#ros answers

[beingdoomedbythenarrativeissexy]

I LOVE YOU ROS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (platonic)

I LOVE YOU TOO!

[ronearoundblindly]

🧚🏻‍♀️✨Bippity boppity bow chicka wow oww! You’ve been visited by the Shameless Hoe Fairy, and now you must share a hoe thot about: CE!babe + “Sir, I think you misunderstood.”

I'm SO HONORED, you have no idea. 🧚‍♀️👸🏽❤️🪄🧚✨⚡️❤️‍🔥🧚‍♂️

*While this follows Super-Human Resources as a story, it is not necessary to read that to understand. Reader is female and 'older' but no specifics about her body or age are given. For context, you believe that you and Steve are f***-buddies and nothing more (he does not believe that).

Summary: Steve is more eager to than you realized...

A shameless fic deserves a shameless gif, don't you think? **Warnings for smut: unprotected sex (established consent/relationship) in a semi-public space, oral (m receiving), horny gremlin!Steve, and not a whole hell of a lot of editing utilized, folks... MINORS DNI. There's all-age friendly fic on my Light Masterlist, but not here. WC ~2k

Busy.

Busy day. Busy week. Busy month really, if you stop to think about it, but you can’t stop right now. There’s work to be done. Agents to clear, trainees to make agents, and it’ll be done as soon as you file these…

“Shit,” you mutter as Maria Hill is about to take the documents from you. You were almost done with this closed-door meeting. “Rogers hasn’t signed off on them yet.”

For the tiniest of split-seconds, Hill looks annoyed, her eyes half roll while she sighs. “He’s been just as slammed as all of us.” She doesn’t seem thrilled by the chaos of spring either. Say what you will about seasonal depression sucking, but there is a notable uptick in enemy aggression once the weather warms.

Does that make winter less crazy? No. What it does is make the internal workings of the Compound go bonkers until everyone can fight out there. In HR’s case, winter is the worst and busiest time. Busy. Busy. Busy.

Your off-hours understanding with Steve Rogers aside, there are few seasonal bright spots beyond actually liking your job.

You dial up Rogers’ number. It rings only once before he answers.

“Yes, ma’am, what can I help you with?”

He’s so sweet with you in private, and though diligent about keeping work strictly professional, you imagine you can tell the barest of warmth laced into the words.

“Sorry to bother, Captain—“

Hill slaps down a new file you’ve not seen yet.

“—but I need you—“ you cover the mic with your palm, whispering ‘and what’s this?’ but she waves you off “—to come down and…hello?”

The dial tone starts again.

“Hello? I think he just hung up on me.”

Hill simply shrugs. “Maybe even he’s at wit’s end,” she muses. “Just bring the rest to my office whenever, but I’ll need a review of this contract. The lawyers approve, but if you ask me they kept the wording too technical. We need a—let’s say a nicer spin on it.”

Fine. Toss it on the pile. In fact, that’s exactly what you do, move it from corner A to corner B of your desk.

Above you, Maria makes a shocked sort of chirping noise.

“Cap! You scared me there.”

“Sorry,” Steve huffs in the doorway, arms braced on either side of the frame. “Sorry. Sorry, I just—“ clearing his throat “—was already on this floor when you called, so…I’m here.”

His stealth training with Natasha really paid off. There was zero sound when he came in.

“Right, well, if you could—“

Steve holds up a finger. “Actually, I have something to ask…to discuss with…”

“I’ll bring them by your office later,” you offer Hill.

She nods and leaves, none the wiser to Rogers speedily (and silently) locking the door behind her. 

You push out your chair to greet him, but Steve rounds the desk before the seat even rolls past touching your calves.

“I need you, too,” he husks, big hand gripping your waist, maneuvering you back against the wall. His mouth finds the tender spot below your ear immediately. “‘m glad you called.”

Oh.

Oh wow, he’s—

“Love when you wear these.” Steve drops to one knee, fingers dancing at the hem of your skirt and over the thin shield of your pantyhose.

He does love him some nylons, cheeky boy.

Good thing your office blinds were already closed, or the whole cubicle pool would see Captain America six inches from your crotch with a hand sneaking up your thigh.

“Sir,” you whimper in the suddenness of his desire, “I think you misunderstood.”

A flicker of questioning darts across Steve’s features.

“I actually just need you to sign those,” you clarify with a wave to the desk.

“Oh.” Steve presses his head into your leg for a second. “So not…?”

“Sex? Here? No, not what I called for,” you chuckle.

He gets up from the floor, looking embarrassed and guilty, a bulge in his pants betraying how seriously he intended to take you right there. It has been two weeks since you’ve gotten to sleep over. He was away on mission last weekend and who knows when he’ll be called up again. Shame to let that enthusiasm go to waste…

“But,” you drawl, creeping forward, your hand cupping him gently.

He stirs so easily at contact. Steve’s always been eager to ‘practice,’ to build prowess in knowing the female body, and he’s used yours to do it, but you never expected him to whine in desire.

Without waiting for more encouragement, he lowers his mouth to your neck again. “Yeah?” 

His fingers use their rough friction to nudge your skirt up over your hips until he can run one digit along the waistband of your stockings.

You feel the fabric in your palm stretch tighter. Steve twitches.

“It’s okay to do this,” he breaths, “even if it’s uncalled for?”

The spider-walking of his touch down your stomach is deliberate. He’s giving you time to tell him you’re not interested or this isn’t the place, but you are, in fact, pretty interested and do not care if this is the place.

When no response comes as he finds your mound, Steve drags one finger through your folds. He lets a hot sigh roll across your skin in satisfaction of discovering the slick spot he can stoke back to life.

Ever since he first asked how he could please you, it’s been about Steve wanting to learn a woman’s pleasure, but his desire always seems incidental. He’ll come anyway. He’s getting off in addition. You get that; it’s the whole deal, but there are other lessons Steve, in particular, could learn. One of them is that he can be the focus, too.

Instead, he’s focused on holding back, apparently, because he bites his lip and doesn’t lean into your hand. He doesn’t pull away either. He moves to slip two fingers into you and curl them.

This leads you to a theory of why, though you’re surprised to have the brainpower. “Have you not…touched yourself in weeks?”

Steve grunts in annoyance. “I didn’t think it would be that long.”

“So—“ keeping your voice silky and sweet “—no need to edge yourself after all that.”

“Edge?” he asks.

Lessons, lessons, lessons.

“It’s called ‘edging’ or ‘delayed gratification,’ yeah.”

You can practically hear his thoughts as his eyes roam your body. Should he stop? Should he continue? Should he tough it out and wait the few hours till the workday is done? Steve is the type to think of denial as the height of self-control, so you don’t know which side he’ll land on when he’s needy with his finger on the button of satisfaction.

He can have it all, and he can have it right now. You tentatively roll his tender balls to prove a point, but that seems only to make his inner conflict worse, his brows knitting together, strained.

Until it doesn’t.

“No,” Steve says, swiping his tongue over his bottom lip, staring at you feverishly. “No, I don’t want to delay anymore.”

To put him out of his misery, you offer your help, pulling his hand away, rolling down the layers in his way until mid-thigh (look, hose are a bitch to take off and put on, so at work, you’re improvising), and bending directly over your desk. Head turned to the side, you watch the shadow of him stepping up behind you, lowering the fly of his slacks and pumping his shaft until he’s hard.

All in total, it takes four seconds or so, but the performance of breaking the man’s character down to a lustful mess plays out an entire scene.

Steve squats down slightly to roll his cockhead through your folds and thrusts shallowly. The delicious stretch and rising fullness make your eyes flutter shut.

He’s always worth the wait. You’ll miss this when he’s done with you.

His feet spread apart as he kneads your ass and opens you wide.

“So good,” he groans. “Did you think of me? Did you touch yourself thinking of this?”

“Yes,” you gasp on a deep thrust.

If he’s expecting more words, he’s not getting them, not when the drag of him inside and out pools all your attention like a tide away from your brain.

The afternoon sun’s angle shows the silhouette of Steve stretching tall so he can fuck toward that spongy spot sending tingles all over your body, but just as soon as he sets a rhythm, he pulls out.

“Uh, no,” he moans, gripping his dick like it’s hurting him, “’s why I wanted my mouth on you first…so…so close.”

Steve’s ready to cum within minutes of sinking into your pussy. That’s a boost to your ego if there ever was one. However, he needs release, and from the look of his blown pupils, he needs it to be as intense as possible. He needs connection not just physically.

If Steve desires a more connective experience, you’ll have to give him eye contact.

Mirroring his starting position, you drop delicately to your knees in front of him, head inches away from your desktop.

“Oh god,” he whines from somewhere deep in his chest, but his eyes never leave you while your hand replaces his. 

The first brush of your lips sends him lurching forward to grip the poor particleboard behind you, and you do blink long and languid at the musky taste of him.

His mouth hangs open, too, as you bob, taking only a few inches each time, focusing on the sensitive head. You make the tip of your tongue firm and pointed to draw patterns along veins you know by heart. His hips buck against his will, and though you can’t teach it him without words, this is called ‘fucking your face.’

It’s delightful to see the hazy blue of his eyes soften in wonder. It’s validation itself to hear him praise the sheer perfection of you.

“Shit,” Steve moans, “I—I—“ but he breaks off in a euphoric (and loud) exhale.

Cum begins to flood your throat and mouth, and there’s a rustle of something knocked over above you. A soft wad of tissues tucks under your chin just as the overflow breeches the corner of your lips.

“Too long. Waited too long. Sorry, should have warned you,” he admits brokenly. It is significantly more than usual, you note.

Steve pulls out to finish coming in his makeshift pad and tries to bat the box closer to you for more.

You rip out a few to spit in.

All-in-all, you’re pleased to have such a wild affect on a man, and Steve is not just any man at that.

He takes all the tissues and buries them under some papers in your trashcan. He collects himself, zipping his dignity back into place while you shimmy up your tights and panties.

Steve then pulls you into his chest, leaving a gentle kiss as the last taste on your lips. “I’ll give you back threefold tonight, okay?” he assures, low and intimate. “Sorry, I got…overexcited.”

He releases you from the hug.

“Well, I’ll only be there at a decent hour if you sign these damn papers, Captain.”

Steve looks confused, eyes darting to the stack he luckily did not tip off the edge of your desk. It takes another four seconds for him to remember that there was a real reason he was called.

“Yes, ma’am, right away, but also—” he scrunches his nose “—I’m just going to crack this because—“ Steve doesn’t bother completing the thought. He simply props the window open at the lowest notch. Across the small room, he stares at you smoothing a hand over your hair, beaming.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Goofy. Honest. Adorable.

“It’s a good line, Cap,” you chuckle then double tap the stack of forms.

He rushes over, ever the fast-learner, ever the eager participant, ever ready (usually) to get down to business.

Busy. Busy. Busy.

Thank god it’s Friday.

a/n: is it acceptable?

[Main Masterlist; Steve Rogers One-Shots; Ko-Fi]

@Supraveng @1950schick @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry @bitchy-bi-trash @rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @stellar-solar-flare

[l3viat8an]

Whatever you do, do not think about having a pretty boy sit in your lap and cupping his face in your hands and giving him kisses all over his cheeks and forehead and on the tip of his nose and lastly on his lips all while he holds onto the front of your shirt and just lets you love him-

[askthehedgehogs]

i feel nice today! *teleports you guys to a picnic on the beach, palm trees and shi- with ur favorite foods and the perfect weather, sunset. and ofc a way to get back*

-anon

(beetle)

[fableforger]

Just imagine Mc holding a puppy or kitty. And saying who my "handsome man" 🤭☺️

Behind the Ros, and they didn't know that Mc has a little pup/kitty in their hands and think they were talking about them. Until they turn around and see such a loving look on Mc face looking at the pup/kitty.

How would the ros react to seeing the puppy/kitty and hearing what Mc said?

Bc i just think it would be funny if they thought it what the Mc said to them, lol

Also, I hope you have been doing well and taking care of yourself!

Thank you so much for this delightful ask.

And yes, I absolutely agree - the idea is just... pure gold.

For this version, since you wrote “handsome man”, we’ll stick to the male ROs only.

Let’s imagine how each of them might react...

Beware: Since this is a RO-related ask, there may be minor spoilers ahead. Please keep scrolling if you’d prefer to stay unspoiled.

..............................................................................................................................

Alexos:

You say it offhandedly, voice soft - “There’s my handsome man…”

Alexos doesn’t stop walking, but you see how his shoulders shift - just slightly, like someone trying very hard not to react.

“Why would you say that now?” he mutters, voice low - almost dry enough to mask the blush climbing his neck.

But he still turns with the faintest trace of a smile - only to spot the puppy wriggling in your arms.

The smile vanishes.

He blinks. Once.

Then, after a long pause:

“…Right. Naturally.”

He looks away like it's no big deal.

He definitely does not sulk for the next five minutes.

Later, when he thinks you’re not looking, he crouches nearby and holds out a gloved hand. The puppy clambers up his arm like it was always home.

Alexos doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile.

But he says, very softly,

“…Ridiculous creature.”

(He means the puppy. Probably.)

---

Zephiron:

You murmur it with a smile - “There’s my handsome man…”

Zephiron doesn’t even look up at first.

“Flattery?” he says, casually amused. “You know I’m always open to it.”

He turns toward you, already smirking - but then his eyes drop.

To the puppy.

In your arms.

Tail wagging. Tongue out. Gleaming with betrayal.

Zephiron blinks.

“…Huh.”

There’s a beat. Then:

“Well. He is quite good-looking.”

He scratches his jaw, pretending to study the puppy with scholarly interest. “Bit short. Strange proportions. But I suppose taste is subjective.”

He walks on like nothing happened.

Later, you find him sitting cross-legged beneath a tree, the puppy tucked into the folds of his clothing like it belongs there.

He strokes its fur absently, eyes half-lidded, voice barely above a whisper.

“I am better looking, though,” he tells the puppy.

The puppy sneezes on him. He sighs heavily. You laugh quietly.

---

Theron:

You say it without thinking - “There’s my handsome man…”

Theron pauses mid-step, eyes lifting toward you.

There’s a softness in his gaze, a quiet smile already blooming on his lips.

You see it - the way he almost moves closer. Almost says something.

And then his eyes fall to the puppy in your arms.

His smile falters, then shifts - not into disappointment, but into something gentler.

A breath of laughter escapes him.

“…Ohhh.”

He kneels down slowly, offering the puppy his hand like a greeting.

“You’re very lucky,” he tells it softly.

Then, glancing up at you with a wry tilt of his head - still speaking to the dog -

“To get that kind of attention from someone who could have anyone’s heart.”

The puppy gazes up at him, wide-eyed and still - and if you didn’t know better, you’d swear they were speaking in a language only they understood.

---

Dorian:

You say it casually, almost playfully - “There’s my handsome man…”

Dorian perks up immediately, with the self-satisfied grace of a cat being praised.

“Well, well,” he says, tilting his head. “It took you long enough to admit it -”

He turns. He sees the puppy. His entire face falls. Dramatically.

“You absolute traitor.”

To you?

To the puppy?

To love itself? Unclear.

He folds his arms.

“I hope you two will be very happy together,” he says, deadpan. “May your conversations be always profound and your shared meals evenly portioned.”

You laugh and try to placate him - but he’ll hear none of it.

Not until you call him a handsome man, and maybe prove it to him…

Just because, you know, he was made to be worshipped.

Just like you. But not like the puppy.

---

Rhaelos:

You say it quietly - “There’s my handsome man…”

Rhaelos pauses mid-step. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak.

But you feel it - the weight of his attention shifting toward you.

There’s something softer in his stillness. Something that listens.

Then he turns. Sees the puppy in your arms.

Tail wagging. Eyes wide. Innocent and smug.

A long silence.

Then:

“…I see,” Rhaelos says, completely expressionless. “I’ve been replaced.”

He walks on.

But as he passes you, voice low, almost dry:

“Let me know when he can hold a sword.”

Later, you find him sitting in the shade.

The puppy lies curled beside him, pressed against his boot like it chose him.

He doesn’t touch it - but when it shifts in its sleep, his hand moves slightly. Protective.

He doesn’t look up when he says,

“He’s loyal. You chose well.”

You can’t stop the quiet laugh rising in your throat.

“I did not replace you, Rhaelos.”

He exhales, slow. Thoughtful.

“I just think… there are worse things to lose you to.”

And suddenly, your heart is beating a little faster than before.

---

Drakon:

You say it with a touch of affection - “There’s my handsome man…”

Drakon straightens immediately, like you flipped a switch inside him.

“Well,” he says, his grin slow and hungry, “if you wanted me, you could’ve just said so.”

He’s already halfway to you - gaze heavy, intent unmistakable - when he sees the puppy.

Small. Floppy. Offensively pleased with itself.

He stops.

“…Are you fucking kidding me?”

A pause. Then a scoff.

“Get that thing away from my side.”

“Drakon, seriously? Are you actually jealous? Of that little thing?”

You look at him with wide, innocent eyes as you present the puppy in all its adorable glory.

He scoffs again, eyes dragging over you - then turns to the dog.

“You’re lucky I want this one”- he jerks his chin toward you -“extra happy.”

The puppy tilts its head, clearly confused.

Drakon’s eyes gleam.

“But you keep your paws to yourself.”

Then, to you -

“He sleeps on the floor.”

Later, Drakon is lying flat on his back near the fire, arms folded behind his head.

The puppy climbs onto his chest like it owns it now.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at it.

But his voice is dry when he says,

“You’re a brave little wolf.”

Then, with a low voice that almost sounds like a joke - but not quite:

“Try anything while I’m asleep, and I’ll eat you.”

[burning-academia-if]

I had a funny idea for an ask. How would the ROs react to Headmaster Windsor walking in on a first kiss?

Oh my god lol

Rook: The flash of annoyance on his face is nothing close to what he's actually feeling. How many years has he waited to kiss you, only for the worst man on campus to ruin this moment for him. He draws you close to him, almost hiding you from the man's view as he candidly tells him to fuck off.

Beck: He gently pulls away and moves the both of you at an angle where the Headmaster can't see you, but you also can see the flash in his eyes. His voice is casual when he asks what it is he needs, but you can sense something lingering underneath

Rhea: Please save my girl 😭😭 she's jumping away so fast. What an absolutely terrible way to break the news to her dad that you two are into each other. She drags her dad away before he can do anything to you, immediately going into damage control

Zoe: They are mortified and there's almost a sense of shame or embarrassment at being caught in such a vulnerable moment for them. But then they realize who it is and their calm mask slips into place and they consider again how much they hate this school and everyone in it. Especially this man.

Lars: He hates this man and he is not above using magic to shove him back out the door LMAO I think in general he wouldn't put too much emphasis on his first kiss with MC, but I think he'd still he pissed

???: Are you telling me they wouldn't just straight up murder him-

[haydenigmatic]

Do you really have 5 set female Ros and only 2 set male? So counting selectables it's 7 vs. 4??? Is this IF meant for straight guys (and/or lesbians)????

Oh, honey. You do know the selectable ROs exist for a reason, right? As you said, there are 9 romance options in total—5 female, 2 male, and 2 player-gendered. If you're craving more male ROs, all you have to do is choose to make the selectables male. Boom. Problem solved. 😌✨

This isn’t some sinister conspiracy against straight women—I just wrote characters that made sense for the story and the vibes I was going for. Believe it or not, not every IF is built around a perfect gender balance spreadsheet.

Also, let’s not forget that having nine romance options is already pushing the boundaries of my sanity. This will eventually become a code-filled labyrinth of emotional chaos and heartbreak. So maybe, just maybe, let’s appreciate the buffet we’ve got before complaining that there’s not enough seasoning on the side salad. 💅

Thanks for reading! 💖

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

Countess Cloudia Phantomhive and Victorian Inheritance Customs

With the snippet of the Phantomhive family tree now having been shown in the anime, I decided to make a little post to hopefully answer some of the questions that might come up!

Could a 19th-century English noblewoman...

... inherit her family estate? Yes, she could.

There was no law that stipulated that someone had to bequeath their possessions (estate, wealth) to a male relative. The rich and the noble wanted to protect their possessions, of course, and created wills that ensured that their estates and wealth would not fall into just anyone's hands but remained securely within their (close) family. If there was no close male relative (or none they wished to make their inheritor), it was not uncommon for people to will their possessions to a close female relative instead.

In Jane Eyre (1847), she famously inherits her paternal uncle's entire wealth of 20,000 pounds (the book is set sometime during George III's late reign, making the last possible (full) year 1819; this would make her inheritance 2,32 million pounds nowadays (she only keeps £5,000 = £580,000)) because he chose to will it to her, overlooking, i.a., a nephew simply because he once had a terrible fight with said nephew's father (his brother-in-law/his sister's husband). In The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848), Helen is the heiress to her uncle's fortune, not her brother (who inherited their father's estate already). Wuthering Heights' (1847) Catherine Linton (Catherine Earnshaw's daughter) was the heir of Thrushcross Grange.

Female heiresses were not restricted to fiction though:

(Women and Marriage in Nineteenth-Century England by Joan Perkin; Ch.3)

The rich and the noble had access to a private law system that was administered by the Court of Equity. This allowed noblewomen to have their own estates and incomes, albeit secured by trust funds/trustees. This system protected their inherited family wealth from their husbands even under coverture. (While single women, feme soles, could possess their own property, they would usually lose all rights to it to their husbands upon marriage because of coverture laws. The trust system prevented this.)

Marriage settlements (marriage contracts that, due to their complexity, could only be afforded by the rich) could also protect the daughters of noble and/or wealthy families as they, i.a., stipulated how much money she would receive monthly or annually (pin money), and how much money she would receive upon her husband's death.

(Courtship and Marriage in Victorian England by Jennifer Phegley; Ch. 1)

This was the best case scenario for women of the upper classes (and the wealthy middle class).

(Feminism, Marriage, and the Law in Victorian England by Mary Lyndon Shanley; Ch. 1)

Nevertheless, the rich knew how to protect their wealth, then as now. The aforementioned private laws also helped to pave the way for women of all social classes and statuses to have their own possessions.

Little excursus:

Their vast fortunes also granted certain freedoms to rich heiresses, i.a., the freedom to choose a husband as they pleased. After all, they did not have to think about "making a good match" anymore. They were themselves filthy rich already after all! The fact that their wealth was protected also kept them safer from vultures.

(Women and Marriage in Nineteenth-Century England by Joan Perkin; Ch.3)

"Love" emerged as a reason for marriage in the late 18th century and became more common and popular throughout the 19th.

(Love as Passion: The Codification of Intimacy by Niklas Luhmann; Ch. 14)

However, that never stopped matrimony from being a serious business. No matter what, many people put a lot of care and thought into deciding who to marry. After all, divorces were an expensive hassle until 1857 (previously, one needed a costly Act of Parliament to obtain a divorce, and the process of obtaining a divorce was particularly difficult for women too: between 1827 and 1857 only three divorces that were petitioned by women were granted; the Matrimonial Causes Act of 1857 established a civil divorce court and expanded the rights of women). It was easier for rich women to choose to marry for love; still, many opted to remain cautious nonetheless.

(For example, what about the children one might have within a marriage? Upon a wedded union's dissolution, women had difficulties getting custody of their own children. The Custody of Infants Act 1839 allowed women to petition for custody of their children if they were 7 or under. It took until 1873, with the Infant Custody Act, for the age to be lifted from 7 to 16. It also removed the 1839 Act's stipulation that she would not be given custody if she had committed adultery. Before 1839, the father always got full custody. Caroline Norton believed she made a "good match," only to get stuck with an abusive husband who, i.a., beat her and did not let her access their children upon their separation for years.)

... keep her surname?/give her surname to her husband? Yes, she could.

The nobility and the rich, naturally, were very attached to their surnames. After all, it was their family marker, and they were proud of their family history, may it be because they came from a long line of nobles and/or because their ancestor created the family business that gave them their wealth.

When there was no (suitable) close male heir and a female one was chosen instead, the question arose, "what of the family name?" Women often took their husbands' surname upon marriage after all; in this case, however, it might mean the "end" of their old, history-charged and/or important family name.

So, people simply decreed in their wills that, whoever their heiress married, would have to take her surname upon marriage.

Further, men who wanted to marry rich heiresses, of course, thought the wedding to be an honour and did not want to offend their powerful and wealthy in-laws. They, thus, often chose to hyphenate their surname with their wife's. (And the more important surnames you can show off, the better too!)

(Women and Marriage in Nineteenth-Century England by Joan Perkin; Ch.3)

Some examples:

Charles William Stewart took his wife's surname Vane (not even hyphenated!! it fully "replaced" his) when they got married in 1819 because Frances Vane was a rich heiress and her father stipulated in his will that her future husband had to take her surname, period.

In 1811, John Ward changed his surname to Ward-Boughton-Leigh after marrying Theodosia de Malsburgh Boughton-Leigh. "Boughton" is the maiden name of Theodosia's mother, "Leigh" her father's surname. She was the only heir to the fortunes of both her parents, so all families had to be honoured.

The marquessate of Salisbury belongs to the Gascoyne-Cecil family. Up until 1821, the family name was just Cecil. "Gascoyne" comes from Frances Gascoyne who married James Cecil; James hyphenated his surname with hers. She brought a considerable "Liverpool fortune" into the family. The Cecils were (and are!) very powerful and they still changed their surname.

Men also retroactively changed their surnames to their wives' maiden name if she suddenly received a great inheritance. (This could lead to some fun names like "Cresswell Cresswell.")

... hold a noble title in her own right? Yes, she could.

Henrietta Godolphin was the Duchess of Marlborough in her own right (suo jure) because of an act of parliament in 1706. (Her younger brother was meant to inherit the title but he died before their father and it went to her instead.) Henrietta's eldest son William became heir apparent to her dukedom (and his father's earldom, but that would only have been a "secondary" title because dukes > earls). Unfortunately, her son predeceased her, and the title went to her nephew instead.

This was not the first or last case of a woman holding a title in her own right. The Wikipedia article on suo jure lists more such cases.

Also: Vincent and Francis are full siblings! (Yana's tweet/Ducky's translation)

No matter whether Cloudia was married to Cedric or not, Vincent and Francis would never be bastards and always legitimate children in the face of the law.

*Note: Laws on women's property rights/custody/divorce/etc. changed multiple times throughout the 19th century; their effects on women also differed amongst the different social classes. As this post is about Cloudia's (possible) situation, it mostly deals with laws and such that would have applied to her as a noblewoman (late 18th to mid-19th century/1866).

A chronology on English marriage law:

(Courtship and Marriage in Victorian England by Jennifer Phegley)

[mayasaura]

One of the biggest unanswered questions—to me—coming out of Nona the Ninth is..... Did Kiriona really think John would make her his cavalier if she opened the Tomb and dispatched Alecto?

It seems highly unlikely. I don't doubt she would want it, if she thought the offer was both genuine and possible to achieve, but those are some big ifs.

She was present for the fight that revealed Alecto as John's cavalier. She was there when John broke his amiable facade to say don't call her a monster. She knows first-hand what it is to share a part of your soul with someone. And we're meant to accept she believed John wanted Alecto dead? Doubt.jpg

But let's say she did believe that. John told a super convincing story, and she wanted so badly to believe someone loved her more than that slab of freezer meat. Whatever. The "possible to achieve" hurdle still looms large. Kiriona saw her father survive being reduced to atoms, she knows his cavalier is the source of that power, and she heard him say that what sleeps in the Tomb is "as dead as [he] could make her" and that she's "not the dying kind." And Kiriona was going to kill her with.... what? A rapier? Her knuckle knives? Because John said her blood was so super special, it would work just for her? Come on.

Kiriona—Gideon—is not that gullible. She grew up at war with Harrow. She grew up literally hunted for sport by the House Marshall. She considers angles, she tests motives, and she looks before she leaps. She expects to be betrayed, used, and discarded, and John made a hell of a first impression in the betrayal category. I believe she loves her father. I believe she'd do just about anything if she thought it would make her father love her. But blind trust? No way. She may or may not be a good judge of character, but she's definitely a skittish son of bitch.

And that's not even touching all the logical holes in her story—she stowed away to New Rho so she could open the Tomb? Girl what?—and the way she dropped the idea as soon as Ianthe pushed her to admit she was really there for Harrow.

Actually, you know what. I take it back. My biggest unanswered question isn't if Gideon believed any of it. There's no way. What I want to know now is whether John ever really asked her in the first place, or if it was all just a load of hot garbage she ad libbed to avoid mentioning Harrow to Ianthe. The implications either way are voluminous for the shape of the story to come, and I honestly can't rule either option out with the information we have.

[bloodandiron-if]

How would the ROs react if, during a fight, m looked at them SO fondly and decided to confess right in the middle of the action??

- - -

⚠️ EXTREMELY LONG CONTENT INCOMING ⚠️

- - -

OPERATIVE D-6

The alley is soaked in red. Brick walls on either side echo every impact—the dull thud of fists, the crunch of boots, the hiss of a blade slicing air.

You’re fighting back-to-back with D-6, the two of you flanked by a group of men you’ve been tracking. No room for error. No time to talk. And yet—

D-6 moves like shadow incarnate. Efficient, brutal, wordless. They don’t waste energy on flourish, don’t grunt or shout like the others. Just inhale, exhale, react. Every movement is calculated—until you catch a glimpse of their face.

Blood trailing down their temple. Eyes sharp, scanning every angle. Then for a split second—your eyes meet.

You’re not sure why it happens. Maybe it’s the adrenaline. The way your ribcage feels too tight. The way they always move closer when you’re hurt, even when they swear they don't care. But the thought breaks loose in your chest and won’t go back in.

You look at them again, mouth bloodied, arm trembling from a deep gash—and you smile.

Not a smirk. Not a challenge.

A real smile. Soft. Fond. A warmth they haven’t seen from you in years—if ever.

“I’m in love with you, Dee.”

It’s quiet. Almost lost in the chaos around you. But it hits like a bullet.

D-6 stops. Just enough to matter.

Their blade catches the arm of an incoming attacker but doesn’t swing right away. You see the brief hesitation—the shake of their shoulders, like someone tried to reboot them mid-mission.

They turn toward you, eyes wide in a way you’ve never seen. Shocked. Unreadable. Something fragile and dangerous flickering in the silence between you.

Another guard lunges. You don’t even flinch—D-6 is already on them, intercepting the hit, feral in how fast they react.

But it’s different now.

There’s something raw in the way they fight. Not cleaner. Not calmer. Messier, like they can’t focus. Like your words took out some crucial wire and now they’re glitching through the rhythm. Their hands tremble after each kill. Their shoulders twitch like they’re fighting the urge to look at you again.

When the last one falls, you’re both bleeding. Breathing hard. Leaning against the alley wall, barely upright.

D-6 looks at you.

Really looks. Then steps closer.

You expect a nod. A punch. Maybe one of those rare glances that says “don’t do that again.”

Instead?

They press their forehead to yours. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to feel how cold their skin is. How tightly wound they really are beneath the surface.

They don’t say anything. They can’t. But their hands hover—fists at their sides like they don’t trust them not to reach for you.

You feel the unspoken words between you:

“Why would you say that?”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t know what to do with this.”

And somewhere deep beneath it:

“Say it again.”

- - -

DETECTIVE JUNO REYES

The warehouse stinks of old copper and gunpowder. Light flickers from a broken overhead bulb, casting everything in a twitching yellow strobe. You and Juno move through the shadows like twin blades—clean, fast, coordinated from far too many nights tracking this particular crew.

They’ve been smuggling bodies through the meatpacking district for months now—victims with their organs carved out like butchered cattle. It’s not your first joint mission. Won’t be your last.

But tonight, something feels different.

The air is thick. Heavy with dust and sweat and something sharper underneath. You’re ducking behind a rusted conveyor belt when you hear the crack of gunfire—too close.

Juno’s already there, stepping in front of you, pulling you back with a growl. “Keep your damn head down.”

You want to bite back with something sharp—something that’ll make them flinch—but the words die in your throat the second you look at them.

Blood speckled across their cheekbone. Jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. Their body coiled like a spring even after the last shot's been fired.

They move like a force of nature. Controlled, steady, brutal when they have to be. You’ve seen Juno at their worst. They’ve seen you at yours.

And still, they’re here.

Still keeping you alive.

You’re both pinned in a choke point now—five armed men fanning out, pushing forward. You toss a flashbang to the left, Juno fires to the right, and in the storm that follows, something strange takes root in your chest.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Or the way your arm burns from a graze you didn’t register until just now. Or maybe it’s just the way Juno shouted your name like it mattered.

But the words hit your tongue before you can stop them.

You lean in close as you reload, breath ragged, voice low.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Juno freezes. Their hand drops halfway to their holster. The magazine clatters to the floor.

“What?”

You don’t repeat it. Just keep your eyes on theirs. Let it hang there in the heat and chaos, as bodies close in from every side.

And then—they snap back.

No words. Just movement.

They’re more violent now. Less precise. Every blow has weight behind it, like they’re exorcising something. Every time someone gets too close to you, they’re there—blocking, intercepting, protecting. It's reckless. Uncharacteristic. You’ve never seen them fight like this.

And maybe that’s what terrifies you.

When the last man drops, groaning and bleeding onto the concrete, the silence roars between you.

You lean against a pillar. Juno’s still standing, chest heaving. Eyes wide and unreadable.

“Say it again,” they murmur, voice rough from shouting, from shock, from… something else.

You blink. “What?”

Their gaze cuts to yours. “Say it again.”

You do.

They don’t move for a long time. Then—slowly—they cross the space between you. Not to grab you. Not to yell. Just to be closer.

Their forehead drops against yours, their palm finds your wrist, and the warehouse fades around you for one suspended second.

“You can’t say shit like that in the middle of a firefight,” they whisper. But their voice is trembling. “You can’t just—drop something like that and expect me to keep it together.”

They pull back just enough to look at you. Eyes soft now. Conflicted. Open.

And then, the smallest smirk, cracked at the edges.

“You’re a goddamn menace.”

But they don’t let go.

And you don’t want them to.

- - -

NICO/NIA RUSSO

The fight is chaos.

Of course it is.

It’s South Side chaos. Rusted fences, blown-out floodlights, and a chain of abandoned warehouses that smell like gasoline and guilt. The kind of place people disappear into, but don’t come out of.

You’ve been tracking this crew for week now, hoping to take them alone as always—but Russo had forced you to bring them along, and wasn’t taking no for an answer.

The group is splintered—with too many guns and too many debts. You’d been moving silently, inching your way through shadows and metal stairs—until someone tripped an alarm, and now everything's gone loud.

You’re flanked, ducking behind a stack of rotted pallets. Russo’s just ahead, crouched low behind a rusted sedan that still smells faintly like blood.

Gunfire pops. Muffled screams. The glint of steel in the dark.

Russo curses under their breath, fires two clean shots, and slides over the hood of the car like they were born in a damn movie. They land next to you with a scowl, winded but electric with adrenaline.

“You good?” they rasp, not quite looking at you. “You better be.”

You nod. Lie. You’re bleeding from somewhere, but it doesn’t matter.

Their eyes finally meet yours.

There’s dirt smudged on their jaw, a cut on their lower lip. That ridiculous piercing still gleaming under the weak light. Russo looks like hell—but they always look good when they’re angry.

You should focus. Should reload. Should plan your next move.

But instead, you’re looking at them.

Really looking. And it just… slips out.

“Hey, Russo,” you murmur, blood in your mouth, smile soft and stupid.

“What?” They glance over, impatient. “We’re a little busy, genius.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

And then—

“The f**k did you just say?” They whip their head toward you, voice sharp enough to cut. “Are you—? No. Nope. Say that again. I dare you.”

You grin, half delirious, maybe. “I said I’m in love with you.”

It hits them like a misfired round.

Russo doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Their jaw works through some invisible argument, eyes scanning your face like they’re waiting for the punchline. But there isn’t one. Not this time.

“…You’re out of your goddamn mind,” they mutter.

And then?

They lunge.

Not at you. At the guy trying to sneak up behind you with a pipe. Russo takes him down like they’re possessed—grabs the guy by the collar and slams him into the concrete hard enough that the wet crunch makes your ribs ache in sympathy.

“You don’t get to say s**t like that,” they growl through gritted teeth, barely breathing. “Not while we’re in the middle of a gunfight.”

Another attacker runs up. Russo spins and throws a punch so clean it drops the man in one hit.

You lean back against the wall, stunned. Watching Russo unravel with every swing.

They’re reckless now. Not sloppy, but aggressive. Emotional. Like your words untethered something they were trying so hard to keep hidden. Like if they fight hard enough, they won’t have to admit they felt it too.

When the last man goes down, Russo stands there—chest heaving, eyes wild.

They turn back toward you. A beat passes.

“I’m gonna pretend you said that ‘cause you were bleeding out or had a concussion,” they say, voice cracking just a little. “And you’re gonna let me do that, yeah?”

You don’t answer.

Just watch as they step closer. Closer still.

Russo doesn’t kiss you.

But their hand brushes your shoulder as they move past, fingers curling like they want to hold on—then flattening into a fist at their side.

They mutter it so quietly, you almost miss it.

“Say it again when we’re not about to die.”

And then they’re gone, already storming toward the next building.

But their ears are red. And they don’t look back.

- - -

KIERAN/KIERA MYLES

You’re inside a mansion.

No—more like a rotting palace pretending it still matters. Cracked marble, columns held up by duct tape and delusion. The kind of place that used to host gala nights and governor handshakes, now stripped to its bones and taken over by men with hollow eyes and expensive guns.

You’re not supposed to be here. But neither is Myles.

You hadn’t planned it, but your leads crossed. A sting operation gone crooked. Surveillance cameras looping the wrong feeds. Now it’s just the two of you, ducking behind shattered statues and torn velvet curtains, fighting to stay one breath ahead of the crew you’ve both been hunting for months.

Glass shatters as someone fires from above.

Myles yanks you down, back colliding with theirs. You’re both crouched behind a pillar that’s already half-gone. Their voice is calm, but their breath hits your neck.

"You're bleeding."

You glance down. Shoulder wound. Deep, but not lethal. You’ll live.

You chuckle. "So are you."

Myles says nothing.

There’s smoke in the air. Dust. Gunpowder. The scent of their cologne still clinging to their coat, sharp and clean, like they planned for this moment even if they’ll never admit it.

They reload. You press a hand to your wound.

And then, for no reason at all—maybe because the world feels too loud, or maybe because Myles has this look like they’ll disappear the second it’s over—you speak.

"I’m in love with you, Myles."

It’s too soft.

Too honest.

You don’t know why you said it now, of all times. But the words are out there. Between the gunshots and the sirens and the flicker of failing chandeliers.

Myles freezes.

Just a breath. Just enough to register the blow.

They glance over their shoulder at you, eyes sharp as razors, lips parting—but no sound comes out. You’ve seen Myles composed during interrogations, smirking during firefights, unbothered while being hunted by half the city.

But this?

This cracks something in them.

"You're joking," they murmur, voice low. But there’s a flicker. Not amusement. Not disbelief. Something closer to fear.

You shake your head.

"I'm not."

Their stare could cauterize. Could kill. But it doesn’t.

They look away first.

Myles stands, gun drawn, movements stiff and precise like their entire system had to reboot. They fire at the men rounding the stairwell, three clean shots that send bodies toppling. But it’s different now.

Every twitch of their jaw. Every step they take.

They’re unraveling.

You follow, shoulder screaming with each breath. You reach the landing as Myles takes down another man with a brutal, sweeping blow—elegant and feral all at once. Their coat flares behind them like they planned for the dramatics.

They didn’t.

They’re rattled.

And when the last enemy falls, when it’s just the two of you again under the ruined glass dome, Myles turns.

Not their usual stance. No calculated poise. Just a person trying to hold themselves together with silk threads and pride.

"You don’t get to say things like that when I’m this exposed," they whisper. "That’s cruel."

You take a step closer.

Myles doesn’t move.

"It’s not a tactic," you murmur.

They laugh, quietly. It doesn’t reach their eyes.

Then—slowly—Myles steps forward. Closer than they should. Their gloved hand rises like they might touch you, but stops just shy of your cheek.

Their eyes search yours. Not with suspicion. Not even with caution.

With longing.

"You do realize I could get addicted to you, right?" they say, voice raw.

You nod, lips barely parted. "Yeah. I think I already am."

They don’t kiss you. That’s not how Myles works.

But they lean in.

And their breath brushes your ear like a secret, a sin, a promise.

Then they're gone—coat whipping behind them, rage and wonder knotted in their spine. But they don’t look back.

They don’t have to.

- - -

ALEX/ALEXI MONROE

It’s chaos.

Pure chaos.

The kind that tastes like copper and burns the back of your throat. Somewhere outside, a car alarm is shrieking. Inside the half-demolished apartment complex, you and Monroe are trapped in what used to be a laundry room, now nothing but rubble and steam. The tiles are cracked. The walls are damp with burst pipes and dirty rainwater.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

You were tailing one of the lower enforcers. Just watching. Just gathering intel. And then everything exploded—literally. A pipe bomb in the stairwell. Reinforcements swarming faster than either of you expected.

Now you’re fighting side by side, hearts pounding, soaked to the bone in heat and fury.

Monroe isn’t trained like you are.

But they’re quick. Smart. Desperate, in the way people get when they’re terrified and trying to protect someone else.

You.

They shove someone back with a rusted broom handle, breath ragged, foot slipping on the wet tile. You close the gap before the second attacker can swing—slam your elbow into his throat, feel the crunch, push him down and keep moving.

Monroe grabs your arm. Their voice is tight.

"You good?"

You nod. Blood’s running down your temple. Your lungs ache. But that’s not what gets to you.

It’s them.

The panic behind their eyes. The way they haven’t left your side even when they could’ve ran. The way they glance at you between every punch like they’re checking if you’re still breathing. Still here.

You don’t mean to say it. You don’t plan it.

But between the noise and the fists and the flickering fluorescent lights, it just spills out.

"I’m in love with you, Monroe."

Their head snaps toward you.

The world blurs. Slows.

Monroe stares like you hit them. Not physically—but somewhere worse. Their mouth parts slightly. Eyes wide. You think they stop breathing for a second.

"You—" Their voice breaks. They blink fast, like trying to erase what they just heard.

Another man swings at them from behind.

You intercept it, driving your fist into his solar plexus, then again, and again until he drops. You’re panting, vision starting to swim. You wipe the blood from your face with the back of your hand and look at them again.

"I said what I said."

Monroe drops the broom handle.

Their whole chest rises like they’ve just remembered how to inhale. Then they take a shaky step forward, close enough that you feel the warmth coming off them, even in this icy wet mess of a room.

"You really mean that?" they whisper.

You nod.

Monroe swallows hard.

"That’s..." They shake their head, overwhelmed. They reach out like they’re going to touch you, but their fingers hover—trembling. They pull back.

"This is the worst possible time for you to say something like that."

"I know."

"And still..."

They don’t finish. They can’t.

Instead, Monroe leans in. Not to kiss you. Just to rest their forehead against your shoulder. A quiet moment in the middle of ruin. Their breath shudders against your collarbone. Their fists clench and unclench at their sides like they’re trying not to fall apart.

You stand there, both of you bleeding, shaking, surrounded by steam and broken pipes.

And they whisper it into your shirt like a confession they don’t know how to live with.

"I think I’m in love with you too…”

- - -

ROWAN/RHEA CARTER

It’s a warzone.

Or close enough to it. Burned-out cars smolder in the alley behind you, still hissing smoke. The cracked pavement beneath your boots is wet with something that isn’t just rain. Sirens echo somewhere, far enough away to ignore. Close enough to feel like a warning.

You and Carter have been tracking this cell for weeks. One of the syndicate’s nastier arms—ideologues and black-market butchers with a penchant for “cleansing.” You were supposed to hit them before they moved the shipment. In. Out. Done.

But they were ready for you.

Now, you and Carter are fighting through what used to be a parking structure, half-collapsed, scattered with debris and broken steel. You move in rhythm. Strikes traded without words. One breath apart from each other, backs nearly touching.

And Carter—Carter is brutal.

When they fight, it’s not graceful. It’s furious. Efficient in the way someone becomes when they’ve lost too many people already.

There’s no room for error, no patience for show. Just fists, blood, and a righteous kind of rage. Like the world wronged them personally and they’re still collecting receipts.

You duck a swing, pivot behind the attacker and bring them down. Carter kicks another through a rusted railing—no hesitation, no wasted motion.

And yet… you catch them glance at you.

Just for a second. But it’s enough.

The way their brow furrows when they see you bleeding. The way they keep shifting toward your side when they don’t have to. It’s not tactical.

It’s protective.

And maybe that’s what does it.

The crack inside you that’s been waiting to split. The words you’ve been holding like broken glass in your throat. You don’t know why they come now—maybe because everything hurts. Maybe because Carter moves like the world is ending and you want to believe in something else, even for just a breath.

So when the last two attackers go down and there’s a heartbeat of silence in the dark—

You say it.

Soft. Grounded. Real.

“I’m in love with you, Carter.”

They freeze.

Completely.

Their hands lower. Their chest rises and falls, fast. Like someone trying to slow their heart with fury alone. They don’t even look at you—not at first. Just stare ahead at the shadows, like maybe they misheard. Or maybe if they ignore it, it won’t be true.

But you don’t move. Don’t flinch. Just watch them.

And when they finally turn to face you—oh.

It’s like looking at a storm that wants to hold something.

Their jaw is clenched tight. Eyes darker than usual. Burning in a way that has nothing to do with rage and everything to do with fear. Hope. Grief

"You shouldn’t say that."

You don’t respond.

They take a step closer, soaked in sweat and bruises and blood that might not all be theirs. Their voice drops—low, sharp, trembling.

"You don’t get to say that now. Not when I’ve spent every second trying not to feel anything. Not when you’re bleeding. Not when we still have a job to finish."

Another step.

"Because if you say that..." Their breath catches. "If you say it again, I’m not gonna be able to pretend I don’t feel the same."

The silence swells. Tight. Hot. Barely contained.

And then Carter reaches out—not rough, not demanding. Just... steady. Their hand brushes your arm like they’re anchoring themselves to something real.

"Say it again," they whisper.

"Say it like you mean it."

And you do.

You say it again, and this time Carter doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t run. Doesn’t fight it.

They just nod, once—and step forward into the wreckage, into the danger still ahead, with you at their side.

Because now? There’s something worth surviving for.

[beingdoomedbythenarrativeissexy]

hi rosi!

HELLO! ❤️

[ronearoundblindly]

hi :) idk if you’re open to writing right now, but if you are up to it, can you write something about any of steve and avenger/agent reader’s friends teasing the reader by getting her a pillow with steve’s face on it? everyone’s been teasing that they just get together already bc they’re super close, but they’re so shy lololol.

anyway, like steve walks in on her taking a nap either hugging the pillow or sleeping on it? thank u :,)

I fudged the setup a little, but I hope you still like it!

Warnings only for one mention of 'a**,' kissing, and some implied fantasizing, very vague. WC <2k...maybe, also not my greatest editing because there was none 🤫

Crash Closet, a Steve Rogers x agent!reader ficlet

It all started when a quinjet had to be emptied out in a hurry, and a bunch of jumpseats got shoved in a store room off the hangar bay.

They're seats, so people sat on them, laid across them, got comfy.

They brought in other pillows and blankets even after the seats themselves were reloaded in the jet. The purpose of the closet was established by then. No going back.

Since most of the time someone is trying to sleep, the lights are mainly off. The entire floor is littered with cushions of all textures, shapes, and sizes.

It's (going to be) glorious. All Steve can think about is falling face-first into the fluffy mess, but he can't get there yet. He regrets being himself today (tonight? what time is it?) because he had to be helpful, he had to supervise the off-loading of recovered weaponry, he had to do the full debriefing just to assure the newer agents that they handled themselves well.

Specifically, he was hoping to assure you, but he lost track of you somewhere between the containment lockers and labs an hour ago.

When Steve stops Nat and Sam outside the conference room to ask where you are, Natasha lets that too-friendly smile shine through and shrugs.

"Sent her to the crash closet," Sam offers. "Your girl looked rough--"

"She's not 'my girl," Steve quickly corrects while being ignored.

"--but I would too if I pulled my weight, and Perry's, and Cahill's."

"Real star power, that one." Nat taps the symbol in the middle of Steve's chest with sly smugness.

She's fishing, as she does repeatedly most days, and like most days, Steve's not falling for it.

"I'll...I'll let her sleep it off then."

Of course. Of course, you're already in the one place he wants to be. It's the chicken and the egg parable: if the comfortable room is where you usually crash, does Steve go to the room because it's comfortable or because you in the room makes it comfortable?

"Huh..." Sam scratches his head for a moment before turning to Nat. "Did you check her for a concussion? I plum forgot to have her eval-ed once we landed." He meets Steve's eye with admirably fake innocence. "She took that hit for Jeff Cahill, you know."

Steve blinks, looking back and forth between his extremely meddling friends.

Sam makes a good point. Steve should be helpful and check on you, just to be safe.

He carefully says goodnight while avoiding more suggestive jeering--not because he's fast enough to be out of earshot but because Steve refuses to listen.

He's sick of hearing it. He's sick of how he's acting even, but he can't seem to go any farther or do any more with you than he already does.

Steve loves your presence because his mind goes blank. He can relax around you. He can settle, mentally, which is problematic because his mind is blank and saying he can "settle with you" sends a thoroughly wrong message.

Most people make Steve Rogers feel he needs to be someone: a hero, a soldier, a symbol, and it's exhausting since Steve does try to live up to expectations as realistically as he can. You, however, have never made him feel there's some nebulous thing he need to live up to. You were respectful, polite, and kind, with light-hearted humor and mission seriousness in due balance.

You're refreshing. Of course Steve gravitates towards the refreshing.

Shoot.

He's walking weird.

He slows down, so it doesn't give the impression he's rushing, and Steve tries to casually acknowledge the few straggling employees along the way. He's deliberate to keep his hands neutral, not clenched or crossed, until reaching for the door handle, until the hallway light falls across your prone body, and then he forgets to spend subconscious energy on himself.

A hodgepodge of plush and padding surrounds you, as expected, but Steve is looking at his own 2-D face pressed to yours, your hand laying gently against his printed chest, and your leg thrown over his undivided legs.

You look like an angel when you sleep. He's never been so awake when seeing it though.

He stops breathing until a soft voice behind him says, "excellent. She found the surprise."

Steve quickly turns, pulling the door mostly closed without clicking the bolt, leaning to Natasha's level and whispering.

"Do you think she--"

Nat shakes her head, smiling. "All I mentioned was a new body pillow in there." She raises her hands defensively. "Do I think she knows it's got your body on it? No," Nat snorts, "pretty sure the pitch black obscured that fact."

"You put my--"

"Made one of her, too. If you're interested."

"You...put her on a life-size pillow?" Steve gets only a knowing tilt of the head. "Why?!"

"Equality," Nat snips, "and because I am great at presents. Oh, and because I got twenty percent off for ordering two."

Steve makes a point to flash a "you're insane" glare at long-time, self-appointed matchmaker.

Nat's face falls.

"Gosh, buddy, you look tired. You should take a load off. I know just the--"

She kicks the door, handle slipping unexpectedly from his grip, the other end slamming with a bang against the opposite wall.

You bolt upright, both palms braced on the star stitched over a padded uniform. "I'm ready," you shout. "What's the situation?"

Steve panics, frantically searching around him for the person to blame, but Nat is nowhere to be seen. While he does that, however, your eyes adjust to the splash of light.

"What the--shit!" You scramble backward only to fall on your ass, gaining zero traction in all the fabric.

You and Steve both point to the offending object. "I didn't do that" is shouted simultaneously.

"Is that a joke?!" you screech.

He hesitates. "Would it be...funnier knowing there's one of you somewhere around here?"

Steve's too busy staring at you staring at him to notice the door slowly shutting behind him until the room in plunged into darkness again.

You whisper, harsh with alarm, "there's a thing with my body on it, too?"

"Wow...that sounds much worse than I meant it to," he mumbles. "Didn't mean to wake you. Just--I just wanted to make sure you were--Sam said you got your bell rung pretty good?"

The pitch black proves thick in addition to all consuming.

"Yeah." There's a long pause. "I'm fine."

He'd believe you if Steve hadn't purposefully listened to everything you've ever said near him. A slight waver in your voice makes it very clear you are lying to him. He attempts to reach out, to assure you that injuries are not weaknesses, but in that single-minded focus, he forgets about the pile beneath his feet.

Steve tumbles forward, landing not a gesture of comfort but squarely on top of you.

Well, he did want to fall face first into the cushions, right? The you under him part is usually in the dreams he has after going to sleep though. He also has no practiced comment for this not being an...enthusiastically consensual position.

"Sorry" is the best Steve comes up with as he flounders and flails for solid ground.

Once he manages to push his weight off of you, your hands still rest on his chest, his real chest. He can't even see you, and yet you hold this power over him.

"You--" you breathe shakily "--aren't as soft as the other guy."

"Sorry," he repeats, accidentally perching on a knee which hitches at the apex of your legs.

"But just as comfy..."

God, he wishes he could see you.

"What?" He heard you. "I'm--you think I'm--"

"Yeah."

Steve's fist clenches in response, but that dislodges whatever props him up. Though he stays suspended above you, he shifts until his hand lands on your waist--he'd swear the move simply paints a picture of his bearings while his eyes fail him,--and his fingers spread greedily.

Aside from training and a handshake greeting, he's never gotten to touch you.

"Well, if I wasn't concussed before..." you drawl.

"No! Did you--?" Steve immediately cradles the back of your head, ignoring the climb of your hold to behind his neck, too.

You say his name a few times. "I'm joking. I'm just joking." Both thumbs sweep through his short hair. "You're easy to mess with, ya know."

It's easy to like you when you talk to him like that. Steve fights to keep his mind from slipping into that happy void, but more imagination is required than usual. He settles for the first retort to pop in.

"I think pillow-you might be nicer to me."

You laugh. "I'm not nice to you? You want me to be nicer to you, Steve?"

His hints are the drop in your voice as you tease him and the subtle lift of your head in his hand. Steve jumps to meet your lips halfway, filling the empty space in his mind with all his dreams come true. He doesn't need to see. He's pictured this so many times.

Your back arches. He slots to the right, so his nose isn't in the way. You let his tongue slide past, unimpeded. It's his dream.

He's lost in dreamland so long Steve hardly realizes you are losing steam, sighing and gasping in his arms, lazily groping around.

Shoot.

This often happens with the serum; he doesn't get tired like the average human, and though he would never describe you as 'average,' you have had a long day, a minor injury, and a vigorous session of...well, Steve's too gentlemanly to label it anything other than 'kissing,' perhaps 'necking.'

He ducks his head to break your lips apart (reluctantly), feeling the pounding of your heart through your ribcage. "You need sleep."

You absently nuzzle him. "Okay. You're right. Hand me my pillow, will you?"

Steve bristles even as he laughs, jabbed playful by your elbow.

He rolls onto his back, easily pulling you to his side, letting you settle against him in the same way as his light model decoy. It's a good settling. He's settling with you.

"I think I should stay here," he whispers, sinking into the pillows. "Keep an eye on your head."

You thank him, laying your palm over his sternum which he then pins with his own hand.

It's a start, a good settling, together.

"Sweet dreams, star. You'll see me when you wake."

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Steve Rogers One-Shots]

A/N: yes, I put in some cheeky easter eggs for the diehards 😏

[l3viat8an]

Lucifer is just so in love and obsessed with you. not in a scary way or anything- but in a very soft way, just melting completely whenever the simplest, everyday things remind him of his little lamb you.

it can be anything, really, maybe he sees your favorite pastry in a bakery or something in a shop window he thinks you’d like or maybe he simply passes somebody in the street that has the same hair color as you.

and before he can stop himself, Lucifer is reaching into his pocket for his phone to call you a soft little smile on his face. even if he can only hear your voice for a few seconds it’ll make his day so much better <3

[lovesdove]

haiiii couldp i request a manebu or wemmro….

wemmro.

sorry this is late hehe I had a lot more on my plate than I thought I did 🤧 but now I am trying to get to the asks and junk :33

but here u are, cute cute wemmbu and ro :3 fireworks date and creatureism

[fableforger]

ROs react to playful!MC feeling silly+affectionate and “attacking” them with kisses all over their face? Bonus points for what the RO might have done to provoke such apocalytic levels of cuteness aggression 😌

Thank you so much for the ask! It was a lot of fun to think about. 🤗 For this scenario, I’m imagining that the MC and each RO are already in a committed, loving relationship.

So, let's go:

Beware: Since this is a RO-related ask, there may be minor spoilers ahead. Please keep scrolling if you’d prefer to stay unspoiled.

..............................................................................................................................

Alexos/Alexa: They did something incredibly thoughtful and selfless for you - without saying a word, and without expecting anything in return. So you can’t help yourself. You have to show them how much you love them.

They react with startled tension. Blink. Blink. A single: “What are you -?” And then they go completely still - warm, quiet beneath your touch.

They don’t stop you. They wouldn’t dare. But when you finally pull back, they’re flushed, stunned - and holding onto you just a little tighter.

“…Okay. That was… uncalled for. But not unwelcome.”

---

Theron/Thera They looked at you with that soft little smile and whispered, “I have the feeling I was always destined to meet you.” And you can’t let them just say that. Not without a reaction.

So you give them one.

They laugh - genuine, light, a little surprised. They tilt their head into the kisses, eyes half-lidded, a breathy, dreamy: “More?”

You make them glow. And they let it happen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“If this is the price I have to pay for saying that, I’ll pay it gladly.”

---

Rhaelos/Rhaela They handed you something simple - like tea, or your favorite snack - without a word. Just that look. That look. The one that says your well-being is always their first priority.

And you can’t hold back anymore. They gave you something - so you're giving something back.

When you do, they go completely still. Not resisting - just processing. One brow lifts, slowly. Because, well… you’re kissing them. A lot.

When it’s over, they blink once and say, deadpan: “I suppose I deserved this.”

You’re not entirely sure if they meant it as punishment or reward.

...But they do pull you back in. Very gently. Very deliberately.

---

Dorian/Dione They teased you with that stupidly charming smirk and said, “You’re cute when you pout.”

So you decide to punish them. Oh, they want cute? You’ll give them cute.

They start cackling - melting - fighting back with a dramatic gasp and flailing limbs: “Ah! Betrayed! Attacked by affection! Is nothing sacred?”

They take off running, but it’s all mock flight - and you’re already chasing after them, grinning like a storm.

---

Drakon He said something smug - “I know you want me.” And then winked.

So sure of himself. So infuriatingly confident. Just once, you want to throw him off balance. Surprise him. And since he’s so certain you can’t resist him... You don’t.

You launch yourself at him.

His reaction comes in perfect order: Confused. Amused. Very, very still. Then - a low, pleased growl as you kiss every inch of that maddeningly arrogant face.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice like heat, “only you get to do that. Anyone else would be on the floor by now.”

You like the way he says it. Because now you get to feel a little smug.

And if you try to leave - he pulls you right back in.

---

Zephiron/Zephyra They saw right through you.

Caught that spark in your eyes, the one you thought you’d hidden, and said something infuriatingly observant like, “You always look like that when you’re planning something.” With that knowing grin.

You hate that you can never surprise them. But you’ll never stop trying.

So you launch your attack: kisses. Everywhere.

They inhale sharply. Then laugh - soft, breathy, delighted. And their arms close around your waist as you kiss them into silence.

“So that was your plan,” they murmur.

And then they kiss you back. Fewer places. But with far more precision than should be legal.

---

??? She started this war.

She was the one who ambushed you first- peppering you with kisses so fast and so many you could barely breathe. So when she finally pulls back, laughing and breathless -

You immediately return fire.

She squeals. Instantly. Laughing, gasping, clinging to you like you're both about to fly.

“Wait – wait – stop - no don’t stop - aaaaaah!”

She’s absolutely delighted.

But don’t get cocky - she will retaliate. Tenfold. There will be chaos. There will be spinning. Something will get knocked over.

And it will be perfect.

[infamous-if]

Learning about G’s and Vic’s last names made me wonder which RO’s speak a second language and what kinds??

G is conversational in Italian, O is fluent in Korean, Seven understands Spanish better than they speak it, which isn't very well. They can probably keep up a conversation if they try hard enough!