#physical paradox masterlist

[siriuslysatorusimping]

Physical Paradox Masterlist

Q&As

Do Gojo and Rinko have pet names for the kids?

How would Goinko react to their kids being neurodivergent?

Blurbs

Would You Still Love Me? (Blurbs)

Extras

Shichigosan

Author Discussions

Summer Nights

HCs and Info

Eiji

Shirou and Yumika

The Tiny Paper

Eiji, Yumika, and Shirou

Dividers

[dontbesoweirdkira]

Platonic ¡yan! Dick Grayson x Batsis x Jason Todd

A/N: Another discussion post because we need to talk about Grayson! Thank you for your contribution, mootie! You are so good at bouncing off of ideas. I hope you don’t mind me writing this🤭

@siririus

Context

Masterlist

Craziest thing about all of this is, it's a paradox. Is Dick really only this upset because his batsis is prefers Jason?....Or is it also because it's almost like she's taking his brother away from him and they are becoming each others favorites?

In the previous post, i said how dick has a fear of being pushed to the side and forgotten. He's scared of no longer being needed anymore and this relationship kind of symbolizes that. You never needed Dick, even in the beginning. Jason leaned on Dick a lot as they knew each other the longest and it took so much work to mend the fractures in it. Now Jason is confiding in you more...you understand each other way more.

It's a complex issue.

One solution you might say is just for them to form some kind of trio...But he's tried. LOL Grayson has crashed many of your hangout sessions to use it as an opportunity to become close to you.

He knows you won't leave because you like Jason too much and he also gets to spend time with his brother. perfect. NOT.

Dick cannot seem to grasp the concept that you and Jason have a "parallel play" kind of thing going on. Like you mentioned Jason is subtle. He's not really trying to do something over the top, he just wants to chill and do his own thing. SO you guys might chat for like five minutes then he turns around to go read his book while you're playing a phone game. It's enough for you two to just be near. But Dick, he's internalizing it. He thinks you stopped talking because he's there. He thinks you guys are having way more action packed hangouts when you're alone. To him, just sitting next to each other isn't "hanging out".

He'll try to keep pushing for a conversation and you guys are like...eh. Or he'll try to force you all to do fun games ect. and it usually ends with you leaving first or Jason getting upset then you walking out together.

But that couch thing is so funny. I think that Dick would've been like waving you down to sit next to him all smiley and he has your favorite snacks in a cute little box but Jason just motions his head and you choose that. Stab right in the heart. He's not even watching the movie anymore, he's just paying attention to you guys.

Do not fall asleep on Jason. I think that'll high key bring Dick to tears. He wants that so badly. Dick is super physically affectionate but he's constantly craving hugs and all of that. You falling asleep on Jason reminds him of when Jason and him would have sleepovers in the living room, and Jason would always end up sleeping on his shoulder or lap.

He's tried hugging you before but you just go incredibly stiff and shaky so it's not even fulfilling to him. He wants to carry you on his back, do your hair in the mornings, cuddles, handshakes..ect. He wants to be your best friend. I do think you just even holding his hand would calm him down or holding his arm would help him to feel better.

He does attempt the subtlety of Jason. It doesn't really work the same way because well, he cannot contain himself. He's feral. Plus you assume the seat is for Cass or Babs instead so you never choose it. Like he gets to the dinner table first, saves the seat for you, and you sit next to him but he makes it so weird AHHAHA. Like he's trying to remain calm but he's breathing so hard. You finally chose him. (it was the only seat left) BUT YOU CHOSE HIM. You didn't scurry away like usual. He's just staring at you because he's so happy and you are sending help signals to Jason who is finding this all very amusing. Dick, wont stop talking either and he keeps filling up your plate with food. He gives you a corner piece of the brownie..he loves you so much.

[sytoran]

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝟎𝟎𝟑 — 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇-𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆

kinktober day 003 | IW!wife!wanda x gn!reader

you've always loved writing stories since young, but the tale of you and your wife writes itself, and it ends with a sweet happy-ever-after.

cont. soft sex, established relationship, romance + fluff

word count. 1477

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

You’ve always had a thing for writing stories.

From the most devastating tragedies of a sapphic couple in medieval times, to the spiciest of female homoerotic tension during a zombie apocalypse, there were no words beyond the coaxing grasp of your vivid intelligence.

Encompassing was what it was, how the words flowed from the edge of your mindwires to the tips of your fingers, spilling onto page after page of literary beauty. You could get lost in it for days on end, spinning that marionette with a poetic dexterity, making her dance to your stories until her legs could take no more.

It was no secret that writing had been an extraordinary talent of yours, that would later take shape in the path of your future career. 

So there you were, sitting at your study desk on a lazy Saturday morning, nimble fingers flying over your keyboard in an intricate dance, each pausable breath, each rush of words that woved into the fabric of your story.

It’s quite picturesque, if you’re being frank; what with freshly brewed coffee in a steaming hot mug that read ‘Pride not Prejudice’ (Yes, there was an overload of rainbows decorating its surface,) and a breathtakingly idyllic view of the morning sky.

Of course, the skyline would never quite compare to the sight of your lady stepping out of the bedroom. The only causation to cease your words.

“Y/N?”

It’s a beautiful calling, tainted with a sleep-dragged croak of the throat. Brown doe eyes slowly blink to meet your gaze, soft feet making tentative contact with smooth marble.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you respond softly, eyes savouring the sight that is your wife in one of your cream Oxford shirts. Wanda's beauty is underlying and unsaid, beyond the boundaries of conventional and beyond your dictionaried words.

Certainly, Wanda has the traits of what define beauty: your shirt on her is partially unbuttoned to tease at a tantalizing cleavage, the hem of the clothing is high enough to show off the expanse of her porcelain legs.

But it's also the way the sunlight falls on Wanda's skin, like she's a descendant of the Gods that crafted the essence of light, like she was made to dance and roam in the beauty of the day.

It's the way the morning glow accidentally highlights her Grecian-sculpted cheekbones, and the way her light-brown freckles casually pop in that light. It's her collarbone scattered with your marks of violet hues, and that fading scar on her right thigh you never fail to kiss.

A sleepy sigh escapes from Wanda’s lips, and she runs a hand through her perfectly dishevelled hair. You don’t have to say anything, only nod your head in the slightest. The rest is second nature: Wanda slides herself into your lap, arms hooking around the back of your neck, head tucked into the crook of your neck.

Perhaps it was second nature, truthfully, because Wanda didn’t need control when she was around you. You were her control, her steadfast pillar, her rising sun. You were a constant in her ever-changing world, always by her side regardless of whatever insurmountable task might be in her way.

You let an imperceptible sigh of content slip through your lips, but you never stop typing for a second. Emotion was difficult for you to convey, paradoxically, considering the amount of feeling you could put into words. In actuality, it was hard for you to laugh carelessly or have an outburst of fury. Your emotion was quiet and unspoken, much like in the present moment.

Wanda, however, seemed to have other plans in mind.

It started off innocent, because you truthfully believed she was just being affectionate and physically in need of human warmth. And maybe it was, as your girlfriend eased into your lap, nuzzling adorably into your comforting scent.

But when Wanda’s hips begin moving unsubtly, breath growing more delicate on to the curve of your neck, you’re sure without a doubt that this is another one of those times Wanda sought a different kind of fulfillment, the kind that lay adjacent to her pretty thighs.

Your hands dance a little faster on the keyboard. Your eyes are still gazing over the top of Wanda’s head, firmly determined to complete this part of the novel you were working on. 

“Y/N…” Wanda says, reverently softly, pressing up into the warmth of your bodily heat. “Mhm?” you hum absent-mindedly, tucking your forearms in a little closer to entrap Wanda in your embrace.

You replace a comma with a fullstop just as Wanda shifts uncomfortably in your lap. Your wife’s legs fall open and slides her centre around the muscle of your right thigh. Something rises in your chest at the sensation of bare centre meeting your warm skin. 

She cranes her pale neck like a swan, pressing her warm mouth against your neck. You shift imperceptibly, switching a three-letter phrase into a subject-verb concord. When Wanda’s tongue pokes out between her ruby lips, when her sharp teeth scrape over the pulse point of your neck, when her curled hair brushes your exposed skin, an uncontrollable shudder runs through your body.

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace. Your spelling is becoming sloppy, almost like there’s a distraction.

Almost in retaliation, you jerk your knee up, the one that had been situated between Wanda’s thighs, and the mewl that leaves her mouth breaks her porcelain-doll composure. Satisfaction pools in your hips.

Words don’t need to be said between the two of you, as a slight shift in the atmosphere of the dining room sets itself. Wanda’s pants become shallower and quicker, the undulation of her hips speeding up, her legs clenching tighter around your thigh.

Your hands are flying over the keyboard now, your fingers twitching with bridled electricity, having need of some alleviation to express your ever-increasing libido. It’s a wonder how your eyes aren’t yet completely glazed over; yet, they’re moving in mechanical function to type, like you’re clinging on to a fragment of sanity. 

Because honestly, remaining sane while your wife let out the most pitiful whines into your ear certainly wasn’t an easy task. 

“Y/N,” Wanda cries, finally, emitting a sound as she clutches onto the soft fabric of your collared shirt. You can see, in your peripheral vision, the way Wanda’s face morphs into an expression of pleasure, the lines in nose-bridge forming a scrunch. 

Wanda is, without a doubt, the most breathtaking woman you’d ever laid your eyes upon. Reverent devotion bleeds from your mindwires and on to the page, staining it a crimson red as she nears her high. 

Your right thigh is moving in sync with each of Wanda’s humps, and she’s chasing that pleasure for all it’s worth: The clenching of your thigh muscles, the harsh jerks of your thigh as she struggles to ride it properly. 

Leaning down, your lips caress the shell of your wife’s ear, and from your mouth flows the words that are the final seal of acquiescence.

“Come for me, sweetheart.”

Just like that, something snaps inside Wanda, and the edge of your brainwaves fray like an old rope. In that moment, you know your words can take a rest. 

The movement of your fingers come to a halt. There was an unfinished story before you, the plot unfolding but not quite complete. But with Wanda by your side, she writes your story for you, carves the path towards a bittersweet ending. 

She takes the words from the deepest depths of your heart and lets it pour out her mouth, unashamedly, unapologetically, indescribable emotion overflowing from those blossomed lips into her trembling figure, her flushed cheeks.

“Y/N,” Wanda moans, and her sounds raise in pitch when you buck your hips up in a moment of your fractured composure. Her hips grind shamelessly onto the muscle of your thigh, chasing that stimulation.

It’s far from the most intense orgasms you’d brought Wanda to, because she can’t ever reach that level of ecstasy without your prodding fingers or your devil-tongued mouth. Perhaps that’s half of its beauty, though, that the two of you were incomplete without the other.

Wanda curls in your lap as she recovers from her high, enclosed within your forearms and the desk, face buried into your chest to engulf her senses in your scent. There’s sacred solace in the way you tilt your head down to press a fluttering kiss on her neck.

Your word document remains open but unfinished, the coffee in your mug grows cold. Sweet nothings and promised everythings are exchanged between the two of you until the sun has fully risen, hues of amber and gold painting the room.

The only story that mattered was the one before you, the one waiting to be explored.

You’ve had a thing for writing stories since young, and this particular one ends with a happy-ever-after.

this fic is really special to me. i think it's probably some of the best writing i've put out there, so i'd be incredibly grateful if you could give it a reblog ♥

kinktober masterlist || main masterlist

[esmedelacroix]

All the ways I defy you.

pairing: exboyfriend!miguel o'hara x f!reader

summary: Since the end of your relationship, Miguel has been acting strange. At home, at work, and even around his own friends. He even goes so far as to break work rules all, for you?

cw: very angsty, depressive behaviors, tiny suggestive part

a/n: Hey! Just wanted to say thanks so much for all the love on the first part I uploaded a while ago! This is coming to you very late I know. I was a bit stressed with finals and moving out of my dorm. Here's part two, I hope you enjoy it! A comment, like, or repost is always appreciated.

previous part | miguel masterlist

*listen to this song on loop for the best experience !

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Of course, when I thought that I could rid her of my life for good, the universe sent her flying in my direction. I do not want to be near her. Not because I hate her but because I know I make her upset. I don't want her to be around someone she associates terrible feelings with(me). Yet there she was drenched at our front door.

"I'm currently on the hunt for an apartment, but I didn't know this was going to happen—so—sniff—I'll have to stay here for a while. Is that okay?" my sweet girl asked as she averted her eyes. Drenched in rain, runny mascara, and her tears. Voice quivering and body shaking.

"Yes, of course, yeah, come in," I responded a bit too quickly, opening my door wider for her to enter. I stepped aside and rummaged through the bathroom getting her a warm fluffy towel.

"Um, I'll take the couch so you can sleep in our—my room," I said, correcting myself. Which only made her tears spill more.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Yes, you'll catch a cold if you don't," I assured.

"Do you even care?" she muttered under her breath.

Yes, Of course I do baby you're my everything.

"I'll be in my office if you need anything," I sighed.

. . .

Sleeping uncomfortably on your couch is not for that week. But that didn't compare to the feeling of hearing my ex-girlfriend crying herself to sleep in the bed we once shared. Our physical proximity was so close. All I had to do was get up, open the door, and cuddle her. Tell her everything is going to be okay.

How can one be so close to someone but so far at the same time? The paradox of my situation with my ex-girlfriend tore my heart, mind, and body apart.

Just then her cries and sniffs died down and I could hear her familiar soft snore that she swore she didn't have. When I closed my eyes to sleep, the first thought that came to my head was her. Her sleeping form. How peaceful her face looked. The way her chest rose and fell as she breathed. My perfect girl was the first and last thing I thought about. Her mere existence in my imagination had lulled me to sleep. Fuck, I made a mistake letting her go, I thought to myself.

. . .

"Hobie Brown," I said sternly.

"I already know, I get it, but things happen, mate," he shrugged, foreseeing the lecture he was about to receive from me.

"No, I don't think you 'get it' because you broke one of the only three key rules you have to follow here," I interjected.

"Just let him off the hook this time," Gwen interrupted.

"No. I can't. You, Miles, and Pavitr could learn from this as well. Don't disrupt the canon, report to me after every single mission, and never, ever, ever leave your post," I lectured.

"What if something important happens?" Miles questions.

"Nothing is more important than keeping the canon intact," I snapped.

"At this rate, you and your girlfriend will break up before I finish my written report. She must really enjoy your relationship; If you could even call it that," Hobie smirked as he walked away.

That shut me up. Because what he predicted was not far from reality. Are my rules too much? I couldn't say anything back to him because he might have been correct. For the first time ever Hobie Brown got the last word. The rest of the afternoon I reflected on myself and my rules. Not leaving your post is important, I told myself.

. . .

"I got your text," Peter B sighed as he took a seat next to Miguel in the cafeteria.

"You broke up with her?" he asked, quivering a brow.

"Yeah, it was just too much," I sighed, rubbing my hand along my face.

"What do you mean? She's like the best thing to ever happen to you. The first time I ever saw you genuinely laugh was the day you brought her to work and she kept cracking the worst dad jokes. And you're telling me you broke up with her?" he rambled.

"Peter, I was making her unhappy," I admitted.

"Then just stop making her unhappy. It's as easy as that. Knowing her, she probably communicated what was bothering her with you too," he said sternly.

"I can't just stop following protocol," I said, stating the obvious.

"For her? For the women you love? You should be able to," Peter sighed. My lungs felt like they had been attacked by a million bees. Palms were sweating buckets at the mere thought of experiencing my baby Gabriella disappear in my arms again. Her painful screams filled my ears. The grief-stricken reality that her daddy, her "hero", couldn't save her. Amid my miniature panic attack, Peter placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. Successfully pulled me from the nightmare I was reliving back into the present.

"But, Peter, Gabi, I—I can't let that happen again. What if a parent, just like me and you, loses their kid the same way I did? I just-I can't do it. I have to keep the canon undisturbed," I said, stumbling over my words.

"Miguel, that isn't going to happen again, you have us now. You have help," Peter said a little softer, noticing that he hit a nerve.

"I would never forgive myself if millions of families, partners, and could-have-been end or cease to exist because of me," I admitted.

"Miguel, if you were to leave your post, you would have someone fill in for you. You give yourself all of these extra jobs that you don't need to be doing," Peter insisted.

"But if I don't do it, someone's going to make a mistake," I insisted.

"Or you can trust in the people that you hand-picked for this job," Peter suggested.

"It's more complicated than that," I rebutted.

"No, it really isn't. You're just making it more complicated. You need to trust in your team," he finished.

"And maybe get your girl back?" he suggested as he got up to get Mayday from Gwen's lap to go change her diapers.

. . .

You called out of work sick. Truthfully, you were glued to the bed. You didn't have the desire to get up or do much of anything. You hadn't showered that morning or eaten breakfast. All you did was stare at the ceiling, out the window, and the framed photo of you and Miguel that he hadn't put away yet.

Tears stained your cheeks, your eyes swelled to oblivion, and your stomach was empty and practically eating itself. The refrigerator called out to me but I didn't answer. I couldn't. Does he even care like I do? You asked yourself.

Staring blankly at the limewash accent wall of your once-shared room that you were considered a guest in. Just then your phone rang. You shot up and immediately checked who it was. You shamelessly smiled when the contact name "my miguel 💕" popped up on your screen. You clicked the answer button after taking a deep breath.

"Hello?" you said.

"Hi, you're probably at work right now, sorry to be a bother," he started.

"No, not at all. I called out today. I've been feeling under the weather," you assured.

"Do you want me to bring you anything for dinner? I'm going to get Chinese takeout tonight," he said.

"Yeah, I'll have whatever you're having," you responded.

"Okay, I'll be back around 7:00 with dinner. You know where the medicine is, take care of yourself please," he assured.

"Okay, I'll be expecting you," you replied before hanging up first.

He told you he'd be home around seven but you didn't count on it. He broke most promises anyway.

You decided to finally shower and have a small snack. You sat on the couch with your Kindle in hand. The couch smelled like him. The throw pillows smelled like his lavender-scented shampoo. You couldn’t help but wrap yourself in the blankets he had used the night before. It didn’t compare his hugs but it was good enough for now.

You spent some time reading some romance novels. Putting yourself in the shoes of the heroine and pretending that the love interest was him. Pretending that it was Miguel who ran all the way to your house while it was raining to hold you and wipe your tears in the dead of the night. Instead, you sat in your living room wondering whether or not he would actually do that for you.

You heard keys in the door and it opened soon after. You got up and slowly approached it with a pillow in hand as a weapon. You had no idea who could be dropping by the apartment at this time. Just then Miguel turned the corner takeout in hand and you wound up to hit the perpetrator. “Whoa calm down, it’s just me,” Miguel chuckled.

You let out a long exhale in relief. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be home so early,” he sighed as you put the pillow back on the couch.

“What do you mean? I said I’d be here around this time and you said and I quote, ‘I’ll be expecting you’,” he teased.

“Well I’m just kind of used to you saying things and not delivering,” you said under your breath loud enough for him to hear as you helped him unpack the food he got and set it on the living room coffee table.

“Well I decided to be less of a dick today,” he quipped.

“Should’ve done that when we were still together,” you answered half-joking.

He gave you an apologetic look. His mouth opened then closed. Like he wanted to say something but he stopped himself. Like he always did. I wish you could tell me what’s on your mind, you thought to yourself.

“I’ve been pretty shitty huh?” he said with a pained expression on his face.

“It’s not your fault,” you assured taking a seat next to him.

He put something random on Netflix to watch while you got water for the two of you. As usual, he never read the synopsis of anything he watched and accidentally put on 365 days. Classic Miguel. “Oh god, this is a bit inappropriate,” he commented, almost choking on his lo mien.

“It’s nothing we’ve never done before,” you smirked.

You watched his cheeks flush out of the corner of your eyes. He hugged the my melody plush you had gifted him a while ago a little tighter. He adjusted his glasses sheepishly.

You recalled the time you asked him about his glasses. Him being ashamed when he admitted that he needed to use glasses whenever he looked at a screen because played too many video games as a kid.

Suddenly, the TV blended in with all the other noises in the background. The sounds of cars honking on the streets outside the window, the rain constantly hitting the top of the air conditioner, the soft hum of the drying machine, and the—tick—tock—of the clock on the wall.

It was just you and Miguel in that room then. Stealing glances at each other. Contemplating whether or not you should release the many unspoken words bottled up inside. “I’m moving out in 2 days. I found a place,” you said, breaking the silence.

“Oh, that’s….great. Seriously, good for you,” he says looking away. What you didn’t know was that Miguel wasn’t congratulating you. He was trying to convince himself that you leaving was a good thing. That it was good for you and for him. That it was everything he wanted.

You could hear the pain in his voice and although you could see his face. You knew the downcast expression that was painted on it.

. . .

Two days went by way too quickly. Two days of sleeping on the couch. Two days of coming home early and on time to spend time with my loved ones before she left. Two days of baking sweet treats while we watched Romance movies. Two days of soaking in her presence before it was completely gone from my life.

As soon as I knew it, that morning when I decided to help her move her things out instead of going to work. I put Jess in charge of the morning instead which she was ecstatic about.

Once the final box was loaded in the moving truck we faced each other at the front door. The front door I’ve her drunk body through. The front door we used to kiss at when we couldn’t wait to get in our house. The front door she knocked at with all of her stuff when we decided to move in together. The front door where I would chase after her after an argument. The front door I revealed I was Spiderman at. The front door she came to drenched with rain in tears the day I broke up with her. Which was now the front door that we would say our last goodbyes at.

We looked into each other's eyes for a good 30 seconds. Tears filled her eyes and mine. "Just, come here big guy," she sighed, opening her arms to me.

I was hesitant. If I touched I was afraid I wouldn't want to let go and I would hold on forever. All I could control was the now. So I pushed those thoughts of fear away and I held her. Her arms wrapped around my waist. One of my hands rested on her back while the other was on the back of her head caressing her hair. For once I built up the courage to say what was on my mind without holding myself back. I took a deep breath in before admitting, "I'll miss you,"

"I still love you," she replied before letting go and walking out the door for the last time.

I heard the door click and it was final. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

. . .

I felt lighter as I walked down the hallway to my office. Memories of her still played endlessly in my head but I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulder when I took Peter's advice and split my jobs up with my coworkers.

Today most of the spider society would be in Pavitr's universe catching any extra anomalies that slipped under our radar. As well as closing the quantum hole that was starting to form. We had almost all hands on deck in this assignment and I would be leading it.

The mission reached a new height for us when a Prowler variant from a different universe was found. Gwen and I were on him while also trying to keep the streets and civilians safe. Peter joined us soon after he finished his task. Just when we had cornered him, my watch began to ring. The contact name appeared as "Mi Corazon" and my heart dropped. My heart dropped because the only way she could call me on my watch was with the emergency one I had made for her. She was in trouble. I looked around at Peter and Gwen and they both urged me to answer. "If you need to go, you should go," Peter said, fighting off the Prowler who took this as an advantage to strike.

"Don't worry about us, we got this," Gwen called out, giving Peter a hand while looking back at me.

"But, I can leave my post. I made that rule," I stuttered as the ringing of my watch heightened my nerves. Peter gave me a look

"For her? For the women you love? You should be able to," the words played through my head as the worst possible time.

I can't, I can't do it. I have to stay, I thought to myself.

"You should be able to," I told myself.

As I battled with myself in my head, Peter snapped me out of it. "Answer that call, Miguel. I'm sure you'll regret it later if you don't. We got it covered. Trust in us? Please?" he called out.

Every cell in my body and even my brain told me not to answer the call and not to leave my post. But every beat in my heart and whisper of my soul told me to answer the damn call. So I did.

. . .

I had never swung through the streets of Nueva York faster than I was now. Her little voice fueled me even though biologically I should have no energy right now.

"Miguel I need you, I need you right now,"

If a branch was in my way I simply swung through. They would hit my body and bruise me a bit but none of that mattered right now.

"Someone broke into my house,"

Tears began to form in my eyes wondering if she was okay. If she was safe. “ You still there baby?” I asked as I swung past building upon building.

“Yeah—sniff—I’m here,” she replied. I let out a relieved sigh.

“Just wait right there, baby. Stay on the line, I’m almost there,” I breathed out.

. . .

You didn’t expect him to drop everything at an important mission for you. That's why you didn’t tell him that you knew who robbed your house.

That’s why you didn’t tell him that your ex-boyfriend had texted you the moment he found you that you and Miguel split up. The same ex was the reason why Miguel had to help you tighten your home security before you moved in with him.

So when Miguel found you on the ground a mess with tears still streaming down your face. You felt as though you had to tell him. "This was Kyle wasn't it?" he asked.

"How'd you know?" you asked, looking up at him, his arms still wrapped around you.

"I had a bodyguard follow you around for a while just to make sure you were okay while I figured out a time to help you install some security here. They noticed a guy was loitering outside of your apartment building a lot but they assumed he was a resident," he explained.

"I'm sorry I called you for this, I'm a mess and you were doing something important, probably," you rambled.

"No, nothing is more important than your safety and your happiness," he interrupted.

"Miguel, you don't have to say that to make me feel better. I know how important holding the Spider-Verse together is to you," you admitted.

"You're more important. So much more important. I'd sit and watch the whole Spider-Verse crumble and burn as long as I’m watching it with you safe in my arms," he confessed, holding you tighter.

"I'm sorry I never told you that sooner. Or showed that in my actions when we were together. There hasn't been a single day I haven't thought about you since I first met you. I thought that by breaking up with you, you'd be happier and you'd be free of me. It's hard being in a relationship with me and it's even harder to love me because I'm so flawed," he continued.

All the things he wanted to say but never dared to say to you spilled out at once.

"I just didn't want you to think I'm weak," he admitted sheepishly.

Shock struck your face. He's been struggling so much and you didn't know. "Oh Miguel, I could never think that. You are the strongest man I know. Once I had to bike up a very steep hill to get a bandage for my little brother who scraped his knee, it was really hard. Another time, I took a test that had 120 multiple-choice questions and two essays in two hours. That—was really hard. But the easiest thing I've ever had to do..." you started as you cupped his cheeks with both of your hands.

"...is love you. It's a pleasure—to love you, Miguel. You are not an inconvenience to me" you assured.

The two of you held each other on the floor of your trashed apartment. For the first time out of many to come, Miguel defied his protocols and the canon for you. He challenged his way of being for you. And he conquered his fear of opening up all to be a better man for you.

"I know it's hard for you to talk to me about what goes on in your head, and we'll work on it but this is a really good start. Thank you," you said.

"Does this mean we're back together? You really want to be with me after all this?" he asked.

"Yes, of course," you chuckled.

"I love you to the moon and back," he sighed.

. . .

to be continued ?

----------------------------------------------------------------------

taglist: @truth-dare-spin-bottles @hobiebrowns-wife @lazyjellyfish300 @scaryplanetdestroyer @lauraolar14 @reader-1290 @prettygirleli @spicydonut25

[estellan0vella]

Hidden Affection ❀ Uraume (REQUESTED) Masterlist

The evening air is crisp and clear, a stark contrast to the warmth that fills the secluded corner of the courtyard. Lanterns flicker softly, casting a gentle glow over the meticulously maintained garden. It's here, amidst the whispering bamboo and the trickle of a distant stream, that you find yourself entwined in Uraume's arms, savouring the precious moments of peace and affection.

Your heart pounds with an intoxicating mix of excitement and fear. Being the younger sister of the fearsome Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses, your life is one of paradoxes. Your brother's reputation for ruthlessness precedes him, and while his protection has ensured your safety, it also places you under intense scrutiny that makes your hidden relationship with Uraume all the more thrilling and dangerous.

Uraume's fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your face, their touch as delicate as the petals of the cherry blossoms that surround you. Their eyes, usually so cold and calculating in Sukuna's presence, are now filled with a softness reserved only for you.

"My lady," they whisper, their voice a hushed caress, "do you not fear the repercussions of our secret?"

A smile tugs at your lips. "Fear is a constant companion in my life," you reply, "but with you, I find courage."

They lean in, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath away. It's a kiss that speaks of longing, of stolen moments, and of a love that defies the dark reality of your existence. For in this moment, you are not Sukuna's sister, and they are not his loyal servant. You are simply two souls bound by an unbreakable bond.

Yet, as always, the shadow of your brother looms over you. Sukuna's protectiveness knows no bounds, and his wrath is a force to be reckoned with. The thought of his reaction if he were to discover your relationship with Uraume sends a shiver down your spine, but it also strengthens your resolve.

As the days turn into weeks, your clandestine meetings continue. Each encounter is filled with whispered promises and fervent embraces. Uraume's presence becomes your sanctuary, their touch your solace. Yet, the weight of your secret grows heavier with each passing day.

One evening, as the crimson sun dips below the horizon, you find yourself in your brother's presence. Sukuna is seated in his grand chamber, a place that exudes his overwhelming aura of power. His eyes, the same piercing crimson as yours, lock onto you with an intensity that makes you pause.

"Come closer, sister," he commands, his voice a deep rumble that leaves no room for disobedience.

You obey, approaching him with a sense of trepidation. Despite his fearsome reputation, Sukuna has always shown you a certain softness, a rare kindness that he reserves for you alone. But today, something in his gaze is different. Sharper.

"I have been hearing rumours," he says, his tone deceptively calm. "Rumors that concern you and Uraume."

Your heart stops. The blood drains from your face as you struggle to maintain your composure. "Rumors?" you echo, your voice barely above a whisper.

He rises from his seat, his towering form casting a long shadow that seems to envelop you. "Yes, rumours," he repeats, stepping closer. "Whispers of secret meetings and forbidden affections."

Panic wells up inside you, but you force yourself to meet his gaze. "Brother, I..."

Before you can utter another word, Sukuna's hand reaches out, gripping your chin with a force that borders on painful. "Do not lie to me," he growls, his eyes blazing with anger. "I am not a fool."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "It's true," you admit, your voice trembling. "I... I love Uraume."

The silence that follows is deafening. Sukuna's grip tightens for a moment before he releases you, stepping back as if your confession has physically struck him.

"You love Uraume," he repeats, the words dripping with disdain. "My most trusted servant. My confidant."

"Yes," you whisper, "I do."

For a moment, Sukuna simply stares at you, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he begins to laugh. It's a dark, humourless sound that sends chills down your spine.

"You are a fool," he declares, his laughter dying as quickly as it began. "Do you not understand the danger you have placed yourself in? Uraume is bound to me. Their loyalty is to me."

You take a step forward, your fear giving way to a fierce determination. "I understand, brother. But my heart belongs to them. And theirs to me."

Sukuna's eyes narrow, his fury palpable. "And what of Uraume? What do they say?"

"They love me," you say, your voice steady. "We love each other."

For a moment, Sukuna remains silent, his expression a mask of conflicting emotions. Then he turns away, his back to you. "Leave me," he commands, his voice cold and distant. "I need time to think."

You hesitate, wanting to say more, to plead your case, but you know better than to push him further. With a bow, you retreat from his chamber, your heart heavy with uncertainty.

The days that follow are tense and filled with an uneasy silence. You and Uraume continue to meet in secret, though the joy of your stolen moments is now tinged with the ever-present fear of discovery. Sukuna's reaction to your confession haunts you, and you cannot help but wonder what he will do.

One evening, as you and Uraume sit beneath the cherry blossom trees, their hand in yours, you voice your concerns. "What if he forbids us from seeing each other?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Uraume's gaze is steady, their eyes filled with a determination that mirrors your own. "Then we will find a way," they say firmly. "I will not let him come between us."

You nod, drawing strength from their resolve. "Together," you murmur, "we can face anything."

The confrontation comes sooner than expected. One night, as you and Uraume share a quiet moment in the garden, Sukuna appears before you. His presence is like a storm, dark and overpowering.

"You defy me," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Even after my warning."

Uraume rises to their feet, positioning themselves protectively in front of you. "My lord," they begin, but Sukuna cuts them off with a sharp gesture.

"Silence," he snaps, his gaze shifting to you. "You will return to your chambers. Now."

Fear claws at your heart, but you refuse to back down. "No," you say, your voice trembling but resolute. "I will not leave Uraume."

Sukuna's eyes narrow, his anger a palpable force. "You test my patience, sister."

Before you can respond, Uraume steps forward, bowing deeply. "My lord," they say, their voice calm and respectful. "I love your sister. I have always been loyal to you, but my heart belongs to her."

For a moment, the tension is unbearable. Then, to your astonishment, Sukuna's expression softens, if only slightly. "You love her," he repeats, his voice quieter.

"Yes," Uraume replies. "I do."

Sukuna is silent for a long moment, his gaze shifting between the two of you. Finally, he speaks. "If you betray her," he says, his voice deadly serious, "I will destroy you."

Uraume nods, their eyes unwavering. "I will not, my lord."

With a final, piercing look, Sukuna turns and walks away, leaving you and Uraume alone once more.

In the aftermath of Sukuna's reluctant acceptance, the tension eases somewhat, though the shadow of his disapproval still lingers. Your relationship with Uraume, though still hidden from the wider world, feels more secure. Sukuna's warning remains clear in your mind, but so does the unwavering love you share with Uraume.

As you sit together beneath the stars, Uraume's hand in yours, you find solace in their presence. The future is uncertain, and the path ahead is fraught with challenges, but with Uraume by your side, you feel ready to face whatever comes.

Together, you have defied the odds. Together, you will continue to do so. For your love is a flame that will not be extinguished.

Requested by @juliii

[her-satanic-wiles]

Kinktober Day 2 - Caning

Cardinal Primo x GN!Reader

Cardinal Primo is always far too hard on himself, but sometimes he needs a break. Sometimes he needs you to be hard on him, too.

Masterlist ⛧ Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

Words: 4.5k.

Reading Time: 18 min.

Warnings: blood, caning, dom/sub dynamic, flagellation, impact play, masturbation, praise kink, self-flagellation,

Taglist: @akayuki56 @alien-the-ghost @amazing-bobinsky @angellayercake @anonymous-appreciation @babydestinyinfluencer @bitchywitchygardener @blossomsea @call-me-little-sunshine84 @copiaspet622 @copiasslut @cosmixxdust @da-rulah @dolceterzo @dopey-fandom-girl @faithisyours @ghoulishxdelights @high-above-the-city @howlingco @inkstainedrat @kaijukimchi @kenken-the-shoggoth @ledger-kaos @magopi @megachaoticstupid @meliza1001 @miss-leto @mommy-dust @neganwifey25-blog @piaart @saintbowie @shycardinale @sisterof-sin @sodoswitchimage @the-did-i-ask @xiyingly @zombiesnips-blog

🔞 MDNI 🔞

Recommended listening: Take Me Back To Eden - Sleep Token

The first sound to greet you as you stepped into the dimly lit chapel was a series of grunts, echoing off the cold stone walls and reverberating deep within your ears. The heavy breaths that followed were punctuated by sharp intakes, each noise tinged with an unmistakable pain that clawed at your heart.

Curiosity propelled you forward, your head peeking around the corner. The sight that met your gaze was both haunting and mesmerising. Cardinal Primo knelt on the unforgiving stone floor, his torso bare and glistening with sweat. His left hand propped him up, trembling under the weight of his self-imposed penance. Blood trickled from open welts marring his back, testament to the punishment inflicted by the cane clutched tightly in his right hand—a stark symbol of self-flagellation.

Sweat beaded on his brow, cascading down his face in rivulets that blurred the lines of his paints, giving the impression of black tears streaking down his skin. Each mark on his back spoke volumes of his struggle; you could easily believe he had shed real tears at some point, the rawness of his wounds suggesting a depth of suffering that went beyond the physical.

Primo had always been relentlessly hard on himself, a man who believed he must bear the weight of his mistakes alone. The Ministry, a construct of mercy rather than judgment, had never mandated such punishments. Yet, remnants of a past steeped in the shadows of the False God lingered, twisting the beliefs of those who still sought redemption through pain. For Primo, these rituals had become a cruel necessity, a ritual of remorse that broke your heart each time you bore witness.

He straightened his posture, exhaling a shaky breath as he swung the cane with renewed vigour, allowing it to strike his body with brutal force. Another grunt escaped him, the impact driving him forward into that same three-pointed stance, a position of both agony and resolve. It was a strange paradox—the desperate sounds he made stirred something within you, igniting a heat that spread through your core, awakening desires you never knew existed. The sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, mingled with the crimson droplets of blood, created a visceral tableau that left you breathless and yearning.

You couldn’t help but sigh, the sound cutting through the air like a whisper of acknowledgment. His gaze snapped to you, wide and startled. “I… didn’t hear you… come in,” he panted, his breaths labored, each word a testament to the toll of his actions.

“I’m not surprised,” you replied, trying to keep your tone lighthearted, a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere. You stepped closer and took a seat in the pew just behind him, granting yourself a front-row seat to his torment. “With all that noise you were making, I can hardly believe I’m the only one who dared to step inside to witness this.”

As you settled into the pew, the air grew heavy with tension, each breath you took charged with an unspoken electricity. Cardinal Primo steadied himself, the grip on his cane tightening as he drew a deep breath, a moment of silence hanging between you like a fragile thread.

Then, with a swift, deliberate motion, he swung the cane again, the sound of wood connecting with skin echoing through the chapel. The sharp crack resonated like a thunderclap, followed by a low grunt that escaped his lips, the force of the impact causing him to falter forward once more. The sight was visceral, his body wracked with the effort, and your heart raced at the rawness of it all.

Each strike seemed to peel back layers of his stoicism, revealing a deeper pain that resonated within you. You watched as the blood welled up from the new wound, trickling down his back in crimson rivulets, contrasting starkly against his pale skin. The visceral act stirred something primal within you, a mix of empathy and an inexplicable desire that made your breath hitch.

He straightened again, sweat glistening on his brow, and for a moment, your eyes locked. In that fleeting connection, you sensed the weight of his struggles, the burden he bore not just for himself but for the ideals he represented. You wanted to reach out, to pull him from this cycle of self-destruction, but the intensity of the moment held you captive.

Primo inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling like a storm-tossed sea. It was then you realized that each swing of the cane wasn’t merely a punishment; it was a desperate plea for absolution, a yearning for a release that seemed perpetually out of reach. And yet, watching him, you felt a strange awakening, an urge to understand the depths of his suffering, to explore the fine line between pain and redemption that he walked so precariously.

“Why do you do this?” you finally dared to ask, your voice barely above a whisper, as though breaking the silence would shatter the fragile spell that had ensnared you both.

Primo had spent the morning in the council chambers of the Ministry, where heated debates raged over the direction the faith should take. He had been tasked with mediating discussions between factions that were increasingly at odds, each side clinging fiercely to their interpretations of doctrine. The weight of the responsibility bore heavily on him, a constant reminder of the expectations placed upon his shoulders.

That day, in the midst of the arguments, a slip of his tongue had ignited a fierce backlash. He had misquoted a sacred text, an error that had caused an uproar among the devout. Whispers of doubt spread like wildfire, and he felt the gaze of his peers turn cold, their judgment piercing through him. The feeling of failure washed over him, drowning out the voices of support that tried to remind him of his worth.

The aftermath of the meeting lingered in his mind like a dark cloud. He replayed the moment over and over, consumed by shame. To him, the only way to atone for his perceived failure was to seek redemption through pain. It was a twisted form of penance, one he believed would appease the higher powers he sought to serve, including the vengeful shadows of his own fears and doubts.

In his mind, he thought of Satan as a force of truth, a harsh but necessary guide. To stand before such a power without scars seemed unfathomable. So, in a desperate attempt to cleanse himself of the perceived sin of incompetence, he turned to self-flagellation, believing that suffering would somehow restore his honor and reaffirm his commitment to the faith.

As you watched him now, each strike of the cane was both a physical act and a spiritual one—a ritual designed to wash away the stain of his mistake and prove his worthiness, even if it meant courting the darkness he feared. In that moment, you understood that his desire for redemption was not just for the sake of the Ministry but for his own fractured spirit, striving to reclaim a sense of purpose in a world that felt increasingly chaotic.

You nodded in understanding as he recounted the events that had pushed him to this desperate act of penance. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, and you felt the tension crackle between you. The next swing of the cane sliced through the silence, the sharp crack reverberating against the stone walls, followed by a grunt that echoed with both pain and resolve.

Your thighs tightened.

You seized the moment to speak, your voice steady yet soft, cutting through the haze of his suffering. “The Dark Lord is more merciful than this,” you said, letting your words sink in. “Suffering is for the followers of the light, the children of the False God. And, He’d want you to feel the pleasure in the pain, at least.”

Primo paused, the cane hanging limply at his side, his breath hitching as he absorbed your words. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, battling with the internal struggle that raged within him. The idea seemed foreign, almost blasphemous, yet a part of him hesitated, yearning for a glimmer of relief from the relentless cycle of pain he had subjected himself to.

“Pleasure?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper, laden with doubt. “How can I indulge in anything but punishment when I’ve failed?”

You leaned forward slightly, your eyes locking onto his, willing him to see the truth in your perspective. “Redemption doesn’t solely lie in pain, Primo. It’s in the balance, in embracing both light and dark. The Dark Lord doesn’t seek to break you; He seeks to mold you. Embracing pleasure doesn’t diminish your devotion—it enhances it, allowing you to rise stronger from your trials.”

As the words left your lips, you noticed a subtle shift in his posture. The rigidness began to melt away, if only slightly, as the weight of his self-imposed burden wavered under the promise of something more. In that moment, you saw the flicker of hope ignite in his eyes, a yearning to reclaim not just his honour, but the joy of living, even amidst the shadows.

Almost quietly, and with a small smile, he responded, “I should have known you’d come for your pound of flesh.” His gaze lingered on you, a mixture of challenge and vulnerability in his eyes. The statement hung in the air, charged with a tension that sent a shiver down your spine.

You met his gaze, a slow smile playing at the corners of your lips. “Perhaps I have,” you replied, your voice low and sultry, deliberately teasing the edge of his discomfort. You stood and walked over to him, hooking your index finger below his chin. His eyes were wide, pupils blown out. He looked somehow innocent in all of this. “Perhaps I’ve been sent here to do His bidding.”

“It would be a great pleasure to be punished by you.”

He placed the cane in both of his hands and held it up to you, like a knight offering a sword to his queen. The cane trembled slightly in his hands as he offered it to you, his eyes locked onto yours with a mixture of reverence and desire. His lips parted as though he were about to speak, but no words came—only the quiet, charged silence between you. Trust radiated from him, unspoken yet undeniable, but instead of taking the cane, you chose a different path.

Slowly, deliberately, you sank to your knees before him, the movement commanding his attention. His breath hitched as he watched, every inch of you now level with the vulnerability he tried so hard to suppress. The tension between you was electric, a palpable pulse of need and anticipation. You let your hand slide behind his neck, the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips sending a jolt through you both.

Without breaking eye contact, you pulled him toward you, and the kiss that followed was anything but gentle. It was desperate, hungry, and raw—a collision of longing and pent-up emotion that neither of you could hold back any longer. His lips crashed against yours, warm and insistent, as if he were trying to lose himself in the intensity of the moment, seeking solace in the heat of your touch.

A soft groan escaped him as your mouths moved together, your fingers tangling in his damp hair. His hands, once so steady, gripped your arms with a fervor that matched the wild beat of his heart. You could feel the tension in his body, every muscle taut as though he were on the verge of breaking. His kiss was filled with everything he had been holding back—months, perhaps years, of isolation, of denying himself any comfort beyond the sting of his cane.

You deepened the kiss, the passion between you intensifying as you pressed closer. His breath came in ragged gasps between kisses, each one more desperate than the last, as if he were afraid to let go, afraid that the moment would slip through his fingers if he didn’t cling to it. To you.

Your bodies moved in sync, lips parting, tongues intertwining, with the Cardinal fully submitting to you with nary a fight left in him. The taste of him—sweat, salt, and something deeper, more primal—ignited a fire in you, your desire burning hotter with every passing second. He kissed you like you were his salvation, his escape from the torment he inflicted upon himself.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, your foreheads pressed together as the intensity of what had just passed settled between you. His chest rose and fell heavily, and his eyes, dark with need, searched yours, pleading for something more than what his punishment could offer. “Let me make you feel good,” you panted, resting your forehead against his. “Let me help you.”

“Y-yes,” Primo stammered. The feelings in his chest were threatening to overwhelm him if he didn’t keep himself in check.

You locked your lips to his again, allowing the kiss to return to the same heat it was before. As your tongue entered his mouth, you travelled your hand down from his neck, across the sweaty expanse of his hairy chest and soft stomach, and onto his clothed crotch, earning a gasp from his lips as you made contact. Gently, you began to stroke over him, his limp cock beginning to stand to attention at your touch. You were like a magician with the way you touched him, playing with the right spots to make it feel so fucking good so early on. He was wrapped around your little finger, his body answered only your call. Tonight, you were going to help him in more ways than one.

Flagellation had never felt like this before, neither had pleasure, if Primo was being honest. He wasn’t fully hard yet, but the dull humming of pain on his back mixed with your hand on his core had given him a whole new religious experience. Satan’s wrath at his back, His mercy at his front - and it felt incredible. He never wanted it to stop.

You broke the kiss once more, making him whine in response. “Do you still want me to cane you?”

“Sathanas - please. Please.”

Primo’s begging was delicious. You let your fingers trail along the waistband of his trousers, teasing the skin beneath, but you didn’t give him what he wanted. Not yet. “You’ll get your punishment,” you promised, your voice dark with promise. “But tonight, Primo, it’s going to feel like a blessing.”

His breath caught, his body trembling at the weight of your words, and you could see it in his eyes—he was ready to be yours, to give in to the dark, twisted pleasure that only you could provide.

Slowly, you trailed your hand down from his waistband, brushing your fingers over the growing hardness between his legs. He gasped, his hips bucking slightly into your touch, but you kept your movements slow and deliberate, keeping him teetering on the edge of pleasure without giving him the release he so desperately craved.

“Tell me, Primo,” you murmured, your fingers ghosting over his cock in featherlight strokes. “Do you want more pain? Or more pleasure?” You kissed the edge of his jaw as you spoke, your breath hot against his skin, every word a temptation he couldn’t resist.

His eyes fluttered shut as a low moan escaped him, the mix of pain from his earlier flagellation and the pleasure of your touch driving him to the brink. “Both,” he finally breathed, his voice trembling. “I need both.”

You smiled against his skin, satisfied with his answer. “Good,” you whispered, before pulling back slightly, your eyes locking onto his. “Then let’s begin.”

You reached for the cane, still gripped in his trembling hands, and pried it from his grasp, your fingers brushing his as you took it from him. His eyes followed your movements, wide and filled with anticipation, as you stood before him, the wooden cane held firmly in your hand.

“Remove your trousers,” you commanded, looking down at him with hooded eyes. Primo obliged immediately, scrambling off the floor to obey you as quickly as possible. He was fully hard now, cock red and aching, and pleading to be touched once more. The sight of it made your mouth water.

“Touch yourself,” you continued, “slowly.”

Primo spat in his hand and wrapped it around his head, softy and slowly twisting as he began to fuck himself in front of you. He was needy. Desperate. Wanting.

You raised the cane slightly and brought it down in a swift, sharp strike against his thigh—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him gasp. The combination of the pain and his touch made his entire body tremble, the contrast pushing him into a deeper submission.

His moan was low, guttural, and you could tell that he was already starting to lose himself in the mix of pleasure and pain. “Do you like that?” you asked, your voice teasing, as you leaned down to brush your lips against his.

“Yes,” he gasped, his voice hoarse and breathless. “More… please…”

You smiled against his mouth and delivered another, harder strike, this time to his other thigh. His reaction was immediate, his back arching as he let out a strangled cry, the cane in your hand and the desire in your touch working together to pull him deeper into submission.

“Good boy,” you purred, pressing your palm harder against his now throbbing cock as a reward. “You’re doing so well.”

His entire body seemed to melt at your words, his mind surrendering completely to your control. The pain, the pleasure—it all blurred together for him now, each sensation heightened by the other, until he was nothing but a trembling mess beneath you.

“Where do you want the pain now, Primo?”

“B-back. My back.”

You grinned at his trembling voice, watching as he begged for more, his body a quivering mass of need and submission. His cock was slick with his own spit, his hand slowly twisting and stroking, but the desperation in his eyes told you he was aching for something more—something only you could give him.

With a teasing hum, you moved behind him, the cane still firmly gripped in your hand. His back was already marked with the remnants of his self-inflicted punishment, the red welts standing out against his pale skin, but you knew he craved your touch—the combination of pain and pleasure only you could deliver.

“You want the pain on your back, do you?” you purred, running the tip of the cane lightly over his shoulders. His muscles tensed beneath your touch, his body quivering with anticipation. “Are you sure, Primo? I can make it hurt so good, but you have to ask for it.”

“Please,” he gasped, his voice ragged. “P-please, punish me.”

The sound of him begging for it, so willing, so eager, made your heart race. You raised the cane, hesitating for just a moment to let him feel the anticipation, before bringing it down sharply across his shoulders. His body jolted, a guttural moan escaping his lips as the pain radiated through him, but you could tell by the way he arched into the blow that he wanted—no, needed—more.

Without giving him a chance to recover, you brought the cane down again, striking a bit harder this time, the sound of the impact echoing in the chapel. His back arched once more, his hand faltering for just a moment on his cock as the pain overwhelmed him.

“You take it so well,” you cooed, stepping closer to press your body against his. You let your free hand trail over his heated skin, feeling the way his muscles quivered beneath your fingertips. “Do you want more, Primo?”

“Yes,” he groaned, his voice shaking. “More… please…”

You delivered another strike, the force sending a tremor through his entire body. His back was now a canvas of red, each mark a testament to his submission, and yet he still begged for more.

“Keep touching yourself,” you ordered, your voice firm but seductive. “Don’t stop. Go faster.”

He obeyed, his hand moving over his cock in quick, desperate strokes as you continued to bring the cane down on his back, each blow making him cry out in a perfect blend of pain and pleasure. His moans grew louder, more frantic, and you could see that he was close, his body trembling on the edge of release.

You leaned down, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “You can come, Primo, but only when I tell you. Understand?”

“Yes,” he gasped, his voice strained. “Please… let me come…”

You smiled wickedly, your hand ghosting over the welts on his back before delivering one final, hard strike. His entire body jolted forward, hips now doing most of the work as continued to fuck his hand as hard as he needed, a choked cry escaping him when he tried to hold back, his cock throbbing in his hand.

“Not yet,” you teased, your voice dripping with control. “Not until I say.”

He whimpered beneath you, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, but he obeyed, desperate for your approval, desperate for the release only you could grant.

“You were doing this for the Dark Lord’s forgiveness, weren’t you, Cardinal?” You taunted from behind as you landed another painful blow. You watched as the blood bloomed from the fresh wound.

“Y-yes!”

“Keep fucking that hand, Cardinal, but beg for His forgiveness. Beg Satan and He might grand you pleasure.”

Primo gasped, the sting of the blow igniting a fire within him. “Satan,” he cried out, his voice trembling with desperation. “I—I beg for Your f-forgiveness! I’ve sinned - fuck! And I seek Your mercy. Please… gra-ant me pleasure in my suffering!”

Each word spilled from his lips with a fervour that only deepened his submission, the mix of pain and longing pushing him further into the depths of his desire. “I’ll do any… anything for Your grace,” he continued, his hand moving faster against his cock. “Mmmm… fucking Hell! Please, please, please, let me f-feel Your love through this pain!”

His voice grew more frantic with each plea, the raw vulnerability of his words sending shivers through him. He was completely lost, teetering on the edge, surrendering himself to the dark power he both feared and craved.

You felt a tingling in your body, all over it, in fact. You could feel a breath shoot down your spine from your ear, as if someone had just whispered into it. The smell of sulfur filled your nostrils and left you convinced. You leaned down again, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “He has granted you his mercy. come for us, Primo,” you whispered, your voice a soft command, then a final blow to his back.

With a guttural moan, Primo finally let go, his body convulsing with the intensity of his orgasm as he spilled onto the stone floor, pooling just in front of his knees, his back arching beneath the weight of the pleasure and pain you had given him. He gasped for air, his entire body shaking as he rode the wave of his release, his mind and body completely yours.

You smiled down at him, watching as he collapsed to the floor, spent and trembling, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

“Good boy,” you murmured, your voice soothing now as you knelt beside him, running your fingers gently over his sweat-slicked hair. “You did so well.”

Primo’s eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he looked at you with something close to reverence. He had given himself over to you completely, and you had taken him to the edge and back again. Now, he was yours—body and soul.

As you helped Primo to his feet, he leaned against you, his body still trembling from the intensity of what had just transpired. You helped him back into his trousers - not before using the pant leg to clean up his mess, which earned you a weakened chuckle from him. The chapel, with its cold stone walls, faded from your mind as you guided him outside, the night air wrapping around you both like a comforting embrace, swirling around his wounds and making him hiss and tense in response.

Once you reached your place, you settled him gently onto the soft bed, the contrast of the plush sheets against his still-sensitized skin making him shiver. You took a moment to admire him—his body marked with red welts, a testament to his surrender and bravery. “You did so well tonight, Cardinal,” you said softly, your voice filled with warmth. “You were incredible.”

Primo looked up at you, his eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and vulnerability, and you could see how much your praise meant to him. You moved to gather some supplies—a damp cloth, antiseptic, and a soothing ointment—to care for his wounds. As you returned, you knelt beside the bed, taking a moment to let your fingers gently trace the marks on his back.

“Every scar tells a story,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “And tonight, you showed just how strong you are. I’m proud of you for getting His forgiveness, but I don’t want you to do this again, please. Not as a punishment. I’ll draw blood from you if you want but nothing justifies this as a genuine punishment.”

He sighed softly, the tension in his body beginning to ease as you cleaned the wounds with gentle, careful movements. Each brush of your fingers against his skin elicited soft gasps from him, and you could see the way he surrendered to your touch, allowing you to take care of him.

“Such a good boy,” you praised again, applying the ointment with tenderness.

Primo’s cheeks flushed at your words, and you couldn’t help but smile. He seemed to glow under your attention, his vulnerabilities transforming into strengths. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” you added, leaning closer to press a soft kiss on his shoulder. “Inside and out.”

As you finished tending to his wounds, you took a moment to let your hands linger on his skin, relishing the connection between you. “You deserve to feel safe, to be cared for,” you whispered, your gaze steady on his. “And I’ll always be here to take care of you, Primo.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of your words sinking in. “Thank you,” he breathed, his voice a soft whisper filled with emotion. “For everything.”

You smiled at him, feeling a swell of warmth in your chest. “No need to thank me. It’s my pleasure to care for you. You’ve given me so much already, and I want to give you the same in return.”

As you settled in beside him, the atmosphere shifted—filled with tenderness and a deep sense of understanding. In that moment, you knew you would protect him, nurture him, and help him explore the delicate balance between pain and pleasure, both in and out of the shadows.

Prev./Next

[paradiseprincesss]

intro (end of the world) | jonathan crane

summary: jonathan reflects on how much he truly adores you.

warnings: none, this is pure fluff.

word count: 800 words

masterlist

"jonathan, you don't have to do all that." you say with a giggle (which makes his heart soar), watching your beloved boyfriend from the couch whilst sitting comfortably.

"yes i do." he says matter-of-factly, picking up the heavy boxes and moving them around.

the two of you were in the process of moving in together, having found a gorgeous but quaint little apartment on the east end of gotham - perfect for the two of you. the sun was setting and the rays of light shining through the glass sliding door, which lead to the balcony, was reflecting onto jonathan; making him look like an angel.

he insisted that you sit this one out - by "this one," he meant the entire process of moving. well, the physical part of it, that is. he hadn't let you carry a single box, acting as if you were a delicate flower that would crumble at any given moment.

earlier on, he had let you carry one box, just one; and it was the lightest one out of all of them, weighing maybe ten pounds, at most. as you were putting the box down, it had accidentally slipped out your grasp, causing it to fall from your hands and snag the side of your freshly done acrylic nails - causing one of to break.

before you could even say "ouch," jonathan was rushing to your side going into full-blown doctor mode, doting on you in his own way - which you found adorable.

you tried to reason with him about it, telling him that it didn't hurt very much, and that you could manage - but he wasn't having it.

and that's how you ended up spending the rest of the afternoon on the couch, not lifting a single finger while jonathan did all the heavy lifting and hard work.

"i think that's the last of the boxes." he announces proudly, and you just shake your head at him with a soft laugh. "you're ridiculous."

he comes over to you on the couch, smiling, and pulls you into his side as he gives you a loving kiss.

smiling.

that was something jonathan didn't do very often, if you ever worked with him, you would know that - but you weren't work.

you were everything to jonathan. everything. he could never get tired of you.

when he first met you, he couldn't tell whether you were a fragment of his imagination or not. you were just so beautiful, he'd never forget how it felt to cross paths with you for the first time. in that moment, he'd come to learn what love at first sight was.

through the course of your relationship, he was left astonished on a regular basis. "how are you real?" he'd ask himself, while watching you do the mundane, every day tasks of life. how could someone look so angelic while doing something as simple as watering a potted plant or writing down their grocery list for the week?

he knew the answer to that question; because it was you.

how could someone look so perfect on their worst day? because it's you. how could jonathan possibly let someone into his heart and see his vulnerable side, you ask? because it's you, that's why.

you were the answer to everything in his world, the beautiful soul that brought his flatlining soul back from whatever purgatory he was living in before.

and if said purgatory was truly a real place, then so be it. if he was to die right now, and his soul was sentenced to stay in a state of purgatory, hell on earth for eternity - he was okay with that, because in his living, waking life - at least he got a chance to know you, to love you, and to call you his.

your voice brought him out of his thoughts as he held you tightly on the couch, the sun gleaming it's golden glow on the two of you.

"if the sun refused to shine, would i still be your lover?" you ask, your paradoxical question making him smile as he answered you. "of course you would be, my love. you'd be mine in every universe."

with a sigh, he asked you his own paradoxical question. "if the moon went dark tonight, and it all ended tomorrow, would i be the one on your mind?"

you looked at him with that same lovedrunk gaze you always gave him, smiling cutely, and beaming like the sun outside.

"you never leave my mind, actually." you tell him, and you could've sworn he was almost tearing up as he looked away from you for a moment, and you could tell he's feeling a little emotional - but that's alright because it's with you, and you are his absolute everything.

in his past lifetime, this lifetime, and the rest to come.

[siriuslysatorusimping]

Kiko’s Masterlist

This is a Master for the important links for my stories 😊

*We are not spoiler-free here, so please block the JJK Manga Spoilers tag if you don't want spoilers!*

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AO3 💕 | ko-fi ☕️ | Patreon | twitter | Vocal

Another Level Masterlist

Status: Complete

“You’re a Zenin.”

More like an unwanted mistake. Which, funny enough, had actually been the first words she ever heard her father say to her. - Kurisaki Rinko was born an unwanted bastard child to the Zenin clan, having since grown into an unwanted bastard adult. Her stubborn refusal to be discarded resulted in a display of strength that many would call (they had, many times to her face, in fact) an unhinged lack of self-preservation. But lucky for her, that unhinged display caught the attention of a particular blue-eyed menace who happens to be more fun to rile up than anyone she’s ever met.

Read Another Level on AO3

Physical Paradox Masterlist

Status: In Progress

How they went from: “I’m kinda impressed,” Gojo stated, sliding his sunglasses onto his face. “Didn’t expect a psych major to know this much about philosophical theory.” Rinko blinked at him slowly, raising her eyebrows as she scoffed. “I’m sorry, mister unresolved childhood trauma,” she said, stepping closer and poking a finger in his chest. “But I don’t really give a fuck if you’re impressed.”

To: “Your professor is leading the world of cognitive and behavioral research,” Gojo told Rinko's students, chest swelling with pride. “And she’s really pretty-” “Oh, she’s fucking gorgeous!” he agreed. “She has it all. Smart, funny, beautiful. She’s honestly perfect. It’s incredible she-” “Married you?” Touma interjected. “I know. I thought the same thing when I first met you.”

Read Physical Paradox on AO3

Gokudō Masterlist

Status: On Hold (I will finish this eventually, though)

Gokudō (極道): the extreme path. A term used to refer to members of a Yakuza syndicate.

-

“Now, why is a pretty girl like you in an ugly place like this?” “Some might say the contrast is tragically poetic,” she replied easily. “Yeah, well,” he drawled, a smirk pulling at his lips as he stepped up to stand beside her. “Others would say it’s tragically idiotic. What’s your name, pretty girl?” “Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first?” she asked, her pulse jumping at his quiet chuckle. “You already know who I am.”

-

She never asked to be part of this world. A world filled with greed and violence and revenge. She never asked to be part of the world where life was as meaningless as dust. The world stained red by the blood that pooled beneath her mother’s body after she was forced to watch her die. She never asked to be part of the world driven by hatred and bloodlust, but she never asked to leave, either.

Read Gokudō on AO3

One-Shots

Before I Love You - (angsty Gojo/Rinko AU, hopeful ending) - Part 2: Broken Lens | Author's Discussion

Fight Me? - (Nurse!Gojo shoots his shot with a grumpy patient)

Blurbs

For Your Health - (College!Gojo just wants to help his girlfriend stay healthy)

Untitled Unfinished Angst (very angsty Goinko bc Kiko is not ok)

Previews

Untitled (a self-indulgent Goinko AU about healthy relationships) - Preview 2

Bittersweet Memories (an angsty au inspired by The Vow)

Random Asks and Kiko's Rants

Ask: Advice for AO3 writers and when you're in a creativity rut

Ask: How Do I plan the plot for stories?

Rant: The issue with meaningless angst

Kiko's Original Work

Sample: Summary and blurbs

Sample: Blurbs 2

Meet some characters

Another Life - Short Story

[punkpandapatrixk]

Full Sturgeon Moon in Aquarius ♦︎ Moon Magick Pick A Card

This year’s Full Sturgeon Moon in Aquarius is also a rare blue moon that occurred on 19 August (sorry this PAC is so late aaagh!!!). Following an insane influx of aenergy during the Lion’s Gate, the theme surrounding this blue moon is Perseverance. This period is all about amassing resources and gathering momentum.

I’ve a feeling this year’s autumn (Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius) season is going to be massive and possibly even life-changing for the spiritually awakened ones ^^ You’ve got to be in the receiver mode of miracles and rare opportunities to really notice! Practically all the aenergies now are leading us to a greater sense of freedom to do what we want when we want.

Also, there’s this sense of…a mandate…? That should push Humanity towards liberating themselves from the enslavement of automation and AI. See, technology isn’t necessarily evil, right? Think about how great it is to have the kind of connectivity we have today; how amazing information dissemination has become in this Internet era.

Technology, just like currency, is impartial. In the end it all boils down to how you’re entertaining the evil agendas of evil people using tech for evil purposes. Become aware of your own habits and inclinations if you don’t want to be a fool-tool of the raggedy corporations. In essence, this Full Moon’s Aquarius aenergy is saying: ‘Use tech to your advantage instead of becoming a slave to it.'

‘Don’t be tech’s little bitch; make it your biotch.’

High time you reclaimed your divine birthright to co-create high-quality Reality instead of getting enslaved by tech that seeks to ‘map you out’. This the era you say to yourself: ‘I’m engineering a more prosperous Reality with my clear conscience.’

GNOSIS: The Dark Rise of Brain Rot Content by Moon

deck-bottom: XV The Devil Rx, Gold Astrologer (Simon Forman), Priestess of Ritual

[Moon PAC Masterlist] [Patreon] [Paid Readings] [buymeaboba]

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – Heart Filled with Sweet Colours

t r a n s f o r m a t i o n – Page of Cups

I see that you’ve transmuted very many negative aenergies within yourself, most of all, negative emotions as well as sensations in your body. Seems you were guided to do this by your Higher Self and team of Spirit Guides after having experienced an extreme level of suffering—could be emotionally or physically or both. When you arrived at the most extreme end of what you were struggling with, you couldn’t have gone any other way but to turn your situation around by reclaiming control over your own thoughts and emotions, which effectively shifted your directions and decision making.

There’s a really good quote that says this: ‘When a situation is good, enjoy it. When a situation is bad, transform it. When the situation can’t be transformed, transform yourself.’ You had to learn quite a bit and finally chose to do the last. You’ve known more; now you’re wiser; but wise people are sometimes very pure and childlike. And that’s the beautiful paradox of ‘growing up’ with compassion in your heart. You transformed yourself to be kinder and more loving towards yourself and the crazy-ass situations you found yourself in; now, it’s just easier to extend that love and compassion to the world outside of yourself~♪

t r a n s g r e s s i o n – 4 of Swords Rx

Many of you tuning into this Pile most likely have been in isolation mode for quite a while. The aenergy of this FM in Aquarius, namely the ruler of the 11th House of networking, is pushing you towards becoming social again. And this time everything is going to be (or has been) different. You’ll see that not only are the people in your physical Reality a lot nicer and more compassionate (like you’ve shifted timelines) but you’re also more capable of handling the low-vibing monsters that you may sometimes still have to interact with, with more patience yourself XD

Basically, you’re learning or have learnt to operate in society with more ‘tact’ now. You’ve spent a great deal of time learning to accept a more practical conception of ‘good and evil’ in the world. But to you, good and evil isn’t just black or white; you’re a person who’s come to understand the many colours of good and evil when applied in many different situations. This is wisdom, a gift, that not many have yet to grasp. Your ‘return’ to society is for you to expand this consciousness further and wider!

t r a n s c e n d e n c e – 10 of Wands

The vibe of your ‘return’ to society at large is reminiscent of the Gautama Buddha LMAO He returned to his hometown/home and became a teacher for those who weren’t yet awakened to the higher level of consciousness he had worked so hard to attain! So yeah, a ‘modern priest’ aenergy surrounds you very strongly here; although I find that the majority of you tuning into this Pile are actually quite cute XD Idk why I’m getting a strong ‘gamer girl’ vibe from you. You could also possess a strong sense of aesthetic of your own.

You’re a highly spiritually advanced being but in a cute package, is what I’m getting LMAO At this point in time, your communication skills are getting polished and refined, far beyond what you’re already capable of doing. You may want to look where your Mercury is located in your natal chart, what aspects it makes, and check out what you have in your 3rd House, as well as check out what House is ruled by Gemini ^^ The insight will empower you further at this point in time!

full moon self-care🔻🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Red Alchemist (John Dee) & Priestess of Intuition

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 2 – Solid to Liquid, Calmly

t r a n s f o r m a t i o n – Knight of Pentacles

Hold up! You’re about to jettison down a new portal of adventure, pretty soon but before that, hold up; planning and a readiness of the mind is very necessary at this moment. This Moon Reading is very tardy so I’m going to be reading an aenergy that’s pretty much already transpired by the time you’re reading this XD More to come for you in the next FM in Pisces PAC regarding this aenergy, OK? But for the most part, I’m sensing that you’re still in preparation mode for something big that’s just around the corner for you.

Just like the liquid in the glass in the pic you’re attracted to, there’s something solid that’s turning to liquid, but slowly and naturally. You’re not being burnt or heated up to melt…you know what I mean? Because melting solid to liquid can be a painful experience for peeps who’ve been through a lot, right? The Universe is gracefully granting you a peaceful time to manifest your Life Purpose in the most natural and pleasant way just yet!

t r a n s g r e s s i o n – 5 of Pentacles Rx

So, enjoy this peaceful time. I sense that it’s possible that a lot of you tuning into this Pile have been SO used to chaos and drama—so used to bubbling madly at 110C—that now you don’t know how to just…be…when no stress, no drama is going on. It could be that you were a dramatic person before. Maybe you were toxic. Or maybe you couldn’t help but be that way because you were simply surrounded by toxic betches! But that’s all in the past, OK?

If you look around and become aware of where you are now, it becomes super clear how far you’ve carried yourself away from all of that low-vibrating Reality ^^v Understand that you’re ‘weaning off’ drama, chaos and other types of ‘addictions’ caused by high-level toxicity in your old Reality. I’m getting that this is the prime time to study as much as possible about ‘surviving narcissistic abuse’ to give you not only knowledge but also validation :D

t r a n s c e n d e n c e – Knight of Cups

Other than just ‘surviving’ trauma, if that part doesn’t necessarily ring true for you, there’s also this sense of just using this peaceful time to readjust yourself to a more spiritually attuned Life. Perhaps some of you are getting into crystals, meditation, healing audio tracks, subliminals and reiki. Maybe there are other ‘spiritual’ hobbies and practices beyond these ones hahah You’ll know if you resonate~ I’m being told that this Aquarius FM really does bring that sense of balance between ‘spiritual practices’ and ‘modern technological living’ for you.

Maybe you’re meant to know more about this (especially if you identify as a Starseed) but a lot of the human qualities that we classify as ‘positive mental states’ are…technology. Things like harmony, peacefulness, positive mindsets, intelligence…all of these are practically technology. There are ways we can trigger such ‘states of mind/being’ by means of…technology. So yeah…Imma leave you with that for now XD

full moon self-care🔻🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Green Magus (John Dee) & Priestess of Energy

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 3 – Integrity Just Like Jelly

t r a n s f o r m a t i o n – Page of Pentacles

The other two Piles are very focused on the idea of rest and self-care, but as per usual, Pile 3 is always about going places and learning shit LMAO In this regard, if you’re not physically going places, this is indicating your mind going places through meditation, daydreaming, movie-watching, or documentary-binging. You know what I mean~ This the period you’re enriching your inner world through any means available to you at this moment.

Whilst doing this, don’t forget your water intake, OK? Vitamins and real foods are crucial for you at this moment. Your cells are digesting a lot of Light. Remember that Light is INFORMATION. That’s why Darkness is the absence of information, right? Light is Information; when Information is digested well it becomes Knowledge; when Knowledge is applied well it becomes Wisdom; when Wisdom is put to the service of all it becomes En-light-enment~

t r a n s g r e s s i o n – 7 of Pentacles

Prospering towards wisdom, I’m seeing that you’re currently being taught to be perfectly OK with things taking their sweet time to unfold! If this is the Pile you resonate with the most, you’re literally on the precipice of your grandest Life Purpose yet! Your Life Purpose is big, you know that, right? It could possibly even change the world or perhaps you resonate with having a Life Purpose that revolves around the creation of a Prototype what will alter the way Humans think or do shit~

This either shares a resemblance to Nikola Tesla or Adolf Hitler. This either takes on the archetype of Sadhguru or Teddy Bundy~ Your take LMAO Either way, you’re meant to disrupt your society and scatter it all! But that’s the thing, right? If you’re gonna be a social menace that’s in the service of Light instead of Dark, you’ve gotta learn to keep your INTEGRITY. Because… what was that again? Absolute power absolutely corrupts?

t r a n s c e n d e n c e – King of Swords

‘Nothing discloses real character like the use of power. It is easy for the weak to be gentle. Most people can bear adversity. But if you wish to know what a man really is, give him power. This is the supreme test.’ – Robert Ingersoll

‘It is from weakness that people reach for dictators and concentrated government power. Only the strong can be free. And only the productive can be strong.’ – Wendell Willkie

‘To have intelligence there must be freedom, and you cannot be free if you are constantly being urged to become like some hero, for then the hero is important and not you.’ – Jiddu Krishnamurti

Do you understand your role in the next chapter of your ARC? Not to be some kind of a narcissistic wielder of power but to be a gentle-albeit-passionate reminder for the people, that only they can save themselves from this pathetically enslaved existence of theirs caused by a lack of Integrity.

Got no integrity? Got no intelligence? Go succumb to AI already -__-;

full moon self-care🔻🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

Gold Astronomer (John Dee) & Priestess of Integrity

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

[Moon PAC Masterlist] [Patreon] [Paid Readings] [buymeaboba]

[celiastjamesoscar]

Masterlist

A/N: collection of stuff I’ve written. I also don’t know what a word count is, so heads up!

Requests: Open

Current request list: 11

Fluff: 🍦

Angst: 🗡️

Personal favorite: 🛼

Smut: 🎃

REQUESTING

I will write smut, it just depends on what it is and if I’m comfortable with writing it

I will write romantic or platonic

I write for fem and gender neutral readers

I won’t write for male readers

——————————————————————————

Wednesday Addams

Luminous Waters 🍦

You drag your girlfriend Wednesday to a beautiful pond that you discovered and enjoy the stars together. (3.1K words)

Exile 🗡️🗡️🛼

you and Wednesday were best friends when you were kids, but after Nero’s death, she became cold and distant, and your former friendship turned into a rivalry. Ten years after your friendship ended, unusual circumstances force you two back together. (12.3K words)

Like Real People Do 🍦

Wednesday has been running through your mind, plaguing your every thought. So when you go out one night to get a grasp on these thoughts, you run into the Addams, who was suffering from thoughts about you. (2.3K words)

To Be Alone

Being alone was something special to Wednesday, but being alone with you was sacred. And she refused to share you with anyone else, even if that meant owning up to her feelings (2.7K words)

Tara Carpenter

Devil in the Details 🗡️🗡️🛼

Tara accidentally runs into on campus, and she’s immediately enchanted by you and asks you for help. You give her the wrong advice and she holds it against you. (12K words)

Himbo Next Door 🍦

you met Tara in the elevator your apartment and you two awkwardly hit it off. You begin to form a situationship with her, but Sam disapproves of you. (5.5K words)

Jenna Ortega

Drafting it up…

Sam Carpenter

No Hard Feelings 🗡️🍦🛼 pt 2 🍦🗡️ pt 3 🍦

Tara makes plans with you to go to dinner and watch a movie, but she forgets and can’t go. So she sends Sam in her place (17.1K total words)

Umbrella Paradox 🍦 Pt 2 🍦🍦

When visiting a local cafe shop late one night, you meet the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, but you get off on the wrong foot. (12.9K total words)

Sweat and Serendipity 🍦

While working out at your local gym, you run into someone you haven’t seen before. (4.9K words)

Wildest Dreams 🗡️🍦🛼

you are helplessly head over heels for Sam, even though she despises you. But your relationship with her changes when you get in a lightly physical altercation with her.(6.3K words)

Would that I 🗡️

You accidentally ran into someone at a frat party, and she quickly became your best friend. But you fell for her sister, who wouldn’t even give you the time of the day (this is a shitty description) (6.8K words)

Talk 🎃🍦

Sam was never used to being treated with tenderness, but she loved the way you treated her like she was the most fragile thing you ever held. She craved your soft kisses, and she needed you (1.38K words)

Say Yes to Heaven 🗡️🗡️🍦🛼

It was never Sam’s intention to fall in love with you, but after countless nights tangled up in sheets together, she fell for you. But her love came with consequences, and she knew she could never provide you with the life you needed. So she broke up her arrangement with you, breaking your heart in the process as well. (11.8K words)

Happiness is a Butterfly 🗡️🍦

the plan was to tell you at some point, but Sam didn’t know how. Only when you find out by accident about your girlfriend’s activities, does Sam realize the consequences of continuing her father’s legacy. (9.9K words)

Cinnamon Girl 🍦🛼

Getting a dog wasn’t the best idea, but Sam grew to love the fur ball when she found out you were the dog’s vet. (8.6K words)

Jeans 🎃🍦

It had been too long since you had Sam, and you desperately needed her. (1.3K words)

We fell in love in October 🍦

Late night talks with Sam were always your favorite, especially on the roof while you two admired the sky together. (3.0K words)

Comfort Holds 🍦

A long day at work leads the best kind of de-stressing at home: Sam holding you. (1.7k words)

Wish I Knew You 🍦

Unofficial meant many things to people, but to college students it meant one thing: party. But unofficial takes a turn when you get into a fight, and Sam has to walk you home. (3.5K words)

Night Shift 🗡️🍦

Sam blamed you for the 2022 attacks, she blamed you for everything. But guilt drives people into blindness, and Sam eventually finds herself seeking your comfort. (18.0 words)

Smut Headcanons

Natasha Romanoff

Clean 🍦🍦

when Natasha comes back hurt from a mission, she lets you clean her wounds. (3.6K words)

Wanda Maximoff

Champagne Problems 🗡️🍦

You were going to propose to Wanda, but a stupid argument ruined your night, and maybe even your relationship. Can you fix it before it’s too late? (3.8K words)

[that-student-that-has-homework]

The Rationality of Emotion

Al-Haitham / Reader Chapters: Chp 1 | Chp 2

Read the Full Story on Ao3 | Tumblr MasterList Here (Maybe even leave me a comment please? :3< )

Summary: Kaveh simply couldn't believe that Al-Haitham was going to marry before him! Not that ill-tempered, bullheaded, brutish excuse for a man! Not just that! The rational brute was marrying the Emotional Scholar, of all people! Rationality and Emotion? Marrying? How could this be possible?! --o-- A story in which: you just wanted help reading some runes, your parents wanted to you to marry, Al-Haitham wanted a cover story for when he went out into the desert, and Kaveh is...well...he's...he's there for you. Needless to say you're now all one big happy (?) family!

Chapter 1: Unexpected

The sun had long since set, the moon, or what of it could be seen anyway - it had phases and for all he knew it could be a new moon tonight, he’s been rather preoccupied with his latest design and hadn’t had the chance to admire the lovely glowing orb. 

Hmph. 

That annoying roommate (effectively a tyrannical landlord despite his grace in allowing him to stay with him-this man operates in paradoxes doesn’t he?) of his would argue that - actually most students would argue that the moon doesn’t in fact emit any light, rather it reflects the light of the sun and whatnot. Yes, he was very well aware, thank you very much, he’d studied elementary physics as well.

In fact he was likely more knowledgeable in physics than that linguist. He was an architect, an engineer.

Nevermind all that, what was important was that it was late and his roommate had yet to return, much to his pleasure really. It wasn’t uncommon that he’d be out late or even go for trips without warning, perhaps this was one of those blessed situations where he would be able to go for days without seeing him. Lovely.

Of course things could not always be so delightful, as the architectural genius (yes he truly was a marvel) had just about completed the application of his honey mask that he heard the door open. He’d rather not be seen with his face covered in honey, not that he really cared if that excessively confident junior of his saw him in such a state, he simply wasn’t in the mood to explain himself.

“Kaveh,” oh how unusual for him to approach him first.

“What is it? I’m busy,” the man in question said as he made sure that he had in fact covered the entirety of his face in honey.

“Is that so?” Came the unimpressed reply. “Suit yourself.”

Suit himself? What on Teyvat? Appearances be damned. Kaveh made his way out to the kitchen; he had to wash his hands and return the honey jar either way after all. Once that task was dealt with he approached his housemate who…

Where was he?

The sounds of running water from the restroom gave away the scribe’s location. Perhaps it really wasn’t all that important after all. For all he knew, Al-Haitham was probably about to inform of something truly infuriating and pointless to him.

-_-

The following week he found the parts to a new piece of furniture, a bed, in one corner of the salon. Oddly enough it was wider than the standard size, perhaps a queen sized bed? How peculiar, from what he’d witnessed of the prickly scholar he didn’t care for such extravagance. No matter, it wasn’t any of his business anyway.

The day after that the architect returned late at night to see a new pile of wood in the salon. Seems the scribe really was upgrading his furniture. Kaveh moved to inspect the craftsmanship on the wood. Al-Haitham had taste, as much as he hated to admit it. Though it was simple, it was tasteful, and would likely not go out of style any time soon.

The following night the reputable architect pulled an all-nighter at his atelier in the Akademiya, working diligently to complete a blueprint, and only managed to finally return to his shared accommodations the night after. Which coincidentally was when things truly became strange. The third room in the house, which was mostly used for storage, was now occupied with that large bed he’d seen before, a closet, and yet another pile of wood in a corner of the room.

Just what on Teyvat was going on?

No sooner had he thought that, then the door had opened, the owner of the house marching in. Excellent timing, truly, he needed an explanation for all of these changes.

“Just what is going on here?” He asked, gesturing to the former storage room.

The pleasant expression the scribe seemed to have before dropped, vanishing without a trace. Wait - pleasant expression? Unless he was reading a book, or things were going his way, that was rare. Was this all an elaborate plot to mess with him? Nevermind that!

“Isn’t it obvious?” The scribe returned.

Kaveh stared at him in silence. 

Obvious? Obvious he says? It was so deep into obscurity that there couldn’t be anything remotely obvious about it. It might as well be the Abyss!

“Had it been obvious I wouldn’t find the need to ask you, now would I?” He sighed.

“You have a tendency to ask about the obvious with little thought,” his junior shrugged, “have you given the situation any thought prior to asking?”

“I’ve given it plenty of thought,” much more than it deserved really, “I was under the impression you were changing your furniture.”

The unimpressed expression his housemate gave him was truly punchable. Clenching his fists to restrain himself from physically attacking his housemate, he continued, “however you’ve placed them in the unused room of all places, what are you planning?”

“You got that far and still didn’t find the answer?” Dear Lesser Lord Kusanali, it was taking every fibre of his being not to grab the nearest thing-a rather large volume that the irritating man had been reading recently coincidentally-and lob it straight into his head. 

The jerk had the audacity to sigh, like he was the one who was tired, “we’re going to have another person living here soon.”

“What?”

“Is it that much of a surprise?” He moved past him to the kitchen, the architect following. “I tried to inform you earlier, however you were busy.”

“When did you-” oh. That was why the scribe had uncharacteristically approached him back then.

Nevermind that though: there was a more pressing matter at hand.

“Who? ” He had to warn them, unless they absolutely, desperately needed lodging, no! Even then! It would be best if they stayed far away from someone so insufferable. Then again he was there, he’d make it all bearable-

“My wife.”

“Your what? ” The architect looked his roommate up and down as though the signs of matrimony would magically appear upon him. “You’re married?”

“Not yet,” came the calm reply.

“You’re engaged?! ” Unbelievable! “Who in Teyvat would agree to marry you?”

“To my understanding, I’m a rather attractive candidate,” the engaged scribe returned calm as ever, “I’m able-bodied, capable of providing due to my prestigious employment, and have a respectable lineage.”

“The poor girl, what sort of trickery did you resort to?” Kaveh would have to find her and ask what possessed her to make such a horrible decision.  

“Trickery? What nonsense are you babbling about?” The scribe folded his arms across his chest.

“What sane, rational lady would agree to wed you?” He marched up to him. “What kind of things did you say to her? I didn’t even think you were capable of such speech!”

The perplexed expression that usually brought him a semblance of joy only served to fan the flames of-of…uh…of confused irritation? 

Surprise? 

Goodness! 

He was a cocktail of bewildering emotions!

“If you’re insinuating I employed dishonest methods to impress my future spouse,” oh bother, he did not have the patience to deal with Al-Haitham’s temperament on a good day - let alone when he’s as deprived of sleep as he was right now, “I’ll have to advise you: choose your next words carefully.”

“You mean to tell me she was impressed by you, as you are?” The blonde scoffed, “there’s no way she knows about your temper.” He waved his hand dismissively, after all if a lady knew of…oh no. “Unless! It can’t be!”

His housemate returned his look of horror with a bored look of his own. 

“Has she been blinded by…by…by,” dear Greater Lord Rukkhadevata, he couldn’t even bring himself to say the word, “l-l-lo lo-loo-temporary affection,” he really couldn’t say it, “and is incapable of thinking rationally when it comes to you?”

He hated to admit it, but he has overheard ladies giggle and croon over Al-Haitham, on the rare occasion they would glimpse him. Well with how he dressed-nevermind that!

“She’s viewing you through a rose tinted lens?! She’s not in the right mindset to be making life decisions then,” oh he absolutely had to find her, “quickly tell me her name.”

To his greatest surprise, Al-Haitham had a rather smug, if small, smile upon his face, “well I can assure you that’s not the case,” he gestured in explanation, “my fiancee was not under the blinding influence of love, or as you put it ‘temporary affection,’” his expression only grew more smug, “we both came to the decision to marry after discussing it in depth and evaluating it rationally.”

Kaveh didn’t believe a word of that. Not for an instant. There was no way. Absolutely not. She had to be a convincing actress or something. 

“Impossible, you’re the only insufferable person who uses logic in these situations,” the architect denied, “she must be a very compelling actress.”

“In which case she would be the dishonest one,” his astute junior returned, “I hope you realize your response implies that she is so acutely infatuated with me she would actively seek to appeal to my personal preferences.”

Why this! 

“How did you arrive at that conclusion?” Disbelief contorted the architect’s pretty features into a scowl. 

The absurdity of such a notion. 

“You said she could be pretending to be rational in order to marry me. By acquiring me as a husband, she establishes an exclusive romantic claim to me and discourages most competition while maintaining leverage against the outliers. All of which would imply a very keen desire to monopolize me, hence: infatuation.”

“That’s not it at all! She could simply be in desperate need of a husband for any assortment of reasons!”

He’s been a fake lover to a lady scholar once or twice, helping them ward off unwanted attention for a while. He’d also heard some scholars complain about how their parents wishing for them to marry was getting in the way of their work. Not to mention the sheer number of scholars who married for the sake of a project or research (which was more often related to genealogy). 

There were the contract marriages of those wishing to be done with it all too. Oddly enough they were mostly successful, with feelings developing between them later.

Unfortunately this poor lady was to marry this bullheaded linguist so the chances of that were nothing short of zero, and he was being generous. On a particularly bad day Kaveh would be compelled to put that number in the negatives.

“So you mean to say you’re concerned I’m being taken advantage of?” The obstinate nuisance inquired. 

“How you arrive at these outlandish conclusions is beyond me,” Kaveh massaged his temples with one hand. 

“As is basic reasoning it would seem.”

“Excuse me?” The disrespect! 

Hmph! 

If he wants to be like that then: “you said your wife,” the poor foolish girl whom he had to rescue, “was coming to live with us.”

“Strictly speaking, given she will be mistress of this house as I am its master and she, my wife,” he spoke coolly, “you will be living with us,” 

The audacity. No matter if he was right! There were kinder ways to put it! 

Nevermind that though, “but you’re not married yet, meaning she’s your fiancée.”

“Yes.”

“Then you mean to say your fiancée is coming to live with us,” while he wasn’t usually one for semantics, he refused to yield.

“While she is currently my fiancée,” now this Haravatat scholar, definitely was a semanticist, “she won’t move in until we marry and hold the wedding ceremony. At which point she will be my wife not fiancée and as my wife she will be coming to live here, with me, as is customary of a married couple.”

“Goodness this poor girl,” well the marriage had yet to go through, “how did you manage this?”

“I proposed.”

“Clearly. No one’s going to propose to you,” Kaveh had so many questions, “But what drove you to propose?”

“Her openness to marriage, obviously” Al-Haitham’s tone revealed just how stupid he thought the inquiry was.

“That’s not-” the blonde sighed while pinching the bridge of his nose, goodness he was much too tired for this, “nevermind, who is she?”

“You’ll be meeting her soon enough.”

Ugh. As much as he wanted to save the girl, he was running at fumes and this stubborn ox of a man was not going to budge. Regrettably. 

“When is the wedding? I better be invited.”

“Yes of course,” he gestured noncommittally, “I wouldn’t dare think to exclude my own housemate.”

By the tone he was using it was clear he had considered not inviting him.

–

Kaveh felt he needed to air his grievances about this current dilemma to someone who would be able to fully understand the gravity of the situation. He was also in desperate need of inspiration, so he decided a trip to the Avidya Forest was necessary. He’d be able to kill two birds with one stone that way.

“Al-Haitham? You mean the scribe?” Tighnari’s puzzled expression brought the blonde a sense of calm.

“Yes!” Kaveh responded eagerly. “To think someone so insufferable would!” He paused in the middle of his tirade. “Who could possibly subject themselves to such misery?”

Collei, bless her, the sweet girl, came by with some fresh tea and some snacks at that moment. Her master was quick to take them off her hands, with only a small complaint from her.

“Is Al-Haitham really so bad?” She couldn’t help her curiosity.

She was fortunately spared the misery of having to meet the insufferable scholar. Kaveh couldn’t be any more thankful, truly.

“I’ve told you about what it’s been like living with him,” the architect accepted the little handleless tea cup with its plate that the forest ranger offered him, “and this is just a temporary arrangement caused by extreme circumstances. This girl is about to be permanently stuck in this situation!”

“I imagine her situation will be different from yours given she’ll be his wife,” the proficient botanist offered a cup to his pupil.

“Regardless!” Kaveh continued. “I just want to know who would be so tasteless? so blind? Who could despise themselves so much as to marry Al-Haitham?”

“Hmm, I think you’re asking the wrong question,” came the pensive response of the forest watcher. 

“What do you mean?”

“I’m more interested in why he decided to get married,” Tighnari gestured, as he returned to his seat, “he doesn’t seem like the type to particularly enjoy company.”

The blonde paused. 

Truthfully that was curious.

As Tighnari had said: Al-Haitham conducted himself in a manner to ward people off. He wasn’t the type to engage in conversations for the sake of fostering friendships.

“How did this happen?” The curious architect wondered aloud. “Then again he is a man. Perhaps this is just a means to that end?”

“There are alternate solutions that are less work than marriage,” the long-eared fellow rebutted.

“This is true, however,” Kaveh squinted at nothing, frowning, “if we assess this with the rationality he’s obsessed with.”

“Oh. Then I could see why he’d consider it.”

“Yes, rather than regularly exerting effort on varying conquests that could each bring about their own problems,” the blonde pinched the rim of his tea cup, lifting it to his lips, “in this case his conquest resides in his house, requiring little effort.”

“And there would be less complications should these ‘conquests’ result in children,” the ranger added, “though there are contraceptive methods and herbs according to the literature.”

“That is a horrifying thought,” the architect shook his head.

“What is?” One of Tighnari’s ears tilted slightly to one side as if in question, before a laugh emerged from him. “Oh you mean Al-Haitham having kids?”

Kaveh simply nodded.

“Well there’s no guarantee they’ll inherit his personality, they might get their mother’s,” the botanist mused.

“Assuming her personality is radically different,” the blonde leaned back, “according to Al-Haitham he and she decided to get married after assessing it logically.”

“No two people are exactly alike, you know.”

“True, true,” he sat up again in a pensive stance, “now that you’ve mentioned it: it is curious who could have managed to earn his approval.”

“Well I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough,” Tighnari refilled Kaveh’s tea cup.

“I’ll let you know when I do.”

-_-

The Light of Kshahrewar returned to Sumeru City shortly after, full of inspiration, and even more questions.

The reclusive bookworm of a scribe…yes…who could possibly…draw his attention? Who could possibly be deemed as compatible? Possibly a person of mild temperament? Who knew?

At his atelier, the architect was very pleased to be graced with the presence of a certain Vahumana scholar, to whom he could rant endlessly about every architectural style in history. Yes, this historian was a rapt listener who delighted in the knowledge he offered and often contributed some fascinating facts as well. Facts which sometimes inspired his imagination.

A dear acquaintance.

He’d been in the middle of talking about the architecture and the engineering employed by the ancient desert civilization prior to the destruction caused by the Archon War and whatnot, when the topic of a rumored tomb dedicated to the wife of some king or another came up. 

To his surprise, he did not receive the awe and adoration he’d expected. The response was tame, and mostly curious, bordering on suspicious as the tale seemed unfamiliar to this particular historian. Not that there was any doubting Kaveh’s little fun fact! Not at all! But kings that doted on their wives were few and far between usually.

“You must admit that the notion of a man loving his wife enough to dedicate a great architectural wonder to her is a romantic one though,” the architect insisted.

“It makes for a romantic tale no doubt,” the delightful scholar smiled in concession.

“I sense there is a ‘however’ in your statement,” Kaveh folded his arms across his chest and leaned back.

“Well,” that was a rather tentative tone, “I suppose I could be overly cynical, there is an extensive library of love poems dedicated by men to their lovers.”

The architect felt his previous joy return. Ah if only Al-Haitham were so easy to reason with!

“In all honesty, I am more interested as to how this temple and the theory of it being dedicated to a king’s beloved wife came about,” ah yes spoken like a true Vahumana scholar! “I wonder what analyses and artifacts they excavated to arrive at such a conclusion.”

He hadn’t looked into it much beyond the conjectured blueprints, which were stunning - make no mistake! So, he didn’t have an answer to that. 

Oh well.

At least his enthusiasm regarding how romantic the notion was reciprocated. While the initial response betrayed his expectations: he was delighted that his point of view was now as appreciated as it ought to be. 

After all, who wouldn’t enjoy such a romantic gesture.

Oh.

He knew who.

Al-Haitham.

Hmm…perhaps he could do with a feminine opinion.

“I’d like your opinion on something,” he asked after a short lull in the conversation.

“Yes?”

“My roommate recently mentioned he’s getting married,” he paused staring at some random tile as he gathered his thoughts, “he mentioned he and his fiancée had come to the agreement to marry logically.”

Well that was a strangely awkward look he was receiving, “do you actually believe that?”

“I think people should not neglect rationality when trying to choose a spouse,” he could not believe thi- “though some attraction is also necessary.”

“You mean to say,” Kaveh took a moment to better articulate his thoughts, “love is not necessary when marrying?”

“Which form of love are you talking about?” Goodness, where did the past agreeability go? 

Ah yes! He’d forgotten a critical fact: Vahumana scholars could be just as semantic as Haravatat scholars.

His attention was brought back to the current conversation with a sigh, “I apologize Kaveh, I don’t have the energy needed for this kind of discussion today.”

Oh? Well he could understand that, it was getting to be later in the day, he’d been considering either returning home or heading out to eat.

“A rational conclusion to marry is okay in the presence of subtle attraction,” was the verdict he received.

How astonishing. He’d have expected more weight to be attributed towards emotion. After all sat before him was none other than-ah no he knew better than to use that insulting moniker.

Still he’d expected this scholar to share in his opinion. To stress the importance of love in establishing a relationship. It was strange that the opinion presented was closer to that of Al-Haitham’s. He’d never have expected it.

The well dressed artist blinked himself back into reality when a fancy looking envelope appeared in his peripheral.

“I’d originally intended to give this to you and leave you in peace,” Kaveh found himself receiving a sheepish smile, “however your discussion about the recovered architectural techniques pre-dating the archon war was enthralling! I really enjoyed it! Thank you for telling me about it!” 

The Light of Kshahrewar himself, warmed up at the appreciation expressed. With a final farewell he was left to his own devices.

Naturally his first instinct was to open the envelope. Such fancy stock, was this perhaps a confession? While the feelings wouldn’t exactly be mutual…the architect wouldn’t deny him entertaining the thought of such a relationship following a confession. Besides he could never blame anyone who found him attractive, he- 

“You are Cordially Invited to Attend the Wedding of Al-Haitham and-”

He pushed the card back down, closing the flap of the envelope. Closing his eyes and shaking his head he pulled out the card yet again…

“You are Cordially Invited to Attend the Wedding of Al-Haitham and-”

He once again put the invite into its envelope and closed the flap.

It was a wonder his eyeballs didn’t fall out of their sockets.

The mystery lady, the poor pitiful girl, his target for rescue…

Of all people… 

Al-Haitham was marrying YOU?!

[distortionbobble]

Royal Flowers Chapter 1

series masterlist

pairing: anakin skywalker x f! reader

summary: A long, long, time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, a certain Jedi by the name of Anakin Skywalker meets you, the current Queen of Naboo and adopted cousin of Padme Amidala, and is tasked with protecting you by pretending to marry you. As a spy, you’ve infiltrated the Separatist ranks and are close to finding out the mastermind behind all of it. The fate of the galaxy is in your hands. 

warnings: minors dni! ageless blogs dni! none this chapter but the series will have eventual smut, canon-level violence and just general warnings. 

a/n: hello hello hello! i’m working on creating more appropriately sized chapters and spacing things out but i’m so excited to work on this series. this series is based on a request from @breatheeagainnnn 

word count: 2.7k 

Anakin Skywalker is lost.

The revelation comes to him when he is lost in the deep waters of his meditation, distanced from the buzzing matter of physical reality as he is swept by the currents of the Force. He drifts without anchor, each surge threatening to submerge him, to overwhelm him if he loses his control.

He seeks to control the Force. The Force seeks to control him. 

And the network of the universe ebbs and flows around him when the truth is drawn from his bones. It’s a presentation of three fragmented parts that unsettle Anakin right down to his soul. 

The first. He is afraid. He is the Chosen One, something he’s heard so much that it has lost its meaning. The Messiah lost the message. 

Bring balance to the Force. Bring balance to the Force. Bring balance to the Force.

He doesn’t know what that means anymore. And if he fails, what then? His fear of falling into the Darkness paradoxically increases the hold that it has on him. 

The second. He pines for what he cannot have. 

Padme Amidala is the breath in his lungs, reviving him with each heartbeat. But she couldn’t love him the way he loves her, telling him as much with just a hint of sadness on her graceful face. She shut him out and without her, he feels weaker. 

The third. Anakin is losing control. Obi-Wan can sense it too, because every training session is overshadowed by a sense of urgency. Every move is sloppier, more dangerous, and even in training, his desire to triumph is clouded by his desperation, as if winning would allow him to truly understand it all. 

And all of this culminates in him realizing that he is lost, without hope and without guidance, and nobody will understand. Obi-Wan could never understand, for he still sees Anakin as the child that he rescued so many years ago. Obi-Wan just doesn’t get him. Master Obi-Wan would do anything for his padawan, truly, but Anakin can’t bear the thought of burdening Obi-Wan with this. Besides, it would only reinforce Obi-Wan’s view that Anakin isn’t ready to be a Jedi Master. 

A knock on the door to his quarters startles him and he scrambles to get up as Master Obi-Wan opens the door. 

“Anakin, there’s someone here to meet us,” Obi-Wan says, frowning. Anakin runs a hand through his hair, sighing as he frantically pieces together an appearance of cool indifference. He’s a Jedi. He can’t feel rattled. The two Knights obscure their faces with their hoods and walk out of Anakin’s quarters. 

Anakin follows Obi-Wan to a room where a single figure stands hidden by a hooded cloak, surrounded by a number of handmaidens each adorning the same pinched, tight-lipped look. 

“Leave us,” a low voice says from under the cloak, and each of the handmaidens file out of the room without sparing even a single glance behind. Anakin reflexively reaches for his lightsaber, but then the figure steps into the beam of light streaming from the window and takes off the hood. And he lays eyes on you for the first time. 

You’re not nearly as beautiful as Padme, nobody is, but still, there’s something so mesmerizing about you. Motes of dust dance in Coruscant sunbeams around your head and it looks like a halo, makes you look holy, and he can’t stop himself from staring. He’s studying the details of your face, scanning, and it’s to a point that he can’t pretend it’s for threats. He almost forgets to breathe when you bow your head to him in respect, and he has to bow back. Anakin’s eyes are still transfixed on you when you begin to speak. 

“Master Kenobi, General Skywalker,” you begin, and the two Jedi push their hoods down. “I come to you in need of assistance. As you are aware, the current Queen of Naboo’s two terms are near their end. But what has been kept secret is that I’ve been chosen as her successor, which will be revealed to the citizens of Naboo in a fortnight.” You take a deep breath and smile weakly as Anakin and Obi-Wan mutter half-hearted congratulations. “What I need is protection.”

“So then why do you require our aid? I’m sure you’re aware that Naboo has its own governmental protective forces, and I’m unsure that they’d take the Jedi Council’s interference in their sovereignty kindly,” Anakin asks. He’s more guarded than he intends to come off, but the question holds still. You don’t appear to be a fool, so there must be more depth to the matter. At his questioning, your eyes flit briefly towards the door before you step closer to the Jedi, toying with the front of your robes as nervousness overtakes you. 

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m much older than the usual elected Queen, and it is not by coincidence,” you murmur. “I did not get here alone. Under the command of Senator Amidala, I’ve spent the past couple years infiltrating the Naboo separatists. They manipulated the selections such that I would become Queen.” At the mention of Padme, Anakin bites back a sigh and forces himself to pay attention to your words. 

“That is very dangerous,” Obi-Wan says, rubbing his hand over his beard. “I assume you’ve been relaying your findings to the Senator thus far?” 

You nod sharply in response. 

“I see. The Council—“ Obi-Wan begins, but you shake your head frantically and grasp him and Anakin by the robes, pulling them closer to you. 

“No. Not the Council. I do not know who I can trust. There are Separatist spies everywhere. My handmaidens, for example, are all Separatist spies who don’t trust me because Padme is my cousin. While I don’t doubt the integrity of the Jedi Masters, I fear putting them in danger if my operative fails, or if word gets out.” You’re frantic but quiet, and constantly checking at the door to see if any of your wardens have overheard your betrayal.

“And yet you trust us,” Anakin rebuts. He doesn’t trust you, not one bit; how could he ever trust a spy? If you’re so willing to lie, even if it is to the Separatists, how can he be sure that you’re not lying to him? 

“Padme told me that I could trust you. She said to give you this,” you say, shoving your hand into your pockets to produce a necklace, which Anakin recognizes immediately. It’s one he knows all too well, as it’s the necklace he’d gifted Padme before he had even joined the Order. And he decides that if nothing else, you are honest about Padme. And that’s all that matters to him. The part of him that still burns for her overtakes him and he knows that he can’t let her down. 

“I’ll do it,” Anakin says. Obi-Wan glances warningly in his direction, but there’s a certain resignation and relief in Obi-Wan’s posture. Anakin hasn’t taken this kind of initiative in a long time, and Obi-Wan was beginning to grow concerned that all hope for the Chosen One was lost. 

“Alright, the matter is,” Obi-Wan pauses mid-sentence, looking at Anakin’s determination, “settled. We will aid you in your transition away from the Separatist group and expose their interference.” 

”You have misunderstood me, Master Kenobi,” you whisper, voice hush with urgency. “I’m so close to finding out the identities, locations, of key leaders. There are Sith Lords that are regularly hologrammed into our meetings. Should I be tasked with something significant as the Queen, Darth Sidious has already alerted me that I will be tasked with the assignment in his presence.” 

Obi-Wan begins to respond to you, but Anakin cuts him off. “If you have a plan, why don’t you tell us already?” He’s frustrated by your impatience. Maybe Obi-Wan was right about politicians. You glance at him, annoyed. 

“I was getting to it, General Skywalker. As I was saying, this mission is imperative and it is essential to the fate of the Republic and thus, the galaxy, that I am not put in harm’s way before I am able to succeed in exposing the identities of key Separatist forces. I cannot trust the guards provided by the Naboo government, as I don’t know who is a Separatist plant. So—“

“So you need our protection to… what? Kill the spies? And how would that work if Naboo has its own protection for you? I highly doubt they’d take the involvement of the Jedi Council kindly,” Anakin says sharply. You nod at his rapid-fire questioning, unfazed. 

“Something like that. I need to make sure that any communications I have and discoveries I have are protected, and if anyone finds out, that they’re eliminated before they can eliminate me. So not necessarily kill the spies, but I need actual protection, and I need someone that I know I can trust. And…” you trail off and step back, toying with the hem of your sleeves as you sigh. 

“What is it, milady?” Obi-Wan asks you gently. You press your hands to your neck and look up at Anakin. 

“The way I see it, there’s two things we can do. General Skywalker, I understand that as a Jedi Knight, you have a padawan yourself. Ahsoka, correct? We could have her—” 

“No,” Anakin interrupts quickly. “Ahsoka’s far too young, and while I believe that she will grow to be a very competent and powerful Jedi, now is not the time to thrust her headfirst into a mission alone.” You nod at the Jedi’s assessment. 

“Of course, General. We’re thus presented with the second plan. I am, as Queen, permitted to have a husband. I’ve been building the identity of a lover in my life, and while there is none, this leaves me room to marry without suspicion in the eyes of the Separatists.” You take another deep breath and look at both Anakin and Obi-Wan, shoulders tensed. “If I marry either you or Anakin, then I’ll be able to have you in my chambers regularly, privately.” 

“And you’re certain it must be us?” Obi-Wan asks. You nod quickly, sharply. 

“I can’t trust anyone but the two of you,” you whisper. Obi-Wan nods at your words, then bows his head. Anakin follows suit. 

“Thank you, milady. We’ll meet you at midnight, in the gardens, to settle the matter.” Obi-Wan and Anakin hide under their robes once more, being even more careful to disguise themselves as you call out loudly for the handmaidens to return. 

~~~

The hours pass quickly, and you soon find yourself in the cover of the night’s darkness. Sleep eludes you tonight, and you are filled with restlessness. Your handmaidens have retired, sleeping outside of your bedchamber to ensure that you don’t leave. But they fortunately didn’t notice the ledge that goes from underneath the bedroom window to the bridge connecting the guest quarters to the Temple. 

The air in the room feels stale and suffocating as you toss and turn, counting down the minutes until your meeting with the Jedi. Your heart thumps torturously in its cage before you abandon your futile attempt to chase sleep. You find yourself at the window, sliding it open quietly as the breeze rushes in to kiss your face. Coruscant is beautiful and silent at this time of night, with only the whispers of distant sounds of the city blowing past you. 

The building ledge meets your bare feet when you slide over the window, and the distance from you to the ground is dizzying. Your palms and feet begin to feel slippery from sweat as your thoughts begin to spiral, fear of falling weakening you. You force yourself to shuffle closer to the bridge, focusing on controlling your movement as you do. 

And yet somehow, it’s all so freeing from this far up. No restrictions, no eyes on you, and all the troubles in the galaxy seem so small at this height. You could fall. Or you could keep going. The fear wasn’t what mattered, what mattered was that you were here and alone and it felt safer than you have felt in years. 

You force yourself to keep moving, ignoring the sweat gathering at the nape of your neck. Once you reach the bridge, you quickly jump onto it and hurry towards the gardens. 

The moons make the night soft with their hazy light. You swear that the temple seems so much more powerful in this light, with fewer Jedi wandering the grounds. They spare you a glance when you run past, your nightgown fluttering behind you. 

General Skywalker is the first thing you notice when you reach the garden, twirling a flower in his hands. It looks almost out of place with him, delicateness contrasting the strength of his hands. You get the feeling that he knows you’re there, despite the quietness of your arrival and the fact that you’ve been almost holding your breath as you watch him.  

“It won’t be a real marriage, you know. I love Padme, and I’ll love her til I die.” Ah, yes. Padme had warned you about this— about the intensity of his affection. Anakin Skywalker is not a man who works in subtleties. You hold back a scoff at his arrogance, choosing instead to clasp your hands in front of your nightgown and nod. 

“I don’t ask for your affection, General. Nor your companionship. I would, however, like for us to be allies.” The light of the planet’s four moons is muted in the garden, distorted by the thick layer of clouds and it makes the moment feel private. But you’ve been a double agent for long enough to know that there are always ears and eyes. You hold your tongue in fear of revealing something that could expose your mission just to get General Skywalker’s favor. 

General Skywalker clenches his jaw and drops the flower, studying you before nodding quietly. The flower is crushed under his boot as he stalks towards you. 

“But-” Your breath catches in your throat as you look into his eyes because he’s… pretty. You hadn’t thought of it before now, but as the moons’ lights fall so gently onto him, he seems ethereal. “But you will have to fake your affection, General. If you are unable to do that, I will respect that, but I’m afraid that would mean that you wouldn’t be suited for this mission.” 

“Padme recommended me for this mission, didn’t she?” General Skywalker asks you quietly, and you bite back a sigh at his obsession but find yourself nodding, albeit hesitantly. “Then the matter is settled, milady.” He leans in towards you, and you are lost in his eyes. 

“The matter is far from settled,” Master Kenobi’s sharp voice cuts through. You step back from Anakin, pressing your hand gently on your collarbone as your heart pounds against your ribcage. Your ears ring with embarrassment at the closeness that the Jedi Master had found you two in. 

“Agreed, Master Kenobi. I propose that General Skywalker join me within a month’s time on the planet. We will rendezvous somewhere we’ll be caught, publicly but also by my handmaidens.” 

“Force their hands,” Master Kenobi says, rubbing his jaw with the pads of his fingers as he thinks through the details of your plan. 

“I take issue with one large part, milady,” General Skywalker objects. He looks irritated, as he mostly has within the short time that you’ve interacted with him. Is this how he is as a lover? If so, no wonder Padme left him. 

Master Kenobi sighs aggravatedly and waves at the General, urging him to continue. “Padawan, I’d like to finish this conversation before the sun rises.” 

“I’ve got the feeling that it’ll do more than raise a few eyebrows if the Queen suddenly gets a new husband, all while one of the Jedi Knights and padawan to one of the greatest masters is… what, on a mission?” 

You smile grimly at his question. 

“There’s an easy answer to that question, General.” General Skywalker narrows his eyes at you in suspicion. “You’ll have to fake your death.” 

[slytherheign]

CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS | daniel ricciardo

PART 4/4 OF BROKEN GLASS AND HONEY SERIES.

CAN ALSO BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT.

PAIRINGS: ex!daniel ricciardo x fem!reader, max verstappen x fem!reader

WORD COUNT: 2.1k

SUMMARY: sometimes you just don’t know the answer until someone’s on their knees and asks you.

WARNINGS: rejection, false hope, infatuation, feelings of hurt and overwhelming pain. let me know if i missed any warnings. [⚠︎︎RATING: 16+]

AUTHOR’S NOTE: inspired by taylor swift’s song with the same title. we have reached the end of the series! sorry if i hurt some of you emotionally. btw, there are a lot of references to the previous parts in this.

DESTINATION: Angst Avenue | GO TO SERIES MASTERLIST or GO BACK TO THE STATION.

Rejection.

A word that carried so much weight in matters of the heart. It hit him with a force he never saw coming, leaving him breathless, bewildered, and questioning every decision he had made.

The pain of rejection cut deep, undermining the confidence he once had, and casting shadows over the hopes and dreams he dared to envision. 

Rejected.

Rejected from McLaren.

Rejected from a Red Bull seat.

And now, he was rejected once again.

In an instant, his world felt shattered, and he questioned just how worthy he truly was of love and affection.

He poured his heart out, baring his soul in that vulnerable moment when he knelt on one knee. He thought you had shared something meaningful, a connection that was genuine and real.

He thought it would be enough.

Daniel’s car traveled home with one less person inside that night. But even if he was already in his garage, he refused to step out of his car. He stayed so he could sit there in his hurt. 

He gripped the steering wheel tightly, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil within him.

It was hard, almost impossible, not to take it personally, to wonder what could have gone wrong. Was it something he said? Something he did? Or perhaps it was simply a matter of timing and circumstance, beyond his control.

He ran his hand through his hair, his face reflecting a mixture of frustration and resignation.

He could say that he longed for clarity, a glimpse into your thoughts and reasons, but that would be a lie. Because in all honesty, he kind of saw it coming.

He wasn’t sure what was worse, the fact that you picked Max or the fact that there was a part of him that always knew you would pick Max.

Why did he even try?

Oh, right.

Hope.

Because of hope.

He tried because you showed him hope.

You showed him hope—a glimmer of light that he hadn't seen in ages. Life had become monotonous, blending into an array of muted gray, until you came along. Your entry into his life was like a vibrant burst of color, injecting new life into his weary soul. He dared to hope, to believe that he had found something extraordinary.

It was a peculiar feeling. To be caught between longing and despair, to have his heart both soar and shatter within the same breath. The intoxicating aura of love was both a beacon of hope and a cruel illusion, and he found himself entangled in that painful paradox.

With a final deep breath, he left his car, ready to face his family who were staying in his home just for this special night. He told his family for a reason, he just couldn’t keep it in.

But now he wished he didn’t.

Cheer and applause were what met him when he entered the door. His family had huge smiles plastered on their faces, clearly excited about the news they were expecting. 

Until it stopped.

It all stopped when his lips trembled, trying to fake a smile. 

It all stopped when they saw the tears on his face.

They didn’t even need to ask what happened. They already knew.

His sister splashed out the bottle of Dom Perignon, but no one was celebrating. 

"She would've made such a lovely bride. What a shame she's fucked in the head," his father said. His mom’s ring was still in his pocket, and your picture was still in his wallet. But love… 

Love slipped beyond his reaches.

There was nothing to celebrate.

Max was walking you home, still holding the umbrella to protect you from the rain. Neither of you spoke and neither of you really cared. Max knew, from the way your lips shook, eyes cried, and the whimpers that left your mouth, that you did not want to speak at that moment. He respected and understood that.

He was more understanding now than he was before.

You were speechless. Your mouth could not utter a single word, but your mind made up for it by clouding itself with overwhelming thoughts.

You remembered that one night when fate played a part in your first meeting with Daniel. 

That night, he asked you to dance and you refused. You refused because you knew he was asking you to dance to a song of love and new beginnings.

But after a single conversation, it was you who asked him if he was still willing to dance.

You always knew that dancing was a dangerous game. But that night, you started it when you offered your hand to Daniel.

The dance continued. 

But now, you dropped his dance while dancing. Left him out there, crestfallen on the landing with your champagne problems.

One for the money.

Two for the show.

You never were ready.

So, you let him go.

And you left him alone.

You just didn’t know the answer until he was already on his knees and asked you.

You couldn’t even give him a reason.

His proposal should have brought you joy, excitement, and a feeling of being cherished. But instead, you had found yourself struggling, torn between the present and the ghosts of your past.

The same exact past that was walking beside you right now.

It was not that Daniel wasn't kind or loving, he truly was. He possessed all the qualities one could desire in a partner. But your heart lingered elsewhere.

There was someone before him. Someone who awoken a flame within you, a love so fierce and profound that it felt like it could withstand anything. And then, life happened, you drifted apart, and your paths diverged towards separate horizons.

But even as the seasons changed, and new opportunities came knocking at your door, that love never truly left you. It remained etched in the deepest recesses of your being, an indelible mark upon your soul.

Accepting his proposal would have been a betrayal, not only to him, but to yourself as well. It was a painful decision to make, but you owed it to yourself and to him, to be honest and not settle for anything less than a love that was pure. For one can only truly give their heart to another when they are whole themselves.

His heart was glass and you dropped it.

You didn’t even notice you reached your apartment until Max opened the door for you. He sat you down on your couch, before leaving you for a moment to heat some water and prepare a bath for you. 

He went back right after, crouching in front of you so he could see your face. You were looking down, still crying. He placed a finger under your chin, moving it upwards so you could face him. And then he fixed the wet hair that covered your face, wiped your tears, and kissed your forehead.

The heart wants what it wants, and yours was still beating in an unbreakable rhythm alongside the person in front of you—Max.

You suddenly recalled what Daniel told you before, when he told you an advice his father gave him and then he explained it.

“Time matters, yes. But the length is subjective. Love is not supposed to be a competition where time is the sole judge. Sometimes, longer doesn’t mean healthier, and shorter doesn’t make it insincere or artificial.”

He said that love was not supposed to be a competition. And he was not wrong about that.

It wasn’t a competition because it never was a competition in the first place.

You loved Daniel, but you were in love with Max.

It was always Max.

He poured his heart into that proposal, believing that you were the one. He had envisioned a future together with you, filled with love, laughter, and shared dreams. But perhaps fate had different plans in store for him. And though it stung him, he must pick up the pieces and keep moving forward.

His heart ached now. Those promises whispered in the darkest hours, the dreams woven with tender hands, they all shimmered with the possibility of a love that transcended boundaries. He clung to those words, as fragile as glass, praying that they would withstand the test of time.

Yet, here he was, lost in a labyrinth of broken dreams. The reality bit bitterly, gnawing at the frayed edges of his shattered heart. False hope, they called it. A cruel game of chance that you unwittingly roped him into. He knew, deep down, that you didn't do it intentionally. And that knowledge is what steeped his sorrow in a pot of bittersweet brew.

Because despite the pain that seared through his veins, he couldn't summon an ember of anger towards you. Love had a way of blinding people to the faults of those we held dearest. And so, he found himself teetering on the precipice of resentment and forgiveness, unable to fully commit to either.

It was a lonely place to be trapped in, the emotional escape room in his heart that didn't have an escape. The echoes of once-hopeful conversations reverberated through the hollow chambers of his mind, each word etching deeper into his wounded heart. 

Though the pain felt overwhelming now, Daniel knew that time would heal his wounds. It may take days, weeks, or even months, but he would pick up the pieces, rebuild his shattered heart, and learn to love again.

NETHERLANDS. AUGUST 25, 2024.

Daniel was running down the paddock, planning to head to the pitlane when a curious photographer stopped him to ask a question.

“Sorry for asking this, but I think I speak for all of us,” the photographer pointed to the fans behind him who were clearly recording this exact moment. They cheered the moment Daniel looked at them and he smiled. “When I say we are all curious about what really is your relationship with Y/N?” the photographer continued.

He chuckled. “Why did you want to know that?”

“Well, she hasn’t been beside you for months and then we just saw her with Max hours ago before you came.”

He could only smile, a genuine one.

“Y/N and I are friends, really close friends like what we’ve always been.”

“Really? Some of us thought you were dating because she was seen a lot with you before,” a fan shouted.

He laughed.

They didn’t need to know.

“What? I can’t have a female friend now?” he joked.

“Now that I’m thinking about it… you never launched anything,” the photographer mentioned.

Right. Even after dating you for months, you didn’t want to be affectionate with him in public. That was another telltale sign he chose to ignore. That was the reason he decided to propose in just under 6 months of being in a relationship with you. It was because he was in a rush, he thought that if you became engaged, you would finally let him tell the world about the two of you.

Now that he thought about it, maybe what he had was just an infatuation. An infatuation so intense that it hurt like the real thing. Maybe for so long, he just wanted to feel something and you came along at the right time. He didn’t even know anymore. And he didn’t want to know. It was all in the past.

“That’s right,” Daniel nodded. “Because we have nothing to launch.”

Just as he said that, you and Max entered his view. You two were holding hands and Max was laughing at something you said.

Daniel smiled.

“Look at them,” he gestured to you and Max, the photographer and the fans looked at who he was pointing to. “Max and her are literally meant for each other.”

“I’ve never seen Max laugh like that before,” the photographer said.

“Well, Y/N is the only one who could make him laugh like that if we’re being honest,” he chuckled again. “They make a great couple, they make each other so happy. And I’m happy for them,” he said.

Love wasn't a dead-end road; it was a winding path, full of twists and turns. Rejection was a part of that journey. For deep within, beyond the realms of rejection, dwelled a longing for love that refused to extinguish. He believed there was someone out there, someone who was meant to be for him, just as you were meant to be with Max.

There was one more thing Daniel always believed in other than taking chances.

It was that everything happens for a reason.

You and Max caught his eyes. Max nodded at him, he nodded back. 

If he could turn back time, he wouldn't change a thing.

He may not have found the love of his life, but he did find another best friend. 

He smiled at both of you, and you returned his smile.

You both knew Daniel would find the real thing instead.

She would patch up the tapestry that you shred.

And he wouldn’t even remember all your champagne problems.

SLYTHERHEIGN TAGLIST: @writingstoraes @joshiiieeenesx

FORMULA ONE TAGLIST: @dreamingofautopia @lpab @matildrry @fangirl125reader @tall-tanned-tattoo @aundercover @stevesworld9 @princessria127

JOIN THE FINALE CELEBRATION!

[mccall-muffin]

The Lady and the Major - Part 2/3 // John "Bucky" Egan x OC

Summary: Bucky quickly realizes that Liz is not like any woman he has ever met before. But there is still a war to win, and Bucky has his duties. So, every letter that arrives is a prized possession now.

Warnings: Language, teasing, kissing, sex (not too detailed)

A/N: So, here is part 2 for you. And yes, by now I've seen all the Episodes that are out as of now - so I'm up to date ;)

Here is my Masterlist

Tags: @liebgotts-lovergirl, @softly-writes, @mads-weasley, @brassknucklespeirs, @softguarnere, @shesgonna

As the band transitions smoothly into a slow, captivating melody, the atmosphere of the gala shifts, becoming charged with a different kind of energy. Bucky, seizing the moment, sets aside the formalities with the ease of a man used to taking the lead. He gently takes Liz's champagne flute, placing it on a nearby table with a confident grin. "Care to dance, Lady Cavendish?" he asks, extending his hand, his eyes sparkling with an invitation to step into a moment just for the two of them.

On the dance floor, Bucky guides Liz with a practiced ease, pulling her close enough that their conversation remains private, a bubble amidst the sea of dancing couples. His hands are respectfully placed, yet the occasional, deliberate brush of his fingers along her back suggests a familiarity that goes beyond mere dance partners.

As they move to the rhythm of the music, Bucky can't resist the opportunity to delve deeper into the intriguing paradox that is Liz. "You know, I've been told quite a few tales about the elusive Lady Cavendish," he teases, his voice low and playful. "Word around is that beneath that veneer of the perfect highborn lady lies a spirit too wild to be tamed by society's chains."

Liz, unphased and quick to respond, tilts her head slightly, a challenge in her bright blue eyes. "And just what exactly have you heard, Major Egan?" she inquires, her voice a mix of curiosity and daring. "I'm quite intrigued to know what stories have made their way to your ears."

Their dance becomes a metaphor for their conversation—each step and turn a delicate balance between revealing too much and not enough. Bucky, navigating this dance of words as skillfully as he does the physical one, leans in, his breath a whisper against her ear. "I've heard that you're no stranger to bending the rules, that you find the conventional life of aristocracy stifling. That you've been known to disappear into the night on adventures that would make your family's esteemed guests blush," he whispers, each word carefully chosen to entice and probe.

Liz's reaction is a soft, genuine laugh, a sound that seems to momentarily lighten the weight of her title and societal expectations. "My, my, Major, such scandalous rumors," she retorts, her tone laced with amusement and a hint of defiance. "Let's just say I believe life is too short to be lived within the confines of what others deem acceptable. And perhaps, I do enjoy the thrill of the chase, the excitement of the unknown."

Their eyes lock, and in that moment, a silent understanding passes between them. Here, in the middle of the dance floor, they've managed to peel back another layer of the intrigue that surrounds their budding relationship. Bucky, drawn to the fire he sees burning behind Liz's poised exterior, finds himself more captivated than ever, eager to discover what other secrets lie hidden beneath her aristocratic facade.

As the song comes to an end, they remain momentarily in each other's arms, the last notes fading into the background. This dance, both literal and metaphorical, has drawn them closer, weaving their stories together in a way that neither had anticipated. And as they step back, rejoining the world around them, it's clear that this evening has only served to deepen the intrigue and attraction that pulses between them.

Liz's invitation to step outside carries an undertone of challenge, a silent test of Bucky's willingness to navigate the complexities of her world. He accepts with a nod, the unspoken communication between them sparking with anticipation. However, as they make their way toward the grand doors leading to the estate's gardens, they are intercepted by none other than the Duke and Duchess of Wellington themselves.

With hardly a moment to prepare, Liz leans in, her voice a hurried whisper, instructing Bucky on the proper etiquette for addressing her parents. "Remember, it's 'Your Grace' for both of them," she murmurs, her tone urgent yet composed. Bucky, despite the sudden shift in situation, nods his understanding, a quick study in the art of aristocratic manners.

The Duke, a figure of imposing stature and dignity, eyes Bucky with a mix of curiosity and the guarded warmth of a father protective of his daughter. "And who might this be, Elizabeth?" he inquires, his voice carrying the weight of authority and expectation.

Liz, ever the adept navigator of her family's expectations, steps in smoothly. "Father, Mother, this is Major John Egan of the US Air Force. We met recently at a charity event where Major Egan was sharing some of his experiences from the war. His stories were quite enlightening," she explains, echoing the innocent tale she'd spun for her brother.

The Duchess offers Bucky a polite smile, but it's the Duke's reaction that holds the room in suspense. After a moment's evaluation, his expression softens, a nod of approval directed at Bucky. "A pilot, you say? Well, that's commendable. Our Edward has told us much about the bravery required in such a role," he says, his voice revealing a hint of the pride he holds for his son's achievements.

Bucky, sensing the importance of this moment, responds with the respect and humility befitting the situation. "Your Grace, it's an honor to serve. And it's been a privilege to share some of my experiences with those who understand the sacrifices made in the skies," he replies, his tone sincere.

The Duke nods, seemingly impressed by Bucky's demeanor and the shared bond of aerial combat. "Well, Major Egan, it's a pleasure to have you among us tonight. The bravery of you and your comrades in the Air Force is something we hold in high regard," he states, extending a hand in a gesture of respect and acceptance.

With the formal introductions made and the Duke's approval subtly given, Liz and Bucky are allowed to continue on their way, stepping out into the cool evening air. The brief encounter with her parents was a test, one that Bucky passed with the grace of a man who, despite his unorthodox entry into their world, understands the value of respect and common ground.

As they move away from the light and music spilling out from the mansion, the night around them feels charged with a new energy. Liz's challenge, Bucky's acceptance, and the unexpected approval of her father have all conspired to deepen the connection between them, setting the stage for whatever comes next under the starlit sky.

As they stand together on the balcony, the cool night air mingling with the tension of their conversation, Bucky watches Liz closely.

"You know why I turned them all down? All those ass-kissers of earls, viscounts, and so on who threw themselves at me?"

Her confession hangs between them, a raw and honest revelation that strips away the layers of aristocracy and high society, revealing the woman beneath. He's moved by her vulnerability, by the glimpse she's offered into the gilded cage that is her life.

"Why turn them all down, Liz?" Bucky prompts gently, already suspecting the answer but needing to hear it in her own words.

Liz's gaze meets his, steady and resolute. "Because marrying one of them would seal my fate. I'd be trapped in this world, expected to play the perfect wife, the dutiful daughter, forever," she confesses, her voice laced with a mixture of defiance and resignation. "I want more than what's expected of me, more than this life can offer."

Bucky's respect for her deepens in this moment, his initial attraction evolving into something more profound. He sees her not just as a challenge or a conquest but as a fellow soul seeking freedom from the confines of their respective worlds.

"And inviting me here tonight?" Bucky asks, the pieces falling into place. "Was that your way of rebelling against all this?" There's a note of understanding in his voice, a recognition of her courage in the face of stifling expectations.

Liz nods a small but significant gesture. "You're... different, Bucky. You don't belong to this world, and yet, you stood your ground. That confidence, that defiance—I wanted that for myself, even if just for a night," she admits, her eyes not leaving his.

Bucky steps closer, closing the distance between them, moved by her honesty. "Liz, I may not know all the rules of your world, but I do know about feeling trapped," he shares, his voice soft but firm. "If you're looking for a bit of freedom, even for just one night, then I say we take it. No expectations, no strings. Just two people enjoying the moment for what it is."

Liz's response is a smile, one that reaches her eyes and lights up the night. It's a smile of relief, of gratitude, of a burden momentarily lifted. "I'd like that, Bucky. More than you know," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

As they stand there, two figures against the backdrop of a world that demands so much from them, they find solace in each other's company. For Liz, Bucky represents a breath of fresh air, a chance to experience life unfiltered by the expectations of her status. And for Bucky, Liz is no longer just the enigmatic aristocrat but a woman of depth and courage, fighting for her own identity.

In the moment their lips meet, the world around them—the chatter of the gala, the soft rustle of the night breeze, the distant melodies spilling out from the ballroom—fades into insignificance. Bucky, taken aback by the intensity of the kiss, finds himself caught in the current of Liz's boldness and expertise. Her playful bite, the confident dance of her tongue, signals a depth of experience that both surprises and entices him.

As Liz wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the connection deepens, their bodies speaking a language of their own making. Bucky's hands, resting initially at her waist, venture slightly lower, his touch light but daring over the fabric of her dress, a silent exploration of the territory between propriety and desire.

When they finally part, the look Liz gives Bucky is one of playful challenge, a silent dare that speaks volumes. Her wink, a spark of mischief and promise, leaves him momentarily stunned, a statue on the balcony as she turns to make her way back inside. Yet, the invitation in her glance, the unspoken command to follow, ignites a fire within him.

Liz's graceful navigation through the gala's attendees, each step a tantalizing lure, leads Bucky on a path he knows is fraught with both risk and exhilaration. As she ascends the staircase, her silhouette a beacon in the sea of guests, Bucky's decision to follow feels not like a choice but a necessity, a call to adventure too compelling to resist.

The journey to her quarters, a silent procession through the dimly lit corridors of Wellington House, is charged with anticipation. Bucky, aware of the boldness of this pursuit, understands the unspoken rules of the game they're playing. This isn't just a physical attraction; it's a mutual rebellion against the confines of their respective worlds, a shared quest for authenticity and freedom.

As he follows, maintaining a discreet distance to avoid drawing attention, Bucky realizes that this night, this moment, could redefine the course of their acquaintance. Liz, with her daring and defiance, has challenged him to step beyond the bounds of his own experience, to engage in a dance as risky as it is irresistible.

The decision to pursue Liz, to accept her silent invitation, marks a turning point. It's a step into the unknown, a gamble on the promise of something profound. In this game of hearts and wills, where every gesture is laden with meaning, Bucky and Liz find themselves on the brink of a discovery that could either shatter the world they know or forge a new path forward, together.

As the door closes behind Bucky, marking their entry into a realm removed from the eyes of the world, the air between him and Liz becomes charged with an undeniable intensity. What unfolds is a dance of two souls, a private exchange of affection and connection that transcends the physical space they occupy.

In the seclusion of Liz's quarters, away from the rigid expectations of their external lives, they find a freedom and a fervor that is as much about rebellion as it is about attraction. The room, with its soft lighting and the distant sound of the gala continuing below, serves as a backdrop to a moment of vulnerability and honesty.

The exchange of kisses and the exploration of touch speaks to a deep-seated desire for authenticity and understanding. It's a conversation without words, a dialogue where every gesture, every breath, carries the weight of unspoken dreams and desires.

As garments become mere whispers on the floor, the world outside, with its rules and roles, fades into insignificance. What matters in this secluded space is the connection that thrives in the absence of pretense, a bond forged not just in the heat of the moment but in the shared recognition of each other's true selves.

The rustling of bedding, the soft sighs, and the gentle caresses are chapters in a story that is theirs alone—a tale of discovery, of the courage to seek out the spaces where they can be unapologetically themselves. In the quiet aftermath, as they lie entwined, the significance of this encounter is palpable. It's a promise of possibility, a testament to the power of finding someone who sees beyond the facade to the person beneath.

This night, in the privacy of Liz's quarters, is a declaration of their mutual defiance against the constraints of their worlds. It's an acknowledgment that, despite the challenges that lie ahead, they have found in each other a rare and precious solace, a sanctuary where they can explore the depths of their connection away from prying eyes.

As dawn threatens to reclaim the night, the reality of their respective lives looms large. Yet, in this moment, they are grounded in the profound realization that what they have discovered in each other is a strength, a partnership that might just have the power to redefine their destinies.

Two weeks have passed since Bucky's return from London to the base, and the changes in him haven't gone unnoticed by those closest to him. Gone is the relentless flirt, replaced by a man who seems preoccupied, his attention drawn inward. Buck Cleven, ever the observant friend, can't help but notice the shift, especially in light of the increasing pile of correspondence that seems to capture Bucky's focus each morning.

This particular morning, Bucky is more animated than usual, a smile playing on his lips as he carefully unfolds a letter. Buck, curious and a bit concerned, nudges him. "Who's got you smiling like that, huh? Someone special?" he teases, trying to catch a glimpse of the sender.

Bucky hesitates, a brief struggle visible in his demeanor before he decides to share the letter with Buck. It reads:

Dear Major Egan,

I hope this letter finds you wallowing in the misery of our separation, desperately missing my company. I regret to inform you that I've taken up with a prince, a real one this time, who showers me with the adoration and luxuries befitting a lady of my stature. So, it seems our little dalliance must come to an end.

Please, don't despair too much. I'm sure you'll find a way to mend your broken heart, perhaps with one of those American heiresses desperate for a title, or maybe with a nice farm girl? Someone who can appreciate your... what was it you do again? Oh, right, flying planes.

Do not fret, dear Major. You will always hold a special place in my heart, somewhere between my love for my horse and my tolerance for my brother's tedious war stories.

With all the affection I can muster (which, as you know, is quite limited),

Liz

P.S. I've included a photograph, as you so tiresomely begged for one. Please try not to wear it out with your ogling. I expect it back in pristine condition, or you shall owe me a new one.

Tucked within the letter is a photograph of Liz. The image captures her essence perfectly—beautiful, aristocratic, and brimming with the sly humor that Bucky has grown so fond of.

Buck, reading over Bucky's shoulder, lets out a laugh. "She's got you on a string, hasn't she?" he chuckles, handing back the letter. "You've got good taste, I'll give you that."

Bucky, looking at the photo once more, can't help but laugh as well. He can almost hear Liz's voice as she penned the letter, her teasing tone, the twinkle in her eye as she crafted each sarcastic remark. It's a comfort, a tangible connection to the woman who's managed to upend his world and settle under his skin.

"She's one of a kind," Bucky admits, a warmth in his voice that speaks volumes. Folding the letter and slipping the photo into his pocket, he feels a renewed sense of determination. Whatever it takes, he knows he has to see her again, to bridge the distance the war has placed between them. Liz might tease, might play her games, but beneath the sarcasm and jests lies a connection neither can deny, a story far from over.

Buck watches Bucky with an incredulous look. "Alright, spill it, Egan. Who's the dame that's got you all twisted up? I never thought I'd see the day when John Egan, the lady-killer, would be mooning over some broad," he teases, the smoke curling up into the air between them.

Bucky, feeling a mix of defensiveness and pride, takes a moment before he responds, choosing his words with care. "Her name's Liz," he starts, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile at the mere mention of her name. "Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, if you want to get all formal about it. Met her in London. She's... different, Buck. Not like anyone I've ever met before."

Buck raises an eyebrow, taking a long drag from his cigarette before flicking the ash off to the side. "Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, huh? Sounds like a real high-class bird. Got you good and proper, didn't she?" he chuckles, the humor not quite masking the genuine curiosity in his tone.

Bucky can't help but laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, she did. But it's not like that. She's sharp, Buck. Got a wit that could cut glass and a spirit that's just... infectious. And she doesn't give a damn about all that high-society bullshit. She's trapped in it, sure, but she's fighting it every step of the way."

The more Bucky talks about Liz, the more animated he becomes, his usual reserve giving way to a barely contained enthusiasm. It's clear to Buck that this isn't just some fling or a passing fancy. Liz has managed to break through Bucky's well-guarded exterior, touching a part of him that perhaps even he hadn't realized was there.

Buck, sensing the depth of Bucky's feelings, nods slowly, a new respect in his gaze. "Sounds like a real peach, John. A dame like that, yeah, I can see why you'd be hung up on her." He takes another puff of his cigarette, his expression thoughtful. "Just be careful, alright? These broads from the other side of the pond, they play a different game. But if she's got you willing to jump through hoops, she must be something special."

Bucky's response is a simple nod, his mind already drifting back to Liz, to the memories of their time together and the anticipation of what might come next. The conversation shifts as they move on to other topics, but for Bucky, Liz remains a constant presence, her image, her words, a steady pulse beneath the surface of his thoughts.

In the barracks filled with the coarse banter of soldiers, the smoke of cigarettes hanging heavy in the air, Bucky finds himself in a world apart, his heart anchored across the ocean, tethered to the enigmatic Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, who's managed to do the unthinkable—capture the heart of Major John Egan.

As the morning light spills into Liz's room, illuminating the delicate furnishings and the soft, luxurious bedding she's entangled in, her initial irritation at being awakened fades the moment Mrs. Baxter mentions the letter. Liz's eyes, still heavy with sleep, light up with anticipation, a rare show of eagerness that Mrs. Baxter notes with a soft, knowing smile.

"Seems like your American soldier can't quite keep you off his mind, my lady," Mrs. Baxter says, her tone playful yet respectful, as she hands over the letter to Liz.

Grasping the letter, Liz's usual morning grumpiness is replaced by a flutter of excitement. She carefully opens the envelope, her fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. The letter reads:

My Dearest Liz,

Hoping this note finds you shining bright over there. I gotta say, even the best days in Thorpe Abbotts don’t hold a candle to you. Your last letter? A real knockout. It was like a splash of color on a dreary English day, and let me tell you, that’s saying something.

You teasing about ditching this budding thing we got for some high-and-mighty life with the blue bloods almost had me. But behind all that sass, I know there’s a warmth that keeps me going, has me lying awake thinking about you.

That picture you sent is my new prized possession. Seriously, it’s with me everywhere. Every time I look at it, I see that spark in your eyes, that smile of yours, and it hits me hard—how much you’ve come to mean to me.

Even though we’re worlds apart, you’re always on my mind. The thought of seeing you again is the light at the end of this tunnel. I’m holding onto the hope that this mess of a war gives us a break soon, so I can be back by your side, soaking in your glow.

Till then, just know I’m here, waiting and hoping.

Always yours, Bucky

Liz reads the letter, a smile playing on her lips, touched by Bucky's words that manage to be both teasing and heartfelt. The sincerity in his tone, the open declaration of his affection, strikes a chord deep within her, warming her more than the morning sun ever could.

Mrs. Baxter, observing Liz's softened expression, can't help but comment, "Seems like the Major has a way with words, my lady."

Liz, looking up from the letter, meets Mrs. Baxter's gaze, her smile widening. "Indeed, he does, Mrs. Baxter. Indeed, he does," she replies, her mind already racing with thoughts of how to respond, how to match Bucky's blend of humor and sincerity in her next letter.

For a moment, the challenges and restrictions of her world seem distant, as Liz allows herself to be carried away by the promise of what's to come, buoyed by the words of a man who, despite the chaos of war, has become an anchor in her tumultuous life.

What she doesn't know is that soon everything will change.

Next part >>

[kitkat-writes-stuff]

The Worst- Part II

part I, part II -Masterlist -Pairing: Luke Castellan x fem!Reader -Wordcount: 1.2 K (we are getting to a decent amount bois)

-Warnings: a broken nose, kids training to be soldiers, kids feeling like their duty is more important than their feelings (only hinted to), kids being oblivious… a lot of kids -Also putting this here bc it will already be a flop: i decided that i'm gonna accept requests for imagines! ''the worst'' will be two more parts long (four in total), and I already have a oneshot planned, but I can honestly use some inspo so hit me with your fantasies darlings

-Summary: Clarisse la Rue loves her sister dearly, don’t get her wrong. But there is only so many “I hate him so much” that a girl can listen to without wanting to punch someone

In the midst of the crowded training grounds, Y/N's exasperated proclamation reverberated through the air, echoing the sentiment of her frustration, and even making a few heads turn "I hate him! Like, if I had access to a phone, the first thing I would do would be slandering him on Twitter." Her words hung in the air, punctuated by the rhythmic sounds of her laboured breaths, a testament to the emotional intensity of the moment. It was meant to be a normal training session, but here they were.

The training grounds, typically the cherished domain of Clarisse, witnessed an unexpected twist as she extended an invitation for her sister to partake in the martial exercises. Little did they anticipate that this seemingly innocuous decision would unfold like a tragic tale, akin to the consequences of staring into the eyes of the mythical Gorgon, Medusa.

Contrary to what her laid back usual behavior could have people believe, Y/N wielded not just competent but formidable fighting skills, and perhaps even more than that, although she chose to downplay her own prowess. She really needed an ego boost, poor girl.

 Surprisingly, Clarisse, typically known for her brazen attitude, found herself offering advice on channelling pent-up anger, creating a paradox within their dynamic.

"Look, I can't believe I, of all people, am saying this, but you need to get out some pent-up anger," Clarisse urged, her eyes locking with Y/N's, a glint of determination reflecting in both their eyes. Y/N might have had the experience and the sheer strength as an advantage, but Clarisse was not one to go one without a fight.

In response, Y/N met her sister's gaze, revealing a distinct red glint in her eyes that bore the weight of their divine lineage, a visual and rather unsettling reminder of their connection to the god of war.

"Says the girl who tried to dunk a twelve-year-old's head in a toilet," Y/N retorted, unearthing an incident that had yet to be addressed between the two.

Undeterred, Clarisse countered with a potent argument, "Says the girl who loudly threatened to cut off a fellow head counsellor's fingers," opting for a strategic move to deflect Y/N's accusation.

Their swords clashed in the midst of this verbal sparring, the resonating sound capturing the attention of onlookers within the camp. Despite Clarisse's unwavering determination, even she couldn't deny that in a direct confrontation with Y/N, her sister held the upper hand, boasting both strength and exceptional skill. Well, Clarisse wasn’t the one who had devoted her life to beat another guy at sword fighting, so...

"He was tickling me," Y/N grunted in her defence, attempting to justify the seemingly drastic threat she had made.

With an eye roll, Clarisse retorted with a smirk, "Somehow, someway, darling sister, I find myself believing that you would much rather prefer for his fingers to be on you more, not less." A friend in Aphrodites’ cabin had her watching Pride and Prejudice. She might or might not have picked up on the language.

The verbal exchange evolved into a physical intensity, with Y/N delivering each blow without restraint, unveiling a relentless determination that hinted at a deeper conflict brewing beneath the surface of their sibling rivalry. The air pulsated with a charged energy, making it abundantly clear that this training session was more than a mere exercise: they might have been sisters, but their father only chose one favourite every generation. And there was only so far sisterly love could go when compared to the approval of the god of war. 

In the aftermath of the tumultuous clash that reverberated within the expansive training grounds, Clarisse found herself holding an ice pack to her nose, attempting to salvage some semblance of composure despite a burning pain. Y/N's apologetic words resonated in the air, "Clary, you know I didn’t mean to actually like... break your nose, right?" Clarisse couldn't help but reflect on the irony that her usually death-promising gaze might have been far more menacing if not for the ice pack an Apollo kid had provided.

It was a stark realisation for Clarisse—one thing to possess a temper worthy of Ares, the god of war, but an entirely different ordeal to have her nose inadvertently shattered by her crush-stricken big sister. Oh yeah, Clarisse knew about the crush. And if it fueled her sister like that… she needed to express it somehow.

Amidst the physical discomfort and emotional tumult, Clarisse couldn't ignore the revelation that had dawned upon her, independent of any disclosure from a certain daughter of Aphrodite (yeah Silena was the only reason she understood anything about social life). The truth became undeniably clear: all those seemingly vehement words of hatred were mere echoes of a deeper connection. Well, Eros and Thanatos were brothers or something, so it wasn’t a surprised that an emotion as deep as… the L word… could be mistaken for a hate as deep as the Underworld.

But the realisation didn't stop there. Clarisse delved into the motives behind Y/N's persistent obsession with surpassing Luke Castellan. Y/N was relentlessly driven to excel, that was for sure, but… that quest for superiority might have been an unspoken method to spend more time with him. She was good at expressing feelings like that. Her nose was a witness, or rather had been before it got shattered.

As the narrative unfolded, an unexpected player stepped into the intricate story: Luke Castellan, best friend to a daughter of Athena. Of all goddesses, Athena? His arrival injected a fresh layer of complexity into an already intricate tapestry. Y/N's pouted plea for forgiveness resonated in the charged atmosphere, and though Clarisse couldn't suppress an eye roll, a reluctant nod escaped her. Temper or not, she acknowledged that familial bonds, no matter how tumultuous, possessed a resilience that transcended momentary conflicts, solidifying the intricate strands of their sisterhood within the dynamic of Camp Half-Blood.

However, the scene took an unexpected turn as Luke Castellan entered, his eyes widening at the sight of blood on Y/N's clothes. "What happened here?" he inquired, concern etched on his face. He didn’t even try to hide it! Gods, had she really been that blind?

Caught in the unfolding drama, Clarisse, with an air of suspicion, eyed Luke. "Y/N accidentally broke my nose. You care or something?"

As Luke rushed to deny it, Clarisse couldn't shake the inkling that perhaps there was more to his worry than mere friendship. The charged atmosphere hinted at an unspoken connection, and Clarisse couldn’t help but wonder if that boy was really as dumb as he was sounding right now.

‘’Okay, I’m gonna go, Clary. I think Chiron will have some kind of punishment to deliver to me’’ ever dutiful, ever penitent Y/N. She might have wanted her father’s approval, but it came second to following the laws.

Clarisse didn’t know a lot of Latin, but she was sure that ‘’dura lex, sed lex’’ was something that could be applied to her big sister.

She just hoped that it wouldn’t conflict with her emotions, because seriously, there was only a number of noses she could get broken and of ‘’he’s the worst’’ that she could hear.

A/N: OK WE DID IT!!!! Srs though thank you for the support it was really unexpected. Ok so thoughts and prayers for Clarisse’s nose! Also I couldn’t resist making the reader hint at Twitter bc Ares talking about it in the show has me screaming crying and laughing. That’s all! Next part will be out… eventually. Taglist: @2hiigh2cry @mxtokko @niktwazny303 @honey-ambrosia @luvvfromme @lostinhisworld (that should be all but i might have forgotten someone! If i did please forgive me and make my crucifixion fast)(also lemme know if you want to be tagged in the next parts)

[anika-ann]

Back and Forth - part 3.1

Part 3 - Bounce Back - 1/2

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader    Word Count: 6000

Chapter summary:  In which there is a Hate on Spectre Day. There's no other explanation.

Series masterlist

Warnings: brief mention of canon-typical violence, mention of A+ godawful parenting and its consequences, issues of self-worth, language

A/N: ALWAYS MIND THE WARNINGS; dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕; moodboard is for the vibes and does not necessarily reflect reader’s appearance

A/N2: So. This was supposed to be one chapter but, to the surprise of no one, it’s not. The first half is to blame, because that was supposed to be mentioned in passing and then it just… spilled out like this. Oops.

Natasha Romanoff was a force to be reckoned with.

Now, that was hardly any news to you; besides her reputation preceding her, you had seen her in training, in action during missions, observing her in an interrogation room from behind a thick glass and sometimes even wishing for the poor bastard at the end of her treatment to get punched as an act of mercy, a relief from the wolf-like smile on her perfectly painted lips and brilliant tongue speaking words that should not have been more effective than physical torture but they were.

Projecting in front of her to save her from catching a bullet did not change how highly you regarded her; and it certainly didn’t make you feel any more like you could compare to her than before. That had never been your goal however; trying would have been just as foolish as try to compare to Agent Melinda May or other legends of the spy world. You had mad respect for Natasha Romanoff’s work, no matter the path she had walked to earn her skillset.

But between her dedication to her friends and her attempts at making you feel at home in the team, you had learned to appreciate her as a person too, trusting her; it was a paradox that exactly that was the part of your perception that changed after the attack. Or, more precisely, after what followed it.

As it turned out, the Avengers did very much care about their own; no surprise there. The Avengers also didn’t sleep on the little intel you had been able to provide and much like you believed, they did suspect a leak from within their own ranks given how advanced and detailed the retrieved research on Steve’s biology was.

They had lunched an internal investigation.

The attack on Natasha on The Avengers’ Day was now believed to be an unfortunate consequence of her being in charge of the very investigation and squeezing information from anyone who even remotely appeared they could be connected to the leak or at least might have the smallest piece of information leading to discovering the mole. The attack was thus linked to the Hydra facility raid – even as the perpetrators appeared to be a pair of hired muscle; in fact, even more so for that.

Natasha Romanoff informed you of all that casually as you were pouring yourself a coffee in the communal kitchen and made the mistake of lingering there to learn more. You only realized the error in your actions as it gradually dawned to you why Natasha told you she herself was conducting the investigation and why she was sitting with you face to face.

Up until that point, you had not been asked questions about the incident with the data retrieval beyond trying to put together as precise of an image of the gathered intel as possible. In fact, no one had questioned your allegiance to SHIELD since you had been graduating the Academy – but you sensed that was about to change.

Something about the feign casualness of Natasha sipping her own coffee as you were seated opposite to her begun to rub you in the worst way possible – and that was when you realized.

“Is this an interrogation then?” you asked, heart pounding as you tried to sound at least a bit like you were joking. Because, certainly, this could not be an interrogation, could it? That would be absurd.

A brief smile that didn’t reach her eyes in the slightest passed over her lips, gaze intent on your face. Reading microexpressions, you realized, your blood running cold.

She couldn’t be serious.

“You tell me, Spectre. Maybe this is what you expected to come at one point or the other. Maybe you already knew that I was the one to take lead on this. Maybe it put you into a tight spot and you realized it was just a matter of time before I’d come and question you – and you knew, like you do now, that I always get the information I want,” she said calmly, a thin layer of ice coating her words as she continued to examine your expression, every minuscule move of your muscles.

You hoped that whatever she read in your body language, she liked. The wild pulsing of your carotid, as your fear spiked along with your heartbeat. Yes; you had witnessed enough to know that she could dissect a person without touching them, reaching for their darkest secrets and retrieving them with a figuratively bloody hand as she ripped them out – she had known quite a few secrets of your own already. And yet. You hoped that your fear was all she could see, because the feeling that slammed into the most was hurt. She could have slapped you, hell she could have dashed the hot coffee to your face and you’d be less stunned.

Did she really think that? That you’d be capable of something like this?

You sat there frozen, hand resting limply by your cup, heart threatening to burst out of your chest. But hey – good news, right? At least they were investigating and they were very thorough about making sure Steve was safe.

Comfort had never felt so cold.

“Maybe you needed a heroic safe to maintain cover,” she continued, titling her head to side a fraction. “And conveniently, if you failed to step in in time, you’d have the person in charge of the internal investigation eliminated.”

The switched inside you flipped without any conscious effort – and perhaps even against in – the fear and hurt was consumed by anger and spite, the lump in your throat turning into a burn.

You didn’t seek gratitude from her, not really – you had indeed only been doing your job yesterday and that was it, no matter Rogers’ initial reaction that had made you feel not only useful but appreciated beyond what you deserved – but hostility and accusations were a touch a bit too far. Especially since hadn’t it been for you, she could have been shot at best and shot dead at worst.

“You’re welcome,” you said flatly, expression free of any emotion at all.

The anger inside you felt empty.

Her expression didn’t change, not even a twitch of her brow – of course it didn’t. This was Black Widow. The legend. The ruthless spy. Perfectly deadly.

“Have you been playing for the other team the whole time you’ve been here? Is the only reason why Steve isn’t dead yet because you caught feelings and can’t bring yourself to do what you’re supposed to now?” she kept questioning and you couldn’t keep the indifferent face anymore – you must have slipped, because you felt like your breath had been knocked out of you.

Forget slaps and burns – those words felt like a stab straight to your gut with a wicked twist of the blade for maximum damage.

It shouldn’t have shocked you, it truly shouldn’t have. But for a second, you felt the suffocating burn of betrayal in your chest expand with every heartbeat, filling your entire being.

You’d been taught better. And yet... Not only implying you were a traitor, but also hitting exactly at the spot of our biggest insecurity – not being good enough at anything – and using the knowledge of your rather complicated relationship with Steve Rogers was the one low blow you hadn’t expected, even from a woman of her reputation, because she had seemed genuinely kind the last time she had mentioned it. She had seemed understanding, caring and invested; and apparently, she was well-aware of that. She read you like a book and used your trust to her advantage. You should have known better and perhaps deep inside, you had anticipated a stab in the back – but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like son of a bitch.

You hadn’t even begun to be friends, you reminded yourself, so there was no reason to be upset. In addition, she was also being perfectly reasonable, only doing her job; it was only natural she hadn’t treated you in kinder gloves, didn’t pull any punches. Steve was her friend, the best friend of her boyfriend no less. She was only protecting someone she cared for deeply. You knew all these things and yet – it stung.

You leaned on your elbows, hoping your voice was steady and neutral, rather than razor sharp – because she didn’t need to know, didn’t deserve to know, that she had hit exactly where it hurt. And you didn’t need her to evaluate you as unstable on top of clearly suspecting you were a traitor.

“Why don’t you tell me, Romanoff. You seem to know everything,” you whispered, the words burning like acid on your tongue.

It was funny really – it was that, you feeling yourself break from the naïve hope that you could ever be more than just an asset to the team, that had her face slip back into a friendly mask, whatever test she had prepared for you ending. Her hard eyes softened, face relaxing.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’re a traitor. But I have to make sure and get a rise out of everyone either way, to get a good read on whether they could know anything even remotely useful based on their reaction, try to have them remember anything that wouldn’t come up unless when in raw emotion. With everyone,” she repeated slowly, looking straight into your eyes to show she meant every word, a silent apology, “whether they are my friend or not.”

Your smile felt foreign on your lips as you reached for your coffee, sipping at it to neutralize the bile rising in our throat, to fill the hollow in your chest with the bitter taste of the dark warm liquid. You understood. You truly did. You had just been an idiot, even as you hadn’t been fully aware of your hopes until they were crushed.

“It’s okay,” you assured her, rising to your feet and setting the mug down, “with me anyway. But I’m not sure your friends will feel the same way when you ask them.”

You all but registered a flash of what you imagined could be regret as you spun on your heels and walked out, a pit of dread in your stomach. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You had no right to feel wounded.  You have been taught better. Skills. Abilities. Assets. Those mattered; not people. Not in S.H.I.E.L.D., not in the AI. Barely anywhere; Coulson’s team had just been full of unicorns, keeping up the illusion that every individual was worth more than their resumé, the illusion of a loose family.

There was no place of that kind for you in the Avengers team. The fact Tony had gone and protected you was the exception to the rule and you had made the mistake of thinking it was anything but pragmatism. They needed your powers; that was why you had been brought onto the team. The team might have been relatively tight-knit, but granted entry to no outsiders, welcomed no newcomers – not into their own strange family they had grown into.

You shouldn’t have been disappointed; and yet, even as you were aware that all Natasha had done was indeed following protocol, protecting fiercely one of her closest friends at that, it was the blatant use of information she had gained by taking a closer look and trying to make conversation, that allowed her to cut deep. You had been raised well to be aware of this approach and still you committed the error, even if unconsciously, of ignoring one of the few things your parents had tried to drill into you so hard. You shouldn’t be this careless.

Shaking your head at your own naivety, you rounded the corner, telling yourself that the slight shake to your hands was neither rage nor grief; just caffeine overdose, since you had poured a cup from Tony’s pot. You nearly groaned when you noticed the unmistakable tall broad figure walking the very same corridor in the opposite direction. Facing Steve Rogers of all people right now sounded like a thing from nightmares; especially since the moment he spotted you, a peculiar look appeared on his face, the kind of expression that told you a conversation awaited you which you’d very much rather not have. You swore that if he was going to have a single thing to say about yesterday, if he was about criticise you at least, to ask you anything at all-

You weren’t proud of it, but you did it anyway. Pulling out your phone from the back pocket of your jeans, you pretended you had felt it vibrate with a text, fully immersed in whatever was on your screen. You barely looked up when you were three steps from him, but nodded with the respect a man of Captain Rogers’ standing deserved regardless of anyone’s personal opinion on him, the ‘Captain’ firm on your lips as a formal greeting you hoped was all you were going to exchange. He returned the courtesy, sounding all but a little taken aback, and – thank heavens – continued walking past you. You gritted your teeth as not to release a relieved breath you were certain he’d hear.

Whirlwind of emotion pushed aside by suffocating emptiness, you continued your path and headed to your room, deciding breakfast simply wasn’t in the cards for your today. As you entered the familiar space, your gaze fell on the gym clothes you had tossed over one of your chairs yesterday when you needed to release the pressure after being tense ever since the attack.

Releasing tension now felt like a good idea, as the sting of betrayal and self-loathing simmered in your ribcage despite your attempts to make it all go away.

Without a second thought, you grabbed after it, ready to loosen the messy bundle of emotion the only way you were ever allowed.

By punching it out.  

The scent of leather and sweat had been bringing you an odd sense of comfort since your rather early age. Even as it was associated with heavy breaths, soaked t-shirts, competitiveness and shouts of various trainers you had encountered over the years, it was also an epitome of solace and familiarity; a reminder that you could always improve and you had done that more than once. It was a sanctuary to broken shards of a soul, where one let all the nasty things buried inside tear the body apart, only to feel like they started to build yourself up again. You had learned a long time ago that fighting was far from being about rage or any other wild emotion; but if one got the flow right, they could release all the suffocating emotions through it either way until peace – relative peace at least – took over again.

So after exhausting your body almost to its limit, you moved onto your mind; after kicking and punching and sweating through your clothes, you cooled down, stretched, and sat down cross-legged only to do it all over again. This time through your spectre.

The quiet gym was an unusual luxury, making for an easy projection and making it almost laughably easy to maintain it; you had tested it in training before, keeping focus even as your fellow agents shoved you around or even punched your gut – or in Daisy’s case, sent quaking vibrations through your body with increasing intensity, enough to almost rattle your bones. You were aware of the sensations, always, naturally seeing its benefit as a fail safe in whoever was in charge of protecting you failed to do so – not that Mr. Captain America had that problem. But at the same time, pushing the limits of how much you could take in case of such complications and in the face of needing to hold on despite of it was essential – as much as being able to take a hit to your spectral body without losing focus was.   

It took time, but it had become a second nature to perceive sensations from both your bodies, recognizing which came from which and separating them. The real trial, the most surreal feeling which took some time getting used to was seeing yourself and touching your actual hand with your spectral one, simultaneously being the initiator of the sensation and its receiver on the very same part of your body. The first time you tried it, it knocked you out for over half an hour, your brain unable to handle the contradiction. However long path you still had to walk to perfect your skills, you remembered that handling this one had been a win and eventually, the sight of yourself and the touch turned almost mundane.

However, others didn’t feel that way.

The visual of Tony Stark entering the gym, gaze flickering between your sitting form and your punching form several feet away from each other, as if he couldn’t decide which one to address despite only one of them levitating and emitting a faint glow, brought a sad ghost of a smile to your face, renewing the tense feeling in your gut you tried so hard to punch and kick away. Usually, you couldn’t help it; perhaps it was mean, but the bewildered, and admiring look in people’s eyes, was not only pleasing but also entirely hilarious. But today, the satisfaction wasn’t coming – and unfortunately, Stark approached your very conscious version.

Couldn’t the world just leave you alone for a bit? You were alone; you’d appreciate if the number of people in the room reflected the reality of your life.

“What did that poor bag did to you?” he lamented as you caught a glimpse of his frown and pursed lips between focusing on every hit to the heavy bag. “You hit it any harder, you’re gonna rip it off the hinges like Cap does.”

Right. For sure.

You swallowed the scoff threatening to escape you, gritting your teeth as your punch landed even stronger than intended, sending painful vibration through your arm. You added a knee and an elbow, speeding up to distract yourself form the sensation.

Focused on your workout, you couldn’t see his raised eyebrow; but you could definitely hear it in his annoyed and slightly amused voice.

“Same attitude too, I see.”

This time, you did scoff as you continued punching. Yeah, right. You and Steve were practically twins now, weren’t you.

“Too bad, Casper, you are not getting away with ignoring me,” he insisted, peeking from behind the bag on your left. “Cease fire for a sec.”

You kicked hard with a loud huff, making the bag swing wildly, catching it with your hands as it returned to hit you in the face and only then dropped your hands, turning to Tony.

Despite your rudeness – one he didn’t quite deserve, you reminded yourself guiltily – you found him grinning at you as you paid him attention at last. It only made you frown. He seemed too gleeful to be a bearer of bad news – but way too gleeful to bring any news that would be good for you.

“Pick up your Sunday shoes, Casper. You’re going out tomorrow!”

You sighed, already feeling the wholesome effects of your workout evaporating. “Hello to you too. What on Earth are you talking about?”

Given the mischief in his eye, you felt like you should be worried – and yet, despite your better judgement, you felt a small smile tug at your lips at his antics.

That said, if he had set you up for a blind date or something of that sort – because you wouldn’t put it past him if he did that – you’d be out before you could get in. But the fact that he simply announced that you were going out couldn’t mean anything good. Why didn’t he ask? Because Tony Stark, you thought, as bitterly as affectionately.  

He waved his hand in a too innocent greeting, pulling out a light blue envelope with golden framing from his hoodie pocket.

“Hi. This is yours. You mind?” he hummed as he beckoned to your paraconscious body, already throwing the paper its way.

With a sigh, you snapped back just as the envelope landed in your lap, ignoring the low thud of your boxing gloves hitting the mattress since you couldn’t take them back with you and they suddenly didn’t have anything to hold them up. You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the slight sway of the world as you suddenly changed both body and positions, turning the envelope in your hands with a frown and an unpleasant feeling of anticipation in your gut.

“Tony… what is this?”

“An invitation.”

“Right.” Knowing there was no scenario in which you’d get away with never opening it, in which he’d leave before you did so, you slipped your fingers under the edge and tore it open. Fancy paper, you observed. As your eyes quickly scanned over the text, Tony spoke up again.

“Shake hands, rub elbows. Make the Avengers look good. Have a drink or two.”

You frowned. The words Tony Stark was stringing together made perfect sense individually, but not together. Then, they made sense together and then even more sense in connection to the invite. But none of that made them make sense in connection to you.

“A charity auction at the Smithsonian?” you asked dully, voice full of the scepticism you felt upon imagining yourself doing what he had suggested, parroting his words dubiously. “Me, making the Avengers look good? I’m not even a--- Stark, what the-“

“Please,” he cut you off with a scoff, “you literally saved Natasha’ ass and several kids, very publicly, just yesterday. Plus, me and Pepper can’t make it and everyone else is either on a mission or has already said no.”

You perked up in an instant. Could you say no then?

“No, you can’t say no, nope,” Tony blurted out before you could even open your mouth. You glanced down at the invite again. The last thing you wanted right now, or ever, to be honest, was to go to some stupid function, meeting arrogant wealthy and sadly influential assholes with a fake smile on their face, one that held even as they insulted your choice of wardrobe in a way you couldn’t really return because they had the power to make your life a living hell. “It’s your mission now, no veto rights.”

You resisted the urge to stomp your foot and whine; but for a very good reason. Many, many good reasons. You genuinely despised those thighs, hating them on a visceral level. You could survive them if there was an important mission objective like gathering intel that could save countless lives, securing a sample of a virus and preventing a global pandemic, locking up an arms dealer – but socializing? Networking? Useless chitchat with pretentious jerks? Bootlicking? Because that was what awaited you, whether you were representing the Avengers or not – which itself truly was an absurd concept.

You ran a hand down your face, skimming over the text once more, resigned.

Much like there hadn’t been a scenario in which Tony would leave before you’d listen to what he had had to say, there was no way you’d get away with not attending.

“Couldn’t they have at least hold it at the NYC building? Does it have to be DC?” you muttered under your breath, annoyed further. That meant flying and many complications in case you’d try to pull an early disappearing act.

“Yeah, one of the reasons why the others said no. The disgrace of these people – a free ride on the quinjet with a pilot assigned and they still scoff at this. Heathens. If you weren’t hiding out, I’d stumble over you earlier and the can’t-say-no would fall on someone else, but here we are. I mean honestly, who would think finding two people willing to go drink expensive champagne could be such an issue?”

Your head snapped up to his face, horror and relief seizing you at once. You wouldn’t be alone; then again, you wouldn’t be alone.

You really wanted to call Tony on his bullshit about finding you last, because if he found you last, it was because he asked FRIDAY about you as the last, but your whole brain capacity was overtaken by a single thought and a prayer to heavens. You weren’t sure whom you’d want as a company, but you still prayed it was someone bearable.

“Two people? Who’s the other one?”

Please let it be Wilson. You were sure he’d feel almost as uncomfortable as you. Rhodes too, even though he was good at politics and would snatch all the attention to himself. You doubted Vision or Wanda were the ones and you could hardly imagine one without the other; similarly, you doubted Barnes, with his past still lingering in the minds of many, had been chosen, and even if he had, you doubted he would go without Romanoff. Thor was off to Asgard, Banner would be, bless him, probably even more distressed than you, and Tony and Pepper were literally the ones handing over the invitation. Clint could be a nice option – you didn’t talk much, but his easy-going nature would probably make for a good company. Honestly, probably anyone would be better than-

“Capsicle, obviously, they love the guy. Have a big exhibition on him and all that,” Tony said as if it was clear as day and as if that didn’t make him sound like a lunatic. And as if that didn’t send your heart racing like mad, eyes widening, throat tightening.

Headache started to build in above your brows as you imaged the horror-like scene. As if the function itself wasn’t bad enough – Tony wanted to make you suffer through it with the one person from the Avengers whom you fought the most often?

Tony was, naturally, completely blind to your reaction – or more likely, pretended to be, because he might be an owner of what kids these days called a galaxy brain, but he was two halves of a whole genius – continuing his monologue at the speed of three hundred miles a minute.

“…and he’s good at rubbing elbows, even if he hates it. So, focus, my dear Ghost of Christmas Past,” he snapped his fingers in front of your face, only to start counting on his fingers. Mutely, you watched him, still hoping this was a very badly constructed prank. “Make us look good, look good, buy something nice on my card in the auction and try not to kill each other. Easy as American pie. All four objectives of the mission are equally important by the way… I think.”

“Tony…”

That was all you manged to force out, a disapproval and a plea.

“What?! You shouldn’t have been hiding in a gym! I’m innocent!”

You were not impressed with his antics in the slightest. It was a Hate on Spectre Day, you were sure. First Romanoff with her accusations about Steve, then Tony-

Oh. Oh thank god.

It was blasphemy to be grateful for such thing, but you were not picky about your salvations as an important thought occurred to you – a fairly reasonable one at that, one that didn’t only serve as a convenient excuse.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea for Steve to make a public appearance like that?” you questioned. “I know he made a public appearance just yesterday, but that was different. We’re still… working out how to deal with the Hydra cell and their antiserum. The investigation is still active and pretty intensive at the moment as far as I can tell.”

No kidding.

Tony’s eyebrows shot up, something akin to compassion appearing on his face, probably in reaction to something that you involuntarily let show on yours. Fuck.

“Ah. Got bitten by Black Widow, huh? It stings, doesn’t it?” he said, scrunching his nose and almost shocking you speechless.

You were slacking if Tony, living in his own world for at least eighty percent of the time, with his mind usually lightyears away from where a conversation had originally started, read you so easily.

That, or he watched the footage, perhaps even with Natasha herself, to evaluate whether you were indeed a mole or not. Was this another test? Was Natasha the proverbial bad cop and Tony landed the role of a good cop? Were you supposed to open up to him? The thought of Tony playing you like this was somehow even more nauseating than Natasha’s game had been. With her, you should have seen it coming; with Mr.I Don’t Need to Watch My Mouth, not so much. He was direct. He spoke his mind, always. You liked that about him. Or used to.

What would he know about Black Widow’s verbal bites?

“Like you’d know.”

One of his brows creased, lips curled by a smirk full of snark.

“What, you think the original six was spared? Please.”

Despite yourself, you blinked and perked up. Because Tony seemed honest – much like most of the time, frankly.

“Rogers was the only one who wasn’t questioned by Romanoff – or in her case, by Barnes – though some of us might argue that when it comes to saving his dumb ass, Rogers’s the one most willing to serve it to HYDRA himself on a silver platter.” He paused, a grimace twisting his features. “That was a weird imagery, forget I used those exact words.”

A tiny smile tugged at your lips. Tony was hard to stay mad at if he did something relatively harmless like this – he was direct and slightly chaotic, but that was just part of his charm, one might say. And honestly, since you trusted him that he had spoken the truth, the fact that Natasha had gone down at everyone as hard as she had on you, learning that you weren’t the only one under scrutiny did make you feel a bit better. Though for a brief moment, you allowed yourself the luxury of questioning the reliability of Barnes interrogating Romanoff and vice versa, given their enormous bias. How had the mutual interrogation even happened? What, did they just hold a knife to each other’s throat instead of a foreplay?

You shook your head at yourself, earning a grin from Tony as he probably assumed you reacted to his antics. He wasn’t completely wrong.

Leaning onto his wannabe-friendly behaviour had a strong scent of fool me once, since you had literally had got burned today, but it was hard to resist it despite all the rational voices in your head screaming. You were an asset. You had a mission and that was it – and protecting this team was a big part of it. Tony did make an excellent point when it came to Steve’s tendency to overlook the magnitude of threats posed to him. Which had you go full circle – that besides pairing you and Steve off for a public appearance was an awful, terrible, no good, very bad idea, it was almost as bad of an idea as sending Steve out there in the first place.

“I still think letting him do this is too risky. I’ll go, even if I’m going to curse you the entire time,” you noted matter-of-factly, “but honestly. I think Steve really shouldn’t go.”

If it was possible, Tony's face lit up further, much to your chagrin.

 “Aww, are you worried about him?” he teased you. You deadpanned. “Kidding. Relax, Spectre, it’s a museum, not an underground casino. And it’s a charity auction, not an arm deals convention, those are more up my speed. There are no suspicious names on the guest list, FRIDAY doublechecked. The most dangerous people there will be you and him.”

You breathed in to protest further, because one, he was literally just giving out his invitation to someone dangerous, which other people could do as well, and two, there were still so many crazy things about what he was suggesting and your stomach was in knots just trying to imagine it-

A quick clap of hands startled you, Tony’s hands suddenly palms up.

“Alright, great, thank you for accepting. It’s settled then-“

Your horror returned, mouth opening uselessly as he began to walk back, still facing you. “I didn’t-“

“Oh and it’s only black tie, but you should still buy something nice,” he continued, smiling conspiratorially as if he was sharing an inside joke you were supposed to be a part of but did not understand one bit, except for feeling like you were the subject of it.

“Tony-“

“’cause representation and all that. And don’t worry about the cost, ‘cause it’s on the Avengers, so in fact, go wild, Cinderella. I gotta run now-“

He cut off his wild gestures with another clap of his hands to drown the sound of you calling out his name, the stupid invite still in your hands, feet frozen to the ground when the automatic door opened behind him and he spun on his heels, walking out.

“But Stark!”

He was already gone.

You massaged your forehead and the skin above your eyebrows as your headache grew, your shoulders sagging. You eyed the invitation with distaste, inspecting it as if it could burst in flames any second; that was how nuclear you felt the evening might get, for multiple reasons.

Oh. Speaking of the invitation going up in flames, perhaps the museum would require the actual paper rather than an e-invite. Fire might be the best possible solution for-

The sudden voice sounding from the speaker cut off your inner musings, and crushed your hopes, fuelling your anxiety in the process.

“Agent Spectre, Mr.Stark wants me to inform you that the charity auction is assigned to you as any other mission and not participating would thus be considered a serious breach of regulations and a breach of your contract with the Avengers Initiative, which would result in corresponding disciplinary action.”

You scowled, tossing the envelope and its content aside. Low blow, Stark. Really, really fucking low blow.

“Bastard,” you muttered under your breath.

“And that his explicit orders, as he is one of your superiors, are to, I quote, have fun,” FRIDAY added, causing you to roll your eyes and look at the ceiling as if your glare and your next words dripping with sarcasm could be delivered to Tony himself. Which they could – they just wouldn’t have the desired effect, you were sure.

“Gee, Stark, thanks. I’m sure I will.” Not.

Grabbing your gear with a sigh coming from the very depth of your soul, suddenly tired despite the clock claiming it was still before noon, you tried to steer your mind away from the tight feeling in your gut.

The one upside was that your mission might be to have fun and rub figurative elbows, but one never knew when he needed to use actual elbows to punch someone in the face in your line of work.

That meant that if you were to follow Stark’s explicit orders, you should get yourself a special dress for the occasion – something at least black-tie worthy. But you were truly about to spend a public evening with Steve, who would be putting himself into nonsensical danger by merely showing up, you needed a sensible dress. Long enough to have it pass as fitting for the dress code, but with a slit high enough to not limit your range of movement if you needed to kick out or run. Nothing too revealing, because you’d rather not worry about your cleavage if you were about to punch and duck. Shoes would be a pain – heels were a necessary evil, but you’d need to dig up some with thick straps at least, to feel like you were actually wearing them and not like you were trying to keep them on by the sheer power of your will with every step.

It seemed you had some shopping to do. If Tony was so inclined on you to follow his orders, you would. You would go wild with his credit card indeed. And because you had a glutton for punishment, you tried to contact a distant ally to help you with that, even as you doubted that she’d have time to answer.

Next chapter

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

Yeeeeah, I know that I promised you a bit of trip to fluffville as well, but it’s only coming in the second half… then again, the moment with Tony was kinda sweet too, no?

Happy New Year, loves 💕 May it be kind to you ✨