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yeyinde · 8 months

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when your need grows teeth | John Price x f!Reader

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than let it go. It starts when you ask him to pick up your birth control—like dangling a piece of bloody meat in front of a starving dog. Of course he's going to take a bite. He thinks you ought to have known this by now.

SMUT 18+ | gratuitous smut; HEAVY breeding kink, breeding; Dom!John Price; p-in-v sex, unsafe sex; rough sex; mentions of spanking; mutual manipulation; this is roughly 10k of John Plotting and fucking you; John is: unhinged, obsessive, possessive, and Scheming. mentions of birth control tampering but nothing is followed through. No. He’s going to knock you up the old-fashioned way—by making you beg for it.

AO3 MIRROR

John has always had this desire—this awful, instinctual drive in the back of his head to knock someone up. Get them fat, swollen with his child. His.

And maybe that's the crux of it. Possession. To have something of the most rooted kind. To irrevocably change someone—their anatomy, their body, the chemistry in their brain, their status in life from them (single no dependents) to mother (mother of his child), their very atoms—and create life from the combined parts.

It's this almost fantastical beast, this unreachable dream for him.

It's his Shangri-la. His castle in Spain.

He's not under any disillusionment that this idea of fatherhood, of parenthood, is slightly skewed. That most men who want children don't feel this overwhelmingly greedy desire to fundamentally alter someone in such an irreversible way. It's not quite ownership, but it's the same ilk. A bastardised, unwanted child of it.

And it's not just this idea of claimation—to forever be the father of their child, even if neither of them stays together; a piece of him will always be there, parasitic, no matter what—but something deeper. Something a bit less—egregious.

This is, and always has been, about yearning.

John's the type of man to lock his jaws around what's his, preferring instead to ruin things, puncture it full of holes, and litter it with scars, rather than to let it go.

Marriage, he finds, is breakable. Divorce, separation. He's always on his worst behaviour in the initial stages of dating, so it's never something he has to entertain since no one ever sticks around long enough for it to be on the table, much less the menu, but the idea of it—of signing papers, of hashing out the split, of being known as ex-husband—leaves a bitter tang between his teeth. It won't do. He needs permanence. Perpetuity.

Nothing says forever quite like a child, does it?

And sure—he’s aware that countermeasures exist: custody orders, sole custody, shared; allotted visitations; divisional lines in this new age that keep the parents from ever interacting—but while you can get divorced, you can't unmake a child, can you?

The child would never write him out, either.

Where deadbeats exist, it's important to note that their counterparts do, too. The ones like him who will gouge their eyes out of their skulls before they ever let what happened to them growing up trickle down and impact their child, polluting the pool.

Simply put: John Price knows he'd be the best dad there is because he's stubborn that way.

It helps, he supposes, that he really only has so much love to give out to the world, and greedily, he stashed the entirety of it away in a box to give to his would-be wife and their child. An overwhelming deluge that promises happiness should it ever be unlocked. Pandora's box, perhaps—down to the very essence because if John Price were to ever love someone, then it's probably in their best interest to run from it, this gaping, needy chasm.

Not that it would ever be a possibility, of course—he’s much too good at compartmentalisation, in taking out his anger, his viciousness, on the ugly world he drenches himself in, the one his hands have a tangible cause and effect principle in place that will forever feed that starving beast inside of him.

Ergo—he’s a staunch supporter of the theory: happy wife, happy life. Though where those men think in a box stuffed full of emotional intimacy, flowers, chocolate, maintaining love, all-consuming and enduring, he takes it to extremes that would have them cowering a little bit. Maybe a lot.

But that's fine. He only has to make sure his family is happy. No one else matters, save a select few who have a seat at his table during Sunday dinners.

The rest, though? Spare parts.

(The ice-cold resolve in those two words is apodictic, brass bound, and he's sure if his higher-ups knew about it, well—

His chest candy would be a hole in the ground. Put the rabid dog down before it has a chance to bite.)

But that all-consuming, devouring, obsessive love he has to give, that begs to be let free, is the reason why it's so tightly leashed. Locked up in a box. Untouchable. Inaccessible.

It's why he isn't married.

Ghost once asked him why the women he dated were older. Much older. Menopausal (always). And he'd said something to the effect of it being his type. Older women who wouldn't cower away from the acrid burn of him, who wouldn't hurt their delicate little hands on his gritty surface.

But the real reason is because he knows better.

He's a starving dog, and it's just bad form to dangle a piece of meat in front of it. Especially when the hand holding it is his own.

Don't bite the hand that feeds you, and all.

(The keen look in Ghost's eyes told him that, perhaps, the man already knew the reason when he asked, and was just satiating himself with kinship—the dark, awful look on Simon's ugly mug after the dredging the underbelly of Price’s rotten, mouldering mudfloor of things unsaid spoke volumes.

They'd both nodded. Content, then. And promptly ordered a shot of whisky to drown the salivation, the hunger, from clogging their throats. Killing the urge to bite.

A pair of packless, stray dogs.)

But then he found you, and all his careful planning, all his distance, blew up in his face.

It's always been on his mind since then. Lingering in his periphery—this fevered, tantalising vision of you, round and swollen with his child.

It's unattainable, of course. A fantasy.

Though, this—you throwing up in the washroom of his penthouse, undoubtedly knocked up by his machinations—is probably because he kept that desire too close to where he hides his questionable mortality, the one that allows him to throw innocent people to their deaths, and send mothers and fathers to an early grave just so he can rip his fists apart on their bastard offspring in his own brand of catharsis that always bites back when they grow up, hankering for revenge.

He's always been good at snatching dreams out of the air, clenching them tight in his fists. Taming chimerical wants, whims, until they were docile, domesticated. Making realities out of fiction.

And really—he’s just not a good man.

He thought you'd have known this by now.

He remembers the first time he growled the words into your ear as he came, your cunt clenching around him like a vice. Desperate for it, he teased after, fingers fucking into your sloppy, leaking hole. Pushing his spend back into you. Half-drunk on the taste of you still clinging to his beard, but mostly just mesmerised by the sight of you—pretty pussy all ruined, swollen from the vicious, hateful pounding he gave it, and dipping with his cum like a faucet.

(It pissed him off—still does, really—when you waste it like this.)

Gonna fill you up, he snarled, low and wrecked. Gonna make it take—

It was a fantasy. Still is. But the way it took root in the garden of your bedroom, like it belonged—native flora, he thinks, a touch mad with it—had something ugly, oil slick, rearing up from that untouchable place in his head.

He could really blame you for it—and does. The way your ankles locked tight around his thighs, hands reaching, grabbing at his waist, clawing at his asscheeks to press him in deeper, deeper still, as he came inside of you, cock lodged right against your plug, had that untameable beast cocking its head in consideration after you danced too close to it, waking it from his long, restful slumber.

You wanted it. Ached for it. He could feel it in the way your walls tightened around him, practically starving for it. Your pretty, glossy eyes rolling back into your head. Drool running down your chin. A litany of pleas spilled from your kiss-bruised lips, begging him for it. Please, John. Please. Please—

Who was he to deny you?

Even if you made a big, flustered show of waving it off—not something I've ever imagined for myself, you know? and–and your lifestyle, what you do—is something like that even possible for us?—he saw how it curled around your shoulders, dipping its silver tongue into your ear. Germinating.

He let it. Encouraged it.

“Something to talk about later,” he indulged, reaching over for a cigar just to smother the urge to breed you stupid. To tie you to his bedposts and keep you full until your belly was swelling with more than just the absurd volume of his seed he pumped inside of you.

And, oh—

The uneasy smile on your face reeked of disappointment.

Fuck. Fuck—

John went to the washroom after that, heart pounding out of his chest, and jabbed the lit end of his cigar into his thigh to kill the fever in his veins. To rewrite the desperate, ugly howling in his head with pain instead.

It worked. Works—

Until you came to him, all watery-eyed and worried, and told him to please, please stop falling asleep with a lit cigar because you think you might just go mad if you lost him to a cigarette fire. And doesn't he see how silly it is, these burns look so bad, John, and I worry—

His teeth ached. He smiled, but it felt like a grimace. A dog holding back the instinct to bare its teeth.

“Sure, love,” he'd said, and started taking out his anger on your cunt instead, fucking you deep, and stupid. Getting you all cockdrunk, and hungry for the dream that spoiled so badly in the back of his head, he's sure a proper man would call it a nightmare. “Anything you want.”

(Brassbound. Apodictic. You know that, he knows you know that, so imagine his surprise when you come to him, all soft and tender, and ask him to pick up your birth control as if he hadn't spent the better part of two years grumbling every fucking time you took it and wasn't on the verge of tossing the damn bottle out the window, and fucking you until it took—

But—you do know that, don't you?

Well, then. Whatever his lady wants, right? Right.)

“Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way home tonight?”

He hums, fiddling with the belt of his slacks in front of the mirror. “Sure, love. You feelin’ sick?”

“No,” you murmur, sliding behind him on your way to the washroom, wearing nothing but a towel tucked under your arms. “I need my refill. For birth control.”

His hands still. A gnarled, rotted tendril curls over the edge of the cesspool, murky, ink black water splashing all over the place. “Oh, yeah? Still taking that, hm?”

You fluster. Hands waving, chock full of nervous, emotive energy you can't seem to shake off. “Well—yes. I mean, obviously.”

And he'd leave it there, let the spillage dry on the hot pavement, if you hadn't glanced back at him, all damp keenness, slightly skittish, and asked, feather-soft and utterly fragile, “right?”

Right? A question, he notes. Not a statement.

He licks his teeth. Tastes something rancid in the gaps.

“Mm. I suppose so.” He leaves it vague, but drenches it in the heavy weight of his disappointment. Anchors dragging it down. You flit around the space like a house-locked bird, slamming into the walls and ceiling as you try—blind and panicked—to find an escape. Any escape.

He finds the whole thing utterly charming. Especially when you realise he pitched himself in front of the only exit, thick, heavy hands curled around his belt, cock outlined against his slacks, already thickened, drooling in his pants.

There's gasp—wet, and sharp—as you take him in. The liquid of his eyes as his want bleeds out of his skull. The flush on his cheeks, the twitch of his cock at the mere mention of you not taking your silly little pills.

John lets it sit for a moment, taking in greedy lungfuls of your unease as you glance everywhere but at him, as if looking in his direction, breathing in this toxic miasma will give you a contact high. Infectious. Gnarled.

The little seed that started germinating blooms.

He fights back the urge to grin, all teeth. Madness staining them black.

“It's—it’s on—” and fuck, he's never seen you so unsure before, this nervous. You handle him like a wrangler, wrassling his brutish dominance until it's putty in your hands, splitting his head into pieces and galvanising the madness inside until it's scripture for you to peek at whenever you need guidance, insight into him, his essence, his being.

Your dyadic has always been built on permeance.

John doesn't think there's a single person alive who understands him as much as you do. The only person who seems content to gorge yourself on his rotted marrow like it was a delicacy.

Seeing you like this rents his resolve in two.

“It's the pharmacy near the, uh, the school. The kindergarten.”

He chokes on a groan, and thinks he tears something in his throat with the strain of keeping it down. There's blood, ash, in the back of his throat.

“Alright, love. I'll pick it up.”

You smell it, and shiver.

It's giving meat to a starving dog, and saying, dog, don't take a bite.

And so, of course he does.

John picks up your prescription, tossing it in the passenger seat like it personally offended him. And it has. Does. It's what's standing in the way between what he wants, what he craves, and there's a distinct thrum of irritation welling inside of him. One that started when he had to bark out your name at the counter earlier, and the pharmacist looked at him, and calmly, kindly, explained what it was he was picking up.

Make sure she takes them once a day. Preferably at the same time. This brand of oral contraceptive can be taken with or without food—

Fuck off, he thought—thinks, even now, glowering into the tinted window of the pharmacy.

He grips the steering wheel tight until his scarred knuckles bleach white under the strain, and sits in the parking lot, staring, unseeingly, at the shops. Pensive. Thoughtful. It gnarls over his expression until he's the picture of that grizzly-like intensity you often accuse him of. All furrowed brows and a pinched, angry twist to his lips.

There's a series of complex equations running laps in his head. He's no stranger to this process, needing to make life or death decisions in less time it takes someone to snap their fingers, or tentatively stammer out his title.

This one is more linear than the rest. One plus one, so to speak. But the weight of it is profound. Heavier, even, than deciding between the success of his mission and the life of an innocent bystander.

(But he thinks he's just selfish like that.)

In his head, he debates the ethics of replacing all of these silly little tablets that stand in his way with sugar pills.

It would be the quickest path to the end, but the risk-reward ratio ebbs and flows the more he considers things without the miasmic influence of that abomination throwing itself at the walls of its enclosure, howling in an endless cacophony of do it, do itdoit—

A better man wouldn't even have such a temptation. He supposes that's what you deserve, but he already had this particular crisis a few months after he met you, and realised that the things he wanted to do to you would undoubtedly put him on a list. Slapped so hard with a restraining order, his ears would still be buzzing.

That something about you made his jowls twinge, and his teeth ache, and no amount of stay away from her, Price; she deserves better than you was going to keep his dirty hands from curling around your throat, leaving soot-stains on your skin in the shape of his fingerprints. Brandishing ownership in burst blood vessels; a pretty collar for you to wear because as much as you like to pretend otherwise—

You're a dog just like him.

In any case, he's the best choice for you. The only one who'd burn the world just to keep you warm, and that's what you really need. Protection.

And fuck—you toy with that particular urge that has always been etched in fine lines within the walls of bones; dipping your fingers into it, and spreading it over the apples of your cheek. Everything about you prickles along his hindbrain. Renders him from a modern man with modern ideals to an animal who can only speak in growls, snarls; pure primalism, all instinct.

You're made for each other down to the bone. He's sure he could split your head apart and find that your cranial sutures are perfectly mirrored. Made in the same image: you were grown from his missing rib, and he always meant to be cradled in the brackets of your thighs.

So, crisis of worthiness aside—because there are none, not anymore—he plots. Plans. Schemes. But his machinations keep catching on the soft fibrils of your wants.

John doesn't know what he'd do if you changed your mind.

(Or, rather, he does but that's another madness to unravel with his personal therapist.)

It's with this—the slight brandishing of his uncertainty in your certainty—that he gives up the idea, pocketing it for a later date, and drives home, back to you.

He doesn't toss the bag on the counter, but sets it up perfectly, placing it as close to the edge where the bin sits under it. All it would take is a breath of wind for it to fall into the trash.

That doesn't happen, though. You stare at the white, crinkled package for a moment as he sips on his tea, quietly contemplative. With your expression hidden from him, he has no idea what might be going through that pretty head of yours. Disappointment, he can only hope. And then you're reaching for it, fingers gripping the bag tightly in your fist. He hears the paper crumble. It sparks something inside his chest. A bloom of hope that you might just throw it out. Toss it in the bin—

You turn to him instead, knuckles white.

“Thanks,” you say, and the matter is dropped.

He goes to tuck that want back where it escaped, leaving slick trails of putrefying rot behind, but—

John peeks in the vanity later that evening, but where he expects to see the little rectangular package sitting in its usual spot between his aftershave and the mouthwash, he finds nothing. Just an empty spot on the ledge, spotlit by the lack of dust. A clean square of white paint, undisturbed.

His jaw twinges. He wonders if you're hiding it from him, keeping it safe from his machinations, but then he finds it shoved in the drawer with his shaving kit, and the box of condoms he bought when you'd first started dating (for show, naturally—John had no intentions of using them and learned persuasion was your Achilles heel; that and you tended to get a little glossy-eyed whenever he growled filth in your ear, the smell of your cunt heavy on his breath).

The package is crinkled like you squeezed it tight in your little fist before you tossed it in.

You're always meticulous in the way you put things in their places. Even the junk drawer is organised, all neat.

This speaks volumes, but he's not quite sure what it says. They are still here, though. Accessible. One is missing from the pack. It dampens his mood.

He picks up his toothbrush, and runs through those calculations again to see how he can convince you to skip the one you're meant to take tomorrow. And the next day, and the next, and the next—

He stays awake as you sleep beside him, looking into how many days you can miss before your brand of birth control stops being effective.

Seven pills in a row.

He files it away, lost in thought.

The next morning, he leaves his phone open on the bedside table with the article pulled up. He kisses you awake before he leaves to shower, humming something soft under his breath.

When he returns, he finds you sitting up in bed with your knees drawn to your chest. There's something pensive about the look on your face. Paper soft, as though it would all blow away at a mere whisper.

You regard him almost cooly but something raw, fractured splits over the ravine. A waterfall of midnight black sludge rains down.

(He wonders if it tastes of the same rot, the same madness, as the basin of the untouched recesses of his head—)

“I'm working late tonight,” you murmur after a measured beat, and he can't place your tone. “Maybe we can watch a movie when I get home.”

John nods, and your eyes drop, scaling down his bare, broad chest as he breathes in the flint staining the air. Your gaze is white-hot when it bludgeons into him, feverish.

It doesn't take much beckoning at all to have him crawling toward you, towel ripped from his hips and thrown somewhere in the aether.

As he steals the madness from your tongue, his eyes flicker to the phone still sitting on the table. It looks perfectly untouched. The screen is off.

That, too, he files away.

John comes to the succinct conclusion that the only means he has in his arsenal to get what he wants—legally, and somewhat morally, anyway—is persuasion.

There's no recourse if he can water that burgeoning plant inside of you, make it seem like this is something you want, too. A family. With him.

(Only him.)

He knows that you see things quite similarly to him. Wherein love is desire. Desire is hunger. And there's nothing more profound to you than to eat the person you love alive. Consumption of every part—the good, the beautiful, the bad, the ugly, and the rotted: skin, fat, muscles, blood, and bones. All of it.

So, even if somewhere down the road you think you hate him for this, it'll be fine. He'll just consume that, too.

John Price is a tenacious man. Stubborn.

(Bullish, he hears around the barracks. Fuckin’ stubborn prick, too.)

It helps that this line of work is perfectly suited for such a peremptory drive to the finish line, no matter the cost. Utilitarian to a fault, despite his rather recalcitrant disposition. It's how he gets his way more often than not. Brutish dominance. Loutish suppression.

But a near reckless, suicidal loyalty that attracts the sort of beasts this line of work needs.

But that's work, not this. Not trying to convince you, his sugar-sweet (and viciously diabolical) lover, to bear the burden of giving him a family because society says it's uncouth (and illegal, morally reprehensible, villainous) for him to chain you to his bed to keep the darker parts of himself that want to rip into anyone who had the pleasure—pleasure that no longer belongs to them—of looking at you.

That's all for him.

(Nasty old bastard.)

And, of course, because he's ready. Everything clicks. Locks into place. There's no one else out there for him.

Really, though—it's your fault for prodding that beast in the first place. For letting inside your house, your bed. For thinking it could be tamed. And so. You should accept responsibility for it.

(Nasty, nasty—)

But just as much as you know him, he knows you. You'll give him a litany of reasons why this shouldn't happen, and none of them will be because this isn't what you want. It'll be filled with reasons why you think he doesn't.

And that simply won't do.

So, he plots. Plans.

The thing is. No one ever taught him how to hold things in his hands without crushing it.

He doesn't think he can be delicate. Gentle. There's no way to gently nudge you into this. No.

He'll convince you to yield the same way a tsunami convinces a house to move out of the way.

Buried to the hilt in your cunt, he growls gospels into your ear about this beautiful Shangri-la, this sprawling castle he has in Spain until you're clenching down around him tight, conditioning your body to come at the thought of swelling with his child. About letting his seed take root, letting him knock you up.

It's a crass image that he spits into your head—fuck you until it takes, love; breed this pretty cunt every day until you're fat and swollen—serves as the positive reinforcement to his classical conditioning. He'll turn you into one of Pavlov's mutts, salivating at the sound of him groaning into your ear as he fills your pussy up to the brim. He'll reshape you, change your wants until you only come around his cock when he's spitting his release against the plug of your womb.

And when you make to get up, letting all his spend slip from your sloppy cunt to take your pill, he pulls you closer under the guise of wanting to feel your body on his, murmuring diabolical compromises he has no intention of letting you see through.

“Later,” he rasps, pulling you closer. His mouth slots across your temple. “Just take it later, sweetheart. Later.”

“But—”

“It’ll be fine.”

And, as if you'd been waiting for that reassurance, you melt into his hands, wet putty.

(you take the bloody pill later, and he adds that to his mental calendar, adjusting the maths. He supposes he’ll just have to try harder next time.)

John's desire for you is overwhelming, all-encompassing, and he schemes around his wandering hands, bullying into your messy cunt only moments before your alarm is meant to go off, reminding you to take your pill, reinforcing that irritating little wall that keeps his come from reaching your womb.

It goes off, but he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears, the sweet, sweet litany of moans that slip out, staining the pillow with your pleasure. He just keeps fucking you through it, growling mindlessly into your ears about how badly he wants to come inside of you. His warnings, threats, about how close he is intertwining with your desperate begging for him to come, come inside me, John is the most beautiful harmonisation he'd ever heard, and it sews itself into his marrow, polluting the ugliness inside with a new, fresh hell for him to torture himself with. That delicious pleasure-pain that drives him mad—

He fills you up, palm pressed taut to your lower belly as he spits his virile release deep into your cunt. He can feel the heavy outline of his cock against your skin, stuffed full of him, and it's this—the way he moulds your body around him, cock visible through your flesh—that makes his eyes roll back into his head. Makes the urge to fuck, to breed, to claim bludgeon into him, shattering reason, logic. He wants to change you, irrevocably. Forever. To mar you with his touch, his essence.

“Mine,” he chokes out, ugly and raw. It's a mangled mess in his throat. A threat. “All fucking mine, aren't you, love? All mine—”

His words seem to throw you into another climax, cunt clenching greedily down around him as he softens inside of you, plugging you up. You liked that, he notes, purs. The notion brands itself across his resolve, reshaping it into something that would make anyone else recoil in fear, disgust.

But you preen at this creature that bares its fangs at you, snaps wicked teeth against your jugular. Fingers threading through its hair, shushing it, soothing it, as you pull it back into your embrace, head tucked against your chest. You lull it into complacency with the heavy thud of your heart, your sweet, earthy scent.

What a pair, he thinks, and clamps his hands around your wrist when you murmur something about taking your pill now. Need to take it before it gets too late, John—

He makes his move, distracts you with his mouth, his tongue.

“Just take it after,” he murmurs into your pussy, thighs bracketing around his head. His hands pull your waist down, pressing you harder against his mouth. “Later, love. It'll be fine—”

“But, John—”

The protest dies, turns to ash, when he grunts, sealing his lips around your clit, bullying it with the rasping press of tongue until you're arching your back, riding his face. Thoughts of your silly pill are gone, swallowed by him as you gush, drenching his mouth in your slick.

And after, when you make to get up again, he pulls you close instead, voice curling around you like smoke when he tells you to take it after.

“No, love. Stay in bed with me,” he peppers kisses to your cheek, your jaw, chin, sweetening his words, and folds you into the tight embrace of his arms. “Take it in the morning. It'll be fine to miss a day.”

You level him with something that shadows the ravines in your gaze with pure, unadulterated scepticism, but as he scouts the canyons, the valleys, the pretty craters that make up the composite of your eyes, he finds no discernible trace of wariness, uncertainty. The terse line in his shoulders ease.

But while fossicking around he unearths something else. Something a bit more enigmatic, calculative, than doubt. Equivocal, slippery, it runs from him when he tries to give chase, tucking itself back into the harsh tenebrous that shades the landscape.

He hums, wanting to ask, but you sigh in quasi-acquiescence, and burrow deeper into his embrace.

“Fine,” you huff, but he tastes a purring sense of satisfaction in the air. “I'll take it tomorrow instead.”

“Good girl.” The praise slips out, low and gritty, perfumed with his heavy greed.

You shiver against him. The hitch in your throat is quiet in the bedroom, but to him, it sounds like a gunshot.

John keeps meticulous track of the empty pill slots, and notes with a sticky, resinous sense of glee that the numbers are becoming muddled, skewed. Later becomes tomorrow, and your soft acquiesce has days skipped. Missed.

You can't double up, you huff to him, mournfully slinking into the bed. It's nearly one in the morning. Technically, a brand new day. I absolutely have to take it tomorrow, John. Make sure you remind me—

There's something pointed in your tone. Something oil-slick. He nods, bites back a grin.

“Sure,” he pulls you close, breathes in the sweet, loamy scent of you—sweat and sex and the lingering remnants of your perfume, your soap—and lets it stain his lungs. “I can do that.”

You say nothing at all when he doesn't bring it up until well past midnight the next day, offering little more than an exasperated groan, and a huffy roll of your eyes, as if this was just a missed dinner with friends and not a life-changing misstep.

(The beast purrs. He places his hand over his chest, and feels the rumble under his skin.)

“Need to be more responsible than this, John,” you say, squirming in his hold to try and rush to the washroom to take that pesky little pill.

“Sorry, love,” he offers, and means none of it. Clings tighter to you. “Got a bit carried away today, is all.”

“It's not your fault—” something curls out from a dark crevasse when you look at him. “I've been so—off lately, you know? Must be the new batch. Maybe I should call my doctor.”

He stills. Body tensing, coiling. John tries to speak, but the words are ash on his tongue. He clears his throat.

“Could stop taking it.”

It crackles in the air. Hangs heavy like a stormcloud.

You blink, stunned. But it's artificial, hollow. Pulled from a wicker basket where you keep all your different skins.

“You mean—what? Stop it all together—?”

You flit in the space once more, but it's less of an injured bird searching for an escape, he realises suddenly, and more of—

A boomslang.

One rearing up, searching for the perfect place to strike.

Wishful thinking, though, because you're flustered and skittish once more, a small prey animal he isn't sure what he wants to do the most—sink his teeth into you, tear you into pieces, and devour you whole, or hide you away from the world.

“I can look for something else in the meantime,” you sound shy, hesitant, and it prickles across his skin. “But we'd need to be careful, you know. Otherwise you might actually get me pregnant.”

He tries to swallow his groan. Chokes on it instead.

“Sure, sure—” he hacks into his palm. “Of course, love. We'll be safe. I'll pull out—”

Naturally, he doesn't. Makes no effort to even try despite promising you he is.

“Not my fault your pussy won't let go of me, love,” he grumbles, hand cupping your weeping sex in his palm. The heat of you is searing. Blistering. He thinks he could happily melt inside of it for the rest of his life, and leans down to whisper his devotion into your come-slicked folds, the bitter tang of you, of him, admixing on his tongue. An elixir he could drown in.

You huff at him after, all glossy-eyed and sex-drunk, and tell him to please try harder, John, I'll have to get plan b tomorrow—

You don't, but the threat of it, the possibility, lingers in the back of his mind, souring his thoughts.

Next time, and I'll have to, John, you say, featherlight, lips pressed against the head of his cock. A warning, a goddamn tease—

His voice is strained, pinched. “Of course, love,” and he guides your mouth back to his cock, letting the matter fall into pieces when you suck on the sensitive head, tongue licking, coy and kittenish, over his frenulum.

It's only later, when watches you swallow down his come, that the beast slinks out of the shadows, pocketing the fragments.

You're off birth control—barely any scheming words of whispered concern needed—but the idea of you taking a little pill to wipe away his efforts has him pulling back. Recalibrating his plans.

He decides on a different route to the same end.

Damnation at your own hand.

John, for his credit, does begin to pull out after that—albeit, with a great deal of agonised reluctance—and instead comes all over your pretty face.

With thick ropes of his pearlescent spend dripping down the apples of your heated cheeks, he doesn't think he's ever seen a sight more beautiful than this.

And one with more opportunity.

Slowly, he swipes at it with his thumb and then promptly brings it down, hard, on your clit. You flinch, mewling at the overstimulation, and the threat he brings so close to your raw, unprotected sex. It's dangerous. This thin line he dances along could snap at any moment. Could rain hellfire and fury over his broad shoulders, unmake all the progress he'd steadily built up.

He walks the precipice, anyway. He pulls his hand away, and brings two fingers up to curve over your cheeks. His thumb, stained with your slick and his come, slides across your bottom lip.

The pout you give him—all wet-eyed lachrymose—has his spent cock twitching against his sticky thigh. “Fuck, love. Gonna send me to an early grave if you keep starin’ at me like that.”

“You're cracked,” you slur around his thumb. In retaliation, he digs it into your tongue, and preens—full of nasty, gnarled satisfaction—when your eyes flutter, rolling into the back of your head at the taste.

With this brief distraction, he drops his come-stained fingers to your mound, and rubs along the swollen rim of your hole. Just touching, pressing. A tease, a whisper.

You tense. “John—” it's muffled around his thumb, and he isn't sure if it's a warning or a plea.

He pushes the tips in, barely to the first knuckle, and just pets around your rim.

It's a battle of wills, now. “No more than this,” he promises, and the undercurrent of his threat rents the air. Makes you bristle.

You always loved a challenge—especially coming from him.

“Just the tip?” You tease, spittle running down your chin. Your eyes are dark—midnight skies, ink black—and he's struck by the afterimage of himself in those pools. Made in the same image.

He grunts, slides into the first knuckle, and scissors them apart.

“John—” it's breathless. Your teeth spear his thumb, tight around his bone. He wants nothing more than to have you bite down hard, scar his bones with the gnawed meteors of your desire. Your desperation. “Fuck—please—”

You give in so prettily, and he barely has a moment to think about how quick it's been when you angle your hips, hand falling to grip his wrist tight as you slide down his fingers, all the way to the last knuckle.

You clench around him like a vice. A pretty bow. He fucks you with his fingers, meeting your shallow thrusts with ones of his own, slamming viciously into your pussy as he coos adorations into your ear.

With his other hand, he reaches down and fists himself over your bare mound, pressing the tip against your clit where it weeps prespend over your flesh. His thumb sweeps across what spills out, dragging it back down to your sopping hole, pushing it inside.

It's probably not enough to reach your womb, to get you pregnant, but he clings to that tantalising fantasy as he drills his fingers into you until you come, breathlessly begging him to fuck you harder, to fill you up—

He isn't even fucking you with his cock, and you still beg him for it.

John pushes the tip into your slit, fingers still buried deep inside of your throbbing pussy, and groans with the force of his release. It makes him dizzy, almost nauseous with it, filling his head with nothing but the sweet, wounded sound of your moans filling the room, and the wet squelch of his fingers pulling out of you.

When he catches the threads of cognisance in his fingers once more, he leans back on his haunches, chest heaving, and brands the messy sight of your pussy fluttering, clenching around nothing, as his spend drips down your slit, over your hole, and pools in the sheets below.

He's not sure if heaven exists, but he knows the sight of you, breathless and whimpering on his bed, is the closest a man like him will ever come to seeing it.

The push-pull of this little game stretches on.

Price likes to see just how far he toe the line before you're whimpering into the sheets, telling him don't, John, don't come inside me, I'm not anything, John—and he's ripping himself away from the tight clutch of your wet, hot cunt, and coming all over you.

The illicit tease of barely pulling out in time, and then scooping up the mess he makes on your face, your breasts, your belly, your ass, lower back, thighs, and spooning it into your pussy until it's a fixture in your bedroom ritual.

And maybe it's the threat of it all, of playing such a dangerous game, seems to cudgel under his skin the most, ripping apart the thin veneer of that man he once pretended to be—righteous and good—shedding it off with each hiccupped gasp you make when he presses his come-slicked fingers inside of you, murmuring guttural words of affection in the shape of impish mockery (want it bad, don't you, sweet thing; so fuckin’ greedy for it, love—).

He likes it the most when he can fuck you stupid on his fingers. Cockdrunk, and come-starved (because you are, of course; he hasn't come inside of your cunt in weeks, and doesn't miss the mournfully pitiful whines you give when he pulls out, depriving you of the pleasure of feeling him come inside you), you're too blissed out, swimming in pleasure, to think about what he's doing.

In fact, he doesn't really give you much of a chance to think at all.

The next few weeks are filled with him fucking you each night brutally, viciously, snarling low in your ear about how bad he wants to come in you, stuff you full, and then keep you plugged up all night with his cock that it takes, and then pulling out right before, committing the sight of your betrayed expression to memory where it'll sit like a trophy when you finally break.

You make an appointment with your gynaecologist, and circle the date on his calendar.

John notes it down. Tucks it away.

And then he amps up the pressure.

John's fingers root behind your knees, pushing your thighs apart as he settles between them. His gaze drills into your bare cunt, slick and wet, and so ready for him. Eager for it.

He'd counted the days, and knows that if there's ever the absolute worst time to have unprotected sex, to come inside of you, is now.

Which, of course, means he has to. The clause in that is ironclad. Apodictic.

“Bit dangerous,” he rasps, and lifts your leg up, resting your ankle on his shoulder. You fluster beneath him, panting and pretty, and fuck—he’s not pulling out of your pussy tonight at all. “Should I pull out?”

It's a tease. A test.

He reaches down as he says the words, gripping his cock and bringing it down against your wet heat. The bare, blunt head of his cocks slaps against your clit, and you arch, keening. Nails bite into the thick muscles of his biceps, and he leans into the sharp sting. Letting it ground him. Centre him.

This will be your cacoëthes.

He's been depriving you for weeks, and John knows that you're wanting for it. Desperate. The little twitches your hips give, as if begging him to fill you up, are proof enough of how much you want this.

This. The dream he dripped into your ears, hot oil congealing over your frontal lobe; infectious and thick. You can try to chisel it off, but the pollution is already damning. Ruining.

You want this. He wears the axiom like armour.

And you beg for it—eyes shaded in gut wrenchingly beautiful lachrymose—and John snuffles closer, inching the weeping head of his cock into your tight, warm heat.

The sight of splitting you open is something he never grows tired of. Something that, without fail, makes his balls ache. His chest thrum. Blood turns to ichor. To wine. He's drunk on the contrast made between you—a garish chiaroscuro of your pretty pussy, soft and sickly sweet—almost nauseatingly so—swallowing down the fat, girthy length of his cock. The thick streams of veins running along the flushed, heavy shaft against your puffy, soft folds is almost hideous. Sinful. He can't equate it to anything else except corruption. The horrific beast sullying the princess.

And fuck—

The thought alone makes him throb.

He's sullied you plenty, he reckons, and yet you always look so sweet. Especially now, when your rim is stretched taut around the thick of him, pussy squeezing, clenching around him in a vice, as if you weren't sure to push him out or pull him deeper.

John decides for you. Opting instead to push your knees down to your chest, nearly brushing your ears, and follows with the bulk of his body until he feels your breath rush out of your lungs. You struggle for a moment, gasping wetly into his ear as his weight—every bearish pound of it—rests on you in the perfect mating press. Your bite into his biceps, keening prettily into his ear as he bullies the full length of his cock into you. Spears you open. Splits you apart.

He can feel you gush around him, drenching his groin and thighs with your slick.

Like this—chest to chest, forced to breathe in the same air, the same madness—he likes to just stare at you, taking in the heat simmering under your skin, the sweat beading along your temple, the pinch in your brow as you struggle to adjust to the sheer width of him cudgelling you open. A battering ram you're forced to make room for.

He takes it all in, each flicker of emotion, each heaving gasp. Burns it into his memory. Lets it soften the iron around his heart. Keeps it there, nestled in the cradle of his limited love, held aloft by indelicate, bearish hands. This sweet thing.

He can't wait to ruin it.

If these weeks leading up to this were lovemaking, fucking, then this, this, is mating. Animalistic. Primal. He pushes in as deep as he can, until the tip kisses the ripened seal of your womb, and grinds his hips cruelly into the cradle of your thighs.

Your nails leave bloodied indents in his flesh. A scar he'll proudly bear the mark of. A tattoo of the time when he turned you into something new.

His balls are soaked. The sheets, too. He mocks you for it, a rasping growl lodged deep in his throat, taunting you about how fucking wet you are for him. How badly you need it.

“Gotta plug you up, hm?” He grunts, and sets a pace that serves only to accentuate the sloppy, messy squelch of your cunt.

His cock pistoning into you, alternating between deep, full thrusts that knock the air from your lungs, and heavy, slow plunges meant to badger the blunt head of his cock against your walls.

You seem to like it best when he shifts his weight between each thigh, content to just grind into you. Make you feel every inch of him. You cling to him, yowling in his ear about how good it feels, how much you love this, love his cock—

The thick bed of wry, umber curls on his chest, stomach, and groin grow slick with sweat from the intensity of it all, from the shared heat. Pressed tight against you, he feels every quiver. Every flinch. Each moan is made known in a slight reverberation across his skin before he hears it.

Drenched in sweat, glued to you as he fucks you into the mattress, John feels very much like the beast making a house out of a twisted whim in his head. Feverish, sick, he drives into you with the single minded goal of filling that home up with three. Then four. Five—

As many as you'll let him.

And he almost loses himself to that thought alone. Dancing sugar plums that make his balls tighten. He stems the flood by pulling out of you, letting his heavy cock slap against your sticky, soaked cunt as he heaves into your hairline, sucking in the heady loam, the humus, of your scent.

The whimper you make when he pulls out of you sounds like a wounded animal, and the noise tickles across his hindbrain. His jaw aches. He bites down on a snarl as you thrash against him, mindless with the need to have him inside of you. It brings a nasty, vicious curl to the ends of his mouth, and he doesn't even bother trying to tamper it down. John lifts his head and lets you see his foaming muzzle, drooling with thick globes of saliva.

“Stay still,” he growls, low and dangerous. It's as much of a warning as it is a command, and the way you react, tensing, coiling tight—the flash of unease. Shock. And then the need. Achy, heavy. He feels it against his jugular when you shiver, moaning his name into the space between you where it reeks of desperation.

To soften the submissive tremble in your jaw—and maybe to temper down the challenging talons sharpening in your gaze—he nuzzles his cheek against yours, peppers wet kisses to your skin. He licks across your jaw, bites down on your flesh.

He tastes salt and sin on your skin.

(His eyes roll so far back into his skull he thinks he might get lost.)

“Gonna cum on your pretty cunt if you don't stop squirming, love.”

And John loves you most for your waspish intelligence—the ire smouldering in your throat. The way you bite back just as hard, never afraid to bear teeth when he snarls. He doesn't think he could ever love someone too soft—not without tearing them to pieces. To shreds.

But you wear plush, tender conchoidal skin over jagged, rough obsidian. He'll ruin himself if he ever tries to rip you apart.

Like this, though—you melt.

All that keen, vicious intelligence snuffed out. His scheming Cleopatra tamed on his cock.

Your heels dig into the back of his thighs, urging him closer to your sex. “Come on, John, just fuck me, fuck me already—”

(Tamed, though, perhaps being a misnomer.)

He huffs into your neck. “Impatient little quean.”

It gets him a sharp bite to the tip of his ear, and the floor roars so loudly in his veins, he gets dizzy from it.

“Fuck—”

He's pressing back into you again, into your warm, tight heat, and it's nirvana kissing his nerves. Liquifying his spine. He rolls into you with a weighted groan, buried to the hilt once more.

But even with the respite, he knows he won't last.

John needs you fucked stupid, docile and soft just for him, and sets out to do just that. Pounding into you with a spiteful twist of his hips that he knows will leave you a little sore, and tender tomorrow. But the idea of spreading your puffy, achy folds apart and soothing the slight hurt with his tongue for hours until you're sobbing into the cushions quells any hesitation that rears, begging him to slow down.

Go easy on your pretty cunt.

(As if.)

John batters into you until your eyes glaze over, and your chin, cheeks, smear with drool. Until the challenge in midnight black melts into submission. Docile, and malleable. Perfect for him to mould. Shape.

Reshape.

He glues to you, touch starved and tactile, and basks in the liquid heat that blooms from deep within you.

“Gonna cum soon,” he snarls, broken by the heave in his chest as he fucks into you, starved. “Gotta pull out, love—”

You're gripping him tighter, anchoring him to your body. You haven't come yet. Something he dangles in front of you like a threat.

He watches the slow crawl of realisation crest over your messy face, and thinks he falls just a little bit more in love with you at the sight of your little pout.

Loves, even more, the way it breaks apart when he pounds into you harder, viciously, watching drool dribble off your chin, and reason leak from your ears—

“Please, John—” the sound of your whimpering has him grunting, head dizzy with the saccharine sweet taste of it on his tongue. “Please, please—come inside me. I–I want you to–to fill me up—”

“Yeah?” He taunts, mean and breathless. “Want me to come inside your sloppy cunt? Dangerous, ain't it? Jus’ might take, sweet thing. Is that what you want?”

You're howling a litany of sin into his ear, desperation drenches each clamour of his name, each orison uttered, begging him to come, to fill you up, and then—

“Fuck—I want it so bad—” his head is filled with static. Whitenoise. “Want it to take, John—”

He comes inside of you, cock pulsing so hard it feels like a sob. Filling you up. Wishing on all the stars that it takes—

As a reward for your good behaviour, he spreads you out over the sheets, and growls his approval into your sopping pussy, drenching himself with the taste, the smell, of you, promising to wear it like a perfume so everyone knows how good you are for him. Him, alone.

(His, his, his—)

When you come, you nearly smother him, and he thinks he sees a glimpse of nirvana in baby soft yellow before he's pulled back by your shaking hands brushing the hair off his sweat-slicked forehead.

“Are you okay, John—”

He rolls you under him, fucking into your drenched pussy like a man starved. That tantalising vision glues itself to his hindbrain, so close he can scent the fresh dew of fresh milk, and warm bread in his nose. Feel the bump of your stomach.

He's almost angry about it, about being ripped away from that dream, and takes his aggression out on your sloppy, leaking cunt. The way his come trickles out, staining the mattress below and the back of your thighs has him growling darkly into your nape.

“Keep it in,” he snarls, words sharpened on the whetstone of his need. “Keep it all inside, love.”

“Ah, John, John—” something falls from your split-slicked lips, and his fingers bite into your hips. Punishment for the slurred backtalk.

“I'll spank your ass if any of it leaks out—”

It does. Of course it does.

He bends you over his knee, and slaps his broad, rough palm over each cheek ten times before deliriously shoving two thick fingers into your sloppy cunt, stuffing his come back inside your tender, swollen hole, rough and mean, as you howl, squirming in his lap about how you promise you'll be good next time, John, please—I'll keep it all in, I swear, I—

“You fuckin’ better, love.” He groans, and thinks about cumming on your messy face, all slick with sweat, and drool, but decides against it. A waste, he thinks, and leans over you to shove the thick, twisting length of his angry cock inside you to the hilt just spit his release against your seal once more.

“That was…” You're still panting against his chest, eyes dazed, and body laxed. Melted wax over his chest. “Intense,” you settle on after a beat.

There's a hiccup in your breath when he hums, chest rumbling with the sound.

“Mm, but you liked it, didn't you?”

Of course you did. Of course. The evidence of it is drying, tacky and slick, on his groin, his thighs.

You burrow into his side, peeking at him from over the thick bed of wry curls that clot over his chest. “You're fucking me like you haven't in years, John. Makes me wonder if you have an agenda.”

He considers your words. The weight of them. Wonders just how much you've clued into, but huffs when he catches the same look in your eyes as the one reflected in his own.

Cheeky little—

“Can't I just want to fuck you? Not everything has to be about schemes, love.”

The oil of his lies, the sticky resin of his evasion makes you huff into his skin.

In all his meticulous planning, he'd picked up several books on this particular topic, and scoured every available, reputable, site he could find. John knows what to look out for by now, and keeps a keen eye on you—one that very quickly dips into obsessiveness, but you're kind enough to call it overbearing.

Jesus Christ, John, why are you asking me how many times I pissed today?

He just needs to wait things out.

But rather irritatingly, he's called away overseas for the next week.

Ah, well. He'll have to try harder next time.

He arrives in Heathrow mid-morning, and follows Laswell into the office. There's a mountain of reports to fill out—things that, rather irritatingly, require his signature—and resolves to spend the rest of the day hunched over at his desk, even though there's an itch in the back of his skull demanding he go home.

It is always like this, though—both the post-mission ritual of banal paperwork that seems almost comical considering what he'd just done, and the undeniable urge to flee back into the sanctuary of your shared home.

His bones ache for it.

Laswell huffs when he lingers by the exit, and he swallows a groan.

While he was away, you'd been silent. Moreso than usual.

Where he'd have expected an update on what was going on—the mundanity of your life that he clings to when the beast in his head whets its talons a little too sharp, digs into a little too deep—you’ve gone silent. Not radio. Not completely. But the information you give is sparse. Cagey.

You don't tell him about the visit to the gynaecologist, offering nothing but a quiet hum into the receiver, all blase and nonchalant, and a simple, equivocal: “good.”

He tucks it away, lets the matter drop.

If he timed things correctly—barring your impish prevarication aside—then something will begin to show soon. You would have mentioned something. Some nominal change to your physical well-being, but when pried, pressed, you huff.

“I'm good, John. When are you coming home, anyway?”

He raps his knuckles on his desk, still smarting from the punches he'd thrown recklessly this past week, too keyed up to let his anger simmer instead of boil, and thinks. About you. About this.

A week isn't a lot of time—he’s been called away for months in the past—but this feels like it's lingering. Time stretched and distorted. Elongated. And a part of him feels chipped, fractured after touchdown.

It wasn't as if this particular assignment was any more, or less, dangerous than the ones he went on before. If anything, it was comparatively mild. Muted. He honed into his training, and did his goddamn job. And yet—

Yet.

You lived in the spaces he occupied. The air he breathed. The water he drank.

He brought you with him, something he's never, ever, done before. Perched pretty on his shoulder, he heard your voice in his head with every step he took, every radio call.

But it was hallucinatory. Chimerical. You weren't there, you were here, but the problem lies in the lack of a divide that usually bifurcates the world into two fractions: his job and you.

It eats at him.

He brought you where he's never taken anyone before. Never let them in.

His thoughts were asunder. Pulled in all directions, but the centre was always you. His compass pointing north. He wants you. Needs you. His whole being has been recalibrated with the needle aimed toward you.

An alert on his phone shakes him from his reverie.

He reaches for it, slides his hand across the lockbar. The notification pops up. A message from his bank.

His card—the one he gave you, the one you've used all of once to buy a chocolate bar when he gruffly, surely, complained about you not spending his money—has been used.

Curious now, he opens his app, eyes scanning the threadbare purchases—all mostly interest fees and service charges, bar one. It was recently used at a drugstore for under twenty dollars.

He doesn't know what this means, what you're playing at. He makes to text you, but he gets an email next.

Thank you for your purchase; here is your e-receipt.

His heart does something strange in his chest. Turns in on itself. Goes all askew.

Not only are you using his card, you're using his account, too. He clicks it, eyes scanning through the purchases (only two), and blinks.

A card, and—

His want takes the shape of a hand, presses against his jugular.

—a pregnancy test.

He knew when he started this game that this was, of course, the inevitable outcome, but having it here, right in front of him—in that sneaky, noncommittal way you always do things; behind his back, and in the dark, like you enjoy watching him try and sniff out the truth—has his belly knotting up. Churning.

A pregnancy test.

Fuck—

(and out of all the ways to tell him, you cheeky little—)

He's up out of his chair before he's even aware that he's standing.

“Laswell,” he gets out, and can't be sure how his voice is so measured when his head is being shredded into pieces. “I'm out for the rest of the day. This whole bloody week, too—”

“Something bad happen?”

His hands shake when he pulls his jacket on, slips his car keys into his hands. “No. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm going to be a father. A bloody dad—”

It's on that sentiment when his voice breaks. Shatters. He clears his throat, blinks furiously. Fuck. Fuck. It's happening—

Shangri-la sits in his fist, taking the shape of an e-mailed receipt.

In his periphery, he sees Simon's head come up. Watching him. Measured.

Laswell, too, eyes him with a degree of wariness. He supposes to them this means the end of everything.

She breathes in. “Tuscany would be my choice.”

“Oh?” He tears his eyes away from the screen, gracing her with a steady, unflinching look. “Was thinking something a bit more local. Liverpool.”

It gets a scoff, one full of disgust. “She'll divorce you within the year.”

“I'm having a baby, Laswell. Not getting married.”

“Oh, no?” It's a challenge. “I seem to recall something about someone being a proper gentleman, or was that just the lie you told your unofficial missus?”

“We'll get married. That's not up for debate—” an intern makes an alarmed face, like perhaps it ought to be. Had he not been holding nirvana in his hand, he might be a bit more cautious with his madness. Too bloody bad. “Wherever she wants—Tuscany, Udaipur, fucking Siberia. I don't care. What I’m a bit more concerned with is my expectant wife.”

“Soon-to-be,” she volleys, just because she knows it's the sort of thing that will itch under his skin.

“Already is, Laswell.” He gripes, flat. “Or damn near close to it.”

“If she knows what's good for her, she'll say no.”

“Lucky me, then, that she doesn't.”

Lucky him, indeed.

On his way out, Ghost utters a heated congratulations to him, and John can see his gaze is absent. Turned inward, mind whirring. Reeling. He can hear the gears grind from where he stands, and if the ink-black madness in his lieutenant’s drifting, pensive eyes means much of anything, then John sends a silent hail mary to whatever unlucky person was misfortune enough to unleash the muzzle on that particular dog.

Well. It's not really his problem. Until it is. Until it becomes one. But since it's not something that'll impact him in the next five minutes, he tucks it away. “Thanks.”

He doesn't linger. Doesn't, really, even remember the ride home, head buzzing with thoughts that keep twisting around themselves, driving him mental. Things like, is it real? what if you were joking. what you weren't?

Oh, fuck—

You better not be.

But you wouldn't. You're conniving and wily, but you're not cruel.

This is happening, then.

You've been playing house with matches inside of a tinderbox. He shouldn't be surprised when it all goes up in flames, in smoke, but as he walks through the door, and glimpses the pregnancy test perched innocently on the counter beside a card—congrats, daddy (and the caricature of a man in a pinstripe suit nearly makes him gag)—he feels all the maligned pieces inside of crack.

It shifts—

You walk out, hand cupped protectively over your lower belly. Eyes gleaming like a wild cat crouched low in the tussocks surrounding the savannah, watching him an eager sense of anticipation, excitement, and just the slightest edge of what he can only imagine the unfortunate mate of a black widow sees before it's consumed. Spare parts.

It thrums inside of him. Ignites this wicker basket he calls a heart until it's cinder. Ash. Soot. He breathes it in. Tastes you on his tongue.

John doesn't have the words. Can't think beyond the steady brag of his burning heart.

His. His.

—and then it all falls into place.

Yours.

He dotes on you with an almost unhinged devotion, murmuring stilted, gruff words of muted affection into the shallow bump on your belly. Ones that you, politely, pretend not to hear.

A new bedtime ritual, one he adheres to with an almost obsessive need.

Until it becomes too much.

“Go and get my prenatal vitamins from the washroom, please. I just need five minutes without you smothering me, you stupid bear of a man.”

“You love it,” he grumbles, but acquiesces, giving your small, barely there bump a pat. “I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, no… please take your time.”

Despite the prickle in your tongue, your eyes are soft. Warm. Melting him just a little more.

John pulls away, and doesn't even pretend the reluctance to be apart is feigned.

“It's in the drawer,” you call, voice stretched. Echoing. “Next to your shaving cream.”

He pulls the drawer open, scanning the contents briefly, before finding the purple bottle in the back. Why you chose here of all places to put the bloody things—

His knuckles knock against the old box of condoms, tipping it over. There's a strange rattle as it falls, and his brows furrow at the noise.

Curiously, he reaches for it. Shakes it as he picks it up. The same sounds spill out. He pops the flap of the box open, peering inside, and—

A gruff chuckle crackles in his throat.

Inside the old box of condoms—the ones he never bothered to throw out, or use—is an accumulation of all the pills you'd meant to take.

His jowls ache. He rubs at his jaw with his hand, and feels the skittish patter of his heart thudding out of his skin. Madness in his veins.

John closes the drawer with his knee, and then tosses the box of condoms in the bin, leaving it for you to find later when you're inevitably wracked by another wave of morning sickness. A little shred of vindication for this little game you made him play.

Though he supposes turn-about is fair play, and the number of pills in the box is less than the months he spent scheming for this vision of his.

In the back of his head, the beast purrs.

“Do we need to play these games again for the next one,” he rasps. “Or can I just fuck you until it takes.”

You blink at him, wide and owlish. Full of faux innocence as you coax the beast out of hiding. “I don't know what you're talking about, John.”

More games, then. He thinks he might crack open your ribcage and rest his weary head on the frantic beat of your heart.

“Mm, don't know what I'd do without you,” he says, guns aching. He reaches for the pack of gum (no smoking around the baby or you'd toss him off the balcony), and pops a spearmint into his mouth. “Might live longer, I reckon, but—”

Your elbow digs into his side. “You sure about that?”

He just kisses your crown in response, and places his heavy, scarred hand over the curve of your belly. The beast inside purrs, content for now. Satiated.

When he looks into your midnight eyes, he finds your own beast slumbering away.

A match made in a tinderbox, he guesses, and kisses you until you're dizzy. His very own Shangri-la sitting pretty inside his bed, nestled in the castle in Spain you helped him build.

Will help him fill.

#this was supposed to be posted earlier but i was too busy watching dead meat #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #this was a) not thought out and b) def not edited #Unhinged John Price is my roman empire #call of duty fics #cod fics #captain john price smut

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pepperyduck · 1 month

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cheater, pt.2 - satoru gojo

word count: 1.2k

warnings: heartbroken gojo, jealousy, spiteful cheating, descriptions of suguru geto x reader, marriage problems, pathetic gojo. (18+ mdni!)

notes: gosh thank u for all the love on the last part!!! please read pt. 1 before this one, or don't, it's rly up to u.

you can find part one here

masterlist

multitudes of shopping bags rustle when you enter your home, a home that’s been silent for months now since satoru left you for his girlfriend. he didn’t actually leave, traces of him still lingered around the house from time to time when he wasn’t out with her, but those encounters remained faint traces, you had barely spoken to him unless it was to discuss something important.

you had mostly talked to satoru about a possible divorce – he brought the subject up after weeks of his girlfriend begging him to be with her for good now.

“your parents will disown you, satoru,” you had said, physically ignoring the man that sat across the kitchen from you, “and mine will hate you. plus, you don’t make that much money now, anyway.” you passively insulted the man. satoru agreed, however, his parents adored you since birth, and divorce was one of the things they wouldn’t put up with. the marriage started for convenience, and it would stay that way until one of you mustered up the courage to make a divorce final.

the current situation wasn’t all bad, though, it was an agreement without words that you and satoru lived married while he had his fun. and with the more fun he had, the less you began to care. it was the first time in your life you were genuinely able to focus on yourself without a husband to worry about. you concocted many hobbies, you learned how to cook healthier – no longer having to adjust your tastes to satoru’s liking – and decided to hit the gym a few days a week. progress started slowly, but you could see the tone in your body begin to show after a few months.

now, you had time to think about your appearance more, you tried new things with your hair and makeup, you bought a new wardrobe to fit your liking better. your old clothes stayed pushed to the side, growing wrinkly as you filled your closet up with better designer brands, you no longer worried about what satoru thought of you. satoru had moved his things into a different room, leaving you the space of the master bedroom to fill up with décor you fancied. your confidence grew more than ever, beginning to feel beautiful after a while.

you were always beautiful, of course, but it’s a much better feeling when you can see it in the mirror.

deciding to give your husband a taste of his own medicine, you start to date around and dip your toes into the wonderful world of hookups and first dates. you think it’s insane how easily men are on their knees, begging for you to go on a date with them, just one date, please! you got better treatment over the course of a month than you ever had with satoru; men would vow their loyalty to you, something satoru never did, obviously.

after satoru’s refusal to divorce you, his girlfriend left him, but the fact was unknown to you. sure, you noticed him moping around the house more often, but you figured he finally got tired of her and needed space. but his time at home forced him to see you come home with all kinds of guys, ones that were taller, handsomer, and stronger than him.

satoru saw the change in you, and god, he had never felt so in love with you since you found your new confidence and style. you were simply ravishing, and now satoru feels a pang of guilt for failing to realize what he had in front of him for so long.

the envy that boiled in his chest was a new feeling for him. he never thought he would be jealous of you giving him the same treatment he had been giving you. yet, there he was, watching from the kitchen as you giggle wrapped in someone else’s arms, furiously making out in the entryway without paying any mind to satoru. it bothered him.

and, oh boy, when you walk through the door with his ex-best friend from college, suguru, satoru swears he could go crazy.

satoru’s eyes focus their attention from some tv dinner to the door when you and suguru stumble though, laughing and carried away in one another’s presence. he had never seen you feel so alive, not even when you didn’t know he was cheating, you never acted that way with him. satoru has a look in his eyes the instant he sees you, the same look he had when he was about to kill someone, a crazed, insane look.

suguru flips you around and pins you to the wall, so he’s facing right at satoru, and he looks him in the eyes as he fiercely makes out with you.

if satoru had a gun, he’d point it right at the both of you.

yet he doesn’t have a gun, or anything really, just a fit of jealously growing stronger and stronger the more you make out with someone that hurt him so badly.

so this is what it feels like, huh?

satoru stands up and slams his chair back under the table, only growing angry when it doesn’t seem to phase you at all. he goes upstairs and slams the door to his room shut when he enters. he doesn’t…he can’t do anything. he can’t stop you from having free will, and he definitely can’t call you out for doing the same thing to him that he did to you. he sits down on the bed, a bed he should’ve been sharing with you, and he tangles his fingers in his hair, insecure thoughts clouding his mind.

for once in his life, the smug bastard known as satoru gojo was pitiful.

the screams of suguru’s name keep satoru up until the early hours of the morning.

the next day, you’re cooking breakfast later in the morning after suguru leaves. it feels like a very successful night. satoru walks into the kitchen, having had a sleepless night, and plops down at the table while he stares at you.

you’re so perfect, you always have been, why did he have to be so stupid about ruining his marriage with the perfect woman?

“so, suguru, huh?” satoru questions, crossing his arms.

“hmm?” you hum, viciously smiling inside because the bothered tone satoru had was so deliciously obvious.

“listen,” satoru starts, hesitating for a moment because he might pity himself for the way he’s about to speak to you. “i’m…sorry,” he mutters, almost inaudible, sighing afterwards.

you glance over your shoulder, seeing your husband look so tired and…hurt?

“don’t apologize, satoru. you and i both know it’s much too late for that now,” you aptly reply, “you should’ve thought about that long ago.”

your words are a knife in satoru’s chest, and it only feels as if you’re stabbing him over and over the more you speak, looking away from him again to focus on the stovetop.

“don’t apologize to me because you feel bad now. you’re only saying sorry because your feelings are the ones getting hurt this time,” your words send waves of guilt, sadness, and downright pain through your husbands body, “and quite frankly, i don’t care.”

satoru wants to retort, he wants to reply with something smug but his mind draws a blank as he only stares at you, ultimately betrayed by his own actions — his once kind, sweet wife has left him behind in a mess of himself.

his apologies no longer mean anything to you. you’ve grown too strong for satoru. he’ll continue to be a pathetic mess, until one day, hopefully, you choose to forgive him for what he’s done.

maybe you will, maybe you won’t. it’s up for you to decide.

taglist: @kalopsia-flaneur @painted-hills @kundere20000000

let me know if u wanna be added!

#satoru gojo #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk angst #satoru gojo angst #gojo x reader

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imnotaacat · 2 months

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I Can Not Do It Without You.

husband!Anthony x fem reader wife.

— Summary: You have been married to Anthony for a year, and you are about to give birth to your first baby. However, after overhearing a conversation between his younger brothers, Benedict and Colin, it makes you doubt whether your marriage is prosperous and honest, which leads to an early and complicated birth.

— Warnings: Angst, mentions of death, fluff at the end, no use of Y/n, mentions of deception. (I think that's all)

A/n: English is not my native language, sorry if something is written wrong, I hope everything can be understood. :)

“It’s funny that she thinks Anthony is still in love with her.” You heard Colin’s voice behind the door, followed by Benedict’s laughter.

That was enough for you to ask the footman accompanying you to prepare the carriage, you would return home. Since a few weeks ago you suspected that Anthony was cheating on you, the last few weeks he began to go out more often with his younger brothers, and of course, there was nothing wrong with it, but it happened every night and he always returned at dawn. And you, who were about to give birth, only wanted to feel protected, cared for by him, but you felt the opposite, he simply left, leaving you completely alone.

“My dear, won’t you stay for dinner with us?” Someone asked behind you, it was your mother-in-law, Violet. “Oh, I really appreciate it, you must excuse me, but I would like to have dinner with my husband.” Violet smiled. “Don’t worry dear, it’s okay, give him my regards.” You nodded and walked to your carriage, the footman helped you get in.

Once home, you entered and began to climb the stairs, as fast as your belly allowed you.

“Honey, you're back, I was waiting for you for dinner.” Your beloved husband's voice said with his beautiful smile at the bottom of the stairs. Something inside your chest stirred. You smiled.

“Oh dear husband, I apologize, but I've already had dinner with your mother and brothers.” You said, he smiled, he loved the way you got along with his family, he couldn't have chosen a better wife. I apologize for not accompanying you, but I feel very tired. — He nodded again.

“Don't worry, rest, I'll be with you in a few moments.” You nodded. You finished climbing the stairs that led to the room you shared, you asked your maid for some help to undress. Once you were ready, you got into the sheets of your bed, but you couldn't even close your eyes. Thirty minutes later you heard your husband's footsteps coming up the stairs, you settled down with your back to the door and closed your eyes pretending to be asleep. You listened to his footsteps and movements around the room, a few minutes later you felt the mattress sink and then the warmth of his body, he placed his hand on your belly, kissed your temple, and got ready to sleep.

About an hour later, he was finally fast asleep, you got out of your bed and left the room making as little noise as possible, you went down the stairs and headed towards his study, you placed the candle you were carrying on his desk and you got ready to look for something, something that would help you, something that would give you a clue about something. And as the saying goes, “Curiosity killed the cat.” In one of the drawers of his desk, you found several newspapers. As you skimmed through them you noticed something. They all had an ad for an opera concert and all of them had one name repeated: “Sienna Rosso.” You didn’t know whether to be happy for having found what you were looking for or to cry for what you had found. The second to last ad was dated two days ago, the last time Anthony had gone out, and the last ad was dated two days from now. You put everything back the way it was, closed the door to the study, and headed back to your room. To your relief, Anthony was still fast asleep.

“Good morning,” you said, announcing your entrance to the dining room. Anthony smiled. “Good morning, dear. Did you rest?” He asked. You nodded, at that moment the maids came in with their breakfast trays, so they began to eat, leaving a comfortable silence in between. — You know… yesterday I saw an announcement, about an opera concert— You spoke breaking the silence and lifting your face to look at him, he already did. — I heard that the girl is very good, I think her name is Sienna… yes Sienna Rosso— Anthony coughed. — And well, I would like to find out for myself, and why not with my dear husband? The concert is in two days, so, could we go? — You asked with a nice smile, Anthony quickly nodded.

“Sure, why not, I have a little work, but I will do it in these two days, so we can go out.” You nodded with a smile.

During those days when the long-awaited night arrived, Anthony, no matter how much he wanted to concentrate on his work, couldn't do it. The only thing he had in mind was your request, but rather, the way you asked for it, your look when you asked him, during their first year of marriage, he had noticed that whenever you asked him for something there was a special sparkle in your eyes, however, that morning he couldn't see it, instead there was something else, your gaze had something dark in it.

When the agreed time and day arrived, you went down the stairs while he went up, you were wearing a Bridgerton blue dress, white gloves, and a pretty pearl necklace, he praised how pretty you looked, he asked you for a moment so he could get ready and go out with you.

Once at the theater, you asked to sit up front, and he accepted without arguing anything, minutes later the concert started, and boy was the girl good, she was wonderful, out of the corner of your eye you noticed that throughout the act Anthony looked at the stage a couple of times, most of the time he saw you, the floor and the ceiling, and of course, anyone would say it was romantic, but you knew it was guilt.

Once the concert was over you told Anthony that you needed to go to the bathroom, he nodded and joined another group of men who greeted him happily.

“Miss Sienna, someone is waiting for you in your dressing room.” A voice said behind the girl as she walked off the stage, she smiled and thanked him with a nod. Finally, Anthony had returned. However, he froze when he saw a female silhouette in his dressing room, you were with your back to her. You were looking at each of her outfits with a smile, and from time to time you touched the fabrics with your hands what caught her attention the most was your belly, you could give birth at any moment, even now.

“Were you hoping to see the Viscount?” You asked still with your back turned, you only heard a low “Excuse me?” before turning to look at her. — I asked if you were hoping to see Anthony. — You asked again, Sienna was surprised that you called him by his name, but it was logical, you were his wife. Seeing that she had no answer you sighed and spoke again. — I know he has come to see you frequently, so I wanted to meet the woman who fucks my husband. — You said with a forced smile on your lips. Sienna smiled back, she didn't expect the Viscount's wife to be like this, she imagined a silly girl, but no, you were different, you were direct. At that moment something occurred to her, something that would make Anthony come back to her again.

“Yeah well, Anthony comes here often, he even comes with his brothers.” He said with a smile. You just nodded, but anger was growing inside you, how could she call him by his first name? — You know, it's nice that he comes to see me at my concerts but to attend with his wife... it's very bold.” She said with a smile.

“Sienna... I was the one who suggested he come, he came simply because I asked him to accompany me, if he had wanted... or rather... been able to, he would have stayed in his studio.” You saw how Sienna's face fell.

Seriously Anthony had stopped loving her? Just like that? After you two got married he paid you one last visit, where he made it clear that you would never have another meeting. In exchange for various favors, she was able to arrange for several Lords and Dukes to meet Anthony at the theater or places where she would perform. She knew that once they were alone, Anthony would come back to her. Her surprise came when he didn't even look at her, or even notice her presence, and she was accompanied by her brothers. Every time she passed by his place, she heard how wonderful his wife was and how much he was in love with her.

“Listen to me-“ She began to speak, calling you by your name, but you interrupted her.

“For you, I am Lady Bridgerton,” you said. Anthony heard it and went to the place where your voice came from. He noticed that you hadn't returned from the bathroom, so he decided to make sure everything was okay. He followed your voice, down that path that he had walked so many times a few years ago. — You can fuck Anthony as many times as you want, it's fine, but listen to me, I'll be the only one that Anthony will present as his wife, I'll be the one who will have his children, his heir, my children will carry his blood, my children and I will be the ones who will wait for him at night to have dinner, I'll be the one who will see him walking arm in arm through the parks, while you... you will simply meet him at night, when everyone is already home, you will stay in the dark, hiding, making sure that no one can see you. — Sienna was definitely speechless, after hearing everything you had said, you were right, he would never leave you for her. Anthony, who had heard everything while walking towards you, was proud to hear what you had said, you didn't even raise your voice, much less attack her to leave her speechless.

“Whatever you say Anthony loves me-“ Once again she was interrupted, this time by Anthony's voice.

“For you, I am Lord Bridgerton, I will never allow you to call me by my name again, our relationship ended a long time ago, Miss Rosso, and that day I made it very clear to you that I would never return to you again.” You smiled at the look on Sienna’s face in front of your husband’s back. — If you will excuse us, the Viscountess and I must retire, good night, Miss Rosso. — He said, giving you his arm so that you could walk with him, and said goodbye to the friends who were still there.

Anthony helped you get into the carriage and once inside silence reigned between you, you were sitting face to face, so Anthony could see how your eyes began to get brighter and tears began to appear in your eyes. He felt guilty, guilty because he was the reason for those tears.

“Honey I-” He started to speak but you interrupted him. “I don’t want to hear anything Anthony.” He nodded. Once at home he helped you get out of the carriage and both of you climbed the stairs that led to his room.

“Marie, please tidy my room, I’ll be staying there tonight.” Your maid nodded and took from both of your rooms the things she would use at that moment and the next day to get ready, you heard a sigh from Anthony, and then his footsteps moving away towards the master bedroom, so you did the same, but in the opposite direction, before reaching your room you felt a pang in your lower belly, you grabbed the wall, Anthony turned and walked towards you when he heard your moan. “I’m fine” You told him when you heard his strides towards you, he stopped and nodded, but as far as he could see after you closed the door, he noticed that you were holding on to the wall as you walked.

Anthony wanted to talk to you, he wanted to tell you that it was all a misunderstanding, his affair with Sienna had ended a long time ago, even long before the two of you got married. Unable to fall asleep, he went down to his study and made himself a drink, then sat down at his desk hoping to be able to concentrate a little and even distract himself from what was going on with his work. He didn't even notice when he fell asleep at his desk.

“Mr. Bridgerton! Mr. Bridgerton please wake up.” When he opened his eyes he felt disoriented. “Mr. Bridgerton” The woman made a small bow. “Lady Bridgerton has gone into labor, but she is in very bad shape,” the maid said just as she heard a scream coming from the upper part of the house. — We have already sent for your mother, the Duke, and the Duchess, the young lady asked for it, and the doctor and the midwife are already with the lady. — The girl spoke as she followed Anthony up the stairs, another scream came from your room, with long strides he arrived at your room, and he saw you there, screaming and writhing in pain, and then he was nineteen again, panic began to bloom in him.

“Lord Bridgerton, the baby is not in position, I need to know what to do, save the baby, or save your wife.” Another scream from you was heard. “I told you to save my son.” You screamed with difficulty. — The decision must be made by the lord. — The doctor spoke. And one more scream was heard.

“Save them both,” Anthony spoke. “Sir, we will try, but-” Anthony interrupted him. “I told you to save my wife and my son,” Anthony screamed. — Yes sir, we will do our best.” And once again the doctor entered your room. Tears began to sting his eyes, just at that moment the doors of his house opened, it was Simon, his mother, and his brothers.

“Simon, Colin, and Benedict stay with Anthony, Daphne comes with me” Violet said as everyone went up the stairs. “Everything will be okay dear, I promise,” Violet said before entering your room with Daphne. The screams were getting louder, and his brothers didn't know what to do, or how to comfort him, Simon was already a father, of course, but none of Daphne's births had been like that, they didn't know what to do.

“Anthony, everything will be okay, your wife is a strong woman” Benedict spoke. There was silence. “It's my fault.” Anthony spoke. “She found out about Sienna, she noticed that I was leaving at night and she thinks I've cheated on her.”

“But it’s not like that, you ended your relationship with that woman, we have been with you so that you could avoid this.” Colin spoke, and Anthony nodded. “And I thank you, I should have told you what was going on” Anthony said, his head down. “I don’t know how you found out, but two days ago she asked me to go to the concert tonight, she had an argument with Sienna, and then when we got back home, she asked to have her bedroom fixed, she complained of pain, I should have insisted that she sleep in our bedroom, I should have stayed awake to take care of her.” Anthony spoke. Your screams still hadn’t stopped, they could hear the voices of the midwife, her mother, and Daphne asking you to push.

Anthony looked at his watch, it was almost five in the morning, and the fear he felt was from another world, he didn’t know what was going on in there, he only heard your screams. The four men were desperate, they knew there were only two options. Finally, the cry of a baby, their baby was heard behind the door, the four men looked at each other, then looked at the door, Daphne came out with the baby in her arms wrapped in a blanket. “He’s a cute little boy” she said with a smile, putting the baby in Anthony’s arms, he smiled. “Daphne, how is she?” Simon asked, Daphne just lowered her head.

“Daphne, how is my wife?” Anthony asked. “She is not well Anthony, she lost a lot of blood, she has a high fever, and the doctor does not know if she will survive.” Anthony sighed, he was happy for the birth of his son of course, but at the same time the love of his life was between life and death, he could not do it without her.

“My lady, stay with me, do not close your eyes.” the voices of the maids were heard, alarming everyone who was outside. “She cannot die” Anthony said finally letting the tears come out, hugging his little son.

It had been a week since you had given birth, and the fever and bleeding had stopped, however, you were still weak, you still had no strength, and you spent your time in your room. Violet and Daphne had asked to stay home with you, to help you and Anthony.

“Anthony dear,” Violet spoke entering her son's bedroom, Anthony was playing with Edmund, they had agreed to name him in honor of his father if they had a boy. “You should talk to your wife, I don't know what's wrong Anthony, but it's like she's rejecting her son.” Violet paused. — The only moment she is with him is when she breastfeeds her son, that's not good, you're doing an excellent job as a father, but this baby also needs his mother. — Anthony nodded, left his little one in the bassinet next to his bed, and called a maid to keep an eye on the baby. Leaving with his mother he went to your room, opened the door, and could see you, after a long time, you were looking out the window with your back to him, you had your hair down, a silk robe, you looked very beautiful.

“Love…” Anthony said. There was a pause, he expected you to say something or at least turn to look at him, but it wasn't like that, you continued looking at the window. “Since we met I noticed your desire to be a mother… But now that we have our son, you… you reject him.” Anthony doubted if he was using the right words, he didn't want to be hard on you, so you lowered your gaze to your lap. “What's wrong? You know you can tell me anything.” There was a long silence for his liking, or rather, for the moment you were in.

“I don't want him to get used to me.” You spoke and finally turning to look at him, Anthony looked at you confused. “I’m dying Anthony, just look at me.” And yes, you looked a little haggard, you had lost a little weight, but nothing that a little food couldn’t fix. “Besides…” You paused. “I’m scared Anthony, I’m scared of being just like my mother.” You finally burst into tears, Anthony was a little surprised, you had known each other for a little over a year and a half, and he had never seen you cry like this, or rather he had never seen you cry, it was a little difficult for you to show your emotions one hundred percent. Because of how you grew up, your parents never showed any kind of love between them, nor to you or your siblings, you and your siblings were raised for society, with no laughter or exaggerated emotions, just enough, if you wanted to cry or express your emotions you had to be completely alone, no one could see you like this or they would call you exaggerated. Anthony took a few steps to be closer to you and wrapped you in his arms. “You’re not dying, sweetheart… you’re not a bad mother either… Do you think I don’t notice how you play with Gregory or Hyacinth? Or how do you interact with Augui?” Anthony spoke, you smiled remembering how good it felt to play or spend time with them. Anthony pulled you away from his chest so you could look into each other’s eyes, he cupped your face in his hands, and with his thumbs, he wiped your tears away. “You’re nothing like your mother… but if you keep acting that way… rejecting your son, you’ll be just like her.” You nodded and hugged him again, he also hugged you back, and kissed the top of your head, both of you stayed in that position for a few minutes.

“I’m sorry.” You said, separating from the hug. — Not just for this… also for what happened a few days ago at the theater, I shouldn’t have acted that way. — Anthony shook his head.

“The one who should apologize is me.” He said take your hands. — I wasn’t honest with you, I should have told you what was going on because I went out every night… somehow that woman made all the business be handled in those places, I asked Colin and Benedict to accompany me, just to avoid this, but I should have told you too. — You noticed the sincerity in his words and the regret in his eyes.

“You should have told me, of course, but I acted recklessly, I should have talked to you before, can you imagine the scandal it would have been if someone else had heard? Can you imagine if it had been Wistledown?” Anthony laughed.

“But I must admit, you acted better than I would have acted if I had been in your place.” They both laughed. “But you know… I’m a little curious to know how you knew?” Anthony asked.

“Well… I heard your brothers saying it was funny that she thought you were still in love… and well, you know what happened.” Anthony laughed. “Instead of helping me, they sink my head into the mud.” There was a silence between you. “It’s nice to be with you again,” Anthony said. — But I think you should meet someone… Give me a moment. — Anthony left the room, and a few seconds later he entered the room again, but this time with the baby in his arms, you smiled when you saw him, the tender image of your husband with your baby would be an image that would stay in your mind and heart for a lifetime.

Anthony walked over to you, pulling you close and helping you carry your baby. You finally allowed yourself to see your baby's face, you knew it was too soon to say it, but he was a lot like Anthony.

“Hey baby, you look so cute today.” You said the little baby let out a small laugh. Both you and Anthony smiled at it. You definitely scolded yourself for depriving yourself of this thing you had always wanted.

Anthony guided you to the bed so you could get some rest, despite everything, he knew you were still a little weak, Anthony placed himself right next to you so you could lean on him, and you stayed like that, he held you close, while you held your little baby close.

“You are the best thing that has ever happened to me” — Anthony said while smiling at you.

You two definitely, unexpectedly changed each other's lives. You both knew that nothing and no one could separate you or hurt you after this day.

I would also like you to give advice or recommendations. I hope it's not too long or boring. I would appreciate your comments. 💗

#anthony bridgerton #bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton imagine #anthony bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfic #anthony bridgerton x you

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astroeleanor · 4 months

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Astrology of Wealth: Zodiac Placements Who Marry into Money

Have you ever wondered if the stars align for you to marry into wealth or find a rich partner? Your Birth Chart may offer some insights into this fascinating possibility. This post delves into specific birth chart placements that suggest whether you have a higher likelihood of dating or even marrying into wealth.

DISCLAIMER: having at least 3 of the placements below can indicate a high chance of dating/marrying rich. If your rising sign is Libra, Taurus, Leo or Pisces & your 8H and 8H Ruler are in a favorable condition, you have a bonus point!

PISCES & LIBRA RISING (Venus-ruled 8th house)

The 8H is associated with shared resources, including wealth accumulated through marriage or partnerships. Venus ruling this house emphasizes the importance of harmony, love & financial stability in intimate relationships. With this placement, you may attract partners who possess financial resources or have a strong desire to share their wealth with you as their spouse.

*too broad to be an indicator on its own

JUPITER OR VENUS IN THE 7H

The 7th house represents partnerships, including marriage. When Jupiter or Venus are well-aspected in the 7th house, it suggests that relationships play a significant role in your life, especially in terms of personal growth and financial prosperity. Having this placement may indicate the potential to attract partners who are generous, fortunate, or financially well-off.

TAURUS & LEO RISING (Jupiter-ruled 8th house)

Jupiter ruling the 8th house can indicate the possibility of experiencing abundance in shared resources. Therefore, Taurus and Leo rising may attract partners who bring prosperity and growth into their lives, particularly through joint financial endeavors, marriage or inheritances.

*too broad to be an indicator on its own

JUPITER OR VENUS IN THE 8H

When Jupiter or Venus are well-aspected in the 8th house, it enhances the potential for wealth accumulation through marriage or partnerships. This placement suggests that financial matters are deeply intertwined with the your intimate relationships and may indicate receiving financial benefits from your spouse or partner.

RULER OF 2H IN 8H OR 7H

The 2nd house represents personal finances and wealth, while the 8th and 7th houses relate to shared resources and partnerships, respectively. When the ruler of the 2nd house is placed in the 8th or 7th house, it suggests a strong connection between personal wealth and marriage or partnerships. This placement may indicate marrying into wealth or experiencing financial gains through joint ventures or inheritances.

RULER OF 8H IN 2H OR 7H

Similar to the previous point, when the ruler of the 8th house (which governs shared resources) is in the 2nd or 7th house, it emphasizes the importance of financial matters in relationships. This placement indicates opportunities for marrying rich or experiencing financial benefits through partnerships or inheritances.

Curious to learn more? This is just a teaser of a detailed 3000-word article I’ve crafted, exploring each indicator more deeply along with additional signs of a potentially wealthy partner. Plus, as a special offer, become a Jupiter member today and receive a complimentary free mini reading with two questions. Ready to discover if wealth is written in your birth chart? TAP HERE to read the full article and join the conversation. <3

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cosmicpuzzle · 6 months

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7th Lord in Houses - New Edition ❤️

1st House

This is a good placement. It indicates that the partners are very similar. Your partner's life affects you and vice versa. Your partner may like you physically as 1st house is your body/personality. These are the couples to always be together if other afflictions aren't there. These couples rarely break apart even if there are conflicts in the relationship. Your partner may dominate you if the planets involved are Sun or Mars.

2nd House

Here the relationship totally becomes focused on creating material security. You both are possessive of each other and need constant physical touch and caressing. Your partner may or may not like your family members. You can also spend a lot post marriage simply because you get accustomed to a spendthrift partner. I have also seen the partner can be stingy and that leads to conflicts. This is more of an issue when one of the partners isn't earning and becomes dependent on the other.

3rd House

This is a fun placement if the planets involved are benefics such as Mercury/Venus/Jupiter. There is a lot of discussion in the marriage that the physical passion can suffer. The relationship can be too mental and lack seriousness. It can also lead to multiple relationships or flirting with random people. There is lot of changes post marriage such as moving to a new city or even country. There can be significant real estate transactions leading to profit.

4th House

This is one of the best placements as 4th house signifies domestic life and marriage is about that - creating a nest together. There is significant gain of fixed assets post marriage such as a property, car and other comforts. In case of affliction the partner may dislike one's family or mother in particular. The partner can be someone you are familiar with or who grew up in the same locality as you did may be even family friends. There is also a possibility of the partner doing some home business or related to real estate.

5th House

I know many people rave about this placement but don't get me wrong- it can be really troublesome. You may date a lot of people but still remain unmarried after a certain age. In case of afflictions none of the love affairs materialize into commitment. Sometimes the person may embrace a monastic life if the planets are highly dignified or if the 12th lord is also involved. Love may be successful at times if other factors are supportive and indicates a deepfelt connection with the partner. The partner can also be prone to affairs in case of afflictions. Also, afflictions may deny the birth of children to the couple or delay them.

6th House

I personally don't like this placement for it brings many conflicts within the relationship. The partner may be too much into work or may dislike having sex. The partner may be unable to perform in the bed too or have other health problems that restrict the sexual life. Sometimes these couples have sex only to have children and then the romance literally dies out. Positively it can mean prosperity at a foreign land post marriage and the partner having a strong career. This can easily indicate divorce if there is another malefic in 7th house.

7th House

This placement depends on the planet involved. For most rising signs this placement could give some issues especially if planets involved are Mars/Saturn/Jupiter. Mercury and Venus can mean more than one marriage but is usually happy. I don't see many happy couples especially Taurus, Libra, Virgo, Gemini risings. The partner can have very strong traits of the planet that's in the 7th house for good or bad.

8th House

Let's be honest. This placement can be really difficult if other factors are not supportive. The marriage could easily break. This shows a past left karmic debt related to marriage. The partner's health or longevity could be at risk too. There can be arguments over joint assets and the marriage may be done for money or just sex. The partner can be a medical professional researcher or an occultist.

9th House

This is a good placement but can also signify multiple marriages especially if 8th house is afflicted or Mercury is involved. it indicates marriage to someone culturally different to you. In some cases, you may marry even a mentor or someone quite elder to you. You are likely to meet life partner at college or when you travel somewhere. You may meet through internet too. There may be religious differences with your partner. You and partner can have an interest in travelling or spirituality. The partner can be a lawyer or teacher.

10th House

Here the marriage changes one's career path. Your partner motivates you to achieve more or they themselves can be very ambitious. in case of serious afflictions, it indicates workplace affairs or affairs with the boss. The partner may be close to their family or mother especially. The partner may change their careers often too. The partner takes the major decisions and hence may be superior to you. The partner can also be of a higher status at the time of marriage.

11th House

This is a friendly placement. Both the partners are fully familiar with each other, may be they could be friends turned into lovers. The partner has a huge social circle and can be in the field of IT or technology and hence a high salary as well. There can be change of countries post marriage as 11th house is 8th from 4th house and hence they may leave the home country and settle abroad.

12th House

This is a deep soulmate type relationship. There is a significant past life connect with the spouse. In case of benefics the relationship will be deep, spiritual and the partners are mutually supportive. In case of malefics, there may be possibility for affairs for either person or the person may marry another secretly even continuing the first marriage. The couples could travel abroad or the partner travels and thus the person too accompanies. Sometimes, the person may forego marriage completely living a life of recluse.

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#astrology #astrology observations #zodiac #zodiac signs #astro community #vedic astrology #astro observations #astro notes #vedic astro notes #astrology community #7th lord in houses #7th lord in signs #7th lord in 5th #7th lord in 3rd house #7th lord in 11th house #synastry in astrology

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saturnsbabyboii · 1 year

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🐸Astro Observations Since School is About to Start🐸

🐸 Taurus and Leo are indistinguishable from one another. They both love the finer things in life and value self care and a hedonistic style of living. Besides they both have that regal star quality (Think of Audrey Hepburn and Lucille Ball). The only difference is that Taurus takes the slow and steady route to attain such lifestyle and Leo prefers to take risks and a gamble. Anyways ✨OPULENCE✨

🐸 4th house Aquarius/9th house Cancer people might be out of place within their immediate families but find themselves at home among strangers or while traveling.

🐸 Lilith (h12, h13, or h21) Conjunct Chiron are strong indications of sexual exploitation (and possibly abuse). These natives could be taken advantage of by people in powerful positions. Even after displaying their truth, they would be faulted and persecuted while their abuser get celebrated. They could very will be victims turned villains.

🐸 An unaspected Juno suggest a lack of desire for marriage or committed relationships.

🐸 Pluto in the 1st house might have a distinctive scar or birth mark.

🐸 Although people dunk on harsh aspects, I personally view them favorably. These aspect are strong indications of perseverance, resilience, power, intelligence and grace. People with more Squares and/or Oppositions in their chart are capable and self aware, all the challenges they face early on bring them a better and higher understanding of the world, and not to mention, many rewards down the line.

🐸 With that being said, people with Ceres Opposite Moon might be particularly hard on themselves. Believing that they would be a burden and that they hold responsibility to keep it together for others, they don't ask for help nor do they accept it when it's offered. It's important for them to practice gratitude and self appreciation.

🐸 Vesta aspecting few personal planets suggests a person with a one track mind, or a very narrow view of their own life and purpose. However, someone with multiple aspects made between Vesta and personal planets suggests someone with turbulent and changing prospects.

🐸 Conversely, someone with no (or only one) aspects made to their Vesta might not care about the meaning of life or simply take an easy going point of view towards things.

🐸 Moon in a harsh aspect to a harmoniously aspected Venus and/or Mars are people that have all the qualities of a good partner but can't seem to commit or make up their mind regarding their relationships. This could also be an indication of being happier when single.

🐸 During the last Full Moon in Pisces, my sister that has a Pisces Moon ended up having surgery.

🐸 Placements in Water degrees (4°,8°,12°,16°,20°,24°,28°) suggest karma and karmic debt or relations in the theme of the placement.

🐸 The degree of Venus can also suggest when will you feel comfortable dating authentically. The higher the degree the later in life it'll be.

🐸 Continuing on the theme of degrees, take note of the following degrees in the chart (especially for natal, synastry and solar return). The degrees are

Creation/New beginnings: 0°,4°,21°

Critical: 13°,17°,26°

Destruction: 15°,22°,23°

Completion: 29°

🐸 Check asteroid Bakker (27425) to know more about the circumstances of when you lose your virginity. Bakker means virgin in Arabic. Regardless of your stance or idea regrading the concept of virginity, you might find insight into either your first sexual experience.

🐸 Asteroid Egeria (13) represents the knowledge we learn by giving service or sacrificing in return. The sign it's in represent the kind of information, the house and aspects represent the method, purpose and teacher of this knowledge. For example, I have a friend with Egeria in Aries in the 2nd house, in aspect to Jupiter and Uranus. She learned about money, finance, self esteem, and asset flow through a mentor (Jupiter) and the internet (Uranus). She in return had to manage her money flow and expenses realistically (Aries in the 2nd house).

🐸 Another friend of mine had the asteroid in Sagittarius in the 10th house, in aspect to the ascendant. She learned how her career, image and aspiration are tied to her appearance and approach to things through mirroring (Ascendant). She had to in return manage her authenticity and be careful of who and how she express her opinion publicly (Sagittarius in the 10th house).

🐸 It is no surprise that the most common Sun sign among Popes is Pisces followed by Sagittarius. Capricorn is the most common Moon sign. Aquarius is the most common Mercury. Gemini is the most common Saturn, and Pisces, Gemini and Leo share the same spot as the most common sign in Jupiter.

🐸 Saturn in the mutable houses (3rd, 6th, 9th, 12th) might inherit hereditary illnesses. The 3rd and the 9th suggests developmental setbacks, and issues in attachment and communication. The 6th house suggests physical effects while the 12th suggests mental. Even though the 6th house manifests into physical ailments, the 12th house implies hospitalization and chronic illness from a young age.

🐸 The placement of Pisces and Neptune in the houses along with the state of the 12th house and placement of it's ruler can tell many things about someones' dreams. For example, my friend has Pisces in the 2nd house, Neptune in the 1st house, Capricorn in the 12th and Saturn in the 3rd. (Pisces in the 2nd and Ruler of the 12th is in the 3rd house) She dreams a lot about school, even though she is 25, driving, walking around, buying things, talking to people, listening to music and walking around our city. (Capricorn in the 12th) Her nightmares usually have a state of humiliation and shame. She also finds herself in dream where she is feeling helpless. (Neptune in the 1st) She receives messages through a state of 'Deja Vu' and channels it through the prediction of things.

🐸 Moon Conjunct Chiron 🤝 Mommy issues

🐸 The first impression a rising sign leaves is due to the MC than the rising sign alone. The MC rules public image and reputation, as such it influences the way we're seen by people, regardless of whether we know them or not. For example, an Aquarius rising uniqueness and reputation is supported and diversified by its MC. Although in the whole sign system the MC is in Scorpio, using the Placidus system the MC can also fall in Libra and Sagittarius. This showcases how an Aquarius rising can be perceived as a humanitarian in reputation and ethereal in appearance (Libra MC), or as a provoking trailblazer with an edgy and dark appearance (Scorpio MC), or as an enthusiastic advocate with an alienlike appearance (Sagittarius MC).

🐸 North Node in Fire signs have that "main character" energy.

-Thank you for reading. Hope you it resonates and you enjoyed it.

#astrology #astro observations #astrology notes #astro notes #astrology observations #astrology houses #astrology aspects #asteroid astrology #asteroids astrology #astro placements #astro posts #astrology asteroids #astrology posts #astrology signs

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subublog · 1 year

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Future of Love: Marriage Prediction by Date of Birth

Wondering if love or arranged marriage is in the cards for you? Look no further, as we delve into the fascinating world of marriage prediction through astrology, specifically by using your date of birth.

Marriage Prediction by Date of Birth:

In marriage prediction by date of birth is a time-honoured practice rooted in astrology. It's a belief that the celestial positions at the time of your birth can reveal insights into your future, including your romantic life. Here's how it works:

Marriage Astrology:

- Astrology, marriage horoscope by date of birth an ancient science, examines the positions of planets and stars at the time of your birth to determine your personality traits and life events, including marriage astrology.

- Your birth chart, created using your date of birth, can provide valuable information about your compatibility with potential partners.

#marriage prediction #marriage prediction by date of birth #marriage horoscope by date of birth #marriage astrology #marriage astrology by date of birth #marriage life prediction by date of birth #marriage prediction astrology #possibility of love marriage by date of birth #marriage life prediction #love marriage prediction by date of birth #married life prediction #horoscope marriage prediction #my marriage horoscope #wedding horoscope by date of birth

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ooom-astrology1 · 1 year

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#marriage prediction #marriage prediction by date of birth #marriage horoscope by date of birth #marriage horoscope #marriage astrology #free janam kundali analysis for marriage #free marriage prediction #marriage prediction by name and date of birth #free marriage prediction by date of birth #marriage astrology by date of birth #marriage life prediction by date of birth #marriage prediction astrology #love marriage astrology #possibility of love marriage by date of birth #love marriage prediction

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serendipitous-girl · 3 months

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𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐤𝐮

⊱✿⊰ summary: head canons as a gift to @lovelykil

⊱✿⊰ warnings: nothing crazy. Mentions of pregnancy and kids but nothing nsfw

⊱✿⊰ notes: my first fanfiction on this new account! How exciting am i right??

❀ Izuku loves to show how grateful he is to have you as a partner. You are kind and compassionate and just amazing. He loves everything about you and does his best to show you that. He buys you flowers regularly, takes you on dates as much as he can (with his busy schedule), and tries to show you he appreciates you.

❀ Although he has a very busy life as a pro hero he makes time for you. Quick lunches in between rescues and the occasional time he takes a day off go spend it with you. Whenever he takes the day off he loves to make you dinner.

❀ He knows he wanted to marry you almost right into dating. You are so perfect ans you make him feel the best he could be. Why wouldn't he choose to spend the rest of his life with you?

❀ surprisingly or not, izuku prefers keeping your relationship details pretty private. Like he doesn't hide you from the public but he does keep them from giving you all invasive questions. Anyway, I think he proposed over a fancy dinner he cooked at home. Popping open the wine, pulling out the candles, y'know the works.

"Oh wow," you said, walking into the very fancy dinner Izuku had made for the both of you. You tried thinking back to if this was a special occasion but you could not figure out what it could possibly be.

"Zu, what's all this for?" You asked, looking at him with grateful confusion. He was so kind to you and you had no idea what you did to earn such a man. He smiles and sits you down, telling you to enjoy dinner and he'd explain later.

So the both of you ate dinner with easy conversation, just like any sort of date you'd go on. After dinner you opened your mouth to ask what had been bugging you all evening when he knelt in front of you.

"Will you marry me?" He asked, his freckled face the most adorable pink color. He looked like the high schooler you met all those years ago, nervous but so strong.

"Yes, yes! I would love to marry you!" You answered, a few tears breaking free from your overwhelming amounts of emotion. He grinned, putting the ring on your finger before wrapping his arms around your waist and twirling you around.

❀ you guys had a relatively simple wedding. Full of family and close friends (not to mention the stray reporters who somehow snuck in.) Your classmates and teachers from UA even managed to come which was lucky.

❀ i think you guys honeymooned in like Italy or something. Izuku would have asked for America though lol

❀ I would think about a year into marriage you start to talk about kids. Izuku has always wanted kids and especially wants them with you so of course he brings up the conversation. He has enough money as a top pro hero to support any decisions including if you chose to continue working rather than being a stay at home mom.

❀ he is so happy when you tell him you are pregnant with a baby girl. After celebrating with you he immediately calls his mom to tell her the good news, which she was also excited for. Inko definitely came to your place later that day with fresh cookies for her son and his gorgeous wife. Inko loves you like you were her own daughter.

❀ The pregnancy goes smoothly and you gave birth to an adorable little girl, named Zuri. (Both her and Izuku's nicknames are Zu). She was perfect and sweet.

❀ Izuku tries to spend as much time with his family as he can. He take days off and makes sure you and Zuri feel as loved as possible.

❀ When Zuri was four years old she asked for a baby brother which you and Izuku were more than happy to oblige. Thus comes your son, Mikumo (nicknamed Mikey)

❀ you guys are honestly the cutest family. You are literally the model family for all of Japan. You guys are on the cover of some sort of magazine or something.

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niallsstainedcoffeecup · 4 months

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A Scoop of Love

Y/N, a single mother, who no longer believes in love, meets the new ice cream shop owner, Harry Styles. Can she balance a new love, her ex-husband, and her daughter? Or will it all fall apart?

This is a new miniseries I'm working on. Let me know what you think, and if you would like to see anything in the future parts. Lots of love! Love either bloomed beautifully or withered wastefully. Y/N witnessed this first-hand with her parents’ marriage, then her own. Her parents loved one another, from sharing multiple morning kisses before leaving for work to drawing lavender bubble baths for one another after a rough day. She grew up surrounded by love, so naturally, she searched for and planned her true love. They would meet at a bookstore or in a university lecture, and then he would propose after three blissful years of dating. They would get married in the church her parents got married in, she would wear a modern version of her mother’s wedding dress, and there would be bouquets of beautiful pink peonies everywhere. However, a higher being glanced over her plans and laughed.

She met her husband at the first university party she attended. He was in his second year of university, and she was in her first year, but her dark humor and extensive music knowledge kept him entertained all night. They dated for an exciting year filled with morning kisses before she left for class and late-night conversations about their future, and then they were blessed with the news that she was pregnant.

Her parents rejoiced, but his parents forced him to propose. They were married in her parents’ garden, under a floral arch her mother designed, with very few guests because his parents did not want their friends to see the small bump under the maternity wedding dress that she despised. At twenty, she gave birth to their beautiful daughter, Daphne.

The couple attempted to raise their daughter together, but the morning kisses turned to cold glares, and conversations about the future transformed into hate-filled mutters about feeling trapped. A few weeks after their daughter’s third birthday, she divorced the man she planned to spend forever with. Her marriage devoured her hope for love. * * * * *

Oldies from the sixties and seventies flowed from the Bluetooth stereo and throughout the small kitchen. She flipped the sizzling bacon, plated the burning eggs, and buttered the steaming toast. Pausing the music, she listened for movement, like the sound of her daughter’s electric toothbrush or the squeak of those awful shoes her daughter’s school assigned as the required dress code. The sneaky eight-year-old was known for slipping back into bed after her mother returned to her busy morning schedule; however, they could not be late this morning. The bathroom door’s squeaky hinge informed her that Daphne just finished her morning routine and should appear in the kitchen soon. She chugged the remainder of the French vanilla coffee in an attempt to muster all possible energy.

Two bouncing ponytails hovered beside the wooden kitchen table and then descended until they disappeared with a giggle. “Did it look like I was walking downstairs? Daphne asked, hopping up the minute her mother chuckled at the illusion.

She nodded, wrapping her arms around her daughter’s small frame. “My little magician. Who taught you that?”

She knew the answer before she asked the question, recalling mornings when her ex-husband would send her into a fit of laughter by claiming he left the eggs downstairs and then descending behind the counter until he reappeared with two eggs in his hands. Late at night, she often wondered what happened to that man. Did she kill his spirit? Or did he reserve that side of himself for people he actually loved?

“Daddy. Will he pick me up after school?” She never knew how to answer these questions. She should have a solid answer, but her ex-husband loved creating excuses as to why he couldn’t watch their daughter during his scheduled weekends.

Instead, she replied by handing her daughter the breakfast plate. “You need to eat breakfast. We’ll leave in ten minutes.”

Daphne hopped onto the nearby stool, taking turns between eating breakfast and kicking her feet along with the music’s beat. Her mother rushed around the apartment, shoving expired library books into the young girl’s pink backpack. No matter what time her mother woke up, she was always in a hurry. She couldn’t remember a time when her mother wasn’t busy, even when they visited her grandparents, her mother took it upon herself to cook everyone dinner.

“Are you ready to start our Friday?” Y/N asked, helping the little girl into her black raincoat.

Daphne nodded, flashing her mother a wide, toothy grin before running down the quiet hallway. Shushing the eight-year-old and her heavy feet, she followed her daughter down the stairs and into the real world. She despised Fridays because Fridays looked like her, alone in the apartment with a Chinese delivery and a movie that she ignored in favor of thinking about where her life was headed. Her best friend, Christie, often suggested that they go out and find someone new, but she knew the love of her life wasn’t in a bar waiting for her. Romantic love skipped right over her, so years ago, she decided she would focus on the only love in her life, her daughter. * * * * *

A higher being loved irony, especially when leading her through life. Although her chances at true love were dashed when she signed the divorce papers, she spent the majority of her days photographing random couple’s wedding photos. Sure, she also photographed family portraits, fashion shoots, and other various photography projects, but many of her customers were couples in love.

Today, she was capturing the love between Peter and Samantha, a young couple who planned a Shakespearian wedding, so they dressed as Romeo and Juliet for the wedding invitation photos. She wondered whether Romeo and Juliet were couple goals because wasn’t the play criticizing the societal norms that killed the teens? Peter’s check told her to shut up and do what she did best–photograph the sweet couple. She had about thirty photos before her ex-husband’s ringtone startled everyone in the studio.

She sighed, waving over her assistant, “I’m sorry. Kira will provide you both with champagne while I answer this call.”

Kira poured the champagne for the happy couple, who reassured them they needed a break anyway. She walked away from the small group and farther into the studio’s storage room because her gut knew Tyler’s call was not about what he ate for lunch.

“Hello?” She prepared her heart for the excuse.

She heard shuffling on his end as if he wasn’t expecting her to answer his call. “Hey, I’m sorry to call you at work. How are you?” His deep, hypnotic voice shook with guilt.

The first time she heard that familiar shake in his voice, she thought she still made him nervous. However, she quickly learned that his voice shook when he was about to utter another lame excuse as to why he couldn’t be a father that weekend. She rolled her eyes because she did not have the time for this.

“Tyler, what is it this time?”

He sighed. “I need you to cover for me this weekend. Jo asked me to drive her to the doctor’s office, and she also planned a romantic weekend away.”

A low growl pulled her lips back into a snarl. “You can’t spend time with our daughter because you have to drive your girlfriend to the doctor? Can she not drive herself like an adult? Do you not understand how much Daphne misses you?”

“Listen, I didn’t call you for a lecture on parenting. We all can’t be perfect parents like you.” Tyler hissed, a tone she knew very well from their relationship.

The couple could argue about anything, from when the milk expired to why he never wanted to hold her hand anymore. The passion in their marriage centered around their hatred of one another until, one day, the arguments stopped, and a cold silence enveloped the couple. The heart of their marriage had shriveled up and died.

She chuckled bitterly, running her free hand through her hair. “I’m not asking you to be the perfect parent. I’m asking that you be there for our daughter, and you can’t even do that. Have fun with your girlfriend.”

Tyler ended the call without another word. Did he not respond because he knew she was right? She would break Daphne’s heart when she told her the news, but they would still have an amazing weekend because her daughter deserved it. Sighing, she regained her composure and returned to the lovely couple, whose love reminded her that love was still alive for everyone except her. * * * * *

“He canceled on Daphne again because Joanna needed an uber? Did you tell him to fuck off?” Christie complained as if she were the one who divorced Tyler.

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head. “No, I did tell him to fuck off in parent though. Does Joanna not understand that Daphne misses her father?”

“You mean the woman who ruined your marriage is trying to separate your daughter from her father?” Christie’s sarcasm usually made her laugh, but those words stilled her hand on the computer mouse.

The wedding photo she was editing once again mocked her situation. Her marriage wilted away for two years, but Joanna produced the final drought that destroyed every root and petal.

She recalled the day, replaying the moments as if they were scenes from a movie. She left early that morning, dropping Daphne off with her parents while she went shopping for her daughter’s birthday party. She purchased party hats detailed with a singing, independent princess and ordered two cakes decorated with the same princess and her quirky sidekick. Deciding to surprise her husband with a lunch date, she returned to their apartment, where she found her husband kissing another woman in their kitchen.

The cheating couple spun around toward her, and his only response came in the form of an apathetic mutter, "I thought you would be gone all day." They divorced a few weeks after that. She never cried because Joanna slept with her husband; she cried because the couple shared an emotional connection far deeper than what they ever had. The love in his eyes returned and sparkled brighter than she had ever seen, all for a woman he met five months ago. He found his soulmate, and it wasn’t her.

“Y/N? Hello? Did the call drop?” Christie’s frantic questions rescued her from the dark spiral she fell into.

She gasped, realizing she had fifteen minutes of editing time before she had to pick up Daphne from school. “Yeah, I guess this photo distracted me for a moment. I’m sorry. I’ll call you later.”

The problem with phone calls is that Christie couldn’t spot her friend’s distress. Her teeth gnawed on her bottom lip, her fingers picked at her fingernail polish, and her knee bounced erratically under her desk. The couple’s smile in the photo made her stomach churn with jealousy and sorrow. When would she find her soulmate? Could anyone love her? After downloading the images onto her thumb drive, she locked away the hideous feelings behind her studio’s glass doors and walked toward her sunshine. * * * * *

Daphne dried the hot tears from her cheeks, swallowing the sobs she wished her father could hear so he would cancel the plans that kept him from her. Her watery vision focused on the delicate rings decorating the hand holding her left hand, which provided the warmth and comfort needed to soothe her broken heart. Glancing up, she admired her mother's ever-present smile that never seemed to falter, especially when her father did not have time for her.

After her mother broke the news outside of the primary school, she wiped the tears from her daughter's damp cheeks and mentioned a surprise. Walking down the busy sidewalk, they slowed their pace once Y/N spotted the neon blue sign that read Dream Cones. Two months ago, Daphne returned from a friend's birthday party and raved about the delicious ice cream served. Today, Y/N saw the friend's mother at the school, and she asked for the ice cream shop's name to surprise her daughter. Her daughter's sparkling eyes and enthusiastic giggles revived her heart from her earlier conversation with Tyler and Christie.

“Surprise. Should we go inside?” She asked, already knowing the answer she would receive from her daughter.

Daphne nodded, gripping her mother’s hand with the strength of a hundred sugar-crazed children. Y/N might regret her decision later, like during their bedtime routine, but her daughter deserved a good childhood, and she would strive to provide her with that. As they entered the shop, a golden bell chimed loudly above their heads. “Welcome to Dream Cones.” The men and women cheered from behind the white marble counters. The warm, sugary scent of freshly baked waffle cones greeted their noses. Y/N's eyes flitted around the room, stopping briefly on the cerulean walls, the ornamental vanilla cone hung above the menu, and the wooden tables crowded with laughing families. Despite the conversations melding together into nonsensical noise, she could still pick up the soft pop music flowing through some unseen speaker.

Daphne seemed to speak the words she was thinking, “This place is cool.”

They approached the marble counter, reading the various ice cream labels, which featured unique names like lemonade over ice. She enjoyed the clever names; however, her eyes and stomach could not believe how fluffy and creamy each flavor looked.

“Mommy, will I like Sign of the Limes?” Chuckling at the amusing name, Y/N wondered whether the staff competed to create the unique names or the owner carefully curated each one.

“Yeah, do you want a cup or a cone?” The eight-year-old took a second to consider her options before ultimately choosing the waffle cone.

Y/N nodded, waiting until one of the women behind the counter asked for their order. She ordered the flavor Watermelon Sugar in a cup and Sign of the Limes in a cone for Daphne.

“Watermelon Sugar is my favorite flavor.” The cheerful worker commented, handing out the coral-colored ice cream. “Let me know how you like it.”

“Absolutely, I’m a sucker for anything watermelon flavored.” She giggled, agreeing with her customer that anything watermelon flavored was superior.

“Okay, your total is 23.96.”

Y/N's eyes widened, and she nearly gasped when she heard the price. She appreciated the artistic decor and the friendly workers; however, twelve-dollar ice cream was expensive for a single mother's budget. Smiling through the pain, she handed the woman her card.

“This is delicious. Can we have ice cream every Friday?” Daphne asked between mouthfuls.

Y/N giggled, wiping the messy corners of her daughter’s mouth with a napkin. “Of course.” She would find room in the budget for twelve-dollar ice cream as long as it made her daughter happy.

She stole a spoonful of ice cream from Daphne, which resulted in her daughter shooting her a playful glare, which she fixed by giving her a spoonful of her own ice cream as an equal trade. Between the two flavors, she could not decide which one she enjoyed the most. While she liked how the lime's zestiness did not overpower her palette, the watermelon found a balance between salty and sweet due to the salt crystals disguised as watermelon seeds. However, she knew one thing for sure, she loved the shop. After they finished their treats, they returned to the counter.

“Well, what is the verdict on Watermelon Sugar?” The woman asked, wiping the counters with a wet dishrag.

“Absolutely delicious,” she licked her lips. “Can you give our compliments to your boss?”

The woman nodded fervently, “Of course.” Then she paused, processing her idea before responding with a smirk. “Would you like to tell him yourself? He recently returned from a late meeting.”

Y/N shrugged, unsure about the possible interaction, but she recalled the numerous compliments she received from customers and agreed to the suggestion.

The worker walked away, disappearing behind a door labeled Employees Only. Y/N understood her compliments could brighten the owner's day; however, the longer the woman remained behind the door, the longer she had to overthink the future conversation. What if the owner did not care about her opinion and laughed in her face? What if the owner misunderstood and expected her to complain? Her worries eased once the door swung open, revealing the worker and a Greek God. The moment her eyes fell upon the curly-haired man with his lime-green sweater, her mouth ran dry.

“Hello, I'm the owner, Harry.” The man's low and slow tone melted her heart like ice cream on a summer day.

She smiled dreamily, “Hello, I'm Y/N, and this is my daughter, Daphne.”

Before she could produce a compliment, he turned and faced the little girl. “Hello Daphne, did you enjoy your ice cream?”

She watched in awe; not only did he acknowledge her daughter, but he also cared about her opinion. The girl's father rarely asked about her interests. She reminded herself not to idolize this stranger's kind gesture simply because her ex-husband lacked decent human qualities.

“Yes sir, my mommy bought me a lime cone. She said we could come back every Friday.” Daphne gushed, revealing their plan with a toothy grin.

Harry's smile widened, unveiling two crescent-shaped dimples that dented his cheeks. The man was perfect. “Awesome, you must have a cool mom.”

Daphne agreed, smiling proudly at her mother, who blinked back happy tears. Y/N cleared her throat, feeling slightly embarrassed that her daughter's compliment nearly brought her to tears.

“We appreciate you and your staff. Everyone is so kind, and the ice cream tastes wonderful.” She mumbled timidly.

His crystal green eyes found hers, sending chills down her spine at how they seemed to sparkle from the compliment. He reached up, placing his palms over his heart.

“Thank you. Our customers brighten our day, but compliments like these are the reason why we opened this place. What flavor did you try?”

“Watermelon sugar, and I think I’ll crave it until next Friday.” She giggled, shaking her head in shame over her sweet tooth.

Harry threw his head back, releasing an abrupt cackle that fluttered her heart. Her mind stuttered, questioning why her body was reacting to this man she met five minutes ago. Why did his beautiful laugh make her want to join in?

“Imagine how I must feel working here. I spend a majority of my day in my office because if I didn’t, I would have to reopen my gym membership.”

Now, it was her turn to laugh, a proper boisterous laugh, which she had not heard in quite a while. However, her ex-husband's cruel nature rang loudly in her head, reminding her not to be annoying. She quickly recovered, silencing her laugh and preparing an apology, but before she could speak, Harry settled her doubts and insecurities.

“You have a beautiful laugh.” He admired her melodic laugh.

She ducked her head, hiding her sheepish grin from him. Daphne's eyes traveled back and forth from the curly-haired stranger to her bashful mother. The interaction made her question why her mother and father never laughed or smiled around one another. Did her mother like this man more than her father? Daphne hummed, examining the man further, deciding whether or not she liked him, and since she liked the lamb on his sweater, she decided the man was okay to talk with her mother. However, she needed to leave soon to change out of her uncomfortable shoes.

“Mommy, my feet hurt.”

Daphne's whines reminded Y/N, that as a mother, she should not flirt with random men. She didn’t have time for a relationship and should focus all her efforts on her daughter. Cooing, she lifted the exhausted little girl up into her arms.

“Well, I hope to see you two soon. Daphne, next time try the Lucky Charms ice cream." Harry suggested, waving goodbye to the mother and daughter.

Daphne created a mental note to try the suggested flavor next time. However, she doubted her father would bring her next Friday, so she hoped her mother might bring her back before then. Y/N wondered whether she could return to the ice cream shop. Her heart rejoiced from the attention like a middle schooler who received a note from their secret admirer. However, she could not allow this infatuation to blossom into anything else. She would return because Daphne loved the ice cream, but she would not flirt with the handsome man. * * * * *

Red paint bled through the thin paper and mixed into the watery blue paint, coloring the princess's hair a violent purple. The plastic paint brush fell against the kitchen counter at the familiar sound of jingling keys unlocking the apartment door. The little girl raced toward the door that swung open to reveal her mother’s beaming smile.

“Mommy, I missed you.” Daphne confessed, jumping into her mother’s loving embrace.

Holding her daughter tight, Y/N chuckled and dropped her purse onto the nearby table. “I missed you too, Nugget. Where is your Aunt Christie?”

“She’s cooking dinner in the kitchen before you think I abandoned your daughter.” Christie shouted from the kitchen, making the mother and daughter giggle.

When setting her daughter down, she spotted a bright red paint stain on the girl’s uniform, which transferred onto her blazer. Pressing her palm against her forehead, she hoped Christie bought washable paint so she wouldn’t have to purchase another uniform blouse for Daphne.

“Mommy, come and look at my painting.” Her daughter grabbed her hands, leading her toward the kitchen, and with that simple gesture, her worries about stained clothes washed away.

While some might consider the painting grotesque due to the amount of red paint coating the cartoon princess’s body, she admired the art as if Van Gogh completed the masterpiece himself. She grabbed a yellow alphabet magnet from one of the kitchen’s drawers and hung the art on the fridge.

While the little girl danced with joy, Christie announced, “Watch out world. A new artist has entered the scene, and her name is Daphne.”

Since last Friday, Y/N noticed how Daphne rarely cried over Tyler’s absence, and she finished the wedding photos without any more pity parties. Choosing to ignore her previous stressors, she found herself singing and laughing more often. Eventually, she knew Christie would ask about her sudden change in mood, and the question came during dinner.

"You two seem happier. What happened? Did Daphne pour sugar in your cereal?" Christie wondered, earning a giggle from her niece.

Daphne responded first, answering the questions through a mouthful of broccoli. "No, do you remember when Andrew had delicious ice cream at his birthday party? Mommy took me to that ice cream shop, and I ate an entire scoop."

Christie’s brown eyes widened in pretend shock. “An entire scoop by yourself? Are you sure your Mommy didn’t help you?”

She nodded as if she were convincing her Aunt of something unbelievable. "I did because it tastes like your key-lime pie, but next time, I'm going to try the Lucky Charms flavor because Mr. Harry told me to. I like Mr. Harry. He made Mommy laugh."

At the mention of Harry's name, Y/N ducked her head down like a teenager avoiding an awkward conversation with her mother. Taking an interest in the vegan meatloaf on her plate sounded better than making eye contact with her nosy best friend. However, once Christie cleared her throat, she knew she could not escape the inevitable questioning. Glancing up, she found herself face-to-face with Christie's smirk.

“Who is Harry?” Those three words manifested a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

She attempted to shrug nonchalantly to convince her best friend that he was not important, but her robotic movements unveiled her nerves about the subject.

“He owns the ice cream shop. We complimented the shop, and he thanked us.”

Christie knew her best friend better than anyone else, and the slight sparkle in her eyes told her all she needed to know. Y/N finally found a man worthy enough to develop a crush on. This time, she hoped she wouldn't ignore her feelings and allow herself to find happiness.

“Is this Harry attractive?” Y/N squeaked at the straightforward question, which only made Christie laugh loud and long.

Munching on the lumpy mashed potatoes, Daphne watched the women talk about Harry. She noticed how her mother wore the same smile from Friday, the smile showed more teeth, unlike the tight-lip grin she sported around Daphne's father. Her grandmother wore a similar smile when she told her granddaughter the story of how she met her grandfather. Was this what adults call love? Shouldn't her mother love her father?

Y/N took a sip from her glass of red wine before responding, “He could be a Gucci model.”

Christie hissed as if she burnt her hand on something hot. “You caught the attention of a Gucci model, and you didn’t ask him to father your children?”

Y/N gasped, reaching across the table to lightly slap her friend's arm. "Daphne is in the room." She grumbled, shaking her head with embarrassment.

Christie frowned, deciding it best to change the subject. They could discuss the possible Gucci model at a later date when her niece was not around.

Instead, she turned toward the little girl and asked, "Babe, did you tell your mom about music class?"

Daphne gasped, falling into an animated story about how Ms. Lee assigned her the role of drummer in the class band. Y/N hung on every word, but her mind and ears groaned at the mental image of her parents surprising Daphne with her very own drum kit. After that story, they all took turns telling stories from their day until their plates were empty. At the end of the night, Christie hugged them goodbye and informed Y/N that she would call tomorrow for more details about Harry. Once she shut the door, Daphne asked the question that had been on her mind since dinner.

“Do you love Daddy?”

Y/N froze, gaping at her daughter like a fish out of water. Tonight must have been the night for shocking questions because every question caught her off guard. How should she answer? Should she call Tyler before she answers? Her heart uttered the words, just be honest with her.

“I do love your father, but not in the same way that grandma loves grandpa. I want your father to be happy and healthy, but we stopped being in love a long time ago.” She hoped the questions would end there, but her daughter was as curious as her mother.

“Why?”

She hummed, kneeling so she could look into her daughter’s eyes. “Well, your father and I were very young when we met, and we did not know who we were as people. During our marriage, we both changed and realized that we were better off as friends than husband and wife. I’m sure your father is happy we ended our marriage because he found Joanna, and she makes him happy.”

While Daphne nodded, Y/N could see her mind trying to process the information before coming to the conclusion, “I’m glad that Daddy is happy, but I want you to be happy too.”

Tears blurred the woman’s vision, and she choked through a heartbreaking sob. How could her daughter not see that she was one of the few people who brought her happiness? She shook her head, cupping her daughter’s cheeks. “Baby, you make me the happiest mom in the world. Now, how about we cuddle and watch some cartoons before bed?”

“Yes, can we watch my favorite show?” Daphne asked, bouncing with excitement.

“Of course.” Standing up, she walked into the living room with her daughter by her side. Watching the silly cartoon, they forgot about the heavy conversation and enjoyed each other’s company. Y/N would answer Christie’s questions tomorrow, but today’s conversation with Daphne reminded her that her family was more important than a handsome man. * * * * *

The bright sun peeked out behind the dreary clouds, drying the murky puddles from the sidewalks and streets. Birds flew from the damp branches, lightening the solemn mood with cheerful chirps and songs. People fled from their busy schedules to spend a few moments outside, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of nature.

Since her next client booked a later appointment, she decided to eat lunch at the nearby park. The fork poked at the roasted brussel sprouts while she watched the crowds of people around her, from the family of three setting up a picnic to the lovely couple sharing a lunch before their offices called.

There were moments when her parents dropped all worries and duties to escape into nature for a few days, like the weekend her parents planned an impromptu camping trip because the deadlines became too much, so instead, they taught her how to build a fire and enjoy the music of the critters. She carried that sentiment into her life, finding moments throughout the week to feel the fresh air on her skin. However, her buzzing phone interrupted her second of silent gratitude.

Sighing, she answered the call despite knowing what it would bring. “Hello?”

“Hey, I need a favor. Before you lecture me about the importance of parenting, just know that I will pick up Daphne, but my boss scheduled an emergency afternoon evening. We probably won’t get out until six, so can you watch her until then? I would ask Joanna, but her boss double-booked her.” With wide eyes, she pulled the phone from her ear to double-check that the man speaking with her was her ex-husband.

This man would rather spend time with his daughter than create an excuse to skip out on his fatherly duties. Typically, she could hear the annoyance in his voice as if having a child were a burden. While her heart soared at the possibility that her daughter might finally have a father who took an interest in her life, her mind questioned and created reasons why he suddenly cared about their daughter.

“Of course, should I feed her dinner? Or do you and Joanna have dinner plans?” She asked, thinking of how long it had been since she and Tyler had a civil co-parenting conversation.

He hummed in thought for a second before deciding, “We can feed her. Wait, I almost forgot, could we keep her until Monday?”

Her heart stuttered when she thought about spending the entire weekend away from her daughter. She could not recall the last time she spent more than a few hours, let alone a day, without her. Also, she worried about her ex-husband's fatherly nature. Sure, she wanted him to spend time with their daughter, but she worried that he would not successfully prepare her for a school day.

His reassurance broke her reluctant silence. “Y/N, you can trust me. I have a few pairs of her school uniform, I know her schedule, and I will walk her to the front gates. I can even update you. Please, let me keep her for the weekend.”

She sighed, rubbing her temples with her free hand. “Fine, but promise me that you will call me if anything goes wrong.”

Tyler chuckled, shocking her even more because she hadn’t heard that delightful sound in so long. “I promise. Joanna and I planned a Sunday dinner with my parents, and they asked if they could see Daphne, complaining that they haven’t seen her since her birthday party.”

Rolling her eyes, she exhaled the irritation growing in her chest. Her relationship with Tyler's parents was rocky. During their first meeting, they wooed her with luxury cars and expensive food, which differed from the lifestyle she grew up with.

However, once she announced her pregnancy, his parents uninvited her to their events and took to uttering hateful comments about their future granddaughter. Everything about the situation threatened their social status in the gated community. The cruel comments ceased the moment they laid their eyes on the beautiful baby, and instead, they turned their cold glares and vicious whispers toward Y/N.

They criticized her parenting skills and provided unwarranted advice on how to raise a polite young lady. Despite their hostility, Y/N sent frequent updates and planned weekends for them to visit, so their comment to Tyler irked her. If they had not seen Daphne since her birthday party, it was because they chose not to.

“When will your parents stop being so charming? Daphne will be excited to see her grandparents.”

Tyler laughed sarcastically, understanding the trouble his parents caused everyone. “I’m glad that someone will be happy to see them. Well, I better finish these reports. I’ll see you tonight.”

Ending the call, she sat, shocked that they discussed their daughter without starting an argument. Throughout the years, she could count on one hand the amount of civil co-parenting conversations they had. She wondered how long this civility would last and if her advice about being a better father finally permeated his mind. She shook her head, deciding to focus on the positive rather than overthink the conversation until she found a reason to spoil it. If she was on after-school duty, then she and Daphne could stop by Dreams Cones, which meant she might run into Harry again. She leaned her head back, thanking the sun for blessing everyone. * * * * *

Children gathered around the marble counters to speculate about the new ice cream flavor, teenagers borrowed board games from a bookshelf to rid themselves of the pressures from school, and parents claimed tables to discuss upcoming weekend plans.

Daphne sprinted toward the crowd, ignoring her mother’s stern reminder that people do not run indoors. The magenta-colored ice cream gained everyone's attention because, unlike the other flavors, this new sweet treat lacked a name. Instead, someone had scribbled three question marks onto the paper card taped to the glass display.

Harry chose unique names for the other flavors, so she wondered why he hadn't done the same for this one. Perhaps he needed to workshop the name some more, but his excitement insisted that he could not keep the flavor from his customers any longer. Maybe he chose a name but taped the wrong placard to the display.

Breaking her focus from the mystery container, she looked up, expecting to find the grinning woman from their last visit; however, she found herself face to face with the owner’s irresistible dimpled grin. All the air from her lungs became trapped in her throat, and her heart tried beating out of her chest and into his beautiful hands.

“Y/N, I'm happy to see that you and Daphne returned.” The sincerity in his voice made her heart flutter wildly. Despite the numerous customers he met daily, he remembered their names and actually sounded happy to see them. She wondered whether or not this man was real.

Locking away her bothersome emotions, she responded rationally and calmly. “Thank you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” Well, she tried.

Harry's eyebrows shot up, but once the initial shock cleared, he didn't seem disgusted by her comment. Instead, his warm smile shifted into a smug grin as if her slip-up intrigued him. While he handled the situation with grace, she prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She pictured some higher being cackling at her as she shook her head fervently.

“I'm sorry. I meant to say I haven't stopped thinking about your ice cream. I promise I'm not trying to hit on you." Her mind begged her mouth to shut up. She didn't want him to think she didn't find him attractive. "Not that you aren't incredibly handsome."

Processing the conversation, she groaned and dragged a palm down her face. At that moment, she decided someone could die from embarrassment. She recalled when she could speak normally with people she found attractive, but her skills must be rusty from their lack of use.

An amused chuckle flittered past his rosy lips as he crossed his arms across his chest, clearly enjoying the sight of her squirming and scrambling to correct herself. “Thank you, I needed that today. I woke up feeling unsure about myself. Would it be inappropriate to say that you look beautiful?”

“It's not, thank you.” She mumbled, biting back a bashful grin.

For a moment, she basked in his sweet words, allowing her heart to soar with excitement because he thought she was beautiful. Would she replay this conversation before she fell asleep tonight? Yes, she would repeat his words and alter the situation so that it ends with them on a romantic date. Her dreams were the only space she could be selfish and chase after the life she wanted.

Daphne watched the shy couple flirt with one another, stopping her staring only once to wave and smile at Harry when he looked at her. Thanks to her friends, she realized that her mother might have a crush on the curly-haired man.

During recess, she told Ziva and Andrew about the situation, and they informed her that her mother like-liked Harry. However, Ziva raised an important question, did Daphne want a new father? She didn't know. She never questioned her parent's relationship because her earlier memories always featured her father's girlfriend. Did she wonder why her parents weren't in love like Ziva or Andrew's parents? Yes, but if her father could be happy with Joanna, then her mother deserved happiness too. She was hesitant to replace her father with Harry, but she would accept him because he made her mom happy.

“Hi Daphne, how are you?” He asked, returning her wave.

“I’m excited because I get to spend the weekend with my dad and Joanna.” She announced through a toothy smile.

He glanced at Y/N, scanning her face for negative emotions before returning his attention to the little girl. “I hope you have an excellent time with them. Did you want to surprise your father with a cup of our ice cream?”

She shook her head while her mother answered his question. “Although my ex-husband loves surprises, he despises anything sweet.”

Then Daphne added some vital information, “He’s also allergic to milk.”

Harry chuckled, nodding slowly. “Well, that’s too bad, but at least you can still enjoy ice cream. What flavors will you two be trying today?”

Daphne found herself in a predicament. The Lucky Charm ice cream promised colorful marshmallows and cavity-causing sweetness, but the mystery flavor guaranteed excitement and amazement. What flavor did her mother want? Could she convince her to order the new flavor while she stuck with the safest option? Before Daphne could decide, her mother eased all of her stress.

“I might try the new flavor.” His dimpled grin reappeared at her response.

He nodded once before bouncing toward the purple treat, his head bobbing side-to-side with each step. Elation radiated from his heart and soul, eliminating anyone's sour mood in a two-mile radius. Y/N and Daphne shared an amused look and a giggle before following the man. The short distance between them allowed Y/N to peek at his outfit for the day, which consisted of navy blue dress pants, a pastel blue striped dress shirt (which he folded at the elbow, a look she found herself drooling over), and a sweater vest with white sheep dotted over it. She should hire him as her stylist since her closet consisted of worn shirts and blazers for work.

“Recently, I created a new ice cream flavor, but I struggled with the naming process. I wrote down multiple unoriginal names. Until I had an idea to let my customers choose the new name. If you order the ice cream, you will also receive a slip of paper to write down your idea and drop it in the box by the door. In two weeks, the staff and I will choose our favorite suggestion, and the winner will receive free ice cream for a month.” Once Harry finished his announcement, she realized a crowd of curious customers had gathered around them. Perhaps she should have paid attention to the contest rules instead of watching his rosy lips curve around each word.

“How fun and creative. Can I have one scoop of the mystery flavor in a cup, and a–” she paused, realizing she hadn’t asked Daphne what flavor she wanted.

Luckily, he heard the lull in her speech and jumped in where she left off, “Daphne, what flavor would you like?”

“Lucky Charms in a cone.” Daphne's anxious heart rested easy because now she could taste both flavors without the risk of wasting her Friday treat on an icky treat.

Before scooping the sweet treat, he readjusted his sleeves, pushing the starchy material further up his arm. Y/N couldn't help but admire the concentrated crinkle between his eyebrows as he created the perfect scoop. Her knees even went weak when his pink tongue poked out to swipe over his bottom lip. Why did this man have such a powerful effect on her? Was she really that lonely? Her mind reminded her heart that true love did not exist, and her feelings were caused by a chemical reaction.

“Here you go, love. Be careful, the cone is a bit messy.” He mumbled, handing her their order. While reaching for the cone, her fingers brushed against his soft hands, sending her heart into a frenzy. What did her brain know about love?

Before Harry could ring up the two scoops, two teenagers shouted their orders at him. He appeared hesitant, stuck between helping these new customers and continuing his conversation with them. However, he chose the former in an attempt to ease the customers’ scowls. Another cheerful staff member informed Y/N that he could finish where his boss left off, and although she doubted that, she followed him to the register.

“What does the flavor remind you of?” She asked, processing the tangy yet fruity flavors dancing along her tongue. Did she taste blueberry or blackberry? When was the last time she ate a blackberry?

Her daughter hummed, tapping the spoon’s handle against her chin. “Christmas.”

Confusion halted all other thoughts about the flavor. Instead, she chuckled lightly, raising an eyebrow. “Christmas? Why?”

The little girl shrugged, delving into her well-thought-out response, “Every Christmas morning, Grandma surprises us with blueberry muffins, and when I taste this, I miss Christmas and Grandma.”

In parenthood, there were many moments when a child might say something sweet, which not only made the parent proud of the small person they were raising but also brought tears to their eyes. She rubbed the corners of her eyes, catching any stray tears from rolling down her cheeks. When she missed her parents, she would replay memories of Christmas mornings in her mind because they radiated love and happiness, and now, she learned that her daughter also cherished those moments.

“Well, we should suggest the name, Christmas morning.” A gleeful giggle bubbled past Daphne's lips as she watched her mom write down the name on the slip of paper. “Should we leave? Your father should be at the apartment soon.”

Daphne nodded, sliding off the chair. “I can’t wait to see Daddy. Do you think he’ll take me to the zoo?”

While her daughter bombarded her with questions about the weekend, Y/N glanced over at Harry, wondering whether she should say goodbye; however, his furrowed brows and the crowded counter convinced her to walk away. Dropping the paper slip into the box by the door, she answered a few of her daughter’s twenty questions. She ignored the painful tug in her heart caused by the thought that she wouldn’t see Harry until next Friday.

Reigning in her emotions, she reminded herself that she did not have time to date. Also, why would Harry want to date a single mother? She pictured him dating a beautiful, up-and-coming model who spent her free time ending world hunger. He belonged with someone as wonderful as he was and who did not have as much baggage as she did. Thankfully, Daphne pulled her mother from another spiral with a hilarious joke about cows and movies. Laughter dissolved her stress as she wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, bringing her ball of sunshine closer so that her gray clouds might float away. * * * * *

Neon-pink lights illuminated the dark room while trendy music blared from a nearby speaker. Draping a feathery boa around her shoulders, an optimistic university student discussed her dreams about the future. She imagined exploring unknown locations, tasting world cuisine, meeting new people, and falling in love with strangers. She might even find her soulmate on a beach in Greece. While the camera captured the young woman's beauty, Y/N listened intently as if this girl were her daughter. Through a warm smile, she showed her support for the young woman and her aspirations because they reminded her of the goals she made before meeting Tyler. However, she hoped no one derailed this woman from achieving her dreams.

“Scrolling through the photos, the woman gasped. “Wow, you made me look beautiful.” She whispered in awe, selecting the perfect one for her birthday Instagram post.

Y/N chuckled, returning the extra props to the storage room. Since her next appointment was after lunch, she would reorganize the items once the customer left. Easy days, like today, were great because they allowed her to catch up on simple tasks she kept putting off. If she bribed her assistant, Kira, into helping, they might be able to leave earlier for lunch.

“Remember, the camera captures the art. You were always beautiful. I hope you have an excellent birthday.”

The young woman pouted her lips and cupped her chest. “Thank you. Can I give you a hug?”

The woman briefly hugged Y/N, then spun around and walked out as if she were on her next mission, but not without almost bumping into Kira at the door.

“She’s in a hurry,” Kira mumbled, glancing back at the young woman getting into her Uber ride.

Y/N grinned. "It's her birthday, so she scheduled a self-love day. What did you bring me?" She asked, eyeing the two plastic cups filled with iced coffee.

Growing up, she despised coffee and coffee-flavored products. However, once she gave birth to Daphne, her body craved the extra energy, juggling between university classes and a newborn baby. As long as she flavored the drink with creams and syrups, she could find the strength within to swallow the liquid. Now, her body could not function without an ounce of coffee coursing through her veins.

“I ordered two brown sugar coffees with oat milk. Have we tried that one?” Her assistant asked, handing her the cold drink.

Every week, they ordered a drink they hadn’t tried before, but she also didn’t remember trying this drink, so it had to be new. She shook her head, sipping the caffeinated beverage, immediately tasting the harsh, bitter coffee notes rather than the sugary sweetness she was used to. She couldn’t disappoint her assistant, who appeared to love the drink by the speed at which she was drinking it, so she hummed and nodded her head as if the drink impressed her.

“Thank you. It's delicious, but I miss my usual order." She lied partially because she did miss her favorite caramel-flavored coffee, but she did not enjoy the new drink.

“I'm glad we tried something new,” Kira admitted before glancing at the crowded storage room. “Do you need help reorganizing the props?”

She nodded. “If we finish early enough, we can have a long lunch.”

“Sure thing.” Kira followed her toward the room, pausing the moment she remembered the last-minute appointment she had not added to her boss's calendar. “Wait, I scheduled an eleven o’clock appointment. The client’s name is Gemma Styles. She and her brother want to surprise their mother with a sibling portrait.”

“Okay, that sounds easy enough.” She mumbled, loading a few props into her arms. “Will you stay at the front desk and wait for them?”

While tidying the storage room, Y/N thought about Daphne and the weekend. Tyler's parenting skills surprised her. He planned a zoo visit, sent her photos of Daphne with the flamingos, and called her every night so their daughter could say goodnight. He hadn’t been a present parent for two years, but she couldn’t be happier that something or someone finally woke that side of him up.

Her only complaint involved the lack of information about yesterday’s dinner with his parents. When she asked about his parents, he avoided the subject, which meant they either criticized his parenting skills or hers, but curiosity bubbled within. What did they say? If it was about her, did he stand up for her? Was it about Joanna? She hoped Daphne could answer these questions when she picked her up from school.

“Welcome to Artistic Lens. My name is Kira. How may I help you?” Kira’s question announced the arrival of her afternoon clients. “Hello, I’m Harry. This is my sister Gemma.” Her ears perked up the moment she heard his angelic voice.

Her hands paused their movements while her mind raised questions. Was Harry actually in her studio? Did he know she owned this space? Is that why he chose this location? Wiping the sweat from her palms onto her jeans, she ignored the questions distracting her from moving. She cleared her throat, reminding herself to remain professional because he was her client first and potential crush second. She could not afford another slip-up like the last time they spoke.

She spotted his curly locks first, then his floral sweater, which featured an array of bright colors like turquoise and sunflower yellow. Gemma, his sister, wore a floral dress that contained similar colors to her brother's outfit. The siblings shared characteristics, such as their astounding beauty and cheek dimples. She wondered if they had tried modeling. She could picture them walking the runway in Gucci, Bode, and other big-name designers.

“Hello, I'm Y/N, and I'm the photographer.” She plastered her best customer service grin onto her face to appear unbothered.

When he heard her voice, Harry experienced four distinct emotions: confusion, realization, happiness, and lastly, embarrassment. A sheepish grin unraveled across his face while his eyes met hers once before glancing around the room. She smiled at his sister, chalking up his shy behavior as his reaction to seeing her outside the ice cream parlor, like a student seeing their teacher out in the wild. However, Kira and Gemma witnessed the interaction, leading his sister to embarrass him further.

“It’s lovely to meet you. Harry, didn’t you just tell me about a woman named Y/N, who you found very—” Harry’s eyes widened, and his hands covered his sister’s mouth before she could finish her sentence.

While Gemma shoved her brother away, Kira and Y/N shared an amused look. He huffed, fixing his posture and rolling his eyes. Y/N giggled, finding the entire situation sweet and flattering because, according to his sister, Harry talked about her.

“Harry and I have met. My daughter and I love his ice cream shop. Now, tell me about your vision.”

She moved the conversation forward and away from their flirty friendship, watching his shoulders deflate and his dimpled grin return as if he could finally relax.

“Our mom always complains that we never take pictures together anymore, so we planned on surprising her with photos of us.” Gemma explained, obviously taking charge of the surprise.

Y/N nodded, motioning toward her camera and the backdrops. “Great, we can get started over there. Kira, will you bring us the wooden bench from the storage room?” While her assistant disappeared to the storage room, she positioned the Styles siblings in front of the gray backdrop.

Before beginning the photoshoot, she checked the lighting, flipped through the camera settings, and examined their outfits. Harry paired his bright sweater with beige pants, and Gemma tied a pink scarf around her neck to match the peonies on her brother's top. She feared the light colors might wash out the siblings; however, the camera captured their beauty and radiating glow.

“You both look amazing. I selected your first pose, but feel free to move and pose as you like. I want the photos to look natural rather than two perfectly still models.” She explained, snapping a few test shots.

Kira returned shortly with the bench, placing the item beside the backdrop. "Should I turn on your playlist?"

She nodded, “Sure, unless Gemma or Harry, do you want to play a certain playlist?” Lifting her head from the camera, she saw Harry shaking his head.

“No, you should play your music. People find my music taste—” He paused, rummaging through his mind for the correct word to describe his music, but Gemma responded for her brother before he could even stop her, “Eclectic.”

“Yes, so please, play whatever you like.” His eager smile contained a level of excitement that she found endearing, almost as if he truly wanted to learn what music she loved.

Shuffling the playlist, she smiled when her favorite singer crooned through the speaker.

“I love this song,” Harry confessed, bopping his head to the beat.

“Me too. Don't you want to sing along?” She asked, humming with the love-sick singer.

She pictured a life where she and her spouse would listen to this music while cooking dinner. A life where they would sing along, off-key, of course, while chopping vegetables. Her spouse would grab Daphne's hands and dance with her around the kitchen. She would capture these important moments with her camera. A room overflowing with love and laughter.

Lately, these daydreams featured a curly-haired, green-eyed man. His hands would grip her hips, spinning her around and away from the cutting board while he hummed some romantic song. They would waltz around the kitchen, discussing their days in hushed whispers. Eventually, he would let her finish dinner while he helped Daphne with schoolwork. During these moments, she believed someone as handsome as Harry could love her.

Gemma chuckled, shaking her head while finding a new pose. “You don’t want me to sing. Unlike Harry, some of us weren’t born with an amazing voice. Did you know he was in a band?”

Her head shot up from the camera as she blinked the shock away. Harry, feeling sheepish again, twiddled his thumbs while she stared at him in awe. “First, who cares if we suck at singing? We should sing along anyway. Second, you were in a band? Please tell me more.”

While dragging his fingers through his hair, a nervous chuckle fumbled past his rosy lips. “When I was fourteen, me and my mates decided to start a band. Our parents and friends hired us for local events, but the band barely survived two years.”

“During his university years, he performed solo at pubs.” Gemma added, smiling proudly at her brother.

Y/N smiled through her shock. During their university years, she and Tyler spent many weekends at pubs, and now, she wondered if she and Harry were ever in the same room. However, she thinks she would have remembered his angelic voice and alluring presence.

“Well, I think that’s amazing. You are quite the catch, Harry.” She winked, bringing back his dimpled grin.

Continuing the photoshoot, Y/N focused on backdrops, props, and poses. Everyone fell into a comfortable silence, only speaking when Gemma mentioned a topic she planned on discussing on her podcast. During these moments, Y/N agreed with her positive attitudes and views. She could see Gemma joining her and Christie for Sunday brunch, where they could gossip and laugh over mimosas. Should she befriend the sister of the man she was crushing on? Her eyes washed over him, admiring the sparkle in his green eyes and the two tattooed swallows on his chest. She paused. When did this gentle, shy man get two tattoos? Were there more?

“You have a tattoo.” What should have been a question came out as a statement, one that made Harry scan his body as if searching for which tattoo might be on display, which only answered her question that there must be more than the two on his chest, then with a furrowed brow and worried eyes, he made eye contact with her intrigued ones.

He cleared his throat before speaking up. “Yeah, I have multiple tattoos. During uni, my mate bought a tattoo gun, which resulted in many stupid tattoos, but I don’t regret them. They remind me of a different time.”

While listening to his explanation, her heart fluttered. “That’s incredibly sweet. I want a tattoo, but I’m terrified of needles. I nearly fainted when the nurses gave me the epidural for Daphne’s birth.” Her confession made the siblings chuckle.

“I was like that during my first tattoo, but now, I'm a pro. If you really want one, I could come with you to keep you company." He stuttered through the end of the sentence as if his mind processed what his mouth said. “Unless you want to bring anyone else who isn’t a complete stranger to you.” He rambled, trying to fix his earlier statement.

She shook her head with an amused giggle. “Harry, you aren’t a complete stranger. I’m very touched by your offer, and if I ever decide to get a tattoo, you will be the first person I call.”

He sighed with relief, dropping his shoulders down from his ears. Gemma observed the interaction, noting her brother's unusual behavior. Throughout her life, she witnessed Harry's confidence first-hand. From the moment he could talk, he loved being the center of attention, and his charming attitude introduced him to more relationships than she could remember. She recalled a time when he tripped over a rug, ripped his pants, and still received a phone number from the person he was chatting up. His confidence carried him through life, and she had never seen it falter until she watched her brother flirt with the photographer.

“Okay, we are all done. I think your mother will love these.” Y/N bragged because although she captured the magic, she couldn’t have done it without Gemma and Harry’s natural beauty and warmth.

“Thank you so much.” Gemma giggled with excitement, wrapping her arms around the photographer’s body.

Y/N chuckled, returning the comforting hug. She spotted Harry’s warm smile over Gemma’s shoulder, which served as his “thank you” for the photographs and for entertaining his sister. The smile resembled that of a loving boyfriend, happy that his girlfriend impressed his family. Her stomach clenched with butterflies at the idea of Harry as her boyfriend.

She pulled away from the hug, dropping her gaze from him. “Once I edit the photos, I’ll send them to you. Should I have any questions, is the number on file a good one to reach you at?”

Gemma nodded, then hummed as if a thought just struck her. “Well, I probably won’t answer if I’m in an interview.” She turned toward her brother with a mischievous grin, revealing her intentions. “You should give her your number too. You answer the phone more than I do.”

He nodded once, scribbling his number onto the contact sheet Kira provided them. Y/N could sense his annoyance with Gemma's constant embarrassing comments, so she planned to make the rest of the interaction fast and painless. She handed Kira the sheet, which they would file later, and then faced the siblings.

“Great, I hope you two have an excellent day.” Y/N smiled.

Harry mumbled a “you too” under his breath, shuffling toward the glass door, unlike his sister, who had one more plan up her sleeves. “Wait, have you eaten lunch? Harry and I would love to treat you to lunch as a thank you.”

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat, her mind racing with every reason why she should not accept the invitation. Harry noticed the hesitation in her eyes, which landed on his, and searched for any sign that he did not want her to join them, but all she found was a warm welcome.

“You should come. I’d love to get to know you more.” He spoke up, running a hand through his hair.

Y/N nodded, matching his dazed grin. “Well, I’m never one to turn down a free lunch. I would love to join you.”

#mine #harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #one direction #new series

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alizayildiz · 3 months

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Kenan Yildiz Preferences {Dad, Dad to be, Husband}

✮ dad to be Kenan, who carries everything while you're pregnant, not that he didn't when you were not. But not he's just super extra careful.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who seventy hopes that the two of you are having a son so that he can teach him how to play football and how to treat woman right.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who buys the most expensive baby equipment, everything that you child could possibly need.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who thinks of names almost every dad.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who started putting away dangerous things around the Mansion, like knifes, before the baby even arrived.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who immediately called his best friends Arda and Can to tell them the news that the two of you are having a baby together.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who trains even harder than he already does. In mission to achieve way more success and money than he already has. So the three of you can continue living this glorious lifestyle.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who demands that guy stop going to work after you've had the baby and while you're pregnant these nine months. Due to the fact that he knows too much stress is not good for pregnant women.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who got more protective of you the second you told him that you're pregnant.

✮ dad to be Kenan, who bought books for couples that are expecting their first child to be better informed when the baby arrives.

✮husband Kenan, who threw the biggest wedding party. Letting you spend as much money as you want to. Main thing for him is that he gets to call you his wife.

✮ husband Kenan, who booked three whole months of Honeymoon. All over different places in the world. Booked in the best hotels, with tourist activities yk do while you're there.

✮ husband Kenan, who never takes off his wedding ring, even during matches he wears it. Sometimes getting confronted about it with the referee that guides the game.

✮ husband Kenan, who loves being married to you more then anything else is his life.

✮ husband Kenan, who just looks forward to come home to you after training, his wife, and cuddle with you taking in your scent.

✮ husband Kenan, who always reaches out for you hand, holding it and playing with the big rock on your finger, your wedding ring, whenever he's nervous.

✮ husband Kenan, who supports every single decision of you, being the most gentle men you've ever met.

✮ husband Kenan, who looses his temper way to fast when someone is being disrespectful towards his wife in the slightest way possible.

✮ husband Kenan, who buys you fresh flowers every single week, for years now, never letting it slip. And he also plans dates night every two weeks. He wants to keep the marriage of you two active. Not like other couples who give up on each other easily after being married for just a year.

✮husband Kenan, who financially supports and covers everything by himself. He's a huge gentleman and thinks no woman ever should have to pay for anything.

✮ dad Kenan, who was the first person to home y'all's baby. Shearing tears as he got a look at the beautiful face of the baby.

"Thank you for blessing me with such a beautiful baby" was the first thing he said after you gave birth.

✮ das Kenan, who let's you sleep from night to morning. Taking care of the baby himself, he knows how tired you are so he wants to make sure you rest. It doesn't matter if he's tired too, you and the baby are his priority.

"Shhhh, you're going to wake up your beautiful mommy, everything's alright, daddy's here"

✮ dad Kenan, who takes your kid as often so training or to matches as he can. He wants to have his family with him before, during and after the game.

✮ dad Kenan, who buys every toy in store that your child touches or even looks long at.

"What am I gonna do with my money if I don't spend it on our kid ?"

✮ dad Kenan, who calls you and the baby over FaceTime every single morning and night when he has to be away for important matches.

✮ dad Kenan, who thought your son how to play football at an early age. Also how to treat a woman right.

"Look mommy they're for you" your son said happily, holding a bouquet of flowers ins his petite hands.

✮ dad Kenan, who gets on father mode as soon as he sees a boy having interest in you daughter. Teaching her all about their lies and how to manipulate them.

"So if he tells you that he's not looking for anything serious, he mean that he's not looking for anything serious WITH YOU, he's still going to mess around with other woman. So she best thing you're going to do is cut off ties with him".

✮ dad Kenan, who learned to be patient on a whole different level since being a father.

✮ dad Kenan, who turns into a literal lawyer when someone is having a problem with your child, or when they're accusing them of something. In the end you child stays untouchable due to Kenan.

#kenan yildiz #football #imagine #personal preferences #protective #gentelman #wattpad

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liaswills · 1 year

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Pick a card: Does your crush like you back?

Today we are asking 4 seperate energies what they think of you! It's important to know that any pick a card's are general energies and some messages are resonant to your crush and others might just be for other people. Generally this is my first pick a card on Tumblr but I've been in the tarot community for longer than today, since 2017 I read tarot.

Disclaimer: I haven't used any tarot cards for this reading, ironically. I'm channelling the messages instead.

Take a moment, I understand crushes on anyone can be mind whirling and obsessive at times. But well I'm here to feed your obsession, aren't I? I will take the opportunity to channel their messages so every reply is written in the voice of your crush (general) and I'll give all four groups some extra information too!

Pick one of these four sentences from my favourite tommy shelby quotes!

1. "Why not?" — Thomas Shelby

2. "Do I look like a man who wants a simple life?" — Thomas Shelby

3. “We used to come here; she’d wait for hours for me when I couldn’t make it. And I’d wait for her if her family kept her in.” — Thomas Shelby

4. “A man needs to prove he is better than me, rather than show me his birth certificate.” — Thomas Shelby

All readings are channelled letters from your crush s/o. Hope you enjoy these and follow my account for more tarot posts!

Pile 1: "Why not?"

First of all this is a person that thinks softly of you. They have kind eyes, might be more of an effeminate person. May have a beard, or look like a gentle giant. I'm also getting blonde/brown hair or shoulder length blonde hair. They have dazzling eyes.

My darling,

I have never called you that before. But why not, eh? Or maybe I do enjoy calling you that in my mind. You are like a fond thought my mind wanders to when I am sitting in the train or my car. Or when I walk or am riding my bike. I think of you softly. I'm secretly afraid, that whilst I think of you softly, you don't think of me that way. I might just be a hopeless fool thinking you'd be interested in myself. Or perhaps I am not a fool?

I kind of want to do fun things together. Take it slow. There are some people I think of. Some other people that might be interesting to me as well. I know you didn't expect to hear that but I'm sometimes too stuck in my daydreams that I wished I was anyone's person. I just want to think of love. I like to imagine my closest friends think me an idiot everytime I say I met someone because how could they not? I sort of just 'love' being in love, right there, in my head.

Telling you how I feel makes me question whether it's worth it. Should I take that step to ask you how you're doing? To ask you whether you'd like to walk with me? Get an icecream? I don't know how to date to be honest. I read often, I just thought that thinking of you in my mind would be easier than thinking of you and I actually going someplace to do fun things together.

I specically like your legs, your smile, your hair. I think you look like my dream person. I may not smile in person, or I may not say these things in person, or I may not even let you know how HOT I think you are but you really are my type. I just don't know whether you'd think of me as 'your' type.

Sometimes I fantasize too much. I think it all out. Us, together, marriage, maybe even normal things like grocery shopping together or finding out what kind of candy you eat or don't eat. I kind of want to know how you live your life. I really admire how you come off to me as a person and I just think that we could 'be' something. If only my mind wasn't so easy to wander to other scenario's and people and friends who could possibly become my person too.

If you like me, just tell me. Right now. I beg of you. It would make my day. It would be recipocrated, I already have chosen you in my heart but I can't keep my mind collected. I can't stop thinking about work or about how busy I actually am when in truth, I just want to get to know you better.

Don't be sad. I don't want you to be sad. Was I an asshole? I never meant to be one. Trust me.

Do you trust me?

Yours Forever,

Your hopeless romantic

Pile 2: "Do I look like a man who wants a simple life?"

This is someone who has dark features. Might have brown hair. They come off as someone who has dazzling green/hazel or brown eyes. They are HANDSOME. You think of them in a handsome light. Their dress style might enchant you daily. Everytime you receive pictures of them or see them you might just think highly of their aesthetic. They're giving stronger masculine vibes or someone who has a dominant personality.

Babes,

Look I never meant to fall for you. I think my guides never saw 'me' falling for you. But I did. I was thrown into this abyss of feelings that I had long forgotten or long thought I could not feel anymore. I keep being disappointed in life but you have never disappointed me. I like that. I like that about you.

You and I talk or we don't. It's like that. I know it is. Because I keep you far away from me when I need time to make a decision. When I need to fix my shit. When I need to fix my issues. I have many of them. I don't need an angel like you to come into that mess. I don't want you to see a mess or see me as a mess. I need you to understand that I'm getting better. Really, I am. I thought I told you that, before, didn't I?

My life can never be just us. It's everything. It's mostly my family, my job, my friends. It's everything. I am always at the center of it and sometimes that makes me anxious. My friends drag me into shit you may not like. I might hurt your ideas about me when I do stuff like that, or I might be repugnant but it's just who I am, all right?

I can't be with someone who will hold me back. I am not saying you do this, but I hope that you will understand I don't really know how to be in a relationship that isn't going to end in destruction so I will put this lightly: don't give me the steer. I need you to say what you need to say and be as expressive as possible to keep me there with you. Maybe I like you, maybe I don't, I don't even know this myself.

See my guides want me to stop questioning my life. They want me to stop being such a fuck, maybe I do too. When I talk to you or when I think of you, I think of what of a redemption arc that would be for me? I know that sounds weird, but I think of how I could do 'right' by you.

So, technically, no, I don't want you to crush on me because I would not deserve you. But I also want you to be with me because I want to have you. Does that make me an asshole? I suppose it does.

Look, I know how to get you on your knees. I know how to kiss you, I'm experienced, I know. I know where to push your button, what to flirt, what to say, I do this naturally. It's like god gave me one gift and it's flirting without actually intending to flirt.

I get in a lot of trouble for that.

Like you for instance. You're my trouble. You're my death. You are the one person I can't get off my mind and it bothers me because I can't come forward to you and give you this sorry excuse of a person that I am right now. I really can't. Will you forgive me for not saying anything? If you ask me about my feelings, my love, I will most likely just ignore it or just be rude. I know, I can't have you.

You do NOT deserve me. I'm so sorry. I don't want you to want me, yet I do. Yet I thrive on it. Yet I am so sick that I would get off on it. I want you to want me, it's a game, alright? It's a game. I thrive on the thrill. I thrive on chasing. I thrive on flirting. This is a mad world and you're making it worse.

If you'd give me a chance, if by some miracle you'd be able to tame the fucktard that I am, would you be able to put up with my non-commital energy? Would you? See, you don't want this. I know you do.

My guides don't want this for you.

I'm sorry,

Your idiot.

Pile 3: “We used to come here; she’d wait for hours for me when I couldn’t make it. And I’d wait for her if her family kept her in.”

Your person is very feminine. I see someone who is shy, gives off introverted vibes or might just be a person who doesn't express what's going on with them all the time. They have a hard time texting others first, they might wait on texts instead. I feel like they are someone who thinks fondly of you.

Mr/Mrs *insert your name*,

I didn't know it could feel like this. Ha, who would've thought that, ME of all people would like you like some childish crush, though, the child in me still dreams of my shining knight. Are you that person? My shining hero, you might think I read too much fantasy novels or that I'm too obsessed with that one band, haha, I know, I am. I may talk too much about my one interest because It's all I think of. It's where I want to be, want to dream of, it's where my mind wanders and what keeps me occupied. I know you're not like that, or maybe you are, but you don't show it that easily.

I do like you. There, I said it. I want to be polite. I want to court you properly, when I do gather the courage to actually do that. I feel like somehow you might be the one person for me. Therefore, I find you irresistable. Because of that connection between us. We might already be friends, or well, we hang around one another, but I think you and I could be something more.

It had to be you. It just had to be you. That's what Barbra Streisand sings in the song "It had to be you" with Michael Bublé. I am on a cloud. Because I dream too much, I might seem like I am zoning out at times. That's what you do to me. You make me zone out and dream of many things. Sometimes my mind wanders back to those idols though, haha, or my favourite celebrities or games or book characters. But it mostly is you.

I would like to tell you how you inspire me. I am not an artistic person, but if I was, I would draw you. I would paint you. I would want to paint your soul. Does that sound too weird? Probably. See, when I think of you, I think of how you would be the most perfect thing to be laying beside me. To be holding hands with as we walk through an autumn world forest, to get a hot drink with in the cold winter, to meet up with for lunch or dinner. I think of you kindly, admiring and I hope you don't think I'm coming off too strongly on you because yes, I recipocrate this crush you have on me.

Even if you're not sure if you crush on me, I would not mind. Technically, I'm yours. I want to be yours. I might not be too responsible sometimes, I might not take the lead in things but I promise you that I can do that if you allowed me the time to adjust to you, to being around you, and not just you in my head.

I could ramble on and on about you in my head. I don't have many friends and the people I talk to I do mention you. Sometimes when I see something that reminds me of you, like something I see in a store window and I am like, you would like that shit, I'm almost tempted to buy it as a gift. I like gift giving. But I am bad with receiving it. I would really like if we could give each other book or song recommendations, maybe exchange poems. I secretly would give you a poem that explains my feelings for you, not going to lie about that.

Yeah, that's what it is. I sometimes feel like I have no appetite. I don't want to eat when I think of you. I can't get my head straight some days. And then I just focus only on stories. Books. My interests. I would like to get to know your interests too. Sometimes I worry that I am not good enough for you. Or that you would not want me. It keeps me silent. Truly.

It's stupid, I know. I might not come from a good background. My family life was not something that brought me joy and that kept me in my books and my internal world. Or it was my school but I hope that you might want to be my family.

Or is that too much? I'll convince you of how great that would be. :)

Yours truly,

*insert their name*

Pile 4: “A man needs to prove he is better than me, rather than show me his birth certificate.”

This is a soft masculine energy. He comes off hard on the outside. I am getting a definite 'he' but it could also be someone that is considered a butch energy, has macho energy or a person with very masculine energy. Technically it doesn't matter but this person has a message for you and it's coming. :) They're a bit mysterious.

My Destiny.

You feel like my destiny. You know I am a religious person, I think a certain way about life that might be philosophical, it might be faith, it just is my faith. I want you to know that when you're not around, I think of you as special. The song, I am a Creep, by radiohead, you like that one don't you?

Why do I have the feeling that you're after the bad guy. That you're after someone who looks dangerous, could be dangerous and that I would be that person for you. Why do you give me those eyes? That stare? That smirk? You're playing coy but I know that you fantasize about me like I am some devil in the sheets.

I really am not. *Snort*. Truly, you'll think of me less than that. Sometimes I worry that you think of me in a way where you're making this up. About me, information just gets distorted or you make something up in your mind that doesn't truly fit my personality. I would say that I don't mind you doing this, I think it's kind off cute. I think you're cute.

Some days, I wonder what you're doing. Only some days. Like those moments when it's night, you're sitting on the couch or in the tub and I am contemplating what to do now that my phone died (I might just be addicted to my phone) and I think of you in those moments of disconnect. I can watch the moon or I can look up at the nightsky and wonder if you're my person.

I like witches. Eh, did I say that? Yep. You're like a witch to me. Not in a bad way, more like in the way that "I know my girlfirend is a witch" vibe. You are mysterious to me. Something about you that I can't pinpoint my finger on. Something mysterious. It draws me in, but at the same time I don't want to be drawn in by you.

It's a push and pull with my feelings of my heart and my body and my mind. It's like this, I don't think you fit in my ordinairy life. You should do something with someone that fits your life. We might just be dating other people or you might feel unavailable emotionally to me, which is something I can't help but only you can, truly.

Still... I do think of you softly. In the quiet moments. My mind lingers on you. You're my favourite happy place where my thoughts can wander to. My favourite thing to relax, I don't know maybe your body is too. You know how I would love to relax with you, sweaty, together and being intimate in a way that makes you blush if I would ever talk about it nonchalantly in public day light.

I'd like to take you to a restaurant. You'd like that, huh? I know, I am smug when I think I know something about you but truly, i'm just a clueless fool wanting your attention when all but nothing you're just this goddess that could ruin me if you tried.

You don't even have to try, truly. I'm already broken, that's my secret.

I don't fear breaking my heart. So, if you do want to chase this? Chase me, darling.

I am ready.

But, let me say one more thing before I end this message. That dress, those trousers, that favourite clothing item you own, the one that looks comfortable, but isn't? Ehm, yeah, I have thought about you in that exact piece and eh- shamefully have fantasies about you wearing that fucking thing. Sorry, I get carried away when it's you, I really do.

You didn't expect this, did you? I know you think me the person you'd think is your type but you might need to re-arrange your expectations about me. I will disappoint you, I know that I will, I can't do nothing right in my life, why would I do right by you?

I sound like I hate myself. Perhaps I do.

Will you love me then, honey?

You know who I am.

Thankyou for reading this pick a card! I hope the message resonates and that you're able to enjoy this little crush reveal or did not enjoy this crush disappointment. The energies were very different and some messages aren't entirely the same but take whatever resonates, not what doesn't, if your gut feeling says those words weren't from your crush or s/o then they're not.

All the love, elias.

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