#like i loved it but it seemed quite rushed

[wandaslovey]

𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓁𝑒𝓃 𝑔𝑒𝓉𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎

➺ mom’s bsf!wanda x fem!reader

wc ~ 2.7k

a/n: this was the fic most voted for from my poll like two weeks ago :,) hope y’all enjoy!<3

a/n: i’m also currently writing a super dark/toxic wanda fic, so stay tuned for that loves 😙

*not proofread*

cw: established relationship, fluffy fluff, a (slightly) embarrassing conversation, shy/embarrassed reader but she still has a bit of a ‘tude

∴.·:*¨¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

you hear the faint sound of birds chirping, some of the morning sunlight showing behind your closed eyelids, indicating you had slept in a bit. you hum sleepily, still feeling groggy from your “long night.”

it was a long night in the best way. tangled limbs, whispered words of affection and uninhibited love took place between you and wanda over the course of the evening and throughout the night. it was the first time the two of you had ever been in a setting where there was no need to look over your shoulder to see if someone would find the two of you out. there was no need to be rushed, quiet or secretive. it was simply just the two of you existing in your own little blissful bubble.

you rub the remaining sleep from your eyes, sitting up in bed just as you notice wanda entering the bedroom, two mugs of coffee in hand.

“good morning, sunshine,” she greets you with a warm smile—one you’ve only seen her give you specifically. she walks over to the bed and sits at the edge, handing you your mug. you sit up and take it from her, your two hands holding it carefully as to not spill on the white sheets.

“thank you, wands” you smile gratefully, eagerly tipping the mug towards your lips to take a sip. your coffee always tasted better when she made it and you had no idea why since she made it the same way you did.

“how’d you sleep, honey?” she scoots a little closer to you, affectionately running her hand down your arm. she rests it on your knee which you then rest your hand atop of hers, interlacing your fingers together. you were both so addicted to the others’ touch—wanting to constantly be connected in some way.

“really good. i don’t think i’ve slept so peacefully in a long time,” you reach over and set your mug down on the nightstand next to the bed.

you take note of the fact that there was just a simple lamp and a coaster on the nightstand. just like you, wanda was more of a minimalist and you could see evidence of that fact everywhere you looked in this cozy cabin of hers. it was quite spacious, decorated tastefully with little personal touches of her here and there.

as you marvel at the space of the bedroom for the first time (you hadn’t been paying much attention when you’d first arrived), your eyes fall back to wanda again. she was already looking at you, seeming to have been watching you glance around the room.

“i love this place. it’s so homey and warm,” you smile as you tell her, your eyes wandering around the room again.

“i love it here too. i’ve been renting it out to people for awhile now. i was worried at first that having strangers track in and out of here would come back to bite me, but it’s still in near perfect condition.” you nod your head thoughtfully as she speaks, a short bout of silence falling over the two of you before she speaks again.

“y/n?” the way she says your name has your attention immediately, her tone indicative of a change in the subject.

“yeah?” you look at her a little warily, though you could still sense the lighthearted energy in the air. you knew the topic wouldn’t be so serious yet you found that butterflies started fluttering in your tummy in anticipation.

“i want to talk about something that happened last night.” the expression on her face gave little away as just a hint of a smile touched the corner of her lips, her green eyes dancing with something indiscernible behind them.

you remain silent as she pauses, wanting her to continue without interruption.

“it was something you said. something you said quite a few times actually..” she continues to be vague, but you could see the growing roguish expression on her face. immediately you wrack your brain for what you might have said last night. there wasn’t much talking at all that you remember. after arriving early in the evening to the cabin, you were practically falling into bed as soon as you were both through the door. the two of you had been equally eager to love each other without the nosy presence of your mom, friends or neighbors. it certainly wasn’t the first time the two of you had sex, but it was the first time where it wasn’t so secretive.

your brow furrows as you think harder. did you say something when your mind was fogged up in a lust filled haze?

suddenly, the butterflies that had been in your stomach went from fluttering to swarming. your heart beat faster in your chest as it dawned on you what you might have said while you were in a fuzzy headspace.

wanda watches the realization bloom on your face, the color on your cheeks now a lovely pink shade. it didn’t go unnoticed by her that you stopped breathing for a moment.

you weren’t sure what to say—what to do. was she disgusted? disturbed? weirded out?

she breaks you out of your own thoughts, her hand tucking some hair behind your ear and her thumb stroking across your cheekbone. you only blush harder under her affection, the uneasy feeling in your stomach still not settled as she had yet to speak another word.

“you know what i’m talking about, don’t you baby?” she didn’t need to ask the question—your face was answer enough, but she couldn’t help herself. she loved getting you all flustered and you usually made it so easy. you begin to fidget with your hands, twisting one of your rings around your finger. you clear your throat, preparing to face the music.

“umm… did i.. did i call you… mommy?” you cringe lightly as you speak the last word—not because it disgusted you, but because you worried it disgusted her. you were avoiding her gaze like the plague, your eyes fixated on your hands that were in your lap.

wanda reaches out, gently grasping your chin with her thumb and forefinger to tilt your head up. her gaze made your cheeks burn impossibly hotter, but you found that there was no trace of disgust on her face. “you did,” she states simply, a touch of an amused smile on her lips.

“is that something you’re into? some sort of mommy kink?” she gently prods, wanting to fully understand the inner workings of your mind.

you wanted to tell wanda everything. the two of you had grown so close over the last year. you had been attracted to your mother’s best friend for years. you never dreamed she would return your affections until one day she finally boldly proclaimed how she felt about you. from then on, things hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing, but your forbidden relationship still blossomed. you confided in each other about everything. well—everything but this.

your eyes flick back and forth between her eyes, and you can see the sincerity of her curiosity. you knew she wouldn’t judge you, so you decided it was silly to keep it a secret any longer.

“yes. i mean, i’ve always had a thing for older women… hot older women.” you joke lightly, your eyes dancing with amusement before you continue. “it’s just, well, you know my mom. she’s not exactly maternal. she’s great in her own way, but i just crave being coddled and loved - two things she was never great at doing. while my mom instilled the necessity of being independent and strong, i never had a space to be vulnerable or depend on somebody. she never really gave me rules, so there was little i couldn’t do. because of that, now i crave structure and discipline where i never had it growing up. having a mommy kink can mean a lot of different things to different people, but the way i look at it… the way i look at you, i see a nurturing, confident, beautiful woman who does love and coddle me—quite a bit, i might add.” you laugh lightly at your half-hearted jab and then continue.

“so yes, to me, you perfectly encapsulate someone whom i’d wanna call mommy—to obey, love and cherish.”

as soon as you start talking, explaining what this all meant to you, you couldn’t stop. you yearned to have her understand and to grasp onto this concept that you saw her as the safest space in the whole world.

you watch her take everything in, her expression always thoughtful. a warm smile grew on her face, a light growing within her eyes. “oh, sweetheart, come here.” she reaches her arm across your body, pulling you into her. you straddle her, easily settling into the comforting space of her lap. she wraps her arms tightly around your smaller frame, resting her cheek against your head as you nuzzle your face into her neck.

“you’re so precious, you know that? my precious girl.” she hums into your ear before kissing your hair. she rocks the both of you gently from side to side as you embrace, her perfume with hints of pears, fig leaves and sap filling your nose.

“you know something, baby?” she loosens her hold on you, gently grasping your hips to pull you back so she can look into your pretty eyes. “i like it when you call me mommy,” her voice drops an octave, her eyes twinkling, and she smirks at your reaction. your cheeks flush and you smile a bit bashfully, your head tilting into your shoulder. “you do?” you ask, suddenly feeling a little shy again under her intense gaze.

“mhmm, i do honey love. mmmm, you’re just too damn cute for your own good.” her hands come up to cradle your face, as she leans closer to you. you think she means to kiss you, but instead she tilts your head up, her lips kissing along your jaw in search of a certain spot on your neck. wanda knew your body like the back of her hand. she knew what spots drove you crazy and which ones made you yearn for more.

“wanda.. quit that!” you whine softly, catching on to her drift. there were certain spots on your neck that if she kissed or nipped just right, it tickled more than anything else.

wanda hums against your skin, licking at the spot as you try half heartedly to push her away. her arms wrap around you again, holding you firmly in place. “no, i don’t think i will,” she purrs and then chuckles darkly next to your ear as she feels you struggling more earnestly. deciding to up the ante, one of her hands starts to dig into your side, your ticklish ribs falling victim to her game. you squeak and squirm against her, attempting to slide off her lap but she’s having none of it. in one swift movement, she all but swings you around until your back hits the mattress. she quickly climbs atop of you, her legs straddling your hips. “you can make this all stop now you know, if you say something for me..” her voice was taunting as she wiggles her fingers just above your body.

“what??” you demand, hoping to halt this attack before it really begins. you were really ticklish. your nerves were already alight with anticipation as you watch her hands ever so slowly slip under your sleep shirt. your belly clenches as her fingernails lightly scratch their way up your torso.

“give me a minute to think of something, hmm? you’re just so cute all pliant and eager to appease me right now,” she bites her lip, unsuccessfully masking her grin. she spiders her fingers down your sides and you arch your back, a soft squeal sounding in the back of your throat. you refused to give her the reaction she was looking for. her persistence in trying to get you to squirm and giggle under her only brought out your stubborn attitude. you press your lips together, trying to will the ticklishness out of your body. her eyes burn into yours as she senses your obstinance. her eyes crinkle as she smiles, excited at the mere aspect of trying to get you to crack a small laugh.

she traces one finger down your stomach before she gathers both of your wrists in her one hand, holding them above your head. given your unwillingness to let her see that she was getting to you, you allow her to entrap your hands without struggle. she hums as her finger traces down the slope of your nose and past your lips. you snap at her, your teeth clacking and she chuckles warmly at the action.

“c’mon, you know you wanna laugh for me… just the tiniest little snicker or a small tittle..” her voice was warm like honey, which would have been comforting if you were in a different situation. one of her hands tickles at your tummy, her other one digging into your ribs. unable to contain your reaction now, you giggle gleefully. the light sound was satisfying as it hit wanda’s ears. you looked so adorable, all squirmy and helpless under her.

“oh my, that looks like it really tickles.” she laughs with you, her body moving around with yours as you attempt to shake and buck her off.

your brain was becoming a scrambled, fuzzy mess the more your body struggled against her. your desperation grew with each ticking second. no matter how you thrashed or wriggled around, it didn’t help your predicament. wanda knew just where to get you, spurred on by your reactions.

“wand-mommy! please! stop! stop!” you yelp, your wrists rubbing together and twisting in her grasp as you try in vain to pull your arms down.

wanda gasps playfully, her fingers slowing down. “what was that? i couldn’t hear you..” you groan, the feeling of helplessness continuing to wash over you in waves. “please..please stop!” you whine, quieter more reluctant giggles falling in between your words.

“oh darling, you know i can’t understand you when you giggle so much. say that again?” her grin was sinfully amused. you wished you could smack the smug expression right off her perfect face. “mommy please-please stop!” you try again, figuring she wanted you to pull the mommy card once more.

she hums again, sounding pleased. she could see your face starting to turn red from all the laughter and so she decided to show you some mercy, her hands finally halting their ticklish actions. “okay, okay, i’m done malysh.” she murmurs, her hand that was imprisoning your wrists loosening. she leans down, placing sweet kisses along your face. you clutch at her shirt, your legs wrapping around her body, wanting to feel closer to her. she smiles to herself at your clinginess, her lips pausing as they place one final kiss against your jaw.

“i’m sorry dorogoya.. i knew you were ticklish but i didn’t know you were that ticklish,” she muses, tucking some hair behind your ear. your cheeks heat in delicate embarrassment and you take advantage of your freed hands now by smacking her arm.

“hey, be nice to your mommy. you know if you act up, i’ll just have to punish you..” you gasp softly, the prospect of her punishing you instantly sets a flame in your lower belly. she leans closer to you, pecking your lips. “hmm you like that idea, don’t you?” you feel her grin against your lips. you nod, your eager eyes set on hers. she takes mental note of your reaction, finding that she herself was excited at the idea of punishing you.

“something tells me you’ll have earned a punishment or two before our little weekend is over,” she purrs, imagining the various ways you may choose to act up in the next couple of days. “i have to admit, mommy’s a little excited to find out just how bratty you can be.”

you raise your eyebrows, a small smirk forming on your lips. “you’re probably gonna wish you didn’t just say that…”

[fratttymatty]

Greeked

(All characters are 18+)

Matty never thought college would be this much of a shock. Sure, he was excited for the experience, but he wasn’t really prepared for how much things would change—and how fast.

He was 18 now, heading into his freshman year with a sense of nervous optimism. Matty had spent the last year of high school pining after his crush, Kayla—now, Kayla was his girlfriend, and for the first time in his life, he felt like he wasn’t invisible. He was excited for college, but one thing was certain: no matter how crazy college life might get, he was happy to be with Kayla—er, Cassie, now.

That was the first thing that had changed.

They had arrived at college together, a little overwhelmed but ready to face the unknown. Cassie, though—she had already changed. Matty was still trying to make sense of it.

“I’m telling you, Matty,” Cassie said one afternoon, walking hand in hand across the campus. “I so need to join a sorority. I’m like, totally vibing with the idea of Delta Theta Phi. They have, like, the best parties and stuff.”

Matty smiled, squeezing her hand. He’d known Cassie—Kayla—since high school. She’d always been fun and confident, but not quite like this. There was something a little… more bubbly about her now. More... valley girl.

“I don’t know,” Matty said, shaking his head. “You weren’t really into that stuff in high school, though. Is this, like… really you?”

Cassie stopped, looking at him with a confused expression. “What do you mean, babe? Of course it’s me. I just… I don’t know, I feel like college is all about being your best self, you know? I’ve been thinking about, like, how much fun it would be to totally fit in. I just know I’d be amazing at it!”

Matty blinked. “Uh… okay, if you say so. But you don’t need to change, Cassie. I love you just the way you are.”

She smiled and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “I know, babe. But this is just, like, the next level. You’ll see.”

They kept walking, but there was a nagging feeling in the back of Matty’s mind. Cassie? She was still the girl he loved, right? Then why did she feel… different? She wasn’t the quiet, introspective girl he knew. This new version of her was louder, bouncier, more caught up in appearances and parties.

Then it happened. The air around them shifted, and a strange swirl of energy seemed to surround them. Matty didn’t know what to make of it—he couldn’t see anything, but he felt it deep inside, like the world had just tilted slightly. Then, a voice that wasn’t quite there but somehow echoed in both their heads spoke:

“You’ve been chosen. The power of college life will transform you. No turning back. Embrace your new path.”

The wind rushed through the campus in an eerie hush, and for a moment, everything stood still. Matty glanced at Cassie. Her wide-eyed look mirrored his own confusion, but the magic was already working its way into their souls.

The Next Day

When Matty woke up the next morning, everything felt… off. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw the changes before he even registered them. His body was leaner, more muscular. His posture had shifted—he now stood tall and wide-shouldered, his physique looking like he'd spent months in the gym (which he hadn’t).

But the most noticeable change? His hair.

Matty had always been self-conscious about his hair. It was unruly—curly and thick, and no matter how hard he tried, it always seemed to fall into a messy, unpredictable state. He’d never been able to tame it the way the popular guys did. His hair was more of a hassle than a feature he could flaunt.

But now? As he stood in front of the mirror, Matty ran a hand through his hair—and stopped dead in his tracks.

It was perfect.

Matty blinked, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. His hair had changed, almost overnight.

Where it had once been a tangled mess of light brown curls, it now fell in perfectly tousled waves that seemed to defy gravity. His once wild curls were gone, replaced by a smooth, more controlled texture that still had some natural volume, but now it was effortlessly styled in a way that looked like he’d just walked out of a barber’s chair after a professional cut. It wasn’t too neat, but it wasn’t messy either. It looked intentional. Like he’d woken up with this style and hadn’t even needed to run a comb through it.

His hair was now darker, too. Instead of the lighter brown he’d been born with, it was now a rich, deep dark brown. It was almost close to black in some lights, but it still held a slight undertone of warmth. The colour gave him a more mature, striking appearance—one that was instantly more eye-catching than the old, plain, lighter brown he used to have. The transformation wasn’t just in the texture; it was in the depth of the colour itself.

The change was so profound that Matty didn’t even know how to process it at first. He reached up to run his fingers through his new hair again. It felt thicker, softer somehow, with the faintest scent of something like gel or pomade, as if it had been styled professionally while he slept. It gave him the type of effortless, “I woke up like this” look that guys on Instagram or in magazines seemed to always pull off.

The more he ran his fingers through it, the more he noticed that the strands of hair fell naturally into place. It was no longer an unmanageable mop—it was sleek, smooth, and just the right amount of tousled. His hair now seemed to fit his transformation into this new version of himself—Matt, the frat guy, the confident guy who got noticed.

Before, his hair had always been a problem. He’d try to comb it into place in the mornings, but it would quickly fall back into its usual, messy shape. It was always too long in some spots and too short in others. He’d hated how it would sometimes fall in his face or puff up in ways that made him feel awkward.

Now, it was different. His hair had a natural flow to it. The kind of look that made him look effortlessly cool. The messy wave that fell just above his eyebrows gave him a brooding, “bad boy” charm. It made him look more confident—more put together—and it fit his new persona perfectly.

Matty grabbed his phone to check his reflection in the front-facing camera. He gave himself a once-over, taking in his broader shoulders, his new body, and the sharp jawline that had appeared seemingly overnight. But it was his hair that caught his attention again.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “This is… way different.”

He ran his hand through it one more time, letting the waves fall back into place with minimal effort, and then he smiled. It felt right. His hair was a big part of the new Matt he was becoming—someone who didn’t have to work hard to look good. It was almost as if the universe had decided that everything about him needed to be sharper, more polished, more… frat.

His reflection stared back at him. Matt, with the perfect dark brown hair. Matt, with the confident, almost cocky smile that now played at the corners of his lips. The guy in the mirror was a stranger, yet familiar, someone who was meant for this life.

And as he admired his new look, he couldn't help but wonder just how deep this transformation would go. His hair was only the beginning, after all.

“Dude,” he muttered, staring at the reflection. "What the hell?”

And then it hit him—Matt. His reflection had changed. His whole demeanour was different. His voice felt deeper, and when he spoke, it sounded… natural. Like someone had flicked a switch, and now he was the ultimate frat boy without even trying. He flexed his arm in front of the mirror, still not fully understanding what was going on.

But something else was different, too. He looked at the clothes in his wardrobe—a brand-new set of tight, fitted T-shirts and well-worn jeans that made him look like he belonged in a college party. Gone was the awkward Matty, the kid who played it safe. In his place stood someone who could walk into a room and own it. Matt was the guy everyone wanted to be. He felt confident. Cocky, even.

He texted Cassie, hoping she was okay with all of this.

“Hey, you good? Something weird happened last night…”

Her reply came seconds later.

“Oh my god, babe! I feel amazing! You won’t believe it. I totally joined Delta Theta Phi, and they’re, like, so into me already! It’s going to be, like, the best thing ever!”

Matty stared at the text, his stomach twisting slightly. Something was off. Cassie—Cassie—was now using words like "totes" and "like" in every sentence. The bubbly, confident girl he once knew was changing right before his eyes, and part of him was unsettled by it. But the other part of him—Matt—found himself excited. This was the life he was supposed to be living. The frat parties, the competitions, the workouts. He couldn’t deny it: it felt good. Maybe, just maybe, this was who he was meant to be.

The Frat Life

Later that day, Matt was dragged into the fraternity house by a group of upperclassmen who had somehow decided he was frat material. They forced him to attend a party, where they pumped him full of beer, made him play beer pong, and introduced him to a whole new world of “bro” behaviour.

“You’re gonna crush it, bro,” Brock, the frat president, said as he threw an arm around Matt’s shoulders. “You’re one of us now. Party hard, hit the gym, and get with the ladies. That’s the frat way.”

“Yeah, dude,” Matt replied, nodding with a grin. “For sure. I’m, like, all in.”

The party raged on around him. It was loud. It was chaotic. But Matt had never felt more at home. The guys were laughing, the music was pounding, and everything about it felt right. He had no interest in the quiet, introspective kid he once was. This new life was everything he ever wanted. The muscles, the confidence, the parties—it was all here.

Cassie & The Sorority

At the same time, Cassie had fully embraced her new role in Delta Theta Phi. She walked around with her new sisters, a radiant smile on her face as they gossiped about their crushes and the upcoming sorority events. She had become, without a doubt, the epitome of a sorority girl. She was bubbly, she was popular, and she was constantly surrounded by attention.

But something about it never felt wrong. Cassie loved Matt. They were still dating, and no one could change that. Even though she was now a full-on "valley girl"—talking about boys, parties, and perfecting her “look”—her feelings for Matt hadn't wavered. In fact, if anything, she felt more connected to him than ever. She couldn’t wait to see him after every party, to tell him about her day, to laugh together over the silliest things.

She wasn't cheating, not at all. It was just that college life had changed them both, had made them more into the people they seemed to be destined to be. But even through all the transformations, her feelings for Matt never wavered.

A Relationship that Stays Strong

As the semester went on, Matt and Cassie (who had become an official part of the Greek system) lived in their new worlds. They attended parties, worked out together, and talked about their plans for the future. Despite their transformations, their love for each other was still the anchor that kept them grounded.

Cassie was happy with her sorority, yes. But she never let it interfere with her relationship. Matt was the same. The bro culture didn’t change how he felt about her. They made time for each other. They texted. They hung out. They still made each other laugh. Their personalities had changed, sure—but their connection hadn’t.

And while both of them had slipped into their new roles as frat bro and sorority girl, they hadn’t forgotten each other. They were still in love, still dating, still choosing each other every day.

For the first time, they both realized: sometimes you don’t need to be who you were in high school to find happiness. Maybe who they were now—Matt and Cassie—was who they were always meant to be.

(Matty on the left and Brock on the right, Cassie on the right and her sorority sister on the left)

[criminally-chill]

Accidental date

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x reader

Category: Fluff

———————————

Emily Prentiss sat at a quiet corner table in a cozy, candle-lit restaurant, her nerves humming with a mix of excitement and uncertainty. Blind dates were rare territory, but Garcia had been insistent. “Trust me, Em,” she’d said, “you need this!”

She looked up just in time to see a woman approaching her table. With warm eyes, an easy smile, and a relaxed confidence, she gave Emily a smile that immediately put her at ease.

“Hi,” the woman greeted with a friendly nod. “I’m Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Emily replied with a smile as they settled in. The conversation flowed with surprising ease. Y/N turned out to be a doctor, and her hospital stories ranged from hilarious to deeply moving, each one told with warmth and a hint of humor that kept Emily smiling.

At one point, after Y/N finished a story about a hospital mix-up, Emily chuckled, shaking her head. “This is exactly what I needed tonight. Leave it to Garcia to set me up with someone so interesting.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, looking intrigued. “Garcia?”

Emily grinned. “Yeah, my friend. She practically dragged me here, swearing I’d have a great time.”

Y/N let out a laugh. “That’s funny. My friend Dr. Robins convinced me to come. She said I needed a break and knew someone I’d hit it off with.”

They both paused, exchanging a surprised look as the realization dawned on them.

“So… you’re not here because of Garcia?” Emily asked, a smirk tugging at her lips.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Nope. And you’re definitely not here because of Dr. Robins, right?”

They both burst into laughter, the unexpected mix-up somehow making the night even more enjoyable. They leaned in a little closer as they continued talking, each exchange revealing a deeper connection and a natural chemistry between them.

By the time they left the restaurant, the night air had turned chilly, and a brisk wind swept down the empty street. Emily shivered slightly, folding her arms.

Without a second thought, Y/N shrugged off her jacket and held it out to Emily. “Here, take this. Can’t let you freeze after such a good accidental date.”

Emily hesitated for a moment before smiling gratefully and slipping it on. “Thank you. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun on a first… well, not-quite-a-date.”

Y/N chuckled. “Accidental or not, it was definitely one of the better nights I’ve had. And since it’s my fault for keeping you out this late, at least let me walk you home.”

They walked side by side through the quiet streets, shoulders brushing occasionally. As they talked and laughed, the atmosphere between them felt lighter, like they’d known each other much longer than just one evening.

When they reached Emily’s apartment, she paused at her door, turning to Y/N with a warm smile. “So… accidental date or not, I’d love to do this again. On purpose next time.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, her smile widening. “I’d like that,” she murmured, holding Emily’s gaze.

As the night stretched in silence, neither seemed in a rush to say goodbye. Y/N gently squeezed Emily’s hand, and Emily gave it a light squeeze in return, a warm feeling blooming in her chest.

“Goodnight, Emily,” Y/N said softly, a smile lingering on her lips as she turned to leave.

Emily watched her go, still wrapped in Y/N’s jacket, already looking forward to the next time they’d see each other — a date they would plan very much on purpose.

[boom-butterflyeffect]

If you don’t mind can you do a NSFW alphabet for Josh or Matt

check out my masterlist for the Matt one! unfortunately it might be a little underwhelming, i haven't looked into his character as much as the others, and i'm only now getting back into writing so my writing is pretty minimal rn, but anyways!

Josh Washington NSFW Alphabet

im honestly so excited for this one, josh is fine as fuck, and in my mind, he's arguably the kinkiest out of them all

A - Aftercare

Josh would get you all cleaned up, kissing you all over while he does so.

B - Body Part (His favourite body part on himself and you)

He loves your lips. Just mesmerised by how pretty they are. His favourite part of himself would probably be his dick, I can't lie

C - Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Messy! gets off to the sight of you with his cum either ON you or dripping out of you.

D - Dirty secret

Has SO MANY ideas for things you two could do. Wouldn't surprise me if he has them written down somewhere.

E - Experience (How experienced he is)

He's got a decent amount of experience, as well as a lot of ideas from the porn he watches.

F - Favorite position

Tbh I feel like Josh would love fucking you from behind while you're on your hands and knees, and he's got his hands on your hips.

G - Goofy (Is he more serious in the moment?)

Can switch back and forth between silly and serious so fast, and you can never quite tell if his seriousness is playful or not.

H - Hair

He keeps it tidy

I - Intimacy

He loves to get up close and personal, whispering in your ear and touching you all over.

J - Jack off

Honestly, a lot. He's got a lot of pent up energy.

K - Kink

I think Josh could potentially enjoy roleplay and costumes, considering how much he seemed to enjoy his whole Psycho act, and with all the movie equipment he has in the basement, I feel like he'd def be into some of the more kinky stuff.

L - Location

Every. Single. Goddamn. Room. In that lodge.

M - Motivation

Literally just seeing you.

N - No (Hard limits)

Anything that goes beyond your basic sadistic stuff, like nothing that would cause bleeding or permanent damage.

O - Oral

Loves both giving and receiving, loves making you squirm with just his tongue, does wonders for his ego seeing you become a mess, and would def be the type to grab you by the hair when receiving and guide your head.

P - Pace

Much like the seriousness, it can switch back and forth really fast. He always keeps you on your toes.

Q - Quickie

Yes. Quick fuck in a college bathroom before class? 100% he's down.

R - Risk

He's all for experimenting and trying out new things, and can enjoy things on the more daring side.

S - Stamina

He's got a LOT of energy, and gets really riled up once he's started.

T - Toys

I could definitely see Josh using toys on you, all sorts of borderline sadistic shit.

U - Unfair

Oh 100% he will degrade and praise you at the same time and leave you confused and whining.

V - Volume

Loud. Very chatty too, and talks you through everything, with all sorts of praise and degradation and teasing and all sorts.

W - Wild card (Random NSFW HC of my choosing)

I could imagine for Halloween he'd dress up as a masked killer from your favourite slasher movie and "hunt you down", he enjoys the thrill of the chase.

X - X-ray (Size)

7 inches (I think I'm just saying the same for all of them tbh idk)

Y - Yearning

Oh he is eager ALL the time, he's the most dirty minded guy in the group, no competition

Z - Zzz

I don't think he'd sleep for a while afterwards tbh, still too high on the adrenaline rush.

Bro it's crazy how much easier this one was than the others, I do really just imagine Josh to be a horny fucker

thank you for the request! Feel free to request other stuff too!

[wings-of-fire-confessions]

“Riptide is so plain and/or boring!”

You know what? I genuinely don’t give a f***.

He’s a caring and nice character, that I like and even enjoy, and I think it’s quite neat that Tsunami had someone else she could rely on when she was having troubles within the SeaWing palace while living with freaking Queen Coral and - three moons - Whirlpool.

Plus, Riptide is NOT as plain as some people view him - or at least, he has the potential to be (seen as) a interesting character, but unfortunately wasn’t as explored and/or developed upon unlike some other characters within the series.

Riptide had a rather bad and traumatic past. Webs left him when he was 2 years old - about the current age of Anemone and MINK - in order to take Tsunami’s egg to the the Talons of Peace so he can raise her to be within the prophecy. His mother was indirectly KILLED by Coral by her purposefully putting his mom in the front lines of the war, due to her helping Webs take Tsunami’s egg. 

Due to this, Riptide probably became a literal ORPHAN as a very young dragonet, while living under a violent Queen who HATES his guts.

And due to Webs taking Tsunami’s egg, Coral unrightfully viewed Riptide to be an awful dragon, due to him being related to Webs. Because of this, Riptide is hated and discriminated by Queen Coral and her relatives, and he has a bad and low reputation within his Kingdom based off of crimes he DIDN’T EVEN COMMIT. With this reputation being something that he lived with through the MAJORITY of his life. Which includes him being given the lowest ranking job and duty within the SeaWing kingdom.

Heck, I wouldn’t be surprised that the reason why Riptide seems so ‘plain’ and/or ‘boring’ because he literally HAD to act that way around others - with him placing that part within himself and ingrained it within his personality and/or behavior - in order to NOT stand out and grab the attention of others who actively hate him, and would harm & even KILL him. Especially from how much he’s canonically hated by Coral.

Because if Riptide was noticed to be against Coral’s actions or beliefs, and/or was seen doing something that (majorly) upsets Coral, there’s a good chance - heck, a HIGH chance - that Coral would instantly brutally harm and/or kill him on the spot.

Riptide is one of the characters within the series that, despite the awful treatment and trauma he experienced throughout his life, is STILL a kind, caring, and/or empathetic dragon, who does his best to helps others that he cares about - including Tsunami.

He’s a dragon who cares about his tribe to the point he fought the SkyWings for them instead of fleeing away from the Summer Palace with Webs and Tsunami (and Tsunami’s friends), despite the awful treatment Riptide experienced for the majority of his life under his tribe’s royalty.

Who’s also a dragon who still wanted to form a connection with his father, who left him and hasn’t seen Riptide for a long time. One who is the only potential dragon who would love and/or care for Riptide for who he is.

A father that Riptide then learned later with TLH that Webs was a enabler of the abuse that Tsunami and her friends experienced from Kestrels and Dune, due to Webs not stopping them from being harmed until Queen Scarlet tried to imprison them in her arena.

Plus, when knowing about Riptide’s trauma and how much he experienced prejudice from others, his relationship and interactions with Tsunami honestly are more interesting than they seem to be.

How Riptide INSTANTLY rushed towards Tsunami in order to embrace her after she unintentionally flirted with him.

How Tsunami is probably the first dragon he’s known in a long while who respects, appreciates, and even enjoys his presence and existence.

That Riptide followed and watched over Tsunami while she was at the SeaWing Kingdom, probably due to him being worried about her being with Coral.

That Riptide selflessly helped and hanged out with Tsunami despite Coral potentially punishing and/or harming him for doing so.

How Riptide hid the fact that he was related to Webs, and that he’s a member of the Talons of Peace, probably in fear that Tsunami - the only dragon he has a positive bond with in TLH - would be angry at him, & dislike and/or hate him, possibly similarly how other dragons (including her relatives) hate him.

But despite this, he cared about being honest with Tsunami that he had the mental maturity and/or mental strength to tell Tsunami that he joined the Talons of Peace in order to know more about his father.

So yeah - Riptide is quite a nice character, who’s even pretty interesting, or at least is when you really think about him.

But he unfortunately isn’t viewed that way and/or isn’t even appreciated by multiple parts of the WoF fandom, due to him not having an prominent and/or strong personality compared to other love interests within the series.

.

[tigirl-and-co]

Specks of Dust in Hallowed Halls

Part 3; Small Figure in a Vast Expanse

Part 2 is here!

Hey everybody! This is my first time ever writing smut, and I like to think I did a good job. I hope you'll agree. I did my very best to keep reader gender neutral, at the expense of not being able to dive into detail. That said, this part is quite obviously 18+ Flavour of the day is mutual masturbation~

~~~

If you hadn't felt so, so safe you would have been terrified.

Naked, you were lying miles above the surface of a foreign planet. Instinct told you to be wary of prying eyes, of unseen danger. You were exposed. You were vulnerable.

And yet, you were safer than you had ever been. The warm expanse beneath you, vast and strong, loved you. And you loved it- loved him. So despite the instincts pressing at your mind, you continued.

In preparation for this moment, you and your titanic lover had devised a plan- one simply had to, with a love like this. He had managed to route his optic input to your phone so that you could see what he saw, and integrated your phone's camera into his own network. He could see your perfect face more closely than ever before- every stunning detail burned into his spark.

And when you looked over to your phone, propped up next to you on the vastness of his shoulder, you couldn't help the heat rushing to your face and to your core. In Metroplex's gargantuan servo was his spike, massive and monolithic in stature against the blurry backdrop that was Cybertron.

You tried to imagine yourself next to it, on top of it, but your tiny human mind couldn't quite parse just how large it truly was.

And suddenly, you heard a great, deep rumbling. The sound seemed to emanate from the very air around you, vibrating you down to your bones. You knew what it was, even so intense so as to be all-consuming. It was the voice of your lover.

"Are you ready?"

You positioned your toy at your entrance and whispered back a breathy confirmation.

He began stroking himself, achingly slowly. You briefly considered starting rough with your own toy, but you wanted him to take the lead. You honestly weren't sure how much experience he had- no point in frightening him or making him feel bad by finishing first.

So with agonizing restraint, you pushed your toy up into yourself, imagining it was him. Your Metroplex. You knew that he was thinking of you, too. With every powerful stroke of his massive servo, he was picturing how soft your body was compared to his own.

You would be lying if you said you never imagined something like this. Heat singing through you from both inside and out, grunts that would have been soft now loud enough to echo across the expanse of his broad body stirring you further.

You looked up at his face and then down at your phone and all at once, it happened. You couldn't help but think about the sheer size of him, of both how tiny and inconsequential you were in comparison but also about the power you wielded in that moment.

It was all because of you.

As your raspy breaths mixed with his deep and powerful groans you knew this ancient titan was yours. His spike was so large you could easily slip inside it, and yet you were in control of it.

That thought combined with your toy sent you into overdrive. You started slamming your toy against your most sensitive spot and using your other hand to pleasure yourself. Judging by the whirring of thousands of fans and the speed with which Metroplex was stroking himself, he was close, too.

His spike was weeping fluid. You were weeping with pleasure. And as you climaxed, so did he.

A sound like the roar of a wildfire bursting to life tore itself free from your lover, and you let loose your own howl. The waves of your own pleasure were carried by the vibrations of his voiced rolling through you and the rhythmic pulsing of his beating spark under you.

After he had taken some time to collect himself, he turned his gaze to your minuscule form. His optics could not be budged from you, seeking to take in what just the thought of him had done to your body. Still venting, he managed to smile at you, a smile that made you feel like you had hung the stars in the sky just for him. As he continued to gaze at you, you found yourself believing that you would if he asked you to.

Suddenly, you got a text from a Cybertronian friend of yours, the mechanic in charge of Metty's checkup.

'Aaaand with that, the tune-up is complete! Thanks for making sure his spike still works!'

Still caught up in the afterglow, the two of you couldn't help but laugh. What an absurd pair you two were- a city and a mite that crawled its halls.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

[rarelyput2gether]

I got to say the leaks… I saw them. I don’t care if I’m spoiled so I didn’t mind watching them but I’m quite upset about the “plot twist”.

Spoilers below 👇🏾 Even though I won’t describe the leaks. I just want to rant about Alastor for a minute

Like what is the point in destroying all of Alastor’s friendships? First, Viv axed Husk and now Rosie seems more transactional.

Coming from a creole descent person, i always had a complicated feeling about Alastor but now I’m annoyed. Not so much the quality of the show but just in general how white writers have and can handle their non-white characters. I don’t mind Alastor being a bastard but she really is destroying a lot of nuisance with her only main POC characters (we’ll see about Niffty). I 100% believe that Alastor was made black because of the controversy but since she did that, Viv needs to handle it with care. I don’t know the races/ethnic background of the writing staff but I’m starting to believe it is 99% white Americans lol

(I’m really annoyed that her and this fandom did not take concerns of black voices seriously on twitter a couple years back, if no one can tell haha)

From a sexuality POV, it is a little problematic. Her aroace character has no relationships outside of transactional ones? That’s wrong dude.

Outside of race, still why? I’ll hold my breath until all of Alastor’s back story is told but I really don’t think it’s a good move. I didn’t like Husk possibly being removed as his friend but fine, whatever. Now Rosie? There’s hardly any build up because the writing is rushed and convoluted in season 1 so it’s not really a good twist. The way it was framed and acted sounded like they were genuinely good friends.

Still gonna have a ball drawing these characters but Vivzie, honey, slow the fuck down and think things through. You got four seasons. You have the views and the fan base; you can ask for more episodes to properly build up your twist. And for the love of god, get more than 1 black person on your staff, get a cultural researcher, take a critical race theory class, or something.

[coffeeshades]

—true blue ⭑ part i

summary: two strangers meet in a city of millions, only to discover they've been searching for each other all along.

pairing: pedro pascal x f!reader.

word count: 7.3k

warnings: age gap, angst, fluff, mentions of alcohol, loneliness, nostalgia. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know! (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hello lovelies, i’m back with another story! hope you guys enjoy it and happy reading <3

London had a way of swallowing you whole, especially on days like this—when the sky was nothing but a massive stretch of gray, heavy and low, threatening rain but never delivering it. The city seemed to disappear into the clouds, a wash of neutral tones that made everything feel colder, quieter.

Six months in, and you still weren’t used to it. The grayness, the dampness that clung to your skin, or the way the city seemed to keep you at arm’s length, never quite welcoming you in.

You pulled your scarf tighter around your neck as you walked into the café, your breath fogging the glass for a moment before pushing the door open.

The warmth hit you immediately, the smell of roasted coffee beans filling your senses. The place was small, cozy, and comfortably worn—wooden floors scuffed by years of foot traffic, walls lined with photos of the city taken from angles only locals would recognize. It was a great place, one you had found early on in your stay. Most of the baristas knew you by now, especially Tom, who greeted you with a nod as soon as you walked in.

You tugged at the sleeves of your sweater, slightly too big but soft and comforting, and ran a hand through your frazzled hair, still somewhat damp from the earlier drizzle. You hadn’t bothered with an umbrella; London rain was more a constant mist than a downpour, not enough to get soaked but just enough to make you feel cold in your bones. Your dark pants clung to your legs, and your worn black boots scuffed the floor as you made your way to the counter.

It was late afternoon, your favorite time to stop by. Usually, you had to battle before work-rush. But you were free today. Most people had already grabbed their coffee and gone back to their lives, leaving the café quieter, almost meditative. You liked that. It was one of the few moments in your day where you didn’t have to think about the silence that otherwise hung over life.

New York had been noisy, full of distractions, but here, the quiet was inescapable. It followed you home, lingered in the corners of your rented flat, and made you feel more alone than you ever had back in the States.

“Hey, Tom,” you said, offering him a small smile as you dropped your purse onto the counter.

He smiled back, his hands already reaching for a cup. “The usual?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

You leaned against the counter, absently scrolling through the phone. Emails. Work messages. Nothing personal, nothing to distract you from the dull rhythm of solitude you’d grown so accustomed to. A novel you’d just finished reading peeked out of your bag.

As you waited for the order, the bell above the door chimed softly, and you felt someone step up beside you. You didn’t look up, not at first. The presence was warm, close enough to feel but not close enough to intrude. You were just another person standing in line, waiting for coffee.

Then you heard the voice.

“A large iced black coffee, please,” the man beside you said, his voice deep, casual, the kind of voice that made you listen even when you weren’t paying attention.

Another barista nodded, moving quickly to prepare the drink, and you tried not to feel the man’s presence. But it was hard not to. He wasn’t looking at you, but could sense him—the quiet weight of someone standing just close enough that it made you aware of yourself.

“Blue.”

The word pulled you out of your thoughts, and you glanced sideways, confused. “Sorry?”

He was smiling now, his expression easy, as if we were in on some joke. He nodded toward your bag, where the book was still partially visible. “The cover of your book. It’s blue.”

You blinked, your brain trying to catch up with the conversation. “Oh…yeah, it is.” You managed a half-smile, still unsure of where this was going.

“You must think I’m weird now,” he added, his tone teasing, but there was something behind his eyes—something almost vulnerable, like he was testing the waters.

“No, not really,” I said, shrugging. “I just wasn’t expecting...that.”

“It’s just…uh, lately, I’ve been reading a lot of books with blue covers,” he explained, running a hand through his hair. It was slicked back, but not perfectly—there was a curl that had escaped, hanging slightly over his forehead, giving him a disheveled charm. His brown leather jacket looked well-worn, like something he’d had for years, and his white sneakers were clean but scuffed, like they’d seen their fair share of travel.

“When I saw yours, it made me think of that. Sorry to bother you.”

“No, you’re not bothering me,” you said quickly, feeling an odd need to put him at ease. “Not at all.”

You took him in more fully now, and something clicked. There was a familiarity about him, something that tugged at the edges of recognition, but it hadn’t fully registered yet. Dark jeans, black t-shirt, the jacket slung casually over his frame, and those clear glasses that made him look both intelligent and approachable. His smooth skin seemed ready to tip into weathered, his dark hair almost shot full of gray. Solidly middle aged. 

There was something unguarded about him. Something real.

Before you could figure out where you knew him from, Tom interrupted, handing you the coffee with a nod. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” You reached for your card to pay, then paused, glancing back at the man beside you.

“Do you want it?”

He looked at you, clearly surprised. “Want what?”

“The book.”

You gestured toward the blue-covered novel still poking out of the bag. “I finished it earlier today. You can add it to your collection of blue books.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. “Oh, no, I can’t take that from you.”

“Of course you can.”

You pulled the book out fully, holding it out to him. “I’m done with it. And you seem interested.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, like he was trying to figure out if you were serious. Then, slowly, he reached out, his large hands brushing against yours as he took the book. His fingers lingered on the cover for a moment, running over the title as he read it out loud.

“It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over.”

You watched as he flipped the book over, his fingers tracing a small bullseye doodle inked on the back of his hand, just between his thumb and index finger. It was such a small detail, but it told you something about him. You suddenly wanted to know everything about him.

“It’s a good read,” you said, slipping the card into the reader. “It’s about mortality, grief, love… you know, the usual light fare.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Sounds like my kind of book. Gut-wrenching, then?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, “I think I have a thing for devastating literature.”

“That makes two of us.”

Tom handed him his iced coffee, and he nodded gratefully, still holding the book like it was something fragile. “Thanks again,” he said, glancing at the title one last time. “I’ll make sure it’s in good company.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” you said, gathering your things. You had to go home before the rain started pouring.

As you stepped toward the door, you felt the chill from outside starting to creep back in, and just before the door closed behind you, you heard him call out, his voice soft but sure.

“I know I will.”

The cold wind hit you as you stepped out into the gray street, but this time, it felt different. Less like a wall, more like a breeze pushing you forward. Something had changed, though you weren’t sure what yet.

The rain had picked up again, tapping against the windows of your flat like impatient fingers. The days were growing shorter now, the afternoons fading into evenings before you even had time to notice. Autumn had a way of settling into your bones—the way the cold crept in through the cracks, the muted light casting long shadows across the room, the golden hues of fallen leaves scattered on the pavement outside.

You had made the flat your own in small, quiet ways. A few plants scattered along the window ledge, books stacked unevenly on shelves that were too small to hold them all, some even on the floor, and a woolen throw draped over the worn arm of the couch. The place wasn’t large, but it was enough—just one bedroom, a kitchen that overlooked the small living room, and large windows that framed the world outside in a way that almost felt intimate. It smelled like home now—a mix of coffee and the faint scent of cinnamon from the candle burning on the table.

You were halfway through folding a pile of laundry when the phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. You wiped your hands on your pajama shorts before picking it up, smiling as Olivia’s name flashed across the screen. She called at least once a week, sometimes more if she had something “urgent” to discuss—which, in her world, could range from a new recipe she'd tried to the latest celebrity drama.

You answered on the second ring. "Hey, Liv."

“Finally!” Her voice came through the speaker, bright and full of life. “I’ve been texting you all day.”

You balanced the phone between your shoulder and ear, picking up a stray sock from the couch.

“Sorry, I was at work. Just got back a little while ago.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly unconvinced. “You’re always at work. You know that’s not healthy, right?”

You could rattle off a hundred reasons why being a medical resident wasn’t healthy—none of it was. It had taken you months to find your footing at the hospital. You hadn’t really made any friends outside of work, just the occasional outing with Sabrina, a fourth-year who’d taken you under her wing like the hospital’s den mother.

You rolled your eyes, tossing the sock into the laundry basket. “I know, I know, but you know how it is.”

“Whatever,” she said, clearly moving on. “So, guess what?”

You smiled, already bracing myself for whatever tangent she was about to dive into. “What?”

“I found this article about why cats are secretly plotting against us, and I swear, it’s changed my whole perspective on Peanut.”

“Peanut? Your ten-year-old tabby who sleeps all day and barely looks at you?”

“Yes! That’s exactly why it makes sense. He’s too quiet. Too calm. He’s plotting, I know it.”

You laughed as you wandered into the kitchen to grab a Coke from the fridge. “Olivia, he’s a cat. I think you’re safe.”

“Don’t you dare dismiss me, okay? I have facts. I’ll send you the article.”

“Can’t wait,” you said dryly, leaning against the counter as you sipped your drink.

There was a brief pause on her end, and then her voice softened, shifting to something more serious. “But really, how have you been?”

You glanced out the window, watching the rain streak down the glass in slow, steady lines. “Same old. The hospital, laundry, eating dinner in front of the TV. You know the drill.”

“Nothing new?” she pressed.

“Not really.”

You hesitated, a brief smile tugging at your lips as you remembered the café. “Although… I think I met Pedro Pascal the other day.”

There was a beat of silence, followed by a shriek so loud you had to pull the phone away from your ear. “What?! Shut up, shut up! You what?”

“I mean…I wasn't sure it was him when it was happening, but now I'm kinda positive.”

“Girl, how positive?” Her voice was breathless, excited in the way only Olivia could manage.

You chuckled, walking over to the couch and sinking into the cushions, curling your legs under you.

“I don't know, pretty positive?”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Did he give you his name?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Then how do you know it was him?” She sounded like she was about to combust with impatience.

“Because I talked to the man, Liv. He looked like him; I don't know. Maybe…maybe it wasn't him."

“You talked?!” she nearly screamed. “Oh my God, what did you talk about?”

“Not much,” you said, shrugging even though she couldn’t see you. “It was about my book—the one I was reading.”

“What was he like? Was he charming? Did he look at you with those eyes?”

You could practically see her waggling her eyebrows, and you laughed, shaking your head.

“Calm down. He was just… normal. Kind of charming. We didn’t talk for long, though.”

“Normal? Pedro Pascal is not normal. People would die to have a conversation with him, and you’re over here like, ‘Oh, we just talked about a book."

You smiled, running a hand through your hair, which had dried into a messy wave. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m not! This is huge!” she insisted. “Did he ask for your number?”

“No, are you crazy? ” You snorted. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You’re killing me here.” She groaned. “How do you not make the most of a moment like that? You had a once-in-a-lifetime chance to shoot your shot, and you’re telling me you just let it go?”

“It wasn’t like that, Liv,” you said, still laughing. “It was just a casual conversation.”

She let out another exasperated sigh. “You’re hopeless. Completely hopeless.”

“Okay, well, I have to go,” you said, picking up the empty laundry basket and setting it aside. “I still have to make dinner, and it’s getting late.”

“You’re brushing me off because you don’t want to admit you missed your chance with Pedro Pascal.”

“I’m brushing you off because I’m starving,” you corrected.

“Fine, fine. But promise me this isn’t the end of the story. If you run into him again, you have to—”

“Not gonna happen."

"Don't be so pessimistic. If you run into him again, you tell me."

"Not gonna happen, but fine."

“That’s all I ask,” she said, her tone suddenly cheerful again. “Okay, go make dinner. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye, Liv.”

“Bye!”

You hung up, dropping the phone onto the couch as you stared outside again. The rain had softened into a steady drizzle. The flat was quiet, the only sound being the occasional hiss of the radiator and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

You sighed, sinking deeper into the cushions. It was a small life you had built here, simple and quiet. But there was something comforting about it too. Even if you hadn’t figured everything out yet, there was a strange sense of peace in the routine of it all.

And yet, the thought of that brief encounter at the café lingered in the back of your mind, like a spark that hadn’t quite caught fire.

A week had passed since the encounter, but you couldn’t shake him from your mind. It was ridiculous, really. You hadn’t asked for his name, hadn’t lingered long enough to let the moment stretch into something more. But the man with the deep voice and warm laugh had somehow taken up residence in your thoughts.

It was as if the quiet, unremarkable routine you’d built for yourself here had been cracked open, just a little, by that brief, unexpected meeting.

Still, you tried not to think about it too much. But every time you walked past that café, your steps slowed, as if you expected to see him again, leaning against the counter with his easy smile. By the time you actually went in again, a full week later, the cold October air was biting at your skin, and your mind was no more settled than it had been that day.

You ordered the usual—a flat white—and lingered by the counter as Tom prepared it, his familiar movements almost soothing in their predictability. You were lost in thought, half-aware of your surroundings, when Tom placed the cup on the counter.

But this time, there was something else.

A small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with a blue ribbon.

“What’s this?” you asked, staring at it like it was some kind of puzzle.

Tom smiled, his thick accent wrapping around his words. “Someone left it for you.”

You blinked, completely baffled. “What is this, a secret admirer thing? Because I gotta say, Tom, I wasn’t prepared for that kind of drama today.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not from me, love. But someone wanted you to have it.”

Intrigued, you grabbed the coffee and the package, thanking him before heading to your usual spot by the window. The window fogged slightly from the heat of the café, offering you a misty view of the street beyond.

You sat down and placed the package in front of you, staring at it for a few seconds as your mind raced. What the hell is this? Your fingers traced the edges of the paper, carefully undoing the small ribbon before pulling the wrapping away.

A book. Of course, it was a book.

You smiled faintly as you read the title aloud: Drive Your Plow over the Bones of the Dead.

The cover was blue—deep and rich, just like the one you’d given away the week before. The faintest blush crept up your cheeks as you realized who it must have been from.

Your heart did a weird little somersault in your chest as you ran your fingers along the cover. Before you even opened it, a folded piece of paper fell out and landed softly on the table. You unfolded it, smoothing the creases, and read the note inside:

Hi, stranger. I realized five minutes after you gave me your book that I didn’t ask for your name. How rude of me. I’m sorry. I walked out of there as soon as I realized and walked a few blocks, but you were gone.

I finished the book, by the way. It was beautiful. I loved how real and layered the main character was. I also laughed so much; I didn’t think a novel this heartbreaking would be such a joy.

Anyway, I feel like I’m rambling now. Since you gave me one, I thought I might return the favor. I think this is a long shot since I don't know if you are a regular, but I hope you are. I hope this finds you.

Enjoy.

Love, Pedro.

You stared at the note for what felt like a full minute, your mind slowly processing the words. Oh my god. Pedro. So you weren't delusional after all. It had been him. All this time, you’d been trying to convince yourself that it was some random guy with a coincidental likeness, but no—it was him.

The smile that spread across your face was involuntary, and you felt your cheeks flush with the sudden realization that you had somehow fallen into a casual book exchange with him. Your fingers traced the edge of the note, and you leaned back in the chair, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

For the next several days, the book accompanied you everywhere—on the train, to work, in bed at night. You found yourself highlighting passages and underlining sentences that spoke to something deep inside you. The book was dark and witty, a strange blend of humor and melancholy that left you thinking long after you’d closed it each night.

You hadn’t seen Pedro again, though you hoped—each time you entered the café—that maybe he’d be there. Maybe you’d exchange a few more words; maybe this strange little connection would become something more.

But days passed, and there was no sign of him.

A week later, you finished the book. As you placed it on the nightstand, you knew what you had to do.

It was only fair to continue the game, wasn’t it?

And there was one book that immediately came to mind—Alone With You in the Ether. The cover was, of course, blue.

You spent that morning getting ready, your usual routine of sluggishness replaced by something else—anticipation, maybe. You pulled on your blue navy scrubs and your running shoes, taking a little extra care with your hair, though you weren’t quite sure why.

At the café, you ordered the usual and approached the counter with the book neatly wrapped in brown paper. When Tom handed you the coffee, you slipped the book into his hands, along with a note:

Hi, Pedro.

That’s okay, no need to apologize. To be fair, I didn’t ask for your name either, so that makes the two of us very rude people. I’m so happy you liked the book. As for the one you gave me—wow. I think it’s going to stick with me for a while.

Now, this one is really special to me. I read it earlier this year, and even though it’s kind of a drag to get through in the first few chapters, once you get the hang of it, it’s totally worth it. And yeah, it made me cry a little because it explores what it means to be unwell and how to face the fractures in yourself and still love as if you’re not broken. Really happy stuff, I know.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Love,

You hesitated for a second before writing your name at the bottom of the note. You had to, right?

You couldn’t keep this up forever without knowing who the other person was.

As you handed the book to Tom, excitement bubbled inside you, and you felt a strange sense of giddiness that you hadn’t experienced in ages. You were exchanging books with this enigma of a man—this charismatic, famous man who somehow understood the same quiet parts of the world that you did.

As you left the café that day, the autumn air crisp and cool around you, you realized just how much had changed in these past few weeks. you’d been living in your head for so long, buried in stories and thoughts that weren’t your own, but now—now there was something tangible.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.

It had been days since you’d left Pedro the book, and though a small part of you hoped to hear back, you hadn’t expected it. Surely he had better things to do than trade novels with a stranger. Yet, here you were again, standing at the counter of the café, that familiar flutter of anticipation creeping up on you.

“Just a matcha today,” you said to Tom, trying to rein in your caffeine habit. He raised an eyebrow, surprised at the switch, but didn’t say anything as he rang you up. “It’s surgery day,” you added, shrugging.

When he handed you the drink, there it was—a familiar brown-wrapped package slipped discreetly into your other hand. Your pulse quickened. You did your best to keep cool, to act as though this was just another day, but your fingers betrayed you, trembling slightly as they closed around the package.

“What now?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but the excitement was barely concealed in your voice.

Tom chuckled, shaking his head. “Another one. Same guy.”

You didn’t even sit down. You stood right there at the counter, carefully peeling away the paper. Another blue book. The Book of All Loves. A smile tugged at your lips, warm and uncontainable.

Inside, a folded note fell out—this one thicker, the creases worn, the ink smudged in places. Your hands shook slightly as you unfolded it and began to read.

Hi again, stranger—

Well, I guess I can’t really call you that anymore, now that I know your name, huh?

He had written your name at the top—three times. The letters were neat but hurried, repeated as though he were testing how it felt to write them. The ink stuttered in places, lingering on the curves of each letter, like he had taken his time. It is such a gorgeous sight. To see your name in his handwriting awakened something in you. 

There. It’s stuck in my head now. What a great name, by the way. I could probably write it out a hundred more times and still not get tired of seeing it. Is that weird? That’s probably weird. I’m rambling again.

So, the book—wow. It hit me in ways I didn’t expect. You weren’t kidding when you said it was about being unwell, but it was more than that. The characters were dancing on this fragile edge between chaos and peace, and I felt that. And that church scene...

You paused, feeling the tenderness of his words wrapping around you, pulling you in closer.

The way they held hands—it was more than just a gesture. There’s something about it that felt so raw, so intimate. In a place where you’re not supposed to be that close, it made it all the more... heartbreaking. Have you ever felt like that? Like you’re carrying all this weight but still holding onto this tiny sliver of hope that someone will see you for who you are? Without needing you to explain every scar?

His words resonated deeply, tugging at something tender within you, as if he had unknowingly plucked a string that had long been silent.

Do you get what I mean? Or am I just talking in circles again?

The next part of the note was a jumble of thoughts, ideas pouring out in bursts. He wrote about the book's characters, how they reminded him of his own isolation, even when surrounded by people. He confessed that sometimes he felt as though he wore a mask—something to hide behind—but books like this allowed him to drop it, if only for a little while.

I think I’m really good at pretending sometimes, you know? We all are, right? But in books, I don’t have to pretend. It’s like I get to be myself for a little bit, without all the noise. Does that make sense? I’m probably being too heavy, sorry. The truth is, I feel comfortable writing to you. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the books, this exchange—like it’s okay to be vulnerable. Or maybe I’m just being dramatic.

There was a little smiley face drawn beside that sentence, and you found yourself laughing softly, the sound light in the quiet café.

Anyway, thanks again for sharing this with me. It’s a gem. I thought I’d give you something in return—something that fits. Have you read The Book of All Loves? It’s about love beyond romance. I think you’ll like it.

Until next time.

Love, Pedro.

You stood there for a long time after finishing the note, his words echoing in your mind, stirring feelings you hadn’t allowed yourself to acknowledge. The way he wrote—so raw, so real—made it feel as though you weren’t just two strangers exchanging books. It felt deeper, like an unspoken understanding had passed between you, hidden in the lines of each letter, in the ink that had smudged under the weight of his thoughts.

Your heart swelled with a mixture of emotions. Just hearing from him has made you so driven, so romantic, so excited. The brief connection you had made through these letters felt real, almost tangible, as though roots had begun to take hold beneath the surface of your everyday life.

You read the note again, slower this time, savoring every word, every thought he had poured onto the page. His question lingered.

Have you ever felt like that?

Of course you had. You had spent most of your life searching for that connection, that elusive feeling of being truly seen without needing to explain every wound, every hidden corner of yourself. And now, through these letters, it felt as though Pedro saw something in you that others hadn’t.

The thought was ridiculous, you knew that. But still, there was comfort in it, in the way he opened up to you with such ease. There was something undeniably romantic about it—this quiet exchange of words and books, of thoughts and feelings that had probably never been shared aloud.

You carefully folded the note, tucking it back into the book, and cradled your matcha in your hands. A small smile played at the corners of your lips, warmth blossoming in your chest. You weren’t sure what this was—this strange, beautiful exchange—but whatever it was, it made you feel seen. It made you feel connected.

You didn’t mind being lost in the unknown.

Weeks passed, and your days fell into an easy rhythm—a rhythm that beat around the exchange of books and letters with Pedro. Each novel was chosen with care, both of you quietly mindful of keeping them short, under 300 pages, so they could be devoured quickly.

But the real reason wasn’t the books themselves now—it was what came with them.

The letters.

They weren’t just pages full of thoughts about the stories. They were windows. Each one revealed more of who he was, and in return, you found yourself offering up pieces of yourself. You couldn’t help it—the way he wrote, the way he asked questions that no one else dared to, as if he genuinely wanted to know you. And so, you let him in.

After finishing The Book of All Loves, your response was a little more vulnerable than you’d expected. You’d thanked him for the recommendation, told him it had cracked something open inside of you. “It’s strange,” you’d written, “how a book about love that exists in such quiet, unassuming forms can make you feel like you’ve been missing it your whole life. I’ve never thought much about love outside of romance—what it means to love a moment, a gesture, the way the wind feels when it hits your skin in the early morning. All I've ever known of love is how to live without it. I just can’t seem to find it. This book made me think about all the things I’ve taken for granted. The small loves. The unnoticed ones.”

Pedro’s letter back had been equally intimate. “It feels good to read this from you,” he wrote. "To know that maybe we’ve both been looking for something neither of us can really name. I guess there are certain things we stumble upon that make us feel less alone in our strangeness.

When I read your letter, I thought about a lot of things I haven’t said out loud. I thought about how it’s always felt easier to live without love, or at least to live like I didn’t need it, as if needing it would somehow make me weaker. I think of all the times I’ve skimmed over beauty just because I didn’t want to stop and notice what was missing. Reading your words made me realize that maybe I’ve always been chasing something, too, not realizing that these quiet, unassuming moments—like the way the rain sounds against the window at night or the exact shade of blue that the sky becomes before sunrise—maybe they’re as close as I’ve been to something real.

The words spilled out slowly, and you read them twice, tracing each line with your fingertip, as if trying to hold onto every word for a little longer.

When you said the book cracked something open in you, I understood. We don’t let ourselves soften often, but it sounds like, maybe, there’s been a little space for that now. Like maybe you’ve felt things so quietly, you didn’t even know they were there. You’re right, though; love is everywhere. It’s the way a good song can feel like home. It’s knowing how you take your coffee. And it’s weird to realize how much of it we let slip by, out of fear or habit or because we think love should look a certain way.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this, but I guess I want you to know that you’re not alone in this. You’ve got someone here who gets it, at least a little bit. Someone who, honestly, feels like he’s been missing something without ever quite knowing what that something was. Maybe it’s just easier to say things like this when it’s written down. Maybe it’s easier to feel a little more when there’s distance.

But then I think of you, and I don’t want to feel that distance anymore.

Take care, alright? I’ll be here, waiting for whatever thought strikes you next. And thank you, for opening up like that. For letting me know I’m not the only one.

All the best,

Pedro

These letters had become your heartbeat, something that brought life back into you. At work, during breaks, you’d find yourself pulling out the latest book, fingers brushing the edges of the envelope tucked inside, knowing his notes and highlights were waiting for you.

Your rounds at the hospital became lighter, as if you carried a secret with you—one small, fragile thing that had started in the most unexpected of ways. How could you focus on anything when he writes you letters like this? When he spills his heart for you, a stranger?

Six days after his last letter, you sat at your kitchen counter one quiet evening, surrounded by the soft glow of a single warm light above. Outside, the evening had taken on that deep, inky blue you could get lost in, a shade that felt like a private world of its own. In front of you, a cinnamon roll sat on a small porcelain plate—the sort of indulgence you love to treat yourself to every now and then. The glaze stuck to your fingers as you leaned over a blank page, pen poised, waiting to shape your thoughts for Pedro.

Taking a deep breath, you began:

Pedro,

I’m sending you Never Let Me Go—a book that, in all its stillness and grace, moved me to tears. It’s a familiar feeling; there are so many things that make me cry. It’s not always the big, cinematic moments either, but the quiet, fleeting ones, the kind that Jane Austen might say ‘touch upon the tenderness of our sensibilities.’ Like when the last pages of a book make everything about the world seem profound, or when I see the first bloom of spring among the winter trees. I saw the movie years ago and cried so hard I could barely speak afterward. And, perhaps, I think there’s something remarkably necessary about being moved to tears—it’s like life’s way of keeping our hearts soft, open to the little aches and wonders.

So I’m sharing it with you, hoping it’ll do the same.

You paused, smiling to yourself, imagining him finding that description and wondering if he’d tease you for it. As the words settled onto the page, you felt a kind of sweet comfort, and maybe even a thrill, in knowing this note would soon be in his hands, bridging your two worlds once again.

It was four days later when Pedro's response finally arrived, tucked inside a copy of Night Sky with Exit Wounds. The book’s deep, stormy cover filled your eyes. But your day had already been a whirlwind. You’d spent the night studying for a complex surgery, barely catching three hours of sleep before sunrise. By morning, you were dashing through your routine, gulping down a few rushed sips of coffee, grabbing your coat, and flying out the door.

When you stopped by the café to find Pedro’s book and letter, your heart skipped at the sight of it waiting for you. But with your schedule pulling you in ten different directions, you could only clutch the book close, flash a half-awake smile at the barista, and promise yourself that you’d savor it later, once the day slowed.

Finally, around eight that evening, you arrived home, exhausted yet satisfied—the surgery had been a success, and you’d somehow managed to juggle the day’s relentless demands. Dropping your bag, you kicked off your shoes and sank onto the couch, barely making it past the door before you reached for the book.

His letter was tucked between the pages, Pedro’s handwriting skimming the edge of each line as though his words had been poured onto the page in a hurry, with just enough restraint to make each word count. The sight of it made you pause, drawing a deep, steadying breath as you began to read, his voice almost palpable in the air:

I know this one comes faster than you've probably expected, but the desire to write to you is all-consuming. It takes up space in every corner of my mind, like someone has rearranged the furniture in my head, and I keep bumping into things I didn’t realize were there. You should know it’s not normal for me. I’m usually good at keeping things compartmentalized, managing my thoughts, especially when I know I shouldn’t be entertaining them at all. But here I am, practically pathetic, writing you like some infatuated idiot who can’t keep his head on straight. I suppose that’s what I am.

There’s so much I want to ask you, even if it seems silly. It’s weird, I know, but I want to know everything: your favorite color, the exact shade of it, and why it sticks with you. I want to know how you take your coffee, if you’d let me make it for you, and if you’d like it bitter or sweet. Do you sleep on the right or left side of the bed? I’m trying to imagine you in those small, quiet moments—those times that people rarely share with others, the ones that make you feel like you’re finally seeing someone’s real life. Perhaps I want that with you. Hell, I’d probably just take watching you stir sugar into your coffee and feel like it’s some grand revelation.

I know I’m rambling. Some poet's probably rolling in their grave at this poor excuse of an epistolary attempt. But I feel like I could say anything to you here, let it all pour out, and you wouldn’t turn away. I guess I’m testing that, aren’t I?

This book I'm giving you is sharp but soft. It’s like Vuong’s words walk this fine line between resilience and surrender, which maybe is why they get to me. There's a line I love: “In the body, where everything has a price, I was a beggar”—I keep coming back to it. It gets under my skin, thinking of how much of my life I’ve spent doing just that: begging for something that felt like love but never fully was.

I guess that’s what makes me wonder. Is that what love is? Some beautiful, endless begging, hoping to be seen fully and held even with all the mess? I think about my past relationships, all the ways I tried to be someone I thought they’d love or, at least, understand. I don’t know if you can relate, but I always ended up feeling like I was only showing the parts I thought they’d like, and I could never quite manage to bring myself whole into it. Not that they were all bad, but…they left me feeling a bit like I was holding my breath, waiting for something I didn’t even have a name for.

I don’t feel that way with you. And it scares the hell out of me.

Have you ever loved like that? Loved in a way that left you feeling half-complete but more alone than ever? Do you think we can really know each other, or is it all just pieces we collect and hope fit together someday? Sorry, that’s bleak—I told you, I’m pathetic.

Still, writing this, I feel more real than I’ve felt in years. You’re already changing something in me, and maybe I’m a fool, but I think that’s worth every messy, flawed attempt I make to get closer to you.

Love,

Pedro

The last lines hung in the air, sinking deep like an echo through a still room.

Holy shit.

His admission felt like the thrill of stepping onto the edge of something limitless, knowing that he, too, was caught in the same current, swept into this quiet, growing bond that defied every attempt to be named. There was nowhere else you wanted to be.

For years now, you've saved all of your romanticism for your inner life, but now it seems to spill over into reality, coloring the world around you with a new intensity. It seems to spill over into your response to him.

Pedro,

I’m sitting here, pen in hand, trying to put to words what has only lived in my thoughts and quiet places inside me. It feels strange, like I’m peeling something hidden, revealing not just what I am but what I’ve long been afraid to be. But I think you’ve sensed that, haven’t you? Somehow, in these letters, it feels possible. You’ve done this to me, you know. And if you’re pathetic, then, God help me, so am I.

When I read your letter, I felt this pulse of recognition—your words so familiar, as though I’d known them before they were written. That line from Vuong—I lingered over it, too, so many times, until it felt like my own skin.

Isn’t it strange, the things that stay with us, hidden until someone else touches them? I’ve always had this…this longing to be seen in the fullness of myself, even the parts that feel a little too much or not quite enough. And yet, I’ve been equally terrified of it, of offering myself in a way that leaves me standing, raw, in front of someone who might not want what they see.

But with you, the idea doesn’t scare me as much. Even saying that feels like a confession.

You asked if I’d ever loved like that—loved in a way that left me both half-alive and lonelier than ever. I have. Not often, but enough to know the ache of it, that hollow feeling of wanting so badly to be known, only to realize I’d kept parts of myself hidden, guarded, fearing they wouldn’t understand or that I’d be asked to change. I’ve spent so many years rationing my softness, saving my sentimentalism for my own private thoughts, as though loving deeply was something to be ashamed of. But here I am, writing to you, letting it spill.

What about love, then? What do I think of it? I think of love as a kind of surrender, a rare, strange act of bravery and recklessness all at once. I think it’s choosing to step closer to someone when you know you might break your heart in the process. And maybe, sometimes, it’s a little like begging—but only if the person you’re begging to see you is also showing you something of themselves, a part they’re just as afraid to share.

Which is to say: you make me want to be that reckless. You make me want to know things I would have otherwise only dreamed of. I want to know your favorite hour of the day, the one that makes you feel alive even when you’re alone. I want to know what you’ve never dared to say aloud. If I could watch you, just once, as you sit in the quiet of the morning.

Maybe that’s the kind of love I want—one where the questions never end, where the silence says as much as the words, and where I don’t have to hide anything away.

Love,

a/n: alright! so what do you guys think about this one? i wanna know your thoughts!!! like, reblog or comment if you enjoyed it, i will gladly appreciate it <3

a second part will be posted soon!

[the-winter-spider]

Invisible | Part Seven

Pairings: Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Angst, idiots in love lol

A/N: Almost done part 8, if you have anywhere you'd like to see the fic go or a certain scene you want dm me :) always open to ideas i just make this shit up as i go lmaooo

----

Your apartment is a swirl of energy as Wanda and Natasha flit around you, each one fussing over the details of your look as you finish your glass of wine. Natasha is practically vibrating with excitement, rummaging through her makeup bag, while Wanda holds out another pair of earrings for you to try. They’re both doing their best to hype you up for this date with Dean, a guy Natasha knows from work.

“You look amazing,” Wanda says, stepping back to admire the final touches.

Natasha grins, tipping her glass to you with a smirk. “Dean isn’t going to know what hit him.”

You laugh, a bit giddy from the wine and the thrill of doing something for yourself. The nerves are there too, though—you haven’t been on a date in ages, and the whole situation feels slightly surreal. Just as you’re about to put your glass down, the front door opens, and loud laughter and chatter fill the entryway. You freeze, your pulse spiking.

“I thought they were supposed to be down the street at the bar?” you hiss, looking at Natasha with wide eyes.

She frowns, confusion flashing across her face. “They are supposed to be.”

Natasha strides out of the room, muttering under her breath as she goes to investigate. You hear her confront them, her voice sharp with irritation. “Why are you guys here? You’re supposed to be at the bar!”

Bucky’s voice cuts through the hallway, a little louder than usual. “This is my place too, Nat. I pay rent here, so don’t expect me to stay away.”

Natasha lets out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, whatever. Just don’t ruin this for her.”

Before you can catch more of the conversation, Natasha’s phone pings, and her whole expression shifts as she squeals, rushing back into the room. “He’s here!” she exclaims, bouncing on her toes. “Dean just texted—he’s waiting downstairs!”

Your stomach does a flip, and you take a deep breath to calm the nerves. “Is he… is he coming up, or am I going down?”

Natasha studies you for a second, eyebrows raised. “It’s up to you. What do you want?”

You bite your lip, the idea of Dean seeing you in the apartment suddenly feeling way too intimate, especially with Bucky just down the hall. “I’ll go down,” you say, nodding firmly.

Natasha grins, quickly typing a message to Dean. “Alright, you’ve got three minutes to compose yourself, babe.”

With one last look in the mirror, you step out of the room, heart pounding as you walk down the hallway. The boys are in the living room, and as soon as Sam spots you, he lets out a low whistle, his eyes widening.

“Wow,” he says, looking you up and down with an approving grin. “You clean up real nice.”

You can feel the heat rise in your cheeks as Steve and Bucky turn around. Steve’s gaze softens, and he steps forward, his eyes warm and admiring. “You look beautiful,” he says, his voice gentle. “Dean’s the luckiest guy in the world.”

He looks at you with an intensity you’ve never seen from him before, a look that’s almost… longing. You give him a grateful smile, feeling oddly touched. “Thanks, Stevie,” you say softly.

Bucky, however, is still standing a little behind Steve, his jaw slightly slack as he stares at you, seeming momentarily at a loss for words. His gaze travels from your face to the dress, his expression a mix of something you can���t quite name, something unreadable and raw. For a second, the noise and chaos around you fades, and it’s just the two of you, caught in that moment.

Sam, sensing the tension, jumps in with a grin. “Damn, girl, you look hot. Sure you don’t wanna go on a second date with me instead?”

You laugh, nudging him playfully. “Sorry, Sam. Dean would have to blow it pretty badly for you to get a chance.”

Natasha claps her hands, breaking up the moment as she walks over to you. “Text me if you get a chance or if you need an emergency out. And I need all the details afterward.” She gives you a quick, tight hug, whispering in your ear, “You’re going to be amazing. Just have fun.”

You nod, smiling gratefully as you give her hand a squeeze. With one last look at your friends, you make your way to the door, the nerves hitting you all over again.

As you head downstairs, the sound of laughter and chatter fades behind you, but back in the apartment, the energy shifts. Steve watches you go, a glint of something deep and wistful lingering in his gaze. Natasha catches it, her brows knitting together as she studies his face, watching the way he’s so intently focused on you, even after you’ve disappeared down the stairs.

Natasha squints, suspicion curling in her thoughts. Steve’s expression isn’t the typical friendly warmth she’s used to seeing; there’s something almost pained, raw, and it’s as if a puzzle suddenly clicks into place. Her mouth parts slightly as she realizes—Steve isn’t just fond of you; he’s in love with you. She composes herself quickly, straightening as Steve gives her a look, as if sensing her scrutiny. He shrugs, brushing off the intensity of the moment, and cracks open a beer, plopping onto the couch like nothing’s happened.

Meanwhile, Bucky is still standing, staring at the door as if you might reappear any second. His gaze is fixed, a blend of surprise and… something else. Wanda notices, shaking her head with a quiet scoff.

“You know, you had your chance, Bucky,” she says, her tone sharper than usual.

The room falls silent, everyone taken aback by her bluntness. Wanda’s usually gentle, never one to make waves, but there’s a bite to her words now, and her eyes flash with something almost like annoyance as she glances at him.

Sam, trying to break the tension, chuckles and sidles up to her, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Damn, Wanda, I knew you had some fire in you!” He laughs, grabbing her glass. “Come on, let’s get you a refill.” He leads her toward the kitchen, topping off her wine glass as they disappear into the next room, leaving Bucky, Natasha, and Steve in the thick silence.

Natasha crosses her arms, her gaze locked on Bucky with a mix of frustration and disbelief. “Really, Bucky?” she says, her voice low and pointed.

Bucky blinks, snapping out of his daze. “What?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t stand there looking like that. Just a week ago, you were talking about how you were going to do something about it. You said you were finally going to tell her. But you didn’t. And now you’re acting shocked that she’s moving on? Seriously?”

Bucky’s mouth opens, but no words come out. He fumbles, his hands tightening into fists. “It’s not that simple, Nat…”

“Actually, it is,” Natasha says, her voice steely. “You’ve had years, Bucky. Years to figure it out, and now that she’s found someone who sees her, someone who’s willing to step up and actually do something about it, now you’re all caught up? Do you even know how unfair that is?”

Bucky clenches his jaw, his gaze drifting to the floor. “I… I didn’t think she’d actually… go for someone else.”

Natasha lets out a frustrated sigh, her tone bordering on exasperation. “Well, maybe you should have thought about that. She deserves to be happy, Bucky. She deserves someone who’s not afraid to act, someone who can show her they care instead of just assuming she’ll be there whenever he decides he’s ready.”

Bucky’s face flushes with a mix of frustration and guilt. “It wasn’t that simple. I didn’t want to lose her if things went wrong…”

Natasha’s expression softens, but only slightly. “No, Bucky, you were just scared. You were scared to take a risk and put yourself out there. But she’s spent all these years waiting, and you couldn’t even see what you had. And now that she’s going out with someone who’s willing to treat her like she deserves, you think you can just… act like she still owes you her heart?”

Bucky stares at her, words failing him, the weight of her words hitting him hard. He’s known Natasha to be blunt, but he didn’t expect her to be this brutally honest.

Natasha lets out a sigh, glancing at Steve, who’s been sitting quietly, observing, his eyes downcast. She notices the way he’s twisting his beer bottle in his hands, almost like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something. The tension in his face is palpable, and she realizes with a pang that he’s feeling this conversation deeply, maybe more than he’d like to admit.

She softens her tone slightly, though her words are still firm. “I hate to say it, Bucky, but… you snoozed, and you lost. She deserves more than to wait around forever for someone to decide if they can handle loving her.”

Bucky’s eyes darken, his jaw tightening as he looks away, as if trying to avoid the weight of her words. “I thought I was protecting her. I didn’t want to mess things up between us.”

Natasha’s gaze sharpens, her voice almost a whisper. “Protecting her from what? From being loved the way she deserves? Because that’s what you’re doing, Bucky. You’re keeping her from happiness because you’re afraid to make a move. But she’s not going to wait forever. She’s already stopped waiting.”

She glances toward Steve again, catching the way his shoulders slump slightly, the sad, resigned look in his eyes. Natasha’s lips press together as she puts two and two together. She’d been watching him closely all night, and now, looking at him, it’s clear as day. He’s in love with you too. The realization sends a pang through her, and she composes herself, though the sadness lingers in her eyes.

She turns back to Bucky, her voice softer but no less firm. “You can’t have it both ways, Buck. Either you want her, or you don’t. And if you don’t, then let her be happy with someone who actually sees her, someone who isn’t afraid to let her in.”

Her words hang heavily in the air. Steve shifts uncomfortably, lifting his beer to his lips as if to hide the look in his eyes. Bucky lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair.

--

As you step out of your apartment building and spot Dean right away. He’s leaning against his car, a relaxed smile spreading across his face as he straightens up when he sees you. He’s tall, broad-shouldered like Bucky, but everything else about him is different. Where Bucky is dark and a bit rough around the edges, Dean is blond, clean-cut, and sharp in a tailored navy-blue button-down and jeans.

“Hey,” he says, his smile widening as he takes you in. “Wow. You look… incredible.”

You can’t help but blush, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. “Thank you. And you’re not looking so bad yourself.”

He laughs, offering you his arm. “Shall we?”

You nod, slipping your arm through his, feeling a surprising ease settle over you. There’s no tension, no weight from the past—just the excitement of a first date and the feeling that tonight might actually be something good.

The two of you end up at a cozy bistro down the street, the kind of place with low lighting and an intimate atmosphere. It’s bustling but not too loud, with the hum of conversation and the soft clink of silverware filling the air.

As you settle into your seats and glance over the menu, Dean looks up with a playful grin. “So, full disclosure—I know next to nothing about wine. But I figured I’d go with the flow since you seem like the classy type.”

You laugh, glancing down at the wine list. “Well, we can just wing it together. I’m more of a ‘whatever tastes good’ kind of person.”

“Perfect,” he says, signalling the waiter over. “A bottle of your favourite wine, then. Surprise us.”

When the waiter leaves, Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his attention completely focused on you. “So, Natasha talks about you a lot. I feel like I already know a little about you… but I’d rather hear it from you.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh, she does? Should I be worried?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “No, no. She’s your biggest fan, actually. She said you’re the one everyone goes to for advice. Like, you’re the unofficial therapist of the friend group.”

“Oh, gosh,” you say, laughing and covering your face. “She makes me sound way too put together, I’m really just good at listening.”

“Well,” he says, a twinkle in his eye, “I’m going to test that tonight. You’ll have to sit there while I unload all my existential woes.”

“Lay them on me,” you reply, grinning. “I’m ready.”

He leans back, pretending to think. “Okay, first existential crisis: why are Brussels sprouts so divisive? Seriously, no one’s just ‘meh’ about them, people either love them or hate them.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I know, right? I mean, they’re just tiny cabbages. It’s not that deep!”

“Exactly!” he says, pointing at you with an exaggerated look of triumph. “See, you get it…. and now I know I can trust you. This date is officially off to a solid start.”

You laugh, feeling genuinely at ease. When the wine arrives, the two of you clink glasses, settling into a comfortable rhythm of laughter and banter.

“So, tell me,” Dean says, after the waiter clears your plates. “If you could pick anywhere in the world to live, where would you go?”

You take a sip of wine, thinking it over. “Hmm… somewhere with a mix of city life and nature, I think. I want the excitement, but I’d need a place to escape to, you know?”

He nods, his gaze warm as he listens. “I get that. I’m a city guy myself, but every now and then, I need to get out, hit a hiking trail, or just… breathe.”

“Exactly,” you say, smiling. “Somewhere with balance. Not too much of one or the other.”

He grins, raising his glass again. “To balance, then.”

“To balance,” you echo, clinking glasses with him once more. There’s a spark in his eyes, an ease in his laugh, that makes you feel like you’ve known him longer than just tonight.

The conversation flows seamlessly, with no awkward silences, no scrambling to think of what to say next. You talk about favorite movies, disastrous childhood crushes, and the time you both got stuck in terrible jobs after college—he was an assistant to an eccentric artist, while you worked as a receptionist at a law firm where you barely understood the jargon. He tells stories that have you practically in tears with laughter, like the time his mom signed him up for a tap-dancing class because she was convinced it would help him become more “well-rounded.”

“Tap dancing?” you ask, eyes wide with laughter. “Please tell me there’s a video of this.”

“There’s a video,” he admits, grimacing. “But it’ll never see the light of day. That’s a first-date boundary I’m sticking to.”

You shake your head, laughing. “I respect that. But now I feel like I’ll have to wait for date number two for that one.”

He raises an eyebrow, his grin mischievous. “Date number two, huh? So, you’re already planning to see me again?”

You feel a little thrill at his words, but you play it cool, taking another sip of wine. “Maybe. If you play your cards right.”

“Oh, I’m bringing out my best moves, trust me,” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I’ve already pulled out the Brussels sprouts bit. That’s a crowd favorite.”

You laugh again, shaking your head. “It’s working…I have to admit.”

There’s a warmth in his gaze as he watches you laugh, and for once, you realize you’re completely in the moment. You’re not comparing him to anyone, not glancing at the door or waiting for a text, not thinking about Bucky or any of the unresolved feelings you’ve kept buried. Tonight, it’s just you and Dean, and everything feels light and uncomplicated.

“So,” he says after a pause, his tone shifting just slightly, “what’s something you want people to know about you, that most people don’t?”

You blink, surprised by the question. “Wow, that’s a deep one.”

“Hey, I’ve got layers,” he teases, but his smile is gentle, his expression open and curious.

After a moment’s thought, you answer, “I think… I want people to know that I’m stronger than they might think. I don’t always show it, but I’ve been through things that have taught me a lot about who I am and what I want.”

He nods, his gaze thoughtful. “I can see that. And for the record, I think strength isn’t always about what you show. Sometimes, it’s what you keep inside.”

The sincerity in his voice takes you off guard, and you feel your heart skip. “Thank you, Dean. Really.”

“Of course,” he says, his voice warm. “I feel lucky to be here with you tonight.”

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t need filling. When you’re finally ready to leave, he insists on walking you back, saying he wouldn’t be able to sleep otherwise. The street is quiet as he walks beside you, his hand close to yours but never crossing the line. You like that about him—his respect, his gentle confidence.

As you reach your building, he stops, looking down at you with a smile that’s both warm and hopeful.

“So, date number two?” he asks, a hint of nervousness in his smile.

You smile, feeling light and happy in a way you haven’t in a long time. “I’d really like that.”

He grins, and before he leaves, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, lingering just long enough to make your heart flutter. “Goodnight, beautiful,” he says softly.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

You watch him walk away, your heart racing and a smile on your face. As you head upstairs, you realize something incredible—throughout the entire night, your mind hadn’t wandered once. No stray thoughts, no memories pulling you back. Tonight, it had just been you, fully present, fully open, and for the first time in a long time, you feel ready for something new.

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 31

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 30 🟣 Part 32

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August, Sherlock, Charles, Melot and Napoleon

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: ongoing vampire shenanigans, Melot's ongoing identity crisis gets worse (courtesy of Mikey), lore (buckle up)

Word count: 2.9k

A/N: Alright, as promised! Major thank you to @geralts-yenn (as usual) and @wa-ni for putting these babies back in my brain. I hope they're there for the long run because OH BOY did I dream up some filth that I'm desperate to share with everyone...

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @ellethespaceunicorn @summersong69 @mis-lil-red

@sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld @proud-aroace-beastie

@plaidcat4815 @wa-ni @lovemusicpart2 @lizzystuffsthings @manysecrets2020

@sarcasmoverlordxo @mysweetlittledesire

Melot didn’t show up for dinner. He’d kicked you out of the room too, seconds after Mike had left, and now you were sitting at the dinner table, opposite questioning looks from the others.

“He wants to be alone,” Mike said. It was easier to get everyone to believe stuff like that when Mike said it. After all, the man knew what he was talking about.

It came as no surprise, then, that everyone dropped the subject. You ate dinner, mostly in silence, with ‘pass me the salt’ being virtually the only exception. It was hell.

Then, a flick of a switch. Off, on. Off again, and back on. Fast as lightning, and it sure as hell wasn’t the light. The feeling had come from somewhere inside you…

“You found him.” Marshall nodded approvingly from across the table, casting a few quick glances between you and Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” you asked. He looked at you with raised eyebrows and hummed by means of a reply. “Do that again, please.”

A smile spread across his handsome face at a glacial pace while a sigh of relief escaped you.

“As much as I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t mind you couldn’t find me, I must admit I am quite glad that you did manage,” he confessed.

“Where did you go?”

“I brought Melot a plate,” he explained. “Whatever Mike did — Mike, don’t bother — it shouldn’t keep Melot from August’s exquisite risotto.”

Dessert was the richest, creamiest and probably only homemade chocolate mousse you’d ever encountered in your life so far. It didn’t taste anywhere near as good as it should have.

“We should go talk to him,” Mike said. He'd practically inhaled his own dessert. You slid what was left of yours — about half — over to him. He made quick work of that, too, and then got up.

“I thought he wanted to be alone,” you said.

“He does,” Mike responded indifferently. “But just because he wants the sky to be green and the grass purple, doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

“He’s already working himself into a frenzy,” August added.

“Being alone is not good for Melot.” You were surprised that Charles even cared enough to weigh in on the situation, but you kept your mouth shut. Seemed like the smart thing to do.

“Absolutely correct.” Marshall threw a knowing smile your way.

Mike dragged you out of the kitchen, picking you up without asking to rush you to Melot’s room. He didn’t bother to knock.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Melot was lying on his bed, curled up in a ball, knees tucked tightly into his chest. His shoulders moved, although he didn’t make a sound. As soon as Mike spoke, Melot was on his feet, and in a split second the two were standing toe-to-toe with each other.

“You,” Melot snapped. “What did you do to me?”

Mike burst out in laughter. “What did I— you’re joking, right?”

A sharp smacking sound, Mike reaching for his cheek… Your eyes opened wide at the sight. Before Melot could strike again, Mike grabbed both of his wrists.

“I know you’re not seriously accusing me of what I think you just tried to accuse me of,” Mike snarled, baring his teeth. “It’s fine that you’re not sure how to handle this, but this” — he made a general gesture with his arms, dragging Melot’s along like he was a puppet  — “is not it.” He let go, his eyes suspicious.

“This is not who I am,” Melot stammered, his voice tired and broken.

“Oh, but it is, Melmel,” Mike said with a taunting grin. “You like boys.”

He what? You hadn’t seen that coming, that’s for sure. Okay, maybe a little, but you’d written off your interpretation of that strange, tense moment between the guys as a projection of a kind of fantasy you never even knew you’d had. Only it hadn’t been a fantasy. You’d simply seen that for what it was.

“I don’t—” Melot started, but Mike put a finger on his lips to shut him up.

“It’s the twenty-first century, baby!” He pulled his hand back again, draping his arms loosely around Melot’s neck. “Say it. I promise you’ll feel better.”

“I guess I’m… not gay, I mean, but maybe—”

“You’ll have plenty of time for the whole identity crisis later,” Mike said. “Just acknowledge what you know you’re feeling right now. It helps, trust me.”

“I like…” Melot’s voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. “I like at least one boy.” As soon as the words left his mouth, a sense of calm washed over him: he let his breath out on a dramatic sigh that turned into an exasperated chuckle, his shoulders dropped half a mile, and he leaned his forehead against Mike’s.

You’d watched the whole thing in silence, with an open mouth, and afraid to breathe or do anything to draw attention to yourself, but when Mike leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss on Melot’s lips…

“Aww.” Christ on a bike, what an award-winning response…

The boys turned their heads towards you. Mike raised an eyebrow, Melot looked shocked — as if he’d completely forgotten you were even there to begin with.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “But you two are surprisingly cute together.”

They both glared at you — Mike’s face morphing into a grin well before Melot’s did.

“Do they know?” Melot asked, his voice soft and brittle.

“Who? The mind-reading bunch of vampires, most of whom you’ve been living with for multiple centuries?” Mike raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes. It looked so silly that you couldn’t help but laugh.

The whole situation felt strangely comfortable, yet at the same time you felt incredibly out of place in it. Should you leave them to it? There was clearly a lot to unpack here, still, and you weren’t sure if you had any business being there to begin with.

“Don’t leave,” Mike said, once again grinning like a fool. “As badly as he wants me, he wants you more.”

Melot let out a frustrated cry before launching himself onto his bed in the most dramatic way. It was adorable. He scrambled to get under the covers, and hid his face in a pillow.

“Too bad those aren’t going to keep me away,” Mike said as he slowly stalked towards the bed.  “Come on, sweetcheeks. He needs cuddles!”

You hesitantly walked over to the side Mike hadn’t claimed, and looked at Melot. He pulled the covers back, inviting you into the bed. A wave of relief rushed through you as you got into bed with the guys.

It was quiet for a long time, in which Melot kept looking back and forth between you and Mike, unsure what to do, what to say… “How can I want you both?” he finally whispered on an exhale.

“Sexually, the answer is easy,” Mike said. “We’re both smoking hot, and you like that, so—”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Melot muttered, his cheeks slowly coloring pink. “Okay, for her, sure — no offense. But you…”

“None taken?” you half-said, half-asked carefully. Mike chuckled.

“You’ve never been attracted to me, actually,” he said casually. “Not until last week, anyway. You were always so distant, so… high above all of us. Why?”

“I was the eldest — in a way. I had a responsibility,” Melot explained. “It always felt unnatural” — he considered his words for a moment — “well, not always. It’s complicated. I felt incredibly out of place in the old, authoritarian coven I was a part of before Charles and Sherlock… And when I turned them, I was able to finally break those bonds, but it left me with this strange power over them.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “I took care to use that power as little as possible. Charles fought me for the position more than once.”

“But, why?” you asked. The story didn’t exactly provide great publicity for Charles… Not that that surprised you.

“He thought I lacked experience,” Melot said. “He wasn’t wrong, per se. Charles and Sherlock both managed to hold onto their positions at court, even shortly after they were turned. I was constantly plagued by my visions, starting to discover my healing ability… Ancient vampires are widely known for having the impulse-control of a toddler on crack.”

Mike coughed — a poor attempt to cover up his laughter. Melot glared at him and continued: “I had spent five centuries staying out of everyone’s way, living in a large coven, away from human society.”

“Why did you leave?” you wondered.

“Remember what I said before? About you making me kneel by your feet like a dog?” Yeah. You remembered. “I didn’t make that up. Catharine — the Queen of that coven — kept me as one of her personal pets. I was her prized possession. Or rather: my gift was. She’d seek my counsel, and proceed to ignore it, punishing me when things invariably went completely sideways. I’m sure she cursed herself for training us and our gifts so well, when I finally ran. It allowed me to stay out of her hands for nearly two centuries before I was finally able to sever the bond with the help of Charles and Sherlock — mostly Charles.”

“How did you do it?” You snuggled closer to him — Mike did the same on his other side.

“I’m not proud of it,” Melot said, tears forming in his eyes. “She came after me once again, sweet at first, begging me to come back, pulling the strings with all her might. I thought she’d pull my heart right out of my chest. I’d only ever been able to resist her pull and run, but with Charles and Sherlock behind me, helping me… When I refused, the bond snapped. That’s when she attacked me. Charles took her out — he almost died doing it… If she’d come around a decade sooner, I wouldn’t have been able to save him. I owe him my life, in more ways than one.”

“That still doesn’t explain the high and mighty attitude from before,” Mike joked — was it a joke? Not completely…

“We agreed on a fairly democratic structure. It became more difficult when Sherlock created Marshall, and August somehow found his way back to the coven. You can’t imagine the amount of fighting I had to shut down between Charles and August.”

No, actually you could imagine that perfectly well.

Mike laughed. “You really can’t. They’ve been very civil since you got here.”

“And they’re more afraid of Sherlock than they ever were of me,” Melot added, finally smiling again. “I can’t say I mourn my involuntary resignation. I finally have the opportunity to see who I am, and who I want to be, and what I want to do.”

“And two of the things you want to do are in your bed right now,” Mike said, pressing his lips to Melot’s shoulder.

He shrugged him off. “Don’t make it sound so lewd,” he snapped. You ran a finger down his cheek, hoping to calm him as well as get his attention. It worked; he turned his head to you.

“Don’t listen to Mikey, you know he means well. He can’t help it he’s such a mess,” you said softly. Melot chuckled — it turned into full-blown laughter when he saw the adorable frown on Mikey’s face. “What do you want to do?”

Melot stared up at the ceiling. “I think I want to go to college,” he said slowly, chewing on every word.

“Hell yeah! You could probably start next semester,” Mike immediately chimed in cheerfully, a grin stretching across his face. “I mean, it’s too late to get a dorm but we can be roommates, and—”

“Mike!” you said, reaching over Melot to put a hand over his mouth. “Don’t scare him!”

“Why would I want to live in a dorm to begin with?” Melot asked, surprised.

“For the experience,” Mike explained.

You virtually begged for an explanation. What experience could he possibly mean? Constant noise, people everywhere, having a tiny bed in a tiny — and shared — room that always smelled of microwaved whatever?

“Yes! That experience!” He rolled his eyes at you when you pointed out he himself hadn’t been staying in a dorm last semester, either. “Sweetcheeks, this is my third degree.”

What? As it turned out, Mike had degrees in journalism and computer science. You stared at him when he told you, trying with all your might to keep your face in check.

“I'm not as much of a clown as you think, Sweetcheeks. Just mostly.” He grinned at you before nuzzling Melot’s neck. “I think you should talk to the others, Mel.”

“What if they think it’s a bad idea?” he said softly, pulling you closer. “What if they think I shouldn’t leave this place? That I'm not ready?”

“Just apply to a few schools. Enroll in a few community college classes, even. You can always cancel if you really don’t feel ready by the end of summer!” Mike was clearly excited about the idea of Melot going to college. “Talk to Sherlock first, if you want to be certain of support! There’s no way he won’t let you go!”

“Quick question,” you interjected before Mike or Melot could start another monologue you wouldn’t be able to break in to. “Why wouldn’t you be ready?”

“Think back to ‘follow the teeth’ for a moment,” Melot explained. “They’re always on the lookout for human blood. I’m an incredibly powerful vampire who has been shielded from humanity for an incredibly long time. To set me loose in an environment packed with humans — a school, for example — would be…”

“A choice,” Mike finished. “And a particularly poor one, too.”

“But with you around…” Melot smiled apologetically. “Please don’t think you’re no more than food for me, I… It’s not fair to ask this of you already. Any of it. I’m so incredibly sorry.” He tried to turn away from you, but Mike pushed him back.

“Melot, when I offered to let you feed earlier, I was not planning on that being a one time thing,” you said, stroking his cheek. “We may not know each other well yet, but I’d love to change that. Let’s take some time to hang out this summer, and you can feed with the same freedom as the others… And we’ll see how it goes. But please, at least keep your options open when it comes to college.”

Melot nodded slowly before pulling you in for a hug that Mike joined in on as soon as he could. “Thank you. Both of you.”

You cuddled in silence for a while. It was amazing — Melot finally felt warm, Mike let out a chorus of happy humming sounds, sometimes interrupted by adorably disgruntled ones as you and Mel both kept reprimanding him every time he tried to get handsy.

“Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to be in bed with two people and knowing they both want to fuck you, and to then just… get nothing?” he finally grumbled.

Melot almost jumped out of bed listening to Mike’s complaint. “What? I never said— I don’t… I—”

 “It’s okay, Mel,” you said. “Sometimes” — you glared at Mike — “our brain needs a little time to catch up to whatever carnal desire Mike already picks up on. And that’s okay.” You hissed those last words specifically at Mike.

“I promise that I am trying my very best to behave!” Mike huffed. “I really am! But he’s reacting to visions he’s having of things that will probably happen and it’s driving me insane! Mel is really making this hard for me — interpret ‘this’ either way.”

“How do you know they’re visions I’m reacting to?” Melot wondered.

“There’s a difference between a simple desire and anticipation,” Mike said like it was supposed to explain anything. One look at your — and Melot’s — confused face made him roll his eyes. “It’s like… We always want blood, right? Well, that desire feels differently when we’re about to sink our teeth into someone. It becomes more present, heightened…”

“That doesn’t explain how you know he’s reacting to visions — which, by the way, you told me weren’t actually visions, Melot?” you noted.

“Call them visions for simplicity, I really couldn’t explain it. You’ll see for yourself, at some point.” Melot’s confidence when it came to this statement was haunting. “Back to the question: Mike… how?”

“You react in a similar way to immediate anticipation,” Mike explained. “It’s subtler — duller, almost — but it’s distinct.”

You both looked at him in awe. “How is your gift stronger and more sophisticated after four decades than mine are after fourteen centuries?” Melot exclaimed dramatically.

“I use this gift all the time,” Mike explained with a big, goofy smile. “It’s not like seeing the future, which isn’t a stable gift to begin with — yeah, I pay attention to the things Sherlock says sometimes — or the healing, which you literally just admitted to not practicing for the first few centuries of your existence. Bet you could get into med school with that…”

“I don’t want to,” Mel whispered.

“See? You can’t complain about not developing a gift you refuse to use.” Mike saying something that smart and logical was a phenomenon that just never got old. “Right now, what we should be developing, anyway, is your ability to function around humans.”

You just so happened to have an idea on how to do that…

[globalrebrand]

The Marriage of Music and Alchemy: Chapter Three

Warnings: None!

A/N: Posting from AO3.

~Cater helps out his underclassmen, and you receive an unlikely visitor.

3.8K words

Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III

Cater never had reason to visit Octavinelle, and he quite liked it that way. Honestly, any sophomore ambitious enough to take the house warden position after their first year was generally a nightmare to deal with, Riddle included, so Cater just opted to mind his business and stick to his leisurely hobbies of skateboarding, music, and gossip. He loved it even more when gossip evolved into (harmless) meddling. 

In the short few weeks of the semester, it seemed his underclassmen had come to know him quite well. A harebrained scheme to get two professors together was exactly the distraction he wanted to over-invest copious amounts of time into.  

While he was kind of upset, it was you…the absolutely smoking new music teacher, he could be the bigger person just this once and let Crewel have you. Admittedly, Cater had many fantasies about being seduced by and or seducing you during one of his cello music lessons, but even after so many of his smooth attempts at flirting, it seemed you weren't taking the hint or maybe just insisting on a professional boundary. Lame.  It's a total bummer but also a sign to move on. 

And besides, if you and Crewel did hit it off and he knocked you up, seeing you as a milf would be more than enough of a reward for his efforts. Cater keeps all of this in mind as he heads to the Monstro lounge after class to make a pact with Azul. Ugh, boo…

The lounge doesn't open for dinner service until 5:00, so hopefully, Octavinelle isn't bustling with students, and the tweels are preoccupied with prepping for the evening rush. 

But as Cater strolls into the purple watery depths of Azul's office, he finds no such luck. It's obvious he and Floyd are engaged in some futile argument. Yet, ever the businessman, Azul's formerly irritated expression morphs into something much more disingenuous but, at the very least, more pleasant. 

"Cater! To what do I owe the pleasure?" Azul opens his arms in welcome, standing from his seat at his oversized leather desk chair. 

Cater offers a bright smile and casual wave, preparing for the performance of a lifetime and momentarily questioning again why he agreed to help out his underclassmen. Maybe he was too much of a shameless gossip if it led him to Azul's desk, and perhaps it was time to seek help. But Cater supposes in for a penny in for a pound. 

"I have a bit of a tough ask." Cater demurrs. 

"I assure my dear senior nothing is too challenging…with the right price." Azul can't help but add the last point. 

"You're too shameless," Floyd rolls his eyes. 

"I need you to figure out Crewel's weekly schedule."

Azul scoffs with an incredulous raised brow as if to say, 'Is that it?'

"Easy. Consider it done~" Azul says without hesitation before being promptly interrupted by Cater's groan.

"Not finished….I need Crewel's schedule about his goings-on on Sage's Isle when he's not on campus." Cater winces at how insane of an ask that is, but Azul is nothing if not boundariless for the right exchange. 

Azul pauses, unsure if he heard correctly. Cater can see the gears in his head turning as he processes before eloquently barking:

" What ?!" 

"Why are you trying to figure out Professor Beakfish's schedule? Kinda weird." Floyd interjects. 

" Classified . Can you do it or not?" Cater could see Azul running over the feasibility of this request while staring off into a distant corner and running the numbers. Seconds later, after a 'tsk' and shrug of his shoulders, Azul presents the deal. 

"Fine. Sign away your signature spell for two months." 

"Two months?!!? Two weeks!" Cater rebuts. "I don't care about it that much-"

"You're essentially asking to stalk our Professor, which I have no problems with, of course." Azul raises his hands in a placating gesture before adding,  "Your business is my business, and you know I keep things confidential. However, let's be clear: this is a crime."

Cater rolls his eyes. "I would say light surveillance and certainly not malicious."

"We're taking on a serious risk by doing this for you. There needs to be meaningful collateral." Azul insists. 

"Oh man, could you imagine Prof. Beakfish's face if he found out what we're doing? He'd probably be lividdddd."  Cater sighs. He knows this tag teaming is a part of Azul's brand of dealmaking and is largely just an act. He can walk away…but he came all this way. He might as well finish what he started. 

"One month." Cater relents.

"Deal ." Azul smiles sinisterly. 

"Whatever, you need to get the full schedule by this time next week. 

"Of course! It will be done."

Cater reluctantly shakes on the agreement, and with a flourish, Azul presents his notorious golden contract. 

"The froshes owe me big time." He mutters under his breath. Cater will probably just get Acedeuce to do whatever work he has to do around the dorm for a month. And the Prefect has it hard enough managing Grim. He'll let them be.

Cater promptly leaves the office and will share the good news with the freshman at their weekly check-in tonight. He just hopes Azul will come through. 

As he watches Cater retreat from his office, Azul is only slightly worried he's bitten off more than he can chew. He begins formulating a cadre of plans while drumming his fingers anxiously on the desk. The tweels are certainly expert sneaks, but Professor Crewel is incredibly keen. Deceiving him might actually be a nigh impossible task. Floyd was right. If they were to get caught, it would be a severe offense. 

"I'm kind of excited. What if we find out some horrible secret about Prof. Beakfish?"

"Ugh…well? No. Crewel seems like a poor choice of target for blackmail." Azul says mindlessly.

"Wow, no one said anything about blackmailing Azul. You're one twisted guy, you know?" Floyd flashes a toothy grin and is obviously teasing, but the task ahead of them has him a bit more unsettled than he'd like to admit. Azul waves a dismissive hand.

"Just go get Jade." Azul barks before adding, "We don't have a second to spare."

Floyd leisurely saunters out of the room. "Whatever you say~"

*            *           *

You must have been doing something right as a Professor because (not to toot your own horn too much, but…) your students seemed to be obsessed with you if it wasn't the ramshackle Prefect coming in nearly every morning to sit next to you at the Piano bench, asking about your daily habits and weekend plans. It was Deuce Spade helping you put away the music stands after class ended and before club activities started. Sometimes, the Prefect and Deuce would come together after class, energizing the music room, much like today. Between those two and how your homeroom students absolutely dote on you, you didn't have to guess that you'd already become a fan favorite. 

As you sat at your desk, reviewing music theory quizzes, you and your students chatted casually about all manner of subjects, but their topics always turned rather personal. Not that you minded and not that their lines of inquiry were ever inappropriate. You found their interest in you rather sweet, if at times odd.   

"Professor, how long have you been living in Foothill Town?" The Prefect poses the question nonchalantly, continuing to sort books on the carpet near your desk.

"Since July," You answer casually, "us teachers have to return to school early to prepare for your arrival. I moved in over the summer."

So you haven't been here much longer than us Professor." Deuce observes. 

"I certainly haven't," You concede.

"Vil would call you a spudling, too." Deuce adds, and you let out a laugh.

"I'd like to see him try." You scoff, but the sound is light and airy.

"Foothill town is really beautiful, but it's so small. Have you had a hard time making friends on the island?" The Prefect changes the topic. 

You consider the question thoughtfully. It has been a change since moving from Fairest City, which was home to millions of people. The place you had largely grown up since you started your music education after moving from the Land of Dawning when you were eight. You left all of your friends behind to get a new start; of course, they were a phone call away and, most conveniently, a weekend mirror trip, but that didn't mean that you shouldn't start building community on this little island. There were a few hundred thousand people living on Sages Isle, and while it was certainly still early days, you had a few potential connections you could see crystalizing into friendship.

"Not really, I'm friends with a few women in my yoga and pilates classes, and the other faculty members are quite kind to me." 

"Oooh? Which faculty members do you get along with?" The Prefect inquiries coyly/

"Or not get along with?" Deuce amends.

"Oh, I won't answer any leading questions; I like all my co-workers just fine." You demur. 

Deuce and the Prefect pouted at your answer as if it wasn't quite the one they wanted to hear. 

"Which area do you live in? I haven't gotten off campus much, but it's a really beautiful island." 

"Oh, it certainly is. I have a little house by the coast with a little yard. I've recently renovated it; when I first purchased it, it was nothing short of a hovel." 

"You like to garden?" Deuce chimes in, crossing the room with two collapsed stands in each hand.

"Oh, I have no natural talent for it, but I would love to start one. I am an avid cook, so homegrown produce would be amazing. Though my dogs might try to eat the vegetables before I can get to them?"

"You should ask Professor Crewel for help! He manages the gardens here on campus and he always help me with planting and cultivating." Deuce offers. 

"Yes!" the Prefect seconds enthusiastically. "And he loves dogs. I think he has some."

"Oh, he definitely does. Two, Apollo and Achilles." You correct without hesitation.

"Those are exactly the types of names Professor Crewel would pick for his dogs." Deuce crinkles his nose in distaste.

"Aren't they? I've only known him a short time, but he's horribly predictable sometimes." You chuckle to yourself, and despite the sharpness of the words, there is not a hint of malice in your tone, if anything, perhaps a bit of appreciation.  

"Do you two get along? You seem like you would have a lot in common." You pause at Deuce's question. Your smile doesn't leave your face, but your eyes narrow skeptically.

"What makes you say that?" You question, curious about such a supposition.

"Nothing, you two just have the same type of humor when you teach." The Prefect is quick to clarify, not without throwing a disapproving glare in Deuce's direction. 

"Really?" you ask, raising a thoughtful finger to your chin, adding, "I suppose Crewel is quite humorous-" but your words are interrupted by a man who stumbles noisily into your classroom, pushing the door so hard that the knob clangs raucously against the wooden paneling. 

A lush bouquet of flowers obscures his face and most of his torso, only leaving a pair of unsteady legs with crisply pressed slacks visible.  You don't know who this man is or what he could want, but his outburst has clearly startled your students. The Prefect stops tidying the choral books on the carpet in front of your desk and leaps to their feet defensively, holding a book, while Deuce holds a music stand with both hands, raising it over his shoulder much akin to a batting stance.  You had no idea where the children learned such attuned fighting reactions, but you move to stand between them and the approaching stranger. 

"A little help," he calls. The man doesn't look to be much of a threat, so you immediately rush to pick up his flowers, and your eyes meet warm hazel ones, widened and struck they look at you with soft admiration.

"Uh, excuse my manners, these are for you." He hoists the flowers into your hands, now leaving you engulfed in foliage. You sense the Prefect come to your side as they guide you by the elbow to your desk. 

"Oh, whatever for?" You call behind the blooms, you're not sure you have any admirers at present who would gift you such a lush bouquet for no particular reason. 

"I should introduce myself. My name is Clifford. I'm the musicology Professor at RSA."

"Nice to meet you," You throw your name over your shoulder as you place the flowers on your desk. "That still doesn't quite explain the florals." The Prefect stands close to your side and casts a nasty glance towards Mr. Rogerson. You get a better look at him, too, but you can't quite understand the seeming contempt your students have developed for him. 

He seems like a normal man, quite tall and rather gangly. His tan trousers don't quite meet his ankles, and expose garishly bright socks.

"Ah well, I was on notoriously bad terms with the former musicology instructor here, and admittedly, I am a bit of a fan of your work." Oh? That was a bit of a surprise. Of course, you were a well-known musician in the classical music world, but outside of major metropoles, it wasn't common for you to be recognized. People didn't tend to be very fanatical about classical musicians. 

"When I heard you were hired, I knew I needed to do whatever it took to get in your good graces," Rogerson says earnestly, gesturing to the flowers.  

"Well then, you're off to a perfect start." You smile, stroking soft petals. "I love dahlias. I perfect the black ones, though." You thumb the cloying pink petals with appreciation, but the Prefect is convinced there's an almost imperceptible disgust in your eyes at the saccharine color. 

"Noted for next time." The young man grins at your seeming appreciation for his gift. 

You point to Deuce and the Prefect, introducing them.

"These are my students. They were just helping me tidy my room after class. As you can see, I'm already quite a popular instructor." You tease, walking back over to Rogerson and clasping your hands in front of you. 

"I completely understand. If you were my teacher, I'd never even want to graduate, erm so sorry, that was a bit much." Rogerson has managed to fluster himself and you truly take in his appearance, his has dark blond hair and pale complexion, his accent is like Crewels, meaning he is more than likely from the Queendom of Roses. 

You chuckle coyly, more than used to these types of confessions but seldom from people who weren't old enough to be your parents. You spare a glance at your students, both of whom are glowering at the new face in the room, Deuce in particular, trying to look as intimidating as possible. 

"Darlings, why don't you run along to your club activities so Mr. Rogerson and I can have a chat?" At that, Deuce and the Prefect exchange concerned glances and very, very slowly begin to back up their belongings. You scoff at their petulance but carry on with your conversation. 

This is bad. The Prefect thinks, is this just how you are, or are you actually flirting? Well, whatever it is, it has Rogerson all in a tizzy. 

"I'm truly honored that you would make time for me, but afraid I can't stay and chat. I only came to deliver these flowers, but perhaps we could meet tomorrow evening. I know this cafe in town stays open late, so could I meet you after classes?" Rogerson proposes, a slight bit of apprehension in his tone. Fear of rejection, it seems. You are inclined to accept his invitation, but as you go to nod an acceptance, the Prefect is quick to interject. 

"Professor, isn't there a meeting tomorrow for cultural fair planning that you'll have to attend after classes? "

"Ah, you're right! I'm sorry. I'll have to decline the invitation. Perhaps another-"

"Well, not to be too insistent," Rogerson interrupts, "but if you're not opposed to an even later meeting, we could go for a drink. You're new in town, right? I'd be happy to show you the best spots.”

"How indecent!" The Prefect remarks, aghast, and hand on their chest. They were nearly out the door, but Rogerson's invitation has caused them and Deuce to dart back through the door. 

"Are you propositioning our Professor!" They accuse, feigning indignity.

"Excuse me? I would never, I just think-" The RSA professor is already stumbling over his words in embarrassment, but Deuce and the Prefect don't let up. 

"Yeah!" Deuce adds. "That's totally out of line! You came all this way to ask our teacher on a date?"

Rogerson starts to stammer when your students so confidently accuse him of indecency, but you quickly come to his rescue. 

"I will see you two tomorrow. Rest well, darlings." You dismiss your students for the second time as warmly as possible and wait for them to filter out of the room at the most leisurely pace you'd only thought Leona capable of. "Thank you for your help today." You call once they've finally departed.

"Sorry about them." You gently place a hand on Rogerson's forearm in consolation, but another presence enters the room.

"I didn't take you for this much of cad. Rogerson, it doesn't suit you." As if on cue, Crewel steps onto the scene. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the Prefect's shoulders droop with a sigh as they depart the room. 

But more importantly, you swear you feel the temperature in the room drop, the tension between the two men recalling a decade of animosity.

"Ah, quite. That was always your game if I recall from our school days." Rogerson replies without skipping a beat. His focus is now entirely on Crewel and his apparent former classmate, if context clues are anything to go by. Your fellow colleague steps further into the room and takes up a place at your side.

"I don't," Crewel replies coolly. "I take it you were just about to head out? The door is that way." Divus is always so shameless, but there is no excuse for blatant discourtesy…even if there's a history you're not quite privy to, Rogerson has been nothing but kind, and as a frequent recipient of extravagant bouquets, this one certainly had to cost 30,000 thurmarks at least. 

"Professor Crewel, that is hardly a way to treat guests." You chastise lightly, with a disapproving frown.

"I'll walk you out, Mr. Rogerson." You insist, linking your arm with Rogerson's as you attempt to guide him to the door. You spare your colleague a glance, and while the reaction is ever so minimal, you swear that Crewel deflates a bit at your gesture.' That won't do,' you think to yourself.

"You don't have to." Rogerson weakly protests, eyes flicking between your arm in his and your warm, pretty smile in apparent disbelief, but it's apparent that he's delighted by the prospect of taking a long private walk to the school's distant entrance.

"It's the least I could do after the flowers." You reply as you head out of the music room, but not before turning to address Crewel who came and awfully long way to visit you from the alchemy room. 

"Professor Crewel, I'll meet you in your room once I'm finished."

Crewel instantly perks up, his brow slightly raised. You only reply with a playfully nonchalant look. As you two share a cheeky glance—an unspoken understanding passes between you. 

"Of course, Professor." Crewel smiles before departing, passing his old peer and only offering a much less warm acknowledgment, "Rogerson."

You turn back to the man who most certainly got more than he bargained for when he came all the way to hand-deliver these flowers if you can tell anything from flushed cheeks. 

*            *           *   

Crewel has only three ancient rivals. One, of course, is Professor Trein he and that stuffy old man have never gotten along, the other is…going to be a bit complicated if he wants a future with you, but the third is most certainly that stuck-up prick Clifford Rogerson.

Rogerson was a student at RSA, perhaps a year older than Divus, although Crewel would have to say he's aged quite poorly in comparison. 

And while the optics of their contempt for each other might not cast Crewel in the best light, he was almost certainly the instigator of past conflicts, Divus thought that they had come to an tacit agreement to stay in their respective territories on Sage's Isle, but for whatever reason, namely you, Rogerson has decided to break this treaty. 

But perhaps Rogerson's greatest offense is the mere thought that a woman as urbane, beautiful, and talented as you would ever have anything to do with a pallid husk like him. Certainly, you recognized Rogerson's attentions to what they were. Just the obsequious obsession of a musician, not with not even a tenth of your talent. Perhaps the way mortals bow to gods might be an apt metaphor for the leagues that Rogerson is beneath you. Crewel sits with his feet on his desk, eyes scanning passively over the courtyard as he drums his twirls his pen in contemplation.

You knock at the door before entering. 

"Professor Crewel?" You call softly.

"Professor Bellamy, as expected, you are a woman of your word." Crewel, takes his feet off his desk, leaning forward to greet you with a small grin. 

"Of course. My apologies for not coming sooner; I was occupied with you, dear old classmate." Your tone is dripping with sarcasm as you lean against the doorway. 

"Ah, yes, he didn't speak of me, did he?"

"No, not really." You assure Crewel.

"Coward." He hisses.

The vigor of your laugh takes you by surprise.

"Never mind him." You encourage walking closer to Crewel's desk. "I thought, well hoped, maybe you came because you wanted to give me another ride home." 

Crewel scans your smile and finds the corners of his lips rising to match.

"There isn't any rain, dear Professor."

"I know, but it is awfully chilly." 

"A bit presumptuous, but I can be accommodating. We'll have to hurry before that meddling Professor Trein catches us."

"I can keep a secret." You wink at him, and for the first time in quite a while, Crewel feels himself blush.

"In truth, I came because I was looking for Spade. He needed to make up a failed exam."

"Oops. I'm sorry to have kept him." You apologize sheepishly.

"He'll just have to do it tomorrow." Crewel isn't too bothered about it, Spade will simply have to make it up later.

"Can I trust you won't hold him hostage, tidying away music stands?"

"Hostage! I'll have you know the students come to me."

"Ah yes, you're already quite the favorite, aren't you?"

"Your words, not mine..." You shrug. "Now, are you going to give me a ride home or not?" You quip sassily.

"You know," Crewel begins, "not many people who talk to me like that have lived to tell the tale."

"Well, I'm not 'many people' am I?" You smile, now at the door, with your jacket in hand.

No, he supposes you're not.

[redrose10]

Could you do arranged marriage with yoongi, prompt 68, and a happy ending🥺

I hope this is okay!

Fire & Ice

Yoongi x Female Reader

Warnings: Swearing, hints of cheating, slightly suggestive, mentions of being drunk

#68 “Seems like you have to sleep here tonight”

When you first entered into an arranged marriage with Min Yoongi you did your best to try and make it work. Sure it wasn’t ideal and you would’ve rather fallen in love on your own terms but it was done and over with and you were determined to try your best and make things work.

The first time he broke you down though was on your wedding night. His parents had rented a large suit at the most luxurious hotel in the city so that the two of you wouldn’t have to travel far after the reception. You were nervous but hopeful and maybe even a little excited. You changed out of your big ball gown of a dress and were waiting on the bed for Yoongi. When the door finally swung open you perked up a little only to be shot down when he grabbed his clothes and told you he had booked his own room to sleep in and then left without sparing you a glance. You spent your wedding night cold and alone in a king size bed while your new husband was doing who knows what. A crack formed in your heart that night.

The next time he chipped away at that crack was a few months later. It was his birthday and you had spent the entire day cooking all of his favorite foods. It was a lot of work but you really wanted to impress him. He told you he’d be home at his normal time so the table was set and you had changed into a nice dress and had lit some candles. You waited and waited and thirty minutes late turned into two hours late turned into six hours late. Finally around 2am he came walking through the door completely ignoring you and all of the food that was now cold and ruined. After questioning him he let you know that his friends threw him a surprise party that you apparently had never been made aware of and he forgot to tell you he was going to be home late. He tried to apologize but you fought back tears as you shoved his present into his chest and stormed off to your bedroom. The crack in your heart grew quite a bit that night.

There were other things that chipped away at it here and there. Hurtful words and spiteful glares. The few times you would go out of your comfort zone and wear something to try and get his attention but he’d never do more than look in your direction before turning his attention elsewhere. There was the way he always introduced you simply by your name, never Mrs. Min or even My Wife. It made you feel like he didn’t want people to know.

There were moments of positivity though. The two of you talked a little bit. You both had a love for music which started many conversations. He sent you roses on your birthday. And you swore he showed the tiniest bit of jealousy when you ran into your physical trainer, Jungkook. You couldn’t quite make it out but you know you heard him mumble something about how he could have muscles like that if he really wanted to before telling you the car was ready even though it wasn’t and you two had to stand outside in the rain for an extra ten minutes. You got the feeling he just wanted to get you away from Jungkook.

One evening though, he finally shattered your heart beyond repair. Another night where he came home way later than he should have. You heard a loud crash in the living room followed by lots of giggles. You rush out there and found him stumbling around drunk out of his mind after having knocked over a vase. His two friends, Namjoon and Jimin, were off to the side not completely sober themselves but seemingly more coherent than your husband was.

Yoongi coming home drunk wasn’t anything knew or shocking. You were used to it by now. So you didn’t think twice when you went to help him up and get him in bed only to be stopped when you saw the large purple and red bruise on this neck. You threw his arm down like it had electrocuted you.

It had always been in the back of your mind that he was possibly cheating. You two had been together for many many months at this point never having done anything like that and it was starting to affect even you. You always pushed those thoughts away though but here was the evidence right in front of you.

Yoongi was too drunk to defend himself. Jimin and Namjoon begged you to listen to them as they could explain what happened but you didn’t care to hear it.

You stormed off back to your room leaving Yoongi passed out on the living room floor and his friends to sneak out knowing there was going to be a fight. That was the moment you fully closed yourself off from him and decided that you two were nothing more than business partners for photo-ops and charity events.

You spent the next year barely speaking or even seeing each other. The first couple weeks

Yoongi tried to explain what happened but you were having no part of it so eventually he gave up. You had bought your own apartment on the other side of the city and only interacted with him at events and family get togethers.

And then one day yours and his parents dropped a huge bombshell that you were not expecting. They wanted to know why the two of you had not produced an heir yet. You couldn’t help but laugh because the two of you were barely even on speaking term so how were you supposed to start a family. That opened up a whole bunch of questions from your families leading to them suggesting the two of you needed to spend time together to try and work on your relationship. It was non-negotiable and before you knew it plans were made and plane tickets were booked against your will.

And that’s how you found yourself alone with Yoongi in a snow covered cabin up in the mountains several hours away from your home.

“I am not sleeping in the same bed as you.”, you spat after you found out it was a one bedroom home.

“Okay sleep outside in the snow then. I don’t really care Y/N.”, he mumbled walking out of the bedroom.

You rolled your eyes but had already accepted that you would be spending a sleepless few nights on the couch because you refused to give in.

After the long trip all you wanted was a hot shower and to get into your comfy pjs so that’s what you did. By the time you were finished the cabin was filled with a heavenly aroma and you found Yoongi in the kitchen. There were two plates of food sitting on the counter. He had made your favorite. When he noticed you he gently slid one over in your direction and for the first time since the beginning of your marriage you felt something other than disdain for him. But you weren’t going to let him know that.

“Are you trying to poison me?”, you questioned.

“Eat it or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me.”

You felt a little bit of guilt watching him grab his plate and sulk over to the table. Quietly you took the second plate and joined him. You both sat in silence with him scrolling on his phone and you just staring at the snow falling outside the window. It seemed like a blizzard was forming as the snow fall had picked up quite a lot since you arrived.

“It’s snowing quite a bit. I hope we don’t loose power.”, you whispered while somewhat trying to gage his reaction to you speaking to him.

He nodded, “yeah I hope not.”

And as if the universe was playing a joke on you the lights flickered once…twice…and then the entire cabin went dark.

“You have to be kidding me.”, Yoongi grumbled before getting up to look for the fuse box.

While he was gone you got a notification from the rental company letting you know there was a power outage in the area due to the snow storm and the current time estimate for it to be fixed was at least 48 hours.

When Yoongi returned you showed him the text which only soured his mood more. He walked into the bedroom and returned a few minutes later bundled up in several layers.

“Where are you going?”, you asked concerned.

“Well without electricity we won’t have any heat. I saw an ax on porch. I’m gonna go chop some wood so that we can build a fire to keep warm.”

“Okay let me get dressed and I’ll come help you.”, you said already walking towards the bedroom. He stopped you furiously shaking his head, “No absolutely not.”

You felt a little hurt that he was so adamant against you going with him but you also knew you couldn’t really blame him either so you stopped your movements as he asked.

He must’ve noticed your reaction because he cleared his throat, “It’s cold and dangerous out there. Just stay in here and enjoy the warmth before it’s gone. I shouldn’t be long.”

You nodded and watched as he closed the door behind him.

You had gotten all the dishes cleaned up and were waiting around for Yoongi. He had been gone quite a while and you were starting to get worried. So you decided to get dressed and were about to head out when he came walking him struggling to get the door to close behind him thanks to the wind. His cheeks were flushed bright red from the cold as he dropped several logs of wood into the fireplace. Within a few minutes he had a fire going that slowly filled the room with much needed warmth.

The two of you sat on the couch in silence just watching the flames move and listing to the crackling of the fire.

After some time Yoongi left and returned with several pillows and blankets. He started laying them out in front of the fire place.

“Seems like you’ll have to sleep here.”, he said looking at you, “We’ll both have to sleep here.”

Your first instinct was to argue against it but then you felt a chill down your spine and you knew you would never make it through the night in the bedroom. So you nodded and joined him underneath your own blanket while he had his and you still made sure there was a considerable distance between the two of you.

The soft glow and the sounds provided by the fire were comforting and you could feel yourself slipping off to sleep fairly quickly until you heard Yoongi shift beside you for probably the hundredth time.

“Yoongi are you okay?”, you asked half concerned half annoyed.

“Yeah sorry. It’s just still so cold it’s hard to get comfy.”

You thought for a moment before taking a deep breath, “D-Do you want to get under the same blanket? We can use our combined body heat to keep warm.”

He became so quiet and still you almost felt embarrassed for even asking until he nodded and lifted up his blanket to give you space to get underneath it.

There was an immediate increase in warmth but you thought it was probably thanks to your body’s rising temperature from being so close to Yoongi.

The room returned to a noticeable silence until it was Yoongi who cleared his throat, “Y/N can I tell you something?”

“Mmhm.”, you nodded.

He took a deep breath, “I’ve never cheated on you.”

You were surprised he was bringing this up so nonchalantly and out of nowhere.

He continued, “That night…That night when I came home drunk and I had that bruise it wasn’t what you think. I was out having some drinks and there was this guy. He came up to me and was talking all this shit about me and my family and stuff. I tried to ignore him. But then…then he called you a gold digging whore and he said he’d take you off my hands for $5 because that’s all you were worth. I got pissed that he was talking about you like that and punched him and then there was a fight and I got hit with something. Maybe a glass or something. I don’t even know what it was but that’s where the bruise came from.”, he stayed silent for another moment, “I know I wasn’t the best husband from the start but I would never and have never been unfaithful to you.”

His words replayed over and over in your mind.

“I just want to say I’m sorry for how I treated you. I was angry and hurt that I wasn’t given a choice in this whole situation but you were the last person I should’ve taken it out on.”, he sighed before continuing, “I just wanted to put that out there. It’s bothered me for a long time and I figured since there’s nothing else to do right now I could take the time to finally say it.”

Your heart was racing as you fidgeted with your sweatshirt.

“I’m sorry too. I should have at least let you explain yourself before completely shutting you out.”, you whispered feeling a little bit guilty, “I just wanted you to give me…to give us a chance and I was hurt that you wouldn’t.”

The room fell into another silence other than the crackling of the fire but this time it was a little less tense.

“M-maybe we should start over. I promise I can be a good husband.”, Yoongi said after a while.

“You did build us a pretty nice fire so that’s pretty good husband stuff.”, you replied trying to lighten the mood a little. He chuckled, “Yeah that’s just the beginning of the things I can do for you.”

You smiled, “Okay let’s start from the beginning.“

He nodded before searching for your hand underneath the blanket. When he finally found it you intertwined your fingers with his.

“Y/N, will you marry me?”, he asked.

“I mean yes but I don’t think we need to start over that far back.”, you giggled as he squeezed your had.

“Yeah how far back should we go?”, he questioned.

You bit your lip debating your next move, “Well how about our wedding night?”

Yoongi chuckled before pulling you into a kiss, “Yeah I think that’s a good place to start.”

[crvida]

i think dead boy detectives would have really suited a longer season format

[ahalliance]

i think the qsmp is very impressive for speedrunning the same love-hate relationship i have with the dsmp in under a year as opposed to the three it took for the other one

[domeniudulce]

The idea that Gascoigne and Henryk were hunting partners (presumably with Henryk being Gascoigne's elder and mentor) and that Viola was Henryk's daughter is the funniest shit. Like how do you think that went over.

[dairyfreenugget]

(Going insane boinkinh one AU in my head)

Hey hey hey

May I interest you in

(Slowly slides my FaaF AU towards you but void just Disappears without a trace one day before the accolade)

Teehee