#cadence academy

[cadenceacademy1]

Fashion Designing Institute In Nagpur

Cadence Academy is the premier fashion designing institute in Nagpur, offering a comprehensive range of courses to give students the skills and knowledge.

Click To Know More: Fashion Designing Institute In Nagpur

[regalfairytaleacademy]

Twst x OM! Crossover

I draw these months ago, after I can't stop thinking about them if they wearing demon form from the dating game Obey Me!

The outfits isn't same as the original characters' one, those are took the inspire from the Pinterest I search, though the demon horns are match.

Below is the reasons and their full pictures.

Cadence = Lucifer

Likes music, especially classical and pop rock 🎶

Talented at playing music instruments, like piano and violin 🎹🎻

Takes a role of the leader, presenting as a stern person to the members of the house.

Have a soft spot and care about person they cares, though being strict.

Lost the person they loved (Lucifer lost his sister after the Celestial Wars; Cadence lost her mother since at the elementary school).

Always being obey and loyal towards the people who threaten cares; Diavolo and Calliope.

Rozebelle = Satan

Shown to be aggressive towards people, when under the rage.

Composed and kind to anyone.

Nerds and rebels!!

Loves books 📚 and color of green💚

Animals, especially cats!!

Middle of the order, with siblings (Rozebelle has 2 brothers and 2 sisters, while Satan has 6 brothers).

[cadencewishes]

I'll keep you, my dirty little secret

[weirdo09]

klaus hargreeves moodboard

requested by: @lielie-ray <3

[fuckblast]

I need some examples of things Mordecai and rigby from regular show might say to each other

[dwuerch-blog]

Being In-Sync with my Commander

Yesterday, Memorial Day, I embraced living in a country where freedom still reigns! I expressed my gratitude for living in this great land of the free and home of the brave. All was calm and all was bright after a very busy week and weekend with my family. I’ll admit my “solitary confinement” felt wonderful! That confinement lasted long enough and, even after I had been on the elliptical…

[cadence-academy]

Cadence Fashion Designing Academy

[lacollectionneuse1967]

remembering you

Theseus Scamander x Reader

summary: the year is 1916 and you live with your family near the western front in france. after a chance encounter with a wizard soldier during the war, you don't think you'll ever see him again, although you're sure you'll always remember him.

nine years later, you find that the man not only works with you at the ministry, but he also happens to be the annoying auror who keeps accidentally sending interdepartmental memos to your desk. you develop a friendly, albeit anonymous, banter through sending each other notes, but the question remains--does he know who you are? and, if he does, does he remember you?

fem!reader. theseus scamander x reader.

category: office romance. smut with plot.

warnings: 18+ smut scene. unprotected penetration. oral sex (fem receiving). dirty talk. mdom/femsub. fyi he begs for it.

author's note: i am not an expert on the wizarding world nor am i an expert on wwi / world history! with respect, i do not claim to be. this is a work of fanfiction.

1916, Northern France

How strange it was, being at home when it no longer felt like home.

Your memories from childhood were precious and few, almost unreal. It was uncanny to be back with your father at that small, unchanging farmhouse on the far outskirts of Verdun. Your school waited until the last possible minute to send its students home, as they would have been sending many students home to die.

The perpetual afternoon, summery quiet of the countryside that you were so used to took on a disconcerting edge, an unspoken terror. This was the silence of a stalemate, of a breath being held. Not far from here lay the trenches and, beyond that, the Germans.

The flat, low-slung lines of Meuse were an additional shock to you. You'd spent the last five years of your life in the high, rocky mountains of the Pyrenees, at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.

The river-run grasslands around you now had a vacant, exposed quality to them, the trees bare of birds, the squat buildings in town possessing the hollowed-out feel of an abandoned amusement park.

Even before the soldiers came you'd felt like a sitting duck.

Your sister's scream was the first noise to break the deadlock silence of the night.

You run from the windowsill without looking back. Smoke smell pricks your nostrils.

Your front door is swinging frenetically on its squealing hinges, left open, gapingly and awfully so. There are three uniformed men in boots, heavy gear, standing in your living room, looking around your small, low-ceilinged house with barely concealed reproach on their faces.

The wooden floors creak weakly underfoot. Through the doorframe you can make out some distant fires burning, you can't see them but you can smell them.

The sharp, whistling sound of war planes tears through the air.

"Parlez-vous anglais?" One of the men says in mangled French. He's redheaded, maybe in his early forties. There's black soot on his face which makes his irises look so light blue they're nearly white. "English. Anyone speak English?"

Your younger sister cowers at the booming cadence of his voice, she doesn't speak English. One of her bare feet takes a step back.

So they're English soldiers at least, but you don't recognize their uniforms. The redheaded one is brandishing a wand. But that can't be...

"[Your sister's name]," your father is too sick to rise from his chair, but he beckons to your sister, feebly, calling her away from the door in French. "Please, darling. It's okay, he's a soldier."

"There are no wizard soldiers," you step forward, placing yourself between the men and your family members. They look to you in plain surprise. Your English is unaccented. "The British and French Ministries of Magic abandoned us, forbade any wizard from involvement in-"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Your gaze shoots to the man who spoke.

He looks young. He has a long face and short-cut, curly brown hair. Handsome but not roguishly, not like a soldier ought to be. Handsome in an upright, gentlemanly way, the kind of face that exudes goodness and inspires trust. He almost seems out of place in his uniform, dressed for combat.

"What do you want?" you ask warily.

The third, sunken-eyed man gawks and lets out an incredulous sneer.

"Ungrateful little-"

"Quiet, it's fine," the brown-haired man says, silencing his comrade before turning to you. "We're here to evacuate all magical families in the area. We've received prophetic intel that invasion is imminent, the battle will begin moments from now and will span months. Hundreds of thousands will die. Pack your family's things."

Your brother lets out a noise of trepidation, turning to your father.

Your father--paler every day, made older by his illness, slumped over in his chair. He could not even make it out to the front garden, nevertheless survive an evacuation. His eyes are twinkling acutely, buried like gems in his wrinkled, ruined face.

"Come on!" Says the redheaded man in frustration. His blackened, ash-covered face is frightening to your siblings, as is his anger.

He pulls the man standing in the back towards him roughly by the shoulder to hiss in his ear.

"I'd understand if it was an estate that had been in their family for centuries, some of the pure-blood families that we…" For a moment his whispers are unintelligible, but you make out the last words well enough. "But this little farm?"

"Little farm?!" You step forward again, bristling. "This is our home. Can't you understand wanting the dignity of dying in your own home?"

The handsome one looks sharply to your father in his chair then. It is like he is seeing him clearly for the first time, you can see it click in his mind.

"Your father is a Muggle..." he says sympathetically.

"And he is sick. He won't survive apparition. Besides," you protest. "The Germans haven't broken the line since the Battle of the Marne."

The other two soldiers are stilled in shock, aghast at the fact of you, a young girl, arguing with them at all.

"Please," you entreat them. "There's been no movement. This is trench warfare, sir. They won't-"

"They will," the redheaded soldier's voice is grave, uncompromising. "Tonight, tomorrow. I don't know when, but the Germans intend to bleed the French white. They will break the line at Verdun. It is certain."

If what they said was true, if there was a prophecy....

Your hope sinks away from you, you feel your palms go limp and bloodless.

For a moment no one speaks. The silence of the night returns from wherever it fled to, creeps and settles around you.

When you find it again, your voice sounds heartless to your ears.

"Take my siblings," you say.

[Your brother's name] shouts in objection, your little sister cries out.

"No! Y/N, you can't-"

"Not another word!" You order. The words burn you to say. "You will go with these men, I won't hear anything about it."

The redheaded man grabs your sister by the forearm swiftly, and the sullen one extends a hand to your brother. They apparate away in a solitary whoosh. You feel the last remnants of your heart tear away and leave with them.

When the last man, the handsome one, steps towards you, you shake your head and retreat, backing up against the wall.

"I'm not going, sir."

You speak firmly, but the man scoffs anyway.

The front door is still erratically swinging on its hinges like a weather vane. Your father's neck has drooped forward, his chin buried in his chest. He falls in and out of sleep like this lately. He grows worse every day.

The lone soldier purses his lips, his eyes gleam testily. You think he might grab you then, and it sends a tingle down your spine.

"I'm a war nurse, you know?" Your hands are trembling suddenly. No one to pretend to be brave for now that your siblings are gone. Your courage takes on a raw, desperate quality. "Or I want to be. I know enough to help."

"Miss," the man speaks sincerely. Unlike his comrades, he really looks at you when he talks, looks you dead in the eyes. It should be unnerving, but it isn't. You can't name what it does to you.

"I vow to take full responsibility for your father's health and safety. Home or not, he won't be better off here. I will personally care for and protect him, I promise you."

You swallow and nod. He's about to grab your hand when you speak again.

"And them?" You say. "The Muggle soldiers? Who protects them? You can take my father, but I will stay."

He makes a noise of gentle surprise.

"Miss, we're here to minimize the global wizarding community's losses. No magical blood needs to be spi-"

"I don't care about all that," your voice is sharper than you intended. It appears to have cut him to the core. 'Magical blood,' he'd said. But you've never been ashamed of being a half-blood. You've never been ashamed of being your father's daughter.

He frowns in contemplation, more to himself than at you.

"You want to stay so badly. Why?"

"I told you, I'm a nurse."

"You're a child."

"I'm sixteen," you bite back.

"Like I said," his rebuttal is delivered with a sly smile. You amuse him, though you're not sure why. "A child. Not even old enough for Muggle conscription."

"I'm no Muggle."

"No, you're... You're something else."

You bite your lip. Your words are braver than your feelings now.

"If what you say is true, the Muggles--the Allied soldiers--will need medical attention. A woman in town has been training me as a nurse. I've been to the front, I can help. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."

His eyes don't leave your face, some silent assessment taking place within him. You're already thinking of what else you can say to him, how else to convince him.

"Okay," he says, unflinchingly. "You can stay." He'll turn a blind eye.

Your shoulders slump in relief.

He walks towards your father, who is still sagged over in a worrisome-looking unconsciousness, too deep to be sleep.

'No,' you think. 'Don't go yet.'

Mindlessly, senselessly, you feel a blooming alarm. Some death rattle, some dying burst of life.

"Wait!" You call out to him, stepping away from the wall.

The man turns. "The handsome one," you'd called him in your head, fancifully, maybe even teasingly. Nothing about it seems funny now. It never had to mean anything to you, people being handsome or beautiful. It didn't have to be about you. But this, it feels serious, personal.

You don't know what overcomes you, how you could act so boldly. He'll probably think you deranged, hysterical.

But you can't imagine he'll deny you.

You've seen enough soldiers these last two years of war to know what they want from women and girls, what they all inescapably hunger for.

"Kiss me," you say, and then add, "Please. Please kiss me."

He halts completely. When his brows knit together your heart shutters closed, meekly.

"Why?"

"I..." It's hard to admit, even now, the world burning around you. "I've never been kissed. I want to be kissed, just once, before I die. In case I do..."

You're losing your breath as you speak, your stamina sputters out.

You know how he must see you--naive, insane, maybe even pathetic. You can bear the rejection, but, suddenly, can't bear to face him anymore.

You don't hear his footsteps. His touch is so gentle you barely feel it, are still turning away when you notice his fingertips resting on your wrist.

When you look up at his face it's so unexpectedly close that you gasp. His eyes are blue, a deep and true blue. You were a fool to think him anything like the other soldiers you'd encountered. No, his expression was achingly kind and perceptive. Devastatingly handsome.

He smells like engine smoke and soap and spearmint. He smells like a man. It's intoxicating. It makes you shudder.

You close your eyes tight and hold your breath. There is the smell of fire and the echoes of distant warfare around you, but your entire body drones that out, pauses and prepares for this moment, readies itself to be kissed.

The man rests a hand on the side of your face, that alone is as intimate as any kiss, the warmth of his palm. He hesitates.

His lips on your forehead are not what you expect, but your body thrills anyway when you feel them press there.

But you are sixteen and you want a real kiss.

You don't even care who from. You want just this one selfish, childish thing in a warring world where no one is afforded childhood.

You stare at him in unhappy perplexity when he pulls back.

You might cry, you realize, and the swelling tears in your vision, they stun you.

"Live," he says, softly. Insistently. "You'll live to be kissed."

He turns to leave, but stops midway. Your siblings gone, soon your father too. The Germans invading. Your whole life taken in one fell swoop, one night. The last trace of your girlhood will be the sight of this soldier's back as he walks out the door of your childhood home. This, you know.

The man looks back at your face and asks you a question no soldier has ever bothered to ask you, not when they burst into your home, not even when you were cleaning their wounds and saving their lives at the front.

"What is your name?" he says.

"What's yours?"

"Theseus Scamander," he doesn't miss a beat. He's an open book. "Do you not want to tell me your name?"

"It won't matter soon enough..."

"Do you so badly not want to live?"

"No, I do. I am just no longer afraid of death."

The look in his eyes is so tender and considerate, it's almost painful.

"I don't need a name to remember you," he's smiling again, it's so strange and out of place and, you admit, heartening. "Good luck. Goodbye."

Theseus Scamander leaves with your father in tow, closing the violently fluctuating door, at last, on his way out.

----

1925, London, Nine Years Later

'It can't be,' you think to yourself. 'Improbable.'

It's just too soon. You've hardly sat down at your new desk when you receive the interdepartmental memo. It unfolds from its airplane shape mid-air and sways delicately, falling in a rocking motion until it's flat on your desk.

A memo already?

You have just been moved to the Department of Magical Games and Sports from the Department of Mysteries. The man who sat there before you was moved to a bigger, better office, had been some hunching, Quidditch-loving Old Boy who wore long socks and smelled of moth-eaten cotton. Allegedly his name was Mr. Byrne.

A real success story in his department, or, rather, your host department, as you'd been appointed Interdepartmental Liaison for the Department of Mysteries. A new position. In fact, the only "above ground" position in your department, which was, expectedly, shrouded in mystery and sunken deep within the depths of the British Ministry of Magic.

In truth, you were also here on a mission. There had been rumors of conspiracy, political mutiny. Grindelwald supporters who had infiltrated the British Ministry of Magic. And the top suspect was the Head of the Department you'd been moved to. You'd been instructed to investigate, discern the truth of the rumors.

This would usually be a job for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but they had also been compromised. Or so you'd been told...

Your new position meant that you were to be kept in the dark more often than not, but it also meant having a desk above ground and being around other people. Luxuries.

No more time travel experiments, thought experiments, or, thankfully, demented blood purity experiments that always made your half-blood boil. You could live without all of that.

Still, none of that explained you receiving an interdepartmental memo before you'd even settled in.

You lift it from your desk in annoyance.

You do a double-take at the words, blinking hard at them.

"Holy hell," the memo reads. "When I told you I wanted to investigate some cursed Gobstones I didn't mean I wanted you to send them to my office, fuck's sake. Next after-work pint is on you, my friend."

You scoff.

It must have been misaddressed. The unfortunate writer must not know about Mr. Byrne's relocation.

It's beneath you, and childish, but you can't help but write back.

It's the sort of enchanted parchment that you can just write your responding message on. The ink disappears into the scrap of paper and appears wherever your mystery correspondent may be.

For your own amusement, you try to picture their reaction the best that you can.

"First of all, 'Holy hell'? 'Fuck's sake'? How dare you," you write. "Second of all, I'm not your friend and I most certainly will not be paying for an 'after-hours' pint. If I'm not clocked in, I'll have nothing to do with the Ministry."

It takes him so long to write back you nearly forget about it, have already gotten to unpacking all your silver nibs and ink pots and lining them up in the drawer like little soldiers, just how you like.

"Who is this?" Comes the message.

It's so dry, the response, so worried and perfunctory, that you nearly laugh out loud.

But something about the formality and genuine concern in your mystery messenger's script compels you to reply with mercy.

"Relax. Mr. Byrne's desk has been moved. If you want to write him, he has the big office on level seven with the view of the Atrium now. Lucky bastard. I'm at his old desk. Was just kidding about being offended. You can say 'fuck' and 'hell' all you want to me."

His reply comes quickly this time.

"Oh, good. Fucking hell, I was scared for a moment there."

You smile in bemusement. Who knew anyone at the Ministry could have a sense of humor? You'd thought you were the only one. You can't help but write back eagerly.

"Damn, I should have lied and said I was the Minister for Magic."

"Have mercy. I think I honest to God would have cried."

"So, no after-work pint for me then?"

"Forgive me, where are my manners? Today. The White Horse. Not sure who you are, but pint is on me, sir."

"*Miss!!" You correct. "And I was only joking. I really meant what I said before about not wanting anything to do with the Ministry unless I'm at work and being paid for my time."

"How very patriotic."

There's nothing in his writing to indicate sarcasm, but it practically drips off the page. This person is cheeky, you realize. Sarcastic. And a little annoying.

You like it.

The Department of Magical Games and Sports is a sleepy, uneventful affair compared to the work you'd been engaged in for the Department of Mysteries when you were "below ground." You look around at your colleagues, your dreary officemates. They were relatively sedentary outside of Quidditch season. Sleepy, slow-moving creatures.

As interdepartmental liaison for the Department of Mysteries, a fabricated position, really, you were already bored out of your mind.

Maybe that's why you write back with unfounded enthusiasm.

"Mystery boy: Tell me something about you. Tell me something true."

----

London hadn't been kind to you.

It seemed you had a hard time of everything: finding a flat with your sister as two unmarried, unchaperoned women, making friends outside of work, making sure to look the right way when crossing the street to avoid getting hit by a bus ('They drive on the left side, Y/N. Get it together'). All these things had proved to be excessively difficult. Especially the not-getting-hit-by-a-bus part.

During the war, while you served as an underaged combat nurse on the frontlines, your father died, but your siblings lived.

They told you the soldier from that night, the one who denied you your first kiss, had kept his word. He'd done the best he could to care for your father and, more importantly, he'd stayed with him until the very end.

Your brother was still in France, working with magical aquatic beasts around les Calanques de Cassis, but your sister was here with you. She worked in some Muggle field you didn't quite understand.

Her, your brother, and, now, the mystery man you'd been writing to every day were the only real people in your life. The only people who really talked to and knew you.

Day by day you'd grown closer to the mystery man. What had started out as vaguely funny, sometimes hostile banter had developed into something more. You'd both genuinely warmed to each other.

"Morning, sunshine!"

You were so accustomed to reading his greeting with your morning coffee that you reached for it automatically, as soon as you arrived, hand sweeping wide over the expanse of your desk to pick it up.

"Hope you caught some bad guys today. Or at least got to enforce a law or two. Bye-bye, idiot." You sign at the end of most days. Or some other joking farewell.

It's a constant correspondence between the two of you, scrawled-in between assignments and research. On your desk there is your inbox, your outbox, the stack of parchment (whatever you happen to be working on), and, just to the side of that, the discreet piece of paper you use to correspond with the mystery man.

However, you do try to mitigate the sharing of identifying information. Even when he learns you're an "Unspeakable," or someone working for the Department of Mysteries, it does little to deter him.

"Keep your department's secrets," he writes. "I just want yours."

He volunteers information about himself, his initials ("TS") and even his department (Magical Law Enforcement), in the hopes that you'll reciprocate.

You do, but you offer unimportant, silly facts about yourself. Nothing that will help him identify you, though he's insistent that he'd know you anyway if you ran into each other.

"I'm an Auror. I fought in the war," he reveals one day. "Your turn now."

"Fine: I never learned how to swim. So if you want to kill me you should probably drown me."

"I'm considering it. I'll bring a bottle of water when I finally see you. Why won't you tell me something more about yourself?!"

"What do you want to know? Can't a girl working for the Department of Mysteries be mysterious once in a while?"

"It gets old."

"You're a liar. You love me."

"True on both counts. But one of these days I'm just going to show up at your desk. I know where it is, you know... Mu-ha-ha."

You write back dismissively. "Why show up? So I can berate you in person?"

Your heart pounds stupidly as you watch the message sink away. You don't want to encourage him.

It's been one whole month of your daily exchanging of magical notes.

You know his biggest stressors at work, you know what he finds irritating, what he finds funny. Know his hopes and dreams.

You hate to admit it, but you'd be completely adrift without it, without him. Even when you're back at your flat with your sister you find your hands moving to write whenever something weird or funny happens, just to tell him, instinctually. You find yourself missing him.

It makes you shudder, the thought.

You don't want anything more... You're both comfortable and satisfied with how things are now. It's really only him who jokes about meeting up sometimes. But you? You're afraid meeting him in person would ruin that.

Maybe it's easier to have a close relationship with him across the merciful distance of anonymity.

"Night night." He writes at the end of the day. He seems to get to work earlier than you and leave later, but he's learned to say goodbye right at 6:00pm, when you usually leave.

For some reason, the words don't disappear from the page, even when you write back beneath them. His boyish script stays put.

"'Night night?'" you write back. "Ouch. I'm not a grandmother, I do intend to go out for dinner after work. Why the bedtime message?"

His words fade in and your heart swells.

"I wrote it so you can put it in your pocket and save it for tonight. I get to say goodbye to you, and good morning, but not goodnight. Just trying to cover all my bases."

You smile and tear off the message, putting it in your pocket. On the remaining paper, you cast a spell for the same, lingering text that he'd gifted you.

"Okay. You can save and reuse this message: Goodnight then, T. Sleep well, I'll talk to you tomorrow, and tomorrow. And the day after that, too."

----

You're prone to daydreaming, you'll admit to that.

"You live in a world of your own!" your favorite professor at Beauxbatons would say fondly.

"Ditzy girl, that one!" your least favorite professor would scowl within earshot of you.

But it's so easy to slip away, especially when you have something, someone, to dream about.

You watch your feet sweep across the dark green tiled floors of the Atrium, but hardly pay attention to anything else as you make your way to the elevators.

You're chuckling to yourself, remembering something your mystery correspondent wrote yesterday. It was some outrageous story, so ridiculous you wouldn't have believed it if it came from anyone but him, who was honest to a fault.

It was about a disastrous trip he took with his younger brother and involved camping on a storm-logged beach, an angry Graphorn, and frantically singing some maritime folk song they'd been misinformed would calm the beast.

You're still smiling at the floor when you step into the elevator, or, more correctly, step directly into a tall man in a three-piece suit. You crash into him with a crushing momentum.

"Oof!" you redden immediately, try to catch your breath and sputter out an apology at the same time. "I'm so sorry, forgive me!"

But the man is engaged in a conversation with two other men in the elevator, laughing.

He doesn't look over to you, he just stills you with an attractive casualness, steadies your frame with a firm hand on your shoulder. You know you hit him hard, his nonchalance is for your benefit.

"S'alright. Sorry, miss," he says with a half-glance, before turning back to his conversation.

A half-glance is all you need.

The profile of his face in the elevator light. His exact height and the feeling of being next to him. His voice, for Christ's sake!

You go stiff, your face wan.

It was him. Unmistakably. The English soldier from that night at your father's house in France. From the last time you saw your father, the last time you felt like a girl...

You couldn't speak if you wanted to. You feel something like seasickness come over you, you don't dare open your mouth.

"Theseus Scamander," his colleague is joking. "I mean it when I say well done! We should've known our young war hero would make the best Auror in the department!"

"Really, really spectacular job, son!" The other man claps a hand over Theseus's back in agreement. They're both older, sort of brash men, they don't seem to sense Theseus's discomfort at being complimented.

Theseus is grinning bashfully.

"Just doing my job," he delivers with charm, shrugging.

"Nonsense! Tonight, we celebrate. I'm not taking no for an answer. I've actually felt somewhat of a mentor to you, when you first started out-"

"We ought to invite Mr. Byrne out with us!" The third man exclaims with revelatory fervor. "How has the old chap been? Do you still go down to the pub with him, Theseus?"

It is the second, overlapping wave of nausea that really does you in, digs in its claws and drags downwards. You feel your feet physically sink into the floor. You can't bring yourself to move at all, you drone out the rest of what they're saying. It's white noise, the buzz of flies.

Mr. Byrne.

War hero.

Auror.

Initials T.S.

God, how stupid could you be? No, that's not fair.

The chances of seeing him again were slim. The chances of the two of you working together were even slimmer. The chances of him, the soldier from that night, Theseus Scamander, being your mystery correspondent these last weeks.... It should've been impossible.

When the elevator doors ding open at level seven, you step past the men quickly, rudely, afraid they'll turn to say something to you. Even a belated greeting or perfunctory farewell you couldn't bear.

You don't know why you feel so shaken.

'It's not a big deal,' you tell yourself consolingly once at your desk. 'You were sixteen. So what if you asked him to kiss you?'

But deep within your core, in a space beyond words or reason, you know that it was more than that. You weren't embarrassed about a stupid non-kiss. No, you haven't been able to shake that night, to shake him.

You'd connected. Or, rather, he'd seen you. Something about his gaze and his words had cut through the fat of life, of circumstance, and he'd seen you for who you really are.

And he'd promised to remember you.

It's gutting, harrowing almost. Realizing he'd been writing to you all this time, unaware. Some sick joke from the universe with no punchline--because you decided then and there to stop writing to him, immediately.

Theseus realizes long before the end of the day.

After you crumple his unanswered "good morning" memo and push it to the far corner of your desk, another flies in.

"URGENT: Is it just me or is Mr. Byrne particularly dapper today? The magenta top hat I can forgive, even the monocle is pardonable, but the polkadot bowtie? Inexcusable. Unbecoming of the Ministry. Need your thoughts immediately."

You had seen Mr. Byrne's polkadot bowtie today. You still found the magenta top hat more scandalizing. You wanted to laugh, but felt too much like crying to give way to the urge.

Then:

"I'm dying. Dark wizard lead in Suffolk but I can't be bothered. Tell me some funny story about you telling the professors off in school. I'm relying on tales of your genius to boost my morale. The fate of the Aurors Office depends on you alone. T."

It's three hours before the next memo comes flapping around the corner like some wounded bird.

"Have I done something wrong?" Shortly after, "More importantly--Are you alright?"

You don't know why you can't leave them be, why you keep reading them with no intention of responding.

"Scaring me here, mystery girl. Write back and I'll stop harassing you, write anything at all. Even a little drawing or scribble will suffice."

"You're not liaising very well, Liaison... Sorry, that was a joke. Ha-ha. I know the Department of Mysteries isn't expected to answer to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement but I'd always hoped you'd still answer to me..."

You throw yourself into your work with rigor.

Even your Department of Magical Games and Sports officemates comment on it, commendably. They don't realize you're just trying to occupy your brain, distract yourself from the sizable pile of memos lying formidably on your desk until you can go home.

The last one comes late in the day: "Really--Are you alright?"

Your heart aches weakly.

But no, you know how persistent and how persistently optimistic the mystery man ('Theseus,' you correct yourself) could be. If you wrote back he'd want an explanation, which he'd inevitably refute, and, besides, you weren't ready to tell him the truth or to face him again.

Your head is a jumbled mess of half-formed truths and complicated emotions.

It's a few minutes before 6:00pm, but you click off your desk lamp anxiously and begin to organize your things.

The nature of your position for the Department of Mysteries required you to lock your work up before you left. It involves two spells and four charmed latches and bolts, and it takes some time. You sit back in your chair with a sigh, waiting for the process to finish. The soft, mechanical whirring and clicking noises are a comfort to you.

The frosted glass door to the office swings open thunderously, with the unnecessary force of someone unfamiliar with the delicate door.

You sit up straight in your chair, startled. A few of the workers behind you even look over in alarm, heads shooting up from their desks.

No. Fucking. Way.

Theseus's chest is heaving softly. He's looking right at you, purposefully.

He actually showed up to your desk like he always joked about doing. You want to feel angry, indignant that he'd betray your trust, but all you feel is a numbing shock.

The sight of his face alone would've been a shock. Blue eyes. High cheekbones. Wavy, dark hair. Handsome as the day he left you.

He seems genuinely rendered speechless. The open part of his lips suggests that he had come with some speech prepared for you when he first burst in, although now he is, evidently, lost.

His eyes keep flitting up and down your form, lingering especially on your lips. It makes you flush. Yes, he gets a good look at your face, and at the small pile of his opened memos shoved to the far corner of your desk.

Whatever he expected to find, expected you to look like, this clearly wasn't it.

"Mr. Scamander!"

Your officemate Ana's voice from behind you makes you jolt again.

She walks over and places a hand on your shoulder tenderly. She seems to be completely unaware of any tension between the two of you, speaking to Theseus with ease.

"I'm sorry to steal Y/N from you, but I have to talk to her about an interdepartmental issue before she leaves. Can't wait!"

You wince at the mention of your name, but you're standing, bag clutched like a shield, and Ana is already whisking you past Theseus and through the frosted glass double doors.

"Y/N..." you hear Theseus echo, dreamily, as you pass, just before the doors close in his face and sever you from him completely.

-----

The next day you see him at a far distance.

You feel less shaken about things after having screamed to your little sister about it all last night. But she'd said something stupid about some "string of fate" that irritated you so much that you'd ultimately resorted to screaming into your pillow.

Regardless, you feel more secure. Less unsettled.

Still, the sight of Theseus's open expression in the Atrium, looking back at you in recognition across the crowds of businessmen and women just as the doors to the elevator you're in close--it's a bit haunting.

You gulp once in the safety of the elevator.

He saw you.

His eyes had drifted up and down your form, unreadably, before settling on your face. You didn't have time to react, and he was too far away besides.

Later, later than usual, a small memo floats onto your desk.

You don't hesitate, reaching for it, but the words aren't what you expect. No "good morning," not even anything referencing what had happened yesterday.

The words are so unexpected that his handwriting is the only indication that it's from him.

"You were so beautiful in that skirt this morning. So fucking beautiful. You look so enchanting in blue."

You flush deeply. So, that was what his look this morning had meant.

The relief comes delayed, second to your shyness at his flattery.

"Oh, thank God," you think.

He'd seen you, twice now, and hadn't recognized you.

He didn't remember. Or maybe he just didn't recognize you, it'd been nine years after all and you were no longer a scrawny, scrappy sixteen-year-old. But it was more likely that he just didn't remember.

You decide his not referencing your awkward encounter yesterday either is another mercy, so you go along pretending nothing happened.

"Are you flirting with me, sir?"

It's a comfort to be writing to him again.

"No," he writes back. Then, "Yes."

You laugh aloud at his candor.

"Y/N, I apologize for my outburst yesterday. I shouldn't have sprung on you like that, unannounced. Uninvited. I wish I could say I was afraid something had happened to you, but really I was just afraid you had stopped writing me for good. But then I just stood there like an absolute idiot, you probably had no idea who I was."

You huff at that.

"I knew who you were. I'm no Auror but 'Department of Magical Law Enforcement,' 'war hero,' and 'initials T.S.' aren't exactly subtle hints."

"Hey! I mentioned the war but never called myself 'hero.' I have a strong sense of propriety and I pride myself on it."

"How British..." you write back mockingly, unthinkingly.

"Are you not?"

Fuck. Well, you've already met.

"I live here now, and have for years, but I'm French."

The ink feels seared into the paper, how black your scrawl is, how you can't take it back. You don't know what you want from him. You wish he'd go away. You wish he'd never stop writing.

You wish he'd remember you on his own.

"Hmm..." he writes back.

Your heart is pounding. When he writes again your anxiety dissolves but your heart continues its steady, heavy drum.

"You're beautiful."

Your head is a scattered, overstimulated mess. You can't think straight.

He's still writing. The words fade in one by one.

"Why didn't you tell me you were beautiful? God, I didn't expect it, it took any coherent thought or word right out of me yesterday when you looked up at me with those eyes. And this morning, that skirt. Y/N, you should've warned me."

You laugh at the words on the paper, but your body's reaction to the thought of him writing them, thinking them, thinking of you, is anything but funny.

It feels overly warm in the office suddenly, and you are agitated. You stand and pace around your desk, fanning yourself with your hands.

Your fingers are shaking around the quill when you bend over your desktop to write back.

"Don't be dramatic, you'll live."

You worry you sound cruel so you add.

"And thank you. I don't think anyone has called me beautiful in a very long time."

He writes back: "Any time. And I highly doubt that. Y/N, I'm sure you've been beautiful your whole life. I can tell just by looking at you."

You don't know what possesses you when you write the next words:

"Can I come see you?"

There's a few, atypical beats before he writes back. It's excruciating.

"What, you mean at lunch?"

You look down at the small, oval face of your wristwatch.

Lunch is too far away. The bundle of nerves and anticipation you feel about Theseus, that swarming anxiety, is too unbearable to wait for lunch. You need to get him out of your system now, get him over with, and then you can move on and focus on your work.

"I mean now. In your office." You write back.

'Am I being presumptuous?' The thought makes you furrow your brow and bite your fingernail in worry. But then you remind yourself, 'Beautiful. He called you beautiful.'

It takes so long for him to reply that you almost write again to tell him never mind. But then his words come, like the sweet relief of rain:

"Yes, please. Level two, the very back left office."

You leave at once, smoothing down your skirt and brushing your hair back out of your face.

The anxiety ebbs and peaks at random. On the elevator ride you feel like you're dying. You recollect your confidence while walking to the wooden door of the Aurors Office only to feel another stab of panic as you make your way down the curved hall.

You feel so frazzled and worked up, too distracted to work or even ponder work. But you don't understand why until you push open Theseus's door, not bothering to knock. Until you're alone in the room with him, just the two of you behind closed doors.

He stands quickly upon your entrance, like a soldier.

For a moment the two of you just stare.

'Oh, God,' you realize with mounting dread. 'I am attracted to him. I am like this because I'm attracted to him.'

It feels terrible, awful, that sapping loss of power, that weakness in the knees. You haven't had a crush in your adult life, it's a trampling blow, the realization.

Theseus looks just as handsome as he always has, the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles, the sharp curve of his jaw.

He laughs and it breaks the spell of silence.

"Hello, you," his tone is fond but he still hasn't walked over to you, which is confusing and makes you shuffle aimlessly in place.

"Hi," you say, stupidly.

"Hi is all I get?" he jokes. "You know you've become something like my best friend in the office this last month. Actually, you probably know me better than my entire department."

You laugh bleakly, and you hope it dissipates the electrified energy between the two of you. That live-wire tension.

"I could say the same about you, actually."

He makes a strange, indecipherable expression then. It's both wry and lamenting.

"I don't want anything to change that, Y/N."

You frown.

"Why would anything change that?"

He doesn't answer you, changing the subject and turning his attention to the cup of quills on his desk, fiddling with the feathers.

"I... I didn't expect to react the way I did to seeing you for the first time yesterday. I've never reacted that way to anyone, anyone. When you told me you wanted to come see me here today, I panicked. I almost said no."

That hurts your feelings. "Why?"

He looks up from his desk. Your face burns at the sincerity of his expression.

"Because I knew it'd be harder for me to control myself if we were alone together. Harder to be a good friend and... behave."

He says the last word carefully. If he is calculated, delicate, you are anything but.

"I don't want you to behave," you whisper.

You step up to him, boldly. The tension is unbearable now.

"Y/N," he says warningly, disapprovingly. But the look in his eyes is agony.

"Kiss me," you say. The words come to you from far away, a train at the end of the tunnel, you pull them from that night in Verdun, from nine years ago. You need him just the same as you did then.

Theseus smiles reluctantly. The sideways tilt to his mouth is so captivating, it makes you want it more. God, he's attractive. Even more so now that you know him, are his friend.

"I can't," he says, pitifully.

But the look on his face, the way he's standing steadfastly behind his desk like having it between you will protect him, the way his eyes are flitting from yours down to your lips and back up again and again, that isn't saying no.

"Okay, have it your way. But I won't ask you again," you warn.

You want to admit that this isn't the first time he's denied you. He promised you'd live to be kissed, you've come back to haunt him for it now.

You would not ask him a third time.

Theseus groans loudly and puts his head in his hands. When you laugh he looks up at you disparagingly.

"You think that's funny, do you?"

You do. You find it cute. Maybe you don't realize the extent of his distress.

You reach forward to pinch his cheek, jokingly. He bats your hand away with an unwilling smile.

Then you're falling into him, losing your balance. He grasps both your hands in his to keep you from toppling over, the both of you laughing.

"Get off!" you shout gleefully.

"You get off," he retorts jokingly.

Pushing and pulling and touching, it's something like play-fighting the way you're both falling into and catching each other.

At last, he wrangles you onto his desk, so you're sitting there at the edge.

Your head is spinning. He grabs both your wrists, holding them together in a single, large hand.

"Hands to yourself, Y/N," is his gentle reprimand.

But you know, know from the soft pant of his breathing, the undone look on his face, lips half parted, that you've already won.

He doesn't cave into your will so much as collapse altogether, soundlessly, undetectably.

You don't blink, big, innocuous look in your eyes, staring up at him. Even when you're raised up, sitting on his desk while he stands, he's so tall that you have to look up at him.

"Please," Theseus says, and it's so attractive, his broken whisper. "I'm begging you, Y/N."

He drops down to his knees, one leg at a time with the heavy, hypnotized motions of a man defeated.

You gasp softly when his warm palms grip your kneecaps, rubbing gingerly over the sheer material of your tights, reverently.

A man on his knees, his curly head between your thighs. Your stomach plummets, burning low in desire.

You want him bad. Mind-numbingly bad, your whole body tingling underneath and keening to his touch. But it's too addictively sweet, him begging for it like this. You want to draw it out.

"Hm," you sigh, not responding, but you let your legs fall open under the guidance of his hands.

He moans at the sight. When he speaks again his voice is weak and ruined. Rough and pleading.

"Please, I'll do anything. Let me touch you. You're killing me, please."

It's almost a whine.

You can see that the fabric of his pants is stretched taut across his crotch--he's already hard.

His chest is rising and falling softly. There's a needy, trancelike glint in his eyes. He wants it bad, it's plain on his face. It's different from impatience, it's anguish.

"Kiss me," you say again. It's a demand this time. He gives in without a fight, rising up and capturing your open mouth in his.

It's a deep, languishing kiss. He kisses you like he wants to taste you, like he can't get enough of it. He grips your head by the jaw to kiss you better, deeper. When his tongue presses into your mouth you moan into his.

His hand sweeps blindly across his desk, clearing it with a crash. You jump at the sound but he grabs your face again, turning it back to his roughly.

"No," he murmurs. "C'mere."

And he's kissing you again, humming in approval when you tentatively push back against his tongue with your own.

With effort, you pull back to look at him. His pupils are blown out with desire, the collar of his dress shirt pulled open, revealing a collarbone.

"Theseus," you say, your whole body tingling with warmth. You say his name just to say it.

You're too shy to tell him that this is your first kiss, that you'd waited all this time.

It's startling, how quickly the tables turned. How deftly he took control of the situation once he had your permission to.

His hands pull down your skirt, worshipfully, that blue skirt he loves so much. He sets it aside, you're just in your sheer black tights now.

You understand why he cleared his desk now. You fall back with a moan when he flattens his massive hand across your crotch, spreads his fingers. It covers the entire expanse between your legs easily. It feels so lewd for him to touch you there now, but then he drags his hand up, sliding it over your stomach, the middle of your chest, up your neck.

"You'll let me touch you like this?" he asks.

You nod, quickly.

"Only me?" he inquires, sounding pleased. Maybe amused.

"Yes," you say, nodding again with urgency. "Only you. Nobody else."

"Fuck," he curses. He pulls open your blouse then, and disposes of that as well. You half sit up to help him with your bra. Whereas his movements are devout, seeming to worship every part of you, yours are frantic, crazed.

It's not just that you're in his office, at work, but it's that you want him badly. So very badly. It feels like the only thing that can make it better.

Once you have your bra off he pushes you back on the desk again. Places open-mouth kisses your neck, drags his teeth over the skin there then moves down. You gasp when he puts his mouth on your breast, circling your nipple with his tongue. He pinches your other nipple with his hand, rolling it gently between his rough fingertips.

"Hngh," you can't help but moan, writhe, throw your head back against the wood.

You almost want to cry out in disbelief when his head leaves your chest, sinking lower. He's on his knees again, pulling down your tights. You don't understand.

"Theseus, what-" you start, but you are silenced, the breath stolen from your chest, at the sensation of his mouth on your clit.

The moan that leaves your mouth this time is recklessly loud, carelessly so.

Theseus doesn't seem to mind.

"You taste so fucking good," he pulls back to say, his voice is ragged.

You're shy. The idea of him tasting and licking you, putting his mouth there makes you shy. But the pleasure that rocks through your entire body is too strong to deny. You'd never ask him to stop. You weren't capable of it.

Your hands go to his head, fingers wind through his hair automatically.

"Fuck," you say, involuntarily.

He's sucking your clit so well, you hardly notice when he brings up a hand, finger tracing the line of your wet slit, prodding in and out of your tight hole just barely, just to the knuckle. Kitten-fucking you with it.

He stops sucking to lick you up and down with his tongue, again and again in quick, steady rhythm, flicking the firm tip of it against your clit until you have to bite the back of your hand to keep from crying out. When he sinks his two fingers into your pussy fully, stuffing them in forcefully despite the restrictive tightness, still licking, that's all it takes for your orgasm to overtake you in pulses of unbelievable, unknown pleasure.

He removes his fingers and rises. His plush lips are slick with your arousal. He has a dreamy, dazed look in his eyes. The ravaged, destroyed look on your face seems to do something awful to him.

"Let me fuck you," Theseus says. It makes your stomach flip.

He doesn't ask, didn't say 'do you want to,' or 'can we.' He wants to take it from you.

"Yes," you mutter, spreading your legs again without thinking, head still laid back on his desk. Your orgasm made your limbs feel loose, compliant. Anything he wants. Anything at all.

Even the clinking sound of him undoing his belt buckle makes you swoon with yearning, makes your mouth water. He doesn't bother to take off his pants, just pulls his dick out, still staring into your eyes.

'God. Mercy,' you think. Even in his hand it looks huge. It's pretty.

He smiles crookedly at the widening of your eyes.

"You like my cock, baby?"

"Yes," you whisper. "Please. I want it."

He leans over you to kiss your forehead. You don't have the chance to reminisce, for it to remind you of anything, because then he is pushing into your wet warmth. He slides in so snugly, so smoothly, fits like a glove despite the stretch. The feeling of being so overfull is lewd and perfect.

He presses a hand to your lower stomach. He can feel himself inside of you there.

You gasp at the applied pressure.

He keeps his hand pressed there as he angles his hips back and then begins to fuck you. He wants to feel it underhand, how he's moving inside of you.

"Fuuuuucckkkk," you're incoherent, you know. But you can't help but swear, your whole body is vibrating with ecstasy as he drives his dick in and out of you.

"You're beautiful," he groans, throwing his head back. His entire world narrows down to this, fucking you, pumping his dick into your tightness and feeling you flutter and flex around him.

"Wait, Theseus I-" your second orgasm takes you by surprise. Your back arches off the desk, it hits you like a train, it's like an out-of-body experience.

"Fuck," He grips the back of your thighs to the point of pain. But you hardly notice that, you only feel his dick grow achingly hard. He pulls out at the last moment, coming into his hand. It spills out and between his fingertips anyway.

He makes a face of sore regret at the mess. You knew how badly he wanted to come inside of you, you could feel it, but you are grateful he didn't.

You have the strangest urge to get up and lick his fingers, but realistically you're too wrecked to move.

It takes a solid two minutes before either of you return to breathing normally and regain your bearings.

'What did we just do?' you think as you put your clothes back on.

You glance over to Theseus, he's fixing his tie in the small mirror next to the closed door of his office.

It was like you were a woman possessed. You can hardly believe your actions. But, strangely, you don't feel guilty or regretful. And your feelings for Theseus are stronger than ever. Consummated. You feel safe with him. Overjoyed, really.

He catches you looking at him in the mirror and turns. The look on his face is one of total contentment.

He comes over to you, runs his fingers through your hair gently. There's nothing but adoration in his eyes as he beholds you.

"I don't know how I'm expected to just sit back down and continue to do work on my desk now, after that. I'm gonna go insane, just knowing you're only a few levels away."

You laugh. It's an airy, light-hearted sound.

"I like you so much," he admits, brazenly, before you can even respond to him.

Your head is still a muddled mess, but this here is easy to admit. He could probably see it on your face anyway. Read you like a book.

"I like you too," you say. "I miss you already. Keep writing to me."

"I promise."

-----

part two here

author's note: what will happen when the truth of their past comes to light?? part two incoming!!! please leave feedback :)

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[delicatebarness]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒄𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝑬𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑴𝒐𝒐𝒏 | 𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝑶𝒏𝒆

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: At Velmythria Academy, among creatures much larger and more powerful than yourself, you unexpectedly cross paths with the imposing werewolf– Bucky Barnes. Leaving you questioning the rules of the realm.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Forbidden Relationships | Size Difference | Tension | Societal Restrictions | Small Physical Contact

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1507

𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭: Ko-FI | Instagram | Personal Blog | Pinterest

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 | 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝐀/𝐍: I'm back, babies! - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - Bethiee x

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧: @nash-dara | @bvckys-doll | @minamin210 | @nerd-without-a-cause | @bo0mccc | @curlycow01 | @bucky-baby-barnes | @sebastians-love | @pattiemac1 | @mystery122577-blog | @bejeweledcowboyy | @waywardalpacaoctopus | @asha-rahiro | @calwitch | @w0nd3rlnd | @sidraaaaaaaaa | @buckycuddles | @chimchoom | @danzer8705 | @foulpersonahandsvoid | @mcira | @queergalpal97 | @bucky-baby-barnes

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes

The hallways were crowded, and students rushed to their next classes. You were lost in your thoughts as you rounded a corner, and before you knew it, your path collided with something large, and solid– Bucky Barnes. 

     Your shoulder barely grazed his large forearm, but the impact felt like you walked into a wall. The wolf never glanced down, no acknowledgment of the collision at all. Bucky kept walking, long strides carried him through the crowd. It was as if he was a boulder in a river, the sea of students parted without a second thought. 

     Involuntarily, your wings fluttered, and heat rose to your cheeks. You stood frozen for a second– had he not noticed you? Before you could process the small event, two familiar voices broke through the rush of the hallways. 

     “Hey, you okay?” Your best friend's voice, Wanda, was warm yet a little breathless as she skidded to a stop beside you. 

     A formidable witch, Wanda’s long, brunette hair was threaded with strands of shimmering red chaos magic. Fluttering around her ankles, her cloak's soft, deep red fabric was imbued with protective runes that had a slight glow with every move. There was always a sense of subtle humming of power around her. Her emerald-green eyes scanned your face with concern, they were sharp with a sight only a witch could possess. 

     “Y-yeah, I’m fine. It was just–” Even though your heart pounded, a little too fast, you waved off their concern. Sneaking another glance over your shoulder, you noticed Bucky had now disappeared from the crowd. “It’s nothing.”

     Frowning slightly, Wanda’s gaze followed yours, narrowing her eyes with suspicion. “Nothing, huh?” she said, her tone soft but probing as if she could sense the shift in the air. “You don’t look like it was nothing.” 

     Another voice joined the conversation before you could respond.

     “Pfft, werewolves,” Steve’s voice, lilting with the cadence of the ocean, waved from your right. He weaved through the crowd, his blonde hair, and crystal blue eyes shimmering as he sidled up next to you and Wanda. “They’re all like that– zero spatial awareness. Just barrel through life without a care in the world.” 

     A faint sheen of water still carried against his skin, and you could smell the salt on him. Iridescent scales clung to his skin, sparkling under the hallway lights, peeking from under his enchanted tailored jacket. His fisk-like tail had already shifted into his legs.

     With a quick glance between you and Wanda, Steve’s smirk widened as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You practically bounced off Barnes.”

     Huffing, you felt a bit embarrassed that your friends had witnessed the whole thing. “I barely grazed him,” you muttered, though the heat rushing to your cheeks betrayed the casual tone you tried to maintain.

     “It’s typical, really,” Wanda said, shaking her head. “Werewolves tend to have the sensitivity of a brick wall.” 

     “Yeah,” Steve added with a scoff, “and Barnes is the biggest brick wall of them all.” 

     While Wanda and Steve went back and forth, your mind wandered back to the subtle touch. Had he not felt anything at all? Yeah, you might be small compared to him, but surely he felt some sort of impact– or was he simply choosing to ignore it?

  ��  Students began to rush with even more urgency around you as the bell rang– signaling the end of the passing period and the start of the next class. The three of you exchange a knowing look before hurrying along to your separate destinations. 

     Later that day, you entered your last class– History of Velmythria Creatures. There was a low hum, buzzing with voices, and other languages. Glancing toward the back of the classroom, you noticed Bucky sitting as massive and unbothered as ever, scrubbing something on a sheet of parchment. You slipped into your usual seat, heart still racing, unsettled from your earlier encounter with the wolf. He was completely absorbed in whatever he was writing, seemingly not noticing your small form once again.

     The professor stood at the front of the room, and she wasted no time. Her voice was rich, commanding, and effortlessly cutting through the murmur of conversations– A dark gleam of wisdom within her eyes. 

     “All right, settle down. The discussion today is regarding your upcoming assignment, and trust me, this is not your typical assignment. For this project, you will be paired with a student of a different species from your own.” 

     The room fell eerily quiet, curious glances darting around the room. 

     “The purpose,” the professor continued, “is to gain a deeper understanding of the cultures, traditions, and perspectives of the other species here at the Academy. You and your partner will be required to fully immerse into the other’s world– learning about their customs, history, strengths, and weaknesses. Then, you will be expected to present your findings to the class by the end of the term.” 

     The words hung in the air heavily, and you could sense the tension rippling through the room as the other students exchanged uncertain glances. Diving into another species’ world wasn’t a custom of the realm, many families were shocked to find out that they still allowed multi-species education. The Storm family, mostly your blood-faerie father– Lloyd, also had these beliefs. 

     With a flick of her wrist, there was a summon of a large, enchanted chalk hoovering to the front of the room. It glowed with a faint ancient magic. Moving with purpose, the chalk began scratching across the surface of a board with an almost musical sound. 

     “Shortly, all the pairings will be revealed,” the professor announced, a grin subtly playing on her lips. “The chalk will list your names and species. Pay attention.” 

     The chalk wrote the names of the students in a neat, flowing script, each pair listing alongside their species. There was a collective breath held as name after name appeared on the board. 

     As the chalk continued, your heart rate quickened. It felt like an eternity waiting, but then, you saw it. 

     James Barnes - Werewolf

     Your stomach dropped, and you blinked while staring at the board. There it was– clear as day. Your name, along with your ‘faerie’ title, beside his. A storm brewed within you, yet the room didn’t notice. Surely, you thought, this was just a bad joke. You were barely over five feet, how were you supposed to “immerse yourself” in his world? His kind? He was a towering wall of pure muscle and raw power, just the thought of having the smallest interaction with him again was overwhelming.

     “Each pair will spend time together outside of class,” the professor continued in her instructions, “observe each other’s behaviors, ask questions, and learn. Delve into things that make your partner’s species unique. Look past the facts and figures, truly understand the why behind the actions, the beliefs, and their place in the realm.” 

     Her words barely registered as you stole a glance toward Bucky. His body language was as relaxed as ever, blissfully unaware of the anxiety building in your chest. 

     “By the end of the term,” the professor proceeded, “ you will present a joint presentation, with a full report. Complete it with your findings and experiences. Also, this will be a significant portion of your end-of-year grade. I suggest you take it seriously.” 

     With a clap of hands together, the professor stopped the enchanted chalk moving. “That’s all for today. You may begin your research with your partner immediately. Good luck… you’ll need it.” 

     The sound of conversation and shuffling paper erupted throughout the classroom, yet you stayed frozen in your seat, staring at the board. You willed the names to disappear. Your trance only broke upon hearing the scrape of Bucky’s chair against the floor. 

     Swallowing hard, you felt the weight crashing down on you. Werewolves–especially alpha wolves–weren’t exactly known for warmth or willingness to engage. How were you going to approach this project?

     Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Bucky stood and in a brief moment, his gaze met yours. There was no expression on his face as his eyes flickered between you and the board where your names pair together. No surprise, no frustration. He was calm, with that same collected demeanor. 

     Before turning to leave the classroom, he gave you a slight nod, nothing more. His footsteps were heavy and unhurried as he walked out. It was as if a hex had been broken around you, and the rest of the students returned to life around you, your breath finally returning. 

     “Well,” Steve said as he suddenly appeared at your side, the blue in his eyes gleaming, “looks like you’re in for an interesting time.” 

     Smirking, Wanda joined him. “Yeah, this is going to be… fascinating.” 

     Still staring at the door, you kept your gaze on where Bucky had disappeared, a tight knot forming in your chest. You exhaled, almost silently, feeling the weight of what was ahead of you. This was going to be more difficult than you ever could have anticipated, by far.

---

𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 | 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[shelikesorchids-archive]

CADENCE: Part One

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Audio Erotica Reader

Summary: Matt can't wait to get home to listen to your latest audio. He's a loyal subscriber, and you get him worked up like no one else does.

Warnings: SMUT, 18+ ONLY. Mutual masturbation (sort of), pillow humping, dirty talk, some light sacrilege. You know, THE GOOD GOOD. Reminder that you are responsible for what you see once you click "Read More".

Author's Note: I would like to thank the Academy (@bellaxgiornata @loveroftoomanyfandoms and @souliebird) for enabling this. Edited, but not beta read, we die like Ray Nadeem (RIP). ENJOY!

Divider by @saradika

Matt was sitting at his desk going over a deposition when his phone buzzed with a new notification. He had been waiting for word on something specific, so he switched his headphones from his laptop to his phone to see what it was. As soon as he heard the source of the notification, he slammed his laptop shut and started packing up his things to leave. Foggy heard the commotion from his office and came to check on Matt to make sure everything was okay. 

“Hey, buddy. You okay?” 

“Yeah, Fog. Just feeling a headache coming on. The seasons are changing and you know how that messes with me,” Matt replied as he stuffed his laptop in his bag. 

“You want me to walk with you?”

“No, it’s okay, Fog. I can make it just fine.” 

“Alright, buddy. But text me when you get home. You know I worry about you and your headaches,” Foggy called out as Matt walked out the door. 

“I know, Foggy. But I’ll be okay. See you tomorrow, buddy!” 

—--------------------------------------------------

Matt walked home as quickly as he could, resisting the urge to break into a full on sprint. Once he made it to his building, he dashed up the stairs two at a time, and threw off his jacket as soon as he shut his door behind him. He furiously loosened his tie as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and used the voice command to open up the notification once again. This time when he opened it, he was met with the sound of your voice. 

“Hey baby, I missed you. Did you miss me?” 

Your smooth and sugary voice went straight to his cock, so he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants, stepping out of them on his living room floor. He palmed over the bulge in his black boxers and pulled off his tie before going to work unbuttoning his shirt as your voice continued to play through his phone.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day. I even had to excuse myself from a meeting to go touch myself in the bathroom, but I wished it was your hand. You know just what to do to make me feel good.” 

Matt was so caught up in your voice that it took him a moment to realize he was now half naked in his living room, right on display in front of the window. Truthfully, he didn’t care if the neighbors saw him, but he grabbed his phone and went into his bedroom. He placed his phone on the nightstand, shed his boxers, and climbed under his silk sheets. 

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed out as he slowly stroked his cock while you continued to talk. 

“Am I turning you on, baby? I can see you’re getting awfully worked up in those dress pants. I’m getting pretty wet, myself. You’re so fucking hot. You wanna watch while I rub my clit?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Make those pretty noises for me,” he replied as if you were in the room with him.

You let out a moan as you rubbed your clit, and Matt swore he could hear how wet you were. He started stroking his cock faster and you moaned louder. 

“Oh, fuck, I’m gonna come, baby.”

“Yes, come for me, sweetheart. Fucking scream for me.” 

“But I wanna come with your cock inside me, so I’ll wait for you. I want you to feel me, and I want to feel you. Let’s come together, baby.” 

Suddenly his hand wasn’t good enough anymore, so he sat up in the bed and stuffed one of his pillows between his thighs to straddle it. The cool silk of the pillowcase felt like heaven against his achingly hard cock that was dripping with precum and begging for release. He started counting the Hail Mary’s he was going to have to say later for this depraved act in his head, but in the moment, he couldn’t be bothered to care. 

“You’re so big, baby. Do you think you’ll fit?”

“I’ll go slow, sweetheart, I promise. We can make it fit.” 

Matt rolled his hips against the pillow at the same time you let out another moan, and he grabbed onto his headboard for leverage. 

“You feel so good, filling me up so perfectly. Fuck me, baby” 

“You feel good too. I’ll go slow at first. I want to feel you.” 

“You’re not gonna hurt me, I can handle it. Just fuck me, baby. Please.” 

“How can I say no when you asked so nicely?” he purred. 

He quickened his pace as you continued making soft sounds of pleasure. He should be ashamed of what he’s doing: fucking his pillow while listening to audio porn and responding back to you as if you could hear him. But, he didn’t care. Once he accidentally discovered erotic audios, he couldn’t get enough, and you were his favorite creator. Your voice was like a drug to him, and he was always jonesing for another hit. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to actually fuck you instead of his pillow, but he would have to settle for this for now. 

“Oh, fuck I’m so close. I’m gonna come baby. Are you gonna come too?” 

“Fuck. Yeah, sweetheart I’m gonna come.” 

“Come inside me.”

You let out a guttural, almost feral moan, and Matt screamed in tandem with you. His thrusts became more erratic, sweat was beading on his forehead, and he was white knuckling the headboard. He was getting closer with every sound you made, and he wasn’t going to be able to hold back much longer. 

“Oh, OH F-FUCK.” 

“Yes, sweetheart. Oh yes, oh FUCK.” 

His chest heaved, his breathing was ragged, and his hips stuttered into the pillow as he came hard. He collapsed backward onto the mattress, a thin sheen of sweat covering his entire body. “Shit,” he breathed out as he ran one of his hands down his face. 

“Did you like that? Be sure to subscribe for more, and don’t be shy about leaving me a comment! Until next time, audiophiles…”

After a few minutes, Matt sat up and reached for his phone to close the app. He knew that pillowcase was ruined, but that could wait. He stood up on shaky legs and made his way to the bathroom to take a shower. As much as he loved your voice, and how turned on he got by it, he longed to have you in his bed so he could hold you afterwards, and maybe even join him in the shower. 

When he was done washing the post-coital sweat off his body, he dried off and put on a fresh pair of boxers and sweatpants, threw the defiled pillowcase in the trash, and sat down to leave you a comment on your latest audio that he got off to. He set his phone back on his nightstand, laid down in bed, and allowed his mind to wander about how you actually felt and how your skin smelled. Maybe one day he could find someone with a voice as gorgeous as yours. 

—-----------------------------------------------

The “CLOSED” sign had long since been displayed in the door of the coffee shop, and you were finally done with your closing duties for the evening. Your boss said you were free to go, so you grabbed your bag and your jacket, said your goodbyes, and headed out to your shoebox of an apartment. You loved living in New York City, but it was expensive, and just being a barista didn’t pay the bills. No one knew about your “side hustle”, and you liked it that way. It was oddly empowering to you that you were a caffeine peddler by day, but you used your voice to get people off by night. It was perfect because you could have fun living out your own fantasies, but no one knew your face. 

After scarfing down the take out you picked up on your way home, you sat down to check the notifications on your latest audio post. There were always lots of comments to sift through, but there was one username in particular that commented on every single audio you posted, and you always looked forward to their comments. 

As you scrolled through the comments, you finally saw the one you were looking for: “rllygdlwyr commented: So hot as always, sweetheart. I ruined a silk pillowcase with this one. May have to start buying them in bulk if you keep this up.” 

You laughed and bit your lip at the comment. Normally, subscribers calling you pet names would creep you out, but this one was loyal, and they pretty much paid for your take out habit with their subscription and their tips. As much as you hated to admit it, they kind of kept you going.

Once you were done checking your account and responding to comments, you took a shower, put on some slinky lingerie, and pulled out your favorite toys to make a new audio. According to their username, they were most likely a lawyer, so tonight you decided to try a little roleplay. 

“I’m afraid I’m guilty, but is there anything I can do to lessen my sentence? I heard you’re a really good lawyer.” 

[cadenceacademy1]

Fashion Designing College In Nagpur

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[regalfairytaleacademy]

RFA Girls in Gacha Life 2 ?!

Happy Chinese New Year!

And of course I was bored during staying in my aunt's house. Then I downloaded Gacha Life 2 and started to make 4 of them.

[ywpd-translations]

Ride 792: Witness

Pag 1

1: I told you before, too

2: I believed I'd get to see Mountain King's race!!

You're kidding!

It's a cheering message written with chalk on the road!!

You wrote this in a hurry?

3: Anytime now, they'll come here soon!

We can see Manami-kun running from the first day!

Amazing, a serious battle between those two...

4: “History” needs “someone who sees it”

Pag 2

1: “A witness of the history”!!

Pag 3

1: They passed the 2km left point and it seems that now the mountain stage is narrowed down to them two

It narrowed down!

They're coming!

I'm so excited!

2: It's quite a long wait

3: I was looking forward to it during last year's second day's mountain stage

4: And before that, during winter, I purposely organized a race between you two, but in the end it didn't count because of the snow

Pag 4

1: Right now Hakone Academy's Manami is ahead

Sohoku's Onoda is following

Manami

2: Four-eyes

3: You bet your whole soul for this climbing race

4: You finally did it

Congratulations

5: You really chose this mountain on the first day ad your fight's place, huh?

Pag 5

1: And I, Toudou Jinpachi, Mountain's God, will make sure to see it with my own eyes!!

Pag 6

1: After this curve, the wind's direction will change!!

Pag 7

1: The trees are becoming lower!!

5: Ah-

Pag 8

3: The wind's direction will chamge!?

After this!?

4: You noticed

But it's already

Pag 9

1: too late!!

Pag 10

1: Manami-kun did a full acceleration in curve!?

2: Sooooo

3: reeeee!!

4: Spread....

Pag 11

1: your wings to the maximum!!

Pag 12

1: Hakogaku's Manami did a super acceleration!!

The distance between him and Mountain King-

What a strange acceleration!!

What was that just now?

Did he ride the wind?

2: -is spreading!!

3: I saw a pair of huge wings on his back!

Pag 13

2: Me too

3: 1700m left!!

Mountain King noticed the timing of Manami's acceleration, but was too late and is being left behind

Mountain King, do your best!!

Pag 14

1: Amazing, Manami-kun

He read the right place to attack...!!

2: His back is becoming smaller

3: He got stronger since last year

4: And even since that time he came on the Minegayama!!

5: For an instant, when Manami-kun accelerated, I saw “wings”....

6: and they looked three times bigger!!

Pag 15

4: You're amazing

5: Manami-kun!!

Pag 16

2: Huh

Mountain King was.... smiling... !?

Pag 17

1: Hum hum hum ♪

I've prepared too

Hum hum hum ♪

2: The anime I highly recommend, “Love Hime”... this year started its third season!!

Hum hum huum ♪

3: Yes ♪

“Love Him third season” opening song

4: Mitarashi in the afternoon ♪ It's a common story ♪ The princess has kinako* and brown sugar syrup ♪

“Morning princess scramble”

*(NdT.: roasted soybean flour)

5: What's going on with Mountain King...

He's saying something... he's speaking to himself!?

He's humming a song!?

6: Somehow his pressure suddenly grew!!

7: We met a long time ago ♪ you extended your knees and looked up ♪

I listened carefully to it and watched the PV

Pag 18

1: Definitely rise!! Love Hime ♪

'Cause you're the princess ♪

And I memorized both the lyrics and the melody!!

Pag 19

1: Look at Mountain King... what's with that cadence...

2: While singing...

3: he accelerated and went!!

4: I'm breathing hard... my legs hurt... but

5: Manami-kun...!!

6: During the training camp on our first year

I couldn't catch up to you

Pag 20

1: I always feel like I'm chasing you like this

2: Your cool white bike

Your figure from behind, running so happy and confidently

3: I've always been fascinated by your attitude

4: So.... wa... it

I still want to catch up to you

Pag 21

1: Wait, Manami-kun!!

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Valentine’s Day grandma! There’re too many amazing options, so dealer’s choice?

Spock has an older brother.

He’s a teenager when Spock is born and by the time he’s taking his first cautious steps, he no longer lives at home. Sybok graduates the head of his class and flies through the Science Academy with similar ease and for almost as long as Spock has had memories, Sybok has been talking about his thesis.

It’s topic changes often enough that Spock’s stopped keeping track.

When he’s younger, it would be inaccurate to say that Sybok is around often, but he is around. His brother visits home to pilfer texts from the family library and to have short, tense conversations with their father but he will ask Spock about his studies and always inclines his head to Spock’s mother, something that many Vulcans will not do, so he thinks that means that Sybok loves them.

After he gets into a fight at school, Sybok doesn’t visit anymore.

Spock accepts it as something else that his emotional outburst has cost him and refuses to let the tears fall no matter the pressure building behind his eyes.

Books still disappear and reappear from the library, so he knows that Sybok is still coming over, it’s only when Spock isn’t home. Eventually he starts appearing again, and he still has those horrible tense conversations with their father and nods at his mother, but he no longer lingers to ask Spock about his studies.

The fact that it hurts so much is just a sign that he needs to focus on his control.

When Spock is fifteen, Sybok leaves Vulcan.

He tells himself he doesn’t see his brother often enough for it to matter. It s the truth and yet it feels like a lie.

Spock doesn’t mean to overhear a conversation that isn’t meant for him. But it his mother speaking, and Sybok, and he’s never observed them to exchange anything but greetings and farewells.

“-don’t have to do this. I know you want distance, but-”

“I’ve already tried the other side of the planet,” he says dryly, speaking with an oddly Terran cadence to his words. “The problem is he can still comm me and send his friends to look at me disapprovingly.”

“He’s concerned,” she says.

Sybok laughs. Spock startles, nearly giving himself away, but forces stillness and silence.

“I don’t want to overstep,” his mother says softly, “I know it’s not my place-”

“Amanda, please,” he scoffs. “This is your home, you’re my father’s wife, and you’re my brother’s mother. How can you overstep? You can’t speak freely anywhere else on this planet, of course you can speak freely with me.”

There’s a long silence. Spock wants so badly to peek around the corner, but if he does then they’ll know he’s there.

“He wants you to be happy,” his mother says. “I do too.”

Sybok sighs, but it sounds a lot nicer than his laugh had. “He wants me quiet. It’s bad enough that he’d decided I’m a bad influence on Spock, at this rate he’s doing to decided I’m a bad influence for all of Vulcan and kick me off the planet myself. I’m just speeding up the process.”

Father thinks that Sybok is a bad influence? Why would he –

“That incident was not your fault,” his mother says sharply.

Oh.

“Father was probably right, actually,” he admits. “If I’d been allowed to talk to Spock after, I would have told him it was a job well done. There’s fire in our blood, Amanda. Rage is the most Vulcan emotion there is.”

Spock blinks. That’s nothing he’s heard before.

“It’s things like this that make your father worried,” she sighs.

He laughs again, gentler this time. “It’s fine. I’m going to go to a nice remote planet with all my books and work on my thesis and this one is far enough that even Father won’t be able to bother me.”

“But Tarsus IV?” she asks. “It’s barely colonized, and it has terrible ion storms, and their agriculture is still developing! It’ll be difficult for you to keep to a Vulcan diet!”

There’s another silence, then Sybok says, “My mother never worried over me. She did not find it logical to waste the energy and mental capabilities on events she could not control.” Another pause. “It’s nice that you do, Amanda.”

“Oh, Sybok.” His mother sniffs. “You’re my husband’s son and my son’s brother. You’re my family too. Please be careful and let me know if you need anything at all. We’ll be waiting for you to come home.”

“I believe you will, at least,” he says, and then before his mother can respond, continues, “Live long and prosper, Amanda.”

She sighs again. “Live long and prosper, Sybok.”

Spock forces his racing heart calm. He hopes his brother returns home soon.

[midnightsummer-glow]

A Connection Across Worlds

Leviathan x reader

You’ve always loved multiplayer games. Something about the shared camaraderie of players scattered across the world, working together to defeat monsters or solve puzzles, made the experience richer. For years, you’ve been playing the same game—a fantasy MMORPG with intricate mechanics and sprawling lore. The one constant in all your game sessions is your online friend, Leviathan, or “Levi” as you know him. Despite never meeting in person, you’ve built a strong connection with him. He’s quirky, a little shy, but when you’re online together, he’s also one of the most loyal and skilled players you’ve ever met. You’ve been online friends for almost three years now, spending hours in Discord voice calls while you traverse dungeons, engage in PvP, or simply chat about the game.

Your real life has always felt ordinary in comparison, but all that changes the day you receive a letter—a very strange, ornate letter—inviting you to participate in an exchange program at the Royal Academy of Diavolo. You’re hesitant at first, unsure of how real the letter even is, but something in the back of your mind urges you to accept.

The day you arrive at the House of Lamentation, the grand mansion where you’ll be staying, you’re overwhelmed. It feels like a dream—demons are real, and not only that, they seem to know a lot about you. Lucifer, the eldest brother, welcomes you with a cold politeness, while the others introduce themselves in varying degrees of warmth or disinterest. But there’s one name that catches your attention: Leviathan, the third eldest.

The moment Leviathan shuffles into the room, nervously fidgeting with his hands and mumbling under his breath, something clicks in your mind. His appearance—a lanky, blue-haired demon wearing an anime-themed hoodie—stirs a sense of familiarity, but it isn’t until you hear his voice that it all falls into place.

“Y-You’re the new human, right?” Levi mumbles, avoiding direct eye contact. “I-I mean, whatever, it’s not like I care or anything… I’m just… checking if you’re real… that’s all.”

Your eyes widen as recognition dawns. That stammer, the nervous cadence… could it really be?

“Levi?” you ask cautiously.

His eyes dart up, wide and panicked. “H-How do you know my name? I didn’t even introduce myself yet!”

You smile, disbelief mixing with excitement. “Wait… Levi… It’s me! Y/N? From the game?”

Levi’s face freezes in shock, his yellow-orange eyes locking onto yours. He blinks a few times before shaking his head as if trying to wake himself from a dream.

“N-No way… No freaking way… Y/N? From Celestial Crusaders? The one I’ve been playing with for three years? You’re the human in the exchange program?!”

You nod, still processing the sheer absurdity of it all. “Yeah… I think we’ve been online friends this whole time.”

There’s a long pause as both of you try to wrap your minds around the coincidence. Then, suddenly, Levi lets out a loud squeak, his hands flying to his face as he tries to cover his embarrassment.

“NOOOOO, this can’t be happening! Y-You mean the person I’ve been talking to for years… the one who knows all my embarrassing moments in the game… is standing right here?!” He sinks to the floor dramatically, covering his head. “This is the worst thing ever… No, wait, maybe it’s the best thing ever? I don’t know! I’m conflicted!!”

You can’t help but laugh at his reaction, even though you’re just as stunned. “Honestly, I can’t believe it either. We’ve been friends for so long, and now here we are.”

He peeks up at you through his fingers, still sitting on the floor, his face flushed. “I-I guess it’s kinda cool. I mean, it’s not like I was obsessing over this or anything… But maybe this isn’t so bad…”

You smile softly, leaning against the doorframe. “I guess we’re going to have a lot more time to game together now, huh?”

Levi stands, still flustered but slowly starting to calm down. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Y-Yeah… I guess so. But, uh, maybe not in front of everyone… You know, I don’t want them to think I’m getting all soft or anything.”

You laugh again. It’s strange how natural this feels. After years of gaming together, the idea of finally meeting face to face (or rather, face to demon) feels oddly comforting.

Later that evening, you and Levi find yourselves in his room, surrounded by posters of anime characters and shelves lined with limited-edition figurines. The room is dimly lit by the glow of multiple computer screens, the familiar hum of gaming equipment filling the air. It feels just like your usual Discord calls, except now you’re physically in the same space.

You boot up Celestial Crusaders on Levi’s secondary computer while he logs in on his main rig. There’s a comfortable silence between you, something born of years of playing together. Once you’re both logged into the game, the familiar interface fills the screen, and you can’t help but smile. You’ve done this a thousand times before, but now, it feels different.

As you slip on your headset and settle into the chair, you catch Levi sneaking a glance at you.

“You ready?” you ask, smiling.

He fidgets with his controller but nods. “Y-Yeah. Let’s just… let’s do this. We’ve got that raid to finish.”

You both log into the voice chat in-game, and for a while, it feels like old times. You’re running through a dungeon, communicating through strategy and banter, Levi’s high-pitched yelps of excitement or frustration filling your headset, though now you can hear the real-life version too.

“Watch out, Y/N! That’s a mob spawn!” Levi shouts.

You dodge just in time, grinning. “Got it, thanks!”

After a particularly tough boss fight, the two of you pause to catch your breath. Levi leans back in his chair, sighing deeply.

“I can’t believe you’re actually here,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you. “It’s like… every time we played together before, I used to wonder what it’d be like to meet you in real life. And now… well, here you are.”

You glance over at him, surprised by the vulnerable admission. “Yeah, I get that. It’s kind of surreal. I never thought I’d actually meet my favorite gaming buddy in person, let alone in another world.”

He blushes at the word “favorite,” his eyes darting away from yours. “Y-Yeah, well… I guess it’s kinda cool having you here. I mean, if anyone’s gonna survive this crazy demon school with me, it’s you.”

You laugh. “Let’s just hope I don’t get eaten by demons before the semester’s over.”

“Don’t joke about that! This place is dangerous! But… if anything happens, I’ll protect you. I’ve got your back. Just like in the game.”

You smile at his sincerity. “I know, Levi. I’ve always known.”

Months Pass: A Deepening Bond

Over the next few months, you and Levi spend most of your free time together. Whether it’s gaming in his room, watching his favorite anime, or simply hanging out in the RAD library, you grow closer. The rest of the demon brothers notice how inseparable you two have become, and they often tease Levi about it, much to his embarrassment. But he doesn’t seem to mind as much as you expected.

One evening, after a particularly long day of classes, you and Levi retreat to his room again. As you both settle in, the familiar sound of Discord’s notification chime fills the air—a sound that has become almost nostalgic. Levi smiles as he adjusts his headset.

“Ready for another dungeon run?” he asks, his voice casual, but there’s an undertone of excitement.

You grin and nod, booting up the game. “Of course. Let’s show these demons what we’re made of.”

The raid progresses as usual, but as you’re nearing the final boss, you notice Levi has gone unusually quiet.

“Levi?” you ask, glancing over at him. His face is focused, but there’s a nervous energy in the air. “You okay?”

He fidgets with the edge of his hoodie. “Y/N, there’s… something I’ve been meaning to say.”

You pause the game, sensing the shift in tone. “What’s up?”

He doesn’t look at you directly, instead keeping his eyes glued to his screen. “It’s just… well, these past few months have been… really great. I-I mean, not just because we’re in this weird demon world or anything, but because… because you’re here.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you don’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

“I know we’ve been friends for years online, but having you here in person… it’s different. I don’t know how to explain it, but… I’m really glad you’re here. Like, really glad.”

You feel warmth spread through your chest. Levi, in his awkward, roundabout way, is trying to tell you something important. You smile softly, reaching out to gently place a hand on his arm.

“I’m really glad I’m here too, Levi. I’ve always felt like we had something special, even when we were just online friends. But now, it’s… different