#and fall back in love with the small gentle things

[fushitoru]

chapter 9: the embers a bridgerton au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

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

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

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

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

also note that the warnings have been updated.

prev. the lake | next. soon!

general masterlist | series masterlist

Dearest Reader,

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

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catch feelings? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His stomach twisted. No.

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

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

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

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

Feelings. For you.

Impossible.

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

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

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

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

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

But Geto noticed. He always noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knew he must get out of there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good grief.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

prev. the lake | next. soon!

general masterlist | series masterlist

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

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

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

gojo after realizing the woman looked like you

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

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[gf2bellamy]

obsessed with the idea of a nervous spencer trying to hide his new relationship with a member of his team (reader) during a case where they share a hotel room and bringing up like statistics of secret relationships or something like that and needing the reassurance that everythings fine [i’d like to request non freaky if possible, but it’s ultimately up to you :) ] have a good say!!

secret — spencer reid

pairing : spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing i think ? a/n: thank you for your request !! i absolutely loved this idea it's so cute i hope you like this !! <3

You collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh, your muscles aching from hours of travel and the stress of the case. The moment your body hit the soft mattress, you could feel your eyelids growing heavier, and exhaustion seemed to envelop you like a thick blanket.

You were so tired, you could have easily fallen asleep right there, still fully dressed. 

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Spencer's voice pulled you from your drowsy haze. His voice was soft, almost gentle, but you could hear the amusement in it. “You need to change out of your outside clothes.” 

You groaned, half-heartedly rolling over onto your back, your arm flopping across your eyes. “What for?” you mumbled, not even bothering to lift your head.

Spencer chuckled quietly as he dropped both your bags and his onto the floor with a soft thud. He leaned against the foot of the bed, his eyes scanning your tired form.

“Hotch will probably pull us out of bed in the middle of the night anyway,” you added with a hint of frustration in your tone. “Might as well be ready, right?” 

You cracked open an eye, and there he was—Spencer, standing there with that familiar, sweet smile that made your heart do a little flip. 

“Come on,” he said gently, offering his hand to you, his fingers extended toward you.

You hesitated for a moment, letting out a small sigh of frustration. But something about his smile, about the way he always knew how to make you feel just a little bit lighter, made it hard to resist. 

With a reluctant but trusting motion, you placed your hand in his, allowing him to gently pull you up.

Spencer bent down to grab one of the bags, rummaging through it for a moment before pulling out your favorite hoodie and a pair of soft sweatpants. "Here," he said gently, handing them to you.

His voice was soft, and his eyes sparkled with that quiet affection you’d come to know all too well. "Get changed," he added with a soft tone.

You nodded, too tired to protest, but you smiled softly as you took the clothes from him.

Spencer's kindness and thoughtfulness had always been one of the things that drew you to him.

"Thanks," you murmured. 

As you moved to slip into the clothes, you heard the soft sound of Spencer moving around, followed by the familiar swish of the bathroom door opening and closing.

When you got done changing you walked towards the bathroom leaning against the doorframe. Spencer stood in front of the mirror, his back turned to you as he brushed his teeth.

His curls were slightly messy. You couldn't help but smile at how effortlessly cute he looked in such an ordinary moment.

When Spencer turned to you, his brow raised in that familiar, playful way, you could tell he was about to ask what had you staring at him.

"What?" you teased, your smile soft and genuine. "Can't I admire my boyfriend?" The words slipped out with ease, the affection in your voice undeniable. 

You could see the color rise up his neck, creeping toward his cheeks, and a small, bashful smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

It was always so easy to make him blush, and it never failed to make your heart flutter. 

With a quiet chuckle, you turned away from him, walking toward the bed. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. He was so wonderfully endearing, and moments like this made everything else fade into the background. 

After a few moments, you heard the quiet rustle of him finishing in the bathroom. When you glanced up at him, you saw him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you.

Now, he was the one staring at you, his gaze soft.

For a moment, the weight of the silence between you two seemed to stretch out.

"Do you think they know?" he asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes avoided yours as he spoke, staring at the floor as if there was something there he needed to focus on. 

"Who's 'they'?" you asked, your voice laced with confusion. You tilted your head, feeling a shift in the air. You pulled the blanket up, making space for him beside you. "And know what?" 

He hesitated before answering, his fingers twitching slightly as he shut the bathroom door behind him. "The team," he finally muttered, lowering his gaze even more. "About us." 

He sat beside you, but there was a certain distance in the way he sat—fidgeting, picking at the blanket between you two. You watched him carefully, your curiosity piqued.

You sat up, turning your body fully toward him, narrowing your eyes as you tried to figure out what he was feeling. "Spence," you said softly, trying to catch his gaze. "What are you worried about?" 

He sighed deeply, his eyes now locked on his hands, which had become absorbed in the folds of the blanket. “I just… I don’t know." His voice was shaky now, as if trying to force out a thought that wasn’t easy to say. "It’s not uncommon for people in our line of work to keep things like this secret. But... I mean, statistically speaking, workplace relationships tend to end up in complications, and... and with our jobs being so stressful, we have to maintain a certain level of professionalism and—" 

You watched him ramble, his words rushing out as if he couldn’t stop them, his mind running in a thousand directions at once.

You could see it—the way his brow furrowed, and his lips moved quickly, barely taking a breath between sentences.

His eyes remained fixed on the blanket, his thoughts clearly all over the place. 

You scooted a bit closer, your body naturally gravitating toward his as you reached out to gently place your hand on his, stopping him from fiddling with the blanket. His hands immediately stilled under yours, the restless motion ceasing.

He exhaled softly, his shoulders slumping as if he'd finally realized how much he'd been overthinking. "Sorry," he mumbled, his voice filled with a mix of apology and frustration. 

You shook your head, your thumb brushing across the back of his hand as you gave him a soft, comforting smile. "Don’t apologize," you said quietly, your voice warm and understanding. You could see the way his mind was still spinning. You brushed his hair out of his face, your fingers lingering on his cheek for more than just a second.

“Spence,” you called his name softly, practically asking him to meet your gaze.

His hazel eyes were filled with the familiar vulnerability you knew so well, and you couldn’t help but soften at the sight. 

“You know they’re not just our team, right?” you continued, your voice filled with care. “We practically spend our entire day with them. They’re like family.” You studied his face, trying to convey the depth of your feelings. "So what if they find out?" 

Spencer blinked, his eyes searching yours as if weighing your words. You watched him closely, waiting for him to process it.

You could feel the tension in him, the doubt still lingering.

You smiled softly, knowing you had to push this a little further, to make him see things from your perspective. “The worst thing that could happen would be Garcia and Derek annoying us all day,” you teased lightly, a playful note creeping into your voice. 

At that, Spencer let out a quiet chuckle, his lips curving up into a small, amused smile. You watched as the tension in his shoulders slowly eased. 

“I can already hear Garcia asking us a thousand questions,” he muttered, half-laughing at the image in his head. “Derek would be all over it, too—probably making terrible jokes about us.”

You grinned, teasing him lightly. “I can already hear Garcia asking if we’ve picked out the wedding colors yet. And Derek? He’ll probably be calling us ‘lovebirds’ for the next week.”

Spencer chuckled, his shoulders shaking slightly as he imagined the teasing they'd get from their teammates. “Yeah, and Morgan will act like he’s our unofficial wedding planner,” he said, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. “He’d probably try to get us to elope in Vegas or something.”

You burst out laughing at the thought of Derek’s over-the-top antics. “Honestly, that sounds like something he’d suggest." You smiled playfully at him.

He looked down at you , his expression turning slightly serious.

His eyes warm and fond, but there was still a hint of uncertainty lingering in his gaze. “I just don’t want things to get weird, you know? Between us, or with the team.”

You softened, your heart going out to him. You reached up, gently cupping his cheek to get him to look at you, a reassuring smile on your lips. “Spencer, we’ve been through a lot together, and if anyone’s going to understand, it’s them. We’re a team, and they’ll support us—no matter what. I promise.”

 Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin against your lips.

Spencer blinked in surprise, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush, and he turned to you with a soft smile that made your heart flutter. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice sincere as he gazed at you with warmth in his eyes. 

You smiled back, reaching over to gently pat his hand. “Anytime,” you said.

“How about we sleep now?” you added, a slightly tired look in your eyes.

Spencer nodded without hesitation, giving you a small, relieved smile as he stood up to turn off the nightlight.

You scooted over, making space for him, and before long, he was lying beside you, pulling you gently into his chest. 

The warmth of his body surrounded you, and you rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

 "Good night," Spencer murmured softly, his voice barely more than a breath.

You smiled, your eyes fluttering shut as you snuggled closer, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt. “Good night, Spence,” you whispered back, your voice soft and content. 

[logaenhowlett]

I ONLY WANT TO BE WITH YOU - L.H.

Summary: The small things are never just small things. For Logan, they're the constellations charting the story of him and you.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff (your heart may not be able to handle this), Established relationship, Domestic AF

A/N: I'll jump at any chance to write for Origins!Logan (he's my man fr). Here's another one for my A Weekend with Logan Howlett event! The prompt was ELATION. Title creds to Shelby Lynne.

MASTERLIST

“Honey, I’m home.”

“In the backyard!”

Keys follow a graceful arc as Logan tosses them into the tray by the door. And as always, they land with a soft clink, a quiet exhalation of metal on ceramic signalling the end of his workday.

The tray itself - a chipped, sun-faded thing you'd unearthed at an antique market one afternoon - bears the loving imprint of time. He remembers the way your eyes lit up immediately, declaring it "perfect" before playfully haggling with the vendor, your laughter ringing through the crowded stalls like a cascade of wind chimes.

Boots thud against the floor. As he toes them off, the memory of your gentle chiding surfaces; "Baby..." drawn out in an affectionate warning as you gestured to the offending muddy tracks.

Logan glances down, half-expecting the telltale streaks of dirt. Instead, the polished wood gleams back, pristine and devoid of smudges. And he knows, with a sweet certainty, that you'll be pleased.

His jacket sways the already-leaning coat rack, adding to the precarious balance of hats, scarves and dog leads you insisted on buying for the neighbour's German Shepherds. Those evenings - leash in hand as the dogs bound ahead, your face alight with a smile rivalling the setting sun - nestle warmly in the depths of his heart.

Couch cushions, dented from countless hours of cuddling and late-night reading, yield lightly beneath his touch as he ventures through the living room. On the coffee table, lit candles cast shadows across faint, nearly invisible rings of condensation, ghosts of beer bottles past.

The fireplace crackles merrily, chasing away the frosty air he'd braved last night to gather the wood piled neatly beside it. "Do you have to?" you'd murmured as he reluctantly unwound himself from your embrace. "I'll be quick, darlin'", the promise sealed with a kiss upon your nose.

Framed photographs adorn the mantlepiece above. One catches Logan's eye in particular: your first Christmas together. The ridiculously ugly sweater you'd crocheted with painstaking - and slightly misguided - enthusiasm encases him. He's tucked into your neck, seeking refuge from both the camera's flash and the itchy wool, but a small, happy smile betrays his discomfort.

Warm apple pie, its sweetness a siren's call, beckons him into the kitchen. A traitorous urge tempts him with visions of a generous sliver. But then he remembers your hand, light yet firm, swatting his greedy fingers away. "Dessert's after dinner, Lo," followed by his usual retort: "As long as you're on the menu, baby."

With a chuckle, he retrieves a bottle of ice-cold water from the fridge, briefly studying the disarray on its shiny surface. Sticky notes, some containing important reminders such as "Bring eggs please!" and "I love you" scrawled alongside silly doodles, compose a riot of colour and ink.

Just beyond the kitchen's threshold, a laundry basket rests patiently under the hallway light. Messy sheets from the morning spill over the rim, tangling with several orphaned socks and those boxers - the unbelievably soft ones you'd gifted him - that Logan swears he can't live without.

Familiar notes sound from the record player. Whistling along, he heads towards the bathroom, the basket bumping gently against his hip. And soon, the rhythmic whir of the washing machine falls in with the melody.

The chipped bathtub stands as evidence of an incident both clumsy and intimate from last week. Steam billowed in a thick cloud as warm water lapped at your shoulders. And in the heat of the moment, Logan's claws scraped a jagged scar across the smooth porcelain. The sudden snikt had been a jarring interruption, but the shared fit of giggles quickly dissolved any tension.

All these thoughts of you urge him straight towards the backyard. And happiness hits him square in the chest, because there you are - kneeling amidst flowerbeds, hands working the rich soil as you nurture your plants.

And then, the pieces fall into place.

Nights whiled away on the porch steps, dreaming about your lives together. The letter, a clerical error addressing you as Mr and Mrs Howlett, which you'd jokingly hung on the wall, echoing a quiet promise. Musings of tiny footprints padding across the floor of what's currently the spare bedroom.

This is it. This is his future.

Without warning, his arm curves beneath you, sweeping you off the ground. "Logan!" you exclaim, clutching his shoulders.

“Marry me. What do you say, sweetheart?"

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER TWELVE ━━ Worried About You

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 5.9K

❀ ━ warnings: mentions of unhealthy eating habits

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: so many fun things to come without that boy in the way

MORNING COMES too soon for Jo, pulling her from the deep, restless sleep she finally fell into. At first, she doesn’t open her eyes. She just lies there, warm and still, trying to cling to the hazy edges of unconsciousness. It’s better there. There, she doesn’t have to think. But then she shifts slightly and feels the unmistakable weight of an arm draped over her waist, a steady warmth pressed against her back.

For a fleeting second, in the soft, blurry quiet of waking up, her brain wants to think it’s Asher. That maybe last night was some awful, vivid nightmare, and she’ll roll over and find him there, smiling at her like everything is fine and he didn’t throw the last five—or, really, nineteen—years of their lives away. But then her thoughts sharpen, reality settling like a stone in her chest, and she remembers everything.

It’s not Asher’s arm around her. It’s Paige’s.

Her heart feels heavy all over again, sinking with the weight of the truth. Asher cheated. Since September. Three months of doing God-knows-what with that Brooke girl.

Her throat tightens, and she squeezes her eyes shut, willing the tears to stay put. She cried enough last night. Too much, probably. And Paige—God, Paige—was there for all of it. Patient and kind, not saying much but doing everything Jo needed, like pulling her back together without even trying.

Jo takes a deep breath, feeling it rattle deep in her ribs. Slowly, she turns in Paige’s arms until she’s facing her. The room is dim, the light from the window covered by the blanket Paige always keeps over it. Paige is awake, or mostly awake, blinking sleepily at her. Her blonde hair is a little messy, sticking up at certain edges, and her face is soft and unguarded.

When Paige notices Jo looking at her, a soft smile tugs at her lips. She reaches out, her hand brushing some hair away from Jo’s face with a gentle touch. Jo leans into it a little. “Hey,” Paige murmurs, her voice still thick with sleep.

Jo forces a small smile of her own. It’s weak, but it’s something. “Hey,” she whispers back.

They fall quiet again. Jo doesn’t know what to say, and Paige doesn’t seem in a rush to fill the silence. Paige’s arm is still wrapped around Jo’s waist, and the younger girl finds herself wanting to be even closer. It just—it feels good, being held like this. Comforting. Safe. She closes her eyes for a moment, letting herself sink into Paige’s warmth.

It’s not like Asher’s. Asher’s arms always felt solid, familiar, but Paige’s—Paige’s feel different. Softer, somehow, though still firm with muscle. Not worse, just… different. And maybe Jo likes it more than she should.

Her mind keeps circling back to everything that happened, no matter how much she wants it to stop. The fight. The crushing, suffocating betrayal. The excuses. Jo’s loved Asher for so long, she doesn’t even know how to think of herself without him. It’s always been them. People used to say they were inevitable, like something out of a movie. It feels like a joke now.

Her fingers tighten slightly around Bubbles, the stuffed turtle Paige had thought to grab for her last night. Jo had clung to it like a lifeline, the soft fabric soaked with tears by the time she’d finally fallen asleep. Paige hadn’t let go of her the entire night. She didn’t even flinch when Jo’s sobs soaked her shirt.

Paige shifts slightly, pulling Jo closer, her hand still resting lightly on Jo’s side. It’s like Paige knows Jo needs this without needing to be told. She always does. Jo doesn’t know how she does it, how Paige seems to understand her better than anyone else.

Paige’s thumb moves absentmindedly over the fabric of Jo’s shirt, a small, soothing motion that Jo finds herself focusing on. It’s helps to pull her away from the spiral of her thoughts a little. She lets out a slow breath, her body relaxing just slightly more against Paige’s.

“Thanks for dealing with me,” Jo whispers after a while.

Paige’s hand stills for a moment, and then she squeezes Jo’s side gently. “You’re not something that has to be dealt with, Jo,” she says slowly, voice soft but steady. “I’mma always be here for you, ’kay?”

Jo’s chest tightens again, but this time it’s not entirely from sadness. She doesn’t have the words to explain how much that means to her, how much Paige means to her. So she doesn’t try. She just shifts a little closer, letting her head rest against Paige’s shoulder. Paige doesn’t say anything else, and Jo appreciates that.

Jo isn’t sure how long they stay like that. But, eventually, Paige begins to slowly sit up, her hand still pressed against Jo’s side. Jo watches as the blonde rubs at her eyes a little, before looking down at her. She offers her another small smile.

“I’m gonna make you breakfast,” Paige says determinedly, her fingers trailing across Jo’s waist. “Just stay here. Relax. Go back to sleep if you want.”

Jo blinks at her, her lips parting as if to argue, but she doesn’t really have the energy to fight—even if it’s just a little bit of bickering. Besides, the idea of staying in bed, cocooned in the comfort of Paige’s blankets, is all too tempting, even if she doubts Paige’s ability to cook anything remotely edible. She’s a little afraid Paige might burn their apartment building to the ground, but she also knows that Paige is trying to help in the only way she can think of, and Jo doesn’t have it in her to tell her no.

“Okay,” Jo murmurs. “Just be careful.”

Paige just grins down at her, expression warm and inviting. She squeezes Jo’s side again before swinging her legs off the bed, standing. Jo’s eyes follow her as she moves toward the door. The blonde glances back at her, saying, “It’s gonna be good, trust,” before leaving through the bedroom door.

Once Paige is gone, the room feels quieter—emptier.

Jo sinks back into the pillows, staring at the ceiling as the events of the last twelve hours replay in her mind like a terrible movie. She can still hear Asher’s voice, still see the guilt, the desperation in his eyes.

Her stomach twists with nausea as the memory washes over her. She really doesn’t want to think about it anymore, but it’s like her brain isn’t giving her any other choice.

Jo sighs, feeling like she’s been run over by a train. She rolls onto her side, her hand reaching for her phone. She’s got to know, has to see. The urge is too strong to resist.

She unlocks her phone and goes straight to Asher’s Instagram. It’s like picking at a scab, painful but impossible to stop. Unable to help herself, she scrolls through his posts, her thumb pausing over a photo dump he posted a couple weeks ago. In the first photo, he’s at a football game, smiling, looking so carefree, like he doesn’t have a single regret in the world.

And then she’s going to his following, her heart pounding as she searches for a name—Brooke. He only follows one, and, sure enough when Jo clicks on her profile—the girl goes to Penn State. This is her.

Jo clicks on the first photo and almost immediately regrets it. Brooke is beautiful—brown hair that falls in perfect curls, striking green eyes that seem to glow, and a smile that’s so effortless it feels like a punch to Jo’s gut. Jo stares at the photo, her mind racing with questions she doesn’t want to ask but can’t seem to stop. What does she have that I don’t?

The thought makes her throat tighten, and she’s about to click away when the door creaks open. Paige steps back inside, leaning against the doorframe and staring at Jo curiously.

“Whatchu lookin’ at?” she asks.

Jo hesitates, her finger hovering over the screen. She glances up at Paige, who’s already raising an eyebrow at her. With a sigh, Jo sits up fully in bed and turns the phone toward the blonde, showing her the photo of Brooke.

“Is she prettier than me?” Jo asks, trying to sound indifferent and failing miserably.

Paige’s expression shifts a little, her brow furrowing as she walks closer, stopping at the end of the bed. She leans in, looking at the photo for a long second before meeting Jo’s gaze, blue eyes intense.

“Who is she?” Paige questions, though her voice is firm enough that Jo thinks she might already know the answer.

Jo swallows hard anyway, the words catching in her throat. “The girl he cheated on me with,” she mutters. The sentence tastes bitter on her tongue.

The instant the words leave her mouth, Paige’s expression hardens. Without hesitation, she reaches down and snatches the phone right out of Jo’s hand. “Nah,” Paige says firmly, holding it just out of Jo’s reach. “You are not goin’ down that path.”

“Hey, give it back!” Jo protests, sitting up and reaching for the phone.

But Paige is quick, sliding away with a mischievous grin. “Uh-uh,” Paige says, her arm extended high with the phone, like she’s playing keep-away with a basketball. “You’re not gettin’ it back until you stop being all self-destructive.”

Jo narrows her eyes a little, her competitiveness somehow managing to break through despite the whole situation she’s got going on. “Paige, I swear—” She lunges, tackling Paige’s arm, but Paige squirms away, laughing some. The sound of Paige’s laughter—loud, unrestrained, and higher in pitch—is oddly infectious, and before Jo knows it, she’s laughing too. The sound bubbles out of her chest like a small spark of light breaking through the dark pressing down on her. It feels good, to laugh like this.

Jo pulls Paige, and the blonde ends up stumbling onto the bed. It freaks beneath them as they wrestle for the phone. Jo tries to pin Paige’s arm down, but she wriggles free easily enough. “Paige, I’m serious! Give it back!” Jo protests, hands grabbing at the older girl.

“I’m serious, too!” Paige retorts, dodging Jo’s next grab with an exaggerated roll. “This is for your own good, JoJo!”

“Don’t ‘JoJo’ me!” Jo huffs, planting her hands on the mattress to steady herself before diving forward again. This time, she catches Paige’s wrist, but Paige twists her body, and suddenly they’re tumbling together across the bed, laughter spilling out of them again. For the first time since she found out, Jo isn’t thinking about Asher, or Brooke, or the overwhelming heartache that’s been sitting heavy within her. All she can focus on is the sheer ridiculousness of her and Paige’s impromptu wrestling match and the warmth that comes with it.

Paige, of course, ends up with the upper hand. With one final burst of effort, she pushes Jo back against the pillows, straddling her waist and pinning her wrists to the bed. “Ha!” Paige exclaims loudly. But then her voice grows a little softer as she grins down at Jo, murmuring, “I win.”

Jo stills, her laughter fading as she suddenly becomes acutely aware of the position they’re in. Paige is above her, her legs on either side of Jo’s hips, her hands firm but gentle around Jo’s wrists. Paige’s face is so close, her still untamed bed head framing her flushed cheeks, her lips slightly parted as she catches her breath. Jo’s heart does their weird, traitorous thing where it skips a beat, and she doesn’t know why. Or maybe she does, but she refuses to acknowledge it because the insinuation would be nothing short of absurd.

Her eyes trace Paige’s face—those pretty blue eyes that always seem to see straight through her, the sharpness of her cheekbones, the way her mouth quirks just slightly like she’s still holding back a laugh. Jo’s gaze dips, just for a second, to Paige’s lips, and then she quickly looks away, heat flooding her cheeks. God, this whole Asher thing must have given her brain damage or something.

Paige doesn’t seem to notice Jo’s sudden shift in demeanor. She’s too busy leaning closer, her expression softening as she speaks. “You are a million times fuckin’ prettier than that bitch,” Paige says firmly, resolutely, the kind of tone she uses when she’s absolutely sure of something. “But stalking her is only gonna make you feel worse. I’m serious, Joey. I’ll revoke your phone privileges if I have to.”

Jo blinks, feeling Paige’s words cutting through some of the self-loathing that’s been poisoning her brain. Paige says it like it’s a fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and it does actually make Jo believe her. Just a little.

Still, she can’t help the sarcastic quip that slips out. “What are you, my mother?” she asks.

Paige grins, leaning back just slightly but still keeping Jo’s wrists pinned. “Nah,” she replies, her voice light. “’M your captain. So you gotta listen to me.”

Jo rolls her eyes, but it’s more playful than annoyed. “Sure,” she mumbles, though the corners of her mouth twitch upward. She feels a little lighter now, like Paige’s words and antics have managed to patch up some of the open wounds.

But then Paige’s gaze locks with hers, and the air around them stills. They’re just staring at each other now, the laughter fading into silence. Paige’s hands are still on Jo’s wrists, her knees pressing into the mattress to keep her balanced. Jo’s pulse quickens as she stares at Paige’s eyes. There’s something in her expression—something soft and searching—that makes Jo’s breath catch.

Her thoughts begin to jumble into a mess of confusion and something else. Because why does Paige have to look at her like that? And why does she have to be so close, her presence so suddenly overwhelming? And, most importantly, why does it make Jo’s heart feel like it’s about to burst out of her chest?

The moment stretches heavily, until, like a switch is flipped, Paige seems to snap out of it. She blinks, breaking eye contact, and quickly rolls off of Jo, her movements abrupt. “C’mon,” she says, grabbing Jo’s hand and tugging her toward the edge of the bed. “Breakfast.”

Jo lets out a shaky breath, sitting up and following Paige. But as she glances at Paige’s back, a small part of her wonders what that was—and why she kind of wishes it had lasted longer.

PAIGE SITS on the couch, one leg tucked underneath her, the glow of the TV reflecting faintly off her face. The UConn men’s team is playing, but she isn’t paying much attention, not really. She’s scrolling through her phone during timeouts, trying to keep her mind from drifting to Jo. It’s not like she’s trying to smother Jo with concern—it’s just that lately, it feels impossible not to worry. Jo’s been… off. Maybe not in ways that anyone else would notice, but Paige sees it. She pays so much attention to her that it would be impossible not to.

Jo isn’t as okay as she pretends to be. It’s in the way she laughs, too loud and too often, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as everyone else that she’s fine. It’s in the way she brushes off questions about how she’s doing or jokes when someone pries too much. But Paige knows better. She sees how Jo has thrown herself into basketball like it’s the only thing tethering her to the ground, the way she pushes herself so hard in practice that she’s damn near sick afterward. She knows Jo is out at either ungodly hours of the night or ungodly hours of the morning, always trying to get more reps in. And it’s not just the basketball.

Paige can tell Jo’s forgetting meals. Lately, she’s been having to remind her to drink or hydrate herself much more often, because she can tell that she hasn’t. Paige knows Jo isn’t doing it intentionally—she’s just been forgetting, too caught up in everything else to remember she needs to take care of herself, too.

Paige knows Jo’s been struggling since the breakup with Asher, and while Jo has always been a perfectionist, always had basketball as her number one priority, this feels different. More self-destructive.

And Paige doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like feeling like she’s watching Jo slowly burn herself out and not knowing how to stop it. Jo doesn’t let people see her cracks—she’s so stubborn about it, only allowing people to see the happy-go-lucky side of her—but Paige sees them anyway. It’s like watching someone tread water, the strain starting to show in every movement, and Paige can’t shake the anxiety that one day Jo’s going to slip under.

She sighs, staring blankly at the TV as the Alex Karaban makes a three. The apartment feels too quiet without Jo here. Jo said she’d be studying with Ice tonight, but Paige doesn’t entirely believe her. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Jo—it’s just that, lately, Jo hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about what she’s doing. Paige has a bad feeling she’s at the gym or running herself into the ground somewhere, but she doesn’t know how to call Jo out on it without starting a fight.

The sound of the front door opening snaps Paige out of her thoughts. She glances over as Jo steps inside, cheeks flushed pink from the cold, her ponytail bouncing as she kicks the door shut behind her. Jo grins at Paige, breathless and bright-eyed, as she bends down to untie her shoes. “Hey,” she says, her voice chipper in a way that only deepens Paige’s suspicion.

Paige narrows her eyes slightly, sitting up straighter on the couch. “Hey…” she replies slowly, her tone cautious. Jo’s coat is still zipped up, and her sneakers are wet, leaving faint marks on the floor. Jo’s grinning, but her face is shiny with sweat, like she’s been moving hard for a while. Paige tilts her head, her eyebrows drawing together as she asks, “Were you running?”

Jo shrugs off her coat, avoiding Paige’s gaze as she tosses it over the back of a chair. “Um… yeah,” she says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Paige stares at her, incredulous. It’s nearly midnight. It’s December. It’s freezing outside. Jo is nineteen, a teenage girl running in the pitch-black cold of winter, and it’s so obviously not safe that Paige can’t believe Jo thought it was a good idea. And yet, Jo’s standing there like it’s nothing, like she’s completely unaware of how reckless it is, how it makes Paige’s chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to panic.

“Bro,” Paige says, her voice sharp, her heart pounding just a little faster as she sits up straighter on the couch. “You gotta stop doing that. You’re gonna get sick or fuckin’ kidnapped.”

“P, I’m not gonna get kidnapped,” Jo says with an airy, dismissive laugh, brushing her off like it’s nothing. Like the idea is so ridiculous it doesn’t even deserve consideration. But Paige can’t just let it go. She doesn’t like the thought of Jo out there alone, running through the freezing December night with God knows who lurking around, and the fact that Jo doesn’t seem to care—or even notice—just makes it worse.

Paige shakes her head, her lips pressing into a thin line as she gestures for Jo to come closer, patting at the couch cushion. “C’mere,” she says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Jo hesitates for the briefest of moments before sighing and making her way over. She flops onto the couch beside Paige with the kind of carelessness that’s so uniquely Jo, her movements loose and unguarded. Without a word, she curls into Paige’s side, her head resting on Paige’s shoulder, her body folding into Paige like this is second nature. Because by now, it is.

Paige’s heart skips a beat, like it always does when Jo gets this close. She wraps her arms around Jo instinctively, holding her tight like she’s something fragile and precious that might slip through her fingers if she’s not careful. Her chest tightens with the feelings she never knows what to do with—feelings she’s spent months trying to suppress, trying to shove down deep where Jo won’t see them. But it’s impossible to ignore the way her body reacts to moments like this, the way her pulse quickens and her breath hitches, the way she feels like she’s holding her entire world in her arms.

“You’re freezing,” Paige murmurs, her voice soft but filled with quiet concern. She starts rubbing her hands up and down Jo’s arms, trying to generate some warmth. Jo’s skin is icy under her fingers, and the thought of her being out in this weather makes Paige’s stomach clench all over again.

“I feel good,” Jo disagrees, her tone light and casual, like she doesn’t even notice the chill seeping into her body. But Paige can feel the way Jo leans into her warmth, just a little. She’s been like this recently—minimizing, brushing things off, pretending she doesn’t need anything from anyone. It drives Paige a little crazu, but it also makes her want to hold Jo tighter, to make sure she knows she doesn’t have to do it all by herself.

For a few minutes, they just sit like that, Paige holding Jo close, her hands still rubbing warmth into Jo’s arms even though she knows Jo won’t ask for it. The TV plays in the background, but Paige isn’t paying attention to it anymore. All she can focus on is the weight of Jo against her, the steady rise and fall of her breath, the faint scent of Jo’s shampoo mixing with the cold air clinging to her skin. It’s a little bit intoxicating.

Eventually, though, the gnawing worry in the back of her mind pushes its way back to the surface, and Paige remembers something she needs to ask. She tilts her head slightly, glancing down at Jo. “Hey,” she says softly, her voice cutting through the comfortable quiet. “Have you eaten?”

Jo doesn’t respond right away. She makes a little face, her nose scrunching up like she’s just remembered something she forgot to do. “Um… this morning?” she says, her voice unsure, almost like she’s questioning herself.

Paige gives her a look, her brows knitting together in frustration and concern. “Jo,” she exclaims, her voice sharper than she intends. She knows she shouldn’t push, shouldn’t scold, but it’s hard not to when she sees Jo taking care of everything but herself.

“It’s fine,” Jo says, waving her off like it’s no big deal. Paige hates how easily Jo dismisses her own well-being, like it’s the last thing on her priority list.

“It’s not,” Paige says firmly, shaking her head. She squeezes her arms around Jo slightly, as if it might drive the point home. “You gotta eat to stay healthy.”

“I know,” Jo mumbles, her eyes fluttering shut as she leans further into Paige’s warmth. Her voice is soft, almost apologetic, but there’s something resigned about it too, like she’s heard it all before and doesn’t want to hear it again.

Paige considers pressing her, considers giving her a whole speech about how she can’t keep running herself into the ground like this, but something in Jo’s expression stops her. She looks tired, and Paige decides to let it go for now. Instead, she grabs her phone off the couch cushion and opens DoorDash, scrolling through the options.

“Whatchu want?” Paige asks, her voice gentler this time.

Jo doesn’t open her eyes at the question. Instead, she shifts a little, nestling closer into Paige’s side like she’s trying to mold herself into the older girl. “Pick for me,” she mumbles, her voice muffled against Paige’s hoodie.

Paige rolls her eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. She knows this game by now. Jo says she doesn’t care, but Paige knows better—she always cares. Jo’s just too tired to bother making a decision for herself. And anyway, Paige knows her better than anyone else, so it’s not like it’s hard. Jo’s a creature of habit. She always orders the same thing: chicken tenders or a burger, fries with extra salt, and usually a ridiculously sweet milkshake.

Paige taps the order into her phone quickly, almost automatically, and then sets it aside on the armrest, her arm falling back around Jo like it belongs there. The weight of Jo against her is familiar now, like it’s just part of her life, and she wonders if Jo even realizes how often she leans on her like this. Probably not.

For a while, they just sit there, tangled together on the couch. Jo’s body is heavy against hers, the kind of heavy that means she’s suspiciously close to falling asleep. Paige feels the faint rhythm of Jo’s breathing against her side, slow and even, and she can tell Jo’s teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

“Y’know,” Paige says softly, nudging Jo’s shoulder, “you can’t eat if you’re asleep.”

Jo frowns a little at that, her eyebrows pulling together, but she doesn’t open her eyes. “I’m tired,” she mutters, her voice thick and groggy, like she’s already half-dreaming. And then, after a beat, she adds, quieter, “And my body hurts.”

Paige lets out a sigh. She knows why Jo’s body hurts—of course she does. That happens when you push yourself as hard as Jo’s been doing.

“I wonder why,” Paige says dryly, giving Jo a pointed look even though Jo’s eyes are still closed, not even registering the glare Paige is sending her way.

Jo cracks one eye open at that, just barely, and then lifts her hand to swat at Paige’s arm in the weakest attempt at a rebuttal. Paige catches her hand easily, holding it in hers for a moment before tugging her upright, gently but insistently.

“Paige,” Jo whines, her voice taking on that petulant tone she gets sometimes when she’s tired.

“Shh,” Paige says, ignoring the weak protest as she shifts Jo around. It takes a little maneuvering, but eventually, she gets Jo where she wants her: sitting between Paige’s legs with her back pressed against Paige’s front, her head resting against Paige’s collarbone.

For a second, Jo doesn’t move, her body stiff with confusion, but then Paige’s hands find her shoulders, and she feels Jo relax all at once, like the tension just drains out of her. Paige starts working her fingers into the tight muscles there, thumbs pressing into the knots she knows are always hiding just beneath Jo’s skin.

It’s instinctive, really. She’s done this before, whenever Jo really needs her to, and she knows exactly where the worst of it is. Her thumbs trace the line of Jo’s shoulder blades, pressing firmly but carefully, and Jo lets out this small, quiet hum of appreciation, her head tilting slightly to the side.

“You’re so knotted up, Joey,” Paige mutters, half to herself, her fingers finding another stubborn knot and working at it slowly. As her own words register with her, Paige can’t help but think to herself—pause. That sounded far different than she meant it to.

Jo doesn’t appear to be thinking about that, though, instead making another little sound, something between a hum and a sigh, and she leans back into Paige more, her head tipping to the side to give Paige better access. “That feels good,” she mumbles, her voice low and drowsy.

Paige smiles faintly at that, though she feels her cheeks heat, too. Her hands move up to Jo’s neck, her fingers pressing gently into the base of her skull. She can feel Jo melting against her, her body going soft and pliant, and it’s almost too much. The closeness, the weight of Jo against her, the way her fingers are in Jo’s hair now, brushing lightly against her scalp—it’s enough to make Paige’s heart race, her stomach flutter.

“You gotta stop letting yourself get this tense,” Paige murmurs, her voice softer now, almost affectionate. “It’s not good for you.”

Jo doesn’t respond, just hums again, her eyes falling shut as Paige’s hands work their way back down to her shoulders. Paige keeps going, her fingers kneading gently, carefully, until she feels the last of the tension start to ease.

Eventually, she lets her hands still, her fingers lingering on Jo’s shoulders for a moment before she leans forward, resting her chin on Jo’s shoulder. Her nose brushes against Jo’s neck lightly, and she feels Jo shift slightly, leaning into her touch without even thinking about it.

“Joey,” Paige says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper now. “I’m really worried about you.”

Jo doesn’t say anything, but Paige can feel the way she stiffens slightly, her body tensing again under Paige’s hands.

“I need you to promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” Paige continues, her words coming out softer now, gentler, but no less firm. “I’m serious. You can’t keep doin’ all this.”

Jo doesn’t respond right away, and for a moment, Paige wonders if she’s pushed too hard, said too much. But then Jo shifts again, leaning back against her, and Paige can feel the way she nods, just a little, like she’s letting herself lean on Paige for once.

And even though Paige knows Jo might not be able to do good on her answer—not entirely, not yet—she also knows that if Jo can’t take care of herself, Paige will do her best to take care of her. She always will.

IT TAKES a couple of weeks, but Jo eventually starts slipping back into healthier habits. It’s slow, gradual, almost imperceptible at first—like the way spring melts into summer. But Paige notices every small change. She notices when Jo starts remembering to eat without being reminded, when she actually stretches after practice instead of just crashing into a chair. She notices when Jo finally stops going out on late-night runs, and she’s proud to say she played a part in putting an end to that.

Okay, maybe Paige’s a little overbearing. She’s aware of it, but she doesn’t care. If being overbearing means making sure Jo isn’t spiraling again, so be it. It’s worth it, even if it means insisting on walking Jo back to her dorm every night after team meetings and double-checking that she’s actually getting enough sleep. And if that also happens to mean sharing a bed almost every night—whether it’s in Jo’s room or her own—then that’s just a bonus. Paige tries not to think too hard about how much she prefers it that way.

Jo doesn’t complain. If anything, she seems to welcome it. She lets Paige pull her into bed when her eyelids get heavy at a respectable hour, lets Paige cuddle in with her. It’s just what’s become normal.

It’s only when Paige realizes what’s driving Jo—what’s keeping her grounded—that everything else starts to click into place. Jo wants a national championship. That’s what she’s been laser-focused on since day one, the thing that keeps her going even when her body’s sore and her mind is tired. And Paige gets it—God, she really gets it. She’s been there before. Paige knows what it’s like to push through pain, to have that singular drive that makes everything else fade into the background.

And because she understands it, she steps up. Jo doesn’t ask her to, but Paige can’t help herself. She starts staying after practice, waiting for Jo to finish her drills so she can point out the tiny things—the positioning of her feet, the angle of her wrist on a jumper, the way she can seal a defender better when posting up. Paige has been where Jo is; she’s been the All-American freshman, the star on the rise. If anyone can help Jo get to that next level, it’s her. And besides, with her ACL still recovering, she might as well make herself useful.

It’s not like Jo needs much help. She was elite when she got to UConn, and now she’s something else entirely. Since Azzi went down in the Notre Dame game a couple of weeks ago, Jo’s stepped up in ways no one saw coming. She’s putting up ridiculous numbers—National Player of the Year numbers, if Paige’s being honest—and carrying the team in a way that even Geno outwardly tells her he’s proud about. Paige is proud, too. Obviously.

They’ve never been closer. Which is saying something, considering they’ve been close since basically the first day of living together. But now, it’s like their lives are so tightly intertwined they don’t know where one of them ends and the other begins. They spend almost every night together now, to the point where it’s become more unusual to sleep apart. Paige’s bed or Jo’s bed—it doesn’t matter. When they’re on the road for away games, they’ve even managed to pull off the occasional roommate swap, with Ice (Paige’s roommate) and Dorka (Jo’s roommate) begrudgingly covering for them. The arrangement works as long as CD never finds out. And while Ice and Dorka make it clear they’ll throw Jo and Paige under the bus if anyone asks, Paige can tell they don’t really mind much.

Still, Paige can’t really ignore the blatant truth at this point: that this isn’t how normal friends act. She knows that. She knows this thing with Jo—whatever it is—has gone beyond the walls of regular friendship. Friends don’t fall asleep in each other’s arms. Friends don’t hold each other like this, tangled up in hotel beds with no space between them.

But Jo doesn’t seem to notice—or if she does, she doesn’t say anything. And Paige doesn’t want to ruin it by bringing it up, especially with the breakup still fresh and still in the unknown about whether Jo feels anything at all for her. So she stays quiet, pushes her own thoughts to the side, and tells herself it’s fine. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

Tonight is another one of those nights.

The hotel room is quiet, save for the hum of the heater in the corner and the soft sound of Jo’s breathing. The team had won earlier—a conference game that Jo basically dominated—and Paige had watched from the bench, half coach, half cheerleader. She can still picture Jo on the court, the way she sliced through defenders like they weren’t even there, the way she carried the team on her back like it was nothing.

Now, they’re curled up in the same bed, the blankets pulled up to their chins. Jo’s body is warm and solid against her, her head tucked beneath Paige’s chin, and Paige swears she can still feel the residual adrenaline humming through Jo’s veins.

“Jo,” Paige murmurs after a long stretch of silence, her voice low and soft. She doesn’t even know what she’s about to say; the words are just there, waiting to spill out.

Jo shifts slightly, turning her head so her cheek rests against Paige’s collarbone. “Hmm?”

“You were really good tonight,” Paige tells her, lips brushing against Jo’s hair.

Jo doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she presses a little closer, her arm looping around Paige’s waist. “’Cause of you,” she mumbles, her voice quiet, almost shy.

Paige swallows hard. She wants to say something, wants to tell Jo how much she really means to her, how proud she is, how she’s the best thing that’s happened to this team—but the words catch in her throat.

Instead, she tightens her arm around Jo, her fingers brushing against the soft fabric of Jo’s shirt. It’s enough.

For now.

[ultravi0lence14]

GET FREE

SAM WINCHESTER X DOE!READER

WARNINGS: meg!sam angst, hurt/comfort, smut (MDNI), unprotected p in v (wrap it up), grinding

SUMMARY: after the shock of meg taking over sam’s body, he yearns to show you how much he cares for you.

WC: 1.4k

the air in the room is tense, a strong mist that takes over both yours and sam’s senses. the events from earlier were still fresh in your mind, and you honestly didn’t know how to feel.

it wasn’t sam, you kept telling yourself, a mantra playing over and over in your skull. he’s a good man, he was possessed.

but his mean eyes, the way he gripped onto your hair so tightly while he thrusted the knife against your throat. it was all so visceral, a feeling you never thought you’d experience from sam. his usual kind, gentle loving self had gone completely awry. the demonic entity you knew as meg taking over his being and making him cruel.

even now, as he sat beside you on the bed in one of bobby’s guest rooms, you could feel that distance that you oh so desperately wanted to have from him. you loved him, you really did, but after what just happened, you didn’t know how long it would take before you could be around him.

though sam was a determined man when it came to his girl, and he was going to do everything in his power to make sure that you knew he wasn’t going to treat you like that ever again; that he would never treat you like that under his own management.

“baby,” he murmured, fingers dusting against your shoulder as he tested out if you wanted to be touched or not. “look at me, please.”

slowly, you turn your head towards his stare, looking into the sorrow filled eyes of the man you loved. he was so broken, so upset with how everything had gone. but mostly, he was angry. angry that meg made you feel scared of him. angry that because of a demon, he needed to remind his girlfriend about the love he harboured for her in his dna.

a sniffle could be heard from where you sat, a lone tear falling down your cheek. “i’m sorry sam” you choked out, feeling his hand tighten on your shoulder.

“why are you sorry?” he demands softly, bringing his hands to cradle your face. “i should be sorry. i allowed her in, allowed her to treat you like that.”

all you could muster was a small shake of your head, gripping sam’s wrists weakly. “i’m sorry because i’m making you feel like this is your fault.” your words came out blubbery, tears mixing in with your flushed cheeks. “it’s not, sam. none of this was your doing. i’m just shaken is all, i swear.”

“you’ve done no such thing.” me murmured, leaning forward and leaving a lingering kiss on your forehead. his mouth went on to travel to the slopes of your nose, leaving light, delicate kisses wherever he could reach. those kisses than moved to your cheeks, touches like feathers brushing against your smile lines. it wasn’t until he smashed his lips against yours that you felt the unbridled passion, the longing for you to feel okay after the torment you endured at his hands.

sam’s body moved so he was kneeling on the floor at your feet, hands clutching yours shaking as he peppered kiss after kiss to your knuckles and palms.

“i’m sorry,” he breathed, head lifting up with a watery puppy dog look. your hands had threaded in his hair, holding his head in place as you caressed his scalp. “please sweet girl, let me show you how sorry i am.”

no verbal response came from your lips, a shy smirk coming in it’s wake. your hands cradling sam’s face moved to his chest, lightly pushing him back until he leaned onto his palms, legs spread wide and lap oh so inviting.

tentatively, you slipped your hands to the hem of your shirt, lifting it up and revealing your lace bra. sam didn’t speak, he just watched, mouth agape, as you unclipped the material, your breasts fully on display to his eyes. you then moved to your pants, slowly sliding them down your legs and throwing them somewhere in the room. the baby pink panties you wore had sam groaning, his hands grappling at your calves and begging you to join him on the floor.

the tap of your finger on sam’s shoulder indicated you wanted his shirt to go. with quick fingers, sam’s shirt was flying in the same direction as your pants, looking up at you with wide, expectant eyes.

you couldn’t bare to see him pout any longer; as pretty as he looked, so with wobbly knees, you lowered yourself from the edge of the bed, resting yourself into sam’s lap.

in an instant, sam’s hands were on you. one arm around your waist while the other found purchase nestled deeply in your hair. soft fabric of your panties rubbed against the hard material of sam’s jeans, allowing a slight groan to ripple from your lips.

“that’s it baby,” he groaned in your ear, using his arm around your waist to help you rub slightly against the bulge in his jeans. “get yourself all worked up and ready for me. need you all wet and needy for my cock.” a moan rippled through your lips at his words, and you couldn’t help but grind against him faster as your deft fingers worked quickly on the button and zipper of his pants.

with some help from sam, you both pulled his jeans and boxers halfway down his thighs until his dick sprang free. the look of him barred to you had your mouth watering, drool pooling at the corner of your mouth from the sight of his angry red tip resting close to your covered folds.

the wet patch near your cunt had a soft chuckle leaving sam’s lips, his fingers moving from your hair to move your panties to the side. “already so wet for me, pretty girl.” he cooed, rubbing his dick through your slick. “so wet, so needy.”

your fingers dug deeply into sam’s shoulders as he lined himself up with your entrance, holding your waist and helping you slowly sink down onto his dick. you both let out a conjoined groan at the feeling, small whimpers leaving your lips as sam bottomed out, his girth spreading you open so deliciously.

“fuck, you’re so tight.” sam groaned in your ear, holding your hips tighter as you breathed heavily into the crook of his neck. “move whenever you’re ready, darling girl. i want you to use me, use my dick to make yourself come.”

his words elicited a groan from your parted lips, encouraging you to use the leverage you had on his shoulders to lift yourself up and slowly sink back down on his cock. the slight burn was dizzying, a deep moan rumbling from your chest as sam panted into your shoulder.

the constant push and pull movements had you seeing stars, loud whimpers leaving your lips every time yours and sam’s pelvis’ would collide. the man stayed true to his words, and allowed you to use him in any sense possible. all sam did was breath heavily and groan into your shoulder, deep rumbled of ‘i love you’s’ leaving his lips as he left soft kisses on your collarbone.

digging your fingers into his shoulder blades, angry red crescent shapes from your nails rose onto sam’s skin with each bounce you made on his dick. the air was lucid, and sam used the hand he had nestled in your hair to move your face to his, planing a sloppy kiss on your open, panting mouth.

“i love you so much,” he groaned, the feeling of your orgasm approaching eliciting you to move faster. “come for me baby. cmon, milk my cock.”

his words had you stilling, sam’s tip kissing your cervix as you came all around his dick. the feeling of your come soaking him had a loud groan leaving sam’s lips, his head slumping against your chest as he came himself.

loud pants could be heard throughout the room as you and sam came down from your highs. the man in question finding no need to pull out of your soaked walls as he laid himself down on the floor, grabbing your body so you could rest on top of him.

“i would never hurt you,” he whispered in your ear, stroking your hair as you felt the clutches of sleep cling to your senses. “i was born to make you feel like this, make you feel good and loved down to my last breath.”

TAGS: @starzify @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @bluemerakis @haunteres @figthoughts @foolinthera1n @deanangel @whisperingdaze @misatxox

NAT BABBLES: sam smut?? oh we’re so up (everyone thank my sweetie pie cass!!)

[venusentranced]

Could u make a short writing abt jay? Idk why i see no sub appreciation for himmmm i totally can see him being desperate

i am a sub!jay enthusiast! a sub!jay defender!

jay has always been rather service oriented, cooking, cleaning, and caring for his friends and loved ones like his life depended on it. never the one to be selfish, he’s always around to help someone whenever they need. sometimes though, like right now for example, he gets to be the one taken care of.

“please.” his voice is barely above a whisper, hair splayed out on the charcoal pillowcase and face flushed a noticeable red. your hand danced along the waistband of his boxers, hooking your finger under the elastic and running along its length, “please what?” his eyebrows are furrowed as he lets out a displeased sigh. “touch me, please.” the last bit of his sentence came out much softer than intended, a strange mixture of whiny and hushed. he props himself up on his elbows, a disheveled and pouty look on his face, his pupils were blown out and eyes are slightly red as he fights back the urge become teary eyed. you pull the fabric down in a quick motion, freeing him from the confines of the soft prison and he takes a deep breath. “you’re such a good boy, jay,” your praise is music to his ears. “always so polite and well mannered.” you bring your face down to his tip and spit on it, his small gasp not missed amongst the static air and faint sound of the television in the other room. “thank you…” jay is trailing off, he’s listening just like always but he’s distracted by the sight and feeling of you spreading spit across his tip and shaft. he blinks a few times before laying back down on the bed, “please suck me off, please,” he doesn’t want to wait anymore as your hand leisurely makes its way up and down. you take a moment of false contemplation, “please!” he’s much louder now, there’s determination behind his voice. while under most circumstances it’d be fun to keep going back and forth you decided that he really did deserve an easier go of things. with a bit more spit you kissed the pale brown tip and wrapped your lips around him, slowly making your down his length, which is no small feat. “thank you, thank you!” jay’s voice calls out so sweetly and his face is blotchy as his eyes well with small tears, your mouth keeps so good and he wanted this so bad. you take a deep breath before picking up the pace to give your boy what he wanted and deserved, small moans begin to fall out from his lips. the sound is lewd and wet and the room is hot—you’re hot, suddenly he’s hot. he looks down at you and you’re already looking right back at him. he mutters a small curse under his breath, pulling his shirt up to let more of the air touch his skin. “please don’t stop, keep going.” his hand slowly slides down towards your head, a gentle grasp on it, he’s not pushing you down but he really doesn’t want this to stop. your mouth around him and his dick covered in spit and precum, he’s pleading with every god he can think of for it to not stop. you pull off of him to catch your breath but you use your hand to keep stroking him; he whines and it’s a sound you could never get tired of. “you sound so pretty, be louder.” you meant for it to sound nicer but by the way he whimpers and nods in agreement you don’t think it matters. just as fast as you were off him, you’re back on, you always start slow because when he hits the back of your throat you choke a little—an inescapable side effect of giving head to jay. he moans at the sensation, “faster, please, wanna cum..” his wish is your command and you take the liberty to use both your mouth and hands. now he is much louder, he’s whining and moaning and every now and again whimpering. you can always tell he’s approaching his orgasm when he starts searching for your approval, his eyes have little tear stains next to them and his features are painted that same washed red. “please let me cum, i’ve been good!” you don’t respond as your mouth is a bit busy at the moment, “please, please, please, pleasepleaseplease…” he may be able to go on forever. you hum to him, the vibration is just the right amount to send him over the edge. you pull off as the thick liquid begins to fill your mouth, white strings flowing down your hand and spraying towards him abdomen. jay is panting and writhing but he’s so happy to have his release, “thank you so much.” even in a state of pure euphoria, he’d never forget his manners.

i did not proof read this so i’m sorry if there’s any mistakes, but i hope it helps satiate the hunger for sub!jay <3

[masterjedilenawrites]

Birthday Song

Crosshair sings you a song for your birthday.

Crosshair x reader | 580 words

Note: Year 3 of my tradition writing super self-indulgent Crosshair scenes for my birthday 🙃 I will never tire of finding ways to make grumpy toothpick man soft and tender.

You pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders as you gazed out at the city from your balcony. It was chilly but not unbearable. It was your birthday and you felt at peace.

You'd told anyone who'd asked that you didn't want it to be a big deal this year. It wasn't a milestone age, there was a lot to worry about going on in the galaxy, it just didn't feel like the time for big celebrations. A nice, simple day was all you could really ask for.

Your man, Crosshair, was never one to make a fuss about such things anyway, so he'd hardly complained at the order to not bother with any special plans. Instead, the two of you had gone about the day as normal, attending to your own errands, comfortably working around each other without too much direct interaction.

Now you were taking a break outside, enjoying fresh air in last few hours of winter sunlight, silently reflecting on your year and the goals you had for yourself heading into the next one. You were content with where you were, proud of the things you'd accomplished, even if they weren't as impressive or flashy as others of your age. And you already had a few things to look forward to, new challenges to work through that would surely make you just as happy come your next birthday.

The small smile resting on your face started to grow wider as you felt a presence behind you. That was another thing to feel especially grateful for, you noted, as warmth pressed into your back and thin arms snaked around to pull you closer. You leaned into Crosshair's embrace, resting your head back onto his shoulder. His mouth pressed into your hair with a low hum.

Then the hum grew into a tune. You closed your eyes as soft words floated in the air around you.

Like a river flows... Surely to the sea... Darling, so it goes...

Your body subtly shifted to the side, and then to the other, as Crosshair began rocking you back and forth. Swaying in time to the music you both heard in your heads.

Some things are meant to be...

You loved his voice. Some called it snake-like; menacing, even. And you could agree it was not a tone you'd want to hear at the other end of a blaster. But right now, there were no blasters. There was no war. No reason for him to be so cutting and severe. Now, his voice was soft. Gentle. Conveying few but meaningful words. And when he sang, you felt even more of his heart being shared.

Take my hand... Take my whole life too...

You breathed in deeply, and then your voice joined his.

"For I can't help... falling in love... with you...."

A light kiss was pressed to your temple as your harmony concluded.

"Happy Birthday, love," he whispered.

You tilted your head to try and get a look at him. He smiled down at you, looking just as serene as you felt.

"I love when you sing," you said.

Predictably, he huffed a little. "Only for you."

And it was true. No one knew the talent he had but you. He could sell records, perform at ritzy lounges... as you often teased. But not today. Today, you could keep his voice just for yourself.

You hummed and stood on your tip-toes to give him a kiss. "And what a lovely birthday song it is."

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[sennenpharaoh]

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"..."

"Send me back. Right now. Send me back right now! Get me out of this nightmare and send me back to him right now!"

Atem had both his hands clasped over his mouth, a horrified look on his face, eyes already filling with guilt ridden and terrified tears that didn't even bother to wait before falling. Why? Because that word, that... name didn't come out of the dark other.

That came out of Atem's own mouth. He was the one who spoke of such a word.

Why? Are you too much of a Coward to admit the truth? That word came out of your lips, not mine.

"No! I... I refuse to believe that! You deceived me somehow! You had to have tricked me, controlled me to-"

Allow me to take the words out of the Murderer's mouth this time and call you an idiot. You... of all people know... what my magic is.

Remember? Your Guardian told you of this, the Snake told you of this. I reveal the truth, nothing more. And just like clockwork, when the truth is right in front of you... you refuse to admit it. He's a murderer, a mass murderer, one could say his acts are parallel to genocide. You've thought it ever since you laid your eyes on that archive. Seeing the faces, hearing the cries, watching the bodies burn to cinders. Even he says his acts are unforgivable, and yet here you are... looking over those crimes, the lives he has taken, the families he has destroyed. Who are you to look past a nation's genocide, Pharaoh? Ah... That dream still rings in your head, doesn't it? When he did the same to your own Kingdom.

"Stop... Please... Just send me back to him." Atem glared back at the other, though his eyes were still flickering with red.

You're angry, aren't you? I saw it back then, just as I see it now. You're angry for those people. All those that never got a chance to live their life. Those that never got to see their families, or start a family. All of those whose sole crime was living in a certain nation. You're right to be angry for them. Such is the way of the noble and brave Pharaoh who defeated the Dark God and saved his own nation, isn't it? You care and feel for those people as if they were your own Kingdom, don't you? You wish to see justice be done for all those innocent lives, don't you? Well... he's right there.

Atem said nothing and just looked at the image of "Roy" in front of him. Why... All he wanted right now was to leave this nightmare and be in the arms of his newly engaged fiancé. But... instead of his Colonel... what he saw in front of him was the visage of someone who had done horrible crimes, committed countless murders, ended the lives of those who had done nothing. Nothing! What the other said was right... had those have been his people... Atem would stop at nothing to seek justice for those that have been harmed. And what was in front of him... wasn't the kind and gentle Colonel he had fallen in love with. No... this was the quiet and stoic "Hero of Ishval".

Hero... he was many things, but was no hero.

He was a murderer.

"All those people... all those lives..." He muttered, right at "Roy". "Gone by your hands. Yours!" He approached "Roy", grabbing him by the uniform, tearful eyes of crimson looking back at the cold, stoic eyes of hazel. "How could you? How could someone so kind, gentle, patient, compassionate, and loving... do such a horrible, terrible, and monstrous thing? My words and feelings may not matter, and I know I have no right to say any of this..." For some reason it seemed... easier to speak to this "Roy" than the one he was actually laying with. A strained grunt left him before he opened his mouth again.

"I..."

---

"..."

"c... can't..."

Back in reality, Atem was still trembling in front of Roy, eyes still a flickering mix of red and violet, struggling even more as the words now seem to leave him against his will, the small rivers down his face now flowing freely. Though... there was no sign of possession or anything, no green circle on his head. Even the voice showed a hint of his normal gentleness, despite the words that were coming out- no. The words Atem was saying. The words Atem had held back ever since he laid eyes on an archive involving a certain extermination, and the same words that he "had no right to say", despite what he was feeling deep down.

"c-can't... forgive... you."

Roy was confused when he heard the soft words spoken, what was he talking about or who was he talking to? It wasn't at him he could tell, but then when he tried to say his nickname that he always used. (his rank)

He was listening to make sure he heard him and then those words that he spoke with those same eyes he remembered from his nightmare he had. He's seen them before, but then now.. it was noticeable, and so was the tears that ran down his face.

Then the word he uttered next, just like his nightmare.

Roy felt his whole body froze in place. He could feel his heart sinking. He had never thought that those words would be said by Atem out loud, only in his nightmares. He hadn't expected it, but of course his brain already knows that's what he was. There was no going back for what he did and he knew it.

He was a murderer and he's accepted that fact, a war criminal, and he wasn't going to pretend that he didn't do the things he did, but the thing that really bothered him about all of this was that Atem wasn't exactly acting like himself.

There had to be more to it than that, but he didn't say anything. He let Atem say that word to his face, but he was scared that something was happening that he wasn't aware of, where he couldn't help him.

Was that version of himself talking to him right now? He was at a loss of what to say or do, he couldn't just deny that because he was considered one and it wasn't like he was going to pretend he never did anything like that, because he did. He would hold himself accountable for his actions, for the rest of his life.

"Atem...?" His breath is shaky when he finally speaks. He needs to see that Atem is okay, even though his heart is racing, scared of what was to come, he would brace himself, but he wasn't sure what he was planning to say next since this whole situation was new to them both.

[annab-nana]

After that gut punch of an angsty fic (said with love because it was written beautiful) can we get some fluff. Maybe one where Eddie comes home late and finds us sleeping on the couch because we tried waiting up for him….

Your writing is incredible 💜

aw thank you angel 😍 here is some tooth-rotting fluff for ya

warnings: not proofread, use of petnames (love, angel, sweetheart)

❀ masterlist ❀

you glanced down at your watch for what felt like the twentieth time that night. at this point, you were having a staring contest with the door, but you kept letting it win to check the time.

"’i'll be home by nine’ my ass," you muttered while getting a bit frustrated with the shorthand of your watch. it wasn't that little piece of metal's fault that eddie was later than he said, but the fact that it was almost pointing to eleven annoyed you.

eddie always commented on your stubbornness, and tonight was no different. you refused to get up and go to bed without eddie. you would sit there on the couch, leaning your head on your hand and your elbow on the arm of the sofa, until eddie walked through that damn door.

"she is going to kill me, gareth," eddie said exasperatedly as they loaded the last of the equipment into his van. "do you hear me, man? she will kill me."

"i hear you," gareth commented, tossing a rolled-up aux cable haphazardly in with the rest of their stuff before slamming shut the van door on his side. eddie shut the other. "and guess what? you say that every time you think she's going to be mad at you, and nine times out of ten, you're overreacting. you really messed up that one time at her grandma's lunch though."

eddie's shoulder rose when he took in a deep, steadying breath. "i thought i told you to stop bringing that up."

gareth's sputtering laughter echoed in eddie's ears as well as throughout the back alley behind the venue they were at. "i can't, man," gareth spoke between chuckles, "it's too funny."

eddie cut his eyes at his best friend who quickly straightened up his act before he ran a hand over his face and let out a sigh. "okay," eddie started, "i'm gonna go home. wish me luck."

gareth rolled his eyes at eddie and walked to his own vehicle, shouting to him, "you'll be fine!" over the growing distance between them.

eddie braced himself for the worst when he began to unlock the front door of your shared apartment nearly two and a half hours after he told you he'd be home. he really didn't mean to be this late. his gig started late, which meant that it ended late. then, the place was packed for the band that followed them, so getting their things out was difficult. it already took a little bit to pack it all back up in eddie's van. then, there was traffic getting out of the venue and heading home.

however, when eddie opened the door, he was met with a sight he liked a lot more than he anticipated, even if he was overthinking your reaction. you were passed out on the couch, and he could tell by your position that you didn't fall asleep there willingly. you were sitting up still, but your body was curved over the arm of the couch. your arm on the sofa's was sticking straight out, your hand limp at the end of it. it seemed you were using your bicep as a pillow, and how your neck was bent to achieve such a position was sure to leave some discomfort later on.

as quietly as he could, eddie slid off his shoes and jacket and set down his keys. then, he turned to the adorable sight that was you and made his way over to you. he squatted down in front of you, delicately kissing your cheek with his thumb. in a moment, your eyes fluttered open to meet his and a small smile pulled at your lips.

"hey, angel," eddie greeted in a gentle voice, eyes full of love and adoration for you.

"hey," you spoke softly in return. you picked your head up slowly and reached your arms up over your head to stretch.

eddie felt like his heart was going to burst at the seams with how much he loved you. he didn't know it was possible to feel this much until he met you. his big brown eyes watched you before you let your arms settle in your lap. tenderly, he reached for one of your hands and asked, "you ready for bed, sweetheart?"

"mhmm," you replied in a hum as you brought your free hand to your eye to rub it.

eddie's heart was seconds from combusting, but he miraculously managed to keep it under control. he squeezed your hand in his and rose to stand, you following his actions. he leaned forward to press a light kiss to your temple and whispered against your skin, "let's go, love."

remember to support writers & reblog :)

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tag list: @fiction-is-life @jellyfishbeansontoast @daisyridleyss

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

def just an idea so no pressure- but I would love a selective mute reader who is besties with Ominous. I’m a Sebastian girly- but she call fall for whoever in universe bc I’m not great with ideas.

Love you 💕💕

Teal or Turquoise? | Ominis Gaunt x Reader

ANON - I love you too! Thank you for the beautiful prompt. I admit, I am not well-educated on the nuances and intricacies of selective mutism but I did some reading and I hope that this story thoughtfully captures your vision.

Words: ~3,400

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Big Time Fluff, LIKE SERIOUSLY THIS IS SO FLUFFY

The Astronomy Tower had always been your refuge at Hogwarts. It was quiet, far enough from the bustling common rooms and rowdy hallways to feel like a world of your own. The cold stone walls seemed to hold their breath, waiting for nothing, expecting nothing. It was perfect.

Ominis often joked that you had stolen his hiding spot. “This is where I come to escape the chaos,” he’d say, leaning on the tower’s railing with a smirk that softened his usually sharp features. You’d always reply with a small smile or a gentle nudge to his arm, the kind of unspoken exchange that needed no elaboration between the two of you.

Today was no different. The two of you sat cross-legged on the floor by the tall windows, snow falling softly beyond the glass. A book lay open in your lap, though you hadn’t turned the page in quite some time. Ominis sat beside you, one hand gripping his wand, the other curled around a warm thermos of hot chocolate he’d charmed to stay warm. He wasn’t speaking, and neither were you.

That was one of the things you loved most about your friendship—there was no need to fill the silence.

“Still lost in that book of yours?” he asked after a while, his lips quirking in the faintest of smiles.

You shook your head, tapping the page lightly with your fingertip before nudging him with your elbow. He tilted his head slightly, his wand tracking the small gesture.

“Ah, so you’re watching me now, are you?” he teased, his voice warm and familiar. “What did I do to deserve such attention?”

Your smile was small but genuine, and for the first time in a few days, you found yourself speaking. “You’re more interesting than the book.”

The words were soft, almost tentative, but Ominis didn’t react the way most people would have—no wide-eyed shock, no overenthusiastic congratulations for having spoken at all. He simply let his smile widen ever so slightly.

"I'm flattered," he said smoothly, his voice carrying the faintest lilt of amusement. “Though I must admit, it’s a rather low bar. What’s the book about? Arithmancy perhaps? Potions? Or something as riveting as Hogwarts: A History?”

You rolled your eyes and nudged him again, this time with a little more force. “It’s Charms,” you murmured quietly.

Ominis hummed thoughtfully, his fingers tracing idle patterns along the sides of the thermos as the warmth seeped into his skin. "Charms, hmm? I suppose we've had enough Potions excitement in the past week with Sebastian's antics."

The mention of Sebastian made you smile despite yourself. It was true—the memory of your boisterous friend nearly setting his cauldron ablaze last week was still far too fresh in your mind. Still, you didn’t answer, content to let the moment linger in its comfortable quiet.

Ominis didn’t mind. He leaned against the wall, letting his head fall back as if listening to something only he could hear. For a moment, you allowed yourself to study him—the elegant curve of his jaw, the way his pale lashes brushed against his cheeks, the slight furrow of concentration between his brows that never seemed to fully fade.

You quickly averted your gaze, a subtle warmth blooming in your cheeks. It felt foolish to linger on such thoughts—Ominis was your best friend... and yet, somewhere along the way—though you couldn’t quite pinpoint when—that friendship had started to feel like something more.

You glanced down at your hands, fidgeting slightly with the corner of the book in your lap, though if Ominis noticed the restless movement, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he tilted his head slightly in your direction, his expression thoughtful.

“I was thinking, perhaps we could—”

The door burst open with a loud creak, and Sebastian’s voice boomed through the tower.

“There you are! I knew you’d be hiding up here!”

You flinched, startled by the sudden noise, and instinctively pulled your knees up slightly, the book slipping from your lap. Ominis turned his head in the direction of the intrusion, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Sebastian strode into the room, his presence filling the quiet space like a storm. Flakes clung to his dark hair and his cheeks were flushed red from the cold. He grinned broadly, brushing snow from his shoulders and looking between the two of you with a mock look of disapproval. “It’s snowing outside—properly snowing—and you’re just sitting here like a couple of house-elves on their day off. Come on, it’s tradition! A snowball fight, all of us outside. Let’s go!”

You shook your head quickly, waving a hand in polite refusal. Sebastian ignored it entirely, his grin widening as he gestured toward the door. “Oh no, no excuses this time. You’re coming. Both of you. Fresh air is good for you, you know. Builds character.”

Ominis sighed, long-suffering and patient as ever. “Sebastian,” he began, his tone calm but firm, “not everyone shares your enthusiasm for freezing to death in the courtyard.”

“Freezing to death? You’re being dramatic,” Sebastian shot back, crossing his arms. “It’s not that cold. Besides, it’s tradition, Ominis. You know, the thing we always do when it snows?”

“I don’t recall agreeing to that tradition,” Ominis said dryly, his lips twitching in the faintest hint of a smirk.

You smiled faintly at their back-and-forth but stayed quiet, hoping Sebastian would get the hint and move on.

But Sebastian, being Sebastian, wasn’t one to give up so easily. “Come on,” he pleaded, his tone shifting to something almost wheedling. “It’ll be fun. You’ll see. A little snow never hurt anyone.”

You sighed silently, once again attempting to wave Sebastian off. You lifted a hand and made a small pushing motion, hoping he’d interpret it as a gentle "no, thank you." But, unsurprisingly, Sebastian was undeterred.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You can’t keep hiding up here forever. We’re your friends—we demand your presence!”

Ominis tilted his head, the faintest hint of irritation flickering across his features. “Sebastian, she doesn’t want to go.”

Sebastian blinked, caught off guard by the firmness in Ominis’ tone. “How do you know?” he asked, his confusion evident. “She didn’t say—”

“She doesn’t have to,” Ominis interrupted, his voice even but laced with finality. “Unlike you, I actually pay attention. And I know she’s perfectly happy here, where it’s warm and quiet, and she doesn’t have to listen to you yelling about snowball fights.”

Sebastian’s mouth opened as if to argue, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. For a moment, he looked genuinely taken aback, as though it had only just occurred to him that Ominis might know something he didn’t.

You watched the exchange with a mix of relief and guilt, unsure whether to feel grateful for Ominis’ defense or apologetic for putting him in the position of having to defend you in the first place.

But then Sebastian's gaze flicked between the two of you, realization dawning on his face.

“Oh,” he said finally, his voice softening. He ran a hand through his hair, looking vaguely sheepish. “Alright,” he said. “I get it. No snowball fights for the hermits. I’ll leave you to your… brooding.”

He turned back around and the door creaked shut behind him. The room fell silent once more, the faint whistle of the wind outside the only sound.

Ominis let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head as he turned back toward you. “I don’t know how he has so much energy,” he said, his voice soft and wry.

You smiled faintly, your gaze lingering on him as he reached for the thermos again.

After a moment, his expression softened. “Are you alright?”

You nodded resolutely, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. You’d grown used to Sebastian’s unrelenting enthusiasm over the years—his energy was part of what made him… well, Sebastian. Still, the way Ominis had stepped in so effortlessly, his quiet understanding cutting through the noise, filled you with a warmth you couldn’t deny.

Ominis tilted his head slightly, as if studying your silence. He didn’t press further, trusting your nod for what it was, but something in his posture relaxed further when you leaned forward and reached for his hand.

Your fingers brushed lightly against his, tracing the smooth wood of his wand before carefully untangling it from his grasp. He let it go without question, his hand relaxing in yours as you gave it a gentle squeeze, his long fingers curling instinctively around yours.

You glanced at him again, tracing the elegant slope of his nose and the gentle part of his lips, the sharp line of his jaw, and the way the winter light softened the pale angles of his face. There was something so profoundly beautiful about him, a beauty that extended far beyond his aristocratic features—beyond the graceful lines of his profile and the delicate curve of his mouth when he allowed himself to relax.

No, his beauty lay in the quiet depth of him, in the way he simply understood.

Ominis had an uncanny way of cutting through the noise, of seeing people—not with his wand or the faint outlines of their presence—but with a deeper kind of clarity, one rooted in intuition and kindness. He never fumbled through the awkward sympathies others so often offered. He had never pitied you, never tried to "fix" you, never made you feel like the silence you carried was something that needed explaining. He simply accepted it, just as he accepted you.

And yet, that acceptance only made the ache in your chest deepen. It burrowed in, unshakable, a quiet yearning you were terrified to voice but felt all the same.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring until his soft voice cut through your thoughts.

“Is there something on my face?” he teased gently, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. You stiffened slightly, your cheeks warming as you quickly looked away, but his voice stopped you before you could retreat too far into yourself. “Don’t,” he said softly, the teasing gone now. “I don’t mind. Really.”

You turned back to him, searching his face for any hint of insincerity, but there was none. Then he tilted his head, a familiar look of curiosity crossing his face.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked, his voice thoughtful.

You nodded, already prepared to give him your full attention.

“Can you… try to describe the color blue to me again?”

You blinked, your chest tightening as you remembered the first time he’d asked you that same question years ago. It had been during your fifth year, in a similarly quiet moment, when the two of you had been working together in the library. Back then, the question had caught you completely off guard, and you’d struggled to find the words, fumbling through clumsy metaphors and vague comparisons until he’d laughed softly and said, “Don’t worry. It’s impossible, isn’t it?”

And yet, he was asking again.

Ominis must have sensed your hesitation, because he tilted his head further, his expression softening. “You don’t have to if it’s too much,” he added hastily.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “No,” you murmured softly, your voice carrying a gentle steadiness that surprised even you. “I would love to.”

His smile widened just slightly, a quiet encouragement that eased the tension in your chest. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t press or rush you. He simply waited, patient as ever, his head tilted toward you with that same thoughtful expression.

You took a slow breath, glancing beyond the tower where the snowfall blurred the edges of the world. “Blue,” you began, the word delicate on your tongue. “It’s… calm. Like the way the castle feels early in the morning, before everyone wakes up. Quiet and… soft.”

“It’s endless,” you continued, your voice growing steadier with each word. “Like the sky on a clear day… or the ocean when it stretches out so far you can’t see where it ends. Blue is... how the world feels after a storm, when everything is still and clean."

Ominis hummed softly, the sound low and thoughtful, as though he were letting the images settle in his mind. “...what about red?"

You paused. Red? He had never asked about that color before. Your fingers brushed the fabric of your skirt as you gathered your thoughts, unsure how to capture something so vivid and raw compared to the soft serenity of blue.

“Red,” you repeated softly, the word lingering on your tongue. You closed your eyes for a moment, searching for the right way to begin. “It’s… intense. It’s the opposite of calm, like fire—the kind that warms you on a cold night but can burn if you get too close.”

“It’s bold,” you continued, your voice gaining strength. “It demands to be noticed. Like the way the sun burns on the horizon at dusk, or the petals of a rose in bloom. It’s… like it’s always moving, always burning, always… feeling.”

Ominis hummed softly, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the thermos. The sound was contemplative, thoughtful, and carried with it a weight that made your heart skip. He tilted his head slightly, the faintest ghost of a smile playing at his lips.

“Red,” he said again, as though tasting the word. “...sounds a bit like Sebastian, doesn’t it?”

You blinked at him, startled by the comparison, but then quiet laughter escaped you before you could stop it. It was soft, barely more than a breath, but Ominis’ smile grew at the sound, as though it was exactly what he’d hoped to hear.

“And you,” he continued, his voice dropping to something quieter, more thoughtful, “you must be blue.”

The laughter died in your throat, replaced by a stunned silence as his words settled over you. Your chest tightened, your pulse quickening as you tried to process the weight of what he’d just said. “Me?” you asked softly, barely able to get the word out.

Ominis nodded, his pale eyes unseeing but somehow fixed on you in a way that made you feel completely exposed. "Definitely." Then, with a faint smile tugging at his lips, he added, “It’s a good thing blue’s my favorite color, isn’t it?”

You stared at him, the weight of his words pressing down on you, the ache in your chest growing heavier and warmer all at once.

You’re blue. Blue is my favorite color.

He tilted his head toward you, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at his mouth. “Though, for the sake of my sanity, let’s not tell Sebastian, shall we? He’d throw a fit, I’m sure. Something dramatic and unnecessarily loud about not being my favorite.”

You stiffened, unsure what you felt more: the thrill of his admission or the quiet terror that came with it. Ominis didn’t say things lightly—not like Sebastian with his boisterous declarations. Every word he spoke carried meaning, even when he tried to hide it behind humor.

And this? This was no different.

You wanted to say something, to let him know how much his words meant to you, but you couldn’t find the words—couldn’t trust your voice to steady itself enough to respond.

Instead, you reached for your bag, your hands trembling slightly as you pulled out the small notebook you always carried with you. Ominis tilted his head toward the sound, his expression curious but patient as you flipped to a blank page.

Your hand moved quickly, the ink bleeding into the paper as you scrawled out your thoughts in a hurried but deliberate hand.

When you finished, you turned the notebook toward him, your chest tightening as his hand brushed lightly against yours to find the edge of the parchment. His wand trailed along the page until it found the text, and he began to read, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

“Ah, I see... working our way through the rainbow, hm?” he murmured, his voice quiet but tinged with warmth, “Alright, tell me about green, then.”

You hesitated for a moment, the enormity of what you were about to share making your chest tighten. But then you took a deep breath and began to write again. This time, the words came more slowly, each one deliberate, as if you were crafting something far too precious to rush.

When you finished, you turned the notebook back toward him, your fingers trembling slightly as you placed it in his hands. His touch lingered against yours for just a moment before he tilted his head toward the page. His wand found the first line, and you watched as his lips parted faintly, reading the words under his breath.

"Green is quiet and steady, never shouting for attention but always present. It’s subtle and unassuming, yet it fills every corner it touches with life and hope. It’s the sound of wind rustling through the trees, the softness of moss beneath your feet, and the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground. Gentle yet resilient, green endures—always waiting to grow, no matter how cold or dark the world becomes."

Ominis stilled as his wand hovered over the final lines, his breath catching ever so slightly.

“Green is my favorite color,” he read aloud, his voice soft and steady, though you could hear the faintest tremor beneath it. “And you're green.”

Ominis’ lips parted as though he wanted to say something, but no words came. His fingers tightened slightly on the edges of the notebook before he set it down slowly, carefully. His wand followed, placed deliberately on top of the pages, forgotten in the stillness of the moment.

Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it, each thud echoing in your ears and resonating in your chest. Your throat was dry, your breath shallow, and for a moment, you felt completely frozen in place. The only movement was the snow drifting lazily outside, its quiet beauty mirroring the fragile stillness between you.

Then, he lifted a hand, tentative and slow, as though unsure of himself. His fingers hovered in the space between you, searching, hesitant. You knew what he was looking for, and with the faintest movement, you leaned into his reach.

His fingertips brushed your cheek first, featherlight and cautious, before his palm settled against your skin. His hand was warm despite the cold, his thumb tracing an achingly gentle path along your cheekbone before moving lower, brushing the corner of your lips.

He hesitated, his fingers trembling slightly as he drew in a shallow breath. “...May I?”

You swallowed hard, heart thrashing wildly against your ribs. But you nodded. And then, slowly, achingly slowly, Ominis leaned in.

His lips met yours in a kiss so soft, so tentative, it felt like the gentlest of questions—a silent plea, a quiet wondering, seeking something only you could give.

You froze for the briefest second, your breath catching in your chest as the warmth of him flooded your senses. And then, slowly, you answered. You tilted your head ever so slightly, leaning into him, and with that simple movement, you gave him his answer. Yes. Yes, this was real. Yes, this was what you wanted. Yes, you were here.

His breath hitched, a soft, uneven sound that sent a warmth cascading through your chest, and the tension in your shoulders began to unravel. He relaxed too, his lips moving against yours with a quiet intensity, like he’d been waiting for this moment far longer than he’d ever admit. And maybe he had.

Maybe you both had.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested gently against each other, your breaths mingling in the quiet stillness of the Astronomy Tower. Ominis’ lips quirked into a small, almost boyish smile, and you felt the light brush of his fingers against yours, warm and steady—a grounding presence amidst the rush of emotions coursing through you.

“Teal,” he murmured, his voice soft, threaded with amusement, though there was a flicker of something deeper beneath it—something tender.

You blinked, your brow furrowing in confusion. “Huh?”

“Teal,” he repeated, his smile growing slightly as he tilted his head toward you. “If I'm green, and you're blue… does that make us teal? Or turquoise, maybe?”

The unexpectedness of his comment startled a laugh out of you, the sound light and warm as it bubbled up in your chest. Ominis smiled at the sound, his expression softening into something so achingly tender that it left you feeling lightheaded.

“Teal, turquoise… what’s next? Aqua?” you teased, the corners of your lips tugging upward into a grin. “Or maybe cyan?”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “I suppose it doesn't matter, does it?” he asked, his voice dropping to something softer, something that made your heart ache. “Whichever one we are… it’s ours.”

[thatidiotsuds]

John Price x Fem! Wife! Reader

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or images used in this work, nor do I claim any rights to them.

Warning ⚠️ : kissing 💋

Kit's Notes: Not proof-read and I may have stated "Johnny" here a couple of times since I wrote this for soap and changed the character to Price last minute.😅 Because this really gives Dad Vibes.

Word count: 2080. Masterlist

Finally Home

It was late at night, the kind of night where the world outside felt heavy with silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. John Price had just returned home after being deported for over a month, and the weight of his experiences clung to him like a second skin. Friends lost, bloodshed, and fear—things no one should ever have to witness. But now, he was back, and that was all that mattered.

He quietly placed his keys on the table, the sound echoing in the stillness of the house. Dropping his bag, he made his way upstairs, where the warmth of home awaited him. As he entered the bedroom, he found you sleeping peacefully, the soft rise and fall of your chest a soothing sight after the chaos he had endured.

“Love…” he whispered, his thick English accent wrapping around the word like a warm blanket. He slipped into bed beside you, the familiar scent of your hair grounding him. You stirred, blinking sleep from your eyes, and smiled at him.

“I’m tired, love…” he murmured, burying his face into your shoulder, inhaling the comfort of home. “I missed you…” he mumbled against your skin, his voice thick with emotion.

“I missed you too,” you replied softly, your heart aching for the man who had seen too much.

John pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, even in the dim light of the room, his own filled with a mix of exhaustion and longing. He brushed a stray hair from your face, his calloused fingers gentle against your skin. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, sweetheart…”

You smiled, concern flickering in your eyes. “You look like you need a drink.”

He let out a small laugh, a tired smile tugging at his lips. “That’s an understatement. I need more than just a drink. I need a long, hot shower and a whole week of rest.”

“Let’s get you in the shower then,” you said, taking his hand and guiding him toward the bathroom. He leaned on you for support, his body heavy with fatigue.

Once inside, he began to undress, letting his dirty clothes fall to the floor. The moment he stepped into the shower, the hot water cascaded over him, washing away the grime and sweat of the past month. He closed his eyes, letting out a contented sigh as the tension in his muscles began to ease.

“Here, let me help you,” you said, letting him sit on the tub while you perched on the edge, your hands gentle as you helped him wash. The warmth of the water and your touch was a balm to his weary soul. But just as he began to relax, you poured the soap and shampoo on his hair and skin, lathering it into thick bubbles while you massaged his torso.

As Price was about to doze off, a soft cry echoed from the nursery.

“Ah, bloody hell,” John muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. “I’ll finish up here, love. You go see to the little one.”

You nodded, giving him a quick kiss before stepping out to tend to the baby. John finished rinsing off, the water soothing his aching muscles, and once he was done, he wrapped a towel around his waist, took his comfy clothes from the rack, and made his way to the nursery.

There you were, gently covering your daughter with a soft blanket, finally getting her to sleep, her tiny features peaceful in slumber. “Look at her,” you said, glancing up at him with a smile. “She’s got your eyes.”

“Yeah, she’s a precious one,” John replied, his heart swelling with pride. He stepped closer, nuzzling against you, and slowly guided you both back to your bedroom, walking through the narrow halls of your small home, the warmth of your body mingling in the dim light of the room. Silence was comforting at the moment.

When you reached your bedroom's door frame, he placed a finger under your chin and leaned in to kiss you, a passionate deep kiss that he had longed to give you after all the missed time. As you both shared a tender moment, the heat of your reunion ignited a spark, and soon you found yourselves back in the bedroom, lips crashing together in a passionate kiss. The world outside faded away, and for a moment, it was just the two of you.

But just as things began to heat up, the door creaked open, and in walked your eldest son, rubbing his eyes. “Mum? Dad? I can’t sleep. It’s too dark.”

Price sighed, a mix of frustration and amusement washing over him. “Aye, come here, lad,” he said, scooping up his son and cradling him in his arms. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

As he carried the boy down the hall, he couldn’t help but be playful, making silly faces and telling ridiculous dad jokes that had the little one giggling. You stood at the doorframe, watching them with a smile, your heart full.

“Dad, what were you and Mum doing in the bedroom?” the boy asked innocently, his curiosity piqued.

John paused, caught off guard. “Uh, well, we were just… uh…”

“Were you kissing?” the boy asked, eyes wide with wonder.

“Yeah, we were,” John admitted, trying to keep a straight face. “But it’s just a way of showing we love each other.”

“Are you making another sibling for me?” he asked, referencing what he’d heard from his classmates about storks and babies.

Price chuckled, shaking his head. “Not quite, son. It doesn’t work like that. You see, babies come from a bit more than just kisses.” He took a deep breath, preparing to explain. “When two people love each other very much, they can decide to have a baby. It’s a special thing that happens when they’re ready.”

The boy’s eyes widened, processing the information. “So, you and Mum are just… practicing?”

John couldn’t help but laugh at the innocent interpretation. “Aye, something like that. But it’s not just about the kisses; it’s about love and care, too.”

“Okay,” the boy said, nodding seriously. “But I don’t want a baby yet. I have my little sister.”

“Fair enough, lad,” John replied, tucking him into bed. "We wouldn’t change that for the world.” He covered him with a blanket, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. “Now, get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

As he turned to leave, he glanced back at his son, who was already drifting off. With a smile, he walked back to the bedroom, where you were waiting, arms crossed and a playful smirk on your face.

“Did you manage to explain it without too much trouble?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

John shrugged, a grin spreading across his face. “Aye, I think he’ll be alright. Just a bit of a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

You laughed softly, stepping closer to him. “Well, now that we’ve settled that, how about we get back to what we were doing?”

Price’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he pulled you into his arms. “Aye, let’s not let a little one interrupt our time together again.”

With that, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a heated kiss, the world outside forgotten as you both melted into each other, ready to reclaim the moments you had lost. The kiss deepened, igniting a fire that had been smoldering during the long days apart. Price’s hands roamed your back, pulling you closer as if he could merge your souls into one. The warmth of the room enveloped you both, and for a moment, the weight of the world faded away.

“Ye know,” he murmured between kisses, “I could get used to this again. Just us, no interruptions.”

You smiled against his lips, feeling the tension of the past month slip away. “I think we deserve a little time to ourselves, don’t you?”

“Aye, we do,” he replied, his voice low and husky. He lifted you slightly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you back to the bed, the soft sheets welcoming you both.

As he laid you down, his gaze softened, and he brushed his thumb across your cheek. “I’ve missed this—missed you.”

You nodded, your heart swelling with affection. “And I’ve been waiting for you to come back, Johnny. It hasn’t been the same without you.”

He leaned down, capturing your lips again, pouring all the love and longing he had into that kiss. The world outside ceased to exist, and all that mattered was the two of you, lost in each other’s embrace.

But just as you began to lose yourselves in the moment, a soft knock echoed from the door. John groaned, pulling away slightly, frustration flickering in his eyes. “What now?”

“Dad?” came the small voice from the other side. “I can’t sleep. I’m scared.”

Price sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll be right back, love,” he said, adjusting his pajama pants.

You watched him go, a smile creeping onto your face as he opened the door to find your son standing there, wide-eyed and clutching his blanket.

“Come here, lad,” Price said, kneeling down to his son’s level. “What’s got ye all worked up?”

“I don’t like the dark,” the boy admitted, his voice small.

John scooped him up, cradling him in his arms. “Well, ye don’t need to worry. I’ll stay with ye until ye fall asleep with that ...night lamp..How about that?”

The boy nodded, snuggling into his father’s shoulder. “Can you tell me a story?”

“Aye, I can do that,” John replied, carrying him back to his room. As he settled the boy into bed, he began to weave a tale of brave knights and daring adventures, his thick English accent bringing the story to life.

You leaned against the doorframe, watching the scene unfold with a smile. John was a natural storyteller, his voice animated as he painted vivid pictures with his words. The boy’s eyes sparkled with wonder, and soon enough, he was drifting off, lulled by his father’s soothing voice.

Once the boy was asleep, John tiptoed back to your room, a playful grin on his face. “Well, that was quick,” he said, closing the door behind him.

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you. “You’re a great dad, you know that?”

John chuckled, running a hand through his hair. “Aye, I try. But it’s not always easy, is it?”

“No, it’s not,” you agreed, stepping closer to him. “But moments like these remind me of what truly matters.”

He nodded, his expression softening. “Family is everything, love. No matter how chaotic life gets, it’s these moments that make it all worthwhile.”

You wrapped your arms around him, feeling the weight of the world lift just a little. “And we have to cherish them, don’t we? Time is fleeting, and we never know what tomorrow will bring.”

“Aye,” he replied, holding you close. “We need to make the most of every moment we have together. That’s what family is all about.”

As you both stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you realized that despite the challenges and uncertainties, the love you shared was a constant source of strength. In the quiet of the night, you understood that time spent together, no matter how small, was a treasure to be cherished.

With a renewed sense of purpose, you leaned in to kiss him, knowing that no matter what lay ahead, you would face it together as a family. And in that moment, you both understood that love, laughter, and the simple act of being together were the greatest gifts of all.

[gottencents]

013: a angel has fell in love [ Epilogue]

synopsis. SM Entertainment would’ve loved for FALLEN ANGELS and aespa to never share a stage — especially with Chanel possibly "corrupting" their prized “it girl,” Karina.

____________ ____________ ________ ____________

The sun had fully risen now, filling the room with a gentle warmth that contrasted with the quiet stillness between them. Chanel lay close to Karina, her body pressed gently against hers as they both soaked in the morning’s peaceful energy. The soft rays of light that spilled through the window caught on Karina’s dark hair, highlighting the delicate features of her face. Chanel watched her quietly, a sense of contentment washing over her as she admired the woman beside her.

Karina stirred slightly, her brow furrowing in that way that made Chanel smile every time she saw it. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, everything else faded. Karina’s sleepy gaze met Chanel’s, and a tender smile formed on her lips—one that made Chanel’s heart skip a beat.

“Good morning,” Karina murmured softly, her voice thick with sleep but smooth nonetheless. Her voice, though still sleepy, held a warmth that made Chanel feel entirely seen and loved.

“Good morning,” Chanel whispered back, her voice no louder than the hum of the world outside the window.

The room was still, save for the quiet sounds of nature—a soft rustling of leaves, the distant hum of morning traffic, and the steady rhythm of their breathing. It was a moment suspended in time, neither rushed nor forced. It felt intimate, electric in its simplicity, as though the air between them held some unspoken magic.

The night before had been special, just as Chanel had hoped it would be. She had spent hours preparing dinner—homemade dishes that were admittedly clumsier than she had anticipated, but Karina didn’t mind. It was the thought that counted, and in Chanel’s mind, it was perfect.

Every glance exchanged, every laugh shared, every quiet touch had deepened their connection in ways Chanel hadn’t expected. She found herself falling deeper into Karina’s presence, a feeling that wasn’t new but felt infinitely more significant with each passing moment.

Karina had been her usual effortlessly charming self—the way she smiled when she talked about the simplest things, how her voice softened when she laughed at Chanel’s dorky comments. It was those little things, those small quirks, that made Chanel fall harder with every passing second.

“Do you remember when we first started dating?” Chanel asked, her voice floating through the quiet air, breaking the stillness.

“Of course,” Karina replied easily, squeezing Chanel’s hand gently. “How could I forget? You were a mess.”

Chanel rolled her eyes playfully, giggling softly. “A mess? Really?”

“Yes, a cute mess,” Karina added with a smirk, tilting her head slightly as she looked at Chanel. “But you’ve always been my favorite kind.”

Chanel blushed, a quiet warmth settling deep within her chest. “You always know what to say,” she teased.

“It’s not hard when you’re the one I want to talk to all the time,” Karina said softly, brushing a strand of Chanel’s hair back behind her ear.

Chanel felt her heart swell with the sweetness of the moment. Her fingers traced slow circles on Karina’s hand, her touch gentle. “You know,” she began hesitantly, “I wasn’t very good at this before.”

“At what?”

“Being in a relationship,” Chanel admitted with a soft laugh. “I used to think that love was supposed to be this grand, overwhelming thing—like it’s supposed to sweep you off your feet or something. But it’s not. Not with you, anyway.”

Karina studied her carefully, her expression gentle and understanding. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Chanel said slowly, “I thought love was supposed to be these big moments, these huge gestures that scream ‘look at me.’ But with you… it’s the little things that matter more. It’s waking up next to you, or the way you smile when you catch me staring. It’s those moments that make me feel whole.”

Karina’s gaze softened, and she pressed a light kiss to Chanel’s temple. “You’re perfect just as you are, Chanel. Every part of you.”

Chanel let out a soft sigh, leaning into the kiss. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

Karina pulled back slightly, a small smile playing on her lips. “So,” she started, her voice laced with amusement, “are we just going to sit here being sappy, or do I get a proper good morning kiss?”

Chanel couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling out of her naturally. “You’re impossible,” she said playfully.

“Come on,” Karina said softly, leaning in again. Her lips brushed lightly against Chanel’s in a tender, lingering kiss—slow and deliberate, conveying the depth of her emotions in a way that words never truly could.

Chanel’s breath hitched, her hands resting lightly on Karina’s cheeks. It was simple, and yet it spoke volumes. Every second felt like time was slowing down, every touch amplified by the quiet intimacy they shared.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads rested together, and the space between them felt sacred. “I love you,” Karina whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Chanel smiled, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Forever,” she whispered back.

The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over their small apartment. Chanel moved around the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she finished preparing dinner. Karina lounged on the couch, scrolling through her phone, but her attention was always on Chanel, her heart full with every small, tender movement.

“You’ve been humming that same tune for like, an hour,” Karina teased, setting her phone down on the coffee table.

Chanel giggled, glancing over her shoulder with a playful smile. “It’s the only thing that fits the vibe,” she said, stirring the sauce on the stove.

Karina tilted her head, watching her with that soft, affectionate gaze that Chanel had come to love so much. “What vibe is that exactly?”

Chanel smiled, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “The ‘I’m cooking for my amazing girlfriend’ vibe.”

Karina couldn’t help but laugh at her dorky little declaration. “You’re too cute, babe,” she murmured, crossing the room to stand behind Chanel. She wrapped her arms around Chanel’s waist, pulling her close for a gentle hug.

Chanel leaned back into her, letting out a content sigh. “You deserve all the cute things,” she said softly.

Karina pressed a kiss to the side of Chanel’s head, the touch lingering longer than usual. “You’re way too sweet for your own good,” she whispered.

As the dinner settled on the table, the atmosphere in the room became more intimate. They talked quietly about their day—small moments from work, silly interactions, and future plans. There was no rush, no pressure to fill the silence with anything but their shared presence.

After they finished eating, Chanel grabbed a blanket from the living room, draping it over their laps as they sat side by side on the couch. The soft hum of a favorite playlist played quietly in the background, creating a cozy ambiance.

“Do you ever think about how different things were a year ago?” Karina asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Chanel gave her a soft smile. “All the time,” she admitted. “It feels like we’ve grown so much together.”

Karina intertwined their fingers, giving Chanel’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You’ve helped me grow too,” she said quietly. “I never imagined feeling this way, and now I can’t imagine not feeling it.”

Chanel squeezed back, her heart full of warmth. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed,” she murmured.

A shy smile tugged at Karina’s lips as she leaned in slightly, her eyes locked on Chanel’s. “I love you, you know.”

Chanel’s breath hitched for a moment. “I know,” she whispered, her voice catching. “I love you too, Karina.”

There was a pause between them—just a quiet, intimate moment where time seemed to stop. Karina tilted her head slightly, her lips brushing softly against Chanel’s. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t frantic—it was gentle, tender, full of meaning. Chanel melted into the kiss, her heart pounding gently in her chest as everything else faded away.

When they pulled back slightly, their foreheads pressed together, Karina whispered, “You’re my home.”

Chanel smiled, her eyes shining with affection. “And you’re mine.”

The evening stretched on, filled with small touches, shared laughter, and conversations that flowed effortlessly. They didn’t need anything grand—just the simple presence of one another was enough. And as the stars began to peek out through the window, Chanel felt a warmth settle deep in her chest.

They were exactly where they were meant to be.

____________ ____________ ________ ____________

Taglist ( closed ) : @saysirhc @awkwardtoafault @yjiminswallet @gtfoiydlyj @1luvkarina @womanl0ver @hazel-tanthamore22 @deuxae @arihiu @spidrgamer @goofymickeyr

[lxnarphase]

━ ❝ OH, IT'S MINIKUNA ! ❞

✮₊‧⁺...content: heian era!sukuna x wife!reader, fluff, mentions of childbirth, sukuna is an overly proud father, sukuna is whipped for his wife

✮₊‧⁺...lunar's note: based of this little blurbie and this one too !! needed some fluff with kuna bc he would love having a baby girl idc what anyone says !!! also i did my best describing the birthing process in a time accurate period but it's definitely a bit inaccurate because...i have never had a baby LOL

no one has ever seen sukuna ryomen, king of curses, wince before.

not until today, at the wrath of his pregnant wife who somehow got a hold of his fingers instead of his hand.

one of the nurses did warn him to not give you his finger and to ensure you always hold his hand. but by the gods, he swears you almost ripped his finger off.

it's cute to him, however, when you attempt to curse him out.

'gods, sukuna, i despise your entire being!'

'i know, my wife.'

'i should've never let you get me pregnant, you animal!'

'you begged for it, my wife.'

'i am never letting you bed me again, use your hand for the rest of your existence!'

'you can't keep your hands off me, my wife, no need to lie.'

but the sigh of relief, the way you instantly look down and coo once the sound of wailing filled the air...it makes him melt just a little bit.

he can't deny, seeing you in pain made him heated. it took everything in him not to kill every midwife, nurse, and lady-in-waiting in your birth room for not being able to make this process completely painless.

except chiyo. he would have to reward your personal physician for preparing you so well for this...

what did the old hag like again? wines, meats, gifts for her grandchildren back at home?

hm, yes, that would be great for her. of course, he'll say it was from you. the king of curses shows gratitude for no one.

he's pulled out of his thoughts at the hushed whispers once the other women exam the baby before following your unspoken request to hold your child.

"d-do you think lord sukuna will harm our lady for this...?"

"i hope not, surely he can make an exception, t-they both are still young and can always try for more!"

"but he's the king of curses, t-there no way he won't have a reaction!"

before he can demand what they find so important to discuss in front of you, chiyo hushes the girls with a wave of her hand, ushering the girls to help wipe off your sweat, tears, and clean off the baby—gentle like it's the finest glass, she instructs—before turning to sukuna with a knowing smile.

"well, your greatness...congratulations on having a healthy and gorgeous little girl," she hums, wiping her hands with a clean cloth before going to rinse her hands to help stitch any rips and clean you up.

the room falls silent aside from your soft little coos and the wails of your daughter as you brush the wet, fluffy hair on her little head.

all the women in the room continue to work, but it's clear they are silently waiting for his outburst.

everyone knows that a proper heir to any throne is a boy...but now, sukuna's first born child is a girl.

but rather angry, yelling, and threats to your and your child's life, the room is filled with Suku's booming laughter, which practically shakes the entire room.

instead of an enraged expression, pure delight, and excitement are painted on his face as he sits next to you on the soft cushiony bedding on the floor, his hand caressing the rounded cheek of your newborn.

"so, you've given me a girl," he hums in delight, all four of his eyes narrowing. "this will be the one who takes over my throne once i decide to step down?"

this thing, this tiny, itty bitty baby...came from you both? it's almost laughable how small this baby is compared to his hand, that something so little could be related to him.

she's...nothing short of perfect. "absolutely divine...she will not just be beautiful like her mother, but as powerful as both of us."

he's so proud of you and your child. he would shower your daughter with riches, love, and anything she could ever want and ask for.

but, he couldn't lie.

she's a damned fat baby, big head and all.

"sukuna, watch your mouth!"

he can't help but laugh, not realizing his thoughts came out of his mouth. "what, it's a good thing! means she's healthy," he boasts with a grin, leaning down closer to see her better.

"she looks strong already. as soon as she is able, i will personally teach her how to be a truly malevolent little princess, how to properly slit the necks of her enemies, how to—!”

oh, he is so excited, it's adorable.

“sukuna, shush, i just gave birth to a child with a massive head like yours, give me a moment," you say with a light laugh, your smile still reaching your clearly tired eyes.

“…apologies, my wife.”

chiyo can't help but laugh with you she finishes applying the healing ointment on your lower body, using a bit of her cursed energy to speed up the healing process to help you skip any serious pain.

after all, nothing but the best physician for you in sukuna's palace.

"always such an excitable boy, my lord, ever since you were a young man," she hums, helping one of the midwives properly wrap your baby in the soft, clean cloth.

"be gentle with her," you instruct him, gently moving your arms toward him so he could take the little bundle. he's...nervous, but he hides it well.

you place your daughter in his arms and he looks down at her, suddenly conscious of how loud he's breathing. she's got his hair, still a bit wet but soft and fluffy. it's pink, just like his.

a pleased rumble vibrates his chest, and he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

but then...her eyes open.

both sets.

he almost didn't notice it at first, they're just so small, but they're there. the same color as yours, pretty and big, filled with so much life.

his eyes burn, vision getting blurry. no words come to his head, he can't think of anything to say. he's so caught up in his thought he doesn't even notice chiyo ushering the other girls in the room out and shutting the door before quietly tending to you with water or food.

she knows that look, you do as well. she's been around longer than uraume to know her master, knowing the king of curses since his young years as the unwanted child of the village, abandoned by his mother for his 'horrid' appearance.

she was lucky to have found him before the villagers got to him, torches, axes, pitchforks and daggers in hand to take care of the child who they believed to have brought misfortune to their home.

getting him to safety was one of the best decisions she'd ever made, king of curses or not. no child deserved to be abandoned like that. and now, he's seeing himself in that tiny little being in his arms right now...chiyo can only imagine what he's feeling.

so, out of respect, she keeps her gaze averted, pretending she does not see the misty gaze he gives your daughter. this is a moment for you and him, and she does her best to make all her movements as quiet as possible.

all sukuna can think about in this moment is how he used to be just as tiny as this. he was just as vulnerable in his mothers arms. he couldn't talk, couldn't speak, couldn't fend for himself.

yet, his parents looked down at him just like this and decided he was an abomination and didn't give him a chance.

but now?

sukuna knows he would never, ever let anything happen to this little bundle in his arms. he would rather destroy the entire planet before letting anything happen to his baby girl. no one would make his little one suffer and live to see another day.

he flinches just a little, feeling your soft hand rubbing his bicep. "it's okay, my love," you softly coo at him, reaching up to wipe a tear from his eye before it had a chance to drip down his cheek. "she's going to grow up feeling loved and cherished because she's got a great father."

"hmm..."

a smile crosses his features as he looks back down, looking at the squirming baby so makes a little noise before calming down when he strokes her little, chubby cheek again to keep her from crying again.

"and she's got a great mother. she'll be the most wonderful princess in all of history," he says with a toothy grin, chest rumbling with a laugh.

"aww, my love, that's so sweet..."

"seriously, though, how in hells did you squeeze this thing out of ya? thing's got the head of a watermelon."

"sukuna, give me back my baby, and chiyo? get this man some food to stuff in his mouth before he says something to warrent the rage of a new mother."

all rights reserved © lxnarphase | do not repost, copy, translate, or alter my work

[personapeters]

✰ 𝐛𝐟!𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐱 𝐩𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞!𝐠𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

— rich boyfriend rafe and his whole heartedly pogue girlfriend

rating: sfw — cw: none

— boyfriend!rafe who… actually gets annoyed when you spend your money instead of his: “look, baby, i know you can but why when i’m literally throwing my card at you?” he questioned. “i’m not taking it, rafe,” you rebutted. “yeah? okay, don’t,” he mumbled, casually dropping a banded stack of cash onto your lap.

— boyfriend!rafe who… absolutely judged a book by it’s cover when you first met, knowing you were from a side of town he didn’t favor, but your beauty was something he couldn’t ignore. though, his outlook barely shifted; technically, not all pogues were trash, but he considered you to be the one and only exception.

— boyfriend!rafe who… is used to getting what he wants, so he was highly taken aback when you declined his first offer to go out. it was new and completely foreign, but it only made him want you even more — he’s always had a desire to obtain the ‘unobtainable’

— boyfriend!rafe who… caught so much shit from topper and kelce when they found out about his relationship with a pogue; so much so that rafe almost fought them over it, telling them to ‘get the fuck over it’ and to never speak on you again.

— boyfriend!rafe who… on occasion would reluctantly let your pogue friends go out on his yacht with the two of you for the day, which ultimately would end with him dropping them off an hour (or four) early. he wants them miles away from his pristine boat but loves how happy you look when you were all together.

— boyfriend!rafe who… hears you mention liking something once and makes sure it’s in your hands before the following day ends. they were always simple things like a cute t-shirt or sunglasses, which, to him, were so cheap and mundane that he found it rather adorable when you’d cherish them like literal gold.

— boyfriend!rafe who… isn’t too fond of where you live — your house being small, somewhat falling apart, and overall something far below rafe’s standards. he wishes you’d take him up on his offer to simply get you an apartment on his side of town: “okay, but it’d be so much better for you… and you’d be closer to me,” he mumbled, a small smile pulling at the corners of his pink lips.

— boyfriend!rafe who… takes you riding on his dirt bike to go sightseeing across figure eight, often taking the long way home just to feel your arms wrapped around his waist for just a little longer. you once asked if you could drive it, which would have been your first time, to which he immediately said, “fuck no, what — you tryin’ to break your neck? no.”

— boyfriend!rafe who… tried his first ever boxed mac and cheese with you, as random as it was, after you insisted it’s the greatest inexpensive food on earth; him beforehand saying, “what? y/n, that’s fucking powder…” but after he tried a bite of yours, he reluctantly said, “it’s not that bad… i might see the appeal.”

— boyfriend!rafe who… gives you ‘ultimatums’ when buying you clothes (although, you always insist you don’t need them), saying he’ll get you whatever you want as long as you try on some of his picks first. he would have gotten whatever you wanted regardless, he just liked seeing you model for him, which, secretly, you knew.

— boyfriend!rafe who… buys you extremely expensive jewelry and lies about the price, saying it’s a hundred times cheaper than it is to avoid you trying to give it back. he enjoys watching the dainty bracelet on your wrist or gold studs in your ears glint in the sunlight, knowing that you’re clueless on that fact that they’re the nicest money could buy — he needs only the best for his girl.

— boyfriend!rafe who… truly hated physical touch until you showed him it could be gentle — that it could be sweet, and warm, and kind, and didn’t have to leave him bloody or sore. he loves when you run your nails gingerly across his scalp or hold his hand in your lap, twisting absentmindedly at the rings adorning his long fingers; a type of touch (and love) he’d never felt before

— boyfriend!rafe who… craves your validation, no matter how big or small. he just needs to hear that he did something right, something good, something you’re proud of. he wants to hear you tell him he did a great job at making you dinner or picking out a dress for your spontaneous outings — your approval means so much more to him than you’d ever know.

— boyfriend!rafe who… uses his high status to (begrudgingly) help your pogue friends get out of whatever trouble they land themselves into, knowing it means alot to you and takes a weight off your shoulders: “m’doing this for you, alright? not them, you.”

— boyfriend!rafe who… is pretty heavy on pda. he doesn’t care whose watching when he lazily drapes a possessive arm around your shoulders, or when he kisses you messily with full force; whether it be a kook or pogue witnessing his shameless affections, he didn’t care — who’d dare to say something about it?

 personapeters 2024 — all rights reserved • masterlist

[dmitriene]

cw: reader is a cat hybrid.

being simon's riley one and only lap cat, sweet thing with fluffy, fluttering ears and long tail that lays across his lap just as your body, slightly curled, splayed over his muscular thighs and nose burrowing in the cotton fabric of his pajama pants, enjoying the long, delicate strokes of his rough, calloused palm he brushes down your head and to the small of your back, chuckling deep and smoky at the way your spine stretches out beneath the gentle touch.

to be honest, he needed someone who would always be waiting for him at home, not only as a family member, or wife, or children, but something more affectionate, pet like, with fluffy body parts, with constantly needy behavior, curling up on his lap or chest with loud purrs and rubbing against the sloping curve of his stubbled cheekbones, nosing in the crook of his neck sweet and pliable, meowing at the tight squeeze of his pawing hands, going lax anytime he chooses to pick you up or stroke down.

simon loves how you seek him at the early morning light when he crawls out of the bed for his tea, in nothing but the pajama pants and naked chest, muscles softened, covered by the pudgy layer of little fat he accumulated by lazing out with you on the couch or the bed, a place for you to sink your clawed nails in when you follow his form out of the bedroom, curling behind his back, affectionate and clinging, the expanse of his scarred, tissued skin falling victim to your kneading fingers.

you tilt your head and crane your neck out for him when he bends to smother you in tender kisses, scratching behind your ears that flutter at the touch and elicit those adorable purrs deep from your throat, eyes barely open to look at him, enough to see how his own crinkle, pale eyelashes low over the tawny irises, the pupil shudders to dilate in response to yours, focused on with pooling, overflowing tenderness that makes simon so much softer on the usually razory edges, just for you.

simon takes care of you, your every need, especially when you start to whine about how empty and aching you are, your panties sodden, soiled by the slick that oozes and pools down onto the cotton with your need for him, to your gaping hole end up stuffed full of his cock, sheathed deep and secure along your pulsing, viscous walls, tight with warmth as you purr in against his solid chest, nuzzling over the softness of his muscles, as his hand pats across your plump ass.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[xhyjin]

husband toji! who would try his best to spoil you, even when he’s struggling financially. you want a romantic getaway? don’t worry, because he’s already saving up, cutting corners wherever he can, just to see the joy on your face when he surprises you with the trip of your dreams.

husband toji! he isn’t the most romantic man, but he tries his best. when he notices the small smile on your face as you watch a man surprise his partner with flowers hidden behind his back, he makes a mental note. the next time he’s away on a mission that lasts too long, he shows up at your door with a slightly crumpled bouquet in hand, looking a little awkward but secretly proud when he sees your face light up.

husband toji! who loves when you fall asleep on him—not just because he enjoys running his fingers through your hair as you rest on his chest, but also because it’s the perfect opportunity to snap a picture of the two of you. with a smirk on his face in the photo, he sends it to shiu with the caption, “bet you don’t have a cutie laying on you right now.” it always earns him an immediate middle-finger reply from shiu, which only makes his grin wider.

husband toji! who never expected to find himself in this position again—so lovestruck and soft for you that it sometimes scares him. he’s torn between wanting to bare his soul to you and protect you from the weight of his past. he doesn’t know if he should tell you about his late wife and the son he left behind, afraid it might change the way you see him, but also yearning for you to understand the parts of him he’s kept hidden for so long.

husband toji! who knows it’s wrong, knows he should let you be independent, but he can’t help himself. when you think he’s at work, he’s actually following you from a distance, keeping an eye on you to make sure you’re safe. the guilt of shadowing you like a stalker eats at him, but the thought of failing to protect you is even worse. so, he watches quietly, torn between trusting the world and trusting only himself to keep you safe.

husband toji! who finds himself spending money on “useless” and “childish” things like cute plushies or clothes simply because they remind him of you. he’ll grumble about it under his breath, but the moment he sees your delighted smile when he gives them to you, he knows it’s worth every penny.

husband toji! who doesn’t prepare for missions by training or strategizing beforehand, but by taking a long shower using your body wash, your shampoo, your conditioner, and your lotion—anything that smells like you. he sprays your perfume all over his body and clothes, not caring if anyone (shiu) questions why he smells so feminine and sweet. the comforting scent of you clings to him like a shield, grounding him when he’s away and reminding him of the warmth waiting for him at home.

husband toji! who secretly adores when you ask for his help with the little things. need help putting on your necklace for date night? he’s already behind you, gently moving your hair aside, his fingers brushing your skin as he clasps it on, all while staring at you lovingly through the mirror. need help opening a jar? don’t worry—he’s leaning over you in an instant, taking the jar from your delicate hands and twisting it open with ease. before you can thank him, he dips a finger into the jam, tastes it, and smirks, “almost as sweet as you,” he whispers in your ear, walking away just as he catches the sight of your flustered reflection in the marble counter.

husband toji! who sometimes forgets the strength of his own body, so he’s always extra, extra gentle with you. whether it’s holding your hand, pulling you into a hug, or brushing a strand of hair from your face, he moves with deliberate care, afraid of even the slightest chance of hurting you. his touch, though strong, always feels like the softest embrace, as if he’s protecting something he treasures more than anything.

husband toji! who picks up your hobbies just to have more in common with you, even if they’re things he never imagined himself doing—like painting, baking, or knitting. at first, he fumbles awkwardly, grumbling about how “this isn’t his thing,” but before long, he finds himself enjoying it more than he expected. the real joy, though, comes from seeing your excitement as you share these moments together, making him realize he’d try anything if it meant spending more time with you.

husband toji! who, after a gut-wrenching moment during one of his missions, realizes he doesn’t want to do it anymore. he doesn’t want to risk his life when all he wants is to spend it with you. knowing it’ll be hard to convince shiu, he brings you along under the pretense that you’re just meeting his friend. as you take a seat beside him, your face glowing with excitement at finally meeting one of his friends, toji and shiu sit across and beside you, their expressions serious as they speak in coded phrases to keep you blissfully unaware of toji’s real job. toji glances at you, his heart softening at your smile, and silently vows to make his case to shiu—because you’re his reason to walk away from it all.

husband toji! who will gladly hold your purse without hesitation when it keeps slipping off your shoulder, or carry your heels in one hand while giving you his slippers to wear, walking barefoot himself without a second thought. he doesn’t care about the stares or the inconvenience—your comfort is all that matters to him, and he’d do anything to make sure you’re at ease.

husband toji! whose favorite hobby, out of all the ones he picked up from you, is coming home to find you asleep on his side of the bed, wearing his tee and boxers, clutching his pillow to your chest. he gently removes the pillow, replacing it with himself as he slides into bed, pulling you close. with his arms around you, he kisses your forehead and whispers softly in your ear how grateful he is for you and how deeply he loves you, even if you can only hear him in your dreams.