#in the latest chapter he just stands by and watches

[kirayaykimura]

I think it’s so funny that Hak deals with men hitting on Yona by standing near them until they stop. 

Some random man Yona has barely spoken to before: Hey, Yo-

Hak: I see what you’re doing. Do you want to be doing what you’re doing? Are you sure you want to be doing what you’re doing? 

[fushitoru]

chapter 7: the rebound 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, duke 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?

warnings ⸺ nsfw, enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, SUGGESTIVE, eventual smut, jealousy, misogyny, description of injury, concussion, blood, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly

chapter summary ⸺ after the arrival of your dearest brother, you pursue a new angle to the season, one to prove that you, the diamond, will not be scorned. new opportunities with duke nanami arise and with it jealousy and bitterness fester in the ballroom. (6.8k)

prev. the house party | next. the lake

general masterlist | series masterlist

Once again, dear Reader, this humble Author finds herself vindicated. Country house parties, as ever, remain the fertile soil from which the most delicious scandals bloom. And today’s revelation is no exception.

Yes, indeed, you read it here first: the dashing and ever-elusive Lord Satoru Gojo will not be marrying Miss Itadori, this season’s most celebrated diamond. The murmurs have already begun spreading like wildfire, bringing sighs of relief from hopeful ladies and knowing smirks from their watchful chaperones. The eligible Duke-to-be’s sudden return to certified bachelorhood is, no doubt, a development many find most agreeable.

But what, pray, has caused this sudden turn of events? The dissolution of an arrangement so seemingly perfect? Alas, even this Author—a tireless seeker of truths—has found the particulars elusive. Was it a clash of personalities? A misstep at the ball? Or perhaps, a secret grievance unearthed during those long, candlelit evenings at the country estate?

What this Author can confirm is that the ballroom whispers point to Lord Gojo’s own doing, based upon the countenances and actions of the pair at the ball. Did the ever-charming lord tire of his diamond’s sparkle, or has he found a more alluring treasure elsewhere? The possibilities are endless, and so, it seems, is the intrigue surrounding the pair.

One thing remains certain: while Miss Itadori may have stumbled in this engagement, she remains a diamond among gems—brilliant, resilient, and admired. What paths now await her are anyone’s guess, but if this Author knows anything, it is that diamonds shine brightest under pressure.

As for Lord Gojo, the question lingers: will his rakish reputation survive this latest scandal unscathed? Or has he, at last, met a match too dazzling even for him to outshine? Rest assured, dear Reader, this Author will remain ever-vigilant, pen poised and ready to uncover the truth.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

You could have had a bit more tact when informing Sukuna of the events of the past few days, for the reaction you gained made you realize that you may have made a misstep.

“What?!” Sukuna roared, looking at the three of you with fury. Yuji jumped, while you and Choso grimaced.  “He did what?!”

“Now, now, brother,” Choso stood up nervously to pat his younger brother on the shoulder. “It is all good and well, for I have arranged for a better match for our dear sister—”

“A duel!” Sukuna bellowed, standing up from his seat on the couch to stomp his way to the door. “I will challenge that Gojo fellow to a duel—” It was only until Yuji ran and tackled him to the ground that he was waylaid to God knows what he was going to do to Lord Gojo. You and Choso could only watch the scene, too perforce to the strength of bulls that your brothers had to be able to interrupt. 

A few scratches and awfully purple looking bruises later, Sukuna and Yuji were seated on the couch once again, thanks to Choso’s plead for nonviolence. It was then that Choso started explaining what had occurred in the season so far. “Mother insisted,” he sighed, shaking his head. “She seemed to have struck a mutual…entente with the Duchess of Gojo. It was only a matter of time before Mother forced her ways. Now that it has not redound in her favor, I have even more rationale to have my…way with Sister’s matches. For God’s sake, Sukuna stop glaring at me Mother left me behind on the first ball—”

Sukuna did not stop glaring; in fact, he chose that moment to take a long slurp of his tea while staring fiercely at him while Choso shifted nervously. After a long bout of silence, he finally offered, “I understand Mother can be very pushy, and that you, Choso, are not fierce enough to withstand her.” Choso did not even protest, just offered a deadpan. “But I, however, will not be a feather to a simple blow of the wind that Mother is. It is time our dear sister lived up to her reputation, what she has prepared so hard for.” He looks upon you with a soft gaze—that is, a soft gaze for Sukuna. “No matter how tactless Gojo’s estrangement was, Sister will recover, so long as her morale has not lessened.  Sukuna’s head turned sharply to you, “It has not weakened, right Sister? He has not left you heartbroken?”

You could hear your heart as you looked at your brother, dumbfounded. His perceptive gaze disarmed you, but you blurted out a “Of course not” and turned to hastily grab a pastry from the table next to the loveseat you were seated at.. When you looked back at your brother, you jumped as his gaze lingered on you then nonetheless turned to glare at your brother when Yuji opened his mouth, undoubtedly ready to irritatedly remark on his denseness.

No matter, you think to yourself. Whatever you feel about Gojo is of no matter. The visit at the manor was only a delay and a small obstacle for your season. It was time to attend to the matter at hand: finding a husband. 

The dewy grass kissed the hem of your nightgown as you wandered to the old swing set on the far edge of the manor grounds—a relic of your childhood, weathered but enduring. The creak of the chains was a sound that had long since embedded itself in your memory, a reminder of simpler days when duty had yet to tighten its grip.

You had not been able to sleep.

The house was still, the hush of midnight settling over its grand halls and sprawling grounds. Yet sleep evaded you, your thoughts as restless as the autumn breeze that stirred the curtains of your chamber. In the quiet, the weight of your obligations pressed heavily upon you, a familiar but unwelcome companion. Deciding that solitude under the stars might grant clarity where the confines of your room could not, you slipped on a shawl and had ventured outside.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Sukuna’s voice cut through the quiet, low and teasing. He was seated on a swing with his big frame illustrating a comical sight on the small seat. His silhouette was faintly illuminated by the dim glow of his cigarillo, and the faint ember cast fleeting shadows across his sharp features, making his smirk all the more pronounced.

The unexpected sight of him startled you for a moment, though you quickly masked your surprise. You drew your shawl tighter around your shoulders, the chill of the night settling into your skin, and stepped closer. “And here I thought I was the only one who sought refuge in our old playground at such an hour,” you replied lightly, though your voice carried the faint weight of sleeplessness. “What brings you here?”

He took a long, deliberate drag from the cigarillo before discarding it into the damp grass, the embers hissing softly as they extinguished. Straightening, he gestured to the empty swing beside him. “Thinking,” he said simply. “And you? Or do I even need to ask?”

You hesitated for only a moment before lowering yourself onto the swing, your fingers grazing the cold chains as you pushed back slightly. The seat creaked beneath your weight, swaying gently with your movements. The motion stirred a familiar ache of nostalgia—a reminder of days when life felt less complicated. “What else could it be but the endless circus of expectations Mother has so kindly bestowed upon me?”

The bitterness in your tone was impossible to conceal, and Sukuna chuckled darkly. He reached up to push a hand through his disheveled hair, his movements purposeful, almost theatrical. “Ah, yes,” he said mockingly. “The marriage parade. The grand auctioning of one’s life for the sake of the family name. What a fine role you’ve been cast in, dear sister. I don’t envy you.”

You gave a dry laugh, your voice quiet yet tinged with resolve. “Unfortunately, dear brother,” you began, staring into the star-dappled sky, “it is my duty to be wed.”

Sukuna turned to you sharply, his brow furrowing. “It is not your duty, least of all when it robs you of your freedom.”

A protest began to form on his lips, but you held up a hand, your expression soft yet resolute. “Let me finish,” you said, your tone firm but affectionate. Taking a deep breath, you continued, “If I were to grow old into a spinster, there would be no one to take care of me. You and Yuji would inherit our lands and manors, and Choso is the viscount; there would be no space for me except with some of our aunts.”

At the mention of your aunts, both of you shuddered involuntarily. The thought of their overbearing presence, their sharp tongues and endless criticisms, was enough to unite even the most quarrelsome of siblings.

“You cannot take care of me forever,” you said softly, your gaze dropping to the ground. The swing swayed faintly as you spoke, the motion as restless as your thoughts. “One day, you—or any of our brothers—might choose to start a family with someone you love. It would be intrusive of me to remain dependent on you all.”

Sukuna scoffed, his voice rising slightly with indignation. “You know better than anyone that I aim to travel the world. I cannot be chained to a family or a manor—not now, not ever.”

You turned to him, your eyes softening as you regarded his familiar fire, the same defiance that had always set him apart from the others. “Sukuna,” you said gently, your voice tinged with fondness, “you may do as you please, and I would never wish to impede you. But I cannot rely on you indefinitely. You deserve to live freely, to make your own choices without the burden of my future weighing on your conscience.”

Once again, silence enveloped you both, broken only by the faint creak of the swings and the rustle of the wind through the trees. Then, Sukuna eventually broke the quiet with a heavy sigh. “Then we must make sure to do well and find you a husband on your terms.”

You turned to him, brow arched in curiosity. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk, “that you must stop playing the part Mother has assigned you. Demure and meek may be what she wants, but it’s hardly the truth of you. Besides,” he added, leaning closer as if to share a conspiracy, “do you think the kind of husband you’d want would fall for such a facade?”

His words caught you off guard, and you frowned slightly. “Are you implying I’m to frighten potential suitors away?”

“Not frighten,” Sukuna corrected, his tone amused. “But consider this: if a man is drawn to meekness, might that not suggest he wishes to dominate or control? Would you truly wish to tether yourself to such a person? Or would you rather find someone who can appreciate your independence, who will meet you as an equal?”

His reasoning gave you pause. The image of a husband who might respect your will, who might value the sharpness of your mind and the strength of your character, was tempting—if not entirely what you needed. “And how, pray tell, do you suggest I go about finding such a man?”

Sukuna’s grin widened. “Start by being yourself, unapologetically. Let them see the wit, the fire, the resolve that I know so well. Let them see you, and if they can’t handle it, then they aren’t worth your time.”

You smiled faintly, your heart lighter from his words. After all, this scheming was due on your part; you were only grateful this shift occurred with Sukuna as your humble advisor. “It’s a daring plan, brother. Let us hope it does not lead to my complete social ruin.”

Sukuna laughed, the sound rich and unrestrained. “If it does, then you shall travel the world with me. Who needs societal approval when there’s an entire world to explore?”

For a moment, the weight of your burdens felt a little easier to bear. Under the vast, starlit sky, you allowed yourself to hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there was a future where duty and happiness could coexist.

Despite the peace conversing with Sukuna had granted you, sleep evaded you still, leaving you to roll onto your side, the cool fabric of the pillow offering no solace. Your thoughts had been louder than ever these past weeks, and one name in particular echoed through your mind like a stubborn refrain: Gojo.

His face came unbidden, as vivid as if he were standing at the foot of your bed. That insufferable smirk, the casual way he tilted his head as if always in on some grand secret. He saw through you—that much was undeniable, no matter how much you abhorred it. It wasn’t just the way his piercing gaze seemed to cut through your defenses, stripping away the layers of pleasantries and propriety until you were left exposed. It was his words, too—sharp, direct, and unyielding. Unlike everyone else, he wasn’t content to let you be the demure and dutiful daughter your mother had so painstakingly sculpted.

You turned onto your back, staring up at the shadowed canopy above, the weight of his judgment pressing against your chest. “He wouldn’t want to marry me either,” you thought bitterly, biting your lip to suppress a laugh that was more self-deprecating than amused. Why would he? I am only but a pathological people-pleaser—a woman who smiles and nods and folds herself into whatever shape is required of her. It was a role you had perfected, a mask you wore so often that you sometimes forgot it wasn’t your face. And yet, he saw through it.

That was the part that unsettled you most—not his arrogance, not his sharp tongue, but his ability to cut through your defenses as though they were paper. He saw you, in all your contradictions and uncertainties, and somehow, you suspected that he pitied you for them. Or worse, respected you less for it.

Your stomach twisted at the thought, and you turned onto your other side, burying your face into the pillow. No wonder I’m still unmarried. The thought came unbidden, sharp and cruel. What man would want a wife who couldn’t even decide who she wanted to be?

But that wasn’t fair—not entirely. You had a plan, didn’t you? A bold, liberating plan that would take you far from the shadow of your mother’s expectations. You could already picture her face when you told her—calm, composed, and quietly furious, as though your refusal to obey were a personal affront. The thought brought the faintest flicker of satisfaction, but it was fleeting.

The plan wasn’t perfect, nor was it foolproof. It hinged on one pivotal point: finding a husband who could be an equal partner rather than a master. A man who could grant you the freedom to forge your own path in peace, without the constant weight of disapproval bearing down on you.

Your thoughts wandered to Duke Nanami. Equal in power to Gojo, fair-minded, and kind—a man with no appetite for games or artifice. If you manage to secure a match with him, the ton would not view your…blunder with Gojo with such amusement. Insofar your interactions this season, he had always treated you with quiet respect, never pressing you into conversations you didn’t wish to have or cornering you with expectations. He would be a good man to marry, you thought. A safe choice.

And yet, even as you considered him, Gojo’s face intruded once more, unwelcome and unavoidable. Duke Nanami was everything Gojo wasn’t—measured, steady, predictable. But it was Gojo who set your mind alight, who made you question things you had long accepted as unchangeable truths. He irritated you, challenged you, unnerved you in a way no one else did.

You sighed, turning again, the sheets tangling around your legs like restraints. The very fact that Gojo occupied your thoughts at all was infuriating. He had no place there, no right to linger in the quiet moments when you were supposed to find peace. And yet, here he was, as persistent in your mind as he was in person.

The plan. You needed to focus on the plan. Liberating yourself from your mother’s expectations wasn’t about Gojo or Duke Nanami or anyone else. It was about reclaiming yourself, about becoming a woman who didn’t need to twist herself into shapes for anyone—not your mother, not a potential husband, and certainly not Gojo.

And it would start at your wardrobe.

You give the most polite smile you can muster, but you do not need the mirror in front of you to know that your countenance is strained, the edges of your smile not reaching your eyes. “Lower it even further.”

A beat passes in the room as the modiste, your mother, and Sukuna stare at you in incredulity.  The bustline to your dress is low. Of course, it is not yet teetering on the edge of what is socially acceptable, and that is the position you want it to be. Hence, you gesture to Sukuna, prompting him to regain his senses and snap his head towards Momo. “Please attend to my sister’s request.”

You could smell what you mother was about to say, even if she had not yet done so. “My dear,” she began, “I hardly think that’s appro–” Sukuna’s glares reorients itself now to focus on your mother, and she purses her lips with what appears to be arduous effort, knowing a quarrel with Sukuna would escalate quite quickly, both immediate and unwise.  

Madame Momo, for the better, offers no protest as she lowers the deep, wine red fabric she was upholding against your body. If you were not wearing your regular clothes, you would know that quite a bit of the swell of your breasts would be framed by the dress. However, it wasn’t enough. “A bit lower.”

The modiste lets out a small sigh, her needle poised mid-air as she hesitates. “My lady, to lower it further would risk—” she pauses delicately, “—compromising the structural integrity of the gown.”

“I appreciate your insight, Madame, and know that you are quite skilled at your craft,” you flash her a semi-apologetic smile. After all, she is the one that has to attend to your…rebranding crisis and revamp a majority of your wardrobe. “However, I am afraid that I’d like to do something new this season. Something eye-catching.”

A faint chuckle escapes her lips, no doubt spurred on by the flattery. With a practiced hand, she adjusts the fabric once more, lowering it to the precise balance of scandalous and sophisticated. She steps back, her critical eye assessing her own handiwork. “Well, it will definitely be eye-catching.”

“Precisely.” You nod in approval, smoothing the line of the fabric with your fingers. “I believe Lady Whistledown,” you add, your voice tinged with knowing confidence, “will ensure that the modiste responsible for the diamond’s striking attire becomes the talk of the season.”

Momo’s lips twitch into a smile, and she dips her head in acknowledgment, already returning to her work with renewed purpose. Sukuna, standing to the side, folds his arms and smirks at the scene, clearly entertained by your audacity.

Your mother, meanwhile, remains silent, though her pursed lips betray her disapproval. Let her simmer, you think, satisfaction curling in your chest. This season is yours to command, and you will not be overlooked.

I cannot do this. I cannot I cannot I cannot I cann—

“Sister!” Sukuna called out. You regained your senses, snapping your head at once to look at him, who was holding out his hand. Swallowing, you grabbed it so he could assist you out of the carriage. What had you in a tizzy was the sheer amount of people. Yet again, you were attending your first party after the events in the countryside but this time without your mother and Yuuji. Not only had the people you were accompanied with changed, but also different attire. A red silk dress fell over your curves gracefully, the draping across your chest a bit lower than usual. It is the dress of your dreams—one that you would have worn if not for your mother and her beliefs regarding your image. Now, your clothing was still socially acceptable but nevertheless daring—exactly the image you wanted to present. 

However, it was safe to say that after the events of the house party, venturing out in another—with so much of your chest exposed—had you nervous. Oh God, perhaps this wasn’t the brightest of my ideas— (a/n she’s just a girl :( )

“Presenting Miss Itadori, Mister Itadori, and the Right Honorable The Viscount Itadori!” As you were announced to the room, with your brothers linking arms on either side of you, you smiled—trying not to let the nerves show. At the sound of your name, the buzz of conversation faltered, dozens of heads turning toward you. You felt the weight of their gazes—sharp, judgmental, curious. You were certain half of them were eager to witness the fallout of Whistledown’s latest scandal, while the other half seemed transfixed by the boldness of your attire.

Your eyes flitted over the sea of faces as you moved through the room. There were gasps, poorly veiled whispers, and even a few widened eyes aimed at Sukuna, but what truly set your nerves alight was the attention fixed squarely on you. You resisted the urge to fidget, to adjust the neckline of your gown, to shrink under their scrutiny.

Then, amid the crowd, your gaze locked onto a familiar figure with a piercing stare—Suguru Geto.

He was lounging by the far wall, a glass of wine in hand, his dark eyes gleaming with mirth. An amused smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he shook his head, clearly entertained. Your heart stuttered, the heat rushing to your cheeks making your nerves spike further. Am I being mocked?

Before the thought could consume you, he raised his glass in a mock salute, a gesture of acknowledgment—perhaps even respect. He then nudged the man standing next to him, none other than Duke Nanami.

Your pulse quickened at the sight of the Duke, his composed demeanor a stark contrast to Geto’s casual amusement. The weight of Nanami’s steady, discerning gaze was one you weren’t prepared to meet—not tonight. In the periphery, you caught Geto slipping toward the courtyard, his laughter soft but audible as he disappeared into the night.

You tore your gaze away just in time, focusing straight ahead as you approached the Queen. Your shoulders stiffened, the intricate beading of your gown catching in the light. The murmurs grew fainter, the towering figure of Her Majesty now looming just ahead. With each step, your pulse thundered louder in your ears, but you kept your chin high, determined not to falter.

When you and your brothers reached the foot of the throne, you slipped your arms free from theirs and sank into the deepest curtsy you could manage. "Your Majesty," you murmured, lowering your head to avoid the weight of her gaze. The richness of the room—gold-trimmed drapes, towering portraits, and the hum of whispered conversations—did little to steady your nerves.

"Rise," the Queen commanded, her tone clipped and dismissive, the single word laced with impatience. You obeyed, your movements deliberate and slow, feeling the weight of every eye in the chamber on your shoulders. When you met her gaze, she was already appraising you, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe. Her scrutiny was clinical, and when she sighed audibly, it was clear her judgment was far from favorable.

“I have not been…pleased by the recent affairs, diamond,” the Queen began, her voice cold and detached, like a blade gliding through silk. A sniff punctuated her words, and the lump in your throat grew harder to swallow. “I fear this is a failure to the crown.”

The room seemed to tilt, your heartbeat quickening in your chest. The Queen’s disappointment carried a weight that could crush reputations, and yours was teetering precariously on the edge of her approval.

“However,” her tone shifted ever so slightly, and you found yourself snapping to attention, clinging to that single word like a lifeline. “Your recent change in…style is fitting.”

You blinked, unsure if you had heard her correctly. The Queen’s gaze lingered on the daring neckline of your gown, the rich red fabric catching the light in just the right way to emphasize its boldness. “You are not a simple and bland gem, Miss Itadori.” Her words were deliberate, measured, and the faintest hint of approval gleamed in her sharp eyes. “You are a diamond, and you must start to shine like it.”

For a moment, you were too stunned to respond. The Queen’s words were praise, yes, but they also carried an implicit warning: a diamond that failed to sparkle was of no use to anyone, least of all the crown.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” you said, your voice steady but quiet, and you curtsied again, the fabric of your gown whispering against the marble floor. The Queen’s gaze swept over you once more before she turned her attention elsewhere, her dismissal unspoken but clear. As you rose again, Choso placed a reassuring hand on your elbow, a subtle anchor in the sea of your swirling thoughts.

A light, “You all are dismissed.”

The cool night air wrapped around Suguru Geto as he strolled into the courtyard, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. The faint strains of the ballroom's orchestra followed him, muffled now by the grand walls of the manor. A slow, self-satisfied smile crept across his lips as he glanced up at the stars. The night felt ripe with possibility, though it was the scene he had just left that truly amused him.

He exhaled, letting the crisp air settle over him, before taking another measured step toward the fountain at the courtyard’s center. His fingers grazed the cool stone edge, the chill a welcome change from the warmth of the crowded ballroom. He savored the silence, only for it to be broken by the familiar sound of approaching footsteps.

“Geto,” a voice called out, casual but clipped.

Suguru turned slowly, almost lazily, as though he hadn’t already recognized the speaker. Gojo Satoru emerged from the shadows of the colonnade, his silver hair glowing faintly in the moonlight. He moved with his usual languid ease, though his sharp blue gaze belied his carefree demeanor.

“Well, well,” Suguru greeted, his tone light but edged with something sharp. “You’re out here. Don’t tell me you’ve finally tired of the fawning crowds?”

Gojo came to a stop a few paces away, crossing his arms as he leaned against one of the marble columns. “Needed some air. The room’s packed with too many people pretending to like each other.” His gaze flicked to Suguru, scrutinizing. “And you? Slipping out to avoid trouble, or cause it?”

Suguru chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass before taking a slow sip. “Oh, you wound me, Satoru. Can’t a man enjoy a moment of peace without being accused of scheming?”

“You?” Gojo raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Not a chance. So, what’s your angle this time?”

Suguru let the question hang, savoring the quiet tension between them. He set his glass down on the fountain’s edge, turning to fully face Gojo. His smirk widened as he finally spoke. “No angle. Just admiring the company tonight. Speaking of which…” He paused for dramatic effect, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “Miss Itadori made quite the entrance.”

Gojo’s expression didn’t change immediately, but Suguru saw the faint flicker of something—irritation, maybe, or something more carefully hidden. Gojo’s mouth twitched into a scoff, though the sound was faint, almost perfunctory.

“What about her?” Gojo asked, his tone deliberately disinterested, but Suguru noted how his fingers flexed briefly before he shoved his hands into his pockets.

Suguru hummed thoughtfully, his gaze drifting toward the sky as if considering his next words carefully. “She looked… radiant tonight. Stunning, really. I can’t imagine half the room wasn’t staring. Though, I must say, some seemed more surprised than others.” His eyes darted back to Gojo, watching for a reaction.

Gojo rolled his eyes, though there was a tightness in his jaw that Suguru didn’t miss. “She’s just another debutante. Why would I care what she’s wearing?”

“Why indeed?” Suguru replied, his voice deceptively mild. He stepped closer, leaning against the fountain with an easy grace. “But it does make one wonder—what kind of man would care? Surely someone with a sharp eye for detail. Someone with… let’s say, a bustful interest.”

Gojo stiffened slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Suguru tilted his head, studying Gojo with an intensity that bordered on playful. “Because I could swear you seemed a little distracted back there. And not by the Queen, mind you. Why did you leave as soon as the Itadoris were announced?”

“Drop it, Geto.” Gojo’s voice was sharper now, but there was an edge of unease beneath the command.

Suguru’s smirk deepened as he tried to fight the urge to snicker at his friend, but he let the moment linger, letting Gojo stew in his discomfort. He picked up his wine glass again, swirling the liquid idly before taking another slow sip. Finally, he straightened, his tone turning lighter, though no less pointed.

“Well, whatever it is—or isn’t—you’d better sort it out soon.” He started to walk past Gojo, his footsteps deliberately slow. Just as he passed, he paused, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re in danger of losing your famously cool head.”

Gojo didn’t respond immediately, but Suguru didn’t need him to. The slight narrowing of his eyes, the subtle clench of his jaw—those were all the confirmation he needed for his plan.

Suguru chuckled softly, a sound more amused than mocking, and continued on his way, his voice drifting back over his shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of the night, Satoru. Something tells me it’s going to be… illuminating.”

Left alone, Gojo exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he glared at the retreating figure. “Bastard,” he muttered under his breath, though his voice lacked fervor. Still, Suguru’s words lingered, circling his mind like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch. He turned his gaze back toward the ballroom, his thoughts uncomfortably crowded with images of a certain young lady and the maddening smirk of a man who always seemed to know too much.

It appears that you and Duke Nanami have much in common, for you are able to hold a most pleasant conversation with him.

The din of the ballroom fades to a dull murmur as you stand near the refreshment table, your gaze politely fixed on the Duke. His presence is commanding yet unassuming—a rare quality that draws you in. Dressed in a deep navy coat that matches the intensity of his solemn eyes, he inclines his head slightly as he speaks, the weight of his words tempered by the gentleness in his tone.

The arrangement is perfect. You have successfully caught your target, much to the chagrin of ladies. After all, it was not all days that Duke Nanami took interest in a lady. You would have to credit Choso; he had researched that HIs Grace did not like overbearing mamas accompanying their girls—a most rational opinion. Posing fiery opinions without the presence of anyone except yourself, it seemed that you had hit the mark.

“I find, Miss Itadori,” he says, his voice smooth yet deliberate, “that many in our circles underestimate the joy of simple pursuits. They mistake extravagance for fulfillment.” He takes a measured sip from his glass, his gloved fingers resting lightly on its stem.

You nod, a genuine smile forming on your lips. “I could not agree more, Your Grace. There is a certain comfort in the unadorned pleasures of life. A good book, a quiet morning—these seem to me the most worthwhile indulgences.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in what might pass as a rare smile. “Indeed. Though I daresay, quiet mornings are hard to come by when the season is in full swing.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound almost swallowed by the music that swells across the room. “Quite so. I suppose we are all too busy chasing the next waltz or whispering about the latest Whistledown missive.”

At the mention of Whistledown, the Duke raises a brow, his expression a mixture of amusement and intrigue. “Ah, yes. Our ever-watchful chronicler. One wonders if she, too, finds time for quiet mornings.”

“I imagine she must,” you reply. “After all, how else would she craft such keen observations? A mind as sharp as hers surely requires moments of reflection.”

“Reflection, yes,” he murmurs, his gaze drifting briefly to the chandelier above, as if lost in thought. Then, returning his attention to you, he asks, “And what of you, Miss Itadori? Amidst the bustle, do you find moments to reflect?”

The question catches you off guard—not because it is intrusive, but because it is sincere. Few have ever asked you such things. You hesitate, then answer truthfully. “I try, Your Grace. Though I must admit, the season has left little room for it. It seems my every step is watched, my every word weighed. I sometimes wonder if I have forgotten how to simply be.”

His expression softens, and for a moment, you feel as though he truly sees you—not as the diamond of the season, not as the subject of idle gossip, but as a person. “That is a heavy burden to bear,” he says quietly. “Perhaps it is time you allowed yourself a reprieve. Even diamonds require care, lest they lose their brilliance.”

The words settle over you like a balm, and you find yourself holding his gaze longer than propriety might dictate. There is no judgment in his eyes, only understanding. It is both comforting and disarming. Before you can respond, a burst of laughter from a nearby group breaks the spell. You glance away, suddenly aware of your surroundings once more. “You are kind to say so, Your Grace,” you murmur, your voice steadier than you feel.

“I merely speak the truth, Miss Itadori,” he replies, bowing his head slightly.

A pause lingers between you, not uncomfortable but weighty with unspoken thoughts. Finally, he clears his throat, his tone lighter as he says, “Would you care to take a turn about the room? I find the air here grows rather stifling.”

You smile, grateful for the excuse to move. “I would like that very much.”

As he offers his arm, you place your hand lightly upon it, allowing him to guide you into the throng. The music swells once more, and though the room is as noisy and crowded as ever, the world feels a little quieter with Duke Nanami by your side. You can see it—early mornings with Nanami, enjoying gentle banter as he returned your thoughts without any ire, without snark or judgment. Quiet respect and gentle affection filling your days. A life free of chaos, where your worries dissipate into the steady calm of his demeanor. Perhaps this could be happiness. A steady, uncomplicated happiness.

But then you see him.

You abhor your traitorous heart for lurching ever so slightly at the sight of Gojo. He is standing near the edge of the ballroom, the golden light catching on his shock of silver hair as though it had been crafted to draw attention. His smile—always so bright, so effortless—makes the lady beside him laugh. She looks at him with a sultry, yet detached and amused expression, her fan flicking lazily as if to dismiss her own growing interest.

Your chest tightens. You know this scene well. It is one you have observed too many times, and yet you have never been able to steel yourself against the sting it brings. The way he leans ever so slightly toward the lady, as though she were the only person in the room. The way his laughter echoes, a sound full of mirth and mischief, as if he had no weight upon his shoulders.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself he doesn’t matter.

But then, as though he feels the weight of your gaze, Gojo turns his head. Your pulse quickens as his eyes widen, the usual lazy charm momentarily replaced by something sharper, something you can’t quite place.

First, his gaze lands on your face, his eyes sweeping over it with a quickness that feels like a jolt to your chest. Then, they drop lower, and you feel the heat of his scrutiny settle uncomfortably on your chest. A flicker of something crosses his expression—shock, perhaps, or something else entirely—but before you can decipher it, his gaze moves again, lower still, to where your hand rests upon the Duke’s arm.

It is subtle, the way his jaw tightens. The way his smile falters, only to return a moment later, forced and brittle. He shifts his weight, turning back toward the lady at his side, but not before you catch the way his fingers twitch at his side.

You force yourself to look away, to focus instead on Duke Nanami’s steady presence beside you. He has not noticed the exchange—or if he has, he is far too polite to show it.

And yet, the moment lingers. Gojo’s image burns in your mind like the fading glow of a candle, stubbornly refusing to extinguish. You loathe the way your heart betrays you, its treacherous rhythm quickened not by the Duke’s calm assurance, but by the mere sight of a man who has always been more trouble than he’s worth.

Nanami’s voice cuts through your tumultuous thoughts, soft and grounding. “You seem distracted, Miss Itadori,” he remarks, his gaze kind but curious.

You manage a small smile, tightening your grip on his arm as though it might anchor you. “Not at all, Your Grace. Perhaps just…overwhelmed by the crowd.”

He nods, accepting your answer without pressing further. “Understandable. These gatherings can be rather tiresome.”

“Yes,” you murmur, casting one last glance in Gojo’s direction before forcing your focus back to the Duke. “Tiresome indeed.”

But even as you walk beside Nanami, his presence a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the evening, you cannot help but feel the weight of Gojo’s lingering gaze, the memory of his startled expression etched into your thoughts like a brand. You cannot help but observe the situation. Tonight, you would be ending the night on Duke Nanami’s arm, and Gojo with another woman.

Is this not what you both wanted?

Today, it seems that the usual trio at White’s is only a duo. The blonde and raven head swirl their alcohol in their shimmering glasses while sharing a comfortable silence. That is, until one interrupts.

“How do we know we’re not simply toying with her?” The blonde man’s voice is steady but tinged with unease, his lips pressed into a thin line as he glances toward his companion. “It would not be honorable of me to pursue Miss Itadori under the pretense of riling Gojo, as you seem intent on doing—”

“Kento!” The raven-haired man—Lord Geto—throws his head back in laughter, the sound rich and unapologetically amused. He leans forward slightly, propping his elbow on the armrest, as his grin widens. “So confident in your lady-pleasing and romancing abilities, aren’t you?” Nanami’s frown deepens, but Geto merely waves him off, his laughter subsiding to a mischievous chuckle. “No, no—don’t worry. You misunderstand me. This isn’t about Miss Itadori falling for you, though,” he smirks, “I’m sure you’d manage well enough.” His tone is teasing, but his words lack any true malice.

“Then what is it about?” Nanami’s voice carries a note of exasperation, though he remains as composed as ever, swirling his drink in quiet contemplation.

Geto straightens, a glint of something sharper flashing in his dark eyes. “It’s about them. They’re idiots, Kento—idiots in love, the both of them. And it is our duty, as Satoru’s friends,” he pauses, meeting Nanami’s gaze with deliberate emphasis, “to help him realize what he truly desires.”

Nanami snorts, setting his glass down with a muted clink. “You just want to toy with them, to orchestrate the ton and its leading source of gossip.”

The corner of Geto’s mouth quirks upward in a sly smile, one that practically oozes self-satisfaction. “That, my dear friend,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial, “I cannot deny.”

They lapse into silence once more, the kind that only years of friendship can create, as the firelight flickers and dances on the walls around them. Nanami tips his glass back, savoring the warmth of the whiskey as he contemplates Geto’s words—and the inevitable chaos that would follow in their wake.

prev. the house party | next. the lake

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a/n HEYYY POOKIES IT'S HERE IT'S HERE WHAT DID WE THINK. also here is the bridgerton!gojo playlist if anyone is interested!!! i apologize it is 99% taylor swift but i will be adding more diverse songs

despite the miss itadori hate in recent times our girl is BOUNCING BACKK #mogged i cant wait for her to become even more of a diva in the next few chapterssss!!!! (not rn shes going through her sad girl era or wtvr)

suguru (left) and nanami (right) at this whole drama

also i hope none of you WHORESSSS simped for geto when we made eye contact with him (im looking at zaynesbathrobe anon and all those anons that are obsessed with bridgerton!geto). stay FOCUSED girls gays and theys

thank you for readinggggg. a hot new bombshell will be entering the villa in the next few chapters can we guess who he is??? hint he has huge tits and smelly balls

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots ;3

TAGLIST:

@ncitygreen @backstagepaige @serinatly100986 @nappingmoon @coochellati

@extremelyexh4usted @yoshisaurmuchakoopas @nixiepixee @generalstephkenobi @vernasce-blogs

@byhuenii @geniejunn @a-girl-with-thoughts @dazedin2d @chuuqxs

@megumiivs @anthastudios @arranacosmist @arishaxml @jingyuun

@undercooked-chaos-noodle @jaegersity @camzzn @bluelai @1sweetheart1

@hyori2 @babyblue0t7 @iwanttoberich420 @rosso-seta @ladytamayolover

@kalulakunundrum @r0ckst4rjk @mo0sin @angelina7890 @jaeminaur

@yamiyas @cherry-blossoms-in-red @r3inae @lagataprrr @sasfransisco

@fortunatelyfurrygiver @aurora-tiny @gojonegs @luna-v-roiya @xxemmarldxx

@soobssedwithyourex @manyno @samkysnks @stefnarda @bbqsauceonmytitties2

[theetherealbloom]

Don't Stop Talking To Me, And Maybe Stay Here Forever

Summary: You join Pedro Pascal in Morocco while he’s filming Gladiator 2. Between the beauty of the Moroccan landscape, the two of you share intimate moments, from quiet rooftop dinners to playful photo-taking and teasing with the cast.

Or… “I'll hold you, I'll know you. I'll never leave out the back door. And I'd love to complete you, hope you get all you could ask for.”

I just read your latest pedro fic it was the BEST DAMN THING i’ve ever read, my heart is going to burst out of my chest from all the butterflies 🦋🫠❤️ will you write more for pedro? perhaps his gf could visit him in marocco or something while he’s filming gladiator and to meet everyone from set and maybe have some alone quality time? :3 just a suggestion 😌 anyways have a lovely dayyy ^^ — anon

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Established Relationship, Age-Gap(ish), TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF, Slight Angst, Swearing, Anxiety, Cheesy Dialogue, Cuddling, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Social Media, Embarrassment, Teasing, Shower, Slight Nudity, Make Out Session, Celebrities

Word Count: 5.7k

A/N: Okay, so, we’ve all seen the photo dumps!??!! Yes! GREAT! I haven’t watched Gladiator 2 cause it isn’t out yet in my country, so there’ll be no spoilers here mhmhmhmhm. I’m just gonna make stuff up based on the pictures Pedro posted on his Instagram lol. And again, this is all made-up, fictional, self-indulgent vibes so pls no one come after me ahhhhhh T^T

Also lowkey, I can see multiple parts to this so… stay tuned.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Songs: Packing It Up by Gracie Abrams, this is how you fall in love by Jeremy Zucker and Chelsea Cutler

gif by @a7estrellas

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OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO — DAY

The warm Moroccan breeze kissed your skin as you stepped onto the bustling set of Gladiator 2. Pedro’s laughter echoed from somewhere nearby, his distinct voice easy to pick out over the hum of activity. Your heart swelled just hearing it. He was always magnetic, but here—working, immersed in a world of creativity and camaraderie—he was luminous.  

You adjusted your sunglasses, feeling both excited and slightly anxious. Meeting Pedro’s castmates felt like stepping into his other life, one where you weren’t the center of his world but a welcome visitor orbiting it. He’d reassured you endlessly. “They’ll love you. I mean, how could they not?” But still, nerves lingered.  

“Mi amor!” Pedro’s voice cut through your thoughts. He emerged from behind a cluster of tents, his smile so wide it could eclipse the Moroccan sun.  

“Hey, stranger.” You grinned, letting him sweep you into a tight hug.  

He pulled back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, his arms still firmly around your waist. “You made it,” he whispered, his lips brushing your temple.  

“Of course, I made it,” you teased, tilting your head to look up at him. “I missed you too much to stay away.”  

The day unfolded in bursts of joy.  

Pedro introduced you to Coco Ullrich, Paul Mescal, and the rest of the cast. Everyone was warm and welcoming, their teasing camaraderie quickly drawing you in. Pedro stayed close, his hand finding yours at every opportunity, like he couldn’t stand to be too far away.  

Later, you found yourself perched on a stool in the makeup trailer, Pedro sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you. “Hold still,” you said, trying to fix his disheveled hair.  

Coco stood nearby, laughing as Pedro playfully swatted at your hands. “I’m serious, guapo! You’ll go out there looking like you just rolled out of bed.”  

“Maybe I did roll out of bed,” he quipped, grinning.  

You raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t, but if you keep squirming, I’m going to make sure you look like it.”  

Coco shook her head, still laughing. “I don’t know how you put up with him.”  

“I have my ways,” you said, giving Pedro a mock glare.  

Pedro leaned closer, his eyes softening. “You’re lucky I love you,” he murmured, his lips brushing yours before you could stop him.  

“Pedro!” you protested, laughing as he pulled you into a full kiss, distracting you from your task.  

“Hopeless,” Coco muttered, snapping a quick photo of the moment.  

OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO — SUNSET

The Moroccan sunset painted the sky in hues of gold and rose as you, Pedro, and the cast settled onto the soft blankets laid out for an impromptu picnic. The sprawling desert seemed to stretch infinitely, its serene stillness a striking contrast to the chaotic energy of the set. A light breeze rustled through the palm trees in the distance, carrying the faint sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses.

Pedro sat behind you, his arms comfortably wrapped around your waist as you leaned back into his chest. His fingertips absentmindedly traced small, lazy circles on your bare skin where your shirt had ridden up slightly. It was a touch that grounded you, soothing and sweet, and yet it made your heart ache with affection.

“This is perfect,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it louder might shatter the fragile beauty of the moment.

Pedro leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. “No, you’re perfect,” he said softly, his voice laced with adoration.

You turned your head to look at him, catching the warmth in his gaze. He looked at you like you hung the very stars above, and your cheeks flushed. “Cheesy,” you teased, though you couldn’t keep the smile off your face.

“Honest,” he countered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. His nose nudged yours affectionately, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you.

Paul Mescal, lounging nearby with a bottle of something cold in his hand, cleared his throat dramatically. “Alright, lovebirds, can you save the smoldering for the cameras? Some of us are trying to enjoy the sunset without third-wheeling your Notebook audition.”

Coco Ullrich snorted from her spot on the blanket, where she was busy assembling a makeshift charcuterie board. “Please, Paul, don’t act like you’re not taking notes for your own love scenes.”

Paul shot her a deadpan look. “What’s there to take notes on? I’m already perfect.”

“Debatable,” Coco quipped, popping a grape into her mouth and grinning.  

Pedro chuckled, his chest rumbling against your back. “Paul, don’t be jealous. You already found someone who tolerates you.”  

“Oh, I’m not jealous,” Paul said, gesturing between you and Pedro. “I’m inspired. The level of clinginess you two have achieved—it’s an art form.”  

“Clinginess?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow.  

“Yes, clinginess,” Paul said, smirking. “He hasn’t let go of you since you got here. It’s like watching a koala in human form.”

Coco leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you think he’d survive a day without her?”  

“Doubtful,” Paul replied, his tone grave.  

Pedro shook his head, his arms tightening around you playfully. “Let them joke,” he said into your ear, his voice a low murmur. “They’re just bitter they don’t have their partners to hold them while they complain about the heat.”  

You turned your head slightly to whisper back, “I think they’re projecting.”  

Pedro laughed, loud and unabashed, and the sound sent warmth flooding through you.  

“Alright, enough roasting Pedro,” Coco said, waving her hands. “Let’s focus on the important stuff—like this cheese board I’m absolutely nailing.”

“Coco, you put a block of cheese next to some crackers,” Paul pointed out.  

“And yet, it’s still better than anything you’ve contributed,” she shot back.

You couldn’t help but laugh as they continued to bicker, the dynamic between the cast a perfect blend of teasing and genuine affection. It felt good to be a part of this world for a little while, to see Pedro in his element and to share these small, beautiful moments with the people who meant so much to him.  

As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky with deeper hues of crimson and violet, Pedro shifted slightly behind you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You doing okay, sweetheart?” he asked softly, his voice meant just for you.

“I’m better than okay,” you said, turning your face to his. “This is one of those moments I’ll never forget.”

“Same,” he replied, his eyes searching yours. “But mostly because you’re here.”

Paul groaned from across the blanket. “Seriously, someone hand me a bucket. I can’t handle this level of sap.”

“You’re just missing Gracie,” Coco teased, tossing a cracker at Paul with a sly grin.  

Paul caught it mid-air with a dramatic flourish. “She’s the love of my life, thank you very much. I’m thriving, just long-distance thriving.” His wide smile softened slightly, a dreamy look crossing his face.  

Pedro chuckled, resting his chin on your shoulder as he held you closer. “See, even Paul can be romantic. It’s not just us being disgustingly in love.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Paul said, waving him off, though the grin never left his face. “But you two are setting the bar impossibly high. Stop making the rest of us look bad.”

Coco shook her head with mock exasperation. “Let’s face it, no one can compete with Pedro’s clingy koala act.”  

“Hey, it’s not clingy if it’s mutual,” you chimed in, leaning back into Pedro’s embrace.  

“Exactly!” Pedro said, kissing the side of your neck for emphasis. “This is just... efficient affection.”  

“Efficient affection?” Coco repeated, laughing so hard she nearly knocked over the cheese board. “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

Pedro shrugged, utterly unbothered, his lips brushing your temple as he murmured, “Don’t let them ruin this for us.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you whispered back, tilting your head to press a soft kiss to his jaw.  

The first stars began to dot the darkening sky, their glow faint but steady against the fading hues of gold and rose. The laughter of the group blended with the soothing whisper of the desert breeze, wrapping the evening in a cocoon of warmth and love.

You let out a contented sigh, your fingers intertwining with Pedro’s. These moments—filled with jokes, tenderness, and the quiet magic of a Moroccan sunset—were the kind you knew you’d carry with you forever.

THE NEXT DAY

OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO – AFTERNOON  

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting warm golden light over the sprawling desert set. The faint hum of activity outside the large tent provided a calming backdrop as you and Pedro sat together, stealing a moment away from the chaos of production.  

Pedro’s lap had become your designated resting place, his arms wrapped snugly around your waist as you leaned into him. You had been quietly chatting about the day—how stunning the desert looked on camera, how Paul had stolen one of Coco’s snacks during a break—when the warmth of the afternoon began to lull you both into sleep.  

His hand moved lazily up and down your back, the motion soothing as his voice grew quieter, more relaxed. “You know,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple, “this might be my favorite part of the day.”  

“Falling asleep during work?” you teased, your voice soft and playful.  

“Falling asleep with you,” he corrected, his smile audible in his words.  

It wasn’t long before exhaustion claimed you both, your head tucked under his chin and his cheek resting against your hair. The quiet hum of the tent became a comforting cocoon, and time seemed to stretch and blur.  

The sound of muffled laughter stirred you from sleep, pulling you out of the warm haze. You blinked against the light, realizing you were still tucked into Pedro’s chest, his arms holding you close even as he began to wake.  

“Don’t move,” a familiar voice called. You turned your head to see Paul Mescal standing a few feet away, phone in hand, his grin wide and mischievous.  

Next to him, Coco Ullrich smirked as she aimed her phone at the two of you. “We’re documenting history here. You’ll thank us later.”  

Pedro stirred, squinting at them through his grogginess. “Seriously?” His voice was raspy, a mix of sleep and disbelief.  

Paul shrugged, grinning even wider as he showed Pedro the photo. “We couldn’t resist. Look at this. It’s like a promo poster for the most annoyingly sweet rom-com ever.”  

Pedro glanced at the photo, then at you, and laughed softly. “We should use that for the holiday cards this year.”  

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “This is so embarrassing. They’re never going to let us live this down.”  

Coco laughed, flipping through her photos. “Oh, it’s way too late for that. I’m sending this to the group chat and the PR team. They’ll love it.”  

“Please don’t,” you pleaded, your voice muffled against Pedro’s shirt.  

Paul tilted his head dramatically. “Why not? It’s just a little fun. Besides, you two are giving us all cavities with how sweet you are. We’re suffering.”  

Pedro smirked, holding you a little tighter. “You’re suffering? Sounds like a personal problem.”  

“Alright, alright, enough!” A gravelly voice interrupted, and you looked up to see Ridley Scott standing at the edge of the tent. His hands were on his hips, but the amused twinkle in his eye gave him away.  

“Ridley,” you started, your cheeks flushing with heat. “I’m so sorry—”  

He held up a hand to stop you, his smirk growing. “Don’t apologize. If anything, I should thank you. Pedro’s been suspiciously well-behaved since you arrived. But,” he added with a pointed glance at Pedro, “if this keeps up, we’ll have to rename the film The Gladiator and the Muse. Production’s going to take twice as long.”  

The crew burst into laughter, and you buried your face back in Pedro’s chest, groaning. “This is officially the most embarrassing moment of my life.”  

Pedro chuckled, his hand brushing gently over your back. “Embarrassing? Nah. You’re the best thing about being here.”  

You peeked up at him, your cheeks still warm, and saw the sincerity in his eyes. “You mean that?”  

“Every word,” he said, his voice soft. “You make everything easier, better… you make it all worth it.”  

Your heart swelled, and a small smile broke through your embarrassment. “Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll try to believe you.”  

“Believe me,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.  

Paul groaned, breaking the tender moment. “Someone get a camera crew. We’re turning this into a reality show. Lovebirds in the Desert.”  

Pedro laughed, finally standing and pulling you to your feet. “Careful, Paul. You might not survive the sequel.”  

Ridley clapped his hands, his voice carrying over the lingering laughter. “Alright, lovebirds, enough stalling. Let’s get back to work! Pedro, we’ve got a fight scene to shoot.”  

Pedro gave you one last reassuring smile before winking. “Don’t go far. I’ll need more luck soon.”  

You nodded, watching him head back to set, and felt a sense of warmth that no amount of teasing could dampen. As you stepped out of the tent, the desert sun shining overhead, you knew this moment—this strange, beautiful mix of chaos and love—was one you’d carry with you forever.

OUARZAZATE, MOROCCO – EVENING  

The rooftop restaurant was like something out of a dream. Lanterns hung delicately from wrought iron fixtures, casting warm, flickering light over the table as the sun dipped below the horizon. The air was cool but pleasant, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from a nearby garden. Below, the city of Marrakech stretched out in an intricate maze of rooftops and twinkling lights, the hum of life soft and distant.  

Pedro had arranged everything, from the secluded corner table to the small vase of your favorite flowers waiting when you arrived. He always had a way of making even the simplest moments feel like magic.  

“Look at this view,” you murmured, leaning against the wrought iron railing as the sky turned from gold to a deep, dusky pink.  

Pedro stood close behind you, his hand resting gently on the small of your back. “The view’s got nothing on you,” he said softly, the teasing lilt in his voice balanced by the sincerity in his eyes.  

You laughed, shaking your head as you turned to face him. “That’s a terrible line.”  

“Maybe,” he admitted, grinning as he pulled out his phone. “But it’s true. Hold still.”  

Before you could protest, he snapped a photo, catching you mid-laugh as you tried to dodge the camera. “Pedro!” you groaned, your cheeks warming.  

He chuckled, looking at the photo with a self-satisfied smile. “Perfect. Might frame this one.”  

“Stop it,” you said, trying to grab the phone from him, but he held it out of reach, his grin only widening.  

“Never,” he replied, his free hand reaching across the table to take yours. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and his gaze softened. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”  

Your stomach fluttered at the way he said it—no teasing this time, just quiet, earnest affection.  

“Now you’re just being unfair,” you muttered, trying to hide your blush.  

Pedro leaned forward, his head tilting slightly as if to study you closer. “Not unfair. Just honest.”  

You rolled your eyes playfully, but your heart was pounding. In a bid to regain some ground, you grabbed your own phone and quickly snapped a picture of him just as he brought your hand to his lips. The resulting photo was unfairly good—his lashes long, the lantern light catching the gold in his eyes, the softness in his expression making your chest ache.  

“Got you,” you said triumphantly, holding up the phone.  

Pedro laughed, his thumb brushing over your knuckles again as he met your gaze. “Now we’re even?”  

“Now we’re even,” you confirmed, though your grin gave away how smug you felt.  

The waiter arrived with dessert just then—a delicate plate of Moroccan pastries accompanied by a small bowl of honey and almonds. You both leaned forward at the same time, reaching for the same pastry, and burst into laughter when your fingers brushed.  

“Go ahead,” Pedro said, gesturing gallantly.  

“Such a gentleman,” you teased, breaking off a piece of the pastry and dipping it into the honey. You held it up to his lips, your pulse skipping when he leaned in without hesitation.  

“Delicious,” he said, his voice low and warm. “But I think it tastes better coming from you.”  

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, trying to suppress a smile as you took a bite yourself. The flaky pastry melted on your tongue, its sweetness perfectly balanced by the honey.  

As you shared the dessert, your conversation drifted from playful teasing to the little things that filled your days. Pedro told you about a funny moment on set earlier when Paul had forgotten his lines and improvised something so absurd even Ridley couldn’t stop laughing.  

“And then,” Pedro continued, his grin infectious, “he tried to blame me, saying my face was too distracting.”  

“Well, he’s not wrong,” you teased, earning a dramatic roll of Pedro’s eyes.  

“Oh, so now you’re on his side?”  

“I’m on the side of the truth,” you said, popping an almond into your mouth.  

Pedro chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”  

Your smile softened, and you leaned your chin on your hand as you looked at him. “Probably still charming everyone who crosses your path.”  

“Not like this,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. He reached across the table again, his fingers lacing with yours. “You make everything better. You make me better.”  

Your throat tightened at the rawness in his voice, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, his words settling deep in your chest.  

“You do the same for me,” you said quietly.  

The soft music playing in the background faded into the hum of the city as the two of you sat there, the world narrowing to just this moment. Pedro brought your hand to his lips again, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before resting your joined hands on the table.  

As the night stretched on, the two of you continued to talk about everything and nothing—your favorite childhood memories, the places you wanted to visit together, the little quirks you loved about each other.  

When it was time to leave, Pedro stood and extended a hand to help you up. “One last picture before we go?” he asked, his phone already in hand.  

You nodded, letting him pull you into his side. The lanterns glowed softly behind you as he kissed your cheek just as the camera clicked.  

Looking at the photo, you smiled. It was perfect—just like this night, just like him. 

L’HÔTEL MARRAKECH, MOROCCO – EVENING

The golden hues of the evening sun had long faded, leaving the hotel suite illuminated only by the soft glow of warm, ambient lighting. Laughter filled the room, bubbling up between stolen glances and playful teasing. Pedro leaned against the edge of the plush sofa, his hand resting casually on his hip as you doubled over with giggles at another one of his overly dramatic impressions. 

“I’m just saying,” he said with a grin, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “If anyone here is getting an Oscar for Most Entertaining Human, it’s me.”

You rolled your eyes, swatting at him lightly. “You? Entertaining? Please. You’re just lucky I think you’re cute.”

“Just cute?” he teased, his voice dropping into a low, mock-hurt murmur. He stepped closer, tilting his head. “That’s disappointing.”

And just like that, with no warning, he took your hand and spun you gently into his arms. There was no music, no sound but the faint rustle of the curtains and the muted hum of life outside your window. But to Pedro, there was no need for anything more. 

“Dance with me,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, pulling you flush against him.

“Pedro,” you started to protest, but the way he was looking at you—so earnest, so unguarded—stole the words from your lips. He rested his forehead against yours, his arms wrapping around you like he was afraid to let go. 

“You are the reason I can breathe,” he murmured. His voice cracked slightly, raw and unfiltered. “The reason I can survive.”

Your chest tightened, and your hands gripped the soft cotton of his shirt as you closed your eyes. Slowly, the two of you began to sway, side to side, as if the universe itself had orchestrated this silent melody just for you.

“Pedro,” you whispered, tears threatening to spill as the weight of his words sank deep into your soul. “You don’t have to—”

“Shh.” He cut you off gently, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “I want to. You’re my safe place.”

Together, you moved as one, the world outside forgotten. The phones were switched off, the curtains drawn, and for a moment, it felt like time had ceased to exist. All that mattered was this—his arms around you, your head resting on his chest, and the way his heartbeat felt steady and strong beneath your cheek.

“What’s easy is right,” you whispered suddenly, echoing words your mother had once said. The truth of it struck you in that moment, how being with Pedro never felt like a choice—it was instinct. Like breathing. Like coming home. 

Pedro smiled, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “What’s easy is right,” he repeated softly. “Then I guess it’s easy to know... I’m going to love you forever.”

You laughed softly, though the lump in your throat made it difficult. “Forever’s a long time.”

He tilted your chin up, his warm, brown eyes crinkling at the corners with a quiet joy. “Not nearly long enough,” he said, his voice a low promise. “You’ll be my best friend until we’re old and gray. And even then, I’ll still love you.”

There was something in the way he said it—so simple, so sure—that your knees nearly gave out. But as always, Pedro was there, holding you steady, keeping you close. 

This is how you fall in love, you realized. Not in a blaze of fireworks, but in the quiet moments where you let go and they hold you up. 

“Do you know what you’ve done to me?” Pedro said after a long silence, his voice filled with wonder. “You make my stomach ache with hope. You make my hands stop shaking. I wake up smiling now, and it’s because of you.”

You bit your lip, your fingers tracing lazy patterns across his chest. “Pedro…”

“No, listen to me,” he insisted, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Love isn’t supposed to be heavy. It’s not supposed to hurt. It’s supposed to be this. Us. A safe place. A hand to hold through every storm.”

His words broke something open inside you, and you nodded, letting the tears spill over. “You’re my safe place too,” you whispered. “You make me believe I deserve this.”

Pedro pulled you closer, resting his chin on the top of your head as he swayed you gently. “You deserve everything,” he murmured. “Every laugh, every sunrise, every stupid little joke I’ll tell for the next fifty years.”

You both laughed softly, the sound mingling with the quiet hum of the room. The world outside could wait. For now, all that mattered was this moment—this love that was soft, steady, and unshakable.

Right from your hips to your cuticles, you were everything to him, and he was everything to you. Wherever you both went, it was heaven. And neither of you ever wanted to leave. 

Steam filled the bathroom, the warmth clinging to the mirrors and wrapping around the two of you like a soft cocoon. Pedro stood under the cascade of water, droplets running down his broad shoulders and soaking his messy curls. His eyes flicked toward you, a tender smile tugging at his lips as you stepped closer, your fingers gently reaching for the shampoo bottle.  

“Turn around,” you said softly, motioning for him to face away from you.  

“Yes, ma’am,” he teased, though there was a hint of shyness in his voice as he obeyed.  

You lathered the shampoo between your hands, your touch careful and affectionate as you worked it into his hair. His curls were soft and damp beneath your fingers, the grays glinting like silver in the dim light.  

“I love your hair,” you murmured, your voice reverent.  

Pedro let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle, tilting his head back slightly. “The gray makes me look old.”  

You paused, your hands stilling in his hair as you leaned around to catch his gaze. “Stop that. It doesn’t make you look old; it makes you look distinguished. And I happen to love every single one of these.” You tugged playfully at a curl for emphasis.  

He gave you a sheepish look, his lips twitching as he fought back a pout. “You’re just saying that because you’re stuck with me.”  

“Stuck with you?” you repeated, feigning outrage. “Oh, no, Pedro. I chose you—gray hair and all. And I’d choose you again. Every single day.”  

His pout softened into a smile, one so genuine it made your chest ache. “You’re too good to me,” he murmured, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple.  

“And you deserve it,” you countered firmly, finishing his hair with a rinse.  

When it was your turn, Pedro insisted on returning the favor, his hands gentle as he massaged the conditioner into your hair. His touch lingered, his fingers tracing the nape of your neck as he marveled at you.  

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with sincerity.  

“Even covered in soap?” you teased, feeling heat creep up your cheeks.  

“Especially covered in soap,” he replied, leaning down to steal a kiss.  

The shower ended with a flurry of soft laughter and playful splashes, the two of you wrapped in towels as you padded into the bedroom. Pedro pulled on a pair of boxers while you slipped into one of his oversized shirts, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs.  

The two of you slipped into bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm, golden light over the room. The air smelled faintly of the lavender lotion you’d rubbed on your hands, mingling with the subtle hint of Pedro’s cologne that still lingered on his skin. He had one arm draped lazily over your waist, his other hand holding a book he’d claimed to be interested in, though his wandering eyes betrayed him.

A book rested in your lap, too, but you’d long given up on reading. Instead, you could feel his gaze flickering to you, watching you more than the words on his page. It was endearing, the way he thought you wouldn’t notice, how he never grew tired of studying you like he’d never quite figure you out.  

“You’re not reading,” you finally accused, peeking at him over the edge of your book.  

Pedro grinned, unabashed. He set his book down on the nightstand and scooted closer, leaning his head on the pillow beside you. “Can you blame me?” he said, his voice soft and teasing. His hand reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles grazing your cheek. “I’ve got the most beautiful view right here.”  

You rolled your eyes, trying to fight the warmth rising in your cheeks, but the smile that stretched across your lips betrayed you. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, nudging him lightly with your elbow.  

“And yet, you love me,” he replied with mock arrogance, leaning back against the headboard with a self-satisfied smirk.  

“Unfortunately for me,” you quipped, though your tone was dripping with affection.  

Pedro’s laugh filled the room, low and warm, wrapping around you like a blanket. You settled back into your spot, his arm tightening slightly around your waist, anchoring you to him. For a while, there was only the sound of pages turning and the occasional creak of the bed as one of you shifted.  

Eventually, the books were forgotten, abandoned on the nightstand as the room grew darker, the soft click of the lamp switch plunging you into the comforting glow of moonlight spilling through the curtains.  

Lying side by side, your head resting on Pedro’s chest, you let your fingers trace lazy patterns along the bare skin of his arm. But your mind wouldn’t quiet, and as the minutes stretched on, the thoughts bubbling inside you demanded to be voiced.  

“Okay, but really,” you began, your voice breaking the comfortable silence. “Why is ‘llama’ spelled with two L’s? Wouldn’t one be enough? It’s not like we say ‘Llama-la.’”  

Pedro let out a soft laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest beneath your cheek. He tilted his head down to look at you, his lips quirking into a smile. “Mi amor, I adore you, but it’s almost midnight. Go to sleep.”  

“I can’t until I solve this mystery,” you said with mock determination, lifting your head to look at him.  

He sighed dramatically, feigning exasperation. “Fine. Maybe the second ‘L’ is there to confuse aliens.”  

You gasped, sitting up slightly. “That makes so much sense! Like, imagine aliens judging us for eating cereal with milk.”  

Pedro chuckled again, his arm tightening around you to keep you close. “Cereal with milk is sacred,” he said, his voice heavy with playful conviction. “If aliens have an issue with that, I’ll fight them myself.”  

You grinned, turning to prop yourself up on your elbow so you could face him fully. “Okay, serious question. If you could ask someone anything and be guaranteed the truth, who would it be?”  

Pedro cracked one eye open, his other hand lazily resting on your hip. “I’d ask you why you’re so determined to keep me awake,” he deadpanned, his lips twitching with a suppressed smile.  

You laughed, nudging him with your elbow. “I’m serious!”  

“Alright, alright,” he relented, the mirth in his eyes softening as he considered your question. “I’d ask my third-grade teacher if she really lost my homework or if she just didn’t like me.”  

You burst out laughing, the sound muffled by the way you buried your face into his chest. “That’s what you’d waste your question on?”  

“Don’t judge me,” he said with mock indignation, his fingers trailing absent patterns on your back. “It’s haunted me for years.”  

Your laughter subsided into a warm giggle as you tilted your head up to look at him. “Fine. My turn. I’d ask my mom if she’s proud of me. Like… really proud. Not just the ‘I’m your mom, so I have to say it’ kind of proud.”  

Pedro’s hand stilled on your back, his gaze softening as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “She’s proud of you, baby,” he murmured against your skin. “And so am I. Always.”  

The weight of his words wrapped around your heart, a comforting balm that eased the ache of self-doubt. You nuzzled closer, your fingers curling around his as you let the quiet stretch between you for a moment.  

Moments later, you broke the silence again, your voice a whisper in the dark. “When I was little, I thought my toys came alive when I wasn’t looking. Like Toy Story. Honestly, I still kinda think they do.”  

Pedro let out a deep laugh, his chest shaking beneath you as he pulled you even closer. “I wouldn’t put it past them,” he said, his voice warm with amusement. “Your stuffed bunny? Definitely a troublemaker.”  

You giggled, your heart feeling impossibly light as his hand returned to its slow, soothing patterns on your back.  

The conversation drifted into comfortable nonsense, the kind of midnight musings that didn’t need to make sense but brought a certain kind of intimacy only shared in the quiet hours of the night.  

Finally, as your eyelids grew heavy and your words faded into murmurs, Pedro pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Goodnight, mi amor,” he whispered, his voice soft and steady.  

In his arms, with the world outside forgotten, you felt safe. Loved. His heartbeat was the only rhythm you needed as you drifted into sleep, a love like no other holding you steady through the night.

[lisenberry]

Feral Friday 141 Thoughts     

NSFW/MDNI/18+    

When you really need to ride him...

...He’s sitting on the couch, watching the day’s match.  Knees spread wide and taking up half the cushions.  You’re cuddled under his arm with your feet tucked up, reading a book or a download on your phone.  It’s in the middle of a steamy scene in your latest bodice-ripper.  After chapters’ worth of fighting and resisting, the heroine is finally going to come all over the big mean villain’s engorged appendage.  

You’re so engrossed, you’re sure he can feel your breath change and your cheek heat up where it rests against his chest.  Can he sense your arousal as it dampens your knickers underneath the old, softened t-shirt you claimed from his bedroom floor the first time you slept over?

When the whistle sounds to end the half, you vaguely notice, until he stirs next to you. “Hey, babe?  We got any snacks?”

“Umm, I th-think so.”  You pull your attention away just in time to meet his eyes.  And he immediately knows. 

“Got yourself a good one there, do you?”  You’ve bitten your lips raw, you’re sweating, and your chest is nearly heaving with lust as you nod desperately.

“Do you mind if I take the edge off?”  You squeeze your thighs together and feel the slick dripping past the fabric.

“Your finger or mine?” he asks, keeping one eye on the telly and one on you as your maneuver out of your underwear.

“I’m going to need something a bit more this time,” you nearly whine as you launch onto his lap, careful not to headbutt his chin in your urgency.

GAZ – He doesn't miss a beat as you nestle your excited little pussy just over his cock.  He’s already rock-hard and it doesn’t take much to pull him out from the sweatpants he wears slung low on his hips.

“Take what you need, love.”  He smiles proudly as you drop down onto him, slipping and sliding on your own slick. 

And you do, pitching forward to settle him against the bundle of nerves deep in your belly.   He’s so long, he doesn’t just graze it, he impales it.  You swear he’s in your lungs, stealing your breath with each rise and fall.

He cheers you on the whole way. 

“Look at you bouncing so well on my cock...So pretty all flushed and sweaty...Fucking hot, you are.”

Your unfairly handsome, quick-tongued rake tenderly wipes the hair and perspiration from your face, and lets you use him until you're shattered and worn out. 

SOAP:  He lets you grind against him for a bit through his gym shorts, dick fully chubbed like the pommel of a saddle. 

“Please tell me it’s a Scottish highland warrior that’s got you so bothered, and not some prissy English lord.  You’ll hurt my feelings.”  He grins, his eyes already rolling back in his head at your steady stroking.

“Keep talking, Johnny.”  You hump against him faster, knowing the second you put him in, you’ll be done for.  A weeping, overstimulated mess before he even catches his stride.  His burly, veiny length has an upwards curve like he was molded and kiln-forged just to fit you. 

And he could go for hours if you didn’t wind him up good.  Tease him and test him, get his attention exactly where it needs to be.

“Let me suck on your tits, bonny lass.”  He deepens his brogue and his voice an octave as he tries not to laugh, while he strips your shirt off and buries his face into your bosom.

You are quite sure that the hot-headed highland scoundrel in your story didn’t use the word ‘tits’, but you let it slide.  The one between your thighs is everything you need, and more.

GHOST – He’s wearing jeans, so it’s a bit harder to get him free.  After you let out a frustrated huff at the complexity of his wardrobe, he cups you under your ass and stands you both up.  Undoing his belt buckle and the fly one-handed before setting you back down astride him again.

“Needy little dove today.”

“Just let me try, Si.”  You rarely ever ride him.  The few times you’ve attempted it, you give up when your thighs turn to mush and your cunt aches from being split in two.  He’s just too thick for a quickie.

“Are you going to let me help this time, or are you going to be stubborn?”

“Help!”  The strangled sound escapes your throat as you fit him in to the hilt.  He takes up so much space, you can’t tell where you end and he begins. 

“You’re fucking soaked.”  He rolls his hips to stretch you further, to find the right spot, as your slick trickles down to coat his balls.  You feel them wet and sticky against your seam.

“Mmmh-uhhh, that’s it.  Right there,” you bellow gratefully to the ceiling.

“What are you going to do about it?”  He grabs your hips rudely, fingers pressing to dimple the skin and hold you down as he spears your nerves like a spike.

You fight against his hold, knowing that’s what he's looking for.  Just a little fire in your belly, a little steel in your spine and your merciless, battle-scarred rogue will give you anything you want.

“That’s it, dovey.  Fuck me good.”

PRICE – He’s watching you with awe, wide-eyed and slack jawed, so immersed in the act of being milked by your warm, soft walls that he’s relinquished control completely.  You know that look too well.

“Do not come yet, John.  Please.  Think of bullets.  Hollow points and grenades.  A...ummm, a panzer!”  You’re almost there.  So...close your mind is just pulling words from memories of past conversations you were only barely listening to.

“A panzer?  Like the bloody old German tank?” he asks with the sort of clarity of mind you need of him in this situation.

“Yes, keep thinking of dusty relics rotting in museums.  While I ride your big, beautiful cock—”

“You’ve done it now.”  He groans, and you feel him stiffen inside you.  The sensation of it, coupled with the hot spurts of his spend hitting your most sensitive spot, get you there just in time to join him.

You don’t even mind that it was so quick.  It warms your heart, and your cunt, that the callous, domineering war hero falls to pieces so completely for no one but you.

[thef1diary]

Little Big Fan | Two

— Little Big Flight

Read part one here

Series Masterlist

Note: Max isn’t a major part of this chapter.

wc: 1.7k

Isabella hadn't stopped talking about Max since the day the two of you met him—in the grocery store of all places.

Her excitement was beyond imaginable, and that says a lot coming from you, a mother of a six year old that should be familiar with her big imagination.

As promised, Max had contacted you for the details later that day, surprising you with flight tickets and hotel already booked. You called him as soon as you saw the message, and gave him a little earful about doing too much for two strangers.

His response, "we don't have to be strangers anymore."

The harder part however, was explaining to Isabella's father, Tyler, that you were gifted a paddock pass for yourself and your daughter. Unfortunately, the race weekend was during your ex's days to keep Isabella, so you had to tell him about the plans.

While he might've been an okay father, he wasn't the best partner. Which is why when you told him, he laughed, not believing you for a second. That is, until you showed him the flight ticket to the Netherlands, where the next race was held.

You didn't have to tell him that you met Max, your daughter already did because she couldn't contain her excitement.

You spoke to him when you were standing by the door to his house when dropping Isabella off during your week so Tyler would still able to spend time with her before you leave. When he attempted to playfully ask why he wasn't invited to the race, Isabella shrugged but you knew he was actually asking you.

"You're flying out for work, it wouldn't have been possible." You didn't tell him that Max never offered, that secret was yours to keep.

The conversation didn't last long, since a woman you hadn't met, came and stood behind Tyler. Now you usually didn't care about who comes and goes in his house, but it mattered when your daughter was there. Fortunately, the woman was leaving so you didn't have to bring up the topic. A so-called rule he created when the two of you separated.

"Alright angel, I'll see you in a few days," you crouched down and kissed Isabella's forehead. Wrapping her arms around you, she whispered in your ear, "I love you, mama."

"I love you too, angel. Have fun here yeah?" Watching her nod, Tyler sent her inside and remained standing at the door to speak to you.

"I should get going," you told him and turned to leave, but he called your name to stop you. "Thank you for sending her over this week."

"Yeah, no worries." While you were fine with keeping things formal between you and Tyler, you didn't really want to spend any extra time with him without Isabella.

Truthfully, you were still in contact with him because of Isabella as she deserved to grow up around both parents and so far, it was going well.

As soon as you sat in your car, you received a text from a newly familiar person, Max. A small smile grew on your face at the thought of him. While he might've asked for your number to send the pass details, there were a few unrelated texts that were sent as well.

Whether it was just asking about your day, or how Isabella is doing, it made your days a little sweeter knowing that he genuinely wanted to know.

Even in his latest text, he was asking about your day. You responded, telling him about dropping off Isabella at Tyler's, mentioning how much you'll miss her over the next few days. Then, you drove off, dreading to think of ways to spend time without your little one.

—

You had a lot of free time on your hands during the week that Isabella was at Tyler's house. Even after checking off every errand you had to complete, you decided to do some research about the sport. It was a lot of information to take in and all you remember, is that you would miss the practices, but would be able to watch qualifying and the actual race.

It was now Friday, ten days later, and you were boarding a flight to the Netherlands with Isabella to watch your daughter's favourite driver race.

You were quite nervous to take Isabella on a flight, as it would be the second time. The first time was four years ago, and that too was necessary at the time or else you wouldn't have taken a two year-old Isabella on the plane.

However, Isabella wouldn’t have remembered many details from that flight, so it could also be considered her first.

Truth is, you didn't travel much after giving birth to your beautiful daughter, so you kept glancing at her to ensure she was okay during the boarding process.

While Isabella was still very excited to visit a new country, you could tell that she became slightly nervous as she sat down, all buckled in her assigned seat beside yours in anticipation for takeoff.

She was looking out the window, taking in the beauty of the early morning hours. That was, until she noticed the plane beginning to move.

"Mama," she exclaimed a little loudly, immediately finding your hand and grasping on to it tightly. "It's okay, Bella, we're flying to see Max right? Are you excited?" You asked, knowing the answer to the question very well but it was just a little way to distract her. As expected, she nodded eagerly, rambling on about everything she learned about Formula 1 with her daddy.

Clutching on to her favourite teddy bear, that she's had since birth, with one hand and the other still holding on to yours, she closed her eyes tightly once the plane picked up speed on the runway. You ran your free hand through her hair, whispering words and asking questions to distract her until the plane was stably in the air.

Fortunately, it was a seven hour flight which wasn't excessively long and wouldn't cause any additional stress on how to keep Isabella entertained.

Having downloaded the movie Cars on an iPad, you were able to keep her busy for two out of seven hours. She was happily watching, forgetting the fact that they were many miles up in air. Despite the fact that Isabella has watched this movie one too many times, it was still her favourite.

Especially after watching Formula 1, she quickly considered Charles Leclerc as Lightning McQueen when she first saw him in the red car on track. Even if Max was her favourite driver, she would speak of the Ferrari driver almost as often.

Fortunately, there was a tad bit of more privacy considering you and Isabella were seated in first class. The credit for that could be given to Max. When you asked him why first class was necessary, he responded with, "you two are my guests for the race, and my guests always need to have one of the best flight experiences."

Although, he didn't mention why it was one of the best and not the best. He held back on the fact that the best experience would be in his private plane. Perhaps one day, you and Isabella would travel with him and he would be able to share the experience. Which he believes would be a whole lot better than flying with his usual team.

The only time Isabella tightly clutched on to your hand, was during takeoff, landing, and some mild turbulence. Other than that, she had a lot of fun constantly finding a way to speak to the flight attendant.

She considered the flight attendant her friend, mainly because she kept bringing Isabella snacks to pass the time. Since Isabella stayed awake during the majority of the flight, she was close to falling asleep near the end.

After the events in the grocery store, you ensured to never leave Isabella's hand in a public place even after she assured you that she wouldn't run away. So, throughout the process of getting your small suitcase, Isabella was standing right beside you, holding your hand.

"Is Maxy gonna pick us up?" Isabella asked as you walked towards the exit. You shook your head, "no, angel, he's busy."

Dejected, Isabella pouted and you had to keep yourself from chuckling at her antics. "We'll see him tomorrow, just one more night," you reassured and the pout was replaced with a smile. If she could wait over a year for Tyler's promise that was never fulfilled, she could wait one more night until it is fulfilled by you.. and Max.

After a thirty minute drive from the airport to the hotel, you were able to get off your feet and relax. While Isabella was fascinated by the view from your hotel room, you picked up your phone and sent Max a text stating that you and Isabella safely arrived as per his request.

Usually, you'd get that request from your mother, as she always needed a text or a call to ensure your safety, especially whenever you were out with Isabella.

As expected, you had an unread message from your mother asking the same. "Bella, come here," you called out and heard patters of her small feet running towards you.

"Are we sending nanna a picture?" She asked, already knowing what was going on and you laughed, nodding.

You snapped a photo of her blowing a kiss to the camera and sent it to your mother. Two minutes passed before you got a response from her, "cutest as always but what about my little girl?"

Opening the camera again, you took a snapped a photo of yourself, holding your thumbs up playfully and sent it to her. "Your little girl is perfectly safe too"

Dropping your phone on the bed, you called Isabella’s name, “I’m gonna catch you!” You playfully chased your daughter, easily picking her up, as there wasn’t a lot of space to run, and attacking her with kisses and tickles.

Your phone buzzed with a text, “beautiful”

You had accidentally sent your photo to Max after it was sent to your mother, who was supposed to be the only recipient.

Taglist: (let me know if you want to be added or removed) @xjval @mrsmaybank13 @cherry-piee @urfavnoirette @solphin @burningcupcakefire @nessacarty1 @dreamsarebig @158cmx @omgsuperstarg @fanficweasley @redbullgirly

[sitepathos]

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 6: The Return

A/N: Did this chapter during a slow day in class. Enjoy this mini chapter!

You tried to keep your promise to Alfred about taking regular breaks to stop for food and sleep, but the Megamycete gives you unlimited energy, reducing your need for food and rest and allowing you to focus only driving as much as you can before night because Alfred is no doubt keeping track of when you tell him you’re stopping and resuming your journey.

Finally, after forty hours (you wished you could’ve turned into a giant flying creature and carry your car all the way to Goodsprings, but you’d never be able to explain that to Alfred), you pulled into the driveway of your childhood home and you feel tears swelling up in the corners of your eyes.

(Your feelings for this home are quite profound,) it remarks as you make your way up the driveway. (May we ask a favor?)

“Yeah, of course?”

(Allow us to establish a root system around your house. We promise our roots will not damage anything.)

“Can I ask why?”

(You have longed to return to this house for years. We wish to ensure its protection. With a root system, we will be able to watch over your house and keep out undesirables, be they man or pest.)

“Sure,” you chuckle, bending down and touching the lawn and from your finger, a sliver of mold extends from your skin and disappears into the dirt.

(We thank you. Should anything threaten your home, we will intervene.)

“Thanks, buddy,” you chuckle as you walk up to the front door, pulling out the key that the Clark County Probate Office sent you after you turned eighteen.

As you insert the key into the keyhole, you realize that you’re holding your breath. You’ve dreamed on this moment for years and now that it’s here, you’re worried that the home you’ve wanted to return to won’t bring you the joy you thought it would.

(Do not let your fears stand in your way. This home contains memories of a time of your life that you cherish. You will also be able to walk through the halls of this house without fear. Within these four walls, you will create a new life that will bring you happiness.)

You’re thankful for accepting the Megamycete into your body. Not only has it given you powers and abilities that you could never dream of, but it’s provided you comfort and companionship. It’s been very helpful to have your own Jiminy Chricket, whispering guidance and help from your shoulder.

With that, you turn the key and push the door open, stepping into the small foyer. Sure, the house has that type of smell that says it’s been empty for years and it’s pitch black since the curtains are drawn, but you’re overwhelmed by so many memories all at once. You and your Momma chasing each other down the hall in a game of tag, you sprawled out on the couch in the adjacent living room to watch the latest episode of one of your favorite cartoons, and so many others.

As you make your way through the house and notice every piece of furniture is covered in white sheets, protecting them from being covered in dust. Probably Sheriff Foley, he was the last one here the day your left and from what you remember of the distinguished sheriff, he’d do everything in his power to preserve the house and make sure nothing happened to it.

Finally, you pass throgh the dining room attached to the kitchen, walk down the small hallway and stop at the door on the left.

“Momma’s study,” you say, looking at the door before you.

(A room she spent most of her time. Many hours spent at her desk, working on her books. And you would stay in here to watch her.)

You open the door to see her bookshelves, desk, and chair covered in white tarps and the curtains drawn just like the rest of the house. You walk over to the other side of the desk, pull the tarp off the chair, and plop down on it.

“Feels just like I remember it,” you say, spinning around in it.

(What will you do with this room? Will you keep it as a study, or repurpose it?)

“I can turn it into my own study. With all that money Lex gave me for Bruce’s secrets? I can buy one hell of a PC that’ll be perfect for making games.”

After the study, you head upstairs, which has your old room, your Momma’s room, an upstairs bathroom, and a bedroom she had turned into a storage room. Your old room’s empty since you took most of your belongings when you moved to Gotham, the only things left are a bed that you’ve long since outgrown and a small dresser, so you decide otherwise set up in your Momma’s old room, which has a large bed that’s been covered in a tarp for years, a large dresser perfect for your clothes, and a sizable private bathroom.

(This house seems perfect for your purposes. And your mood has definitely improved since arriving.)

“Yeah, we have the house all to ourselves and there’s no Waynes in sight. This is definitely better than Wayne Manor.” You look around at the dark room and sigh. “We have a lot of work to do.”

And you did. For a week, you worked tirelessly to get the house livable, making calls to utility companies to get power, water, and gas turned back on, airing out the house, taking down the tarps and making everything look presentable, and clearing out your Momma’s belongings. You kept as much of you could, like her books, movies, jewelry, and everything else in between, but her clothes were boxed up and donated, along with appliances that date back to the early 2000s.

You had a lot of shopping to do, replacing the old appliances you donated, groceries for the new refrigerator, and a new mattress for your new room since the thought of sleeping on a decade old mattress made you itch all over. If you could’ve, you would’ve done all the shopping online, but you didn’t want to risk attracting attention to your finances with so many large purchases, so going to stores and paying with cash was your only option.

The best part of all this was converting your old bedroom into your gamer cave, full of your Pokémon plushies, toys, and posters, LED strips lining the corners of the room, and a giant desk and a top-of-the-line gaming PC. As much as you loved your trusty laptop, this PC makes it look like a relic from over a hundred years ago, and you can now play more modern games without any kind of lag. You’re really looking forward to future video game sessions.

After your gamer cave came your office. You boxed up your Momma’s old books and placed them in the storage room, replacing them with a few art books and game guides and bought another top-of-the-line PC full of digital art and video game creation software and placed it on the desk. You also found a fancy pen stand and placed your Momma’s pen on it, retuning the pen to its proper place. Plus, it can give you inspiration while you work.

Thankfully, the Megamycete made this undertaking easier, giving you stamina and energy that allowed you to work for hours on end without getting tired and allowing you to summon tendrils so you can do something upstairs while your body’s downstairs.

“Finally,” you sigh, plopping down on the living room couch after finishing the second coat of paint in the living room. “We’re done.”

(You have turned this house into a place anyone would kill to live in. You should be proud.)

“You helped. Getting this place into shape would’ve a few weeks, probably a month.”

(What is your next course of action?)

“Right now? Rest. Tomorrow? Time to get back to work.”

(That is right, your game. With your new tools, you should create a masterpiece worthy of you in no time.)

“Glad to know you think so highly of me, bud,” you chuckle.

That’s when you hear your phone go off, indicating you have a text. You take the device off the table, which had been playing your playlist of video game soundtracks, and see a message from Alfred.

Alfred: I hope your first week back in Goodsprings and that you’re taking proper care of yourself. I was thinking about you earlier today and decided to make my chocolate chip cookies.

The text is accompanied by a picture of said cookies and you instantly start salivating at the sight of the baked goods.

(Yes, the butler’s treats were very palatable to you.)

That’s a gross understatement.when it comes to any form of cooking, especially baking, the man is a god, able to conjure up food that would bring tears to anyone’s eye. While you’re ecstatic to be back home and away from the Waynes, you miss the man and his cooking. Now, you have to make do with either what little restaurants Goodsprings has or try your hand at cooking your own meals. And while there are many in the Megamycete’s records that were good in the kitchen, none of them held a candle to Alfred.

Me: Looks delicious! Making me drool up a river in my living room.

Alfred: I certainly hope that’s a joke. A young man as respectable as you should never be caught doing something as disgraceful as drooling.

You laugh at the text. Bless him, the poor man really thinks of you as a member of the “prim and proper” Wayne Family instead of the product of a one-night stand. When you first moved in, he tried to teach you all the ways of high society, but none of it ever took. You are who you are and nothing’s going to change that.

Alfred: Is it too early to ask when I can expect a visit from you?

You feel your heart drop a bit. You miss Alfred and would do anything to see him again, but you promised yourself that when you left Gotham, you’d never step foot in that hellhole again. And you know the man’s been trying to get the Waynes to get their shit together and remember the third child brought to live with him, but you hate all of them more than anything and if you never saw them again, it would be too soon.

Of course, you can’t tell him that. It would break his heart and make him feel guilty for not doing more. So, instead, you say:

Me: Sorry, I’m still getting things cleaned up around here and I’m trying to get my game working. Don’t know when I’ll be able to.

Alfred: I understand, my boy. I just ask that you try to carve out a little time to come back to Gotham and visit home when things calm down.

Home and Gotham definitely do not belong in the same sentence. Not for you, at least. Nevertheless:

Me: I promise!

Of course, you have no intention of going back there. You miss Alfred, but that city isn’t a place where good people end up. You were dragged there against your will and if it wasn’t for that drunk driver, you never would’ve lost the best years of your life to it and the Waynes. No matter what, you will never step foot in Gotham again.

You’d rather die.

[stormz369]

☕💖 Can I Get Your Number? ☕💖 Ch 1

Jason Todd x Chubby! Reader (fem) A/N: I don't know what I'm doing here, I'm not even much of a DC fan, but Jason Todd has quickly become my latest hyper fixation character (Harley Quinn too, do I just have a thing for Joker victims???) so ... thank you for giving me a place to put this energy I guess! 😂 I'm not super confident on the characterizations, but I'm going with it because I like it. If it's wildly ooc ... that tracks, given that the only DC comic I've read is Batman: Wayne Family Adventures. Read it, or don't, I just needed to get the thoughts out of my head. The art doesn't belong to me, but the writing does. Please do not post elsewhere!

written with a female reader in mind, first person pov, no use of Y/N, starting out fluffy, will probably get NSFW later so minors DNI, let me know if there's anything else I should tag this with!

word count: 1.7k

Chapter Selection

In a city known for its masked fighters, you learn pretty quickly that everyone and everything is a potential threat. Every approaching stranger on the street, every loud sound behind you, every dark alleyway. Being bigger than me certainly isn't a prerequisite to being a danger, but it does have a way of setting off my mental alarms. I've found that big men are used to getting their way, and they get all sorts of bent out of shape if you deny them their wishes. Especially when they think they're doing you a favor.

It died down a bit after high school; I learned to exist in public with ‘fuck off’ stamped across my face. Headphones on, reading a book, intentionally seated at the table furthest from the other cafe patrons. All the typical signs of someone who wants to be left alone; nothing about me said ‘please come talk to me'. So I was understandably on edge when I noticed someone standing by the chair across from me. I look up just a bit, gesturing to the chair with a nod. Silent consent to take it back to his table and leave me to my book.

No such luck. The man simply smiled and mimed taking headphones off. Putting a bored look on my face, I moved one off my ear. “... Hm?”

“Hi! I'm sorry to bother you, but my brother thinks you're really beautiful and is refusing to come tell you himself.” 

I could feel my expression turning to stone. “... What is this, middle school?”

His cheerful grin faltered ever so slightly; “hey, I know it's a bit silly, but he's awkward around cute girls, so what's a brother to do, ya know?”

I stared him down; “... You're not fooling anyone. Move on.”

“... Sorry, ‘fooling anyone’?”

“It’s not funny, it’s not even hurtful the 20th time, it's just annoying. Go. Away.” It was a lie; it was always painful to be on the receiving end of these pranks. But that was what these guys wanted, so I wasn't going to tell him that. My headphones back in place, the guy slunk away.

Ten minutes later, another person was standing by the chair. I pretended not to see him, continuing to read my book, until he plopped down in the seat. I looked up slowly and he smiled, another oddly warm smile, leaning forward on his elbows.

An incredibly put-out sigh later, I slid the headphones off one ear again. “What?”

“Hi, I'm Tim! I'm not sure what exactly my brother said to you, but I wanted to let you know - we're not trying to prank you or something. Our brother is just way too awkward with girls. It's painful to watch, really, so we figured we'd give him a hand.” He spoke much too fast for me to get a word in. I blinked a bit, raising an eyebrow.

“... You frat boys are really committing to the bit these days, huh?”

“Huh? No, really, I promise!”

My headphones were nearly back into place when a child showed up. His impatient expression matched how I felt about the whole situation. “As usual, Drake, your plans are far too convoluted to be effective. Watch and learn.”

He turned to me, nothing about his demeanor changing; “hello. Todd said we shouldn't bother you because you ‘clearly want to be alone’, but I am convinced the only way to stop their nonsense is if he comes over. May he have a moment of your time?”

Frowning a little, I stared at the kid. He stared right back, neither of us blinking for a solid minute as we sussed each other out. His expression barely changed, but the boredom in his eyes turned into determination. “... Well, you're definitely not a frat boy. So I'll make you a deal; you may report back that he has permission to come say hi. If he doesn't choose to, that's the end of this little charade. And if either of them” I gestured to the one sitting at my table; “comes back over here, I start stabbing. Got it?”

The boy nodded once, and I thought I saw a ghost of a smirk. “You have my word.” He dragged the other man out of the chair by his shirt, pulling him stumbling toward their table. That was when I saw him. The only person at their table who hadn't come over yet. Even hunched over the table he was enormous, probably close to six feet tall; exactly the kind of man I typically avoided. The kid spoke sharply, pointing in my direction, and his head shot up to look in my direction. Even from across the spacious patio, I could see his face turning red. The obnoxious, cocky smirk I was expecting to see was entirely missing; instead he seemed almost confused.

Headphones back on but turned off so I could hear if he approached, I returned to my book. But I only got through a few pages before the first one shouted; “and offer to get her another coffee or something!”

I looked over to see the tall one frozen halfway between our tables, a look on his face like he was considering jumping over the patio fence to get away. His demeanor reminded me of a lost puppy, and I couldn't help the chuckle that rose up out of my throat. I bookmarked my page, set the book aside, and slid my headphones down around my neck. I really thought he was about to bolt until I lifted one hand, curling my fingers to gesture for him to continue toward me.

He stopped short by a good several feet, eyeing the distance between himself and the chair, and took one extra step back. It seemed as if he was hyper aware of just how much he loomed over me; the way he stood was like he was trying to will himself to be smaller, and he kept his hands at his sides. “Um … hi. … Sorry, this is … this is really weird …”

I nodded, watching him. “It is a bit. … Todd, was it?”

“Jay… Jason.”

“Not Todd?”

“Jason Todd. Damian calls me Todd, he thinks using people's last names keeps them at an arm's length…” Jason Todd. The name felt familiar, but I couldn't place why. He continued to ramble about how important tone was in determining whether this Damian kid was referring to you with affection or disdain, and I watched him. He was admittedly very cute; he had a sort of a bad boy aesthetic -leather jacket, dark clothes, a white streak in his hair, some unusual scars on his face and arms-, which juxtaposed interestingly with the gentleness in his voice, bright eyes, and awkward mannerisms. That was actually the thing that made the most sense about this situation; bikers are often secret teddy bears.

“... Jason?”

He looked up at me, one hand sheepishly making its way into his hair. “Yeah, sorry, you want me to go. I'll get them to stop harassing you, so sorry-”

“Actually, I was going to say you don't have to stand the whole time.” I gestured to the chair across from me.

He hesitated, watching me. “... Y- you don't want me to go?”

I smiled softly and shook my head. “Sit?”

He quickly obeyed, a hesitant smile on his face, which was almost immediately hidden by his hand when his brothers whooped from their table. “... God, I'm so sorry … th- they mean well, really, they're not trying to be weird …”

I laughed softly, “it's fine, that's what siblings do, right?”

“... I guess so … I've been sort of … away for a while, but I guess this is pretty standard sibling behavior. … Right?”

“I mean, a little more insistent than mine, but not too far outside the realm of what I’d consider normal.” I shrugged, finishing my chai latte.

He smiled slightly, considering that. “... Hm … um … c- can I get you another?” He gestured to my cup.

“... Sure, I've got time.”

The pleased grin on his face as he looked away to flag down a server surprised me. Then again, everything about him was surprising. Still, no one had ever looked at me quite like that before… 

The server sauntered over, clearly curious about my new companion. Jason smiled brightly; “Hi, can we get another for the lady? And I'll have a medium black coffee, sweet, please.”

Huh. He called me a ‘lady’. Not a girl, or a chick, a lady. That was … also surprising. We chatted for a little while, sipping our coffees, and tried to ignore his staring brothers. He was incredibly awkward, in a sweet, endearing way. I got the impression that he wasn't fully comfortable, but chalked it up to how weirdly this all started. After a while, the first one returned, a small grimace on his face.

I raised an eyebrow; “I'm pretty sure I told the little one that the next one of you to come over was getting stabbed.”

“I know, I know! I'm so sorry, but Jay, we gotta go. Bruce texted…”

That was when it clicked; why I knew the name Jason Todd. He was a Wayne … his death had dominated the news cycle for a week. His miraculous, frankly poorly explained, return was the story for at least two.

He looked, torn, between me and his brother. “Oh … um …”

The man I finally recognized as Dick Grayson leaned forward and fake-whispered, “the words you're looking for are ‘can I have your phone number'?”

Jason swatted him away, blushing bright red; “Seriously, Dick? … well, can I-”

His ears were turning red as I held my hand out for his phone. I added my contact info and, feeling unusually bold, I added ☕💖 after my name while Jason dropped a couple of bills on the table; I smiled a bit, realizing he was leaving enough to cover my first drink for me too. I passed his phone back, enjoying the look of wonder on his face when he checked the screen. The way he whispered my name, like a prayer meant only for god's ears, had my stomach doing backflips.

“thanks … I'll call you?”

“Sounds good. I'm a night owl, so not too early, yeah?”

He nodded eagerly. “Not too early, promise.”

Next ->

[littlelamy]

the press tour: drew starkey x actress!reader

the press room is abuzz with energy as you and drew starkey take your seats for the latest interview on your movie better than friends. the film has been receiving rave reviews, and the chemistry between you and drew has sparked a whirlwind of speculation among fans. you’ve been fielding questions about your on-screen romance, but the real intrigue has been about your off-screen relationship.

the interviewer, a charismatic woman with a playful smile, wraps up the standard questions about the film. then, with a glint in her eye, she leans forward, clearly ready to stir the pot.

“so, better than friends,” she begins, her tone taking on a teasing edge. “it’s been quite a ride with you two on this press tour. the fans have been making all kinds of edits and posts, convinced there’s more going on between you two than just acting. care to address the rumors?”

you glance over at drew, who meets your gaze with a confident, almost challenging look. his arm is casually draped over the back of your chair, a touch that feels both intimate and reassuring.

“well,” you say, playing along with a mischievous grin, “there’s certainly a lot of chemistry between us. we’ve enjoyed working together, and that definitely translates on screen.”

drew chuckles, the sound low and warm. “yeah, the fans are pretty perceptive. they’ve been picking up on something we’ve been trying to keep under wraps.”

the interviewer’s eyes twinkle with curiosity as she leans in closer. “so, are you saying that there might be more to this relationship than meets the eye? the fans seem pretty convinced there’s a bit of reality behind those on-screen sparks.”

you give drew a sidelong glance, your fingers brushing lightly against his. it’s clear the interviewer is enjoying the flirtatious undercurrent of the conversation, and you can feel the excitement in the air.

“well, it’s true that there’s been some chemistry,” you say, allowing your voice to carry a hint of warmth. “and, you know, sometimes reality mirrors art in unexpected ways.”

drew’s hand finds yours under the table, and he gives it a gentle squeeze, his eyes never leaving yours. “i’d say the fans have been pretty spot on,” he adds, his voice low and filled with a playful tone. “there’s definitely been something going on between us that’s a little bit beyond just friends.”

the interviewer’s smile widens, clearly delighted by the admission. “so, is it safe to say that what we’re seeing on screen is just a hint of what’s actually happening off-screen?”

you laugh softly, the sound light and teasing. “i think it’s fair to say that the chemistry isn’t all just for show. we’ve got something pretty special going on.”

drew nods, his expression both tender and confident. “yeah, we’ve been keeping things private, but there’s definitely more to our relationship than just what you see in the film.”

the press room seems to hum with excitement as the news sinks in. cameras flash, and you can feel the buzz of anticipation from the fans who are watching this unfold. it’s a revelation that will have them talking for days.

the interviewer chuckles, clearly pleased with the direction the conversation has taken. “well, it sounds like the fans were right. it’s always nice to see that real-life connections can be even more compelling than what we see on screen.”

you and drew exchange a look of mutual understanding and satisfaction. the playful banter has brought your relationship into the spotlight, and you’re both ready to embrace this new chapter.

as the interview wraps up, the room is alive with the sound of flashing cameras and excited murmurs. you and drew stand up, his hand still lightly clasping yours. there’s a shared sense of exhilaration between you, and the moment feels electric.

the interviewer’s final words drift behind you as you and drew make your way out of the press room. the anticipation from the fans and the buzz of the press make the air feel charged, and you can’t help but glance at drew with a grin.

“that was quite the reveal,” you say, your voice a mix of excitement and satisfaction.

drew returns your smile, his eyes twinkling with warmth. “yeah, it was. i think we made a lot of fans very happy today.”

you step out into the quieter hallway, away from the clamor of the press. the adrenaline from the interview still buzzes in your veins, and you can feel the intensity of the moment lingering between you. drew pulls you gently towards him, the playful smile on his face softening into something more sincere.

“i’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” drew murmurs, his voice low and filled with affection.

you tilt your head, meeting his gaze. the hallway is dimly lit, the quiet atmosphere contrasting sharply with the energy of the press room. drew’s hand slides to the back of your neck, his touch gentle but possessive.

“do what?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper as you take in the closeness of his presence.

drew leans in, his eyes never leaving yours. “this.”

he closes the distance between you, his lips brushing softly against yours. the kiss starts gentle, a tender exploration of the feelings that have been simmering beneath the surface. it’s a kiss that speaks of all the moments you’ve shared, the connection that goes beyond words.

as the kiss deepens, drew’s hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer. your fingers tangle in his hair, and the world outside the hallway fades away. it’s just the two of you, savoring the intimacy of the moment.

when you finally pull back, both of you are breathless, your foreheads resting gently against each other. there’s a shared smile, an unspoken understanding that this moment is special and perfectly timed.

“i guess the fans weren’t wrong,” you say softly, your fingers tracing along his jawline.

drew chuckles, his eyes shining with affection. “no, they definitely weren’t.”

[amjustagirl]

Chapter 1

pairing: hoshina soshiro x f! reader

genre: romance, angst

wc: 4k

summary: you've loved soshiro since you were seven. he will always place his duty above you.

chapt 1 / chapt 2 / chapt 3 / chapt 4 / chapt 5

Once a month, Hoshina Soshiro drops by your apartment for tea with you. 

It isn’t often that you both get the same day off. Him, with his vice captain duties that never end because Kaijus don’t deign to give him a break, as he often complains. You, spending hours if not days buried in the blade forgery at Izumo tech so much so your parents remark dryly that they’ve forgotten your face. But every so often, the universe smiles upon you and you get to spend an afternoon sitting on your narrow balcony with your oldest friend. 

It always begins like this.

He drops a plastic bag full of fizzy drinks on the table that only he drinks, whilst you brew a pot of tea. There’s dessert in the fridge that you get to feed his sweet tooth, and he’ll consume both because you’ll claim you have no appetite. After a few perfunctory questions about your wellbeing - the same as always, nothing’s changed, he’ll turn his mind to the sole focus in his life. 

“You gave the latest tech to my brother?!” he yells, outraged. “His main weapon isn’t even a blade.” 

“Orders are orders”, you respond. “Besides, didn’t I just tweak your katanas last month?” 

“About that”, he grins at you, somewhat sheepishly. “I’ve got more ideas -” 

“Not again”, you groan. 

He’ll rattle off a long list of things he wants you to work on next month. Blades made out of some kaiju bone, just to test its mettle. A blade to be worked into his boots - an idea he cheekily admits stems from some stupid shounen manga he reads in his spare time. So many of his ideas belong in the trash bin, but you entertain him anyway, studiously jotting down each of his requests. 

“You’re lucky I put up with you”, you tell him. 

Lazily, he flops onto the floor, rolling to lie his head in your lap. “As if you wouldn’t”, he laughs, poking up at your cheek. 

You don’t get the chance to answer him. His phone goes off, as it always does, and he has to go. 

“Seeya next time”, he waves, without leaving you another glance. The sliver of sky between the buildings surrounding yours is dark when you get up from your seat to clear the cups. 

Your cheek still stings. 

Your family always had close ties to the Hoshina clan. The clan of swordsmiths sworn to the Hoshina clan of swordsmen. A tie that can be traced centuries back to the Edo period to today. Your father crafted his father’s blades in the fires of your family’s forge, yet another in your family’s lineage who were born to serve the generations of Hoshina swordsmen. 

Even though you were born a girl, you never accepted that it should be different for you.

You were only seven when you accompanied your father on a delivery to the Hoshina estate. Your stockinged feet echo in the wooden corridors that stretch out before you, seemingly without end. There are portraits of imposing swordsmen in every other room, blades displayed, their former owners’ eventual fate captioned beneath. You are too ashamed to admit that you’re afraid of one such painting with kaiju-like yellow eyes that seems to glare at you that you bolt when your father leaves you aside to talk business with the Hoshina patriarch.

Foolishly, you forget that the Hoshina estate dwarfs your family home. After the fifth rock garden you come across (which admittedly to your seven year old self, seems to blend into each other), you are well and truly lost, so you sit on the porch of some courtyard and wait to be found for a stern reprimand by your father. 

Clang. 

But you’re drawn by the sound of steel clashing, so you follow your ears, and your eyes thank you as you watch two boys spar with dull blades. 

The older, with silver hair, has a clear edge. He’s taller and stronger, so he bullies his younger opponent into a corner. The younger, with dark hair, doesn’t seem daunted, standing his ground with precise swings and savage slashes that his older opponent only manages to parry with difficulty. 

Though you hide yourself behind a pillar, the older boy spots you anyway, breaking off the fight to grab you by the front of your top. 

“Intruder”, he shouts, waving his blade at you.  

“I’m - I’m sorry!” you squeak. You panic, fearful that he’ll throw you out of the estate, because if you can’t even figure your way out around the compound, there’s no way you’re going to find your way back home across half of Osaka, so you hiccup and cry and beg to be let go - 

“Hey! You’re just looking for an excuse to get out of a losing fight.”

Courage has never been your strong suit. It’s easier for you to hide behind your father or older brother’s legs, so you’re taken aback by how quickly the younger boy jumps into the fray on your behalf, defiant even in the face of a larger opponent.  

Your captor’s nostrils flare. “What did you say?!” he demands, but he lets you go with a sneer. 

“Another round then”, the younger boy says, as he tugs you to your feet, brushing the dust off the pretty kimono your mother took the effort to dress you up in. “Maybe this time you’ll actually be serious -” 

His brother brandishes the blade at him. “I’ll beat you to a pulp, you insolent brat.” 

You spend the afternoon watching them from a safe distance until your father finds you, apologising to Hoshina-sama for his wayward daughter. 

You’re formally introduced then to the brothers - Sochiro the elder, who doesn’t even acknowledge you with a nod, and Soshiro the younger, who smiles like the sun when you tell him that he’s amazing in a fight. 

“I’ll show you more next time!!”, Soshiro says. His eyes remind you of violets blooming in spring. 

Your mother hears of your adventures in the Hoshina estate. 

She comes to brush your hair after your bath. “The Hoshina family sees ours as a vassal clan”, she states baldly, as the comb sticks on a particularly tricky tangle. At your noise of confusion (and pain, because she’s none-too-gentle at getting the snags out of your mane), she explains. “That means our family is bound to them by our usefulness in making katanas, the instruments of their success.”  

She clucks her tongue at your obtuseness, as you stare at her, uncomprehending. “We supply swords, not brides to them. There are no engagements between their sons and our daughters. If you wish to associate with the Hoshina boys, you must be of use to them.” 

Perhaps, in her ungentle way, your mother was trying to do you a kindness. 

But you took her warning as instruction instead. So, though you’ve always been afraid of the loud forge your father and older brother work in, you badgered your father for enough lessons in sword making, hovering over him every minute you have out of school so you can learn everything you can.  

It’s worth it, when Soshiro comments on the shiny scars on your forearms the next time you visit. 

“I’ve been learning how to make katanas”, you explain, suddenly shy. 

“Wow!” you catch another glimpse of violets through wide eyes. “You must’ve worked really hard!”  

You peek at the blooms of bruises on his shins, the angry red scratch across his face. “So have you”, you reply. 

He beams, dragging you off to play.  

More often than not, that devolves into him showing off his latest moves, and you applauding his every action. He revels in the attention, which you find strange because surely everyone with eyes should be able to discern that Hoshina Soshiro is wildly talented, even at the tender age of eight, but then whenever his brother surfaces with taunt regarding Soshiro’s swordsmanship, you can see the chip of his shoulder grow, an invisible burden that drags him into the ground.

As an outsider, it’s not your place to comment on the unfairness of being knocked around by a boy five years his senior, so you try your clumsy best to bandage Soshiro’s wounds and slip in an encouraging word or two. You never want to see the violets in his eyes wither and die. 

“I’ll make you the best blade in the world when we grow up”, you bump your elbow against his. “So you can beat him.” 

“Promise?” 

You loop your little finger around his. Half moons brighten into stars. 

// how abt a blade that can separate into 2 // 

// or or or // 

// maybe three?! // 

// would your ancestors roll in their grave //

You wake up to a text. Or three. 

<Gremlin>. You text back. <Soshiro-kun, go to sleep.> 

// you wound me // 

// seeya later // 

// visiting Izumo tech for my new suit!!! // 

// make sure you lend me your lunch discount at the cafeteria // 

You snort.

<Cheapskate>. The rhythm of your conversation thrums. <are you asking me to have lunch with you> 

// someone needs to keep me safe from my fangirls // 

// don’t leave me in their clutches // 

An eye roll. 

< Die >. You turn your phone facedown, resolutely refusing to respond. 

Despite your complaints, you end up eating lunch with him anyway. 

It’s difficult to concentrate on your meal when your childhood friend turned the most eligible bachelor in the Japan Defense Force sits across from you in a skintight uniform, your giggly co-workers sitting two rows down watching his every move. So you push your tray away and just watch him as he chatters away through a mouth full of food (something he’d never do back home because he’s been raised with manners befitting the second son of the esteemed Hoshina clan, but around you he seems to turn into a demented manchild), but you’ve always found it endearing how he’s his chaotic true self around you - 

“New recruits are coming in next month so I don’t know when we’ll have time to catch up -” 

“There’s nothing to catch up on when you keep text me in the middle of the night with your train of thoughts - “

“That’s all work related”, he says. “I want to know how you are doing.” 

You’re not about to tell him that your parents have informed you that they’re tired of you mooning after a man who’ll never love you back, and have started haranguing you via text to get your ass back to Osaka so you can meet suitable men your age who’d be willing to accept an unladylike wife with burn scars trailing up her forearms.  

“As if you really want to know”, you grumble. “You’re only interested in talking to me when it’s about your weapons and tech.” 

“You wound me”, he dramatically claps his hand to his chest, miming hurt. “You don’t believe that I care about my oldest friend?” 

“Nope.”

“Rude”, he sing-songs. “C’mon.”

“The only reason we’re even lunching is because you wanted more upgrades - plus, now you want a shield against your fan-girls, who, by the way, are going to mob me in the bathroom and make me recount for the thousandth time, why and how I know you, the - I quote - cutest guy in the Japanese Defense Force, though they really should get their eyesight checked out in my opinion -” 

“Oohhhh - people think I’m good-looking?” He runs his fingers through his hair like he’s in some 80’s shampoo commercial, throwing an exaggerated wink over his shoulder to the nearest fangirl. You hear a thump on the floor. You hope she didn’t hit her head too hard (but perhaps it might make her sole brain cell work a little better if she did). 

You tap his knuckles with the back of your chopsticks. “Get that ego on a leash.”

His grin is cheeky. “I can’t help it if people think I’m good-looking.” Your heavy sigh makes him pout. “You don’t think I’m good looking?” 

The lunch bell comes to your rescue. 

“I have to get back to work”, you tell him, all too ready to make your escape. 

“So do I”, he gobbles down the rest of his lunch. “Seeya around.”

“Stay safe”, you add. “Don’t let a Kaiju eat you up.” 

“Eat me up?!” he squawks with mock outrage. “Don’t you know I eat Kaijus for breakfast?” 

As if you don’t. In Tokyo, the third division is exceedingly popular. Captain Mina Ashiro of course, takes up most of the attention with her long, dark hair and prowess as the nation’s foremost sniper, but once in a while, the newspapers and magazines run features of Vice Captain Hoshina Soshiro, and you dutifully keep cuttings in a scrapbook that you hide under your bed. 

In every interview, he talks about how it’s patently untrue that there’s no space in the Japan Defense Force for those who prefer to wield a blade rather than a modern gun. “Captain Ashiro believes in me”, he says, so seriously that it’s hard to recognise your usual jovial friend. “For that, I’ll be thankful for every day.” 

He said the same thing to you the day of his promotion. 

“She believes in me when no one else did”, he tells you in disbelief. 

That’s a lie, you want to shout. You reminded him that there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that he’d fail the entrance exam into the Japan Defense Force, and he’d indeed pass with flying colours. You calculated his unleashed combat potential from your lab in Izumo Tech, saw him exceed and excel so much so that an exception was made for him to carry katanas which you spent sleepless nights crafting for him. He won his first promotion as platoon leader nary a year in after a stunning victory decapitating yonju across Tokyo, and your congratulatory text to him was ‘See, I knew you’d do it.’ 

So no, Mina Ashiro was not the first person who believed in Hoshina Soshiro. You are. 

Unless, in his eyes, you don’t count. 

<okaa-san>

<Yes, I’ll be glad to meet your friend’s son>

< No promises on anything more>

The date your parents arranged for you is a man with a pleasing smile who has as much romantic interest in you as you in him - which is to say, very little at all. “I’m too busy with my job, but my mother insisted”, he confesses.

You like him all the better for his honesty. “So did mine”, you respond with a wry chuckle. 

Yamamoto-san is good company, nonetheless, even if his only interest in life other than his demanding job as a corporate slave is tending to his houseplants, so since you both share an interest in getting your overbearing mothers off your backs, you agree to have lunch once a month just so you can say to your parents without lying that you’re seeing someone. 

A part of you that you tuck deep into your chest hopes that word gets around to Soshiro, who’ll come beat your front door down, demanding that you, instead, turn your eyes to him (as if you’ve ever looked elsewhere for as long as you’ve known him). And when Hoshina Sochiro, Captain of the Sixth Division, pops into your office for his own tweaks to his tech and rounds upon you with a wicked twinkle in his eye, you’re sure that whatever you share will be conveyed as salaciously as possible to his younger brother. 

“Soooo”, he drags each word out obnoxiously. “Your older brother mentioned that you’re seeing someone now who isn’t my younger brother.” 

You smile blandly. “Soshiro-kun and I have always been just friends.” 

“Just friends my arse”, he retorts. “You’ve had a planet sized crush on him since you were seven. It just can’t be helped that my brother’s got a katana up his arse.” 

You try your best not to wince. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Captain Hoshina?” you gesture at the door. “As you can see, the mountain of work that’s been piling up ever since you stopped by my office needs to be done, and I really don’t have time to sit around and gossip like old women.” 

“So grumpy”, he hops off your desk. “So, should I tell him that he’s missed the boat?”

“Tell him whatever you want.” You begin to type furiously on your laptop. “As if he’ll care.” 

Five minutes later. 

// u have a bf?! // 

// and i had to find out fr Sochiro?! // 

// AND u said there’s nothing to catch up on? // 

You lock your phone in the drawer beneath your desk. 

// are u ignoring me???? // 

“You ignored my texts!” 

This is a first. Hoshina Soshiro, cranky even when a stack of golden brown pancakes soaked in maple syrup wobbles enticingly in front of him. “I was busy at work”, you say. A flimsy excuse, one that fails to placate him as he continues to pout, childlike at you.

“So?” he demands, slicing right through the pancakes with his butter knife. “Is it true?” 

“Is what true?” 

His eyes narrow as he waves his knife accusingly at you. “You decided to tell Sochiro that you got a boyfriend before me?” 

You take a sip of coffee to steady your nerves. “You know I don’t talk to your brother unless he decides to invade my lab. But I guess he and my brother still text from time to time.” 

“Hrm.” he puffs out his cheeks, blows out a breath heavy enough to flutter his bangs. You restrain the urge to reach over and straighten his hair. “Fine.”

“I’m just seeing a guy that my parents set me up with.” You rehearsed exactly what you wanted to say, but your insides churn, the coffee you drank not doing you any favours. “I guess they’re just worried that no one will ever want me as I grow old and unmarriageable.” 

His chuckle is blithe, uncaring. “Parents are all the same, aren’t they? Just last week, my mother called me to ask if I’m interested in being set up on a date with someone - as if I’d ever be interested, I barely have time to sleep, let alone date, and besides, she probably just called because my older brother’s a master at dodging such calls -” 

You let him ramble on as you gather the remnants of your courage deep within your guts for a final advance. 

“Soshiro.”

“Hm?” he looks up, mid-chew. “Sup.”

“If I really did get a boyfriend, you wouldn’t mind, would you?” 

“Why would I mind?” He laughs, reaching over to prod at your cheek. “I mean, I guess as long as you don’t stop making me awesome katanas, and as long as he doesn’t mind that I text you my brilliant ideas on improvements -” 

Unknowingly, he cuts right through your heart. But in fairness to him, you offered your heart on a silver fucking platter, even handed him the blade to stab it with.

“I was just worried you’d be unhappy”, you mumble, blinking back tears furiously. 

Thankfully, he’s too focused on clearing his plate. “I thought you were going to ask me something serious”, he laughs. “What a silly question.” 

“Yeah”, you manage to croak. “What a silly question.” 

He goes on to fill the rest of the afternoon with chatter about his new recruits. You sit numbly and listen to his tales of a Shinomiya slip of a girl who blows all recorded numbers for a recruit out of the window, an old man who confounds his techs by registering a big fat zilch on their combat scales, but he entertains his candidacy because he’s a great source of entertainment. 

“You okay there?” he frowns, stopping mid-story. “You kinda look down.” 

“Indigestion”, you lie through gritted teeth. “Never you mind.” 

“You shouldn’t take milk in your coffee if you’re lactose intolerant, silly”, he teases, confiscating your iced latte. 

“I’m just an idiot”, you try your best to smile. Fortunately, he accepts a pained grimace. 

Your mother was both right and wrong. You know that Soshiro cares for you as a friend, because he could never be callous enough to reduce you to your usefulness to him, but it’s true that he has no space in his heart for you. 

A year or two ago, you piled yourself in a car with both Hoshina brothers to brave the Obon traffic to get back to Osaka for the holidays. You hadn’t been able to afford the jacked up prices for the shinkansen, and Soshiro only found out yesterday that Captain Ashiro took pity on him for missing consecutive New Year holidays that she gave him Obon off as a consolation price, so their parents nagged Sochiro into ferrying you both home. 

“Shouldn’t you have your own car?” Sochiro groused. 

“Why would I need a car if I’m on base 24/7”, Soshiro replied. “Why do you need a car? Unless the sixth division is slacking off -”

The car screeched to a halt. Sochiro kicked open the door, yanked Soshiro by his collar and shoved him into the driver’s seat. “To keep your smart mouth occupied, you can drive us the rest of the way to Osaka.” 

“Aren’t you scared I’ll crash?” 

“If you do, I’ll skin you alive.” 

Your forehead nearly split open from all the bickering. “Guys, I can drive -” 

“No!” Both brothers yelled at you in unison. It’s the first time they’ve probably agreed on anything in their life.

The bickering finally ended when Sochiro fell asleep in the back, head pillowed against the window glass on one side in a way that he’s bound to wake up with a neckache. Still, you’re forced in close proximity to Soshiro, the puffs of warm air from the overworking air-conditioner blending with the scent of steel and citrus, from the shampoo he probably uses, you mused half dizzy, head heavy - 

“If you puke in the car, Sochiro’ll make you lick it up.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Talk to me so I don’t focus on your terrible driving.” 

By the time Soshiro’s done with his recounting of the last four fights he’s been involved in, the massive disappointment of this year’s recruitment exercise and his admiration for Captain Mina Ashiro (which made you want to scream, kick your foot through the windshield, perhaps), the afternoon sun is low to the ground, streetlights along the expressway flickering on. 

You couldn’t help but ask. “Do you ever think about anything other than your job?” 

“Nah.” he chuckled. “I don’t have time for anything else. I gotta spend time to train y’know, otherwise I’ll really die on the job.” 

“Soshiro!” 

“That’s why I got good life insurance”, he deadpanned. 

“I guess that was a silly question”, you slump back in your seat. 

“It really is”, he teased. “So, what else d’you wanna hear about my all consuming job?” 

The memory stings your eyes. 

You make up an excuse to return to your apartment without haste, waiting until he disappears around the corner before you give in to the tears that you’ve been keeping at bay all afternoon. Strangers on the train ride home give you a wide berth, because they certainly don’t want to catch whatever malady you’re clearly suffering from with your swollen eyes and hiccuped sniffles. You stumble into your shoebox apartment, kick your shoes off at the genkan.  

Tonight you’ll give yourself the grace to mourn the death of a dream.  

You crack open the beers he previously brought, one after another. Drunk, you sit on the balcony, the half-moon reminding you too much of a certain vice captain. You let your mother’s words flood your mind. You are meant to offer him blades, not a bride. In another lifetime, in every lifetime, perhaps, the noble born son of a samurai clan would never open his heart to the lowly daughter of a swordsmith. He would be raised to always put duty before love. 

You don’t know why you hoped for anything different. 

So when you roll off your sofa in the morning, you glare at yourself in the toilet mirror, eyes rimmed red, a hangover in full effect. 

“You are an idiot.” you slap your cheeks so hard it turns pink. 

You will not allow this to continue. Hoshina Soshiro is not yours, has never been yours, and will never be yours. You are pathetic for hoping otherwise, stupid for living in hopes that he’ll look at you some day, an utter idiot for letting every choice you’ve ever made in your life be guided by your infatuation with a boy who doesn’t have space in his heart for you.

You could’ve been like your older brother, been content with sticking to the family business of sword making instead spending every spare minute on your engineering studies so you’re well positioned to be snapped up by Izumo Tech as a weapons specialist. You had the leeway to be based in Osaka near your family, but accepted a position in Tokyo just to be closer to where Soshiro’s based. You could’ve had a social life, perhaps even friends outside of work, if you’ve not dedicated your life to your job, working after hours tirelessly, just so you secure promotion after promotion, cementing yourself as Izumo Tech (and by extension, the Defense Force) go-to for anything blade related, just so you fulfil the promise you made to Soshiro all those years ago. 

You cannot live the rest of your life this way.   

a/n: so...i know i've only ever written for the hq boys but the way hoshina soshiro grabbed my throat in a chokehold in that gym training scene just forced my gremlin brain to start typing and get to work on this story for him.

hope you guys like it <3

[noira-l]

𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞

⋆ ★ '𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞' - 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

chapter summary: At a sorcerer gathering filled with tension and subtle power plays, you find yourself talking to a mysterious man whose sharp remarks leave you both intrigued and uneasy. Just as the air grows heavier, Satoru steps in, his protective charm and simmering jealousy shifting the dynamic completely.

pairing: gojo satoru x f!sorcerer reader

warnings: a little possessive and jealous Satoru.

author's note: a little shorter text, but I still hope you like it <:

The hall buzzes with low conversation, a steady hum of voices filling the corridor outside the meeting room.

You’d been here a while already, drifting from one polite exchange to another, acknowledging nods, handshakes, and quick, shallow smiles. The yearly gathering was mostly an opportunity for sorcerers to talk strategy, review successes, and hear out the latest initiatives, yet it felt more like a family reunion for most - a chance to reaffirm alliances and, just as likely, lay the groundwork for future favors. This time the meeting is being held in Kyoto.

You play the part well, stepping in and out of conversations, adjusting your polite mask as you went.

Currently, you’re listening to some young man boasting about his latest missions. He’s tall, with a narrow face and eyes that glint with a self-assured pride. His family, he mentions, is associated with the Kamo clan - a name he drops with the kind of casual reverence that suggests he thinks it should impress you. You smile, nodding along as he details his accomplishments. You half-hear him recount a cursed spirit that gave him trouble last month, barely resisting the urge to glance away and search for a distraction. His stories are neither subtle nor modest, but you keep up the polite act, occasionally tilting your head as though you’re intrigued.

Finally, he seems to remember you’re standing there. His gaze shifts, appraising you with a newfound interest, and he offers a half-smile.

"You know..." he says, leaning in with the faintest hint of self-satisfaction "... you’re surprisingly put together. Quite charming, actually."

You haven't said a word to this men in past twenty minutes.

You blink at him, momentarily thrown off, before offering a modest wave of your hand "Oh, no, no, no." you say, forcing a laugh that sounds just the right amount of flattered "I’m not that charming."

"You should accept a compliment when it’s true." a voice interrupts from beside you, its tone heavy and worn, carrying a weight that cuts through the surrounding conversations.

The voice catches you off guard, pulling your gaze to its owner.

You look up to find a man watching you, his presence both striking and unfamiliar. He stands taller than most, with a dark, gaunt face that seems almost carved in shadow. His cheekbones are sharp, hollowed, giving him an intense, almost haunted appearance. His hair, slicked back but slightly unruly, suggests an effort to appear put-together, but stray strands slip forward, defying control. The darkness of his eyes, set deep beneath tired brows, gives his gaze a solemn, wearied depth that seems to hold stories untold.

You feel the air shift around you, his words lingering in the silence between you. He doesn’t look at the man you were speaking to - only at you, as though he’s drawn to some unspoken understanding, as if in that brief moment, you were familiar, even if he wasn’t.

His presence commands attention, though he offers none of the arrogant energy your previous company exuded. He seems grounded in something heavier, something you can’t quite place.

But just as suddenly, the man gives a slight nod, almost courteous, and turns away. His attention shifts to a small gathering nearby, his focus sharp as he approaches them, blending into the crowd with an ease that belies his imposing aura.

What the...

The young sorcerer next to you fumbles for something else to say, but the previous exchange has soured your patience. You excuse yourself with a polite smile, finally free from listening to that guy's talking.

For moments there was peace and quiet.

You catch sight of the man from earlier across the hall, where he stands out without needing to try. Others seem to notice him too, sparing quick glances his way, drawn perhaps by his professional demeanor or the calm intensity with which he holds himself. Everyone greets him and talks with him.

At one point, you spot him pouring himself a cup of tea with careful precision, his movements unhurried, almost ritualistic. You sip your own tea, enjoying the quiet moment, though curiosity about him still simmers in the back of your mind.

Then, unexpectedly, he’s beside you. You don’t remember seeing him approach; he just appears there, a calm, steady presence. He glances down, assessing you with that same detached expression, before speaking in a low voice that carries even in the bustling corridor.

Damn, he's fast... and creepy.

"Are you new here?" he asks, his tone neutral but edged with curiosity "I don’t recall meeting you, miss."

You meet his gaze and reply evenly "I’m from Tokyo. Last year, I wasn’t at the meeting - missions kept me away." there’s a beat of silence, where he seems to process this before offering a low, thoughtful hmph.

You addressed him in a rather informal tone. You don't know if you're coming off as rude at the moment. Although he was the one who added something to your previous conversation and didn't even introduce himself.

You can feel a vague smell spreading through the air. Something like candles, incense, paper and... dust? You realise that he smells like that.

"Ah. That would explain it." he concludes, his voice as unchanging as his expression "We wouldn’t have an opportunity to cross paths, then."

You simply nod, sensing he isn’t the type to need a response to his every statement. There’s a weight to his presence that doesn’t invite unnecessary words, but you still can’t shake the question: Who is he?

Without any prompting, he speaks again, his tone flat as if reading off a ledger.

"That man you were just talking to..." he says, nodding subtly toward the overconfident sorcerer who’d been eager to boast of his successes "...is due to marry into the Kamo clan in a few months. Comes from a wealthy family; they’re indebted to him. Interesting technique, too."

He states it all so matter-of-factly, like he’s recounting weather statistics rather than family arrangements.

You can’t help but raise an eyebrow, remarking "You don’t strike me as a gossipy type, sir."

Make up your mind - are you keeping the formalities or not?

A faint flicker of something - irritation? amusement? - crosses his features "I’m not." he replies smoothly "I’m just telling the facts. I see no reason to explain myself for stating the truth."

You’re left momentarily silent, the conversation now veering into the faintly awkward. He doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he just doesn’t care. He’s content to stand there in his quiet, unyielding way, his gaze somewhere distant.

And then, over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of Mei Mei across the hall, watching you with a familiar gleam in her eyes.

Her smile is as polished as ever, but you recognize it well enough to know it’s not entirely innocent. She’s sizing up the situation, her eyes twinkling with a subtle mischief, and she gives you the smallest of nudges with her gaze, clearly pissed at your predicament.

You break eye contact, lifting your mug for another sip to avoid her gaze. The dark man beside you doesn’t seem to notice any of it; he’s still watching the crowd, as if nothing at all unusual has happened. But you know Mei Mei too well to ignore the sly iritation in her look. You sink a bit lower, wondering how you managed to end up in such an odd position, and decide that maybe your tea requires all of your attention for the moment.

Whatever amusement or politeness you’re managing with this stranger, Mei sees it, and she isn’t about to let it go. But it’s not as though you asked for this - he approached you, started the conversation himself, leaving you no clear path to exit.

The atmosphere thickens as you take another sip of tea, trying to hide the flicker of irritation bubbling beneath your polite mask. Mei’s gaze is still burning into you, a reminder that this interaction is already treading dangerous ground.

And this man, whoever he is, has yet to introduce himself yet holds the air of someone accustomed to observing, weighing, and speaking only when necessary. You consider, for a brief second, introducing yourself by your maiden name if necessary, a small layer of distance in case things turn even stranger.

But before you can decide, he shifts slightly, his gaze leveling with yours "I wonder if you have a problem seeing the facts." he says in that measured, heavy voice "You’re a sorcerer, looks like a stronger one; you shouldn’t have a problem with such things."

A questioning expression crosses your face before you can mask it. His words hang in the air, vaguely barbed, and you can’t tell if he’s trying to insult you or make a point.

He wants to test your control or what?

You take a breath, steadying yourself, and ask calmly, but still very confused "What do you mean by that?"

He leans closer, his face just within the edge of your personal space.

"Is seeing your beauty in the mirror difficult for you.." he asks quietly, his eyes fixed and intense "..or are you pushing this fact out of your head?"

The words hang between you, clear and unembellished. His gaze remains steady on you, unblinking, like he’s sizing you up not just as a sorcerer but as something else altogether. His face betrays no humor or playfulness; he delivers it as if it’s a truth as plain as daylight, a simple observation he sees no need to dance around. The weight of it strikes you silent, caught between surprise and…something else you can’t quite name.

In that suspended moment, you don’t know what to say. No clever remark comes to mind, and his expression doesn’t offer any clues to where he’s coming from. You’re left there, face blank, feeling as though he’s drawn back a curtain you didn’t know was there, leaving you exposed in a way that no amount of polite nods or tea-drinking can disguise.

What are you supposed to reply? This is so strange.

The silence stretches, and for a heartbeat, it feels like it’s only the two of you standing there, locked in this peculiar exchange that feels strange and entirely out of place in the bustling hallway.

"Hey, Usami!"

You turn toward the sound, finding Satoru making his way down the corridor, his casual stride breaking the almost oppressive formality of the scene. He’s late, as usual, but when the principals haven’t even arrived, can it really be called late? The man turned to the voice calling.

So this man’s name is Usami.

You barely have time to register the relief you feel as he approaches before he’s beside you, his hand casually slipping onto your hip, his touch grounding you, a gesture both possessive and protective.

He greets Usami with a look that could only be described as borderline hostile amusement "You have such a fancy watch, shouldn't you use it sometimes? You'll miss your meeting with Mei soon."

Usami’s expression doesn’t change. He meets Satoru’s stare with that same impassive, almost haunting gaze. The man's gaze fell for a moment on the hand on your hip. Then his gaze turns to you once more, eyes briefly lingering on yours in a way that feels strange, almost unfinished.

"I hope we meet again." he says, his tone neutral as he bows his head slightly. Then, without waiting for a response, he steps back and vanishes into the crowd, moving with an unhurried ease that’s almost unsettling.

Satoru’s grip tightens just a little on your hip, his body tense.

You exhale, your shoulders finally relaxing as Satoru’s hand remains at your hip, steady and reassuring "What was that all about?"

Satoru gives an exaggerated, annoyed sigh, his mouth pressing into a pout that reminds you of a disgruntled cat.

"That guy? Ugh." scoffs "I can’t stand him." he mutters, glancing at Usami’s back with open irritation "All he does is follow orders from the higher-ups without thinking. It’s like he doesn’t even have a mind of his own. Have a brain or something."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued by his unusual pout. It’s not often Satoru openly displays this kind of irritation. He’s genuinely ruffled.

You watch Usami drift away until he approaches Mei Mei. She stands near the wall, playing with her braid, her gaze flickering toward him in a way that makes your stomach sick.

Of course, you think, feeling the last piece of this odd puzzle settle into place.

But before you can think on it further, Satoru steps directly into your line of sight, blocking your view of Usami and Mei. His fingers find your cheek, gently guiding your face toward him, his thumb brushing against your skin as he pulls you back into his focus. He lowers his glasses, his eyes are narrowed, a glint of challenge and irritation within them.

"And why..." he asks, his voice a low murmur meant just for you "..are you looking at him?" he stares at you, his blue eyes watching you closely.

You part your lips slightly, losing your focus entirely on the darker shade of his eyes and the glimmering swirlings that you see inside them. He’s waiting, his expression somewhere between curiosity and a stubborn insistence that demands your full attention.

"I’m not." you reply innocently, though you know he doesn’t believe you. His hand still hadn't left your hip, it slid over it and found its place at your waist, pulling you a little closer.

You feel warmth sneaking into your cheeks and your knees want to bend under his gaze.

Satoru’s lips twitch, but his gaze doesn’t soften "Good." he says, moving his fingers so that they are able to lift your chin higher, making you look only at him, keeping his eyes locked with yours.

"Because if you’re looking anywhere, it should be here." he finished, the corners of his mouth slightly lifting.

© noira-l | all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, modify, or redistirbute my work without permission

tl (italics - couldn't tag): @kalopsia-flaneur, @dainslumi, @syneyam, @idiotgojo, @itachiiwrites, @fidgetydeer

[latin5mamii]

Angel - Jude Bellingham

warnings: long chapter (1829 words)

genre: childhood best friends to lovers

summary:How could you know that a stupid nickname could change everything?

author's note: I know you've been waiting for this, and I'm so excited to finally share the latest chapter with you! I truly hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. And yes, I might have left you hanging a bit, but trust me it’ll be worth it😌. I’m already planning to write the next chapter tonight. Plus I’d love to hear your thoughts—if you have any ideas or twists you think could make the story even more exciting, feel free to share them! last chapter

₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧���˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊　

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

There he was, leaning against the door frame, looking effortlessly handsome as always. His presence seemed even more magnetic after the words he’d left you with the night before, words that had kept you awake, replaying over and over in your mind.

"We’ll have plenty of nights together, don’t worry."

You hadn’t slept much, but who could blame you? Thoughts of Madrid, of Jude, and of how drastically everything was about to change had swirled in your head all night. But now, with him standing there, his familiar grin melting away your worries, it all seemed to make sense.

“Good morning,” you mumbled back, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips as you sat up. Jude crossed the room in a few quick strides and wrapped you in a hug, his embrace warm and reassuring, as if promising that everything would be okay.

“This feels weird,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper against his chest.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. “Weird? Why’s that?”

You shrugged, still struggling to put your feelings into words. “I don’t know… it’s just… surreal. Like this is all a dream or something.”

He smiled, that boyish, disarming smile you’d known since forever—the one that always made you feel safe, like nothing could ever go wrong as long as he was around. “I get it. But hey, you’ve got me. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You chuckled, the tension that had been knotted in your shoulders slowly melting away. You held onto him a moment longer, savoring the comfort of being close to him, before finally letting go.

Jude, always the playful one, grabbed your suitcase with a grin and started heading towards the door. “Come on, let’s get moving before you change your mind,” he teased.

As you watched him, it hit you just how surreal this all was. You’d never imagined that you’d be moving to Madrid with your childhood best friend, the same boy you used to chase around the playground, the same boy whose grandma used to joke you’d end up marrying one day. You’d laughed it off back then, never believing it could really happen.

But now, here you were. You thought back to when he first started getting famous, when he left for Dortmund, then Real Madrid, and how much you’d missed him. The messages, the late-night FaceTime calls, the way you both tried so hard to stay in touch despite the distance.

But now, one question lingers in your mind.

You're literally going to Madrid with your childhood best friend for who knows how long, the same one you made out with once after sharing a bed, and who constantly flirts with you.

You didn’t want to ask him that question because, well, he’s famous and has other things to think about. But the thought wouldn’t leave your mind.

“I’ve got a surprise for you, by the way,” his voice pulls you out of your thoughts. He knew how much you loved surprises.

“What is it?” you ask, a playful smile on your face.

“Wait and see.”

As soon as you arrive at the airport, the car takes a different turn from the usual route, stopping in front of a smaller yet equally impressive plane. Now you understand what the surprise was. And you felt a little silly for not realizing it sooner: Why would someone so famous take a commercial flight when they could afford a private jet?

As you stepped out of the car, your eyes still wide with surprise at the sight of the private jet in front of you, Jude chuckled and took your hand in his, leading you toward the sleek aircraft. His touch was warm and familiar, like it had always been since you were kids. But now, with everything that had changed, the fame, the move to Madrid, the endless possibilities ahead,his hand in yours felt different..

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised by this,” he teased, his grin contagious as you reached the steps of the plane.

“I mean, I should’ve seen it coming, but come on, Jude,” you said, giving him a playful shove. “A private jet? Really?”

He shrugged, still holding your hand as you both boarded. “Gotta travel in style now, don’t I?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. 

The interior of the jet was even more luxurious than you’d imagined. Soft leather seats, a spacious layout, and every inch of it screaming luxury. Jude plopped down onto one of the oversized seats, pulling you down beside him before you could even take it all in.

“Get comfy, we’ve got a few hours ahead of us,” he said, stretching out as if the whole plane was just his personal living room.

You never thought you'd experience this. You remember when in the past Jude and Jobe used to fight a lot, and you just brought peace to them, that’s one of the main reasons their mom loved you.And that feels like yesterday and now everything changed.

As you sank into the soft leather seat beside Jude, you couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh, the weight of it all finally starting to sink in. Jude turned to look at you, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.

“What’s funny?” he asked, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

You shook your head, still caught up in the whirlwind of memories. “Just thinking about how different everything is now. I mean, you used to fight with Jobe all the time, and I’d always have to step in and keep the peace. Now you're taking me to Madrid on a private jet.”

Jude chuckled, leaning back in his seat with a lazy grin. “Yeah, well, you were good at keeping us in line. Still are, actually.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Come on, Jude, don’t start.”

“Still,” he said, nudging you playfully, “you’re younger, and I’m always going to be the one looking out for you. That’s just how it is.”

You huffed, pretending to be exasperated. “Four months, Jude. Four.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied with a smirk. “Still the older one, and I’m still going to protect you.”Jude gave you a smug smile, leaning back in his seat.

You rolled your eyes, smirking as you fired back, “From who? Jobe?”

Jude chuckled, nodding as if he were genuinely considering it. “Yeah, he can be pretty evil sometimes.”

You shook your head, laughing at the thought. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, shaking your head with a smile. His playful banter, the way he could always make you feel at ease, was exactly what you needed.

But there was something else you’d been thinking about—something you weren’t sure you should say. The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“When you were in Madrid,” you started, your voice a bit more hesitant than you intended, “I used to check the news about you. You know, just to see what was going on.”

Jude turned his head toward you, intrigued. “Oh, yeah? Keeping tabs on me?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile faded as you continued. “Well, yeah… but not just for fun. There were times when I’d come across people calling you arrogant, or childish, and it kind of freaked me out.”

Jude blinked in surprise, his playful expression faltering for a second. “Freaked you out? Why?”

You hesitated again, not wanting to sound dramatic. “Because… I didn’t know if you’d changed. I mean, all those articles and posts made you sound like someone I didn’t recognize. And I guess I was scared to see you again, scared you wouldn’t be… you.”

There was a pause as Jude processed what you said, and you felt your heart thudding in your chest, waiting for his response. But instead of going serious, like you expected, he grinned—full-on, mischievous Jude.

“Oh, so you thought I’d turn into some big-headed superstar, huh?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “What, did you think I was going to show up wearing sunglasses indoors and demand people call me ‘Mr. Bellingham’?”

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing, your worries easing as his joke broke the tension. “No! But—”

Jude leaned in, his grin widening. “Or maybe you were scared I’d start talking about myself in the third person. ‘Jude Bellingham doesn’t wait in line.’ ‘Jude Bellingham only flies private.’”

You shook your head, laughing even harder now. “Stop! That’s not what I meant!”

He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms with mock arrogance. “You know what? Maybe I should start doing that. Sounds kind of fun.”

“Oh, please,” you said, playfully swatting his arm. “You’d be unbearable.”

Jude laughed, the warmth in his voice settling your nerves. “Nah, I get it. People love to talk. But you should’ve known better.I’m still me. Just with a bit more style and better hair.”

“Better hair, huh?” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “That’s debatable.”

He reached up, running a hand through his hair with exaggerated pride. “Debatable? This is prime hair right here. You’re just jealous.”

You rolled your eyes again, but the lightness in your chest was undeniable now. The Jude sitting next to you wasn’t the arrogant football star the tabloids sometimes made him out to be. He was still the same guy who used to annoy you with dumb jokes and competitive childish games, and still, the same guy who made you feel safe and at home.

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Jude's house was incredible, a dream come true. He had told you about it before, but you never imagined it would be like this. You felt an overwhelming excitement, knowing you were experiencing something that millions of people could only dream of.

"Like it?" he asked, as he unloaded the suitcases from the car.

 You were surprised because you thought someone else would do it for him, but it seemed he was doing it himself just to spend as much time with you as possible. The butterflies in your stomach fluttered, just as they always did whenever he was near.

You nodded, a little breathless. “Yeah, I mean… it’s unreal, Jude.”

He flashed that familiar boyish smile, the one that made your stomach do flips. “Wait ‘til you see inside.”

And he was right. The inside was even more stunning than you imagined—high ceilings, sleek furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased a breathtaking view of the city below. You followed Jude through the living room, your eyes wide as you took it all in.

“I feel like I’m in a magazine or something,” you said, spinning in a slow circle to take everything in.

Jude chuckled as he dropped your bags at the base of the stairs. “Well, I did say I had more style now, didn’t I?”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll give you that one.”

He came up behind you, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder, and you could feel the warmth of his touch. “Hey,” he said softly, his tone a bit more serious now. “Do you want to go grab dinner? I know it’s been a long day, and there’s a place nearby I think you’d love.”

You glanced up at him, surprised but touched by the gesture. “Dinner? Right now?”

He nodded, his eyes soft and inviting. “Yeah. Just you and me. What do you say?”

You didn’t have to think twice. “Sure, sounds perfect.”

A smile broke across his face. “Great. Give me ten minutes, and we’ll head out.”

True to his word, Jude was ready quickly, and soon, you were heading out together.. The restaurant he’d chosen was chic but not overly formal, nestled in a quiet part of the city.

 As you both sat down at a cozy table near the window, the ambiance was perfect: low lighting, soft music, and just enough privacy for you to feel like it was your own little world.

Jude ordered a bottle of wine, pouring a glass for each of you.

“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a teasing smile, “on a scale of one to ten, how jealous do you think Jobe is knowing that you’re with me now?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh, he’ll surely give it back to me in a while”

Jude’s grin widened. “Yeah, well, too bad for him. You’re all mine now.”

The way he said it sent a flutter through your chest, and you couldn’t help but blush. He noticed, of course, and leaned in a little closer, his voice lowering just enough to make your heart race.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting shy on me now,” he teased, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

“I’m not shy” you protested, trying to hide your smile as you took a sip of your wine.

“Right,” Jude said, leaning even closer across the table. “You’ve never been shy a day in your life.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up. “You’re annoying”

You weren’t sure who made the first move. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you, or maybe it was both of you leaning into the inevitable. But suddenly, his hand was brushing lightly against your arm, his fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path down to your wrist. It wasn’t much, just a simple touch, but it felt like everything.

His gaze dipped to your lips, and your heart raced in your chest as he took another sip from that glass. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and rough, barely above a whisper.

“Do you ever think about it?” he asked, his breath ghosting over your skin.

You blinked, your heart pounding as you met his gaze. “Think about what?”

He swallowed, as if debating whether to say it out loud, and then, in a voice barely audible, he said, “When we kissed.”

Your breath caught in your throat, memories of that kiss rushing back to you—the way it had felt so easy and so right, yet so confusing at the same time. You haven’t talked about that since it happened, maybe it was time

“Jude…” you started, but your voice faltered.

He didn’t let you finish. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

You shyly smiled, breaking eye contact and looking down, feeling the warmth of his words flush through you. Without knowing how to respond, you took another sip of your wine.

Jude noticed your reaction, letting out a soft chuckle. Leaning in close, his breath tickling your ear as he had to reveal a secret, he murmured,

“We should talk about this at home, shouldn’t we, Angel?”

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[callsigns-haze]

Lost that mothering feeling

Summary: The more your kids grew up the more you've lost that mother feeling and Bob, being your perfect husband, brought it back for more than one night.

Warning: feeling worn out, feeling overwhelmed, pregnancy, pregnancy test.

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x reader

The living room is alive with the hum of laughter and conversation, your four kids seated around a makeshift studio of microphones and cameras. Alex and Max, your eighteen-year-old twins, are debating something enthusiastically—most likely their usual heated discourse about the latest sci-fi show they’ve been obsessed with. Theo, your fifteen-year-old, leans back in his chair, effortlessly tossing in sarcastic comments that make his brothers groan. And then there’s Matilda or also known as Tilly. At eleven, your youngest is sprawled on the couch, mic in hand, her big eyes sparkling with mischief as she waits for her moment to steal the show.

You’re in the kitchen, fingers flying over your laptop keyboard as you work on the latest chapter of your romantasy series, the one that’s catapulted you to stardom. The scent of fresh coffee lingers in the air, a half-full mug sitting forgotten beside you. The click-clack of keys is soothing, grounding—until Tilly’s voice pierces the air.

“I nearly died today.”

The boys freeze mid-conversation, their attention snapping to her. “What?” Theo demands, his voice pitched higher than usual.

“How?” Max asks, leaning forward, concern creeping into his tone.

“Good.” Came from Alex.

Tilly waves a hand nonchalantly, twirling the cord of her mic. “I don’t know. I just got bored of that topic.”

Alex groans, dropping his head into his hands while Theo mutters something about needing a refund on her drama classes. Max, ever the patient one, shakes his head, muttering, “You can’t just drop that and move on, Tilly.”

A smile tugs at your lips as you listen, the corner of your heart warmed by their camaraderie. You glance toward the living room, watching as Tilly shrugs and dives into a completely unrelated story, her brothers laughing and rolling their eyes.

The sound of the front door opening is soft—practically silent—but you catch it. Bob’s always been like that, moving quietly as if afraid to disrupt the calm. It’s something you adore about him, even if it sometimes works a little too well.

“Hey,” you say without looking up, sensing his presence before you see him.

“Hey,” he replies, his voice low and warm.

You’re about to turn around when his hands brush your waist, making you jump slightly. “Bobby!” you exclaim, laughing as your fingers hover over the keyboard.

He chuckles softly, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally your lips. It’s brief but tender, and it makes your heart flutter the way it has since you were sixteen.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, though the small smile playing at his lips tells you he’s anything but.

You turn in your chair to face him, meeting his soft blue eyes. His gaze lingers on you for a moment, his brow furrowing just slightly. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice laced with quiet concern.

You hesitate, feeling the weight of his attention, the way he can see through you even when you try to hide. “Nothing,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “I just—I’m going to go shower. Be right back.”

Before he can protest, you stand and kiss him on the cheek, retreating upstairs. The sound of your kids’ laughter follows you, a comforting reminder of the life you’ve built together. But as you step into the bathroom and close the door, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Bob leans into the living room doorway, still clad in his flight suit, his nametag and patches catching the warm glow of the lamps. His usually calm demeanour is replaced with a firmness that immediately commands attention.

“Alright, guys,” he says, his tone sharper than usual, “wrap it up. You’ve got five minutes.”

The twins groan in unison, Max throwing his hands up dramatically. “Dad, we’re live!”

Theo adds, “Yeah, you can’t just barge in like that. It’s a podcast, not a family meeting.”

But Bob doesn’t budge, his blue eyes steady as he crosses his arms. “Five minutes,” he repeats, leaving no room for argument.

The chat on their live stream explodes.

“OMG, who is THAT?!” “Is their dad a PILOT???” “The FLIGHT SUIT? Hello???” “Dad just alpha’d the room, I’m crying.” “Wait, that's their dad, Robert? I thought he was supposed to be shy???”

Bob’s presence, authoritative yet quiet, always had that effect, and even now.

Tilly, unfazed by the shift in tone, bounds over to Bob and throws her arms around his waist, burying her face in his flight suit. “You’re home!” she says brightly, looking up at him with adoration.

Bob’s expression softens immediately, his hand coming to rest gently on the back of her head. “Yeah, sweetheart. I’m home.”

Theo, still seated on the couch, smirks and mutters just loud enough to be heard, “Favouritism much?”

The chat picks up on it instantly.

“Theo called it lmao.” “Tilly’s the favourite CONFIRMED.” “Theo and his middle-child energy, I can’t.” “FAVORITISM??? Dad’s girl for sure.”

Bob sighs, glancing at Theo with a small shake of his head. “You’ve all got five minutes,” he says again, but this time his voice is quieter, more measured.

Tilly beams at him, sticking her tongue out at Theo before turning back to Bob. “Are you staying for dinner?” she asks, completely ignoring the chaos in the living room and the chat still lighting up with messages.

Bob leans down slightly to meet her gaze. “Of course, Tills. Go finish up with your brothers.”

Satisfied, she scampers back to her spot, and Bob steps into the kitchen to give them space, though his presence lingers like a steadying anchor in the house.

Bob stands in the kitchen for a moment, his arms crossed as he listens to the faint hum of voices from the living room. The kids are finishing up, just as he’d instructed, but his focus isn’t on them. It’s on you—how you seemed distant, how you avoided his question and slipped away upstairs.

His jaw tightens, a flicker of worry sparking in his chest. He knows you too well; something’s not right. Without hesitation, he pushes off the counter and heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The house is quieter as he approaches the bathroom door, the sound of the shower running faint but steady. He knocks lightly, his knuckles brushing the wood.

“Sweetheart?” he calls, his voice low but firm enough to carry through the door.

There’s no immediate response, just the continued rush of water. Bob’s brow furrows as he leans closer, his hand resting on the doorknob. “You okay in there?” he asks again, concern threading through his words.

This time, your voice answers, muffled but audible. “I’m fine, Bob. I’ll be out in a minute.”

But he doesn’t buy it. Bob’s always been patient, the kind of man who gives space when it’s needed, but not tonight. Tonight, something feels off, and he’s not about to let it fester.

He cracks the door open just enough to speak without shouting. The warm steam drifts out, curling around him. “I’m coming in,” he says gently, giving you enough time to protest. When you don’t, he steps inside, careful not to startle you.

Through the frosted glass, he can see your silhouette, your head bowed under the stream of water. His heart tightens at the sight—it’s not like you to look so small, so defeated.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice soft as he crouches slightly to your level, even though there’s a door between you. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

You sigh, your voice barely audible over the water. “I just needed a minute, Bob. I’m okay, really.”

But he stays put, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the shower door. “You sure? Because you didn’t seem okay downstairs.”

For a moment, there’s only silence, and then you turn off the water. Grabbing a towel, you wrap it around yourself and open the door, your eyes meeting his. They’re glassy, unsure, and his stomach twists at the sight.

“I’ll be fine,” you say softly, but Bob doesn’t look convinced. He reaches out, his fingers brushing your damp hair back from your face.

“Angel,” he says, his voice steady and grounding, “you don’t have to carry it alone. Whatever it is, I’m here.”

You sigh, clutching the towel tighter around you as you sit on the closed toilet lid, Bob crouched in front of you. His hands rest on your knees, his touch warm and grounding, but you struggle to meet his gaze. The lump in your throat feels almost too big to speak around, but his quiet presence gives you the courage to finally let the words out.

“I don’t feel like… like a mom anymore,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I mean, I am, obviously. But I feel like I’ve lost that mother feeling, you know?”

Bob’s brow furrows, concern deepening in his blue eyes. He doesn’t say anything yet, just lets you keep going.

“They’re so independent now, Robert. Alex and Max are practically adults. Theo doesn’t need me for much anymore. Even Tilly… she’s off doing her own thing, and she’s only eleven. And I—” Your voice catches, and you shake your head, tears welling up despite your best efforts to hold them back. “I just feel like I’ve been replaced. By their friends, by their hobbies, even by each other. They don’t need me the way they used to.”

Bob’s hands tighten gently on your knees, his touch a silent reminder that he’s right here. “Angel…”

“And it’s not just that,” you continue, the words spilling out like a confession. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my work lately. The deadlines, the tours, the next book… it’s like I’ve traded being their mom for being… well, me and if I can do it again. And now, I don’t know if I’m doing enough for them. Or if they even see me the same way anymore.”

Bob leans closer, his voice soft but firm. “Hey, stop that. You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

You finally meet his eyes, and the depth of understanding there nearly undoes you.

“You’ve been their mom every second of every day since the moment they were born,” he says. “And just because they’re growing up and finding their own way doesn’t mean they don’t need you. They do. More than you realize. And as for your work…” He pauses, brushing a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You’re showing them what it means to chase your dreams and still be there for the people you love. That’s not losing anything—that’s giving them something incredible to look up to.”

You let out a shaky breath, his words sinking in even as the doubts linger. “What if it’s not enough, Bob?”

He smiles softly, his gaze steady and unwavering. “It is. It always has been. And it always will be.”

His reassurance washes over you like a balm, soothing the ache in your chest. You lean forward, resting your forehead against his, and his arms come around you.

You pull back slightly, still wrapped in Bob’s steady embrace, and let out a heavy sigh. “I just… I feel so old and used up, Bob.”

His brow furrows, his hands resting on your shoulders now as he studies your face with that quiet, unwavering focus that has always made you feel both seen and understood. “What are you talking about? You’re only thirty-six,” he says softly, like he’s trying to remind you of something you’ve forgotten.

“Exactly,” you reply, your voice tinged with frustration, “I’m only thirty-six, but I feel like I’ve lived three lifetimes already. Everything happened so quickly. We got married young, had the twins before we even had a chance to figure out who we were as adults, and then… it was just one thing after another. Kids, work, responsibilities—it never stopped. And now I look in the mirror, and I don’t even recognize myself anymore.”

Bob’s face softens, his hands sliding down your arms to hold yours. “Sweetheart…”

“I love our life,” you continue, your voice breaking. “I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But sometimes, I just feel… worn out. Like I gave everything I had to everyone else, and now there’s nothing left for me. Not even enough to feel like me anymore.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but not in a way that feels dismissive. He’s absorbing your words, weighing them carefully before responding. “You’ve been through so much, and you’ve carried so much,” he says finally, his voice thick with emotion. “But you’re not used up. You’re… you’re still you. The same woman I fell in love with when we were kids, the same woman who raised four amazing kids with me, and the same woman who inspires people all over the world with her stories. You haven’t lost anything, baby. You’ve grown. And yeah, life’s been fast, but you’re not finished. You’ve still got so much ahead of you.”

Tears spill over, and you laugh softly through them. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not easy,” he admits, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But you don’t have to do it alone. You’ve got me, always. And maybe… maybe it’s time we figured out how to make a little more room for you in all of this.”

You bite your lip, a fresh wave of emotion surging at his words. He reaches up, brushing your damp hair away from your face as he continues.

“Let me take some of the weight,” he says gently. “You’ve done so much for all of us. It’s okay to let yourself rest, to figure out what you need to feel like yourself again.”

A playful glint sparking in his blue eyes as a small smile tugs at his lips. “You know,” he starts, his voice light but teasing, “if you feel like you’ve lost the ‘mother’ feeling… we are still young. We could always have another.”

Your eyes widen, and you let out a startled laugh, swatting his arm. “Bobby...”

He chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just saying. You’re only thirty-six, and I’m thirty-seven. We’ve still got plenty of energy left. And let’s face it—our kids turned out pretty great.”

“Bob,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him, though you can’t help the smile creeping across your face. “We have four kids. Four. And two of them are adults...you're comfortable with it? Seriously? You really want to start over?”

He grins, that soft, boyish charm you fell in love with shining through. “With you? Always.”

You roll your eyes, but his words warm your heart in a way that makes it hard to argue. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “But you’re smiling, so I must be doing something right.”

You shake your head, laughing softly as you lean against him. “You’re lucky I love you, you know that?”

“Luckiest guy in the world,” he replies, wrapping his arms around you again. And for the first time that day, the weight on your shoulders feels just a little lighter.

His hands still resting on your arms, and his expression softens with a mix of determination and affection. “Alright, here’s what we’re going to do,” he says, his voice steady but laced with that quiet warmth that always makes you feel safe. “You’re going to go to our room, get dressed—something warm and comfy—and don’t ask where we’re going because I’m not telling you.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Bob—”

“Nope,” he interrupts gently, shaking his head. “No arguments. I’ll handle the kids. I’ll make sure they’re dressed and ready too. You just focus on yourself for once, okay?”

The confidence in his words falters for a brief moment as a hint of shyness creeps in. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing to the side before meeting your eyes again. “I mean, I—I just thought… maybe it’d be good to get everyone out of the house for a bit. Something different. Together.”

A soft smile tugs at your lips as you watch him, his nervousness only making you love him more. “You’re planning a surprise?”

His cheeks flush slightly, and he shrugs, trying to play it cool. “Maybe. Just… trust me on this one, alright?”

You nod, feeling a flicker of excitement despite the heaviness that’s lingered in your chest all day. “Alright. Warm and comfy, huh?”

“Warm and comfy,” he confirms, his lips quirking into a small smile. “I’ll go tell the kids to get ready too.”

As he turns to head back downstairs, you catch the way his ears turn a little pink, a clear sign of how out of his comfort zone this is for him. It’s endearing, and for the first time in a while, you feel a spark of anticipation. Whatever he’s planning, you know it’s coming from his heart—and that makes all the difference.

Bob heads downstairs, his flight suit still slightly damp from the steam of the bathroom. As he steps into the living room, his expression tightens at the sight of the twins and Theo still sitting on the couch, chatting animatedly with the live-stream chat, and Tilly sprawled across an armchair, giggling at the screen.

“Guys,” he says, his tone firm, “I thought I told you to wrap this up.”

Alex glances up, one hand still fiddling with a microphone. “We did, kinda. We’re just saying goodbye to the chat.”

Bob exhales through his nose, his patience wearing thin. “It’s been more than five minutes.”

Max smirks, clearly unfazed. “Dad, it’s live. You can’t just drop off without a proper sign-off. It’s bad for engagement.”

“Engagement?” Bob repeats, his voice sharpening slightly. “What about engaging with the rules I gave you? I said wrap it up—not drag it out for another ten minutes.”

Theo mutters something under his breath, but Bob’s sharp gaze flicks to him, silencing whatever snarky comment was about to come out.

The twins exchange a look, and Max finally sighs. “Alright, alright. We’re logging off. Jeez.”

“Thank you,” Bob says curtly, crossing his arms.

The chat, of course, explodes.

“Omg Dad’s mad 😳” “Dad Mode: Activated” “Who’s braver? Alex and Max or the dad in the flight suit?” “Theo’s about to get grounded, y’all watch.” “Bob deserves a medal for dealing with them, lmao.”

Before the kids can start dragging their feet again, Bob gestures toward Tilly, who’s still watching the chaos unfold with wide eyes. “Tilly, go upstairs and start getting ready. Warm and comfy clothes. We’re heading out soon.”

Tilly hops up, skipping past him and giving him a quick hug on her way. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll find out,” Bob replies, his voice softening just slightly for her.

As she disappears up the stairs, Theo mutters under his breath, “Favouritism strikes again.”

Bob shoots him a look, raising an eyebrow. “Keep pushing, and I’ll make you sit in the middle seat when we go.”

The twins snicker, finally logging off the stream with a half-hearted apology to their audience. The chat’s parting messages are a mixture of humour and sympathy.

“Dad’s the boss, y’all better listen 😅” “Theo, blink twice if you need saving.” “We’re gonna need a podcast on this later 😂.”

Once the equipment is off and the kids are reluctantly shuffling upstairs to follow his instructions, Bob exhales deeply, running a hand through his hair. They were good kids, but sometimes they tested his patience like no one else could.

Still, as he hears their footsteps above and the faint sound of their chatter, a small smile tugs at his lips. They might drive him crazy, but they were his—and tonight, he was determined to make it a special one for all of you.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once to get their attention. “Everyone upstairs. Get dressed—warm and cozy. Layers. We’re heading out, and I don’t want to hear any complaints about being cold later.”

The twins groan in unison, clearly not thrilled about being told what to do again so soon.

“Warm and cozy? What, are we going to the North Pole?” Max quips, earning a laugh from Theo.

Bob raises an eyebrow, giving them a pointed look. “Do you want to spend the night figuring out if you’re funny, or do you want to actually go somewhere fun?”

That shuts them up, and they start heading toward the stairs, grumbling under their breath. Tilly bounces past them, already halfway up. “I’m gonna wear my fuzzy socks!” she calls over her shoulder.

“Good idea,” Bob mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Once they’re all upstairs, he lets out a slow breath and heads to the hall closet, pulling out a jacket for himself before retreating to your shared bedroom. He makes quick work of changing out of his flight suit, swapping it for a thick sweater, jeans, and a pair of sturdy boots.

As he ties his laces, he pauses for a moment, glancing at the dresser where a photo of your family from years ago sits. The twins were barely out of diapers, Theo just a toddler, and you were holding Tilly, who had only been a few weeks old at the time. He smiles softly, shaking his head.

“Warm and cozy,” he mutters to himself with a chuckle. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

He grabs his coat and heads downstairs, ready to corral the kids and make sure everyone’s dressed and prepped for the night ahead.

When Bob comes back downstairs, the sound of laughter and mock indignation greets him from the living room. He steps into the room to find you standing in front of the twins, arms crossed, while they grin at you like they’ve won some invisible battle.

“I’m just saying,” Alex argues, hands up in a gesture of defence, “it’s not our fault we’re objectively the coolest kids in the family.”

“Coolest?” you repeat, feigning outrage. “You two barely survived kindergarten without trying to convince your teacher to let you start a podcast about dinosaurs. Theo and Tilly are way cooler than you ever were.”

“Hey!” Max jumps in, pointing dramatically. “That podcast idea was ahead of its time.”

“And,” Alex adds, “Theo’s cool, sure. But Tilly? She’s biased.”

Tilly, sitting proudly on the couch with her fuzzy socks pulled up to her knees, narrows her eyes at Alex. “I am not biased. Mom’s right—you two aren’t even in the top three coolest people in this house.”

Bob leans against the doorway, watching the playful back-and-forth with a small smile. He doesn’t interrupt at first, letting the warmth of the moment wash over him. You’re laughing, Tilly’s defending you like a tiny warrior, and even Theo, sitting nearby, is smirking at his older brothers’ expense.

Finally, Bob clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “Are we ready to go, or is this turning into a full-blown trial?”

You glance over at him, a playful glint in your eye. “Bob, tell them they’ve lost all their cool points for arguing with me.”

Bob chuckles, stepping further into the room. “I’m not getting in the middle of this. But,” he adds, looking pointedly at Alex and Max, “if you don’t get your coats and boots on, I’m going to start deducting more points. And I don’t think you can afford that.”

The twins groan dramatically, but they head toward the door to grab their things. Tilly hops off the couch and skips over to Bob, hugging his waist. “I’m ready! And I’m still the coolest, right, Dad?”

Bob smiles down at her, resting a hand on her head. “Of course you are, sweetheart.”

Theo mutters from his spot on the couch, “Favoritism strikes again.”

Bob gives him a look, raising an eyebrow. “Careful, or you’ll be riding in the boot.”

Theo snorts but gets up, heading off to get dressed without further complaint.

“Alright,” Bob says, glancing back at you with a small smile.

Once everyone is dressed and bundled up, the family gathers by the front door. Bob grabs his keys from the hook while you zip up Tilly’s jacket, her fuzzy socks peeking out over the tops of her boots.

“Do we at least get a hint about where we’re going?” Alex asks, pulling on his gloves.

“Nope,” Bob says simply, shrugging into his own coat.

Max groans, dramatically dragging his feet toward the door. “This better be good. I could be streaming right now, you know.”

“You’ll survive,” you say, nudging him lightly as you grab your own scarf. “Besides, it’s family time. Be grateful.”

Theo grins as he slings a bag over his shoulder. “Bet it’s just a trip to the grocery store, and Dad’s hyping it up for no reason.”

Bob raises an eyebrow but doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he reaches for the door, holding it open for everyone. “Alright, let’s go. Out the door. No stragglers.”

Tilly skips ahead, her energy as boundless as ever. “If we’re going somewhere fun, I call dibs on sitting by Mom!”

“Not fair!” Max protests, but Alex grabs his arm, shaking his head.

“Let her have it. She’s the favorite right now anyway.”

Bob smirks at their bickering but doesn’t comment as he ushers everyone out into the crisp evening air. You pause for a moment on the doorstep, pulling your coat tighter around you as Bob locks the door behind you.

When he glances over, you catch the glimmer of quiet satisfaction in his eyes. Whatever he’s planned, you can tell he’s put thought into it—and for the first time all day, you feel a spark of anticipation.

He steps beside you, slipping his hand into yours. “Ready?”

“Ready,” you reply softly, giving his hand a small squeeze.

The drive is lively, the kids filling the car with chatter and guesses about where Bob is taking everyone. As the familiar sound of waves grows closer, you glance out the window, spotting the cliffs that overlook the beach.

When Bob finally parks the car, the confusion is palpable.

“The beach?” Max asks, raising an eyebrow as he steps out. “At night? In the middle of winter?”

Bob smirks as he rounds the car to join everyone, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “It’s not just the beach,” he says, his tone teasing. “It’s a competition.”

That gets their attention. The kids exchange glances, a mix of curiosity and scepticism, while you tilt your head at him. “A competition?” you echo.

Bob nods, gesturing toward the path leading down to the sand. “Here’s how it’s going to work. Max and Alex,” he points to the twins, “you’re on black shell duty. The more, the better. Theo and Tilly,” he continues, turning to your younger two, “you’re looking for big swirl shells. Anything that stands out.”

“What about you and Mom?” Theo asks, already intrigued.

Bob’s gaze softens as he glances at you, a small, playful smile tugging at his lips. “Your mom and I are on sea glass duty. The rarest pieces win bonus points.”

Tilly gasps in excitement, clapping her hands. “Yes! I’m gonna find the best shell ever and get to stomp all over Alex!”

Max rolls his eyes but grins despite himself. “This feels rigged. You and Mom are on the same team?”

“You’re lucky I didn’t make her the judge,” Bob retorts, his smirk widening. “Now, are we doing this, or are you all too scared to lose?”

The challenge is met with a chorus of “Game on!” and laughter as everyone grabs flashlights and heads down to the beach.

As the kids run ahead, their lights bouncing across the sand, you fall into step with Bob. “Sea glass, huh?” you ask, nudging his arm. “That’s what we’re hunting?”

He chuckles, his breath visible in the chilly night air. “Thought it’d give us a chance to stick together. Plus, you’ve always had an eye for the rare stuff.”

You smile, your earlier worries starting to melt away under the warmth of his thoughtfulness. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he replies, slipping his hand into yours as the sound of laughter and waves fills the air, “but you love me for it.”

As the two of you walk along the shoreline, your flashlight sweeping the sand for glimmers of sea glass, you glance at Bob with a curious smile. “Alright,” you say, breaking the quiet. “What’s the real plot behind all this, Bob? You don’t usually spring surprise competitions on us.”

He chuckles softly, his gaze fixed on the waves for a moment before turning back to you. “The plot, huh?” He pauses, his voice thoughtful. “I just… I remembered a few things. Thought maybe this would make tonight feel special.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “What things?”

Bob’s lips quirk in a small smile as he stops walking, turning to face you. “Like the first time you found sea glass,” he says quietly. “You were nine. Your friend lived on the coast and told you about it, and you spent hours combing the beach with her until you found that tiny green piece.”

Your mouth parts slightly in surprise, but he isn’t done.

“And your favourite swirl shell,” he continues, his voice soft but steady, “when you were fifteen, watching New Year’s fireworks on the beach with your family. You kept it in your pocket the whole night.”

Your chest tightens as the memories flood back, vivid and untouched, like they’d been pulled from a secret drawer in your mind.

“And the first black shell you found,” Bob adds, his blue eyes meeting yours, “on New Year’s when you were fourteen. You said it was like finding treasure because you didn’t think shells could look like that.”

You stare at him, speechless, the flashlight in your hand momentarily forgotten. “How… how do you remember all that?” you manage to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bob shrugs, a faint blush colouring his cheeks as he looks down at the sand. “You told me about them. Years ago, when we first started dating. I guess I just… I listened.”

Your throat tightens, and you feel the familiar sting of tears threatening to rise. “Bob,” you say, your voice catching. “I didn’t even remember some of that until you just said it.”

He gives you a small, sheepish smile. “Well, I figured tonight would be a good time to bring it back. Thought maybe we could make some new memories while we’re at it.”

The weight of his thoughtfulness, his quiet way of always knowing exactly what you need, settles over you like a blanket. Without thinking, you reach up, cupping his face and pulling him into a kiss, the sound of the waves your only witness.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his lips, the words trembling with emotion.

Bob pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his smile soft and full of love. “Always.”

You and Bob stand hand in hand on the cool sand, your flashlights casting warm glows over the beach. The kids are scattered, their voices carrying on the breeze.

Suddenly, a burst of motion catches your eye. Tilly and Theo come sprinting past, their laughter echoing across the shore. In Tilly’s small hand is a black shell, and Theo is holding something you can’t quite see.

“Get back here!” Alex shouts, his voice full of mock outrage as he and Max charge after them. “That’s stealing!”

“It’s called strategy!” Theo yells over his shoulder, his grin wide as he picks up speed.

“Survival of the fittest!” Tilly adds, giggling so hard she nearly stumbles.

Max groans dramatically as he struggles to keep up. “You’re supposed to find your own stuff, not steal ours!”

Bob chuckles beside you, shaking his head as the twins put on a burst of speed, sand flying behind them. “I told you this was going to turn into chaos.”

You laugh, watching as Tilly veers toward the rocks, dodging Max’s outstretched hand with a squeal. “I think this is less about shells and more about who can outsmart who.”

“They definitely get that from you,” Bob teases, squeezing your hand.

“Oh, please,” you shoot back, nudging him playfully. “You’re the one who taught them how to ‘win at all costs.’”

Ahead of you, the chase continues, the twins gaining on Theo and Tilly as they dart through the moonlit sand. Despite the chaos, the sound of their laughter fills the air, blending perfectly with the rhythm of the waves.

As the kids' laughter echoes across the beach, you turn to Bob, your heart full and your chest tight with emotion. You squeeze his hand, drawing his attention away from the chaos in front of you.

“Thank you,” you say softly, your voice almost lost in the sound of the waves.

Bob tilts his head, his brows knitting together slightly. “For what?”

“For bringing that mother feeling back,” you reply, your eyes shining. “Even if it’s just for one night, I needed this. I needed to feel like this again.”

He smiles gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’ve never stopped being an amazing mom, you know. I’m just glad I could remind you.”

You bite your lip, your heartbeat quickening as you reach into your coat pocket and pull out something small. “Actually… you might’ve brought it back for longer than just one night.”

Bob’s face shifts to confusion as he glances down at the object in your hand. When he realizes what it is—a pregnancy test—his blue eyes go wide, and his mouth opens slightly in surprise.

“Is that—?” he starts, his voice breaking off as his face flushes bright pink.

You nod, a smile breaking across your face. “It’s positive, Bob.”

For a moment, he’s completely frozen, his eyes flicking between your face and the test as he processes the news. Then his hand comes up to scratch the back of his neck, his signature move when he’s flustered.

“I—uh—wow,” he stammers, his voice soft and uneven. “I didn’t mean this in the bathroom… I mean, I wasn’t expecting…”

You watch as his shy smile grows, the joy slowly spreading across his face. “We’re—”

“Having another baby,” you finish for him, your voice trembling with equal parts nerves and excitement.

Bob lets out a breathless laugh, his hands coming up to frame your face. “You’re serious?”

You nod, your own smile widening as tears well in your eyes. “We’re serious.”

He pulls you into a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around you as he buries his face in your neck. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just holds you close, his breath warm against your skin.

When he finally pulls back, his cheeks are still pink, and his shy, boyish grin hasn’t faded. “Guess I’d better start working on how to tell them,”

You laugh, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “You’re the one telling them. No way in the world am I dealing with that.”

“My angel traitor,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “no help at all.”

[short-honey-badger]

Miss Twilight 4

You arrive at Buggy Town and catch up with Crocodile

*things get even more steamy! The next chapter will be the final one to this mini story!*

Part 1 -> HERE Part 2 -> HERE Part 3 -> HERE Finale -> HERE

Crocodile stands on the docks outside of Buggy Town. There is movement all around him, the men under the Cross Guild working to get the latest navy ship repainted and refitted for their own purposes. They would have even more work in the coming hours. You’d rang Crocodile again and told him that you were around two hours out from the island and that you expected him to be there waiting for you. He’d snickered at your order but had easily agreed.

Now he stood at the edge, watching as a navy vessel drifted closer and closer to the docks. If he squinted, he could see several figures at the bow of the ship, and he couldn’t help but shift his weight in anticipation. You were almost here, and then he could sweep you away.

Finally, the ship slides up to the docks and weighs anchor, the ramp coming down to bang against the wood. He waits impatiently for you to disembark, and his lips curl up in a welcoming smirk when he sees you waltz down the plank like you owned the place. Miss Goldenweek and several other pirates follow you down, but he doesn’t pay them any mind. His focus is on you and you alone.

Your face hurts even as you grin up at your boss, coming to a stop in front of the devil fruit user. Buggy is already welcoming in the other pirates, his crew directing them on where to go. Mihawk is nowhere to be seen, though Crocodile knows that the other man is probably waiting in his office already. He frowns as he takes you in, hook coming up to rest under your chin and tilt your face this way and that.

“Who did this to you?” He demands quietly. Never had Crocodile seen you so injured before, and it makes rage swell up in his chest at the sight of your bruised and swollen face.

“A pair of marines. It was necessary to my plan, though. It doesn’t hurt that bad anymore,” you say with a shrug, and then give him a mean little grin, “I tossed them overboard after we took over the ship.”

“Mhm, I would have liked to see that,” Crocodile murmurs, and you shrug a shoulder, the smile on your face turning teasing.

“I’m sure you would have, Wani,” you say, and he drops his hook and instead offers his arm to your delight.

“Come along, Miss Twilight. I’ll show you the beginnings of our Utopia.”

After Crocodile leads you through the tent city, he cuts off to the building that housed his office and personal rooms, showing you your own room that was just down the hall from his. He leaves you, and you gladly take the time to take a much needed nap and then freshen up after. As much as you’d wanted to stay with him, it’d been a long couple of days of travel, and you were exhausted by the time he stopped at your room. You feel far better now that you’ve had time to take a shower and change into something a bit more your style. You can’t help but grin madly when you open the closet and see a selection of expensive fabrics in all different colors. You knew that Crocodile had chosen each one of them specifically for you, and it made your heart thump in affection for your boss.

Now dressed in something better than the rags and oversized clothes you’d stolen from the navy, you felt more like yourself. You tame your hair into something decent and slap on a little makeup that you find inside the drawers of your vanity before you leave your room, stomach rumbling in hunger.

You find his office with ease and knock on the door, entering when you hear his deep voice bid you inside. You’re surprised to see Dracule Mihawk in the office, standing to the side of Crocodile’s desk with an unopened bottle of wine tucked under his arm. You step further inside the office and take a seat when your boss bids you to.

“So you’re Miss Twilight,” Mihawk drawls, and you meet his golden eyes, trying not to squirm under the examining gaze that he is looking at you with. The swordsman must not find anything wrong, for he smirks and walks closer to hand you the bottle of wine, “Welcome to the Guild.”

You take the bottle and look at it, curious despite yourself, and find that it’s one of those expensive wines that you would see stocked behind the counter at the bar in Rain Dinner’s. You give him a grateful smile, “Thank you.”

The former warlord hums and steps past you, “You’re welcome. I’ll leave the two of you to enjoy it.”

You watch him walk out the door and then share a look with Crocodile, a smirk on your face as you tilt your head to the side, “I see that you’ve made a friend.”

The big man scoffs and rolls his eyes, “We have mutual interests,”

“I’m sure that’s all it is,” you tease, and then soften when your boss just puffs on his cigar, the look on his face vaguely unimpressed. You shift a little awkwardly. It’s been a little over a year since the last time you’d seen him, and that was before he’d been cuffed and carted away to Impel Down. He hadn’t changed, not much anyway, but it was enough to leave you doubting yourself.

Crocodile eyes you from across his desk. He doesn’t like that you look so nervous, but he understands why. He stands from his chair and you track him, eyes never leaving his face as he rounds the desk and stops beside you, the back of his golden hook coming up to rest under your chin like earlier. He meets your eyes, searching your face before he kneels down at your side. Your eyes go wide, and you lick your lips, stomach flipping in nerves.

“You don’t have to look so frightened, my dear,” Crocodile rumbles, and his flesh hand rises to cup the side of your face, holding you in a way that you hadn’t thought him capable of. You give him a small smile, turning your face more into his hold.

“I know, it’s just been so long since I’ve seen you. I feel like I don’t know how to act,” you admit quietly, and the devil fruit user huffs at you. His thumb drags along your jaw and then up to gently tug at your lips. You can’t help but wince a bit. They are still healing from the hit you’d taken to the face.

Crocodile’s brow furrows, and that same rage from earlier feels thick in his chest, “You should have given them to me. I would have made them suffer for this.”

He had planned on sweeping you off your feet and taking you straight to his rooms where he would spend the next several days worshiping you like you deserved. Learning your body piece by piece as he took you apart, but with you injured, Crocodile didn’t want to harm you further.

“I know you would have, Wani,” you murmur, and feeling bold, you turn and press your lips against the palm of his hand, lingering there and watching his purple eyes soften at your affection, “But watching them be eaten by the seakings was just as enjoyable.”

Crocodile hums, lips tugging into a smirk. His long fingers curl under your jaw. He adores your ruthless behavior, and it makes arousal curl hot in his stomach. He is desperate for you but holds himself back for now. He would give you time to heal. Slowly, he pulls away, fingertips trailing along your flesh as he stands and picks up the bottle of wine that Mihawk left behind.

“Come with me. I’ve had the cooks make your favorite,” He says, and you stand to follow him out of his office and to the private dining room on the floor below this one. You can’t help but feel all gooey and soft inside, cheek flushing darker at the thought of Crocodile knowing what you like.

That feeling intensifies when your boss pulls out your chair for you and pops the bottle of wine, pouring the both of you a generous glass before he sits in the spot across from you. Food is already laid out on the table, and you have a hard time not immediately digging in. You politely wait for Crocodile to begin before you take up your fork and start eating.

Before you know it, conversation is flowing like the two of you had never been apart for over a year. Crocodile regales you with his tale of escaping Impel Down and the fight with the navy afterward. You congratulate him on the creation of the Cross Guild, for you knew that Buggy the Clown wouldn’t be innovative enough to pull something like this even if he is the face of the organization. He asks about your capture, and you roll your eyes at yourself.

“After I heard about the Cross Guild, I knew that then would be a good time to show back up. That I could be useful to you, but I slipped up. I snuck on board dressed as a marine, and the Vice-Admiral didn’t recognize me. I didn’t know that he’d never had any transfers inside of his unit, so I stuck out. He dropped me off at the ship I brought to you for transport to Impel Down a few weeks ago, but that obviously didn’t happen.”

Crocodile huffs and shares a smirk with you, “Obviously not.”

He then frowns and sets down his fork to reach across the table, taking your free hand in his and meeting your eyes, “You could have come back before this. I would have gladly taken you at my side, my dear.”

You squeeze his hand softly, a shy smile tugging at your lips, and you flick your eyes away in embarrassment, “I didn’t want to be a burden, Crocodile.”

Crocodile rolls his eyes at you, “You have proven yourself to me for years, darling. You don’t have to do so any longer, if you wish.”

He didn’t care if you wanted to retire from working for him. Crocodile simply wanted you by his side, so if that meant losing your capabilities in the field, then so be it. It sounded corny and disgustingly domestic, but all he wanted now was to wake up to you next to him. To be able to touch and kiss you whenever he wished, to have you at his side when all of his plans finally came to fruition.

“I want you to do what you want, but I want you to be at my side when you do.”

Your heart thunders in your chest. You’d always known that there was a tension between the two of you, a mutual attraction that you’d always been too afraid to act on, fearing that Crocodile would send you away. But now? Now you want to act on it.

You stand before you can lose any courage, keeping his hand in your own as you walk around the table. Crocodile follows you, scooting his chair back away from the table when you are by his side. Without missing a beat, you reach out with your free hand, your fingers sliding along his throat and then up to smooth against his strong jaw. Your thumb drags up his cheek, and then you are leaning down to seal your lips against his.

At first, it’s a simple press of lips, the two of you mapping one another out with careful tugs and gentle pulls of your lips, but it doesn’t take long for it to turn heated. Crocodile has waited years to finally have you, and he would be damned if he didn’t get to taste you properly.

Crocodile tugs you by the hand, sending you forward and into his chest, one of your knees landing in the chair, but it still isn’t close enough for him. He manhandles you into his lap, his arm wrapping around your waist as he drags you flush against his chest. You groan into the kiss, mouth dropping open when his tongue prods forward, hissing when it rubs against the still healing cuts.

You want more, and whine softly in the back of your throat when Crocodile breaks the kiss, leaning back so that he can gaze upon your flushed face and heavy lidded eyes. He smirks and leans back in to peck your lips, making you chase after him.

“As much as I would like to continue,” he rumbles and shifts under you, his cock already hard and aching in his pants just from a simple kiss, “I would much prefer to have you in full health. I do not want to hurt you, my dear.”

You snort and drop your head into the crook of his shoulder, scooting forward so that your knees touched the back of the chair, a pout on your lips, “You could never hurt me, Wani, but okay.”

Crocodile holds you close, dropping to press his lips to the top of your head. They would have plenty of time to explore one another in the coming days. The two of you would just have to wait.

[dragon-kazansky]

Bridgerton shade of blue

Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader

Benedict bumps into you, quite literally, at a ball while trying to escape his mother's attempts to find him a partner. You decide to humour him with a dance, not realising just how entwined you would become with him. It seems the universe will find every excuse to push you and Benedict together, no matter how much you fight it.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Season one

Chapter Fourteen - Scandals in abundance

♡♡♡

When you sat down for breakfast, you expected a peaceful morning between you and your mother. However, the knock at the door was urgent, and quickly did the butler come rushing in with the latest Whistledown column. He handed it to your mother instantly.

You sat there and watched many expressions cross her face, wondering what on earth had been written to have her react in such a frenzy.

Only when she was done reading, and only then were you given the paper to read. You took it from your butler and looked st the first column.

The gasp you let out was louder than you anticipated. Your eyes rose to meet your mother's.

"I must go."

She simply nods and calls for the carriage to be prepared for you. You head upstairs to get yourself ready immediately.

The Bridgertons must be beside themselves.

Marina Thompson is pregnant and has been since she arrived in Mayfair. Poor Colin had no idea. He couldn't possibly have. You were certain of it.

You had no idea that just the night before, he had devised a plan to run away with Marina to marry her in Scotland. Not that he could now, surely.

The carriage ride to the Bridgerton house felt like a long journey, though you were certain that had to be because you were anxious to get there. When the carriage finally did stop, you didn't even wait for the footman. You opened the door, startled the poor man, and hurried out. He watched you rush up to the front door and knock rather urgently.

The butler answered the door and called your name into the house. You entered and found your way into the drawing room. Violet was fanning herself on one of the sofas, Colin was nowhere to be seen. You made your way over to Lady Bridgerton and held up the glass of water that was sitting on the table to her. She took it and sipped it.

Benedict and Eloise were also present in the room, neither of them said a word.

"Did he know?" You had to ask.

Benedict and Eloise both shook their heads at you.

"Where is he?"

"In his room," Eloise answers rather solemnly.

Violet waved her fan a little more quickly. It would appear that one could not be a Bridgerton without coming close to a scandal. Lady Whistledown sees and hears all.

You feel for poor Colin. Apparently, he believed himself in love with the woman. Though Anthony took the blame for that. Colin was still young.

"Eloise, dear, we must get ready for the modiste." Violet closes her fan and stands from beside you.

Eloise groans.

"Now, dear."

You watch in silence as Eloise stands and goes with her mother. Before Violet exits the room, she turns to you. "It was nice of you to come by, my dear."

You smile at her and watch her go. Once she's out of the room, you turn to Benedict. "Tell me everything."

Benedict leans forward and tells you all he knows. From Marina's arrival to the pregnancy, she had kept secret. The man she was under love with and his absence. It had all been in Whistledown. You didn't learn anything particularly new other than that Marina had intended to keep her condition quiet and then tell Colin she was pregnant after they were married.

Portia Featherington knew, of course. It's why she was so keen to marry Marina off.

"Gosh."

"Yes, I know."

"How is Colin?" You ask. "Truly."

"Not great, I admit. He hasn't spoken a word to us since the paper arrived this morning. He has kept much to himself."

"Do you think he will speak to me?"

"I do not know." Benedict says softly. "Do you wish to try?"

You shrug lightly. "No harm in attempting."

Benedict leads the way to Colin's door, and you knock gently on the hard wood. You hear no response, but with one nod from Benedict, you talk.

"Colin? I'm sorry to hear of what happened. I hope you are well."

Nothing.

You sigh. "Know that you may call on me for anything."

You turn and face Benedict. You have no idea what else to say. What does one say in such a situation?

Benedict leads you back to the drawing room.

"I believe there is to be a family meeting. Daphne is coming down too."

"Daphne? Goodness. Word reached her door, too?" You sigh.

"She is family."

"I know. I envy that."

"Envy?" He looks at you curiously. "Envy what?"

"That bond you have with your family." You sit down again, not sure what else to do with yourself.

"You do not have that bond with your mother?" He asks, sitting opposite you.

"Having a bond with your mother is one thing, but you Bridgertons are a family. You have siblings. Anthony, who looks out for all of you, though admittedly, not always in the best of ways. Daphne, who adores you all so dearly she will make such a trip just to be here for her brother. I have no sibling. No father. Just mother. When something happens in my family, we only have each other."

Benedict fights the urge to reach out for your hand.

"I shouldn't complain. I am lucky to have what I do, and I am grateful. I just wish I had siblings to look after and rely on. I hope I have several children one day who can experience that."

Benedict listens to you talk about your hyperthetical future again. Every time you talk about it he feels a strange twinge begin to turn in his chest.

"I'm sure that will be a reality one day."

You smile wistfully.

"I shall be good to see Daphne again. I have missed her. Have you not?" You ask.

"Of course. She is my most sensible sister." He grins.

You laugh. "I have to say the most sensible of the lot."

Benedict laughs, too.

It feels good to laugh.

♡♡♡

Daphne doesn't arrive until the evening. You have long since left the Bridgerton house by then. Benedict had seen you out, and you spent the rest of the day at home.

A family meeting was just that, for family.

You don't see the Bridgerton family for a couple of days. As you understand it, Colin and Marina meet, chaperoned by Daphne, to talk. It wasn't the most cheerful conversations, you hear.

The queen's luncheon was the first time you saw the Bridgerton lot after a few days of absence. Daphne had been the one to reach out to you after securing an invite. You accepted, of course.

You stood in the gardens and awaited their arrival. All eyes were certainly on them upon their entering the garden.

Benedict caught your gaze and offered a small flicker of a smile. You smiled back. He looked relieved to see you. Perhaps all this drama surrounding his family was a bit much over the last few days.

You wanted to approach them, but your mother kept a firm hold on your arm. You sip your drink quietly, eyes drifting away from the family you so wished to greet.

As people approach the Bridgertons and the Bassetts to greet them, Benedict finds himself greeted by Granville.

"I have missed you in the studio of late. You must join me for another drawing lesson," Henry says to Benedict. "As I said, improvement is all a matter of practice."

Benedict glances over in the direction you're standing in. His mind briefly recalls the day he let you see into his sketchbook. Your words rang clear in his head.

"At least, that is the excuse he gives for coming home with paint in all kinds of peculiar places," Mrs Granville says with a chuckle.

Benedict giggles awkwardly and then spots someone just beyond the garden talking to Cressida Cowper of all people.

"Ah! Were you able to meet my friend Wetherby at my party? Come, I shall introduce you."

"No, thank you." Benedict says quickly. "I- I see my mother requires my presence. Good day!" Benedict leaves quickly.

Truth be told, he hadn't visited the studio since you asked him where he went off to on his evenings. He couldn't bring himself to go back.

That, and you complimented his art so wonderfully. He often heard your kind words in his mind as he sketched these days.

He was rather starting to like his work.

The Featheringtons arriving had all eyes on them. No one whispered a word about Colin. However, that did not mean they wouldn't talk about the family that had hosted the girl mentioned in the gossip column. If anything, people defend Colin.

Eloise rescues Penelope from the stares her family are retrieving.

Portia tried to talk to Violet. It was rather awkward to watch. You turned your eyes from them and tried to speak to your mother, but even she was watching with keen eyes.

The Featheringtons are asked to leave once Violet walks away without saying a word.

You watch Penelope follow her family out.

The next to walk off is Daphne, and you know not why. You hadn't even had the chance to talk to her.

Something seemed to be upsetting her too.

Your heart ached to see the people around you suffering. It seems it doesn't simply rain. It pours.

Managing to free yourself from your mother, you stroll along the outer hedges of the party. Benedict manages to intercept you there, smiling softly at you.

"Hello."

"Hello." You repeat softly.

"It's been a bus few days."

"Yes. I imagine."

Benedict stands there and stares at you for a moment. He's not sure what it is he wants to say. That is, if there is anything at all he wants to say. All he knew was that he wanted to see you.

"You look sad," he says.

"Sad? I'm not sad."

"No?"

"No."

Silence falls between you both. He scans your face quietly. You're avosiign his gaze, and he can see the way you lightly pluck at your gloves. Rather pretty gloves, he might add. Did you always wear such pretty gloves, or did you pick these out, especially for this occasion.

Benedict frowns. Why did he care so much about your gloves?

"What is the matter?" He asks softly.

"I can't help seeing the sadness in others around me. Colin. Daphne. Penelope. Your mother."

Benedict remains silent.

"Everyone seems to be hurting in one way or another, and I either do not know why, or do and cannot do a thing. Can I confide in you about something? Without judgement and disdain against me?"

Benedict gives you the slightest nod.

"I hate society."

You see the way his brows raise. Yet you see no judgement in his eyes.

"I hate the way it judges, discriminates, gossips, and picks and chooses. I hate the way it functions." You speak so passionately, from the heart. "Society turns its back on someone the moment they step out of line or even slightly bend the rules. One wrong move or word and its all over."

Benedict is intrigued by your views. So many thoughts must be occupying your mind, and he's only heard a fraction. It's in this moment he realises he doesn't know you. The real you, that is. He just knows a fraction of who you are.

There's a goofy crooked smile on his face.

"What?" You ask, looking at him.

"What?"

"You think I'm silly, don't you?"

"I never said that," he defends himself.

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" He chuckles.

"That!" You say, trying not to raise your voice too much. You weren't fond of the idea of drawing attention to you both.

Benedict merely laughs, and you groan softly. Now you're getting agitated, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't somewhat enjoying that.

"I think you're fascinating."

You state at him blankly. "Huh?"

Benedict chuckles again, and you quickly jab him in the arm without anyone noticing.

"Ow!"

"Shut up," you hiss at him.

"What? What did I say?"

"Nothing! Forget it. You're infuriating me." You sigh.

Benedict tries to hold back his giggles.

At least someone can smile despite the rain clouds over everyone else's heads.

You crack a smile and then giggle. Benedict laughs, too. You both must look so silly giggling in the hedges.

"Oh, Benedict, you do make every miserable thing seem more positive." You smile at him.

"How so?"

"Just by being you."

Benedict swears he could fly from the amount of joy you have just bestowed in him. Never has anyone said anything more heartwarming to him than that.

As you travel home in the carriage with your mother after the luncheon, you cannot stop yourself from smiling. You have been cheerful from the moment you left.

"Whatever has you grinning, dearest?" Your mother asks you as you gaze out the window.

You keep your eyes trained on the passing scenery, your lips ever grinning.

"Nothing, mother. Nothing at all."

♡♡♡

@callmemana - @lilscast - @imgondeletedis - @benedictbridgertonss - @clownsdiehard - @wxnterwidow333

@sillynilly27 - @autumn-slaves - @ben-has-arrived - @ajdelilah - @aadu2173

@booknerdlife - @tamlinrose - @sarahskywalker-amidala - @cheryyluv - @louschan - @lou-la-lou - @cultish-corner

@hopshusushi - @katherinejess - @nannabug - @afunkyfreshblog - @f0x33 - @dd122004dd -

@jupitervenusearthmars - @orchiidflwer - @bespinnn - @captainlunaxmen - @winchestersimpalababy - @acupnoodle

@ms-fandomgirl - @fablesrose - @anyaisinyourcloset - @meowzerzstuff - @orchiidflwer - @bespinnn - @crazymar15

@cosmixstar - @bree3parchen - @berrnuu - @charmainemaclendon - @pinkpantheris - @krismdavis

@biancamde - @ifgslsofbsodbf - @kniselle

[slttygeto]

༉‧₊˚. PLAYLIST

༉‧₊˚. episode 07: off the table

preview: ". . . Now as he stands in your apartment, he realizes that no amount of protection was enough to keep you away from Hanma’s venomous grip. He was intoxicating and once he sinks his fangs into you, there is no way out. The rough love bites were an indication of that. . ."

content warning: smut! dirty talk, hair pulling, fingering, handjobs, pronebone!! (she's a filthy one), mention of abandonment issues.

word count: 5k

➜ ┊: @softshuji @mitsuwuyaa @kariatenoh @reiners-milkbiddies @citrusteaa@bejeweled-night-33

➜ MASTERLIST

➜ note: the google doc file for this fanfic has officially reached 100 pages woohoooo 🥳🩷 im actually very excited because this is where the story picks up and starts to get a little saucyyyy 😋🙌🏻btw, ex boyfriend reveal!! had to include the fan favorite, the fandom's boyfriend: mitsuya takashi himself🙂‍↕️and sorry to disappoint yall, chifuyu is just our friend, he doesn't wanna get in our pants. anywayyy can't wait for the next chapter hehe🥰

༉‧₊˚. reblog + comment!

“Chifuyu,” you sound out of breath. Hair disheveled and such choice of clothing confirms to the man that you hadn’t intended for anyone to visit you this time of the night. You stare back at the man, hair now dyed jet black and sporting a very fancy suit, and it dawns on you how long you haven’t seen him. 

An entire decade.

Chifuyu didn’t intend for the two of you to separate this way, but clearly he had no choice but to keep you away from Toman’s nasty business (something Hanma failed to do). When he first heard that you were going to move away for your studies, he was sad and the two of you cried as you hugged at the train station with your boyfriend by your side. He remembers the man you used to date and feels his heart sink. 

“Can we talk?” 

What’s up with men from your past showing up at your door? Not that you mind Chifuyu’s presence, a part of you was still mad that he had lied for all these years about his whereabouts. He doesn’t have to tell you for you to figure it out, the way he fiddles with his thumbs and avoids your eyes as you lead him inside says it all.

“So?”

“What are you doing?” Chifuyu jumps straight to the point, and you’re a bit taken aback by how alarmed he sounds. “With Hanma what are you– this isn’t right, you know that?”

“Oh I’m sorry, did you come here to lecture me? It’s been 10 years, Chifuyu!” you cross your arms over your chest, heat rising to your face. “You lied about where you were and you lied about being with Toman–”

“For a good cause!” Chifuyu’s volume rises and you scoff. “You had to stay away from Toman’s business.”

“Why does everyone think it’s okay for them to decide how I get to live my life?” you question bitterly and Chifuyu’s lips are sealed shut. “I mean really–first Ran and Rindou, then Hanma comes back and he’s acting all mysterious and now you?”

“You can get hurt.”

“I don’t care.” You spit out venomously. “You have no idea how isolating it feels to watch everyone around you distance themselves from you thinking it will protect you. All it did was make me scared to try to make friends.”

Truth be told, it wasn’t just Chifuyu or your brothers or even Hanma that you were mad about. Not their absence, or their lies or their futile attempts to shelter you from a familiar life of crime and violence –you were bitter about where you had ended up, what you could’ve had with your previous lover that went so badly even you couldn’t recover from it. 

When you moved away for your studies, your relationship with your brothers had already been strained, broken even. They had betrayed your trust in irreconcilable ways, so you turned to the one person you loved so much. You loved and cherished him, you were ready to offer up your heart to him as he whispered promises of a happy family in the near future, with a big house and a pretty garden where you'd water the plants and harvest some vegetables. Then he’d come home and he would show you the latest piece of clothing he had designed for you. You’d wear it happily and show it off to him as he gave you a look mixed with adoration and lust. He promised that he would fill your tummy to the brim, that he would fuck a baby into you as many times as you wanted. It was a shared dream of yours.

Perhaps it was too good to be true. 

That man switched up on you overnight–because of a project that had been consuming him for a month straight, he wasn’t able to spend time with you anymore. Becoming a fashion designer was everything to Mitsuya Takashi. Unfortunately, he wasn’t going to let anything hold him back even if it was a partner. 

You had been in a long, six year relationship when Mitsuya started to put more distance between the two of you, prioritizing his projects over date nights and coming home very late at night after events and gatherings. And every time you tried to talk to him about it–about your relationship–you were met with nothing but a look of exhaustion and disdain. The warmth he once had for you was gone and was soon replaced by a cold, distant look. His touch no longer lingered against your skin during the early hours of the morning, sex had become a chore to the same man who would spend hours making love to you under the moonlight. 

That’s when you realized that perhaps, it was time to part ways. 

It wasn’t easy at all–you cried in his arms and he apologized for not being able to keep his promise of the perfect family the two of you were once eager to have. And before the two of you could part ways, you watched as the man reached for his neck to unclasp the jewelry wrapped around it. Stepping behind you, he wrapped the necklace around your neck and the two of you shared one last warm look, filled with the love you will always have for one another.

“Keep this. Maybe we’ll meet again one day.” 

One day turned into six years of not seeing the lavender haired man. Six years of praying and hoping for something, anything. To no avail. You hadn’t even heard of him on the news, nor were you able to find any of his works anywhere and it broke your heart at the thought of him moving out of the country completely. To think that he needed to change his entourage in order to see some growth–you hope that you weren’t the type of girlfriend to try to grab his wings and pin him to the ground. 

Chifuyu had been watching you this whole time. He had been watching your every move, ensuring your safety without having to approach you or so much as get out of his car. He knew of your breakup with Mitsuya, and all he could think of was the last conversation you had with him before moving away for your studies.

“I can’t wait to marry him,” there was a slight blush to your cheeks. Mitsuya had really been the boyfriend to you and Chifuyu could feel the love pouring out of you. “He’ll be such a good dad.” 

To say that you were broken after the relationship had ended was an understatement. You didn’t go to work for a week. 

But Chifuyu couldn’t approach you still–and all he could do was watch and pray that you take care of yourself and find a way to lift yourself back up.

So it’s safe to say that when Chifuyu heard that Hanma found you, he was enraged. Toman was used to Chifuyu’s calm and collected demeanor–a false facade he had learned to put up in order to get on Kisaki’s good side which helped him a lot. As he approached the man’s office, he could hear a second man’s voice and quickly recognized it to be Hanma’s.

“So what is this about?” Chifuyu doesn’t care that he is interrupting something as he knocks. He waits for Kisaki to tell him to come in and pushes the door open. Hanma’s back is facing him as he sits on the chair and Chifuyu stands near the door with his hands behind his back.

“Kokonoi said that the report concerning his IT business is taking too long due to a bug in the system.” The dark haired man speaks in a monotone voice, his body unmoving. He’s clearly not happy to be here, but he has to do it for his job.

Chifuyu can’t see what’s happening from his position, but he notices that Hanma places a picture on Kisaki’s desk before leaning back in his chair. 

“You found her?” 

Her. It could be so many people–this girl Kisaki had been stalking, or maybe one of the strippers that had escaped Hanma’s club due to the poor treatment by nasty and rude customers. Nothing could’ve prepared him for the bomb that was about to drop.

“She’s back in Shinjuku.”

“(Name). What was her last name again?” Kisaki brings your picture closer to his face, inspecting and analyzing every feature on your face, down to the way you got dressed. 

“Used to be Haitani. Changed it after her brothers got involved in some weird, shady business.” 

Chifuyu’s body tenses up when the two men mention your name. He’s managed to keep you away from this mess for years now, yet his plan was coming crashing down from a single interaction with Hanma Shuji. The dark haired man was terrified that Hanma was after you just for fun, that his attempts at protecting you would fail now that the tall, tattooed man was back in your life. 

“And? What do you wanna do now?” Kisaki puts the picture away and starts to rummage through papers in his drawers, he doesn’t lift his gaze as he continues. “Do you want the men to take her away or?”

No no no–Chifuyu can’t let that happen. He can’t and won’t let anyone hurt you. His fists clench on his sides, body tensing up. Then he notices. Hanma had gone eerily silent instead of doing his usual, insane laugh. 

Kisaki seems to realize the same thing. Sensing the tall man’s silence, Tetta raises his eyes and notices the deadly look on Hanma’s face. Had it not been Kisaki, a man who’s known him for years and was desensitized to his glares, he would’ve most likely fallen from his chair. His eyes were devoid of any playfulness, and Tetta doesn’t miss the way his jaw clenches. 

“No. I don’t want any of them near her.”

Chifuyu still wasn’t able to trust him. It had never been easy to do so, a man as dangerous as Hanma was as unpredictable as a wild card in the deck. Had his intentions been clear, Matsuno wouldn’t feel the need to watch your every move even closer since that day. 

Now as he stands in your apartment, he realizes that no amount of protection was enough to keep you away from Hanma’s venomous grip. He was intoxicating and once he sinks his fangs into you, there is no way out. The rough love bites were an indication of that. 

Flustered and perhaps feeling as though he was being creepy, he looks away from your neck and watches as you cover yourself more with your robe. You noticed. 

“It was to protect you.” Chifuyu’s voice is soft like butter. He doesn’t have it in him to argue with you, he doesn’t want to argue with you he just– 

He misses you so much and it was driving him crazy that he held himself back for all these years, and all it took for Hanma was to see you once at a metro station and he was back in your life. It just wasn’t fair. 

Losing Baji had taken a toll on Chifuyu’s mental and physical well being. You were worried about the boy and you voiced it out many times to Mitsuya when the two of you went out to get him a couple of snacks as well as some food for his cat. 

It was that worry that made the two of you as close as ever even if your friendship was very short lived before you packed your things and moved away. Luckily enough, Takemichi was in the picture and you had nothing to worry about this time. 

Still, it doesn’t change the fact that everything Chifuyu has done was to protect you. Even if it meant hurting himself in the process. 

“It’s dangerous, Toman.” He speaks lowly as he takes a seat on your couch. “It’s not like how it used to be.”

“I know.” you admit, voice as small as ever. Chifuyu doesn’t want to know how you found out, but he quickly realizes it has something to do with Hanma and sighs deeply. 

“Did you ever think it would get this bad?” you ask, taking a seat next to the man who can only sigh and run a hand through his hair. 

“I…would like to say no, but things have changed a lot. Mikey is different, people are different–money made them…disgusting.” You remember your first encounter with Hanma. The fancy clothes, expensive shoes and watches didn’t draw a smile on his face. He looked bored out of his mind, like he wanted something to happen in his life and the expression on his face when he realized that he had finally found you after so many years of not seeing you, felt like the first time that man had used his face muscles to smile. 

So yeah, Toman was different. 

The two of you sit in silence. It’s a comfortable one this time, like a silence between songs–you get to sit and process what you had just listened to and your brain is trying to make sense of everything all at once. But it doesn’t pain you, nor does it leave a heavy feeling behind. You sit there next to your friend from your teenage years and you don’t feel the need to pretend to be anything else. You can be yourself around Chifuyu, even after so many years.

“So,” Chifuyu is the first to break the silence, turning his head as he rests it on the couch. He stares at you with those eyes that mirror a winter sky. “Hanma Shuji, huh?”

Despite his disappointment and perhaps even anger, the man doesn’t miss an opportunity to tease you. You flush at the tone of his voice and look away, completely flustered.

“We don’t have to talk about anything.”

“Is he really that good?” he continues to tease you, narrowing his eyes at you when your jaw drops and you can’t hide that your face was in flames.

“Can we not! Yes, he’s good and we’re two adults having fun.”

“Yeah,” his eyes shift to the love bites on your skin and the state of your disheveled hair. “You’re having a lot of fun.

“Please shut up.” you sigh deeply as you sink on the couch. “He’s actually a pain in the ass.”

“I’m sure he’s a pain in your ass–”

“Seriously!” you cover your face. “...I don’t care. As long as I get some action, I guess.” 

“Now that I’m thinking about it, he’s been less annoying lately,” Chifuyu admits. “Don’t get me wrong, he gets on everyone’s nerves–.” typical Hanma. “--but he’s been different lately.”

“Different?”

You can’t deny that this has piqued your curiosity. What Hanma was to you wasn’t the same to everyone else–you’ve known the man as a teenager and meeting him again as an adult, you realize you may have missed the most formative years of his life—the years that shaped him through struggles and hardships, leaving him the monotone, robotic, and emotionless man he is today. 

Toman knew an entirely different version, so a small shift in his behavior is easily noticeable. 

Chifuyu recalls an incident that happened three nights ago that really solidified to him that there might be something going on with the tall man. Hanma had walked inside the Toman headquarters all wet and disheveled. Not the kind that would leave you wondering if the criminal had sex. It had been pouring outside for hours on no end, and Chifuyu narrows his eyes when he sees Shuji’s wet clothes–however, he doesn’t seem annoyed. He calmly walks towards the front desk where he asks the receptionist (and his personal assistant when he is having a good day) where his bag of spare clothes was. The assistant, clearly taken aback, leads him towards a giant closet and hands him his bag. 

“Thanks.” The tattooed man mutters to the assistant who stands there frozen and shocked. 

Did Hanma just… thank him? 

Even Chifuyu couldn’t believe his own eyes and ears. 

“Yeah. A good type of different.” The dark haired male’s hand reaches up to ruffle your hair, a habit he couldn’t get rid of (not that you minded) then pushes himself off the couch.

“Well…I’m glad it didn’t go that bad.” 

“It could’ve, had I not missed you so much.” You say in a small voice and Chifuyu’s heart breaks a little. 

“Sorry…” 

“Oh it’s fine, I’m used to people leaving.” You try to lighten up the mood, but Chifuyu can tell that this wasn’t a joke to you. The thought of people leaving you was terrifying, but you always managed to find a way to brush it off as nothing but an overreaction. 

“I won’t lea–”

“Don’t.” A hand rests on Chifuyu’s shoulder, and all he can do is stare at you. He feels the small tremble in your hand, and he can read your mind. He knows what you mean. 

You don’t want empty promises.

“Okay.” He whispers in return, resting his hand on top of yours. “I got it.” 

—

Just how busy can a criminal’s life be in a city like Tokyo? Well, it depends. If you were to ask Chifuyu, he would tell you that it was very busy–hopping from one meeting to another, helping manage businesses and attending opening nights and events. Kisaki would say the same, although with the help of his assistant, it feels less hectic and suffocating. And the same goes for every man in Toman. 

Everyone but a certain tall man. 

Hanma’s specialty was torture. His skill relies on methodically, agonizingly breaking a person’s mind and body until they were reduced to an empty shell. He took pride in the way he unraveled them, a twisted thrill evident in his blown-out pupils—enjoying the process far more than any normal person ever would. So missions were a fun part of Shuji’s job. 

Until they aren’t, and he has to request for Kisaki to push them back a day or two.

“What?” Kisaki’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean you can’t do it today?”

“Exactly what it means.” Hanma says in a breathy voice, and Kisaki sighs at the end of the line. 

“Do I even have to ask why?”

When the tall man laughs, Kisaki’s face twists with disgust. He recognizes that laugh, it was an indicator that Hanma had simply found something far more entertaining than his missions–which was rare to say the least. But he continues to laugh, before heaving out a long, content sigh. 

“Oh man,” a tattooed hand brushes the skin of your exposed back, a small meek noise escapes your swollen lips at the touch. “Not sure if I can answer that.” The same tattooed hand then fists your hair and he pulls harshly until your neck is craned at an uncomfortable angle. You try to shoot him a glare, but he pushes his cock deeper and you find yourself biting down on your bottom lip to suppress your noises. 

“Bye.” You hear Kisaki hanging up on the other line and look over your shoulder. 

“You’re insufferable!” Shuji is amused by the glare you send him, tugging at your hair so that your back is now pressed against his chest. 

“I get that often.” You hear the grin in his voice, lips pressed against your ear as he whispers hotly into it. After a beat of silence, Hanma’s hips slam against your ass and your jaw falls open. 

“F-Fuck!” you cry out. Shuji’s free hand then goes around your body to grope your boobs, slapping them as he continues to fuck into you hard. Desperately, you dig your nails into his forearm for support and gasp when the hand travels down to your clit. 

Your head now rests fully against his shoulder, body twitching and trembling as he continues to thrust into you while rubbing the sensitive bud. 

Hanma loved seeing you like this. Not your usual, bratty self who refused to even glance his way–turning you into putty on his cock was something he took pride in, and he couldn’t deny that the more the two of you fucked, the more addicted he became. 

A week into your agreement with him, and you had been bent over every surface of your apartment.

First was your couch. Hanma insisted that he wanted to replace the memory of him getting cockblocked by your cat with a nice one. You forgot that the man’s sheer strength was enough to send you reeling, and he wasn’t able to control himself as he snapped his hips against your ass cheeks until the couch had moved spots.

“S-Slow down–!” you tried to beg, powerless as he held your wrists behind your back and pushed your face into the cushion of the couch. Your pussy was squeezing him too tightly for him to think of anything but letting you milk him dry.

“Can’t do t-that doll.” hearing the small stutter in his voice has your stomach fluttering. His fingers dig into your skull as he pushes your face deeper into the couch, muffling any of your noises as he thrusts harder and deeper into you. 

Your kitchen counter was next.

The small, crowded space of your kitchen was Hanma’s least favorite spot in your apartment. You shoot him yet another one of your signature glares as he voices his displeasure, and watch as amusement paints his features.

“Small ass kitchen you got here.”

“Not your first time being here.” You try to focus on the food you’re stirring in the pot, and not Hanma’s body towering over yours from behind. 

“Anybody fucked ya here before?” His hands grip your waist, pinning you in place and the hand that’s not busy stirring the food grips his forearm. 

“Yes Hanma. I am not a virgin.” But given the redness of your face, you might as well be one.

“Oh really? Who was it?”

“You don’t have to know!” 

“I gotta know if he was good. Did he make you cum?” You gasp when his hand slides inside your pants, fingers grazing the tuft of pubic hair covered by your panties. 

“I-I’m cooking–”

“Did he use his fingers like this?” You feel pathetic as your hand drops the wooden spoon to grip the kitchen counter, body bending forward when the rough pads of his fingers find your clit and start to rub it in circles. He moves further down, collecting some of your arousal before smearing it all over your sensitive bud. 

“Stop talking.” You say through gritted teeth, but your hard exterior soon melts away when he pushes his middle and ring finger into your pussy. He doesn’t start slow, nor does he give you time to get used to the sheer size of him as he starts pistoning his fingers into you. Groaning at the feeling of your snug walls gripping his fingers, he buries his face in your neck and pushes you closer to him. You’re reeling at the pleasure, unable to muffle your noises and you would’ve melted to the ground had his arm not been wrapped so tightly around your middle. 

As payback, you give him a handjob on your couch. 

It’s not that often where you don’t stare at your sexual partners while pleasuring them, but eye contact with Hanma was intense. It felt too…nerve racking for the two of you. So you sit next to him, blanket draped over your laps as your spit covered hand grips his cock. You move it up and down, stroking in the same motion that has the man’s head thrown over the back of the couch and his jaw going slack. From the corner of your eye, you see his reddened cheeks and his furrowed eyebrows and squeeze your own thighs. You ignore the flutter in your stomach, thumbing at his tip and removing the blanket when he starts to buck up his hips, fucking into your hand. 

And since you don’t want to make a mess, you wrap your lips around his dick and let him cum down your throat. 

“Holy shit,” he says, out of breath. You still refuse to stare at him as you wipe your mouth and grab the remote control to press play again. 

Friends with benefits. That’s what the two of you are. 

So you don’t expect special treatment as he batters your cunt with his mean cock, nor do you wait for him to caress your body and whisper sweet nothings into your ear after slapping your boobs so painfully. You like that. You like how mean he is and it’s fucking with your head.

The louder you get, the easier it is for Hanma to fuck into you–arousal is dripping down your thighs, and the sound of skin slapping bounced off the walls of your bedroom. You can’t hide how horny you were, or just how good he was making you feel. All you can do in response to his hypnotizing thrusts is grip his skin and leave your own marks. A way to show that he was yours for the night, even if he were to leave after this and go fuck someone else. 

“I-I’m cumming,” you gasp, sounding desperate and clearly not in control of your own volume and voice. Your brain feels fuzzy from all the pleasure, Hanma lets go of your hair and pushes you down until you are on all fours. You’re bent over so perfectly for him that a quiet curse escapes his lips. “S-Shuji, I’m cumming–” not Hanma, not asshole. Shuji. 

You’re not sure what kind of noises you’re making, but it sounds so pathetic and whiny that it sends the tall man behind you over the edge. However, you make the mistake of looking over your shoulder and the sight that greets you makes your stomach flip. 

A sweaty, red faced Hanma is fucking you so eagerly, hypnotized by the recoil of your ass that he forgets to close his mouth. Fucked out is the best way to describe him. A man who is usually either so amused by others’ discomfort and pain, wearing such a pornographic expression makes you grip the bed sheets and moan loudly as you cum all over his cock. 

He lets you ride out your orgasm, gripping your ass cheek and kneading the skin before delivering a harsh smack to it as he picks up his pace until he is emptying himself inside your warm walls. Leaning over, he presses his lips against the skin of your shoulders before asking. 

“You...You aren’t fucking anyone else, right?” 

“You’re asking that now?” After fucking me and cumming inside me so much? 

Obviously you’re not fucking anyone else!

“Just answer.” He demands with a slap to your clit that has you squealing, trapped under the weight of his body.

“N-No!” 

“Good.” His chin rests comfortably on your shoulder, and he places both hands on either side of your bodies as he presses his body weight against yours. “Good fucking girl.”

Not sure what he would’ve done had you said yes. 

“What?” You’re in a haze, but you still manage to catch bits of what he says and Hanma chuckles to himself.

“Don’t worry.”

“No, you said someth–ah!” your jaw goes slack when he starts to fuck you into the mattress. This position allows him to trap you beneath him with so much ease, until you have no choice but to take his cock and blabber nonsense into the pillow.

“Focus baby girl,” his teeth nip at your earlobe as he sinks his cock again into your cunt “I’m not done with ya.” 

Guilt is a weak emotion. Fear, anger and even jealousy are much stronger and can affect someone greatly. If consumed by any of the aforementioned, you’ll find out that sleep doesn’t come to you easily. 

Insomnia has followed Hanma Shuji his entire life. There hasn’t been a day where he slept through the night without being woken up in cold sweat and a loud gasp, or without feeling the need to reach for the nearest weapon to him. But as he lays next to you at 3 O’clock in the morning, he starts to question what triggers his insomnia. He’s never felt guilty after a mission, anger only consumed him if someone betrayed him–that leaves out jealousy. 

His golden eyes land on your worn out, sleeping figure. He chuckles as he notices your furrowed eyebrows, and his hand starts to move towards your face before freezing. What is he doing? He pulls his hand away, eyes drifting towards your exposed chest before pulling up the covers. He sees the pendant of the necklace resting comfortably around your neck and suddenly feels the need to fix it. Before his hand can reach for the jewelry, your fingers grip it protectively and you pull the covers tightly around your body. 

Hah. What’s that about? 

“No,” his ears perk up when he hears your sleepy voice mumble into your pillow. “..not..go.”

Not go? 

You were obviously talking in your sleep. It wasn’t supposed to make sense. 

“Don’t..go.” Sleepiness is replaced with distress. “..kashi.” 

Hanma scoffs. Honestly, that’s all he can do in such a situation. After fucking you into a deep slumber, you still manage to mumble another man’s name in your sleep. Which was completely fucking fine of course, you weren’t his and he wasn’t yours. 

Friends with benefits. That’s what the two of you agreed on.

༉‧₊˚. interested in commissioning me? if not, leave a ko-fi!

2024 © all works belong to @slttygeto. do not repost, translate or steal any of my works.

[bahablastplz]

All in | Chapter 15

pairing: Lee Felix x f!reader (mafia au)

summary: You didn't know what you were getting yourself into when you started dating Yang Jungwon, notorious mafia boss. Your life gets flipped upside down when you're found beaten and bloody by SKZ, the rival mafia group, and you're quickly integrated into their lives. What will happen when you try to leave your old life behind and start anew?

chapter summary: Chan has thought up a punishment for you that doesn't really help your mental state; someone thinks of a plan to help.

chapter warnings: smut! unprotected sex

warnings: please see series masterlist for all warnings.

series masterlist ~~ series taglist ~~ main masterlist

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Beep, beep, beep, beep. Click! 

That’s the sound you get accustomed to a few times throughout the day. It’s Chan, unlocking the door to let himself in. Every time he brings in a tray of food for the two of you to eat, and most of the time you pick at it but you can’t find too much of an appetite. 

The first few times, you don’t talk to Chan at all. You’re completely silent, looking out at the forest through the barred window. Occasionally you would watch his mannerisms or react when he moves something a little bit too loud. Other than that, you make it a point not to speak at all. That’s how it started, at least. 

Each time a few hours pass in total isolation, you slowly become more and more stir crazy. Mostly, you look out the window. Sometimes, you do situps and pushups or practice the self-defense exercises that Changbin and Felix had taught you until exhaustion. You take a few naps. You take a shower. You finish the latest book that Hyunjin let you borrow. Chan visits you for dinner. You do not speak with him, eat your meal in silence, and watch as he leaves. You go to sleep for the night with an empty, hollow and rotting sensation in your chest that you have never experienced before. It might be anger directed towards Chan, but also an empty feeling knowing that you are unable to see Felix, who is in the same house as you. You wonder if he feels the same as you right now. 

Beep, beep, beep, beep. Click! 

You wake up to the sound of Chan unlocking your door in the morning with breakfast. You break your silent treatment, finally, though probably more out of boredom than anything else. You only respond to his small talk, tell him that the food is alright. 

The longer increments of time that would pass, the more anger you would find bubbling in your chest. 

“Do you really expect to keep me locked here forever?” you snap at one point. You have just finished rereading The Stranger by Albert Camus for the third time. “You know that’s how people start to lose their minds? Is that what this is? A torture device? Or is it still a sick, twisted ploy to get me to fall in love with you?” you walk around the room, pacing. Your hands are strung through your hair haphazardly as you let out a laugh. “Some sort of Stockholm syndrome to the extreme? You already fucking tried that, Chan! I’m stuck in this house with you, I can’t leave, and it didn’t work. What is your plan here?”

He blinks at you, sitting on your bed and crossing his arms across his chest. “I don’t know.” 

“You… you don’t know?” 

He chuckles and you feel your blood begin to boil. “Well, I mean, I don’t know how long I plan to keep you here. At least until the Heeseung drama boils down. Until I feel confident that Felix is just as broken down about this as you are? I mean, it’s the point of a punishment, yeah?” He runs his fingers through his hair and lets out a sigh. “Obviously I know you aren’t going to fall in love with me right now, not like this, yeah? But the thought of you and Felix, it’s so wrong, y’know? So I gotta nip it in the bud.” 

You blink away a tear but wipe it away quicker than he can see. You won’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see you cry. 

“I hate you,” you spit. When Chan stands, he closes the distance between the two of you. He swipes a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“You might want to watch your mouth for now, especially when you’re the one who’s not in control,” he coos. “If you want to start getting your privileges back, you might want to consider upping the sweet talk.” He leaves as a chill racks through your body and the door slams shut, lock clicking into place behind him. 

You’re not quite sure about *sweet talking*, per say, but you suppose you could calm it down with Chan for now in order to get things back to the way they were. It’s really hard, with the way your anger bubbles every time he enters the room, every additional hour that passes. You start to feel delirious, depressed with nothing much to do, sleeping far too much and eating far too little. 

The flowers start to wilt. 

The flowers that Chan had given you for your date. You don’t even know how long ago that was at this point, feeling a bit too disoriented. You watch over days as the petals start to turn brown, curling up into themselves and falling to the floor. It’s only once every flower has finally turned to black that you convince Chan to let you leave your room. 

It’s only to Hyunjin’s room that he lets you go at first. He supervises your visit. You sit on the corner of Hyunjin’s bed and you sit and talk, nodding politely when he speaks. He updates you on Seungmin’s condition, shows you his newest painting (which is stunning beyond belief), and talks about his latest venture to the bookstore. It’s more than he’s ever talked to you at once, and you’re sure he’s doing it because he knows the effects that the isolation has had on your head, but you appreciate it more than he could ever imagine. 

Chan checks his wrist watch, clearing his throat. He tells you it’s almost time for you to go and you can’t help the panicked feeling that bubbles in your chest. You know that Hyunjin notices it too, the frantic look in your eye as you look to him for help, but there’s nothing he can do about it. You wonder if he and Chan got into a disagreement about it, if anybody besides Felix had the gall to stand up to him about your circumstance but it’s unlikely. 

As Chan guides you out, Hyunjin remembers something, handing you a new book as if it were an afterthought. A brand new copy of Wuthering Heights is placed into your hands. 

“I think you’ll really like this one,” Hyunjin muses. “I hope we get a chance to talk about it soon. I purchased this at that bookstore I was telling you about. Let me take you there one day, okay?” 

You smile at him. A true, genuine, smile before Chan takes you back to your room for dinner. Feeling a little more hopeful, you eat more than usual and talk to him more than yesterday. You think he’s expecting you to thank him. You don’t. He wishes you a good evening before he locks you in your room for the evening. 

Something about Hyunjin’s words had struck you as odd. “I hope we get to talk about it soon.” Since you moved in and Hyunjin had started giving you new books to read, although he was always very sure of himself in his choices, you had never really talked about your choices. Even today during your conversation you didn’t talk about Albert Camus’ The Stranger, which you had read a whopping four times since your isolation.

This is why you’re not as surprised when you open the book and you find a note, wedged neatly between page eight and page nine. It’s not Hyunjin’s handwriting, but Felix’s. You can’t help it when your heart picks up and beats against your chest, a smile against your face despite yourself. 

‘Dear Sunshine,

I am so sorry for everything. Each day that I have not been able to see you and that I have known that you have been behind those doors has been Hell for me, as I’m sure they’ve been Hell for you as well. Let me take you far, far, away from this place if you would let me.

If you will take me, if you want this as much as I do, let us leave tonight. Leave your bathroom light on tonight and I will know that it will be okay for us to make our escape. 

Love, LF.’ 

Are you really reading this correctly? 

It was the first night here that Chan took off his belt and whipped you with it just for leaving when he told you not to leave. What would the punishment be if you and Felix were caught? You knew the answer, and you found yourself grimacing as you thought about it. If Chan found out that you and Felix had escaped—and you had a very, very short window of time before he came looking for you, until breakfast tomorrow—he would surely kill the two of you in cold blood.

Felix, was he really to risk it all for you? No questions asked? You knew you were. 

Turning off all lights in your room, leaving just your bathroom light on for the signal and to light up your path, you get ready. You throw on some clothes, a pair of thick socks and a pair of sneakers, athletic pants and a t-shirt underneath a hoodie. You try to dress both light-weight but also warm, easy for mobility in case you have to do some running. And you take a quick nap, since it’s still light out and you’re sure that the plan won’t take place until after nightfall and you should probably be well-rested. 

You’re right. You wake up a few hours later and it’s dark outside. Felix still hasn’t shown yet. You sit right by your door and wait for him. You wait and wait and wait, your heart beating so heavily out of your chest it might explode. You literally have to calm yourself down with breathing exercises several times because you find yourself so worked up. You can’t help it–you’re so nervous about seeing him again, and about the escape, about his plans, though you’re sure he has something planned out. 

After some time has passed, you almost wonder if maybe he isn’t going to show, but you laugh at that thought. It’s Felix. Of course he’s going to show. You have never met someone more true to his word and dedicated. You just hope that everything is going according to plan. And sure enough?

Beep, beep, beep, beep. Click! 

Light from the hallway spills into your room, encasing the darkness that surrounded you. When you jump to your feet, Felix pulls you in for a very chaste kiss. His name spills silently from your lips and you see him smile before grabbing your hand, pulling you into a silent run down the hallway. You can already tell that there is going to be a long night ahead of you, though you’re relieved when Felix leads you to a mundane car, a dark mini-van, and you can’t help but think thank god we aren’t literally running away. 

You hurriedly get into the passenger seat, Felix the driver’s seat, and the two of you drive away. You watch as the house gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror behind you until it completely disappears, and most of your anxiety along with it. 

“You came for me.” you say finally. 

“Of course I did,” Felix says, his voice soft. “I just had to work out the logistics. I’m so so incredibly sorry it took me that long. I hope you can forgive me.” 

“It’s really happening?” you ask him. “We’re really leaving?” 

Felix only smiles. “I did everything I could. I was even able to get your sister out of your house, I sent her somewhere safe where Chan can’t find her to retaliate.”

“Thank you, Felix,” you say, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Really, really, thank you.” 

He reaches over the center console and grabs your hand, bringing it to his face to kiss along your knuckles. 

“You have no need to thank me. This is my escape too. In reality, I owe you just as much.” Your heart squeezes at his words. You don’t really understand the weight behind his words but you hope that he will open up to you about them one day. About his past and his history with Chan. You stare at Felix, at the way the passing headlights illuminate his face and accentuate his features, and you just sit there and watch and watch, drinking him in and hoping that you will never have to let him go again. 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You’re expecting to arrive at some sort of hotel/motel, similar to the one you and Felix had shared after the night at the gala. What you weren’t expecting was an apartment building, at least ten stories tall in the middle of a city a few hours away. 

Felix parks the car, a protective hand around your waist the whole walk to the building. He holds you so close you find it almost difficult to walk. The elevator takes you up to the eighth floor, where Felix leads you down the hall. The building looks well-kept, maintained inside, contrasting from its run-down exterior. 

Felix leans over the door, typing a code into the keypad. It swings open revealing a large furnished studio apartment. 

“This place looks really nice,” you admit. “It is a step-up from the motel. How did you…” 

“Chan isn’t the only one that has his connections,” Felix says, sighing as he throws a backpack down next to him. He closed the door behind him, locking it. He walks around the apartment several times, making sure that every window is locked and secure as well. “It’s safe here. We should be able to stay here for a few days before we need to pick up again. But this place is completely alarmed and equipped with security codes. He won’t find us here, okay?” 

“Okay,” you nod. You really do trust him. You feel safe. 

“The password for the front door is 0325,” Felix tells you. You don’t know why that action alone makes you want to tear up. You’re not a prisoner anymore. You’re really free. 

“Thank you,” you tell him, shucking your hoodie off of your body. You don’t miss the way his eyes rack over your frame at the way your shirt picks up slightly. How does he still manage to make you blush? “How did you get the code for my door?” you ask him. You had been wondering about it for a while, as there was no way that Chan had given it to him. 

“Hyunjin told me,” Felix discloses. “He was the only other person besides Chan that knew the code, in case of an emergency or if Chan was away and he needed to give you food.” 

“He was the only one?” you ask. “But that means… Won’t Chan know that Hyunjin…” 

“Hyunjin has already come to terms with things,” Felix says remorsefully. “I didn’t want it to go down like this either, but Hyunjin really was willing to make a sacrifice for you. For both of us. Nothing horrible is going to happen–he isn’t going to be killed, but I’m sure the punishment will be brutal.” 

You shake your head, unwilling to believe his words. “I can’t believe Hyunjin would do that for us. I really thought he was loyal to Chan.” 

“At the end of the day there must have been something he found more important to put his trust in,” he smiles. “I think he realized how bad your mental state was after spending over a week in that room.” 

“It was over a week?” you nearly cry. Felix holds you tight to his chest. You don’t cry–you’ve already come to terms with what has happened. When you pull apart, you look into his eyes and find that he has tears of his own that have started to build up. Now that is something that you had not anticipated. 

“I’m sorry–” he starts to say, but you crash your lips into his instead. Your hands pull into his hair and you push your body into his, do anything you can to get your body as inhumanly close to his as possible, so that you can feel every touch of his skin against yours. 

Felix’s hands wander underneath your hoodie, tugging off the material and throwing it to the floor in a desperate show. His hands roam your body, his lips never once leaving your skin. This time he makes it a show to suck a mark into any available surface, licking and sucking dark purples and pinks into your neck, collarbones, shoulders, breasts–any area of skin that was once pristine now has Felix’s claim on it. 

“You’re mine, do you understand? You’re mine and I’m yours.” 

“Yes, Felix, yes,” you agree, letting him push you back against the bed. He towers over you for a second, dropping to his knees onto the floor so that he can pull off the material of your pants. You lift your hips, allowing him to. You push your thighs together, utterly exposed in front of him but also so aroused by his stare and he grabs your thighs, pushing them apart. 

“Beautiful,” he comments. You throw an arm over your face, embarrassed by his comment. “Don’t hide from me, angel,” he says, kissing the insides of your thighs. “You’re mine, right? Can I compliment what’s mine? You’re not going to hide away what’s mine, hmm?” When you don’t immediately answer him, your chest rising and falling rapidly from his words, you feel a slight pinch come from inside your thigh. You look down at his mischievous face to realize he has just lightly slapped your inner thigh to get a response. 

“N-no, Felix,” you moan. 

“No, what?” he teases, his mouth going higher and higher still, his breath right above your center but waiting. 

“No, I’m not going to hide from you. Yes, you can compliment me,” you reply.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” he groans. “Prove it, then. Open those legs wide for me.” And you do. You spread your legs as far as they would go and Felix rewards you by immediately diving in, his tongue lapping at your clit like a man starved. As much as your thighs tremble and shake and threaten to close, you don’t let them. Your eyes stay on Felix, and his eyes on yours. 

Suddenly, Felix pulls away with a pop. 

“What–”

He climbs onto the bed and lays down, leaving you utterly confused before he grabs you by the waist, manhandling you effortlessly by the waist onto his face. 

“Felix, what are you doing?” 

“I want you to sit on my face,” he responds, his hands caressing your thighs as if trying to coax you down to properly take your seat. 

“Are you sure? I–”

“Please, just, use me. Make yourself cum, and then I’ll fuck you open on my cock.” You can’t deny how appealing his words sound, and he had already worked you up just seconds ago so you can’t find the resolve to protest much longer. Eagerly, you sit. His tongue prods your entrance, pushing in as far as it will go. You rock yourself back and forth on his face, your clit occasionally catching on his nose, and you find Felix’s hands taking place on your ass to help you find your pace. 

Once you build up a rhythm you ride him in earnest, like nothing matters but him beneath you right now and your climax building up. He knows you’re close when he feels your thighs clench tighter around your head and your back starts to arch back, and your noises have become louder. You do exactly what he told you to do–you use him for your pleasure until you’re having one of the longest, most drawn-out orgasms of your life. 

When you finally crawl off of him, Felix wastes no time before flipping your positions, making your stomach turn with butterflies. He pulls his pants off in one swift motion and you take a moment to look at him in awe, to really just appreciate him and his beautifully toned body despite seeing it a few times before. 

You watch as he strokes his cock a few times, his eyes fixated on your pussy. He pushes forward, and just to tease–intentionally catches the head of it on your overstimulated clit, causing you to cry out. 

“Felix!” your hips buck up, your legs wrap around him, doing anything you can just to get him to enter you properly. 

“Do you want me that bad?” he asks with a smile, his voice a low timbre in your ear. 

“Yes, Felix, stop fucking teasing me, you know I want you–” and with that, he pushes right into you, fully sheathing himself in one thrust. Your hands come up to push crescent fingernail indents into his shoulders, just to ground yourself from the overwhelming sensation. 

Felix wastes no time before fucking you like he really means it, his hips pulling out to meet yours flush each time. The way his hips roll in a fluid motion into yours has you crying out, wrapping your legs around him. 

“Fuck, you’re clenching me so tight,” he pants. “I’m going to cum soon, baby. Where do you want it?” 

You wrap your legs even tighter around him. 

His hand snakes up to your neck, just placing it there, not even squeezing but it still causes you to cry out with a moan that is borderline pornagraphic. 

“You’re being so dirty, baby. Are you trying to tell me something? You want me to cum inside? Because you’re going to have you use your words to tell me that or else it’s not gonna happen,” he grins. 

His hips snap into yours so hard it’s almost bruising, but you’re so close to your second orgasm that you think you could fall over the edge any second. 

“FELIX,” you finally cry out. You’re sure the scratches you’re leaving into his back are going to leave marks, if not bleed. 

“Fuck, you gotta tell me now.” 

“Inside! Inside! I want you to cum inside, fuck, I love you Felix, please!” you sob. 

He kisses you. Rather, his lips smash into yours so hard you’re not sure what is happening, but you’re cumming so hard it’s blinding. You can feel him still as he fills you up with warm ropes of his cum. 

When you both finally come down, Felix flops beside you and you immediately curl into his chest. He embraces you, his hands stroking unknown symbols into your skin. 

“Did you mean it?” he finally asks. 

You don’t have to ask what he’s referring to. “Yes,” you reply. “I think I’ve known it for a long time.”

“I love you, too.” Felix tells you, grabbing your chin so that he can press another kiss into your lips. “You mean the world to me.” 

That night, Felix looks around the apartment again, making sure that everything is in its place. When you see that there is both a couch and a bed, you make a joke about sleeping on the couch that causes him to quite literally pick you up and throw you into bed with him. You fall asleep like that, intertwined in his arms, not worried about accidentally getting caught and what the consequences might be tomorrow. 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You toss and turn. Images plague your mind. A guilt-ridden feeling plagues your gut. 

Minho, who gets anxiety on missions, who wanted to get away from his family and the life of crime from his childhood, but couldn’t let Jisung go alone for fear of what Chan would do to him.

Changbin, who has only wanted to protect his family, but instead Chan has held that over his head.

Hyunjin, who didn’t really know how to find himself after being told who to be, who didn’t know what to do with his life, exploited by Chan. 

Jisung, who has never had anybody tell him that he is good for more than shooting things and a life of violent crime, and had Chan take advantage of that. 

Seungmin, who had only one dream and had it taken away through an injury, was falsely promised by Chan that one day he could get the surgery and recover to play baseball again. 

Jeongin, who turned to a life of crime but was told he could have the money to go to fashion school, all if he would become Chan’s lackey. 

Even Felix, who you’re sure has been through something just as horrible, though he hasn’t told you yet… 

At the end of the day, there’s one common factor in all of this evil. 

You know that you can’t stay here and live a fantasy life, where you get to escape and be free while the rest of them are trapped there and still living in a nightmare. At the end of the day, you have started to develop close relationships with each and every one of them, and you can’t bring yourself to think more about the horrors that Chan continues to inflict on them each day while you get to run away with Felix. 

Picking up Felix’s arm, you kiss him on the head. You feel very remorseful for what you’re about to do, for the amount of mental anguish you are probably about to put him in when everything was finally going to go your way. You wish you could have relished in this a little bit longer. 

Opening up the bedside table, you grab Felix’s car keys and his gun. 

This has to end, and it has to end now. 

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

a/n: we're getting close to the end! two main chapters and two mini chapters left!! sorry for the delay today guys, I only had this chapter half written i wrote the rest in a coffee shop lol <3

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@kayleefriedchicken ; @notsojourni ; @hogwartslife64 ; @stilltrynafuckingtumble ; @ellelabelle ;

@melleus ; @hyun-bun ; @luminouskalopsia ; @leftovercigarettes ; @sabrina-gal-kpop

@ghostedgameplays ; @wealwayskeepfighting ; @meloncremesoda ; @Lovelino23 ; @honeyybbuubblleess ;

@blossominghunnie ; @sunlitangel777 ; @kkamismom12 ; @slaykanejvetsi ; @eastleighsblog ;

@skzskzskzskzskzskzskzzzz ; @k-keya ; @moonlight-sunrise-channie ; @estella-novella ;

@mbioooo0000 ; @lovemepie67 ; @lemonn015 ; @jaeminie-cricket ; @cookiesandcreammy ;

@jchotch726 ; @cookielixie ; @xxeiraxx ; @chuuyaobsessed ; @anime-addictot8 ;

@raspberrii ; @holdontoitwhileitlasts ; @korthbum ; @nxtt2-u ; @drinkingrumandcocacola ;

@changbokkii ; @1810cl ; @sillyhal