#- but i will also be happy in the future too!

[marvelstoriesepic]

Change your mind

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Bucky’s charm; Bucky being flirty; Bucky showing off; Reader checking out baseball players lol; Reader not being interested in baseball (at first)

Author’s Note: I've been craving some flirty college Bucky after all the angst I've been writing. So that’s what I came up with. It is also meant as a little celebration fic because I've got over 1500 followers and that’s so amazing! Thank you so much!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Divider by @thecutestgrotto ♡

Masterlist

You haven’t been to a single game since the semester started - since any semester started, to be real. And honestly, you have been content with that. Satisfyingly so.

Your time is better spent attending to assignments, slogging through your part-time job at the library, or doing literally anything else besides sitting in the stands and watching a bunch of guys chase a ball around a field, or whatever the hell this sport even is about.

Baseball isn’t your thing, it never has been and it never will be.

You’ve been complaining about it the whole way here. Dramatically so, but you didn’t care. Your best friend can handle you and your antics.

“You know, I can think of at least a dozen things I should be doing right now instead of this,” you grumble, trailing behind her as she weaves through the crowd in search of seats.

Natasha sighs sharply and throws you a glare over her shoulder. “God, would you quit whining? This is good for you.”

“I fail to see how,” you shoot back, adjusting the strap of your bag as you begrudgingly follow her.

But Natasha just smirks. That dangerous little smirk that means she’s about to say something you won’t have a comeback for. “You know,” she muses, eyes darting playfully in your direction. “I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm to come watch a bunch of hot guys running around out there.”

A brow of yours lifts. “Alright, hold on-” you jab a finger in her direction “-I never said I was against that part.”

She scoffs, clearly pleased with herself, and you grin, nudging her with your elbow as the two of you settle into your seats.

“Besides,” you continue, voice dripping with amusement. “I don’t think you should be making comments like that when we both know you’re here for one guy in particular.”

Natasha only shrugs, all nonchalant, but the corner of her mouth tugs lightly upward. “So what if I am?”

You snicker. “I mean, nothing. I just think it’s cute how whipped you are.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lip is still twitching. Natasha and Steve have only been dating for a few weeks, but you see the way she looks at him. And as much as you complain about being dragged here, you suppose watching your best friend fall stupidly in love is kind of entertaining.

Even if you have to suffer through a baseball game to witness it.

You lean back against the hard metal bleachers, arms crossed as your gaze falls across the field.

It’s a decent night, warm with just enough of a breeze to keep the air from feeling stifling. And even though you’d rather be anywhere else right now, you can’t deny that seeing Natasha like this - light in her eyes, a weird softness in her expression - makes the whole ordeal slightly less painful.

Steve is out on the field, stretching with his team, and Natasha is watching him with this reserved kind of smile. The kind that sneaks up on a person when they don’t realize they’re doing it. You smirk to yourself. Yeah, she’s got it bad. But honestly, you are happy for her. They look good together, and she certainly deserves someone who looks at her the way Steve does.

Natasha must catch you watching her because she suddenly turns, an all-too-knowing glint in her eye. You don’t like that look.

“And who knows,” she says, spreading her legs out in front of her, voice hinting at humor, “maybe your future husband’s down there right now.”

You snort, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “Oh, yeah, sure. He’s just waiting for me to sweep him off his feet in the middle of a stretch.”

She smirks. “Could happen.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, no thanks. I'm all for watching a bunch of hot guys get all sweaty and run around in tight pants, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” You gesture vaguely toward the field. “That’s just spectating. Everything else is a hard pass.”

Natasha quirks a brow, tilting her head at you. “Oh, come on, Y/n. It’s not that bad.”

You shoot her a look. “Nat, the last guy I went out with, Peter Quill, you remember?-” You don’t wait for her nod “-he told me, verbatim, that he doesn’t believe in seasoning his food. And the guy before that showed up to our date in cargo shorts and a fedora and spent two hours explaining why The Wolf of Wall Street is the peak of cinema.”

She winces. “Oof.”

“Yeah. So forgive me if I’m not that eager to throw myself back into the trenches.” You pause. “Also, I’m super busy.”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head as she turns back toward the field. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’ll be sure to put in a good word with one of Steve’s teammates.”

You scoff. “Wow, generous and delusional. I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”

She nudges you with her shoulder, smirking. “The luckiest.”

Huffing, you sink deeper into your seat. Well, at least there is one upside to all of this. If nothing else, you can at least appreciate the view.

Your eyes wander over the team as they move across the field, warming up, adjusting their gloves, casually tossing a ball back and forth.

And yeah, you can admit it - objectively speaking, they look good. Athletic builds, toned arms, legs that fill out those pants just right. It’s a nice view, even if you’re not about to go throwing yourself into the dating pool again, so soon.

Your gaze drifts back to Steve, mostly because he’s the only one you actually know - if only a little. But before you can really focus on him, someone steps into your line of sight, half-blocking the blonde from view.

The number 17 fills out your vision.

Your head tilts instinctively, curiosity sparking before you know it. The guy in front of Steve is tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy stance that suggests he’s completely at home out there on the field.

His uniform fits him in a way that makes you annoyingly aware of just how well built he is - jersey stretched firm across his upper back, the sleeves tight around his biceps, pants snug in all the right places. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck underneath the baseball cap he is wearing, and he stands so casually confident that it makes it impossible to not look at him.

Have you maybe seen him around campus before? You should have, right? Someone like him doesn’t just blend into the background. Maybe in the halls, in one of those massive lecture rooms, passing by in the library, maybe when you're on shift. But you are sure, that if you saw that guy, you would have remembered him.

“See something you like?”

Natasha’s smug voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you catch the smirk she is throwing your way.

Scoffing, you tighten your arms around yourself and glance back at the field. Number 17 is still standing there, talking with Steve, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just spent the past minute analyzing every inch of his backside.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny, keeping your tone even.

Natasha snorts, bumping her knee against yours. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

She nods her head to the field. “For dragging you here. For the eye candy. For giving you the opportunity to meet your future ex-husband.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”

Inevitably, your eyes move back to number 17, and you can’t help but think that if you haven’t seen him before, why it feels like you should have.

He’s turning.

Wait, he’s turning.

Your breath hitches and stays stuck in your throat uncomfortably, and suddenly he’s looking at you. Did he feel your eyes on him? Does he somehow know that you eyed him up like a complete creep? But just as the heat of panic can spark in your chest, you realize he’s not even looking at you.

He’s looking at Natasha.

Your shoulders loosen slightly. Steve also has turned his gaze toward the stands, his affective smile directed at your friend as well. He probably told the brunette that she’s here.

Number 17 lifts a hand in a casual wave, movement smooth, and even that simple gesture kind of looks way hotter than you want to feel right now.

Natasha only gives a small, lazy nod in return.

You expect the brunette to turn back around after that, to go back to whatever pre-game thing they were doing. But he doesn’t.

His attention shifts. To you.

Your stomach makes a flip before your brain can decide how to handle it.

His eyes are sharp, the exact color lost to the distance, but it seems to be something blueish. His expression is unreadable, his head tilting slightly as if assessing you. The stadium lights cast a glow over his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, and the way his mouth seems to settle into something just shy of a smirk.

Immediately, you whip your head around to Natasha, eyes wide.

“Do you know that guy?” you ask, trying to sound more casual than you feel.

Natasha doesn’t even bother looking at you. She’s still watching Steve, her lips curving higher as if knowing what she’s doing.

“He’s Steve’s best friend.”

You blink. “Steve’s best friend?”

Your gaze falls back to the field against your better judgment but Number 17 has already turned back to Steve, talking to the blonde who now is sporting a smirk just like Natasha’s.

“You never mentioned him before,” you comment, though it comes out a little too measured.

Natasha of course picks up on it immediately.

“Should I have?” she counters, dragging the words out just a little.

You narrow your eyes at her but she only continues smirking.

And again, your gaze falls back to Number 17. God, why can’t you stop checking him out. The white baseball pants of his do absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his legs. His hair at his nape is slightly messy from running around and you wonder if it would feel soft if you put your hands on it.

You shake that thought right off again.

It’s not like it matters.

Still, you shift in your seat, arms tightening. “I just think it’s interesting that you never brought him up before when he’s his best friend.”

Natasha exhales a laugh through her nose, finally glancing over at you, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “I mean, I could have.”

“And you didn’t because…?”

“Because,” she says sultry, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured you’d meet him eventually.”

There is something pointed in the way she says it, something deliberate, and you don’t like that it sends a small tingle of anticipation through you.

“So, what’s his deal, then?” you keep going, not even knowing why.

Natasha hums, stretching her limbs languidly. Her voice is sly. “His deal?”

“You know,” you press, trying not to sound too interested, although, fucking hell, you are. “Like, what’s his major? Have you seen him around before?”

She turns to you again, and oh, that look on her face is entirely too smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You huff. “Nat.”

Her smirk only deepens. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Before you can answer, she looks past you, over your shoulder, down the steps.

Her expression doesn’t change but her smirk gets a little too satisfied, a little too wicked.

You quickly follow her gaze and, oh shit.

A heavy beat thuds against your ribs before your heart remembers how to move properly as your eyes follow the unmistakable figure making his way up the stairs.

Number 17.

And he is coming right toward you.

You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter, trying to act like this isn’t throwing you off balance. His steps are easy and unhurried as if giving you the time to check him out some more. And even though you should know better, you do.

His uniform is wrinkled from warm-ups, the fabric clinging in ways that are frankly unfair, and his dark hair curls enough to look annoyingly good.

He reaches your row. And despite the fact that Natasha should logically be the person he came up for, he isn’t looking at her when he speaks.

His eyes land directly on you.

“Steve sent me up,” he says, voice low and smooth, a pleased drawl rolling through his words. “Said he forgot his water bottle or somethin’.”

You blink and try to shake off what his voice does to your body. Crossing one leg over the other, you feign indifference.

“Yeah,” Natasha says, sounding way too delighted. “She’s got it.” She slaps your arm lightly with her hand.

You turn to her confused. “Huh?”

“I asked you to put it in your bag since mine’s smaller.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know it’s Steve’s,” you mutter, then glare at her for a second before reaching down to retrieve the damn thing.

Natasha looks triumphant.

When you pull the bottle free and hold it out to the guy standing in front of you, he takes it with his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels very intentional.

“Thanks, doll.”

His tone is silk spun into sound and hell, it glides over your skin, making it prickle underneath your sweater.

He has the bottle now but doesn’t step away yet. His eyes linger on you.

“Never seen you ‘round here before,” he remarks, studying you with open interest. His lips tug a little as if he is holding back a full grin. As if he is pleased.

You meet his gaze and swallow, keeping your expression open but neutral even as something sparks under your skin. “Yeah, it’s my first game.”

His lips press together like he’s trying not to fully smirk. “No kiddin’.” There is something about the way he says it that you can’t place.

You lift a brow and tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just figured I woulda noticed you before, is all.”

Oh.

Oh, damn.

You know flirting when you hear it. And that was flirting.

You clear your throat, but a smile is trying to makes its way over your mouth. “Do you say that to all the girls in the stands?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Nah. Just you.”

Heat winds through your stomach. Because there is an easy, matter-of-fact kind of confidence in his voice.

Biting his lip, he studies you some more. Eyes intensely on you. “So you ain’t much of a baseball fan, then,” he hums. His voice is a low timbre.

You scoff, but can’t help the amused smile lifting your lips. “Not quite my thing.”

“Maybe I can change that.”

You almost choke on your next breath, because oh. He’s good. And hell, that came fast.

Natasha cackles. You ignore her.

Your fingers play with the fabric of your jeans. “Smooth,” you assess, unable to help the wry lilt in your voice.

He grins. Lopsided. Charming. Devastatingly handsome, oh god so help me. “Yeah? That workin’ for me?”

You roll your eyes, but it’s all for show. “Debatable.”

Natasha snorts.

His smirk is deep. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes. He stares at you like that for a second.

“I’m Bucky.” His voice is softened a fraction. His tone is genuine.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

His head moves to the side a little, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you are?”

You tell him your name and his gaze lingers, his smirk edging into something thoughtful.

“Huh,” he muses.

You frown slightly. “What?”

He shrugs, still watching you, maybe even looking a little bashful. “Dunno. Just- I like it. Suits you.”

That somehow feels worse than the flirting.

You feel your face heat and you hate that Natasha can probably see it.

There is a shout coming from the dugout. “Barnes, get your ass down here, now!”

That must be their trainer Fury.

But Bucky stays standing there, looking at you for a beat longer, biting his lip and scratching the back of his neck. Then he takes a step back, spinning the water bottle once in his hand. “Guess I’ll see ya next game, doll,” he charms.

You blink, eyebrows up. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He just grins, throwing you a wink. “Nah. I got a feelin’.”

And just like that, he turns, heading back down toward the field, leaving you sitting there slightly dazed.

It takes a moment for your brain to start working again.

You feel Natasha leaning in but are not ready to meet that sly expression.

“We both know you’ll be here next time.”

Infuriatingly, you know she is right.

“I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The game kicks off, but you are not watching it the way you thought you would.

Because he’s on the field.

And, well damn.

You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all it is. You’re not actually watching him. You’re just keeping an eye on him. Casual observation. A purely academic interest in how the game works.

Except, the longer you watch, the more you have to admit that he is good.

Really good.

His movements are seamless. It’s like an unbroken flow of precision and control as if the game is merely responding to him, not the other way around. He’s so natural, seems so at ease, and yet he moves so fast and sharp.

You can see the innate understanding he has, of how the game breathes. It’s impressive.

When he’s at bat, his stance is balanced to perfection, knees bent just enough, shoulders loose but poised. The pitcher winds up, releases, and before you can even register it fully, Bucky crushes that ball.

The sound of it is sharp, a crack that echoes through the field.

You track the ball as it soars high, way over the outfield. And then he’s running. He’s a cloud of white and navy as he rounds first base, feet hitting the dirt hard.

Natasha whistles low beside you. “Not bad, huh?” She doesn’t hide her smirk.

You press your lips together, determined to be neutral. “Yeah, well. Maybe I was just expecting less.”

Your best friend lets out a half-amused, half-exaggerated breath through her nose. “You weren’t.”

You want to throw her a glare but that would mean you’d have to take your eyes off Bucky and somehow you can’t manage that.

So you only huff and lean further into your seat.

But even as he plays, you can’t shake the feeling that perhaps he somehow tries a little more than necessary.

There are subtle indications. The way he lingers just a bit longer when he looks up toward the stands, the slight, extra flourish in the way he moves. The exaggerated ease of it all.

Oh, hell.

As he rounds third base, his gaze snaps up.

Right at you.

And he winks.

Your stomach plummets. Heat boils along your spine, and you freeze for half a second, caught completely fucking off guard.

The grin he shoots you is smug and holds a knowing edge, seeing the way your eyes are already on him, seeing your reaction, and thriving on it.

Natasha grasps your arm, gasping. “Oh my God.”

She is overly dramatic on purpose and you hate it.

You tear your gaze away from him and glare at her. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I'm starting,” she laughs, delighted. “That guy’s showing off for you.”

“He is not,” you hiss, trying and failing to ignore the warmth along your neck. Spreading and spreading up to your cheeks.

“That was textbook showing off, babe.”

You bite your lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of the reaction she wants to see.

But maybe she’s not wrong.

The game continues, and despite your best efforts, your eyes keep finding him.

The more you watch, the more obvious it becomes.

The smooth way he catches the ball in the outfield, hardly needing to look before launching it straight to second base. The way he moves just a little bit slower after a play like he knows there are eyes on him. The way his grin sharpens when he hears the cheers, the teasing comments from his teammates.

And apparently, Steve notices, too.

Because after a particularly showy throw - one that was definitely more dramatic than necessary - Steve jogs past him and smacks him on the back of the head.

You faintly hear Bucky’s startled grunt from the bleachers.

Natasha snickers beside you.

Steve is muttering something to him, but the brunette only grins, backing away with his arms outstretched and shoulders pulled up in an unbothered shrug. And his eyes immediately find you. You look away hastily.

Your best friend leans in, voice low and teasing. “Change your mind about dating yet?”

Sinking lower in your seat, you move your hand through your hair. “This is ridiculous.”

But even as you say it, you glance back at Bucky.

And he’s still looking at you.

This time, you don’t look away.

Another smack lands across the back of his head and he is forced to drag his eyes away from you to grumble at the guy who is grinning from ear to ear, enjoying whatever the hell this is between Bucky and you.

“You’re actin’ real thirsty right now, Barnes,” the voice of the other player sounds out, loud enough for you to make out some words. “Hey, I mean, I get it. She’s cute. But can you focus, man?”

Flustered, you shove your hands between your thighs and curl a little bit inward.

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky warns, rolling his shoulders and throwing a hard look at his teammate before jogging back to his position.

You don’t miss the way he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair after lifting the cap for a moment as if he is trying to gather himself.

Your heart is beating in a weird rhythm. Your hands are a little sweaty and you hate that Natasha notices.

“Well, well,” she teases, watching Bucky get into position. “Looks like you’re a motivator.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“Not when it’s this much fun,” she grins, eyes swimming in mischief. “And clearly not when my best friend’s about to have my boyfriend's buddy ask for her number.”

It’s your time to smirk. “Boyfriend?” you chirp. “I'm sure Steve would like to know you calling him that behind his ba-”

“There’s no turning this around, babe. I’m the one with the power here,” she chides, but she is suppressing a smile. “No go ahead and continue to watch your future boyfriend.” She turns your shoulder forward to the field.

“He’s not-”

“Watch.”

You do.

And the longer the game goes on, you try to keep telling yourself that you’re going to stop watching him. But no matter how much you try to focus on anything else - the scoreboard, the crowd, even the actual game - your eyes don’t listen.

They keep wandering back to him. To the way he moves, his effortless command of the field.

It’s the way he seems to own every second he’s out there like he is meant to be on the field. And he seems to love it. His body moves with an instinctive kind of grace, muscles shifting under the snug fit of his uniform, every motion thought through but natural.

When he takes his spot at shortstop, you admire the confidence of his stance. He’s completely at home. He stands relaxed but his eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the field.

And when the ball comes his way, his gloved hand snatches it mid-air before his arm whips it across the diamond in a clean throw.

It’s irritatingly impressive.

You try to convince yourself that he plays like this all the time - that this isn’t for you at all - but there is something nagging at the back of your mind. Something in the way he carries himself, the extra little flair in the way he moves.

He really seems to be putting on a small show and you can’t shake the feeling that you might be the only one in the audience that actually matters to him. You don’t know how to feel about that.

Natasha catches you watching again. “Mhm,” she hums, knowingly. Not at all subtle about it.

You throw her a burning look. “Shut up, Nat.”

She smirks and tilts her head. “You want to be the one he’s showing off for.”

You release a sharp breath, looking at the darkened sky faintly lit by the stadium lights. “If I did, I’d be enjoying it, wouldn’t I? I just think he’s- trying a little hard. Like he’s-”

You don’t get to finish that sentence because the crowd erupts again. The score is tied. This is the final inning.

Your throat constricts as Bucky walks up to plate, adjusting his cap like he’s been waiting for this moment. He taps the bat against the plate once, twice, and tilts his head at the pitcher. You watch the way Bucky’s muscles coil, the readiness, the concentration.

The pitcher winds up. The stadium is silent.

The ball is pitched.

Bucky swings.

Crack.

The sound echoes across the field as Bucky swings and connects perfectly, the entire stadium staring with bated breath. The ball rockets up into the night sky, impossibly high, soaring straight over the center field fence.

It’s gone. A home run.

The crowd erupts, students leaping to their feet, fists pumping, voices carrying through the air. Natasha is already up, grabbing your wrist and yanking you up beside her.

“That’s your man,” Natasha yells over the noise, pointing at the field. “That’s your home run, babe!”

“Oh my god, Nat, he’s not-” you start, but you are cut off by the thunder of feet around you, students leaping onto the bleachers, fists raised, chanting his name.

Just like the others, you are watching Bucky jog around the bases at a confident pace, brushing a hand through his sweaty hair again.

You’re honestly a little overwhelmed with this whole thing. Trying to catch up to the way Bucky moves as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, like sending a ball out of the park is just something he does on a casual Tuesday.

And then, just as he crosses home plate, the team swarming him, he turns his head up.

Right to you.

The whole world seems to slow for just a second. Your breath is lost in your throat when your eyes lock. There is a heat in his gaze, but it shifts from exhilaration to something softer. He beams up at you for that special moment, blue eyes shining under the stadium lights, his grin wide.

Your pulse hammers in a way you really don’t want to acknowledge.

You are clapping, like all the others.

And there is something changing in his expression. The corner of his mouth curls in a way as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. His confidence falters for a brief second, replaced by something almost sheepish. His hand scrubs over his face, attention caught by his teammates, but there definitely is a hint of pink dusting his cheeks at your small cheers.

The other players pull him into a rough embrace and for a moment you don’t see him at all, the rest jumps around him in celebration.

“Alright, come on, let’s get down there,” Natasha says, grabbing your wrist again.

“Wait, what?” you sputter as she pulls you toward the railing, making her way down the steps, dragging you with her.

“You are not going to be the only one still sitting while your boyfriend-”

“Stop that-”

“-just won the damn game,” she finishes, waving you off as you scowl at her.

Before you know it, you’re at the very front of the stands, your hands coming together as the roar of the crowd vibrates through your bones.

You see Bucky looking over the chaos, his arms slung around his teammates, his chest rising and falling from exertion, when suddenly, his gaze catches you again.

That bright, wide grin now definitely softens. In a shit, you really were watching kind of way. His blue eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read every single thought rushing through your head right now.

Natasha is practically jumping beside you, cheering happily, so you don’t want to be a bummer and start clapping again. Looking at him.

His smile tries to widen, but Bucky bites his lip. And then, he actually looks bashful.

He dips his head just slightly, running another hand down his face, and this time it’s him looking away first.

But not before you catch that tiny flicker of something almost shy. For all his confidence, for all the easy charm he’s been throwing at you, all the flirtatious lines, something about your reaction to him is what makes him falter that little bit.

And oh how it does something to you. You don’t even fight the little smile on your lips as Natasha bumps her shoulder into yours.

“Shut up,” you murmur, but it sounds too light.

Natasha smirks. “I didn’t say anything.”

You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands are still itching to continue clapping.

The roar of the crowd slowly begins to settle, the energy of the game remaining charged in the air. The bleachers empty languidly, students pouring onto the field or shuffling toward the exits, their excitement buzzing in hurried conversations and triumphant chants.

The players begin filtering off the field, disappearing into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Some of them are still exchanging shoves and laughs, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.

Bucky walks alongside Steve, his uniform tightly handing off his frame.

But before he disappears with the rest of them he glances behind one last time. And, of course, it’s at you again. You shiver.

His glance is just a flicker of blue under the harsh stadium lights but it’s just a beat longer than you would expect. As if he is making sure you’re still here. As if he is worried you won’t be when he comes back out.

Then he’s gone.

“You see that?” Natasha assesses, leaning her weight into one hip, arms crossed.

“See what?” you ask, obviously annoyed.

She’s unbothered. “That boy just looked at you like a man checking to see if his car’s still parked outside.”

You groan. “God, shut up.”

“That never worked on me. You should know better.”

With an impish grin, she tugs at your wrist and guides you away from the bleachers.

“Come on, we’re waiting for them,” she says, already pulling you toward the tunnel exit.

“What? Nat-”

“Well, I’m waiting for Steve,” she says, “and you, my dear, have been eyefucking his best friend all night, so don’t even try to act like you don’t want to see him again.”

“Okay, come on,” you defend. “I have not-”

“-been staring at him, sure,” she interrupts, her smirk widening. “But only every time he wasn’t looking. Which, by the way, wasn’t often.”

You groan again but follow her anyway, because, at this point, you’re not even sure if you’re protesting for show or out of actual resistance.

Minutes go by as more people slowly tickle away, leaving only a few clusters of them lingering around, chatting under the lights.

The air is still warm, but the breeze carries enough of a chill to make you shift on your feet, arms folding over your chest as you wait.

And then, Steve and Bucky emerge from the locker room, side by side.

Steve’s blond hair is still damp from the shower, his team jacket slung over one shoulder. The moment he spots Natasha, his whole face softens. His stride quickens as he reaches her and he pulls her in for a kiss that is far sweeter than you expected from someone fresh out of a game.

Your best friend, for all her teasing confidence tonight, melts against him, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket.

You feel happiness for her but you look away, feeling like you’re intruding on something intimate.

And before you can prepare yourself, Bucky is standing right in front of you.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says, voice lower, less playful than before.

His hair is damp too, looking darker like that. He doesn’t wear his cap anymore, short brown tendrils resting on his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced by a dark hoodie and jeans. And yet, he still looks every bit like the man who just stole the game with a home run. He looks handsome. You can even admit that.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll leave with Nat,” you answer, voice a little quieter than you would have liked it to be.

Bucky smiles. He shifts his weight, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Well, had to make sure you actually enjoyed yourself,” he says, tipping his head to the side, smirk slowly appearing. “Didn’t want you to suffer through it since you’ve already been dragged out here.”

You huff out a small laugh, looking at the ground before up at him again. “It wasn’t terrible.”

“Not terrible?” he echoes, feigning offense. “Sweetheart, I won the damn game. You were cheerin’ for me.”

It’s as if he needed to say it out loud. As if he’s been telling that to himself the whole time.

You bite your lip. Those nicknames will send you tumbling to the floor if you’re not careful. “Yes, well. You put on a good show.”

He grins something slow and smug. “And here I was thinkin’ you weren’t much of a baseball fan.”

You shift, laughing softly. “Still not, really.”

He hums, studying you so deeply. In a gentle way. But he takes his sweet time and it’s making you nervous. “I’ll change your mind.”

Your stomach does something weird - something that has everything to do with the way his voice dips slightly, the way it rumbles out so smoothly.

You narrow your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bucky chuckles softly, rocking on the balls of his feet. He can’t stop watching you, moving his eyes around your features, your whole frame, as if wondering where you have been the whole time. He looks like he is trying to read every little thing written across your face.

Your chest feels a little too tight, and your pulse picks up the longer you look at him, the longer he looks at you.

The air is cooler now that the game is over, the heat from the crowd dissipating into the open night, and although you feel plenty heated up by his gaze and presence, you instinctively rub your arms, shifting on your feet.

“You cold?” Bucky’s voice is lower, and there is a soft gentleness to his tone, that sounds so sincere, you feel your knees grow weak.

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“I’ve got an extra jersey in my bag,” he offers as if he didn’t even hear you, already moving. “Or you can take this one-” He seems about to shrug off his hoodie instead.

You quickly hold up a hand to stop him. “No, really. I’m okay.”

Bucky pauses, squinting at you, mouth quirking as he eyes you a second longer. Then, as if he’s figured something out, his lips form a real smirk again.

“Alright,” he concedes easily, his weight tipping slightly to one side, then back again. “Guess I’ll just give it to you next time, then.”

You freeze just slightly, blinking up at him.

Next time.

You don’t quite know what to do with that.

You clear your throat, forcing words out. “Yeah. Next time.”

Bucky beams.

It’s a full-on, dazzling grin, cheeks high and rosy, eyes bright in a way that makes something overturn in your stomach.

He looks way too pleased with himself now. And you are way too aware of how warm your face feels.

You try to push yourself past the sudden rush of flustered energy. “Well, I guess I will see you around campus, then.”

Bucky hums, considering, still not taking his eyes off you. “Maybe,” his head turns to the side, making a pause. “Or I could just make sure.”

“Make sure?”

He pulls his hands from his hoodie pocket, adjusting his footing and running a hand through his hair, messing with the damp strands a little. He might just seem the slightest bit nervous.

Flipping his palm up expectantly, he looks at you with a glint of hope in his eyes. “Your phone.”

Your stomach does that turning-over thing again as you realize what he’s going on about. “Oh.”

You are fumbling to grab your phone out of your bag, fingers perhaps wavering a little and you are glad that Natasha is preoccupied at the moment to see this. Unlocking it, you hand it over to him.

Bucky takes it gently, fingers brushing yours. Again, it feels intentional.

The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he punches in his number, and presses to call himself so he’ll have your number as well before handing your phone back to you.

You glance down.

A new contact. Bucky Barnes.

Bucky watches you with a soft smile.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls, still standing with Natasha. You don’t see the triumphant smile those lovebirds share, busy trying not to show your disappointment of the night coming to an end. “We heading out?”

Bucky sighs, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you just yet.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he murmurs.

“Guess so.”

His feet shuffle against the floor. He seems not quite ready to end this conversation, taking a slow step backward, not turning away from you.

“See you next game, doll,” he says, words landing softer, quieter in a way. He speaks as if it matters.

You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater and let out an almost shy laugh. “Sure.”

Bucky smirks, holding up his phone and waving with it when walking further backward to Steve. “I’ll remind you.”

You watch him walk off with his best friend, watch him throw another grin over his shoulder at you, still feeling the heat that won’t stop tingling along your skin.

Your own best friend throws her arm around your shoulders.

This time, she keeps her mouth shut. She knows she doesn’t have to say anything anymore. There is no denying it any longer and you are well aware.

Because yeah, you might not be into baseball.

But you might be into Number 17.

“Flirting is a promise of something more.”

- Milan Kundera

[andromedicasphyxiate]

Ok we are going to TALK about this honey because I have a LOT to say (Legally Blonde is one of my FAV movies and is 2000's cinematic GOLD, fight me if u dare 😭😭😭)

what's REALLY cool about Elle is that:

1. she straight up just went for what she wanted and she excelled at it

In the beginning of the movie (which is when she is in college) she was simply into beauty and fashion and having fun and being in a sorority and having a great/hot boyfriend, and she made it all happen for herself!! She built her dream body, her dream aesthetic and wardrobe, got a 4.0 GPA in her fashion major (and wouldnt let the high fashion shop girls fool her about fabrics lol (because she really knew her stuff)), was dating the guy of her dreams, AND was super popular in her sorority (because she was so sweet and kind and helpful to everyone too)

2. she didnt give up, she believed in herself, she had a crazy strong work ethic and her priorities were set

In the next part of the movie (kind of still in the beginning), she decided that she wanted to marry her boyfriend, so she did her best to ensure that the proposal would go well (aside from having been a great girlfriend all through college, of course). And although she was down and out when he dumped her, she didn't give up and worked really hard to follow him to freaking *HARVARD*, ok?! Everyone told her it wasn't meant for her, and she couldn't and shouldn't do it, but she had her sights set on it and went for it anyway.

It was very difficult, she had to stop being a fun, party girl and trade in her current likes and life for her future self (which meant books and practice exams, ew 😭😭) but she did it in a heartbeat, and...SHE MADE IT!! 😍😍😍

3. she wasn't afraid to change her priorities and learn from life, and she had a really strong character too

When her loser boyfriend still wouldn't accept her as marriage worthy, although she now fit the bill academically, she didn't hesitate to ditch the idea of being with him and dedicated herself to a more worthy cause--investing in herself, her grades, getting the prestigious internship at Callahan's law firm, and also doing extremely well at it. Also, she didn't give away her client's alibi just to continue being trustworthy, even though she had so much to lose by doing that. And she didn't hesitate to brush Callahan off when she could have taken the opportunity to sleep her way to the top. She wanted her merit to be the cornerstone of her career and not her beauty.

Overall, I love Elle because she was a lovely person who did her best to be kind to everyone, including her ex's fiance. She was super authentic and wasn't afraid to be in her feminine energy and be cute and have fun and just flow with life, but she also wasn't afraid to exert her masculine energies and get in the warzone in her daily life, pull on what she wanted and push back on what she didn't think was right. She just was who she was, and didn't let anybody dictate the outcomes of her life.

And that to me is feminism at its core--the choice to embody any kind of energy you want, anywhere between the traditionally feminine end of the spectrum and the traditionally masculine, and to never forget that your gender doesnt have to play into what your life should look like or whom you should be. And that both masculine and feminine energies, although different, are equal and just as important for individuals and also society at large, to have a happy, successful, well balanced and fulfilling life!!

(also, I've written the last paragraph from the standpoint of moderate traditional gender roles, which is what I happen to believe in; but if that's not your cup of tea I completely understand and respect that xoxo 🩷🩷🩷, so please feel free to skip the last paragraph or adapt it to what you see fit 🥰🥰🥰)

The bimbo feminism girls who love Legally Blonde really missed like the whole point of the movie. The point is that she's not a brainless bimbo. She saves the day with her knowledge of haircare, sure, but she got in the room by going to law school. You cannot reduce that movie down to "Girl knowledge saves the day!" because the perm wouldn't have mattered if she hadn't spent the entire rest of the movie working her ass off in an unrelated field. The feminist angle is that she can have girly interests and also be smart, not that having girly interests is feminist in itself

[cjlouwho]

Three Simple Words

needed to get this out before Thursday happens lol

“It’s been a while since we’ve done breakfast, just the two of us,” Maddie said, setting a container of cream cheese on the table. “Although, seeing as you brought a half dozen homemade bagels I can tell not much has changed.”

Buck ignored her, eyes settling on the scar that ran across her neck. “How are you doing, Maddie?”

Maddie cleared her throat, adjusting the collar of her shirt slightly. “I’m fine, Buck, really,” she replied, giving him a reassuring smile. “Now, what’s been up with you lately? Please tell me you’re doing more than baking in your free time.”

He grabbed a bagel and set it on his plate. “I- I am. I went out the other night t- to this book group thing. It was nice. Fun. Met some cool people.”

“Well, that’s good. Have you heard from Eddie at all?”

“A couple times. I don’t think things are going too great there.”

“Mm,” Maddie hummed. “Tough situation, I’m sure.”

“Yeah.” Buck squirmed in his seat a bit, ripping off a piece of his bagel and taking a bite. “I, uh, I ran into Tommy at work a couple days ago, actually.”

The alarm bell sounded in Maddie’s head. She hid a smile. Here was the real reason for the emergency breakfast. “Really? Was it awkward?”

“A little, at first, I guess. It- It’s kinda funny,” he said, huffing out a laugh. “For seven years we never seemed to work together at all and now, all of a sudden, th- there he is.”

“Well,” Maddie beckoned, curiosity piqued, “did you talk to him?”

“Y- Yeah, we talked a little bit. I, um, well we both kinda at the same time asked if we could talk, s- so I invited him over to the new place.”

“And he came?”

Buck’s eyes widened slightly as he choked down his next bite. “Um, yeah. H- He came over.”

“Did you talk?”

“We, uh, we started to. I- I thought it would be a good opportunity for closure, you know? We could say all the things we didn’t get to say before. But...”

God, it was like pulling teeth today. “But?”

“But then he was on my couch,” Buck replied, a blush rising on his cheeks. “And he was wearing the black button down with his sleeves rolled up. And he kept looking at me with his eyes-”

Maddie shook her head. “Oh, Evan.”

“Y- You don’t understand, Maddie,” he said, his tone pleading. “Those eyes; he looked at me a- and I forgot everything I had in my head to say to him. The next thing I know, we’re in bed.”

Maddie picked up her mug, taking a big sip of coffee before asking, “So, what, you had a one night stand with your ex?”

“Oh, well, um, I- I mean yeah it happened that night, but it also happened the next morning.”

She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. “Okay.”

“An- And then that afternoon,” Buck continued with a shrug. “He’s s- supposed to come over later too.”

“Buck, I…” Maddie paused, trying to think of the right way to phrase her question. “I know you’re an adult, and you can do whatever you want, but… is this what you want?”

His cocked his head to the side, eyebrows furrowed. “Wh- What do you mean?”

“I mean.” She sighed. “I mean you two were pretty serious, right? You saw a future with him. And now, it’s what? You hook up and that’s it?”

“It’s… I don’t know, it just happened, Maddie.”

“Three times, so far,” Maddie reminded him. “Listen,” she reached out, placing her hand over his, “I just want to make sure you’re happy, Evan. That’s all I care about. I- If you’re happy with this arrangement, then that’s great, but… are you?”

Buck stared down at his bagel. Bagels that he started working on the second Tommy left. Kept working on them even after he’d lost the battle with his mind and ended up texting him to come back over again soon. He’d held his breath when the text bubbles appeared. Kept holding it until Tommy had texted him back with a thumbs up.

His shoulders slumped. “I just- I don’t know what to do, Maddie. I asked him to move in with me, ya know? I- I love him and he dumped me and now we- we’re just doing this weird friends with benefits thing, I guess. And i- it feels good at the time-- I mean, really good-”

Maddie held up her hand. “Fast forward, Buck.”

He sighed. “But afterward, it’s hurts. I want more than sex. I- I want everything.”

“Have you told him this?”

“Of course I told him I wanted him to move in, Maddie. You know that.”

She rolled her eyes. “I mean the “I love you” part, Evan.”

He thought for a second, face pensive. “Well, he has to know, right? I- I mean, you don’t just ask someone to move in if you don’t love them.”

“That very much does happen,” Maddie answered, nodding her head for emphasis. “It happens all the time, and that’s probably exactly what Tommy thought was occurring in that situation.”

“I- but, I… I thought it was implied.”

Maddie followed Buck’s eyes, making sure he was looking straight at her as she spoke. “Buck, you need to talk to him.”

“I’ve been trying,” Buck pouted.

“Have you? Because it sounds like you’ve been doing everything except talking. If you can’t figure out a way to keep your hands off of each other in private, then ask him out for coffee or lunch or something. But you need to actually talk about this.”

Buck pursed his lips. “What if it’s not what he wants though? What if he runs away again?”

“Then you’ll know for sure that you two want different things. But, until you have that talk, you’re going to be stuck in this limbo for who knows how long.” She lifted her hand, pinky pointed up toward him. “You’ll talk to him?”

He nodded, wrapping his pinky around hers. “I’ll talk to him.”

*****

Buck thought back to his and Maddie’s conversation as he and Athena chased after Tommy's helicopter. He was still trying to put all the pieces together. Tommy had called him, just a few hours earlier. A staticky conversation happening over the line. Buck thought it was a butt dial at first, but when he heard yelling he stayed on the phone. Then he heard Tommy mention weapons, and taking him instead of the other hostages. He heard Tommy say that he was the pilot, and he could get them out of there.

Calling Athena, meeting her at Tommy’s last known location, getting in her SUV to try and beat these criminals or terrorists to wherever they were going, that was all a blur.

Because Buck hadn’t kept his promise. Not yet.

Tommy had come over, and Buck’s words died on his tongue. Fear took over, and then Tommy’s mouth was on his, and everything felt right again.

This continued for weeks, with Buck telling himself that the next time would be when he finally told Tommy the truth. The next time is when he’d have the courage.

And now it was hitting him.

There may not be a next time.

And he may never get to tell Tommy that he loves him.

His head whipped up toward the sky when Athena gasped, and that’s when he realized what was happening.

The helicopter was hurtling right towards the ground.

[ninasodiiva]

what are their true feelings?.ೃ࿐

PAC reading

hi my babes! it's crazy the love my first reading received, i'm so happy to know the messages resonated ┊͙ ˘͈ᵕ˘͈.

someone requested this pac reading, and i liked it because the uncertainty of not knowing how someone feels about you is fucking horrible (been there). so keep reading if you'd like to know what are their true feelings? ༊*·˚

how to choose a group:

take a deep breath and relax your body, look at all the pictures and pick the one you are the most drawn to, don't think about it to much. you might be attracted to the picture or the number. REMEMBER this is a general reading, take what resonates and leave what doesn't. nothing is set in stone. if you are not drawn to any of the pictures this might not be the reading for you loves. tarot is a divination tool to meant for guidance!! nothing is set in stone and you are the master of your own fate and the captain of your own soulㅤ ♡ྀི

that said, let's get into it!

- group 1: polka dot tights 🤍

hi my beautiful group 1, let's start.

at first i was extremely confused reading your cards but all of the sudden a wave of messages came in. i feel this is how you're feeling, confused (well you wouldn't be here if you weren't lol). i'm always direct when giving messages and this case is no different. babes i feel you're dealing with a person from your past, someone you already have history with and once felt like home to you, things have changed a lot. you either broke up some time ago but still keep in touch or that person is still your partner. well, this is a classic story, you both are growing and your new selves don't quite fit anymore.

there are two energies in the reading so pick the one that resonates

if this is your actual partner my group 1, i see you making great efforts to keep the relationship alive, you're a romantic, very down to earth and devoted person. the "problem" here seems to be your person, they are not who they once were. from what i'm getting i feel your person has become very independent as if they were single. keeping things to themselves, not sharing time with you, acting cold... really what im getting is that they want to focus more on their personal goals and dreams, they want to be free (?). you put the efforts to keep the fire alive, and that says beautiful things about you but... the truth is people grow apart, and it has nothing to do with you, it happens. spirit is telling me it's time to let this person go for good, both of you served your purpose within the relationship and a new chapter is ahead 🤍 they are also telling me that a conversation is VERY much needed to put an end to this cycle, a truthful, vulnerable conversation. i just heard: don't fall back into old patterns again. babes don't be like carrie in this situation pls.

spirit wants me to say that this is no one's fault, the love was there, and will be just in a different form. it's like losing contact with an old friend, you will always love them and cherish them but not in the same way. for this collective of group 1 i sense both of you are great people, it's just that you guys have different visions for you futures. have grace with yourself and remember my loves that it's not a loss, but the gain of a beautiful experience and memories.

lastly spirit says to leave your worries to them and to cherish yourself and this new chapter in your life babes. with love, Nina 🦢⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

if this is an ex or a situationship (god i hate that term) im gonna be straight forward with you babes. your person does not feel anything romantic towards you, you're confusing lust and a bit of attention for love. i feel that since you have history with this person you believe things could work out this time but im here to tell you that no (im sorry if im too harsh, i think you need it <3).

the "problem" seems to be that you my pile 1 have this subconscious belief which tells you that familiar is good even if it hurts mix with a need for validation (gosh i sound so harsh im sorry 😭). your person literally couldn't give less of a fuck, they are the definition of a fuckboy. girl please get out, let me put it to you this way. would you like your daughter to be in your situation? no right? well then FUCK YOUR PERSON. really babe, stand up you don't wanna be the "long-term long distance low commitment casual girlfriend" 🙏🏼 your person will not choose you and its not because of you, they are not serious when it comes to relationships.

he is already getting you without having to choose you, clock that.

spirit says you have no idea how much your life will improve in EVERY ASPECT once you let that person go and understand that the only validation and acceptance you need is from yourself diva. STAND UP BABE. i'm sending you lots of love and strength to leave that dusty and i apologize if at some point it got too straight forward.

with love, Nina 🦢⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

- group two: kitten heels 🩰

my group two omg when i tell you its not even funny the way im giggling while channeling the messages... gosh im so excited for you! <3

okey so, your person has feelings for you. gosh so many messages are coming through and i can't write that fast. this person likes you A LOT, he has the biggest crush on you, it's a love so sweet and tender... your person has been through hell in past relationships and that has caused them to reject love for some time, what spirit is saying is that meeting you was really cathartic for them because the feelings were so strong they had to find a way to heal to be with you.

babes be patient with them pls i'm being so serious, they are fighting their own demons and fears to find the courage to trust someone again 🤍 they are so shy about you it's so funny lol cause i'm feeling normally they're not like that. they see you as someone so kind and patient, extremely caring and beautiful physically. i'm seeing this image of you being in your world and them admiring you from afar wow. the cards and spirit support this connection 100%, what they are asking you to do is to help your person a little bit!! try to break the ice by being playful and they say it's important not to rush and get to know each other. but i assure you this is absolutely lovely energy 🌹

spirit is saying it will be sooner than expected and to be honest and thoughtful with your person, i sense they are a very strong and romantic person but when it comes to love they are hopeless. it's so sweet that they are literally forcing themselves to face their demons in order to be with you, that's how much they want you 🤍 also be prepared to go on date i heard!!

congratulations pile two you deserve this kind of love and i'm so so so excited to hear how this unfolds for you!! there's not much to say, with love Nina ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🦢

- group three: brown cardigan

hi group number three hope you're having a great day, let's get into your reading! <3

babes did you friendzone this person? lol. it's funny because i see your person hiperfixated on you but they think their feelings are not reciprocated by you? i don't know how you feel about them but since you're reading this i'm assuming you care for them at least.

im seeing your person being in their own a lot, for some reason they are going through WAITT OH. okey there are two collectives here. some of you friendzone your person or that's at least that's how they feel. and for others your person it's fighting the urge to confess how they feel towards you, because they truly appreciate your friendship. take it as it resonates!

group number 3 i'm feeling a push and pull dynamic between the both of you, i'm here to give you clarity so if you like this person spirit is saying to let yourself feel these emotions, it's safe to like someone and specifically your person!! they literally feel the same as you really, it's like those movies where the love interests are COMPLETELY blind and it's infuriating to watch 😫. you both are so awkward it's hilarious and cute. the advice here is to be open minded, i feel you're doubting this person because you have a wrong perception of them, get to know them more and make an effort!!!

i can not stress that enough, it's showing multiple times in your reading. this is someone compatible for you and the attraction is there. i can't quite pinpoint what is exactly making you both doubtful, maybe other people??

bottom line is that they like you as well and they are planning to take action towards you but you need to do that as well babes. for the ones who friendzone them (lmao) spirit says they also wanna come towards you but you crushed their hopes and now they think there's 0 chances. you have to make an effort group number three. the ball is in your court!! if what you wanted is confirmation that they are your person you have it, spirit says it will be successful but you need to OPEN UP GIRL, don't be afraid to love, you got this diva.

that's all for your reading my love, i send you lots of love and strength, Nina 🦢⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[merafanbrainthatmerafans]

Demon Slayer Characters React to Y/N Wearing Their Clothes

🌸 Hashira

🔹 Giyuu Tomioka → Freezes. STARES. His haori on you?? It’s too much. He turns bright red, avoids eye contact, and mutters, “You can… keep it if you want.” Secretly dying inside. If you tease him about it, he’ll stammer out a weak, “It’s just a piece of clothing,” but the way he keeps glancing at you says otherwise. If you fall asleep in it? He’ll carefully adjust it around you, making sure you stay warm. (Soft boy alert.)

🔹 Sanemi Shinazugawa → Spits out his drink. “The hell are ya wearing my uniform for?!” but he’s BLUSHING HARD. He snatches his coat back, only to put it around your shoulders properly and grumble, “Looks better on you anyway.” If you wear it again later, he’ll act like he doesn’t care, but his ears turn red. If you playfully say, “I just wanted to smell like you,” he short-circuits and storms off.

🔹 Kyojuro Rengoku → SMILES SO BIG. “AH! IT SUITS YOU MAGNIFICENTLY!!” Definitely wraps an arm around you and tells everyone you’re his now. If you try to take it off, he’ll insist, “No, no! You must wear it for the rest of the day!” He’ll even compliment you in front of others, making them jealous of how much attention he’s giving you.

🔹 Tengen Uzui → Smirks. “Well, aren’t you just the flashiest thing I’ve ever seen?” Teases you endlessly but LOVES it. Will not take his headband back. It’s yours now. If his wives see you in his haori, they giggle and whisper about how cute you two are, making Tengen extra smug. “See? Even my wives approve!”

🔹 Muichiro Tokito → Blinks. “Oh.” That’s all he says. But later, when he thinks you’re asleep, he mumbles, “You look really nice in it…” If you catch him staring, he’ll turn away and pretend he wasn’t looking. If you say, “You should let me wear it more often,” he’ll just nod absentmindedly. But if anyone tries to take it off you? He suddenly gets possessive and tells them to leave you alone.

🔹 Mitsuri Kanroji → SQUEALS. Runs up and hugs you, saying, “You’re soooo cute! We match now!!” Might actually cry happy tears. If you wear it around other people, she’ll cling to your arm proudly and show you off. “Doesn’t Y/N look adorable?! Ahhh, I could die from happiness!” She’ll also probably make you matching outfits in the future.

🔹 Obanai Iguro → “...Take it off.” You think he’s mad, but really? He’s just so flustered he can’t function. Will turn away but sneak glances at you the whole time. If you pout and say, “I thought you’d like it,” he’ll groan and give up. “Fine. Keep it. But don’t let anyone else see you in it.” His snake Kaburamaru, on the other hand, seems to approve and curls around your arm.

🔹 Gyomei Himejima → Smiles warmly. “It brings me joy to see you in my robes.” Places a gentle hand on your head. Will let you wear it whenever you want. If you ever say it makes you feel safe, he will literally MELT and offer to let you have one permanently.

🌓 Upper Moons & Muzan

🔹 Kokushibo → Freezes mid-breath. Looks you up and down in complete silence. Finally, he just exhales, “...Hmph.” (Translation: He’s losing his mind but won’t admit it.) If you wear it while he’s training, he won’t be able to concentrate. He’ll eventually sigh and say, “You may keep it,” but if you watch closely, you’ll see his fingers twitch slightly like he wants to adjust it for you.

🔹 Douma → Smirks and immediately pulls you into his lap. “Ooooh~ aren’t you adorable?” Probably sniffs the fabric and claims, “It smells like me now. Perfect.” If you try to give it back, he’ll refuse. “Nope! It’s yours now, my dear~ You look too good in it!” Expect lots of compliments and mischievous teasing.

🔹 Akaza → Breaks. He stares, jaw slack, face burning red. “Y-Y/N… why…?” If you tease him, he will short-circuit. If you say, “I just wanted to be close to you,” he’ll get SO flustered and suddenly become the softest thing ever. If anyone dares to comment on it, they’re getting punched.

🔹 Muzan Kibutsuji → “You’re wearing MY coat?” Raises an eyebrow, then smirks. “Very well. That means you belong to me now, doesn’t it?” 100% possesses you. He’ll wrap an arm around your waist and let everyone know that you’re his, daring anyone to even look at you the wrong way.

🎴 Main Three + Genya

🔹 Tanjiro Kamado → Gasps. “That’s my haori!” He’s flustered but beaming. Will say something sweet like, “It suits you beautifully.” If you wear it on a cold night, he’ll wrap his arms around you and say, “Stay warm, okay?”

🔹 Zenitsu Agatsuma → FAINTS ON THE SPOT. When he wakes up, he clutches your hands and cries, “Please never take it off!!!” If you say, “Do I look good in it?” he’ll wail dramatically about how you look like an angel sent from heaven.

🔹 Inosuke Hashibira → “YOU DARE STEAL FROM ME?!” Acts dramatic but secretly thinks you look better than him in it and gets grumpy about it. If you challenge him to a fight for ownership of the clothes, he’ll actually go along with it just to mess with you. But if anyone else tries to take it off you? They’re getting drop-kicked.

🔹 Genya Shinazugawa → STUTTERS LIKE CRAZY. “T-That’s…my jacket…” Crosses arms and refuses to make eye contact but is actually super soft inside. If you keep wearing it, he’ll pretend to be annoyed, but one night, you’ll catch him staring and blushing. If you confront him, he’ll just mumble, “...You look really good in it, alright?”

[persicipen]

hi hello! i saw in your reblogs that you’re unsure how to respond to reblogs so pleasee no pressure at all! 💗 anyway, my thoughts are a mess and honestly it’s hard for me to gather them in place because i got so invested and quite literally consumed by the world that i wasn’t even thinking of “what should i say to you after reading this paragraph” BECAUSEEE 🥹 this story was so captivating and i wanted to sink as deep as possible into the events!

10/10 story i need a hundred chapters of that /lh but i genuinely wish you feel rested and happy enough to continue it in your free time and without any stressful responsibilities that’d otherwise take you away from writing. i will be patiently waiting for future updates! 💗 if threefold story has no fans, then i am dead. and if the threefold story has any hater, then i will shield you from them <3

first things first — i adore reader here. she’s such a balanced mix of being slightly spoiled by her royal origins but also at a visible disadvantage now that she’s been taken far away from her home. and i love that she sometimes uses it so naturally even though deep inside she’s a very gentle and thoughtful person (like her recognising the palace patterns or acting almost childish when reminding the husband that mydeimos is “hers” — it didn’t feel out of character at all even though she was scared of overstepping) 🥺

such an amazing characterisation and how cold and lonely she feels in that new place T-T and that memory of her father saying that the sea is his second most beloved treasure eoughghhhhh tears in my eyes </3 SUCH AN AMAZING WORLD-BUILDING I MUST SAY !!! THE ‘3’ NUMBER BEING SO SPECIAL AND REAPPEARING SO MANY TIMES THROUGHOUT THE WHOLE STORY AND EVEN THE STORY HAVING THREE CHAPTERS MWAHHH ✨ POETIC CINEMA !!!

BUT anyway i am literally so scared of that husband. he is charming!!! scarily so!!! partially thankful that content warnings are only how they are because I FEAR for reader especially when he can so easily surprise her even during her talks with his cousin or even enter her chamber at night !!! AT NIGHT !!! what if he came to visit her a bit too early and saw her missing??? LET ME NOT— stoppp!

but i’m so so stressed because he is disturbingly well and very much alive at this moment and i just KNOW he’s the ultimate obstacle between reader and mydei AND I AM TREMBLING AT THE THOUGHT HOW THIS STORY CAN PLAY OUT 💔

let me not… let me not… i’m so fascinated by the whole world and reader as a person without even “inserting” myself in her place BUT allow me that one time, BECAUSE !!! BECAUSE MYDEIMOS CALLED HER A MOUSE OF A GIRL— the way my hand flew to my mouth after reading this… i know i know it’s just a metaphor and so fitting at that moment but as someone who associates with mice, very much so… it was a powerful blow. a critical hit, if you will. i gasped… 🥹 but genuinely i enjoyed this bit a lot because it broke the very first impression he had about reader — that she would be her husband’s pawn. it must’ve been a surprise even if mydei didn’t show it!

he…… mydei… mydeimos… i’m literally sprawled on the floor because everything about him is so heartbreaking in this story. he is still so proud and gleaming gold despite the sickness and awful treatment… reader is so me (and us all lol obviously) because how could you NOT visit him just to check on him and then unknowingly so fall for his pure and fierce charm… ❤️‍🩹

iughhhhh tears in my eyes AGAIN his characterisation here is so beautiful, like, obviously a lot can change because this au is completely different than the canon story but his very core remains the same and he really stole my heart poof just like that AGAIN <3

you say you don’t write smut but that last scene WAS EROTIC TO ME !!! it made me more emotional than any explicit love scene and I CRIED at that first tangible moment of trust between them. CALL ME BORING AND OLD-FASHIONED BUT SHARING BREAD WILL FOREVER BE SUCH A SPECIAL TROPE AND THE MOST POWERFUL OF SIMPLE GESTURES !!! <3

beautifully written across all 10k words ✨ i feel like a new person and YES even if it wasn’t so beautiful from a technical point of view I WOULD STILL DEVOUR THE STORY BECAUSE IT’S AMAZING but that is just one more thing to compliment !!!

you are such a skilled writer in conveying the story, the emotions, the atmosphere, the world-building, and the paragraphs themselves WOW i’m such a fan 💗 and i’m sorry for swooning and gushing over this piece so much but it really MOVED ME !!! thank you for posting this !!! <3

Series Synopsis: When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 10.2k

Content Warnings: pls check the masterlist there is. a lot. and i’m not retyping all of that LOL

A/N: I AM SOO SCARED TO POST THIS NGL LMAOAO like i said in the warnings i literally. have not played amphoreus yet. idek anything about mydei SDKJH i am so worried i will disappoint everyone who's expressed interest in reading this HAHA i was also. not expecting anyone to do that tbh. BUT thank you all for your kind words on the masterlist and i hope this lives up to expectations at least a bit!!

You spent the day of your wedding with a man made of marble — a stand-in for your new husband, who was off fighting in a war of the kind which had neither cause nor, seemingly, end. The statue was carved in his image and sneered down at you as you whispered to it, swearing vows of duty and obedience and docility, but, in spite or maybe because of its detached lifelessness, you found its presence to be a kindness. What did it say of your husband, that you preferred the company of that dead stone to him? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little. 

He is a generous man, the servants assured you, giggling amongst themselves, exchanging knowing looks as they dragged you into the foreign palace where you would spend the rest of your days. You will want for nothing.

It was draftier than your home, the wind bouncing off of the white walls and nipping at you skin. You spent your time buried under seven-and-twenty layers of furs and fabrics, lying in an unfamiliar bed and flinching away from the shadows upon the ceiling. This was an idle and dull way to waste away your existence, and yet you could not bring yourself to do anything else, trapped in the mire of waiting and waiting for your husband’s return.

He came back in the third month, which was as auspicious as anything. They loved that number here, you had come to find: three, the symbol of fortune and fate, of magic and mischief, of power and punishment. Three vows sworn; three blessings granted; three months passed before you finally met the man you had married.

There was much fanfare about his arrival. When you peered out of the window, you saw that the streets were stuffed to the bursting with throngs of people shoving one another around, hissing and biting as they craned their necks. At first it surprised you — was he truly so loved here, even when he was elsewhere despised? — but then you realized that it was not your husband upon his charger that they were all lined up to meet. Rather, it was the procession following him which captured their interests, the spoils of war which he displayed with a juvenile, worthless pride.

A triad of elephants covered in finely wrought armor, their heads hung low and resigned, their plodding walks spiritless and lame. A herd of sheep with silver wool, dotting the dark cobblestones like a cluster of stars, stumbling along at the prodding of a soldier-turned-shepherd. A wagon filled with spears and swords, ostensibly once neatly stacked, now a matted mess of steel and bronze. Vases carried in the arms of the younger men, overflowing with coins that trailed after them like breadcrumbs, snatched up by the most daring of the onlookers, who did not fear rebuke. And, finally, in a place so honorable it could only have been mocking—

“Lady,” a soft voice said. You drew your coat tighter around you, although today was, by all accounts, warm for the season, and pretended like you did not hear the girl. She sighed and then tugged on your arm insistently; perhaps it was improper, but there wasn’t anyone who would chide her for it. “You have been summoned by his majesty.”

Hadn’t you known this would happen eventually? Hadn’t you expected it? You had had your time to come to terms with it, which was more than most got, and so there was no excuse for the reluctance which choked your throat and stilled your footsteps. This was your duty, this was what you had sworn, and so — and so you could not hesitate.

“Lady…” the girl said with another sigh. You pretended to be all-consumed with the action of closing the curtains, your back to her as you struggled to force a smile onto your face. When you deemed your expression acceptable, you spun around and nodded at her.

“It will not do to keep him waiting,” you said, motioning for her to lead the way. She did so without complaint, perhaps relieved that you were not giving her further trouble; even now, the servants did not know what to think of you, could not quite fathom what category of being you were. Some were fond of you, but most treated you with a careful distrust that you could not blame them for, even though you sometimes wanted to.

The grand entrance hall of the palace opened to the mouth of the road, which swelled out into a sprawling courtyard. Its centerpiece was an enormous fountain which sprayed a fine, cool mist into the air no matter the time of year, and it was by this fountain that you waited, wringing your hands as your husband drew nearer and nearer. Belatedly, you thought that you should try to conceal your distress, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The best you could do was say, if you were asked, that it was simply the joy of a bride faced with the prospect of a reunion with her beloved. Nobody would question that, although then again, nobody questioned you very much in general, so it was doubtful that you’d even have to use the quick excuse.

Your husband’s warhorse was a sprightly, slender beast, its coat the dappled grey of royalty, its face pretty and dished in the way of the Eastern breeds. When it paused in front of you, it shoved its black muzzle into your shoulder, nearly knocking you down, and then it stomped its hoof when your husband tightened the reins, pulling it back before dismounting and handing it off to a waiting stableboy. 

“My apologies, dear lady,” he said, bowing before you with as much gallantry as you had been told he possessed. His voice was gentle and amused, his face even more handsome in flesh than it had been in stone; you should’ve, by all rights, felt pleased. You were married to this man. You belonged to him. How many women wished to be in your place? Yet all you could muster was fear, throttling and all-consuming. He was beautiful in the way of a snake, and you knew without knowing that he was poised, in some way, to strike.

“It is alright,” you said, disguising the tremble of your voice with a broad, false grin. “I am glad to finally make your acquaintance…my lord.”

The address was unfamiliar on your tongue. What would your younger self, that girl who had never known subservience nor strife, say if she saw you ducking your head in defeated compliance? How she would laugh! How she would pity you! My lord. But he was exactly that.

“The sentiment is returned in full,” he said, and then he extended his arms in a grand, sweeping motion. “Indeed, to celebrate this momentous occasion, I have arranged for you a gift!”

“A gift?” you repeated. Certainly, you had asked for no such thing, and you did not have the time to school your face into neutrality, naked surprise flashing across it. Your husband chuckled at the sight, nodding at you.

“I have brought the finest of plunders for you, dear lady,” he said, and your stomach twisted into knots at the familiarity with which he spoke to you, as if you were affable lovers instead of strangers. “Even your father’s treasures, vast and bountiful as they may be, cannot compare to this!”

The mention of your father stabbed at your heart, and hidden in the folds of your coat, you clenched your fists. Your father, the richest man in the world…and yet your husband dared compare his meager gift to that? You wanted to spit in his face that for your third birthday, your father had gifted you a villa made of gold, the walls inlaid with gemstones and painted with flowers. Indeed, you might’ve goaded him in such a way if you had the capabilities, but then you noticed what the army-men were bringing forth and your mouth suddenly refused to move.

It was the prisoner, the one kept in a place of honor by your husband and his soldiers, the one who the entire empire had ridiculed as he had been paraded through it like a champion hound. He was tall, towering over the army-men flanking him, and although his eyes drooped nearly shut, there was a heat to his demeanor, a severe, ferocious anger which shone through his exhaustion. He seemed like more of a half-tamed jungle cat than a man, and indeed when he halted before you, you half-expected him to snarl, to bare bloody fangs and lunge at your throat with fingers like claws, like swords, tearing through your neck as if it were paper.

“When he’s like this, you almost forget what a monster he can be,” your husband mused, reaching out and flicking the man on the forehead with a snicker. “Isn’t he all but lovely? Oh, don’t worry, dear lady, he can’t do anything to you. He’s under the influence of a sleeping draught at the moment, and anyways, those chains are thrice-blessed. It’s perfectly safe.”

The chains he spoke of were as gold as the man’s hair, looping around his wrists and forearms, curling over the red marks emblazoned on his shimmering skin, weaving in between his legs and around his torso. They were sturdy and gleamed with the power of their three blessings, and although you still understood little about this strange place with its strange power, you could tell that it would take a great force, greater than was possessed by any mere man or deity, to break them.

“He’s the prince of Kremnos,” your husband said when your shock stretched on. “A right beast, I’ll say. We almost fell to his efforts, but in the end, we bested him — as you can see. What do you think? Do you like him?”

“He’s — it’s — horrible,” you said, your skin crawling the longer and longer you stared at the prince, your words a jumble, your head spinning. You wanted to be anywhere but in this courtyard, in front of this fallen man, who was kept alive for — for what? For amusement? For play? As a gift?

“Isn’t he?” your husband said, patting you on the shoulder with a grim smile. “And now he is yours.”

The thrice-blessed chains flashed in the sun, and you shook your head, both in refusal and to clear your vision of the blinding, searing spots they left in it.

“I have no need of a prisoner,” you said, and although your tone remained ever-muted, you spoke as cuttingly as you could manage to. “What will I do with him? Why do you torture him so? You bested him; if he was as fierce an opponent as you claim, then the least you owe him is a death with dignity. Kill him and be done with the matter. Why have you brought him all this way? I don’t want him.”

“He will die, eventually,” my husband said. “I shall execute him myself when it comes to it, but the time is not yet right. I don’t expect you to understand such matters, and neither should you trouble yourself with doing so…but know this, dear lady: you cannot give back a gift once it has been freely given. You can do what you’d like with him now that he is yours, but you cannot refuse him. Perhaps that is how affairs were conducted in your backwards land, but here it is not so.”

You wanted my land, you longed to say. You took me from my father and wed me to a statue in search of it. And still you call it backward? But you could not, so instead, you turned away — away from the prince, who was close to crumpling and only remained standing out of sheer will, and away from your husband, who beamed as if he had done something great or wonderful.

“I will retire now,” you said. Do not follow me. This remained implied, unsaid, but a fool your husband was not, and so he only hummed in agreement.

“Be well, dear lady,” he said. “My messengers have told me that you are having difficulties adjusting to the climate here. I shall be sure to pray for your feeble constitution.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you said, stiffly, primly. It scratched like bile and you hated every minute of it, but you had no recourse for the matter, so you swallowed it down, as you always did and always would.

“And what of the prisoner?” he said. “Shall I send him to a jail? Do you think he is better suited for deprivation or pain?”

They meant to make him shatter, to methodically yank him apart until he faced death with the dull eyes and swayed back of an over-aged broodmare. You supposed to them it was meaningless — why should they show consideration or kindness to a man who would never show them the same? — but you were no warmonger, and that apathy did not cling to you yet. The prince was a beast born of sun, a wild, vicious creature, and if he really was slated to die, then you wanted him to meet his end as just that, nothing less. 

“Leave him be,” you said. “Treat him as well as you are able.”

“He would’ve killed me,” your husband said, a low note of warning in his voice. You shrank into the safety of your clothes, as if they were a shield against his vexation.

“But instead you will kill him,” you said. “So how does it matter? You said I could do as I like; well, this is what pleases me. Don’t prolong this anymore than necessary.”

You darted back into the palace without waiting to hear his answer, your jaw burning and your footsteps heavy against the mosaic floor as you ran all of the way to your chambers and slammed the door shut behind you.

For three days and three nights you did not leave your room, taking all your meals in seclusion, refusing any visitors that might attempt entry. You could not help it; the thought of seeing your husband or any of the soldiers made you want to weep — you! Who never wept, even as a baby! So you claimed that you were terribly unwell, that you could not stand for fear of collapse, and that managed to ward away your husband without incurring his wrath, even though it was only a temporary solution.

As the sun set on the fourth day, there was a knock on your door, and you were about to call out that you had no interest in conversation when someone hissed through the crack in the entrance: “Lady, I come not on your husband’s behalf but another’s. There is trouble, and you must attend to it.”

“What?” you said, scrambling to your feet, crouching by the entrance, pressing your ear to the wooden door without opening it. “Who is this? Who are you? Speak plainly, so that we may understand one another!”

There was a shuffling sound, and then an exhale. You worried with the collar of your shirt as you waited for them to continue, your arms pulled tightly around yourself, your brows furrowing together as you chewed on your lower lip.

“The prince of Kremnos,” they whispered. “He calls for you.”

“Are they mistreating him?” you said, straightening and flinging the door open. “The prince, are they — hello?”

The hallway was devoid of life. You peered down it, craning your neck this way and that, but it was placid, showing no signs of having been disturbed. Shutting the door slowly, you leaned against it, holding your head in your hands. Was this place driving you to insanity, then? And if it was, then why could you not have thought of something more pleasant than summons from a prisoner — prisoner!

Wasn’t it your duty to make sure your husband had held good on his word? The prisoner was yours, though the notion of ownership sent unpleasant shivers down your spine and didn’t feel quite right — perhaps a better way to think of it, then, was responsibility. He was your responsibility, and maybe the strange vision had been nothing more than a reminder of what you owed the man.

You waited until it was midnight, when you could be certain that your husband would not rise from his slumber at the sound of your activity, and then you donned a pair of slippers and a cloak, throwing the hood on and retreating into the billowing depths of the fabric, so that your face was obscured from prying eyes. Of course, there would not be very many of those, not at such a late hour, but you did not want to risk even one person recognizing you and reporting back to your husband, whose reaction to this escapade you could not foretell.

Although you were not so familiar with the palace’s layout, as you had never spent much time exploring it, most constructions of this nature followed a similar plan, and you had grown up in exactly such a grand, sweeping home, so you found the doorway to the cellar in record time. As the palace had no towers, the cellar was the only logical option for the keeping of such a dangerous prisoner, and you had no doubt in your mind that this was where you would find the prince, if he was still somewhere that you could find him.

The half-moon was your only witness as you fumbled with the lock, trying every key in your possession until one finally slotted into place and turned. Wincing as the door heaved open with a profound creak, you yanked it shut behind you quickly, without ceremony, lighting a small candle and using it to guide your way down the dark stairs, rushing so that you were out of sight in case someone came to investigate.

You did not know how long you walked for, but eventually the stairway ended, giving way to cool, damp earth. The must of uncut stone permeated the thick, heavy air, and the adjustment of your eyes to the surrounding blackness was slow, the pain of it only alleviated somewhat by the little candle’s valiant flame.

“Come to toss scraps at me?” The voice was rumbling and low; in spite of its weakness, you could hear a sneer in it, a disdain in the rough baritone. “You needn’t try again. Like I told you, I won’t eat your trash.”

“No,” you said. “I’ve brought nothing with me.”

There was a brief pause, and then: “You sound different than the others.”

“This tongue is foreign to me, as it is to you,” you said. “I cannot speak it in the same way as those who were born here. Verily I have been instructed in the art since I was but a child, for my father must have known in that manner of his what would eventually become of me, but I will never lay claim to it the way that a native of this empire would.”

“You’re his wife.” Chains clanked, the harsh drag of metal against stone reverberating in the cellar, and then you felt more than saw his looming countenance, filling what you had mistakenly believed upon arrival to be an empty room. Swinging your candle before you so that it was close to your heart, you gasped when it reflected in a pair of eyes glaring at you from mere paces away, the irises possessing a hollow and impossible brilliance in the way a pair of fading embers might. 

The chains now only encircled his left leg, binding him to the wall but leaving him otherwise free to move as he liked within the length of his confines. He had been stripped of armament and adornment alike, his mane of hair tangled and falling lank about his broad shoulders, yet for all of these injustices, you had no doubt in your mind that he was anything but a prince. He had a dignity to him, a hard-won pride to the straightness of his back and the firmness of his gaze; before you could chase it away, the thought came to you that there was far more intrinsic nobility to this man than there was even your husband.

“I suppose that I am,” you said.

“Have you come to gloat about your craven lord’s cowardly victory, then?” he said. The chains were pulled taut, so he could come no closer to you than he already was — you were sure of this, but you were still a slave to your instincts, which urged you farther and farther from him with every second. He watched you go with some measure of delight, like he was relishing in this power which you had inadvertently gifted him, and when you skittered to a stop, he huffed. “There is nothing to be proud of, and you look a fool for suggesting there might be.”

“I was just…” you trailed off, because it suddenly felt entirely absurd to suggest that you were inquiring after his wellbeing. What did it mean, the wellbeing of a doomed man? What reason would he have to believe your intentions? “What is your name?”

“My name?” he said with a brittle, incredulous laugh that rapidly descended into a cough. “Why? Do you wish to curse your husband with it? Does your language not have gods you can swear on?”

“You’re sickly,” you said, frowning and ignoring his jabs.

“You have torn me from the sun and chained me in this dingy room, and yet you have the gall to be surprised by that?” he said, scoffing. “You’re more of an idiot than that husband of yours.”

“I did no such thing!” you said. The defiance took you by surprise. You had forgotten what it felt like to defy someone, to disagree and resist their words, to feel alive with resentment and bad-temper. “I didn’t wish for this. I didn’t wish to keep you here anymore than you wished to be kept!”

“Is that so?” he said, and then he grinned at you, but it was less of a smile and more of a threat. “Then free me.”

“What?” you said.

“If you don’t want me, then free me,” he said.

“You’ll kill me if I do,” you said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. 

“I give you my word that I will spare you,” he said, placing a solemn hand over his heart. 

“Not the others?” you said.

He did not respond, which in and of itself was a response. It was one you shouldn’t have liked as much as you did, but in truth the prospect of such a slaughter made your fingers twitch towards him. Only for a moment, and immediately, you shoved your hands behind your back, but it was too late — he had seen, and he raised his eyebrows at you in return.

“Well, anyways, it doesn’t matter,” you said hastily, hoping to distract him before he could comment on the treason. “I couldn’t free you even if I wanted to. Your chains are thrice-blessed. I didn’t know what that meant until recently, but now that I do, I understand why you have been kept without even a permanent guard.”

“Blessings,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you put genuine stock into that drivel.”

“Perhaps the gods of other lands have forsaken their subjects, but this empire is known as the birthplace of every divine act, and so deities still sometimes glance upon its people and offer up their favor. Thrice-blessed chains are one such offering, for they are in fact more like contracts than they truly are chains,” you said. When he did not interrupt you with any snide remarks, you were emboldened to continue. “They can restrain anything, even a god, but this strength comes at a cost: they are conditional. If their captive can understand this condition and meet it, they will crumble into dust, but until then, the chains remain unbreakable.”

“What is it?” he said insistently, reaching out his hands like he was going to grab you and shake the answer out. He fell short, grasping at empty air, his muscles straining against the chains which, true to legend, did not falter. “This condition. Whatever it is, I will do it. You only need to tell me and I will do it!”

“I don’t know,” you said. His lip curled, and you shook your head frantically. “No, no, I’m telling you the truth, I really don’t know! Only the wielder and the gods he prayed to can know for certain. The conditions are decided arbitrarily, without trend or reason. It could be anything from singing a song to moving a mountain! At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from the little I’ve read on the topic.”

“The wielder — your husband, then? That’s easy enough. Bid him to tell you, and then relay to me his answer,” he said.

“Easy enough? Not in the slightest. He would just as soon do your bidding as he would mine,” you said. The prince squinted at you, and evidently he must’ve determined that you were serious, for he broke into that awful laugh again, the one that must’ve once been handsome and full-bodied but now was little more than a rattling plea for air. 

“You are pitiful,” he said. “I thought that you must be some great, fearsome empress, as wicked as your husband, but you are just a frightened mouse of a girl. You would not survive a day in Kremnos, you know. It would crush you.”

Duty. Obedience. Docility. They were branded onto you, swirling letters that you had unwittingly carved into yourself with every wedding vow you spoke, and you could not escape them any more than the prince could escape his chains. If only you could argue with him, tell him that once upon a time, you had been someone unrecognizable from who you were now…but already, you had tested their limits. Your tongue was frozen in your mouth, refusing to move in anything but accordance with your oaths, and so you only clasped your hands together.

“If you say it is so, then it really must be the case,” you said. “Farewell, prince of Kremnos.”

“Farewell,” he said, but it was clear he did not mean it. “Dear lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” you said, recognizing the provocation for what it was. “You are not my husband, nor do I wish for you to be.”

“Then what should I refer to you as?” he said. “Your excellency? Your grace? Your most exalted highness? Your holiness, the saint of the realm?”

“Here, I am only known as lady,” you said quietly. “But I bore a different name before. I cannot…I cannot say it anymore, but if you ever come to know of it by other means, then please call me as such.”

Morning brought with it a freezing palm pressed to your brow. It startled you to consciousness both because of its temperature and its temerity, for you could not fathom who had dared to enter your room without your permission, and while you were asleep, at that! In the haze of your sleep-addled mind, a rebuke rose to your lips, but then someone clicked their tongue and you fell silent even as you clambered to a more alert state.

“Your fever has finally broken, dear lady! You do not know how overjoyed I am to hear it,” your husband said, helping you into a sitting position, one hand cradling the back of your neck and the other holding up a glass. You blinked, trying to clear the fog from your vision, swallowing down the water he poured down your throat without objection.

“Fever?” you said.

“The ailment you have been suffering from,” he said. “I was told it was a fever of some sorts. I bore it quietly, the prospect of your malaise, but today I could not stop myself from checking on you. I had some dreams of playing the nurse, but here you are, entirely well! Such a miraculous recovery.”

His grandiose words masked suspicion with affection, but he did not make any further accusations, for just as you had sworn to heed him, so too had he promised to trust you. His vows had been made to a portrait of yours, as well as written in pig’s-blood and sent to you in a sealed envelope. You could recall them with perfect clarity, the way the stench of iron clung to the parchment as you unfolded it and rang your fingers over the lines, which were grouped in stanzas of three. 

Trust. Favor. Companionship.

You spent the entire day with your husband, although you had neither the desire nor the will for it. You hardly ever had the desire or the will to do anything, of course, not nowadays, but this was the worst of all, because your husband was not just a reminder but the very reason for everything which had happened to you. Still, you could not refuse, so you trotted along at his side, motionless as he showed you off to his officers, his advisors, and even, at one point, his cousin, who could not be less interested in you if he tried.

“Brother,” he said boredly, for indeed he and your husband were the only children of their respective fathers, and so were more like siblings than anything, “you have better things to be doing than showing off a woman who doesn’t bear showing off in the first place.”

“Are you saying that she is somehow deficient?” your husband said, swelling up with righteous indignation. Anyone else might’ve lost their head for the statement, especially given how blandly he had said it, but his cousin was above reproach, being the only person he really loved.

“I’m saying that she looks ill with misery,” his cousin said, and then he sighed, returning to his book. “I’m not so sure the lady has recovered from her illness. You ought to be more cautious with her, that’s all.”

His cousin was younger and handsomer than he, and as the two of you walked away, you thought that you would not have minded marrying him as much. Though perhaps this was a paradox — after all, if he had taken you in the manner that your husband had, then you would have hated him, too. It was your lot in life, then; always you would detest whoever you wed, whoever stole your freedom in that way and bound you to them with the cruel ropes of matrimony.

The hall where you took your dinner was like an enormous cavern, so large that you felt like your voice might echo if you spoke. You and your husband were the only ones in it, which heightened the effect, and every clank of his silverware against his porcelain dishes resounded in your ears like discordant bells.

“My prisoner,” you said after a long time had passed wherein the two of you discussed nothing. Your voice was dry with disuse, and you pushed the food on your plate around without attempting to eat, although it was all appetizing and you were certainly hungry.

“What?” your husband said, covering his mouth with his hand as he chewed.

“My prisoner,” you said, clearing your throat but keeping your gaze trained firmly on your food. “The prince of Kremnos. Is he well?”

“You’re asking after his health?” your husband said with a chuckle. When you did not laugh or otherwise indicate that you were joking, he frowned at you. “You needn’t fret. As you requested, I am treating him as well as I am able. Far better than he deserves.”

The image of the prince, chained and kept in darkness, the only sound his persistent cough and unsteady breathing, given scraps for sustenance and mice for company, flashed across your mind. 

“I wish to see him,” you said. There was a warning in the back of your head — duty, obedience, docility — but you ignored it as best as you could, stabbing oversharp fingernails into your thighs, hard enough to draw blood and distract you from the dangerous line you tread. “My lord, I wish to see the prince and ensure that he is alright with my own eyes.”

At this your husband did not even pretend to humor you. He burst into a raucous fit of cackles, his fork and knife clattering to the table, his eyes watering at the corners. You waited for him to stop, picking your own cutlery up in vain before setting it down and folding your hands in your lap.

“No,” he said. “I am afraid that I cannot allow that, dear lady.”

“You cannot—” you began, but it was too much, you had stepped over that precarious boundary, and now you were frozen. Gulping, you counted to five before continuing. “He is mine. He is mine, you said it yourself, so why — can’t — I — see — him?”

Each word dug into you like gravel, and you knew that you had lost this argument before you could even attempt to have it. How could you ever win? When you had sworn thrice over that you would be tractable, how could you ever try to be anything else? Your intentions did not matter as much as the execution, not to the number three and the power it lent this empire.

“How obstinate,” your husband said, appraising you with a new eye. “I am sorry, dear lady, but as my cousin said, you are still weak. It will do you no good to be faced with such a base creature. You can see him again on the day of his execution.”

“Yes,” you said through gritted teeth, which was not as much as you wanted to do but was as much as you could, at present, manage. “Might I be excused?”

“Excused? You haven’t eaten anything,” he said, pointing at your plate. True to his word, it was untouched, and you picked it up, holding it close to your chest as you stood. 

“My stomach is protesting,” you said. “I will take it to my room and eat it later. If it pleases you.”

“Very well,” he said, waving at you. “I shall pray for your health, dear lady. Sleep as late as you’d like tomorrow, but once you are awake, I implore you to join me in my preparations. There is a grand celebration in the afternoon, as a marker of our victory against Kremnos, and I have been summoned to speak; if you could muster some words as well, it might hearten the people and warm them to you.”

“Yes, my lord,” you said. “I shall think of something.”

“See to it that you do,” he said, watching you with an unreadable expression on his face as you left, your footsteps growing faster and faster until you were all but racing to your room, your head spinning and palms clammy like you had gotten away with some great crime. 

Tonight, there were no strange voices beckoning you, but that did not stop you from staying awake far past the moon’s rise, waiting until it hung over the clocktower before picking your way back to the cellar, your heart pounding as you crept back down those dark, endless stairs, an actual lantern in one hand and your plate in the other.

The prince was still there. You had half-expected him to have disappeared, to have turned out to be some figment of your imagination, but he was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and his lips pursed as he watched the light of your lantern approach. When he realized it was you, his eyes narrowed, and he tucked his chin to his chest in what you could only assume was a stubborn display of the meager strength he had left.

“I brought food for you,” you said, setting the lantern on the last stair and presenting the plate before you. “Please eat it.”

“What do you think I am?” he said. “Some kind of a dog, such that I am eager for  you to foist your refuse on me? Hardly. Take it and leave me at once.”

“You’ll waste away,” you said. “You are only doing yourself a disservice! This is my own dinner, which I have gone without so that I could bring it to you. Does that make it easier to stomach?”

“Shall I sit on the floor, then, and eat it with my hands?” he said with a disparaging smile. “Will that amuse you? Is that why you’ve come? I heard your husband, you know. ‘Do what you’d like with him now that he is yours.’ How joyless your life must be, to think that this is what you entertain yourself with!”

“It is joyless,” you bit back, and your eyes widened at the freedom of the declaration. “It is! But you are not my — you are not some kind of amusement, I resent that you — I even spoke against my husband for you, and you say that! Fine, then. Starve, you thoughtless simpleton! Starve and die for all the good it’ll do me!”

You turned on your heel and stomped towards the stairs with the graceless irascibility of a child, not even sparing a glance over your shoulder at the prince. He was quiet, but you knew from the heavy weight of his stare on your back that there was something like turmoil brewing in his mind, a turmoil which weakened your resolve with every step you took away from him.

It was to your credit that you made it all of the way to where the lantern was sitting before you wavered, your stride shortening until you halted in place. Scrunching up your face, wondering when you had developed this love for punishment, for strife and conflict, you allowed your shoulders to sag in acceptance.

“Dispose of this before anyone comes to see you,” you said, shoving the plate into his hands before he could protest. “I suppose it matters little how you do it, but you must, or else I will be convicted of treason, and where will that leave us? Imprisoned side by side and left to rot together.”

He did not respond until you were almost out of earshot entirely, and then he coughed. You could not tell whether it was to capture your attention or to clear his voice of any residual hesitance; regardless, he accomplished both objectives, as you lingered for a moment longer than you would’ve.

“Ten,” he said. “That’s how many times I could’ve killed you in the time you’ve been here. But I—”

You continued walking before you could hear the rest of it.

You woke up the next day in better spirits than you had in some time, and in fact when a servant announced that you had a visitor, you opened the door with a new vigor. Upon realizing that the man in front of you was not your husband but rather his cousin, you thought that you might die from the glee of it all. Taking his arm, you allowed him to escort you to where the imperial contingent was setting up for the festival, at a grand stage which took up most of the square and was already laden with visitors at its base.

“It is a relief to see you recovering so well,” your husband’s cousin said. “The rumors in the palace are that you’ve contracted some illness of the chronic variety; in truth I believed them, especially after our meeting yesterday, but today I see that you have been revitalized. Did you rest well last night, then? I heard that you did not eat your dinner, but you must’ve taken it in your room, yes?”

You had done neither of those things, and his questioning did make you pause. What was the cause of your good mood? You had gone to sleep for only a short time, without much of anything in your stomach, and your situation had not improved any, so why did you feel, even if only marginally, as if you were something like yourself again?

“I suppose it must be something like love,” he mused, without waiting for your answer. 

“Ah, pardon?” you said, startled from the winding turns and byways of your thoughts at the strange declaration.

“To think that even a day in your husband’s presence has cured you to such an extent,” he explained. “Surely it is love? I cannot think of any other name for it…but I apologize! It is not my place to inquire, nor to speculate. I trust you will not tell my cousin about this?”

He had, in the taken-aback blink of your eyes and the pinch of your brow, found what he was seeking: a demure shyness which he could only comprehend as a lack of affection. You knew, then, that you had passed the test of the man, who had not believed any more than your husband that you were truly ill.

“I will take your leave,” he said, and then his palm clamped down on your shoulder. “But I trust you know this: however much you may love your husband, he is a difficult man to be loved by in return. If ever you are in search of solace…there are places you may turn to, dear lady.”

“What did he say to you?” your husband said, appearing at your side with his expression arranged into something like a frown. “I could not hear. Was he bothering you? I am sorry if he was. He has always been headstrong.”

“He was not bothering me,” you said, incapable of lying to your husband with any great skill but remaining certain that it was absolutely imperative you did not divulge his cousin’s secrets to him. “We spoke as family members might.”

If he recognized your evasive language, he did not comment on it. Instead, he stroked his chin in thought, and then he directed his attention towards the stage, where one of his generals was beckoning him — and, by extension, you.

The sun hung high in the sky as you ascended to the podium, though its rays did not dare touch you, disguised in your husband’s shadow as you were. Your vows tied more than your tongue, after all; your entire being, everything but your heart and your mind, were trained and twisted into the picture of submission, and soon those, too, would fall, leaving you a husk which could do nothing but nod and follow along.

Your husband did not need to start with any address. His mere presence was enough to silence the gathered empire, every single onlooker leaning towards the stage in eager anticipation of his words. From your vantage point, it was like the swell of a tide, crushing and suffocating, inescapable in its overwhelming intensity, but where you withdrew, your husband brightened at the weight, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders.

“Mydeimos,” he said, over-enunciating every syllable. The word, unfamiliar and foreign to your ears, had a rhythmic, marching cadence, more suited to a battle-cry than a formal declaration, and it seemed you were not alone in your thinking, for it had all the effect of one on the crowd.

A heckling clamor burst from them, the individual words indecipherable but for brief snippets. Demon. Monster. Warmonger. Kill. Curse. Blood. Kill. Kill. Kill! Your husband waited for them to quiet of their own volition, and only then did he venture to continue, this time with a wide, beaming grin.

“Mydeimos has fallen. The prince of terrors is no more!” he shouted, raising his fist in the air to thunderous applause. “Without him to lead the army, Kremnos will surely follow suit. Their lands will be ours within the year, of this much I assure you! Our empire will soon be the most prosperous in all the world. Even the great lands of the Southern Sea will pale in comparison!”

Your heart twinged at the mention of the Southern Sea. You could envision it even now, the streaks of salt left on the cliffs where the water lapped at them, the ripples in the placid blue where the balmy winds skimmed along the surface, the moon-white sand as it clung to the crevices of your feet and hands.

When you were younger, your father would take you on his boat and dip his fingers into it, urging you to do the same. You would ask him why and he would answer, always with a laugh or a smile: of all the jewels in my treasury, my darling, the Southern Sea is the second-loveliest. Then you would ask him which could be the first, if even the sea was not its equal, and he’d press his damp hands to your cheeks and kiss your hair and say you, my darling, you and only you.

“What a horrible thing he was,” your husband said. “Mydeimos. That wretched excuse of a man…the world is all the better now that he is locked away. I watched him — watched him, good citizens, with my own eyes — tear out a man’s heart with naught but his nails and teeth! Even now I can imagine it…the tips of his canines dark with pierced flesh…bits of entrails coating his fingers…the heart still beating in his palms…he looked the proper part of a devil, and I was certain that I had died and found damnation!

“But as I said, he is no more. Our army prevailed, as we always have, and as we always will; I made Mydeimos beg for mercy with my sword at his throat and my foot upon his inhuman heart, and then I dragged him back so that all of you could see what he has been relegated to — a chained puppy, given to my dear lady as a pet and kept as a servant until the day of his execution.

“For the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!”

Your husband concluded his speech and pulled you forward simultaneously, with a great flourish which invited praise and drew attention to you both. You swallowed, your mind racing at breakneck speed, far too quickly for you to make any sense of the things you were saying until you were saying them.

“I have not seen the prince of Kremnos — Mydeimos — since the day that he was brought to me,” you said. The applause that had begun faded as soon as the soft words sparkled into existence, and the many eyes of the audience blurred together until you could pretend like you were alone, like you were speaking to nothing but small, bright stones reflecting your own sentiments. “But as my lord husband said, he was proud. I feel as though I have never seen a man prouder. Even after his loss, he remained proud. Even with nothing else left, he clung to that pride, that assurance…I remember thinking to myself that it was, in its own way, admirable. That he was admirable.”

Your husband’s arm around your waist grew tighter with unspoken warning, though it needn’t have. You had said all that you wanted, all that you could, and now there was nothing left but the judgement of the collective.

“Lady!” someone shouted, the singular soul brave enough to speak. She was a woman — you wondered if this was what bolstered her confidence, a perceived kinship between the two of you for that fact alone. “Do you fear the prince?”

“No,” you said, and although you had meant it only as a vague and empty placation, you were surprised to find that it rang true. You were not afraid of him, and it wasn’t his chains or his infirmity which caused this emotion to surge in you; rather, it was what he had told you last night, that declaration he had made with the utmost of seriousness, which you had not even allowed him to complete. “I am not. He cannot harm me.”

You knew your words would be interpreted as faith in your husband and the empire, and furthermore that this misinterpretation would curry favor with your subjects and your lord alike, so you did nothing to correct it. Yet you would know, and would hold close to your heart the knowing, that it was not your husband who you held faith in: it was Mydeimos, the prince of Kremnos, who might’ve killed you ten times over but had instead let you live.

“You have much to improve in terms of your orating,” your husband said coldly as the three of you — him, his cousin, and yourself — returned to the palace.

“I thought her speech was excellent,” his cousin said, shooting you a sly smile behind his back. “Very concise, and of a good style. It’s a gift to be able to convey meaning so succinctly. You ought to nurture it.”

“She certainly conveyed a meaning,” your husband said. “It remains to be said what value that meaning truly holds.”

“Is that for you to decide? Ah, brother, don’t be a curmudgeon, I am only teasing you! You spent so much of our childhood poking fun at me, so how can you fault me for paying you back in kind?” his cousin said.

“You need some lessons in respect,” your husband said, but without any real bite behind it. His cousin snickered before sobering, shifting his weight toward you.

“Will you take your dinner in your chambers again, lady?” he said. You nodded.

“If it does not offend,” you said. 

“Do as you please,” your husband said. “Though I expect you’ll do that anyways, sworn to me or not. Isn’t that right, dear lady?”

You couldn’t think of any response which would be satisfactory, so you said nothing, allowing the two of them to escort you to your room, where you waited with bated breath until the night fell and you could return to the cellar.

The entire way down the stairs, you turned the name over in your mind, polishing it in the way waves polished driftwood, battering it with incessant worry until it shone, uncanny and unrecognizable. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. The prince of terrors. The man who had torn a heart out with his teeth. What did it say of you, that you were making your way to exactly such a knave? With trepidation, of course, but what did it say that you were still doing it anyways? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little.

“There is an odd pattern to your footsteps,” he said before you could even greet him. He stood as he always did, prepared for a battle that he would never again see. “Or perhaps it is your breathing, or something else entirely.”

“What do you mean?” you said, putting your lantern and the dinner down in the space between you both. “I walk and breathe as I always have, as others do.”

“I know you,” he said, disgust mingling with the barest traces of awe in his tone. “The door to this cellar opens frequently. All manner of men come to visit me, to mock me from their places at the bottom of the stairs, lambasting me from the safety of their distance. I recognize few, and  I remember fewer — nor do I have any great desire to — but when it is you, I know. From your very step, from the very creak of the door, I know. I cannot understand how or why, but I know.”

“My husband told me your name,” you said after a pause, when it became clear he was not expecting a reaction from you. Motioning towards the food in a gesture you hoped he took to kindly, you continued: “I did not ask him, but he mentioned it in passing, so naturally now I know it.”

“I see,” he said, and although his gaze flicked towards the ground, he did not move. You remembered, then, what else your husband had said in that speech of his, the vainglorious words echoing in your ears: for the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!

“Mydeimos,” you said, and then you sat on the floor, which was made of a cold stone that shot chills down the backs of your legs. Resting your elbows atop your thighs and your chin in your hands, you blinked up at him. “That is what he called you. ‘The prince of terrors.’”

“How unimaginative,” he said, and you suppressed a shudder at his glare, which was baleful and acute as it settled upon you. “My-deimos. Many-terrors. Yes, that is my name, though that ridiculous nickname is of his own invention. The Kremnoans would laugh if they heard it.”

“He said that he watched you tear out a man’s heart with your nails,” you said, and then you glanced at his lips, simultaneously and unconsciously wetting your own with the tip of your tongue. “And your teeth.”

He bared those very teeth, white and glinting, in a barking laugh — as much an expression of warning as it was humor. “My teeth! Your husband is one for fiction.”

“And — and he spoke of how he defeated you,” you said. At this, anything resembling mirth vanished from Mydeimos, and he grew curiously immobile — you almost thought that you had frightened him into the grips of memory, but then you realized that he was not frozen as much as he was waiting.

“Did he?” he said. “And what did your husband say of my defeat, dear lady?”

“He  made you beg for mercy with his sword at your throat and his foot upon your inhuman — upon your heart,” you said, correcting yourself for the slip of the tongue, finding no merit in telling him about that particular detail. “And then he dragged you back here.”

The longer Mydeimos remained silent, the shallower your breaths became, a cold fist forming around your heart and squeezing, the muscles in your arms and legs contracting, protesting their inactivity. You needed to run. If you were wiser, if you had anything resembling self-preservation, you would run, would flee and hope that you were fast enough to make it to the stairs before he pounced. 

You supposed you lacked both wisdom and self-preservation in spades, for you remained on the floor, peering up at him and praying that he could not read your mind, could not comprehend the depths of your thoughts.

“So that is his story,” he said. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t tell his people the truth.”

“He made it up,” you said rhetorically.

“You don’t sound surprised,” he noted.

“It is not — it is not —” You gnawed on the inside of your cheek, trying to come up with some way to circumvent your wedding vows, some way you could impress upon him what you were trying to say. “When we were wed, it was said that I loved him madly and completely, that I bawled to my father until he allowed me to come here.”

“Then it is not his first time dabbling in such falsehoods,” Mydeimos completed. When you nodded, he snorted. “You cannot speak ill of him, can you? Is it magic?”

“In the way of this land,” you said with a shrug.

“What an emperor,” he said. “So he can neither bed his wife nor win his battles without the use of tricks and obfuscation? Where I come from, they have a word for those like that, but as it is foul, I will not trouble you with hearing it.”

“What do you mean?” you said. “Ah, not by the foul word…that is, what tricks do you refer to? If the story he told is inaccurate, then how did he really defeat you? For surely he must have, or else you would not be here.”

“He did not defeat me,” he said. “Believe it or not, but that is the truth.”

“How?” you pressed, for you had already eschewed wisdom once and did not mind doing so again.

For a moment, it was as if the sun shone down upon him again. You saw him as he was on the day he met you, or perhaps even before — the prince of Kremnos, sleek and powerful and indomitable, red marks blooming in place of the scars he would never receive, eyes ablaze in his hollow face, hair as wild and untamed as his spirit.

“He surrendered,” Mydeimos said, scowling. “Our numbers were smaller, but Kremnoans have never cared for things like odds. We were winning, indubitably we were winning, and your husband knew it as well as we did. They attacked us in our own territory, fought us with our own weapons…how could we have lost? We would’ve wiped them out, but your husband and his men raised their white flags, and so we ceased to attack them.

“I went to parley with them, to negotiate the terms of their surrender. In a show of goodwill, I agreed to your husband’s request to come unaccompanied. His men were exhausted, and I found it honorable that he was putting their wellbeing first, so I ignored my instincts and the warnings of my advisors, going forth alone, leaving my armor and weapons as I was instructed to.

“That was my mistake. I should never have expected honor from a serpent, whose nature it is to bite. The surrender was a ploy; I was met by hordes of guards, each with a spear pointed at my heart. Even then, I fought. Do not think I met my end willingly, dear lady — I fought and killed as many men as he threw at me. I could’ve killed them all, I would’ve killed them all, but right as I was about to, he threw these chains at me from the corner where he hid. It should not have worked, his aim and the strength behind it were both lacking, but it was as if the metal had a mind of its own, and before I knew it I was bound.”

“As I told you, they are thrice-blessed,” you said. “Divine. They long to fulfill their purpose, and will do anything to that end. If it defies the laws of nature, well, what are those laws compared to the ones who wrote them? Those men were only a distraction. Once my husband received these chains, there was nothing which could’ve changed your fate.”

“What sort of a god favors a man who feigns surrender?” Mydeimos said. “What kind of deity loves perfidy?”

“I have often asked myself the same questions,” you admitted, half-expecting yourself to be unable and closing your eyes in relief when you weren't. “Why is it that he is the one they champion? What justice is there in that? He must have been a saint in his past life, to be treated as he is. A saint, or a martyr, or something like that. Something wonderful to the point of deserving so many miracles in this next iteration of his.”

You chose your speech carefully, injecting as much resentment into it as was needed to convey to the prince what you really meant, but not enough that you seized up into inaction. Not enough that you strained against the hold that your vows held over you.

You heard him exhale, and at this, you allowed your eyes to flutter open once more, peeking up at him and immediately wishing you hadn’t.

Whatever had briefly rallied in him, whatever fervor and fire he had briefly regained…it was gone. It was gone, leaving him fractured and bereft, forlorn instead of fearsome, prisoner instead of prince. Your husband had done that to him. Your husband had destroyed him, as he had destroyed you, and it was this reflection of your own fate which tore at you the most.

Breaking off a piece of bread, you dipped it in the long-cooled sauce pooled in the corner of the plate, and, without a word, held it out to him. He eyed it suspiciously, and for a moment you thought he might refuse it. The beginnings of an argument bubbled to the surface, but it never had the chance to take shape — before your lips could so much as part, he knelt across from you and took your proffered hand by the wrist.

Holding it in place, his thumb digging into your pulse like a reminder that he didn’t want this, didn’t want to accept your help, he used his free hand to swipe the bread from your palm. Then, his brows heavy, low over his eyes with mistrust and reluctance, he shoved it into his mouth and ate it.

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[siilent-wanderer]

Meeting the Family

aespa bringing their girlfriend to meet their family

masterlist

Jimin

leading up to the meeting, Jimin is meticulous in preparing you

she’ll tell you all about her family, their interests, and even give you a list of topics that will impress them

she’s a little nervous because her parents are quite traditional and very protective

which sounds intimidating and scary

but she reassures you that they’ll love you

the moment you step in, her mom instantly becomes soft

Jimin was right, you’re charming

her dad is initially stoic, I mean that IS his maknae we're talking about

but when he sees how Jimin looks at you (like you hung the stars in the sky), he eases up

after dinner, her mom takes you aside

“You’re the reason my Jimin smiles like that?” and she pats your hand approvingly

on the drive home, Jimin keeps stealing glances at you, squeezing your hand like she’s silently saying thank you

Aeri

“Babe, they’re gonna love you,” she says casually

but deep down, she’s praying that no one embarrasses her

the moment you walk in, her family is already cracking jokes and teasing Aeri about how she finally brought someone home

her mom adores you instantly

like you literally get complimented every five seconds

“Aigoo, you’re so pretty! How did Aeri get so lucky?”

her dad does the fake intimidating dad act, but Aeri just groans

“Dad, please. You’re not scaring anyone.”

her friends definitely pull you aside to tell you some embarrassing story about her

when you leave, her mom hugs you tightly and says, “Come back anytime, sweetheart. Even if it’s without Aeri.”

Aeri whines about that all night but secretly loves that her family adores you

Minjeong

she downplays the whole thing but is actually internally panicking

Minjeong’s family is warm and welcoming, but they love teasing her

“So you’re dating our Minjeong? How do you put up with her?”

her older brother is a little awkward at first, but soon starts treating you like a future in-law

her mom serves a ton of food, subtly testing if you like Korean home-cooked meals

Minjeong gets flustered when they show baby photos of her

and you’re having the time of your life seeing little chubby-cheeked Winter

she’s extra clingy after dinner, whispering “Don’t laugh too much. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

before you leave, her mom tells you to take care of her

Minjeong melts at how naturally you fit in with her family

Yizhuo

Yizhuo hypes you up on the way there

“They’re going to love you. Actually, they’re gonna love you more than me.”

spoiler alert: she’s right

but also, her ENTIRE FAMILY is there

good thing you studied a little bit of Mandarin before coming

the moment you walk in, her parents are thrilled that she’s dating someone so sweet

her relatives (especially aunts/uncles) love talking to you

and you catch Yizhuo just watching you with a fond smile

at one point, her parents bring up marriage, jokingly

“When are you two getting married?”

Yizhuo doesn’t even deny it — just laughs and says, “We’ll see.”

before you leave, her mom hugs you tightly and slips you extra snacks, whispering, “You make my daughter happy. That’s all I need.”

Yizhuo pulls you close on the way home, murmuring “I told you they’d love you.”

[misguidedasgardian]

AMOR VINCINT OMNIA VI.

VI. Thesis

MASTERLIST

Summary: There was no such thing as settling 

Warnings: Use of she/her pronouns, reader has hair, Ancient Rome AU accuracies and inaccuracies, arranged marriages, age difference (Marcus is late forties reader is 20), cursing, we are shorter than Marcucs, reader is touch starved, depression, angst, reader is lonely, life threatening disease, gladiator fights, animal slaughtering for ritualistic purposes, MIGHT MISS SOME WARNINGS

Notes: Ufff another chapter of which i had scenes written before the prologue! uuhhh

“Ubi tu Gaius, Ego Gaia”, if she was acting, it was very convincing, you thought. As you looked at your mother and you could see, clear as day, the adoration lurking in her eyes.

Perhaps she did like him at least, he was a handsome man, his hair already painted a bit white though, but now you understood where Lucius got his looks. 

Speaking of Lucius, you felt his gaze on you, but you tried to ignore it.

His villa was the greatest and most lavish thing you have ever seen, tall walls and ample spaces, everywhere you looked there was gold, golden statues, marble pillars painted with gold, lavish pools with the most beautiful mosaics you had seen. 

A huge garden, where you stood now, the smell of various flowers hit your senses.

It was customary that the ceremony was done in your mother’s villa, in the Palatine HIll, but… this was her second marriage, and he was Consus Licinio Craso, so, things were… different, they differed from tradition altogether. . 

As you gazed on those who had gathered there, all of Rome, mostly, you were saddened to not see Publio, he had also left, his mission took him North, northern still across the sea to Britannia, even norther, to the border with Caledonia. 

You couldn’t wait for him to return to hear about his stories, you were sure they were going to be great. 

But now you were being drawn to the present by the squealing of the sacrificed pigs.

Why did you always find yourself witnessing that?

Three times in less than a year, including your own in your own wedding.

You took a long breath, the metallic smell of blood reaching even you, standing at the side.

Oh Marcus

He had been gone for four weeks, missed the whole betrothal and wedding, and signing of contracts and all. 

With your friend gone to really witness the “afters” of her wedding, you were really beginning to think it wasn’t a big deal to begin with, it was only a signed paper, which you could undo, so… the theatrical of it all started to bore you.

You stifled a whimper as you looked down in shame

You were becoming a cynic

You were becoming something dark, that you didn’t want to be

You wondered where that sweet girl was, the one who had woken up one morning happy that the sun was shining, and was optimistic about her future, about her arranged marriage, you wondered where she was.

You wondered what she’d think, to look at herself now, crying everyday, alone, so alone.

She’d be terrified of what the future held for her.

“Run”, you’d tell her, “get in a Trirreme for Alexandria, go live in a small farm in the edge of the Nile, raise goats or something, do not fall in love unless they fall in love with you first”

“FELICITER!”, everyone cheered and you had no choice but to pretend you had said it too, and to start clapping. 

As the lavish feast started, you stayed in the garden, trying not to gaze at Lucius with a beautiful young woman dangling from his strong arm. He had been betrothed, which had been a long time coming, you wondered how it didn’t happen sooner, and then you remembered he had been aiming for you for years.

Years

And it all had come to this, you thought as you gazed upon your mother and Consus, speaking inside with senators, he was your new stepfather, your paterfamilias, if you hadn't married Marcus first of course. 

Your mother relinquished all her rights on you to him, you were his, Marcus’ if you divorced him, you wouldn’t get nothing, you couldn’t be your own person, you’d be dependent on him even if you wanted to marry somebody else.

You should have said something when you knew, to protest, to question, but you trusted your mother and she trusted him, so…

It seemed like there was no way out for you. 

You took a seat in a stone bench by one of the fountains, letting the sun fall around you, leaving you in darkness. You’ve come to like the dark though, in this weeks,  it shielded you, you felt like you could put down your mask, especially in crowded events like this, you could stop pretending that everything was fine.

But nothing could be hidden from your mother, who took a seat right by your side.

“Your guests will miss the honored woman”, you mumbled

“They can wait”, she whispered. “How have you taken Marcus’ absence?”. she asked, and you cringed at the name, because she always called him Acacius, calling him by his first name would be an act of familiarity you thought only belonged to you.

“I’m fine”

“I’m glad”, she said, “Because I will be gone for a couple of months”, you looked back at her, alarmed. “We are going to Greece”, she whispered, with a soft smile and a strange shine in her eyes. “Consus fixed this Trirreme, with golden statues and luxury”, as she spoke, you were looking at her carefully, and you couldn’t believe that was your mother at all. You didn’t recognize her, you thought she didn’t care about all that. 

“For long?”, you asked

“Just a couple of months”, she whispered, she eyed you carefully, you nodded. Marcus’ departure had already left you heartbroken enough not to care much, and you had barely seen your mother since you married Marcus anyways.

They all leave

You wondered when Cecilia was going to come back from Sicily .

You missed her terribly. 

“I wish you have a great time, mother”, you whispered

“I’ll leave you to care for Rome”, she said as she would like you were a small child, you only nodded. she caressed the side of your face and your hair. “You have become a woman in this short months”, she admired, caressing your cheeks

Is misery the real barrier between a girl and a woman?

The night ended with little to less excitement for you.

And speaking of excitement…

The twin emperors of Rome were hosting their first games, in celebration of your mothers nuptials. It was set to be a great event, ten days filled with gladiator battles, performances of the greatest glories of Rome, for one, they were going to fill the Colosseum with water to reenact a naval battle.

It was going to be a great spectacle

And for the first time, your heart wasn’t in it.

As you sat there, next to your mother, watching the battles, the blood, the chariots that used to fill you with excitement, you felt little to nothing.

Maybe it was the line between girlhood or womanhood.

That nothing thrilled you anymore.

The spectacle was great, showcasing Rome’s might that still lingered after all the efforts of your grandfather. 

It was still bittersweet. 

You had been raised with whispers of the power and might of the blood that flowed through your veins and yet here you stood, alone, at this point you truly believed you were going to be alone forever.

As you were married now, seemed like you had turned invisible, the men that used to smile and you and talked to you barely gazed upon you, and well, their wives would draw small talk from you, but not completely engaging as your mother and you always kept a close circle, now you knew why, because of the emperors, but still, that meant you had few friends. 

So as everyone was watching the spectacle of gladiators killing each other, you looked at the people, all of them in the pulvinus, to those closest to it. All with wide smiles but your mother, her disgust for blood hidden in the small branches of lavender tangled around her fingers. 

“My sweet, you should come with us”, she offered after the spectacle was over, you looked at her expectantly, “you should come stay with us, in Consus’ villa”, she explained, grabbing onto your forearm, you just watched her silently, then, behind her in the pulvinus, you saw lucius, looking at you with a look that was hard to define 

“I prefer to retrieve myself to the comfort of my home”, you said quickly, you grabbed onto your mother’s hand and squeezed, “I’ll see you soon, mother”. 

You made sure to not come back to the Colosseum for the rest of the game, claiming you were feeling a bit unwell.

You missed what the entire city called the greatest fight they had ever seen. As regards the flooding and the boats included. 

But you had other things to occupy your mind. 

You had hired three painters, who were now drawing very graphic pictures of battles, myths across the walls of the triclinium and atrium, and then some more erotic scenes near your personal rooms and the bath room. 

With the height of spring on you it seemed like the most logical place to start, with arts, as you grew your garden slowly. 

You realize you found solace and contentment while making your villa a home, making it more beautiful, more lively, as if Marcus was not going to give you a family, at least you could spend the money on fixing your surroundings. 

He told you could do it anyways.

You had bought tapestries from Greece, as beautiful amphoras for the oils and grains, beautifully carved wood furniture from Nubia, the finest cottons you had seen from Alexandria, and you had made tunics for you, Thulia and Diana for the coming summer. 

From Alexandria you also had purchased scrolls, with ancient tales of Egypt and Carthage, they were all in Greek, but… you knew how to read it thankfully. 

You didn't even feel guilty when you bought yourself some nice jewelry. a beautiful bracelet of a snake slithering around your forearm.

You used to look at the Roman Eagle with admiration, owls seeking for wisdom and the mythical animal that had fed Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome itself, the wolves, with reverence.

But as you gazed on that golden snake you’d realise, It had its own qualities, it was sneaky, slithering about on the tall grass, quiet, with the ability of changing its skin, being born again as it were. You wore it everyday now. 

You received missives from your mother who was travelling through the islands of Greece, and you would enjoy her tales of beautiful sights. 

And you were not going to lie, for when you found yourself alone, in your cold room at night, you felt incredible jealousy.

That ship had been built for Lucius and you, he had said so himself, and yet, you laid there, alone, and your mother was aboard it, with her new husband that would take her with him in his journeys.

You didn’t care about the gold, about the boat, about the golden coins, but, you did care about… well… about being married to someone who actually wanted you.

With tumultuous thoughts and dark dreams you managed to actually wake up when the sun was on the horizon. 

And the days, turned to weeks, turned to a couple of months…. 

“I do not think this is a good idea”, you said, stifling a giggle, when you saw the work

 You were correcting one of the painters, who had drained one of the impluvium and was installing a beautiful mosaic 

“I did this to your image, domina”. the man explained, oh yes, he had immortalized you in tiny pieces of beautifully colored stones, the problem was that you were naked, and it was clearly you. “Nobody would tell”, he said lightly, “it’ll be a secret between you and me”, you only shook your head and let him keep to it. 

“Put more jasmines and laurels around it though, it might distract those who gaze upon it o the likeness to me”, you jested, and he chuckled, shaking his head but was determined to please you.

But again, as you started to find some kind of rhythm to your life… someone came and disrupted it.

You heard a commotion outside your villa’s gates, horses neighing, voices shouting, people complaining.

“A legionnaire had never crossed Roman’s gates in the last hundred years”, someone shouted, and if you weren’t in the atrium itself, you wouldn’t have heard any of it.  

And from a second to the nest, both the thick wooden doors of your home opened widely, you jumped where you stood as you truly believed they were going to kill you or something, but no.

“What’s wrong?”, you asked, alarmed, as the atrium, from one moment to the next, was filled with legionnaires, and medicus. Four soldiers carried Marcus himself who laid in a grabatum

It had happened quickly, you had received news from your husband himself that himself as his army had managed to cross the Mediterranean and reached Tarraco, a port in Hispania, and everything went well.

The letter was very formal, but you appreciated it nonetheless.

And now this… two months after

“The General has fallen ill my lady”, Quintus, his right hand man said, placing his arm across his chest in sign of respect towards you

“Is he going to be alright?”, you asked, concerned, you followed the soldiers to Marcus’ rooms, you reached it just when he was being placed gently in his bed

“The General started feeling unwell after we reached Tarraco”, he said, “he refused treatment, and the idea of returning, but three days ago, we had to put him in the first Trirreme back to Rome my lady, he caught a fever in the journey”

“Nobody cared for him in Terraco?”, you asked him, anger started bubbling inside of you

“We… couldn’t trust anybody with the health of the general”, he said carefully, you nodded, your eyes returning to his shaky form on the bed

“We had not managed to break the fever”, said a medicus, that wore some reduced version of the armor, he must have been the one who went with them to treat their wounds…. battle wounds

When you saw your husband there, his forehead sweaty and heavy breathing, is like everything your mother ever thought you came back to you.

You grabbed Diana who was passing by the arm a bit rougher, but this was not the time for pleasantries

“Go to the market, NOW, bring me ginger, chamomile and coriander if you find it”

“Yes Domina”, she said quickly, and ran to fulfill your command, understanding the emergency.

“Thulia!”, you called, and she was by your side in a minute, “bring me a bucket of fresh water, and some linens”, you commanded, she nodded and went quickly

“My lady…”, called the medicus with warning

“I know what I’m doing”, you said firmly.

Since the fresh water and linens arrived first, you wasted no time in sitting by Marcus’ side on the bed, you grabbed the linens, soaked them in water, and placed them all over his trembling body

“We tried that already”, said the old man impatiently

“So we gotta keep trying”, you insisted. You needed to lower his body temperature somehow. Diana came running back, giving you the herbs as she took deep accelerated breaths.

“Thank you”, you said, “the mortar”, you called, and for the first time alone, you prepared the tonic your mother had taught you to use for this sort of cases. 

Once ready, you ran to his side, grabbed the back of his head, made him lean in, and you made him drink your concoction. He frowned and fought it, even in his condition, the thing had a strong smell, and a strong taste as well, but you managed to slide it down his throat, and that is what mattered. 

And you dedicate yourself to care for your husband

Fear took a tight grip on you, was he going to die? The bare thought brought tears to your eyes. He was your husband, your mother’s dearest friend and ally, yes he wasn’t caring, but not because of it you wanted him to die.

You had prayed on your home’s altar for his safety, for his health and for his victories, clearly, you had not been heard. 

Hours passed by and you were stuck to his side, changing the rags over his foreheads. You took the liberty of raising his toga, touching his body. it was so odd, the first you had looked upon his naked legs, his intimacy only covered by his subligaria, and yet you did not wasted time to gaze, you touched his belly, and not only you found it hard, by his years of battle and training, but warm, unnaturally warm. 

You took a long breath feeling the air around you, the spring had made sure to warm the land so you wouldn't be traumatizing his body to much lower temperatures. You grabbed a wet rag and placed it on his belly.

He shuddered, but you needed to lower his temperature

And you had tried everything, now it all depended on him, and on the gods. You realised it was already the middle of the night by the time you ended your care. 

He was still burning, but you wanted to believe that he had lowered his temperature somehow. 

You didn’t even notice how everyone left you alone with him, but you didn’t care, as you tried to care for him as much as you could, with everything your mother had taught you. Many had called her a sorceress, accused her of poisoning men like your own uncle, but they didn’t understand. Not really. 

As sleep overtook you, you fell asleep on top of him, clinging onto him, hoping your body temperature would help to lower his. 

.

“You have to eat something domina”, Diana said softly, you nodded, waking up slowly, still hugging Marcus against you. But you separated from him, grabbing little fruit, bread and cheese that she was offering. You grabbed the pitch of water and tried to give it to Marcus, to your relief, he did drink something.

“Bring me more rags, more water”, you said, and Thulia was the one to bring those things to you. “Fetch the medicus”, you asked of them, and both went to find him their separate ways to make it faster. 

You grabbed a bowl and a rag, ready to start your care again for the morning, when he seemed to stir on his sleep. You watched him carefully, but he didn’t open his eyes, but he did open his mouth…

“Lucilla…”, you froze with the damped cloth in your hand, paralyzed, “... my love”, he whispered.

“Marcus?”, you called, but he was deep in lethargy, his eyes closed and his forehead frowned in anguish

“I love you… Lucilla”, he whined. “But I won't…anymore”

Your heart broke in a million pieces, just like the clay bowl you had in your hands that you dropped and fell to the floor. 

So he did prefer women to men, only that the woman he preferred was your mother. It was horrible the way everything seemed to fall into place. Now you understood so many things you wished you never understood. 

“Gods”, you whispered brokenly.

Luckily, the medicus entered the room.

“You have done great domina, he has almost returned to himself!”, he said, relieved, taking your palace by his side, “you should rest, my lady”, he said softly. 

You only nodded, leaving them alone, you walked the now beautiful corridors back to your own room, as tears fell uncontrollably down your cheeks. 

PCN: uuhh did you saw that coming?

I have re-ratched gladiator I and Lucilla seemed to now a thing or two about tonics, so I wanted to deepen into that.

taglist! @orcasoul @peelieblue @raynetargaryan2 @thereallchristine @sesdeuxyeux @melsunshine @thelastemzy @vjuvbbjugv @cloudroomblog @capycapy-bara @lokiwife2021 @whirlwindrider29 @peepawispunk @syd-maximoff @ayoungpascallover

[httpsdana]

hey queen!! I hope that your exams went as you hoped and that you’re doing well🙂‍↕️

I would like to request a hurt/comfort fic with Pau where the reader comforts him after his red card in the cl match against benfica🫶 the reader’s worried about Pau since he‘s being super hard on himself and feels really down. since he’s upset he gets quite clingy, so y/n gives him lots of hugs, holds his hands, runs her hand through his hair, gives him small kisses, etc, to console him. generally just super sweet at fluffy <33

thanks in advance!! also btw your writing is literally BOMBBB, I love it sm😛😛

Mistakes Happen~Pau Cubarsi

・❥・prompt list

・❥・masterlist -> part 2

・❥・who I write for

・❥・a/n: my exams were so bad but thank youu 💓 should've written this ages ago but I was too lazy to do it so. enjoy <3

When he got the red card against Benfica, almost everyone lost hope. It was the same scenario as last year; getting a red card early in the match and continuing the rest with only 10 players against a tough opponent.

Except this time, they managed to win. And although she was happy that the team won, her thoughts drifted to the teenage boy who had left the pitch early, trying not to cry.

As soon as the match ended, she took her phone and dialed his number. It rang a few times before he answered.

“amor…” His voice was weak, breath shaky and unsteady.

“Pau…hi, baby,” she murmured, trying to ignore the way her chest hurt at the tone of his voice.

There was silence for a while. Neither of them dared to say a word.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, a deep sigh escaping his lips.

She clutched her phone tighter, trying not to tear up.

“Don’t be, cariño. Things like this happen in football,” she said, her voice soft and comforting. She hugged her phone close to her chest, wishing she could hold him instead.

“I…” He was about to say something before some noise in the background interrupted him.

“I’ll come by soon. Coach needs us now,” he said, and she nodded as if he could see her.

“Okay, baby. I love you,” she said, almost seeing him smile a little.

“I love you more,” he mumbled before the line went dead.

After a few hours of waiting, there was a gentle knock at the door. She jumped from her bed to open it, careful not to wake her parents. She opened the door, and there stood Pau, a frown on his face and his shoulders slumped in disappointment.

“Come in, amor,” she said, grabbing his hand gently and guiding him to her room before closing the door behind them.

She wrapped her arms around him briefly, holding him tight as if trying to offer him a little warmth and comfort.

She didn’t dare say a word when Pau pulled away and sat on the edge of her bed, his face in his hands to avoid looking into her eyes.

“I messed up badly…” he murmured, his voice broken and hurt.

“You didn’t, Pau. Mistakes in football happen. And the team won, so don’t be hard on yourself, baby,” she said, sitting beside him and gently brushing the hair off his forehead. She reached out to hold his hand, giving it a soft squeeze.

“But I made it harder on them. Pedri almost passed out from how much he ran, covering the spaces where I was supposed to be,” he let out a sigh, leaning his head against her shoulder. She wrapped her arm around his back, pulling him closer.

“No one is blaming you. You did your job, even if it didn’t end up like we expected,” she said, pressing a light kiss on his forehead. She held him for a moment, offering him comfort through her touch.

“I just wanted to make you proud,” he whispered, his eyes closing as he breathed in her scent.

“You know I’m always proud of you, Pau. I’m so proud of everything you’ve done and are doing right now. You’re only eighteen, for God’s sake,” she chuckled softly, making him hum. She kissed the top of his head gently, her fingers brushing through his hair.

“Promise you’ll always be proud of me in the future?” He looked up at her, his green eyes blurred with tiredness.

“I’ll always be proud of you, cariño,” she mumbled, cupping his jaw gently before leaning down and kissing his lips softly. The kiss was tender, lingering for just a moment before she pulled back.

“Come on, let’s get you to sleep,” she said, pulling him up with her and covering his body with the blanket. She kissed him again, this time on the cheek, as she settled him in.

She laid back beside him, and before she had the chance to cover herself, Pau’s head was on her chest, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist as he let out a deep sigh.

“I love you, princesa,” he muttered, his eyes already closing.

“I love you more, honey. I’m so proud of you,” she said against his hair, pressing a kiss on the corner of his head before she herself drifted to sleep.

my taglist: @barcapix @paucubarsisimp @spidybaby @mxryxmfooty @n0vazsq @joaosnovia @ilovebarcaaaa @f1lover55 @jajajhaahaha (lmk if you want to be added!!)

[somnus-lucis-caelum]

To live in peace… that sounded so far away. Somnus could not even imagine it. He had learned very soon that he would fight for his entire life, and he took no issue with that. His powers were made for such. He was made for such. It was what he could do well. So to expect a long lasting peace in the future?

Maybe that sounded a little too unrealistic in his ears… but he would not tell her that.

Not when she had such sweet words for him.

Her heart. Somnus’ blue eyes mustered Aerith in quiet surprise. If he held her heart… his fingers stilled for a moment, digging slightly into the fabric of her dress. If she held him this close and important…

There was s ting in his eyes. For a brief moment. But Somnus closed them fast enough. And then manage da little forced grin. He could not admit to such vulnerability. To such a weakness.

“Well… if that’s the case, I will have to fight twice as hard to shield your heart from any harm.”

The bliss he felt with her on this morning had to fizzle to an end. Of course. They might have been able to avoid breakfast and other early morning duties. But soon Aerith’s maids would carefully knock on the door and request the Princess.

Somnus sighed at it, but he ‘released’ Aerith from his embrace and got to preparing himself for the day, while Aerith was fussed over by her maids. Though he could not deny he was stealing glances to her every now and then – and he was unable to wipe the soft smile form his lips.

How could he be so impatient to have her at his side again? Why did he perk up so much waiting in the corridors when she finally appeared and they could walk to where the others waited in the courtyard? Why could he barely peel his eyes from her?

Gods help him.

It was hard to make a serious face when they finally arrived. Greeted by Gilgamesh, the Prince Consort, Leander and his troop, Aerith’s uncle and a row of other trained fighters that stood at the forefront of a larger part of the armies. The Queen stood a little to the side at the top of a set of stairs. No doubt she had the final say in how this all would happen and work.

The instructions were clear. In preparation for the coming battles, the Prince and Princess would show their powers to the armies of the other. So the soldiers could get used to it, get an overall idea of how fighting styles meshed and acted accordingly.  

Of course Somnus had to show off more. After all his powers were more offensive, he had led attacks and battles before, he would also lead the front lines now. Aerith would bolster their abilities with her spells, she had her own set of attacks, but it was decided that she should mainly use them for her own protection and good. She was a too valuable asset to be put in direct danger. And her healing was the vital duty after the dust settled.

There were different movesets shown, repeated, added to. Alone, in groups, explanations with the other soldiers exchanged. Hour after hour ticked by and the sun was long past its highest point, lowering at the sky again when there finally seemed to be enough.

Somnus huffed a breath. He could feel a small trickle of sweat bead down his spine. Looking to Aerith, he gave a small questioning nod. Was she fine?

They were called to the Queen and he would offer the Princess his arm easily again. Everyone seemed pleased with how this had gone, though. Even though Somnus had refused to show one particular aspect of his powers.

Immediately he bowed his head to the Queen.

“Your Majesty. I hope we fulfilled this to your satisfaction. I am happy to have met your troops and they assured me they would carry the word to the rest of your armies. They are very well trained men. If there is nothing more you want us to show and teach your people today, I may request to retreat alongside the Princess, though.”

Somnus refused her small apology with honeyed words of reassurance.

She was just right.

Aerith couldn't hide her smile even if she wanted to. She felt bright — and she realised his thoughts mattered to her, truly. That encouragement wouldn't have felt so full of warmth otherwise.

Her head tilted a little as he continued on, speaking of a wish. That smile of hers calmed when he let his wish be known. Were it up to him, he would shield her from the harsh realities of war and battle. Were it up to him, he would spend a lifetime indulging a more gentled spirit of adventure.

She hummed, it almost sounded like a tone of agreement.

"... that is why we must fight." Aerith spoke softly, almost a whisper. "You wish for an age of peace, where we would have the freedom of choice." She brushed his hair back, her lips tilting into a half-smile. "I want that for you too. For you to live in peace, not at war..." That wasn't possible though. Not yet.

Her brows knit together a little. "I won't let you stand alone. You..." He was not her soldier. He was not a pawn to play, his armiger could turn the tides of battle but he was more than what he could do. "You hold my heart." Wherever he was, an important piece of her followed. "So I have to be selfish. I'm going to support you in the battle to come, and I will keep my heart from being hurt. We will have to fight on together, towards a future of peace... right?"

[sqgeism]

Can I request a Boothill x Reader? :3 GN!Reader preferably. Reader is a quiet person around most people, ofc happy and talkative with their friends and Boothill. They also dislike touch but when it comes to Boothill theyre always happier to hug and kiss him, hold hands ect.

Bascially Boothill with a GN!S/O who is kinda quiet to others but as soon as they're with Boothill they're much more loving and talkative to him cuz they love him that much, Giving gifts ect

If it's too much don't worry ^^ Thank you for considering

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐲 | boothill x gender neutral reader

love mail — cuuutie cutie request with a special layout, no less ! reminds me of an old post aaaaalll the way back then, which fyi, give it a read (yes im self promoting things i wrote 2 years ago) <3 here's your req ! much love, thanks for the love mail (〃´o｀)=3

when boothill met you, his sweet, caring, loving s/o for the first time — he would've never guessed that you and him would ever get married in the future. you were always so reserved, kept to yourself.. people thought it meant you were untrusting to others, in reality, you were kind of just antisocial. you liked your own space, and people misunderstood that.

there comes boothill, who also wants to enjoy your space. you found him to be a handful, annoying, and downright insufferable person to be around.. at least for the first few days.

and unfortunately the cheesy little jokes and the 'cowboy life stories' slithered their way into your heart. you found yourself searching for him, and despite his wanted status, he always let himself be found. underneath the moonlight with a shared cigar, you and him exchanged secrets that were between you two and the stars.

boothill tended to notice some smaller habits starting to become of you that he wasn't sure you noticed. typically, you avoided touch from others. whether it be a hug from stelle, or friendly hand holding through markets with robin, you always refused. but sometimes you'd cling to boothill through busy crowds, or you'll help brush away hair from his face, or the rarest of it all — let him do your hair for you. you would sometimes talk about how bored you were with your hair, and so, he'd often times bring little accessories or a brush around with him to mess with it a bit. and you never protested, not once.

there's this added factor that you've started to 'leave your mark' on him. little stickers you left on his body, a chunk of his hair braided, hell — you made him a pretty little necklace that he wears all the time now. boothill had his suspicions that you were into him, and he was PRAYING he was right cause aeons know how long he's liked YOU.

when you eventually confessed your feelings, via playing a song that basically said 'i like you' through your shared earphones and hoping he'd understand (he got it eventually), he figured you'd stay the same. subtle, but still caring.. which was really cute. but aeons, his heart burst when you became GENUINELY clingy, like bless his mechanical heart for not overheating cause he was not used to this change.

head on his shoulder always, hands intertwined is a MUST, playing with his hair and poking at his cheek.. you just loved being around him, and he was RELISHING in this. the slowburn game worked cause look at him now; the most clung onto man on earth. and he is JUMPING FOR JOY!!

he loves it when you get clingy, his favorite is when you rest ontop of him and demand attention. forehead kisses, face squishes, he's doing it all. and he loves the fact you love it, his personal stress ball.

but honestly, he's just happy you've gotten out of your shell. sure, you're still a little reserved around others, but when hes got his arm around your waist while you're with friends, he can see the tiniest spark of more confidence. a bit more bubbly fun in that stoic attitude of yours.

and he likes biting you. you give him cuteness aggression, take what you will with that.

[odileeclipse]

I just wanted to thank everyone

Thank you to everyone who's supported me thus far and to those in the future who will also support me, I started this blog because I wanted to share my writing publicly for the first time. I am super passionate about my writing it serves as a reflection of who I am and I think that's beautiful. Aristotle claimed that meaning in life is tied down to pursuing intellect, I disagree something that provides meaning to my life in this current moment is making people happy through the stories I write. When I was younger, I always said I wanted to write beautifully and poetically, to be someone that when they speak, you'd hear their beauty. I don't know if I'm quite there yet but I'm working towards it. But I have seen it in my writing sometimes. It makes me feel as though I've fulfilled something I once strived for and continue to strive towards. And to the people who have read and supported have only solidified my belief, in turn bringing some meaning to my life through community. So, thank you to everyone who is with me now and to those who will join me in the future, perhaps I'm being too sentimental, but I've put a lot of heart into these fics even if it is about a silly cookie game it's something I'm deeply passionate about. Something, I hope is expressed through it and it is thanks to the people who continuously motivate me to continue writing. Thank you.

-Odile

[writingwisterias]

idk if you would be interested with this but i might want to request an Eras Leon update about how Leon would handle his gf jealousy and overthinking about him and his female partner agent working together bc she had consumed a lot of partner in crime fictions and cheating news in the social media😵 (actually me)

HII! I can definitely do this and omg you gotta hit me up with all the partner in crime fictions fr!

Warnings: Jealousy, Light Angst, Suggestive, MDNI Fem! Reader

RE2:

You shouldn't be jealous, that in every letter he wrote back to you he mentioned a girl

His happiness was needed, of course it was after what he went through.

He managed to give you a breif explanation before he had to leave of that night and where he was going

It just didn't settle right, maybe it's because the only chance you saw him was for Christmas or another holiday they allowed him to go

Then they all he would talk about was his partner, the one he was constantly paired with for training/combat practice

It's only just before he leaves that he notices you are being silent, at first he brushed it off as you being sad he had to return to training again

Until you mentioned her, her name rolling off your tounge like something sour

It's then that he does everything he can to ensure that you trust him and feel comfortable.

Leaving the training wasn't an option you knew that, you didn't want him to get in trouble for causing a fuss either

So instead he worshiped you for a day....in every single way he knew you liked 🫣

RE4R:

It was hard being in the same department as him. Seeing all the other people fawn over him attempting to get a chance

You knew it would never happen, a guy doing wrap you in his arms and speak to you about his dreams for the future for nothing right?

But you can't help but get jealous when it seems like he leans into the attention despite the fact that he doesn't want to.

He doesn't want it but all you can see if him leaning against the wall listening to the people talk

His body language displaying that he cares about every word they say, of course he does though...it's Leon

It's until a girl touches him that he notices it.

The type of argument where you've buried it for too long and he's overwhelmed with your complaints

His silence is rough, your emotional state confusing it with his guilt

He has to kiss you to shut you up, holds you as you cry it out. Insecurities spilling from your lips in choked sobs

Leon will do anything he can to ensure you feel secure in the relationship again...besides his next mission in Spain is solo

So he'll be away from all the jealous girls for a while at least

Infinite Darkness:

He's a natural flirt, he never really noticed that he does it.

So when he gets to the point that girls take him seriously and you start to get pushed back

The agents pushing you to the background of his career despite the fact you do every mission together

He never really noticed it, not when he's just glad that you are alive and still with him

So when shen mei comes into the picture you catch her smiles despite rejecting him

Leon doesn't stop, why would he? He always does it

It's not until you tell him you don't like it that he stops, he just snaps out of that side of him that it's weird to everyone else

They all sort of remember that you even exist

Damnation:

It's not his fault he has to leave, you know that.

But it doesn't help with the growing distance that you feel like it forming

It also doesn't help that he relays every joke he makes to Hunnigan like he's keeping his own joke book.

This time was new though, there was a few sprinkled in that he exchanged with ada, you knew of her.

Understood their history, but she always came unexpected.

It had been a while since you both got date night, the tension was right for it in your cute little dress

Leon eye fucking you the entire night.

It was perfect.

But he wouldn't stop going on about them. Every single conversation was about them

One night is all you wanted and he couldn't give you that

It's not his fault that he sees them more and you are happy he has people that are in the same field (more so Hunnigan than ada)

When he realizes he shuts up, guilt eating away at him.

You notice he's stopped talking about them. Your own guilt forming after seeing his happiness talking about those stupid one-liners

So you both make sure to give ample affection to each other later, you make sure you think of nothing but each other

RE6:

It wasn't his fault that he ended up having to work with helana, but when you attended her sister funeral with him you could see the connection they had made

Shared trauma will do that to someone you guess but it ate at you

Even more so when they would see each other around the office and smile, stopping to catch up for a chat

Then he began inviting her for a drink, it felt invasive to this home you created with him

Almost making you feel isolated, like you didn't belong there

When you asked about it in the darkness of the room in his arms Leon was confused

In his head Helena is young and she would need support, after all he's been through something like the events of China before

But he didn't notice the closeness and will admit his faults

Apologizes quickly and works to at least make it up to you as best he can

Vendetta:

He's not been the easiest to deal with, understandable so

You gave him the space he needed, allowing him to choose who he wanted to comfort him despite the ache in your heart

It only became worse when he chose the one person that disliked you and the only person he currently worked duo missions with

You ate it down as much as you could, it wasn't the time..not for him

The uneasy feeling was validated when you wouldn't get a word from him for days, you knew deep down he'd never do anything

But he was different, using methods that changed his way of thinking. The trust could only go so far when he drank himself into a vulnerable state

Eventually it got too much. You weren't sure what triggered your outburst

Perhaps it was him returning from his "vacation" and getting dropped off by her. Like he called her before you

He was sober for once, and felt every word you said to him. Every complaint you kept quiet

The mask he wore slipped, and he needed you. So you gave him it

Anything and everything he needed. To prove that you'll always be here

He apologized, sobbed them. Showing you what a broken man he was

It wasn't the time to be jealous now, it wasn't fair on him. Not when he was nursing withdrawal and a headache.

He came to you with this, that had to be enough for now

Death Island:

You were both fine when you went into the mission. Having each other's backs

But then you collided with the otherz and he relied on their help more

It wasn't that he didn't trust your skills, not he just wanted to keep you away frome everything

He didn't have to worry about you if you weren't in the danger

You were annoying that you weren't listening to him, instead still putting yourself in harms way

Maybe he was being more protective because of the virus you just almost died from

But you noticed him leaning more towards Jill, every move he made seemed to work well with hers

It wasn't the time for jealousy or pettiness

Not when it could cost your life

So you didn't bring it up until the hotel, both of you using the shower getting rid of everything that had collected on your skin. Why not get rid of your thoughts

Now it probably wasn't a good idea because he was still pissed off at you not listening to him, his reaction is blunt and offended

You could died from not listening and you coming at him with accusations based on plain assumptions.

The anger fades quickly when you get in each other's faces. Becoming increasingly away of how close you are

So he'll prove where his loyalties are....and teach you a lesson for not listening

[2-dsimp]

When zexius come I will get him kisses 💋 😘

Yandere Hikikomori x princess reader

Tw: fluff, yandere platonic mother, possibly the whole family turning yandere after you meet them. Zexius being the proud disappointment of the family. Family banter,

◣────•~❉᯽❉~•────◢

There the hikikomori was hunched over obsessively over a fancy piece of parchment paper from yours truly.

Your beloved husband to be, had his eyeballs repeatedly flickering across that one line of you promising him the chance to smooch those plump lips of yours.

His face flushed, chest heaving from breathing erratically, and lastly a wide smile one might call derange present upon his chapped lips. Gods he looked like he was on a sugar high, until he was smacked out of it.

“What have I told you about standing around looking like a creep up to no good?!“ A pained choked gasp escaped him, rubbing at the back of his head. Throwing a withering glare towards his brute of a mother responsible for his incoming head concussion.

“Yeowch! What’s the big deal ma? I can’t be out around the house being happy or somethin?” Zexius complained, with a small scowl on his lips, it was rare seeing him outside of his bedroom for once. He’d only go outside to fish out your letters, he subscribed to expensive premium Instamail for the fastest delivery.

His mother merely shook her head snatching the letter from his grasp. Practically ignoring her no good lazy son’s whining, “You can be happy, but don’t go scarin your poor younger brothers, you’re supposed to set an example as the eldest Zexi”

The NEET immediately gave the three twerps the stink eye. They were being nosy peeking around the corner. His scowl growing even deeper seeing the mixed looks they gave him.

Wagam of shock not believing that you still saw something in his rat coded big brother. Yeon of amusement for him being reprimanded by their mother as usual. And Ueul with down right disgust at seeing him smile.

“Also If that face you made is what you call happy, then that means I need pray harder for you to not lose my daughter-in-law.” Mooni quipped shuddering remembering that she too almost got a heart attack seeing. Her son looking like a patient that just escaped a psych ward.

“I hate all of you—“ Zexius’s curse was interrupted by his mother’s elated cry. Her eyes sparkling when she saw the sender was from her future daughter-in-law. She squealed and hopped for joy clicking her heels as she called for her husband. “Darling! Come look at this that sweet princess hasn’t come to their senses dumped our son yet after all! We’ve yet hope for grandbabies in the future! Get the expensive wine out.”

“Righty-O sweetheart!” Jakeo hummed, coming up out of nowhere placing a hand upon his sons shoulder. Watching his wife frolic around doing a praise dance for the lord. “seriously it’s a miracle they’re still into you son.” He then leaned in to whisper in a conspiratorial manner, words filled with caution. “Let’s try to keep it that way alright, for all of our sakes. Lord knows what your mother would do…. She’s already planning family trips with the princess.”

“Right, got it Dad thanks for the heads up” Zexius shivered, sure he lived a moto of giving no fucks but he’d rather not piss off the strongest woman in his life. Especially when she’s still in her prime as the head adventurer within the family.

Though the NEET can’t deny how excited he is to show his princess off to the whole world once he’s finally got you in his clutches.

[prlssprfctn]

Why is Jason Todd so victimized when every other bat has been through worse and I’m not saying this in a “ everyone moved on ” kinda way but compared to everyone else not much happened in his life he’s just a cunt which I personally love

hi, so:

i don't think it is fair or ethically correct to compare the amount of suffering batfamily went through, especially considering that all of them have a very, very different backstories, nuances and moments

i would actually argue that nothing happened in Jason's life. let's go through the short recap: depending on how you interpret the tragery of Todd family, as a very little kid Jason either witnessed his semi-normal family ruining itself or he never knew the normality of it at all. then, his father gets in jail, and Jason is left all alone with his sick, addicted mother that needs to be taken care of. at this point, he is not even ten, btw. he needs to take care of himself, of Catherine, to get money somehow, to find drugs for his mother because there is no alternative unless he wants her to die. in the search of money, it is very implied that Jason goes through the hell; surely, we all understand what it means. eventually, his mother dies. he witnesses it, holds her dead body, begging her to wake up. from there, his life on the streets start - and it is nowhere near kind. his three happy years with Bruce end up quickly, leaving him thinking that Bruce disowned him, and he is scared to be back on the streets. he finds his biological mother, and she betrays him. he dies, dies in pain and terror, betrayed. he wakes up in his own coffin, dugs himself out, breaking all his fingers. his body must have hurt immensely from all previous injuries, and yet, he crawls out. gets hit by a car and thrown on the streets again. he is catatonic, surviving on the streets for six months or so, all alone, just feeling constant pain and fear. then, Talia picks him up. eventually dips down in the Pit. his life doesn't get better from there, too. he remains unavenged, and from his point of perspective, discarded and made nothing but a bad story for future kids. his father instantly disowns him after his return, and throws batarang in his neck, slicing it, almost killing him (or killing him, actually, depending on your idea of what happened). and... and after that his life doesn't really fix itself either? you choose your next comic to rely on, but in the most of it he constantly gets jumped by his brothers, smashed around like a rag doll by Bruce, etc, etc. i would argue that it is a lot to happen to a person. especially, to a kid. because by the end of it, Jason is not even older than twenty-five, going through all of it.

fans love exploring his mental health issues, and it is very valid. especially, when comics ignore it completely or blame him for his own traumas. half of comics with Jason, also, have a classist undertone - they treat him like a dog and a rabid animal just because he was grown in the Park Row. writers victimblame him constantly for everything. so, idk about victimising, really.

i do agree that Jason's portrayal in the fanon is not always correct, though, either varying between making him some kind of rude, obnoxious idiot with only anger motivating him or a complete whump without personality which simply takes all complexity of a character from him, but then again, fanon being very different from canon is always a thing... everywhere, tbh.

he is the og brat, though. love him for it.

[writesvani]

Dear Me | 01

lawyer!jungkook x privatechef!reader

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, college began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

TWs (for this chapter): nostalgia, lost friendships, unrequited love, emotional pain, longing, drifting apart, past relationships, smoking (cigarettes), self-destructive habits, regret, emotional detachment, loneliness, unresolved feelings, reminiscing about the past, bittersweet memories

AN: okay so first of all, THIS FIC IS MY BABY. my pride and joy. my magnum opus. my chef’s kiss MWAH. i have birthed it with my own two hands (don’t question the anatomy of that sentence, just roll with it). i have been so deep in writing characters that make you go hmm. questionable. concerning. ma’am, do you need therapy? that i just CRAVED writing someone to actually root for. and thus, this fic was born. and i love it. i love it so much.

writing this was an emotional rollercoaster. like, HELLO?? nostalgia just drop-kicked me in the chest. it is actually insane how little we remember of our own lives, like??? the fact that our past selves could be out there scheming, writing weird emails to our future selves, and we’d have NO IDEA?? terrifying and also very on brand.

anyway, i cannot WAIT for you guys to see the other chapters. i am so giddy about this fic you don’t even understand. i feel like a mad scientist cackling in the middle of the night. ugh. okay that’s all.

and yes, i listened to A LOT of Taylor Swift, Olivia Rodrigo and Billie Eilish writing this. 🩷

LOVE YOU, BYE!

CHAPTER INDEX

next chapter (pending...)

CHAPTER ONE; Me VS. Me happy reading my gummies...

wc: 3k

date: 18th of March 2025

time: 00:05am, CET (GMT +1)

Memories are like bruises. They cling to you, pressing into your skin, carving themselves deep until they feel permanent. They settle in, making a home in you—for an unknown amount of time. But slowly, they fade. Day by day, they grow lighter, less sharp, until finally—nothing remains. And it’s as if they were never there at all.

By the time a human gently touches the edge of eighty, they will have lived nearly thirty thousand days. Yet, the ones they truly remember—the ones that weave their strings into the soul’s net—are only a few hundred, perhaps a few thousand.

We are born. We grow. We build connections. And yet, most of them dissolve with time. The light dims. The ties loosen. The voices fade into echoes. But sometimes, even when everything else is lost, the love we once shared lingers. A flame—small as the ember of a dying cigarette—still flickers, waiting, hoping to ignite once more.

Sometimes, the flame never reignites. The memory remains, vivid yet stagnant, sinking deep into the depths of our being but refusing to bloom again.

Other times, love and memory return like a hurricane—familiar knocks pounding at the door, relentless, inescapable.

And in your case—it comes right back, sitting pretty in your inbox. Letter after letter of who you used to be years ago, wrapping around you like a mother’s embrace. And you don’t want to let go.

Checking your email after work is a daily, unskippable ritual—like the scent of morning coffee, the kind that melts down your throat, the kind that holds you in its warmth. Like tying your shoes, a habit that clings to you ever since you first learned how to do it on your own.

Today is no different. You come home, drop your bags onto the first clean surface you can find, and eat the leftovers from the meal you made for your client. Thank God she lets you take them home.

Even though cooking is your passion—even though you live for the alchemy of flavors, for the way warmth blooms in someone’s chest at the first bite—working as a private chef is exhausting. Every single day, new dishes, new expectations, new demands. You love it. You really do. And you’re grateful that your passion pays the bills. But the last thing you want to do when you get home is cook.

Because who in their right mind brings their work home, right?

So you eat the leftovers.

You throw yourself onto your beige couch—the one your mom got you for a suspiciously low price when you bought your apartment.

You stretch like a lazy cat basking in the sunlight, tilting your head until your neck cracks just enough to be satisfying. A deep yawn escapes your lips as you open your laptop.

Specks of dust scatter across the keyboard, forming unrecognizable patterns. You trace a finger through them, leaving a clear trail behind.

Hm.

You’ll wipe it later. Right now, you're too tired.

It’s time to check your emails.

Nothing unusual—job offers scattered here and there, a local bookstore announcing a sale (you’ll definitely order something later), and an overpriced ceramic china set practically handed to you on a golden plate. You toy with the hem of your shirt, debating.

You’ll probably never use it, but it’d be great for special occasions—family gatherings, maybe? You can already picture the jealous grimaces of your distant aunts, their forced smiles twisting at the edges.

Yeah, it’s worth the money.

And then.

Then.

An email.

From you.

Not in your sent folder. Not a draft you forgot about. Right there, sitting patiently in your inbox, mocking you to your face—an email from yourself.

To you.

Your eyebrows knit together as you chew your bottom lip.

What the hell?

Your eyes squint lightly, adjusting to the glow of the screen as it lulls the darkness of your bedroom into sleep. Your breath comes out in gentle puffs.

Then, a chill runs down your spine.

Your palms suddenly feel damp—sweat pooling, clinging. You wipe them hastily on your shirt.

It can’t be. Can it?

You were sure—100% sure—it was a scam.

The sketchy service you paid for when you stole your mom’s credit card at fourteen (earning yourself a lengthy monologue about delinquent behavior) was a scam. It had to be.

But right there, on the screen, words are waiting for you.

Scattered across the desktop, glowing in the dim light. Staring back.

So you read.

"Dear Me,”

You blink.

"By the time you're reading this, you're 28. Jesus Christ, if you're even still alive, you're so old. How does being a granny feel? LOL. Just kidding. I know you're in your prime (or at least I hope so).

So, I don’t know if this is even going to work. A part of me is sure this is a scam, but hey—gotta stay optimistic, right?"

A small smirk tugs at your lips.

Optimistic, huh? Always was, always will be. Or at least, you try to be.

You take a slow sip of the green tea you made after dinner, letting it glide smoothly down your throat. Lately, it has felt as if you're rediscovering life—unraveling its meaning all over again.

And from the words of little you, it seems like nothing has changed.

A quiet chuckle escapes as you keep reading, a small smile still lingering on your face.

"Anyways, how are we, girl?

There are so many things I want to ask you, but I know I won’t get the answers until I become you. Still, I have to ask, okay? Please be patient with me.

First of all—are we a chef? Please tell me we are.

Ever since we went to Italy with Mom and Dad last summer, we’ve been obsessed with food. You remember that kind grandpa who taught us the perfect Bolognese recipe? You know, the one we completely wrecked the kitchen trying to recreate at home? Seriously, Mom was so mad at us—she’s such a drama queen, I swear.

But I’ll keep trying for you. I don’t want to let my future self down."

A soft chuckle slips from your lips as you let the memories bloom—that summer in Italy, when everything changed.

The moment you realized: this is it. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

You remember it all.

Your hands, stained deep red from the fresh tomatoes you and that kind grandpa had picked at the local market. The rich scent of the sauce bubbling on the stove. The way he spoke about Italian food as if it were as vital as nuclear physics—and to you, it was. It is. It always will be.

You remember the countless times you destroyed your kitchen, basking in the mess, determined to get it right. You remember failing. Again. And again.

And then—finally—succeeding.

Your heart swells, beating against the quiet of the room.

You did it.

You tried. And tried. And tried.

And in the end—you made the Bolognese perfectly.

After that, you gave your dream the life it always deserved.

"But if you realized you wanted to do something else with your life, that’s okay—I forgive you.

As long as we’re doing something we truly love, I approve."

Typical you. Always reassuring yourself.

Your heart clenches at the thought of your younger self, sitting at her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes bright with excitement. So full of life. So alive. So imperfectly perfect—even though she never thought she was.

"So, tomorrow is the first day of high school, and I—or you, or we, whatever—I’M SO EXCITED OMG!!!"

You can practically hear the urgency behind the words, feel the restless energy of a girl who thought this was the most important night of her life.

"It’s time to meet new people and make new friendships and I can’t wait. I’m literally writing this because I can’t sleep #soexcited."

High school.

You don’t think about your first day much. Of all the roads you’ve traveled, all the moments that shaped you, this has never been one you revisited.

But seeing it now—her, you, how much it meant to her—

It hits.

A wave of nostalgia crashes over you, cold and sharp, like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head.

"And of course, the AWESOMEST fact in the universe: Jungkook is going to the same school as me (I mean us. This shit is very confusing, okay?).

Oh wait—he just sent me a text on FB. He can’t sleep either. RIP.

We’re taking all the same classes, which means WE’RE GONNA BE DESK MATES. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT???”

You swallow hard.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about him.

Because not thinking about Jeon Jungkook is impossible.

A ghost of him lingers in you—always there, just beneath the surface.

But it is simply as it is.

He was your best friend. He isn’t anymore.

Life happened. It pulled you apart. So you shouldn’t dwell on it.

But you see her—your younger self, in the back of your mind.

A huge grin stretched across her face, fingers flying over the keyboard as she texts Jungkook about the first day of high school.

Her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

Unspoken words pressing against her ribs.

And suddenly, the memory surges back—sharp, vivid, uninvited.

The way she loved him.

The way she was in love with him.

A reminder you didn’t need. A reminder you don’t want.

“And by the way, since so many years have passed—I gotta ask.

Are we maybe married to Kook? Dating him?

Did we confess?

Did he… like us back?”

You inhale sharply, fingertips drifting to your lips—a bad habit, a nervous tell.

“I don’t know how I imagine that story turning out.”

“Did he reject us?”

A pause.

“If he did, how did we survive that?”

You exhale. Slowly. Deeply.

“I can’t imagine that embarrassment. Ugh.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

“But there’s a small flicker of hope inside of me that maybe… he confessed or maybe he likes us back, I don’t know”

A flicker.

Something you never snuffed out completely, no matter how much time passed.

“I guess, a small part of me thinks there’s a chance for Jungkook and us.”

“…But I’m not sure.”

Your fingers press harder against your lips, picking even harder, edges of your teeth pulling at the skin inside of your mouth.She sounds so young.

So immature and mature all at once—the messy contradiction of early adulthood.

But mostly?

She sounds hopeful.

Hopeful in a way you no longer are.

She really thought there would be a time for the two of you. Jungkook and you.

And maybe there was.

Maybe, in a parallel universe.

But not this one.

This one is real. This one is raw.

And you survived.

She thought she would perish without him.

But you’re still here.

Standing. Breathing. Living.

And for that, you’re proud of yourself.

Proud for growing out of it.

Proud for learning how to exist without depending on anyone else.

For being whole on your own.

And yet—your jaw clenches. Your throat tightens.

Because maybe, just maybe, a small part of you didn’t survive.

The part that was hopelessly, utterly, and completely in love with the boy you used to call your best friend.

Some wounds are better left untouched.

But this?

Reading this feels masochistic and beautiful at the same time.

It compels you.

You have to remember more.

You sigh.

But you still have to continue torturing yourself, so you drag your eyes back to the words.

“Even if nothing happened with Kook, even if you fell out of love with him—which I find impossible, because CMON, there’s no love if it isn’t written in Jungkook cursive. But if you did fall out of love by some miracle, I know that you guys are still bestest friends in the whole universe.”

Your fingers tense around the edge of your laptop.

Bestest friends in the whole universe.

You inhale sharply, but it does nothing to steady you.

“I know he’s still a part of our story.”

A hollow feeling burrows itself into your chest.

“Tell me, what does he do for a living? Is he a drummer, like he always dreamed of being?”

Your breath stutters.

Drummer.

A dream that stayed exactly what it was.

A dream.

“He told me last night he’s gonna ink himself in a year or two—AND do A BROW PIERCING.”

A pause.

Your lips twitch.

“His mom is gonna tweak out, like HELLO! But he’s gonna be so hot I simply can’t even debate on this—I have to support him.”

A quiet chuckle leaves you before you can stop it.

“He’s so wild in his own dreams, I always feel the need to chase after him.”

Your throat tightens.

Because once, you did.

Once, there was a time you couldn’t imagine a day without him.

And now?

You press a palm to your forehead, massaging the dull ache forming at your temples. Your heart hammers painfully, and suddenly, you're craving nicotine like it's the only thing tethering you to the present.

Jungkook.

Jungkook.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips—dry, pale, bitten raw.

A memory flickers.

Jungkook, terrified at the tattoo parlor.

Your fingers intertwined with his, grounding him.

You—blushing furiously—as the tattoo artist pulled his shirt up, exposing the smooth skin of his ribs.

You were seventeen then, sneaking into some shady tattoo shop where minors passed as adults. No IDs. Just cash and a little recklessness.

But you wrote this at fourteen.

Fourteen-year-old you didn’t know yet.

She didn’t know that Jungkook would get his ethereal skin inked, his brow pierced. Well she didn’t know for sure. But Jungkook hoped to do so and young her, young you believed in him.

She didn’t know that some dreams don’t survive the weight of reality.

Because Jungkook never became a drummer.

The boy who once swore he’d live off the sound of drumsticks against cymbals had to chase something bigger.

A career.

A paycheck.

A better life.

And in that chase—your friendship, the thing younger you was so sure would last forever—

It got carried away.

Somewhere far.

With him.

You bring a cigarette to your lips and take a slow, deliberate drag. The smoke curls around you like a ghost—familiar, haunting, inescapable. It carves itself deep into your lungs, settles in your bones like something meant to stay.

“UGH, mom is yelling at me to go to sleep.”

You exhale, watching the smoke dissipate.

“I’ll be back soon tho, I know you already miss younger you, haha.”

A dry chuckle catches in your throat.

Do you?

Do you really?

“I’m gonna be sending you one email a week for a year through this service, so I’M TOTALLY gonna remind you of our first year of high school.”

Your fingers tighten around the cigarette.

A year.

She’s going to be here for a year.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll steal Dad’s credit card next time so I can pay for another year.”

A scoff pulls at your lips.

Typical.

“I’m unpredictable like that.”

The corner of your mouth twitches.

Yeah, she was.

“For now, I love you.”

A pause. You take a deep breath.

“Past You, Me, or Us (IM NOT SURE).”

Your teeth clench.

You take another pull of nicotine. The taste is bitter, but you let it linger anyway.

You forgot about this.

About her.

About the fact that the emails will keep coming—one after another, a relentless flood of memories you didn’t ask for.

And now?

Now, it all crashes down on you.

A tidal wave of long-buried memories of fourteen-year-old you, giddy and unfiltered, pouring her thoughts into emails, fingers flying over the keyboard like they couldn’t keep up with her excitement.

She had no idea.

No idea what was coming.

No idea who she and Jungkook would become.

How aparat they would be.

A low groan rumbles from your chest.

Why did you do this to yourself?

You hover over the keyboard.

Your stomach twists.

Your mind screams at you to block the emails. To delete them. To wipe them out before they reopen wounds you’ve spent years ignoring.

But your fingers never move.

Because it feels wrong.

Because deleting them feels like deleting her.

And even if you don’t recognize some parts of her anymore, she was still you.

To erase her would be to erase everything you used to be.

And that?

That would be the real betrayal.

You shut the laptop with a scoff.

The sound echoes through the empty apartment, lingering in the silence. Your feet move on their own, carrying you to the shower. You don’t think. You just go.

By the time you step inside, the water is already scorching hot. You let it burn. Let it sear into your skin, as if heat alone can strip away the weight of forgotten memories.

But it doesn’t.

It clings to you, sticks to your bones like something too deep to scrub away.

Because it’s not dirt.

It’s the truth.

And it won’t leave—not even when you wrap yourself in fresh clothes and sink into the soft cushions of your bed.

Your fingers move on instinct, pulling out your phone, scrolling through Instagram stories. You’re not really looking for anything. But then you see it.

He posted something.

Your breath catches.

It’s the sky.

A sunset.

Splatters of red and orange melt together, the sun shyly emigrating between earth and sky.

You stare.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you click on his profile. Something unnameable courses through your veins.

Is it nostalgia?

The longing for a friendship that no longer exists?

Is it simply missing him?

Your best friend?

Your chest tightens.

You tap on the chat option.

And there it is.

A string of messages.

Nothing devastating.

Just… usual.

A cycle of: "Happy Birthday, I love you so much," and "Thank youu, love you too."A chain of story reactions. That’s all that’s left of you two.

Your grip on the phone tightens.

Is this really it?

Is this what you’ve become?

Two people who once built a universe together, now reduced to annual birthday wishes and the occasional double tap?

It’s mocking you.

Because Jungkook and you—you were never just usual.

You were everything.

The chaos and the calm.

The storm and the warmth of sunlight on a rainy day.

The scent of rain, the comfort of old books, the hush of midnight talks.

You were everything.

And now?

Now you’re nothing.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

A part of you—the reckless part—wants to send something. Wants to test the waters, see if there’s still something left to salvage. But then reality crashes down, heavy and suffocating.

You curse yourself under your breath.

Rekindling something out of the blue—who does that?

Not now.

Maybe another time.

Or maybe…

Maybe this is simply how it’s supposed to be.

Locked away.

Tucked inside your heart.

Safe from the ache of all the what could have beens.

Yeah.

It’s better this way.

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