilac eyes shutting softly, even for just a brief second. He wanted to let it all go, wanted to break down in front of you, but he couldn’t. Not like this. Not today. He swallowed hard, the words choking him before he could even say them.

"I’m fine." he repeated, but there was no conviction in his voice. “Really, buttercup. Don’t worry so much about me, okay?”

You didn’t push him further, but the sadness in his once bright eyes told you everything you needed to know. He was breaking inside, but he didn’t want you to see it. He didn’t want you to know. He didn’t want to talk about it just yet. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. And especially not on your last day together.

"Okay." you whispered softly, leaning back against his shoulder once more, both of you falling into silence again.

But Geto Suguru knew. He knew that you would always see through him. And as you sat there, so close, yet so far from what was really happening, he couldn’t help but feel like he was losing grip on everything. He thought he was losing himself, you, on the life you had dreamed of sharing.

And so, the night passed in a quiet sadness, Suguru’s heart heavy with emotions he couldn’t quite express. Tomorrow, he will leave. Tomorrow, everything will change. He knew that all too well. By sunrise, you wouldn’t recognize him anymore. By sunrise, he wouldn’t be your Sugu anymore. 

But for tonight, he would hold onto this—hold onto you, and pretend that everything was okay, just for a little while longer. He thinks he could pretend one last time and keep you with him, enjoying the need of warmth that only you could understand.

The evening air was still, the world outside quieting as the stars began to prick the darkening sky. You sat together for a little while, as you waited for the train to come. Geto Suguru’s silence was heavy, but there was a soft, almost palpable tenderness in the way he was beside you. It was always that way, when he was beside you. Even when you were kids.

But the silence was a new thing. This silence was so loud, and yet so deafening. Yet you also didn’t bridge the gap. At least not tonight. He didn’t need it right now and you can tell. You just took a deep breath and waited, staring off the train tracks. 

Your Suguru seemed lost in his own thoughts, his calloused fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the railing in front of you, his lilac gaze ever so lost in the faraway space. To the place you could not follow.

But you knew it was just his way of trying to hold everything in. Then, after a moment that felt like eternity, he broke the quiet, his voice soft but steady, like he was trying to make it sound casual when it wasn’t. 

"I got you something, buttercup." he said, his hand reaching into his pocket. You looked up at him, noticing the faintest tremor in his fingers, but you didn't comment on it.

He pulled out a small, carefully wrapped box, offering it to you with a look that was a mix of hesitation and something deeper, something he couldn’t quite put into words. "I know it’s not much, but I wanted to give you something… meaningful. Like always."

You took the box from him, your little heart fluttering a little in anticipation, not knowing what to expect. Slowly, you unwrapped it with much care, your tender fingers gently peeling back the layers until you saw what was inside.

It was a charm, delicate and beautiful, with a tiny forget-me-not flower carved into its surface. The petals were soft, yet detailed, their edges just slightly raised as if to give them life, to make them feel real. The forget-me-not. It was simple but meaningful, and somehow, it felt like it held everything unsaid between you two in one small, fragile flower.

Suguru’s voice broke the moment, barely above a whisper, but heavy with emotion. "I want you to always remember me, buttercup." he said, his gaze meeting yours, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t place. "No matter what happens, no matter where life takes us, never forget about me."

You froze for a heartbeat, confusion washing over you at his words. Never forget about him?

The thought didn’t make sense. Geto Suguru was more than just a memory; he was the person who had shaped so much of your life, the one who had been there for you through everything. He was your everything. How could you forget him?

You blinked, the knot in your chest tightening as you took in his face, his solemn expression that didn’t match the usual carefree look he wore. Was he already saying goodbye in some way?

You shook your head slowly, the smile coming to your lips, though it carried a mixture of sadness and certainty. "Sugu, how could you even think about that?… I could never forget about you." 

“It can happen, you know. Life happens.” He smiles in a small timid manner.  

Your voice was soft, but there was no doubt in it. "No, you’re wrong. You’re the most important person in my life. How could I forget someone like you?"

Suguru’s lilac eyes softened at your words, the weight of the moment easing just a little as you spoke. His chapped lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something more, but he only let out a quiet, relieved breath, his shoulders relaxing for the first time that evening.

He reached out, gently placing the forget-me-not charm on your bracelet, his fingers lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. "I just… I need to know you’ll always remember. Even when we’re apart.”

"I will, I promise." you said, your voice firm, the sincerity in your words reaching the deepest parts of him. "I’ll always think of you. Every single day, every single hour. Even the seconds. I’ll always remember you, Suguru. You’re too important to forget."

“Is that so?”

You hummed, smiling at him. “Hm. Because I love you.”

For a brief, tender moment, Suguru’s eyes seemed to shine with something that wasn’t just sadness but relief. It was as if the weight of the unspoken fears, the guilt, and the pain he’d been carrying had finally started to lift, just a little. He smiled, a real, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes.

"Good," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "That’s all I need to hear."

And there, under the stars, with the sound of the world fading into a quiet lull, you both sat together. You didn’t need words to fill the silence that had settled between you. The charm on your bracelet was a promise, a symbol of everything you had been through, everything you had shared, and everything that was still to come.

"I love you too, buttercup." Suguru whispered, his voice barely above a breath, but the words carried so much weight, so much meaning that it felt like the whole world had shifted in that instant.

You didn’t hesitate, not for a second. "I know, Sugu. I know." you replied, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips, a smile that only he could make appear. 

It was a statement, but one that wasn’t born out of arrogance. It was the truth. The truth that had been there all along, between the quiet moments, the shared laughter, the years of growing together. He was your constant, just as you were his.

And you had always known, known in the very marrow of your bones.

he loved you too. More than anything in life. More than the universe could know.

Suguru didn’t immediately respond. He simply stared at you, his gaze softening with an intensity that almost made it hard to breathe. He shifted closer, his hands rising slowly, as if afraid that if he moved too fast, you would vanish in an instant. His fingers brushed against the curve of your jaw before they settled on your cheeks, warm and grounding.

His touch was gentle, the weight of his hands steady against your skin, as though he was afraid to touch you too hard, afraid that any sudden movement would make you slip through his fingers.

His gaze never wavered from your face, and for a long moment, it was like the world faded away. There was nothing but the two of you, him, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his presence, and you, feeling like the universe had shrunk to this moment.

Suguru’s eyes searched for yours, his expression both tender and filled with something deeper, something that only someone who had loved you for so long could understand. It was as though he was memorizing every detail of you.

The way the light caught in your eyes, the curve of your lips, the soft flutter of your lashes when you blinked. He took in your features like he was afraid they would slip away, like time was running out and he couldn’t afford to miss a single second of it.

His thumb traced the outline of your cheekbone, the movement so soft it almost tickled, but it was full of reverence. As if you were something sacred to him, something irreplaceable. As if you were the most important pearl of the world, shining in front of him, making him your sea. 

"You’re so beautiful, buttercup." he whispered, and the words held so much more than just a compliment. It was the way he said them, as if he had seen every side of you—your strengths, your flaws, your heart—and still, in every corner of it, you were beautiful to him. 

The simplicity of the words took your breath away, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. You just looked at him, feeling the weight of his love like a gentle embrace, like it wrapped around your heart, holding it safe in his hands.

You didn’t need to speak to feel the truth of it all. This moment, this space between you, felt like the entire universe had conspired to bring you to this point, where everything you had shared and everything you had yet to share hung in the balance of this silent exchange.

Suguru leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your skin. You could feel the way his body was still, but there was a pulse of something deep inside him, something he wasn’t fully ready to let go of, not yet. And in that breathless, delicate space, you let your own heart speak.

"I love you, Sugu." you whispered back, your voice trembling just slightly, but filled with a certainty that made everything else fade into the background.

His hands cupped your face a little tighter, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of your cheeks as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world. "I’ll never forget you, buttercup." he murmured, almost as if he was saying it to himself, but you heard it. “You’re everything I am. Everything I breathe.”

The weight of it hung in the air, and though his words were bittersweet, you felt a flicker of hope in them.

"I’ll never forget you either." you whispered, your voice steady and sure, despite the turmoil swirling within you.

Because you knew that no matter where life took you both, Suguru would always be a part of you. No amount of time or distance could change that. “You’re my everything too.”

You leaned into his touch, your foreheads pressing gently together, the warmth of his hands grounding you both in the moment. His lilac eyes closed for a beat, a soft sigh escaping him as if he, too, was trying to hold on to this feeling, trying to commit it to memory just as you were.

And for that brief moment, there was no goodbye. There was only the now, the shared stillness, the love between you both, wrapped up in the quiet understanding that no matter what happened, you would always carry each other with you.

He moved his face closer, his lips brushing softly against your forehead. The kiss was light, like a promise, a silent vow that this love, this sacred bond between the two of you, it would never truly be broken, no matter the miles between you.

Suguru’s lips linger on your forehead for a moment longer, a soft, lingering warmth that makes everything else feel distant, as if time had slowed down just for the two of you.

The world outside the station, the sound of the train tracks, the noises of the city, the ticking of the clock, everything seemed muted, fading into the background as you both existed in this fragile, perfect bubble of quiet.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes soft but laden with an unspoken weight. He looked like he wanted to say something more, something important, but the words never quite formed. 

Instead, he just studied your face, as if he was trying to memorize everything about you. Every little memory of you, your bright expression, the way your long hair fell around your face, the way your eyes held a kindness that had always been there, even in the most difficult of times.

“I’ll miss you.” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a subtle crack breaking through the calm facade he’d been trying so hard to maintain.

You nodded, your heart aching as his words sank in. The truth was, you would miss him too, more than you could ever put into words. You couldn’t even imagine what life would be like without him so close, without his constant presence to steady you.

The thought of the distance between you both made the space around you feel colder, as though the warmth of his touch was already slipping through your fingers.

“I’ll miss you too, Sugu. More than you know.” you whispered back, the truth of it making your voice tremble just slightly.

He smiled, a sad, bittersweet thing, his thumb tracing the outline of your jaw once more, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every moment.

"Just remember, buttercup." he murmured, his eyes soft but intense. "No matter where we are, no matter how far apart we get, I’ll always be with you. I’ll always be there, in everything we’ve shared."

"I know." you said, nodding again, a small smile tugging at your lips. “And I’ll always carry a piece of you with me. In my heart.”

Geto Suguru’s breath caught at your words, his eyes glistening as if he wanted to say something more, but the emotion was too much, too overwhelming. Instead, he just leaned in and kissed your forehead once more, gentle but full of all the feelings he couldn’t quite express.

“I’ll be waiting, buttercup.” he whispered, his voice low, but there was a fierce determination behind it. “No matter how long it takes. I’ll be waiting for you.”

You looked up at him, your heart full, eyes brimming with something that could have been tears if you let it. You didn’t speak for a moment, just held his gaze, feeling the weight of his words settle into you like a warm, comforting blanket.

Finally, you smiled through the lump in your throat, the quiet sadness blending with something softer, something hopeful. "I’ll come back to you, Sugu. I promise. So come back to me too, okay?"

The words hung between you, a promise sealed in the silence that followed. 

He can’t promise something like that to you, not like this now. 

By sunrise, he can no longer come back to you, never again.

And yet, he still does, he lets this promise be unfulfilled.

He lets this moment be a little white lie to keep your smile.

Suguru nodded, a small, hopeful smile on his lips, but his eyes, those dark, familiar eyes, held a quiet ache. He didn’t say anything else, just stayed close, his hand still on your cheek, his presence steady even though the moment was winding down. The night was still, and it felt like time was slipping away too fast.

“I should go, buttercup.” Suguru said, his voice tinged with reluctance. "But I’ll see you again, right? You’ll visit me when you can, won’t you?"

You nodded, already knowing how much this meant to him. You smiled tenderly at him, you smiled at him like you loved him. You smiled at him like he deserves to have it. And yet he doesn’t. The devil does not deserve such a thing.

"Of course I will." you reassured him, reaching up to touch his hand, the one that had stayed on your cheek. "I won’t let you forget about me."

His smile grew just a little, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was a glimmer of peace in his eyes. "I could never forget about you."

And with that, he gave you one last kiss on the forehead, light and full of everything unsaid, full of everything you would carry with you in your heart. He pulled back slowly, his hand slipping from your cheek to your hand.

His fingers lingering for a moment longer, as though reluctant to let go. Then, with a final, lingering look, he turned and made his way toward the door. He didn't want to leave. He didn't want this to be the last time. But he had to. He had to go.

He let himself step into it, the door closing softly behind him. For a moment, you felt the weight of the world shift. The quiet that followed his departure felt louder than any noise, and yet, somehow, you knew you’d be okay. You’d carry him with you, just like you promised.

The night grew darker, but the small forget-me-not charm on your bracelet caught the light, reminding you of everything you had shared. It was more than just a memory, it was a piece of him that you could hold on to, no matter where life took you both.

Geto Suguru was always going to be a part of you. And no matter the distance, no matter how much time passed, you would never forget him. He was the most important part of your life, and that would never change.

Two days later, you got the call.

He had gone missing, his parents were gone.

And you?

You had lost the love of your life.

That was his goodbye.

══════════════════

epilogue

A LONG TIME HAD COME AND GONE, BUT IT STILL FEELS LIKE YESTERDAY. Seven years had passed since Geto Suguru’s defection from the jujutsu society, since the time he turned away from everything he once held dear. Time had blurred the edges of the past for everyone except him. 

He had tried to move on, he knew he had to. He had all but tried to bury his memories deep enough so that they no longer haunted him. But there were days when everything came rushing back to him.

The horror on his parents faces that night, their deaths at his own hands, the ones he had betrayed, the village consumed by blue flame. And then there was you, the love he had lost and left. The one he had let go and fly away.

From the shadows, Suguru watched you kneel before the graves, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting long shadows across the quiet cemetery. You were gentle with the flowers, your movements soft as you arranged the bouquets on the gravestones, your fingers careful as they brushed away the dust that had accumulated over time. 

He had never imagined, in his darkest moments, that he would see you here—so close, yet so far away from everything he had become. But there you were, tending to the graves of the parents he had killed, as if it was something he had never been able to do. You were doing it for him, in a way, even though you didn’t have to.

He had heard the stories about it all. He had to keep his tabs on you, he just couldn’t stay away, even now. Throughout the years, he heard whispers of how you had married, how you had continued on without him, a life of your own.

He had known that it was bound to happen, but it didn’t make it any easier. To see you with a ring on your finger, a life that no longer had a place for him, a life that had moved on while he stayed stuck in his past.

The soft rustle of the wind moved through the trees, and that was when you turned your head, your eyes meeting his. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. You blinked, as if you weren’t quite sure you were seeing him, but then there was no mistaking it.

Geto Suguru was standing there, just outside the cemetery gate, watching you with that same quiet intensity that had always been his. The world seemed to hold its breath as you slowly rose to your feet, the weight of his gaze pulling you in.

He didn’t speak at first, not knowing what to say. 

After all this time, what was there left to say?

He had left you and you had suffered.

What could someone who broke their promise say?

You walked toward him, your expression unreadable but steady, your steps purposeful. As you got closer, he noticed the glint of sunlight on your finger, and his breath hitched before he could stop himself. The wedding ring.

It was a beautiful thing, one could say. But when he looked at it, it was all but a bitter ugly, disgusting thing. It was a reminder of the life you had. A life he had never been a part of, a life he had given up on when he made the choices he did. 

You stopped in front of him, your gaze unwavering. You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes searching his face, almost as if you were still trying to figure him out after all this time. "I didn’t think you’d come back here." you said quietly, your voice thick with something he couldn’t place. Maybe it was sorrow. Maybe it was a relief.

Suguru felt a pang in his chest, but he swallowed it down. "I didn’t think I would either." His voice was rough, almost foreign to him after so many years of silence, but the words still carried weight. "But... here I am."

Your gaze flickered to the bracelet on your wrist—the one with the forget-me-not, the buttercup, the book charm. It was a silent progression that told a story. A long forgotten story, one that only you and him could remember. It was at one point his story. His presence, his absence, his love. And now it wasn’t. Not anymore.

That Geto Suguru is dead.

All that remains is an imposter.

All that remains is a devil.

"I never took it off." you said, a small, sad smile playing at the corner of your lips. "You told me to never forget you. I thought I would, after all these years... but I never could." 

Your fingers traced the charms lightly, the memory of the years that had passed between you both lingering in the air like a ghost. "I couldn’t take it off, Suguru. Not even when it felt like I should."

He couldn’t quite hide the sadness that flickered in his eyes at your words, but he didn’t look away. He had been the one to leave. He had been the one to make all the wrong decisions, and yet, somehow, you had never given up on him. You had never completely forgotten him.

Suguru reached into his pocket slowly, his movements deliberate, as though he were unsure of his next step. He pulled out a small charm, delicate and beautiful, white chrysanthemums this time, it was an offering of something new, something that said goodbye and hello being said like it was the same word.  He held it out to you, his eyes never leaving yours. 

"For you." he whispered, his voice barely audible, but full of all the unspoken feelings that had built up over the years. "I know it’s too late. But I want you to have it."

You took it from him, your fingers brushing against his for just a heartbeat before you looked down at the charm in your palm. The white chrysanthemums were soft, intricate, and they reminded you of the fleeting nature of everything. It was full of the memories, the love, the pain.

You smiled, a bittersweet curve of your lips, your heart heavy with a mixture of emotions that you had long buried. "Sugu….Suguru." you began, your voice steady but thick with something he could almost taste. "For so long, TYou wanted to be remembered. But now... you want to be forgotten."

His heart clenched at your words, but he nodded slowly, as if he had already known, as if it was something he could never change. "You deserve better than to remember a ghost of someone long gone, buttercup." he said, his voice soft but full of the kind of finality that only a ghost could understand. "You deserve a life that’s yours, not one haunted by me."

The distance between you seemed so vast in that moment, even though you were standing right in front of him. The years had stretched that gap wide, and yet, in this final moment, you both understood each other completely. 

You stood there, the weight of his words heavy between you both, as the space around you seemed to quiet. The cool breeze rustled the trees, the only sound in the air, but even it felt like a distant whisper against the rawness of the moment.

You opened your mouth, a million things on the tip of your tongue, but none of them felt right. Your heart was full of so much you couldn’t put into words. A thousand emotions flooded your chest/

And yet, you felt an aching kind of clarity in his request. You hadn’t expected it. You hadn’t expected him to say those words, to say that he wanted you to forget him. To leave him behind as if he were nothing more than a faded memory.

He stood before you, his back slightly turned, but he didn’t move away. His eyes, those dark, familiar eyes, were locked onto the distance, as though he was already gone in his mind, already on his way to somewhere far from this place, from you.

You swallowed hard, your gaze flickering over his face, trying to catch any hint of a smile, of the warmth that had once been there between you both. But it was gone. Everything had long perished to nothing.

The man in front of you wasn’t the same person you had known all those years ago, and deep down, you knew that neither were you. You had both changed, time had done its work, and the world had swept you in different directions.

"So, if I see you again—" you started, unsure of where to take the conversation, unsure of whether there even was a conversation left to have.

Suguru’s smile was sad, almost imperceptible, but it was there, and it tugged at your heart more than anything else. “Pass by, buttercup.” he said, his voice so soft, so worn. "Don’t look at me. You shouldn’t remember me. Just...."

Let me go. He thinks to himself. Don't love me again.

The simplicity of his request hit you harder than any words of anger or resentment could have. You shouldn’t remember me. He was asking you, begging you, to forget him. As though he was a shadow, a passing thing, unworthy of your attention, of your love, of your memories.

For a moment, you just stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind spinning with the weight of it all. You wanted to shout, to argue, to tell him that he was wrong—that you couldn’t just erase him from your life like he was nothing.

But the silence in the air, the finality in his tone, made you hesitate. It wasn’t anger you heard in his voice. It wasn’t even regret. It was something else entirely. it was something deeper, something rooted in the pain he had carried all these years.

“I can’t just forget you.” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. The truth was raw and simple, and it echoed in your chest as it passed through your lips. "I’ve carried you with me for so long, Suguru. I can’t just erase you from my life."

Suguru turned his head slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and filled with something you couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t guilt or anger, but something quieter, something softer, as though he was bracing himself for the weight of what he had just asked you to do.

"You don’t need to carry me anymore." he said, his voice barely audible, each word dragging with the weight of a thousand regrets. "I don’t deserve to be remembered. Not by you. Not by anyone. I’ve become someone else, someone I never meant to be." 

His eyes drifted to the ground, and for a moment, he looked almost... defeated. "I hurt too many people, and in the end, I hurt you too."

Those words hung in the air like a star waiting to fall from the sky but they didn’t sting, nor did they cause you any pain. Instead, they felt like the closing of a door, the end of a chapter that had been written in too much pain. You felt your heart ache, but you understood. You had mourned it long ago and this was just the end. The final bow.

You understood because, deep down, you had always known this moment would come. You had always known that one day, Geto Suguru would fade from your life, not because of time or distance, but because he had made himself into something unrecognizable.

You stepped closer, closer than you had been in so many years, the distance between you two now defined not by physical space but by something more profound, something that time had created. Your hand reached out but you stopped. You had to. You knew you can't do this. You purse your lips into a flat line. 

“I see.” You whispered, barely audible over the deafening silence between you. It was as if the world had swallowed your words before they could reach him, and the weight of it all pressed down on your chest like a heavy fog.

"I'm sorry." you murmured, feeling the familiar sting of regret in your heart. 

But the words felt useless now, just as they always had when it came to him. Too many apologies, too many unanswered questions. It was all too late. Geto Suguru shook his head ever so slightly, his dark lilac eyes never leaving the distance beyond you, his voice low but firm. 

“Don’t apologize to me.” he murmured, the edges of his words soft but carrying a weight that made your heart ache. "I should apologize…"

His eyes finally met yours, and for that brief moment, you saw a flicker of vulnerability, something raw and unguarded that he had never allowed anyone to see.

“Buttercup, I’m letting your hand go.” he said, and his voice cracked on the last word, like it pained him to even say it.

You could feel the tears pricking at your eyes, threatening to spill, but you fought them back, the lump in your throat making it harder to breathe. It was too much. Too much to lose, too much to let go of. 

“I know.” you replied, your voice barely a whisper as if saying it out loud would make it all more real. The finality of his words clung to the air, and you wished you could take them back, take him back, but the truth had already been laid bare.

“Goodbye, buttercup.” he said, the words both tender and final, and they fell like a stone into the abyss between you.

“Good… good-bye, Suguru.” you managed to choke out, your voice shaking but steady enough to carry the weight of the moment. Your lips trembled, but you didn’t dare look away from him. There was nothing more to say, nothing more that could fix the pieces that had been shattered between you two.

Geto Suguru gave you one last look. It was so brief, so fleeting, like the last ray of light before the darkness settled in. His gaze lingered on you, a final connection between two souls that had once shared everything but now, they were a thousand miles apart. 

He didn’t say anything else. 

He didn’t look back, not once. 

He simply turned, his figure growing smaller and smaller as he walked away.

Your heart tightened, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. There was no running after him anymore. He had already made his choice, and you had to respect that, even though it felt like a piece of you was being torn away with every step he took. 

His footsteps were quiet against the earth, a soft rhythm that carried him further into the distance, further away from you, from everything you had ever known. And you stood there, frozen, unable to move, unable to make sense of the emptiness that filled the space where his presence used to be. 

You watched him disappear into the horizon, the last connection between you both unraveling like a thread slipping through your fingers. But this time, you didn’t chase after him. You didn’t need to. You didn’t have the strength anymore. 

There were no more promises, no more hopes of reunion. This was the end of the story that had once been yours, the final chapter in a love that had burned so brightly but had faded into the past. The world had changed, and so had you.

You would never see him again. He would never hold your hand again, never smile that gentle smile that had always made you feel like you were home. And you could feel the weight of that truth pressing down on you, but it didn’t break you.

It was the end of that world. Of the two of you, of the way you had been, of everything that once felt like it was meant to be. And so, you let go. You let go, even as it hurt, even as it felt like the most impossible thing in the world.

You couldn’t love him anymore. Not like you used to. Not in the way that kept him a part of your every thought, every moment. You couldn’t carry that burden with you forever, and you couldn’t make him stay.

As he disappeared completely from sight, you finally exhaled the breath you’d been holding, a quiet sigh that seemed to carry away the remnants of him still lingering in your chest. It wasn’t easy. It would never be easy. But it was the only way forward.

You took a slow step back, your feet heavy with the weight of all the years you had spent loving him. You weren’t sure what the future held, but you knew one thing for certain. You had to let him, or you'll both suffer more.

[livingformintyoongi]

Poème | Kim Taehyung

Summary: For centuries, Taehyung has roamed the world, trapped in an eternity he never truly desired. Desperation led him to accept an offer of immortality, a gift that quickly turned into his greatest curse. Once a hopeful young man dreaming of a future with the love of his life, he now wanders through time burdened by regret, forever mourning the one he lost. No amount of power, beauty, or wealth can fill the void left by you. If eternity means living without you, then what is the point of living at all? Author’s note: Hi again! I hope everyone is well ^^ I know I had said I was going to focus on GAS? but…. Tae vampire came to my head and demanded to stay until I managed to bring him to this world :) Soooo, I don't know if most of you read this but I seriously, seriously need your help for this, I really don't know how to move it forward :(( so please, if you have any ideas on how to move it forward or any scenes you'd like there to be, send me an ask or a dm, I'd really appreciate it <3 Pairing: Vampire!Taehyung x Human!Reader (female) AUs: Vampire!AU Word count: 4.6k Status: Unedited Permanent Taglist: @thunderg @minjianhyung @queenv1997 @yoongtism @lizzymizzy-blogg @superbbananananana @drpepperobsessed @themwordsblog @taekritimin123 @bluecloudss @yooglefics @tan-veee @angellekookie @madussthougths Dividers by @the-aesthetics-shop and @strangergraphics

What would you do if you were given the option to live for all eternity? If someone offered you the secret behind immortality and eternal youth, would you accept? Would you be capable of leaving everything behind just to avoid facing death?

Taehyung wished with all his heart that he had asked himself those questions before saying yes to the beautiful woman in the elegant dress who offered him a second chance at life—one without sickness or poverty, a life filled with luxuries and privileges he could never have had as a mere villager in the Victorian era. Something he could have never even dreamed of when he was still human.

When desperation consumes you and you don’t know what else to do to avoid falling into the clutches of death, you… accept the first offer placed in front of you, no matter how risky it may be. That was exactly what led Taehyung to an eternity of regret, suffering, and torment.

He had been blessed with eternal life, but what was the point of living until the end of time if he was alone? What was the use of existing for centuries, watching people be born and die as if they were nothing more than tiny toy soldiers with an expiration date set by a child who had decided it was time to discard them, believing he was too grown up to play with them anymore?

He refused to live an endless life if you weren’t in it.

But you had been gone for so, so long, and he could never forgive himself for it. He could never turn back time and reject the offer from the one who was now his creator. He would never see your smile again, hear your laughter, or smell the soft scent of flowers, of the forest, of you. If only he hadn’t left home that night, if only he had waited a few more minutes… If only you had gone with him, perhaps… Perhaps now, the two of you would be living a long life together, enjoying each other’s company until the end of time.

But that wasn’t how things happened. He left his home that night. He didn’t wait. You didn’t go with him. And now, his fate was sealed. He couldn’t die, he couldn’t be harmed, he would have eternal youth and an ethereal beauty that could make any human give him anything he asked for with just one look. He could have everything—everything except you. And that, without a doubt, was the greatest torture anyone had ever inflicted on him.

That had happened over 300 years ago, and he had spent each one of those years tormenting himself. When he was still human, he had been vibrant and full of life, a social butterfly who, even without the seductive abilities of a vampire, could charm anyone with a single smile. Now, he was nothing but the empty shell of the man he once was.

During that time, he met many like him—those with whom he managed to form something close to what he could call a "family." Jiah was his mentor, the woman who had turned him and helped him through the difficult transition from human to vampire. Chaeyoung was the second oldest, a cheerful and optimistic young woman who had been a vampire for over a thousand years. Sooah and Hoseok came next, both turned in the 15th century. Then there was him, Jiwon, and Jimin—the three of them transformed in the 19th century, all saved from the brink of death by the compassionate leader of their small group.

They had been his family until now, and though he loved them as much as he was still capable of love, his love for them would never amount to even a fraction of what he felt for you. Not even a hundred people could mend the wound in his heart, no matter how hard they tried.

He could still remember his life by your side, when his body was still warm and his heart beat in a rhythmic melody, reminding him that he was alive. The two of you met because of Taehyung’s father’s work—you were a young lady from a wealthy family, and he was the son of a tailor who barely had enough money or resources to live. Yet, you noticed him—his smile, his playful jokes, and his flirtatious charm, reserved only for you.

You weren’t supposed to be together—you both knew that. But neither of you wanted to give up, you didn’t want to lose the only real thing in your lives. So, you ran away. With no money, no place to stay, only the hope of finding a place in the world where you could live without regrets or judgment.

It was his selfishness and foolishness as a teenager that led you both to that situation.

He should have realized it was madness, that there was no way you could survive in the outside world with dreams and hopes coated in sugar and honey. This was the real world—it was cruel and ruthless, showing no mercy to anyone, no matter their age or gender.

The first few months on your own were peaceful. You traveled from town to town on horseback, living freely, loving each other with all your hearts, talking about your dreams for the future, and how exciting it would be to have a family together.

You had managed to stabilize your life—Taehyung making elegant garments for high-society ladies, and you painting beautiful portraits under a pseudonym, which he promoted and sold with his natural charm.

For the first two years, life had been peaceful. Until smallpox arrived. That was when everything fell apart. No matter where you went, how much money you had, or which doctor you saw, once you were infected, there was no escape.

You both caught it at the same time. He did everything he could to keep you both from falling into death’s hands, but it was a fatal disease—there was no cure, especially with their limited resources.

It was on a dark winter night that everything changed. You were starving, and Taehyung was determined to find something—anything—to feed you. Despite his weakened, trembling body, he walked through the dark streets of the coastal city until he reached a shop. But his body was on the verge of collapse, and he fell just a few meters away from home.

He clung to the last bit of strength he had, trying to crawl back to you if necessary—anything to avoid dying far from you. He didn’t want you to think he had abandoned you, didn’t want to make you suffer when you found out he had died in the cold, damp streets, all for the sake of bringing you something to eat. He didn’t want to die without you by his side.

That desperation was what made him accept so quickly the offer placed before him by a complete stranger. “Just one drop, and you will never feel pain again.” And he accepted. He drank whatever she gave him, clinging to the hope of surviving a few more minutes. Then, everything went black for a moment—until he opened his eyes again.

Everything felt new, as if he had been reborn and was rediscovering the world. He felt good, healthy, strong, and maybe a little thirsty—but alive. And that was all that mattered.

When the initial shock passed, he begged the woman to do the same for you, to save you just as she had saved him. She smiled kindly and let him lead her to your small home.

But she stopped before entering, giving him a look of pity and compassion. At that moment, he didn’t know that he could hear a human’s heartbeat from a distance. He didn’t know that, even before stepping inside, she already knew that you were no longer in this world, and nothing could change that—not even her blood.

Taehyung may not have died that night, but his heart… His heart shattered into a thousand pieces the moment he laid eyes on your pale, lifeless body. His body had survived death—but his soul never would.

For a long time, his life had become a series of meaningless events that only served to make his desire to die grow stronger. He knew it was foolish to feel this way when he had what many would kill for; his eternal life was a miracle that tormented him every damn day, and he knew that would never change.

It took him 118 years to get over you—if that was even the right word to use in this context. Perhaps a more accurate way to put it would be, well, trying to forget you through other people. 118 years of solitude, where his only company was six other vampires just as reserved as he was, each keeping the scars of their previous lives a secret, each too afraid to open up to the others and relive memories of a past they all wished to forget.

The first time he tried something with a girl was because of Jimin, who insisted that he should look at someone else besides your portraits—the ones he himself had painted back when he had wanted to immerse himself in your world. He went to a stupid bar, too loud and filled with drunk and high people looking for something casual. But he didn’t want something casual. He wanted something lasting. He wanted you.

Hours passed before a rather beautiful girl approached him. Her shy smile and flushed cheeks seemed endearing, but nothing inside him stirred the way it had when he first met you; her eyes weren’t like yours, her essence wasn’t like yours. He didn’t like her, but still, he forced himself to try.

That night was the first and last time he attempted to move on with someone else. There was only a kiss, a brief brush of lips that the girl gave him as a thank-you for walking her home. That night, he cried like he hadn’t in years, clawed at his lips with his nails until they bled, and his screams were so agonizing that everyone in the house had to check if he was okay, because it sounded as if someone had just run a blade of iron straight through his body.

Taehyung felt that kiss exactly like that—like someone had just plunged an iron sword into his heart and desecrated his body in every possible way.

Sooah called him dramatic. Jiwon even mocked him for making such a fuss over a simple kiss. But it was Jiah who ordered them to be quiet and stayed by his side all night, comforting him as his tears fell ceaselessly down his cheeks.

After that day, he resolutely refused to go out with anyone else for the rest of his life. He didn’t need a replacement—he was much better off living with your memory than trying to forget it.

That was exactly how he managed to slowly overcome his pain—by treasuring your memory through the works of art he created, reliving every one of his feelings for you with each brushstroke on the blank canvas, until there was no trace left of the pain he had once felt. Now, all that remained was peace and a beautiful memory that he would keep deep in his heart for the rest of eternity.

It took him 155 years to achieve that peace—155 years in which he held onto the one thing he had left of you: your last painting, the one of a young wealthy woman standing alone in the middle of a grand ballroom. The soft tones and the contrast between the setting and the woman in her simple pastel dress gave off a strange warmth. It wasn’t one of your best paintings—he knew that better than anyone. You had created true masterpieces, works that your clients back then would have died to own. But this one… this one was simple, more discreet, with much less detail—mostly because you were already unwell when you finished it. But your essence, your touch, the feeling you poured into it… all of it was still there. And that made it the most important piece you had ever created.

That was why, as the last act of love he could offer to you and your memory, he traveled to Paris to present it at the Musée d’Orsay. The meeting with the museum’s curator was far more pleasant than he had expected, and he even considered making a generous donation after they agreed to exhibit the painting.

The inner peace he felt when his eyes saw the painting hanging on those cream-colored walls, among hundreds of other paintings from important figures of his era… was something he could never put into words. For the first time, his heart felt at ease—it did not beat, it did not pump blood, he knew that. And yet, for a second, Taehyung felt as if he had come back to life.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent around him. Despite the years, there was still a faint trace of you in it. And though it hurt to think that he would never again hold you in his arms, never again breathe in your scent, he felt happy.

Happy for you—because finally, one of your works bore your real name, because at last, people could see the incredible talent you had. This had been your dream, and somehow, he had made it come true for you.

He wondered if there was something after death, if there was truly a paradise in the afterlife. He knew that if such a place existed, you would undoubtedly be in heaven—in a paradise unlike any other, shining like the brightest star the world had ever seen. If that place was real, were you watching him from above?

What would you think of him right now? Would you be afraid of the fact that he was no longer human? Or of the fact that, in his first years as a vampire, he had taken the lives of many?

Would you still love him from that place so far away from him?

He prayed every day to a god he wasn’t sure existed, just to hold on to the hope that the answer was yes.

"How are things going over there?" Jiwon asked through the phone.

Taehyung’s feet carried him through the museum for the sixth time that afternoon. He still wasn’t in the mood to leave, and it’s not like anyone needed him at home at the moment. He would probably head to a nearby bar, have a glass of wine, and wander around the city until the sun rose again.

"Fine, I guess," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the paintings displayed in front of him. He had seen many of them online, but seeing them in person… it was definitely something completely different. Noticing the brushstrokes, the old traces of a brush over the oil paint, the colors, the size—everything was a new experience. It was like meeting the same person a second time; the feeling and the first impression could never be the same if you only saw them through a screen.

"So expressive, Kim." Taehyung rolled his eyes at Jiwon’s mocking tone. He wasn’t in the mood to be expressive, and it’s not like he was obligated to be.

"Anyway, Jiah is pretty worried. You know how she is, especially when it comes to you."

Taehyung nodded in silence, even though he was aware she would never see the gesture. Jiah was… she was like a mother to their small family. She was the one who turned them, the one who took care of them and taught them how to maintain their composure, always patient and loving with everyone. Taehyung couldn’t recall a single time when she had ever raised her voice at any of them.

He had always known, just like the others, that she had a certain weakness for him, something he associated too much with the fact that she had witnessed him fall apart upon finding you lifeless that night. She was the one who worried about him, who paid to give you a proper funeral, who helped him get through his sleepless nights, and who showed him a completely new world. She was the mother Taehyung never had, and he was grateful every single day for everything she had done for him, despite all the trouble he had dragged her into.

"I’ll be back soon, I just… I just want to say goodbye properly."

He stopped again in front of the painting he had submitted. That small pang in his chest had returned and, although for a few seconds he regretted it, the weight lifted when he saw someone else stop in front of your artwork to take a photo. He had managed to immortalize your memory—that was all that mattered.

At last, he would no longer be the only one completely in love with your art.

There were a few seconds of silence in which neither of them seemed to know what to say. The stillness was broken by Jiwon's soft and—unusually—understanding voice.

"Are you really okay over there, alone? We’re all a bit worried about you."

Taehyung let out a soft chuckle, lowering his head to glance at his elegant brown oxford shoes. When he was still human, he had longed to wear a pair like these, and now that he could afford them, half of his wardrobe revolved around them. You would probably be just as enamored with them as he was.

"I’ll be fine, Jiwon. It’s just a few days, it’s not like I don’t know what I’m doing."

He made his way toward the museum exit, but not before giving the painting one last look. This would be the last time he saw it—this was the final farewell. He sighed, running his tongue over his dry lips.

"Besides… I need to do this alone."

"Alright, okay, I get it. It’s your healing process and all that cheesy crap you love." Jiwon let out a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. Even miles away, Taehyung could feel the worry in her voice. A part of him was touched by it. It was nice to see that, despite everything, she still cared for him.

"Just… call us if anything happens, okay? Jimin is about to lose his mind."

"Jimin is always about to lose his mind," he chuckled under his breath, politely nodding to the guards watching the entrance.

The first thing he saw upon stepping outside was the sky, painted in pastel hues, with a faint trace of stars beginning to emerge, preparing to turn it into a beautiful nocturnal canvas with the moon as its protagonist.

"I’m going to hang up. I need to go somewhere else before heading back to my hotel."

"Alright, I get it, you’re bored of me." Even without seeing her, Taehyung knew she was smiling on the other end of the line.

"See you."

And with that, the call ended, leaving him alone with his own thoughts once again.

He wished that becoming a vampire had meant his emotions—like his heart—simply stopped functioning. Life would be easier that way. Carrying the weight of his emotions would be… probably a little more bearable.

The soft sound of Taehyung’s footsteps echoed through the dark streets of Paris, faintly illuminated by the streetlights surrounding the small, quiet alley he had chosen to escape the bustling crowd—and, in turn, his own thoughts. He had stopped by the bar he had wanted to visit for so long, but after spending a couple of hours sitting at the counter, sipping a drink he could barely taste… it was dull not being able to savor it the way he once did.

He gazed up at the night sky stretching above him, noticing how the stars seemed much closer, as if they had gathered there just to shield his eyes, rather than simply existing as part of nature’s design.

Tomorrow, he would probably buy a ticket back to Korea, still debating whether to purchase a first-class seat or a regular one. Jiah had given him more than enough money to indulge in any luxury he desired, but he didn’t want to take advantage of her generosity. He had his own savings, and not just a small amount—old trinkets he once considered worthless centuries ago were now worth millions, a fortunate advantage for all of them.

A soft melody from a nearby radio pulled him from his thoughts. He hadn’t noticed the old record store beside him, still open for some reason. It had a distinctly vintage, understated charm—exactly Taehyung’s style. He studied its exterior, noting the yellow sign with red lettering perched atop the roof, reading: Le cœur de la musique.

In the display window, several vinyl records from the ’70s and ’80s were neatly arranged, among them the famous Can’t Help Falling in Love with You by Elvis Presley, the very song now enveloping the alleyway with its gentle notes and romantic lyrics.

Taehyung truly loved that song. He closed his eyes, letting the music seep into more than just his ears—letting it settle into his body as well. With graceful movements, ones that seemed almost ingrained in him, Taehyung began swaying to the melody. He had been a great dancer in his youth. When you were both just children, you had asked him to be your dance partner so you could practice. The two of you had ended up falling completely in love with the warm, intimate feeling of it. Even when your bodies had grown cold, even when death gnawed at your bones and drained your souls, neither of you had ever stopped dancing.

His memories of you returned, vivid as always; he could almost feel the soft scent of your skin against his nose, the sensation of your hair brushing against his rough fingertips, your forehead resting gently on his shoulder, your breath against his chest. It was almost as if you were still there with him, dancing in the empty streets of Paris, in front of an old record store, your hearts swaying in perfect harmony beneath the stars.

His feet continued moving across the pavement until a soft click snapped him out of his trance.

Instantly, all of his senses sharpened. He halted his movements at once, scanning his surroundings for whoever had made that sound. He knew it was a camera. And he knew it hadn’t been close—if it had been, he would have smelled the person’s blood by now, wouldn’t he?

His dark eyes flickered with a brief glint of alertness as he surveyed the alley. That’s when he finally noticed her. At the far end of the alleyway, a young woman stood frozen in place, her face still partially hidden behind the camera lens aimed directly at him.

Before he could even think, his feet carried him forward, ready to demand why she had captured such a personal moment without his permission. But then, the delicate scent of strawberries and roses reached his nose. And right after—her blood.

Sweet. Addictive. More tempting than any other scent he had encountered in his 155 years of existence.

For a fleeting moment, Taehyung swore his heart beat again, just from the sheer intoxication of it. His gums began to itch as his fangs pressed against the inside of his lip, the thirst for blood growing exponentially with every step he took. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the overwhelming urge to feed suffocating him, clouding his mind.

Until she lowered the camera.

Until he saw your eyes.

Large. Bright. Filled with life, staring at him from the end of the alley.

His heart—still lifeless, still incapable of pumping blood—felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. And though he had no need to breathe, he swore the air caught in his lungs.

Did that make sense? Of course not, but you—standing right there, smiling at him as if you hadn’t died in his arms over 150 years ago—didn’t make sense either.

And yet, there you were.

The same eyes. The same lips. Your hair was different, yes, but everything else… everything else was exactly as he remembered. Exactly the same as the day death had stolen you from him.

Was this some kind of punishment? Retribution for the countless lives he had taken in his early years as a vampire?

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable!” you blurted out the moment you noticed the man standing just a few feet away from you. A soft, warm blush quickly spread across your cheeks—not only from the embarrassment of being caught photographing a complete stranger without permission but also because that very stranger, the one now standing before you, was breathtakingly handsome. And now he was looking directly at you, so intensely that you could feel his gaze burning into your skin.

“I-It’s just that I was on my way back to my hotel, and I saw you dancing alone. You had this melancholic expression that was just so captivating from here and… I’m sorry, that’s no excuse for what I did, I’ll delete the photo right away!”

As you fumbled over your apology, nervously gripping your camera once again, Taehyung took the opportunity to examine you—every detail of your face. You had the same beauty mark beneath your left eye. The same faint scar between your index and middle fingers. Even your voice—one he remembered as if it were his own—was exactly the same.

Your clumsy way of speaking.

The pink flush on your cheeks.

Your long eyelashes.

There was no doubt in his mind. The young woman standing before him was you.

“I…” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “What’s your name?”

He watched as your eyes lifted to meet his. He couldn’t help but notice how your lips parted slightly at the unexpected question.

Ah.

He still remembered the way your lips moved against his—soft yet intoxicating, slow yet sensual, always keeping him on edge. He remembered the way you used to smile whenever he playfully nibbled on your lower lip.

He missed it.

He missed you.

“Oh! S-Sorry, how rude of me,” you chuckled nervously, carefully lowering your camera so that it hung freely around your neck. The strap dug slightly into your exposed skin, but it was the safest way to carry it without accidentally dropping it. “I’m Y/N. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Y/N,” he murmured, savoring every letter of your name.

He knew it. He knew it. It was impossible for you to be anyone else.

His eyes began to sting as the reality of what was happening finally settled in.

After 155 miserable years—

You had come back to him.

Looking exactly as you had the last time he saw you.

“The pleasure is mine,” he said softly, reaching out to take your hand in his own, gently, fearful that the moment his fingers brushed against your skin, you would disappear.

But you didn’t.

You were still there when his lips pressed lightly against your knuckles, inhaling your scent as discreetly as possible.

So this is how you smelled when you were full of life.

Without an illness slowly stealing you away. Your blood had the sweetest scent he had ever known, and he couldn’t help but close his eyes at the steady, rhythmic beat of your heart echoing in his ears, proof that you were alive, proof that you were here.

Taehyung had never believed in God, but now, with you standing before him— he could only describe this as a miracle.

Masterlist.

[fel-09]

You piss me off so much that I married you.

Jonathan Crane x reader

Brief plot: Jonathan Crane and his colleague compete for the position of chief psychiatrist. She teases him, calling him “my love,” and one day steals his glasses, running away. Nurses bet on when they’ll marry. Years later, at the wedding, Crane sees one of them collecting her winnings.

"I believe we’ll get along just fine," she said, extending her hand.

Jonathan Crane looked at her with cold indifference. He already knew who she was. The hospital had been abuzz with talk of the new psychiatrist—brilliant, ambitious, and determined. She had her sights set on the position of Chief of Psychiatry. The very same position he was after.

His fingers clasped around hers in a brief, almost reluctant handshake.

"We’ll see," he replied flatly.

She smiled—bright, confident, with not a single shred of doubt.

"Oh, there’s no need to wait and see, Dr. Crane. You might as well come to terms with the fact that I’ll be your superior soon enough."

Jonathan’s expression darkened slightly.

"Confidence is a commendable trait. Arrogance, however, often leads to disaster."

Her lips curved in a smirk. "Are you speaking from personal experience?"

His jaw tightened.

And just like that, their rivalry began.

For every success one of them had, the other sought to surpass it. Research papers, case studies, treatment innovations—it was an endless battle of intellect and ambition.

But while Jonathan remained cold, methodical, and composed, she chose a different tactic.

She teased him.

And the worst part?

She called him “my love.”

She knew it irritated him. And she used it every chance she got.

---

The morning started as it always did—with frustration.

Jonathan Crane strode into the psychiatric hospital, prepared for another day of work. But before he even reached his office, he spotted his eternal adversary—her.

She was standing at the reception desk, skimming through some files. The moment she noticed his presence, she looked up, a slow, devilish grin spreading across her lips.

"Ah, my love," she sighed dramatically, placing a hand over her chest. "So cold, as always. You wound me, Dr. Crane. How shall my poor heart endure such cruelty?"

Jonathan clenched his teeth.

"Spare me your theatrics," he said, voice as icy as ever.

"But why?" she pouted playfully. "I thought we had a passionate love affair."

His fingers twitched at his sides. Damn her. She knew exactly how to provoke him. She knew how much he hated this game of hers.

"You have a warped perception of love," he muttered, his glare unwavering.

She only laughed, flicking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Oh! I almost forgot!"

Before he could react, her hand darted forward, and in the next instant, the light weight of his glasses was gone.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" he snapped.

She was already stepping away, slipping the glasses onto her own face.

"Oh, Dr. Crane, you look so serious," she mused, adjusting the frames. "I must say, this role of ‘relentless pursuer’ suits you quite well."

She took another step back. And then—of course—she ran.

"Give them back!" he barked, immediately chasing after her.

Her laughter rang through the hospital halls.

"Run faster, Dr. Crane!" she taunted, glancing over her shoulder. "Who knows? I might drop them… or worse, break them!"

"If you do, you’ll regret it!"

The hospital staff barely reacted to the spectacle. It wasn’t the first time.

Two nurses stood near the break room, watching the chaos unfold with detached amusement.

"One hundred bucks says they get married by the end of the year," one nurse murmured, crossing her arms.

"Two hundred says it takes two years," the other countered.

Jonathan slowed slightly, catching those words.

Absolutely not.

But then he saw her disappearing around a corner, and his irritation overpowered everything else.

He surged forward, determined to put an end to her nonsense.

Finally, in one swift motion, he cornered her inside an empty office, pressing her against the doorframe with one hand while snatching the glasses back with the other.

He slid them onto his face, exhaling sharply.

"Never. Do. That. Again," he said through gritted teeth.

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Oh, Dr. Crane," she purred. "Are you threatening me?"

His gaze was piercing.

"No. I’m warning you."

She simply smirked.

---

The wedding was surreal.

The guests, the vows—Jonathan never thought he’d stand at the altar, let alone speak those words. And yet, here he was. Married.

He adjusted his tie, scanning the reception hall with vague disinterest. That was when he caught sight of something across the room.

Two familiar nurses.

One was smugly handing a wad of cash to the other.

Jonathan froze.

No. No, no, no.

They were right?

His fingers curled into a fist at his side.

She appeared beside him then, sliding her arm through his.

"Something wrong, my love?" she teased, voice full of amusement.

Jonathan inhaled deeply.

"Remind me to have those two reassigned," he muttered.

She laughed softly, resting her head against his shoulder.

"Admit it, Dr. Crane," she whispered. "You love me."

He didn’t respond.

But he also didn’t deny it.

[the-jam-to-the-unicorn]

If you wanna be happy (because Ze with students) but also sad at the same time (because of what he says) ... this is your video

[orcelito]

ok i am actually so very angry and there's literally nothing i can do to fix it. life keeps going on. she might even be happy. and fuck dude, i'll make sure im happy too, i was a fully developed person before she was in my life and i'll continue to be one without her. but God Damn, the fact that she can just do something so blatantly awful and unfair to me and then run off without any actual repercussions is just so fucking rankling to me.

like perhaps she feels guilty. she said she did when it was all going down. but it was just something she "needed to do". so obviously she didn't feel guilty enough or she wouldnt have done it like that lmaoooo

i really did deserve to have a good solid yell at her. but unfortunately, by the time i did see her in person i just wanted her out of my fucking life. so. no yelling was done, unfortunately.

[dawnwriterimagines]

Innocents among you

Part Two to TRAITORS AMONG US

SIMON RILEY X FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 X FEM!READER

Summary: Your torture is over, but is it really? There is only the torment in your mind now. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the flowers at your hospital bed and the tormentors awaiting the relief of your forgiveness.

Part 3!!

Part 4

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

You flatlined twice, almost as soon as you were handed off to the medics.

Committing themselves to doing CPR before bringing in the defibrillator for an electric charge to your sudden cardiac arrest. "Clear!" They restarted your heart just outside the hallway of your cell, Simon held back by Price as your heart stopped again within the same minute and panic ensued. Johnny and Kyle hearing the news, rushing up towards the hall, their footsteps probably the echo that you held onto as your heart rate picked back up.

Clearly, you lived.

You didn't have the luxury of going comatose immediately after. As you would've preferred.

You'd awoken hours after the medical team carried you off to the infirmary. Still on edge, still plagued by discomfort and cold, despite the lights of the recovery facility and the nurses that paraded around you.

Morphine wears off in about 6 hours, so you were up wailing in agony within the same time. Clearly no one expected you up so soon, but you hadn't slept in days, at least not more than an hour. Jerking up involuntarily, hands all over you to keep you down and steady, you could hear a familiar doctor's attempt to calm you down. But, the blistering pain that radiated from every pore in your body was ringing so loud, a present noise that blocked everything out.

So, at first, you'd been terrified, attempting to clutch onto the first thing you'd woken up to. But, you couldn't move, at least not voluntarily.

With the damage to your spine for countless hours, days, and what you had discovered to be two fucking weeks of endless torture, you'd undergone three difference corrective surgeries that would 'possibly' fix the nerve and circulatory damage done to you. It had left you nearly completely immobile since your admission into the infirmary. The doctors were quite astonished that you were even alive...

The nurses were patient enough with your panicked state to slowly ease you out of your stupor. But, at times it wasn't easy, especially when you didn't even know where you were at first. Since you couldn't see...

You were blind for about four days. Everything a tinted red for a few more after you'd regained your sight.

Fevers plagued you for the week, skin that was raw and inflamed from the severe cold and constant dousing from the pipes, you couldn't move if you wanted to.

The first thing you'd been graced to see were the multiple arrangements of flowers, lilies, white tulips, hydrangeas, roses...typical assortments of regret and remorse.

"Can someone throw these away?" had been your first words.

The nurse who had been checking over your vitals looks over at the flowers, the were all over the desk, even on the floor lining the windows, once they ran out of space to put them. It was beautiful. But, she knew why. Everyone knew why. You were quite famous here in the infirmary, as you were in special unit. "Of course."

They were out within the day. The room bare once more.

And then you saw them outside your infirmary window. Just a glimpse. Around the time you were still getting your sight back.

Seeing them for the first time since everything made bile build up in your throat, a screaming fear that created a pulsing headache.

Kyle, Johnny, Price and...you didn't see Simon.

Price was...a statue. Not moving an inch. His hand against his mouth, covering up the aching distress anyone could see on his face.

Kyle was pacing, back and forth and back and forth. Making an offhanded comment at one of them every few seconds.

But, Johnny was talking, pointing spitefully at someone out of your view.

He was there too then. Simon.

Turning away from the window, you couldn't look at them anymore.

"Don't let them in," you breathe out to your doctor as she sets down a trayed mug on your sliding table as she sits you up to drink a hot cup of tea, which you had requested. "Any of them. Please." You were still so cold, you couldn't imagine dealing with any type of cold weather for a while after dealing with this.

She's confused a moment, before turning to the doorway, where she recalled seeing the four men waiting outside in the hallway. She's seen them just sitting there for days now, they wouldn't beg or argue to come in, they'd just wait. It's not like you were cleared for visitors yet anyway.

Every morning she clocked in for the job, there they were. Sitting there like abandoned children, awaiting the moment the door would open to be welcomed inside.

It was like they never left.

Of course she knew who they were to you. Word spreads fast on the base. Especially for a Task Force as 'famous' as they were around here.

Squeezing your shoulder, comfortingly. Feeling protective, your doctor spoke, "Of course," she slides the mug forward a bit, taking the teaspoon to stir once and lift it to toward your lips to sip. "Blow," she guided.

You did. And sipped.

And it was warmer than any blanket they'd wrapped you in.

---

Prior to being able to trudge around on your own, with the help of a crutch you'd been given to go to the bathroom by yourself finally, the nurses had sponged you down in bed. Your spinal surgeries led to you being at risk if they made efforts to remove you from your bed for anything more than a medical emergency.

Mostly, because you're terrified of the showerhead....and it's pathetic, but no one judges you for it as you opt for a sponge bath every time instead. Even if you're shaking as the water slides down your skin even now. The last thing you needed on top of all this was to develop aquaphobia.

Today was the first day you could do it on you own, limping your way to the bathroom with your crutch. The smell of bleach is much stronger in here, it stings your nose.

You stared at the metal stool left tucked at the side, walking around it as if it would pounce up and attack you, you try not to look at it. You'd been doing well without panic attacks for a few days now, just hold it together.

Taking a breath, you reach out to the handle for the spout, glancing up at the showerhead, before back down. Swallowing thickly when you begin to turn it before pausing, hearing the water rush up the pipe to spill out. Turning it back up just as quickly, shutting off the pipe, you inhale deeply, trembling now, hand up to the chilled tile to steady yourself.

You'll try again, you had to.

Drip...

Drip...

Unable to help yourself, the sudden rush of paranoia that runs through you is terrible, a hoarse cry leaves you. You shove yourself away from the shower stall, back ramming into the doorframe, catching yourself, and away from the showerhead as the water drips, slowly from the faucet.

Drip...

Drip...

As panic tightened its grip around your chest, your breaths quickly turned to short, sharp gasps. The room spinning, colors blurring into a dizzying whirlwind. You turn swiftly, nearly knocking yourself off your feet as the thudding of your own heart startles you, you can hear it in your ears, in your hands, in your feet.

You press a trembling hand to your chest, clawing over the area, trying to slow the frantic pace of your breathing, but it only seemed to escalate. The small room narrowing to a black hole of fear and suffocation, every gasp began to disorient you, turning lightheaded.

As tears welled in your eyes, you collapse against the side wall, sliding down to the tiled floor. Slamming your palm against your chest, once, twice, as hot tears leave streaks down your bruised face, you beg your lungs to expand and wait for your breathing to regulate.

Beginning to sob uncontrollably as you hit yourself in the chest again and again and again, waiting for the moment you found yourself able to breathe.

Why did this have to happen?

You remember the violent swing of the baton against your face, the sting it leaves afterwards, the immediate spotting of bruises forming. The memory startles you, receding back into yourself, back to that day.

"It wasn't me..." you cried loudly, in the empty room. It echoes against the tiles.

Simon wrapping his hands around your neck, staring you down as he squeezed, maliciously. You couldn't breathe as your lover shook with the strength he uses to hold himself back from taking your life.

"I'm sorry," you hiccupped. "I'm--I'm sorry," you're not sure when you crawled yourself into the corner, the lights of the bathroom flickering off dimly from your lack of movement. As you're drowned in darkness, the water dripping from the spout, the cold tile against your skin, it's too much. You scramble upwards, running out of the bathroom.

The automatic lights flicker back on inside, but you're too in your head to notice.

Stumbling down to your knees as you feel the rip of a ruined stitching tearing along your side. "Ah!" comes your startled cry. Making it to the side of your hospital bed, you fist your hand through your sheets, unable to stand yourself up.

Taking pained breaths against the sterile sheets, you bury your head in them, cursing whatever luck you thought you had in this life.

They were your family...

All you had for so many years...

As your breathing slows to distraught, agonized huffs of air, sniffling to yourself as you catch sight of your face in the metal frame of your hospital bed. The dark purple bruises beneath your eyes as the swelling gradually went down, the still bloodshot left eye of yours, the twelve stitches on the left side of your face. So gruesome you knew it would scar you for life, a permanent reminder on your fucking face.

Anger bubbled up inside you at the sight of it. At the memory that would always follow when you'd look at it.

Anger that you hadn't been able to properly feel until now.

Anger that you feared to have until today.

"Are you alright?" the sound of his voice makes you visible tense.

Simon.

He's here.

You don't turn to face him, if you did, you'd revert back to the person you were cowering into moments ago. "The door was open...I just--" he pauses, swallowing thickly. "Lemme help you up."

Hearing his footsteps suddenly moving closer, you speak fast. "STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!" you scream over your shoulder, tucking yourself further away from him. "Do NOT move."

He stops in his tracks. You catch the sight of him in the metal framing of the bed, he's a blur in the metal, but you notice his mask is gone, he's Simon Riley now, not Ghost as he appeared to you in the interrogation cell.

"Don't you dare get any closer," you spat.

"I heard you," he spoke, carefully. Mouth opening and closing, before speaking again. "But, you don't have to be stubborn. If you stay there any longer you could tear your stitches."

"Whose fault is that?"

Simon shifts his stance on his feet, waits a second. "I know. And I can never begin to tell you how sorry I am for what I did. What we all did to you," he says, quietly. "The intel we discovered...or that was forged, it came from a source we've used a dozen times, (Y/n), we thought it was true. It had to be. We've never been misled before."

"So..." your nails bite into your skin, you make an amused sound, biting down on your lip for a moment, till it hurt. " That's what you came here to say, huh? What you waited days to--. Is this you justifying--"

"No, (y/n), that's not--"

"--why you tortured me, strangled me, stripped me, in that fucking cell, Simon?"

"We had to believe it, at the time..."

"Was I not a trusted source?" you argued. "Had I not proven more than a thousand times that you could trust me? I've fought next to you, laid in your bed, given you my love, my trust, I--" you shook with rage at the time and energy wasted on time family, this relationship, if the end goal was always meant to just be this.. "I thought that was at least half the reason you decided to marry me..." at the mention of your relationship, you could see the way Simon nearly lost his balance, hands coming up to run along his face. "You told me you would kill me in that room..."

"I was just talking, I wouldn't have--" his voice cracks as he whispers, trying to convince.

"When you left, I thought you'd come back to kill me any minute, or Price, to spare you. I waited to die for two days, terrified out of my mind. I wondered about heaven, not if I'd make it... but what it'd be like, what I'd be missing out on," you thought back to your time in that cell, a haunted expression Simon couldn't see. "While you all got a good nights rest, woke up for some bacon and eggs, and listened to the warden tell you that your prisoner was framed...for a crime you'd already punished her for..." you stuttered on your breathing, tears flowing silently.

Simon inhales deeply. "I could never expect you to forgive me. I-I had taken my hurt out on you, I thought you did it, I was so sure. I couldn't hear what you were saying, I just could see the evidence, and I--I'm sorry. I'm sorry, love. I'm truly--" he gets to his knees behind you.

"Get up."

"I can never tell you how sorry I am---"

"Simon."

"I never should've done this to you. If I could ever--" his voice rising with distressed breaths, you didn't have to look at him to see his face a mess of sorrow, tears that would mix into the stubble on his face.

"Simon!"

"--make it up to you. If you could ever find it in your to forgive me, (y/n). I'll spend the rest of my life--" he gets closer, reaching out.

Whipping around, stiffening completely as you feel the graze of his fingers across your skin, "DON'T TOUCH ME!" you shove your back against your bedding, your hand swinging and flying across his face. His head snapping to the side as he pauses, freezing up where he kneels, having completely forgotten your request to stay put. "What's the matter with you! Even now? Even now, you can't just listen to this one thing?!"

"I-I'm sorry..." He looks at you, finally seeing your face clearly and up close since it all happened. Finally he can see the bruises along your face, the blood that fills your eye, the dark bruise still around your neck.

Seeing him. He looks rough. Honestly, he looks terrible. His hair shaggy and falling over his eye. Dark circles with bags under them. Pale, and thinner than he should be.

His jaw clenches with guilt and he averts his eyes, you continue. "How could I forgive you for this?" you stare at him, "I could forgive you, if you hadn't let them chain me up like an animal. If you hadn't watched them drown me for hours, beat me black and blue and left me screaming for days. I could forgive you if you had just believed me even for a moment." you feign thoughtfulness. "How about you look at my face. My wrists. My legs! MY FUCKING SPINE, SIMON!"

"Nothing I can say or do, will ever make any of it ok, I know that. And I can't ask for you to ever forgive--"

"What could I possible owe you in this life, that makes you think I'd even think about forgiving any of you for the things you did to me?" you gritted out, angrily.

Simon's head drops, a slow, shuttering sigh leaves him. "I'll never stop trying to make this right. Never."

"...Get out, Simon."

"I'm sorry."

"Simon."

"I'm so sorry..." he reaches out again.

"Ghost."

He's silent this time, fingers tensing, out in mid air.

"I never wanna see you again."

"I love you, (Y/n)," he confessed, eyes feral and wide. Pulling at the ends of your slip.

"I don't want to hear that, Ghost," kicking away from him. "Stop it."

"I couldn't stop even as it happened--"

"Shut up. And get out," shaking as you sneered at his desperate attempts. "It's over, Ghost."

"And I took it on you. It hurt so much, I couldn't think," Simon's face twisted with agony and remorse. "I'm sorry!"

He was making you lose your goddamn mind, you broke. "GET THE FUCK OUT!" screaming at one another as overwhelming tears escaped your eyes.

---

It's quiet in your hospital room, it's empty now, the door closed this time.

The door knob turns and opens again a moment later. "Oh no, Ms. (L/n)!" luckily it was your assigned nurse, who takes your arm and fixes it around her shoulder before helping haul yourself up to your feet. "What're you doing on the floor? There's a call button for a reason," she scolds as you sit on the edge of your bed.

You're quiet.

Alarmingly so for your nurse, who notices the pulled stitching that creates a line of blood down your side. "If this is about what happened to you..." the nurse started, speaking carefully, pulling a lining of gauze from the side to press to your skin. You don't even wince at the pressure, even when she begins to clean and replace the broken stitch. "Don't let it break you. Not even further than this experience already has..." she says, while through the last stitch and prepping a bandage.

"I've been broken long before this," you whispered, looking towards the afternoon sun shining through your window. "This. This didn't break me, no," you admitted, before glancing up with glossy eyes, rage hidden beneath a profound look of sadness. "It destroyed me."

Her hand pauses at your side, your words startling, turning to see the tear that slips down your cheek. Knowing now how deep your scars were from this, before gently sliding the last of the bandage across your skin. "Do not think you are irreparable. That time can't heal your wounds."

"But, there's always reminders," touching the stitches on your cheek, "some things can't be forgiven."

"I never said to forgive..." the nurse interjected. "If you could, after all this, you're stronger than any woman that could be named."

You snicker at that, humming soundly. "That's an interesting thought. I guess I'm one of the weaker ones then."

"And yet, still the strongest I've ever met," she finishes. Pats your cheek, "click the button next time. Save us both the heart attack."

"Noted," you assured.

As she's prepping to leave for her rounds, you open your mouth, once, twice, before clearing it. "Is it possible, someone could help me out--the water..."

"Of course," the nurse says, quickly. "Don't worry, I understand. I'll get everything set for you."

As she walks away, you breathing out your appreciation, you take a long inhale, swallowing down the heaviness in your chest.

part 3 OUT NOW!!

and if you'd like to support a fanfic hoe in need...would you Buy me a Coffee?

Tag List:

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[murdockparker]

Mr. Bridgerton and the Baker

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Summary: Covered in flour. It is how she usually spent her days, working hard at her family's bakery. She just hadn't expected to have met him in such a state.

Word Count: 11.8k

Warnings: pining, angst, fluff, a small assault (reader gets hit, not by Benedict!), mention of pregnancy (like, literally a line or two),

A/N: Did I write an entire fic barely based on that one scene in Camp Rock where Mitchie is covered in flour? Yes. Do I regret it? No.

With the melting of snow and the promise of new starts, the social season was nearly upon the ton, nearly upon all the potential suitors and debutantes—all waiting with bated breath to secure a match this year. Of course, those in waiting were of high status, usually tied to the aristocracy or drowning in wealth beyond compare.

The others? The ones not blessed with endless funds or pure luck of royal lineage had the privilege, nay, honor to serve those who would be so fortunate. For the many, it included servicing the estates—butlers, lady’s maids, governesses, home chefs and the like. For the patrons on Tilbury Street, it included the less sought after roles, polishers, cobblers, modistes and bakeries. One bakery in particular was the prime choice for the aristocracy, a diamond in the rough as some may say. 

—

“I just simply don’t understand why we cannot have our chefs prepare the pastries for the ball,” Eloise Bridgerton nearly groaned, her arm hooked onto her mother’s. They had been walking up and down Tilbury Street for the better part of twenty minutes, simply enjoying the fresh spring weather. “I’ve never known them to make horrid dishes.”

“It’s the first Bridgerton Ball of the season, Eloise,” the dowager viscountess murmured politely. “Along with it being the first Kate has had the pleasure of hosting, putting an order in here is a fresh foot forward, one that’ll impress our guests.”

Eloise barked back a laugh. “If it is so important, why is Kate not here to make the order herself?”

“That, dear sister, is an excellent point.” Following close behind the two Bridgerton ladies was a rather tall shadow, equally as dashing and nearly as clever—Benedict—the second eldest son of the Bridgerton brood. “Surely Anthony could spare his wife for one afternoon, I can’t imagine it being so difficult to pry them from their bedroom—”

“Benedict Bridgerton!” Violet snapped, turning hot on her heels to face her son. He could only laugh.

“Oh Mother, you must relax,” he said lovingly, patting both hands on her shoulders. “You know better than I that it could have been a far fouler thought—why, I can easily imagine three other ways I could have expressed my way of thinking.”

“Ah, ever the poet, Benedict,” Eloise smiled wryly, pushing her way to the front of their clump. No one had the heart to mention the glaring fact that it was likely she didn’t know the way in which they were headed. 

“This bakery,” Violet continued half-heartedly. “Is a prestigious supplier for the ton—you may recall their exquisite cake that we had ordered for Daphne’s wedding.”

Benedict hummed contently. “It was a good cake,” he practically nodded off at the thought. The decadent sponge nearly brought him to tears—of course, it could have very well been the relief from undue stress of Daphne’s season altogether, having nearly lost his older brother to an unnecessary duel.

“I think it was far too sweet,” Eloise said, scrunching her nose in distaste. “I had to drink nearly three cups of tea to clear out the sugar on my tongue.”

“Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of sweetness?” Benedict nearly sang.

“Perfectly fulfilling,” his younger sister quipped back.

The dowager viscountess could only sigh, her eyes reaching up to the clouds above. While she loved nothing more than being the mother of all eight of her perfect children, their endless bickering and bantering grew vexing. It merely took the Bridgerton siblings another minute of arguing before stopping in front of a quaint storefront—the sickeningly sweet aroma filling the street. “We’re here.”

“I could have told you as much,” Benedict mumbled, rubbing his temple lightly. “The scent is… overpowering.” If he were lucky, the headache that was quickly forming would dull fast.

“But Benedict,” Eloise turned hot on her heels. “What’s life without a bit of sweetness?”

Violet Bridgerton was quick to catch her second eldest's hand before it met the back of Eloise’s head. “If it’s too much for you, dear,” she released her grip. “Please feel free to wait for us out here. It should only take a moment.”

“Like a ‘moment’ at the modiste?” Benedict crossed his arms, his brow nearly touching his hairline. “If I recall, the last time I accompanied you to the dressmaker, I spent over an hour basking in the summer sun.”

“Nothing logical stopped you from coming in,” Eloise drawled. “Of course, if you wanted to managed to stay pleasant with the seamstress, one should have kept it in his trousers—”   

“We’ll only be a moment,” Violet hushed Eloise quickly, grasping the top of her arm firmly. “There seems to be little wait. We’ll be on our way shortly.”

He huffed towards the sun—while there had been little heat near the start of the English spring, the sun was warm against his skin. Benedict enjoyed being outdoors more often than not, it was usually the reason he accompanied his mother on their errands nearly every other day of the season. That, of course, and the fact it got his worrying mama off of his back to be wed. With Anthony finally securing a match, it was only fitting for Violet Bridgerton to be working her way down her list of endless children—having only two of eight married off. “It should only be a moment,” Benedict reassured himself, watching various other families and couples walk by. 

That is, until he heard a rather loud bang coming from the alley beside him. He should have known better—he was taught better—than to investigate outlandish sounds, especially in town, but Benedict Bridgerton was nothing if not curious. He peeked around the corner, holding his breath, preparing to be met with a wild animal of some kind. His view was shaky at best, hardly could see a thing around the bricks. If he wanted a better look, he’d have to take a few steps towards the unusual noise. 

A large white cloud had enveloped the small alley, it was difficult to even see a few meters ahead, let alone what could have caused the loud commotion. Benedict waved his hand through the mysterious fog, trying to clear some air. “Hello?” He heard a soft squeak. An animal, it had to have been, Benedict was sure of it now. “Is anyone there?” 

A cough rang through the alley, startling him more than rogue vermin could have. The cloud had begun to dissipate, the white settling on the stone street below. Flour, if he had to guess, given the location.

“I’m alright,” a voice murmured quietly, another soft cough following quickly after. The shape of a person came into view, the air finally clearing enough for him to make sense of the scene he came upon. It was one of a woman now covered head to toe in the white powder—she had no distinguishable features, the flour was caking every bit of her body and dress. Just striking eyes that made Benedict’s heart jump to his throat. “Just… made a mess.”

“So it seems,” Benedict hummed, stepping over a pile of powder to get closer. “Do you require any help?”

“No, no,” she laughed. “I wouldn’t want you to get dirty. I fear I’ve got quite enough of that for the both of us.”

“I don’t mind getting dirty,” Benedict said quickly, his tongue moving faster than his brain. “But… yes, I suppose it’d be for the best if I refrained from getting any flour on me. May I ask how…?”

“Clumsy,” she uttered simply, the shrug of her shoulders speaking nothing but truth. “I must have the slipperiest fingers in town—I wish I could say this was the first time…”

“Manage to cover yourself in flour often?” Benedict’s lips pulled into a jesting smirk.

“Nearly every other day,” the woman sighed. “We’ve grown accustomed to purchasing an extra sack or two just for situations like these."

“I hardly doubt you could be that clumsy,” Benedict laughed, leaning against the stone wall. “But, I am painting quite the image in my head.”

“Oh I do hope I’m decent in that image, Mr. Bridgerton,” she giggled, curtsying in a near-mocking manner.

“How do you know—”

“Everyone knows your family, Mr. Bridgerton, I’d be a fool to admit I don’t know who you are—though you and your brothers all blur together, so I am merely taking a shot in the dark in which of the four you are.”

“Oh?”

She nodded once, a flurry of powder falling from her hair. A muffled shout from the back door startled her, grabbing her attention. “Ah,” the woman waved the air in front of her face, “I suppose I should take my leave—get cleaned up.”

“Of course,” Benedict said simply. “I won’t keep you.” In nearly an instant, the mysterious dusted lady disappeared from view, diving into the back door. He was taken aback by her candidness—having addressed him so forwardly without the pleasantries of a name exchange. “Damn,” he mumbled to himself, kicking residual flour off of his polished shoe, “I never asked for her name.” Would it be too forward to knock on the back door to ask for her? Benedict Bridgerton couldn’t wrap his head around the interaction—she nearly sent him into a tizzy.

“Brother?” 

Eloise stood at the end of the alley, clutch in hand, face pinched in confusion. 

“Ah, I suppose you’re finished?”

“Hardly,” Eloise scoffed, “Mother insisted on doubling the initial order ‘just to be safe’. She’ll be out in a moment.” 

“Perhaps I should go inside to accompany her—”

“And leave your unwed sister unchaperoned in this part of town?” Eloise pressed a hand to her brother’s chest, stopping him dead in his tracks. His eyes danced quickly to the street in the distance, clearly not paying any attention to his sister. “Benedict?”

“Hm?” He glanced down. “Ah, maybe we should both go back inside—”

“You’re…” she pushed on him harder, nearly sending him backwards. “Acting strange. Not terribly long ago you wanted nothing to do with this place and now, you’re dying to jump into the building that brought you so much strife?” Eloise removed her hand from him, settling it down by her side as she glanced at him up and down. The blues of his outfit were covered slightly in a white power—not enough to really notice, but enough to give the appearance of filth. “And you’re covered in… flour?”

“I don’t wish to share every moment of my day with you, dear Sister,” Benedict said simply, sighing contently. “My business is my business.”

“Business,” Eloise parroted. “Sure.”

Violet Bridgerton had finished the order quickly, mumbling something about the higher prices this time of year—she had gotten a good deal regardless. Benedict was hardly listening, for he was already planning his next trip to this very bakery, hoping to meet the girl in flour once more. 

He never did get the chance, to go back to town. His studies took up most of his free time, any other moment he had was spent with his ever-growing family. Just recently, his sister Daphne brought over her newest addition—another daughter named Belinda—who happened to be yet another spitting image of her mother. Benedict had a theory that every new Bridgerton baby will simply just inherit all the Bridgerton features, so far he had been proven correct. 

“Damn,” Benedict mumbled, violently dabbing a paint brush into his water cup, the colors swirling from the end.

He had been in his studio for the last few hours, mixing endless pigments and oils together, trying to concoct the color in his mind’s eye. It was impossible, he theorized, to create the exact shades and hues of her eyes. It was the most striking thing he remembered about her appearance—save for the copious amount of white flour caking her form—and Benedict Bridgerton had come to the conclusion that her eyes were simply forged by God Himself, a color not meant for mortal recreation.

“Why can I not…” He sighed, slumping back in his stool, paintbrush nearly hitting his trousers. “This is impossible.”

The grand clock beside the door chimed out. It was nearly time to get ready for Anthony and Kate’s ball—an occasion he was most dreading, save for enjoying the few pastries that came from the quaint bakery down in town. Reluctantly, he began to pry himself from his studio and made his way to the washroom, preparing to soak away any remnants of her.

—

“Mother,” (Y/N) chimed out, tying the serving apron to her waist, “I don’t see the reason for my attendance this evening. Surely the hosts of the event will have their own serving staff?”

“(Y/N),” her mother exasperated, throwing a towel down. “Your brothers are ill and bedridden and have been the last few days. Your father and I are counting on you to help fulfill the order, my back isn’t what it used to be, if you recall.”  

The girl sighed, her eyes rolling right up to the cracking ceiling. “How funny, it seems your back flares up nearly in time for deliveries to be made,” the girl mumbled.

“What was that?” Her mother turned quickly towards her only daughter. “I’m sure I misheard you.”

“You must have,” (Y/N) sang. “For I said I’m willing to help with the delivery, mother.”

The older woman narrowed her brow. “Never do I hear such sass from the boys… Perhaps a bit of manual labor will refocus your priorities.” 

“I already agreed,” (Y/N) reiterated. “As if I had terribly too much of a choice…”

“No,” her mother clicked, slapping the a rather large ball of dough that resided on the floured surface. “You do not. Now come, help your mother roll this out.”

She had gotten ready for the ball in record time—seeing as how she’s never gotten ready for one. (Y/N) dug through her mother’s wardrobe, finding an old and somewhat outdated green dress to wear, but it did the trick just fine. It was far nicer than the frocks she had owned anyhow, a light embroidery laced the edges and was sure to be run over by her fingertips endlessly throughout the evening.   

“The carriage is here!” Her father couldn’t have shouted louder throughout the small flat. Their home resided above the bakery, a quaint little thing with only two bedrooms—(Y/N) had the pleasure of sleeping in a rather over-glorified closet. If she reached her arms out, she’d be able to touch two of the walls easily, but like everything in her life, she made do. Unexpected child? Unexpected room. 

“I’ll be right there,” (Y/N) said, tying the now-cleaned apron around her waist, checking herself in the reflection of her water pitcher. “Damned hair,” her fingers moved to tuck a loose ringlet back into position—she had spent the better part of the evening trying to style it. 

“We need to load the carriage and make way to Bridgerton House,” her father repeated, smoothing his formalwear out. He hardly had the chance to wear it, seeing as situations like this happen only once in a while. “We must make a good impression, perhaps we’ll find more business this evening.”

“That’ll be a blessing,” her mother agreed, heading down the stairs to the bakery. “We could always use more business and the dowager viscountess is well liked around the ton, surely she’ll have pleasant things to say about our work.”

“I thought we let the pastries ‘speak for themselves’,” (Y/N) chimed in, carefully picking up a parcel. Her parents simply glared at her, allowing their daughter to silently move along with the loading process. 

The silence continued throughout the lengthy ride to Bridgerton House—the bakers not uttering a word until disembarking to unload all of the sweets. True to her original thought, the Bridgertons had their staff do the bulk of the unloading, carrying each parcel and box into the grand room that was to be the heart of the ball, all that was left to move was the elegant cake specially ordered by the dowager viscountess.

“Do you need a hand?”

“Oh, that would be—” (Y/N) turned around to the mysterious voice, only to find the same Bridgerton boy from earlier in the week standing behind her. “I—Mr. Bridgerton, I’m sure I can find my father to assist, you really don’t need to—”

“I insist,” Benedict held up his hand, effectively cutting her off. “I shouldn’t allow a lady to carry such a thing on her own, it would be most improper.”

“I’m certainly no lady,” she scoffed, readjusting her apron. “I’m not a part of your ‘season’ or whatever it is you lot do during the spring and summer months.”

Benedict barked out a laugh. “Debuted into the Marriage Mart or not, you’re still a lady and I am ever the gentleman, so please, indulge me.”

A blinding heat flushed across her cheeks—she was sure it was visible from down the street. (Y/N) stepped to the side to allow Benedict to grab ahold of one side of the tray, her hands curling around the other. “Thank you… for your help.”

“It’s no bother,” Benedict said truthfully. “I’ve been practically bored out of my skull all afternoon, this is truly the highlight of my evening.”

“Helping me carry a cake?” She asked, turning a corner carefully.

“Seeing you again,” he hummed unabashedly, noting the way her grip stiffened. “Though I must say, I think I prefer you without the flour.”

“How do you know that girl was me? I was covered head to toe.”

“Your eyes,” Benedict said simply. “They’re the most expressive and exquisite eyes I’ve had the pleasure of viewing.”

Benedict Bridgerton. The man who made her speechless.

“That, and I made a bold assumption when I saw you and the pastries arrive this evening.” He laughed lightly, afraid to drop the masterpiece. “I assumed correctly, no?”

“You,” (Y/N) tried to allow her cheeks to cool before continuing.“Would be correct. Very wise you are, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Benedict.”

“Benedict,” she repeated softly, twisting herself to set the cake down on the table. “My apologies.”

The ballroom was grand—much nicer than any place she’d dream of residing in—delicate decorations hung from the sconces, flowers covered nearly every inch of the free space. It was, in every meaning, elegant. “This is… where you live?”

“Ah,” Benedict rubbed the back of his neck. “My brother has been kind to allow me to stay here since he married, seeing as I only have my own property in the country. But yes, this is one of the homes I grew up in.”

“One of the homes,” she repeated back to him. “And here I thought I was spoiled with my broom closet.”

He turned a vibrant shade of red. “Oh! I didn't mean to—”

Her laughter filled the ballroom, the lightness practically lifting Benedict upwards. “I was merely teasing. I’m well aware of your status and wealth, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Benedict.”

“Ah! Sorry,” (Y/N) felt the twinge of shame hit her chest, it was small but enough to keep her in line to avoid making the mistake again. “I meant it in jest.”

“Funny girl,” Benedict clicked, waving his finger lightly. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor.”

“Growing up with nothing more than sacks of flour and parcels of sugar allows one to get creative with her jokes,” she explained carefully, treading lightly as to not make it sound completely miserable. “Though, I think they were a better audience anyhow…”

“You wound me,” a hand grabbed his heart, knees buckling towards the ground. “Oh how the lady wounds me.”

“I believe I told you, Benedict, I certainly am no lady.”

“Well, the lady has neglected to give me her name,” he peeked up from the floor—having found quite a cozy position. “So how else should I address such a fair maiden?”

“Fair maiden,” she scoffed playfully, voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly am nothing close to a maiden… but, if you must know,” she paused, “my name is (Y/N), (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“(Y/N)…” Benedict repeated it, mostly to himself. He rose from the floor, eyes not leaving her own. “What a beautiful name.”

“I—thank you. I suppose you should give my parents such a compliment, though. I am simply the recipient of such a gift.”

“Well, when I ask your parents for permission to court their daughter, I’ll pass the message along.”

She froze. 

“Ah, what was that?”

“I hate to be so bold,” Benedict sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. “But I feel the need to let you know of my intentions—my interest in you.”

“Oh you must be mistaken,” (Y/N) shook her head. “You’d want nothing to do with a girl like me. Surely there are other women in the ton who strike your fancy?”

“Nope,” he said simply. “Not a one. You, on the other hand, with your striking eyes and seemingly endless beauty, piqued my interest. If I may be honest, I haven’t stopped thinking about our encounter in the alley—it’s been on the forefront of my mind for days.”

She blinked, the gears in her head trying to keep up with the words Benedict was speaking. “But I am not from your world, Benedict. Even if I was interested in pursuing a courtship—”

“Are you not?” His eyes struck wide open. “I’m quite the catch, you see. Well-bred, scholarly and, if I might say so myself, I’m quite the talented artist. Easy on the eyes, too.”

“Benedict.” He stopped and looked at the woman. She was practically glowing in the candlelight. “While I’m not saying I’m… not interested, I can’t help but feel like you are infatuated with the idea of me and not… me.”

“How do you mean?”

She laughed humorlessly. “You don’t know me, truly. My likes, dislikes, how I take my tea, what weather I fancy—”

“See,” Benedict grabbed her hand, “I wish to know those things. Is that not the purpose of a courtship?”

“I am not from your world, Benedict. I have priorities, a duty to my family and our business—I can’t spend a moment thinking of the frivolity of a courtship with a man of your status.”

“But if I were, say, the butcher’s son it would be different?”

“Yes,” she removed her hand from his. “Of course it would be. I’m surprised you haven’t thought this through.”

“I have been thinking it through since we’ve met,” Benedict nearly spat, feeling anger bubble up in his chest. “I am not the type of man who wishes to court just anyone, you know.”

“So you wish to court me just because you can? Because how ever could I say no?”

“I—of course not!”

“We’re perfect strangers who shared a moment—albeit an endearing one—out in the middle of an alley. We both cleaned up and went about our lives,” she shook her head. “Nothing cosmic or magical about it.”

“I did not expect you to be so against the idea, unless… there’s another man of your affections?”

She groaned, pinching her nose. “No. No other man. Has a woman ever said no to you before, Mr. Bridgerton?”

He paused, clearly taken aback.

“Well,” she smoothed the tablecloth, the wrinkle in the bottom corner was annoying her, “let me be the first, then. No, I am not interested in a courtship, nor do I think I have any interest in a courtship—with you or anyone—so do not take it terribly too personally.” 

“Never? Don’t you plan to have a family of your own?”

“I already have a family,” she said simply. “I have no time for foolish ideas of having an adoring husband, three beautiful babies and a peaceful life out in the country.”

“That seems awfully specific—”

“No matter,” she waved. “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Bridgerton, I am flattered, truly.”

She walked away, hoping to hide in the carriage the rest of the night. Was she a fool? To turn down a courtship from such a sophisticated and notable man of the ton?

Benedict seemed to think so. True to her comment, he couldn’t recall a time in which a woman had rejected his advances—never in the name of a courtship, this would be his first—so to watch her walk away stung deeply, like a thorn to his heart. He was genuinely interested in the girl, he knew it. He just needed to prove it to her.

—

Days had passed since the Bridgerton ball and (Y/N) had successfully faked a stomach ache and ‘rested’ in the carriage until the night was over and done with. She was busy in the kitchen, working hard on a batch of fresh loaves for the storefront. Flour dusted her apron—the humor not lost on her—as she thought more and more about Benedict’s proposal. 

The bell to the shop rang out, her brother’s voice gave a muffled greeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a regular day at the bakery. It was calming, to work with the dough, taking virtually nothing and creating something delicious was soothing to her soul. She continued to knead the dough, working it like clay against her palms before the door to the back swung wide open.

“(Y/N), I do believe you have a visitor,” Harry, her second eldest brother smirked. He had finally recovered enough to help around the shop again, much to their mother’s delight. “One of the gentlemen variety, if you must know.”  

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Did he give you a name?”

“Only asked for you,” Harry shrugged. “I figured you must’ve been expecting him,” he walked closer to her, taking over the kneading, “brought you flowers and looks rather fancy.”

She wiped her hands off on the already soiled apron, clapping her hands once for good measure. “Don’t over-work those, I’ll shove your face into the oven.”

Harry’s laugh rang out through the kitchen as she braved the door to the store. She knew it was inevitable, to expect him to come and try to woo her again, though she wasn’t expecting it so soon. The door felt rough against her palms, swinging wide open to the storefront. Sure enough, a one Benedict Bridgerton was standing by the counter, eyeing the various loaves on display. 

“Ah, Miss. (Y/L/N),” Benedict said, almost bowing. “I’m delighted you could join me.”

“Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) smiled sickeningly sweet, forced beyond all measure. “What a… surprise.”

“A wonderful one, I presume?” He jested. Her eyes found the colorful bouquet quickly, she was trying her hardest to not make eye contact. It was ornate—fancy, just like her brother said—decked out in a healthy mix of wild blooms and expensive looking flowers. “Ah! My apologies, these are for you,” Benedict said, lifting the bouquet across the counter. 

She reluctantly took them, cradling the bunch as if it were a newborn babe. “Thank you, Mr. Bridgerton.”

He swallowed thickly at the formality of his name, but bit his tongue. “I must say, you looked exquisite at the ball, but I think your natural element suits you more favorably, why, you’re practically glowing.” Benedict pointed to her floured apron and messy frock, having been in the kitchen all morning. “Less flour than the first time.”

Her grip tightened around the bouquet. “Is there anything I can help you with? Perhaps another order for your mother?”

The man shook his head, laughing lightly. “No, no order. I just wished to see you.” The bluntness of his answer nearly shocked her, but the effect wore quickly.

“Perhaps I wished the opposite?”

“Oh, my dear,” Benedict practically mewled. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come out here in the first place, now would you?”

Like a gaping trout, she had no reply. Perhaps he was right. She didn’t have to come out to the front of the store, the gnawing curiosity got the better of her and practically pulled her through that door. 

“If you are here to try to get me to change my mind—”

“I wish to spend the afternoon with you.”

She blinked.

“Just one afternoon, allow me to try and prove how serious I am about courting you,” Benedict said earnestly. “After that, if you are still of the same mind, I will never bother you again. You have my word.”

Hesitantly, she lowered the bouquet, her shoulders slumping. She was thinking so hard about his offer, Benedict swore he could see steam rising from her ears. “I… cannot just leave the bakery, it’s my family’s livelihood—”

“I’ll buy the lot,” Benedict said, pressing a handful of coins onto the counter top. “Sell me whatever it is you make in a day—a small price to pay for a moment of your time.”

“You cannot simply throw your money at things and expect it to always work out for you, Mr. Bridgerton,” she said sternly, eyeing the sack of coins longingly. She would be kidding herself if the offer didn’t sound appealing. “I am no woman on the corner, you cannot buy my time.”

“Then consider it a tip,” Benedict hummed, pushing the bag closer to her. “For your excellent service at the Bridgerton ball. Nothing nefarious, nothing expected of you. Just a man buying some bread.”

“Loads of bread,” (Y/N) mumbled, quickly calculating how many loaves he truly was willing to walk out with. The amount of money was unclear, but if she had to wager, he practically bought out the whole storefront. Her parents would be thrilled—they could even take a rare day off, just because their daughter spent the afternoon with a practical stranger. “Fine. One afternoon.”

The glee that washed across his body did not go unnoticed, he practically lit up the room with his joy.

“You won’t regret this,” he said seriously. “Trust that my intentions are pure and—”

“—honest and true,” she droned, finishing his thought. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

Benedict nodded. “Right. Well, shall we?”

“Will you allow me a moment to change? I do not think you wish to spend your day with a girl caked in flour.”

“Funny enough, I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he grinned. She was unamused. “But, if you insist.”

It didn’t take long for her to clean up, a change in her frock and a readjustment to her hair was all that was needed. She found herself staring in her mirror a bit longer than usual, taking in her features. Could he really be interested in her? He seemed so taken by her looks when she herself considered them… so plain. She shook her head, effectively jumping out of her haze and proceeded to head back downstairs to meet her suitor for the afternoon. 

“Perhaps you were right,” Benedict said softly. “This may be your best look to date.”

A heat warmed her cheeks and it wasn’t the summer sun. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Bridgerton—” 

“Ah!” Benedict waved a finger. “If we are to spend the afternoon together, I insist you call me by my given name.”

Her lips pressed together in protest. “If you insist—”

“Oh and I do, my darling,” Benedict nearly sang.

“Benedict,” she corrected. “What sorts of plans do you have for this afternoon? Surely you did not produce such a grand gesture only to leave our day up to chance.”

“I am feeling quite parched,” Benedict said, almost ignoring her comment. “Care for a spot of tea?” In their walk down the street, he had managed to stop right in front of a quaint little tea shop. She hardly noticed.

“And if I do not care for tea?”

“I hear they have excellent scones and biscuits,” Benedict countered. “Surely not sweeter than you, but delicious all the same.”

“Sweeter than my scones, you mean?”

Benedict raised a brow, puckering his lips lightly. She heard him correctly the first time. “So. Tea?”

They sat at a small table near the back of the shop, a hot pot of herbal tea sat between them. It looked entirely domestic, a pot of tea shared between lovers, any onlooker could have deduced as much.

“Pass the honey?” (Y/N) pointed to the small jar next to Benedict’s hand. He nodded and pushed it closer to her.

“You take your tea with honey?” He probed.

“Herbal tea, yes,” she confirmed, stirring a spoonful into her cup. “If it is black tea, a healthy amount of milk is entirely welcomed in my drink, no sugar.”

“Interesting,” Benedict said, watching her intently stir the honey until it dissolved into the hot liquid. “I prefer plain black tea myself, though occasionally my brother Colin will bring exquisite teas from his travels across the seas.”

“And Colin is which brother?” The question slipped out quickly, she hardly noticed she had asked.

“One of my two younger brothers,” Benedict smiled gently. “Not much younger than I, but I do have a few years on him, not as many as I have on Gregory, of course. He’s practically the babe of the family—save for sweet Hyacinth.”

“Eight children…” She thought aloud. “Were your parents working towards a record number?”

“I always jest that they wished to complete the entire alphabet,” Benedict mused. “But, alas, twenty six seems a bit much.” He took a sip of his tea, enjoying the lingering aroma. “So, you know there are eight of us?”

“Everyone knows your family,” she said simply. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“Of course,” he hummed into his cup, a smile brewing from his lips. “You have siblings, yes? I believe I met your brother earlier.”

“Two older brothers,” (Y/N) groaned lightly. “Jack and Harry, the latter being the one you met. They are… oh how do I put this? Exceptionally irritating.”

Benedict laughed into his drink. “Sounds quite a lot like my siblings.”

“My parents expect Jack to take over the bakery,” she explained quietly, her voice lowering. “But he has no desire to bake whatsoever. He can hardly make a sponge cake.”

“And a sponge cake is…?”

“One of the most basic cake recipes a baker can learn,” she continued. “I usually end up being the one who pulls the slack Jack creates.”

“And Harry?”

“When he isn’t galavanting across town with the ladies of the night, he is holed up in his room doing Lord knows what. Certainly nothing that helps the family business.”

“You care a lot about your family and the business,” Benedict said, stating what is clearly the obvious. “Surely your parents see it too?”

“Oh no,” she shook her head wildly. “That is the most asinine part of the ordeal! They simply do not see me as an asset to the bakery—something that should rightfully be mine should the time come.” She sighed, throwing her head into her hands. “But, I am expected to keep my head down and decorate cakes like a good girl.”

“You say that as if you are their pet,” Benedict scoffed lightly. “Do they truly expect such obedience from you?”

“I wasn’t wanted,” she said simply. “My parents merely wanted a son to take over the business—Jack, he’s the oldest. Good for nothing, as it turns out. Harry was to have an extra set of hands around the bakery, but now he’s their prodigal child. Me? I was shacked with an over glorified closet for a room because there truly was no space for me.” She sniffled. “At least they got a decorator out of it.”

Benedict tentatively put his hand on her shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze. “You’re more than a decorator. Surely your parents see that too?”

“They’ll see some use of me when I get home,” she said into her cup. “Seeing as you bought out our store just to spend a measly few hours with me. I’m sure that in of itself is worth having an accidental daughter.”

Benedict all but scoffed at this. “You cannot be serious.”

“Not everyone comes from loving families that wish to do nothing more than pop out babies left and right,” (Y/N) deadpanned, placing her cup back on the table. “If it were truly up to my parents, they would’ve stopped after Jack. But, much like the society you come from, an heir and a spare, I suppose.”

“And you?” Benedict almost felt afraid to ask. 

“It’s like you said,” she finished her cup of tea. “I am simply a pet.”

Benedict was never one for fights, but he suddenly had the urge to put his fist through a handful of faces in that moment. “That’s awful.” It was all he could say. 

“That’s life,” she shrugged, picking up a biscuit and examining it closely. Her nose scrunched. “If you were trying to gain my favor, perhaps you should’ve taken me somewhere with better biscuits. It’s insulting to a baker to see such poorly made ones, especially in a place like this.”

He knew she was trying to change the subject. “I shall do better next time.”

“Yes, I suppose you—” she stopped. “That was a rotten trick and you know it.”

“I am certainly no magician, (Y/N),” Benedict finished his tea, hiding the most devilish of smiles from behind the cup. “But seeing as we’re finished with our pot, perhaps we can take a turn about the park?”

“You’d risk public outcry and a scandal for being seen with a commoner in the park?” (Y/N) asked, pulling herself from her seat. “What would Lady Whistledown say?”

“You know of Lady Whistledown?”

“Everyone knows of Lady Whistledown,” she scoffs. “I may not have the pleasure to afford her column every time she publishes, but occasionally our regulars will leave their pamphlet for me once they’re finished.”

“Only read the good bits, I take it?”

“As much as I don’t understand the world you come from, Benedict, reading Whistledown helps me fill the gaps I am so obviously lacking. Truly, even if I did grow up in your society, I doubt I’d be able to understand much more than I do now anyway.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Benedict said, a laugh escaping through his nose. “I’m not one for society anyway—never cared much for it.”

“Surely news of this would cause a scandal, though?”

“News that I am simply walking in the park with a friend? Oh how the newsboys will have trouble selling that story,” Benedict mused, leaning down towards the lady. “Perhaps if we were seen doing something less proper, I suppose. Do you wish to be doing something less proper, (Y/N)?”

She didn’t dignify his question with a response, though, the rouge on her cheeks was answer enough.

—

It only took a handful of minutes to walk to the park, the tea shop was so close already. How convenient.

The other ladies in the park, the ones of a more genteel breeding, they were dressed finer than anything (Y/N) could have put on. She felt out of place. She usually did, of course, but something about her outdated frock in contrast to how striking Benedict looked and dressed? It felt rather foolish. 

Perhaps it was the notoriety of the Bridgerton walking beside her, or the self consciousness of being underdressed enough to catch the eyes of anyone walking past, but it felt like she was a spectacle—something in a museum or on display. She was holding bright light, nearly shouting at everyone that she was not enough, not worthy to be in this park, let alone with this man.

“I am tired of walking,” (Y/N) said suddenly. 

“We have only just begun,” he laughed. “But if you require a respite—”

“Let’s sit,” (Y/N) said just as quickly, practically running to the edge of the pond. Perfectly out of sight to everyone.

“How secluded,” Benedict mused. “I daresay, I never thought you’d be so agreeable—”

“Hush,” (Y/N) admonished, holding a finger up. “I am simply in need of a break—away from prying eyes.”

Benedict nodded, not daring to pry further. He watched her slump to the ground, her dress skirt billowing around her like a cloud before settling to the gravity. He continued to stand. “I rather like this park.”

“A park is a park.”

“Have you been before?”

“Here?” She shook her head. “Obviously not.”

“My family, we would come to London during the social season,” Benedict explained. “Our usual residence is out in Kent—anyhow, my father had this spectacular notion to come to the park every week as a family. Looking back, it was probably to save face and show a united Bridgerton front.”

She looked up at Benedict, who was currently plucking a few leaves off of the low hanging branches of the tree. “Sounds wise.”

“He was the wisest,” Benedict agreed. “Keeping the ever-growing number of Bridgerton children entertained became a sport. Anthony, Colin and I were always squabbling, drove my mother rightfully insane, so, my father had a bright idea.”

“Paste your lips together?” She offered. 

Benedict knelt down, close to the edge of the water. “No, but I do not doubt that idea crossed their minds,” he laughed, bringing the leaves in his hands to view, “my father suggested racing.”

“Horse racing?”

He shook his head. “We’d each pick a leaf and follow it to the other edge of the pond—kept us entertained for hours, running back and forth to reset our leaves and chase them down.”

“Smart man,” she hummed, genuinely impressed by the late viscount’s cleverness.

“So, pick your contender,” Benedict said softly, displaying the spare leaves like cards in a deck. 

“You are serious?”

“Dead serious, I’m afraid,” Benedict clicked, pushing his hand a bit closer to her. “Come on, humor me.”

She looked down at the leaves and back up at Benedict, his blue eyes rivaling the color of the pond. Taking an interest in the middle leaf—it was the longest and skinniest—she plucked it from his fingers. “This one.”

“Excellent choice,” Benedict said cheerily, dropping the other leaves. “I am more inclined to a smaller one—seems they move faster down the shore.”

“Size isn’t everything, Mr. Bridgerton,” (Y/N) crossed her arms, resting them on her knees. She would never dare to admit it out loud, but she was having a bit of fun.

“Ah, perhaps not,” Benedict jested with her, her jab not even shocking him in the slightest. “But, I reckon it will be a close match regardless.”

After insuring that the lovely lady in his company was watching his movements closely, he set the leaves down on the surface of the water. “Finish line is by that tree over there,” he pointed, finally letting go with his other hand.

“May the best leaf win,” she giggled. Giggled? Good Lord. A crooked grin cracked on his face, focused too intently at the company rather than the match at hand. “Are you not going to chase them?”

“And leave you?” He scoffed. “Perish the thought.”

“I just thought,” her gaze was caught on the leaves, still floating down the edge of the pond—slower than she anticipated, “well, I suppose I wanted to get the whole picture of your family tradition.”

“Shall I run along the coast, then?” Benedict asked playfully, rising back to his feet, thumb pushed towards the water. 

“Only to humor me,” she shrugged, not even fighting the smile on her face. 

“Well, in that case,” Benedict began to remove his jacket, throwing it beside her. With a light jog he caught up to the leaves, they hadn’t gone very far anyway, perhaps if it were a windier day he’d have a faster time to keep up with. “You are in the lead!” He called out. 

“Brilliant!” Her hands were clasped around her mouth, a cone to help amplify her shout. His smile was like the sun, warm and inviting—she wished she could spend the day in such a warmth. Benedict practically jumped for joy when the leaves made it to the final stretch, crossing to the rocks on the shore. Nearly falling into the water, he managed to scoop the leaves up and jog back to the woman in the grass. “Well?”

“Well, what?” He asked, nearly out of breath, smile still pulling his lips upward. 

“The winner?”

“Ah,” he fell to the ground, sitting comfortably next to the baker’s daughter, pocketing the leaves. “A secret.”

“So you lost?”

“Oh, I assure you, if you won I would be celebrating you until the end of our time together,” Benedict sang. “However…”

“I lost?” She scoffed. 

“A gentleman is humble in his successes,” he explained carefully. “We could go again?”

“No,” she said, humor in her voice. “I think that was more than enough excitement for one afternoon.”

“For once, we agree,” he said. “May I…? Could I ask you a question?”

“If you are proposing marriage, I am afraid I’ll have to decline—”

“No, no,” he laughed heartily. “Nothing of that sort.”

“I suppose I could find it in myself to answer a different question, then.”

“You were cold to me this morning,” Benedict noted, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers. “But not on the day we met. What changed?”

She sighed, pulling her knees to her chest, gaze locked out on the now setting sun. “I… am not entirely sure.”

“Surely it was not the leaves—”

“The leaves may have helped,” she admitted. “Humanized you, in a way.”

“Was I inhuman before?”

“Naturally,” she retorted. “I mean, is it not obvious?”

“You were protecting your feelings,” Benedict finally realized. “All this time. You did not wish to be hurt—truly afraid I was merely stringing you along as an elaborate prank or ruse? Is that right?”

“How could someone like you ever have an interest in a pauper like me? The baker’s daughter and the son of a viscount?” Tears dotted her eyes, threatening to fall. How she came so close to crying was beyond her. “It seems implausible.”

Benedict dropped the grass, fully looking at the lady beside him. She had made herself nearly as small as she felt. He had hit the nail on the head. A gust of wind blew by, bringing leaves down from the tree above. 

“I do not think less of you because of whose daughter you are,” Benedict said softly, removing a stray leaf from her hair. His fingers guided her head towards him, begging for her to look his way. “I care only about you. Getting to know you. Frankly, your father seems like a mostly alright man, but I do not wish to know him the way I wish to know you.”

“You may wish for that,” she sniffled. “But what would the rest of your world think? You, trying to court a woman below your status—”

“The only people who should be caring so deeply about my potential courtship are my intended and me,” Benedict said sharply. “The rest of the ton can frankly kiss my rear end.”

This raised a laugh out of her. It was bubbly and pure, almost like the one of a child. “You truly don’t care what people think about you?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I do not.”

“How freeing that must be,” she said. 

“Being the second son has its perks,” Benedict looked at her, really looked at her. “No one expects me to be proper all the time. I am given the freedom—financially and otherwise—to do as I please. I do not have to worry about inheriting a title, siring heirs, that is my brother’s responsibility.”

“Why me?”

His head quirked. “I do not understand?”

“You could court any girl of the ton,” she said. “And I am sure more than half of them would never turn down a chance to be courted by a Bridgerton—”

“They wished for the title,” Benedict sighed. “To be Viscountess Bridgerton, to marry my older brother and have the notoriety. That ship has already sailed, I'm afraid. You are kind in thinking that many women would be after me though.”

“You are not ugly,” she listed, “you have a great humor about you, a pleasant demeanor and a kindness in your eyes. The women of the ton must be foolish, then.”

“Perhaps the foolish one is you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You truly think those things about me?” He asked, awaiting a response. Her jaw was slack, clearly not about to give him any sort of confirmation to his question. “I believe your words, I do. But perhaps you should look at yourself with such eyes?”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“Our class differences aside,” Benedict said, as if it was easy to just ignore that, “while I was taken by your beauty at first—your eyes are something the Gods themselves forged in the fires, stars rivaling their shine—it was your continuous personality that kept my attention. Granted, it helped you were once covered head-to-toe in flour, it really brought out your features.”

Her cheeks flared at the recollection of their first meeting. “It was not my finest moment.”

“And you were vulnerable all the same,” he continued. “You cared not for who I was, yet, you showed an interest in me anyway. You may not agree with that statement, but you and I know it to be true in some shape or form. The only thing that holds you back is this notion on our classes—”

“Perhaps I am interested in you,” (Y/N) cut him off. “Perhaps I wish to be courted by you, attend balls and dress in pretty gowns, drinking expensive drinks and whispering sweet nothings. But that is all that it is—a wish. I know my place in this world, it is a right shame you have such a fantasy about yours.”

“(Y/N)…”

“No,” she stood up, brushing the blades of grass and leaves off of her skirt. “I hoped that you would understand, Benedict. I agreed to this afternoon because it felt like I had no choice in the matter—you practically bought my time, after all. What I did not expect,” she hiccuped, “I did not expect that I would enjoy such an afternoon.”

“You enjoyed yourself,” Benedict rose to his feet, desperate to match her gaze head on. “Why can you not allow yourself to have that joy? Allow your heart to follow its call?”

“I do not have such liberties to listen to my heart,” (Y/N) said softly. “I must use my head for every choice I make. An afternoon with you allowed my family to have enough money to make it through the end of the season without going hungry—”

“And an afternoon with me has brought such happiness to fill your soul for much longer—”

“Happiness has little importance,” she scoffed. “I would rather see my family healthy and surviving than even think about a notion like happiness or joy.”

“You have said yourself that your family treats you like a pet,” Benedict took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He needn’t explode in the park. “Why do you care so much about them if they care so little for you?”

“Because it is all that I know!” The candle had finally reached its end, burning out with a sizzle. “All I have ever known is my life in the bakery, rising early to make the dough, peddling samples to those walking by and hoping—praying—that they step in our store and purchase something. Because a sale of a few loaves of bread or cakes meant we could afford to buy vegetables for a soup, something to eat with our days old bread.”

“If you were with me, you wouldn’t ever need to think about things like that again,” Benedict said, his voice wavering on a whisper. “I could support you, support your family.”

“And that is precisely why I do not wish to continue this,” she raised her finger. “I do not need an affluent man to come and save me—”

“But I could help—”

“I do not need your help!”

“You obviously do!”

She took a step back, the tears from before finally reappearing in her eyes. “O-obviously? Because I am of a lower class you believe, in that giant and empty head of yours, that you can simply win my favor by saving me? Offering riches and experiences that I should be grateful and thanking every God that will listen that you are even willing to give me?”

“You know that is not what I meant—” 

“You believe that because you are who you are, and I am who I am, that I couldn’t possibly say no to you,” her gaze flicked with anger, a fire looming. “While the ladies of the ton have their choices, I do not, so it makes it easy for you to pine over someone who simply has no choice in the matter.”

“No—(Y/N)—”  

“This afternoon has been lovely,” (Y/N) spat, looking to the skyline—the sun had finally set, “but I am afraid that the afternoon is over. I shall be taking my leave.”

“Please reconsider,” Benedict begged, willing to try anything to get her to stay. “I wish to know you.”

“A shame, then,” (Y/N) said, turning around. “Wishing for something so foolish.”

—

“Her head is in the clouds,” Jack whispered.

“No, I reckon her head is in the dough,” Harry mumbled back to his brother. 

“I can hear you, you know,” (Y/N) ground out, working hard on a rather unruly clump of dough that simply would not cooperate. “And if I can hear you, you are close enough to be helping.”

“But that is so exhausting," Harry groaned, leaning against the countertop. “Besides, how are you ever going to impress your betrothed if you do not keep such toned arms?”

She threw the dough against the counter—hard. “He is not my betrothed.”

“But you wish for him to be, no?” Jack giggled, playing with a few burnt buns—a mishap of his own creation.

“I say, Sister,” Harry said. “Why do you not pursue that Bridgerton? He clearly is interested in you, or, have you forgotten all of the flowers he has sent?”

The front of the shop was practically a florist’s dream—covering every free inch of counter space with beautiful bouquets. Her mother simply refused to throw out such lovely blooms, even going so far as to fish the first one out of the trash after her daughter made quick work to dispose of it. “How could I possibly forget about the man who continuously flaunts his wealth to get what he wants?”

“He wants you, surely that is not lost on you?”

“Of course not,” she continued to knead, a few hairs falling into her face. “But he is so insistent on getting me to agree to his whims simply because—”

“He has money, (Y/N),” Jack scoffed. “Good money. Christ, you spent half of a day with him a few weeks ago and we were able to finally purchase meat for dinner. Imagine if you married him—”

“So you want your sister to be married off for your own financial gain?”

“What else would you marry for?” Harry laughed. “Love?”

She stopped kneading. “Why do you not go and try to marry a wealthy lady, then? Hm? Surely a woman of genteel breeding would be much taken by the idea of a rugged baker—”

“That Bridgerton is already interested,” Harry shrugged. “At the very least, if you end up with child he would provide enough funds—”

“First you wish to marry me off, now you wish for me to have his bastard?” She couldn’t help but laugh, ignoring her hard work on the counter. “Why can I not make my own choice? I do not wish to be with Mr. Bridgerton, I wish to stay here at the bakery.”

“Fucking stupid,” Jack scoffed. “If I were in your shoes, I would let the gentleman pay for anything my heart desires—forget about this wretched place and move on with my life.”

“And abandon our legacy?”

“You mean my legacy,” Jack corrected. “I am to inherit the bakery, it is my birthright. You? I suppose I will allow you to continue your grunt work here—” 

“Who else will do the baking?” Her voice rang throughout the kitchen. “Mother and Father are nearing the end of their career, both becoming too frail to continue with the rigorous task of this place. I am the only one—the only competent member of this family who can keep this shit afloat! And you want me to just… give that up?”

Jack stood a little straighter. “It was never your place.”

“Harry is set to inherit the bakery now, you know it. Yet someone had to fill the shoes of the family fuck-up instead, no?” 

It was a sharp pain, suddenly and all at once against her cheek. It took her only half a second later to realize what had happened, her other brother’s face was only a confirmation on the fact.

“Jack, what the hell?!” Harry practically screamed. “You hit her?”

“She insulted me!”

“You deserved it,” Harry said, pushing his older brother back. “She only spoke the truth—”

“So I am allowed to be walked over by my baby sister?” Jack scoffed, pushing Harry back. “A woman? No fucking chance, mate.”

Her hand had covered her cheek, already feeling warm to the touch. Everything was too much, too loud, too bright. She had to get out of there, had to forget all about the dough on the counter, forgetting all about the brother who had just smacked her silly. The back door wasn’t locked—no surprise as Jack was the last one to use it—making it easy for her to push into the alleyway and into the rain. 

Rain. 

Pelting like bullets, the wet drenched her clothing in a mere instant, making it harder to escape. Where had she planned to run anyway? She had nowhere to go, her entire world was contained to the four walls of the bakery, never daring to explore the rest of it, not when her world was already so encompassing, so inviting. 

In theory, anyway, it seemed.

So, she ran. A mix of running and walking, she kept moving forward. By the time she left her part of town, she knew her brothers would not bother coming for her. The rain alone was a deterrent, even Harry, the one who loved her more, wouldn’t dare to brave the elements just to reel his sister’s whims in. 

A splotch of purple entered her vision. How long had she been moving? Did she even expect to come here? Did her subconscious send her in this direction for a reason?

She knocked on the bright door before she could find out.

“Good evening, ma’am,” a butter said politely. “What business do you have?”

“I am here to call upon Benedict Bridgerton.”

—

His quill had soaked the parchment below with ink, having left the tip upon it for far too long. He had been lost in thought, contemplative, especially the last few weeks. Benedict knew he had hurt her, had insulted her very being, yet he still tried. Every other day he’d send a fresh bouquet to the bakery, a new poem attached to the stems. Perhaps she read them? He knew it was more likely that she burned them, in the ovens or otherwise. 

At the very least, he knew that the blooms were being displayed at the shop. Hope. That is what it had given him.

“Mr. Bridgerton, you have a caller,” a butler knocked, opening his door a crack wider.

“A caller? In this weather?”

“She seemed rather insistent,” the butler shrugged. “She is waiting in the drawing room—I already sent for tea and towels for the lady.”

“A lady is here to see me?” Benedict quirked his brow.

“A Miss. (Y/L/N),” the butler said. “No calling card, soaked to the bone and she seemed a bit… out of sorts.”

Benedict had already risen from his desk, practically pushing past the staff member to reach the stairs. Missing a step or two, he made it to the drawing room and shoved the door open. In the center of the blue room was (Y/N), dripping onto the wooden floor, shaking like a leaf.

“(Y/N)…” 

“I-I had nowhere else to go,” she began to explain. “I did not even realize I was here until I knocked on the door. It was foolish—”

“No,” Benedict shook his head, reaching to take her hand in his own. “It is quite alright. You are more than welcome to be here.”

His hands were warm, or perhaps she was just that cold, making them feel like a fire. “I am so sorry, Benedict.”

“For what?” He asked genuinely. 

“Everything?” She offered. “I-I am not sure of what, exactly, but I feel that I need to apologize.”

“You needn’t apologize for anything,” he said. “Not with me, not ever.”

She looked up at the ceiling, afraid to make contact with his blue stare. “I needed to get away. My brother he—Jack hit me.”

Benedict froze, his entire body went rigid. “I’ll kill him.”

“I suppose I deserved it,” she shrugged, now looking at the ground. “Talking back to him, assuming things that could never be—” 

“A man has assaulted you,” Benedict squeezed her hand tighter. “Brother or not, he put his hands on you. You did nothing of the sort to deserve such a thing.”

“I don’t think I can go back there,” (Y/N) said softly. “Perhaps this was just the moment that gave me clarity. Opened my eyes, so to speak.”

Benedict took a good look at her face, red and splotchy, whether it was from the smack or the tears, he could not tell. “Tea is on the way, I shall request a cold compress for your cheek—”

“I do not wish to impose.”

“You shall wish for nothing here,” Benedict said quietly, firmly. “You will stay until the rain lets up, or, you provide me with a suggestible plan for your next steps.”

“I cannot go back,” she finally looked up at Benedict. “As much as I would like to, I simply cannot.”

“If you do not want to go back, I will support you. If you want to leave town, the country even, I will support you,” he said seriously. “Please allow me to support you.”

“I could never ask you for that—”

“You are not asking, I am offering,” he clarified. 

“Benedict…”

The rain seemed to lessen, if the pelting against the window had anything to say about it. The noise had dimmed, not as violent as before. “To know that you are safe, that you are cared for, that is all I care about.”

So, in the center of the blue Bridgerton drawing room, soaked to the bone and dripping all over the floor, she kissed him. It was a sudden thing, pulling him down towards her lips, the contact much quicker than she had expected. He returned the favor in kind, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight, kissing her in a way he had yet to truly experience. 

If his hands were like a fire, his lips were an inferno. Fighting for dominance, it was all encompassing. How had she gone so long without a feeling such as this? The burn was coming from inside, not a superficial one atop her skin as she was quite used to, but this burn, this feeling, she could find herself craving this. 

“I-I am sorry—” she pulled away.

“Never be sorry,” Benedict shook his head. “Not for that, not ever.”

“I should not have done that…”

“No,” he agreed, a chuckle leaving his lips, “but how exhilarating it felt, regardless.”

His thumb ran lazy circles on her jaw. She leaned into the touch. “I do not know what to do, where to go…”

“But you cannot stay here…?”

She smiled sadly. “You know me scarily well, Benedict.”

He thought for a moment. “So… leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave town, leave the country—”

“I do not have the means to do such a silly thing.”

“I will pay your way.”

She scoffed, trying to pull out of his embrace. He wouldn’t release his grip. “Benedict…”

“I told you, I wish to support you. Emotionally, financially, I want to be there for you,” Benedict said. “Even if we are not—if you do not want to be together romantically, I want to ensure your safety and your health, your well-being. A friend.”

She tried to find the lie in his eyes, in his tone. Coming up empty, she had no excuse to not believe him. 

“France,” he said, as if struck by lightning.

“France?”

“I hear only the expert bakers study in France—I have no doubts you could go to learn,” he explained. “I could pay for your travel, housing, you name it. Ask for it, and it is yours.”

“I doubt anyone would want to teach a woman, no matter how lovely a thought it might be.”

“I have a cousin,” Benedict explained. “Her and her husband own a café—I am quite certain that they would love to hire an expert baker to add to their inventory and menu. You could earn your own income, make your own way. A fresh start.”

“A fresh start…” she repeated. “That sounds too good to be true.”

“I shall write to her in the morning,” Benedict said, holding her hands again. 

“And you…?”

“I will only come with you if you want me to join,” Benedict said slowly. “I will not trap you. I want your happiness, your freedom.”

She nodded, understanding.

“I think France sounds nice,” she smiled. “Will you write to me?”

“Every chance I get.”

“Even if you are vexed with me?”

“Especially if I am vexed with you.”

She kissed his lips again, sweeter and softer than the first time.

“Sounds perfect.”

—

A year. An entire year had passed and she couldn’t recall a happier time in her life. The only time that something could have rivaled it was a visit to a tea shop followed by a respite by a pond—in handsome company all the while. 

They kept correspondence, just like they promised. Every week came a new letter, a new story to be told by the poetic Benedict Bridgerton. She tried to rival his words, explaining every detail about France, about her new life, but something was nagging. She missed him. They had grown close over the correspondence, leaving her heart wanting more. But, she knew when she left for France it was to fulfill her dreams, leaving a foolish notion like love on the back burner.

“(Y/N),” Marie, the Bridgerton cousin, called out behind her. “We are in need of more buns.”

“I just restocked the buns,” (Y/N) giggled, turning to the blonde. “What? Has someone mysteriously bought the lot?”

“Oui,” Marie said with a jest, heading into the storage room, “perhaps you should go bring more out?”

“You are in luck, the last batch just finished resting from the oven,” she said, carrying a tray on her shoulder, “I will bring them out with haste.”

“I am sure he will appreciate it.”

(Y/N) faltered, hand already pressed to the door leading to the front shop. A tingle ran through her spine, her heart picking up to a freeing flutter. 

Could it be?

“You know, I would buy your entire stock,” the man hummed, looking thoughtfully into the display case, “but I fear I would be recreating a rather taxing memory for the both of us.”

“Benedict,” she gasped, nearly dropping her tray. 

“You look radiant,” he mused, that wicked grin of his breaking on his face. “Much like the first time I saw you—covered in flour.”

“I am in my element,” (Y/N) said sweetly, “just as you would expect.” She had noticed that Marie and her husband were not in the café, the sign flipped to close. “You planned this.”

“Do you insinuate that I bribed my distant cousin to close her café to give you the day off, travel all the way to France, hoping I could spend the day with you?” Benedict scoffed playfully. “You truly do not know me at all.”

“I do not think Marie would take a bribe,” (Y/N) said slyly, knowing how much of a champion the cousin had been for the baker and viscount’s son to get together.

“She refused payment,” he admitted, agreeing with her notion. “But, was ever eager to see you get out of the kitchen and enjoy yourself.”

“You hadn’t written to me in two weeks,” (Y/N) said, walking around the counter. “I was worried.”

“I needed to refrain from our correspondence, I fear I would have let the surprise slip otherwise.”

“Smart man,” she hummed.

“I am known to be smart occasionally,” he shrugged.

“What are you doing here?” She finally asked. “N-not that I am not happy to see you, of course, but as you had said, this is a surprise.”

“I came to study art,” Benedict said, a hand in his coat pocket. “I felt that if I truly wanted to learn the craft, I needed to learn from the masters—many of their works are housed here in France. I even began to rent a little home in town, finding the need to stay a while.”

“That is the only reason?”

Benedict’s gaze softened. “Of course it is not the only reason.”

Her heart fluttered again.

“It is only fair that I try this again, correctly and without the prying eyes of society, this time,” Benedict said, clearing his throat and spinning around.

“Correctly?” She giggled, watching him twirl to face the door.

“Ah, good morning miss!” Benedict said, turning back to face (Y/N). “I must say, you look ever-so-pretty—tell me, do all bakers have a beauty such as your own?”

“I would wager no,” she said, trying to keep serious. “Most of the bakers around here are men.”

“Shame. Might I learn your name? It seems only fair—I fear I might just die if I do not know the sweet sound of it.”

“(Y/N),” she sang. “My name is (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he stretched out his hand, reaching for her own. She allowed him to take it, a soft kiss was placed on the back of her cracked hand—a working hand, one that she was proud to have. 

“You are very charming, Mr. Bridgerton,” she hummed, looking deeply into his blue eyes. “Pleased to make your company.”

“I assure you, I am more pleased to be in yours,” Benedict insisted, kissing her hand again. “Tell me, do you have plans this afternoon?”

“It seems my schedule has cleared up,” she looked to the sign on the door and sighed. “Why? Do you have any suggestions on how I should spend it?”

“Might we take a turn around the park? A friend of mine has written to me about just how lovely one nearby is, I reckon I would like to see it for myself.”

She smiled brightly at him, as if he held the world in his hands. Instead, he held two leaves between his fingers—brown and cracked, but clearly treated with such care. They had been the same ones from their time at the park the first go around, she was nearly certain. Why else would he bring dead leaves with him?

"Leaves?"

"You see, my family, we have this tradition of racing with leaves—I would very much like to share it with you. These two in particular seem to be very lucky, thought it would be best to bring them along."

His smile melted her heart, endearing and thoughtful in the same breath. She could get used to a smile like that.

“Well… what are we waiting for, Mr. Bridgerton?”

[soft4gguk]

yearning | jjk one shot

the one that finds you in Jungkook's doorstep after a night out...

Description: idol!jungkook x reader, fwb 

Content: porn with loads of plot!

Word Count: 7.5k

Warnings: oc smokes 1 cigarette lol, they’re so flirty ouch, so much kissing, cutest little dynamic, dry humping (a personal fave in this house), fingering, protected sex (they’re so smart!!), loads of spanking, jaykay ass man forever. 

Author’s Note: i once sworn to never write idol aus because… i know nothing about this man ok? i do not claim to know what he’s like in a relationship or a situationship or in his personal life!! so please thread carefully when reading <3333 that being said, his lives last year and these first couple of episodes of “are you sure?” have me feeling very delulu so here u go!! hope you enjoy xo

★ masterlist ★

This is a work of fiction. Please respect the members and their privacy. x

The moment you exit the club, a gust of summer breeze engulfs you. It makes you wrap your arms around your body, but it amounts to nothing, the little black dress that you’d made the executive decision to wear, in the name of fashion, betraying you. The tequila shots you'd downed before leaving the house sure had deceived your senses, too.

Needless to say, you regret said decision, a shiver running down your spine all the way to your legs, making you jump a little in place as you tipsily look around you. You’d cut the night short. Your friends had found another lonely pair they’d quickly gotten cozy with, leaving you to drink one too many gin & tonics all by yourself. You hadn’t minded it for the first two hours, enjoying the music, sparking conversation with the bartender from time to time and entertaining the occasional stranger. Eventually though, it became boring, predictable, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you feel a little shitty about yourself. 

It was all getting repetitive. Friday nights, the same faces, small talk, ice breakers. Even the strangers you met had a similar M.O., making it all seem predictable. It made it feel like a waste of self, more than a waste of time, and it ate at you in moments like these, where it was strange to feel lonely amongst a sea of people, unable to shake the feeling.

The bright city lights illuminate the night, lacing it with something livelier than your mood and you smile. At least the scenery is always pretty. Pretty places. You hear the laughter of a group of people that stand a couple of feet away from you, they seem happy in that genuine way that reflects in pure, unadulterated beauty. Pretty people. 

You think of him. 

It’s rather instant. Or perhaps instinctive. The very own butterfly effect of your thoughts because to you, he’s the prettiest of them all. He’d been since the very first day, and as you lose focus of the pretty sights the more you stare into the city lights with him on your mind, you can’t help but think nothing will ever stand close. 

A girl stands next to you, audibly shivering as she exits the club and the air greets her with the same fate it did you. She holds a cigarette between her red lips, the fire from her pink lighter shining on her red hair. It makes you crave one, too, rummaging through your bag for your own. You smile when you remember how he would tease you for smoking “the skinny kind” as he would call them. Calling you a bit of a snob, but all in lighthearted nature. After all, he could. He knew you enough to let your closeness turn into inside jokes, banter. 

Perhaps giving into a vice could prevent you from falling into another. 

“Can I borrow your lighter?” she smiles at you before she’s handing it over. Her nails are pink, too. 

The fire feels pleasant for all of five seconds, warm against your face as you take the first drag. You give into one instinct so as to distract yourself from the one that’s tugging at your heart and senses, begging you to make a reckless call. 

You check the time. 

2:32 A.M.

~

Jungkook scrolls through the endless list of channels aimlessly. Small snippets from whatever’s playing that he cuts short, not really giving it much thought. He settles on one, solely so he can stop putting exertion on his thumb and go back to leaning against his couch – fully relaxed. He sighs. On the screen, some drama he hasn’t gotten around to watching plays, and the story seems to be developing quickly. He doesn’t care for it, if he’s honest, simply content with the white noise it fills the room with. 

Bam leaves his dog house, standing right in front of him and they seem to start an unspoken staring contest. He smiles, patting the spot right next to him on the couch and the pup rushes to take the place excitedly. He gets cuddles and kisses simply for existing. For keeping him company – his presence giving Jungkook more peace than he’ll ever know. 

“Hey, Bam, should we, like, meet up in our next life as well? Perhaps I’ll be the dog in that one and you’ll be my owner.”

Bam simply stares and Jungkook swears if he could, he’d let out a deep sigh right now. This makes him laugh. 

“Hey, don’t be jumping of excitement at the idea, man.”

At this, he attacks. With kisses, that is – wet, sloppy kisses that have Jungkook giggling and pushing back, though it is no use, his dog is that determined to give him love.

“Alright, you win. Let’s go get a beer. For me, not for you. You’re still too young. One day, son.” His voice takes on a lower tone, imitating his father. Or maybe Yoongi’s, he can’t tell anymore. 

He retrieves a cold beer mug from his freezer and cracks the can open, nodding his head at the sound it makes, the fizziness bubbling up before he pours it in the cold glass. He takes a sip as he walks back to the couch, blissed out in leisure.

He doesn’t mind being alone, specially not on nights like this when sleep leaves him and everything but seems more tempting. He likes the way everything slows down at this time of day, the ease of it all. No one to see, no texts to reply to. As for what the world is concerned for, he’s asleep. It’s peaceful, just being. 

Plopping down on the couch, he rests against the pillows, making himself comfortable. He must’ve spoken too soon, he thinks, because it’s not thirty seconds after this that his phone buzzes on the coffee table in front of him. He ponders on the possibility of simply ignoring it, let it sit there, facing down. But something tells him he should check the message. It could be important, or not. The pull isn’t necessarily violent, just a quiet voice that tells him so, like a little nudge. He leans forward, setting his beer on the table before he’s taking a hold of his phone. 

He gets it now – the pull. 

From ___: jungkookie, u awake?

To ___: no

From ___: can I call?

He smiles – so fucking big he almost hates that he does, slightly flustered and embarrassed you have this quick of an effect on him. And before he can talk himself out of it, he calls you. 

~

Seeing his name flash on your phone screen does more to you than anything you’ve deemed exhilarating tonight. The simple prospect of hearing his voice rushes more excitement through your body than any of the mindless conversations you had this evening. Than any of the conversations you’ve had all week perhaps. You smile and there’s no doubt that he can hear it in your voice when you say,

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

There’s a moment of silence and you can hear the smile on his face, too. It’s warmth – he’s warmth, even far. How far is he, you wonder. Did you happen to demand of him at a bad time? Will the end of this call find you disappointed?

You cut to the chase. 

“What are you up to?”

There’s a pause and you can hear the way he sinks into his couch. “Can’t sleep so I’m having a beer and watching some TV with Bamie.”

He’s home and a giddy giggle escapes you. “Ahh,” you say.

“You? It sounds busy in there.”

“Yeah, I’m outside the club.”

“Fun night?”

“No.” You don’t lie, you never lie to him. Don’t have the need to, or the want to. Everything about Jungkook is comfort – the kind that welcomes. 

“Yeah, had a feeling. It’s not really your scene, is it?”

Your head leans to the side, eyes closing for a moment. He knows you in ways most people don’t, and it’s a simple remark but it gets to you. The fact that he doesn’t see you for the parts of you that feel the emptiest settles on your heart. It’s good, you think, to be seen by someone who observes.

“I want to see you.” There’s all the point in the world to be honest right now. 

“Come over. I’ll make you ramen.”

“Will you show me your cat?”

There’s a pause. You picture him smiling, biting his lip, running a hand through his hair. 

“Yeah, that too.”

~

You sway from side to side, a little drunkenly and a whole lot excited, as you stand in front of his door. It’s brief, but as you wait you make a little reflection on your emotions. What exactly do you feel right now? It’s been so long – probably not that long – but long enough to make you happier than usual to be seeing his face. Anyone else would make you nervous, and perhaps he does, too, if only a little. But it’s a different kind of nervous. It’s laced with sweetness, as opposed to anxiety. And the minute he opens his front door, it’s replaced by something sweeter. 

Yearning. 

He stands there, glasses and black sweatpants on, signature oversized shirt – something so very home about him. Your eyes widen as you take in his hair, it’s grown significantly, giving you a rough idea of when it was you last saw him. Two, three months ago. He looks good; rested, fresh, beautiful. You can smell him before you even touch him and it makes you smile. He returns it. 

Yeah – yearning. 

“I like your hair,” you say, because anything else would give you away. 

“Yeah?” he runs a hand through it. “I like you.”

“I like you, too.” Let it give you away, you think. Who cares?

“Alright, well- it was nice seeing you.” He says, closing the door in a too casual, yet dramatic manner and you laugh, simply standing there – a little flustered because, oh does it feel good when Jeon Jungkook flirts with you in that boyish, teasing way only he knows how. 

He doesn’t close the door all the way. Instead, he leaves it open far enough for you to see the way he peeks his head out, nose scrunch and toothy smile to signal just how proud he is of himself right now. 

“Come here,” he tells you, reaching his hand out from the little gap and pulling you closer as you yelp, squeezing through the nearly closed door. “I missed you.”

You’re in his arms again, and the moment he closes the door behind you, his lips are on yours. It’s a soft kiss, one that says I missed you because you know him well enough by now to understand the things he says with his lips, and his eyes. With his hands, too.

“Mm,-“ you don’t want to pull back to get your words out, so you don’t. “Me more.”

Jungkook was always a happy coincidence – or at least that’s what you told yourself in a futile attempt to tame the feelings down. But the truth was that being back in his arms felt like fate, in that gentle way that doesn’t come in a movie-like encounter or in some sort of catastrophe bringing you together. Just being here. Anywhere, with him, felt fateful. You opt to believe in angels right this second just to thank them. 

“How are you,” his hand cups your cheek, pecking your lips before you can answer. 

“Good- better now.” His kisses muffle your words and you think you could live with this interruption for the rest of your life. 

“Yeah, me too.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him closer as he circles his around your middle. You take him in, not one for big displays of affection yet this one you could never deny, could never not welcome. 

It’s a sweet moment but the pull turns hasty soon enough the more your lips become familiar with one another yet again. You run your fingers through his long hair, rejoicing in its softness and length. His hand travels down, slowly but a bit desperately, squeezing when they meet your ass. 

What has a promising ending is cut short by none other than your rumbling stomach. It’s rather loudly and you both hear it, laughing in the middle of the kiss you two seem to refuse parting from. 

“You hungry, baby?”

“You promised ramen. And something about a cat.” Your lips part and you look at him, a pretty smile on his equally pretty face. 

“Mm, yeah. I did. I’m all stocked up on ramen but the cat…,”

“I prefer Bamie anyways.” 

You leave his arms, a smile on your face as you walk towards his beloved child’s crate. The moment he sees you, he hesitates for a moment, not yet having Jungkook’s command to leave his space but he’s excited – you can even make up his little tail wagging from side to side. 

“Come here, baby.”

He runs to you and nearly tackles you, settling into the floor to give him the proper cuddles he deserves. He steps on you the way he did when he was a puppy, sitting down on your knees as you scratch under his ears. 

“No one’s allowed to tell him he’s grown up. He’s little forever.”

Jungkook laughs. “He’s Jiminie’s height.” 

You sneer at him, shaking your head at his joke. He stands there, staring at you with a fondness he reserves for certain things that bring him that kind of comfort that’s gotten rarer over the years. He’s grown up, matured and gotten real about a lot of things but not you.

Never you. 

You’re still the innocence he kissed you with that very first time and the little bit of fear it wouldn’t go further than that. You’re the excitement he had when it did. You’re the flirty teasing and the falling in trust, opening himself little by little. You’re still something he once dreamt about – he still does. You’re the thing he has and doesn’t at the same time. You’re you. 

Your loud giggles as Bam licks your cheek wake him up from his little daydream and he winces at the sloppy kisses he’s leaving. You don’t seem to mind though and he knows that if it were up to you, you’d stay there til dawn. No ramen, no cat. 

“Alright, alright. Daddy’s getting jealous now. You can’t have her all to yourself.”

Your cheeky smile tells him you’re up to no good. “Daddy, huh? Have we ever tried that?”

“What haven’t we tried?” He genuinely ponders on his own question. 

“Pegging!” You say, a little too quickly and excitedly for his liking. 

“Absolutely not.”

“Mean.”

“Come on, let’s feed you.”

You smile. “Okay, daddy.”

~

It’s a chaos in the kitchen in between distracting kisses and your tipsy antics, munching on Jungkook’s leftover fried chicken as you scavenger hunt his cupboards for anything that could satisfy your alcohol induced need for sweets and carbs. You’d begged for pancakes, but he didn’t have any honey, and what’s pancakes without honey, really? 

“Ramen. Enoki and spring onions.” He says, convincing himself more than he convinces you.

“Okayyyyy. Ramen, enoki- what else did you say?”

His thumb and pointer finger rest at his temples in mock exasperation, making you giggle. “Hey, why don’t you go shower? This’ll be ready when you’re done.”

“Will you be able to work a knife with the thought of me all wet and naked in your shower?” 

“I’ll get you wet and naked later. Go sober up. Quick, quick!”

You laugh, kissing his cheek loudly and ruffling his hair before you leave the kitchen, making your way to his bedroom with familiarity - like you’ve done it hundreds of times and perhaps you have if you were to count. 

You know where he keeps the towels, that it’s the left tap that opens the hot water, the way his soap smells and what brand of shampoo he uses. His face wash and moisturizer are familiar to you because it’s the same brand you use. You’d left them here once and never got the bottles back. He began purchasing them after they ran out. 

You put on the same black Carhartt shirt you always do. It feels and smells the same. It makes you yearn and when you miss him, you smile in the comfort of knowing he’s in the kitchen, probably eating ramen from the pot as you take your sweet time in the bathroom. 

All clean and cozy, his house always being the perfect temperature with the add on warmth that swarms your insides at knowing you’re with him, you make your way back to the kitchen. He’s reaching for bowls, back to you and your voice startles him when you say,

“Don’t get dishes dirty, let’s eat from the pot.”

He turns to you, a boyish smile forming on his lips at the sight of you in his comfy, oversized shirt. He’s seen you in it more times than he can count but it still makes his insides tingle. Butterflies, dare he say, is what the sight gives him. 

“You sure?”

“Aren’t you? Afraid of exchanging saliva?” You poke your tongue at him and he grabs your wrist, pulling you swiftly towards him. 

“Not the funnest way we’ve exchanged juices, but it’ll do for now.”

“Juices.” Your nose scrunches at his words.

“Mm.”

He kisses you, ramen getting cold in the pot as your lips make him forget all about his hunger in the first place. Your stomach doesn’t, though. Interrupting your heated little moment yet again. 

“Feed me.”

“On your knees, then.” He teases, lips still on yours. 

“That sounds more like a treat than a threat.”

He smiles, passing you the chopsticks. “I knew you’d say that.”

“Am I that predictable?”

“With me. Yes. Just me.”

His words are selfish, of this much he’s aware. He knows exclusivity is too much to ask for. He knows the baggage he comes with and the hesitation that shines through your eyes whenever you find yourselves slipping into comfort and familiarity a little too much. How he can almost tell he’s about to go a season without you, just by this comfort alone. But he can’t help but want you, all to himself. He can’t help but say you’re his even if he’s just saying it. And when the smile on your lips meet your eyes in an almost nostalgic way, he knows you feel the same. 

“Yeah. I am.”

“I am with you, too.”

“I’d say I tried to talk myself out of texting you tonight, but I’d be lying.” Your chopsticks play with the noodles, eyes not meeting his. 

“Why would you talk yourself out of texting me?”

You shrug. 

“Don’t.” His voice is firm and your eyes finally look at his. “I’m always- I always want to see you, ___.”

“I know, it’s just- you know.” You say, and he does. He knows what you mean and he’s glad you don’t voice it because he doesn’t think he can bear the words that would only add insult to injury to the way your gaze falls, that spark threatening to dim its light.

“Yeah,” he gets closer, but it’s almost careful. His thumb caresses your cheek and you lean into his touch. “But you’re here now. I want you here now. Come back to me.”

You stare into his big eyes, smiling at him not because your heart isn’t breaking but because you wouldn’t dare break his with the reality of the situation. So you lie, but it holds truth. “I’m always with you.” 

As you two eat, in bursts of comfortable silences and mindless yet meaningful conversations, you start to get used to him again. You’re too tired to fight it, and when you welcome it, it’s sweet. 

~

The pot is empty, your bellies full. You lean against the counter as he puts you to date, catches you up on what his life has looked like for the past two months or so. Trips to L.A., New York, photoshoots, late nights in the recording studio, music videos, long flights and a Calvin Klein campaign you shamelessly admit to swoon over every time you pass by it. He asks about you and you keep your updates mostly work related. Long flights, long meetings, long days. Short bursts of inspiration and even shorter waves of motivation. You omit to tell him about the things you’re maybe not so proud of. The partying, the drinking on a wednesday night, the way your friends don’t feel like your friends anymore, more like acquaintances that keep you around when they deem convenient. You think his words could help, provide comfort and advice, but at the same time you fear the reality of the situation could burst the bubble of bliss you find yourself in right this moment. 

So you talk. You catch up. You play friends for a while, feel real mature when he shares snippets of his life that involve other people, other girls. People in his radar, his line of work, the love interest in his music video. Jungkook does, too. Feels like perhaps he’s come a long way when you tell him about trips you’ve taken with friends, new restaurants you’ve tried, galas he knows you haven’t attended alone. It’s all fine, it’s good. Total control of your feelings as you take each other in. 

Bam interrupts him mid-sentence, a sleepy whine in half protest he lets out as he walks inside the kitchen. 

“Aw, Jungkook,” you coo, “he’s sleepy.”

“Time for bed, Bamie?” He smiles, reaching down to scratch under his ears. “I’ll be right back.” 

“I’ll be here.” 

You smile, well aware that he keeps his dog bed in a cozy room in his house, quite literally puts him to bed every night. It makes you think about how good of a dad he’ll make one day, how much love is stored inside of him, how he likes to be needed and shows affection through acts of service. Your smile drops a bit, a feeling taking over you that you don’t like but have grown used to over the years. 

You snap out of it, busying yourself as you begin to tidy up the kitchen, sliding his pink rubber gloves over your hands before you start washing the single pot, knife and chopsticks he’d used to make you dinner. It doesn’t take him long to be back, though, walking back inside the kitchen and smiling at the sight before him. You hum a song he can’t make up, hips shimmying to the beat as you scrub the pot. Your shirt rides up a little and he cocks his head to the side, smiling at the way your underwear peeks from underneath the fabric. A black and lacy thong that has him nodding his head in boyish satisfaction. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he tells you, making you jump in place a bit at the sound of his voice.

You turn around, bringing a gloved finger to your lips as you shush him before you’re pointing it at the couch and shooing him away. “I’ll only be a second. Wait for me there.”

“‘Kay, boss.” He army salutes you, turning around and walking back to the couch, sitting down and sinking further into the cushions, legs spreading as he scrolls through his phone, a bit impatiently, missing you even though you’re so close. 

And to Jungkook’s great fortune, he doesn’t have to wait for much longer. Wrapping it up in the kitchen, you give it one last glance to make sure it’s back to its pristine state before you’re making your way towards him. He looks up at you, throwing his phone to the side and following you with his eyes, smiling when you’re in front of him.

“Thank you for dinner,” you say, voice sweet and low, eyes a bit hazy.

“Come here.” He takes your hand in his, pulling you closer to him, bottom lip getting caught between his teeth as you throw your legs at either side of him, straddling him. 

“I needed this,” you admit.

“Me too,” he breathes. “I’m glad you called.”

You pout, eyes looking up for a second as you ponder. “You called me.”

He chuckles, not a single ounce of desire to deny you. “I’m glad I called.”

You giggle, arms wrapping around his neck and fingers getting lost in his long hair. His head draws back as your nails massage his scalp gently and he relaxes at your touch, goosebumps adorning his skin. His hands travel under your shirt, promptly finding your hips, waist, and then threatening to go higher but Jungkook wants to take his time tonight. He wants to stay in the sweet state of wanting you for a bit longer. When his eyes are back on yours, you kiss him. He sighs against your lips, bringing you closer to him by the waist, letting his tongue taste your bottom lip before he’s tasting your mouth. It’s slow, a bit sloppy and lazy, holds the quality of anything that happens in the middle of the night, when no one’s watching and time stills for the two of you. 

“Your skin is so soft,” he says, lips still on yours. 

“It’s your body lotion.” You roll your hips over his, smiling when you pull a low groan straight out of him. 

“Yeah,” he says, hands traveling down before he’s squeezing your ass, guiding your hips into his. “You smell like me. I like it.”

“I like it, too.” Your words get caught up in a moan as the outline of his cock parts your slit perfectly. 

You pull away a bit hesitantly, hands coming to rest at his shoulders as your hips pick up the pace. You go slow but sink deeper into him with every roll of your lips, eyes never parting from his as you take in the way his face starts to contort in pleasure, mouth parting slightly as his breathing grows heavier, little grunts leaving his lips with every push and pull. His hands travel back down to your hips, squeezing a little at the soft flesh, guiding them as you move over his cock. He’s so hard, can feel you through the layers, can bet on the fact that you’re wet and pulsing for him right now. 

“That feels good,” he sighs, gaze dropping as he rides your shirt up a bit at the front. His eyes fixate on the way the thin, lacy fabric of your panties bunches up every time you throw your hips back. 

“Brings back memories,” you say, voice a bit shaky when a particular roll of your hips has the tip of his cock hitting right against your clit. 

Jungkook smiles, mind hazy but perfectly able to picture the memories you refer to. “Mhm,” he sighs, so entrapped by the feeling he swears he can feel you pulse against him. He likes the way you consume his senses. The way everything around him stills and all he can think about is you. His hands squeeze at the flesh on your hips before he says, “turn around, baby.”

“‘Kay.”

Jungkook feels the loss of your warmth as you stand up before him once again, smiling at him before you’re turning around and sitting on his lap. You press your back to his chest, letting your head fall to his shoulder, your lips meeting his cheek in an open mouth kiss. His hands travel up your body, palms closing around your tits, thumbs playing with your nipples over the thick fabric of your shirt. You circle your hips, chasing the same friction from before but it’s not enough in this position. You bring your body forward, hands resting on his thighs as you throw your ass back at him, your pussy perfectly aligned on top of his cock, making you both moan at the same time. Jungkook’s gaze drops to your ass, enthralled by the way he feels, by the way you look. He rides your shirt up your back, exposes you to him and it only eggs you on, moving against his cock at the perfect rhythm. 

He hooks a finger down the side of your panties, letting it travel down, smiling lazily at the way you trap his knuckles between your pussy and his cock, moaning as you grind on them. He can feel how wet you are, dripping for him already even though he hasn’t touched you yet. “Want my fingers, baby?”

“Yes, please,” you plead, voice shaky as you look back at him. 

He’d usually tease you, make you beg for it a little longer, but tonight Jungkook obliges. It’s been long – too long – and all he can think about is being inside you, feeling you around him, making you feel good. He takes his time simply so he can savor the moment. So he can memorize it well enough to store it somewhere inside of him, just in case it’s another three months until he sees you again. 

He pushes his middle and ring finger inside of you, hissing at your warmth, cock jumping inside his sweatpants in anticipation and a little big of neglect. You close your eyes, pleasure taking over you as he begins to thrust his fingers inside of you slowly, arching expertly every time they hit your g-spot. His free hand squeezes around your ass cheek, groaning when the hand that fucks into you pushes down on his cock, aiding at giving him some much needed friction. You feel lightheaded already, all-consumed in his hold as he takes over your every sense. Your body relaxes and you can feel the way your tummy tenses right away. 

“Fuck, I think I’m gonna cum,” your voice is faint but he hears you well enough. 

“Already? That was fast, baby.” You don’t miss the cocky tone his words hint at. 

“Shut up and don’t stop,” you say, looking back at him playfully. 

You see the way he smiles at you before his gaze is dropping back down, fingers moving expertly inside of you at the same pace, applying a bit more force as he pushes in, massaging that spot with the tip of his fingers. The added pressure has you mewling in no time, nails digging into his thighs, teeth biting at your bottom lip to ground you back into the moment as you let go. 

“Fuck,” he says as he feels you cum around his fingers, sweet moans filling the space around you and he so badly wishes he could look at your face right now. “Yeah, baby, that’s it.” He feels the way you contract around him, hips circling over his hand as you ride the waves of pleasure. 

You come down after a minute, mind still hazy as you fall back into him, lips finding his the moment he turns his head to the side. You kiss him, breathing into his mouth, smiling in your fucked out bliss. “That was so good.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” you say, pressing your forehead to his. “I need you to fuck me now.”

“Want it?” he asks, and you nod your head. “You can have it.” 

“Yeah, want it so bad, Jungkook.” Your voice is needy, holds a dreaminess to it that Jungkook doesn’t miss – one that makes him melt into your words, your touch, your lips as you kiss him again. 

Jungkook presses his hips into you, raising them a bit as he pushes his sweatpants down. You help him take them off, hand reaching back before you’re wrapping it around his cock. He’s hard and pulsing for you and if you weren’t pulsing for him, too, you’d probably want him in your mouth right this second. He feels heavy, big and thick in your hold, a grunt leaving his lips when your thumb circles around the head. You love how sensitive he is, how receptive. 

“Condom,” he says, before he runs out of blood in his brain and it all falls down to his cock. 

“In my bag,” you say, reaching to the side and pulling it towards you. You rummage around it for a second too long – a second that has Jungkook’s mind betraying him. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But nonetheless he can’t help but wonder where you’d be right now if he’d been asleep and hadn’t seen your text. Perhaps in the same position but with a stranger. Or maybe a stranger only to Jungkook. Perhaps he hadn’t been the only person you texted tonight. “Here you go, baby.” 

Your voice dismantles his worries and he’s warm again, all thoughts vanishing and it’s back to you and him. He leans forward, kissing your lips as he takes the condom from your hand. It makes you blush slightly, biting your lip in anticipation as you watch as he rips the foil of the packaging with his teeth. You watch the way he smirks as he rolls the condom on. 

“Why are you smiling?”

“Just thinking,” he says, smile growing wider, cheek dimples making him look cute but something about his voice begs to differ. 

You hum. “Thinking about what?”

He smiles. “July 14th, 2021.”

You both crack up, laughter filling the air the moment the words leave his mouth because of course you know what July 14th, 2021 meant. You’d been in a position very similar to this one, perhaps a bit more hazy minded, the true meaning of the heat of the moment finding you the minute you’d realized neither of you had a condom. You’d looked into each other’s eyes and made the silent agreement to be a little reckless and put a whole lot of trust on birth control and Jungkook’s pull out game. 

He said he’d never forget that day. 

“Long live, July 14th, 2021,” you say. 

“Shhh,” he says, squinting his eyes and bringing a finger to his mouth. “Don’t remind me.”

“You reminded yourself,” you bite back. “Now, can you fuck me? Pretty please.”

“Yeah, baby, come here.”

You push your ass back at him, looking at him from over your shoulder, biting your lip in anticipation as he strokes his cock once, twice, before he’s lining himself against your entrance. His hand comes to your hip, pulling you down towards him as you push him inside of you. You both sigh, moaning as he bottoms out, so deep and warm it has Jungkook throwing his head back against the couch, sinking further into it and pushing impossibly deeper into you. 

“Fuck, Jungkook,” you whimper, nails digging into his flesh. 

“Fuck me, baby,” he says, running a hand through his long hair. You nod, circling your hips a couple of times as you adjust to his size before you start moving your hips into him, ass bouncing with every push and pull. He hisses at the sight alone, bringing his hand down as he delivers a hard slap against your cheek, making you moan. “Shit, just like that. You’re so hot, ___.”

“Jungkook,” you whisper.

“Yeah, baby?” His eyes are back on yours, threatening to close in pleasure at the way your pussy feels around him. 

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, baby. So much.”

You fall into his chest, kissing him as he wraps his hand around your throat, not applying any pressure, just simply holding you. You gasp into his mouth when his other hand travels down and finds your clit, drawing lazy circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves. You whine and he moans when you move your hips to the rhythm of his touch.

“I don’t wanna be on top anymore,” you say, pouting into his lips, frowning when you feel his chest shake in laughter. 

“Of course you don’t.”

“I’m an awful top.”

“You’re not a top.”

“Hey, I was a good top that one time,” you protest.

“Mm, yeah, that was hot. You got all bossy on me.”

“Oh, but that’s regardless,” you tell him, pushing your lips into his once more and straightening your back, smiling as you look back at him. He wipes said smile off your face in a second, hand meeting your ass in another hard slap. 

“Stay there,” he says, holding firmly onto your hips. 

“Okay, daddy.” That earns you another slap, though you can’t say it wasn’t exactly the goal in mind. 

“Behave.”

Your face grows pliant as you nod at him and Jungkook has to fight to keep up the front because if he’s being honest, the sight alone drives him crazy, threatens to break him down completely and leave him a needy, whiny mess. He holds you in place, legs raising you up a bit before he starts pistoling his hips against you, fucking you hard and fast and even though you saw it coming, it still takes you by surprise. The force of his thrusts, how good he feels as the pain translates into pleasure, the noises he makes – it’s all too much but fuck, you don’t want him to ever stop. Your mouth parts in a silent moan, eyes closing as your face contorts in pleasure before the sensation ripples through you and you’re crying out. Your hand holds onto his arm and the firm grasp you have on it let’s him know.

“Fuck, I’m cummin,” you breathe out.

“Fuck yeah, baby. Cum all over my cock.”

“Oh my God,” you say, voice shaky and faint as you throw your body back into his. 

“Fuck, I love your pussy.”

“I love your cock,” you say, fucked out giggles escaping your lips. 

It takes you both a minute to steady your breathing and regain your strength. Jungkook kisses your neck, snaking a hand inside your shirt and squeezing your boob as you arch your back at the feel. “Let’s get you to bed, princess.”

“Music to my ears,” you say, giddy and excited. 

Your knees buckle a bit when your feet touch the floor, the both of you laughing at your loss of balance, Jungkook a bit more cockily than you. He slaps your ass softly once, then twice as you begin to walk towards his bedroom. Once inside he takes his shirt off and when you turn around, your eyes scan over his body, metaphorically and possibly physically drooling over him. Your hands find the hem of your t-shirt before you’re pulling it off your body and tossing it aside until it’s landing on top of his. Your tits bounce as you do, and he nods his head at you, a satisfied pout adorning his lips. The pout turns sour the moment you turn around but is soon enough replaced with a smile when you start to crawl on top of his big mattress, finding the perfect spot over his pillows and laying down comfortably. 

“You’re so perfect.” Jungkook says, because anything else would downplay it and he’s not in the mood to run away from the truth. You giggle, soft and sweet and he feels the way his heart aches for you inside his chest. 

“Come to me,” you say, arms outstretched towards him. He makes his way to you, letting himself hover over you for a minute as he takes you in before he’s falling perfectly between your legs. You kiss him, letting your fingers get lost in his hair, breathing into the kiss and you swear this moment is laced in pure, unadulterated bliss. “Want to feel you inside me.”

“I’ll give it to you, baby. I’ll give you anything you want.”

There it is, yet again, and without a fail. It’s so common you nearly miss it – the way the moment turns tender. It’s mostly soft, this unspoken agreement you’ve fallen into with Jungkook. It’s friendship and attraction, good sex and years of exploring each other. It’s trust and communication. It’s understanding. It’s soft at the beginning and tender halfway through. It’s so tender it feels tangible, like the moment itself could fit inside the palm of your hand and feel ripe to the touch as you hold onto it. It’s tender when he looks into your eyes, it’s tender when his voice says your name, when you kiss his lips. It’s tender when the lust borders on something else. It’s tender when it lingers, when it threatens to fall. 

He fucks you, hips moving against yours slowly, pulling moans out of your lips that get caught between his own when he kisses you. 

“You feel so good,” you whisper into his mouth, words that only he could hear even if it weren’t just the two of you. 

“Fuck, baby, so do you,” he whines, supple and yours, even if for that moment. “I’m not gonna last much longer.”

You smile, hand running through his hair before your fingers are pushing a strand behind his hear. “Cum for me, Kookie. Wanna feel you cum for me.”

Your words throw him over the edge, falling blissfully into you. It feels so fucking good. Your fingers running through his hair, down his neck and then back up again. The way your pussy clenches around him, cock throbbing for you at the wake of his release. Your lips are soft and the rise and fall of your chest falls into perfect sync with his. His hand squeezes at your breast before it’s traveling down your body, squeezing at your thigh before you’re wrapping your legs around his waist, flushed to him. Every little thing you do heightens his senses until all he can breathe, think and feel is you. His face falls down the crook of your neck and you breathe out a moan into his ear, unraveling him completely.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, baby.” His hips slow down before they still completely, a moan passing his lips as he releases into the condom, your nails softly running down his spine. His body feels spent but he doesn’t miss the way it relaxes on top of you, blissful and peaceful, growing sleepy right away. 

“Feel good?” you ask, your fingertips running down his back in what feels like a feathery whisper. 

“So fucking good,” he mumbles against the skin of your shoulder before his eyes are finding yours again. He kisses you. He kisses you because in moments like this he wants to say something else, something that makes more sense to his heart than anything his brain could say.

You kiss him back, afraid your heart will betray you, too. 

~

You stare at him as you make your way back to his bed. He lays on his tummy, cheek pressed against the soft pillow, his pretty hair framing his face in a way that makes him look dreamlike. He doesn’t move an inch when you pull back the covers, if only for a second, to get back in bed with him. You lay on your side, eyes still fixed on him and your heart grows a new kind of tender at the sight of his sleeping form. He’s pouty and soft and so, so peaceful. Something sinks in your tummy, but it’s not in a way that signals bad news. Perhaps it’s the butterflies settling, perhaps the heat of the moment has began to cool down. 

Your hand comes to his face, fingers gently pushing his hair out of his eyes before you let them wander down his face. His cheeks are soft, his ears cold and when it tickles, he frowns. Your thumb travels up again, smoothing his brow bone and he relaxes. Your eyes follow your touch as you trace the bridge of his nose, slowly, softly, as if you were being quizzed on it later. Wanting to take everything in, afraid that even blinking could take away from the moment. And when your finger lands on his lips, you trace that too the way your own did only minutes prior. 

His eyes begin to flutter, a failed attempt to open them but you know he’s partially awake from the smile that pulls at his lips. You feel it on your finger before your eyes meet his gesture and when they do, you close them instinctively, leaning over and kissing him. His body can’t respond to his brain right now, exhausted and more asleep than he is awake, but he hums in satisfaction, lips puckering as he tries to give into his instincts. 

“Let’s have breakfast together tomorrow,” he mumbles against your lips. “I’ll go buy honey and make you pancakes.” 

You smile, though he can’t see, and perhaps it’s for the best. Your voice is a whisper when you say, “deal.”

His smile is the last thing you see before you fall asleep.

~

[jungwnies]

F1 GRID | it was never meant to be (1/2)

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, franco colapinto ୨ৎ : synopsis : your f1 boyfriend's publicist suggests he should date someone with more status in front of the camera, he agrees to it, but what happens to your relationship when his "fake relationship" with her blossoms into something more.

୨ৎ : genre : heartbreak, angst, sad themes ୨ৎ : tws : arguing, break-up, cheating ୨ৎ : word count : 2703

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

୨ৎ part two (carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri) ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : got this idea from my sister, she lowkey cooked.

ʚ・max verstappen

the hotel room felt colder than usual, despite the late spring air outside. you sat on the edge of the bed, your hands trembling slightly as max paced in front of you, his movements restless, his eyes fixed on the floor.

“you promised me,” you said, your voice quiet but filled with an unmistakable tremor of pain. “you promised me it was just an act.”

max froze, his back to you, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a shaky exhale. he didn’t turn around.

“what happened?” you pressed, your voice breaking as tears welled in your eyes. “what changed?”

his silence was louder than any answer he could have given.

you stood, the ache in your chest unbearable as you closed the space between you. “look at me, max,” you demanded, your voice sharp now, desperate. “say it. tell me it wasn’t real. tell me you didn’t—”

“i can’t,” he interrupted, his voice hoarse, raw. he finally turned to face you, his blue eyes filled with guilt and something else you couldn’t quite name. regret? pain? relief?

your breath hitched, and the room spun for a moment as the truth settled like lead in your stomach. “you fell in love with her,” you whispered, the words barely audible.

he didn’t deny it.

“how could you?” you choked out, tears spilling freely now. “you swore to me, max. you swore it was just for the cameras, that it was me you loved. how could you let this happen?”

“i didn’t mean to,” he said, his voice breaking as he ran a hand through his hair. “it wasn’t supposed to happen. i thought i could do it—i thought i could keep it separate. but… things changed.”

“things changed?” you repeated, your voice rising with anger. “what about us? what about everything we’ve been through? you don’t just fall out of love with someone, max! you don’t just replace them like—like they’re nothing!”

“you’re not nothing,” he said quickly, stepping closer, but you recoiled, the hurt too fresh, too raw. “i didn’t want this to happen. i didn’t plan it.”

“but it did,” you said bitterly, shaking your head. “you let it happen. you chose her. all those nights you spent with her, all those events, all those ‘pretend’ moments—somewhere along the way, you stopped pretending, didn’t you?”

he looked down, unable to meet your eyes.

you laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and empty. “i gave everything to you, max. i stood by you through everything—through the wins, the losses, the endless travel, the pressure. i loved you when you couldn’t even love yourself. and now you’re telling me that wasn’t enough?”

“it’s not about enough,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “you were everything, but… i changed. i don’t know how to explain it. i just… i’m not the same person i was when we started this. and maybe that’s why—”

“don’t you dare blame this on change,” you snapped, your hands balling into fists. “this isn’t about change, max. this is about you breaking every promise you ever made to me. it’s about you deciding that what we had wasn’t worth fighting for.”

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“sorry?” you repeated, your voice shaking with disbelief. “you’re sorry? do you even realize what you’ve done to me? to us? you’ve destroyed everything, max. everything.”

he didn’t respond. he just stood there, his shoulders slumped, his eyes glistening with tears he refused to let fall.

he tried to step closer, his hand reaching for you, but you shook your head. “i hope she was worth it,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the pain. “because you’ve lost me.”

with that, you turned and walked out, leaving him standing there, the echo of your words hanging in the air.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

the evening was quiet, save for the soft hum of the london skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of lewis’s penthouse. he stood by the counter, his back to you, shoulders tense as he gripped the edge of the marble. you could feel the weight of the silence between you, a chasm that had only grown wider these past months.

“just say it, lewis,” you said, your voice soft but trembling. “i deserve that much.”

he exhaled, long and shaky, before finally turning to face you. his brown eyes, usually so warm and full of life, now held only guilt and a sadness that cut deep.

“it wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said, his voice barely audible.

your chest tightened, and you blinked back the tears that threatened to spill. “what wasn’t supposed to happen, lewis? you falling for her?”

he winced at your words, his jaw clenching as he looked away. “you know it started as a pr thing,” he said, almost defensively. “the team thought it would be good for my image—me and someone high-profile. someone who fit the brand.”

“and you agreed,” you said bitterly. “you promised me it was just for the cameras. you swore to me, lewis.”

“i thought it would be,” he said, his voice breaking. “i thought i could keep it separate. that it wouldn’t mean anything. but…”

“but what?” you snapped, taking a step closer, anger overtaking the ache in your chest. “you spent so much time pretending that you forgot it wasn’t real?”

his silence was deafening.

“i gave up so much for us,” you said, your voice trembling with emotion. “the constant travel, the scrutiny, always being second to your career. i did it because i loved you, lewis. because i believed in us. and now you’re telling me you fell out of love with me because you fell for her?”

“it’s not that simple,” he said, his voice rising slightly, though there was no anger behind it—only desperation. “you don’t understand what it’s like, the pressure, the expectations—”

“don’t you dare make this about your career,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “i stood by you through all of it, lewis. i was there when no one else was. and now you’re throwing it all away because someone ‘fit the brand’ better than i did?”

“that’s not what this is,” he said, his tone pleading. “i didn’t plan for this to happen. i didn’t want to hurt you.”

“but you did,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “you already did.”

he looked at you then, tears glistening in his eyes, and for a moment, you saw the man you fell in love with—the man who promised you the world, who told you that love was the only thing that mattered. but that man had made a choice, and it wasn’t you.

“i’m sorry,” he said, the words trembling as they left his lips.

you let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head as tears streamed down your face. “sorry?” you echoed, your voice cracking. “sorry doesn’t fix this, lewis. sorry doesn’t erase the nights i stayed up worrying about you, the times i put you first, or the pieces of myself i gave up to love you.”

he flinched but didn’t say a word, his silence cutting deeper than anything else.

you took a shaky step back, your breath hitching. “i hope she gives you everything i couldn’t,” you said, your voice trembling with heartbreak. “but just know—you didn’t lose me, lewis. you gave me up.”

with that, you turned on your heel, walking toward the door with as much strength as you could muster. the tears blurred your vision as they fell, but you didn’t stop. you couldn’t stop. not for him. not anymore.

ʚ・george russell

the door creaked as you stepped into the flat, soaked from the rain, your coat dripping onto the floor. george stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a mug of tea untouched in his hand. he turned as you entered, but the usual warmth in his expression was gone.

you closed the door behind you, hanging your coat on the rack with deliberate slowness, trying to steel yourself for what you knew was coming. “you texted me to come home early,” you said, your voice careful. “what’s going on?”

he set the mug down and ran a hand through his hair, the strands disheveled as though he’d been doing it all evening. “we need to talk,” he said, his voice soft, almost too soft.

you froze, your heart sinking. “george…”

he met your gaze, guilt etched deeply in his features. “i don’t know how to say this,” he began, his voice shaking slightly, “but i have to be honest with you.”

your chest tightened as you stepped closer. “honest about what?” you asked, though the dread pooling in your stomach already told you.

he exhaled shakily, his hands gripping the edge of the counter. “i’ve been trying to keep things together, to keep this… us. but i can’t lie anymore.” he looked at you, his blue eyes clouded with regret. “i don’t feel the same way i used to.”

the air left your lungs. “what?” you whispered. “what are you saying, george?”

he hesitated, but the words came anyway, cutting through you like a knife. “i’ve fallen for her,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “the girl i was set up to date for the press. it wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did.”

you stared at him, disbelief washing over you in waves. “you promised me,” you said, your voice trembling. “you promised it was all fake, that it was just for appearances.”

“i thought it would be,” he said, his tone desperate. “i thought i could keep it separate, that it wouldn’t mean anything. but somewhere along the way… it stopped feeling like an act.”

your head shook as tears welled in your eyes. “and what about me, george? what about us? do i mean nothing to you now?”

“you mean everything to me,” he said quickly, stepping forward, but you backed away, the distance between you growing. “you were there for me when no one else was, when i needed someone who believed in me. but…” his voice broke, and his shoulders sagged. “it’s not fair to you if my heart’s not in it anymore.”

“not fair to me?” you snapped, the anger bubbling to the surface. “what’s unfair is that i stood by you through everything—your career, the pressure, the public eye—only for you to fall for someone else because she ‘fits the narrative’ better.”

his silence was deafening, his expression pained but offering no defense.

“i gave you everything,” you said, your voice breaking. “and you’re throwing it away like it’s nothing. for what, george? for someone who plays the part better than i do?”

“it’s not like that,” he pleaded, but you raised a hand, stopping him.

“no,” you said firmly, tears now streaming down your face. “you don’t get to justify this. you don’t get to pretend this is about anything but your choices.”

he reached out, but you stepped back, shaking your head. “i hope she makes you happy,” you said bitterly, your voice steadying despite the pain. “because you just lost the one person who loved you for who you really are—not the perfect image the world expects you to be.”

the words hung in the air as you turned and walked out, the door closing softly behind you.

… weeks later

the flat was empty now, your things gone, and george sat alone in the quiet, staring at the spot where you used to sit on the couch with your legs tucked under you, reading or laughing at something he said.

his phone buzzed, a text from her lighting up the screen. he stared at it for a long moment, but he didn’t reply.

because the truth was, she might’ve been the perfect fit for his career, his brand—but she wasn’t you. and now, as the weight of his choices settled over him, he realized what he had lost wasn’t just love. it was you. and no pr stunt could ever fix that.

ʚ・franco colapinto

the sound of the rain tapping against the window was the only thing that filled the space between you and franco as he sat across from you, his hands clenched into fists on the table. you’d been waiting for this moment for weeks, months, really. deep down, you had known it would come sooner or later. you had known that the pressure, the expectations, the image—none of it could last. but even when you anticipated it, even when you braced yourself, hearing it from him felt like a punch to the gut.

“i never wanted to hurt you,” franco said, his voice low, his eyes avoiding yours as he spoke.

“then why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice steady, but your heart a mess of emotions. “why now?”

his gaze finally met yours, and there was guilt there, but there was also something else—a sadness that wasn’t enough to change what was happening. “i thought i could keep things separate. that it wouldn’t change anything between us.” he paused, letting out a shaky breath. “but it did.”

you swallowed hard, the words you had prepared for this moment now stuck in your throat. “you fell for her, didn’t you?” you said, the bitterness in your voice more evident than you wanted it to be.

franco’s silence was all the confirmation you needed.

a small, dry laugh escaped you as you wiped your eyes, the tears threatening to spill. “i knew it would happen,” you whispered, the ache in your chest growing with each passing second. “i knew you’d choose her. you always had to. it was never about us, was it? it was about the image, the brand, the plan.”

“no, it wasn’t like that,” franco said quickly, his voice desperate as he reached for your hand, but you pulled away. “i didn’t want this. i thought i could just go along with it, make it through for the sake of everything. but… it’s not just a plan anymore. i care about her.”

the words felt like they were suffocating you. “i tried to pretend i was fine with it,” you said bitterly. “i convinced myself i was okay with the idea of this being temporary, that it would all go back to normal. but hearing you say it out loud… hearing you admit it… it makes it real. and that hurts more than i thought it would.”

he opened his mouth to say something, but you held up a hand. “don’t,” you whispered. “don’t try to explain it. i don’t need the explanation.”

“i never meant for this to happen,” he said again, his voice faltering. “you have to believe me.”

“i do,” you said, your voice quiet, the tears now falling freely. “i do believe you. but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

you stood up, your legs feeling weak beneath you, the reality of it all settling in. you had known this was coming, had prepared yourself for the moment he would look at you and admit the truth. but somehow, hearing it—hearing it from him—made it feel like a wound that had just been freshly opened, a wound that had been bleeding for far too long and was finally exposed.

“i thought i was enough for you,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, your hands shaking as you wiped away your tears. “but i guess i was never going to be enough for what you really needed.”

franco stood up then, stepping toward you, but you shook your head, unable to meet his eyes. “don’t.” your voice cracked as you spoke. “you’ve already made your choice.”

for a long moment, neither of you moved. the weight of everything hung heavily in the room, suffocating the air around you both. finally, he took a step back, his shoulders slumping. “i’m sorry,” he said quietly. “i never wanted to hurt you.”

“i know,” you said softly, the words barely escaping your lips. “but sometimes… sometimes it’s the things we don’t want to happen the most that hurt the most when they finally do.”

and with that, you turned and walked out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that echoed in your bones.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[meiieiri]

𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 | 00

"You know what hurts the most? I've lost our children too...but you...you're still alive...and I've already lost you."

synopsis: the chairman of the gojo group of companies, gojo satoru, is in need of an heir and quick. however, with a wife who is struggling to conceive and his subsequently crumbling marriage, he is forced to explore other options which now comes in the form of his wife's secretary.

pairing: gojo satoru x f!reader

warnings: 18+ angst, smut, mentions of depression and miscarriage.

You and Satoru Gojo are cursed.

Your marriage began to fracture the day you learned you could never have children, each passing moment turning your marriage into a silent battleground of unspoken regrets and fading hopes. People would tell you that it’s probably just bad luck or wrong timing and that sooner or later, you and your other half would be blessed with your hearts’ desires. All you had to do was wait for the right moment, but no one told you that you’d be waiting forever.

“Your tie is crooked again.”

You step into the now empty groomsmen suite where your husband is peering at himself in the mirror. Just a few years ago, he played the role of the groom, anxiously waiting for the hour he’d be linked to you forever. Now, he’s a groomsman in someone else’s wedding and hopefully a happier marriage.

Satoru looks up at the mirror to see you standing there as if on ceremony, waiting for him to invite you in. Ironically, that pretty much sums up your entire marriage: your shared heartbreak has become a gaping chasm between the two of you. You and Satoru could only hope that his sister’s wedding wouldn’t end up like yours – as lonely and quiet as a solitary mountain lake.

“I got it. You should head down with the other bridesmaids.” Satoru unloops his tie, his heart stubbornly refusing yours.

A numbness coats your veins when he simply gives up, and unbuttons his white collar for a more laid-back look instead, of course he’d rather do that — do anything else — than accept help from you, than speak more than two sentences to you, than be anywhere near you. That’s just how things are now after running head first into a happily ever after that was never going to come. “Fine. I’ll see you downstairs then.”

“Sure,” Satoru says nonchalantly.

He half-expected you to linger by the door for another minute, but his heart caves in when he sees you’ve simply left. But what did he expect? The void that exists between the two of you had grown too vast, and the brighter days of your marriage had been swallowed by the abyss of unmet expectations, and endless heartbreak. And now, all that’s left of the chaos is two lovers who have now ventured into the realm of reluctant strangers driven apart by fate.

Satoru walks over to the now closed door, and somehow sensing that you were still on the other side, he presses a hand to the cold wooden material, as if to say, “I’m still here.”

He hears a soft sniffle, then the painful sound of your receding footsteps and Satoru is, for the first time in one thousand four hundred sixty one days of calling himself your husband, utterly alone.

“Time to go home,” Satoru says monotonously, his right hand buried in his pocket while his free one holds the now settled hospital bill. He looks at you blankly, almost as if he expected this. After all, when you showed him the positive pregnancy test fifteen weeks ago, unlike the preceding ones, Satoru didn’t bother to make it public.

“I-I’m so…” you trail off, your eyes brimming with tears. “...Sorry.”

“I know. You always are,” your husband curtly replies. He’s lost count of how many times you’ve been in this exact position: by your hospital bed with a medical abstract in his hand with the words “spontaneous miscarrriage” printed on it.

He was getting sick of it. It’s almost like a nightmare that never seems to end. This would have been your fifth child, and yet again, you and Satoru would never have the chance to hold them in your arms for even just a second until they’re brutally ripped away from you. He looks at you again and sighs when you don’t move a muscle, seemingly still in shock from the ordeal.

“If you’re not ready to go, I’ll just have our driver pick you up.”

“...Alright.”

“Okay.”

He turns to leave but then your broken voice cuts through the thick air of the hospital room. “Satoru…? You don’t blame me right?”

Satoru screws his eyes shut, that was the last question he wanted to answer. He couldn’t bring himself to tell you that he has never blamed you for miscarrying, that, in the four years since he married you and the four years he’s had to witness child after child slip through your fingers like it was never meant to be, he’s never felt a tinge of disappointment towards you.

He told you not to go to the dental mission today, since you were on strict bedrest with your placenta previa but you made all these bullshit reassurances that you weren't going to push yourself too hard. He wants to say that you should have been more careful, that you should have listened to him. Yet, even then, he also couldn’t bring himself to tell you, his poor wife, his hurting better half, all the resentment he’s been harboring, so, he does the only thing he can do.

He runs away, far away from you when you need him the most. You stifle a sob when he doesn’t even crane his head back to look at you like the act of doing so would make him sick. “Get some rest," he simply tells you, unaware that this would be the last real conversation you’d have for a while because the next two months would be weeks of gut-wrenching silence. "Today...must have been hard for you."

He was wrong, you think sullenly to yourself as he leaves you alone. Every day has already become unbearable for you, every breath has become debilitating. What right did you have to breathe when all your children, each one departing with a piece of your and Satoru’s hearts, had been denied that very right?

Looking back at it now, Sayuri’s wedding was just like yours. What else would you have expected considering that you helped with the preparations from the color scheme to the venue’s decorations? Sayuri valued your input, and with you, despite being the junior party, having gotten married first, surely, you must have known what you were talking about when it comes to weddings. Too bad you couldn’t say the same thing about knowing a thing or two about marriage.

As you watch the happy couple from the top table, you utter a silent prayer in your heart that Satoru’s sister will never have to face the trials you have faced.

Satoru stands up from his seat, guiding you to the top table with a hand on the small of your back to bid your farewells and final well wishes. “Sayuri, it’s getting late. Y/N and I should be heading back now.” A look of disappointment crosses Sayuri’s face but it is quickly overshadowed by understanding.

You watch with a small smile as your husband embraces his older sister, whispering something in her ear that causes her to land a jab on Satoru’s abdomen. Stepping forward, you kiss Sayuri’s cheek in a show of sisterly love. “Congratulations again, nee-san.”

“Thanks for helping out again, Y/N,” Sayuri says sweetly, utterly grateful to all the assistance you extended for her special day. “I’m hoping you’ll help me for my next event, right?”

You return her smile with a slight tilt of your head; the two of you have been friends long before Satoru came into the picture, what with her being your ever supportive senior in university. The trust that you forged with Sayuri is often a running joke in the Gojo family. It’s often said that you got your husband’s sister’s approval long before you even knew each other. And it was true. The way she has stood as an older sister figure for you even during your darkest days fighting your loneliest battles is something you will forever cherish.

Satoru casts a look at new brother-in-law who is busy mingling with his own family; he makes a face at his sister’s remark. “You’re already planning for a second wedding when you’ve only been married for six hours?” your husband playfully jokes about his sister’s very questionable comment.

Come to think of it, that’s the first time you’ve seen Satoru smile in a long while, and when he did, it had to be because he joked about the tricky business of remarriage. It pains you to think that he has smiled so seldomly that you’ve almost forgotten how he looks when he’s not in a constant state of silent detachment, oceans deep in his chemtrail of thoughts. You were glad you weren’t a mind reader, dreading hearing his thoughts aloud: his silent hatred of you, the final goodbye having already materialized and rehearsed millions of times in his mind.

But couldn’t he see that you were still trying? You desperately want to hold his hand in a silent oath: “I’m still here.” but you think better of it, fearing that you might just lose him altogether.

Then again, a ghost of a mirthless smile appears on your lips for a brief second, if there’s anything you were good at, it was losing people.

You are pulled out of your thoughts by Sayuri’s sarcastic laugh. “Ha-ha. If I’m lucky, this’ll be my only wedding.” She sticks her tongue out at Satoru who merely rolls his eyes in response. “Anyway, as I was saying,” she turns to you with a hesitant smile, mulling over if this was a good idea given your circumstances.

Just then, her husband cordially approaches the three of you. “Hey,” he greets his wife with an affectionate kiss. “I got you this,” he places a champagne flute in Sayuri’s hand. “Alcohol-free, I swear.”

Satoru’s face falls momentarily. How long has it been since he kissed his wife like that? No, how long has it been since you put up those unscalable walls around the fortress that is your heart, blocking him out at every corner? He glances your way in an attempt to search your face – for anything to reassure him that your marriage was still salvageable, for anything to let him know you and him were still worth saving – he isn’t even surprised when you instantly turn your gaze away from him.

Guess he got his answer.

“Did you tell them?” your new brother-in-law asks with the same trepidation in his tone as his wife’s.

You make the cardinal mistake of asking. “Tell us what?” you ask, puzzled.

The next few words hit you like a tidal wave. Your prayers of Sayuri never having to experience the anguish you felt have been answered, in place of your own unanswered prayers for yourself and Satoru.

“That…we’re expecting.”

You don’t even notice that you’ve already muttered out a brief: “O-oh. I’m…happy for you.” As you numbly offer Sayuri her congratulations, you think back to all the times you and Satoru have had to hear: “I’m so sorry for your loss”. It wasn’t fair how happiness almost always helplessly slips through your and Satoru’s fingers in the form of a silent heartbeat at twelve weeks, or a fertilized egg that never truly grows into an embryo.

If there really was such a thing as “hell” or “damnation”, then yours came in the form of an empty nursery, an empty stroller, unused onesies, unsung lullabies and unflipped bedtime story books.

Satoru handles the news with an agonizing grace, his voice gruff and raw with held back emotions. He clears his throat, repeating the congratulations. “How far along are you?” he asks his sister, his demeanor shrouded with a profound yearning for the same thing, if not for him, then for you because if anything, of all people, you deserve that kind of joy too. Maybe even more so than him. He was fine with just having his wife back, after all. The succession of the entire conglomerate would always come second to you.

Even if you didn’t know it. Even if you no longer cared to believe him.

“Eighteen weeks,” Sayuri answers quietly. “I-I was gonna ask if Y/N would be interested in helping out with the baby shower but, I’d understand if this feels like a bad idea–”

“--It’s okay,” you defensively cut off Sayuri, refusing to hear another word of pity, another syllable along the lines of: “I’m sorry.”. You’ve had enough of that. “I-I’d be happy to…really.��

With your unconvincing words, your quartet falls into a tense silence. You and Satoru don’t dare to stay long enough for either of them to try saving the conversation, so, with a polite and final few well-wishes, you leave. Just as the two of you settle into the backseat of his car for the return journey to Tokyo, tiny droplets of rain begin to collect on the windows.

“...Why can’t we be like that?” you break the overwrought silence with a genuine question, a slight tremble in your voice.

“We were like that too,” he replies almost nostalgically, recalling the many precious hushed conversations each night in your marital bed, the mornings when you and him gaze at the other’s sleeping form, thinking to yourselves how lucky you two were to have each other, the warmth that came with being so in love.

It was an age long abandoned.

Now, you two were silent, your conversations not extending past two brief sentences, your bed is now empty and cold, and your luck had run out the same way your love died out.

“Once.”

You spoke of your union as if it were a house of cards that’s been torn apart by the wind, the two of you are now all but decimated, to the point where one can only wistfully pine after what had been lost that can no longer be restored. And after the many arguments that had erupted between you and him, unbearably, this was the one thing you could never argue about.

Satoru nods, echoing your words with a heavy heart. “Yeah…once.”

The fact is: no one knows what happened or rather, no one — not even your OBGYN — could have expected this. It was a normal day, you and Satoru, as excited parents-to-be, had booked the appointment and all the succeeding ones leading to your supposed due date ahead of time, so, you arrived at your usual schedule of 3:30 PM, and after a quick check of your vitals, the OB moves to conduct the standard ultrasound.

As you move to lie down on the bed, it seems you’ve only just noticed the bag Satoru was carrying. You look at it curiously. “What’s that?” you ask, pointing to the moss green canvas bag on his lap.

“Your hospital bag,” Satoru says enthusiastically, already opening it. “See? I packed three pairs of socks for you, a sweater, your lip balm, hairbrush, lotion and — why are you laughing?” he asks when you snort with laughter. The OB is also shaking her head in amusement. Clearly, your oblivious husband kinda missed the memo.

“Babe,” you explain amidst your giggles. “I’m not having the baby today.”

“What do you mea—oh,” He awkwardly looks at the hospital bag. Satoru Gojo, the owner of the ever powerful Gojo conglomerate, the darling of Kabutocho and the Nikkei Index, a holder of a dual degree in finance and business analytics, further supplemented with an MBA from Wharton, looks flustered. He had forgotten that he’s only supposed to bring that during the delivery.

The OB chuckles as she lifts your shirt up to squeeze some of the ultrasound gel on the taut skin of your still mostly flat but slightly swollen belly. “Seems dad was a bit too excited,” she remarks. You shift at the cold gel, but relax after a while.

“Well, it’s our first, after all,” you glance at Satoru with a warm smile. He brings your hand to his lips and he sits down on the chair, his eyes altering between you and the monitor. You squeeze his hand as the probe glides over your midriff. The image shifts slightly on the screen and the OB zooms in on the small image of your baby.

She makes a note of the growth. “6.0 centimeters at 12 weeks,” the OB says, pleasantly surprised. “Now, would the two of you like to hear the baby’s heartbeat?”

You and Satoru share a brief look of happiness and nod simultaneously.

Instantly, images of what life would look like from now on flash in your minds: Satoru would constantly be chasing after the little tornado that would be your child, while you’d be too busy cleaning up after the mischievous duo. If it’s a girl — which is Satoru’s preference but he’ll never actually say that out loud — Satoru would be almost always willing to indulge them. Their little girl needs your lipstick to give her daddy a makeover? Say no more, he’s already rummaging through your makeup bag. Oh, she wants a tiara? He’s already on the phone with his ex-fling who also happens to be Swarovski’s top designer to commission a tiara piece for his little princess.

And honestly, the same can be said for you if the baby does turn out to be a boy. It would be a joy to have a little Satoru of your own. You’d shower them with kisses every morning, and every night before he went to sleep, never shying away from letting him know how much you love him.

Or at least that was the plan.

Call it a mother’s intuition but something doesn’t feel right. Worry pricks at your entire being when all you can hear is the drone-like hum of the examination room’s AC unit, the frequency adjustment of the ultrasound machine and the sound of your own hearts breaking at the sound of silence.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Gojo—”

“—What’s happening?” you ask frantically, your head abruptly lifting from the pillow in alarm to look at the screen. “What’s happening, ‘Toru? Why can’t I hear anything?” you look to Satoru for answers — no, perhaps you knew the answer all along — you simply looked at him, pleading with him to tell you that this wasn’t real, that you’ve probably just gone momentarily deaf or something, and that by some miracle, your baby was still there.

But as Satoru simply purses his lips, gently easing you back onto the bed, his eyes brimming with tears that were now falling in the crook of your neck, silently sobbing into your shoulder with you. You could faintly hear the OB amidst your sobs already paging the hospital pharmacy for a prescription of Mifepristone and Misoprostol to assist with emptying your womb. Not that it wasn’t already empty to begin with now that your baby is gone, and all they’ve left in their wake is a void in their parent’s hearts and a sense of confusion.

Why? Why did they just up and leave like that before you even got to hold them, to see their tiny face as they sleep in their hospital bassinet next to your bed? Did your baby somehow sense that you and Satoru would be horrible parents? Were you unworthy of their love, so unworthy that you’d never get to meet them?

“Shh, shh,” Satoru tries to soothe you in spite of his own turmoil, the thought of losing the baby too heavy on his mind to do anything other than attempt to comfort you. “I’m here…I’m right here.”

He was right. You both were still here but gazing back at the black and white image of your now sleeping angel, you’ll just have to learn to accept that they aren’t.

Satoru has been acting strange all day.

For one, he sent you a good morning text message wishing you luck with your patients today just as you were about to change into your scrubs when you arrived at your dental clinic in Tokyo Midtown, and just after receiving that message, your secretary, Kozue, happily enters your office with your takeaway coffee in one hand and a small gift box in the other.

“You know, Mr. Gojo would be a horrible secret admirer,” she remarks simply, placing the box above the patient records you were reviewing.

“Why is that?” you ask, finishing up on your 9:00 patient’s appointment sheet.

Kozue gestures to the Bvlgari logo on the small box. “He clearly has a thing for high-end jewelry brands, it’s either he sends you Bvlgari or Swarovski.” You breathe a small laugh at her keen observation.

“Looks like your observation skills are improving, pretty soon, I might just assign a patient to you,” you joke. “Anyway, it’s our fifth anniversary today, hence the gift-giving. I left him a new pair of Giorgo Armani loafers on the closet display this morning.”

“You two are so extra,” Kozue chortles. “My boyfriend and I don’t get to do all this.”

You nod sympathetically. “When’s he coming back again?” you ask as you carefully open the box to reveal a pair of Serpenti Seduttori diamond earrings with a blue sapphire on the head. Kozue watches you try them on with a soft smile on her face, it’s not often anyone gets to see you put your hair down.

“Around next year,” Kozue gushes. “But honestly, well, uh…don’t freak out, but—”

“—You plan to join him in Chicago once he gets his MBA,” you answer for her.

You’ve seen her often searching for apartments in the South Loop, indicating her future plans to leave the clinic and the country altogether for greener pastures overseas. You know that the long distance relationship has been hard for her, often using her breaks to speak with her boyfriend on the phone just as he’s about to turn in for the night.

It’s almost funny to think about: that Kozue and her lover, despite being forced into a long distance relationship due to their differing circumstances, were just about as close as literal soulmates get, while you and Satoru live together and yet you’re worlds away from each other.

But whatever, some people just get dealt a better hand.

“It’s alright. I really don’t mind if this would be our last year working together if it means you get to pursue your happiness elsewhere. The clinic is nothing compared to the world, after all.”

Kozue nods in thanks. This is just another one of the many things she admires you for. She knows that she isn’t as tenured as the rest of the dentists in the clinic, and honestly, she didn’t have a doctorate in dentistry either, but you still trusted her enough to be your secretary, and you never made her feel that she was in any way inferior to you or anyone else — it’s all just part of your caring nature even if you do have

“Now, you’re just making me wanna stay even more, boss,” Kozue pretends to wipe a tear from her eye, making you laugh.

Her loyalty is always something you’re grateful for and quite frankly, you couldn’t imagine the clinic functioning as well as it is without her. Sure, sometimes she’s annoyingly optimistic sometimes and just unbearably too happy in the mornings, but you had to hand it to her, in an office full of sleep-deprived dentists like yourselves, Kozue’s infectious enthusiasm is probably just as essential as good quality coffee beans. She always knows when to cheer everyone up, especially you.

“Well, that’s great, since you always know how to get me out of a tight spot,” you half-joke.

“Always!” she holds up her thumb in affirmation. The intercom suddenly pages her and she checks her watch. “Looks like our first patients are coming in, I’ll see you later. And happy anniversary to the two of you!”

The rest of the afternoon rolls by uneventfully and before you know it, Satoru is already picking you up from work like he always does except this time, he’s carrying a bouquet of pink camellias.

He removes his sunglasses just as he steps into the building and you stand there for a bit, a little starstruck.

It’s no secret that your husband is good-looking, but it feels like an eternity since you’ve actually properly regarded him. It’s like seeing him for the first time all over again: your heart thumps in your chest and a blush creeps onto your cheeks. How long has it been since you’ve felt this way? Since the two of you spent time with each other? Since you both made a courageous effort to mend the gap between you and him?

Satoru also stands there, relief washing over him when he notices you wearing the earrings he got you. “Hey,” he greets, striding over to you. The bouquet is placed into your waiting hands and you feel you’ve been swept off your feet when he leans down to press a soft yet somehow yearnful kiss on your forehead.

“Hi…” You shyly greet your husband like he’s some guy you met on a blind date. You then realize he’s wearing the Armani shoes you got him. “Do they fit well?”

What kind of a question is that? Satoru is a size twelve and a half, you should know your husband the same way he should know how his wife prefers pearls over sapphire.

Satoru forces a wry smile. The shoes do feel a little pinchy but you didn’t need to get the impression that he doesn’t appreciate your gift. “Yeah, they’re great.” He glances at the earrings with a soft smile. “You look beautiful.”

“Tell that to the patient who thought I was a mushroom when I gave them nitrous oxide earlier,” you chuckled. Satoru snorted in laughter at that. “Happy anniversary, ‘Toru,” you whispered.

“Happy anniversary, Y/N,” he pulls you into a tight hug, and your heart swells with an uneasy but welcome joy.

Your arms instinctively wrap around your husband’s form which Satoru responds to with an indiscernible sniffle. The walk to the car is quiet but not tense and maybe not peaceful either, years of emotional distancing are not easily forgotten after all. But — you look at your and Satoru’s interlocked hands, noting how for once, it felt like they fit a little more perfectly together right now more than ever — maybe it’s a start.

There’s a saying that goes: “There is no calamity greater than lavish desires. There is no greater guilt than discontentment. And there is no greater disaster than greed.” In a game of poker, it’s said the winner is the first to rise once he gets his betting sum back, and in chess, oftentimes it is the aggressive players that slaughter pawn after pawn who do not realize their own territory has already been infiltrated by their opponent.

With that being said, you shouldn’t have pushed it. You should have been content with the small yet meaningful progress you and Gojo made. After a night out at Tokyo’s Stellar Sky Garden Lounge, the two of you practically stumble back into the penthouse in an intense haze of lust, desire and a banal and reckless greed. In Satoru’s defense, with the way that you were responding to his touch, tilting your head back to expose the delicate flesh of your neck as he nips on the skin like a man possessed, he thought that, at the very least, you were ready to be intimate with him after what felt like an eternity of you choosing to sleep in the guest room rather than your marital bed.

“H-Hah–S-Satoru, mnhh…”

Satoru expertly wraps his lips around your nipple, suckling at it, his nose tickling your mound. His other hand catches your other tit, squeezing at the tender nub eliciting a languid moan from your lips. “Shhh,” he releases your nipple momentarily, his tongue flicking against the bud. “Let me take care of you, babe…”

His hand trails down to your core, collecting your slick, rubbing up and down your slit, plunging a finger inside. He bites his lip at your warmth, he could already feel your familiar and tight walls. And he wasn’t even inside you yet. The thought of being inside you again sends a shiver of excitement down his spine, and he pushes you onto the soft mattress.

It’s been two years since your last miscarriage, two whole years that you’ve denied him of sexual intimacy. And Satoru doesn’t blame you. Having to endure loss after loss, it was expected that you’d withdraw into yourself, closing everyone off as you healed. But can’t you see he was hurting too? That he has wept too? That he also has his own fair share of damp tear-stained pillows? That he has, on many occasions, locked himself in his C-suite office after having had to endure another sleepless night of your relentless sobs in the other room?

He looks into your hooded eyes, and he sees the future you two have lost: you carrying his baby in your arms, cooing to them as you bounce them gently in your arms – now, Satoru isn’t religious, but that image is his heaven. Burying his length into your cunt, he chokes, letting out a pleasured groan that mixes with your own breathless whine. Soon, the bedroom is filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin as he pounds into you at a desperate pace.

On your end, with every roll of his hips, tears prick your eyes.

This feels wrong.

No, this feels excruciating and terribly hollow. He’s never touched you like this. Sex with Satoru was always passionate, and loving. His hands would always intertwine with yours as he catches your lips in a searing kiss. He’s never like this. His captivating sapphire eyes held a loneliness to them.

As he’s bullying your cunt, you could feel yourself sinking into oblivion.

“Aah–” Satoru groans softly, his forehead pressed against your shoulder as looking at you was so painful for him right now. He doesn’t want to hate you, but he seems unable to love you all the same. What should he do? What can he do?

Suddenly, as he’s approaching his high, his hips melding into yours a little more forcefully and erratically, a dam of tears bursts wide open and you push back against him.

“Mm…’m getting close–ngh—gonna make you a mommy again, all round with my baby, you like that huh?” Satoru lifts your legs to his shoulders, thrusting into your weeping pussy, oblivious to the turmoil in your head. Two seconds ago, you wanted this. Now, you feel like you were gonna be sick at his ramblings of getting you pregnant again.

Fuck. You can’t do that anymore: getting pregnant and being led to believe that by some miracle, you’ll carry to term. Please just make it end.

“Satoru, d-don’t–ngh–p-please stop–”

“Shhh, ah…Y/N…gonna cum…gonna give you my baby—agh–”

He doesn’t seem to hear you. No, he pretends not to hear you outrightly rejecting him.

On your end, you felt like you were dying, with the overwhelming self-loathing in your heart, you couldn't even see Satoru’s desperate effort to restore the normal intimacy you two shared during the early parts of your marriage. But you didn’t care. Satoru didn’t deserve to make love to someone who’s already gone, to stick around for someone who can’t give him the happiness he deserves.

“Satoru, PLEASE STOP!”

“Fuck!” Satoru pulls out mid-thrust. Your heart clenches when he looks like he’s been slapped right across the face. He hastily finishes himself off and upon his release, he groans in frustration. He should have known you’d be this way. And fuck, he was angry at you. He was angry at himself for stupidly hoping that things were gonna get better. “You’re impossible!” he fumed, already pulling on his clothes, ready to abandon you.

“Satoru, wait! Where are you going?!” you pull the blanket to your chest, draping yourself as you follow him to the door.

“Anywhere! Anywhere but here!”

“You’ve never been here!” You accuse him without thinking and instant regret overruns you when Satoru lets out a scoff of disbelief. “Satoru, wait, I’m sorry!”

“Never?” Satoru’s jaw tenses. “What do you mean I wasn’t here?” He’s on the edge of losing it completely now. You had some nerve accusing him of that when he had to pick up the pieces — your pieces, the pieces of this shattered marriage. “Say it again, Y/N. Tell me exactly how I was never here.”

It was wrong of you to say that.

Painful memories begin flashing into your mind like a tragic montage: the uneaten and cold tray of food Satoru would leave outside the guest bedroom for you on the hardest and loneliest days of your life, the many instances he’s had to coax you to get out of bed by taking you to the places the two of you used to love, the countless nights he’s had to hold you, staying awake to hush you when you wake up sobbing from another nightmare.

“Satoru, no, I–I didn’t mean…that…”

He turns around to look you in the eyes, rage seeping through his usually calm ocean orbs. “You didn’t mean that? You sure sounded like you did!” He takes a step towards you, and you inch backwards, drawing your gaze to your feet in shame. “It’s fucking amazing how you don’t ‘mean to’ do anything! You didn’t mean to stand me up during our anniversary date last year too, the same way you didn’t mean to start sleeping in the guest bedroom every night–”

You flinch at the accusation dripping from his voice as he unloads all his heartache on you. “Stop…please stop–”

“And let me guess you didn’t mean to lose our children too!”

Your hand connects with his cheek and Satoru is stunned. Not at your slap. But at the vile words that just left his throat. He stares at you in shock, guilt written all over his face.

“Don’t you dare bring our children into this. You think this has been easy on me? Feeling a little life grow everyday in your womb only for them to just…be gone…one day when you wake up? You don’t know how difficult it is to lose a child!”

“And you don’t know how difficult it is to lose your wife!” Satoru retorts, his voice thick with exhaustion.

His eyes bear the scars of your shared heartbreak. He knows you’ve been struggling. Truly he does. And he wants nothing more than to take all your pain away from you, to spare you from the hell that you’ve been unfairly sentenced to. But why can’t you realize that you aren’t the only wounded party here?

“And you know what hurts the most?” His eyes gleamed with unshed tears, his voice cracking mid-sentence.

His gaze falls to the locket that held a small sonogram picture of your would have been fourth child which you wore everyday.

“I lost our children too. I grieved for them too. But you…you’re still alive but I’m already grieving for you like I've already lost you.”

Satoru doesn’t return to the bedroom again that night and the next morning, you both awake to a wedding portrait that now. sheltered a heartbroken wife’s teardrop stains, and a box full of baby items for disposal packed by a husband who has now, by all intents and purposes, given up.

Satoru slips out to the five star hotel's rooftop for some much needed air. Hopefully none of these pesky journalists saw him on his way here. But that probably just comes with the whole experience of celebrating the conglomerate's tenth anniversary. He finds you in the garden, seated on a bench next to a potted plant. Satoru approaches you quietly, sitting down next to you. "I thought I'd find you up here."

"Hmm? Yeah, it was starting to feel suffocating in there," you chuckled. "I think it was nice of you to choose the Tokyo Children's Hospital as this year's beneficiary," you nudge him lovingly. You were already excited for the upcoming courtesy visit and celebratory turnover of the 20 million yen donation from the Gojo clan's multinational conglomerate.

Satoru plants a loving kiss on your temple, pulling you close to his form, his head resting atop yours. It's been a year since you've gotten married and already, people were already getting antsy for a baby, but maybe none as anxious as your families who are more than excited to have a new little one running around their respective estates. "So, walk me through the event next week. What have you got planned?" he asks you candidly about your plans for the turnover.

"Well, I already contacted a catering company for the children's party, oh and of course, there'll be games and storytelling sessions," you share eagerly. "I even hired a magician and facepainter!"

Satoru hums at your plans. "Of course, it can't be a children's party without some facepainting action."

"You know facepainting isn't limited to children," you flash him an impish grin. Understanding the implication of your words, Satoru immediately shakes his head in adamant refusal. "Oh come on, as the Gojo Group of Companies's chairman, you have to lead by example, right?"

"They aren't my employees!" Satoru laughs. Before you could even pull your signature pout, he pecks your cheek. "But if that's what my wife wants, then, I'll have them paint my pretty white hair too."

You laugh along with him, sighing contentedly at this peaceful moment. "Hey, Satoru? Why don't we...make them a part of the permanent beneficiary list?" you suggest quietly. "I mean, we still have some room for them, right?"

Satoru contemplates the possibility of having the Tokyo Children's Hospital as a permanent beneficiary of the Gojo Group, yet, he agrees nonetheless. "You know what? I don't see why not, I'll be sure to talk to PR about it," he smiles softly. "We can even make it a tradition - having a fun get-together with the kids and their parents." Satoru's heart swells at the idea of one day bringing your own child along to these events, teaching them the importance of being altruistic and compassionate to others. You nod, seemingly sharing his thoughts. "Maybe someday, we can bring our own little one into the mix."

You nod against Satoru's warm embrace with a wistful smile dancing on your lips. "I'd like that. Logistically, it'd be faster for the two of us to distribute the goodie bags if we had an extra little pair of hands."

"It's a plan then," Satoru concurs joyfully.

——————

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[thef1diary]

Piano Punishment | C. Leclerc

Summary: You feel neglected by Charles due to his busy schedule, so you ask him to play the piano for you to regain his attention. Things take a turn when you spread your legs right in front of him with only one rule: he must play without a single mistake.

Part 2: edged

warnings: 18+, unprotected sex, masturbation, oral (fem receiving), fingering, overstimulation, spanking (like twice), things that should not be done on a piano.

wc: 2.4k

masterlist

© thef1diary 2024. all rights reserved. Do not copy, steal, translate, or repost any of my work

The summer sun filters through the lace curtains, casting intricate patterns of light and shadows across the room. You're standing by the window, feeling the heat of the day mixed with a simmering irritation. Charles had been distant lately, not entirely by choice. His time had been consumed by the relentless demands of being a Formula One driver. Now that summer break began, his focus had shifted to the excitement surrounding his new ice cream brand. Meetings, phone calls, and endless travel have left little room for the intimacy you once shared.

Determined to change that, you head to the bedroom, opening your wardrobe. You sift through your clothes, selecting a simple summer dress that clings to your curves in all the right places. It seemed normal, appropriate according to the weather, but it was just a part of your plan. You forego underwear, adding a tantalizing element only you were aware of.

You glance at yourself in the mirror, adjusting the dress and letting your hair fall loosely around your shoulders. Satisfied with your appearance, you left the bedroom, your mind set on drawing Charles away from his duties.

You find him in his study, hunched over his laptop, eyes glued to the screen, engrossed in some unknown task. You walk in quietly, your presence a gentle intrusion into his self-imposed isolation.

"Charles," you say, your voice soft but insistent. "I want you to play the piano for me."

He looks up, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as he notices you standing there. His eyes take in your outfit, lingering on the way the simple summer dress hugged your curves. For a moment, he looked impressed, even a bit captivated, but then his expression shifted, a mixture of regret due to his duties.

"I've got so much work to do, mon amour," he stated, glancing back at his laptop, the weight of his responsibilities evident in his voice. "I really can't take a break right now."

You step closer, your fingers lightly grazing his arm, drawing his attention back to you. "Just one song," you coax, your tone leaving little room for refusal. "For me?"

He sighed, conflicted, but the look in your eyes and the subtle allure of your outfit began to sway him. With a reluctant nod, he closed the laptop and stood, following you to the living room. His piano stood majestically in the center, a reminder of the times when music flowed freely between you, of the mornings he woke you with melodies he created.

He sat on the bench, leaving enough room for you beside him, glancing up at you with a dimpled smile. However, you don't sit beside him as he expected. Instead, you climb on top of the piano, facing him with your legs dangling just above the keys. He raised his eyebrows in question but you only smiled in return.

"Play something beautiful," you whisper, your voice carrying a hint of mischief.

Charles started to play, his fingers dancing across the keys with practiced ease. The melody was filled with the kind of emotion that only he could bring to life. As the music fills the room, you shifted slightly, spreading your legs just enough to give him a glimpse of your bare skin beneath your dress.

His fingers faltered, and he stops playing abruptly, his hands instinctively reaching out to grab your legs. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and desire.

You pull your legs back, out of his grasp and lean forward, your expression turning serious. "I waited for you for days," you spoke, your voice edged with frustration. "You never came, you were always too busy. So now your punishment is that you don't get me, even if I'm right in front of you."

He looks up at you, the realization of your words sinking in. There's a flicker of guilt in his eyes, mingling with the desire and frustration. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, his hands falling back to his sides. "I didn't realize—"

"You didn't," you cut him off, your tone firm. "But now you do. So if you want me, you have to earn it. Play the song, baby, without mistakes."

Charles took a deep breath, his fingers returning to the keys. The music starts again, this time with a new intensity, a determination to meet your challenge. You sit back casually, spreading your legs just enough to reveal that you're not wearing anything underneath your dress.

He catches a glimpse and his fingers falter, a note going sour as he looks up at you, eyes wide with surprise and a flash of desire. His hands momentarily freeze over the keys.

"Focus, Charles," you say, lifting your hips up to scrunch the dress up to your waist, giving him a full view bare legs. His gaze shifts from being locked onto your eyes down to your exposed pussy as you spread your legs again. "No mistakes."

He swallows hard, his voice barely a whisper as he mumbles under his breath, "I want to touch you."

You shake your head slowly, a sly smile playing on your lips. "Earn it then," you murmur.

His fingers moved gracefully to press the keys but you could see the tension in his posture based on the way his eyes kept flicking up to you, struggling to stay on task.

The melody continues, though it's punctuated by occasional hesitation as he tries to concentrate. You decide to up the ante. You bring your fingers up to your mouth, wetting them with your tongue before slowly trailing your hand down to your clit, teasing it lightly. You moan softly, the sound mingling with the music, causing his fingers to falter momentarily. His eyes widen, darkening with desire, but he forces himself to keep playing, his jaw clenched with the effort.

You watch him intently, your movements becoming more deliberate. Your fingers slide down, dipping into your wetness, smearing it over your pussy before inserting two inside. You began to slowly thrust them in and out, your back arching slightly with the pleasure. The sight of you, combined with the sensual sounds you made, is almost too much for him.

Charles' eyes keep flicking back to you, his focus slipping more with every passing second. You can see the raw desire in his gaze, the way he watches your every move, almost hypnotized. He struggles to maintain the melody, but you can tell he's on the brink of losing control.

"Keep playing, baby," you whisper, your voice sultry and commanding. "No mistakes."

His playing grows more erratic, his fingers dancing across the keys dangerously yet he still manages to press every note correctly. You moan louder as you thrust your fingers deeper, and when you lock your eyes with him, your expression is one of pure seduction.

"Do you like watching me, Charles?" you purr, your voice thick with arousal. "Does it make you want me even more?"

He nods almost imperceptibly, his eyes never leaving you. You can see the struggle in his expression, the way he's fighting to keep playing despite the overwhelming distraction.

"Good," you continue, your fingers moving faster. "Because that's all you're gonna get until you finish the song perfectly."

His breathing becomes ragged, his fingers slipping more frequently on the keys but he manages to catch himself before making a mistake. He knows he can't afford to start over; his patience wearing thin, and his cock is straining almost painfully against his pants.

Determined, he pours every ounce of focus into the final notes, his eyes flicking between the keys and your fingers moving rhythmically. The tension in the room is electric, your moans growing louder, each one pushing him closer to the edge of his control.

As he nears the end of the piece, you can feel your orgasm building, your body trembling with anticipation. The last few notes ring out, perfectly played, just as your orgasm crashes over you, leaving you gasping and shuddering in pleasure.

As soon as his fingers left the piano keys, he wrapped one hand around your wrist, bringing your cum-coated fingers to his lips. He licks them clean, his gaze locked onto yours with a fierce intensity. He moans at your distinct taste, the vibrations sending shivers down your spine since you knew the skill he had with his tongue.

"You have no idea how much I missed this," he murmured, voice thick with desire.

Without waiting for a response, Charles lowered his head between your spread legs, his mouth finding your clit with unerring precision. His tongue worked expertly, flicking and swirling, as his fingers entered your wetness, thrusting in time with the rhythm he set.

The pleasure built rapidly, your body responding eagerly to his touch. "Charles," you moaned, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him on. The room was filled with the sounds of your breathless gasps and soft cries of pleasure.

His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you open and at his mercy as he drove you relentlessly towards another orgasm.

"I want to feel you cum on my fingers," he mumbled against your sensitive clit, the vibrations of his voice sending you spiralling closer to the edge.

You could feel the tension coiling in your core, your body trembling as the waves of pleasure built higher and higher. "Charles, 'm so close," you panted, your voice breaking with need.

He intensified his efforts, his tongue and fingers moving with a coordinated accuracy that only heightened your pleasure. With a final, desperate cry, you shattered as your orgasm crashed over you in powerful waves.

Before you could catch your breath, Charles scooped you up, his strength lifting you effortlessly from the piano. He threw you over his shoulder, carrying you towards the bedroom with a determined stride.

"Charles!" you exclaimed when his palm landed on your ass, a mix of surprise and arousal in your voice.

He smirked, giving you another playful smack. "You think you can tease me like that and not face the consequences?" he asked, his voice low and dripping with desire. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk, much less punish me for not giving you enough attention."

The anticipation and excitement made your heart race as he carried you into the bedroom. He laid you down on the bed, his eyes dark with need as he quickly shed his clothes, revealing his hard, muscled body. He moved with purpose, his hands and mouth exploring your body with a renewed fervour once he stripped your dress off.

"You've had my attention all along," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot as he trailed kisses down your neck. "But today, mon bébé, you have all of me."

His words sent a shiver through your body, down to your pussy, clenching around nothing but air. He positioned himself between your legs, his body pressing against yours, his cock hard and leaking precum. With a deep, intense kiss on your lips, he entered you slowly, making sure you felt every inch. The sensation was overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and intimacy.

He set a demanding pace, each thrust powerful and deliberate. His hands gripped onto your hips, holding you in place while the intensity of his movements left you breathless.

"I missed this so much," he panted, his eyes never leaving yours. "I missed you."

You clung to him, your nails digging into his back as you met his rhythm, your body moving in perfect harmony with his. "Charles," you moaned, your voice breaking with pleasure. "Don't stop."

He didn't. He continued to thrust into you with a relentless passion, his hands roaming your body, finding every sensitive spot and exploiting it. The room was filled with the sounds of your shared ecstasy, each moan and gasp driving you both closer to the edge.

"I'm going to make you cum again," he promised, his voice thick with desire. "And again. Until you can't take any more."

His words, combined with the intensity of his thrusts, pushed you over the edge. You cried out his name, your body convulsing with pleasure as your orgasm ripped through you. Charles didn't slow down; he continued to drive into you, prolonging your climax, drawing out every last bit of pleasure.

When you thought you couldn't take any more, he shifted, changing the angle slightly, and began to move with even greater urgency. The sensation was too much, your body overwhelmed by the intensity of his touch. Another orgasm built quickly, your cries of pleasure filling the room as he brought you to the peak again.

He didn't stop until you were both completely spent, your body trembling and boneless beneath him. Only then, did he slow down, his movements becoming gentle, almost tender as he brought you down from the heights of your pleasure.

Finally, he collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms as his cum leaked out of your pussy. You both laid there, panting and content, the warmth of his body comforting against yours.

After a few moments of blissful silence, you looked at him with a playful glint in your eyes. "I guess the punishment worked, huh?" you teased, a sly smile playing on your lips.

Charles chuckled, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. "It did, but do something like that again and I just might have to punish you."

Intrigued, you raised your eyebrows and straddled him. "Oh yeah? What would you do?"

"For one..." he trailed off, dragging his fingertips down your body. "I won't let you cum for days," he stated as his fingers made contact with your dripping pussy, making you twitch due to sensitivity.

"Might keep you on edge, touch you, and just when you feel like I'll let you cum, I'll rip it away," he added, his gaze focusing on his fingers pressing into you, pushing his cum back into your pussy.

You rolled your eyes at the sensation and his words, resting your head against his shoulder. "I don't know if I want you to do that or not," you mumbled truthfully. The idea was enticing, but knowing Charles, he would tease you until you lost your mind.

You could feel him chuckle underneath you. "It's entirely up to you."

Placing his fingers underneath your chin, he tilted your face towards him. "Behave, and it won't happen. Act out, and I swear, this was the last orgasm you'll experience for a long, long time."

Taglist: @lochnoch @llando4norris @monsieurbacteria6 @namgification @lilymurphy03 @sargeantdumbass @hiireadstuff @racingheartsposts @d3kstar @xjval @namjoonswaifu @isabellewinchester @thedecalcomania-blog @casperlikej @khaylin27 @mlioravanfleet @mehrmonga @tellybearryyyy @wobblymug @bokutos-babyowl @nikfigueiredo @jointhehunt67 @sya-skies @charlesleclercsonlywife @dreamingonbed @wonnou @heylookwhoitis @67-angelofthelordme-67 @saachiep

[loredrinker]

The Eternal Bond of Solas and Lavellan 

My sister challenged me to explore the depth of Solas’s love for Lavellan in Veilguard—a love I believe endures, no matter his choices or the challenges they face. It’s a perspective I’ve seen debated often, with some arguing that if he truly loved her, he wouldn’t have left, or that her love alone should have been enough to change his path.

While many have already explored this topic, truthfully, it’s something I’ve thought about since finishing Veilguard and therefore, couldn’t pass up the challenge. This post is obviously through the romanced Lavellan lens.  

For context, my sister is a staunch Blackwall fan. She wasn’t exactly Solas’s biggest fan during her first Inquisition playthrough, but during subsequent runs, she softened. Eventually, my adoration for Solas won her over and she even played a run through where she romanced him, and found it bitter sweet (and then ran back to Blackwall). 

But before we dive in, there are a couple of things that I take into consideration in this breakdown: 

Solas’s decisions are shaped by millennia of experience and centuries of guilt and regret. He’s not just a guy making impulsive choices—he’s a being who’s lived through unimaginable pain and carried the weight of a broken world for ages. 

Solas is immortal. It’s easy for us, as mortals, to judge his actions through our limited, human perspective. But how can we truly understand the mind of someone who’s lived for thousands of years, seeing empires rise and fall, burdened with trauma, guilt, self-loathing, and the scars of war? 

That said, this mortal is going to give it a shot. Let’s go. A long post under the cut. 

Inquisition – the Foundation 

The seeds of Lavellan’s significance in Solas’s journey—and the path that could one day lead to his redemption—are planted during Inquisition. Lavellan challenges his detachment, offering him something he’s avoided for so long: a glimpse of the world as it is, rather than as it was. Through her, he begins to see beauty in what remains and starts to imagine a life connected to something other than regret and isolation. Her influence is foundational. 

Solas’s love for Lavellan, and the transformation she inspires in him, doesn’t end with his departure. She lingers in his heart, shaping the internal conflict that is still to come.  

Trespasser 

The conversation between Solas and a romanced Lavellan in Trespasser is one of my favorite moments in the series. The different dialogue choices are filled with so much emotion and after two years apart, he still calls her vhenan and “my love.” 

Lavellan’s faith that their love will endure meets Solas’s sorrowful wish that it could. The weight of their connection is undeniable. Unable to resist, he takes one last, bittersweet kiss before saving her life by taking the Anchor. Even after the Inquisition disbands (in my world state), Solas doesn’t completely leave—he lingers, though in a way that’s both haunting and ethereal. 

The epilogue slides lay it out: 

"Lavellan sometimes came awake from dreams in which her lover watched her sadly from across an endless distance. If they were more than simple dreams, she could not say, for every time she reached for him, he vanished into nothing. Still she searched, and dreamed, and waited, for a way to change the Dread Wolf's heart." 

Even though they’re apart, his presence in her dreams shows the depth of his unresolved feelings. Watching her with sorrow from across an endless distance captures the conflict between his love for her and the path he’s chosen. Lavellan’s influence on him remains vivid and alive, a tether he can’t fully sever—even as he continues down his fateful road. 

Veilguard – the Letter  

Lavellan’s presence lingers for Solas in Veilguard, years after Trespasser. Her influence is woven throughout the letter he writes for her. 

"Vhenan, I do not know if you will see these words." 

He calls no one else vhenan. Starting the letter with this deeply personal term immediately sets the emotional tone. Even after all the years they’ve been apart, Solas still addresses her as his heart, reaffirming that she’s his most profound connection. 

"My ritual is ready and will soon be set in motion. Perhaps when you read this the world will be as it once was, and you will see why all I did was necessary." 

Beneath the resolve of committing to his mission, is a quiet longing—a hope that Lavellan will understand and maybe even validate the choices that weigh so heavily on him. Her opinion still matters to him. 

What I particularly love is the phrase "...the world will be as it once was, and you will see...". Yes, it’s about his dream of restoring the beauty and harmony of the world he lost, but it also holds this fragile hope that she might still have a place in it. You can sense his desire to imagine a future where Lavellan remains part of his world—or his vision—despite the impossible circumstances. 

"That night in Crestwood, when I shared the truth about your vallaslin… you do not know how close I came to breaking." 

This part in the letter is such a window into how that moment has stayed with him. It’s clear that it still resonates with him, even after all these years. The way he admits he almost abandoned everything for her shows just how deeply her love impacted him. The word "breaking" says it all—it’s not just about weakness. It speaks to the massive tension between his centuries-old resolve and the pull of his love for her. 

"I could have shared the truth, or even put my plans aside and simply stayed with you as Solas...as I wanted." 

This confession is a raw admission of how much he wanted a life with her. The phrase "as I wanted" gives us a glimpse into an alternate reality he imagined, a life centered with Lavellan, one he ultimately denied himself for the sake of his mission. 

"What I feel for you will never change." 

This final line is everything. It’s Solas declaring that his love for Lavellan is eternal - because he is. Time, distance, guilt, and even the weight of centuries haven’t dulled what he feels for her. It also mirrors what he says to Lavellan in Trespasser, "I will never forget you." His devotion stands as this unshakable truth in a world full of loss and impermanence. 

Whether Lavellan forgives him, understands him, or even sees his words, the letter shows us a man still tethered.

Rook as a Conduit 

To me, Rook acts as a conduit for the voices that hold the most emotional weight for Solas—Lavellan and Mythal. Through Rook, we get to hear Solas talk about Lavellan directly, and what he says is just as revealing as the letter he left her.  

Solas: “When I served the Inquisition, I tried to avoid entanglements.” 

Rook: “Except for Inquisitor Lavellan.” 

Solas: “I said that I resolved to do so, not that I succeeded.” 

He went into his time with the Inquisition with a clear goal to stay detached. No bonds, no entanglements. But then Lavellan happened. Her love wasn’t something he could resist, no matter how much effort he put into maintaining his distance. 

Solas: “She is a good woman. Growing close to her was selfish of me.” 

When Solas calls Lavellan “a good woman,” it’s admiration and reverence. He doesn’t need to list her strengths outright; instead, his description of her as “good” reflects his personal definition of what that means. 

He also says “She is a good woman,” not “She was.” He’s speaking in the present tense. This small detail makes it clear that Lavellan isn’t just a memory to him or a closed chapter in his life. Even after years apart, she’s still a living, active presence in his heart and mind. He still holds her in respect and love. 

When he says growing close to her was selfish, he isn’t dismissing their bond. If anything, it’s a testament to how much he valued their connection, even though he knew it might ultimately cause her pain. 

Rook: “Do you regret it?” 

Solas: “I live with countless regrets. Some of them I have grown to cherish more than my victories.” 

This dialogue sums up just how much Lavellan means to Solas. He’s lived a long life filled with accomplishments that, more often than not, came with devastating consequences. But his relationship with Lavellan stands apart. That cherished regret tells us that his time with her brought him something no victory ever could: meaning, fulfillment, and joy. 

And then there’s the phrasing: “I have grown to cherish.” It’s also in the present tense. Lavellan’s impact on him isn’t just something from his past. It’s still alive, still deeply embedded in who he is.  

Lavellan holds a unique and enduring place in Solas’s heart. Even with all the pain and consequences of their relationship, she’s still a source of warmth and significance—a constant reminder of how deeply she mattered and still matters to him.  

Love Does Not Exist in Isolation 

I’ve seen comments out there that if Lavellan really mattered to Solas, her voice alone would’ve been enough to stop him from tearing down the Veil. I disagree. It’s clear that it takes a village to sway someone like Solas—a wounded immortal being carrying millennia of guilt and regret. Lavellan’s voice is absolutely foundational, but it’s part of a broader tapestry of influences that all come together at a critical moment. 

Solas’s decision to tear down the Veil doesn’t come from a lack of love for Lavellan. It’s rooted in overwhelming guilt and this deep sense of obligation to his people, to Mythal. Her voice matters because she was one of the first to challenge his beliefs. But hers alone couldn’t undo the weight and trauma of millennia. Voices like Mythal’s were necessary too. 

When Mythal releases Solas from her service, it’s a pivotal moment. It’s a severance of the bond that defined so much of his existence. For Solas, it’s freeing—but also incredibly painful. It forces him to reckon with his autonomy, to face the choices he’s made without the shield of loyalty to Mythal. For a man who’s been carrying so much self-loathing and regret, what a deeply uncomfortable and transformative moment. 

Then there’s Rook, who also plays a crucial role. Before Lavellan and Mythal appear, Rook is the one directly speaking to Solas, urging him to see the world and its people as worth saving. But once Lavellan (followed by Mythal) steps onto the stage, Rook falls silent. It’s as if they instinctively know their role has shifted. It’s no longer their place to persuade; that responsibility now belongs to Lavellan and Mythal.  

Of those voices, it is Lavellan’s that lingers as the last. Hers is not just a plea for him to reconsider his mission - it’s an affirmation that even in the face of millennia, their love is a truth he can’t deny. 

Through the Lens of Immortality 

For a mortal, it might be easy to see Solas’s love as fleeting because of how short-lived it was. What’s a year and a bit compared to thousands of years?  But for an immortal being—and someone as spiritual as Solas – I would think the depth of a bond matters more than how long it lasts. Solas’s love for Lavellan isn’t diminished by how brief their time together was; if anything, it’s magnified by its intensity—a flicker of light cutting through the endless darkness of his existence.  

And for someone who’s immortal, memories don’t fade the way they would for us mortals. Lavellan’s influence on Solas will stay vivid and eternal, untouched by time. Even though their time together was short, her presence is etched into who he is. Her love became this cornerstone of his internal struggle—something he wrestled with but couldn’t fully let go of. He almost gave it all up for her.

For an immortal, loving a mortal is a whole different kind of courage. It’s choosing to embrace something fleeting and fragile, knowing it will end. And still, Solas chose to love Lavellan. A bright chapter in a life that’s otherwise been filled with pain, loneliness, and time stretching endlessly in every direction. 

So yeah, she matters. 

At least, that’s how I see it. 

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ swan song ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ cho sang-woo x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header! please be sure to check out their profile for squid game fanfictions, they have helped me with my works and their writing is perfection! 🤍

˚ ༘♡ the rain cascaded in a relentless downpour, burying the world in its somber rhythm. you stood motionless, soaked to the bone, your tattered black satin gown clinging to your pallid skin, pearls glinting faintly in the dim moonlight. across from you stood cho sang-woo, his tailored suit stained with smears of blood that had long since dried, a stark contrast to the high-class reputation he once upheld. there had been a time when the sight of him would have filled you with affection, a time when you had imagined him as your husband, the man you would spent all of eternity with.

˚ ༘♡ the man before you now bore no resemblance to the one you had loved so deeply. where once there had been kindness, there was now a malicious cruelty. the charm that had drawn you in, the quiet strength and righteous honesty, had been nothing more than a facade. before the games, your lives had seemed perfect, lavish dinners at exclusive steakhouses, extravagant shopping trips, the allure of wealth. yet it was never the riches that held your heart. you had loved him for the moments of vulnerability, the whispered dreams during midnight strolls, the promises of a future built on trust. now, those memories felt like lies, twisted shadows of a man who no longer existed.

˚ ༘♡ his grip on the knife was steady, the same blade he had used to take sae-byeok’s life. you could still see her fragile form laid on the ground, blood swarming under her stiff body as her she weakly murmured her little brother’s name. she had begged for another chance to see him again, her eyes glazed with fear and dread, only to be silenced in a merciless slashing. that moment was etched into your soul, an infested wound that refused to heal. you had pleaded with gi-hun to spare sang-woo when the opportunity arose, your love for him, a ghost of what it once was, still clinging to the hope that he could be saved. however, sparing him had been a mistake.

˚ ༘♡ sang-woo had demonstrated no remorse. he had turned his blade on gi-hun after being confronted for sae-byeok’s murder, killing his childhood best friend with little hesitation, leaving you as the only two left to face the end. now, as the rain fell in endless torrents, you stood in the storm’s heart, the past unraveling between you. the love you had once cherished lay shattered at your feet, replaced by a chasm of betrayal and regret.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo,” you called out, your voice steady despite the quivering in your limbs. your gaze locked onto his, and slowly, deliberately, you let the knife slip from your grasp. it landed in the rain-soaked sand with a muted thud, quickly swallowed by the muck. droplets cascaded down your face, obscuring your vision, but you didn’t look away. “you’ve killed so many,” you said, your voice carrying over the storm, though faint and muffled. “innocent strangers, people who trusted you, those who loved you. i’m no different.”

˚ ༘♡ his jaw clenched as his face contorted with rage. “pick up the damn knife!” he shouted, his voice raw and jagged. his body shook, a mix of fury and something more fragile, a deep, unspoken torment etched into his expression. his eyes betrayed him, scorned and sorrowful.

˚ ༘♡ “i will not,” you replied softly, your soaked hair sticking to your melancholic face. “i won’t fight you. i can’t.” your breathing troubled as you continued, words tumbling out between the harsh pouring of the rain. “even if i won… what would it matter? what’s left for me to go back to? the money won’t mend this. it can’t rid what’s been done, the people we’ve lost, the pieces of ourselves we’ll never get back.”

˚ ༘♡ for a split second, his grip on the knife loosened, his fingers moving as though fighting an internal war, but just as quickly, they tightened. blood trailed down the cut across his face, mingling with the rain, streaking his skin with crimson. “damn it!” he barked, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “stop being so difficult and come here! let’s finish this!”

˚ ༘♡ “no, sang-woo,” you said firmly, taking a step toward him, unarmed, your hands open at your sides. “if the money is all you care about, if you’re so desperate to go back and see your mother, to undo all your mistakes, to lead the life you desire, to have a beautiful home, a loving wife, good children, then kill me. go ahead. take the knife and end the game.”

˚ ༘♡ tears burned your eyes, falling hot and salty down your face before the rain could wash them away. you moved closer, mere inches from him now, your voice low and steady, almost a whisper. “do it,” you murmured. “you’ll have to, or neither of us gets anything, and i won’t hurt you, sang-woo.”

˚ ༘♡ his arm lifted, the knife angled toward your chest. his jaw tightened, his breathing ragged, but he didn’t strike. the blade hovered between you, shaking ever so slightly. “i… i can’t kill you,” he said, his voice breaking as the words escaped him.

˚ ༘♡ “but you could kill sae-byeok?” you asked, voice hoarse, choking on your words, your lips curving downward in a frown. “you could kill gi-hun? their lives meant less than mine? sae-byeok had her little brother waiting for her, and gi-hun has a daughter who will never understand why her father didn’t come back.” your voice grew softer, mellowed by despair. “their lives were important, sang-woo. their lives held no less value than yours or mine.”

˚ ༘♡ his face became grim, a flash of anguish breaking through his hardened mask. “don’t you think i understand that?” he shouted, his voice catching on the words. his free hand pressed against his chest as though the pain inside was physical, unbearable. “i didn’t do it because i wanted to! you think i enjoyed it? you think i’m a sadist?” his voice cracked, his desperation bleeding into every word. “everything i’ve done… i had no choice! i have to fix this. i have to make it right. otherwise, what was all of this for? the sacrifices, the suffering, it will mean nothing!”

˚ ༘♡ the rain fell harder, drowning out the quietude, as his words hung in the air, each one more bitter than the last. you could see it, the guilt embedded into his aged face, the torment tearing him apart, but it didn’t undo the blood on his hands.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers wrapped around his trembling hand, guiding the blade to your throat. the cold metal kissed your skin, and your voice was composed despite the tears falling freely down your face. “go home, sang-woo,” you said softly, your grip strengthened to keep his hand close to you.

˚ ༘♡ his face was streaked with rain and tears now, his composure unraveling. his breathing was uneven, his chest heaving as he tried to pull the knife away. “i won’t do it,” he choked out, his voice hoarse, trembling with something between anguish and resolve. his fingers curled tighter around the hilt, but not to push forward, only to keep it from you. “i won’t kill you.”

˚ ༘♡ the silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the rain pounding against the earth. your gaze shifted to the stormy horizon, staring blankly at the void ahead. “sang-woo,” you whispered, your tone solemn, distant. “do you remember that night you stayed over at my place? you said you liked my cooking, even though we both knew it was awful. and i laughed at all your ridiculous, outdated jokes and listened to your business jargon, even when i didn’t know half the terms you used, i liked being the woman you spent your days with.” a faint, bittersweet smile tugged at your lips, though it was short-lived, disappearing as quickly as it came. “that’s the day i remember the most. not the gifts, not the trips, not the money. none of it mattered to me. only mattered. i wanted you, nothing else.”

˚ ༘♡ his breath snagged, his lips parting to speak, but no words came. you turned your tear-streaked face toward him, meeting his tormented gaze. “it will never be like that again,” you said, your voice breaking. “we can’t go back, sang-woo. not after everything.”

˚ ༘♡ before he could react, you wrenched the knife from his hand with a sudden, sharp motion. his eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he reached for you. but it was too far too late. the blade pierced your throat with brutal precision, and the warmth of your blood poured over your trembling hands. you staggered, the world moving and fading around you, your legs giving out beneath you as you collapsed.

˚ ༘♡ “sang-woo…” you murmured, your voice barely audible as you crumpled to the wet sand. scarlet-red ichor spilled out in thick rivers, melding with the rain-soaked earth.

˚ ༘♡ “no!” he screamed, his voice raw and broken, as he fell to his knees beside you. quivering hands reached for you, lifting your head from the wet sand as rain pelted down in icy sheets. his tears mingled with the blood streaking your face, his sobs shaking his entire body. “please, no… don’t do this,” he choked out, desperation lacing every word. “stay with me, please.”

˚ ༘♡ you opened your mouth to speak, but the words came weak, barely audible over the thunderous rain. “my… my family,” you sputtered, your voice thick with the blood flooding your throat. each breath was a struggle, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. “tell them… tell them i won’t be there anymore, okay?” your fingers, trembling and cold, lifted to brush against his bloodied cheek. your touch was feather-light, tender despite your waning strength. “sang-woo… please, don’t forget me, okay?”

˚ ༘♡ his face was agonized, tears streaming past the injuries that marred his angular features, it was rare to see him so emotional, so delirious with grief. “i won’t,” he swore, his voice cracking beneath the strain of his grief. “i won’t forget you. i’ll never…” he stopped, his words caught in his throat as he pressed his hands to the gaping wound on your neck, desperate to stop the flow of blood. it was a futile effort, the red blood spilled through his fingers, staining the sand beneath you. “please, stay with me,” he whispered, his voice shatterred into a sob. “don’t leave me. please. i can’t live without you.”

˚ ༘♡ his desperate efforts were all in vain. the life was draining from your body, the world dimming around you. your breaths came slower, softer, each one feeling close to your last. his frantic cries grew distant, muffled as if you were slipping underwater. your vision blurred, the storm above fading into oblivion. and yet, through it all, his face remained clear as could be, the pain in his dark eyes burned into your thoughts.

˚ ༘♡ the last sound you heard was not his voice, but something colder, emptier. an emotionless voice echoed through the air, chilling and robotic, void of anything human.

˚ ༘♡ “player 177, eliminated.”

˚ ༘♡ you exhaled one final breath, your hand falling limply from sang-woo’s bloodied face as the darkness consumed you.

a/n: another cho sang-woo fanfiction!! he’s my favorite character so there will definitely be more for him!!! please let me know you if any requests and your thoughts on this story! 🤍

[missarchive]

cognitive dissonance pt 2 - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ part one

who? tutor!spencer reid x student fem!reader

category: fluff, smut

content warnings: NSFW MDNI!! fingering, munch!spencer, oral m. receiving, cum swallowing, multiple orgasms, unprotected p in v, creampie, snowballing, cum eating, lots n lots of praise

word count: 6k

a/n: happy new year beautiful people! part two is here!!! for the moment, I don’t have an upload schedule set up, however, I’m aiming for 1-2 posts per week :)

It had been two weeks since you’d last seen Spencer—fourteen days that felt like an eternity. Two weeks of tossing and turning in bed, chasing sleep that never came, as your mind replayed the details of your last tutoring session with him. It wasn’t just the academic concepts you’d reviewed together that stuck with you. No, it was the way he looked at you, his intense gaze lingering a little too long, and the way his voice softened when he spoke your name. The memory of his touch—gentle but deliberate—refused to fade, haunting your waking moments and creeping into your dreams.

Since then, communication had been sparse. A handful of texts here and there, each one polite, almost painfully casual. The conversations felt hollow, as if the weight of that evening had been neatly tucked away, never to be acknowledged again. You told yourself it made sense—he was a PhD student, after all, drowning in research, teaching, and responsibilities you could only imagine. Still, the silence gnawed at you. It was the kind of quiet that demanded answers you didn’t have, leaving you to fill the void with doubt and endless overthinking.

Was he avoiding you? Regretting what had happened? Maybe it was nothing to him—a fleeting moment he’d already forgotten. The thought made your chest tighten, a painful reminder of how much you cared.

You sighed deeply and flopped onto your bed, the soft glow of your phone screen illuminating your face as you scrolled through your messages. Your thumb hovered over his name, debating whether to text him. It was late—just past 11 p.m.—but sleep wasn’t an option. Your thoughts were too loud, a chaotic symphony of unanswered questions and lingering what-ifs.

And then, as if the universe had been reading your mind, your phone buzzed in your hand. The vibration startled you, and your breath caught as his name appeared on the screen.

Spencer: Still up?

Your heart leapt, the steady rhythm faltering as your pulse quickened. You sat up, gripping your phone tightly, your eyes scanning the words as if they might evaporate. Without letting yourself overthink, you quickly typed a response.

You: Yeah. What’s up?

The three dots appeared almost immediately, a sign that he was typing, and you held your breath. Each passing second felt like an eternity. Finally, his message arrived, and your heart did a little flip.

Spencer: Been thinking about you.

Heat rose to your cheeks, your face flushing as his words sank in. A rush of emotions swirled within you—excitement, nervousness, and an undeniable thrill. You typed back, trying to sound nonchalant, though your hands were trembling.

You: Oh? What about me?

The seconds stretched out again, the anticipation nearly unbearable. When his next message came, it was like a jolt of electricity coursing through you.

Spencer: About how good you looked on your couch.

Your stomach flipped, and your fingers hovered over the keyboard. His words carried a weight that sent shivers down your spine, reigniting memories you’d tried to suppress. Your reply came slower this time, careful but curious.

You: Is that so?

The response came swiftly, almost as if he’d been waiting for your permission to continue.

Spencer: Mmhm. I keep thinking about how soft you felt under my hands. The way you sounded when I touched you.

Your heart raced, pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else. The line between apprehension and exhilaration blurred as you reread his message, your mind spinning with the possibilities of what might come next.

The air in your room felt suddenly stifling, heavy with the weight of anticipation and unspoken words. You had to remind yourself to breathe, each inhale shallow and unsteady. Your chest rose and fell as you glanced around the space, a futile attempt to ground yourself. Even though you were completely alone, a strange self-consciousness washed over you, as if someone might burst through the door and catch you in this intimate moment of vulnerability.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, debating your next move. Finally, you typed out a response, trying to inject a casual tone that you didn’t quite feel.

You: You’ve been busy, though. I figured you forgot about me.

The reply came almost instantly, faster than you’d anticipated.

Spencer: Forget you? Not possible.

Spencer: In fact, I was wondering if you’d like to show me again… tonight.

Your heart thundered in your chest, each beat loud and insistent, as if it might break free at any moment. You blinked at the screen, rereading his words to make sure you hadn’t imagined them. They weren’t casual; there was no mistaking his intent. His words were deliberate, confident—an invitation as clear as it was thrilling.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you typed, your pulse quickening with every keystroke.

You: Are you serious?

His response was immediate, as if he’d been waiting for your question.

Spencer: I’m already on my way.

Your eyes widened, the breath catching in your throat as you read his message. Time seemed to slow, each second dragging out as your thoughts raced. You glanced around your room, suddenly hyper aware of the clutter—the unmade bed, the pile of laundry in the corner, the books scattered haphazardly on your desk. Panic bubbled beneath the surface as you hurriedly straightened a few things, though you knew it wouldn’t make much difference.

Your phone buzzed again, pulling your attention back.

You: What if I said no?

The pause before his reply felt agonizing, but when it came, it wasn’t what you expected.

Spencer: Then I’d turn around and leave you alone. But I don’t think you’re going to say no.

You stared at his message, the certainty in his words stirring something deep within you. He was confident but not presumptuous, giving you an out even as he made it clear he knew where this was heading. For a brief moment, you hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. Then, with a shaky exhale, you typed your response.

You: You’re right. Door’s unlocked.

Your phone vibrated again almost instantly, his reply sending a shiver down your spine.

Spencer: Good girl.

The two simple words ignited something in you, a thrill coursing through your veins like wildfire. You set your phone down, your palms damp with sweat as you glanced at the door. The minutes that followed were excruciating, each one dragging on endlessly. The waiting made your nerves fray, anticipation twisting in your stomach like a coiled spring.

Finally, a soft knock broke the silence, sharp and precise. Your heart leapt into your throat as you stood, wiping your hands on your pants to steady yourself. Your legs felt like jelly as you walked to the door, your breath uneven and shallow.

When you opened it, there he was—Spencer. He stood with his hands casually tucked into his pockets, his posture relaxed but his presence anything but. His eyes found yours immediately, and for a brief moment, his expression was unreadable. Then, as his gaze lingered, a slow, familiar smirk curved his lips. It was the same one that had been haunting your thoughts for weeks, and seeing it now sent a rush of heat through you.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice low and smooth, carrying the weight of everything that had gone unsaid.

“Miss me?” Spencer asked, his voice warm with teasing confidence as he stepped inside without waiting for an answer.

He moved with an easy grace, his presence filling the space effortlessly. You closed the door behind him, your heart pounding like a drumbeat in your chest. He lingered by the entrance, his hands still tucked casually into his pockets, but his gaze was anything but idle. It swept over you deliberately, taking in every detail. For a moment, you were certain he could hear the rapid rhythm of your pulse.

“You seem nervous,” he remarked, his tone low and smooth, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint smirk.

You crossed your arms over your chest, a small gesture meant more to ground yourself than to project confidence. “Well, you did show up unannounced,” you replied, aiming for a tone of nonchalance, even as your voice betrayed a slight tremor.

He tilted his head in acknowledgment, his expression amused. “True,” he conceded, taking a single, measured step closer. His gaze remained fixed on yours, warm yet intent, as if he were studying you anew, unraveling layers you hadn’t realized were exposed. “But I had a feeling you wouldn’t mind.”

Your cheeks flushed, a warmth spreading over your skin that you couldn’t suppress. Still, you held his gaze, refusing to let him see the full extent of how deeply he affected you. “What gave you that idea?”

Spencer’s smirk deepened, his confidence unwavering. “You unlocked the door.”

The simple truth in his words made your breath catch, but before you could formulate a response, he closed the remaining distance between you. His hands rose with an unhurried confidence, cupping your face with a tenderness that contrasted the intensity in his eyes. His touch was firm yet gentle, grounding yet electrifying, as he tilted your head slightly to ensure your eyes stayed locked on his.

“You don’t need to pretend,” he murmured, his voice softer now, rich with meaning. His thumbs brushed against your cheeks, the touch featherlight but potent enough to leave your skin tingling. “I’ve been thinking about you every day since I left.”

The weight of his admission hit you like a wave, stealing your breath and leaving you momentarily speechless. His gaze held yours with such intensity that it felt like he could see right through you, every thought, every doubt laid bare before him.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want this again,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper, the vulnerability in your words hanging between you like a fragile thread.

His lips curved into a smile, softer now, the teasing edge replaced by something genuine, something that made your chest ache. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

The tension between you was electric, crackling in the charged silence that followed. Before you could second-guess yourself, your hands moved of their own accord, reaching up to tug him closer. His lips captured yours with a deliberation that stole your breath, the kiss unhurried but searing, as if he wanted to savor every second.

His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepened, the softness giving way to something far more urgent. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine, each touch igniting a fire that consumed you from the inside out.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured between kisses, his voice husky and filled with awe. His hands roamed over your back, his touch firm yet reverent, as though he couldn’t get enough of you.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as you melted into him, every nerve in your body alight with sensation. When his hands dipped lower, gripping your hips with just enough pressure to draw a soft gasp from your lips, he paused, pulling back just enough to search your face. His eyes, dark and filled with longing, studied you intently, his expression a mix of desire and quiet admiration.

“Still okay?” Spencer asked again, his voice calm but edged with a restraint that made your heart race.

“Yes,” you whispered, your hands gliding down to rest against the firm planes of his chest.

His lips curled into a soft smile as he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Good girl,” he murmured, the words low and velvety, sending a shiver down your spine.

He caught the subtle reaction instantly, his smirk deepening with satisfaction. Without breaking eye contact, his hands found your waist and gently guided you backward until your legs brushed the edge of the couch. The soft pressure behind his movements made it impossible to resist as he eased you down, following without hesitation. His body hovered over yours, the closeness making your skin tingle with anticipation.

Spencer’s lips found the delicate curve of your neck, each kiss deliberate, leaving a searing trail of heat in their wake. His hands slid beneath your shirt, his fingertips grazing the bare skin of your sides. The warmth of his touch made you arch into him instinctively, a soft gasp escaping your lips.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmured against your neck, his voice dripping with admiration. “I missed this.”

The words sent a flutter through your chest, but before you could respond, his lips captured yours again, silencing every thought. His kiss was consuming, pulling you into a world where nothing else existed but him. His hands moved with practiced confidence, exploring every inch of you as though rediscovering territory he’d longed for since the last time.

Spencer’s lips left your mouth to trail down your neck again, pressing slow, lingering kisses that made your breath hitch. His hands pushed your shirt higher, sliding it up over your ribs, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that set you alight. He paused as his hands reached just below your bra, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours with a question unspoken.

His lips claimed yours again, this time more demanding, his teeth gently grazing your bottom lip before soothing the spot with his tongue. His hands slipped beneath the fabric of your bra, one palm cupping your breast with a touch that was both firm and reverent. The sensation pulled a soft whimper from you, and he smirked against your mouth, clearly pleased with your response.

“So sensitive,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, deliberate circles. The motion made your body arch into his touch, your breath hitching with every movement. “I could spend hours just figuring out what makes you react like this.”

The weight of his words, heavy with intent, sent a shiver down your spine. Your breath came in shallow gasps as his other hand slid down the curve of your side, his fingers finding your waistband. He hesitated for a moment, his eyes seeking yours for permission.

You nodded quickly, your need for his touch eclipsing any hesitation.

Spencer made quick work of the button and zipper, his hand slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. His fingers moved with deliberate precision, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that made your head fall back against the couch.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice a mix of awe and mischief. “So perfect.”

His words sent a flush of heat across your cheeks, but the gentle pressure of his fingers chased away any lingering self-consciousness. As he increased his rhythm, a soft cry escaped your lips, and his smirk widened.

“That’s it,” he praised, his voice steady and sure. “Let me hear you. I want to know exactly how I’m making you feel.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt as your body responded to every calculated movement of his fingers. His lips returned to your neck, trailing soft kisses and playful nips down to your collarbone. The combination of his touch and his words unraveled you, leaving you at his mercy.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm and intoxicating. “You’re doing so well for me.”

The praise, his tone, and the intensity of his focus on you pushed you to the edge of control. You felt yourself teetering on the brink, the tension within you building to an overwhelming crescendo.

Spencer seemed to sense it, his movements adjusting with just enough precision to send you over the edge. His lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, his voice both commanding and reassuring.

“Let go,” he said softly, his words a promise. “I’ve got you.”

With those words, the tension snapped, and your body trembled beneath his touch. A broken cry escaped your lips as waves of pleasure washed over you, each one more intense than the last. Spencer didn’t stop, his touch slowing but remaining steady as he guided you through every peak and valley, his voice a steady stream of soft praise in your ear.

When the last shudder left your body, he stayed close, his hands gentle as they traced soothing patterns along your skin. He pressed soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, and finally your lips, grounding you with his touch as the aftershocks faded.

“Beautiful girl,” Spencer murmured against your lips, his tone rich with warmth and affection, yet underscored by a quiet, unmistakable pride. His eyes, soft yet intense, held yours as though he wanted to etch this moment into his memory. “My beautiful girl.”

A shaky laugh bubbled out of you, your chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm as you tried to catch your breath. “You’re... very good at that,” you managed, your voice still unsteady but carrying a faint edge of humor.

Spencer chuckled softly, the sound low and melodic, as his lips curled into a teasing smile. “At what?” he asked, the tilt of his head almost boyish, though his tone was anything but. “Tutoring?”

The deliberate smugness in his voice made your cheeks flush anew, the heat spreading over your skin in a way you were sure he noticed. You swatted at his arm, your touch light and devoid of any real intent.

“You know what I mean,” you said, the words soft but tinged with exasperation.

His grin widened, his hazel eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned in closer, the tip of his nose brushing against yours in an almost playful gesture. “I do,” he admitted, his voice dropping into a hushed murmur that sent a ripple through you. “But I like hearing you say it.”

You rolled your eyes, though the gesture was fleeting, your amusement quickly giving way to a deeper warmth as his hand slid back up your side. His touch was steady and grounding, anchoring you in the present moment.

“Are you always this confident?” you asked, your voice quieter now, carrying a note of genuine curiosity that you couldn’t quite hide.

Spencer’s expression shifted subtly, the teasing edge softening as something more earnest took its place. His gaze swept over your face, lingering as though he was memorizing every detail. “Not always,” he admitted, his hand moving to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your skin. “But with you… it feels natural.”

The sincerity in his words struck a chord deep within you, and before you could think better of it, you leaned into his touch, your body responding instinctively to the safety and reassurance he offered. “I’ve never…” you started, your voice faltering as you searched for the right words. “No one’s ever made me feel like this before.”

Spencer’s eyes darkened slightly at your admission, a flicker of something possessive and raw flashing behind his gaze. His thumb drifted to your bottom lip, brushing against it with a tenderness that made your heart stutter.

“Good,” he said softly, his voice carrying a weight that sent a shiver down your spine. “Because I don’t want to share you.”

The intensity of his words left you momentarily speechless, your thoughts scattered as his gaze locked onto yours, unwavering and full of intent. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with unspoken promises.

Before you could summon a reply, Spencer leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was achingly slow and deliberate. His movements were measured, as though savoring every moment, his lips moving against yours with a precision that felt both practiced and deeply personal.

Time seemed to blur as the kiss deepened, your hands finding their way to his shoulders, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His touch was firm yet gentle, his presence an anchor as your emotions swirled around you like a storm.

Spencer pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against yours as his breath mingled with yours in the quiet space between you. His eyes searched yours, as though seeking reassurance that you felt it too—that connection, undeniable and electric.

“I mean it,” he murmured, his voice soft but resolute. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed.”

Your chest tightened at his words, a flood of warmth spreading through you as you realized you didn’t want to be anywhere else but here, with him.

"Spence," you murmured softly, your voice a gentle caress as your fingers reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear. The intimate gesture made his eyes flutter briefly, his expression softening as he focused on you.

"I want to try something," you continued, your voice laced with both anticipation and nervous energy.

"Mm, what's that?" he asked, his voice low and velvety, his eyes heavy-lidded as he gazed down at you with a mixture of curiosity and desire.

You felt a smile tug at your lips, a warmth blooming in your chest as you leaned in, brushing a tender kiss against his lips. “Something I’ve been thinking about for a while,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “Will you let me?”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly, his analytical mind clearly at work as he tried to piece together what you meant. His hesitation wasn’t reluctance, just the natural curiosity that came with him wanting to understand.

“Of course,” he said finally, his voice soft yet steady, carrying an underlying trust that made your heart flutter. “Anything you want.”

A grin spread across your face, uncontainable in its sincerity, and you pressed another kiss to his jaw before moving with deliberate purpose. Without breaking eye contact, you slowly sank to your knees before him, your hands already reaching for the button of his jeans.

The shift in his expression was immediate—surprise flickering across his face before it quickly gave way to understanding. His pupils dilated, his lips parting as anticipation replaced his initial confusion.

“Oh,” he breathed, the word barely audible but thick with desire. “Yes, please.”

You didn’t respond verbally, letting your actions speak for you as your fingers deftly unfastened the button and slid down the zipper of his jeans. The fabric parted easily, and you guided it down his hips, revealing the outline of his already hard length straining against the material of his boxers.

Unable to resist, you leaned forward, pressing a soft, teasing kiss against the bulge. The sharp intake of breath he let out was all the encouragement you needed.

“Fuck,” Spencer hissed, his voice strained, his hands twitching at his sides as though he wasn’t sure whether to touch you or let you take the lead.

Your grin widened at his reaction, a heady sense of satisfaction coursing through you as your hands traveled down to tug his boxers lower. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, and the sight sent a thrill through you.

Though you’d seen him countless times before, this felt different—more intimate, more charged. The proximity, the quiet hum of electricity between you, made your pulse quicken with anticipation.

Glancing up, you caught Spencer’s gaze, holding it as you wrapped a hand around his length. Your touch was light at first, tentative yet deliberate, and his groan in response sent a shiver down your spine.

His head tipped back slightly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he forced them open again, clearly unwilling to lose the connection between you. The way his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the slight clench of his jaw as you stroked him—it was intoxicating.

You tightened your grip slightly, your strokes becoming more deliberate as you watched his expression shift. His breathing grew heavier, his hips beginning to rock forward in time with your movements.

“Missed you so much,” he murmured, his voice thick and low, his words barely audible over the sound of his own labored breathing.

You didn’t stop, your hand working in steady, measured strokes as you reveled in every sound, every reaction you drew from him. The way his lips parted, the slight hitch in his breath when your thumb brushed over the sensitive head—it all spurred you on, filling you with a sense of power and connection unlike anything else.

Spencer’s hand finally found its way to your cheek, his touch featherlight as his thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your jaw. When his gaze met yours again, there was a vulnerability in his expression, an unspoken gratitude that made your heart swell.

"Fuck, angel," he groaned, his voice hoarse. "That feels so good."

You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss against the tip of his cock before taking him into your mouth. He tasted salty and musky, a hint of bitterness lingering on your tongue.

Spencer let out a strangled gasp, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. You couldn't help but grin, taking more of him into your mouth and swirling your tongue around the tip.

"Shit," he swore, his voice ragged.

You hummed around him, the vibrations causing his hips to buck again.

"God, you're so good," he praised, his hand moving to tangle in your hair, tugging gently.

The words sent a jolt of heat through you, and you moaned, the sound muffled around his cock. You continued working him with your mouth and hand, relishing in the sounds he made, the way his body reacted to your touch.

He was close, you could tell. His breathing was labored, his hips rocking steadily now, pushing himself deeper into your mouth.

"Baby, I'm—"

Before he could finish the sentence, he came, spilling down your throat, his body shuddering with pleasure.

You swallowed him down, licking him clean as he shuddered through the aftershocks. You pulled away, pressing a soft kiss against his hipbone before looking up, your expression showing a hint of shyness.

"Was that okay?" you asked, your voice soft.

"More than okay," he assured you, his gaze heated. "That was amazing."

You couldn't help the swell of pride that filled your chest, and you rose to your feet, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against his lips. He sighed, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close, his body still trembling slightly.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice laced with adoration.

You smiled, the warmth in your chest spreading through your entire body.

"I love you too," you replied, leaning into his embrace.

In that moment, you knew that there was nowhere else you'd rather be.

Spencer wasted no time, his lips trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses and bites in their wake. His hands wandered up and down your body, mapping every curve and dip, until finally, his fingers reached the hem of your shirt.

"Can I?" he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

"God, yes," you gasped, arching into his touch.

He grinned, his fingers moving quickly to unbutton your shirt, exposing the thin lace bra underneath. His eyes darkened, his gaze hungry as he took in the sight.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, more to himself than anything, his voice soft with admiration.

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, his words affecting you more than you expected. He leaned forward, his lips ghosting along the top of your breasts, before pressing a trail of kisses along the exposed skin.

"Spence," you whined, squirming beneath his touch. "Please."

He chuckled, his hands moving to cup your breasts, his thumbs teasing the lace-covered nipples. You gasped, arching into his touch as the sensation sent sparks of pleasure through you.

"I'm not going anywhere, baby," he assured you, his voice low and husky. "We have all the time in the world."

The reminder of how much time you actually had set your mind at ease, and you relaxed into his touch, letting him explore your body at his own pace.

His lips continued their journey down your torso, tracing along the waistband of your panties until finally, he was kneeling between your legs, his fingers hooked into the fabric.

"Lift up," he instructed, his gaze meeting yours.

You obeyed, your hips rising off the desk so he could slide your skirt down, along with your underwear. He tossed them aside, his gaze roaming over you, his expression a mixture of hunger and admiration.

"Such a pretty little pussy," he breathed, his voice rough with desire.

You blushed, the praise causing a warmth to bloom deep in your chest.

"Spence, please," you pleaded, desperate for him to touch you.

He grinned, leaning forward and pressing a kiss against the inside of your thigh.

"I've got you, sweet girl," he assured you, his words a promise. "Just relax for me."

He moved his lips higher, placing a soft kiss against your folds, before finally, his tongue swiped across your clit, causing you to gasp and buck against him. He gripped your hips, holding you steady as he continued licking and sucking, teasing your clit and working you open.

You couldn't stop the cries that fell from your lips, his touch setting you on fire. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging and guiding him closer, as if you couldn't get enough of him.

He moaned against you, the vibration sending shivers through your entire body. You arched into him, your hips rocking against his mouth, seeking more friction.

"Fuck, Spencer," you gasped, his name a plea on your lips.

He looked up, his eyes dark with lust, before plunging his tongue into you, the sensation causing you to cry out in pleasure.

"So good," he murmured, his words muffled by the way his tongue was moving inside you. "So sweet."

You felt the pressure building deep inside you, the tension coiling tighter with each flick of his tongue, every brush of his fingers against your clit.

"Spence, I'm gonna—"

Before you could finish the sentence, the tension snapped, and you came undone, your body shaking with pleasure.

He didn't stop, his tongue and fingers continuing to work you through the orgasm, until finally, you slumped back against the desk, your chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath.

Spencer pulled away, pressing a soft kiss against your hip bone, before standing and gazing down at you.

"You're gorgeous when you cum," he murmured, his tone filled with adoration.

You laughed, the sound breathless, and tugged him closer, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"What about you?" you asked, your voice laced with concern. "Do you need—"

Spencer's lips were like fire against your skin, trailing a path of soft kisses along your neck and shoulder. You couldn't stop the whimper that escaped you, the sound eliciting a chuckle from him.

"Is there something you want?" he murmured, his breath warm against your ear.

"You," you gasped, your hips bucking against him, desperate for friction.

He grinned, his hands moving to grasp your hips, holding you still. "Patience, baby," he murmured, his voice teasing. "I'm going to give you exactly what you need."

You couldn't help but smile, loving the playful side of him that only came out during these moments.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" you asked, a hint of challenge in your tone.

His eyes flashed with amusement, his gaze never leaving yours as his fingers brushed against your core, slipping between your folds.

You moaned, the sound filling the air around you, and Spencer's lips curved into a smug grin.

"God, you're so wet for me," he murmured, his tone filled with satisfaction. "Do you have any idea what that does to me?"

Spencer’s words sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your body, his deep, measured tone setting every nerve alight. His hands trailed along your thighs, his touch deliberate and teasing as he settled himself between your legs.

“I think I have an idea,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you tried to match his playful tone, though the anticipation thrumming through you made it difficult to stay composed.

He chuckled, low and rich, the sound vibrating through you as he leaned down to press a kiss to your neck. His lips brushed against your skin with agonizing precision, leaving you gasping for more. “You’re so impatient,” he murmured, his words soft but teasing. “I love it.”

“Spencer,” you pleaded, your hands gripping his shoulders as you tried to press closer. “Please.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and filled with intent. “Please, what?” he asked softly, his voice laced with a smugness that only made your cheeks burn hotter.

“You,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I need you.”

His lips curved into a small, approving smile, and he reached down, unbuckling his belt with a confidence that made your heart race. “Good girl,” he murmured, his praise making your body respond instinctively, your hips shifting toward him in anticipation.

He pressed his forehead against yours as he adjusted himself, his length brushing against your entrance in a way that made you gasp.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, his tone soft but edged with something darker, more commanding.

“Yes,” you breathed, your hands sliding to his back, desperate for more of his touch. “Please.”

He didn’t make you wait any longer. With one slow, deliberate motion, he pushed inside, the stretch leaving you breathless. His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he filled you completely, his movements precise yet measured.

“God,” he groaned, his voice unsteady as he paused, giving you a moment to adjust. “You feel so fucking good.”

You couldn’t form words, your mind overwhelmed by the sensation of him, the way he fit perfectly against you. Instead, you let out a soft moan, your body arching into his as you clung to him.

“You’re so good for me,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as he began to move. His thrusts were slow and deliberate at first, each one calculated to make you feel every inch of him.

“Spencer,” you gasped, your nails digging into his back as you tried to keep up with his pace.

He grinned against your neck, his breath warm against your skin. “That’s it,” he said, his voice filled with pride. “Let me hear you.”

His words only heightened the sensations, the tension building in your core with every movement. His hands tightened on your hips, guiding you to meet his thrusts as he buried himself deeper with each motion.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with reverence. “So perfect.”

The intensity of his gaze, the rhythm of his body, the sound of his praise—it was all too much, and you felt yourself teetering on the edge.

“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he said softly, his lips pressing against yours in a kiss that was both commanding and reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

His words were the final push you needed, and you shattered beneath him, your body trembling as waves of pleasure coursed through you. Spencer’s movements didn’t falter, his pace steady as he guided you through your release, his own groan of satisfaction filling the air as he followed you over the edge.

When you finally came back down, your body spent and your breathing uneven, Spencer pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Body moving back down your body to rest between your legs once more. “I can’t- Spence…” Your hands reach down to grip onto his hair instinctively.

He immediately presses a kiss to your inner thigh, thumbs smoothing over your swollen pussy lips. “Shh, pretty girl. I won’t, I’m just looking. Will you let me, hm?” You whine slightly but nod nonetheless, completely entranced.

Gentle hands squeeze at your flesh and spread you open, folds parting to show the slick, milky trail of cum leaking out from your hole. Leaning down to press one final kiss to your clit, he glides his tongue up through your cunt, collecting it all on his tongue before claiming your lips back in a kiss and forcing his cum inside your own mouth.

You moan into his mouth, his arms now wrapped around you, pulling you close as he whispered, “I don’t ever want to forget how you taste.”

You smiled against his chest, your cheeks still flushed as you murmured, “I won’t say no to that.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and comforting, and for a moment, the world outside faded away, leaving only the two of you in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

taglist: @opheliahotchner

[quarterlifekitty]

Desperate times

Based on the results of this post and poll

cw: dark content. Kidnapping, threats, drugging, noncon, restraint, the whole shebang.

❌ Gaz is starting to feel a little disheartened, babe. You don’t seem as committed to making this work as he is… But that’s okay. He told you he loved you, and love means always being willing to put in the effort, yeah? So if the public approaches aren’t working, maybe you need something more private. It’s easy to get one of his mates to follow you around bars, wait for the perfect moment, and slip something in your drink. It’s easy to know when on the walk home there won’t be any witnesses. The hard part is going to be training you out of hissing and spitting when he gives you sweet words and gentle touches. That’s no way for a bird to treat her man, not when he’s gone through so much for her.

❌Soap is starting to feel a little… restless. This was fun at first, this game of trying to win you back, of cornering you like he was some kind of creep, but now? He just wants his bonnie. He needs you, and he knows you’ll never be as happy with anyone else as you are with him. He starts right from when you wake up after that night of reigniting your passions. You’re saying things you don’t mean, things you’ll regret— and he’s never been able to keep his cool when you get emotional. So if he wraps his hands around your throat and squeezes until you still, he can’t be the only one to blame. Now, he’ll be the first to admit that his worship of your body last night was just a wee bit lackluster… he was too excited for the main event. When you wake up, tied to his bed and gagged, he won’t be making the same mistake. In fact, best start on it now.

⭕️ Ghost doesn’t keep it casual. He doesn’t take baby steps. Just as soon as you return one of his calls, you can barely say hello before he says “I’m comin’ over, dovie.” You’ve never seen him smile like he did on that day before, and quite frankly, you never want to see it again. He looks sick. Drunk on just his proximity to you. He attacks you with his mouth once you answer the door, grunting between heaving breaths that he knew, knew you’d come around, knew you were a good girl, knew you’d never wanna force him to do something he didn’t want to do. He takes you on a few surfaces before he can finally pull his mind together enough to take you to a real bed. Tells you he’s gonna put a ring on your finger and a baby in your belly so this can’t happen again, because honestly? He doesn’t wanna tell you what will happen if it does.

❌Nikolai thought it was cute at first, seeing you try to play at being the big, strong, independent girl. But while his love for you is endless, his patience isn’t. The longer he lets this go on, the more training you’ll need when you come back. So he decides to do the merciful thing, and take you home. It’s a shame you didn’t behave— he would’ve let you sit in the passenger seat with his hand on your thigh the way you used to love. Instead he had to drag you into the back, chemicals soaked in the cloth he put over your mouth and nose. It doesn’t do well for a princess to be out of her tower. No, it isn’t good for anyone, least of all the princess. You don’t realize the dragon is collared and chained to you, that’s okay— he’ll just have to put you in a collar and chains of your own while you get used to things again. Maybe you’d be a little happier with your life inside if you had something little and sweet to take care of, like he does? He could get you that, malýshka. You don’t even need to ask.

I was thinking of making this the last in the series, but maybe we can push it further?