#it needs to be cooked because its turning

[writeriguess]

Hiiiii, i just came across with you cheater bakugo fic its a *chef kiss* butttt can we have a extended version of it i wanna see her happyyy i want bakugo to regret his life because of it

A House Built on Ashes Part 1

author's note: This is just a brief continuation, as I wasn’t certain where to take the story from here. There won’t be any further parts after this.

@alastor-fann and @starlightanyaaa asked to be tagged on this <3

A House Built on Ashes Part 2 (Final part)

Five years later, the city streets are bustling with life, the soft hum of chatter filling the air as Katsuki Bakugo walks through them, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his jacket. The cold nips at his skin, but it’s nothing compared to the ache inside his chest. He isn’t here for anything in particular—patrol ended an hour ago, but he hasn’t found it in himself to go home yet.

And then, he sees you.

It’s like a sucker punch to the gut.

You’re standing just outside a quaint little café, laughing at something your husband—your husband—just said. His name is Renji Sakamoto, and Katsuki knows everything about him, even though he wishes he didn’t. He knows he’s a doctor, that he’s kind, that he’s the type of guy to leave little notes in your lunchbox just to make you smile. He knows that he proposed to you in the middle of a sunflower field because you’d once mentioned how romantic it would be. And he knows, most of all, that Renji loves you in a way Katsuki never could.

It should be enough to turn away, to move on, but he’s frozen, unable to look away from you.

You look happy. Radiant, even. There’s no trace of the hurt he put you through, no sign of the broken heart he left behind. The way you lean into Renji, the way he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear—it’s intimate, effortless.

It’s love.

Katsuki clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. He wonders if you ever look at Renji the way you used to look at him. If you still hum when you cook, if you still make extra food just in case he comes home late. He wonders if you ever think about him at all.

Probably not.

A bitter taste fills his mouth as he watches Renji wrap an arm around your waist, guiding you into the café. The door chimes softly as it closes behind you, shutting him out completely.

He should go. He knows he should. But instead, he lingers, standing outside like a ghost haunting the life he ruined. He lets himself imagine, just for a second, what it would be like if things had been different. If he had chosen you instead of his mistakes. If he had been strong enough to be the man you needed.

But regrets don’t change the past. They don’t erase the nights you spent waiting up for him. They don’t take back the moment you looked him in the eye and asked, voice shaking, "Do you love her?" They don’t fix the silence that followed—the silence that sealed his fate.

Katsuki exhales sharply, finally forcing himself to move. The pain doesn’t lessen, but he buries it, as he always does. This is what he deserves, after all.

Because five years later, you’re happy.

And he’s still just a man drowning in his regrets.

[gpcwsl]

Leah x Alessia please! could be when alessia moved to arsenal and moves in with leah. become best friends/roommates and then falls in love!

Alessia Russo x Leah Williamson

Undeniable

WC: 2.1k+

MasterList

Warnings: kissing, making out, suggestive.

I am not shipping theses two in anyway. This is a fan fiction. This is fake. To be honest, I felt a little weary writing this.

Song: Cherry - harry styles

Alessia Russo had always known that change was inevitable in football. It was part of the job—new teams, new cities, new teammates. But this move felt different. Leaving Manchester United had been bittersweet, but Arsenal offered her something she couldn’t ignore: a chance to grow, to push herself further, to be part of something special. And, perhaps most importantly, she wasn’t doing it alone.

Leah Williamson had immediately offered her a place to stay until she found her own. “No point in wasting money on a hotel,” she’d said casually over the phone. “Besides, we’ll have a laugh.”

And she was right. From the moment Alessia had walked through Leah’s front door, it had felt right. Like home.

Meeting the Team

Alessia had expected some nerves on her first day at Arsenal, but they faded the second she stepped into the training ground.

Jonas Eidevall had barely finished introducing her before Katie McCabe strode up, a teasing grin on her face. “Welcome to the dark side, Russo.” She pulled her into a half-hug, clapping her on the back. “Been waiting for you to see sense.”

Caitlin Foord was next, offering a warm smile and a fist bump. “You’ll love it here. Just be ready for Katie’s chaos.”

“I resent that,” Katie shot back, but the sparkle in her eyes suggested otherwise.

The rest of the team was just as welcoming. Frida Maanum looped an arm around Alessia’s shoulders like they’d been teammates for years. “Finally, someone to help us score more screamers,” she joked.

Beth Mead, recovering from injury but still very much the heart of the team, gave her a knowing smirk. “Leah’s been talking you up, by the way. Said you’d fit in easy.”

Alessia glanced at Leah, who just shrugged, a small smile playing at her lips.

And it turned out, Leah was right.

Living with Leah was effortless. They trained together, cooked together (or attempted to, in Alessia’s case), and spent their evenings either watching matches or arguing over which show to binge. Leah knew exactly how to make her laugh, how to take the edge off when the pressure of a new club threatened to settle on her shoulders.

It was impossible not to feel close to her.

Then came the realisation.

The living room was a mess. Empty pizza boxes sat haphazardly on the table, a couple of half-finished slices abandoned on grease-stained plates. Two glasses of Coke rested on the floor beside the couch, condensation dripping down the sides. The TV was playing some film neither of them had really been watching, its glow flickering across the dimly lit room.

Alessia let out a small shiver. She hadn’t noticed how cold it had gotten until now.

Leah noticed immediately. She didn’t hesitate—just reached out and wrapped an arm around Alessia’s shoulders, pulling her in. “Come here,” she murmured, voice low and familiar.

Alessia didn’t resist. She leaned into her without thinking, settling against Leah’s side, her head resting just below her collarbone.

And that’s when it hit them.

For Leah, it was the way Alessia fit against her, the way she naturally sought her warmth. The way her blonde hair fell over her shoulder, the soft scent of shampoo and something inherently Alessia curling around her senses. The way her breath was steady, content, like this was exactly where she was meant to be.

For Alessia, it was the strength in Leah’s arms, the way they held her without question. The way her heartbeat was calm and steady beneath her cheek. The way Leah made her feel safe. Wanted. The way she just felt right.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn’t need to.

Because in that moment, with the world quiet around them, they both knew. They were falling. And there was no stopping it now.

The movie had long since ended, but neither of them had moved.

Alessia was still wrapped up against Leah, her body curled into the warmth beside her. At some point, Leah had pulled a blanket over them, the soft fabric draped across their legs, trapping in the heat. The only sounds in the room were the quiet hum of the TV, now playing the looping menu screen, and their steady breathing in the low-lit space.

Leah felt like she was floating.

She’d stopped pretending hours ago—pretending that this was just friendship, that the way her chest ached in the best way when Alessia sighed against her was normal, that the warmth spreading through her ribs wasn’t something more. No, she wasn’t denying it anymore. She was falling. Completely.

She nudged Alessia gently, her voice hushed in the stillness. “Come on, Less. Let’s head to bed.”

A sleepy mumble. “Mmm… my legs are broken.”

Leah huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Are they now?”

“Mhm.” Alessia burrowed closer. “You need to carry me.”

Leah bit down on the inside of her cheek, trying to steady the sudden thrum in her chest. She’s going to be the death of me.

Alessia had no idea what she was doing to her. Or maybe she did. Maybe she felt it too—the weight of whatever was settling between them, the way it pressed into the space where there had only been friendship before.

Still, Leah didn’t argue.

With careful movements, she shifted, looping one arm under Alessia’s legs, the other around her back. She lifted her effortlessly, feeling the way Alessia melted into her touch, arms draping lazily around her neck.

Leah swallowed, forcing herself to focus as she carried her up the stairs. The house was quiet, dark except for the faint golden glow of the hallway light. The warmth of Alessia in her arms, the slow rise and fall of her breath against Leah’s shoulder—it was intoxicating.

She stepped into Alessia’s bedroom, the sheets slightly messy from where they’d hastily thrown things together when she moved in. Gently, Leah placed her down, the mattress dipping beneath her weight.

Alessia exhaled a soft sound of contentment as Leah tucked the blanket around her, the warmth settling in immediately. Leah went to step away, but before she could turn, a hand wrapped around her wrist.

Leah froze.

Alessia’s fingers were soft against her skin, hesitant but sure. She didn’t say anything at first—just held on, her touch lingering, tethering Leah in place.

Then, quietly, hopefully—

“Stay?”

Leah felt her breath catch.

It wasn’t just about warmth. It wasn’t just about company.

It was about her. About them.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she looked down at Alessia, meeting tired blue eyes that held something deeper, something unspoken but undeniably there.

Leah didn’t answer with words. She didn’t need to. Instead, she exhaled slowly, slipped beneath the covers, and let Alessia curl into her once more.

This time, she held her a little tighter.

This time, she let herself fall.

The next day passed in a blur.

Leah had spent training trying—and failing—to keep herself together. It wasn’t easy when Alessia was everywhere. Laughing with the team, scoring goal after goal in small-sided drills, playfully shoving Leah when she beat her in a rondo.

And every time their eyes met, something stirred.

Something Leah couldn’t ignore anymore.

She knew she was gone. Completely, helplessly gone. And if she wasn’t wrong—if the way Alessia lingered just a little too long, touched her just a little too often, looked at her like she was something worth falling for—then Alessia felt it too.

Leah just needed to be brave.

The changing room had emptied out slowly, the team trickling out one by one. Eventually, it was just them—Leah and Alessia, alone in the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and distant chatter from the corridor.

Alessia sat on the bench, tying her shoelaces with slow, deliberate movements. Leah stood a few feet away, pretending to rummage through her locker, pretending she wasn’t absolutely buzzing with everything she needed to say.

Now or never.

She turned, leaning against the row of lockers. “Less.”

Alessia looked up, tucking a strand of damp blonde hair behind her ear. “Yeah?”

Leah’s throat felt dry, but she forced the words out. “I can’t do this anymore.”

A small frown creased Alessia’s forehead. “Do what?”

Leah exhaled sharply, pushing off the locker and stepping closer. “Pretend. Act like this is nothing. Like I don’t feel something every time you look at me. Like last night wasn’t—” She broke off, running a hand through her hair. “Like I didn’t want to kiss you the second you asked me to stay.”

The silence stretched.

Then, quietly—almost dangerously—Alessia asked, “Then why didn’t you?”

Leah’s breath hitched.

She held Alessia’s gaze, searching, waiting, pleading for something—anything—that told her she wasn’t about to ruin everything.

And then, Alessia smirked. Just a little. Just enough.

That was all Leah needed.

She moved before she could overthink it—one step, then another, until she was right there, standing between Alessia’s knees.

Alessia tilted her chin up, blue eyes burning into Leah’s, waiting.

Leah reached out, fingers grazing over Alessia’s jaw, tracing lightly, teasingly, before she finally, finally closed the distance.

The first touch was tentative—soft, testing—but Alessia didn’t hesitate. She leaned into it, pressing forward, her hands finding Leah’s waist, pulling her in.

Then it shifted.

Leah deepened the kiss, tilting her head, fingers sliding into damp hair, gripping just enough. Alessia made a small noise against her lips, and Leah felt it everywhere.

Her heart was racing.

Alessia’s hands tightened, tugging her closer, nails scraping lightly against Leah’s skin where her shirt had ridden up. It sent a sharp thrill down Leah’s spine, heat curling in her stomach.

She was done for.

Eventually—reluctantly—they pulled back, breathless, foreheads resting together.

Alessia was grinning. “Took you long enough.”

Leah let out a breathless laugh, nudging their noses together. “Shut up.”

Alessia just hummed, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against Leah’s waist. “You’re not getting rid of me now, you know.”

Leah smiled, letting her hands rest at the base of Alessia’s neck, thumbs brushing over soft skin.

“I’m counting on it.”

Their first date wasn’t anything extravagant. No fancy restaurant, no grand gestures—just them, walking through the quiet streets of London, wrapped in the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the cool night air.

Leah had insisted on taking Alessia to a small, tucked-away café she loved, one that stayed open late and had the best desserts. They’d shared a plate of warm brownies, teasing each other over who got the bigger bite. Alessia had spent half the time laughing, and Leah had spent all of it falling even harder.

And now, as they walked back home, hands brushing, shoulders bumping, Leah couldn’t stop staring.

Alessia looked stupidly good under the glow of the streetlights—blonde hair slightly tousled from the breeze, a soft flush on her cheeks, lips curved into a small smile.

Leah had been patient. She really had. But patience wasn’t exactly her strongest trait.

They reached the front door, and before Alessia could step inside, Leah caught her wrist, gently pulling her back.

Alessia turned, eyebrow raised, but before she could say anything, Leah leaned in.

The kiss started soft—slow and deliberate, like they had all the time in the world. Leah let her fingers trail along Alessia’s jaw, then slide into her hair, tilting her head just right.

Alessia made a quiet sound against her lips, one that sent a fire straight through Leah’s veins.

She pressed closer, deepening the kiss, teasing her tongue against Alessia’s bottom lip, pulling her in. Alessia melted, hands gripping Leah’s hips, nails grazing against skin where her shirt had lifted.

Leah groaned softly, pressing Alessia back against the door. Her lips moved to her jaw, then lower, grazing along the sensitive spot just beneath her ear. She felt Alessia shiver.

“Less,” Leah whispered, voice rough, breath warm against her skin.

Alessia hummed, tilting her head, giving Leah more access.

Leah smirked against her skin, pressing another slow, open-mouthed kiss to her neck before pulling back just enough to meet her gaze.

“Be my girlfriend.”

It wasn’t a question—it was a promise, a claim, a need.

Alessia let out a breathless laugh, running her fingers through Leah’s hair, tugging lightly. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Leah grinned, stealing another kiss.

Alessia gasped as Leah’s hands slid under the hem of her shirt, teasing fingers skimming over warm skin.

Leah smirked, her voice dropping lower. “You looked so hot tonight, Less.” She kissed her again, slow and teasing, letting her lips linger. “And I really wanna do stuff to you.”

Alessia exhaled shakily, fingers tightening in Leah’s hair. “Then stop talking.”

Leah didn’t need to be told twice.

She kissed her again, harder this time, pressing Alessia firmly against the door, hands roaming, breath mingling.

And as they stumbled inside, lips never breaking apart, Leah knew—

This was everything she’d ever wanted.

[sativariddle]

EVERYTHING YOU WANTED. ꒰ m.r ꒱

ㅤ────── ❝ if you don't, someone else will. ❞

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ navigation.

SUMMARY: engaged to the man of your dreams, life seems perfect: until a letter informs you of an old friend’s passing. you’re pulled back into a world you thought you’d left behind. old relationships and emotions resurface, reminding you that some pasts are impossible to lock away.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: if you don’t enjoy my content, there’s no need for you to stick around. i’m not responsible for what you choose to engage with. like, do you wanna get slutty or nottt?!

WARNINGS: mentions of death and grief, kissing, very angsty, read at your own risk or whatever.

YOU CRACK ONE EYE open from bed, groaning as a cupboard slams shut. there’s a heavy pause. then the unmistakable sound of something metal hitting the floor. “jesus christ,” you mumble into your pillow.

“i’m fine!” lewis calls from the kitchen, voice way too perky for this ungodly hour.

you drag yourself out of bed, hair a complete disaster, and shuffle towards the crime scene. when you round the corner, there he is — your husband, standing in front of the stove in plaid pajama bottoms and an oversized hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in a way that’s far too attractive for someone who is currently holding a spatula like it’s a medieval sword.

“what,” you say, voice still raspy, “are you doing?”

lewis turns around dramatically, like he’s in a cooking show. “i’m making breakfast. for you. because i am simply the best husband in the world.” you glance at the counter, where there’s already a mess of cracked eggshells, flour, and what appears to be… half an avocado just idling there for absolutely no reason.

“you’re making…?”

“pancakes,” he announces proudly. then, like an afterthought: “with eggs. and… maybe toast.”

your eyes narrow. “do you even know how to make pancakes?”

he waves the spatula like a wand. “babe, it’s just flour and other stuff. i’ve got this.”

you watch him for a long moment as he carefully pours batter into the pan — except he pours way too much, and now there’s this sad blob that’s sizzling aggressively. the whole kitchen smells faintly like something burning.

“you want me to help?” you offer, trying not to smile.

lewis’s eyes flick up, full of betrayal. “absolutely not. this is my romantic gesture. sit down. look pretty. maybe stir some coffee if you must.”

you snort but obey, sitting at the kitchen table in his hoodie like a little gremlin, watching him absolutely manhandle breakfast. he’s got that determined little furrow between his brows, tongue poking out slightly as he flips the world’s ugliest pancake.

every five minutes, he glances back at you like a labrador waiting for approval.

“that’s… a pancake shaped object,” you comment.

“it’s rustic,” he deadpans.

you were halfway through a reply: tongue already poised to add something witty to the joke - when your eyes snagged on a flicker of movement outside the window.

an owl.

not just any owl — that owl.

its dark feathers rippled under the soft morning light, talons gripping the ledge like it had never left. your heart stumbled in your chest, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. for a moment, you convinced yourself you were seeing things — that the ghost of five years ago had clawed its way into your morning, taunting you for daring to forget.

you blinked. once. twice. the owl remained, unbothered and unnervingly familiar.

the last time you’d seen that creature was during your final year at hogwarts — when the group still existed, before you’d walked away from everything that tied you to them. before you buried yourself in a different life, one where ghosts didn’t follow.

“babe?”

lewis’s voice tugged at your ears, distant and warm as he plated pancakes, oblivious to the storm brewing behind your ribs.

you ignored him, feet carrying you to the window as if something was pulling you there. the owl cocked its head, sharp amber eyes pinning you in place. its beak was clamped tightly around a letter, the wax seal pressed firmly at the edge — that same familiar stamp, unbroken, untouched by time.

you reached out slowly, fingertips brushing against the parchment as if it might disappear at any moment.

“long time, no see,” you muttered under your breath, the words half sarcastic, half breathless. the owl let out a low, hollow hoot, almost as if it was answering.

the letter was heavier than you remembered - or maybe that was just the weight pressing down on your chest. nostalgia curled through your lungs, thick and unwelcome, making it harder to breathe.

you glanced down at the seal — dark wax, pressed with the same seal that once felt familiar to you.

your stomach twisted. the ache hit sharp, right beneath your ribs, the kind of ache you thought you’d buried years ago. but here it was; clawing its way back up, reminding you that time doesn’t heal all wounds. it just hides them beneath layers of distance and denial.

“what’s that?” lewis asked again, voice softer now, sensing the shift in the air. you didn’t answer. your nails dug into the edge of the parchment, stomach knotting tighter as the memories stirred — laughter under candlelit corridors, cigarette smoke curling through dark corners, whispered secrets at the edge of forbidden forests.

you’d spent five years pretending that version of yourself was long gone. but now… she was right there — just beneath your skin, waiting.

with one final breath, you broke the seal.

─────────────

TO YOU,

i would normally start this with something pleasant, but we both know neither of us has ever been the sentimental type - or at least, not outwardly. five years have passed and i won’t waste breath pretending we haven’t noticed your absence. maybe you thought leaving would save you from the ghosts of everything you were. or maybe you thought we wouldn’t care.

but enzo is dead.

they’re holding a funeral - his funeral - this friday at the old estate. i’ve already sent owls to theo, draco, blaise… and mattheo. none of us are exactly fond of each other these days, but that doesn’t matter now, does it? we were his family - messy, destructive, and half fucking mad - but still his family.

and you were one of us, whether you like it or not. it’s only fair that you come. you owe him that much. you owe us that much.

we’ll be there, standing in black, pretending not to look at each other across the room like strangers. but we both know the second you walk through those doors, the past will cling to you like smoke. you can try to ignore it - i expect you to, honestly.

i don’t know what you’re so afraid of.

maybe it’s him. maybe it’s all of us. maybe it’s the version of yourself you left behind.

come anyway.

PANSY.

P.S. don’t wear something ridiculous. you always had the worst taste.

─────────────

the parchment unfolded beneath your shaking fingers, the familiar handwriting crawling across the page like it had been plucked straight from a different lifetime. your eyes scanned the words - once, twice - but they blurred at the edges, as if your mind refused to fully process them. every word felt heavier than the last, dragging you down into a place you swore you’d never go back to.

lorenzo is dead.

your best friend.

all jokes and loud laughter, all crooked grins with teeth showing — gone. the words rattled in your head, looping over and over until they didn’t feel like words anymore: just static. just noise.

it didn’t feel real. none of this did. the feeling coursing through your chest, tightening around your lungs; it was unfamiliar, sharp and suffocating all at once. you kept waiting for the punchline, for someone to jump out from behind the curtain and tell you it was all one elaborate, sick joke.

because enzo couldn’t be gone.

he was the loudest of all of you - the heartbeat in every room, the glue that held together a group built on sharp edges and bad habits. the one who made the worst days bearable, just by flashing that stupid, toothy grin and saying something so wildly inappropriate it made you laugh even when you didn’t want to.

you squeezed your eyes shut, but all you could see was him — head thrown back in laughter, muttering some smart remark under his breath. always alive. always… there.

and now he wasn’t.

your chest ached like something inside you was folding in on itself, like if you let yourself feel it fully - if you let the grief crack through the surface - you’d never be able to piece yourself back together again. it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. you were supposed to have more time - even if you’d wasted the last five years pretending you didn’t need any of them.

the letter crumpled slightly in your grip, but you couldn’t let it go — couldn’t face the truth scrawled in pansy’s sharp handwriting.

it was real.

enzo is gone.

and you’d never even said goodbye.

the world tilted slightly, the edges of the kitchen softening into a haze. for a second, all you could hear was the soft hum of the stove behind you - the smell of burnt pancakes clinging stubbornly to the air - but none of it felt real.

it was as if the letter had split the morning clean in two. there was the life you had been living before - warm, quiet, full of safe little routines. and then there was this - the echo of a life you’d buried clawing its way back through every line scrawled on the page.

you hadn’t even realized you were gripping the letter too tightly until lewis’s voice broke through the fog.

“hey… love?”

his hand brushed lightly over your lower back, fingers barely there — like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you. that small gesture made something snap deep inside your chest. you let out a sharp, uneven breath and squeezed your eyes shut, trying to hold it all in - but it was too much. the grief, the guilt, the years of distance you’d carved between yourself and the people who once were everything to you.

“lorenzo’s gone,” you whispered, voice breaking at the edges. saying it out loud made it real - far too fucking real.

lewis froze behind you. you didn’t have to explain who lorenzo berkshire was — not fully. you’d told him little pieces over the years, careful not to paint the full picture. he knew there had been a group — friends who felt more like found family. he knew there had been fights and secrets, nights spent tangled in something dark and electric. he knew there had been him.

what he didn’t know - what you’d never told him - was how much you’d left behind. how much of yourself you’d buried along with those memories “shit…” he breathed, his hand pressing a little firmer against your back.

you nodded, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths as your eyes stayed locked on the letter. the words blurred again — pansy’s sharp, familiar handwriting pressing into your skull. lorenzo. dead. the funeral. the names.

mattheo.

it felt like the whole world was shifting beneath your feet — pulling you back into a place you thought you’d outrun.

“hey,” lewis murmured, stepping closer until his chest was flush against your back. his arms slowly circled around your waist, grounding you before you spiraled any further. he rested his chin lightly on your shoulder, voice steady in your ear. “i’m right here… i’m not going anywhere.”

your throat clenched painfully.

“i can’t -“ the words splintered before they could fully form. you didn’t even know what you were trying to say. you couldn’t face them. you couldn’t face him. you couldn’t walk into that funeral and let all those memories unravel everything you’d built here - this quiet, safe little life.

lewis squeezed you tighter, his thumbs rubbing small, steady circles over your hips.

“you can.” his voice was quiet but certain, like he was trying to press the truth into your bones. “and if you can’t… i’ll be there. every step, alright?”

you wanted to argue — wanted to tell him he didn’t understand, that there were pieces of yourself buried in that world he’d never seen. but the words wouldn’t come. instead, you just leaned back into his chest, letting his warmth steady the shaking in your body. for a long moment, neither of you spoke — the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the distant rustle of the owl still perched on the windowsill.

you swallowed hard, eyes still locked on the letter in your hand.

you hated knowing.

you hated pansy for writing it.

you hated her even more for being right.

you owed enzo this. you owed all of them this - even if it ripped you apart. finally, with a deep, trembling breath, you whispered:

“... i’m going,” you sniffled. “to his funeral.” his funeral. the taste of those words on your lips felt wrong, bitter, something you never wanted to say. you had always imagined saying something else - his wedding day, his firstborn daughter. but now, all that remained were these haunting words, the ones you never wanted to speak.

lewis’s arms tightened around you, like he’d known all along you’d say that. “and i’ll be right there,” he murmured into your hair. “every step.”

you let lewis’s whisper against your ear, his breath warm and familiar. you melted into him, surrendering to the weight of time. the memories of five years ago slipped through the cracks of your mind, wrapping around you like something both tender and cruel. you let yourself drown in them, in the distant echoes of a life where you once felt so vividly alive.

one of your most cherished memories was the summer sleepovers your group of friends held every year. it was the summer before your final year at hogwarts - a time when your grades were thriving, and you and mattheo were the happiest you’d ever been. life, for once, felt effortlessly good: as if the world had finally aligned in your favor.

you were in berkshire manor — tucked into the heart of the living room where the air always smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and spilled liquor. the fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering orange light across half empty bottles and carelessly discarded shoes. someone’s old vinyl crackled from the record player in the corner — something slow and lazy, the kind of music enzo always insisted “set the mood” even though no one ever paid attention.

enzo was sprawled out on the rug, one arm folded behind his head, grinning like he’d just thought of something particularly brilliant. he was always at the center of it all; the sun everyone else orbited around.

“i’m telling you lot,” he announced to the ceiling, waving an empty glass in the air. “if i had half a mind - which i do, thank you very much, theo — i’d run away. disappear. start a pub on some island where they don’t give a shit about bloodlines or dark families or any of the bollocks our parents go on about.”

theo, half curled in one of the armchairs, snorted lazily. “you? run a pub? you can barely run a bath without setting something on fire.”

lorenzo shot up dramatically, clutching his chest. “that’s incredibly funny coming from the bloke who accidentally set snape’s robes alight twice.”

a laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to stifle the sound. theo muttered something half heartedly through the blunt hanging between his fingers, smoke curling lazily from his mouth.

the air was foggy — hazy clouds clinging to the room, casting everything in a slow, golden blur. from the corner, blaise smirked, legs kicked up on the coffee table, though the weight of sleep was dragging him under too much to join in properly.

pansy chuckled low and lazy, wrapped head to toe in a blanket like a cocoon, her dark hair spilling over malfoy’s shoulder. he sat beside her, low red eyes flickering toward theo, two fingers lifting in a silent gesture to pass the blunt, the ember glowing faintly through the heavy fog.

you were tucked under one of the thicker blankets with mattheo — hidden in the corner, backs pressed against the wall. his arm was lazily draped around your waist, fingers tracing soft, aimless patterns over the strip of skin between your jumper and your waistband.

he always did that. like he couldn’t touch you without leaving something behind, something invisible and constant.

“you’d hate island life,” you whispered, voice low so only he could hear.

mattheo’s breath was warm against your ear, lips curving into a smirk. “would not.”

“you’d get bored within a week. start brooding. pissing off the locals.”

he hummed low, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw. “maybe you’d keep me busy.”

you felt your cheeks flush, biting back a smile as you shoved your elbow lightly into his ribs. he only chuckled - that deep, low sound that always made your stomach flip and thighs clench.

he lifted the blanket over your heads as he leaned in closer, fingers curling around your waist like he was anchoring you to him. just like that; everything else blurred - enzo’s monologue, theo’s grumbling, the crackle of the fire - until it was just him. just the rhythm of his breath against your neck, the heat of his body pressed against yours.

he kissed you slow - lazy, like he had all the time in the world. his lips moved softly against yours, fingers tightening ever so slightly on your waist. you melted into him without thinking, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie.

it felt safe, like the rest of the world couldn’t reach either of you here. the complicated, messy thing between you only ever made sense in moments like this - wrapped in quiet, hazy stillness. his lips moved against yours in a slow, lazy rhythm, the kind of kiss that tasted like warmth and smoke, leaving you dizzy. his tongue traced against yours, unhurried, pulling soft sighs from the back of your throat.

fingers tangled in his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp as his hands dragged down your waist, thumbs pressing into the fabric of your shirt. the faint crackle of music played low in the background, melting into the thick air around you.

“you two are disgusting, by the way,” lorenzo called out, not even bothering to open his eyes. you froze against mattheo’s mouth, heat prickling up your neck.

mattheo just smirked against your lips, completely unbothered. “don’t be jealous, berkshire.”

“jealous? please.” enzo cracked one eye open, grinning wider. “i’m just wondering if you lot even remember there are other people in this room — or if you’ve finally decided to crawl under that blanket and shag like rabbits.”

“christ, shut up,” theo muttered, flicking ash toward the fireplace without looking.

lorenzo grinned wider. “i think it’s sweet. young love and all that shit.”

“you don’t even know what love is, enzo,” you shot back, trying to smother the smile tugging at your mouth. “oh, i know exactly what love is.” he folded both arms dramatically behind his head again, voice drawling. “it’s when two people hate each other slightly less than they hate everyone else. and if they’re lucky, they occasionally get a snog out of it.”

blaise snorted from his spot in the corner, barely lifting his head. theo rolled his eyes, flicking ash into a tray with a bored huff. draco only shrugged - a silent, lazy agreement. and pansy… well, she looked completely asleep, wrapped in her blanket like she hadn’t heard a word.

mattheo’s fingers tightened just slightly on your waist, his breath brushing warm against your ear.

“sounds about right.”

you turned your head just enough to meet his gaze - dark brown eyes half lidded and lazy, like he could stay right there forever. your chest ached - but in the soft, tender way that made you want to bottle the moment and keep it somewhere safe.

you didn’t know then how short it all was - how these nights would burn out faster than any of you could hold onto them.

lorenzo was still grinning - alive and brilliant and whole. theo was still grumpy and half listening, and blaise was still half asleep. draco and pansy were both completely high and drunk, lost in their own hazy minds. mattheo was still pressed against you under the blankets, warm and steady, like he’d never be anything else.

and you were still just you.

untouched by years of distance and regret.

unburdened by everything you would eventually leave behind.

it hurt.

it hurt more than anything had in years.

you blinked hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling as your chest rose and fell in quiet rhythm. the ghost of mattheo’s fingers still burned on your waist — enzo’s laughter faintly echoing at the edges of your mind. pansy’s sharp jokes, draco’s familiar scowls, theodore’s teasing banter, and blaise’s endless stories of his mother’s many husbands lingered like fragments of a dream you weren’t ready to let go of.

you hadn’t thought about them in so long.

you hadn’t let yourself.

but now they were crawling back through the cracks - warm, golden memories that tasted like smoke and stolen kisses, wrapped in the ache of everything you’d run from.

lorenzo was gone.

mattheo was still out there somewhere.

pansy had begged you to come.

draco was likely the man his father always wanted him to become.

theodore was probably drowning his grief at the bottom of a glass.

blaise had likely already told his mother everything.

and whether you were ready or not - they were all waiting for you to come back.

THE FUNERAL WAS bitterly cold, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones and made every breath feel heavier. misery hung in the air - thick, suffocating - a kind of grief you hadn’t realized could exist until now. lewis stood close beside you, his palm resting gently against the small of your back; silent reassurance. but the poundage in your chest pressed harder with each passing second, forcing the words from your throat.

“i just… need a little space to breathe.”

his hand lingered for a moment before falling away, his soft nod barely visible through the blur clouding your vision.

the funeral felt heavier than death itself - like the despair had wrapped around every single person present, suffocating in the damp air. the sky hung low, pressed tightly against the earth, thick clouds blotting out any warmth the sun might have offered. the sharp scent of rain lingered in the grass, clinging to your shoes with each step along the muddy path.

you stood at the edge of the crowd, fingers buried deep into the lining of your coat pockets, the fabric damp against your skin. the letter from pansy still burned somewhere in the depths of your bag — its familiar wax seal crumpled from the countless times you’d opened it and folded it back up again, trying to convince yourself not to come.

the years stretched between you and the rest of them — five long, years since you’d last seen any of their faces. time had chipped away at the sharp edges of those memories.

but now, standing here with the cold biting at your skin and the sound of muffled sobs filling the heavy air, it all came rushing back - every laugh, every cigarette shared beneath the moonlight, every promise whispered under blankets.

enzo should have been here.

you couldn’t even picture him like this - stiff and lifeless in a coffin buried beneath the earth. he had always been so alive, the kind of person who filled every room he walked into without even trying. the idea of him being reduced to something cold and still made your stomach turn painfully.

pansy spotted you first - her dark hair tucked into a neat bun, black lace gloves covering her trembling fingers. her arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling you into her chest without a word, like she was trying to glue you back into the group by sheer force alone.

“you came,” she whispered, voice breaking on the words.

“i didn’t know if i should,” you admitted, throat thick. pansy’s grip only tightened. “you were always one of us.”

one of them.

family.

you didn’t realize how much you’d missed that feeling until it settled back into your chest - the aching, tangled mess of loyalty and resentment and love that had bound all of you together once.

theo stood off to the side, hidden in the shadows, leaning against a weathered tombstone. a cigarette dangled loosely between his fingers, wisps of smoke curling through the cold air. the same scowl carved into his face, blue eyes flicking toward you every few seconds - like he was waiting, though for what, you couldn’t quite tell.

beside him, draco stood stiff and silent, his grey eyes fixed on the fresh patch of earth where lorenzo had been buried. his gaze was distant, unfocused - as if if he stared hard enough, he could convince himself none of this was real.

blaise nodded to you from a distance — small, unreadable smirk playing at his lips like he knew exactly how much this was hurting you and was silently daring you to show it.

none of them had really changed.

except… they had.

the significance of time clung to all of them in subtle ways - a little more grey in theo’s hair, heavier shadows beneath pansy’s eyes, the way blaise’s smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. draco didn’t flaunter his wealth.

you could feel it too — like you’d walked back into some forgotten version of yourself, stitched together from old regrets and lingering heartache.

but it wasn’t until you saw him - until your eyes finally found him - that the ground seemed to tilt beneath your feet entirely. your stomach gave that all too familiar flip; the same one that always stirred whenever your eyes landed on him.

mattheo stood beneath the gnarled branches of an old oak tree, hidden in the shadows. his joint was pinched loosely between two fingers, smoke curling lazily into the cold air. he looked… older - face carved a little sharper, too many sleepless nights carved into the dark circles beneath his eyes. his hair was longer, the curls brushing against the collar of his black coat — the same coat he’d always worn during winters at hogwarts, patched at the elbows from years of wear.

he hadn’t noticed you yet - or maybe he had and was simply giving you the space to breathe before he shattered whatever fragile resolve you’d built up on the way here.

you almost didn’t go to him.

almost.

you had known it then, just as painfully as you knew it now — the undeniable pull buried deep within you, interlaced into your very being. your body recognized him before your mind could catch up, heart stuttering in its old, familiar rhythm. it was instinctive, this ache — the way your fingertips twitched, yearning to close the distance. no matter how much time had passed, some part of you was still reaching for him, as if it had never truly learned how to stop.

your feet carried you across the damp grass before you could stop them, until you were standing close enough to catch the faint scent of smoke and something distinctly mattheo - that mix of cheap cologne and joints that never quite faded from your memory.

the moment his eyes met yours, everything seemed to freeze. he paused, mouth parting slightly, the faintest breath escaping him. one hand tucked into his pocket, the other still holding the joint, forgotten for a second as the weight of the years between you crashed into him. he hadn’t seen you in over five years - not since that last day at hogwarts, when he’d shattered everything by telling you he wasn’t good enough, that you deserved better, and you’d run away, heartbroken.

now, in the steady fall of rain, your soft skin glistened with droplets, blending with the tears that welled up in your eyes. it was as though time rewound for him, bringing him back to that exact moment when he let you go. and in his gaze, you saw the same regret, the same heartache - as if, in that instant, he felt the pain he caused you all over again.

he flicked the joint away at the last second, crushing it beneath his boot with the same lazy carelessness that had always driven you mad.

“i wasn’t sure you’d come.”

his voice was rougher than you remembered - lower, like it had been scraped against too many bad habits and sleepless nights.

you swallowed hard, hugging your arms tighter around yourself.

“neither was i.”

his eyes flicked down - catching the glint of the ring on your finger almost immediately. you catched the way his jaw clenched, how quickly he masked whatever flicker of pain flashed through his eyes.

“engaged, huh?”

you huffed out a quiet, breathless laugh, the sound catching painfully in your chest.

“yeah…”

mattheo’s mouth quirked into something that barely passed as a smile. “bet he’s a real fucking gentleman.”

“he is.” you defend.

a small silence stretched between you - the kind of silence that made your throat ache. mattheo’s eyes stayed fixed on the distance, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat.

“i’m glad,” he said quietly. “you deserve that.”

the words cracked something open inside of you - something you’d buried so deep you hadn’t even realized it was still there. you stared at him, blinking hard against the sting in your eyes.

the memory remained somewhere deep - one of those soft, half forgotten moments you never realized would matter until years later. the night air had been warm, you and mattheo had snuck out to the edge of the black lake, away from the others, the moonlight casting long shadows against the rippling water.

you were lying on your backs in the grass, shoulder to shoulder. the world felt heavy with quiet — the kind of quiet that only existed when everything was about to change. his curls were messy, sticking to his forehead from the leftover heat of the day, and his brown eyes flicked toward you every few moments, like he was waiting for you to break the silence.

“i just want something… simple,” you’d murmured eventually, your voice barely louder than the rustling leaves. “a small place somewhere. warm, with those big windows that let the light in. books everywhere. and… someone who makes it feel like home.”

mattheo had chuckled under his breath, the sound low and rough. “simple, huh? doesn’t really fit you.”

you’d nudged him with your elbow, half smiling. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he smirked, flicking rocks into the grass. “you’re not made for small, quiet things.” but then his voice softened, more serious. “but i get it. i’d want that too… with you.” the way he’d said it had made your heart ache - like it was the easiest thing in the world to promise, even if you both knew deep down life would never be that kind to either of you.

you remembered the way his fingers had brushed against yours in the dark - so unbelievably light you almost thought you’d imagined it. the way he’d looked at you like he wanted to believe in that future, even if neither of you had the courage to say it out loud.

you smiled so wide, your teeth glinting in the soft light, and the sight of it made his own smile break free - warm and unguarded, like a hidden treasure finally found. the air between you seemed to hum with electricity as you slowly lifted yourself off the grass, your body leaning toward him, drawn by the magnetic pull of his presence. your hair cascaded over your left shoulder, falling in soft curls that framed your face.

as you tilted your head, your mouth found his, and the world around you blurred. the kiss was slow at first, hesitant, like both of you were savoring this moment, letting it stretch out, but it quickly deepened, a soft sigh escaping you as your body leaned closer.

his hands found their way to the grass beside him, and with a quiet grunt, mattheo shifted, his elbows propping him up, trying to land himself as he melted into the kiss. his lips moved against yours with an affection that made your heart race.

you pulled away, breathless, the soft sound of your lips disconnecting. before you could even catch your breath, mattheo leaned back in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, then another, and a third, each one light and playful. you couldn’t help but laugh softly, the sound bubbling up as you playfully pushed his head away, a smile tugging at your lips.

no matter how many times you and mattheo touched, it always made your heart race and left you breathless, like you were falling for him all over again. it was as if you were a kid again, giddy with excitement, every little touch making your tummy flutter with little butterflies.

you’d fallen asleep against his shoulder that night, wrapped in the illusion that maybe, somehow, the universe would give you both something soft — something good.

thought, years later, you’d find yourself in that exact place you talked about - warm sunlight spilling through wide windows, books lining every corner, with lewis’s arms wrapped around you like home. the future you’d whispered about under the stars had found its way to you - just with someone else.

“you don’t have to say that.”

his eyes flicked toward you then — burning in that way they always had when he was trying to hide everything he couldn’t quite bring himself to say out loud.

“yeah… i do.”

you didn’t realize how badly you’d needed to hear those words - how they’d been sitting heavy in your chest for years, waiting to be spoken. “i’m sorry,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “for what happened back then… for how i ended things.”

your breath caught painfully in your throat. he dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“i got so caught up in everything - in what people said about us. how i wasn’t good enough for you. how you’d be better off without me.” his jaw clenched hard, eyes flicking away again.

“i let them get to me.”

you swallowed hard, heart hammering painfully beneath your ribs. “you were always enough for me.”

for a second, neither of you moved - the world narrowing down to the space between your bodies, to the ache humming beneath your skin. then mattheo’s mouth curved into the faintest, broken smile.

“in another universe, maybe.”

a lump rose in your throat. in some other universe, you hoped lorenzo was still alive, standing there as the best man. you could picture him now, grinning as he delivered one of his classic speeches - recounting all those times he had to play “couples therapy” between you and mattheo. he’d laugh, talking about how he could never pick a side because he loved you both equally, each of you like family to him.

“maybe.”

his eyes dropped to your ring again. “he’s good to you, yeah?” he murmured, voice thick.

you nodded, throat too tight to speak.

mattheo’s smile barely held.

“good.”

he shifted back slightly, clearing his throat.

“but if he ever fucks up - i’m only a letter away.” despite everything - the heartbreak, the years stretched between you - the corner of your mouth twitched. “unless the husband would get angry.” he added. mattheo’s laugh broke out of him - soft and breathless and completely unguarded.

“you always did love getting me into trouble.” you swallowed against the lump rising in your throat, forcing out a shaky smile.

“you always made it too easy.” his smile faded slowly - something softer flickering in his dark eyes.

“goodbye, mattheo.”

his voice caught on the reply.

“goodbye, sweetheart.” you turned before he could see the tears slipping down your cheeks - before your heart could break all over again for the boy who had always been almost yours.

by the time you reached lewis, mattheo was already lighting another cigarette beneath the branches — smoke curling lazily into the cold, grey sky.

just a letter away.

[ikkyfics]

𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞

Carmy Berzatto x f!reader

Summary: It’s ridiculous how much this has become a habit. Your eyes turn toward every new movement in the crowd, trying not to seem obvious, but also unable to help it. He always shows up. Always buys something, even if it’s just a handful of rosemary. Always stops.

Warnings: fluff, pre relationship, no use of y/n, carmy berzatto cooked for you, reader works selling herbs at the market

A/N: my first work with Carmy (internal screams) i basically watched all the seasons in three days (who needs sleep?) and it's all thanks to my mom @gingerteafairy. i'm obsessed and it's all thanks to you

The market has a rhythm that has become familiar to you. The strong scent of cilantro and mint mixed with the dry aroma of freshly harvested oregano, the sounds of people haggling, the warmth that spreads slowly as the morning progresses. You’ve been there since early, your hands still damp from the last restocking of cilantro, your fingers sliding through the green stems as you arrange the bunches on the stall.

And, as always, you look for him.

It’s ridiculous how much this has become a habit. Your eyes turn toward every new movement in the crowd, trying not to seem obvious, but also unable to help it. He always shows up. Always buys something, even if it’s just a handful of rosemary. Always stops.

The problem is, today, he’s taking longer than usual.

You’ve already caught yourself checking the clock more times than you should. He never comes at exactly the same time, but by now, he should’ve been here. Maybe today’s the day he doesn’t show up.

That thought bothers you more than it should.

You try to keep busy, try not to think about it as you sort through some dry leaves, as you arrange the small sprigs of thyme. You’re about to accept that it’s not happening today—when you feel it.

That subtle shift in the air.

The space feels different when he’s there. It’s not like people stop or the world changes, but you feel it. The weight of a gaze, the awareness of a presence. Your heart skips a beat before you even turn to make sure.

He’s here.

Carmy stops on the other side of the stall, one hand in the pocket of his dark pants, the other holding something you can’t quite see yet. His hair is as messy as always, curls out of place, and his blue eyes scan the products in front of him before lifting to meet yours. His gaze has a way of pinning you in place.

"Hey."

You feel your heart stumble over its own rhythm, but you try to act normal. You grab a sprig of rosemary just to keep your hands busy because, if you don’t, you know you’ll end up fumbling.

"Hi."

Carmy keeps his eyes on you for a second longer than necessary before looking away, as if he’s checking the products. But he doesn’t reach out to grab anything, doesn’t ask about fresh dill or if more tarragon has arrived, like he usually does.

You wet your lips, trying not to seem so aware of his presence. "You don’t need anything today?"

He exhales through his nose, an almost laugh. "I always need something." He rubs the back of his neck, his gaze returning to you. "But, uh… I still have a good stock from the last batch."

"Oh." You nod, not quite sure what to do with that information.

It’s ridiculous how your brain seems to work differently around him. You’ve interacted with dozens of customers, demanding people, cooks, even other chefs who show up from time to time, but with Carmy, it’s always different. You’ve felt it since the first time he stopped by, since the first exchange of words, the attentive way he has when he picks the products, always testing the scent of the leaves between his fingers, analyzing the details as if he’s cataloging everything mentally.

He never says more than necessary, but he never leaves too quickly.

And his eyes always find their way back to you.

You don’t have the courage to look directly at him for too long, so you let your gaze fall to his hands. The fingers marked by old cuts, the tattoos scattered across his skin. The strength in his forearms, the way the tendons move under the skin when he clenches his hand, as if he wants to do something but hesitates.

He clears his throat.

You force yourself to look up before he notices where your attention went.

"So… Did the basil from the other day work out?" you ask, just to say something.

"Ah, yeah. Yeah. It was good." He gives a half-smile, seems genuinely pleased that you remembered. "Used it in a new dish. Gave the sauce the right touch."

You feel a silly pride at that.

Carmy looks to the side for a moment, runs his tongue over his teeth as if considering what to say next, and then… hesitates. His fingers tighten around what he’s holding, and only then do you realize it’s not an ingredient.

It’s a package.

He exhales again, this time through his nose, almost as if he’s trying to decide if he should really do this.

"Uh… I made this for you."

You blink. "What?"

He holds up the package for you to see better. Brown paper folded precisely, tied with a thin string. It’s a small package, but not tiny. It doesn’t look like something from the restaurant. It looks personal.

Your brain tries to process what’s happening as your hands accept the package almost automatically. The paper is warm to the touch.

"I just—" He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, looks away quickly before turning back to you. "You always help me here. Always get me what I need, even when it’s crazy busy. I wanted to, uh… return the favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Carmy Berzatto cooked for you.

You hold the package more carefully, your breathing a little shorter than it should be.

"What is it?" Your voice comes out a little softer.

Carmy doesn’t answer immediately. He watches as your fingers slide over the brown paper, undoing the knot of the string with more care than necessary. You feel your movements a little more hesitant than you’d like, almost trembling, and you hate it—hate how much he affects you without even saying anything.

You unwrap the package slowly, the warmth still trapped in the paper, the aroma starting to escape into the air before you even see it. And when you finally do, your chest tightens.

It’s a tartine.

The bread looks perfect—crispy on the edges, golden just right, holding a generous layer of fresh ricotta spread with precision, topped with caramelized figs and a thin drizzle of honey glistening under the light. There’s something green on top, small leaves, carefully placed. Basil.

The same basil he bought from you.

You inhale, smelling it before even tasting it. The subtle sweetness of the figs mixed with the tangy touch of the ricotta, the bread lightly toasted. It seems like a small thing, but it’s a thoughtful dish—an exact, balanced combination of flavors.

And he made it for you.

You look up slowly, and Carmy is already watching.

The blue in his eyes seems more intense now, locked on you, attentive in a way that makes something in your stomach twist. He wants to see your reaction. He wants to know what you’ll think.

You swallow hard.

Your fingers tighten around the bread for a moment, as if they need an anchor before moving forward. Then, you take the first bite.

The crust breaks under your teeth, crispy but yielding easily to the soft center. The flavor spreads warm and fresh in your mouth—the contrast of the sweet honey with the slightly tangy cheese, the caramelized figs bringing a buttery touch, and, finally, the freshness of the basil cutting through everything in an unexpected but perfect way.

The perfection of that flavor hits you like a punch to the stomach.

You let out a sigh, a sound that Carmy hears. You feel it in the way he subtly shifts in front of you, as if your pleasure in eating this has struck something inside him.

You’ve never tasted anything like this.

It’s not just good. It’s not just something someone cooked.

It’s art.

You take a deep breath, blinking, trying to formulate something, but the words don’t come.

And Carmy… Carmy is still watching.

His expression has changed, almost imperceptibly, but you see it. He seems disconcerted for a moment, as if something has just hit him hard and he’s still trying to understand the impact.

He wanted to surprise you, but now it seems like he’s the one who’s been surprised.

Because a thought hits Carmy with force.

He’d like to cook for you every day.

The desire is sudden and visceral, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He feels his chest tighten at the idea, something warm and strange spreading under his skin. Because it’s not about impressing. It’s not about showing off what he can do. It’s about wanting you to taste. To feel. To like.

And that’s dangerous.

You lick a trace of honey from the corner of your mouth, and he has to look away.

"So…?" His voice comes out a little rougher than usual.

You swallow, still tasting the basil on your tongue. Your eyes return to him, shining in a way you don’t notice, but he does.

"This is… perfect."

Carmy lets out a short, low laugh, looking at the ground for a moment before turning back to you. "It’s just a tartine."

"No." You shake your head, still holding the bread in your fingers, still feeling its flavor in your mouth. "It’s not just a tartine."

He doesn’t respond immediately, just watches. You feel his gaze locked on you again, that intense way he has of paying attention, as if he’s analyzing every tiny detail of your reaction, every nuance on your face.

You lower your eyes to what’s left of the tartine in your hand, hardly believing that something so simple can have this impact. That someone can make something like this.

You swallow hard, your mouth a little dry before you blurt out, without thinking:

"This is, like… the best thing that’s ever been in my mouth."

And then you realize what you’ve said.

The realization hits at the same time a palpable silence settles between you.

The heat rises up your neck like an uncontrolled fire. Your heart stops and then races.

"I mean—" Your voice stumbles, desperate to correct, but it’s too late.

Carmy blinks.

The corner of his mouth twitches into an almost smile, and he lets out a low, quick laugh before wetting his lips and rubbing the back of his neck, looking away for a moment.

"Good to know," he says, and the casual tone of his voice only makes it worse.

You feel your face burning, your eyes darting to anywhere but him.

But Carmy is still looking at you, and there’s something different in the way he’s doing it now. As if something has snapped inside him.

As if he likes it.

You shift, restless, and Carmy tilts his head slightly, his eyes still fixed on you, as if he’s memorizing this moment.

"If you want, I can make something else for you someday."

Your stomach tightens in a different way now.

You feel the weight of what he said, the way he said it, the way his eyes are on you, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. As if cooking for you were something natural.

As if he wanted to do it.

The word "yes" almost slips out of your mouth without you realizing it, but you manage to hold it back for a moment, blinking a few times before letting out a small smile, trying not to seem so affected.

"I… would like that."

The corners of his lips lift slightly, almost imperceptibly, but you see it.

He lets out a short sigh, looks away at the rest of the tartine in your hand. "Then finish that before it gets cold."

You laugh, and Carmy can’t help it: he memorizes that sound.

[walnutcookie]

soooo, what’s this new stars from the mind AU you cooking? I saw it when I was zooming through the Dandy’s World tumblr search. It’s def another really cool aesthetic vibe type AU as I can see.

AHH I NEED TO KEEP WORKING ON SFTM... This AU is much less closed off, i dont care to keep it spoiler free like i do with tower of souls so uh. Im gonna be honest i dont feel like typing it all out rn, ill make more infodump posts later but for now here take my poorly articulated discord messages (copied and pasted/screenshotted)

so. In this au delilah does Weird fuckin experiments to make the cartoon characters that live in arthurs mind into real beings YAAAAYY

the toons work in a theater where they perform all the shows that arthurs always dreamed of!!! Its meant to be an educational place for kids of course heehee

there ARE TWISTEDS IN THIS AU unlike tower of souls.. need to design all of the characters and their twisted forms but the difference is that astro is the one to cause all of it this time

uhhm. if youve read my characterizations for arthur, delilah, dandy, and astro in tower of souls its important to note thats how i characterize them generally, i just talk about them in the context of tower of souls more because it makes the au more interesting to me. Theyre the same in this au and also my headcanons for regualr dandys world teehee

ive always liked to imagine that dandy caused the ichor incident in canon dw out of boredom because he thinks that things have gotten stale. and also because he wanted power, he wanted to turn the tables on creation and creator and basically just say "fuck you look at what I can do!!! i have so much power i can make us toons so much better" …. i hc that astro was like. Different path same result. if dandy hadnt done it first, astro would have done the same thing THEYRE FOILS TO EACH OTHER BUT THEYRE ALSO PARALLELS!!!! however astro is motivated by pure paranoia. Fear of the unknown like space… hes terrified of how powerless he feels, he doesnt like how little control he has in the universe and it makes him feel helpless, so he was planning to do the same thing dandy was also planning and cause everyone to turn twisted so he could be powerful enough to protect himself (and by extension his friends)

This au is the same way except astro did it first. obligatory astro antagonist au YAAAY!!!!! Hence why astro is big and scary <3 i still need to design twisted dandy

note that im still kind of building the AU so im not sure how the lore would go quite yet i just have a bunch of scrambled thoughts HELP

(cringe ahead beware)

and heres the designs again for those who havent seen them

[quibbs126]

You know, I really think there’s merit to be had in a TFA-style dynamic with Optimus and Megatron, with the two as strangers and Megatron being so much older and basically from a completely different Cybertron. Particularly with a corrupt Autobot government

And also if you actually explore their dynamic more, since TFA didn’t really do that

Like they start off as pure enemies, each thinking very lowly of the other, but their continuous conflicts giving them an odd sense of respect for one another, or at least Megatron for Optimus

And then there’s also the juiciness of their completely separate backstories, or more specifically Optimus learning Megatron’s. I think it’d be cool if Megatron had an absolutely horrible backstory, one so terrible it made him want to burn it all down because he saw no other way forward. In part because my faves must suffer, but also with this backstory being at the hands of Autobots or people who would become Autobots. Like maybe some of the leaders, while not directly responsible, did turn their heads in some way and deny responsibility. Like Megatron is a monster, but he is the monster created by the Autobots

And maybe over time, while he never agrees with him, Optimus starts to understand Megatron more, that he’s more than just a creature of pure evil. And maybe in a scenario where Megatron is captured like in Season 3, Optimus finds himself seeking out his advice and words, because while he’s no paragon, he’s the only person who will tell him the truth, because the Autobot command certainly won’t, and he wants to understand it all better; Megatron, the Decepticons, the Autobots, the war, all of it. Both in prison and out of it, Megatron ends up strangely becoming a sort of mentor to Optimus

I don’t think this Megatron would be one that gets a redemption arc. He’s too far gone, even if he has a tragic backstory and he’s more complex than just a cartoon villain (and also I need to remind myself that just because I feel bad for Megs doesn’t mean he should get off scott free, particularly since he was the villain originally). I also think Optimus should be the one to kill him, with Megatron maybe even being happy with this outcome, that Optimus is someone worthy of doing him the honor of death

I may have gone a bit specific, but I think this older, more experienced Megatron should be a way for Optimus to grow as a person; to learn that the world isn’t as black and white as he thought, and to learn to question the establishment he lives by, so that he can see its corruption and work to truly make it better. Because even if this Optimus isn’t the leader of the Autobots in the story, that is what he tends to ultimately become. I think it could be so good, if in the hands of writers willing, and more importantly able, to explore this as a concept more (though mandates can be a bastard, as seen in other shows)

Oh and also, nothing romantic between these two. With this scenario my brain cooked up, I just don’t see a place for it. Give Optimus his own separate love interest if you have to, just not Megatron, let them be platonic in this instance. Could you say this is because I’m not a fan of TFA megop? Sure, but I say this because I realized this is how I feel about TFA Megatron and Optimus; there’s potential I see in their dynamic, I just don’t like when it’s only for romantic reasons. There’s so much more here, that I think can stand to be more interesting than leading to them kissing. Probably true of other iterations but this is where I stand with TFA at least

[asexual-levia-tan]

someone convince me to not eat a half pack of bacon

[sometimeswritingsometimesdying]

i’m cooking up a despicable, horrid, crushing (emotionally) friends with benefits haiden au. it might, however, end up crushing me first

[disasterinbound]

(remembers seeing the yosuke au blog's post about merfolk yosuke) Oh No

Like honestly when he moves out to inaba he's like "hey at least i wont be invited out to the pool or to the beach or something" (not that he doesn't reject those invites)

probably during the camping spiel he doesnt bring any swimming costumes cuz ya know. Gotta stay dry and theyre saved from morooka's puke! Hooray!!

Maybe he used to sing a lil bit back when he was more relaxed about it, and he might've accidentally nearly lured a small child into the deeper parts of the ocean, so now he's more strict on himself. He does miss singing, but it's better to blend in. Safer to (pretend to) be normal. For everyone. No more songs, no matter how much it hurts him because he'd rather hurt himself than to hurt someone else.

But perhaps he misses it too much, and it's like a part of himself that's locked away and the last connection to the sea that he so desperately wants, so he buys himself a pair of headphones. To at least be able to hear someone do what he cannot.

(And even in Inaba, it still is in use. Just for more reasons than for what it was bought for.)

And honestly yeah he REALLY would not be happy to go to the beach. Maybe he's excited to see Yu Rise in a swimsuit or something, but beyond that he's kind of terrified. Maybe because he doesn't know if he has enough willpower to prevent himself from jumping into the waves and swimming far away to another place where he isn't the plague of Inaba's shopping districts, where he's more than JUNES and people sweep past him cuz he's only a face in the crowd.

And also because. Yknow. If ya go to the beach he's expected to hop inside the water, and he absolutely can't do that.

Either ways, when they get to the beach, he's staying firmly on the sand. No water for this (mer)guy!

[arolesbianism]

I've been thinking abt my critter dupes some more and it was all fun and games until I remembered that I made Mi-ma a beeta and hm. Whoops. Uh oh. (<- Considered the implications for more than 2 seconds)

[lesbian-cowpoke]

My parents: why does no-one eat the leftovers we have so much

The leftovers: *the grossest most white person bland food imaginable. Inedible. Looks vaugely like throw up.*

[heyitslapis]

oh i fucked up these pancakes incredibly

[pink-lemonadefairy]

hoping tonight’s sleep will magically gift my brain the rest of the words i need to finish my essay tomorrow

[constellunette]

my grandma is the type of person where she can't just vibe she Needs to be helpful and prove that she's six steps ahead doint the Right Thing. and it's exhausting!!!!!! I am easy-going on purpose because I like my life being as frictionless as possible. almost nothing in day-to-day life is worth pitching a fit over. so many things are within the boundary of Okay 👍. and it's frustrating to have someone essentially refuse to take you at your word and invent problems for you to have so they can be the one to solve them. I am chill why is the version of me that exists in your head so profoundly unchill!!!!

[gojoest]

from pregnancy freak to postpartum freak — satoru finds himself in a tough spot while your body is recovering from giving birth to his child. he tries to be patient but motherhood looks so beautiful on you… and unfortunately, after you’re ready to have him again, there seems to be another little issue — one that likes to cry and disrupt the moment satoru has been longing for

MDNI, established relationship, f!reader (she/her), pregnancy and postpartum, you have a beautiful baby daughter, mentions of breastfeeding and satoru being really really weird about it, mentions of male masturbation, somno if you squint really hard (just to be safe), pet names (baby, beautiful, sweetheart), nothing too explicit going on here tbf, but there’s a sweet little hint of a potential breeding sesh at the end, not proofread, wc: 1.8k+

your husband (gojo satoru) and you have always had a marvelous sex life, one that would naturally induce a sense of envy in anyone who came to know of it, accidentally or not — the walls were thin, but sometimes it was the mouth of your husband that was too big.

but in all honesty, there has never been a day in which you didn’t desire each other carnally, even after so many years.

you thought, maybe, this might change after he knocked you up with a baby — you had read a handful of articles on the topic and how some men become more distant during that sensitive timeframe — but as it turns out, you could not have been more wrong. either those magazines sucked or your husband was some sort of mutation. maybe, it was both.

your pregnancy could be, in fact, easily considered the peak of your sex life — that round belly of yours really did a number on him, as well as on you. well, with you it was the hormonal changes your body was going through that made you so borderline sexually insatiable, and the mood to bounce on him would strike you more often than ever. at some point, your sex drive went off the roof — you’d ask him to fuck you multiple times a day and satoru couldn’t be more fortunate — he’d drop everything and oblige in an instant, like that was all he had been waiting for, which was not so far from the truth. it was safe to say that you enabled the freak in him, and he was grateful.

“thank god… i don’t know how else i could survive those 9 months with you glowing like this, becoming more and more beautiful with each passing day”, he’d say to you every time you pressed and rubbed your ass against his cock in the middle of the night, not so innocently waking him up because you had a craving.

you had a lot of sex, but he was always careful with your aches and pains, no quirky positions until the baby was born — your physique didn’t allow it as the pregnancy progressed anyway. but the passion was always there, undeniably so, growing along with you.

but things changed after you went into labor and your daughter was born. the perfect little angel, his and his baby’s baby. satoru has never been happier.

to be honest, he didn’t think about sex at all in the beginning. he was on cloud nine, overjoyed. every second of his day was spent exploring this new light in his life and taking care of the both of you.

after you got discharged from the hospital, he took it upon himself to look after the house and deal with the chores — he handled the cooking, he washed the dishes, cleaned, did the laundry and everything else that needed to be done — while you were healing and navigating through motherhood. he helped you nurse your daughter, there wasn’t a single night where he didn’t wake up along with you whenever the baby needed feeding or randomly started crying.

but soon enough, after he adapted to this new pace, his sex drive started showing signs of its return. it came back strong — in fact, stronger than ever, and once again it was none other than you to blame for it.

…because, being a mother looked so good on you.

you have been his wife for years. but now, you are the mother of his child, and that is a title that somehow makes you his even more than ever. it is so permanent. because, even if you leave him one day — which you never would since he would simply never allow it — being the mother of his child will always tie you to him, he will always have a place in your life. that’s it, you just made it impossible for yourself to run away from him. like it or not, you will be his eternally and irrevocably.

he liked watching you be a mother and couldn’t help but get bricked up each time you held your daughter close to your chest, revealing your breast and holding it to her mouth in order to feed her.

was this normal? to get this hard? now of all times? — he didn’t know, and honestly, he didn’t bother finding out. because, when was he ever normal about you to begin with?

all he wanted to do in those moments was pin you down and fuck himself into you. you could see it in his eyes and in his bulge that he was trying to readjust.

“don’t try anything funny in front of the baby”

“i would never — i am simply watching and engraving this scene into my mind, for later”

‘for later’ obviously meant when he was jerking off.

the doctor said “no sexual intercourse for six weeks”

your body needed time to heal after giving birth, and that was only natural. and it was okay.

but it didn’t mean it wasn’t arduous for him. he had to watch you day and night without being able to touch you in ways he wanted to.

and now it’s been two months. two whole months without him laying a finger on you. his urges were back with full force, but yours? not really.

sure, you cuddled plenty while the baby was sleeping, which made it even harder for him. but you never got sexually intimate after you gave birth. he was well aware that you needed more time, that your body was still not ready, that you were exhausted physically and mentally because, once again, you were going through all these changes — because of him.

he understood that. but still, he missed you so much.

he’d jerk off whenever he got the chance, more than once a day, in fact. religiously so in the shower, it was a must — or else he would find it more difficult to manage himself around you.

sometimes he’d watch you breastfeed the baby and secretly sneak into the bathroom midway through it to rub one out, because if he didn’t — he’d bust right then and there. but can you blame him? you looked so maternal, so ungodly and unapologetically beautiful. the way you hissed whenever the baby sucked too hard on your nipple made him wish it was him dragging those sounds out of you…

fuck. he was becoming a freak again.

there were nights when he would wake up, as hard as a rock, and watch you sleep while fisting himself in the spot next to you in bed. he would be careful not to wake you when pushing the cleavage of your gown down, just enough to take your breasts out. he’d peck you softly on the nipples and that would inevitably and always lead to him uncontrollably unloading himself inside his palm. sometimes he would make a mess of the bedsheets, other times — of your nightgown.

“shit— if simply touching your skin does this to me, then i don’t want to think what will happen to me the second i slide it in”, he’d curse under his nose while washing off in the bathroom. “fuck. i miss you, baby”, he’d brush a hand over his face. “look what you made of me…”, and he would get hard all over again, just because for a split second he thought of being inside you.

luckily, you soon started dropping subtle hints of desiring him — initiating longer morning kisses, biting your lower lip and giving him the look whenever he walked out of the shower, saying his name in that same sweet voice with an undertone of fake innocence you would use in the past every time you wanted him to do things to you, rubbing his chest as you cuddled in bed or on the couch, sometimes your hand would slide a bit lower down his abdomen… but, that was it.

satoru never saw past the pearly gates, because his sweet angel of a baby would always start crying in the most inappropriate of times, as if on purpose.

“you go — i don’t want to face my daughter with a boner”, he’d whine, and you’d chuckle.

he loved his daughter more than anything, but he was genuinely bummed out and he had to do something about it.

one afternoon, after you fed the baby and left her in the care of your husband to go and take a shower, satoru put his daughter in the crib and leaned over with a serious expression of a parent about to lecture their misbehaving kid.

“listen, little miss, because we have a problem”

the baby chuckles in response.

“…and apparently, you know it”, satoru snorts. “but listen here, i know you love mama and you want her all to yourself. but what about papa?”, he pouts. “papa loves her too and wants her all to himself, at least once a day, but you’re not giving him a chance here. it’s not like i am asking for an entire day, just stay put for 15 minutes — 15 minutes is all i am asking for. deal?”

his daughter lets out another sweet chuckle.

“i’ll take that as a yes”, he caresses her cheek before leaving the room with the baby monitor in hand to join you in the shower.

finally. it was happening.

he stripped out of his clothes and walked into the bathroom, placing the baby monitor on the sink countertop before stepping into the shower cabin, letting the hot stream wash down his body as he reached for you.

“hello, beautiful”

“oh—“, you jolt. “you’re here? but what about the ba—"

“shh—“, he puts a finger on your lips, his free hand snaking around your waist to pull you close. “don’t worry, she’s fine. if something happens, we’ll know it from the baby monitor — so just relax”

you smile against his fingertip and softly peck it before sucking it in between your lips. his cock, already hard and squished between your naked bodies, throbs with a powerful twitch. a low growl rolls out of his mouth.

“god… i’ve missed you so much”, his hips involuntarily push against you, a desperate attempt to seek more friction by humping himself on your stomach. with how starved he was for you, he could probably finish just from this. but he wanted to take it slow and savor every second.

“it’s been so long, isn’t it?”

he nods. “i thought i was going to die”

you laugh. “you’re exaggerating”

“i am not… i never thought our tiny little angel could be such a huge devilish cockblock”

“you shouldn’t speak like that about our kid”, you snort.

“but it’s true. she’s a sly one, and obviously she’s obsessed with you”, he pouts.

“i wonder who she took it from…”

“she’s going to cause me a lot of trouble, isn’t she? but maybe, if we gave her a friend, she wouldn’t feel as lonely. maybe then, we’d get to have more alone time — like this. what do you think?”

“she’s too young for a pet, satoru. you know that”

he laughs. “i didn’t mean a pet, sweetheart. but we can get that too at some point”

[scorpiontattoo]

sorry just sitting here realizing how actually fucked it is that our mom has spent years of our life purposefully making sure we wouldn't know how to exist without the help of another human being. like we are having to fight with her about learning how to cook for ourself, about us being able to have friends that she hasn't vetted, about simply being able to go to the store alone and shop for ourselves, about us having access to our own medical information and handling our own medical decisions, etc.

and like... just. looks at my hands. I'm so fucking scared we'll never be able to be an independent person. I'm so scared we'll never be able to exist on our own. we grew up having other people call us spoiled and lazy for not being allowed to care for ourself, our own mother does it and then turns around and continues forcing us to be dependent, but is it really being spoiled if its an abuser trying to keep control? if it leads to neglect and harm? I'll agree it's some degree of privilege, I guess, but it's still just so...