#(this is another thing that makes me uncomfortable about the situation.)

[swanfactory]

‘I LOVE YOU’

synopsis: blade doesn’t say ‘i love you’ but…

ft: blade x gn!reader

cw: established relationship, reader is a stellaron hunter

🦢’s note: hiii so sorry for being inactive finals r killing me 😵‍💫 i come home exhausted from school and crash immediately after im done studying lol,,, but im back for now hihi with another blade (short again 😖) hope u enjoy !! ♡

blade doesn’t say ‘i love you’. well at least not as often as one might expect, after all love doesn’t come easy for someone like him.

blade doesn’t say ‘i love you’, but he doesn’t argue when you insist on tending to his wounds, he lets you gently dab the cotton on them with a worried expression on your face.

blade doesn’t say ‘i love you’, but he always makes sure you’re safe. be it by walking on the edge of the sidewalk; leaving space between you and the road, getting you out of uncomfortable situations, or shielding you from any possible danger.

he knows that you’re strong and that you can definitely fend for yourself, he’s seen you in action multiple times. nevertheless, he can’t deny that protecting you puts his mind at ease.

blade doesn’t say ‘i love you’, but his hand can’t help but always find refuge on your lower back, keeping you close. sometimes it fully wraps around your waist, and some others it cradles your cheeks gently. his hands are rough and calloused from wielding his sword, but he still handles you with the utmost care, like you’re the most delicate flower.

blade doesn’t say ‘i love you’, but he’s very observant; especially when it comes to you. you can’t really hide anything from him, he’s the first to notice when you injured yourself after a mission, and you thought you were doing a good job at hiding it…he notices when you’re sad, letting you lay your head on his shoulder as you telling him about whatever is upsetting you.

he also remembers everything you tell him, even the most trivial things, your favorite color, favorite drink,the delicious pastry you had on your last mission… he always makes sure to give you his undivided attention when you’re speaking.

blade doesn’t say ‘i love you’ often but you don’t mind. you know he does, you can feel it in every little thing he does for you, every glance, every touch, and that’s more than enough for you.

— ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

[ham1lton]

47 with FA14 please :)

047. the inside of an elevator that won’t move w/ FA14.

— part of a series of drabbles! <3

you were incredibly annoyed. so annoyed in fact, that you were this close to quitting this job. your very cushy hybrid job which paid incredible and gave you your own office even though you mostly worked from home. toto, your boss, had given you the alonso case which meant that you’d be working through your sister’s wedding. the same wedding you’d booked off months ago.

you get in the elevator, slightly fuming, as an older man also got in the elevator with you. he turns to you.

“floor three please.�� he asks politely, as you’re standing next to the buttons. you seethe but press the button for him.

as the two of you stand in silence, the elevator suddenly stops. you give each other a panicked look. the silence between the two of you is heavy, only broken by the occasional faint hum of the elevator’s machinery. you click the help button and after a short conversation with the very unhelpful guy on the other end, you’re told help will arrive in half an hour.

“great! just what i fucking needed.” you mutter. he turns to you. “what? like this is a great situation for you either?”

“no, obviously not.” he says, in very accented english.

“so don’t give me that look.” you roll your eyes.

he raises his hands defensively. "okay, okay. truce?"

you sigh, realizing you're being unfair. it’s not like it’s his fault. "yeah, sorry. it's just been a really bad day."

"tell me about it," he says, leaning against the elevator wall. "what’s got you so worked up?"

"my boss just dumped this huge case on me last minute," you say, frustration bubbling up again. "it’s for this big client, alonso or something. now i have to miss my holiday because of it. i had the time off booked for months."

he raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "alonso? that's tough."

"yeah, and all because some big shot can't finalize a business contract on time," you grumble. “what’s so important about this stupid contract anyways?”

he looks away, as if contemplating something. "sounds like a real pain. what do you do, exactly?"

"i'm a corporate lawyer. and you?"

he hesitates for a moment before answering, "i'm... in business. finance, mostly."

you roll your eyes. "well, mr. finance, at least you’re not stuck working on a weekend for some unreasonable client."

the silence that follows feels heavier than before, and he shifts uncomfortably. "yeah, must be tough," he says quietly.

you frown, feeling slightly guilty for venting so much. "sorry, i didn't mean to unload on you. it's just been a lot."

he nods, offering a small, understanding smile. "i get it. sometimes things don’t go the way we planned."

you both fall silent for a second, the hum of the elevator the only sound, as you wait for help to arrive. then, as if compelled to fill the void, you continue. "it's just... my sister's wedding this weekend. i've been looking forward to it for months. and now, because of this contract, i'm going to miss it. i don't even know why it's so urgent."

he shifts again, looking like he wants to say something but isn't sure if he should. "maybe the client has their reasons," he offers carefully. "not that it makes it any easier for you."

"yeah, well, whoever they are, i hope their business crashes and burns," you mutter darkly. "no contract is worth missing something so important."

there's another pause before he speaks again, his voice softer this time. "sometimes, it's hard to see the bigger picture when you're in the thick of it."

you look at him, a hint of curiosity mixed with your frustration. "you sound like you know a lot about this."

he gives a half-smile as he shrugs, almost rueful. "more than i'd like to admit."

before you can ask more, the elevator jerks and starts moving again. you both breathe a sigh of relief as the doors slide open. he gestures for you to go first. "after you."

as you step out, you glance back at him. "thanks for listening. and sorry for the rant."

"anytime," he says, his smile warm but his eyes holding a hint of something you can't quite place. "good luck with that contract. and i hope you find a way to make it to your sister's wedding."

"thanks," you say, still feeling a bit unsettled as you walk away, wondering why his understanding smile seemed to hold more weight than a simple stranger's sympathy.

later that evening, as you’re buried in paperwork, your phone buzzes with an email notification. it's from toto. you open it, and your heart skips a beat.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

subject: urgent update on alonso case

dear l/n,

i have some unexpected news regarding the alonso contract. the client personally requested to change the deadline, granting you the weekend off. i know this is a surprise, but please take the weekend to attend your sister's wedding.

best,

toto.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

your mind races as you read the email again. how did the client know about your situation? you stare at the screen, the pieces slowly clicking into place. the man from the elevator—the one who listened so intently, who seemed to know more than he let on—he must be connected to alonso.

the realisation brings a mix of emotions: relief, slight embarrassment, gratitude, and a touch of something warmer. you can't help but smile, remembering his kind eyes and supportive words. your phone beeps again.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

subject: dinner invitation

dear y/n,

i hope this message finds you well. i wanted to extend an invitation for dinner sometime this week. it would be a pleasure to meet in person and discuss matters beyond business.

please let me know if you're interested and i hope you enjoy the wedding.

warm regards,

fernando alonso.

ceo of alonso corp.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

author’s note: i don’t actually write for fernando but this was calling to me so i decided to fulfil the prompt. i hope this isn’t too ooc. my bad. also reader and ceo!alonso go on the date and fall in love and the week before their wedding he pretends to get her on a contract all over again bc he thinks its funny.

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

There Is Happiness

Roy Kent x Reader

0.8k words

Warnings: Language, mentions of an absent/crappy dad, Roy being lovely and violent at the same time

A/N: Inspired by that Jamie comfort fic I just wrote. I'm absolutely projecting here because the idea of Roy calling my father a wanker brings a smile to my face 😝

The slamming door caught Roy’s attention. You never slammed doors. He did, sure, but he was Roy. Something had to be truly wrong to have you entering the house so aggressively.

“Hey babe,” he greeted when he saw your noticeably crumpled expression. He set down his beer and patted the spot on the couch next to himself.  “All good?”

Instead of joining him on the couch, you folded your arms across your chest and let out a little huff. “I… I stopped to get some donuts. From that place you like, you know?” When Roy nodded, clearly unsure what was so wrong, you went on. “And when I went in, I saw… him.”

For a moment, Roy simply frowned and shook his head. “Who d’you-?” Then he saw the look in your wide eyes, a look full of sadness and disappointment- a particular look he knew well but hadn’t seen in a while. “Oh.” Roy cleared his throat. “The wanker.”

“Yeah.” You finally ambled to the couch and plopped down beside Roy, who immediately wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “He was there with her and her kids,” you grumbled.

When you’d first met Roy, you already had a tense relationship with your father. He watched as it slowly deteriorated until it was nothing but a few texts exchanged on holidays and an awkward dinner every few months. But then, the too-young-for-him girlfriend and her kids came along, and he seemed more interested in having a second chance at fatherhood than in figuring things out with his own kid. Now, there was absolutely nothing between the two of you but a few shared facial features.

“So… are we ‘burn his fucking house down’ upset, or ‘eat the emergency ice cream’ upset?”

Despite the uncomfortable situation you’d found yourself in on your way home from work, you grinned at Roy. One of your favorite things about this man was his ability to make you smile, no matter how crappy you were feeling. He always had just the right thing to say to bring you out of a funk and make you forget how terrible the world could be.

“Ice cream upset,” you whispered. You pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Lots of ice cream.”

With a little hmmph, Roy kissed your forehead and stood. You could hear his heavy footsteps make their way to the kitchen, followed by the sound of the freezer and a couple of drawers opening and closing. When he returned, he was holding a giant carton of ice cream and two of the largest spoons you owned. He settled on the couch beside you, letting you nestle close, and offered you the carton so you could take the first bite.

Mouth now full of ice cream, you were ready to talk a little more. “He didn’t even look at me,” you grumbled. “The kids shouted hi when they saw me, she waved at me, but he kept his eyes glued to his phone.” You shook your head and shoveled another bite into your mouth. “And it’s like, I don’t want his attention, but it sucks, y’know? He’s the fucking parent, why can’t he act like it?”

Roy nodded thoughtfully as he battled your spoon for a bit of ice cream that was loaded with chocolate chips. “That wanker doesn’t deserve any space in your mind,” he declared as he let you take the spoonful. “Believe me.” He kissed your temple, leaving a little sticky spot you didn’t mind. After a moment, he opened his mouth again. “We can be our own family,” he murmured gently. His nose was nuzzling your cheek now. “You and me. Your mum. My sister and Pheebs. Anyone else that comes along. Our own little family.”

A lump formed in your throat, one filled with happiness and love. Roy had been talking like this a lot lately, hinting that he might be asking something big soon, something you knew you’d say yes to. Before Roy, you were unsure if you’d ever be ready for that question; witnessing your parents’ own marriage would be enough to have anyone balking at notions of rings and promises and forever. But the more you let Roy in, and the more he proved that he was sticking around, the more willing you were to admit that maybe, just maybe, forever could exist.

“Our own family,” you echoed. You took a spoonful of ice cream and held it up to Roy, who smiled and accepted the bite. “Does that include Jamie Tartt?”

A little chuckle escaped from Roy as he pressed another cold kiss to your forehead. “Anything you fucking want, babe. Whatever makes you happy.”

Before you could think, you blurted out, “You make me happy.”

There was that glowing smile, that kind Roy really only showed to you and Phoebe and sometimes his sister. He set down his spoon and tugged you close, wrapping you in his arms tightly. “You make me fucking happy too,” he murmured. The two of you sat like that for a bit, in a blissful silence as you alternated between taking bites of ice cream and bringing your spoon to Roy’s mouth. Finally, he spoke up again. “But I can still burn his fucking house down, y’know.”

[eksvaized]

Part Two Ghost / Reader [ Previous ︱Next ] AO3 ︱Wattpad taglist (if you want to be added - let me know!): @villainofmyownstory

As the first light of the day seeps into your room, the morning sun casts a warm glow on the tousled sheets of the bed where you lay, stubbornly refusing to start the day. Despite the fact that sleep had only overtaken you as dawn was breaking, you find yourself strangely alert, your mind far from restful. Your thoughts are in a state of tumultuous disorder, an overwhelming cacophony of different scenarios and emotions that relentlessly assault your mind.

The reality of Simon marrying your sister is a bitter pill to swallow. Each time you think of them together, an uncomfortable knot ties in your stomach. Adding another layer to the complex feelings you’re grappling with is the fact that Emily is carrying his child. The thought of them starting a family together brings confusing emotions to the surface, making the situation even more complicated. You wrestle with guilt, feeling like the worst sister in the world as you find yourself unable to decide which revelation is more difficult to bear: the pregnancy or marriage.

You know you shouldn’t be comparing the two things, but how can you not when it’s all you can think about. Last night, you agreed with Simon to move on, to leave the past in the past and avoid talking about it, and certainly not mention anything to Emily. Yet a stubborn part of you, a part that refuses to listen to reason, clings to the memory of the one night you spent with him, refusing to let it fade into oblivion yet.

As you drown deeper in the sea of your own thoughts, your quiet contemplation is suddenly shattered. The door swings open with such an assertive push that it causes your heart to flutter in surprise, making you jump a little and shift awkwardly as you quickly grab a nearby blanket and throw it over yourself. Emily, already dressed to the nines and wearing a grin that threatens to split her face, storms in.

Upon seeing that your eyes are wide open, she wastes no time. Without even pausing for a breath, she launches into an extensive list of tasks that must be completed today. It’s a barrage of information that has you scrambling to keep up, but it’s clear that Emily is in her element, thriving in the whirlwind of wedding preparations. And it all begins with accompanying her to the first fitting of her wedding dress.

“I had considered going before, you know, before you came, but I thought it would be much better if you came with me,” she explains, her voice filled with a blend of excitement and anxiety. As she talks, she absentmindedly fiddles with the dainty bracelet that adorns her wrist. Then, without warning, she pulls the blanket off of you in one swift motion, leaving you shivering slightly and rolling your eyes at her dramatics. “I know that I won’t be able to pick anything today,” she continues, her tone slightly more serious now, as she picks under her nails. “But still, I need your advice. Unlike Simon, I know you will tell me the truth if the dress makes me look fat or if…”

Emily continues to talk incessantly, showing no signs of stopping, or at least slowing down. And it feels as though her voice is drilling into your head, causing an unbearable pressure that keeps building up and up. It feels as though an invisible pressure is building up inside your skull, like a dormant volcano ready to erupt, as you struggle to keep up with the unrelenting flood of her conversation.

Your temples pulse with a relentless throb, each heartbeat amplifying the already unbearable tension. You try to alleviate the discomfort, applying pressure with your fingertips, kneading the tender spots on your forehead, but the pain persists. You want to remain polite, to preserve the calm and cordial atmosphere, yet the urgent need to temporarily escape Emily’s incessant talking becomes too overwhelming to ignore.

In a desperate bid for solace, you make a seemingly casual excuse that you need to take a shower, and finally, after enduring another five minutes of her chatter, Emily takes a hint and leaves you alone. But just before the door swings shut, sealing off the remnants of her voice, she tells you that Simon has already left. Fortunately, he left his car behind, too, saving the need to call a taxi later. A sigh of relief escapes your lips - that’s one less thing to worry about, you think. In your current state, you’re not entirely sure you would have been able to handle the combined force of both their presences so early in the morning.

After having completed your morning routine, you find that Emily has already prepared a hearty breakfast. The tantalizing aroma wafts through the flat, making your mouth water as you walk to the kitchen. When you sit down to share the meal with Emily, however, she barely picks at food and only nibbles on a slice of apple a few times, murmuring something about not wanting to bloat like a balloon.

The drive to the boutique is a long one, but Emily takes it upon herself to fill the time with her endless babbling. You’re grateful when she fails to notice your silence, or if she does notice, she doesn’t comment. Either way, she seems content with the occasional nod of your head and the smiles you offer her each time she throws a glance in your direction.

You were already aware of Emily’s meticulous nature. But the dress fitting session, which you initially thought would be a straightforward process, turned out to be a test of endurance, significantly more tedious than you had anticipated. Even Emily’s indifference towards the price tags on the lavish dresses did nothing to hasten the process. On the contrary, it seemed to bestow her with boundless freedom to mull over every option, focusing even on the smallest, most irrelevant details.

“Thoughts on this one? Hmm?” Emily asks with a gleam in her eyes. She takes a step back and then twirls around twice, ensuring you get a good look at the gown.

The dress she’s currently wearing is intricately lacy, adorned with a subtle hint of sparkle that catches the light just right. It is undeniably beautiful, a piece of art in its own right, but as stunning as it is, it doesn’t feel like Emily—you can’t image her walking down the aisle wearing it. So, you shake your head gently in disapproval and reach out for the flute of complimentary champagne that the boutique has offered. As Emily turns back towards the mirror, you take a generous sip, the bubbly liquid offering a brief distraction.

“What I’m looking for, well, what I need... no, what I want, is something a bit more form-fitting,” she declares, a spark of resolve lighting up her eyes. “I want something tighter to show off my figure—I don’t spend all those boring hours in the gym just to be hidden under so much fabric,” she says with a determined nod. Her hand reaches out, fingers brushing lightly over the material of the gown, the soft rustle of fabric filling the silence of the changing room as she ruffles it.

Caught off guard by her unexpected statement, you feel your eyebrows involuntarily arch in surprise. The thought of a tighter, more revealing dress seems far from ideal, particularly considering Emily’s current condition. She is, after all, pregnant. You part your lips, ready to express your concerns and reservations, only to clamp them shut at the last moment. A fleeting memory flashes across your mind - your promise to Simon not to reveal that he had confided in you about Emily.

“But I don’t think a tight gown would suit you,” you gently counter, attempting to steer her away from her decision without divulging the real reason for your objection. “And… and if you wear a ball gown—not this one, of course—a tiara would look so lovely on you.”

You hastily backtrack your previous disapproval, eager to nudge her in a more suitable direction. You’re fully aware that if she were to choose a form-fitting dress now, her growing belly would eventually become apparent, necessitating adjustments to the garment. This would no doubt stress Emily out, and you wish to spare her that needless worry, and spare your own sanity along the way, too.

“No, I want a tight… sultry gown. Maybe with a low back cut. I could get a nice tan,” she insists, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at her stubbornness. This doesn’t go by unnoticed by her sharp gaze. “What?” She questions, but you shake your head again, not wanting to get into an argument. Especially not here, not when you know that the assistant is undoubtedly lurking somewhere in the back, probably eavesdropping on this conversation. “Spit it out, Y/N.”

Taking a deep breath, you bite the inside of your cheek and slowly stand up. “I need to step out. My head is spinning a little.”

“No,” Emily’s voice rings out clearly as she takes hold of your wrist, forcing you to stop in your tracks just as you’re trying to slip past her. “Tell me,” she says, her tone demanding yet laced with a hint of desperation. “You promised you’d come here today to help me pick out my dream dress. And yet, up until this very moment, you’ve barely lifted a finger. You’ve stood by, silent and brooding, as I’ve tried on dress after dress.” Her voice grows quiet, but she continues, “And… and the moment I finally settle on a dress, one that, mind you, you haven’t even seen yet, you suddenly refuse to share with me the reasons why you disapprove of it.”

You look at your sister, and fuck, you know you should keep your mouth shut, but the champagne—exactly two and a half glasses, if you’re being precise—loosens your tongue, prompting you to speak blindly. Without pausing to think about the promise, you are about to break.

“In a month, you might not fit into this ‘dream dress’ of yours anymore. A ball gown, on the other hand, allows for more adjustments,” you blurt out the words, your speech rapid and almost frantic, as if you’re trying to get them out before you lose your nerve, or before you change your mind. “And don’t get me wrong, Em,” you quickly add, eager to prevent any possible misunderstandings. “You’d look absolutely stunning in any dress you choose. Truly, you would.” You pause, taking a moment to breathe in. “I just want to save you from any unnecessary stress and headaches down the line.” Your voice softens, and you hope that your words, however blunt, are received with the care and concern you intended.

A silence ensues, the air growing thick with tension. Emily’s gaze, previously soft, sharpens like a hawk’s, her eyes narrowing into thin slits as she slowly unwraps her fingers from your wrist. You brace yourself for the storm you’re sure is coming. But then, to your utter surprise, Emily’s face relaxes into a fit of giggles, the tension dissipating as quickly as it came. She glances around furtively, as if she’s ensuring that the two of you are truly alone, before leaning in closer. Her voice drops to a whisper. “I’m not pregnant,” she says, a hint of laughter still lingering in her tone. “Not yet, at least.”

“What? But Simon—“ you start, but Emily swiftly cuts you off.

“I told Simon I am,” she continues, rolling her eyes with a hint of amusement, obviously enjoying the baffled expression on your face. “I knew he needed a bit of a nudge to pop the question, and that seemed to do the trick. And really, it’s not such a terrible lie, you know? After all, we are getting married, and we do plan to start a family either way. So, it’s only a matter of time before I do end up knocked up.”

You feel as if you’ve been thrust into the thick of a fever dream. The words cascading from Emily’s mouth are a jumbled mess, a puzzle that you can’t seem to piece together. None of this is making any sense. You’re at a complete loss for how to respond, how to react, so you voice the one thought, the one sentiment that is spinning around and around in your mind like a broken record, “This is wrong.”

“Don’t—don’t start,” Emily interjects, rolling her eyes in a habitual, dismissive motion that grates on your nerves more than you care to admit. Her bright smile dissolves into a thin line. “You may wish to stay all your life alone, so focused on your career that you can’t see past it, can’t see anything beyond it, but… but I’m not you. I know what I want and I know what I need to do to get it.”

“This isn’t about you and me,” you say, taking a step back and raising your voice a notch. “It’s about you being dishonest with Simon. Do you really believe that this is the way to start a marriage?”

“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you?” Emily’s words sting like a slap to the face.

A surge of emotion swells within you, a cocktail of confusion and indignation. You can’t comprehend why you’re reacting so strongly, getting so defensive over Simon, because in some twisted, complex way, you can understand how Emily’s plans might seem perfectly logical to her.

“Either way,” Emily begins, her words flowing with an edge of steel, “Since you could not keep your promise to Simon about maintaining your silence, I would appreciate if you could at least extend that courtesy to me. Do not breathe a word of this conversation to him. Consider it a wedding gift to me.”

Emily’s statement hangs in the air, a palpable tension that lingers even as her attention shifts back to the mirror. But then her mood changes as quickly as a summer storm, dissipating into thin air as she resumes her critique of the wedding dresses, particularly the one she’s wearing, which she deems truly horrid.

The changing room begins to feel claustrophobic, as if the white, bright walls are slowly inching closer and closer, threatening to suffocate you. You can’t help but feel trapped. Seeing an opportunity, you slip out, unnoticed, when you realise Emily is lost again in her own world again.

As you step outside, the warm air kisses your face. It’s a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere of the changing room. Almost without thought, your hands start rummaging through your pockets. A string of harsh and bitter curses slips from your lips as the realization hits you like a freight train - you left your cigarettes at home. You recall tucking them back into your suitcase, naively reassuring yourself, ‘it’s not like you are going to need them, right? Wrong.

“What are you doing out here?” Simon says, making you jump. You hadn’t noticed him before, his tall frame casually leaning against the nearby stone wall. “Shouldn’t be inside? Helping Emily?”

“And shouldn’t you be somewhere else, not here?” You shoot back, unable to completely suppress the simmering frustration that’s been building up within you, and perhaps a hint of anger that’s begun to creep into your voice.

Caught off guard by your tone, Simon’s eyebrows knit together, the playful spark in his eyes replaced by genuine concern. “Is something wrong?”

Annoyed, you retort sharply, “Why do you keep asking so much questions?” Realizing that your response came out harsher than intended, you take a deep breath before sighing, feeling the tension drain away a little as you add, “Sorry. I guess I just had a little too much champagne, and now my head is throbbing.”

“Really? Is that all?” Simon strides forward like a predator closing in on its prey. His piercing eyes study your face closely as he tilts his head slightly.

In that fleeting moment, a realization hits you like a bolt from the blue - you could reveal the truth, expose Emily’s lie. It would be the right thing to do. Yet, as this understanding seeps into your consciousness, another deeper, more profound realization dawns upon you. Your motivations for wanting to reveal the truth are not as noble, not as virtuous as they seem; they stem from a complex web of feelings and reasons you’re not willing, or perhaps not ready, to admit to yourself. And so, you just simply nod your head. “Really,” you say, managing to conjure up a small smile that fails to reach your eyes. “Just too much free champagne.”

Simon continues to look at you with an intensity that is hard to describe, his gaze seemingly piercing your very soul; his deep, dark eyes remain steadfastly locked with yours, trapping you in a captivating stare that you find impossible to break free from. There is something about him, something indescribable and yet intriguing, that keeps you rooted on the spot, as if his presence alone commands your full attention. The world around you fades. It feels as though your feet have been glued to the concrete beneath you, making it impossible for you to walk away even if you wanted to.

Your trance is broken only when he starts speaking, jolting you back to reality.

“Well—” Simon says, his tongue flicking out to moisten his bottom lip, drawing your attention in an almost magnetic manner. “Since I’ve managed to wrap up my plans for the day earlier than expected, I think I’ll stick around for a while and wait for the two of you.” He glances at the bustling traffic before adding, “Not in the mood to take a bus home.”

Your head bobs in response. Deep down, as much as you don’t want to leave him, as much as the thought of returning to Emily sends a wave of dread through your veins, you know you don’t have much of a choice. So, after another long, lingering pause, you turn on your heels and reluctantly walk back inside.

Emily takes her sweet time, spending another two hours shuffling through the racks, trying on a seemingly endless array of dresses, changing from one to another, then even slipping back into the very same gown she had already worn and dismissed earlier. It’s not until she’s exhausted every conceivable option that she finally, albeit reluctantly, decides to call it a day. You can’t help but wonder if your subtle backhanded comments and lousy compliments had something to do with her decision to wrap it up. You couldn’t care less, though. Not right now, at least.

The ride home is wrought with tension and awkward silences. You try your best to avoid looking at Simon and Emily. Especially when he leans over to peck her cheek affectionately, or when he casually squeezes her thigh after shifting gears. You also try to tune out their conversation, focusing instead on the scenery outside the window. However, your attempts at sulking in peace are cut short.

“That’s lovely, isn’t it, Y/N?” Emily’s voice breaks through your thoughts. She swivels around in her seat to face you. “I’ve heard so much about Johnny, but never had the chance to meet him. But now that you’re here, and considering Simon is in need of a best man — since I’ve already chosen my maid of honor,” Emily offers you a smile. “—it seems like the perfect opportunity for us to go out to dinner together.”

With a concerted effort, you summon up the last remnants of your energy, forcing a smile onto your face. However, the moment your gaze locks with Simon’s through the rearview mirror, your mask of contentment slips. Your facade crumbles like a house of cards in a gust of wind, and the corners of your lips fall. “Do I really have to go?” you ask, the tone of your voice echoing the reluctance of a young child being coaxed by their parents into attending an event they have no interest in.

The question hangs in the air, heavy with your apprehension. The truth is, you’re unsure if you’re capable of enduring an entire evening pretending to be alright, acting as if your mind isn’t a tumultuous whirlwind of chaos. The thought of having to plaster on a smile, engage in small talk, and act as if everything is fine is daunting, to say the least. The simpler, and arguably more appealing, course of action would be to stay at home, hidden away in your room under the pretense of a mid-summer cold or perhaps even a champagne-induced hangover.

Emily, seemingly oblivious to your evident discomfort, dismisses your pleas with a wave of her hand that causes her bracelet to jingle. “Don’t be silly, of course you must,” she insists. Her head pivots towards Simon, seeking his support in this matter. However, he doesn’t rise to the opportunity, his gaze refusing to meet hers. “You and Johnny are to walk together down the aisle, and I need to be certain that you two will look good together. If not—” Her gaze flickers to Simon once more. “I’m afraid Simon will be forced to find a different best man.”

Emily’s statement was likely meant to be taken lightly, a lame attempt at a joke, intended to lighten the mood, but you pounce on it like a predator, using it as a chance to challenge her. “Shouldn’t it be Simon’s choice, who he wants as his best man?” you say, injecting an edge into your voice, letting Emily know that the conversation about her lie hasn’t slipped your mind yet.

Simon is acutely aware of the rising tension within the car. He observes as you and Emily exchange heated glares, the hostility between you palpable. Despite being caught in the crossfire, he chooses to remain quiet, and only breaks his silence when Emily, her eyes still glued to you, begins to open her mouth.

“Don’t worry, love,” he assures her, his voice soothing; his words directed at Emily, but his gaze never leaving your face. He curls his palm around her thigh, giving it a light squeeze before his hand returns to the wheel. “Johnny is handsome, and he and Y/N will certainly look splendid together.”

[miodiodavinci]

head in hands like "maybe i should have realized this about myself sooner" as i am surrounded by neon flashing signs that Very Clearly Indicate the thing i should have realized about myself sooner

[sharkneto]

Why don’t you want five in school?

Oh, I've ranted about it before in the tags of THIS POST but in general it makes me wildly uncomfortable. As an adult, the thought of hypothetically being forced back to high school is the fucking pits, you could not pay me enough to do it - and I even had a good time in high school! Five is almost 60 years old and they're going to force him to go to classes and hang out with teens? That feels bad from every angle! It forces Five to act in a way he'd only do under great duress and fucks his agency and autonomy as an adult so badly. There are better, more interesting ways to play with the consequences of his physical vs actual age than sending him to goddamn high school. There's other, less dominating options for the "he looks like a kid and never actually graduated" problem.

You do you if that's your jam, don't let a random dude on the internet yuck your yum, but Five in high school is a squick for me.

[orcelito]

Having lost my cat, my uncle, my great grandmother, my grandma's best friend (& one of the people who helped raise me), AND my dad all within the span of 9 months,

I have little sympathy for people who use deaths as an excuse to be an asshole. I get it, it sucks. Get the fuck over it. Your grief is not an excuse to treat others like shit. What the fuck.

[donttouchtheneednoggle]

shout out to thomas from ghosts for yoinking me out of a panic attack before it could really get going

[radicallicious]

.

[blujayonthewing]

not that it matters now anyway but one pragmatic problem with felix's concept is that it works best if the DM is proactively keeping his passive scores in mind, especially insight, because he tends to just Notice Stuff and comment on it in ways that as a player it wouldn't necessarily make sense or feel natural for me to always ask to make an active check to find out, but my DMs all tend to be pretty bad about even using passive perception for anything ever, much less anything else

[seenthisepisode]

.

[andromedasummer]

honestly the biggest thing for me in this hamilton (the musical) v hamilton (the person) stuff is just the fact that there is still a hamilton (the musical) fanbase in 2023. that is honest to god mindblowing to me. i thought we'd left the slave owner musical in the past.

[margaritalaux-antille]

genuinely thinking abt leaving my job :))

[arklay]

loses my mind that they’ve known each other for over a year at that point (even if first four months was just bumping into each other at her work or around the city a bunch) but like um [redacted] was fascinated by her right away… which quickly turned into a weird obsession of wanting to figure her out… and he still hasn’t admitted mayhaps he had caught feelings a bit too quickly… hence the not date definitely dates… whereas diana like definitely started trusting him (in certain aspects) and kinda i guess maybe considered him something of a friend (which she didn’t know she needed) and recently she came to the realisation that somewhere along the line she caught feelings….

[cryptidjeepers]

Has anyone else had that moment when a friend says something and suddenly you realize you dont want to hang out with them anymore??? Like not cut full contact or anything but suddenly the idea of hanging out with them doesnt feel appealing. And how do i deal with that in an adult way that isnt just ghosting.

[inkskinned]

what is with men being mad any time a woman raises her voice where did that even come from. someone posted a video of a small electrical explosion, and the top comment was of course the woman screams. the second comment is women try not to scream challenge, level impossible. i had to go back and watch the video again. there is, somewhat fainty, a little gasp emitted off-camera, more of a yelp than a scream. it is mostly lost in the crack of the explosion. afterwards, you hear her voice, shaken, say, are you okay?

i am helping one of my friends train her voice pitch lower, because she wants to be taken seriously at work. she and i do each other's nails and talk about gender roles; and how - due to our appearance - neither of us have ever been able to be "hysterical" in public. we both appear young and sweet and feminine. she is cisgender, and cannot use her natural voice in her profession because people keep saying she appears to be "vapid". we both try to figure out if our purposeful voice lowering is technically sexist. is it promoting something when you are a victim to it?

a storm almost sends a pole through a car window. in the dashcam, you can hear the woman passenger say her partner's name twice, crying out in alarm. she sounds terrified. in the comments, she is lambasted for her lack of calm. how is that even fucking helping?

in high school, i taught myself to have a lower voice. i had been recorded when i was genuinely (and righteously) upset; and i hated how my voice sounded on the phone speakers when it was played back. i was defending my mom, and my voice cracked with emotion. it meant i was no longer winning the argument: i was just shrieking about it.

girls meet each other after a long summer and let out a little joyful scream. this usually stops around 12-14, because people will not tolerate this display of affection (as it has the effect of being passingly annoying). something about the fact that little girls can't ever even be annoying. we are trained to examine each part of our lives (even joy) for anything that could make us upsetting and disgusting. they act like teenage girls are breaking into houses and shrieking you awake at 3 in the morning. speaking as a public school educator: trust me, it's not that bad, you can just roll your eyes and move on. it does not compare to the ways boys end up being annoying: slurs in graffiti, purposefully mocking your body, following you after you said no. you know, just boy things.

there's another video of a man who is not allowed to yell in the house, so he snaps his fingers when he's excited about soccer. the comments are full of angry men, talking about how their brother is unfairly caged. let him express himself and this is terrible to do to someone. eventually the couple has to address it in a second video: they are married with a newborn baby. he was trying not to wake the infant up. there is no comment on the fact women are not allowed to yell indoors. or the fact that it could have been really alarming or triggering for his wife. sometimes i wonder if straight men even like women, if they even enjoy being in relationships with them.

for the longest time, i hated roller coasters because it always felt inappropriate and uncomfortable for me to scream. one of my friends called me on it, said it was unusual i'm so unwilling. i had to go to my therapist about it. i don't like to scream because i was not raised in a safe situation, and raising my voice would have brought unsafe attention towards me. even when i am supposed to scream, it feels shameful, guilty. i was not treated kindly, so i lack a basic form of self-protection. this is not a natural response. it is not good that in a situation of high adrenaline - i shut up about it.

something very bad is happening, i think. in between all the beauty standards and the stuff i've already discussed - this one feels new and cruel in a way i can't quite express. yes, it's scary and silencing. but there's something about how direct it is - that so many men agree with the sentiment that women should never yell, even in an emergency - it feels different.

is the word shriek gendered automatically? how about shrill or screech? in self defense class, one of the first things they tell you is to yell, as loud and as shrilly as you can. they say it will feel rude. most women will not do this. you need to practice overcoming the social pressure and just scream.

most women do not cry out, even when it's bad. we do not report it. we walk faster. we do not make a scene. what would be the point of doing anything else? no matter what we do, we don't get taken seriously. it is a joke to them. an instagram caption punchline. we have to present ourselves as silent, beautiful, captivating - "valuable."

a woman is outside watching her kids when someone throws a firecracker at them. she screams and runs towards her children. in the comments, grown men flock together in the thousands: god. women are so annoying.