#something something you can’t change the past by yourself

[angelicangelz]

husband!ghost x wife!reader

NSFW- mdni- because this was requested!

You knew your husband had quite the history. Obviously he was in the military, a lieutenant nonetheless. Something he swore he’d do until he’d die- most likely out on the field.

He never meant to settle down. He was voted least likely to ever have a life outside the 141. So him telling the force he was getting married was a bigger shock to them than anything they’d experienced out.

He knew from the second he saw you that you’d change him. That he had to change to even get you to be near him. You were nothing if not an his perfect angel. He couldn’t ruin you like he had the others.

So you had never seen that wild, feral side of him. He had always been quite gentle and loving when it came to you. Flowers, holding hands, opening car doors. He got you everything you wanted.

He made love to you, had sex with you. But never did he really fuck you. Not like he used to anyways. You were his angel! His perfect angel didn’t want to be destroyed! Right?

“Want you to fuck me Si” you whisper breathlessly into his ear, and Simon feels the blood rush straight to his cock. “Fuck me like you used to”

Yes, he was surprised. But who was he to deny you? His angel! Only if you were a little more careful with what you wish for!

His touches quickly turned to gropes, squeezing your tits and waist and thighs and ripping your panties off instead of taking the time to slide them down your legs. There’s no time to take off your shirt and unclip your bra! He simply pulls your shirt up and lets your tits spill out of the cups.

The protection he was usually fond of? Forgotten. His fingers slip between your folds as if he had no time to spare. One, two, then three fingers plunging into your wet hole as his thumb rubs quick circles over your clit.

You feel a haze of pleasure well within you. Simon acted so quick, there was no time to adjust or even think. You mindlessly whine when he pulls his fingers out, and nearly choke when he shoves them into your mouth to taste yourself.

“Doin’ so well for me birdie”. “Ya like that? A good girl being treated like the true slut she is?”

You’re embarrassed at how wet it gets you. Your dear husband had never dared to speak to you like this. And though you enjoyed the praise, this was a whole different kind of hot all over.

You can’t even answer him before he shoves his fat cock inside you, his tip hitting your cervix. All you could do was whine and moan and drool around his fingers.

He comes before you do, something unusual but for some reason it only made everything more pleasing. His hot seed spills into you, and he comes so hard and so much it drips past his cock right back out of your pussy. Without warning you come too, back arching off the bed and toes curling.

You always loved your husband. But right now you were convinced you had found some new form of it. And all you could think of was the things you’d lure him into doing to you next.

—

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[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I WISH I WAS YOUR GIRL

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you don't know why dazai has suddenly become so standoffish with you the last week—there's something that everyone isn't telling you, but you can't even bring yourself to make that your biggest concern. you're just so at your limits with the back and forth with him that you can't concentrate on anything else. mishima is hosting a ball is this evening and you think that this is it: if things are going to happen between the two of you, it'll be tonight or it'll be never. you can't wait forever on someone who's just going to string you along the rest of his life. you won't.

(wordcount: 6.3k; fem!reader, sfw but a bit of tension, angsty)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: hihihihiiiiiii guys ^.^ happy friday. we've gotta angsty fic for tonight. i fear this one does not end happily but TRUST the universe does <33 but angst is necessary to move the plot forward. the price you pay for a happy ending is an angsty path there. specially dedicated to my beloved sophie who hates angst <33 happy birthday luvr

You are severely unhappy.

You finished getting dressed almost an hour ago, but you still haven’t left your room. You’re sitting at your vanity staring at yourself—you’ve changed your jewelry three times already, and you’re about to change it a fourth. It’s not that you’re not satisfied with how you look, it’s more that you’re just frustrated and fidgety.

More than that, you’re upset. Dazai hasn’t spoken to you in a week, and you don’t even know why. It has something to do with the incident that happened a week ago with the child called Kyusaku, but you’re not sure what because you don’t know what was real and what was concocted by the child’s ability after you were affected by it. 

As much as Dazai likes to pretend to be aloof and unbothered, he’s easily worked up by small things, and he’s been upset with you before, but never like this. He’ll usually sulk where he knows you’ll see him and wait for you to ask him what’s wrong so he can use the opportunity to guilt you into watching a shitty movie or going out to buy him snacks. 

But this? Radio silence. He came up to your apartment once when you weren’t here to do his laundry and was gone before you got back. You don’t even know where he’s been staying, because you went looking for him at the shipping container and he wasn’t there. You don’t know what happened. You guys were good, more than good—you really thought that maybe the two of you were making progress past this awkward more than friends, not lovers stage, but now it’s back to square one. Worse than square one, because at least at square one, he was still talking to you.

A low whistle comes from the entrance to your room and you raise your eyebrows as you look up in the mirror, catching sight of Chuuya leaning against the doorframe, head tilted to the side as he observes you. He’s already dressed up—out of his normal outfit and in a sleek black suit instead, he looks different without his hat, but you don’t even have it in you to make a teasing comment about it. You can’t help the disappointment that clogs your throat at the sight of him: you’d still been holding out hope that Dazai would show up. 

“I forgot how nice you cleaned up,” Chuuya murmurs. “It’s been a minute since we attended an event together.”

You turn in your seat to face him, eyes roving over his form once before you say, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your hat. I almost thought you might be balding beneath it.”

Chuuya instantly rolls his eyes as he pushes himself off the door frame to make his way over to you. You give him a simpering smile as you look up at him, but you can tell it doesn’t reach your eyes from the way he frowns at you. He reaches out to straighten the necklace you’re wearing and then holds a gloved hand out to help you up, ever the gentlemen.

Even though it’s unnecessary, you still take it and sigh as you rise to your feet, smoothing out your dress once you’re upright. You look up at him and ask, “I take it you’re the one escorting me tonight.”

“Don’t sound too pleased,” Chuuya replies dryly, holding out his arm for you. You sigh as you hold his bicep loosely, making your way to the elevator. “He still hasn’t talked to you?”

“Not once,” you answer bitterly. “I thought for sure he would get over whatever his problem is to be my escort tonight, but I guess not. I don’t even know what happened, Chuuya. I feel like people just aren’t telling me something.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, your gaze is cutting to the side to observe Chuuya’s reaction. He grimaces instantly and averts his gaze, and you take in a deep breath, realizing you hit it right on the nail. What the hell are they hiding from you? You know now isn’t the time to get into it, but you make a note in the back of your head to do some snooping as to what really happened during the incident last week. 

“Interesting,” you say, just to let Chuuya know that he needs to work on his poker face. He catches the implication and sends you a scowl, but you only raise your eyebrows at him with a small smile, waiting for the elevator to come up to your apartment. “He’s not coming tonight at all then?”

“No, he’s coming,” Chuuya corrects absently and the smile on your face freezes.

“Is that so?” you ask tightly. “Who is he attending with then?”

Chuuya gives you a long, knowing look as the elevator gets to your floor, holding it open and waiting for you to step in before joining you. You’re tense as you wait for his answer, and you know he’s getting back for the balding comment with how long he’s taking to give you it.

“No one,” he finally says, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Chuuya barks out a laugh. “Jesus, you’re so embarrassing—get yourself together. Who the fuck would actually be his date? No one wants to get within ten feet of him.”

You give Chuuya a withering look and then reply primly, “I would.”

“The entire Mafia knows that,” Chuuya says dryly, making your face hot. “You make me sick.”

“Likewise,” you scoff and pointedly look away from him. After a few seconds pass, you ask, “Are you sure he’s not bringing anyone?” 

Chuuya groans. “What would it even change if he does?” he asks, which does not settle your nerves at all. “You’re just going to work yourself up thinking about it.”

“It changes whether or not I’m going to have Akutagawa Ryuunosuke on standby to eliminate a potential threat to Dazai’s life,” you say with a sweet smile. “Assassins come in many forms, but most frequently in dates at big events. We shouldn’t take that risk with our most valuable executive, naturally.”

Chuuya’s jaw drops as he fully turns to look at you. “Sometimes, I wonder why you like that fucked up bastard so much, and it’s only very rarely that I’m reminded that you’re just as evil as he is.”

“I’m kidding,” you complain, waving him off. Although, now that the thought is in your head, it’s becoming increasingly more appealing. “I think.”

The elevator doors slide back open and Chuuya holds his arm out for you again. You take it, lifting your hand to wave at Hinata, an older man who's been working with the Port Mafia since longer than you’ve been alive. He ran with Hirotsu in the Black Lizards before he was hurt on a mission and put on desk duty—you stole him from Mori when you came back from Kyoto. On paper, he’s just your doorman, but he’s helped you a lot with mission planning the past year and a half; you honestly contribute half of your success to his experience.

“Good luck tonight, hime, Nakahara-san,” Hinata says as the two of you make your way out of the building.

You let out an exaggerated sigh and toss your head to the side to look back at him with a smile. “Hinata-san, you should come and be my date instead of this bum.”

“Why am I always catching strays from you?” Chuuya scowls, but you ignore him as you flutter your eyelashes at Hinata, who only laughs at you.

“I’m far too old for that to work on me, hime,” Hinata replies. “I’ll have the scout reports from Sapporo ready by the time you get back tonight.”

“My hero,” you sing. “Thank you.”

You wave at him one last time before leaving the building with Chuuya. As soon as you’re out of sight, your smile drops and Chuuya gives you a concerned look, stopping before the two of you can get in the car so he can turn to look at you head on.

“Do you think he’ll show up with someone to spite me?” you ask quietly. 

You know Dazai—he doesn’t like feeling wounded, so when he does, he lashes out tenfold. He gets cruel and vicious, and because he’s Dazai, he knows exactly what to do to make people hurt more than he does. You don’t know what you did to upset him, but it has you on edge now because it will hurt if he shows up with someone else, knowing that you were waiting for him back at your apartment.

Chuuya says your name quietly, and because it’s not an immediate ‘no’, you know that he knows that Dazai might very well stoop that low to hurt you. You swallow thickly and look away—it’s fine. You’ll act unbothered, you have an appearance to keep up and that’s more important than anything. And anyway, it’ll hurt him even more when he doesn’t get the reaction he wants from you.

“Hey, look,” Chuuya says, forcing your attention back on him. “Dazai’s being a fucking dick, alright? But what else is new? You look beautiful—make him regret that you’re not coming in on his arm, yeah?” 

You smile softly and look away before saying, “It’s unnerving when you’re sweet.”

You don’t have to look at Chuuya to know he’s rolling his eyes at you. You hear him open the car door for you and sigh as you look back over to him.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go.”

———

As always, your entrance is something to marvel over. It never fails to be the highlight of the night, and it’s only more of a spectacle when you enter on the arm of Nakahara Chuuya. 

Lingering looks in your direction, wary stares in his—you’re grateful that he came to escort you, because if you’d come alone, you would’ve swarmed with suitors as soon as you got down the steps. Chuuya is not quite as much of a deterrent as Dazai would’ve been, if only because Chuuya won’t actually kill someone in the middle of Mishima’s ball and nobody can ever be sure of what Dazai is capable of, but his presence and reputation will keep unwanted annoyances away for most of the night at least. 

By the end of the night, they’ll get more desperate for a conversation, and only Dazai and Mori himself are capable of keeping them away from you at that point, unless Chuuya steps up his game, of course, but he has as much of an appearance to keep up as you do. You’re not looking forward to it—your eyes keep darting up to the ticking clock, knowing each passing second draws closer to suffering. 

You didn’t even want to come tonight. You weren’t going to come, you’d gone to quite the lengths trying to fake being sick, and you thought you succeeded until Mori messaged you this morning telling you that you could either come to the event or go deal with Shikibu Murasaki’s little stunt in Sapporo that has your biggest weapon supplier backing out on your next shipment. Since he knew very well you didn’t want to deal with that, the only option was to come to the ball—someone must’ve ratted you out to him, but you don’t know who. You almost think it must’ve been Chuuya, because Dazai hasn’t spoken to you in over a week.

You still haven’t seen him, which you suppose is a good thing because if he was going to shove in your face that he came here with someone else, then he would’ve done it by now. You aren’t even sure if he’s here; you’ve tried to keep an eye out for him, positioning yourself in a way that your gaze can always stray to the edges of the room in hopes of catching sight of him, but you haven’t seen him at all in the three hours that you’ve been here.

You’re standing with Chuuya and two of Mishima’s daughters now. Noriko keeps trying to shift closer to you, lashes fluttering and lips curled up into a soft smile. Usually, you would entertain the girl—she’s pretty, and at the very least, makes for entertaining conversation, which is more than you can say for the rest of the Sun and Steel upper echelon, but you’re so occupied with Dazai that she can hardly hold your attention for more than a few seconds.

“I haven’t seen him at all tonight,” you say quietly when Mishima himself comes over to your small group, a stern expression on his face as he beckons his daughters over before giving both you and Chuuya an apologetic look. “Have you?” 

“No,” Chuuya says, taking a sip of his champagne as he leans against the wall. “I know he said he was coming though.”

Your expression twists in annoyance as you take in a deep breath. Your glass is empty, and usually, there are people circling to keep them full—your old mentor always used to warn you not to fall for the trap. The hosts of events always like to liquor up the attendees; drunker you are, the looser your lips, and you’re usually quite careful to keep it to one drink and never finish your second.

Tonight, you are on your fifth. Dangerous work, because you’re still going to have to entertain people when they inevitably start coming up to you—which is any minute now, you can feel the lingering stares and you can see how people are creeping closer. But you’re just so bothered by everything with Dazai that every time you finish a glass, you’re seeking out the next to try to numb your nerves.

“You know something,” you accuse quietly, giving Chuuya a cold side-eye. He stiffens, but neither confirms nor denies, which is a confirmation in itself. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“I can’t,” Chuuya says tightly, and you raise your eyebrows because you expected him to say ‘it’s not for me to say’ like he usually does when he feels like you should hear something from someone else. He can’t, does that mean… “I just…”

“You can’t because you’ve been ordered not to,” you realize, face shifting in confusion. “Mori ordered you not to. What happened during the incident last week, Chuuya?” 

The expression that crosses Chuuya’s face is haunted, and it makes your mouth dry, because what the hell happened and why is no one telling you the truth? You don’t even get the chance to badger him about it, because Noriko and Michiko are coming back over, both of them looking incredibly displeased by whatever their father said.

“He’s so annoying,” Noriko complains, immediately clinging to your arm and resting her head against your bicep dramatically. “You two are so lucky that you don’t have parents to helicopter you like he does.”

You and Chuuya immediately exchange a look at her words, and even Michiko cringes a little, but you otherwise don’t react beyond just trying to not roll your eyes. These girls are so out of touch with reality that it’s almost concerning, but they, more than anyone else at this event, have loose lips that you like to take advantage of.

“No,” you sigh lightly, “I only have Mori. Somehow, I feel that’s worse.”

Noriko giggles like you’ve said the funniest thing in the world, and you miss Dazai desperately. At least him being here would have Mishima’s daughters acting a little more subdued, would maybe even chase them off. You don’t like how they act around him because you know it used to bother him, but you’re not gonna complain when you could be benefiting from it if he wasn’t being an ass.

She starts to say something else, but before she can, Chuuya’s eyes shoot open as he looks at something behind you. You instantly straighten, turning your head to follow his gaze and your breath catches when it lands on just who you thought would draw that reaction from Chuuya.

Dazai.

He’s finally made his appearance, and you can’t draw your eyes away from him. He never gets dressed up for these events like you and Chuuya do, so he’s still wearing that same black three-piece suit he wears every day, just without the dark trench coat he usually wears over it. He’s leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest and a cold expression on his face as he stares in your direction. He doesn’t meet your gaze, but he does stare at where Noriko is clinging to your arm, lip twitching in irritation; Noriko seems to notice too from the way she lets go of your arm and tries to casually shift away from you, an annoyed look on her face as she does.

You hear her let out a noise of disgust, side-eyeing in Dazai’s direction, and you raise your eyebrows at her pointedly. You know that it was directed toward Dazai’s sudden appearance, but you’re not about to sit here and let that slide, so you turn a cool look onto her in response. Noriko instantly looks down to the ground, an ashamed look crossing her face—not for the disparaging attitude toward Dazai, but for being obvious enough for you to notice it.

You feel a bit more tense now as you force your attention off of Dazai back to Chuuya, who exchanges a short look with you before pointedly glancing over to where one of Mishima’s newer executives, Ibuse Masuji is whispering with one of his colleagues, looking in your direction a bit too frequently for comfort. He’s going to come over and ask you for a dance soon, probably around the same time Michiko starts tugging Chuuya in the direction of the hardwood floor at the center of the room—Noriko won’t ask you now that Dazai is here.

Wonderful, you think to yourself bitterly. You don’t really want to deal with Ibuse tonight, but you suppose you’ll probably get better information from him than Noriko. Noriko likes to ramble about more general gossip—who’s sleeping with who, who’s mad at who, and all of that is useful to an extent when you need to figure out what’s going on with Sun and Steel internal politics, but Ibuse has loose lips about more meaningful matters, and you’ve heard some nerve-wracking rumors about the Red Chamber recently.

The things you do for the Port Mafia. 

You straighten your necklace, gaze lifting to Chuuya again as you withhold a sigh. You can see Ibuse starting to make his way across the event hall in your direction, and Chuuya gives you a pitying smile that instantly freezes as his eyes pin to something behind you again. You also freeze, because you know it could only mean one thing.

Dazai is coming over.

You raise your eyebrows at him pointedly, wanting to know whether or not Dazai’s approach is a good or bad one—if he’s coming over to finally address you, or if he’s coming over so he can more blatantly ignore you. Each one is equally possible, and the way Chuuya grimaces and shrugs only makes your anxiety spike more.

But you get your answer as soon as he arrives.

You inhale sharply when you feel Dazai’s fingers brush over your hip as he comes to stand directly behind you. You can feel his chest brushing your back, his presence warm and looming directly behind you. With his sudden arrival, the conversation happening between Noriko and Michiko comes to an abrupt halt, and you can see Ibuse freeze mid-step from where he was drawing closer to you. The two girls avert their gaze to the ground, not acknowledging Dazai, and it irritates you, they’ve never hidden how unnerved Dazai makes them, and though you don’t think it bothers him anymore, you know very well it used to. 

Your throat spasms when Dazai’s hand settles more firmly on your hip, and you turn your head slightly to the side to look up at him, breath catching when you find that his gaze is already lidded and focused on you, visible eye far too dark and tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Dance with me,” Dazai murmurs, only for you to hear.

“You want to dance?” you ask, a bit incredulously, trying not to be hyper-focused on how he’s touching you. You don’t know what has gotten into him, but it has your heart racing. “Dazai, what-”

“Dance with me.” 

It’s not a request, you realize, taking in a sharp breath as his gaze becomes more intense. You can feel curious eyes on you from around the room; it’s to be expected, it’s you and Dazai. Of everyone here, the two of you always have the most eyes on you at all times, but it’s different now. 

Dazai usually keeps to himself during events, he wanders up and down the length of the room, keeping to the edges to observe what’s happening unless he’s looking for information from someone. He really stays true to his moniker, a black wraith haunting the shadows and keeping everyone on edge. You can’t remember the last time he willingly stepped out of them to interact with people, much less engage in things like dancing.

“Okay,” you agree quietly, not even bothering to look back at your previous companions as Dazai’s hand slides from your hip to your lower back, guiding you to the hardwood floor where several other couples are already swaying along to the music being played by the quintet in the corner of the room. “What’s gotten into you?”

Dazai doesn’t answer your question, looking down at you from the corner of his eye for a moment before looking back ahead. He doesn’t have to search for a spot on the dance floor—as soon as people realize that’s where he’s headed, they’re quick to leave a wide berth for the two of you, no one wanting to get too close to the most infamous Port Mafia executive.

Your heart races as he leads you to the center of the hardwood floor. Though you can feel dozens of eyes pinned on the two of you, all you can focus on is him. You can hardly breathe when he turns to face you, one hand resting on your hip while he holds the other out for you to take. You swallow thickly as you place your hand into his. He entwines your fingers with his instead of the traditional palm-to-palm, and he pulls you toward him so that your chests are brushing. You’re so close to him that you catch the faint and familiar scent of smoke and iron and it makes you dizzy.

Distantly, you know that this probably isn’t smart. If people think that you and Dazai are together, it will only be harder for you to get information from them. They’ll be wary around you in fear of him, and you’re not even sure if your ability will be enough to counteract the anxiety he triggers in people. You shouldn’t be risking that just for a dance, but…

But you can never think straight when he’s around, even less when his skin is warm against yours, and the way he’s looking at you… His dark eye is heavy with so many emotions, too many for you to even place a single one—you’ve always been good at reading people, but never him, and now, more than ever, you wish you could. You want to know what he’s thinking. You want to know what he’s feeling. You want to know him, because as much as you claim you do, you know that he masks himself from you. You want to ask him again—what’s gotten into you? Why have you been avoiding me? But you think it’ll scare him off, so instead, you ask:

“When did you learn to dance? Today?”

He’s better than you thought he would be. He effortlessly spins you across the dancefloor. Each step is quick and precise—you’ve had training in this type of dancing, but you still struggle a little to keep up with him. Though, you think it’s less because of your own skill, and more because of who exactly your partner is.

“What makes you think I haven’t known how?” Dazai drawls, voice low and languid, dark eye glittering with amusement. His grip on your hand tightens just a little as he pulls you into a half-spin. He presses when you don’t immediately respond, “Hm?” 

“Because you’re you,” you finally answer with a fleeting smile. “So? When did you learn?”

“Tonight,” he tells you. “I’ve been watching them.”

“Hah,” you say—of course he’s this good just through observation. Ever the mirror. “You better not embarrass me.”

“Like this?” he asks with a smile that puts you on edge, and you give him a dirty look when he purposely takes a wrong step, forcing you to overstep in order to not land on his foot. You’re careful to make it look casual—a wider turn rather than a misstep—but with the number of eyes currently on the two of you, you know very well that people probably caught it. His apology comes in the form of an airy, “Whoops,” that you know he doesn’t mean.

His lips curl up into a smug smile, and your breath catches when you feel his hand slide from your hip to your low back so he can pull your body flush to his for the next turn. Your throat spasms as you tilt your head back to look up at him, and again, there’s that unreadable look in his eye as his eyes rove over your face. 

“Why?” you finally brave yourself to ask, voice quiet and too breathy for your liking. You don’t specify what the why is, and that’s intentional, this way he can pick what he wants to answer and won’t feel as cornered by the question. 

His visible eye narrows for a moment, and then something akin to reluctance spreads across his face, and then resignation. You wonder if he’ll answer, hardly even able to breathe as you wait for him to speak. But after a few tense moments, disappointment hits you hard, because a teasing smile spreads across his lips and you know he’s going to evade the question.

Still, your heart races when Dazai dips you down, lowering his face so that his lips brush your ear as he says, “You looked like you were bracing yourself for a bullet with Ibuse getting ready to come over. Figured I’d rescue you.”

Though the music continues, Dazai doesn’t lift you from the dip. He does pull his face back so that he can look you in the eye. He’s so close to you that you can feel his warm breath fanning across your lips and it leaves you dizzy. The look in his eye now—you almost want to dare to believe you know what it is—it’s too close to the same emotion you feel whenever the two of you are curled up on the couch watching a movie. It’s too similar to longing, yearning, the desperate need for more, the desire to be yours just as badly as you want to be his, but you don’t want to get your hopes up when you know he can crush them in an instant.

His gaze drops down to your lips and then drags back up to your face, and you know he won’t kiss you, not in front of all of the eyes currently pinned on the two of you. Not in front of Mori. It’s nice to imagine though.

“Is that really why?” you breathe out, eyes searching his for an answer.

Something new crosses his face—it’s sharp and it’s angry, something that promises violence, not toward you, but toward the one who provoked it. His gaze cuts to the side briefly in the direction of where Ibuse Masuji is still standing frozen in the middle of the event hall, staring at the two of you, and then he looks back down at you, lips tilted up into a wry smile. 

“Partially,” he says, but doesn’t give you the chance to question any further, finally pulling you up from the dip to fall in line with the last steps of the dance. 

He turns you so that your back is pressed to his chest, palm cupping the back of your hand, fingers interlaced. His free hand slides around to your abdomen, holding your body flush to his. The music slows as the song comes to an end, but Dazai doesn’t release you. You turn your head to the side and tilt your head back to look up at him, inhaling when you find that he’s already looking at you, dark hair hanging in his lidded eye as he watches you.

“Are you… coming home tonight?” you finally ask, voice soft and hesitant.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, but his eye is glittering playfully, so you know that he’ll be home waiting for you by the time you get done at the event. He always manages to leave early—no one has the nerve to try to stop him. He dips his head a bit lower, lips ghosting your ear as he says, “You should thank me, you won’t have to worry about anyone else bothering you tonight.”

He finally lets go of you, your arms fall limp to your side and your breath is a bit too shaky for comfort. He tosses a wink in your direction before shoving his hands in his pockets and making his way back toward the outskirts of the room.

And he’s right—for the rest of the night, not a single person dared to approach you.

———

Even though you’re fairly certain Dazai will be there waiting for you, you still hold your breath as the elevator doors slide open to your apartment. Your feet are aching, you hardly got a chance to sit once during the night and you’re ready to curl up on the couch and watch a movie. 

As you step into your apartment, you can’t help the way your heart drops when you don’t immediately see him, and you especially can’t help the relief that spreads through you when you realize he’s lounging on the couch, out of sight from the angle you entered at. At once, you can breathe again—you’ve missed him the past week, more than you ever could’ve imagined.

“Hi,” you say quietly, coming to stand at the foot of the couch.

Dazai shed his black waistcoat, his shirt is untucked and his tie is loose around his neck, head resting on the far armrest as he looks up at you with a lazy grin that lights your nerves on fire.

“Hi,” he echoes. “I picked a movie.”

“A good one I hope,” you tell him with a small smile. “Let me go get changed.”

You turn on your heel to make your way up the steps to your bedroom, but before you can get to the staircase, Dazai speaks up again, “Can you even reach the clip?”

You hesitate as you glance at him over your shoulder. You technically can, but… “No,” you reply, and then lie, “Chuuya helped me get it on.”

Dazai’s lips flatten, but he does push himself to his feet to follow you up the stairs. You spare a glance behind you, catching the hard expression on his face as he stares at your back. You raise your eyebrows at him and it instantly washes away, replaced with a teasing smile as he raises his right back at you. You squint at him, but shake your head as you reach the top of the stairs, stepping into your room. 

When Dazai steps in after you, you swear the temperature in the room rises. 

You turn to look at him, and he tilts his head to the side idly, dark eye dancing with amusement as he slowly approaches you. He looks a mess with how his shirt is untucked and his tie is loosely hanging around his neck, hair tousled from laying back on the couch—he looks a mess, and you’ve never wanted him more.

You’re sick of the back and forth with him—it’s been a year and a half of it and you’re tired—you want to be his, you want him to be yours. Every time you think Dazai might finally make the first move, he ends up taking fifty steps backward for whatever reason. You don’t want to push it because you have a feeling it will only make him even more standoffish. Tonight has been more progress than you’ve made in a while—if you and him are going to happen, it’ll be now or it’ll never happen. Your pride won’t allow you to chase and pine for any longer.

He comes to stand directly in front of you and you think he wants you to turn around, but just when you’re about to, he gives you a sharp smile that instantly has you on edge, and then he lowers himself to his knees in front of you. Your lips part in shock, heart beat stuttering in your chest.

“We should get these off first, right?” he hums, reaching down for the clasp of your heel, knowing damn well the effect he’s having on you from the smug expression on his face. Although you can’t help but notice that his eye is darker than usual, pupil blown wide as he undos the clasp and slides your heel off. 

“Right,” you agree breathily, lashes fluttering when you feel the pads of his fingers press against your ankle as he places your foot back down on the ground before shifting to do the same for the other one.

This time, his throat bobs nervously and his fingers fumble over the clasp. When he finally gets the clasp off, he looks up at you through his lashes as he slides your heel off, but he doesn’t rise to his feet right away once he sets your foot down. Your fingers twitch at your side to reach out and brush them against his face, but you refrain, if only barely. 

After what feels like an eternity, Dazai finally rises to his feet, and he’s standing all too close to you. You can feel the heat of his body, you have to tilt your head up to look at him and when you do, you can feel his breath against your lips.

“Turn,” he murmurs.

You swallow thickly as you do as he asks, and your breath audibly catches when you feel his fingers brush the nape of your neck as he shifts your hair out of the way. You expect him to tease you, but you realize his breathing is almost as unsteady as yours is, you can feel each puff against the back of your neck and it has your hair on end. Your lashes flutter as Dazai slowly unzips your dress, the cool air of your room stark in contrast to the line of fire left behind with each brush of his fingers against your spine.

When he gets the zipper all the way down, he doesn’t move away, hands settling on your hips as he hovers behind you. You think your heart might race right out of your chest, head foggy and unsteady on your feet.

For a few long moments, neither of you speak.

And then, you make a terrible mistake.

“Why have you been avoiding me the past week?” you ask quietly, desperate for some sort of answer as to what happened between the two of you that made him go cold on you like this. His grip on your hips tightens, and you instantly want to eat your words. “Dazai?”

He doesn’t even deign you with a response.

Your heart is lodged in your throat when you feel his hands drop from your hips and his presence leaving from behind you. You’re cold, your body is, your heart is, and now you really are unsteady without his hands to ground you. You whip around to face him, knees wobbly as you call after him again, but you don’t chase after him—not this time. Bitterly, you think you’ve spent the last year and a half chasing after him and all you ever get in return is him running away.

You watch him disappear down the steps, frozen in place because how did one question ruin everything. For the first time in weeks, you thought you were actually making progress with him and just like that, it’s back to square one. You feel like you don’t breathe until you hear the elevator arrive on your floor, signalling that he’s left.

“Shit,” you breathe out shakily, sitting back on your bed and burying your face in your hands. You can feel all of the champagne you drank earlier in the night threatening to come up and your head feels light. You fumble for your phone, clicking on a familiar contact and gasping his name as soon as he answers the call, “Chuuya?”

“Yo,” you hear him ask, concerned. “You good? Aren’t you with-”

“Can you come over?” you push out before he has the chance to say his name. “I just-I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep waiting. I can’t-”

“I’m coming,” Chuuya tells you when your words cut out into a sob. God, you can’t remember the last time you cried like this. Your whole body aches as you pull your knees to your chest and rock yourself back and forth trying to calm yourself down. “I’ll be there in five. I’m coming.”

You told yourself before that it was tonight or never, and you’re done waiting for him. No matter how badly it hurts to force yourself to move on—you’re done. 

You have to be, for your own sake. 

[g1rlw1th0n33ye3]

Soft Spot I

Pairing - Emperor Caracalla x Reader ( x eventually Geta)

Word count - 3.4k

Summary- Sometimes, being nice to the wrong person can change your whole life

Warnings- their Roman emperors in 200 AD... so like warning in general but for this chapter metions of enslavment and blood but nothing graphic

It was a hot and windy night upon Palatine Hill, the air thick with the scents of the bustling city below. You lay in your less-than-comfortable bed of straw, the rough fibers scratching against your skin. The all-consuming heat wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. Suddenly, a loud crash shatters the stillness, jerking you from your slumber.

As the kitchen headmistress, you have been granted the privilege of private quarters, if one could truly call it a privilege. Your room was small and cluttered, its walls grimy with the residue of countless meals prepared in the bustling kitchen down the hall. The flickering light of a lone candle cast dancing shadows across the uneven floor.

Despite your title, you were no more happy than any other slave. The weight of expectation lay heavy on your shoulders. Any joy you once found in cooking had been long overshadowed by the responsibility of managing everyone around you. With each meal, you felt the pressure to ensure everything was perfect or fear facing the punishment.

Trapped between the chaos of the demanding patricians and the struggle to maintain order among the other slaves, especially when nobody was ever happy with their assignments. A kitchen master or two has met unfortunate ends in the past at the hands of angry slaves sneaking in during the dead of night to slit their throats and sometimes worse. To avoid such fates, it was simpler to give the head of the kitchen their own room, complete with a lock to keep out vengeful workers who, for some reason, blamed you for their circumstances.

Your job wasn’t so bad despite the constant dirty looks and threats to your life. You had your own quarters, and while most of the female slaves had to attend to the lady patricians upstairs, some of the more unlucky ones were sent to serve the males as concubines. Luckily for you, working in the kitchens kept you far away from any male patricians with wandering hands and bad tempers—or, gods forbid, the Ceasers.  Your days were filled with the clanging of pots and the sizzling of food as you supervised the preparation of meals for the entire palace. It was a demanding job, but it kept you away from the more dangerous parts of the palace.

  You groggily rise from your slumber after hearing another loud clanging. If someone was messing around in the kitchen and they weren’t caught in the act, you would be ultimately blamed for whatever was missing, and as much as you hated having to report it to the master of slaves, if you didn’t, it would be you in their place instead. On Palatine Hill, it was kill or be killed; it was the only way to survive as long as you had.

  Slipping out of bed, you throw on one of the tunics you’ve had for years. It’s falling apart around the sleeves and far too tight around your hips, but it’s the last thing your aunt gave you before she left this world, and you can’t bear to part with it. You slide on your sandals, which are also slowly falling apart, but you need them to avoid the dirt of the lower levels. Before you go, you reach under your mattress to grab the small knife you had stolen from the kitchen years ago and place it up your sleeve using your palm to hold it up and out of view; slaves in the palace weren’t allowed to have any weapons, but in a place like this, were everyone saw fit to just take whatever they wanted you needed something to protect yourself, gods, forbid the noise in the kitchen was an assassin sneaking through the kitchens to get the Ceasers they would have no problem cutting you down to get to the Ceasers and who were you in this palace in this world that anyone would save you over the ceasers.

If it was a guard poking around down there, He would take one look at the knife, and you would be punished or, worse, killed. The guard’s transgressions would be forgotten, all blame being put on you.

You shift the knife further up your tunic, the fear of being caught and swiftly punished haunting your mind as you make your way to the door, trying your best not to make a sound. As you open it, you can still hear the sounds coming from the kitchen as you creep closer, knife held close, the sounds becoming louder. You can almost hear a soft sort of muttering. You silently pray there isn’t more than one person. There was only so much you and the tiny knife you carried could do, and with no sense of training, they’d probably cut you down before you could even draw your blade; perhaps it wasn’t too late to run back to your room and hide till morning punishment be dammed your about to turn around when the gods make your choice for you as your foot makes contact with some chicken bones some fool left in the hall; The loud crunch echoed through the dimly lit hall, cutting through the muffled sounds of pots and pans clattering in the kitchen. Instantly, all noise from that direction ceased, creating an eerie silence.

There was no turning back now; whoever was in the kitchen had to be aware of your presence. With your heart racing, you cautiously crept forward, each step deliberate and silent, straining to catch any hint of movement or sound that might betray their location. The air felt heavy with tension as you navigated the hallway.

As you round the corner and step into the massive kitchens, you brace yourself for the sight of a horde of bandits ready to ambush you. However, to your astonishment, the kitchens are entirely deserted. The large stone hearths, usually crackling with the warmth of a fire and filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread, stand cold and silent. You scan the dimly lit room, each shadow dancing eerily in the flickering light of the few burning candles.

With cautious steps, you traverse the vast expanse of the kitchen, the echo of your footfalls a stark reminder of the absence of life. Large wooden tables, typically cluttered with pots and ingredients, sit untouched, their surfaces coated in a thin layer of dust. Not a single soul is present, and the silence is unnerving, as if the very air holds its breath, waiting for something to happen.

A chill runs down your spine, and you ponder whether the madness that often haunts the ancient castle has decided to linger a little too close for comfort this time.

Worried and restless, you decide it’s best to retrace your steps and head back to your room, hoping the familiar surroundings will soothe your spirit and shield you from the lurking darkness that seems to envelop the palace.

Then suddenly, a strange, quiet mumbling echoes from within the pantry, sending a shiver down your spine. With a shaky hand, you grip the small knife in your palm, readying yourself for whatever awaits you behind the door. Taking a deep breath, you take slow, deliberate steps toward the pantry, your heart racing.

Cautiously, you nudge the door open with your foot, instinctively raising your hands to shield yourself from an unseen threat. However, upon stepping inside, you’re met with an unsettling emptiness—just shadows and the faint scent of aged wood. Doubt creeps in, making you wonder if you are losing your mind.

You scan the space meticulously, eager for any sign of life that could confirm your sanity. As despair sets in, your eyes fall upon something unusual: a pair of golden sandals peeking out from beneath a wooden table laden with assorted cheeses and oils. The table is covered with a cloth, its corners lifting slightly as if disturbed. It becomes clear that someone had been here, perhaps reaching for a small wheel of cheese, shown by the noticeable bite mark taken from it.

You’re about to yell at the slave who has decided to take liberties with the Emperor’s cheese, putting you all at risk. But suddenly, a realization halts you in your tracks: only someone of immense wealth could afford to wear sandals in such immaculate condition.

If the individual below is indeed a Patrician, confronting them could spell disaster for you, as their status comes with considerable power, and they could punish you just for looking them in the eye. On the other hand, it might be just a drunken slave, desperate enough to steal the sandals, willing to risk their life for a mere scrap of cheese.

You find yourself at a crossroads, ready to accept whatever punishment awaits, which will probably be far preferable to some gruesome fate at the hands of a drunken patrician. You begin to resign when a soft sniffle echoes from beneath the table, catching you off guard. You freeze, unsure of how to proceed. Gathering your courage, you lean down slightly, peering into the dim shadows beneath the heavy oak.

“Uhm, excuse me, are you alright?” you venture, your voice barely above a whisper. There is no immediate reply, but you notice the foot, tucked in the expensive shoe, scrunch back as if it has become aware of your presence. Tension fills the air, mingling with the aroma of stale bread and kitchen spices.

“I mean no offense,” you continue, attempting to soften your words, “but this part of the kitchen is meant for the kitchen slaves only. If you need something, I can find a slave to bring it to your rooms.” Your voice carries the weight of concern as you await a response, but only silence lingers.

With hands trembling, you gather your courage and lift the edge of the tablecloth, revealing the cowering figure curled up beneath. He lies in a tight fetal position, body trembling slightly, head buried deep within the shelter of his arms.

A part of you screams to drop the cloth and retreat to the safety of your room, to erase this moment from your memory and pretend it never happened. Yet, no matter how hard you try, your empathy refuses to fade away. The turmoil within him pulls at your heart; despite the anger and resentment that Rome has instilled in you, you can’t bring yourself to feel anything but pity for this broken soul hiding away beneath the fabric.

“C-can I help you? Are you alright?” The figure shifts slightly, and you catch a glimpse of pale blue eyes peering out from behind the table, rimmed with tears that add a shimmering quality to his delicate features. “N-no... nobody can help me,” he responds, his voice quivering as he tries to hide his face from view.

“Perhaps I could try,” you offer gently, your heart aching at the pain reflected in his gaze. “If you tell me what ails you, I might be able to help.” He sniffles, burying his face deeper into the shadowy ground, mumbling something too faint for you to catch.

“I’m sorry, I can’t quite hear you. Maybe if you sat up, I could understand you better,” you say softly, hoping to coax him out from his hiding place beneath the table.

After a moment of hesitation, he begins to unfurl, slowly propping himself up but remaining hunched, his posture reflecting his despair. Now, with his full form visible, you find it impossible to neglect the striking beauty he possesses. His eyes, a haunting pale blue, are still glistening with unshed tears that create streaks against the pale makeup caked over his skin, struggling to conceal his blemishes. His reddish-orange hair, tousled and unkempt, crowns his head, giving him an air of chaotic elegance.

Atop his head rests a crown of laurel leaves, askew and slightly battered, hinting at a position of importance or honor. It’s a stark contrast to the turmoil evident in his countenance. His clothes, rich in fabric and style, suggest wealth far beyond what you could imagine, likely worth more than all the food in the kitchen combined. As he sits there, a beautiful but tragic figure, you can’t help but wonder what events led him to this moment, hiding under the table, burdened by an invisible weight.

You lock eyes with him, his gaze heavy with uncertainty. For a brief moment, it feels as though he’s trying to decipher something hidden within you.  You hesitate, unsure of how to break the silence, hoping he will find the words first.  Yet, he remains transfixed, his expression a blend of confusion and contemplation.

You feel the weight of his gaze shift, his eyes drifting down to focus on your breasts.  A wave of unease washes over you, prompting you to finally speak up before his thoughts take a more dangerous turn.

“Before you said something, dominus, I couldn’t quite hear.” Your words seemed to snap him out of his trance, truly noticing you now before going back to his glossed-over look, seeming to remember his troubles. “You wouldn’t understand,” he whines, putting a pout on his lips.

You let out a chuckle before you could stop yourself. “Oh, um... my deepest apologies, Dominus. I just... I forget myself,” you say, looking down. But it’s too late; he begins pounding his fists into the stone floor.

“See, you’re just like everyone else! They laugh at me! I can hear them all whispering about me. They all think I’m some fool!” he yelled, continuing to beat his knuckles into the concrete. Tears welled up in his eyes; he seemed more sad than angry.

Frightened, you shrunk back, preparing for his anger to turn on you, but he simply continued to beat his knuckles bloody while mumbling to himself.  

Terrified but unwilling to leave the poor man alone to beat his knuckles to the bone, you get up to find something to stop the bleeding. At the sight of you rising, he slows his assault on the stone to watch your movements.  You grab a bottle of vinegar and some cheesecloth before returning to kneel beside him.  He has stopped hitting his knuckles against the ground, his eyes following your every movement.

“Can I help you with that?” you ask, reaching out to take his bloodied hands. He shrinks back, pulling into himself.

“Please, I just want to clean and wrap it. These floors are filthy; they could get infected. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” you whisper, trying to convince him to let his guard down and allow you to help.  At your words, he seems to relax slightly and lets you take his hand.  You give him a small smile, hoping to offer some comfort.

“Alright, this might hurt a bit, but it will only be for a second,” you say as you pour the vinegar on his knuckles.

He winces as the vinger makes contact with his knuckles. You quickly wrap it up before tending to the other hand, his eyes never leaving you. “We’re all set. I’m no professional, but I’ve tended to my fair share of kitchen accidents, and I still have my hands, so that must be a good sign,” you say, trying to lighten the tense mood.

When he suddenly interjects with a playful, “What’s your name?” his voice lingers in the air, laced with a hint of curiosity. He looks at you with a dazed, crooked smile that seems to dance on the edges of his lips, catching you off guard with the abruptness of his question. Despite your surprise, you respond, revealing your name in a soft whisper. His smile widens at your answer, and he chuckles softly, “A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

He reaches out, gently entwining a finger around one of your loose locks of hair. The gesture is intimate, almost tender, making your heart quicken. “And you, Dominus, what is your name?” you ask, his eyes sparkling with mischief you had not seen in them before.

“You do not know my name?” he asks incredulously as if the very idea of you being unaware of his identity is the most astonishing thing in this surreal encounter. You shake your head, feeling a hint of embarrassment creep up your cheeks. “No, I’m sorry, Dominus. I’m the headmistress of the kitchen. I don’t ever serve, let alone leave the kitchen. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” you say, your voice softening as you instinctively bow your head respectfully.

Just as you begin to lower your head, his hands reach out to gently cup your face, stopping you mid-bow. The warmth of his touch sends a shiver through you, and his expression shifts to one you can’t quite place. “I think I like that,” he mumbles more to himself than to you.  You’re too nervous to pull away from his touch and make him feel slighted, but not wanting to spend a moment longer under his heated stare, you decide to try coaxing him out again.

“Would you like to come out now, Dominus?” you say, holding your hand out to him. He waits a moment, staring at your outstretched palm, before removing his hand from your chin to take hold of your hand. You carefully pull him out from beneath the table.

Pulling him to his full height and releasing his hand as quickly as you had grabbed it, he would be intimidating if he weren’t looking around like a lost, confused puppy. “I can’t remember my way out here,” he said, furrowing his brows in a pout as he scanned the area as if trying to recall the path.

“No need to worry, Dominus. I can lead you to the stairwell,” you replied, grabbing a candle from the tabletop to help guide your way through the winding passages. As you began to walk out of the pantry, you turned back to see him standing there with a solemn expression.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, stepping back in front of him.

“Will you walk with me back to my chambers?” he said, grabbing your hand again and holding it to his chest. You almost wanted to cave to those pleading blue eyes, but your logical side knew better. You couldn’t forget the wandering looks he had given earlier. Going anywhere near his chambers would leave you vulnerable. As tormented as he seemed now, you didn’t want to see his mood swing in the other direction.

“I’m sorry, Dominus, but I’ve never left the kitchens; I wouldn’t know the way,” you say, your voice steady despite the flutter of nerves in your stomach. You hope your words will be convincing enough to sway him. He gives you a look that mixes disappointment and confusion, but after a moment, he reluctantly drops his hand from your chest. However, he still holds onto yours, his grip a little tight, as if he doesn’t want to let go just yet.

Taking this as a sign, you gently begin leading him out of the pantry and through the bustling kitchen. The warm scent of freshly baked bread lingers in the air, a stark contrast to the late hour. You move slowly, careful to match your pace with his drunken, staggering movements. As you reach the base of the stairwell that serves as a passage for the servants to come and go.

You try to urge him forward with your hand, but he remains still, his gaze fixated on the archway above. “Everyone up there is mean. I want to stay down here with you,” he pouts, a hint of stubbornness creeping into his voice. You bite your lip, suppressing the urge to chuckle at his childlike demeanor, well aware that laughter might only frustrate him further.

Instead, you smile gently and say, “I promise you, the people down here are just as mean as the ones up there, and it’s quite late, Dominus. You really should get some rest.” You lead him up the creaking stairs to the landing, where soft light spills through the windows, illuminating the worn stone steps.

He pauses, contemplating your words, his brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, he drops your hand, his expression shifting to one of resignation. “Goodbye, pretty girl,” he whispers, a touch of vulnerability in his tone before he begins to shuffle drunkenly back toward his chambers.

As you watch him disappear down the dimly lit corridor, a sense of bittersweet longing washes over you. Once back in your bed, with straws poking you uncomfortably in the back, you realize that you never learned his name. A sigh escapes your lips as you try to shake the thought from your mind, knowing you’ll probably never see him again. You’ve never ventured beyond the kitchens, and for the strange man, this night will likely fade into a blurry memory, just another drunken escapade amidst countless others.

==================================

Authors note ; this is like the second fic Ive written I stopped for a long while but my favorite freaky gingers and all the people writing about them have inspired me to get back to writing and trying to improve my craft so please be kind but constructive criticism welcome! anywho i hope you guys enjoyed this sorta set up chapter I have a whole storyline I want to play out that I haven't really seen in other storys oh and this wont really follow the galditor storyline but I swear if you stick with me I have a plan anyway I enjoy and lemme know if you guys want part two!! or anything you might like to see requests are currently open!

[insidekatmind]

Stepfather~Cho Sang-woo

Wearning: +18,smut, cheating, age-gap

The air in the house is thick, electric, as if something invisible but powerful was moving between the walls. Since your mother married Sang-Woo, everything has changed. He is not like other men his age: there is a dark elegance in his movements, a sharp intelligence in his gaze. He observes you often, with those dark eyes that seem to dig into you.At first you thought it was just your imagination. You told yourself that he was normal, that he was just your mother's husband. But the more time passed, the more you felt something strange inside you. A shiver every time he touched you, a racing heart when his gaze rested on you for longer than it should have.

One evening, everything changes.

You come home late, the soft light illuminates the living room. He is there, sitting with a glass of whiskey between his fingers, his face relaxed but his eyes fixed on you."You should be more careful, you know?" His voice is low, caressing, as if each word is a thread that wraps around you.You swallow, but you don’t move. There’s something in the way he looks at you, something that keeps you rooted to the floor.

“Were you waiting for me?” you whisper, not even knowing where that question came from. He smiles, tilting his head slightly. “What if that’s the case?”

Your breathing becomes shallow. You tell yourself that you should leave, lock yourself in your room and pretend that nothing is happening. But his gaze is a magnet and you’re not sure you want to resist.

Then he gets up, slowly, like a predator who knows that the prey won’t run away. He passes by you, barely touching you, and your body responds before your mind does. You can’t breathe.“Goodnight.” His voice is a whisper in your ear before he disappears into the shadows of the hallway.

“Wait,” you call as you adjust your little dress. Sang-woo stops in his tracks, his back to you, and for a second you think he's going to ignore you and keep walking. But he doesn't. He turns, slowly, and you can see the glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. "What is it?" he asks, his voice low and quiet. There is a hint if amusement in his tone, as if he were already aware of the effect he has on you.

"Why were you waiting for me?" You ask, moving closer to him. Sang-woo doesn't move, but you can see his gaze slide over your body, taking in the way your little dress hugs your curves. Despite yourself, you shiver under his gaze.

"I was worried," he says, his eyes locking onto yours. "You know it’s not safe for a girl your age to be out so late."His words sound so sincere, so protective. But you know there’s another meaning hidden in them.

You’re even closer now, almost touching him. You can feel the heat radiating from his body. "I can take care of myself," you say, your voice soft and sure.

Sang-woo smiles, a slow, dangerous smile that makes your knees weak."I know you can. But that doesn’t mean I won’t worry." He takes a step closer. "Or that I won’t enjoy the view."

Your breath catches in your throat as he leans in, his face mere inches from yours.

"I’m very observant," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "I notice things that others don’t."You look away, not wanting him to see the effect he’s having on you. But he takes your chin in his hand and gently forces you to meet his gaze.

"Don't look away," he says, his voice a command. His fingers slide from your chin to your cheek, tracing a line of fire on your skin. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, and you shiver involuntarily. "You have such lovely lips."

Sang woo puts a finger in your mouth.You let out a soft gasp, your body jerking in surprise as his finger slides past your lips, your tongue instinctively slipping against it. It feels wrong, so wrong, but you can’t seem to stop yourself.Sang-woo watches you, his eyes dark, a smirk playing on the edge of his lips. “I didn't even have to ask you."You want to protest, to spit out his finger and walk away, but the way he looks at you, with desire and something else, makes you freeze.

His finger traces a slow, lazy trail on your tongue, moving further into your mouth, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips. His other hand tightens its grip on your waist, pulling you even closer until you’re pressed against him, your bodies molded together.Sang-woo’s breathing is ragged, his face mere inches from yours, his gaze fixed on your lips.

Sang woo adds another finger into your mouth and you suck them. You’re lost in a sea of sensations, your mind clouded by everything that’s happening. You can’t think, can’t understand what you’re doing. All you can feel is desire, hot and raw, burning through you like a fire.

Sang-woo lets out a low groan as you suck on his fingers, his eyes dark and clouded with lust. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, the words barely more than a breath.His hand on your waist tightens, pulling you even closer, until there’s not even a millimeter of space between you.

His fingers slide out of your mouth with a wet pop, glistening in the low light of the room. Sang-woo grabs you again, spinning you around until your back is pressed against the wall, trapping you between the cold surface and his hard body.His lips find your neck, leaving a trail of heated kisses along your collarbone. “I’ve wanted this for so long.” His voice is rough, edged with an almost desperate need.

You can feel the fire spreading through your veins, a mixture of desire and guilt fighting for control. Every touch, every word he whispers against your skin only fuels the fire, until you’re not sure who’s in control anymore.His mouth finds yours, claiming it in a deep, hungry kiss. It’s possessive, demanding, and you surrender to it, your body melting against his.You moan into the kiss and return it with more passionate love. The world around you fades away as you lose yourself in the kiss. Sang-woo responds with equal passion, his tongue tangling with yours in a dance that’s both familiar and new.

His hands roam over your body, touching and exploring, as if he’s trying to memorize every dip and curve. You can feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of your dress, a stark contrast to the coolness of the wall against your back.

He breaks away from the kiss and caresses your ass. "Turn around and bend over for daddy." He whispers close to your ear as he playfully slaps your butt. His words ignite something deep within you, a shiver running down your spine as you obey, turning around and pressing your body against the wall. You can feel the coolness of the surface against your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from your body.Sang-woo takes a step closer, his body almost touching yours, and you can feel his breath on the back of your neck. "That's my girl," he murmurs, his hand sliding down your body and grabbing your hip.Sang woo lifts your dress and hums satisfied seeing your beautiful ass in the lace thong. He gives a satisfied smile and plays with your thong "I dream about this beautiful ass at night, you know princess,every time you wear those micro dresses. You drive me crazy" Sang woo whispered as he continued to play with the elastic.

His words send another shiver down your spine, your body responding to his touch like a puppet on a string. The way he manipulates your thong, teasing it without touching your skin, is both torture and pleasure."I... didn't realize," you manage to say, your voice trembling. "I just.. I just like wearing them."

Sang woo slaps your ass. "Don't lie princess." The sudden sting of his hand against your skin makes you gasp, but it's not an unpleasant sensation. It only heightens the tension between you, the game of power and desire that you're both playing.

"I—I'm not lying," you protest, but it comes out as a weak whimper.

Sang-woo chuckles, a dark, mocking sound. “You thought I wouldn’t notice? You thought you could tease me, wear those little dresses, and I wouldn’t notice?” He leans closer, his body pressing against yours. “But I did. I saw everything.”His words send another wave of heat through you, your body responding to his tone almost subconsciously. You’re trapped, your body against the wall and Sang-woo so close behind you that you can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"Do you know how many times I had to jerk off because of you?" Sang Woo growls. His voice is low, rough with desire, and the words make your face flush. "I—I didn't know," you say, your words sounding weak and uncertain.

Sangwoo chuckles, the sound low and dangerous. "Of course you didn't. But I did. Every time I saw you, every time you walked past me with that little dress, I had to stop myself from pulling you into the closest room and taking you right then and there."He leans closer, his mouth just behind your ear. "I'd lie in bed, thinking of you, your body underneath mine... it was torture." His hand glides down your hip, fingertips tracing a lazy path along your thigh. "But now, princess... now you're all mine."Sang woo unbuttons his pants and boxers as he rub his hard cock on your thong.

You gasp softly and try to grind on his erection but he stops you. "No princess, you stay still and take everything that daddy gives you" He whispers and rubs himself a little more, humming with satisfaction.You sigh and nod. Sang woo smiled at your obedience. “Good girl,” he whispers and you moan.He smirks and begins to lift the string of your thong and begins to position his cock inside your underwear, jerking himself off with the underwear you were wearing and grunts.

“Please” you murmur desperately wanting him inside you but Sang woo wasn’t listening. He rubbed his cock across the crack of your ass without going inside and you moaned softly as he grunted.Sang woo only let the tip of his cock into you making you moan softly. “Please” you whisper desperately. He chuckles amusedly and moves it inside you for a while before taking it off again and wanking himself on the thong you're wearing. “Princess I won't fuck you until you beg me” Sang woo hums arrogantly.

“Please daddy” you murmur and he pretends to think about it.Sang woo squeezes your ass humming in satisfaction. "Give me a blowjob and I'll think about it" he whispers rubbing against your entrance and you moan.

Sang-woo smiles as he hears you, his hands still teasing you. "You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs against your ear. "So desperate for me."He slaps your ass making you jump. "If you want my cock you have to earn it, kneel down and suck it" Sang woo orders you.

You whimper softly, your body responding to his tone, and you find yourself slowly sinking to your knees, looking up at him with a mixture of desire and submission.Sang-woo looks at you smiling, putting a hand on your hair. "So beautiful kneeling for my cock" he purrs.

You feel a shiver goes down your spine at his words, looking up at him with big eyes. The heat from your desire and the anticipation of what was to come make your head spin."Open your mouth" he orders, his voice rougher than any before. You're caught in the moment, hypnotized by the tone of his voice as you do as told and open your mouth, your tongue licking your lips.

He looks down at you, his eyes dark and filled with lust. "Good girl." Sang woo in one fell swoop makes his cock enter your mouth and you gasp.

Sang woo throws his head back. “Such a nice, warm mouth,” he murmurs in satisfaction, moving his hips back and forth.You look at him and start licking him and twirling his length back and forth. You groaned seeing his facial expressions, he was so sexy and you were jealous of your mom for all the times she had him.

“Well done keep going” He hums in satisfaction as he gripped onto your hair and thrusts his hips faster.You start sucking his cock faster and he growls slamming your cock faster, cumming down your throat. You were still on your knees looking at him longingly.

Sang woo lifts you up as he pulls up his boxers and pants and sits on the chair carrying you on his lap. You rest your head on his shoulder, your body still trembling from the intense experience. Your mind is fuzzy, your thoughts consumed by him. He runs his fingers through your hair, a surprisingly gentle gesture that contradicts his earlier behavior.

“Please fuck me,” you murmur, your head resting on his chest. Sang woo smiles and shakes his head. “Another day,” he murmurs. You pout, but there's a hint of satisfaction in his voice that makes you shiver. "Another day?" you repeat, the words coming out as a needy whine.

Sang-woo chuckles, his hand sliding down your back, his touch possessive. "Impatient, aren't we? Don't worry, princess... I'll give you what you want. But not now."

"Why?" you ask desperately and he smiled. "Take it as a punishment for going out in that short dress and coming home late." He says looking at you. Your face flushes at his words, a mixture of shame and arousal washing over you. You open your mouth to protest, to argue that you hadn't done anything wrong, but then his gaze darkens and you fall silent."You know what you did," he says, his hand gripping your hip tighter as he pulls you even closer. "Don't think I didn't notice you. And now you'll have to pay the consequences."

You sigh and cling to him. At that moment your mother comes down and smiles seeing you in his arms. "I see you've finally started to appreciate him" your mother says happily to you. You look at your mother, feeling a strange mix of guilt and shame. The whole situation feels surreal, as if you're living a double life. You try to hide your feelings behind a smile, pretending that everything is perfectly normal.

Sang-woo, on the other hand, is the picture of tranquility. He smiles politely at your mother, his hand on your thigh, a subtle sign of possession that only you can perceive.

"Sang woo, it's not as bad as I thought" you say to your mom as you look at Sang woo who gives you a smirk.Your mother beams, clearly pleased with your words. "I knew you'd come around," she says, completely oblivious to the undercurrent of tension between you and Sang-woo.Sang-woo glances at you, a hint of amusement in his eyes at your mother's ignorance. He squeezes your thigh slightly, as if to remind you who's really in control here.

"She's a smart girl," Sang-woo agrees, his voice polite and pleasant. "She just needed a little convincing."

Your mother smiles, completely fooled by his charm. You, on the other hand, can feel the pressure of his hand on your thigh, a constant reminder of his power over you.

[thewritetofreespeech]

Hi, it's me again! Could I request Jason Todd who has a moment of body dysmorphia while really spiraling inwardly mentally with him being so big, so changed after the Lazarus pit, having all these scars and the autopsy scar. His female girlfriend comes to help him and grounds him, reassures him. He's perfect the way he is and really lovable!

-------------------------🦇----------------------------

“Jason! Can you hurry up? I’d like to get in there before we go to bed.”

“Yeah. I’m working on it.” Jason called back to his girlfriend as he finished up his routine for the night.

Patrol had been light. So no need for first aid or stitches this time. Like he needed another scar. Sometimes when Jason looked into the mirror like now, he barely recognized the man looking back at him. Time was not always kind to mortal men who pretended to be superheroes. The physical strain. The bruising. The marks. He glanced over his body in the mirror. Old scars mixed with new. Some that were faded that he couldn’t remember how he got. Simply too old or memories that were lost to him in the Pit.

Jason flinched and clutched his head when he tried to think about the Pit. Visions of knives cutting into his flesh and stitching him back up. The scar down his front from chest to naval oozing with black putrid goo. Banging on his coffin liked the pounding in his head. Flashes of skin sluffed off a bleached white skeleton staring back in the mirror.

'Dead man walking. Dead man walking. Dead man walking!'

His hands lance out for the mirror before he could stop them. Ripping it off the wall with his bare hands before throwing it into the tub with a shatter.

“That’s ok. I didn’t need to shower anyway….”

Jason looked up, panting in his panic & rage, to find [Y/N] standing in the door. Her expression even but clearly freaked out about what he had done. The uncertainty of what he was going to do next. “Sorry.”

“It’s ok.” Jason hissed through his teeth. No, it wasn’t ok. Why did people say that when things weren’t ok. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” He said as he rubbed his face with his hand. How could he explain what was going on? “I just get these flashes sometimes. Headaches. Probably something to do with the Pit.”

“Well, coming back from the dead can probably be very traumatic for the brain.” She agreed. “Not to mention all the other trauma.” [Y/N] aware of his past, before & after coming back from the dead. She knew of his superhero exploits, and even his new role as a vigilante. “Why don’t you take a break for a while? Get your head straight?” She suggested. Carefully coming into the bathroom to avoid any glass or startling him as she came in to place her hand on his shoulder. “It might do you good.”

“I can’t.” He told her. “If I do then what was all this for.” Jason gestured to himself. All the pain. All these scars. His body mangled and twisted, along with his mind. What was the point of it if he couldn’t do some good, in his own way, with it.

“Maybe it’s just about you being here, and not some bigger picture Jason.”

[Y/N] wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against his shoulder, giving him a light squeeze. “I know saving the world is important to you, but it’s not the only thing in the world. You need to focus on yourself sometimes. Talk to me. Or talk to someone. I think it would do you good.”

Jason listened to what his girlfriend was saying, then lifted his hand to grip her arm around his waist. “So, you don’t think I look gross?”

“What? Of course not! Is that what this is about?”

Jason shrugged. It was what had started all this but now it felt like it had spiraled into something more serious than he intended.

[Y/N] just rolled his eyes and let him go. “I’m not going to just stroke your vanity, Jason. You already know how hot I think you are.” She kissed his shoulder and gave him a withering look in the direction the mirror should be. “Come to bed you idiot. I’ll show you just how ‘not gross’ you are. You’re gonna be real disappointed in a minute though that you didn’t let me shower first before you blew up the tub. You’re cleaning that up tomorrow by the way.”

Jason chuckled. The shift from caring concern to just plain annoyed at how ridiculous he was being somehow grounding to him. “Yes ma’am.” He simply replied as he followed her into their bedroom to make good on her promise.

[sensationallysangwoo]

𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝙰𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚁𝚒𝚍𝚎: 𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗/𝚂𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚐-𝙷𝚘 𝚡 𝙶𝙽!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙵𝙻𝚄𝙵𝙵𝚈 𝚂𝙼𝚄𝚃 ♡

♡ 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚋𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍, 𝚂𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝙹𝚞𝚗𝚐-𝙷𝚘. 𝙷𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 “𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗.” 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢. 𝙱𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎, 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞?

♡ 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚂𝙼𝚄𝚃, 𝙰𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙾𝚁𝚂 𝙳𝙾 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃, 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚙𝚎𝚝 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙾𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚡 (𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐), 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚐𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙿𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖!𝙱𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚗 (𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚝), 𝙰𝚐𝚎 𝙶𝚊𝚙 (𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝙸𝚂 𝙰 𝙻𝙴𝙶𝙰𝙻 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰𝙳𝚄𝙻𝚃)

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

“I want you to be honest with me.”

Your gentle voice cuts through the silence in the room.

Your thumb caresses his soft cheek. His usual arrogant, confident demeanor has shrunk down into something somber. Something soft.

His dark eyes meet yours as his breath hitches. If he loves you, he needs to open up to you. And he does.

With a deep exhale through his nose, he begins telling his story.

“I’m from the North. When I was a child, my mother and I tried to escape by swimming across the river. She was killed, and I was thrown into a prison camp. Served 25 years. 25 years of hell that I’ll never get back. We were beaten, starving, and you know I’m sick. No treatment, obviously.”

You gulp. Berlin always, always kept his past hidden from you. You two haven’t been romantically involved for too long, but if you wanted to get serious about this relationship, you had to know his story.

You continue comforting him. Still cupping his face, you study his expression. He’s got a certain sadness in his eyes. You can see right through him. You see a broken, traumatized, vulnerable man.

He continues.

“I was in solitary confinement. I did some…rather violent things….” He trails off.

Deep down, he’s absolutely terrified of your judgement. He’s terrified of losing you, someone who’s brought so much joy and happiness into his life. He can only hide the real him from you for so long.

“There was a riot and a guard was killed. We escaped, and now I’m here. I’ve met some people who I…work with. You could call it a gang.”

Your expression remains soft. You love him so much. Nothing he is saying is changing your mind, but he thinks the exact opposite.

“Crime is all I know now. You wanted to know so badly, so what do ya think? Do ya still love me now, or what?” His eyes find the floor. You have never, ever seen him like this. The boisterous, theatrical Berlin you initially met is just a broken man.

The smallest, slightest smile tugs at your lips. “Of course I still love you. Nothing will never change that, Jung-Ho.” You gently reassure him.

He nuzzles his face into your touch. The faintest smile graces his lips. You read his energy. He feels safe with you. You are his security.

You lean in, your face inches away from his. Your lips are about a centimeter away from his. “You’re stuck with me Jung-Ho…” You gently graze your lips against his. He melts into the kiss, moving his mouth perfectly in sync with yours.

The kiss is soft, tender and passionate. His arms wrap tightly around you, holding you as if you’d be gone the second he let go.

“I know the way I am. I just want you to love me.” His words break you. You can’t even imagine what he had to endure, and yet, knowing the way he acts and behaves all adds up now.

“Wanna see how much I love you?” You whisper against his lips. He nods, and before you know it you’ve scooted yourself onto his lap, on his office chair.

Your tongue is deep in his mouth. Heavy breathing and panting fill the room. His hands grab your ass harshly, possessively. He looks up at you with glassy eyes. He almost looks drunk off of you.

“Mmmm sweetheart, you drive me fucking crazy, y’know that?” He purrs.

His lips burn kisses into the soft skin of your throat. You close your eyes and a moan escapes yours lips.

His hands find their way under your shirt. His fingertips are cold, causing your to shiver at the sensation. His bulge presses into your core and the pressure alone causes you gasp and crave more.

“Need you so fuckin’ bad, little love. Fuuuuck—“ he groans as your fingers tug at his hair.

“You think you can handle it, Jung-Ho?” You ask as you grind down on his bulge.

He smiles at you devilishly. “You don’t know who you’re talkin’ to sweetheart. Come on, fuck me.”

You didn’t need to hear that twice. You practically rip his vest off and his button down shirt, revealing his perfectly tanned body underneath. Your hands explore every inch of his skin. You feel possessive, too. You’re both that territorial over each other.

You tug his pants down, followed by his boxers, freeing his dick. You drop to your knees and instantly take him in your mouth. He watches you intensely. His eyes are not leaving you as you sink your mouth down on his length.

He throws his head back and moans at the first contact of your warm mouth on his sensitive tip. His face scrunches up in pleasure. You take him as far down as you can until you feel yourself gag. You press on, though. You want to give Berlin everything you can.

He begins to thrust slightly, fucking your mouth gently. His hands are locked tightly in your hair. “Nggghh…don’t move, sweetheart. Just let me use you for a sec, okay?” You moan around his cock to show your obedience. The vibration causes him to shiver.

You gag obscenely as his whole entire cock is inside your mouth, prodding the back of your throat and cutting off all of your air intake. He holds you down all the way, his hands are so strong you can’t even move your head even if you tried. You look up. His chest heaves with a laugh as the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Ohhh you’re so fucking cute with my dick in your throat, baby.”

Hot wet tears stream down your face as he roughly pulls his dick out of your mouth. You whimper at the newfound soreness.

“Get on top of me again and fuck me like you love me.” He commands.

You climb on top of him and sink yourself down on his dick slowly. You feel yourself being stretched and you hesitate, afraid of the pain.

“Come on, my angel. I thought you loved me? Sit on it. Come on.” He coaxes you. Even though he’s technically “On the bottom” he’s still calling the shots.

You sink yourself further onto his hard cock, wincing at the full feeling inside of yourself.

“My sweet sweet angel baby. Oh so, so good. Fuck, ride it.” He groans.

You begin to slowly bounce on it, trying so hard to adjust to his huge length inside you. You are absolutely stuffed full of him. Slowly, the pain turns into pleasure as your walls accommodate him.

He slaps your ass sharply as you ride him. Your own moans and groans fill the room as he hits your sweet spot. His large hands guide your waist up and down. He’s basically fucking you like a fleshlight.

“Lean back a little.” He demands, and you do. With one arm wrapped around you so you don’t fall, he presses his other hand down on your abdomen.

“Feel that?” He smirks.

The pressure increases and you feel your orgasm crashing through your body.

You shudder and dig your nails into his shoulders, red pricks of blood dotting his tan complexion.

He comes undone too, moaning your name over and over and over again as he rides out his orgasm.

He spills inside of you. His seed overflows and drips everywhere, but neither of you care at all. You’re both wrapped up in the moment so intensely. Your eyes locked on each others. Your lips meeting once more in a hungry kiss.

You’re both panting, sweaty messes. Feeling satisfied and exhausted, you slink off of him. As you’re putting your clothes back on, Berlin reaches his hand out to you.

You grab it and hold it, feeling the rough callouses on your soft palm.

“So you still wanna be with me?” He asks you, seeking reassurance.

“Of course I do, Jung-Ho.” You smile, lean down, and kiss his lips once more.

You don’t even know what you’re in for just yet, but Berlin is yours, and that’s all that matters.

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

AHHHH MY FIRST BERLIN FIC POSTED TO TUMBLR IM FREAKING OUT. I HOPE YOU GUYS LOVED IT OMG. I TRIED I REALLY DID BUT IM STILL TRYING TO GET A FEEL FOR HIS CHARACTER. GONNA START WORKING ON DEM REQUESTS AGAIN!!! This one was just kinda self indulgent hehehehe. Have a great day everyone!!! Love, G!!! 🤍

𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝: @yxluana , @swtt4hk , @massivecheesecakesmuttss , @miss-conjayniality , @ladiesman21777 , @dilfismz , @vkeyy , @kudiikis , @daeholuvs , @insidekatmind , @sealcowboy , @torasgfreal , @melfresita-ruri , @ellfucksup , @hrh007, @m4nbl00d ,

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

1: WRONG FOOT FORWARD

MASTERLIST > Next chapter (pending)

Summary: When you receive a wedding invitation from your best friends, they expect you to bring along your elusive boyfriend—except, he doesn’t exist. Panicked and out of options, you find yourself considering increasingly desperate measures to avoid humiliation. Meanwhile, your grumpy, annoyingly handsome neighbor, Bucky Barnes, has his own battles—ones that you unknowingly make worse with a thoughtless remark. As tensions rise and misunderstandings deepen, will you find an unexpected solution to your problem… or just more trouble?

Warnings: neighbors to lovers, fake dating, slow burn, Bucky has issues™, Reader has issues too™, emotional baggage

Word Count: 2,572

“Please save the date to celebrate the union of Hanna Marin & Aditi Sharma!”

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” you cursed silently, reading the text that had just come through on your phone.

Hanna had texted you the beautifully designed “Save the Date” card, followed by…

4:04 PM - Hanna: Can’t wait to meet that secret hunk of yours. Don’t leave him at home!

You groaned. This was a disaster. An unmitigated disaster. You had no idea how you were going to get out of this situation. Another long drawn out groan slipped from your lips as the elevator doors on the third floor of your apartment opened up. The sound was embarrassingly obnoxious, slipping out at the exact moment the doors parted to reveal the outline of your neighbor.

Of course, it had to be Bucky!

You immediately flushed crimson as Bucky turned around with a smirk painted across his face.

“Making those noises in public could get you arrested for public indecency, you know that, right, Princess?”

You shot Bucky a withering stare, hoping to melt the that stupid smirk of his stupidly handsome face. Why did it have to be him?

“Funny,” you snapped, stepping out of the elevator, “considering I’m pretty sure your entire existence is a crime against humanity.”

His smirk faltered for a split second. It was so quick that if you had blinked, you would have missed it. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he dropped his gaze slightly, as if something inside him had changed. A darkness flickered across his face before the familiar grin reappeared on his face like a shield.

But it was too late, the words had been spoken and you could feel the weight of what you’d said. Guilt crept in, gnawing at your stomach. You hadn’t meant it like that. It had just slipped out, your mouth working faster than your brain. But that look, that flash of pain, it told you that your words had landed somewhere far more poignant than you had intended.

“Bucky, I didn’t mean—” you began, your voice softening as you felt a rush of regret.

“No offense taken, Princess,” he said stiffly,  turning toward the elevator with his back to you, hiding his face. His words were sharp and final. He slid past you, posture tense and tone colder than you’d ever heard before.

“Wait,” you cried, taking a step to follow. “I’m sorry, okay?” I didn’t mean it like—”

“Forget it,” he interrupted. “I’ve been called worse.”

His words hit you like a sucker punch. He wasn’t just brushing you off— he genuinely meant it, and that hurt more than his earlier teasing ever could.

“Bucky, seriously, I—”

But the elevator doors closed in your face, cutting you off leaving you staring at your own distorted expression in the reflective chrome surface. You stared blankly at the doors for a few moments, debating whether you should go after him but he had already tried to brush it off. You didn't want to make things worse for him. 

So instead of making a fool of yourself further, you turned back towards your front door, mind still dwelling on that look of hurt— the one you had caused.

While Bucky Barnes was undeniably attractive, his brooding, grumpy demeanor made living across from him a bit of a challenge. Ordinarily he would grunt his greetings, he came and went at strange hours and you could hear his television on loud almost every night. His favorite sport was avoiding you but when your interactions were unavoidable, they were usually thinly veiled insults.

You collapsed against the door of your apartment, letting your head fall back against the wood with a dull thud. A frustrated groan leaving your lips. Why did these things always happen to you? Why did your mouth always have to get you into trouble? 

Shaking your head, you bent down to unzip your velvet cream ankle-heeled boots. You took a moment to admire your outfit in the mirror by the front door, a two-tone brown tank top paired with a plaid high-waisted midi skirt. Comfortable yet professional, it was one of your go-to for meeting clients. Today, you didn’t have any high-end commissions to deal with, so you’d opted to wear something practical over statement-making.

You took off your necklace and earrings, custom pieces that you’d meticulously designed yourself when you’d first started out in your career. Carefully you placed them in a small velvet-lined box in the top drawer of your drawer for safe keeping.

You sighed again, pulling the hair clip out of your tresses and running your fingers through the strands, trying to comb out the irritation of the day. Hanna’s message had thrown you for a loop. And then there was Bucky— his face was still burned on your retina. That stupid smirk, always so smug— you hated how easily it had crumbled into something else. Something more vulnerable.

You didn't mean it. You never meant to hurt anyone with your words. Least of all him.

Back when he had moved in across the hall, it had taken you a while to recognize who he was. To you, he was just a grumpy neighbor who kept to himself. It wasn't until you'd seen him on television, standing beside Sam Wilson, The Falc—, no Captain America, that you realized who he really was. After a few internet searches, you had more information than you’d ever wanted.

At first, you were wary. The Winter Soldier living across the hall? The idea alone had been enough to send a shiver down your spine. But your opinion had shifted one afternoon when you’d seen him helping Mrs. Burke, your elderly neighbor, up the stairs with her groceries when the elevator was out of order. He just silently carried her bags while she rambled on about her apple pie recipe.

Mrs. Winnie Burke was a kind soul, the heart of the building, really. She won over all the residents with her fierce independence, her fond stories about her late husband, Arthur, and her ample supply of baked goods. For you, she was always ready with a piece of advice or a slice of apple pie. You helped her as often as you could, offering to pick up her groceries when the weather was foul, and in exchange she would grace you with one of the delicacies she would conjure up using her ‘secret family recipes’.

Bucky’s readiness to help her had been the first step to your altered perception of him. Beneath this gruff exterior and curmudgeonly ways, you started to see that there was more to him than the news headlines and whispered rumors. He didn’t make it easy to see, but it was there.

And now? You weren’t sure what to feel. You couldn’t unsee that flicker of hurt in his eyes, the way he had stiffened before brushing you off. He may have pretended not to care, but you’d seen enough to know otherwise.

You sighed again, a sense of unease growing tighter in your chest. You really hadn’t meant to say those things to him, but now the damage was done. But with Hanna’s text looming over you, you didn’t have time to dwell on it. You had bigger problems— like figuring out how to conjure a hunky boyfriend out of thin air.

You slipped on a loose, oversized gray sweater along with a pair of black skinny jeans and re-tied your hair into a messy bun. The growl in your stomach reminded you that you had skipped lunch in favor of around five steaming cups of coffee. At this point, you probably had more coffee in your veins than blood. Inconveniently, your fridge seemed to have swallowed up every ounce of edible material it had been storing. Another night of takeout was the only solution if you didn't want to head down to the grocery store.

You picked up your phone and dialed the number of your favorite Chinese takeaway, before settling onto the couch with your iPad, the app for Procreate already open from where you had left off a few days ago. Hanna and Aditi had asked you to design their wedding rings. Actually, they had begged you; they said they would consider it your wedding gift to them. You had consented easily, it was truly an honor to be asked. You had added the finishing touches to the design and sent them the images for approval and received a resounding ‘yes’ from both brides almost immediately. The rings had complementary designs but represented each bride’s personalities. You had designed them so that if they were placed next to each other, they would fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

As you admired the design, your thoughts wandered back to your most pressing issue. Your boyfriend… or conspicuous lack thereof. What were you going to do? You’d been lying for months to get your friends off your back. It was so unlike you– dishonesty made you anxious, your mouth got dry, you got butterflies; the lies were written all over your face. But for some reason, this piece of misinformation had left your lips before you could bat an eyelid and you were struggling to maintain the level of deception. Now, when your friends badgered you for information, you just refused to reply.

You picked up your phone, scrolling down to Tinder. Maybe you could find someone willing to go to a wedding with you. A no-strings-attached kind of affair. Just one day, smile for the photo, pretend to be someone else for a day, roll in the hay after… maybe that wasn’t such a great idea after all. Prostituting yourself to get your friends off your back wasn’t a genius idea.

You groaned, tossing your phone onto the couch. Tinder was officially a dead end.

Your thoughts spiraled as you pondered other avenues you could take to fill this role. You scrolled through Facebook for a bit, but your options were bleak. Most of your friends were married, engaged… or worse: actually in love! Your eyes wandered around your apartment, landing on a photo of you, Hanna and Aditi. It had been taken on the night of their engagement, you were standing in the middle and they were on either side, each one of them had their lips pressed against your cheeks. Hanna had leant in tipsily and whispered in your ear, “Don’t worry, you’ll find someone amazing too.”

You’d known Hanna and Aditi since elementary school, separately and then together. You were the reason they had met, they’d been your best friends from different places and you knew they’d been in love with each other since you’d all attended high school together. Somehow they never let you feel like the third wheel in your relationship, but there were times when you felt very lonely in their company.

Yeah, you were definitely running out of time.

To top off your issues, your stomach growled loudly, demanding to be fed. Your eyes flicked to the door, as if the delivery of your takeout would materialize outside by your sheer force of will. As you imagined someone in the hallway, your mind automatically gave the figure a face… your neighbor’s face. No. Absolutely not. Bucky Barnes was not an option. Not even a last resort. Sure, he was attractive… ridiculously attractive… but he was a world class grump, your friends would never believe that you would date such a loner.

“No,” you muttered to yourself. “Not happening.”

But despite your protests to yourself, you were already picturing him in a suit, a navy three piece would bring out those piercing blue eyes.

No.

Then you remembered who else would look good in a suit. Leonard! Your ex. Reluctantly you picked up your phone and started typing.

Bucky stepped out into the chilly afternoon air. He kept replaying his exchange with you. It had been far more awkward than he had intended. It wasn’t like he was good at these things, but talking to strangers was definitely not on the top of his list of things he enjoyed. There had been a time when he could quite literally charm the pants off a woman but somehow he had made a mess of things… again.

She didn’t mean it like that, he told himself. But the words wouldn’t stop echoing through his mind. Crimes against humanity. He shoved his hands into his pockets, avoiding making eye contact with anyone on the street. He walked down the street with the collar of his leather jacket turned up in an attempt to shield his identity. Bucky turned away from the faces who might judge him, but he could still see them— the faces of the people he had hurt, the people he had killed. 

There was a pang of guilt. Maybe you were right, maybe there was some part of him that would always be defined by the things he’d done— the things he’d been made to do. A flare of resentment coursed through him. She doesn’t know me, he thought. She has no idea what I’ve been through.

You had a way of making him feel exposed. Every single one of his interactions with you made him feel raw, like you’d peeled away the layers of armor he had built around himself. He didn’t know what it was, but the way you looked at him with your sharp, discerning eyes was disarming. It was like they could see more than he was willing to show you. This was exactly why he did his best to avoid you. And when he had no choice, he resorted to sassy quips and smug smirks. If he played the role of grumpy neighbor well enough, he could keep you at a safe arm’s length.

Not that it had worked very well. You were everywhere. Even when he managed to deflect your attempts at small talk and walk away, he still felt your presence. Maybe he should move… You didn’t even have to try to unearth his insecurities, they seemed to rise to the surface whenever you were around. So he did the easiest thing for when someone got too close— he pushed you away, hoping you wouldn’t see who he really was— a man trying to put himself back together— one broken piece at a time.

He picked up his pace; Sam was probably already waiting for him. The last thing he needed was to listen to Sam’s well meaning criticism about his demeanor and lack of time management. It was easier to focus on his friend. The straight forward, outspoken man was easier for Bucky to deal with. Fine, so he could be incredibly annoying and sometimes, downright exasperating but for the most part he didn’t make Bucky feel like he had unknowingly exposed his innermost self.

Also, Sam was definitely not the type of guy who was going to let Bucky sit around and brood in peace. Which was probably exactly what he needed. A distraction. Something to pull him out of the tornado of self destruction that he seemed to have been sucked into. Bucky rounded the corner, feeling a little more drive in his step. A destination, something he could focus on instead of the emotional mess your words had somehow whipped up. He would deal with his emotions later… or maybe, if Sam did his job right, not at all.

MASTERLIST > Next chapter (pending)

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Posting schedule will be Mondays and Fridays around 7.30am ACT / 4.30pm EST / 1.30pm PST / 9.30pm BST

[freyito]

hello hello!!! may i order an idia flavored curry rice plz?? blinks cutely) ty!!

✭ pairing(s): idia shroud x gn reader

★ in which: idia is WAY too confident that he can out miku you.

✩ curry rice black forest cake w/ idia shroud!

✦ entry for my 1k follower event, Freyito's Maid Cafe! check out the link to figure out how to send an order!!

✧ a/n: ykw anon. im so glad you changed your mind because this gave me SUCH a banger idea that i couldnt go to sleep cause i was writing it out in my head. teehee :)

🗒 cw: gn reader, ffxiv sneak, just embarrassed idia :3, not proofread

✎ wc: 2.7k

ᴘᴜʀᴇ ᴇᴠɪʟ | ꜰʀᴇʏɪᴛᴏ'ꜱ ᴍᴀɪᴅ ᴄᴀꜰᴇ !

It was late at night, and you had been on call with Idia. He was grinding out materials for some new transmog that had dropped in his game, and cursing the drop rates. You, on the other hand, were grinding out Project Diva Mega Mix for no particular reason. You had just made up your mind that you wanted to full combo some extra songs, and now you were hellbent on doing so. Plus, it provided some nice background music for Idia and his grind sesh.

By now, you had two songs finished and full cleared (albeit, with 97% accuracy), and you were working on your third, Sweet Devil. You already had four failed runs, your hands were starting to cramp a bit, and Idia’s smart remarks weren’t helping you. Not to mention, you always found the mvs distracting. Too much happening in the background while you were trying to focus on the notes.

You slump back in your chair with a huff as you watch the small word ‘safe’ pop up and interrupt your combo. You watch for just a moment as the symbols fly past on the screen, a barrage of ‘miss’es following shortly after. You finally exit the mv, balling your hands into a fist and then stretching out your fingers.

“I thought you were, like, a god at rhythm games,” Idia chides. You can hear the smile through his mic.

“Well sometimes it takes a couple tries,” You sigh, shaking your head. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure it does,” He chuckles. When you look at his stream, he’s finished up running maps and his character is now toiling away by the marketboard. “I bet I could do it.”

You raise your eyebrow, though he can’t see it. “Hm, what’s the stakes?”

“We need stakes?”

“You’re insulting my integrity as a rhythm game player. I want there to be a deal.”

A silence follows your voice, but you can hear him shift back in his chair. “Okay. What do you want to bet, then?”

Hm. You yourself don’t know exactly what you want if you win. Maybe you could get some gil off of him in game, but that didn’t feel like enough. You look around your room, before spotting something rather intriguing. It was a forgotten purchase, a pastel pink maid dress. It was rather cheap material, but still served its function. You were sure if you looked for them, you’d find the rest of the pieces…

“Loser wears a maid dress,” You declare triumphantly. “I got one in my closet.”

“... I, uh, don’t wanna ask why you have that,” He mumbles, “But I guess I accept. It’d be pretty nice to see you in a maid dress, heh…”

“Don’t act like you’ve already won. You haven’t even opened the game yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, just lemme put this up on the marketboard and I’ll get on the game…”

You lean back, content to wait and give your hands a bit of a break. You can’t help but smirk at not only making Idia eat his words, but seeing him in a maid dress would make you… quite happy, to say the least. The light pink would pair well with his hair and– you have to stop yourself there. You’d rather not distract yourself any further, nor allow yourself to get cocky. You can’t get ahead of yourself, or else you risk losing perhaps the most precious award you could ever have. 

“Okay. I’m on. Which song was it again?” Idia finally speaks up. When you look back at his stream, he’s ended it.

“Sweet Devil– Hey, you should stream your screen,” You point out, tabbing back into your game.

“I’m getting to itttt,” He drags the last letter, like it was too much work, as if he had not streamed his games every time you two called.

You watch as the ‘stream has ended’ switches to his screen, scrolling through the songs before landing on sweet devil. He changes difficulties to extreme, then waits for a moment, like he’s expecting you to say something. You decide to mess with him a little bit, staying silent a little longer.

“I’m waiting,” He groans, and you can almost hear his eyes roll. “I know you’re watching. I heard the little viewer noise.”

“Yeah, yeah,” You chuckle, “I’m ready whenever you are.”

Idia doesn’t even grace you with a ‘go’, or anything of the sort, simply starting the song, following your words. You scramble to tab back into the game, quickly selecting the song. 

The song and mv start up, and soon after the notes come in. You do your best to focus, to try and block out the MV, the bright pink lights of Miku’s room and Miku herself made it hard to follow the notes, especially with how fast they were. Still, you find your rhythm relatively easily, considering you knew the song and charting by heart. Normally, you’d be super conscious about the progress bar beneath the screen, checking to make sure you were well above the ‘excellent’, marker. However, you were too determined to focus. And unfortunately, that would be too much of a distraction. You don't even focus on if your hits are 'good' or 'excellent'.

The hold notes scare you the most, considering you always end up slipping up on them, somehow. Either that, or you don’t hold them for long enough and panic when you can just press the other buttons on your keyboard. You tell yourself, over and over again, in your mind, that you can just use the other set of keys. You have to. You can’t risk allowing Idia to have any sort of edge on you.

Three minutes feels like five, or even ten. Idia has been far too quiet during this, not even muttering something under his breath. You feel grateful for a moment, if you heard anything on his side, you’d probably mess up. Maybe you could mess him up. Yes. No. Ugh, if you did, you’d probably mess yourself up, too. And if you had messed him up, he’d complain and call for a redo. You would rather never play this song again, to be honest.

Just as your fingers start to tingle– a result of adrenaline, for some reason–, the word ‘success’ comes up. Behind the notes, Miku turns her little devil tail into a spear and throws it as a planet. You do your best not to celebrate too early, still having to go through with the last couple seconds of the song. You were just happy to have nailed the challenge time, more than happy. 

After the last couple of notes, you’re able to lean back and relax. For a moment. When the ‘clear’ screen comes up, you feel your heart jump at the percentage. 101.53%. You look over at Idia’s stream and can’t help but laugh. 99.07%.

“No,” He utters weakly, with an agony in his voice you have never heard before. He doesn’t say anything else.

“Yes,” You feel maniacal, an odd elation spreading through your chest. You don’t even exit the game, hopping out of your chair. “You stay right there.”

You pull the dress from your closet, listening to Idia frantically call for Ortho from your headphones. The rest of what he says is unintelligible, given the distance between you and your headphones as you rummage through drawers to find the rest of the costume. You find the cuffs, stockings, and even a headband with cat ears. It’s a little bent, but you’d fix it on the way.

Hurriedly, you stuffed the costume into a bag, grabbing your phone and turning on the flashlight. Slinging the bag over your shoulder and rushing out of your house. You keep your flashlight pointed at the ground so you don’t trip, running as fast as you can to the Hall of Mirrors. Like it is a high-stakes situation, time is precious. If you can’t make it to Ignihyde’s dorms soon, then you will never see Idia in a maid dress, even if you won the bet.

The minute you reach the Hall of Mirrors, you practically throw yourself through Ignihyde’s mirrors, scrambling through the halls with harsh breaths. Your heavy footsteps echo through the halls as you make your way up the steps and to Idia’s room, clutching the strap of your bag. Ortho is there, in front of Idia’s door, opening it just a crack.

Seeing you, the boy lights up, smiling at you from underneath his mask. “Oh, hey, Idia. They’re here!”

“Nooo!” Idia squeals, and you can what him scrambling from his chair to close the door.

You shove your foot into the crack of the door just as Idia tries to open it. He uses more force than he means to, squeeze your foot slightly. You don’t emote, despite how much it hurts. Which scares Idia. But you don’t care. You won the bet. And he needs to pay up. Ortho stares blankly, trying to figure out what has Idia acting this way, before scolding his brother.

“That’s mean! You shouldn’t try to shut your partner out, especially like that!” 

Idia shrinks back a little. It’s clear that Ortho doesn’t know what has you on such a warpath, and you are quite happy with that. Finally, you smile a little, opening the door with your other hand. 

“Ortho…” Idia murmurs, turning his gaze away from you and his brother. “We’re gonna, uhm, game all night. Just us two. So, uh, you should get some sleep.”

He sounds utterly defeated, and Ortho remains none the wiser as to what you were about to subject poor Idia too.

“Huh? But you called me here?” Ortho tilts his head, raising an eyebrow.

“I-I didn’t mean it– er, It was a mistake,” 

“... Okay! I’ll leave you two be. Have fun!”

And with that, Ortho hovers away, happy to leave his brother in your hands. By then, Idia knows he’s lost. You take a step in, handing him the bag with the dress and accessories in it. You don’t even speak to him, feeling a bit too giddy about your win, and prize.

“Uhm… can you at least stay out there, while I get changed?” His voice is shy, understandably so. 

“If you lock yourself in there, I’ll get Ortho to break it down,” You place your hands on your hips, in an attempt to seem confident.

“He wouldn’t do that.”

He’s right, you were well aware that your threat was kind of empty. But there’s no way you were going to let him get away.

“Then I’ll get those Heartslabyul first years to kick the door down.”

He lets out a small ‘eep’ at this, frowning. “Okay, okay, I won’t lock the door. Fine. You win.”

He doesn’t allow you any time to reply, taking the back and closing the door all too quickly. You can hear him shuffling about and the clothes rustling, and you feel your stomach flip-flop with nerves. You fidget with your hands and turn your back to the door, pretending like you actually didn’t care all that much so that Idia could get dressed faster, like that would work. You cross your arms, tapping your fingers against your biceps while you wait.

After a while, you hear the door crack behind you, and you turn around way too excitedly. He barely peeks through, giving you a look akin to a pleading puppy. He didn’t open the door all the way, insistent that you had to slip in through the crack, in case any one else would look out and see him. He’d rather save himself the embarrassment.

Finally squeezing through the door, he shuts it quickly. You, on the other hand, are greeted with a sight. His entire face is red, the tips of his hair flickering a bright pink as he looks away in embarrassment. The dress is a little short for him, so he clutches to the hem of the skirt and pulls it down a little. The pink worked well with his hair and his skin, just like you thought. It’s cliche, one of the dresses that was copy pasted from all those maid animes and what not. But still, you think it fit well.

“This is so cheap,” Idia complains, tilting his head up. “Okay. I dressed up. Can you go now so I can get back in my pajamas?”

You realize he’s missing something. The cat ears.

“No. No, I’m not leaving until you put the cat ears on.” You state simply, looking around for where they are.

He grimaces, deflating even more. “Please no. I think I might die. Actually, I’m going to die. Right now.”

“I won the bet fair and square, it’s not my fault. Where are they, Idia.” You speak with such a stern voice, it almost scares him. He finally, hesitantly, points to his chair, his grimace deepening as he looks back at you. “Put. Them. On.”

He groans, turning around and grabbing the cat ears. He gives you one last look, begging you to just let him go. Maybe you’re being a little too sadistic, but c’mon, Idia in a maid dress. That’s it. You plan to make the most of it. Slowly, he lifts the headband over his head, then lowers it down. Now you have your own Idia cat maid in front of you. You can’t help but smile, absolutely jubilant to see this poor man wearing such a cute dress.

“Okay. Can you go now, please,” He pleads once more, bringing a hand up to his face.

“Can I at least take a picture?” You hold up your phone.

“N-no! Please, no. I’m already at my lowest point, don’t have to kick me while I’m down…”

“Okay, okay,” You decide to finally allow him some mercy, “I won’t. But… I don’t think this image is ever leaving my head any time soon.”

He sighs and shakes his head, avoiding your gaze. But he doesn’t reply. Well, that won’t do. You decide to come up with a quick excuse to stay.

“Well, I ran all the way here, in the dark, it’d suck if you sent me back,” You try to play it cool, tilting your head a little and looking up through your lashes at him. This earns you a deeper blush.

“Stop it,” He huffs, turning his head. Met with his set up, he realizes you two are technically still on call. And he finds his way out. “Your pc is on, you know.”

“Huh.”

“It’s on. You’re still in call.” He points to his monitor.

Your blind blanks for a minute, before you panic a little. You would like to stay and see if you can get him to stay in the maid dress for a little longer, but at the same time, you’d rather not blow out the power supply of your pc. That thing is too damn expensive. And you love it too much.

“Okay. Bye.” You huff briskly, turning on your heels and waiting for the door open before running back down to the mirror that connected the Ignihyde dorms to the Hall of Mirrors.

Idia yelps as the door slides open fully, stepping back and pressing himself against the wall so no one would see. Like anyone else was up at this time. He listens to you rush down the hallway, before letting out a breath. Once the door is shut all the way, he’s quick to wriggle out of the dress, throwing the cat ears, cuffs, and stockings (which ended up ripping a bit) to the corner of his room.

Almost breaking the zipper, he yanks it down on the back of his dress and throws it alongside the scattered recipes, before staring intently at it. Why couldn’t you have just waited for him to undress and take it back? He didn’t want these god forsaken items here. In his room. That reminded him of you. That’s like the cheesiest romantic thing couples do! And in this fashion, perhaps even cringey! He wants to burn it, so bad. Or throw it out. But what if someone somehow finds it in the trash? And then they link it back to him? That’d be the worst scenario. The absolute worst.

He continues to stare at it for a minute, before reaching for his pajamas that were hanging off the back of his chair. Fine. He’ll leave the stupid costume alone for now. Perhaps it’d come in handy one day. Give you a taste of your own medicine… or something.

© freyito, 2025 | maid cafe event | maid cafe masterlist | masterlist | queue | kofi | discord server | strawpage | star header by roseschoices , dividers by cafekitsune , headers by yours truly

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[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Back home p.24

Hii guyss, if you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist and if you missed part 23, here it is.

Your life in Monaco was idyllic, growing up alongside the Leclercs. But everything changes when you're forced to leave. Now, returning to the place you once called home, you're confronted with a dilemma: not one, but two Leclerc brothers vying for your heart. Old bonds and unresolved emotions collide-what will you do when the past and present merge in unexpected ways?

A throbbing pain pulsed through your skull as you slowly regained consciousness. The world around you was a blur, your limbs sluggish and unresponsive. A sharp chill ran down your spine as you realized you couldn’t move—your wrists and ankles were bound, the rough texture of the restraints biting into your skin.

Your breathing quickened, panic creeping in as you forced yourself to take in your surroundings. The dim lighting cast long shadows across the unfamiliar room. It smelled faintly of something sterile, yet there was an underlying scent of cologne that struck you with an eerie sense of familiarity.

Footsteps.

Your body tensed as the sound grew closer, slow and deliberate, each step echoing like a warning.

Then, a figure emerged from the shadows.

Arthur.

For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, your breath catching in your throat. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held something terrifyingly unhinged, something you had never seen before.

“How are you feeling?” His voice was eerily calm, almost gentle. “Does your head hurt?”

Tears welled in your eyes as reality crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your best friend had done this. Arthur had done this.

“Arthur…” your voice broke as you tried to move, the restraints tightening painfully against your skin. “What—what are you doing? Please—”

He exhaled, tilting his head slightly, as if your reaction pained him. “I didn’t want it to come to this.” His fingers twitched at his sides, his jaw tightening. “But you left me no choice.”

You shook your head violently, tears slipping down your cheeks. “No. No, Arthur, you don’t have to do this. Please—just let me go. This isn’t you.”

He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “You don’t understand, but in time, you will. I had to do this because you need me. You need my help, and I can’t just sit by and watch you ruin your life.”

Your chest ached at the sheer delusion in his words. “Arthur, listen to me—you’re my best friend, I love you, but not like that. This isn’t the way—”

He cut you off with a sharp glare. “No.” His voice was suddenly colder, more forceful. “You don’t see it yet, but you will. Charles has blinded you. He’s manipulated you into thinking that what you feel for him is real, but it’s not. It can’t be.”

Your breath hitched as he crouched in front of you, his hands reaching out to cradle your face. You flinched, but he didn’t let go, his grip firm yet oddly tender.

“I can’t live without you,” he whispered, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I tried to stop this. I tried to stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life, but you wouldn’t listen. You wouldn’t see what was right in front of you.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with disbelief. “Arthur… what did you do?”

His lips twitched into something resembling a smile, but it was laced with something twisted. “It was surprisingly easy,” he mused, as if he were proud of himself. “I asked one of Charles’ engineers if I could borrow his phone. Told him Charles needed something and couldn’t step away. He handed it over without a second thought.”

Your stomach churned.

Arthur leaned in slightly, as if savoring the moment. “And the hotel? That was even easier. There was this woman at the front desk, so eager to be helpful. I told her Charles needed a copy of his key card and—voilà.” He smirked. “People are so trusting when they think they’re helping someone important.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, your chest tightening with fear. “Arthur… please,” you tried again, your voice raw with desperation. “The Arthur I know would never hurt me.”

Something dark flickered in his gaze, his grip on your face tightening for a moment before he finally pulled back. He let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

“I know you’re scared,” he murmured, almost sympathetically. “But I promise, you’ll thank me for this one day.”

Terror clawed at your throat.

Because for the first time, you realized—he truly believed that.

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest. Charles would look for you—you knew he would. He would tear the entire city apart if he had to. But would he be fast enough? You had no idea where you were, no idea how much time had passed since Arthur took you.

You needed to stall.

Swallowing your fear, you forced your voice to stay steady. “What… what are you planning?”

Arthur’s lips curled into a small smile, as if he was pleased you were finally willing to listen. He crouched in front of you again, his hands resting on his knees. “Tonight, we’re leaving,” he said simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “I have everything ready. A safe house, somewhere no one will find us. It’s just you and me now, the way it was always supposed to be.”

A shiver ran down your spine.

“I’d rather you be cooperative,” he continued, reaching out to brush a stray tear from your cheek. “But if you fight me, I won’t have a choice. I can’t let you go, chérie. Not when we’re so close.”

Your stomach twisted violently.

Arthur tilted his head slightly, studying you with unnerving adoration. “And when you finally understand that this is the right choice for you, we’ll get married.” His voice was sickeningly tender, as if he was talking about a dream. “We’ll start a family. A real family. Not like the one I have now.” His expression darkened. “A bunch of traitors, all of them. Charles, my mother… they never really cared about me. Not like you do.”

You wanted to scream, to cry, to fight. But you knew that wouldn’t help you now.

You had to play along.

You took a slow, shaky breath, nodding. “Okay,” you whispered, lowering your gaze. “I—I’ll cooperate.”

Arthur’s entire face lit up, and it made your stomach churn. “I knew you’d understand,” he murmured, his fingers lightly tracing over your bound wrists. “I promise, you’ll be happy with me. You’ll see.”

You clenched your jaw, holding back the revulsion crawling up your throat. “Can you untie me?” you asked softly. “It hurts.”

For a second, Arthur hesitated, but then he nodded. “Of course, mon amour.”

He pulled a knife from his pocket, flicking it open with a practiced ease. You held your breath as he carefully sliced through the bindings around your wrists, then moved down to your ankles. The moment you felt the restraints loosen, your muscles screamed with relief.

You flexed your fingers, trying to hide how desperately you wanted to run.

Arthur stood, turning his back to you for just a moment.

And you took your chance.

You sprang to your feet, ignoring the burning pain in your legs, and lunged for the door. Your fingers barely brushed the handle before a strong arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you back with terrifying force.

“No!” Arthur snarled, spinning you around and slamming you against the wall. His grip on your arms was bruising, his breath hot against your skin. “Why would you do that?” His voice cracked, hurt lacing his fury. “I trusted you!”

You struggled wildly, thrashing against him, your nails scratching at his arms. “Let me go, Arthur! Please!”

A sudden noise outside made both of you freeze.

Then—

“YN!”

Your breath caught.

Charles.

His voice was raw with panic, filled with a desperation you had never heard before.

Tears flooded your eyes as you twisted in Arthur’s grasp, screaming with everything you had. “Charles!”

Heavy footsteps pounded against the floor outside.

Arthur’s grip tightened painfully. “No, no, no…” he muttered, his eyes flashing with desperation.

You screamed again, louder, your voice hoarse and broken. “I’m in here!”

The door rattled violently as someone slammed against it.

“YN, hold on!” Charles shouted, his voice nearly breaking.

Arthur cursed under his breath, his grip on you like a vice as he pulled you away from the door.

But you fought harder. Because Charles was here.

And he wasn’t going to stop until he got to you.

Tag list: @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @janeh22, @victoriaholland, @abq654, @iamapersonwholikesunicorns, @anaferreira-4, @larastark3107, @itgirlofthecenturysposts, @boherahpsody, @iamkaku, @jz12, @boherahpsody, @urfavouritef1girly, @meglouise00, @charlesgirl16, @a-beaverhausen, @lol6sposts, @linnygirl09, @weekendlusting

[creature-wizard]

So I was going through your tag on radicalization and uh... "women who actually believe men are inherently evil have been radicalized." What if I am a woman and this happened bc of trauma, what do I do to deradicalize?

Also: "if you’re in a social media environment where the daily ubiquitous message is that you have no hope of any kind of future and you can’t possibly achieve anything without a violent overthrow of society, you’re being radicalized, and not in the good way" What... If I may have fallen for this but believe it's true?

(answer anonymously please)

I hope by "answer anonymously" you just mean to respond to your anonymous message, because that's literally the only thing I can do. (And Tumblr doesn't let people un-anon an anonymous message, if that's what you're worried about.)

So, if you're in any kind of toxic space, the main thing is to take whatever steps you can to remove yourself from it. I've written on how to do this over here: "I'm in a bad place and need to get out, what can I do?"

If you're trying to rewrite/overwrite toxic beliefs, you can:

Recognize that you're experiencing a trauma response, and that your brain is trying to keep you safe. Also recognize that trauma responses can lead to hasty generalizations. For example, if someone was afraid that all cats would bite them because they had a bad experience with one cat, we would recognize that this fear is understandable, but also irrational. It's no moral failing if you can't completely get rid of your fear responses. But also, you can't let those fear responses dictate your politics.

Try to think of or look for anything the challenges the belief you're trying to get rid of. Hang out with people, follow accounts, and engage with media that challenges the worldview you're trying to move past.

I think it helps to consider the typical political aims of demonizing an entire group of people. Usually, the purpose is finding an easy scapegoat for society's problems instead of admitting that things are complicated.

Also, consider how being taught that incremental change or small efforts are fundamentally worthless, and only some grand (but functionally impossible) action is worth your effort effectively freezes you in place, which only serves those who are in power.

So yeah, essentially, to deradicalize yourself, you need to remove yourself from spaces and media that encourage unhealthy and unreasonable beliefs, reeducating yourself with something healthy and reasonable, and think critically about the beliefs you're trying to deconstruct.

[holywizardheart]

How people perceive you?

This reading is for entertainment purposes so don't take it too seriously. Try to concentrate on yourself and pick intuitively one of these gifs. Hope yall enjoy my short tarot reading ;)

1 Pile

People can perceive you as intimidating and scary in some way. They can have chilling thoughts about you that may make them anxious and afraid to form personal connections. I can see that some of them can overthink and see you through the lengths of rose-colored glasses. Others can just view you as a threat or someone really hard to get along with on friendly terms. Moreover, people can keep their distance from you due to their inner doubts and fears that can be present in their minds. Also, I can point out that people can make a deep analysis or calculations of your personality before introducing themselves to you. For some of you, people may try to avoid your presence because they feel unsafe around you.

2 Pile

I can clearly say that people can show their curiosity and interest towards you. Maybe make some grand gestures or take action to get to know you as a person. It can also play off as something that you weren’t even expecting at all like people randomly trying to talk to you or have some little chat out of a sudden. Some of them can perceive you as someone unpredictable and extraordinary like “try to guess what am I gonna do next”. People can feel confused about your image like you can act differently on various occasions. Maybe they may have a hard time finding out information about you because they usually contradict each other.

3 Pile

From this card, I can tell that people can perceive you as someone who is goal-oriented and has a lot of courage and passion. Someone who comes across as extremely motivated and takes a lot of steps to achieve their goals. However, people may also view you as stubborn and fixed in their principles that can’t be changed. My way or the highway type of mindset I’m noticing from this card. I can also note that you don’t give up on your aims easily and try your best to accomplish them even though you face a lot of obstacles and challenges in your journey. People can definitely highlight your determination and high willpower in your personality. On the other hand maybe for some of you, it can play out as being strongly attached to the past or hard time letting go of past experiences.

4 Pile

I don’t know why but people can perceive you as someone greedy and stingy with their material resources. People can notice your interest in the material world and high concentration on the money aspect of life. It sort of sounds like you’re the material girl in people’s eyes. People may think that you have ulterior motives that you’re trying to conceal for some reason. You tend to hide a lot about your goals and generally about your personal life. I guess you don’t like to reveal about yourself at all. Plus I can also mention a deep attachment to things that you personally value and it can be hard to let them go. Maybe it’s because you really appreciate stability and security in your life.

[theconstantsidekick]

Avengers: Age Of Ultron ft. Static (2) | s.r

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Stark!Reader, Tony Stark x Stark!Reader (siblings)

Genre: Fluff with hidden angst.

Summary: So apparently everyone and their mother knows that Steve doesn't want to move in with Y/n. She now very desperately needs him to tell her why?

(These scenes incorporate y/n, yet to be codenamed—Static, into the pre-existing story as a character without making drastic changes to the plot or mythos. All the major plot points from the MCU remain in place with the addition of the reader as Static, who is not only a Stark but also enhanced. Whatever events from the canon aren’t mentioned, take place without much change.)

Warnings: Drinking, lot of cursing, mentions of death of parents, past traumas, feelings.

a/n: am I back? maybe. who knows? don't look a gift horse in the mouth, okay? enjoy it while it lasts.

Avengers : Age of Ultron ft. Static (1) | Series Masterlist | The Avengers (ft. Static) | Captain America: The Winter Soldier (ft. Static) | Static Verse Masterlist

“Hey Y/n!” Bruce waves at her over the small scattered crowd. He seems so excited to see her as if they haven’t seen each other in ages. Like they didn’t just come back from a mission they worked on, together. As if they don’t meet every other Tuesday to drink overpriced whiskey and bitch about Tony. Like they don’t have each other on speed dial.

She smiles watching him make his way over to her through the crowd, “Hiya Bruce.”

“Ah shit,” he curses under his breath as his drink sloshes, dripping a little onto his fingers. God Banner, she thinks. Hope the green guy’s not this clumsy. Licking his fingers clean, he looks up at her with a kind smile. “How—how’s it going?”

She thinks for a second or so, “Going as well as things can go once you discover the organization you were working for was secretly infiltrated by Nazis,” she takes a sip of her drink.

“Messy?”

She smiles over the rim of her glass of whiskey before agreeing, “Messy.”

Bruce nods, shifting like he’s trying to settle something in his head. “Yeah, yeah. That makes sense.” He looks around, eyes darting—nervous. Why would he be nervous? “What about—how’s the weather been lately?”

Y/n squints. “In Manhattan? You mean two blocks from where you live?”

The look on the man’s face is proof enough that he realizes he’s been caught.

“I’ve seen you butt naked like 17 times now—”

"That’s on Tony!" Bruce defends immediately. "He kept pretending the stretchable shorts were taking too long!"

She waves him off. "My point is, the time for small talk is far behind us, I can’t even see it in the rear view mirror. Can you just spit it out?”

That seems to shut Bruce up. He clams up. Scratches the back of his head.

She waits.

Until she can’t anymore. “Spit it out, Banner. Ideally before you give yourself a hernia.”

Bruce hesitates for a second before taking a step closer. He looks around in short quick motions, before he leans in and speaks just above a whisper, “I—I heard about the Steve situation…” He shrugs, she stiffens. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

She knew it was coming.It’s been coming at her all fucking night. First Tony and Nat, then Rhodey, Hill and Sam, then Thor, of all people—and now Bruce too? She’s beyond pissed off. "What Steve situation?" she asks, voice deceptively light.

His brows knit together as he straightens, gathering courage “The one whe—where he doesn’t wanna move in with you.” The statement comes out more as a question than an answer.

And just like that, Y/n is going to kill someone. 

“Who the fuck told you that?” She damn near shouts.

Bruce instantly takes a step back. “No one.”

“Banner,” she takes a step forward. “Who the fuck told you that?”

Another step back. “No one.”

A step forward. “Banner.”

The way Bruce physically shrinks, you’d forget he moonlights as the big green raging beast.

“Will you kill the person who told me?” He asks. She knows him well enough by now to know that Bruce is weighing the danger to himself versus whoever the other person is. He’s trying to find the most peaceful way out of the situation.

“Depends on the person,” she answers diplomatically.

Bruce sighs, resigned. “Then you’ll definitely kill him.”

She takes another step forward. Her movements are too quick for Bruce to react to them, outside of his eyes widening at the realization that she’s grabbing the collar of his shirt.

“Spill it. Banner.”

Giving the answer is the only way out of this now. So it falls easily from his lips.

“Steve.”

Alright then. 

Y/n is going to kill Steve Rogers.

She drops Bruce’s collar, fixes his shirt in efficient motions—because she’s not a fucking heathen.

“Thanks, Bruce.” She pecks his cheek before marching straight for the damn Golden Boy.

Steve’s not hard to spot. Not really. Not ever.

Steve Rogers is always the easiest for her to find. While her brother is prone to be found in hidden, forbidden corners, her boyfriend is the exact opposite. Where Tony demands your attention, Steve somehow just attracts it. His presence is strong and constant, and you can feel it even when you don’t see it. Sometimes Y/n thinks she can feel it from across the room on her fingertips. It always feels tangible.

It must have something to do with being the most impressive person in most rooms, especially during the war, she presumes. Back then when super people were few and far between. There was just him. The only successful super soldier. He must have walked into rooms, and respect, attention and curiosity must have followed. She is aware of the fact that Steve, the real one, the one before Captain America, wasn’t used to all the attention. Wasn’t even used to people looking his way. He’d told her on one of their countless shared sleepless nights that he’d never gotten used to the feeling of people making the way for him. He’d never gotten used to leading the way for people either but that somewhat came easier to him than the understanding that his voice carried weight. His opinions held value. His words being heard was so new to the boy from Brooklyn, he’d told her he believed he was never going to get used to it. 

But Y/n didn’t believe him. Not that she thought he was lying. 

No, not lying. She thinks he just hasn’t taken account of how much he’s changed since then. 

Or maybe, she just views him differently because well… You know how things are when you’re in lov—attracted to someone. 

You scan the room for their face the moment you walk in. No matter who you’re talking to, your focus snaps back like a cosmic magnet. When you crack a joke, your first thought is—did they laugh? Because, fuck the rest of the universe, that’s all that matters. Even when they’re across the room, lost in their own chatter, your body just knows where they are, like an invisible tether. And when they’re not even glancing your way—damn, especially then—you’re watching. Because you’re hopelessly, ridiculously, utterly hooked.

Basically what she means is that, Y/n is always watching Steve. 

He seems like he’s gotten more than comfortable making his presence known.

She can see it now as she walks over to Steve as he’s talking to Hill and Rhodey. He’s smiling, the smile he smiles when he’s trying to charm the people around him. It’s different from the one she gets, that one’s shy and reserved. This one—it’s all bright and shiny, just like the Golden boy himself.

“Hey, handsome,” she calls out, sweeter than honey.

Steve’s smile switches instantly at the sound of her voice. He looks at her and she can see his eyes soften. “Hey there, doll.”

“Why the fuck are you going around telling people you don’t wanna fucking move in with me?” 

His smile drops instantly. 

Rhodey and Hill follow suit.

“Let’s move this somewhere private—It seems like my girl’s going to kill me,” Steve offers as an explanation before he gently grabs her hand and begins moving towards the balcony. She follows without any effort from his part. “I’d prefer it if it weren’t all that public. Wouldn’t want our lawyer going to jail,” He calls out over his shoulder as he holds the door open for her to step out.

She does.

Walking over to the railing, she exhales audibly trying to let go of the anger she’s built up over the course of the evening. 

“You alright there, doll?” He asks, his tone too damn sweet.

FUCK!

Focus, Y/n!

“No. No, Steve. Quite the fucking opposite. I’m dead set on the idea of murdering you, I’m sure I can lawyer my way out of jail.” She’s… exhausted.

He finally walks up to her then. Leaning on the rails, he looks at her. “What am I being charged with, Miss Stark?”

“Defamation.”

He smiles then. Fucking charmer. “And how did I defame my girl?”

“You’re going around telling people you don’t want to live with me—which is absolutely fine, by the way. I just want to know why you won’t tell me that to my face?” She’s so curious, some might deem it as desperation. 

His stance changes. He can clearly hear the vulnerability in her voice. “I didn’t say that to your face because it’s not true. I told you. I want to live in Brooklyn, and you want to live in New York. I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re at my place five nights a week, Steve. You think two more will be an imposition?”

He shakes his head, “Doll—”

She’s not in the mood for bullshit. “Steve, I will never ask you to do something that you don’t want to do. If you think moving in together would be a step we’re taking too soon, I understand that. To me life isn’t all that short as people make it out to be.” She can hear a laugh in some corner of her mind. It sounds suspiciously like Tony. “I would never mind taking things slow.”

“It’s not that, Y/n.” His head falls.

“What is it then?” 

“Doll…”

The thing about their relationship is that despite all the affections the two hold for each other, it’s clear—beyond clear that both of them hold secrets they aren’t willing to throw out in the open.

She shakes her head, “Look, Steve… I—I… I understand that this is new for you. I get that. It’s new for me too. I get that it must be scary, but you have to understand that it’s terrifying for me too.”

“Oh come on, Y/n! You flirt like it’s part of your job description and you do it well enough that you should be billing me for it. What do you have to be terrified of?” Steve throws back. He says it casually, or at least tries to. But the way his eyes skirt away from hers, she knows he’s trying to hide what he really feels. However, she doesn’t like the insinuation all the same. 

“What do I—Steve, do you even want this?” 

He straightens at the accusation, all tall, blond and buff. “What makes you think I don’t?”

She tilts her head, takes in the sight of him. The broad shoulders, the cocked brow, the challenge in his eyes, she relishes all of it. It’s hard not to—when it’s him. When it’s Steve. “The same thing that makes you scared,” she answers him with the same resolution. She watches his brow scrunch together slightly, either at being caught or in confusion, she’s not sure. “I know… I know that we don’t talk about it, that there’s this big fat elephant in every single room we share, and we never address it. We should—we really should talk about it, but we don’t…” She clenches her jaw, gathering courage, “I’ve got a bag full of secrets and you want a peak… I can’t particularly blame you for your curiosity, but I’d rather we could just—”

“Just?”

“I just wish we could move past it,” she admits softly.

Steve inhales audibly and slowly. “It’s not that simple, Y/n.”

“It’s not that complicated either, Steve,” she tells him. “I know you don’t trust me—”

“I trust you.”

The way he says it, it compels her to look at him. And when she does, she’s struck hard by the determination in them.

“I trust you,” he reiterates, “with my life.”

“Just not with your heart.” It’s a painful admission, and just as painful an accusation. She can see the hurt in her chest reflected back in his eyes.

“That’s not fair, Y/n,” he says, voice more broken than it has any reason to be. She’s the one who should be hurt, goddamn it.

“Maybe not,” she acquiesces, “but it is true… isn’t it?”

His head falls, he crumbles. He’s ashamed, because she isn’t wrong. She hit the nail on the head, and it seems the head might have been his. She might have been aware of that while striking the hammer, but guilt blooms inside her all the same.

“Look, Y/n—it’s—” His hands run through his hair in frustration, he turns away for a second before he turns back to her. He’s trying to buy time to come up with the right words.

“Not that simple?” She guesses, laughing a hollow laugh. “Then let me simplify this for you—you don’t see a future with me.”

His face morphs instantly to annoyance, “Who told you that? I know for a fact that I never said it, so who did? Huh? Who told you that I don’t?”

“I can see it in your eyes, Rogers,” she admits, words broken, eyes wet. 

“Then look again.” He’s a strong man, that Rogers. His words always carry weight, especially when he wants them too, sometimes even when he doesn’t.

“I’m looking, handsome, and all’s I see is doubt.”

His jaw clenches, his stance changes.

There’s a fight afoot.

Time for talking it out is behind them.

“Just say it, Steve.” She’s not going to like what comes next.

“I don’t know you.”

Yeah, she doesn’t just not like it, she fucking loathes this.

Steve continues, perhaps a little unaware of the damage his words must be inflicting. “I don’t know you. I—I try to look past it, I try to find some comfort in the fact that I know that you hate coffee and bubblegum, that you smoke when you’re worried, that you cry like a baby when watching movies, not because they are sad, but because they are grand. I know that you are sharing as much of yourself as you possibly can, but—” He meets her head on, like he’s going into battle. And who knows? Maybe he is.“But I also know that you wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, scared and terrified. And all I want is to pull into my arms and protect you from whatever you’re afraid of—except I have no fucking clue what that is.” He takes a step towards her, “I—I want to build a life with you, Y/n. I want a future with you.” Motherfucker. “But how the hell am I supposed to do that when I know nothing about your past.”

For anyone paying attention, her heart is breaking into a million pieces right about now.

“You don’t need to know everything about me to know me, Steve. My past—it’s fucking irrelevant.” It’s not the answer he wants, but it’s the only one she has to offer.

“I’m not asking you to tell me every sordid detail about your entire life—I’m just asking for something, anything… Throw me a fucking line, doll. I’m drowning here,” Steve pleads. He actually, well and truly pleads. He’s bordering on begging at this point. “I want this to be more—so much more, but it feels like maybe you don’t. From where I’m standing, it looks a whole lot more like you’re the one who doesn’t want this, instead of the other way round.”

Fucking hell.

Motherfucking, cocksucking hell.

Goddamnit.

She throws him the line.

“I was born in Madripoor.”

“What?” Steve asks, looking absolutely lost.

She gulps down her heart that’s beating at the speed of light and repeats herself, though this time, her voice wavers ever so slightly. “I was born in Madripoor. That’s where I’m from… or was from, before Howard Stark took me in.”

And he takes it in. He takes in this little tiny piece of information like he’s been handed the Holy Chalice. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly feeling too exposed.

“Why do you call him Howard and not—you know—Dad?”

Her arms cross over her chest before she even realizes she’s doing it, as if her body is trying to hold itself together. She shrugs, trying for nonchalance, but it’s a little too rehearsed. “‘Cause I had a dad. And he was nothing like Howard. He was soft spoken and generous when he shouldn’t have been. He had kind eyes, calluses on his palms and he always smelled like tar.” She can’t meet his eyes when she speaks. “I’m not saying he was the exact opposite of Howard… But yeah, I guess that is what I’m saying.” She looks out over the balcony, at the seemingly endless New York skyline. She exhales sharply, her breath shaky, and grips the balcony railing. The cool metal helps ground her. “My dad was my dad. And Howie was Howie. I don’t know if that makes sense to you, and I don’t think I could explain it even if I tried to… Howard was the man who saved me, but that doesn’t mean he gets to replace my dad.”

“What…” 

She can tell what he wants to ask, and she can tell he’s scared to—because he doesn’t want to push. He’s gotten a sliver and he’s afraid he’ll lose it if he asks for more.

She’s already thrown him the rope, why not give it some slack, huh? 

“What happened to him?” She finishes for him, her voice sharper than before. Her eyes are avoiding looking at him like the plague, and yet, she catches him nodding in her peripheral vision.

Y/n’s grip tightens around the railing. Her shoulders lock up, and for a second, she considers not answering.

But it’s Steve—her Steve, so the words tumble out anyway. “He died—or I think he did… Madripoor is a violent place, a pirate island for all the bad guys from your rogues gallery to go and hide out in… A fight broke out between two rival factions and we got caught in the middle of it. He got me to safety, but then went back to see if he could help any other stragglers… I never saw him again.” Her throat feels tight, but she keeps her voice even. Controlled. “I was six years old.”

“And your mom?” His voice is quiet when he speaks again.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Dad used to talk about her like she was an angel. He told me I was two when we lost her,” she answers just as quietly.

“Does that mean…?”

“I don’t know what it means, Steve.” She kicks the ground a little frustrated, at him, but mostly at herself for being able to give out only broken bits of herself to the man she…  “Maybe she died, maybe she was taken… Or maybe it means that she left us, and he just didn't know how to tell that to a little kid asking about her mom.” Her voice is sharper now, meaner, because if she doesn’t lash out, she might actually have to sit with this awful, disgusting feeling crawling under her skin. Her body feels too tight, like she’s trapped in a room with no exits. “It could mean anything.”

“Did you ever look for them?” He asks, taking a step closer to her.

Her grip on the railing tightens. “Have you ever been to Madripoor?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“But you have heard of it?”

“Yes.”

“Anything good?”

“Not really, no,” he answers, a little defeated.

She snorts. “On average, 23 people go missing from Lowertown alone…” She waits for the fact to register with him. And then she finally turns to him and adds, “Every week.” Steve’s brows fly up in shock. Then she can’t stop herself from smirking at his surprise. “Looking for them—” she shakes her head with a broken smile. “It would be easier to find a singular bullet in a warzone.”

Something shifts between them. Something shifts in him.

“You’re gonna punch me in the face if I ask you anything else, aren’t you?” He asks, but it’s not a question, it’s a statement. She can hear his smile in his words.

Her jaw clenches, and she decides to reply anyway. “There is a distinct possibility of that happening, yes.”

She hears him chuckle softly to her right. “This is really hard for you.”

“It would be easier if I were a little less sober, but… yes. It is.” Finally, letting go of the railing, she pockets her hands. She stands taller. “However, losing you over this—losing you cause I couldn’t do one hard thing, that would be… harder.” She turns to him then, ready and strong. “I don’t think I’d survive it.”

For a second Steve doesn’t move. He doesn’t let the moment dissolve, either. “You’re not losing me, doll. You can’t.” Then, before she can react—before she can think too hard about it—he just hugs her.

She freezes. Body going stiff like she’s just been handed a live grenade.

Part of her is scared of it, part of her hasn’t readjusted to the change in the tone of the conversation. Part of her is screaming at her to put some distance between herself and the man who holds her whole heart in the palm of his hand. Because what if he decides this isn’t enough? She’s… she’s scared. So, she should pull away.

Instead, her hands fist into the back of his shirt and she holds on.

Steve Rogers is built like a damn fortress, all solid muscle and unwavering steadiness. He’s warm, too warm, like he’s been storing up all this body heat just to throw her off. 

Unfair.

They stay like that, longer than she should probably allow.

Then, she hears him exhale against her hair. 

“When I came out of the ocean, I didn’t think this world had anything for me.” His voice is low, warm—dangerous, in the way it makes her chest feel like it’s coming apart at the seams. “I felt out of place, out of time,” he continues, like this is just casual conversation and not the kind of thing that makes her heart kick wildly against her ribs. “I didn’t feel like I belonged here—or anywhere.” She should say something. Deflect, make a joke, give him an easy out. But all she does is breathe. “But you changed that.”

Her throat closes up.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away—if anything, his arms tighten around her. “Doll, you keep me grounded.” His breath is warm against her temple, too close, too much, just enough. “You make me feel like I belong here.”

She hates this. She hates how much she doesn’t hate this.

Steve doesn’t let her slip away into her own head. Instead, he pulls back just enough to look at her—just enough to make sure she’s listening. “You think it’s a coincidence that you’re always in my line of sight in every room I walk into?” he murmurs, like he’s letting her in on a secret he’s been keeping forever.

She blinks up at him, half-annoyed, half-trapped in his gravity. “I mean, yeah? Maybe?”

He just laughs, low and disbelieving, shaking his head. “Doll, you seriously think I just happen to catch your eye from across the bar?” His fingers are still cupping her face, thumbs skimming over her cheek like she’s something fragile. Her pulse trips over itself. “You think I don’t engineer every situation to always be within your earshot?” he goes on, the absolute menace. “To listen to you laugh? To listen to you cuss with that sailor’s mouth?”

Narrowing her eyes at him, “So you’re saying you stalk me?”

Steve grins. “I prefer ‘strategically position myself in your general vicinity.’” Smooth talker. Then, softly—almost reverently—he leans in. “You’re like a hurricane, doll,” he murmurs, voice barely a whisper. “You’re the eye of the storm. I’m caught in your field, and I have no clue how to get out.”

Her fingers tighten around his forearm, her whole body thrumming with the tension between them. “Do you want to?” she asks, her voice quieter now, just for him. “Get out?”

“No, doll. No.” His nose ghosts over hers, his lips just barely grazing hers as he whispers, “I think I’d suffocate if I tried.”

She barely has time to take a breath before his lips finally, finally press against hers. And—god help her—he kisses like he means it. Like he’s been holding back for longer than he can stand. Like she’s the first breath of air after being underwater too long.

She sucks in a sharp breath, gripping the front of his shirt to keep herself grounded. But it’s useless—because everything, everything, is spinning. Or maybe she is. Maybe it’s him. Because Steve Rogers kisses like devotion—like he’s trying to tell her something with every tilt of his mouth, every slow, intentional slide of his lips against hers.

And she gets it.

She gets it in the way his hands cradle her like she’s something precious, something unshakable and breakable all at once. She gets it in the way he sighs into her, relieved, like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole damn life. Her fingers tangle into his hair, yanking him closer, and—god help him—he groans.

That sound. 

That fucking sound.

It’s low and rough and wrecked, like he’s just barely keeping it together. And that? That’s her favorite thing now. So she does it again—tugs a little harder, just to hear it.

Steve grins against her mouth. “You’re a menace,” he mutters, voice warm and wrecked, kissing her deeper like it’s a challenge.

“And you’re—” she inhales sharply as his fingers slip beneath the hem of her backless dress, dragging slow and teasing along her waist.

“What was that, doll?” he asks, his lips brushing hers as he speaks. Smug bastard.

She glares at him, though it loses some weight considering she’s half-dizzy from the way he’s touching her. “I was gonna say, you’re making it real hard to think right now.”

Steve hums, lazy and pleased, his hands still mapping out every inch of skin they can reach. 

She is so incredibly screwed.

“You wanna stop?” he murmurs, lips skimming down her jaw, pressing the softest kiss right below her ear.

And—oh, she fucking hates him.

Because he knows what he’s doing. Knows exactly how her breath stutters, how she grips his shirt tighter, how she’s not pushing him away. Y/n exhales shakily, tilting her head just a little to the side, just enough to let him keep going. “Did I say that?” she breathes.

His answering chuckle is low and rough, and it vibrates against her skin like a goddamn earthquake. “No, doll,” he murmurs, lips brushing right over her pulse. “No, you didn’t.”

Her fingers curl into his hair, holding him there, keeping him close.

This is dangerous.

This is everything.

And fuck if that matters.

She just wants him.

So she tugs him back up to her, kisses him hard, kisses him until he stops teasing, until he stops holding back and just— 

Lets go.

And when he does?

It wrecks her.

Because Steve isn’t careful now. He isn’t measured or hesitant—he’s all in. He kisses her like he’s making up for lost time, like he’s been waiting for this since the moment he met her, and maybe he has.

“God, handsome—” she breathes against his lips, knowing full well what that nickname does to him.

It absolutely undoes him.

Steve groans again, deeper this time, and then—suddenly—her back is against the railing.

She huffs a laugh, breathless, wrecked, fingers dragging down his chest. “Oh, so now you’re impatient?”

Steve just grins, pressing another kiss to her smirking mouth. “Doll, I’m always impatient when it comes to you.”

God bless her, she is half a second away from yanking Steve right back down to her when—

A slow, sarcastic clap rings out behind them.

“Wow,” a familiar voice drawls. “This is adorable. Really. Hallmark should be taking notes. You two got the tension, the longing gazes, the obvious ‘we were just about to make questionable decisions’ body language…” He sighs dramatically. “Chef’s kiss.” He does the fucking action too, the freak.

She doesn’t even jerk away.

No, she closes her eyes. Exhales through her nose. Prays for strength. Then, slowly, very slowly, she pulls back and turns toward the absolute menace standing in the doorway.

And there he is.

Tony Stark. Billionaire. Genius. Her own personal tormentor.

He’s leaning against the doorway, drink in hand, smirking like he just walked in on the biggest scandal of the century.

“Tony.” Her voice is sweet, lethal. “We practically raised each other which means this can’t be a fault in your nurturing, so it has to be a personal failing.”

Tony places a dramatic hand over his heart. “Wow. What a way to greet your only living relative.”

Y/n tilts her head. “Oh, I’m sorry. You want a warm welcome? Here you go.” She flips him off.

Steve makes a choking sound next to her, trying—failing—not to laugh.

“Wow. Harsh.” Tony scrunches his nose in mild disappointment. “Here I am, simply looking for my beloved sister, only to find her engaging in a very public display of affection with none other than Captain America himself.” His head tilts, eyebrows waggling. “Safe to guess, you two kissed and made up?”

Y/n doesn’t miss a beat. “If I were you I’d be a lot less concerned about our relationship and a lot more worried about that balding situation you got going on.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, sorry, I mean the graying situation. My bad.”

Steve clears his throat, valiantly trying to fight back a grin.

Tony scoffs. “Okay, first of all, my hair is immaculate. Secondly, that was a cheap shot.”

Y/n shrugs, all innocence. “You were asking for it.”

“Asking for it—?” Tony gestures wildly. “I came out here to bring you two back into the fold, and instead, I’m being attacked.” He turns to Steve, pointing at him accusingly. “You see this? She didn’t give me nearly this much lip before you two became a thing.”

Steve, to his credit, stays neutral. “You did interrupt us, Tony.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Tony puts a hand to his ear. “Did you just say I interrupted something important? Well, that’s just tragic.”

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. “Did you need something, or did you just come out here to be an Olympic-level pain in my ass?”

Tony gasps. “Language.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

Tony points at him. “You don’t get to say anything, Mr. ‘Don’t-Cuss-in-Front-of-Me.’”

She tilts her head to hide her smile. “Seriously, what do you want?”

Tony takes a casual sip of his drink. “Oh, just thought I’d check in. Seeing as, you know, you made a very public proclamation of murdering the Golden Boy here,” he points to Steve with glass in hand. “People inside are wondering if our fearless leader bit the bullet at the hands of our lawyer.” He pauses there and smiles at her. “But I see you lacked the follow through.”

Y/n snorts. “Maybe I changed my mind.”

Tony clicks his tongue, provoking, “You are getting soft.”

She accepts the challenge happily. “Or maybe I’m saving my bloodthirst for the dickhead who’s cockblocking me right now?”

Tony squints. “See, that I believe.”

Steve, ever the mediator, clears his throat. “You said people were wondering where we were?”

“Oh, right.” Tony waves a vague hand. “The party’s still going, people are still drinking, and Clint is still coping with the emotional fallout of being the only guy who didn’t know about the two of you being a thing—blind idiot.” Tony rolls his eyes. “But more importantly—” He straightens, flashing his most obnoxiously confident smirk yet. “I came out here because there is, at this very moment, an ongoing bet about a very important question—” he pauses for dramatic effect, “—who is Y/n Stark’s favorite Avenger?”

Y/n blinks. “You people need day jobs.”

Tony ignores her. “Now, obviously, the answer is me.” He takes a sip of his drink, completely self-assured. “But, for some reason, some people think that might not be the case.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “People bet on that?”

“Oh, yes.” Tony nods. “The stakes are high, Cap. Sam, Hill, Batron, Banner and Thor put down fifty on me, because, obviously, I’m the correct answer. Apart from Rhodey, the rest of them think it’s Capsicle. Which—” He throws a hand in the air, visibly disgusted. “Come on! That’s fucking delusional.”

Steve smirks. “Wow, Tony. That almost hurt.”

Tony waves him off. “Oh, don’t get sensitive on me, Spangles. You’re in second place at best. I mean, let’s be real—she’s not picking you over me.”

Humming, thinking for a long, deliberate second, she responds with, “Huh.”

Tony’s smirk widens. “Huh? Huh? That sounds like an agreement.”

She shrugs at that, noncommittal. “Sounds like a word, Tony.”

Tony narrows his eyes. “No, no, no. I don’t like that answer. I need definitive confirmation that I’m number one.”

Y/n tilts her head, smiling just enough to be dangerous. “Hate to break it to you, Stark, but if you needed confirmation… doesn’t that mean you’re not sure?”

Tony stares at her. Then blinks. Then—

“Oh, that’s dirty.”

It makes her grin, wide and proud.

Steve, who has been watching this like it’s the best show of his life, finally steps in, looking at her with a smug little smile. “You could just tell him, you know.”

She turns to him, giving him an exaggerated look. “And stroke his already overinflated ego? No chance.”

Steve chuckles, shaking his head. “You love messing with him.”

She smirks. “He makes it so easy.”

Tony throws up his hands. “Oh fuck off! It’s bullying like this that made Dad like you more.”

She makes a face. “Howard liked me more only ‘cause I was committing tax fraud for him.”

Steve chokes. “I’m sorry—what?”

Y/n waves a hand. “It’s fine. I fixed it… Mostly.” She shakes her head, “That’s not the point. Point is, don’t use your Dad as a way to get back at me. You know I hate that.”

“Only if you come back in and state for once and for all that I am indeed and in fact your favorite Avenger,” Tony throws back.

She’s caught absolutely fucking off-gard when Steve’s lips brush against her here, voice velvet smooth and painfully sensual, “No chance of it being me, doll?”

Y/n shivers before she can stop herself. Her fingers tighten in his shirt, eyes flicking up to meet his, and—damn him—he looks so unbelievably smug right now. “Wow,” she mutters, half breathless, half impressed. “Using your raw sex appeal to win a bet? That’s shameless, Rogers.”

Steve grins. “Nobody could tell it from all the bickering, but you two are inseparable—I needed an edge.” He places a soft kiss on her temple.

Tony gags loudly. “Oh my god, save it for literally anywhere else. The tension in here is gonna set off the sprinklers and ruin this killer outfit,” he says motioning to his magnificent three piece wine red suit—which she picked, B T dubs.

Fucking narsissit, she thinks to herself. “You love making everything about you.”

Tony smirks. “Well, yeah. I am your favorite.”

Y/n tilts her head. “You think you are.”

Tony narrows his eyes again. “I hate this game.”

“Yet, here you are,” she grins.

Tony exhales dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine. Fine! You win, okay?” He sighs, rubbing his temple like this is physically painful. “I love you, to the moon and back, obviously.”

She smiles.

He groans at her expression, pointing at her. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Laughing she throws back, “Like what?”

“Like I just handed you the emotional equivalent of my bank account.” He shakes his head, muttering, “Unbelievable.” 

She is still smiling when Tony rolls his shoulders, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His voice softens just a fraction. “Now can you please come back inside and grab a drink with me?” He clears his throat, glancing away like this isn’t a big deal. “I have barely seen you outside of missions, and—maybe I miss you, alright?”

And with that, he turns and walks back inside.

Steve watches him go, then sighs. “We should probably head back. I feel like a jerk stealing you away from him.”

She snorts, shaking her head. “Steve, we got drunk and worked on his suit two nights ago. He just likes being dramatic.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. 

“What?” She asks, confused.

“Is there anything you can’t do?”

She smiles at him, considering. “As much as I’d like to answer that question with the dirtiest, cheesiest one liners I can think of, we really should go inside—He doesn’t actually say he misses me all that often,” she reasons with him. But before she follows Tony in, she leans in close to Steve, voice soft but teasing. “This isn’t over.”

Steve grins, brushing his knuckles against hers. “Not even close.”

She smiles against his shoulder for half a second, then pulls him toward the party.

Find other static verse works here.  Read The Avengers (ft. Static) here.

i'll tag people later. i'm real tired, it's been a long day. i just wanna get this out and be showered in comments and reblog.

i'm looking at you. yeah you! reblog this with funny tags. do it!

[marithempressz]

Pick a Card - March 2025

I hope you can enjoy this reading :)) If you're interested I make personal readings and also energetic work. Choose the pile that your eyes and intuition calls the most and don't forget that's a general reading.

Deck used: Rider-Waite Tarot

Choose your pile!

pile 1

pile 2

pile 3

pile 1 

Judgement. End of the deck: Ace of Wands.

It’s time, wake up! There’s a collective waiting for those messages, I feel that good news is expected to show up. The Judgement is a card which portrays the dead arising. If you were bed rotting or something like that, waiting for a miracle, expecting for things to taste less bitter than it is right now, then March is giving you a chance to feel better.

This pile must be for the light workers. I don’t know if you’ve been feeling a bit depressed for those past two months, but 2025 beginning was not so gentle with us in general. For all humanity, actually. This is an important year for expanding our spiritual side, so those feelings are quite normal when things are getting to change. This “change” we are talking about is a big one. For the same amount of darkness we’re going through right now there’s the opposite nature, light, waiting for us.

For today, we’re having the New Moon in Pisces. It's important for us to make a ritual for the following year. We’re ending cycles and giving perspective for new ones, the portal is open so you can put your magic on it. For March, we’ll have Venus retrograde in Aries. That's why The Judgement is here so you can make good decisions related to your own worth, the way you see abundance in your life, your relationships and how much your passionate side is connected to your life. I recommend you to go and see what area of your life Aries is placed in, so you can understand more clearly what’s gonna happen. There’s more work ahead for us light workers, but I have a good feeling about it. Not just because this will build something for us in the future, but there’s also a favorable energy with this Ace of Wands, you’ll probably feel more energetic, optimistic with the work you’re doing and passionate. Wish you a great and magic month!

Pile 2

Knight of Wands. End of the deck: The Fool.

We’re getting closer to Aries season, there’s some movement here, just like pile 1. Maybe the movements are mostly in your head? I feel a bit of a headache, are you taking care of yourself properly? I also felt like there’s too much work involved, maybe you’re giving too much of your energy to work, maybe you’re an Aries or other fire sign. Usually those natives can be workaholics, pay attention to what your body is telling you. There’s a lot of tension here, a feeling that you can’t move a lot, a big pressure over your body.

I don’t know if this is a present feeling or if this is a future situation, but with The Fool, I feel like it’s time for you to be a bit more “irresponsible”, to free yourself from this prison. By irresponsible I mean that this is the perfect time for you to give zero fucks about what’s society’s expectations related to work. Not just society, but maybe an authority figure from your life that you might think you should please or something.

Get some rest, it’s time for you to break free, make decisions that are in alignment with yourself, with your limits. Know your limits, don’t let anyone use your ignorance about yourself for their own purpose. Your life is more than working. Wish you a relaxing and rebellious month! 

Pile 3 

The Emperor, Two of Cups. 

I shuffled and those cards fell out, so I won’t look at the end of the deck. So, when first looking at The Emperor I felt a bit of disgust and also a feeling on my stomach, like fear. It wasn’t a good feeling, I felt my guts cold. Maybe there’s a masculine presence in your life that evokes those feelings in you? And this is probably something related to the masculine in general in your personal life. I feel like this is someone specific here, because of the Two of Cups, maybe you’re or were involved with this person. They don’t have to be a man, but they carry a more intimidating energy, like they have some sort of power here, maybe over you.

Whatever this situation is, March is giving you a chance for you to choose again. Choose what’s best for you, this person or this type of person is not what’s good for you. The Emperor here is not only talking about this person but also showing what aspects are willing to be used in you, they exist in you. This power this person seems to have over you it’s actually the power in you that’s being misused, so you could start using it by deciding what you want in your life. It’s cliché, but you’re the emperor of your own life. Wish you an empowering month!

[theambitiouswoman]

Anon Ask:

What do you think about making peace with an ex and catching up occasionally? (I shortened it, but this was the gist)

Response:

In normal circumstances, I would disagree.

If you don’t have an issue with him, then it’s really up to you. If he’s been decent and supportive after the breakup, then it makes sense to keep in touch, especially if you seemingly want to- but only because the guy wasn't a horrible human being. It really comes down to how these interactions make you feel. If they drain you or bring up negative emotions, ask yourself—is it even worth it? If staying in touch keeps you clinging to the past when you’re trying to move on, then don’t do it.

Personally, I’m not friends with any of my exes, even the ones who proposed to me. Not because of bad blood,—I simply don’t feel they need to be in my life. We grew into completely different people and we are not aligned at all. I have never taken an ex back either, would I? I haven't been in a scenario that has even made me consider it, so I don't know. I believe real change takes time and even then, it has to align with your own growth. In my perspective, if someone hasn’t changed much and you still feel compatible with them, that means you haven’t grown much either. If we both grew into similar paths and there is love there, then it is what it is, you know? This is obviously circumstantial.

That said, your situation is different. You’ve mentioned he’s done the work and both he and his family have remained good to you. If you two are still compatible and there are lingering feelings, then do what feels right. You shared a long history, time has passed and there’s clearly still love there. You’ve both evolved individually, so reconnecting in some way isn’t unreasonable I just wouldn't advice to be too lenient, or rush into anything until he proves himself and shows you that this new him isn't an act. You will know too because it will feel different.

I strongly believe that in love and relationships, you can’t just push feelings aside or ignore them, you really have to see these things through. They don’t just disappear. No amount of distractions will make them go away if they still need to be processed. Suppressing emotions only delays the inevitable—they’ll surface in unexpected ways, through nostalgia, dreams or even in future relationships. It is not a fun experience I promise.

So, my most sincere and love filled advice is this: If he’s not a terrible person, he genuinely loves you and he’s good to you, then follow your heart. Whether that means friendship, closure, or something more, honor what feels right for you. There’s no right or wrong answer—only what brings you peace. Just be honest with yourself about whether this connection is helping you move forward or keeping you in an emotional loop.

[fortune-maiden]

Something something cat box

Something something quantum superposition

Something something only by Lu Guang observing the past change when Cheng Xiaoshi dives into it can the present change

[scientia-rex]

When I was in ninth grade I wanted to challenge what I saw as a very stupid dress code policy (not being allowed to wear spikes regardless of the size or sharpness of the spikes). My dad said to me, “What is your objective?”

He said it over and over. I contemplated that. I wanted to change an unfair dress code. What did I stand to gain? What did I stand to lose? If what I really wanted was to change the dress code, what would be my most effective potential approach? (He also gave me Discourses on the Fall of Rome by Titus Livius, Machiavelli’s magnum opus. Of course he’d already given me The Prince, Five Rings, and The Art of War.)

I ultimately printed out that phrase, coated it in Mod Podge, and clipped it to my bathroom mirror so I would look at it and think about it every day.

What is your objective?

Forget about how you feel. Ask yourself, what do you want to see happen? And then ask, how can you make it happen? Who needs to agree with you? Who has the power to implement this change? What are the points where you have leverage over them? If you use that leverage now, will you impair your ability to use it in the future? Getting what you want is about effectiveness. It is not about being an alpha or a sigma or whatever other bullshit the men’s right whiners are on about now. You won’t find any MRA talking points in Musashi, because they are not relevant.

I had no clear leverage on the dress code issue. My parents were not on the PTA; neither were any of my friend’s parents who liked me. The teachers did not care about this. Ultimately I just wore what I wanted, my patent leather collar from Hot Topic with large but flattened spikes, and I had guessed correctly—the teachers also did not care enough to discipline me.

I often see people on tumblr, mostly the very young, flail around in discourse. They don’t have an objective. They don’t know what they want to achieve, and they have never thought about strategizing and interpersonal effectiveness. No one can get everything they want by being an asshole. You must be able to work with other people, and that includes smiling when you hate them.

Read Machiavelli. Start with The Prince, but then move on to Discourses. Read Musashi’s Five Rings. Read The Art of War. They’re classics for a reason. They can’t cover all situations, but they can do more for how you think about strategizing than anything you’re getting in middle school and high school curricula.

Don’t vote third party unless you can tell me not only what your objective is but also why this action stands a meaningful chance of accomplishing it. Otherwise, back up and approach your strategy from a new angle. I don’t care how angry you are with Biden right now. He knows about it, and he is both trying to do something and not doing enough. I care about what will happen to millions of people if we have another Trump presidency. Look up Ross Perot, and learn from our past. Find your objective. If it is to stop the genocide in Palestine now, call your elected representatives now. They don’t care about emails; they care about phone calls, because they live in the past. I know this because I shadowed a lobbyist, because knowing how power works is critical to using it.

How do you think I have gotten two clinics to start including gender care in their planning?

Start small. Chip away. Keep working. Find your leverage; figure out how and when to effectively use it. Choose your battles, so that you can concentrate on the battle at hand instead of wasting your resources in many directions. Learn from the accumulated wisdom of people who spent their lives learning by doing, by making mistakes, by watching the mistakes of their enemies.

Don’t be a dickhead. Be smarter than I was at 14. Ask yourself: what is your objective?