#succulent notebook

[douglaswelch]

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[aleese1111]

homework and heart | yeon sieun x neighbour!reader

summary: yeon sieun is just trying to get through a study session without losing his sanity, but his lifelong neighbor makes that impossible—armed with sarcasm, zero personal space boundaries, and a habit of falling asleep on his arm mid-math problem. they argue like enemies, act like friends, and care like something they won’t admit.

warnings: [fluff fluff fluff] , mutual but unspoken romantic feelings .

author's note: i just know sieun would treat his girl like a delicate flower. everything about him (apart from his psycho tendencies) screams gentleman. the reader is sort of a tsundere or something. wrote this while listening to [ My Love Mine All mine - Mitski] . requests

“your handwriting looks like a drunk spider fell in love with a pen,” she said, peering over si-eun’s shoulder.

si-eun didn’t glance up. “you’ve said that before.”

“yeah, and it hasn’t improved.”

“you’re here for math help, not calligraphy critique.”

“i’m here for the free heating,” she declared, collapsing onto his bed like it owed her rent. “your floor heating is elite. i feel like a warm croissant.”

si-eun exhaled through his nose. “you’re supposed to finish the worksheet i gave you.”

“you’re supposed to stop being a fun vacuum,” she shot back, flipping onto her stomach and burying her face in his pillow. “why do you smell like laundry detergent and sad?”

he ignored that. “that’s page two. the functions review.”

she groaned into the pillow, her voice muffled. “why are you like this?”

“efficient?”

“emotionally unbothered.”

“that’s not a flaw.”

“it is when your only reaction to my suffering is to hand me a pencil.”

she sat up and tossed said pencil at him. he caught it midair without even turning his head.

“show-off,” she muttered.

“you threw it with the force of a butterfly.”

“rude. accurate, but rude.”

they sat in silence for a moment—her pretending to work, him actually working—until she groaned again and fell dramatically across the table, narrowly missing his open notebook.

“i give up. i’m becoming a flower shop cashier. i’ll name the succulents and everything.”

“you hate plants.”

“they hate me first. it’s mutual.”

“finish number five.”

“no.”

sieun said her name.

“make me.”

he leaned back in his chair, expression flat. “do your homework.”

she leaned forward, matching his energy. “make me.”

their faces were inches apart now, eyes locked in a silent, petty standoff.

“childish,” he murmured.

“lifeless.”

“stubborn.”

“robotic.”

“you still haven’t moved.”

“you blinked first.”

“that’s not how this works.”

“says who?”

“says logic.”

she rolled her eyes and dramatically scribbled on the worksheet. “there. number five. happy?”

he checked it. “that’s number six.”

“i hate you.”

“good. now do five.”

she cursed under her breath, then muttered, “you better carry my backpack at my funeral.”

“you won’t need a backpack if you fail this class.”

“then you better carry my coffin. same energy.”

si-eun glanced at her, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

she caught it and pointed. “there. you smiled. admit you like me.”

“i smiled because you said something dumb.”

“same thing.”

they didn’t look at each other after that. not directly, anyway. but she was quietly doing question five, and si-eun casually slid a bag of her favorite snacks across the table like it didn’t mean anything.

like always.

she got up without warning and dropped beside his chair, her chin resting on his arm, body invading his space like it was natural law.

“you need a break,” she muttered.

“you’re distracting.”

“good.”

he didn’t pull away. just let her stay there, still scribbling notes while her cheek pressed against the sleeve of his hoodie.

“you’re going to smudge the ink,” he murmured.

she shrugged. “you’ll rewrite it for me anyway.”

“that’s not how this works.”

she smirked. “isn’t it?”

they stayed like that, the sound of pen on paper and her breathing settling into rhythm.

she, of course, fell asleep fifteen minutes later. head still leaning against his arm, mouth slightly open, clumsy as ever.

si-eun didn’t move.

he just kept writing with one hand, while the other lightly tugged the blanket from the bed to drape over her shoulders.

outside, the sky finally decided to rain.

inside, there was peace—chaotic, uneven, stubborn peace. the kind only the two of them could create. the kind that made sense even when nothing else did.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ ,

[synity]

hi hiii can i request a loser core wonwoo hahaha something about him being down bad for yn! in a college setting if i may add! thank youuuu

DOWN BAD 101

(Jeon Wonwoo x FemReader)

*Popular-but-nerdy Wonwoo × Oblivious Y/N college AU fanfiction of Wonwoo in loser-core, secretly popular, bookish simp mode, slice of life, fluff, dramatic, romance humor*

If you asked Jeon Wonwoo to define "down bad," he wouldn’t even blink.

He’d say, “Y/N walking into Intro to Modern Poetry wearing that oversized hoodie with a pen in her hair like she’s the main character of a Studio Ghibli film, and I’m just the background bookshelf.”

Which is insane, because Wonwoo is not a background bookshelf.

He’s a walking academic weapon, the unofficial TA of every class he takes, the guy professors ask to “chime in” when no one raises their hand, and the type to correct the textbook during group presentations. He has 600k followers on social medial and once went viral for crying while reading a Murakami novel under a tree.

Wonwoo is popular. He just doesn’t realize it.

Because he only has eyes for you.

The first time he saw you, you were sprinting into class three minutes late, slamming into the door frame and apologizing in a breathless panic.

The professor hadn’t even flinched.

But Wonwoo? Wonwoo blinked, and somewhere in his ribcage, a tiny, clumsy crush woke up and started banging pots and pans like wake up, loser, this is it.

And since then, he’s been doomed.

Every class, same routine.

He saves the seat next to him.

He brings two pens one blue, one black just in case you forgot.

He pretends to scroll through lecture notes but actually re-reads your old discussion board posts, like:

"I think Emily Dickinson was just really dramatic and lonely and needed a snack."

And he highlighted it. In pink.

The worst part?

You have no idea.

You don’t notice the way his ears go pink every time you call him Wonu. You think he’s quiet because he’s shy, not because he’s rehearsing your name in his head before he says it. You just assume he’s nice.

Which he is.

Painfully nice.

Like helping you carry your iced coffee back from the vending machine even when he’s already juggling two of his own and a laptop bag. Or staying behind after class to explain the notes you missed even though you literally wrote them on your phone.

One time you tripped on the stairs and he dropped everything to catch you.

Like full K-drama slow motion moment. Your hands on his chest. His eyes wide. Your cheeks flushed.

You looked up at him and said: “Yo, that was ninja-level reflex. Thanks, bro.”

And his soul left his body.

Bro.

He’s never recovered.

Wonwoo isn’t just a regular student.

He’s the top assistant to Professor Kim a legend on campus and runs the tutoring program. He’s on scholarship, works two jobs, edits poetry journals, and tutors half the football team.

But he still makes time for you.

He doesn’t tell you, though. You just think he’s… always there.

It happens on a rainy Tuesday.

You burst into the campus café with your umbrella inside out and a murder in your eyes. Wonwoo watches from the corner booth, half-amused, half-panicked. You stomp up to him like a monsoon in sneakers.

“I failed the midterm.”

Wonwoo straightens. “Wait, what?”

“I got a D.” You plop beside him, miserable. “I wrote three pages on poetic disillusionment and the TA gave me a 67 because I ‘misinterpreted the author’s intent.’ Whatever that means.”

Wonwoo's hand tightens around his coffee cup.

“Who was your TA?”

You shrug. “Some guy named Minho. Kind of a jerk.”

Wonwoo exhales slowly, nods once, then gently slides his notebook toward you. “Come over tomorrow. I’ll help.”

You show up in sweats and snacks.

His apartment is small, warm, filled with books and plants. You wander around like you’ve stumbled into an aesthetic Pinterest board.

“You live like a Tumblr post,” you mumble, petting a succulent. “Why are you lowkey cottagecore?”

Wonwoo chuckles. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You sit beside him on the floor, back against the wall, flipping through poetry printouts. He watches you tuck your knees up, your hoodie sleeves falling over your hands, your hair a little messy.

And he thinks, I am so doomed.

Hours pass. You fall asleep halfway through a poem.

Wonwoo doesn’t move.

He just stares at you for a moment peaceful, warm, trustingly asleep in his space. Then he gets up slowly, covers you with his jacket, and sits back down with his notebook.

Under his breath, he whispers,

“Please, please, please… don’t fall for someone else before I get the courage to tell you.”

Wonwoo planned to confess on a Wednesday.

Not because Wednesdays were special, but because Tuesdays were cursed (exhibit A: your D grade), and Thursdays felt too dramatic. Wednesday was… neutral.

He even picked the café. The one where you always order the same drink vanilla oat milk latte, no syrup, extra cinnamon.

You called it your “silly little drink for a silly little life.”

He just called it yours.

But on Wednesday, he chickened out.

You sat across from him rambling about some group project that went sideways, and he was too busy staring at the crinkle in your nose when you mimicked your classmate’s whiny voice.

“Wonu, are you even listening?”

“Y-Yeah,” he blinked. “Something about… group betrayal.”

You squinted. “You good, bro?”

Bro.

He almost canceled himself right there.

Later that night, he texted Jeonghan in defeat:

[Wonwoo] Hyung. I’m never gonna tell her. It’s over. [Jeonghan] LMAOOOOOOOO [Jeonghan] okay but also? do you want her or not [Wonwoo] I do. So much it’s embarrassing. [Jeonghan] then stop being a Victorian novel and act like a man

Cue the Intervention.

Jeonghan recruited Mingyu, Soonyoung, and Seungkwan to stage a “help session” in the library.

It lasted three hours.

It included a whiteboard, roleplay (Mingyu pretending to be you), and a slideshow titled: “Why Wonwoo Needs To GET A GRIP.”

“Step One,” Seungkwan clicked the remote. “Be normal.”

“Step Two,” Soonyoung added, “Stop disappearing when she enters the room like some vampire boy.”

“Step Three,” Jeonghan grinned, “Tell her she’s the prettiest human you've ever seen before someone else does.”

The next morning, you texted him.

[Y/N 🍓] hey wonu [Y/N 🍓] are you busy tonight? [Y/N 🍓] i wanna talk.

He stared at the message for ten minutes.

Then replied:

[Wonwoo] never too busy for you.

You showed up at his door that evening in a skirt and hoodie combo that nearly fried his brain.

“I, uh—come in,” he stammered.

You held up a small bag. “I brought snacks.”

That was the moment he knew. He was gone. Beyond gone. Down bad with no return flight.

Half an hour in, halfway through a bag of chips, you leaned back and whispered:

“I know.”

Wonwoo blinked. “Know what?”

You smiled soft, knowing, almost shy.

“That you like me.”

Silence.

Wonwoo felt the Earth tilt.

“You do, right?” you added, more nervous now. “Or was I… wrong?”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Then said, very eloquently:

“Holy sh—it’s that obvious?”

You giggled. “Kind of. But only to me, I think.”

Wonwoo rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You nudged his knee. “ I’ve been waiting for you to say it.”

You both stared at each other in the warm light of his apartment, snacks between you, hearts pounding. And you whispered:

“Please don’t break my heart, Jeon Wonwoo.”

He leaned in, brushing your hair from your face.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said softly, “but you already have mine.”

The next few weeks passed in what you could only describe as soft chaos.

Because dating Jeon Wonwoo, a.k.a. the shy, insanely popular, overachieving bookworm, was kind of like dating a cat who thought he wasn’t allowed on the couch until you patted the spot next to you.

Every time you reached for his hand, his ears turned red.

Every time you kissed his cheek, he’d freeze like a character in an anime.

And when you texted him “I miss you,” he’d reply, “I missed you before you sent that.”

You were down bad. He was worse.

But nobody else knew.

Not because he was hiding you god no but because the two of you were nervous wrecks. And college wasn’t exactly subtle. Especially not when your boyfriends were in SEVENTEEN.

So when the College Arts Festival rolled around, Jeonghan made it his mission to blow your cover.

“I’m just saying,” he sang, hanging a banner, “if I see one more stolen glance from Wonwoo like he’s living in a K-drama, I’m outing him.”

“Don’t you dare,” you warned.

Too late.

That Night.

The festival was packed.

Lights strung between buildings. Music booming. Food trucks lined the streets. It felt like a dream.

A week later, the two of you sat on the campus rooftop.

It had become your safe place somewhere only you two went, somewhere quiet and yours.

You were playing soft music, curled against him, when you suddenly sighed.

“Wonwoo,” you murmured. “Don’t break my heart, please?”

He turned to you.

“I mean it,” you added, voice barely audible. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Wonwoo smiled sadly. “I wouldn’t.”

“I know people think you’re perfect,” you whispered, “but I’ve been burned before.”

He touched your face gently.

“I’m not perfect,” he said, “but I'll be enough for you.”

And then he added, “You’re not my weakness, Y/N. You’re my reason.”

[silkpagess]

Out of Office, into you

Summary: Y/N lands her dream job and definitely does not plan on falling for Harry Styles — her charming, too-handsome coworker with rolled-up sleeves and a knack for ruining her concentration. What starts as harmless flirtation over office coffee runs, late-night texts, and passive-aggressive Google Docs turns into romance and a very unexpected ending. She was just trying to survive her probation period. Now she’s wearing his sweater.

Content Warning: Light smut scene.

Word Count: 11,308

If Y/N had a pound for every time someone told her how “lucky” she was to land a job at Maven & Moore, she could’ve retired before even walking through the front doors.

Instead, she stood in the middle of their marble-tiled lobby—portfolio tucked under one arm, nerves simmering beneath a very carefully chosen cream blazer—reminding herself she belonged here.

The agency was sleek and modern, buzzing with creative chaos: voices bouncing off glass walls, interns speed-walking with coffee trays, and the faint smell of eucalyptus diffuser oil that was trying (and failing) to mask the scent of collective burnout.

She was five minutes early, but she liked to be early. People noticed that kind of thing. Especially in a place like this.

A receptionist with blunt bangs and effortless cool smiled at her. “Y/N Y/L/N?”

“That’s me,” she replied, bright and breezy.

“HR will grab you in a sec. In the meantime, here’s your welcome kit—badge, laptop, schedule… and a company pen no one ever uses.”

Y/N laughed softly, slipping the folder under her arm. She didn’t care about the pen. She wanted her desk. Her first meeting. Her first opportunity to prove that she wasn’t just another hire—she was the hire.

And that’s when she noticed him.

Harry Styles. 

She’d heard about him in whispers during her interview rounds—strategist turned creative lead, impossible to hate, stupidly charming. But no one had mentioned he was hot.

Of course, she’d never admit that aloud.

Short brown curls, neatly trimmed. White T-shirt under a dark overshirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that looked too good for someone who probably spent most of his day typing. He was deep in conversation with someone, hands moving as he spoke, but he glanced over just long enough to meet her eyes—and smile.

It was subtle. Polite.

But curious.

“Hey,” said a soft voice behind her. HR had arrived. “Ready to see where the magic happens?”

Y/N gave one last glance at Harry and followed the woman toward the elevator.

⸻

The seventh floor was less sleek than the lobby and more chaotic—in a good way. Desks arranged in near-symmetrical clusters, walls pinned with half-finished campaigns and color palettes, the occasional potted plant trying to stay alive under industrial lighting.

They weaved past clusters of people already in meetings or arguing over font sizes.

“Your team lead is Harry,” HR said, motioning toward a desk near the windows. “You’ll be working closely with him. And—”

“I know who he is,” Y/N said, a little too quickly.

The woman smiled like she knew something Y/N didn’t. “He’s… sharp. But collaborative. And you’ve got quite the resume—everyone’s excited to see what you’ll do here.”

No pressure.

⸻

Y/N tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as the HR rep left her with a cheery “Good luck!” and disappeared into the chaos. For a moment, she just stood there, blinking at her new desk.

It was… perfect. Sunlight pooled across the light wood surface, a sleek monitor already set up beside a few branded notebooks and—why not—a tiny succulent in a too-small pot. She sat down gingerly, unsure if she was allowed to, and traced the rim of her coffee cup just to keep her hands busy.

“Morning.”

Her stomach did a dumb little flip. She looked up—and there he was.

“Hi,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t come out weirdly high. “I’m Y/N.”

“I know,” he smiled. “I read your portfolio last week. You’re good.”

Oh. She tried not to beam. Tried even harder not to let that weird, fluttery warmth crawl up her neck.

“Thanks,” she replied. “I mean… thank you. I’m excited to be here.”

“You’ll fit in just fine.” Then he nodded toward his desk—adjacent to hers, naturally. “We’re seatmates, by the way. If I’m typing too loud or swearing at my inbox, just throw something.”

“Got it. Stapler or pen?”

He grinned. “Surprise me.”

⸻

The first week passed in a blur of logins, introductions, and cautiously making sense of company Slack channels with names like #meme-dump and #fontfights. But through all the buzz and buzzwords, Harry was there. Not hovering—never that—but orbiting close enough to feel like a safety net. An annoyingly good-looking, absurdly competent safety net.

He helped her navigate the folder system during her second morning, leaning over her shoulder with a half-eaten banana in one hand and pointing at her screen. She was hyper-aware of his cologne—clean, sharp, and vaguely citrusy—and the way his laugh rumbled low when he said, “Okay, no, ignore everything that says ‘Final_v3_Revised_REAL_FINAL’—those are all lies.”

By the end of the first week, they had a rhythm.

Harry was focused and fast—too fast sometimes, tossing out ideas that made her brain spin just to keep up. But he never made her feel behind. If anything, he seemed to enjoy her questions, even when she doubted herself. He’d tilt his head, lips tugging at the corner in that half-smile she was starting to recognize as his version of you’ve got this, and say, “Okay, walk me through what you’re thinking.”

He actually listened.

She learned his habits quickly. Mornings meant iced coffee—black, no sugar. He always stretched before meetings, standing up and doing a lazy twist at the waist that made his shirt ride up just enough to be distracting. His desk was somehow always clean, save for a few random objects that rotated weekly: a stress ball shaped like a brain, a tiny pink disco ball, once even a framed photo of a goose in sunglasses.

“Is that… your goose?” she asked.

“It’s aspirational,” he deadpanned. “His name’s Todd.”

The second week was when the teasing began.

Soft at first—little quips, exaggerated sighs when she disagreed with a design choice, mock horror when she said she’d never seen The Godfather. He’d roll his eyes dramatically and say, “You’re lucky you’re clever,” or “That’s borderline offensive, Y/N.”

One Thursday, she brought in homemade banana bread. He took a bite, closed his eyes, and moaned just loudly enough to make the nearby intern snort with laughter.

“Jesus,” she muttered, cheeks flaming.

“I’m expressing gratitude,” he said, mouth still full. “This is an emotional experience.”

The rest of the team adored him, of course. But there was something different about the way he was with her. It was subtle—no lines crossed—but it was there.

He saved her a seat during team huddles, even when others were scrambling. He remembered how she took her tea. He walked her out on late nights, hands in his pockets and easy smiles that lingered when they said goodbye at the corner.

There were moments.

Moments when their eyes held for just a second too long. When his fingers brushed hers while passing a printout. When she’d catch him watching her across the room with something unreadable in his gaze—like he was trying to solve her, piece by piece.

By the third week, her coworkers had started noticing.

“You and Harry,” Sarah from the art department said casually over lunch, stabbing a fork into her kale. “There’s a bit of a… vibe, huh?”

Y/N choked on her water. “What? No. No vibe. We just work well together.”

“Mmhmm.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Right. That’s what they always say.”

Y/N tried to brush it off, but her mind replayed the way Harry had leaned over her earlier that morning, hand braced on the back of her chair, murmuring about a slide change while her pulse decided to drum in her ears.

It didn’t help that they texted now. Mostly work stuff. Memes. Occasionally a “You see this shit?” followed by a screenshot of some client’s over-the-top email.

Okay, sometimes a good morning or don’t forget your umbrella—looks like rain.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything. That she was imagining things. That this wasn’t that kind of story.

But then came week four.

A Friday afternoon. Almost five. The office thinning out. She was finishing up a brief when Harry appeared beside her, chewing on a pen cap like he didn’t know how distracting that was.

“Wanna help me choose a playlist for the client dinner next week?” he asked. “They’re young, rich, and impossible to please.”

“Dangerous combination,” she said, standing to stretch.

He tilted his head. “You’re not doing anything, are you?”

“I’m working.”

“You’re scrolling through fonts.”

“Which is important.”

“Which is pointless. Come on.”

So they spent the next twenty minutes arguing over songs—her trying to convince him Phoebe Bridgers was dinner-friendly, him making a case for Sade. He queued up a slow R&B track, and as the music filled their corner of the office, something thickened in the air.

It was quiet. Just the two of them, dusk falling outside the windows.

And then he looked at her. Really looked at her. Not with a smirk. Not in that teasing way.

Something softer. Warmer.

“I like working with you,” he said.

Her breath hitched.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

He smiled. That real one—the one that crinkled at the corners.

If she hadn’t said what she said the following week… maybe things would’ve gone differently.

But she did. And everything changed.

⸻

It happened on a Tuesday.

Tuesdays were typically uneventful—somewhere between “still recovering from Monday” and “not yet caffeinated enough to look forward to Friday.” The kind of day you just endured. But this one, unfortunately, stood out.

Y/N had arrived ten minutes late, thanks to a torrential downpour and a very dramatic umbrella collapse in the middle of Lexington Avenue. Her shoes were soaked. Her hair was in that annoying state between damp and frizzy. She trudged into the office with the grace of a drowned squirrel.

Harry, of course, was already there. Dry. Perfect. Typing away like a storm hadn’t just swallowed half the city.

She dropped her bag, muttering under her breath. “You’d think someone who’s always five minutes early would at least pretend to be human on rainy days.”

He glanced over, smiled, and said, “You made it. That’s all that matters.”

She groaned. “How do you always look this pulled together? It’s very ‘main character in a bookshop who also solves crimes on the side.’”

Harry tilted his head, the grin tugging at his lips. “You think I solve crimes?”

“You’d have a trench coat. And a mysterious past.”

He smirked. “Don’t forget a tragic ex.”

“Oh, definitely,” she replied, already laughing.

The morning carried on as usual—meetings, edits, half-eaten breakfast bars. Their team had a major pitch scheduled for the afternoon, so nerves were high, but so was the energy. Harry, as the lead, carried the meeting effortlessly. He always did. Smooth, confident, completely in control of the room without being arrogant about it. Even the clients seemed charmed—leaning in, laughing, nodding too enthusiastically.

Y/N watched from beside him, impressed, as always. Maybe even a little too impressed.

⸻

Later that afternoon, the creative team gathered in the lounge for a quick regroup. Someone had brought muffins, there were soft drinks sweating on the table, and Harry—fresh from a meeting—was leaned back in a chair, sleeves rolled, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

Everyone was a little punch-drunk from the long hours. Conversation bounced around, people cracking jokes, poking fun at themselves.

Someone said, “You two are basically the dream team now. Give it a few more weeks and we’ll all be obsolete.”

Harry smiled. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the robots treat you kindly.”

Y/N, flushed from the compliment and still riding a weird high from the day, laughed and said, a little too loudly, a little too easily:

“Please. People listen to you because you’ve got that voice that makes everything sound like it matters. I could say the same exact thing and no one would even blink—you say it and suddenly it’s strategy.”

She meant it playfully.

But as soon as it was out there—hanging in the middle of the room—she felt it.

The shift.

A few people laughed. A few looked down at their phones. But Harry’s face didn’t change right away. He smiled—sort of. But not the way he normally did.

There was something about the way he blinked once, slow and deliberate, before saying, “Wow. Thanks for that.”

He didn’t sound angry. But he didn’t sound amused, either.

She opened her mouth to respond, to explain, to soften it—but he was already standing, brushing muffin crumbs off his trousers.

“I’ve got a call,” he muttered, to no one in particular, and left the room.

⸻

The fallout was subtle.

Not immediate. Not dramatic.

But she felt it the next day.

He still greeted her. Still responded to questions. Still made notes in the shared doc they were editing. But it was all… different.

He didn’t nudge her coffee mug toward her like he used to. Didn’t ask what she was listening to when she wore headphones. Didn’t drop sarcastic commentary during team meetings just to make her laugh.

Everything was suddenly crisp. Clean. Professional.

It was like the light had dimmed between them.

She spent the rest of the week overanalyzing. Replaying the moment. Rewriting her words in her head until they no longer sounded like a jab.

It had been a compliment, in a way—she’d meant that he was compelling, that people gravitated toward him, that she noticed. But it had come out like an accusation. Like she was reducing his skill to tone and charisma instead of craft.

And Harry, for all his confidence, didn’t take kindly to being dismissed—even unintentionally.

⸻

By Friday, she’d all but given up on trying to fix it at work. Harry wasn’t cold, exactly—but the warmth was gone. The inside jokes, the easy rhythm, the small moments where he used to look at her like she was actually seen? Gone.

So naturally, she did what anyone does when they’re spiraling: She called her two best  friends and asked them to meet her at a bar.

They picked their usual place. Ava was already there when Y/N arrived, sipping something neon out of a glass shaped like a lightbulb.

“I got you the second-least sugary drink on the menu,” Ava said, holding up a glass. “The least sugary one looked like cough syrup.” 

Y/N took the drink and slumped into the seat. “I said something stupid.”

“That’s kind of your thing, though,” Ava said brightly. “Be more specific.”

Before Y/N could respond, Clara slid into the booth like a woman on a mission. She was already peeling off her scarf and dumping her massive tote onto the floor.

“Sorry, sorry—I got cornered by that guy from my gym who thinks we have a connection because we both own water bottles. What’s happening? Who’s dumb? Is it you?”

“It’s me,” Y/N said, taking a long sip. “And it’s bad.”

“Ohhh, good,” Clara said, cracking her knuckles. “Tell me everything.”

Y/N hesitated, then groaned. “I kind of… made a joke about Harry. In front of the team. Like, during a casual moment after a meeting.”

Clara raised a brow. “Define joke.”

“I said people only listen to him because of his voice.”

Ava blinked. “Like… his actual voice?”

“Yeah. Like, his vocal cords. The way he talks.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh, babe,” Clara said gently. “That’s a tiny bit brutal.”

“I know! I meant it in a compliment-y way! Like, ‘your voice is compelling, you're charismatic’—but it came out like I was saying he doesn't have to actually know anything because he sounds hot while talking.”

Ava winced. “That’s rough. Accurate… but rough.”

“It was a joke!” Y/N protested. “You know the kind of joke you make when you're tired and riding an adrenaline crash and your mouth decides to go rogue before your brain catches up?”

“Oh, like the time Clara told her cousin she had a ‘very confident nose’ at her wedding?” Ava offered.

Clara lifted her glass. “It was objectively bold.”

Y/N let her head fall onto the sticky table. “He looked at me like I kicked his childhood dog. And now he’s just… normal. Like painfully polite. It’s like I got demoted to coworker.”

“Well, you are coworkers,” Ava pointed out.

“Yeah, but I was, like, coworker-plus,” she mumbled into the wood. “There was banter. There was eye contact. He brought me coffee once and remembered I don’t like the syrupy stuff.”

“Damn,” Clara said, biting a fry. “That’s practically intimacy.”

“So now what?” Ava asked. “Are you gonna apologize or just emotionally decompose in front of him until retirement?”

Y/N groaned. “I don’t know. I keep thinking about how close we were to something. I could feel it. And now it’s like I slammed a door I didn’t mean to.”

Clara studied her for a moment. “Do you like him?”

Y/N paused. “I like working with him.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She sighed. “I don’t not like him.”

Ava leaned forward, eyes lighting up. “Okay, so here’s what you do: you ask him out.”

“I cannot ask him out.”

“Why not?” Clara demanded.

“Because we work together! And I’ve already embarrassed myself!”

“Perfect,” Clara said. “Start from the bottom. Nowhere to go but up.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” she said, dipping a fry in ketchup. 

Y/N stared at them both. “And if he says no?”

Ava shrugged. “Then he says no. It’s not a Greek tragedy. It’s just a guy.”

Clara leaned back in the booth and looked at her like she was tired of being gentle. “Y/N, come on. You’ve been tap-dancing around your feelings for a month. You clearly like him. And he liked you too—until you made him feel like he was some shiny toy with a good voice and nothing else.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Y/N muttered.

“No one ever does,” Clara said. “That’s why it sucks.”

They were quiet for a second, the music from the bar pulsing low around them. Someone at the next table was aggressively describing a break-up in full detail.

Then Ava leaned in, her tone softer this time. “Okay, listen. You made a dumb comment. It happens. You’re not a monster. You’re not doomed. But if you keep sitting in this guilt spiral like it’s a beanbag chair you refuse to get out of, you’re gonna waste something that could’ve actually been good.”

“I don’t even know what it was,” Y/N whispered. “I just knew it felt… different.”

“Then tell him that,” Clara said, matter-of-fact. “Tell him you said something dumb. Tell him it came out wrong. Tell him he matters to you—even if it’s just as a friend, or whatever the hell this is. But don’t just let it fade away because you’re scared of looking messy.”

“I hate looking messy,” Y/N said, frowning.

“I know,” Ava said. “You love the illusion of control. It’s very chic.”

“But—”

“Y/N,” Clara cut in. “No more ‘but.’ Just text him. Don’t plan a speech. Don’t write a script in your Notes app. Just be a human woman who said something weird and wants to make it right.”

Y/N slumped deeper into the booth and sighed dramatically. “God, I hate when you’re both right.”

“Drink up” Ava said, pushing the glass toward her. “And text him before you overthink it so hard your thumbs fall off.”

—

Back in her apartment, the night felt too quiet in that way city nights sometimes do — muffled cars passing outside, the low hum of a neighbor’s TV bleeding through the wall. Y/N stood in the doorway for a second, coat half on, bag sliding off her shoulder, feeling like her body had arrived home before her mind did.

She dropped everything on the floor. Didn’t bother turning on more than one lamp.

Her makeup was smudged, but she didn’t check. Her hair smelled like fried food from the bar, and her socks were damp at the heel. It had started to drizzle halfway through her walk home — of course it had.

She changed into her oldest sweatshirt — the oversized gray one that said “Property of No One” across the front — and sank onto the couch like her bones weighed more than usual.

Her phone was already in her hand. She didn’t remember picking it up.

She stared at Harry’s name.

For a while, she didn’t type anything. She just let the screen glow against her face while her thumb hovered, frozen, like maybe he’d magically know she was thinking about him. Or regretting every sentence she’d said to him all week.

Then, finally, she typed:

hey. i think i owe you a proper apology.

She paused. Watched the cursor blink. That didn’t feel like enough.

i didn’t mean what i said the other day to come out like that.it sounded flippant but it wasn’t. you’re actually…

She stopped. Groaned.

Deleted the whole thing.

Rewrote it:

hey. i’ve been thinking about what i said the other day. and i hate that it might’ve come off the wrong way. i know i made it sound like you get by on charm, but i hope you know i’ve never thought that.

That felt better. Maybe.

Then she deleted half of it again. Too long. Too heavy. Too much.

She let her phone fall to her chest and stared at the ceiling. There was a crack up there she kept meaning to patch. Or maybe it was just a shadow. Either way, she didn’t move.

Eventually, she sat back up and typed:

hey. i feel like i owe you a drink or an actual apology that isn’t in front of ten coworkers. if you’re around next week… maybe we could fix that.

She read it over three times.

Then hit send.

There was no dramatic sigh. No tossing the phone like it burned her. Just a long, slow exhale as she set it down on the coffee table and pulled her knees up to her chest.. She just sat there, heart heavy and fingers twitching, hoping he still saw her the way he used to.

Hoping it wasn’t too late.

—

Y/N woke up before her alarm.

She blinked at the ceiling for a few seconds, not quite ready to face the day but too alert to keep pretending to be asleep. Her mouth tasted like the drink from the night before and her back ached slightly from falling asleep on the couch again, curled into the same throw blanket she always used.

She reached for her phone out of habit, thumbing through the usual—news notifications, a calendar reminder she’d ignore, an unread email from a store she didn’t remember subscribing to.

And then, at the top of her messages:

Harry Styles 1:43 AM

Her thumb paused. She tapped it.

you don’t owe me anything but yeah I’d like that

A second message followed:

next week’s wide open. name a day.

She read it twice. Then again.

No dramatics. No “let’s talk” or “what you said hurt.” Just… neutral. Still, it didn’t feel cold. It felt like he was giving her the option to move things forward without making it a thing.

It was more than she expected. It was… actually kind of perfect.

She sat up, rubbing her eye with the heel of her palm, and muttered, “Okay.”

The apartment was too quiet, so she turned on the kettle and stood barefoot on the cold kitchen tiles, scrolling through potential bars nearby. Not anywhere too fancy—that would look like she was trying too hard. Not the dive near work either. She’d run into someone from the office, and the whole point was not to make this a watercooler topic.

She made toast, added too much butter, and leaned her hip against the counter while typing her reply.

how do you feel about tuesday? somewhere low-key. i promise to behave this time.

She stared at the last line for a second. It felt light enough. Honest, but not clingy.

She hit send.

Then she took a bite of her toast, still slightly warm, and set her phone down on the counter without waiting for the little “read” checkmark.

She’d figure out the details later.

But Tuesday? That was something.

—

The weekend came and went, but Harry never really left her mind.

She kept it together. Ran errands. Cleaned her apartment like she was trying to wipe her brain clean, too. Pretended to be annoyed when Clara asked for updates every six hours, and avoided Ava’s “so have you planned your outfit yet” texts entirely.

She didn’t spiral. But she did think about him. Often. And especially when she didn’t want to.

By Monday morning, she’d half convinced herself it was fine. Normal. Just drinks. Just Harry. Nothing to freak out about.

Then she saw him.

—

She was walking toward the kitchen with her mug in hand—already mentally preparing herself for the weak office coffee—when she saw him rounding the corner.

He was wearing one of those outfits that somehow looked unintentional and perfect at the same time: navy trousers, a white t-shirt under a dark cardigan, and a lanyard he never actually needed but wore anyway. Hair slightly messier than usual, eyes sharp but calm.

They locked eyes for a second.

And then he smiled. A real one. Not the tight, clipped one from last week. Not forced, not tense.

Just… easy.

“Morning,” he said, stepping aside so she could pass.

“Morning,” she replied, matching his tone—cool, casual. No big deal.

He held the kitchen door open for her and followed her in. She was painfully aware of the two feet of space between them. Of how normal this was. And how not-normal it felt, knowing tomorrow night they’d be sitting in a bar alone and trying to be honest again.

“How was your weekend?” he asked, pouring himself a coffee.

She shrugged lightly. “Quiet. Tried to do laundry. Failed.”

Harry chuckled. “Strong effort, though.”

“What about you?”

“Visited my mum,” he said, stirring his coffee. “She made me take home leftovers like I hadn’t eaten in three weeks.”

Y/N smiled, distracted for a second by the image of him sitting in a kitchen somewhere warm, fending off Tupperware with a half-hearted protest.

“Big week?” she asked.

He looked at her then—really looked—and said, “Not until tomorrow.”

Her breath caught for just a split second. But she held steady.

“Right,” she said, soft. “Tomorrow.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just gave her the smallest nod, like he was confirming they were still good. Still on the same page.

And then he left the room. It made her stomach flip a little. Not in a bad way. Just in the okay-so-this-is-really-happening kind of way.

—

The next day, she found herself in front of her closet at 5:40 p.m., half-dressed and whispering curses under her breath. Nothing looked right. Everything felt too try-hard or not enough. She wasn’t trying to impress him, but she didn’t want to look like she’d come straight from work either.

Eventually, she landed on a black knit top, a leather jacket, and the jeans that actually fit her the way she liked. Comfortable. Sharp enough to feel put together, soft enough to feel like herself.

She didn’t overthink it.

Well—she did. But she still left the apartment on time.

—

Tuesday, 7:06 p.m.

Y/N got there first.

She always did, mostly because it gave her control. Over the setting, the nerves, the awkward hello. She chose a small table in the back near the window—far enough from the bar to hear each other, close enough to the door that she didn’t have to pretend she was doing something else while she waited.

Her phone stayed face-down on the table. Her drink—gin and tonic, no frills—sat half-finished when he walked in.

She looked up and felt that little jolt. The one that had started happening more often lately.

Harry had on a dark sweater, black coat draped over one arm, and that same kind of quiet confidence he wore so naturally, like he wasn’t trying at all. His hair looked freshly pushed back, a little messy at the ends, and the gold chain at his neck caught the warm bar lighting just enough to be annoying.

He spotted her immediately.

“Hey,” he said, smiling as he slid into the seat across from her.

“Hey.” She mirrored the smile, unsure what to do with her hands, so she adjusted her sleeves unnecessarily. “You found it okay?”

“Did a loop around the block like an idiot first, but yeah.”

There was a beat of quiet while he looked over the menu. She studied his face briefly while he wasn’t looking—he looked a little tired, but relaxed. Comfortable.

A server came by and he ordered a whisky neat. Simple.

“So,” he said once they were alone again, resting his forearms on the table. “No work talk, right?”

“Right. Fully banned.”

“Can I at least ask how your day was?”

She grinned. “Only if you want a very detailed play-by-play about me arguing with a printer.”

“Tempting.”

Conversation started slow—small things. What she was reading lately. A movie he watched twice in one weekend out of boredom. It wasn’t tense, but there was still a strange politeness between them. Like neither of them knew how far they could lean in just yet.

Eventually, she took a sip of her drink and leaned back, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Okay,” she said. “Let me just get this part out of the way.”

Harry tilted his head. “The part where you apologize?”

She made a face. “Yeah.”

He nodded slowly. “Go on then.”

She smiled despite herself. “I really am sorry for what I said last week. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”

“I know you didn’t,” he said, not looking away.

“It was a dumb thing to say.”

“You’ve said worse.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Have I?”

He shrugged, his mouth twitching. “You once called me ‘a walking Pinterest board for rich introverts.’”

She burst out laughing. “That was objectively accurate.”

“Still hurtful,” he said, mock serious.

“I thought you liked being called mysterious.”

“I like being called brilliant,” he replied, grinning now. “Or at the very least, devastatingly handsome.”

“Oh my god,” she laughed, shaking her head. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“That thing you do. Where you say something cocky but somehow get away with it because your delivery is so smooth.”

“Is it working now?”

She tried not to smile. Failed. “A little.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “That’s good. Because I was actually kind of nervous about tonight.”

“You were?” she asked, surprised.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Didn’t know if this would be weird. Or if you’d show up just to cross it off your list of regrets.”

She paused. “I thought you might not show.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“I don’t know. You were… different last week.”

“You made a weird comment. I sulked about it. Then you texted me, and I realized I’d rather have one awkward drink with you than spend another week pretending like I don’t miss our conversations.”

Her heart skipped. Just once, but enough to notice.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Well. I missed them too.”

He smiled again—softer this time. “Good. Let’s not mess it up again.”

“No promises.”

He lifted his glass. “To a fresh start?”

She clinked hers against his. “To pretending we’re not both weird about feelings.”

He laughed into his drink.

And just like that, the tension finally cracked—melted under the ease they used to have, the banter slipping back into place like it had just been waiting for one of them to say the right thing.

—

The change didn’t happen all at once.

There was no grand declaration, no dramatic pause in the hallway while someone said I think I like you. It was slower than that—quieter. But it was real. And Y/N felt it.

Especially at work.

The morning after their not-date date, Harry walked into the office with two coffees in hand—hers already made exactly how she liked it—and dropped it on her desk without a word. Just a smirk. She looked up at him, slightly suspicious.

“Is this a peace offering or a bribe?”

He leaned against her desk, took a sip of his own coffee. “Neither. Just wanted to give you something that wouldn’t get me in trouble with HR.”

She laughed, cheeks warming. “Well. Thank you. I’ll only report you if it’s decaf.”

That became the pattern.

Little things. A muffin on her chair. A sticky note doodle left on his monitor. Her pulling his headphones off without warning, only to find him already smiling like he knew she was going to.

At meetings, he sat next to her every time. Sometimes too close. Once, she caught his foot nudging hers under the conference table. She glared at him. He winked.

They weren’t trying to hide it exactly. But they weren’t announcing anything either. Mostly because they didn’t know what this was. Not yet. But it felt like something.

And outside the office? That was changing too.

They texted now. All the time.

It started with casual stuff—TikToks, screenshots of unhinged client emails, memes with captions like you this morning in the kitchen. But then it shifted.

Late night: HARRY: still awake? Y/N: debating if eating cereal at 1am makes me a genius or a gremlin HARRY: i vote genius Y/N: you would. you love chaos disguised as charm. HARRY: that feels like a compliment Y/N: ...it wasn’t HARRY: still taking it

And then there were the lunches.

The first one was spontaneous—she’d had a horrible morning, and Harry had caught her glaring at her screen like it had personally betrayed her. Without a word, he grabbed her coat and said, “Come on. We’re getting real food.”

Now it was routine.

Sometimes they went to the café two blocks down where the barista knew their names. Other days, they grabbed takeout and ate it on a bench outside, their knees bumping lightly as they unwrapped sandwiches and talked about everything except work.

He asked questions—real ones. Not just polite filler. Stuff like what kind of kid were you?, what scares you the most but also secretly thrills you?, have you ever been in love?She dodged that last one.

But she asked things back. She wanted to know the small stuff. What his sister was like. Why he always smelled like cedar and oranges. How he got into this industry at all.

And now, they had another date planned.

Set for Friday.

Not just drinks. Dinner this time. Somewhere cozy, tucked away in the West Village, with low lights and too many candles.

He’d picked it. Told her it was “low-pressure.” Then followed it up with: but i might wear a proper shirt, just in case you bring up my tragic introvert wardrobe again.

She was nervous. But not in a bad way. In a something’s unfolding and I don’t want to mess it up kind of way.

At the office on Thursday afternoon, she caught him looking at her from across the room during a meeting. Not intense. Not dramatic. Just... there. Quietly steady.

And when the meeting ended and people began to file out, he stayed behind.

Walked up to her. Close enough to make her heart tick a little faster.

“Tomorrow,” he said, low and easy.

She raised a brow. “Still on?”

He tilted his head, smiling. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

—

The place he picked was small, tucked into a quiet West Village block, glowing with warm light through the windows and smelling faintly of rosemary and wine. It felt relaxed, cozy. The kind of restaurant that didn’t need to be loud to be cool.

Y/N spotted him at a corner table near the back, nursing a drink and scrolling his phone. He looked comfortable there, legs stretched a little too far under the table, one hand resting on the rim of his glass.

He looked up before she could say anything. His smile appeared instantly—soft, a little crooked, and warm enough to make her stomach flip.

“Hey,” he said, standing as she reached the table. “You made it.”

“You sound surprised.”

He shrugged. “I was half-convinced you’d flake just to maintain the mystery.”

“I’m not that unpredictable,” she said, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Mm. Jury’s out.”

There was a moment where his eyes lingered—not in a heavy way, but in a way that made it very obvious he noticed what she was wearing. The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t say anything.

The waiter came and went. He let her choose the wine, teasing her about pretending to read the menu like she wasn’t going to pick based on the vibe of the label.

Conversation flowed easily—Harry had a way of keeping things light without letting them turn shallow. He asked about her week. She asked if he’d ever gotten around to fixing the broken drawer in his kitchen he’d been complaining about. He hadn’t.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and the plate of shared pasta, something shifted.

He leaned in a little closer when she spoke. Not dramatically—just enough to make it feel like her words were meant only for him. When she reached across the table to grab the salt, he didn’t pull his hand away right away when their fingers brushed.

And once—just once—he let his hand rest on the side of the table, close enough that her knee grazed it.

If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

If she moved her leg slightly closer… well, he didn’t move his hand either.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he said after a beat.

She looked up at him, surprised. “Am I?”

“A little. Thought maybe you were nervous.”

She smiled into her glass. “Why would I be nervous?”

He shrugged, mouth curving. “Because I’m very charming and slightly annoying. That combination tends to throw people off.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re more subtle than that.”

“I can be,” he said, tone a little lower now. “Sometimes.”

The air went still for a second, like the moment hovered somewhere between teasing and something else. But then the waiter returned with the check, and Harry leaned back again, letting the tension settle without pushing it.

When they left the restaurant, it was still early enough that the city wasn’t completely quiet. The streets were lit up, but calm. She walked beside him, hands in her pockets.

He didn’t grab her hand. He didn’t pull her close.

But his shoulder bumped hers once, gently. Then again, intentionally.

“Thanks for coming tonight,” he said after a while, voice quiet now.

“You’re welcome.”

They stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. He turned slightly toward her, looking at her fully now. His eyes were soft, but direct.

“I like this,” he said. “You and me, like this.”

Y/N felt something warm creep up her neck, but she didn’t look away. “I like it too.”

They stood there for a second too long.

Then he smiled again—smaller this time—and nodded toward the direction of the subway. “Can I walk you to the station?”

“You’re not trying to get me to come home with you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of man do you take me for?”

“The kind who flirts with his coworker for a month and finally asks her out?”

“I’ll have you know,” he said, gently bumping her arm with his, “I was professionally respectful for a solid three weeks.”

“Impressive,” she teased.

“I thought so.”

And as they kept walking, their arms brushed again. Neither of them moved.

—

Group Chat: “Chaos Committee 💅🔥🍷”

Clara: Sooo How’d it go last night?

Ava: Yeah don’t make us guess We were very respectfully trying not to text you during the entire dinner window 🙃

Y/N: Appreciate the restraint Also: it was nice Really nice, actually

Clara: Ugh You’re being vague You like him

Y/N: I do. I’m trying not to be annoying about it But yeah

Ava: Okay but give us something What was the vibe? Better than the first one?

Y/N: Yeah Way less awkward He was calm, funny, kind of... quiet but not in a bad way And he looked really good Wore that green shirt again

Clara: Oh. The shirt. The rolled sleeves shirt

Y/N: Yup Forearms out Rings on And the waiter definitely thought we were already together

Ava: As they should

Y/N: He was kind of extra warm last night Little touches here and there Like when I reached for my glass and his hand brushed mine Or how our knees kept bumping under the table and he didn’t move

Clara: So the tension was doing push-ups under the table Got it

Y/N: Basically He said “I like this. You and me, like this” Then immediately acted like he hadn’t just said something that made my brain stop functioning

Ava: That man is running a very calculated long game Respect

Clara: So… what happened after dinner?

Y/N: He walked me to the train Talked the whole way Lightly roasted my Spotify taste Then gave me this soft smile and told me to text when I got home

Clara: ...that’s it?

Y/N: Yup No kiss No lingering hand on the small of my back Just a really warm goodbye and the sense that he’s waiting for something

Ava: Waiting for you to make the next move maybe?

Y/N: I don’t know He’s so good at walking right up to the line and stopping Like he wants me to notice it but doesn’t want to cross it without me saying yes

Clara: Honestly I hate how respectful that is

Y/N: I know It’s actually making me lose my mind

Ava: Okay but you’re into it

Y/N: ...I’m very into it

Clara: So what now?

Y/N: I see him Monday And I’m pretending like it’s just another normal day And not like I’ve been thinking about his hand brushing my knee for 12 straight hours

Ava: Good plan That always works out great for people

Y/N: Shut up

—

Monday – Office, 10:42 a.m.

Work was work.

Emails. Edits. Slack notifications that piled up faster than she could read them. But Y/N couldn’t focus for more than fifteen minutes at a time without remembering the way Harry had looked at her Friday night. Or how he hadn’t kissed her. Or how she kind of loved that he hadn’t.

She was scrolling through a doc when she sensed him before she saw him—there was always something in the air when he walked by her desk, like her body clock recalibrated itself.

“Morning,” he said casually, appearing next to her chair with a cup of coffee and that effortlessly smug smile.

“Is this for me?” she asked, accepting it anyway.

“I figured you needed it,” he said, then leaned down slightly to whisper, “You were frowning at your screen like it owed you money.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling already. “Thanks.”

He didn’t leave right away. Just hovered at the edge of her desk for a few seconds, eyes scanning her face like he was trying to read something there.

“You want to eat together later?” he asked.

“Sure” she said “Meet you at the elevator later?”

“Sounds like a plan”.

—

Monday – Lunch Break

“Are you gonna judge me if I order two things off the specials menu?” Y/N asked, squinting at the little chalkboard propped up at the edge of their table.

Harry leaned back in his chair, half-smiling. “I’d only judge if you didn’t. What kind of monster comes to a place that smells like heaven and doesn’t over-order?”

She grinned, setting the menu down. “Alright, good. Just wanted to make sure we’re both mentally prepared for me to have a post-lunch food coma at my desk.”

“Can’t wait to watch you pretend to be productive while slowly falling asleep mid-email,” he said, stretching his legs out under the table until they accidentally brushed hers.

Neither of them moved.

They were tucked into a small two-person table by the window of the Italian place Harry had suggested—a quiet spot with sun spilling through the glass and just enough hum from other tables to feel private. The food smelled ridiculous. Garlic, butter, rosemary… 

When the waiter left with their orders, Harry glanced at her across the table. “You always get that serious when you read menus?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s a high-stakes decision. This is lunch. I have to live with it for the rest of the afternoon.”

“That’s true. It does define your mood for at least three hours.”

“Exactly.”

“I respect that.”

She sipped her water and watched him tilt his head slightly, like he was studying her. “What?” she asked.

He smiled. “Nothing. I just like seeing you outside the office.”

She blinked. “We text constantly.”

“Yeah, but that’s different. In person you make these little faces when you’re thinking—like right now, you’re trying not to smile.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, failing miserably to hide it. “I hate that you notice stuff like that.”

“I’m very observant.”

“You’re very smug.”

He raised his glass to her. “Also true.”

The food arrived a few minutes later—her pasta, his risotto—and they both took their first bites at the same time. Harry made a soft sound, not dramatic, just satisfied.

“Okay, that’s a throwback,” he said, sitting back a little.

“What is?”

He gestured toward his plate. “Risotto. My mum used to make it almost exactly like this. Creamy, garlicky, winey. I haven’t had it like this in years.”

Y/N raised her brows. “What happened, did she stop loving you?”

Harry smiled. “No. I just haven’t had anyone make it since I moved out. It's not exactly the kind of dish people whip up on a whim.”

“I do.”

“You make risotto?”

“Mushroom risotto. With wine. Sometimes thyme, if I’m feeling fancy.”

He stared at her, amused. “That’s dangerously specific.”

She shrugged. “It’s one of my go-to ‘I swear I’m a real adult’ meals. Feels impressive but it’s mostly just stirring and committing to the bit.”

Harry looked at her, eyes narrowed slightly like he was considering something. Then he said, slowly, “So when are you making it for me?”

Y/N blinked once. Twice. Then gave a small smirk. “Wow. Not even a subtle lead-in. You just jumped right to the invite.”

“Gotta keep up with you somehow,” he said, smiling easily now. “I’m not above being fed.”

She paused, then: “Friday?”

His expression softened, surprised but not caught off guard. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

Y/N raised her brows as she twirled a bite of pasta. “No allergies? No weird food trauma I should know about before I commit to this dinner plan?”

Harry laughed, sitting back in his chair. “None. I eat everything. Except olives.”

She gasped. “What? Olives are elite.”

“They taste like brine and betrayal.”

“I’m still putting them in the salad,” she said. “You’ll deal.”

He pointed his fork at her. “You say that now, but you’re gonna be weirdly invested in whether I like it or not. I can already tell.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling. “I just don’t want to waste my good cooking on someone with broken taste buds.”

“Then you’ll have to find out if it’s worth the risk,” he said, voice low but playful, like there was a dare tucked into the words.

Her eyes held his for a beat too long. She looked away first—barely.

They both went back to eating, but the quiet between them wasn’t awkward. It was charged in that new way. Comfortable, but close to something else. Their legs brushed again under the table. Neither of them moved.

He went quiet for a beat, watching her as she gathered the last of her pasta onto her fork.

“I’m excited for Friday,” he said, almost offhand, but his eyes were too steady for it to be casual.

She looked up. “Who said it was a date?”

Harry smirked, didn’t miss a beat. “Me. I did. Mentally. While you were talking about thyme like it’s a love language.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard—and laughed. “Wow.”

“I stand by it,” he added, casually wiping his hand on a napkin. “You invite me over, cook for me, maybe pour me a glass of wine… that’s textbook date behavior. Page one.”

She tried to keep a straight face but failed miserably. “What if I burn it?”

“Then we order takeout,” he said, standing, grabbing both their receipts. “And it’s still a date. Just one with a fun plot twist.”

Y/N rolled her eyes as she followed him toward the door. “You’re annoyingly sure of yourself.”

Harry glanced back at her, holding the door open. “No,” he said, voice low but smiling. “I’m just sure about you.”

She froze for half a second. Then stepped past him, heat blooming in her chest and creeping up her neck.

He walked beside her all the way back to the office, hands in his pockets, like he hadn’t just said something that would replay in her head for the next four days straight.

They stepped into the elevator together. Just the two of them.

It was quiet inside—soft hum of motion, the faintest trace of cologne in the air. Y/N stood beside him, arms folded, eyes on the glowing numbers overhead like she hadn’t just invited him over for a dinner she now absolutely could not mess up.

Harry, on the other hand, was perfectly relaxed. Leaned casually against the wall, side-glancing at her with a look she pretended not to notice.

“Friday,” he said softly, not looking away.

“Seven,” she replied.

“I’ll bring the wine.”

“Good,” she said. “That’s your only job.”

He tilted his head. “And yours?”

She raised a brow. “Cooking. Obviously.”

He smirked, slow. “No. I mean your real job.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s my ‘real’ job?”

Harry let the pause stretch just enough to feel it. Then said, low and playful, “Try not to make me fall for you over risotto.”

Her stomach dipped. Hard.

She opened her mouth—maybe to reply, maybe to deflect—but the elevator dinged before she could say a word.

He stepped out first, like he hadn’t just dropped that and walked away.

And she followed, entirely aware she was already failing at that job.

—

7:03 p.m.

Y/N wasn’t nervous.

That’s what she told herself as she adjusted the straps of her top for the third time, checked the risotto on the stove for the fifth, and glanced at her phone for no real reason at all.

She wasn’t nervous. She was… anticipatory. Which was worse.

The apartment smelled like sautéed garlic, wine, and rosemary. Her playlist was low, something warm and rhythmic playing in the background. She’d cleaned. Lit two candles—not too many. She was wearing jeans and a simple black tank top that looked casual from far away but a little dangerous up close.

At exactly 7:06, there was a knock.

She wiped her palms on her thighs, walked to the door, and opened it—

—and forgot how to speak for a second.

Harry stood in the hallway, wine bottle in hand, coat open over a navy button-down that was just fitted enough to hint at the lines underneath. Sleeves rolled once, casually. Hair pushed back. Rings on. Slight scruff on his jaw like he hadn’t bothered shaving for the occasion, and it somehow made him look better.

“Hey,” he said, smile already tugging at his mouth. His voice low and smooth and a little too warm.

Y/N opened the door wider, trying to look unaffected. “You’re late.”

“By three minutes,” he said, stepping in. “You gonna punish me for it?”

She turned to walk back to the kitchen before he could see her smile. “Don’t tempt me.”

Harry’s eyes followed her. “Already am.”

She ignored that. Barely. “Wine goes on the counter. Glasses are in the cabinet to your left.”

He slipped off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair, the motion unhurried. His sleeves shifted higher, showing the veins along his forearms, and it was ridiculous how aware she was of every single movement he made. Like her whole body had decided to tune into just him.

He found the glasses without asking, poured two, and brought hers over like he’d done it a hundred times.

“Smells incredible,” he said, glancing at the pot on the stove. “Didn’t realize this would be a full sensory experience.”

She took the glass from him, their fingers brushing. “Didn’t realize you’d show up looking like you belong in a perfume ad.”

He tilted his head. “Is that a compliment or a threat?”

“A little of both.”

He leaned against the counter, swirling his wine lazily. “You’re already nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. I can tell.”

She sipped her wine. “You’re very confident for someone about to eat food I made unsupervised.”

“Oh, I’m terrified,” he said, smile curling slowly. “But I’m also a risk-taker.”

“Really?” she asked, stepping just a little closer. “What kind of risks are we talking?”

Harry’s gaze dropped, briefly, to her mouth. “Ones that involve very pretty women in tank tops inviting me over and pretending it’s all casual.”

Y/N’s heart stuttered.

But she covered it with a dry, “You’re awfully chatty for someone who’s supposed to be quietly impressed.”

“I haven’t even tasted it yet,” he murmured, leaning in like he might say something else.

But he didn’t. He just reached around her—close enough to brush his chest against her shoulder—and stirred the risotto with one of the wooden spoons she’d left on the counter.

She didn’t move.

“You’re doing it right,” he said, still low, still close. “Good technique.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“I can tell.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to feel the space between them shrink.

Then he looked at her, and his voice dipped just slightly, deliberate now:

“You know this is a date, right?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. It is. And you’re doing dangerously well.”

Her throat went dry.

The spoon was still in his hand. The risotto still simmering. But everything between them had gone still—warm, weighted, suspended between polite flirtation and whatever the hell this was becoming.

“I haven’t even served it yet,” she said quietly.

Harry’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve already got me.”

Y/N held his gaze for a second too long, heat blooming low in her stomach. But she didn’t let it tip yet. She reached out and gently took the spoon from his hand, turning her focus back to the risotto.

“You’re lucky I like feeding people,” she said, stirring.

“Lucky’s one word for it.”

“You’re also distracting.”

“Also one word for it.”

He sat at the kitchen table while she plated the food, watching her with that unshakable calm, fingers tapping against the stem of his wine glass. When she finally set a bowl in front of him, he looked up and said, very simply:

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me until you’ve tried it.”

He took one bite, then another—no dramatic noises this time, just that slow nod of approval, the kind that made her chest tighten.

“I hate how good this is,” he said through a smile. “Now I can’t even fake critique you.”

“You weren’t going to anyway.”

“I was, just to keep you humble.”

She grinned, settling across from him, and they ate in a rhythm that felt natural. Familiar. They didn’t fill every silence. They didn’t rush the conversation. He asked how she got into cooking. She asked what kind of kid he was at school. He told her he was quiet. Kind of nerdy. Read more than he talked.

“But you’re so…” she paused, waving her fork at him, “you now.”

Harry smiled. “Still kind of nerdy. Just taller.”

They finished eating slowly, in no real rush. Conversation drifted, low and lazy. Harry told a story about getting lost on the Tube as a teenager and ending up an hour outside of London. She admitted she once cried in a grocery store because she couldn't find the right brand of olive oil.

When the food was gone and only half the wine left, Y/N stood with a stretch and started clearing plates.

“You cooked,” Harry said, getting up beside her. “Let me clean.”

“You can help,” she said, stacking dishes. “But don’t think you’re getting full dish duty just because I made risotto.”

“Worth a try,” he murmured, brushing against her as he took the plates to the sink.

The touch lingered—his hand grazing her hip on the way past. Not overt. Not rushed. But purposeful.

She handed him a glass, and their fingers met again. This time neither of them looked away.

“You’re quiet,” she said, filling the silence with something safe.

Harry tilted his head slightly. “I’m trying not to say something reckless.”

Her heart fluttered. “Like what?”

“Like how long I’ve been thinking about this. About you.” He turned slightly, drying a plate without breaking eye contact. “Since the first time I saw you that day in the office. You walked in like you belonged there. That little nervous smile. I was done for.”

She didn’t move, just held his gaze. “That’s not reckless.”

“It is if I tell you I wanted to kiss you before I knew your last name.”

Y/N blinked slowly.

Then she set the towel down, stepped closer, and looked up at him.

“You’re really going for it tonight.”

Harry’s smile was slow and sure. “Trying to make up for lost time.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she kissed him.

Soft at first, but immediate. Like they’d both been holding it back all night and finally decided to stop pretending. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek, while his other arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her flush against him.

She sighed against his mouth as his tongue brushed hers—slow and unhurried but thorough, like he meant every second of it. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

When they finally pulled apart, just slightly, she caught her breath and whispered, “We should take this to the bedroom.”

He blinked, lips parted, eyes dark.

“Yeah?” he said, low and rough now.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He didn’t ask twice. He just followed.

And the second they stepped into her room, everything changed.

—

The door clicked shut behind him, and the quiet deepened. The only light came from the hallway and the faint glow of the city through her windows. Harry stood there for a second, eyes on her like she’d just undone something in him.

Then he crossed the room and kissed her again—deeper now, slower, like they finally had permission to feel everything.

She let her hands roam, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips skimming over warm skin and firm muscle. He hissed softly through his teeth when she tugged the shirt over his head, dropping it somewhere behind them.

“God, you’re…” she breathed, letting her gaze fall over him, eyes hungry and soft all at once.

“Say it,” he murmured, thumb brushing her lower lip.

“You know exactly what I was going to say.”

He smirked. “I like hearing it anyway.”

She kissed down his neck, tongue brushing the curve where his shoulder met his collarbone, and smiled when she felt him shiver under her mouth.

He didn’t just touch her—he held her, his hands sliding over her back, her sides, her hips, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted her most. His fingers dipped under her waistband, pausing, waiting for her nod before easing her jeans down slowly.

Once she stepped out of them, she stood there in nothing but her tank top and underwear, heart pounding.

Harry looked at her like she was already undoing him.

“You’re dangerous,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, stepping closer, brushing his mouth over her jaw, “and now that I have it, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Then don’t,” she whispered.

He lifted her gently—just enough to lay her back on the bed—and followed, crawling over her with slow purpose. Her tank top came off next, tossed somewhere beside them, and when he looked down at her, he stilled.

His hands traced her bare skin like it was something delicate. Not hesitating—just taking his time.

“Still with me?” he asked, voice rough and low.

She nodded, eyes locked on his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

That was all he needed.

He kissed her again, mouth moving over hers with quiet intensity, hips pressing against hers as his hand slid between her thighs, not rushed, just there, warm and solid and deliberate.

Every touch was a question, and every breath she gave him was an answer.

By the time he eased her back into the pillows, lips brushing her throat, her shoulder, her chest, she wasn’t sure where she ended and he began. His name slipped out of her in a whisper, soft and urgent, as his mouth trailed lower—lips against her skin, tongue slow and teasing, every movement sending sparks through her like aftershocks.

He moved with patience. With purpose. With a kind of reverence she hadn’t expected, but felt all the way down to her ribs.

And when he finally pulled her into his arms afterward—bodies warm, tangled, skin still humming—he didn’t say anything right away.

Just ran his fingers up and down her spine, slow and steady, anchoring them both in the quiet.

Then, almost too softly to hear:

“I’m really not going to be able to stop thinking about you now.”

Y/N smiled into his chest.

“Good,” she whispered. “That makes two of us.”

—

​​The first thing Y/N noticed was warmth.

Not sunlight, not sound—just heat, steady and solid behind her, an arm draped heavy across her waist and breath moving slowly against the back of her neck.

She blinked her eyes open. Her bedroom was quiet, soft light filtering through the curtains. Everything smelled like skin and her lavender laundry soap and something distinctly him.

She shifted slightly and felt him move behind her—just the barest reaction, like his body didn’t want to lose the contact.

Then came the voice, low and sleep-rough.

“Morning.”

She smiled before turning. “Morning.”

Harry was already watching her, eyes soft, hair a total mess, the faintest smirk on his lips like he couldn’t believe this was real. He brushed a hand over her shoulder gently, fingers trailing up to her jaw like he needed to confirm she was still there.

“Didn’t dream that, did I?” he asked, voice still scratchy.

She shook her head. “You were definitely here. There was risotto. There was wine. There was…”

“A lot of things,” he offered, still grinning.

Her cheeks warmed, but she didn’t look away. “You stayed.”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”

They lay there for a moment, quiet again. His thumb moved lazily over her hip under the covers. She could feel the way his legs tangled with hers, warm skin brushing everywhere.

She wanted to ask what this meant. If they were different now. If they were going to try to pretend it hadn’t happened at work on Monday morning—but then he leaned in and kissed her forehead, soft and slow, and said:

“You know I’m not going to pretend this didn’t happen, right?”

Her eyes met his.

“I don’t want to pretend either,” she said.

That was it.

Not a relationship talk. Not labels. Just honesty.

Just this.

“Good,” he whispered, voice still sleep-warm. “Because I was already planning breakfast.”

She laughed. “You’re confident.”

He rolled onto his back dramatically. “I just gave the performance of my life and made sure you didn’t burn the risotto. Let me have my moment.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And charming.”

She leaned over him and kissed him again. It was slow, languid. The kind of kiss that didn’t go anywhere, but still promised everything.

Her hand slipped into his hair, and his arm curled back around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest again.

—

They stayed in bed longer than planned.

The risotto dishes were still in the sink. Her hair was a mess. His shirt was missing. They didn’t care.

Harry made coffee while Y/N stood barefoot in the kitchen, wearing one of his sweaters—something he must’ve tossed into his overnight bag, though she couldn’t remember when. It hung loose on her frame, sleeves too long, fabric soft from wear.

“You can’t just look like that and expect me to focus on pouring,” he muttered as he handed her a mug.

She took it without breaking eye contact. “I like how quickly you folded.”

He sipped his coffee with a lazy smirk. “Folded the moment I walked in your door last night.”

They ate toast over the sink. Talked about absolutely nothing. She told him her neighbor leaves passive-aggressive sticky notes in the laundry room. He told her he once accidentally wore mismatched shoes to a client meeting and no one noticed—still one of his proudest office wins.

And then, too soon, it was time for him to go.

He stood by the door, keys in one hand, the other still lingering at her hip like he hadn’t decided whether to pull her back in or let her breathe.

“I’ll see you Monday,” he said, voice low, unreadable.

She nodded. “We’ll pretend to be normal.”

He leaned down and kissed her once—soft, careful, like he didn’t want to wake whatever spell they’d slipped into.

But before he pulled away, he whispered, “Just so you know, I’m already thinking about the next time.”

Y/N smiled, her chest tight in that restless, breathless way that meant she already was too.

He left.

The apartment was quieter now. Still warm, still full of him, but quieter.

— 

After he left, the apartment was quiet.

Y/N wandered back to the kitchen, barefoot, still wearing his sweater. She poured herself a second cup of coffee even though it had already gone cold. Leaned against the counter, staring at nothing in particular.

There was a dish towel still hanging crooked off the oven handle. A candle burned too low on the windowsill. A wine glass tipped slightly in the sink.

All signs that last night had really happened.

Her neck was still warm where he’d kissed it. Her body ached in that good, quiet way. And every now and then, her mind would flash to the way he’d looked at her—right before, during, after. Like he knew something she didn’t.

She took a sip of coffee and smiled to herself.

It was funny.

She didn’t think this was how it would go. When she started the job, when she’d met him this wasn’t in the plan.

She didn’t think it would turn into late-night texts. Or pasta. Or him, standing barefoot in her kitchen like he belonged there.

She especially didn’t think it would turn into this quiet kind of happiness. This soft, steady warmth that hadn’t faded even after the door clicked shut behind him.

She shook her head to herself, grinning.

“I really didn’t see that coming,” she murmured into her mug.

But somehow, that made it better.

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (1/20)

Here I aaam! Remembering that the posts will be every Saturday.

So, enjoy it!

*I'm a little drunk rigth now, so, I'm sorry if you find mistakes*

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio X Fem Reader

Summary: A serie of events makes you fall into the good graces of two older women.

Hey! I've a masterlist

Fascination

You wake up to the first rays of sunlight slipping through the gaps in the curtains. Your bedroom is small, just 23 square meters, but it’s the only space in the world you can truly call your own. A study desk pushed against the wall, shelves crammed with books and notebooks filled to the last page, and plants scattered in every corner—ferns, succulents, and a small cactus that stubbornly clings to life even when you forget to water it.

After stretching, you get up and head straight to the window, where your plants greet the day. You talk to them in a soft tone as you mist them, almost as if expecting a reply. “You look beautiful today. I promise I won’t forget you again.”

Lucky, your overly talkative black cat, meows at your feet. He wants nothing but your attention, and you oblige, stroking his head with a tired smile. “Good morning, Lucky. Seems like you’ve got a lot to say, huh?” He meows back, and you laugh.

In the comfortable silence of the morning, your mind drifts, as it often does, to the past. You grew up in the suburbs, in a small house that was always full. Your father did his best to raise you and your five older siblings, but there was a gap that was never filled: your mother. She left when you were just a child, and though no one in the family spoke openly about it, her absence was a constant shadow in your life.

You remember the nights when your older siblings would laugh and argue in the living room, while you, the youngest, hid in a corner with a book or a notebook. Writing was your escape, your way of creating a world where you had control, where mothers didn’t leave and bad things always had a solution.

She left when you were little, leaving behind you, your five older siblings, and a father who never knew how to handle her absence. You remember the nights when the silence of the house was broken by questions no one dared to ask. Why did she leave? Was it us? Was it me?

No matter how hard he tried, your father couldn’t fill the void she left behind. He worked all day, came home exhausted, and did his best to keep the house running, but affection and kind words were never his strong suit.

“You’re strong. You don’t need to cry over this,” he’d say every time tears threatened to spill. Gradually, you learned to swallow your tears and convince yourself that you needed to be strong, even when everything inside you wanted to collapse.

Her absence shaped much of who you are today, though not in a way you like to admit. It’s hard to look in the mirror and not feel... inadequate. You wonder if she left because you weren’t good enough, because you weren’t good enough.

These thoughts are like shadows that appear at the most unexpected times, especially when you try to open up to someone. Intimacy is terrifying. You fear that if people truly know you, they’ll abandon you, just like she did.

In school, this made you shy and reserved. You always felt like a puzzle with a missing piece, unable to fit in. Your siblings tried to shield you from the worst, but they had their own battles to fight.

You were the youngest, the “baby” of the house, and yet you never had the chance to be treated as such. While they laughed and argued, you hid in your room, writing stories that transported you to worlds where mothers didn’t abandon their daughters.

This absence also gave you a fierce determination. You promised yourself that if no one was there to take care of you, then you would take care of yourself. You studied late into the night, devouring books on screenwriting and filmmaking from the public library.

When the college acceptance letter arrived, it felt like the world had paused for a moment. You’d made it. The first in your family to set foot on a university campus. Despite the pride, the insecurity is always there, lurking. The fear of not being good enough, of failing, of being discarded. You work hard because you feel you have something to prove, even if no one asked you to.

The sound of the bell above the door announces another day of work at the small café. You walk in, adjusting your apron with a resigned sigh. The air smells comforting, like fresh coffee, but the weight of the shift ahead is always present. You do everything there: serve tables, clean counters, even organize the stock. Your boss is an unpleasant man, known for his sexist jokes and invasive behavior. But you need the money, so you swallow your anger and keep going.

América, your coworker, is the opposite of you. Rebellious and fearless, she confronts the boss without hesitation, even knowing it could cost her the job. You make an unlikely team, but somehow it works.

As you wipe down the counter, you hear the sharp click of heels echoing through the café. The sound has a weight to it, cutting through the usual hum of the room. A barely perceptible pause spreads through the space, as if the air itself had been suspended for a second. It’s not just curiosity—it’s reverence.

Your gaze lifts almost instinctively, and it’s impossible not to notice the woman who just walked in. Tall, with perfectly styled dark hair and a black blazer that looks tailor-made, she exudes power. But it’s more than that. There’s something in the way her eyes sweep the room—a sharp coldness, as if she could dissect everyone there with just a glance. And people notice her. Some whisper her name, others try not to stare too long.

You swallow hard, trying not to seem intimidated. But when her eyes finally land on you, it’s as if the world around you has disappeared. She doesn’t look away, and the intensity of that moment makes your stomach churn. For a split second, it feels like she knows exactly who you are—all your fears, insecurities, and dreams laid bare before her.

Summoning what little courage you have left, you adjust your apron and force a smile you’ve practiced hundreds of times. “Good morning, what can I get for you today?” Your voice sounds calm, but your heart is racing.

The woman continues to stare at you, silent. Her dark eyes analyze every detail: the slightly worn apron, your hands gripping the notepad too tightly, even the stray strand of hair that escaped your bun. It’s unsettling, as if she’s assessing every tiny aspect of your existence.

“A caramel latte... and a black coffee. No sugar. To go.” Her voice finally breaks the silence. It’s low, gravelly, like distant thunder, and carries a strange familiarity—as if she’s used to being obeyed without question.

You nod, trying to stay professional. But as you prepare the orders, you feel her eyes on you, watching every move. The weight of her gaze is almost unbearable, like a test you didn’t know you were being forced to take. Your hands start to tremble, and an anxious heat spreads through your body. The feeling of being judged grows.

When you turn to hand over the drinks, the tension in your muscles is so tight that your hands falter. Before you realize it, the hot coffee cup slips, spilling the brown liquid all over the woman’s immaculate white blouse. The sound of the cup hitting the counter is muffled by the low, controlled sound of frustration that escapes her lips—not a scream, but a deep, restrained noise.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” you exclaim, your voice trembling. Grabbing napkins in a panic, you lean in to clean up the mess but freeze when you see the stain spreading across the expensive fabric.

The murmur in the café grows louder. Someone lets out an audible sigh, while another mutters something about “the mighty Rio” being treated so carelessly. The name hangs in the air, and only then does it fully hit you.

You knew she seemed powerful, but you hadn’t realized you were standing in front of Rio Vidal—one of the world’s most renowned visual artists. Like her wife, Agatha Harkness, she’s an icon. Together, they’re one of the few openly gay couples to dominate and be celebrated by the industry. Her fame precedes her, and now you’ve just spilled coffee on her.

The woman doesn’t say anything immediately, but her eyes—once analytical—now seem to pierce through you. There’s something terrifyingly calm about the way she looks at you, as if she’s deciding how much of a reaction you’re worth.

Before you can stammer out more apologies, your boss’s voice cuts through the air. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” he shouts, his anger exploding. “How can you be so clumsy? A client of this caliber, and you do this?! I should fire you right now!”

The embarrassment spreads through you like the coffee on her blouse. Your eyes well up as you try to explain, but the words won’t come. All you can do is look at the woman, hoping she’ll say something—anything.

She, however, doesn’t even glance at your boss. Her eyes remain fixed on you, as if he doesn’t exist. Finally, she breaks the silence with a low, sharp voice: “That really isn’t necessary.”

Your boss stammers, surprised. “But, ma’am, she—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Her gaze silences him, and for the first time, you see a man who thrives on authority shrink back.

You try to catch your breath, your face burning with shame. With a thread of courage, you murmur, “Please, come with me. I—I can fix this.” Your voice falters, but there’s something in your insistence that makes her tilt her head slightly, as if weighing your determination before nodding.

In the restroom, the silence between you is heavy but not empty. You grab the spare blouse you always carry and try to gather your thoughts, but when you turn around, the air seems to leave your lungs.

The woman unbuttons her blazer with precise movements, and when she removes the stained shirt, she reveals a black silk blouse so delicate that the light highlights the curves of her collarbone and the edges of her lace bra.

Your gaze involuntarily drifts to her shoulder, where the skin reddened by the coffee looks almost fragile. The sight is intimate in a way you weren’t prepared for, and your face burns.

“I... I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have...” you begin, but your voice falters. Your mind is torn between the embarrassment of the accident and the hypnotic presence of her, which seems to fill the small space of the restroom.

“Do you always get this nervous?” Her question is unexpected, her voice low and laden with something you can’t decipher. It’s almost a challenge, a test, and her gaze remains fixed on you, as if expecting more than a simple answer.

“I... I don’t know. Maybe?” You look away, shrinking slightly as you hand her the clean blouse. It’s cheap fabric but carries the faint scent of your homemade perfume. When her fingers brush against yours as she takes it, a shiver runs down your skin, quick and unexpected.

She puts on the blouse slowly, unhurried, and her words follow like an echo: “You shouldn’t apologize so much. Especially when you don’t know what for.” The statement is intriguing, almost disconcerting. Your heart races, as if you’ve just stumbled upon something you don’t fully understand.

Before she leaves, you blurt out, the words tumbling out in one breath: “Please... let me wash your blouse. I want... I need to make it up to you.”

She pauses at the door and turns, her eyes locking onto yours once more. There’s something different now, a genuine interest, almost calculated.

Without a word, she pulls a black card from her pocket, elegant and scented with a faint woody aroma. “When it’s ready, come to this address.” Her voice is low but layered with meaning you can’t interpret.

She leaves before you can respond, her posture impeccable and her steps controlled, as if every movement were rehearsed. You’re left alone in the restroom, holding the card that feels heavier than it should.

Rio Vidal.

The name echoes in your mind. A short, strong name, as enigmatic as she is. And for some reason you can’t explain, you feel like you’ve just opened a door to something that will change your life in ways even the worst coffee spills couldn’t predict.

A few minutes later, you gather enough courage to leave the restroom. Your heart is still pounding in your chest, as if trying to remind you of the disaster that just happened.

You find your boss standing near the counter, wearing the same disdainful look that always makes your skin crawl. But something is different today. He doesn’t explode into shouts as you expected.

“Rio Vidal. The Rio Vidal—” He crosses his arms and sighs, as if he can’t believe what he’s about to say, “—said it was fine. And she was very clear that you shouldn’t be punished.”

You blink, confused. The black card in your hand feels heavier now. Why would she do that? Was it pity? Some kind of veiled charity because of your desperation? Or... something more?

The woody scent of the card wafts up to you, a tangible reminder of the woman who, even with coffee spilled on her expensive blouse, had remained impassive and enigmatic.

“Get back to work before I change my mind,” your boss grumbles, but his tone has lost its usual edge. You don’t argue, just tuck the card into your pocket, still feeling every embossed letter like a secret waiting to be unraveled.

[...]

You practically run to the university. Your legs ache, but it doesn’t matter because today is important. When you finally reach the worn-down building that houses the film department, you can barely catch your breath. The room is packed with anxious students, and excited whispers fill the air.

“You’re almost late!” Darcy whispers, pushing a notebook aside to make room for you. Her eyes are wide, nervous. “Agatha Harkness is already here.”

Her name makes your heart race, in a completely different way from the panic you felt before.

Agatha Harkness.

The legend. The queen. The woman who made actors cry on set and screenwriters question if they were good enough to write even a single line of dialogue. She was a monster… but undeniably a genius. Everything that came from her hands was masterful, and you secretly harbored an absurd admiration for her.

Peter, sitting in front of you, whispers to Darcy, “Do you think she’s going to rip someone’s heart out today? She did that the last time she visited a university…”

Darcy, next to him, makes a face. “On the first day?”

“Without a doubt,” Peter replies, shrugging.

Before you can respond, the door swings open. The sound of her heels is the first thing that fills the sudden silence. And then she enters.

Agatha is everything you imagined and more. Tall, dressed in an impeccable purple suit that seems to radiate authority, with a smile that borders on cruel and eyes that scan the room as if evaluating every soul present. Her presence is a punch to the stomach, yet at the same time, something in you feels magnetized by her. It’s impossible to look away.

She wastes no time with warm introductions. Instead, she tosses a stack of papers onto the desk and begins speaking. Her voice is deep, firm, and filled with an intensity that makes the air feel heavier.

“Writing is an act of courage. And from what I’ve heard, many of you have been content with mediocrity.”

The students exchange nervous glances. Darcy practically sinks into her chair beside you. You, on the other hand, feel your heart race even more. There’s something hypnotic about the way she speaks, as if every word is carefully sharpened to cut.

“Now, here’s what you’re going to do.” Agatha steps up to the blackboard and writes something with an elegant pen. “Write a scene. Any scene. But make it something worth reading. Because if I think you’re wasting my time…” She lifts her gaze, and the silence that follows is more threatening than any word. “—your nonexistent careers won’t even start.”

Agatha picks up the first stack of papers and starts reading in silence, her eyes moving rapidly from side to side. The room is absolutely silent, so quiet that the sound of students breathing feels deafening.

After a few seconds, she lets out an almost exasperated sigh and lifts a paper, holding it up as if it were evidence of a terrible crime.

“Who wrote this?”

A girl in the back of the room timidly raises her hand, almost regretting existing.

Agatha narrows her eyes at the paper, then at the girl. “Is this a love story?”

The girl shakes her head, mumbling something about the plot being deeper than it seemed.

“No. It’s not.” Agatha cuts in, her voice as cold as steel. “This is a cheap fanfic disguised as a script. Characters with no substance, dialogues recycled from a teen drama. Where is the humanity? Where is the real conflict? This isn’t writing. This is a murder of art.”

The girl seems to shrink into her seat.

Agatha tosses the paper onto the desk and picks up the next one. This time, she doesn’t read for long before looking up. “Who thinks it’s acceptable to start a scene with ‘Once upon a time’ in an academic assignment? Are you trying to sell an idea or put a child to sleep?”

A boy in the front row tries to justify his choice, but Agatha raises a hand, cutting him off.

“I’m not here to hear excuses. I’m here to see talent. And so far, I’ve seen nothing worth my time.”

The silence in the room is palpable. You see Darcy whisper something to Peter, probably something like “Yeah, definitely heartless,” but you can’t focus. Your own script is in your hands, and the weight of the paper feels like lead.

Finally, your turn comes. With trembling hands, you hand the sheet to Agatha Harkness, feeling as if you’re handing over a piece of yourself. She takes the paper with an almost deliberate calm, and for a moment, you’re sure she’s going to toss it onto the “failures” pile without even looking.

But then, something in the title seems to catch her attention. Her eyes, previously indifferent, narrow slightly, and she begins to read.

Seconds turn into eternities as you watch her. The room around you fades away; all you can hear is the sound of your own heart pounding against your ribs. Your mind drifts back, inevitably, to the moment you wrote those words—the weight of the story, the piece of your soul you decided to share.

Agatha turns the page. Once, then again. Her silence is like a knife. You don’t know if this is good or bad.

When she finally finishes, she places the paper on the desk. Unlike the others, she doesn’t discard it immediately, but she also doesn’t show approval. Her eyes lock onto you, assessing, and there’s something new in her expression: a trace of curiosity.

“Interesting.” Her tone is neutral, but there’s something hidden in it—a hint of intrigue, perhaps? She leans forward slightly, crossing her arms. “Are you trying to tell a personal story?”

Your face burns instantly, and you feel the weight of all the eyes around you. Still, you find the strength to nod in confirmation, even as shame nearly swallows you whole.

“Hmm.” Agatha raises an eyebrow, pressing her lips into a thoughtful line. “You have no technique. No structure. The writing is messy, almost amateurish.”

Her words cut deep, and you bite your lip hard to keep the bile from rising in your throat.

“But…” She pauses, looking at the paper with unsettling intensity. “You have—” then, she focuses on you, and seeing those ocean-blue eyes so close makes your body tremble. “—something.”

Her choice of words is as vague as it is provocative, and you feel the weight of that “something” hanging in the air between you. She narrows her eyes, as if trying to figure out exactly what it was in the text that caught her—or in you.

“Stay after the bell rings.”

Her voice is final, like a sentence, but there’s no hostility. She dismisses you with a slight wave of her hand, and you feel a mixture of relief and anxiety as you return to your seat.

While the others hand in their scripts, you remain restless, trying to decipher Agatha’s expression and the reason behind her words. What in your text could have caught her attention? The room around you is filled with muffled murmurs, but in your mind, it’s as if you’re trapped in a storm.

As soon as the bell rings, only three people remain in the room besides you. The silence is dense, heavy with expectation, as Agatha moves with the same deliberate calm as before.

Of course, she already knows exactly what she’s doing. This special, hand-picked mentorship was clearly a strategy to appear more "kind" to the public, even though, so far, there had been nothing friendly about her approach.

You watch as she begins the individual feedbacks, calling Darcy first. The girl in front of you seems to be caught between hope and terror but agrees to step forward. As Agatha starts speaking to her, you try to distract yourself, but you can’t stop your eyes from wandering back to the director.

She is... magnetic. Even as she crushes Darcy’s creative dreams with precise, cutting words, there’s something about her that simply demands attention. And then it happens.

For a moment—or perhaps for all eternity—her blue eyes meet yours.

Your throat goes dry instantly. It’s impossible to interpret what’s in that gaze, but it hits you hard. Curiosity? Judgment? Or something else? You try to look away, but it’s as if you’re trapped. She stares at you for only a few seconds before returning to her conversation with Darcy, as if nothing had happened. But you know it did.

Your heart pounds so loudly it feels like it echoes in the empty room. Nervousness is consuming you, but there’s something else, a sensation you weren’t expecting. A tightness in your stomach.

Desire? Nervousness? Anxiety?

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to take a deep breath and organize your thoughts, but it only makes things worse. It feels like she has pulled a piece of the air around you away with just that look.

Time moves slowly. Agatha finishes Darcy’s feedback, moving on to the next student. And then, when your turn finally comes, you don’t know if you’re ready—or if you ever would be.

She calls your name firmly, and you stand up. Your legs feel weak as you walk toward her, carrying the weight of her expectation and your own desire to impress her.

“So,” she begins, crossing her arms, her sharp gaze settling on you. “Let’s talk about what you wrote.”

As soon as you sit before her, Agatha picks up your sheet of paper, holding it carefully, as if she were carrying something precious—or something dangerous. She doesn’t say anything right away, just fixes her eyes on the text for a few seconds before beginning to read again, this time out loud:

"One day, I had a dream about my mother. She was married to the man she truly loved, and without children. There, I had never seen her so happy."

Her voice is deep, but it carries a softness you didn’t expect. It’s as if she’s savoring each word, analyzing every nuance.

When she finishes, Agatha places the paper on the table with a controlled gesture and looks directly at you. The silence that follows seems to last an eternity.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of that gaze, as if she could see every secret you tried to hide.

“Is your mother the main character here?” The question is direct, blunt—like everything about her.

You feel your face heat up, looking away. “I... maybe?” you murmur, the words hesitant.

“No need to lie,” she interrupts, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “The text screams it. Every line, every word choice… it’s as if you were exorcizing a ghost. Tell me, is that what you tried to do? Exorcize the guilt of loving and hating at the same time?”

The brutality of the question leaves you speechless. You shift in your chair, uncomfortable, but she doesn’t seem inclined to ease the tension.

“Did she leave you?” Agatha presses, her eyes locked onto yours, as if she could pull the truth out of you by force.

You hesitate but finally let out a shaky sigh. “Yes.”

For a moment, her face seems to change. Something in her gaze softens, but only for a fraction of a second before she composes herself again.

“And yet, you chose not to hate her.” She tilts her head, as if studying a particularly intriguing piece of art. “That is… rare.”

“I think that… she did what she thought was best for her,” you reply, your voice almost a whisper. “I don’t blame her for seeking happiness, even if it hurt me.”

Agatha remains silent for a few moments, as if processing something. There was something in the text—or maybe in the way you spoke—that seemed to touch an old wound in her. A shadow passes over her face, but she quickly pushes it away, replacing it with a neutral expression.

“You have talent,” she declares, breaking the silence. “Still raw, but it’s genuine. And, more importantly, you have courage. The kind of courage I’m looking for.”

You blink, confused. “Looking for?”

Agatha leans forward, her eyes gleaming with dangerous intensity. “I’m assembling a team for my next project. I need minds that think like yours—that see beyond the surface and aren’t afraid to explore the shadows. Would you be interested?”

Your heart races. Working with Agatha Harkness? The woman you admired, even feared? It was more than you could have imagined, but the answer was obvious.

“Yes,” you respond quickly, barely able to contain the excitement in your voice.

Agatha smiles, and the gesture is as enigmatic as the rest of her. “Good. Get ready, little gem. I’m going to shape you piece by piece," The way she spoke was hypnotic, pulling you in. “and it will be… painful.”

As soon as you answer affirmatively, Agatha pulls something from the pocket of her purple blazer: a business card. It’s blue, with purple lettering in an elegant cursive font. The floral scent of the paper fills the air as she slides the card across the table toward you.

“Come to this address tomorrow,” she says, her voice firm but low, as if each word were chosen with care. “Seven at night. And don’t be late.”

You take the card with trembling fingers, its weight feeling heavier than it should. The moment you touch it, a wave of déjà vu washes over you. The texture, the scent, even the sophistication of the design remind you of the card Rio gave you earlier.

Two women so different, and yet… so similar. Both had a presence that seemed to capture the room, leaving you breathless. Both seemed to see through you, as if they could decipher your deepest thoughts with a single look.

You feel your heart speed up, confusion mixing with excitement. Why had these women, so powerful and enigmatic, captivated you so much? Rio had left something in you—a sense of unresolved mystery. Now, Agatha was doing the same, but in an even more intense way.

“Something wrong?” Agatha’s voice cuts through your thoughts, bringing you back to the present.

“N-no,” you reply quickly, slipping the card into your backpack. “I’ll be there.”

She only tilts her head, her eyes lingering on you for a moment before turning and leaving the room. Her silhouette disappears through the door, but the weight of her presence still lingers—heavy, inescapable.

As you gather your things and prepare to leave, a single question echoes in your mind: What the hell were you getting yourself into?

And more importantly, why couldn’t you stop feeling excited about it?

~*~

Y/n... How lucky you are, huh?

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @trindad2k

@indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher

@idkwhatever580

@reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good

@imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp

@lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01

[bone-trash]

COD Headcanons #3

Old Man Hobbies

Johnny loves plants

When he had the tiny flat in Glasgow that he only kept for his leaves, he had a little window box for herbs

His quarters on base always featured a few succulents squeezed in on the desk amongst his notebooks

Even when it’s been rainy and his bad knee acts up (Simon got him a floral print knee rest and he silently cherishes the extra padding) he diligently trots out in his rubber clogs and tends their garden

He really enjoys nurturing the little shoots and sprouts and researches fertilizer types and soil airation and drainage and recommended pruning techniques

It feels good to use his hands. Hands, once soaked in war and blood and devastation; now only muddied with dark sweet earth of their home

Johnny’s yields aren’t much, certainly not enough to live on, but Simon always seems to have a recipe for whatever he can grow

…

Simon feeds the birds

He used to golf with Johnny’s Da but his arthritis really cranked up the last few years and he needs a hobby that requires less fine motor control

He sits on the porch, often a couple hours before Johnny’s awake, cuppa steaming and watches the day come alive over their garden

He starts with bread because he’s Manc as hell and has only dealt with the kind of streetwise pigeons that don’t even run away from people anymore

He learns online that songbirds love sunflower seeds and grains and he experiments with different blends, eventually hanging up a few feeders within view of the windows

Unfortunately this encourages squirrels, Simon hates the squirrels

Johnny is endlessly amused by this

——

Hey y’all! Another idea inspired by @bringinsexybackk69 maybe someday I’ll get my own ideas ✌️💀

[appleblueberry-pie]

I NEED MORE YANDERE e42 MILES!!!!

This is a list of things he's done without your knowledge.

"Sneaked" two thousand dollars into your savings account. Best part about this is you actually never did find out that he did this. You just thought you were finally becoming financially responsible.

Fixed your TV remote 2 times.

Bought you more boxes of ramen.

Learned to make your favorite dessert.

Drove your ex's car off of a cliff

Drove your ex's girlfriend's car off of a cliff

Got on your teacher's good side for you.

Started doing calisthenics

Became pescatarian

Stopped drinking energy drinks and instead became a tea-drinker

Donated to 5 animal shelters and volunteered to help feed the homeless(one of the short programs he joined at school)

Broke 3 ribs and repaired

Got stabbed and repaired

Illegally traded with dominating gangs in Brooklyn

Illegally helped transport medicine inside of hospitals due to dominating gangs in Brooklyn

Tried on shoes he wanted to get for you to see if they'd be comfortable, understanding that people would think he's flaming for doing so.

Tried on earrings he wanted to get for you, thinking if it looked good on him, it would definitely look good on you, understanding that people would think he's flaming for doing so.

Same thing with perfume.

Got scared of you when you interrogated him for smelling like the new perfume he just bought you.

Whispers compliments to you when you sleep on his shoulder while y'all take the train.

Screamed like a lil girl when he picked up a potted plant from a flower shop, hoping to get you a succulent, and a slug dropped from the crevice of the pottery, plopped onto his hand, heavy, cold, and slimy.

Listens to all Ariana Grande albums

Annually kidnaps all boys who he knew premeditated asking you to prom, knowing your his, and drops them off by a random lake in the dead of night. Tied up, taped mouth, lightly drugged, and confused.

Attempted to give up being tender-headed so his mama could do his hair in that cool ass pattern he knew you wouldn't be able to stop admiring. It didn't work, but the result definitely made you happy.

Bombed 2 drug major illegal drug factories. Probably one of the main reasons why the crime underworld hates him.

Sketched over 40 different ways the wedding ring he plans to give you will look.

Finished 2 big notebooks that are just full of rants and drawings of you. He's halfway through his 3rd one.

Has a pinterest board just like yours that is full of clothing and room aesthetics that you like. Plans to make most of them a reality for you.

Kicks his feet at ur messages.

[tammyjackson50-blog]

**Sam Monroe as Your High School Boyfriend Headcanons**

2024 ,modern edition

~~~

• Sam’s got this grunge meets modern aesthetic. Vintage band tees paired with the latest AirPods Pro, always blasting some random playlist he found at 2 AM.

• His locker? It’s a chaotic masterpiece of old Polaroids, random doodles, notebooks he rarely uses, and a tiny succulent you gave him. It somehow thrives amidst the chaos.

• Every morning, he waits for you by the school gate, leaning against his bike. “Morning, sunshine,” he greets, smirking as he hands you your favorite coffee.

• You two are the power couple in the art room. He’s sketching away, earbuds in, while you’re working on your latest project. Sometimes he’ll pause, look at you, and say, “That’s incredible, babe,” making you smile each time.

• Sam’s a meme Lord. He sends you the funniest TikToks during class, and it’s a miracle neither of you have been caught laughing out loud by the teachers.

" Sam, stop sending me tiktoks! Listen to the teacher! "

• He’s surprisingly tech-savvy. When your laptop crashes the night before a big assignment is due, Sam comes over , fixing it with a “Don’t worry, I got this,” and a few clever hacks.

• Date nights are a mix of rooftop stargazing and binge-watching the latest Netflix series. “Just one more episode,” he always says, and you both know it’s never just one more.

• You have a shared Spotify playlist. It’s a mix of your favorite songs, his angsty tracks, and the random bops you both discover. He’ll occasionally add a sappy love song and then pretend he has no idea how it got there.

• He’s got this quirky humor that keeps you laughing. Once, you caught him trying to teach himself to moonwalk in his room. “Just you wait, babe. I’ll be the next MJ” he said, tripping over his own feet.

" You are so random " You laugh.

• Sam’s protective but not overbearing. He always walks you home, making sure you’re safe, even though you insist you’re fine. “Humor me," he says, and you know it’s just his way of showing he cares.

• Sometimes he really surprise you when it comes to school, "You really did the homework?" He looks at you with an annoyed but not really annoyed stare, " Surprise, now can you tell me if I did it good? " You take a look at his notebook, he like that way you explain things to him.

• And despite his tough exterior, Sam’s a hopeless romantic. From surprise flowers in your locker to handwritten notes, he’s always finding little ways to show he loves you.

///////////

I think that it turned out pretty nice.

Edit 13/7/24: I just added a spotify playlist. Tell me in the comments if you liked the playlist I made😅😅

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Let's Talk About That

I saw the end when we began (1)

Psychiatrist!Avenger!Fem!Reader × Wanda Maximoff

Summary: You are the young psychiatrist for the Avengers, and you take your job very seriously, but what happens when Wanda joins the team, turning your life upside down?

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: legal age gap r is 19 w is 25, talks of death and grief, a bit of angst, therapy sessions

A/N: I had this idea for a while and wrote it a while ago, but spruced it up for publishing. I hope you enjoy it!

May 7th-10th 2015

The only sounds to be heard were the scratches of your pen against paper as you wrote down notes the old fashioned way and the hum of the AC unit installed in your office. Tony let you have a nice corner of the tower where there was sunlight and windows. You had gone with a soft gray for the walls, an L-shaped mahogany desk that had both a desktop computer and your laptop. Across from your desk was two couches and a coffee table between them with an assortment of fidget toys, a succulent, a handful of magazines, and a box of tissues. 

Everyone had been away on an important mission and normally you’d go with, but you'd been recovering from a previous injury, you still are when you hear a knock on your door, 

"Open." You let them know and just from their aura you can tell it's Tasha, but she's with someone else, an aura you don't recognize. You look up to find a girl with chestnut colored hair, and a dark aura around her. "Hey Tash. I'm glad you're all home safe. I'm assuming we'll restart our sessions?" You ask the red head. 

"Yes. We can resume them. Tomorrow. Today I need you to have a talk with this one." Tasha helps her into the room and gestures for her to sit down, Tasha walks over and hands you a large file. "She came from HYDRA, they had a lot of info on her, she had joined us in the fight against Ultron." Tasha tells you before lowering her voice, "She lost her twin brother during the battle. So maybe you can get her to talk." You smile at Tasha and then look past the red head. 

"Yeah of course we shouldn't have any issues Tash. Leave it to me." You tell her as I adjust your glasses, quickly looking over her file as Tasha exits, closing the door behind her, "Wanda Maximoff, 25, born in Sokovia." You say out loud as you walk around your desk to the other couch across from where she's sitting criss-cross. You take notice she's taken her shoes off and smile, taking note of the fact that she’s comfortable enough to do something like that. "I'm Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. I'm 19. I'm also an Avenger. I have a power that allows me to see auras and emotions. I can also influence people's emotions and use my voice to influence others around me." You tell her a little about yourself first to help make her comfortable with talking about herself.

"You're 19? How are you a doctor?" She finally talks and you can hear her thick Sokovian accent which is like music to your ears. 

"I'm very smart. Graduated high school at 12 finished my Doctorate last year for psychiatry and Tony took me in as the Avengers Psychiatrist shortly after that. Everyone here needs a little bit of help and that is what I'm here to provide for you." You smile at her as you open a fresh notebook for her, choosing a red covered one noticing that she was wearing Tasha’s red leather jacket. "So tell me a little about yourself. Anything you want." You ask as you jot down her basic info on the first page. 

"I love American sitcoms." she tells you first. You smile and look at her over your glasses. 

"Why is that?" You ask as you jot down her words. 

"We used to watch them as a family every night so we could learn English." She tells you making a smile appear on your face. 

"When you say we who does that entail?" You question the Sokovian wanting to get to the root of her problems. 

"My Mama, Papa, and Pietro..." She tells you solemnly. 

"Who is Pietro?" You inquire, looking up from your notebook. 

"He is...was...my twin brother." You jot down everything she says during your session and she does open up a little bit with some persuasion on your part, but that isn't unusual for your sessions. 

"Well Wanda thank you for opening up to me. Your aura is looking a little warmer from when you first walked in. How about you come back in three days for another session?" You tilt your head as you grab a little card for her. 

"Why three days?" She asks nervously, tugging at her sleeves attempting to cover her hands, but the jacket doesn't budge. She starts picking at her nails as an alternative, chipping the black nail polish further. 

"I like to have frequent sessions the first month. Then we'll have them weekly just like the others." You let her know and she nods her head as you write the date and time for her to show up on the card for three days from now. Standing up with her, "I offer a high fives, hand shakes, fist bumps, or a hug at the end of sessions. Which would you like?" You ask and she's thrown off a bit by the statement at first but then answers. 

"Hug. I could use a hug right now." You open up your arms and let her come to you. She ends up crying in your arms as you sooth her, letting her know it is okay to cry. 

"I'll always be here for you Wanda. I'm always on your side." You whisper to her and she holds you tighter at the words.

You sat back down at your desk after Wanda left, feeling a mix of emotions swirling within you. Empathy for Wanda's pain, determination to help her heal, and a lingering sense of dread about what HYDRA had done to her. But you pushed those feelings aside, focusing on the task at hand.

As the Avengers' psychiatrist, it was your responsibility to help your teammates navigate the mental and emotional toll of their work. Sometimes that meant delving into painful memories or difficult emotions, but it was a role you took on willingly. After all, you had your own share of struggles, and if you could use your powers to help others, then it was worth it.

You glanced at the clock and realized it was almost time for lunch. You decided to take a break and head to the common area, where you found Tony tinkering with one of his suits.

"Hey, Y/N," he greeted you with a grin. "How's it going?"

"Good," you replied, sinking into a nearby chair. "Just had a session with Wanda. She's been through a lot."

Tony nodded solemnly. "Yeah, losing her brother and all that HYDRA stuff... it's rough."

You sighed, running a hand through your Y/H/C hair. "Yeah, but she's strong. I think she'll come through it."

Tony gave you a reassuring smile before returning to his work, and you took a moment to appreciate the camaraderie of the team. Despite your differences and the challenges you guys faced, you were a family, bound together by our shared experiences and our commitment to protecting the world.

After a quick lunch, you headed back to your office to prepare for your next session. As you reviewed your notes from Wanda's session, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to her story, something hidden beneath the surface. But for now, all you could do was continue to offer her support and hope that she would find the strength to confront her demons and emerge stronger on the other side.

With that thought in mind, you square your shoulders and prepare to face whatever challenges lay ahead. As an Avenger, a psychiatrist, and a friend, you were ready to do whatever it took to help your teammates and protect the world from whatever threats may come our way.

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

Three days passed in a blur of meetings, training sessions, and the occasional emergency mission. But today, you were back in your office, eagerly awaiting Wanda's return for your second session. As you sat at your desk, reviewing your notes from your previous meeting, you couldn't help but feel a surge of empathy for her. Losing a loved one in battle was something you could relate to all too well.

Before you could dwell too much on your own past, there was a soft knock on your door, and Wanda stepped into the room. Her aura seemed a bit brighter today, though still tinged with sadness. "Hey, Wanda," you greeted her with a warm smile, motioning for her to take a seat. "How are you feeling today?"

Wanda hesitated for a moment before answering, "Better, I think. Thank you for... everything last time."

You nodded, understandingly. "Of course. It's what I'm here for." You gestured toward the notebook on the table. "Shall we pick up where we left off?"

For the next hour, the two of you delved deeper into Wanda's past, her memories of Sokovia, her time with HYDRA, and her experiences with her brother, Pietro. With each word she spoke, you could feel her emotions swirling around you, and you did your best to guide her through them, offering comfort and support where you could.

As your session came to a close, Wanda seemed visibly lighter, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Thank you, Y/N," she said softly, wiping away a stray tear. "I didn't realize how much I needed this."

You smiled back, feeling a sense of fulfillment wash over you. "Anytime, Wanda. Remember, I'm always here for you."

Before she left, Wanda surprises you by reaching out and giving you a tight hug. "Thank you," she repeated, her voice thick with emotion.

As you watched her leave your office, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the opportunity to help someone in need, to make a difference in their life, even if it was just one session at a time. And as you glanced down at the Power Stone embedded in your chest, you couldn't help but wonder if perhaps this was the true source of your ability to connect with others on such a deep level. But for now, all that mattered was that you were making a difference, one session at a time.

[skrunklyshrimp]

Succulent - Kinich

Spiderman AU, where Kinich is Spiderman and you are the Gwen Stacy.

Kinich unknowingly explores the same suspicious temple as you, saves a few Saurians, saves you a few times, confesses his love to you. The basic stuff.

Notes: I have had major Kinich brainrot, especially with the sunflower edits of him on tiktok. So I took it upon myself to make a spiderman AU where he's spiderman! Yay! He's definitely OOC but I tried my hardest so please try to enjoy :3

(P.S. this stuff was written before he was released so this is not cannon!)

You were a simple researcher, wandering into the depths of Natlan. There was some elemental disturbance in some uncharted land underground, not wanting anyone else to get ahead of you, you embarked on your journey alone.

“Maybe I should've hired a mercenary.. Kinich would’ve been great.” you mutter. Kinich, a great mercenary, has such a cold demeanor yet he always stares at you and gives you such a warm gaze. You shake off the thoughts of your tiny crush as you slowly make your way through rough terrain. There were lava geysers all around and a hint of evil in the air, perhaps it was the abyss order.

You carried on, almost slipping into the multiple geysers all around. Thankfully you finally reached a safe point and decided to set up camp, just a simple tent and some traps in case enemies attack.

“Just a simple salad today, I have to preserve the meat for the hardest part of the adventure.” You say to no one aloud. 

You decide to mark down some observations of the cave you're in. So far you haven't come face to face with any enemies which is quite odd for an area with a highly condensed elemental energy. Perhaps someone has come before you. You mark off any important landmarks, different rocks, ancient markings. Sighing, you place your notebook down and shake your sore hand. 

“Time to sleep.” You stand up and stretch before heading into your tent for the night.

.

“Log number 18. I've still been searching for the cause of the elemental disturbance. Many enemies have appeared so I've done the reasonable thing and wiped them out. I do see a temple in the distance that radiates high elemental energy, so I will be checking that tomorrow but, right now it's time for me to rest.” Click. Kinich places down his recorder. 

“I’m not even getting paid for this gig. Why am I even doing this?” He sighs, leaning up against a nearby wall. 

See but Kinich knew exactly why, it was because of you. See Kinich had two jobs, one as a mercenary, one as a hero. He was known as Spiderman in Natlan, the way he would effortlessly swing with his grappling hook, and kill enemies of Teyvat as quickly as a black spider. He wore a mask in this identity, nobody knew who he was. Yet as he was weakened from an enemy far too strong and there he laid on the ground. You walked up, and instead of finding out who this mysterious Spiderman was, you kept his mask on, only pulling it high enough to wipe blood off his mouth. From then on he continued to have encounters with you, it always occurred whenever he got injured in battle, you were there by his side to patch up his wounds.

“I still don't even know your name.” Kinich reminisces about the moments spent together. “I'll get rid of this and protect you.” His promise fades away in the giant cave, nobody but himself to see it true. Kinich sets up a small sleeping bag, finally deciding to get some rest.

.

“New day, new adventure!” You say, trying to be optimistic. Although the truth is you could be farther from it. The elemental energy feels even more condensed than before, and there's this feeling of impending doom following suit. You quickly pack up your supplies not wanting to waste anymore time on this research trip. 

After what feels like hours, but in reality was probably no longer than 30 minutes, you see a temple in the distance. 

“This…” You stare at it from afar, shocked to even say a single word. The elemental energy that is pouring out from there is outstanding, there is definitely something suspicious going on. This is the first time in this adventure where you had second doubts, you definitely should've hired a mercenary, maybe Kinich. It's far too late for that now you decide as you begrudgingly step towards.

.

“These puzzles are definitely different from the ones we see around Natlan, right Ajaw?” Kinich looks at the strange mechanism.

“You really do suck if you can't get us through here. Wanna impress your lover researcher right? Right? Also why are you wearing that stupid mask, nobody is around.” Ajaw teases and questions the poor Kinich as he starts to get pissed.

“One I don't have a lover, two, this is for Natlan’s sake, something you must not understand, and three, I’ve gotten used to wearing it.” Kinich shoos away the now red Ajaw. “Finally figured out how it works though.” As he says that a door that was previously locked opens up.

“I see you've come to stop our plans once again traveler- ergh?!” A flame welding abyss lector pauses mid speech.

“Traveler? Do you mean the blond haired saviour going around helping people?” Kinich asks, recognizing the famous traveler.

“You're kinda totally ruining the plan I had dude.” The abyss lector says in defeat.

“What do you mean ruining the plan, huh!?” Ajaw yells, still upset about earlier.

“Well, the traveler and I were supposed to fight. After all, I totally ran away from our fight last time, heh. Just didn't wanna die you know?” The abyss lector laughs off his misfortune. “Nevermind that now I have to kill you, after all I can't have you leaking our information out and about.”

“Let's win this Kinich!” Ajaw says, trying to pump up his dear servant.

“Whatever you say I guess.” Kinich responds.

.

“These puzzles.. They're complete, someone had to have been here before.” You conclude. When you arrived at the temple you saw numerous doors open. There were many unfamiliar marks covering the temple head to toe, you only recognize a few as abyss symbols. Through careful observation you notice an odd placing brick on the wall, not wanting to inspect it with your own hands, you opt for a nearby stick. You take a deep breath in and push against the suspicious brick, allowing a secret passage downwards to open. 

“Thank god that wasn't a trap.” You breathe a sigh of relief.

After finishing writing down all the information you need about this current room you decide to explore this secret passage, it's basically just a bunch of stairs leading downwards.

.

“Shit you're one slippery guy, and what the hell is with that skill you're seriously like a spider.” The flame bearing abyss lector complains, definitely aggravated from the injuries inflicted on him.

“Yeah I tend to go by Spiderman, don't let the name wear out.” Kinich says, quickly using his skill to cover his eyes with his grapple, reducing his eyesight.

While covering the abyss lector’s eyes he uses a secondary grappling hook to start to spin himself, effectively wrapping the enemy up. 

“You damned brat! You'll pay for this!” The abyss lector yells while using his pyro skills, effectively destroying the web like wire that blocked his vision and disabled his movement.

“Too bad you weren't paying attention.” Kinich mutters, slicing his claymore against the back of the abyss lector, leading to its defeat.

“Ajaw, find anything of interest on his body, I'm going to check this machinery out.” Kinich orders Ajaw around, to which Ajaw complains but compiles.

In this room there's multiple computers showing different results, many different files of interest, and… a tube? Leading to where. Kinich is left to wonder. He takes a closer look at the tube to see a purple substance flow through it.

“Ajaw, find out where this tube leads, we'll switch jobs.” Kinich says, shoving Ajaw away from the flame abyss lector's body.

“Meh meh meh meh. Mr. Bossy-pants.” Ajaw mocks but goes right to finding where the location of the purple substance is coming from.

.

“I should've turned around.” You can't help but complain. You had been walking down these stairs for god knows how long, with barely any light, and no clue if there's enemies at the bottom.

“I'm so dead aren't I.” You cry. In the middle of you trying to accept your fate you see a brighter light. Hopeful that it's the bottom you pick up your pace only to be met face to face with, prison cells?

There were glass cells, no, chambers filled with Saurians, a purple substance being sucked out and pushed into a hole in the middle of the room. You take careful steps forward, heartbroken, shocked at the sight you're seeing. The dragon's that inhabit the lands of Natlan, being sucked dry of their elemental energy. This has to be the work of the abyss order, you conclude. You look at the seemingly bottomless pit in the middle of the room. 

“This is… despicable. How could they do this to innocent creatures?” You mutter, looking down into the pit with sadness.

“Oh? What's my number one fan doing here?” A familiar voice echoes in front of you.

“Ah, Spiderman-!?” You look up only to be met face to face with an upside down Spiderman.

“I'm not surprised you're here, but why are you here alone? You don't have a vision so this place is draining you of your energy.” A slight bit of concern covers Spiderman's voice.

“I had to explore. This cave was uncharted and I wanted to resolve this issue as soon as possible.” You answer his question, “Not to mention you're hurt yourself. When did this happen?” He just scratches the back of his head.

“Just had a fight just now I'm alright though. Had to win to see you once again.” Spiderman admits. “It looks like I'll have to have another fight though. Please stay back alright.” He says while pulling down his mask, just enough to show his mouth. He moves forwards enough to give you a light kiss against your lips. He gives you a smile before putting his mask back on and jumping right into the fight.

You stand there for a few seconds processing what just happened. Not only did the Spiderman just say he wanted to see you again, but he also just kissed you? You hear the noise of abyss mages getting hurt and remember what Spiderman told you to do, so you try to walk over to the other side, away from the fighting.

You watch in awe as the amazing Spiderman uses his webs to his advantage, dodging the attacks from abyss mages and using them to weaken the shields so he can do heavy damage with his claymore. You’re so enamored by his performance you don’t realize how close to the edge of the pit you get too.

“Finally done with these abyss mages.” Kinich mutters, turning to you only to see you dangerously close to the edge, with abyss mages behind you. “Watch out-!” Kinich tries to call out to you but it’s too late, the abyss mages push you into the pit.

Kinich is quick to react, quickly using his grappling hook to connect and grab you, which ends successfully. Only problem now? He had two electro abyss mages in front of him, his grappling hook unusable at the moment. The panic that Spiderman was going to lose his battle, and someone he holds close to his heart.

No, he thinks. He can’t let it happen again, he can’t. The few times Kinich opened his heart it was left broken, with the death of his father and now soon to be you. He can start to feel his arms weaken and-

“How did you beat me here!?” A scream comes from up top. Kinich’s eyes open in surprise, then his lips curve into a small smile.

“Ajaw, could you please get these mages out of their shields, I need to get our friend out of this pit.” He orders, no, commands Ajaw, to which he slowly complies. Ajaw begins to attack the abyss mages, holding his own as Kinich quickly pulls you up to the top, hoping you were still alive in his grappling hook. 

“It’s funny really, I don’t understand why a simple researcher like you caught my eye.” Kinich mumbles to himself seeing your body appear from the purple smoke filled pit. Admittedly Kinich was scared out of his mind when you weren’t moving, but a simple pulse check let him know that you weren’t dead, but unconscious. A huge wave of relief flooded Kinich knowing you were safe. That’s when he swiftly grabbed his claymore which he had disregarded and landed the final attack on the abyss mages.

“We’ll report this to the warriors in Natlan. They’ll free the surviving Saurians.” Ajaw suggests which Kinich agrees.

Kinich reaches up and removes his mask, his face covered with scratches, blood, and sweat. Yet even so, he smiles warmly knowing that you were safe.

.

Your head is spinning. You can’t see anything. You’re asleep. You have to just wake up. Wake up.

“Ugrh.” You groan, slowly opening your eyes to a recovery room. “Where am I?” You manage to speak out loud.

“You’re awake! I’m glad. See Kinich here found you in a temple and apparently you were all passed out, if he were later you might’ve died.” The doctor explains to you. Kinich? He found you but the only one who was at the temple with you was- oh. 

You quickly sit up surprising Kinich and the doctor who was at your side. You smile, “Thank you for the update doctor, but I need to speak with Kinich alone, if that’s alright.” You say weakly, nonetheless the doctor understands and leaves the two of you to your business.

“So, you’re Spiderman.” You state, waiting for him to deny, after all it can’t be true the the mercenary Kinich can also be the amazing Spider-

“Yeah.” He answers. Your thoughts pause, you freeze, and you just stare at him in shock.

“Why?” You ask, and he just tilts his head in confusion. “Why would you tell me your secret? I'm just a regular researcher, I don’t even have a vision.” You question, confused on why he would reveal his identity.

“It’s simple. Out of every fan I meet, you’re the only face I can remember, if I see you in a crowd I always tend to go into that direction. I may not even know your name but you show me with such care despite not knowing who I am.” Kinich confesses, a slight blush covering his cheeks.

“It’s right to be nice to everyone, even unknown identities.” You say.

“I guess you’re right, so will you humour me for a while and go on a date with me?” He asks you, looking at you with a warm gaze and a loving smile.

[fuqnia]

SP Main Four + butters !College AU Headcanons

[☆] A/N | hii guys! i recently hit 500 likes on tumblr and i'm like so speechless... i never wouldve thought people would be interested in reading my stupid little writing hehe, so tysm! my long fic, most wanted, is coming to a close soon, and I have been working on another longfic that's a fem!reader insert x main 4 boys in college!

[☆] C/W | slight nsfw in kenny's

[☆] check out my relationship college au headcanons for the boys + butters here! it's sfw and nsfw <3

☆ stan marsh

environmental science major

i think he would have like around a 2.5 - 2.9 gpa

uses a laptop to take notes

surprisingly has decent notes

gets on wordle, geo guesser, quordle, WAFFLE, during lectures if he gets bored

struggles with hangovers, yet still goes to classes sometimes

i don't think he truly notices how much he drinks... it kinda just happens ?

doesn't mind college parties, will go if his friends want to

kyle usually has to carry him back to their shared dorm when he does go tho LOL

volunteers at the town's animal shelter !!

sometimes eric and butters tag along

visits home like once a month, mostly to see his mom and dog

crimson dawn is still a thing, and stan is sooo dedicated

matches band tees with kenny sometimes <3

keeps up with his college football team religiously

way too emotional about college sports

joins some intramural sports tho!

butters and wendy would come to his games and cheer him on

definitely has late night talks with kyle about "deep" stuff... and kyle is like

"dude, shut the fuck up and go to bed," and throws a pillow at him

i think he would start a vinyl collection

also has succulents, but he forgets to water them hehe

doesn't really use social media

so he gets kyle to send him songs from tiktok for his workout routine LMFAO

sucks at cooking

best procrastinator around

his drunken rendition of mr. brightside went viral after kenny secretly posted it online

"IT WAS ONLYYY A KISS, IT WAS ONLY A KISSSSSS"

very political

argues with the tik tok interviewers on campus

gets kenny to help him bleach his hair

eric bullys tf out of him for it

☆ kyle broflovski

political science major and on a premed track

4.0 gpa idc this man is a tryhard and fueled on spite

uses an ipad and apple pencil to take notes, uses goodnotes

definitely color codes his notes

i don't think he would actually ask questions in class

but goes to office hours... and that's how professors know his name

obsessed with email etiquette

will actually facetime sharon to show how messy stan's side of the dorm is

will spray stan with a waterbottle to wake him up

"dude... are you serious right now?" "it's 2pm stan."

has a mini ironboard and iron

wears his ushanka on bad hair days

refuses to join study groups

but is butters study buddy

visits home every 2 weeks

and comes back with a ton of leftovers from his mom's cooking

he also mealpreps

whenever his mom calls him, eric takes kyle's phone and starts talking to sheila himself

in bed by 9pm most days

kenny comes knocking on the doors at 9:01 to bug kyle

definitely a coffee snob, and grinds his own beans

has a small box of keepstakes under his bed

also has a small medkit in his dorm, backpack, and gave one to kenny, eric, and butters

jogs every morning before class

terrible at small talk

prolly makes underclassmen cry

sends venmo requests for every shared expense

participates in model un

falls for ragebait online

also chronically online

waters stan's succulents for him

☆ kenny mccormick

physics major with a minor in women's and gender studies

3.5 gpa

milked the fuck out of his home situation to get a full ride scholarship

uses an old fashion notebook to take notes

sometimes comes to class faded

tries not to make it a habit

also smells like cigarettes, but everyone still wants to sit next to him ?

butters offers him alternatives like gum or lollipops

adrenaline junkie

his favorite class he took is water skiing

but also really likes his minor classes!

volunteers at local events, like community cleanup

thrifted flannels

shares them with stan

the most well known on campus out of the four + butters

loves late night drives

knows all the scenic spots around campus

has a bunch of tattoos littered on his body

kyle definitely mothers him, taking care of his scratch and bruises

horrible sleep schedule thanks to eric screaming in their dorm at 2am

makes quick god-like meals

the underclassmen idolize him for some reason ?

diy king

was hired to be the campus mascot

but was fired for bringing pyrotechnics on the football field

do not ask this man his bodycount

decorated his ottoman, to make it look less suspicious

definitely hides his drugs and alcohol in it

locks out eric from their dorm room and puts a sock on the door handle when he's getting sum

☆ eric cartman

business administration major with a minor in psychology

2.0 gpa

does not rlly give a fuck abt his classes

gets caught for cheating/plagiarism but somehow manages to never get expelled ?!

runs for his class student body president position, but his campaign is just memes

always scheming for free food, all the clubs know him

doesn't have anything school related in his backpack

loud as fuck in his dorm

"Dude. You’re at, like, an 11 right now. I need you at a 3." "Uh, excuse me? I’m multitasking. This is called strategy, Kenneth. I’m practicing for when I go pro, unlike you and your stupid—whatever it is you’re doing—'The Patriarchy 101' or some crap."

unironically loves the dining hall food

networks on linkedin for some reason ?

listed kyle as a reference on linkedin to piss him off

tiktok famous

atrocious dorm decor

has a cardboard cutout of andrew tate that he loves

runs the school barstool instagram account

reddit mod on the school's subreddit

every few weeks, stan convinces him to set a fitness goal

always fails...

has convinced the entire dorm there’s a ghost, and charged people $10 for ghost hunting tours

once organized a charity on campus to help pregnant students, but pocketed all the money

also ropped butters into it somehow

stole one of stan's succulents

believes he's a karaoke god

records the main four + butters at parties

spends at least an hour in the dorm's bathroom, causing kyle to geek tf out

works as a guide tour for the school, so he could spread misinformation to the tour groups

☆ leopold 'butters' stotch

either an education, psychology, or business major... i can't decide

3.8 gpa

active in the student government

sometimes reviews eric's cheating cases... way too lenient

accidentally started a cult on campus

started as a wholesome self help club

his advice was so endearing people started treating him like a guru

kenny thinks this is hilarious... kyle tried to stage an intervention but failed

becomes an RA

takes it way too seriously, best informative bulletin boards and door decorations

gets really sad whenever no one shows up to game night

so the main four and craig's gang show up out of pity

sometimes the girls come too!

did study aboard for a semester

returned with an inflated sense of cultural superiority

eric mocks the fuck out of him for it LOL

says howdy! to everyone every morning

academic overachiever

too polite to call out slackers in group projects so he just does most of the work

studies at the campus library at a specific spot next to a window

chews grape flavored gum while studying

started cleaning up trash at parties

color coded planner with stickers and motivational quotes

best hugs... stan is like the only person who hugs him back

sneaks into the football stadium at night to just stand on the grass

goes out for every holiday

plans secret santa for his dorm, makes cookies for finals, decorates his dorm room

his dorm door is always open!

☆ Group Dyanmics

always does group costumes for halloween

teletubbies one year, fnaf the next

bad movie nights everyweek

annual camping trips

kyle cries about the lack of phone signal

stan always forgets something important, like his tent or sleeping bag

kenny loves telling scary stories, especially to freak out butters

cartman only packs junk food

butters always burns his smores

every year when the snow falls, the go out in the quad to have a snowball fight and random people join in

kenny somehow manages to get the group to join him for his midnight drives

every semester they crash the weekly campus trivia at least once

can you guess who my favorite is tehehe...

[moonlitconfessions]

EPISODE 3: THE FIRST MOVES

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

You stayed at your desk, head low, fingers aimlessly moving across the keyboard. But your mind was a storm — eyes no longer seeing your screen, ears no longer hearing your coworkers. All you could focus on was the noise inside your chest: the pounding of your heart, the rush of adrenaline, the quiet rage simmering beneath your skin.

Everything looked the same, but it wasn’t.

You weren’t the same.

Your death had changed you.

Caleb’s betrayal had changed you.

And now you were living a day that once led to your end.

You remembered this afternoon — the text from Miya inviting you to dinner, the anxious feeling that crawled up your spine even then. That was the day she’d made sure to tell you she was “worried” about Caleb, that she’d been “checking in” on your husband. You didn’t think twice at the time. You should’ve.

You should’ve seen it coming.

But you hadn’t.

This time, you would.

You clenched your fists in your lap, digging your nails into your palms. Never again.

You excused yourself from work early, feigning a headache. The office bought it easily. No one could see past the polite smile you gave them. You were a master at pretending now.

But as you stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut, you let your back fall against the wall. For a moment, your knees buckled, and you let yourself breathe. You were still shaking. From seeing Caleb again. From hearing Miya’s voice. From feeling like prey in a game they hadn’t realized you now understood.

Back then, they’d thought you were weak.

Now? They had no idea what you knew.

You made it to the lobby just as your phone buzzed. A text from Caleb.

Dinner tonight? It’s been a while since we had one just the two of us.

You stared at the screen for a long moment.

The same text. The same tone. Like everything was fine. Like he hadn’t been cheating. Like you hadn’t already died at his hands.

You exhaled slowly and typed back:

Sure. Let’s talk.

Let him think you were the same. Let him believe you were clueless.

You would play your part—for now.

That night, you sat alone in your apartment—your old apartment. Everything was how it had been. The beige walls, the half-dead succulent on the windowsill, the neatly folded laundry still warm from the dryer.

Your past life.

It was eerie how easy it was to fall back into it, like slipping into a skin you’d outgrown.

You opened your old notebook from your work bag and began writing.

Step One: Gather Evidence.

You knew the affair had already started. Miya and Caleb had been sneaking around for months behind your back. They thought they were clever. But you were done being blind.

You wrote down everything you remembered:

The investments that caleb made

The coworkers who had whispered behind your back.

The password Caleb used for his secret email.

His proposal.....and finally

The Wedding ceremony

Every single memory—turned into a weapon.

And as you wrote, your hands stopped trembling.

You felt steady.

Alive.

Dangerous.

But even as you plotted your moves, the memories of your final moments came unbidden. Caleb’s hands on your arms. The way he pushed. The shock. The betrayal. The cold, hard ground beneath you. The sickening silence after impact.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

No one had believed it was murder. You hadn’t even gotten justice.

But this time?

This time, you weren’t asking for justice.

You were going to take it yourself.

The next morning, you showed up at work with a new face. Calm. Cool. Collected.

You stepped out of the elevator and walked straight past Caleb without flinching. He blinked, surprised you didn’t stop to greet him like before.

Good.

Let him start to notice the difference. Let him wonder.

Let them both.

Because the woman they killed no longer existed.

You were someone new.

And this time…

You were going to destroy them.

Taglist: @nezuswritingdesk @lunia-likes-pomegranet @sapphic-daze @sylusgirlie7 @lavunyan @cathedralofaudra

[entomologistt]

What do they give you for Christmas?

Featuring: Emma Woods, Orpheus DeRoss, Victor Grantz, Vera Nair, Anne Lester, Frederick Kreiburg (Identity V)

Contains: Holiday gift giving, fluff, seperate romantic headcanons, gender neutral reader

Ento note: Happy Holidays! And good day to you if you don’t celebrate 🙂‍↕️ I don’t even remember what I spent all my spyglasses on, but now I can’t afford Melly’s christmas B tier… sighs. Next year she will be be mine, trust 🙏

Emma Woods “Gardener”

Emma has to think outside the box this time. She always gives you the prettiest flowers and all of the best, most succulent fruits and vegetables from her garden… Plus, it’s wintertime.

So she reverts back to her old roots of handiwork… Knitting! She spends a while working on a huuuuge knitted sweater of your favourite color(s), each woollen row a sign of her unwavering commitment to making the coziest sweater. 

When she finally gifts it to you, it’s really warm and comfy, perfect for the holiday season. She even made herself a matching green one!

Orpheus DeEss “Novelist”

If you share a similar interest, such as reading, he’d give you books of your favourite genres and authors.

Actually—he’d probably write something just for you, a story he knows you’d enjoy, one that gets you more intrigued with each turn of the page. Maybe even some poems for just you.

He’d also get you a locket necklace or a watch, a piece of pretty jewellery for you to wear. You can put whatever you want in it. Will you keep him close to you?

Victor Grantz “Postman”

He’s a sweetheart, that’s for sure. He shows up at your door with a smile on his face, a bouquet full of poinsettias and red roses held out for you to take. Of course, Wick is with him too, her tail wagging as she barked excitedly behind him. 

Victor is a good listener, so he always takes mental notes on things you like or things you might need. He gifts you various things, including supplies for any hobbies you partake in. 

He also gifts you a new notebook that you can keep, so you can keep his written words and conversations with you! 

Vera Nair “Perfumer”

Vera makes you two special perfumes. One is a pretty bottle full of scents that remind her of you, and she’s an expert at assigning people their recommended fragrances, scents that fit them. In this case, it’s a scent that’s so… you! 

The other is a bottle of euphoria, but she only recommends it for when you need to ease your mind. 

She also gifts you things you’d find in a gift set, full of luxurious bath and skin products. You’re dear to her, you deserve the best, after all. 

Anne Lester “Toy Merchant”

Although her specialty is wooden toys, she has another thing in mind for you. When December comes, she spends a lot of time in her workshop, crafting the perfect gift for you. 

Matching dolls! That’s right; she makes two little dolls, one that’s you and one that’s her. With the paid help of a certain prospector, the little hands are magnetized, so whenever they’re close, they connect! 

Now with these “mini-yous” in the picture, sometimes you both switch dolls. You take mini-Anne wherever you go, and mini-you sits happily on Anne’s shelf with other stuffed animals and toys. 

Frederick Kreiburg “Composer”

Of course, only something special and meaningful would suffice for his muse. At first, he thought of composing another beautiful piece for you on the piano… But let’s just say he’d never be done in time with how many times he’d restart, throwing crumpled papers to the floor. 

But a bright idea flickers in his mind, and he believes it to be possible. So when Christmas Day comes, he charmingly hands you your nicely wrapped gift. 

It’s a music box. When you twist the hand crank, a familiar tune comes in little bell-like notes. It’s one of the first composed pieces he’d ever written for you! Not only can you listen to the nostalgic melody whenever you want, you can also store your pretty jewellery and accessories in the velvet music box. 

[avidfics]

Loser Carol x popular reader

Summary: Despite the attention you receive from the people in your major the only girl you have eyes on is Carol Danvers. Everyone calls her the awkward nerd in your major but you could care less. If only she could get her head out of the books.

Warning: None really; slightly obnoxious reader; fluff; kissings, language

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“You’re not still staring at her, right?” The visible scorn on your “friends” faces didn’t deter you as you blatantly stared at the cute bookworm across the study room. 

Somehow, your peers in your major considered Carol an uninteresting, dull loser. Not that you minded. It was their fault if they couldn’t see the subtle sexiness Carol exuded as she hunched over the long study table in total concentration on the homework assignment. 

A few minutes ago, she had blown into the study room in complete disarray. Her worn brown leather jacket hung off one shoulder, low-rise jeans snug on her hips, and a laptop precariously perched in her arms. Something about it all drove you wild. It took a massive effort not to fantasize about dragging her frazzled self down against the wooden table, sliding her loose-fitted jeans down her ass, and making her moan your name as she disregarded any concerns of homework. 

You weren’t ashamed to admit your lustful intentions were written all over your face as you stared at her from across the room. Not having a desire to hide your emotions. 

Seconds passed, and your eye twitched as she never acknowledged you and kept scribbling in her notebook. Here you were, pretty, popular, and a smidge bitchy, and Carol had the nerve not to come begging for your attention?

The whole thing wounded your pride. 

Your chair screaks as you shoot out of your seat. Determined. The girls at your table must expect your next move if the groans and boos they let out are anything to go by. Whatever. You flip them off as you walk away from your judgemental table in your kitten heels and beeline to Carol’s table. The click-clack of your heels announces your approach as her friends, Monika and Valkayre, stop bickering, and eyes flare in surprise and slight apprehension at your presence. 

It took a tiny cough to snatch Carol’s attention away from her work but it was finally worth it when she looked up. The slow perusal from your feet, up your body, and to your eyes made your thighs clench a bit. Happy that you had spent the extra hour preparing your outfit and makeup.

“How’s it going guys? Feels like we havn’t caught up in forever.” You asked the group but you were solely focused on Carol, flicking your gaze between her eyes and her lips and grinned when a flush colored her face. 

A spike of irritation pricks your skin when you remember when one of her friends answers instead. Monica has a sarcastic lift to her lips as she looks up you from where she’s seated. “Wow, I didn’t realize you knew our names before today.”

Your eye twitched. That was true. You only learned Carol’s friend's names today to initiate this very scenario. 

For the past few years your crew of friends were pretty much made up of kiss-asses that only flocked to you because your family owned half the town and a good portion of the college. Maybe on a different day you wouldn’t mind getting closer to Monica and Valkyrie, they actually seemed nice, but right now you needed these two scatterbrains to get out  of the way. 

You brightly smiled at her nonetheless. “Of course I know your name. We’ve been in school together for years. But I agree we should get to know each other better-”

“-I never said that…”

“And while we’re talking about it.” You succulently cut the rest of her ramble off to get the attention of the scatterbrain who had, so far, been mute since your arrival. “Carol, I sent you an invite to the senior bonfire at my house on Insta but you never responded.”

Her friends comically “ohh”ed and tsked Carol but she looked between the two of them shocked. Looking for a lifeline. 

“Uhm, shit, you mean I was actually invited?” Her big round eyes looked up at you, earnestly asking.

“Well duh, love. You’re a senior too right? Honestly, I was kinda hurt when you never responded.” you whisper the last part out.

The desired impact of your downcast eyes, and fiddling your skirt had the desired, immediate response. She jolted up in her seat, dismay drowning her eyes. Unconsciously she runs her hands through her hair only for it to get caught in her ponytail, which she proceeds to yank out to findle with the holder. “Crap, crap, crap. Gez, I’m so sorry! Shit I’m such an idiot. I thought you messaged me on accident.”

A dramatic sigh leaves your lips.  

Monica gives an awkward cough. “We should probably go.” Under her breath, she mumbles, “Such an actress.” Which you almost smirk at. 

Outwardly you give a gracious smile at her friends. And cut a sharp glance to your crew, signally them to get lost. They roll their eyes but dutifully gather their items and head out. The sound of the heavy door clicking shut is music to your ears. 

Poor Carol now had her head thrown back in regret, stewing. Meanwhile you were devouring her with your eyes. Sure she gave off a geekish charm but there was nothing timid about the way she looked with her head thrown back and jean clad legs spread. The leather jacket was just the delicious icing on top. 

Her eyes are still closed so she doesn’t notice you rounding the table until you pressed a soft touch to her arm. 

“Shit.” she scoots her chair back in surprise but you pretend not to notice so you can take the opportunity to hop onto the study table next to her laptop. A devious part of you kept moving around to get “comfortable” but really just wanted to see her face as your flimsy mini skirt hikes higher   up your thighs, and as your tits jiggled in your low v-cut shirt. 

You might’ve decided to show off more of your body in hopes of seeing Carol today. And damn was it worth it as her gaze lowered to catch every slip of skin. When she audibly gulped and shifted uncomfortably in her seat the satisfaction you felt was immense.

“Carol?” She shook her head as if to clear away the lustful thoughts. But boy was it still there in her eyes. “So you truly didn’t know that dm was for you? Because if you think I’m being too forward I’ll back off…”

“Woah, don’t be crazy.” your single blink in response made her even more frantic. “Shit, I’m screwing this up even more. I’m usually better at articulating my words.”

“In what universe.” you quipp as a smile threatens to overtake your face. And to your delight Carol catches your teasing in stride. Boldly reaching up your outer thigh to give it a pinch. “Alright, smartass, havn’t you heard it’s rude to interrupt an apology?” 

“Hmm, I never need to apologize so I wouldn’t know.” Luckly she takes your brattiness in stride and just chuckles to herself. “Alright princess, well let this commoner show you how it’s properly done.” Your heart drops completely when two cool hands hook behind your knees and slides your bottom to the edge of the table until your legs end up on either sides of her frame. You quickly panic to press your skirt down in the middle to keep any sense of modesty. 

Not that Carol seemed to care as she looks up at you. Staring at your lips for a solid minute before dragging up to your eyes. “I had no idea you even knew I existed. meanwhile I’ve been working up the courage to talk to you for four years.” She ducks her head down, an embarrassed bashful smile on her face. ”nearly had an aneurysm when I saw you messaged me. Kinda thought it was a prank. But I promise to grovel even more and bring a ton of smores to the bonfire if you can forgive me.”

The bonfire was mostly an excuse for people to get drunk, hookup, and make terrible decisions. But you didn’t have the heart to ruin her Pg 13 illusions. Plus chocolate and groveling went together perfectly.

“Hmm.” You tapped your lipgloss coated lips as you pretended to deliberate. “suppose that was pretty good. But my apologies are better.”

“Thought you never needed to apologize-”

Her words die down as you drag her up by the collar of her jacket to press a soft, chaste kiss to her stunned lips. Only a hot second is needed for her shock to wear and the switch to click. In the next second, Carol fully stands up, her hands moving to either side of your hips and squeezing hard, pressing herself into the kiss with a thoroughness that left you dizzy. 

When you pull away for air, you both wear a pair of silly megawatt grins on your faces. A lingering kiss is pressed on her cheek as you hop off the table, straightening your twisted skirt and grabbing your bag. Her unfocused eyes track your movements. Clearly not nearly finished. On that you both agreed.

You take a moment to add your number to her phone while she plays with your other hand, lacing her fingers through yours playfully. Once it's in, you place the cell in her jacket pocket and begin to head out. “This Friday. My house. Don’t forget the smores.”

[billielolly]

Sims 3 Build - Artist's Escape

The perfect house for an artsy sim starting the next generation of their family. With a dedicated studio and walls bursting with vibrant colour and paintings, inspiration is sure to strike.

1 bedroom and 1 bathroom on a 25x20 lot.

Watch the speed build: https://youtu.be/lzxIDHL3s5I

Download here:

Patreon (free): https://www.patreon.com/posts/107237091

Exchange: https://www.thesims3.com/assetDetail.html?assetId=9597302

Expansion packs:

Ambitions

University Life

Late Night

Pets

Seasons

Supernatural

Stuff packs:

None

Store content:

Bohemian Garden Set - String of Inspiration (Wall)

Custom content:

mckat - (Default Replacement) Deposted and Destenciled McKracken Single Bed

Qahne - Garage Door on Five

heaven - Slated Roof (Biscayne Blue White Trim)

SIMcredible! - Coastal Living Bookcase

Kerrigan House Designs - Painter Set (Drawers, Reeves and Sons Chest, Book Clutter)

Martassimsbook - Imadako Watercolour Set (Watercolour Open, Painting with Tiltstand, Pallet, Brush and Cloth, Brush and Water, Colour Sample)

Wandering Sims - Flower Clip Pictures

Wandering Sims - 4t3 Ravasheen Look What I Drew Sketches

Martassimsbook - Lorelea Floral Paintings

Martassimsbook - Lorelea Cactus Poster

Martassimsbook - Kerrigan House Designs Lorrania Set Canvas

ArtVitalex - Ullery Paintings

Wandering Sims - Floristic Watercolour Pattern 10

Wandering Sims - Royal Garden Pattern 3

Wandering Sims - Intense Flowers Pattern 7

ArtVitalex - Kiester Mirror

Gosik - Kobe Bathroom Towels 2

Onyxium - Kearny Soap Dispenser

ArtVitalex - Upland Toilet Brush

Martassimsbook - Cowbuild My Home Set Potted Cordyline Palm

ArtVitalex - Downey Living Room (Seat Single, Seat Triple)

Twinsimming - Hipster Teen Bedroom Set (Reliable Rug, Original Launchpad Bed Frame/Bed Pillows/Mattress)

Lulu265 - Eclectic Living Room Coffee Table

Martassimsbook - novvvas Mid Century Modern Living Room (Books 2, Ficus Elastica)

Martassimsbook - Ars-botanica Cup of Pansies

Martassimsbook - novvvas Planties pt3 Monstera Deliciosa

ArtVitalex - Kanazawa Key Bowl

Martassimsbook - SugarOwl Lovely Succulents Paintings

Julietsimscc - Giveaway Gift Paintings (Without Borders)

Martassimsbook - Syboulette Millennial Kitchen Dish Soap

basimcly - Heritage Doors (External Glass Door x1)

Pralinesims - Contemporary Carpet 78

Crowkeeper - The Cryptic Triptych Paintings (Blossoms Abound, Connected)

Mutske - Medium Palm

Martassimsbook - Cowbuild Dahlia and Delpinium Vases

Kerrigan House Designs - Belle Epoque (Stool, Vanity Mirror, Climbing Ivy, Lights, Clutter, Lotion Giftbox, Candle 01, Candle 02)

Martassimsbook - Ravasheen Hang Around Closet Set P1 Shelves

Martassimsbook - Ravasheen Hang Around Closet Set P2 (Dress Belt, Summer Dress, Tunic, Long Sleeve Dress, Shorts)

Martassimsbook - Ravasheen Hang Around Closet Set P3 (Floppy Hat, Ivy Cap, Fedora)

Julietsimscc - CWB Unicorn Head

Martassimsbook - Cowbuild Follower Gift Set 1 Chicken Aloe Vera Pot

Kerrigan House Designs - Vintage Set Lamp

Wandering Sims - Wall Art Collection 5

Wandering Sims - Kids Wall Art 10

Martassimsbook - pqSim4 Stationary Haul Set Notebook with Pens

Martassimbook - PsychicPeanutKitty December Clutter Pencil Holder

pyszny16 - Kilburn Bedroom Calendar

Martassimsbook - Pinkboxdesign Kitchen Clutter Set Utensils

ArtVitalex - Mayorka Ceiling Spot Lamp

[eevylynn]

Behind the Cover

Sterek || T || Neckz 'n' Throats AU || 4234 wc

But this wasn’t just Stiles, the snarky librarian who shot him lingering looks from across the library table. No, this was Mitch—the model Derek had spent far too many nights fantasizing about. Stiles—Mitch—was standing under the harsh studio lights, his body shifting effortlessly into pose after pose. Erica, ever the professional, was directing him, her voice sharp and confident.

I realized that I never shared my Sterek Secret Santa fic that I wrote on tumblr. Oops!

I've been wanting to do my own Neckz 'n' Throats AU, so I was so excited to get the opportunity to try it out. I hope you enjoy it!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Derek sat hunched at his desk, a mug of coffee growing cold beside his laptop. The cursor blinked unendingly, mocking him with the lack of words. He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. Some days, the words flowed effortlessly.

Today wasn't one of those days.

Pushing his chair back, he stretched, feeling the satisfying crack of his spine as he stood. Grabbing his mug, he walked across the open loft to the kitchen. The sound of the microwave echoed across the quiet loft. The only other sounds were the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old pipes. The quiet usually helped him focus, but today it only seemed to amplify his writer's block.

The loud beeping of the microwave let him know it was done. He grabbed his coffee, and stirred it to make sure the whole cup was evenly warmed. Yes, he knew this technically wasn't good for the coffee. He didn't care. Warm coffee was mostly a placebo for him anyway. His body metabolized the caffeine too fast for it to actually affect him.

He crossed back to his desk to try and attempt more writing.

His loft was far from the cold, purely industrial look it had when he first moved in. Most of the walls held mismatched, thrifted bookshelves that were overflowing with books and a variety of knickknacks and clutter that Derek had collected over the years. Stacks of books and notebooks were also scattered on nearly every surface, most of their spines well-won. The heavily cushioned couch in the center of the room had a misshapen crocheted throw hung over the back, a handmade gift from Laura a few Christmases ago.

Even the desk he sat in had almost every surface of it covered. So much so that the small succulent that Cora had gotten him sat precariously close to the edge.

Derek reached over, adjusting its position to a safer spot before resuming the writer's position.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Still nothing.

Maybe a break would help.

He stood up fast enough that his chair kind of screeched across the floor. He grabbed his dad's old leather jacket that he had draped over the back of his armchair and pulled it on as he headed for the door. The mailman should have come by now, and if nothing else, checking the mail gave him an excuse to move around for a minute outside of his usual four walls.

The air in the hall was cooler, and Derek's steps echoed faintly as he descended. A couple of neighbors passed him on the way, offering polite nods. Derek returned the gestures with a tight lipped smile. Small talk wasn't his thing, and he didn't want to get stuck in a conversation about anyone's cat or weekend plans.

At the row of mailboxes, he slid his key into the lock and opened the little door. Bills, junk mail, and—he paused, fingers brushing against the familiar thick, glossy black envelope—the latest issue Neckz 'n' Throats .

Derek stared at it for a moment.

He bundled the rest of the mail under one arm, tossing the junk straight into the bin beside him, before making his way back upstairs. The black envelope stayed tucked against his chest, guarded carefully, like it might escape if he let it go.

Back in his apartment, he kicked the door shut behind him, setting the rest of the mail in the little basket he kept on the narrow entryway table.

He then dropped the black envelope on the coffee table and pulled off his jacket, tossing it back over the chair where it had started. If Laura or Cora had been there, they would have teased him for wearing it all of five minutes.

Picking the envelope back up, he tore it open with the practiced flick of a claw.

The latest issues of Neckz 'n' Throats slid into his lap.

A breath caught in Derek's throat. On the front cover, once again, was him . Mitch. The golden boy of Neckz 'n' Throats himself.

Derek exhaled slowly. The cover was arresting. Mitch’s sharp jaw caught the light, his dark eyes piercing, the long line of his neck tilted just enough to stir something primal. His fair skin, dotted with dark moles, looked almost luminous against the moody backdrop. Shirtless, he showed off a dusting of hair across his chest and the defined line of abs that disappeared beneath low-slung, fashionably worn jeans.

The headlines scattered across the cover were bold and eye-catching:

“Top 10 Scents Guaranteed to Drive Alphas Wild”

“How to Find the Perfect Mate”

"Fur-Friendly Fashion: Keeping It Chic During the Full Moon"

Derek’s fingers tightened on the glossy edge, heat creeping up his neck.

He wasn’t proud of it, but Mitch had become...a bit of an obsession. Derek had certainly spent more than a few nights with this face burned into his mind. It didn’t help that Mitch seemed almost engineered to drive werewolves crazy, especially Alphas.

It was ironic, Derek thought, that Mitch was human.

Shaking his head, he flipped the magazine open, skimming past the table of contents until he landed on the spread. Pages of Mitch in various poses—lounging in expensive coats, running a hand through his disheveled hair, baring the curve of his neck. Each photo made Derek’s throat tighten.

Then he turned to his own article: "Beast Mode: Workouts to Keep Your Inner Wolf in Top Shape"

It wasn't the title (or topic) Derek would have chosen, but it made his editor happy.

For the past few years, Derek had been writing articles for the monthly magazine. Think Cosmo , but catered primarily to werewolves. It covered everything from cutting-edge fashion trends and fitness tips to relationship advice between Alphas,Omegas, and everything in between.

Derek preferred to focus on his novels, but writing for the magazine offered a nice change of pace—and some extra cash for rent and utilities. Despite his family's wealth, dipping into the old Hale insurance payouts still felt like a betrayal, like profiting off their loss. The articles were small, manageable commitments: a feature on the psychology of pack dynamics here, a piece about the benefits of running in the preserve there.

And there were perks. A free copy of the magazine arrived in his mailbox each month, along with the occasional unexpected gift—a designer jacket, a cologne sample, once even a pair of boots too expensive to justify buying on his own. They were cast-offs from promotional campaigns, but Derek didn’t mind. It was a small, practical reward for sharing his words.

While, yes, he had more money than he could ever need after the loss of most of his family, dipping into life insurance payouts felt wrong, like he was profiting off their loss. That's why he kept writing for the magazine. The extra cash wasn't necessary, but it felt earned. Honest.

Of course, getting paid to see pictures of Mitch was always a bonus.

Derek was willing to admit, to himself and no one else, that he was deeply attracted to this man. Model. He had definitely pleasured himself to images of the man on occasion, but that was between himself and his libido.

His best friend, Erica, who had helped him get the job in the first place, was a higher up photographer at the magazine. She's actually tried to convince him to model. "Just once," she'd said. "You've got the face for it, Der."

He refused every time.

He was well aware of his looks, but that wasn't what he wanted to be known for. Words were his shield. His armor. He preferred to be hidden behind them. It kept him safe.

Unlike his looks…

Derek thought of occasionally asking Erica for details about Mitch, but that felt like an invasion of privacy, and was probably a little (a lot) creepy, so he restrained himself from doing so. Though, Derek did find it a touch ironic that he never ran into the guy during the times he went to pick Erica up for lunch or to go meet with the editor, but the building was huge, so maybe it wasn't that ironic after all.

Closing the magazine with a quiet thud, Derek leaned back into the couch, staring at the ceiling.

He really needed to stop dwelling on the guy. Mitch was just a model. Probably directed to pose in a way that would cause him to entice any werewolf that looked at him. The fantasy of him definitely helped sell more copies.

Still, his gaze drifted back to the magazine, the smirk on Mitch's face almost daring him.

"Damn it," Derek muttered.

The cursor on his laptop was still waiting.

Fuck it.

It can keep waiting.

[continue on ao3]