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ddalgimelon · 8 days ago

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boyfriend!kenma x fem!reader (๑>◡<๑)

smutish.. mainly just random headcannon (18+ just incase)

famous streamer!kenma who you're known since elementary school

the two of you met in kindergarten class.. both of you were the shyest quiet kids. slowly developing an unspoken alliance together. silently taking care of each other and eventually becoming each others best friends.

bestie!kenma who could comfortably act himself around you. he's the biggest complainer you know. especially when his loud new friend kuroo started introducing him to volleyball.

bestie!kenma who'd take your hand yelling, "run! run!" as he would show your the best hiding spots to avoid kuroo.

bestie!kenma being your number one taste taster whenever you helped your mom in the kitchen. he remembers the first recipe you mastered on your own. (apple pie, slightly on the bitter side– still apple pie instantly became his favorite food)

bestie!kenma whose been secretly making out with you since late middle school

he was beat red the first time you asked him to kiss you. your reason being that there was a boy you desperately needed to confess too (literally him😫) but first you had to learn how to kiss duh!!

bestie!kenma who was sputtering empty words trying to reason with you why it would be a bad idea. too bad you didn't care to listen, shutting him up with an aggressive first kiss.

giggling between kisses, you thought about how it was just like the movies <3

bestie!kenma who would grip your waist whenever you two hid in his closet to kiss. your newest excuse being needing to master the skill. something about leveling up blah blah whatever gamer language. it honestly took kenma up until your first year of highschool to catch on you were just obsessed with kissing him. dummy

you respected him enough to not do it around his volleyball team. funny enough kuroo caught you guys once but never said anything to spare kenma the embarrassment

anyways... 🫡

thirdyear!kenma who now had to learn to do other things to keep you satisfied. 😒😒 otherwise you would climb onto his lap and take it from him, when all he wanted to do was play his game.

sassy!kenma starts here!!

he'd sigh and pretend he doesn't wanna mess around but you can literally feel how into it he is?? 😭😭😭 his eyes roll feigning annoyance but he's quick to put his controller down and his hands are helping you rock against him... 🤣🙄

and for the first time ever... kenma helps you turn so your back is against his chest and his hand slithers down into the waistband of your panties..

you've definitely sent him a few nudes before but he was always too shy to see you naked in person.

but.. new year, new me!! he's teasing the fuck out of your little clit. while you continue grinding down on him.

kenma's fingers are long and slim. and his hands are precise from various activities (volleyball/gaming) so he picks this skill up fast.

literally wants to eat you out after watching you cum on his fingers. finishes in his pants at the thought

🙄🙄post-nut clarity gets him and he's suddenly all shy and embarrassed again. literally pushes you off his lap. 😓

a couple weeks later.. he's repeatedly looking over at you like he's got something to say. the irritation causing a frustration "what?" from you.

he subtly asks "hey are you my girlfriend..?" and you're like "obviously kenma😒.." he's funny with it too going, "okay. just making sure."

bf! kenma who now gives you special privileges and lets you suck him off. his moans are soo pretty your a little jealous. he's like putty the first time you kiss at his tip. his favorite thing is when you give tiny kitten licks to his balls. he's throwing his head back and pushing your head to take him entirely.

it's his first time getting head, so he doesn't know to warn you when he's cumming🙁🙁, ends up cumming all over your face and hair..

honestly it's kinda hot but you pretend to be mad at him. "kenma! you got it all over my hair too!" 😠

"...sorry."

bf!kenma who makes it up to you a couple days later. when he finally fucks you after literal years (two) of you begging for it. is surprisingly a little rougher than you pictured him to be.

honestly really loves doggy and missionary. he starts with missionary and lovess seeing how reactive you are. his tip is right there pushing in slightly. your blushing face and teary eyes turn him on so much. gets lost in how pretty you look. 🙁

forgets it's literally your first time too and pushes right in and sets his pace. is absolutely gripping your legs to keep them open. he's an athlete after all so he has the strength to rag doll you😭😭

chooses not to though because he doesn't like to overexert himself.

when he finishes, he couldn't pull out all the way. 🙁 soft embarrassed kenma is back. he hides in your chest. but don't worry he (begrudgingly) buys you a plan b with his allowance. 🙂

still in your third year, i think he'd start streaming/youtube around this time.

has a steady build up to fame. within the end of the school year he reached a half a million on youtube!!

convinced you to start a youtube for baking and "all that girly shit" (his words) 💆‍♀️ buys you a camera and editing laptop with his new big boy money 😍

you post aesthetic bake with me's, makeup tutorials, and short vlogs. he edits your first couple videos, before showing you how to edit and upload on your own.

you steady get a following too!! around 40k !! not nearly as much as kenma but still amazing.

you guys start college eventually. kenma goes into business and computer science!! smart boy!!! he starts a baby company and starts investing into stocks with his big boy youtube money?!? becomes even richer and buys a house for the both of you to move into.🤗

you chose to major in media arts communication 😍. kenma makes a joke about how you can be his sweet lil manager <33

back to the house kenma bought.. it's definitely a fixer upper but it's yours and your in love! feel like adulthood.. though your mostly excited about the unlimited sex you get to have now without either of your parents around.

kenma is excited about his new streaming room. 😍

both you and kenma help eachother with content and sponsorships but neither publicly say anything about eachother.

with your youtube content, sometimes you show kenmas figure in the background. small clips of him driving, helping you cook, or even just his hands. very subtle shots of him.

when you do actively film him, you try to avoid getting his full face. you'll show just the tiniest bit of his jaw line. or slivers of his side profile.

for kenma's content he doesn't show you at all. the occasional wrist slip will apear of you bringing him dinner and twitter goes crazy.😱😱

it's not that you two are keeping your relationship a secret, you two have always been private about one another. neither of you deny having a partner, but neither of you give proper answers to your fans.

kuroo says maybe you guys are just sadists who like to tease everyone. (you're definitely a masochist though kenma thinks)

the closest kenma's fans got to a girlfriend reveal was that one time he almost leaked your nudes 😔

he was on stream showing pictures you sent him of the apple pie you made when he accidentally swipes too far. he's quick to notice mid-swipe that the next picture is NAWTT apple pie....😅😅

"so yeah guys this is the apple pie my girl made for me– she sent me pictures, ..oh fuck."

he awkwardly turns his phone around and laughs a little. his ears are red but luckily his hair hides them. after stream he watches the clip back and releases a sigh of relief. the shot is mostly blurry and you can really only make out the color of your skin.

kenma tells you about it later offering an apology with it. all you do is giggle saying you wouldn't mind your nudes exposed. it's not like they knew your identity anyways.

"yeah, but i'd get a twitch ban😒"

in your second year of uni, kenma is at over 2 million subscribers!! he's invited to events and parties but mainly declines. he attends the occasional charity event but prioritizes hinata's volleyball games.

your youtube is doing well too!! 700k subscribers and you receive a variety of pr.

neither of you bother to answer personal questions but your honestly surprised you two haven't been linked together yet.

you both live in the same house, attend the same college, and are usually out together. either luck is on your side or your fans aren't putting two and two together.

you suppose it's a lot harder for kenma's fans to find out more about you. while they definitely know you exist.. they have no other leads.

revisiting bf!kenma

bf!kenma absolutely hates condoms😭😭

it's not that he doesn't want to use them, he doesn't want to buy them.🙄

the last time he bought them a fan had approached him and asked for a picture together. kenma accepts and poses for the picture. he's standing next to the fan holding up a peace sign. ✌🏼

sighhhhh....

he doesn't think much of it at the time. just a nice moment with a supporter of his until he gets home and opens twitter.. 😭😭

the picture is all over his feed and mentions. going viral on the gamer side of twitter. at first he's confused until he analyzes the picture a little more.

are we serious..🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

in his peace sign hand is the box of condoms he purchased an hour ago... not to mention the isle of assorted condoms, lube, and other contraceptives behind them.

shy!kenma is back😭😭😭

he's soooo embarrassed. he knows all his online friends have seen it. he knows you've probably seen it. and when his phone rings with a familiar contact displaying he knows kuroo's seen it.

probably the most annoying part of this situation.

anyway's kenma swears he's never buying another box of condoms ever again. so unless you go buy them (you won't) raw it is.

bf!kenma learns quickly he loves it raw. the feeling of you much too good to go back to condoms. kenma's pull out game is still really bad... and honestly neither of you give pregnancy a second thought. 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

looking back maybe you should've!! 🤗

you're half way through your third year of college when you notice a significant increase in your weight. you appoint it to be you bad eating habits and make a mental note to cut back.

a week later your in the doctors office. but funny enough for kenma.

bf!kenma has been experiencing extreme nausea and sleep troubles. ☹️☹️

he's even thrown up a couple times but no over the counter medicine has been working.

bf!kenma has been canceling streams to try to pass his sickness but to no avail, you decide to drive him to the doctors. thinking maybe it's food poisoning from the new receipe you tried??

the doctor run tests but nothing comes back. going over kenma's symptoms and descriptions the doctor asks if you two are sexually active.

you'll like 😳😳, what does that have to do with anything..

kenma feeling another wave of nausea lays back onto the clinic bed, expecting you to answer. not wanting to lie, you nod your head towards the doctor.

the doctor turns in his little swiveling chair and starts typing on his computer.

"..and are you two engaging in unsafe sex?"

again you nod, blushing a little. the doctor asks if you've felt any thing different lately, like kenma.

"um, not really? i feel very healthy. maybe i've gained a little weight recently."

the doctor nods along to your words. and your kinda just thinking 'shouldn't the focus be on kenma?'

when was your last period?"

oh! 😳😳 when was your last period? you take a moment to think, your brows furrowing in thought.

"you're not sure? that's okay."

the doctor calls a nurse in who guides you into another room, she gives you instructions to pee in a cup and leave it in a special compartment.

after following instructions, you leave the private bathroom and head back into kenma's room. you're sweating hard!! there was definitely a high chance you were pregnant. but your honestly just confused about kenma's condition.

after returning, you take a seat next to kenma, he immediately leans into your shoulder.

"so... they think i might be pregnant.."

kenma jumps up and looks at you like 😳😳 no way 😳😳😳 then immediately gets a wave of nausea and has to lean back into the doctors chair😵‍💫

before you can speak again the doctor enters the room again, "..so your definitely pregnant. congratulations."

whaaaattt? 🙎‍♀️ everyone's just kind staring at eachother.

the doctor speaks up again. "regarding kenma's condition, looks like its couvade syndrome. it's something a lot of expecting fathers experience. thinks like morning sickness, fatigue.. all early symptoms of pregnancy. and since all his test came back negative, while your pregnant test came back positive– we have our answer."

great.

you two drive home in silence.. kinda weird the boy you've known since you were five.. is going to be your baby daddy.

now you guys have to figure out how to hide your relationship AND your pregnancy... 😆

a/n: like and reblog for part two maybe?? idk im not a writer so this isn't the best. but i hope it was fun to read!!

#🍡.ddalgimelon #haikyuu #kozume kenma #kenma kozume #haikyuu kenma #kenma #kenma x reader #kenma smut #kenma fluff #haikyuu!!#hq kenma #kenma headcanons

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becomingthatgirl111 · 2 years ago

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organize your week like this to be closer to the best version of yourself

i interpret the process of becoming our best version as climbing a ladder, on each step, we learn something new that serves us, and the next we complement it with something new, and so on until we reach the end and after many small habits we have become that version we wanted to be. little by little we are learning and although sometimes it is complicated to climb because of the adversities that may arise we can always take up the path again and put into practice what we have learned. that said, today i want to share a method that i have created to organize our habits and thus fulfill them more effectively and feel motivated. in this post i will only present some examples, you have to apply it to your own situation and my recommendation is to start now even with small habits that will be the ones that will lead you to success. i recommend that you try it for this week and write down your results, if it has worked for you keep using this "organization method" and adding new habits or increasing its time.

organize by categories.

create groups to categorize the habits you want to implement in your life, for example like this (the habits are examples, use your own)

🌿 health (body and nutrition)

10 minutes of exercise every day

30 minutes of walking every day

drink a lot more water

start eating consciously

one self-care day a week, for example on friday. we can take this day more relaxed and take more care of ourselves, dedicate more time to our personal and mental care.

do massage with the quartz roller and gua sha

make an appointment for nails, hairdresser, spa, eyelashes or even go to a coffee shop with yourself.

use a face mask and hair mask

🌿 personal growth

read 10 pages a day

listen to personal growth podcasts or audiobooks (choose one and listen to it all week long)

choose an affirmation and write it down every day

record in a diary or an app your mood and what you did during the day.

create a to-do list of what you will do for the day (the night before)

choose a video of affirmations and listen to it every day at a time that suits you best

🌿 studies

study about what you are studying or training for.

dedicate e.g. 20-30 minutes each day to study or review.

study a new language, 15 minutes a day, 5 days a week.

🌿 hobbies

1 - 2 hours to what you enjoy doing (depends on the day and your schedule)

you can write down in a notebook the groups you want to choose for yourself and then the habits you are going to implement, even if they are very small, for example 5 minutes of daily exercise, that is a good start.

to stay focused and not fall into old habits we can also replace the old habits with new ones that we want to implement in this way.

old habit: too much time on instagram new habit: reading or listening to an audiobook while i take a walk. or even just 15 minutes of social media a day.

other examples:

drinking soda or alcoholic beverages > drinking a lot more water and starting to drink natural juices.

watch a lot of series on netflix (or any streaming platform) > read or listen to podcasts/audiobooks that nourish my mind.

overthinking, worrying > meditating for about 5 minutes

lying in bed without doing anything > organizing my room

think in negative > think about the things you would like to happen to you

other tips to connect with your best version

write in your diary how you would act, be and what habits your best version would have. this will give you clarity about what you want and you will feel closer to that because you will know how to act.

establish small habits to start with and take it as a kind of game or test during this week. don't push yourself too hard.

at times when you don't know how to act or react, think about how your best version would act and what it would do.

write down things you are proud of or would like to be proud of.

if you are easily distracted or do not know what to do at any given moment, set alarms to know what to do at that moment.

if you use social media a lot, set a limit of use.

choose habits that you know you will be able to do easily, that will make you gain confidence and little by little establish those habits in which you have procrastinated or which are more difficult for you.

think big, open yourself to the possibilities that life offers you every day and keep a positive attitude towards any situation.

apps i recommend: habit: it serves to keep track of your habits and also get organized, it's a kind of to-do list. daylio: you can record your mood, what you did during the day and your habits, it also allows you to write and add photos. it is very complete, it can be used as a digital diary. notion: to get organized.

duolingo: if you want to learn a language a few minutes a day will be enough. i learned a lot of grammar in english thanks to this, which works if you practice daily.

and as always my blog is about this and there will be many more related posts in addition to the existing ones, all to be our best version 🤍 in fact if you try it i would love to know your results.

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ferrarifinnick · 3 months ago

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MANSCAPING! | SQUID GAME HEADCANONS

how they each tend to their gardens…

includes: sang-woo, junho, myung-gi, thanos (beginning of each section is bold and coloured for clarity) pairing: squid game men x f!reader warnings: language, male and female anatomy descriptions, gender expectations and stereotypes ???, established relationships implied.

a/n: i’m in such a headcanon phase lately, and i have so many ideas. if you have any, do share them and i’ll like 99% likely post it asap. also how hot is it imagining sang-woo being all smooth and soft when you’re running your hands down his abs to his—sksksk

— SANG-WOO

reputation is of the utmost importance to SANG-WOO, and the way he best controls this is through his appearance; hygiene included. his suits are pressed and only worn if wrinkle free, just like his hair is combed, styled and washed every single morning without fail. so it comes as no surprise that beneath the privacy of the clothes he wears, he is as equally well taken care of.

he shaves his face every couple of days, but once a week he’ll do his chest down under the waistline of his boxers, too. it’s become a routine, and one he’s meticulous about, at that. he frequently changes the blade of his razor to prevent bumps, uses a premium shaving cream, and even pats down the area with a perfume-free after shave.

you like to call him obsessive, and maybe he is, but it’s all because he’s chasing that gleam of approval in your eyes when you pull down his slacks. and also, it’s his way of putting effort into his image, in a way that only you are privy to.

— JUN-HO

JUN-HO is less high maintenance than sang-woo. he likes a sprinkle of stubble, even thinks it looks better on him than clean shaven. the way his pubic hair blends perfectly into his happy trail on his lower abdomen, it just looks right. masculine in a way he likes, but not unruly. but when his pubic hair starts growing that little bit too long, he’ll clean it up with an electric shaver, the kind you shave the hair on your head with.

it isn’t something he notices until it’s too long, so he’ll usually do it impulsively. expect to hear vibrating behind the closed bathroom door one random afternoon, but make sure to knock before stepping in to investigate, because jun-ho likes his privacy when manscaping.

you would have definitely walked in on him before, expecting to see him using one of your vibrators for some private relief with all intentions to help. but seeing him shaving was somehow more embarrassing for jun-ho. something about being caught with his pants down, holding a mirror under his balls while trimming them, felt worse. so just knock in the future, yeah?

— MYUNG-GI

yeah, shaving isn’t MYUNG-GI’s speed. that razor’s for his face, and if it touches anything else, he will incinerate it. that goes for you using his razor, too! don’t let him know you’ve used it to shave your legs or underarms, and dear god don’t let him know it’s gone between your legs. his little pathetic heart couldn’t take it.

he’ll buy your own razor if he ever finds out, and it’ll be the most obnoxious shade of pink just so he can put it next to his blue one as a reminder not to fuck up like that again. but don’t think badly of him, okay? it’ll be one of those fancy scented ones with the built in lubricant that glides over your skin.

so while he won’t shave his pubic hair, he will control it by trimming down his bush like a well kept hedge in a garden. he treats his pubic hair like a staple of his masculinity, and expects you to like it as well. if you don’t, keep it to yourself. he doesn’t want to hear it anyway.

— THANOS

there’s only one style THANOS is rocking, and that’s au natural, baby! he doesn’t care to put an ounce of effort into controlling the chaos around his manhood, because why should he? he’s not a girl, he doesn’t have to live up to the same laborious expectations to be plucked bald like a chicken, so why on earth would he? it’s stupid to expect otherwise, and he won’t be afraid to say that to your face if you bring up the topic of him manscaping.

after all, it saves him time, money, pain, and honestly, if you have a problem with it, he’s going to question just how into men you really are. he’ll tell you only real men have pubic hair like him, manly men who are better than those other guys that are too feminine for his liking.

he’d make you feel so stupid for having a preference that isn’t him, and won’t hesitate to laugh you out the room if you disagree. but if you get all sad, he’ll half-ass an apology and roll his eyes, then suggest you get on your knees and learn to appreciate his manhood.

i’m just saying… if i saw any of these men in a towel, i wouldn’t care what the f they have going on down there just gimme. like, comment, reblog. love <33

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help-itrappedmyself · 1 month ago

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Liminal Jason part 6

This part feels like a lot of exposition. My bad, but the Batfam does not know how Danny and his life works.

You can find the earlier parts on my masterpost

“And in this scenario, you three count as dead?” Red asked, hoping to get some clarity on this, quite frankly, annoyingly impossible scenario playing out in front of him. Because as much as he can see that they clearly have a way to communicate that is beyond him and knows that they have all died, his brain does not seem to want to compute this information into other conclusions. A glance from Tim to Bruce shows that while he may not be struggling as much with the logistics of this situation, he is still struggling.

That may be because of all the children in front of him that- regardless of current status- all did die at some point.

“Sort of,” Danny shrugs. “What you have to understand is there are a lot of different kinds of beings from what you would consider the land of the dead, which I call the Ghost Zone, and is more formally known as the Infinite Realms. There is a lot of diversity, and It would be a real sit-down kind of lesson to try and explain them all to you guys. The important bit for right now is that the three of us,” Danny gestures to Red Hood, then himself, then to Robin,”are three different beings, as related to the Infinite Realms, and I am the only one that technically counts as dead.”

Danny is very good at ignoring the side glances being thrown around. “But Ghost Speak can be spoken by any denizen of the Infinite Realms, who falls under any of it’s categories or rulers.”

“Rulers?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Danny does another hand waving motion. “You know, Hades and Pluto, Lucifer and the Devil, the Ghost King, and other various religions and beliefs rulers. It's all very monarchist. The Infinite Realms are all technically under the control of the Ghost King, but the Infinite Realms are infinite and that’s a lot for one person to control. So various religious leaders all make up what is essentially Dukes and Lords and Barons and other random titles, and they all control their little Realms and make up what could be considered a council or a parliament or Congress or what-have-you that is technically under the rule of the Ghost King. But the Ghost King really only takes care of the really big stuff most of the time. Unless there’s a tyrant on the throne, like with Pariah Dark. He was a terrible ruler, very controlling.”

Danny was rambling. He was aware of this, but the others seemed too shell-shocked to be able to stop him, and he has never really been able to talk about this with anyone so now that he is he doesn’t think he can stop himself either.

“He’s not on the throne anymore, luckily. Technically the right to the throne is transferred through single-combat, very old-fashioned. No one could beat Pariah Dark so they locked him in the Coffin of Forever Sleep for a really long time instead. I don’t think the Infinite Realms really need a King all that much, they got by just fine for millenia without one. But now we’re getting into politics. Unimportant. Death Speak, language of the Infinite Realms, totally natural, not at all bad.”

Danny forces himself to take a very long, slow breath. By the time he is done, the others seem at least semi-recovered.

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I would like that sit-down lesson at some point.” Red mutters, fingers twitching as he pulls out his tablet to start writing down this information. Bruce grunts in agreement.

“If it's all the same to you,” Hood snaps, “I would like to get out of this cell now.”

“If we let you out, will you stay until we have the results from all of the tests?” Bruce asked. “They’re currently running so it won’t take long.”

“Why the hell do we need to stay for that? You-”

“Did you take my blood?” Danny interrupted, seeming very concerned.

“It was a precaution, we had to test it. We took some of Hood’s too.” Red tried to explain. It didn’t seem to be helping, Danny’s breathing was getting kind of fast. “The tests are running now, just to look for influences of mind control or magic. And to test for dimensional distortions and integrity, if you were telling the truth about being from a different dimension. And to see if you have an alternate in this dimension that we need to be concerned about you running into.”

“I don’t really care -well, yes I do, breach of privacy, and consent, and-” Danny took a deep breath. “That is not my main concern at the moment. You were safe when handling my blood, right? You used gloves and it didn’t get on you or anything? I don’t know where we are and what you people are like, but just tell me you were safe around my blood.”

The real concern and fear in Danny was starting to get everyone else.

“Don’t worry, we are very safe here. We all have training and we know and use lab and medical safety procedures.” Damian spoke softly, aiming to calm.

“What is wrong with your blood, Danny?” Hood’s concern for him came out in underling Ghost Speak, and between him and Damian, Danny was able to calm some.

“It may be… not radioactive. Not contagious either.” Danny’s voice trailed to muttering for a moment as he figured out how to word what he said next. “My blood has a contaminant in it. Just don’t let it touch you, and definitely don’t let it get inside you somehow. It can also be dangerous if you have prolonged exposure, so make sure to get rid of any samples as soon as possible after the test and keep it away from other samples. And for the love of everything that is holy, try to keep it away from anything that will ever be ingested. Keep it away from food!”

“It can contaminate other samples?”

“It can contaminate anything given enough time, technology included. But it spreads way more easily when it’s cold for some reason, so really anything put in a fridge with it should be tossed immediately.”

“You said it’s not contagious?” There was concern in even Red’s voice now.

“You’re not ill are you?” Damian eyes Danny warily.

“I’m fine, It’s part of me being what I am. Just,” Danny sighed and ran his fingers through his hair before cupping the back of his neck with both hands and looking towards the ceiling. “Think of it like a transforming agent. I’ve already been exposed, my DNA is altered, the harm is already done. My body actually needs that substance to survive now. Hood and… I’m sorry I don’t know what to call you.” Danny swung his hands back down to his sides as he glanced at Robin.

“Robin.” Damian stated bluntly.

Danny nodded and continued. “Hood and Robin have already been exposed so they’re fine for low to medium amounts of exposure. You two,” Danny pointed a finger at Red and then Batman, “Have not been exposed and therefore should avoid it as much as possible. Even a little bit can cause lifelong effects.”

#dpxdc #dcxdp #danny phantom #batman #red hood #jason todd #fanfiction #my writing #red robin #robin #liminal!jason #liminal!Damian #red robin is ready to attend the Ghost lecture #his thirst for knowledge has been activated #bruce is concerned and confused

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theskywithin · 26 days ago

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⋆☽ LORD OF THE YEAR ☾⋆

Your Yearly Ruling Planet, Explained

If the profection year is the landscape, then the ruling planet, the Lord of the Year, is the weather. It’s the mood that follows you into every room. The god at the gate. The tone beneath the tone. You don’t just live the themes of the house. You live inside the energy of its planetary ruler, whether it’s a flood, a fire, a slow rebuild, or a gentle return. This is the planet holding the pen. Writing the chapter. Setting the pace. Below is a breakdown of each planetary Lord of the Year. Not just what it governs, but what it feels like to live under its watch. The pressure it applies. The truth it demands. The version of you it came to awaken. Read the one that rules your current year. And maybe the ones you’re still carrying from the past. Because some lessons echo longer than the calendar.

☉ Sun Year

The year the mirror cracks and you decide whether to glue the pieces back, or let your real face through. This isn’t about confidence, but confrontation with yourself. With the costume you didn’t know you were wearing until it started to itch. In a Sun year, anything false becomes unbearable. You can’t keep pretending it fits, the job, the relationship, the name they gave you. Your identity becomes a living question, one that doesn’t care if it makes anyone else uncomfortable. You might feel exposed. That’s part of it. The Sun isn’t interested in your image. It wants your essence, the version of you that’s not curated for belonging. So this year asks: Can you live in the light of your own becoming, even if no one claps? Can you let yourself be witnessed even in the moments where your voice shakes? It’s not ego, it’s emergence. And it burns.

☽ Moon Year

The year your body remembers before your mind can explain. Nothing feels solid, and nothing stays still. You reach for routine and find water. You speak and surprise yourself with what falls out. The Moon doesn’t move in straight lines, she pulls from beneath, memory lodged in muscle, grief woven into your tone of voice. This year, everything personal becomes primary. You feel everything. And you can’t logic your way out of it. Your nervous system becomes the map, your triggers, the language. You may want to retreat, not to disappear, but to find where your own heartbeat went missing beneath all that caretaking, all that smiling, all that holding it together. This is the year you stop asking if you’re too sensitive. You are and that’s where your wisdom lives. This isn’t about feelings, it’s about truth. The kind that rises when you stop translating your ache into something more acceptable. The Moon gives no answers, only cycles, only tides, only the slow grace of letting yourself come undone and still belong.

☿ Mercury Year

The year your mind rebels and your voice remembers who it was before it learned to be polite. At first, it might feel like noise. So many thoughts, so many questions, so many selves inside your sentences. But Mercury isn’t chaos, Mercury is disruption. The intelligent kind, the sacred kind, the kind that shows you exactly where your story stopped being yours. This is the year your internal narrator starts getting louder than the one who raised you. You’ll notice how many of your words were chosen to make others comfortable. How many of your silences were strategy. How often you told the truth only when it was safe. Now? Now the truth wants out, raw, unfiltered, maybe even ugly. And with it: curiosity. You’ll start investigating your habits, your reflexes, your contradictions. Not to fix them but to understand where they came from, and who they once protected. You may write. You may speak. You may leave conversations that no longer echo your evolution. This year is about being honest. Let your words tremble. Let your thoughts get messy. Clarity will come, not when you decide what you believe, but when you stop being afraid to find out.

♂ Mars Year

The year your instincts kick the door down and you stop pretending you don’t already know what you want. This is not a subtle year. This is blood-in-the-mouth, heat-under-the-ribcage, say-it-before-you-swallow-it kind of living. You’re no longer content to sit still in rooms that drain you. You feel it in your teeth. The urgency. The pulse. The question: What are you still holding back for? Mars doesn’t give you a plan, he gives you friction, he gives you the moment before the leap and then dares you to jump anyway. This is the year you meet your anger and realize it’s never been about rage, it’s been about refusal to be erased, to keep loving at a discount, to contort yourself into something palatable just to avoid being called difficult. You might cut ties. You might fight back. You might walk away from something you thought you'd never survive without, and feel more alive than you ever did inside it. This isn’t recklessness, this is sacred combustion, this is agency rediscovered in the wreckage of who you had to be to stay safe. And after all that? Peace. But the kind that’s earned, not performed.

♀ Venus Year

The year sweetness becomes subversive and you realize softness was never your weakness, it was your birthright. You were taught that love is something to earn. That beauty is what makes you worthy of being kept. That pleasure must be justified, made productive, shared, tamed. But Venus remembers something older. This is the year you stop performing want and start embodying it. The year you notice where your yeses came from, fear, politeness, hunger, and you take them back, one by one. Venus will not beg, she’ll wait. She’ll withhold nothing except from what insults her. This is the year you feel the grief of how long you’ve settled. How many times you accepted almost, how often you mistook being needed for being loved. And it hurts. But underneath that hurt is a different language, one where softness has claws. Where longing has boundaries, where beauty is not about being seen but about seeing yourself and staying. This year, desire becomes holy. And you stop apologizing for the altar.

♃ Jupiter Year

The year you grow too wide for your old name and the horizon starts calling you by something else. At first, it feels like restlessness. A quiet rebellion against what used to feel “fine.” The shoes still fit, but they don’t feel like yours, the conversations bore you, the spaces shrink, nd the soul, so long contained, starts to rise like steam through the cracks. Jupiter doesn’t expand you gently. It stretches you to the point of rupture, not to break you, but to show you what’s been waiting on the other side of your comfort. This is the year you want meaning, more resonance, more sky. You begin to question the systems that shaped you. The beliefs that felt safe because they were inherited. The truths that kept you small but praised. You may travel, physically, spiritually, internally. But what you’re really seeking is a wider story. One that fits who you’re becoming. And yes, there are risks. Jupiter can swell what isn’t rooted, it can tempt you toward excess, escape, distraction. But the deeper invitation is simple: follow what expands you even if it terrifies you, even if it leaves people behind. You are not a static thing. You are a myth still being written and this year, you start telling it differently.

♄ Saturn Year

The year you run out of scaffolding and realize the shape you were chasing was never yours. This is not the year you get what you want. It’s the year you find out why you wanted it in the first place. And whether that hunger was yours, or inherited. Whether that discipline was devotion, or fear in a pressed shirt. Saturn doesn’t strip you down to punish. It strips you down because it’s time to stop carrying blueprints you never drew. The life you thought you were building? Whose foundation was that? Whose voice told you that sacrifice was sacred, that being seen required earning it, that love was measurable by how much you endured? This year, time stretches like a long hallway, no doors, no applause. Just the echo of your own footsteps, and the quiet sense that something is about to begin, but only if you can first stop pretending it’s already built. Saturn isn’t about becoming stronger, it’s about becoming cleaner. And that’s a much lonelier, more exacting kind of becoming.

♅ Uranus Year

The year the ground splits and instead of running, you realize you’ve been trying to leave your own life quietly for years. Uranus doesn’t knock. He strikes, sudden, unscheduled, and uninterested in your plans. This is not a breakdown, it’s a jailbreak. And somewhere, if you’re honest, you’ve been praying for it. This is the year the script you’ve been following, the one written in fear, family patterns, job titles, politeness, catches fire and you don’t save it. You watch it burn with something that feels dangerously close to relief. It might start with disruption: a departure, a confrontation, a wild decision you can’t explain. But underneath it is a deeper frequency, the sound of your own self-respect coming back online. Uranus doesn’t ask: Are you ready? He asks: What will you do when nothing is holding you anymore but truth? And that truth is this: you outgrew the cage long ago. This year, your soul stops pretending it's okay inside it. Expect rupture. Expect awakening. Expect to shock yourself. And trust it.

♆ Neptune Year

The year the edges blur and the shape of your life begins to soften into something less explainable, but more true. At first, it feels like losing focus, like forgetting what you came here to prove. The ambitions fade, the goals get slippery, the truth stops speaking in sentences and starts arriving in symbols, songs, and sleep. This is not confusion, but the absence of pretending. Neptune doesn’t take your direction away, it takes away the illusion that you ever needed to control the direction to be safe. This year, what you once called clarity starts to feel like confinement and what you once dismissed as fantasy starts whispering to you with ancient familiarity. You may grieve the old structure, you may feel foolish, you may weep for reasons you can’t name and love people you can’t explain. Let it happen. You’re meant to be porous. Neptune wants surrender, the kind where you finally stop explaining your intuition and just follow it. The kind where you stop labeling every ache and let it move through like weather. The kind where you stop clinging to shape and become the ocean.

♇ Pluto Year

The year something ancient wakes up in you and demands you name what you’ve been calling “coping” but has always been grief. Pluto doesn’t knock, or whisper, or wait, he drags you under to strip you of the roles, identities, obsessions, and quiet addictions that helped you survive but now keep you from living. This is the year your mask starts to rot. The charm wears off, the coping breaks, the people-pleasing fractures. You’re left with the raw, unwelcome thing you’ve been carrying: the unmet hunger, the rage beneath the smile, the control disguised as care. And it hurts. Not because you’re falling apart but because you’re falling in. Into yourself, into the power you handed away too many times, into the shadow you’ve tried to outgrow by becoming “better” instead of becoming whole. This isn’t reinvention, it’s exposure. This is the year you realize that the death you feared was actually a doorway. And the monster you kept locked underground was never trying to destroy you, it was trying to return you to the part of you that was never afraid of the dark, only afraid you’d have to walk through it alone. But you won’t. Because what dies this year doesn’t disappear, it becomes you.

Your birth chart isn’t a personality test. It’s a map of memory, instinct, and becoming. My book walks you through it, house by house, sign by sign, with soul, depth, and no shortcuts.

available on Amazon and all digital platforms

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vee6lolz · 9 months ago

Text

𝖇𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝖍𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝖇𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬.

summary; after falling in love with spencer reid, you navigate the challenges that come with your relationship. While you cherish your moments together, the rough patches can be hard to ignore. One day, in an effort to find clarity, you go shopping and unexpectedly discover something world shattering. But before you can share the news with Spencer, he comes home with a shocking revelation that could change everything between you.

cw!!; +18 content, minors dni!, spencer reid x reader, angst, cliffhanger ending, breakups, mentions of drug use, mentions emetophobia warning; vomiting -- mentions of pregnancy -- Y/N HAS A GIRL KISSER BSF !

. w/c: 4.1k -- don't forget to like / reblog !! this is not proof read + english is not my first language

You and Spencer had been privately dating for seven months. At first, it was exciting. sneaking around, leaving parties early to go hook up in the bathroom, the birthday sex, apology sex, apology for apologizing with sex sex, it was easy, it was simple—you both met through a party he and his team was invited to by your best friend Ciara, who was friends with the one and only Penelope Garcia. you both got to talking and by the end of the night, you were snuggled up in his bed with his dick in your mouth. and he learned two things that night. 1. he had never had head that brought him so much ecstasy. and two, by the way your outgoing demeanor fit perfectly with being his more shy and non-direct, you were the one for him and he would've been a fool to let you slip through his fingers. those late-night study sessions, stolen kisses in dimly lit hallways, and quiet moments over coffee made you feel like the luckiest person in the world. but the moment that you hit the three month mark, everything went downhill. and usually, at six months, its supposed to be good again, right? wrong.

the past few months had turned into a whirlwind of arguments. It felt like every time you talked, it spiraled into a fight over something that should have been minor. “You don’t understand what I’m going through, Spencer!” you yelled one evening after a tough day at work where he seemed more focused on the case than on how you were feeling. “I do, understand [y/n] I just don't care. Not everything has to be about you.” that night, you both had shouted over each other until the early hours of the morning, hearts racing, voices raised, and emotions running high. the tension felt suffocating. and to ease it you tried to have makeup sex, and he started an argument while literally inside you because he felt like you were faking orgasms and doing it in a obvious way to make him feel bad; you were.

It wasn’t just work stress that fueled the fire; it was the pressure of hiding your hardships relationship from your colleagues, the weight of lying to your friends, and the constant fear of him leaving. and the fear of you leaving for him only made him resent you more. sometimes, it felt like you were living a double life, and you didn’t know how to bridge the gap between your love for Spencer and the isolation that secrecy brought. the make-up moments after the fights were fleeting, filled with hugs and quiet apologies as you tried to mend the shaky ground you were standing on. you’d find yourselves wrapped in each other’s arms, promises lingering in the air that things would change, but deep down, you both knew nothing had really shifted.

but today, everything felt heavier than usual. you had woken up to yet another silent treatment from spencer, both of you too stubborn to reach out to each other first. the anxiety had burrowed deep in your chest, making it hard to breathe. you could sense it—Ciara had noticed. when she came over, she was met with a hurried and agitated spence who only muttered a cold greeting before walking out the door as fast as he opened it for her. her footsteps where light and quick, making her way towards your bedroom where she heard retching and coughing.

you spit into the toilet bowl, groaning in discomfort as everything you had last week came back to haunt you. you looked up at Ciara as she held your hair back, getting her fingers tangled as she took a moment to try her best to untangle them without scalping you. You sat there in front with your head down as you dry gagged, and once you were safe, you reached up and flu shed the toilet.

Ciara rubbed your back for a little before pulling your head to rest on her chest, planting sweet kisses on your forehead. you giggle at the sensation and make tsk sounds. “If you were a man,” you muttered, to which she rolls her eyes at you and lets you go with a smile, helping you stand up, she runs some water so you pat your mouth with it and spit out all the yucky residue left over. she starts asking questions and all you can think back at was this morning. it pained you and you felt your heart sink the more you thought back at it, you realize that him expressing his feelings, yelling, insulting, or even cursing you would've been better. he just left you, in silence. he didn't acknowledge you, and it just made you feel terrible. you looked at Ciara, overcome with emotions which got you a confused look. “What's going on with you--”

“He didn't even look at me, cee.” You muttered as tears filled your eyes uncontrollably. your emotions overwhelmed you as you melted into her arms, you were holding her incredibly tight, she probably wouldn't be able to breathe if you gave her an oxygen tank. She scrambled over her words trying to find away to not pass out from the lack of blood going to her brain because you were quite literally blocking any blood flow possible. She tapped your back and you released your death grip, to which she exhaled heavily.

“Who, What? What are we talking about?”. you stared up at her with a expression of depression, not moving your lips to answer her question. It gave her the answer alone. “That's not... like him.”. Scoffing, you shook your head and wiped your tears, your mood switching from self-pity to pure and undeniable anger. “It's exactly, like him. Actually.”. She tried her best to calm you down but you couldn't, you just walked out of the bathroom and fell face first on the bed, screaming and letting out all of your frustration on his cotton sheets. You started mumbling out of intense anger, and Ciara just stood there, flinching with every curse that flew through your lips as if you were going to reach backwards and bite her.

It took you twenty-and-some minutes to calm down. It took you three to go back to being sad and depressed. Your mood swings were seriously giving her whiplash. You sat up and heaved, sobbed, flew your arms around like a toddler. Ciara sat with you and let you sob on her chest until you start hyperventilating, she blew on your face so you could catch your breathe, shushing you to soothe your tears. Your brain felt fuzzy, your senses has softened.

The only thing that you felt was the immense pounding on your head you couldn't help but feel. “How about we go on a little drive, yeah?” you looked up at her with your red eyes glistening was a tear fell down your cheek, you nodded. you needed fresh air. “Yeah?” She spoke in a soft voice, kissing your head. “Alright go put on some clothes ill be out here,”

Ciara sat behind the wheel, the engine humming softly as she pulled away from spencer's place. The cool breeze wafted through the slightly open window, sending a refreshing shiver through you. You let it wash over you, momentarily grounding you in the present. Still, your mind felt fuzzy, caught in a haze that blurred your thoughts and emotions. It was as if you were floating, untethered from reality, with everything around you blurring into a muddled backdrop.

the streets rushed by, and while the world outside was alive with the chatter of people and the vibrant colors of storefronts, you found yourself lost in your own silence. You stared at the trees lining the road, their branches dancing in the breeze, but even their movement felt distant and out of reach. each passing moment felt like an echo, reverberating through your mind but leaving no traces of clarity.

Ciara’s was talking, filled with energy and it made you feel oh, so worse because you were not listening. “No, dude, I'm being so serious. I told her that she can either get her shit together and stop acting like a little kid or she can pack her shit and leave because I've had enough crazy girlfriends to know it is not for the fucking weak.” you barely registered the words. they floated in one ear and out the other, your focus remaining hazy. you shifted in your seat slightly, trying to push the swirling emotions away, yet they clung to you like a shadow.

“You’d think we were fighting we were fighting over me burning her house down, no. A miss call, a singular miss call and I called her back immediately. And of course, she chose to get her act together because... honestly, would you leave me?” she joked, grinding in her seat to pop her ass a little;

the corners of your mouth twitched, but you didn’t have the energy to respond; the effort felt monumental. As the scenery shifted from commercial buildings to the broader expanses of the mall, you caught yourself wishing you could feel that lightness again. The breeze slipping through the window felt nice, but every now and then, a wave of discomfort coursed through you, reminding you of the things you were trying to forget.

Ciara continued talking, sharing the latest gossip, her voice a steady stream of sound that mingled with the whoosh of passing cars. “and after that, she tried to hookup with me as an “apology”. if she could lick my pussy a couple times and I'm going to immediately forgive her... she's right.”

Still, you remained silent, lost in thought. The feelings swirling within you were too tangled to unravel—the confusion, the sadness, the weight of it all. It felt heavy, and as you drove closer to the mall, the world outside turned brighter, but for you, it remained shrouded in dimness.

As Ciara pulled into the parking lot, the chaotic colors of the mall surrounded you. She parked the car, casting a glance your way. “Alright, no talk of Spencer with the little dick while we're here alright?”

You nodded slowly, but your mind was still a storm of thoughts and emotions that had yet to settle. The sounds of laughter and footsteps filled the air as you stepped out of the car, but even amidst the noise, you felt like you were still floating, caught between what was real and what was just a distraction.

“There's no reason to lie to make me feel better,”, she laughed.

as you and Ciara stepped into the mall, the vibrant atmosphere enveloped you like a cocoon, yet the comfort it should have provided seemed out of reach. the air hummed with energy: laughter echoed against polished floors, the shuffling of bags blended into an excited chorus, and the enticing aromas of popcorn, pretzels, and fried food wafted through the space, each scent calling to a desire for comfort that you just couldn’t find.

you glanced around, taking in the kaleidoscope of people—the families with cheerful children, groups of friends chatting animatedly as they moved, and couples entwined in conversation. Yet, as the cheerful masses moved past, a heavy discontent settled within your chest, a constant nagging feeling that wouldn’t let up. Your thoughts were tangled, fighting the urge to not talk about spencer.

the urges whooped your ass.

“Ugh, I can’t believe how dramatic Spencer has been lately,” you began, shaking your head as you ambled towards the escalator up to victoria's secret each step feeling heavier than the last. You reached for a sleek top on a nearby rack, your fingers brushing the fabric as you stated, “He didn't even tell me what his problem was this time, Ciara. He's like a fucking kid,”

Ciara nodded, her attention shifting between you and the vibrant clothes on display. “He's exactly like Manny. You know if you were a lesbian, I'm pretty sure you would've been with her by now.”

"Har-har." you let out a fake laugh, pulling the top closer to you and inspecting it in the harsh fluorescent lights. “and its not like I don't fuck with him. Of course I do, but its only okay when I do it! and i never do it first.”

She stared at you.

“Okay, I mostly never do it first.”

you stepped into the fitting rooms, pulling aside the curtain with a little more force than necessary. Ciara leaned against the wall outside, concern evident in her eyes. “Well, it sounds like he’s really going through something. I mean the last time he had a girlfriend was years ago, plus she did get shot in front of him. Maybe, just maybe... he needs time to adjust to having you.”

“It's been 6 months, how much time does he need.” you admitted, slipping into a pair of jeans. “I’m trying to support him, but at the same time, it feels like whenever I need support I'm the 'crazy' one.”

you spun in front of the mirror, checking the fit, and briefly appreciated the outfit, but the satisfaction was fleeting. You couldn’t shake the gnawing frustration and worry that lingered in your mind. After trying on a few more items, you settled on a cozy sweater that draped nicely over your shoulders and a pair of jeans that tugged your ass and thighs perfectly.

Stepping out of the fitting room, you caught sight of Ciara’s bright smile—a thumbs-up that fueled a flicker of confidence despite the dark cloud of your thoughts. “You look great! Food?” she chirped, her enthusiasm piercing through your fog. “I look like I got fat, but, yes.” you giggled.

“Yeah, only in the right places.” she replied, leaving a quick smack on your ass. the idea of food felt foreign to you, your appetite making you uneasy. and the more you thought about it, you weren't really prone to gaining weight. in the last eight weeks, you've gained almost seven pounds. even as you walked toward the food court, the excited chatter and laughter felt like a cruel reminder of the happiness you were struggling to hold onto with Spencer.

as you navigated through the chaos of the food court, the aromas wrapped around you, each scent competing for your attention. You scanned the options—pizza, burgers, Asian stir-fry, sizzling hot dogs—but as much as your stomach wanted to respond, it remained cold and distant.

Ciara and you eventually settled on a plate of asian food. You found a table, and despite the enticing food in front of you, the heaviness in your chest pulled you down, dimming your appetite further.

while Ciara was talking about her sex life, your own thoughts lingered on Spencer: his hands, the way his mind worked like a finely tuned machine, how he would

“when I tell you she had me bent in ways I can't say out loud because I would be put on some kind of list--” Ciara’s words finally broke through the fog in your mind, and you looked at her, your voice barely above a whisper, “I feel… weird.”

Ciara’s smile faded, concern etching itself across her face. “What do you mean weird? ”

The discomfort swelled inside you as the weight of your stomach pressed down further. “I don’t know. It’s just everything… ugh. I really don’t feel good.” The admission felt heavy on your tongue, yet fear flooded through you, mingling with confusion and anxiety.

“Hey, [y/n] uh--” Ciara said, her voice laced with concern as she leaned closer, trying to draw you back into the moment. “Breathe, okay? Just uh--”

her voice did no help, the world around you began to tilt, the bright lights and laughing voices tuned out as your vision began to blur. A rising wave of dizziness crashed over you, swallowing every sense until you felt on the verge of vanishing into the void of darkness.

before you could utter another word, the world slipped away in an instant—darkness encased you, quieting the chaos of the food court and pressing down into a silence that felt weighty yet freeing. You couldn’t tell if you were floating or falling, but nothing remained except an overwhelming absence -- and then your body hit the floor.

“[y/n]? [Y/N]! Someone help, please!” Ciara begged and yelled out as she breathed on your face, checking your pulse. you were breathing, that's all that mattered. being in school for nursing, really wasn't doing her any justice at the moment.

three-hundred-thirty-eight minutes. that's how long it took for you to wake up.

you gradually regained consciousness to the muted buzz of light and occasional distant sounds filtering through the haze of your mind. blinking several times, you squinted against the warm, yellow light spilling through the curtains in the hospital room. the glow felt too harsh against your eyelids, and as you turned your head slightly, a wave of dizziness swept over you.

a sharp ache spiked through your temples, and you instinctively raised a hand to your forehead, feeling the softness of the pillows beneath you. your body felt heavy, soreness settling deep in your muscles—each small movement sent prickles of discomfort shooting through your limbs. you groaned softly, the sound a mere whisper in the stillness of the room.

The room itself was a comforting chaos, the machines beeping, the flowy blue curtains. But it was the smell that truly caught your attention: a mix of treacle sweetness from ciara's half-eaten candy bar on the nightstand, which you grabbed over and took a chunk out of. the clean scent of freshly laundered sheets, and just a hint of the medication. it was oddly grounding, and for a moment, it eased the nausea rising in your stomach like a tidal wave.

taking a deep breath, you lay still, attempting to collect your thoughts. fragments of memory flickered through your mind—little moments of laughter and joy interspersed with the anxiety that had been consuming you before everything went dark. You remembered the bustling vibe of the mall, the annoying feeling of your heart racing, and a sudden wave of dizziness that had pulled you down. panic surged through you as you recalled Ciara’s frantic voice, calling for help when you collapsed.

“there's, no way I actually fainted.” you murmured to yourself, the thought sending a shiver down your spine. “ew, that's so corny.” you felt a flush of heat creep up your cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and concern. you turned to ciara, whose face was unchanged the entire time. her face stayed the same -- she looked horrified. concern. something was wrong with you, and you had a really bad feeling about what. it wasn't stress, it wasn't spencer. it was something else.

thirty-eight minutes. thats how long it took for you to find out.

ciara stayed by your side, her face didn't dare to flinch. a nurse stepped quietly into the room, her hesitant movements breaking the fragile quiet that enveloped the space. the atmosphere felt charged, and you could sense the shift immediately, your heart beginning to pound. the light from the window framed ciara, washing over her in a way that felt almost ethereal. as her expression morphed from concern into something more serious, an unsettling tension settled between you, pinning you both in a moment that seemed to stretch on.

when the nurse began to deliver the news her words flowed without sound, each gesture amplifying the weight of what she had to say. you felt your breath hitch as a wave of uncertainty crashed over you, the reality of her news unsettling sinking in like a stone. the room, once familiar and comforting, suddenly felt small and suffocating, the walls closing in as vivid memories backtracked through your mind—laughter, plans, and dreams that now teetered on the brink of change. the warmth of the space became oppressive as your heart raced, fear mingling with disbelief.

in an instant, the safety of your world unraveled, and the gravity of ciara's presence anchored you to an unsettling truth. the air was thick with unvoiced questions, your heart heavy with the weight of responsibility and the unknown. as the silence roared in your ears, every breath turned bittersweet, a reminder of how everything that had once seemed so certain was now tinged with complexity. you stood there, caught between the past and an uncertain future, realizing in that moment that everything had changed.

fifteen minutes. that's how long it took to get discharged.

the car glided smoothly along the dark road, the headlights casting fleeting beams of light onto the pavement, illuminating the otherwise shadowy world outside. ciara sat in the drivers seat seat, her silhouette a quiet presence lost in thought, her silence wrapping the cabin in an almost palpable stillness. each soft breath she took seemed to mirror the steady thrum of the engine, but the weight of her unspoken emotions filled the air, creating a tension that was hard to ignore. the familiar contours of the landscape slipped by in an undulating blur, trees lining the road like silent sentinels.

as the miles rolled on, your mind began to wander, seeking distraction in the rhythmic pattern of passing objects. you started to count the trees, the sturdy trunks becoming a makeshift anchor in the sea of swirling thoughts. one after another, the arboreal figures flickered past, offering a sense of solace as if each counted tree marked a moment of time that moved further away from the hospital. the darkened silhouettes blurred together, yet you found a strange comfort in the repetitive task, allowing your focus to drift into the rhythm of your surroundings.

six hours, thirty-one minutes. and not a single call from spencer.

as the car glided to a stop in the driveway, the familiar surroundings of your home greeted you with an unsettling mix of comfort and anxiety. the sky was turning shades of purple and orange, a vivid sunset framing the moment. ciara turned off the engine and sat in silence for a moment, her eyes fixed on the front door, as if gauging its significance. you both understood that what waited beyond that threshold was life-changing.

you unbuckled your seatbelt and took a deep breath, your mind swirling with thoughts you had been trying to organize all day. today had felt unending, a series of moments stacked upon one another, each one urging you toward this very conclusion. the weight of what you needed to reveal pressed heavily on your chest, and you were acutely aware of the time you had spent wrestling with your emotions.

ciara glanced at you, her expression a blend of concern and encouragement. you could tell she wanted to say something, perhaps offer reassurance, but instead, she simply gave your hand a gentle squeeze. the gesture felt grounding, a reminder that while you were stepping into the unknown, you were not entirely alone.

with a nod, you exited the car, the cool evening air wrapping around you like a cloak. you took a moment on the doorstep, hesitating as you glanced back at ciara, who offered you a reassuring smile before she drove away. the sound of the engine faded, leaving you with the echo of your own heartbeat.

spencer sat there, something heavy on his mind. his shirt was off, and he was stood in sweatpants and the line of his boxers showing. his hair was damp and flew down to his shoulders, his arms clinging onto the back of his neck and he eyed you up and down. you stared up at him with heavy, red eyes. you set down your purse and stared off into the distance.

he stared at you in silence. it was pissing you off. he was acting like a fucking child, and now really wasn't the time. your heart raced as your thoughts spiraled, the weight of everything you had been holding inside bubbling just beneath the surface. You could feel the frustration rising as you realized you were no longer willing to play your eyes met, and in that shared moment of understanding, something unspoken ignited.

“I can’t do this anymore,”

“I'm pregnant.” You blurted simultaneously.

The air shifted, charged with the gravity of your revelation and his confession, and the silence that had ruled the room felt like it was finally ready to crack open, revealing the unvoiced truths waiting just beneath the surface. your eyes widened and jaw feel open, as you grasped what just came out of his mouth. tears welled up at your eyes, and his met with yours with the same expression, and at the same time you both uttered;

“What?”

reblog or comment for part 2 <3

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gmasttin · 2 months ago

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Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé

| Summary: A Madrid-based creative unexpectedly finds herself leading the rebranding of Kylian Mbappé. Between cold coffees, impossible deadlines, and tense creative sessions, something more than just a campaign begins to take shape. An ironic, intimate, and emotionally sharp story about the chaos of feeling alive just when you thought you were only surviving.

| Chapter 2 is already out!!

| 3.6k words

| A/n: I read the book “Really Good, Actually” by Monica Heisey and after binging a bunch of romcoms, I decided to finally start and post one. A lighthearted story, with some romcom vibes, that I’d actually been thinking about writing for quite a while. I hope you enjoy it, and sorry for any mistakes, it's the first one I've ever written and as it's obvious, English is not my first language. Enjoy <3.

Chapter 1

Back when life was simpler, and all you had to worry about were Tupperware containers, briefs, and whether you’d make it to the 7 p.m. Pilates class.

Some mornings, you wake up with this strange sense of clarity, like everything’s aligned. The coffee’s just right, the subway arrives on time, no one crushes your toes with a pair of impossible stilettos in their rushed way to their fancy offices.

This is not one of those mornings. You’re not sure if it’s because of the weird dream (the one where you’re marrying Louis, your ex, except he’s the one wearing that wedding dress you kept eyeing, and of course, his mother steals your spot at the altar), or because you ended up arguing with your own mother again, over text, at 12:47 a.m.

But something’s off.

You feel it in the way your toothbrush slips out of your hand, at least three times. Or how your coat gets caught on the door handle right when you’re running late. Also in the fact that, for some reason, you’re wearing two completely different shoes and don’t notice until you’re already in the elevator.

You don’t go back to change them. After all, no one looks at your feet in a marketing agency. Unless you work in fashion. And you don’t work in fashion.

You work in “emotionally driven brand storytelling strategy.” Which is just a fancy way of saying you come up with excuses for people to buy things they don’t need.

At 9:08, you get to the office. You know this because the biometric check-in clock reminds you, like a threat. You throw on your jacket with the defeated air of someone who already knows there’s no hot coffee left for her.

There are two people in the office's kitchen: Lucía, who always looks like she’s either about to cry or fall in love, and Guillermo, who speaks with an exaggeratedly British accent that no one really understands.

“Morning,” he says without looking up from his phone.

“How are you?” you reply, not because you care, but because silence feels even more aggressive.

“Busy. So busy. We have that pitch with the Swiss skincare brand at eleven. And then there’s the meeting.”

Ah. The meeting.

Your boss had announced it yesterday on Teams with the gravity of someone introducing the new Messiah:

“Tomorrow, we have an important meeting. Very important. Like, potential long-term strategic client important. I need your best brains, team. Bring attitude.”

You head back to your desk, a white table that’s far too small, which you share with three other people and a dying plant everyone pretends not to be turning their backs on.

On your screen, thirty-seven tabs are open. Nine are unfinished briefs, three are online clothing stores, and one is a search for: “how to tell if you’re having an emotional breakdown or just sleep-deprived.”

You take a deep breath. Open your calendar. The event is there:

10:30 – Confidential meeting.Subject: Project Star.Attendees: Management, PR, you.

You. Lowercase. Like a typo someone forgot to fix.

You try to focus. Take a sip of your coffee (cold). Open the Excel file with your corporate smile, the one you once practiced in the kitchen mirror. But it doesn’t last.

Because at 10:28, you get a direct message from HR:

Marta (HR): | Head up to Room 5. They’re all here. Including him 👀

Including him.

Who is him? And why that emoji?

Room 5 is the good room. The one with the Scandinavian sofas and the fancy capsule coffee machine. It’s almost always empty, as if reserved for things that matter. Or for people who earn more in a year than you will in your entire career.

When you walk in, the first thing you see is your boss, wearing that smug “I closed this deal even though I didn’t do anything” smile. Then three people you don’t recognize. Suits. Serious. A woman holding a folder full of documents, and two men who look like they haven’t laughed since 2017.

And then you see him.

He’s sitting in the corner of the sofa, staring at his phone like it’s blowing up. White shirt, sleeves rolled up, expensive watch. The kind of person who doesn’t need an introduction because you’ve already seen his face twenty times—on bus stop billboards, Nike campaigns, and a live-through nightmare involving penalty kicks and your grandmother’s best friend, who is Argentine.

Kylian. The footballer. That one.

Your first thought was: He’s even better looking in real life. Your second was: Don’t look impressed.

Your boss catches your eye and motions for you to sit down.

“This is Y/N, our trusted creative director,” your boss says in that tone he uses when he’s trying to sound cool and young, despite he is entering his middle 50’s.

You smile as best you can. Your heart’s pounding like it’s doing cardio on your behalf.

Kylian looks up. And for a fraction of a second, he looks at you.

Not in a “who are you?” kind of way, but more like “right, so you’re the one who’s supposed to fix this.”

You sit down on the opposite end of the sofa. Far enough not to seem intimidating. Close enough to pretend you’re not trying to seem anything at all.

Your boss clears his throat. That thing he always does right before saying something that sounds like a headline but means absolutely nothing.

“Well, as I was saying, this is a special project. A unique opportunity to… rewrite the narrative.”

“Rewrite the narrative” is his new favorite phrase. He’s been using it ever since someone said it at a networking event and he jotted it down on his iPhone, right next to gems like “pivot from authenticity” and “emotional capital.”

“Kylian is entering a new chapter,” he adds, as if talking about a divorce or a spiritual awakening. “His team wants to work on his personal brand from a more honest place. More connected. Something… human.”

Kylian says nothing. Still staring at his phone. Like none of this matters. Like he’d honestly rather be out training in the rain or under 600-watt studio lights.

One of the women across the table finally speaks. She looks like she handles PR. Her voice sounds like one of those self-help podcasts that tell you everything happens for a reason while selling you a course on productivity.

“We want people to meet the real Kylian. Not just the athlete. The boy who grew up in the suburbs, who loves art, who’s investing in cultural initiatives for young people.”

The boy who loves art. Right. Like every bored millionaire who collects neon sculptures and Warhol prints they don’t even understand.

“We’re thinking of a series of documentary-style content—something intimate but visually strong. Also, a small social media campaign where he speaks directly to the audience. No filter.”

Your boss nods, enthusiastically, as he adds.

“And that’s why we have Y/N. Our top creative. Brilliant. With a unique sensitivity. She knows how to connect with difficult audiences. She’s worked with NGOs, tech start-ups, an inclusive pottery workshop…”

Your name, your career, your work, it all sounds like it’s being read out loud at your professional funeral. You smile. Because that’s what’s expected.

You turn toward Kylian. He looks at you. Finally. As if he’s only just now mentally arrived in the room.

“You write the scripts?” he asks. His voice is deeper than you expected. Like someone who doesn’t rush his sentences.

“I write the ideas,” you reply. “The scripts too. But if everything goes well, no one will remember the words. Just how it made them feel.”

You’re not sure why you said that. Maybe because it sounds like something a brilliant creative would say. Maybe because you’re just a little tired of being treated like a walking PowerPoint.

He nods. Says nothing else.

Your boss clears his throat again. There are more details, of course: deadlines, photo shoots, potential trips, a budget no one dares to say out loud. Words like “engagement,” “authenticity,” and “rebranding” hover in the air like LinkedIn mosquitoes.

And you, meanwhile, are sitting there wondering how this even happened. How you went from creating ad campaigns for titanium frying pans to looking into the eyes of someone who’s probably going to be the next football legend.

At the end of the meeting, he stands and everyone follows.

You stay behind a little longer, unsure if you should head back to your desk or pretend you need to go over your notes.

He turns at the door. Gives you a quick glance. Like he’s not sure whether to say goodbye.

“So, I guess I’ll see you soon,” he says.

And without thinking too much, you reply: “Looks like it.”

Later, in the office kitchen and dining area, Lucía looks at you like you just had dinner with Brad Pitt, her eternal crush.

“So? What was he like? Was he nice? Did he talk to you?”

“He asked me one question.”

“And? How was it? Can you tell he’s French?”

“Not really. You can tell he didn’t want to be here.”

She laughs. “So basically, just like you. Soulmates.”

You pour yourself more coffee. Even though it’s already noon and you know you shouldn’t. But you need something to remind you you’re still awake. That this wasn’t just a celebrity reality show fever dream.

Your boss messages you on Teams:

“Great impression. He liked you. Work your magic.”

Work your magic. As if it were that easy. As if magic weren’t, almost always, just logistics and anxiety.

You spend the afternoon going through the briefing. They’ve sent you a 17-page document titled: “A New Era: Humanizing the Legend.”

The title alone makes you want to jump out the window.

The phrases are full of vague objectives: — Position an emotional identity. — Connect with non-sports audiences. — Turn notoriety into relatability.

There are black-and-white photos of him. One with a vintage bike. Another reading a book with no title. A third holding a little girl (his niece, according to the caption). You wonder which parts of all this are real. And which ones you’ll have to invent.

You start jotting down notes. On a post-it, you write:

What if instead of pretending he’s “the guy next door,” we show him as someone who also had to fight for what he truly wanted? Distance as truth. Fame as fracture.

You like that sentence. Fame as fracture.

You stick it to the edge of your monitor. Right next to another post-it that says: – Call the dentist. – Stop stalking Louis. – Buy tampons.

The next morning unfolds like the mornings of the past six months: fast, half-hearted, with a light drizzle of anxiety—which today, for obvious reasons, feels slightly more intense.

You’ve been summoned to a more intimate meeting. Proposed by his PR manager. Just you, the PR manager, and him.

It’s in a coworking space in Chamberí that looks like a Pinterest café with people-pleasing issues.

When you arrive, they’re already seated. He’s wearing a cap. And sunglasses. Indoors. As if he didn’t want anyone to recognize him.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he replies. Dry. Tired. Then silence.

The PR manager talks for eleven straight minutes. You know it because you count it mentally. He nods occasionally, as if he’s listening. But you watch him and know he’s not really there. So you go for it.

“Sorry. Can I ask something?”

They both turn to you. The PR manager, with a thin smile, the kind that expects you to compliment her long monologue where she’s said everything and absolutely nothing. The kind of monologue that’s made you consider requesting medical leave and handing this project off to someone else, if all future meetings are going to be like this.

“Do you actually want to do this?” you continue.

He blinks. “This?”

“Yeah. The campaign. The rebrand. Are you actually interested in it, or are you here because someone told you to be?”

The PR manager shoots you a look that could be categorized as brand sabotage.

Kylian, however, laughs. A short laugh. But a real one.

“Does it matter?”

“A lot. If you’re not into it, it’s going to show. And if it shows, everyone’s going to see it. And if they see it, they’ll call you fake. And, then we’ll have to redo the whole campaign, but this time using the drama as the hook.”

He looks at you. “All right. I’ll try.”

“Try what?”

“To care.”

You nod and make a mental note: Functional sarcasm. Potential sense of humor. Possibly shy (or just reserved, does he not like me? If so, bad start). Possibly just fed up.

They send you clips of him “for inspiration.” Interviews. Matches. Viral moments.

There’s one in particular. A phone-recorded video on a plane. He’s on his phone. Someone off-camera asks if he’s nervous about the final. He answers:

“No. I’m tired.”

Tired. Not in a physical sense. Existentially tired.

That’s the crack. That’s where you can slip in.

The next day, he shows up at the office. Unannounced. Wearing a watch that probably costs more than a year’s rent on your flat, and the look of someone who Googled “how to dress normal” this morning and gave up halfway.

It’s four in the afternoon. You’re working the late shift today, you swapped with Mireia so you could work in a quieter environment, with fewer people to distract you while you try to figure out how the hell you’re supposed to frame this project.

“I’m here to work with you,” he says, walking toward your desk. The desk you’ve been saying for over a month now that you’ll tidy up, because honestly, it’s starting to get embarrassing. And now the embarrassment is fully devouring you from the inside out.

“Did you bring ideas? Proposals? Do you want to change something in the project?” you ask, because you’re not entirely sure why he’s here.

He doesn’t trust me, does he?

To be fair, your boss didn’t exactly sell you very well. And you wouldn’t trust someone either if they looked like they hadn’t been laid properly in five months and seventeen days (which, if asked, wouldn’t be too far from the truth), to run the documentary that’s supposed to reinvent your public image.

“No.”

You raise an eyebrow. Definitely doesn’t trust me. You think. Or maybe his PR manager sent him to spy on you, because she also doesn’t trust how you do your job, especially after you, let’s be honest, gently shredded hers the other day.

He grabs a spare chair and sits next to you, stealing Pablo’s seat, who’s now watching the interaction from the water machine like it’s a live episode of something he didn’t know he needed.

“These ‘meetings’ usually happen with PR,” you tell him. “You don’t have to be here. They can send you the details.”

“I don’t care,” he shrugs. “It’s a project about my life, right? I should know what’s being said. And what’s not.”

Then, with just the right amount of cheek: “Got any coffee? Pour me one.”

You stare at him. Did he just tell me to make him coffee? Like I’m his assistant?

And you stare a little longer. He holds your gaze, half-smirking, half-testing. That kind of expression that doesn’t fully commit to being rude or polite. As if he hasn’t decided which version of himself is most useful in a Madrid office on a Tuesday afternoon.

You inhale. Slowly.

“We don’t have personal assistants here.”

You get up. Walk toward the coffee machine without looking back. Spine straight. Jaw set. Your version of saying don’t mess with me without saying it.

“Then make us both one,” he adds from your chair, like that somehow makes it better.

The laugh escapes before you can stop it. Dry. More of a stylish snort than a laugh, really.

“Sugar? Or do you want me to draw your logo in the foam?”

“No sugar. I'm in season, gotta watch the sweets.” He says it softer this time. Almost like an apology.

When you come back with the two mugs, he’s already leaned into your monitor. Arms crossed. Eyes fixed on the project timeline you’d left open.

“All this... you do it alone?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Did you think I had a team?”

Now he turns. Looks at you fully. Something’s shifted in his face, like irony was the password to get into his world.

“No. It’s just... a lot.”

You shrug.

“It is. But hey, at least no one makes me chase a ball for a living.”

He laughs. An unexpected one. Brief. Almost sweet. And that’s when it hits you: He’s not just looking at you. He’s watching you. Like he’s trying to figure something out about you that’s not in your resumé.

The next forty minutes, you work in silence. Or at least, what passes for “working” when two people are hyper-aware of each other and there's a quiet tension in the air that neither of you knows how to name yet.

Every now and then, he asks something. About the script tone. The order of the clips. Whether his accent is “too French” for a voiceover.

“Do you think I should speak Spanish in the videos?” he asks.

You consider it.

“If you want people to see you’re making an effort, yes. If you want to sound perfect, no.”

“I want to sound real.”

“Then leave it as it is. With mistakes. With pauses. With ‘ehh’ and ‘I don’t know.’”

He nods. And something opens there. Just a crack. A window slit. But it’s real.

He’s smarter than he looks. You realize that somewhere between the conversation on narratives, social media, and how to show vulnerability without sounding like a performance. He has opinions. He asks. He listens.

And you... You’re confused. Because you don’t know if this is still work. Or if you’re slowly being pulled into the gravity of it all. Of him. Of this moment.

At some point, he laughs at something you say and looks at you like you’re brilliant. Not beautiful. Brilliant. And for some reason, that disarms you more than any physical compliment.

The next day, at 10:36 a.m., the unofficial break time for Lucía, as if the universe had conspired for this conversation to happen, Lucía shows up at your desk with a cookie in hand.

“Was it real? He was here? Pablo told me.”

You raise your gaze to meet Lucía’s eyes, like she’s reached the juiciest part of a novel she can’t stop reading. You simply nod and turn your attention back to the monitor of your computer.

“So, how was it?”

You glance at your empty coffee cup resting next to the mountain of discarded post-its, all with ideas that still don’t quite fit this project. Ideas that seem to wander like echoes, failing to capture the essence.

“Strange.”

“Strange good or strange bad?” Lucía insists, now sitting on the edge of your desk, making it feel like an interrogation.

You sigh, gathering your thoughts.

“Strange ‘I want him back.’” You admit, letting yourself be pulled into that mix of confusion and realization you’ve been keeping to yourself.

You told her about that strange back-and-forth, that feeling you couldn’t quite describe, but Lucía, after hearing it, defined it as “professional flirting in disguise.”

“We’re not flirting.”

“Of course you are. It’s just that instead of telling him you love his smile, you told him his current storytelling is weak and redundant.”

“Because it is.”

“And he looked at you like he wanted you to write his biography and emotional resume.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Girl, I’m telling you, as a friend and as someone who’s seen all the seasons of The Bold Type, that guy cares more about your feedback than winning the Ballon d'Or.”

Exaggerations aside, something was there. A subtle thread of mutual curiosity, something that was growing without you realizing. And now, here you were: immersed in a project that would last several weeks, working alongside him. Defining the tone of his communication, developing digital pieces, planning interviews… All while trying to maintain your composure and stay focused on your workday.

You’ve come to the conclusion that it all boils down to the fact that you were bored.

You could say it was the algorithm. You could blame a well-executed digital strategy. You could use any excuse, really, and not be lying. But deep down, you know it was that. Boredom. The deadliest of mental states.

And there you were, last night, a Wednesday, with your emergency bun and a lopsided dinner in front of you, watching a video of Kylian Mbappé talking about motivation in a square format with black-and-white subtitles. He wore a white shirt, the collar a little stretched, and several buttons undone. And you wore what was left of your self-esteem and a glass of supermarket red wine.

The worst part is, the video wasn’t bad. The worst part is, it actually seemed sincere. It was in English, with a strong accent and a hesitant intonation, like he was afraid of offending the language. He said things like, "you can’t be your best version if you don’t know who you are," and you nodded. YOU NODDED. After that, you turned off your phone as if it had slapped you and went to bed without washing your face. Because boredom doesn’t just make you vulnerable; it also makes you lazy.

You told Lucía the story as if it were some ridiculous anecdote. Something to laugh about during her unofficial coffee break. But Lucía, who is not just your coworker but your version with steroids, looked at you as if you’d said something important.

“Girl, what if this is a sign?”

“A sign of what?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That you need a change. Or a quickie. Or both.”

#kylian mbappe #kylian x reader #kylian x you #kylian mbappe x reader #kylian mbappe fanfic #mbappe #football x reader #football x y/n #kylian mbappe x y/n

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anika-ann · 4 months ago

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Back and Forth - Epilogue pt.2

Epilogue 2/2 - Always Forward

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 7200

Chapter summary: In which you’re settling into a new normal… and something beautiful might be blossoming between you and Steve, even as your past experience is holding you back.

Series masterlist

Warnings:mild allusions to smut so NSFW and 18+ to be safe; issues of self-worth, self-doubt, allusions to a panic attack, mentions of therapy, mention of past injuries, Spectre needing a hug and Steve giving us unrealistic expectations for men, language, tooth-rotting fluff

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

A/N2: It's a wrap! Mostly anyway. I know not any people still care for this story, so all my gratitude to those who do 💕 Thank you for your love for Steve and Spectre - and enjoy 💕

“I have to cancel the date.”

The words left your lips about half a second after Daisy had picked up the phone with a cheery ‘what’s up?’, frantic and panicked, but no less true.

You had to cancel the date.

There was nothing rational about that decision, you were aware.

You were excited, you had gone over how Steve was the epitome of perfection with just hints of imperfections which he let you see because he was just that kind of perfect, how he was gentle and true and wore his heart on his sleeve and flirted with you in ways that should be illegal and were prove enough that he wanted you, the way you touched, a gentle whisper of affection--- you recalled all this with painful and tingling clarity and rationally you knew it was just the right time to move forward and that if you chickened out of the date you had both been waiting and building towards for for so long, you’d regret it and you might never get another shot.

And still, you knew it deep in your core, with an ugly acute feeling of all-consuming dread: you had to call the dinner off.

“What are you even--- wait, you have a date?! With Steve?!” Daisy nearly screeched at the other end of the line and you bit down on your painted lower lip, eyes squeezing shut at the inevitable storm coming. Or perhaps, an incoming earthquake; har fucking har.

Daisy’s surprise was anything but unexpected; because you not having told her about Steve having asked you out until this very moment had been entirely intentional.

You hadn’t told her, because she would have assured you to no end that it was the best possible thing that could happen. And with that, your gut feeling would get all confused and you’d actually believe her. Now, your gut feeling – fighting fiercely the wild butterflies in your stomach at the memory of sparing with Steve, the memory of the light in his eyes, him catching you, your lips pressing to his cheek – was telling you the truth in a warning. That you needed to back off and stay friends with Steve, because otherwise you’d lose him.

He'd be kind if you changed your mind. He had said so; and if there was one thing Steve Rogers was, it was heart-wrenchingly kind and understanding.

Except he wouldn’t be, not this time, a sleazy voice whispered in the back of your head, causing the hairs at the back of your neck stand in cold horror. This time, his hurt and disappointment would be so profound he’d leave and you’d lose him. And on the other hand, if you went out with him, you would start your journey to the inevitable heartbreak and parting ways with him, because you were bound to mess up eventually.

What a beautiful apocalyptic catch-22.

It was almost funny and a part of you laughed sardonically at you having lost sight of what truly mattered, your career stepping down on the priority list enough to have you suddenly consider something as banal as losing a boy’s interest a catastrophic event; then again, Steve Rogers was quite an extraordinary ‘boy’.

He was the best damn man you had ever met, a walking green flag. And that was the very problem.

You had fallen for him, hard – that much was an undeniable fact. He seemed to like you too. And what you two had was absolutely wonderful; you had never connected with another human being at such level, be it level of trust or of affection. You were terrified to speak the L word, but you were agonizingly aware that it was what it was for you. What Steve was to you.

And if it was, somehow, the same for him, if you took that step into trying to build a romantic relationship, there was no coming back.

And since you were faithfully bound to fucking up somehow, it would perhaps – definitely – be better to stay friends.

These flirty friends, who had sparks of want in their eyes, touched awfully lot, lit alive at the slightest brush of his fingers on your skin, your dizzy mind creating images of his large hands gripping your thighs as his tongue would trail up to his sweet prize, long thick fingers entering you, hot breath fanning over your ear as his hands would hold you steady on your shaky legs threatening to give out with every time he’d thrust inside you, so deep your fingers could have never made the lust-filled dreams any justice as you muffled your cries into the pillow at night, needy and ashamed all the same, because Steve had been patient and you lusted after him like a horny teenager.

But you liked it this way. This way was solid.

Moving further was balancing on that ledge hundred stories high and leaning towards the void just to tempt fate.

Before Steve, you used to be safe. You used to be safe within the impenetrable walls, so meticulously built; and the worst thing was that Steve Rogers hadn’t bulldozered through those walls, no. He took them away slowly, patiently removing brick by brick, not leaving as much as rubble behind for you to desperately try to pick up and rebuilt them before it was too late. The only wall left was the one you were balancing on top of, the highest of them all.

And you were going to fall to your death.

The loud cry of your name made you flinch, tugging you back to reality where Daisy sighed, once more lamenting you hadn’t bothered to share the exciting news of Steve officially asking you out after you two had danced around each other for god-knew-how-many weeks now.

“He… he only asked me three days ago…” you muttered, cursing yourself for letting the few tears spill over, ruining your make-up which you put ridiculous amount of thought into, because you wished you looked beautiful to him, but not like you were trying too hard.

Not that it mattered; because you were about to cancel your date anyway.

Maybe you should say you were sick? No, that was stupid. Steve had seen you just fine maybe three hours ago and he could always ask FRIDAY.

“Well, I suppose I can forgive you for hoarding the information,” Daisy sighed again. “But there is no way you are cancelling that date. Why on Earth would you do that?”

Because! You wanted to cry out and stomp your foot, like a petulant child you might actually be.

But even petulant children had friends; someone they could trust and rely on.

“Because… everything could go wrong.”

“Like what?--- No, wait, don’t answer that. Let me speak. And stop pacing, sit down on your ass and listen,” Daisy said, the firmness in her voice actually making you freeze mid-step, brief horror at how well she knew you striking you and for a moment, quieting the raging sea of emotion in your chest.

“Spectre, honey, I think you are panicking and you might have a reason to, but you actually don’t.”

You opened you mouth to contradict her, trying to gather your thoughts enough to speak few words to make her understand, but she was faster.

“Uh-huh, nope, I’m talking. With all the love I have for you, I gotta say that if you called me two months ago like this, I would be the one panicking, thinking someone died,” Daisy said matter-of-factly, bewilderment and guilt biting at your gut. Some friend you were, if that was how she felt. “Do not take this as an insult or an opportunity to beat yourself over that, that is so not the point I’m making. My point is that you call me. Almost on the regular. We text. You’re less guarded, you sound the happiest I have ever seen and heard you, truly happy, and you’re--- I’m sorry, but you glow when you talk about Steve. He’s good for you, he’s good to you and he’s exactly what you deserve in a man.”

You gulped, listening intently against your best judgement – because this was exactly why you hadn’t told Daisy before, because she would put all these ideas in your head, about how… you needed to grip this chance and never let go, because this could be something beautiful and Steve hadn’t given you a single reason to be afraid.

She was right, of course – but that was part of the problem.

You cleared your throat, blindly and carefully sweeping away the rivers of tears that had run down your cheeks.

“That’s the problem, Daisy. I don’t want to fuck this up. Steve is… everything and we are so good like this. We-“

“No, wait one more second. I’m gonna take a guess, okay? One teeny tiny guess, ‘cause I live to gamble. I think that whether you realize it or not, you still doubt he likes you. That he could love you – and believe me, you are wrong, because from what I heard and saw, that guy had it bad for you for a while,” she hummed, and you could hear the smug satisfied half-grin that had formed on her lips, “but my point is, another part of you is very much aware of his feelings.”

“I-“

“Because you see people. You have to, because that’s how you stay alive. That’s how we stay alive. We have shitty pasts behind us, Spectre. We do. We have these… mental scars or whatever, shit we carry with us, and we were taught the hard way not to trust, let alone to believe that someone genuinely cares. I love you, but you even more than me-“

“You never seemed to have any problems with this,” you argued. “You care, you open your heart so easily, always have, Coulson even said so-“

“Well that’s not entirely true and is not the point. My point is, that you don’t trust and open up easily, but you did it for Steve. And you chose pretty well. I mean… you have the epitome of justice and virtue to trust, talk about bagging the real prize.”

You couldn’t but snort through your tears, Daisy’s wittiness and ability to weave the truth into hilarious string of words getting to you, deflating the enormous weight sitting on your chest.

“But finally, what I wanna say is that… the fact you call me, you called me now, that you’re letting your guard down, for him the most, I believe… it’s because you know. There’s a part of you, very clever part, that recognizes and believes that he is in love with you too and that’s why you can afford to trust him and you just wanted to hear it from me, because you know that part is right. And that part knows that if you let him, he’s going to show you just how much.”

In the stunned silence that followed, your mind whirled wildly, irrationally circling around the thought of whether Daisy meant how much you could trust Steve or how much he… loved you.

Why was your ribcage suddenly so full and so light at once, your heart racing like mad and dancing like the spots in front of your eyes--- breathe, dammit.

You did. In and out. Then again. As your chest rose and fell shakily, Daisy’s voice sounded as if you were submerged and her voice was just above the water surface.

“You okay there, Champ?”

You burst into a watery laughter, your hand flying over your mouth to muffle the godawful sound.

“Yeah, no. I’m… Daisy, he’s so---- I guess I…” you trailed off, the realization of just how truthful her words were causing your hands to tremble and nearly drop your damn phone.

You.

An agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.

An ally to the Avengers.

Folding like a house of cards because of a date and because a guy might like her.

God, you were pathetic--

But Steve Rogers sure was worthy of being pathetic for.

And being brave for.

But how much bravery could you truly muster up?

“You’re right. I… I should go and get my shit together before he arrives. If the date goes wrong, well, I can just-“

-die, move to another country, or another planet, just disappear, become but a ghost-

“-oh my god. I should project.”

“…what?”

You laughed, the idea completely absurd but also rather brilliant, a shot of relief and fresh panic into your veins.

“I mean, it’s not a long-term solution, but if I project to our date, then I can snap back if something goes wrong-“

“NO. Spectre, no. You are not letting your spectre go on the date instead of you-“ Daisy all but spitted out, so clearly mad and disappointed and perhaps just a tad amused that you couldn’t but instantly discard the idea which you weren’t sure you had been seriously considering in the first place.

“But--- yeah, okay, I know. It’s just… I’m really… embarrassingly worried,” you whined at last, an absurdly sweet coo sounding at the other end of the line in response, making you roll your eyes and snort.

God bless Daisy, she really was one of the best humans and Inhumans walking the Earth.

There was a lot of feelings stuffed into your tight ribcage, most of them concerning Steve Rogers, but there was an undeniable large part that was overflowing with love for your friend.

“Thank you, Daisy. Really. I… I’m sorry I-“

“If you plan to finish that sentence with ‘bothered you’, I’m gonna send an earthquake your way,” she threatened.

You snapped your mouth shut, biting your tongue hard enough for it to actually hurt, even as some distant part of your brain cheered at the idea, because well, an earthquake surely would be a valid excuse to cancel—

But suddenly, for all the mess in your head, you felt such a sharp pang in your chest at the prospect of not seeing Steve, potentially not kissing Steve, not to bask in his warmth and proximity and the light of his smile and brilliantly cerulean irises with the most adorable speckle of green-- that you knew there was no doubt left that you might actually die unless you did go to the dinner.

You gulped.

“--I’m sorry I stole your time and didn’t tell you earlier,” you said instead, earning a hum.

“Uh huh. Good. Now off you go. Make him fall on his glorious ass when he sees you, doll, and make out with him against door. And please, do everything I would do and more. See you!” Daisy cheered, ending the call before you could retort, causing you chuckle breathlessly, glancing towards the ceiling and taking a deep steadying breath.

Your nerves were still buzzing, but when you StarkWatch did, announcing that you had last two minutes before the designated date time, you jumped to your feet and rushed to the bathroom to assess the damage. You barely made it there when a knock sounded from the door, making you curse in such an unladylike manner that Steve might actually call off the date if he heard you.

Ignoring it despite everything inside you pulling you towards the door, you glanced into the mirror, realizing two fundamental facts:

One, your make-up held admiringly well despite your tears, because you had had a hunch you might cry and had used water-proof products and thus you didn’t need to fix anything.

Two, the one thing that needed fixing you had no chance to remedy; the red of your teary eyes. There was no universe in which Steve wouldn’t notice that.

And if he’d notice, he’d want to know.

And if he’d look at you the way he excelled at, that soft caring inquiring gaze that should be listed as an illegal interrogation technique right next to if not above waterboarding, you’d fold and spill your heart and inevitably chase him away-

Another knock, still gentle, but louder this time.

You whined, hands curling into fists tight enough to leave blood-red moons in your palms and headed towards the door, ironically unable to supress the fluttery feeling in your stomach as you released the tension in your hands in order to smoothen your dress and fluff up your hair.

The giddy feeling only grew exponentially as you threw the door open, your pulse skyrocketing through the roof despite the roof being over twenty stories higher.

Two things welcomed you; a gentle smile threaded with genuine excitement and a bouquet of tulips of various colours with soft tones of baby breath weaved through.

It was perfect; Steve was perfect.

And you’d swear, like many times before in secret, that he was the most handsome man in the whole universe.

However, as you allowed yourself look him over for a while, appreciating his casually fluffed up hair, the width of his shoulders and the lovely blue button-up almost hidden by the large bouquet, the well-fitting black slacks and shiny shoes, your gaze lingering on its way back up, his warm smile had already slipped, replaced by concerned gaze with the slightest hints of panic.

“What happened?”

“Nothing!” you blurted out, stepping to side to let him in, mentally counting to three for two different reasons.

One, to keep your tears at bay for at least a while longer despite the gentle inquiry in Steve’s eye. Two, to still your rapidly beating heart which nearly gave out at Steve’s words, because they might as well be a battle cry, a who hurt you and who do I need to kill written between the lines.

In a very Steve Rogers fashion, he responded to your silent invite and walked in.

And in a very Steve Rogers fashion, he did not let you off the hook easily.

Not that you blamed him; you did not sound convincing even to your ears.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” you elaborated, not having to force the smile to your lips as you met his gaze. “Nothing serious. I swear.”

“Alright…” He eyed you, still suspicious and cautious, probably because of the number of times you said the word ‘nothing’. “But if you’d rather postpone… or cancel-“

“No, not at all-“

“Or if you just want to stay in and order take-out, or cook together… or I could cook. I got groceries delivered just in case.”

“Oh?”

Your voice rose at least an octave, your hand slamming the door behind him with a little too much force.

Hysteria and self-loathing crept in like first days of winter, digging its icy claws into your stomach, effectively stunning the butterflies having been fluttering its wings there, only sinking deeper as Steve’s gaze flickered to the violently slammed door and back to your face, his eyes searching now, worried.

Of course they were; of course he was.

Of course he had had groceries delivered just in case.

Of fucking course.

Tears of humiliation stung in your eyes, but you didn’t have the heart nor the energy to be angry with him for the remark or his actions.

Just ashamed.

Or maybe a little angry too.

The rest of the statement, ‘just in case you freaked out’ was so clearly audible even if left unsaid that you wanted to tuck yourself into bed and never leave.

Hearing those words cut so damn deep – but could you really blame Steve for already knowing you so well? Could you really blame him for thinking you were an idiot, a nervous wreck of a weakling, who couldn’t even handle going out with him, when he was apparently right?

Could you really blame him for being such a sweetheart to have been prepared for that scenario?

In some ways, it was so damn thoughtful of him; and yet, it burned down your throat like a shot of absinth. It hurt like being shot through both thighs; you’d know.

And you were being ungrateful, you were aware of as much. You were being such an ungrateful bitch, for despising him for that assumption, as right as it was, and for despising Daisy for giving you hope--- because yes, maybe Steve was on his way to love you.

But he didn’t love you right.

You should be so thankful that he was so considerate and patient, but the idea of him seeing you like nothing a pathetic thing to handle in satin gloves only, a thing so fragile it might break if someone breathed on it, made you sick to your stomach with utter disappointment. In him. In you. In that stupid thing called love.

But could you really blame anyone else but yourself? Could you-

“Yeah, well,” Steve muttered, a tinge of pink in hischeeks as he shrugged, gently pulling your focus back to him. “Our job is the way it is. If the reservation fell through because of an emergency meeting or a mission making us late, if either of us had to act as a substitute agent, if anyone needed back-up… I wanted to have a plan B. That is if that were enough for you.”

Your head snapped up, your rapidly spiralling mind coming to a screeching halt, the claws in your gut digging deeper and tearing; until they finally released you.

Oh.

Oh my god.

You were such an idiot.

Indeed, a pathetic, hopeless case of an idiot and you knew, you knew you should have known better, should have tried to cut off the spiral of self-conscious thought right at the start using one of the many techniques you had been taught in therapy, but you hadn’t and you had misread it all, again.

Steve did not think you were pathetic; you were actually aware of that. Steve had, in fact, told you were the furthest thing from that, even as you had broken down in front of him at a damn animal shelter of all places.

He was just being practical. And thoughtful. Again.

Of course he fucking was. Brilliant, brilliant, kind Steve, who looked at you as if he’d do anything to make this work, because you mattered that much to him.

Mattered enough for him to put together a back-up plan just in case, if it were enough for you; and meanwhile all you had done was to call your friend to cry on her shoulder and jumped to conclusions when Steve showed up his marvellous strategizing tendencies.

What that said about your momentary problem-solving skills you did not want to think about, mainly because you could not afford to mess this up any more than it already was and so you were trying to stop yourself from spiralling, rather than jump deeper down the vortex of anxiety and self-loathing.

You repeated your brilliant response.

“Oh.”

“It’s still an option even if you’d rather just stay in,” Steve continued, seemingly oblivious to your inner turmoil. “I made a reservation for a room so we wouldn’t have anyone staring, but… if you’d rather not go out, that’s fine.”

That’s fine, he said.

It was not.

Because now you felt like a real idiot.

“No! I mean… it would be a shame for the reservation to go to waste!” It would be a shame if your brilliant planning which counted in just about every variable was ruined just because- “I’m just a ginormous-”

You swallowed the curse upon something flashing in Steve’s eye, gulping instead; and sighing so deeply that your soul might have actually left your body.

Closing your eyes, you took a steadying breath, feeling your fingers twitch as you resisted the urge to dig your nails into your palms again. Breathe. In. Hold. Out. Hold. In…

You released the air from your lungs slowly, gaze finding Steve’s as he watched you with cautious warmth, the tulips still in his hand, hauled to one side as his free hand was limply by his side; limply except for the tight fist, attracting your gaze like a magnet, the prove of his own nerves; an oasis in the lonely desert of anxiety.

He, too, wasn’t at ease, for whichever reason. That was almost as important as the fact that you knew in your gut and heart alike that the source of the unease wasn’t you – not in the sense that would result in your heartbreak, even as the wicked voices of your past whispered about the opposite.

Do not apologize for your shortcoming stemming from your trauma unless completely necessary. Thank people for accepting them, accepting you as you are, you reminded yourself, even as you quite literally had to bite your tongue to keep the automatic apology unspoken.

You forced your gaze to return to Steve’s face, a smile, however small and shy, spreading on your lips with little effort.

“I--- thank you. For being thoughtful. I… really appreciate it,” you said, a lopsided smile mirroring your own in size curling Steve’s lips sweetly. “I know this sounds silly, but… can we maybe start this over? I mean… I don’t mean---- you know what, forget-“

Steve stepped forward so fast you startled, drawing in a quick breath and silencing your doubts in an instant. As the flowers were suddenly the only thing putting distance between you, you had to crane your neck slightly as to hold his gaze, a soft greeting on his lips.

“Hi.”

He smiled wider, eyes roaming over you warmly and appreciatively, as if he was only truly seeing you in your outfit and make-up for the first time tonight and was not at all being subtle about liking what he was seeing. Your heart picked up its pace and seared all at once, heat rushing up your cheeks.

“You look beautiful. These are for you.”

You accepted the flowers with a shaky smile, a tingle rushing through your nerves as Steve’s fingers brushed yours.

“Thank you. They’re gorgeous… and you look very handsome. Blue always suits you,” you said, smile widening at the pleased spark in Steve’s eye, lightning all the more as you carefully stood on your tiptoes and pressed the briefest kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for giving me this. And for having a back-up plan.”

One corner of his lips rose higher.

“Well, they did use to call me a man with a plan… I might have not liked it, but that doesn’t mean they got it wrong. Can’t have an emergency get in the way if this might be my only shot to win over a girl like you. … a woman like you.”

The slip of his tongue felt like a caress – it was as if the simple gesture of a kiss to his cheek affected him and he really, really cared about all this. About you.

And that felt good.

It felt right.

“It wouldn’t have been,” you replied, all your willpower poured into turning away from Steve and moving to the counter to put the bouquet to a large glass since you had never had a need for a vase before. “Shall we?”

Steve nodded, almost absently as he watched your every move, including the steps you took back to him, way too close; but you couldn’t help it. With your nerves settled just a bit, with his large yet soothing presence washing over you like a gentle tidal wave, you felt yourself being pulled into his orbit, never feeling close enough.

“We shall… but are you sure you want to go to the resta-“

“Are you trying to shoot yourself in the foot here, Steve?” you teased him lightly, as if you hadn’t been doing exactly that ever since before you had talked to Daisy and cried in the process. “I’d love to go out. I…”

Steve tilted his head slightly, his intent gaze seeing straight into your soul; and making it feel like there was nothing wrong with it, because he didn’t see anything wrong. He only wished to understand; and you’d let him, because he wouldn’t judge. He never did. Not when it was you.

You felt your shoulders relax, your smile growing genuine.

“I’m just really nervous, that’s all. I promise.”

“So am I,” he said.

And you would have questioned it. Months ago, you would have called bull.

But months ago, you also forbade yourself from looking. From seeing the vulnerability behind Steve’s gaze, the barely audible but undeniably present pain of an old wound.

It dawned to you just how profound his truth behind his statement about this being the only chance he’d get with you had been.

How it wasn’t just about you giving him that chance; it was the circumstance too.

Two feet from you stood a man who once allowed himself to believe he might get a happy ending, the second great war at the brink of an end, only to miss out on seventy years of potential happiness.

And he stood there with his heart on his sleeve, hopes in his soul and a brilliant mind that left nothing to chance; he stood there and was offering all of that to you.

The tears stinging in your eyes had nothing to do with your stupid tendencies this time. The tender ache in your heart had nothing to do with messed up pasts and had everything to do with admiration and affection and faith.

Your hands twitched with the urge to grab Steve’s gorgeous face and kiss him so deep you’d pour all the love undeniably thrumming in your heart into his very being and make him feel it in his very bones.

You took a shuddery breath, your smile a little broken at its edges; but the sheer determination to make this, whatever this thing with Steve could be, work, was all-consuming, even as it stood on a shaky ground of your own insecurities.

“Well, you’re handling it about million times better than I do,” you whispered, less humour than you’d wish in your words.

Steve mirrored your smile, hand twitching just a bit as if just he understood you heard the unspoken words behind his admission; and yet, he shrugged as if he wasn’t tossing away the weight of missed chances.

“Thanks, but I feel like Bucky would disagree, seeing me ordering groceries for three different meals just in case and looking up language of flowers in respective colours.”

There was beautiful, irresistible tinge of pink in his cheeks and your heart raced, something in your mind whispering of showing him yours since he’d showed you his. That or really just going for it and kissing him senseless.

“Still so much better than me. I… I do have a history of shooting myself in the foot… figuratively. Case on point,” you chucked self-deprecatingly as you gestured vaguely to your slightly red eyes in ways of explanation, Steve’s gaze turning impossibly soft. “And I know you said no pressure, but…”

“Hey, I meant it. Still do,” he whispered, taking half a step closer.

The woodsy notes of his cologne tickled your nostrils, warmth spreading all over your skin, feet twitching to erase the last distance and if not kiss him, then at least hold him; or let yourself be held in his ever-inviting embrace.

“I know. That’s… part of the problem, actually.” His eyebrow arched slightly, prompting you to explain. “I believe you. I trust you. I know how banal that sounds, but it’s not. And it’s one of the reasons why everything in me screams yes pressure. I just… really, really don’t want to mess this up, Steve. Because, well… this could be myonly shot with a guy like you.”

You could almost hear the wheels in his head whirling madly as you echoed his earlier words, processing your shy admission; but the one thing that appeared in his expressions almost, almost seemed like pride. Honour, even.

And a smile. Such a soft, soft smile as his hand carefully grasped yours.

“It wouldn’t have been,” he echoed your earlier words. “But… is there anything I can do to make it easier? More comfortable?”

You huffed a breathless laugh despite yourself as a single tear spilled over, a tight-lipped smile the only thing stopping you from shouting at heavens. Truly, you could kiss Steve for such sweet offer, except you also wanted to smack him a bit, because how was this man real?

He squeezed your hand reassuringly even in the face of your apparent insanity.

“A bit of a catch 22, Steve. You offering to make it better is… sweet and making it worse all at once. As in… yes pressure.”

“Right… should I act like a jerk, then?” he offered light-heartedly. “I mean, I have it on good authority I can be one-”

You laughed again, something in your chest humming with uncontainable warmth and light. “Oh I heard about that. I can attest to that.”

His smile widened, teasing and so painfully beautiful that you felt your heart spasm in your chest – the conversation putting you further on edge as well as offering comfort. It was a strange duality to wrap your head around; much like with just about everything when it came to Steve.

Pressured and freer to be and feel than you had ever felt; a terrifying step you couldn’t wait to make; wishing to jump off the ledge just to feel the exhilaration of a free fall and fumbling with the parachute before the severity of the impact Steve had on your life could kill you.

So was there something that could silence the anxious part of the duality for just a moment, just so you didn’t sabotage something beautiful before it could start? Before you’d repay Steve’s sincerity and vulnerability with shutting yourself off?

Held in the soft bonds of his cerulean gaze, his gentle hand still keeping yours, less than two feet apart, so close you could feel gravity pulling you towards him, it took a shocking amount of willpower not to grasp his other hand and bring it to your lips to show your appreciation, not to place it on your cheek just so you could cradle his, stand on your tiptoes and press your lips to his, something you had been longing to do for what might as well be an eternity and half.

You might drop dead right here if you spent another minute without learning how soft his lips were, without tasting that sunshine-like smile. Without gifting yourself one single undeniable proof that this truly was right a proof beyond your foolish heart or Daisy’s words or Steve’s proximity.

Eyes raking over him again, over the sharp cut of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the gentle light in his eyes – an artist and a piece of art in one – the idea took you by surprise; insane, brilliant and absurd. And yet…

“I… there is actually something,” you said, the words alone having your heart startle in your ribcage, much like the two tiny steps you took to stand chest to chest with him, feeling the heat radiating off of his large body.

“Name it.”

You could tell his brain was racing, having probably come to the conclusion that you were about to ask for a hug if his sweet but pressure-free smile was anything to go by, his encouraging squeeze to your hand.

God if he only knew.

You took a steadying breath, only resulting in your heart stumbling further, a breathless whisper on your parted lips.

“’Kay.”

Acting before you could change your mind, you placed your palm on Steve’s shoulder, rising to your tiptoes to bring yourself closer; and finally erased the last distance between you.

You could hear the sharp inhale just before your lips pressed to his, but by then, it was too late to back out.

And the moment your lips met, there was no space in your head for regrets; not an inch of your mind Steve didn’t occupy. The slightest shift of muscles of his arm under your palm, the brush of his warm hand over your hip; the sweet taste of his lips, the gentlest pressure against your mouth, his nose bumping yours as you did not quite coordinate; the heat and exhilaration rushing down your spine, the twitch of Steve’s fingers around your hand.

The tickle of his breath as you reluctantly retreated, cheeks burning, heartbeat pulsing in every single cell of your body, your gaze eagerly drinking in the sight of Steve’s eyes opening slowly, the gorgeous twinkle of something so delightfully alive sending your stomach fluttering, his hand remaining on your hip as if to ground you. To sooth the part of your that chased your frantic heart with worries if you had just terribly overstepped, the part so insistently nudging at your conscience despite the perfectly clear memory of how Steve responded to your semi-solicited attack on his perfect lips.

The corners of those perfect lips curled up, his voice a little husky as he observed you with silent wonder.

“I like the way you think.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause… I know this is what usually comes at the end of a date-”

You were silenced by the most beautiful and effective way known to mankind, the most pleasant shiver tickling your belly as Steve’s lips captured yours again, your hand released in order for him to cradle your cheek and angle your face up just to steal all air from your lungs oh so sweetly.

Your hand slid to his nape, keeping him close, deep contentment rumbling in his chest brushing against yours, his hand flexing at your hip, eliciting a silent keen in the back of your throat.

God your head was spinning and perhaps it had a little something to do with the fact you probably needed oxygen at this point, but you could not bring yourself to care, not when Steve’s lips continued to dance against yours with gentle insistence.

When he did let up, you found yourself gripping his shirt at his side, not moving back half an inch more than it was strictly necessary to breathe; an indulgent inhale of everything that was Steve, eyes remaining closed to process the utter explosion of feeling and sensations in your chest.

You could still feel his smile, still taste it on your lips as your tongue darted out, a careful nudge to your nose as Steve stole the briefest peck from your mouth again, air catching in your throat.

He held you. He held you so deliciously close still, the heat radiating off his body soothing and enticing at once, his thumb drawing a small circle on your burning cheek.

“Wow. That’s… wow. Okay,” you rasped, delighting bubbling in your throat, fingers instinctively caressing Steve’s nape as he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Yeah.”

“I--- I’m very relaxed now.”

And you were. God you were. There was not a single thing in this world that had ever felt so incredibly right.

Steve chuckled gently and you dared to open your eyes, meeting his sparkling blues. “One way to say that, I suppose. You’re a genius, Firefly.”

Breath hitching at the soft nickname – an endearment really, one you still weren’t sure where it came from but had been and was now longing to hear it again when it sounded so tenderly on his lips – you couldn’t contain the foolish smile tugging insistently on your lips, rewarded by another, albeit brief, taste of Steve’s own.

“Don’t know about that…”

“I do,” Steve argued, fingertips gently running over your brow, pushing a strand of your hair away from your face. “Genius. Just one catch.”

You didn’t have the capacity to second guess yourself, the soft hoarseness of Steve’s voice and the mischief in his gaze way too distracting.

“And what’s that?”

Smile widening, his fingers slid under your chin instead, tipping your head further back as he drank from your lips again, squeezing your hip just enough to have you stifle a whimper at the rush of pure delight through your veins.

God you hoped he’d never stop kissing you-

“Don’t wanna stop kissin’ ya’,” he drawled before he was pulling you in again, your ribcage nearly bursting at its seams at the tinge of the Brooklyn accent that you had never heard to come out before.

Great minds, you thought distantly. For all your back-and-forths before, some of them which you enjoyed, you were immensely enjoying being on the same page right now.

Your hand sprawled on his side appreciatively, your smile mirroring his.

“No protests here. No issues whatsoever,” you muttered between the brief encounters of lips. “You said you had a plan B, didn’t you?”

It was that that had Steve sigh, his forehead gently knocking against your again, causing you to swallow a sigh of disappointment. As sweet as the proximity still was, his lips had been much sweeter.

Even as his fingers tracing the length of your arm softly, leaving tender heat in their wake, were taking a close second.

“Good…” he hummed, a flash of mischief in his eye. “But you deserve better. We can save plan B for when we actually need it. Sounds good?”

Asking a question when looking at you like that, he would get your yes to anything. You had a distant feeling in your gut he knew that.

“’Kay.”

“There’s always time after, right?”

He petted the sensitive skin above your collarbone when retreating – and again, you would have agreed to anything if he’d done that just one more time, looking at you from under his eyelashes, a lovely combination of boyish and downright wicked.

“Yeah.”

He grinned, leaving no option for you but to peck his lips one more time; giggles bubbled in your throat, sunshine coming from within your chest warming your bones, when he used that opportunity to grasp at your chin again and held you close for a while longer, muttering a breathy ‘now hold on a second’ straight into your mouth

You were going to miss your reservation at this rate.

You did not care.

“Okay,” Steve sighed, almost wistfully. “Let’s go.”

Obedient of your Captain, you stepped back on embarrassingly wobbly legs and reached for your jacket and moved to slip into it; only for Steve to grasp your hand, confiscating the jacket and pulling you in for another kiss, muffling your surprised laughter.

Only then, with a sweet May I?, he held out the garment for you, complimenting your looks once more as you silently nodded, feeling heat rushing to your cheeks at his gentlemanly ways, not at all minding that his touch lingered less than gentlemanly on your shoulder. You believed you indeed were a sight; lips swollen a bit from the numerous kisses exchanged, eyes wide, face glowing with a smile; the perfect mirror to Steve’s expression.

And as you stepped out of the door, you left most shadows behind, only an echo of anxiety following you, blending into giddy anticipation.

There were still pressures and expectations; but as Steve took your hand in his, interlacing your fingers, you couldn’t help but feel at peace, a gentle voice inside you whispering you were exactly where you were meant to be.

And that whatever path you were to walk, it was the right one.

Drabbles and oneshots

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

Thank you for reading! It’s such a strange feeling to give, mostly, goodbye to a story. If you’re willing to share your thoughts and let me know what and if you enjoyed, I’ll be more than happy 💕

Similarly, I’ll be delighted if you stay tuned for the little Snapshots of Spectre’s and Steve’s life.

May February be sweet to you 🥰 And Happy Galentine's or Valentine's Day 💕

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers #captain america #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #captain america x reader #captain america x you #captain america imagine #back and forth #anika ann

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tinfoil-jones · 7 months ago

Text

Gravity Falls: For Your Own Good, Ch. 1

Summary: A few years after moving to Gravity Falls and having his lab built, Stanford Pines happens upon his estranged twin brother, Stanley. He mentally prepared himself to be suffocated by his brothers neediness all over again - what he wasn't prepared for was Stanley walking right past him like he didn't even notice him.

Rating: M for language, violence, and adult implications

Warnings: Dialogue only, but some actions will be annotated for clarity. Cross-Posted on AO3 Here.

CH.1

‘What is he doing here? Ten years and he comes to Gravity Falls of all places? He must want something… Probably money. I don’t have the time or energy to entertain his neediness or dependency.’

‘Wait, what? Why’d he just walk past me? He’s ignoring me? Is this some mental game he’s trying to play? I’m not playing his games today. He isn’t going to manipulate me into starting a dialogue.’

‘...And he’s still walking away, hasn’t even turned his head back.’

‘Whatever, it doesn't bother me.’

‘It doesn't bother me.’

‘It bothers me!’

‘IT BOTHERS ME A LOT!’ “HEY!”

"Woah, stop yelling-. Can I help you?"

"Is that all you have to say, after what you did?"

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"Really, Stanley?"

"Look man if I owe you money, I'll have it by the end of the week."

"It hasn't been that long, there's no reason you shouldn't recognize me."

"Drawing a blank, buddy. Maybe you're not that special."

"...Me? Your twin? Your identical twin?"

"I think I'd know if I had a twin - look, sorry if you're mistaking me for someone else. But you're really barking up the wrong tree here."

"Wait, what's wrong with-"

"Woah dude, hands off!"

"Stanley... are you injured?"

"Uh, yeah. But it's not a big deal."

"What's your injury?"

"Keep your damn voice down, guy-"

"Stanford- Ford. You know that!"

"Okay FORD if you must know, it's just a couple stab wounds. Nothing to worry about."

"A couple?! As in more than one? Have you been to the hospital for this?"

"I can't afford that shit. Three stab wounds isn't anything serious- four would slow me down, I don't start to worry until about five."

"That's not how stab wounds work!"

"Please, I've been stabbed enough times to know."

"Somethings very wrong, Stanley- you need medical care, and fast-"

"What are you, a doctor?"

"Yes."

"...A medical doctor?"

"...No."

"Uh-huh, okay PhD, I appreciate your civic concern, but my conditions and lack thereof is none of your business. I'm sure you're a decent conversationalist when you're talking to someone you know, but I got places I need to be"

"Wait, before you go, I have one more question. Does this rag smell like chloroform to you?"

"Pft, you really think I'd fall for that?"

"No."

CLICK

*Looks down and see’s Ford jabbed him in the abdomen with a tranquilizing gun. Looks back up at Ford. Looks back down at the gun slightly longer. Then looks back up at Ford again.*

"Touché, Doc."

To be continued...

#gravity falls #early amnesia au #mystery trio #this is a fanfiction but I didn't feel like actually writing one #fanfic #fanfiction #stanford pines #ford pines #stanley pines #stan pines #mullet stan #TFS reference #cross posted on ao3

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starogeorgina · 2 years ago

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𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲

Paring: Aegon II Targaryen x reader

Warnings: None

Chapter: 1.01

“Rhaenyra!” You continue to rapidly bang your fist against the door leading into your elder sister's bedroom. “Rhaenyra, open this door right now!”

You hated her.

“You’re a fucking coward to hide from me!” You didn’t care that your language was unfit for a young lady, a princess; Rhaenyra had cut you deeply, and you wanted to make sure she knew it. “Unlock this door at once!”

You hated her.

“I would have never done this to you,” you sob. “I loved you, Rhaenyra, my big sister. We’re supposed to look out for each other, not... I would never do this. Not to you, never.”

You only stop banging on the door when your fist is pulled back by Ser Criston. “You need to stop before you hurt yourself, princess.”

You knew he was right, but it didn’t stop the anger that was radiating through you. Not only has Rhaenyra humiliated you by sleeping with your husband, she has also given birth to his sons. Three of them. Something you were never even given the chance to do. Your brain comes to a heartbreaking realization, one that makes you want to scream as soon as you think about it. Rhaenyra doesn’t care about you and never did. You feel your knees start to weaken, and your stomach drops. The knight whispers, “I know you’re hurting, princess, but they aren’t worthy of your tears.”

You take a deep breath and wipe your fallen tears away, knowing that he was right. “Thank you, Ser Criston.”

“The queen heard about what happened and would like for you to join her in her quarters. She wishes to offer you her comfort.”

You blink away the tears, your vision becoming more clear, and when it does, you see your husband standing down at the opposite end of the hallway. No doubt he was coming to see her. He was staring at you, looking worried. You feel your heart harden, not wanting to give him or her the satisfaction of seeing you hurt. You push back the sob, desperately wanting to escape your throat. “Ser Criston, do you mind escorting me to the queen's chambers?”

“Of course, princess.”

—

“How could she betray me in such a way?”

Alicent wraps her around your shoulder; she seems genuinely concerned about you. You had managed to maintain a smidgen of your dignity by holding your head high as you walked through the castle, ignoring all the side-eye glances and whispers going on around you. One of Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting brings in a tray of tea that’s supposed to help calm nerves.

“Prin-”

“Y/N,” you correct with a weak smile.

Lord Strong nods, “Y/N, I am ashamed to admit that rumors of my brother's betrayal had reached me long ago, but I assumed there was no truth to it. It wasn’t until I learned about the incident in the training yard this morning that I came to realize it was true.”

You had spent the last year defending Rhaenyra and Harwin, insisting that Jacaerys and Lucerys weren’t fathered by your husband before you were married. Because of your age, you had yet to lay with Harwin, and you thought if he was going to stray, it would be in the streets of silk, not with your own flesh and blood.

“She swore to me in our mothers names that they were Ser Lenors true-born sons. How could I have been so foolish?”

“You aren’t foolish, my sweet.” Alicent picks up a cup of tea and hands it to you, giving you a sympathetic look as she notices your hands trembling. “You have been deceived, and I can only imagine what Viserys will have to say when he finds out.”

You shake your head. It was widely known that Rhaenyra was your father's favorite, and learning what she was really like could be the thing that breaks him. “My love for my father is the only thing keeping me quiet. He is sick; finding out the truth about what Rhaenyra has done might be the thing that kills him, and I do not want him to suffer. If I’m being honest, I don’t know what to do.”

“I find that praying helps me find clarity and reassurance. I pray to the mother nightly; you can join me if you wish.”

“Perhaps I should pray to the warrior as well as the mother.” You chuckle lightly. “I could really use the gods' strength and courage."

—

After visiting the sept the night previously, the queen had arranged for you to stay in a separate bedchamber for the night since your quarter was beside Rhaenyra’s.

In the morning, Ser Criston escorted you back to your quarters; with him by your side, nobody dared approach you. The knight made pleasant small talk and even managed to make you laugh. When you reach your quarters, you thank him before walking into your bedchamber. You sit down at your vanity and begin to unbraid your hair, only stopping when you hear the door opening.

“Flora?” You call out, hoping to see your lady in waiting, who has become a close friend over the years. “Flora, is that you?”

When you turn around, you’re stunned to see Rhaenyra and Harwin. At first, you were afraid that the sight of them would upset you, but now, as you sit in front of them, all you feel is anger.

You say nothing; you turn your back on them and shift your attention to taking the remainder of your braids out. You push down the lump forming in your throat when Rhaenyra kneels down beside you with tears in her eyes. You pretend she isn’t even there and get up to go pick a dress to wear once you are bathed.

“Y/n! Y/n, please,” Rhaenyra begs. “It happened before you were betrothed! I never wanted you to find out like this. Sister, please! Just let me explain!”

You had fully intended to continue giving her the cold shoulder, but hearing the word sister caused you to snap. You can’t believe she had the nerve to call you that. You spin around fast, and your expression pulls into one of anger and hurt as you snap, “Don’t call me that again.”

Rhaenyra steps back as if you’d struck her.

Harwin says, “I am sincerely sorry for betraying your trust.”

You scoff, annoyed that he seems upset when it’s you that should be hurt by his dishonorable actions. “Until such a time that I am of age to perform my duty as princess and your wife, I don’t think we need to speak again.”

“Princess…”

“You may leave, Ser Harwin.”

When the knight leaves, you turn to face your sister, whose eyes were bloodshot from crying, which angers you further. “Since the day Jace was born, I have loved him; the same is true of Luke. You’ve watched me play with them and sing to them. I’ve basically grown up with them, and not once did you ever think to tell me they were fathered by Harwin.”

“I tried to spare you the pain of knowing the truth.”

You can’t help the laugh that slips past your lips. “You must really hate me.”

She squeezes her eyes shut as more tears roll down her cheeks. “I love you.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve always looked up to you; I wanted to be just like you. My perfect big sister.” You shake your head, backing away from her slightly when she reaches for you. “Do not touch me.”

“When father told me about his plans for you and Harwin to wed, I tried to stop the betrothal; I really did.”

“I believe you,” you say, wiping away more fallen tears. You hardly knew Harwin; he would occasionally accompany you on walks around the garden, and nothing more than a kiss on the back of the hand was shared between you, but he was still your husband. “Both Jacaerys and Lucerys were born before the betrothal; I would have easily looked past that and done everything I could to help protect them. But Joffrey, he’s only a few days old. Even after I married Harwin, you continued to have an affair with him.”

You see guilt pass over her features before she drops her gaze to the floor and says, “I’m sorry.”

“I still love my nephews; that will never change, but I can’t be around them right now. Not after knowing what I know, it will just be a constant reminder."

“Of my betrayal.” Rhaenyra takes a deep breath; red patches have appeared across her neck and chest. “I hope one day you can forgive me.”

When Rhaenyra leaves the room, you throw yourself onto your bed, pull your pillow to your face, and sob into it. This was too much pressure for a girl of one and five to bear.

When someone knocks at your door, you groan a little, assuming Harwin or Rhaenyra had come back. “Go away,” you mumble into your pillow. You lift your head to tell them to go away, but change your mind when you see who it is “Aegon, what are you doing here?”

He avoids looking you in the eye and shrugs. “My mother said you were upset.”

“So you came to check on me?”

You weren’t much older than Aegon; before you had even celebrated your first name day, your father had remarried, and Queen Alicent was pregnant. You were surprised to see Aegon, considering he didn’t spend much time with any of your siblings.

He rolls his eyes and says, “No.”

“Oh, then what are you doing here?”

“Wanted to know if you’d like to go dragon riding together.”

You smile and say, “Sure, that sounds like fun.”

Aegon on Sunfyre and you on Ghost were exactly what you needed to take your mind off everything else that was going on.

#house of the dragon #aegon ii targaryen x female reader #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x you #aegon ii targaryen fanfiction #Aegon II Targaryen/you #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii fic #ghosts in the sky #aegon targaryen x targaryen!reader #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader

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maudie-duan · 6 months ago

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Series Summary: Harry has been fighting to keep his relationship with Olivia afloat for nearly two years. At what point do you choose to either endure or let the strain of the world defeat his ambitious hopes of a lasting relationship? Or will a single night and a fleeting encounter be enough to change the projection of Harry’s path? Maybe our ‘Mystery Girl,’ Shiloh, will just happen to be in the right place at the right time.

Word Count: 2.3K

Warning: SLOW-BURNER, Strong Language, Major Angst, Eventual Smut, Emotional.

It’s sort of a dazed wonderment getting a call on the cusp of sleep. There’s always that disorienting split-second of—is this real or am I dreaming? But when you choose to answer, you’re taking that risk, right? I knew who it was before his deep voice even filled the line. His sister had given me his number as a “heads-up” and asked if it was okay if he reached out for business. She didn’t want me to be caught off-guard if he called.

Gemma asked me if she could share my number with him. I thought it bold on his part—dangerous even—I wondered how long he would sit with my number before he decided to call—deep down, I almost wished he would call. Maybe it would bring some clarity, maybe even answer the questions nagging at my brain, but there’s a reason they say, “Careful what you wish for…”

“Hello…?” he questions, followed by a muffled “damn…” That isn’t as clear because I barely register what was said until I hear, “I think…” his mouth getting closer to the phone.

There’s a delayed pause, and then the rasp of his voice is back, his thick accent falling heavy on my ear, “Think that’s right…hello?” He repeats, and I hold my breath.

The realization sends me into a silent panic, and I hesitate to say anything because I know that, without a doubt, we should not be talking, “Hi…” I say, weary to continue, because one, it’s late, and two, something about this feels unsettling.

“Oh—thought it was still ringin’—“

“It’s Harry…obviously…you know from the photo—”

I cut him off, “Yeah, I know—” I tell him, my voice firm. “What’s up?” I ask because I’m not sure why he’s calling, even though there are a million things I would love to say, I can’t. I know from experience that nothing good comes from a late-night call, and it’s almost 2 a.m.

“I think this is you…”

“Who?” I asked, wondering if he had called the wrong number. Then I thought it had to be intentional, and here’s where it got tricky—and dammit, there were already a million more questions threatening to send me down a spiral.

“You—because you’re Shiii—Shiloh sounds like an ‘oh’ at the end…”

“Harry, why are you calling?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.

“Don’t know…it’s hard to tell—“

“Oh no—!” he says, and the excited jump in his voice makes my heart race, a cold sweat covering my palms—Is he alone?

“What?” I question.

“I think I’ve been found…” he starts. His boyish laugh perks up my ear, and I’m trying not to smile because I like this silly side of him.

“I think I’ve been—oh…I’ve been…”

“Caught—I’ve been caught by the cutest little kitty in the world…” he laughs, “kitty…kitty.” He’s meowing at the cat that I’m guessing might be in the room, and when I hear the cat respond, it’s confirmation that he’s not talking to another human, but why would I think that in the first place?

Maybe I’m overthinking this.

“Here…” his voice muffles, huffing a laugh into the phone, now sounding further away when he says, “I’m sending a picture…”

And there, there’s loud rustling on his end as he lets out a playful laugh, coaxing the kitty to look at the phone, “Okay...there…”

“Now tell me Shy—low…because my voice is low…” he says, pleased with his joke.

“Tell me when you get it—”

Rolling my eyes, I pull the phone away from my ear, open the text from his number, and watch a video of the black cat appear, but I’m not looking at the cat. Instead, I’m scoping out the background, watching Harry’s reflection in a large decorative mirror propped against the wall. The giddy smile stretched across his face has me wide awake, smiling as I rewatch the short clip.

I switch the phone to speaker and sit up in bed, “I love black cats—“

“They’re so special…” he tells me, his voice so wholesome and adorable, and I know I don’t need to get sucked in, but I am.

“I’ve always wanted one…” I confess, smiling to myself, because it’s true.

“Well—this is my mum’s…” he tells me as I rewatch the video. He’s definitely drunk. The video itself is a shaky mess, and I can’t imagine that he would mean to send me a video of him shirtless in a pair of brown corduroys—they’re cute, and he’s cute, and fuck, how did I forget about all the tattoos?

“Your mom showed me pictures of her cats when we had lunch yesterday…” I tell him.

“Mmmm…you had lunch with my mum—”

“And your sister…” I add.

He blows a light laugh into my ear. “I’m jealous…” he says, his voice softening, like maybe he’s finally settling down.

“I’m also tired...” he says, through a slow exhale, making me yawn.

“Long day?” I ask

“Long life—” he says with a half-hearted chuckle, and he sounds tired—there’s a lot to unpack with that statement alone, but I let it pass.

“Harry…”

“Shiloh…” he whispers, making my heart melt into a puddle.

“Why are you calling?” I whisper back.

“Don’t know—”

And just as I’m about to open my mouth, he says, “Wanted to hear your voice...” in that same soft tone.

We’re both quiet, but I’m at a loss for words, and all I can say is, “Harry…”

“Shiloh, I know…” he starts. “I’m bad…. shouldn’t be calling, right?”

“No…” I answer

“Tell me you felt it…” he asks, a faint plea resting between us, and it takes me by surprise because it’s gutsy, but isn’t that what alcohol is best for?

“I don’t know, Harry…”

“You’re so beautiful…and kind—”

“Harry…please…”

“No—I know your kind…I could hear it…in the podcast—god—you and my sister are friends—?” he asks, but it sounds more like a statement.

“Yeah… she was my friend before this…” I tell him because this can’t be a thing, and I’ll choose the friendship before I choose him.

“Before this…” he repeats.

“Listen—” I say, and then he’s clipping me off.

“I know…I’m a bit tied up…I think—I don’t know anymore…” he says, and it’s confusing because I have no idea what that means.

“Then why did you call…?”

“I may be a tiny bit hammered…” he trails off laughing, then, “It’s you, Shiloh—”

“You shouldn’t have called—”

“I know—I know…but tell me you didn’t want me to…” he says.

“Shiloh—tell me that you didn’t want me to call…” he repeats, a little more desperate, like he wants me to scold him, or maybe he wants me to get mad. I don’t know, but it’s making my stomach twist.

“Just tell me—just tell me you didn’t feel anything...” he pleads, and now it’s clear what he’s wanting. He’s wanting me to convince him otherwise—how am I supposed to do that when I can’t even convince myself?

“Harry, where’s your girlfriend?” I ask.

He lets out a long exhale, “Shiloh—just tell me…” he says softly.

The fact that he’s avoiding the question is making me upset. If you’re going to drunk dial me, at least be real, “Honestly—?” I ask

“Yes—yes…” he answers.

“It’s kind of upsetting that you’re calling me drunk, Harry—”

“That’s not what this is…I don’t know—I wanted—” he’s stumbling over his words, and it’s beginning to frustrate me because this was already overwhelming, to begin with, and now he’s calling, and all I want is to talk to him, fill some of the longing that’s been lingering since the Gucci show. Tell him how I felt it then—I’m thinking it now—and how that show felt so long ago, but the pull was there. Would it freak him out if I were truly honest? Because that’s my reality.

And then he says, “Honestly…”

“Yes…” I breathe, choking on the word as it slips past my lips.

“I saw you from backstage at the Gucci show—”

“Harry…stop—” I tell him immediately because I know what he’s about to say, and it’s too fucking much—it’s too real, and there’s no fucking way, right?

“I saw you sitting there…and I don’t know—all night I was just taken by you—and then the photoshoot—god Shiloh…the photoshoot…” his voice is so silky and genuine and I believe him because it’s exactly how I feel—or felt—I don’t know anymore the line is becoming so blurry and as he continues, I sat there taken in each word one by one, trying to memorize them.

“The second you kiss my lips…please just tell me you felt it too?” he begs in a gentle whisper.

“Because the days feel like a lifetime and all I can think about is you, Shiloh—and I’m sorry…maybe this isn’t fair—maybe I’m selfish…tell me I’m selfish—” and he chokes on the last line, breaking open a hollow in my chest that’s trying to swallow me whole because this is exactly what I wanted to hear—but it’s all wrong, none of this is right and I can’t stop thinking about his fucking girlfriend and that’s the part that hurts the most.

“Please stop—” I plead, my throat burning with the effort. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want him to know I’m on the verge of crying.

“You felt it too?” he says, so delicately, so fucking sure of everything.

“Yes…” I whisper as the tears sting my eyes.

“I’m sorry—” he tells me, “I’m sorry I’m like this—god—I’ve already fucked this one up, haven’t I?”

“I just wish—” I say, biting back tears, but it’s no use as I draw in a deep breath through my nose, squeezing my eyes shut, and I let the silent tears break way.

“I know—” he says, “I know this isn’t fair…”

“I just wish you would have cared enough to wait…” My words come out as more of a plea, with him and with myself, because where is the respect? I’m worthy; I deserve better than a drunken confession that he may or may not remember in the morning.

And I don’t even know why I continue, but I do, “Harry—I deserve better than a drunk dial…and god—you’re making me feel so stupid because you’re probably not even going to remember this—

“I will—” he attempts to say, but I’m still talking.

“Whatever I felt before, it was probably just a fluke, okay—

“It was real Shiloh—”

“If it was so real—then why are you doing this?” I force out, “I just wish you had done this differently…”

“I know…” he whispers, “I’m sorry—please, Shiloh…please believe me…I don’t want to hurt you—”

“But you are—it hurts my feelings that you don’t think more of me. That I wasn’t worthy of the time this would have taken…and here I am trying to explain this to a drunk person who won’t remember this in the morning—”

And now I’m crying tears for this man—I feel like a fool, crying over a guy that can’t even respect me enough to break up with his fucking girlfriend, “Listen, Harry—”

He doesn’t try to interrupt this time, and as I’m trying to gather my thoughts, I hear him sniffle, a slight murmur filling the line, and I pull the phone away, trying to stifle the sob bubbling up my chest.

“I wanted to break up with her…” he says, sorrow coating the rasp of his voice, and there’s something childlike in the way he’s confessing his truths.

“I promise you, Shiloh—I did—I wanted to—it’s just—”

“I believe you…Harry…I really do. But it doesn’t change anything, does it? You’re still with her, right? I ask.

“Right…”

There it was—the ugly truth lying lifeless between us—A mournful truth that he couldn’t take back, nor could it be unforgiven—a heavy line we knew would mark our ending. The sad truth is that we both would have to live with it because I had to be true to myself. The truth is that I would have to let him go, starting right now. I needed to end this so we could both move on from whatever this is; was, or would have been.

“I feel sad for us, Harry—”

“I’m sorry—”

“No…I’m sorry—but please don’t call me again.

“Shiloh—please—”

“No—Harry—please just don’t call me again, okay…I’m sorry—just please don’t—

“Shiloh—”

“I have to go, Harry…”

“Please…let me explain…”

“No—I have to go bye—”

“Shi—”

I hung up the phone, tossing it toward the foot of the bed, and let the tears flow. It was weird because I knew this was going to hurt, but I didn’t think it would hurt like this—like a punch to the gut—a rug being ripped out from underneath my feet. I’ve been on my knees with it, consumed with the strange feelings for days, and now I’ll be crawling on all fours with the “what ifs” tempting my every thought.

How long will it take to get over someone I don’t even know, someone I was basing on a feeling? But isn’t that how the heart works?

Am I supposed to trust these feelings? Hold them as truths? Because now I’m lost in it, and I’ll cry myself to sleep, lying in a sea of his words floating around my mind, two ships passing in the night—and now this was his fault, his hell that we would live in, and I don’t think I can forgive him.

A/N: You guys! Tag List is always open for future updates. Let me know in the comments!

Tag List: @howling-wolf97 @sassamanda77 @babegoalsreads @palmettogal508 @indierockgirrl

@lizsogolden @sexymfharriet @pologoonies

LET'S TALK ABOUT IT: Damn Harry...did you just ruin everything before it could even begin??

->chat with me<-

PART SEVEN

All Chapters Here <-

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suzukiblu · 1 year ago

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A bit more of "Match is technically also a Luthor".

Match frowns. Director Beta wasn’t involved in making Superboy, so what is Luthor talking about, “keep” making him children?

Match and Superboy aren’t his children, obviously, because they’re metaweapons and clones, and no matter whose DNA was or wasn’t used to build them, they’re not anyone’s children or even anyone’s idea of people. But that’s the language Luthor is using, so Match is using it in his head and for clarity of communication.

For the moment, at least.

“So this is revenge?” he asks slowly, eyeing the man warily.

“No,” Luthor says. “I’m perfectly grateful to her for her efforts. But I don’t want her in your lives, obviously.”

“. . . ‘obviously’,” Match echoes, having no idea what should be “obvious” there. Luthor makes a dismissive little gesture, not looking up from his tablet.

“You don’t need any other parents,” he says. “You have me. And all joking aside, I don’t like to share, in fact.”

Match wonders why Luthor would expect him to want to share with Superboy, then, but supposes Luthor just doesn’t care about his opinion.

Which . . . well, why would he?

He almost asks anyway, but he’s not stupid enough to question his new owner. Whatever the man’s calling himself, that’s obviously what he means. Match is being stolen–has been stolen–and he belongs to him now.

He could’ve at least fought it, he supposes, but no one told him to.

And no one has ever wanted him to do anything he hasn’t been told to. The only person Match has ever said “no” to in his life is still Superboy, because Superboy is still the only person he ever could have.

That’s . . . something he’s thought about, once or twice.

“Now then,” Luthor says, glancing towards his chauffeur and bodyguard in the front seat. “I’m not used to children your age, so what do you need for your living space?”

“. . . six hours of daily training room access and twelve thousand calories a day, for ideal performance,” Match replies, too mystified to know what else to say. Luthor will want to know how to keep him in optimal condition as a weapon, he supposes. Luthor just wrinkles his nose, though, looking appalled.

“Only twelve?" he says. “You should be pushing twenty thousand, at this developmental stage.”

Match has literally never once heard “you’re not eating enough”, but that seems to be, in fact, what Luthor is saying.

“That would be over budget for the project,” he says, and Luthor immediately looks dubious.

“I’m worth more money than most countries, Lysander,” he says, and Match feels–strange, being called that designation. Something about the way Luthor says it, maybe. “And budgets are for the board room.”

“The project doesn’t have a budget?” Match says skeptically.

“We’re going to start feeding you sixteen thousand and go up from there,” Luthor says. “I know you don’t have dietary restrictions, obviously, but I suppose dietary preferences would be too much to expect?”

“‘Preferences’?” Match repeats blankly. What does that even mean, dietary “preferences”?

“We’ll just start with the basics, I suppose,” Luthor sighs, looking exasperated. Match frowns. He doesn’t know what “the basics” are any more than he knows what dietary preferences are. Restrictions he understands, obviously, but . . . “preferences”?

The drive is long and quiet. Match would be bored, if he were capable of boredom. It’s already the longest length of time he’s ever spent outside of an Agenda facility, but that’s not relevant to anyone but him, so it’s not an observation he voices.

He doesn’t generally voice his observations at all.

Why would he?

It’s strange, though, that something so new and unexpected could be this boring.

Not that Match can actually feel anything like that, again.

Match doesn’t know where they’re going until the road signs tell him, and even then he’s mystified, because the road signs say Metropolis, and obviously that’s Luthor’s base of operations, but there’s also literally no way he’ll be useful in Metropolis. Nothing about his capabilities as a weapon is anything that Superman can’t handle, and Superman isn’t going to let Luthor keep a Kryptonian-based weapon around–even one that’s only half-Kryptonian. Match will end up in government custody the moment Superman finds out he’s here.

He doesn’t . . . want to be in government custody, but it’s not as if he has a choice where he ends up anyway. And it’s not–he doesn’t want things anyway. It’s irrelevant, if Luthor’s being reckless with him.

But the government might vivisect or dissect him, where Luthor already has his files and designs and doesn’t actually need to. So that’s . . . that’s . . .

Relevant, Match thinks, and then pushes the thought back down.

It’s not relevant. It isn’t up to him, and even if it were, it wouldn’t matter. He’s a weapon. If his owners want to take him apart, that’s their prerogative.

Their right, really.

It’s not up to him, and it never has been.

The towncar stops in front of a shining skyscraper of an apartment building, and Luthor gets out. Match waits in the car, because Luthor doesn’t tell him to follow him. He assumes he’s going to be dropped off at a new lab, because obviously Luthor doesn’t intend to take him into an apartment building. Maybe the lab is outside Metropolis, and Match won’t immediately end up in government custody. That would make more sense, so–

Luthor leans down and looks back through the open door, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Problem?” he asks.

Match stares blankly at him, not understanding the question.

“. . . get out of the car, Lysander,” Luthor says.

Match doesn’t understand that either, but it’s an order, so he follows it. He gets out of the car, and Luthor looks him over with a sigh.

“We’re going to need to get you in actual clothes,” he says, then heads towards the front door as the chauffeur closes the car door behind him. The bodyguard follows him. Match doesn’t know what–“This way.”

Match still doesn’t understand anything, but follows the order. He heads after Luthor, staying a step behind him with the bodyguard and wondering if he’s assuming too much, but figuring that until he has an actual assignment, he should operate under the assumption that his purpose here is parallel to hers.

Assuming things doesn’t tend to work out well for him, but Luthor isn’t giving him enough to go off here, so he doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t know much, right now, but Luthor clearly isn’t prioritizing providing him with the necessary intel for . . . whatever he actually wants him for.

Not like it’s the first time someone hasn’t bothered to do that, though, so Match can work with that.

#wip: match is technically also a luthor #long post #dc match #lex luthor

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keyboardsmashess · 4 months ago

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The Siren, or The Heart of the Matter

Chapter Three: The Hospital Room, or Give My Best to Ovid

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings: language, eventual smut (but not in this chapter), fluff, eventual canon-typical violence (but not in this chapter) MINORS DNI. A/N: Okay, okay, I'm way too excited about this story so I'm posting the first three chapters (which I will probably regret later when I contract writer's block and wish I had more of a backlog - oh well, that's for future me to worry about). Expect Chapter 4 sometime next week! Every comment and reblog give an angel their wings (probably)

Summary: Cleo is taken... somewhere by the World's Mightiest Heroes. What will they discover?

Chapter Directory

I’m dreaming - I have to be. Why else would I be swimming through the ocean? The last thing I remember was trying not to hurl on Captain America’s pristine loafers before everything went dark; that feels pretty unrealistic to me. Besides, last time I checked I can’t breathe underwater.

I decide I don’t really care that I’m dreaming, instead feeling grateful that at least my subconscious has transformed whatever nightmare I was having into something much more enjoyable. I do some flips underwater, pet a dolphin, wave to a sea turtle. I’m getting ready to see if I can pop out of the water and do that rad hair flip thing from The Little Mermaid (and why wouldn’t I? It’s my dream, after all) when I see a speck of shining light in the distance. I decide that cosplaying Ariel can wait and kick my legs with dream-enhanced grace to get closer.

As I approach, the speck grows, spreading to cover my entire field of vision. It’s getting brighter now, so bright I can hardly stand it. I throw a hand up over my eyes and squeeze them shut, it’s absolutely blinding, and then -

My eyes blink open drowsily, and I have to fight not to close them immediately against the pristine whiteness of the room. If it even is a room. Maybe I’m still dreaming.

A man clears his voice in the corner, drawing my attention immediately. So, definitely still dreaming then. I feel the faintest vestiges of anger, like I’m supposed to be mad at this guy, but I just can’t convince the feeling to stick around. I’m floaty and happy and honestly, if he’s going to invade my dream, we may as well have a good time.

“What’re you doing in my dream, Grumpy?” Is that his name? I can’t remember. My voice comes out slurred. It’s probably very difficult to talk in dreams.

His eyebrows shoot up, surprise taking over the expressionless mask for the briefest moment before he schools his face. It’s much easier to see now that his hair is pulled back in a bun.

“I’m here because I drew the short straw. And you’re not dreaming, much as I’m sure you’ll wish you were.” His voice is low, gravely - like he rarely has the chance to use it.

I try to sit up then, to get closer or get my bearings or just to move my body, but I find my arms strapped down to the table with cool silvery restraints. I panic, trying to kick my legs only to find that they’re in the same condition. Not dreaming, and very very fucked.

Whatever sleep or drug-induced haze I’ve been enjoying up until now wears off, shoved out of my system by my old pal adrenaline, and I whip my head around, taking in my surroundings with a little more clarity and a lot more panic.

White tiles and beeping machines say hospital room, but the mirrored wall that is so obviously one-way screams law enforcement. I examine my arms, finding an IV in the crook of my left elbow. I look down and realize I’m wearing a hospital gown. Fuck.

FUCK.

My breathing is a roller coaster, an out-of-control-train, moving rapidly out of my grasp and into hyperventilation territory. The metal clamps around my arms and legs start to feel increasingly uncomfortable, almost burning, and spots appear in my vision.

I try to organize my options, run my mental risk analysis, but everything is getting so damn fuzzy around the edges and I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. I’m moving through molasses, slowing down considerably, and I can barely remember what I’m supposed to be doing. Confidence? I’m fading again, but I don’t want to - I don’t want to dream, I don’t want to lose control.

“Hey Morpheus,” I whisper.

His steps are hesitant as he comes closer to my bed, but he surprises me with a chuckle. “No, doll, not the Matrix either.”

“Wrong Morpheus, and don’t call me ‘doll’.” I sigh. “Can you just call your dad and give me the sleep without the dreams this time?”

He’s confused. He doesn’t understand. Oh well, can’t blame a girl for trying.

“Give my best to Ovid, yeah?” I mumble, and then everything goes dark once more.

******

This time when I come to, it’s to the sound of a hushed but intense conversation. I keep my eyes closed, hoping they can’t tell I’m awake just yet.

“We can’t just keep her here forever, she hasn’t hurt anyone.” That would be Captain America, I think, and I mentally kick myself for not recognizing his voice earlier. I’d only heard it a million times on TV.

“Yet, Capsicle - she hasn’t hurt anyone yet. We still don’t know what she’s capable of.” The tone, the snark - that’ll definitely be Iron Man. Tony Stark. Whichever.

There’s a beat of silence, before a third voice pipes up. “I didn’t know you made a habit of taking prisoners, Stark. Thought I was special.” This voice is familiar, too, but only because it had been weaving through whatever dream I’d just been having. It isn’t one I remember from the news, but my wits are a little more present and process of elimination tells me it’s the Winter Soldier, or whatever he’s going by these days.

Tony Stark chuckles darkly, more threat than humor in it. “Watch it, Barnes, I’m not above -”

A fourth voice - a woman - cuts him off. “Maybe we should just try talking to her. If you weren’t so busy with your catfight, you’d know she’s been awake for a few minutes.”

“Fuck,” I whisper, and the woman laughs faintly.

When I open my eyes, I’m circled by four people I’d previously only seen on TV and in magazines. Well, if you didn’t count the three that had broken into my apartment and apparently kidnapped me. I briefly reconsider my earlier thought that this could all be a dream. Unfortunately, the stinging in my wrists and ankles tells me I am, alas, very much awake. On the plus side, the restraints and IV have disappeared.

“Hi?” I start nervously. What else do you say when you open your eyes to find yourself in some sort of private hospital room surrounded by four superheroes?

“She lives!” Stark says, throwing up his arms.

Captain America smiles gently at me. “You feeling alright, Miss Blake?”

I wipe some sleep from my eyes and sit up, not missing the way four sets of very trained eyes track my movement carefully. I grab my glasses off the side table and slowly put them on and, to my surprise, only the grumpy one twitches a hand toward his hip.

“Come on, Captain. You kidnapped me and strapped me to a bed - no need to be so formal.”

Stark grins boyishly. “Oh, I like her.”

The woman - Black Widow, I suppose - quirks an eyebrow. “You didn’t like her when she was melting your vibranium restraints.”

“When she was what?” I squeak, looking down at my wrists. Wrists that are, now that she mentions it, wrapped in rings of gauze and hurting pretty badly.

Stark rolls his eyes. “No need to play coy, sweetheart, we’ve all seen enough to know what’s going on here.”

My brain is static, thoughts on the run. Every ounce of preparedness I’ve gathered is out the window. “What’s going on here…” I whisper, looking at my wrists, my ankles, around the room. I’m not sure if I’m asking a question or just repeating Stark. Finally, my frantic eyes meet the only person who’s been remotely warm to me through this entire endeavor. He returns my look with compassion.

Captain America flicks his eyes to Stark. “I had my suspicions after the way the mission went, but now I’m certain. She has no idea what she is, Tony.”

Did he say ‘what she is?’

Stark huffs. “Yeah, like I haven’t heard that one before.” He makes his voice higher, mocking. “I melted the vibranium on accident, I didn’t mean to level an apartment building, promise!”

“I don’t sound like that,” I mumble, almost missing the chuckle behind me. Then I freeze. “Wait, who leveled a what now?”

The Winter Soldier speaks up next, completely ignoring my question. “To be fair, Stark, I was the only one present both times, and I could tell she was definitely out of it. She didn’t seem like she was in control of herself.”

Stark levels a glare. “You would know, Manchurian Candidate,” he mutters.

The Black Widow starts to respond, but the Winter Soldier speaks over her. Captain America joins in and I lose all ability to track what’s going on.

I feel myself drifting again, that now-familiar sense of losing consciousness, but I fight it. Hard. I close my eyes and pretend I’m at the front of a lecture hall, the chaos nothing more than a group of freshmen who very much do not want to be sitting in an Intro to Lit class.

“That’s enough,” I say, not shouting but not quiet either. It’s my professor voice, and it never fails to disappoint. This time is no exception, because when I open my eyes I’m greeted by the full attention of four very surprised Avengers.

I keep my gaze stern, fighting to maintain control. Confidence. Don’t let them see you falter. “If someone doesn’t sit the fuck down and explain what the hell is going on here, I’m going to start screaming bloody murder.”

They exchange uncertain looks with one another, but nobody speaks. “Have it your way, then.” I take a deep yoga breath, filling my entire stomach, then open my mouth and let loose the shrillest and loudest scream I can muster. It’s pretty good, if I do say so myself, given that the Winter Soldier is the only one who doesn’t slam his hands over his ears. Every one of them look absolutely shocked.

The Soldier stalks over to my bed and claps a metal hand over my mouth to silence me, which I allow because I very likely don’t have any other choice. A very anxious-looking man in a white coat pokes his head in the door, but he immediately withdraws without saying a word when he sees the expression on Stark’s face. As the door closes, a faint crack spiderwebs up the one-way glass.

Black Widow sighs, giving the Soldier a pointed look. “He’s going to remove his hand and, as long as you keep your mouth shut, we can start over. Got it?” I nod. If his hand wasn’t metal, I’d have bitten it by now, but they don’t need to know that.

“Good.” She drags a chair over to the side of my bed and sits down, leveling me with an appraising stare. “You want to know what’s going on here?” I nod again. “Well, we do, too. So let’s make a deal. You can ask a question for every answer you give us. And tell the truth - I’ll know if you’re lying.”

I look around the room, thinking. Stark looks downright mutinous, but mostly resigned. Captain America looks interested and, despite my screech, still somewhat gentle. The Winter Soldier is back in his spot by the door looking completely blank, which I’m beginning to understand is his default expression.

“Fine,” I say.

She nods once. “Let’s start at the beginning.”

#fanfiction #fanfic #marvel fanfiction #marvel mcu #mcu #marvel #mcu fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #enemies to lovers #slow burn #original female character #original superhero character #mental health #ptsd #healing from trauma #cross posted on ao3

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tthevoic3s · 5 months ago

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From Blood Births Life and Death - Chapter 14

Hangman or Hanged Man?

CW: mentions of death/execution + abundance of curse language. lol.

Word count: 2,545

MASTERPOST

If there’d been a way thanks to which Sadie Howard could have physically untangled the figurative, yet unbearing knot that lingered in her throat since that day–because of him—she would have, in fact, fucking ignored it.

We could say that Sadie was in fact putting the best of her efforts into making said knot tighter and tighter, like an executioner knotting the rope around his soon to be executed’s neck.

Except, in her mind, Sadie was either both the hangman, and the hanged man, or none of them at all, but a secret third thing.—indecipherable even to her. Only one thing seemed to make a light of clarity flicker in the young woman’s mind: it was only a matter of time until that knot would have strangled her to death.

And it had been a month. A full, entire month of feeling like she was constantly about to die, even if no real threat showed up concretely. Except for one thing, obviously.

The only very thing—or rather, person—that made her feel truly vulnerable. Feeling vulnerable.

It wasn’t the ideal situation for a highly ranked soldier—or, rather, a highly ranked soldier whose energy was drained out by the desperate attempt to hide the gnawing obsession towards her target. It was clear that he struck something in her, even if Sadie didn’t quite understand what, or most of all, why. And even tho, she accepted—no, proposed by herself—that mission, that idea. Collecting the “useful information” she loyally promised to Higgs was only a cover. A poorly pretended alibi.

All she wanted to do was watch him to satiate that unsettling fascination. The very feeling she despised, and that disgusted her to the core, but at the same time drew her closer and closer to him.

And the worst part? She arrived at the conclusion she couldn’t even blame him anymore. Well, at least not entirely.

Sure, the only thought of him, of his green eyes, of how he looked at her, of his goddamn name, still made her stomach churn with nausea and her mind go blank. But it was her who was actually letting him do that to her. It was Sadie herself who stalked him, was utterly obsessed with everything he did and, fuck, she didn’t even know why.

Was this the beginning of the discovery of a deep rooted masochism in her mind, or just something else she couldn’t understand? Something she tried to deny?

Whatever it was, whatever he represented, was gnawing at her since the night of her failure and in all honesty, Sadie didn’t find solving it worth the effort. It was even oddly entertaining.

For one time in 23 years of her perfect life, she could have listened to her gut feeling instead of the usual righteousness and so-called rationality. Higgs had always induced those virtues in her when it mattered, so she didn’t really care about respecting them when her mentor wasn’t concerned.

Was it an effective way for Sadie to be at peace with her doubts about him and about herself? Absolutely not. Not even close. Though, it was the vulnerability itself that made her feel free, somehow.

She couldn’t solve the puzzle, so she just accommodated whatever her mind was trying to cook in those moments. Just sit, wait, and eventually stalk.

And this was all the mental process Sadie had to witness every single darn time she crossed the barrier of the military district and started walking to her quarters after one of her “missions”.

The corridor stretched before her, a monotonous tunnel that she had walked now countless times. In fact, she could navigate the corridors of the district with her eyes closed by now, as she had been spending her life there for nine whole years.

As the heavy doors hissed shut behind her, Sadie reached up to remove her helmet. She peeled off the tight ski mask beneath it, the fabric damp with sweat, and took a deep breath.

Okay, Sadie. Another mission nailed, and the month is almost over.

She had the information Higgs wanted, even if the process behind its collection wasn’t exactly crystal clear.

The dorms were in the eastern wing, just past the interrogation and report meeting rooms, sealed off behind heavy, reinforced doors. Though, their soundproofing wasn’t perfect, and faint murmurs of voices occasionally leaked through. She often caught snippets of sentences, but never stopped to listen. Sadie wasn’t interested in whatever drama unfolding behind those doors. Everything she needed to know would eventually come to her, likely in the form of a dry debrief from Higgs. He took care of whatever concerned her, as always.

That night started with being no different, except for one crucial detail.

“How the fuck should I be able to help you if I’m locked in here?!”

The soldier stopped in her tracks, halting as her attention was instantly caught by that shout. A high-pitched, kind of annoying, almost childish shout. The same kind of shout she had been hurled at some weeks before.

Maya Strauss.

Sadie regained her composure, slowly pacing towards the room the voice was coming from. She knelt next to the door, and this time, she tried to eavesdrop as much as possible. If Maya was involved in something — and something, if concerning Maya, meant trouble — Sadie needed to know. Especially if, by any chance, could be related to her target.

The target she had a totally normal and detached approach to. Sure. Him.

She tried to even out and make even her breathing quiet, trying to absorb as much information as possible.

A loud slam echoed in the small interrogation room, Maya’s fist hitting the wall out of pure rage. She had been running that useless conversation with Mars for an hour now, and anything of what the soldier was telling her seemed to make sense.

“I thought I was clear when I said you shouldn’t have drawn any attention!” Mars retorted, his voice rising clearly as a sign of irritation.

“You still don’t understand, do you?,” Maya interjected, and turned towards him, leaning on the table. She rested her elbows on the cold metal surface and rubbed her face with both hands, her ginger bangs getting even messier. “You’re in the best research group Higgs has. What are you gonna do if that motherfucker gets to know you’re actually trying to sabotage his darn missions?!”

“Lower your voice! Do you want the whole district to mind our business, perhaps?”

“If you would only listen to me!” She barked, her hands flailing towards the ceiling in desperation. “Friedrich Strauss was MY father, and as her daughter, I am saying,” she took a deep breath, her expression turning uncharacteristically serious, “your plan is absolute dogshit. You’re gonna get fucked by Higgs in no time.”

Mars stayed silent this time, crossing his arms and looking at her through his glasses.

“Trust me. You can’t sneak into the village so frequently. What’s the problem with what I’ve proposed? It’s smarter!”

Mars shook his head, a sigh escaping his lips as he stood and started pacing in circles in the small room.

“That’s risky. Insane. You’re seriously counting on a native you met one time to help you with a problem of this caliber?,” he asked, now facing her. “Maya, please. Are you crazy?”

Sadie’s heart leaped in her chest at the sentence, her interest now evidently piqued. She knew Maya had something to do with him, and was planning something.

Bet she couldn’t sit still in jail. What a motherfucker. She could have imagined it.

But, what the hell was she planning? She needed to hear more.

She crouched lower, tilting her head to get her ear the closest to the door as possible as the conversation continued to spill from the room.

“Exactly!”

Mars raised an eyebrow in suspicion.

What? Exactly you’re crazy, or exactly you want to ask him for help?

He did a mental facepalm, regretting his decision to involve that red haired menace in his plan with every single cell of his body.

Welp, too late now. I rather hear her out — he thought, a resigned sigh escaping his lips — The worst that could happen would be my public execution, knowing Higgs’ characteristic mercy.

“Hear me out,” Maya began again, her arm rising pointing at the soldier in front of her, an almost mischievous glint in her eyes.

“If I convince Andrew to help me again, and trust me, he will, I can do all the research stuff in the village without you having to sabotage the missions! And,” she added, “He can literally tell me more useful information than the ones you and your squad can collect, given that stupid non-interaction rule. Come on, Erickson, that’s genius.”

Mars’ lips pressed into a thin line, his amber eyes narrowing. She had, indeed, a point. But still, nothing could deny the fact that it was insanely risky.

Not agreeing with Higgs’ dehumanising propaganda was one thing, but blindly trusting a native like that, directly revealing the presence of the colonies and involving him into human business, was straight up reckless.

Yeah, no shit. It was Maya proposing it.

Mental facepalm part two. Mars ran a hand through his curly hair, and started pacing around the room again, the same hand moving to rub his chin.

“You know my father would have done the same.”

Here she goes. Maya had her way to convince people, and the mention of his old mentor struck a chord inside the soldier’s mind. He’d give her that.

“Isn’t that what he tried to teach us? Trust? Collaboration between kinds?” The girl continued, relentlessly, trying to pry an opening through the soldier’s doubting demeanour. Her dark eyes were wide and she gestured animatedly as she continued her speech.

Okay, fuck it. My head will be served on a plate for allowing this. At least, if the afterlife really exists, General Strauss would be proud of me. And his daughter.

“Fine,” he scoffed. “We’ll find a way to get you out of here non suspiciously. But,” he interrupted, glaring at her while pointing directly at her face, “if you get killed, don’t blame me.” And please don’t come haunting me as a ghost - he would have added, still thinking about the afterlife thing.

Maya cheered, a defiant grin enlightening her face as she looked at Mars and mock saluted him. “Won’t disappoint you, Captain.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” He shrugged, pulling off his glasses and rubbing the lenses against his jacket sleeve to clean them. “It’s always me who risks his life. A classic.” He muttered under clenched teeth.

“Now let’s get you back to the cell before someone starts snooping. Recess is over.”

Little did he know, someone was actually snooping. And, who better than Sadie Fucking Howard? Higgs’ little lapdog?

They were so fucked. Or, rather, they would have been so fucked if she wasn’t experiencing existential doubts in that specific moment. Goddamn lucky motherfuckers.

Now, in light of this very fact, what was Sadie thinking? Well, thinking is a bit of an euphemism. Let’s say her brain cells started working nonstop until they reached autodestruction. She stood, sitting on her heels, her back still against the cold wall of the corridor.

She almost couldn't believe what she had just heard. She just witnessed the Captain of the best Research Squad conspiring against General Higgs together with Maya Strauss, the daughter of Fucking Ex-General Friedrich Strauss?

The audacity of it?

Hold up, Sadie, take a deep breath. No time for inconsiderate actions. Think.

There were two choices. Two paths stretched in front of her.

Number one. Clear and logical. Tell everything to Scott. Get rid of Mars Erickson. Get a promotion and join the Elite Squad.

The general would have dismantled whatever plan of rebellion they were planning. And her? She would have been the hero.

It was the safe choice, the one that practically guaranteed success. Even more success. Maybe, just maybe, even enough to finally obscure her failure from her mind and bring her back into the right way.

But the second option…Keep her mouth shut. Sealed, even. Say nothing. Pretend she hadn’t seen or heard a thing.

And why on earth would she even consider that?

The choice would have been obvious and easy… if only Maya didn’t mention him being involved.

She slammed her hand against the wall, groaning as the dull ache spread through her limb.

If she told Higgs, Mars would have not been the only one being executed. It was painfully obvious. Scott’s idea of getting rid of “the problem” would have simply concretised in the same moment their plan was dismantled, and Sadie couldn’t bring herself to accept it.

There was an unconscious part of her that really couldn’t even think of choosing it.

What about my stalking hobby? I just started enjoying it! I can’t let him be cancelled from Earth like a simple liability. - probably what such part shouted while Sadie was busy pondering her choices. There was no space for rationality, evidently.

Jokes aside, Sadie really felt that her obsession with Andrew was probably the only thing that thrilled her, made her feel alive. If she kept her mouth shut, and chose to observe the whole secret rebellion thing by herself, she could have satiated such gnawing obsession even more.

Why was he like that? Why? Endearing in a way that disgusted her, intriguing in a way that haunted her.

She clenched her teeth, her jaw aching with the pressure. Why him? Why did he have to ruin every chance she had at real success?

Her hands closed into fists. If Higgs ever found out, she would be just as damned as the traitors themselves. If Higgs discovered, she would’ve been fucked. Her career would have been fucked, crumbled into dust.

But, let’s say — she thought, trying to distract herself from the possibility of another failure — Higgs didn’t know. Or at least didn’t know she was involved. The mere fact she heard the conversation was prime quality blackmail material. Over Erickson, over Maya. But, most of all, it was a golden ticket for the fulfilment of her obsession.

She could have gained complete control over the situation, and, in a certain sense, over him.

Again, she found herself in front of that awful crossroad that divided her mind.

Was she going to be the executioner or the executed?

Whatever choice she made, whatever path she chose, she would have still been both the hanged and the hangman at the same time.

It all depended on how she handled her choice. And the second path, despite being the most hazardous, was the most inviting. It was reckless, unhealthy, and downright insane, but stalking him had turned into her guilty pleasure. It gave her purpose in a way nothing else did.

She took a deep breath, leaning the back of her head against the wall. The answer was clear now. It had been clear the moment she overheard that damn conversation. She knew she couldn’t oppose it, so she was going to take the risk. She was going to dive directly into the fire, hoping not to get burnt.

“Goddammit, Sadie,” she muttered under her breath. “You’re absolutely out of your mind. But guess what? You’re still doing this.”

#from blood births life and death #mr voices writes #g/t #gt community #sfw g/t #g/t community #g/t ocs #oc: sadie #oc: maya #oc: mars #gt

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