#and i checked it out and Hell Yeah i did like it

[natalianovnas]

❛❛ to 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 ❛❛

  ꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: based on this lovely request by @mrsmothermaximoff ;)

  ꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: ceo!wanda x reader

  ꩜ ۫ . WARNING :: 'enemies' to lovers trope, cold and slightly mean wanda (in the beginning), forced contract marriage.

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 6.5k || masterlist

an ; i apologise for the delay but it's here now & i'm not relly proud of how it turned out despite the insane amount of times i spent rewriting this but enjoy :)

You were sure there was a special place in hell for Wanda Maximoff.

Probably right next to the printer that never worked unless you whispered sweet nothings to it, and directly above the coffee machine that hated you. But even then, Wanda would rule supreme. Ice-cold. Iron-spined. A goddess in a power suit who made your life absolutely miserable, day after endless day.

And yet—you never quit.

You were overworked, underappreciated, and absolutely exhausted. But the pay was good, the benefits better, and your rent unforgiving. So you survived on caffeine, spite, and a tiny scrap of pride that wouldn’t let Wanda win.

“Miss Y/L/N,” came that voice—low, smooth, and dipped in condescension.

You didn’t look up from your screen. Not immediately. Wanda hated when you made her wait, but she hated desperation more. And if you had anything left in this war, it was your ability to pretend she didn’t affect you.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff?” you finally replied, tone clipped but professional.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a countdown to your next aneurysm. She stood behind your desk, all sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, dressed in navy with lipstick the color of fresh blood.

“My schedule for this afternoon is… missing details,” she said, gesturing to the tablet in her hand. “Are you slacking off, or simply testing my patience?”

You swallowed. “The update was sent thirty minutes ago, along with the attached files. You haven’t refreshed your calendar, Ma'am.”

A pause. You watched her nostrils flare the tiniest bit.

“Fix it,” she snapped anyway, as if you hadn’t already done exactly that. “And bring me the corrected briefing in my office. Now.”

She turned and walked away before you could reply.

You didn’t mutter a curse—but only because HR was one more complaint away from calling you in for a “tone check.”

Wanda Maximoff was also a tyrant.

There was no other word for it. She was brilliant, yes—built Maximoff Industries from the ground up after moving from Sokovia at nineteen. She was also relentless, poised, and terrifyingly beautiful in that rich, untouchable kind of way that made you feel like a peasant in a fairytale. But she had no sense of mercy.

You’d been her assistant for two years. Not her executive assistant—just her assistant. The one she assigned overtime to without warning. The one she emailed at 2 a.m. with subject lines like URGENT: color-coding is embarrassing. The one who, despite having a degree and enough ambition to fill a boardroom, was stuck being her glorified punching bag.

Sometimes, you wondered if she even knew your first name.

Most times, you knew she did—and just enjoyed saying it as little as possible.

“Something crawled up her spine and built a condo,” you muttered under your breath as you passed Peter in the break room, cradling your third cup of coffee like it owed you child support.

Peter raised a brow. “Maximoff?”

You gave him a look. “She’s on a warpath. And I think I’m the first casualty.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t last. “Yeah, she’s… not great today.”

“She’s never great, Peter.”

“Okay, true. But this?” He lowered his voice, glancing around to make sure no one else was near. “This isn’t normal. Not even for her.”

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “What’s the deal, then? Mercury in retrograde? Her espresso machine died?”

Peter hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek.

You tilted your head. “Spill. You know something.”

He sighed, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Alright, look. Keep this to yourself, but… her visa’s expiring soon.”

You blinked. “Visa?”

“She’s still technically on a special investor visa from Sokovia. It got renewed a few times, but the latest application hit a snag. Bureaucracy crap. She has a few months, tops.”

You blinked again, slower. “But… she’s Wanda Maximoff. Her name is on the goddamn building. She’s a millionaire. You’re telling me she might have to—what—pack up and go home?”

Peter nodded grimly. “Unless she finds a permanent solution fast. And, well… you know how she gets when things feel out of her control.”

You stared into your coffee, the bitterness suddenly matching your mood.

It made sense now—the extra tension, the unusual edge in her voice, the way she barked orders like she was trying to distract herself from something worse.

.     .     .

You should’ve seen it coming.

The moment you stepped into Wanda’s office that afternoon—called in via a sharp, one-line email with no subject—your instincts screamed at you to run. But you didn’t. Because you never did.

Because even if she was fire and knives and deadlines wrapped in silk, you always showed up.

She didn’t look up when you entered. She was at her desk, eyes on her laptop, long fingers tapping something out fast. Deliberate. You waited, silently, in front of her desk, clutching the tablet with her updated itinerary—because that’s what she asked for.

Finally, she spoke. “Close the door.”

Your heart skipped.

Obeying, you turned, shut it quietly, and turned back. She gestured to the chair across from her without looking.

You sat.

And waited.

Wanda finally looked up—and the moment her eyes met yours, you felt something shift.

She looked… tired.

Not unkempt. Not messy. She was never those things. But there was a tension in her jaw that wasn’t always there, a strain behind the eyes like she hadn’t slept. And worse: a flicker of vulnerability trying to pass for detachment.

“I’m going to make this simple,” she said at last. “I need something. And you’re going to give it to me.”

You blinked. “You always make things sound like you’re about to blackmail me.”

She didn’t smile. “You’re not wrong.”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet.

“You’ve worked here long enough,” she went on, “to know how I operate. I like control. Precision. Solutions. And I don’t like my time wasted with unnecessary questions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of asking for a favor?”

“No.” Her gaze sharpened. “It’s my way of giving you an opportunity.”

You couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped. “God, you’re really committing to the Bond villain routine, huh?”

Her jaw flexed. “I’m offering you a deal. You can either hear it, or I can accept your resignation.”

You went still.

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I need to stay in the country,” she said. “Legally. My visa situation is deteriorating faster than I expected, and every other avenue is closing. I’ve been advised that the fastest way to lock in my residency and maintain the company without interruption… is to marry a U.S. citizen.”

Your lips parted. Then closed again. Then opened.

“You’re telling me this why?”

“Because,” she said coolly, “it’s either you, or someone I don’t trust. And I’d rather marry someone I can predict. Someone who already knows how to survive my world.”

You gaped. “Survive—? Wanda, I’m your assistant. I bring you coffee and tolerate your daily tantrums. I’m not your—your fake wife!”

“You’ll be compensated,” she said, like she hadn’t just threatened your career. “A year’s salary, upfront. Your debt cleared. Paid leave after the interviews. A guaranteed recommendation from me. You’ll live with me, play the part, attend events when needed. Three months minimum. One year ideal.”

Your throat went dry. “And if I say no?”

She folded her hands on the desk. “Then you’ll receive a generous severance and be free to look for employment somewhere else. I won’t lie—I’ll make sure it’s somewhere far from this industry.”

You stared at her, heart pounding. “You’re seriously threatening me into marriage.”

“No,” she said evenly. “I’m giving you a choice. It just happens to come with consequences.”

You stood suddenly, knocking the chair back a few inches. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re an intelligent woman who knows a once-in-a-lifetime offer when she sees it.”

Your eyes stung, but you blinked fast. You wouldn’t cry in front of her. You never had—and today wasn’t going to be the day you broke.

“Why me?” you asked, quieter now. “You’ve treated me like shit for two years.”

Wanda’s gaze faltered.

For the first time in a very long time, she looked… conflicted.

“Because I know you won’t lie to me,” she said finally. “Because I know you’re loyal even when I don’t deserve it. And because I—”

She stopped herself. Her fingers curled on the desk.

You stepped back slowly. “You don’t get to manipulate me, Wanda. Not with guilt. Not with perks. Not with desperation.”

She stood too. Slowly.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “Think about it.”

You stared at her a moment longer—at the way she held herself stiffly, like a soldier refusing to show injury. And for just a breath, you saw something else flicker behind her practiced calm.

Fear.

You turned and walked out without another word.

But even as the door shut behind you, her voice echoed in your mind:

“You’re the only one I trust to do this right.”

And god help you—some part of you wanted to say yes.

.     .     .

You stared at your ceiling for most of the night. Wanda Maximoff, your boss, had proposed—no, offered—you marriage. Like it was a project to manage. A transaction. A contract. Just another calendar entry she could control.

Marry me or lose your job.

You replayed the words again and again, the ice in her tone, the half-glint of desperation in her otherwise impenetrable eyes.

She hadn’t said please. She hadn’t even asked. And still… you couldn’t shake the way her voice faltered when she said:

“Because I know you won’t lie to me.”

That wasn’t the Wanda Maximoff you knew.

And it haunted you.

---

“You’re not actually considering this,” Peter said, nearly choking on his pastry the next morning.

You’d asked him to meet before work. Neutral ground. Coffee shop. Public enough that he couldn’t yell at you.

You gave a long sigh into your cup. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered, leaning across the table. “You are. You are considering it.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Y/N,” Peter said, exasperated. “This is your boss. The same boss who once sent back your PowerPoint slides because the font gave her a ‘visual migraine.’ The woman who criticized your penmanship on a sticky note.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I know who she is.”

“She’s cold. Controlling. And terrifying.”

“She’s scared right now,” you mumbled, almost to yourself.

Peter stared.

You didn’t meet his gaze. “She’s losing control of the only thing she’s ever built. The company is everything to her.”

“Still doesn’t make you the solution. There are other ways to fix this. Legal ones. Less insane ones.”

“She trusts me.”

Peter laughed, short and dry. “That’s funny. Because I watched her ignore you for six months straight unless she needed coffee or someone to bleed on.”

You gave him a look.

He softened. “I’m just saying… I get that you feel like you owe something to that building, to your job, to her. But don’t let her guilt you into ruining your life.”

You were quiet for a beat. “It wouldn’t ruin it.”

Peter raised both brows.

“It’d be one year,” you said, barely above a whisper. “A fake year. With money, freedom, clean debt. I’d come out of it better off. That’s not ruining—it’s… survival.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

---

You didn’t go straight to Wanda’s office.

You paced around your desk. Sorted your inbox. Re-read her calendar six times. Practiced saying “no” in five different tones.

And then you did the unthinkable: you walked into her office without knocking.

Wanda looked up from her desk, not angry—just expectant. Like she’d known you’d come.

Her mouth twitched. “That was fast.”

You closed the door behind you. “I didn’t say yes.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you not treat this like a hostile takeover?”

She stood, slowly, and walked around her desk. “Then how should I treat it?”

“Like it’s not a game,” you said. “Like it involves me too.”

That stopped her.

Wanda’s arms crossed. “I thought I was giving you something. Freedom. Power. Money. And you’d get out after a year. Safe. Rich. Clean.”

“And what do you get?” you asked.

She hesitated. Just a flicker. But it was enough.

“I get to stay,” she said. “I get to keep what I’ve built. And I get… a little peace.”

The honesty startled you.

You blinked. “So that’s what I am to you? Peace?”

Her eyes met yours. “I don’t have time for someone I have to charm. Someone I need to lie to. You already hate me. You’ll survive this. And I trust you.”

You swallowed hard. “You trust me… more than you like me.”

Something flickered in her face. Something softer.

“I do like you,” she said, quieter now. “More than I should.”

Your breath caught.

But before the silence could stretch too long, she added, like ripping off a bandage: “So? What’s your answer?”

You didn’t say it right away. You walked out again. Sat back at your desk.

But you typed up a contract draft before lunch.

Just to see what it would look like.

You’d never signed anything that made you feel so… out of body.

And you’d signed an NDA that threatened jail time over gossiping about Wanda’s caffeine preferences.

But this?

This was next level.

A marriage contract—fake, yes, but binding. Your name beside hers, your future entangled with hers for the next year. It felt like volunteering to stand next to a tornado and hope it didn’t notice you bleeding.

Wanda hadn’t said anything when she received the contract. Just read it in silence, flipped to the footnotes, and smiled that little smile she wore when you surprised her.

Clause 3.1: Maintain boundaries at work—no "wifely" expectations during business hours.

Clause 3.5: No kissing, touching, or fake honeymoon antics unless publicly required.

Clause 4.2: One year maximum, subject to early exit with written consent.

Clause 5.0: If a dog enters the household, Y/N keeps it.

She hadn’t even blinked at the dog clause. Just said: “Very specific.”

You replied, “I’ve met you. I’m preparing for chaos.”

You tried not to look like you were dying when Peter found out.

But of course, you failed.

“You’re marrying her.” His voice cracked like his brain couldn’t compute it. “You’re marrying her.”

“Technically, fake marrying her,” you corrected, sipping your iced coffee like it would wash the guilt off your tongue.

Peter stared. “This is like watching someone walk into a lion’s mouth because the lion offered to pay their bills.”

“She needs this. I need the money. It’s one year, not forever.”

He leaned in. “You’ve worked under her thumb for two years and barely survived. You think living with her is going to be easier?”

“She’s not the same at home.”

He scoffed. “What, she says thank you now? Hums lullabies in her robe?”

You winced. “She’s not that bad.”

“She made a grown man cry last week because his pen ink was too blue.”

“… Okay. But that was objectively unprofessional ink.”

Peter gave you a long, stunned look. “Oh my God. You’re already falling into it.”

“I am not falling into anything,” you snapped.

Except maybe a quiet sense of curiosity. About the Wanda that existed off-hours. The one who never made eye contact in the elevator, but always remembered if you took your coffee black with two sugars. The one who never praised, but never forgot birthdays.

That Wanda.

The one who let herself say: “I trust you.”

. . .

You didn’t expect the shopping trip.

Or the personal driver.

Or the fact that the boutique staff already knew your name when you arrived.

“She’s paying you to fake love her,” you reminded yourself as you stood half-frozen outside one of Manhattan’s most exclusive storefronts. “This is work. These are just costumes.”

Wanda stepped out of the car next to you, her dark glasses reflecting the late morning sun. “Don’t sulk. You’ll wrinkle.”

“You didn’t warn me we were going full Pretty Woman today.”

She opened the boutique door with a deadpan: “You’re not wearing anything worth warning.”

You gave her a withering look. She smirked.

Inside, the boutique staff descended like well-dressed bees. Champagne offered. Garment racks unveiled. Names whispered and measured in thread count. Wanda moved through it all like she owned oxygen.

You, meanwhile, got dragged into a dressing room with five different “looks” shoved into your arms and strict instructions to “pretend you’re rich.”

The first dress was too tight. The second too floral. The third was so expensive you didn’t want to breathe in it.

The fourth made her pause.

Wanda looked up from her phone when you stepped out.

Black, fitted. Minimalist. Sleeveless. It clung in the right places and flowed in the rest, the neckline sharp but elegant.

You expected another snide remark.

Instead, she just stared.

Then: “That one.”

You blinked. “That’s it? No insult about my posture or poor color choices?”

Her gaze dragged over you again. Slower this time.

“That one,” she said, voice low. “We’ll have it tailored.”

You hesitated. “You okay?”

She blinked—just once—and whatever softness had flickered behind her eyes vanished.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Next fitting.”

But later, when she turned away, you caught her reflection in the mirror.

And she was smiling.

Not smug. Not snarky.

Just… quiet. And maybe a little awed.

The driver took you back to her place after, bags in the trunk, silence stretching between you in the backseat.

You watched her out of the corner of your eye—her arms crossed, legs crossed, sunglasses on even though the tint on the windows made it unnecessary.

“You know,” you said, carefully, “if we’re doing this, we’re gonna have to stop glaring at each other like sworn enemies.”

“I don’t glare at you,” she said.

“You definitely do.”

“I evaluate.”

“Like I’m a coffee brand you hate.”

That got a twitch of a smile.

“I don’t hate you,” she said after a moment.

You glanced over. “Sure. Just mild daily contempt.”

Another pause.

Then: “I don’t hate you,” she said again, quieter this time. “I don’t think I ever did.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you didn’t say anything at all.

.     .   .

You'd been warned that the gala would be overwhelming and you assumed that meant “dress to kill” or “don’t trip on marble.”

Not an elite ballroom filled with New York’s richest, at least six photographers outside before you even stepped out of the car and Wanda’s hand—firm, warm, possessive—resting on your lower back the second you stepped into view.

“Stop shaking,” she murmured as flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

“I’m trying not to throw up on your designer heels,” you muttered back.

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear for show. “If you puke, at least do it on Kellman's shoes. He owes me money.”

That startled a laugh out of you, a small, nervous one—and of course, a photographer captured it. You saw the flash, heard the shutter, and saw Wanda smile out of the corner of her mouth like she planned it.

She was playing the game like a master.

And you were just trying not to get eaten alive by it.

Inside the gala, it didn’t get easier.

The ballroom was gold-trimmed and glittering, a warzone of polished shoes, fake laughter, and whispered business deals behind champagne flutes. You barely recognized anyone. Wanda, meanwhile, floated through the crowd like she owned it—which, in some ways, she did.

You stayed close to her side, aware of every camera lens, every gaze. Her hand remained at the small of your back. It didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just stayed there—anchoring you, like she wasn’t just pretending.

When she introduced you, she used your name. Said it clearly. Said it with something close to pride.

“This is my fiancée,” she told a woman from Forbes. “She keeps me sane.”

You choked slightly on your champagne. Wanda didn’t even blink.

The real trouble started with Daniel Callahan.

You recognized him from finance meetings—a charming nightmare in a tailored suit. He smiled too easily, touched too much, and once called you “sweetheart” in front of the executive board.

And now he was at your elbow, saying, “I didn’t know Maximoff had such good taste outside of stocks.”

You smiled, tight. “She has excellent taste. That’s why I’m still employed.”

He laughed. “Employed and engaged? Impressive.”

His tone was light, but you felt it. The subtle leer. The disbelief that you were the one Wanda had chosen.

Wanda stepped beside you a moment later, gaze cool as frost.

“Daniel,” she said, all saccharine silk, “Still wearing those tragic ties, I see.”

He smirked. “Still stealing the spotlight, Wanda.”

She smiled. Then—casually, but unmistakably—she reached for your hand. Laced her fingers with yours. “Of course I am.”

You went still. His eyes flicked down.

“I was just telling your fiancée how radiant she looks tonight,” he said smoothly.

Wanda’s hand squeezed yours—gently, but with intent.

“She always does,” she said. “But I’d appreciate it if you looked with your eyes, Daniel. Not your ambitions.”

His smile faltered.

You blinked.

He chuckled after a pause and excused himself.

You turned to her slowly. “That was…”

“Too much?” she offered.

You shook your head. “Weirdly flattering.”

Wanda studied you. “You don’t realize how often people look at you.”

You frowned. “People don’t look at me.”

“I do.”

It wasn’t a performance. She wasn’t smiling when she said it. No flashbulbs. No audience.

Just her.

Just you.

And a pause that pulsed like a second heartbeat between you.

Later, as the event wound down, you found yourself leaning against the railing of the second-floor balcony overlooking the dance floor. You needed space. Air. Your skin still hummed where she’d touched you.

You heard her footsteps before she appeared.

“You handled that well,” she said.

“Which part?” you asked, not turning around. “The press, the fake ring, or your little public jealousy stunt?”

There was a pause behind you. Then: “That wasn’t fake.”

You turned.

She was watching you. No mask. No posture. Just Wanda.

Your breath hitched. “We’re supposed to be pretending, Maximoff. Not actually catching feelings.”

She walked closer, heels slow and deliberate. “Who said anything about catching?”

You swallowed hard. “Wanda…”

Her voice softened. “Tell me it didn’t feel real when I touched you.”

You couldn’t.

Because it did. It always did.

Every time she brushed your hand. Every time she leaned in. Every time she looked at you like there was something worth melting in her frozen world.

You exhaled slowly. “We’re in way over our heads.”

Wanda nodded. “We are.”

But she didn’t stop walking, didn’t stop until she was inches from you, neither until her hand found yours again—quiet, steady.

And you let her hold it.

Just for a minute.

Because you wanted to.

. . .

Moving in was surreal.

Wanda had a penthouse overlooking the Upper West Side. Of course she did.

Marble floors, skyline views, furniture that looked untouched. It was the kind of place you saw in magazines—clinical in its perfection. It didn’t feel like someone lived there. It felt like someone performed there.

“This is real wood,” you muttered under your breath the first time your suitcase wheels rolled across the floor.

Wanda looked up from where she was typing on her phone. "What did you expect? Plastic?"

You dropped your bag by the front door. “I expected rich, not hand-carved oak imported from Italy rich.”

She smirked. “I like quality.”

“I like not feeling like I should tip the hallway.”

She chuckled. It was quiet. But it was real.

The first morning was the weirdest.

You woke up in one of the guest rooms—though she insisted it was now your room. There was fresh linen on the bed. A brand new vanity set already laid out. Her housekeeper had stocked the closet with three outfits in your size before you even arrived.

It was thoughtful. Organized. Weirdly… sweet.

But the kitchen was where you really saw her.

She was barefoot, in black silk pajama pants and a plain white tee, hair still damp from the shower. No makeup. Just her, in the soft light of morning.

Wanda Maximoff, pouring oat milk into her coffee like she hadn’t once told you to fix a typo with the fury of a Greek goddess.

You froze at the doorway.

She looked up. “There’s coffee.”

You blinked. “You… made coffee?”

“I do know how to function outside of boardrooms.”

You hesitated. “Do you?”

She smirked. “Stay long enough and you might see.”

You stepped in slowly. “I already feel like I’m on a reality show called ‘Rich People Do Normal Things.’”

“You’re the worst fake wife I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only fake wife you’ve ever had.”

“Exactly.”

But then she handed you a mug—already fixed the way you liked it—and just like that, your sarcasm softened.

She’d remembered. No cream. Two sugars. Always too hot.

You met her eyes. “Thanks.”

Something flickered there.

She nodded once and took a sip of her own.

You didn’t expect it to be easy.

You didn’t expect it to be… normal.

But the days began to settle into a rhythm. You went to work together. Attended a few small press lunches. She brushed your hair back gently at a networking event when a breeze caught it funny. You let your hand rest on her shoulder just a second too long when someone asked how you met.

At home, you didn’t talk much about the “marriage” part.

But something unspoken lived in the space between your mugs on the kitchen counter.

Like maybe neither of you hated this as much as you pretended to.

Not the metaphorical kind. The real, cold, thunderstorm kind.

You came home soaked after a late grocery run. Wanda hadn’t known you’d gone, and when you walked into the apartment dripping wet, she was pacing by the window.

She stopped when she saw you.

“You’re soaked.”

“Observant,” you coughed, wiping rain off your cheeks. “It’s only a monsoon outside.”

She crossed the space in seconds. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?”

“I didn’t think I needed to report to you.”

“You don’t—” Her voice cracked. “You don’t. But I thought something happened.”

You frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she snapped, then lowered her voice, “you’re not answering your phone. You left without saying anything. You’re living in my house. And I… I panicked.”

The vulnerability in her tone stunned you.

You stood there, soaked and cold and stunned, watching the most untouchable woman in the city look at you like you mattered.

“I just went for cereal,” you whispered.

She swallowed. “Don’t do that again.”

“Wanda…”

“I know this is fake,” she said, suddenly. “But I can’t—God—I can’t lose things right now. Not when everything else is one misstep away from collapse.”

Your heart cracked a little. “You’re not going to lose me.”

She looked at you—really looked. “Promise?”

You hesitated only a second. Then: “Yeah. I promise.”

She stepped forward. Her hands hovered for a second. Then she reached up, brushing soaked hair from your face. Her fingers were gentle. Warmer than you expected.

. . .

The rain didn’t stop for days.

New York blurred behind glass and gray skies, and inside the penthouse, the world shrank to the soft glow of lamps, the smell of tea, and the quiet comfort of silence not needing to be filled.

You’d never thought this would be the hard part. Not the paperwork. Not the parties. Not even lying to strangers about how you fell in love.

No. The hardest part was the quiet, the nights, the moments when Wanda was close enough to touch, but never did.

Not unless she had to.

Not unless the cameras were on.

But lately… there were no cameras, no one to watch and she was still close.

You found her in the kitchen again, barefoot, robe loose over silk sleepwear, stirring honey into her tea like it was a ritual.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

She didn’t jump. Didn’t act surprised to see you, even though it was just past midnight.

She glanced over. “Didn’t feel like dreaming.”

You frowned. “Bad ones?”

Wanda didn’t answer. She just passed you a mug—yours already waiting, already right.

No cream. Two sugars.

Your fingers brushed as you took it.

“I don’t like the sound the rain makes up here,” she said after a long moment. “Too high. It feels detached.”

You looked at her, then the view—sheets of rain washing over floor-to-ceiling glass, city lights blurred beneath it all.

“It’s loud at my old place,” you murmured. “Leaks through the window. But it feels... real.”

Wanda was quiet for a while. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Do you miss it?”

You blinked. “The apartment?”

“The space that was yours.”

The question hit deeper than it should have.

You shrugged. “I miss knowing which drawer held my socks. And that my silence was mine.”

She nodded once. “I miss things too.”

You waited. But she didn’t say what.

The power flickered a few minutes later.

Just long enough to shut off the lights, stall the heater, and kill the wifi.

You sighed. “Well. That’s our cue to pretend it’s the 1800s.”

Wanda rolled her eyes faintly but led the way to the hallway. “I’ll call maintenance.”

The bedroom you used—your room—was freezing. The rain made the windows weep. You wrapped yourself in two blankets and still shivered under them like your body had forgotten warmth.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock.

Wanda stood at the door, robe belted tighter now, a blanket over one arm.

“Heat’s out across the building,” she said. “It’ll take hours. Come to my room. The windows don’t leak there.”

You hesitated.

She added, gently, “You’re freezing.”

You didn’t argue.

Her bed was huge. More cloud than mattress. The kind of thing you had to climb into like a boat. Wanda didn’t say anything when you slipped under the covers, just turned off the lamp and got in beside you—far, far to the left, leaving oceans of space.

You laid there in silence.

Listening to the rain.

Feeling the quiet pulse of her presence, steady and near.

Then—after what could’ve been minutes or hours—she spoke.

“I used to picture this differently.”

You turned your head toward her in the dark. “What?”

“Sharing a bed,” she said softly. “Waking up beside someone. It was supposed to mean something.”

Your voice caught. “Does it?”

Wanda didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, like a truth she hadn’t let herself say:

“It does now.”

You swallowed, heart suddenly a drum against your ribs.

The air shifted.

She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Your fingers curled on the sheets. You didn’t touch her.

But you wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

You woke up before her. She was still on her side, facing you now, her hair a dark halo on the pillow. The early light barely touched her face. She looked peaceful in a way you’d never seen—like the storm had finally quieted inside her too.

You watched her breathe for a moment too long.

Then you slipped out of bed.

Made coffee.

Waited in the kitchen, hands wrapped around the mug she’d usually hand you.

She found you there twenty minutes later, sleep still in her eyes, robe loose, bare feet quiet on the floor.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Hey,” you replied.

And then— she walked straight to you, took your coffee from your hands, took a sip and handed it back.

Your heart clenched.

Because it was exactly how you liked it, exactly how she liked it.

And she hadn’t even asked.

. . .

“Dress nice. 10 AM. My driver will take us.”

You stared at the handwriting for a full minute before turning to the small Pomeranian she hadn’t meant to adopt but had anyway, who now followed you around like you were the stable parent.

“Is she kidding?” you asked the dog.

The brownish fur ball barked and walked off.

The brunch was at a discreet little brownstone tucked between galleries in SoHo—charming, sunlit, deceptively casual. The kind of place rich people used to pretend they weren’t rich.

Wanda met you by the car. She wore soft ivory trousers, a long cream coat, and a small gold chain at her throat. She looked casual, effortless.

And, of course, utterly composed.

“You look nervous,” she said, slipping on her sunglasses.

“I didn’t realize brunch was with royalty.”

“It’s just my godmother,” Wanda said lightly. “And her judgmental wife. And a few others who might ask why I never brought anyone around before.”

Your stomach dropped. “Is this… an approval thing?”

Wanda opened the door for you. “It’s a test.”

Your eyes widened, “And you’re telling me now?”

“I didn’t want to make you overthink it.” she replied way too cooly.

You glared. “I hate you.”

She smiled like it was affection. “That’s the spirit.”

It started fine.

A few raised brows. Too many kisses on cheeks. Someone complimented your coat and then looked pointedly at your boots like they were confused how you existed in both at once.

You held Wanda’s hand under the table out of habit now—because it looked right, because it felt expected. Because her thumb sometimes rubbed slow, silent circles into your palm when the small talk got suffocating.

You were halfway through a fruit tart when it happened.

Someone—Wanda’s godmother’s wife, you think—asked how the proposal went.

You froze.

Wanda answered too smoothly, never too quickly.

“She said yes before I finished asking,” she said, hand squeezing yours. “I think she knew I wasn’t bluffing.”

There were chuckles. Some “aww”s.

And then she added, without thinking:

“I think I fell in love with her the moment she argued with me in front of three board members.”

Your heart actually missed a beat at that.

Laughter rippled around the table again. You forced a smile.

But Wanda… Wanda looked at you then. Really looked. And her smile faltered just enough for you to know:

That part hadn’t been part of the performance.

You didn’t speak in the car on the way home.

The silence felt different this time. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… held.

Like she was waiting to see if you’d bring it up.

And you didn’t. Because you didn’t know if it was safer to ask or pretend you hadn’t heard.

When you got back to the penthouse, you walked straight to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned on the counter like it could hold up your confusion.

She joined you minutes later.

“You handled that well,” she said.

You gave her a tight smile. “I fake marry like a pro now.”

Wanda watched you. “You’re upset.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m confused.”

She took a step closer. “About what?”

You hesitated. Then: “You said you fell in love with me.”

Her throat bobbed.

“I thought the contract agreed,” you said quietly. “That there wouldn’t be feelings.”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“But you did.”

“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

That made you go still.

“I don’t know,” she said again, quieter now, “when it stopped being pretend. If it ever really was.”

You stared at her.

Because you felt it too. The shift. The touch that lingered. The glances that said too much.

But admitting it?

That would break everything wide open.

So instead, you reached for her hand. Threaded your fingers through hers.

And whispered: “Then let’s figure it out.”

Wanda’s eyes lifted to meet yours.

And for once, there was no wall. No act. No mask.

Just her, just you.

And a truth neither of you could keep quiet much longer.

. . .

You didn’t sleep in your room that night.

You didn’t talk about it either.

There was no declaration. No sly smirk. No half-joking excuse about the heat or the window draft.

Just a quiet shift in steps—her slowing down in the hallway, your hand on the door to her room instead of your own, and a breathless moment where neither of you asked why.

You just walked in.

Together.

She lit a single lamp—low, warm, soft.

The city shimmered beyond the window, gold and blurry in the glass. You sat on the edge of the bed, unsure what version of yourself to bring into this room.

Wanda sat beside you, her thigh barely brushing yours. You could feel the heat of her, even without touch.

“You’ve stopped calling it fake,” you said, voice quiet in the hush.

“I know,” she replied.

“Is that intentional?”

“Does it matter?”

You turned your head, met her gaze. “It does if I’m not the only one confused anymore.”

She inhaled like she was steadying herself. Her voice was barely more than a breath when she said:

“You’re the only thing that’s ever confused me in the right way.”

That did it.

Whatever wall you’d built—professionalism, control, fake-wifely detachment—it cracked right down the center.

You didn’t lean in.

She did.

Softly. Slowly.

Like she was asking for permission with every breath.

And when her lips touched yours, they didn’t feel like a contract. Or a line crossed. Or an obligation.

They felt like something that had always been waiting to happen.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t for show. It was warm, unhurried, tender in a way you didn’t think she even knew how to be.

Your hand found her jaw.

Hers curled around your waist.

When she pulled back, your forehead rested against hers.

You didn’t open your eyes.

You whispered, “I don’t know what this is anymore.”

She whispered back, “Maybe it’s something worth figuring out.”

The next morning, Peter was already at your office before you even got there.

Coffee. Concern. A look on his face that made you brace.

“I saw the photos,” he said before you could speak.

You gave him a weary look. “Which ones?”

“The ones where she looks at you like you’re the last person in the world who doesn’t scare her.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. “It’s complicated.”

Peter sat down across from you, voice quieter now. “Is it fake still?”

You looked down.

He exhaled. “Y/N…”

“I didn’t mean for it to change,” you said softly. “But she’s—she’s different when she’s not surrounded by suits and pressure. And I don’t know how to unsee that.”

“Do you trust her?”

You nodded. “More than I should.”

“Do you love her?”

You froze.

Peter didn’t push. Just let the question sit there, heavy and true.

That night, you found Wanda on the balcony.

Blanket around her shoulders. Hair loose. No wine. No screens.

Just her.

Just quiet.

You stepped outside, wordless, and joined her under the blanket.

Her hand had found yours and you let her hold it.

. . .

The kiss didn’t fix everything.

But it opened something.

You both felt it—that strange quiet after something real slips between two people who swore they were just pretending. You didn’t talk about it the next morning. You didn’t have to. The air had changed.

So had the way she looked at you across the table.

Not calculating. Not possessive. Not even curious anymore.

Just soft.

Like you were hers in a way that didn’t need words.

You started cooking more.

It began with late-night pasta, just because she came home looking too tired to pretend she’d eaten. Then it was pancakes on a Sunday, because she’d mentioned—offhand, distracted—that her mother used to make them that way when it rained.

She didn’t say thank you the first time.

She just sat beside you, her fork slow and quiet, and said:

“You remembered.”

Like that was rarer than any gift she’d ever been given.

The first time she touched you without a reason, it was barely anything.

You were washing dishes, elbow-deep in soap, and she walked past—hand brushing across your lower back as she passed.

She didn’t look at you.

But she didn’t need to.

Your heart stuttered anyway.

At night, she started falling asleep before you.

You could tell by the way her breathing slowed, the tiny crease in her brow fading under the weight of whatever peace you’d somehow become for her.

And you—God—you watched her like she was a miracle you hadn’t asked for but were suddenly terrified to lose.

Some nights you stayed awake just to feel the way her hand would reach for yours, even unconscious.

Like some part of her had already stopped pretending.

She didn’t pull away anymore.

Not when your knee brushed hers at dinner.

Not when you leaned against her shoulder during a movie.

Not when you walked into the room after a shower in her shirt, hair still dripping, and she paused like the world went quiet just seeing you.

“Wanda?” you asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

She smiled. “I know.”

And then came the night it stopped being something between you.

And became something shared.

You were curled on the couch, her head on your lap, fingers lazily playing with the edge of her sweater. She was half-asleep, wine glass abandoned on the floor, a soft playlist humming in the background.

You thought she was dreaming until she said:

“I want you to stay.”

You looked down. “I live here, remember?”

She shook her head against your thigh, eyes still closed. “Not for the contract. Just… stay. Tonight. Tomorrow. And the days after.”

You brushed a hand through her hair. “Is that a new clause?”

“It’s not fake,” she murmured.

And when she opened her eyes—tired, raw, full of something too fragile to name—you knew:

She meant it.

Every word. Every glance. Every touch.

So you leaned down.

Kissed her like you weren’t afraid anymore.

Like you’d already chosen her in a hundred quiet ways.

And when she pulled you down beside her—blanket tangled, breath shaky, heart finally, finally open— You stayed.

Not as her employee, not as her fake wife but as someone who loved her and wasn’t going anywhere.

[rainnydayzz]

Some cute fluff and then not so cute angst cause it’s way too easy with these fools >:)

Mostly unfinished stuff cause it was like 1 in the morning when I rushed these out.

About the whole s*lf h@rm thing with shadow, I do have a small splurge abt that

On a similar vein, here’s a scenario:

Sonic sees Shadow return from a GUN mission one day and he looks rough. Like Sonic has never seen him in that bad a shape before. Quills stuck out at odd angles, blood was matted in several spots of his fur, and his clothes were torn. Sonic approaches and asks what happened and if there was anything he could do. Shadow dismisses him as he expected, but Sonic noticed something odd. Neither of Shadow’s wrists had an inhibitor ring, or his ankles for that matter. Sonic asks where his rings were and Shadow grumbles something to which Sonic wasn’t sure he heard correctly. Shadow repeats himself, louder and angrier, shouting that he lost them. Okay so he did hear that right. Sonic didn’t think that was even a possibility. In fact, he recalls a conversation between the two from awhile back where Shadow explained he physically cannot “lose” the rings without removing them himself. Sonic calls bullshit and Shadow is none too pleased. They yell back and forth with Sonic asking where they were and what the reason was. Finally Shadow summons enough strength to chaos control out, but not without a noticeably louder *crack* than usual, and a brighter glow. He was unstable and Sonic knew that, but he didn’t know how to help. The best he can do is ask Rouge to talk to him.

Another time after this, it’s been a good several days since Shadow had apparently locked himself in his room. When Sonic finds out he races over to the house and meets Rouge at the door. She’s surprised to see him but assumes he’s here for Shadow. She says good luck, he gets like this from time to time, but Sonic pays her little mind. He goes to Shadow’s door and knocks loudly, calling out for him, and telling him he was there and coming in. The door was locked of course and Rouge shakes her head with an "I told you so." Sonic doesn’t take this for an answer and busts the door down genuinely surprising Rouge who yells at him. Shadow is on his bed, hardly having flinched and Sonic walks up to him. He’s shaking and electricity is crackling around him as he’s curled away from the door and Sonic. Sonic gives an "I knew it" and looks at the bedside table before pulling it open and seeing the two pair of golden cuffs Shadow typically adorned. Sonic reaches out to Shadow and gets essentially burned, even through the gloves.

“Damn, right through the glove, so much for those. You hear that Shadow? You owe me new gloves.”

Sonic tries to get Shadow to cooperate but he keeps resisting. It gets to where Sonic is wrestling on the cuffs to each wrist, his gloves ruined and burned through by now. Rouge kinda just watches in shock. (Also she feels terrible about all of this and blames herself for letting things get this bad. She should have checked on him, she should have done something. Sonic tells her it's not her fault, Shadow is responsible for himself, it's not her job to babysit him.) Anyway, Sonic eventually gets the cuffs on Shadow, he having calmed down more every time a cuff is attatched. Well that was more of a workout than Sonic was expecting. He tries to talk to Shadow but with varying success. It's not until Sonic tells Shadow that he knows he's hurting, but hurting himself isn't going to help. It doesn't cancel it out or make anything better, he would know. This catches Shadow's attention. So yeah a little trauma bonding moment I guess. Bittersweet. The next day Sonic finds a small package outside his door, and upon opening it he sees it's a new pair of gloves and burn cream. There's no tag or anything but Sonic knows. Tails is a little confused but honestly has learned not to try and understand whatever the hell Sonic gets up too in his own time.

Anyway you get the point.

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Built For Us

Pairing: Poly!141 x Reader

Warnings: Romantic angst, emotional vulnerability, sensual touching, suggestive dialogue, partial undressing, deep intimacy, swearing, possessiveness, PTSD themes, domestic setting, soft polycule intimacy

Author's Note: To every single one of you who helped me hit 1k—thank you for showing up, for staying, and for letting me write softness into the cracks. I never thought I’d make it this far. I appreciate and love all of you. Thank you and I appreciate it all.

Summary: It’s been one year since the boys walked away from war and into the house they built with you. But when dinner is forgotten and silence settles over the home, it takes your voice—and your hands—to remind them just how safe they really are.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The house they built sat on a hill where the trees broke just enough to let the wind talk through the leaves.

Wooden beams. Fire-scorched hearth. A long porch with room for five rocking chairs no one ever used. It didn’t look like a fortress—but for them, it was. Four broken men and the one woman they’d kill for, all tucked into one space that smelled like slow-cooked garlic and cedar smoke.

You were barefoot in the kitchen, apron twisted at your hip, gumbo bubbling too high on the stove. Something smelled burnt. Maybe the rice.

You checked the time. 6:17.

Friday night.

Dinner night.

The only real rule in the house: no alone time, no war stories, no guilt. Just the five of you. You’d been cooking since four. No one had come in to taste the broth, steal a kiss, wrap arms around your waist and whisper about dessert—nothing.

Your hand tightened on the wooden spoon.

"Where the hell are they?"

Floorboards creaked under you as you padded toward the den. You passed the muddy boots John left in the hall, the half-repaired drone Kyle said he'd finish last week, Johnny’s hoodie slung over the stair rail like a flag. But the house still felt… hollow.

Then you heard them. Low voices behind the door.

You stopped. Rested your fingers on the wood. Listened.

“I still don’t think I deserve this,” Simon’s voice, gravel-low. “Not after all the things I—”

“You do,” Kyle interrupted. Quiet but firm. “We all do. Don’t act like we didn’t all carry our share of blood.”

Johnny, softer: “It’s just… a year, yeah? A whole fuckin’ year since we walked outta that life. How is this even real?”

A beat of silence. Then John: “Because we built it.”

You pushed the door open gently.

Four heads turned.

You stood there, apron tied, eyes dark with heat and confusion. “You all forget what today is?”

Kyle stood first. He always did when you were hurt. “Shit, love—no, no, we didn’t forget.”

“I burned the damn rice,” you muttered, stepping inside. “And none of you were there to tell me it still tastes good.”

Johnny was already crossing the room. “C’mere, bonnie. C’mere.” His arms wrapped around your waist, forehead pressing against yours. “I’m sorry.”

Kyle’s fingers brushed your back. John’s large hand settled on your shoulder, grounding you like an anchor. But Simon—he lingered just out of reach. Mask still on. Gloves still clinging to his hands like armor.

You looked at him.

“Simon.”

His eyes flicked up. A pause. A crack in his walls.

“You don’t have to wear that,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer.

“You know you’re safe here, right?” you added. “With me. With them.”

He swallowed hard, jaw clenching, chest rising like he was preparing for a blow.

You walked up to him, slow and deliberate. “Let me see you.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t stop you either.

Your hands came up, fingers finding the edge of the mask. You peeled it back gently—inch by inch—until the fabric fell away, and there he was.

Scars. Blonde hair, uneven and soft. Full lips. Strong jaw. Brown eyes that held too much pain and too much hope at once.

You reached up and cupped his cheek.

“I love your face,” you said. “Every part of it. Even the parts that hurt to show.”

Simon leaned into your touch like he was afraid you might disappear.

Behind you, Johnny made a small, aching sound. You looked over your shoulder.

John’s eyes were dark and low-lidded, jaw tight, chest rising. Kyle had tears in his lashes, even as he smiled.

“C’mere,” John rasped.

And suddenly you were in his arms. His lips brushed your ear. “Say it.”

You tilted your head. “What?”

“Say it again.”

“You’re mine,” you whispered.

Then it broke open.

John kissed you hard—deep and slow, like he needed to make a memory. Kyle came up behind, mouth finding your shoulder, arms curling around your waist. Simon leaned in to press a kiss to your throat, breath hot, and Johnny dropped to his knees in front of you, hands dragging down your thighs.

They were on you like hunger. Like need.

“You gonna make it up to us for missing dinner, sweetheart?” John murmured against your jaw, his hands already sliding beneath your apron.

“She doesn’t owe us shit,” Kyle countered with a grin, lifting your shirt just to press kisses along your spine. “But I wouldn’t say no if she wanted to.”

“You all are lucky I love you,” you said breathlessly.

Simon’s voice hit low and rough. “We’d burn the world to keep that true.”

They undressed you slowly, reverently—hands brushing every inch of skin like they were mapping it to memory. The firelight painted your body gold. Johnny’s fingers skimmed your stomach as he nipped your inner thigh. Kyle whispered dirty things in your ear while Simon kissed a line down your back. John knelt behind you, thick hands holding your hips like you were something sacred.

The rug scratched at your knees, the air heavy with sweat and want. Four bodies surrounded you—warm, aching, starved not just for touch but for you.

“You’re not just ours,” John said, kissing the space beneath your ear. “We’re yours.”

You blinked hard, breath stuttering.

All of them.

Their weight.

Their love.

Their need.

This house wasn’t just a safe place. It was a promise.

And when they laid you back—arms tangled, breath shared, kisses traded—you didn’t just feel loved.

You felt home.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[viviansturns]

𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒅 - an asshole!matt x addicted!reader series

wc: 3.2k

cw: mentions of childhood neglect, alcohol and substance addiction, past toxic relationships, toxic and addictive tendencies, very rough sex with little aftercare, a shit ton of angst, fluff, (this is for the entire series)

*disclaimer: in no world do i think matt would ever act like this. it is an alternate universe purely for entertainment and so you can feel like your heart has been pulverized*

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑻𝒘𝒐 - breaking point

You were pacing the living room like a caged animal, muttering curses under your breath.

Matt was on his phone by the window, looking bored. Chris was grabbing beers from the fridge.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Chris glanced over. “Uh. You good?”

You didn’t answer. Your heart was pounding so hard you thought you might throw up. Your fingers kept clutching at empty skin.

“Fuck.”

Chris wandered over, brows pinched. “What the hell are you doing?”

You spun on him. “I lost it.”

“Lost what?”

“My ring!”

Chris blinked. “The one you always—? Okay. Chill. It’s just a ring, right?”

Your vision blurred. The room felt too small.

“It’s not just a ring,” you snapped, voice shaking.

Matt’s head came up instantly, phone forgotten.

He watched you for half a second. Read everything in your face.

Then he was moving.

“Where’d you last have it?”

You scrubbed your hands through your hair, breath coming short.

“I don’t—I don’t know. I—I had it when we were in here—fuck, Matt, I need it.”

Chris was still confused. “Jesus. We can get you another—”

“Chris, shut up,” Matt barked, eyes not leaving you.

Your fingers trembled. You felt sick.

Matt grabbed your wrist, not gently but not mean either. Firm. Steady.

“Hey.”

Your eyes met his. Wide. Panicked.

“It’s here. We’ll find it. But you need to breathe.”

You shook your head violently. “I can’t. I can’t. It’s—it’s not replaceable. I need it, Matt—”

“I know,” he said, low. He squeezed your wrist. “I know.”

Chris looked between you, baffled, opening his mouth.

Matt shot him a glare that shut him up immediately.

“Look at me,” Matt ordered.

You did, shaking so hard your teeth clicked.

“You’re gonna help me look,” he said, voice slow and deliberate. “Okay?”

You nodded, gasping.

Matt released you and dropped to his knees, checking under the coffee table, sweeping aside shoes.

“Chris. Get your ass over here and help,” he snapped.

Chris blinked, startled. “Dude, chill—”

“Now.”

Chris grumbled but joined in.

Matt was methodical. Focused. He scanned the carpet like a bloodhound.

You sank to your knees too, hands scrabbling under the couch cushions, breath stuttering.

“Where the fuck—”

“Calm down,” Matt said tightly, but his voice wasn’t cruel. It was clipped. Focused.

You felt tears prick.

Matt noticed. His eyes sharpened even more.

“It’s okay,” he said again, lower now. “We’re gonna find it.”

A minute later he froze.

His hand darted under the couch, fingers closing on something.

He pulled it out slowly.

Your ring.

You choked on a breath that was half-sob, half-laugh.

Matt held it out carefully.

Your shaking fingers took it, pressing it into your palm. You sucked in a ragged breath.

“Hey,” Matt said. His voice was quieter. “Look at me.”

You met his eyes, tears slipping hot down your face.

“You got it. Breathe.”

You nodded frantically, clutching the ring so tight it hurt.

Matt finally exhaled. He sat back on his heels, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Chris just blinked at both of you.

“…Jesus,” Chris muttered. “It’s just a ring.”

Matt’s head snapped around.

“It’s not just a ring,” he growled.

Chris shut up.

Matt turned back to you, softer again.

“You good?”

You wiped your eyes. Nodded.

“Yeah,” you croaked.

He didn’t smile, but his shoulders dropped a little.

“Good. Put it on. Don’t take it off again.”

You slid it onto your finger so fast it almost cut you.

Matt’s eyes tracked the motion, then flicked up to yours one last time.

“Better?”

You let out a broken laugh.

“Yeah,” you whispered.

He nodded once. Stood up.

“Party’s gonna suck,” he muttered, brushing off his jeans.

You sniffed and managed a watery smile.

“Yeah. Least I have this.”

Matt didn’t say anything. But he didn’t look away.

- - - - - - - - -

The bass thumped low and heavy through the house, rattling the floorboards and your ribcage. The air was thick with sweat, perfume, weed. Every light was tinted pink or gold or blue, like the party couldn’t decide on a mood.

Chris had disappeared into the crowd about fifteen minutes ago with a guy he knew from high school. You stayed near the drinks, nursing a lukewarm cup of coke.

Matt was across the room. You spotted him immediately—eyes scanning like. He was on his second beer, but you had a feeling there were a few before that.

You’d tried saying hi earlier.

He’d just raised his drink, nodded once, and turned away.

Now he was sitting on the arm of a couch, half-listening to a conversation he clearly didn’t care about. He looked like he was barely holding still. Leg bouncing. Fingers twitching. Jaw ticking. And every once in a while, his eyes would flick to you—quick, sharp, unreadable.

And every time you met them, he’d look away.

You sighed and turned back to your drink. A guy beside you leaned in, saying something about how he liked your hair. You gave a polite nod, half-listening. He was nice enough. Harmless. Still, your eyes kept drifting.

Matt was watching now, not hiding it.

His beer was empty.

The guy beside you laughed. “So, you here with anyone?”

You felt that familiar heat rising in your chest—not from the guy, not really. From him. From Matt.

You turn around to answer, before you’re interrupted.

“Hey,” someone muttered behind you.

You turned.

Matt.

Closer now.

His brows were drawn together like he was annoyed already.

“You good?” he asked. Not friendly. Not concerned. Just… sharp.

You blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at the guy beside you, then back at you. “You wanna get some air?”

You paused. “Are you—?”

“Just come outside for a second,” he said, voice clipped.

And because you were already, you just followed him out.

—

The backyard was quieter. Colder. The music a dull pulse through the closed door. You stood off to the side, crossing your arms. Matt lit a cigarette.

“You gonna tell me what that was about?” you asked.

He took a long drag. “Didn’t like the look of that guy.”

“He was fine, Matt.”

“You don’t know him.”

“And you do?”

He shrugged. “Don’t need to.”

You glared. “What, you suddenly care now?”

He looked at you then—really looked. “I’ve always cared.”

That stopped you for a beat. But before you could say anything, he took another long drag and muttered, “Just don’t like guys who think they’re entitled to you ‘cause they said your name once.”

“Jesus,” you snapped. “He was making conversation. It’s called being social. You should try it.”

Matt didn’t answer. Just exhaled slow. His hand shook a little. He flicked ash into the grass.

“Why are you even here if you’re gonna be like this?” you asked finally.

He didn’t answer right away. “Didn’t wanna be alone.”

You blinked. It was almost too honest.

But before you could soften, he added, “Should’ve stayed home.”

And just like that, the wall was back up.

You stepped away, jaw tight. “You’re an fuckin’ ass when you drink.”

He looked at you sideways.

Inside, the party roared louder. People laughed, glasses clinked. The night went on like it didn’t care you were both standing out here falling apart.

Matt drained the rest of his beer. Then he turned toward the house again, pausing just long enough to say, “Don’t let that guy touch you.”

“Why not?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “You gonna beat him up?”

He didn’t look back.

“Maybe,” he said.

And then he was gone.

- - - - - - - 

The ride home was silent at first—so silent you could hear the city humming outside the car. Chris was at the wheel, eyes locked on the dark street ahead, knuckles white around the steering wheel. You sat in the back, fingers spinning your cheap metal ring so hard it nearly flew off.

Matt was in the passenger seat, slumped but somehow still vibrating with anger. He smelled like beer and the bonfire smoke clinging to his clothes. Every so often he let out a sharp exhale, like even breathing near you pissed him off.

Finally, he broke.

“You’re real fucking quiet back there,” he slurred without turning.

You didn’t answer.

Matt let out a snort, dark and humorless. “What? Nothing to say now? You were sure yappin’ all night.”

Chris’s jaw ticked. “Matt. Shut up.”

But Matt twisted slightly, looking back at you, his bloodshot eyes catching in the streetlights.

“You think you’re better than me, huh?”

Your stomach knotted. “Stop.”

He sneered. “Nah. Say it. Tell me how I’m a fucking disaster. Say it to my face.”

Chris’s voice was low. Dangerous. “Matt, I’m not gonna tell you again.”

Matt just shook his head, muttering, “Whatever. Fucking princess can’t even look at me.”

You did look then. Glaring.

“Grow up,” you snapped, voice tight.

He laughed—a mean, cracked sound. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Me growing up, cleaning up, making it nice and easy for you to pretend you don’t want me.”

Your pulse spiked.

Chris let out a low, warning, “Matt.”

Matt didn’t stop. His voice dropped, slurred and heavy.

“You look at me like you hate me. But you always look. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

You went cold. Your fingers dug into the spinning ring until the edge cut your thumb.

“Stop,” you whispered.

Chris hit the brakes at a red light hard enough to jolt everyone. He turned to Matt, eyes dark.

“Another word and you’re walking home. Got it?”

Matt didn’t answer. Just faced forward, breathing hard, the muscle in his jaw jumping.

Silence fell like a dropped curtain.

Your heart wouldn’t stop hammering. Your chest ached.

Chris didn’t say another word, but his eyes in the mirror were apologetic.

- - - - - - 

Chris didn’t say anything the rest of the ride. The car was heavy with it—your silence, Matt’s pissed-off breathing, the buzzing streetlights outside like the only sound that dared to speak.

When you finally pulled up in front of their place, Chris killed the engine a little too hard.

“Get out,” he said to Matt.

Matt gave him a look. “Don’t fucking tell me—”

“Out.”

Chris’s voice was steel. Matt hesitated, then shoved the door open and staggered out.

You didn’t move right away. You just sat there, ring spinning so fast it was a blur. Your fingers trembled.

Chris turned in his seat. “You okay?”

You didn’t want to look at him. Your voice cracked anyway. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

You swallowed hard.

Matt was standing by the front steps, swaying a little, glaring at nothing. Chris watched him, jaw working.

“I’m sorry,” Chris muttered finally. “He’s… fuck, he’s drunk. Doesn’t make it right.”

You shook your head. “He meant it.”

Chris sighed. He looked older in that moment, the streetlights catching every line of exhaustion on his face.

“Look,” he said quietly. “I’m not gonna tell you what to do. You’re an adult. But you see him, right? You see him.”

You didn’t answer.

“He’s a good guy. Most of the time.” Chris’s voice was careful. “But he’s not good for you. Not like this.”

Your eyes stung.

Chris reached over the seat and squeezed your wrist gently.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two… but don’t let him break you.”

Your voice was just air. “I won’t.”

He held your gaze. Called you on it without words.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t say anything else.

Chris finally let you go and opened his door.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s get you inside.”

You climbed out, legs unsteady, heart in your throat.

Matt was on the steps, leaning on the railing. He didn’t look at you.

Chris moved ahead of you, unlocked the door, and flicked the light on.

“Matt. Inside.”

Matt pushed off the railing, shoulder-checking the doorframe as he passed. You followed, feeling your chest cave in with every step.

Inside, the place smelled homey like usual, but right now, it didn’t help. Chris closed the door behind you both and locked it.

He turned to you one last time, voice low.

“Get some water. Get some sleep. Don’t talk to him tonight.”

You nodded.

Not because you meant it. Just because it was easier than explaining what had just cracked open in your chest.

Chris’s face softened. Then he did something he rarely did:

He stepped forward and pulled you into a hug.

You froze at first. Then sagged against him, your hands twisting into his hoodie.

“Hey,” he murmured. “Breathe.”

Your shoulders shook.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay. He’s just… he’s a mess. Don’t let him make you one too.”

You sniffled, wiping your face on his chest like a kid.

“Sorry,” you mumbled.

“Don’t be.”

Chris pulled back just enough to look at you.

“You good enough to go crash?”

You nodded, voice wrecked. “Yeah.”

He gave your arm one last squeeze. “I got you. Don’t forget that.”

You swallowed hard and finally stepped away.

- - - - - - - -

You heard Matt first.

Low cursing from the living room, something thunking hard against the wall.

You winced. Chris noticed.

“Go to my room,” he said quietly. “Seriously.”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Please.”

But you were already moving. You weren’t gonna hide.

Matt was standing in the middle of the living room, pacing. A beer bottle in one hand, his hair a mess, hoodie half-off his shoulder.

He froze when he saw you.

“Oh. Look who decided to join.”

You crossed your arms. “Stop.”

He barked a sharp laugh. “What? Don’t wanna have another little heart-to-heart? You seem to love those.”

Chris stepped between you. “Matt. Sit down.”

Matt ignored him, eyes locked on you.

“You know what pisses me off?” he slurred.

“Everything?” you snapped.

His eyes narrowed. “You. You piss me off. Walking around like you’re so fucking pure.”

You flinched. Chris’s hand landed hard on Matt’s shoulder.

“Enough.”

Matt shook him off.

“Fuck off, Chris. She wants to know, right? Wants to know why I’m such an asshole?”

Your voice cracked. “Yeah. I do.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

Matt advanced a step. Chris caught him by the arm but Matt just yanked free.

“Fine. You want it? You want the truth?”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah. Tell me.”

He laughed. Ugly. Bitter.

“You fucking drive me crazy. That’s the truth.”

Your mouth went dry.

Matt’s voice rose, raw.

“You fucking spin your stupid little ring and pretend you’re so calm, but you’re the most fucked up person here. You think I don’t see it? Think I don’t see you watching me like you want me but you’re too good to admit it?”

Your face went hot. “Stop.”

He didn’t.

“Always talking shit. Always running your mouth. Acting like you’re better. But you’re not. You’re just scared. Scared of wanting someone like me.”

Chris grabbed him harder this time. “Matt. Enough.”

Matt just roared over him.

“WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU EVEN HERE IF YOU HATE ME SO MUCH?”

You lost it then.

“BECAUSE YOU MAKE IT IMPOSSIBLE TO LEAVE!”

Silence.

Matt’s breathing went ragged.

You shook your head, voice cracking.

“You act like you hate me but you’re always there. Watching me. Following me. Picking fights with every guy who looks at me. Why? Why are you so fucking obsessed if you hate me so much?”

He didn’t answer.

You took a shuddering breath, screaming it this time.

“WHY ARE YOU SO OBSESSED WITH ME?”

Matt’s face crumpled.

“BECAUSE I FUCKING LIKE YOU, OKAY?”

The words exploded out of him, ragged and broken.

Chris went still.

Matt was shaking.

“Happy now?” he hissed. “You wanted to know? I like you. I fucking like you and I hate it. I hate you for it. I hate me for it. I hate that I can’t fucking stop.”

Your heart slammed in your chest.

Matt’s voice broke.

“I fucking like you so much it makes me sick.”

Silence rang in your ears.

Chris’s grip on Matt’s arm loosened.

“Jesus Christ,” Chris muttered under his breath.

Matt wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand like he’d just spit poison.

“You happy?” he said hoarsely, eyes red. “You got what you wanted. Now fuck off.”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Chris’s voice cut in, low and dangerous.

“Matt. Go to your room.”

Matt let out a shaky, humorless laugh.

“Yeah. Sure.”

He shouldered past you, hard enough to make you stumble, and stomped down the hall. His door slammed so hard the walls shook.

You flinched.

Chris turned to you slowly.

“You okay?”

Your lips trembled.

You didn’t answer.

Chris ran a hand through his hair.

“Look… you gotta understand. He’s… he’s fucking wrecked over you. Always has been.”

You didn’t want to hear it.

Chris’s voice softened.

“I know he’s a dick. But he’s not lying.”

You bit your lip so hard it hurt.

Chris stepped forward carefully, giving you space to bolt if you needed.

“Come here,” he said gently.

You didn’t resist.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you steady while your whole body shook.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “I got you.”

Your tears finally broke free.

Chris didn’t rush you. He just let you cry.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie. His chin rested lightly on your head. You felt stupidly small, stupidly safe.

When you finally pulled back, your voice was destroyed.

“Sorry,” you croaked.

Chris shook his head. “Don’t even start.”

You wiped your face roughly.

“I fucking hate him,” you whispered.

Chris gave a dry little huff. “Yeah. I know.”

You looked up, eyes burning.

“Why does he do that?” you demanded, voice cracking. “Why does he—why does he say that shit? Why does he have to make it so hard?”

Chris’s eyes softened.

“Because he’s scared.”

You let out an ugly sound—part laugh, part sob.

“He doesn’t act scared. He acts like he owns me.”

Chris sighed. “I know.”

You sniffed, eyes down. “I hate that I even… care.”

Chris’s hand squeezed your shoulder.

“Come on,” he said finally. “Come sit.”

You let him guide you into his room. It was dim, a mess of laundry and open notebooks and the smell of leftover weed.

Chris sat on the edge of the bed. You sank down next to him, too tired to argue.

He handed you a box of tissues from the nightstand.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

You blew your nose pathetically. Chris didn’t even blink.

Silence stretched.

You twisted the ring on your finger so hard it dug in.

Chris noticed. His eyes flicked to it, then back to you.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked gently.

You let out a sharp laugh. “No.”

“Fair.”

Another silence.

You picked at the seam of his comforter. Your voice was so small you almost didn’t hear it yourself.

“Why does he get to hurt me like that?”

Chris’s jaw flexed.

“He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.”

You wiped your face.

Chris put an arm around your shoulders again. You didn’t fight him.

“Look,” he said softly. “He’s fucked up. But you don’t owe him anything. You don’t have to fix him. Or forgive him.”

You sniffled, leaning into him a little.

Chris’s voice dropped lower.

“And if you want to crash in here tonight instead of dealing with him, that’s fine.”

You shut your eyes.

“Maybe,” you whispered.

Chris pressed his lips together. Didn’t push.

a/n- i told you guys it was gonna be toxic...

asshole!matt x addicted!reader masterlist/intro

comment if you want to be added to my taglist

[lumosflairr]

Can I request a fic where George gets knocked out in quidditch practice and reader aka his girlfriend runs to check on him he's all confused and dizzy and flirts with her? Like those memes "hey girl you got a boyfriend?" "You are my boyfriend" "hEelL yeAH"

Dazed and Devoted - George Weasley

summary: George gets knocked out during Quidditch practice. When he wakes up, confused and concussed, he flirts with his girlfriend like he’s never met her before. And honestly? It’s kind of adorable.

warnings: none!

Word Count: 1.5k

Fred and George were showing off, as usual, turning every drill into a competition. You were perched in the stands, legs swinging off the edge as you watched George zip around the pitch like he hadn’t a care in the world. You’d told him earlier to please not die today, and he had given you a wink and said, “No promises, love.”

Typical.

Oliver was barking out orders below while Katie and Alicia ran plays overhead, but your eyes stayed on George. He always looked so alive on a broom, golden in the sunlight, wind-tossed hair everywhere, laughing like there was nothing else in the world to worry about.

And then—just like that—it changed.

One moment he was banking left to avoid a Bludger, and the next—

WHAM.

Bludger to the head. Clean hit.

You heard the thud before you saw it. George spun midair like a ragdoll, his broom zigzagging before he tumbled off and hit the grass with a dull, sickening sound.

“GEORGE!” you screamed, dropping your notes and sprinting from the stands before Madam Hooch could even react.

By the time you reached him, he was flat on his back, eyes half-lidded, a crooked smile on his face like he had just had the best dream of his life. He blinked up at you slowly.

“Hi,” he said, voice drowsy and slurred. “Are you an angel?”

“George—Merlin, George, are you alright?” you asked, dropping to your knees beside him, brushing back his hair to check for blood. “Fred! Someone get Madam Pomfrey!”

He blinked again. “Whoa. You’re really pretty.”

You froze, eyes narrowing. “Okay, yeah. He’s definitely concussed.”

George propped himself up slightly on his elbows and squinted at you, like he was seeing you for the first time. “Hey… hey, uh, do you have a boyfriend?”

You stared at him. “Seriously?”

He grinned goofily. “Because if not, I’m available. Just saying.”

You bit back a laugh. “George, I am your girlfriend.”

His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “No way. For real?”

“For real.”

He pumped a lazy fist into the air. “Hell yeah.”

Fred, who had just run over, nearly tripped over himself laughing. “He’s either dying or just scored the best news of his life.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Both, apparently.”

George reached up and gently patted your face, missing your cheek and hitting your chin instead. “You’re so soft. Have I told you you’re soft?”

“You’ve told me lots of things, love. Most of them nonsense.”

“Bet I said them real smooth though.”

Fred muttered, “He flirts better concussed than I do fully functioning,” earning a glare from you.

Madam Pomfrey finally arrived, puffing and muttering under her breath. “Step back, step back, what did he do this time—bloody Weasley twins—”

“He caught a Bludger with his skull,” you said flatly.

“Coolest catch I’ve ever done,” George mumbled.

You brushed his hair back again gently, watching as Pomfrey waved her wand over his head and began muttering incantations. “You’re going to be okay. Just… try not to flirt with anyone else on the way to the Hospital Wing.”

George’s eyes fluttered closed briefly, then opened again, still dazed. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Got the prettiest girl right here.”

“Sweet-talker,” you said quietly, cheeks warm.

He smiled at you, soft and crooked. “Still can’t believe you’re my girlfriend. That’s like, winning the Triwizard Tournament but without the dragons.”

Fred piped up. “You do realize you’re gonna have to live this all down when you’re healed, yeah?”

George didn’t miss a beat. “Worth it.”

Pomfrey sighed. “Someone help me levitate this lovestruck idiot to the Wing before he starts serenading her.”

You stood up, still grinning as George kept his eyes locked on you, even while floating in mid-air. He reached out lazily, fingers wiggling in your direction. “I love you, random pretty girl.”

You leaned close and kissed his forehead. “Still your girlfriend, dork.”

He beamed, all bruised and dizzy and delighted. “Hell yeah.”

[chara-cat5]

lads isekai au ch 7

reader is gender neutral, warning: swearing, mdni

masterlist

first 1

previous 6

next 8

"do it again."

you clenched your jaw at xavier's bossy tone, shifting your stance back to the beginning.

"xavier. this is like, the fifth time."

"well, if you did it right, you'd only have to once."

you shot him a dirty look before running through the attack set, maybe swinging your spear a little more aggressive then necessary. right, left, stab, stab, down.

"yeah? like you do every set perfectly every time-"

he caught your move in it's downward arc, his sword holding the metal just under the spearhead. you startled, but hesitantly went through each motion, his own form catching each attack. it was dance of metal with the song danger, a rhythm the two of you fell into without breaking eye contact. you swung, he parried, he jabbed, you blocked. each move flowing with a smoothness only found in understanding.

"a moment of weakness is all it takes to be taken down. one wrong step. i don't want to see you fall."

his words makes your movements stutter. he cares? why would he care?

he takes the opportunity to disarm you, spear clattering to the ground. his sword was held over your heart. his eyebrows pinched together, a conflicted look passing over his features. you held his gaze, a long moment passing before he lowered his sword.

"run through it once more, then you are dismissed."

he turned away without another word, leaving you alone in the training room.

"... what the hell was that about?"

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

after your first mission, you had way more confidence when you were given a second. not just in your own abilities, but also...

"i'm so glad jenna let us team up for this one. dealing with these guys would not have been fun alone."

you glanced toward mia, a smile already on your lips, her contagious cheer was just too easy to fall into.

"they won't know what hit them."

you stood up from the hotel bed, flattening the fabric of your dress pants. it was an undercover mission. infiltrate some rich ass bidding thing, check for protocores. mia said it was a mission type that wasn't uncommon.

the pair of you were dressed up in your nicest of clothes. she wore a flattering dark dress, silver jewelry pieces making her shine like a gem. her hair was half up, straight black hair loosely curled at the ends. you wore in a dress shirt and tie with a flattering suit vest that fit you like a glove over it. your dress pants tapered out at the bottom, hiding away a pair of heeled boots. while mia's gun could hide away against her thigh, you hid your own weapon as a necklace. compact spear hidden as a simple bar of metal on a chain, tucked under your shirt.

the gathering of the rich wasn't hard to find, posh laughter, fancy wine, the nine yards. ladies dressed in fine gowns, covered in gems as if screaming their wealth. men in pressed suits, gold statement watches on their wrists. classy music played in the background of the event, a space even dedicated for dancing should someone wish to. you followed mia closely, your shoulders forced back to appear confident. play the part- is that fucking white hair??

your gaze snapped toward it, met with an older gentleman, not sylus... made sense. also made sense for him to show up in a place like this. a suspicious auction for protocores. would you even want to meet him though? you wanted to avoid zayne and caleb for history reasons, but the other three were safe... right?

"you see something?"

you looked back to mia, shaking your head with a smiled pulled to your lips.

"ah, no. just thought i saw something. we're good, girl."

the two of you made small talk around the room and you really admired mia's ability to act in this situation. course, she had experience. experience thanks to a certain crow you were worried was some where around here...

"i'm gonna check out something. i'll be back in a few, okay?"

you nodded at her lowered voice, sipping your drink as she padded off. you stuck to the wall, fading into the background as you watched rich folk chatter about. after a moment, you spotted mia again, watching her follow what looked like a server through a door.

'she might need back up. should i follow her?'

you decided to at least stand nearby the door, that way the second she called, you'd be right there. walking across the floor, you slipped between groups of people, going unnoticed for the most part. at least, you thought you did, until you hand was grabbed. you let out a gasp, already balling your fist to swing at the perpetrator.

"calm down, sweetheart. i don't bite."

your eyes widened at that deep voice, whipping around to see deep red eyes.

"hi, sweetie."

.

.

affinity l̸e̶v̴e̶l̴ [10]

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taglist: @sleepisfortheweakpooh @plzdonutpercieveme @young-adult-summer @mentaltrouble2201 @noxus123 @asakiyu @leftpoetrymoon @hon3yydew @anemobabygirl @clandestienly @crimsonrubie @beaconsxd @yuurisfavblog

okay, i know it's like three updates today, but i promise you, i'm not over working myself!!!

how i've been working is write two chapters, publish the first one, write another, then publish the next. (aka, chapter 8 is already written out, currently working through 9)

my reason for writing so much rn is, i a) have the time and b) i have the motivation (b is waaaaaay harder to hold onto for me, but your comments make it 1000% easier, thank you loves!!)

also, i made the masterlist cause i was tired of updating each and every chapter for links every update.

anyway, thank you for reading (it means so much)

-chara <3 (the yapper, sorry!!)

[angelicsoulic]

— 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ good for you ⊹ ning yizhuo

⊹ ࣪ ˖ synopsis you meet a wonderful woman at a random nightclub, and after chatting, it feels like a specific tension takes place between you two and lead to something else…

⊹ ࣪ ˖ disclaimer ning yizhuo x fem! reader , wlw , fluff including flirting and tension

⊹ ࣪ ˖ song playing good for you - selena gomez

the bass thudded through the floor of the packed loft, lights flickering like neon confessions in the air

you were three drinks deep, cheeks flushed from the warmth of your friends’ laughter and the subtle glow of gin

it was one of those nights where time didn't tick— it melted

that’s when you saw her

perched alone at the bar, her dark hair spilled over one shoulder, lips curved in a quiet smirk like she knew something no one else did

she wore pink and red — something smooth and strappy — and the way her legs crossed beneath the dim lights made your breath catch

her eyes flicked up, catching yours , and your stomach flipped

“you’ve been staring,” your friend nudged, sipping their drink

“yeah,” you murmured. “i know”

“go talk to her”

after several rounds of protest, you finally gave in and slid off the couch, weaving through the crowd with a nervous smile stitched to your lips

she was even more beautiful up close — soft angles and sharp confidence, a contradiction that pulled you in

“hey,” you said, leaning on the bar

she turned to you with an amused raise of her brow. “took you long enough”

you blinked. “you noticed?”

“you’re cute,” she said plainly, sipping her drink. “and you’ve been checking me out for at least twenty minutes”

“okay, guilty,” you laughed, flustered

“i’m Ningning.” she offered her hand. her fingers were warm and lingered in yours a little too long

"i’m..." you hesitated. "let’s just say tonight, i’m bold”

that made her grin. “i like bold”

you talked. god, she was magnetic

a dancer, she said, from Seoul. her laugh was low and warm, her touch subtle at first — just a brush of fingers on your wrist as she leaned in closer

the scent of her perfume was intoxicating, something floral with a sharp edge

then came the thigh

her hand slid over yours, then casually down to rest just above your knee, tracing small circles on your leg like it was second nature

her eyes never left yours. you were nearly dizzy

“you’re not used to someone being this direct, huh?” she whispered, lips close to your ear

you shook your head, too stunned to speak

“good,” she smiled

before could process more, ningning took your hand and stood up, glancing once over her shoulder to make sure you followed

you walked. past the crowd. past the couch. past the curious glances of your friends

into the hallway

the bathroom door clicked shut behind you

her lips were on yours almost immediately — hot, eager, and impossibly soft. it was rushed, wild, like the kind of heat you only find on nights that feel stolen from reality. every touch was deliberate. every breath was shared

she had you pressed against the wall like you were hers and hers alone, and for those breathless minutes, you were

time stopped

when she finally pulled back, her breathing was shallow, lips swollen, hair slightly messy

she adjusted her dress with nonchalance, shot you a wicked little smirk, then leaned in close one last time

“you’re trouble,” she whispered

then she winked

and just like that — she opened the door, slipped out, and disappeared into the pulse of the party, like nothing had happened at all

leaving you breathless, against the wall, wondering what the hell just hit you…

[jules2kewl]

Stalker!sevika AU

Tags/cw: Stalker!sevika au, obsession, smut with plot, Sevika x female reader, Sevika is strange lowkey.

Note: this will be my first official post on this account, so lowkey might be ass. I really hope you guys enjoy. <3

Word count?: I think like.. 4k? Yikes. Sorry guys.

Part 1/?

You’re scrolling through some websites, laying in your bed after taking a bath. Wrapped in a robe and hair towel as you look through pajama sets. most of them were around $100, so it left you only looking for the fun of it. You yawn, ready to sleep. As you close your laptop you hear something thud against your window. You look at the window, expecting it was an acorn falling or a tree brand that thudded against your window. Nothings there, so you shrug it off and simply get up to start taking off your robe. You don’t bother shutting the curtains, the neighborhood was small and there was no one across your house, so it wouldn’t matter.

You lather yourself in lotion and oil before doing yo ur skin routine. You start drying your hair, humming a tune. You see a weird flash from your window. You look out. What the hell? Maybe it was a car passing by? But it was quick… maybe you’re seeing things.

The next day, you wake up to some shuffling. You ignore it at first, thinking it was from you, kicking your sheet in the sheets. Then you feel a part of the Matress rise. You open your eyes and wait up. It felt like someone had gotten up from the bed. But.. nothing.

You get ready for the day, going into your boring job. You get into a uniform and start making yourself tea and some toast, as you ran out of coffee and bagels. You sip on your tea and finish it.

You walk to the bus stop, some other people waiting with you. Across the street, seeing a tall, strong framed woman, walking around. You inspect her appearance. But couldn’t make anything out due to the distance. Just that she was tall and most likely bulky. Kinda hot.

At work, you type away. Every single day. It was boring, but it got the rent paid so.. not bad. During lunch, you eat some Chinese takeout and watch out the window. Trying to get a break from having your eyes strained. You see a dark Chevy parked across the buildings parking lot. Hm. You’ve seen that before. It had the same beat up car door and everything. It was a small town after all.

At home.

You eat some leftover dinner from your fridge, when your phone goes off.

“Activity at front door.”

You check it. A mailman? You didn’t order anything. After the mailman leaves, you check the packaging. No way. It was from Victoria’s Secret? This was probably the wrong house.. but it wouldn’t hurt to open it?

You bring it to the kitchen and use a knife to open it. It was the same one you were looking at the other night. Your size and everything. Did you accidentally buy it? You check your card transactions. Nothing. Maybe you were just blessed. And hey, you weren’t complaining. You try it on, it was so comfortable and perfect.. you take a picture. Hell yeah.

You get ready for bed. Scrolling on your phone for a bit. Seeing a video of a girl receiving flowers on her doorstep from her partner, you roll your eyes. Why couldn’t that be you?! You turn off your phone and try going to sleep. But from the corner of your eye, you see the same flash. What the hell?!

You fly back up, looking out the window. That wasn’t a coincidence. You shut your curtains closed. There you go.

The next morning, you do your same boring routine. Get ready, eat, and change. You decide to get some concealer for your under eyes, going to your vanity. That’s when you realize the curtains were on the floor. Like they fell off. But you would’ve heard it. You were a light sleeper. You pick them up and look around. How?

You go to work again. Lunch break again.. you watch out the window. Seeing an old woman pass back the same car, walking the car. You stare at the car. One of your co workers, Micheal comes in to get coffee.

“Hey Micheal?” You ask, still staring at the black car.

“Mhm?”

“Is that car always there?” You ask, pointing at the car across the street.

“Uhhh yeah. Around 9 I think.”

You stare at the car. That was the same time you came in.

“How do you like, know that?” You ask.

“Because it’s the same time you clock in. I thought it was your car at first, but you can’t afford to get a car.”

He laughs. You roll your eyes and throw a sugar packet at him.

The same time you clocked in..

“It’s not even that expensive of a car..”

You say, as if you even had a car.

You come home, ready to unwind. You had a day off tomorrow. You drink wine and watch movies, when your doorbell rings. You get up. Pizza here you come.

You open it and see some sort of worker, holding up a bouquet of flowers.

“Hello; hope you’re having a good evening because someone wanted to make it better. You were anonymously sent these roses.”

The worker says, not even trying to sound excited. They pass the roses. You’re not sure how to react, but luckily they just leave. You close the door, reading the note.

“Watching from afar.”

You snort. Okay. Must be your friend or something. You text one; sending a picture.

-haha. Cute.

After 6 minutes, they reply.

-aww cute. Who sent you those?

You pause.

-you? Silly.

-I didn’t send anything. I’m broke as shit.

…

-lol okay.

Weirdddd. Okay this was weird. It was whatever. Whatever. Sent to the wrong house maybe. Again. You put them in a vase and start watching movies again.

But from afar, she stands outside your window. Just.. watching. Nothing better to do. But watching the movies you watch.

Okey thats it. :,) sorry if this is disappointing. Definitely making more parts, but if you read this far, thank you. 💋

[whimsymoonpages]

poly!marauders one shot: the cat incident

in which you and james let a magical cat in from a storm and sirius loses it.

it’s raining so hard the garden fence might as well be underwater. james thinks that’s a slight exaggeration, but he doesn’t actually check.

he’s curled up with you on the couch, sharing a fuzzy blanket that smells like your laundry soap. the storm rattles the windows, thunder rolling low and steady like it’s parked right above your cottage. waves are crashing somewhere just beyond the stone wall in the back garden, and it feels like the whole sky is going to tear open.

"it’s kind of nice though, right?" you murmur against his shoulder, pressing a sleepy kiss to the cotton of his jumper. "the rain noises."

james hums and nuzzles into you. "yeah, 'til the house floats away."

it’s peaceful in a chaotic way. the storm is howling but you’re warm. the rain is battering the roof but you’re safe. you kiss him again, just because you can, and tangle your fingers in his pretty curls. all of a sudden, you hear a big BOOM!

then the power goes out.

"oh, great," james groans, rolling his head back against the couch dramatically. "brilliant. perfect."

he tries to summon a candle with a lazy flick of his wand—"accio candle!"—but it flies from the other room and hits him directly in the chest.

"ow!"

"that’s what you get."

"for what?"

"for not using magic like a normal wizard."

he grins anyway, despite your sass, and lights the candle with his wand. before you can settle back in, you both freeze.

scratching. at the door.

it’s not a knock. it’s soft, persistent. clawing.

"nope," you say instantly, shoving at james’s arm. "hell no! you go investigate. you’re the gryffindor. go be brave."

"bravery doesn’t mean i can’t delegate," he hisses, clutching the candle closer. "you’re coming with me. wands up. no sudden movements."

"you sound like remus." you snort, gripping his bicep like mad.

"yeah, and remus would be so much better at this right now."

you light your wand, creeping to the door like you’re about to find something monstrous on the other side. to be fair, you do live in wizarding cornwall. james makes you stand a safe distance away, dramatically gesturing that you should cover him from behind.

he opens the door.

peering up at you both is a matagot. a huge one. it looks just like a giant, black house cat; sleek black fur, glinting blue eyes, dripping wet from the rain. just staring.

james chokes. "oh my god."

he remembers these. he learned about them in care of magical creatures his fifth year. harmless unless provoked. could multiply if threatened.

he slams the door shut. "it’s a matagot. there’s a matagot at the door."

"what? how did a matagot get to the beach?!" you ask incredulously, not relenting your grip on his arm.

"you’re the magizoologist. do something!"

"you’re the gryffindor!"

"i’m just here to look pretty! you are a literal scienist!" he sputters at you, pushing you in front of him.

you sigh but push him off of you and open the door again, slower this time. the matagot is still there, sitting calmly like it’s waiting to be let in. you crouch carefully, murmuring soft, soothing words.

"hi, darlin'," you croon with your hand out. "you are just so pretty, aren't you?"

it purrs, and brushes past your legs like you’re not even a threat.

"oh," you blink. "i think it just wants to come in. poor thing must be scared of the rain."

"brilliant," james says, voice still two octaves higher than normal, eyes wide and wand stuck to his hand. "our house is a stray cat hotel now."

you grab a towel and start drying the creature off, gently combing your fingers through its wet fur while james nervously circles around it like he’s waiting for it to sprout extra heads.

"you’re fine." you tell him.

"i’m not fine. it could multiply. what if it multiplies while you're holding it?"

"then we’ll have more cats!" of course you'd say that.

he watches the matagot curl up on the rug and start purring. his heart visibly melts.

"ohhh, i was wrong. we’re keeping it."

"we can’t keep a matagot, jamie. i'll take her to the rescue tomorrow."

"don’t care. we can't tell sirius. she's mine now."

you’re both back on the couch, curled up again, the storm still raging but now accompanied by the low rumble of the matagot’s purring. james presses soft, lazy kisses to your temple, murmuring, "so glad it was just a cat."

the matagot jumps up onto the couch with both of you, snuggling up like she had known you for years.

about ten minutes later, the front door slams open.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT."

sirius. he’s dripping wet, his boots caked with mud from the walk home, but he’s pointing directly at the matagot like it’s a cursed object.

"it’s our cat," james says sweetly. "never had a pet before!"

"jamie, that is NOT a pet! THAT’S A MATAGOT. THAT’S BAD LUCK!" sirius brings his hands up to his head and grips his curls. "oh mon dieu, qu'as-tu fait ? amener cette créature ici!"

you chuckle and stand to hug him. "s'just a cat, siri. a magical cat! no need to worry."

"i’m literally french. those things terrorized my ancestors. you’ve invited doom into our cottage."

"i didn’t invite him, he let himself in!"

"YOU LET HIM STAY."

james shrugs and pulls it closer, like that settles the matter.

"oh my god. where’s remus?" sirius pants, his eyes going crazy. "he would back me up."

right on cue, remus steps in through the back door, hanging his rain-soaked jacket by the hook. "had a good time with my dad," he says cheerily, "missed the worst of the storm."

he stops cold when he sees the matagot.

"who the fuck is she?"

"our cat!" you and james say in unison.

remus just stares at the three of you; james lounging like he’s always wanted a giant magical cat, you grinning smugly, sirius looking betrayed by the people he loves most.

"right. okay. well. guess we’ve got a cat now."

james beams. "that’s what i said!"

"godric help us all," sirius groans, flopping dramatically into a chair.

and you end up squished between the three of them, the matagot happily sprawled across all your laps, the storm still rattling the cottage but none of you moving to leave the pile.

james kisses your cheek. "best rainy day ever."

sirius grumbles but pets the matagot anyway. "we aren't actually keeping her, right?"

"no, siri," you reassure him, petting the top of his head. "i'm taking her to work with me tomorrow. she can live in mine and barty's office!"

"thank godric."

[piemaw]

MUSCLE ☆

Fei xiao x fem!reader

The sun shine over your face gently as it begin to rise, it's currently 07.19 AM when you woke up. Feeling the cold spot beside you with your hand lazyly, you know that your lover already left the house to the gym hours ago. You let out a yawn as you begin to sit on top of the messy bed. blanket on the floor, pillow tossed somewhere in the room.

You rub your eyes harshly and got up from the bed, you head towards the bathroom and brush your teeth while staring at your reflection with a bored eyes. In the middle of it, you heard a notification coming from your phone. Curiosity got you, so you quickly finish brushing your teeth and check out your phone. "Who the hell would've message me in the morning, especially on the weekend." You thought.

♡ : "baobei, i know you're awake by now. Let's have a breakfast at a new place that's near the usual gym."

"Nah, how does she know i am awake already." You mumble to yourself as you continue to read the messages.

♡ : "my friends said that place is a good spot to have a breakfast!"

♡ : "see ya there, baobei (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ"

You giggle to yourself seeing feixiao using such emoji, it's not rare to see her use it. But it still got you everytime, how cute your little (big) lover is.

You tossed your phone on the bed and once again head towards the bathroom, you take a quick shower and dressed yourself in a simple white shirt and a short jeans. It's already 08.11 AM now, you quickly snatch your keyhouse, phone, etc, into your short jeans pocket. You got out of you and feixiao shared home and lock the door. The gym is not that far, if you walked it would only take around 15 minutes. So you walked until you're infront of the gym. "I'm sure feixiao is still inside the gym." You thought.

You went inside the gym and looked around, searching your lover. You spot her in a corner with her friend, slowly you walked towards her. Her eyes perk up at your presence and she display a big grin on her face "morning baobei!" She said and you answer it with a "morning" too. "Just, wait a second yeah?" without even waiting for your respond, she already continue her conversation with one of her friends called moze.

Well, you don't mind really. Cause at times like this, you got the chance to admire her well build muscle. Yes, MUSCLE!! man, how can you not stare and admire those solid, rock-hard muschle (you want to touch it so bad everyday, and you did). "Like what you're seeing, baobei?" A teasing smirk displayed on her pretty stupid face, you didn't notice that you have been eyeing her muschle for 5 minutes straight and her friend, moze already left 1 minute ago.

You can feels your cheeks getting warmer as you quickly avert your gaze to somewhere else that's not her "i'm just– spacing off.." you mutter quitely. She let out a small laughs, oh god, even her laugh are so melodic in your ears. "Sure sure...just spacing off." she tease. You quickly changed the topic and asked about the place that she mentioned earlier on the phone.

"Changing the topic now, eh?" She tease you again. "Fei.." you warn her with a slight pout. "Okay okay! Calm down now." She start to walk out of the gym and you followed after her. "Hmm, that restaurant is actually near here, like really really near it will only take around a minute to get there. It's called 'fine dinner' but funfact, it got shitty dinner there the breakfast is heaven tho" you listen to her yapping about how her friends literally order many menu from the dinner set and all of them taste so bad (It taste more bad then your cooking).

Then, ya'll got inside the restaurant and take a sit, Feixiao sit right infront of you. The waiter give the two of you the menu "we will have two of 'yum yum breakfast' please" she said with a small smile. The waiter process to excuse herself off after taking both of you and her order. "Yum yum breakfast huh? Sounds funny to me" you said with a confused look. She laugh it off and agree with you. "Lets go out later." She suddenly said. "Sure, but we're going where?" You reply. "Hmm, There's actually a new movie that just come out yesterday. It's a horror tho, it's okay if you want to pick something else." Gahhh your heart literally melt hearing those warm words, man, you might as well explode from how caring and considerate she is. "I'm okay with anything fei, don't worry. Beside, i am kind of interested in it since you seems really excited bout it." She smiled and reach your head, giving them a gentle pat pat. "i'm not a little kid.." you mumble and she just laugh it off.

The food is served on the table. It does looks pretty delicious, your stomach start to growl at the view. Feixiao start to dig in first, and you try to take a bite of it, after chewing it a few times you can already tell this breakfast indeed gonna taste heavenly "you're damn right fei". She looks at you, staring at your still chewing figure, mouth full of food and a round cheeks "cute" she thought.

"Eat slowly there," you just nod at her words, well you can't really speak now, right? After finishing the breakfast feixiao pay for it and goes home. In the living room, there's feixiao sitting on the couch "fei, the movie play at what time tho?" You asked from the kitchen. "Wait baobei, lemme check." She pulls out her phone and start to scroll here and there "it's like, in the afternoon". You let out a "oh, i see" and continue doing whatever you're doing right now.

Ok yall go to watch the movie -> the end (yes, i am to lazy to finish it lol and sorry for the typos and stuff, first time here dude dont fire me).

[mournfall-syscourse]

Heya~ so we wanted to understand your perspective on all of this a bit better. We're on the pro-endo lean of things, but we're a CDD system (DID specifically). Partly because of our views on things, we're going to use CDD systems and non-CDD systems to refer to things, rather than calling non-CDD systems endogenic. The distinction of whether a system is a CDD system feels more important than origin labels, here. I'll preface that all of this is genuine, as far as tone. We want to understand your perspective on all of this better. We also want to help you feel heard and listened to, and maybe figure out a solution alongside you, if possible. We're also responding to your post bit by bit, so apologies if there's any repetition or such, and for the length of the response too, ofc.

Firstly, yeah, definitely agree that it's a problem that CDD-specific discussions will get derailed by a non-CDD system demanding that the discussion also account for their experience. It's a problem, we've seen it often - hell it happens in other spaces for other stuff too. It's annoying. I wish people would respect that discussions about experiences specific to one group, or sub-group, are not "exclusionary" or "gatekeepey" or what have you. Additionally, spaces in general. We also absolutely agree that it's important to have spaces that are specific to each group (CDD systems and non-CDD systems), as well as the shared spaces. We think there are different approaches for each, and there's room for both. For instance, a CDD-specific space could either be entirely exclusive, only allowing systems that believe they have a CDD to join (it does raise the question of how you handle those who are unsure if their experience is that of a CDD or not), or they could allow anyone to join, but the space is for CDD systems, and so discussions that are related to non-CDD systems will either be not allowed, or at least limited and/or relegated to a specific part of the space. In a discord server, for instance, both of these are doable. In the latter, non-CDD systems (and those who aren't sure) would still be cool to observe, maybe some might find that information helpful to them. Some may even ask questions to try and understand some of the CDD-specific experiences and differences. As long as it stays on topic, that's fine. In the former, it's much easier to keep things in check, even if it's a bit more closed-off - and a rule of not mentioning origin syscourse would ensure that things are chill, syscourse conversations unrelated to non-CDD systems would not be needed there. In a space like tumblr... it's a public forum. It's near-impossible to truly keep spaces separate. It's more about ettiquette, and people respecting the tags, and keeping within their lanes. Some people do this well, others do not. I do think it would be nice if topics that are noted (tags or actual content) to be about or specifically catered towards CDD systems were allowed to be as such - hopefully over time that can happen. Yeah I do agree that non-CDD systems don't need to be involved in every system space. We're of the opinion that there are differences between CDD and non-CDD systems, but there are also a lot of similarities. The differences are important to acknowledge and accommodate for, while the similarities are helpful for solidarity and sometimes even just a different perspective. With that view in mind, absolutely we need to have the option of separate spaces. These spaces do exist, though it depends what platform you're looking for them on. As far as separation of plurality, we view things more as a spectrum - at a base fundamental level, we think non-CDD and CDD plurality are the same. But the existence of a CDD changes that plurality. The roots are the same. I can go into this further if you're interested, but I'm mainly including it so you can understand where we're coming from with our perspective, for this reblog. We don't think CDD and non-CDD plurality are so different that shared spaces don't make sense to have - but we still absolutely agree with you that separated spaces are also necessary.

I'll also add that your thoughts and perspectives are appreciated on this. You're an anti-endo that is very chill overall, from what we've seen of your posts, and we think that discussions with you would be good to have, for understanding that side of things more. There are things we don't agree with, sure, but we'd like to understand more about why you have the viewpoints you do, and share our own, if you're interested in those, too.

We can certainly empathise with feeling like your plurality is inseparable from your disorder. We have (and to an extent, still do) felt that way about our own. Our perspective is still a bit different to yours, but we do definitely understand that feeling, and why it feels that way. I can also understand the other side of things, of viewing plurality through the lens of identity. We personally look at our plurality through both lenses, disability/disorder and identity. I think it varies on which takes a priority, depending on a given situation, and sometimes they're pretty even. You say you see your plurality through the lens of disability and disorder first and foremost - do you view it through a lens of identity as well, with it just being less of an influence of your view of it, or is that not something you do at all?

As far as your plurality being impossible to view in a vacuum - we can also empathise with that too, it's something we also felt about our own system. That has changed, for us, but we definitely understand that feeling and perspective - our plurality is so tied up in our disorder and the trauma surrounding it. Untangling that will take a lot of time and effort. Recovery. Our goal for our system is functional multiplicity/resolution, personally, and while we still recognise that we will always have our CDD, we also view our plurality as being able to exist outside of the disordered/dysfunctional aspects of it, one day. How do you view that side of things? I understand the frustration of being told to just focus on the similarities and just accept them. The similarities are there, but the differences are too. Both are important. And just accepting things because you're told them is also generally not going to work - we struggle with it too - in various situations, not just syscourse. We've learnt how to manage it better than we used to, but it's taken effort to get to this point.

We get your point behind the Autism, ADHD, and AuDHD comparison. Honestly we agree with a lot of it, though we don't think it quite supports your argument as well as you hoped - but we like the general idea behind it, so we'll propose this comparison. If you swap out Autism and ADHD for plurality (non-CDD) and C-PTSD, then the comparison makes more sense (though still somewhat imperfect). CDDs then fit in the AuDHD slot. Having a CDD is kinda like having both plurality and C-PTSD together. They're both dissociative by nature (plurality just isn't pathological in its dissociation), but the combination of the two changes things, they blend together, like in your original comparison. There's similar experiences to non-CDD systems (just plurality), and there are similar experiences to singlets with C-PTSD. But the experiences aren't exactly the same. They can feel very different. The similarities are worth considering, but the differences are also incredibly important.

With that comparison as the perspective, then maybe that makes it easier to consider that shared spaces for all systems (and shared spaces for all people with trauma disorders) make sense. However, again, we absolutely agree with you that separation is also important to have available. Having spaces that are specific to CDDs is still a need. We do agree that it's frustrating when non-CDD systems request everything be shared or try to make things about them, when they're not meant to be. While I do think that non-limited resources (like digital documents or apps or such) should be shared, as it's not taking that away from CDD systems, there are still things that should be kept at least as a priority for CDD systems over non-CDD systems. I will say that generally, most non-CDD systems don't claim to have a CDD. Those that do, the majority of the (pro-)endo community doesn't condone, as far as I can tell. Non-CDD plurality functions differently - though we do think there's a spectrum to it.

As far as separate terms go, and the feeling of CDD and non-CDD systems living in different worlds, we'd love to hear your perspective on that more, if you can find a way to put it into words. As someone who views the two forms of plurality as having the same roots, I'd really like to understand why the two experiences feel so different from your perspective. If you can, please share that viewpoint.

It's definitely interesting to have felt like the experience was so different in a pro-endo space - assumably there were both CDD and non-CDD systems there? Do you remember what it was like interacting with the pro-endo CDD systems in that space, and their experiences of things? If so, did it also feel really unfamiliar and such?

Absolutely feel you on the awful feeling of being told that you don't need to understand, to just accept it, or to just get over it. Especially as someone with a strong feeling that we need to understand things. It can be really frustrating to be trying to understand as much as possible and then being denied that because the other person got tired of trying to explain it - though we've definitely found we were partially to blame in situations like that in our past experiences, for our approach to the topic - things we've worked on, even if we still mess up sometimes. "Make your own space if you don't like it" - this one is tricky. I don't know if it's always intended to be dismissive, but I suppose it depends on the situation in question. Are you trying to change an existing space? Not everyone's going to be okay with that. In some ways, making your own space is easier, and those that want in will join. Again, it really depends on the platform you're creating this space on, as some are easier to moderate than others. The thing with online spaces, as well, is that you don't have to leave one space to join another. If your CDD-only space is available and known about, then people can join it - if there's demand for it, of course - without losing any shared spaces they might be in as well. We do want to understand more about what you mean, in this section, about (pro-)endos and pro-leaning endo-neutrals doing what they want and ignoring you (also is that anti-endos as a whole?), as well as feeling like everyone has decided what they're doing is best. We're not sure we fully understand what your ideal for how the community at large would function like is - could you explain that further, please?

We don't think it's pointless or bigoted gatekeeping - there are definitely issues with shared spaces - not necessarily their existence, but having separated spaces be less common is definitely not ideal, and we very much support the idea of those spaces being made available. As far as separate terms go, we personally think CDD and non-CDD are good enough separators, but we'd still like to understand more of your perspective on that. Some things definitely need to change, yeah. Separate spaces are definitely a good starting point - some exist already but they're less built-up than combined spaces. We've been in some CDD-exclusive discord servers in the past (ones that didn't care about your stance on endos, as long as origin syscourse was not happening), and they worked fairly well at the time, for a while at least.

We agree that being separate isn't always gatekeeping bullshit, it's not always bad (and often can be good). We're a little confused regarding those wanting separation being told to go somewhere else - like above, we're not entirely sure if you're trying to change existing spaces, but if that is the case, then... doesn't it make sense that if you want a space built on separation, to create a new space for that, rather than changing the existing shared spaces to be separate? A shared space will always require an amount of compromise. If the problem is that you want separation, by nature of it being a shared space it's not going to be your preferred space to be in, so a CDD-specific space would need to be created (if you can't find one to your liking that already exists) to suit your liking more. Whether or not other CDD systems join that separated space is ultimately up to them - some prefer a shared space, some prefer a separated space, some like having access to both. As far as feeling like you're being suffocated by (pro-)endos, I want to ask about pro-endo CDDs specifically. If you're feeling suffocated by them as well, then wouldn't an anti-endo-specific space be helpful, too? Those definitely exist out there - many are receptive to endo-neutrals, too, though not all are. Separated spaces are always going to be smaller, by virtue of there being less people in them. I think it's less about meeting half-way and more about looking at the solutions to the problems at hand, right? Do existing spaces need to change for new ones to be created? The internet is great for allowing many different spaces to be created, for various things. Different platforms will do this better than others, but there's solutions to work with.

I guess our biggest question for you regarding all of this, is: what does your ideal structure for the system community at large look like?

Huh, that's neat, one of the current syscourse topics is relevant to something I was thinking about earlier.

One thing that I see a lot of endos do that annoys the fuck out of us is they like to make conversations about CDDs about them. I know a lot of people reading that will go "No we don't!! Endos rarely ever do that!!" to which I say; just because you haven't seen it, doesn't mean it's not happening. I myself have seen this a ton, I see people claiming that "anything a CDD system experiences an endo can too", people saying there should be no separation of terms at all (very common to see sadly) some saying that there shouldn't be CDD exclusive spaces, that endos belong everywhere that CDD systems do, all sorts of things all the time. I've even seen a lot of people who rarely ever claim this kind of thing, knowingly or not.

There seems to be this idea that endos need to be involved in everything. Some believe there are no differences, some know there are differences but that they "don't matter at the end of the day", this idea that there should be minimal separation. So much push back at the idea of separate terms, and, as said before, endos making CDD experiences about them. They get mad if they aren't included in everything, and people seem to hate the fact that we insist on there being more separation, both in terms and communities, in regards to plurality. So, since syscourse is talking about it for once, I'll share our thoughts from an anti endo perspective so yall can see how this whole thing looks to an anti.

In our eyes, our plurality in inseparable from our disorder. We wouldn't be plural at all without it, and all the various symptoms don't just exist on the side of our plurality, like some seem to suggest. No, it blends together with our other symptoms, to the point of being nothing outside our disorder. A lot of endos talk about their plurality in a very different way we do, viewing it through the lens of identity, but for many CDD systems, it's always viewed through the lens of disability and disorder first and foremost. Seeing how they talk about their plurality, how they seem to experience it, how they deal with it, it's very different from how we and many other CDD systems do.

The thing is, our plurality can't be seen in a vacuum. We really hate (pro) endos saying they're "more similar to us than we think" because we genuinely can't see how. We aren't just plural, we aren't just a disordered plural, our plurality is our disorder, and our disorder is our plurality. I know many don't like people talking about it that way, but it's how things are for us. It's unbelievably frustrating to see people constantly insist that we should "focus on the similarities" and "just accept them" when it's hard to believe they really experience what we do.

I'll put it this way; AuDHD. It's the combination of autism and ADHD, and some think that you just have both of them, nothing special, but the truth is, they blend together to create something entirely new. Sure, we have similar experiences to autistic people, and those with ADHD, but it's not the same. I still feel as though my experience as an AuDHD person is still very different from people with one or the other, because both of them have become inseparable. You can't view our ADHD without our autism, and vice versa.

I know what I lot of you are thinking, "But they still can talk about their experiences and be in the same spaces!" Here's the thing about that; both still have the disorder. Both still have these similar experiences because they have the same diagnosis we do. The reason endos frustrate me so damn much, why I can't stand their constant insistence on making everything about them, demanding that we share almost everything, getting mad when I want there to be separate terms; is because they have only a few symptoms, usually only one or two, then claim that it's "so similar" to mine. That's what annoys us so damn much. Yes, I DO feel like there are tons of important differences, because while their plurality isn't affected by a CDD, because they don't have one, ours is completely entangled in our CDD. It's irritating because it's not just that we're multiple, it's that said plurality is constantly blending and mixing with all the other symptoms of our disorder. They claim to have it in at the very least, a similar capacity to us, and it's so irritating because theirs isn't so entangled with a CDD. Just like with AuDHD, our plurality blends together with our other symptoms into something entirely new. It's hard to put into words, mostly because I can't figure out what we would be like if we weren't so completely entangled with our OSDD. It's hard for us to view systemhood separate from CDDs.

That's why we want separate terms. This whole "Oh just use CDD system" or "Just say you're traumagen" isn't fucking enough. I know to a lot of people that's stupid, but I really can't see how just differing origin terms are enough to encapsulate how much of a different world it feels like we live in. I know people think we're being dramatic, but I just wish I could get people to see things the way we do, just for a bit. It's so hard to put into words, and I still feel like even if I could put it fully into words, I'm not sure (pro) endos would get it.

I may not remember the specifics on what we saw in the pro endo spaces we were in, but I remember exactly how we felt. It was so...alien to us, for lack of a better word. It really did feel like we were living in completely different realities from them. When we talked directly to an endogenic, despite the similarities, something about the way they talked about it, something about how they experienced things, still felt so wildly different in a way I can't fully explain.

And it's especially awful to see so many say "You don't need to understand, just accept it" so much of the "just get over it" sentiment. So much "Make your own space if you don't like it." It just feels so dismissive. It really, genuinely feels like (pro) endos and endo neutrals with a pro lean are just, doing whatever the hell they want and are ignoring us. Our discomfort disregarded as "just go to therapy and leave everyone alone." It really does feel like everyone aside from us has decided that whatever they're doing is the best. That just shoving everyone together is the best option. That separation is "just too hard" and "pointless" to even bother trying at all. I know many don't give a fuck about what we feel, or want to bother taking our discomfort and needs into account, but the thing is, we're far from the only ones that feel this way. Practically every anti endo I've ever seen feels almost the exact same way we do.

I know a lot of people see this stuff as just pointless, bigoted gatekeeping. But many pro endo CDD systems aren't particularly benefitting from how things are either. Sure, they feel differently than we do, I'm sure, but plenty have expressed a need for separation regardless of stance. I really, really want people to take the idea of more separate communities and terms and think on it. Even if things don't end up the way we want it, it's very clear that something needs to change, and frankly I don't thing this whole hyper acceptance and sharing near everything approach is working. Even though tons of endos seem to prefer being as close to CDD spaces as possible, it really doesn't look like this kind of setup is working for as many CDD systems as people think it is. I don't mean to speak over pro endo CDD systems by any means, I'm just saying, maybe giving at least a little bit of the more separation approach a chance would be a good thing.

I guess the point I'm getting at here is that being separate isn't always gatekeeping bullshit. It's not always the worst thing ever. I know quite a few prefer things as close as possible, but those of us who prefer more separation are being shoved out and told to fuck off and go somewhere else. Basically, it really feels like people are making a "compromise" where we get the short end of the stick and are told to just deal with it. That we just need to swallow our discomfort to make everyone else comfortable. So many people complain that anti endos are ruining everything, that we're taking everything over and not letting anyone else have room, but from our perspective, it's the other way around. In our experience, we're being kind of suffocated by (pro) endos everywhere. Which one's true, I can't tell at all, I'm just going off my own experience here. I'm just trying to say, I don't think that just letting everyone share everything isn't the best compromise.

And before anyone comes at us, going "Oh but antis need to meet us halfway!" Look. I'm doing my part as best I can. I can only do so much, I'm doing what I can, I'm trying to get other antis to be better too. Just because a lot of antis are unreasonable right now, doesn't mean it's not worth at least trying to accommodate for us, just like how a ton of (pro) endos refusing to talk to antis peacefully doesn't mean yall aren't worth trying to accommodate.

-Kaz

[nocofamilyau]

you see, if I didn't see this image right, this fucking image right here when I was like 11 or 12,, my life would have been normal and not have had any demons

[softquietsteadylove]

Badly hurt Gil and a caring Thena? :3

Gil blinked up at the ceiling. He really had no idea what happened to him. Last he could remember he was at work. They had a soup special so he was trying to get out the big stock pots from the shelf.

"Seems I'm still your emergency contact."

He nearly jumped in the rickety little hospital bed. It was like a dream, seeing her there next to him. But she smiled, holding a little paper hospital coffee cup and looking like she'd rolled out of bed to be here. Not that she looked bad, of course, but he knew her comfy hoodie and leggings were disguising that she had been in her pajamas already before coming here. It was her 'throw something on' outfit.

She still looked beautiful.

"You're still mine, for what it's worth," she admitted, albeit more quietly into the pitiful little cup. "Awful lot of paperwork, I recall thinking when I first considered changing it."

"Uh, yeah," he blinked. He wasn't seeing double at least, and he was pretty sure the faint glow she had was just because of the yellow-y light of the hospital combined with her natural prettiness. "You know what happened?"

Her light commentary left her and she frowned, her shoulders drawing inward. "You slipped at work. It was only a few small stairs of a tumble, but you got knocked out. They had to bring you here."

"Shit," Gil cursed, flopping against the pillows again. He was missing their busiest night, and that was besides the fact that the restaurant would not be happy about having to file a workplace compensation for his little accident.

"Are you okay?" Thena asked more directly, but just as gently. She leaned over in the chair she had dragged as close as she could. "Do you remember anything?"

He groaned, ruffling his hair, although he quickly learned that was a mistake, given the pounding in his head. "I was getting out some stock pots to make the soup special. We, uh, are supposed to store them lower down but it's easier to keep the food more in reach and the pots higher up."

Thena raised her brows at him, in a blatantly unimpressed way. "Because why have to get up on your tip-toes for salt when you could instead concuss yourself with a steel pot?"

He winced, and not just from his migraine. "Yeah, I guess that's about it."

Thena sighed, and he shifted in the bed uncomfortably. She had laughed it off, but she didn't really have to be here for him. They had called her because he hadn't thought to change his paperwork since their breakup. She had left the comfort of her home just to sit here with him. "I'm just glad you're all right."

He gave her a poor attempt at a smile. "Sorry, Thena."

He would have understood her being a little pissed at him for the whole mess. But she blinked at him, her eyes all teary. It made his chest clench; he always hated it when she cried, as rare as it was. His shoulders even flinched, wanting to reach out to hold her out of reflex.

"I was worried," she whimpered out with a wobbly lip. "I got a call asking if I was your contact, and they told me you fell, and were knocked out, and I would need to be here before you could be released, a-and-"

"Hey, come on sweetheart," he whispered, attempting to lean over in the bed to reach out for her. It really wasn't manageable, and also everything hurt.

She spared him, moving over for herself to wrap her arms around his neck. Her face buried itself in his shoulder, in a way that was so familiar it was painful (more painful than his body full of bruises). "Never do this to me again."

"I won't," he promised immediately. He wasn't sure how real a promise that was, the floors could get a little slippery sometimes, and he wouldn't say he was as naturally graceful as Thena. But he rubbed her back and turned his head so he could bury his nose in her hair. "I'm sorry, Thena. I'm okay, I promise."

She pulled away, swiping at her tears and making sure she looked annoyed with him enough that it would be chastising. "I'll be the judge of that. They've recommended you not be alone for 24 hours after you wake up, just in case."

Gil made a face, "I'm guessing I'm not allowed to get that surveillance at work?"

"Not a chance."

He sighed; they were really not gonna like this.

"They'll live," Thena drawled as she picked up her coffee again, only to immediately make a face and put it back down.

Gil eyed the sad little cup. "That isn't decaf, huh?"

"I'm sure it would taste just as awful if it were," she lamented, at least sitting back in the chair as she rubbed her temple.

Gil looked at the clock and then back at her. "I'm sorry they dragged you out here."

But she looked at him again with those big, beautiful green gemstones-for-eyes she had. "I would have come even if it were the dead of night, you know."

He smiled a little. He couldn't help it. He was glad to know that they hadn't ended on such bad terms that she would leave him to his own health emergencies. "Yeah, I guess I do know."

Thena tilted her head at him. "Not that there will be any more of these little incidents, now will there?"

"No, ma'am."

"Hm," she hummed to herself, but he could see that little almost-smile of satisfaction at the corner of her lips. She liked establishing herself as an authority in any situation.

He always told her she wore it well, that it was sexy on her. But he kept his mouth shut this time.

Thena looked over at the bag full of his possessions. "I've heard this go off a few times. Your workplace, I assume."

"Yeah, it's probably the boss man making sure I can't sue him for emotional distress or something," Gil sighed. He had a flash of panic as Thena pulled his phone out, trying to think if there was anything embarrassing he wouldn't want her seeing.

Had he taken the heart off her name in his contacts? Had he changed the colour scheme from the green that reminded him of her eyes? Were any of his top texts about how he was most certainly developing feelings for his ex-girlfriend and current 'something' again?

But Thena pulled it out and handed it to him before settling back in the chair and pulling out her own phone.

He pulled it up with a faint smile. He had half expected her to immediately open it for herself and start texting in his place. There was a time when she hadn't had any problem commandeering things in situations like this. He had found it a little bossy at the time, not that he'd mentioned as much.

Thena looked up from her phone, "do you want me to mention this to the others?"

He smiled at her even more. They really were different from when they had broken up, and he was pretty sure it was for the better. "Yeah, that's okay. I'm sure we would have told them eventually anyway, right?"

"Hm."

Gil went back to his phone, texting the guys at the restaurant and his boss individually, assuring them that he wasn't dead or even injured all that severely. Although he would have to miss yet another dinner service.

"It's okay," Thena began, and sheepishly at that. When he looked up at her she dashed her eyes away, "that I came here...right?"

He blinked, "they called you, didn't they?"

She squirmed, and he saw that hand tuck her hair behind her ear. "Yes, but I mean...had you had your choice of who would come, would it have been me, is what I'm asking."

Did he really want his ex to be the one waking him up and taking him home and monitoring him, she meant. Was it weird that they were doing something like this after having dissolved their live-in partnership more than a year ago? And if it wasn't, shouldn't it be?

But Gil couldn't stop smiling. Maybe they'd given him something for the headache while he was still out, but he was just so happy to see her. It was so soothing to hear her voice, so easy on the eyes to see her familiar blonde braid, no makeup, lazy clothes, bags under her eyes and all.

Thena finally managed to look at him again, toying with the end of said braid.

"There's no one else I'd rather have here," he answered honestly (maybe a little too honestly). Thena smiled down at her lap, too pleased with the answer to hide it but too embarrassed to do so directly at him. "Really."

Thena pressed her lips tighter together, something she did when she was trying to make herself smile less, not that it ever worked. But it was cute to see these habits of hers again. "So be it."

He eased back again. Maybe they did give him something, or maybe he needed more now.

Thena took notice of the very slight movement and leaned over him again. "I'm sorry, Gil, you can't go back to sleep just yet. They said they would check on you every hour. Now that you're up, I'm sure they have tests they need to conduct."

He pouted at her like a boy, "but I'm tiiiiiiiiired."

She smiled at him, and before either of them knew it, she pressed her lips to his forehead. "I know. Just focus on me."

Well, that he could do. He drew his eyes up to her beautiful, flawless face again. At least it was a nice way to keep himself awake. "Tell me about your day. Don't tell me you also fell down some stairs and got knocked out by a stock pot too."

Thena laughed faintly, filling the stuffy silence of the room. "Nothing so exciting, I'm afraid."

"Gilgamesh?"

They both jumped faintly as the door opened and both a doctor and nurse came into the room. The doctor looked at both of them, "and Thena--you're his partner?"

"I'm--he's--we're-" Thena tried and failed to get out as the two professionals just stared, waiting for an answer. Under the immense pressure, she managed to squeak out, "yes."

Gil looked at her desperately, but she was turning her head almost away from even the doctor. Nothing could hide the bright pink building in her cheek and spreading to her ears, though.

"Okay," the doctor smoothed over the weird vibe between them, moving over to the free side of his bed. "Gilgamesh, I'm gonna ask you some questions, okay?"

"Sure," he answered eagerly, although he was busy looking at his cute, flustered 'partner' sinking back into her chair and avoiding looking at him for all she was worth.

[moregraceful]

hope everyone who got a creator subscription notif from me today realizes something deeply unwell and bizarre happened to me in march

[vonlipvig]

time to unwind by reading a nice relaxing book! (pulls up morse code cypher)

[thedemigodpaladin]

I finished Rule of Wolves on April 15th.

It is now April 24th. I have not finished a book since.

I’ve started two new ones! But I have not finished either of them because Leigh Bardugo has wrecked me emotionally.