#part of me was tempted to try and make the character into Link for a while cause I relate blood moons to BotW haha

[imaginespazzi]

Part 6: To Trying Again

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14

I don't wanna mess this thing up (I don't wanna push too far)

(In which an "evil" writer might surprise you guys just a little bit with this part)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Fluff and Angst

Words: 5.6K

TW: Swearing (I think that's it?)

A/N: Happy Monday lovelies! This is sort of a filler-ish short chapter though I do think it's important to both plot and character development. I'd like to preface this by saying I've never been to Minsk or Park Pieramohi so I'm very much going off of pictures. Editing and I remain on very, very bad terms so pretty please let me know of typos so I can fix them. As always, let me know what you liked, what you disliked and what you'd like to see going forward. Have a lovely rest of your week my loves <3

July 2018 

“You’re being too loud,” Azzi whisper-screams at the blonde girl in front of her as she closes the door to her room behind her with a little too much force. 

Paige turns her head back every-so-slightly with a pronounced eye roll, “will you please relax.”

“I would if you’d just be a little more careful,” Azzi glares, taking cautious steps as if the sound of her sneakers across the carpeted floor could potentially wake up any of the coaches. 

“Azzi,” Paige says exasperatedly, “the coaches are all the way on the other end of the hallway. Besides, they're probably all sleeping.”

And despite her stubbornness, Azzi can concede that Paige has a point there. It’s nearly midnight and the game against Spain earlier in the day might have had a final score that made it seem like the USA U17 women's basketball team had won handily, but the game itself had been draining to say the least. The post-victory dinner had featured a bunch of worn out teenagers gobbling their food without much conversation and a cohort of coaches who seemed like they needed an hour of drinking followed by good night’s sleep. But even the exhaustion of the day hadn’t been enough to prevent Paige Bueckers and her diabolical mind from coming up with the idea to sneak out into the city of Minsk. 

“No,” Azzi had said immediately even before the words had been spoken, that shimmering glint in Paige’s eyes a dead giveaway as she sidled up to Azzi at the salad bar. 

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” Paige had pouted. 

“You never say anything good.”

“That’s crazy. You’re so mean to me.”

“So mean,” Azzi had nodded in agreement, “so how about you go and bother someone else.”

“Azzi please. We haven’t had just Paige and Azzi time in ages. Don’t want someone else. Just want you.”

And after that well, there wasn’t really any chance of saying no. Azzi’s only fifteen and she doesn’t know that much about love, but sometimes when Paige looks at her with those earnest blue eyes and a smile that promises i’ll always be here, she thinks the way her heart starts to flutter erratically to a beat of and i wouldn’t want anyone else to stay, might just be the start of her finding out. 

“See,” Paige grins triumphantly as the two girls find their way out of their hotel and onto the street, “told you we wouldn’t get caught. Shit’s just too damn easy.”

Azzi rolls her eyes at the attitude, “don’t tempt fate.”

“Fate’s got nothing in front of Paige Bueckers. I make my own fate,” Paige winks as she links her arms through Azzi. 

It’s a mundane amount of contact, absolutely nothing special to it, but Azzi feels herself shiver in spite of the humidity that’s circling around them. She doesn’t quite know how it happened. One moment she was staring across the court, judging the skinny blonde practicing free throws and coming to the conclusion that she’d be no threat; the next moment said girl was next to her on the plane back from Argentina and Azzi, a self-admitted introvert, found herself rattling off about everything and nothing with this girl who seemed to have discovered the keys to all of Azzi’s locks. Hours of talking had bled into days and days had bled into months and despite the fact that facetime had taken the place of in-person conversations, the word friendship had seemed too cavalier a word to describe the relationship Paige and Azzi were building. 

Paige had whittled away all of Azzi’s carefully constructed armor until she was buried deep underneath her skin and Azzi’s sure there’s no knife in the world sharp enough to carve the blonde out from where she lives underneath Azzi’s ribcage. Azzi doesn’t want anyone to try and dig her out. She  thinks she might bleed out if they do. 

“Az,” Paige whines, waving her free hand in the younger girl’s face, “are you even paying attention to me?”

“That depends,” Azzi hums, “are you saying anything interesting?”

“I’m always saying something interesting.”

“You’re always saying something. The interesting is subjective,” Azzi teases, laughing when Paige pouts. 

“I sneak you out to give you an adventure and this is how you repay me? With insults?” Paige puts a dramatic hand to her heart.

“Walking boring streets is not an adventure. Virginia has streets too.”

“It’s not about the streets, it’s about where the streets lead to,” Paige says with grave seriousness. 

Azzi raises an eyebrow, “are you entering your philosopher Paige era?”

“I’d make a good philosopher,” Paige waggles her own eyebrows as they two girls find themselves entering park Pieramohi. 

“Virginia has parks too, you know Paige?” Azzi says skeptically. 

Paige lets out a dramatic sigh, “will you just keep walking, woman. Sometimes I wonder if you even like me?”

It’s said like a joke but there’s a hint of insecurity beaded into it that buzzes in Azzi’s ears as she wraps a careful hand around Paige’s wrist, stopping the two of them where they are. 

“Hey,” she whispers softly, nudging the older girl, “you don’t ever have to wonder with me. I’m always gonna like you Paige. Even if you’re a pain in my ass half the time.”

“Had to ruin it with the last part, didn't you?” Paige complains but her eyes twinkle at the reassurance, “Just so you know I’m gonna be a pain in your ass forever.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Azzi promises as they continue strolling through the park. 

The silence is peaceful and the breeze that flows around them is like a comforting hug. And Azzi thinks that she’d be okay if there wasn’t a destination for them to get to, as long as the journey came with Paige by her side. 

“We’re almost there,” Paige says slowly, a slightly nervous edge to her voice. 

“You sure you’re not just getting us lost-” the teasing quip dies on Azzi’s tongue as she stares at the scenery in front of her. They’re standing on the edge of a bridge overlooking a lake and it looks like something out of a disney fairytale; the picturesque image of green trees silhouetted against a magically starry night is captured perfectly on the still surface of the water that’s flowing beneath. As Azzi peers across the railing, Paige right next to her, she feels her breath hitch at the reflection that peers up at her. Because the view in front of them is beautiful but Paige’s eyes are on Azzi and she’s staring at her as if the view is nothing in comparison. 

“C’mon,” the blonde says softly, lacing her fingers through Azzi’s as she tugs her along, “I have a plan.”

“There’s more?” Azzi asks in awe as Paige guides her to the gazebo in the middle of the bridge. 

“Just a little bit,” Paige says and oh- that shy smile is different. Azzi doesn’t think she’s seen that one yet and she makes a mental note to herself, to memorize it and store it along with all of Paige’s other smiles that make Azzi’s insides swoop like a rollercoaster. 

She watches intently as Paige begins to peruse through the purple rucksack she’d been carrying. The first thing out of it is a picnic blanket and then a horde of different snacks, all of Azzi’s favorites. Two plastic champagne glasses are next and then a sheepish grin as Paige pulls out a bottle of soda. 

“Couldn’t quite risk trying to get alcohol,” Paige scratches at her neck. 

“Next time maybe,” Azzi shrugs as she helps Paige set up the arrangement and she feels herself fluttering at the thought of doing this again and again and again. 

“How’d you even find this place?” she asks as Paige begins to pour out the soda. 

“You ever heard of googling?”

Azzi rolls her eyes at Paige’s teasing smirk, “how’d you even have time to do this?”

Paige is quiet for a second as she passes Azzi her glass, “wanted to do something special for us,” she says quietly, keeping her eyes intently on what she’s doing as she pours out a drink for herself, “wasn’t hard to find time for you.”

“You could be a poet, Paige Bueckers,” Azzi whispers and she knows it’s unfair of her but she thinks it anyway. As long as all your poems are about me. 

“The poets are lucky I chose a ball instead of a pen. They’d be out of a job otherwise,” Paige says, trying to ease back into the more familiar arrogance. 

“Always so humble,” Azzi says, rolling her eyes as she holds up her glass, “alright what are toasting to?”

“I came up with this whole thing. You can come up with a toast,” Paige scrunches her nose and Azzi shakes her head at it. 

She thinks for a second before smiling brightly at the girl in front of her, “let’s just keep it simple and toast to us.”

“How original,” Paige teases but she clinks her glass against Azzi’s anyways, “here’s to us.”

“Here’s to us,” Azzi repeats as they both take sips of soda. 

They melt into a comfortable silence, relishing in this rare moment where there isn’t a screen separating them from each other. Facetimes is a wonderful creation but a blurry screen, Azzi decides, doesn’t nearly do justice to just how damn pretty Paige is. Her hair is golden as it basks in the glow of the moon and Azzi wonders if the stars are jealous of how brilliantly the blonde’s blue eyes twinkle.

It’s Paige who speaks first, her voice hesitant, “you uh- you never asked me how my date went a couple of weeks ago.”

Azzi feels her whole body go rigid. She’d almost forgotten about Paige’s wretched date. The blonde had told her about it a couple of days before the actual event and Azzi had played the dutiful role of a best friend, teasing Paige with a light-heartedness she didn’t feel and congratulating her with an excitement that came from anywhere but from the heart. She’d purposely avoided Paige’s calls the day of the date and then two days after, coming up with some sorry excuse she no longer remembers. On the third day, when the hollow ache of i miss her voice in her chest had become too hard to ignore, Azzi had finally picked up the phone and diverted the conversation straight to a different topic. She hadn’t thought of the date since. 

“Guess it slipped my mind,” she says airily, fingers gripping the edge of the picnic blanket. 

“I could tell you about it now,” Paige says slowly. 

I’d rather you didn’t, Azzi thinks but that’s a thought that veers a little too out of the sphere of best-friend-isms and so she simply nods her head, “y-yeah tell me about it. How was it?”

“It was nice,” Paige begins and there’s something hidden in her tone that Azzi can't quite place but she’s a little too busy sulking at the idea of Paige with anybody else to try and decipher it, “dinner was good. Took her to a movie after. That was good too.”

“That’s cool P. I’m glad- I’m glad you had fun,” Azzi says nonchalantly, gripping the glass in her hands just a little too tight. 

“I didn’t.”

“What?”

“I didn’t really have that much fun,” Paige clarifies and Azzi gawks at her in confusion as the older girl fidgets with the frayed edges of the picnic blankets, “just didn’t- didn’t feel right. Don’t think she had much fun either. She never texted me after.”

“What a bitch,” Azzi bites out, suddenly irrationally angry at a girl she’d never met because how could anyone possibly not have fun with Paige, “I’m sorry P. You deserve-”

“I didn’t care that she didn’t text back-”

“Still. It’s just the decent thing to do,” Azzi rants. 

“Maybe,” Paige shrugs, “but I didn’t have time to care about that. I had other things on my mind. Like the fact that you weren’t talking to me.”

Azzi flinches at the accusation, rushing out her previous defense, “I was busy.”

“Bullshit,” Paige sneers. 

“Paige-”

“But I get it,” the older girl says softly as she reaches for Azzi’s hand, tugging the brunette closer to her and Azzi feels something inside her erupt at how close their faces are, “I probably wouldn’t have talked to you for two days either if you went on a date with someone else.”

“Oh,” Azzi breathes out and there’s probably something more eloquent she should say but there’s this realization of maybe you feel it too that’s beginning to creep up her spine, rendering her speechless as Paige continues to stare at her like she’s mapping out all the tiniest details of Azzi’s face. 

“The whole date, I kept thinking how you wouldn’t order what she ordered off the menu or that you would probably hit my hand if I tried to steal something off your plate but then give it to me anyway. And that the movie would never have been so quiet with you and we’d probably get yelled at for giggling too much and I-” Paige pauses, dragging in a deep breath, “I definitely would’ve kissed you at the end.”

A sigh of relief escapes Azzi’s lips, “you didn’t kiss her.”

“No,” Paige confirms as she drops her forehead against Azzi’s, “but I-,” the blonde gulps nervously and Azzi can’t help the way her hand reaches up to caress the blush forming on Paige’s cheeks. 

“Ask me,” she whispers.

“I really want to kiss you,” Paige confesses, voice shaking slightly, “can I kiss you?”

Azzi doesn’t say anything, choosing to reply instead by pressing her lips softly against Paige’s. They move slowly at first, testing each other’s boundaries and savoring their first taste of each other. Azzi pulls the older girl onto her lap, hands firmly on Paige’s hips as the other girl clasps her own hands around Azzi’s neck.  It’s a little messy and uncoordinated and Azzi thinks they might need to practice a little more to really get it right but still, it’s everything.

And Azzi just knows

She knows it then just the way she knew Tim was meant to be her dad. The way she knew Jon and José were meant to be her brothers. The way she knew she was meant to play basketball. Azzi knows that she’s meant to fall hopelessly in love with Paige Bueckers. 

March 2033

There are three things Azzi should do. 

Push Paige away 

Tell her this a bad idea 

Run the fuck away

She does none of the above.

Instead Azzi kisses Paige back. 

And it’s still everything. Like the sun and moon are colliding and creating something so insanely powerful; something that feels so eternal. 

There’s nothing soft or slow about it as Paige presses every inch of herself into Azzi until she can feel Paige’s heartbeat as strongly as she can feel her own. It might be impossible but she swears their hearts are talking to each other, tapping out rhythms against each other’s chests that confess all the things their owners are too scared to say. And Azzi wants nothing more than to lose herself completely in the moment because Paige’s lips feel like a drug and Azzi thinks she might just be an addict in relapse. 

Except to relapse, you need to have recovered. And Azzi doesn’t think she ever fully recovered from Paige. 

It isn’t until she feels her back hit the edge of a desk and the sound of something crashing onto the floor infiltrates her ears, that Azzi finally comes to her senses. She tears her lips away from Paige as the older woman groans in protest, arms tightening their hold on Azzi’s waist so she can still have some semblance of control over the situation. And really Azzi knows she’s strong enough to escape Paige’s grip, could easily fight it if she wanted to. But well, she doesn’t want to. And Azzi’s tired of doing things she doesn’t want to do. 

“Paige-”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘we can’t do this’, Azzi I swear to god I’m going to kill you,” Paige threatens, pressing her forehead against Azzi’s. 

Azzi laughs softly and she can feel Paige’s whole body relax at the sound of it and like clockwork, she feels the tension beginning to release from her own muscles, “if you kill me then we definitely can’t do this.”

“I’ll revive you after or something,” Paige says with a half-smirk. 

“Or something,” Azzi rolls her eyes, “but we can’t-”

“Azzi,” Paige groans. 

“We can’t do this right now and definitely not here,” Azzi amends, alluding to the fact that they’re still in Steph’s office. 

Paige raises an eyebrow, cocking her head slightly, “but we can do this later? Somewhere else?”

The question lingers between them as Azzi bites her lip. She knows what this is, knows that it’s Paige putting the ball in her court. A ‘no’ would likely be the end of things and that scares her more than she’s willing to admit but she’s not quite ready to commit to a ‘yes’ yet, even if that flame of desire inside of her, the one that can only be lit by Paige, is blazing hot through her veins. 

“I don’t know,” Azzi says carefully, shivering at the way Paige’s thumb is rubbing circles against her waist, the flimsy material of her shirt doing nothing to prevent the goosebumps forming on her skin, “TBD.”

“That’s not a no,” Paige says carefully, hope blossoming freely on her face. 

“That’s not a yes either,” Azzi warns half-heartedly. 

“But it’s not a no,” Paige presses. 

“No,” Azzi admits, playing with the neckline of Paige’s shirt, “it’s not a no.”

And Azzi’s so scared of the future, scared that if she lets herself burn, she’ll incinerate everyone around her but there’s something in the way Paige smiles at her words. Something that feels a lot like a promise of i’ll be the rain that washes out the fire before you can turn us to ashes. 

“I can work with that,” Paige says softly, tilting Azzi’s chin up. 

“So desperate to get back into my pants Bueckers,” Azzi teases and she expects a witty remark in return but instead she’s met with nothing but sincerity. 

“So desperate to get back into your life,” Paige whispers, voice cracking on the last two words. 

Tears prickle against Azzi’s waterline as she stares in awe at the girl in front of her. Sometimes she thinks Paige doesn’t even know that there’s a halo of goodness sitting above her head, doesn't even know just how beautiful her soul is. Paige is stunning on the outside; it’s something no one can deny. But it’s nothing compared to how gorgeous she is on the inside, nothing compared to how kind, how humble, how forgiving Paige is. 

“Why?” Azzi asks, her tone rife with heaviness. 

“Why what?” 

“After everything, after all this time, why would you still want to be in my life?” the tears fall harder as Azzi struggles to breathe, “I- I broke your heart. I broke us. How could you possibly want that again. How could you possibly want me again?”

Paige's eyes soften as she cups Azzi’s cheeks, thumbs brushing away at the drops of water running down them, “because you’re Azzi. My Azzi. And I get it- I get that you’re not ready to be all in on this with me yet and if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not completely ready either. But we can work on it right? Take it slow and see where it goes and maybe we’ll- maybe we’ll be even better this time.”

“You think so?”

“I believe so.”

Azzi presses her lips delicately against Paige’s, reveling in the way it makes Paige’s breath hitch. She pulls away faster than she would like herself and Paige chases her lips, eyes still closed. 

“What was that for,” the blonde asks, slightly dazed. 

“For being my Paige.”

***

Azzi taps her foot impatiently against her wooden patio as she glances at her phone clock for the umpteenth time. Paige is almost twenty minutes late to pick her and Stephie up to go to dinner at her parent’s house. The invites had technically been separate but Paige had insisted that they needed to go together because Paige didn’t want to walk into the house alone. Azzi’s not sure why Paige is nervous to see her dad and brothers again, not when she’s pretty sure they’re bursting with excitement to see the blonde whose pictures still have a permanent place on the family photo wall, but if Paige wants Azzi by her side, well she’s not going to say no. Not anymore. 

 It’s been a week since they’d agreed to take things slow and Azzi’s still not quite sure what exactly that means, but she thinks she likes it. She likes being able to call Paige and not having to come up with a lame excuse for why. She likes that she and Paige can take Stephie out for ice cream after Curry Camp and they don’t have to pretend they’re only tolerating each other’s presence for the little girl’s sake. She likes that they can brush their pinkies while walking and instead of jolting away, they simply just link them together. There’s boundaries of course. No sleepovers at either of their houses. No doing anything more than kissing. No kissing in front of anyone else and definitely no kissing in front of Stephie. No doing anything in front of Stephie really. And there’s still so much mountain left to climb but as long as they’re pushing up it together, Azzi doesn’t think there’s any incline steep enough to stop her from continuing up this path.

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie squeals as Paige’s car rounds the corner into Azzi’s driveway. 

Paige steps out of the car, arms wide open and ready to catch Stephie as the little girl goes tumbling down the front porch, aiming straight for the blonde. Azzi’s not an artist by any means but if she was, she thinks she could paint a thousand pictures of Stephie and her Miss Buecks. It terrifies Azzi a little bit, just how perfectly Stephie fits into Paige’s side but it calms her too because there’s a part of her that’s in love with how much they love each other.

“You’re late Bueckers,” Azzi chides as she follows her daughter’s path down the patio stairs. 

Paige grins, shifting Stephie on her lap as she opens the side door to her car to pull out two bouquets of flowers

“Will these make up for it?” she asks slyly as she hands the larger one, an assortment of pink flowers, to Azzi and a slightly smaller bouquet of purple hydrangeas to Stephie. 

“These are so pretty Miss Buecks,” Stephie gushes before pressing a kiss to Paige’s cheek left cheek and Paige beams at the compliment, “thank you Miss Buecks.”

“You took that long to get flowers?” Azzi asks with a raised eyebrow. 

“Mama,” Stephie chides immediately, “you’re supposed to thank someone when they give you a gift.”

“Yeah Azzi,” Paige’s eyes glimmer with mirth, “thank me like Stephie thanked me. Don’t you think Mama owes me a kiss on the cheek Steph?”

Azzi narrows her eyes at the scheming pair in front of her as Stephie nods animatedly at Paige’s question, “yeah Mama you owe Miss Buecks a kiss on the cheek.”

Shaking her head, Azzi walks over to Paige taking deliberately steady steps. Slowly Azzi leans in, puckering her lips. Paige closes her eyes and Azzi winks at Stephie who’s eyes widen. 

“I’m waiting,” Paige sing-songs, a self-satisfied smirk taking over her features. 

And instead of the promised kiss, Azzi licks a sloppy strip down Paige’s cheek and the blonde shrieks as both Azzi and Stephie burst into laughter.

“EW AZZI GROSS,” Paige whines, hurriedly rubbing her shirt against her cheek, “is this what you’re teaching your daughter?”

“I’m teaching my daughter not to let anyone manipulate her,” Azzi says, giving Paige a careful look, “now why were you late?”

Paige grins sheepishly as she opens the door to the backseat of the door. A lavender car seat is placed on the left side of the car and Azzi feels her heart lurch with no one’s ever cared like this. 

“It’s pu-ple,” Stephie claps excitedly, “is it for me?”

“Of course it is,” Paige confirms, booping Stephie’s nose before looking at Azzi, “it’s just- we uh- we always have to take your car cause it has the car seat and moving it between cars is such a hassle. So I just thought- you know- I just thought it’d be cool- useful- practical- if I had one too? And this way if you ever need me to take Stephie off you then I uh- then you don’t have to worry about me driving. I don’t- I don’t really knows much about car seats but I looked it up online before and the person at the store agreed that this is definitely the best one- like I swear it’s safe-”

She’s cut off by the feel of Azzi’s lips pressed to her cheeks. 

“Thank you Paige.”

***

Just as Azzi expected, Paige merges herself back into the Fudd family with the same ease she’d first had when she’d carved out a place for herself almost a decade and a half ago. It’s a little emotional at first when Tim opens the door, a smile almost as big as him decorating his face as he pulls Paige into a hug even before she can say a word. 

“Welcome home kid,” he whispers into her blonde hair and Azzi doesn’t have to see Paige’s face to know that her best friend is blinking away tears. 

Guilt surges in Azzi’s stomach and she tries to swallow away the lump of i took this from her that’s blocking her throat. It had been so simple at 15 to give Paige a part of her world; Azzi hadn’t thought twice about it. And then with the snap of her fingers, she’d taken that world away. She knows her parents had never cut Paige out; hell they’d been at her wedding to some other woman -and Azzi had pushed them to go knowing Paige would need it- but it was a far cry from what they’d been. A far cry from when Paige’s schedule was a key factor while planning Fudd family summers. 

“Hey,” Stephie pouts, tiny hands crossed over her small body “I thought you always gave me the first hug Pops.”

“We’ll make an exception today,” Tim says with a wink before letting Paige walk into Katie’s arms and spinning his granddaughter around, “but you’re always gonna be my favorite.”

“I better be,” Stephie threatens and the adults around her laugh. 

And finally it’s Azzi's turn to be pulled into one of her dad’s patent bear hugs. She goes willingly, always at her most warmest in the arms of the man whose blood might not run through her veins, but whose love had always protected her from the cruelties of the world. 

“You look really happy today sweetheart,” Tim says softly. 

Azzi’s eyes flitter over her father’s shoulder to where Jon and José are embroiling Paige in a group hug with Stephie in the middle of it, screaming about finally having their “white sister” back, as Katie and José’s fiancé Tallulah roll their eyes at the group of them, and she can’t help but smile into her dad’s shirt, “I feel pretty happy today.”

*** 

“You cheated,” Jon yells. 

“Miss Buecks does not cheat,” Stephie yells back loyally. 

“Don’t get into this Stephie. You don’t know her like we do,” José glares at Paige who narrows her eyes at him, “she’s been stealing from the bank.”

“Miss Buecks does not  steal,” Stephie defends again, wrapping her arms around Paige’s neck from behind as the blonde presses a quick kiss against Stephie’s temple. 

“It’s okay Stephie,” Paige reassures, gently swinging the little girl into her lap, “some people are just sore losers.”

“Can’t be a sore loser because I didn’t lose-” José coughs and Jon corrects himself immediately, “because we didn’t lose.”

“Y’all let it go,” Tallulah groans, leaning her head back against the sofa, “it’s literally just monopoly. Please, I'm so tired.”

“Just monopoly? JUST MONOPOLY?” José guffaws dramatically, “I can’t believe I’m marrying someone who doesn’t understand that it isn’t just monopoly Tallulah. It’s about liars and cheats and honor-”

“Miss Buecks has plenty of honor,” Stephie says stubbornly, leaning her head back against Paige’s chest.

Jon rounds on Azzi, who’s been silently watching the situation, “did you help her cheat?”

“Excuse me?” Azzi asks, glaring at her brother from where she’s been comfortable reclining on the sofa. She’d opted to be the banker instead of playing, content just handing out money to the rest of them while watching the game unfold. But really she hadn’t been paying much attention to anyone else but her daughter and Paige. Stephie didn’t quite understand the rules yet and so she was always on someone’s team. It had been a given tonight, that of course she would be with Paige. And Azzi had watched, trying not to be too obvious, with a foolish grin on her face, as her two favorite people whispered to each other, Paige listening intently to all of Stephie’s ideas whether they were good or bad. 

“Oh good point,” José turns to look at Azzi too, “you’re the banker, did you help Paige cheat?”

“Mama would never cheat,” Stephie argues defiantly as Azzi pushes herself up from the sofa to send a menacing look to both of her brothers. 

“I’m not going to dignify that accusation with a justification,” Azzi says, standing so she’s towering over her two brothers who are still sitting on the floor, “now clean up the game. It’s almost Stephie’s bedtime.”

 They might be well into their twenties and José might be taller than her now, but they’re still not quite  immune to Azzi’s wrath. Tallulah and Paige snicker as the two men, sulking at each other, obey their older sister's command without another word. 

“You’ve gotta teach me how you do that,” Tallulah says, hi-fiving Azzi who smirks in response. 

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie whispers, “what does dig-ni-fy mean?”

“Mean she’s not gonna entertain your uncles being dumba-”

“Paige!”

“Being dumbapples,” Paige corrects and both Azzi and Stephie give her an odd look at her ridiculous attempt at saving the bad word from leaving her lips. 

“Alright Stephie-bean,” Azzi says, pulling her daughter off of Paige’s lap, “it’s late enough. Off to brush your teeth you go.”

Stephie looks hesitantly between the staircase leading up to the guest bedroom -where she and Azzi normally stayed- and Paige. 

“Can Miss Buecks stay with us tonight?” she asks softly, one hand bunching in Paige’s shirt as she stares up at her mother with large doe eyes, “please Mama.”

“Stephie I don’t think-” Paige begins, ready to stick to the boundaries they’d laid out for themselves and really Azzi should let her; should follow her lead really.  

Except the words are tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop them, “yeah she can- she can stay.”

“YAYY,” Stephie squeals, jumping into Azzi’s arms as Paige stares up at her in surprise, “thank you, thank you, thank you Mama. I’m so happy,” she swings from Azzi to Tallulah, “aunty Tully did you hear? Miss Buecks is gonna stay with us and you can make her your famous pancakes in the morning.”

“I can, can I?” Tallulah asks with a raised eyebrow as she lets Stephie and her excited chatter lead her towards the bathroom. With Jon and José both having already started towards their own rooms and Azzi’s parents fast asleep, it leaves just Paige and Azzi in the living room. 

“You’re okay with me staying?” Paige asks softly, finally lifting herself from the floor and onto her feet. 

Azzi scratches the back of her neck, “if- if you want to. You don’t have to. I can- I’ll explain to Stephie-”

“I want to,” Paige says, taking a cautious step towards Azzi, “but the rules?”

“This doesn’t count,” Azzi justifies and Paige smirks, taking another step towards the brunette. 

“It doesn’t?”

“We said no sleeping over at each other’s places. This is my parent’s house. So technically it doesn’t count,” Azzi shrugs, trying to keep her face from breaking into a grin as Paige moves one more step closer. 

“And where exactly am I sleeping?” Paige asks with a knowing grin as she loops an arm around Azzi’s waist, briefly checking to make sure no one’s around. 

Azzi tilts her head, letting the grin break through, “I think Stephie would like it if you slept with us.”

“Ah well if that’s what Stephie would like,” Paige says, nodding commiseratingly. 

“For Stephie’s sake,” Azzi repeats as she wraps her arm around Paige’s neck, pressing her forehead against the older girl’s and letting herself just breathe in the peace that comes with being all consumed by Paige. 

“Azzi,” Paige’s voice is laced with uncharacteristic vulnerability as she speaks again, “you won’t- you won’t run away again tomorrow morning will you?”

“No,” Azzi promises, gently brushing her lips against Paige’s, “I won’t run away again.”

[leconcombrerit]

This thing had been rotting in my files for a year (minus three weeks but that's basically a year). It was a redraw of one of my first ever pieces for this fandom, and I still find it quite okay if a little stiff in places, so I thought I might as well share it since I don't draw that much anymore.

And then I had second thoughts, which obviously led to me posting it anyway, as you can see, but I realized I've almost made it a point not to draw anything related to Sasi anymore. As in at all. I can't, and I don't want to, and even sharing old art feels a bit 'meh'. It's too directly linked to my long going art block.

What I mean by that is that if I took all the followers I have out there and asked them what they know me or initially followed me for, you might have a fair amount of Lis 2 and the occasional Desert Bluffs afficionados, but you'd get an overwhelming majority of Sanders Sides. Sanders Sides fashion posts even. I was by no means famous for it or anything, but at my small artist scale, it was the biggest success I had.

And it makes it much harder to go back to it at all now. One, because I don't give a damn about the show anymore. Two, because I haven't been properly obsessing over anything in a while (there was a series early this year but given the actual emotional distress I get thinking about it I'm ruling it out). I haven't had real engagement from my own brain, nor real engagement from a broad audience -which makes sense, I'm not posting for anything that will reach a broad audience. But it takes its toll regardless.

Even when I finally finished writing a long fic, I couldn't help but feel 'all this for what ? Ten people or so and two hundreds have dropped it ?'. Which is a bad way to think about stuff you write for your own enjoyment but, you know, the brain gets happy with external validation even if you pretend really hard you don't care.

And so it feels tempting to go back to the golden goose just the time to get the creative juice pumping back, and I try, and I always end up frustrated and angry and feeling even less like making art that before. I'm not having fun with Sasi. Like an old friend you have nothing to say to and yet you have so much to say otherwise, so you get a bit frustrated, you know ? Not sure I'm making much sense, but that's how it feels. I want to have something like that again, but it won't be with Sanders Sides, and I somehow just want if off my radar.

It was left hanging, then lost its spark, and then I stopped caring altogether and I most likely won't even watch the finale when it does come out. I'm over it. I wish I wasn't though, because it does feel like the artistic spark won't come back all on its own this time, and the buzzing community made it so much easier to bounce back and do shit when your brain got wired all wrong.

It sounds like I'm just bawling after love and likes and stuff, and I guess that's part of it, in a way ? Like I'm in no place to do things for myself, and seeing the one thing I used to use to get back in the flow giving me a bored sense of dread doesn't feel too great.

Yet this drawing is still good ! I find it good ! I don't remember everything, but I can tell from the looks of it that I spent a while on it ! It's nice ! I should celebrate that. So I'm sharing it. I think it will be the last piece of Sasi I ever share, though. I'm not watching the finale when it comes out. I don't care about it. I'll just keep doodling my OCs and characters from cool books every once in a while. I'll write little things.

I just really, really need to stop trying to go back to it when it's clearly not working and not even for good reasons. It was a fun ride though ! So yeah. Basically. A whole ass rant for a one year old piece of art. I'm in my bi-annual depresso mood, nothing too surprising there.

[amethystarachnid]

hiii!!! i recently discovered your blog and i am in LOVE!!! (especially with your steve rogers fics) could i request from your marvel holiday special - 24. Wrapped In Christmas Lights with female reader x steve rogers? if possible, could you make it so reader and steve rogers are friends but have had a crush on each other and reader trying to get the lights off of steve makes him extra flustered? just fluff, fluff and more fluff!!! thank you so much!!

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

⤷ STEVE G. ROGERS

ᯓ★ Pairing: Steve G. Rogers x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: literally a rom-com

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 4.6k

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing

ᯓ★ I'm so happy when people request Steve cause he's such a baby and I love him so much and he definitely needs more recognition

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

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

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

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

You clutch a paper bag filled with Christmas ornaments in one hand and a to-go cup of peppermint mocha in the other as you climb the stairs to Steve’s apartment. The cold December air bites at your cheeks, even though you’re wrapped up in a scarf and hat. You blame Steve and his "Brooklyn charm" for making you abandon the comfort of your heated apartment to help him decorate his Christmas tree.

"Just a tree," he'd said on the phone, his voice low and a little sheepish. "I mean, it’s no big deal, but, you know… I could use an extra set of hands."

Of course, you said yes. You always say yes to Steve.

The door to his apartment swings open before you even knock, as if he’s been standing there, watching through the peephole. "Hey!" he says, his face lighting up in a way that makes your heart do a little flip. He’s dressed casually in a cream sweater that looks like it’s seen a few decades of loyal service and a pair of jeans that hug his frame just right.

"Hey yourself," you say, pushing past him before your brain goes too far down the admiration rabbit hole. "You didn’t tell me I’d have to lug all the ornaments up three flights of stairs."

"I offered to come get you," he says, closing the door behind you. There’s a hint of pink dusting his ears. "You said you could handle it."

"I didn’t know it would feel like carrying a bag of bowling balls. What are these ornaments made of, vibranium?"

Steve lets out a laugh, the kind that makes you smile before you can stop yourself. "I told you to pack light."

"You’re the one who doesn’t have a single ornament in this apartment. It’s like a Christmas crime scene in here."

He rubs the back of his neck, his sheepishness kicking up a notch. "I guess I’ve never really gotten into decorating. Figured it might be more fun with… someone else."

Your chest tightens. Steve has this way of making you feel like you’re the most important person in the world, even when he doesn’t mean to. Or maybe he does. You’re not great at figuring that part out.

"Well, lucky for you, I’m a Christmas tree expert." You set the bag down on the small dining table and peel off your scarf and coat, hanging them on the back of a chair. The apartment smells faintly of pine, thanks to the freshly-cut tree standing in the corner by the window. It’s tall and a little lopsided, but somehow it suits Steve perfectly.

"Expert, huh?" He raises an eyebrow as he takes your coat and hangs it on the hook by the door. "Didn’t know that was on your résumé."

"Yep. Right under 'excellent taste in holiday drinks.'" You hold up your peppermint mocha and take a triumphant sip.

He grins, shaking his head. "You want something stronger? Coffee, tea, maybe hot cocoa?"

"Tempting, but this cup of Christmas cheer is all I need for now. Besides," you gesture at the tree, "we’ve got work to do."

Steve crosses his arms and leans against the counter, watching you with a look you can’t quite decipher. "You’re really into this, huh?"

"Steve," you say, deadpan, "this is Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year. Of course I’m into it."

He chuckles, moving to the other side of the room to grab a box of string lights. His movements are deliberate, like he’s stalling for time. You’ve noticed that about him—he’s not great at hiding when something’s on his mind. You, on the other hand, have mastered the art of pretending your heart doesn’t do gymnastics every time he looks at you like that.

"You want to tell me why your tree’s leaning like it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil?" you ask, trying to lighten the mood.

"I, uh…" He scratches his head. "I didn’t know they came with stands, so I just kinda… improvised."

"Improvised how?"

He points to the base of the tree, where it’s propped up in a bucket filled with gravel. You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle a laugh, but it’s no use. You double over, tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

"Don’t laugh," he protests, though he’s smiling too. "It’s functional."

"It’s a disaster," you say between giggles. "We’re lucky it hasn’t toppled over yet."

"I was going for rustic," he says, crossing his arms in mock indignation.

"Sure, Cap. Rustic." You wipe your eyes and shake your head. "First thing’s first: we’re fixing this."

You kneel by the tree, inspecting the bucket and the precarious balance Steve has managed to achieve. He crouches down next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact sends a jolt of warmth through you, and you silently curse yourself for being so easily affected.

"So, how do we fix it?" he asks.

"We get an actual tree stand for starters. Do you have one?"

"Uh… no. But I can go get one."

You glance at the clock. "Good luck finding a hardware store open this late on a Sunday in December."

Steve frowns, and for a second, you think he might suggest tearing the whole thing down and starting over. Instead, he grabs a roll of duct tape from a nearby drawer.

"Oh no," you say, holding up a hand. "Absolutely not."

"It’ll work," he insists.

"This is why you need supervision. Step away from the duct tape."

Steve’s laugh is warm and unguarded, and for a moment, it feels like the two of you are in your own little bubble, insulated from the rest of the world. You glance at him, and for a brief second, your gazes lock. His blue eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them, and your heart skips a beat.

"You’re something else," he murmurs, almost too quietly for you to hear.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look away before your face gives you away. "And you’re a menace to Christmas trees everywhere. Now help me figure out how to stabilize this thing without duct tape."

As the two of you brainstorm increasingly ridiculous solutions—everything from tying the tree to the ceiling with fishing line to bracing it with a stack of books—you can’t help but feel a little giddy. Steve Rogers might be the most frustratingly charming person you’ve ever met, but right now, in this cozy little apartment filled with laughter and the faint scent of pine, you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

You sit cross-legged on the floor, glaring at the lopsided Christmas tree like it’s a personal nemesis. Steve’s still holding the roll of duct tape, spinning it idly in one hand as if hoping inspiration will strike. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

"This tree isn’t going to stay up unless we do something," you say, rubbing your temples. "And I am not spending Christmas with a mangled pile of pine on the floor."

Steve leans back on his heels, giving you that earnest look that always makes you want to throw a pillow at him. "You’re the expert, remember? I’m just following orders."

"Okay, first of all, stop calling me the expert unless you want to hear me ramble about how Christmas tree decorating is an art form. Second, I think we need help."

He tilts his head. "Help?"

"Your neighbors," you say. "Someone around here has to have a spare tree stand lying around."

"You’re just going to knock on doors and ask?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures, Steve." You push yourself up off the floor and brush off your jeans. "Besides, if you want this tree to stay upright without duct tape, we need a proper stand."

Steve sets the tape down and crosses his arms. "I could go."

"Nope," you say, grabbing your scarf from the chair. "You’re staying here and untangling those lights while I’m gone. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right."

He frowns, glancing at the box of string lights like it’s full of venomous snakes. "You’re giving me the easy job, huh?"

"Exactly. Don’t say I never do anything nice for you."

"Thanks," he deadpans, but the corner of his mouth quirks up in a smile.

You pull on your coat, grab the nearest empty shopping bag to carry a stand back in, and head out the door. The building is quiet for a Sunday evening, and your footsteps echo as you make your way to the nearest apartment. You knock lightly, hoping whoever lives there is friendly and doesn’t think you’re some kind of door-to-door solicitor.

The first neighbor answers, but they don’t have a tree stand. Neither does the second, who gives you a sympathetic shrug before closing their door. By the time you get to the third door, you’re starting to think this whole plan is a bust.

But then, a middle-aged woman named Linda comes to the rescue. She’s all smiles, wearing a festive sweater adorned with a sparkly reindeer. "I think I might have one in the storage closet," she says. "Hold on, let me check."

Five minutes later, she’s handing you a dusty but serviceable tree stand with a cheerful, "Merry Christmas, sweetie!"

You thank her profusely and head back upstairs, feeling victorious. You didn’t just save Christmas—you saved Steve’s Christmas. Or at least his tree’s dignity.

The sight that greets you when you open the door to his apartment nearly makes you drop the stand.

"Steve?" you manage, your voice cracking with suppressed laughter.

He’s in the middle of the room, completely wrapped up in the string of lights. Not just tangled, but wrapped. The green wire loops around his torso, arms, and legs in a chaotic mess, and the bulbs blink cheerfully in alternating colors. He looks like a very frustrated Christmas mummy.

"Uh," he says, his cheeks bright red. "I might’ve gotten a little… stuck."

You bite your lip, trying and failing to hold back a grin. "Steve, what did you do?"

"I was untangling them!" he protests, twisting slightly, which only makes the lights tighten around him. "But then I thought it’d be easier to test them while I worked. And, uh… one thing led to another."

"You decided to test them by wrapping yourself in them?" You step inside, setting the tree stand down by the door, and cross your arms.

"Not on purpose!" he says, exasperated. "I just—look, I thought I could handle it, okay?"

"And now you’re a human Christmas display."

"Not my proudest moment," he mutters, glancing down at his glowing predicament. "I can probably get out of this if I—"

"Don’t you dare," you interrupt. "If you use your super strength to break free, you’re going to destroy those lights, and then we’ll have no tree and no lights."

He sighs, clearly resigned to his fate. "So, what’s the plan, Christmas expert?"

"The plan," you say, trying not to laugh, "is to figure out how you managed to do this to yourself in the first place."

"It’s not funny," he grumbles, though the corners of his mouth twitch.

"It’s a little funny," you say, letting out a chuckle. "Okay, maybe it’s a lot funny."

He groans, tilting his head back as if praying for patience. The lights blink red and green against his face, and for some reason, it only makes the whole thing funnier.

"I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself," he says dryly.

"Come on, Steve, this is classic holiday hijinks!" You drop your bag and move closer, walking in a slow circle around him to assess the damage. "You could be in a Christmas movie right now."

"Great," he mutters. "What’s next? Am I going to get stuck in the chimney?"

You can’t hold it in anymore. You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach as tears form in the corners of your eyes. "Steve, you’re… you’re a walking rom-com cliché!"

He gives you an exasperated look, but there’s a spark of amusement in his eyes too. "Are you done yet?"

"Not even close," you say, wiping your eyes. "This is going in my mental scrapbook forever."

Steve rolls his eyes, but you catch the small smile tugging at his lips. You know he’s taking this in stride because that’s who he is—patient, good-natured, and, well, the kind of guy who accidentally wraps himself in Christmas lights.

You grab your phone and hold it up. "I need a picture of this."

"No way," he says, shaking his head.

"Steve, come on. This is pure gold!"

"If you take a picture, I’m never letting you forget about the time you fell off your bike in Central Park."

"That was one time!"

"And it was hilarious."

You pout, but his playful smirk makes your heart skip a beat. "Fine," you say, lowering the phone. "I’ll let you off the hook—this time."

"Generous of you," he says. He shifts his weight, and the lights jingle faintly. "So, uh… you planning on helping me out, or are you just going to stand there laughing?"

You grin, taking another moment to admire the absurdity of the situation before finally walking over to inspect the tangled mess. "Hang tight, Cap," you say with a wink. "I’ve got this."

"Hang tight," you say, trying to suppress a smirk. "This is going to take a minute."

Steve sighs, his broad shoulders slumping as much as the tangled lights will allow. He looks more resigned than relaxed, though, and there’s a tension in his jaw that you don’t miss. He might be strong enough to crush those lights with a flick of his wrist, but the prospect of destroying Christmas decorations has clearly left him powerless.

You kneel beside him, inspecting the tangled mess. "Okay, first of all, how did you even manage to get this bad? Did the lights fight back?"

"Very funny," he says, voice dry but tinged with embarrassment. "I don’t know—it just sort of... happened."

You lean in closer, reaching for the strand that’s looped tightly around his forearm. Your fingers brush against his skin as you tug the lights loose, and you swear you see him flinch ever so slightly.

"You good?" you ask, glancing up at him.

"Yeah, fine," he says quickly, avoiding your gaze.

A slow smile spreads across your face. "You sure? You seem a little... tense."

"I’m fine," he repeats, his voice an octave higher than usual.

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to focus on the task at hand. The truth is, the tangle isn’t as complicated as it looks. You could probably have him free in five minutes flat, but where’s the fun in that? Especially when Steve—Captain America himself—is turning redder than Rudolph’s nose.

"Okay, hold still," you say, looping the lights away from his shoulder. "This might take a while."

"Take your time," he mumbles, though his expression suggests he’d prefer this ordeal to be over immediately.

You crouch beside him, your hands brushing against his arms as you work. Each time your fingers skim his skin, you catch the faintest hitch in his breath. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and it makes you bite back a grin.

"Wow," you say after a moment, tilting your head dramatically. "This is really knotted up. I’m going to have to get creative here."

"Creative?" he asks, a touch of panic in his voice.

"Mmhmm," you say, sliding your hand along his bicep to pull a strand free. "It’s all about finding the right... angles."

His jaw tightens, and his cheeks are unmistakably pink now. You’re not even sure if he’s breathing anymore.

You lean in unnecessarily close, pretending to inspect a particularly stubborn knot near his collarbone. Your fingers linger a little longer than they need to, and you can feel the heat radiating off him.

"You okay, Cap?" you tease, glancing up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"I’m fine," he says through gritted teeth, though the way his ears are burning suggests otherwise.

"Hmm," you say, moving your hands lower to the strand wrapped around his waist. "You seem kind of warm. Is it the lights, or...?"

"Y/N," he says, his voice a warning, but it only makes you smile wider.

"What?" you ask, feigning innocence. "I’m just trying to help."

You tug the lights free from his torso, letting your hands graze his sides as you work. He twitches slightly, and you can’t help but laugh.

"Are you ticklish, Steve?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"No," he says too quickly, his blush deepening.

"Oh, really?" You let your fingers linger just a little longer than necessary, and he squirms despite himself. "Could’ve fooled me."

"Y/N," he groans, clearly torn between frustration and mortification.

"Relax," you say, patting his shoulder. "I’m almost done. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Well, it depends," you say, moving behind him to untangle the lights wrapped around his back. "This part looks... tricky."

You press your hand against his shoulder to steady yourself, leaning in closer than you need to. He stiffens under your touch, and you swear you can feel his heartbeat through his sweater.

"Stay still," you murmur, your breath brushing against his ear.

"Not moving," he says, his voice strained.

You take your time unwinding the lights, letting your fingers brush against his neck and shoulders in ways that are definitely not necessary. You can practically feel the tension radiating off him, and it’s taking everything you have not to burst out laughing.

"You’re really quiet all of a sudden," you say, tilting your head to look at him. "Something on your mind?"

"Nope," he says quickly, though his clenched jaw says otherwise.

You move back in front of him, crouching down to tackle the strand wrapped around his legs. Your fingers brush against his knees as you work, and you glance up at him with a mischievous smile.

"You’re awfully pink, Steve," you say, your tone light and teasing. "Are you sure you’re not overheating?"

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Y/N, please."

"Please what?"

"Just... focus."

"Oh, I’m focused," you say, tugging the lights free from his ankle. "But you’re making this way too easy."

"Easy for you," he mutters, looking everywhere but at you.

"Aw, come on," you say, leaning closer again. "It’s not so bad. You’re going to laugh about this someday."

"I’m laughing on the inside," he deadpans.

You grin, finally loosening the last stubborn knot near his wrist. But instead of freeing him completely, you pause, resting your hands on your hips.

"Hmm," you say thoughtfully.

"What now?" he asks, exasperated.

"I’m just wondering if I should leave you like this," you tease. "You do make a pretty good Christmas decoration."

"Y/N," he says, his voice low and dangerous, but the effect is ruined by the fact that he’s still blushing furiously.

"Okay, okay," you say, laughing. "I’ll finish. But only because you asked so nicely."

You reach for the last strand of lights, your fingers brushing against his as you work. His gaze flicks to yours for just a moment, and you swear the air between you shifts.

For a split second, you forget about the lights, the teasing, and everything else. It’s just you and Steve, and the realization hits you like a freight train: he’s flustered because of you.

And maybe you like that a little too much.

With a triumphant flourish, you untangle the last of the lights from Steve’s arms, letting the strand fall to the floor in a messy heap. "Almost there," you announce, giving him a teasing smile. "You’re about five seconds away from freedom."

"Finally," he mutters, though his voice is softer now, almost shy. He’s still blushing, and you’re doing your best not to dwell on how the soft blinking of the lights casts shadows over his ridiculously handsome face.

You take a deep breath and reach for the final loop of lights still hanging loosely around his neck. As your hands brush against him again, you catch the faintest intake of breath, and your heart skips a beat.

This is it.

You’ve spent months trying to convince yourself that your feelings for Steve were one-sided, but the way he’s looking at you right now—like you’re the only thing in the room that matters—makes you think you might have been wrong.

You let your fingers linger on the strand, your pulse pounding in your ears. His blue eyes meet yours, wide and uncertain, and for a moment, you’re frozen.

What if you’re reading this all wrong? What if he doesn’t feel the same way?

But then you remember the way his cheeks turned pink when your hands grazed his skin, the way his voice cracked when he insisted he was "fine." And maybe it’s the Christmas lights casting a warm glow over everything, or maybe it’s the sheer absurdity of the situation, but suddenly, you feel bold.

Releasing the strand of lights, you let your hand slide upward, brushing against his collar as you lean in. You’re close enough now that you can feel his breath against your lips, and your heart is beating so loudly you’re sure he can hear it.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you close the distance, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s as much an act of courage as it is affection.

For a split second, Steve goes completely still, and your stomach drops. Oh, God. What if you did read this wrong? What if—

You start to pull back, mortified, but before you can retreat, his hands come up to cradle your face, and he kisses you back.

It’s not tentative or hesitant. It’s sweet and intense, like he’s been holding back for ages and finally let himself go. His lips are soft, his touch gentle but firm, and the sheer relief of feeling him respond makes your head spin.

His thumbs brush against your cheeks as he deepens the kiss, and you can feel the tension that’s been simmering between you for months melt away like snow in the sun. It’s everything you didn’t know you’d been waiting for—warm, electric, and utterly perfect.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless. Steve’s cheeks are still flushed, but this time it’s not from embarrassment.

"Wow," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Wow," he echoes, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.

You both laugh softly, the sound breaking the lingering tension in the air.

"So," you say, trying to keep your voice steady, "does this mean you’re okay with me teasing you about the lights?"

Steve chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I think I can live with it," he says, his voice warm and steady.

And just like that, you know you’ve made the best decision of your life.

You lean back from the kiss, lips tingling and cheeks flushed. You’re about to make a joking comment about how the lights are now untangled and the tree still isn’t decorated, but Steve beats you to it—sort of.

Before you can move more than an inch, his arms loop around your waist, pulling you back toward him. His lips brush against your temple, then your cheek, and then the corner of your mouth, all before you can even take a breath.

"Steve," you murmur, laughing softly. "The tree."

"What about it?" he asks, his voice low and warm against your skin.

"We’re supposed to decorate it, remember?"

His response is a hum that’s suspiciously noncommittal. One of his hands trails up your back, and the other stays firmly around your waist, as though letting go of you is physically impossible.

"You’re kind of clingy, you know that?" you tease, though you don’t exactly try to wriggle out of his embrace.

He leans back just enough to look at you, his cheeks still slightly pink but his smile completely unrepentant. "I just became your boyfriend, Y/N. I think I’m allowed to be a little clingy."

You arch a brow. "Boyfriend, huh?"

His smile falters for half a second, and you can see the gears turning in his head. He realizes what he said, and his expression shifts into something sheepish.

"Well, I mean..." He clears his throat, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly. "You kissed me first, so I thought—"

"Steve."

"—and we just kissed again, so I figured—"

"Steve."

He finally stops rambling, looking down at you with wide, uncertain eyes. "Did I mess this up already?"

You laugh, cupping his face in your hands. "No, you big dork. But if you want me to be your girlfriend, you have to actually ask me."

His expression softens, and for a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze filled with so much affection it almost makes your knees weak.

"Y/N," he says, his voice steady and serious, "will you be my girlfriend?"

You grin, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose. "Of course I will, Steve."

The smile that spreads across his face could power the entire block’s Christmas lights. He kisses you again, this time slower and sweeter, like he’s savoring every second.

When he finally pulls back, his hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin. "You’re stuck with me now," he murmurs, his tone half-teasing and half-sincere.

"Good," you say, grinning. "Because I don’t plan on going anywhere."

For a moment, you both just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the half-decorated tree completely forgotten. Then you glance over his shoulder and raise an eyebrow.

"Seriously, though," you say, "we should probably get back to the tree."

Steve groans dramatically, letting his forehead drop against yours. "The tree can wait."

"Steve."

"Nope," he says, scooping you up and twirling you around like you weigh nothing. You let out a surprised laugh, clutching his shoulders to steady yourself.

"Steve, we’re never going to get this done at this rate."

"Don’t care," he says, setting you back down but keeping his hands firmly on your waist. He leans down to press another kiss to your lips, then another to your jaw, and then one just below your ear.

"Okay, seriously," you say, trying to keep your voice steady despite the way he’s making your heart race. "This is cute and all, but I’m not going to let you use me as an excuse to procrastinate."

"I’m not procrastinating," he says, his voice warm and teasing. "I’m prioritizing."

"Prioritizing, huh?"

"Yep," he says, his tone smug. "And right now, my top priority is making sure my girlfriend knows exactly how much I like her."

You roll your eyes, though you’re grinning like an idiot. "Steve, I think I got the message about five kisses ago."

"Good," he says, kissing you again.

You laugh against his lips, pushing lightly at his chest. "Alright, Captain Clingy, let’s get back to work."

He groans again but finally lets you step out of his embrace—though he keeps one hand firmly on the small of your back as you move toward the tree.

You pick up the box of ornaments, glancing at him over your shoulder. "You know," you say casually, "you’re really bad at hiding how much you like me."

"I wasn’t trying to hide it," he says, following you to the tree.

You raise an eyebrow. "Could’ve fooled me. You were blushing every time I so much as looked at you earlier."

"Only because you kept touching me," he protests, his ears turning pink again.

"Steve, I was untangling the lights."

"Sure you were."

You laugh, setting the ornaments down and turning to face him. "Oh, come on. You’re the one who couldn’t stop blushing. Don’t blame me for noticing."

He steps closer, his hand sliding from your back to your hip. "You were doing it on purpose."

"Maybe," you admit, grinning up at him.

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling too. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, here you are, completely smitten," you say, leaning in to brush your lips against his.

"Completely," he murmurs against your mouth before kissing you again.

The ornaments remain untouched. The tree remains undecorated. And for the first time all evening, you couldn’t care less.

[d1ana-m0nd]

╭─► ❝Rogue Maiden❞

One Piece! Various × Female! Reader || Written by Diana (d1ana-m0nd)

➢ Description : The fourth maiden is often underestimated by her peers, hidden behind a veil of secrecy and countless masks. Raised in a world with psychological danger, she learned to shield herself from attachment and harm. With an uncanny ability to read between the lines and always on guard, her true strength lies in what she conceals.

➢ Link : Masterlist

Character Profile┊A bud adorned by thorns

The Pastiche Island is an island filled with prideful - though they prefer being described as ambitious - women. Women who are skilled with their respective crafts like: exploration, literature, mathematics, science, philosophy, politics, and all forms of art. If you were not skilled in any of the aforementioned subjects, you were deemed useless as a woman and as a human being. Knowledge and skill are the sign of prestige and perfection to everyone on this island; Which is why young girls are rushed into perfection, fearing they would be rejected by society.

Though a former Whitebeard pirate was against this, she turned to you with a grouch as she rambled on and on about how you should not take part in the upcoming screening test. To her, you were but a child, she has yet to discover you possess qualities that were beyond a child's capabilities.

“I'm telling you kid, that test will just make you feel miserable!” The blue-green haired woman insisted as she hastily chopped the vegetables for the stew, “You're still eight years old, you have four more years till the actual test-”

Abruptly, you spoke up, tilting your head at your adoptive mother. "Are you just saying that just because you don't want me to go through the same thing you went through?”

Astrid, the former whitebeard pirate, stopped midway through dicing vegetables just to glare down at you for well… being you. In her eyes, you were just a smart and arrogant child, she was well aware of what you were capable of. However, she knew the maidens better than your child mind could comprehend. They were nothing like the average girl, there is a reason why they have a league of their own even at the ripe age of 12 years old.

"I'm not you, so I won't fail the test.”

The older woman gritted her teeth as a tick mark appeared on her forehead with a smile whose corner's were twitching from irritation. Astrid had to hold back colorful words knowing you were just a blunt brat that did not have a filter. Despite the words coming from someone so small, your words left a bigger impact than the cannons she used to wield back in her pirating days.

The blue-green haired woman set her kitchen knife aside and massaged her temples, "Even if you did take the test, what would you gain? The future is uncertain, don't take any stupid risks-”

You looked up at her with a heavily blank stare that took her mother aback, her usual brash self silenced a mere stare that said ‘Are you for real? ’. The sweet situational irony that these words were uttered by a former pirate who are commonly associated with words like ‘stupid’.

"Oi, oi, oi, you cheeky little runt! Don't try to turn the tables on me.” The older woman barked but you were not fazed by it.

“My past experience has nothing to do with you-"

“Then, why can't I take the test?" You countered with a question, trying to understand her mother's words, because throughout the whole conversation her mother never gave her a proper answer.

Astrid swallowed hard as she simultaneously hardened her glare towards her child, “You just can't! I know taking the test is tempting, and it can be helpful for your future but, the people upstairs are a real piece of work. Even if you did good you'd just-”

"Then watch me, you won't know till we see the results.” You casually quipped.

Your adoptive mother found herself taken aback once again, in awe of her child's boldness. In spite of the fact that you had monochromacy, you would think the child would have a limited view on the world but she didn't let that hinder her potential. She shone brightly no matter how limited her view on the world was.

Admittedly, Astrid was envious of her child's confidence yet, she could not help but doubt your capabilities. She knew it was normal for kids your age to be boastful and overconfident but, she knew for a fact that you are not like other kids, she has witnessed it firsthand. However, that tinge of doubt lingered at the back of her mind and she could not help but feel guilty for this.

Since that day, Astrid was adamant from keeping you to take the test, she did her best to dissuade you but, she was failing to do so as you were just listening to her as her words came out from ear to another. When the day came, you went to the screening test behind your adoptive mother's back. As the day came, you were skimming through the test with ease yet, it took you a while to finish thus leading you to be the last person to finish.

The moment you walked out the test room, you met your adoptive mother at the lobby, who fell asleep with your lunch cradled in her arms. You sat by your sleeping mother's figure, as you did your best to take away the lunch from her without waking her up. In doing so, you were eating your lunch in peace which caught a certain silver haired woman's attention who was passing by the hallway.

As dinner came around, you and your siblings assisted your mother in preparing dinner for everyone in the orphanage. In doing so your mother began distributing a meal for each child. When it was your turn, your mother gave you your meal for the night then, smacked the back of your head and proceeded to feed the next child.

Your older sister, Nana, merely snorted and wore a cheeky smile as she realized the predicament you were in. “Someone's in trouble~", as her narrow eyes and bangs framed her teasing look.

“Oh please, the old hag is just being dramatic", You scowled as you played with your meal.

Just in cue, the said ‘old hag’ slammed the table with her open palmed hands, making the other kids jump in their seats, whilst you maintain a poker look.

“Don't ‘old hag’ me, you little prick! I swear if you fail that test, don't come crying to me because I already warned you but your stubborn arse refused to listen." She placed her hands on her waist.

"Not like I was planning to, you have a lot on your plate.” The child's response elicited anger from her mother only to be interrupted by Nana’s statement, "You should go feed Vicktor and Belaine, They might get hungry from crying.”

The older woman clicked her tongue, fury still evident on her features, then angrily stomped away, leaving you and Nana by yourselves once again.

The pink-haired girl sat next to you as she looked down at you with a small smile, "You know you could just tell her you're taking the test to help her and the orphanage.”

“She'll just get insecure again and feel like she's a terrible mother," You bluntly remarked. When in reality, you didn't know how to express your gratitude.

Nana cooed as she teasingly twirled her pointer finger, “Aww~ Y/N’s too shy to tell mama that she wants to help around~"

To which you happily struck the back of your sister's head with an empty steel plate.

In the first faction, a quartz building that towered over the capitol. Its sides and the cracks are gilded with gold and black, mostly the white quartz outshining the city, the colors were loud and extravagant yet, the designs were simply designed. The same colors that were used dominated the first faction’s architecture style. In contrast to this, the people who walked upon the streets of the first faction wore elaborate, posh, and colorful clothing, akin to how peafowls strut their feathers to attract the opposite sex. But, these people dress to flaunt their wealth, practically screaming ‘I’m far more worth stealing from.’

The building that towered over the capital, it is where the same silver-haired woman from before is visiting. At the moment, the mysterious woman entered Lady Rosaceae Lilith's office to visit the fellow maiden

Lotus Yīng-qǐ whistled as she peeked over Lilith's shoulder, “Wow, that kid seems like a suitable apprentice. Are you taking her in?”

"I'll consider it for now, I need to evaluate her further though.” The beautifully ebony woman with long white dreadlocks with pink ends, whilst gold accessories were attached to her hair. “The proctor noted that she was the last kid to finish in every test. In addition, based on her medical papers, she's too weak to be a maiden.”

Yīng-qǐ raised her brow at this statement, to which the woman with white dreadlocks corrected, “Physically weak I mean. For a bud, she's nearing her blooming stage, despite only being eight years old. There are still some thorns here and there but, I can work with her.”

In spite of her harsh criticism of you, Lilith's smirk is not erased. Not because she was looking down on you but because she could not help the anticipation and excitement building within her. Seeing someone with your capabilities was rare.

Your test scores:

Exploration: 78/100

Literature: 93/100

Mathematics: 80/100

Science: 92/100

Philosophy: 94/100

History: 90/100

Politics: 75/100

Art: 98/100

Athleticism: 49/100

The silver-haired woman thoughtlessly nodded along, as she took away the other papers that mindlessly sat on top of Lady Lilith's desk. “This Emilia girl,” She murmured in awe, “It looks like she's a good candidate."

“Just good but not perfect." Lilith sighed as she played with the gold accessories in her dreadlocks.

Yīng-qǐ adjusted her glasses feeling a bit awkward, the other maiden changed the subject instead. “So, why'd you make Y/N take 9 different tests while Emilia took 4 different tests?”

"Just to check the legitimacy,” The long white haired woman in dreadlocks hummed casually, as she took the papers back from her fellow maiden. "Y/N is from the 4th faction after all, the education system there isn't on par compared to my faction yet, she kept passing. In the academics department of course.”

“As for Emilia, I didn't need to check on her much. She's from the 1st Faction so I expected as much from my own people to do well, just disappointed that her scores weren't higher than that child from the 4th faction."

The silver-haired maiden bit her inner cheek to prevent herself from pissing off the other maiden and to point out her biases. Jokingly, Yīng-qǐ wore a small smile as she adjusted her round glasses then remarked, “You could just say that you were paid off by Emilia's parents to not delve further."

“Oh please," Lilith let out a scoff as she threw a subtle glare at Yīng-qǐ, “I don't need money to know that my own people are smart, they are my people after all, it's only expected they do well.”

The Rouge Maiden's Character Profile:

Weapons:

Chained blades - A whip made of blades.

Parasol-Gun - A parasol with a gun and shield hybrid feature.

Gun - An extra gun with sea prism stone bullets

Abilities:

Masking - An ability to copy people’s combat style and mimic their personality or energy.

The Bloody Maiden’s Abilities:

Hemokinesis / Blood Manipulation - Constructing objects by shaping and solidifying it.

Serenade of Life - Enhancing the maiden's strongest points (For instance, Kudapal Y/N’s speed and accuracy)

Bloodlust - User's senses are heightened, especially when it comes to the person's sense of smell. They can also consume blood in order to recover from their injuries.

Crimson Edge - A sharp object becomes sharper when the maiden infuses their blood with the object.

Blood Art: Alla Prima - A special move made by Kudapal Y/N, wherein its a series of randomized attacks mixed with haki, masking (fighting styles she has acquired), and her original fighting style. The special move goes on till she runs out of blood.

Bloodbath - The user uses their blood splatter or blobs to stop in mid air then explode when the user gives the signal.

Scarlet Piercer - A regular bullet that's enhanced by the maiden's blood, it can only be used twice. The bullet is sharper than a regular bullet.

The Maidens of Pastiche Island are:

Kadupul, Y/N - 4th Faction, The Maiden of Artistry

Appearance - (insert your appearance)

Lotus, Yīng-qǐ - 3rd Faction, The Maiden of Philosophy and Politics

Appearance - A woman with narrow eyes, silver hair with side swept bangs and the tail of her hair settling on her left shoulder.

Ringelblume, Emilia - 2nd Faction, The Maiden of Mathematics and Science

Appearance - Tanned skinned girl, orange hair with yellow roots, half twin buns and half down.

Rosaceae, Lilith - 1st Faction, The Maiden of Exploration and Literature

Appearance - Ebony skinned woman, long white hair in dreadlocks with gold accessories attached to it and pink gradient along the ends.

➢ Taglist :

➢ Note : If your username is crossed out that means I cannot tag your blog. I suggest you either follow my blog and turn on your notifications or you turn on your subscription to the masterlist. [ EXAMPLE ]

[gilverrwrites]

Oooo don’t tempt me!! i’ll turn this whole blog into a captain cold lovehouse lol. it’s his season now anyways :) all the blue and cold weather juuuust for him… in my mind anyway! question for you, angel —do you have any thoughts on len & temperature play? or honestly any flash rouges & kinks, i’d love to hear! they never get near enough love ❄️🩵

If this account accidentally becomes a Captain Cold themed blog again, I won’t complain ngl. Okay, so, only mentioning characters who are/have been official members of ‘The Rogues’, and only characters I know well enough to have opinions on. Haven’t included Captain Boomerang, cause I already did a full NSFW Alphabet for him ━ [Link] Disclaimer: These are by no means comprehensive, and they’re just my opinion. Take what you vibe with, leave what you don’t. Trigger warnings: Mentions of dub/non-con, voyeurism, and overstimulation.

Captain Cold (L.S) – Temperature Play:

I’ve talked a little bit before ━ [link] about how Len likes to cool you down until you’re shivering. Then he likes sitting you in his lap, stuffing you full of cock, and having you sit nice and still while he warms you back up again.

He loves feeling needed while still being in charge, you know? So, he gets off on how you cling to him for warmth, how you shake in his grasp and quietly beg him for more. How you wither on his dick, pouting and huffing when he scolds you. Melting as he runs his big, calloused hands along your body, his tongue on your throat, your collar, your nipples. He’ll thaw every inch of you so long as you behave for him.

Of course, the payoff is the best part, when he finally grants you permission to ride his cock, and you go for it like a person possessed. Fervently bouncing on him, pulling at his hair, kissing any part of skin you can find.  

He does like more traditional temperature play as well, but he uses that more as a punishment. He likes watching how your muscles tense up and your voice gets high and whiny when he so tenderly abuses all your softest, most sensitive parts with the edge of an ice cube, or the muzzle of his cold gun.

He’d make you hump the barrel, rubbing your needy sex on it while you plead for relief, but he wouldn’t force it inside you. He would, however, and without hesitation, fill your tight, needy little hole with ice and fuck you with it until it’s all melted away and you’re desperate for more.

━ Also into: Edging, clothed /unclothed, degradation, and brat taming.

Heat Wave (M.R) – Praise kink

Despite being quite the hothead, Mick is actually pretty submissive, and fairly vanilla in the bedroom. Sure, he has his more excitable, temperamental moments where he’ll bend you over and take what he needs.

But more often than not, Mick is happy to sit back and let you take the reigns. He rarely instigates, but he’ll follow your lead happily when you drag him to whatever surface you want him on. All it takes is you to whisper, “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” or “Can’t wait to feel you deep inside me.” As you trail your hand down his chest, and he’s rock hard, already rushing to get his dick out.

He’d never admit it in a million years, but he’s hooked on your words, on hearing your praise. He has one hell of an unhinged smile, and it’s easy to hide his self-consciousness behind it, or else he burrows his face into a pillow and squeezes your hips, encouraging you to go faster, deeper, whatever will distract you from his swooning.

And Mick hates showing his body, his burn scars, especially early on in your relationship, but he adores your touch on his bare skin, and your kisses so so much. His scar tissue, muscle, and bravado; it all softens when you caress his arms. When you call him “beautiful” and kiss along his stomach. Fuck. Stop, you’re gonna make this grown man cry.

━ Also into: Pyrophilia, dry humping, cream pies, and white lingerie.

Golden Glider (L.S) – Worship

Lisa has spent all her life trying to prove herself to others. To prove to her father that she is worthy of love, to prove to the world that she was good enough to earn Olympic medals, to prove to Len that she could be an asset to his team and more than just his little sister, to prove to The Rogues that she is a force to be reckoned with all on her own.

So, with you, she needs to know that you know she’s a goddamn prize. She wants to see your eyes go wide with adoration as she approaches, wants to feel your lip quiver under her kiss, your skin to shake when she touches you.

She wants you to pamper her, kneading her body head to toe with your fingers, trailing your kisses along her skin until you’re kneeling at her feet, begging her to wrap her strong legs around your face and give you a taste of that sweet, sweet pussy.

She wants to hear you whisper her name like it’s a prayer as you fuck her with your tongue, or close your lips around her clit. She wants to see your eyes roll back as he pulls your hair, she wants you to power through your aching jaw and your denied core to keep pleasing her because you know she’s worth it.

━ Also into: Praise kink, blades/knife play, scratching and corruption.

The Trickster (G.G) – Bondage

James is a showman at his heart. All the worlds a stage, and he spends all day, every day, playing to his audience. So, sometimes it’s nice for him to be able to switch that off, or for you to flip the switch for him.

Sure, he could at any time escape his bindings, and unless gag him, he’s gonna run his mouth the entire time, but he’ll enjoy every second of not having to think about direction or the likes.

He’ll be frustrated, as you grind your hips against him, ghosting your lips against everywhere but the places he begs for and taking your sweet time doing it, “You naughty little tease” but it makes him weak.

Throw in a blindfold, watch how he twitches and keens his body, but never struggles against his restraints as you finally rub your thumb against the tip of his cock. “Oh James, you’re so hard, you’re practically dripping.”

“Can’t help it darlin’” He smiles wolfishly in reply, bucking his hips, wordlessly begging you to give him more, to make him feel good. “I want you so bad.”

“Well, sit still and be good. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

━ Also into: Hair pulling, facials, over-stimulation, role play, and sex toys.

The Trickster (A.W) – Oral Fixation

When Axel isn’t running his mouth, he has to find other ways to keep it busy. If he’s not chewing gum he’s biting his knuckles. He keeps sucking on the lollipop stick long after he’s eaten the candy, and he’s never borrowed a pen without returning it covered in teeth marks.

But given the choice, he’d always rather have his lips on you. There isn’t an inch of your skin he hasn’t tasted and committed to memory. When you’re cuddling, don’t be surprised if he randomly decides to clamp down on the closest patch of skin.

Not only does licking, kissing, sucking, and biting at your sensitive skin satisfy his fixation, but it also means he gets to leave his mark on you. Without even saying anything, he gets to tell the world ‘Hands off! I bit it, it’s mine.’

And he spends hours between your legs. He’ll stay down there in a dream state, eyes glazed, lips sore and swollen, hungrily lapping and sucking your sex for as long as you will allow. He’ll happily keep going even when he’s tired, resting his head on your soft thighs as his lids get heavy, but if you scratch at his scalp and tell him how much you’re enjoying yourself, he’ll go at it with newfound invigoration immediately.

━ Also into: Exhibitionism, praise kink, somnophilia, object insertion, and hygrophilia.

Mirror Master (S.S) – Voyeurism

Sam puts on a great show at being relatively normal despite, well, who he is and his line of work, which is why it’s quite the surprise to you that he’s actually such a depraved pervert.

Sam likes to watch.

He particularly likes to watch you through the mirror, late at night when you’re all alone, vulnerable and getting yourself off. His breath always hitches when he sees your naked body wither against your sheets, his dick aching beneath his boxers until he rushes to get his suit off.

He’s not afraid to come onto you, he’s not shy or jealous of any lover you might have, he just likes to stroke his cock in time with your own hands. He likes listening to your moans, and seeing how your hips jerk as you chase your orgasm. He loves cumming in time with you, catching the white-hot globes of his release in his palm while you come undone under his unseen gaze.  

He just loves seeing you exposed, it’s like a dirty little secret that you don’t even know he has over you.

━ Also into: Sensory deprivation, somnophilia, voice kinks, strip teases, and spanking (receiving).

Mirror Master (E.M) – Mirror Sex

Evan isn’t so passive. Evan sees something he likes, and he takes it. If you play hard to get, then it’s all the more fun for him.

Evan will twist your hair between his knuckles and hold you up, face to the mirror so that you can see your sorry-looking face as you lose yourself to him. He’ll make sure you can see him too, the hunger in his deep brown eyes as he drives into you, fast and forceful from behind.

Evan will pull you this way and that, allowing him access to grope your body. Alternating between feather-soft touches that make you feel cherished, and squeezing your tender flesh so hard you can’t help when your eyes start to water.

Evan will pull your back to his chest, still fisting your hair so that you’re forced to watch as he traces his other hand along your sternum. Evan will point out exactly how deep his cock is inside you, before pumping you full of his thick, hot seed.

━ Also into: Asphyxiation, spanking, breeding, objectification, and denial.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Whisked Away 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Part of the Sweet and Spicy AU

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You get a job at a bakery but your new boss only adds to your work

Character: chubby!baker!Thor

Please comment and reblog if it’s not too much. I always love getting to chat about these stories and hearing all your ideas! You all are wonderful and loved.

Delaney wishes you good luck as you go. Your heart is fluttery with nerves. It’s been a while since you actually had an interview. These days, most send you a link where you record yourself answering generalised questions. You never do well at those. In fact, you’d only ever had one job.  

You worked at a cafe in high school and after you went and got your culinary schooling done, you were promoted. It held you through the first few years of your twenties until Delaney got sick and you had to move to the city for her treatment. Your squirreled away savings got you the apartment and her stipend helped, but you’re running dry on credit. 

You need this. Desperately. But you can’t show that if you want it. You have to play it cool. Be a professional. 

You catch a streetcar down to the main row and check your phone. You’re well ahead of time. Good. You’ve never been to this particular place. You don’t go out much if it isn’t to the grocery store or the pharmacy. Delaney stopped wanting to go outside a while back. You try to encourage her but you can tell it only makes her feel worse. 

You follow the map directions on the app and stop before the cafe windows. They’re slightly tinted with curling golden calligraphy painted across them; Golden Crust. The facade is brown and yellow brick and there are flower boxes just below the windows. Behind the glass, loaves of bread lines a shelf, on display to tempt passerbys. 

The door is wide and thick and painted red. You push inside and pause to look around. The long counter is made of dark wood with clear glass cases on top containing dozens of colourful and sugary desserts. Behind the counter, the walls are lined with shelves; some ingredients, some with unfolded boxes, and more bread and packaged biscuits to go. It’s all finely organized. 

Lights hang above with brass shades, lending a low hue to the shop. Several customers wait in queue as two employees work tills at opposite ends of the counter. You don’t know whether you should join the wait or go ahead and let them know that you’re there to see Thor for an interview. That was his name, right? 

You look at your phone again. You have time. You wouldn’t want to be rude. You adjust your bag and stand at the end of the line. The women ahead of you marvel at the pristine mini white chocolate cakes with dark candied cherries on top as another whispers about cheesecake being devilish. Your own eyes wander gluttonously to the assortment. 

You peel away your gaze and look down at yourself. You put together the best you could; a striped blouse, navy blue on white, and a pair of straight-legged pants. They’re a bit outdated but professional at a glance. You hope no one notices the scuff on your right toe. 

You get to the front of the line and step up. The young girl behind the till asks what you’d like. You give an apologetic smile, “um, actually, I’ve got an interview.” 

“Ah, yes, another one for Thor,” she chimes, “well, you just come with me.” 

She’s young. Still a teenager. Her and the other cashier look to be barely graduated if that. 

She walks toward the end of the counter and she beckons you over, “I’m Thrud,” she pulls back the short little door for you to step through, “that’s Nari,” she gestures to the dark-haired worker at the other till. He’s too busy taking orders to notice. 

You introduce yourself as she takes you around to a doorway, “I think he’s just doing these in the kitchen. Last one ended early so...” she talks brightly as she bounds ahead of you like a happy puppy, “dad?” She calls as she enters the large kitchen. “Dad? I’ve got the next appointment.” 

Your anxiety spikes. You’re not the first or the last. The competition deflates your hopes even further. 

“Eh?” A deep grunt comes as head pops up from the other side of the large marble island. The man is so large his head hits one of the pans dangling from the ceiling rack. He rubs his brow and hisses, “sorry, I was just looking for my pen.” 

Thrud laughs as she crosses her arms. You notice the golden pen tucked behind his ear. She raises a hand, keeping her other arm folded, as she taps her temple. His brows arch and he feels around his wave locks and fishes out the pen. 

“Right,” he gives a sheepish look and wiggles it in triumph. 

“Anyhoo,” Thrud trills, “this is her.” 

“Thank you, Thrud,” he drones back. 

“Mhmm,” she turns and smiles at you again before she goes. 

“Uh,” you hesitate, unsure how to begin, “er,” you introduce yourself, once more “I have a resume on hand--” 

“No need,” he waves you off, “come, I try to keep these things straight to the point.” 

You near him and rest your hand on your bag, chewing your lip. 

“Wash your hands,” he directs you towards the sink, “you may put your things there.” He points to the empty counter on the other side of the deep metal sink. You put your bag there and scour your hands deliberately, taking your time as you scrub nails, knuckles, palms, every bit. You dry off on the towel he offers as you face him. 

“Here,” he gives you and apron, “would want you to make a mess. 

You tie on the apron as he turns and grabs a tray. There are half a dozen cookies on the sheet, some empty piping bags, nozzles, a bowl of icing and small tubes of food dye. You look between him and the cookies. 

“You may choose the design. You will decorate and I will ask questions, does that work for you?” 

“Um, sure,” you answer. It’s unexpected. “All six?” 

“All six,” he confirms and crosses his arms, making himself even broader. He is not only tall, but wide, and his apron does little to conceal his indulgence in sweets that gathers around his middle. 

“Okay,” you accept the challenge meekly. 

You step up to the marble island and take a moment. You twiddle your fingers nervously as you think. You don’t know what to do. You don’t want to go to simple. 

“Take your time, I’ll ask some questions and you can begin whenever you’re ready,” he assures, “so, you’re availability, it is flexibly? Our open ours are eight to six, but you are available on weekends?” 

“Yes,” you say as you set an idea in your head and read for the icing. You stir it with the wooden spoon, testing its consistency. “I have open availability most days.” 

“Most days?” He echoes. 

“Um, yes, I may have an appointment now and again.” 

“Oh, appointment?” 

“For my sister,” you explain, “but it wouldn’t get in the way, I'm sure.” 

You cringe. You’re already making yourself feel bad. 

“And so, you’ve had one previous role, what was included in that?” he asks. 

Only one... that can’t be good on paper. 

“I worked at a cafe. I was a barista for the first two years, then I was promoted to baker, and ended as assistant manager at the branch,” you explain as you fill one of the piping pages and fit the appropriate tip, “but I completed by culinary diploma while I was there.” 

“And after? What did you do? I see you’ve been out of work.” 

You’re quite as you lean over the cookies and start on the first one. Your idea is simple in premise but not in execution. Delaney loves to do cross-stitches, so that’s what you’ll do. First, the white grid and the lacing along the edges, then you’ll fill in the squares with all different colours to make the illusion of stitches. 

“I’ve been a caretaker to my sister,” you say quietly, “we only just moved here last year so I haven’t found much.” 

“And you would be able to work fulltime?” He asks. 

“Yes, she’s... she’s doing better now. I can do it,” you assure him as you keep your eyes on your precise lines. 

He’s quiet. You’re sweating. You just concentrate on the work. Maybe your answers aren’t the best but you hope your work is. You finish the crosshatching and look up. You find him watching your hands intently. As you pause, his blue eyes meet yours. He gives a smile. 

“Ha,” he scoffs, “my hands are too big.” He shows his thick fingers, “I can’t quiet get my lines that tight.” 

You nod and bow your head again. You’re not even done the first cookie. You have six to prove yourself. Six cookies to seal your fate. 

[artist-issues]

I have loved reading your posts on various fiction from Christian perspective. I am wondering your opinion on when fantasy/"magic" fiction becomes too much? I used to encounter a lot of people talking about how basically -anything- fantasy was evil. I have struggled with scrupulosity OCD for many years now so I tend to think things towards a legalistic lens. I'd like to be able to enjoy fantasy again, while carefully discerning, so I'd love to hear what you think are the merits/limits of fantasy

Hi! First off, Jesus said: "These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world." When you're wrestling with scrupulousity, sometimes it helps to see or hear out loud the reminder that life in Christ is one that's supposed to give you peace, not constant worry about doing everything right--even if you've heard that before and you already know it, sometimes it can help to hear it over again from outside your own head. So there it is! 🤝

Next: thank you for asking me! I'm no professional. But someone did ask me this question once before. I am having a hard time finding it on my blog right now, otherwise I'd link to it, but I'll try to summarize at the end of this post!

EDIT: You asked me to talk about the merits and limits of fantasy and I got carried away explaining why fantasy fiction is not outright evil according to the Bible. I moved that to the end of the post 😅 here's what I think the merits are:

All of Reality, our world, our timeline, was invented by God. That makes Him the storyteller, us His characters, and reality His narrative. Just like any storyteller, He made up a system of rules for His world: rules like, "humans sink in water," and "humans can't be cured of sickness by touching other humans," and "the weather doesn't change just because humans tell it to." Then God, the storyteller, broke His own world-building rules. On purpose. He wrote Himself (Jesus) into the story as a human who COULD walk on water and COULD heal other humans with a touch and COULD tell the weather what to do, and it obeyed.

In fantasy stories, when a character can break the established rules of the created world, we call that "magic." We call it "magic" when the storyteller brings in a supernatural element to show that this character is special, powerful, capable, set apart from all the others.

So that's what I think the merits are. Fantasy stories have a special kind of closeness to The Storyteller Who Invented Stories, because of that very element of "make the rules then bring in rule-breaking specialness" that He uses.

That's where you get Gandalf, or even the Fairy Godmother, or of course Aslan and the Deep Magic.

The limitations to the genre, I would say, is that fantasy stories are very tempting for storytellers' egos. Because of Tolkien, there's this generation of storytellers who think that inventing a fantasy world with rules and races and magical systems and cultures and, to sum it all up, a whole universe of their own design, is the POINT.

They think the themes and the message of their story comes second to how thorough and clever they can be with their made-up magical systems, or fantasy-race-relations, or made-up languages.

Basically, in no other genre have I observed storytellers getting so excited to play god-of-their-own-clever-world than in fantasy. Then they forget that the important part of a story is the message, not the brain that's capable of inventing worlds and languages and cool-sounding names and ancestries. What they have to say basically gets lost in how flashy and cool they can be while saying it.

But that's another soap box for another time. Those are basically the merits and limitations, I think, broad-strokes.

On to the Biblical worldview for magic in stories below!

"Magic" is mentioned in the Bible. It's sorcery. Specifically, the Bible is telling Christians to stay away from "real" magic...which is basically just "trying to connect with spiritual forces to accomplish anything supernatural." We were created to have relationship with one Spirit: God. Anything outside of that is like a fish trying to breathe oxygen: it hurts us. So the Bible says, "no real magic."

But.

"Fantasy fiction magic" is not "a real live human trying to connect with real demonic forces and accomplish something supernatural." Instead, "fantasy fiction magic" is just "a real live human making up a story. Playing pretend."

The Bible has no commands, no rules, against that. Jesus told stories. His servants tell stories. We're made to tell stories.

And the Bible has no commands against telling a story that includes magic in it.

Think of it this way: God said "do not murder" right? But then in Matthew 18 Jesus tells a parable where one man tries to choke another man. There's attempted murder in the story Jesus is telling: but just because God disapproves of the act of murder, does not mean He disapproves of telling a story that features murder.

Sin being in a story isn't a bad thing. It's realistic, because sin exists. What really matters is whether or not the story treats the sin like sin, and not like an admirable thing. Because the point of all stories is to tell the truth in a compelling way. If the story treats something sinful like it's not sinful, that wouldn't be truthful. But if the story treats sin like it's definitely bad, then it's doing what God invented stories to do: tell the truth.

Now here's where you might say, "yeah, but most fantasy stories treat magic like it's a good thing."

Right. But remember: most fantasy stories don't have what the Bible calls "magic" in them at all.

When the Fairy Godmother in Cinderella says "bibbidi bobbidi boo," she's not calling upon demons to give her supernatural power (which is what the Bible is talking about when it condemns magic.) She's using a pretend superpower that the storyteller made up, on the spot, for the story. Her "magic" is not what the Bible calls "magic," so it doesn't even matter if it's portrayed as "good" or "bad" morally.

Fantasy fiction is fine. There is no reason, Biblically, for Christians not to read fantasy fiction if their only reason for it is "well there's magic in it."

There's nothing wrong with telling a story that has a supernatural element in it. It's only a story. As long as it's not real humans doing creation-worshipping or demon-contacting practices, in real life it's okay to write and it's okay to read.

Let me know if that makes sense!

[linkspooky]

Helloooo I finished the first part of your jjk fic!!

I FLIPPING LOVED IT FUCK I MUST READ THE OTHER PARTS DAYUM I CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF THIS

First of all, thank goodness Michi didn't die at the end of this first part (God bless Geto for this, man. I was tempted to stop reading if Michi died bruh😭)

I love a lot Michi, and for me, he's part of the jjk cast (at least in my heart idc😔🤟). He fits perfectly in its world. His backstory, the themes he brought to the plot, how much you can get from him when you compare him with either Gojo or Geto.

I just know you love your oc for the way you wrote him, links. You crafted his character with a lot of care, and there's nothing more beautiful to me, as a reader, than an author pouring all their love and passion to their characters and story (Wether it's fanfic or not this level of care on your writing speaks volumes about you as a writer! Keep writing. There are people who appreciate it a lot :D)

All the metaphors meticulously placed to subtly hint you what you wanted to portray for each character and also as a way for foreshadowing. I just love that level of care in media. It makes you want to reread it again and make sure you didn't let any detail slip on you first read.

From chap. 5 what I liked the most, aside from the convo between Gojo and Utahime, which showed Gojo's more sensitive side with that touch of sarcasm so you don't take him as seriously because hey, he's still Gojo The Strongest!

Geto and Michi had a very insightful convo. They are almost parallels, but they differ on one aspect you already explained to me in another ask I sent you:

Michi confronted Geto. Right in front of his face. The world had already warned Geto with Riko's death in the hands of a mere "monkey."

Someone sensitive, like Geto, would not survive in the world of Jujutsu. You can not save everyone when not even your life holds any value to the ones on top in charge of protecting you.

Toji showed him that. Work is work. It doesn't matter whether you have strength and honest reasons to save people. You could still die at the hands of the same ones you risk your life to protect, and the world would still spin.

That broke Geto and eventually caused his breakup with Gojo because Geto realised that he was weak. That he did care. He never forgot Riko like Gojo. He felt guilty for letting his feelings overwhelm him and ruin his relationship with Gojo. He started to understand that compassion and empathy were a weakness. Those feelings were the reason he got so careless. It was his fault that Riko died:

Geto is a very tragic character. He can't help but feel everything. Feel for everyone. If he notices, he'll make time to listen to you and ease your pain as much as possible even if that means sacrificing himself for you... and Michi noticed that because they were similar. Michi found Geto as precious as Geto found Riko as such:

This part of chap.5 made me wonder if Michi could have caught feelings for Geto (maybe one-sided). Since their first interactions, I always thought they could have had something if the circumstances were different and, well... if Gojo wasn't there intervening lol.

(Maybe it's just me that I want them to be together. I know well that Geto and Gojo were made for eachother :)

Michi, despite his jealousy towards Gojo, he cared for both in his own way. I feel like what Michi was trying to with this whole plan (what a plot wist btw I gasped when I read it) aside from getting rid of Gojo he tried to "spare" Geto from his deplorable mental state by making him accept the reality of their line of work (like a twisted act of love?👀) but chose not to just like Gojo chose to avoid getting any closer to Geto once he realised that he was weaker than him to protect him.

Geto is too precious to be corrupted by any of them, so Michi couldn't bring himself to "steal" Geto from Gojo and "enlighten" him with the harsh reality of being in the Jujutsu world.

If someone had to change, it was Geto himself by his own will and... so he did on chap.7 when he was once again reminded of how little their lives meant if they weren't as strong as Gojo.

After Gojo vs. Michi's fight, Michi is left defeated on the ground without his eyes. He asks for a last request: to be killed by Geto instead of Gojo.

I think it was a very smart decision to pick Geto instead of Gojo to do the job. Gojo would have killed Michi in less than seconds. Gojo didn't care about a weaklings' life who were just on his way.

Forgetting the dead ones is a necessity. A self-defense mechanism to keep them attached to their jobs more efficiently.

Sorcerers were meant to sacrifice their humanity to safe people, and once they die, they're ready to be forgotten and replaced by other sorcerers. It was a cycle.

Their lives are cheap, just like the lives of the prostitutes Michi was so defensive with.

Those women were doing their job, just like Gojo, Geto, and Michi, but they could die in the hands of anyone any day and then... the blame would fall on them for being "weak, because "they were looking for it when they got in the industry. " Lastly, they'd be forgotten and replaced with other prostitutes.

How different were those prostitutes from Gojo and the rest of the sorcerers? Risking their bodies for the sake of someone else's pleasure (the higher ups), accepting being dehumanised for a salary... They're not really that different, are they?

(I fear that was peak literature, links🫡)

Geto didn't kill Michi because he knew that Gojo could have killed both of them if he wanted... and he wouldn't have cared after doing so because he was programmed like that. He programmed himself like that to function in such a world.

At that moment, Gojo embodied the Jujutsu world's philosophy, and Geto knew that. Geto realised, once again, that he was weak compared to him. He was just one of those prostitutes, like Michi. Geto was, unlike Gojo, too weak to kill Michi.

Another detail that could be coincidence:

"Why does the story begin with the prostitute dying?"

That's funny (not really). At the beginning of jjk, the original story, first season, Geto, had already died by that time we just didn't know yet...

Thank you for this amazing first part of your fic links. I'll soon read the rest parts too. Idk if I'll be able to keep doing this asks all the time due to college, but I may send you an ask gushing about your writing from time to time! :p

Again ty for answering me and sorry again for bombarding you with this kind of yap sessions lmao

I hope you're doing well!💞

(Michi's official design just for you. He 's 29 in this not 18, he grew up from a Twink into a Mommy).

First of all, thank goodness Michi didn't die at the end of this first part (God bless Geto for this, man. I was tempted to stop reading if Michi died bruh😭) I love a lot Michi, and for me, he's part of the jjk cast (at least in my heart idc😔🤟). He fits perfectly in its world. His backstory, the themes he brought to the plot, how much you can get from him when you compare him with either Gojo or Geto.

Michi is baiscally immortal. In the sense that his entire story revolves around the fact that prostitutes are treated like they're completely expendable by both our society, and also most of fiction. Michi the son of a prostitute and another victim of sexual abuse stubbornly refuses to die, because in this version his little life in worth something.

I'm glad you liked him. Michi is basically someone I created to characterize Gojo, by one being a narrator observing Gojo from the outside, but two being an unreliable narrator to illustrate that there's really no understanding Gojo the best you get as a reader is Michi's interpretation of Gojo which is heavily biased and flawed because of Michi's own projections and jealousies towards him.

However, Michi just kind of became a character of his own and left the role of Narrator. That's why I don't describe what Michi looks like at all until his conversation with Geto where he sees his reflection, like oh yeah, he's a person with a face. He has an identity of his own he's not just a pair of eyes watching Gojo. Michi himself is just a tertiary character in Geto and Gojo's narrative because he's observing from the outside but he's still his own person with his own story to tell.

Geto and Michi had a very insightful convo. They are almost parallels, but they differ on one aspect you already explained to me in another ask I sent you: Michi confronted Geto. Right in front of his face. The world had already warned Geto with Riko's death in the hands of a mere "monkey." Someone sensitive, like Geto, would not survive in the world of Jujutsu. You can not save everyone when not even your life holds any value to the ones on top in charge of protecting you.

Michi is the midpoint between Geto and Gojo, deeply empathic like Geto and yet unable to relate to his fellow human beings like Gojo even if for completely opposite reasons. However, I do think Michi has given up on the idea that Gojo will ever understand him in spite of the fact that he still feels a lot towards Gojo.

However, Michi still desperately wants to be understood, which is why in spite of acting like a mastermind who wants to entrap both Gojo and Geto in his scheme he goes out of his way to try to explain himself to Geto and try to get Geto to see the world the way he does because Geto is the only person, perhaps in his entire life, that has given any kind of inkling that he might care.

Michi wants to be cared about, but he feels like when his mother died, there was no one else in the world obligated to care for him or take care of him. Geto is just someone who genuinely cares, Michi didn't think people like him still existed in this world.

That broke Geto and eventually caused his breakup with Gojo because Geto realised that he was weak. That he did care. He never forgot Riko like Gojo. He felt guilty for letting his feelings overwhelm him and ruin his relationship with Gojo. He started to understand that compassion and empathy were a weakness. Those feelings were the reason he got so careless. It was his fault that Riko died:

On the other hand I think the reason Michi immediately connected to Geto, is because Geto actually wears his human weakness on his sleeve. Geto's inability to show human weakness is what destroys his friendship with Gojo, especially since Gojo doesn't want to see that weakness in his best friend who is the only person he sees as an equal. On the other hand Michi is attracted to Geto because of his unwavering humanity.

Geto really is too sensitive to survive in this world, and Michi knows that, while Gojo is oblivious to that, but that knowledge just kind of makes Michi find Geto as someone precious. Geto is someone who's actually not all that mentally strong, he's vulernable and weak, and gets hurt because he cares too much and he can't actually just suck it all up and handle the strain of being a sorcerer but those things make him human in michi's eyes. He doesn't want Geto to suck it up and be stronger, he doesn't want Geto to become someone unfeeling and untouchable, to lose his sensitivty and empathy even if both things end up driving him mad. And after the fact, Michi decides to do the opposite of Gojo, and stay by his side and walk the same path as him.

I think simply because Michi wants to protect him. He doesn't want the world to kill this caring person the same way that it killed his mother, even though Geto has completely lost his way.

This part of chap.5 made me wonder if Michi could have caught feelings for Geto (maybe one-sided). Since their first interactions, I always thought they could have had something if the circumstances were different and, well... if Gojo wasn't there intervening lol.

Uh so word of god. Michi is in love with Geto. It's not what you'd consider traditional romantic love, because Michi doesn't really feel romantic love. If I had to compare it to anything it would be Itsuki fell for Sensui.

Loving Geto for being pure as the driven snow and continuing to love him after he fell into despair and became defiled.

I don't think Michi would ever sleep with Geto though even though he sleeps around with men a lot. Not because I'm like Oc X Canon is bad, but because he thinks Geto belongs to Gojo.

aside from getting rid of Gojo he tried to "spare" Geto from his deplorable mental state by making him accept the reality of their line of work (like a twisted act of love?👀) but chose not to just like Gojo chose to avoid getting any closer to Geto once he realised that he was weaker than him to protect him.

Michi's plans definitely shifted halfway through when he connected to Geto so quickly. I think it's like you said, Michi believed he had to show Geto the cruelty of the world. It's that logic that parents sometimes say, "I have to be cruel to you to teach you, because the world won't be easy on you." Also, like Itsuki above I think Michi detected those dark impulses in Geto brewing just under the surface, and wanted to drag them up. Because one, he saw a common spirit in Geto, and two I think he knew Geto was repressing himself so hard he was basically killing himself to function as a cog in society.

I think Michi just wanted Geto to leave cursed society though, he never could have predicted Geto would go on to be a mass murderer, and never would have wanted that to happen. Even if he still stuck by his side after the fact.

After Gojo vs. Michi's fight, Michi is left defeated on the ground without his eyes. He asks for a last request: to be killed by Geto instead of Gojo. I think it was a very smart decision to pick Geto instead of Gojo to do the job. Gojo would have killed Michi in less than seconds. Gojo didn't care about a weaklings' life who were just on his way.

Michi's decision to ask Geto to do it instead of Gojo is simultaneously a calculation (he knew Gojo was going to kill him without hesitation but he was counting on the fact Geto would hesitate) and also a small act of mercy. Even though Gojo would kill him and forget about him soon afterwards, he doesn't think Gojo should be forced to kill his own family member because of how inhuman that act is.

Gojo shouldn't have to get his hands dirty and give away just another piece of his humanity for Jujutsu Society yet again, is Michi's logic.

Those women were doing their job, just like Gojo, Geto, and Michi, but they could die in the hands of anyone any day and then... the blame would fall on them for being "weak, because "they were looking for it when they got in the industry. " Lastly, they'd be forgotten and replaced with other prostitutes. How different were those prostitutes from Gojo and the rest of the sorcerers? Risking their bodies for the sake of someone else's pleasure (the higher ups), accepting being dehumanised for a salary... They're not really that different, are they?

I'm glad you got the metaphor that basically the whole fic was built around. If you like this, it's an idea I explore further with Mei Mei's character in my most recent fic. Basically, Mei Mei like Michi has the same point of view. That Sorcerers are basically prostitutes who sell their body and enter a dangerous line of work where their lives mean nothing for money.

That every sorcerer is an expendable target, and when they die it's their own fault. That the system makes them put themselves in danger, and then blames them for becoming Jujutsu Sorcerers in the first place because they should have known the risk, nevermind how rigged society is against them. How the elders and people in charge do absolutely nothing to protect them.

Anyway, I'm glad you liked the fics and I try just as hard to explore similiar themes in my later fics. I basically like to build each fic around a central idea, like "Don't you hate how prostitutes always die in the beginning of mystery novels?" So I hope since you're such a good reader you'll enjoy the themes of my later fics.

[luna-rainbow]

Thoughts about this quote from AM about how Sam doesn't trust Bucky and will probably never completely forgive him for being the Winter Soldier?

Here's the link to the tweet I saw (I don't know how to include screenshots sorry 😭😭):

https://twitter.com/DianneR_99/status/1785867853238833641?t=NUhkilfwG2guZQx31-b82g&s=19

It's apparently from the official Marvel Studios' collector special TFATWS book.

Why is it so hard for people at Marvel to acknowledge that Bucky is a victim not some reformed villain?

(Also please feel free to ignore this ask, I know people have been dogpiled in the past for being slightly critical of AM and the last thing I want is for you to get hate because of me.)

It’s okay I think I’ve blocked most of them, or they’ve gotten tired of dogpiling me and blocked me. If I’ve missed anyone feel free to announce yourselves to get a block 😌

Thanks for bringing this to my attention!

I’ve said in other asks about AM’s comments on Bucky, I never blame an actor for not understanding the nuances of another character. That’s not his job. Understanding Bucky is the job of Sebastian Stan and the writers.

However, I know it’s tempting to compare him to CEvans, who had always spoken so affectionately of Bucky. Remember that Bucky’s story in the movies was complementary to Steve’s, meaning that CEvans had to understand Bucky's tragedy in order to understand Steve’s pain and guilt. To CEvans/Steve, it was important that Bucky was a wronged hero, because it rationalises why Steve would go such lengths to help him. For the entire trilogy, Bucky, and particularly Bucky's suffering, was very much impetus for Steve’s personal journey and growth. I've talked about the narrative motifs in other meta and I want to emphasise I don't mean this from a shipping lens - I mean that thematically, events that happen to Bucky have always been a major driver for Steve to make important narrative choices, and it is true even if you see their relationship as platonic.

Which…I guess brings us to the crux of the disk horse that brought about this tweet. No, Bucky is in no way important personally or narratively to Sam. Sam doesn’t grow or change because he cares about Bucky, although fortunately at least Bucky’s TFATWS arc involves him growing because he cares about Sam. We know Bucky is not personally or narratively important to Sam because of what AM has just said — Sam will always see Bucky as the guy who tore off his wings and kicked him off a helicarrier. Not a WW2 war hero, not a prisoner of war tortured into blank amnesia, not a survivor who had to rebuild most of his identity ground up, not a veteran living with PTSD without any social supports. These same views are echoed by his fans, who will scoff at everything I’ve said above and say we’re trying to “woobify a white fave” without knowing what woobify means. Sam does not care about what Bucky has been through, we know because the writing of the story has told AM that it is not important to understand who Bucky is or what Bucky has been through. All AM needs to do is to banter with this guy like he’s still annoyed at him over an incident 10 years ago when he had amnesia.

Again, I don't blame AM for this, because he can only work with what the writers have told him about the intended relationship between Sam and Bucky. And to be fair, he plays it like it is. At no point does it feel like Sam values or trusts Bucky beyond "annoying guy I put up with for work". I know some fans like to point to the Louisiana scene as proof that Sam trusts Bucky and has him as part of the family -- which would be great fanon if 1) AM didn't just contradict that and b) Sam spends most of the deleted scenes calling Bucky "the Winter Soldier" like the guy had any say in the moniker. And no, Bucky confessing his deeds to Yori is not Bucky reclaiming his identity as the Winter Soldier.

This is not an indictment on the ship, by the way, because you can wrangle canon to make it work, and shipping has been built on far less. I've got nearly 50k words on AO3 proving I've tried. But TFATWS canon is full of things happening off camera and the truth is...we never saw mutual trust and affection on camera between the two men. We saw two guys perpetually annoyed at and annoying to each other, and AM just gave the reason why.

[gatheredfates]

I am thinking about the Compendium.

I am... I don't think disheartened is the right word—I feel like that implies it's targeted at other people/the community when the contemplation and consideration is aimed inwardly to myself—but I can't quite surmise the best word to sum up how I feel.

I know I would have liked to have had more Free Company / Event / Community focused spaces by now, but I think that's self-inflicted. I think my adherence to wanting permission from server owners has created a rod for my back in that not every server owner is on tumblr, has time to submit their communities or may even know of the Compendium in general. It's lead to me needing to do a bulk of the reaching out as well as recording and maintaining the document.

Which, don't get me wrong, I enjoy! I've had success! But I don't really have time for it between working full time, caring for my partner, running my other projects and actually having time for myself / my interests / my ocs and stories. There's a level of investment in trying to find the communities, join them, reach out to the owners and then copy all the information into the Compendium—time I'm realising I don't always have (unfortunately).

What it means is that I'm left with three options. One is to just suck it up and try to do it anyway, risking burnout in the process. Two is to appoint people to reach out on my / the Compendium's behalf; a job I wouldn't ask anyone to do unless they wanted to volunteer and, even then, I'm kinda eh about. Three is to reassess the Compendium's categories and change up what I accept.

I feel like the latter is the best. While consent is still important to me, I'm tempted to operate on adding Community and Event discords on the basis of them having public links (in the way I openly advertise Seafloor) is implied consent to be added to the Compendium—in the same way I don't mind if people link Seafloor in their Discords. It would be for these servers only ("Communities" in this instance being servers catered to a specific part of xiv storytelling / roleplay; e.g. a Doman Community, a WoL-centric community, etc. and events being like cafes, fight clubs, public in-character spaces—you get the idea), but means that people can anonymously submit communities and events they are a part of, rather than needing to ask their leaders, and I have a greater chance capture more spaces.

Free Companies and Casual servers would still require submission, due to their more intimate nature, but I don't think that's a huge setback? However, whether you're a Free Company leader or not, if you have a suggestion for a better method, I'm all ears.

Obviously, if people don't want their spaces on the Compendium, they can message me and I will remove them. That aspect won't change. I'm just wanted to alleviate some of my workload whilst also... kinda giving myself more work by proxy. It makes sense in my brain.

If the overwhelming answer is no, I'll go back to the drawing board. I don't think it's a bad idea, but there might be something I'm overlooking.

Anyway, if you've read this far, thanks for your time!! I care you. I'm going to bed. I may not respond to replies here until tomorrow. 💖

[yuri-is-online]

Congratulations on your 500 foll and I hope you well.

I would like to request for a friend too, the character would be Azul and Silver. No. 9. Would like to see on their perspective, how they felt that the prefect wasn't invited by the time they came. And unknowingly they talk to prefect, is not like the prefect can say it's them they talking to.

9.You weren't technically invited to this event but it's a Masquerade! It's not like anyone will notice or care if you sneak in, so you do just that and find a really depressed friend of yours lamenting they won't get to dance with their crush.

Thank you my dear, as your friend has requested I have written this strictly from Silver and Azul's point of view. If you are curious about the prefect's point of view, I received a second request for Azul that can be found here. If you or your friend would like another character since Azul was technically already requested you are more than welcome to message me and make another request, there is no time limit on that.

notes: they/them used for Yuu, same music for Azul used in the first part and I have linked them again in case this is the first part you read. Silver is a dense boy. The other event requests can be found on my masterlist.

Azul

What a waste of a night. Even if Crewel hadn't woven some extra magic into these costumes everyone is wearing some extra sort of wig or hat in addition to their mask that means he cannot tell who most of these people are. He can pick out Leona and both of the twins, but Leona can also pick him out and has no problem telling him so. The twins are another matter entirely, but he is content to let them be someone else's headache tonight. Azul seldom wants to be alone, usually he has his work for company, but tonight he has to be here and actually listen to his thoughts.

And his thoughts have drawn him out here to the balcony in an attempt to convince himself he is not upset at the way the Masquerade is turning out.

"Play me a song you're the piano shriiiimpy~" An exasperated sigh draws Azul out from his kitchen, mug clasped in both hands to avoid tempting fate and dropping it if he gets too caught up in the moment. Floyd has apparently taken to misquoting song lyrics to annoy Yuu into ditching their cleaning duties to play the Lounge piano. Again. And again he cannot say he minds no matter what he is going to say to Floyd later. The music begins to soothe his exhaustion, smile flickering into something more genuine and gentle as they fuss about trying to play a song that "fits the atmosphere" that he recognizes as the piano part of a larger jazz piece. He considers moving to close the gap, and any other time seeing someone struggle with something he had so firm a grasp of would be cause enough...

But then Yuu starts to sing, sing about love and guilt in a manner that almost feels targeted directly at his sense of self with how well it suits his establishment. It's perfect, they're perfect and he wants nothing more than to enter and give himself away completely-

And then his mug shatters in his hands from the strength of his longing (certainly not from his grip, that would be undignified) keeping him from playing things by ear, at least for tonight.

There is someone watching him play, he can sense the confusion in their gaze as he turns his thoughts towards a more grounded song. Not that he can bring himself to make it less longing. The stranger claps politely, clearly not having intended to stay so long but to leave now would be awkward. And Azul excels at punishing the awkward.

"I am sorry for interrupting you." Tries the stranger and Azul laughs to himself slightly. Oh he bets they are.

"Oh it's no trouble really." Azul stands in an attempt to appear unbothered, sticking the landing in a way that does fill him with a degree of pride. He would have struggled with using his legs like this just a year ago and now he practically appears human. "I was just helping myself, really what were the hosts thinking leaving such a lovely piano out here all alone? It's practically begging to be played."

"Of course." The person shifts, not wanting to be impolite but also not wanting to stay and talk much longer. That suits him just fine, go and leave him to his longing, he has a white whale to pine after. "You chose such a unique song for it too, I couldn't help but be distracted." He fails to hide his emotion for just a moment, hand involuntarily dropping back to the keys tempted to begin his playing anew. How happy it would make him if Yuu was the one to say that.

"It is isn't it." It would make all of it worth it. "A... friend of mine taught it to me." It's a lie, but that's most of what he does, a thought that draws him away from the conversation and into his own mind. This person will forget this conversation and be unable to recall the tune, so what harm is there in telling the truth? "I have been practicing it for them. For tonight." Because he had. He had been planning to get Yuu alone, the Masquerade had been a convenient setting to set the mood. He would find them and keep their attention for the night, dance with them, talk with them from under his mask but keep things light so there was some plausible deniability when midnight struck and the masks were removed.

"I should let you get back to them then." The stranger bows gently, content that their obligations have been fulfilled and to leave him to his... he is not sulking but there is a chance this uneducated person might misinterpret his tone as something similar to that.

"They're not here sadly. No thanks to me, if only they had thought to ask for my help..." He knows why they didn't, but it still stings. But does he have anyone to blame for this but himself? He might see the prefect as a student just like any other, but Crowley doesn't. Maybe he could have gotten away with asking Yuu on a date, make things awkward enough for the Headmage that he had to allow it, but then he would have had to ask Crewel for permission and he never would have gotten that. The music returns to his fingers, even as the stranger walks away. He should keep up the pretext, play the Mermaid Princess's song so no one can use this against him or target the prefect. But he has to know why-

"It's got to be an important song to them if they remembered how to play it... right?" He mutters it to himself, but he wants so desperately to know. If he had succeeded, if Yuu had been invited and they had gotten to dance until the end of the ball...

If he had taken them back to the lounge and played it for them, complete with the words, would it have made the impact he wanted? Or was he making assumptions again. He doesn't know, and the stranger dissipates into the night without his answers, not that he knows they would have had them to begin with.

Silver

"My my, aren't you all a handsome crew." His father is laughing, darting around with his phone snapping pictures with such joy that it should be enough to make Silver happy. Sebek is practically bursting with pride, and his lord certainly seems content if not happy, but Silver...

He tries hitting his cheeks to make himself smile, but the only thing it accomplishes is worrying his father, who floats down to his side to check him over before smiling ruefully up at him.

"I bet you don't know why you're upset, do you?" Lilia clearly seems to think he knows why, something that deepens the creases in his forehead behind the mask.

"I'm sorry, Father." The last thing he wants to do is ruin Malleus's excitement with his poor mood, though it feels more like he's starting to get sick than upset. "I'm just... tired is all."

"Hardly unusual." Sebek huffs. "Really Silver you need to get it together this is an important night for-"

"You don't need to worry, Silver." Malleus brings everyone's attention to him with a simple shake of his head, and Silver finds his heart warming just slightly at his lord's comfort. "I'm also displeased with our friend's absence." The mention of the prefect brings back the strange sick feeling, though he finds himself standing up just a bit straighter as their group finally makes it into the ballroom.

"Yes it is such a pity." His father is laughing, but not cruelly. It sounds more like he's plotting something. "Perhaps I'll bake them a cake to cheer them up." The strange sickness starts squeezing his natural worry into something so painful he almost doubles over.

"If you are still awake by the end of the party, you can accompany me to visit them at Ramshackle. I'm certain they would be pleased to see you." Malleus's lips have stretched into that smug smile that suggests he is privy to something Silver is not, but the thought of seeing the Prefect lightens his steps and relaxes the knot in his stomach to something more manageable.

Perhaps it relaxed him too much, the last thing he really remembers is going to get something to drink close to the beginning of the Masquerade and now someone is shaking him awake. Their costumes hides their emotions, but his squirrel friends seem almost smug as they jump off their shoulder to rub their noses against him.

"Are you alright?" Asks the stranger. "I thought you were just enjoying the music but your friends seemed really worried." The squirrels stare up at him waiting for... praise? Or maybe a reward, Silver quietly apologizes to them explaining that the people food isn't the best for them only to get indignantly screeched at

Don't be an idiot! Go for it Silver!

Go for what? He doesn't know but he picks them up all the same and bows in apology to the stranger.

"I'm sorry they bothered you, but thank you for waking me up." The squirrels bounce off away from him with a groan and he frowns in confusion before turning back to his new friend. "It's a good thing you woke me up, I need to find Lord Malleus and make sure he's alright." The stranger, strangely, doesn't stiffen in fright at the mention of his lord but Silver barely notices. "I don't suppose you know if the school ghosts would let me take a to go box? Fa- Lilia wants to bring a friend of ours something as an apology but I would like it to actually be edible." The stranger coughs and Silver wonders if maybe there's a bug going around the school that he's passed onto this stranger briefly before they respond.

"I'm sure they won't mind too much." Their voice is strained, maybe they have a sore throat. He moves to pour them a drink.

"That's a relief," he passes over the drink and makes sure the other student at least takes a sip "I wonder if Crewel will let me keep my mask a bit longer..."

"Aren't they yours to keep? I though that's what the cr- I mean the Headmage said." They sound somewhat bitter.

"I was asleep during the announcement so I don't know. That's why I didn't realize Y- my friend wasn't going to be here until today." The other student sips their drink quietly, hopefully it soothes their throat as Silver stares down at his own.

"I bet you don't know why you're upset, do you?"

He leans back trying to avoid falling asleep again as the other student stands listlessly, concerned about his well being probably.

"I am upset." He says, more to himself than the stranger. "I wanted to spend some time with them tonight but..." that should be normal. It's normal to want to spend time with your friends. But Silver doesn't really recognize this want, nor does he have time before the booming voice of Sebek hustles it's way towards his location and scares off his new friend. Pity, he would have liked to try introducing them to Malleus. Something in the back of hid mind says they already would get along well.

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

I want to talk a bit about a thing I played around with... this last February, apparently (in the midst of quitting my job and upending my life? wow). Consider this a sort of vague and casual interest check, as well, simply because I'm curious.

Note that this specific little self-indulgent project isn't publicly available and most likely won't ever be - I just had a couple people I know run through it for fun, as it's super rough and ultimately kind of pointless as-is. But I am actually interested to hear what people around these parts think of this kind of interactive fiction as a fanfic format. If I suddenly decided to go all in on writing, I don't know, a post-game Selûnite mini murder mystery in something like this, would this even be a kind of fanwork anyone would want? Or want to participate in, even?

In any case, what "this" even is is me messing around, first in Twine and then in Ink (which was brought to my attention thanks to Heaven's Vault being one of my favourite things ever). Then trying out what hosting things on itch.io looks like, after which I tried out both Unity and Godot variants of plugging the Ink into an existing engine - this was pretty much a test vehicle for me to play around with for a couple of evenings in a private little game jam. Outside of poking around Ren'Py five million years ago, this is the first time I've actually tried making anything interactive in this sense. And honestly, I loved it!

It's really not much, writing-wise, at about 5k words total. Just a bunch of scenes harnessing that sweet, sweet BG3 hyperfixation, shaped purely around me trying out different things in a technical sense and using the characters as a sort of shorthand while doing so. So you have fairly classic branching dialogue trees (Wyll), scenes that change when you leave and then come back (Jaheira), scenes that briefly diverge but end up at the same place and set some flags in the process (Aylin, Lae'zel), some stuff hidden behind checks you need to make (Halsin, Shadowheart, Isobel), and completely random events that may or may not happen during certain scene transitions (Orin). What I identified as the essentials, really.

I did a bit of exploring ways to incorporate small changes to encounters depending on which order you do them in. As a very simple example:

The above basically means your dialogue changes very slightly depending on if you found Shadowheart before talking to Aylin. Additionally, if you ask Aylin to tell you where Shadowheart supposedly went (which is completely optional even if you do talk to Aylin first), you'll have a bit of extra dialogue in the scene with Shadowheart when that flag up there gets checked. So some very, very basic reactivity - just for flavour, here.

My skill checks were plain d20 rolls without modifiers and with fixed DCs - a simple "create your character" intro bit would be perfectly doable, though, to get some stats and bonuses going. But roll badly enough and you can always make a complete ass of yourself in front of the Blade himself!

Visuals are super rudimentary, obviously. Taking a zoomed-out screenshot of the BG3 camp and blurring it to get this nice, chill background where that damn fire actively interferes with readin-- I mean, look at this, dynamically changing the look of the text to convey a shift in mood!

And, of course, a little structure of options and checks to get some of the good old "choices and failures having meaningful consequences":

(...for Shadowheart, at least. Sorry.)

In conclusion, this was all very fun to try out, and I can see a bigger project spiraling completely out of control because it's so tempting to try to cover everything in the universe and make everything branch out infinitely! But I also definitely want to do more of it, beyond this little proof of concept/experiment. I'd also love to encourage people to try their hands at this themselves - both of the tools/languages I mentioned and linked up there are very beginner-friendly and very well-documented. Give them a try! There's also a sea of works already out there to jump into, to see how these things can be used and the interactivity part leveraged to great effect - I've still barely scratched the surface, myself.

[amethystarachnid]

Now that you have finished the Holiday Special, I would like to request a part two of "Second Chance", please. I would love to see more of their love 🥺 living together, getting married, kids, all the cuteness possible! Thank you

SECOND CHANCE - part II

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

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

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 11k ( I can't believe the either)

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said <3

ᯓ★ Part I

ᯓ★ TW(s): none I think (?)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

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

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

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The mornings in the Stark Tower penthouse always start the same: sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, soft music humming in the background (Tony insists on curating daily playlists because "waking up deserves a soundtrack"), and the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen.

Your life has settled into a rhythm, an odd but comforting blend of luxury, chaos, and unfiltered love. It’s been over a year since you moved in, and even though the world now knows you as Tony Stark’s girlfriend—a title that comes with its fair share of public scrutiny—it still feels a little surreal when you wake up next to him.

This morning, you’re the first to wake, your cheek pressed against his chest. His arm is draped lazily around you, his breathing steady, a slight snore rumbling now and then. You stifle a laugh as you carefully extricate yourself from his hold, but before you can fully escape, his fingers tighten around your wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is thick with sleep, and his eyes are barely open.

“To get coffee,” you reply, smiling. “Unless you’re planning to hold me hostage all morning.”

He pulls you back against him, burying his face in your hair. “Tempting. But if you’re making coffee, I might let you go.”

You laugh, wriggling free and padding toward the kitchen. By the time the coffee is ready, Tony has shuffled out of bed, his hair a mess and his Stark Industries-branded pajama pants slightly askew. He leans against the counter, watching you with a sleepy grin as you pour two mugs.

“This is why I keep you around,” he says, taking the mug you hand him.

“Oh, really? Not for my sparkling personality or my unparalleled charm?”

He smirks, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “That too. But mostly the coffee.”

Living with Tony means life is never boring. Between his work at Stark Industries, his time with the Avengers, and his natural tendency to attract chaos, there’s always something happening.

Take last week, for example. You came home to find a half-assembled Iron Man suit sprawled across the living room, with Tony perched on the couch, wearing the gauntlet and testing out some new tech.

“Tony, why is there a missile launcher on my side of the couch?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked up, completely unbothered. “Oh, that’s not a missile launcher. It’s a miniaturized EMP. Totally harmless unless you’re an evil robot.”

You sighed, stepping over a piece of armor. “And what about this?”

“That’s a missile launcher,” he admitted, grinning sheepishly. “But don’t worry, it’s deactivated. Probably.”

Despite the chaos, there’s a sweetness to your everyday life. The little moments, like when he sneaks up behind you while you’re cooking, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing kisses to your neck. Or the nights when you curl up on the couch together, a bowl of popcorn between you, as he insists on watching “classic cinema” (which, in Tony’s mind, includes Die Hard and Back to the Future).

And then there are the spicy moments. Tony has a knack for turning the most mundane situations into opportunities for seduction.

Like the time you were trying to reorganize the pantry, and he walked in, shirtless and smirking.

“Need a hand?” he asked, leaning casually against the doorway.

“I’m fine,” you replied, reaching for a high shelf.

But then his hands were on your waist, lifting you effortlessly so you could grab the jar you were reaching for. When he set you down, his hands didn’t move, and you found yourself pressed against the counter, his lips brushing your ear.

“Are you sure you don’t need help with anything else?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

Needless to say, the pantry didn’t get reorganized that day.

Of course, being Tony Stark’s girlfriend also means attending more fancy events than you ever thought possible. Charity galas, board meetings, tech expos—you’ve seen it all.

The prep for these events is almost as much fun as the events themselves. Tony insists on helping you pick out your dress, claiming he has an eye for fashion (which, annoyingly, he kind of does).

“What about this one?” you ask, holding up a sleek black gown.

He tilts his head, considering. “It’s nice. But I think something with a little more… drama.”

“Drama?”

He grins, pulling a shimmering gold dress from the rack. “Now this says ‘I’m with Tony Stark.’”

“You mean it says ‘I’m a disco ball.’”

“Exactly.”

In the end, you settle on a dress that’s somewhere between glamorous and understated—enough to make you feel confident but not so flashy that you’ll blend in with Tony’s usual flair.

When the night of the event arrives, he’s already dressed in one of his custom suits, complete with a matching pocket square. He watches you as you get ready, leaning against the doorway with a look that’s equal parts admiration and mischief.

“Are you going to stare at me all night?” you tease as you apply your lipstick.

“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “Have you seen yourself?”

By the time you arrive at the event, the cameras are already flashing, reporters shouting questions as you step onto the red carpet. Tony slips his arm around your waist, pulling you close as he waves to the crowd, his confidence as effortless as ever.

“Smile, sweetheart,” he murmurs in your ear. “We’re the hottest couple in the room.”

Inside, the atmosphere is just as dazzling—chandeliers, champagne, and a sea of well-dressed guests. Tony works the room like the natural showman he is, introducing you to CEOs, celebrities, and politicians as if you’ve been a part of this world forever.

But even in the midst of the crowd, his attention is never far from you. He’ll brush his hand against yours as you pass each other, steal a kiss when no one’s looking, or whisper a sarcastic comment about someone’s over-the-top outfit, making you stifle a laugh.

And when the night finally winds down and you’re back home, kicking off your heels and collapsing onto the couch, he pulls you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you as he kisses you like he’s been waiting all night to do it.

“You were amazing tonight,” he says, his voice low and sincere.

“So were you,” you reply, smiling against his lips.

Your life with Tony isn’t perfect—no relationship is. There are arguments, moments when his work takes over, or when the pressure of being in the spotlight feels overwhelming. But through it all, there’s an unshakable bond between you, a sense that no matter what comes your way, you’ll face it together.

Like the time you had a fight over him missing dinner—again—because he was working on a new suit. You stormed out of the lab, fuming, and didn’t speak to him for the rest of the night. But the next morning, you woke up to the smell of pancakes, Tony standing in the kitchen wearing an apron that read “Genius, Billionaire, Pancake Enthusiast.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding up a plate of slightly burnt pancakes. “I suck at balancing work and life sometimes. But I’m trying. For you.”

You couldn’t stay mad at him after that.

And then there was the time he got you your own lab space in the tower, complete with every piece of equipment you could ever want.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said, your voice soft with awe as you took it all in.

“I wanted to,” he replied, his hands in his pockets as he watched your reaction. “You deserve to have your own space. Somewhere to build, create, do whatever you want.”

You turned to him, tears in your eyes, and he just shrugged, trying to play it off. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for you.”

The sun is setting, and the sky outside the penthouse windows glows in a palette of oranges, pinks, and purples that melt into one another like watercolors. New York sprawls out below, the city alive with its usual energy—traffic buzzing, lights flickering on, and the faint hum of life that never seems to rest. But up here, in the warmth of Tony’s bedroom, the world feels far away, like it belongs to someone else.

You’re standing at the window, your arms crossed lightly over your chest, wearing nothing but one of Tony’s old Black Sabbath shirts. It’s oversized and soft from years of wear, falling just enough to graze the tops of your thighs. Your hair is slightly messy from the day’s lazy lounging, and your bare feet sink into the plush rug beneath you. The scene feels like something out of a dream, the city sparkling in the distance and the man you love moving behind you.

Tony’s voice breaks the silence, a quiet rumble that makes you smile without even turning to look. “You know, you’re ruining the view.”

You glance back at him, raising an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I said what I said,” he replies, lounging on the bed with a lazy smirk. His head is propped up on one hand, his shirt unbuttoned and his tie hanging loose from earlier in the day. He looks like he’s stepped out of a photo shoot for Genius, Billionaire, and Dangerously Handsome Quarterly. “I mean, who’s going to look at a city when you’re standing there looking like that?”

You roll your eyes, fighting the grin that tugs at your lips as you turn back to the window. “That was smooth, Stark. Really. Ten out of ten.”

“Only ten?”

You don’t answer, just shake your head with a soft laugh, and you hear him shift behind you, the mattress creaking slightly as he gets up.

A moment later, his arms slip around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder. You relax into him instinctively, your hands coming to rest over his. The warmth of his touch seeps into you, grounding you in a way that only he can.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” you ask softly, your eyes still on the view.

“Tired of what?”

“This.” You gesture out at the city. “The attention. The pressure. Being… Tony Stark.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you feel him press a kiss to the curve of your neck before he answers. “Honestly? Sometimes. But it’s easier now. Because I have you.”

The simplicity of his words catches you off guard, and your heart swells in your chest. You turn in his arms to face him, your hands resting lightly on his chest.

“Is that your way of saying I make your life easier?” you tease, your voice soft.

“Among other things,” he replies, his lips quirking into a smirk. But there’s something in his eyes—something vulnerable, raw, and unguarded—that makes your teasing falter.

“Tony…”

He steps back, his hands slipping from your waist as he reaches into his pocket. You furrow your brow, your curiosity piqued, but before you can ask what he’s doing, he lowers himself to one knee.

Your breath catches, your hand flying to your mouth as the realization hits you.

“Wait. Are you—?”

“Shh,” he says, holding up a finger, though his grin gives away his own nervous excitement. “Let me do this, okay? I’ve been working on my speech all week.”

You can’t help but laugh, your heart pounding as you watch him pull a small velvet box from his pocket. He opens it, revealing a stunning ring that catches the fading sunlight, its brilliance almost as dazzling as the man holding it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he begins, his voice warm and playful. “‘Tony Stark, on one knee? Is this an elaborate ploy to market a new Stark tech product?’ And honestly, fair question. But no, this isn’t a ploy. This is me—just me—asking you to let me be the luckiest bastard on the planet for the rest of my life.”

Tears well in your eyes as he continues, his usual cockiness tempered by a sincerity that takes your breath away.

“You’ve seen me at my worst,” he says, his voice softening. “And for some insane reason, you stayed. You saw the man under the suit, the flaws, the baggage, all of it, and you still chose me. I don’t know how or why, but you did. And I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

You laugh through your tears, shaking your head as he grins up at you.

“So,” he says, tilting his head slightly, “I figured, why waste any more time? Let’s make this official. What do you say?” He pauses, his grin widening. “And just so you know, the ring is fully customizable. You hate it, we’ll get a new one. We’ll get a dozen. Whatever you want.”

You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head as you kneel down in front of him, your hands cupping his face.

“You are ridiculous,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

“Yeah, but you love it,” he replies, his grin softening into something more tender.

“I do,” you say, nodding as tears spill down your cheeks. “I love you, Tony Stark. And yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

His eyes light up, and before you know it, he’s pulling you into a kiss, his arms wrapping tightly around you as if he’s afraid to let go. You laugh against his lips, the sound mingling with his own as he holds you close.

When he finally pulls back, he slips the ring onto your finger with a precision that makes you laugh again.

“Look at that,” he says, holding your hand up to admire the ring. “Perfect fit. Must be fate.”

“Or really good measurements,” you tease, your smile so wide it hurts.

“Hey, don’t ruin my moment,” he says, feigning offense. But his grin gives him away, and he pulls you into another kiss, the world outside forgotten as the two of you bask in the quiet, overwhelming joy of the moment.

Later, as the city lights twinkle beyond the windows and the stars begin to dot the night sky, you find yourselves tangled together in bed, the ring still sparkling on your finger.

“Did you really practice that speech all week?” you ask, tracing patterns on his chest.

“Absolutely,” he replies without hesitation. “You think I just pull that kind of romance out of thin air?”

You laugh, your hand resting over his heart. “Well, it worked. So, congratulations, Mr. Stark. You’re officially stuck with me.”

He smirks, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Best decision I’ve ever made.”

And as you drift off to sleep in his arms, the city a distant hum beyond the glass, you can’t help but think that he’s right. This—this love, this life, this man—is the best decision you’ve ever made, too.

The decision to get married in Italy happens almost instantly, and of course, it’s Tony who suggests it. One evening, just a week after the proposal, you’re both curled up on the couch, sharing a pizza and brainstorming wedding ideas. You suggest something small and simple, maybe even local, but Tony scoffs so dramatically that you almost choke on your bite.

“Small and simple? Sweetheart, this is a Stark wedding,” he says, gesturing grandly like he’s unveiling a master plan. “We can’t just have a backyard barbecue and call it a day.”

“I wasn’t suggesting a barbecue,” you argue, laughing. “Just… something intimate. Lowkey.”

Tony narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to comprehend an entirely foreign concept. “Intimate, sure. But lowkey? Where’s the drama? The pizzazz? The flair?” He stands abruptly, grabbing his tablet off the coffee table and pulling up images of sprawling Italian villas, sparkling lakes, and rolling hills. “Italy. Lake Como. Picture it: sunset ceremony, wine that’ll make you cry tears of joy, and a backdrop so gorgeous it’ll make even me look like an afterthought.”

You lean over the tablet, your fingers brushing his as you swipe through the photos. You hate to admit it, but it does look incredible.

“Lake Como, huh?” you say, tilting your head.

“Trust me,” he replies, already beaming like he’s won. “You’ll love it.”

And just like that, you’re planning a destination wedding.

The next few months are a whirlwind of activity, full of laughter, occasional bickering, and more spreadsheets than you ever thought possible. Tony hires an elite team of wedding planners, but true to form, he insists on being involved in every detail, much to their dismay.

One morning, as you’re going over the guest list, Tony lounges across the couch, sipping an espresso and scrolling through his tablet.

“Okay, so I’ve narrowed down the guest list to 150 people,” you say, looking up from your notebook.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Only 150? What about the Stark Industries board? Or the press?”

You groan, throwing a pillow at him. “Tony, this isn’t a corporate launch party. It’s our wedding. We’re not inviting the press.”

He dodges the pillow with a laugh, setting down his tablet to pull you into his lap. “Fine, fine. No press.”

Moments like this—when it’s just the two of you, teasing and laughing—make the chaos of planning worthwhile.

The dress becomes a point of contention about halfway through the process.

Tony insists on knowing every single detail of the wedding, from the floral arrangements (white roses with touches of blush pink) to the menu (a five-course Italian feast that he swears will ruin you for all other food). But when it comes to your wedding dress, you refuse to budge.

“You’re not seeing it until I walk down the aisle,” you say firmly one afternoon as you finalize plans for your first fitting.

Tony stares at you like you’ve just announced you’re canceling the wedding altogether. “Wait, what? Why not? I’m paying for it!”

“And it’s going to be a surprise,” you say sweetly, patting his cheek.

“Surprises are overrated,” he grumbles, crossing his arms.

“Not this one,” you reply, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

Despite his protests, you stick to your guns, and Tony spends the next few months sulking every time the dress is mentioned. You catch him trying to bribe your best friend for details once (“Come on, just tell me if it’s got sparkles”), but she doesn’t crack, much to your delight.

Planning a wedding with Tony Stark also means dealing with the occasional unexpected distraction.

Like the time he accidentally blew up part of his workshop while testing a new prototype. You were on a video call with the wedding planner, discussing seating arrangements, when the explosion rattled the entire tower.

“Tony!” you shouted, rushing down to the lab.

When you got there, he was covered in soot, grinning sheepishly as Dum-E sprayed him with a fire extinguisher.

“Don’t worry,” he said, coughing. “It’s under control. Mostly.”

“You’re going to be late to the cake tasting,” you scolded, dragging him upstairs.

He laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “You love me even when I’m a disaster.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, though you couldn’t hide your smile.

Before you know it, the big day arrives.

The villa on Lake Como is even more stunning than you imagined. The ceremony is set up on a sprawling terrace overlooking the water, with rows of chairs draped in white fabric and flowers adorning every surface. The air is warm and fragrant, the sound of the lake gently lapping against the shore creating a serene backdrop.

As the sun begins to set, painting the sky in shades of gold and lavender, you stand in a quiet room with your best friend, your dress perfectly fitted, your heart pounding.

“You ready?” she asks, smiling as she adjusts your veil.

You nod, taking a deep breath. “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life.”

Meanwhile, Tony waits at the altar, looking dashing in his custom tuxedo. But for all his usual confidence, there’s a nervous energy about him as he glances toward the entrance. Rhodey nudges him, grinning.

“Relax,” Rhodey says. “She’s not going to stand you up.”

“Shut up,” Tony mutters, though he can’t help but smile.

When the music starts, and the doors open, everything else fades.

You step into view, and for a moment, Tony forgets how to breathe. You’re radiant, your dress a perfect blend of elegance and simplicity, and the look in your eyes as you meet his gaze is enough to make his knees weak.

As you walk down the aisle, your heart swells with love and anticipation. When you reach Tony, he takes your hands, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

“You’re stunning,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you reply, smiling through your tears.

The ceremony is beautiful, filled with laughter and heartfelt vows that make everyone in attendance misty-eyed. Tony’s vow, in true Stark fashion, is equal parts romantic and funny.

“I never thought I’d find someone who could put up with my nonsense,” he says, his voice warm. “But then you came along and not only put up with it, but somehow made me better. You’re my partner, my equal, and the love of my life. And I promise to spend the rest of my days loving you—flaws, genius, and all.”

Your vows are just as heartfelt, and by the time you exchange rings, there’s not a dry eye in the house.

The reception is a blur of joy and celebration. Guests dance under strings of twinkling lights, the food is every bit as incredible as Tony promised, and the speeches are both hilarious and touching.

But for you and Tony, the highlight of the night is the quiet moment you steal away from the crowd. You find yourselves on a balcony overlooking the lake, the stars reflected in the water below.

Tony wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“So,” he says softly, his voice filled with wonder. “We did it.”

“We did,” you reply, leaning back against him.

He turns you around, his hands framing your face as he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world. “Mrs. Stark,” he murmurs, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

You smile, your hands resting on his chest. “I like the sound of that.”

He kisses you then, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. And as the stars shine above and the world falls away, you know that this—this love, this life, this man—is everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more.

The first days of being married feel like a dream you never want to wake up from. The wedding was magical, but the aftermath—the quiet moments where it’s just the two of you—is even better. You wake up the morning after the wedding in Tony’s arms, sunlight spilling through the villa’s curtains. His hair is an endearing mess, his face softened by sleep. When he finally stirs, the first thing he does is pull you closer, murmuring a sleepy “Good morning, Mrs. Stark.” The words make your heart skip a beat every time he says them, and he takes full advantage of that, slipping the phrase into every conversation for the next several days.

“Mrs. Stark, do you want pancakes or waffles?” “Mrs. Stark, are you aware of how incredible you look in my shirt?” “Mrs. Stark, could you pass me that screwdriver? Thanks, you’re the best wife ever.”

You let him have his fun because, truthfully, you love it.

The honeymoon in Italy stretches on for a few more days, spent exploring charming lakeside towns, indulging in decadent food, and stealing kisses in picturesque corners like a couple from a movie. Tony insists on spoiling you at every turn, booking private tours and surprise candlelit dinners. He claims it’s to celebrate “locking down the deal of a lifetime,” but you know it’s because he can’t resist going all out when it comes to you.

When you finally return to New York, reality hits in the form of a media frenzy. The press had already been obsessed with your relationship before, but your wedding—Tony Stark marrying the woman who tamed him—has become the headline of the year. Paparazzi swarm the tower, headlines range from heartfelt to ridiculous (“Genius Billionaire Finally Meets His Match” and “Mrs. Stark: Who Is She, and How Did She Do It?”), and fans on social media dissect every detail of the wedding pictures that somehow made their way online.

Tony, of course, takes it all in stride, basking in the attention like it’s his natural habitat. He gives you a cheeky grin one morning as he reads an article aloud, his feet propped up on the kitchen counter. “‘Tony Stark’s wedding sets new standard for billionaire romance.’ Sounds about right, don’t you think, Mrs. Stark?”

You roll your eyes, stealing his coffee cup and taking a sip. “Are you going to call me that forever?”

“Forever,” he replies, leaning over to kiss your cheek. “Get used to it.”

Despite the chaos outside, life inside the tower settles into a new rhythm. You fall into a comfortable routine with Tony, your days filled with work, laughter, and the kind of love that feels almost too good to be true. The other Avengers quickly adapt to your new title as well, with Clint jokingly saluting you as “the boss’s boss” and Natasha subtly slipping “Mrs. Stark” into conversation whenever she can just to see you smile.

The real surprise comes a few months later. You’re in the middle of a particularly lazy afternoon, curled up on the couch with a book while Tony tinkers with something in the lab, when you start to notice a pattern. You’ve been unusually tired lately, your emotions swinging wildly between laughter and tears, and then there’s the morning sickness that hit you out of nowhere. At first, you chalked it up to stress or maybe a lingering flu, but now… you have a feeling there’s something more.

The thought sends a jolt of excitement and nervousness through you, and the next morning, you quietly sneak out to buy a test. When the results come back positive, you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the little plastic stick in disbelief.

You’re pregnant.

The realization hits you like a tidal wave. You and Tony are going to have a baby. The thought fills you with so much joy you can hardly contain it, but it’s mixed with a flutter of nerves. How do you tell the man who built a suit of armor to protect himself that he’s about to become a dad?

That evening, after mulling over a dozen ideas, you settle on something simple but quintessentially Stark. You order a tiny baby onesie online and have it customized with the words, Iron Baby No. 1 on the way, ETA nine months. When it arrives a few days later, you hide it in a gift box and wait for the perfect moment.

The moment comes one evening when Tony’s in the kitchen, making what he calls his “famous” grilled cheese. He’s in a relaxed mood, humming along to the playlist he’s put on, and you decide this is it.

“Hey,” you say casually, walking over with the box behind your back.

He glances up from the stove, his face lighting up when he sees you. “Hey, gorgeous. What’s up?”

“I got you a present,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.

Tony raises an eyebrow, setting down the spatula. “A present? For me? What’s the occasion?”

“Just open it,” you say, handing him the box.

He grins, clearly intrigued, and tears into the wrapping paper like a kid on Christmas morning. When he lifts the lid and sees the tiny onesie, his expression shifts from confusion to realization, his eyes widening as he reads the words.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just stares at the onesie like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen. Then he looks up at you, his eyes shimmering with tears.

“Are you serious?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, tears welling in your own eyes. “I’m serious. We’re having a baby.”

Tony sets the box down carefully on the counter before pulling you into his arms. His embrace is so tight it nearly takes your breath away, but you don’t mind. You can feel him trembling slightly as he buries his face in your neck, his emotions pouring out in a way that’s so rare for him.

“I’m going to be a dad,” he says, his voice cracking. “Holy shit. I’m going to be a dad.”

“You are,” you whisper, your hands running soothingly over his back.

When he finally pulls back, his face is wet with tears, but his smile is brighter than you’ve ever seen it. He cups your face in his hands, kissing you deeply before resting his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he says, his voice full of awe. “I love you so much. And I love…” He places a hand gently on your stomach, his touch reverent. “I love this little one already.”

You laugh softly, brushing a tear from his cheek. “I had a feeling you’d be happy.”

“Happy? Are you kidding?” He laughs, though his voice is still thick with emotion. “This is… this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. To us.”

Over the next few weeks, Tony shifts into full-on protective mode. He insists on accompanying you to every doctor’s appointment, interrogates the OB-GYN like they’re a candidate for a top-secret Stark Industries position, and starts researching the best baby gear money can buy. You come home one day to find him in the nursery he’s set up, designing what he calls “baby-safe tech” to keep the little one entertained and protected.

“Tony,” you say, laughing as you lean against the doorframe. “You do realize we’re not raising a baby genius in a lab, right?”

“Speak for yourself,” he replies, not looking up from his holographic blueprint. “This kid’s going to be the smartest, safest, most spoiled little Stark in history.”

You shake your head, your heart swelling with love. Seeing him like this—so invested, so excited—makes you fall for him all over again.

As the weeks turn into months, the excitement grows, both inside the tower and out. The press catches wind of the pregnancy, and the news spreads like wildfire. Headlines range from adoring to absurd, but you and Tony take it all in stride, focusing on the joy of building your family together.

One night, as you’re lying in bed, Tony rests his hand on your growing bump, his fingers tracing lazy circles over your skin.

“You know,” he says softly, his voice laced with wonder, “I used to think I’d never have this. A family. Someone to love me for who I am, not what I can give them.”

You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over his stubble. “And now?”

“Now I know I was wrong,” he replies, leaning down to kiss you.

The idea for the gender reveal is Tony’s, though it surprises you because he’s usually one for grand gestures. But as he gently suggests the idea of keeping it just the two of you, something in his voice—soft, hopeful—makes your heart melt.

“You’re sure?” you ask one evening, resting your hands on your growing belly as you sit on the couch. “No big party? No fireworks shaped like an Iron Man suit?”

Tony grins, sitting beside you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Sweetheart, I’ve done the fireworks. I’ve done the parties. But this… this is different. This is us.” He pauses, glancing at your belly with a tenderness that still catches you off guard. “I want it to be about you and me and the peanut.”

“Peanut?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, peanut for now. Until they grow into something more Stark-like. Maybe ‘genius’ or ‘CEO.’”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays how much you love him. “Fine. Let’s do something just for us.”

A week later, you’re in the kitchen with Tony, standing before a modest but beautiful cake. The frosting is plain white, with delicate swirls along the edges. Inside, the baker promised, is either blue or pink to reveal the baby’s gender.

Tony’s practically buzzing with excitement as he hands you the knife. “You do the honors, Mrs. Stark.”

You take the knife, your hand trembling slightly, but before you can cut, he places his hand over yours.

“Wait,” he says, his voice softer now. He leans down and presses a kiss to your temple. “No matter what, this kid’s going to have the best parents in the world. Okay?”

Tears sting your eyes, and you nod, smiling up at him. “Okay.”

Together, you press the knife into the cake and lift the first slice, your breath catching as the color is revealed.

“It’s a girl,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

Tony stares at the pink cake, his mouth slightly open. Then his face breaks into the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen. “A girl,” he repeats, as if testing the words. He looks at you, his eyes shining. “We’re having a little Starkette.”

You laugh through your tears, setting the knife down to wrap your arms around him. He holds you tightly, his hand gently cradling the back of your head.

“I hope she’s just like you,” he murmurs against your hair.

“And I hope she’s just like you,” you reply, pulling back to meet his gaze.

“God, I hope not,” he jokes, though his voice is thick with emotion. “The world can barely handle one of me.”

In the weeks that follow, Tony becomes even more attached to your growing belly. Every evening, without fail, he rests his head against it and talks to the baby.

“Hey, Starkette,” he says one night as you lie in bed, his hand gently rubbing circles on your belly. “It’s me, your dad. I just want you to know that you’re already smarter than half the people I’ve ever worked with. And that’s saying something.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair. “Tony, she’s not even born yet.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, pressing a soft kiss to your belly. “She’s already a Stark. Genius is in her DNA.”

Sometimes, he sings to her—soft, off-key renditions of songs that make you laugh until your sides hurt. Other times, he reads aloud from baby books, though he always adds his own commentary.

“Oh, look at this,” he says one evening, flipping through a parenting book. “‘Babies cry to communicate their needs.’ Really? That’s groundbreaking information. Did we pay for this book?”

Despite his jokes, you can see how deeply he’s invested in this new chapter of your lives. The sight of him doting on you and the baby makes you fall in love with him all over again.

Choosing a name becomes an adventure in itself.

Tony suggests everything from obscure historical figures to names of constellations. At one point, he even suggests “Arc,” claiming it’s a nod to his arc reactor and “totally cool.”

“Tony,” you say, barely suppressing your laughter. “We are not naming our daughter after a piece of tech.”

“Fine,” he replies, pretending to sulk. “But don’t come crying to me when she asks why she doesn’t have a cool name.”

After weeks of debate, you finally settle on a name that feels perfect: Morgan.

“Why Morgan?” Tony asks one evening as you lie together on the couch.

You shrug, smiling softly. “It’s strong but sweet. And it feels… right.”

Tony repeats the name under his breath, testing it out. Then he smiles, nodding. “Morgan Stark. Yeah, that’s perfect.”

The day Morgan arrives starts like any other. You wake up to the sound of Tony tinkering in the lab, but by mid-morning, the first contractions hit.

“Tony!” you shout from the living room, clutching the back of the couch.

He appears within seconds, his eyes wide. “What? What is it? Is the tower on fire again?”

You glare at him, though the pain is already making you wince. “No, you idiot. The baby’s coming.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, his face going pale. Then he snaps into action, grabbing your hospital bag and practically carrying you to the car.

The ride to the hospital is a blur of Tony panicking and you trying not to laugh between contractions.

“Do we have everything?” he asks, his voice frantic. “The bag? The paperwork? Did we forget anything? Oh God, what if we—”

“Tony,” you interrupt, reaching for his hand. “It’s fine. I promise. Just focus on driving.”

When you arrive at the hospital, Tony is a mix of nerves and excitement. He holds your hand through every contraction, whispering words of encouragement and pressing kisses to your forehead.

“You’re amazing,” he says as you breathe through the pain. “You’ve got this. You’re a freaking superhero.”

The delivery is intense, and at one point, you think you might actually break Tony’s hand with how tightly you’re gripping it. But he doesn’t complain, just keeps murmuring reassurances and brushing your hair back from your face.

And then, after what feels like an eternity, you hear the first cry.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor announces, holding up your squirming, pink-faced baby.

Tears stream down your face as they place her on your chest. Tony stares in awe, his eyes glassy as he leans down to kiss your forehead.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, your heart overflowing as you gaze down at your daughter. “Hi, Morgan,” you murmur, your voice trembling.

In the hours that follow, Tony can hardly take his eyes off Morgan. He holds her like she’s the most precious thing in the world, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he cradles her tiny form.

“She’s so small,” he marvels, staring down at her. “How can something so tiny have such a big impact?”

You smile, resting your head against his shoulder. “That’s what love does.”

Tony looks at you then, his eyes full of gratitude and adoration. “Thank you,” he says softly. “For her. For us.”

Over the next few days, the tower becomes a hub of celebration. The Avengers take turns visiting, each one fawning over Morgan in their own way. Even Clint, who jokes about having enough kids of his own, is smitten.

But at the end of the day, it’s the quiet moments with just the three of you that mean the most.

One evening, as you sit in the nursery, watching Tony rock Morgan to sleep, you feel an overwhelming sense of peace.

“Welcome to the world, Morgan Stark,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to her tiny forehead.

The first days at the hospital are a whirlwind of exhaustion, joy, and learning curves that neither you nor Tony could have anticipated. You’re still lying in the hospital bed, Morgan nestled in your arms, when the nurse comes in with a soft smile and an armful of pamphlets. She explains everything from feeding to burping, swaddling to diaper changing. You listen attentively, but Tony’s focus is entirely on Morgan. His hands are gentle but a little awkward as he cradles her tiny head, his face full of wonder.

When the nurse shows him how to hold Morgan correctly, Tony nods along seriously, but the second she leaves, he looks at you with mock indignation. “I think she thought I didn’t know how to hold a baby,” he says, feigning offense.

You laugh softly, your body still sore but your heart full. “Do you?”

“I’m a genius, remember?” he says, lifting Morgan a little higher, though he holds her like she’s made of glass. “But… okay, I might have needed a little help.”

It becomes clear quickly that while Tony can invent world-changing technology, mastering baby care is a completely different challenge. He spends fifteen minutes trying to figure out how to swaddle Morgan properly, only for her to immediately kick her legs free. “It’s a conspiracy,” he mutters, trying again as you laugh from the bed. “I’m telling you, she’s already smarter than me.”

Feeding Morgan proves to be a team effort. The nurses show you how to breastfeed while Tony hovers nearby, asking a million questions that make the staff chuckle. “Is she getting enough? How do we know? What if she’s still hungry?”

“Tony,” you say gently, placing a hand on his arm. “She’s fine. Trust me.”

He sighs but nods, his shoulders relaxing slightly. Later, when it’s time to bottle feed, Tony insists on being the one to do it. He sits in the chair beside your bed, Morgan nestled in his arms, and looks up at you with a proud grin. “I think she likes me,” he says as she sucks greedily on the bottle.

“She’s a Stark,” you reply with a smile. “Of course, she likes you.”

The nurses come in periodically to check on you and the baby, and each time, they offer more advice. By the end of your stay, your head is swimming with information, but Tony’s enthusiasm makes it easier. He takes notes—actual notes—and even sketches out diagrams for things like diaper changes.

“Who knew being a parent involved so much engineering?” he jokes, but there’s a genuine determination in his eyes.

Finally, after a few days, you’re cleared to go home. The excitement of leaving the hospital is quickly tempered by the reality of the paparazzi camped outside. News of Morgan’s birth had leaked almost immediately, and now the world is desperate for the first glimpse of Tony Stark’s baby girl.

You sit in the hospital room, holding Morgan close, while Tony stands by the window, peering through the blinds. “It’s like a circus out there,” he mutters, turning to look at you. “They’re not getting a single shot of her face. Not until we decide.”

You nod, your protective instincts flaring. “How do we get past them?”

Tony smirks, his confidence returning. “I’ve got a plan.”

The plan involves Happy pulling up to the hospital’s front entrance in a decoy car while you, Tony, and Morgan slip out through a back exit. Wrapped in a soft pink blanket and nestled securely in your arms, Morgan is hidden from view as you rush to an unmarked SUV waiting in the alley. Tony shields you both, his arm around your shoulders, and Happy drives like a man on a mission once you’re inside.

By the time you arrive at the tower, the paparazzi are still circling the hospital, none the wiser. Tony grins as he steps out of the car, glancing at you. “Mission accomplished, Mrs. Stark.”

Inside the tower, the chaos of the outside world melts away. The nursery is ready, every detail meticulously planned by Tony. The walls are painted a soft, calming gray, accented with touches of pink and gold. A custom crib sits in the corner, along with shelves stocked with books and toys.

You place Morgan in her crib for the first time, your heart swelling as you watch her tiny chest rise and fall. Tony stands beside you, his hand resting on your lower back.

“She’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice full of awe.

The first night at home is… an adventure. Morgan wakes up every two hours, her cries piercing through the quiet of the penthouse. You take turns getting up with her, though Tony insists on doing most of the work.

“You just gave birth,” he says, gently taking Morgan from your arms when she cries again at three in the morning. “I’ve got this. You sleep.”

You don’t argue, though you can’t resist peeking into the nursery an hour later. You find Tony sitting in the rocking chair, Morgan cradled against his chest as he hums softly. It’s a sight that makes your heart ache with love.

In the days that follow, you and Tony fall into a rhythm. It’s far from perfect—there are diaper disasters, sleepless nights, and moments where you both feel completely overwhelmed—but there’s also so much joy.

One afternoon, you walk into the nursery to find Tony lying on the floor beside Morgan’s playmat, his finger grasped tightly in her tiny hand. He looks up at you with a goofy grin. “She’s got a strong grip,” he says. “She’s going to be an inventor. Or maybe a pilot.”

You laugh, sitting down beside him. “Or maybe she’ll be an artist. Or a writer.”

“Whatever she wants,” Tony agrees, leaning over to kiss your temple.

Mealtimes become a highlight of your days. Tony insists on taking charge of the bottle feeds, claiming it’s “bonding time” with his daughter. He talks to her as she eats, telling her stories about his adventures as Iron Man and the time he built a robot that accidentally tried to take over the world.

“Don’t worry,” he says, his tone light. “We’ll teach you to build better robots.”

When Morgan isn’t eating or sleeping, she’s the center of attention. Tony spends hours playing with her, making silly faces and inventing little gadgets to keep her entertained. One evening, he proudly unveils a tiny Stark-branded mobile that lights up and plays lullabies.

“Look at that,” he says as he hangs it over her crib. “Custom-made for the best baby in the world.”

You smile, leaning against him as you watch Morgan’s eyes widen at the softly glowing lights. “You’re going to spoil her rotten.”

“Absolutely,” he replies without hesitation, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

Despite the exhaustion, these first days are some of the happiest of your life. There’s a quiet magic in the way your little family is coming together, in the small moments that remind you of how much love surrounds you.

One night, as you sit on the couch with Morgan asleep in your arms, Tony comes over and sits beside you. He leans down to kiss Morgan’s forehead, then rests his head against your shoulder.

“We did good,” he murmurs, his voice soft.

You smile, your heart full. “Yeah, we did.”

And as you sit there, with your daughter in your arms and your husband by your side, you know that this is just the beginning of a beautiful journey.

Morgan’s first year is a series of milestones that come at you faster than you’re ready for. One morning, as you’re feeding her in the kitchen, her tiny fingers gripping the edge of the high chair, you notice something new. She’s gnawing relentlessly on one of her teething rings, a tiny scowl of determination on her face.

“Tony,” you call over your shoulder. He’s tinkering with some gadget at the counter, but he looks up immediately.

“What’s up?”

You motion toward Morgan, who has abandoned her teething ring and is now attempting to bite the tray of her high chair. “I think we’re entering teething territory.”

Tony sets down his tools and comes over, crouching to her eye level. “What’s going on, little Starkette? You trying to eat your way to freedom?”

Morgan responds with a high-pitched squeal that makes both of you laugh.

Teething quickly becomes a challenging phase, and Morgan is not shy about letting the world know how much she dislikes it. She chews on everything—her toys, your fingers, Tony’s hoodie strings. One night, as you’re watching a movie together, she grabs the edge of Tony’s expensive leather belt and shoves it into her mouth.

“Hey, hey!” Tony says, gently pulling it away. “That’s Italian leather, kiddo!”

You laugh, handing her a proper teething toy. “Welcome to parenthood. Nothing is safe.”

Tony takes the challenge of teething head-on, dedicating hours to researching remedies. He orders every teething toy imaginable and even develops a custom one that vibrates slightly to soothe her gums. When he proudly presents it to you, you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“Only our child would have a high-tech teething toy,” you tease.

“Hey,” Tony says, holding up a hand. “If she’s going to chew on something, it might as well be Stark-approved.”

Despite the sleepless nights and the constant need for gum-soothing gel, there are sweet moments too. Like the way Morgan clings to you when she’s particularly cranky, her tiny hands fisting your shirt as she nuzzles into your chest. Or the way Tony sings softly to her as he rocks her in his arms, his voice low and soothing even when he’s dead tired.

One morning, as you’re sitting on the living room floor with Morgan in your lap, she surprises you by letting out a string of sounds that almost—almost—sound like words.

“Ba-ba-da-da,” she babbles, her little fists waving excitedly.

You gasp, looking over at Tony, who’s lounging on the couch with a cup of coffee. “Did you hear that?”

Tony grins, setting his mug down. “Of course I did. That’s pure Stark genius right there.”

“She’s just babbling,” you say, though your heart swells with pride.

“Don’t sell her short,” Tony replies, scooping her up and lifting her high in the air. Morgan squeals with delight, her chubby arms reaching for him. “She’s probably already working out her first patent.”

As the weeks pass, Morgan’s babbling becomes more frequent and animated. She talks to her toys, to you, to Tony, and even to Dum-E, who dutifully beeps in response. One day, as Tony is feeding her, she looks up at him with her big brown eyes and says something that sounds suspiciously like “Dada.”

Tony freezes, the spoon halfway to her mouth. “Did you just… did you just call me Dada?”

You’re watching from the doorway, and you can’t help but laugh. “I think she did.”

Tony’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. He sets the spoon down and pulls Morgan into his arms, holding her close. “That’s right, baby girl,” he says, his voice full of emotion. “I’m Dada.”

Not long after, Morgan starts to show signs that she’s ready to crawl. She spends hours on her belly, wiggling and rocking back and forth as she tries to figure it out. Tony, ever the innovator, decides to “help” her by building a tiny baby-sized robot that moves just out of her reach, encouraging her to chase it.

“Tony,” you say, crossing your arms as you watch him test it in the living room. “You can’t engineer her milestones.”

“I’m not engineering,” he insists, though his grin betrays him. “I’m motivating.”

Morgan seems to agree because within a few days, she’s crawling across the floor with surprising speed, determined to catch the little robot. You cheer her on, clapping and laughing as she finally grabs it and lets out a triumphant giggle.

From that point on, nothing in the penthouse is safe. Morgan is everywhere, pulling herself up on furniture, opening cabinets, and exploring every nook and cranny she can reach. Tony installs baby-proofing measures at an alarming rate, though he still insists on letting her “experiment” within reason.

“She’s curious,” he says one evening as Morgan pulls herself up on the edge of the coffee table. “That’s a good thing.”

“It is,” you agree, though you keep a close eye on her as she wobbles precariously.

The day Morgan takes her first steps is one you’ll never forget. She’s standing near the couch, holding onto the edge for support, when suddenly she lets go. You and Tony are sitting on the floor, a few feet away, watching her with wide eyes.

“Come on, Morgan,” Tony coaxes, holding out his hands. “You can do it.”

She wobbles, her little legs unsteady, but then she takes one step. And then another.

“Tony,” you whisper, your hands flying to your mouth.

“I see it,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

Morgan takes three more steps before tumbling into Tony’s arms, giggling as he scoops her up and spins her around.

“You did it!” he exclaims, pressing kisses all over her face. “That’s my girl!”

You’re crying by the time he looks at you, and he grins, holding Morgan out toward you. “Your turn, Mom.”

You pull her into your arms, kissing her forehead and whispering how proud you are. It’s a moment that feels almost too perfect to be real.

As Morgan grows, her vocabulary starts to expand. Her first word, unsurprisingly, is “Dada,” which Tony proudly declares is the best thing he’s ever heard. But her second word, “Mama,” quickly follows, and you feel an overwhelming surge of love when she says it for the first time.

She picks up other words too—“up,” “no,” and “cookie” become favorites—but her babbling remains a constant source of entertainment. She has long, animated “conversations” with you and Tony, complete with hand gestures and facial expressions.

“She’s definitely your daughter,” you tease Tony one evening as Morgan waves her arms dramatically, babbling at the top of her lungs.

“She’s got your sass,” he counters, smirking.

Through it all, the two of you marvel at how quickly she’s growing and changing. Every milestone feels like a little miracle, a reminder of just how much love and joy she’s brought into your lives.

And as you watch her toddle across the living room one evening, her tiny feet padding against the floor, you realize that this is what happiness truly looks like. A life full of love, laughter, and the sweetest little girl in the world.

Life with toddler Morgan is a delightful mix of chaos, laughter, and the kind of exhaustion you wouldn’t trade for anything. She’s a whirlwind of energy, always exploring, always asking questions—or rather, yelling, “Why?” in her tiny voice as she points to every object she can find. You and Tony quickly learn that raising a toddler is a whole new kind of challenge, but also, it’s endlessly rewarding.

From the moment Morgan wakes up in the morning, she’s a ball of energy. She’s in the phase where she wants to do everything “by herself,” which means you often find her trying to pull on her socks upside-down or insisting on pouring her own juice, resulting in small floods on the kitchen counter.

“Did we adopt a tiny Tony Stark?” you ask one morning, watching her stubbornly refuse your help as she attempts to zip up her jacket.

“Excuse me,” Tony replies, sipping his coffee while lounging against the counter. “She’s a perfect blend of your determination and my brilliance.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, arching an eyebrow as Morgan gives up on the zipper and stomps her foot in frustration. “Your brilliance is why we now have a child who insists on building towers out of every item in the living room, including the remote and your sunglasses.”

Tony grins, crouching beside Morgan to help her with the zipper. “Don’t crush her creativity, babe.”

The penthouse is now toddler-proofed to a degree that feels both excessive and still somehow inadequate. Every corner has been padded, every sharp object locked away. Still, Morgan manages to find ways to keep you both on your toes. She’s discovered the joy of climbing, which means nothing is out of reach—not even the countertop.

One afternoon, as you’re folding laundry, you hear a crash from the kitchen, followed by Tony’s panicked voice.

“Morgan! No! You can’t—oh, my God, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

You rush in to find Morgan perched precariously on a stool, reaching for the cookie jar on the highest shelf. Tony is holding the stool steady, looking both impressed and horrified.

“She’s got determination,” he says, glancing at you with a sheepish grin.

“She’s going to give me a heart attack,” you reply, scooping her up and giving her a stern look. “No more climbing, little miss.”

Morgan giggles, clearly unbothered by the reprimand. “Cookies!” she declares, pointing at the jar.

“She’s definitely your kid,” Tony mutters, earning a playful swat on the arm from you.

Despite the chaos, you and Tony try your best to find moments of intimacy. It’s not always easy with a toddler running around, but you both know how important it is to keep your connection strong.

Late at night, after Morgan has gone to bed, you often find yourselves curled up on the couch together, sharing a bottle of wine and talking about everything and nothing. Sometimes, Tony pulls you into his lap and kisses you like it’s the first time all over again, his hands sliding over your back as if he can’t get enough of you.

One night, as you’re lying in bed together, Tony turns to you with that mischievous glint in his eye.

“You know,” he says, trailing his fingers along your arm, “we make pretty amazing kids.”

You smile, already knowing where this is going. “Oh, do we?”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “Morgan’s a genius in the making. Imagine if we had another one.”

You laugh softly, turning to face him. “Are you suggesting we try for baby number two?”

“Maybe,” he replies, his voice low and teasing. “I mean, why stop at one when we’re so good at this?”

His hand slips to your waist, pulling you closer, and you roll your eyes even as your heart flutters. “You just want an excuse to keep me barefoot and pregnant, don’t you?”

“Absolutely not,” he says, feigning offense. “I want an excuse to have more of you.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and before you know it, he’s kissing you deeply, his hands roaming your body like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

“Tony,” you murmur against his lips, but he silences you with another kiss, his intentions clear.

Needless to say, the idea of a second baby becomes a topic of serious discussion—and action.

Meanwhile, Morgan keeps you both busy during the day. She’s entered the “why” phase with a vengeance, questioning everything from why the sky is blue to why Tony’s suit can fly. Tony, ever the teacher, takes her questions as opportunities to explain science in the simplest terms possible.

“Because, kiddo,” he says one afternoon, crouching beside her as she pokes at one of his gauntlets, “when air moves faster, pressure drops, and that helps create lift. That’s how planes—and my suit—stay in the air.”

Morgan looks at him with wide eyes, nodding solemnly before asking, “Why?”

You laugh from the couch, watching Tony try to answer her endless stream of questions. “You’re in for it now,” you tease.

“Don’t worry,” he replies, winking at you. “She’s a quick learner, just like her mom.”

One of your favorite moments comes when Morgan starts to show an interest in music. She’s discovered Tony’s collection of old records and insists on playing them every evening. Watching her dance around the living room, her little feet stomping to the beat, fills your heart with a joy you didn’t know was possible.

“She’s got moves,” Tony says one night, pulling you into his arms as Morgan twirls around in her pajamas.

“She gets that from me,” you reply, grinning.

Tony laughs, spinning you around as the music plays. “Sure she does.”

Despite the busyness of raising a toddler, you and Tony make time for yourselves as a couple. You sneak away for date nights when Happy or Pepper can babysit, though you always end up talking about Morgan within the first ten minutes.

One evening, after putting Morgan to bed, Tony surprises you with a romantic setup on the balcony—candles, champagne, the works.

“What’s the occasion?” you ask, leaning against him as you gaze out at the city lights.

“Do I need an occasion to spoil my wife?” he replies, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Moments like these remind you of how lucky you are to have him—not just as a partner, but as the most incredible father to your daughter.

As the weeks go by, you find yourself wondering if maybe, just maybe, another little Stark would be the perfect addition to your family. And judging by the way Tony looks at you every time Morgan does something adorable, he’s thinking the same thing.

It’s one of those mornings where the world feels calm, rare moments of peace in the Stark household. The sun is streaming through the windows, and Morgan is sitting at the kitchen table, coloring in her book with her usual level of intensity. Tony is at the counter, making what he swears is “the best pancakes you’ve ever had,” wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt that Morgan insisted he wear because it matches hers—bright pink with a cartoon unicorn on it.

You’re leaning against the counter, holding a mug of tea, trying to figure out the best way to tell Tony the news that’s been buzzing inside you for the past week. You’ve been keeping the pregnancy test hidden in your nightstand, waiting for the right moment to share it. And now, as you watch Tony flip pancakes with Morgan’s enthusiastic commentary in the background, you know the moment is here.

“Hey, Tony?” you say, setting your mug down and crossing the kitchen.

“Yeah, babe?” he answers, not looking up from the griddle.

You slide your arms around his waist from behind, resting your cheek against his back. “I need to tell you something.”

“Hmm?” he hums, turning his head slightly to glance at you over his shoulder.

You pause for a moment, your heart pounding with both excitement and nerves. Then, you step back and pull the small onesie you’ve been hiding out from your pocket. It’s white, with the words “Iron Baby No. 2 ETA: 9 Months” printed on it in bold letters.

Tony turns fully to look at you, his brow furrowed. His eyes fall on the onesie, and it takes a second for the meaning to click. When it does, his jaw drops.

“Wait. Are you—?!”

You nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. “We’re having another baby.”

Tony stares at you, completely still for a beat, before his face lights up with that signature Stark grin. He lets out a laugh of pure joy and scoops you into his arms, spinning you around right there in the middle of the kitchen.

“Another Stark genius on the way!” he exclaims, his voice brimming with pride and excitement. “Oh my God, babe, this is—wow. Just wow.”

Morgan, still at the table, looks up from her coloring book, her little face scrunching in confusion. “Daddy, why you spinning Mommy?”

Tony sets you down gently, his hands still on your waist, and crouches down to Morgan’s level. “Well, peanut, we’ve got some big news to share with you.”

Morgan blinks, her crayon poised midair. “Big news?”

You kneel beside Tony, taking her tiny hand in yours. “You’re going to be a big sister, sweetheart. Mommy’s going to have a baby.”

Morgan’s eyes go wide, and she looks between the two of you. “A baby?!” she squeals, her face lighting up with excitement.

“That’s right,” Tony says, pulling her onto his lap. “There’s a baby growing in Mommy’s tummy right now.”

Morgan stares at your stomach like she’s expecting to see the baby immediately. “Right now?” she asks, her little hands gently pressing against your belly.

“Right now,” you confirm, smiling at her curiosity.

Her expression shifts into something thoughtful, and then she asks, “Can I share my toys with the baby?”

Your heart melts, and Tony lets out a laugh, hugging her tightly. “That’s a great idea, peanut. You’re going to be the best big sister ever.”

Over the next few weeks, Morgan becomes completely obsessed with the idea of the baby. She asks a million questions—“How does the baby get in there?” (to which Tony coughs and quickly changes the subject), “When will the baby come out?” and, most frequently, “Is the baby going to like me?”

Tony takes every opportunity to reassure her. “Of course the baby’s going to love you,” he tells her one evening as they’re building a block tower together. “You’re going to be their favorite person.”

When you find out the baby is a boy, Morgan’s excitement reaches new heights. “A baby brother!” she exclaims, jumping up and down. “I’m going to teach him how to color and how to play with Dum-E and how to eat pancakes!”

Tony grins, pulling her into a hug. “That’s my girl. He’s going to be one lucky little guy.”

As the months pass, the preparations for the baby kick into high gear. Tony insists on designing the nursery himself, turning one of the spare rooms in the penthouse into a space that’s both practical and beautiful. Morgan helps as much as she can, picking out toys and decorations and offering unsolicited advice.

“I think the baby would like stars on the ceiling,” she says one afternoon as Tony is painting the walls.

“Stars it is,” Tony replies, pulling up a design on his tablet and letting her help choose the layout.

You spend hours together as a family, getting everything ready. Morgan loves to help fold tiny clothes and stack diapers, even if her “help” usually results in more work for you later.

When the day of the birth finally arrives, it happens in the middle of the night. You wake up to contractions and gently nudge Tony awake.

“Tony,” you whisper. “It’s time.”

His eyes snap open, and he immediately jumps into action. “Time? Time for—oh my God, it’s time!” He stumbles out of bed, pulling on clothes and grabbing the hospital bag you packed weeks ago.

Morgan wakes up in the commotion, rubbing her eyes sleepily. “What’s happening?”

“You’re about to meet your baby brother,” you tell her, smoothing her hair.

Tony calls Pepper, who comes to stay with Morgan while you head to the hospital. As you’re leaving, Morgan gives you a big hug and whispers, “Tell the baby I love him, okay?”

Labor is intense but thankfully not too long, and soon enough, baby Jake Stark makes his grand entrance into the world. He’s a perfect mix of you and Tony, with a head of dark hair and big, curious eyes that already seem to be taking everything in.

When Tony holds him for the first time, he’s completely overcome. Tears fill his eyes as he stares down at the tiny baby in his arms. “Hey there, little guy,” he says softly. “I’m your dad. And you’ve got the coolest mom and the best big sister waiting to meet you.”

When you return home the next day, Morgan is practically bouncing with excitement. The moment she sees Jake, her face lights up, and she immediately runs over to you.

“Can I hold him?” she asks, her voice filled with awe.

You settle on the couch with her, placing Jake carefully in her lap. Her small hands gently cradle him, and she stares at him with wide eyes.

“Hi, baby brother,” she whispers. “I’m your big sister Morgan.”

Tony sits beside her, his arm around her shoulders, watching the two of them with a smile that’s equal parts pride and pure love.

Jake lets out a little coo, and Morgan gasps. “He likes me!”

“Of course he does,” you say, brushing a tear from your cheek.

From that moment on, Morgan takes her role as big sister very seriously. She insists on helping with everything, from feeding Jake to picking out his clothes. And while life with two kids is undeniably hectic, it’s also more wonderful than you ever could have imagined.

Watching Tony with your children, the way he adores them and you, makes your heart feel like it could burst. Your family is complete, and every day feels like the greatest adventure yet.

[joelmillersdumbslut]

I took your matches before fire could catch me

(joel miller x f!reader) 18+ part one

summary: Who knew meeting Joel Miller on a dating app would turn into the world's worst first date? (no outbreak. no use of y/n) rating: 18+ explicit (minors do NOT interact) warnings (for this chapter): age gap (reader is in late 20's, joel is mid 50's), dirty talk, pet names, fingering, dubious consent, p in v sex, unprotected sex, daddy kink, drinking, hand kink, referenced cheating, degradation, angst, orgasm delay/denial. word count: 2.4k a/n: this is my first ever fic, please be gentle :')) a03 link

Another Friday night with a bottle of wine and shitty reality tv to keep you company. It suddenly hits you. Pangs of loneliness. You’re nearly 28 years old and you’re destined for the single life. Relationships never seem to last with you, or at least make it past the honeymoon phase. You take a sip straight from the bottle as you curse the boys who pretend to be men. The ones who’ve fucked you over, the ones who “aren’t ready for a relationship” after declaring their love for you and fucking you for six months, but will change their status and post a picture on Facebook with their arms wrapped around a new woman days after your breakup. When will it be your turn?

You’re soon drunk enough to make questionable decisions. You download that new dating app your friends keep gushing about. Lily. You tap on your phone screen, a picture of a flower loading up with the catchphrase “Are you ready for your love to bloom?” You groan at that alone, tempted to turn right around and delete the app already. But, something inside you tugs at you to give it a try anyway. You upload pictures, some selfies, some with friends, some candids at the beach, at a concert, at the park. Your bio is hard to come up with though. How can you use 400 characters to describe yourself to a stranger? You settle with including your name, a generic title of your occupation, some of your hobbies, and ending it with an open invitation for drinks. There. Easy enough, right?

Now, it’s time to swipe. Apparently when you like someone’s profile, you send them a virtual flower. A lily, to be exact. In order to message someone, they have to send you a lily back. You start to wonder if this app can get any cornier when your first profile appears in the queue. He’s an older man. 56 to be exact. You don’t remember setting an age limit, but you’re intrigued by his handsome appearance. His dark hair appears to be graying, his brown eyes sinking into you from beyond the screen. You swipe through his profile. He has nothing written so you have to guess his personality and hobbies from the pictures alone. There’s a picture of him with a teenage girl. Maybe his daughter? Another one of him playing guitar. Maybe he likes music. Maybe he’s a rockstar. He looks rugged enough to be one. A picture of him sitting at a table in red flannel with a beer in hand, a small smile emerging from behind his facial hair. He’s… hot. And too old for you. Fuck it. You send him a lily. Then you throw your phone down and pace all night wondering if he’ll send you one back.

In the morning, you're matched with Joel.

—

You ask Joel out for drinks. Immediately within your first message. All the dating advice given to you by the Internet says not to wait. Get to know someone as fast as possible for best results. No time to get attached if it doesn’t work out. You’re not much of a texter anyway, so you ask him if he wants to grab some beers at your favorite dive bar. You hate beer. You hate dive bars. But, you’d be willing to drink a thousand pale ales if it meant you got to share this attractive man’s air supply.

Joel simply says, “Yes.”

—

You realize you stand out at the bar. And not in a good way. You wanted to wear something to reflect your personality. So, you picked out a baby pink bodycon dress that stops at the middle of your thighs. You paired it with your favorite white ankle strap heels. Perfect for a night club. Not for meeting a middle aged dad at a dive bar. You decided you’d worry about that later.

You’re early. Like always. You belly up to the bar, unsure of what to order. You assume they don’t have your favorite brand of white wine, so you ask for your dad’s go-to. Whiskey on the rocks. It’s bitter, and you begin to gag as a man comes up behind you, resting his hand on the small of your back. The smell of sandalwood and dirt pierces your nostrils. You turn to see Joel. He’s wearing jeans and that red flannel from his picture.

“I like women who can hold their liquor,” he states, looking you up and down.

“Well, that’s not me,” you wince, eager to change the subject. “You must be Joel?”

You choose to go for a hug, he holds out his hand instead. The two of you stare at each other, reaching a stalemate, the jukebox in this shitty ass bar blasting a country song you hate. You shake his hand. Noticing his fingers are rough, calloused, and thick. Probably from the guitar playing. Maybe he really is a rockstar.

You sit down on the bar stool, crossing your legs as best as you can. It’s probably not wise to flash a man on the first date. Joel requests a beer from the bartender, and the two of you look anywhere but each other. You start to ask questions.

“So. You play guitar?”

“Yeah.”

“What music do you play?”

“All kinds.”

“Okay. What’s your favorite song to play?”

“Don’t know.”

You pound back your whiskey, slam the glass on the counter, and motion the bartender for another.

“Is that your daughter in your picture?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sarah.”

“Oh, that’s nice. How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

“Cool. You a single dad then?”

“Yeah.”

You squint at him. This is worse than pulling teeth without Novocain. You decide to launch the ball into his court.

“So. Is there anything you wanna know about me?”

“Yeah, actually. Ain’t you the one who fucked Tommy? While he was still married?”

Your skin ignited. The wind completely knocked out of you. How does he know about… that? How does he know about the guy you slept with one time in college? And even worse, does he know how much you enjoyed the affair, even though you ruined that guy’s marriage and, ostensibly, the rest of his life?

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about,” you muse, trying to keep your cool.

Joel slams the beer bottle on the counter, its contents flying out the neck and hitting your dress. You stand up, wobbly deer in headlights.

“How do you know?” is all you can whisper.

“Because he’s my brother.”

Tears began welling up in your eyes, your hands shaking. “I was 21, I didn’t know any better.”

“Whatever.” Joel says, turning away from you.

You grab your purse and sprint to the bathroom. Congratulations, you’ve just set a new record for the world's worst first date.

—

You stare in the mirror. Tears streaming down your face. Your makeup is ruined. You’ve accepted that. You’re so angry that this old memory is bubbling up to the surface. The one you’ve tried so hard to push down for the past six years. You met Tommy at a bar while out with your college friends. You noticed the wedding ring, the framed photos on the walls of his living room, but you fucked him anyways. And you left your underwear behind for his wife to find. You enjoyed every moment of it. You even got off to the memories of that one night stand for months after the fact. You’re a goddamn monster. You’ve accepted that.

But, what you can’t accept is that Joel just ruined your favorite dress.

You take a deep breath between sobs, scrounging through your purse for a Xanax. The bathroom door is kicked open, and you turn to yell at the intruder to get out.

But, it’s Joel.

You stare at him with a blank expression while he locks the door behind him. Something you were too distressed to do.

“What are you doing?” you whisper. “Haven’t you had enough from humiliating me in public?”

“No,” he exhales.

Joel quickly shoves you up against the wall. Your purse and its belongings clatter against the dirty floor. You gulp as his left arm leans against the wall, the other reaching up to caress your cheek.

“What was it like?” he asks.

“What was... what like?” you counter.

“Don’t get smart with me.”

You feel like you should be scared. But, you’re not. If anything, you’re super turned on right now while the brother of the man you had an affair with all those years ago begins to fondle you in the bathroom of a dive bar.

Joel’s right hand grabs your breast, he toys with it while staring into your eyes. You can’t help but moan and he pinches harder.

“Answer me,” he growls.

“It was… It was stupid. I was a dumb college girl and what I did was wrong.”

“Then, why’d you do it?”

You swallow. His hand moves down, brushing against your stomach, heading towards the hem of your dress.

“Is this how you treat every girl on the first date? Corner her and interrogate her li-li-like a creep?” you try to sound venomous, but your words are shaky. He notices.

“You can leave any time you want, babygirl.”

The word “babygirl” causes a sensation to ripple through your core. You feel a wetness spreading between your thighs. What the fuck is wrong with you?

You finally answer, “I just wanted his attention. I’ve always liked… Older men.”

Joel pauses, his hand hovering over your thighs. He meets your gaze again.

“Do you now?”

Then he pounces. Before you can even comprehend what’s happening, his fingers are inside your underwear, rubbing your clit. Your head hangs forward as you moan against his touch.

“That what you sounded like when Tommy touched you?”

“N-no,” you sputter, your hips bucking up involuntarily.

“I wanna hear what you sounded like.”

Joel spins you around so you’re facing the wall now, his fingers still groping your pussy. He hikes up your dress and pulls your underwear to the side.

“Wh-why do you wanna hear? You a pervert?” you shoot back at him, but your body betrays you and a gush of wetness secretes from between your thighs.

“You’re a naughty fuckin’ girl, you know that?” Joel mutters in your ear. You hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, something prodding against your back. Something big.

“Someone needs to teach you a lesson,” he adds, his fingers now tracing your entrance.

“For what? Fucking your brother? Sounds like someone’s jealous,” you spit. “Like you can still get it up anyway.”

And with that, Joel’s fingers pound into you, a whine fleeing your throat. It hurts at first, but the enjoyment you’re experiencing is quickly overpowering. You shudder at the way his fingers glide in and out of you at a rapid pace.

“Too quiet,” Joel grumbles, biting at your neck. “I wanna hear what you sounded like.”

“You wanna hear me? I’ll make sure everybody in the fucking bar hears me,” you hiss back at him and begin to wail with pleasure.

You quickly feel a pressure growing inside your lower belly. You feel startled, your hands grasping against the wall for anything to hold onto.

“Did Tommy make you cum like this?” Joel whispers in your ear.

You shake your head violently. How does this man know you’re so close already?

“Wanna hear you, babygirl.”

Fuck. There it is again.

You moan Joel’s name as loud as you physically can while your body tenses up and you ultimately surrender to its release. You glance in the mirror on the other side of the room. Watching yourself get finger fucked by this strange old man in a bar bathroom sends you over the edge. What kind of person have you turned into?

Before you can even catch your breath, you feel the tip of his cock plunging into you. You let out a yelp, and you feel Joel’s hand on top of yours. He’s still covered in your cum, and his fingers interlace with yours.

“If you can fuck Tommy, you can take daddy’s cock.”

Your eyes are nearly bulging out of your fucking skull. You try to distract yourself from how turned on you are, how your pussy is already throbbing for more. Especially at the mere mention of Joel calling himself, “daddy.”

“Daddy, huh? You really are a pervert,” you cough as Joel pushes into you.

“You need to be punished,” is all he says. You feel his cock sitting inside you, but Joel doesn’t move. You start whining, rocking your hips back and forth in an attempt to get friction, something, anything. Joel’s hands are immediately on your hips, forcing you to sit still.

“You ruined my favorite dress, the least you can do is make me cum,” you snap at him, squirming in place.

“And you ruined my brother’s life, the least you can do is take your punishment like a good girl.”

This was the most you’d heard him speak all evening. Was he really this hung up on something that happened years ago? And not even directly to him?

Before you can unleash another quip, a heavy groan escapes Joel as he begins to pump relentlessly. Guess he had enough of trying to punish you too.

“You’re a brat, you know that?” he snarls, his fingers digging into your hips again, bruises already forming underneath your soft skin.

“I always get what I want,” you murmur, feeling the pressure building inside you again. Your body starts clenching down on his, you begin to pant against the wall. You’re so fucking close.

“Don’t think so, babygirl,” Joel grunts, quickly pulling out.

Instinctively, you whine, and are about to call him a two pump chump when you realize he’s cumming all over your back. His sticky essence dripping down your skin. Your pussy throbs, dissatisfied with the neglect he gave you. Turning around, you see his pants already buckled again and he’s taking off his flannel, tossing it at you. Before you can process what is happening, you glance in the mirror realizing there are now not only beer stains, but also cum stains all over your favorite dress. You catch the shirt in your hands and stand there, mouth agape, as Joel leaves the restroom in a huff.

—

[warabidakihime]

Tempting Twilights and Celestial Nights

Characters: Chuuya x Reader

Synopsis: Being with you is like a breath of fresh air. Even when the weight of the world is heavy on our shoulders, we find ways to make each other laugh and to enjoy the present moment.

A/N: i know what i said last time, but i couldn't help it. so here's a bonus chapter for you all. ^^

If you haven't read the first three parts, here they are with links:

Love's Melancholy Farewell

A Love Discovered in the Darkest of Times

Evermore in Your Arms

Enjoy!

--

In the months since Chuuya and you reunited and got back together, your relationship has only grown stronger. You're still as affectionate as ever, constantly finding little moments to steal kisses and exchange sweet words. But there's also a deeper sense of trust and understanding between you now, born of the trials you've faced together. You're a united front, a force to be reckoned with.

As for the mafia, things have been relatively quiet. The various factions are still jockeying for power, of course, but there haven't been any major shakeups recently. It's a delicate balance that could be upset at any moment. Chuuya and you try not to think about it too much, focusing instead on your own work within the Port Mafia.

That work has been going well, all things considered. You've taken on a number of missions together, both big and small, and you've always come out on top. There have been a few close calls, but nothing you couldn't handle. Chuuya's abilities as a skilled fighter and your strategic mind make you a formidable team.

However, despite your strong connection both at work and in your personal lives, just like any couple, you have your fair share of fights. Especially with personalities as strong as yours, your disagreements have the tendency to get very ugly and suffocating, but thankfully it rarely happens; though you do get annoyed pretty often but get mad? That’s a rarity even for you.

An example of one of your petty fights was when after a heated debate about a trivial matter, Chuuya's temper got the best of him, and he said something stupid to you. His words cut deep, and you immediately retaliated with your own biting remark.

The sun dipped below the Yokohama skyline, casting a warm orange glow over the Port Mafia headquarters. In the main hall, heated voices echoed as Chuuya and you engaged in a passionate argument, your disagreement drawing amused glances from the nearby lounging members of the Mafia.

It all began when Chuuya's temper flared, leading to a sharp exchange of words. You, never one to back down, responded with a snarky remark, teasing Chuuya about his height, an action as volatile as his temper. Pride wounded, Chuuya attempted to douse the flames, but you refused to yield. The dispute quickly intensified, both parties striving to outdo the other with their verbal jabs.

"You're always so damn stubborn, you," Chuuya snapped, arms crossed. "You never listen to anyone else."

"Easy to talk to, Chuuya? You're no better," you retorted, rolling your eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean," you shot back. "Quick to anger, never thinking before you speak. It's like you enjoy getting into fights."

"You enjoy being difficult," Chuuya spat. "Always questioning everything, pushing people's buttons. It's like you get off on it."

You raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me? I didn't start this argument."

"Not the starter, but definitely making it worse," Chuuya said, his voice rising. "Can't resist getting the last word in, can you?"

"Your height isn't the only short thing about you—so is your temper. You're insufferable," you said with a scowl.

Chuuya's temper erupted, and he snapped at you. "Shut your damn mouth, or you'll regret it."

"Why not? It's not a secret," you said with a shrug. "You're just mad because it's true."

The other Mafia members watched, engrossed, snickering at the insults traded. Koyou, stumbling upon the scene, intervened, clearing her throat to quell the commotion.

Chuuya and you turned to face her, expressions sheepish. "Just a disagreement," Chuuya said, defensively.

"A disagreement?" Koyou repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Sounded like a full-blown argument to me."

Chuuya and you glared at each other, then reluctantly backed down.

Koyou sighed, shaking her head. "You two are like children sometimes. Can't you just learn to communicate better?"

Chuuya and you exchanged glances, both feeling slightly ashamed. "We'll try to do better," Chuuya said, sincere in his tone.

After Koyou reprimanded Chuuya and you, a heavy silence settled between them, faces flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment. They recognized that their emotions had gotten the better of them, and both felt a pang of shame for their actions.

"I can't believe you sometimes," she muttered, shaking her head.

Chuuya huffed. "And I can't believe you. You always have to have the last word."

"Well, I wouldn't have to if you weren't so damn infuriating," you shot back.

Chuuya rolled his eyes. "Me? Infuriating? That's rich, coming from you."

The other members of the Port Mafia observed as Chuuya and you locked eyes, neither willing to yield. Yet, after a few tense moments, a silent understanding seemed to pass between them. Slowly, they turned away from each other, anger dissolving as both took a deep breath.

Chuuya spoke first, his voice low and controlled. "Look, Y/N, I'm sorry for what I said. I didn't mean it."

You nodded, your own voice calm. "I'm sorry too, Chuuya. I should've known better than to fight fire with fire."

The tension in the room lifted as the two of you made amends, and the other Mafia members breathed a collective sigh of relief. It seemed the argument was finally over, and they could all return to business as usual.

-

You had just returned to your penthouse after a long day at work. The lights were dimmed, casting a warm glow over the spacious living room. It had been two to three months since Chuuya had left for his high-level mission. While you handled it well initially, the loneliness was starting to take its toll.

The communication between you two had been consistent during the initial weeks, but it had gradually become sporadic due to the demands of the mission. This was the first time you had been apart since getting back together, and the silence was driving you crazy.

As you walked through the living room, you glanced at the clock and noticed that it was already well into the night. After a quick dinner, you headed straight for the bathroom, craving the relaxation of a hot bath.

After undressing, you stepped into the tub, closing your eyes as you submerged yourself in the warm water. Despite the soothing ambiance, your thoughts kept drifting back to Chuuya and how much you missed him. You knew he was on a dangerous mission, but you couldn't help but worry about him.

As you soaked in the tub, the feeling of loneliness nagged at you. You missed the sound of his voice, his touch, and his presence. You longed for him to be back home with you, safe and sound.

As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, your longing for Chuuya grew stronger. It wasn't just missing his presence or his company anymore; it was also the touch and intimacy that came with being together. You found yourself perpetually bored and restless, even when surrounded by people and activities.

At work, you snapped at colleagues, mainly Tachihara, who was notorious for teasing you, or got irritated over small things, as your frustration and longing took a toll on you. You missed the way Chuuya's arms would wrap around your waist, the way his fingers would gently trace circles on your skin, and the way his lips felt against yours. You were touch-deprived, and it was driving you insane.

Even in the safety of your penthouse, you couldn't help but feel a little empty and lost without Chuuya by your side. Your bed felt too big, your living room too empty, and every corner of the apartment reminded you of the moments you had shared together. You longed for the day when Chuuya would finally come back to you, and your world would feel whole again.

Surprised at yourself, you reflected on your newfound vulnerability. You had always prided yourself on being independent and capable of taking care of yourself without relying on anyone else. However, now you found yourself whining like a child about Chuuya's absence, craving his touch and his company more than anything else in the world.

It was a strange feeling, one that you weren't quite sure how to deal with. You had never been in a relationship like this before, one where you felt so completely attached to someone else. But as you thought about it more, you realized that it wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Chuuya had been so good to you, treating you with love and respect and always making you feel valued. It was no wonder that you had fallen so deeply in love with him. After making peace with that fact, you couldn't help but feel a giddy sense of joy deep in your heart.

You sank into the warm water of the bath again and let out a sigh of relief. The mission had been tough, and your body was sore from all the fighting. You stayed in the tub for a while, letting the water ease your aches and pains. After a good half hour, you got out of the bath, feeling much more relaxed.

Wrapping yourself in a fluffy towel, you walked over to your wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. Browsing through your collection of cute pajamas, none of them seemed to appeal to you tonight. Your eyes then wandered to Chuuya's side of the closet, and a mischievous grin formed on your face.

Rummaging through his shirts, you felt the soft fabric between your fingers. Eventually, you settled on a white shirt, one of his favorites. Putting it on, you felt the oversized garment envelop you, as if you were being wrapped in his embrace.

You then spotted one of Chuuya's trench coats, and an idea popped into your head. Picking it up, you held it to your face, inhaling deeply. The scent of his cologne was intoxicating, and you couldn't resist spraying a little more onto the coat. Putting it on, you snuggled into it, feeling warm and safe.

As you tried to get some much-needed sleep after a tiring day, you found yourself tossing and turning on the bed, almost desperately trying to fall asleep. Despite your efforts, sleep seemed elusive, and you lay there slightly irritated.

Your mind drifted off to thoughts of Chuuya, wondering how he was doing and if the mission was going well. Most importantly, you hoped he was safe and sound. While you believed in him wholeheartedly, there was always that tiny possibility of things going south.

Not wanting to nosedive into negativity, you shook your head and tried to redirect your thoughts. You imagined Chuuya finally coming home to you. As you envisioned his return, your body began to heat up with desire. You imagined him entering the penthouse, seeing you in his shirt, looking up at him with longing in your eyes. He would stride over to you, pulling you into his arms, and his lips would meet yours in a passionate kiss. Your hands would reach up to tangle themselves in his hair as you deepened the kiss, the feel of his warm body against yours making your heart race.

As the fantasy continued, you imagined Chuuya taking you to your bedroom, laying you down on the bed, and removing his shirt. You felt his hands caressing your skin, and his lips trailing kisses down your neck and over your collarbone. A soft moan escaped your lips as you imagined his hands sliding under the shirt, his fingers brushing over your sensitive nipples, sending shivers down your spine. A wetness between your thighs signaled your body's response to the vivid images in your mind.

In your fantasy, Chuuya's hands continued to explore your body, his touch sending you into a frenzy of desire. You imagined him moving down your body, his lips trailing kisses over your stomach and lower, until he reached the apex of your thighs. Your breath caught in your throat as you imagined the feel of his tongue, sending you to ecstasy.

Your hand movements grew more frenzied as you imagined Chuuya's mouth on you. You could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, but just as you were about to fall over, you stopped. Your body felt like it was on fire, and you were breathing heavily as you tried to calm yourself down.

Frustration engulfed you, the hunger inside raging, and you knew that even after you climaxed, it wouldn't diminish. You craved Chuuya—his touch, his kisses, everything that made you feel alive.

With a groan of frustration, you threw your head back onto the pillow, still clad in Chuuya's shirt. Every rub of your nipples against the fabric sent a rush of sensations, and the scent of his cologne intensified your ache. Thoughts of Chuuya consumed you—his movements, his voice—you wanted him desperately, and the desire was driving you to the brink of madness.

Your eyes landed on Chuuya's trench coat, and another idea crossed your mind. You grabbed it, laying it over a pile of pillows, your heart racing with anticipation. Perhaps this could help satisfy your urges.

Straddling the trench coat, you imagined it as Chuuya's lap. The moment the fabric touched your most sensitive parts, you let out a low moan followed by needy whimpers. Lost in your fantasy, you rocked your hips against the trench coat, imagining Chuuya's strong arms around you, pulling you closer.

Moving shamelessly, your mind filled with the image of Chuuya watching you with hunger in his eyes. You imagined him whispering in your ear, expressing his desires. Surrendering to pleasure, you moved with increasing urgency against the fabric. The intensity of your desire grew, the hunger almost unbearable.

In your imagination, Chuuya's hands guided your movements, his lips hot against your skin. The thought of him being with you in that moment overwhelmed you. You cried out his name, lost in passion, your body trembling with pleasure. The trench coat was soaked and soiled.

Unbeknownst to you, you had an unexpected audience. Chuuya stood frozen, watching you with a mix of shock and amusement. His eyes traced every inch of your body as you moved, lost in your need. The woman he loved, pleasuring herself in front of him—it was an unexpected sight.

As he watched, his own hunger grew, his body responding to you straddling the trench coat. A glimpse of your release trailing down your thighs further soiling his coat heightened his desire. He imagined himself in the coat's place, hands on your hips, guiding your movements. Thoughts of taking you right then and there raced through his mind, fulfilling not only your desires but his own as well.

Chuuya's breathing became shallow as he watched you, his eyes locked on the way your body moved. Lost in the moment and driven by desire, he silently stepped closer and reached out to touch you. The redhead wrapped his arms around you, his hands reaching down to help you, leaving you wide-eyed in shock.

Caged between his sturdy arms, you couldn't turn around, but you recognized Chuuya. "C-Chuuya?" you gasped, your voice shaking with a mixture of shock and desire.

Chuuya chuckled in amusement, nuzzling his face against your back, his lips trailing hot kisses along your skin, starting from your hips and working his way up to your nape, giving it a bite and a mark to match. "That's right, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice low and seductive. "I'm home."

You moaned as Chuuya's lips continued to assault your neck, your back arching, and your core aching with need. "Chuuya– oh, fuck–," you whispered, your voice filled with longing.

Chuuya pulled back slightly to look at you, his eyes filled with amusement and adoration. "I missed you, my love," he replied, his voice soft and tender. "And I see you've been keeping yourself... occupied," he added, a playful smirk crossing his lips.

You couldn't care less about Chuuya's teasing as you practically threw yourself at him the moment he gave you a chance to move. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you straddled the real deal and pulled him in for a passionate kiss. Chuuya responded eagerly, his arms tightening around your waist as he deepened the kiss. You stayed locked in the embrace for what felt like an eternity, your tongues dancing together in a fiery dance of passion.

Finally, you pulled away from each other, both panting heavily. "I want you," you whispered, your voice filled with desire.

Chuuya's eyes darkened with hunger as he looked at you. "No need to tell me twice," he replied, his voice filled with raw desire.

Chuuya dived down to give you a fiery kiss on the lips, and slowly, he began to trail his kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking on the sensitive skin. You moaned in response, arching your back and tangling your fingers in his hair.

Without breaking the kiss, Chuuya began to move down your body, trailing kisses and nibbles over your collarbone, down between your breasts, and as he reached the hem of "your" shirt, a sly grin dawned upon his face. Chuuya has always loved it when you would wear his clothes; even more so when you're not wearing anything underneath. He hooked his fingers under the hem and pulled it up, tossing it aside to reveal your bare breasts.

Chuuya's eyes darkened with lust as he took in the sight before him. "God, you're beautiful," he murmured, trailing his fingers over your breasts and eliciting a shiver from you. You couldn't help but feel exposed under his intense gaze, but at the same time, you felt desired and wanted. You reached up to tangle your fingers in his hair once more, pulling him down for another kiss.

As they made out, Chuuya began to move his hand down your body, skimming over your stomach and down to the apex of your thighs. He began to stroke you gently through the fabric of your panties, eliciting a low moan from you.

You could feel the heat pooling between your legs as Chuuya's touches grew more insistent, driving you wild with desire. "Please, Chuuya," you whispered, your voice filled with need.

Without a word, Chuuya pulled your panties aside and delved his fingers inside, eliciting a gasp from you. He began to stroke you in earnest, his fingers expertly working you towards the edge of ecstasy.

You writhed beneath him, lost in the sensations he was creating within you; drunk in hunger, your hips started to buck upwards to meet his hand as you moaned into his mouth.

Chuuya could feel the desire burning within him as he worked you towards the brink of ecstasy. He wanted you so badly; he wanted to claim you completely and utterly. But for now, he was content to simply drive you wild with desire.

As you reached the peak of ecstasy, you cried out Chuuya's name, your body shuddering with pleasure. Chuuya looked up at you, a look of pure lust on his face as he continued to pleasure you.

As the waves of pleasure receded, you pulled Chuuya up for another kiss, your body still humming with desire. "I need you, Chuuya," you whispered, your voice husky with desire.

As his own hunger reached a new peak, Chuuya didn't need to be told twice. He shed his own clothes in record time before positioning himself between your thighs, ready to claim you and take you to the heights of ecstasy. He looked down at you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine, and you couldn't help but let out a soft moan of anticipation.

Your genuine longing for each other prevailed over your naughty desires, and you moved together in a slow, sensual rhythm. The room was filled with the sounds of your breathing, the rustling of sheets, and your soft moans of pleasure.

Your hands roamed Chuuya's body, tracing the curves of his muscles and the lines of his well-defined abs. "Chuuya," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you chanted his name like a holy prayer. "Chuuya–"

Chuuya's eyes met yours, and he leaned down to capture your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. "I'm here, my love. I’m back, and I'm going to make you feel so damn good tonight," he murmured against your mouth.

"I've missed you so much,” he proclaimed, “Been wanting to have you like this, but you beat me to it."

You let out a sexy chuckle, "I didn't know you were a peeping tom."

"Just this one time, I'm so glad I am one," Chuuya said with a chuckle of his own.

Your bodies moved in perfect harmony, each movement bringing you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy. You were lost in each other, consumed by the intensity of your desire.

As you continued to move together, your words became fewer, replaced by the sounds of your pleasure. You clung to Chuuya, your fingers digging into his skin as you felt the wave of pleasure building inside you. Chuuya's breath was ragged as he approached his own release, but he held back, savoring the feeling of being inside you, of being so intimately connected to you.

Your eyes locked as you moved together, and in that moment, you were pleasantly reminded that you were meant to be together. Nothing could ever come between you. You were two halves of the same whole, and you were finally reunited.

As you both approached the pinnacle of your pleasure, you exchanged one last glance, and your eyes spoke volumes. It was a look of pure love, a silent declaration of your devotion to each other.

With a final cry of pleasure, you came together, your bodies trembling with the force of your release. And in that moment, you knew that you had made up for lost time and that you were finally where you belonged—in each other's arms.

-

The morning sun slowly crept into the room, illuminating the disheveled bed where Chuuya and you lay. The air was filled with the scent of your lovemaking (or, in Chuuya’s vocabulary, a total bang fest), a sweet, heady aroma that lingered in the air.

As the morning light continued to filter through the curtains, Chuuya and you remained entwined in each other's arms, fast asleep. Your exhausted bodies had finally given in to sleep after a night filled with passion and desire. The room was quiet except for the gentle sounds of your breathing and the occasional rustle of sheets as you shifted in your sleep.

After your lovemaking, you had spent the rest of the night cuddled up together, talking softly, and sharing tender kisses. You talked about your respective missions and how much you had missed each other. According to Chuuya, the mission went incredibly well, and that's why he was able to go home earlier than expected. Meanwhile, you got slightly hurt during your mission, but it wasn't too serious that you needed extensive medical attention. For a job well done, Mori personally gave you your prescriptions after your briefing, and then you were finally dismissed and free to go home.

Upon hearing this, Chuuya got a little worried and even scolded you for not prioritizing your health. And by that, he meant you should've rested instead of... well, he didn't quite finish that thought as the image replayed in his head, and his resolve to reprimand you dissipated almost immediately.

Walking in on a sight like that wasn't in his bingo books, but it would definitely be considered one of the best moments of his life. When you saw the look on his face, you were quick to tease him. After that, you talked about everything and nothing, simply enjoying each other's company in the peaceful quiet of the night.

As the hours slipped by, your conversation turned to whispers, and your touches became softer and more gentle. Eventually, you both drifted off to sleep, your bodies intertwined and your hearts full of love.

-

It was already the afternoon, and the two of you were still in bed. Neither of you had the energy to get up, but after a few more hours, Chuuya slowly opened his eyes, feeling the warmth of the morning sun on his skin. As he adjusted to his surroundings, he realized that he was wrapped around your body. He couldn't help but admire the way your hair was splayed across the pillow, the way your lips were slightly parted as you slept. He leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, not wanting to wake you up just yet.

As he lay there, he couldn't help but think about the night before. It was intense, passionate, and, more than anything, filled with love.

Chuuya continued to gaze at your sleeping form. A wave of nostalgia washed over him as his mind took a trip down memory lane, specifically to the time when he first caught feelings for you. It was during the period when Dazai had left the mafia, leaving you heartbroken and vulnerable. Chuuya had offered to help you cope, and in doing so, he had grown to care for you deeply.

He smiled as he remembered the moments you had spent together, the late-night conversations, and the times when you had just enjoyed each other's company in silence. But as much as he cherished those memories, there were also painful ones that he couldn't ignore. He recalled the times when he had felt like he was only a rebound, moments when he had questioned whether you truly cared for him or were simply using him to fill the void left by Dazai.

The most memorable memory, however, was the time when you both had been heartbroken. It was the moment he had to face reality—accepting the fact that you were still hopelessly in love with that damn vagabond. Despite having a somewhat cordial breakup, it still hurt nonetheless, and it took everything in him just to get through a single day. Even with time passing, the pain in his heart at that time never eased and continued to eat him alive with each passing day. To distract himself, even just for a little while, he buried himself in countless missions. The harder the mission, the better.

Almost a year later, what seemed to be an impossible dream for him finally came true. You had finally looked at him and loved him for who he was. The moment those three words slipped out of your lips, his heart leaped with joy. He was so happy it nearly jumped out of his chest.

Pride and admiration filled his chest as he remembered how strong and capable you had become. He had seen you grow and evolve as a person, from the vulnerable girl he had met to the confident and powerful woman you were today. He had been there every step of the way, supporting and encouraging you, even when you didn't believe in yourself. Chuuya couldn’t be more proud of the person you had transformed into.

Looking at you, sleeping peacefully beside him, Chuuya couldn't help but feel grateful for the love you shared. He had never been happier, and he knew that he would do anything to protect and cherish you.

As he lay there, lost in thought, Chuuya realized that he had never loved anyone as deeply as he loved you. You were his rock, his confidante, and his partner in every sense of the word. Looking at you, he knew that he would never tire of admiring your beauty and strength. He would love you, protect you, and cherish you for as long as he lived.

-

Another day passed, and it was back to work for both of you, especially for your boyfriend. Chuuya headed for the door to go to the headquarters and report to Mori about the mission and discuss their next action plan. You walked beside him, giving him a playful pout, teasing him about leaving you all alone. He chuckled at you and promised to make it up to you later with a dinner date. You agreed and walked him to the door, ready to give him a proper send-off.

But just as Chuuya was about to leave, you grabbed him by his trench coat and pushed him against the door, your body pressed tightly against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered seductively, "You better make tonight worth my while, Chuuya. Whether it's in the car, the elevator, the foyer, or our bedroom."

Chuuya couldn't help but grin at your boldness, feeling a surge of excitement and arousal shoot through his body. He leaned in and captured your lips in a fiery kiss, his hands roaming over your body as you shared a passionate moment.

Your fingers trailed down Chuuya's chest, playing with the buttons on his shirt. You breathed in his scent as you made out with him, letting it fill your senses, before you whispered in his ear again. "And who knows, maybe I'll even wear that little red dress you like so much," you teased, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

Chuuya couldn't help but let out a low chuckle at your teasing words, and as he imagined you in that flimsy red dress, he couldn't help but feel a familiar tightening in his pants. He knew he was in for a wild night with you, and he couldn't wait.

"You know I never disappoint, especially when it comes to you," he replied in a very seductive whisper.

Chuuya gave you a playful wink before pecking your lips softly, savoring the taste of you one last time before pulling away.

"I gotta go; till then, don't miss me too much."

"I'll do my best," you joked, earning a hearty laugh from the redhead.

Finally, as he made his way to the door, he turned to give you one last glance, taking in your beauty and the way your eyes sparkled with mischief. "I'll see you later, Y/N; I love you," he said with a smirk, his voice filled with promise.

"I love you too."

With that, he stepped out of the door and made his way towards his car, his mind already racing with thoughts of your upcoming dinner date and the possibilities of what could happen after.

[wisteria-lodge]

SORTING DISNEY LADIES (1995-1998)

Part 1 - Disney Ladies 1937-1985

Part 2 - Disney Ladies 1988-1993

I’m going in chronological order, and doing both A Squad and B Squad, because I’m interested in tracking how the ideal “disney girl” has changed in the past 85 years (right now I’m only looking at the human-shaped heroines of Disney animated theatrical releases) A more detailed break-down of the system I’m using is right here, but the basics are these: 

PRIMARY (ie MOTIVE) 

BADGER ~ Loyal to the group.

SNAKE ~ Loyal to yourself and your Important People.

LION ~ Subconscious Idealist. Ideals are linked to feelings and instincts. 

BIRD ~ Conscious Idealist. Ideals are linked to built systems and external facts. 

SECONDARY (ie METHOD) 

BADGER ~ Connect with the group. Make allies, work steadily and well. Be whatever the situation calls for. If you find a locked door, knock.

SNAKE ~ Connect with the environment. Notice things. Tell people what they want to hear. If you find a locked door, get in through the window.

BIRD ~ Collect skills, tools, knowledge, personas, useful friends. If you find a locked door, track down the key or learn to pick the lock.

LION ~ Be honest, be direct, speak your truth. Either the obstacle is going down or you are. If you find a locked door, kick it in.

POCAHONTAS (1995)

(& John Smith)

Pocahontas is an incredibly loud Lion Primary. Marrying Kocoum is the good choice, the responsible choice, the right choice - she knows this - but she just can’t do it. It feels wrong. She “goes wherever the wind takes her,” accompanied by the swirling leaves that are a kind of physical manifestation of her primary, since they match up so perfectly with the compass. (Classic Lion primary metaphor - see also Jack Sparrow.) When Pocahontas doesn’t know what to do she dreams of the confusing “spinning arrow,” but when she does... that arrow points straight in one direction and she just goes. She “listens with her heart”  to the degree that it gives her superpowers.

It’s tempting to say she’s a Lion secondary too. She enjoys whitewater rafting and BASE jumping, which I guess are activities stereotypically associated with Lion secondaries. Also, the climax of the movie does involve her physically flinging herself across John Smith’s body. BUT her big song (“Colors of the Wind”) is just so, so, SO Bird secondary. John Smith isn’t getting it, and so Pocahontas’ response is - let me explain, show you, you clearly don’t have all the information. She’s a problem-solving Bird. Pocahontas’ first instinct when the English arrive is to investigate from the shadows, with two animal sidekicks that represent Curiosity and Caution. (Which is perfect, because is that not what a Bird secondary is? Observe, assess, plan.) Then, Pocahontas seems surprised that her tribe has such a negative emotional reaction to the newcomers. Clearly it's because they don't have all the information - and when she goes off to talk to John Smith and get that information, that's her primary and secondary working together.

As for John Smith, well. His arc is about shifting his definition of “Person” to include everyone he categorized as “savages” early in the film. That’s very Badger primary character development, and John Smith is very Badger primary. He loves being part of a group, he loves his men, and the fact that he doesn’t really belong anywhere bothers him. The implication is that he keeps going to all these “New Worlds” trying to find one where he fits. It’s a cool bit of costume design that he’s the only one in Spanish armor - like maybe he did a similar trip with the Spanish conquistadors a few years ago. Also, it’s gutsy that his ‘I want’ song (“Mine”) is literally a duet with the villain. Like, sure John Smith and Governor Ratcliffe don’t like each other... but they start off with pretty similar politics.

I like that at the end John isn’t accepted into the Powhatan tribe or something. He finds personal peace by redefining his own community, and gaining a broader perspective on the world. HE is absolutely a Lion secondary though: really straightforward, cannot lie, and always solves problems by throwing himself physically at them. Pocahontas only does that the once, after her Bird secondary strategy - trying to reason people around to her point of view - didn’t work.

ESMERALDA (1996)

(& Quasimodo, Claude Frollo, Phoebus)

At first Esmeralda seems like she might also be a Lion primary. She’s the revolutionary, she stands up on platforms and yells things like “Justice!” Even through all the adaptational changes, the Victor Hugo soul of the story is still very much there, and he loves a Lion primary. But… that isn't really where Esmeralda is coming from? She cut Quasimodo’s bonds specifically because she was trying to change the vibe of the room - “Letting the crowd torture that poor boy? I thought if one person could stand up to him…” That’s a Badger primary motive.

Esmeralda has deep roots in her outsider community, and being separate from them (trapped in the cathedral) is very, very bad for her. But then, she brings Notre Dame itself into her community. Esmeralda goes up to the statue of Mary, the cathedral's patron, and says, “Still I see your face and wonder / if you were once an outcast too.” Once she does that, the ‘outcast’ bellringer of Notre Dame and even the building itself start fighting for her. It’s important that Esmeralda’s ‘I want’ song has nothing up to do with her at all: “God Help the Outcasts” is about helping her community - the outcasts. We get lines like “I ask for nothing, I can get by / for I know so many less lucky than I,” leaning into classic Badger primary need-basing. Esmeralda consistently goes to whoever needs her help the most, doesn’t matter if she knows them or not. And her way of helping Quasi is to give him a map of the city - that brings him straight to her Community. 

It’s nice to pair this very understanding, inclusive Badger primary with basically a Jack Sparrow secondary. Esmeralda likes disguises. She likes improvising weapons. She improvises her escapes, and comes up with stuff as she goes along. She also has a lot of faces that are all equally her. She is the sexy pole dancer. She is also the grounded, spiritual earth mother, and when her primary requires it, she’s the revolutionary too.

If you put the weird tonal mismatch that is the gargoyles to one side, this film has a really elegant little structure. There are three men who are in love with Esmeralda: Quasimodo, Claude Frollo and Phoebus. And it’s subtly done, but Quasi and Frollo both dehumanize her - Frollo by only seeing her sexy side and deciding she’s a demon temptress, and Quasi by only seeing her more motherly side and deciding she’s an angel. I always thought it was interesting that “Heaven’s Light” and “Hellfire” - Quasi and Frollo’s songs about Esmeralda - are back to back, with similar titles, even the same track on the soundtrack. They’re almost a duet, and I think it’s a way of showing that there are two ways to make someone inhuman. (In a movie that is SO interested in the idea of what makes someone inhuman.) And then Phoebus just sees Esmeralda as… this cool chick, with a great sense of humor and some sweet moves, who he’d like to get to know better. Of course she picks him. 

Frollo, Phoebus and Quasi are ALL Lion secondaries (no wonder they butt heads.) It’s harder to tell with Quasi, because his secondary is so ridiculously Burnt, and only wakes up once his Snake primary finds something to latch onto that isn’t Frollo… which takes him most of the movie. Phoebus has a very straightforward Paragon Lion primary that seems to match up well with Esmeralda’s Badger, and Frollo, oh man. Frollo has the most twisted Bird primary imaginable. He has a belief system that is impossible to live up to, so - instead of maybe questioning that - he blames Esmeralda? Or he blames God? for making Esmeralda too tempting for him to resist? and so therefore it’s not his fault? He’s a Bird Primary who consistently fails at following his system, and deep down he knows it. That’s why he’s so scared of the actual Notre Dame cathedral, why it keeps hurting him, and why it ultimately kills him. He cannot look those statues in the face, he cannot look at the system he tells himself he follows better than anyone else.

(Inspector Javert of Les Mis is also a Bird Lion villain. Big Victor Hugo trope.)

MEGARA “MEG” (1997)

(& Hades)

Meg is the example I would use to illustrate a Burnt Snake primary. She sold her soul (gave up everything) for her boyfriend, he left her, and now she doesn’t think it’s safe to love like that again. “Look I learned my lesson, okay? I’ve sworn off man handling.” Meg won’t let herself trust anyone: “He comes in with this big handsome farm boy act, but I can see though that in a Peloponnesian minute.” It’s because she doesn’t trust herself: “If there’s a prize for rotten judgement / I guess I’ve already won that.” 

Her only connection in the world is Hades, this weird and kind of compelling combination of bitchy best friend and shady producer who’s trapped her in a bad five-record deal. They are both similar flavors of Snake secondary, which is how they they can be antagonistic… but still kinda get each other, and work well together. They both enjoy sitting in a kind of blunt Neutral, but get things done by being charmers - creatively telling the truth, and switching approaches quickly in order to to figure out what resonates best with the person they're talking to.

We see Meg use Hercules’ fan girls as a smokescreen to sneak into his villa, and then talk him into playing hooky and having a night on the town. After which, she falls into his arms with her line about “weak ankles” as a way to get him to get him talking about potential weaknesses. But of course, she catches feelings and her big song “I Won’t Say I’m In Love,” is a nice little portrait of a Snake primary unBurning. Meg goes from not trusting herself at all, to deciding that… maybe it could be different this time. 

This is where Hades misreads Meg, which is ultimately his downfall. He assumes that Meg is a Lion primary like he is. Because Hades is (a bit of a narcissist) and a huge Glory Hound Lion. He hates that he got the shitty assignment, hates that things are “a little dark, a little gloomy, and as always, hey - full of dead people." He wants to be the top dog, he wants to be Zeus. So he offers Meg freedom. That's what a Lion primary like him would want more than anything, were he in her position. But Meg’s not a Lion. She’s a Snake. So we get exchanges like this:

HADES. Hear that? It’s the sound of your freedom, fluttering away. MEG. I don’t care. I won’t do anything to hurt him.

And Hades just does not see that coming. 

FA MULAN (1998) 

 (& Fa Zhou, Mushu, Li Shang, Shan Yu)

So my question is... why does Mulan run away and join the army? Let's et the obvious answer out of the way - it's definitely not “to uphold the family honor."

FA ZHOU. It is an honor to protect my country and my family. MULAN.  So you’ll die for honor?

Fa Zhou is definitely a Badger primary, and Mulan… isn’t. She doesn’t get it. He’s not speaking her language. But, she clearly loves her dad, and the next explanation we get is that she did it all to protect him. That's more plausible. However, at her lowest and most vulnerable she says - “Maybe I didn’t go for my father. Maybe I went to prove that I could do things right.” Which is an interesting shift. Now the issue isn’t with why she acts, it’s with how she acts. Which means Mulan’s internal conflict isn't coming from her primary, it's coming from her secondary.

This is where we start getting into gender and gender performance. There is a lot of Badger secondary in this movie, and it’s all framed as female (Mulan's mom and grandmother are both Badger secondaries, for example.) There’s also a lot of Lion secondary, which is framed as male. (Fa Zhou, Li Shang, and Shan Yu are all Lions.) And Mulan… tries both options, and fails both times. She gets into a huge amount of trouble trying to be the quiet, caretaking bride at the matchmaker’s, and just as much trouble trying to be the brash, fight-starting Ping at the camp. 

Then we have Mushu, who is Mulan's Lion secondary coach… despite not being a Lion secondary himself. He wants to be - disgraced failure Mushu is introduced trying to breathe fire and shake awake the bigger, tougher Great Stone Dragon. He’s trying to seem like an intense Lion when he is happiest and most effective doing a more Badger secondary thing. He comforts Mulan, makes her breakfast, carefully forges letters, wins her allies and generally gets… maternal (“my little baby is all grown up and saving China.”) This is a smart movie, and in a very light, comedic way… it’s saying that Mulan is not the only one self-sabotaging because of gender presentation roles.

So Mulan tries to be a Badger, which doesn’t work. She tries to be a Lion, which doesn’t work. And eventually, of course, she realizes that she was a clever, inventive Bird secondary all along. We are introduced to Mulan while she's making little gadgets to do her chores, and when she taps into that she becomes powerful. She is able to figure out a way to use the handicap weights to climb the post and reach the arrow, and defeat Shan Yu’s army by starting an avalanche. Mulan even finds time to plan during the heavily improvised final battle in the palace: it's a two-pronged attack, luring Shan Yu up onto the roof, where she knows Mushu is already in place with a rocket.

As for why she does things… Mulan has an intrinsic inner truth, and just wants to project that truth out into the world. She’s a Lion primary who wants to “be myself” be “true to [her] heart,” and not hide. “When will my reflection show who I am inside?” Lion primaries will get hit especially hard with that kind of identity angst. 

To round out the sorting for this film (which really holds up) - Mushu is probably a Lion primary like Mulan, which is why he gets where she’s coming from. He starts off as an immature “stage mom” Glory Hound Lion, but gets better. Shang is definitely a Loyalist, probably a young Badger primary. (I think Mulan just likes Badger Lions, her dad is one too.) Shang is very group-orientated, wants to be “the leader of China’s finest troops - no, the greatest troops of all time!” He's also, to be honest, kind of Establishment. Shang has a much harder time getting his head around Girl!Ping then Mulan’s more Snakey buddies, and ultimately needs an authority figure to tell him to cut it out. And Shan Yu, the film’s comment on toxic masculinity, seems like an Exploded Lion primary. He gives his motivation in the first scene- “[the Emperor] invited me. By building his wall he challenged my strength.” Which means that - with the single exception of Hades... all the guys in this wave have been masculine-coded Lion secondaries, and the heroines aren't girly Badgers, but the cool "third option" - Birds or Snakes.

Tl;dr

Pocahontas ~ Lion / Bird (occasional Lion model) 

John Smith ~ Badger / Lion 

Esmeralda ~ Badger / Snake

Quasimodo ~ Snake / Burnt Lion

Phoebus ~ Paragon Lion / Lion 

Claude Frollo ~ Burnt Bird / Lion 

Megara ~ Burnt Snake / Snake

Hades ~ Immature Lion / Snake

Fa Mulan ~ Lion / Bird (unhealthy “girl coded” Badger performance) (unhealthy “boy coded” Lion performance)  

Fa Zhou ~ Badger / Lion

Mushu ~ Immature Lion that matures / Badger (unhealthy Lion performance)

Li Shang ~ Badger / Lion

Shan Yu ~ Exploded Lion / Lion

(art credit to Cursed Concepts for the beautiful pins I have used to illustrate this post.)