#and that he had to exist all alone for like 100 years :)

[buckets-and-trees]

This is pure self-serving, but can you share some thots or bites about tattoo artist slash tattoo shop owner Steve from Obsidian Stain & Sin?

I still remember that line that he loves to work the front as much as the back 👀🤭

well

I had someday intentions of sharing Tattoo Artist Steve's story, I just didn't know that day was going to be today. But when I started typing up some thots about him, the muse said, no...

YOU GET STORYTIME

Like Real People Do [Obsidian Stain & Sin]

Characters/Pairings: tattoo artist!Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 3.5k Summary: The owner of Obsidian Stain & Sin has his sights - and his heart - set on someone. And he has had for a very long time.

Content/Warnings: tattooing/needles, friends to lovers, fluff

Author Notes: While this exists within the Obsidian Stain & Sin verse, there is NO NEED WHATSOEVER to have read any of that series to read this - it's 100% a stand-alone.

Three years.

You’ve owned the bakery a block away from Steve’s tattoo parlor for three years. Freshly baked bread and pastries in the morning and offering sandwiches and desserts through the afternoon for lunch service.

Steve has had his place in this neighborhood downtown for almost nine years. He wasn’t the first in the area, but he and the other business owners really showed up to support each other and build a bustling and vibrant area for the local community, the kind of place where you really have a group regulars, people who feel like they belong. Familiar faces even if not everyone knows your name.

So of course he’d been there for your grand opening.

And he’s been there almost every day since.

Everything you made was good, you kept a friendly staff, and it was all fair pricing—fair to you and fair to the customers.

But it wasn’t the crullers or croissants or even the goddamn Italian grinder on focaccia that kept him coming back. It was you. The breeze-in-the-door, flour-on-your-elbow, permanent half-exasperation-half-kindness etched onto your face, you.

He had been so drawn in by how you interacted with everyone. He had almost been skeptical of it at first because you were nice to everyone the same way. Not flirty per se, but buoyant, capable of making anyone—stuffy old lawyers, the construction crews in Carhartts, the hungover art students—feel cared about in the extremely brief window they interacted with you. Steve liked to think he wasn’t a sucker for that kind of thing, but here he was: a sucker, on the hook, and you didn’t have a clue.

You were friendly as hell with your regulars, that was true. But you were flirtatious—almost aggressively so—with every single one of them except Steve, whom you treated with something so close to total neutrality it had become a running joke, and yet he sometimes wanted to tip the pastry case over from sheer frustration.

He’d seen you ask the UPS driver if he’d modeled for their calendar, shoot finger guns at the tow truck lady and tell her she “looks like she can handle any kind of heavy machinery,” compliment the city inspector’s mustache, and wink at a grandma with such easy, unpretentious charm the air sparkled around you. Meanwhile, you’d slide a mug of coffee his way with a smile so mild and familial Steve sometimes checked his arms for the label reading “brother” you must surely see when you looked at him.

Maybe he’d grown soft in his late thirties. He was a long way from sneaking into clubs with fake ID’s and joyriding tattoo machines over his own knuckles. He’d traded in the tough-kid sneer for business owner’s collected-ness, for rolling out the appointment books and chatting roof repairs with his landlord, even for sitting through Sunday markets week after week with you as you went from stall to stall.

Not that that was any kind of chore.

No, the only thing that made your weekly tradition a true torture was that he couldn’t twine his fingers with yours or put his hand on the small of your back while the two of you made the rounds. But he wouldn’t give up those trips for anything. It was the time when the two of you got to talk about real things, where you went from friends to best friends. The place where you’d shared once that you took over the lease on this place because nothing else made sense after your mom died, that the ritual of mixing and stirring and proofing was the thing that helped you feel connected to her since you’d done so much baking with her growing up.

The way you’d said it—casually, like a punchline to a dumb joke—had stuck to him ever since: “I used to think I’d be an engineer, and now I fold dough like it’s a religion. Mom would laugh her ass off.” He’d wanted to reach for you then, but you were already three strides ahead, drifting toward the honey vendor.

He didn’t know if you realized how much you let him in, even as you left him out. Sometimes he caught you watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking, but the minute your eyes met, you’d toss him a snarky remark and breeze away, leaving an invisible cord attached to his chest.

So it made sense, in its own way, that when Steve’s dog died, you were the one who managed to talk him out of being stoic about it.

He’d mentioned it only in passing—“Yeah, lost her last night. She was old”—but you’d read the extra tightness in his jaw and marched yourself around the counter, grabbed his elbow, and told him, “I need a second set of hands in the kitchen. No, I don’t care if you’re good at it.” You deposited him in front of a thirty-pound sack of flour. Twenty minutes later, up to your elbows in wet dough, you handed him a wad and said, “Punch it, real hard,” so he did, and he cried a little, and you punched it too, and said, “She was a good dog.” You talked about his mutt for two hours while prepping for the next day’s bake.

Even after that, the next morning, you handed over his coffee in that same noncommittal, platonic style and told him to “try not to spill it.”

He’d been through enough relationships to know when someone wasn’t interested—god, had he ever—but, like a stubborn weed, hope kept growing sideways through the cracks. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he just needed to cut to the core of you. Maybe nobody tried. Maybe nobody lasted beyond the coffee smell and the hard mornings and the rising up at dawn.

Three years of best-friending it.

Steve had been dating someone when he first met you, but that had run its course and ended a few months later. You had been dating someone pretty seriously until a year ago when it crashed out in a blaze of epic proportions that you had needed time to move on from.

But now…

Well, maybe it was still not time, but Bucky had raked him over the coals, yet again, for continuing to stay on the sidelines.

So today is it.

Today he will ask you to go to dinner with him.

It’s a Tuesday, which means the shop will be slow enough by three that you’ll let your one of your reliable midday employees close.

Steve shows up at quarter to, trying not to hover while you count the till. The place is nearly empty except for one guy scrolling a phone over an untouched scone. You are hunting coins under the register when you say, “Hey. You got a sec?”

It is not at all what he’d planned, because suddenly you are the one doing the asking, voice serious, and he is off-balance enough to just follow you through the kitchen, down the warped-tile hallway lined with racks of cooling cookies, and out the heavy back door to the alley.

Behind the bakery, the city’s hum is muffled by dumpsters and the ancient brick walls, a secret place infused with the warm yeast smell and the drip of the condenser. You turn, arms folded, pinning him with a look that banishes any notion of easy banter.

“I have a weird favor to ask,” and he tries to hide how his heart just leapt, because even if it wasn’t what he hoped, being needed is pretty much all he wants, in any form. “Don’t laugh, but I need a tattoo. Like, right away.”

He blinks. “Yeah, that’s—actually, that’s not weird at all. I am a tattoo artist.”

You give a sharp laugh, then take in a deep breath before slowly exhaling. “It’s kind of for my mom. I know, very basic. I just… every year I think I’ll finally do something about it. Then the anniversary comes and I can’t decide on anything. But this morning I just… I think I know what I want. Can you fit me in this afternoon?”

“Absolutely,” he said, quickly. “You don’t even have to ask. We can go now.”

You tugged the sleeves of your shirt down over your wrists, suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t want it to be a big thing, though. I don’t want everyone in the shop to see me cry like an idiot.”

He almost told you, right there, that he’d never thought you could be an idiot if you tried, but instead he said, “We’ll do it upstairs. Private room. I’ll lock the door, threaten to murder anyone who knocks. You can ugly-cry all you want, I promise.”

You smiled. “If I cry, you’re fired as my friend.”

“I accept those terms,” he said solemnly, but something lighter bloomed in your expression and he wanted to keep it going, to keep you right here with him, right now.

You shifted from one foot to the other. “So, do you want me to come with you now, or… Oh, you came here first! Did you want something? We can take it to go—”

Steve reached out and squeezed your arm, awkward with how casual it felt but very aware of the heat in your skin. "Naw, I’m not hungry now, but maybe later…” he hedged. Dinner after a tattoo would be a natural potential bridge to a next or something more, but this was more important. “Let’s do this for you first.”

Conversation on the walk over to Obsidian is easy between the two of you. A few of the guys say hello as Steve walks you past their stations and to the back to head upstairs, but to their intuition and credit, none of them make a fuss. They might all suspect, but only Bucky knows that you hang the sun and moon for him.

It’s a narrow flight to the second floor, freshly painted but with old bannister rails, and the studio up here is like entering a greenhouse at dusk—half-shaded by big ferns, incense from the main shop drifting up, dust motes floating in lazy parabola, tattered sketchbooks on the shelves. He’s used it only for the clients who can’t abide by the patter or music of the downstairs crowd. Some part of him is always startled by how peaceful it feels after the buzz and bustle of downstairs.

He pulls out his supplies and sets up his station with the ease of a thousand repetitions, and you just sit, perched on the edge of the armchair, collecting your words.

“I want a strawberry,” you blurt, the minute the silence stretches a touch too long. “On my inside arm, like here.” You point to the vulnerable pale spot above your elbow, the skin everyone calls ‘the kiss’ because it smarts the most.

Steve cracks a smile. “Not a rolling pin, or a whisk, or a Mom heart?”

You shake your head, serious. “She used to put half a strawberry on my cereal every morning, even when we were broke, even when I was too old for doting on.”

“You’re never too old to be doted on,” he says immediately, wondering who made you feel that way, wanting to dote on you for the rest of your life.

His nostrils flare at that thought because, sure, it’s probably true, but he hasn’t even taken you to dinner yet. When he looks up, you’re biting your lip.

There’s another beat of silence, and then you blink, and say, “So, I want it small. Maybe here?” You point at the exact spot inside of your left elbow, so close to the vein.

He leans in, careful, and the air between you grows electric. You’ve given him this moment, so he mustn’t fuck it up—he commits your pointing fingertip and the angle of your arm to memory, because the giving of a tattoo is as much about trust as design.

“Strawberry,” he murmurs, “tastefully tiny, right there.” His hand hovers, not quite touching, respectful of boundaries you never invited him past. “Do you want leaves? Seeds? A little flower?” He’s listening, but his pencil is already skittering across thin tracing paper with deft, sure lines.

You consider. “Maybe just the berry. Like it’s about to be eaten, but not yet. The anticipation.”

He nods, continuing to sketch: a pop of red, a sliver of green leaf, the pale seeded dots. “I can do that. Color, or—?”

“Color,” you say, and then, dropping your shoulder, add, “Obnoxiously bright. Cartoonish, even.”

He laughs, “I can do that.” You’re watching his hands, and he wonders if you can see how steady they are despite the tremor that comes with being near you like this.

He sketches in silence for a minute, and then holds the design up.

“That’s it,” you say. “That’s her,” and you crack a laugh.

He laughs, and busies his hands with the ritual: gloves, ink caps, needle packets, a small array of rainbow inks, and some washable ink pens to do a quick freehand of the design on your skin before he makes it permanent.

He’s never been nervous to tattoo anyone, but his hands feel too big now, too clumsy all of a sudden. But when he marks the spot, rounds the perfect oval red and gives it poppy green leaves and a stem, your arm does not flinch away. You prop your chin on the opposite palm and let him work, letting out an occasional warm, shaky breath.

You say, finally, “My mom had one on her ankle. Not a strawberry, but a little flower. She got it in the seventies and it looked like a bruise most of the time. She hated it, but she never covered it up.”

He keeps his head down, the machine a hum in the soft air. “Because it was a memory?”

You nod. “Because it was what made her different from all the other moms in our suburb. Even if she never wore skirts.”

The needle makes a short, sweet whine as he inks the tiny shape to your skin. You watch, not blinking. He wants to joke that you can look away, but something in the set of your jaw makes him respect it, so he lets you watch. At the last line of green, your eyes glass a little but you don’t brush it away, don’t make a sound.

After he blots it and wipes it down, you hold your arm up and flex, then stare at the tiny bandage like it’s a miracle. “It’s perfect,” you say, and your smile—unfiltered, raw—swells some private, breakable thing in Steve’s chest.

You don’t say anything for a minute, then, “I can’t tell if I’m about to cry or laugh.”

He grins, peels off his gloves, and lets himself look at you. “You can do both. It’s allowed.”

And you didn’t need his permission, but it’s like him saying it allows you to release all the feeling—excitement, nostalgia, longing, contentment, being singularly still for so long—and you laugh and cry. “I said crying would get you fired as my friend though.”

Steve considers for half a heartbeat, but it’s too perfect a shot not to take it.

“Maybe it’s about damn time.”

“What?” you blink up at him.

“No more friends. I want more. With you,” Steve says. The words are airless, nothing like he planned or how he’d ever said anything to anyone, but the rawness of your eyes and the trembling in your hands make him think maybe this is the only way to say something like that. The only way to be true.

The light shifting through the upstairs window fractures across your face, and your mouth is rounded in a little surprise. Steve’s stomach somersaults as you wrap your arms around your own ribcage, like you’re trying to keep all the words inside.

He says, gently, “Sorry. Too much. Ignore me if you—”

But you cut him off with a snort that is half delight, half incredulity. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

He laughs, unoffended, but also uncertain and caught off guard. “What?”

“Of course I want more with you. How could you not know that?”

Steve coughs out a laugh, equal parts stunned and relieved, and rubs his hand over his bearded jaw. “You never flirted with me,” he says, and the words, spoken out loud, sound a little sad, a little foolish. But he has to say them. “Not once. I thought I was, you know, on your ‘good neighbor’ list. Like, honorary grandma status.”

You stare at him, incredulity turning your face to something vivid. “Steve, you absolute moron. I flirt with everyone because I don’t care if I ever see them again. You’re the only one I couldn’t pull that with. You’re my best friend.” There’s a hush in your voice, suddenly vulnerable. “And what if I screwed it up?”

He lets that sink in. The shape of your logic is so backwards it makes perfect sense. “I’m scared of screwing it up too,” he says. “It’s terrifying to want one thing, one person, more than you want to even breathe.”

You both go silent again, this time full of an almost giddy electricity, nervous and new.

You stand up. It looks like maybe you’re about to pace. Instead you circle around his worktable and come to stand in front of him. He plants both of his hands on your waist, bringing you in closer, and your hands go softly to his shoulders. You’re searching his face for a sign, one last double-check that he means it, and he tries to meet you—steady, open, unafraid.

“I think I need you to kiss me now,” you say, and Steve nearly laughs because that’s what he’s wanted to do for at least two solid years.

He does. Careful at first—he may be a tattoo artist, but this is a more delicate first touch than any needle to skin. Your lips are soft and earnest, matching his own hunger.

He doesn’t let go, not for a while. When you finally separate, you’re both smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Wow,” you say. “You’re a pro at that, too?”

He shrugs, mock casual. “I do my best.”

“Is this what you were planning when you came to the shop today?”

He looks at you, all artifice gone. “Honestly? I was going to ask you to have dinner with me. But maybe we can go beyond that, now.”

“No,” you say firmly, and lower yourself to sit on his thigh, his arms still around you, “I definitely want dinner,” you insist. “I’m starving.”

He grins. “Fair enough, but then afterwards, maybe I show you what else I’m a pro at.”

“Oh, are there more sketchbooks at your house?”

He laughs. “No, you little menace. Well, there are, but that’s not,” he stops himself and shakes his head. Then he gives you a scrutinizing look. “Awfully bold, assuming I’m taking you back to my place already tonight. We haven’t even gone on a first date yet.”

You pluck a tattoo pen off his table and poke his chest before he can finish the thought, and he grins wider, snatching it easily from your hands.

“We’ve had basically three years of dates, Steve. I think we can skip a formality or two.” You hold his gaze, and it’s like you’ve both been set loose from something: the orbit of expectation, the inertia of being just friends. “I want you, Steve. All the time. And I want grilled cheese.”

He runs both hands up your arms, careful to miss the fresh wrap, and shakes his head in mock exasperation. “You’re an impossible woman,” he says. “But I am bringing you home tonight. And I’ll even make grilled cheese.”

“With raspberry jam,” you say.

He shakes his head, familiar with your quirky love of that salty and sweet pairing. “Not strawberry?” he asks.

“Nope, raspberry is the top tier choice. And a bit of mustard.”

“Mustard?” he scoffs. “When did you discover this?”

“Take me home and maybe I’ll tell you the glorious tale, Rogers.”

“Deal,” he says, then pulls you in for another kiss, the best and only way he wants to seal it.

I've known the shape of Steve's story for a long time. I don't know why I didn't write it sooner, but when I saw this early this morning, it just sort of captured my day and spilled out here, and I'm so glad it did!

And I think we might see a little more of them... if we'd like that.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest Chris Evans Characters Collection

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[ticktockmyclockworkhart]

Okay starving dorky Hector enjoyer fluff nation, I’m like halfway through my current fic but I’m SUPER rusty on fic writing, college put all of that on hold for like four years so talk to me babes, tell me what you think my darlins, I will continue chipping away at this beast of a fic that doesn’t need to be such a beast <3

Btw this fic is intended to be for a male reader, as I am a gay man. I’m sorry girlies. The boys hunger for content </3

FIC PREVIEW BELOW!! IT IS NOT DONE YET!!

At the start of spring, you’d received the Dateviators.

Everything flew by in a blur after that, all season long. Love, friendship… maybe a bit of hate��� somehow all culminating in at least 100 people moving out of your house (you had no idea they’d even been living there) to go live their best human lives.

All but one, that is.

You can hear the steady sound of pacing from upstairs as you sit at your desk. You sigh and smile to yourself, looking at the vent on the wall.

There was no longer a mysterious, husky-voiced stranger with soft hands and even softer eyes who would appear behind the grate. Only a week ago you were holding his hands through the grate, listening to him talk about what he would do with his new human life when he was Realized, while you silently prepared for the possibility that he might leave and never come back when it happened.

Another set of footsteps from upstairs.

You don’t know why you were worried. Why would the man who pined in the shadows with all his heart as he watched you exist on a plane he should have never been able to reach himself ever leave you behind? No, Hector had indeed begun to live his own human life like all the other household items did—but he had been determined to spend it with you.

Things had been going well for the last week. Hector was very hesitantly leaving the house, almost always with you, but on the rare occasions he wandered out alone he often came back with a spark in his eye and a hundred new creative ideas he was ready to tell you about. Just the other day, he’d discovered a small, local costume shop in town and had been absolutely taken by the ornate, handmade masks he’d found there. He was telling you all about wanting to make one of his own, how he loved the idea of what a mask like that could do for his own self-expression…

Then the summer heat set in, and Hector had seemingly forgotten all his creative pursuits.

You can hear him pace the floor upstairs yet again. It’s a clear pattern he has. The bedroom. Four minutes. The bathroom. Four minutes. The gym. Four minutes. The attic. Nine minutes. Back to the bedroom again, and the cycle begins anew. He’s been at it for nearly two hours. Occasionally, between the attic and the bedroom, he’d end up downstairs and stare at the thermostat like he wanted to burn a hole through it.

The AC was very steadily driving him batty.

It was hard to tell what the inner life of any object was like, and what it was like doing… object things, if those tasks were difficult, or perhaps just second nature. But in Hector’s case, he apparently ran a very tight ship. If heating and cooling were natural or simple functions, there was some kind of art to doing them correctly—an art which the now very inanimate HVAC unit had no respect for.

You hadn’t anticipated it being that big of a deal to him, but when he passed by the living room and saw you fanning yourself with a magazine after merely moving the laundry basket downstairs, he looked like he was about to cry.

Even when you’d tried to stop him and get him to talk about what had him so antsy, he wouldn’t pause. That was when you’d realized it was serious—when did Hector not have something to say, good with words as he was?

You tried asking him what had him so bothered. You got a half-answer: “Oh, my love, it’s just too hot, I need to…” and then he scurried off.

You followed him around for a while to see what he was looking at, if there was anything you could help him with. He’d just go from vent to vent, then the central machine in the attic, all of which looked nothing but normal to you. But clearly he was something you weren’t, and he was growing uncharacteristically agitated until he noticed you shadowing him, and he immediately turned meek before he shooed you away. “Go sit down, my love, p-please! Take things easy!”

You asked again—this time, direct, about what was wrong with the AC to him. If last time was a half answer, what you got next was a quarter-answer. Hector just shook his head, running a hand through his hair and mumbled: “don’t worry, I’m—I’m taking care of it…” before wandering off again.

You’re beginning to worry the only thing that could stop this is physically grabbing him and forcing him to sit down and relax , but that option seems far too risky. Poor Hector wouldn’t appreciate being manhandled; he might even spiral harder if you have to hold him down like that.

You glance over to the foyer when you hear him coming down the stairs. His shirt is off now. Oh Hector.

“Hector,” you begin, standing up from the couch. “Baby, why’d you take your shirt off?”

Hector looks at you, his face blotchy and red. “I-Isn’t it… isn’t it hot in here?” he panted.

You furrow your brow. “I mean, it feels pretty normal. It is summer, so it’s a bit toasty, but not—“

“You don’t need to spare my feelings!” he snaps. “It’s bad, I know it’s unbearable! I-I’m trying to fix it, I really am!”

He stares back at the thermostat, uselessly tapping at it before he lets out a gurgly little sob that’s trying to be a growl.

“Hey! Hey,” you hurry over to him and put your hands on his shoulders, ignoring how slick with sweat his skin is. “Hector, stop. Really. Come sit down with me.”

It seems like he wants to protest, but that thought dies before he can verbalize it. Instead, he just hangs his head and lets you walk him over to the couch. You briefly consider grabbing a towel to clean him up a bit, but as insistent as he’s been about monitoring the AC, you aren’t sure if he’ll go right back to it when you turn away. You take his hands, just like you did when they were the only things you knew him by. Even if he isn’t looking at you, you know he likes this. You’ve figured out a tell of his, when he’s enjoying himself. He ever so subtly leans forward, and he’s doing it now. You wonder if it’s a carry-over from the vents, if he ever pressed himself up to the grates to try and get closer to you when you held his hands then, and you just never noticed at the time.

”Really, Hector,” you say firmly, and don’t continue until you can see him peering at you as he tries to keep his head down. “Tell me what’s going on.”

He stays silent, and you try not to let your frustration show—it’s just hard, seeing him worry himself sick and stay close-lipped about it all the while. But you remind yourself he’s not being difficult on purpose, that he’s trying, that learning to accept others’ care, not just provide it himself, is hard.

Provide it himself.

Something clicks. It seems obvious now. “Hector? Is not providing the AC anymore stressing you out?”

”What?” he immediately looks up at you. “I—no, I mean…”

He trails off and looks to the side. He does that, you’ve noticed, when he’s looking for something to say. It would be cute, if he wasn’t so stressed.

“That’s part of it, I suppose.”

You see his chest slowly fall, and his shoulders slump with it. Some realization flickers behind his tired eyes, as if taking his first real deep breath all day finally lets his jumble of thoughts fall into place.

”Nothing feels… right…” he pulls his hands away from yours and hugs himself. “The temperature is wrong, you’re hot—“

”I am hot,” you grin at him, trying to lighten the mood.

Hector blushes powerfully and tries to hide his head in his shoulders. “Not what I meant—I mean, you are, I-I just—“

You touch his cheek and feel him shudder. He savors your touches like a man starved. “Sorry. That was a bad time to make that joke.”

[nightingale-prompts]

Phantom is so Moody-DCxDP prompt

"I don't even understand what I am. I'm a clone so I can't age. But what does it even mean to be a clone? I'm not 100% Superman but I'm still nit like him or Lex? I wasn't born like a normal person so does that mean I don't have a soul?" Kon ranted.

Danny the multi-dimensional godlike being the team had contracted into being their aid slowly shuffled from under his mountain of blankets and pillows and yawned.

"What are you talking about?" He drawled lazily. "Of course you have a soul.

"But I'm like artificially made in a lab." Kon retorted.

"And? So what? Are you telling me I'm wrong?" Danny challenged " Hey stupid, everything has a soul. You, your friends, animals, a tree, a fucking blade of grass, even a kid's toy. If it has energy it has a soul. I'm not talking metaphorically, I mean literally. Souls are a real tangible thing and I will eat your soul if you don't put some food on my sacrificial altar. Also, get therapy."

Kon much like the others had gotten used to Danny. He was mostly all bark and no bite.

As Kon headed to the kitchen to get the god his post-nap snack he heard Danny speak again.

"Also, you can age. Who told you that you couldn't? Age isn't anything but the slow decay of atoms. You are aging. You just aren't changing because your body is so new. Given enough years it'll start to show. Then you'll be no different from anyone else. Granted Superman's race also grows differently. You are so fucking dramatic. You are fine the way you are." The godling huffed, "Ancients, you guys are annoying. You treat existence like it's torture and you'll bearly understand how blessed you are to exist simply because of how un-ideal it is. Look shit sucks, it sucks most of the time but human suffering is caused by humans. You are torturing yourself with all these what-ifs and angst. Just stop caring."

Danny wasn't saying all this to be comforting. He rarely does stuff like that. If anything he was ambivalent to Kon. It still made him feel better though. One thing you could trust about Danny was that he was honest. He could even be helpful considering his job was to be a living encyclopedia of information from beyond the pale. He has always been an asset if you can wake him up from his days long naps.

****

"You sleep all the time." Raven complained.

The Titans were here this time. They needed something from Danny. Something about having to seal a threat away.

"Just death being shy." Danny mumbled curling up on his raised platform. "Now go away."

Raven pulled out a smudge stick of white sage when Nightwing silently held up a hand to stop her.

"Phantom, look we need your help. This issue needs your assistance. We just want info on how to seal this threat properly." Nightwing said.

"Ask Constantine."Danny whined back as he shuffled deeper into his blanket cocoon.

"Unfortunately he can't help. This is Darkseid—"

"WHERE IS HE?"

Immediately he was wide awake. You see there are few things to stir Phantom to his full attention. He isn't inactive out of pure laziness. He lets the hero do their thing and he helps when he thinks it's appropriate. But he will not let anything or anyone harm the planet

*****

"He really doesn't like people," Impulse whispered to Aqualad.

"I still don't understand how the Justice League managed to get in contact with him let alone sign a contract with him. " Aqualad answered.

"Flash said he was pretty easy to convince. Hell he said that Phantom was so docile he let Wonder Woman carry him around. Now he'll practically snap of your hand if you touch him."

"Emm...think about it he must have just been really weak back then. If he was injured badly enough maybe he—"

"Stop talking."

*****

"I still don't trust you. What is your game?" Raven said sternly.

A being with origins like Phantom couldn't really be helping them out of the kindness of his heart. What did he gain from this contract.

"You assume you are worth games."

"Were you sent by my father?"

"Your father, Trigon? That nuisance? A petty demon like that having any say over me? I'd crush him if I ever saw him. He claims to have conquered a billion worlds. That alone makes me want to destroy him. No one OWNS a world. If anything I own all worlds. No one touches my universe, all universes are mine. And if people would just stop touching my stuff I wouldn't be here." Phantom growled furiously.

"So you are just like him." Raven hissed in anger.

"Like I said. I own it. It is my domain. My realm. So no one can destroy it. No one can control it. I make it. Every star, every planet, every person is a product of chaos. It is the universal law. I keep my chaos in check. Trigon, Darkseid, Anti-Monitor—I don't care. If they touch what is mine I will destroy them."

"Anti-Monitor?"

Phantom curled his lip in anger then relaxed.

"He is someone you don't need to be concerned about. Not anymore." Phantom sighed. "Just know; I don't care what you think of me. I only care about keeping things the way they should be. I'd prefer if you didn't trust me."

Raven narrowed her eyes in thought before she relaxed. Then a small smile appeared on her lips.

"No. I think I can trust you."

Phantom immediately frowned. This wasn't the response he wanted.

"I think you are doing this on purpose. I think you want us to dislike you." Raven teased "Phantom do you perhaps have a heart?"

Phantom just sighed, his cheeks were greenish hue. He was blushing. Then went back to his dais to sleep.

****

Phantom was certainly a prickly guy. He was sweet deep down. Everyone could tell after a while. It didn't help that Wonder Woman always gave as good as she got.

"Answer the question Phantom. No cryptic riddles either." She said climbing the dias.

Phantom scrambled to escape as she grabbed him by the ankle and held him upside down.

"That's not fair! Kronos said I didn't have to answer this one. I have permission to tell you wherever I feel like."

"Oh? Then how about not having snacks on your offering plate? We'll burn nothing but vegetables until you tell me."

"How dare you! That's child abuse. You'll be starving me."

"You don't even need to eat."

"I still taste everything you burn. That's force-feeding. That's bad too."

"Just tell me!"

"Fine!" Phantom grumbled "Trevor Barnes...didn't pass over yet. He waits for you in the realms between. You shouldn't know that though. He doesn't want you to know."

"Why wouldn't he—"

"Because he wants you to live for yourself. He wants you to love again. You have a long life ahead of you and he didn't want to hold you back with his memory. Although he contradicted himself because he still wants you to think of him fondly."

Phantom phased through Diana's grasp and retreated to his lair.

****

Phantom was like a stray cat or maybe a spoiled one. He was wary of most people.

But even the most moody cat likes at least one person.

"Phantom I—"

"What do you need?"

Tim had entered the chamber only half expecting Phantom to be awake. Though Phantom was always awake when Tim entered. He guessed he was lucky since he didn't have talk to empty space.

"Eh, nothing. I got put on sacrifice duty. I brought some Bat Burger and cookies from home. I'm warning you now that Wonder Woman said you have to eat a serving of vegetables. So I'm burning them first." Tim placed the steamed vegetables on the offering plate and before he tossed them into the green fire he felt the cold hand of Phantom wrap around him.

"Don't." He said softly.

"It's just broccoli and cauliflower," Tim said still putting it on the electrum disk.

"Don't wanna," Phantom whined petulantly holding Tim in place. His head buried in his shoulder.

"You big baby." Tim sighed.

If anyone saw this interaction they'd be disgusted. The oh-so-great and moody god is l acting like a soft and pitiful little guy. Phantom seemed to have such a unique fascination with Red Robin. To the point he acts completely different if Tim was in the room.

"Two-faced." Kon mumbled as he watched Phantom readily answered Red Robin's every question without complaint.

"He's always like that," Tim said afterward " It's probably because I was the one to help form the contract with him when he was summoned here. The League treated him like a threat when it wasn't his fault he was here. He just wants to keep his distance but he is the same age as us."

"He is?" Kon asked astonished.

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | gas money

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : how they react to you telling them another man paid for your gas

୨ৎ : genre : comedy ୨ৎ : word count : 885

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : this was hilarious to write LMFAO

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

silently stares at you for 5–7 business seconds

“was he old? young? did he look like the type to try something?”

insists on filling your tank from now on, no matter what

might ask you to describe his car so he can avoid that gas station forever

acts calm but logs it in the suspicious men who exist file in his brain

yuki tsunoda

“HUH? why??”

weirdly proud and mildly offended at the same time

“next time send me his venmo i’ll pay him back and then block him”

starts acting extra flirty and clingy all night just in case

absolutely forces you to tell the story to the boys like it’s a comedy bit

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

“do you think he had weird intentions??”

tries to stay composed but is 100% spiraling

“darling, this is why I say let me fill up your car”

types out a paragraph on boundaries and deletes it

offers to start driving you everywhere "for convenience"

kimi antonelli

blinks. nods. “what was his license plate?”

asks like he’s joking but you know he’s not

completely unreadable expression but sits a little closer to you after

“you know I’ll pay for your gas, right? all of it. forever.”

keeps one arm around you for the rest of the day like a warning sign

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

confused and offended in a cute way

“he just… offered?? for no reason??”

“you didn’t smile too much, right? like not flirty smile?”

pouty and dramatic but kisses your forehead anyway

makes you promise to text him next time you're at a gas station alone

lewis hamilton

instantly goes into protective boyfriend mode

“are you okay? did he make you feel weird?”

doesn’t care about the gas, cares if it felt off

gets quiet for a second then offers to put a gas card on your keychain

“i don’t want you having to rely on random men, love”

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

“wait—he PAID for your gas?? bro what—”

95% jokes, 5% wants to fight

fake pouts the whole way home

“guess I’ll just go broke watching other men fund your commute”

sends you memes about gas station sugar daddies

oscar piastri

“was it, like, creepy or just a nice old man thing?”

gets unusually quiet if you say the guy was attractive

“i mean… cool for you, i guess” cue jealous silence

offers to start filling your tank weekly just in case

later randomly asks “so what pump number was it again?”

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

smirks. “ah… still got it, huh?”

not threatened but very territorial

“did you thank him with words or with your eyes?”

jokes, but definitely kisses you a little harder that night

pulls up in his car next time you need gas and does it himself

lance stroll

“i—wait. why?”

genuinely confused at the idea of strangers doing nice things

“you didn’t ask him to, right? like… he offered?”

laughs it off but internally annoyed

literally just gives you his credit card just "cause"

ʚ・williams

alex albon

“did you at least get snacks out of it too??”

not mad, just playfully jealous

“he better have filled it all the way”

wraps his arm around your waist for the next hour

carlos sainz

immediate eyebrow raise

“why didn’t you call me?”

suspicious but not outwardly mad — yet

says he’s fine but mutters “some random tío paying for my girl’s gas…” later

goes with you to fill up the next three times in a row

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

“wait wait wait, WHAT?”

gets all flustered and adorable about it

doesn’t know if he should be worried, mad, or impressed

“you swear he didn’t ask for your number?”

offers to send you money for gas for the next six years

esteban ocon

concerned.

“do you feel like he was trying to get something from you?”

has an entire internal debate about whether to go back to that gas station

tells you he’s proud you handled it but definitely checks your location next time you go out

insists on a Starbucks detour “just to reset the vibe”

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

“huh. did you let him?”

gives you a squinty side-eye for five minutes straight

then suddenly wraps an arm around your waist like “mine.”

fake calm but dead serious

“if it happens again, ask him if he wants to sponsor your boyfriend’s career too”

isack hadjar

“hold on, lemme find this man and shake his hand—”

joking but also not

“this is some rom-com plot twist shit. am i being pranked?”

says he’s fine but paces around the kitchen for a bit

absolutely sends a petty venmo for $5 with the caption: “for your gas, not his.”

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

“oh really? what did he look like?”

casually jealous—still flirty, still possessive

“did you wink at him or was it the hair? it’s the hair, isn’t it.”

acts normal then kisses you with a lot of tongue later

pretends he’s not thinking about it. absolutely is.

franco colapinto

“wait, huh?”

takes a minute to process

goes quiet, starts planning an over-the-top “gas station date” to outdo the stranger

“babe next time let me do something romantic”

fills your car the next morning and leaves a flower in the cupholder

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

“ugh. men.”

rolls his eyes like he’s seen it a thousand times

“don’t let it go to your head. i’ll still be the one buying dinner tonight.”

pays for everything that day without saying why

mutters “he’s lucky i wasn’t there” under his breath

gabriel bortoleto

jaw drops

“like… just offered?? for free??”

cute confused boyfriend energy

“was he old? he better have been old, like ancient.”

tries to act chill but clings to you the rest of the night like a koala

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[idkwhylou]

Seeds of fate

Summary : It’s been four years since you’ve married the general Acacius. Four years of loneliness because of war. But when he comes back to Rome, he’s pushing you away, thinking it’s the best solution to protect you from him—or so he thought.

Marcus Acacius x younger!reader/f!reader

Warnings : sexism, mentions of patriarchal norms, mentions of war and violence, blood, injury, dagger, arranged marriage, age gap (reader is 20), angst, no y/n, reader has hair and wears dresses

Words : 8,7K

A/N : thank you so much for the 100 followers !!! I’m so thankful and happy, many people seem to enjoy my fics. I received many private messages that really touched me. To thank you, I’ve decided to write about our favourite general Marcus since the fic with Joel seems to have been well received (and I shouldn’t say it but I’m working on something else 🫣)

+ "Puella" means girl or young woman, but if used in a patronizing or dismissive way, it could carry a condescending tone. Sometimes used in a way that implies immaturity or inferiority.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Four years. 

Four years had passed since you saw the great General Marcus Acacius for the first and last time of your life. Chance or aim, in both circumstances, it was in his hands that your fate was sealed on your wedding day. A political alliance. It had seemed like just another arrangement, one among many. A lineage, they said. A duty. You hadn’t even had the chance to know him before that fateful day. Before that, you had only glimpsed him from a distance, his presence like a looming shadow. Distant but always hovering just outside your reach. But even then, you had no idea what he would mean for your life—or you should say loneliness.

Your father had died when you were young, leaving your mother to raise you. She, a cold, calculating woman, had married him for status. Despite her frigid exterior, she had been a loving mother, doing her best to ensure you received an education that many women of your class could only dream of. Yet, her obsession with control and perfection left you feeling isolated. You had excelled in learning, but in a world that valued women more for their beauty and breeding than their intellect, it wasn’t enough. You knew the Empire would never accept a woman with an education, a woman who could think for herself—worse a woman with an opinion. And so, suitors bypassed you. Your education, your intellect, became your curse. What use was a well-educated woman in the marriage market when men wanted docility, not independence ? For years, you endured loneliness, your worth seemingly reduced to the absence of a proposal. But in Rome, things get known very quickly. The pressure of your single status weighed on you, and the whispers of society only grew louder. It felt like an impossible situation to escape.

Four years of persistent loneliness. He was a man of war, a name spoken in hushed tones across the Empire. The wedding ceremony had been hasty, almost mechanical. And that night, as you sat alone, abandoned on your wedding night, you felt a pang of bitterness in your heart. He had left. His absence, though predictable, stung all the same. Why had you ever expected anything different ? Why had you foolishly imagined that on the one night that was supposed to be yours, he would remain ? That he would offer you even a sliver of attention ? The truth was, neither of you wanted this union. An union born not of love, but of political necessity. You were a stranger to him, and he to you. His absence didn’t hurt because he was gone. It hurt because his presence had never been there in the first place. 

Four years of silence, of him never returning, of him never acknowledging your existence beyond the formality of a political union. You had been marry to a complete stranger who seemed to drift further away from you every day. You had been left in his villa, forced to navigate a life that was foreign to you. What did it mean to be a wife to a man who had never truly been yours ? At first, you had wondered what kind of man—now husband, if you could even call him that—was he ? How did he live off the battlefield, off the horrors of war, off the atrocities of his title.

You searched for signs, clues, anything that might reveal his true nature. But there was nothing. Nothing never came, nothing never showed. He never sent you any letter. What little news you had of him came from outsiders, but it was scarce. The thought of the General not returning had already crossed your mind, what would you become ? A widow at just twenty. How sad. His villa was cold and impersonal. But sometimes you spent time in his bedroom, as if some sort of connection was going to be made that way. The room was surprisingly small, sparsely decorated, and quite dark. What caught your attention, however, was his bed; vast and very wide. You vaguely remembered his physique after so many years, but you remembered his broad shoulders, dominating almost the whole room when you walked down the aisle.

Four years of pressure. The social pressure of being the wife of Rome's most respected General. During those years you had noticed the looks of envy and jealousy from the other women. If only they knew what your life truly was. They only saw the outward status of being the General's wife. They didn't know that this title was a prison, not a privilege. A tragic curse that had woven itself into the fabric of your fate, binding your heart to a life of endless longing, where love was a distant star forever hidden behind the clouds of duty and silence. The men, saw you as a prize to be claimed, not as a woman with a voice. Your worth was measured in your marriage, in your connections, not in who you were. They were predators watching their prey, ready to pounce on you at the slightest bit of bad news. Repugnant, hypocritical and absurd. Their insalubrious, almost perverse side made you sick. 

Four years since you became a woman. You had grown but not in the way you had once hoped, but in ways you had never imagined. You became a real woman. Not by choice, but by necessity. You were only sixteen when you married the General. You were so young, innocent, inexperienced, naive. Since he left, you had learned more than you ever thought possible. You had learned to live without love, without even the hope of affection. You had learned to fill the silence of your nights with your thoughts, to distract yourself from the aching void of your life. Your mother, your only role model, had failed you. She had abandoned you to this cold, solitary existence. Leaving you to wander through the empty hallways of the villa. Searching for something, anything that would give you purpose.

You had become the wife of Rome’s most respected general, but in truth, you were little more than a shadow. Your role was to be a wife, to bear children, to play the part society had given you. But you were more than that, weren’t you ? You had learned to think, to question, and yet, in this life, thinking was not something a woman was allowed to do. And so, you carried on, pretending to be the perfect wife, the dutiful woman. But deep inside, you knew you could never live up to the expectations placed upon you. And as much as you tried to bury your discontent, it always resurfaced, the weight of your life pressing down on you with every passing day.

Four years. 

And today, after all these years, the General was finally returning to Rome.

You stood far from the Imperial Palace, out of sight of the bewildered crowd outside, cheering the General's glorious arrival. The two emperors at the top of the stairs were watching with a winning smile the rise of the man who had once again enlarged their Empire. They had offered you to welcome your husband, but such a reunion—which you could almost called meeting—was best held in private, far from any pressure or unwelcome glances. So, you waited patiently in the central atrium, dreading his arrival. You felt the anxiety consume every cell of your body. Then suddenly, in the darkness of the setting day, the General appeared. He strode confidently forward, oblivious to the stares cast by his servants and slaves. But when his gaze landed on you, he slowed down. His eyebrows furrowed and you rose from the chair you’d been sitting on, letting him observe you more easily. 

“General.” You greeted him as he stood still, continuing to scrutinize you intently. 

His hands clenched behind his back, the weight of war still pressing against his shoulders. Yet, when his eyes found yours, something else burned within him—something just as dangerous. His gaze, fierce and unwavering, held you captive, as if the battlefield had shifted, and you were now the center of his war. It was a look that consumed, devoured, seared through the space between them. A fire of longing, rage, and restraint all at once. His jaw tightened, his breath slowed, but his eyes—his burning gaze—never wavered. It was as if he was holding back an inferno, as if you were the one thing in this world he could not afford to want. You should have looked away. Should have fought against the heat creeping up your spine. But it was impossible. His stare was a touch without contact, a whisper without sound. Marcus seemed satisfied with what he saw. You could feel your heart trying to get out of your chest as he watched the woman you had become. You blinked and looked at his torso. He was dressed in bright white, contrasting with his matte skin, which made him stand out even more tan. He exuded a symbol of honor, and the gold details that adorned his armor indicated his high status. Your observation was cut short by him clearing his throat, you raised your head suddenly. 

It had been four years. Four years since he had last seen her—the woman they had bound to him in name alone. Back then, you had been little more than a stranger, a girl with downcast eyes and quiet steps, a mere formality before he had turned and marched off to war. But now… now you were standing before him, and you were not the girl he had left behind. His breath stilled, his world narrowing to the space between them. It wasn’t your posture, now poised with a grace that demanded acknowledgment. It wasn’t the way the candlelight traced the curve of your cheek, nor the way the years had shaped you into someone striking. It was your eyes. They met his without any hesitation; steady and unreadable. No longer wide with uncertainty, no longer seeking permission to exist in his presence. They held stories he had never been there to witness, strength forged in his absence. They belonged to a woman who had learned to stand on her own, without the name she had been forced to take, without the man who had never been there. And for the first time, he truly saw you. Not as an obligation. Not as the quiet girl he had left behind. But as something untouchable, something dangerously real. 

Something he had never been prepared for.  

“I'm exhausted and need rest for tomorrow night. It seems to me you are capable of being left alone. Good evening.” He didn't even give you time to reply as he left, his shoulder brushing yours as he headed for his room. You blinked, realizing you had held your breath. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

All the most influent and powerful people were gathered at the Palace this evening to celebrate the General's return, but above all his success. One more conquest for the glory of Rome. You had opted for a delicate green stola, embroidered with brilliant gold details. Your hair was pulled back into a bun, fixed with a gold pin. The journey had passed in a heavy silence, as if you could almost hear the thoughts of the General beside you. Since his arrival last night, you hadn't spoken to him, and he hadn't sought any contact with you, not even a simple compliment.

When you entered, all eyes were on you. You observed the same jealous glances from women. However, the men's misplaced and disturbing glances no longer seemed to appear because of the man standing behind you. Placing his hand on the small of your back, he was pushing you forward into the room. The warmth of his touch seeped through the layers of fabric, lingering like an ember against your skin. And then, just as suddenly, it was gone. Leaving behind a whisper of heat, chased away by the creeping chill of his absence. Turning your head in his direction, he shifted to announce that he had to talk to senators, telling you to go and get yourself a drink. You obeyed. It wasn't appropriate for a woman to attend such discussions, and you knew it. But what bothered you was not the societal exclusion you suffered because of your gender, but the fact that the General was certainly using these discussions as an excuse to avoid being alone in your presence. 

Marcus had no interest in talking to these men, each more corrupt than the last. Coming back from war, he had only one desire : rest. But duty called again. He couldn't bear to be in your presence, and what annoyed him even more was the fact that he couldn't explain why. Yet Marcus preferred to flee, get as far away from you as possible. There was something in your eyes that unraveled him, a quiet power that left him unsteady. But last night, when you rose to greet him, even the sound of your voice unsettled him, like a whispered temptation. And then, again, your eyes. That spark. It flickered with an allure he couldn’t name, pulling him toward you with a force as inevitable as the shepherd’s star guiding a lost soul through the abyss of night.

Yet, he dared not follow. That light could be an illusion, a siren’s call meant to lure him to ruin. He told himself it was a danger he must resist. He could not let himself get close. He could not afford this mistake. He just couldn't. Because, in the end he would hurt you. You became everything he could desire—worse everything he needed. You were a beautiful woman, seem too clever for your own good and he felt like standing at the edge of something dangerous. 

Everything seemed so much easier when he left you at the altar. 

And yet, all evening, his gaze kept returning to you. He couldn’t help it. You drifted through the room like a shadow, untouched by the warmth of conversation, unmoved by the lively murmurs of the other women. Instead, you lingered at the edges, watching the world pass you by, detached yet entirely present. Wherever he went, whatever group he entertained, there was always a remark, a knowing glance, a murmured congratulations, a question too bold to be polite. He brushed them off, let them roll past him like waves against stone, but still, their words clung to the corners of his mind.

By the time he had made his final rounds, exhaustion settled deep in his bones. Tomorrow would be relentless. Meetings, obligations, a mountain of responsibilities that left no room for pointless indulgences like this wretched feast. He had no reason to linger. When he scanned the room one last time, he didn’t see you. A strange unease coiled in his chest. It was foolish, irrational. You couldn't have gone far. Then, a draft, a sliver of night air slipping through the open balcony doors. His heart beat once, hard. He wasted no time. And there you were. Just as he had expected. Your back was to him, your figure framed by the moonlight as you leaned against the balustrade, your gaze lost in the vast darkness of the imperial gardens. The night stretched before you, heavy, endless, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered were you searching for something in the abyss, or simply waiting for it to swallow you whole ?

The soft breeze that had risen carried away the fabrics you were wearing, a warm blast of air caressing Marcus’s cheeks. One of your locks had fell from your bun, and the way it tickled the nape of your neck was a bewitching sight for the General. The way you held yourself, making your body curve- but he came to his senses, remembering why he was looking for you. You could hear his heavy footsteps behind you. It had to be him, but you refused to turn around. So, still in dead silence, he settled down next to you, imitating your position. His scent came first to your nostrils, then out of the corner of your eye you could catch a glimpse of your proximity. Your gaze remained fixed on the basins as you felt his cold gaze on you. He couldn't look away, trying to memorize your profile in his mind, as if you were going to disappear at any moment.

“It's getting late.” He broke the silence in a husky voice. 

You didn't move.

“I've got a lot of work tomorrow. We should go home.” He continued in a harsher tone. 

You turned your head slowly in his direction, keeping a neutral expression on your face. “After ignoring me all night, the only time you acknowledge my presence is to order me home ?”

The General's eyes turned dark. He didn't like your tone nor your provocation. He straightened up, towering you with his body. “It is not about that-” 

“It is not ? Then what is it about, General ? You can't ignore me and think I'm not going to blame you.”

He was surprised by your answer. He didn't spend time with many women, but none of them would dare, even think of talking like that to their husband. He could feel the patience evaporating from his body at your attitude and couldn't help but sigh loudly. You imitated his position and crossed your arms, revealing a defensive feeling he didn't like at all. “You are my wife. You are supposed to obey me.”

You let out a scoff at his remark, shaking your head. How dare he use that argument after four years without even considering you as such. “You have no right to tell me what to do, General.”

“I am your husband. I don’t know what you’ve been up to for those four years. But from now on you will learn to listen to me and submit like any wife should do.” 

“I am not a child anymore !” You threw your arms down in frustration.

“I know ! And that's the problem!” He shouted.

You took a step back, the air between you thick with the tension you could no longer bear. His presence was looming. But it was your own breath that betrayed you, shaky, uneven, as though it carried the weight of your surrender. Without meeting his eyes, you turned your head just enough to avoid the intensity of his gaze, the words hanging in the silence like a fragile thread. “You're right. It's getting late.” You murmured, your voice barely audible, soft with the resignation that had crept into your heart. The fight drained from you, leaving only the bitter taste of defeat. The struggle, the back-and-forth, it wasn’t worth it anymore. He had won. Turning away, heading home, felt like the only escape—an act of survival, a way to dodge the storm brewing in his eyes.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

Since that night on the balcony, Marcus had avoided you entirely. He rose early, just before the sun, to eat a quick breakfast in solitude, careful to keep from sitting with you. Always, there was an excuse, a meeting, a task, a reason to leave the domus and avoid crossing your path. And when night fell, he came home late, long after you had retreated to your room, as if by some unspoken rule, he could no longer share the same space with you. He hadn’t liked the way you had spoken to him. The soft defiance in your words had stung him more than he cared to admit. But when he had reached for your eyes, only to see you turn away from him, he understood he was the one to blame. 

It was too late.  

As he had feared, he had ended up hurting you. It seemed that was the only thing he was truly capable of. Killing, hurting, and being violent. Giving him something as delicate as you had been a fundamental mistake. He was a man of war, scarred and hardened by his past. He could not afford to show weakness. The walls he had built over the years were not just to protect him; they were to shield others from the damage he could cause. He was a weapon, a force of destruction, and he could never lower his guard. He had always lived alone. He had never tolerated the presence of another in his home, especially not a woman. It was safer this way. For your own good, he had to stay away. Keep his distance, to protect you from the inevitable harm he would bring. He was a brute, violent and bitter. If it wasn’t his words that would hurt you, then it would be his hands. And that, he could never forgive himself for.  

One evening as he returned from a long and exhausting day, thinking that you were certainly already asleep, Marcus walked unconcernedly to his office. But then, as he entered the room, his gaze fell on you. On tiptoe, you reached for a book when you noticed his presence. You stopped your action and quickly retrieved the books you had placed on his desk into your hands. 

“I was planning to leave” You explained, not wishing to find yourself in the same room as him. 

But just as you were about to leave, you stumbled into the carpet, causing you to topple forward. Spontaneously, Marcus took a step forward, stretching out his arm to catch you. But you were quicker than him and caught yourself on his desk. However, when your hand met the furniture, you let out a cry of pain. Marcus watched as you suddenly withdraw your hand, which was now bloody red. You looked down at your trembling palm, dropping the books from your other hand. Your face grimaced from the pain as you took your wrist in hand, squeezing it to try to stop the tingling of your cut. The General's gaze shifted from your hand to his desk on which lay a dagger, now also dyed with a touch of red. He approached you but before he could take your hand in his, you pulled away, letting your noisy breathing be heard. 

“I'm fine.” You said through your clenched teeth, trying to make him believe that you could take care of your wound on your own. But you should have known that he wouldn't let it go. He was one of Rome's greatest generals after all, thus he was used to wounds. 

“Come here.” He ordered, positioning himself in front of you so you couldn't run away. 

“I told you-” 

“Don't make me repeat myself.” Again, that harsh tone, the unmistakable edge of rising anger in his voice. You could feel the weight of his restraint, the way he fought against the urge to snap, to lose control the way he had before. There was a flicker of hesitation in your eyes as you met his gaze, weighing your options in the silence between you. He held out his hand, and before you even realized it, your feet moved forward, as if your body knew what your mind couldn’t decide. He gripped your wrist with a force that sent a jolt through you, pulling you closer with brutal efficiency. A low groan escaped your lips at the contact, the animosity of his touch sending a sharp reminder of his power. His eyes flicked down to the cut, a flash of something unreadable passing through them. And then, softly, almost in contradiction to his actions, he whispered an apology.  

“Sit.” He ordered; the command sharp but not unkind.  

You sighed, a sound that seemed too loud in the tense air, which made him growl. He turned to pull something from the drawer. When he returned, he held a small bottle and a white cloth in his massive hands, his movements almost mechanical. Without a word, he set a second chair in front of you and sat down, never once meeting your gaze, though you could feel the tension in him. Your eyes lingered on his every gesture, tracing the carefulness of his movements. And though he knew you were watching; he couldn’t bring himself to look back. The silence was heavy, yet somehow, his restraint felt like a battle in itself. One he fought quietly, desperately.

Taking a breath, he reached for your hand. It felt so small, so delicate in his grasp. His fingers were rough, but there was an unexpected gentleness as he inspected your wound. It wasn’t deep, just enough to draw blood. Enough to make his brow furrow in concentration. He placed the back of your hand on his thigh, the warmth of his body seeping into your skin, and dripped the liquid from the bottle onto the cloth. His focus was entirely on you now. Though his gaze remained fixed on the task at hand, not daring to look up. And in that stillness, you could feel the struggle within him to keep his distance, to remain untouched by whatever was rising between you both. 

“It may sting, I warn you.” And without giving you time to retract, he passed the cloth over your wound. 

“It burns !” You cried, quickly withdrawing your hand. 

“I warned you-”

“No. You said it would sting.” You spat as he clicked his tongue in frustration, looking at you through his lashes.

You clenched your jaw, silently offering your hand back to him. He resumed, his movements steady, as if the silence between you both spoke louder than anything else. When the fabric met your palm again, a low groan escaped your throat, the sting of the cloth against your wound causing you to clutch the fabric of your tunic with your other hand. He looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a second, with an almost apologetic glance. Yet, he couldn’t suppress a satisfied smile at your discomfort which caused your unwilling submission. If only you knew how much he had endured all these years. Stretching his arm, he rested the back of his hand on your thigh, the pressure solid and deliberate.  

“Squeeze it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, refusing to give in, holding your ground. But when the now-pink cloth brushed against your bruised skin, you couldn't help it, your hand shot out, gripping his hand tightly, squeezing with a force that betrayed your pain. Without a word, Marcus quickly resumed his task, focusing entirely on the wound, not sparing you a glance. Your eyes shut tight, and a small wrinkle formed between your brows. He smiled faintly, as if the sight of you, vulnerable yet defiant, pleased him more than it should. He tried to be gentle, not wanting to hurt you further. Every time he applied pressure to your wound, your hand squeezed his a little tighter.

Once he finished, you opened your eyes and without a word, withdraw your hand from his, your fingers trembling slightly from the intensity of the moment. He slid his palm along your thigh, quickly squeezing it before pulling his hand away. As Marcus got up to put his things in order, you stayed seated, still reeling from the unexpected tenderness of his gesture. You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself, and then, in one swift motion, stood up. Without saying a word, you turned and left the room, the books you had come for forgotten in your haste.  

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

The days that followed were filled with little moments between you. Marcus took his time in the morning so that when he finished breakfast, you would appear in front of him. You would wait a few more minutes before going to bed, like that night in his office. He would start wandering around the gardens when you came out of them. You would never put the books you borrowed from him in the right place. He would leave you the figs the maids brought him from the market, and you would leave him the pomegranate seeds you had meticulously removed from the fruit. And with each seed he would put in his mouth, he would think of you. The unspoken longing to devour you, a desire he dares not confess. In the quiet of the moment, he feels your gentle heart, soft against the bitterness of his words. Yet neither of you spoke to the other. The silence still echoing through the walls of the villa. A silence that wasn't empty but filled with answers. He was screaming, suffocating, suffering. But he was beautiful. Beautiful because he made sense in a way that only the two of you could understand. 

This evening, you found yourself invited to a meal at one of the senators' domus, surrounded by politicians and their wives. The General sat beside you, engaged in conversation with the men next to him, his attention fully directed toward them. But as his head turned away, you couldn't help but steal a glance at him. You were so rarely this close. Your eyes traced his side profile, a study in sharp angles and quiet strength, so noble it seemed as if it had been sculpted in stone. His nose, proud and commanding, was shaped like that of an eagle—majestic, a symbol of his power, his unyielding dominance. You couldn’t help but follow the line of his jaw, sharply defined, down to the strength of his neck, where veins pulsed with a vitality that matched his presence. Your tongue brushed over your lips, though you didn’t even realize you had done it, so captivated by him.

As he moved his hands while responding to a question, your gaze fell to them. They were so large. So strong. You had noticed before how small your own hands seemed when placed next to his, but tonight, you couldn’t look away. They were mesmerizing. Agile and dexterous, his hands spoke more than his words ever could. Despite the countless battles they had endured, there was a gentleness to them. They were immense, yet somehow comforting. You recalled, almost involuntarily, how those same hands had once enveloped your wrist. Their grip firm but tender. You tried, for a fleeting second, to recall the feel of his touch on your thigh. The warmth, the subtle power in his proximity. But it had been too long, too much time had passed, and the memory now seemed distant, slipping through your mind like sand between your fingers. 

“Puella ?” One of the senators called out to you. 

You suddenly lifted your head in his direction, choosing silence over confrontation, unwilling to let the way he had addressed you escalate the tension. A smile forced its way onto your lips, though it felt stiff, almost out of place. Marcus glanced at you from the corner of his eye, sensing the subtle shift in your demeanor, the quiet disapproval that lingered between you. It would be a lie to say he didn’t care, but he was well aware of the fine line he had to walk. He knew better than to challenge the authority of one of the senators.

“One of your little forgetful moments, I presume ?,” He scoffs, glancing at the General on your right. “Tell me, I heard you were interested in politics ?” He asked with a false innocent tone, letting appeared on his lips a witty smile. 

You felt the General tense up, but you didn't pay any attention, "Yes. Since I was very young actually," You tried to look confident, letting him feign a certain self-confidence you didn't possess.

You stood upright, head held high, as the senators around you all burst out laughing, some of the women following too. You frowned, "I told you so !" Cried one as if it was the most surprising news they'd ever heard until now.

"You know, it’s not usual for a woman like... well, like you." Said one of the women at the end of the table, her cheeks rosy with alcohol.

"How can you let this happen my friend ?" Another addressed the General directly. 

He didn’t even flinch. The comments came and went, unchallenged, unaddressed. He said nothing. Offering no defense, no protection. Marcus knew exactly how this would unfold, so he straightened his posture, smoothly steering the conversation elsewhere, his focus never once drifting toward you. You told yourself you didn’t need his reassurance. But a disapproving glance, or just a flicker of acknowledgment, would have been enough to settle the storm inside you. He didn’t even offer you that. The women beside you, exchanged knowing glances and whispers. Their judgment clear in the way their eyes flicked to you, sharp and uninviting. You didn’t dare meet their gazes, choosing instead to fix your attention on the glass of wine before you.

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

"Why did you not stand up for me ?" Were the first words out of your mouth once back in your—his villa. 

The first words since that evening in his office, the first words since all those gestures, the first words since his heavy silences, and the first since he allowed those people to make fun of you. They hung in the air, charged with everything unspoken. Every second had felt like a thousand. And now, with those few words, you were breaking the silence that had stretched between you both, but it didn’t ease the tension. If anything, it made the gap between you even wider.

"I beg your pardon ?" The General turned to you. 

"You heard me. You let them speak without interrupting." You positioned yourself directly in front of him, closing the distance between you until he had no choice but to meet your bitter gaze.

"What did you want me to say ?"

You frowned, "You're supposed to be my husband, General. You're supposed to protect me, defend me and assure me."

"Isn't that what I'm doing already ?" He crossed his arms over his chest as you let out a sneer, you felt animosity building inside you. 

"No ! You let them talk about me like I was an idiot ! Doesn't it bother you that they talk about me, your wife, like that ?" 

You let yourself be swept away by the flood of emotions, while the General remained unnervingly still, as if untouched.

“Maybe they’re right.” He added, his tone dry, void of any warmth, signaling that he wasn’t in the mood for a fight tonight. 

His words struck deep, sharper than any physical wound, sinking into your chest like a dagger. It felt worse than the cut on your palm. His words were as bitter as pomegranates, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. You parted your lips, ready to speak, but before you could form a response, you closed your mouth again, the words choking in your throat. You clenched your jaw, fixing him with a hard, burning stare. Letting the humiliation radiating from you. He raised an eyebrow, almost daring you to retort, his gaze expectant. But instead, you turned your back to him, and walked away, heading for your room. He watched you disappear into the shadows, the sway of your hips a silent defiance in the stillness of the night. 

Once out of sight, he turned his head, staring at the floor before muttering to himself as he started walking. He could still feel the anger burning in his chest, his eyes dark and his jaw set. The argument reverberated in his mind. Each word rekindling the embers of his irritation. As he passed the massive table in the center of the room, his blood boiled with a final burst of uncontrollable rage. With a brutal gesture, he thrust his hands under the heavy, carved wooden tabletop and, with disproportionate force, toppled it over. The table flew violently across the room and crashed against the wall. The silence that followed was oppressive. Marcus, short of breath, stared for a moment at the mess he had just made, his fists still clenched. Then, without another word, he turned and left the room. Leaving behind the chaos of his anger. That night he had trouble falling asleep, remembering the words he had said to you. How stupid he had been. Maybe he was made for that after all. Maybe he was just good at being a heartless brute. Maybe he was only capable of hurting you. 

⋆.⋆༺𖤓༻⋆.⋆

He was even angrier now. Weeks had passed without a single sign of life from you. He searched for you. His eyes scanning every corner of the villa, but you were nowhere to be found. Remorse gnawed him from the inside, relentless and consuming. He let himself be swallowed by the torturous silence you had cast upon him. Marcus was going mad. You appeared in every corner of his mind, but when he looked closer, you always disappeared. He thought he could hear your voice echoing through the hallways near your room, or imagined he could smell your scent wafting through the gardens, amidst the fragrance of all the flowers, hoping to run into you there. But despite everything, he refused to apologize. He had to wait. He had hurt you, and he understood you needed time. But his patience was running thin.

Sometimes, late at night, he would stand outside your bedroom door, his heart racing as he silently begged you to come out so he could reassure himself that you were still there. When the hope of seeing you faded, he would press his ear to the door, hoping to catch even the faintest sound of your breathing. Yet every time, there was nothing. As if you knew he was there, standing behind your door, and you deliberately chose silence. Finally, he overheard the maids talking about how you would leave very early in the mornings, just before he awoke, and return only after he had left the domus. Marcus was offended. The humiliation settled deep in his chest like a stone. Suddenly he stopped. He stopped searching for you, stopped waiting outside your door, stopped calling for you, stopped pleading. The silence between you both had grown too thick, too suffocating for him to bear, and he let it swallow him whole. 

You entered the Imperial Palace dressed in a deep, ruby red, almost crimson. A rich, intoxicating shade of red that mirrored the one worn by the General as you walked through the grand doors. Once again, the emperors had insisted on your presence at their lavish gathering, and tonight promised to be a long night of debauchery. Without sparing him a glance, you quickly distanced yourself from the General, making your way toward a group of women he vaguely recognized. From where he stood, he watched you. The way your lips moved when you spoke, the delicate gesture of your hands as they lifted in the air, the soft strands of your hair brushing the nape of your neck with each movement. A pang of jealousy gripped him as he watched those women at your side, the one who had the privilege of your attention, your thoughts. But deep down, Marcus knew it wasn’t his right to feel this way. He had no right to claim you. He deserved your indifference, even if it tore him apart. 

Marcus watched the various couples around him, a growing sense of regret weighing heavily on him. The way men stayed close to their wives. He had long believed it to be the other way around, that it was the women who clung to their husbands. But tonight, the General realized just how wrong he had been. It wasn't this senator's wife who clung to her husband; it was him who desperately sought contact with her. The way their arms intertwined was almost instinctive, as if it were a need they couldn’t live without. She remained patient while he spoke with others, her hand discreetly pinching his arm as if to remind him of something, of their bond. They were almost one, their connection so fluid, so intertwined. She needed him, but it was clear, he needed her even more. Marcus looked away, unable to bear the sight any longer, so unfamiliar to him. 

The time crawled painfully slow. Marcus wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. His mind wandered, constantly searching for a way to approach you, to break the silence between you, without risking your anger or your indifference. Then he saw you. No longer with a group of women. You were now with a man he didn’t recognize. You were close, too close. Closer than you had ever been with him. His jaw tightened, but he made no move to intervene. You didn’t need him to disrupt your conversation. This man was certainly giving you the attention you had lacked since you and Marcus stopped speaking. The General poured himself another glass of wine, nearly draining the first one in a single gulp. But no matter how hard he tried to distract himself, his eyes kept falling on your figure. And every time, he clutched his glass a little tighter.

Then someone approached him, and he forced himself to listen, trying to focus on the words being spoken. But he couldn't care less. He knew he had to maintain his distance, just as he had done for weeks—or almost. But when the man beside you casually brushed his fingers against your shoulder, whispering something in your ear, Marcus could feel something inside him snap.

That was it.

He apologized to the person next to him, abandoning his glass of wine on the banquet table as his steps toward you became almost mechanical. His heart pounded, and each stride he took felt heavier than the last. He couldn’t let this happen. Not here, not now, and certainly not in front of all these people. You had every right to ignore him, to turn your back on him in public or private. But this. This closeness with another man ? It was unacceptable. It wasn’t a matter of duty anymore, or the image he needed to maintain. It was primal, instinctual. He couldn't stand another minute of this.

You were supposed to be by his side. Where he needed you. 

His pulse raced as he tried to keep his composure, to avoid causing a scene or drawing unwanted attention. With a calm that only barely masked the fury seeping through him, Marcus placed his hand firmly on your shoulder, possessive and commanding. Surprised, you turned to him, eyes wide, not fully understanding his sudden action. But his gaze was locked on the man in front of you, burning with silent aggression. The other man didn’t flinch, unaffected, but Marcus was determined. He wanted to make sure he felt the threat hanging in the air.

"Enough." His voice was thick with restraint, rough and edged. His eyebrows furrowed deeply, a sign of just how tightly his control was slipping.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt the shift in the atmosphere, the tension growing around you. You had to act fast. Apologizing to the man, you grabbed Marcus’ forearm, tugging him away from the scene and pulling him into the dark, quiet refuge of the imperial gardens. Once out of sight, you released your grip, turning to face him. The pale moonlight illuminated his tanned skin, casting shadows that deepened the lines on his face, making him appear even more untouchable. But there was no way avoiding what had just happened. What he had just done. The way his gaze had shifted from that cold indifference to something sharper. The tension in his voice. The possessiveness that had suddenly flared up. 

Weeks of silence between you, of him distancing himself, and now he acted as though he could claim you whenever he wished. His sudden impulsiveness rattled you. Part of you—a part you hated—had felt a strange, almost delighted thrill at seeing that crack in his mask. Seeing him lose that grip he always had over his emotions. He had been so cold, so distant for so long, yet now he had the audacity to act as if he could control you. As if you belonged to him. You stood there in the dim light, emotions swirling inside you, at war with yourself.

You were angry, yes. But you were also confused. Part of you wanted an explanation, but you already knew what his response would be. Deflecting, denying, refusing to acknowledge the truth of what just happened. It would always be this way with him, wouldn’t it ? Walls so high you could never break through, a fortress so impenetrable that even your desire to understand him, to reach him, would only cause you pain. And yet, as always, you would keep trying. Because no matter how much he hurt you, no matter how much he pushed you away, you were still compelled to try.

His fists were clenched, he knew what was coming. "Why ?"

"Why what ?" He kept a calm tone despite his previous anger, but his eyes gave him away. You approached him, crossing that distance you always left between you. 

"You had no trouble ignoring me for weeks, but tonight..." A lump formed in your throat, "tonight you act as if it bothers you that someone is actually paying attention to my presence. I am not one of your trophy, General."

Marcus didn't answer right away, unable to look you in the eye. His silence was heavy, but then he murmured softly, "Because it bothers me."You froze. He was finally admitting what he felt. A fragment of truth he had never dared speak. This revelation had the same effect as a torrent of waves carrying you far out to sea, stirring and shaking you in every direction. But Marcus couldn't bear the softness of your gaze weighing down on him. He felt exposed, disoriented. His head seemed to be spinning, but not because of the wine. He hated feeling vulnerable. Gods—he had no right to. As a general, he had the duty to display courage and self-assurance. But tonight, he wasn't on the battlefield.

Tonight, he was facing you. And surprisingly it seemed far more complicated than any battles he had in his life, all the deaths on his conscience, all the blood that had spilled were nothing compared to you. The great General, who had conquered kingdoms and crushed rebellions without hesitation, now stood before the one battlefield he feared the most—his wife. You were no enemy, yet you were the first to shake his resolve. No sword nor spear could wound him as deeply as your silence had. No siege could break him like the way your eyes searched for answers he could not give. He had faced death, had laughed in the face of men who swore to end him, yet before you, he felt small, unarmored. For the first time, war did not rage around him—it raged within. You were the greatest battle of his life, not to be conquered, but to be understood. And for the first time, he did not know if he was ready to fight. 

Immediately he looked away and added more coldly, "But that doesn't change anything."

But you refused to let him get away with it; you were ready to take the risk. You put your hand on his arm, forcing him to face you. "Of course it does.”

The atmosphere was heavy. Too much left unsaid, too many accumulated feelings. For the first time in months, you were speaking to each other with such honesty, even if it was in anger. You were close, too close. Marcus' gaze slid over your soft lips before he abruptly turned his head away, forcing himself to step back. 

"You should leave."

But you didn’t. 

The silence was burning like the desire that kept growing in his heart. The General had turned away, but he was tense, like a wild beast ready to pounce. His fists still clenched, his gaze hard and his shoulders stiff. You weren't moving. And yet you should. But you weren't moving. Instead, you reached out and silently grabbed his wrist. A simple gesture, but one that had the effect of a thunderclap. Marcus in turn felt swept along in this torrent of waves that he couldn't control, and he hated it. He hated himself right now. He hated how you succeeded to destroy those walls. 

"Tell me it doesn't matter... Tell me what you did tonight doesn't matter, and I will go." 

He said nothing. Letting his silence answering for him. You moved a little closer to him, until you felt the warmth of his body. He remained frozen. Unable to move. Unable to flee. His brown eyes burned with the weight of unspoken torment. Brimmed with frustration that crackles in its depths, a storm restrained behind the prison of his lashes. Desire, raw and unrelenting, smoldered beneath the surface. An unbearable ache. A war between pride and yearning. His eyes, once steady as a soldier’s blade, now betrayed him. His armor, once impenetrable, felt fragile beneath the weight of your presence. He feared lowering his guard. Feared that if he let you in, he would hurt you once more with the sharp edges of his own restraint. And yet, the distance between you was an agony he could no longer bear. To hold you was risking breaking you, but to stay away was to break himself.

"Marcus..." you murmured. 

He looked up at you. It was the first time you had ever called him by his first name. You had always kept a certain distance. Since the first day when he had returned. That very first time when you had called him by his title. Not his name. His title. He never thought he would enjoy the sound of his name coming out of your mouth. The satisfaction of hearing it roll off your tongue, caressing your lips just to smack him in the face. He had spent months keeping his distance, pretending that this marriage was just a political alliance, refusing to admit that you had taken a place in his mind, in his body, maybe even in his heart. You were the first and last thing on his mind every day.

That evening in his office, he had let himself get carried away but hadn't regretted just for once his gesture. The way his hand gripped your upper thigh with a quiet desperation, a touch that burned like a sin whispered in the dark. It was neither gentle nor cruel, but something far more dangerous—an unspoken confession, a plea he could not voice. His fingers pressed into your skin as if trying to anchor himself, torn between the damnation of holding on and the salvation of letting go. That moment of intimacy had soothed him, leaving him in the days that followed with an intrepid desire to consume you like the seeds of the pomegranate. Letting your juices spill all over his hands and lips. 

Tonight, there was no escape. 

In a sudden, almost brutal gesture, Marcus grabbed the back of your neck and kissed you. The kiss wasn't soft or gentle. It was overflowing with anger, desire, everything he held back for too long. You didn't try to resist him, you responded to his kiss with the same feverish intensity. There was no hesitation, no space for second thoughts. You had enough of these games, these pretenses. Your fingers clung to his tunic, as if anchoring yourself to the moment, terrifies he might retreat into the shadows once more. But he didn't. Not this time. His grip was firm, his mouth insistent, devouring the distance that had long kept you apart. The line had been crossed, and there was no turning back—only the ruinous, intoxicating fall into each other.

[berriblossom]

Oh, Great Divine!

☆| It's time for a SAGAU, more so a comforting one. Reader's gender is ambiguous and gender neutral, archons adore reader, in this sense the Nahida tag is platonic!|

☆ Tags/warnings! | Socially Aware Genshin AU, archons and people of Teyvat treat the reader as a god or heavenly figure, religious references (cathedral of Mondstat and Narukami/ Sangonomiya Shrines of Inazuma) some minor lore for reader, Reader is referred to as "Their Grace" or "My/Your Grace" and "The Great Divine" ALL PORTRAYALS ARE FICTIONAL!! anyway, enjoy.|

Within the lands or nations of Teyvat, for centuries the practice of worshipping an Archon was beyond common, more so for those who wish not to believe in spiritual practices concerning the gods of each element are more on the rare side to find. However even if such existed, there was one thing to never be doubted within the lands of Teyvat.

The Great Divine's presence over mortals and immortals alike.

The creation of Teyvat in many national mythos credits the sole ideas and creation to the Great Divine. Even the archons and the sources of their celestial names were blessed upon them by their divine grace. Depending on which nation you visit, some may say that their archon is specifically blessed by their grace.

In Mondstat, the nation of wind, song, freedom, wine, and bard's ballads, once every 100 years they celebrate the freedom blessed to them by Barbatos and the Great Divine. A tradition stretching for the last millennial to show the love and deeply routed affection given by its people and archon. Yes, Barbatos, or now the "drunken" bard known as Venti among his people. Every festival of a "New Eve" as they call it, is another 100 years for him to show his affection for his beloved divine. Despite his defiance to Celestia and the natural order placed after your departure, he still fully believes in your care and love for humans and archons alike. To Venti, whispering to the wind like he did with you thousands of years prior, even in his wind-spirit form. You'd sit together where now the great tree at Windrise and speak about the future of Teyvat, something despite having the authority over you simply spoke to him as:

"For what will come, Your nation will prosper and learn the true meaning of freedom and song..."

So to this day, he sits under that tree and thinks of the years since, missing your warmth from curling up in your hands as a wind spirit to laughing and humming beside you in his divine form. He has seen it for the last few hundred years, the art, songs, plays, books, and even food and weapons made in your name, and every hundred years he repeats the same. A small prayer from his soul is whispered into the wind as he tells his deep care and love for his dear grace. And the people of Mondstat no different, all gather at the great Cathedral and warmly sing about the Great Divine and Lord Barbatos as they place to wine, food, and gifts at the altar of your image. When alone Venti will sneak in and sit under your statue, missing the warmth of your hands but relishing the love in your image.

In Liyue, the nation of Geo, contracts, and the adepti, the greats divines are influenced by the first contract Rex Lapis made with them over 7000 years ago, even before Liyue was a fully combined nation. Zhongli remembers the conversation you two had, sharing a simple game of wit and tea. Then he was immature to your influence and power but now he relishes in it. Proudly in his vast historical knowledge, preaching his love and the power the great divine holds. How you could shape the sea with a flick of your wrist, how you've created mountains from your fingertips, how your vast knowledge is spread throughout teyvat as a bible to be studied and read over and over again. But mostly what he and all of Liyue celebrate is the contractable care and affection you give him and the people of Liyue.

This time around Liyue is a time spent every hundred of years a new eve of dawn as it is called, one Zhongli and his fellow adepti never get tired of. A time to give gifts of care to neighbors, friends, and even coworkers in the busy harbor. Even the Northland Bank celebrates by lowering interest on loans!

(But only for this amount of time and by the next New Eve of Dawn the Interest WILL reset)

But mainly it is a way to give worship to the Great Divine and their trust in Rex Lapis and his Adepti to protect and serve Liyue. Everything Zhongli has done was for your gratitude and divine love. So when a New Eve comes, he sits anywhere in Liyue, the mountains, hills, somewhere to overlook the harbor, and enjoys a warm cup of tea. Your favorite while imagining your smile as you talk, the games you'd two play. He watches his disciples and Apeti celebrate with gifts, food, and songs at your altar set around Liyue. He sips his tea and awaits your fated return, happy to share more memories and stories with you.

Within the land of Eternity, formerly transcience, Inazuma's style of celebration differs slightly from some nations. The Grand Narukami Shrine would hold a private ceremony, cleansing the sacred Sakura tree and your statue underneath, barhing the precious stone engravings with crisp clean water. Meanwhile the people if Inazuma would be celebrating on their own occasions, firewroks light into the clear sky, dancing ceremonies at the teahouse fill with guest.

However, the new electro archon herself sits alone at the top of Tebshukaku. Quietly walking down memeory lane in her mind. For the last five centuries of the New Eve of Dawn celebration, she'd sit in her space of Euthymia alone in solitude quietly sulking at the idea of your everlasting figure. How her and Makoto would chat down the lane of inazuma speaking about plans of you, speaking of your visions of the nation of electro, Makoto laughing at how embarrassed Ei used to be around you and your divinity. Now Ei smiles solemnly..

She knows now that she as archon must take the mantle, for in your teachings that it the goal of the heavenly principles you've left. Fated to return, she prays that you'd come to her first. She dreams and imagines in her meditations within her quiet Euthymia that you'd hold her. That her loneliness would be cured indefinitely. But for now she waits, with a plate of dango and some ofdly colored tea, shit eats alone as the fireworks set off atop Narukami island, she whispers a promise to herself and her nation on your honor.

"For it will be fate...my grace...you shall return to us...to eternity...we shall be reunited."

Far off in the lands of eternity, however, the island that formed the resistance sings and dances around the bonfire, the resistance army of Sangonomiya and Watatsumi laugh as they praise the late OmiKami, or the serpent god Orobashi. The fire dances as troops tell stories, shrine maidens sing and laugh, and her priestess sits while holding a book. She smiles softly. Kokomi looks above at the horizon and sees the corpse of their late god, she wishes silently to herself and for her ancestors to below the sea. That once the great spirit of life and forefather of the vishaps would return to bring life to the benevolent serpent. But for now, she sits alongside Gorou as they watch the troops enjoy the holiday.

Within Sumeru, however, and alongside it, Fontaine...the New Eve of Dawn has been on the academic calendar differently, which is how some older nations react. For those in the rainforest, it is a blessing of Lessor Lords Kusanali's birth. For the dessert, it is the bringing of a new promise for the scarlet sand kings doubted return. Within the nation of dendro, it is a holiday of now academic activities, no scholars shrouded in work, but a day off. The people worship by their own will and sit in taverns, bars, and cafes to drink mereily while chatting with friends. Some visit your altar within the Akademiya, and others pray at home.

Nahida sits on a branch of the great tree that houses the knowledge many wish to obtain, in her hands an ancient seed of fate, she herself has no memory or knowledge of where it came but holds ot and teasures its existence. For she has a kindling that it is tied to this divine spirit that is expected to awaken. From her small conversation with Apep, the seed is treasured. Hence, she holds it and feeds the growing plant bits of dendro elemental energy. She sighs as she watches the sun set and the cheers from the streets and grand bazars performances. Nilou must be dancing now, she thinks. She hums a small song while kicking her feet, her hands warm with caution. She may not know you yet, but she knows already... Your spirit and divine will watch for her and her nation. The goddess of wisdom has many questions for the great creator of this world, but for now, she just hums and sits happily, a great birthday gift indeed.

Meanwhile, in Fontaine, similarly, it is deemed a weekend off of work. Many go home, some go to the Opera to catch performances of the holiday, others read tabloids of the steambird that some random person in the court has the great divine in their basment all along. All fiction truthfully. Furina reads her book as she makes another plate of pasta macaroni. For the occasion, she bought extra special ragau to taste amazing. She dances around her kitchen listening to soft music. For years her mind would have doubted and even hated this day, anxious fears of disappointment and disapproval looks from her days as stabding archon. Would you have hated her? Did you think she failed fontaine and you? Was her a cursed human taking title of archon an insult to you? Furina had nightmares even of the prohecy and your return to see fontaine gone and underwater. But now, as the prophecy and fontaine were safe and out of fear, she ate and asked a good question this new century.

"What kind of pasta would their grace like..."

Soft rainfall drops onto the steps of the Palais Mermonia, the evening rain was forcasfed but welcomed, Neuvillette wrote on the papers softly, agreeing to a few celebratory events the Opera wanted to hold. Usually Lady Furina would be jumping for the task but here he was. Dread builded in his soul. This time of year brought many pains to Neuvillette.

A new century meant a new set of hundreds of years he gets to oulive humans, melusines maybe, but also the clock inches closer and closer to your return. Neuvillette spent early years of his lofe researching and discovering his species and kind for decades. Figuring that if you are the forefather and creator of vishaps and the sovereignty. Why was so many things done the way they were? Why ddi the power the gnosis and archons hold come from them? Why can't he understand your implications, even such his ancestors didn't wish to think against? What power do you hold and how did aid Fontaine in the end? He knew Focalor and Egeria spoke to you, even asking for forgiveness before your departure, so why? Neuvillette, places his pen downs and stands to look out the window of his office to look down at the streets of the Court of Fontaine, a glass of crisp water swirls in his hand. He sips slowly and sighs, coming to think.

"In this new century...please with it, may you come along too my grace."

In the nation of fire, victory, war and passion, raors could be heard from the stadium of flames as people of different tribes shouted and cheered the competitions down below. Surfing races, climbing achievements, conbat bouts, even break dancing competitions held. Mavuika sits at her throne above as her people cheer and celebrate, raising glasses, foods, gifts, and money even in your image. She slips away from the fesitivites to be alone in the speakers chambers, past the sacred flame, and into her personal get-away. Now empty, she stares at the famous wheel of the sun, Natlan has held for centuries, the same you blessed the first pyro archon with, as their rules of ruilibg were left in your favor. She smiles as she too holds her head high, similar to her ancestors before her.

She remebers before she was even archon, how her parents would tell stories of the Great divines influence, love, and power. That the spirit of victory belongs to the pyro archon yes, but the strength was given by you as well. She remembered your fave engraved in ancients temples and stones around Natlan and now some statues around the lands too. She knows too well her nation is blessed by your, not only for the peoples cheers and vitcories but the long-lasting stay they've had against the threat of the abyss thus far. Maybe when you return and ward off the abyssal threats for good, she top could ask something of you...for that she won't know until she sees you herself.

"Until we meet my grace...may your memeory burn eternal.. and your power live within my people."

-> Did i go overboard, yes...but eh...hoped you enjoy, and also i may make a small series out of this..who knows..

[sorcerersandskillusers]

The genius writing of Akutagawa and Dazai's relationship.

Dazai and Akutagawa's relatuionship is incredibly interesting and is essential to the story as a whole.

Here I want to talk about how we see Dazai’s careful manipulation of Akutagawa at the start of BSD and what his motivations are for doing it.

In Dazai's entrance exam we see how Akutagawa is still pursuing Dazai even after 2 years. But he is going after him more for revenge, he has clearly become more independent but still desperately wants to find Dazai and hopefully understand why he was left behind.

Akutagawa sternly watches the agent go. “Wait. I’d like to ask you something.” The agent stops in his tracks. “I’m looking for someone. He has the ability to nullify others’ skills upon contact. Know anybody like that?” “Sorry, afraid not.” “Then get out of my sight.” “You got it.” He begins to walk again before disappearing into the darkness of the evening twilight. “…Where did you go? Why did you suddenly disappear?” Akutagawa soliloquizes, alone on the street. “For a moment, I thought you might have been the Azure King, but I was wrong. Where are you? There’s no way you’re dead. You are somewhere here in Yokohama. I just know it.” The winds of the night collect his words and carry them away. “I’ll find my mentor if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll find you, former Port Mafia executive Dazai.”

By the time the manga really starts we see that Akutagawa's attitude towards Dazai has changed a lot.

This is his first time seeing Dazai in years and he is able to keep his cool and brush it off. He is even confident enough to threaten Dazai when we know Akutagawa before this and even later in the series would never.

Dazai taunts Akutagawa here, poking at the old insecurity’s and letting him know Dazai is still not impressed with what he's achieved. you can see from his reaction Aku is affected and shows that even though he's acting tough, he hasn't really escaped his past.

This is where the mind games begin.

Look at Akutagawa's face when he enters ,you can see that he is really nervous about confronting Dazai here, and Dazai pointedly ingoring him like he's nothing when he tries to intimidate him really just emphisises that Dazai doesn't see him as a threat.

Akutagawa tries so hard to be in control here, Dazai is chained up, sententenced to death, has no friends or allies there to help him while Akutagawa has the whole mafia at his back. But still its clear that Dazai is 100% in control of the situation.

Akutagawa hitting Dazai, threatening to kill him, saying how he is no threat, we would never see him do this kind of thing later in the series. Dazai here very carefully brings him right back to the state he was in before he left.

Dazai bringing out every old insecurity, dismissing everything Akutagawa strived to achieve and the strength he uses to justify his existance. We see Akutagawa trying to justify why he doesn't need Dazais approval, how he's a traitor and doomed to die anyway, but Dazai just talks about how disapointing and pathetic Akutagawa was as a student and for Akutagawa who's ability and talent are what he values most thats a deep wound. Akutagawa is trying so hard to control the present but the fact that Dazai's words affect him so much shows that he is still very much trapped by the past.

An important note is that we know for a fact this is Dazai lying. He says multiple times in the Dark Era that he sees huge potential in Akutagawa and that he thinks he could be the strongest ability user in the port mafia. All of this is Dazai deliberately getting under Aku's skin, breaking down the confidence he built in the years after Dazai left.

But what Dazai said that cut the deepest was comparing him to Atsushi.

The fact that Dazai had taken on another pupil after him, and that he said he was better means that Akutagawa was just weak. And we see how after this Akutagawa developes his hatred of Atsushi since to him Atsushi is everything he despises but some he won Dazai's approval.

Akutagawa is brought right back to how Dazai used to train him, the hell he went through to earn Dazai's acceptence, and somehow this random weak coward gets everything he ever wanted dispite everything he did to earn it.

By the Guild arc we see that Akutagawa is now completely motivated by Dazai again. This is also important because he is a lot less cocky here, it's clear that losing to Atsushi really has pushed him to start fighting with everything he has.

On Mobi Dick we see that Akutagawa has completely abandoned the mafias orders and is solely focused on killing Atsushi.

We also see just how much Akutagawa's attitude has changed from when he met Dazai in the prison, here even just the chance to talk to Dazai makes him throw everything else away. He's desprate and confused and needs to know why Dazai would choose Atsushi over him.

Then, Akutagawa learns a bit of Atsushi's past.

This is it, I think that here (even though he would never admit it) Akutagawa kind of realises that him and Atsushi want exactly the same thing, but to Akutagawa approval has to come from Dazai while for Atsushi even he doesn't know how or when it will be enough.

Atsushi thinks his life has no value unless he saves others, Akutagawa thinks his has no value unless he kills others. Both are wrong and both need to learn that from the other.

(Atsushi and Akutagawa's dynamic is also incredibly well done and will probably get an analysis of its own but this one is too long already)

Now I want to talk about why Dazai did this, why he dragged Akutagawa back to this state even after he has seemingly moved on. I don't think it was just to control him (though thats probably part of it), I think it was because he knew that the only person who could save Akutagawa was Atsushi.

Very important point: Dazai was not the one who made Akutagawa think his life had no value, or the reason he was so eager to kill. Both of these are part of Akutagawa long before he meets Dazai. We see in The Heartless Cur that Akutagawa was already very quick to kill and had no will or reason to live.

In the Dark Era Dazai tells Oda that he wants Akutagawa to learn to temper his rage and not always jump to killing.

“That skill user Akutagawa was one of your subordinates, right?” I said, tracing my memory. “I heard he had a rather aggressive skill…but even he’s no match for them?” “Akutagawa—he’s like a sword without a sheath.” Dazai grinned from ear to ear. “He’ll surely become the Mafia’s strongest skill user in the notso-distant future, but for now he needs someone who can teach him how to put that sword away.” I was surprised. I had never heard Dazai openly speak so highly of one of his men like that before. “Is he really that talented?” “When I first saw him over in the slums, I was horrified. His talents are extraordinary, and his skill is extremely destructive. Plus, he’s stubborn. If I’d left him to his own devices, he would’ve ended up a slave to his own powers until he destroyed himself.” Dazai didn’t freely make people work under him, period; much less a boy on the verge of starvation in the slums. But Dazai seemed to have his own reasons for doing it.

Notice how Dazai says he needs "someone" to teach him to sheath his sword, not that "he" can/will teach him.

Dazai seemingly regressing Akutagawa back to being 100% dependent on his approval was because Akutagawa never really escaped it. He was still just an attack dog who killed indescriminatly and whose self worth was tied entirely to his role in the mafia. If Dazai had just left him alone he probably would have ended up destroying himself just like Dazai predicted. But when Dazai met Atsushi he knew he had found a way to save Akutagawa too.

This is not me (or Asagiri) trying to justify Dazai's abuse of Akutagawa. Dazai himself says about Atsushi's headmaster that the methods he used were horrific and unforgivable, but that doesn't mean they didn't shape who Atsushi is now.

In the mafia Dazai wouldn't have cared about how he "saved" akutagawa, he says it to Akutagawa himself.

He immediately pointed the gun at Akutagawa, who was still on the ground. “I have this friend who’s supporting several orphans all on his own, you see,” he continued, his weapon still drawn and aimed at the boy. “Akutagawa, I’m sure Odasaku would’ve been patient enough to give you the guidance you needed had he been the one who’d found you on the brink of starvation in the slums. That would have been the ‘right’ thing to do. But ‘righteousness’ doesn’t take very kindly to me. And there’s only one thing people like me do to useless subordinates.” Dazai mercilessly pulled the trigger the moment he finished his sentence.

We even see this play out in BEAST, Oda and the ADA are able to really help Akutagawa and teach him the value of life both his own and other peoples, what Dazai did wasn't nessacary or justified. But it is what happened and can't be changed.

Obviously Dazai was also struggling with horrific things of his own, but that doesn't change or excuse what he did. Everything he put Akutagawa through left a mark, so to undo that damage and let him move on he needed to make him and Atsushi truly understand eachother by breaking down the walls Akutagawa had put up.

In the end this isn't a moral exploration, good and bad in general have very blurry meanings in bsd (and in real life). I just wanted to deconstruct this since it's such incredible writing that I almost never see talked about. And it's extrememly important for understanding the latest chapters.

[lueurjun]

best friend’s brother! lee know.

best friends brother!lee know x reader. in which you are the bane of his existence with a 100% success rate in the rizz department.

for the sake of this fic, hyunjin and minho are brothers—don’t ask why, it just made the most sense to me. this also ended up being way longer than i anticipated but in my defence, it could’ve been longer so i think we should all give me a pat on the back for that.

there’s a myriad of things minho could handle.

a snapped bone? no issue. a messed up food order? sure, annoying but not the end of the world. a deer breaking into his house? might catch him off guard enough to frown, but that would be about it.

but you?

oh, lee minho was certainly not prepared for you.

rock his world baby cakes.

a hurricane wrapped in sunshine, and the only one capable of making his composure falter.

you, who wore confidence like a second skin. who had been an annoying addition to his life since you befriended his younger brother at nine years old. you who had the fattest crush on him and had no issue letting everybody know it.

there’s been a seed in your head that was planted the moment you set eyes on him

and that seed, fresh from a packet of adoration, sprouted into a stubborn little belief that one day—someday—he would be yours. even if he didn’t believe it yet.

not you manifesting him. lemme help. he will be yours. he will be yours 🌀🙂‍↔️

because you held onto something that most people didn’t have.

hope.

hope that he would eventually see past the loud, obnoxious friend of his younger brother.

and until that day came, you were perfectly content with bugging the absolute life out of him.

“target located, heading up the drive way wearing sexy skin tight shirt and swinging his keys around his long fin—”

“how many times have i told you to stop using my binoculars to creep on my brother?”

“leave me alone, hyunjin. i’m in love.”

cue hyunjin yanking the binoculars out of your hands, cutting off the sight of minho slipping into the house, and therefore prompting you to move away from the window

it’s giving stalker but you’re my precious angel so we’ll allow it 😘

amused, hyunjin threw a bag of haribos at your head

“you’re not in love. you just enjoy bothering him.”

“same thing,” you reply, falling back onto his bed with a hearty sigh. “but look at him! tell me you wouldn’t fall for that if you were me.”

hyunjin gagged.

like fully dry heaved.

“that’s my brother, of course i wouldn’t!”

at that exact moment, heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and said brother came into view.

why hello there 🙃

grinning, you pry open the bag of haribos and route inside for a gummy ring, holding it up proudly as he stops in the doorway

“care to slip it on my finger? the one with the vein connected to my heart is free.”

not even gonna lie to you guys i’m so impressed with myself for this line 😌

hyunjin grimaces, turning to his older brother unsure of whether to feel bad for him or amused by your antics.

minho eyes the ring in your hand, raising an eyebrow. “a gummy ring? i thought you were the diamond and pearls type?”

“i’d marry you with a paper ring if you’d let me.”

okay taylor swift.

hyunjin groans, throwing his head back against the wall. “i’ve put up with many of your cringy flirting attempts but i draw the line at quoting song lyrics.”

minho ignores his brother, stepping further into the room and only stopping when he’s standing next to you, the scent of his cologne carving the soul from your body and sending it up to cloud nine

seriously was it laced with crack? what was in that heavenly combo?

watching him take the ring from your outstretched palm, you beam excitedly and hold out your finger.

only for your face to fall when he slips the ring into his mouth and chews with a shit eating grin.

forget him. i’ll marry you 💍

“you’re evil!” you narrow your eyes, clutching your chest.

“and you’re annoying,” he replies, already turning back toward the door, but not before stopping to say over his shoulder, “should’ve made me one of those paper hearts. i can’t eat those.”

hyunjin groans loudly, only it’s muffled by your loud gasp

“do not test me right now! i will make you one.”

lee know never responds, but you hear a rumble of a chuckle echo off the walls as he heads into his own room.

sometimes, minho wishes you weren’t so infatuated by him.

man doesn’t know how lucky he is smh 🙄

as much as he enjoys teasing you, and as much as he does revel in your attention — something he refuses to admit even to himself — life would’ve been much easier if you had developed a crush on someone else.

because watching the light in your eyes evaporate when he enters the kitchen with someone hanging off his arm, shatters his heart in a way he wasn’t sure was even possible.

of course, he buries it deep down and throws you a lazy smirk, pretending not to notice the way your smile falters.

get behind me rn. i’ll fix this 🤺

but god he notices. because stupidly, he notices everything when it comes to you.

and that frustrates him to no end because he’s not supposed to.

he’s not supposed to notice even the slightest change in your expression. he shouldn’t notice the moment you slip your mask of confidence over your face, hiding your true emotions.

and goddamn it, he most certainly shouldn’t like the way you save that special flirtatious smile only for him.

ohh he down badddd.

he shouldn’t, but he does. and maybe, one day when he’s brave enough to stop pretending, to stop burying everything you make him feel, he’ll admit the truth:

whatever line once separated annoyance from affection blurred long ago—and now he sees you as something else entirely.

and that terrifies him.

so instead, minho bids you a nonchalant nod, steals a couple fries off of hyunjin’s plate and leads his date upstairs.

and you do what you do best, you mask your hurt with an overly cocky grin that hyunjin sees right through as you sip from your cup and sigh

“he so wishes that was me.”

hyunjin, unable to stomach the sight of the sadness in your eyes, forces a chuckle.

tbh i say we both just marry hyunjin. #throupleandthriving ✌️

“they could never give him as nearly as many grey hairs as you do.”

it doesn’t matter how many times minho has broken your heart, doesn’t matter how many times you’d plastered a bandaid over your aching invisible wound.

nothing ever changes, because you had mastered the art of moving on from situations.

and as many times as he’s broken your heart, he’s also mended cuts he never inflicted.

lowering my plastic sword- BUT DONT TEST ME MINHO.

like the one time you got stood up for prom and minho showed up outside your door in a suit even though he couldn’t stand school festivities

“i still think you’re a loser for wanting to go to this thing, but i’ll be damned if i let you walk in there alone while that douche bag has the time of their life. so let’s go.”

aggressive rizz. i like it.

or the time you showed up at his house in floods of tears, intending to find hyunjin, only to find out that minho was home alone and instead of turning you away, awkwardly wrapped you in his arms and let you cry into his chest.

you: 😭 minho: 🧍🏻

and then there was that time he left han’s birthday in a panicked rush after receiving a text from hyunjin begging him to pick you up after you’d gotten into a minor car crash.

minho had broken every road law that night, but he didn’t care one bit—not when he found you on the side of the road being yelled at by some guy.

that was the time that minho realized that a dangerous shift was happening.

as he watched you tremble from the shock of the crash, the usual confidence and defiance you wore like armour—the attitude you always met condensation with—vanished, replaced by something smaller. Something vulnerable.

and in that moment, minho came to a quiet devastating conclusion: he couldn’t bear the thought of someone dimming your light, taking away that fire in your eyes that he’d grown obsessed with over the years of knowing you.

yeah! me and minho will roll up and fuck shit up for you 💪

so yes, minho had broken your heart more times than you can count… but he’d mended it just as many. and it was in those rare, unexpected moments that the flame of hope in your chest sparked to life all over again.

and it was with that hope that kept you coming back with teasing smiles, bold comments and flirtatious jabs, refusing to let him push you away completely.

because you’d seen it. sure, one might call you a delusional lovesick fool who only sees what they want to see

but you’d caught the way his eyes lingered just a moment too long, how he remembered the smallest passing comments you’d made, and the way he always made sure you had food or were warm enough whenever you and hyunjin joined him and his friends in the backyard.

its in the way he softens only for you.

stop thats actually so cute. not me swooning-

minho could pretend all he wanted — but you weren’t stupid, nor were you blind. he was slipping, slowly, quietly… and you were patient.

“i created a pinterest moodboard for our wedding.”

minho barely blinks as he grabs two bottles of water from the fridge and says, “make sure it’s not in the summer, i hate the idea of sweating in my suit.”

your heart? dust.

your mouth? on the ground.

hyunjin? sickened.

lueurjun? walking into ongoing traffic.

the corner of minho’s mouth lifts up, and he not so subtly places the second bottle of water — the cap already loosened — in front of you, and then leaves the room.

“that was literally a proposal, hyunjin.”

“you’re delusional.”

“we’re going to be siblings!”

“absolutely not.”

“where do i book venues? oh my gosh, what about a destination wedding?”

“i hate it here.”

it appears patience is a virtue and it rewarded you very well.

because it seems as though burying things down doesn’t work as well as minho hoped it would.

not when he catches himself watching you from across the room.

alexa play obsessed 🤭

not when he finds himself willingly spending time with you and his brother because for some reason the desire to be near you has grown in intensity.

and certainly not when someone has the the audacity to flirt with you in front of him.

minho doesn’t say anything at first—just watches, eyes narrowed dangerously, hand curled around his glass.

“you’re going to break that glass,” says chan, far more amused than necessary.

“im fine,” minho responds, sounding anything but fine.

though he can’t decide whether he’s more put out over someone flirting with you, or the fact that you appear to be flirting back.

i’m the one flirting with you btw 🙂‍↔️

pulling out that special grin reserved only for him.

and he cannot stand it because how dare you.

how dare you offer his smile up to somebody else, and how dare you not even care.

and how dare you get him so riled up.

how dare you.

god forbid someone has admirers 🙄

and finally, when you excuse yourself and head to grab a drink, minho follows you without a single thought for chan, who watches with a knowing gleam in his eye.

you don’t even turn, mid pour when you say “hmm… three seconds, im impressed.”

“what are you talking about?”

“it took you three seconds to follow me.”

minho scoffs, yet it lacks bite. “don’t flatter yourself, i just want another drink.”

“too late,” you sing, abandoning your drink and turning around to face him. “you think i don’t notice how utterly obsessed you are with me—almost as obsessed as i am with you. but i do.”

minho feigns a smirk, ready to deflect with a clever remark that would probably hurt your feelings, but his words tangle into knots when you step closer, throwing your arms around his neck.

ooooooh minho has a crushhhhh

you coil the ends of his hair around your fingers as you lower your voice, “when are you going to put me out of my misery and admit that you love me as much as i love you?”

to anyone who didn’t know you like the back of their hand, they would’ve thought you were teasing.

but minho saw the heart on your sleeve, the vulnerability in your eyes, and it captures any sarcastic remark he had lined up.

there’s a war in his eyes, like his heart is begging to surrender while his pride battles to keep going.

“it’s okay to lose, minho,” you whisper, tracing your fingers down the back of his neck, outlining a map of goosebumps in their wake.

minho clenches his jaw, but then his hands find your waist, pulling you just that little bit closer.

“you drive me insane.”

“i know, but you love me anyway.”

and though he doesn’t say the words aloud, his actions speak louder as he presses his forehead against your own.

“you’re persistent i’ll give you that.”

your laughter dances across his skin, “you don’t mind though, it’s one of my many amazing qualities you’re obsessed with.”

minho’s eyes soften, and he finds himself nodding. “i suppose so.”

“okay, so for our wedding—”

minho’s laughter meets your words before his lips do, capturing your sentence in a kiss.

idk who i want to be more rn.

not that you mind, you’ve waited your entire life for this—for him.

across the kitchen, hyunjin stands next to felix with a ghost of a smile on his lips as he sighs.

“they’re really going to be my sibling.”

[femsolid]

Some crazy french scandals you've probably never heard of:

In 2023, a senator invited an mp to his apartment to celebrate his election. He went to the kitchen alone and put GHB in her drink. When he came back he was acting weird and urged her to drink it fast. When the drugs started to take effect, she thought she was dying of a heart attack and he tried to calm her down, but she ran from the apartment and called for help. She was taken to the hospital and he was later arrested. He claimed that he didn't mean to put the drugs in her drink, he was doing a magic trick and the drugs fell into her drink by mistake. On his phone search history the police found that he had been reading about rape drugs. The trial hasn't happened yet, so for now he's still working as a senator and has refused to step down.

In 2024, it was revealed that children were being tortured and raped at a catholic school for decades. The french prime minister was made aware of this in the 90s and did nothing. He is now being investigated by the parliament. He was questioned for more than 5 hours (it lasted this long because he refused to give a straight answer) during which he spent most of his time insulting leftist MPs and pretended to be the victim. The investigation is still ongoing and more than 45 children, now adult men, have come forward. The video of him slapping a little boy while visiting an impoverished neighbourhood resurfaced. While questioned by the parliament he explained that the boy was trying to steal from him and that sometimes hitting a child can be educational. Hitting a child is illegal in France.

2018: During the yellow vest protests, policemen were routinely brutalising, maiming and even killing people. During a rally on may 1st, a policeman was filmed beating a woman and then a couple. However, on closer inspection, it was revealed that the man was impersonating a police officer and that he was president Macron's close friend and bodyguard. The police let him borrow their uniforms and helmet to beat up protesters.

It was also revealed that he was unduly authorised to carry a gun, to use a car paid by the government, and to own a badge authorising him to enter the parliament despite not being a member. He was sentenced to 1 year of house arrest wearing an electronic bracelet and 2 years of suspended sentence.

In 2025, Marine Le Pen, the popular leader of the french neo-nazi party was convicted of embezzlement. This was estimated to have caused a loss to European funds of 4.8 millions of euros.

She was accused of having hired fictitious assistants when she was a member of the European Parliament. In reality, they were working for her party. The court found there was “no doubt” about the existence of the scheme. She was sentenced to a five-year ban on running for public office with immediate effect and two years to be served outside jail with an electronic bracelet.

Let's talk about the left a little bit. The leader of the french left is so agitated and emotional he's an infinite source of memes here.

However, in 2018, things took a disturbing turn when more than 100 policemen, and a few prosecutors were sent to his home at around 7am, armed and with a warrant to search through all his belongings. They also visited a dozen of his coworkers all at the same time, in what appeared to be a very well prepared sting operation. The reason was unclear, though there were suspicions of embezzlement. It was something we'd never seen before in France, in terms of police deployment, and it seems excessive, especially given the fact that nothing came out of it.

However, that's not what people remember from that day.

During the policemen's search, the leftist leader, joined by other mps, became very angry as they were not allowing them to be in the room and witness the search. He screamed a lot, got in their face and was so upset he shouted weird things like "I'M the republic! Don't touch me, my person is sacred!!!" (which have become catchphrases in France) and "break down the door comrade!!!" which made the media talk for days and speculate about his mental state.

The policemen pressed charges against him, one of them stating that he was on sick leave for a week and had to get psychological support because he had nightmares after being shouted at by the leftist leader who responded that he probably shouldnt be a cop if he was that fragile. He was later convicted of "rebellion" against a police officer and had to pay 8K to the policeman. He also got 3 months of suspended sentence.

Obviously I should finish with Macron:

In 2018, a young horticulturist told president Macron it was difficult for him to find a job. Macron told him that all he had to do was cross the street and work as a waiter. In 2016, a unionist criticized him and Macron responded "You don't scare me wearing a T-shirt! The best way to buy yourself a suit is to work." In 2017, he stated: "When you go to the train station, you walk by people who succeed and people who are nothing." In 2018, when everybody became aware that his bodyguard had been impersonating a police officer to beat up protesters, Macron responded to the french people with "Come and get me!" In 2018, he said: "People who are having a hard time financially need to be more responsible. Some are doing well, but others are fucking around." In 2019, he said he was unhappy that yellow vest protestors were being invited to speak in the media: "Jojo with his yellow vest is considered an equal to a minister or mp!" During the yellow vest protests, a middle-aged woman who was just standing there and holding a peace flag was charged by the riot police and left unconscious on the ground. The whole scene was filmed and photographed. Macron said it was her fault for being there and told her that "she should be wiser in the future." However, the police chief responsible for the attack was later convicted. In 2024, when actor Depardieu was being investigated after being accused of rape by several women, Macron stated that Depardieu was a fantastic actor who made France proud and that he wouldn't participate in this witch hunt. In 2025, Depardieu was convicted on two counts of sexual assault.

In a book written by 3 journalists, they quote Macron as saying about the state of french hospitals: "the problem with emergency wards is that they are filled with Mamadou!" a blanket name he uses to call black men. Three weeks later, he told several african governments who had expelled french military from their countries that they forgot to thank France. He explained that the only reason african countries had their sovereignty was because of the french army. He added "it's okay, they'll thank us eventually" to which the Tchad foreign minister responded that he had a "contemptuous attitude towards Africa" and added: "we don't have a problem with France, but french leaders need to learn to respect african countries and their sovereignty." Macron also called the people of Haiti "complete cunts".

In 2017, he visited Mayotte, a french island, and joked that their traditional boats mostly served to fish immigrants. A few years later, when a typhoon hit that same island and killed several people, leaving the rest without drinking water and living in slums, the people of Mayotte were angry and desperate by the lack of support from France. Macron came to visit them, got angry and screamed: "I'm not responsible! I'm not the typhoon! You're complaining but you're quite happy to be french! If you weren't french you'd be 10 000 times in more shit! Yes I'm angry! Because you're disrespectful!" In 2017, he visited another french region, the french Guyane where people were on a strike. Indeed, people were complaining once again about being left out and living in poverty. Macron talked to the media and said that all the strikes needed to stop because it was "preventing the island from functioning." Problem: the french Guyane is not an island. It's situated on the south american continent between the Surinam, Brazil and Venezuela...

That's all I have for today! I hope our misery was entertaining. As a bonus, here is Macron getting slapped by some random french guy:

Au revoir.

[literaryavenger]

DOPPELGÄNGER

Summary: In a universe where Sebastian Stan not only exists but he's also your favorite actor, you swoon for him when you happen to meet him up and about New York one day, having no idea he's not who you think he is.

Pairing: sort of Sebastian Stan x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Misunderstandings. Kind of manipulative Bucky but he's still a sweetheart. Kind of naive and clueless Reader. No mentions of Y/N. My poor attempts at being funny.

Word Count: 3.8K

Requested by: @myfavbuckyfics

A/N: I'd like to thank @myfavbuckyfics for this ask which I had so much fun writing and I'm sorry it came like almost a full year late 😭 Her beautiful idea was basically 100% done, I just wrote it out and the result is just amazing! Also, I promise I'm still working on requests and they're slowly coming. Also, my messages/ask box are always open and I'm always delighted to receive requests to challenge myself with. I'm gonna try harder to find time for writing because it really brings me so much joy, especially when I find people that read and appreciate my work. Thank you to all of you who do!

Masterlist

The first time it happened, Bucky didn’t think much of it.

He’d accepted to go out for a breath of fresh air with Steve for the first time since he joined the Avengers and moved into the Compound and he was a little overwhelmed when a group of girls came up to them, fangirling and asking for photos. 

But Bucky understood, it’s Captain America, he assumed they were just excited to see Steve and asked Bucky to join the photos because he was Captain America’s friend, just to include him. After all, it hadn’t been announced yet that he had joined the team and nobody had any idea that Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was back.

Then it started happening when he was alone too. Girls coming up to him and asking for photos with him. But he figured, from what he understood of the internet, that it got around that he was Steve’s friend so people asked for photos with him because it was better than nothing.

But what really puzzled Bucky was when they would call him a name he didn’t recognize: Sebastian. 

That’s how Bucky found out that there was an actor that coincidentally lived in New York too, called Sebastian Stan. Sam and Scott made Bucky watch basically all the man’s movies and, as much as Bucky could agree he was a talented and versatile actor, he didn’t love the fact that they looked so similar. But what could he really do about that? 

So whenever Bucky got asked for photos he would try to politely say they had the wrong person or, if he was in a good mood, he’d just pose for the photos and move on.

You’re out and about in the streets of New York when you spot him: Sebastian Stan. Just standing outside of a coffee shop, like he’s waiting for someone. You didn’t expect him to have hair that long or a stubble like that, but you did read he’d been letting it all grow for the shooting of an upcoming role.

He’s your all time favorite actor since all the way back to 2010 when he starred in Hot Tub Time Machine, but you never thought you’d ever meet him, despite living in the same city. New York is pretty big after all and full of people you’ll never meet.

You debate whether to approach him or not, worried you’re gonna bother him, but then tell yourself you’ll just say hi and, if he feels like it, ask for a photo. 

“Excuse me…” Your soft voice instantly grabs Bucky’s attention, but he keeps looking at his phone just in case it’s not directed at him. “… Sebastian?”

The tentative question annoys Bucky a little, today he’s definitely not in the mood to deal with fangirls, not after he’s been waiting close to two hours for Sam because he’s late. He turns around fully intending to shut this down right now, but the moment his eyes land on you, he feels like his heart stops entirely.

She’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until you talk again. “Hi, I… I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, and I’m sure you get this all the time, but I’m a big fan and just wanted to say hi.”

God, he thinks it’s so cute how nervous you seem to be as you try to be polite. Bucky doesn’t know what to do with himself and he’s talking faster than his brain can comprehend.

“Don’t worry about it. Thank you, it’s always nice to meet a fan.” He gives you a charming smile that makes you giggle and Bucky’s heart flutters at the sound, making him feel like the care-free young man he used to be back in the 40s.

“Could I give you a hug?” You ask shyly, dying to know how it feels to hug him.

“Sure.” Bucky answers a little too eagerly.

What the hell am I doing? I don’t like people touching me.

But Bucky’s thoughts are quickly squashed when you hug him. For a moment he doesn’t know what to do, awkwardly hugging you back, but then it hits him all at once. It’s warm and comforting and it makes him feel something he hasn’t in decades… Peace.

Right there as you pull away he decides, I can’t let her get away.

“Anyway, if it’s not too much to ask, could we take a pi-”

“Do you wanna get some coffee?” Bucky interrupts you, surprising not only you but himself too.

Did Sebastian Stan just ask me to get a coffee with him?

Did I really just ask this girl that thinks I’m somebody else to get coffee with me?

Both of your minds are racing and for different reasons, just staring at each other until you say the one word that makes Bucky both incredibly happy but also incredibly nervous: “Yes.”

Bucky tells himself that it’s okay, it’s just coffee, he’ll tell you the truth after, but the more you talk the more his resolve weakens. 

Talking to you is easy, it makes him feel carefree like when he was a wide-eyed young adult, not fully tainted by the world’s cruelty yet. And it brought out a part of him he didn’t think existed anymore, the part that flirted shamelessly with you the entire time, the part that got a rush of satisfaction at every giggle he got out of you and a warm fuzzy feeling in his stomach with every shade of red he managed to make your cheeks turn to. 

It also didn’t help that you gushed over him, recounting every movie and tv show you’ve seen him in and how important each and everyone was to you. Bucky’s knees almost buckled [Bucky buckled lol] at the look of pure adoration in your face, that sparkle in your eye as you looked at him as if he was a real life shooting star in human form.

So he, when the date ends, as the words ‘I’m not Sebastian Stan’ dance on his tongue, what comes out instead is “Can I have your number?”

“Really?” You ask a little incredulous but he’s already taking out his flip phone, weird choice for an actor but okay, and you put in your phone number.

“Uhm, do you… Do you live close?” Bucky asks as he puts his phone back in his pocket. 

“Fairly.” You say vaguely. It’s not like you think he’s a serial killer, but he’s also a man you just met. “I could… Walk you, if you’d like?” Bucky offers, feeling protective over you and wanting to ensure your safety, but also desperately trying to prolong your time together. He just doesn’t want to let go of you.

You hesitate before agreeing, thinking he is a high profiled celebrity after all so there’s no reason to doubt him, right?

You feel like you’ve fallen into a fanfiction [ironic, I know] as you not only met your celebrity crush but he’s flirting with you and asking you out.

And so starts what, for you, is a fairytale romance, while for Bucky is more like a mission, his objective clear: Not let you find out who he really is. At least not yet.

As you keep going on dates and getting to know each other, or more like he gets to know you, Bucky does his best to become the man you seem so enamoured with.

In good trained spy fashion, he does all the research necessary about this Sebastian guy, the first and only time he abused his power at SHIELD to get into someone's personal files, determined to do everything he needs to keep you.

Bucky does the most, going as far as cutting his hair when he sees the actor’s haircut is slightly shorter and carefully planning his missions for times when he knows Sebastian will be away on press tours or shooting or crap like that and, when he doesn’t have missions, he just pretends to be out of town while barricading himself in the Compound, not willing to chance you finding him up and about.

He even gets himself an iPhone, going through the painful process of letting Peter teach him how to use it because the kid is the only one Bucky knew would do so without asking too many questions.

Sometimes he feels bad about lying to you and he considers coming clean, but every time he sees his face he falls more in love with you and he keeps convincing he’ll tell you the truth soon. But that time never comes.

He knows you’re falling too and he can’t bring himself to burst your bubble, not when you look at him with those bright, beautiful eyes full of love that sparkle adorably every time he’s around. He'll be Sebastian Stan forever if it means he gets to see you and be in your life everyday.

Still, he feels too guilty being intimate with you while you’re not aware of who he really is, so he makes a point to never go too far past pecks on the lips, which you accept and reassure him profusely that you’ll go at his pace, waiting patiently like the angel he believes you are.

He’s also aware that if you saw his Vibranium arm you’d immediately know he’s not actually Sebastian Stan, and not only that but he’s scared you’ll be horrified and run for the hills when you see just how broken he is, so he always keeps it hidden. 

You take notice of him always wearing long sleeves and leather gloves, but you don’t say anything about it as you don’t want to embarrass him if it’s about something he feels self conscious about, telling yourself he’ll eventually address the fact himself.

For six months everything goes smoothly, Bucky even manages to impress you with his Romanian skills, which he is more than happy to know get you fairly hot and bothered, but he keeps his promise to himself not to go too far with you until he tells you the full truth, always finding a way to come to you so he can make excuses about work stuff to not stay overnight.

But, as all good things do in his life, it comes the day where it all blows up in his face.

You’re waiting for Sebastian in front of his favorite sushi restaurant where you’re having your date but when he gets there, he almost walks past you without a glance and, thinking he just didn’t notice as he was looking at his phone, you grab his attention.

“Seb.” You walk up to him before he reaches the restaurant’s door and hug him hello, kissing his cheek like always.

Except this time, instead of returning your affections, he almost leaps back away from you. “Excuse me??”

He looks almost panicked as he looks at you like you’re crazy. “Who are you??”

You frown before you realize he’s messing with you. “Oh, nice one, Seba.” You roll your eyes playfully. “Acting like you don’t know me.”

“I’m sorry, are you a… A fan or something?” Sebastian asks confused.

“Are you gonna play the celebrity card on me after six months? Really?” You chuckle.

“Six months? What are you talking about?”

“Come, Sebastian, it’s me.” You sigh and cross your arms, starting to get over his little joke. But you have to hand it to him, he’s a really good actor. “We’re supposed to be on a date here.”

“Look, I don’t know you.” He says in a firm voice that makes you freeze, never having heard it before, you watch him take a step back like he’s afraid of you.

“Seb…” You say weakly, your arms dropping as you’re not sure what’s happening.

“Stop calling me that.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never seen you before in my life and I certainly don’t have a date with you.” 

I can’t help but feel hurt by his borderline cold tone, feeling tears starting to burn behind your eyes. “I-”

“Listen, I don’t want any trouble,” He cuts you off. “but please stop this distasteful joke or whatever this is before I call the police.”

Just as you’re about to cry out of both hurt and embarrassment all the same, Sebastian turns around to see a man standing behind him with a sheepish look as he avoids your eyes. Bucky.

“Uh, I’m sorry man, that’s my girlfriend. She was waiting for me.” Bucky apologizes to a gaping Sebastan, the actor can’t help but be amazed as he looks up and down at a man that looks so much like him, down to his own haircut. It’s like looking in an all-black dressed mirror.

Bucky keeps his eyes on his more famous version, but it’s not because he’s impressed by the similarities. He’s determined to keep his eyes away from you, his stomach churning so much he’s convinced he might throw up any second.

He saw everything, rounding the corner just as you approached Sebastian Stan. He remained well-hidden, his feet feeling stuck to the concrete as he witnessed the encounter in borderline horror and seriously debated just turning around and running away, but when he saw you were about to cry his protective side got the better of him and he felt the need to step in and save you.

He still can’t look at you though, fearing he might have just lost you for good.

“Wow…” Sebastian pulls Bucky out of his thoughts. “This is… Bizarre.” “It is.” Bucky forces a chuckle. “You can see how she’d be confused. Have a good night.”

Bucky’s quick to dismiss Sebastian as he feels like the more he stands there the more time you have to stew in your confusion and probable anger, and Sebastian doesn’t seem to think much of a man that looks like him with the same name too. Weirder things have happened in New York.

“Yeah, sorry I yelled.” Sebastian apologizes as he opens the door to the restaurant. “Have a good date, guys.”

Once Sebastian is gone, Bucky gathers all his courage just to look at you, the shock on your face clear before you snap yourself out of it and your expression goes blank.

“Who are you?” Is all you say and Bucky almost winces at your low, cold tone.

“I–” He gapes at you, not sure where to even start as the two of you just stand on the sidewalk. He sighs and runs a gloved hand down his face. “Look, I-I know you’re angry, just… Please come inside? Give me a chance to explain?”

You scoff but he starts pleading before you even get a chance to go off on me. “Please, I just want you to hear me out. Just give me a chance to tell you the full truth. You don’t have to say anything and you can leave after, just let me get the words out. Please.”

You hesitate, wanting nothing more than to turn around and run away from what you know is a potentially dangerous situation, but you know deep down that you can never say no to Sebastian, or whoever this is that you’ve spent the last six months falling for.

As you sit down in the furthest, most secluded corner of the restaurant you cross your arms and Bucky, as he told you his name is, tells you everything. And I mean everything.

He decides to tell you his entire history from the start just to paint a full picture, displaying an honesty that he’s never had with anyone, not even his therapist or Steve. But after the way he deceived you for six months and how horrible you must’ve felt during the encounter with the real Sebastian, the least he can give you right now is full honesty.

“... And I know there’s no excuse for what I’ve done, but I was just so terrified, doll.” He sighs, his eyes lowered in shame. “Terrified you’d run, terrified you’d think I’m a monster… I know I went about it in the worst ways, but I started falling for you the moment I saw you and I was so scared of losing you that I tried to do everything I could to keep you around.” You remain stoic the entire time, listening to everything that happened to him hurts deep in your soul but you can’t bring yourself to be sympathetic right now.

The last six months, everything you went through, it was all a lie. You thought you knew who you were falling for, but you were sorely mistaken. Even the cute nickname he calls you that you teased him so much for but secretly loved how adorably old fashioned it is, now feels hollow and just wrong.

When he finishes talking, you let a moment of silence pass between the two of you before you grab your purse, jacket and leave the restaurant without a single word.

Bucky doesn’t even attempt to stop you, after all you held the end of your agreement and listened to everything he had to say. Now all he can do is watch you walk away, knowing he’s lost you for good, the one good thing he ever had, just because he’s an idiot that made all the wrong choices.

A month.

That’s how long you mull things over before you’re ready to talk to Sebas–Bucky again. You went to the Compound with surprising ease but you were met in the lobby by Captain America instead of Bucky, who informed you his best friend had spent the last month wallowing in his apartment in Brooklyn, which you wish you’d known before you drove to the once again surprisingly easy to locate home of superheroes in Upstate New York.

So here you are, knocking at the apartment Steve told you Bucky sometimes resides in when he needs to get away from superheroing.

You almost gasp when he opens the door, your eyes widening at his disheveled state. You thought Steve was exaggerating when he underlined the severity of Bucky’s current mental state, but he was absolutely not.

He has dark circles under his eyes, his beard is unkept, his hair sticking out in odd places and it looks dirty. He’s obviously spent the last month in bed, not bothering to shower or even eat by the looks of it, his eyes red and puffy giving away that he’s done nothing but cry.

“Oh my god, Bucky…” You frown, the entire speech you made in your head on the way flying out of your mind as your concern overrides your anger or logic.

“Doll…” Bucky says quietly, his voice raspy and hesitant as if he’s not even entirely sure you’re actually standing there in front of him.

You stand there for a moment before you sigh. As much as you want to discuss things rationally and maybe even yell at him, I know I can’t when he’s in this state. For better or worse, you did fall for him and you can’t bear to see him like this, so you take it upon yourself to take care of him.

You make your way into his apartment and his eyes follow your movements as you silently take his hand and close the door behind you. Without saying a word, you help him shower, change into clean clothes, order food because he doesn’t have much to cook with and help him organize his apartment as you wait for it to arrive, although he doesn’t actually have many possessions to make an actual mess so it’s mostly just sweeping, dusting and gathering his dirty clothes in the hamper.

You can feel his eyes on you the entire time, he doesn’t look away for more than five seconds at a time, and you can tell he wants to say something but you’re not sure if he even knows what.

The only moment he looks away is when you help him take his shirt off, not wanting to see the horror and disgust he’s certain will be in your face, but to your credit you don’t comment or even react to his metal arm at all or any of the scars on his body, not even the massive one on his shoulder, but what you felt was something more akin to pity.

After you’ve eaten, you take a deep breath and finally turn to him.

“Listen… I’ve had a lot of time to think about it and… What you did was… Beyond wrong.” You say bluntly. “But I also can’t deny that, despite all the lies, I didn’t fall for you because I thought you were Sebastian Stan. I fell for you for all the talks we had, the way you look at me like I’m everything to you, the way you’re so sweet and flirty and cute… And that’s still you.”

For the first time in a month, maybe in seven months, Bucky feels like he can actually breathe. Your words are like a balm to his soul, hearing you say that not only you indeed fell in love with him but you fell because of him, because of the glimpses of who he actually is and not who he was pretending to be, that’s all he needs to hope again, hope that you’re coming around.

“I… I really am so sorry for lying to you.” Bucky says quietly, his eyes wide and hopeful. “And… I know I have no right to ask this, but I need to know… Is there any chance you’d consider giving me a second chance?”

“It’ll take some time for me to forgive you.” You say after a pause. “And even longer because I trust you again… But I think I want to give you a second chance.” Bucky can’t help but beam at that, but you’re quick to give him a pointed look.

“Solely on the condition that from here on out you be honest with me. No more lies, no more secrets. Just complete honesty.” You say firmly and, to your surprise, Bucky agrees with no objections. “I promise, I will never lie or keep anything from you ever again.” He says honestly as he takes your hands in his, touching you with his Vibranium hand for the first time without gloves. “Complete honesty… I’ll always tell you everything. I never want to risk losing you ever again.”

You can’t help but melt at that and sit a little closer to him, leaning in and pecking his lips. “For the record… I don’t think you’re a monster or anything. I think you were a victim of very bad things and you’re incredibly strong for having survived that.”

Your soft words make Bucky’s eyes teary again, although this time it’s for a different reason. He can’t hold back anymore and hugs you tightly, relief flooding through him as you don’t push him away but instead hug him back.

There’s still a long way to go before your relationship is fixed, but, right now in his arms, you can feel it– Forgiving him is the right thing to do.

And what are the chances that, if you work out, you invite Sebastian Stan to the wedding, explaining he’s the reason it all happened and thanking him. And he shows up too.

[quietplace26]

Hey, I love your Furina!MC stories. I wanted to know if it's possible to write about a stronger and more confident Furina!MC. Like she knows how unjust and unfair her world was back home and she can't stand watching it happen in Fontaine. So with the knowledge of knowing the future and giving the middle finger to Focalors, she decides to take control of her story and baecome someone who has the power to speak up about this injustice and changes the outcome of Fontaine. Just really want to see a Furina!MC that doesn't care about Focalors wants her to be or what anyone thinks of her

You don't have to do this if you don't want to

Yeah, sure? I can try?

Note the reason Furina!MC lets Focalors get away with lot of stuff is because, well, she's in the poor bean's head? And one my hcs is Focalors is a master manipulator. She'll use words and dreams to break down Furina!MC to listen to her. And dreams that involve Focalors HURT.

But enough of that. Confidant Furina!MC time!!!

The first thing MC did when woke up as 'Furina' and heard Focalors give the order to rule Fontaine was go "Who the fuck-", "Where the hell-", and "Bitch! I'm not your puppet!"

And proceeds to give Focalors a mental middle finger before stomping towards Fontaine.

Fine. If this is how its gonna go, then it's going HER way and not the scaredy cat hiding in some stupid hunk of junk-

This Furina!MC refuses to be called 'Furina' despite Focalors yapping in her head demanding her to be called that. Her name was MC, both in her first life and this one.

She writes her own story, and in this story, she refuses to be a copy of Furina.

She cracks down on the laws of Fontaine, not even bothering to wait for Neuvillette who wouldn't be there for another 100 years-

She tosses away useless ones and puts in ones that actually make sense.

Like what do you mean that stupid law about 'It is forbidden to release any flying. objects during the first three days of each month-' actually exists currently?!

And when Neuvillette, or well, Leviathan as apparently his true name was, arrived, MC actually got physical with him because she didn't like his attitude.

She punched him, then tackled him to the floor, startling him so badly as he wasn't expecting this tiny speck of female to actually attack him.

With his shock, MC manages to pin him to the floor, her arm pressing down on his neck as she snarls into his face, telling him to submit or so help her-

She honestly expects to be thrown off, even a snarl back, considering who and what he was, but all she gets is wide pretty draconic, lilac eyes slowly blinking up at her, mouth open in a gawk.

He stares at her as if she was something mind boggling... ethereal.

MC just tries to ignore how damn pretty he was before asking if he was going to be a good, or if she needed to kick his ass more.

When he nods, MC smiles, finally getting off him, leaving the poor dragon still laying on the floor. His eyes still wide as they track her movement.

Unknowingly to MC, she had awoken a beast.

Her putting him in his place, making him submit- it did something to him. Did something to his instincts as a both a dragon and Sovereign.

Usurper she may be, but he didn't feel her use a speck of his power, only brute strength as she had him pinned to the floor like a naughty hatchling.

...It honestly made him compare her to a feral female dragoness who was showing her authority-

And that alone was a very attractive quality to Leviathan. This female could put him in his place. Him! The Hydro Sovereign-

Simp mode activated.

Besides this incident, Leviathan surprisingly slid into his role as MC's new Ludex without much fuss.

MC did find it odd when he started leaving gifts for her like seashells and fresh fish though... Ah, he must be trying to be friendly!

Badass as she may be, but noticing romantic gestures, not so much, lol.

But she gets it... eventually! only takes about 200 years but she gets there!

When the Melusines came into existence and Neuvillette asked to bring to Fontaine, MC had everything taken care up. Having already made laws for them 100 of years earlier and finally she could bust them out!

The laws were secured; they made it clear that Melusine's were not to be touched or harassed, that they were NOT creatures of the Abyss as MC had personally check them herself since she could sense abyss energy.

And if there's even a hint of the Carole situation about to happen, cue MC coming in with even more laws and punishments.

No Melusines were dying under her watch, damn it-

Basically, by the time canon timeline comes around, Fontaine both loved and feared MC.

She was strict with rules, not afraid to get her hands dirty, and will punch someone, if need be, but everyone in Fontaine knew, KNEW their Archon loved them.

Wriothesly is a good example of this as he still remembers meeting MC years earlier after finding out what his foster parents were doing, and when none of the guards seem to listen to him, finding his pleas as nothing more than the lies of a needy child-

The Hydro Archon appeared, and she listened to him. She listened to his whole story, about if she didn't do something, then HE will.

All MC does is ruffle his hair, saying everything will be find before asking for a Melusine to take him over to Palais so the personal doctor there could check over Wriothesley.

Wriothesley, before he left, was given the hilarious sight of his Archon tearing into the guard who originally brushed off Wriothesley's words, and the boy knew she would save him and his siblings.

And she did! His foster parents were immediately sent to the Fortress of Meropide... only they never make it. The ship transporting them capsized, and his foster parents were the only deaths.

And while it was never confirmed, or denied, Wriothesley had a feeling the accident wasn't an accident. That MC took care of his parents herself.

Because everyone knew she loved children, and HATED abusers.

But alas, no one says anything.

And as canon slowly makes itself known, MC sighs as she catches sight of the famous Traveler talking to Lyney in the distance.

She smooths out her outfit, flicks her hair, fixes her hat, and then stalks over to the still distracted Traveler.

Time to get this shit done. Hopefully by the time the prophecy was done, and Focalors gone for good, MC could finally go on vacation with her husband. Hm... Maybe she could convince him to travel to Liyue...

Tagging: @platinumrosetail, @arn9tails, @bloodytea, @esthelily

[sabertoothwalrus]

I'm going to think out loud about the dungeon meshi ages for a sec

I'm going to preface this by saying that this is based on my existing knowledge, and fact checking is difficult because there is A LOT of contentious research out there.

First of all, I think a lot of people come at this from a modern lens, forgetting the context that this is fantasy medieval era. this is fiction. on top of that, this is specifically Ryoko Kui's understanding of medieval era aging. plus fantasy. So before anyone comes at me with a bunch of 'ermmmm actualy's just consider that I don't really care and also it might not matter in this context lol

as far as the "age of maturity" assigned for each race, something I don't see many people talk about is that "teenagers" are a fairly recent concept. For a long time, you were either considered A Kid or Not A Kid. but this doesn't necessarily mean kids were more/less developed then, just our cultural expectations for certain age groups have changed.

Laios says the age of maturity for tallmen is 16. I don't think that means 16 year olds in the dungeon meshi universe are necessarily "more mature" than modern 16 year olds, but moreso that they have more responsibilities. However, things like medicine, smoking, drinking, sun exposure, physical activity, etc all affect age, so it's possible that developmentally they're closer to modern 18 year olds? Izutsumi is 17 (less than two weeks from turning 18, actually), and very much acts like a modern 17 year old.

The age of maturity for half-foots is 14. Chilchuck was 13 when he got married and had his first two children. Even though, at age 29, he's the equivalent of a modern 50 year old, I don't think he was That much more developed at 13 than a tallman. I think if half-foot 14 is equal to tallman 16, then Chilchuck was Pretty Damn Young for a parent LMAO. Even if you're generous and say tallman 16 is a modern 18, he still would've been younger than that.

The long-lived races are interesting. Marcille is obviously a unique case, and not a lot of this applies to her. We do know what Senshi was like as a minor (miner, lol), and he seemed like a modern 15ish, considering he was 36 and dwarf maturity is 40. I think it'd be really interesting to delve into how a culture functions with people being developmentally adolescent for soooooo long. Imagine middle school lasting 20 years. that would fucking suck. I suppose it makes sense why long-lived races are so patronizing.

Moving onto lifespans, I want to emphasize that they're average lifespans. Even in the manga, they say some half-foots live to 100, it's just rare. So it's less that a tallman 60 year old is "older" than a modern 60 year old, it's that it's easier to keep people alive for longer nowadays. Modern medicine is a BIG contributor. Dental health as well, considering how much your health is affected by your diet (and how much the action of chewing alone aids in digestion). Curious to know what the FUCK elven dentistry is like.

It also makes me wonder if half-foots would have a longer average lifespan if they weren't like, used for bait and treated so poorly, but half-foot 29 does seem to be middle-aged for half-foots. so who knows!

In that vein, I don't know if I can see Mithrun quite making it to 400 😬 like, his experience as a dungeon lord took a lot out of him quite literally, and he's doing exceptionally well despite it! I imagine he'd eventually start to develop a lot of heart problems if he doesn't have them already. Perhaps early-onset dementia. His memory seems still quite intact (he corrects Kabru on his story's accuracy) and he doesn't act like, lobotomized. He doesn't seem forgetful or confused, and he has a sense of humor/sarcasm still. It's mostly his task initiation that's been affected.

I almost want to say that mana affinity could affect long-lived races' lifespans, except dwarves have very poor tolerance for mana, so it's probably not that.

okay anyway I didn't really have a point to this post so I'm just gonna end my rambling here

[calummss]

dating 90s/00s eminem …

masterlist 𓆩♱𓆪

kim and hailie don’t exist in this universe

start and development of relationship

i definitely imagine him to take notice of you at one of the underground rap battles roughly 1992/1993

your friend who was interested in going dragged you along one night cause they were really into rap and hip hop

and there you saw him! the one and only marshall marthers destroying every opponent that stood before him

after the battles came to an end you were already attracted to him and tried to get to him to talk to him

here’s how i think it would go:

‘hey, i just wanted to tell you that you absolutely killed it on stage. it’s my first time here so i lack certain knowledge but i know enough to know that you have an incredible talent’

‘thank you. your first time? what’s your name?’

‘y/n’

‘eminem. marshall mathers’

i imagine you to awkwardly shake hands. like i know you’re in the detroit underground scene but neither of you knew how to proceed

‘i hope this won’t be a shot in the dark but can i give you my number?’ your mind literally racing

‘sure, i’ll give you a call if i’m interested’

THIS MAN TURNS AROUND AND DIALS YOUR NUMBER AND LETS YOU ANSWER!! turning around with a smirk and just straight up low key flirting with you

he was embarrassed to bring you to his home but you eventually just showed up one day cause he wasn’t returning calls—you reassured him that you didn’t care and let slip that you loved him no matter what

marshall was definitely a bit overwhelmed at first and took him like a minute to snap out of his trance because it was most likely the first time he truly felt loved, appreciated and cared for

you supported him and his music until he was eventually signed

everyone was confused why you stayed with a man who wrote violent lyrics especially about his wife so you had to explain over and over again that the wife was fictional

and everyone that truly knew marshall knew that he would never lay a hand on you. he would rather d!e than hurt you

three years after you meet you become pregnant and were scared he was going to leave (news flash he didn’t)

he reassured you that if you wanted to keep the baby that you two would figure it out and that he would and could never ever leave your side

you married quick and definitely rushed it but it proved to be the best decision you made including keeping the baby

this lead to the birth of your beautiful daughter—for some reason the name romy jane won’t leave my mind so i’ll just leave it at that

anyway you blink and stardom surrounds marshall

a few hiccups occurred during the relationship but nothing major and you always managed to talk things trough

what the relationship would include

his hand would alway be on your waist! no matter if you’re on his lap, standing next to him or whatever, his hand will be at its rightful place

i believe he prefers cheek and jaw kisses. he loves a good forehead kiss and hand kiss when he’s emotional and talking to you about certain struggles

speaking of struggles; he would always and i mean always put on his strong persona for you but sometimes his walls would crumble and would cry into your shoulder holding you so tight like you’re about to slip from his grasp

you would make appearances in a few music videos

he would also prefer to be in the studio alone but brings you along when all demos are done to get your opinion because he values it a lot (low key more than dres)

of course you would be his main inspiration for a lot of songs, also you daughter, because he admires both of you so much

marshall is 100% a very jealous and possessive man. not overbearing but maybe a little more intense than the average man? he trusts you fully but not others. he doesn’t forbid you of anything but will always say and do stuff to let others know that you’re off limits

i imagine after you got married he got a tattoo of your face or name on his chest like right over his heart

likes holding hands in public and an occasional kiss but nothing more. he prefers his affection to be reserved for only you and not the world

ONLY refers to you as ‘my girl’. when he’s with friends he’d say stuff like ‘yo, where is my girl?’. and others would also refer to you as ‘his girl’. at one point you just got the nickname ‘slim’s girl’ or ‘shady’s girl’ depending on which you prefer

tries to keep you away from hollywood and only goes for recordings, shows etc. when he’s done you both leave for detroit to lead a somewhat quiet life

definitely will buy you a lot of gifts. sometimes expensive or cheap; something that reminds him of you or something he knows you want. he just feels like showering you with gifts. his love language is giving gifts or acts of service. he will watch your favourite show just because you like it

em will always thank you in his speeches!! something along the lines of ‘first of all thank you to dr. dre and my two beautiful girls who i love with my entire heart. you two are my world, i love you!’

but like you don’t understand he will always thank you. he could win a life time supply of soap and he would say your name with pride…he’s just so grateful to have you and to be able to call you family

would hold your bag/bags for you. marshall gives you princess treatment without realising bc he genuinely wants to do it. he will snatch those bags out of your hands before you can protest

when other artists or people take your name or your daughter’s name into their mouths with negative connotations you best believe em will rip them apart, so most people will never attack you or romy bc it’s a death sentence

people can call him lame, bad rapper, ugly, whatever they feel like but as soon as anyone mentions a hair on you or romy’s bodies…it’s over. careers are shredded…you love it though

if you are a girl who likes to get her nails done this is for you; at first you started asking him to choose a design and colour and at first he was confused but he learned to love it especially when you scratched his head or your hands around his yknow what…he even once tried to design some and you got it done

the sex is a mix of mildy rough and vanilla. sometimes you both need something a little more “agressive” but he also needs a calm session. i see it kind as a light switch: it’s either rough or vanilla, occasionally you mix it but it turns out one way or another

also the man is a sucker (pun) for head. like he loves your mouth on him. i genuinely believes it’s in his top 2 favourite sexual activities (don’t deny it i’m right)

extra: if you love marshall right and you two work, it will be both of yours best love, but if things don’t work they can quickly turn into a relationship from hell

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

Mine. || Simon "Ghost" Riley

For @glitterypirateduck's “GhostChallenge” writing challenge! I used the following prompts:

9. Alternate universe 100. You're Price, Gaz, or Soap's sister/brother 12. Brothers best friend trope 71. Reader or Ghost rescues the other from a bad date (but 'bad' is used very loosely) 34. Ghost in gray sweatpants. Just. Gray. Sweatpants. 90. Thigh riding 13. Car sex (also loosely) 48. "Is that the best that you can do?" 99. "You're mine."

Rating: E Words: 3.2k~ CW: smutty, thigh riding, no piv, no kissing, mean!Simon, toxic!Simon, fuck buddy!Simon, jealous!Simon, stalker(ish?)!Simon, possessive behavior. Tags: afab!reader, you/your pronouns but no Y/N, rugby AU, friends with benefits/fuck buddies, unrequited feelings (or are they?), toxic-ish relationship?, lying, manipulation?, secret relationship, brother's best friend, creating/baiting jealousy. Summary: Ghost is a cocky, mean rugby player that you can't help but be pining over. But maybe it's not completely unrequited. OR Simon ruins your date with someone else because he's jealous. a/n: I had a plan. I executed said plan. Profit?

Having grown up in a rugby family, you were given little choice but to attend all of your brother's games, both as a wee lad, a young man, and, now.

You were there, with your remaining sisters and your mam, for every single one of Johnny's games, back from when he was a wee one that couldn't even do a proper tackle and would fall in the mud, to now, picked to join the national team.

This means, however, that you've spent your entire childhood, teen years and now young adulthood, surrounded by the lads from your brother's many teams, but, especially, the ones he met as a teen and made a lasting friendship with: John "Cap" Price, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, and Simon "Ghost" Riley, the bane of your existence.

Johnny's had them over for birthdays, holidays, sleepovers... Not to mention the times you've gone to pick him up from training and were allowed into the locker room, only to get an eyeful of too much bare skin on all those men as they paraded around half-dressed; in towels; in underwear, or even in less than that.

It became a matter of time until you gained someone's attention. No wonder, pretty lass like you, with your sweet smiles and playful quips... coming to pick up your bulky winger brother, of course you'd catch someone's eye.

Kyle Garrick is the team's Hooker... but he's also known as a manwhore, the town bicycle, or whatever you wanna call him. The lads all know that if they go out drinking, Kyle is not going home alone, and, worse, they know that Kyle could and would seduce their cousins, sisters, mothers, and girlfriends, if not kept in check.

That's part of the reason why Johnny nearly had a fucking aneurysm when he caught Kyle outside the locker room three days ago, with a hand pressed against the wall beside your head, looking down at you with a smug little smirk on those perfect lips of his.

He knew what was happening, the way Kyle was looking down at you, the way you were looking up at Kyle, smiling all cutely, backed up against the wall, while his own teammate put the moves on you and talked about taking you out, his free hand gently playing with the strap of the dress you were wearing.

Johnny, however, missed the way Simon, who was standing right behind him, stiffened up and bristled at the sight of Garrick flirting with you. You didn't though. You caught it as soon as Johnny cleared his throat next to you with a "Should I pull up a chair and wait fer ye to be done?". Simon's eyes were glued to you, his brow set, his jaw clenched...

That's what he gets.

Simon, whom you've had a massive crush on for years now, who you pine for, whose attention you crave... and who only ever comes to you for a quick lay...

Simon, who rolls over after sex and tosses you a towel while he's putting on his clothes, telling you to 'hurry up' so he can take you home.

Simon, who always stares at you like he's going to eat you whole every time he lays eyes on you.

Simon, who chugs half of the ice cold water bottles he's given during breaks in practice, and uses the rest to douse himself in water to keep himself cool.

Simon, who knows how your eyes always get drawn to his legs and his bulge in his uniform, and rolls up his shorts before doing lifts, just for you.

Simon, who comes to pick you up whenever you call him, tipsy, from some bar or club when going out with friends.

Simon, who sends you 'u up?' texts at 2 in the morning when he's drunk.

Simon, who scoffs and chuckles whenever you breach the 'us' topic.

Frankly, you're not even actually trying to get with Kyle, especially not with his reputation (nothing against him, it's just not for you), but you needed to do something.

You're tired of waiting around for SImon to get his head out of his arse. You're not a toy, you're not going to stick around and be 'friends with benefits' with him, except barely friends, and with little benefits.

He's getting what he fucking deserves.

You didn't anticipate, however, how upset Johnny would be at the idea of Kyle taking you out. In fact, it was poor planning on your end because from the moment Johnny saw you with Kyle, he attempted, multiple times, to convince you not to go out with him... And if the DMs Kyle sent you are any indication, he also tried to talk Kyle out of it.

On the other hand, Simon didn't once try to intervene. Despite the look he shot you on Tuesday, he did not in fact reach out to talk to you, even now, as Friday comes along and you stride into the restaurant, hanging off Kyle's arm...

There's nothing from him. No texts, no DMs, no calls, nothing... So you guess that it's done, over. He got the memo, finally...

Your phone starts buzzing inside your bag while you and Kyle are halfway through sharing your appetizers. Looking down at your phone, you narrow your eyes when you find Simon's number ringing.

Really? Now? You don't think so.

So, you hang up.

Only for it to start ringing again immediately after. Simon. Again.

Grunting, you end up picking up. "What?"

"I'm outside. Let's get out of here."

You're hyper aware, suddenly, that the host has sat you and Kyle by the windows overlooking the car park... And you can see a car with its headlights on pointing right at you.

"I don't think so."

"Then don't think. Just do what I'm telling you."

Bossy, as always, that's how Simon is. Everything is on his terms, never on yours.

"I'm having dinner." You fight him, as always. This push and pull of yours has been going on for three years now... And Simon always wins. It makes him cocky.

"Not with him you're not. So you better get out here before I go in there and embarrass you."

With a sigh, you nod. "Fine, I'll be right there."

Turning off the call, you turn to Kyle, explaining you have to leave. His brows knit together and he looks at you with puppy eyes, asking why, and, short of a proper explanation, you do the same thing you've been doing to Johnny for the past three years: you lie.

"Johnny said he got a bizarre text from our mam and he tried calling her and she isn't replying."

"She's on these new sleeping pills, so she might have just knocked out while watching telly..."

"But he's worried, and he's on the other side of town, so he asked if I could go home and check on her..."

And Kyle, as much of a manwhore he is, he's also a gentleman, and is one of your brother's best friends. If your mam might be feeling sick, he's, of course, driving you home and helping! He was raised right.

As you leave the car park on the passenger seat of Kyle's BMW, you're hyper aware of the familiar Range Rover trailing you down the road, always a couple of cars behind, but always there... always lurking.

You reach your childhood home in record time, and start fumbling for the keys inside your clutch while Kyle trails up behind you to the front door. "I think I've got this from here, Kyle."

"No way, I love your mum like she's my auntie, if she's not doing well, I'm here to help,"

"No, really, it's okay, I'm sure she's fine..."

"Love, really, I'm not leaving you like this, not before I make sure that she's alright-"

Suddenly, a large, pale hand comes to grip Kyle's shoulder from behind, Simon's eyes shining in the darkness of the night, barely illuminated by the light by the front door, before his full face reveals itself.

Like a Ghost. That's his nickname. Fast, stealthy, there when you least expect it. Both in the rugby pitch and out of it.

"Don't worry, mate, I've got this." Simon announces, causing Kyle (and you) to freeze.

"You're here too?" Kyle asks, seemingly surprised, just as the taller fullback player removes his hand from his shoulder.

"Johnny called me too. Was worried about her being alone if mam wasn't doing well," Simon says naturally, as if he isn't also lying through his teeth, though his eyes never leave yours, catching and not planning on letting it go.

"Okay... well..." Kyle says and looks back and forth between you and Simon, seemingly catching the weird vibe between you, before he nods. "I'll go home then. Text me?" He asks you. "We can have a rain check."

Gulping thickly, your gaze slowly moves back toward Kyle, and you nod with a soft smile. "Yeah, yeah. Of course." You say softly and move over to kiss his cheek, before watching Kyle go back to his car and pull off.

You're turning, keys now in hand, to unlock the door when one of Simon's large hands grabs yours, stopping you. "What are you doing?" He asks you.

"Going home?" You retort as you look up at him, feeling the warmth of his fingers wrapped around yours, clutching lightly. "Ye can go now. Congratulations, you ruined my date. Yer work is done."

Simon chuckles and takes a step closer to you, tilting his head at an angle and regarding you with those dark, deep brown eyes of his, the same ones that always make you feel like he's trying to burn you with his gaze.

"That's cute that there, sweetheart." The Mancunian tells you before he lets go of your hand and pushes you along with a hand on the small of your back, away from your front door. "Get in the fuckin' car." He orders and uses his eyebrows to point at his jeep, his voice carrying the same strong tone that he reserves only for bossing his teammates around during practice.

You know better than to defy him. So you tuck your metaphorical tail between your legs and you nod, moving over to his Rover. He opens the door for you and helps you up by gripping a hand around your forearm, the other bumps you up by the back of the legs.

"How'd ye know where we were?" You end up asking once Simon has driven away from your street, your eyes locked on his as he drives, finally daring to take a proper look at him under the orange light of the street lamps you pass by.

Black hoodie, grey sweatpants, and some kind of running shoes. Those stupid bloody sweatpants... The same ones he usually wears when he shows up at your door, or you at his, or when he goes to get you from work or nights out...

You know he did it on purpose... To pick the most slutty outfit he has as he comes to break up your date with Kyle. The annoying grey sweats that hang off his lip, that hug his thick, muscular thighs, the ones that he never wears boxers under, to make sure you can catch the dick print in the fabric...

And his stupid blonde hair all spiked up with hair gel... It used to be brown, matching his eyes, but he bleaches it now, the idiot... You want to be mad at him, you really do... But when he glances over at you while he's driving, you can't really.

"Garrick's predictable," Simon says, his tongue spitting vitriol as he utters his teammate's name. You'd think he hates the bloke... and right now he might as well do. "Takes birds to the same 5 or 6 places every time. Your brother and I split up to cover half of them each." He explains.

Scoffing, you cross your arms over your chest. "The two of ye have no right." You tell him, scolding him over interrupting your date. "I'm a grown woman."

"Right. That's what you told Johnny. Don't try to use that shite excuse on me." Simon tells you as he turns on the blinker and pulls over.

You haven't driven long. Less than 2 minutes. You could climb out of the jeep if you wanted to and walk home.

"It's not an excuse." You retort as you glare at him, keeping your arms tightly crossed over your chest.

"Right, because you want me to believe you really want to go out with Kyle? Or, let me guess, you 'can change him'?" Simon asks sardonically and laughs as he pulls off his seatbelt.

"I didn't say that." You retort. "I simply said that I can do whatever I want because I'm a grown woman.'

"No..." The blond says in a sarcastic tone. "You... did it because you wanted my attention... And you got it, sweetheart." He replies as he reaches over and unbuckles your seatbelt for you, his hands wrapping around your hip and back, tugging you over the gearshift onto his lap.

"I weren't trying to-" You reply, pushing back against his chest, but only half-heartedly, allowing yourself to be dragged onto him.

"Sure you were. But Gaz, really? Is that the best you can do when it comes to making me jealous?" Simon quips as he makes you straddle his left thigh, bringing you down to sit on it, the gusset of your panties pressed against the warm material of his sweatpants.

His stupid, muscular, hard thigh, the same one you can't help but drool over when you watch him in his tiny rugby shorts during practice and in the proper pitch...

You can feel the taut muscle, even through the fabric, the wait his leg flexes as you straddle it, the way he presses the weight of it against your core, and his fingers dig into your hip before dragging you back and forth.

You bite your lip hard to contain a moan, though he notices the way you're trembling, enjoying the look in your eyes, the way your body warms up, the way your back arches up. It puts a sick smile on his lips, one you wanna wipe off.

"It worked, didn't it?" You reply, trying your best to suppress the pleasure from showing on your face, and instead trying to seem smug. "You're here, right? Came to break up my date for a reason..." You say, clinging onto your little 'gotcha' moment...

Only for Simon to ruin it. "Oh that weren't jealousy, darling." He replies, his smirk beginning to grow into a proud, mocking grin, his dark brows rising and his cheeks puffing up with his smile. "I have no reason to be jealous."

Simon begins rocking you faster and harder against his hard thigh, causing you to whine and mewl, the pleasure building from the friction between your cunt and his thigh.

Your clit is slowly and steadily catching on the fabric, making you tremble and twitch atop him, feeling the coil in your stomach beginning to tighten as it always does whenever Simon starts playing with your clit like this.

"No, actually... Don't have a reason to be jealous about anyone." Simon replies as he leans toward you, pressing his nose against yours so he can properly look you in the eye. "Not Garrick... not Price... not any of those coworkers you're always talking about... nor your old uni mates..." He trails off.

"Simon..." You grumble, bucking your hips against him, wanting to chase your orgasm. How does he do this to you every time? Make you so horny, make you throw away all rationality, make you give in to him?

"I know, sweetheart, I know... Feels good, don't it?" The large man coos at you as he helps you rock against his thigh faster and faster, your hips stuttering and your legs beginning to tremble on either side of him as you steadily grow closer and closer to coming.

"You know what else I know?" Simon teases as he leans over and uses his teeth to nip at your neck and earlobe. "I know that I'll never have a bloody fucking reason to get jealous over you... because You're Mine." He tells you, his tone surprisingly authoritative.

There's something in that claim... the way he finally says the things you've wanted so badly to hear him say... Your climax crashes into you and you go limp against him, your head falling onto his chest and your jaw going slack as you moan incoherently.

"That's it..." Simon coos at you and gives you a couple of pats on your thigh, sliding his hand up over your ass, covered in a new dress you bought on purpose for your date with Kyle. Your cunt is throbbing inside your panties, your walls clenching around nothing and you know you've left a bit of a wet spot on Simon's sweatpants.

"You got off on that, huh?" He teases you in a mocking tone. "Been wanting to hear that for a while now, have you?" You can hear the smirk on his lips as you try to catch your breath and calm your racing heart. He's so fucking mean...

"Piss off, Simon." You retort and pull off him, pushing against his shoulders with both hands and moving pack to the passenger's seat. "Take me home." You say in a huff.

"Of course, sweetheart." Simon replies, his voice still smug and a large shit-eating grin on his lips as he bites his tongue, turning back onto the street.

After Simon pulls over in front of your house again, you hop out, fixing your dress and stomping back toward the house, displeased with his behavior. With him using your feelings for him against him. With him.

His phone rings, echoing through the speakers in the Rover. The small screen on the dash displays Johnny's contact name as Simon is watching you frustratedly fumble for the keys inside your clutch again.

"Been to all three spots. Did you find her?" The Scot's voice comes through the bluetooth speakers as the Mancunian watches you, running his fingers over his thigh where you left a wet stain on his sweats.

"Yeah, mate. Been keeping an eye on them. Kyle didn't try anything and he just dropped her off at home." He replies, watching you for a moment longer.

"Thanks for lookin' out, mate. 'm going for a pint right now..." Soap announces.

"Cheers," Ghost says in a nonchalant date, watching you finally find the keys and open the door, heading inside and turning on the hall light. "You owe me one, had a date planned but spent my evening going after your sister."

"Yeah... yeah... I owe ye." Soap retorts. "Come out me with me, then, 'm sure ye can find a bird at the pub." He offers.

"Nah, mate, 'm knackered. Going to get a good night's sleep." He says and watches you turn to glance at him (or more so his car) through the open door before you turn away again and visibly huff, closing the door behind yourself.

Simon shakes his head, snickering under his breath and saying goodbye to Soap before hanging up the call and grabbing his phone to shoot you a quick text.

"Ur brother is @ pub. Let me in."

Then, he stashes his phone back in his pocket, not even waiting for a reply.

His eyes return to the door and wait patiently, just a couple of seconds go by before you're opening the front door again. Simon smiles seeing that, turning off his car and hopping out.

His girl is so obedient.

[ Ghost Challenge Masterlist ] || [ My Masterlist ]

[becauseicantthinkwritings]

Objects in Motion

Part 1

Alpha! Billy Russo x Omega! Reader

A/N: My very first A/B/O fic, that I started a while ago, and just decided to post.

It all started after finding out how much that lovely coat Billy wears in s1 costs.

Warnings: Masturbation, omega in heat.

You’re often overwhelmed.

It’s the hitch of your breath when your feelings are too big for your body, or the way your throat hurts with all the words that go unsaid.

There are not enoughs and there are too muchs and hardly any moments when things are… just right.

The coat in your hands is soft- ridiculously so, the label offers you an explanation- 100% cotton. You can't help the way your hands tighten on the material, as if you’d fight off anyone that tried to take it from you. Like for the first time, just right isn’t just a far away idea, it’s here, in your hands, against your chest.

How had you ended up here? Curled under your bed sheets, pillows all around you, clutching this lovely black coat to your body?

Today had been very overwhelming, your phone had pinged, alerting you to your impending heat, reminding you that you needed to pick up supplies. 

Your heats were formidable too, always too hot or too hungry or too needy. There was never a part of you that existed within the realms of fine.

At least until now.

When you were clutching this delightful black coat in your hands, bringing it up to your nose so that you could catch a whiff of the bewitching scent. 

It's bergamot at first, followed by notes of citrus that makes your eyes flutter shut. Delight spreads out inside you, fanning at the flames of your desire- your heat coming on faster as your nose lingers on the scent. You catch hints of pepper at the very end and it prompts you to take another long inhale.

Based on the size of the coat, your mind formulates an idea of the size of the person that wears it. The very thought causes you to clench your thighs together.

You didn't mean for this to happen, you'd only gone to pick up your silky PJs from the dry cleaners, designed specifically to be worn during your heat for maximum comfort on your skin. The delicate, gossamer material demanded special care, but you were very glad to have been gifted them some years ago.

You'd just picked up your item, when your nose had zeroed in on a scent that had made your body perk up curiously. It was the first time your senses had streamlined onto one thing, where throughout the day you'd had a number of difficult sensory encounters, leading you into wearing a beanie and noise cancelling headphones and the biggest jacket in your closet in any attempt to feel less things. The scent had made your brain ache for more, demanding you follow what your body had accepted- that this specific scent brought you absolute pleasure.

Even through the garment bag it was stored in, it had activated dangerous thoughts in your hindbrain, and before you could even look around for cameras, you'd reached over the counter and swiped the garment bag when the girl at the front desk wasn't looking. It had been tucked to your chest and smuggled out of the dry cleaners without even a moment of guilt.

Realistically, you wouldn't be in that much trouble anyway, omega behaviour was usually forgiven, even if it didn't make sense. No one would lock you up for swiping a men's coat, especially not so close to your heat.

You have a few hours left, and you use it to make sure your food supplies are easily accessible. Your heats tended to run on for five days- higher than average- which means that you were in a lot more danger of starvation and dehydration.

You wonder if he would take good care of you. Your mind spinning back to the owner of the coat, having already made up some basic idea of him.

You knew his designation, by scent alone, but you were too afraid to admit it to yourself, worried about the consequences of having stolen a coat from someone like that.

Would they be mad? Probably not, you were sure with a scent like that, they were used to omegas swarming around.

The thought made you unreasonably jealous, for a person you didn’t even know.

.

Your heat hits you in the early hours of the next morning. 

You wake with a whine, sitting up, thighs damp with your arousal. You reach for the pills on your bedside table, taking them quickly and swallowing down some tepid water, before lying back. They would help you go back to sleep until morning alleviating some symptoms of your heat. You turn, finding the coat lying beside you. You take a deep breath into it as you fall asleep.

.

You can’t focus on anything as you pump the slick pink dildo in and out of you. There are tears streaming down your face, desperate for much more than you could ever give yourself. 

You bring the coat up to your nose, crying harder as the scent wraps around you.

“Alpha.” You pant into the soft material, imagining your fantasy version of the owner. 

You take a deep breath, envisioning him here with you, presumably large body curved over yours, taking up all the air around you, smooth skin available for you to scratch and claw at, his scent glands on display and eager for your mark.

“Alpha.” You beg again, into the loneliness of your apartment.

.

The coat becomes a centerpoint in your nest.

On day three when it’s fully finished to a satisfactory level, an arrangement of pillows and sheets all around your bed, you tuck the coat in beside you, delighted at the way the material feels on your flushed skin.

The scent is strongest at the collar, where it's probably rubbed on his neck often, brushed against his gland when he turns to examine something.

You groan, mouth watering for a bite of him, whoever he was.

There’s a lot of buttons and buckles on it, and your hindbrain is somewhat obsessed with what you think he looks like wearing it, probaby commands any room he walks into. 

The label at the back says Burberry, and though you're not very familiar with the brand, the clean stitching and soft material tells you that it’s definitely got to cost more than what you pay for your own coats.

You sigh, stripping out of your PJ’s and opting to slide into the coat itself.

A groan slips from your mouth, the material feels coarse on your oversensitive skin, but you welcome it as you feel his scent engulf you.

A fresh wave of arousal coats your thighs, and you can’t help inching your hand down between damp thighs until you find your swollen clit.

.

On your knees now, face down into your bed, you bite down on the collar of the midnight black coat.

Your eyes roll back into your head, muffled grunts as you pump your overstimulated cunt to the brim.

You rub your face into the collar, arching your neck so that your scent gland rubs against the coat, a low whine at the severe taboo thought of rubbing your gland against a stranger's.

It's frowned upon, but the very thought of it is what brings you to orgasm just a few moments later. 

You struggle for air, hair tickling your cheek as you huff, some of it clings to the saliva at the corner of your mouth, some of it is caught in the tears that smear your cheeks.

You want- like never before.

.

When your heat is over, the guilt kicks in.

You know better than to wash the coat yourself, only wiping gently at the interior in hopes of wiping off any lingering traces of… you away. You think about getting it dry cleaned yourself but you’d used the last of your money on the alleviator pills to help with your heat symptoms. You wouldn’t get paid until the end of the month.

Finally, you rummage through the pockets, checking to see if anything had been left behind by the owner. You find a crumpled napkin with someone’s number scribbled on, leaning in, you take an experimental sniff and draw away from it in disgust as the scent hits your nose.

You almost put it back, but you figured it was crumpled anyway, probably meant for a bin in the first place- so you put it there. Searching again and you smile when you come across a tub of lip balm, opening it and giving a little sniff of the inside. There’s no scent to it, and you curiously swipe a bit onto your finger and smear it onto your lips.

You begin to get a sense that the person this coat belongs to, has very refined tastes, and after a quick search, your eyes widen in shock when you discover the lip balm costs near fifty dollars.

Which is how it starts- an itch at the back of your head that tries to warn you of the possibility that the coat in your possession costs more than you’d initially thought.

You let out a slow breath, typing in the information stitched onto the label and your eyes bulge out of your head when you finally see the price of the coat sitting in your lap.

Three thousand.

The coat you stole had cost nearly three thousand dollars.

You look down at the item in betrayal, the scent of its true owner just barely clinging to it. 

You take a deep breath, pushing your phone aside as you begin rummaging for a box capable of returning such an expensive item.

Thankfully, you know where to return it to, as the name and address had been hooked to the garment bag.

Delivering it is another difficult task on its own, but you manage, having to call in a few favours and explain in lengthy detail to the courier that your package wasn’t dangerous in any way but you’d rather not deliver it yourself.

Luckily, you’re able to convince them of your cause, the urge to help an omega in distress working in your favour.

.

It’s nine a.m on a Saturday morning when Billy comes home from his run. 

He’s fishing for his keys in his pocket when he notices that there’s a box sitting in front of his door.

He pauses for a moment, looks at the item, before stepping forward to examine it.

There’s a card on top- one of those printed ones you can get at a convenience store- light blue sky and a panda holding onto a handful of bamboo stalks. 

There’s an “I’m Sorry,” printed on, and then something added in below in pen.

‘From a very apologetic Omega.’ It says.

His eyebrows twitch in amusement, he brings the card up to his nose to catch a whiff- the scent of light, floral perfume fills his nose. 

He’s aware his coat had been stolen, he’d seen video footage of the crime itself, watched as a small hooded frame had reached across and nicked his coat before it could be cleaned. The dry cleaners had sent him the footage when they’d explained what had happened.

He’d thought it had been gone for good, deleting the only copy of the footage and moving on. He could afford to replace one coat. 

This though, was interesting, it seems like the omega had felt some sort of remorse, and had returned his coat to him.

It was sweet, he found himself smiling as he reached down to pick the box up, cradling it under one arm and flipping the card open as he enters his apartment.

He huffs, feeling a little sorry for an omega that couldn’t afford a dry cleaning bill, then again, the cost of the coat would definitely bring up the price a lot more.

‘Dear Alpha,

                   I’m so sorry I took your coat. I tried to clean it as best as I could, but I couldn’t afford to have it dry cleaned for you. It’s wrapped tightly to protect you from the scent on it. I'd suggest not opening it, and taking it to be cleaned as soon as you get it. I’m very sorry.

P.S. You have a very nice scent.’

Curiously, he tugs the box open, finding that the garment bag has been folded carefully and wrapped in plastic wrap. 

He sniffs the box experimentally, searching for any hint of a scent, or any indication that the package could be dangerous.

All he gets is more of that pleasant perfume that he figured was doused in the box to protect him from the scent.

It only makes him more curious.

Billy grips the plastic wrap, and very carefully tears a little hole into the plastic, breaking the seal.

His body goes rigid. 

He feels his pupils dilate, his hindbrain roaring to life as he catches the scent of an omega in heat.

His omega.

He rips the plastic furiously, fumbles with the garment bag and rips the zipper open. His eyes scan the coat, as he takes one long, slow breath.

The first scent he gets are apples, and then light notes of vanilla, but under it all, is the kick of pheromones, that sticks like honey on his tongue.

He takes another deep breath, groaning as his cock swells, pulsing to life, begging to claim the owner of such a delicious scent.

There’s so much of it, filling his space with sweet notes of frustration, yearning and unfulfillment. 

His omega, needing him.

A growl tears from his chest, something inside of him collapses like an avalanche, only increasing with time, decimating his thoughts and leaving a feverish burn under his skin.

He tugs the coat open, groaning, the tart smell of cunt clings to the inside of his coat, telling him that his omega wore his coat naked.

Desperate little thing, he thinks, as he dips his hand into his joggers, fingers wrapping firmly around his cock, squeezing in an attempt to force his orgasm away. He groans, the grip around his cock rewarding him with pleasure, and he can’t help pumping himself, trying to ease the desire inside of him.

He leans in, nose pressed to the collar of his coat, where the scent is strongest, where his omega must have rubbed their little scent gland vigorously against his coat,

Sweet, delightful, his cock aches for a cunt he’s never seen, his mouth yearns for skin he’s never touched. All he has, is the honeyed scent of an omega’s heat, and the screaming inside of him that demands he claim what his body knows is his.

His grip on his cock tightens, his vision blurs, head full of thoughts, ideas of a little omega under him, sobbing as they take his cock repeatedly, begging for more with broken cries.

He doesn’t stop until he comes into his hand, only then, does his thinking sharpen.

He puts his coat in bed beside him, he hopes the sheets will absorb the smell, so that he can have his little omega with him while he sleeps. He wakes with an aching cock, and the coat clutched tightly against his chest, struggling to remember fading dreams of little omegas that beg nicely.

He doesn’t get out of bed until he’s come twice into the palm of his hand.

.

He searches for days. 

But when he’d deleted the footage from the dry cleaners, he’d gotten rid of any hope of tracing his omega’s movements, and chances of finding an address. 

She doesn’t leave any record of one, always opting to pick up her items herself. 

At least he’s gotten that, a basic description, a height, an idea of her complexion and the colour of her eyes.

It was too vague to work with, but it was something he could think about before he went to sleep at night, with his nose buried in his coat, breathing in the scent of her, desperate to find the omega that had stolen his coat and unintentionally taken his heart.

He studies the card too, learns the handwriting, growing more and more desperate for his little omega.

Billy knew he wouldn't stop looking, not until he found the person who'd opened up a nest of possibilities in his head, giving him something he'd never had in a very long time.

Hope.

.

.

.

Part 2

[myokk]

fast sketch of ominis & fast intro to the ominis longfic I'm working on!! This is going to be the most self-indulgent pride and prejudice ripoff that ever existed, 100% based on the ominis of my oneshot💘

I am just OBSESSED with exploring the idea that he’s a natural legilimens & OBSESSED with the thought that he thinks too much for his own good🫶🫶🫶

Ominis Gaunt has always suspected he is cold-blooded.

It makes sense, really.

He always seems to be cold: frigid, long fingers that are often stiff and difficult to move; goosebumps raising the skin of his arms and the back of his neck any time he walks through the drafty halls of the dungeons; even his eyes, he has been told, are reminiscent of ice. They are apparently quite unsettling. The only time he feels comfortable in his body is when he basks in the heat of the sun.

His earliest memory is of the cold. It went like this: he was four years old: his older brother, Marvolo, had led him outside as a joke, he swore up and down that it was just a small joke, and how was he supposed to know that poor, blind Ominis would not be able to find his way back home? When his parents had finally found him, his frail mother sobbing and holding his tiny, blue, hypothermic body to her chest, Ominis remembers feeling quite perturbed at the disturbance. Couldn’t he just be left alone, in the silent soft snow?

He does not know if he has ever felt warm since.

As he strides through the dungeons, the copious amount of warming charms he casts on himself do not seem to be enough, but he keeps casting them anyways and also: wrapping his wool scarf more tightly around his neck, quickening his pace in the hopes that blood flows more easily through his limbs, wishing that he had remembered his gloves. Winter is always a terrible time of year (this winter more terrible than usual), and every breath of warm air leaves his lips reluctantly. How he wishes that he could just hold on to it a bit longer and yet the warmth leaves him precisely fifteen traitorous times a minute, the frigid air gleefully entering and burning its way down his throat in response. Maybe it’s a punishment of some sort.

His whole life has been defined by punishments and sometimes he preoccupies himself with the thought that it is the only way he can view the world. Most of the punishments are manifested in curses inherited from his family. (His parents and Marvolo insist that they are gifts, but Ominis begs to differ.)

First, his blindness: the only true punishment-curse that even his family rejects: caused by inbreeding, no doubt. He did not cry after his birth and his mother cradled his tiny body in silent arms, lovingly whispering nonsense-evil-Parseltongue to him but when he opened his eyes and she saw a brilliant celestine blue with no iris, she screamed in horror and shattered the frigid peace of the room. His parents tried everything to fix him, make him whole, throwing money at various possible solutions to no avail. Magically induced disabilities are not, apparently, curable by magic.

Ominis is not sure that he hates being blind, although he suspects everyone thinks that he should. It is as much a part of him as his fifteen-breaths-per-minute, and he thinks that vision is not all it’s cracked up to be. He is always terrified at the thought that his tenuous hold on sanity is only due to the fact that he cannot see, until he realizes he shouldn’t be terrified of hypothetical situations that cannot come to pass. He consoles himself with the thought that maybe, if he has had to give up his vision for his sanity, it is a small price to pay. Although, he also thinks sometimes that it would be nice to live a life without any morality holding him back.

He is entirely too introspective, after all.

It is precisely this introspection that is his downfall in this moment (and his cold blood). Ominis is so busy casting warming charms on himself and thinking in circles that he cannot use his wand to help him sense his environment and so he should not be surprised when he crashes into her.

And yet he is. Terribly surprised.

Maybe if he were not so caught up in his own thoughts he could have paid more attention to his surroundings. Instead, he spent too much time ruminating on his reptilian heritage and has now barreled head first into his arch-nemesis.

Rosalie Harris.

The girl who has stolen his oldest friend from him.

The girl who is currently making angry noises as she clambers to her feet and is picking up the things that he has crashed everywhere. Even if he could see, Ominis is not sure he would help her. Helping her would be akin to betraying himself, after all.

“Hey! Watch where you’re - oh, hello, Ominis.”

“Rosalie,” he says shortly, nodding his head where he thinks she might be standing and stepping to the side. He tightens his grip around his wand, feeling the texture of the wood change from rough to smooth as he runs his thumb down it. Smooth where he always seems to worry it, rough where the wood refuses to yield to the brushes of his thumb.

He surreptitiously casts the spell - he has at least done it so many times he no longer needs to say it out loud - and his surroundings light up. Or, he supposes that is the most apt description, considering he cannot actually differentiate between light and dark. He senses Rosalie’s silhouette to his left - she is standing with her arms crossed and her foot taps impatiently as she waits for him.

Waiting for what? he thinks, slightly irritated. She never seems to leave him alone and he wracks his brain trying to think of something, anything he can say to get rid of her.

Maybe if he speaks in Parseltongue, she would finally be scared away for good. He does not really want that second reminder of his family’s curse, though.

His family preferred speaking in Parseltongue with each other, believing the ability made them morally superior to everyone else and Ominis had not even realized until he had arrived at Hogwarts that no, it was not normal. When his name had been called at the Sorting, furious whispers had erupted amongst all the students, and his every step (terrified, confused, unsure - he had still been getting used to using his wand to navigate his surroundings) to the stool at the front of the Great Hall was plagued with a susurration reminiscent of snakes. Except these whispers, sneaking their way into his mind, had been unkind and overwhelming.

(He had not realized in that moment that he was also hearing their thoughts.)

Maybe now, with Rosalie standing in front of him and just annoyingly waiting for Merlin-knows-what, Ominis should use his Legilimency to find out what Rosalie wants. (He hates it, though.) It would not be difficult. (The thought makes him shiver in horror because he doesn’t want to abuse the ability.) He can feel the edges of her mind, her magic, and all he has to do is reach out - she is right there, and -

“Ominis?”

Her arms are crossed, he hears an impatient huff.

Why hasn’t she left him alone yet?

Hadn’t the Hogwarts Express already left the station, bringing all of the students home for the winter holiday? Ominis had thought he would be one of the only students left in the castle, and if he is being honest with himself, he had been looking quite forward to having the place to himself.

Ominis’s winter has just gotten infinitely worse.

Going to Gaunt Manor for the holidays is out of the question (he will not think about the nightmares that have been plaguing him ever since he received the owl demanding he go home), and Ominis does not want to be more of a burden to the Sallows. They already do enough for him over the summer, and Sebastian and Anne have convinced him to go to Hogsmeade with them at least twice over the next two weeks. Besides, with Anne’s curse progressing, Ominis does not want to be in the way.

“Why are you still here?” Ominis asks. He knows his voice comes across as cold as his blood, blunt, but he cannot help himself. Ever since Rosalie arrived - her entrance to Hogwarts also causing quite the stir - Ominis has been intensely annoyed by her presence. She is too happy. Too carefree. Too…well, everything he is not.

And, she does not seem to leave him alone.

Rosalie is always there, always hanging around Sebastian. (Taking Sebastian away.) He even showed her the Undercroft, which had almost caused a rift in their relationship. Ominis could not believe that Sebastian would be so careless, showing someone who for all intents and purposes is crashing her way into their lives, forcing them to pay attention to her. They barely even knew her, and yet Sebastian thought it was a good idea to show her such a sacred place?

(It does not help that she is intelligent, and Ominis has caught himself on more than one occasion about to ask her about her opinion on something before he catches himself.)

“I was looking for you.”

Ominis tilts his head at that and fiddles with his ring. He considers walking away, leaving -

“I mean…Sebastian said that you were also going to be here over the holidays and since everyone else just left I thought -”

“Thought what?” Internally, Ominis winces at the biting tone to his voice. It came out harsher than he intended, his voice loud and echoing through his mind, bouncing off the cold, stone walls surrounding them.