#also i read half and skimmed the rest

[funkle420]

i cant believe i checked out a spinoff evangelion manga instead of the real thing,,,, i feel so foolish....

[hivemuthur]

Restless

viktorxgn!reader explicit. This is a request for my lovely artist friend @notoakay! The premise: Viktor keeps a dream diary that you accidentally discover. Guess what kind of dreams he keeps having :') warnings: depravity and blow jobs.

word count: 3,1K

author’s note: Hello on this beautiful Freakday, grab a Freaktor while I go out to socialize! Also, this is my small contribution to a gn!reader smut category, finally getting there. @notoakay thank you for all the lovely art for my fics, I can't believe I'm so lucky :') pre-read by @rennethen!

—

He wakes up with a deep, long sigh, a hand coming up to rub across his face. His back is damp, skin tacky with sweat from a night of tossing and turning, and between his legs, the heavy insistence of a morning erection presses against the sheets. Eyes still closed, mind still buried half in dreamland, since it’s so, so hard to let you go from the place his brain has conjured you into overnight. A place between his feet, cheek resting against the tender inside of his thigh, his hand curled at the crown of your head, a slow, loving press of fingers.

Lucid and pliant, Viktor sits up and reaches for the notebook on his bedstand. Shaking the sleep from his stiff fingers, he picks up a pen and writes down every detail before it fades, so he doesn’t forget, so he can keep at least this version of you. Like a letter, he starts with your name, scribbled in shaky letters. Then—

You’ve plagued me again, my beautiful friend.

It started with your hands in mine, warm and kind. You traced the lines of my palm as if you’d meant to memorize. You spoke, though I cannot recall the words, only the way they stirred at the base of my spine, a current running upward, catching at my throat. You knelt between my legs like it was inevitable. Like gravity, like breath.

The heat of your mouth—Gods, it was ruinous. You took me in slow, lips parting around me in something longing and cruel. My fingers found your scalp to ground myself, as it’s so easy to slip with you. Your tongue undid me, made me useless to reason, to logic, to anything beyond the wet slide of you hollowing your cheeks, sucking me further into the dark.

I do not know if I warned you before I came, only that I woke with my lips parted, your name a whisper into the ceiling.

And now, as always, I commit you to these pages, lest the memory slip from my grasp like you so often do.

Then, Viktor reads through it, again and again, eyes skimming and stopping on words, as if reliving before he has to brace through the day, in which you will be infuriatingly present, maddeningly impossible to place anywhere near the scenarios his mind keeps conjuring night after night.

With slow hands, he gets dressed—a mundane action, utterly mechanical. He packs his bag for lectures, journal wedged at the very bottom beneath textbooks, notebooks, and pens. The notebooks are all the same, a dull shade of red, the vermillion lost somewhere between a thousand sun-licks stolen through the glass of his windows. The secret one marked with a single dot on the spine, barely visible, as it’s only for Viktor to know which notes are to be seen by others and which are not.

It’s hard enough to be around you in public spaces—lecture hall, library, cantina, lab classes. Worse if you get a project together—that has prompted dreams that make Viktor question his own sanity, if merely as much as a brush of your fingers on his forearm is enough to give his imagination a kickstart, presenting him with images of you on top of him, nuzzling into his neck, thighs heavy against his hips.

Even worse if the said project requires after-hours engagement in spaces that are less public, more cramped, like, say, his couch. There, your ankles splayed across his lap, purely unbearable. He would stare then at the balls of your feet and your toes flexing, wondering how your Achilles tendon would feel between his thumb and index finger, what it would feel like to press the heel of his palm into your arch. What sound you would make for him. How soft your skin is there—the one that never touches the shoe.

Night after this, he had the worst time. His own feet, toes curled painfully, hips thrusting into the mattress, hands fisting the sheet as he woke up long before dawn, bathed in his own sweat, cum staining his boxers. The journal entry from that night particularly hasty, written in the dark, ink smeared with the damp sheen of his hand.

You ruin me.

Your back on the sheets, hair on the pillow. I pressed my mouth to your ankle first, I remember that, a stupid indulgence. Kissed the fragile bone there, let my teeth scrape. Your foot twitched. You laughed, soft, breathless, then—

Then I hit the mattress hard, your hands fisted in my shirt, dragging me down. Your legs, God, your legs, warm and eager, wrapping around my waist, heel hooking into my hip, pressing me closer. I was there, flush against you, drowning in the heat of you, the way your body fit to mine like it had always meant to.

You told me something—I don't know what. The words are lost, just a whisper against my cheek. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way you moved beneath me, the way your breath hitched when I rocked forward, the way your nails dragged over my shoulders as I pushed inside.

Tight, unbearable. You took me so well. I wanted to stop, to savour, but you wouldn’t let me, your hips meeting mine, guiding, demanding. My hands on your thighs, pushing them wider, my lips at your neck, your shoulder, your open mouth. You trembled. You clenched around me. I lost myself.

And then I woke up.

Again.

Zatraceně.

Tired, eyes weighed down by heavy bags, he rose at dawn and dragged himself to the library, hoping to steady his mind with engineering theory. Unaware of how bad it was going to get, he absentmindedly sketched the curve of your mouth into the corner of his notebook, drawn from memory.

Now, seated in the lecture hall, you three benches away, twirling a strand of hair around your finger, he taps his pen idly against his chin, trying to catch your gaze. A mistake. The moment he does, a daydream unspools, creeping in at the edges of his vision, so vivid that Heimerdinger’s voice announcing project pairs barely registers.

He writes it down, quick, hasty, barely a few words: I’d give anything to see your eyes roll while you moan out my name.

As if through osmosis, his brain absorbs the announcement, and oh—there are your eyes again, watching him, smiling, your head nodding in acknowledgment just as the information finally filters through his vacant ears and reaches his brain: you are doing a project together.

And there is his name—not moaned out, like he wishes, but spoken kindly when you approach his bench.

“So, Viktor,” you say, crouching by his seat, folding your arms on the study desk. “Ready to work together again?”

“Always,” he replies. “Start in the evening, as usual?” He hopes he doesn’t have to spell out the meeting point for you—the insistent blush on his cheeks is already hard enough to control.

“Perfect,” you hum. “I’ll swing by after dinner.”

It’s hard not to pace, even with the cane in his hand. He finds himself walking idly from one side of the room to the other, picking up random objects just to keep his hands busy. By the time you knock, he’s engrossed in a book on ship construction, of all things, standing halfway between the door and his bed. Tome wedged under his armpit, he walks up faster than he would like and swings the door open.

“Hi,” you say, giving him a small wave. “I’ve brought some notes.”

“Hi yourself.” His fingers tighten briefly around the edge of the doorframe before he steps aside to let you in. “And that’s perfect.”

The project is relatively simple—designing a spring-loaded prosthetic grip, a mechanism that mimics the natural flexion of fingers through tension cables and calibrated springs. It’s a study in biomechanics, balance, and precision, something Viktor has already taken notes on long before Heimerdinger’s assignment. His interest in assistive devices is not new, though he rarely shares the extent of it. The challenge isn’t in concept but in refinement: reducing mechanical lag, ensuring the grip has enough force to hold delicate objects without crushing them, making it adjustable for different users. Tonight’s task is to sketch a preliminary blueprint and compile research notes, but Viktor, always a step ahead, already has calculations scribbled in the margins of past lecture notes, waiting for a moment like this.

After a brief discussion, during which Viktor tries very hard not to stare at your lips too intently, you splay a large sheet of paper across his desk and begin jotting down major points. As you write, your waist brushes his shoulder, and you steal a long, secret inhale of his scent—mostly soap, but anything touched by his skin is worthy of such theft.

He shifts in his chair, eyes tracing the movement of your hand, his mind torn between the engineering task before him and your wrist. When the former wins—not without casualties, in the form of two lashes falling from his lids due to the effort of blinking the wrist away—Viktor picks up a pen and begins drafting.

At some point, he stops, staring at the page, sighing as he gathers his thoughts. Then, without looking, he gestures vaguely toward his bedside table. “Eh, grab that notebook, will you?”

“Can you read the marked page out loud?” he asks, unaware of the impending catastrophe.

“Of course,” you say, nodding, retrieving the notebook—only to freeze as you open it. Your name sits there, conjoined with beautiful in one sentence. Heat rises from your neck to the tips of your ears as you skim the passage, and you thank every force in the universe that Viktor is still looking down.

“Everything alright?” he asks, hunched over.

A lump lodges itself in your throat, one of the largest you’ve ever had to swallow, yet somehow, you manage to say, “Yes, just… are you sure?”

“Yes, I work better when dictated to,” Viktor replies, matter-of-fact.

You lick your lips. Blink. And then—“It started with your hands in mine, warm and kind—”

Be it his preoccupation with engineering or sheer denial of something so mortifying, Viktor doesn’t clock it at first when you say your name aloud. Gods, he doesn’t react fast enough when you read the phrase my beautiful friend.

It goes too far. Far enough that he’s suddenly on his feet, limping toward you, snapping the notebook shut in your hands. Panting, he stammers, “S-stop. Please.”

“Viktor—”

“How much have you read?” he cuts in, eyes hopeful in a way that’s almost foolish. Hope is all he has now.

“The marked page,” you murmur, not daring to meet his gaze.

“Oh, Gods,” he groans, sinking onto the bed, cradling his head in his hands. He doesn’t even bother to take the damning evidence of his depravity away from you.

“Wait,” you try, though you’re not sure what you’re stopping—his despair, his retreat? “Wait,” you say again, placing the notebook on your lap, mind scrambling for the right approach.

Throwing yourself at him is an option—one you entertain briefly—but it feels too blunt. Reading more is tempting, but you fear Viktor might dissolve into an irretrievable puddle of shame at your feet. Instead, you set the notebook aside and brush your knuckles against his.

“I dream of you too,” you say quietly, trying to coax his hands away from his ears. “I just can’t write about it as beautifully as you do.”

Viktor’s mouth parts as he finally looks at you. Eyes searching, brows drawn, he whispers, voice small, “Do not toy with me.”

You exhale, almost wounded by the accusation, but instead of reaching for words—already admitted to be not your strength—you take his hand, pressing his fingers to the pulse at your wrist. “I’m not lying,” you say, thumb brushing the heel of his palm.

And Viktor, your sweet friend, a poet apparently buried beneath layers of science, closes his eyes and feels out your heartbeat. You might call it treacherous, the way it flutters beneath his touch, but seeing his features smooth, relief softening the angles of his pretty face, you find yourself grateful instead.

Once he deems it the truth, his hand slides further, cradling the side of your neck as he presses his forehead to yours, sighing deep from the hollow of his chest. “Impossible,” he whispers. “So many nights I’ve spent wondering, restless.”

“Me too,” you breathe, cupping the hollows of his cheeks. “Maybe we’re not so smart after all.”

“Oh, I’m most definitely a fool,” Viktor says, rubbing his nose along your cheek. His breath comes hot, his stubble scraping your chin. Now you can smell him properly, and indeed, the soap-washed warmth of his skin drills itself into your memory as the finest scent ever to enter your airways.

“I’m certain none of my dreams have done you proper tribute,” he mutters, so close to your lips they brush against each other.

“Would you like to check,” you ask, voice barely there, hands slipping to his belt, “how far off you were?”

“I cannot say no to you, my dear. Ever,” he breathes, stomach hollowing under your touch as you press him onto his back.

Your hands are steady as you undo the buckle, fingers slipping the leather through the loop, the click of metal swallowed in the hush of the room. Viktor lies back, half-propped on his elbows, watching you with an expression that wavers between disbelief and the sharp edge of anticipation. His lips part, breath drawing slow and deep as if he's forcing himself not to rush, not to tremble, not to let this moment slip into some fevered imagining that will dissolve when he blinks.

You press your lips to the taut plane of his stomach, right above the waistband, and he shifts beneath you, muscles flexing, a shiver rippling outward. A slow drag of your fingers down his hips, then the fabric slides past his thighs, pooling uselessly at his knees. He’s flushed everywhere—his chest, his throat, the fine skin stretching across his cheekbones.

He swallows hard. “I—” He stops himself, breath catching, his knuckles whitening where they grip the sheets.

You don’t make him finish. Instead, you lower your head, pressing a kiss to the crease of his thigh, right where the heat of him pulses, where his skin is sensitive and soft, the kind of place untouched by anything but accident or necessity. He makes a sound—barely there, a choked thing trapped in his throat. His hips twitch, like he wants to move but doesn’t dare.

You let your tongue trace the line of muscle, tasting the salt of his skin, pressing your lips there until his breath turns uneven, his chest rising and falling like he’s run a long way. His thighs tense, his hands flex where they rest beside him, helpless with restraint.

Then your mouth moves, and he keens—head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut. A shudder rolls through him, his body caught between wanting to stay still and the instinct to chase more. His fingers dig into the sheets, gripping, like he’s afraid to touch, afraid to break something delicate and impossible.

His voice comes wrecked, roughened at the edges. “Oh—”

You hum against him, and he makes another sound, weak and breathless, one hand flying to his mouth to bite down on his own knuckle, trying to swallow whatever unguarded thing is threatening to spill free. His free hand finds your shoulder, fingertips ghosting there like he wants to pull you closer, anchor himself to something, someone. You.

His whole body is warm, fevered, getting too close to undone. You, real and here, not scrawled into the margins of his journal, not buried in the dark corners of his mind where want festers and never sees light. No, you are right here, with him, taking him apart piece by piece, and Viktor—brilliant, dreaming Viktor—does not know how to bear it.

He twitches in your mouth, hard and heavy, skin sliding slick through the corners of your lips until you reach the tip and pause, pressing your tongue against the prominent vein of his underside. “I’m a terrible writer,” he chuckles out a wet sound, lifting back onto his elbows. “I was never able to capture the reality of this, ah—” He tries again but falters when you hum at the praise.

Your hands travel up, up from the harsh angle of his hips to his stomach, to his ribs, and Viktor reaches out to meet the tips of your fingers with his. A spark flashes between your damp skin and his when your palms entwine on his belly. You lift your gaze to look at him, and he’s so gorgeous—lips reddened and parted, lids hooded, hiding the dark of his eyes, hair dishevelled. You can almost see the breath leaving his mouth, your name following, a warning, then—

“I’m so close,” he whispers, squeezing your hand tighter. You shut your eyes and take all of him in, trapping his cock until the spasm travels wide, spreading from his stomach down to his abdomen, finally spilling hot and salty on your tongue. A drop squeezes past the prison of your lips, and Viktor wipes it away with his thumb, dazed and blissed beyond anything he’s ever put into writing.

The soft sounds he makes—low and strangled—curl in the air around you, a mix of pleasure and disbelief, as if he can’t quite conceive the feeling overtaking him. His throat expands sharply, breath catching between each exhale, and for a moment, the world narrows to nothing but the sound of his voice and the pulse of his heartbeat.

It thunders in his ears when you kiss the skin around his base, leaving a burning trace of your lips upward along his body until you reach his chin and hesitate. Arms folded on his chest, you wait—not even for a second before Viktor pulls you closer, mouth sealing over yours in a long, languid kiss. Then he says, “No dream of mine was ever fair to you,” affection seeping from every word. “Stay with me.”

You stay, nuzzled into him, the notebook—the awkward catalyst of your connection—resting on the bedstand. And for Viktor, it’s the first dreamless night in ages.

[melosliving]

Can we get first time (having sex) with Aaron? And also one but Kelv version?🥹🥹🥹

let me cook !! i hope you’ll like it because actually this is my first time writing smut 😩 kelvin’s version is coming !

aaron pierre x girlfriend!reader

warning : +18 (MDNI), smut, first time sex-ish, protected sex (take notes pls and stop being careless), coochie eating, tits sucking

domestic, things were so domestic between you two. The clock read past 1 am, the kitchen dimly lit by the warm glow of the stove light. The half-eaten cake sat forgotten on the counter as Aaron’s thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. His fingers lingered, tracing your bottom lip slowly, deliberately.

“Messy eater,” he teased, his voice low and rasping. You didn’t have a chance to fire back before his lips replaced his thumb. The kiss was soft at first, his mouth warm and patient as his hands rested lightly on your waist. But when you gasped into the kiss, his grip tightened, his body pressing closer to yours.

He lifted you effortlessly onto the counter, stepping between your legs as his hands slid down to your thighs. The cool surface beneath you was a sharp contrast to the heat pooling in your stomach as his kisses deepened, his tongue brushing against yours with an intoxicating mix of skill and hunger.

“You’re okay ?” he asked, his lips ghosting over your neck, his breath warm and steady. “Yeah,” you whispered, your hands going from the back of his head to tugging at the hem of his shirt.

Aaron smirked, stepping back just enough to pull the fabric over his head. Your eyes traced over his chest, and he gave you that look—the one that made you feel like the only person in the world.

“Is this okay ?” he murmured, his hands sliding up your sides to tug at your shirt. When you nodded, he lifted it over your head, pausing for a moment to take you in. “You’re so pretty lovie,” he said softly, his hands skimming over your bare skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

His lips found yours again, hungrier this time, as his hands explored your body. He was slow, deliberate, letting his fingers map out every inch of you. When his lips trailed down your neck and across your collarbone, you couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped your lips.

Aaron softly chuckled against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. “I’ve been wanting to hear that,” he murmured, his hands sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts. “Tell me if you want me to stop baby.”

“I don’t.” you breathed, your nails grazing his shoulders as you arched into his touch. "I want this. I want you papa, please." you say, opening your legs even more so that he could perfectly fit in between them.

That’s how you found yourself in his bed, legs lifted with him in between them. He grabbed the pants you were previously wearing and took them off along with your panties, a sticky string of wetness connecting your hole and your underwear. Aaron almost came when seeing this.

He then grabs your legs, gently pulling them together "can you hold your legs together for me baby ?" he asks and you did, bringing your thighs to your chest. You couldn’t really see him from where you were but your body made sure to pay attention to every feelings, especially the one of his tongue gliding up from your entrance to your clit, all before he wrapped his mouth around your lips, sucking hard.

It’s was only a matter of seconds before you were a moaning mess, aaron eating you out so slowly, licking your sweet pussy which was dripping just for him. He spread your lips a bit so he could get a better view of you, sliding his tongue in, ignoring your surprised yelp. "Feeling good ?" He asked, planting kisses all over your thighs. Not being able to respond you only nod, but he wasn’t letting that slide. Not on his watch. "Use your word, ❁. I know you can baby. C’mon." You could feel your legs getting shaky at the sound of his voice, making you open your eyes before saying, "your tongue feels so good, baby."

He climbs back onto the bed, reaching next to your head for a condom from his nightstand. While he did that, you passed your forearm around his, tilting your head to put kisses all over it. He looked at you like you were the rarest and priceless thing ever. He then ripped the condom open and put it on. However, you don't realize how hard you were starting at him until he points it out, voice soft. "Take a picture it’ll last you longer, baby."

He grins when he sees you roll your eyes "relax okay ? If you want me to stop, you tell me right away. Yeah ?" he asks, his eyes finding yours, he kisses your jaw when he saw you nod. spreading your thighs, he got a better view of your hole, aligning his tip with it. He's careful when he pushes himself inside, eyes locked onto your face to make sure you're not too uncomfortable by the stretch.

"Damn, baby." Aaron can't keep up his gentle facade for long though, especially when he sees this look on your face : your lips bitten by your teeth as your pussy swallows him up, wet walls making it easy for him to pull out and slam his hips back into you, again and again. "You feel so good papa.." you groan in his ears, hands on his cheeks.

He occasionally changes his pace and has you moaning his name even louder. One minute he's snapping his hips forward rapidly, the next he shoves his entire dick inside and holds it there to watch you tremble beneath him or he's rolling his hips slowly, leaning forward to suck on your titties.

"You’re too good to me, lovie. I can’t get enough of you." He panted, going to kiss on your neck while hitting your sweet spots.

"don’t stop aaron, please.."

@ melosliving 2025

[vanteguccir]

thinking about you and you and matt baking naked and your only wearing an apron while he stands behind you, his arms around either side of you helping you cook. BURB OF THIS???🙏🙏🙏

── ୨୧ !　BLURB

matt sturniolo x reader

baking naked with matt!! 😩 + matt obsessed with your tits 🫶🏻

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

The house was unusually quiet, save for the occasional hum of the oven preheating. Chris and Nick were out for the day, leaving Matt and Y/N alone, a rarity they both looked forward to.

Y/N stood by the counter, a soft, oversized apron tied snugly around her waist, skimming just above her thighs. Beneath it, she wore nothing, her skin warm against the fabric. The open air against her back was a familiar feeling, as was the comforting warmth of Matt’s body behind her.

Matt, just as naked, stood close, his chest pressing gently against her. His arms circled her waist loosely, the solid weight of his hands resting just above her hips, their warmth spreading into her skin. His head dipped, his lips brushing the curve of her shoulder in a lazy, featherlight kiss, lifting his blue eyes to watch her measure out flour into a mixing bowl.

"Are you sure this is the right amount?" She asked, tilting her head slightly to give him more access to what she was doing.

Matt squinted at the measuring cup, remembering the recipe he had just read on his phone.

"Eh, close enough. Baking is just like cooking, right? A little spontaneity never hurt anyone." His voice sounded low and slightly raspy.

Y/N laughed, her tone light.

"Baking is not like cooking, Matt. It’s a science. Too much flour, and these cookies will turn into hockey pucks."

"Alright, scientist." Matt grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Does it even count as baking if I’m just holding you the whole time?" He asked after some seconds of silence.

Y/N shrugged, a teasing smile playing on her lips.

"You’re not just holding me. You’re also being a human heat and making it harder to focus."

Matt smirked, his lips twitching as he nuzzled back into the crook of her neck, close to her ear.

"Am I distracting you? I thought I was helping, with all the reading, you know?"

"You are distracting." She confirmed, her voice soft, though the smile in her tone betrayed her lack of protest.

His lips moved languidly along the line of her jaw, pressing small, innocent kisses that left her skin tingling. His breath was warm against her, his nose brushing lightly against her collarbone as he murmured.

"Tell me how I can help, then."

Y/N sighed, a mix of amusement and fondness.

"Okay, hold the bowl steady while I add the flour. No funny business."

Matt’s hands slipped from her waist to the red mixing bowl in front of her, keeping close, half of his chest flush against her right shoulder. She could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest syncing with hers, as if he were an extension of her own body.

As she measured the flour, she felt him shift slightly, the brush of his hips against the curve of her lower back sending a wave of warmth through her. His body fit so naturally against hers, and the skin-to-skin contact wasn’t strange or embarrassing. It was simply them.

"Careful." She said, biting back a giggle as he leaned forward to kiss her ear, his stubble lightly tickling her skin.

"I am careful." He mumbled, his voice muffled as he pressed another kiss to her jaw. "You’re the one spilling flour everywhere."

Y/N laughed, the sound light and melodic as she turned her head slightly to glare at him playfully.

"If I spill, it’s because you won’t stop kissing me!"

Matt’s lips curved into a smile against her neck.

"It’s not my fault you’re so kissable."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the grin spreading across her face. As she began mixing the ingredients, Matt’s hands found their way back to her body, his fingers splayed across her bare front.

His thumbs moved in slow, absentminded circles, his touch so gentle it made her heart squeeze. She felt his fingers skim just below her ribs, brushing lightly against her skin. His touch lingered along the soft curve of her stomach, and she noticed how his movements slowed, almost reverent.

"You' know that you have these little hairs right... here?" He murmured, almost as if he was just discovering that - which wasn't the case, since Matt always found his way to the area very easily. His voice sounded soft and almost in awe as his fingertips caressed the barely noticeable peach fuzz along her lower stomach.

Y/N felt a flush of warmth rise to her cheeks, though his gentle movements soothed any hint of self-consciousness she could ever have.

"Is that a bad thing?" She asked, her voice light but curious.

"No." Matt replied immediately, his voice filled with admiration. "I love it. It’s you."

She didn’t respond, only leaned back into him, her hands still working on the soon-to-be cookies.

"How do you make this look so easy?" He asked, observing Y/N whisking the batter.

"Practice." She answered with a small shrug. "And patience. Two things you’re not exactly known for."

Matt gasped in mock offense.

"Rude. I am the meaning of patience."

"Matt, you couldn’t wait five minutes for Chris to finish in the shower last night before filming."

"Okay, but that’s different. Chris takes forever in there." He defended, making her laugh again.

Finally, the dough was ready, and they began shaping it into small balls to place on the baking sheet. Matt insisted on making one overly large cookie "for testing", while Y/N meticulously lined up her smaller, perfectly formed balls.

"Yours are so... perfect." Matt observed.

"Yours looks like baseball balls." She retorted, smirking.

"Jealousy doesn’t suit you, babe." He teased, pressing a kiss to the side of her forehead.

"Shut up and help me put those into the oven."

Whith the cookies - now inside the oven - growing, the warm, sugary aroma filling the kitchen, Y/N leaned against the table, stealing a quiet moment to admire the stillness of the house. She could feel Matt’s gaze on her before she even turned around.

"Come here." He asked softly, his voice a low hum of affection.

Y/N raised an eyebrow but didn’t resist as he gently tugged her away from the table and into his arms. Her back pressed against his chest as his hands found her waist first, his fingers brushing lightly over the apron’s edge.

"Matt." She said with a content sigh, already sensing where this was going.

"What?" He murmured, his tone playful but tender. "I’ve got time to kill, and you’re standing here looking irresistible."

Before she could respond, his hands moved upward, slipping beneath the soft fabric of her apron. His palms skimmed her sides before settling over her boobs, cupping them gently.

"Every day." He murmured against her ear. "Every single day, I think about these beauties. Can’t help myself."

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t move away. Instead, she leaned further into him, her body relaxing against his.

"You’re obsessed, you know that?"

"I’m not even denying it." Matt replied, a smirk evident in his tone.

His hands moved in slow circles, his thumbs brushing lightly over her nipples. His touch was neither rushed nor teasing, just tender, familiar, and grounding, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Y/N sighed, closing her eyes as she let herself sink into the moment, feeling grateful for the weight against her chest and her back loosening for a bit. His lips brushed the shell of her ear before moving lower, leaving a trail of soft kisses along the curve of her neck.

"They're so soft." He murmured, his voice warm and hushed as if he were sharing a secret. "I could stay like this forever."

Y/N smiled, tilting her head slightly to allow him better access.

"You say that every time."

"And I mean it every time." He countered, his lips curving against her skin. "This is nice."

"Yeah." Y/N agreed, finally moving her hands, resting them on top of his, squeezing slightly. "Just us. No noise, no chaos..."

He nodded against her hair.

"We should do this more often. Naked baking. It’s a vibe."

Y/N laughed, turning her head to look at him.

"As long as no one comes home early. I don’t think Chris or Nick would appreciate finding us like this."

Matt made a face.

"Yeah, that’s definitely a mood killer."

The timer beeped, signaling the cookies were ready. Matt let go of Y/N so she could grab the oven mitts and pull the tray out. The sweet aroma of freshly baked cookies filled the kitchen, making both their mouths water.

Matt grabbed a cookie as soon as it was on the cooling rack, ignoring Y/N’s protests about waiting.

"Fuck! That's so hot!" He exclaimed, tossing the cookie between his hands before finally blowing on it.

Y/N shook her head, grinning as she took one herself, waiting a moment before taking a bite.

"You’re ridiculous." She said, crumbs clinging to her lips.

"And you love it." Matt replied, leaning in to kiss the crumbs away.

"I do." She admitted softly, her smile widening as she saw him reaching for more cookies. "Matt, leave some for your brothers!"

　　　༻✦༺ 　༻✧༺　༻✦༺

AUTHOR'S NOTE: That is my work, I DON'T authorize any plagiarism, copy, or "inspiration"!

[kewwchee]

Insecurity

E.W x reader, hurt/comfort, jealousy, fluff

Ellie, just out of curiosity, went through your following list one day. She found something that ignited jealousy and... a feeling of unworthiness inside of her.

Divider by @/cursed-carmine

It all started with her innocently checking your profile. Sometimes, she liked to look at your posts and old photos, admiring you while she missed your presence, like the obsessed girlfriend that she is.

Not that she didn't have a whole album in her gallery dedicated to photos of you that you'd be too embarrassed to show anyone; ranging from funny angles to photos of your half-naked sleeping form, and if you ever caught the latter in her phone she'd just say you looked so cute she couldn't resist.

While she was mindlessly scrolling through your "perfectly curated and aesthetically pleasing" profile (it's what you always told her you tried to achieve, yet she'd argue that you're very anesthetically pleasing even in sweatpants and a messy bun), she checked your following list, skimming over it without even reading all the usernames properly.

Ellie has never intended to come off as the controlling and jealous type. She didn't want to scare you off like that. Besides, your relationship was healthy, so she'd easily shut down the mere idea of doubting the trust built between you.

However, something caught her eye. A typical mirror selfie profile picture, with someone standing in the middle and flexing their muscles. After getting a better look, it she realized it's a woman in the photo.

That's when her mind began racing with so many possibilities. You two hadn't ever explicitly discussed what counted as cheating online because it never really rose as an issue.

She tapped the icon with her thumb, bracing herself for what was to come. Most of the creator's videos consisted of her flexing her muscles in nothing but a sports bra and sweatpants that had her boxers peeking out. There were also a few thirst traps here and there. Why the hell would you follow such an account that regularly posts content like that?

Her mind couldn't rest for the rest of the day. She had a plethora of questions she wanted to ask you. But she also needed to ask herself questions. Was she... jealous? Maybe hurt? Or... insecure? She turned the focus back onto you to avoid dwelling on whichever vulnerable emotion had her triggered at the moment.

The next few days, something definitely changed. You were sure of it. The thing is, Ellie didn't want to express her feelings to you yet, so you didn't have a real reason to confront her. Yet you couldn't shake away the feeling that lingered.

The signs grew more obvious as the days passed. Less affectionate touches, checking her body every single time she walked in front of a mirror, just staring with an expression you couldn't quite understand. Almost like a look of... dissatisfaction. She had a tendency to distance herself when she felt down.

To you, all of this came unannounced, which made it harder to pinpoint what she was feeling. Truth be told, she was feeling inadequate and afraid of losing you. Though, the lack of communication on both your ends wasn't helping at all. Because when there's no clear explanations from either of you, your minds get clouded with doubts.

Your last straw was when she clearly avoided most of your physical affection, very much unlike her usual clingy self, and you could swear you started hearing sniffling coming from the bathroom some nights.

What the hell is she doing to herself, and why the hell is she acting so different? That night, you were finally going to get your answers. Subsequently, she'll be doing the same.

"Baby..." Your voice barely above a whisper, though you knew that she still hasn't slept. You waited for her to shift around and face you, but that didn't happen. You'll be patient with her, though.

"Ellie, I need you to tell me what's wrong." As you spoke, your hand came up to her jaw to grab it, soft but firm enough to turn her head.

"Nothing. Just go to sleep."

You didn't like how she was avoiding you. She was barely making eye contact, her eyes glued to the ceiling instead.

Normally, you wouldn't push her, but you had to find out what made her change.

"Talk to me, please. I know something's bothering you, and you've been distant lately..."

She took a deep breath in, her eyes hesitantly meeting yours.

"I don't want you to stay with me out of pity. I'm sure you have options..."

You didn't know how to react. You cocked an eyebrow at her strange response. It was so unexpected and unlike her.

"Ellie, what's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm sure your type is someone who looks... better than me. Maybe taller, stronger..." her eyes began to tear up, which worried you even more.

"Babe, where the hell is all of this coming from?"

Your expression of worry evoked more emotions out of her. It quickly turned into a skeptical one, urging her to explain herself.

"I... I noticed you were following this girl and... I don't know it just... made me feel insecure, I guess."

She finally admitted it. The room fell silent. She began to regret her awkward response, though it did lift a heavy weight off of her chest nonetheless.

Instead of further interrogating her, you let go of her face to grab your phone. You unlocked it and gave it to her.

"Show me." A simple command in a gentle tone. She quickly pulled up your following list and pointed to the profile.

"Ohh, her."

Now she was curious to know your explanation.

"I barely know her, a friend of a friend. One of mine made us exchange socials on a night out. In fact," you quickly moved your finger on the screen, "I've had her posts muted because I'm not interested."

Her expression quickly changed. Relief, finally. But... this left her feeling stupid. She was insecure and doubtful of your trust. She felt like a fool through and through. Which is why unlike what you'd expected, she began sobbing.

"What... Baby, what's wrong? I promise you that's the truth," you urgently spoke while pulling her head to your chest. Even if you didn't understand her reactions, you still wanted to comfort your girlfriend and let her take her time.

"N-no, it's not that i dont believe you..." she quietly spoke between muffled sobs. She anxiously raised her head, and the glossy-eyed look she gave you broke your heart. It hurt seeing the person you cared about the most feeling sad.

So many scenarios played out in her mind, and she felt a wave of guilt wash over her.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry for overreacting. I just feel so stupid for not trusting you and making this a big deal. I don't know what's wrong with me." She buried her face in the crook of your neck, trying to hide her shame as she cried. You almost cried, too.

"Ellie... darling, look at me, please. " You waited for her to gather courage to do so, then you continued,

"You don't need to apologize for anything. Nothing's wrong with you, please don't talk like that about yourself. I only want you to be sure from now on that you're the only woman I see and love, okay?"

The way you tenderly reassured her and began stroking her hair brought her comfort. She was glad to know that you weren't repelled by her emotional reactions.

She wiped her tears as you continued to brush your fingers through her hair, and then she lay beside you again, this time getting spooned by you.

"You're so beautiful, Ellie. Everything about you is breathtaking. It's not just the way you look, I could name a hundred more things that make you so interesting and special. You're my beautiful and special girl. I mean it."

At that moment, she was on cloud nine. You always managed to make her life better and help her deal with any wounds that would resurface from her past.

[thedemoninme141]

The Maiden Of Death Part 5

Pairings: Wednesday x Female reader. Wordcount: 10.5K-ish

Part 1 -- Part 2-- Part 3- Part 4--Part 5

Summary: Enid's plan gets Wednesday a bit close to you, and she found out, who you were, on the night of Raven.

A/n: Sorry for taking so long with this, really was so busy with life and all. It's kinda hard to maintain time for me these days. But I am trying my best :(

Warnings: Down bad Wednesday? A small reveal at the end? Rom-com turns into horror?

“I will now present to you—” Enid spun dramatically, “—the Six-Part Dating Strategy!”

Wednesday stared blankly. “I will burn this room down.”

Enid ignored her.

PLAN ONE: “Subtle compliments!” Enid clasped her hands together. “You know, like, ‘Oh wow, Y/N, your hair looks really nice today even with all that blood.’ or ‘Wow, Y/N, I love the way you almost murdered me during fencing'."

Wednesday’s face remained impassive. “I do not compliment people.”

And yet, here she was, standing across from you in the fencing hall, rapier in hand, watching as you sidestepped her latest attack with infuriating ease.

Your movements were a spectacle—fluid, efficient, entirely unreadable. But this time, you barely engaged in offense, your sword more of a guide than a weapon, your real focus resting on evasion. You moved as though the air itself bent to accommodate your existence, as though gravity had little hold on you.

And it irritated her.

No. That wasn’t quite right.

It fascinated her.

Wednesday gritted her teeth and struck again, but you were already gone before the tip of her blade could meet your shoulder, ducking at the last possible second, gliding just out of reach.

Why?

Why weren’t you hitting her?

Even when she had given you an opening, moments where any experienced fencer would have capitalized on a misstep, and yet you never took them.

Not out of pity. No, you weren’t the type.

It was deliberate.

Intentional.

You were training your reflexes, perfecting your dodging. Using her.

Wednesday felt an unexpected warmth creep into her chest at the thought, a strange mix of irritation and satisfaction. That you deemed her skilled enough to be a challenge for your evasive techniques, that you were using her in your own training, was something she couldn’t quite bring herself to dislike.

But it also meant she had yet to truly test your limits.

Her grip tightened.

She lunged.

You let her get close this time—dangerously close—but at the last moment, you twisted your body, turning just enough for her blade to skim past your side, and in one fluid motion, your rapier met hers with a decisive clash, knocking her weapon off course.

Her balance wavered.

Your hand met her shoulder.

The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back, the cold flooring of the fencing hall beneath her as your sword hovered just inches from her throat.

Damn it.

Wednesday sat up, watching as you turned away, as you always did after your fights, moving to the benches to remove your gloves. It was an unspoken routine now—you never lingered, never exchanged words. You were a ghost even in the moments of your victories.

She just… didn’t understand it.

Her fingers curled against the floor as she inhaled sharply.

Compliments.

Wednesday nearly grimaced.

This was going to be simple. A compliment was nothing more than an observation, a statement of truth. She was always honest—this was no different.

Her lips parted.

“…Your—”

You glanced at her, barely acknowledging her presence.

Wednesday inhaled.

Just say it.

“…Your, uh…” she hesitated, feeling an immediate and unfamiliar heat crawl up her spine, like her body was physically rejecting the act. She forced herself forward, jaw tight. “Your reflexes are… adequate.”

A long silence followed.

You blinked.

It was the most she had ever seen you react to anything.

You just stood there, half in the middle of removing your glove, staring at her with an expression that very clearly read: What the hell is wrong with you?

Wednesday wanted to die.

Or at the very least, vanish into a void where she could pretend that hadn’t just left her mouth.

Your head tilted slightly, as if trying to decipher her.

Wednesday felt something in her stomach twist violently, but she held her ground, keeping her expression unreadable.

Finally, you gave her a slow, almost lazy nod. And without a word, you finished pulling off your gloves and walked out of the fencing hall.

Wednesday remained rooted in place.

A sharp exhale escaped her.

That was…

She didn’t even know what that was.

"PLAN TWO: “Mysterious gifts!” Enid beamed. “Leave little trinkets! Like, oh! A fancy dagger or—wait, you’d probably leave something super creepy, wouldn’t you?”

Wednesday considered it. “Bianca's severed hand might be an appropriate token.”

“Wednesday, NO.”

She had the perfect item in mind.

Wednesday watched from the corner of the hallway, watching from a safe distance as you stepped out of your room.

There it was. The small, unassuming black box, sitting neatly at your door.

You stopped.

Wednesday observed the way your gaze narrowed, suspicion flashing across your features. You stared at it for a moment too long, as if assessing whether it was some kind of elaborate trap. Your hesitance was telling. Her lips curled slightly. You were always prepared for the worst. She liked that about you.

Had no one ever left you a gift before?

The thought made something unpleasant stir in Wednesday’s chest.

Wednesday noted the way your shoulders tensed, the way your gaze flickered over the hallway, sharp and calculating. As if you were analyzing every possible threat before approaching the box with the same caution one might have when dealing with an explosive device.

At least you weren’t foolish.

You knelt down, carefully lifting the box, turning it over in your hands as if weighing its contents. Then, finally, you opened it.

Wednesday’s breath slowed.

Your eyes widened. Just barely.

Wednesday had seen you fight, had seen you maneuver through attacks with unnerving ease, had seen you reduce your enemies to mere obstacles in your path. But this—this fleeting moment of surprise—was something else entirely.

Something rare. Something fascinating.

Your fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the skull before you lifted it from the box, holding it in your hand... as if caressing it.

Wednesday felt something unfamiliar stir in her chest.

Satisfaction.

She had done this. She had caused this reaction in you.

But then without hesitation, you turned your head—directly toward where she stood.

Wednesday pressed herself further into the alcove, heart rate steady. You hadn’t seen her. That much she was certain of.

When she risked another glance—

You were gone. Your door remained open.

“What is this for?”

Wednesday stiffened.

Slowly, she turned her head.

You stood beside her.

Wednesday ignored the way her pulse had jumped at the sudden proximity.

Her mind scrambled for an answer. This was supposed to be a mysterious gift.

She had not anticipated you catching her in the act.

It was supposed to leave you wondering.

Not questioning her.

Words, normally so precise, felt fleeting in her mind. She had not prepared for an interrogation.

“…It is a talisman,” she finally stated, voice level despite the odd twisting sensation in her chest. “A symbol of fortune.”

You regarded her, eyes narrowing slightly.

Wednesday refused to squirm beneath your scrutiny.

After a pause, you asked, “Why didn’t you just give it to me directly?”

Wednesday faltered. She never faltered.

Her mind worked frantically, scrambling for something that made sense.

“…It is a tradition,” she finally settled on, forcing her tone into something impassive. “A gift left to be discovered rather than handed over. It is more effective when received unexpectedly.”

Your eyes held hers for a long moment, dark and unreadable, before you hummed, almost as if you were amused.

Wednesday’s fingers twitched slightly against her palm.

"Goodnight," she said, abruptly turning on her heel.

No, she was not fleeing! She just had no further reason to linger.

And yet, long after she had returned to her room, long after she had laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, she could not erase the sight of your expression from her mind—

The way you had looked at her.

Like she was something worth understanding.

"PLAN THREE: Small gestures." Enid practically vibrated with excitement, clasping her hands together like she was reciting a sacred text.

"Subtle things that let her know you care. Like offering her her favorite dessert, or pushing her out of the way of a moving car!"

Wednesday hummed. "I'd rather push her into the way of a moving car."

Enid gasped in horror.

"Wednesday! That would hurt the car!"

You sat with your usual unreadable expression, quietly sipping a black coffee, right beside Enid, right in front of Wednesday...

A strategic choice on Enid’s part.

One that Wednesday refused to acknowledge as useful.

"I still think we should have a dedicated gaming club," Ajax was saying. "Like, come on, we have fencing, but we can’t have video games? Kinda unfair, if you ask me."

Bianca scoffed. "What, so you can lose to me in two different kinds of competitions?"

"Okay, first of all, ouch. Second, I’d totally win."

"In your dreams, Medusa Boy."

"Oh by the way, you should definitely join a club Y/n. " Enid asked you.

Wednesday noticed the way your fingers barely twitched, how your gaze flickered toward Enid before settling back onto your untouched food.

"Maybe hummers?" Enid suggested and Wednesday knew it was because she was there.

At that, Eugene nearly choked.

You said nothing.

Enid waited for a moment, then let out an awkward chuckle, glancing at Wednesday for help.

Wednesday didn’t bother offering any. Your mood was unreadable, but there was something… restrained in the way you sat, something distant.

If Enid noticed, she didn’t mention it.

But Bianca did.

"Let me guess," Bianca drawled, her voice laced with a thin layer of amusement. "No clubs. No interests. No social life. Just endless brooding in some dark corner."

Wednesday turned her gaze toward you, waiting for a reaction.

But you gave her nothing.

You didn’t look at Bianca. Didn’t acknowledge her presence. Didn’t breathe in her direction.

"You know, I’ve seen this before," Bianca said, voice laced with faux amusement. "The whole dark and brooding thing? It gets old fast. You might want to work on having an actual personality before people lose interest."

You didn’t even flinch.

You simply continued sipping your coffee, as if Bianca were no more than the air around you.

Wednesday wasn’t sure if it was self-restraint or if you truly didn’t care, but it was making Bianca’s irritation worse.

"Silent treatment, huh? Not surprising. I guess when you don’t have much to offer in a conversation, silence is your best bet."

Wednesday placed her fork down with a deliberate slowness.

"It’s amusing," she said, her voice cutting cleanly through the air, halting whatever Bianca had been about to say next. "How the most bitter individuals are always the first to reach for weak insults. As if degrading others somehow makes up for their own lack of control."

The table quieted.

Bianca’s eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Did I stutter?" Wednesday’s gaze was unwavering. "You're attempting to provoke her because she refuses to acknowledge you. It’s a rather sad display of wounded pride."

A flicker of something passed over Bianca’s expression—frustration, maybe. Annoyance. "That’s not—"

"You lost," Wednesday continued, her voice remaining void of emotion. "Accept it and move on, like any self-respecting individual would. Or are you so insecure that you need validation from the one person who doesn’t even care enough to respond?"

The table went silent.

Bianca’s expression hardened. "Careful, Addams."

Wednesday tilted her head. "Or what? You’ll resort to more pathetic attempts at insults? I expected better."

"Wednesday," Enid hissed under her breath, clearly panicked.

Bianca looked like she was ready to kill her.

But Wednesday did not care.

She had watched Bianca push, had watched her try to tear into you, to get a reaction.

And Wednesday had not liked it.

She was not entirely sure why.

She only knew that she had acted.

But what truly caught her attention—what made her pause for a fraction of a second—was you.

You, who had remained still and silent throughout the entire ordeal.

Now, you finally looked at her.

Your eyes met hers, gaze unreadable, something flickering within them as you regarded her for a long, quiet moment.

A question that was never asked.

"What was that for?"

Wednesday had no answer.

"PLAN FOUR: Talk to her more! You need to talk to her more. Casual things. Nothing about death or destruction!" Enid announced, her hands gesturing wildly as if she were unveiling some grand strategy.

Wednesday gave her a flat look. "Both things that relate to her?"

Enid opened her mouth, then shut it again, blinking. "…Good point."

Wednesday had no trouble talking—when it mattered. When words were necessary, sharp, and deliberate. But the idea of casual conversation felt foreign, unnatural, something trivial and unnecessary. Words should serve a purpose, not be thrown into the void for the sake of social norms.

And that was how Wednesday found herself in botany class, standing beside you, a pair once again. It wasn’t surprising, everyone was too afraid to be partnered with Wednesday or You.

Oleander, a beautiful thing. Deceptive. Deadly. Wednesday could admire that. She could focus on that.

But instead, her mind was on another similar kind of poison. You.

She found her gaze drawn to you in spite of herself, taking in every precise movement, every quiet breath. There was something hypnotic about the way you worked, the way your fingers grazed the edge of a leaf without hesitation, the way you handled the plant as if it posed no threat to you at all. You were utterly unbothered, your focus entirely on the task, unaware—or perhaps unconcerned—with the way Wednesday was watching you.

Talk to her more!

Wednesday exhaled. This was ridiculous. But, if she was going to do this, she would do it on her terms. She picked up her shears, trimming a precise section of the oleander before finally speaking. “You work efficiently,” she observed.

You didn’t look up. “I prefer to get things done.”

It was a neutral response. Not unkind, not welcoming, but not dismissive either. An opening.

She debated her next words carefully. A compliment? An observation?

The silence stretched, and before she could overthink it further, she stated, “I assume your efficiency extends to more than just plants.”

This time, you did look up, your gaze meeting hers with mild curiosity. “It’s necessary.”

Wednesday tilted her head slightly. “For what?”

You hesitated. For a moment, she thought you wouldn’t answer. But then, you returned your attention to the oleander, carefully plucking away an unnecessary stem. “For surviving.”

Wednesday considered that answer. It was true, but also deliberately vague. You always did that—spoke just enough to satisfy a question, but never enough to be understood. It was a habit Wednesday recognized in herself, and that realization was... unsettling.

“Efficiency is a virtue,” she said finally, falling back into her work. “But perfection can be a limitation.”

You glanced at her, “What do you mean?”

Wednesday hummed, trimming a leaf between her fingers. “Perfection leaves no room for unpredictability. And predictability is fatal.”

You studied her for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

It was simply an acknowledgment, a consideration of her words as something worthy of remembering. Wednesday found herself gripping her shears just a little tighter.

For the remainder of class, the conversation continued in fragmented moments—small remarks, simple exchanges. And though the air between you never lost its tension, it was less suffocating than before. You still spoke little, but so did she. In some twisted way, it felt like a mutual understanding.

When the bell rang, Wednesday watched as you collected your materials without a word and slung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door, and before she even realized it, she was following.

It wasn’t intentional—at least, not consciously. But her feet moved before her mind could catch up, and soon enough, she had fallen into step beside you.

“You were avoiding striking me during our last match.”

You didn’t stop walking. You didn’t even flinch. But there was a flicker of something in your eyes when you looked at her, the kind of emotion that was impossible to decipher unless one knew where to look.

“Was I?”

“Yes,” Wednesday said, unwavering. “You had openings. You didn’t take them.”

For a moment, she thought you might deny it outright. But instead, you merely hummed in acknowledgment.

“You notice everything, don’t you?”

It wasn’t said with annoyance, nor admiration. Just another observation.

Wednesday tilted her head slightly. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Do you always follow people after class?”

Wednesday tensed. She should have anticipated that. But rather than offering an excuse, she merely met your gaze, unwavering. “No.”

You nodded once. “Alright.”

It was a deflection. But Wednesday let it slide, because this was the longest conversation she had ever had with you, and despite herself, she didn’t want it to end.

She realized, with no small amount of frustration, that Enid had been right. Small gestures, small conversations—they made a difference.

Wednesday did not remember deciding to walk here.

She had left her dorm long before the first light of dawn, her body moving with its usual rigid purpose, but for once, she had no clear objective. At least, not one she could immediately justify.

She had simply walked, following an unspoken direction until her feet slowed, her gaze lifting to find you seated beneath the same tree she found you last time.

You hadn’t noticed her—or at least, you didn’t acknowledge her. Your back rested against the rough bark, legs stretched out, one knee bent.

Your breathing was steady, deep, eyes closed as if even the end of the world couldn't disturb you.

It was a familiar kind of quiet, yet somehow one that unsettled her.

The early morning air stirred strands of your hair with each passing breeze gently. You looked… calm. Too calm.

Wednesday hated how long she stood there, watching you.

She had made progress, hadn’t she? You tolerated her presence, which was more than could be said for the majority of those who attempted to get close to you. Others received a wall of cold indifference, but Wednesday…

You spoke to her the most.

You weren’t warm, nor particularly friendly, but she never expected you to be. That wasn’t the goal. And yet, the knowledge that you were equally as tolerant of Enid gnawed at her. But that was different. Enid was persistent, impossible to push away. Wednesday had earned her place.

Hadn’t she?

She noticed the way your gloves—were worn from use. You had been working last night.

Hunting.

And now, she needed to confirm it. She needed to watch you. Study you. She needed to know. She already has seen you enough in action and yet she needed to confirm it with her own eyes. Your precision, your efficiency—the real you.

“Have you done staring?”

Her breath caught—just for a fraction of a second.

You still hadn’t opened your eyes. You hadn’t moved. But you had noticed her, as if you could sense her presence without ever needing to look.

Wednesday’s jaw tensed, irritation flaring at herself more than you. She had not intended to be caught so easily. “You would be none the wiser if you had simply remained silent.”

“I was hoping you’d go away,” you murmured. “Clearly, that was a mistake.”

Wednesday ignored the dry remark, stepping forward and lowering herself to sit beside you under the shade of the tree. She kept a careful distance—not enough to invade your space, but just close enough to make it clear she had no intention of leaving.

Your head tilted slightly in her direction, your eyes still closed. “I didn’t say you could join me.”

“I don’t remember asking your permission.”

There was a pause. Then, a slow exhale—not quite a sigh, but something close to it. You didn’t tell her to leave.

A small victory.

She forced her thoughts into order. Conversation. Small talk. That was the goal.

Wednesday glanced at you, considering her options. “Are you always this early?”

“I can ask you the same question.” you countered.

She had walked into that one. Annoying.

But then, after a pause, you added, “I don’t sleep much.”

Wednesday turned her head slightly toward you, watching the way your fingers curled against your knee, absentminded but controlled.

“Why?”

You exhaled slowly, tilting your head back against the tree trunk. “A habit.”

Vague. Unhelpful. But she didn’t press, not yet. Instead, she shifted tactics.

“You usually use techniques that aren’t standard in fencing. Some of your movements resemble kenjutsu, but they’ve been altered for a different style of combat.”

“You’ve been analyzing me.”

It wasn’t a question.

Wednesday didn’t bother denying it. “I analyze everyone.”

“Hm.”

She waited for you to shut down the topic, to divert the conversation elsewhere, but instead, you merely tilted your head toward her, finally cracking open your eyes. The sun had begun its slow ascent, catching against your irises in a way that made something shift uneasily in Wednesday’s stomach.

She ignored it.

“What about you?” you asked, voice low, almost absent. “Where did you learn?”

Wednesday blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift of focus. She had prepared for resistance, not reciprocation.

"Fencing is an important part of Addams family tradition. My Uncle Fester trained me before I ever set foot in a tournament. My father also contributed, but his focus was on dueling rather than form.”

You nodded slightly, as if that answer made sense to you. “Explains the way you fight.”

Wednesday hesitated, the conversation unfolding easier than she had anticipated. For once, it didn’t feel like pulling teeth.

“You must have learned a lot in H/n.”

The moment the words left her mouth, she realized her mistake.

Your expression didn’t shift but Wednesday felt the subtle shift in the air, like the sharp, invisible drop in temperature before a storm. Your gaze hardened, the once passive calm in your posture turning rigid.

“I never told you where I was from.”

There was no accusation in your voice, no outward hostility, but that made it worse. It wasn’t anger—it was scrutiny. You were assessing her, picking apart the misstep with a practiced, surgical precision.

Wednesday’s mind raced through possible responses, damage control, ways to steer the conversation away from the pit she had just dug herself into. But nothing would be enough. Lying was pointless, you would see through it instantly. But the truth was just as damning.

Finally, you leaned back against the tree again, expression unreadable. “So, you do your research.”

Wednesday clenched her jaw, frustration curling deep in her chest—at herself, at the situation, at the way your voice held no visible anger, just quiet, measured understanding.

“I do,” she admitted. Lying would be pointless.

You exhaled slowly, gaze turning back to the sky. “I figured as much.”

Wednesday watched you, unsure of what came next. You didn’t seem upset, but you weren’t brushing it aside either. You were merely… thinking.

Not forgiveness. Not acceptance.

Just… choosing to let it be.

Wednesday wasn’t sure which was worse.

PLAN FIVE: Ask her to the Raven!

Not this again.

She was certain she had made herself clear—she had no interest in this year’s Raven. No interest in its frivolous spectacle, the music, the pointless dress. It had been a waste of time last year, and it would be no different now.

“You are fabricating this to make me attend the Raven.”

Without hesitation, Enid shot back, “YES!”

Perhaps she can use this now. “I had to conduct research before asking you something.”

You remained still, watching her.

“And yet,” Wednesday continued, watching you carefully, “I found nothing.”

Even now, you gave nothing away. Your face remained unreadable, your posture relaxed in a way that was entirely too controlled. As if you had expected this, as if you had prepared for it.

Wednesday’s mind turned, examining every angle, every possibility.

“No history. No records before Nevermore.” She tilted her head, voice measured. “It’s as if you did not exist.”

“What did you want to ask me?”

A simple question. A direct invitation. And yet, Wednesday felt her mind stall for the first time in… longer than she cared to admit. She folded her hands in her lap, composing herself. “The Raven is approaching.”

You gave no reaction.

She tried again. “Nevermore’s annual formal gathering—”

“I know what the Raven is,” you interrupted, voice as impassive as ever. “Get to the point.”

Wednesday’s fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her skirt. “Enid is attempting to coerce me into attending.”

“Sounds like Enid. So what about it?”

She had rehearsed this. Thought through every possible phrasing, every logical approach. But as she sat here, faced with the actual moment, the words tangled themselves in knots before they could leave her tongue.

“I—” She stopped. Tensed. Then began again, voice flat. “It is a proposition of—” No. That sounded transactional.

A breath. A pause. A recalibration.

Why was this difficult? It was a simple inquiry. A proposition dictated by logic. She was merely extending an invitation. Nothing more.

She straightened her posture, collecting herself.

“I was considering—” No. Wrong. Start over.

Your silence was unbearable.

She exhaled sharply, jaw tightening.

“I am asking if you would go to the Raven with me.”

You did not react at first. Not visibly. You merely blinked once, slowly, before tilting your head, considering her in the way one might examine a riddle with an answer just out of reach.

Then, finally, your voice, calm and even. “I know you aren’t the socially gathering type. And neither am I. So why do you want to go there with me?”

Her first instinct was to craft a logical excuse. Something about observation. Something about data collection. But as she opened her mouth, the words felt thin, transparent, unworthy of the truth that pressed heavy against her ribs.

She exhaled quietly, accepting the inevitability of what came next.

“I want to know you.”

Your gaze flickered. Just barely.

“Know me?”

“…Know you.”

It felt like vulnerability.

Wednesday did not like the feeling of exposing herself like this. She was not used to it. But she could not bring herself to regret saying it.

You considered her words for a long moment.

Then, finally, you spoke. “Curiosity kills the cat, Wednesday.”

She felt it again. The way her name sounded from your lips. Not the way others said it—casual, indifferent, obligatory. No, there was weight to it. Something deliberate. And it affected her more than she cared to admit.

But she refused to let you see that.

"I am not afraid," Wednesday stated. "Are you?"

This time, you did smirk. Slight, but undeniable.

Wednesday felt a sharp, bracing satisfaction curl inside her, something darkly electric. You rarely gave people anything. But she had pulled it from you.

Again.

“I am not wearing any sparkling dress,” you said.

“I do not expect you to,” Wednesday responded immediately.

Your expression remained neutral, but something behind your gaze gleamed with consideration. It was impossible to tell what you were thinking.

Wednesday was patient. Mostly.

“So?” she asked, “What is your answer?”

You considered her, then exhaled slowly. “I'll go.”

She had won.

The Raven had already begun, the rest of the school had already begun making their way inside, laughter and muffled music spilling from the doors yet she remained where she was, waiting.

Waiting for you.

You had told her you would meet her right outside. You had given her your word. And yet, here she was—alone.

She wasn’t worried, of course. That would be absurd. But her fingers twitched at her sides, betraying the lingering frustration creeping in. It wasn’t like she had been standing here long. If anything, she had arrived early. Perhaps too early. But the idea of making you wait for her had been unacceptable.

And so, she had come before the arranged time, preparing herself for whatever was to come.

Her fingers twitched against the fabric of her dress. A new dress. Something Enid had forced her into acquiring, insisting that her usual attire was “criminally outdated” and that “if you’re going to court someone, you need to at least look like you put in effort.” Wednesday had wanted to strangle her.

Courtship. The mere thought of the word made her want to scoff. It was absurd. Yet, here she was, standing outside a school dance, waiting for someone. Waiting for you.

She had spent the week preparing—not that she needed to. She had already analyzed every potential outcome, calculated every possible scenario in which she might extract more information from you. She had thought about your answers, your reactions, your frustratingly unreadable expressions. And, though she hated to admit it, she had found herself wondering… how you would look tonight.

And now, as if summoned by the mere thought, she felt something.

Not the usual sense of awareness, not the subtle shift in the air or the telltale footsteps that always gave people away. No, this was… nothing.

Like an absence of presence.

A void in reality itself.

A shiver ran down her spine, and for the first time in a long time, she hesitated before turning.

You were standing there. Right behind her.

Her senses were honed, trained to detect the faintest disturbance in the air, the softest shift in movement. No one could sneak up on her. It was impossible. She hadn’t felt a thing.

She turned fully to face you, her breath steady, though her mind was not.

You were dressed in black.

A suit.

Not a dress. Not the standard gown the other girls had conformed to. A full, tailored suit—black from the crisp collar down to the polished shoes. The fit was precise, sharp lines and dark fabric making you look like you had stepped out of a world untouched by color. It suited you in a way that felt inevitable—as if anything else would have been unnatural.

Wednesday stared.

You looked—

No. She would not finish that thought.

Wednesday inhaled carefully, composing herself.

"You’re late," she said.

You merely blinked. "You’re early."

Wednesday scowled slightly. She should have expected that response. "I was beginning to wonder if you had changed your mind."

"I always keep my word."

With a quick inhale, she tilted her chin slightly, sharpening her gaze. “You do realize there was a dress code.”

You blinked at her, unbothered. “And?”

Wednesday had to fight the inexplicable urge to smirk.

“Most people would have at least tried to blend in.”

"Most people aren’t me."

That was an understatement.

Wednesday’s eyes flickered over you again, and for a moment, she swore she felt her own pulse betray her.

No.

She would not entertain these thoughts.

You exhaled softly, pulling her out of her reverie. “Are we going in, or do you just plan to keep staring at me?”

Wednesday’s spine stiffened instantly. “I wasn’t—”

You arched a brow, waiting.

She exhaled sharply. “Let’s go.”

You nodded, falling into step beside her as she moved toward the entrance.

Eyes.

It was just like last year. The moment she had entered, the weight of a hundred stares had settled onto her like a cloak. She had never cared about the scrutiny before—let them look, let them judge, let them fear. It had never mattered.

But tonight, something was different.

Tonight, the eyes weren’t only on her.

They were on you too.

The entire room seemed to shift the moment you stepped inside, as if the very presence of you disrupted the delicate balance of the event. Students who had been chatting freely just moments ago fell silent, their laughter fading into hushed whispers.

Some turned their heads quickly, pretending not to look, but their shoulders remained tense, their postures rigid. Others weren’t as subtle, their eyes wide, cautious, as if being caught staring too long might summon something unspeakable. And as if one accidental touch with you might be enough to disintegrate them.

No one had ever looked at her like that. People feared Wednesday for what she might do. But with you… Wednesday was sure they themselves didn't even know why they feared you.

Cowards.

She wondered if you noticed. If you cared.

Glancing to her side, she found you as unreadable as ever. Walking beside her with the same detached, effortless indifference, as if the entire world could set itself on fire and you wouldn’t so much as blink.

Had she ever touched you?

Not once.

Not while fencing, not during your so-called “training sessions” after sunfall. Even in proximity, you had always been… distant. And now, standing beside you, Wednesday found her gaze flickering downward—toward your hands.

You were wearing gloves. Dark, sleek, as always.

A part of her wondered if it was intentional. A precaution. A shield.

She had sometimes seen you without them, but not too much.

A fact that normally wouldn’t have mattered, but now settled in her mind like an itch she couldn’t quite reach.

She wondered what that might do. Would she see something? Feel something? Would it be cold? Warm? Would it give her a vision?

Would you let her?

"OH. MY. GOSH! There you are! Finally!”

Wednesday barely had time to react before she was ambushed by an overly pink werewolf.

Enid beamed up at her, practically vibrating where she stood. “You actually came! And—” She turned sharply, eyes locking onto you like a predator spotting new prey. “You actually came!”

You stared at her blankly. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No, no, you were, I just—wow.” Enid took a step back, arms crossing as she gave you an exaggerated once-over. “Okay, seriously? You really committed to the whole ‘color is evil’ thing, huh?"

You blinked at her, expression unchanging. “It’s a funeral theme.”

Enid hesitated, confused. “Wait, whose funeral?”

You tilted your head slightly. “Possibly yours if you keep talking.”

If Wednesday had ever doubted that someone could be even more socially intolerable than herself, you had long since proved her wrong.

Enid, being Enid, merely huffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Ha, ha, very funny. You and Wednesday are totally made for each other.”

Wednesday felt something at that but promptly crushed it into nonexistence.

“Seriously, though, you guys look cool tho. It’s like… Dark Princess and Mysterious Assassin Chic.”

You raised a brow. “That sounds ridiculous.”

Enid shrugged. “Yeah, well, I was gonna say ‘Goth Girlfriend and her Shadow’ but I figured Wednesday might actually kill me for that one.”

Wednesday’s glare was instantaneous. “Keep talking, and I just might.”

“Oh, hush.” Enid grinned. Then, in a move as seamless as if it were a natural part of the conversation, she threw in, “At least it’s better than last year, when you came with Tyler.”

Wednesday stiffened, but it was your voice that broke through first.

“Tyler?”

It was the first time you had asked anything about her past. Your tone remained the same—flat, impassive—but Wednesday noticed. The way your eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The way you processed the name, as if filing it away for later analysis.

“Oh, right,” Enid chirped. “I forgot, you weren’t here back then.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Tyler Galpin. The Hyde who was responsible for all the murders and Crackstone last year.”

You were silent for a moment, then, “Interesting choice.”

Flat. Emotionless. But Wednesday could feel the weight behind the words, the quiet judgment hidden beneath the surface.

She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t know he was the Hyde back then.”

Enid grinned. “Yeah, yeah. To be fair, it was a shocker. But I beat him, you know!” She puffed out her chest, absolutely radiating self-satisfaction. “Wolfed out for the first time and tore that guy apart!”

You tilted your head. “Really? You? With what? All your sunshine and rainbows?”

Enid gasped. “HEY.”

Wednesday almost—almost—smirked.

“No,” Enid huffed, placing her hands on her hips. “I beat him with friendship and LOVE!”

Wednesday caught it. Something flickering behind your eyes. It was gone in an instant, but she saw it. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obvious. But Wednesday noticed.

She always noticed.

You repeated Enid’s words, but softer, almost… distant. “Friendship and love?”

“Duh!” Enid beamed. “What else are we supposed to fight for?”

Your reaction was brief—so brief that Enid didn’t even register it—but Wednesday did. The smallest flicker of something worn, something almost bitter.

And then, just like that, it was gone.

Your mask slipped perfectly back into place, and you gave a simple nod, offering nothing else.

But Wednesday had seen it. And wondered, what exactly had you lost?

Wednesday barely had a moment to register the scene before Enid latched onto her wrist and yanked her away from your side.

"Alright, spill it!" Enid practically vibrated with excitement as she dragged Wednesday toward a less-crowded corner of the room. "What’s the plan?"

"There is no plan," Wednesday deadpanned, prying her wrist free from the werewolf’s overly enthusiastic grip.

Enid gave her a knowing look. "But Plan Six is about—"

"I don’t care," Wednesday interrupted, voice sharp as a blade.

Enid narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “So you’re just gonna—what? Wing it?” She looked genuinely disturbed by the thought. “That’s so not like you, Wens.”

Wednesday’s patience was running thin. “I fail to see why my actions, or lack thereof, are of any concern to you.”

“Because you’re you, and she’s her, and you two are just—” Enid waved her hands wildly, as if trying to pluck the correct words out of thin air. “You know! And I know you’re, like, emotionally stunted or whatever, but don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it!”

Wednesday arched a brow. “Thought about what exactly?”

Enid let out a strangled noise, clearly resisting the urge to shake her. “You like her, Wednesday! And no, I don’t mean in your usual ‘I tolerate their existence more than most’ way. I mean actually like her.”

Wednesday narrowed her eyes. "Don’t be absurd."

Enid’s grin only widened. "Oh, please. You so do. And if you don’t do something about it soon, someone else will—"

"Let them try," Wednesday said flatly.

“Oh my god. You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” Enid clutched her chest dramatically.

Wednesday didn't answer.

"Wait, you really don't!" Enid gasped again and before she could revel in her discovery any further, the unmistakable sound of upbeat music shifting into something slower caught her attention, and she immediately perked up. “Ooh! This is my song! Okay, okay, I’ll leave you to your brooding or whatever, but just think about what I said, okay?”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and practically skipped off into the crowd, leaving Wednesday standing there, irritation simmering beneath her skin.

With a sigh, she turned back toward where she had last seen you, only for her gaze to freeze.

Bianca.

Interesting.

The siren stood before you, her arms crossed, her expression neutral yet unreadable. The two of you weren’t bickering.

Bianca had never liked you. That much had been clear from the very beginning.

And yet, here she was, standing in front of you, speaking in low tones that Wednesday couldn’t quite make out from this distance.

She had always assumed the hostility was mutual, a silent agreement between two people who simply had no desire to tolerate each other’s existence.

So why now?

Why this?

She had spent enough time around Bianca to recognize her mannerisms—the way she spoke when she was attempting diplomacy, the way she shifted when she was preparing to manipulate a situation.

This wasn’t that.

And she didn’t like it.

She was still debating whether she should intervene when an annoyingly familiar voice cut through her thoughts.

“So… you and Y/N, huh?”

Wednesday didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. Instead, she merely narrowed her eyes and leveled Xavier with a glare. "Leave."

Xavier, of course, completely ignored her warning.

"You know, I should’ve seen this coming," he mused, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward where you stood. "But, what can I say? It’s my bad for always falling for the odd, dark, unattainable ones."

Wednesday’s fingers twitched toward the knife strapped beneath her dress.

Xavier, either suicidal or just entirely too used to her homicidal tendencies, only smirked. "I guess she’s all yours then."

Wednesday had already reached for the knife when Xavier bolted.

Coward.

Her irritation barely had time to settle before her attention was drawn back to you—back to Bianca, who was still standing in front of you, speaking in low tones.

Wednesday moved closer.

“—guess we got off on the wrong foot," Bianca was saying. "Are we good now?”

You held her gaze for a moment before nodding.

"Since when did you two become acquaintances."

The words left her mouth before she could stop them, sharp and cutting as a blade, her presence slicing into whatever conversation had been occurring.

Both you and Bianca turned toward her at the same time.

There was no flicker of surprise in your expression as if you sensed her coming.

"We haven't."

She wasn’t sure which part of this conversation annoyed her the most—the fact that you had been standing here with Bianca in the first place, the fact that she had no idea what you had been talking about, or the fact that you seemed entirely unmoved by the situation while she, for some godforsaken reason, was very much not.

Bianca sighed, shifting her weight as she glanced between the two of you. “It’s nothing dramatic, Addams. We were just discussing how we don’t need to be at each other’s throats all the time. It's not like we are best friends now.”

"A riveting discussion, I’m sure," Wednesday said flatly.

Bianca rolled her eyes. "Relax, Addams. I’m not trying to steal your girlfriend."

There was a beat of silence.

Wednesday felt her jaw clench.

You merely blinked. "I didn’t know I was something to steal." Wait why didn't you deny the.. "girlfriend" part?

Bianca smirked. "Exactly my point."

Wednesday’s grip tightened at her sides. "If you’re done wasting both our time, I suggest you leave before I decide I’m in the mood for violence."

"Fine. I’ll let you two get back to your whatever this is." She sent you one last glance. "Just don’t make me regret this, Y/N."

"I probably would." you said flatly.

Bianca groaned before finally turning and walking off, disappearing into the crowd.

Wednesday exhaled slowly, turning to you fully now. You were watching her, gaze steady, unreadable as always.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, a new song started playing.

And still, you stood there, watching her.

And Wednesday too found herself uncertain of what to say.

You weren’t supposed to dance.

Yet there you were, standing alone in the eye of the storm, unmoving at first—unblinking, your gaze tethered to hers

You say you're not afraid to die. But take off the armor 'round your chest What's left inside?

It starts slow. A shift of your shoulders, the roll of your neck. Controlled. Calculated. The crowd doesn’t notice at first. But Wednesday does. The way your foot drags against the floor, deliberate, the way your spine curves—not yielding, but commanding.

Li-li-lion licking your blade Do you really bleed if it washes away?

The music grows teeth. The beat snaps, and you move with it.

Your arm jerks upward, before your body twists. Not fluid, not elegant

Take a ride, rough as you can Tell you a secret, right as your dogs are closing in

You were doing it to be visceral.

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin

Your chest rises and falls with the rhythm, your fingers twitching, slicing through empty space. The lyrics carve into the air, and you let them shape you.

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin.

Your head jerks to the side in sync with the words, as if something unseen has struck you. Then, a collapse—your body folds inward, a marionette with cut strings, only to snap back upright in the next breath.

A shadow unbroken.

Tell me the walls are closing in Into the fire and born again

Wednesday’s pulse hammered against her skull. She had never been one for frivolity, for mindless displays of social pleasantries. And yet, Her legs moved before she could rationalize it.

She stepped into the eye of the storm.

Taste the pain and drink it in I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin

The first onlookers take notice. A few heads turn. Murmurs.

The moment she crossed the threshold, the world condensed to the space between the two of you. You tilted your head, watching her approach, your lips barely parting as if in amusement.

A challenge.

Lou-louder the bark and the bigger the blade One seat on a throne, one foot in the grave

Wednesday’s body responded before her mind did. Her movements were sharp, calculated. The macabre fluidity of her limbs fell into step with yours, a duet that somehow, made perfect sense.

Lou-louder the moth then the bigger the flame Do you really bleed if it washes away?

Wednesday is struck with something she does not understand. You lifted your arms, crossing them over your chest in a sharp X before suddenly letting yourself drop.

For a second, Wednesday expected you to hit the ground.

But you were gone, as if the ground itself had opened to devour you.

Her breath hitched. She hadn’t seen where you had gone. It wasn’t possible.

Wednesday turned slowly, and there you were.

Wednesday felt something strange claw at her ribcage. It was not fear, nor disgust—she knew those feelings well. This was something else. Something far more dangerous.

Intrigue.

Fascination.

Desire.

You turned again, your body rolling, shifting—your hands dragging down your face as if peeling away a mask. Then you tilted your head, eyes locking onto hers once more.

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin.

Your bodies circled, inches apart but never touching, two predators weaving between the spaces left by the other. When your head snapped to the side, Wednesday followed suit. When you twisted, she mirrored, but it was not mimicry. It was a battle. A silent war waged between motion and breath, between two creatures who did not yield.

Tell me the walls are closing in Into the fire and born again

Wednesday is struck with something she does not understand.

She knows of death. She has danced with it since childhood. But this? This is something else. This is not a dance. This is a ritual. A possession. And she is the one ensnared.

Taste the pain and drink it in.

She stepped forward.

You stepped back.

No—she would not allow it.

PLAN SIX: KISS!

Wednesday lunged, a sudden, sharp movement that brought her directly in front of you. For a moment, the two of you were impossibly close, the air thick with something electric, something raw.

She could feel your breathing, you could feel hers.

I like it when the bite marks 

Your lips were too close... almost... almost brushing...

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin.

You were gone.

Vanished into the crowd.

Wednesday stood in the wreckage of what remained. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her fingers twitched at her sides. Wednesday remained standing in the same spot long after the music had faded, her breath just slightly uneven, her pulse just slightly too fast.

She despised you. She wanted more.

No word, no parting glance. Just—gone.

She should not care.

But her feet were already moving.

She scanned the crowd. The sharpness in her stare sent some students skittering out of the way, but she ignored them. Her focus was singular. Methodical. If you were going to disappear on her, then she would simply find you herself.

The first stop was Enid because Enid had an unfortunate tendency to be in everyone’s business. If anyone had seen where you had gone, it would be her.

The werewolf was perched by the refreshment table, downing an energy drink with alarming speed.

Wednesday wasted no time.

“Where is she?” she demanded.

Enid choked mid-sip, coughing as she wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve. “Huh?”

“You heard me,” Wednesday snapped. “Where is Y/N?”

“I don’t know, she kinda just vanished? I was watching the whole time, and it was like one second she was there and then poof! Super ninja mode activated. It was actually kinda scary.”

Wednesday’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Well,” Enid continued, her grin shifting into something more knowing, “you could always ask around. But considering how you two were dancing, I’m pretty sure she’s off somewhere sharpening a knife and brooding about you.”

Wednesday did not dignify that with a response.

The next stop was Eugene. She found him near the entrance, “Eugene.”

He flinched. “Oh, uh, hey Wednesday.”

“Where did Y/n go?”

Eugene looked at her like she had just asked him to walk into a hornet’s nest. “Uh… do I have to answer?”

Wednesday’s gaze sharpened.

“I-I mean, I don’t know! I saw her leave after the dance but—uh—I didn’t follow! She’s… kind of terrifying?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Not in a bad way! I mean, okay, kind of in a bad way. But not, like, the murder-y bad way. Well, maybe the murder-y bad way. Are you sure you even want to find her?”

“Yes.”

Eugene swallowed.

Bianca was next, and Wednesday already anticipated the headache that would come with it. She found her near the courtyard, casually leaning against a stone pillar, talking to Xavier.

"Shit, you have that face on. The ‘I’m about to interrogate someone’ face. Am I gonna get arrested again? ” Xavier said as soon as he saw Wednesday.

"Where did Y/N go?" Wednesday asked completely ignoring Xavier.

Bianca arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Wow. No hello? No please?"

Wednesday's patience, thin at the best of times, was rapidly eroding. "I do not have time for pleasantries."

Bianca smirked. "Shocker."

Wednesday simply stared, unblinking.

With a dramatic sigh, Bianca relented. "Last I saw, she was heading outside. Maybe she needed air. Not that I blame her—this place reeks of teenage desperation."

It was the most useful information she'd received yet. Without another word, Wednesday turned.

"You're welcome," Bianca called after her.

She ignored it.

She had followed Bianca’s lead, stepping outside the hall without fully understanding why she was still searching for you.

Why was she looking for you?

The question clawed at her, demanding an answer she wasn’t prepared to give. Normally, when she pried into someone’s secrets, it was with the cold precision of a scalpel, detached, methodical, unyielding. People were puzzles to be solved, mysteries to be unraveled, nothing more. She had never once cared about their comfort, their feelings, or whether she had the right to pry. The idea of restraint was laughable.

But there was something different about this.

About you.

And then there was that moment—that nearly catastrophic, almost unforgivable moment—where the space between you had shrunk to nothing. Where she had nearly—

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She would not dwell on that.

Her gaze swept over the landscape, the silver-blue light of the moon illuminating every detail, but what caught her attention was the lack of light, a void, a shadow.

It slipped just at the edges of her vision, moving toward the forest. Almost imperceptible, but Wednesday had been watching.

You.

She recognized the way you moved—too fluid, too controlled, like a predator that knew exactly when to make itself known and when to disappear. Even now, you were almost gone. If she had blinked, she would have missed it.

Wednesday inhaled sharply and moved.

Her instincts screamed at her to be careful. She had seen firsthand what happened when someone tried to sneak up on you. Xavier almost learned it the hard way.

You were fast, impossibly so, and lethal when you needed to be.

Which meant that Wednesday had to be better.

She moved with practiced precision, keeping her distance.

Your black attire blended effortlessly into the darkness. More than once, she had to pause, reassess, find you again among the trees.

And Wednesday?

She was following a monster into the abyss. The thought should have unsettled her.

It didn’t. It never did.

Instead, her chest tightened with something else. Something she refused to name.

She moved faster.

Deeper into the forest.

Then—

You stopped.

Wednesday halted instantly, slipping behind the cover of a wide oak, sharp eyes watching as you stepped into a clearing.

At the center of it lay something wrong. Some sort of summoning circle. Its symbols twisted into unnatural shapes, burned into the ground with something that shimmered like embers.

You stood at the center, utterly unbothered.

For the first time since she had met you, Wednesday felt something close to unease.

The glow of the circle intensified, the embers shifting, moving, as if alive. It painted you in crimson light, casting harsh shadows over your face, making you look like something out of a nightmare. Or perhaps, something meant to hunt nightmares.

She had known that you were dangerous. That you were more than just another student at Nevermore. That you were something other.

But this?

This was confirmation.

This was proof.

Wednesday’s heartbeat remained steady.

She should have left.

She should have walked away, returned to the safety of the school, and let you do whatever it was you did when you vanished into the night.

But she didn’t.

Because she couldn’t.

She had spent so much of her life uncovering the grotesque, the horrifying, the things that lurked in the dark. And yet, for the first time, she found herself hesitating, not out of fear, not out of uncertainty, but because something else was clawing at the edges of her mind.

A hesitation she did not understand.

The circle ignited.

A rift tore through reality itself, opening into something that should not exist, a swirling abyss of pure darkness, something alive and moving, something that watched.

And you—

You were swallowed by it.

Wednesday’s breath hitched, but her body moved before her mind could catch up.

She leapt.

Into the dark.

The ground was cold beneath her.

Damp earth pressed against her palms, the scent of moss and decay thick in the air. Wednesday inhaled slowly, her lungs adjusting to the weight of it.

Her eyes opened to absolute darkness.

For a moment, she remained still, allowing her senses to recalibrate, to process. She was lying on her side, her body stiff from the impact of the fall—if it had even been a fall. Had she fallen? Or had she simply ceased to exist for a moment before reappearing here?

She had woken in a jungle. It felt different...

The thought sent irritation curling through her chest. She had never liked being disoriented. Uncertainty was an unfamiliar, unwelcome sensation. She pushed herself up, wincing as her limbs protested, but forced herself steady. The air was thick with humidity, the scent of unfamiliar flora curling at the edges of her senses.

This wasn’t Nevermore.

This wasn’t anywhere near Nevermore.

Where are you?

Wednesday stood, brushing the dirt from her skirt. The realization settled in her chest like a slow-moving storm—she had no idea where she was.

She turned, eyes scanning the darkness, but it was too deep, too complete. The moon was absent here. No soft glow to guide her, no stars above, she couldn't even see your footsteps.

She couldn’t even be sure how long she had been unconscious.

That should have unsettled her. It didn’t. It never did. Panic was for the weak.

She would find you. She moved carefully, her fingers brushing against the rough bark of trees as she navigated blindly. How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? Time felt different here. Stretched, distorted.

And then—

A glimmer.

Faint. Just at the edges of the horizon, cutting through the trees.

Light.

Wednesday’s pace quickened, her steps deliberate but silent as she pushed through the thick foliage. The jungle began to thin, the oppressive darkness easing as she approached a clearing.

And there it was.

A house.

Not a decrepit ruin, not some abandoned structure swallowed by time, but a home.

Warm light spilled from the windows, illuminating a well-kept courtyard. The architecture was sturdy, lived-in, its exterior worn with time but undeniably occupied. The furniture on the porch, the faint glow of a lantern swaying in the breeze—it all spoke of something human.

And then—

You.

Standing just outside the house.

Wednesday froze, pressing herself against the nearest tree, her breath slowing.

What was this place?

What were you doing here?

Before she could begin to piece it together, the door creaked open.

A man stepped out.

Tall, bearded, his eyes sharp as they settled on you. Behind him, a woman lingered in the doorway, a small girl at her side.

A family.

Wednesday’s breath slowed, her fingers curling against the bark of the tree she had hidden behind.

She watched.

She waited.

And she listened.

"You are her, aren’t you?"

The man’s voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—a weight, an understanding. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anger. It was acceptance. Like a man who had spent years looking over his shoulder, only to finally turn around and see the shadow looming over him.

You did not answer.

He sighed, exhaling as if he had already made peace with what was to come. "I thought you would be older…"

The moment the words left his lips, Wednesday watched as you lifted your hand, your katana materialized in your grip. Wednesday felt her breath still in her chest.

It was happening again. That pull. That same, dark magnetism that had drawn her to you in the first place, something deeper than fascination—a warning.

"Tell your daughter to go inside," you said, your voice calm, cutting, spoken with the certainty of someone who had already seen the end of this story. "You don’t want her to see this, Kalzorran."

The man flinched. Visibly. As if the name itself had sharp edges, slicing through the years he had tried to bury it beneath.

"I left that name," he muttered, his jaw tightening. "That life. Long ago."

"Yet, you live free of consequences."

"There is no life free of consequences from him!" Kalzorran snapped, his voice suddenly raw, desperate, heavy with something dangerously close to fear. "I escaped. I earned it. We all did."

"You have lived free enough," you said. "Lived good enough. But it's time you returned to him. Keep your part of the deal."

Wednesday observed everything—the shift in his stance, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands hovered near his sides like a man prepared to either fight or plead.

“Papa?”

The girl.

Wednesday saw something shift in his face.

"Get her inside, Laura," he ordered, his voice firm but not unkind.

His wife hesitated, sadness pulling at her features. She understood. She knew what was about to happen.

But she obeyed.

Kalzorran exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face before letting out a bitter chuckle.

"You," he muttered. "You are his greatest hunter, aren’t you? Death's very emissary."

Wednesday felt her heart slow. She saw the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides, the way his throat bobbed as if he was trying to swallow something heavy.

"You alone, all by yourself… hunted so many of us," Kalzorran continued, his voice quieter now. "Killed our greatest defenders. No other hunter has done that. Ever." He let out another hollow laugh, shaking his head. "You made us all go back into hiding, living like animals again."

You said nothing.

You only stood there, katana in hand, the blade reflecting the dim light.

Kalzorran’s voice turned sharper. "So you have potential. More than any of us. More than me. And you sold your soul for it, just like we did." His gaze locked onto you, something desperate, something searching flickering behind his eyes. "For what? Power? Wealth?"

"Revenge." Your answer was immediate.

Wednesday felt her breath catch.

The word landed with the weight of a tombstone.

Kalzorran’s lips parted slightly, his expression unreadable. He let out a slow, exhausted exhale before shaking his head.

"And was it worth it?" he asked. His voice was softer now, almost... mournful. "Tell me, oh great huntress... how much of his soul, his torment did he give you for yours? Maybe a handful from his billions?"

There was no hesitation.

"Half."

Kalzorran went completely still.

For a moment, there was no sound but the distant hum of the jungle, the whisper of leaves rustling in the wind.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"...What?"

"Half." You repeated.

Wednesday watched as the color drained from the man’s face. His bravado wavered, his stance stiffened—not in preparation for a fight, but in something closer to dread.

Kalzorran staggered a step back, his breath coming out uneven. "That's not possible…" He swallowed, his expression flickering between disbelief and something far worse—recognition.

"No…" He shook his head. "No, that would mean… you…" His eyes widened. His lips parted, struggling to shape the words he didn’t want to say.

"The prophecy…" he whispered. "You… you are…"

His eyes widened and Wednesday saw fear. Not the fear of death. Not the fear of you. But the fear of what you were.

"Lucifer's chosen one…"

She only stared. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense. The pieces didn’t fit—except they did.

The shadows. The power. The way you moved, the way you hunted, the way people feared you in ways they couldn’t explain.

Lucifer.

The Devil.

You were—

"I am the Maiden of Death."

[End note: Yeah, things are gonna get real from here lol. Enid wasn't kidding when she said "She’s not just like Wednesday. She’s way scarier" Comment who would win a fight Her Heartbeat's Y/n or Tmod's Y/n 😂 pookie y/n vs spooky y/n.]

taglist: @rqizzu @sevyscoven @kingoftheracoons @kingofthings2 @masterofpuppets-10 @alexkolax @ognenniyvolk @mally-ka @protozoario @machyishere @freakshow2501 @101rizzlrr @casbrawel @jinxslapdog @just-zy @gray-cheese @hellenheaven @cheerlanader @pikachooo3 @jennaswifey @thyhooligans @caffeine-pup @gayerthanmylittleponys @sabrinasgirlfren @neoeleoo @deflatedducky @cheerlanader @trashcannotbealive

[enhaflixer]

I loved king of tears and I just read the new short sequel you posted! If you ever can it would be amazing to see how sunghoon was during the pregnancy!! Thank you for keeping us fed <3

Park Sunghoon had built an empire with his bare hands.

He had survived corporate betrayals, financial warfare, and enemies disguised as allies.

He had lost before—and he had paid for it.

When the first pregnancy ended in heartbreak, it created a rift between you both. Grief filled the spaces where love used to be, silence replaced whispered dreams of a future.

It had taken time, effort, and endless patience to bridge that gap again.

So when you announced your second pregnancy, Sunghoon should have been ecstatic.

And he was.

But he was also terrified.

Because this time? Failure was not an option.

The Fear He Couldn’t Shake

Sunghoon didn’t sleep that night.

You did—peacefully, tucked into his side, your breath warm against his skin.

But he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thoughts spiraling.

Because what if it happened again?

What if he let himself be happy, only for the universe to take it all away?

His grip around you tightened slightly.

You stirred, pressing closer. “You’re thinking too much,” you murmured sleepily.

Sunghoon swallowed. He was.

He always did.

“I just…” He exhaled slowly. “I don’t want anything to go wrong.”

You shifted slightly, still half-asleep, and guided his hand to your stomach.

“We’re okay, Sunghoon.”

And for the first time that night, his breath steadied.

The Overprotective CEO Mode

The next morning, the rules began.

• No heels. (You ignored this.)

• No unnecessary walking. (You also ignored this.)

• No lifting anything heavier than a pillow. (At this point, you started actively defying him.)

But the worst offense?

The workplace ban.

“Sunghoon,” you groaned, dropping onto the couch in his office, “I am pregnant, not terminally ill.”

Sunghoon barely looked up from his laptop. “You should be resting.”

“I am resting. At work.”

His jaw tensed. You watched him process his next words carefully.

Then, without looking at you, he casually took your handbag and moved it out of reach.

You gasped. “Did you just confiscate my purse?”

“You shouldn’t carry heavy things.”

“It’s a purse, Sunghoon.”

He didn’t care. He still took it.

And when you sighed and let him?

He looked smug as hell.

Chapter Three: The First Kick

Sunghoon had read exactly seven books on pregnancy.

None of them—not one—prepared him for this moment.

You were curled up on the couch when you froze.

Your hand flew to your belly.

Sunghoon noticed instantly. “What’s wrong?”

Your eyes widened. “She kicked.”

Sunghoon stared.

Then, without hesitation, he moved closer, placing a careful hand on your stomach.

Nothing.

You giggled at his focused expression. “She’s shy, I guess.”

Sunghoon frowned. Unacceptable.

Clearing his throat, he spoke directly to your belly. “It’s your father,” he announced. “You will kick again. Now.”

Silence.

You burst out laughing.

But then—

A soft, tiny movement beneath his palm.

Sunghoon froze.

His throat bobbed. His fingers pressed more firmly, as if trying to memorize the feeling.

And when his gaze met yours, his expression finally cracked.

“She’s really in there,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Slowly, Sunghoon leaned down, pressing his forehead to your belly.

And in a voice so quiet it barely reached you, he whispered—

“I can’t wait to meet you.”

When Sunghoon Realized He Was in Trouble

It started subtly.

You were clingier than usual, which was saying something, because Sunghoon already had no concept of personal space when it came to you.

But now?

Now you were always touching him—hands skimming over his chest when he walked past, fingers sneaking under his shirt while cuddling, lips pressing against his jaw at random intervals.

At first, he didn’t mind.

Then one night, you walked into his office, wearing his shirt and nothing else.

Sunghoon barely glanced up. “What is it, love?”

Then—he did a double take.

His fingers froze over his laptop. His jaw tensed.

You sauntered over, sliding onto his lap.

Sunghoon stiffened. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working too long,” you murmured, fingers trailing over his collar. “Thought I’d help you relax.”

Sunghoon swallowed. Hard.

He should have pulled back.

Should have told you to rest.

Should have done anything other than what he actually did.

Which was let you kiss him breathless right there in his chair.

The Night He Gave In Completely

It was late.

You were wrapped around him, legs tangled with his, lips pressed against his throat.

“Baby,” he exhaled, already struggling. “You need to sleep.”

“I need you first.”

Sunghoon’s control snapped.

The next second, you were beneath him, wrists pinned against the sheets, his mouth hot and desperate against yours.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered between kisses, his hands roaming, touching, taking.

You smiled against his lips. “Then lose your mind for me, Hoon.”

And he did.

All night.

The Night Before Everything Changed

You were lying in bed, half-asleep, when you felt Sunghoon’s hand on your stomach.

It was late.

The room was silent.

But his fingers traced gentle circles over your belly, his breathing slow, steady.

“You okay?” you murmured sleepily.

Sunghoon hesitated.

Then—he pressed a kiss just above your navel.

“I can’t wait to meet her,” he whispered.

You smiled, threading your fingers through his hair. “She’s lucky to have you.”

Sunghoon let out a soft, almost breathless laugh.

“No.” He looked up at you, eyes filled with something so overwhelming it nearly swallowed you whole.

“I’m lucky to have both of you.”

And when you finally fell asleep, Sunghoon stayed awake, hand resting over your belly—protecting, guarding, loving.

Because this time?

This time, he was ready.

[agirlwithglam]

📚 It girl's guide to school 📚

hiii girls! this is part of the big Guide to being the It Girl. this section will be all about school, studying and academics. i'll teach you how to tackle school, get the highest grades effortlessly, and look chic and gorgeous doing it! the rest of the ultimate it girl series is linked! 🎀

guide to getting good grades:

LISTEN IN CLASS. one of the best tips ever. if you would actually listen to what your teachers teaching in class, you’d get to spend a lot less time studying.

ask if you need help! these teachers are qualified for the job, they’re meant to be good at it. so if you don’t understand something, don’t be afraid to ask. and if you’re really too much of a chicken, ask once the class is over or email the teacher. but honestly? half the kids probably aren’t even listening tbh so u do ur thing!

participate in class. actually participating in class will help you so much in recalling the information. it’s a great way to actively revise. you don’t have to be a teachers pet or anything, but if you know the answer, put yourself out there. anyone who judges you simply judges themselves and their inability to speak up.

change up your environment so that you're still interested and excited to learn! you could go to a coffee shop, set up a mini picnic in the woods, go to a library, etc.

use alter egos!! i will never stop recommending this because it really is an amazing tip. either you can create your own alter ego who loves to study and gets high grades, or you could pretend you're rory gilmore or hermione granger!

revision/ study techniques:

feynman technique: teach it to someone else/ to plushies. try not to look at your notes too much, pretend ur a teacher.

use practice questions/ practice exams! trust me this can be so helpful! try and find past exams and go over them in exam conditions so you can see what u missed later. or, you can get all the info and ask an AI like chatgpt to write questions based on it and go through them!

BLURTING! love this method! basically, you write all the information you know about the topic on one page (optional: set a time limit) and then go over it with a different colour pen and add in what you missed. do this a couple times until you haven't missed anything! - you can do this by creating a mind-map, or literally just scribbling down everything you know.

SQ3R method: survey/ skim over the text, question- make questions on it, read- begin reading to find the answers to the questions, recite- summarise the words in a section in your own words, review- quiz yourself on what you just learnt

organise/ prioritise what you need to study using the traffic light method. first, identify the topics, then highlight them according to these 3 colors: red- struggling a lot/ no idea , yellow- okay ish, need to work on it a bit tho , green- good understanding & confident on the topic.

make associations. this is especially helpful for when you need to memorise things. the thing you need to memorise- link it to stuff that you already know.

⭐️ use mnemonics, songs, raps to remember! a couple years back, my science teacher made us create a rap on osmosis (a biology term). and not even kidding, i still remember the simple definition of what it does because of that rap! so create songs or rap and maybe even make a whole music video on it! trust me, not only is it so fun but it really does help keep the information in your mind!

more resources:

huge big list of studying and school

another big study masterpost

100 reasons to study

how to be a whole new student this year

ACE your exams -by me!

study icons:

as i mentioned earlier, channelling the energy of a character who already studies and gets good grades is an amazing way of getting yourself motivated! here are some of my favs & tips to study like them! (p.s i've also added links to the names for a more in depth guide on each person!)

♡ rory gilmore

she loves studying- develop that mindset! have a passion for learning more.

"i can go from 0 to studying in less than 60 seconds"

switch between different subjects when you get bored

ask someone to test you with flashcards

♡ elle woods:

study while you exercise- take care of ur body too!

"what, like its hard?"- i love her sm for this!! if anyone else can do something, of course you can do it too!

be ambitious + have strong source of motivation

get into study groups

♡ paris geller

have the discipline and ambition to do the things that will get you to where you want.

"i want to win, and i'm going to win." - love this, she's sure of herself and confident in her abilities.

prioritise & use to do lists

start early to be the top of your class!

♡ blair waldorf

honestly its so fun to embody her energy of high value, cares about her education, so confident and takes no sh*t from others!

"anything you can do, i can do better"

always have a plan

have flash cards, take notes

♡ hermione granger

always participate in class!

read more about the material. + learn more!

teach others & help them study

finish the hw/ work quickly and do the extra credit!

stylish in school 101:

SURVIVING SCHOOL AIR: here are some tips to staying/ looking pretty and refreshed all day at school bc u and i both know the horrors of school air 🙀 :)

DRINK WATER. stay hydrated - very important. always drink water. this keeps your lips hydrated, face hydrated, and just makes you look a lil less dead.

lip gloss/ lip balm to reapply throughout the day, esp for my girlies with chapped lips! i keep lip balm in my pocket so its always there when needed, but you can also keep it in your locker/ bag/ pencil case.

perfume. you can keep it in your locker/ bag/ pencil case to spray whenever needed and smell sweet and amazing the entire day <3

stop touching your face!! your hands have so much crusty dust and bacteria that can give pimples on your face.

keep hair away from your face. leave it out if you want, but try to make sure it doesn't touch your face too much- it also has tons of crusty musty dusty germs

keep a hairbrush in your locker. listen, i know how messy hair can get during school so keeping it in school is SO helpful to maintain the tidyness and cleanliness

waterproof makeup - if you wear makeup.

sunscreen!! keep. applying. SUNSCREENN!! i'm not going to elaborate further on this point.

ACCESSORISING YOUR UNIFORM!!

this is for the girlies who have a school uniform! i understand it can be so annoying so to have more fun and feel more confident, ACCESSORIZEE everything as much as you're allowed! here are some ideas!

♡ necklesses

♡ bracelets

♡ bows in your hair

♡ bows in your bag

♡ bows everywhere basically 🎀

♡ decorate your ipad/ pencilcase with stickers

♡ headbands

♡ rings

♡ cute earrings

♡ cute watch

♡ nails

♡ a cute clip!

the ultimate it girl series

xoxo, vanilla!

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: Like Real People Do

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader, Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader Summary: Garden centre, Walmart, and absurd amounts of alcohol. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: References to past trauma. [This is a lighter chapter, as a treat.] Word count: 2.5k A/N: I have done major edits to the grammar and structure (+ a little more content on each chap) to every single chapter of this fic. I hope it will be a lot nicer to read now, and I apologise for how it looked before. Also, this work now has a tag list! If you wish to be added, you can send me a message or comment below! :)

The moment you stepped foot into the garden centre, the overwhelming scent of earthy soil overtook you. The air was thick with humidity.

Rows upon rows of plants stretched out before you, and they felt almost overwhelming after the sterile confines of the Tower. It was most definitely too early to be outside, but after your late-night rendezvous with the rest of the Thunderbolts, you passed out as soon as your head hit the pillow.  

Bob walked beside you, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, eyes wide as he took in the sight. “Wow, this place is huge,” he murmured, voice nearly lost among the rustling leaves. His gaze darted around the room, and you followed it to the giant Monstera. Every leaf looked pampered: no brown edges, no sad yellow spots. But even so, they spilt over the stacks of shelves like they were too heavy for their own good. Some hung lazily, others curled at the tips until the shelves disappeared under all the untamed green.  

The bell sounded behind you, its iron-wrought chimes jingling against each other as you shut the door. There was no one around, unsurprising considering the time, but you could hear a faint clambering sound slowly getting louder. 

“One moment!” a voice called from somewhere within the greenery. You snapped your head around, your fingers clenched in anticipation.  

A younger man ducked his head into view, long hair frazzled as if he’d just completed a marathon. Sweat glistened from his forehead, though most of his face was hidden behind a massive fern.

He licked his lips, set the plant down with a thunk, and wiped his palms on his apron. You squinted to try to decipher the half-removed text, ‘Grab your balls. It’s canning season.’ He caught you staring and grinned. “Vintage,” he said, tapping the words. You nodded, lost in your curiosity and confusion. “How can I help?” Bob reached into his back pocket and produced the now completely crumpled piece of paper. It was the same list as earlier, but you could see there had been a few revisions in a different-coloured pen.  

“We’re complete beginners,” Bob pressed the list into the worker's hands, eager as much as anxious to have a professional opinion. “Well, actually, that’s if there isn’t anything below beginner because we’re probably closer to that.”  

“What exactly are you working on?” he asked, eyes skimming over the simple items on the list. “A small starter patch?”  

“Avengers Tower rooftop garden,” you replied matter-of-factly, as simply as if you were discussing the weather and not a practical national landmark. The worker blinked, his grin becoming a look of manic shock.  

“No shit? I thought I recognized you.” His voice pitched upward, finger pointing right down your chest. “Why are the Avengers buying plants, couldn’t you just hire someone to do this?”  

“Because we’re the Avengers with a ‘z’,” You tugged the paperback from his grasp and tried to soothe the oncoming headache. “And we just want to grow some of our own shit.” The worker nodded insistently, clearly coming down from his enthusiastic high. He walked around the desk and rummaged around in the drawer before returning with a ballpoint pen and a scraggly-looking notebook.  

“Well, if you’re building an entire rooftop garden, you’ll be needing more than just seeds and dirt.” He frantically wrote down in his notebook until the paper had almost completely disappeared under the ink. “Building a garden sounds simple, but one of that calibre will probably make you regret not just hiring someone.” He shot up and shimmied his pen into his apron’s pocket before dashing off into the labyrinth of plants.  

“Sorry, I thought this would be a lot more simple,” Bob whispered to you, eyes wide, as he watched Jeremy — whose name you only learnt from his askew name tag — work in front of him.  

“No, this is good,” you said, tapping Bob gently with your hand. “I mean, it’s just some plants, it can’t be that difficult.” Bob gave you a crooked smile, softening at your reassurance.  

As it turned out, it could be that difficult. 

You wouldn’t just be sitting around, digging up dirt and waiting until buds started to grow. It was far more architecture-based. An hour after setting foot in, you’d added a multitude of what you’d deemed ‘random’ items to your basket.

Including but not limited to: galvanized-steel containers, powder coating for said steel so it’d ‘fit in’ with the aesthetic, porcelain floor tiling, and far more seeds and pots that could reasonably fit inside your car. Which was how you now owed roughly more than half your monthly budget to a moving company called “Broke Back Movers”, who’d be hauling your garden-to-be onto the Avengers Tower roof next week.  

“This has been extortionate,” you said, taking a long sip of your black coffee as you glared at the receipt. “You know Bucky is going to give us an earful, right?” The garden centre café was bustling with life, humming with the clattering of silverware and the constant buzzing and grinding of coffees being made.  

Bob stared into his own cup of drink. The way his shoulders slumped, not tired, just… quietly defeated, said everything you needed to know. “I’m sorry I dragged you out here,”  

“Why?” you asked, softer this time. “You having second thoughts?”  

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” he fidgeted at the sugar granules on the table, scattering them onto the floor. “It’s a lot more work than I realized.”  

You swirled your cup before taking another sip. “Does that mean it’s not worth it any more because it’s a lot of work?”  

“I just don’t think either of us knew what we were really signing up for,” he gestured vaguely to the receipt.  

“I do now.” The admission felt dangerous, like it was more than just plants and planning permissions. “And I still want it.”  

“It’s going to take months,” Bob’s gaze drifted past you to the pest control aisles. “Could be at it until summer.”  

“Good,” you nudged his foot under the table. “It gives us something to do, other than saving the world, of course. But that gets boring.” He snickered in response, burying half of his face in his coffee cup.  

“We should probably bribe Bucky with something. Maybe the whole team, since we’ll probably end up dragging them all into this mess.”  

“I saw a Walmart on the way here,” you flicked the empty sugar packet at him. “I doubt spending more money is the answer, but maybe absurd amounts of alcohol will be.”  

The drive over was only a few minutes. When you arrived, the shop's fluorescents hummed above you, their glare bouncing off rows of glistening alcohol bottles. A sudden chill from the AC sent shivers down your spine and goosebumps racing up your exposed skin. You reached for another bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey and threw it in the cart, where it joined two others and a disordered assortment of spirits. You grabbed a fourth Jack, because why not, and lobbed it in. You walked further down the aisle, eyeing all the colourful cocktail mixers and throwing some in for good measure.  

Bob trailed behind you, pushing the increasingly heavy cart with growing concern. “Are we planning to get everyone blackout drunk?” he asked, watching you add yet another bottle of drink to the collection.  

“That's the idea,” you replied, grabbing a box of premixed drinks and examining the flavour selection on the label. “Team bonding,” you said, turning to face him fully. “Plus, half of you guys are super soldiers, not like you’ll even feel it.”  

Bob considered this for a moment, then shrugged and resumed pushing the cart. “Yelena will probably still manage to drink us under the table.”  

“Now that,” you said, tossing in a bottle of vodka that looked expensive enough to justify the inevitable lecture from Bucky, “would be entertaining to watch.”  

The checkout line was mercifully short compared to all the other lines, though, the cashier did a double-take when she started scanning the bottles. Her eyes flicked between you and Bob, clearly trying to place your faces. “Having a party?” she asked, the scanner beeping rhythmically as bottle after bottle passed through.  

“A crazy one,” you replied, pulling out your card as the total climbed higher. Bob winced visibly when the final number appeared on the screen.  

“That'll be $347.82,” the cashier announced, and you could practically see Bob's soul leaving his body. You handed over your card without flinching, sliding it down the side of the reader. The bagging process was a struggle in itself, you tried to shove as many bottles in the few bags you’d bought but still needed to grab more to carry it all.  

The parking lot was filled, and your car sat packed between two other trucks. Bob loaded the bags into the trunk, while you slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.

The radio crackled to life as Bob came around and settled into the passenger seat. You reached over to change the station, swapping between a range of different genres, from songs about love to a radio host complaining about ‘Spider-Man the Spider-Menace’.  

The drive back to the Tower felt different from the morning trip, more relaxed, almost teetering on excitement. The city was busier now, morning settling into early afternoon, and you found yourself stuck in traffic only five minutes after pulling out from the store.  

“The garden centre was nice, glad I didn’t have to go alone,” Bob said suddenly. He was looking out the window, but you could see his reflection in the glass, the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  

“I should tell you something, though,” you said, glancing over at him as you stopped at a red light. “I’ve been lying to you.” Bob’s eyebrows furrowed as he stared into you.  

“What?” he stammered, adjusting in his seat so he could give you his full attention. “Lying about what? Did you not want to do this?”  

You shook your head, fingers grasping steadily on the wheel, arms fully outstretched. “No, I want to do this.” The light turned green, and you pressed the accelerator, the tower coming into view ahead. “I’ve gardened before.” Bob laughed, and the sweet sound filled the car and warmed your beating heart. You pulled into the Tower's underground garage, the familiar hum of the building's systems welcoming you home. “I know, I know. I’m a lying cheater.” As you turned off the engine, Bob was already reaching for the door handle, but he paused.  

“What did you grow?” he asked, turning back to you. Something bitter unfurled in your chest, dangerous and painful and terrifying all at once.  

“I planted a flower. On Tony’s grave,” you said, confession pouring out of you, more painful than anything else in a very long time. “Used my blood to grow it. So it’d… last.” 

You shoved the car door open, desperate for the garage’s cold air to swallow you whole. But Bob’s hand closed around your forearm, gentle and unyielding. No yank, no demand—just stay. You sank back into the seat, the door hanging open like a held breath. His thumb brushed a slow arc over your sleeve, the friction soft. The quiet between you thickened, alive.  

You could hear it all: the traitorous drum of your pulse, too loud, too raw. The flower would never wilt. You’d made sure of that. Its roots would coil deep, fed by the same power that kept your hands stained. A monument, 'look at what I lost'. ��

“Lily of the valley,” you stared at the garage stone wall. “Started small. Now it’s… God, it’s taller than me.”  

Bob’s thumb stilled on your sleeve. “You go back to see it?”  

“Not since I moved here,” the words tasted like ash. “Fourteen months.” The silence pooled, heavy, until you couldn’t handle the weight any more. “The roots… They’ve wrapped around everything, I could feel it. Like I was forcing him to stay.” The admission clawed up your throat. You let out a breath, not shaky, not steady, just something in between, and then, slowly, you pulled your arm free.  

“It’s cold,” you said, though it wasn’t. “Let’s get this stuff inside,” and Bob let you stand. You stepped out, boots scuffing against the concrete floor. Bob moved with you, opening the trunk and pulling out the first bag, the bottles clinking together under his grip. He didn’t comment on your deflection, didn’t ask if you were okay, he just worked, handing off bags one by one, like this was the only thing that mattered right now.  

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, and Bob stepped in first, shifting the bags in his grip before leaning against the railing. You stared at your reflection in the mirror; you’d managed to throw some of your clothes in the dryer last night, so now you weren’t running off the bottom-of-the-wardrobe scraps. Even still, you’d picked out just a simple gray spaghetti strap tank top, paired with a blue-grey plaid flannel shirt and a rugged brown denim jacket thrown over.  

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal the hallway leading into the Tower’s common space. The moment you stepped through, the shift in the atmosphere was immediate. Alexei was slouched on the couch, legs sprawled, as he bellowed a story at Yelena, who was sipping from a mug as if she was merely tolerating his nonsense. Across the couch, Ava sat absent-mindedly beside Bucky, who was scowling at his phone.  

The second they clocked you and Bob, more specifically, the bags of alcohol in your arms, the reaction was instant. Alexei sat up, eyebrows shooting up in dramatic delight. “You have come bearing gifts!”  

Bucky, however, narrowed his eyes at the sheer amount of bottles. “How much have you two spent?” He put his finger up to stop Bob from responding. “No, don’t tell me. Plausible deniability.” Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, already resigned.  

Bob hoisted his bags onto the counter with a quiet grunt, shaking his head. The receipt peeked out from between his fingers, still absurd enough to make him grimace.  

“You know,” he muttered, “I really thought gardening was going to be the most expensive part of this week.”  

Alexei let out a loud ha! And slapped Bob’s back with enough force to make him stumble. “Oh, my friend, you have clearly never purchased alcohol in bulk. It was investment!” Yelena snatched a bottle of vodka from the pile, inspecting the label like she was judging its quality.  

Ava plucked a bottle of whiskey from the mess, twisted off the cap, and took a casual sip. “Less talking. More drinking.”  

Between the six of you, the unpacking process was surprisingly smooth, bottles sorted into neat(ish) rows across the counter, mixers shoved toward the fridge, discarded packaging tossed haphazardly into the bin.  

You reached for a bottle at the same time as Bob, fingers brushing lightly against his. Neither of you pulled away; it wasn’t intentional, exactly, but you couldn't help but linger. Bob cleared his throat. You gave the bottle to him without comment, your own hand flexing slightly before moving on to unpack another.  

“Y’know,” you said, slapping a tequila bottle down, “we’ve got enough here to play every drinking game ever invented.”  

Alexei grinned wide, gesturing grandly. “Now you’re speaking my language!”  

TAG LIST: @non-anonymous-anon @ara-a-bird

[childrenofcain-if]

Hello beautiful Author!! I hope u are doing well! So basically I am a religious follower of your blog and uuugghh!!! This story is so beautifully crafted like the script the writing style the plot even the characters seem larger than life. Honestly u have my tremendous respect and admiration.... Also I am totally in love with cedric!! angsty adorable and hot. So since today is my birthday I decided to treat myself to a snippet ... Can u please write a fluff scene where in the future after marriage yk after C achieved his dream how would M!C react to find out that F!MC is pregnant. What kind of dad would he be and how would he handle the news especially if it's a girl. (PS: I love you okay? U rock!!! ❤❤😘)

the morning started like most mornings did in your household. the sunlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your manhattan penthouse, muted by the heavy curtains cédric insisted on keeping drawn just enough to keep the room from feeling exposed.

he was already in the kitchen when you woke up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he frowned at his ipad.

it was a weekday, which meant cédric was doing what cédric did best: handling things.

the man could command a room full of board members or negotiate a multi-billion-dollar deal, but he always took his mornings slow, like it was his personal rebellion against the world which demanded his attention. the smell of coffee hung thick in the air, and you could hear him muttering under his breath—half in french, half in english—as he skimmed over some report.

he looked up when he heard your footsteps. the cold glint in his pale green eyes softened the way they always did when he saw you.

“good morning, mon amour,” he said, setting the ipad down as if the numbers and charts weren’t important anymore.

you smiled at him, but there was a nervous flutter in your chest that didn’t quite dissipate.

“good morning,” you greeted back, making your way to the counter. “we need to talk.”

his brow furrowed, just slightly, in that way that meant his mind was already cataloging possible scenarios. you wondered if he was running through a mental checklist: a problem at work, an overdue bill, a delayed package. he was always looking for answers before you even finished your question.

“what’s wrong?” he asked, voice low and calm, but his hand twitched where it rested on the counter.

you hesitated, suddenly unsure how to say it. for someone who had spent years speaking in boardrooms and drafting persuasive arguments, the words felt clumsy in your throat.

“there’s nothing wrong, per se,” you began, and you saw the tension in his shoulders ease—just a fraction. “it’s just... i’m pregnant.”

the silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. it was like the air had stilled, waiting for his reaction.

cédric blinked. once, twice. then he stepped back, leaning against the counter as if the weight of your words had hit him square in the chest. his mouth opened, then closed again. he looked—if you hadn’t known him better—younger. like a boy caught off guard, unsure of whether he was allowed to feel what he was feeling.

“you’re...?” he started, and then he stopped himself. his hand went to his hair, brushing the dark brown strands back, a nervous habit he’d never managed to shake. “you’re sure?”

you nodded, suddenly shy. “i took three tests. all positive. i was going to wait until we were both home later tonight, but—”

“no, no, now is perfect,” he interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended, like he was scolding you for even considering keeping it from him. he shook his head, and you could see the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “mon dieu.”

cédric laughed then, a sound so rare and so unguarded it made your chest ache. it was a laugh of disbelief, of joy, of sheer and unrestrained emotion. he crossed the kitchen in two long strides and pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly you could feel his heart pounding against your ribs.

“je t’aime,” he murmured into your hair. “je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.”

you clung to him, laughing through the tears that had started spilling down your cheeks.

***

cédric’s reaction to the pregnancy didn’t end that morning. over the next few weeks, he threw himself into preparing for the baby with the same intensity he brought to his work. he was meticulous, obsessive even, researching everything from cribs to car seats. he vetoed three potential pediatricians before you’d even had a chance to meet them, insisting that only the best would do.

but it wasn’t just about the logistics. cédric was unexpectedly tender, in a way that made your heart twist. he read parenting books in bed at night, one hand on your growing belly as he absently stroked his thumb over the fabric of your pajamas. he brought you tea without being asked, stocked the pantry with your favorite snacks, and refused to let you carry anything heavier than a shopping bag.

when you found out the baby was a girl, it felt like the world completely shifted for him.

“it’s a girl,” you had informed him, holding the ultrasound picture out to him.

he took it from your hands carefully, as if it were made of glass, and stared at it for a long moment. his expression was unreadable, but you could see the way his fingers trembled, just slightly.

“a daughter,” he said, the words thick in his throat. “our daughter.”

you nodded with a small smile, watching him carefully. “how do you feel about that?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he set the picture down on the table and turned to you, his eyes burning with an intensity that made you shiver.

“i’m going to protect her,” cédric said, his voice low and fierce. “from everything. from everyone. she’ll never have to wonder if she’s loved. she’ll never have to fight for what’s hers.”

“i can already see it,” you teased gently, trying to lighten the mood. “you’ll be the dad who scares off all her partners.”

“damn right i will,” he said, his smile returning. “she’s going to know her worth. and if anyone tries to undermine that—” he didn’t finish the sentence, but the murderous look in his eyes said enough.

you leaned forward, cupping his cheek and drawing him back to you. “she’ll know her worth because of you,” you said softly. “because of how much you’ll love her.”

“and her mother,” he added, his voice barely above a whisper.

he kissed you then, slow and lingering, and when he pulled back, his hands settled gently over your stomach.

you reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “she’s going to be so lucky to have you.”

cédric shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “no,” he said softly, his gaze dropping to your belly. “i’m the lucky one.”

***

as the months went on, cédric proved himself to be everything you’d hoped for and more. he was attentive to a fault, sometimes to the point of driving you mad with his insistence on helping you. ehen the baby kicked for the first time, he was right there, his hand pressed against your stomach, his eyes wide with wonder.

when your due date finally arrived, he was the calmest one in the delivery room. he held your hand through every contraction (even when you almost broke his bones), whispered words of encouragement in your ear, and refused to leave your side, even when the nurses told him to give you space.

and when your daughter was finally born, cédric was the first to hold her, much to your father’s exasperation. he cradled her tiny, wrinkled body in his arms, his expression soft and awestruck.

“she’s perfect,” he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks.

you smiled, exhausted but deliriously happy. “she has your eyes.”

“and a head full of your hair,” he said, his voice breaking.

in that moment, you knew without a doubt that he would be the kind of father who would move mountains for his daughter. he would be firm but fair, protective but not overbearing, and endlessly devoted to her happiness.

as he rocked her gently, humming a lullaby under his breath, you realized that this—your little family—was everything you’d ever wanted. and as much as you knew about how cédric wasn’t very good at expressing his emotions, it was clear as day right now that nothing would ever compare to the love he had for the two of you.

[thwd4510]

rafayel x gn!reader who’s also an artist.

꧂꧂꧂

(not proof read, so i hope it’s sufficient. sorry~!)

summary: you come to rafayel's studio to borrow some of his art supplies. you end up getting a new and very willing muse...

It’s rather late into the morning when you find yourself heading to Rafayel’s studio, bringing along a sketchbook. In a spur-of-the-moment burst of creativity, you jumped at the chance to make some art. You’ve been having art block for a few weeks now, so of course you’re delighted to have ideas to put on that forlorn looking sketchbook page. It was almost looking back at you, waiting to be used.

Mid sketch, you realized you didn’t have the materials you needed. What should you do? This creativity juice can only last so long–you gotta make the most of it!

When your phone lights up with a random social media notification, your eyes linger on your lockscreen for a moment. It’s a picture of you and Rafayel, where he’s kissing your cheek. You smile, giggling to yourself, even.

He’s so cute… I miss him.

Looking back onto your half-finished sketch, it finally clicks in your head. You can just go to your ARTIST boyfriend’s studio for some supplies. Genius.

Now, here you are at his door, opening it. You shake your head at how he never locks it. Sure, it’s nice that it’s always open to you, but that means it’s always open to other things as well. That’s a different topic for later…

“Raf?” You call out gently. “Rafayel? You home?”

Upon not receiving a response, you wander into his room only to find him asleep. He had spent long hours, not eating or sleeping, finishing a painting or two. Shaking your head, you place a hand over his forehead, simply checking for any signs of sickness. Thankfully, his skin is as cool as ever and you pull his blanket up to fully cover his shoulders.

Leaving him to rest, you take it upon yourself to rummage through his art supplies yourself. You put your sketchbook down on his bedside table, getting up to check his closet filled to the brim with materials and miscellaneous things. Pausing for a moment, you inhale deeply, preparing to carefully open the doors.

“Please don’t come crashing down like last time…” You whisper to yourself, brows furrowed while you cautiously lay a gentle hand on the handle.

The last time you opened this storage closet, everything came toppling over, making an incoherent mess of pencils, pastels, sketchbooks, paintbrushes, etc. Of course, you took the time to organize everything and cleaned out the things that were no longer needed. Rafayel did his best to help as well – it was his mess, after all. Then again, that was months ago. He could’ve very well made another mess again since then.

To your surprise (and body braced for impact), the closet was just as organized as before. He kept it clean, mostly for you and the next time you opened it. With a smile, you walk inside, carefully skimming through the supplies to find what you need.

Minutes later, you find yourself sitting comfortably in bed beside Rafayel while he sleeps. Your previous sketch was long forgotten, left unfinished, as you began drawing out your peacefully resting boyfriend.

The tip of your pencil etched into the paper with quick, calculated strokes of your hand. Periodically looking up at him for reference, you pause after a few more looks. The purple and pink hues of his irises met your gaze, startling you for a second.

“What the hell… You scared me, Raf,” you gasped, barely above a whisper. Your voice was a little hoarse from not speaking for a while, lips pursed while you concentrated on drawing.

Rafayel smiles mischievously, sleep still somewhat evident on his features when he takes your sketchbook in his hand, snatching it away from your hold.

“Whatcha making, cutie? Let me see.” You fumble a little, taken aback by how quickly he took it from you.

“Uh- well, good morning to you, too..!”

He looks at the page intently, eyes focused on your work-in-progress. The way he studies it so intensely causes your face to blow up into a tomato, feeling the (non-existent) scrutiny in his gaze. Rafayel smiles fondly at your little doodles of him on other pages as well, admiring how good-looking you made him seem. He wasn’t accustomed to being a muse as he was usually the artist here. He could get used to this.

Your face grew impossibly hotter, embarrassment creeping up throughout your body while he continued to soak in your drawings. Try as you might, you couldn’t swipe your sketchbook away from his grasp. He caught your wrists, holding them firmly in his hand as he finally tears his eyes away from the page to meet your eyes.

“Is this how you see me?” He almost swooned, eyes twinkling with the light of a thousand stars reflected on the sea’s surface. “I’m flattered.”

You huff in exasperation, tired from trying to pry the sketchbook away from him. Rafayel pulls your hands closer to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on them.

“These are some talented hands you have here,” he kisses them again, lips brushing against your knuckles. “Would be a shame to let them go to waste. Keep drawing, yeah?”

You scoffed lightly at him, your lungs practically being robbed of air to inflate his ego. He gives you your sketchbook back and gets into a relaxed pose, eyes never straying from your own. He hoists his head on his hand, elbow nestled into his pillow as he lays sideways.

Sighing, you shake your head and get to sketching once more. The blush never leaves your cheeks each time your eyes come back up to glance at your Lemurian boyfriend.

He is really handsome, after all.

You wonder if he has ever been anyone’s muse before you, knowing that he’s quite the beautiful man. Your thoughts and sketching comes to a pause when interrupted by Rafayel’s words.

“Draw me like one of your French gir- err, boys,” he says, boasting with pride at how you look at him. “Except I’m the only boy.”

“Ugh.”

However, you wish never to get caught drawing his likeness again. You love him so, but he becomes too insufferable.

…

Bonus-

“Oh, Raf?” You gently patted his back. You two are now cuddled together in bed.

“Hm?” He hummed, voice muffled because his face is nuzzled in the crook of your neck.

“You kept the storage closet tidy. Thank you, my love.”

Rafayel simply huffed a small chuckle, lips stretching into a smile at your praise. The peaceful silence is broken by the abrupt sound of his phone ringing. Thomas’ name flashes on the screen as it rings. Rafayel makes no move to pick it up and you feel his lips curl into an irritated frown.

You sigh, deciding to take pity on poor Thomas and pick up.

“Hello?” You began, voice low, before being cut off by a frantic voice on the other side of the line.

“Rafayel, how many times have I reminded you that you have a meeting with the gallery’s owner today?! Are your pieces ready to go yet?!” Thomas drones on and on, a tinge of tiredness in his voice.

“If not, get to painting! And if you don’t have any inspiration, just- just call (Y/N) for gods’ sake..!”

Rafayel groans, hastily taking and bringing the phone to his ear.

“Thomas, tell them I’m busy being drawn by my talented bodyguard! Let me be a muse for once!”

Poor, poor Thomas lets out a string of confused noises, but before he can protest, Rafayel hangs up. He immediately buries his nose back into the crook of your neck, basking in the comfortable warmth. His (very expensive) phone is tossed somewhere across the room, causing you to wince and shake your head upon hearing it hit the floor.

“I deserve a few more drawings after this, cutie. I like them a lot…”

You only hum in response, fingers carding through his hair with one hand while the other gently caresses his back. You look down, placing a soft kiss at the crown on his head, earning a satisfied hum from him, a smile forming on his lips again. Rafayel peppers your neck with open-mouthed kisses, his heart bubbling with love and contentment that you share the same interest as him. Maybe he’ll surprise you by building you your own studio right next to his, he thought.

hope i satisfied the artsy rafayel girlies w this one ( ͡ ͜ʖ ͡ )

[hysteria-things]

✿ PROMISE? ✿ PART SIX.

ʚ♡ɞ 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 | 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 ʚ♡ɞ

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: chris x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you and chris hang out after what feels like forever, and he finds something personal of yours under the bed. because he’s nosy, he can’t help but open it.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: swearing, that should be it :)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2,034

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: changing up some things…

(dividers by @strangergraphics)

𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐈𝐍 disbelief, the nostalgia hitting him like a truck. nothing and he means nothing has changed about your house from when you guys were little. hell, there still was the wall by the doorway where it had your heights written in pencil. it faded throughout the years, but it’s still visible. his heart hurts when he realizes it stops at age ten.

the both of you talked as if you guys didn’t stop talking at all. “let’s chill out in my room.” you say, grabbing his hand and guiding him up the stairs.

although he was in here the other day, he didn’t get to really look around until now. your room captures you perfectly. you sigh, sitting down on the mattress that is filled with stuffed animals. you pat the spot next to you for him to take, and he does. “sorry if it’s messy.” you bite the inside of your mouth before speaking again. “now what? i was never a good host.”

“whatever you want to do.”

groaning, you get up and wipe your palms on your pants. “what i want to do is go pee. i’ll be right back.”

walking out of the room, you leave chris there alone. he rose himself off the bed and slowly walked around. he laughs to himself. he realized you became more comfortable with him again in the short hours you’ve been together, despite recent events. next to the closet door, there’s a bookshelf with a ton of books on it. the same bookshelf that was filled with dr. suess and harry potter. now, it’s filled with… interesting.

he leans down, reading the spines with furrowed brows. twisted games? the nanny? icebreaker?

stay curious for this one, chris.

next to the flatscreen TV on the wall, you have a lot of other stuff hanging up, one being your varsity award for volleyball. two pictures however stood out to him — besides the dinosaur with sunglasses painting you also have hung up. one of them is a polaroid of you and nate, recently took at the local fair. chris makes a face at that.

the other photo is of these two kids, roughly the age of seven. they look like twins; boy and girl. the rest of your family doesn’t live here, hence all of the pictures of them. because chris does nightly facebook searches to keep up, he noticed these are your cousin’s twins.

smiling softly, he thinks about how much you love your family. you’ve always been a family person, even if they aren’t here. he understands what that’s like. being in L.A. while everybody else is in boston sucks, but luckily they got a few months to be back home.

as he turns around to sit back down on the bed, he sees a notebook sticking out from under it. he doesn’t want to look through your belongings, but curiosity got the best of him. he bends over to pick it up and open it while lowering himself to sit down.

there is a note on the inside of the cover.

he skims through the pages to see how much you wrote and it is a good amount. he stops when the handwriting suddenly changes, meaning that you stopped writing for a while. the other entries had smudges on them except for the ones he landed on. this one must be new.

so, he started to read.

dear journal,

i’m sorry i ditched you for about a year and a half. i don't have an explanation for it, but lately, i’ve been itching to write. i remembered i had this journal - thanks to my cousin bethany for getting you for me for my 9th birthday. i know you’re an inanimate object, but i forgot how relaxing it is to write down my thoughts for nobody except myself.

i can’t help but cringe at what i wrote in the past, and i sincerely apologize.

“i can’t wait to marry kevin one day!”

“omg, he talked to me today!”

“i think we’re going to be together forever!”

i’m gagging just rethinking that moment. come on now.

anyway, life has been crazy lately. shoutout to the sturniolos for ditching me and acting like we didn’t grow up together! appreciate you guys for real. i’m exhausted.

the thing is, i always had trouble sleeping. i know i just said i’m exhausted, but it’s 3 AM and suddenly it feels like i’m wide awake. i just know i’m going to be grumpy for the next few days. a lot has happened ever since they left. i’ve changed, and i hate/love it at the same time.

i’ve been going out more, doing shit i shouldn’t. (don’t tell my parents…) something also happened a while ago that’s still a blur. i can’t put my finger on it. all i remember is that the police came to my door and asked me a ton of questions about somebody.

anyway, life has been happening too fast. i would appreciate it if it slows down a tad. on the upside, my mom said the rest of the family is coming here soon. i don’t know when, but soon. bethany would for sure be happy to hear i’ve started writing here again.

my thoughts are draining the second i write things on this paper, so i’m going to try and get sleep. i’ll update you whenever i can.

- y/n

⋆⁺₊⋆ ✿ ⋆⁺₊⋆

dear journal,

me again: at approximately 4 AM. today has been something else, let me tell you. my mom came up to me yesterday and told me some unfortunate news. can you guess who’s back in town? if you guessed my lovely besties, you’re correct! and do you know whose birthday it is, meaning i have to go to the party? you’ve guessed it! my BFFs!

doesn’t help that i’m on my period right now. i can’t do this shit.

either way, i had to be there for nate. he’s the one that stuck around. marylou will forever be the original best friend in my opinion. she stuck around, too. it’s her children i got a bone to pick with. (except justin. he’s cool.)

seeing them in person for the first time in so long had me tweaking. i admit that i was a bitch to them at the party, and not to be a bitch now, but they deserved it. however, when i saw chris, my first thought was about how he’s such a cutie still. i hate my mind for that.

i tried to ignore them for the rest of the party, and it was semi-successful.

- y/n

⋆⁺₊⋆ ✿ ⋆⁺₊⋆

dear journal,

you will not believe this. nick messaged me on instagram saying how sorry they were and asked to meet up at my house. for whatever reason, i said yes and they came over. we sort of cleared everything. key word, sort of.

they said they wanted me back in their life and apologized for what they did. i still need to give it time, but we do want to start hanging out again soon. i missed those dorks.

that’s until chris stopped me and asked for the note he wrote to me when we were little. the note he promised me to keep, and i obviously did. i’ll tape it here.

this little piece of paper is my favorite thing anybody ever gave to me.

- y/n

⋆⁺₊⋆ ✿ ⋆⁺₊⋆

dear journal,

sorry, i left you hanging for a few days, a lot happened in such a short amount of time.

long story short, jaiden and claudia invited me to a party. chris texted me while i was there. he seemed a bit weirded out about why i was at finn yaw’s party, but i hope he knows i wasn’t there for any specific reason. i do appreciate that he cares about my well-being, even after the downfall.

i got home not long ago and he’s texting me as i’m writing this. he just asked me to hang out tomorrow which shocked me a little, but i said yes.

not going to lie, i’m excited to hang out with chris, even though i have no idea what we’re doing. hopefully, it goes well.

- y/n

chris snaps out of it as he hears you walking back into your room, making him shove the book back under the bed. he feels kind of honored to be a part of your little notebook. “sorry, that took longer than i wanted. i had to deal with something.” you say, sitting down on the bed with a sigh. you furrow your eyebrows at him. “why are you smiling like that?”

“smiling like what?”

“like… that,” you say, circling your finger that was pointing at his face.

“no reason.” he shrugs “anyway, what’s next on the y/n agenda?”

you look around the room while biting the inside of her cheek. “are you hungry? my dad made ribs last night and it’s to die for.”

jumping up from the bed, you motion him to follow you. you walk into the kitchen, flicking on the four light switches that are on the wall. you waltz over to the fridge and open it, going on your tippy toes to grab the container on the top shelf. “how many do you want?” you ask, going on your tippy toes once again to grab paper plates in the upper cabinet.

“three is fine. do you need help?”

you shake your head. “no, i got it.”

chris stands by the island that separates the kitchen from the dining room. he leans against it, watching you plop three ribs onto his plate and only one on yours. you take his plate in your hands and reach up to the microwave. you stick your tongue out and groan. you’re struggling because of how short you are since the microwave is on the wall above the oven.

“i got it.” he chuckles, grabbing the plate from your hand and sticking it in the microwave. his hand grazes the side of your arm as he puts in two minutes and presses start. you cross your arms without looking at him. “i could’ve gotten it.”

“yeah, right.”

sitting there for two minutes feels like ten before the microwave finally goes off. you start running to the microwave but he stops you. “i don’t want you to hurt yourself by reaching for it. i got it.”

he takes the plate out and feels a rib with his finger. he nods. “it’s good.”

“okay.” you say with a low tone. he looks towards you to see you staring at your rib that still lies cold on the plate. “what’s wrong?”

“i don’t think i want this anymore.” you quickly open the container, plop it back in, and stick it back in the fridge.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ✿ ⋆⁺₊⋆

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 sitting in your room, matt had to come pick his brother up. you and chris are currently standing on the front porch, having one last word with each other. matt is waiting in the van at the end of the stairs.

“it was nice hanging out with you again,” you say shyly. “we should get everybody back together soon.”

“i agree.” he smiles “i’m sure i’ll text you later.”

getting closer to him, you pull him into a hug. it was abrupt, but he hugged you back of course.

then, the horn of the van beeps causing you to jump and pull away. “can you hurry the fuck up? nick is waiting for us at home and is obnoxiously annoying. mom also made dinner.” matt screams from the window.

“i’ll see you around,” chris says, jogging down the stairs. he gets in the passenger seat and grabs the seat belt to strap himself in. matt waves to you, which you graciously return.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ✿ ⋆⁺₊⋆

𝐈𝐓 𝐃𝐈𝐃𝐍’𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 them to get home. they live close to your house, and the duration is no longer than five minutes. he takes off his shoes at the door as his phone vibrates from getting a text.

y/n😶‍🌫️

thanks for today

i had fun :)

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

@bunbunbl0gs @lexisecretaccx @thy-mission @angelic-sturniolos111 @sophssturn @mattsneezing @janiellasblog @blahbel668 @meg-sturniolo @mattslolita @sturnbaby @imwetforyourmom @tillies33ssss @sturnifyed @raysmayhem-72 @ripmattitude @p1xieswrld @alorsxsturn @txssvx @sttzee @multiluvr @delilahprentiss @matthewsspecial @sturnolio-luvs @sturniolho @suga-daddy-69 @tworosesblackthorn @luckistar-posts @gnxosblog @junnniiieee07 @sturnioloslurps @tylerthecreatorsrealwife @flowerxbunnie @imaslut4kehlani @sturniolosandmoree @hertvgirl @whoreforchrissturniolo @hearrtsturns @stars4matt @freshsturns @loverrsposts @sturnlcvr @elliesturniolo1 @tpvmz @user283926392 @lalalands86 @sukiipjs @sturniologirl813 @leahrab @chrissturniolosslut @h3arts4harry @sturnioloblogs @creamoncreamoncream2 @ivyyyyyysposts @mirxcle1 @iluvm4ttsturni0l0 @catalina-island @mbsbaby @mattsdollie @pinkfarts @slut4mattsturn @thesturniolos @vickeyzloserz @nononopenono1 @bitchydragonparadise @gdsvhtwa @hrt-attack @bellasfavbisexual @dwntwn-strnlo @venusbabysblog @meerkatzthings @crazychrisl0v3r @maggieflms @strtuniolo @mutualsafe @riasturns @sturniolowhore @antpile00 @ashley9282828 @stingerayyy2 @sturnsjtop @luverboychris @yapperchris @imaslutforoldermen @madisonlovesyouu @poetatorturadaa @chr1sgirl4life @hiimolivia @jo-777 @sturnskiss @st4rgrlll @mattyblover07 @sm-ec @mattluvsmarni @knowingnothingnoel @mattsgirlfrieeend @bambi-slxt @sturnstvr @sturnclouds @bernardsbendystraws

[nenoname]

Details in Stan's letter that still haunt me

(how long will I continue thinking about a two page letter that's technically not even that long because Stan's handwriting is fricking large? .....you don't need to worry about that.)

The bro code only shows up in the Lost Journal pages, and to me Stan's message feels like it purposely echoes Ford's "miss you" in the college photo (and for some reason the message doesn't appear in the website version of the photo?) ....or alternatively Stan simply noticed how distressed Ford was about this entire thing and wanted to support him in a way so he can be sappy but without the kids knowing, or both!

Stan's claim about the Oregon lottery contradicts what the Lost Legends website said about Tate McGucket's ability to predict the winning numbers!! ...but also breaking into the Lottery HQ is definitely a very Stan thing to do and it's not the first time small gags have been retconned

Despite spending most of his letter nonchalantly destroying him, the taunt about ripping a dollar bill in half is the only part where Stan is directly responding to Bill. Maybe it's the two of them having similar ways of thinking but it's rather specific considering Bill taunts the reader about it...

And after Bill spends an entire book calling Ford Sixer despite normally using a pretty wide range of nicknames for him, Stan then spends his letter mainly referring to Ford as Sixer, even though post-Weirdmageddon he tends to use a mix of nicknames. And it's not like he'd gotten to see Bill himself for long, let alone see him steal that childhood nickname (that is only used twice in the actual show btw!). Did Ford tell him what happened or...?

With all this and the website's "still on your mind" message, what I'm getting at is my tinfoil hat theory of Stan somehow seeing some of the pages the irl readers saw, even when it should be personalised to the specific reader, and he's been lying about it for some reason. Considering that the book flat out doesn't make an attempt at convincing Soos, I find it a stretch that whatever Bill was telling Stan via the book was an attempt to convince him either.

Wouldn't be the first time Stan's skimmed through a book and lied about what it meant to him.

(...Now I kinda wanna see a story about the family reading their versions of the book and making fun of it while Stan is improvising every single one of his pages and blatantly ignoring Bill's attempts to mock and taunt him)

But also I'm fascinated by the letters that only showed up on the website (aka the Soos+Wendy+McGucket+Pacifica ones). I'm assuming that Mabel had stuck them on after Stan's letter... but they were basically eaten by the book itself because seeing Stan's letter kick-started Bill's breakdown which takes up the rest of the book

[everwhovian]

imagine Jun-ho and In-ho getting into an argument. Jun-ho is a young teen and causes trouble or something? Just like In-ho having to deal with a teenager

In-ho gets a text from Jun-ho in the middle of the night. To pick him up from a party. And In-ho is seething cause the surgery wasn't that long ago...

Also, does this still count as kid!Jun-ho shenanigans?

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The clock above the filing cabinet ticked past 12:47 a.m.

The precinct was quiet. Just the low hum of fluorescent lights and the distant shuffle of someone filing reports down the hall. Most of the desks were empty. This hour belonged to men who didn’t know how to rest. Or didn’t want to.

In-ho sat hunched over his desk, nursing a cup of lukewarm coffee that had gone bitter long ago. A stack of cold case files lay spread out in front of him, half-open, half-forgotten.

He wasn’t really reading – just skimming headlines, hoping something buried would jump out. He told himself it was for work, that he was chasing loose threads, but the truth was simpler than that.

He should’ve gone home hours ago.

But something about these cases – it struck a nerve. Too many names left in silence. Too many unanswered questions. It pressed against his ribs like a weight, like if he blinked, one more person might slip through the cracks.

So he stayed. Some part of him always did.

He rubbed the back of his neck, where a familiar ache had settled in – hours spent hunched over the desk catching up to him.

Then his phone buzzed.

He froze.

Almost 1 a.m.

Jun-ho never texted this late. Not unless something was wrong.

He snatched the phone, pulse spiking.

[Jun-ho] – Hyung… can you come get me?

No explanation. No follow-up. Just that.

Something cold and sharp uncoiled in his gut.

He was up before he realized it, chair scraping hard against the floor. Papers scattered. Coffee spilled. He didn’t stop. He was already pulling on his coat with one hand and typing a reply with the other.

[In-ho] – On my way. Stay put.

He was out the door within two minutes, already starting the engine as he swung into the driver’s seat. The streetlights blurred past. He didn’t bother with the radio.

His thoughts raced ahead.

What happened? Did he collapse? Did the transplant fail? Did he forget his meds?

No. Don’t go there.

He clenched the wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. He didn’t pray, not really, but he whispered anyway: Let him be okay.

 

Jun-ho was standing alone under the pale yellow glow of a flickering streetlamp. Hoodie pulled up. Shoulders drawn in like he was trying to disappear.

His head lifted slightly as the car approached, and even through the windshield, In-ho could see it: the guilt in his face.

The kind of expression that said, I know I fucked up, but I didn’t know where else to go.

In-ho barely had the car in park when Jun-ho opened the door and slipped inside, moving quietly like he might break something.

The door shut with a soft thunk.

“Seatbelt,” In-ho muttered, voice low, tight, barely holding together.

Jun-ho clicked it into place.

In-ho didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. Not yet.

The engine idled. The rain pattered against the roof. A red traffic light reflected off the windshield like blood in water.

He could feel Jun-ho beside him – small, despite being nearly seventeen now. All sharp elbows and quiet tension, curled into the passenger seat like a kid waiting for the fallout.

In-ho didn’t look at him when he spoke. “You text me at one in the morning to pick you up from a party?”

His voice came out flat, but underneath it was a current of fear that had settled in his gut and refused to leave.

Jun-ho flinched at the tone. “I didn’t drink,” he said quickly. “I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

In-ho’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He could still see the scar on Jun-ho’s abdomen when he closed his eyes – angry and red, stapled into his skin like a cruel reminder of how close In-ho had come to losing him.

“You weren’t even supposed to be out,” he said, sharper now. “You’re still healing.”

Jun-ho opened his mouth, trying to explain, but In-ho cut him off.

“You’re on immunosuppressants, Jun-ho. Do you even know how dangerous it is to be around alcohol? Around drugs? You could’ve –”

“I didn’t know it would be like that!” Jun-ho’s voice rose. “I thought it was just people from school. I didn’t know someone would bring shit.”

“You shouldn’t have been there to begin with!” In-ho snapped.

Jun-ho turned toward him, jaw tight. “You can’t keep holding the transplant over my head every time I try to live.”

That stopped In-ho cold.

His grip on the wheel relaxed – then clenched again.

His throat felt like it had closed. His mind raced with images: Jun-ho lying pale in that hospital bed, wires everywhere, skin stretched too thin. The beep of a monitor. The moment he signed the donor consent. The moment Jun-ho blinked up at him afterward, so groggy, so small, whispering, ‘You’re still here?’

“I almost lost you,” In-ho said, his voice ragged. “I’m not saying that to make you feel guilty, Jun-ho. But I gave you my kidney because all I wanted was for you to live.”

In-ho pulled the car to the side of the road, shifted into park, and turned to look at Jun-ho – really look at him, not just with worry, but with everything he’d been holding back.

“You think I’m going to be calm when I get a text from you in the middle of the night, alone, at some party full of god-knows-what?”

In-ho ran a hand down his face, dragging it over the stubble on his jaw like he could rub the fear away. His next words came out softer. “I won't lose you again, okay? Not because you didn’t know better.”

Jun-ho was quiet now. He looked down at his lap, hands buried in the sleeves of his hoodie. His voice, when it came, was barely audible.

“I do know better,” he said. “That’s why I texted you.”

In-ho kept his eyes on him – really seeing him now, not just checking for injuries or symptoms, but seeing the kid who still wanted to do right.

Jun-ho looked so small again. Not just young, but fragile in a way he hated being seen. Wet eyelashes. Pale skin. Embarrassed and ashamed and trying not to show either.

“I saw the bottles,” Jun-ho continued. “Someone had pills. I didn’t even wait for things to get worse. I left. I didn’t say goodbye. I just – I just texted you.”

In-ho stared at him. A long, slow breath escaped his chest, and with it, the anger began to ebb. Not disappear – but it softened under the weight of something heavier: relief.

“You did the right thing,” he said quietly. “You backed out. You trusted me to come get you.”

Jun-ho didn’t respond.

In-ho reached over and placed a hand on the back of his neck, warm and solid. He felt Jun-ho lean into it slightly. Like he had when he was small. Like some part of him still needed to be told it was going to be okay.

Jun-ho was quiet for a long moment, staring at the rain slipping down the window. Then, voice barely above a whisper, he asked, “Are you… still mad?”

In-ho sighed. The kind that came from somewhere deep – exhaustion, relief, lingering fear all tangled together.

“I’m not mad,” he said, and he meant it now. The sharp edges of his anger had dulled, leaving something heavier behind. “I’m… disappointed. You scared the hell out of me. But I mean it – you did good.”

He paused, glancing over at Jun-ho again, softer this time. “You did the right thing in the end. That’s what matters, okay?”

Jun-ho’s breath caught.

“You can always call me,” In-ho added.“Even if it’s late. Even if I’m pissed off. Even if I yell. You call. I will come get you. Every damn time.”

“…Okay,” Jun-ho whispered.

In-ho gave his hair a small ruffle, a familiar gesture. Jun-ho didn’t shrug it off.

With a quiet breath, In-ho turned back to the wheel and started the car again. The engine hummed to life, headlights cutting through the rain as he pulled away from the curb.

They didn’t speak as the city passed by outside the windows – neon signs reflected in puddles, taxi lights weaving through the mist. The silence between them wasn’t tense anymore. Just tired. Settled.

As they neared the turn for their mother’s neighborhood, In-ho tapped the signal – and then didn’t take it.

Jun-ho glanced over, brow furrowing. “Aren’t we –?”

“You’re crashing at our place tonight,” In-ho said, eyes still on the road. “No point waking Eomma up.”

Jun-ho hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

In-ho didn’t add that he didn’t want to let him out of his sight just yet. He didn’t need to. Jun-ho seemed to understand anyway.

[zoloteh-volossya]

BG3 Fanfiction Statistics, Part 1

I’ve seen some discussions of BG3 fandom trends floating around tumblr that spoke from experience but lacked hard data to refer to. As a fan of Baldur’s Gate 3, fanfiction, and graphs, I therefore thought it would be neat and illustrative to go through AO3 and document some of the statistics this fandom.

I did a similar exercise back in January and posted the results here. However, I was a bit unhappy with this analysis – it was missing some data that I consider to be relevant, I didn’t end up discussing the results much, and I only posted it to reddit. Most discussions for the creative side of fandom seem to happen on tumblr, so I made this account to post it here.

I will try and be as transparent as possible when discussing how I obtained and processed this data. A copy of my spreadsheet can be found here and contains all of the data I will be discussing. Most of the data I feature in this essay will be presented as graphs. Below each graph I will discuss the patterns shown in the graph and provide what I believe to be some relevant and/or interesting number values. If you want to see all the numbers, please refer to my spreadsheet. If you don’t care about the numbers and/or my thoughts about them, feel free to skim through and just look at the charts!

A note before I start – I gathered this data between July 21, 2024 and July 24, 2024. It is out of date as of my writing this and will be even more out of date by the time you read it. However, I believe the general fandom trends will hold up over time – the same patterns that I observed in January are largely still present in July.

Due to the tumblr post image limit and my preponderance of graphs, I will be breaking this behemoth of an essay into two parts:

General Fandom Statistics, the Player Character, and the Women

The Men, a Character Comparison, and a Pairing Analysis

We are currently in part 1. Part 2 can be found at this link. The rest of part 1 is below the read more because this is very long.

GENERAL FANDOM STATS

This information was found by looking at the side bar when browsing Baldur’s Gate fics. Therefore, this data set includes fics from the previous two Baldur’s Gate games. However, given that the games were released in 1998 and 2000, respectively, most of the fanfiction for them was likely posted to FF.net and the error from including what little fic for them was posted to AO3 is likely small.

At the time of my data gathering, there were 31,043 Baldur’s Gate fics on AO3.

RATINGS

To the surprise of nobody in the BG3 fandom, Explicit fic is the largest category, at 38% of all fics produced. It’s followed by Mature (24%), Teen and Up (20%), General (12%) and Not Rated (6%). Not all of the Explicit and Mature fics are necessarily horny – those warnings also apply to extreme violence (hello, Dark Urge). But let’s be real, most of them are tagged that way for sex.

WARNINGS

Speaking of extreme violence, let’s take a look at the warnings used for fics in this fandom.

Just about half (50.2%) of BG fics have no warnings at all. About 17.6% have warnings for graphic depictions of violence – lower than I would have expected, honestly, for a video game that features as much murder as this one does (at least, how I play it...). About 5.4% of fics feature a warning for rape, 4.7% feature major character death, and 0.5% feature underage sex.

CATEGORIES

AO3 allows users to select any categories from a list of possible options (F/M, M/M, F/F, Gen, Other, and Multi). F/M, M/M, and F/F are pretty self explanatory, Gen fics don’t focus on a relationship, Multi fics focus on a relationship between three or more people, and Other is a catch all for fics that don’t fit into any of the previous categories very well. For shipping with nonbinary (NB) characters, I have seen a variety of approaches. Some people select the category closest to the NB character’s presentation, some select multiple categories, and some select Other.

One very useful tool that I will be introducing here is the use of “otp:true.” When “otp:true” is entered into the “Search within results” bar while filtering tags, AO3 will only return fics that have just one pairing tagged. This filters out all fics that have background pairings or multiple focus pairings. Results with “otp:true” are typically solely focused on that particular pairing.

With all that explanation out of the way, the results:

We can clearly see that the most common category for Baldur’s Gate fics is M/F, with 43.3% of all fics featuring a M/F pairing. 36.4% of all fics feature a M/M pairing, 10.6% feature a F/F pairing, 11.7% are more General, 8.0% feature Multiple people in a pairing, and 10.9% are Other. These percentages add up to more than 100% because a fic can be tagged with multiple categories.

Things change a bit when you filter for “otp:true” and only include fics that focus on just one pairing. In this case, M/M predominates, with a whopping 46.0% of fics. M/F follows with 31.2%, F/F with 11.1%, 7.7% are General, 9.7% are Other, and 3.0% are still tagged as Multi (presumably for fics where the only pairing is a threesome or such).

CHARACTERS

As a last look at more general content before I begin a deep dive into looking at the various characters, I took a look at the 30 most popular character tags.

This was a surprise to me the first time I looked at it in January. In the previous two video game fandoms I was in that had a player character (Mass Effect and Fire Emblem: Three Houses), the player character was the most popular character tag in that fandom. In this case, though, Astarion has the most fics that feature him, and by a pretty significant margin (~5,000 more fics than Tav). He appears in 63.0% of fics. Tav is next, at 46.7% of fics. Then we have the rest of the six Origin characters: Gale (34.5% of fics), Shadowheart (23.7%), Karlach (20.5%), Wyll (18.6%), and Lae’zel (15.9%), as well as Halsin (15.8%) and the Dark Urge (15.3%). That they all are next to each other makes sense, as fics that focus on one character or pairing will often tag the entire ensemble. Lae’zel only showing up 16% of the time seems low, though, for a member of the main cast. To me, this indicates that not many fics are true ensemble fics that include all of the main cast.

After this block of main characters, we drop a bit to Gortash, who shows up in 7.4% of fics. He’s the most popular villain by far, followed by Cazador (4.7%) and Raphael (4.6%). Orin only shows up in 2.9% of fics and Ketheric is featured in only 1.1% of fics.

Jaheira shows up in 4.4% of fics, but her values may include fics from the earlier Baldur’s Gate games. Poor Minthara is the 16th most tagged character and only shows up in 2.5% of fics. Rolan (a tiefling NPC) shows up in more fics than she does.

Despite being featured in previous Baldur’s Gate game fics as well as BG3, Minsc does not seem popular – he’s #25, being tagged in 1.3% of fics.

One thing I did note was the comparative lack of focus on the overarching plot of the game in BG3 fics. I’ll use the Emperor as a barometer for this, as it’s inextricably interwoven into everything having to do with the Absolute, the mysterious artifact, and our protagonists’ immunity to it. Yet, it only appears in 535 fics of over 31,000 – approximately 1.7% of all BG fics. This tells me that there isn’t much engagement with the actual illithid plot of the game in most fics – at least not to the extent where major plot relevant characters are being tagged.

CHARACTER PAIRING STATISTICS

Most of my time for this analysis was spent collecting data for the various pairing tags. I went through the top 300 pairing tags by order of popularity (ending with Mystra/Cazador, of all things) and recorded how many fics each rating had and how many fics each category had both with and without “otp:true” applied. Coincidentally, this included all the pairings with 5 or more fics in them at the time – by sheer luck the 301st pairing tag had only 4 fics. I judged that I could ignore pairing tags with fewer than 5 fics without affecting the results of my analyses too much (also it had taken 4 days to get this far and I was tired).

However, a lot of authors tag their fics with both, say, Astarion/Tav and Astarion/F!OC. But for this exercise I’m not really looking at how authors refer to the Tav/Dark Urge/self insert character in their tagging nomenclature. I’m more interested in how many fics exist for, say, the pairing of Astarion and the player character.

To this end, I combined the numbers for Tav, Dark Urge, OC, F!OC, M!OC, NB!OC, Reader, and You for each character ship. In order to avoid double counting fics, once I had added the numbers for a particular tag I excluded that tag from all future counts.

[X]/PC = [X]/Tav + ([X]/Dark Urge with the [X]/Tav tag excluded) + ([X]/Original Character with the [X]/Tav and [X]/Dark Urge excluded) + ([X]/Reader with [X]/Tav, [X]/Dark Urge, and [X]/Original Character excluded) and so on.

This process dropped the total number of pairings from 300 to 162. However, it also introduces an error. Some fics ship characters with an OC who is not a Tav/Dark Urge/self insert. In condensing all pairings with original characters to the “PC” supercategory, I am ignoring that and counting their original character as a Tav/Dark Urge equivalent. Unfortunately, this is just something I have to live with in order to be able to make the data more manageable, as there is no way to tell which fics are using the OC tag to represent a Tav/Dark Urge and which are not on a mass data scale. I don’t think it will skew the results too much, at least.

I pulled out the top 20 ships for each major character in BG3 (Tav, Dark Urge, the PC, Shadowheart, Karlach, Lae’zel, Minthara, Astarion, Gale, Wyll, and Halsin) before and after I combined the player character tags into the PC supercategory. For each character, I then determined how much of each fic category (M/F, M/M, F/F, Other, Multi) they had, both for all of their pairings and for their pairing with the PC specifically.

Let's start by looking at the player character and its two representatives.

TAV

Tav is in 71 of the top 300 ship tags in the BG3 fandom.

Astarion completely dominates Tav’s ships, with a whopping 9,235 fics (1,839 otp:true fics). In fact, in order to be able to see the tiny little boxes that represent everyone else, here’s another version of this chart, this time with Astarion excluded.

There, that’s a bit more legible. The next highest is Gale, with 2,909 fics (652 otp:true) – less than a third as many fics as Astarion. Halsin comes third with 1,304 fics (207 otp:true) and Shadowheart is the first canon woman to show up, with 806 fics (132 otp:true). Astarion has more than 11 times as many fics with Tav as Shadowheart does. Karlach comes next, with 724 fics (186 otp:true). Raphael comes sixth, with 176 more fics than #7 Wyll who has 442 fics (100 otp:true). Lae’zel is #11 with 300 fics, under Gortash, Rolan, and a threesome with Halsin and Astarion. Minthara is the least popular main character to ship with Tav. She’s #15 with 146 fics (33 otp:true), and has fewer fics with Tav than Zevlor, the Emperor or Haarlep. In a marked improvement from the state of affairs in January, however, she no longer has fewer fics than Kar’niss.

Taking a look at the fic category breakdown, we can see that M/F and M/M predominate for Tav, while there is very little F/F. Dividing the values by the total number of fics, 59.8% of all fics and 50.2% of otp:true fics are tagged M/F, 35.6% of all fics and 34.9% of otp:true fics are tagged M/M, 7.6% of all fics and 4.4% of otp:true fics are tagged F/F, and 13.2% of all fics and 14.2% of otp:true fics are tagged Other. As the proportions of M/F and F/F fics drop when otp:true is applied, I assume that it is more common for M/F and F/F pairings to have background ships or be a background ship (remember that if it is not otp:true, we have no idea if the pairing with Tav is the pairing category being counted.)

THE DARK URGE

The Dark Urge is in 38 of the top 300 ship tags of the BG3 fandom, a bit over half as many as Tav.

While Astarion once again is the most popular character to ship with the Dark Urge (2,165 fics), this time he actually has competition! Gortash/Dark Urge comes in at a very respectable second place with 1,594 fics (about three quarters of Astarion/Dark Urge’s total fic count) and actually beat Astarion by over 100 fics once you apply otp:true (562 fics for Astarion vs 691 fics for Gortash). But after Gortash we once again drop down to numbers we struggle to even see on the chart. Gale is the most visible with 402 fics total (Gale has fewer fics total with the Dark Urge than Astarion or Gortash have with otp:true applied). After that we have a group of Halsin, Shadowheart, and Karlach, all with between 120-150 fics. No other pairing has over 100 fics.

Dark Urge/Tav (99 fics) and Dark Urge/Orin (87 fics) have more fics than Dark Urge/Wyll (83 fics) or Dark Urge/Minthara (80 fics). For Wyll, this is a sign that his pairing with the Dark Urge is not very popular (he drops from #7 with Tav to #9 with the Dark Urge). For Minthara, however, this is a significant climb in the rankings – she was #15 with Tav and #10 with the Dark Urge.

But what’s really interesting to me is the fic category breakdown for the Dark Urge.

The Dark Urge has noticeably more M/M content than Tav does (47.0% vs 35.6% for all fics, 56.9% vs 34.9% for opt:true) and slightly more F/F content than Tav does (10.2% vs 7.6% for all fics, 5.2% vs 4.4% for otp:true), and correspondingly less F/M content. At 13.4% for all fics and 12.8% of otp:true fics, the proportion of Other fic stays just about the same as for Tav.

THE PLAYER CHARACTER

The PC is a combination of Tav, Dark Urge, Original Character, Reader, and You. The PC is in 64 of the top 162 pairings of the BG3 fandom (losing 5 pairings from Tav as I combined Tav/Tav, Tav/Dark Urge, Tav/Reader and so on into one PC/OC category).

The player character was involved in 76.0% of all pairings and 62.1% of otp:true pairings (that is, if you add up every fic for every pairing which the PC is in and divide it by sum of all fics for all BG3 pairings I tracked). This means that over three quarters of shipping in the BG3 fandom is with the player character. It’s not surprising, but it is notable – that’s a very large proportion.

Holy smokes, Astarion! He dominates the rankings even more than before. This time, I was curious to see how much. See below for a proportional representation of all of the PC pairings (note: because many fics have multiple pairings, this circle does not represent the total number of fics but rather the total number of times any pairing with the PC has been tagged).

Astarion composes a full 45% of all pairings with the PC, Gale is bit over 13%, Gortash is 7.3% for all fics and 11.3% of otp:true fics, while Halsin has the opposite trend with 6.3% of all fics and 4.9% of otp:true fics. Shadowheart, Karlach, Raphael, and Wyll all are between 2% and 4% (with Raphael once again beating Wyll). Lae’zel is down at #11 with 1.4% and Minthara is all the way at #16 with 0.9%.

Out of curiosity, I went through all of the PC’s pairings and sorted them by the gender of the person being shipped with the PC.

Oof.

85.7% of all PC ships are with men, 10.4% are with women, and 1.9% are nonbinary beings (Haarlep, the Emperor, and Omeluum). When you apply otp:true, 87.1% of the player character’s ships are with men, 9.9% are with women, and 1.3% are with nonbinary beings.

SHADOWHEART

Welp! Let’s take a look at that 10%, starting with Shadowheart.

If you add up all the fics for all the pairings that include Shadowheart and divide that by the sum of all fics for all 162 pairings I collected, you can see that she is present in 7.0% of pairings. Interestingly, this is true both for all fics and for otp:true fics. She is in 30 of the top 300 ship tags and 24 of the 162 pairings that remain once the player character tags are consolidated.

(I have shortened Shadowheart's name to SH and Shart in various charts to keep the labels from taking up too much room in the graph.)

Lae’zel/Shadowheart is in close competition with Shadowheart/Tav. When all the player characters are condensed into the PC, though, that gap widens.

Shadowheart has 980 fics with the PC, 694 with Lae’zel, 226 with Karlach, 111 with Gale, 61 with Astarion, 51 with Nocturne, 36 with Halsin, 26 with Minthara, and 21 with Wyll (her least popular ship with a main character, at #12). 7 of her top 20 pairings are threesomes – Aylin/Isobel/SH at #8 with 35 fics, Karlach/PC/SH at #9, Karlach/Lae’zel/SH at #10, Astarion/PC/SH at #13, Halsin/PC/SH at #14, Karlach/Wyll/SH at #17, and Gale/Lae’zel/SH at #18.

Lae’zel/Shadowheart has an unusually high number of otp:true fics – almost half of its total fic count. It seems more popular to ship Shadowheart with women than men – both her ships with Lae’zel and Karlach are more popular than Astarion, Gale, or Wyll and her threesomes with women have more fics than her threesomes with men.

The fic category breakdown for Shadowheart matches this expectation.

Boy howdy is Shadowheart fic gay! She has over twice as much F/F fic than M/F fic, just looking at raw numbers of fics. Looking at the proportions of her total fic count, F/F fic represents 71.4% of all of her fics, M/F fic is 35.2%, Other is 10.0%, and Multi is 18.8%. (These percentages add up to more than 100% because many fics tag multiple categories.) This also means that we can’t know that these numbers necessarily include Shadowheart – witness the numbers of M/M fics. All it means is that these categories were on fics in which a Shadowheart pairing was also tagged.

Looking at the otp:true numbers gives us a better picture of what fics where only Shadowheart is in a relationship are like (though this not necessarily an accurate idea of patterns for her overall, as less than a third of her total fics are otp:true). 76.4% of otp:true fics are F/F, 19.8% are M/F, 3.8% are Other, and for some reason 1.2% (9 fics) are M/M. Over three quarters of Shadowheart’s otp:true pairings are femmeslash.

Shadowheart’s fics with the PC character follow pretty much the same pattern as her ships more generally, albeit with slightly less F/F (likely from the loss of the relative behemoth that is Shadowheart/Lae’zel).

32.9% of her pairings with the PC have the M/F tag, 68.1% are tagged F/F, 11.3% are tagged Other, and 18.5% are tagged Multi. Applying otp:true, 25.7% are M/F, 62.6% are F/F, and 12.3% are Other (this likely includes a substantial portion of nonbinary PCs).

KARLACH

Karlach is present in 6.0% of all fic pairings and 5.4% of otp:true fic pairings. She has 31 ship tags in the top 300 ship tags, which condense down to 26 pairings when all player character stand ins are combined.

Her second most popular ship after Tav is with Wyll, though unlike with Shadowheart the pairing is not popular enough to give Tav a run for his/her/their money. Condensing all the player characters widens this gap significantly.

The PC is overwhelmingly Karlach’s most popular ship, with 890 fics. Wyll is second, with 327 fics – less than half as many. Shadowheart and Astarion follow with 226 and 157, respectively. Dammon is next, with 91 fics, and then Lae’zel has 65. She then has a number of threesomes, Minthara (#9 with 32 fics), and Gale (#11 with 18 fics). Halsin is her least popular pairing with a main character, coming in at #15 with 11 fics.

Surprisingly, for all that Karlach is fairly butch, her pairings with men are relatively more popular than we see with the more femme Shadowheart. The category statistics illustrate this clearly.

Compared to Shadowheart, Karlach has a lower proportion of F/F and higher proportions of M/F and Multi fics. F/F is tagged on 51.8% of her fics, M/F on 42.5%, Other on 12.3% and Multi on 27.7%. (Remember that fics can be tagged with multiple categories and that just because a category is tagged doesn’t mean that Karlach is involved in that category.) Looking at otp:true gives us a look at fics where she is the sole focus. F/F is 55.0% of her otp:true fics, M/F drops to 34.4%, Multi drops to 6.1%, and Other stays fairly high at 10.4%.

In Karlach’s pairings with the player character, things change significantly.

It immediately becomes clear that the large number of M/F fics in her general pairings were largely due to her relatively popular ships with Wyll, Astarion, and Dammon. F/F dominates Karlach’s pairings with the PC with 64.0% (67.8% with otp:true applied) of fics, which puts her at just slightly less than Shadowheart. M/F is tagged in 28.5% of her fics with the PC (14.0% with otp:true applied), Multi is tagged 19.4% but drops to 1.2% for otp:true, and Other remains high with 18.0% of fics and 20.2% of otp:true fics with the PC.

Back in January, I noted that of the main cast, Karlach had the highest proportion of ships with nonbinary OCs. I didn’t track the breakdown of OC subcategories this time, but the high numbers in the Other category bear it out.

LAE'ZEL

Counting all fics for all pairings in which Lae’zel is tagged, she is in a mere 3.8% of BG3 pairings, though it rises to 4.5% when otp:true is applied. She is in 23 of the top 300 ship tags, a number that drops down to 18 when I consolidate the player character tags together.

Shadowheart/Lae’zel has twice as many fics as Lae’zel/Tav. Looking at the situation with the PC does not change this much.

Unlike any other main character, Lae’zel’s most popular ship is not with the PC but with Shadowheart. She has 694 fics with Shadowheart, 355 with the PC, 65 with Karlach, 26 with Gale, 26 with Wyll, 25 with Astarion, 16 with Minthara, and 12 with Halsin. She is in an unusually low number of threesomes – only 4. It’s notable though how skewed her numbers are towards women – a threesome with Karlach and Shadowheart has more fics than any of her pairings with a canon man. The various whole team multiship pairings, none of which have more than 11 fics, comprise most of the tail end of her ship list.

Speaking of the tail end of her ship list, what happens when we condense the player character tags is that Lae’zel does not reach a full 20 ships – she drops to 18 pairings. She has more than this, of course, but my methodology ignores all pairings with fewer than 5 fics (which means that my friend’s Lae’zel/Astarion/Tav fic is not counted). Therefore, Lae’zel’s 19th and 20th most popular pairings have 4 fics or fewer. I have represented these missing pairings with little :( emojis, because this is a sad state of affairs.

This is a symptom of a state of affairs in which Lae’zel is just not very popular in the AO3 side of BG3 fandom. Her most popular ship is Shadowheart’s second most popular ship, and the numbers crater after that. No Lae’zel ship other than Shadowheart and the PC has more than 100 fics.

Lae’zel’s most popular ships being women is demonstrated clearly by the fic category breakdown.

Wow! At a whopping 76.3% of all of Lae’zel’s fics and 88.9% of Lae’zel’s otp:true fics, Lae’zel has a higher proportion of F/F fic than Shadowheart. Granted, they’re both sizable portions of each other’s total F/F count. 26.1% of Lae’zel’s fics have the M/F tag, though this drops to a mere 7.1% when otp:true is applied. Other is tagged in 11.6% of fics but drops to 2.0% with otp:true. 18.1% of her fics are tagged Multi but this likewise drops to 4.4% with otp:true.

The pertinent question for Lae’zel is how much of her F/F count is due to her pairing with Shadowheart? How gay are her pairings with the PC?

The answer is... still pretty gay! F/F is not quite as dominant, with 67.3% of all her fics with the PC and 80.0% of her fics where only Lae’zel/PC is tagged – but 80% is a still a really high proportion! This indicates to me that a lot of the M/F in the “All Fics” chart likely does not involve Lae’zel. M/F is tagged in 33.5% of her fics with the PC, a number which is more than halved to 12.7% when otp:true is applied. 13.2% of her fics are tagged Other, which drops to 5.5% with otp:true – much less than for Shadowheart and Karlach. It seems either Lae’zel is not as popular for nonbinary OCs or that a large proportion of the Other tag is from mind flayer Tavs/Durges and people don’t write Lae’zel with a mind flayer love interest.

One other notable fact is that Lae’zel is the only female companion without any otp:true M/M PC fic. It could be due to her low fic numbers in the first place, but I prefer to think that Lae’zel fans are simply more fastidious about correctly tagging fic. It certainly fits her character.

MINTHARA

Ah, Minthara. Unquestionably the least popular of the main romanceable characters in BG3, her pairings only comprise 1.1% of all BG3 fanfic pairings, a number that rises to a whopping(/sarcastic) 1.4% of otp:true pairings. She has only 14 ship tags in the 300 most popular ship tags for BG3, a number that drops further to a mere 9 pairings once I’ve combined all the player character tags.

What’s notable about Minthara’s ship tags is the popularity of the Dark Urge relative to Tav. Minthara has 146 fics with Tav and 80 with the Dark Urge. This is a higher proportion than other main characters have. It may be because more people write her on evil routes (which likely disproportionately feature the Dark Urge) or because she has some very good lines for the Dark Urge and their Slayer form.

Another observation is the lack of primary non-PC ships. The other characters that I look at all have a major non-PC ship – Shadowheart/Lae’zel, Karlach/Wyll, Gale/Astarion, Wyll/Astarion, Halsin/Astarion. Minthara doesn’t really have that. Her most popular non-PC ship is Orin, at #5 and with a mere 45 fics. This is illustrated clearly once all the player character tags are combined.

The PC dominates Minthara’s pairings to an extent not seen with any other character, not even Astarion. She drops from 234 fics with the PC (65 otp:true) to 45 fics with Orin (26 otp:true), 32 with Karlach (16 otp:true) and 26 with Shadowheart (11 otp:true). Every other pairing has 16 or less fics. Tying into that, Minthara has very few pairings with 5 or more fics. She does not even have enough for a top 10! I have replaced her missing pairings with the :( emoji because this is sad.

Another notable thing about this chart, though, is how few fics Minthara has just in general. Lae’zel and Wyll, the other neglected companions, both have at least 500 fics with their most popular partner. Minthara does not even break 250. In fact, none of her pairings with someone other than the PC have over 50 fics.

Another interesting fact is that Minthara is the only character in this analysis to not have any threesomes or moresomes in her pairings with over 5 fics. She doesn’t share, it seems.

For some reason, Minthara has 8 ships with Councillor Florrick of all people. And it’s not all by the same author, which is what I would expect for a somewhat out there pairing. Presumably someone out there wrote a really good fic which then inspired others to play with the idea. In a small fandom like Minthara’s, one fic like that can make quite a difference.

As can be expected, Minthara’s fic categories are pretty damn gay.

F/F is tagged in 79.0% of her fics (77.6% of otp:true fics). M/M is tagged in 21.3% of her fics (17.1% of otp:true fics), Other in 6.1% (4.6% otp:true), and Multi in 8.9% though it drops to 1.3% of her otp:true fics. With these numbers, Minthara is arguably the gayest major character in the BG3 fandom by fic count, though Lae’zel beats her when you take otp:true into effect.

This pattern holds true when looking at her ship with the player character. 77.8% of her fics with the PC are tagged F/F (73.8% of otp:true fics), 23.5% are tagged M/F (15.4% otp:true), 8.5% are tagged Other (10.8% otp:true), and 9.4% are tagged Multi (3.1% otp:true). The latter is a bit confusing given that she has no multiship pairings. It may include collections of Reader/[X] fics that include Minthara.

PART 2

Welp. I’ve run into the tumblr post image limit. For part 2 of this essay, which discusses Astarion, Gale, Wyll, and Halsin and then compares all 8 of the main characters against each other on a variety of metrics, see this link.

[buuberry00]

Hi, anon here🕷️!!! Your posts literally make my day- but can we get smut with Luka maybe for the first time during sex and how he’s worried for us to see or touch his scars and branding (scars are hot asf imo) Lowkey wholesome smut but also kinda dirty in a way?!!

I hope you’re taking care of yourself and are doing amazing!!! - anon🕷️ ^^

yes ofc!! im so sorry for the wait! im so glad you like my posts ^^ --

cw. make-out -> first-time sex, gentle/rough sex, orgasm, slight mentions of alien owner trauma, mentions of surgical scars + branding, pet-names: "you like that, baby?" consistent check-ins, sweet + relaxing aftercare!!

side note: this takes place in the ALNST canon-universe. protection like condoms aren't really of easy access, so pls remember that! Thanks! minors DNI!!!

--

You were a virgin. That was something you hadn't really thought much of until now, in this very moment.

Laying beneath Luka, his purple-tipped fingers skimming across your thighs or up against your waist, his lips against yours and his tongue sweeps against yours. you'd never felt anything like this, never even imagined yourself in a situation like this with Luka of all people.

His tongue presses against yours, then sweeps against it in such a way that screams 'I've done this at least a hundred million times', and yet - as if he read your mind - Luka pulls away to look down at you.

"I-I've never done this before."

Luka looked almost like a dream; his eyes half lidded and his skin flushed, lips parted and kiss-swollen.

He was already beautiful, and yet in this moment, he seemed even more beautiful than normal.

"I-I haven't, either." Luka's gentle fingers roamed your thighs, gently squeezing here or there, before quietly resting on your knee. He gently pries your legs apart and settles between them, leaning down to kiss your lips once again.

"do you.." he starts quietly, kissing down your jaw. ".. wanna take it further?"

Your eyes widened, looking up at him. He gazed down at you, quickly scrambling to speak: "If-- If you don't want to, y/n, I promise we don't have to. We can -- We can just kiss."

"-- I want to." You breathe out, looking up at him, setting a hand on his bicep. "I want to, with you. I've just never.." Luka watches as you trail off, gaze away.

"... You're a virgin?"

You nod quietly, to which Luka sighs softly. He dips his head and nuzzles his nose affectionately into your temple. His hands, still wandering, gently squeeze your thigh, then your waist. "I promise I'll be gentle," he breathes. "If it hurts at any point, tell me. If you need me to stop at any time, tell me. I don't care if we're just starting, or just finishing. If you need to stop, tell me." You nod at his words. Luka gently cups your cheek, directing your gaze to his. His brows were furrowed, gaze set on yours. "I'm serious, y/n." He whispers. "I need you to talk to me. Talk to me over even the littlest of things. If it hurts, if you're uncomfortable - tell me." "I will." You whisper. "I promise." Luka nods, somewhat comforted by your words. He sits back on his heels, reaching out to touch the waistband of your bottoms. He glances up to meet your gaze, seeking consent.

You nod quietly, to which Luka carefully helps you out undress.

"Lift your hips for me, love."

He helps untangle your feet then sets them aside, his cold fingers stroking against your thighs, gently massaging them.

Luka dips his head and kisses along your knees, up to your inner thighs. He nuzzles his nose into your underwear and sighs, then sits up to pull your shirt off.

Luka doesn't stare. He doesn't gawk. He offers a quiet smile, occasionally whispering soft praises.

Yet, when you reach for his shirt to help him undress, he pauses. You pause as well, with concern. "What is it?"

".. my branding." he murmurs. "I'm.. nervous about you seeing it." Luka glances to your own branding, then down to his hip.

"I've never really let anyone see it. I don't know how you'd react." Propping yourself up on your elbow, Luka glances into your direction.

"I think you're gorgeous," his eyes widen a little, "I won't stare. I won't touch, if you don't want me to." ".. you're allowed to touch," he whispers after a moment. "I'm just nervous. I-I'll be okay."

Luka helps you take off his shirt, averting eye contact; his chest is covered in surgical scars. a branding - LUKA - carved into his hip. Luka look aside, clearing his throat quietly, feeling your gaze set on him.

as your fingers reach out to touch the branding, he instinctively flinches, but relaxes soon after.

"you're okay," you whisper. "you're okay."

"I'm okay," he helps you tug off his pants. "I promise I'm okay."

After undressing until you're both in just your underwear. Luka leans over you, kissing your face all over. His hands wander, fingers quietly rubbing you through your underwear. "warm," he murmurs, his kisses descending down your throat to your shoulder. "smell good."

your breath hitches as his fingers skim downwards to carefully push your underwear aside/carefully push your boxers down. he smiles, dipping his head to kiss your sternum. "am I allowed to touch?"

you nod in reply, fingers curling into the sheets beneath you. Luka smiles, gently prying your legs apart and sets them on either side of his hips.

he touches wherever he can, coaxing whatever sound he can out of you. You'd never felt anything like it; so intimate and amazing. Luka kisses your shoulders, his fingers rolling and rubbing and stroking wherever he can reach. He blindly searches for that spot that makes you whine, and once he finds it, he sets a pace.

a soft moan leaves your lips. Luka grins. "yeah? you like that, baby?"

you nod eagerly, peeking at him. his fingers move with such skill, like they had a mind of their own. there's no way he's really a virgin, unless he's naturally gifted.

"I-I wanna put it in," Luka whispers, watching your fingers skim over his scars. "Am I allowed?"

You nod, "yes, please," and Luka carefully pushes his boxers down, kicking them off. The tip of his cock, already weeping, carefully nudges against your entrance. You gasp, fingers digging into the sheets. Luka immediately pauses. "Are you okay?"

"I-I'm okay," you whisper. "I'm okay." Luka hesitantly nods, letting his tip align with your entrance. he pushes it in, watching as your eyes widen. you gasp lightly, lifting your head to watch. Luka immediately helps you sit into a more comfortable position, hands gently skimming and squeezing your thighs in attempt of comfort.

"shh," he whispers, kissing your face all over in comfort. "I'm here. It's okay. Its okay."

Once you give him the go, Luka continues to push in. It hurts, at first, your hand reaching out to grasp his shoulder. "Luka," you grunt softly. "Hurts."

Luka's eyes widen. He gently soothes you by whispering reassurance, kissing your face all over, whispering praise. "Do you want me to stop?" "Just-- Just give me a sec."

Luka gives you as much time as you need. He rubs at your thighs, squeezes them gently. "You're doing good. I'm almost all the way in, okay? It's okay, love." You nod, eyes closed and breathing steady. The pain aches and stings but Luka soothes you through it. he kisses your face all over, whispering praises over and over and over again. Once you're ready and give him the go, Luka resumes pushing in the rest of the way until you're touching, body against body. After a moment of letting you get used to him, Luka rubs at your waist and thighs and gently squeezes your hips. "I'm so proud of you."

"You're doing amazing, love, taking me so well."

"we'll go at your pace. as soon as you're ready, okay? Its okay, baby."

Your arms wrap around Luka's neck, fingers digging into the gentle, lean muscle of his back. He lets you, looping his own arms around you, holding you snug against him.

Luka starts moving his hips at a slow, comfortable pace. Every time you tell him to wait or pause, he does, rubbing at your thigh in a reassuring manner.

The painful feeling fades into something akin to euphoria, soft grunts turning into soft moans. You're so tight, and Luka's so big, and the way your muscles squeeze him makes him feel so relieved and happy.

"Taking me so well," Luka whispers into your shoulder, kissing it gently, "So proud of you. So, so proud of you."

Luka, eventually, begins to pick up the pace. His hips snap into yours, your soft moans turning louder, more comfortable. Luka shushes you quietly, rubbing at your hips, kissing along your chest and shoulders.

Occasionally, Luka will chime in and ask if you need a break, or water, or if you need more.

"Luka," you gasp his name. "Close."

"Okay," Luka lifts your hips and fucks into you at such a position that drowns you in euphoria. "Okay, love, I've got you."

Luka fucks into you at a controlled pace, watching your writhe beneath him. He praises you: "my good baby, doing so good," gently tweaking at your nipples, kissing along your neck and shoulders and gently suckling on your nipples.

as soon as your orgasm washes over you, Luka turns you onto your belly and fucks into you, holding himself up above you. The feeling is ecstatic and so heavenly, and once you're both finished, Luka scoops you into his arms and cradles you with nothing but love and safety.

"so proud of you."

"did so amazing, my pretty baby, so proud."

"take all the time you need. im right here."

"need some water? a little massage? Im here, love, im here."

--

again, so sorry for the wait!! I'm trying to post as much as I possibly can :<

but thank you for your continued support !! <3 I love you guys

-venus