#because otherwise i feel like i just do nothing

[f1lovr]

SILLY SUPERSTITIONS | LN4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

summary: the one where she doesn't believe in superstitions or otherwise known as he can't get into the car without his pre-race kiss

warnings: none!

Y/N didn't believe in superstitions, rather she thought they were stupid, lando on the other hand, he was a firm believer.

it had started as a joke between you both.

"kiss in exchange for a podium?" you had told him in a teasing manner, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before the race.

"guess we'll figure that out soon enough," he had said in response, a smirk dawning his face as you could feel the confidence coming from him.

he finished in second that race, he had insisted it was your kiss and from there he refused to get into the car until he got a kiss from you, saying he wouldn't do well or he couldn't drive without it, as if it would make him a better driver.

that led to here, minutes away from lando having to get into the car, you nowhere in sight.

the mechanics and engineers were rushing around him, last minute checks on the car, making sure everything was good before the race. the cheer of the fans from the stands as they wait for the impending race.

but lando couldn't focus, not on the race ahead of him, not even on the sounds around him, because you weren't there and he needed you to be because he hadn't gotten his kiss yet.

lando's leg was bouncing up and down nervously as his head scanned the surrounding area looking for any sign of you. his mind being consumed with thoughts about where you could be, about the fact that he might have to go into today's race without you, without his good luck kiss.

his mutters to himself broke his silence, "where is she?"

jon, his trainer, who was next to him turned and looked at him with furrowed brows as he heard the muttering coming from the driver, "who?"

lando's head turned to jon, a look being shot at his trainer as if his answer was obvious, "Y/N, i need her here but i don't know where she is."

jon smirked at lando's answer, "ah, so you mean you need your lucky charm?"

lando didn't deny jon's comment, his eyes only rolling in response, "she should be here by now, she's never this late," he mutters nervously.

jon's eyes fall to the watch at his wrist checking the time, "you've got three minutes mate."

he had three minutes. three minutes to somehow find you in the chaos that is the race or he'd have to go get in the car and race without the one thing that kept him from botching it turn one.

he was about to get up and leave when his ears perked up at a voice, not just a voice, but your voice.

"looking for me pretty boy?"

he could have gotten whiplash with how fast he had turned his head, watching as you walk up to, nothing but a casual nature in your step as if you didn't know the chaos you had caused with your absence.

"baby where the hell have you been?" he all but demanded.

"easy tiger, i got stuck, security guards and journalists kept harping on me. all of them acting like i was infiltrating the FIA instead of just trying to get to my boyfriend," you giggle with a grin, his reaction to your disappearance amusing.

lando didn't care, he could care less about why you weren't here actually, it was all just excuses to him. but you were here now and that was all that mattered to him as his hand grabbed your wrist pulling you close to him, the glances that were being thrown his way being ignored.

"i almost had to go into the race without you," he mutters, a tone so low that only you were able to pick it up.

"you wouldn't have let that happen," your hands coming to his shoulders as you smirk.

lando huffed as his lips twitched, the smile he was trying to hold back failing to stay hidden, "you have never been more right about something love."

next thing you know he was pulling you into a kiss, the kiss being soft and gentle but still firm. he didn't rush his kiss, taking the reassurance it provided as he let himself calm down from the storm of not having you.

he pulled away with a grin on his face, "now i won't crash turn one," he said with a chuckle.

your head shook as you laughed, "whatever makes you sleep at night pretty boy," you giggle out.

your moment was broken by the call of lando's engineer, letting lando know it was time to get in the car.

you watched as he let go of your hand with a sigh after giving it one last parting squeeze, reluctantly stepping back from you as he moved to climb into his car.

you were leaned against the garage watching as he settled. you could tell he was focused, he was ready, and you would never let him live it down if he got on the podium, reminding him over and over that it was your kiss that got him there.

did you actually believe that? no, definitely not, but if it meant more pre-race kisses and it helped him, then you'd remind him over and over.

[atlas-of-andromeda]

*sucks in deep breathe through teeth* Alright I guess I'm doing this.

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents?

No.

02: Who did you last say “I love you” to?

Been a while. Can't really say. If we're only counting times I've meant it then I'm not sure I've ever.

03: Do you regret anything?

I've made mistakes, but none of them detrimental enough for me to regret them.

04: Are you insecure?

Yes.

05: What is your relationship status?

Single. Hopefully it will remain like that

06: How do you want to die?

Explosion. I don't know specifics I just want to be able to tell people in the afterlife 'I went off with a bang!'

07: What did you last eat?

Chocolate bar.

08: Played any sports?

I'm presuming that we're ignoring sports I've been forced to play in school. But other than that... is chess a sport?

09: Do you bite your nails?

Yeah. Pretty frequently too.

10: When was your last physical fight?

When I was like eight. Some six year old started randomly throwing very weak punches at me, so I threw a few back.

11: Do you like someone?

No. Hopefully I never will.

12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours?

Yeah. Once, and I got close to it a couple other times.

13: Do you hate anyone at the moment?

I hate most people. Humans suck.

14: Do you miss someone?

My friend who's too busy with school to talk.

15: Have any pets?

Unfortunately not.

16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment?

Tired.

17: Ever made out in the bathroom?

No!?

18: Are you scared of spiders?

A bit. Less so of looking at spiders, and more so just knowing there's a spider in my presence.

19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance?

No. I don't think I would.

20: Where was the last place you snogged someone?

I haven't done that before, and I'd rather not.

21: What are your plans for this weekend?

Try and finish TMA.

22: Do you want to have kids? How many?

FUCK NO.

23: Do you have piercings? How many?

Sounds painful. No.

24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)?

Science, probably.

25: Do you miss anyone from your past?

No.

26: What are you craving right now?

In terms of food? And meat, nothing specific. Non-food? Physical affection.

27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart?

Potentially? I've rejected enough guys to have probably broken at least one of their hearts.

28: Have you ever been cheated on?

Never been in a relationship.

29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry?

Never been in a relationship.

30: What’s irritating you right now?

So many of these questions involving something romantic or sexual. I'm aroace and it's infuriating.

31: Does somebody love you?

Couldn't tell you.

32: What is your favourite color?

Red.

33: Do you have trust issues?

A bit.

34: Who/what was your last dream about?

I think gnomes were involved?

35: Who was the last person you cried in front of?

Can't remember.

36: Do you give out second chances too easily?

No.

37: Is it easier to forgive or forget?

Forgetting is easier. Mainly because my memory is shit and I hold grudges.

38: Is this year the best year of your life?

Not by a long shot.

39: How old were you when you had your first kiss?

FOR FUCK'S SAKE. REFER TO QUESTION 30.

40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked?

No?

51: Favourite food?

Bacon.

52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason?

No.

53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night?

Scroll Tumblr.

54: Is cheating ever okay?

Cheating as in infidelity? If the relationship in question is unhealthy and non-consensual, yes. Otherwise, no. Cheating as in violating academic integrity? Yeah it's fine.

55: Are you mean?

A bit?

56: How many people have you fist fought?

One.

57: Do you believe in true love?

No. Love is dead.

58: Favourite weather?

Fog. Cold fog.

59: Do you like the snow?

Yes.

60: Do you wanna get married?

NO WAY IN HELL.

61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby?

No?

62: What makes you happy?

My bed.

63: Would you change your name?

I have plans to! Transgenderism, baby!

64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed?

30.

65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do?

I'm pretty sure he does, I just ignore it.

66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around?

No.

67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to?

My father.

68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with?

I don't have those.

69: Do you believe in soulmates?

No. Love is dead.

70: Is there anyone you would die for?

No.

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

[velvetvexations]

I'd like to add something to the topic of forced impregnation / corrective rape of transmascs & men.

One thing I feel like other people tend to believe is that trans people with uteruses / the capability to get pregnant are "extremising" a problem that really only affects a few select trans people, surely not a lot.

What they don't get is that we're not extremising anything. Even just on the topic of forced pregnancy, I know barely a single trans man who hasn't been told that getting pregnant would fix him or that his whole worth as a person with a uterus is measured in how many children he can pop out at best, or being straigh up threatened with it or at worst having someone actually attempt to or fully act on that threat. And the ones who it didn't happen to? They know full well that it's always a "it didn't happen yet". That threat is still there, even without anyone saying it. People don't have to outright say it or threaten us because we just know.

It's not something we made up as a "gotcha" to trans women. In fact, it has nothing to do with most trans women at all, safe for the ones who can get pregnant! It's our lived experience. Our every-day life.

I was thirteen, just started my period, when my mother started to try to convince me that my whole worth as a person was making babies, that I needed to make kids the second I'd turn eighteen, that I would otherwise waste my life. And no, she didn't actually think that of all women. My cis sister? Never got to hear any of that. Just me. Because my mother looked at me being masculine and saw something she needed to fix (by only buying me extremely sexualised feminine outfits and telling me the stuff mentioned above, and that it was "only that" makes me one of the lucky ones). It happened to me not just because I was born with a uterus, because then it would've happened to my sister, too. It happened because my mother could tell something was "wrong" with me because I was too masculine. Got a little too exited when people mistook me for my brother. She didn't know what transmasculinity was back then in name, but she absolutely did know that it was "wrong" and needed to be "fixed" - and the way to fix a "broken woman" is to get her pregnant. She, of course, couldn't do that back then, but she could do her best to try to make me do that once I was "old enough" (I'm very glad today that she failed.)

And basically every trans men I've talked with about that topic had their own story like that or much, much worse. Only very rarely has a transmasc/man not experienced something like that, and even then, the threat is so omnipresent that even they tend to know exactly what I'm talking about.

It's a horrifying truth, it's uncomfortable, but it needs to be talked about. Our pain has been ignored and swept under the rug for so long, and people are still continuing to do so. So they can keep telling themselves that we "don't have it that bad" that we're "making a deal out of nothing" that what happens to us is just "individual cases" not something targeted. Because if people don't listen, they don't have to admit to themselves how they're playing into our oppression. Because to this day my mother is still claiming that she supports the trans community, after she did everything in her power to stop her son from existing. She won't listen to what I have to say because it "wasn't that bad", and my sister turned out great, so what do I have to cry about?

Nobody listens to trans men in general because it's never "as bad" as we make it out to be. After all, a cis woman said it wasn't that bad and she'll always be more believable than what ever a trans man or transmasculine person has to say. A trans man could obviously never experience anything a cis woman in his situation wouldn't.

This got longer than I anticipated. Thank you for listening and talking about this topic. I appreciate you, your work here is incredibly important and I'm glad you do this. Take care, and have a nice day!

(Also, this whole assumption about us "extremising" and "making a big thing out of nothing" also sounds a bit like hysteria talk to me, especially given that our conversation is about uterus-related things, but I might be reading to much into it here.)

the issue is that TRFs will take all this as "so you're saying that means trans men have it worse than trans women?"

like noooooooo you invented that sentence! that was nowhere in the original text girliepop!

[theminecraftbee]

"You let me think you were dead, you know."

Jimmy winces, but he doesn't turn around to look at Grian, or Cuteguy, or whatever he's going by right now. He considers just walking away. He considers a lot of things, but he doesn't expect he'll be able to, because--

"Don't walk away from me, Jimmy."

When Jimmy turns around, Grian's only half-dressed as Cuteguy, wearing no goggles, the paints he uses to disguise his wings slowly bleeding out, streaks of bold pink and black dripping down otherwise dull brown patterns. Jimmy takes a moment to stare. He's not quite sure which name he's supposed to be calling the man in front of him. On the one hand, he's not wearing the goggles, his dark eyes fully visible to the world. On the other hand, he's still wearing most of the clothes, and there's escrima sticks still hanging from his belt, and while the paint is fading it's still right there, hiding the patterns that make the wings identifiable as Grian.

Jimmy shifts uncomfortably. "I did," he says, finally.

"You let me think you were shot in the head in front of me," Cuteguy says.

"That, uh, did happen," Jimmy says. Cuteguy gestures at Jimmy. Jimmy swallows. "Look, uh, it's not like it was super fun for me to wake up in the morgue either."

"You could have said something!" Cuteguy says. "You could have--you could have just, just rung me up and, and said--"

"Sorry man, it turns out that you getting me killed got undone?" Jimmy says, equally quietly, and Grian reels back in the same way that Jimmy imagines he must have when he was shot, too.

"Timmy," Grian says.

"I mean, I don't actually really blame you that much at this point," Jimmy says. "I don't really--it's not exactly your fault someone else shot us. I'm--I mean, I'm not happy with--you call him Forgery. Not so happy he didn't know that--yeah. But it's still a little... I did die, you know."

"You should have said something," Cuteguy says.

"I'm still kinda dead," Jimmy says.

"Timmy, I--I thought you were dead. I thought I wasn't ever--I'm sorry," Grian says.

"Oh," Jimmy says, because he's not sure what else to say. He both did and didn't expect an apology. It is, after all, Grian; it is, after all, Grian.

"I'm sorry, I'm--I was just, just yelling at you again because I was scared, because, because you're one of my best friends, and, and you were dead, Timmy. You were dead."

Jimmy's not sure what to say, or which of the person in front of him said that. He's fairly certain it's Grian. He's also fairly certain the world is grey and blurry again, and he has to take deep breaths, digging his fingers into his palms and trying very hard to remember that it's not really Cuteguy's fault, or even really Forgery's; until then, neither of them had understood how dangerous it was, either.

But it's not them that faced the consequences, is it?

Joel says it's fair to be angry. It's fair to blame them. Jimmy doesn't know that it is.

"I was dead," agrees Jimmy.

"Not going to say anything else?" Grian asks.

"No," Jimmy says.

Grian stares, and then it is most certainly Cuteguy who pulls himself together, shakes his wings until his feathers are straighter, and puts on a face that betrays nothing of the heartbreak or confusion or hurt he's feeling. Jimmy does, absolutely, hate it.

"Actually, I just wish... I don't know, man. Never mind," Jimmy says.

(He hates the way he doesn't recognize his own best friend some days nearly as much as he hates the way he doesn't recognize himself.)

Cuteguy stares for a long moment.

"Yeah, me too," he says. "Do... do you wanna come get sushi at that one weird place you like? Where you have the weird rivalry with that one server?"

"He insists salmon is the best sushi fish, and is absolutely wrong," Jimmy says primly, and then he nods, and even Cuteguy can't help but betray his relief.

They walk side-by-side, together. It doesn't really matter who they are now.

[nanavn]

[ID: Several photos, totaling a chapter from the book BUTCH is a NOUN.

FAGGOT BUTCH

“I hated that essay,” he says to me, “about femmes who care for you when you travel; I really hated it.” And when I ask why he tells me that he thinks it sounds like all butches should be soothed by femmes, and vice versa; he says, “Why would those femmes have assumed that you were a butch who liked femmes?” He says, “Maybe you’re a faggot butch, did they even consider that?” He says, “I know you’re not just for femmes.” That’s what he says, but I know what he’s thinking. And even though I know how dangerous it is to assume I know what someone is thinking, I know this butch maybe as well as I know myself, and he’s thinking, “Fuck you, for having it easy even in being queer. Fuck you for going along on your happy little way to San Francisco and finding a bunch of femmes who see you as a big stud-duck butch and just want to pour themselves through your fingers. It’s just as hard to be a faggot butch as it is to be any kind of fag.” There’s all that masculinity to consider when you want to rub up against someone, like that old joke about porcupines: How do porcupines mate? Very carefully. He’s saying, “I want to show up at brunch someplace and assume that anyone who I want to flirt with will want to flirt back, and will do it, will want to, without fear of recrimination from hir community. I want you to put something in that book of yours for me. I am a butch whose identity, sexual or otherwise, has nothing to do with femmes. They are not my natural partners in this gender crime the way they are yours. I wake and sleep in the arms of butches like me, butches who understand a whole host of things about my life, my world, the way I see things, the way things affect me that no one else could understand. Write about us. Write that we have sweet, hot sex in which no one has to put on a pair of panties, or take them off; write about how good it feels when ze fucks me hard, so hard. Write about how it feels to fall asleep with the weight of a butch on you, one tattooed arm and one furry leg pinning you down and grounding you in your sleep. “Write about all the ways in which butches care for each other, comfort each other. Write about how we understand all the shit that comes in the world for our partners and salve it as best we can, about how I have all the more respect for hir because of all I know it takes to survive as a butch.

“Write about how, as soon as butches were no longer the scourge of dykedom for aping masculinity, or whatever that baloney was, it became faggot butches who were scorned and derided. Everyone understands butch/femme because it seems familiar, like Ozzie and Harriet but with better hair and more pussy. Everyone understands femme on femme, even though you don’t see it all that often cause it doesn’t read queer, you know, but it’s in the first images of‘lesbian love’ most of us see, in porn or on television. Two longhaired pretty girls smooching in a daring fashion wherever they happen to be. No one’s threatened by that, not the dykes, not the men, nobody, but if I want to kiss my butch anywhere, I’d better be damn sure of my audience, or better yet, be sure we don’t have one. “I can be a butch without opening doors for girls,” he’s saying. “I can do it even if I follow while dancing, I can do it without spending my Saturday afternoons as a femme’s shopping bottom at the mall and I do. I am. I am honorable, I take good care of the people I love as well as I possibly can; I watch out for my community. I have a butch heart full of love that I can express when I feel safe enough; I walk in the world resisting gender norms and transgressing gender rules, transcending them. I am fixing whatever I can, whenever I can, and I laugh, and play, and let the spaces in my masculinity show, just like you, just like every butch. I get all slicked up for a date in a suit and tie and I pick up my date, also in a suit and tie, and we just open the door if we get to it first and we take turns paying, and it doesn’t make me less a butch. It doesn’t make me less of anything. It doesn’t mean that I don’t think femmes are swell, I surely do, but they are not my salvation when I travel, they are not the North of my heart’s compass. That’s butches for me, and I will always go a little weak when I see someone who looks scared and hardened and delighted and ashamed and proud — proud, just like me.

“You’re writing a book? Of course, I’m glad, but don’t chicken out. Don’t write a book that speaks so many volumes about your adoration for femmes that it leaves out the ways in which I know you cherish butches too. Yes, not the same way as you cherish femmes, entirely differently, butches and femmes are different creatures, sure, but I don’t just mean how glad you are and always will be to have butch brothers, abutch tribe. I mean, make sure you don’t forget to mention that you put butches on their knees in front of you and enjoy them, that you kneel down too, that you sit sometimes stunned by how much you want to lick a buzz cut or a hot tattoo, that you know what a great grace it is to fall asleep next to a butch’s heart and muscle and skin and ink and fur, that you understand how wonderful it can be to feel butch arms around you. Make sure you mention me, make sure you give me and my lovers and my life the same benefit of some of your words, make sure you don’t write another book that leaves us on the cutting-room floor. Give us a place on the landscape, help us become visible. Say this: Say that when butches love butches they hold lightning between them, but that as much as it burns it also illuminates. That it’s the sweetest burn I’ve ever known in my life of searing pain, that it keeps me from feeling the flames of the world’s hate licking the soles of my boots, that I hold it in my heart and it fuels me every day. Say that it shows me things I could never see any other way, that without it I would grow cold and die. Say that there is nothing else I would rather be.”

End ID]

Text from the link in OP

butch is a noun, s. bear bergman 2006

[florencebirdsong]

Can I request jealous Agatha x fem reader? Reader and reader’s friend aren’t doing nothing even remotely romantic, Agatha is just over analyzing everything they do together and driving themselves crazy over it

Thank you so much for this request!!! I really hope you enjoy the way I wrote it <3

Staying In

Agatha Harkness x Reader

summary: when you insist on going out with a friend who is clearly into you, Agatha takes matters into her own hands

tags: red flags with hints of mutual obsession, Mistress Agatha, sub Reader, jealous Agatha, magic bondage, light impact play, overstimulation, fingering

authors note: suspend your disbelief for not having a crush on Darcy. I’ve had to as well 😔

she/her pronouns used to refer to r

ao3 | masterlist

You’ve decided that Agatha is being silly. Mainly because her being insecure feels impossible. You aren’t into Darcy. You have never been into Darcy. It’s never even crossed your mind. Something Agatha is well aware of and yet she insists that something is there. At least on Darcy’s end. Which you highly doubt since she would have said something during the decade you’ve known her.

“It doesn’t matter,” you finally snap at her. “Despite what you may believe Agatha, I am my own person. I’m going to go to a nice restaurant with my nice friend and have a nice, platonic night with her.”

Agatha’s face goes blank in a way that makes you nervous. It turning into a slow smirk has you shifting on your feet. Agatha is rarely wrong. It’s a fact that you usually enjoy. Right now it’s too hard to think of your best friend seeing things differently to accept it. Plus, the fact that you have zero interest in Darcy and Agatha has made her claim very clear should defuse things. And yet.

“It’s not what you think, Agatha,” you insist.

“Of course, dear,” she says with that same deadly look and you swallow harshly.

You have to look away otherwise that traitorous warmth inside you is going to take over your rational brain. It’s not fair that she still has such a strong effect on you when you’re frustrated with her.

“I think I’ll retire to my lab for the night,” she says, already turning. You enjoy your nice night.”

You fight the urge to follow her and instead watch her go quietly. That had been a little too easy, especially with your earlier claim. You’re both well aware of how deeply Agatha owns you.

You only debate with yourself for a moment before moving to get ready. Your and Darcy’s schedules haven’t lined up enough for a proper meal for weeks. You’re both busy enough it’s likely to take even longer for them to line up again. You can survive one night of Agatha’s wrath.

—————-

Every other item you try to use disappears. It starts out subtle. Some things not being where you thought you left them, others being in odd but not impossible spots. It escalates until your perfume disappears right out of your hand.

“Agatha!” you finally shout in frustration.

Of course, you don’t get an answer. She’s three floors away. Not that it stops her from watching you but she so does love plausible deniability.

You’re about to rummage through her own drawers (more to make a mess than anything) when her personal perfume bottle appears in a little puff of purple smoke right in front of you. You huff a laugh. Of course.

You don’t try and refuse it. Or deny how much you want it. Every bit of Agatha entices you. Her scent is no different. Even if the perfume doesn’t quite contain every hint of her, it’s enough of a reward for her to use it against you often.

It’s hard to concentrate with her scent surrounding you but it’s something you have to contend with every time you’re around her. You have enough practice to still complete your goal, just not without thinking about her every time you take a breath.

Since Agatha has yet to bind you to the bed, you believe you’re consequence free, at least until you return home. Then you reach the door. The handle turns but the door doesn’t open. You try to flick the lock but it doesn’t move. Frowning, you try to tug it free but it’s too small to get a good grip. It jiggles a little but remains stuck. It’s weird and annoying but nothing Agatha can’t fix. Later. It’s not the best idea to go down to her lair while you still want to leave.

A thought crosses your mind but you don’t genuinely believe it until the back door does the same thing. She really has locked you in. You prefer it when she throws you into bed and traps you there. Huffing, you wonder if it would be too crazy to go out the window. It feels too crazy, and a bit silly. You aren’t a teenager anymore and this is technically also your house.

Instead of creeping out of a window, you creep down the stairs to her basement. While the house may equally be yours, Agatha’s lair is entirely her own. It’s a dangerous place for anyone that isn’t Agatha.

She’s standing at one of her benches, going between a book and some vaguely-witchy item in her hand. You risk a few steps inside.

“You locked the door.”

“Did I?” Agatha asks neutrally, not bothering to look up from what she is working on.

“I could be wrong,” you shrug casually. “If I am then you’ll have no problem forcing it open.”

“I’m very busy, dear.”

“It’s very convenient for both doors to be stuck on the night you don’t want me to go out.”

Agatha finally turns around. “Careful,” she says in a low voice.

You swallow hard. It’s not a smart idea to push her but you’re annoyed enough to do it anyway.

“I guess I’ll just go out the window,” you jut your chin out.

Her eyes darken but she doesn’t move. You know she’s waiting to see if you actually try or if you’re bluffing. It pisses you off enough to turn around. You get two steps before your arms are jerked behind your back and purple lifts you off the ground.

“Agatha!” you yell more in surprise than anything else.

“I did say to be careful.” She tilts her wrist and you fly towards her. “Look at you, all dressed up for her.”

“I’m not,” you snap.

What you’re wearing is nicer than usual but it’s hardly your dressiest outfit. You’re going to a higher end restaurant than the usual casual lunches you do with Darcy.

Agatha flicks her wrist and you whimper at the pain that lashes across your thigh. Sharp enough it’s like you aren’t wearing clothes at all.

“Agatha,” you half-whine, not wanting to admit just how turned on you are.

She flicks her wrist again and you squirm in the air.

“Tell me to stop,” she says as she slowly circles you. “Tell me to stop, and mean it, and I’ll send you on your pretty little way.”

You hate when she does this. You can never refuse her attention. It’s all you think about.

Pain lances again when you don’t answer quickly enough. You debate purposely staying quiet longer to feel it again but you doubt this will be the last of your punishment for tonight.

“Stop,” your voice wavers.

Agatha strikes you again and you can feel yourself begin to drip down your thigh.

“Try again.”

“I want you to stop,” your voice comes out a little firmer this time and Agatha raises an eyebrow.

“I almost believe you,” she says, which you highly doubt. “Unfortunately, you’ve always been a terrible liar.”

“I- I want to go to dinner,” you try instead because you both know you don’t truly want Agatha to stop.

“Maybe. But you want me to fuck you more.”

You swallow harshly. There’s no denying that. “You won’t though,” you say quietly.

“Aw, is that what has my pet all upset? She thinks I won’t fuck her silly since she’s been so naughty?”

“Think?” you ask hopefully and Agatha smirks.

“Why, of course. I want my girl to stay, don’t I? Denying her isn’t going to that.”

It sounds like a trap. It feels like a trap. Agatha’s face is telling you that it is a trap and yet, that heat within you rises. With the way your games usually go, she’s probably going to fuck you. There’ll be some sort of catch, especially after you’ve denied her so much. But just the idea of her touching you when you were so certain she wouldn’t has you giving in.

“I -” you lick your dry lips. “I do want you to fuck me more.”

“Well, now you’re just stating facts,” Agatha flicks her wrist and your clothes disappear. “I suppose it’s better than lying.”

Anticipation surges through you as her eyes run over you. They snag on the red welts caused by her earlier lashes before they stray to the wetness soaking your thighs.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she coos and steps closer. “No wonder you’ve been acting out You’re too desperate to think properly.”

You don’t even contemplate protesting with her hands on you. When she looks up at you for a response you nod eagerly. Her amusement doesn’t settle the voice saying there’s a catch somewhere but her touch soothes any growing anxieties.

“I can certainly help with that,” she says and trails her fingers over the red marks as she makes her way towards your soaked core.

Her fingers lightly run through your soaked lips and you shiver. Agatha has been so annoyed about Darcy that she hasn’t touched you like this in days. You hadn’t realised how much the lack was affecting you.

“There we go,” she murmurs as she runs her fingers over your clit, making you gasp. She circles there for a moment before moving down and smoothly entering you with two fingers. “Empty that pretty little head of yours.”

Nodding, you try to spread your legs further apart but Agatha’s magic keeps you still. You wish she would let you down. Let you touch her. But it’s a miracle she’s touching you at all so you don’t risk asking.

Agatha’s pace remains slow until you’re whining with need. She’s so mean, only giving your clit a quick swipe every now and then until you’re begging incoherently.

“Are you going to behave for me now?” she finally asks with a raised eyebrow. Long past words, you nod desperately. Anything, you’d do anything for her. “Good girl,” she says gutturally and you fly over the edge.

She speeds up for the first time and you writhe in pleasure as the orgasm flows over you, the slow build to it having heightened the intensity. She doesn’t slow, even as you come back down.

“Mistress?” you gasp in confusion when she doesn’t stop.

“Don’t worry. I’m just making sure no silly thoughts linger in my pet’s head.”

You don’t protest or plead. You don’t want her hands to leave yet. It’s been too long without them. A second orgasm won’t hurt. Especially when she pays so much more attention to your clit.

As she makes firm circles around your clit, you wish once again that you could touch her. You want to feel her warmth against you and use your teeth to encourage her to fuck you faster and pull her hair when she doesn’t. Instead, you’re stuck whining in the air as she has her way with you.

Her fingers curl and hit that special spot inside of you. Your head drops forward as you moan. She does it again as she makes firmer circles around your clit and you’re coming before you even realise how close you are.

Finally, finally she lets you touch her. Her magic lowers you down and wraps your arms around her. You cling tight and whimper when her fingers curl again.

“One more,” she murmurs soothingly.

You meant to speak but what comes out is a low whine that’s quickly taken over by a moan.

This one is slow and soft. You’re sensitive enough that Agatha’s slow pace builds you up easily. You whine into her shoulder as the overwhelming feeling of coming a third time floods you.

You tend and shudder in her grasp before going entirely limp.

“There we go. You know where you belong, don’t you?” she asks.

She cradles you like you’re something precious. You nod weakly, holding onto her. There was never a question of who you belong to but you don’t mind reminding Agatha. Or, well, Agatha reminding herself.

“You mistress,” you manage to say.

“Good girl,” she says and kisses the side of your head.

You shiver again.

“So mean,” you mutter light heartedly.

Agatha gives you an amused look.

“Three was getting off lightly and you know it.”

You snort at the pun.

“Can we go lay down?” you ask after a moment. “I’ve missed you.”

The dizzying sensation of teleporting envelopes you a second later.

[insidekatmind]

Professional-Hwang Jun-ho

The sharp night wind sweeps through the alleys of Seoul as you walk briskly toward the squad car parked behind the police precinct. The lit cigarette between your fingers burns slowly, while you watch the neon lights reflect in the dirty puddles. You've always been like this—cold, distant, untouchable. Not because you like it, but because it's necessary. In this world, showing weakness means you're done for.

"Are you planning to ignore me forever?"

Hwang Jun-ho’s deep voice cuts through the silence. He’s leaning against the car door, arms crossed, that piercing gaze studying you like he can read every secret you keep.

"Interesting attempt," you reply with a mocking half-smile, flicking away the cigarette and crushing it under your boot. "But you should know I’m not the type to get easily distracted."

"Could’ve fooled me, considering you were the one who asked for my help on this case." His voice drops lower now, almost a whisper, like he's daring you.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. You’re the best detective on the narcotics squad, and you don’t have time for stupid games. But him… he's different. Stubborn. Sharp. Suspiciously attuned to your every move.

"Don’t mistake work for something else, Jun-ho." You step closer, locking eyes with him. You're near enough to catch his scent a mix of coffee and prefume. "I’m not one of those women who fall at your feet."

He smirks, that smirk that makes you want to either punch him or kiss him—and that’s the problem. Because Hwang Jun-ho is dangerous. Not just as a colleague, but as a man. Because he sees past your mask, senses the cracks in your icy walls.

"I know," he murmurs, leaning in slightly, his face just inches from yours. "And that’s exactly why I like you."

Your breath catches for a second. You shouldn’t let him get this close. You shouldn’t allow him to see that beneath all this armor, there’s something fragile. But it’s too late.

Because deep down, you already know.You’re screwed.

“Come on now, we have work to do” you say coldly as you put your hands in the pockets of your leather jacket.

Jun-ho chuckles, the sound almost like a throaty purr that wraps around your senses. He pushes off the car, closing the distance between you in a few effortless strides. His lips curve into the kind of smirk that says he knows exactly what effect he's having on you."Always business first, huh?"

You cross your arms looking at him seriously. “Are you seriously trying to waste time when we have something important to do?”

Jun-ho raises a mocking eyebrow, clearly amused by your reaction. He knows you’re trying to hold your ground, to keep up appearances. But the spark in his eyes suggests otherwise. “Waste time? No, never. I just happen to believe multitasking is a skill.”He takes another step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “And a little distraction now and then isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Detective.”

You try to maintain your composure, but the way he says those words,a hint of mockery, yet filled with a deeper meaning,makes your heart flutter betraying your stoicism. “We have a suspect to tail.” Your tone is sharp, but it does nothing to diminish the heat radiating between you. Jun-ho simply smiles, a smirk that feels almost predatory. He leans in, his breath whispering against your ear.

“I know a thing or two about tailing,” he murmurs, the low timbre of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “But I was thinking of a different kind of tailing.”You can feel the heat rising in your cheeks, despite your best efforts to contain it. You clear your throat, attempting to regain control. This man is too damn confident.

“Focus, Jun-ho,” you snap, trying to keep things professional. “This isn't a joke. Our case is serious.”

He straightens up, a hint of mockery still lingering in his smirk. “Oh, I am focused,” he says, his gaze dropping to your lips for a moment before meeting your eyes again. “But I can't help but notice you're a little... distracted.”You glower at him, knowing damn well he sees straight through you. He's pushing your buttons, enjoying watching you squirm.

Jun-ho leans in closer, his face mere inches from yours. He reaches up, tracing a finger lightly along your cheek. You try to swat his hand away, but he catches it effortlessly, holding onto it. His thumb grazes over your knuckles, the gentle touch sending electric sparks through your veins."You’re cute when you’re irritated," he murmurs, amusement glittering in his eyes. "But I prefer the look on your face when you’re flustered."

"Let. Me. Go." The words come out in an irritated hiss, but it does nothing to dispel the tension hanging in the air. Instead, it just makes Jun-ho's smirk widen.He leans even closer, his body almost touching yours. You can feel the heat radiating from him, his breaths mingling with your own. “No.”

His answer sends a shiver down your spine, but you try to hide it. Even as his touch ignites a fire beneath your skin, you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he's gotten under your skin. You try to pull your hand away, but his grip tightens. He steps even closer, his breath warm on your neck. You can feel your heart hammering in your chest, pounding against your ribcage as if it’s desperate to break free. You’re a detective, for crying out loud. You’re supposed to be strong, aloof. But here you are, struggling to keep your cool while your colleague,your friend,is driving you insane.

"What's the matter, Detective?" His voice is a soft purr, his body pressed against yours now. He knows he's pushing all the right buttons, knows he's getting exactly the reaction he wanted. "Can't handle a little distraction?"His free hand drifts up to your chin, tilting your face towards his. His gaze is intense, almost predatory. You feel like prey.

"We have a case to solve" you repeated, trying to maintain your cool facade, but you didn't seem very convinced by what you were saying. You were hating yourself for being so weak, you're not like that. You've always been cold and closed.

"Oh, come on," Jun-ho whispers, his fingers tracing a path down your jawline, "we both know work isn’t the only thing on your mind right now."He’s so damn infuriatingly smug. You’re trying to keep your cool, to keep things professional, but he’s making it impossible. Every look, every touch feels like it’s designed to unravel your defenses.

"You're reading too much into things," you manage to respond, though your voice lacks the usual conviction. Jun-ho gives you a knowing smile, his eyes never leaving yours."Am I?" He murmurs, his breath now hot on your ear. "Or am I just seeing what’s right in front of me?"He's too close, too confident, and it's driving you crazy. Your heart is pounding like a drum, a maddening rhythm that's threatening to drown out your rational thoughts.

Jun-ho senses your internal battle. He steps even closer, his body now flush against yours. You can feel the heat of him, the subtle pressure as he pins you against the car."Just admit it," he whispers, his voice low and intense, "you're not thinking about the case right now. You're thinking about me."

“I hate you so much right now,” you whisper, looking at his lips. Jun-ho's smirk widens, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of satisfaction and arrogance. He knows he's got you right where he wants you, and he's reveling in it.

“You don’t hate me,” he murmurs, his voice lowering into a sultry purr. “You just hate that you can’t resist me.” With a swift motion, he captures your chin between his fingers, tilting your face up towards his. He's so close now that you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He leans in, his lips skimming the shell of your ear.

"Admit it," he whispers, his breath hot on your skin. “You want me just as much as I want you. Stop fighting it. Let yourself go." The urge to surrender is strong, but you stubbornly cling to the last vestiges of your composure. You can't let him win so easily. You're not some helpless damsel in distress.

You push against his chest, trying to create some distance between you two. "You're cocky, you know that?" Jun-ho chuckles at the feeble attempt to regain control, catching your wrists in his hands. "And you love it," he retorts, his grip tightening slightly. "Admit it. My cocky attitude drives you crazy."

You hate that he knows he's right. His arrogant confidence is infuriating, but it's also strangely alluring. It's as if he knows exactly how to push your buttons, how to make you crumble."You're a jerk," you mutter, but the lack of conviction in your voice betrays you.

"Mmhmm." That cocky smirk again. He's enjoying this far too much. He takes a step closer, his body now pressed against yours. You can feel the solid planes of his chest against your back, the heat of him seeping through your clothes."You can call me all the names you want, but I know the truth," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your jawline. "You're craving this just as much as I am."

The speed and ease with which he pins you against the car takes your breath away. In an instant, you're backed up against the cold metal, your wrists caught in his firm grip. Jun-ho's body presses against yours, his hands pinning your wrists above your head, leaving you completely at his mercy. Every part of you is hyper-aware of his presence:the heat of his body, the strength in his grip, the spicy scent of his cologne. His gaze is intense, his eyes dark with a desire that's making your heart race."You’re so stubborn," he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly. "You just can't help but push my buttons, can you?"

He leans in, his lips brushing against the hollow of your neck. The touch is light, barely there, but it sends a shiver down your spine. His breath is hot on your skin, making you feel strangely vulnerable."You know I have a weakness for stubbornness," he whispers, his lips finding the sensitive spot beneath your ear. "But you're really testing my patience."

You try to stay composed, to act like his touch doesn't affect you, but it's a losing battle. Your body betrays you, melting into his touch, seeking more. With a low chuckle, Jun-ho notices the change in your demeanor."You can act tough all you want," he murmurs, his lips now on your jawline, "but I can feel the way your pulse quickens when I touch you."

Jun-ho's gaze locks with yours, his eyes studying your conflicted expression. He's enjoying this,the way you're fighting to hide your feelings, the way your eyes betray your true emotions. He lets out a low chuckle, his grip on your wrists loosening slightly."You're struggling, aren't you?" He murmurs, his lips hovering just millimeters from your own. "Trying to decide whether you want to punch me or kiss me."

His words hit too close to the truth. The mix of anger and desire bubbling inside you is driving you crazy. You want to push him away, to tell him to back off. But the way he's looking at you,with that arrogant smirk and those intense, dark eyes,makes it damn near impossible to resist.

His lips capture yours with an intensity that takes you by surprise. The kiss is hard and hungry, his mouth claiming yours as if he's been craving this moment. He's still pinning you down, his body pressed against yours, his grip on your wrists now loose but possessive.He deepens the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, and your resistance falter.

You kiss back and moan softly as you cling to him. Your response emboldens him, his kiss growing more possessive, more intense. He releases your wrists, his hands now roaming over your body, exploring every curve with an expert touch. He knows exactly how to drive you crazy.He breaks the kiss, his lips leaving yours to trail down your neck, sucking and nipping at your skin. His hands slip under your shirt, his touch searing against your bare flesh.

You moan softly. “Jun-ho,” you whisper, holding onto him. Jun-ho responds to the sound of his name coming from your lips, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He continues his assault on your neck, his tongue grazing the sensitive skin below your ear.

"Say my name again," he whispers, his voice huskier than before. "Louder."

You try to cling to your remaining shreds of control, but your resolve is crumbling under his touch. The way he's commanding you, the way he's making you feel, it's all too intoxicating.You let out another soft moan, his name tumbling from your lips. "Jun-ho." It almost sounds like a plea.

Jun-ho lets out a possessive growl, the sound low and primal. He captures your lips again, his kiss rougher this time, more desperate. His hands explore your body with fervor, slipping beneath your shirt to touch skin. His touch is electric, setting your senses ablaze.

He grabs your waist, hoisting you onto the hood of the car with ease. He steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours, trapping you in his embrace. The heat between you is palpable, the tension almost unbearable. Jun-ho's hands slide down your thighs, his touch leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He breaks the kiss, his lips moving to your neck once more. "You have no idea the things you do to me," he murmurs, his voice rough and laced with desire.

His lips move lower, towards your collarbone, leaving a trail of hot kisses along the way. You're melting under his touch, unable to resist the fire he's igniting within you. His hands grip your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh as if he's trying to brand you as his.

The sharp crackle of the radio breaks through the heated atmosphere, jolting both of you back to reality. Jun-ho's eyes dart towards the sound, his gaze sharpening. He mutters a curse under his breath.He looks back at you, conflicted. He's clearly torn between duty and desire, the moment shattered by the reminder of their job.

You give him one last kiss and walk away to the car. "You drive" you say, adjusting your jacket and returning to your detached attitude.

Jun-ho watches you as you compose yourself, his eyes still dark with unspoken desire. He can't help but feel a pang of disappointment as you put up your detached and professional front again. But he knows that the moment has passed, that the job takes precedence now.

He takes a deep breath, composing himself, and heads to the driver's seat. "Right. Let's focus on the target," he says, his voice cool and business-like.

[beneathsilverstars]

Can you pls explain to me the proper way to raise a child gender neutrally, especially in a world that loves to push gender? It’s something I always wanted to do when I have my own kid but I’m scared the world is just not ready for that kind of thing and my child will get bullied by other kids/adults.

Unfortunately the feasibility of this does depend on where you live. I’m lucky to live in a fairly liberal college town — the state as a whole is awful, but in this town we have drag shows and a huge pride parade and rainbow stickers in shop fronts. There are still transphobic people here of course, but they generally know that being too overt about it will have social repercussions.

However! It doesn’t necessarily have to be an all-or-nothing thing! When your kid's a baby it’s up to you how you refer to them while in different situations, so you’re free to adjust your language as seems necessary. And then when they’re old enough to care, well, at that point it’s not up to you anyway! (My kid has decided she’s a nonbinary girl, hence the she/hers in this post.)

So here’s a list of things my partners and I did, and you can decide which things seem safe / worth it to you.

We gave her a name that doesn’t have strong gender connotations.

We shopped in the boys and girls sections equally, aiming for a roughly equal number of fancy little button ups vs fancy little dresses, pink diapers vs blue diapers, etc.

We told friends and family that we were planning to raise her gender neutrally and use they/them pronouns, until/unless she expressed a preference otherwise.

Our explanation to adults was along the lines of “We don't want to assign a gender to our child, because we think gender should be a freely-made choice rather than something that is assumed based on body type. So, we're raising them gender neutrally until they decide what they want to be. We’re not assigning them 'nonbinary', either; we’re using they/them to help avoid gendered bias, so they’ll get to experience feminine, masculine, and ungendered options equally. That way every option will be open to them as they learn their own preferences and decide who they want to be.”

Our explanation to kids was along the lines of “I don’t know yet if they’re a boy or a girl or something else! When babies are born, the doctor guesses what gender they’ll be. But sometimes the doctor guesses wrong, and the kid grows up to be a different gender. We decided not to guess what gender our baby will be, because we want to let them choose.” This usually makes perfect sense to 4-5 year olds! (Younger kids might not entirely understand or care, and older kids might have more questions.) However, you gotta be careful with this, bc even some people who are okay with you explaining your own adult transed gender won’t like you implying to their children that everyone should have that option and the whole system is bs. The less objectionable explanation is “I’m going to wait until they’re older to ask them whether they’re a boy or a girl.” Or even answering "What gender is your baby?" with "What do you think?" and then "Maybe!"

We didn’t announce her agab. When people asked, we refused to answer, more or less politely depending on the vibes. If you really want to make them feel bad you can give them a weird look and say “My child’s body is none of your business??” but there’s also the gentler “I don’t think it really matters!” We did fill out her assigned sex for official paperwork, like doctor's forms and legal government stuff, but for more casual forms we sometimes skipped the question or wrote in "we are raising them gender-neutrally" or "they/them".

We generally didn’t correct strangers or explain it to them unless they asked. Nothing wrong with some people assuming “she” and some people assuming “he”, as long as it’s not always just one or the other. If a stranger asked about their gender, I'd go for a quick "We're raising them gender-neutrally." I did also have to clarify fairly often that I only have one kid, when I talked about them and people assumed the "they" was plural, but that was never a big deal it was just kinda funny.

We did correct friends and family, since if they used gendered pronouns it was an active choice or mistake rather than a clueless assumption. Most of our circles are queer so most people were chill about it, but some family members changed one diaper and immediately assigned a pronoun set. We didn't think it was worth fighting over or limiting access, since it's not like they were disrespecting the baby's preference. But we did keep correcting them / emphasizing the neutral pronoun in our replies.

When she started preschool, we preemptively explained to her teachers that we're raising her gender-neutrally, and to please refer to her using "they/them" unless she said otherwise, and to avoid splitting the class into boys vs girls teams or anything like that. Again, fairly liberal town, and the preschool even has a teacher who uses they/them, so the teachers agreed without issue. iirc, they messed up occasionally but they were making an effort, and again I wasn't too bothered as long as my kid wasn't.

When she started using she/her sometimes, I let her teachers know, and told them to follow her lead. When we talked with friends and family we just used the right pronouns ourselves, and explained if they asked or it came up. And then once she was consistently using just she/her, we made a facebook post about it and started correcting people with a quick "She actually decided to use she/her, now."

And then here's how we talked about gender with her, specifically.

When she was old enough to start wondering who's a boy and who's a girl and what that even means, we explained, "Some people are girls, some people are boys, some people are neither or both or something else. I decided I don't want to be a boy or a girl, I'm nonbinary instead. You can decide if you want to be a boy or a girl or nonbinary or something else, too." and "Well, maybe that person's a boy, but they could be something else; I don't know because I don't know them. I don't know their name or anything either." We decided not to explain how differently most of society treats gender, the stereotypes of gender presentation, etc, until she started noticing that stuff herself. Explaining that it's wrong still involves putting those ideas into her head, which was going to happen pretty soon anyway regardless. Might as well start with a foundation of pure gender anarchy while we can.

When she noticed that every other kid she's met already had a gender, we explained "A lot of parents guess what gender their kid will be, and sometimes they guess right or sometimes they guess wrong. [Friend]'s mom guessed that she was a girl, and [friend] agrees! But when Mama was a kid people guessed she was a boy, and then she grew up and decided she's actually a girl. We didn't want to guess for you and maybe get it wrong, so we decided to wait until you were old enough to decide for yourself what gender you want to be."

Occasionally when the topic came up, we would ask if she felt like she wanted to be a girl or boy or something else, or specifically ask if she liked "they/them" or wanted to use "she/her" or "he/him". When she was ~2, she didn't entirely understand and didn't care. When she was ~3, she occasionally said she wanted to be a girl or use she/her, but immediately changed her mind as soon as we actually referred to her as such. (This is quite in-character for her, because she's generally averse to big changes and doesn't like to do anything she doesn't feel totally confident about.) When she was ~4 she finally stuck with it, and now she's a nonbinary girl who uses she/her, and her feelings about gendered terms like "daughter" still go back and forth a bit.

When she started expressing preferences in clothing, colors, etc, we just got things she liked, which ended up being dresses and sparkles.

As she started noticing gender differences, picking up stereotypes from school and media, etc, we'd address them as they came up. "Yes, a lot of people think dresses are just for girls. But I think that isn't very fair. Some boys love to wear dresses, and some girls don't, and that's just fine! It's not very nice to tell someone else what they're allowed to wear. (Unless they need certain clothes to say safe, like a jacket in the winter.)"

We also had to tell her to stop being sexist, lol. "It's fine that you think girls are awesome, they are! But boys are awesome too. It's not very nice to say you won't play with someone just because of their gender. If someone said they wouldn't play with me because I'm nonbinary, I would be so sad! If you don't want to play with [these three classmates] because they're usually too loud and rough, that's fine, but that's not because they're boys; that's because of what games they like to play. Some girls like to play loud and rough, and some boys like to be more careful and quiet like you. Can you think of any boys in your class who you like to play with sometimes? ... See, boys can like all sorts of different games, just like girls can."

We ended up getting the easiest resolution (at least for now): by the time she reached the age where kids start caring about these things, she'd started caring, and settled into being a classic girly girl (with the occasional splash of nonbinary flavor). If she'd stuck to they/them, she'd probably be starting to have a harder time in school -- definitely not full bullying, given her 12-kid 2-teacher private kindergarten class, but probably some frustration with constantly correcting people.

However... if she was more gnc, she woulda ended up that way sooner or later, anyway. If I was choosing between "she's out and proud trans and gets some shit for it" or "she's unhappy with being cis but doesn't realize she has other options," I'd always choose the former, because in that case she gets a choice. By the time kids are old enough to bully each other over gender, they're old enough to decide whether they want to be out at school, y'know? And I've always been ready to pull her from school if it ever became necessary due to peer bullying or unsupportive teachers, especially since she shares a lot of the traits that my wife got bullied for as a child.

It is possible to go 100% gender-neutral, and cut anyone out of your life who opposes it, including moving schools or even moving house if necessary. There are people who will support this choice, even cishet people who don't really get the trans thing but know that unconscious sexism can have a big effect on babies' development. Maybe more people than you think! But it depends on your local culture. And sometimes it takes a certain amount of privilege to be able to prioritize finding those people, and it's simply not worth, say, paying more to switch daycares to find a teacher who won't gender your baby. Sometimes you do have to balance your priorities, and you can't know how much balancing it will actually take until you get there.

So, overall, my advice is just to do whatever you feel comfortable with! What sounds worse to you: gendering your baby, or fighting against society's attempts to gender them? Obviously when you have a trans child you fight for them, but it's a muddier question when the child doesn't care yet. Most of our queer friends aren't going full they/them gender neutral with their kids like we did, because they don't want to have to constantly explain that on top of all the shit they deal with for being queer. Instead they're just being extra firm about shopping in both sections of the store, not falling to stereotypes, and explaining to their child that they can decide to be something else if they want.

And there's a lot of options in between -- maybe you use they/them at home, but he/him at school, or maybe even she/her at home to balance out the school. Maybe you name and dress them gender-neutrally (or both fem and masc) and don't correct any assumptions. Maybe you tell one side of the family that you're going gender anarchy neutral so they should avoid gendered terms, but you only tell the other side that you're going feminist equality so they should make sure to gift both pretend kitchen toys and pretend power tools. It's the same as deciding in what situations you want to be out vs stay stealth/closeted.

When they're a baby it doesn't matter much either way (as long as you're not being sexist in your reactions to their behavior) because they're a baby, they could not care less. And then when they're old enough to pick their gender, you're hopefully giving them that choice regardless of what you did when they're a baby. It's true that the starting point you gave them may affect their gender journey, but that's true of gender neutrality as well.

So if you think it'll be too risky in the time and place in which you're raising your child, you really don't have to feel bad about not doing it. It's okay to save your energy for when your child really needs it. But if it's something you're committed to, it is possible! I'm so glad that my family was able to make this choice. I actually loved the conversations that it opened up with all sorts of people about gendering children! Even though I got in trouble one time for explaining gender too well to the children at the daycare I worked at, lol. And I know that gendering my kid as a baby would've made me more uncomfortable than any number of awkward conversations. I love knowing that her pink purple flower unicorn heart dresses are something she freely chose!!

[ramblingandpie]

[Image description: screencap of tags reading #so many thoughts about the notes here

#i'm just gonna say that the civil servants i know who are just trying

to make society work are often begging for more people to opine

#there are secure white people with nothing better to do who spend

all their time making their opinions heard

#just to feel alive

#i cant guarantee anything but i know there are people in

government who would want to help your voice be heard

#if only you knew who to speak to

#so start saying what it is you need to say to everybody you might

possibly need to say it to

#and get better at saying it #and make your thoughts known

#because there are people who your thoughts matter to

#yes even in a red state

#i don't in any way believe the way our government works is ideal but

you need to use the tools that are available to you to make life bette

#civil and otherwise.

End description.]

This particular civil servant would love if folks would use alt text.

And also, yes, please send in feedback. We want to know. We need to know. Sometimes I know something is An Problem but unless people complain I am not allocated resources to fix Yon Problemme. We literally keep binders of program feedback sorted by topic. We use them to make our plans and agendas of what to work on and where to allocate resources.

We care!! We want the program to go smoothly!! And! If you're like "oh but this is a minor problem" we may genuinely have no idea!! Typically, the people who are doing the regulatory work and procedure updates and such? Are NOT the frontline staff who sees "minor" problems. Like. I see the most messed up of claims where everything has gone wrong and while yes obviously those DO need to be addressed... I also am completely out of the loop on more minor issues unless someone tells me. And sometimes it's a really easy fix!!! Or it's something we can incorporate into something else we're working on!!! And I try to be proactive (like... if I'm working on an update for A Chonker Of A Problem, I try to reach out to people who deal even remotely with that problem and ask them to please tell me any and all issues they run into, because like... if I have to remake a form? I'd rather do it right????)

Anyway wow this has turned into a rant but yes there are definitely civil servants who care. Most of us, I reckon.

Strongly recommend calling your reps and freaking out on the phone, both as a self care practice and so they can know that their normally chill constituents are saying things like “I guess if I can’t teach kindergarten teachers to be nicer anymore I shall have to become a bonus army”

[getaapologist]

The Tension and the Terror............Part XV

Pairing: Emperor Geta x OFC (extremely loosely, character is named but otherwise not described besides hair length)

Summary: The chaos surrounding the death of Macrinus keeps Letha and Geta apart much longer than either of them expected. Geta has an urgent question for Letha.

Warnings: make-up sex, and a shitty understanding of ancient Roman procedures around rule, 18+ only.

Word Count: 3.6k

Part 15 of 15!

[ Part XIV ]

Series Masterlist

A/N: I would like to preface this by saying thank you for reading this self-indulgent slop. I hope you got some small amount of enjoyment out of it. Your comments along the way kept me engaged enough to actually finish this. It's the first thing I've ever started writing that I actually feel like I finished. There's so much I could've added to this post-reunion that this would've never been done. I could always embellish at a later date if anyone wanted it. I'm also a bit sad to finish this because I don't have anything to look forward to now. Thank you for your time and attention. It means a lot.

Also, mea lux is 'my light' I believe.

Almost two weeks passed before Letha laid eyes on Geta again.

It was prevented by a combination of things. There had been so much to deal with after the incident in the gardens. Geta had been embroiled in meetings, debating things Letha wasn’t privy to. There was a ceremony for Ancus, to honor him for his efforts to protect his Emperors. And at every party, everyone was so desperate to show face to their Emperors, to remind them of their loyalty in wake of the exposure of Macrinus’s plot. 

Though she wasn’t invited to any official meetings or ceremonies, there were situations where she could’ve sought Geta out at these fetes and events. But she didn’t. She was scared to have that conversation that needed to happen. 

She knew she was still treated as a guest in the palace. More like a fixture, really, available to distract Caracalla whenever the burden of rule grew too tiresome with more poetry, read under the shade of a tree in the gardens, Ancus always nearby. But aside from that, she felt quite restless. 

It’s not as if she expected things to go back to how they were, but she didn’t think it would be this hard to put her thoughts together. Leaving the gardens that evening, neck still sore, she was imagining how she’d look over at Geta the next morning and fervently apologize, for all of it. She’d tell him she would understand if he sent her away, and he would assure her that he wouldn’t dream of it.

But the next morning she couldn’t leave her bed, paralyzed by this new fear. She’d gotten a chance to see what her relationship with Geta could be, she didn’t know what she would do if it was not that. And the possibilities he’d promised her most certainly couldn’t and wouldn’t happen anymore. She stewed in the hesitance, the uncertainty, until she became convinced that it absolutely would be different. No matter what different meant, she was sure it wouldn’t be good.

And so it continued, Letha skipping mealtimes that used to be routine, bumping into servants gossiping on her way into the kitchens to eat. Occasionally she heard her name on their tongues, her appearance causing them to freeze as if Letha were Medusa herself. Not wanting to make a scene, she’d just duck right back out, resolving to return later.

Caracalla assured her his brother was just being kept very, very busy in the wake of the subterfuge and death of Macrinus, but she couldn’t help but feel like it was a little intentional. 

What did you expect, honestly?

She didn’t know why she was still allowed to wander the palace, as if she were back to being a guest. There were no guards posted outside her room, and for the last week she spent her evenings in the gardens, observing the moon, asking no one in particular what happens next.

She wasn’t naive, she knew Tegula didn’t trust her. And nothing spread faster than a salacious rumor. They weren’t so foolish as to speak poorly of their Emperor, so they resorted to tarnishing her reputation instead. She was a witch, had steered Macrinus to his end, was desperate to attach herself to the divinity the Emperors were entitled to.

It was ridiculous. If she had such powers, she sure wouldn’t have suffered all this. 

It was all just more fuel for her suppositions, perpetuating her unhappy cycle until she felt like it would be better if she just snuck out one night. She could become a ghost story. But against all odds, she still carried hope that the next day would be different. 

As for Geta, well, Geta was trying to prevent an economic collapse. Some part of him thought Letha might think poorly of him if he let the empire fall around them because he would rather be locked up in his rooms, curled up in her. Because that was what he wanted. But he had a duty, a responsibility to steer this monstrous empire in a direction he could have heirs in. Perhaps the danger had put things into perspective.

Listening to the senators describe just how involved Macrinus had been in arming their voracious armies became more and more painful as they dove into the minutiae of complex accounts and processes he never bothered to pay attention to before. It was overwhelming. But he knew their efforts were working. Still, there were moments where he’d trade it all for those eyes on him again. 

What little free time he had was spent trying to avoid Letha, because he needed hours, days, uninterrupted, for him to spill his heart to her. A few minutes here and there wouldn’t be enough to relay any of the complex emotions he felt. He couldn’t avoid her forever, though, because there was a certain conversation that had to happen. He needed to know where he stood with her before he picked a particular path to tread down.

So that was why he stalked the gardens that evening, waiting for her to appear for her nightly stargazing. And as he watched her spread out the emerald-dyed linen on the grass, he felt calm. Almost peaceful. He let himself forget the weight of all that had happened, the guilt, too. Everything they’d all been through. 

Well, not everything.

“You should have run far away from here,” Geta spoke, disturbing her peace. 

Letha looked over her shoulder, her breath held in her lungs as she appraised him. It almost felt like the first time. The first time she saw him and admitted against her better judgment that he was beautiful.

The moonlight glinted off the laurels and the golden chestplate he still wore, though the ceremony had long been over. His hair was shiny, neat, framing his fair face. His deep, dark eyes, still lined in crimson, were locked on her.

He looked close to divine standing there in the golden armor, easily one of the most opulent things she’d ever seen. He somehow looked taller, broader, in the armor. Untouchable, too. 

It was so late in the evening, he should’ve changed. He should be in bed. Anywhere but here.

No more hiding. 

“I was locked in a cell, I wasn’t running anywhere.”

He surprised her by sitting beside her on the blanket, the ceremonial armor quite uncomfortable to lay down in. He kept his arms slung around his knees, the bindings of the tall sandals flexing over his shins as he joined her in staring up at the large moon.

“What about after?” After Macrinus. “You’ve had no chaperone for well over a week now.”

Letha felt her stomach twist. “I’ve thought about it.”

“But?” Geta supplied, turning his head away from the splendor of the night sky to peer down at her where she laid out beside him. A challenger to the celestial might hanging above.

“You know there would be no point.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I do?”

She rolled her eyes, a treasonous activity if done by any other, but it filled Geta with warmth, bringing the beginnings of a smile to his lips. It all felt so familiar.

“There’s something that is keeping me here. Besides the fact I wouldn’t last a day out there with nowhere to go.”

“I dared to hope,” he admitted, taking her own admission and shoving it into the cracks that were slowly mending, a makeshift mortar.

She looked over at him, a line forming between her brows as she studied him, thinking very hard about what to say next. He reached down with a finger, gently pressing at the center of her brows, pushing away the line.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, the pressure of his closeness becoming overwhelming. 

“No,” he shook his head, moving his finger lower to press to her lips, silencing any further unnecessary apologies. “It is forgiven.”

Letha felt relief, could feel a tear forming at the corner of her eye. But she didn’t want to cry, not now. She recalled her apology muttered into his hair that day. He’d told her ‘no’ then too. 

“Do you still care for me?” he asked, his voice low.

“Of course I do,” she whispered, feeling the tear slide down the side of her face. 

He noticed it, moving his fingertip to wipe away the trail before resting his hand on the ground beside her head. He licked his lips, staring at her, all his weight bearing down, as if daring himself to collapse onto her. 

As much as he might have enjoyed frolicking beneath the stars, removing this armor was not a graceful job, even for two. 

“I want to show you something.” He pushed off the ground and sat up, the haze of him dispersed. She made herself sit up, kept her eyes on him as he stood up. He could feel a swarm of bees in his stomach moving angrily as he held a hand out for her to help her to her feet.

There was a split second of indecision and he nearly faltered, but her tight grip on his hand was a balm, immediately settling his nerves. As she leaned down to gather up the blanket, he tugged her hand, urging her to leave it. 

Geta  lifted the small chest off his desk and carried it over to where Letha sat on the side of the chaise in his room. It sank into the plush seat and she looked up at him, surprised. 

“It’s quite heavy.”

“I can manage just fine,” he smiled, his teasing tone returning.

It was so easy to get caught up in his magnetism. She wondered if he knew he possessed such a thing.

“Go on,” he urged. “Open it.”

She obeyed, pushing up the lid, exposing a rich ruby interior, the box created to house this one ornate bauble. Laurels, golden and sparkling. There were small, dazzling red gems hidden among the leaves here and there.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, reaching in to run a finger along one of the gilded leaves. “Seems a bit small for you,” she admitted.

“It is,” he confirmed. 

“Well I think Caracalla will love it,” she smiled, lowering the lid. “It’s a thoughtful gift.”

Geta reached down, pulling it back open. There was a look in her eyes that gave him pause, all the smiles and teasing forgotten. As if she knew already what he was about to say. To ask.

“It’s not for my brother.”

His words sent an icy chill down the center of her back, forcing her to sit up a bit straighter. He was already moving away, pacing.

“I have been busy, Letha,” he admitted. “I’ve spent more time with the senators than I can possibly stand. And in exchange for those long hours, I got this.”

“Geta, I—”

“Don’t feel like you need to say yes right now. Just promise me you will think on it. I know these last couple of weeks have been difficult, we’ve had a hell of a time trying to navigate—”

Letha stood and walked over to him as he rambled. She reached up and curled her fingers around the collar of the chestplate, pulling him down by it, pressing her lips to his. 

Geta recognized the action immediately, bringing one of his hands up to cover hers where she held the armor, moaning against her lips. He pulled her in by the small of her back with his free hand. Her necklace clattered against the metal plate until it was muffled by the press of her against him. 

He could not get near enough air into his lungs. He felt dizzy, incoherent, his blood at once diluted but also thickened, leaving his limbs feeling heavy with a honeyed sludge passing through his veins. The pressure of her hauling him down to her eager mouth by the bronze plate persisted in his brain, in his gut, and he suspected he would relive it for the rest of time. 

“Letha,” he breathed, his palm pressing to her heated cheek. “You can take time,” he offered, though he would be lying if he said he was satisfied with this and nothing more.

“I’ve taken it,” she replied quickly, releasing the armor. 

Before the dissatisfaction crept in, he felt her fingers at his side, brushing the underside of his arm that he immediately lifted. She worked at the buckle, pulling the leather free before moving down to the woven golden string keeping both halves together. 

Once his brain caught up to hers, he pulled at the cords holding the pauldrons over his shoulders, the both of them picking up speed as an unspoken sense of urgency grew in the silence. It all hit the floor with a loud clattering, the pteruges joining it not long after. 

Free from the weight of the heavy armor, Geta reached for Letha’s neck, pulling her into him, groaning against her lips as he attempted to make up for lost time.

As he held her, he realized she was working herself out of her dress. It was bunched up on her shoulders by the time he looked down. The next chance she got, the two of them needing air, she threw it off over her head. 

“I would have gotten to that,” he breathed, allowing himself to look her over. 

“Like I said, I’ve taken it.” she spoke with intention. He felt it low in his belly.

She got to spend only a moment more on her feet before he collected her in his arms and carried her to the bed. She let out a laugh as she sank into the plush arrangement of silks and pillows. He stared down at her, feeling that blooming of warmth in his chest that only she gave him.

 “What are you waiting for?”

As the words left her lips, Geta threw off the white tunic and joined her, crawling up her body to seal his lips to hers, finally allowing the weight of him to press her down into the bed. He had missed this. Her skin, already hot beneath his hands, her movements only drawing him in further, seeking his touch, his lips.

It had been a long couple of weeks.

He felt her bring a leg up around his hip and he reached for it, fingers digging into her thigh as he rutted against her. The ragged moan that left his throat said more about his desperation than anything else.

The tension in his arm trying to hold him up off of her was too much to ignore. He turned onto his side, clinging to her thigh, slowly bringing her with him until he was on his back. As she settled in this new position, she looked down where they met, a bashful smile on her face.

He couldn’t deny the wonder that overtook him at the sight of her above him, the way her mussed hair hung around her face, a few strands now loose. She was radiant, even in the night. Her nervous smile took hold in his chest, and he knew then that he would make it his goal to continue to find ways to draw that same smile from her. 

“I missed you,” she admitted, eyes cast down to the expanse of his torso beneath her hands. “I thought we might never…”

“Letha, you possess me.” Her eyes widened, her body frozen in his hands. “I think that was why it hurt so much to be separated from you.” He shifted his hips, forcing heat into her cheeks. “And I owe you an apology.”

“It is forgiven,” she insisted.

He shot her a look. “I could have lost you. It was cruel and impulsive.”

“We are fortunate your brother had the good sense to intervene, then.”

“Please, do not speak of my brother right now,” he pleaded, squeezing her thighs. 

She laughed at him, covering his hands with hers. “Let me distract you,” she offered, bringing his hands up higher, his fingers skimming her belly before she pressed his palms into her breasts.

“So beautiful,” he whispered, his hands squeezing her soft skin. 

She ground herself down on him, using him, the sight filling him with desire for her. How he ever got pleasure from anyone else, he could never know. This was all he ever needed. He could only thank the gods, the fates, whoever brought her to him. 

She surprised him as she swung her leg over him, leaving him there in the bed, a pathetic whine leaving his throat as the air hit his slick-wet cock.

Letha felt a bit unsteady on her feet as she walked through his room. She was ready to show him that she would take on the mantle, the responsibility of keeping him sated and happy. 

Possessed him? She would never get over it. 

She found the chest and lifted the lid, reaching down for the delicate crown. Even in the dim light it sparkled. Her prize in hand, she set it on her head and nearly sprinted back to Geta.

He still laid in the middle of his bed, a vision of long limbs and pale flesh. At the sound of her feet padding on the floor he craned his neck, his large brown eyes passing over her, lingering on her head, where the crown sat precariously.

His full lips parted in a grin. “Eager to fulfill your duty, Empress?” he questioned, his voice low with desire. He held his hands out for her, helping her return to her place astride his hips. 

“Do you like it?” she asked a bit bashfully, her hands leaving his to steady the crown in her hair.

He let out a deep breath. “Mea lux,” he smiled, reaching up to pull her down to his chest, “you spoil me.” He stole a kiss from her lips before he reached up to adjust the crown so it would sit more securely on her head. She leaned into every touch, relishing the sensation of his large hands on her skin, skimming, gripping, squeezing.

She was so overwhelmed by him that she didn’t notice him preparing to shove into her, her only warning a quick swipe of him through her slick. They let out matching sighs as he filled her, like this was all they needed. Letha sat up, a hand pressed against his abdomen for support as she reacclimated to him. 

“W-What exactly are the duties of an Empress, Geta?” she asked. His hips snapping up forcing a wanton moan to leave her lips. 

His flush extended from his face and ears down to his chest. “Besides the obvious?”

She nodded, shifting her hips, moving on instinct, eager for relief. 

He grunted, letting his head fall back. “Well,” he began, bucking his own hips up slightly to reward her. “You will sit with me in all the boring meetings. We will suffer together.” 

“Mhmm,” she moaned, nodding. “I can do that.”

“You will advise me, keep me in line,” he grunted. “Tell me when I’m being a fool.”

“I will relish every chance I get,” she grinned, chasing her pleasure.

“Don’t look so excited,” he chuckled, biting his lip. 

She felt her thighs burning, but she didn’t dare stop, the coil pulling ever tighter. “What else?”

“You will guard my heart, Letha,” he breathed, his eyes meeting hers.

Her hips stilled. 

Geta flipped them, bringing his face down to hers. She ran her hands up his sides, over his shoulders, tangling in his hair as he kissed her. She relaxed beneath him, her legs wrapping around his hips as he drove into her at a steady pace. 

“Can you do that?” he asked, meeting her eyes. 

“Haven’t I been already?” 

He blinked down at her, absorbing her words. “I love you.”

“I love you,” she echoed, pulling his face down to hers.

In the kiss, he quickened his pace. She felt like she was falling apart in his hands, unable to form more words. He reached down between them, his fingers finding home in the apex of her thighs, his nose brushing against hers as he urged her to her release.

She clung to him desperately, choked gasps leaving her throat as he pressed his lips against it. She clenched around him, the coil finally snapping and giving way for her hard-earned release. He pushed her through it, her hands squeezing his hips in an effort to slow him down, too sensitive. 

He sat up, pulling her to him by her hips, grunting as he pounded into her.

“Is giving you an heir part of my duties as well?”

He laughed. “Not a requirement, but–” He cut himself off, burying himself in her as he fell on top of her, pulsing into her. “–a perk.”

He settled on top of her, his lips pressing to hers before he buried his face in the side of her neck. She held him close, running fingers up and down his back, enjoying the warmth of him despite all the sweat. 

“I would stay like this forever,” she sighed, trying to fight off the exhaustion she felt. The last thing she wanted to do was sleep now that she had him back.

“I have no pressing business for two days, mea lux. You’re not leaving this room,” he spoke into her skin. “And when we do, we will be wed.”

She felt nervous, but optimistic. “Should we not have waited until after for this then?”

He lifted his head, his warm eyes settling on hers. Full of love and mirth. “Oh, no, dear Letha. I believe you said you have already taken your time to think,” he winked, “and I would not deprive my Empress of anything.”

[ fin ]

Thank you for reading!

[amethystarachnid]

Hi, I wanted to ask you for some angst with Tony (but with a very happy ending). Tony is very worried and paranoid about the reader's safety, so he decides to break up with her so she can be safe away from him, and he's a little "mean" to her, saying things like "I don't love you anymore, I don't want you in my life" just so she doesn't want to go after him, but he still loves her more than anything, they both become very miserable and sad without each other... the reader decides to move to another city, but before leaving she discovers that she's pregnant and decides not to tell him... after four months of a lot of suffering, the Avengers talk to Tony and convince him to get back with her because in fact she is safer with him and they love each other... so he decides to look for her and when they meet he is very happy to discover that he's going to be a father and asks her to marry him and of course she accepts ❤️

SAFETY

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff and angst

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.8k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said <3

ᯓ★ TW(s): none I think (?)

ᯓ★ angst my beloved

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The city hums with life below the skyscrapers, a symphony of horns, chatter, and footsteps. High above it all, in the shimmering confines of the Stark Tower penthouse, you sit cross-legged on a sleek couch, flicking through channels on the obscenely large flat-screen. It’s not the first time you’ve found yourself alone here while Tony tinkers in his workshop, but tonight feels different. He hasn’t said much, which, for Tony Stark, is like a flashing neon sign of distress.

You sense him before you see him. The faint whir of his elevator, the telltale shuffle of bare feet across the polished floor. Then, the deep sigh—tired, weighted. You glance over your shoulder as he steps into the room, disheveled but still somehow annoyingly attractive. His dark T-shirt clings to his chest, faint streaks of grease smeared across the fabric, and his hair is a chaotic mess that screams of hours spent running his fingers through it.

"Hey," you call softly, setting the remote aside. "You okay?"

Tony doesn’t answer immediately. He crosses the room with purpose, heading straight for the bar. You watch as he pours himself a drink—a double, by the look of it—before leaning against the counter, staring at the amber liquid as if it holds the secrets to the universe.

"I’m fine," he finally mutters, though the tension in his jaw tells a different story.

You stand and approach him, bare feet silent on the cold floor. He doesn’t flinch when you slide a hand over his, gently nudging the glass away from his lips before he takes a sip. "Liar," you whisper, your voice laced with concern.

Tony smirks faintly, though it’s devoid of his usual arrogance. "You’ve got me figured out, don’t you?"

"Something’s wrong," you press, studying him intently. "What is it?"

He exhales sharply, the sound almost a growl. His free hand rakes through his hair again as he straightens up, pacing a short, tight circle. "It’s nothing," he insists, though the way his shoulders twitch says otherwise. "Just… work stuff."

"Work stuff," you echo, crossing your arms. "You’re not a very convincing liar tonight, Stark."

He stops mid-step, turning to face you. The flicker of something raw and unguarded flashes across his face before he schools his expression. "I’m just trying to keep my head above water," he admits, voice low. "It’s been… a lot lately."

You step closer, resting a hand on his chest, right over the arc reactor that hums faintly beneath his shirt. The light pulses gently against your palm, a comforting rhythm. "You don’t have to do it alone, you know."

His hand covers yours, warm and calloused, though his grip is light, almost hesitant. "That’s the problem," he murmurs, eyes locking onto yours. "You’re not part of the equation. You’re the damn variable. The wild card I can’t control."

"Tony…" You try to pull back, but he holds your hand firmly now, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

"I can’t lose you," he says, the words spilling out like a confession he’s been holding back for far too long. "I can’t—God, do you even understand what you mean to me?"

Your heart clenches at the raw vulnerability in his voice. You’ve seen Tony Stark in many forms: the cocky genius, the billionaire philanthropist, the reckless hero. But this—this is uncharted territory. This is the man behind the mask, stripped bare and painfully human.

"I’m not going anywhere," you promise, though the words feel fragile in the face of his fear.

"You can’t guarantee that," he snaps, pulling away abruptly. He stalks to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the city below. His reflection in the glass is fractured, distorted by the faint glow of the arc reactor. "You have no idea how dangerous this life is. How dangerous I am."

You follow him, stopping a few feet away. "You think I don’t know the risks? Tony, I’ve seen you come back battered and bloody, half-dead. I know what’s out there."

"Then you should know why I’m scared," he retorts, turning to face you. His voice rises, trembling with anger—or maybe desperation. "Every time I suit up, every time I step into a fight, I’m thinking about you. About what happens if someone comes after you because of me."

"That’s not your call to make," you argue, stepping closer. "I’m not some fragile thing you need to lock away in a tower."

"Yes, you are!" he yells, and the sheer force of his words makes you freeze. His chest heaves, his fists clenched at his sides. "You are, and that terrifies me. You don’t understand—"

"Then make me understand," you interrupt, your voice firm. "Talk to me, Tony. Don’t shut me out."

He stares at you, his gaze flicking between your eyes, searching for… something. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost broken. "They’ll come for you. Sooner or later, someone will figure out that you’re my weakness, and they’ll use you against me. And when that happens, I won’t be able to stop it. I’ll lose you."

The raw honesty in his words slices through you like a knife. You take his hand, squeezing it tightly. "You won’t lose me," you say fiercely. "I’m not some damsel in distress, Tony. I can handle myself."

He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "You don’t get it. This isn’t a fair fight. The people I deal with—they don’t play by the rules. They’ll hurt you just to hurt me. And I can’t—" His voice breaks, and he looks away, swallowing hard.

You step closer, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your forehead against his chest. The arc reactor hums steadily between you, a faint beacon in the darkness. "You’re not alone in this," you whisper. "We’ll figure it out together."

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, his arms come around you, holding you as if you might vanish if he lets go. His chin rests on the top of your head, and you feel the tension in his body begin to ease, though it doesn’t disappear entirely.

"I don’t know how to protect you," he admits, his voice muffled against your hair.

"You don’t have to," you reply softly. "Just let me be here. Let me stay."

He doesn’t answer, but the way his grip tightens around you says enough. The weight of his fear lingers in the air, heavy and suffocating, but in this moment, neither of you pulls away. It’s a fragile truce, a tentative step forward in a battle neither of you fully understands.

Tony Stark is good at a lot of things. He’s good at building impossible machines, at calculating risks, at charming a room full of strangers. But he’s terrible at this—at pushing you away. And yet, for weeks now, he’s been trying his hardest.

It starts with small things. Coming home later than usual, burying himself in his work even more than normal. He stops joining you for lazy mornings on the couch, starts making excuses when you suggest dinner or a night out. At first, you tell yourself it’s just Tony being Tony—his mind has always been in overdrive, and sometimes, he simply gets caught up in the chaos of it all.

But then, the distance grows. The way he looks at you shifts. There’s a coldness in his gaze that wasn’t there before, an edge to his words when he bothers to speak at all. He brushes off your touches, sidesteps your attempts to reach him, until finally, the man who once held you as if you were his lifeline feels like a stranger.

You try to ignore it. You tell yourself he’s just stressed, that it’ll pass, but deep down, a sinking feeling gnaws at you. Something is wrong. And tonight, you’re about to find out what.

He’s waiting for you in the living room when you come home, standing by the windows with a glass of scotch in his hand. The city lights cast sharp shadows across his face, making him look older, more worn. The sight sends a pang through your chest, but you push it down, determined to break through whatever wall he’s built between you.

"Tony," you say softly, setting your bag down on the counter. "We need to talk."

"Yeah, we do." His voice is clipped, almost flat, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He turns to face you, and for a moment, you swear there’s something in his eyes—something raw and painful—but it’s gone before you can be sure.

You take a step closer, your heart pounding. "What’s going on with you? You’ve been so distant, and I—"

"Stop." The word cuts through the air like a blade, sharp and final. He sets the glass down on the counter with a deliberate slowness, then looks at you with an expression so cold it makes your blood run cold. "Don’t do this, Y/N. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be."

"Harder than what needs to be?" you ask, your voice trembling. "Tony, what are you talking about?"

He exhales heavily, dragging a hand through his hair. When he finally speaks, his tone is laced with a cruel detachment that feels so foreign coming from him. "This. Us. It’s over."

The words hit you like a freight train, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. You stare at him, waiting for the punchline, for the smirk that says he’s just being an asshole because that’s what Tony Stark does when he’s uncomfortable. But it doesn’t come.

"You’re joking," you say weakly.

"I’m not."

The room feels like it’s closing in on you, the air thick and suffocating. "Tony, what the hell are you talking about? You can’t just—"

"I can, and I am," he interrupts, his voice hard. He steps closer, towering over you, and you can see the tension in his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders. "I don’t love you anymore, Y/N. I don’t want you in my life."

The words are like daggers, each one cutting deeper than the last. You shake your head, tears stinging your eyes as you try to process what he’s saying. "You don’t mean that," you whisper. "You can’t mean that."

"I do." His tone is icy, emotionless. "I’ve been trying to make it work, but I can’t do this anymore. I need you to leave."

Leave. The word echoes in your mind, hollow and final. Your legs feel like jelly beneath you, and you reach out to steady yourself against the counter. "Why are you doing this?" you ask, your voice breaking. "What changed?"

"Nothing changed," he snaps. "That’s the problem. This… whatever this is, it’s not working. It’s not what I want."

The tears spill over now, and you don’t bother wiping them away. "You’re lying," you say, your voice trembling. "I know you, Tony. I know when you’re lying."

He flinches, just barely, but it’s enough to make your chest ache. He looks away, his jaw clenching as he steps back. "You don’t know anything," he mutters. "You don’t know what’s best for you, for either of us."

"You don’t get to decide what’s best for me!" you shout, the anger bubbling up now, cutting through the haze of pain. "If you’re scared, if you’re pushing me away because of your own issues, then—"

"I’m not scared," he growls, his eyes snapping back to yours. "I’m done. That’s it. I’m done, Y/N."

The finality in his tone sends a fresh wave of pain crashing over you, and you stumble back, clutching your chest as if you can physically hold yourself together. "You don’t mean that," you whisper again, your voice breaking. "You love me. I know you do."

"Not anymore," he says, the words landing like a death knell.

For a moment, the silence is deafening. You stare at him, searching for any sign of the man you love, the man who once looked at you like you hung the moon. But all you see is a mask—a cold, unfeeling facade that makes you want to scream.

"Fine," you say finally, your voice shaking but resolute. "You want me to leave? I’ll leave."

You grab your bag and head for the door, your vision blurred by tears. He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t say a word.

You don’t look back.

Two days later, you send someone else to collect your things.

The apartment feels strange without you. It’s quiet, too quiet, and the absence of your laughter, your scent, your presence is like a black hole, sucking the life out of the space. Tony tries to ignore it. He buries himself in his work, drowns himself in scotch, anything to keep from thinking about you.

But when your friend arrives to pick up your things, it hits him like a punch to the gut. The sight of your clothes, your books, your little trinkets being packed into boxes is unbearable, and he has to leave the room, retreating to the workshop like a coward.

He doesn’t deserve to feel this way, he tells himself. He’s the one who ended it. He’s the one who pushed you away. But the truth is, he’s been lying to himself just as much as he lied to you.

He loves you. He’ll always love you.

But you’re safer without him.

The days without Tony bleed into weeks, and the pain doesn’t lessen; it only festers. The apartment you moved back to—the one you never sold—is suffocatingly quiet, devoid of life. It’s far too small compared to the penthouse at Stark Tower, where everything was expansive, open, and filled with his presence. Here, it’s just you and the echoes of what you had.

You’ve tried to move on. Really, you have. But it’s impossible. Every little thing reminds you of him. The way the morning sun filters through your blinds reminds you of how he used to grumble about the light waking him up. The sound of a passing car with a bad muffler on the street outside makes you think of his ridiculous cars, the way he used to rev the engine just to tease you. Even your favorite takeout spot feels like a betrayal; you can still hear his voice arguing with you over who got the last bite.

But you’re stubborn. You refuse to let yourself break, not completely. You threw yourself into work, taking every shift and every project you could get your hands on, hoping exhaustion would drown out the heartbreak. It doesn’t work. Nothing does.

And then there’s him.

Tony is just as miserable, though he hides it better—or at least he tries to. The penthouse is eerily empty without you. The space that once felt like home now feels like a mausoleum. He doesn’t sleep in the bed anymore; it’s too cold, too hollow without you beside him. Instead, he crashes in the workshop or on the couch, surrounded by empty scotch glasses and the flickering blue glow of the arc reactor.

He hasn’t told anyone the truth. Not Rhodey, not Pepper, not anyone. They ask, of course. They know something’s wrong. He deflects with sarcasm, brushes off their concern, but deep down, he’s barely holding on. He threw away the best thing that ever happened to him, and he knows it. But he can’t take it back. He won’t risk your life, no matter how much it destroys him.

The nights are the worst. That’s when the memories come, unbidden and relentless. He sees your smile, hears your laugh, feels the phantom weight of your hand in his. It’s torture, but he doesn’t stop it. It’s the only way he can feel close to you now.

Weeks turn into months, and the pain doesn’t fade—it deepens, sharpens, becomes a constant ache in both of your chests. You wonder if it will ever go away.

Then, one morning, everything changes.

You’ve been feeling off for days. At first, you chalk it up to stress and exhaustion. You’ve been working too much, not eating properly, and the emotional strain of the breakup has taken a toll on your body. But when the nausea hits hard enough to send you running to the bathroom for the third time that week, you know something’s wrong.

You take the test, your hands shaking so badly you can barely hold it. The seconds feel like hours as you wait, pacing the tiny bathroom, your heart pounding in your chest.

Two lines.

The world tilts beneath you.

You sink to the floor, the test clutched in your trembling hands. You’re pregnant. With Tony’s child.

The realization crashes over you in waves. A mix of fear, shock, and something else—something softer, more fragile—swirls in your chest. You press a hand to your stomach, the weight of it sinking in. There’s a life inside you. A piece of him.

Your first instinct is to call him, to tell him, to share this life-changing news with the man you once loved. But the thought dies as quickly as it comes. Tony doesn’t want you in his life. He made that painfully clear. And you can’t stomach the idea of facing him again, of reopening that wound.

You make your decision then and there. You won’t tell him.

It’s not an easy choice. In fact, it feels impossible. But you tell yourself it’s for the best. He doesn’t want you. He doesn’t love you. You can’t drag him back into your life just because of this. You’ll do it on your own. You have to.

The next few weeks are a blur of emotions. You throw yourself into preparing for the baby, researching everything you can, but the reality of it all is overwhelming. You’re going to be a single mom. You’re going to have to juggle work, bills, and raising a child. The weight of it all feels crushing, but you refuse to give up.

You tell yourself you’re strong. That you can do this. That you don’t need him.

But late at night, when the world is quiet and the ache in your chest is too much to bear, you lie in bed and cry. You cry for the life you thought you’d have, for the love you lost, and for the child who will grow up without their father.

Tony doesn’t know why, but he can’t stop thinking about you. He’s tried to bury himself in work, in distractions, but nothing works. You haunt him. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees your face. Every time he takes a breath, it feels like his chest is being crushed.

He’s barely functioning, and everyone around him knows it. Rhodey corners him one day, demanding answers, but Tony brushes him off with a half-hearted excuse about being busy. Pepper isn’t fooled either. She keeps pushing, trying to get him to talk, but he shuts her out.

Because what can he say? That he’s dying inside? That he regrets every word he said to you but doesn’t have the guts to fix it? That he’s terrified of what would happen if he did?

So he suffers in silence, throwing himself deeper into his work, even as the emptiness inside him grows.

But no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, one thought keeps clawing its way to the surface: he misses you. Desperately.

You decide to leave the city. Staying here is too painful, too suffocating. Everywhere you go, there’s a reminder of him—of the life you had together. You can’t keep living like this. You need a fresh start, for yourself and for the baby.

It’s not an easy decision. Moving means uprooting your entire life, starting over from scratch. But you know it’s the right thing to do.

You find a small apartment in another city, far enough away that the ghosts of your past can’t follow you. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s yours. You spend your days packing up your things, making plans, and trying not to think about how much you’ll miss the city you once called home.

But no matter how hard you try, there’s one thing you can’t stop thinking about: Tony.

You wonder if he’s moved on. If he’s happy. If he even thinks about you anymore.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That it’s better this way. But deep down, you know it’s a lie.

Because no matter how much time passes, no matter how far you go, a part of you will always love him.

Four months pass, and you’ve built a new routine in your new city. It’s not easy, but you’ve always been resilient. Your days are full, juggling long hours at work, studying courses online to make a better future for your child, and preparing for the baby’s arrival. Your belly is round now, unmistakably carrying a life within it. You catch people staring sometimes—coworkers, strangers on the street—but you don’t care. Every time you feel the baby kick, it reminds you why you’re doing all of this.

You haven’t told anyone much about the father. Your coworkers and neighbors assume you’re single, and you’ve never bothered to correct them. It’s easier this way. The pain of thinking about Tony, of what could have been, is still too fresh.

The apartment is small but cozy, and you’ve started turning one corner of the bedroom into a nursery. There’s a secondhand crib you found online, freshly painted in soft cream. Baby clothes are folded neatly in a small set of drawers, and a mobile hangs from the ceiling, its delicate stars swaying gently whenever you walk past.

But it’s hard. So hard.

There are nights when exhaustion grips you so tightly you can barely breathe. Nights when you wonder how you’ll manage everything on your own. And nights when your heart aches for Tony so fiercely you have to press a hand to your chest to calm the storm within you.

Still, you don’t let yourself dwell. You keep going, for your baby.

Meanwhile, Tony is unraveling.

The cracks have become impossible to hide, even from himself. He’s snapping at everyone—at Pepper, at Rhodey, at anyone who tries to get close. He spends most nights in the workshop, working on projects he doesn’t care about, just to keep his hands busy. But no matter how much he distracts himself, the void inside him only grows.

The team notices, of course. They’ve been noticing for months. And finally, they confront him.

It starts with Pepper.

“Tony, this has gone on long enough,” she says one evening, her arms crossed as she stands in the doorway of the workshop.

“I’m fine, Pep,” he mutters without looking up from the piece of tech he’s tinkering with.

“No, you’re not. And we both know why.”

He freezes, his hands stilling. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, tough,” she snaps. “Because this isn’t just about you anymore. You think we don’t see what’s happening? You’re falling apart, Tony. And the only person who can fix this is you.”

He doesn’t respond, but the words hit him harder than he wants to admit.

The next day, Rhodey corners him during a training session.

“Stark, we need to talk.”

“Unless it’s about the mission, I’m not interested,” Tony replies, dodging Rhodey’s gaze.

“Bullshit,” Rhodey says bluntly. “You’re miserable. And we both know why. So, what’s the plan? You gonna keep running from her forever?”

Tony clenches his jaw, his hands tightening into fists. “She’s safer without me,” he mutters.

“Safer? Or are you just too scared to fix what you broke?”

The words sting, but Tony doesn’t argue. He can’t.

The final push comes from Steve, of all people.

“You know she loves you,” Steve says one evening as they sit in the common room, the quiet weight of his voice cutting through Tony’s defenses.

“She’s better off without me,” Tony mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.

“She’s not better off if she’s as miserable as you are,” Steve replies. “You think you’re protecting her by staying away, but you’re not. You’re just hurting her—and yourself.”

The words linger long after Steve leaves, echoing in Tony’s mind until he can’t ignore them anymore.

By the end of the week, he’s made up his mind. He’s going to find you.

It takes him some time to track you down. You were smart, cutting ties and keeping your location a secret. But Tony Stark is nothing if not resourceful. When he finally gets a lead, he wastes no time.

He flies to your city on a private jet, his heart pounding the entire way. He’s rehearsed a hundred different things to say, but none of them feel right. All he knows is that he needs to see you, to fix what he broke, even if you slam the door in his face.

When he finds your address, he barely recognizes the street. It’s a far cry from the luxury of Stark Tower, and the thought of you living here makes his chest tighten. He doesn’t knock right away. Instead, he stands there for a moment, gathering his courage.

Finally, he raises a hand and knocks.

When you open the door, the world seems to tilt beneath him.

He’s prepared for a lot of things—anger, hurt, indifference—but he’s not prepared for this.

You’re standing there in a simple dress, your belly round and unmistakable. His heart stops, and for a moment, he can’t breathe.

“Tony,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He stares at you, his mind racing. Your belly… it can’t be.

But then, his mind jumps to the worst conclusion. You’ve moved on. Of course, you have. It’s been months. You’ve found someone else, someone who could give you what he couldn’t.

His stomach twists painfully.

“I… I didn’t know,” he says finally, his voice hollow.

You blink, confused. “Didn’t know what?”

“That you were… that you… had someone else,” he says, his gaze dropping to your belly.

Realization dawns on you, and your heart sinks. He thinks the baby isn’t his.

“I don’t—” you start, but the words catch in your throat.

Tony runs a hand through his hair, his emotions swirling in a chaotic storm. “Look, I didn’t come here to make things harder for you,” he says, his voice strained. “I just… I needed to see you. To tell you I was an idiot. That I was wrong. But it’s clear you’ve moved on, so I’ll go.”

He turns to leave, but your voice stops him.

“Tony, wait.”

He freezes, his shoulders tense, but he doesn’t turn around.

“The baby…” You swallow hard, your voice trembling. “The baby is yours.”

He turns slowly, his eyes wide, his face pale. “What?”

You press a hand to your belly, tears welling in your eyes. “I found out a few weeks after… after you ended things. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to see you again. But this baby is yours, Tony.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at you, his expression unreadable.

Then, he takes a step closer, his gaze flicking between your face and your belly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice breaking.

“Because you made it clear you didn’t want me,” you whisper, the tears spilling over now. “You told me you didn’t love me anymore. I didn’t want to go through that again.”

His face crumples, and he sinks to his knees in front of you, his hands trembling. “I lied,” he says, his voice raw. “I lied to protect you. Because I love you so much it scares the hell out of me. And I was stupid enough to think you’d be safer without me.”

You stare at him, your heart breaking all over again.

“I was wrong,” he continues, his voice thick with emotion. “I was so wrong, Y/N. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you, if you’ll let me. Please.”

You don’t know what to say. The pain, the anger, the love—it’s all too much.

But when he reaches out, his hand trembling as he rests it gently on your belly, you feel something shift.

The walls you’ve built around your heart begin to crack, just a little.

Tony's hand trembles as it rests gently on your belly, his touch hesitant, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away. You should—you’ve been carrying months of pain and anger, all because of him. But standing here now, with his eyes full of something raw and broken, you can’t bring yourself to move.

“Say something,” he whispers, his voice cracking. “Please, Y/N.”

You press your lips together, trying to gather your thoughts. There’s so much you want to say—so much hurt, confusion, and love tangled up in your chest that you don’t know where to begin.

“You broke me, Tony,” you say finally, your voice trembling. “You told me you didn’t love me. That you didn’t want me in your life. And I believed you. Do you have any idea how hard it’s been? How much it hurt to hear those words from the person I thought would never hurt me?”

His face crumples, and he looks away, guilt written in every line of his body. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he murmurs. “You don’t understand, Y/N. I—God, I was so scared. Scared that being with me would put you in danger. That one day, I’d lose you because of what I do—because of who I am. I thought pushing you away would keep you safe.”

“You didn’t protect me,” you say, your voice growing stronger. “You destroyed me. And you didn’t even give me the chance to decide for myself if I wanted to stay or not. You took that choice away from me.”

He winces, his head hanging low. “I know. I know I screwed up, Y/N. And I hate myself for it. Every single day without you has been hell. I thought I was keeping you safe, but all I did was push away the only person I’ve ever loved.”

The weight of his words hangs heavy between you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. He looks so different from the man who broke your heart months ago. His eyes are tired, his shoulders slumped, as if he’s been carrying the world on his back.

“I never stopped loving you,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not for a second. And if I could take it all back, I would. But I can’t. All I can do now is tell you the truth and hope it’s not too late.”

You close your eyes, the weight of everything crashing down on you. You’ve missed him so much, even when you didn’t want to admit it. And deep down, you know you never stopped loving him either.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again,” you say finally, your voice breaking.

He nods, his jaw tightening. “I’ll do whatever it takes to earn back your trust. Whatever you need, Y/N. Just… don’t shut me out. Not now. Not when we have a chance to fix this.”

You look down at his hand on your belly, at the way his fingers tremble slightly against your skin. There’s so much at stake now—not just for you, but for the baby too. And despite everything, a part of you wants to believe him.

“You hurt me, Tony,” you say quietly, your voice laced with both anger and vulnerability. “But I can’t keep doing this alone. I can’t raise this baby by myself. And I don’t want to.”

His eyes snap up to meet yours, a flicker of hope igniting in their depths. “You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I’ll be there for you—every step of the way. I promise.”

You take a shaky breath, your emotions swirling inside you. “If I come back, it’s not going to be easy. We can’t just go back to the way things were.”

“I know,” he says, his voice steady. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Whatever you need, Y/N, I’ll do it. Just… come home. Let me take care of you. Let me take care of both of you.”

The word “home” catches in your chest, and for the first time in months, the idea doesn’t feel so far away.

When you finally agree to go back with him, Tony looks like he might cry. He helps you pack up the few belongings you’ve gathered in your time away, his movements careful, as if he’s afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. You can see how hard he’s trying, and while it doesn’t erase the pain of the past, it’s a start.

The drive back to Stark Tower is quiet, but not uncomfortable. He keeps glancing over at you, his expression a mix of relief and nervousness, as if he still can’t believe you’re here.

When you arrive, the elevator ride up to the penthouse feels surreal. You step into the space that used to feel like home, and for a moment, you’re overwhelmed by the memories.

“I know it’s a lot,” Tony says, his voice soft as he watches you. “But I want you to feel comfortable here again. We can make changes—whatever you want.”

You nod, unsure of what to say.

Over the next few days, Tony throws himself into making the penthouse feel more like a home for the three of you. He clears out one of the spare bedrooms and starts turning it into a nursery, asking for your input on everything.

“What color do you want for the walls?” he asks one evening, holding up paint swatches.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re seriously going to paint it yourself?”

He grins, a spark of his old charm returning. “I may be a genius billionaire, but I’m not above rolling up my sleeves for my kid.”

Despite yourself, you smile.

He keeps surprising you, showing up to doctor’s appointments, researching baby gear, and even cooking dinner when you’re too tired to move. It’s clear he’s trying, and while it doesn’t erase the hurt, it does start to rebuild something fragile and new between you.

One night, as you’re sitting on the couch together, your hand resting on your belly, you feel the baby kick.

Tony’s eyes widen. “Was that…?”

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Here,” you say, grabbing his hand and placing it on your belly.

His eyes soften as he feels the movement beneath his palm. “Hey, little one,” he murmurs, his voice filled with wonder. “It’s your dad. I can’t wait to meet you.”

The sight of him, so vulnerable and full of love, makes your heart ache in the best way.

For the first time in a long time, you start to believe that maybe you can build a future together.

The moment you step into the new doctor’s office, you can tell the change was worth it—though you’d never admit that to Tony. The place is immaculate, modern, and soothing, with soft music playing in the background and staff who seem genuinely happy to help. You still feel a little guilty about leaving your old doctor behind, but when you see Tony’s proud smile as he hands over your file, you know he just wants the best for you and the baby.

“This is where you’re supposed to be,” Tony says as you sit in the plush waiting room. He’s bouncing one knee nervously, glancing over at you every few seconds as if to gauge your reaction.

“Don’t let this go to your head,” you tease, rubbing your belly. “But it’s… nice.”

“Nice? Please. It’s state-of-the-art.” He leans closer, lowering his voice. “The OB here is one of the best in the country. I made a few calls. Okay, a lot of calls.”

You smirk, resting a hand on his knee to calm his fidgeting. “Thank you, Tony.”

His expression softens, his hand covering yours. “Anything for you. For both of you.”

The new doctor, a calm and professional woman named Dr. Latham, immediately puts you at ease. She reviews your chart thoroughly and listens to all your concerns without rushing you, which feels like a luxury after your previous appointments. She even arranges for an in-depth ultrasound during your visit, mentioning that you’re far enough along to determine the baby’s gender if you’d like.

Tony practically lights up at the suggestion. “Oh, we’d like,” he says enthusiastically, glancing at you for confirmation.

You roll your eyes but nod, secretly just as curious as he is.

The ultrasound room is dimly lit, with a large screen positioned to give you a clear view. As the technician applies the cool gel to your belly and begins the scan, Tony grips your hand tightly.

“There’s the baby,” the technician says with a smile, pointing to the image on the screen.

You and Tony both lean forward, mesmerized by the sight of your little one moving around.

“Everything looks great,” the technician continues. “And… if you’re ready, I can tell you the gender.”

Tony’s fingers tighten around yours, and you can feel the tension in the air. “We’re ready,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

The technician smiles and turns to look at you both. “It’s a boy.”

Your breath catches, and you glance at Tony, whose face is a mixture of awe and joy.

“A boy,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “We’re having a boy.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you watch the screen. “Liam,” you whisper, the name you’d been toying with finally feeling real.

Tony leans over and kisses your temple, his lips lingering for a moment. “He’s going to be perfect,” he says softly.

The news of Liam’s gender spreads quickly, thanks to Tony’s inability to keep anything a secret. Within hours, the Avengers are calling and texting, all of them eager to congratulate you and ask about baby names.

“Are you sure you don’t want a gender reveal party?” Tony asks a few days later, holding up a brochure for some extravagant event planner he’s clearly already been in touch with.

You give him a look. “Tony, I don’t need fireworks and a light show to announce we’re having a boy.”

“But think of the drone possibilities,” he says with a grin.

You shake your head, laughing. “How about we just tell people? Like normal humans?”

“Boring,” he mutters, but he lets it go, content to simply bask in the excitement of preparing for Liam’s arrival.

As the weeks pass and your belly grows, you start noticing the changes in your body more acutely. You’ve always been confident, but pregnancy has brought a whole new set of challenges. Your back aches constantly, your feet swell, and your once-favorite outfits no longer fit.

One evening, you’re standing in front of the full-length mirror in your bedroom, studying your reflection. Your belly is round and prominent now, and you can’t help but feel self-conscious.

“I look like a balloon,” you mutter under your breath, running a hand over your bump.

“What did you just say?” Tony’s voice startles you, and you turn to see him leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, but he’s already walking toward you.

“Y/N,” he says, his tone serious. “You don’t look like a balloon. You look… incredible. You’re growing our son. Do you have any idea how amazing that is?”

You sigh, avoiding his gaze. “I just don’t feel like myself anymore.”

He steps closer, placing his hands on your shoulders and turning you to face him. “You’re still you. You’re strong, beautiful, and the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. And if you don’t believe me…”

He trails off, reaching into his pocket.

“Tony, what are you—”

But before you can finish your sentence, he’s kneeling in front of you, holding a small velvet box.

Your heart skips a beat.

“Y/N,” he begins, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but the one thing I know I got right is loving you. You’ve given me so much—your trust, your love, and now, our son. I don’t want to waste another second without making this official.”

He opens the box to reveal a stunning engagement ring, the diamonds catching the light.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, his eyes searching yours.

Tears fill your eyes, and for a moment, you can’t speak. But then you nod, a smile breaking through your tears. “Yes,” you whisper.

Tony grins, sliding the ring onto your finger before standing and pulling you into a gentle hug, careful of your belly.

“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice full of emotion.

“I love you too,” you reply, resting your head against his chest.

As he holds you close, you can’t help but think about how far you’ve come—from heartbreak and doubt to this moment of pure joy. And as Liam kicks gently in your belly, it feels like a promise of all the good things yet to come.

I'm so sorry if the ending sucks :(

[acourtofthought]

Awwwww haters.

I saw this in the Elain tag, sent to an e/riel.

I guess my Elucien headcanon made them mad, probably because Az has zero chance of ever hearing Elain's thoughts.

But here's the thing, where does it say Rhys could only hear Feyre's thoughts because he was daemati? That their mating bond played no part in things?

Rhys actively has to use his daemati powers and time and again he does not because he feels it's an invasion of the privacy of others.

Otherwise he would have known Jurian wasn't the bad guy and Jurian wanted Rhys to look, he was hoping he'd look. Otherwise he would have easily seen that Bryce was not truly an enemy. To Feyre he specifically says:

“I can’t help what you sometimes shout down the bond.

Of course Feyre thinks he's talking about their bargain but he later says it was always their mating bond.

"But Nesta and Cassian!"

Tamlin's glamour did not work on Nesta, she fought Rhys's HL command and neither she or Cassian had the bond snap immediately which means they had time to control their actions around the other. Nesta nothing, it's not the same thing and she would never "accidentally" shout something down her bond if it was possible because she's as stubborn as a mule.

Now is my headcanon just a headcanon? Yes because we have no idea how Elucien's bond actually works since we haven't been given Elain's pov and only had Lucien's for a short time (during a time he was struggling with the extreme guilt / sadness he was feeling over everything). But that doesn't mean Sarah can't easily write into their story that they've gotten glimpses of the others thoughts / emotions. Just because we haven't learned of something yet doesn't mean Sarah won't write it in the next book, putting Elucien's own unique twist on things that doesn't rely on daemati powers. They are mates which means it's normal to theorize they'll be able to do mate - like things that regular couples would not.

FYI: fun headcanons don't mean I haven't read the books 😂.

E/riels claiming we don't read the books is the funniest take considering they're the ones who still talk obsess about / claim a necklace that Elain gave back and Az asked Clotho to give to another girl. I'm also not sure I've ever seen Elain referred to as Velaris's princess in the series yet e/riels love that one.

Edit and thank you @yennas-stuff

Rowan and Aelin weren't daemati yet it's kind of like Sarah wants mates to have that added connection 🤷

Also, another edit:

@princesserene @lplusl Thank you. It kind of seems like Elucien's have read the books 😁

[balrogballs]

happy valentines day to everyone but especially to ✨ wife guys ✨ as a treat, have a little Celedriel ficlet about how much they love each other because they simply are not leaving my skull atm:

The Homecoming

“They face everything hand in hand every time they must, from hornets to sorcerers, blinking and bewildered by what the world has become. Long oceans and lost homelands; floors of green grass grinning below treetops, they are limitless.”

He first met Galadriel under an upside-down tree and she had asked him whether it was his tree. Celeborn was not certain as to whose tree it was but in the face of her hair he felt himself succumb to spontaneous moral depletion and barefacedly told her that it was not only his tree, but that it was him that put it upside down, because he thought seeming artistically inclined would work in his favour with the Nolde. On the evening they exchanged betrothal vows he felt so ridiculously guilty about his little lie that he admitted it and watched her laugh until she cried and frankly, felt quite pleased with himself.

Celeborn enjoyed sitting around just looking at her and there were people who said that such pursuits were pointless for an elf of his lineage, militaristic credentials and bearing.

Absolutely, he would agree quite seriously. They absolutely are pointless. This is such a problem, thank you for pointing it out. I’ll sit right here, just where I am, look out of the window into her garden, and wonder what to do about it, say for the next few hundred years. Now it is a difficult task, please, leave me to it.

“Most know my father is like a raincloud if rainclouds shat gold,” Celebrían once told Elrond, who apprehensively glanced at the fearsome commander he spent a century under siege alongside, as if he would twist off his head for not only conversing shamelessly with his daughter but gossiping about him. “But few remember that my mother picks up every coin and spends it with glee.”

She does indeed.

Galadriel never did anything as Celeborn as sitting about gazing adoringly at people, but that was only because she, with her strange and awkward stubbornness, wrestled the vague shape of him into most things she beheld. She could be on a deserted shore and she would trick her own eyes into finding him atop a marvellous shipwreck or petrified salt-rock. Every space and time in her life which required courage to pass through, she would conjure him and he would appear like a — no, not a phantom, Celeborn was too easygoing and frothy-laughed and light-footed to be particularly good at melancholic hauntings, he’d be far too happy drifting about in the empty spaces of the world. Perhaps a poltergeist, then. Or a very controlled mirage.

Lothlorien was intimate solitude, the quiet before fireworks. They never told others of how they love and live, they were the two of them, and then one day their remarkable Celebrían. Cello-baby, he called her because she hated it. Monkey-child, Galadriel named her, because she was. They shared each other wholly and without care and it meant all their joys were tripled and it meant that when Cello-baby left for good the loss was thrice as unbearable than it would have been otherwise.

Nothing endures for so long as love between the Eldar. As the centuries pass, their love shapes the world and shapes itself to it. Galadriel, scrying mirror and treelit hair, the world in her hands and Celeborn in her heart. They shape the forest and through the forest, the world: the Cello-baby shaped vacancies between their embraces, the hunting grounds and tree-top love affairs. They covet sameness and turn it to difference. The slow rot spreads across Arda and they cling to each other through time to feel alive in the dying world, like bees suspended in a jar of sticky honey, fleas in the rough, matted neck of a stray-cat. They do not cling to a folded-down page in history but burrow their way through the book itself.

Mithrandir once asks her if she does not feel inconsequential in the forest. Without the marauding ranger circle around Imladris, away from the corrosion of Mirkwood, he asks her if she never longed to fly further. Whether she could not see the forest for the trees.

“Perhaps our landscape makes you feel inconsequential, Mithrandir,” she says dryly. She doesn’t wear shoes at home — a habit her daughter carried to Imladris and passed on to her three, and then to Eldarion, and then ever onwards. But yes, Galadriel spins in a dizzy circle in the little room and says, “but I have all the world I need. I can see what I must, and I will do what I will when the world and the Valar will it. But inconsequential? Amidst hornets nests and horsefly season? In the forest fire of the previous year, this sunset and the next, for these little things I am time and space itself. We are.”

Celeborn has Galadriel feeling limitless even in the smallest of rooms. They face everything hand in hand every time they must, from hornets to sorcerers, blinking and bewildered by what the world has become. He has her back and she has his heart. With his solid weight behind her she can swallow future after future with dangerous abandon. He is not the risk but the reason for it: he is so alive it is almost irritating. Long oceans and lost homelands; floors of green grass grinning below treetops, they are limitless.

Age after age rolls by and they do not stop loving each other in their strange, incomprehensible way. An oddly domesticated love language seemingly apathetic to external perception, the way the spool predicts the pattern of its unravelling, how even on the darkest nights they can reach out to the other and find the little hook where their truest selves hang, trusting in the mnemonics of homecoming. They are an arithmetic problem that never asked to be solved. They are simply Galadriel and Celeborn, under an upside down tree, always and ever.

[solidaritygaming-fanblog]

(using u as my own personal soundboard rubber duck method yada yada ya if anyone wants this u can have it)

SO villain/vigilante jimmy au

like no one suspects him. why would they? it's jimmy. sweet jimmy, harmless jimmy, can barely keep himself alive jimmy. jimmy the normal guy, the civilian in this au (which I have now decided is a modern day superhero au ig)

Jimmy? a (kind of) villain? dude cries over babies and kittens and despite being afraid if spiders always asks that they get taken outside rather than killed. the man is so oblivious. he isn't even. aware that basically all of his friends are involved in the superhero life (hero, antihero, vigilante, villain or otherwise) obviously he must be protected. everyone on all sides agrees that Jim's little shop (birdie bakes? codfathers chippy? big man flowers idk dude I'm bad at names u choose) is a neutral zone. everyone has to play nice. can't break poor timmys heart after all

but canary? the harbinger if chaos? oh he's bad. the domino that sets everything in motion leaving destruction in his wake. it's not so bad, most of the time. sure there's a lot of injuries and trauma but rarely any death. except when there is. except when ur reminded that canary isn't just a prankster who likes causing property damage but someone who has a body count. someone who is truly terrifying when he wants to be. someone who's casual, friendly disarming demeanor should not EVER be mistaken for harmless.

his identity is anyone's guess really, no other villain has seen what he looks like or gotten even a hint if a name. most are too afraid to ask and the ones that aren't (or so they insist) haven't asked either. not because they're afraid of having the canary on their bad side of course they just not interested. totally that and nothing else

(they're terrified. after all, he's an unknown that everyone knows isn't all that stable. a ticking time bomb. a canary in the coalmine, that has everyone afraid they'll miss his silence until death catches up with them. no one knows anything, and it is only human nature to be afraid of the unknown)

somehow, canary is able to thwart almost any plan aimed at him. this makes him all the more terrifying. after all, the man seems to know their every move. is he a traitor? does he have access to their plans their bases, their identies? even the villains are unnerved. after all, they haven't exactly escaped unscathed either. sometimes, canary is gunning for them explicitly and many a villain has lost a base or two to the man

(the small listening devices planted in bags, within gifted potted plants, wherever, are too small to be discovered unless one is looking very, very carefully. but why would they? it's just a gift from jimmy. lovely, sweet, harmless jimmy).

and the heroes about to plan a big bust of canary's base? well they've come down with a little bit of food poisoning or smth. nothing too harsh, just enough for them to be taken out of the field. just enough time for canary to catch wind and pack up and move before anyone can prevent it. big villainous plan going up in literal flames that not only steals Ur thunder but leaves u on bed rest bc of the burns? at least jimmy gives out free stuff and a hug when ur down

(and Jimmy loves his friends, cares for them a lot. but he is a survivor and will do anything to make sure he never has to feel powerless, to feel like he is less than anyone or anything. he loves his friends but he knows they see him as less, as an outsider, as weak. as a thing that needs to be protected, rather than protected against. so the addicting rush of adrenaline from pulling of a heist, destroying a whole street, from leaving a trail of blood in his wake whenever he's feeling particularly villainous is made so much sweeter when it's done right under their noses

it's a wonderful feeling, testing the limits of your power when no one, not even you, knows where they lie - especially when they're terrified to find out how far you're willing to go)

rubber duck method! I can't wait to see this

Yes. 100 hundred percent yes.

Its just Jimmy! He would never hurt them :)

[wilderhyperfoxations]

Chains of Eternity- my biased, terrible little review

This will include spoilers, so you've been warned. Although I like this game (my tumblr and even this post are a testament to that) sometimes things you like can fall short. So, let's get into my various critiques of COE. The start of the story felt pretty strong. I do wish we saw Valen, BECAUSE WHERE IS THAT MAN, but sure, right. I felt like there were too many side characters during the first few quests, and this trend continues through the whole arc. I really liked Faramor… so where the hell did he go? He sort of disappeared without much of an explanation. He had no character development, or it simply wasn't portrayed in a cohesive way. But his VA was very good. Also, controversial, but while I did enjoy Lorsan's cameo- it did not add anything. Same with half the characters this season, they really came out of nowhere, and could have been utilized in a more interesting way. The whole immortality talk also felt unconvincing- sure it's bad but if you're really afraid of death it's a small price to pay, and you'll watch people die even if you're mortal, so… weak argument there. Cyran. God, Cyran, they barely used him, too. Which I really wished they did. Also the King/Duke(?) was kind of barely there. They did nail Yolena and made the ending that much more WHAT THE FUCK. There were some bigger overarching issues, such as: Structural issues, Promise, payoff, Setup, Too much fluff, Pacing, Lore. Structural issues- the story structure did not feel sound nor satisfying due to the lack of promise at the start and the lack of payoff at the end (ex.- in WOI, it's "Merlin wants to leave Rustport, Sinbad wants to be a Captain, Sonja wants to kill her dad" and all of those things come true and make a satisfying story). This is pretty much the same as "setup"- there was not much of that. Too much fluff- too many characters and frivolous parts that I felt could be trimmed. Most characters could be cut out and the story would still work. Pacing- unlike WOI, which felt like it lasted ages, or even the first few storylines that were pretty even, this one was choppy. The start dragged and then the end sprinted. The whole thing whizzed past me and there I was, left befuddled. Lore- confusing! In the story not much is elaborated on, but then in some heart-to-heart's there are comments on why graveborns were made that… actually make no sense, or are unsupported by the wider narrative. How would they improve this? Honestly. Just more editing and more time. This one must've been rushed, or something, because WOI was stellar for any game (and again Sinbad's VA was FIRE, nothing stood out to me this time). And if I were to edit this story, I'd introduce Valka earlier, and give her some clearer goal than just "am sad, don't deserve your praise, blah". State it more clearly that she wishes she could make things right. And the villain, who I neglected to mention- all villains besides the WOI ones have been last-minute. Cryonaia was intimidating, but, she was… not setup. If the story spoke of her earlier, or incorporated her into some legend, her reveal would mean more. Otherwise she's just another hypogean. Also, what was her goal? What was she trying to do? Who the fuck knows. I found her vibe unclear. Tell me if I missed something, but I do doubt I missed anything major. Altogether, if this was a book, I'd give it a 2 or 3 stars for "you tried and you almost got here but your editor must've been drunk and passed out for months or something".

[worfs-glorious-hair]

Gale and the impossible choice

Some Gale musings I wrote just after I went down to the mindflayer colony in the act 2 finale and Gale mentioned that we will soon find the heart of the Absolute and I began to wonder what goes through his mind there at this point in the story. I also realised that we as the galemancing community do not talk about this moment and it’s angsty potential there enough. So I went to change it.

Gale x Tav/Reader they/them, no physical descriptions, no class mention, angst, considering using the orb, hurt/ not yet-comfort, whump (?), act 2 finale, canon-typical themes and implied violence (?), Mystra mentions :(, religious themes (praying mostly)

So, what does Gale feel when he does not want to go through with using the orb for the heart of the Absolute but thinks that he does not have a choice? (AKA bomb score is down)

My love, my only love, know that I will love you until my very last breath. Know that you are the only one I love.

Remember me when I am gone.

Tav, you are sleeping next to me and I hope you are dreaming of me. Maybe you are dreaming of the life we will never have. The life I will never have. I hope you will have it. A life in the sun and the goodness of the world, with no shadows and no tadpoles.

Maybe you will remember the fool who loved you once. Maybe you’ll remember my kisses. I will remember yours, your lips on my skin, your tender words, your warmth, your touch, your love when the times comes…

Gale sighed as he crossed out what he had written on a page that he had teared off from an old, mouldy smelling book with water stains on the cover.

How should he ever find the right words to explain what he did not wanted to do and yet planned on doing?

A simple truth that complicated everything – he did not want to die! Not anymore.

It could have been so easy, would Mystra had commanded him to destroy the heart of the Absolute just a few months ago he would have done it without hesitation, without doubt.

Anything for Mystra’s forgiveness. Anything for her embrace.

Thank the gods that were still willing to listen that she hasn’t.

Because he would have done it and would have been irreversibly gone from this realm now. He would not have gotten abducted by a mindflayer nautiloid then, would not have gotten stuck in a stone in a portal between the realms and he would have never been rescued by the kindest soul he ever had the pleasure to know. To love.

The kindest soul who loved him in return, by miracle or cruel fate.

Tav…

Tav, who slept curled into his side, undisturbed by the lights he had conjured to write his letter. His forced goodbye.

Tav, with a finally relaxed face now as they rested.

Tav who faced the curse around them so bravely, Tav, who had cried into his chest on too many days when the darkness and the shadows had been too close to their soul. And he had held them close and had conjured colorful lights to distract. To light up the world. To bring joy back.

The same lights that danced over the two of them now.

The lights that kept the nightmares and the shadows away. But they did not work, not for him at least.

He did not want to die. Not as long as Tav would need his dancing lights. Not as long as Tav looked at him like Mystra never did. Grateful. Loving. Human. In awe.

Not as long as Tav whispered I love you into his ear before they went to sleep by his side.

Not as long as Gale wanted to live, with Tav, for Tav.

But what choice would he have, what option could be there that Mystra hadn’t found to destroy this threat? It was the only way. It had to be – would she be otherwise so cruel?

His life for the world.

A good bargain – for the world.

But not for him. He would loose. He would loose everything again.

And it was not fair.

Nothing was.

Why would he have to sacrifice his soul to deal with Mystra’s command. Why him? Why her discarded, tossed out lover. Her outcast.

Her ex-lover!

He owed her nothing anymore. Not a favour and especially not his blind compliance. No, if, when, he would do it, he would do it out of love, not for her but for Tav. He would do it for the world so that Tav and the others whose company and friendship and spells and blades he had found and grown to adore may live. That they could be free of the tadpoles. Free from its influence.

He would do it for those who were also infected but not protected, he would do it for the sake of the world.

I am in love with you, too!

There it was, Tav’s confession. Their words, their love always echoing in his mind when he thought about Mystra’s expectations. He heard Tav’s confession over and over again and he wanted to live. To heal.

He wanted to do anything but to blow himself up.

I refuse to believe that this is the end! There has to be another way, we will find another way. Like we always have! You don’t have to die! I won’t allow it!

Tav, whose voice had quivered and their eyes had been so earnest and true and Gale had wanted to loose himself in them. In their affection for him. In their faith. In their love.

If only he could have the faith that Tav had.

If only their faith could move indeed mountains, if only it would be enough.

He had wanted it to be enough.

But they had not found another way. They had just gotten closer and closer to Ketheric as the endless, lightless days had passed and Gale had begun to gather the words to say his goodbyes. Or better to write his goodbyes.

And now were there all gone. Nothing was good enough. Nothing was the truth.

The simple truth that made everything so difficult. And was yet so important!

I do not want to write to you. Because I want to talk to you. Talk and live and learn like lovers do. Like companions in life do.

I do not want to say goodbye with ink on paper and a fearful heart…

I want to say hello to you each morning and to explore the world with you.

I WANT TO LIVE!

Tomorrow they would face Ketheric, tomorrow it would all be over.

And he wanted to scream.

I do not want to die! I want to live – with you. Please, save me, my love, save me again from the stone!

And tomorrow came. And they assaulted Moonrise. And Ketheric fled into the abyss under the towers.

And they had no choice but to follow him down into the pit of darkness and rotten flesh.

But before Tav could make the jump pulled Gale them aside.

And he kissed them. Like he had never done before. Like it was the very last time. Because it was. Because he would have no tomorrow. No matter how much he wished he had.

And he held Tav’s face in his hands and savoured the feeling of their lips on his.

Their scent, their taste all around him, he wanted to remember it, to taste them on his tongue until the very end that awaited them in the rotting darkness.

The kiss was hard and desperate and still, Tav smiled at him when they had to let go of each other eventually.

“It is going to be alright”, they gently reassured him, “I will protect you, my love! I promise. We will kill Ketheric and we will find a cure, you’ll see! It all will be over soon!”

And Gale prayed for a miracle. Just one. Prayed to no one in particular. Understood suddenly Ketheric’s willingness to turn away from the gods that had abandoned him in his time of need to serve anyone who was willing to listen. Anyone willing to help. Anyone willing to grant just this one miracle.

And the miracle came, it came in the form of love. It came in the unwavering truth of lovers, in three simple words –

I choose you!