#none of these are supposed to be serious at all

[devotedsweetheart]

・❥ SAY IT AGAIN

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ rundown :: you find out caleb had been logging into your phone at random times of the day to keep track of who you were texting. frustrated, you call him to yell at him only to question what exactly he was doing on the other end.

WARNINGS :: NSFW! 18+ , phone sex , sub!caleb (per usual) , masturbation , cnc , use of y/n

a/n :: highkey got this idea from that one scene in twk when cardans kissing jude & telling her to say she hates him..🌝🌝

he had absolutely no right to be invading your personal space. absolutely none.

you were so fucking angry.

caleb was away on a trip with gran. usually, he would simply ask to check your phone, and you'd happily give it to him- knowing he means well. but with the shit he has been pulling, you're starting to question whether or not he really does trust you like he says he does.

you had found out that he was hacking into your phone because the device started acting awfully odd. opening apps you didnt click on, siri turning on without any context, letters on the keyboard being pressed when you never tapped on them in the first place. confused (and frankly a little scared), you took it to a professional to get it checked out. when he asked if anyone else had the password to your socials, thats when the realization dawned on you.

you felt so stupid. utterly dumb. but how were you supposed to know? you had told caleb about the issue multiple times and each occasion you mentioned it he would always say the same thing: "thats so weird, pips.. maybe you should go get it checked out or something." feigning complete innocence.

you had enough.

driving home as fast as you could, you barely reach the front door before you're calling him nonstop until he answers.

"hey pips! i missed yo-"

"you fucking liar."

there's a beat of silence at that. your breathing is heavy, going right into the mic- giving caleb an idea of what he's in for.

"um.. excuse me?" caleb manages, swallowing thickly. he knows exactly what you're going to yell at him for and he's praying to jesus christ himself that he can manipulate his way out of it.

"you know exactly what i'm talking about, don't try to play dumb. you've been going into my phone and looking through my shit. i thought you said you trusted me? what happened to that? i mean, seriously, caleb, i thought we had gotten over this." you say, voice pinched a bit higher than usual. you're pacing around the room in order to keep yourself calm, heart beating at a distressing rate as you don't like to argue with him.

"pips, i really don't know what you're talking about," he utters, licking his lips. "i know whats been going on with your phone has been messing you up, but you don't necessarily have to blame me for it. look, once i get back i'll help you figure out what's wrong with it just to prove that it's not me. deal?"

you can tell that he's trying his best to soften his tone to make his lie more believable, but you aren't gonna buy into it.

"no. no, caleb, just quit the act already. i'm so tired of this. i'll give you two choices," you say, sitting down on the couch; elbows on your knees. "either you stop with the whole hacking thing and we stay together, or i cut things off with you and we never talk again."

for a moment, there's nothing being said. pure silence. he's absolutely speechless on his end of the phone, mouth agape and eyes wide. every few seconds, he'd attempt to say something but nothing would come out- resulting in something that resembled a stutter.

"well? what's it gonna be?" you asked, becoming to grow impatient.

"y/n.." he whispered. "you.. you can't do that to me. i-.. i'm sorry for doing all that crap. i didn't do it because i don't trust you... it's other people that i don't trust. please believe me, baby. i can't stop doing it, it's just my way of keeping you safe."

aaaand now it's your turn to be shocked.

"are you fucking serious?" you yell, and you swear you can see the look on his face regardless if he's visible or not. eyebrows raised up, cheeks as red as roses, eyes backed up with tears. you know how much he hates being yelled at by you... but he deserves it. "you can't be serious. please tell me you're pulling some joke."

" baby, please. i-"

"enough. just quit it. i fucking hate you, caleb."

he swallows. no, practically gulps. he shouldnt be turned on by the sound of that. he really shouldnt. he knows he should be terrified by the threat of you leaving him... but the tent growing in his pants is getting undeniably uncomfortable that he just can't seem to care.

unzipping his jeans, he gently lays his back on his bed, being carefully quiet to ensure you don't hear.

"you're fucking insane and no matter how much i try to talk to you about it you never change. it is draining, caleb. you have absolutely no idea how fucked up you are."

he's nodding against his phone, murmuring small 'yeah's here and there to let you know that he's listening. what you aren't aware of is the fact that instead of really listening, he's actually moving his hand at an insane speed on his dick. it gets to the point that he can't even respond, the pleasure taking over. all he needs is for you to tell him how bad he is and how much you despise him for him to be able to go over the edge.

the fact that you don't even know whats going on keeps him going for even longer.

"...-is so frustrating, caleb! you don't even care for me and... wait, are you even listening? hellooo?" you shout, expecting an answer.

he picks up his phone from where it was sitting on his pillow and takes it off speaker phone to reply. "y-yes, baby? 'm sorry.. i'm, um, listening. keep talking." he responds, stuttering over his words.

you roll your eyes, thinking he simply just doesn't care. "my god, you're so fucking annoying. i hate you so much, y'know that?"

he nods hastily, even though you can't see it. "y-yes. say it again. please." the last word comes out broken as he was embarrassingly close to cumming.

you stop in your tracks, both eyebrows furrowed. "um..." you utter, confused at what he was playing at. "i... hate.. you..?"

"f-fuck!" he whisper-shouts, hips thrusting into his hand as he drops the device back onto where it was initially. he brings his previously free hand down to his cock to stroke the tip, twisting his wrists. biting his lip, hard enough to draw blood, he makes his best effort to keep little whimpers inside of his mouth. it works for the most part... but you already knew what was happening. he does it too many times for you to not know.

"caleb." you warn.

he doesn't answer, he can't answer, mind is too hazy from the force of his orgasm. he's practically like putty on his bed, half asleep and half awake.

"text me in the morning." you say before hanging up and throwing your phone on the bed.

he will not ever learn.

[alohajix]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞

Description: you used to write “Mrs. Y/N Styles” in pink gel pen, convinced you’d marry your celebrity crush one day. It was harmless, teenage daydreaming—until it wasn’t. Years later, standing across from Harry Styles on your wedding day, you find out he’s known about that childhood fantasy all along. And somehow, he saved a piece of it for this moment.

Warnings: none

Word count: 4.5K

author note: based on this request. I had so much fun writing this one. I hope you enjoy this babes 🫶🏻 don’t forget about the tagline if you want to be notified when I post something!

Main Masterlist

Marked by Midnight’s Masterlist

***

You always thought you’d be a mess on your wedding day; crying, pacing, maybe even throwing up from nerves. But instead, you’re calm—too calm.

You sit cross-legged on a velvet stool in the bridal suite, wrapped in a white robe, sipping a mimosa and watching your reflection in the mirror like you’re waiting for the panic to kick in. Your hair is done, your makeup is soft and glowy, and your dress hangs nearby, untouched for now, floating like a dream against the pale blue wall.

Downstairs, Harry’s probably pacing barefoot, pretending to be chill while chewing on his bottom lip the way he always does when he’s trying to hide nerves. You can almost picture him adjusting his tie ten times in a row before giving up and just asking someone to do it for him.

“You good?” your best friend calls from the doorway. She’s holding a mimosa in one hand and her phone in the other, already filming like this is part of a behind-the-scenes documentary.

You glance at her through the mirror and nod. “Yep. Just casually waiting to marry Harry Styles; a totally normal Saturday.”

She snorts and walks in. “You sound way too calm. Shouldn’t you be crying or shaking or something?”

You shrug. “I got that out of the way last night. Cried into a bowl of Frosted Flakes at like midnight.”

Her eyes widen. “Frosted Flakes? That serious?”

“Tony the Tiger witnessed a full breakdown.”

She hands you your drink, laughing. “Well, at least you saved your lashes.”

The suite is filled with soft light from the windows, the scent of fresh flowers lingering in the air. There’s a playlist humming quietly from a speaker in the corner—something mellow and acoustic. Everything feels peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

“I still can’t believe this is happening,” you say after a moment. “Like… actually happening. Him, me. Today.”

She smiles as she leans against the vanity. “He loves you, you know.”

You glance up at her. “I know.”

“No, like—he really loves you. I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that before. It’s like you’re his whole world.”

That makes your chest tighten in the best way. You bite your bottom lip, trying not to smile too hard.

“It still feels fake sometimes,” you admit. “Like I accidentally stepped into someone else’s life.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You manifested this. Remember when you used to write ‘Y/N Styles’ all over your notebooks?”

Your stomach drops. “Wait—how do you know about that?”

She grins like she’s been waiting years for this. “You don’t think I noticed? You folded those little scraps of paper like they were top-secret files. You had a whole stack of ‘Mrs. Styles’ signatures in that glittery pink diary.”

You groan and cover your face with your hands. “I thought I burned those.”

“I rescued one. For evidence.”

You peek through your fingers, cheeks hot. “That was supposed to be a private moment between me and my delusional tween heart.”

She laughs. “Well, guess what? You’re about to marry your delusional tween heart’s dream man. You win.”

You set your mimosa down and look back at the mirror. Your heart is beating a little faster now. It’s wild, how something you once daydreamed about in the back of your algebra class is now real, tangible. Right in front of you. Harry Styles isn’t a poster on your bedroom wall anymore. He’s the man who texts you pictures of ugly mushrooms at the grocery store, who wears your socks when he can’t find his, who once accidentally dyed all your towels pink and left a Post-it note that said, “I’m sorry. Also, you’re welcome.” And today, he’s going to be your husband.

You blink hard, your eyes suddenly feeling a little too watery. “Okay,” you say, clearing your throat and standing. “Help me get into that dress before I lose it again.”

As she walks over and begins unzipping the garment bag, you take one last glance at yourself in the mirror; this version of you—older, wiser, maybe still a little ridiculous—is about to live out the one thing younger-you always hoped for but never thought could actually happen.

***

You met him on a Thursday—which already felt unfair. Thursdays weren’t meant for life-altering moments; they were for laundry and leftovers and forgetting what day it was. But then again, nothing about meeting Harry Styles had ever felt normal.

You were working a temporary job at a media company—nothing glamorous. Just hours in a freezing office staring at your screen and trying not to spill coffee on anything important.

It was your second week when your manager popped her head into your cubicle. “Hey, Styles is coming in. Do me a favor and bring these upstairs?” She dropped a folder and an iced coffee on your desk like it was no big deal.

“Styles?” you repeated, your voice a little higher than intended.

“Yeah. Harry. He’s doing that podcast thing. Don’t make it weird.” And then she was gone.

You stared at the items in front of you. Your heart was already racing. You hadn’t even seen him yet and your brain was short-circuiting.

Okay, you told yourself. You are not fifteen. You are an adult. A calm, capable, non-squealing adult. You took the coffee and folder, stepped into the elevator, and started praying. Not even about seeing him, just that you wouldn’t trip. When the doors opened, he was already there. Sitting in a chair near the glass wall of the studio, looking at his phone, wearing a brown beanie and a soft white tee that made your brain immediately delete all functions except LOOK.

He looked up when he heard the door, and that was it: game over. He smiled at you.

“Hiya.”

His voice was just as deep and warm as you remembered from years of listening to it in headphones. Except this time, it wasn’t coming through a screen. It was directed at you, in real-time, from about eight feet away.

You blinked. “Hi. Uh—here. For you.”

You held out the coffee and folder, your hand embarrassingly shaky.

“Thanks, love.” He stood up to take them, fingers brushing yours for half a second too long. You tried not to freeze, but your whole body buzzed. He glanced at the name on the cup and smiled wider. “They spelled it right. That’s rare.”

“I told them how to spell it,” you said quickly, then winced. “I mean—I didn’t go to the coffee shop, obviously. I just wrote it on the post-it.” You were rambling.

But he laughed. “Very impressive. What’s your name?”

You hesitated. “Y/N.”

His brows lifted, like he recognized it. You panicked; what if, somehow, he’d seen one of those old tweets? The ones where you used to live-blog his every move? The Pinterest board titled Wedding Plans If Harry Ever Notices Me? The Tumblr post from 2013 where you boldly declared, “One day I will be Mrs. Styles. Mark my words.”

He probably hadn’t, but your cheeks were burning all the same.

“Y/N,” he repeated, like he was saving it. “Pretty.”

You smiled awkwardly. “Thanks. Yours is… you know. Famous.”

He laughed again. “Fair enough.”

There was a short pause. He was looking at you in that curious, slightly tilted-head way, like he was trying to figure something out. You looked down at your shoes.

“Well,” you blurted, backing toward the door. “I’ll just let you… be famous and mysterious in peace.”

His smile widened. “It was nice meeting you, Y/N.”

You nodded too fast. “You too.”

You escaped before you could say anything worse. The moment the elevator doors closed, you leaned your head against the wall and let out a groan; because of course that was how you’d meet him: slightly sweaty, nervous, and mentally spiraling.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t have known—was that Harry didn’t forget you after that.

***

You didn’t see him again for three weeks, which was fine. You’d told yourself that the moment passed—your one chance to meet your teenage crush, and you hadn’t died or fainted; that was a win. But then he came back and this time, he remembered you.

“Y/N, right?” he said as soon as he stepped into the studio, that crooked little smile already tugging at his mouth.

You blinked, stunned. “Yeah.”

He pointed at the iced coffee someone else had left on the counter. “You didn’t bring this one, did you?” You shook your head.

“Shame. You spell names better than most people,” he said, like it was a fact. Like he hadn’t been thinking about it at all, even though you knew he had.

That was the beginning; little things, friendly greetings, casual conversations—like the day he leaned against the wall next to your desk, sipping his tea, and said casually, “You look like the kind of person who talks to their plants.”

You turned slowly. “I do not.”

He raised one eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Okay, fine. Pets, then.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. “Maybe.”

He grinned. “Knew it.”

You tried to brush it off, but the way he looked at you—like he was gently unraveling all your little secrets—left you flustered for the rest of the day.

The thing was, Harry didn’t act like someone famous—not around you. He was relaxed, sweet, a little awkward sometimes in a way that made him feel human; hee sent you memes, he remembered your coffee order, he asked questions and listened when you answered. You kept waiting for the catch, for him to ghost you or get bored, or wake up and remember he was Harry freaking Styles and you were just some regular girl with too many embarrassing internet footprints. But it never happened.

Instead, he texted you after long days, called you when he was on the road, and once flew home early just to surprise you on your birthday—even though you told him not to make a big deal out of it. He didn’t make a big deal out of it; he made pancakes in your kitchen, wore a ridiculous paper party hat, and sang “Happy Birthday” to you.

And slowly, somewhere between the midnight phone calls and sleepy mornings tangled in bedsheets, you realized something important: you weren’t just in love with the version of him you grew up watching on a screen; you were in love with the man who left his shoes in the hallway, who had a weird obsession with fancy candles, who once tried to fix your wobbly chair and ended up making it worse.

He wasn’t your celebrity crush anymore, he was yours.

***

The ceremony is quiet: soft music, soft light, soft smiles. Everything feels slow, like the world decided to pause just for you and him. You can feel your heart pounding, your fingers trembling slightly as you hold the bouquet close to your chest.

Harry’s already at the end of the aisle when the doors open. He turns the second you appear, and the look on his face nearly knocks the breath out of you, because of the way he’s looking at you; like the rest of the world disappeared the second he saw you.

You meet his eyes the whole walk down, and he doesn’t look away once; not when you reach him, nor when your fingers slide into his, or when the officiant clears his throat and starts to speak. It’s all a blur. A dreamy, floating blur until that moment comes—vows. He clears his throat, still holding your hand, eyes locked on yours like he’s afraid he’ll miss something if he blinks.

He smiles, nervous but glowing. “I wrote this a hundred different ways,” he says softly, and the guests let out quiet chuckles. “But nothing felt quite right because I still can’t believe I get to stand here and say any of it out loud.” You swallow hard, blinking fast. “I’ve loved a lot of things in my life,” he continues. “Music, travel, but nothing has compared to loving you. You’re my calm when everything feels loud, you’re my home, you’re my best friend.”

Your grip tightens in his.

He pauses, just for a second.“And you’re also the girl who once wrote ‘Mrs. Y/N Styles’ in big bubble letters on a sheet of notebook paper.” Your breath catches. He smiles wider now, eyes sparkling with something playful and proud. “Thought you might recognize this.”

From his jacket pocket, he pulls out a folded piece of paper. Worn, creased, edges slightly faded.

Your hand flies to your mouth. “Oh my God.”

He opens it gently and holds it up. There it is—your old handwriting: pink gel pen, a few hearts, and the words: “Mrs. Y/N Styles” written over and over.

You can’t speak. Your face is on fire, your chest tight in the best possible way.

“Found it by accident,” he says. “Someone who loves you gave it to me. Thought it was sweet, I thought—” He shakes his head, laughing softly. “Honestly, I thought it was the most you thing in the world.” Your vision blurs. “So I kept it,” he adds simply. “I kept it because even before you ever said yes to a first date, before we even really knew each other, I think a part of me hoped this would be where we ended up.”

A tear slips down your cheek. You don’t even try to stop it.

Harry folds the paper back up and tucks it into your joined hands. “So here it is,” he says. “Full circle. You loved me before you knew me. And now I get to spend forever showing you that I’ve loved you since the moment I did.”

You laugh through a quiet sob, squeezing his hand, completely overwhelmed and floating and so in love you think your heart might actually burst. The guests are sniffling, a few straight-up crying. You’re barely holding it together yourself.

When it’s your turn, you manage a soft, shaky laugh. “Um… well, now I feel like I should’ve brought props.” Everyone laughs gently, and even Harry lets out a relieved little smile like thank God you’re still breathing. “I wrote you a letter once,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I was thirteen, I said I was going to marry you someday. I never sent it, only because I never thought I’d even meet you.”

You pause, looking down at the paper between you.

“But somehow the universe heard me and you found me, and now I get to marry not the version of you I made up in my head, but the real you. The funny, soft, kind, chaotic, always-late Harry.” He laughs, eyes glassy. “And I’m so glad it’s you,” you say, voice cracking. “It’s always been you.”

The officiant says something after that, but you barely hear it because Harry’s reaching for you, hands cradling your cheeks, eyes shining.

“You ready?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life, and maybe he has.

***

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk199o @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee @pbandnutella @maudie-duan @cat-loves-music @harrysgirl2003 @harrystyleshotwife @secretands-blog @dutchtheatrelore

[femmenature]

Devoted to you

The creator of this content does not speak English, constructive criticism on grammar is welcome😭

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Fem!Reader (without a house specified)

Summary: You and Mattheo aren't serious. But seeing you in class talking so animatedly with another guy makes his feelings take an unexpected turn.

Warnings: Bad words, mentions of sexual topics (almost none)

-

Mattheo usually didn't pay attention in class, his only role was to occasionally annoy Theodore. But now? He'd never been so focused, watching everything you did, the way you looked at the idiot sitting next to you. The way your eyelashes fluttered, causing him to constantly need to see you. The way one of your legs was draped over the other, lifting your skirt. The way your hair was positioned in the perfect place, a small strand falling across your face as if it had been an paid actor to make you look even more beautiful and romantic. The way your perfume filled the classroom, making it impossible to ignore it, to ignore you. Your laughter filled every corner of his mind, but knowing that you weren't laughing with him, but with someone else, made his hands tremble with envy, with anger. A sigh of longing escaped his lips, and a look of need for you appeared, unwilling and unable to hide it.

"What the hell are you doing?" He thought to himself. He knows you're not in a relationship with him, he knows it's nothing serious, so why did he let this feeling get this far? Why did he let it go so deep? Now he knows that by not saying it, by hiding it, his body is starting to give it away. The vein in his neck, his trembling hands, his labored breathing, the anguish in his chest, his clenched jaw and his piercing eyes on you. It's impossible to hide it, he's desperate. And on the other hand, he wondered how the hell you're not feeling the same as him, how can you be talking to someone else when you both know each other so well, so deeply. And it's not just about the sex and the passion in bed anymore. Was it casual when you listened to his family's problems while he lay on your chest? When he cried sitting on your bed waiting for you to appear, knowing that you were the only one who knows about his darkness, about his father?

When he could no longer hide his pain, Mattheo abruptly stood up from his seat, earning a couple of glances, though he was only interested in yours. He didn't care, since all he needed was to get out of there right now. When he was finally able to escape the classroom, he walked quickly through the empty hallways, since everyone was in class, where he should be. But a voice made him stop in his tracks, and the only one who can do that is you, he knows it very well.

"Mattheo, what's going on? Why did you leave like that?" Your voice comes out in a wary tone. You're worried, he never did that, he always seemed so cool and carefree. Even though you know him, you know him too well for that action to go unnoticed. You know he didn't leave like that because he was bored with class or because he was having a rebellious moment; it's more than that.

Without turning around, Mattheo spoke to you calmly, trying to control his voice so you wouldn't find out what was really wrong with him. "It's nothing, go back to class. I don't feel like being there, so I just left. You can tell them I feel bad or some lie like that." You rolled your eyes, knowing it was bullshit. Why would he lie to you now? Knowing so much about each other, what is he hiding from you that it's so serious? "Seriously, you expect me to believe your excuse?"

"I don't expect anything from you. I saw you were having fun, so I don't mean to interrupt," he snapped. Your shoulders tensed, and you watched as his fists clenched, trying to hold back the words eager to escape his throat. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean? And turn around if you're going to accuse me of stupid things, Mattheo."

His body turns slowly, looking into your eyes. He couldn't help but love the way you command him, the way you control him so effortlessly, the way you have him wrapped around your fingers. He needs you to keep playing with him like he's your puppet. He'd let you do whatever you want to him, but he doesn't say it. He can't tell you, he can't look weak in front of everyone, in front of you. But the truth is, he's devoted to you. Every word, every order, every complaint, every step you take toward him is a dagger in his chest. Your face is the most sacred art to him; he'd tear down every painting at Hogwarts to fill them with you. Your legs, your hands, your lips, your eyes.

His eyes remained fixed on you, the brightness in them evident every thought that crossed his mind. With a small, frustrated whisper, he finally spoke. "Am I really nothing to you? Because I'm going crazy just looking at you and you seem so... cold about it." Your eyebrows raised for a second, unable to maintain a neutral face while listening to him. "What are you talking about? You started this by establishing that we're not serious at all, in fact, that we never will be."

"I know, I know what I said. But that was before I knew you, really knew you. Before I didn't know how sweet your voice was when you tried to cheer me up. I didn't know how soft your hands were when you caressed my face. I didn't know that someone could wake up so beautiful and I didn't know that each one of my sighs would be eternally dedicated to you. The time we spent together during these months changed me, like my face has never been so good since you came into my life, without all those injuries. Everyone asks me why I don't get into fights like before, and even I surprise myself. Until I remember who I do it for, I do it for you and that is reason enough to stop. You are reason enough for everything you want me to do, just tell me, tell me what I have to do to be only yours because truly I don't want anyone else"

Your body is drawn to his words, your steps moving closer to him, standing face to face. You couldn't hide your smile, how could you? This is the moment you've been waiting for. "First, I want to make something clear. I wasn't having fun in class, I laughed at the jokes he told out of obligation, I didn't want to be that bad either. I think you know my real laugh well enough to know that it was fake." His face relaxes, letting out his characteristic smirk. "Second: you don't need to do anything, Mattheo Riddle. I was yours the moment you asked my name so confidently. Although I tried to avoid it, I guess the rumors are true. You're irresistible," you said the last bit ironically, while he let out a small laugh, rolling his eyes. "So... is this the right time to ask you to be my girlfriend? Or do I have to make a fool of myself again, but this time in front of the entire Hogwarts dining hall? Because if you want, I will." You tilt your head slightly, looking into his eyes, still with a smile on your face. "Come here, idiot." You pull him by the tie and kiss his lips, which you knew so well, but now it's different. Now it's better, because he's yours.

-

I owed this to my Harry Potter girls. 🫡💚

Maybe I'll release one of Van's today! Again, I apologize if I misspelled anything!

[wordsofwhimsy]

【Ｏｐｐｏｓｉｔｅｓ　

Ａｔｔｒａｃｔ】 - Part Eleven

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, romance, hurt/comfort, you guys finally *kith*, Mark is sooo ughh #NEEDTHAT

Word Count: 3,220

Chapter Synopsis: literally just listen to “In the Air Tonight” by Phil Collins – that’s what i did writing the damn thing LMAO

Part Ten

The room had gone oddly quiet, save for the hum of your overhead light and the distant echo of college dorm noises that you’d long stopped hearing. Emily, somewhere between sarcasm and absolute chaos, had somehow disappeared. Or maybe she was still lurking, but for once, you didn’t really care.

Mark sat on the floor beside you now, leaning against the bed. He’d unzipped his suit just enough to make you tense at first – but he claimed he was hot, and what were you supposed to do? Tell him to sweat to death?

You both stared up at the ceiling, your legs crossed, his arms sprawled out behind him like he had absolutely no concept of personal space.

“So, uh…” Mark broke the silence, his voice unusually soft. “Did I… did I ruin your first outing—the game, I mean?”

You snorted, lulling your head to the side to smile at him. “Are you kidding? You made that game. Every other sporting event will go down as cow shit in comparison.”

Mark blinked, caught completely off guard—not by your words, but by the way you said them. The easy warmth in your voice. That unfiltered, scrunched-nose grin like you couldn’t help but laugh when he was around. Something about it tugged at his chest in a way that was starting to feel dangerously familiar.

His lips quirked. “You’ve got a really good smile, you know that?”

Your brows lifted, flustered. “What?”

Mark just shrugged, looking back at the ceiling like he hadn’t just casually dropped a bomb on your heart. “Nothing. Just saying.”

You furrowed your brows, brain buffering. “I—I mean, okay. Cool. Thank you. For that... random observation.”

Mark huffed a laugh, head tilting toward you again, his shoulder brushing yours. “It wasn’t random.”

You turned to look at him, and he was already watching you.

Something about the way he looked at you now was different—less chaotic energy and god-tier ego, more quiet curiosity, like he was studying a constellation and hadn’t decided whether to touch it or protect it.

“Stop staring,” you muttered, suddenly very aware of how close he was. How his leg was pressed against yours. How the collar of his suit had been unzipped just enough to show the sharp dip of his collarbone, a faint scar peeking out near the edge. You hated how distracting it was. You hated it more that he knew.

Mark leaned in slightly, his voice a low hum. “You’re the one who called me cow-shit-defying. I’m trying to commit the moment to memory.”

You stared at him. He stared right back.

And then—because the universe has a sense of humor—

Emily, from across the room, muffled through a mouthful of pretzels: “I swear to God, if you two don’t kiss by midterms, I’m gonna write a fanfic just to cope.”

You both startled like you’d been caught stealing. Mark pulled back an inch. You whipped your head around.

“Emily!” you yelped.

“What? I’m emotionally invested,” she said, sprawled dramatically across her bed. “Besides, I’ve been third-wheeling your slow-burn all night. I’ve earned the right to ship it publicly.”

Mark laughed, clearly amused, clearly not bothered by the derail. “Midterms, huh?” he said, turning back to you with a little smirk. “Think we can beat the deadline?”

You looked at him, cheeks absolutely burning. You swallowed. Then you laughed—awkward, too high-pitched, trying way too hard to be casual. “Okay, can we not make this weird? Friends don’t kiss.”

Emily groaned from her bed. “Oh my God.”

Mark blinked. “We’re what now?”

You waved him off. “Friends. Buddies. Teammates in the emotionally stunted Olympics. I don’t know.”

Emily lobbed a pretzel at your head. “You cannot be serious.”

Mark, for his part, was just staring at you now, brows raised in disbelief. “Right. Okay. Cool. Just friends. That’s... fine.”

You turned toward him, suspicious. “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I just ran over your childhood goldfish.”

He shrugged, very dramatic. “I don’t know. I just think it’s funny.”

“You don’t sound like you think it’s funny.”

“I think it’s hilarious, actually,” he said, standing up suddenly and brushing off his hands. “Because I definitely crash-landed at a baseball stadium in front of twenty thousand people for a buddy.”

Your mouth opened. “You were not showing off for me.”

Mark looked at you then—really looked. The teasing dropped clean off his face, replaced by something almost… angry.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I was.”

Silence.

You forgot how to breathe.

Emily held up her hands like she was about to bless the union. “Okay! This feels like a moment. I’m just gonna—” She grabbed her phone and slipped off the bed. “Gonna get some water. From literally anywhere else.”

Neither of you said anything as she tiptoed out of the room like it was a holy shrine.

You stood.

It just kind of… happened. One second you were frozen, the next your legs were moving. And then you were toe to toe with him—well, toe to chest. You hadn’t realized how tall he really was until he was standing this close, until you had to tilt your chin nearly vertical just to meet his eyes.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Mark…”

But his expression hardened. Not cruel. Not cold. Just—tired. Tired of pretending.

“No,” he said sharply. “Don’t give me that.”

You blinked. “Give you what?”

“That look. Like you’re still just so confused and like you still don’t get it.” His voice dropped, rough and low. “I would’ve pulled the moon out of orbit if it made you smile. I would’ve caught the goddamn sun if you asked. And that still would’ve been easier than sitting here wondering if you’re ever gonna stop calling me your friend.”

You swore the air got thinner.

Mark ran a hand over his head, restless. “You don’t get it. I fly through storms and fight things I don’t even have names for, and none of it pissed me off more than seeing you, in that stadium, with Kyle.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“I’m not trying to play some dramatic game,” he continued, eyes dark. “I’m not showing off because it’s fun. I showed off because I hated the idea of you never looking at me the way I look at you. And if the only way I could get your attention was to hurl a baseball around the entire fucking planet, then fine. I’d do it again.”

You stared up at him. Speechless. Reeling.

Then you said the only thing you could think of, your voice barely there: “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Mark huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Still made you smile at me though.”

And then—so suddenly you barely registered the movement—he dipped his head down, nose brushing yours.

You could feel his breath. The whole world had shrunk to just this. Just him.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he said quietly. “Tell me I’m crazy. I’ll leave. I’ll let it go.”

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Because your heart was beating so loud you were scared he could hear it. Because he was right there. Because nothing had ever made more sense.

And because, finally, you whispered, “Don’t go.”

His hand slid up to cradle your jaw like he was holding something breakable.

And then he kissed you.

You didn’t even register the moment your lips touched.

It was like stepping off a ledge—fast, breathless, inevitable. And then there was heat. All at once. His hand cupping your cheek, the other curling firm around your waist like he had to hold you still or he’d actually fall apart.

Your fingers twisted in the collar of his suit, anchoring yourself as his mouth pressed to yours—gentle at first, hesitant. Like he was waiting for you to pull away.

You didn’t.

You leaned in, breath stuttering, and that was it.

Mark made a sound—low, wrecked—and the kiss broke open. His arms crushed you against him, mouth slanting harder over yours, all heat and hunger and something that had been simmering under his skin for way too long. His lips parted yours with a soft, aching kind of urgency, like he needed to taste every inch of your hesitation and turn it into yes, please, more.

You gasped.

He kissed you through it.

The world disappeared. There was only this—his hands, his mouth, his breath, the way he touched you, like you were something he’d dreamed about holding and couldn’t quite believe was real.

You were shaking.

And Mark felt it.

He broke the kiss, just barely—his lips still ghosting yours, breath hot, arms gentle now as they wrapped you up like you were breakable and holy all at once.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, voice rough, like it hurt.

You nodded, breath catching. “It’s—um. It’s my first.” He stilled. Your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Kiss, I mean.”

For a second, he just stared. Then he swore under his breath, soft but intense, like he was trying to keep himself from shattering.

“You let me be your first?”

You started to pull back, suddenly mortified. “Was that—should I not have—?”

Mark kissed you again. Fierce. Quick. Desperate.

“No. God, no. It’s perfect. I just—fuck.” His forehead dropped against yours, eyes squeezed shut. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth. Your cheek. Down your jaw, slow and reverent. “You’re scared, and you’re still letting me touch you like this. Do you have any idea what kind of trust that is?”

You whimpered, just a little. Mark groaned like that sound went straight through him.

“I’d do anything for you,” he said, hoarse. “You hear me? Not because we’re friends. Not because I’m superhuman. Because it’s you.”

Your whole body felt like it was trembling.

Mark tipped your chin up, kissed you again—slower this time. Like he was savoring it. Like he was memorizing you.

You melted.

And when his hands pulled you closer, when your fingers slipped up to the back of his neck and held on like he was the only thing keeping you grounded—

He lost it.

The kiss deepened. His mouth opened against yours, tongue brushing yours with a warmth that sent your knees buckling. You gasped, and he caught you like he’d been waiting for it, hands firm on your waist, lips moving with a kind of controlled desperation that made your head spin.

You broke away with a soft little gasp. “Mark—”

He kissed your throat. “Too much?”

“No,” you breathed. “Just… new.”

He smiled, lips brushing your skin. “Then I’ll go slow.”

But even slow with Mark felt like being devoured.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud—barely more than the creak of worn dorm bed springs—but your breath still caught like you’d been dropped from a rooftop.

Mark hovered over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other skimming lightly over your waist. His knee slid between yours, steadying himself, but it made your whole body tense, nerves and heat and something breathless crawling under your skin.

You looked up at him under the soft wash of fairy lights. His face glowed golden and unreal, every angle sharp, every inch of him a contradiction: devastating and gentle. Eyes dark with want, jaw clenched like he was fighting a war inside himself just to keep from consuming you whole.

And then he kissed you again.

Slower once more. Softer.

Like the taste of your mouth was a secret he wasn’t ready to share with the world yet.

You made a tiny sound against his lips. He pulled back just far enough to catch it.

“God,” he whispered. “You don’t even know, do you?”

Your brows drew together. “Know what?”

“How long I’ve wanted this,” he said, voice barely a breath. His fingers brushed your cheek, your jaw, your lips. “How long I’ve been losing my mind just… watching you.”

You couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. “But… you never said anything.”

He let out a low, almost pained laugh, forehead falling to yours. “Because I’m an idiot. And because you’re…” His voice cracked a little. “You’re too good. Too bright. I didn’t wanna mess that up.”

You blinked. “Mark—”

“I didn’t think I could have this,” he confessed, brushing your hair back like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. “Not really. Not without ruining everything.”

His mouth was on yours again before you could say anything. Hot, slow, dizzying. You kissed him back like it was the only answer you had.

When he broke the kiss this time, he didn’t pull away. Just hovered over you, his nose brushing yours, breath warm against your lips.

“You wreck me,” he whispered.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of his suit. “I don’t want that...”

Mark laughed softly, breathlessly, like he couldn’t believe you were real. “I think I fell in love with you in that stupid yellow dress.”

Your whole body went still.

He was still so close. Still looking at you like you were all he saw. “You walked out, smiling like you didn’t know what you were doing to me. I was done.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed. “You love me?”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, the edge of your jaw, your cheekbone. “I’m fucking gone for you.”

The words hit you like gravity in reverse—like your heart was trying to lift out of your chest.

You exhaled, shaky. “Say it again.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “I love you.”

And that was it.

Whatever thin thread was holding you together snapped clean in two.

The tears hit before you could stop them—hot and sudden and silent, slipping down your cheeks like your body didn’t know what else to do with the everything you were feeling.

Mark’s face changed instantly. “Whoa—hey, hey, what’s wrong?” He sat up just enough to hover properly, hands cupping your face with such care it made you cry harder. “What—did I say something? Did I mess this up?”

You shook your head fast, hands clutching the front of his suit. “No—no, you didn’t—God, it’s not you.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, wiping at your cheeks with his thumbs like it physically hurt him to see you cry.

You sucked in a breath, voice barely more than a whisper. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

His whole body stilled.

You tried to laugh, but it cracked. “Just kind of always been… unlovable, I guess.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Mark’s breath caught, his chest tightening with a fierce, almost panicked urge to fix this—fix your thoughts, your view of yourself, fix them.

He reached for you, hands cupping your face with a tenderness that didn’t match the fire in his eyes. “No,” he breathed out, a little rough, “don’t say no shit like that.”

You blinked up at him, confusion and sorrow swirling in your gaze. “But—”

Mark’s thumbs brushed over your cheeks, wiping away the stray tears that you hadn’t even realized had fallen. “You are not unlovable. You are literally the most lovable person I’ve ever met.”

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words landing like something heavy in your chest, almost too much to process.

“I swear to you,” he continued, the intensity in his voice wrapping around you like a warm but unrelenting grip. “I would burn this fucking world to the ground if it meant you could see yourself the way that I do. Hell, I’d fight a god just to see you smile.”

You couldn't help it. A shaky laugh escaped you, almost incredulous, but warm all the same. It was ridiculous—utterly, completely ridiculous—but also, impossibly sweet. But that was how he was, wasn’t it? All impossible contradictions.

As your laugh bubbled out, Mark’s serious expression faltered, the smallest smirk curling up at the corners of his mouth. The tension in his face melted into something else—something even more intense, but also just a little unhinged.

"I’m dead serious," he whispered, voice a little rough from the mix of amusement and desire. He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, his lips brushing over your skin like a constant reminder that he was right there, so close, but still relentless in his words. "I’d rock Poseidon’s shit if it meant you’d smile like that forever."

You snorted, your laugh getting a little louder, but before you could respond, his lips found the curve of your neck, sending a little jolt through your body. It made your laugh come out in little bursts, so cute and breathless.

“I’d make Mother Nature look like a bitch for you,” he continued, kissing the sensitive spot right behind your ear. His lips ghosted over your skin, and you squirmed slightly, the sensation sending more giggles spilling out. "Father Time can get it too—I don’t give a damn."

You couldn’t contain yourself. The absurdity of his words, mixed with the playful ticklishness of his kisses, had you practically wheezing with laughter. You tried to push him away just a little, but it was like trying to shove a wall of muscle and determination.

“Mark!” you gasped between giggles. "What are you—"

“What?” he muttered against your skin, still grinning. “Just thinking of all the gods I’d fuckin’ wreck for you." His lips traveled down to your collarbone now, pressing soft, quick kisses all over you. "I'd take on fuckin’ Zeus with nothing but a damn toothpick and my drawls." Another kiss. "Mother Nature? More like Mother who?"

Your laughing was uncontrolled, your body shaking with tears that now fell from joy. “You’re out of your mind!”

“I’m serious,” he said with that ridiculous, playful smirk. His eyes were full of mischief, his lips now barely brushing against yours. “You don’t even know how much I’d do for you.”

He kissed you again—just long enough to make you forget everything but him. His lips were gentle but insistent, like he was trying to pour all those wild, ridiculous words into this single meeting of mouths.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, he raised his eyebrows in that cocky way that made your heart flip. “You’re gonna laugh at me now, aren’t you?”

Your voice came out in little breaths, still a giggling mess, but also… totally smitten. “No,” you said, but the smile on your face made it obvious that, yes, you kind of were. “But you’re insane.”

Mark grinned, that smirk deep and crooked, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. “You’re not wrong.” He leaned in, kissed you again—slow this time, reverent—and then pulled back just enough to let the words land.

“But if it ever gets too loud in that head of yours… if you ever start doubting how much I want you, how hard I’d fight for you—just remember this.”

Another kiss, soft at the corner of your mouth. Then—

“I’d make the gods kneel if it meant you’d never feel unloved again.”

———————

Part Twelve ———————

Taglist! @maddyb-rapps | @sweet-3-whispers | @moradogreen | @rayaaa4444 | @luvvcharxo | @byteme05 | @rivalriotrenegade | @1abi | @onlybatsyy | @heiankyonoeiyuukun | @dillybuggg | @am-3-thyst | @mikevi | @sadest-bookshelf

[dailyhtfboards]

Day 89

As a guy with a musical background, the note sequence at the bottom hurts me /lh

(From TV episode 12B In a Jam)

[soliyawnn]

֗ ✩彡 . | 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧

. . 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡.. he ruins the only good thing he didn’t plan for.

. . 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: rin itoshi x gn!reader

. . 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: angst, hurt/no comfort, post-game confrontation, mutual pining

. . 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: arguments, emotional outbursts, hurtful dialogue, miscommunication, mentions of loneliness and emotional repression

. . 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 685

. . 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: first fic i ever published how do we feel ahaha, reader is kinda delusional but who isnt 🙁

the thing about rin itoshi is that he doesn’t do anything that isn’t planned. his life is a series of carefully calculated steps: goal after goal, victory after victory. his focus was always set on one thing—himself.

but you? you were never part of the plan.

and yet, every time you walked into the room, you threw him off track. you cracked the barrier he’d fought so hard to build between himself and the rest of the world.

rin tried—again and again—to shrug you off, ignore you, shut you down. all his usual tactics. but you didn’t give up. you showed up at his games and cheered for him. and even when he didn’t ask you to, you sat with him at lunch. you tried to be his friend, despite everything. despite him.

but none of that matters now, because rin screwed it all up.

he pushed you away—too hard, too cold—and now, there’s no going back.

he didn’t mean to, or maybe he did. but it didn’t matter.

you’re gone.

rin always knew this would happen if he kept doing what he did best: keeping people at arm’s length, never letting anyone in. and today, for the first time, you finally walked away.

the match was over, and rin itoshi was pissed.

the loss stung more than he wanted to admit, but it wasn’t just the game. it was you.

you’d arrived late, again.

he spotted you by the bleachers, just now approaching him, acting like everything was fine.

“of course,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening. “this is just perfect.”

you always had a way of showing up at the worst possible moments. of knocking him off balance just by being there. and right now? he didn’t need you here. not when his head was already a mess.

“are you serious?” rin snapped, storming toward you. “you couldn’t even show up on time? i needed to focus—but you—you couldn’t even bother to be here when it mattered.”

you didn’t say anything. just looked at him, calm and unreadable. and somehow, that made it worse.

“you always do this,” he growled, fists clenched. “you show up late, mess with my head, and act like it’s nothing. i told you—I don’t need this. i don’t need you distracting me when i’m trying to win.”

he was pacing now, the frustration boiling over into fury. “you think you’re helping? you’re not. you’re just making everything worse.”

still, silence.

rin’s voice cracked, but the anger pushed him forward. “you think this is funny, don’t you? that you can walk in, be all sweet, act like you’re saving me—”

he didn’t finish the sentence. because you cut through it all with one line:

“i thought you looked lonely that day, rin. so i wanted to be your friend.”

the words hit him harder than anything on the field.

friend.

his chest tightened. but the only thing he could say was—

“yeah? well, i don’t need your pity. not now, not ever.”

and just like that, it was over.

your eyes didn’t widen. you didn’t yell. you didn’t cry. you just looked at him like you were finally done. cold. distant. like a door had shut and you wouldn’t be opening it again.

and then you walked away.

he doesn’t know how long he stands there, rain soaking through his clothes, jaw aching from clenching, hands trembling.

the rain hides what’s on his face. or maybe he just tells himself that.

he knows he crossed a line.

knows he hurt you.

and worst of all—he meant it. at least in that moment.

because you weren’t supposed to matter.

but you do, you always have.

now the field is empty. the game is over. and for once, rin itoshi has no plan.

just the bitter taste of regret, and the sinking feeling that maybe—this time—he destroyed the only thing he didn’t want to lose.

and yet, as he watches the path you left through the rain, he thinks:

if you’d just look back—just once—maybe he’d still have a chance to say the things he should’ve said before.

[maaeveeee]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐒

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x oc!black!fem!

Warnings: none

Author’s note: this one is way longer than the other fanfics I have posted. Enjoy!

There were few things Anthony Bridgerton prided himself on more than his ability to assess a situation quickly, efficiently, and with the ruthless precision of a man who had spent the past ten years ensuring his family didn’t fall into absolute chaos.

It was with this same precision that he now stood in the center of Lady Danbury’s salon, gazing across the sea of eligible young ladies like a general surveying the battlefield.

He had a mission. He had a list. And by God, he would be married by the end of the season.

He moved briskly from one cluster of ladies to the next, exchanging pleasantries, making mental notes.

Too timid. Too giggly. Frighteningly obsessed with swans. Passable, but mispronounced ‘Goethe’ and will therefore not do.

Then his gaze fell upon her.

Lady Evelina Marchand was not trying to get his attention. In fact, she looked determined to avoid it entirely, seated slightly apart from the crowd near a window, sipping tea like she had paid rent on that chair and fully intended to stay until the lease ended.

She was dressed in a gown of smoky gray, her hair artfully arranged but not overly fussy, and her expression unreadable—save for the slight arch of one perfectly unimpressed brow as she caught him staring.

Interesting.

He made his way over, purposeful as ever.

“Lady Evelina,” he greeted smoothly. “I’ve come to inform you of a decision.”

She did not rise. She did not simper. She did not blink, even as she slowly set her teacup down with surgical precision.

“Have you,” she said, as if this were the most exhausting news she’d heard all day. “Should I brace myself?”

Anthony allowed himself a small, confident smile—the one that usually got at least a blush, if not an outright curtsy.

“You are, by far, the most suitable candidate for Viscountess.”

A pause.

A long pause.

Evelina tilted her head slightly, like a cat observing an unusually loud bird.

“Oh dear,” she said. “You’re serious.”

Anthony’s smile faltered. “Yes. Quite.”

“Well,” she said, leaning back into her chair with an air of amused dismay, “I suppose I should be flattered. I’ve never been selected with such military efficiency before.”

He frowned, a little thrown. “It’s not military—it’s logical. I’ve considered all options. You’re intelligent, and well－mannered, your family is of excellent standing, and you’re fluent in multiple languages. You were presented to the Queen without incident, which is more than can be said for half this room. You haven’t fainted, shouted, or attempted to flirt with my brother—which, frankly, sets you leagues ahead of the competition. I believe you are perfectly suited for the role.”

“The role,” she repeated, sipping her tea. “Of wife.”

“Of Viscountess,” he corrected. “There is a distinction.”

She set her cup down again, very slowly, and then—God help him—laughed.

Anthony blinked. He had, in his twenty－nine years, been rejected, mocked, and even once slapped (that had been a misunderstanding involving a fencing match, a very determined lady, and a bottle of champagne). But he had never been laughed at mid－proposal.

He narrowed his eyes. “What, precisely, do you find amusing?”

“You,” Evelina said brightly, utterly unbothered. “You’ve made a list, haven’t you? I can see it now. Written in that terrifyingly neat hand, probably organized by columns—traits, ratings, acceptable conversation topics—”

“There are no ratings,” he said indignantly, which was not a denial.

She beamed at him like she’d just caught him in a trap of his own making. “You’re trying to hire a wife.”

“I am seeking a suitable match.”

“You sound like you’re choosing wallpaper.”

“Wallpaper doesn’t argue,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, is that what you’re hoping for in a spouse?” she asked, eyes dancing. “Docility? Silence? A woman who won’t correct your Latin or point out when you’re being insufferable?”

“I am not insufferable.”

“You’re currently trying to logic your way into matrimony by interviewing women like they’re servants.”

“It’s hardly—” he paused. “It is a highly efficient process.”

She stood in one graceful motion, towering over him by at least one inch thanks to her heels and her complete lack of respect for his authority.

“Anthony,” she said, with the air of a woman speaking to a very stubborn child, “I am not going to marry you.”

He blinked. “You’re turning me down?”

“You didn’t even ask, my lord. You just… announced it. Like you’d chosen a new horse.”

“You’re comparing yourself to a horse?”

“Oh, forgive me. Was that your job?”

Anthony opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again.

She smiled. “Good day, my lord.”

She walked off, leaving him standing by the tea tray, feeling something very unfamiliar tighten in his chest.

Annoyance.

Intrigue.

Maybe… both?

He wasn’t sure.

But what he did know, with absolute certainty, was this:

He was going to marry her.

She just didn’t know it yet.

Anthony sat at the breakfast table, jaw tight, spoon clinking aggressively against his teacup.

Benedict strolled in like a man who hadn’t been emotionally humiliated in public, whistling a little tune, coat slightly askew in that sort of way that made women sigh and Anthony want to commit light murder.

He took one look at his brother and grinned.

“Oh no,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” Anthony snapped.

“The look of a man who has had his romantic overtures not only rejected, but mocked.”

Anthony inhaled sharply. “I was not rejected.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Benedict said, pouring himself tea with theatrical elegance. “You merely proposed a logical, emotionless union to Lady Evelina Marchand, who then laughed in your face in front of half the ton.”

“It was not a proposal.”

“It was certainly not romantic,” Eloise added, entering the room like a gust of wind, hair half up, holding a book with the spine cracked so far back it was practically a pamphlet. “You might as well have handed her a contract.”

Anthony set his cup down with such force it clinked ominously. “I simply explained why we were compatible. There’s nothing wrong with approaching marriage with maturity and rational thought.”

“Yes,” Benedict said, leaning back, “because nothing sets a lady’s heart aflame like being told she’s statistically optimal.” tv

Eloise flopped into the nearest chair. “Did you even ask her if she wanted to be married at all?”

“She’s at the marriage events,” Anthony said. “That’s what they’re for.”

“Oh, Anthony,” she said, resting her chin in her hand with an expression of delighted pity. “You really do think women exist only to be chosen, don’t you?”

“I do not—”

“Does your list of qualifications include ‘has her own opinions’ or was that under the ‘to be discouraged’ column?” Benedict asked.

Anthony glared. “It is not a literal list.”

Eloise and Benedict shared a look.

“She compared herself to a horse,” Anthony muttered.

“And you were surprised she didn’t curtsy afterward?” Benedict said, looking as though he might genuinely expire from glee. “Oh, this is better than the time Colin got caught climbing out of that opera singer’s window and sprained his ankle.”

“At least that wasn’t in the paper,” Anthony growled.

“You’re right,” Eloise said with mock solemnity. “This is far worse. This happened in Lady Danbury’s drawing room. The woman remembers everything. There’ll be a ballad by next Tuesday.”

Anthony stood abruptly. “I’m going riding.”

“To chase her down again?” Benedict said helpfully. “Might I suggest flowers this time? Or perhaps a hand－delivered spreadsheet?”

Anthony gave them both one last scathing look and swept out of the room.

There was a long pause.

Then Benedict leaned toward Eloise. “He’s going to do something incredibly stupid, isn’t he?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Later that afternoon in Eloise’s Room, She was writing a letter to Penelope (a very dramatic one, titled “The Patriarchy Continues To Offend Me”) when Hyacinth knocked and stuck her head in.

“Eloise,” she said, “Anthony just asked me if Lady Marchand likes dogs.”

Eloise blinked. “Why?”

“He said he’s going to ‘accidentally’ run into her at the park.”

“With a dog?”

“With two dogs.”

Eloise grinned slowly, wickedly. “Do you think we have time to borrow Newton from the Featheringtons?”

Meanwhile, at Hyde Park Anthony stood beside two borrowed dogs—one of whom had clearly never been on a leash, and the other of whom was currently chewing on his bootlace—with the air of a man deeply regretting several life decisions.

He was wearing his best coat. His hair was perfect.

And then, as if summoned by Fate or the Devil himself, Lady Evelina Marchand appeared on the path.

She was arm in arm with another lady, laughing at something utterly unrelated to him (which offended him slightly), and looking so infuriatingly radiant that Anthony nearly tripped over the smaller dog.

She spotted him immediately. Her expression changed not at all.

“Lord Bridgerton,” she said as they drew closer. “Are those… your dogs?

“Yes,” he lied, with the confidence of a man who had absolutely never owned a dog in his life.

She looked down at the one attempting to eat a stick three times its size. “They seem… spirited.”

“They are very well－trained.”

At that exact moment, the larger dog lunged forward, tangled the leash around Anthony’s legs, and sent him stumbling backwards into a hedge.

There was silence.

Then—of course—Evelina burst out laughing.

“Are you trying to impress me,” she asked, voice breathless with mirth, “or is this just a bonus?”

Anthony stood, brushing leaves from his coat with all the rage and dignity of a man who had been bested, again, by a woman with a sharp tongue and unreasonably good cheekbones.

“I was merely out walking,” he said tightly.

“Of course you were,” she said. “In full dress coat. With unfamiliar dogs. At precisely the hour I frequent this path.”

“…Coincidence,” he muttered.

Her smile was maddening. “Well. I’ll leave you to your coincidence, then.”

She curtsied, impossibly graceful, and walked away.

The smaller dog immediately attempted to follow her.

Anthony sighed. “Yes, I know. She’s charming. Shut up.”

The following afternoon, Lady Evelina Marchand sat beneath the shade of a great chestnut tree in the gardens of the Bridgerton estate—by invitation, to her mild surprise.

The request had been delivered on crisp stationery with Viscount Bridgerton’s infuriatingly exact signature, and a line so succinct, it could only have been his:

A matter of some importance. — A.

She’d considered ignoring it. She should have. And yet, curiosity—and an inconvenient flutter in her stomach—had won out.

And so here she was. Alone. Waiting.

Of course he was late.

She did not have to wait long.

Anthony appeared with all the subtlety of a man who had rehearsed this in the mirror and yet still managed to look vaguely annoyed with himself.

He wore no cravat, his hair a little mussed, as though he’d attempted to appear casual and ended up looking handsomer for it, damn him.

“Lady Evelina,” he said, voice measured, as he approached.

“My lord,” she returned, polite as ever, though her eyes sparkled faintly. “I must admit, I’m surprised you summoned me. I half－expected you to dispatch a solicitor.”

Anthony exhaled slowly, clearly preparing himself. “I owe you an apology.”

That brought her eyebrows up. “Do you?”

“Yes,” he said, with all the dignity of a man being stabbed politely in the pride. “For my earlier… proposition. I may have approached it with the finesse of a banker inspecting livestock.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Evelina said, utterly straight－faced. “There was some romance. You did mention my French.”

Anthony gave her a look. “I meant what I said. About your merits. But I realize now that I failed to… account for your spirit.”

“My spirit,” she echoed, amused. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“You are… exceedingly difficult.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t—” He exhaled again. “It shouldn’t be a compliment.”

“But it is,” she said gently. “Especially coming from you.”

They stood there in silence, the wind teasing at the leaves above.

“I’m not used to being refused,” he said after a beat.

“I’d imagine not.”

“I’m not used to being laughed at, either.”

“That,” she said with a grin, “you rather deserved.”

He looked away, then back, and there was something unreadable in his expression. Less pride. More… searching.

“You intrigue me, Evelina.”

It was the first time he’d said her name aloud.

She blinked. Then tilted her head slightly, like she was weighing something delicate. “Because I said no?”

“No,” he said quickly, then hesitated. “At first, perhaps. But now—”

He stopped himself. Anthony Bridgerton, master of speeches, commander of social maneuvering, rendered speechless.

Evelina stepped closer, just a fraction. “You’re very serious,” she said, softly. “So terribly proper when it suits you. And yet I suspect you’re not half as composed as you pretend.”

He met her gaze squarely. “I’m not pretending.”

“You are,” she said gently. “You think love is dangerous. That wanting someone too much is a liability.”

He froze.

“And now you’ve met someone who won’t agree to be married out of logic, and it’s turned your entire strategy upside down.”

“I don’t—”

“You do,” she said, and this time her voice was quieter. “You want a life you can control. A future that won’t surprise you. But Anthony—what makes you think marriage to someone like me would ever be… predictable?”

There it was again. His name, this time from her mouth.

It did something to him.

He stepped closer. “You think I can’t handle being surprised?”

“I think it terrifies you,” she said, standing her ground. “You’re not after a wife. You’re after a guarantee. And I’m afraid I offer none.”

Anthony looked at her then—not just looked, but saw her. Her spine straight, her eyes steady, her lips parted slightly as if daring him to argue.

He didn’t.

Instead, he said, “Would you allow me to court you?”

The question hung in the air like a held breath.

Evelina’s eyes searched his. “Court me?”

He nodded, jaw tight. “Properly. Not with lists. Or logic. Or dogs.”

A beat.

“Just… me.”

Evelina exhaled. “What happened to efficient decision－making?”

“I’m realizing it’s a rather lonely sport.”

She stared at him, her expression unreadable for once.

Then—finally—she smiled. “You may court me. On one condition.”

His voice was low. “Anything.”

“No lists.”

He smiled, then. Truly. “No lists.”

[shortnotsweet]

HEAD HEART HANDS: “TURNING A NEW PAGE”

Charlotte is hardwired for realism. It’s a hefty task, given the present company and the dubious physics that have kept them all alive for the past few years, but if a resume could receive an A+, her feats in risk assessment and time-sensitive innovation deserved it. Charlotte would know; she installed the updates herself. Still, with the leader of their trio absent and Jasper dealing with impossibilities on the side, the biggest challenge these days is seeing eye-to-eye.

[ Jasper and Charlotte discuss Henry’s leave of absence, as well as his radio silence. ]

The mythology of Greek craftsman, inventor, and architect Daedalus has been cited by a variety of sources, including Homer, Pliny the Elder (Pliny’s Natural History, AD 77-79), and Plato, the latter of which interpreted his inventory and intellect as a parallel for the pursuit of truth. Pliny credited him with the invention of carpentry, as well as ship sails and masts, in addition to sculptures so lifelike they may as well have been animated; his genius was so evident that life was born into the wood. The most famous of his feats, however, was the tale of wings constructed out of wax, and the fall of his son, Icarus, into the sea.

It’s one thing to live in pursuit of knowledge. It’s not like that’s a bad thing, per se. Plenty of people do, and are perfectly content people with no lingering emotional or psychological hangups. That being said, the itch of knowing and the object of doing are not the same. For doctors who treat the sick in the morning and the engineers who study maths to reach the moon, knowledge alone is poor sustenance. For years—too early—invention has been a means of civic duty. She is too clever to fall into the sea unplanned, but she’s not heartless. She’ll make them wings, and a parachute. She left Harvard and the future she’d made for herself to follow the people she loved. Love—to the point of modification. To the point of invention.

[black-klok-youth-pastor]

In light of talks of a European tour, I have decided to try to manifest it in the only fitting way...having Murderface roast landmarks!

Slight content warning for canon typical edgy humor, enjoy

[unopenablebox]

what do we think is the most low effort "observance" of "passover" i could do

[freakinator]

i tthink the reason why i have such a skewed perception of what discourse is is cause its such a formal and impersonal word yanno? like it implies the shit we say on here is some critical academic study about the greater trends of media and how itll affect the general populace when it really is at the end of the day just a bunch shitheads whining and whinging about a relatively large yet at the end of the day still niche series

anyways ii think we should go back to calling it fandom wanking--

[ahalliance]

literally half the things i hear about the realm on here (whether started here or brought here from twitter) is just new nothing burger discourse that really doesn’t make me want to actually watch the realm ngl

[selfship-confession-box]

to be quite honest. shipping with CANON (not headcanoned) exclusively gay/lesbian characters as someone of the gender they are explicitly not attracted to is a form of erasure and lowkey homophobic. 'just make them bi' is a bad take. bi people are amazing and valid but not everyone is bisexual??? 'theyre not real' is a bad take bc representation matters and i feel like that doesnt really need to be said. obviously the character isnt real and isnt offended but gay/lesbian selfshippers can see how much you dont gaf abt their identities. gay people exist in real life too!!! homophobia is still so acceptable in fandom spaces and its kinda wild.

Actually this one gets to skip the queue because we just had another anon push their luck about this. I WAS originally going to leave this in queue but now feels like a better time to nip this in the bud.

This is the LAST thing I'm saying about this topic because frankly it's the majority of what we've been getting recently and it's exhausting. All future asks about this topic WILL be deleted. AS STATED ABOVE. DO WHAT YOU WANT FOREVER. YOUR EXPERIENCE IS YOURS AND YOURS ALONE.

TAKING POTSHOTS AT EACH OTHER IS NOT A CONFESSION.

THAT'S CALLED BEING AN ASSHOLE.

k thanks bye

[moe-broey]

Going to the mall as I am now (kinda punky/extremely autistic) is kinda funny like. That's a nice shirt. However, it's not one of my thousand beloved black graphic t shirts and it is such a texture and kind of a weird shape to it and honestly I don't really wanna buy any sort of fast fashion type shit or brand shit. Don't care. Oh they have patches. Kinda cute but straight up I can just make those. In fact, I would prefer to. Don't care. Also I'm not buying that.

[heracint]

burned my toasts because i was busy telling my colleague shes incompetent

[erveinangel]

// Divergent Universe thoughts in tags.