#over think everything and make things 'complicated' | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

uchizana · 3 days ago

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SPARK ──── kim minjeong.

synopsis: in a whirlwind romance, a seemingly perfect relationship is shattered when jealousy rears its head, revealing minjeong’s unsettling obsessions and igniting a battle for sanity between love and darkness.

pairing: toxic girlfriend! minjeong x girlfriend!fem reader

warning(s): fire (uhm yeah...), jealousy, manipulation, toxic relationship, unhealthy relationship, possessiveness, victimhood, violence. (let me know if I missed something!!)

word count: 7,2k (i had to rewrite it because my docs hates me and for some reason deleted the file where i had the original work... anyways this version is very similar.)

your relationship with minjeong was complicated.

at first, the world appeared pastel and soft, built on hues of affection and endless laughter.

you remember the early days clearly — she was the kind of girlfriend who would take you out on dates every weekend,how she would surprise you with breathtaking bouquets, each more vibrant than the last. there were daisies, peonies, and delicate lilies, transforming corners of your home into a floral wonderland. your place started to resemble a botanical garden, petals spilling into every corner, their sweet scents blending with the memories of her laughter.

minjeong had a gift for warmth; there were times when she gazed at you as if you were a novel she could read forever, showering you with compliments that seemed to ebb and flow like the tides; “you look so beautiful today,” she would say, even on days when you hadn’t left the house or merely tied it into a messy bun. she would compliment you even when you forgot to fix your hair or wore an old hoodie.

her sweet, simple gestures spoke volumes—kissing you on the knuckles, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, and watching you intently when you spoke like you were the only thing in the universe that mattered. sometimes, she’d slip her hands into your pockets while you two held hands, wanting to keep your fingers warm when you forgot your gloves in winter. everything felt right, perfect.

but then, like a sudden storm cloud obscuring a clear sky, everything shifted. the first crack in your fairy tale surfaced when life’s mundane obligations got in the way of love. one fateful weekend, you had to make a choice — a subject looming over your head like a dark shadow. with an important exam creeping ever closer, you found yourself compelled to cancel your much-anticipated date night with her. the guilt settled heavily in your stomach as you dialed her number, knowing how much she’d been looking forward to it.

“hey minjeong, i’m really sorry…” you started, your palms sweaty around the phone. “i can’t make it this weekend. i need to study. it’s this exam, and—”

nerves consume you, leaving you speechless. there was a long pause on the line. you could practically hear the wheels turning in her mind.

“it’s okay,” she finally said, her voice tight. “don’t worry about it,” her voice chimed back, light yet edged with something you couldn’t pinpoint. “good luck with your studies.”

there was an unsettling dissonance lurked beneath the surface, leading you to believe she was fighting back something more than disappointment.

“i'm really sorry, baby. i promise i'll make it up to you as soon as possible.” you assure her, feeling the guilt eating away at you and making you feel bad, even when you weren't doing anything wrong other than putting your studies first.

“i told you not to worry about it. i understand, it seems that right now your studies are more important than your girlfriend, i get it.”

you didn’t miss the subtleties in her tone; the tension that suggested she was biting back words that didn’t fit into her kind demeanor.

“anyways, i'll hang up right now. i'll leave you to study in peace.”

however, judging by her tone of voice, you’d swear she was tapping the inside of her cheek with her tongue to keep from blurting out what she was really thinking.

of course, that’s how it was. you used that weekend to study, but there were a couple of changes along the way. you ended up meeting at a friend’s house to study. she told you that she had knowledge of the subject since her sister was studying the same subjects at university and spent nights and nights studying, so inevitably your friend ended up listening to her sister study, whether she wanted to or not, memorizing more knowledge than she anticipated.

you were focused on studying, hair tied in a messy bun, books and notebooks scattered all over the table, along with pencils and empty coffee cups. your friend thought it was kind of funny to see you so focused on studying when most of the time you never studied for tests or even put a pencil down in class, so she had no better idea than to take a photo when you weren’t looking.

you were deep in the grasp of equations and theories when your friend, in a mischievous moment, snapped a photo of you. you had been so absorbed that you hadn’t sensed her reach for her phone.

as she clicked the shutter, the light captured you: hair a mess, scribbles sprawled across your notebook, a look of fierce concentration. unbeknownst to you, that seemingly harmless moment cascaded into something monumental. your friend, having the joys of social media at her fingertips, instantly uploaded it to her instagram stories, a lighthearted snapshot of you crushing it at studying.

minjeong was home, idly watching television, when her phone buzzed, instantly receiving the notification that your friend had made a post seconds ago. why she had notifications from your friends activated and how she managed to get updates in real-time? well, that was a secret better left unsaid. you knew that she followed your friends closely, but you never thought much of it. that was her way of staying connected, of knowing what you were up to, as if weaving a delicate thread between you, even from afar. but this thread snapped when she clicked on the notification.

within moments, minjeong sat frozen in her living room, her heart racing. she glanced at the photo on her phone: you, hair piled haphazardly, surrounded by crumpled papers and empty coffee cups, looking like you were about to conquer an academic mountain. but it wasn’t only that. in the background, through the window, she could see your friend's house, ryujin’s house. the instant flash of jealousy sparked inside her—a gut-wrenching twist of envy that she fought to suppress.

the blossoming rage was immediate and insatiable. she nearly smashed her phone against the wall, leaving it to dangle dangerously from her fingertips, all shatters and anger. seconds felt like hours as her mind raced, spiraling through anger and betrayal with dizzying speed.

her hand trembled, tightening around the phone as she scanned the comments already popping up, friends praising your focus, others playfully teasing you. each word only fueled the fire in her chest. the image replayed in her mind, vivid and cruel, making her heart race. what had she allowed to slip while you studied with another girl—so effortlessly immersed in the comfort of your friendship while she was left behind?

minjeong felt a sudden jolt of irritation surge through her. the kind that ignited flames of a insane jealousy. the realization that you were spending time with someone else, not just anyone, but with someone who was so visibly present in your life. someone who had now become a part of this moment you were sharing without her. it felt like betrayal—the photos intended to capture your essence instead felt like reminders of her absence.

what did it mean that you were there, alone with her? had you been telling her the truth this whole time about studying together? or had you grown tired of her and her little quirks? it felt like betrayal, visceral and raw. how did her sister's extra study sessions become her own?

in a rise of frustration, she silenced her phone, the sound echoing like a decision reverberating through her thoughts. she tossed it onto the couch and stood there, still as a statue. the warmth of the living room seemed to suffocate her, and her mind whirled with conflicting emotions. without thinking, she grabbed her jacket from where it hung and impulsively marched out of her apartment, slamming the door behind her—her heart racing as the chill of the evening air surrounded her.

where are you going? the question echoed in her mind as she stepped onto the city streets, her breath misting before her in the winter chill. she didn’t know where to go; the cold wind cut through her, much like the realization of what she felt inside. she was filled with confusion, anger, and hurt, questions swirling around her like the fallen leaves.

what if you didn’t want her anymore? what if this was just the beginning of something spiraling out of control? the images of you studying with someone else, laughing and flirting, ignited feelings she hadn’t felt in a long time.

maybe she was overreacting? the right words swirled out of reach, tangled in the threads of her heart. she played back memories—each sweet moment together battling with the icy reality of this new picture, this betrayal. she questioned every second they had spent together, every revelation she had quietly harbored about her feelings for you. you—who were supposed to be her source of happiness, now felt like a threat, a source of pain.

your walk back home is peaceful. the cold breeze of early winter kisses your face, sending tiny shivers down your spine. luckily, you have your coat on, its fabric a comforting barrier against the chill wrapping around the city.

the faint glow of street lamps illuminated the sidewalk, their lights flickering like distant stars against a darkening sky. the scent of fallen leaves mingles with the faint aroma of smoke from distant chimneys, creating a vivid tapestry of autumn giving way to winter. you found comfort in the rhythm of your footsteps, each echo resonating against the chill of the night air.

as you reached the entrance of the building where you lived, you noticed a profound silence enveloping the space. the usual sounds—the laughter of neighbors, the creaking of doors, the faint hum of life—are conspicuously absent.

normally, you would hear the hum of distant conversations, the clatter of heels on the tile floors, or the soft notes of music drifting from neighbors' open doors. but tonight, the only sound was the faint rustle of your coat as you shuffled inside.

a strange feeling settled over your shoulders, as if the air itself was holding its breath, the kind that prickles at the base of your neck, whispering that something isn't quite right and making you sense that something was amiss.

you pause for a moment, scanning the darkened hallway, but sigh and shake it off. it’s late, after all; perhaps everyone is tucked away, hibernating in their cozy nests.

you pressed the button for the elevator, the ding echoing through the stillness. as it ascended, an unsettling sense of unease crept in. you can’t even hear the faint sounds of other apartments—the muffled TV shows, the soft laughter, and the rhythmic background of city life. even the elevator seemed to hold its breath, devoid of the usual creaks and groans. you wondered if everyone around you had decided to vanish, leaving you as the sole inhabitant of this quiet realm.

the ascent felt slower than usual, the stillness heightened by the lack of familiar sounds. the soft whir of the machinery felt almost alien in this quiet atmosphere. just when you start to feel anxious, the elevator dings, announcing your arrival at your floor, but you feel unnerved, looking forward to the ordinary chaos of your apartment.

stepping out onto your floor, you adjusted your scarf and made your way down the hallway. rummaging through your bag for your keys, your thoughts wandered to what you’d studied at ryujin’s place earlier. it had been a late session, fueled by coffee and late-night snacks, and a part of you regretted not sending a text to let Minjeong know.

just as you were about to lose yourself in that thought, you felt a sudden grip on your wrist. startled, your heart raced as the hallway light flickered on, illuminating the figure of minjeong standing there, her expression a mix of concern and frustration.

“where have you been?” minjeong’s voice pierced the silence, echoing off the walls. her expression was layered with concern and something deeper—something that sent a shiver down your spine. in an instant, the hallway light flickered on, casting a warm glow that seemed almost foreign amidst the encroaching shadows.

you turned, wide-eyed, the knot in your stomach tightening. “minjeong? what are you doing here? it’s late.”

she narrowed her eyes, and the tension in the air thickened. “i could ask you the same thing. why were you out so late?”

you took a breath, felt the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through you. “i told you i would use this weekend to prepare for my exam, remember? ryujin offered to help me study.” you explained, exasperated. “i forgot to tell you that i was going to her house to study, i’m sorry. but we had a big exam coming up.” you could feel the frustration bubbling beneath your skin, but you tried to keep your voice calm.

minjeong’s frown deepened, her arms crossing over her chest. you could see the gears of her mind shifting, grappling with what you’d just said. yes, she knew you were with ryujin, but verbalizing it seemed to ignite something within her, bringing out the demon of jealousy.

“just studying?” she pressed, her tone laced with skepticism. “how late were you planning on staying?”

you opened your mouth to respond, but she wasn’t finished. “you could’ve at least texted me, you know. i was worried!”

you raised your hands in a gesture of surrender, trying to keep your voice even. “i’m really sorry; i lost track of time. but you know ryujin is just a friend. we were going over notes, that’s all!”

her voice trailed off, eyes narrowing as jealousy crept into her words. “you’re always with her.”

“it’s just study stuff, minjeong!” you insisted, somewhat defensively. “you know you’re the one i care about.”

her fingers dug into your wrist as she leaned closer, her face betraying a tempest of emotions. “i can’t help it! i just— i don’t like this feeling!”

“feeling what?” you replied, bewildered. the tension crackling between you was palpable, each word finding its mark like arrows in a target as you both circled each other like wary opponents. “i’ll always choose you, minjeong. i just really needed to study.”

huffily, she crosses her arms, her fingers pressing her coat into her skin as if it were a shield. “it’s not about studying! it’s about you being inconsiderate. you could’ve called,” she huffs dramatically.

you feel a wave of frustration surge through you, but you brace yourself against it. “minjeong, you didn’t have to worry. i’m safe, and besides, i didn’t realize it had gotten so late.” your attempt at reason is met with a silence that hangs heavy in the air, tension crackling between you like static.

“safe?” she scoffs incredulously, her eyes narrowing. “you’re out with some girl at her place! i don’t want to sound controlling, but why would you put yourself in that situation without telling me? you could at least consider my feelings.”

“minjeong…” you feel the energy drain from your voice. the conversation is taking an unexpected turn. she knows you well enough to trust you, doesn’t she? you reach out to touch her arm, but she flinches away, retreating into her own anxieties.

“just let me into the apartment,” you plead, desperate to talk this out in private. something inside you hopes that they won’t spiral further into an explosive confession of jealousy and insecurities.

yet she shakes her head resolutely. “not until you explain why i should trust you when you’re out with another girl,” she insists, the fight in her voice wavering but ultimately holding firm.

after much hesitation, you manage to soothe the atmosphere. “i have no feelings for ryujin. our relationship is just a friendship. you're the one i love.”

eventually, after tired back-and-forth, she mutters, “... fine. i’m sorry for overreacting, but i just can’t help worrying… it’s not like anyone really talks to me about these things.” her voice softens, and you recognize that vulnerability; she’s slipping into her victim role again.

you try holding her gaze, searching for the truth behind her words. “it’s okay; i get it. just try to trust me a little more, alright?”

ninjeong smiles hesitantly, but the shadows of her doubts linger in her eyes like a storm cloud threatening to break. you unlock the door and let her into your apartment, unsure of what the night will unfold. the warmth of the living space is inviting, but the tension of the moment casts a longer shadow than you anticipated.

unbeknownst to you, this moment was just the beginning of something that had rooted itself deep in your relationship with minjeong—a well-meaning storm, brewed from jealousy and care, that would spiral and churn in ways neither of you could predict. as she brushes past you into the living room, you reluctantly realize what lies ahead may be more challenging than you’d hoped for.

the argument felt small at first, a mere bump in the road of your otherwise blissful relationship with minjeong. but as the days wore on, it became apparent that the little fight had unlocked something within her, something dark and volatile. the initial infraction—her jealousy over a casual conversation you had with a mutual friend—had spiraled into an endless cycle of blame and resentment.

you still recall the way her eyes had narrowed as she listened, her lips pressed into a tight line. that soft laugh you loved so much had been replaced by a chilling silence. what used to be playfully teasing turned into a gaze that bore down on you, probing, analyzing, judging; it felt like the weight of her disappointment was crushing your chest. once sweet and affectionate, she transformed into someone you hardly recognized—her demeanor twisted, like a pretty piece of art slowly warping into a grotesque figure and you wondered if you even recognized the girl you had fallen in love with.

you found it hard to breathe the first time she turned that silence on you after the argument. sitting across from each other at a cafe, the usual warmth in her gaze had vanished, replaced by an unsettling intensity. you looked everywhere but into her eyes, tracing patterns in the wooden table with your fingers. you could feel her stare, piercing and relentless.

“do you think she likes you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, but laced with an edge that made your stomach churn.

“who?” you notice that minjeong's gaze is no longer meeting yours, but is directed elsewhere across the room. you follow her gaze, and you understand what she means; a few tables away is your friend yizhuo, having breakfast and chatting with a friend of hers.

you exhaled slowly, hoping calm would drown the anxiety rising in your chest.

“don’t play coy,” she snapped, her voice suddenly sharp. “you know exactly who i’m talking about. is it really that hard to be honest with me?”

the argument blossomed, each word a petal of bitterness, eventually curling into a thorny reality. you didn’t understand where all this jealousy came from, nor did you grasp why her feelings conveyed so much potency. minjeong used to be the gentle spirit, the one who found beauty in everything—even in the world of people. now, she was the tempest, and you were ensnared within it.

but that wasn’t the end; it was merely the first act in an ongoing tragedy. the discussions didn’t stop. they became a staple of your daily life, an unwanted rhythm that resonated through your days. one friday night, a group of friends decided to gather at a local bar. laughter echoed through the walls, familiar warmth wrapped around you like an old blanket, but not for minjeong.

"are you even listening to me?" she snapped one evening during the dinner with her friends, her voice slicing through the laughter surrounding you like a knife. you had been chatting and catching up with your friends, oblivious to the thundercloud brewing in her mind.

"of course, i am," you replied earnestly, but the damage was done. the disapproval etched across her face was enough to ruin the mood. moments later, she dragged you outside under the pretense of needing air, her grip on your arm like steel.

"what's wrong with you? you've been ignoring me ever since we got here.” she demanded, her voice low but frigid.

you sighed, your heart racing. "it was just a conversation. i didn't mean to upset you."

"you should know better," she hissed, her eyes flashing. “you and your friends always do this. you want to hurt me, don't you?”

the phrase was confusing; what in the world made her think you would ever want to hurt her? yet every rational thought fell away, and you found yourself backpedaling, desperate to soothe the storm brewing within her.

“minjeong, please. i value you and our time together. you know that,” you pleaded.

she just gives you one last look, walking back into the bar, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

you should have known she wouldn’t be willing to play nice. midway through the first round of drinks, you saw it—the familiar grimace twisting her features as she watched you engage in conversation with jimin, a longtime friend. you felt minjeong’s eyes digging into you like daggers, even as a lighthearted joke made jimin laugh. the sweet sound cut you off—no more jokes, no more laughter. as the night progressed and the alcohol flowed, minjeong's attitude simmered, eventually boiling over.

“can we leave?” she demanded, standing abruptly. Ignoring the pile of half-finished drinks and clinking glasses, she grabbed your wrist, her grip hard enough to bruise. you glanced around, trying to gauge the group's reactions, but most were busy enjoying the night. you caught jimin's concerned look—a silent plea for you to stay, but minjeong wouldn’t hear it.

“minjeong, can we just relax for a moment?” you attempted to reason with her, but the storm was too loud, and the chaos was all-consuming.

“no!” she yelled, the intensity of it drawing eyes toward your table. your heart sank; a familiar humiliation washed over you. together, you walked out into the harsh night, the cool air doing little to calm your rising anxiety.

“what the hell was that about?” you asked, your voice strained.

“why were you flirting with her? you were practically hanging off her every word!” minjeong's dark eyes locked onto yours, filled with an unhinged fury. it terrified you. ot wasn't the minjeong you fell in love with, but rather a version twisted by insecurities you couldn’t massage away.

“i wasn’t flirting!” you insisted. “you’re being unreasonable. everybody was just having fun!”

“fun for you, maybe,” she shot back, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “i suppose it’s fun to watch you toy with someone else’s feelings.”

each syllable that slipped from her lips cut deeper than the last, practically shredding at your shared history. you tried to calm her down, stammering words of reassurance, but her only response was a silence so deafening it echoed.

from that point on, things escalated to new heights, a spiraling mess of fights that felt more reminiscent of a battle than the love you had once shared. just a few days later, at a small diner down the street, the situation hit a new low. as the waitress placed the tray on the table, you turned just in time to see her chuckling at something, probably because she thought it was adorable how you misread the name of your coffee when ordering earlier—a routine occurrence that had never bothered minjeong before. perhaps it was the way you returned the smile, or the lingering moment that stretched too long, but something snapped inside her.

the laughter was innocent; the exchange friendly. yet, to minjeong, it was tantamount to treachery.

“let’s go,” she said suddenly, her voice flat.

“what? but we just sat down!” you exclaimed, confusion mixing with exasperation. you detected the faintest tremble in her lips, a prelude to a full-blown tantrum.

“... did you say "but"? seriously?” she questioned, fury painting her voice. you barely had a chance to register the words before minjeong swept her arm across the table, sending the coffee cup crashing to the floor, splattering the waitress and staining the ground with bitterness.

“i’m so sorry!” you blurted, mortification flooding through you as you scrambled to your feet. the waitress stood stunned, and in that moment, your heart shattered into pieces. you apologized repeatedly while trying to help clean the mess, feeling Minjeong’s simmering rage heat the air around you.

“let’s just go,” she demanded, her eyes burning with fury as if challenging you to argue. but deep down, you were terrified of what she might do next.

she stormed out, leaving you behind to pay for a meal that hadn’t touched your lips but felt heavier than any weight you had ever lifted. you left a generous tip, hoping to at least make amends for minjeong’s volatile behavior, but shame mixed with the taste of your muffled indignation as you left the café.

as you stepped out into the chilly evening air, the weight of it all crashed down on you. you briefly glanced back into the diner to catch a glimpse of minjeong. she stood there, a silhouette against the light, arms crossed, focused on something entirely beyond you. the realization crashed into you like a swift wave—you were lost in a relationship that had morphed into something toxic, a cycle of blame, punishment, and endless misunderstanding.

days of fighting would follow, each one leaving you increasingly drained. you learned to navigate carefully around her feelings, tiptoeing through conversations, wrestling with the fear of provoking another outburst. apologizing became a daily ritual, but it was a fool’s game, as though you were playing chess with a master who already knew all your moves.

nothing you did seemed to satisfy her, and every time you tried to stand your ground, she would employ that give-and-take tactic, leaving you scrambling to retrieve whatever ounce of affection you could salvage.

"you never understand what i need from you!" she'd cry, casting you a withering glare designed to pierce your heart.

you started dreading the moments you once cherished: evenings spent binge-watching shows, the casual strolls in the park, the intimate whispers shared in candle-lit corners of your favorite café. they all became tainted by her increasing paranoia and fury. in those moments, you didn’t catch a glimpse of the girl you fell for; instead, you stared back at a stranger who seemed to lose herself deeper in a well of insecurity with each fight.

what could you say to her to bridge the widening chasm? you wondered quietly if calling her out would work. but it always ended the same.

even in the stillness of your home, you could feel the shadows of her disappointment lurking. sometimes, as you lay in bed, you swore you could hear their whispers, taunting you to spur another confrontation. a ghost of the life you’d built together haunted your dreams, resurfacing in disorienting fragments where laughter hid behind walls built from distrust and rage.

to think, this all started with a simple argument. you sometimes daydreamed of how different your life could be without this turmoil, wondering nervously what life would look like if you weren't continuously tiptoeing around the storm that now defined your relationship with minjeong.

but in the end, naive hope lingered, refusing to extinguish despite the tempest that raged around you. you wanted to believe that one day, she would look at you with warmth restored, rather than that silent judgment that twisted her from within. you held on—because even through the tumult and the strife, there were threads of love that still remained, fragile and uncertain as they wove your lives together, if just for the moment.

the engine hums softly, a white noise glazed over with tension, as you sit in the passenger seat of minjeong’s car. the world outside the window is an endless parade of trees, stretching far enough to feel infinite, but you can’t look away from the gnawing uncertainty that festers in your chest. the conversation that should have been had weeks ago hovers between you, palpable and toxic. as the cityscape fades into desolation, the weight of your relationship stretches thin, hanging by a thread.

you take a deep breath, your chest constricting as you prepare yourself for what you know must be said. conversations about love and loss echo in your mind, gnawing at your resolve. when minjeong’s hand rests on your thigh, a gesture once sweet and comforting, it now feels nearly suffocating. the warmth dissipates under the coolness of your apprehension.

“minjeong, can we talk?” you finally utter, your voice catching slightly in your throat, sounding smaller than you intended.

“what’s up?” she replies, her gaze fixed on the road ahead, though her grip tightens around the wheel.

you hesitate, glancing out the side window at the rushing landscape, the deep green blurring past. “it’s just… i don’t feel that spark anymore,” you say, the words feeling like stones tumbling down a cliff. instantly, the air thickens with disbelief, and you can’t bear to meet her eyes, now glinting with uncertainty in the rearview mirror.

“what do you mean you don’t feel the spark?” she questions with an edge of panic, her tone shifting from casual to razor-sharp, slicing through the tension thickening in the car.

the argument spirals from there, each of you grappling for the upper hand, your voices rising dangerously. you can barely process the words spilling from your mouth as you try to articulate your truth. her eyes flicker with hurt and rage, and you can almost feel the hair on your arms standing on end, bristling under the weight of her indignation.

“there’s something fundamentally broken between us, minjeong! i don’t know who we are anymore!” you’re shouting now, and a rush of adrenaline floods your body.

“i can’t believe you think this is all my fault!” she fires back, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. the car swerves slightly, and you dig your heels into the ground, a jolt of panic coursing through you as the pavement blurs into a double line.

“just focus on driving!” you shout, but it’s too late. you hear her breath hitch, the silence that follows layered thick with unshed tears and suppressed rage. “minjeong, please—”

suddenly, without warning, she jerks the wheel to the side, bringing the car to a sudden stop on the desolate roadside. dust swirls around in the golden glow of late afternoon, the world stilled around you, as if holding its breath along with you.

“what did you just say?” she repeats, her voice trembling with disbelief. her expression morphs, the initial hurt twisting into something darker, and even more frightening.

the air thickens, and you realize you’ve stepped too far. you don’t even recognize the fury in her eyes as she unbuckles her seatbelt and throws the door open, storming out into the open air. your heart races as her figure becomes small against the vastness of the road.

“minjeong, wait!” you call after her, moving to open your own door, only to find you’re locked inside. panic sets in as the automatic locks click ominously, sealing you in with your spiraling thoughts. you pound your fists against the window, frustration clawing at you.

“minjeong!” you shout, trying to wrangle her attention, your voice quaking. she stumbles into your peripheral vision, her back toward you, shoulders taut. then, in an instant, she disappears. heart pounding, you swivel around, confusion spilling into fear.

that’s when you see it. the unmistakable sheen of liquid splattering against the windshield, an eerie reflection of your horror mirrored in the glass. the smell is pungent, and your heart drops as you grasp what is happening.

“minjeong, don’t!” you scream, desperation clawing at your throat, but she doesn't seem to hear you. she is lost to whatever abyss has consumed her; the girl you once knew has vanished.

the gasoline coats the car, pooling in strange little rivulets that trace the car’s contours as minjeong stands in front of you, lost in a trance. a match flickers in her fingers, its flame dancing dangerously close to your cloud of panic. she holds it delicately, her expression unreadable—caught between rage and an eerie calm.

“watch,” she whispers, her voice almost saccharine, but there’s an undertone that sends chills racing through you. “this will bring the spark back, i promise.”

in one quick motion, she tosses the match into the pool of gasoline. time slows; the world compresses into a singular moment of fate sealing itself.

your heart pounds against your ribs as the flames erupt, turning the world outside into a hellish kaleidoscope of oranges and reds. minjeong’s eyes glimmer with a wildness, a furious passion that you had long thought was reserved for love. it was intoxicating, but now it feels more like poison. the air around you thickens with fumes, panic rising in your throat as you grasp the reality of your situation. she’s gone off the deep end, and you’re trapped inside her fiery cage.

you slam on the windows with both fists, the sound muffled and desperate. “minjeong! open the door!” your voice is panicked, twisting into a shout that echoes through the confines of the vehicle. at first, she appears unfazed, a haunting smirk dancing on her lips. the atmosphere is electric—dangerous and exhilarating—yet your thoughts betray you, reminding you of the dull ache that has settled between you like an invisible rift.

your heart races as the flames erupt, engulfing the car and devouring the serenity that had once swirled between you and minjeong. the acrid scent of smoke fills the small space, mingling with the gasoline that blankets every surface. you pound on the glass, your fists an echo of disbelief and desperation, but minjeong just stares at you, a wild light in her eyes—a far cry from the sweet girl you once held in your arms.

as the flames lick at the trunk and crawl toward the driver’s seat, the heat creeps in, threatening to suffocate you. but more than the heat, it is the sight of her, standing there like a goddess of vengeance, that haunts your mind. where did the girl you love go? the girl who would curl up on the couch with you, giggling at inside jokes, the one who held your hand tightly on late nights?

“minjeong! stop!” your voice is hoarse, but the urgency rings clear. fear gnaws at you, and instinct pushes you to escape. you claw at the doors, your fingers dancing over the locks, but they don't budge. locked. the word loops in your mind, almost too much to bear.

she takes a step back, hitting the pause button on the chaos she has ignited. with trembling hands, you watch her, searching for a glimmer of recognition in her features, something that would remind you of the girl who laughed at your silly jokes and filled your weekends with warmth. Instead, you see a stranger, one who stands poised at the edge of insanity, her smile a grotesque mask on her face.

“did you really think you could just push me aside so easily?” she sneers, the smile twisting into something ugly. “you think you can just extinguish what we had—what i feel?”

you open your mouth to respond, but your breath catches as the fire flickers and dances, threatening to reach through the windshield. the world outside is muted now, as though the encroaching flames siphon away all sound. “minjeong, i care about you! i didn’t mean it like that!” you lean forward, the moisture in your eyes blurring the edges of her silhouette.

“care about me?” she echoes mockingly, the words dripping like venom. “it’s too late for that!” Her laughter rings hollow, shrill against the ominous crackling of fire.

and suddenly, she lunges forward, banging on the glass with the same frantic fervor that fills your chest. “you don’t see it, do you? this is the spark! you killed it! you have no idea what you’ve lost!”

hot tears mingle with the smoke that begins to creep in. panic swells; you lean back against the seat, the metal frame hot against your skin. “please, minjeong! we can talk about this! We can fix it!”

but the light in her eyes dims further, replaced by an overlay of anguish. “fix it?” she whispers, so soft it barely pierces the roar of the flames. “you think you can put a band-aid on this? you’ve already broken what we had. you’ve turned your back on me.”

in that moment, it’s clear that every moment together, every late night and laughter shared, has unraveled into nothingness. you remember the smiles, the moments of tenderness, the nights spent plotting futures together. but now, those echoes fade into oblivion, shattered by this haunting betrayal you never intended.

as the flames crack and wax, throwing shadows across her glassy visage, you strain against the seatbelt, desperate, panicking at the thought of losing her—losing everything you once held dear. “im sorry!” an apology that feels paltry escapes your lips, barely serving to bridge the chasm that has formed between you.

and with a strength you couldn’t comprehend, she tears down the remainder of the emotional barriers between sanity and chaos. as you edge closer, weighed down by the fear that wraps around your throat like a vice, she crumbles. the match she holds wavers, and you catch a glimpse of your minjeong again—a fleeting shadow, a flashing whisper of the girl who loved you fiercely.

you can’t let her go back to this. “listen to me, please! i never wanted to hurt you! i—”

you try to think of ways to escape, but the navy blue interior surrounds you like the jaws of a beast, each lock holding you in place as if the car itself is complicit in this tragedy. “stop this, please!” you scream, voice breaking on the last word. “i didn’t mean it like that! we can talk!”

her gaze flickers, a brief moment of uncertainty flashing in her eyes. it almost seems she is weighing her options, wondering if the anger she feels is worth the girl standing inside the car. you find yourself holding your breath.

but it’s too late. the flame dances gracefully from her fingertips, and she lets it go, a careless act that sends shockwaves of fear through you. time slows as you watch it fall, the world narrowing to the small, flickering flame that lands on the gasoline-soaked surface of the car. it ignites with an eager roar, consuming the air around you in an instant.

you recoil, bracing yourself against the back of the seat as the fire spreads, heat prickling your skin. the stench of burning gasoline fills your lungs, and the choking smoke twists and turns, curling toward you like a dark hand that wants to pull you into its depths.

“why?” you gasp, your voice a thin wisp of disbelief. is this truly the person you once adored, the one you held under the glow of a streetlight and whispered your dreams to? as the flames grow taller, licking hungrily at the roof, you realize just how far you have drifted from the joyous heights of your early love.

“why?” she mimics, voice eerily calm amidst the chaos of the roaring flames. “because you wanted the spark? you’ve taken everything! sweet moments, tender touches—they were all because of your idea of love! this is what it looks like when you strip away the façade!”

y ou take a deep breath and lean forward, desperate to connect with her again, to reach through the haze of madness and remind her of all that was good between you. “minjeong, please! this isn’t you! let’s just talk—”

your words hang suspended in the air, but she remains unmoved. you can see the resolve etched into her features, a tragic conviction that seems to make her larger than life even in the midst of this crisis. you brace for the worst, your heart thundering in your chest. her face, once the definition of warmth, is now a tempest of rage, pain, and heartbreak.

the very essence of your relationship burns behind her eyes, and there, in that harrowing moment, you fear you’re witnessing the end of everything you’d built together. “you wanted the spark, didn't you?” she shouts, voice cracking under pressure, blending anger and sorrow. “you think you’re just going to walk away from this? no more empty promises!”

you feel it then—the crushing weight of reality crashing down on you. you are two people who have lost sight of why you fell in love in the first place. you have become strangers anchored by memories, and it hurts just as much to acknowledge it as it does to see the fire grow around you.

“minjeong, please!” your eyes burn from the smoke, but there’s a flicker of something within you—an ember of hope. “we can fix this! i didn’t mean to hurt you! i still care about you, i—”

but all she hears is betrayal wrapped in weakness. “you care?” she laughs bitterly, wiping away a tear that trails down her cheek, mingling with the sweat of her panic. “is this what caring looks like?”

moments stretch on as you process her anguish; the flames haven’t just engulfed the vehicle, but they’re consuming the last bits of clarity in the conversation. she takes a step back from the car, eyes wide, the wildness giving way to uncertainty.

desperation drives you as you shout, “minjeong! open the door! we can talk!” you slam your palm against the windows, creating a rhythmic pattern of thuds, shouts blending into chaos.

she watches you through the flames now, the mad gleam returning to her eyes. “talk? do you really think we can talk? this is us now! this is what we were!” the flames illuminate her, making her look almost otherworldly, distorting the very features you once adored.

she watches you, and for a flicker of eternity, it feels like she might relent. the fire licks at the edges of the foam seats, and you can see the panic setting in her eyes, too, now. “you think it’s over?” minjeong asks, her voice barely rising above the roar of the heat. “it’s just beginning!”

she gives you one last look, then turns on her heel, walking away from the car, away from you, running away from the chaos she started.

and in that heartbeat, the flicker from her gaze changes—it morphs into a realization. the spark of love flares within her eyes, a tiny flame that could either save you or plunge you into darkness. what will it be, you wonder?

but will it reach you before the flames burn everything to ash? time is slipping, and you’re left battling a love you once cherished, now clawing at it with words that barely feel like enough.

as the heat intensifies and the situation ticks dangerously close to a breaking point, you wonder if love, once passionate, can be rekindled, or if it is destined to blaze out in a storm of fury and flames. would it matter if you escape if the love is lost in the inferno?

#minjeong #minjeong x fem reader #minjeong x reader #kim minjeong #kim minjeong x fem reader #kim minjeong x reader #winter #winter x fem reader #winter x reader #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #kpop x fem reader #kpop x reader

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authenticbunni · 1 day ago

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There is no mental fighting/struggle

Girl you is lost. Manifesting is not that complicated at all. You just have to simply decide.

Before you scroll, I know you’ve seen people say that all the time, and it just never wrapped around your complexed mind. I used to have that problem too, I feel you. I have a complexed mind, and even though most people say you don’t have to know everything, I did so I can wrap it around my mind and knowing more actually helped me de-complex my mind. Now that I understand it I’m going to explain some reason as to maybe why you’ve been struggling to just decide.

I’ve put it into two parts if you don’t feel like you need to read everything. Accountability and 4D = 3D NOT 3D = 4D

Accountability

I think where you go wrong is not realizing everything in your life that you’ve ever interacted with or did is from your thoughts. You’re still in a mindset of “how could this have happened? This is not my fault? This is not my doing?” Now that’s human, people always try to blame, don’t beat yourself up. But when you’re trying to manifest and blame every single thing in your life on everyone else, you’re never going to manifest because you can’t take accountability. If you can’t take accountability of your own life, how can you even have full control over your own life.

That was a really hard pill for me to swallow, when it came to taking accountability for the doings in my life. TRUST ME! When I had to move away from Florida, when I had a brutal falling out with my bf. I had to realize that was my fault. Both of those were not in my favor or desires, but I thought so much about those outcomes that it eventually happened.

Once you take accountability you realize the only thing you’ve been struggling with is you. The only thing you’ve been fighting off is you. The only struggle you’ve been going through is you. You have accepted those thoughts into your mind, and now you’ve become them. Now, don’t get panicky or feel like you gotta do a whole bunch of stuff to get past this. Just simply let them pass. Know that these are just thoughts and you have the power to accept and decline them with ease, because you’re subconscious mind always follows your lead without thinking twice.

4D = 3D NOT 3D = 4D

What I mean by the equation is. Your imagination controls/creates your reflection. Your mind is your true reality, and your 3D reflects that. Your 3D does not make you, you make you

4D = reality

3D = reflection (of your 4D)

Stop separating the two, they are always in the same equation. Your 3D is as changeable and flexible as your imagination. I didn’t realize this until I actually saw it happen.

Back to the brutal falling out with my bf. Prior we were just friends but he was pretty regular, talking here, having conversations. But due to dwelling in negative thoughts, in less than I think 1 or 2 days he completely took a 180 and flipped the switch. He hated me, and never wanted to talk to me. During this is completely shock on why this would happened because “I thought I was doing everything right” after a few I realize I was more strong on thinking he hated me, saw me as a nuisance. (Okay that’s enough, I don’t wanna talk about it tm cuz I’m manifesting him back) but that was the work of my manifestation.

As of right now that’s all I can think of, I might make another post or add on to this post. But yeah, those are the reasons I think people have a hard time with. If you feel like this wasn’t enough details for you, that’s fine I’m glad I at least helped u a lil bit 😋.

#manifesation #manifesting #void state #imagination creates reality #law of assumption #manifest it #void success #void state success story #reality shifting #affirm and persist

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songs-of-future-past · 2 days ago

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(Just reblogging straight cause I'm lazy)

Castle. I got it from the comedy-drama series (which also happens to feature Nathan Fillion, voice of Cayde-6). Where Nocturne got that name we don't know.

The Impasse, Cosmodrome

10 years prior to present game (start of D1)

Prismatic (SoF/Dive/Needle/Coldsnap), usually with the Last Word, Lubrae's Ruin, and Ascendancy

Confusion, then a mix of anger and depression over losing the memory of who he was

Nope

They've overheard fragments from Corsairs and even pieced things together from rumours in the Last City, but that's it. Mostly he has his dog tags from his time in the military prior to the Collapse

Loner, but will join fireteams when necessary

Dredgen, mostly due to disillusionment with everything going on and not really believing the Vanguard had everyone's best interests at heart (especially in regards to the "forget your past" thing)

It's literally just a force. It's tied to the intangible rather than the tangible, and it looks bad because bad people get ahold of it (not because it's inherently evil)

It's complicated. On one hand, he's alive again. On the other... He's alive again. Because of the Traveller. Also, his appearance has been so fundamentally changed by the Traveller that he struggles recognising his reflection, so he's extremely resentful.

Again, it's complicated, although that's because Nocturne is stubborn and easily irritated when he's tired. Most of the bitterness and disdain he points towards Castle is out of resentment for the Traveller.

Voluntold. He was kinda pressed into it, and to be honest he didn't exactly have anywhere else to go at the time.

Oof... There's a lot of possibilities, but JUST to make Nocturne suffer I'm gonna go with a close friend of his who was called Ciel, who was killed by someone called Dredgen Hereward during the Red War (I kinda want to write a fic where Nocturne actually teams up with Shin to deal with him, but that's another story altogether?

The Dawning, because collecting ingredients is the closest thing to "time off" he gets. Or takes, for that matter.

Haha what's off duty He goes off to help Banshee when he can, but if he doesn't need help he'll probably be reading.

Sometimes? Not often though. Most of the time he interacts with civilians they come up to him

It varies

Repair kit, a bracelet from Ellis (you didn't think he'd leave it forgotten in his vault, did you?), and a backup radio in case the Comms he built into his helmet get jammed.

Plenty, though the main thing is how much he's figured out about his past.

While he claims he doesn't care about anyone, Nocturne is very much a "guard dog" to people he likes (arguably he can be a bit of an attack dog too if he feels the need to be one). This has led to MULTIPLE plans to delete the Spider from the face of existence, and the only thing stopping him from carrying any of them out is A) he's still considered useful and B) Drifter, Crow, and Eido begging him not to because of point A

20 Questions prompt list for Guardians! Download, yoink and repost away, add images of you like, tag me if you want cause I love hearing about everyone's guardians! ❤️

#destiny 2 #destiny #prompt list #guardian #Nocturne Minsk

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slutforpringles · 2 days ago

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Negotiations impossible as decision was made months ago - apparently the guy is on Yuki's managing team (and also works for SkySport Italy hence the posts on his insta)

Looking likely that things were set between summer break and Singapore, Liam always looked a tad too confident after stepping in for Daniel tbh.

https://x.com/hclaq_/status/1870297006838812993?t=LJmoH8dLLpXMO8utpn-43g&s=19

Oh wow anonstie thanks this is very interesting!! Yeah I think the fact Yuki's manager is commenting publicly like this about the situation kind of says it all really. Earlier this season Mat Coch was also supremely confident (seemed to be info from the Lawson camp) that Liam had already signed for 2024 and 2025.

It's not wholly surprising, but at the same time just makes me wonder why they kept Daniel after the summer break if this was always going to be the outcome. And if so how the fuck were Daniel and his management so blindsided by everything? And if Liam was already in the Red Bull for 2025 then why was it imperative to get him in a seat for this year. Maybe they decided on Liam after the USGP - would be completely on brand for current Red Bull to make a driver decision based on literally one race.

The decision to ditch Daniel seems to have come down to Marko regaining enough power to make that decision so I'm interested in exactly when that happened and how it affected the decision making. (via AMuS / RN365)

But also think the Honda of it all can't be ignored, and I think their decision to leave the sport, only to then change their mind after RBR had to make other plans, did also fuck Yuki over a bit.

Also Gerhard Berger is supposedly part of the Red Bull driver decision process and is a huge Lawson advocate, so that adds a whole extra layer of Shakespearean-type complication.

#anon ask

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darsynia · 24 hours ago

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Forgiven: joYOUs | CEO Steve/f!Reader series Part III

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE MASTERLIST | Ro Roll | Prev Fic

Summary: You and Steve Rogers have been dating for a little over two months, and it's been wonderful. Through it all you've asked yourself if it could possibly be real--but when he finally invites you to stay over at his apartment, you realize that being 'real' has as much to do with his complicated issues at work as it does being a Hallmark movie protagonist brought to life.

WC/Warnings: 5,200 // explicit sex

As 6/7 of my Ro Roll badly-belated-birthday fics for @ronearoundblindly, joYOUs is part III in my CEO Steve and f!Freader series. This story also (more lightly than intended) is written for the 'first fall of snow' prompt for @the-slumberparty's December Daze!

Can be read standalone!

Excerpt:

“I have a confession to make,” Steve says in an apologetic tone.

Your mind springs to swift and miserable action: Somehow his good guy persona is a sham and he’s actually a real-life Christian Grey (honestly, you’d try it). This is all a bet and your naive honesty is embarrassing (horrifyingly plausible)...

Steve says, “--happened to it, I have no idea what, but the food’s ruined. We’re going to have to get take-out.”

His warm apologetic tone heats your fears into float-away steam, and you rush to reconnect with reality. “I’m sorry that happened, but I’m here for you, not your food,” you stammer out, only fully hearing what you’ve said once it’s already out there. “Shit, that came out--”

“--perfectly,” Steve laughs.

Joyous

You’ve tried not to read anything into the 36 hours of no-contact since Steve left on his business trip. He had warned you that he would be ‘can’t check the phone’ kind of busy, but you also know that his stress has ramped up considerably with the holidays coming up. You suspect that the café project hadn’t been enough of a respite--but you’d promised yourself not to push him too hard about his burnout, and that includes acting like it’s no big deal that you haven’t talked for a while.

Just normal early relationship stuff, really.

That all drops away like an uncomfortable bra after a long day at work when you get a text at 10 PM Friday night.

🪴🪴🪴: We still on for tomorrow at 7? I’ve been thinking about you since the plane took off from LaGuardia.

🪴🪴🪴: Whoops i

🪴🪴🪴: was only supposed to send that first part.

🪴🪴🪴: Hit enter too e

🪴🪴🪴: Buck give me back the phone. Don’t send her anything, okay? You’re hopeless, man. You have to leave some mystery. If she had any idea how much you talked about her while we were gone, she’d probably quit her job and leave the state. What’s. Oh shit it’s recording. How do I make it. Give it back. Bucky I mean it just put it down before you screwdriver

Screwdriver?

The (thrilling) mess of words take a minute or two to detangle, and once you parse the dictated back-and-forth, you realize that Steve’s subsequent silence is probably mortification. Adorable mortification.

The phone rings on silent mode, buzzing wildly in your hand. Surprise makes you drop it on your lap like it’s alive-- which it might as well be, because the vibration sends it jittering across your indulgent silk pajamas and onto the floor.

“Shit!” you gasp out, knowing that any delay in answering will probably make everything much worse. You scramble off the bed in a move so inelegant your sister calls out asking if you’ve joined her in Broken Leg Land. “I’m fine, just an idiot!” you holler, finally grabbing the phone from your crumpled position on the bedroom floor.

“That’s not true at all!” Steve Rogers’ voice echoes from the speakers. You must have brushed the ‘answer’ part when you picked it up, because of course that would happen.

“Oh my god, is there a deity of phones I’ve badly wronged today?” you gasp out, bringing the thing gingerly up to your ear. Thankfully, he’s chuckling, and damn, it’s sexy.

“Seems like it. Should we call this a draw?” he suggests, adding, “I evicted the phone thief, sorry about that. He just wants what’s best for me.”

“Which would be… screwdrivers?” you offer, grinning despite your rational brain screaming at you not to sound overeager. “You somehow don’t strike me as an orange juice and vodka kind of guy.”

“You’re right, and that was a nice deflect.” There’s gratitude as well as sheepishness in Steve’s voice. When paired with the ‘forbidden truths’ in the dictated texts, you may be sitting on the floor in twisted-up PJs, but your mind and heart are floating on a cloud somewhere high above Manhattan. “Should I send a car tomorrow?”

Surprise snarls the response in your throat into a twisted um-cough combo that is entirely indelicate. “Sorry, yes, that, yes,” you manage, kicking yourself. He runs a company, having a car service probably doesn’t seem impersonal to him, even though he’s always picked you up or met you somewhere before this. The Maiden Aunt in your brain tries to argue that the magic is over, but she’s drowned out by College TA, who thinks this is a step up in statistical importance.

Some girls get a devil on their shoulder, but you ended up with a pessimist and an overachiever.

“How about a do-over,” Steve says, interrupting your mental chaos. “Can I pick you up tomorrow?”

“Yes!” you say in a flood of relief. “I’m sorry, you said ‘send a car’ and all I could picture was one of those movies where someone in livery holds up a piece of paper with my name--”

He interrupts before you can gnaw past the foot in your mouth and up onto the ankle.

“I don’t mind driving, don’t worry. See you at seven, then.” With that, CEO Eye, Ear, and Heart Candy hangs up, leaving you in a flustered, anticipatory mess on the floor in your bedroom.

Jennie gives you relentless shit over that whole sequence of events, but she also gives you access to her closet. You’ve already run through your handful of fancy dresses on dates with Steve, and everything else gives you ‘someday I might go clubbing’ or ‘student on a budget’ vibes.

Your sister’s tastes run more expensive than yours, and she’s always been a fan of modular clothing-- skirts that wrap around, blouses with 3x as much fabric as necessary that end up folding and twisting into a masterpiece, etc. It’s worked out well for her while she’s laid up with a broken leg, but the unusual style might help you keep up appearances. You choose a black form-fitting pants topped with a silky wraparound blouse; hopefully they’ll look sophisticated enough for your first visit to Steve’s apartment.

True to form, Jennie makes three ‘wrapped present’ jokes about the two ribbon-tied sections of your shirt before you make it out the door.

Steve is waiting beside his car when you come outside. He’s clearly come from work, wearing tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt that looks so good you’re practically overheating in the brisk winter air. Then he smiles at you, and your body takes a detour from ‘visit to Arizona’ straight down to ‘the Brazilian Rainforest,’ all innuendo included.

Oblivious to your secretly disrespectful ogling, Steve moves to escort you to your car door, standing deliciously close by as he opens it. His aftershave smells heady and masculine, distracting enough that you turn your heel a little bit on the seam of the sidewalk. Your unbuttoned coat swings back and his hand moves to steady you, fingers tangling in the red ribbon holding your blouse together on that side.

“Oh!” you gasp, half because of his sheer strength and half because good god, if that bow comes undone on the street you’re not sure how much you’re even going to care right now. You gently grasp his hand (finding that, yep, the sizzling live wire connection on physical contact is still active), salvaging the knot for the sake of your sanity.

“Wow,” Steve breathes in a low voice that sends its resonance whizzing through your whole body. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmur intelligently.

You’re never going to tell your sister how many mental seconds it’s taken you to go from 0 to head over heels for this man.

“Do you need me to adjust the buckle? You were making a face,” Steve explains.

“Oh, no, I was coming up with something suitably embarrassing to text my nagging sister so she doesn’t send me ‘romantic suggestions’ all night,” you admit. “She means well, but I think she’s been watching too many Hallmark Christmas movies. Nothing I do or say will measure up!”

He chuckles. “I won’t comment on what my own nag might have to say on the outcome of the evening.”

“You mean the professional phone thief? He owes you, not the other way around! Telling secrets on dictation while your friend’s planning to bring a girl home-- and then sending it? Hung, drawn, and quartered.”

“Well, the method of delivery may have been terrible,” Steve says, looking over at you while paused at a red light, “--but none of that was a secret.”

The light changes, and just like Jennie’s favorite movies, he holds your gaze instead of driving on. You’re suddenly very aware of everywhere your clothing touches you, especially at your chest, where the fabric of your blouse clings to your curves. When you pull in a breath, Steve’s attention dips down to appreciate them, too.

“Eyes on the road, CEO Eye Candy,” you tease (not for the first time), and his expression scrunches up into easy laughter.

There’s an older, well-dressed couple in the parking garage to his building when you arrive, and the four of you ride the elevator up together until you and Steve step out. Just before the doors close, you catch the woman looking up at her husband fondly, nodding toward the two of you. No pressure! you think to yourself again, but then Steve opens the door to his apartment and smiles with such honest happiness that you forget everything else but him.

Just like he is, the main room is a charming mix of vintage and modern, with warm wood accents and high-tech amenities. There’s something both open and intimate that hits you right away; the floor is dotted with comforting rugs, the walls with bookcases, creating cozy little nooks, but the lamplight is warm and inviting throughout.

“I need to start the oven,” Steve says with a light touch to your arm, gesturing to take your coat. You nod and hand it over before you step farther in, finally letting yourself glance beyond the bookshelves of classics and the homey crochet afghan to the view.

It’s completely captivating. The wall of windows face east, showing the lively cityscape to glorious effect (and you can’t help but picture what the sunrise would look like!). It suddenly hits you that you’re in Steve’s space. There are no phones to ring and save you from a misstep, no waitress to break the tension, no dog running past chasing its ball in the grass.

If he sees just how far gone you are on him already, will Steve think you’re a gold-digger, or will he understand that you can’t help but be dazzled and drawn in by the kind of man he is, not the things he surrounds himself with?

“Are you all right?” Steve asks. You startle, making eye contact with his reflection in the window, and something about the intimacy of that makes you tell the absolute truth.

“I’m realizing there are no flowerpots to hide behind.”

He smiles and moves closer, one hand casually in his pocket. When he’s just near enough that you can feel his warmth through the back of your blouse, Steve tips his head in a move that bleeds sincerity, still holding your gaze.

“What if you didn’t have to hide?”

You can’t look away. “What if that doesn’t make me any less shy?”

“Makes it all the more rewarding to earn that smile of yours,” Steve says, moving to face you instead of the view.

The weight of where you are, who you’re with, and how much it means to you keeps your gaze glued to the view outside the window, but the city lights blur a little with the frequency of your blinking. You want to reassure him that the shyness is good actually, that it means you really like him, that what he thinks about you is important--

“I have a confession to make,” Steve says in an apologetic tone.

Steve says, “--happened to it, I have no idea what, but the food’s ruined. We’re going to have to get take-out.”

“--perfectly,” Steve laughs. You can’t help but toss him the Skeptical Eyebrow, despite your heart voting on the ‘melt’ option. “I’m being serious,” he goes on. “Honesty is in rare supply for much of my day-to-day. Suppliers expect us to push for cheaper materials, manufacturers are uncomfortable with flexible deadlines, and we’ve fired multiple product designers who get upset by how much we rely on end-user feedback.” He lets out a long sigh, punctuating it with a rueful laugh. “I felt more relaxed with the construction crew than I do with my so-called ‘peers.’”

The frustrated defeat in his tone makes you step close to tuck yourself up against his side, hugging him with an arm around his back. Steve’s arm comes around you right away, and god, you wish you could bottle that feeling. The two of you have shared quite a few toe-curling kisses, but physical affection like this is exciting, despite being prompted by Steve’s ongoing business concerns.

It’s easy to believe that this part of your life isn’t real when you’re at work answering phones and giving directions. You’re never prepared for the way Steve tips your life upside down, and in a way that makes moments like this more magical. Late at night, you do sometimes worry your job at his company makes it harder for him to disconnect.

With his heartbeat thrumming under your cheek and his arm tucked around you, that concern feels as far away as the streetlights visible across the city. There’s still a thread of tenseness in his embrace that tells you he’s not as relaxed as you are. You might not have the money to take him out for a fancy dinner or attend an exclusive event, but you can show him he’s wanted.

“So what you’re saying is that we should brainstorm another building project for the lobby? Preferably within sightlines of the front desk?”

You get to feel his laugh before you hear it.

“Oh, I wish. I’ve actually started looking into Habitat For Humanity, a couple of other hands-on charities,” Steve tells you, squeezing you tighter against him for a second or two. “They’ve got experience with higher profile contributors, safety concerns, that sort of thing.”

The moment hangs. Humor isn’t enough.

“That doesn’t solve the underlying problem though, because the problem isn’t you,” you realize aloud.

“You’re right.” Steve kisses your hairline, but you can sense that his metaphorically held breath isn’t going to release like this. You’re struck by the rightness of your reflection; the two of you fit together so well visually that it’s easy to miss his job insecurities and your uncertain future. Movement beyond the surface catches your eye, and you realize it’s the perfect way to break the tension.

“Oh! It’s snowing!”

“Those are some giant snowflakes.” He hugs you to him briefly before stepping over to a small panel on the wall. “May I?”

The more time you spend with him, the braver you feel. “I’m going to say yes, even though I don’t know what you’re asking.”

Steve’s answering smile is blindingly handsome. “Watch,” he says, nodding to the view. A second later the lights in the room dim or shut off, heightening the glowing cityscape outside. There’s a beauty to the familiar hodgepodge of buildings, more so with the fairy dust of snow drifting down from above.

“It’s like a snowglobe,” you say, tearing your eyes away from the scene to look at Steve. To your surprise, he’s not looking outside, he’s looking at you.

“May I?” he asks again. Heart pounding, you nod, and he walks toward you, his features thrown into sharp relief by the dim light. When Steve finally reaches you, the anticipation has doused you with fuel set alight by the touch of his hand at your cheek.

This kiss is nothing like the gentle exploration that was your first with Steve. Where then you were still learning each other, this is knowledge. He lifts you up against him effortlessly, his thumb tangling with the ties of your blouse in a way that pulls it taut against your breasts. You let out a gasp as he kisses his way down from your neck over to the neckline of your blouse, making a begging sound of his own.

It sounds like enough of a ‘May I?’ that you whisper, “Yes.”

In three large strides he’s at the couch, setting you onto your feet as he sweeps the afghan and pillows out of the way. When he turns to face you again, you offer him the end of the ribbon tie holding your blouse together.

The reverence with which Steve pulls it loose is sexy as hell, but you absolutely adore the way he locks eyes with you and keeps your gaze when the fabric falls away. You pull in a ragged breath, and his gaze sharpens.

“What do you want?” he asks, his own answer ringing in the undertones.

You want everything, as far into the future as fate allows, but you force yourself to focus on the here and now. “I-- God, I just want you. I want-- oh!” You press your lips together to stop yourself, shy again. There’s honesty, and then there’s honesty. In that confident but gentle way he has, Steve knows exactly what to say.

“Whatever it is, yes.”

He takes your hand and backs the few inches to the couch, sitting down and tugging gently, a clear but respectful invitation. Steve takes a few seconds to just look at you, his eyes tracing across your features and down to the structure of your blouse. He’d mentioned his sketchbook at one of your early-on dates but never elaborated; now the way he unerringly follows each ribbon with his eyes, fingertips, and then lips make you feel like a work of art.

By the time your shirt drops to the floor, you’re practically drunk on the honest arousal you can taste on his lips--and you’re still mostly dressed! One thing you’re certain of: no one will ever make you feel as much like a medieval harlot and an object of worship at the same time like Steve Rogers.

Reluctantly, you draw back from his addictive kisses, pulling his hand from your cheek to briefly kiss his palm. “I’m going to ask you something, and you’re going to answer me without trying to smooth anything over, got it?”

Steve’s gaze darkens with an amused sort of interest. “I’ll see where you’re going with this, but you should know that there are two places I like to be in charge: the boardroom and the bedroom.”

His tone is gentle, but with an undercurrent of steel. You’re completely unable to stop the way your breath catches and your thighs clench. Sweet fires of hell, this man is perfect.

“It’s a deal,” you manage to squeak out.

“Go on, then.” Steve lifts a hand to brush his thumb along your hairline, down your cheek to press against your lips, dragging them open. From there, he continues to where the swell of your breast meets the lace of your bra, skirting your nipple by lifting his hand up to clasp with the other hand behind his head. Throughout, his gaze holds yours, intense and commanding.

“Sure, show me up, like I’m going to remember anything more than my own name, at this point,” you whisper-whine.

“I used it a few times on my recent trip.” His soft admission is in direct contrast to his casual, confident body language. You’re starting to realize there’s a stronger dichotomy to Steve than you thought. Will you get to have the kind, thoughtful boyfriend who saves you from an evening of elitist tedium and a fierce, possessive lover?

Will you survive, if so?

“Tell me. I’m getting a little jealous of whatever it is you’re thinking about,” Steve intones.

You stop biting your lip and grin. “I’m filing away these new pieces of information about you. Just… don’t ask me where I’m filing them.”

“Oh, I will.”

His voice is like a caress that cascades over you, pausing at your most sensitive places. You shiver, both for your own acknowledgment of the sexual tension and for him to appreciate his effect on you. After letting out a breath that’s more like a yearning sigh, you set your hands on the top button of his dress shirt. With Steve’s steady gaze on you, though, you’re questioning yourself.

“My plan sounds stupid in my head now, with you oozing all of this confidence.”

Immediately, his hand covers yours, setting off sparks with every swipe of his thumb on your skin. “At work it’s a facade, a persona, even--and not a flattering one. I didn’t think I could shake it off, the night of the gala. It’s more natural when--” He interrupts himself by pulling you in for a deep, passionate kiss.

“You’re not faking it here,” you observe minutes later. The whole concept is knocking you sideways, but-- “Okay, I need to tell you I’m picturing you in one of those tailored suits commanding a room of powerful people and that is just sexy as hell.”

He rocks his hips up into you. “I’ll let them know--but, roll back a minute. What was your plan? Better yet,” Steve interrupts himself, setting a heavy hand on your hip to hold you still as he grinds up against you again. “Show me.”

His confidence is literally rubbing off on you. “All right, but fair warning: it’s very ‘over-eager receptionist peeks at you between decorative plants.’” As soon as the words are out of your mouth, his warm hand travels from your hip around and down, fingertips pushing aside your waistbands to firmly grip your ass.

“I know exactly who I’m here with.”

There’s enough of the altruistic, spend-a-week-building-with-the-bros tone in his voice to be reassuring, and you nod.

“Right, then.” Briskly, with the heat of arousal singing through you from every point of contact, you unbutton the top button of his dress shirt. “You’re kind.” Button two: “You’re moral and fair.” Your eyes are focused on your ‘work,’ but you can see Steve break into a smile. At button three, you’re almost halfway down. “You’re a hard worker.”

Steve lets out a deep ‘Mmmm’ sound. Thanks to his ass-grab leverage, he blatantly moves your hips in time with his for a cycle of thrusts that leave you breathless. You can’t look at him, so you clear your throat like a prudish schoolmarm and meticulously unbutton #4.

“You’re good at your… job.” It takes a little while to free this button, so you end up worrying your lower lip with your teeth as you try. Once you’re finished, with anticipation lifting every single hair follicle on your body, only then do you make eye contact.

He mutters ‘fuck’ and reaches between the two of you to unbuckle his belt, popping his trouser snap with an expression that challenges you to object.

There are two shirt buttons left.

You’re completely out of your depth, as desperate to come as you may have ever been in your entire existence, and you have zero idea what else to say--but you reach for button number five.

You wet your lips. Slowly.

Steve grips the couch with his free hand-- but the one he’s holding onto you with is still firm and not at all bruising (not that you’d mind. You’ll paint yourself with this man’s passion if he lets you).

“You’re passionate.”

He makes a cut-off sort of growl in the back of his throat when you move to the last button. You can see the heavy bulge of his cock in his boxer briefs just an inch away from your palms. In a perfect world, you’d say ‘fuck it’ to coming up with another word. In a perfect world, you’d reward both of you by giving up and sliding to your knees, demonstrating exactly how much you appreciate this tall, sexy, beast of an honorable man--and then you have an idea.

Your borrowed pants have a simple clasp, and you move your hands slowly from Steve’s last remaining shirt button to release it, incidentally dragging across his straining cock as you do so. The blatant teasing gets ‘worse’ when you draw down your zipper, nudging, rubbing, and pressing until it’s fully unzipped.

Throughout, Steve’s hand on your ass remains steady, but his breathing grows more and more ragged.

Finally, you lift your hands up and away, denying him any more contact before dropping down to reach for the last button.

“You--” he rumbles, but you interrupt him with two words.

“You’re patient.”

With a practically incomprehensible oath that thoroughly refutes your last impudent compliment, Steve shoves down your loosened clothing and angles the two of you to the side on the couch, all in a single action. Then he sinks two fingers inside you roughly, both of you groaning at the desperate, glorious pleasure of it.

You cram a fist in your mouth, but he stops in the middle of his one-handed shucking of his pants and boxers to yank your fist free.

“All through that shitty conference I imagined the noises you’d make tonight,” Steve grits out, looking down at you with naked desire in his eyes. He twists his fingers mid thrust, and you can’t help but cry out, your hips chasing every movement his talented, devastating fingers perform on you.

You’re already so close. The white-hot, catastrophic release starts to cloud your vision, stayed only by your delayed understanding of what he just said.

“Wait, you’re saying during the--”

Steve kicks the last inches of his lower clothing free and swaps hands deftly, spreading your arousal on his cock with an ‘Mmmm’ of pleasure so filthy you flutter around his fingers in pre-orgasmic shock.

“Thinking about you genuinely kept me sane, and I'm going to turn those daydreams into reality,” he rasps, a modern Greek god with the morals of a saint and the body of a satyr, as if you could ever do anything but gratefully worship him.

You mouth something like the word “Yes,” too desperate for anything more coherent.

The pleasure that follows his first deep thrust is ruinous. You forget everything but Steve, the taste of praise on his lips, the delight his touch chases across your skin, and most of all, the power he arches into you, music and mayhem and meaning, all at once. By the time you’re shuddering around each other you’ve ended up on the floor in front of his couch--and you only notice because Steve’s got a hand cradling the back of your head.

“I’m out of adjectives,” you whisper weakly. “All of the good ones. Most of the naughty ones. Fuck, other languages, too. Even extinct ones. You’re fluent in everything.”

Steve pulls you to his chest and does something athletic that ends with you on the couch beside him, his soft homemade afghan covering the most pertinent parts of your nakedness.

“You make me want to be fluent in everything,” he murmurs. “And, thank you.” Steve grabs his shirt and holds it in front of his crotch. “I’ll get a washcloth.”

He’s jogging farther into the apartment before you can respond, but something about his protective actions trigger a flurry of realization, something you should be--

Oh.

The fall of snow past the giant picture windows brings reality crashing into you. You just had glorious, intense, messy sex in a room that is visible from other nearby buildings!

Steve reappears with a soft-looking washcloth. He’s wearing pajama pants, with what looks like a matching long-sleeved top slung over his shoulder.

“I forgot about the windows,” you say in a small voice, taking the washcloth and using it under the afghan.

“Oh, right,” he says in a completely un-worried voice. Steve looks over at you, sees the half-scared expression on your face, and his demeanor sort of… softens. It’s both obvious and hard to quantify, and it hits you that he’s almost certainly done that before, even if you hadn’t noticed. You imagine there’s a lot of things his clothes and a carefully-crafted facial expression would cover for. He sits down beside you on the couch and offers you the shirt as he says, “The couch is recessed enough into the room that it’s not very visible, I think, but I wasn’t thinking, and I should have asked you about that. I’m sorry.”

He looks like he’s about to say something else, and you ask him about that while pulling on his proffered pajama top, juggling the blanket in the process.

“Would it be strange to say I get very… goals-oriented?” he asks, rueful and amused in equal measure.

“How much different a ‘persona’ are we talking, here?”

The question is meant playfully, but Steve takes long enough to answer that you can feel the warmth of the washcloth start to fade in your hand.

“Too different for comfort, I’m coming to realize.”

He reaches for the washcloth, but you pull it close and get up, gesturing for him to lead you to wherever you can rinse it out. On the way, you can’t help but eye the windows in a new way, perhaps as unintentional adversaries.

“I haven’t let myself be truly seen in a long time,” Steve says as you drape the rinsed washcloth on a drying rack in the dimly-lit kitchen area. “The reason is--well, it might be insulting, but it’s honest.”

You resist the urge to hug your arms around yourself. He’s given you a shirt to wear that matches his, and you were serious with those compliments earlier, despite the pleasure-wrought desperation you felt as you spoke them. “Go on?”

“You’re yourself with me. Not fawning. There’s no facade, no attempt to pretend you have more money or influence. That’s rare. Precious even.”

His statement stings, despite everything that’s happened tonight, despite the way his compliment hews off the rough edges. There’s no derision or judgment in his tone, so you smile at him, albeit stiffly.

“I don’t really have a way to hide those things. I’m me. I figured if you were bothered by--” you wince, feeling a sense of inferiority rise up inside you (dropped out of college, pulled out of your internship, entry-level job, depleted nest-egg, caregiver for your sister, baggage, baggage, baggage) before you wrestle it all back down. “--any of that, you’d move on, and I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”

“I don’t want to move on,” Steve says firmly, brushing his hand over your hair as if to adjust the disarray that came from putting on his shirt. “I want to move forward, even if that means you can see through some of the windows I usually cover with curtains. Will you be exclusive with me?”

“I’d really like that,” you whisper, overcome. “And not just because you fuck like a complete god.”

The words slip out before you can fucking stop them, and you gasp, the tidal wave of your social inferiority to a man like Steve coming blasting through all the tentative bridges you’ve just built. You hear buzzing in your ears, your vision is misted over with regret--but seconds later, you realize he’s laughing.

“Okay I swear on every single deity that exists, I wasn’t supposed to say that out loud! I’m so sorry,” you groan, your relief over his amusement barely tempering the metallic tang of adrenaline on your tongue.

Your… your boyfriend Steve Rogers takes your hand in his and lifts it up, bowing over it before kissing it with more chivalry than a whole season of Game of Thrones. Even one of the early ones.

“Sweetheart, you’re forgiven.”

<- Previous story...

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youknowwho-mustnotbenamed · 20 hours ago

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December 13 - Hot Chocolate | word count: 996 | @wolfstarmicrofic

Sirius hates when other people are in pain.

Maybe it’s just a trauma response from his childhood and having to see Reggie in pain, but now, even when somebody around him is even the slightest bit uncomfortable, he will go out of his way to remedy that. Which is why, as soon as he suspected about Remus being a werewolf, he did as much research into the topic as he could. He learned everything Remus refused to tell them.

About the aches and pains werewolves suffered both before and after the full moon—some experienced the antsy wolf worse than others, and sadly, Sirius suspected Remus was one of them. About how they feel a chill in their bones that won’t thaw—Remus generally goes about the castle wearing as many jumpers as he can pull over his head. About how they feel repulsive and think others feel the same—he knows well about the paranoia. He learned about how they find comfort in things that remind them they are human—physical touch, comfortable clothes, their favorite foods, people they recognize—so Sirius does as much as he can to give Remus those without overstepping boundaries.

Which is why right now, he is balancing a nearly overflowing mug of hot chocolate up from the kitchens. Under his other arm is an enchanted blanket with an intricate heating charm that doesn’t just warm the skin, but deeper inside the body as well—he had to seek out Regulus’ help for this one—as much has he hates to admit it, Regulus is far better at advanced spells than anybody else he knows.

Remus returned to the dorm room just a few hours ago now, leaving Sirius with the complicated task of slipping through the common room, uninterrupted, and untouched. Luckily, the others seem to recognize the Black scowl, and pull away. As much has he hates resorting to using the power his family has, he won’t hesitate to use it if it means Remus feels himself again.

Because Sirius can’t stand the long silences, the blank stare, the shivers, the distancing, any of it. He needs Remus in his life like he needs his lungs to breathe. Inseparable, necessary. If Remus leaves, simply because he thinks himself too much of a burden, Sirius is certain he will fall apart. Which he knows is an odd thought for a thirteen-year-old, but he can’t help the way he feels.

“Hey, Rem.”

“Sirius?” He croaks in surprise. Sirius can also see the way he forces his body to relax, trying not to show an ounce of pain on his face. But the slight crinkle around his eyes and the stiffness of his limbs gives him away.

“I brought something for you.”

“You did?”

“Of course. Here.” Kneeling on the bed, he wraps the blanket around Remus, whose eyes blink open wide in surprise. He knows exactly how it feels—he tested it himself to make sure it worked properly—like a warm hug. Physical touch, check. Warmth, check. Remus is already wearing his favorite jumper, check. His favorite food, modified slightly to help ease the cold, check. Somebody he recognizes, check.

“Oh.” He accepts the mug, and immediately takes a sip. “Oh, this is delicious. Where did you get it?”

Suddenly, the blanket under his twiddling fingers is far more interesting. “I owled your mum. I know you mentioned how much you love her hot chocolate, and I figured with… everything, that you would appreciate a little bit of home right now.”

“I…”

He finally looks up, only to find a devastating sight. Remus is crying. That defeats the purpose of everything he was trying to do. He should be smiling right now, forgetting about the pain and returning to himself, to Sirius’ Remus.

“Why are you crying? Did I do something wrong? I’ll—”

“You did this for me?” Remus chokes out.

“Yeah, of course. Why not?”

“Because…. Because… why?”

“I… um… I know.”

“You know? Know what?”

“I know that you… I know—I know where you were three nights ago.”

“I was in the hospital wing. You know I get sick a lot, Sirius.” He is trying to seem casual, but Sirius can catch the slip of panic in his tone.

“You weren’t there, Rem. I went to check in on you, but you weren’t there.” He can sense Remus’ entire body go stiff. He can tell, that this moment, right here, right now, is what determines their future. Will Remus turn away and leave him alone, or will he fight the paranoia and acknowledge that Sirius accepts him as he is. “It’s alright. I know you think you are a burden, but you aren’t. You are the best person I have in my life, and I couldn’t imagine losing you.”

“But… but I’m a monster.”

“So is my mother, but I’m not afraid of her.”

“Sirius—”

“I’m being serious here. I know, and I’m not afraid. I’ll help you in any way I can.”

“How did you find out?”

“I’m good at reading people.” He shrugs. “I also hate to see other people in pain if there is something I can do to help.”

“Do the others know?”

“Nah. It’s your secret to tell, and I’ll support you whether you want to tell them or not.”

“Thanks, Sirius. You are the best friend I could ask for.”

For whatever reason, Sirius’ heart aches at the word friend. It is so insignificant. He always hated these labels people stick on their relationships to help make them make sense. His mother is hardly his mother if she locks him in closets and invades his mind, Professor McGonagall, is more of a mother to him, but he can never label her as such because of “societal norms” or whatever. And yes, Remus is his friend, but he is so much more, Sirius isn’t sure there is a label for it.

But still, he smiles, “Of course, Rem.”

Friends.

#wolfstar #wolfstar microfic #sirius black #remus lupin #marauders era

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crimson-kisses · 2 days ago

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Duetsche Zunge

Characters/Fandoms/Pairings: Yandere! Gilbert Beilschmeidt || Prussia [Hetalia] x Fem!reader Warning: This story will contain xplicit yandere themes, proceed with caution [includes non consensual acts, toxic relationship, physical violence & the like] Author's notes: I honestly took some inspiration from @shini--chan 's works. Her every piece is marvellous, especially Gilbert's character. She has made me mad and intrigued over that man, I say. Also, remember that lot has been going around the world lately, and try to educate yourself and contribute as much as you can.

Gilbert would be absolutely thrilled and intrigued if his darling already knew German—it would spare him the frustration of teaching her everything from scratch. He would be amused and think the way she spoke. Her pronunciation or tone was absolutely adorable.

But of course, being who he is, that wouldn’t necessarily stop him from challenging her, testing the level of her knowledge and fluency. He’d be curious to know what her taste would be in German literature, music, or cinema. Would she favour Goethe’s romanticism, or perhaps the darker allure of Kafka’s surrealism? Would she hum along to Beethoven or lose herself in the melancholic strains of Schubert?

He would likely discover these preferences by observing (read: stalking) her, a brow arched up elegantly as he leaned back on the walls of the library. There, he would watch her conversing with others academically, seeming more like a statue of a scholar or a professor with his disguise of black-rimmed glasses and dark eyes, watching the way her lips curved around sweetly spoken words.

However, being a perfectionist, he could quickly identify any gaps in her knowledge—a slip of grammar, a wrong word here and there, or even a misstep in interpretation. Perhaps she’d confuse a complex construction for a simpler one or misuse an idiomatic expression.

Noting down the mistakes with a stern frown and a disappointed click of his tongue, Gilbert would sigh, unable to tolerate even the smallest errors. He’d push her relentlessly, unwilling to accept anything less than perfection. Papers, after papers, books after books, would pile up around her as he corrected her trembling attempts, his calligraphic writing starkly perfect beside her shaky efforts.

For someone who appeared so rugged, he was surprisingly methodical, almost reverent, when it came to written words, as evidenced by the piles of his ancient diaries filled with neat, precise entries.

It was definitely a cruel mixture of his ego and intense love toward her that drove him to hone her fluency to a level of perfection he alone could crave. Writing, reading, speaking, and even singing—he demanded mastery in every form of expression, shaping her abilities into something he could both admire and control.

But he wouldn’t stop at just German. This rigorous approach extended to other languages in which he excelled, such as French, Italian, and even Russian (though his dislike for a certain Russian man might make things a bit more complicated).

Each session would become a gruelling trial that demanded discipline, focus, and sheer willpower. He’d test her French with its elegant nuances, pushing her to appreciate the subtleties of verb conjugations and melodic flow. Italian, with its passionate rhythm, would become another challenge, the sharp sounds of “c” and “g” perfectly flowing from her lips, just as he demanded. And then, of course, there was Russian—harsh, guttural, and complex—he would revel in hearing her stumble over its sharp consonants, unable to help himself as he smirked with a mix of ego and possessiveness.

Whether it was the elegance of French, the flow of Italian, or the intensity of Russian, Gilbert would make sure she mastered every word, every subtle difference in accent, every cultural nuance, until she spoke each language with an expertise that reflected his possessive influence.

Gilbert would also push her to master ancient languages like Latin and Greek. His admiration for the roots of Western civilization would bleed into his obsessive teaching, as he demanded perfect fluency in these classical tongues.

He’d make her translate passages from Cicero or Horace, test her knowledge of Homer’s epics, and measure her understanding of Plato’s philosophy. Every misstep in conjugation or syntax would be met with sharp reprimands. Yet, at the same time, he would find immense satisfaction in hearing her articulate the beauty of ancient prose, especially when she finally grasped the elegance of Latin’s rhythm or the precision of Greek’s structure.

It would be a sight to watch the man who seemed so restless—always planning, calculating, and never stopping—suddenly appear like a scholar carved from marble. His focus was unwavering, his attention to detail sharp as a blade, whether it was through his quiet admiration or relentless demands, Gilbert made it clear that he wouldn’t stop until she was flawless—not just in language but as a reflection of his obsession with her.

The words on the paper danced as your eyes blurred, hesitant gasps escaping your quivering lips. Each tap of the thick ruler against the desk matched the frantic rhythm of your racing heartbeat. A deep sigh reached your ears, making you tense as a tear dropped, blotting the writing beneath it.

“Wrong. Do it again,” he said, his voice steady but firm, just above a whisper. You could feel the heat of his breath against your ear as he leaned in closer, his words curling into your senses like a soft yet dangerous caress. His forearms, toned and defined, flexed with each controlled motion as he tapped the ruler once more against the wood.

The veins on his arms stood out, a clear testament to the power that lay beneath his skin. His shirt, rolled up to his elbows, emphasized the muscular tone of his arms, the fabric taut as he moved with practiced precision.

“Your knuckles must be throbbing, don’t you think so?” His voice was low, almost velvety, though the slight edge in it made your skin prickle with a sense of haunting despair.

Of course, German would always be Gilbert's top priority. Whether it was the ancient words from his old Teutonic Knight days, the forgotten Prussian of his youth, or the more modern German that had evolved, he would be relentless in teaching you.

He would smirk, watching your hesitant expression, those furrowed brows and strands of hair sticking to your flushed face as you tried to keep up with his rapid-fire lessons. Every time you stumbled, he’d feel a rush of satisfaction, knowing he was pushing you—testing your limits.

And just as you began to feel like you might grasp it, he would pull you further, introducing an even more archaic form of the language. You'd be faced with Prussian words, forgotten phrases from the past, or the formal German of his time as a powerful state, and he'd watch as you struggled to keep up.

But Gilbert never took pity. To him, this wasn’t just about learning words—it was about learning what they meant, what they represented, about becoming part of a deeper history that only he understood intimately.

Naturally, he expected you to speak German at all times when addressing him. After all, he was Prussia—the proud embodiment of his nation's strength and culture, and to him, the language was not merely a means of communication, but a symbol of power, authority, and legacy. He found the way you spoke it utterly captivating—the way your lips shaped the words, how your expression would soften or harden depending on the tone.

Every mistake, every mispronunciation, only seemed to drive him further. He would often reply to you in German despite your slipping into another language— he would become cold, refusing to acknowledge you fully. His childish spite would rise, and he'd deliberately turn his back, offering you nothing but a sharp glance.

"Are you even listening to me?" you snapped, frustration mounting as you tugged at your hair, your words coming out in a burst. The tension in your chest was unbearable, and yet, Gilbert didn’t even flinch. He leaned back in his plush leather chair, the soft creak of the leather under his weight barely audible. The corners of his lips twitched upwards, curling into a satisfied smirk. His eyes, gleaming with amusement, never left you as he observed your growing frustration, watching you unravel with quiet delight. He loved seeing you like this—on the edge, teetering between control and chaos, and utterly at his mercy.

He didn’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between you. It was as if your words were meaningless to him. He had no intention of addressing your frustration, no intention of actually listening to what you were saying. He was too busy savoring the sight of you. The sharp tone in his voice, when he finally spoke, was smooth, effortless—teasing, almost mocking, a rhythm he knew all too well. Of an ancient German dialect that almost made his words hard to understand.

"Careful with the bread," he murmured, his voice low and cutting through the silence like a blade. "Don’t make it too tough."

You froze for a moment, the absurdity of his words washing over you. He wasn’t listening. Not to you. Not to the frustration in your voice, not to the growing anger burning in your chest. His gaze never wavered, still fixed on you with that predatory calm, like a cat watching its prey squirm. And all the while, you could feel the weight of his attention, suffocating and demanding, making your blood boil even hotter.

Your hands, already trembling from the intensity of the situation, clenched into fists. You turned away quickly, trying to regain some semblance of control, but it was too late. Your mind raced, and you felt the overwhelming need to take out your frustration on something—anything. The dough in front of you.

You slammed your hands into it, pressing harder than necessary, your fingers digging into the soft dough with surprising force. It was as though you could feel his presence behind you, even though he said nothing more, watching you knead the dough with a strange, mocking stillness in the air. You wished it was his neck beneath your hands instead, the pressure of your palms imagining the crushing sensation of him being the one to break under the weight. The thought alone made you grit your teeth.

Gilbert’s smirk never faltered, his eyes still on you, studying every move you made. He had already won, and you both knew it. You were powerless against his presence, against his control. His lessons weren’t games. They were training. And you were exactly where he wanted you.

Though he often found amusement in the banter between you, even encouraging it at times, Gilbert wouldn’t take kindly to any attempts to push things beyond their limits. Swear words or throwing personalized insults his way would undoubtedly irritate him. He thrived on the playful back-and-forth, enjoying the challenge of testing boundaries, seeing just how far he could push you before you snapped.

But as much as he revelled in this dynamic, there were unspoken rules that, if broken, would have severe consequences. Gilbert was not one to tolerate disrespect, not even in jest. His pride, especially when it came to how others viewed his authority, was something you learned to tread lightly around.

He had a way of making you feel small when you crossed that invisible line. It wasn’t outright aggression, no—it was more subtle, calculated. His silence, his smirk, the way he’d cock his head and stare at you with those piercing eyes—each glance felt like a silent reprimand. His lessons weren’t games. This was training. And training wasn’t just about learning skills or techniques—it was about understanding power dynamics, submission, and control. For Gilbert, discipline was an art. You had to earn his approval, prove you were worthy of the lessons he would give. Disrupting that delicate balance, however, meant harsh consequences.

The playful back-and-forth, while it could go on for hours, was never just for fun. He was sharpening you, moulding you into something he could admire, something that would never question his authority again. When you got too comfortable, too confident, Gilbert would make sure to remind you that this was his world and you were merely a participant in it. A slip of the tongue, a crass word, a sharp insult—that was all it took for him to remind you who was truly in charge.

And when you crossed that line? He’d make sure you knew it wasn’t something to be taken lightly. Gilbert would drop his usual teasing tone and replace it with something colder, something darker. He didn’t need to shout. He didn’t need to raise his voice. The shift in his demeanor alone was enough to make the air feel thick with tension. You’d find yourself walking the thin line between fear and desire, unsure of where one ended and the other began, but knowing that if you made the wrong move, there would be consequences.

The toothbrush and the mouthful of toothpaste threatened to choke you, your mouth wide open as a strong grip held your head in place by the hair. Gilbert probed the depths of your mouth with firm, deliberate strokes, bringing you to the brink of nausea. Foamy spit dripped from your lips, guttural moans of pain echoing through the washroom as tears framed your face. Your attempts to reason with Gilbert fell on deaf ears. All it took was one bad day for him (you couldn’t really tell with the man), and your profanity-laced outburst had earned you this punishment. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he slightly relaxed his grip on your hair, allowing you to violently spit out the bitter toothpaste that had been building up in your mouth. You instinctively reached for the tap, desperate to rinse the foul taste away, but were met with a firm hand that stopped you short. “No water for that filthy mouth of yours,” Gilbert sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. “Next time, I won’t hesitate to feed you a bar of soap and using the toilet brush.” You almost threw up.

While he didn’t outright disdain other languages, Gilbert was quick to show his disapproval if you focused on them too much. A subtle sneer or dismissive remark would betray his jealousy. In his eyes, your enthusiasm or preference for another tongue was a challenge to his authority, a dilution of the bond he sought to forge.

He wanted German to be your priority because it was his, and he needed to hear it from your lips as proof of your connection. It wasn’t just about teaching—it was about domination, ensuring that his influence extended into every word you spoke and every thought you had. And, of course, his pride demanded it. After all, why would you need anything else when you had him?

Nonetheless, he adored your voice, no matter what language you spoke. Whether stumbling over unfamiliar words or weaving through proses, there was a softness in the way you sounded that captivated him. It wasn’t something he’d admit easily, but your voice was his favourite melody, one he could listen to for hours without growing tired.

Of course, German is sacred to him—a reflection of his very being. It wasn’t just a language; it was his legacy, his culture, and the soul of the people he had once represented. The language of warriors and poets, of triumph and despair, it was a thread connecting him to his past. He expected you to embrace it—not out of mere interest, but as a testament to your devotion to him. And he always cherished it hearing from you.

You sat beside Gilbert, stiff and uneasy, as he delved into a thick book titled 'Geodesics in Curved Spacetime'. The topic was so far beyond your comprehension that you couldn’t help but think, What the fuck even is this?

It was one of those days when he insisted you sit close, your hands folded on his thigh, while one of his palms gripped it firmly, the other flipping through the velvet pages of the Russian text. His hold on you was both grounding and possessive, the weight of it reminding you that there was no escape from his whims.

The subject seemed to irritate him more than intrigue him; his brows furrowed, and the occasional sharp exhale signaled his growing frustration. He’d call you over at times like this, either to steady his nerves or to force you into reading it aloud, despite your stumbling attempts.

Sometimes, he would pause to explain a concept in German, his voice steady and commanding, expecting you to follow his train of thought no matter how lost you felt. On other occasions, his enthusiasm would bubble over, and he would yip and yap, his words spilling in rapid, fervent analysis that left your head spinning. You could only nod along, hoping he didn’t notice your bewilderment.

Most often, though, his focus shifted to something more intimate. He would pass you a well-loved novel—its pages slightly worn, its binding soft to the touch—and order you to read aloud. His fingers would trail lazily along your arm as he leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, the tension leaving his features with every word that left your lips. In those moments, you felt like an extension of him, your voice the tool that brought his favorite stories to life. His grip on you would loosen, his breaths growing deeper and steadier.

Those were his calmest days, and your beautiful voice, the rhythm to his immortal heartbeat, seemed to be the only thing capable of soothing his restless spirit.

Refusal—or any form of misbehavior—when he asks you to speak his language would never be tolerated. Utter refusal would be met with the coldest of glares, a silent warning that would send a shiver down your spine. Testing him with silent treatment or petty acts of defiance would only irritate him more.

His expectations are simple but non-negotiable: learn the proper German etiquette. Speak clearly, directly, and without hesitation. Your words must be precise—no unnecessary embellishments or mindless chatter. He values sincerity, respect, and most of all, discipline.

When spoken to, you are expected to answer promptly, politely, and with the right tone. You must use Bitte (please) and Danke (thank you) when appropriate— if you don’t, he’ll remind you, and the lesson will be harder than you anticipate. There is no room for laziness in his world, especially when it comes to how you communicate.

Gilbert tapped his fingers on his forearms as he stared at you from across the table, his piercing gaze unwavering. You sat with an unsightly scowl, arms crossed tightly, eyes fixed on the food in front of you. The tension in the air was thick—your earlier attempt to escape had been swiftly thwarted by his firm grip on your arm.

"And what do we say?" he asked, his voice smooth but laced with impatience.

You shot him a defiant glare, the sting of your pride burning brighter than your hunger. Your teeth gound together as you glared at the plate of Sauerbraten, the tender beef marinated in rich spices paired with the tang of red cabbage and potato dumplings. The smell alone made your stomach growl, but you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

"D..." You grit your teeth, barely able to utter the word. His unblinking stare burned into you as if daring you to try him. "Danke."

"Ah ah," Gilbert bent forward, the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "Full sentence."

You clenched your fists, the taste of defeat sour in your mouth. There was no escaping him now. "Danke... für das Essen."

"Good girl." Gilbert’s voice was soft, but the approval in it was unmistakable. He straightened in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk.

"Jetzt können wir essen!"

Of course, being the rather egoistical individual he is, Gilbert would revel in hearing you address him with titles in German. Whether it was Herr or Mein König, the words rolled off your tongue like honey, fueling his insatiable desire for your complete submission. He would demand such titles not merely out of tradition but as a way to solidify his dominance over you-reminding you that he was the one in control, always.

And if you hesitated or refused, you'd soon find yourself either kneeling at his feet or bent over his knees, forced to beg in the very language he adored.

The sight of you, voice trembling and face flushed, was intoxicating to him. He couldn't help but feel a massive thrill corroding his bones as your tone wavered with such an adorable desperation, the words escaping your pretty lips like a melody crafted just for him. Gilbert always loved the way you sounded, gasps, grunts or so, your voice like a finely tuned instrument only he could master.

You were his little songbird, and sometimes he liked to take that metaphor literally. He wouldn't mind having you sing as he played his flute, guiding you with gentle nods or sharp corrections if you didn't get it quite right. On calmer evenings, he'd rest his head on your lap, your soft hands threading through his silver hair as you hummed or sang him a lullaby. Those moments of quiet surrender were his personal heaven.

Every word you spoke in German was a delicacy he devoured straight from your lips. He also expected your words to reflect affection and politeness. Loving phrases, respectful tones, and perhaps even a few nicknames of your own design.

Nothing overly cheesy, of course, but Gilbert wouldn't hide his cheeky grin if you hyly called him something intimate. A soft Liebling (darling) murmured in the warmth of your shared bed would earn you a teasing remark right before he captured your lips in a sealing kiss.

In the bedroom, his expectations only deepened. He wanted to hear you whisper his name like a promise, gasping out mein Schatz as he thoroughly claimed you. Every word, every sound you made was proof of his hold over you, a mark of the loyalty he craved so desperately.

And in those moments, he'd remind you just how much he loved your voice - the voices that only he could truly bring out of you, the ones he wants to hear from you, the one thing that could ever bring peace to the storm within him.

Your dress spread around you like the petals of a flower, delicate yet trapping, as gilbert’s hands—rough and unyielding—skimmed over the bare skin of your legs. you shivered beneath his touch, every nerve on fire as you tried to suppress the sob rising in your throat.

“Was ist los, Maus?” (what's the matter, mouse?), his voice coiled around you like smoke, soft yet suffocating. his body leaned in, the weight of his presence making it impossible to move, let alone think. “Hast du etwa vergessen, wie man schön bittet?” (have you perhaps forgotten to ask nicely?).

your mind swirled, thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. had he done something? the strange heaviness in your limbs, the faint haze clouding your senses—was this another one of his games?

“B-bitte,” you rasped, voice trembling as you fought to form the word, “bitte, G-Gilbert, ich—”

his grip on your hips tightened abruptly, the sharp press of his fingers stealing the rest of your sentence. his crimson eyes bore into yours, gleaming with a twisted mix of hunger and amusement.

“Das ist besser,” (That is better) he murmured, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “Nicht perfekt, aber es wird reichen.” (Not perfect, but it will do)

tears pricked at your eyes, your chest heaving as you forced out another plea, desperate to appease him. “gilbert… bitte… verzeih mir,” you choked out, your voice breaking as his thumb brushed against the curve of your waist, deceptively gentle.

“ah, Liebling,” he said, his tone laced with dark satisfaction. “Das ist mein gutes Mädchen.”

he pulled you closer then, his control as unrelenting as the heat radiating from him, leaving no room for escape. you were his—mind, body, and voice—and he made sure you understood it.

With every searing touch and word.

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niallerspayno · 2 days ago

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The Line - Part 1

Masterlist

You and Zayn are inseparable childhood best friends, until one night when you make a pact to be each other’s rebound whenever one of you has a break up. Things get complicated when you start dating Louis, Zayn’s bandmate, and the line between friends and more begins to blur.

Tags: Zayn x childhood friend!reader, Louis x reader, friends to lovers, fluff, mutual pining, some smut

Part 2 | Part 3

…

You’ve known Zayn for as long as you’ve known yourself. Your childhoods were spent as neighbors, running between each other’s houses as if the fences weren’t even there. Your mums always said you two were a pair of troublemakers, joined at the hip and scheming from the moment you could talk.

It never mattered that Zayn was quieter than you, or that you sometimes pulled him into your whirlwind of ideas when he clearly wanted to stay on the sidelines. He always followed anyway, his steady presence grounding you when things inevitably spiraled out of control. He’s always been like that—a constant in your life, someone you’ve never had to question.

By the time you were teenagers, he knew everything about you. Your favorite songs, what you hated on your sandwiches, the kinds of movies that made you cry. And you knew him just as well—how he hummed when he was thinking, how he’d hide behind a cigarette when he was nervous, how his laugh could fill a room when he let it.

It wasn’t that you didn’t notice how good he looked as you both grew older. You did. How could you not? His sharp jawline, his dark eyes, the tattoos he got when you were still debating whether or not to dye your hair—it all caught your attention, made your stomach twist in ways it hadn’t before.

But Zayn is your best friend, and the thought of risking that—of losing him—has always kept you in check. It’s easier this way, you tell yourself, to push the feelings down, to ignore the way your heart beats faster when he throws an arm over your shoulders or leans in close to tell you a secret.

You’re the one he comes to when things fall apart, and he’s the one who can always make you laugh when you feel like crying. That’s enough. It has to be.

Because if it’s not, you don’t know what you’d do.

…

The pact is made on a vulnerable night after your first break up. You’re curled up on the couch in your living room, your head resting on Zayn’s shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding you. The tears on your cheeks have dried, but the ache in your chest remains, raw and heavy. Zayn’s arm is wrapped around you, his thumb brushing soft, absentminded circles on your shoulder. He hasn’t said much since he arrived, just held you, his quiet presence doing what words couldn’t.

“He was such an idiot,” you mumble, your voice hoarse from crying.

Zayn hums in agreement, the sound low and steady. “The biggest idiot.”

You glance up at him, catching the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. It makes your own lips twitch in response, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re supposed to say something encouraging, you know. Like, ‘you’ll find someone better.’”

His chuckle is soft, warm. “You don’t need someone better. You’ve got me.”

The words settle between you like a weight, light enough to brush off but heavy enough to make your chest tighten. You snort, trying to defuse the strange pull in his voice. “Yeah, every girl’s dream—a best mate as her backup plan.”

Zayn shifts, his brow furrowing as he looks at you. There’s no teasing in his expression now, just a steady sincerity that makes your pulse flutter. “What’s wrong with that?”

You blink at him, caught completely off guard. “You’re joking.”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in that familiar, crooked smile that always feels like home. “Not really. I mean… think about it. You trust me, yeah? I trust you. If the world keeps throwing us idiots, why not help each other out? No strings. Just… comfort. When we need it.”

Your breath catches, your mind racing to figure out if he’s serious. His gaze is steady, unwavering, but there’s a softness there too—an unspoken understanding that only the two of you could share. “You mean, like… a rebound?”

“Exactly.” His lips curve slightly, but his voice is quiet, careful. “One night, no strings. No expectations, no weirdness after. Just you and me.”

It’s reckless. A hundred ways it could go wrong flash through your mind. But there’s also something heartbreakingly simple in it—something about the way Zayn looks at you, like he’s offering a lifeline without asking for anything in return.

“That’s ridiculous,” you whisper, shaking your head.

“Maybe.” His thumb brushes against your shoulder again, soothing. “But at least it’s real. Better than wasting time on people who don’t deserve you. We know what we’re getting—no lies, no games. Just us.”

Your heart twists, torn between the comfort of his presence and the terrifying vulnerability of what he’s suggesting. “Zayn…”

He leans closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours. His voice drops, soft but resolute. “It’s just you and me. Always has been, yeah? This doesn’t change that.”

The conviction in his tone makes something inside you give way. You’ve never doubted him before—why should now be any different?

“Okay,” you whisper, the word trembling in the air. “But only if we have rules.”

His lips twitch into a small grin, though his eyes remain serious. “Of course. Lay them on me.”

“One night only,” you say, your voice firmer this time. “No repeats. No feelings. And we never, ever talk about it after.”

Zayn nods slowly, taking each word in. “One night. No repeats. No feelings. Got it.”

“Promise me,” you urge, your voice cracking slightly.

“I promise.” His voice is steady, his hand warm against your skin. “Nothing will ever change between us.”

You meet Zayn's eyes, searching for any flicker of hesitation. There's none-just warmth, steady and unshaken, like he's holding the weight of the moment for both of you. He reaches out, his hand brushing your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. His touch is soft, reverent, as if he's memorizing this moment, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

"You're sure?" he murmurs, his voice low, careful.

"I'm sure," you whisper, the words barely audible, but he hears them.

Zayn leans in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him, but you don't. His lips meet yours, warm and soft, and the kiss is tender at first— a question, a promise. His hand moves to the back of your neck, drawing you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of his love and care pouring into every movement.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, tugging gently as if asking for permission. He pulls back just enough to help you, lifting the fabric over his head and letting it fall to the floor. You take a moment to drink him in, the planes of his chest, the tattoos you've seen a hundred times but never like this.

He smiles softly, a little self-conscious under your gaze. "What?"

"Nothing," you say, your voice thick with emotion. "You're just... you."

His expression softens, and he cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin. "And you're you. That's all I've ever needed."

You pull him back to you, your lips meeting his again as his hands begin to explore. He's slow, deliberate, tracing the lines of your body like he's committing them to memory. His touch leaves a trail of warmth in its wake, and you can't help the way your body responds, leaning into him, needing more.

Clothes are discarded piece by piece, each movement careful, unhurried. Zayn watches you with an intensity that makes your heart race, his gaze never leaving yours as he guides you back onto the couch. The weight of him above you is comforting, grounding, and you feel a strange mix of vulnerability and safety in the way he holds you.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says softly, his forehead resting against yours.

You shake your head, your hands tangling in his hair. "I don't want. you to stop."

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his body moving against yours in a rhythm that feels instinctive, like you've done this a thousand times before. The heat between you builds steadily, every touch, every movement drawing you closer together.

Zayn is careful, attentive, his hands and lips mapping every inch of your skin, making you feel seen, cherished. His movements are slow, deliberate, as if he's afraid to rush and break the fragile connection between you.

When he finally enters you, it's with a care that makes your breath catch. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and emotion that leaves you clinging to him, your nails digging into his shoulders. He pauses, giving you time to adjust, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers your name like a prayer.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

You nod, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, though you're not sure why. "Yeah. I'm okay."

He begins to move, his rhythm slow and steady, and the world seems to fall away. It's just the two of you, tangled together, your breaths and heartbeats aligning. The intimacy is overwhelming, not just physical but emotional, a connection so deep it feels like it's always been there, waiting for this moment.

Every touch, every movement feels deliberate, like he's trying to show you without words how much you mean to him. You lose yourself in the rhythm, the heat building between you until it's almost unbearable.

"Zayn," you whisper, your voice breaking as the tension inside you peaks.

He holds you tighter, his movements becoming more deliberate, and together you reach the edge, falling into it like you've done this a hundred times before. The release is intense, shattering, and you cling to him, his name tumbling from your lips like a lifeline.

Afterward, he stays close, his body still pressed against yours, his forehead resting against your shoulder. The room is silent except for the sound of your breaths, slowly evening out.

"You okay?" he asks again, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

You nod, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his back. "Yeah. Are you?"

He lifts his head to meet your gaze, his eyes searching yours. "I am."

There's an unspoken understanding between you, a fragile peace that feels like it could shatter at any moment. But for now, you hold onto it, letting yourself rest in the quiet comfort of Zayn's arms.

…

A few years later you smooth the hem of your dress for the third time, the nerves in your stomach twisting tighter with every second. Zayn’s been your best friend for as long as you can remember, but his world has changed so much over the past few years. The small-town boy you grew up with is now part of the biggest band in the world, touring stadiums and gracing magazine covers.

Still, he’s never changed with you. He calls when he can, texts when he can’t, and always makes time to see you when he’s back home. Today, though, feels different. Today, you’re stepping into his world.

The door to the hotel suite opens, and Zayn’s familiar grin immediately puts you at ease. “There she is,” he says, pulling you into a hug. His cologne surrounds you, warm and familiar, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you again.

“Big deal now, huh?” you tease, stepping back and taking in the plush room behind him. “Fancy hotels, famous friends.”

“Shut up,” he says, laughing. “You know it’s still me. Come on, the guys are dying to meet you.”

He leads you inside, his hand resting lightly on your back, and your nerves spike again. The room is buzzing with energy—laughter, chatter, the faint hum of music playing in the background.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Zayn announces, his voice cutting through the noise. “My best mate. Play nice.”

You barely have time to process the faces turning your way before a whirlwind of introductions begins. Harry, all dimples and charm, greets you first, followed by Liam’s warm handshake and Niall’s cheeky grin.

And then there’s Louis.

His blue eyes meet yours, and for a second, the world tilts. He’s leaning casually against the arm of a couch, his smile crooked, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to your heart.

“Louis,” he says simply, extending his hand.

You take it, your fingers brushing his. “Hi,” you manage, your voice softer than you’d like.

Zayn’s voice cuts through the moment, his tone light but pointed. “Alright, Lou, don’t scare her off.”

Louis smirks, not breaking eye contact. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The rest of the introductions blur together after that, but you can’t shake the feeling of Louis’ eyes on you, watching, assessing. It’s unsettling and thrilling all at once.

Zayn steers you to the couch, making room for you beside him. The conversation flows easily, stories and jokes flying across the room, but you’re hyper-aware of Louis, who’s taken the seat across from you. Every so often, your eyes meet, and his grin deepens, like he’s caught you in some unspoken game.

“Alright,” Niall announces after a while, clapping his hands together. “Who’s up for food? I’m starving.”

As the group begins to stir, Louis leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on you. “You coming out with us?”

The question feels loaded, though you’re not sure why. You glance at Zayn, who shrugs. “Your call.”

“Yeah,” you say, surprised at your own boldness. “I’d like that.”

Louis’ smile widens, and something about it makes your pulse race.

As the group files out of the suite, Zayn falls into step beside you, his arm slung casually around your shoulders. “So?” he asks under his breath. “What do you think?”

You glance back, catching Louis looking at you again. “They seem great,” you reply, keeping your tone neutral.

Zayn hums, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Just remember—he’s trouble.”

The warning is playful, but the edge in Zayn’s voice lingers, making you wonder if he knows just how drawn to Louis you already feel.

…

The restaurant buzzes with the kind of energy that fills the room with a comforting hum. Laughter spills from your table, the clink of glasses punctuating each conversation. You’re nestled between Zayn and Harry, but your focus is steadily being stolen by Louis, sitting across from you, who seems to have this effortless way of drawing your attention.

“So,” Louis begins, leaning forward slightly, his elbows on the table, eyes locked on yours, “Zayn’s told us loads about you.”

“Loads,” Harry adds with a teasing grin. “Like how you’re the only one who can put up with him.”

“Shut it,” Zayn mutters, nudging Harry, but there’s a hint of a blush creeping up his neck.

Louis smirks, enjoying himself far too much. “What I’m wondering is how someone like you”—he pauses for effect, his eyes sparkling—“ended up wasting time on someone like him.”

Zayn rolls his eyes. “She’s not wasting time.”

“I would be,” you tease, laughing lightly. “Honestly, I don’t even know how I put up with him.”

Louis raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Exactly. You’ve got a bit of that troublemaker look about you.”

“Troublemaker?” You tilt your head, the challenge in your gaze matching his. “You’ve got the wrong idea.”

He leans closer, his voice dropping slightly. “Oh, I think I’ve got it right.”

Zayn shifts next to you, clearing his throat. You catch the way his hand rests on the back of your chair, the motion subtle but protective. “Let’s not make this about me,” he interjects. “She’s not a troublemaker.”

“Oh, she definitely is,” Niall chimes in, looking at you with a knowing grin. “She’s always been drawn to the bad boys, hasn’t she?”

There’s a flicker of something in your chest at Niall’s words, but you laugh it off. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Louis’ eyes narrow slightly, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “You can try to deny it all you want, but you’ve definitely got that dangerous energy about you. Bet you’ve never been able to resist a bit of trouble.”

You bite your lip, the heat from his gaze making your pulse quicken. “Maybe… I’ve been known to fall for the wrong type, now and then.” You try to make light of it, but it feels a little too close to the truth.

Zayn’s jaw tightens, and you glance at him, catching the subtle shift in his expression. But before you can say anything, Louis speaks again, his voice low and teasing. “Well, I like a challenge. What about you, Zayn? You think she’s too much trouble for me?”

Zayn doesn’t immediately respond, his gaze unwavering. “Just keep it friendly, Lou.”

“Of course, mate,” Louis replies smoothly, his grin never faltering. “Just having some fun.”

As the night continues, you notice how Louis keeps his attention on you. He asks questions, not the usual casual ones, but deeper ones—about your childhood, your life outside of the chaos. It makes you feel something unfamiliar.

“Okay, maybe you’re not as much trouble as I thought,” Louis says with a laugh, his eyes softening. “But still, I’m pretty sure you keep life interesting.”

You smile, shaking your head. “I just get caught up in things sometimes. But trouble’s never far off, is it?”

Louis’ grin widens, but there’s something more sincere about it now. “I think it’s my favorite kind of fun.”

The conversation shifts again, but now it’s like the dynamic has subtly changed. There’s an undeniable pull between you and Louis, a chemistry that’s only been intensifying as the night goes on.

As the group starts to filter out, Liam gives you a knowing look. “Watch yourself,” he says in a teasing tone. “Looks like Louis has his eyes on you.”

You roll your eyes. “I can handle myself.”

Zayn, however, is unusually quiet. His gaze is sharp, flicking between you and Louis, his hand still resting on the back of your chair.

Louis glances over to Zayn, his expression almost too casual. “I’m just making conversation, mate. Relax.”

But Zayn’s voice is low when he responds. “Just keep it respectful.”

Louis doesn’t flinch, his smile not fading in the slightest. “Always.”

The tension in the air is thick now, and when the others start heading out, you’re left alone with Louis. He steps closer, his smile turning more earnest.

“Can I see you again?” Louis asks, his voice quieter, more sincere than it’s been all night.

You glance at Zayn, who hasn’t moved, his presence like a silent challenge. But you can’t deny the pull toward Louis.

“Sure,” you say, your heart thudding in your chest. “I’d like that.”

Louis’ grin spreads, pure mischief and warmth. “Good. I’ll make sure it’s worth your time.”

Zayn watches the exchange with a quiet intensity, and as you head toward the door, you feel the weight of his gaze on you, even as Louis’ presence lingers like a promise.

“Are you really going out with him?” Zayn asks softly, his tone almost too careful, his voice low enough that Louis can’t hear.

“Why not?” you reply lightly, but inside, the tension coils tighter.

Zayn doesn’t respond, his lips pressed into a thin line. You can’t help but wonder if this will be another one of those times when the attraction to the bad boy and the allure of danger come with consequences.

…

Part 2

#one direction fanfiction #zayn malik x y/n #zayn malik x you #zayn x y/n #zayn malik x reader #louis tomlinson x reader #louis tomlinson x y/n #louis tomlinson fanfiction

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babiestbubbles · 15 hours ago

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Consequences

(A character study/analysis that kind of stumbled its way into being a drabble?)

I absolutely love when people play around with the consequences that Jack and Janet's neglect would have on Tim, and the ways it would foster a desperation for affection/attention with little to no regard for the cost or consequences. But I hate when people write it off as, "Bruce saves sad sad Tim from his neglectful parents. Tim finally gets the love he wants and deserves. They live happily ever after." (I'm using affection and attention interchangeably here to denote the same concept of positive recognition)

Because, while i do absolutely think that Tim's neglect, coupled with the intrinsic human desire for companionship and positive attention, would result in a desperation for affection. I don't think it would be that two dimensional. I think that instead Tim with end up with a really complicated relationship with affection.

I think it would play out more like, Pre-Bruce Tim really wanting affection, fantasizing about being saved/cared for, and constantly oscillating between self blame + fear that he brought his neglect upon himself and anger or resentment towards his parents for neglecting him.

But then post-adoption? (induction? whatever?) Tim, watching his fantasies be fulfilled and being absolutely revolted by it. Tim who craves affection so badly, deflecting or avoiding attention and affection when he does get it. Being uncomfortable when faced with the same acts of care he'd spent years yearning for. Running from family dinners and movie nights and any form of platonic intimacy, locking himself away in his room and isolating to avoid the discomfort that bubbles under his skin.

But also immediately regretting it. Locking himself away only to sit in his bedroom and yearn for something that's right outside of his door. Pushing away anyone's attempts to be close to him or care for him, but then being devastated when people pull back and give him space.

Him sneaking out and going to parties, acting out, breaking things all over the manor all for the same attention he pushed away when spoon fed. Him having no regard for consequences because everything he breaks could be replaced, and the worst that could happen to him when he sneaks out is ending up sick, and thus not expecting to be punished or reprimanded.

Because of this, I really see Tim being entirely caught off guard when presented with punishment and consequence. Begging Bruce not to bench him, apologizing, desperately trying to bargain, barter, or hell blackmail his way out of trouble, all to no avail.

And Tim subsequently throwing a literal tantrum as he realizes there's no getting out of this. Because this is the first time Tim has ever been faced with a punishment that contains no loophole or means of negotiating his way out. A punishment he KNOWS will be personally fufilled/carried out by Bruce. Unlike Janet and Jack's approach that Tim is used to, where they rarely cared enough to even remember the punishment, not to mention follow through. Meaning Tim's being faced with, for all intents and purposes, his very first real consequence/punishment as a result of his actions. And that, the unequivocal nature of his punishment makes Tim feel trapped. It’s suffocating, terrifying, and entirely uncharted territory for Tim, which results in his 14 yr old grown ass literally throwing himself on the floor sobbing begging Bruce to let up. Because he feels so absolutely helpless in his situation, he's begged and he's pleaded and he's tried everything he could think of and none of it's working and he has no idea what to do with himself, how to react. He cannot comprehend his newfound lack of autonomy at all and it results in him literally melting down on floor of the manor hoping that it will somehow change the circumstances, or at the very least relieve the caged desperation thrashing in his chest.

And Bruce is absolutely shellshocked to see this 14 yr old straight up collapse into tears so, for a couple seconds, he's just kind of frozen, not sure what to do. And this only upsets Tim more, because on top of the insufferable affection and now overbearing rules and damning punishments, Now? When Tim needs him the most? Is when Bruce decides he's done with the whole caring parent act? Now is when he's being deprived of affection and soothing? When it's the only thing that could possibly make the world around him stop spinning?

And the further frustration manifests in like, the meltdown evolving from just crying and a bit of kicking, to incoherent and self destructive distress. Head hitting, hair pulling, biting, scratching, clawing at himself anything to make the feeling go away, anything to distract him from the fact that everything is wrong and awful and miserable and there's no escaping any of it.

And it's this transition into physically harmful behavior that snaps bruce out of his little trance and has him bending down to meet Tim on the floor. Shushing him and trying his best to comfort Tim knowing full well that every other instance in which he's tried this has ended with Tim making a break for it before Bruce could get more than a sentence out.

Except this time is different. This time Tim is tiny and helpless and heartbreakingly overwhelmed thrashing on the floor. This time Tim is that tiny broken 5 year old, begging the parked cars in the garage to bring his parents back. This time Tim doesn't *want* the comfort, he *needs it*.

And he clings to it like a lifeline. His arms are trembling in Bruce’s hold, and he continues to thrash and fight for a minute, as he fights for shuddering wet breaths. But after a few seconds of soothing, the fighting subsides, and Bruce drops his wrists in favor of wrapping the boy in a hug. Tim refuses to let him go. For the rest of the night.

Yet another,Obligatory self-promo for my DC agere discord server

Join it! Come harass me for fics, hcs, and drabbles personally ‼️ /silly

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clarkeyhill · 1 day ago

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English Love Affair | George Clarke part 3

The next day, I met George for coffee. He’d texted me that morning, asking if I was free, and after everything that had happened the previous night the welcoming vibe he gave off and well, the bodyguard act too, I couldn’t say no. his protectiveness making me feel safe in a way I hadn’t expected.

When I arrived, George was already seated at a corner table, a latte in front of him. He greeted me with a warm smile that reached his eyes, his presence instantly soothing.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.

“Better,” I admitted, sitting down across from him. “Thanks to you.”

“I’m glad,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “But I wanted to talk about last night. I hope I didn’t overstep"

“You didn’t overstep,” I assured him. “It made me feel safe" you admitted

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I just… I care, you know? More than I realized.”

His words hung in the air, and I felt a shift in his demeanor—something softer, yet more intense.

“There’s something I need to say,” he continued, his voice steady. “I think you’re incredible. Smart, funny, kind… and, well, I find you really attractive. I’d like to get to know you better—properly.”

My heart skipped a beat as his words settled over me. Before I could respond, he added, “How about dinner? Something special. Let me take you to The Shard tomorrow night.”

“The Shard?” I repeated, taken aback by the grandeur of the offer.

He grinned, a little sheepishly. “Go big or go home, right?”

I hesitated for a moment, the whirlwind of emotions making it hard to think straight. But the way he looked at me—hopeful, yet not demanding—made my decision easy.

“Okay,” I said, smiling. “I’d like that.”

The next evening, I stood in front of my mirror, adjusting the red dress I’d chosen for the occasion. It was elegant yet understated, a perfect balance of posh and casual. Silver jewelry glinted against my skin, and I felt a surge of confidence as I grabbed my clutch and headed out the door.

When I arrived at The Shard, George was waiting for me in the lobby, dressed in a tailored suit that made him look even more handsome than I remembered. His eyes lit up as he saw me, and he let out a low whistle.

“You look stunning,” he said, offering me his arm.

“You clean up pretty well yourself,” I teased, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks.

Dinner was a dream. The view from The Shard was breathtaking, the city glittering beneath us as we talked and laughed over exquisite food and wine. George was charming, attentive, and full of stories that made me laugh until my sides hurt.

As the meal wound down, he leaned back in his chair, his expression turning serious

“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he said, his voice low and deliberate.

“Okay,” I said, suddenly feeling nervous.

He reached across the table, taking my hand in his. “I’ve been thinking about this ever since I met you. I know last night was complicated, but there’s something about you that I can’t shake. You’re beautiful, and I can’t stop imagining what it would be like to… share something more intimate with you.”

I froze, his words catching me completely off guard.

“I’m talking about something physical,” he continued, his eyes searching mine. “But not just physical. I want to explore that with you, if you’re open to it. I promise, if you say yes, I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll show you things you’ve never even dreamed of.”

My heart raced as I processed his proposal. The honesty in his voice, the glint of desire in his eyes, it was overwhelming.

“I’ve never…” I began, my voice faltering. “I’ve never done anything like that before. I’ve never even had a boyfriend.”

His eyes softened, but the intensity remained. “That doesn’t matter to me. What matters is what you want. If you’re curious, if you’re willing to trust me, I’ll make sure you feel nothing but pleasure.”

The air between us was electric, charged with a mix of uncertainty and anticipation. My mind raced with possibilities, questions, fears, and desires I hadn’t even fully acknowledged before.

So, do I accept? Or do I walk away from the unknown?

🫶🏻

#george clarkey #youtube #george clarke #british youtubers #arthur hill

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space-mermaid-writing · 2 days ago

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I would love some more alpha Stephen and omega Tony in the Wild West au (I think it’s Wild West?)

It's definitely a Wild West au I'm stoked that you like it enough to ask for more. Here's another part I came up with last night. This is the longest part so far.

Ko-fi | Masterlist | Word count: 1.7k | Part 1 | Part 2

A weak heart

Stephen urged Levi to speed up, gripping his leather doctor bag tightly to prevent it from slipping off the saddle. The strong and intelligent stallion understood the urgency of the moment and held back on his usual playful behavior. They had one destination: Stark’s Ranch, and they needed to get there quickly.

When one of Stark’s men arrived at Stephen’s ranch and told him the mayor’s son had fainted and they needed a doctor, Stephen had dropped everything and hurried off. He had outdistanced the messenger on the way. It didn’t matter, he knew the way.

He just hoped to get there in time.

Stark’s Ranch was huge. A large gate, marked with Stephen’s name, welcomed him. He rode through it and followed the path leading to the main house. Along the way, he passed numerous horses, cattle, and workers. He ignored the curious looks from those around him.

Howard Stark was not only the wealthiest man in town but in all of western Nebraska, and it showed.

When Stephen reached the house, he pulled Levi to a sudden stop and dismounted swiftly, his doctor bag in hand. He tossed the reins to a stable boy who was nearby. The boy would know how to take care of Levi. Stephen felt a pang of regret that he could not tend to his horse himself, but this was an emergency.

In long strides he rushed to the front door, which flew open. He was greeted by a woman of the house staff, urgency in her voice.

“Doctor Strange, heaven sent, you came quickly. Please follow me.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and led him through a maze of narrow corridors until they arrived in a small reception room with only one other door. The mayor stood in front of a single window, turning to Stephen when he entered.

“Ah, Doctor Strange.”

Stark’s handshake was firm and his words filled with the authority of a man with power. Though, there was an edge to it, as if he was masking nervousness.

“I came as quickly as I could.” Stephen replied, keeping his tone steady. Years of experience with patients had taught him the value of a neutral expression. He needed to focus. They needed a doctor, not a worried… friend.

This man didn’t even know he was a worried friend. If he knew, he would grab that colt from his belt and shoot Stephen right there and then.

“Where is he?” Stephen heard himself ask.

Stark pointed to the other door. “I had him taken to his room so that he could rest. It’s been so long since his weak heart had given us trouble. I hoped he was over it.”

Everybody knew about Tony Stark’s weak heart. It was an open secret, spread with speculation. They said his condition was one of the reasons why the mayor was so overprotective of his omega son. Stephen had heard the stories, though this was the first time his service as a doctor was needed because of that.

Howard had his hand on the door handle, when Stephen’s voice held him back. “Please.” He met the mayor's gaze.. “You’re upset and nervous. If you go in now, it could make things worse for your son. Let me check on him first.”

Yes, that was true. But also Stephen didn’t know if he could keep it together when he saw Tony. He couldn’t risk Stark noticing something.

When the older man hesitated, he added, “If it’s really his heart, we need to be cautious."

It was a complicated situation. Stephen was an alpha, and it was generally unacceptable for him to be alone with an unbound omega like Tony. His relationship with Howard Stark was formal but distant, typical of a doctor and a mayor. They didn’t share familiarity. Yet, Stephen's reputation as a man of integrity seemed to reassure Stark. After a moment's hesitation, he finally nodded and stepped back, allowing Stephen to act.

“That is very considerate of you. Be quick with your check up.”

Finally, Stephen stepped into Tony’s room, deliberately closing the door behind him to ensure privacy. The moment he entered, a familiar scent enveloped him. It was the comforting scent of the omega, filling the space without being overpowering. It felt like he had walked into a field blooming with his favorite flowers, soothing and welcoming.

The room was furnished with dark wood pieces of high quality. A sturdy desk stood against one wall, alongside a well-crafted drawer. In the center of the space loomed a four-poster bed, its elegant design adding a touch of sophistication. The side curtains were drawn, causing Stephen to carefully navigate around it. “Tony?” He kept his voice low to not disturb him if he was resting.

He braced himself for anything.

As soon as Tony spotted him, he put the book aside and sat up. A bright smile broke across his face, full of warmth. “Doc! You came!”

Stephen furrowed his brows lightly, because – admittedly – this didn’t look like an emergency. Still, he asked, “How are you feeling?” He perched himself on the edge of Tony's mattress, adopting the familiar posture of a doctor checking on a patient – and nothing else, right?

He took Tony's wrist to feel the pulse. It was normal, maybe slightly elevated. But nothing unusual.

“I’m great, now that you’re here,” Tony said, and oh that flirtatious smile was dangerous. The omega moved closer to Stephen, who was still confused.

“I was told you passed out and fell off the stairs.”

Maybe Tony had hit his head too hard. He must have, because Tony admitted with a cheeky grin, “Well, I had to get you here somehow.”

Stephen’s mouth hung open as his brain figured out what Tony was saying. “You threw yourself down stairs to see me?!” he asked, flabbergasted. He struggled to keep his voice down, acutely aware that the mayor was likely in the next room, possibly eavesdropping.

Tony brushed it off with a tsk. “Please, it was barely a step. I just played it up a bit.” The omega shifted into a dramatic tone to give Stephen a piece of performance. “Oh, I don’t feel so good. Why is everything spinning?” He play-fainted and dropped back onto the mattress. Then, with a big grin, he sat up again. “It was way too easy. I’m a genius.”

Stephen’s mouth still hung open. He closed it the same time his eyes darkened. “Have you lost your brain and replaced it with horseshit?” he growled. Tony gaped in offense, but Stephen wasn’t done yet. “Do you think this is funny? You had your father worried sick. You had me worried sick. I thought you were dying!”

Anger was written in his face. Stephen’s hands clenched the sheets, desperately seeking something to hold onto as he struggled to contain his emotions. He knew he couldn’t raise his voice too much. Not in this house, where he had to hide the affection he felt in his heart.

Tony realized he had gone too far. He had never seen the alpha so angry. He bit his lower lip. This hadn’t been part of his plan.

In a sudden burst of instinct, he reached out, cupping Stephen’s face with his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you,” he said, his voice softening. As he pressed their foreheads together, he moved closer, kneeling amid the messy blanket that lay between them.

Stephen closed his eyes instinctively on the contact, inhaling Tony’s scent. He wanted to remain angry, to express just how recklessly Tony had acted. Yet, here he was, powerless against the calming presence of the omega in front of him.

Tony was here, and he was fine. There wasn’t an emergency.

Stephen knew what they did was dangerous. If anyone came through that door, they would catch him. The doctor wasn’t allowed to touch the omega like that.

Tony’s hands were warm and grounded him.

Technically, Stephen was being touched. His only crime was that he did not put up any resistance.

“Don’t do that ever again.” Stephen’s voice was a whisper against the omega’s forbidden lips. They were so close.

Yet, Stephen knew he wouldn’t dare to bridge the gap, to take that step. So far he had followed Tony’s lead, and he would continue to do so. He would give the omega anything he wanted. No less. No more.

Tony’s fingers brushed over his cheek and through his hair. Stephen leaned into the touch, his heart swelling with this simple gesture. The truth was: he was the one with a weak heart. And there was no cure.

Tony pulled back, but his hand searched for Stephen’s and grasped it. “How am I supposed to see you then?” the omega asked, his voice so earnest that Stephen thought, maybe it wasn’t just a game for him.

“I thought you were a genius. Figure it out.”

Tony’s smile returned, brightening the entire room once more. The omega recognized Stephen’s words for what they were: a challenge. And he thrived on challenges.

“I will.”

____________________

As Stephen stepped out of Tony's room, he found Howard waiting for him. The mayor's face showed a mix of impatience and concern.

“How bad is it, doctor?” he asked without beating around the bush.

“Not as bad as we thought,” Stephen replied, offering reassurance, and the mayor let out a sigh of relief. “You should make sure he is eating healthy. Meat and vegetables.” There was no harm in Stephen taking the opportunity to make sure the omega was treated well and took care of himself.

Before leaving Tony, Stephen had taken a moment to examine him. He could not bear the thought of something happening to Tony due to his own carelessness. Tony had put up with it without a word, even seemed secretly delighted about it.

The results were reassuring: Tony was a healthy young man.

“His heart needs simple exercises,” the doctor continued. “He should take walks everyday.”

“Won’t that strain his heart?”

“On the contrary, it will strengthen it in the long run.”

Tony was not the kind of omega meant to be confined. He needed freedom, as much as possible within the limits of their world.

Stark nodded, accepting the doctor’s assessment.

Despite knowing he should feel guilty for deceiving Howard, Stephen felt little shame. In fact, he felt a rush of thrill as he added, “I would like to check on him again in a few days. Just to make sure.”

This was a dangerous path he was stepping on. Yet, he hid a smile when Stark answered, “Be my guest.”

#IronStrange #Wild West #Old Western AU #Stephen Strange #Tony Stark #stephen strange x tony stark #doctor strange #Iron Man #alpha stephen strange #omega tony stark

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