#the way you sent me an actual handwritten letter in the mail telling me you loved me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thestagsheadsblog · 2 years

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Seeing You Again (Chapter 5)

Pairing: Robert “Bob” Floyd x Reader, Childhood Friends

Word Count: 2.4K

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

Read on AO3

Note: Thanks for all the love on this fic and sorry for the looong delay on this chapter!

"A new letter from the USS Blue Balls came in the mail!"

Hearing your sister's voice from the entrance hallway you dashed out of your room to meet her in the kitchen, snatching the letter out of her hand.

"Read it to me," she requested.

"Absolutely not," you laughed as you inspected the postage. Direct from the Fleet Post Office in San Francisco, otherwise no evidence whatsoever as to where Bob may have been at the moment the letter was posted.

Emily shrugged and poured herself some cereal. "It's actually really cute that he writes you letters like he's off fighting in the Civil War or some shit. 'My dear Miss Y/L/N'," she teased with an exaggerated good ol' boy Southern accent. "Most guys would just send a picture of their dick and leave it at that."

"Robbie is a bit more sentimental than that," you smiled, tempted to open the letter then and there.

"I'm sure you wouldn't mind a picture of whatever he is packing," she estimated, ignoring your eyeroll and refusal to respond.

This was the third letter you had received from Bob since he had left. You occasionally got texts and emails from him, of course, but his internet access was sporadic at best and the letters became the most effective way to have a meaningful 'conversation' over the weeks he had been at sea.

Before he left, you had met one last time in San Diego; his bags packed and dressed in the same khaki uniform he had worn the first night you saw him at The Hard Deck.

"I didn't know aircraft carriers had mailing addresses," you said in wonderment as he handed you a slip of paper containing details of his carrier, squadron, rank and a San Francisco address in neat script.

"It's more of a forwarding service," he explained. "Anything sent there will get to me...eventually. Just be aware that they may, uh, read everything you send."

You smiled at the blush rising on Bob's cheeks as he talked about the prospect of their private correspondences being read by strangers at the post office.

"So no snail mail sexting is what you're telling me?" you joked.

Bob laughed and grew impossibly redder. "I don't think they care so much about what my girlfriend has to say to me as they do about security threats but...yeah. They may still read it."

You swallowed and looked up at him with a quirked brow. "Your girlfriend?"

Bob looked back, eyes blown wide in panic. "Sorry...I just thought...you know, the way things were going," he raked his hand through his hair. "I probably should have asked you if that was the case-"

You pulled him down into a kiss to put him out of his misery. He sighed in relief against your lips.

"Now I can finally tell all the mean girls in 4th period math that Robbie Floyd is actually my boyfriend without it being a lie," you said with a cheeky smile as he pressed his forehead against yours.

While you were elated to know that you and Bob had finally made your relationship official, your joy quickly subsided into an uneasy wistfulness. You hated to see him go. It brought back heartsick memories of crawling to the back window of your mom's minivan, waving at your best friend as he chased you down the street as fast as his legs could take him, until you disappeared around the bend following your dad's U-Haul. You wouldn't see each other again for 17 years.

The day after Bob's carrier had departed from North Island your mood had matched the gloom of the marine layer that settled over San Diego. Your last message to him on your phone remained unseen. He was officially off-the-grid, your only comfort being a handwritten address to San Francisco.

You had felt a bit silly sitting down to handwrite your first letter. You hadn't written a personal correspondence via snail mail since your parents made you send letters to Santa Claus at the North Pole. Mailing something to an aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean seemed just as whimsical and preposterous. Would he ever read it or, like your letters to the North Pole, would you be sending this letter for your own sake? You had to believe he would, so you took to the task with just as much sincerity as your childhood wish lists.

Lieutenant Floyd, I should have sent this letter 17 years ago, but at least now you finally have proof to show your friends confirming that you have a girlfriend...

Even though you were more than certain Bob held a deep affection for you, you were still hesitant at this early stage in your relationship; more so now that he was going to be gone for months. You didn't want to wax poetic about your feelings for him, nor did you want to go full pornographic by divulging everything you wished you had done with him before he left. Instead, you approached the letter as though he were just beside you, a form of pillow talk that he could enjoy during his rare moments of downtime, sitting in his officer's berth just below the flight deck.

You told him how the weather had turned as soon as he left, how Emily had tried to talk you into going to The Hard Deck again (something you were in no way interested in doing without him being there). You told him about how your mom asks how he is fairing more often than she does her own daughters. You updated him on the shows he is missing that you will need to binge together; the latest shitty Hallmark movie with terrible acting you will force him to watch. You confessed that San Diego wasn't the same without him and that you hoped to get a letter from him soon.

You had frowned as you came to the end of the letter, unsure how to sign off. Your pen hovered over the paper before quickly inscribing Love, and your name. You folded and sealed the letter in an envelope before you could overthink your words and the next day you had popped it into the nearest mailbox, next stop San Francisco.

Weeks went by before his first letter arrived, dingy and banged up as though it went through a war zone. Forwarded to Dr. Y/L/N and your home address.

In classic Bob style, he was polite and eager in his letter, thanking you for writing to him, expressing how he had hoped to get something from you at every Mail Call, confessing how he was missing you too. He wrote in deliberately vague details about his work and in explicit minutiae on the sophomoric antics of his shipmates. He told you about how long it had taken him to get used to sleeping on a carrier again, to the sound of the catapult and Growlers landing just over his stateroom. He refused in advance to watch the Hallmark movie you suggested (a toothless claim if you ever read one). He explained how it was possible to still feel lonely when you were in close quarters with over six-thousand people. He couldn't wait to get back to San Diego.

At the bottom of the page, he had signed off Love, Robbie.

Each subsequent letter was more substantial than the last as though you were both working through your hesitancy - unsure of how much enthusiasm and candidness you could unload on the other without crossing into the territory of a Stage 5 Clinger. By the third letter, Bob had apparently thrown caution to the wind and you marveled at the thick weight of the envelope which you could only assume contained more than just notebook paper.

Despite Emily's protestations, you set the most recent letter aside in your room to read when you got home from work. The letters deserved to be treated better than a common text for immediate consumption. Half the excitement was waiting until the end of the day, theorizing for hours on what he may have written about or what was included in the envelope that had come from a ship halfway around the world. Your workload at the office always suffered from your daydreams on the days you knew you had a letter waiting at home.

That night you grabbed a quick dinner, poured yourself a glass of wine and kicked the door to your bedroom closed with a buzz of anticipation. How a long-distance relationship with such sporadic contact still managed to bring you so much happiness was something you might never fully understand, but you knew it had more than a little to do with the comfort of knowing Bob was out there somewhere and he was thinking of you...a lot apparently, if this latest letter was any indication.

You set your glass on the nightstand and finally tore the envelope open, unfolding Bob's thick letter and releasing a small stack of photographs that fell onto your lap.

Setting the letter aside for a moment you picked up the photos to inspect them. A smile spread across your face as you looked at the image of you and Bob at no more than eight years old, sitting on the swing set that his father had assembled in their backyard. You chuckled at your gap-toothed grins and the glasses that were too big for Bob's face even back then. The next photo was from Halloween a few years later, each of you in a silly costume and a pillowcase full of candy, with neat cursive on the back confirming Halloween 2000.

Photo after photo displayed little snippets of your childhood, some you remembered being taken as clearly as if it had been yesterday and others unearthed long forgotten memories of your life on that quiet street. You laughed aloud at a photo of you and Bob smiling innocently with a bucket of water balloons while a soaked Emily sobbed just out of focus behind you.

"Okay, I need to know what he wrote that's making you laugh so much," Emily's voice came from just outside your bedroom door.

"Come in," you said. "You need to see these."

Emily entered your room and flopped on the bed beside you. You handed her the photographs and turned your attention to Bob's letter.

"No way," she said in wonderment. "Where did he find these?"

As soon as I told my mom I had run into you a few months ago and we were hanging out she went digging in our attic to find these pictures. She mailed to me on the carrier a few weeks ago. I thought you'd like to see them too. I got a good laugh out of some of them.

"His mom found them and sent them on to him," you explained as you continued reading his letter.

"He had his mom dig out all these old photos of the two of you?"

"I don't think he made her, but she did."

"And he sent them to you..."

"That's what was in with this letter," you replied.

Emily propped herself up on her elbow and looked at you directly. "Girl," she exhaled. "This man is in love with you."

A blush bloomed on your face, and you found yourself at a loss. You didn't want to brush off her words or deny her theory, but you felt more than a bit overwhelmed. You were certain no one had ever been in love with you before, much less someone of the caliber of Bob. You weren't quite sure whether you were ready to admit that love may be a part of this equation.

"Like, normally I'd have my doubts because he's on an aircraft carrier with thousands of dudes and of course that could make some men mushy and desperate-"

"There's women on carriers now," you pointed out.

"Yeah, like two," she rolled her eyes. "I doubt many guys on that ship are sending literal hand-written dissertations to their childhood sweethearts every few weeks. Much less ones they haven't even slept with yet."

You sighed. You felt lucky and elated, but you also wanted Bob to come back. There was a staggering itch of unfinished business between the two of you that these letters were doing little to scratch. If anything, they made it more urgent.

"If you don't fuck his brains out the instant-"

"Stop!" you laughed, smacking Emily with the nearest throw pillow.

"I'm serious!" she laughed in turn, blocking the pillow assault with her forearm. "All these letters and being on a carrier for months, he'll probably propose immediately after he cu- Ow! And I'll have to look for a new roommate!"

Emily rolled away, still giggling from your attack. You tempered your own laugher as you picked up his letter again.

"Well, you have a few months to plan for that," you lamented. "He's not going to be back anytime soon."

"More time to build the sexual tension," she sniggered. "Not that you need any more of that..."

You kicked Emily out to read the remainder of Bob's letter in peace. Despite what your sister had claimed, there were no exuberant professions of love in his words, but you had to admit the sentiment was there, nonetheless. He was not writing to just an old friend. These were love letters even if the only time the actual word appeared was just prior to his name at the end of his last page.

Your wine finished and Bob's letters re-read from front to back for the nth time, you sat down to begin penning your next correspondence. You felt emboldened by Emily's foresight (and the wine, most likely) and wanted to nail down the plans for Bob's return. You wanted to meet him pier-side on North Island. It was an intimate request, something usually reserved for family, but if what Emily suspected was true, it wouldn't be too outlandish. At least you hoped Bob would welcome the offer.

Like your first letter, you stuffed and sealed the envelope before you could second-guess yourself. Bob may very well be in love with you, but you couldn't be one-hundred percent certain, not until he had returned, and you could see where your relationship lead. The only acute certainty you had was that you were unflinchingly, positively stupidly, head over heels in love with Bob.

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writingsbychlo · 4 years

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mistletoe magic | stiles stilinski

word count; 10,490

summary; stiles learns that his cute neighbour might be a witch after accidentally getting her spellbooks delivered to him instead.

notes; I know a witch!au isn’t a huge au for stiles, because he’s had evident races of magic throughout the series anyway, but just enjoy it!

warnings; smut, unprotected sex, use of magic

It had been a pretty regular Monday morning for Stiles.

At six sharp, he’d been up and awake, barely functional but stumbling through his apartment and clicking on the coffee machine, before hopping into the shower for a quick wash. When he’d emerged, the machine had just finished grinding, as always, his routine functioning like a well-oiled machine now, and he’d moved it all across into a to-go cup and left it on the counter before going to get dressed.

He’d stumbled around to find his school books and shove them into a bag, eaten two cinnamon pop tarts that had burned the tips of his fingers when he’d grabbed them straight from the toaster, and had still been chewing as he shoved his keys in his pocket and sipped at his coffee, straight into the elevator at twenty to seven.

It was a fifteen-minute walk across campus to his early morning lecture on a Monday, leaving him with a few minutes to spare, in case he saw the sweet older lady from two floors down and wanted to say ‘hi’, or the cute neighbour who lived across the hall that always made him fall over his own feet, or maybe even the kid who delivers newspapers and is always falling off of his bike. He made it on time, took some great notes, and was feeling a little more alive and welcome into his day.

At exactly ten past one, he’d been home, having gone to the library to get some study in and find his new books, and get lunch at the diner he always ate at after classes, a cheeseburger and curly fries, and grabbed his letters and a parcel from the mail slot with his housing number printed on, tucking the package under his arm and heading upstairs and back to his flat, ready to flick through his bills.

All according to plan. One year and four months away at university and he knew every day like he’d been doing it for a decade, so he was only half-way to the kitchen when he remembered the package he was clutching under his arm, coming to a complete halt, throwing the usual assortment of envelopes away to the counter, and producing the neatly wrapped bundle.

He didn’t question it, not even bothering to look at the front, figuring it was just an early delivery on the textbooks that he wasn’t expecting to get here for another three weeks, finger slipping under the folds of the brown paper and tearing it away, fingers dancing over the covers of the books, before his brows were furrowing once again.

These were definitely not his ‘intro to psychological profiling’ textbooks.

Beautiful swirls in gold, carved into dark leather across the front, Latin words he didn’t understand before he was opening the cover, brushing off a layer of dust and letting one brow arch up. The text inside was English - though, no modern - and paper that he was cautious to take care of, simply from what appeared to be the age of it, stained and worn, finger marks clear on the corner from being passed down through generations. It was handwritten, drawings in old ink that had leaked onto the paper a little, rough and coarse, and labelled doodles with names he had never heard of before.

At a glance, he would assume it to be some kind of witchcraft.

He felt on edge, suddenly. He’d left Beacon Hills to come to somewhere that no supernatural would follow, where things like werewolves were still a myth, something to be laughed at, and he swallowed thickly, looking around his apartment as though someone was going to jump out. He loved his friends, he really did, and he didn’t so much mind the supernatural when he was with them all because they protected him, but alone out here, he and his bat didn’t stand a chance.

Now, it was Christmas, he knew this from the poor excuse of a tree up in his living room, and the snow outside, and the fact that for the last six weeks, his usual mochas had been a gingerbread-spiced mocha, on the insistence of the barista who served him whenever he ventured into the little coffee shop joint, and he was growing find of it. So, he tried to be optimistic, in the spirit of festivities and all that, and texted the group chat, waiting to see if any of them had sent him the books as a present, maybe even his father or Melissa. He even texted Parrish.

Except, they all said no, and now, he was stumped. Then, as he was being extra nosey and flicking through the book, he came across a page marked with a small slip of card, the item falling out, and he cursed, having no idea which page it came from, but as he picked up the piece of paper, one of the questions in his puzzle finally gained another piece towards the jigsaw.

‘(Y/N), the spell you’re looking for is here, but be careful, it’s a strong one.’

So, the books are for his hot neighbour, the next number up from his, and it now made sense as to why he had these books - they were a mistake. It opened a new question, however, as to why you would be getting them.

He had absolutely no patience, barley remembering to flick the catch on his door so that he’d be able to get back inside, before he was striding across the hall in one, two steps, and knocking on the wood. He could hear you shuffling around inside, the soft and muffled notes of the classic rock music you’d been listening to getting turned right down to low. It only took you a further few seconds until you were opening the door, but it felt like years to him with his impatience, fingers tapping against the books agitatedly, biting the nail of the other thumb, and his foot was tapping against the floor.

When you opened the door, though, he felt like it was too soon, like he wasn’t prepared for what to say, his breath hitching in his throat as his heart leapt in his chest, eyes sweeping down along your body and widening at your bare legs, only a t-shirt hanging on your frame, rising up to reveal the edge of a pair of white lace panties as you opened the door, and he forced his eyes back up to yours, wincing as he bit down a little too harshly on his nail, and pulled it from his mouth, shaking it as his dropped to his side.

“Hey, neighbour.”

“H-Hi. Hello. Yes, hi.” He already wanted to die a little bit, he hadn't stuttered this much in front of a pretty girl since junior year in high school, even Lydia had lost this effect on him, and college really had been a growing experience for him. He’d had a fair few hook-ups, and experimented, and he wasn’t shy about flirting when he wanted to, but you always through hi right back through loops, like he was still that kid with a buzzcut.

“What can I do for you, four-A?”

“Stiles. My name is Stiles.” He waited for the usual reaction, the cringe, the eyebrows shooting up, the scowl, something to indicate that you had actually heard the pronunciation, but you only smiled a little wider.

“I know. After I introduced myself and you fell over and didn’t give me your name, I checked the mail in your post-slot. I was curious. There was a lot addressed to Mieczysłav, but then one with a handwritten address to Stiles.” You shrugged, leaning against the doorframe, and crossing your arms, and while you might seem casual, at least his degree was coming in useful for something, as your body language read an entirely different reaction, insecurity and worry rolling off of you in invisible waves of tells.

He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, laughing slightly. “That sounds like something I would do.”

Silence fell between you both for a second, and he couldn't help but stare, taking in every detail of your face, the way your lower lip was a little reddened, and he figured you must have been nibbling on it while working, and your hair was messy, an attempt to pin it back that seemed to have come loose and entirely ineffective, presumably from dancing, because you looked a little flushed. When you raised your brows at him a little, he realised you were waiting for him to explain himself, why he was on your doorstep, and he flushed with embarrassment shaking his head clear.

“I got your spellbooks by mistake.” He held them out, eyes widening even more, before his jaw was dropping open. “Book. Regular books. Not spell books, because that would imply magic, right? And, that’s dumb. Just regular books. I didn’t look at them, at all, not even a little bit, I promise.”

“You don’t believe in magic, then?” You took them from him, a coy smile on your lips, and you placed them down on the counter beside the door, pushing a bowl of potpourri getting pushed aside, along with your car keys and what looked like an incense burner.

“Do you?”

He was testing the water, seeing where your mind was at, and as a whistling came from your kitchen, you glanced back over to the kettle on the hob, and he thought this conversation might be about to come to an end. “Well, I think there’s always a little magic in life, even if people don’t notice it. You have to believe in magic to be able to see it. It’s like the supernatural that way.”

“And, you believe in the supernatural, huh?” He felt bad for the way he said it, because it was mocking, but he had to be sure that you weren’t messing with him, or spying on him, he had to try and find out who you were, but you only looked away as the whistling got louder, opening the door a little more and waving him inside as you walked away, and he stumbled after you and closed the door before his mind had even caught up with the movement of his feet.

Your apartment was littered with plants. The windowsills were lined with them, all brought green and blooming, even though he was sure it wasn’t the right season, and there was even a set of cactuses along a shelf near the corridor. There was a homey feel to your place, almost earthy, neutral tones and soft accents, a smell that was so calming he felt his own muscles begin to relax, and the music had changed from classic rock to some country song he was sure he’d heard in a movie somewhere but couldn't quite place it, and he followed you to the kitchen.

Rows of cookbooks and recipe folders stacked up on top of a lower cupboard, and he swallowed thickly, averting his gaze from the way your lace panties hugged your ass deliciously as you reached up for a mug, bringing back two, and pouring them both full of the herbal concoction you’d been making. On a mismatching saucer, you offered it to him, and he sniffed it carefully, but remembered his manners, mumbling a ‘thank you’, because his mother raised his right, even if he was a little suspicious of you.

“Relax, Stiles, if I was going to poison you, I wouldn’t be giving you tea made of Valerian and Lemon Balm. Do you want any honey, honey?” You grinned a little at your joke, but he shook his head, watching as you stirred a spoonful of the sticky sweetener into your own, and taking a tentative sip after blowing on the surface. It wasn’t all that bad, he had to admit, and he found his tensions slipping away a little. “It’s for relaxing, and helping with sleep.”

“It’s good.” You smiled, blowing lightly on your own, and he decided that he could busy himself by checking out your posters. An interesting arrangement, one was a band poster, the other was a chart with the phases of the moon, a third with diagrams of plants and little facts underneath, and the fourth, with symbols and drawing he didn’t quite understand. “So, you’re really embracing that whole witch thing, then?”

“Well, seeing as I am a witch, I would think it’s only appropriate.” He tried to hide his grin behind his mug, shaking his head a little, not believing that they really existed, and you didn’t miss the glint in his eyes, clearly, because there was a playful kind of offence flashing across your face. “You can’t tell me you think I’m insane, not when there’s so much of the supernatural all over you, Stiles.”

“The supernatural? Really?”

“So, you’re not the emissary to a pack of werewolves?” You challenged, his jaw dropping at the accuracy of it, and it was your turn to laugh at him. “It’s literally stitched into your aura, I sensed another supernatural the second you walked into the building.”

“I just associate with a lot of ‘em, but I’m not supernatural myself.”

“You sure about that?” He stilled, memories flashing behind his eyes of a time when he once was, and you seemed to pick up on the slightly sour mood he’d taken on, then again, he wasn’t really sure where your abilities lay, being that Scott or Derek would have simply sniffed it out on him. Your hand on his arm snapped him back to the moment, fingers squeezing lightly at his bicep. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“There was a possibility, once, but it’s gone. There’s a dark chapter in my past, and the spark I was told I once had disappeared when I got through it.”

It went quiet again after that, your fingers slipping down from his arm to take his, and you placed your cup down, the steaming brew barely touched, but he followed suit, letting himself be pulled along as you directed him back to the living room. You were distracting him, it was an obvious ploy, but he was excited to learn, and he let the sadness of remembering his possession fade away as the thrill of new knowledge took over. “I can tell you have a lot of questions, so, what do you want to know first?”

He rubbed at his chin, settling down onto the couch at the edge of the room, finding it surprisingly comfortable, and you were busying yourself around him, a little water jug in your hand as you nurtured the abundance of houseplants you owned. “How did you know about my pack? And how much do you know about them?”

“It’s in your aura, I suppose. I can just pick up hints of different things when you’re around. The wolves are obvious, I’ve been around a lot of wolves. I also get death, and I've never met a banshee, but I assume that’s what it is. I knew you were the emissary because you’re the only magic in there, I would sense other traces on you, and there’s something else I can’t quite place.” Your face screwed up a little bit as you thought about it, nose wrinkling adorably before shrugging. “Like a werewolf, but not quite. I can’t get it.”

“She’s a werecoyote.”

You paused your pouring, turning to look at him, eyes flicking lightly around his being, before smiling slightly to yourself, and going back to your task. “Huh. Interesting.”

“Have you been a witch your whole life?”

“Since the day I was born, but I didn’t know or start practising until I was older. It just kinda’ happens, comes out of nowhere at a certain age, you start to realise you have abilities.” You had moved onto using a dropper to give little drips of water to cacti and succulents, standing on a small step stool as you did.

“Do you have to go to a school, like Harry Potter? Do you have a wand?”

You laughed at that, a genuine and hearty laugh, and you finished up your tasks, legs folding underneath yourself and you smirked a little at him as you sat down and got comfortable. “You wish, Stilinski. It’s not like that, it's more of an earthly connection than magic. It’s why my plants are so healthy. I can brew stuff, make little potions-” You motioned a hand over the jars lining the shelves on the walls, his eyes scanning over each one, picking out the neatly written titles across the fronts. “-I can cast very light spells, but it’s not the sort of thing where you can curse people, or teleport.”

“So, you can’t curse people to turn into frogs?”

“No, unfortunately not.” He was sure your giggle was the sweetest he’d ever heard, and he dared to twist himself around a little more, inching slightly closer to you across the couch. “I can do some stuff, like make your skin break out or give you a rash that won’t go away until I let it, and I can even give you headaches and such, but I don’t like to dabble in that sort of stuff. I much prefer protection charms.”

“Protection charms?” His heart skipped a little beat at the way your face lit up as you nodded, and he was intrigued, interest piqued. “I could use one of those, y’know, I’m incredibly clumsy and often get into supernatural trouble when I’m home. Hasn’t been so bad since I got here. Will you make me one?”

Your eyes left him, bottom lip nibbled between your teeth, and for a second he had worried he’d messed up, unsure on how witch spellcasting etiquette worked, but then you were moving across the room, opening up the cabinet on the other side of the room, and inside the doors and wooden frame hung what must be close to a thirty different decorative charms. Some were dreamcatchers or garlands hanging on the inside of the door, others were handcrafted little ornaments sitting on the shelves and filling them up, and your fingers were flittering over them all.

When you found what you were looking for, you lifted it out, a dream catcher that was bright and colourful and a little odd-looking, before bringing it back over to him, and presenting him with it cautiously. “You already made me one?”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t let the cute guy from across the hall get any more injuries. I watched you fall over five times in your first week living here. You’re really clumsy.”

He felt heat rush to his cheeks, and yet he couldn't help the goofy grin that travelled across his features, not mentioning the fact that he noticed you sitting considerably closer to home when you took your seat once again. He was embarrassed for two reasons, the first being that you had noticed his innate penchant for ridiculous injuries, but more overwhelmingly, the second being that you still thought he was cute. College might have helped him bloom a little, but when he had a crush, he was still a bumbling mess, and he didn’t know quite how to respond.

He busied himself with taking in the details of the dreamcatcher. Somehow, despite this being the first real conversation that the two of you had ever had, passing and fleeting chats in the halls and elevator not counting, you had managed to capture his entire essence, he could already tell. The strings were made of wool, chunky and all different colours, a mix of yellows and blues, woven in together and tangled in strange patterns, but beautiful nonetheless, and the little accents were what made it complete.

A button that had fallen off of one of his flannels, he recognised the distinctive wooden piece, and it was woven into the design, along with a blue ribbon in the same colour of the jeep that was tied in a bow, and a wooden twig tangled in it. Dangling on more pieces of wool from the bottom was a keyring he was sure he’d lost after leaving it downstairs overnight, the Yoda on it looking cleaner than he remembered, and you must've cleaned it. There was also a black feather, and a sprig of some kind of dried herb that he didn't recognise, but enjoyed the smell anyway.

It was intricate and personal, and he felt chuffed just to know that you’d made one for him, a little security and peace washing over him to know that someone was out here looking after him, completely unmaliciously, simply because you wanted to.

“This is incredible.” You let out a breath of relief, he recognised it in the way your body slumped a little, and he placed it down carefully on the coffee table beside you both, reaching out to take your hand in his, and daring to lace your fingers together and squeeze in gratitude, and you held onto him yourself, gaze dropping down to your connected hands. In a bold move of your own, you lifted your other hand, holding onto his with both of yours, and his thumb lifted out to brush lightly over your skin. “You’re the reason I don’t get papercuts and splinters anymore.”

“And you are very welcome for that.” You teased him back, and an easy kind of harmony fell between you both, your presence being more comfortable simply having only just really begun to meet you than he ever had been with someone new. It was strange, to feel so relaxed and at home with you, the way you put his fears at ease and soothed every worry without even trying, making him feel welcome and accepted, like he’d known you for years, not just shy of an hour. “Will you tell me about your pack?”

“You really want to know?” He couldn’t mask his surprise, and you nodded, excitement gleaming in your eyes, and he felt a surge of pride swell up in his system at the idea of getting to boast about his friends completely honestly for the first time in his life. There was no threat, he wasn’t showing off their skills as a way to try and ward off a threat or intimidate someone, but he simply wanted everyone else to be as awed by them as he was, and he didn’t have to hide any supernatural secrets from you. “Shall I start at the beginning?”

“Is it a long story?”

“Very long.” He confirmed, a shy laugh leaving you, before you were shifting again.

“How about I go and make us some fresh tea, then?” You were on your feet, wandering away to the kitchen as soon as he’d offered his affirmations of the idea, and he decided to follow after you, already beginning to blather about Peter Hale.

Hours seemed to pass by, as he spoke to you, two more pots of tea being made, and you’d broken out your snack-store for him, before the two of you had ordered pizza. He’d made himself at home, too, keys and phone sitting abandoned on the table, shoes kicked off on the floor, and feet stretched out along the couch. You were sitting at the opposite end, your legs stretched out in his direction, and one of his hands was sitting on your ankle, fingers drawing patterns on the soft skin there absentmindedly as his other hand was used to gesture wildly around himself.

He told you it all, confessing right from the beginning as he encountered Derek Hale, who liked to lurk in the woods, which had made you crack up as he told you about how the man was basically now the alpha, even if Scott was officially the alpha, and he’d told you about Jackson’s kanima phase, which had made you crack up even more as you claimed he deserved it.

You’d been shocked by his homicidal English teacher, and comforted him when he spilled his heart to you over the nogitsune incident he hated to think about, accepting your hush happily, and revelling in the smell of your hair when you’d pressed in close to him, before retreating to your seat.

He told you all about the benefactor and the dread doctors, and about Allison’s death, which he still blamed himself for when he was on a low day, and you’d used your thumb to clear away the tear that had fallen from his cheek, leaving him blushing and breathless for a second when you’d pressed a light kiss to his cheekbone just after.

You had scooted closer to him and stayed there near the end of his tales, tucked under his arm, playing with his fingers over your shoulders as he rambled about how alone he’d felt while taken by the Wild Hunt, thoughts that he’d always kept locked up in his own mind, never having shared with another person before.

“You really got the short end of the ‘supernatural encounters’ stick then, huh?”

“Oh, sweetheart, that is the understatement of the century.” You lifted your head from his shoulder, your feet nudging together on the coffee table, the reindeer themed fluffy socks on your feet playing with the patchy and worn door knitted socks he’d had for years, worn to keep warm during the winter, even though your apartment was nice and toasty, the heaters running and the radiators on, and it was much cosier than his place had ever been.

The Christmas lights on a timer had come on, flickering around the place once the light had started fading, hours flashing by in the blink of an eye, a hazy glow cast over the apartment and creating a whole new range of shadows. “Do you want me to make charms for your friends?”

He watched you for a moment longer, trying to discern whether you were serious, and when he caught no gesture of ill-will, or hesitation, or hidden-motives, he smiled. “You’d do that?”

“Seems like you all need it.”

He shrugged a little, smiling when you rested your forehead against his, fingers playing together still, but feet stilling in their game of footsie. “I can’t believe I waited this long to get to know you. You’re, like, the coolest chick I’ve ever met.”

His eyes fluttered closed, he couldn't’ help it, noses bumping together as you both simply drowned in the moment, in what the moment was leading up to, where you both knew this was going but were revelling in the simple but exhilarating tension that was crackling with electricity in the millimetres of space between your lips and his. You were so close to him that he could feel it more than hear it when you whispered some words he didn’t quite understand, your breath fanning over his face in a dreamy sigh, and it took his hazed brain a second to catch up, before he was pulling back just enough to catch your eyes, one hand coming up to rest over your cheek as he turned to face you fully.

“Oh, my God. Did you just cast a spell?”

“Look up.” He was hesitant to pull back much further, but did so anyway, and he chuckled slightly as he spotted the little green plant beginning to sprout from the ceiling. Vines were still strengthening along the beam, and the leaves were beginning to form right before his eyes, white berries hanging between the green stems, and Stiles shook his head, in complete awe as he looked at it.

You were staring up to, eyes focused on the plant as it bloomed and he assumed you were concentrating on its development, but he couldn't hold back anymore, two hands on your cheeks, pulling your face back to his, and your lips barely parted to speak before his mouth was colliding with your own. A squeak left you, and he wanted to grin at being able illicit such a sound from you, but the temptation to kiss was just enough for him to contain himself. When your mind finally caught up, you were kissing him back just as eagerly, a soft sigh leaving you. “You are fucking adorable.”

The words were whispered into your mouth, he felt you shake with a soft laugh under his hold, before you were holding onto him just as tightly in return. One of your hands wrapped around his wrists, the other sliding over his bicep to his shoulder, before slipping down underneath, and smoothing over the front of his chest. He puffed out a little under your touch, pulling away for a quick breath, groaning slightly at the way your nails dug into his skin as he did, and then, he was diving right back into you.

Your hand slipped down to rest over his heart, the organ thudding under your hand, and he felt like it was going to burst right out of his chest, but as he pressed a little further into you, a shock like an electrocution was racing right through his body, a kind of jolt that was thoroughly exhilarating, and he pulled away, eyes wide as he stared at you.

You looked just as shocked as he expected he did too, his hands dropped down as he watched sparks and electricity crackle between your fingers and his, your brows raising at him. “Thought you said you had no magic left after.. y’know..”

He couldn’t drag his eyes away from it, your fingers weaving with his, a loud snapping sounding as a particularly bright flare went off, and he flinched a little, jaw dropping and a whine slipping from him as you contained it all the sight disappeared before his eyes. “So, there really are sparks flying between us, huh?”

He regretted the words the moment he’d said them, expecting to see on your face the same kind he’d always gotten from Malia or Lydia when he made those kinds of cheesy puns that only he enjoyed, even Scott daring to fix him with a bored or blank look, and Derek would simply glare, but much to his surprise, you laughed. It was fond, with a roll of your eyes and a huff to preempt it, but you laughed nonetheless, and he felt himself somehow manage to brighten even further. “That was cheesy.”

“I know.” He beamed, shifting a little, hands sinking down to your hips to pull you closer to himself as he settled back into the couch, and your hand pressed to the cushions beside his head, the other one coming up to weave into his hair lightly.

“I loved it. I am quite a fan of puns.”

“That’s good, because I usually have a lot of them.” He leaned up, daring himself to be bold enough to close that gap once again, and he could feel your lashes tickling his cheeks as you nuzzled into him a little more. “If I kiss you again, will those sparks happen this time, too?”

“If I stop controlling it, they will.”

“Stop controlling it, sweetheart.” He felt you move to nod your affirmations, but dipped his head in time, proud of his own reflexes as he caught your lips, feeling the hand in his hair tighten, and he was so glad he’d decided to grow it out all those years ago, because right now, he was losing all sense of himself in the way your nails would scratch across his scalp, or the delicious burning that flared over his skin for a split second when you pulled on his hair, before you were rubbing it softly, fingers working in tandem timing with your lips, teasing over his own.

That same feeling took up, a sparking that felt like fireworks, like energy surging through him, escaping at his fingertips in every place that he touched you, one palm smoothing along your back to somewhere that was definitely too lose to be respectable, as the other held onto your cheek still. You were taking control, your tongue darting out to trace over his lower lip, bribing him to part them but he needed no convincing, letting your tongue meet his own only a second after you’d made the request, equally breathy and needy noises escaping you both at the slow and wet drag of the muscles over one another.

His lungs were burning, lips beginning to sting as his assault on your mouth continued, his neck straining to hold this angle, and yet the more you kissed him, the more that the hazy feeling of getting to be with you like this raced through his body was the more he became addicted to needing more, chasing a high that he didn’t even know he wanted until now, like an addict finding his next hit.

You seemed to pick up on it all, as though you’d read all of his thoughts, because the second he’d had the lingering thoughts, you were settling yourself across his lap, a leg on either side of his own as you seated yourself down, and he couldn't help the way his hips bucked up a little to meet you, or the way his hand slid down fully to rest on your ass.

After all, as much as he’d gone through the make him grow up emotionally, physically he was still a horny-teen college boy, and you were one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, sitting half-naked in his lap and sucking on his lower lap while doing something with your tongue that was making him feel like he couldn't even breathe properly for how aroused he was.

Maybe you could feel the growing erection underneath of you, maybe you couldn't, but he’d stopped caring about being embarrassed around you about three hours ago when he’d had to tell you all about the time he’d once dropped a condom in Coach’s class in front of the entire classroom, and you’d laughed so much your face had gone red and you’d hidden it form him by pressing into his shoulder.

You were something he felt like he was dreaming up, like any moment now he’d wake up in a small puddle of his own drool with his face pressed into the desk of his lecture hall, the lights turned out and another note left by his kind professor to get more sleep at home, and to lock up when he left, before you were giggling a little at him, pulling away and stealing a few more pecks as you did, and he wondered if you really could read his mind, heat flushing his cheeks.

“Are you reading my mind or something?”

He felt stupid even as he mumbled te words, especially when it only seemed to heighten your entertainment, but you shook your head. “I can’t read your mind, I can just kinda’ sense your mood, I guess. It’s the connection, you were clearly thinking something funny, and I don’t know what it was, but I got a sudden rush of amusement.”

“That’s pretty fucking incredible.” He whispered, letting you peck his mouth a few more times, simply sitting there with puckered lips as he tried not to smile too much, before he was tucking hair away behind your ears and finally you were opening your eyes, and at this point, he really should learn to stop being surprised by new developments with you. “Holy shit, your eyes are glowing!”

“So are yours.” You winked, the bright purple being a shade that was so captivating and beautiful on you that he couldn’t look away, even when you leaned away from him to grab his phone, raising it up to snap a picture for him, and forcing his gaze down to it. Much like you’d said, his eyes were beginning to hint in with a faint purple, the neon shading beginning to drip into his irises and take over from the usual golden-brown that resided there. “You never made out with another witch before?”

He pinched at your ass for your cheeky comment, taking his phone and throwing it away to the side, grinning when you yelped at his painless attack. “I didn’t even know witches really existed before today. Besides, what makes you think I'm one? I had a spark once, but as I said, that died out. Nothing truly magical.”

“I don’t know, you’re having a pretty strong connection with me right now, aren’t you?” Your arms looped around his neck, snuggling in a little closer to him, and he bit back a groan as you shuffled in his lap. “I think you’re underestimating yourself, you just don’t know how to tap into your magic, you have to believe in it to see it.”

“You really think so?”

He was vulnerable and he knew it showed, he’d gone his entire life being unsure as to where all his energy and twitching came from, as to why he’d always felt a draw to the earth; the preserve and the woods, and justice and balance, and why he’d somehow fit into a supernatural world with far more elegance and ease than he ever had the normal one, and maybe this was the explanation. “I really do, Stiles.”

“Will you teach me?”

“I would love to.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, and then to the spot below your ear, before flicking his tongue out a little to drag over the sensitive patch that lay there, before moving down your neck. He didn’t want to mark you without your consent, he wasn’t sure what was going to come of all of this and where it would go, but he was more than happy to lick and bite lightly at your skin, finding the sweet spot that made your hips roll down into his own and a sound of need and desperation to leave you that was like music to his ears, before his hips were bucking up to meet you once again.

“Y’know when you said that you could feel what I was feeling?”

“Uh-huh?” You were distracted, your reply seeming somewhat faded and distant, and he chuckled lightly, before making his way back up to your mouth now that you’d both had a chance to catch your breaths once again.

“Does that mean everything?”

“Are you asking if I know just how much you want to fuck me right now? Because yes, I do know.” He choked a little on his breath, your hand in his hair pulling his head back so that you could meet his gaze, your lower lip held between you teeth, flesh going a darker pink, and he longed to be the one biting that lip for you. “Trust me, the sentiment is returned.”

“It is?”

“Oh, yeah.” He wasn’t used to women being so confident with wanting him, being so unashamed of it, or of even wanting him at all. Most of his hook-ups had been slightly drunk make-outs and sloppy grinding, or booty calls and meetings in closets at parties. He got more action than he ever did in high school, he’d finally grown into his limbs and his looks, but that didn’t take away the surprise that still happened every time someone as pretty as you even offered him the time of day.

“Like, right here? Right now?”

“Been thinking about how much I want to ride you on my couch for like an hour and a half, now.” Stiles couldn’t stop the moan that bubbled up in his throat, lips parting as you ran a finger over his swollen lips, a cheeky glint flashing over purple eyes as you looked at him.

“You might just be perfect for me.”

“I like the sound of that.”

A toothy smile was offered to you, before he was pulling you back in towards him, hands slipping down to lay resting on your thighs as soon as your lips had found his once again. The heat seemed to have passed, and while the kiss was still completely intoxicating, there was something a little more tender about it, too. It wasn’t nearly as rushed and frantic, the sloppy kisses you’d shared as you learned one another’s ticks had passed, and as your lips worked slowly with his own, Stiles found that he much preferred this kind of kiss.

This was the kind of kiss that he could picture himself sharing with you in many settings. A sleepy, early morning kiss, when you were still between the land of consciousness and the realm of unconsciousness. Or, late nights, when he’d fall asleep while studying, and he would let you drag him to his feet and to bed. Or, simply when he would finish a lecture, or get you coffee, or meet you for dinner. The point was, Stiles already knew he wanted to kiss you at all times of the day, and to hold onto you, and to watch you brew little spells at the stove while holding onto you from behind.

Your lips were wet when you pulled away, eyes sparkling as you looked at him, a bright shade of royal purple, like silk and rich violet on flower petals, and you looked utterly ethereal. “Do you have any idea just how beautiful you are?”

“You’re sweet-talking me.” You teased, bumping the tip of your nose against his, and he shook his head.

“No, I’m not, I’m just being honest with you. I’ve been into you for a long time, even if I didn’t quite have my mind in the right place to actually say it.” You huffed out a little laugh, your eyes averting from his own so that you could try and hide your bashful little expression, but he didn’t miss it.

“Well, I’ve been admiring you a little, too. I should’ve had my deliveries sent to you sooner, if I knew it was going to end like this.” As if to punctuate your words, you rolled your hips down into his, reminding him of the solid erection pressing into his jeans, his fingers digging a little firmer into your skin, and he pushed your shirt up higher, the soft cotton of your panties revealed to him.

“These are just fucking sinful. Do you normally wander around your house in underwear and band-tees?” He tugged at it a little, before daring to tuck his hand underneath the fabric, trailing up, and a poorly-concealed groan left him as he found no further obstructions, fingers closing over one of your breasts, squeezing lightly as he palmed at your chest. “Well, clearly not all of your underwear.”

“I tend to, I keep it warm in here, for all the plants.” Your back arched up into his hand, one of your own closing over his outside of your shirt, as your other held onto his shoulder, fingers leaving crescent-moon shaped marks he was sure, and the rocking of your hips into his own only seemed to increase.

“I’d love to see you in one of my flannels sometime, just like this.”

“Give me your shirt and you’ll see it sooner than you think.” You teased, his brows raising, before he was pulling his hands back just long enough to lean into you, stripping the garment off as best as he could, leaving him in a thin black t-shirt as you took the item from him. He wanted to whine out as you stood up, choosing instead to replace the pressure of your core over his with his hand instead, palming at his cock through the thick denim, and you grinned as you watched him, yet he didn’t feel the slightest bit embarrassed.

You stood before him, draping his shirt across his spread knees as he slumped further into the cushions, getting himself comfortable and popping the button on his jeans, swollen lower lip being nibbled as you played with the hem of your shirt. Your hips were swinging to the beat of the song, and then, you raised the garment up and over your head, letting it drop away to the carpet, his jaw dropping as he looked at you.

You picked up his flannel, pulling it up your arms, and leaving it open at the front, just barely covering your tits. You were an angel and also the devil, tempting him to do so many wrong things. Stretching his hands out toward you, he beckoned you back into his lap, an act you were more than happy to take as you bounded over to him, a pep on your few short steps, before you were settling back into his lap.

“Perfect.”

He let his hands find the flaps of the flannel, pulling it open wide enough to be able to admire your tits fully, letting you push your hair back away from your shoulders for his unobstructed view. Sealing one hand around your waist, he dragged you up closer, until you were almost pressed to him fully, before dipping his head down. His tongue dragged over a hardened nipple, taking the taut peak into his mouth and sucking harshly, as your hand wound into his hair. You tugged, roughly, a groan that vibrated along your entire body leaving him and making you shiver, and you made the prettiest little noises above him.

He switches sides, making sure to give the other half of your chest that same kind of attention, leaving wet marks and stinging watches along your skin that would become bright purple marks in the morning to match the colour of your eyes, and he just hoped you kept him around long enough to see them when they did become beautiful and prominent. He wanted to see his good work, he wanted to see the way he got to mark you up and leave his touch all over your body.

“Stiles..”

“I do love how you sound moaning my name, princess, but I’m not sure how much longer I can last when you're making noises like that and grinding yourself all over my cock like this.” You grinned, letting him kiss his way back up your chest and throat until he was taking your lips with his own. Your hands were moving down, tugging at his zipper as far as it would go, hid hips bucking up into his hand as he felt you drag a nail along his covered erection, breathy sounds between you both when you pulled away.

He only had to lift himself up for a moment, before you were tugging at his jeans, helping him to get them just far enough down his thighs for his boxers to be able to follow. His cock was throbbing, painfully hard and desperate for you, leaking precum along his skin, and he gave himself some form of relief. You were watching him, eyes wide as he pumped his length in one hand, the other dipping under your skirt rubbing over your core, and you bundled up your shirt for him.

“Y’know, all those times I thought about us, a quick fuck on your couch wasn’t how I had wanted our first time to be, but then again, I didn’t expect the cute chick across the hall to be a witch, wither, so..”

He used his thumb to drag your panties to the side, your sodden folds revealed to him, and he slipped two fingers into your dripping core with ease. “I’ll let you take it slow next time, I swear, but right now, I’d really like it if you’d fuck me.”

He could only nod, heart skipping a beat at the promise of another time. Your legs shifted, muscles clenching as he forced himself to take his touch away from your core and bringing his fingers up to his mouth, sucking your sweet essence from the thin digits. As you leaned over him, he was sure to line himself up, and then, you were sinking down onto him, your forehead flailing to his as your mouth fell open, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“You’re so fucking big.”

“You’re so fucking tight.” He whispered the words, a little breathless and hanging on the edge of his orgasm already, and you seemed just as close, because as you finally sank all the way down and settled into his lap again, he could feel every pulse within your walls as you hugged around him.

It took him a moment, staving off his climax so that he didn’t come just from getting to feel you like this, and you looped your arms around his neck gently to find your purchase. Your nails were scratching lightly at the hairs at the base of his neck, his flannel once again flapping around you, panties pushed to the side to let him have access to your centre, and it was deliciously filthy.

Once you were settled, you circled your hips, a test movement, pleasure spiking in both of your systems and it felt like the temperature in the room was shooting upwards. Stiles could already feel sweat beginning to bead along his skin in a thin layer, and you pressed yourself in closer to him. Each time you shifted your hips you were moving a little more, every rock of your body into his, you were pulling yourself up just a little higher to be able to drop yourself back down onto his cock, stretching and squeezing around him.

You felt like velvet, slick and warm as you sheathed around him. You were precise and deliberate, and he couldn't help the wonton sounds that were leaving you with every drop down onto his cock, before you were taking him up to see stars every time, leaving the both of you resting in the clouds. Panted breaths, a scream in the back of your throat that tried to break out each time as you gave him broken moans of his name, picking up your pace further and further each time.

Once you were stable above him, you were moving with purpose, fast and quick as you rode him, gaining more confidence each time, and he was gripping you so tightly that there would be fingerprints all over your hips in the morning. He helped you go, lifting you up each time, only to pull you back down into his lap, thrusting up with a weak effort to meet you, but feeling you go wild each time. That same energy was back, crackling with more force, surging through him like nothing he had ever felt.

Stiles was in college, he was away from home and the weight of being the Sheriff’s kid for the first time, and he had experimented. He’d gotten drunk, and high, and hungover, but this was a whole new kind of thrill; it was like lighting up with fireworks and adrenaline all at once, like creating a bond with another person, and a tingling spread throughout his entire body as your magic bonded with his own. He hadn't felt this kind of singing in his blood since the day he’d managed to finish the circle with the mountain ash back when he was only sixteen, or breaking through the wild hunt barrier at almost eighteen.

These kind of thrills were rare for him, but they’d never been this strong, and as the two of you moved as one in the most intimate way that two people could, your mouth coming up to claim his as you silenced yourself and him, growing louder and more desperate as you went, he felt that final high beginning to build.

“‘M so close, honey.” His voice had taken on that same kind of scratchy rasp that he had in the mornings before he even broke into his day, “Oh, God, keep goin’.”

He knew his words were beginning to grow slurred, and he could barely buck his hips up into you. As everything within his body began to light up, he felt like all of his muscles were going lifeless, his body going boneless, because the heat was consuming him. He couldn't hold it back, he’d been waiting for so long to feel you this way, and his lips could barely even move back against your own as he went slack-jawed, exploding within your tight heat.

The send that he was shooting over the edge, you were following right after him, crying out his name into his mouth as you kept going against him, until you couldn't clumping down into his body as you trembled, and Stiles felt as though you’d milked absolutely everything from him that he had to offer. There was a crackling along his skin from everywhere that your fingertips smoothed over, sliding down from his shoulders so that you could press your cheek to the spot instead, fanning breaths rushing over his neck as you tried to catch your breath, racing heart just like his was.

You didn’t even bother to move from him, letting him throb within your walls with each flutter you made and each shift, and if you kept it up, he was sure he’d be ready for a second round, but he wasn’t entirely sure that he had that in him. Resting his head back against the edge of the couch, he let you lift yourself up and off of him finally, your legs shaking as you stood, offering him a weak smile as he took in your through fucked out state, before taking wobbly steps away from him, and disappearing down the hall.

He heard a door close, assuming you’d gone to the bathroom, and he leaned over to the coffee table to snatch up a few tissues, to clean himself up with, before sorting himself out too. He did the bare minimum, not even bothering to do up his jeans once he had them pulled back up, but he stretched out along the length of the couch to lay down, an arm popped under his head, and a little laugh on his lips as he did.

He took a moment to glance around, not missing the way that the plants all seemed to be blooming particularly beautifully, seeming more alive than ever. As he lifted up a hand before his face, rubbing his forefinger and thumb together, a spark travelled between the tips, and he felt a little in awe just at the sight of it.

“It's pretty incredible, right?”

He startled, jumping a little, before turning to look at you and propping himself up on his elbows as you lingered in the doorway. You had changed, your hair pulled back and out of your face, missing a few odd strands and you’d buttoned up his flannel along your body, mismatched and hanging unevenly, but still adorable. You took slower steps over to him, waiting for a second as you stood beside him, before he was lifting his arms and making it clear to you that you could lay with him, a smile gracing both of your faces as you flattened yourself along him, cheek pressed over his chest as his arms wrapped around your waist.

“You like feeling your magic, then?”

He lifted his palm, holding it to yours and admiring the final dying flares he saw, as the energy began to dissipate and absorb into his body and yours fully. “I’m not used to feeling special myself. I’ve always been a behind the scenes, research, kinda’ guy. I’m not used to being one of the main players.”

“Oh, hush. You told me your story, you were most definitely a key player, Stiles.” He shrugged under you, letting you cross your arms over his chest and prop your chin on them.

“Yeah, but I never really felt that way, and now I feel like I have something to offer.”

You leaned in, brushing your lips over his jaw with a sweet kiss, and he felt like he could most definitely get used to this feeling. Can I meet them?”

“My pack?”

You nodded, seeming a little shy now, and joy raced through him at the fact that you saw enough of a future with him to want to meet his friends an get to know them, and to once again be able to be completely open and honest with everyone, never having to hide anything from anyone, and being able to let you fully and wholly into his life. It was a surprise, because the more he’d thought about his future late at night when lying alone in his bed, he was so sure he’d never be able to really settle down, because he could never let someone in on his life in every single way, but with you, that wasn’t a problem.

“I would absolutely love that.”

“Really?” You were studying him carefully, trying to ensure that he was telling the truth, and he gave you the most honey look that he possibly could, before lifting his head to meet your lips as he leaned in.

Soft and delicate, like a kiss that was shared between deep romance and longtime lovers, and he rested a hand on your cheek, holding you to him, and rolling you to the side, to sandwich you between the couch and his body Your thigh came up to rest over his legs, his palm slipping from your face to rest on your leg, drawing patterns on the skin until you pulled away to breathe, lips detaching from his as you whined a little. You stayed close, though, a soft look etched onto your features;

“I just want to meet a few more supernatural people, and get to know others who I don’t have to hide from.”

“Well, you definitely don’t have to hide from them, and you’ll love them, just as much as they’ll love you. We’re a pretty odd group, you’ll fit right in.”

“You’re right about that ‘odd bunch’ thing. I’ve never met a banshee, or a - what did you call it? - werecoyote.” That was an undeniable truth, your head coming back down to rest on his chest as he shrugged, unable to deny that you were right. “Your wolves sound nice, too. All the other wolves I’ve met have been overly territorial and closed off.”

“Well, Derek used to be like that, but we’ve pulled him around a little. He is still broody, though.” You laughed at his joke, a sound that made his heart burst open slightly and bleed with affection, all for you, as you continued to take more and more pieces of his heart with every act, and he was falling in love with you faster than he’d ever known was possible. “Don’t take notice of any of his lurking, by the way, it’s his twisted way of showing concern and care.”

“I’ll remember that, and if I ever catch him hiding behind a tree, I’ll know that it’s real friendship.”

“He does that, I’m serious, don’t underestimate him. I think my dad arrested him for stalking, once.”

“I think your dad would be who I am most scared to meet.” A fond tone in your voice, before he was pressing a kiss to your forehead, humming under his breath.

“He’ll love you the most, don’t worry.”

Silence fell between you both then, and he busied himself with tracing illegible drawings into your skin, simply enjoying feeling so close to you. It was irrationally domestic, and you were the final piece in his college life and college experience that was missing. Despite not being a wolf, he was unequivocally part of a wolf pack, and being surrounded so closely by such a tight-knit group of friends for those years had made him dependent on company and reliability, and he had been feeling so alone since leaving for college.

Scott had Malia, Lydia had rekindled things with Jordan, and even Derek had been (begrudgingly, to begin) hooked up with a deputy by his father, and they’d been on a few dates.

The last time he’d been home, he’d felt like a fifth, seventh, or was it ninth wheel, when Liam and Hayden were taken into account? He had been feeling awfully lonely lately, and he was glad to finally find someone that fit him perfectly, matching him like a glove.

“When I do introduce you to my friends, my pack, y’know, and my dad..”

You lifted your head, a little crease across your cheek from the fold in his shirt, and he rubbed the spot with his thumb gently, an attempt to remove the mark. “Yeah?”

“What should I introduce you as?”

“A witch.” You deadpanned, and he knew immediately that you’d clearly know exactly what he meant, but were playing with him, and he pouted, fixing you with a mock glare, before you were laughing to yourself over your joke, something so undeniably cute that he couldn't even pretend to be mad about it. “What do you want to introduce me as?”

Nudging your jaw a little with his, he puckered his lips, tempting you down to kiss him, and you were more than happy to press a series of sweet and short kisses to his lips. “I’d really like to formally claim you to be my girlfriend?”

He mumbled the words into your mouth, feeling your lips flick up at the edges in a smile as you gave him a kiss that was a little more firm, a little more loving and powerful, before whispering your reply; “Then we’re on the same page, because I’d like to introduce you to my coven back home as my boyfriend.”

“You have a coven?” He pulled back, a gasp of shock, and you giggled at him.

“That I do. Maybe I should tell you about them?”

“You absolutely should.” He insisted, his craving for knowledge taking over, and he couldn't have been more glad to whatever deity was watching over benevolently that he’d taken the choice to stay the first time knowledge had been offered, because it had led him to where he was now.

“It might take all night, maybe you should go and get a change of clothes. Get comfortable.”

“Is that an invitation to stay the night?” You only nodded, letting him roll you back over onto your back as he kissed at your neck. “I’ll buy you take out if you cuddle me later?”

“Cuddling and dinner? Glad I get to call you my boyfriend, now.”

“Not nearly as glad as I am to call you my girlfriend. My little witch.” His lips sealed over yours, silencing your laughs against his mouth as you teased him for the nickname, and he pinched a little at your sides. The mistletoe overhead grew a little more, a few of the berries dropping away and bouncing off of his back as the plant became bolder, just like the rest, that energy beginning to grow once again, as you got lost in each other’s touch.

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski x reader smut #stiles stilinski/reader #stiles stilinski/reader smut #stiles stilinski teen wolf #dylan obrien x reader #dylan obrien/reader #dylan obrien x reader smut #dylan obrien/reader smut #dylan obrien teen wolf #dylan obrien stiles stilinski #dylan o'brien #dylan obrien

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rinkrats · 3 years

Note

🥺 that mike lange story. But also those tags #sid loooves christmas #he loves giving presents #looks good in red #piles on the pounds fast #post hockey career as santa 😂😂👌🏽👌🏽

he loves his mementos and presents and is COMMITTED to them. scrapbooking. matching jackets. little pills with hidden motivational messages~*~ his love language is gifts and neck smooches and stalking geno. relevant right now are some anecdotes i sent a friend earlier this year for dorky sid gifts fic fodder:

1. Crosby's constant thoughtfulness would be impressive from anyone, much less someone of his stature.

"Sid always texts me happy birthday, he's always asking me like, how's Russia?" Evgeni Malkin said. "We talk and message all summer. He asks me how my skates are. He knows, like, everything. He follows my Instagram, I think (laughs)."

In addition to having a handle on those little details, Crosby is constantly providing those around him with memories and mementos. If the team is on the road and goes, say, sightseeing or to a sporting event and takes a group photo, Crosby will later send a framed copy to everyone.

When Ron Hextall and Brian Burke watched their first Penguins game in person, Crosby is the one who approached head equipment manager Dana Heinze and asked for two used game pucks to give to the new GM and president of hockey ops.

After the Penguins won in 2009, Crosby had jackets made for the three players on the team who had scored a Cup-clinching goal in Game 7: Talbot (Pittsburgh), Ruslan Fedotenko (Tampa Bay) and Mike Rupp (New Jersey).

"They were blue jackets with gold buttons, and each one had a patch on it that said 'GWG Game 7,'" Talbot said. "At one of our first team meals the next season, he presented us with the jackets and did a big ceremony with the music and stuff. We had a private room in the restaurant. I still have the jacket."

-The Consummate Teammate, Captain and Ambassador, Feb 2021

2. Merz: My first interaction with Sid was when we were on the bench, guys were talking about a teammate, and the first thing this 15-year-old says is, “Hey, guys. Let’s keep everything positive. Don’t talk about your teammates that way.”

Salcido: When we were getting ready for nationals, he found these little pills that you could put a hidden message inside. They unscrewed, and inside was a tiny scroll. He gave one to every teammate. … He had everyone fill one out. He didn’t tell anyone what to write, but he made it known that we all knew what the goal was: winning nationals. So we wrote on our scrolls, rolled them up and put them in the pill thing. We kept them with us everywhere we went.

-‘Is this real?’: Stories of Sidney Crosby’s year at a Minnesota prep school, May 2020

3. On “Butterfly Boy” Jonathan Pitre:

Though the Senators are his team, Sidney Crosby has always been Jonny’s favourite player. After the TSN documentary airs, Tina gets a call from the Penguins. Sid needs Jonny’s measurements. He wants to have a suit made for him by his personal tailor, Domenico Vacca.

“It’s the kindest, sweetest gesture,” Tina says. “Sid heard that Jonny went to a lot of games, so he wants him to look like he’s one of the guys.”

“I want him to feel like a pro,” Crosby says. “Here’s a guy who is going through something so painful, and his first thought is always, ‘How can I help others?’ When I was young, I’d watch on TV the players coming to the rink in their suits. That was a cool part of being an NHL player. I want him to feel that, to make it as real as possible for him.”

Tina tries to discreetly measure Jonny while she’s changing his dressings. But he’s way too smart for that.

“Um, Mom, why are you measuring me? Am I going for surgery again?” he asks.

“No, no!” Tina replies, trying to reassure him and come up with a good lie, all in the same breath. “The doctor needs them just to make sure they have proper dressings next time you are in.”

A few weeks later, the sharp navy blue suit shows up at their front door, along with a couple of ties, an autographed stick and a handwritten letter from Sid.

“His eyes just light up,” Tina says. “Jonny always liked to be well-dressed, and he just loves having his own suit. It fits perfectly. He looks so good in it.”

-Beauties by James Duthie (2020)

4. Pascal Dupuis inspired his Pittsburgh Penguins teammates on their run to the Stanley Cup, and Sidney Crosby found a special way of driving that message home.

Dupuis retired in December with lingering health concerns because of blood clots. Despite his NHL playing days coming to an end, the veteran forward remained an integral part of the Penguins and was in uniform to hoist the Cup after Pittsburgh's six-game win against the San Jose Sharks in the Stanley Cup Final.

On Sunday, Dupuis brought the Cup home one last time as a player to share a special day with his family, friends and hometown fans.

"Yes, it does feel bittersweet a little bit," Dupuis said. "You get the Cup, you want to celebrate. But at the same time I got a gift by the mail [Saturday]. Basically, it's a book of all the pictures of all the good stuff we went through. It came from Nova Scotia, so you guys can figure out who it came from (Crosby), but he couldn't give it to me during the season, he saw me skating a little bit.

"And he sent it [Saturday], before my day with the Cup, so he knew what he was doing to get me right here," Dupuis said, putting his fist over his heart.

-Pascal Dupuis shares Stanley Cup with family, friends, Aug 2016

5. In 2011, Crosby was out of the lineup with a concussion, and the Penguins made their annual visit to Children’s Hospital.

Crosby got along so well with one boy there and was so touched that he later asked Bullano to go back... just the two of them, no cameras, no attention.

When Bullano and Crosby met for the follow-up visit, Crosby appeared clutching a pair of Toys “R” Us bags, filled with a Transformer toy the two had discussed.

“He literally bought every type of this toy they make,” Bullano said. “[Crosby] had never seen it before and thought it was so cool.

“There are no pictures of this. There’s no video. He was laying in the bed with the kid. They were just playing. We were there for over two hours. I got to know the mom really well because we were just sitting there.

“The kid had no idea. Didn’t expect it. They had no idea he was coming. We got there and he said, ‘Hey buddy. hope you don’t mind that I came back.’ The kid couldn’t believe it.

“[Crosby’s] crazy cool about stuff like that.”

What’s crazy is trying to recount the many times stuff like this has happened with Crosby:

• The Little Penguins Learn to Play program has been around for nine seasons, outfitting now 1,200 kids with free head-to-toe hockey equipment. Not only does Crosby serve as the face of the program — which the NHL has now adopted — but he helps fund it, too.

“There’s an awareness of what a person in his position can bring,” Penguins vice president of communications Tom McMillan said. “I think he activates that as much as anybody I’ve seen during his playing career.”

• After a recent practice, Crosby noticed a local family in the Penguins dressing room, approached them, introduced himself, learned their story and wound up giving them a signed stick.

Nobody asked Crosby to do that, and he wanted zero credit when discussing it a couple days later.

“For people who have the opportunity to come in here, people dealing with certain things, if you can brighten their day a bit or spend some time with them, it’s something that’s special for all of us,” Crosby said.

• A few years ago, through a team charity event, Crosby befriended a 4-year-old Amish boy with cancer. Crosby remarked to Bullano how much he loved talking to the boy because of how engaging the boy was and how he wasn’t consumed with technology. Crosby even tried to visit the boy but learned he had passed away.

• He learns the first and last names of the kids who attend his hockey school in Cole Harbour, Nova Scotia.

“Two kids came from Japan its first year,” Bullano recalled. “He was so blown away by that. He couldn’t wait to meet them.”

• Earlier this season, the Penguins welcomed Grant Chupinka, 24-year-old cancer patient, into the dressing room. Crosby chatted up Grant and his parents, Steve and Kim.

He spent his usual time — about two or three times the requirement. Gave the tour. Then found out the Chupinkas didn’t have tickets for that night’s game and decided he would pay for them to go.

“I’m sure he could just give them an autographed puck or something, but he takes his time to go out and see them and talk to them and get to know them,” Brian Dumoulin said. “It speaks volumes for him and who he is as a person.”

Spend any length of time with Crosby during his visits with those less fortunate, and a few things become obvious.

One, Crosby is really good at these. Smooth but not in a slimy way. Sweet. You know how when you’re around someone talking and they go out of their way to make eye contact with everyone around? That’s Crosby.

He’s also humble, always introducing himself like those he’s meeting don’t already know. Holding a hand is no issue. And Crosby is the rare 20-something pro athlete without kids who acts every bit like he does.

“It is not an easy situation to talk to someone with terminal cancer,” McMillan said. “A lot of people couldn’t do that. He has an amazing ability to do that and make that person feel good.”

Crosby has welcomed several Make-a-Wish kids and tries, if at all possible, to schedule such events for practice days — to maximize the time he’s able to spend.

He’s developed a special friendship with Patrick McIlvain, a soldier who nearly died when he took a bullet to the head in Afghanistan. McIlvain actually does physical therapy with one of Crosby’s sticks.

A former club hockey player at Cal U, McIlvain comes by every year, and the Penguins don’t even bother to tell Crosby. Either he already knows or immediately stops what he’s doing to come say hello.

“He’s not doing it to leave a legacy,” said Terry Kalna, Penguins vice president of sales and broadcasting. “His numbers leave the legacy. He’s just a down-to-Earth, good guy.”

Before a visit, Crosby has Bullano email him what is essentially a scouting report on who he’s going to meet. He likes to learn about them, their situation and what they’ve been through. As much information as he can ingest. Crosby never just swoops in, shake a hand and leave.

“As much as anyone has ever seen, he accepts the responsibilities of being not just a professional athlete but a star professional athlete,” McMillan said. “He views it as part of the job. Like coming to the morning skate. That’s just what you do.”

Put another way, “he owns those moments,” says Kalna.

Said Bullano, “He’s just a good human being.”

-When it comes to giving, Sidney Crosby does as much as he can, Feb 2017

6. When Crosby received a generous signing bonus on his Reebok deal, he wanted to share it with everyone.

“He gave everyone on the bus gifts,” says Oceanic radio commentator Michel Germain. “Him sharing his bonus with all the people he’d been travelling with for two years, that impresses me greatly. I think the most important thing about Sidney Crosby is his personality and the kind of human being he is. What he exuded. The inner richness he’d already developed.”

-Superstitious and generous, Dec 2006

7. also this simply because it makes me ;w;

Even in defeat — no, especially in defeat — Sidney Crosby proved why he wears the "C" for the Penguins.

After the game, with his heart sinking and his season over, the Penguins’ captain bent over, sank to the ice to pick up the puck, took it to linesman Tony Sericolo and then skated to his team’s handshake line.

I immediately thought of a View from Ice Level I’d written on Crosby making sure a retiring official was sent away from PPG Paints Arena properly. I knew picking up the puck wasn’t for the same reason that was, but I also knew, in some way, it was connected to Crosby’s awareness and respect of the game.

“It was for the Islanders,” Crosby told me after the game, his eyes swollen from a first round exit – by way of a sweep to make it worse. He told me how the winning team always wanted the puck, and it was his way of providing it for the Islanders.

Crosby looked me right in the eye as he told me this, just as he did with every other member of the media to come to him after the loss.

I could tell from those swollen eyes and the way he sat at his stall, by himself with his hands folded as he stared blankly, that Sidney Crosby is much more used to being on the receiving end of a puck when a series ends than he is at retrieving it for the winning team.

That scene. His swollen eyes. Staying in the locker room until most had left – talking to anyone who needed him. Most of all, though, picking up the puck that prompted my question in the first place and making sure the right people got their piece of their own history.

It all adds up to one thing: In victory and in defeat, Crosby respects the game above all else – just as he’s always done.

-Even in defeat, Crosby shines, April 2019

#anyway this was a nice walk down memory lane after the disastrous game rip #sidney crosby #pittsburgh penguins #hockey #text

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mercy-burning · 3 years

Text

Fake Fiancée - Part 3

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Reader and Spencer write letters back and forth, both of them slowly starting to fall in deeper. Category: Smut (18+) Content Warnings: Strong language, sexual themes, masturbation (male and female), sexting, face sitting Word Count: 6.3k

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

MASTERLIST

NOTE: Hello!! Sorry this has been so long in the making, but for a while my inspiration for this story absolutely disappeared, and then I tried to think of how to bridge the previous chapters to the final one with absolutely no luck. And then I re-read Part 2 and got stuck on the letter, thus this chapter was born! I didn’t want to drag this miniseries out any longer than 4 parts, and the letter format combined with other inner monologuing and description really allowed me to do that in an interesting way that hopefully doesn’t feel rushed!

It was so much fun and very refreshing to write. I hope you like how it turned out!

Thank you all for being so patient while I get my shit together 😅 Love you guys! Enjoy 🥰

***

We've been sending letters back and forth for about a month now.

If I'm being honest, it took me about two weeks to decide whether or not I actually wanted to send one back, but could you blame me?

Here was this guy I couldn't stop thinking about after a one-night stand, only for him to catch me—months later at the same exact bar we'd met in—flirting with his friend. And then after our sexual encounter that night, all the things we said, the connection I thought we had, all of it...

He left it all behind the next morning, only to send me a letter in the mail.

I was pissed.

Sure, it was a nice letter, but the fact that he'd reduced what we had down to a piece of paper and scribbled ink had made me angrier than I cared to admit.

In retrospect, I may have overreacted.

Over time I started re-reading his words, and the more I thought about it all, the more I started to regret my anger. And more than anything, I just wanted to see him again. I couldn't stay mad at him, not when all I could picture was his pouty face and nervous hands. His sunbeam of a smile peeked through the clouds of my anger here and there, and the longer it settled, the more it bathed me in a warm light that should have made me happy. But all it did was make me long for him.

Once I'd actually started writing that first letter back, I wondered why I hadn't jumped on the opportunity in the first place. I mean, after all the cliché shit we'd experienced in our short relationship thus far, adding love letters to the mix was just as perfect as you could get, right?

Spencer,

I'm sorry it's taken me this long to finally write you back. Truthfully I wasn't sure I wanted to write you at all, but your letter kept drawing me back in. I couldn't stop re-reading it, imagining you sitting down somewhere and contemplating every word as you wrote them down. I wondered if you'd thrown out hundreds of pieces of paper after messing up when you could have just as well typed out a letter without wasting them.

And then by that point, all I could think about was just you.

I always pictured what your living room looks like, or your kitchen table, or your office, or wherever you sit down to write. I wondered if you looked like one of those hopeless writers in the movies that have a scruffy face, coffee stains on their white tee shirts, and messy hair that hasn't been washed in days due to lack of inspiration.

But in the end, the image that won out over all the others was just you as I remember.

I'm not going to lie, that image most of the time was your body above mine while I held my hand to your throat, but for the sake of romance I guess I should probably tell you what it was every other time— the outfit you were wearing the first time we met.

When I think of you, I think of your hand nervously clutching that beer bottle for dear life and the other one occasionally pushing your glasses up your nose. I think of your eyes every time they'd look away from me, probably to keep yourself from staring too long.

But the thing that always gets me the most is your smile— even when it comes in little flashes, after you've said something you probably thought was lame. You covered it up with that perfect smile.

I've dreamt of that smile nearly every night since I met you, and I wouldn't be opposed to seeing it in person again.

I'd love to meet you for dinner some time.

But since you did manage to "more or less abandon me twice now", I think it's only fair that you make it up to me first.

Make the next letter a good one, and we'll see what happens.

Yours, Y/N

P.S. I hope my handwriting is as pretty as you hoped. I'd hate to disappoint.

***

Y/N,

I'm incredibly grateful that you've given me a chance to redeem myself. Every night since I last saw you has also been spent wondering what your house looks like on the inside... What you looked like reading my letter (perhaps at your kitchen table?)

And this might sound silly, but I've also wondered what your bedroom looks like. You may be laughing at me, because I've been in your bedroom, but in my defense I was a bit preoccupied to really take notice of my surroundings— I was simply surrounded by you.

But since I've been to your home, I figured it was only fair that I invite you to mine, possibly for dinner. I don't know how to cook much— in fact I'm pretty awful at making anything that's not a can of Spaghetti-Os... But one of my co-workers is an excellent chef, and with a recipe from him and some practice under my belt, I'm sure I can pull it off.

But by "some" practice, I mean probably weeks or months of practice. So hopefully that gives you ample time to mull it over.

Perhaps in the meantime we can get to know each other through our letters. And who's to say, it might spare us the awkward "getting to know each other" stage of a first date. Though, pretty much every stage of every date is awkward for me, so it might not help at all.

Regardless, I'm very much looking forward to hearing from you again.

I do get called away for work quite often, however. So I apologize in advance if I can't get back to you as soon as I'd like.

But in any instance, you're still welcome to text message or call me. I know it isn't as romantic or personal as handwritten letters, but it's certainly practical.

Yours, Spencer.

P.S. Your handwriting is just as beautiful as I'd imagined it would be. And you could never disappoint me.

That being said, if you somehow decide that this letter wasn't up to your standards and reject my offer, I may just find myself in the deepest despair imaginable.

***

I was definitely way too in my head about this.

It was just a text. Sure, it was a risky text to send, but I had no doubt in my mind that it would be fine in the end.

So why was my stomach churning just thinking about sending it?

Some might have chalked it up to my fat ol' crush on Spencer, but I knew it ran deeper. It had to do at least a little with my history with Patrick... The man stood me up and sent divorce papers to my place of work rather than to my face... And as much as I liked to think I was completely over it, we'd been together for years, and it really did a number on me.

I didn't want to ruin this new thing with Spencer so badly that I was overthinking everything.

So even though I could see his face opening the text, my heart doing jumps at the mere thought of it, a bigger part of me worried that it would be a step too far in the wrong direction. I didn't want him to think I was only in this for... sexual reasons. Which, don't get me wrong, have been pretty damn great so far, but I really did want to get to know him and see where this went.

In the end I decided to hold off. I settled for something a little lighter.

Spencer,

Don't feel too bad about your cooking skills. I've been through my fair share of burnt frozen pizzas to know how you're feeling. So the fact that you've given yourself the opportunity to practice and learn a recipe just for me is extremely romantic, and I appreciate the thought.

I won't stop you from following through, though I'm telling you now that no amount of slaving away in the kitchen will make me change my mind about you. We could probably eat stale crackers on the floor and I'd still find you utterly fascinating.

Maybe that's a bit too extreme, but I hope you get my point.

Anyway, I'd love to come over for dinner some time. Whenever you think you're ready to show me those improved cooking skills, you just let me know and I'll happily make my way over.

In the meantime, I'm thinking of sending more with my letters. I don't want to give away too much, but I will say that I'm very crafty. And don't feel like you need to send anything in return, though I'll let you know if I ever change my mind.

Yours,

Y/N

***

In the bottom right corner of the letter, right next to her signature, was a red lipstick stain in the shape of... well, her lips. It was common sense to know that they were hers and no one else's, not just a stamp or a drawing, and rather her actual lip stain... But even without it, I would have been able to tell by their shape.

Was that pathetic?

I could hear her, picture her in front of me, hovering above me with red-painted lips in the shape of a smirk, visibly cooing as she called me names... I could feel the ghost of her fingertips trailing up my throat and tilting my chin up to look at her as she rocked her hips teasingly into mine...

The whine I let out truly was pathetic.

You pathetic, needy little thing, I could hear her say...

My hands clutched the paper so tightly I thought I'd tear it, but it didn't matter when all I could see while staring at it was her luscious, red lips... Her voice was right there in my ear, like she was really beside me, watching me...

Oh, God, what would she do if she saw me right now? Staring at her lipstick stained paper and subconsciously grinding down into my chair...

You pathetic, needy little thing...

My hips jolted with a small, broken shout of her name, and in no time the front of my pants were flooded with warmth. I felt her eyes burning into me from the void, sparking to life with amusement as her voice crept into the deep corners of my brain and whispered praises to me.

Ohh, what a good little whore... Getting off to the thought of me... That's it, sweet boy... Come for me...

By now my eyes had squeezed shut and the letter was crumpled in my hand, the other reaching down to add much-appreciated burning friction to my crotch as I rode out my orgasm. My whole body tensed and shuddered at every sensation, from Y/N's image behind my eyes to the sweet warmth that pooled in my underwear and soaked through onto my hand.

Holy mother of—

The next time I saw her, I was screwed. I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face. I'd surely go red the second I laid eyes on her, and she'd know right away what I was thinking and feeling.

Simply put, it scared and excited me at the same time.

She'd utterly and thoroughly wrecked me, and if she didn't already know it, she certainly would soon.

Y/N,

I'm not sure what you intend to send in addition to your letters, but if it's anything near the sentiment of your lip stain, then you might have to refrain in favor of my poor, fragile heart.

See, it aches for you. It's bad enough I think of you always, but the moment I saw the shape of your lips on that letter, my heart almost shot straight out of my chest. Maybe it was the familiar shape of your lips or the implications of its place next to your name, signed after the word 'yours', that sent me into a tailspin, but whatever the case...

I'm pretty sure I've completely fallen under your spell.

I suppose I should also tell you that my heart wasn't the only part of my body that came to life at your added signature. I assure you, it took no time at all for me to come undone at the thought of your lips pressing gently against the paper, imagining that they were instead pressing to my skin... I didn't even have to touch myself, really. It just happened. Because of you and you alone.

I hope that wasn't too forward, but I felt it necessary that you know just how much of an effect you have on me.

If I could see you again in a millisecond, it wouldn't be soon enough.

That being said, I am determined to spend as much time as possible to perfect this dish for our dinner. Because you deserve nothing but the best, even if you insist that you could settle for less.

It's the least I can do.

Yours, Spencer.

And a week and a half later, when I didn't get a letter back on time, I was sure I'd messed up for good.

My mind was racing a mile a minute, yelling at myself for even thinking for a second of being that detailed in a letter without any consent. Sure, she'd taken it a step up by signing off her letter with a kiss, but I'd been absolutely idiotic in telling her that I got off to it.

I was honestly well and truly prepared to show up at her house with a big bouquet of flowers and an apology so wordy and probably too long for anyone's liking, in hopes that she'd forgive me for making this huge mistake.

Thankfully, though, it wasn't needed.

My phone chimed as I was pacing, my lip near bloody with how hard I'd been chewing at it, and I saw an unknown number attached to a text message and photo attachment.

The photo wouldn't load (I would have to plug it into my laptop and transfer the image there to see it— a fact which always irked Penelope to the core), but with the sentences I saw above the file, I almost knew exactly what I'd find when I had the means to see it.

There. Now we're even... Who says text messages can't be romantic and personal? XXX, Y/N

I felt like Bambi as I scrambled to my laptop three rooms over, stumbling over weak legs with my phone clutched tightly in my hand. My heart raced faster than it ever had as I started everything up and retrieved the right cord for my phone. With a few shakes and stumbles here and there, I briefly entertained the idea of upgrading my phone.

I probably would have left the apartment to do it immediately after seeing her photo attachment, but the moment it loaded up on my screen, my brain and body lost all ability to function properly.

A familiar burn coursed through the lower half of my body and tightened my chest at the sight of her, open and exposed and... wet.

My laptop screen was completely taken over by the image of Y/N's pussy, visibly glistening and aroused. A manicured hand—her hand— was in frame as well, middle finger resting snugly between the supple skin of her wet lips.

The fact that I only tasted her once felt downright cruel.

I tried to imagine it again— my face buried between the softness of her thighs. As much as I wanted to lay her down and indulge myself as long as possible, taking all the time in the world to slowly devour her and truly explore her for myself, what ran through my mind then was something more in the vein of our dynamic thus far.

My mind wandered, specifically to a place where I was the one laying down as she sat down directly onto my face and gave me what she thought I deserved. My hands were tied to the bed, maybe handcuffed. All I knew was that I couldn't touch her, and it bothered me. So I whined, and every time the sound left my mouth, she would let up, lifting further out of reach and causing me to instinctively reach my head up to chase her.

You greedy little slut... Take what I give you...

Desperately seeking her approval, I told her I'd be good and rejoiced when she lowered herself down to me again, allowing me to me completely wrapped up in her once more. My tongue lapped and lapped, gathering as much of her as I could before she'd inevitably leave again.

But she never did.

Somehow I kept my quiet, even though it was extremely difficult, and ate her out like my life depended on it. She glided smoothly over my face, coating more than just my lips in her arousal, and it thrilled me to my very core.

Every time I breathed in I could smell her, every time she groaned out my name my stomach fluttered, and it wasn't long before she was clutching my hair, shaking above me while I drank her in and repressed my whines.

My hips were uncontrollable though, bucking up into nothing and begging for any type of stimulation.

But then suddenly it was there— Her hand, firmly wrapping around my dick and gliding over it beautifully with a slickness that she must have transferred from her pussy. I could still taste her as I cried out her name, her movements quickening with every second until—

I didn't even realize I was actually alone until my eyes opened, cum coating my hand, my heartbeat heavy and loud, and the laptop screen in front of me a shade darker signaling a long period of inactivity.

I'd done it again...

And now we most certainly were not even.

I glanced over at my phone—plugged into the laptop—and then down at my lap, and my stomach knotted as my next move rang clear as day.

***

I woke up the next morning to texts from Spencer, and my heart picked up speed, a gentle warmth blooming through my chest at the sight.

I thought maybe he'd thank me for the photo I'd sent. Maybe he'd return it with an influx of messages along the lines of Oh my god, Holy fuck I miss you, and the like.

But what I wasn't expecting was to see a photo in return, of his hand that I'd dreamt of nearly nightly, wrapped firmly around his cock and all of it completely covered in cum.

Below the photo were three messages in a row, and each one gave me more butterflies than the last.

Sorry for low quality. No smartphone.

Also sorry we're not even anymore.

But I'm not sorry I did it- you're too perfect to resist.

***

Dearest Y/N,

I'm sorry you haven't gotten a letter from me in a while. And I know we've kept in touch through texting and calling while I was swamped at work, though now that I have some time off, I'd love to write you again. As much as I enjoy our virtual conversations, I still find sending letters to be my preferred method of communication (only second to speaking with you in person, that is).

Which brings me to the main point I'm trying to make.

I want to see you again. In person. I'm not completely confident in my cooking ability yet, but if you wouldn't mind the potential of it tasting awful, I'd love to have you over. I promise you nothing but the best, and I know that's a high promise, especially considering I probably haven't sold you on the meal, but it's true.

I'd do anything to please you.

And I really do mean 'anything', I hope you understand that.

Yours, Spencer.

***

The thought of seeing him in person again after so long made my hands way shakier than I would have liked. It made no sense the longer I thought about it, because it was obvious that we liked each other, and seeing each other in person wouldn't be a problem. Because it'd never been a problem before.

It irked me.

Still, I knocked on his door and physically shook out my hands, praying I could keep my cool when he finally opened the door.

But I should have known better.

One second I was staring at a large plank of wood, and the next I was staring into frantic eyes, golden and sparkling just as I remembered, but with an added glimmer of fear that matched the shakiness of my hands.

I don't know how long we stood there, just staring at each other, but the longer we did, the more we relaxed. His fear was gone, and the shaking in my hands turned into a dull hum that longed to reach out for him.

Still, I refrained, settling on a simple, "Hey, pen pal..."

By the way he looked at me, silent as ever, I started to wonder if that was a stupid thing to lead with. So I opened my mouth to apologize, to say anything else, but he beat me to it.

"Y/N... I... H—Hi, you look... incredible."

"O—Oh, thanks... Thank you, yeah, I um... figured I should... dress up a little. I know we're not going out anywhere, but I thought it might be nice."

He doesn't need to know that, Y/N, stop talking!

I gave him a small smile and a nervous laugh in an attempt to stop myself, hating how I was so nervous around him.

Spencer didn't seem to mind, though. He let me in and closed the door behind me as I quickly glanced around his apartment. It was littered with greens and browns, books everywhere, and I'd never felt more at home.

"Is it, uh... What you expected?"

"Hmm?" I turned to meet him, his soft voice pulling me from my wandering eyes.

"My apartment."

"Oh! Yeah, it's very you... I love it."

The compliment had his cheeks turning pink, and there was nothing I wanted to do more than kiss them over and over again.

And just like that, once again we were caught just staring at each other. I didn't know what he was thinking, and honestly, I didn't know what I was thinking either. All I knew in that moment was that Spencer Reid was standing right in front of me, close enough to touch, and I wanted to give in.

I was so wrapped up in the idea of feeling him that I almost didn't hear him speak. I wouldn't have heard him at all had it not been for his lips moving.

"I'm sorry, I haven't started dinner yet..."

"That's okay," I reassured. Or, at least I tried to. Really, though, I think it sounded more like I was uninterested in what he was saying, my voice flat and lifeless as I continued to stare at him.

Suddenly we were closer, and I had to look up higher to see his face, butterflies swarming in my stomach at the way he looked down at me.

"You're sure?"

"Mhm."

"I can start it now if you're getting hungry."

Food isn't what I'm hungry for, is what I thought. I almost said it, too, because he was even closer now, his hands coming out to touch mine. If they were humming before, they were certainly blaring with life now, growing hot under his light touch. And it took everything I had not to look down, because it had been too damn long since I'd seen his hands in person, and I wanted them on me immediately.

He could tell, too. He could sense my urgency, feel the longing radiating off my presence, and I knew this because I could feel his, too. His eyes practically dared me to say what I was thinking, and so I did.

"Don't you dare."

It was hard to tell who moved in first, but it really didn't matter.

I was here, in his apartment, feeling his lips glide over mine with reckless abandon, and that's all that mattered.

His hands gripped my waist so tightly I would have thought he was trying to hold me in place, to make sure I wasn't ever going to leave his sight again. And if that was the case, I would have let him hold me there forever.

My hands, meanwhile, clutched at his hair, forcing myself closer and closer to him with every sharp tug. I reveled in the way he whined into my mouth with every little thing I did, whether it was a tug of the hair or a roll forward of the hips, or even a swipe of my tongue over his.

He was putty in my hands yet again, and just like every time before, it turned me into a fucking goner.

Being with Spencer wasn't like anything I'd ever known. And the only other thing I'd known was Patrick. He didn't want me, not really, and even though he was good to me in the beginning, it was never like this.

I didn't come over to his apartment with shaking hands. I didn't send him fucking love letters almost weekly, and I certainly didn't get kissed like this...

Spencer was drunk on me, and I wasn't any sober myself.

"That picture you sent me..." I mumbled over his lips, still keeping myself as close as I could while I got out what I needed to say. "Where did you take that?"

We kissed for a few more seconds, unable to stay apart, before he answered, his voice just as breathy and brimming with desperation as mine. "My office. Just down the hall."

I kissed him again, hard, and then pulled back to look him in the eyes. They widened when I said, "Show me."

He dragged me through the apartment on rushed legs, and I almost laughed at the urgency, only stopped by the realization that I was just as urgent. It occurred to me that perhaps my laughing at his urgency might just be a slight turn on for him, given our history with my playful degradation, but still I pulled back— Tonight felt... different.

It didn't feel like we were headed in the direction of me calling him my dirty little whore throughout the night, and it was something I was more than okay with. In fact, I welcomed it, excited to see where this new night would take us.

We ended up in his office, which remained more or less the same aesthetic as the rest of his place. In the middle sat a small desk with a laptop and some papers scattered about on it, accompanied by a tall floor lamp and a rolling desk chair.

"Where were you exactly?" I mused, gripping his hand tightly and buzzing at the way his fingers flexed against my own.

"In the chair... I pulled the photo up on my laptop."

"Right. No smartphone."

Spencer hummed in confirmation before dragging me along to the chair, and I fucking giggled as he plopped down and practically pulled me right on top of him, the chair rolling back a foot or two. I went down for a bright, messy kiss that ended with his hands clutching my ass over my skirt and my own cradling his face.

His growing bulge nudged right up into my inner thigh, and I groaned lightly in his mouth, my fingers dragging softly down his jaw and neck until I reached his shoulders.

"What were you thinking about?"

He raised his eyebrow, and I rocked my hips forward with a sly grin, hoping to get my point across. "When you were looking at my picture, in this very chair, what were you thinking about?"

Seeing his eyelids stutter and his tongue dart out at my movements sent a rush through me, and I moved my hips once more to emphasize my urgency.

"I... I thought about you... riding my face. You tied my hands..."

"Oh?" I sighed, rocking forward again and humming into his neck. "Well, that can definitely be arranged if you want it bad enough..."

"Please, Y/N, yes... Please..."

The need dripping from every syllable made it near impossible to breathe, and I was suddenly very inclined to give him everything he wanted. With or without the begging.

So I reluctantly peeled away from him and stood up on weak legs. Staring at Spencer as he sat there, leaning back in the chair with disheveled hair and obvious desire in his eyes, made it all the better when I took my panties off from under my skirt and motioned for him to come forward. "On your knees?"

I would have demanded it in any other situation, but I was feeling a bit more sweet this time around.

And he seemed grateful for it, sliding the chair back further and getting down in front of me. I reached out and played with his hair, trying my hardest to commit his beautiful face to memory. I wanted it burned there for the rest of time.

"Hands?"

Spencer offered his hands to me, and I hummed happily, doing my best to tie his hands together with a makeshift knot from my panties. It wasn't really tight or secure, but it was enough for him to whine as he set them in his lap.

He watched intently as I dropped my skirt—a bit redundant now, but I thought it'd be a nice way to get him more excited. Plus I wanted to see his face (or at lease what I could see of it while it was buried between my legs).

I stepped forward then, looking down at him with a smile while my hands reached out to comb through his hair. "You ready?"

"Uh huh."

The look in his eyes right before I came forward and hovered over his face almost made my come on the spot.

But as fun as that would have been, I was glad for the way my body held off and settled for a beautiful, burning increase of pleasure that dragged out the longer he swiped his tongue through my folds. Actually, I forgot for a moment that I was supposed to be moving, riding his face like he'd thought about.

I willed my eyes open and clutched Spencer's soft locks of hair beneath me, gently rolling my hips and grinding down further on his face. The groan he let out not only felt good against my skin, but it sounded like pure bliss, eliciting a small whimper of my own as I tightened my grip in his hair and rocked faster.

"God, I missed having your mouth on me, baby... You're... so good..."

The longer I spoke the more breathless I became, not because the words didn't come easily, but because I truly believed them to be true.

Spencer really was so fucking good, his tongue the most delicate, divine object of the universe as it drew out every ounce of delight from my body. I may have been the one above him, calling the shots and directing him where and how to please me, but he was the one who clung to my soul like static and politely guided me towards damnation.

I wasn't even sure of my surroundings to tell you the truth. As my body tensed and took me through one of the most blinding pleasures I'd experienced in weeks, My eyes were squeezed so tightly it's like I saw the universe. All I knew was Spencer's lips sucking my clit and my hands deeply rooted in his hair as I shouted incoherently, stars swirling around behind my eyelids.

Truly, for all I knew, we could have been in space. It wouldn't have made any difference.

But eventually it came to be too much. I was reaching a limit I didn't want to get to so quickly, and so I flashed my eyes open and tried to adjust to this brand new atmosphere, unweaving my fingers through pretty brown waves of hair and stepping back to assess the situation.

What I found was the most beautiful man I'd ever known, panting like he'd just ran a marathon and yet harboring the most intense joy and desire a person could hold. He was on his knees, bound hands writhing in his lap as he awaited further instruction and licked up as much of myself on his face as he could before I stopped him.

Under normal circumstances, I would have wanted to absolutely ruin him. That adoring, desperate look in his eye would have spurred me to more devious endeavors, but all I wanted in this moment was to make sure he was satisfied. I wanted to take care of him, to let him know that I longed to make him feel as worshipped and adored as he'd made me feel.

I got down to Spencer's level, quickly removing the fabric from his wrists and hauling him to his feet, where he now towered over me, still waiting for words to address and instruct him.

Instead, I leaned up with soft hands upon his cheeks and pulled him down to meet my lips in a kiss that changed the tone entirely. It was erotic still, of course, what with my arousal infiltrating my taste buds and eliciting a soft sigh from the both of us, but our urgency manifested in sweeter ways... Softer lips, gentle touches of the face, and an exchanging of breath that was so smooth and seamless it felt like we were floating on air.

I was finding it hard to breathe again, but it wasn't an issue in the slightest. In fact, there was nowhere else I'd rather have been than right there, kissing Spencer Reid like we had all the time in the world.

When the breathlessness was a little too much to bear, we pulled away, though only leaving just enough space to breathe. Our lips stayed briefly connected while we caught up, and his hands found their way to the sides of my face. The way they practically engulfed my whole head brought a brief smile to my lips as I finally gave him the words he was looking for.

"I'm so glad I met you," I whispered.

"Funny, I was just thinking the same thing."

We kissed each other again, naturally and with so much ease that I wondered how I had ever lived without him.

And then, as my hands slid gently down his chest, I felt it.

Something that felt very much like a ring attached to a necklace sat right where his heartbeat resided, and I knew exactly which ring it was.

"W—" I pulled back and circled the shape of it with my finger through the shirt, then looked up at him. "Is that what I think it is?"

Spencer looked briefly panicked, pulling away a little and fishing down the front of his shirt for the chain. "Oh... Um, yeah. I, um... I forgot to take it off, I'm sorry. I..."

"You... kept it?"

I observed the diamond as it laid flat on my palm, still attached to the chain and around his neck. Honestly, after all this time I figured he'd never found it or gotten rid of it, seeing as he never brought it up. And yet there it was, glittering in the palm of my hand as my other one presses firmly against Spencer's rapidly beating heart.

"Y—Yeah... It um... It was really the only physical thing I had to remember you—Well, at least until we started sending letters... And I guess I just... W—Wearing it has become such a habit that I forgot to take it off."

"You never take it off?"

I could tell he was nervous, and rightfully so given I wasn't really letting on how I was feeling about the whole thing.

Still, he answered my short question in such a small whisper I'd have thought he was trying not to get in trouble.

"No."

"Why?"

My words certainly weren't helping ease his anxieties, so I remained close, dropping the ring and focusing rather on his eyes. I softened the look in my own and glided my hands down to hold his. His fingers flexed against mine, squeezing them for dear life as he sighed out in relief and flashed me a soft smile.

"Because... I wanted you close to my heart."

With a smile that mirrored his eyes, full of enchantment and pure adoration for the person in front of me, I didn't use my brain and instead focused on what my heart was telling me, consequences be damned.

"I think I might love you..."

Spencer squeezed my hands tighter, that relief spreading out to all his features and brightening that beautiful smile.

"Funny... I was just thinking the same thing."

Our lips met once more, and I swear it was like nothing bad was ever going to happen for the rest of time.

I'd never felt that way. Not once with Patrick did my heart feel settled into place, even during the great parts of our relationship.

And now here I was, with a man who sent me love letters and kept every physical reminder of my existence, who kissed me like I was the most precious thing in the world and slowly mended my wounded heart.

He held me close the whole way to his bedroom and never let me go until the morning. Though, even then his arms outstretched towards me and his fingers flexed, needing to grab onto any part of me that he could find.

And as I was sure I always would, I welcomed him with open arms.

***

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roger-that-cap · 4 years

Text

brand new eyes

wanda maximoff x fem!reader

summary: having a penpal in the sixth grade was overdone, in your opinion. and handwritten letters just weren’t convenient. you weren’t happy at all to start talking to some random girl your age across the sea, but once you started, neither of you could find it in you to stop.

warnings: fluff!!!! mutual pining. badly written letters (actually the whole one shot). brief battle with sexuality. a seriously strong connection between two characters (almost soulmate territory here tbh). every single mistake here is 100% mine!

word count: 8.7k!

At first, you were sure that the pen pal letter suggestion for extra credit was stupid. Why would you handwrite a letter when you could send an email? Why would you send a letter by mail that would take much longer? It took two weeks for a handwritten letter to arrive, and only seconds for an email. It didn’t make any sense.

And then you got your first letter.

You realized very quickly why handwriting was what your teachers asked for. You never knew that handwriting could be so vulnerable, so open. You had never seen letters that were so loopy, so delicate. That letter was written so neatly and so personally even if the girl who had written it hadn’t meant it to be that way, and you knew that a computer even with all of its special fonts wouldn’t be able to do that.

You understood why the handwritten rule was there.

But you didn’t like it when it was your turn to craft something so beautiful.

It wasn’t a competition by any means, but you didn’t want your letter to look anything like the words you scratched down into your notebooks. You wanted them to be neat and pretty and most of all understandable for the girl behind the pen and across the sea, because she had done the same for you.

By the time you stopped ogling over the letters and started actually reading the words that the girl had written, you learned her name. You learned it within the first line, actually.

Wanda Maximoff.

She was obviously from Sokovia, she spoke English as her second language, and she had an older twin brother that she both adored and was annoyed by. She was in the equivalent of your grade in her country, and she liked to cook with her parents. The letter was basic and slightly elementary, just an introduction to what she was willing to share with a stranger that lived thousands of miles away.

But that didn’t make it any less special.

You started on your return letter minutes after you let her pretty words sink in.

You drafted your letter and let it sit for an hour without you looking at it, and then came back to it only to cross things out and revise it, and then put it on the expensive paper that your mother had bought for you. It wasn’t perfect, but it was yours. It started with a greeting, your name, and then into the same sort of things that she spoke about in her own letter, the things that people that went to school with you had learned in passing over the years.

It felt like giving someone the rundown of your uneventful life so far in the simplest of ways. It felt like someone getting to know you as you wanted them to, because you were telling your story. There was no other side, or truth, or lie, just what your pen and your brain decided to write. It was controlled chaos. And you adored it.

Your print was easy to read. It wasn’t loopy like hers or as “girlish”, as one of your classmates said when you brought both letters to school to get an extra one hundred. It wasn’t fancy and alluring like hers, but there was still something magical on the pseudo-aged parchment.

You sent it off to the post office the next day, and you put her letter on your desk.

§§§

By the time that your third letter from her came, you already were drafting your own. It came straight to your mailbox and when you checked the mail that morning, you were ecstatic to see it waiting for you, like a pet waiting for it’s person to come home. As usual, it started off with the gentle scrawl of your name, just a bit larger than all of the rest of the words that were on the page.

I can’t believe that it’s already been weeks of us writing. We started in August, and it’s nearing the end of October. Speaking of, is it starting to get cold there for you? It’s already cold for us. Our grandmother always makes us the best tea and soup when it gets cold outside, and I could send you the recipe if you wanted!

My brother and I are curious about one thing, and we hope that we get your answer in time, but, is Halloween really a thing? We have both heard of it, but we’ve never done it here. It sounds magical. I’ve always wanted to dress up however I wanted and get candy for it. If I were to do it, I would probably be a Disney Princess, maybe Merida. Sadly, we don’t do that here. Does it really happen in the United States, or is that a movie thing?

Hopefully you don’t mind my questions much, or my short letter. Pietro likes to read over my shoulder while I write and receive the letters, and I like to write at the kitchen table. There’s no escaping him. You’ve never talked about siblings, do you have them?

The rest of the letter was like that, aloof yet curious and bouncing around all the same, and then signed with her always rushed conclusion, which was nearly the same every time.

You read it and put the letter in the box that you had bought from a thrift store, a box just big enough for the size of the neatly folded and tied off letters that she gave you. You clipped the box shut and put it back under your desk, and then started working on your response.

Instead of just a letter, you sent her a letter in a small box that had the candy that you had gotten on Halloween night, and the mask that went with the rest of your costume. It wasn’t the Disney Princess that Wanda wanted to dress up as, but it was something. It was your something.

§§§

As the December portion of your letter writing, you and your penpal were supposed to learn of the other’s traditions during the Holidays, whether you or them celebrated or not. A huge slide show about the culture of your Sokovian friend was supposed to be shown, and you knew that there would be a lot of the same PowerPoints, a lot of the same pictures and sayings and explanations. You wanted something different. You also had no idea if Wanda did Christmas, but you had to ask.

Wanda,

I’m sure that you know that our assignment now is to present a slide show about what our penpal does during the Holiday season, but because I don’t know whether you celebrate Diwali or Christmas or Hanukkah, I’ll start with asking you about New Years, because I’ve never met a person who didn’t celebrate New Years.

What do you do on New Years Eve? I’ll start by telling you that I watch the ball drop with my family, eat food, and drink cider after it hits midnight. It’s a big deal here for us, because the new year is a time for self revolution, apparently. I’ve never done a New Years resolution, but maybe I’ll do one this year. Have you ever done one?

I know that food is very big over in Sokovia, so what kind of food do you traditionally have when you’re celebrating? Do you like it? Can you cook it yourself? Because I know that you have the same questions for me that you have to put in before you leave for Winter Break, I’ll answer my own questions.

And you did. You were thorough, partly because you thought that it was kind of you to do so because she should get a good grade, and also because she had written that she was thankful for your descriptions on multiple occasions. You had noticed that she was the more whimsical writer and that you came off as the more grounded one, and it intrigued you.

You wondered if you two would come off that way in person to other people, if you ever got the chance to meet.

When her letter came two weeks later, wrapped in aged string as always, you skipped to your bedroom, already pulling the box out from under the table and starting to read it. You smiled through the whole thing.

In her own way, not as precise or even in order as you, she had told you everything you needed to do a good slide show about Sokovia during the Holidays.

§§§

You were emotional at the end of the year. Not because you were leaving the sixth grade and going to a new building in the school and leaving behind your kind teachers, but because the pen pal assignment was over.

No other assignment had been so important to you, or eye opening. You were only twelve years old, but you were old enough to know that you had never found a friend like you had in Wanda, who was still thousands of miles away. No one else, not even the people that stood feet apart from you, offered you friendship like Wanda Maximoff did.

You couldn’t stop writing to her.

It was your turn to send a letter, the final letter that you were supposed to send, and then her closing letter was supposed to come two weeks later. You couldn’t just close it. Your entire mind was screaming at you to not close the book that you had hardly started yet.

So, as your pen rested on the parchment paper (without drafting first), you lifted it up, and changed your mentality from a “goodbye” to a hopeful and questioning one, as you hoped that she felt the same and wanted to talk just as much as you did.

Wanda,

It’s the end of the year. Technically, we should be done with our letters because it’s the end of the year, and the assignment is graded. This should be a closing letter, but I don’t think that our friendship was ever dictated by the grades that we got. We were always closer than all of the other pen pals at school that I knew, and I was hoping that you would want to continue writing.

You couldn’t write much more after that, because your pen was shaking and you were starting to get in the danger zone of dropping tears on the paper. If this was your last letter to Wanda, you wanted it to be pretty. Just half as pretty as she always made hers, if you could manage it.

You sent it off the next morning after finding an old string that was nearly the same colors as hers and getting your friend across the street to hold it down and color the outside of it for you.

§§

A part of you wanted to say that you wouldn’t have been expecting to still write handwritten letters to a girl in Sokovia in the ninth grade, but you certainly were. While everyone else in your class had lost contact after the assignments were done or tried and failed to keep contact afterwards, you and Wanda continued talking all through the years.

It astounded your parents, who were sure that in the beginning, you were just obsessed with someone who was your age and who wasn’t exactly like you. They thought for sure that you would have lost interest in talking to Wanda, but after three straight years, gas spent taking you to the post office, and money spent on special stamps and the same paper, they were starting to finally get the hint.

Because you were so close with Wanda, you hardly had close friends in your neighborhood, and maybe two or three at school. There was no one that knew you like Wanda did, and no one that knew Wanda like you did. One particular letter where you confessed probably the worst thing you had ever done to her that no one else knew was what finally let you know that she was the most judgement-free person in the world, and that you would do anything to keep her. You would never forget how the letter went, and how her response sounded.

Wands,

I’ve done something terrible. I may have accidentally gotten involved with a boy who already had a girlfriend, and I had no idea. I had literally no idea, and today she just called me out of nowhere and started crying over the phone to me, and I had no idea that he was with her. At all. It was so pitiful, and she’s not mad, and she says that she won’t tell anyone it was me, but still. She seemed to really like him, and I think I may have just ruined a relationship. I have no idea what to do, and all I feel is guilt. Nothing more or less. Should I send her something? Give her a gift card? I feel terrible because she was just so sweet about it.

The letter went on and on with your scripted rambling, so repetitive and panicked that you were shocked to know that Wanda had, in fact, read the entire thing. She got a message back to you rather quickly, and that made you both nervous about her verdict and glad, because you felt like with an answer so quick, she must not have judged you too harshly. You remembered opening it with shaky hands, and inhaling and exhaling when her first words after your nickname were “breath in” and “breathe out”.

Wanda once said that writing to you was like writing to a diary who always wrote back, and you couldn’t agree more. She knew everything, and she never judged. And, when the time came for her to put all of her eggs in your basket of trust, you did the same for her.

You distinctly remembered getting the few letters that you kept at the bottom of your letter stack, even though you liked to have them in chronological order. In the eighth grade, Wanda was having a crisis over her sexuality. Being anything but straight in Sokovia wasn’t the best thing to be, and you knew that. The first letter she ever sent you about her sexuality had dried spots on it, where she had obviously cried. Her handwriting wasn’t anywhere as neat as it usually was, and it sent you into a state of panic.

We talk to each other about everything, so here I am asking for your advice because I won’t be getting anything here. I know that usually we keep our letters formal for aesthetic purposes, but I can’t this time. Also, no one other than you can read this.

From there, she told you that she was sure that she liked women, and that she was even more sure that her parents would be upset at her. She told you that she had been dwelling on it for a while, thinking about it and having it weigh heavily on her mind. She was all over the board with it, from her parents being upset to her being afraid that you were going to be opposed to it as well, or tell her that she was “too young to think that way”. She ended the letter by telling you that you were the first person that she had ever told.

You started your letter with your own confession, and Wanda Maximoff was the first one you ever told, too. You were past having your crisis, though, and you helped her through hers without a second of complaints. You always wished that you had someone to help you when you were down and questioning yourself, so you knew that you would be that for Wanda without hesitation.

You two grew together even more, and by the ninth grade, you both knew that there wasn’t going to be anything in the world that could stop your letters.

You came home one day after a long day and checked your mailbox out of habit, knowing that a letter wasn’t due for a few more days. But there it was, wrapped and sitting pretty for you. Your name was scrawled beautifully on the front in the handwriting that got better and better with every year, but you would recognize it anywhere. A smile grew onto your face as you walked to your front door, unlocking it and rushing inside to get to your desk. Of course, your name came first in the loopy letters.

I hope you’re doing alright! Things have been busy over here on my side of things, but never busy enough to not write you back. I just wondered, have been wondering for a while, really, if we were ever going to meet. We’ve been writing to each other for years, but I’ve never seen a picture of you. I know everything about you, but I’ve never met you. You are my best friend in the entire world, but I’ve never heard your voice. One day I would love to finally meet you. Would you be open to thinking about one of us flying out? Maybe after school is over for the both of us, we could make it happen. Number

It was much longer than that, but that was what caught your attention, more than her description of her busy week did. You read the letter three times. And then again. Your heart thumped in your chest as you tried to get a grip on yourself, irrational nervousness gripping your throat like an iron fist.

You knew the day was coming. You knew that it was. You two didn’t know what the other looked like at all, and neither of you had ever asked. Sometimes, you thought about it, but other times you found that it really didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what she looked like because she was the best friend you had ever had, so you forgot about it. But that wasn’t what worried you.

The thought of meeting her nearly put you in cardiac arrest. You couldn’t meet her. What if you met and you two were totally bored of each other? What if how close you were on paper didn’t reflect at all in real life? What if you two found roadblocks in conversation that you never saw before? You didn’t want to meet her, not at all. You were terrified of it.

Because if you didn’t connect with Wanda on sight, then you doubted that you would ever be able to connect with anyone else. If you were wrong about Wanda being your person and her being yours, you would be crushed. If you figured out that the person who you gave your all for didn’t like you anymore after meeting you, you would die on the spot. You couldn’t afford to find it out.

You sat at your desk for an hour after reading her letter, smoothing your hand over the paper like you always did before you wrote your response. You knew what you needed to say, you just didn’t know how to say it.

What she had already written helped you, too. She was implying that they met up after graduation, which was still years away. You had time to hold off on it, to not talk about it for a while. You had some stall time in the bank, for sure. And you were going to use it.

§§§

You made the mistake of not putting the letter in your box.

Your mother came into your room, and she saw the letter. Your desk was typically off limits, so you were upset that she read it anyway, but what she said led all anger out of your body and made way for fear.

“You should totally go see your friend, sweetie!”

“What?”

“I’d pay for you to fly out,” your mom said. “I’d come with you, but I would pay for you to fly out and see your friend. You’ve been writing each other for three years now, and you’ve never seen each other. You guys should do it.”

“You’d fly me out to Sokovia?”

“You’re a great kid, of course I would.” You took the letter from her hands gently and put it in the box, and she gave you a look. “You don’t want to go, do you?”

You didn’t answer.

“Why not?”

“I’m scared to meet her,” you admitted plainly, and then your mother gave you a look.

“She seems so excited to, after all these years. She’s such a sweet girl, what are you worried about?”

You couldn’t answer that. Your fears were your own, and they sounded ridiculous out loud. They made no sense to everyone else, and sometimes not even to you. Wanda Maximoff was nothing but sweet and kind and a good friend, and there you were, trying to blow her off because you were scared of a possible lack of face to face connection.

“Can we just drop it?”

And you did. In fact, all four of you did, until later.

§§§

By the end of your junior year, you were done for. Not because of tests or applications or any of that, it was because you realized that you were in deep for Wanda Maximoff.

It all made sense. The need to keep writing to her, the excitement you had felt getting a letter since sixth grade, the way you marveled over her penmanship and loved everything that she said and did. You were so in love with her, and it was irreversible. You were in love with her and what the two of you created together.

And you couldn’t lose that because of a bad meeting.

You avoided the topic of going there or Wanda coming to you, and you finally got each other’s numbers so that you could text on some international texting app, but primarily, it was still the heartfelt letters with the occasional heart stamps and constant string coming your way. And you wouldn't haven’t wanted anything different.

You sat at your desk on the last day of school as you wrote to her, writing about how you were about to watch some of your slightly older friends graduate in a few days. You also mentioned how you were excited to be a senior and get through your last year of high school just so that you could go and do whatever it was that you wanted to do, because you were only seventeen, and you didn’t know anything.

Sunshine,

I can’t wait to get out of high school. It’s not bad, just boring. I wish the people here were like you, and then maybe I could actually carry a conversation with them. Have you told your family yet? I told mine. My mom was… shocked to say the least, but she was fine with it. I think she might have suspicions about us writing to each other now, but who cares? I want to know if you’re alright.

How’s your new job going? I know you were excited to get one, so I hope it’s treating you well. It’s funny that you and Piet work across the mall from each other. I knew it was gonna be like that, even though you said it wouldn’t be! You two are inseparable, it’s so cute. Does he have any idea what he wants to do after we get out of school?

I kind of think that I want to start my own business. A flower shop, maybe. You know how I sort of have a green thumb. I think it would be good for me to own something. What do you think?

You wrote for about thirty minutes more, answering the questions she had asked you in a previous letter and signing your name at the bottom, a small smile on your face as you thought about her and her brother making food together like they always did.

You loved her. You really did.

§§§

It was in the middle of your senior year when you realized what the problem with her coming was. You had been keeping it so far in the back of your mind that you didn’t even realize that the alarms were blaring in the back of your head.

You knew that if you saw Wanda in person once that you would never be able to let her go. You would have to pick up and move to her country or she would come to yours, and it would kill your mother for you to move. So, that would mean that you would be asking for Wanda to leave her own family to be with you, and you couldn’t be selfish.

So, you would be selfish in a way that was also selfless by holding off on seeing her.

You hadn’t told her that you loved her, and you planned on never admitting it. You were sure she kind of knew, even just a little, but she never said anything. The way that you were holding onto the idea of her probably said enough for her to know. You just hoped that she knew that you were in love with her as a friend, at least. Wanda was the type who needed to know that they were loved, and she so was.

You loved her without even knowing what she looked like. You loved her without knowing whether she had a nasty habit or if she was a neat freak. You loved her without seeing her in a dress or in your favorite color or even looking into her eyes. You had never even heard her voice before, but that didn’t matter at all. You fell in love with her hand writing, then the way that she wrapped her letters, and then her words themselves. And then, you just were in love with Wanda Maximoff. All of her. All that you knew. And the things that you didn’t.

You thought about a confession letter for a long time. You were terrified of it, to say the least, because what if it backfired? What if she thought that you were only interested because she came out to you? What if she thought that you didn’t mean it at all?

Or worse, what if she just completely didn’t feel that way at all? What if the feeling she got when she wrote to you was nothing but platonic? That would be the biggest nightmare of all, and you had no idea how you were ever going to be able to pick up your fancy pen and put it to your special parchment after reading that.

By the time that you finally stopped wrestling with yourself about whether you were going to tell her that you were in love with her, you got a letter in the mail. A heart stamp was on the outside and it was tied with the string it always was, and the familiarity calmed your racing heart. You opened it gently, like you did with all of the letters you got, and then you saw her familiar scrawl.

How could someone’s handwriting feel like home?

Moonlight,

I would love to tell you about everything that’s been happening here, but I believe that it’s rather boring compared to what’s been bursting at the seams in my own mind. With every letter that I’ve ever written to you since we were thirteen, I’ve hesitated with my pen over telling you what I know has been true for years. I think that, finally, I know that I have something to say to you. I’ve always wanted to admit this to you, ever since the seventh grade.

I think that I fell in love with you, a long, long, time ago. I think that I know I did. I haven’t told you, and I never intended to tell you, because I was scared. I’m still scared here, as I write this letter, but I can’t keep it to myself anymore.

Pietro already knows, but he knew before I even did. I’m sure it has something to do with us being so in sync, that he knew where my heart, love, and loyalties were before I even knew myself. I tell you everything, and something as monumental as falling in love with someone, I believe that you should know. But I couldn’t tell you. Not in the beginning, and apparently, not even after a year or two.

I’ve never seen you or heard your voice or held your hand, but I don’t need that to know that I truly have fallen in love with the person that you are. You are a beautiful person with the most gorgeous soul I have ever had the privilege of talking to, and I think that we have stumbled upon a connection that we may never see again, if you feel the same way.

If this made you uncomfortable in any way, please tell me. I’m sorry if this came on too strong, or too up front. I never want to make you upset.

It’s okay if you don’t want to carry on writing to me after this letter. I just thought that I needed to tell you after all this time. We never lie to each other, and I think that this lie to save me from possible embarrassment or losing the greatest friend I have ever had has expired. Thank you as always for reading, Moonlight.

Your Sunshine, Wanda.

Your jaw was slacked, and your mouth was open. Your heart was beating so quickly, but it wasn’t frantic. Your mind was going at a thousand miles a minute, but you were calm. You were supposed, but you weren’t. It simply felt… right. It felt like you had secretly been expecting it all along, like your soul had known the whole time, or maybe even like it had known that you felt the exact same way. It felt like you were receiving news that you had already heard about.

But that didn’t take away any from the pure elation that you felt. You set the letter down so that you didn’t accidentally wrinkle it, and then put your head in your hands to hide your smile and think, like they would help you any.

She loves me. Wanda loves me. And not in the way that friends loved each other, that’s not how she loved you. She felt what you had been feeling, a bond so strong that it could be felt on paper.

Your hands shook as you reread the letter. You scanned over it for a second time, a third time, and you were tearing up by the fifth, finally setting it down again and leaving it on your desk. It didn’t deserve the beautiful darkness of the box where it’s predecessors went, not yet. Probably not ever. You would have framed it in the moment, if you could have.

Part of you was glad that she admitted it first. You were going to, one day, maybe. But the worst part was the hypothetical wait for the letter to cross the pond. Whoever sent the confession letter would have to wait about two weeks for a response, and that felt like forever. You knew that just as much as she did, and she still took the chance to do it.

So, with the most fond and gentle smile on your face, you took out your special pen, wrote Sunshine as the entrance, and then professed your own love right back at her, trying as hard as you possibly could to make it as beautiful and raw for her as you felt on the inside, and as the one that she gave you. But, all you could think of were the first two sentences, but you knew that you were going to go for much longer than that.

Sunshine,

Oh, Wanda. How I wish we were both brave enough to do this earlier.

§§§

By the end of your senior year, you two were dancing around each other, taking it slow, as if you both hadn’t professed your love for each other. You kept writing your steady letters to each other, the same nicknames, the same doting words and pretty scratched across the paper with dark ink.

For the most part, nothing changed. But neither of you could deny the way that you wanted to see each other. And so, your time was up. You had to stop messing around.

The first time the two of you planned to see each other, it was supposed to happen over that summer break. It was supposed to be a nice experience for everyone, at a time that was actually pretty convenient.

And then, right during the week she was supposed to come, her aunt passed away, right in her sleep. It didn’t even come to your mind to think about rescheduling so fast, and that was the first time you had ever gotten an email from Wanda. She emailed you the morning that she found out, saying that she would rather send the first email than have you show up at the airport upset because you didn’t know she wasn’t coming. She was able to resell her ticket and you assured her that it was totally okay for her to not be coming, and you gave her condolences, as well. Wanda was very close to her family, and you knew that she felt that loss.

The next time the plans fell through, it was because you were going to surprise her. Your mom paid for your ticket, and you had finally grown out of your own mind and realized that it was going to be what it was regarding meeting Wanda. But, when you emailed her two nights before, spilling the beans because you didn’t want to just go to the airport without knowing how the hell to get around, you got a quick response. Turns out, she wasn’t anywhere near her house, or the airport. She was on a marine biology trip in some waters off the coast of Romania, and she hadn’t gotten the chance to write you all about it yet. You begrudgingly canceled the trip and told her that of course, it was alright. That night, your mom assured you that the two of you would just try again later.

But then life happened. You went off to culinary school, a last minute yet sure decision after Wanda had taught you that there was so much more to love about food other than the taste. She had your new address and you had hers, because she moved from Sokovia to Italy for her marine biology major. The letters came and went faster, with the smaller amount of mileage.

Long story short, neither of you had enough money to go and spend thousands on a trip, and not even one helping the other out or splitting the cost helped much. Wanda was getting increasingly nervous about whether it was ever going to happen, and though she never stated it directly, it was very obvious. You were getting there, too.

The thing that kept you going was the letters. The same as they had always been on her end and yours, they were the one constant in your life. Wherever you went, you knew that her letters would follow you, and that you would still write from your heart and send your own across the sea over to some place in Europe. You knew that as long as her letters were lengthy and detailed and that if she took the time to wrap them as gently as she had been, that you two were strong. And as long as you kept giving advice and writing her entire short stories about you week, she knew that you were still hers.

You would be hers until your heart stopped beating, and long after that. You were there for her for as long as she wanted you to be, and that was widely known.

§§§

It took four years for you to get back home and in a place where you could afford a ticket in or out. Wanda took a little longer, but that didn’t matter. It only gave you even more time to save and plan for when she came, and the date came.

You were both twenty two when you bought her the winning ticket. You were flying her out to Florida for a week and a half. The Keys, to be exact. You knew that she was going to love it and the beautiful waters that came with it, and it was away from the meddling eyes and mouths of your family, the ones who had been routing for you from afar (and in the beginning, behind your back). It was just going to be the two of you in a condo, and you knew that it was going to be heaven on earth.

Now, hell on earth was the anticipation of waiting at the airport. You had no idea what Wanda Maximoff looked like, partially because it didn’t matter while you two wrote, and also because you wanted to see her for the first time in person. You two had a flare for dramatic romantics, another reason that you two clicked so well.

You stood with a sign that you had made the night before with paint that you had mixed yourself into her favorite shade of red, a scarlet, almost pink color. You were in a sundress because it was sweltering outside, and you were almost nervous about how she would take the heat after being somewhere so cold all of her life. You were rocking back and forth on your feet without even noticing, and your stomach growling was the last of your worries. Your heart was racing and your hands were shaking, but you willed them to stay still so that she could at least have a chance of reading it.

You were sure that you were about to pass out. It seemed like it had been millennia and a day all the same with her in your life. Everything that you had written each other was really about to come to life, after ten long years. You felt almost like it wasn’t real at all, like you were about to be woken up by your alarm back in your apartment over at your old school. But it was very, very real, and all the receipts and your racing heart advocated for the truth in it all.

The gates opened, and all of a sudden, people were lazily walking out, as one would do after a long flight. You were certain that the woman who was standing next to you could hear you start to slightly hyperventilate, but you didn’t care. The only thing that mattered to you in that moment was Wanda.

A man came up from behind you and bumped you, and he said his apologies while you bent down to pick up the sign. Despite your nervousness, you stopped to tell him that it was okay, sign still face down on the floor. He grinned at you and then frowned when he looked up, causing you to mirror his expression.

Your name. It was clear as day, accented, close, and sounded like a sigh of relief and wonder floating in the wind. It came from a woman you didn’t know the voice of, and just like that, you remembered what you were doing. You left the sign on the floor, stood up, and turned around as fast as you could, eyes slightly wild as they soaked in everything about the woman standing in front of you.

Her hair was almost a cross between light brown and light red, even in the fake lights of the airport. She had light makeup on and she looked a little tired from the flight, but the look of elation on her face wiped it all away. Her pink lips were curved into an open mouthed smile, like she had forgotten the words while they were already halfway to her tongue. Your heart raced as you looked at her, and you didn’t even need to question who she was. Or who she was to you. You couldn’t look at anything but her face, the face you had been missing so achingly without ever seeing it before, the face that you knew was bound to give you comfort that you had never felt one in your life, until the end of your days. Her eyes were wide and a clear blue as they stared back at you, reflecting your exact expression, and you sensed that the two of you had already synced up and gotten on the same page, just like you had both predicted.

“O-oh my god,” you breathed out, just inches away from her. “Wanda!” You went in for an embrace at the same time, both of you somehow knowing which way to lean your head to avoid collision, and just where to put your arms. You fought shaking when you held her, your nerves completely shot at it finally happening. You were actually with Wanda, in an airport, hugging her like there was all the time to spend in the world. “Oh my god,” you repeated, and you felt her squeeze you a little closer to her. You could have cried in that moment.

“You,” she pulled back from you to take your face in her hands, her blue eyes scanning over your face like she was studying priceless art. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it was the way she looked when she watched the animals underwater. She shook her head slowly, eyes welling up with the thinnest layer of tears as her lips turned up into a smile. “You are beautiful.”

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked downwards, feeling yourself get hot at the bold and sincere compliment. You knew that anything more than about three words was going to smoke you stutter “Wanda, have you seen yourself?” She laughed, a soft sound that you had imagined hearing so many times that you almost thought you had made it up, until you saw the upturn of her mouth and the mirth in her eyes.

“I’m- I can’t believe I’m actually here,” Wanda breathed out, and you felt the same exact way. How had you pulled it off? After nearly a decade of pining that was mutual and writing to each other about every little detail in your lives, she was finally right in front of you, where you could see her and touch her.

“How’d you know it was me?” You asked after a second of grappling for something to say. “I didn’t have my sign up when you came.”

The smile that was on her face went from being flat out joyful to content, almost peaceful. It rubbed off on you immediately as you leaned back into her touch, ignoring all of the people bustling around in the busy airport. “I just knew that it was you.”

§§§

For the entirety of the day Wanda arrived, all the two of you did was stare at each other and hold onto each other, like you were both equally terrified that the gods were going to come down from wherever they resided to split you up again. There was hardly even any talking when you arrived at the condo, and it felt natural. The two of you had already spoken so much, and now you needed to catch up on just seeing her. You’ve seen her soul, her mind, her heart, and now you were seeing her face. It felt like you had always known it.

But you were the first one to speak as you held hands on the deck, her thumb drawing subconscious hearts on the back of your palm. “You have a way with words, sunshine.” The name contrasted to the sky, which was dark but illuminated with an almost full moon and stars. The city was mostly behind you, so the natural light was what you got. It was all that you needed.

You felt her content fade into joy. “Really?”

You knew that she was nervous about her English, but to you, it was perfect. From her accent to the way that she sometimes missed connotations that were specific to the language to the idioms that accidentally slipped into your letters, you loved it. “Mhm,” you hummed, leaning your head on her shoulder. “And I never would have imagined that you sounded so… sweet.”

“Sweet?” She parroted, and you smiled even though she couldn’t see it. Somehow, you knew that she could feel it, in some strange way. “Can I ask you something?” The answer was yes. It was yes, and it always would be yes. So, you said that. She cleared her throat, a quiet sound that you stored in your memory to keep, simply because she made it. “Did you… did you mean what you wrote?”

You were stumped. There had to be hundreds of letters between the two of you, and thousands upon thousands of topics. But you couldn’t question yourself for long, because then you knew exactly what she was talking about.

Did you truly love Wanda? The question came up a few times between you and your mother when you were in your first year of culinary school. Were you in love with Wanda Maximoff, or were you in love with the idea of Wanda and the mystery she brought? The question had been brought up, many times by your mother, who was only just making sure that you were being smart, and the answer never once varied. Yes. You loved Wanda Maximoff with every breath you took, every stroke of your pen, every glance at her pretty script. You knew that Wanda was it for you, and seeing her only solidified it. The way your hand fit together like they were the missing parts of a lost artifact made it concrete. The way she gave you everything back and the way you did the same told you everything you needed to know.

You leaned off of her shoulder and turned to face her, a soft smile on your face as the moon came out from behind the singular patch of clouds in the night, illuminating her features. You saw her face and her spirit through brand new eyes, and it was wonderful. It was all you could ever ask for. “Wanda,” you started, your voice quiet enough to not disturb the moment, and the sound of waves crashing not too far away. “I’ve loved you since I knew what love was, and I have been in love with you for as long as I knew what the difference between the two really was. Everything that I have ever sent to you, every word, I meant it all. And I’ll mean it for the rest of my life.”

She was staring at you blankly, with only a bit of something lingering in her gaze. Then, as soft as a breeze, she was muttering something under her breath in her mother tongue and putting her hand on your face. “Can I kiss you?”

You ignored the way that your heart surged in your chest. The moon was still out and bright, shining down on the two of you like you had paid for it to be a spotlight. “You never have to ask,” you said, and then, as fluidly and gently as humanly possible, she tilted her head and leaned forward, and you met her halfway.

§§

You had never been scuba diving before, but Wanda was in her element. She helped you suit up after she told the instructor that she was certified, and then rolled her eyes playfully when he checked behind her work. You cracked a smile. The entire time he was instructing, she was nearly bursting at the seams to get into the water, and the second he said that the two of you were allowed to go, she was holding your hand and asking if you were ready.

You never thought that Wanda could look more beautiful than she already had, but in and near the water, she was something else. She was in a state of grace and peace all the same, and you wanted nothing more than for her to be so tranquil, for the rest of her life. All you wanted in return was to be privileged to see it.

The gods that made you fear a bad trip were actually on your side, because Wanda excitedly pointed out a group of migrating sea turtles, not even paying either of you any mind at all, carrying about through nature. You smiled at them and at her, unable to decide which one was going to be the apple of your eye at the moment. You chose her.

§§§

You got out of the shower, your skin still slightly damp and the air humid from the heat of the water. You smiled at Wanda when you caught her looking at you, giving you that same blank stare that she had the first night the two of you got there. You stopped in your tracks, giving her the encouraging look that you knew she needed. “You okay, Wands?”

“I love you.”

Your breath hitched. It was the first time she had spoken the words aloud, and you both knew it. The weight of the words and the confession felt so true, so genuine, that it went straight to your heart and made it swell with warmth. A small yet generous smile stretched onto your face as you felt everything fall into place. “I love you, Wands.”

“More than I’ve ever loved anything,” she continued, like she hadn’t even heard you, and you looked back at her with a doting expression. “And, I’ve been holding off because I don’t know how to say that,” she paused, and then she fell into deep thought.

You took a step closer, assuming that the small language barrier had come up. When it took her more than a few seconds and you saw the little scrunch of confusion between her brows appear, you spoke up. “There’s no rush,” you said gently.

“If other people were to look at us, they would say that we have only known each other for three days,” she said, and you nodded. “But, I feel that we’ve known each other for thousands of years. I feel that we were made to meet, and that we were always going to no matter what came up. Why else would we both be so focused on talking to each other? I have always seen you as someone special to me, always, but now that we have finally seen each other face to face, I think that my… heart is recognizing you as it’s other part.”

You had no words in your mind at that moment, because they were all in your heart. You couldn’t open your mouth to convey the pure shock and relief that you felt at her admitting something that you had been feeling the whole time. You swallowed and felt your eyes burn with tears, but before they could fall past your cheeks, Wanda stood up and wiped them from your face before pulling you close.

Nothing mattered. Not the fact that you were still wet and she was in her pajamas, not the fact that you were in a towel, not the fact that the pizza man was knocking at the door. It was you and her, like it always had been in your mind, and Wanda’s too.

You were it for her, and she was it for you. And while you hugged it out in that beautiful condo in Florida, you silently thanked your sixth grade English teacher for making you write to a random girl your age all the way across the Atlantic, and you thanked Wanda for being the one who wrote her way right into your life.

so. uh! hiiii! i hope y’all liked it! i loved writing it, even though she was a lil bit of a challenge, not gonna lie. feedback is always appreciated!!

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #marvel fanfic #wanda fluff #scarlet witch #marvel au #wanda maximoff fluff #lgbtq #lesbian!wanda

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smoochkooks · 3 years

Text

—chapter one: the beginning of an end

this is a part of my an ode to a broken heart drabble series.

pairing: jeon jungkook/reader

genre: unrequited love, best friends to (?), heavy angst, future smut

word count: 1.4k words

summary: loving jeon jungkook is, above all, the beginning of an end.

previous || next

You’re positive your favourite sound in the whole world is the rhythmic, repetitive sound of your fingers tapping on the keyboard.

Everyone has a different approach when it comes to coping with stress and anxiety. Some people drink away their unwanted emotions, some drown themselves in work, some watch yet another, mediocre Netflix show. But your solution, your little panacea has always been writing.

You’re not the best when it comes to expressing your true feelings. You can struggle with saying ‘I love you’ to your mother and then write a long, affectionate letter for her birthday that makes her eyes turn glossy. You may stutter and tumble on your own words while trying to order coffee and then complete academic essays with ease.

Whenever you feel like you’re overwhelmed, boiled up with mixed emotions, you do exactly what your school counselor told you many years ago: you let it out. She never mentioned any specifics, simply encouraging you to find your own way. And that’s exactly what you did – you picked it up yourself. First, it was writing a diary. No less than two weeks into it, you got bored. Turns out describing in detail every single mundane day of your life was never your forté. You threw away your old notebook, bought a new one and decided to write there whenever you felt like you really wanted to, not out of obligation.

And you continue to do so, these days you opt for a use of modern technology often. You open your laptop and pour your feelings onto a digital sheet of paper. It’s cathartic, in a way. Getting rid of what you feel like is weighing you down.

Jungkook however, your dearest best friend, has always been on the other side of the spectrum. Loud, obnoxious, a life and soul of the party who happened to miraculously befriend the most quiet introvert in class. Sometimes you still wonder how your friendship has managed to survive almost twenty years. You’re two polar opposites. Fire and water. Storm and chilly breeze. A confession screamed in the middle of the night and handwritten love letter.

You’re a dichotomy. Made of the same atoms, pulling in and pulling away. And if the phrase ‘opposites attract’ held any significance, maybe you would’ve ended up together. But in your case, it’s yet another platitude. Something that seems to work out only in books and movies. Because, if that was true, he would never fell in love with a female version of him, just graced with a sprinkle of pure sweetenes Jungkook sometimes lacks.

Soojin is everything you will never be. Polite, outgoing, sociable and so likeable you hate yourself for despising her. Truthfully, there’s nothing bad you could say about her. No wonder he’s fallen head over heels for her, not you.

What’s there to love about you, if you willing chose to pin for a boy that’s so out of your league? It’s actually hilarious to even dream about him returning your feelings.

You stare at the screen with half-lidded eyes. The clock reads quarter past midnight, letters start to blur into nothingness. Yet another chapter of your miserable life is completed as you save the document and slam your laptop shut. You don’t bother to shower or take off your clothes. Sleepiness hits you right when you close your eyes.

You dream of wedding halls and never spoken love confessions.

You read once on Twitter that being an adult means checking your e-mail as a part of your morning social media routine and since then, you haven’t quite related to anything more in your life.

At the very top of your inbox there’s yet another e-mail from your Creative Writing proffesor, Kim Namjoon. He’s a very stubborn man, you decide, as you scroll through the contents of his message. He still wants you to consider what he told you a few days ago after class, it seems.

“Miss ___? Can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure.” you replied and awkwardly walked up to his podium.

You might have been madly (and miserablely) in love with your best friend, but Kim Namjoon has never failed to make you feel like a silly teenager with a crush on her older teacher. To say Kim Namjoon was intimidating was an misunderstanding. His presence was thoroughly electrifying. You remembered a very disappointed sigh the girl sitting next you let out when she noticed a ring on his right hand. You couldn’t judge her. His wife had scored probably the finest man on this damn planet.

“I read your latest assignment and I must say, your novelette was outstanding as always. Dare I say the best among others,” Namjoon said. You bowed your head in acknowledgement, praying he wouldn’t notice your rose-colored cheeks. “Regarding that, I actually have a proposition for you.”

At that, your eyes widened. “What kind of proposition, sir?” you asked.

He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and handed it to you. It was a flyer, you realised, and read it through quickly. VARIETÉ Publishing was organising an annual contest for young poets, which you had heard about before. Your English Literature proffesor mentioned it during her lecture a week ago. However, poetry had never been your strong suit. As much as you enjoyed reading it, you weren’t really fond of creating your own poems. So why did Kim Namjoon decide to tell you about this all of a sudden?

“I know what you might be thinking right now, but I’m not actually encouraging you to take part in this competition,” As he smiled, two dimples appeared on each side of his mouth. “Do you know anything about VARIETÉ Publishing?”

Slightly confused, you gave him a nod. “It’s one if the biggest publishing companies in the country.”

“That’s very much true,” Namjoon agreed. “VARIETÉ's vice-chairman, Lee Jongi, is actually my old friend. We used to study together here, at this university. When I chose a teaching career, he got a job in a foreign publishing company, climbed up the ladder until the very top and now he’s vice-chairman and I’m a simple college professor,” He chuckled. You were too stunned to form a coherent response let alone laugh along with him. Lee Jongi and Kim Namjoon being buddies? It was a small world, after all. “Jongi has always been very fond of young, aspiring writers. When I discover a student with huge potential, I send him their works. If he finds them interesting enough, he might even take a risk and propose a publishing deal. This doesn’t happen quite often, but I want you to know that you have a pretty big chance to impress him.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed because holy fucking shit, did he just say he can help you publish your first book?

“I don’t know what to say, sir. I’m shocked.” you responded truthfully. You had heard people complimenting your skills before but this was extraordinary. “Let me just process all of this: you know personally VARIETÉ'S vice-chairman and you want to show him my works?” Even said out loud, it still sounded surreal to you.

“Correct. But of course, I won’t do anything without your consent.” Namjoon said. “That novelette you sent me recently was amazing. I’d love to show it to Lee Jongi one day.”

The task was to incorporate a hidden, symbolic message into a story. You decided to use your favorite flowers, magnolias, and its meaning. They represent eternity, because once they bloom they will continue to bloom for a long time. In your story, a girl gave her best friend magnolia's seeds, wishing her love for him to be everlasting. A day later, she received a pack of seeds from the boy as well. She happily planted them in her garden and when they bloomed, she discovered they were yellow tulips. A symbol of love that will never be reciprocated.

“You make people feel things with your words, ___, and that’s a very rare gift,” You heard Namjoon add. “Promise me you’ll consider my proposition.”

There was thousand thoughts per hour running in your head, but you gave him a curt nod. “I’ll think about it.”

As you’re staring now at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, you think about the girl whose only dream was to be loved by her best friend. Maybe it’s finally time for you to move on. Bury the past and plant a seed of new life. Because, loving Jeon Jungkook is, above all, the beginning of an end.

With shaky hands, you start writing a response to your proffesor.

#jungkook smut #btswritingcafe #ksmutclub #bangtanarmynet #bangtanhq #jungkook angst #jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #an ode to a broken heart

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theycallmebeccawrites · 4 years

Text

Chris & Ellie Series: Episode 24

Hello loves! Hope you guys are having a good day and, if not, hopefully this gives you something to smile about. (You guys might actually like me after reading this episode 😉.)

Anyway, I was going to wait and queue this up to post later this afternoon... but I’ve decided to just post it. There is no point in making you guys wait when it’s already on AO3 and Wattpad (which, by the way, always get the updates first because of how I do my formatting).

To my fellow USA people, Happy Early Thanksgiving.

xoBeccaxo

Pairing: Chris Evans x Ellie Spencer (OFC)

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: minor language

Episode Summary: This episode takes place in November 2014 and features Chris's mom finally finding out what happened between Chris and Ellie.

Disclaimer: This work of fiction is not to be reposted, used or translated without my permission.

This episode can also be read on AO3.

The Chris and Ellie series is primarily chronological. It begins with a flash forward to 2016 and has a few other scenes in the future. However, the majority of their story is told in chronological order starting in 2013 and going through 2017. Each episode starts with a date to help you place it within the story.

The Chris & Ellie Series Masterlist | Chris & Ellie Masterlist

Episode 23.5

Episode 24: The One Where Momma Evans Gets Involved

November 25, 2014

Lisa Evans was sorting through her mail when she found a greeting card sized envelope with her name and address handwritten on it. Not recognizing the return address from California, she almost threw it away, assuming it would be an invitation for her in hopes that she'd bring Chris along, but something stopped her.

Turning the envelope over, she saw the company's slogan on the back flap.

"Sharing the gift of reading with kids since 2008."

Heartstrings successfully strung, Lisa opened the envelope and pulled out the card inside. The front had a collage of photos from kids receiving books to volunteers sorting through boxes of books. Written at the bottom was "Thank You for Your Donation".

Eyebrows raised, Lisa turned to the inside of the card and found a folded note along with what was clearly a mass produced thank you card they sent to their donors. Putting the card down on the table, she opened the folded-up piece of paper, finding a handwritten note from the founder and director of the charity. In the letter, the woman expressed her gratitude for Lisa's multiple donations. Explaining that, thanks to her donations alone, they'd been able to buy more books than they'd planned for the year and, therefore, were able to gift even more kids with books.

Lisa was trying to make sense of the whole situation when Scott came into the kitchen. He had arrived on Sunday from Los Angeles to spend Thanksgiving with the family.

"Hey, ma," he greeted, then paused, seeing her confused expression. "What's up?"

"Are you familiar with this charity?" she asked, pushing the card towards him.

Picking it up, Scott saw the pictures and then his eyes caught the wording at the bottom. Specifically, the "donation" part. He didn't know for sure, but he had a feeling that this was the charity Ellie had told her sisters about on her birthday.

If Lisa hadn't been watching his face, she would have missed the telltale signs of her youngest son trying to think quickly. He glanced at her and tried to mask his expressions, but she was on to him.

"What do you know?" she asked him, calmly but in her best mom voice.

Scott squirmed uncomfortably under her gaze for thirty seconds before he caved. "Ellie made the donations," he told her. "She didn't feel comfortable accepting your money. Not after -"

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs made Scott stop talking. Having grown up in the house and around his family members, he could tell the difference between his sisters and his brother coming down the stairs and that was Chris.

Chris appeared in the doorway, a couple seconds later, and froze when Lisa shifted her "mom look" to him. "I didn't do it," he said, automatically.

"Ok, the two of you sit down," Lisa said, shaking her head. "We're going to have a little talk."

"What's going on?" Chris muttered to his brother as they sat down at the dining table.

"Scott was just getting ready to tell me," Lisa answered before Scott had the chance to. "But before I let him finish explaining. I got this in the mail today." She plucked the thank you card out of Scott's hand and handed it and the handwritten letter to Chris.

While he read both, she watched his expression. He looked surprised but pleased. He hadn't known about the donations then, she deduced. Glancing at Scott, she found him unable to sit still. He knew something.

"Seems like a good cause," Chris said, once he had finished reading. "I didn't realize you had made a donation, though."

"That's because I didn't make the donations," Lisa told him. "But Scott told me that Ellie did."

A flash of surprise or maybe shock shot across Chris's face and then he looked at Scott, but Scott avoided his eyes.

Lisa's eyes caught every second of it. She had suspected something wasn't right when Chris came home from filming the new Avengers movie. Then she had noticed the way he and Scott, usually the best of friends, seemed awkward around each other the last couple days. She had figured they'd had an argument or something, but now she had a feeling it went deeper than that.

"What is going on?" she asked her sons. When neither of them spoke up, she sighed. "Alright, fine, I'll tell you what I think is going on."

Pointing at Chris, she said, "You have spent the last six weeks moping around this house like a wounded puppy." He opened his mouth to argue, but she silenced him with a look. "And you and Scott have barely said a word to each other since he has been home. Then this shows up and when I asked Scott about it, he said that Ellie didn't feel comfortable accepting my money."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Scott staring down at the table in front of him. But her eyes were trained on Chris. Her oldest son was normally able to mask his feelings, but that resolve was cracking.

"So here's what I think happened," she said, her tone softening. "I think you and Ellie were seeing each other earlier this year. I don't need or want the full details or even a definition of what you were or weren't. That is between the two of you. And don't lie to me, I saw the two of you with my own eyes. It was obvious."

She saw Chris's jaw tighten and he crossed his arms as she spoke. He was preparing himself for a fight.

"But I think something happened, something went sour between the two of you," she theorized. "Something that made Ellie uncomfortable accepting the money I was paying her and ultimately led to her moving out of the house and eventually quitting." Knowing Chris wouldn't answer her question, she looked at Scott, "Am I on the right track?"

Scott glanced at Chris then at her before giving a subtle nod.

"It doesn't matter if you're on the right track, ma," Chris stated, his voice thick with the emotion he was trying to keep back. "She's moved on. It's over."

"Ellie hasn't moved on," Scott cut in before his mom could say anything.

"You don't have to lie for your friend," Chris snapped, defensively. "I was there. I saw it with my own damn eyes."

"Your own damn eyes -" Scott started, but stopped when he caught his mom's look.

"What did you see?" she asked Chris. "When?"

"It was in July, after you told me Ellie was moving out," he told his mom. "I went to the house. She was with another guy. They were hugging and shit in front of the moving trailer."

As Chris spoke, Lisa shifted her gaze to Scott and watched as he reacted to his brother's words. He went from confused to rolling his eyes by the end. Before she had a chance to say anything, Scott exclaimed, "That was Pierre, you dumb ass!"

"Pierre?" Chris repeated. "Pierre, who?"

"My friend Pierre who has been to your house like a million times," Scott retorted, throwing his hands up. "Pierre who only dates guys and therefore has no interest in Ellie."

Chris's heated expression faded quickly into one of confusion. "Why was he helping her? Where were you?"

"I was at a job," Scott replied, his voice dropping to a calmer tone. "If you had texted me, I would have fucking told you what was going on."

"So you're saying that she hasn't moved on? She isn't dating anyone?" Chris asked, ignoring his brother's jab.

"No, she's single," Scott replied. "She's been trying to get over you. She moved out because it hurt to be in the house with all the memories."

"Excuse me," Chris said, suddenly pushing back his chair. He left the room and they soon heard his footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Lisa stared after him for a moment before another thought crossed her mind. Turning to Scott, she asked, "Is Ellie ok?"

"She will be," Scott said with a small shrug. "I don't know the full story because neither of them wanted to make me hate the other. But it didn't end well between them… and I got caught up in the worst part of the breakup."

Lisa listened while Scott told her about the text he'd received from Chris asking if Ellie was ok. She saw the hurt flicker across his face when he described the conversation that had followed between him and Ellie. By the time he had finished telling her, they were both in tears.

Her heart ached for both her son and for Ellie, her friend. Needing to hug someone, she stood up and walked around the table and wrapped her youngest son in a hug.

"I'm so thankful Ellie had you with her," she told him. "You've been a good friend to her."

"She's become one of my best friends," he replied, sniffling. "And she and Chris... Mom... They're perfect for each other. But I don't know what happened. I couldn't fix it."

"You did your best," she assured him. "Don't worry about Chris, I'll talk to him."

Lisa waited until after dinner and after everyone else had settled for the night before she carried a tray up to Chris's room since he had skipped dinner. She knocked on the door to his room, not sure if he would answer or not.

"I brought you a couple sandwiches," she said, when he opened the door.

"Thanks," Chris replied, stepping back. He gestured for her to come in and then closed the door.

"How are you doing?" she asked him as she sat down on the chair that matched the desk in his room.

Chris shrugged his shoulders from the spot he'd taken on the bed. Then he picked up one of the sandwiches and took a bite. It was only as he started to chew that he realized how hungry he was.

"Sorry I missed dinner," he mumbled.

"It was a tough afternoon," she said, shrugging off his apology. She wanted him to tell her what had happened, but Chris only spoke when he was ready to speak. The fact that he had even let her into the room was a sign that he was almost there.

It wasn't until he'd finished the second sandwich that he started to talk.

"We were just friends until the night the Sox won the series," he said, his tone a mix of remorse and longing. "I kissed her at Fenway after the last out."

"Is that why she hid in her room the next day?" Lisa asked with a smile. Looking back at it now, Ellie had seemed flighty the next day.

Chris nodded his head. "She didn't want to risk messing up our friendship," he explained then sighed. "Turns out she might have been right about that."

"How so?" Lisa asked, relaxing into her chair.

Talking about it was the last thing Chris wanted to do. What if scenarios had been running rampant through his brain in the hours since Scott's revelation. He was mentally and physically exhausted. All he wanted to do was go to sleep. But as he stared at his mom, that child within him begged to spill his guts and beg her to help him fix it.

He opened his mouth to suggest they talk it over in the morning. But those words weren't what came out. Instead, he found himself pouring his heart, his pain, everything out to his mom as she listened to every word.

By the time he finished talking, they both had tears running down their faces and it was nearly midnight. His throat was raw from emotion and dry from all the talking. At some point, his mom had moved from the chair to the edge of his bed and when he'd finished, she had pulled him into a hug, making him cry more as she soothed him.

It was after midnight when she left his room and as he laid in his childhood bed, staring up at the silly glow in the dark stars that no one had bothered to remove since, he felt an inkling of hope spark in the depths of his broken heart.

Ellie hadn't moved on.

Episode 24.5

Want to find me off tumblr? I'm @beccatheycallme on twitter. I also post my stories on AO3.

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#theycallmebecca #theycallmebeccawrites #chris evans #chris evans fanfic #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans x ofc #chris evans fan fiction #chris evans x original female character #chris and ellie #chris and ellie series

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radioactivepeasant · 4 years

Text

Fic Prompts: Free Day Thursday

(Full disclosure, this is a chunk of a toshinko fic I wrote a few years ago purely for my own amusement. I may upload it someday, but I haven't decided on that front yet)

She almost turned his offer to escort her home down on the grounds that she was a Nobody and he was going to get swarmed with people asking weird questions.

She didn’t turn him down in the end.

Forever after, neither of them were sure how they’d fallen into discussing personal matters, especially when under normal circumstances neither would be caught dead pouring out their heart to a stranger. Perhaps she’d just needed the catharsis. Perhaps he'd needed the human connection. When they reached her little apartment at last -- at least Hisashi had stayed long enough to help her move -- All Might handed her the umbrella.

“Wh- no I can’t take- what about you?” Inko sputtered.

“Ahaha no worries! I’ll be right as rain!” All Might flashed a peace sign, then broke into muffled giggles. “Wow. That was horrible. I’m so sorry.”

Inko laughed, and All Might jumped away, and that should have been the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

[[MORE]]

A few weeks later Inko found a note taped to her door in the unmistakable handwriting of All Might.

Hoping there have been a few less rainy days in your life lately! :D

There was even a small doodle of an umbrella with his distinctive eyebrows and smile.

After taking an hour or two to get over the sheer shock of All Might remembering her -- let alone where she lived -- Inko found herself sticking the note to her refrigerator.

Second-guessing herself the whole way, Inko taped a note of her own on her door, a short and sweet heartfelt thanks for him going out of his way to make sure she was alright, and listening to her complaining. After a moment’s hesitation, she added a doodle of her own. A rainbow with his smile.

The note stayed on her door for two days and Inko tried not to be disappointed. Logically she knew it was extremely unlikely that a hero of his caliber would even be in her city, let alone on this end of town, and even if he was, he’d be far too busy for social visits. (Why was she expecting All Might to make social visits?!)

On day three the note was gone and something else was in its place.

It wasn’t carefully written on blank paper this time. It was hastily done, as if on the spot, and on the back of what looked like a grocery list. Still, it was fairly obvious who it was from.

It was no trouble at all, please don’t worry about it! Truthfully, it was nice to get to just talk with someone like that. Actually, I don’t get to do that very often! :D

Wishing you and the baby the best! - AM :D :D

Oh lord. The baby. That’s right, she was pregnant. She was literally constructing a human being from scratch!

...okay, it sounded kind of metal when she thought of it like that.

Inko shuffled back inside to make a stiff cup of chamomile and figure out how to organize the very bizarre amount of money Hisashi had sent her. He was as broke as she was, probably, going to that exclusive medical school. But he'd somehow managed to scrape up enough in mismatched bills to cover at least two doctors' visits. And he'd sent a pack of pacifiers?

Bless his heart, but Fujioka Hisashi didn't know much about babies. Inko taped his "sorry I'm an idiot, can we still be friends" note up on the fridge. Then, after a moment's pause, she added the second note from All Might.

Somehow, the notes became a regular thing after that. He started slipping them through the mail slot rather than taping them to the door, which was probably safer in the long run. And she started hiding hers under the mat, in a plastic bag.

She probably could have just sent the notes to his agency, like every other fan, but she worried that it would be lost among the hundreds of thousands of other letters.

Short “how are you” notes became mid-length “fought an umbrella themed villain today and thought of you, how are you?” notes. Sometimes Inko left letters about everything and nothing, talking about how she saw a flower blooming in a place it shouldn’t have been and it looked so hopeful there that she felt like everything was going to be alright. Sometimes she sent a favorite poem.

Once, about two months in, she’d just barely referenced rent and a doctor’s bill coming at the same time and within a week he’d sent her an envelope with a check to cover both. She’d been horribly embarrassed, and there was an awkward tension in the letters for a week or two until they settled the fact that she wasn’t looking for charity and he only wanted to help.

Three months of letters and Inko had begun to feel as though she knew the Symbol of Peace. Actually knew him. Oh, it was just a silly fantasy, of course, it had to be. No doubt he was barely sharing anything about himself, and he probably did this with other fans too. Or at least, she’d thought that until one of his letters questioned a mention of Mitsuki asking why she was happy all the time now and her not knowing how to answer. Hadn’t she told anyone about the letters?

No, actually, I never told anyone, Inko had written back, I’m not sure why. I’m sure this is a normal thing you do, since you’re so kind, but I can’t help worrying that some people will say nasty things about you if they find out you’re penpals with a pregnant lady.

The response had come on the same day, a post-it note on her door in the space between getting off the couch and walking to the door. She’d just missed him, evidently.

Had to run, sorry for shortness, it said, But you’re the only one I write to.

Inko had needed to sit down after that.

The following morning there was a three page letter resting on the floor just under the mail slot. It was handwritten, as all the others had been, and expanded on the post-it note. All Might was writing to say that while he did try to personally answer fanmail, this wasn’t fanmail. This was a correspondence with a friend (at least, he hoped it was, he was pretty sure it was, he wasn’t trying to overstep any boundaries or anything--). That he felt that he’d come to know her as a person in the last three months, that he looked forward to getting her notes every week. That he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, not ever, but perhaps it would be best if at some point they could meet and discuss things in person so there were fewer chances of misunderstandings?

Inko had to read it six times before it sunk in that All Might was asking to meet her. All Might was asking to meet her! She was in a daze all through her commute to work and most of the way through her workday. Her boss was forgiving enough to chalk it up to pregnancy and simply remind her to actually answer the phones when they rang. When her lunch break came, Inko wandered down to a small grocery store on the same street as her office -- much better prices than the one in her neighborhood, but an hour was a long trip just for groceries so she tended to use the other store. Still in a bit of a fog, Inko didn’t notice until too late that the canned fruit she was looking for was on a shelf much much higher than she could actually reach.

She could’ve just used her quirk to get it down, but...well, unlicensed public quirk use was illegal, no matter how impractical that was. Inko stretched up with one hand, keeping the other hand on her stomach. The baby apparently disapproved of this sudden movement and was rolling around. He liked it when she was walking, not so much when she was stretching. (And still she hadn’t picked a name for him. She’d tried a few, but nothing seemed to stick.)

“Here, let me-!”

Someone reached up over her head and brought down the can. At first glance, out of the corner of her eye, Inko almost mistook him for All Might. But that was ridiculous, right? His hair was wild and curly, all save two long bangs he’d sort of let flop loose in front of his face. And while he was definitely muscular, he didn’t quite seem to have the same level of definition as All Might. Very close, though. Inko realized she was staring at him and blushed bright red.

“S-sorry! You didn’t have to do that!” she stammered as he handed her the can.

“Well I didn’t want you to get hurt,” the man said with surprising sincerity, “Sorry if that was awkward haha I’m...bad at social things.”

And that was Inko’s introduction to Yagi Toshinori. He’d clumsily introduced himself and then dashed off blushing the moment her back was turned. Odd fellow. There’d been something strangely familiar about his eyes, though, and she just couldn’t place it. They looked almost like...nah. Couldn’t be.

Four weeks later, one of her neighbors asked her about “the buff American-looking guy” who slipped letters through her door at weird hours and Inko had an epiphany. If it was All Might, they’d have seen All Might. And probably called the presses. But the things in the letters were things that only All Might would know unless someone else had been reading her letters. With shaking hands, she wrote her next letter and slipped it under the mat.

If I met you while you were off the clock, would I still recognize you?

If she hadn’t been sore and unwilling to move from the couch, she would have waited by the door to see if she could catch her mystery penpal. She fell asleep there, waiting, and didn’t wake up again until her phone alarm went off the next morning to tell her to get ready for work. Grumbling, Inko showered, changed, and managed some form of breakfast. The baby really really hated miso and natto, so she’d been sticking to things like eggs and yogurt and citrus.

“Come on kid, I miss soup,” Inko groaned as she shoved an orange into her purse for later and bolted. She almost stepped on the folded piece of paper at the door. Already running late, she stuck it into her purse and didn’t even look at it until hours later that day.

Well, you would now, was all it said.

#free day thursday #bnha au #bnha #toshinko #toshinori yagi #yagi toshinori #midoriya inko #inko midoriya #Izuku isn't born yet #self-indulgent au is self-indulgent and i make no apologies #pen pals #Toshi is like 'this is safer than texting right?'#somewhere Gran Torino is having a conniption #fic excerpt #fic prompts #writing prompts #long post

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the-magnus-backlogs · 4 years

Text

Statement of Suzanna Harkness regarding a manuscript she reviewed for publishing.

Statement taken direct from subject, 27th December 1993.

You wind up stumbling down a lot of weird rabbit holes when you work for a small press long enough. Niche genres you’d really rather remain oblivious to, arts majors trying to break the mould by submitting something they swear up and down you’ll have ‘never seen before’. Never mind if it’s actually legible, but that’s…that’s another matter, I guess. I’m not here to talk about the subpar sci-fi erotica or whatever, I’m here because I found something weird.

I’d like to say right off the bat that I’ve got a strong stomach. Wouldn’t have lasted this long in the company if I didn’t. We only publish a couple hundred books a year, but we take in all sorts around here. Sometimes it feels like our only real submission requirements are ‘unmarketable to the general public’, and it seems like anybody with a half-baked idea is willing to try their luck at tossing their unedited manuscript into the ring.

That’s where I come in. Wading through the mountains of unusable garbage, hunting for hidden gems. I’ve even found a couple, but mostly it’s just about finding something readable. Or something we can pass off as being readable for those rare readers capable of ‘comprehending the author’s artistic vision’. Yeah, the marketing team winds up throwing phrases like that around a lot.

Maybe I’m being unfair. I was a lot more patient about that sort of thing when I started. So preoccupied with not coming across as judgemental, but I’ve worked in publishing over ten years now.

It used to be more common for us to get manuscripts sent in through the post, back then. Nowadays it’s pretty much all done online. A couple we get from literary agents, but most are just emailed in by aspiring writers who stumbled across our site, usually after receiving their rejection letters from the two dozen publishing houses that show up above us on pretty much any search engine.

Every once in a blue moon, though, a manilla envelope will find its way onto my desk. Some bright spark who thinks they’re above using a laptop decides to send their manuscript in the old fashioned way. Sometimes it’s just a precaution in case we somehow miss the half dozen emails they’ve already sent out to every listed staff member on the site. Hell, sometimes it’s written by typewriter.

You know typewriters require special paper to print? Special ink, too. They probably spend more writing the damn thing than they’ll ever see in royalties, but to each their own, I guess. I even got one handwritten, once. The idiot sent a follow-up a month later anxiously asking if he could have it back if we weren’t going to consider it because it was his only copy. Can you imagine? Mailing off the only copy of your handwritten manuscript to some backroom small press without any insurance.

By comparison, this manuscript was relatively normal. It had been typed, I think. The paper was…I guess it was sort of crumpled, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. The postal service isn’t always the most careful about this sort of thing, and it wasn’t really packaged properly. Just shoved loose in a box and shipped out.

It was pre-bound. Just a bundle of papers held together with a few strands of red string. A little unusual, but not exactly throwing up any red flags. Even when I started reading it, I didn’t know. How the hell could I have?

It was good, though. Maybe that should have been my first clue. The prose dragged on a bit, but hey. There are plenty of successful writers out there who probably could have benefited from a harsher editor. They made up for it, in my opinion. Even just skimming those first few pages, I was hooked. Didn’t even really realise it when I was due my lunch break. I was so focused on that damn book.

The visuals were the thing. Plenty of writers can pour out half decent prose, but something about this writer…they had a way of making it feel real, you know? All the little touches, the scenes they crafted from the ground up. It felt…it felt like I couldn’t stop reading. Even if I’d wanted to, and trust me, back then I didn’t.

I didn’t leave my office that day. Barely noticed it when the phone rang, ignored all my emails. I really, really thought we’d accidentally stumbled on a gold mind. Not just a passable debut novel, but an honest to god genuine talent.

The funny thing is, I can’t even really remember what it was that drew me in. Couldn’t tell you what genre it fell under. The plot itself was practically non-existent. A girl who dreamed of being a dancer and crept out of her house to practice under the moonlight in a clearing in the forest behind her house.

Then, one blissful night, illuminated by the full moon, the forest provided her with a partner. The partner.

Nothing too out there, right? Your basic fantasy-romance type stuff. Pretty tame compared to a lot of what we publish, but I was enthralled from the first description of their first dance. Barefoot and so light on her feet her toes barely skimmed the dew-slick grass. They loved each other, and in that moment, I think I understood that. Really knew what it was to love someone so much you’d offer them your still beating heart if it would mean holding onto them for just a second longer.

Except it wasn’t love. Not really. It was an obsession.

I couldn’t stop devouring page after page as their budding romance grew and spiralled, twisting into something unrecognisable. Those whispered words of I can’t live without you became their mantra as they clung to one another so tightly they left bruises on one another’s skin. Soft kisses turned sharp as they came to understand what it was to need to consume and be consumed. They needed one another in a way neither could truly provide. Not really.

In their despair, they begged the forest to offer them a solution, and it gave them one. A way to lie in the sweet summer meadow forever, and in their glee they didn’t think to ask what it would cost.

Not until they began to rot, anyway.

My memories around here get a little hazy, or maybe the words were just less clear. The writing seemed…hurried towards the end, but the couple didn’t seem to mind much when the insects began to burrow through their skin and make their homes inside. They had so much love to give, literally brimming with it. As sickening as it was, it sounded almost…fond. Like the writer truly wanted to give them the happy ending they deserved, but somehow couldn’t think of anything more befitting than allowing their decaying corpses to be infested with creepy crawlies.

It was sick. The concept was sick. Everything about it was sick, but even now I can’t truly convey how vividly they described it. The picture they painted was so clear. Even the affection the insects lavished upon them as they crawled and burrowed through their decaying flesh. It was…God, it used to make me sick just thinking about it, you know that?

Because it wasn’t enough that I had to read it. That I physically couldn’t tear my eyes away. I had to see it. The idea of it…It got its hooks in deep.

By the time I got to the end, I was at a loss for what to do with the manuscript. On the one hand it was probably one of the best written pieces we’d ever received, and there are plenty of twisted readers out there looking for something to churn their stomach.

Somehow it didn’t feel right to publish it, though. I’ve read body horror before, but this…It wasn’t right. I couldn’t…I couldn’t just inflict that on people. How do you make someone understand, truly understand, when they’re signing up to read something that won’t ever let them go? How do you make them understand that the words they’re paying you to read will imprint themselves against the backs of their eyelids? That they’ll grow and spread and fester.

I dream about that dancer in the moonlit meadow. The descriptions of her actual appearance were relatively scarce, but I can still see her face when I close my eyes. I see her intertwined with her dance partner, caked in a mossy fungus that failed to disguise the living hive crawling beneath their skin. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, anymore. Not even sure if I could tell them apart looking at them, what with their withered skin being so covered in filth and grime.

That damned book made it sound like something beautiful, but their beauty decayed with their childish notions of romance. They chose to become hollow husks of themselves to make room for the love they could no longer contain, but that’s…that’s not love. It can’t be…right?

So why can’t I stop thinking about the way their fingers intertwined before rigor mortis set in and cemented their bond forever?

I can’t concentrate on anything else anymore. At first it was just a niggling seed of doubt at the back of my mind, but it’s grown so much since then. That image burrowed so deep inside my mind turned its hungry mouth towards the parts of me which were most vulnerable, eating and eating and eating and eating until I could think of nothing else.

I don’t know why I never thought to burn it. Maybe I was worried it would make it worse. Maybe it felt too much like sacrilege. I never read it again after that first time, though I considered it often. It sat on my desk while my other assignments lay scattered around it, disregarded without a second thought. After all, there was no room left in my mind for anything else anymore. Every other passage I tried to read just seemed so…dry. So false. I used to get so invested in the lives of paper people, but now I know what true love is, how could the half-baked notions of romance ever compare? I tried at first, but by the end I just…stared at it. Waiting.

Maybe if I’d tried to destroy it…Too late now, I suppose. I never let it see the printing presses, but I did let it go in the end. Some old man came in asking for it specifically. Something about it being a collectable.

I don’t know how an unpublished manuscript could be considered a collector’s item, and frankly I didn’t ask. I’m not sure if I even really cared about what he’d do with it by that point. Did it bother me that I might be condemning him to share my fate? It doesn’t now, I know that much.

It’s…I was hoping this might help me clear things up, but I just couldn’t see any of it straight. I can’t see anything, anymore. Not really. It may have started in my dreams, but once I let her in…They’re everywhere, now. I saw him in the faces of my colleagues before the press finally let me go… I don’t remember how long ago now. I think the power company cut the power at some point. It doesn’t matter now.

The funny thing is, I really thought they cared about me. They did, at first. I think. It all sort of blurs together, but I remember how they used to talk about me when they thought I couldn’t hear. The nervous looks they’d send me when I zoned out at my desks. Then they staged their first intervention, and I saw it. I saw her. It was the man I saw painted across the features of everyone I knew, in the arches of eyebrows and slants of cheekbones, but it was her I saw reflected in their eyes.

It was her I saw in the mirror, before they ran out of space inside my skull, and the maggots took my eyes…or maybe I imagined that part too.

I’m pretty sure it’s too late for me now, but when I heard about you guys I figured it was worth a shot. I’m full of it. Whatever that feverish contagion that claimed the couple was. That sickly, rotting thing they mistook for love. I can feel it now. I can understand it now and it’s so much. Already I’m on the brink of bursting with it, I think.

I just can’t wait to share.

#submission #the magnus archives #corruption #cw #body horror #insects #obsession #death

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loove-persevering · 4 years

Text

Hand Written (Part 1) Steve Rogers x Reader

Description: Captain America saves you from dying during the attack on New York and the last thing you expected after writing him a thank you letter was a letter back.

Steve Rogersx Fem!Reader

Prologue

It had been a few weeks since you sent the letter, and honestly at this point you didn’t expect one back. You ran out to the mailbox everyday which you almost had to fight your mom to do since it was kind of her thing.

‘’Do you have something coming in or?’’ She would ask you.

‘‘No,’‘ You would answer simply. Although you hoped you would have something come in you knew that after all these weeks of waiting it most likely wouldn’t come.

So today you sat in bed a little longer not bothering to check the mail instead you were scrolling through your phone looking at updates on the city and what was being done to get it back to what could be considered normal. You heard the front door shut and your mom leave the house most likely going to get the mail, it took everything in you not to get up and beat her there.

A few minutes later you hear the door shut as she comes back into the house. A knock at the door makes you look up, your mom stood there a letter in her hands of all things. You immediately jump up from your bed running over and yanking it out of her hands, ‘’Someone’s eager! Who’s it from?’’ She ask.

‘‘I don’t know yet,’‘ You tell her honestly. For all you know the Avengers could get someone else to write their letters back to them and this could just be an automated one.

‘’Okay,’’ She pauses watching you stare down at the letter almost frozen. ‘’I’m gonna go make some breakfast, come down when you’re ready?’’ She asks and you just nod your head still staring at the letter.

As she leaves you shut the door walking over to your desk and taking a seat, you flip the letter over on the back and slide your finger under the flap opening it up. You slide the letter out of the envelope and open it up noticing it was much more than the automated typed message you expected. Your eyes immediately skip down to the bottom of the page and noticed the name signed was Steve.

You take a deep breath realizing that Captain America really had wrote you back.

Dear Y/N,

I hope this letter finds you well.

Typically the mail we get I don’t write back to, but seeing your penmanship caught my attention, plus it’s not too often I get handwritten letters. They’re more like really great drawings from kids ten and under, all are appreciated though. Most of our other messages come through a Twitter? I’m not too sure how to work that but I appreciate the gesture of a nice hand written letter.

You said in your last letter that I probably wouldn’t remember you, that is not the case I do remember helping you but can’t put a face to it. My apologies if it seemed like I was in a rush, we had a lot to deal with at the time which I’m sure you knew.

If I’m being honest I think about that day a lot as well too, most likely not for the same reasons as you but it is constantly replaying in my mind. I just hope that I could do my best to help everyone, so thank you for taking the time to write a letter. As a man from my time I appreciate the nostalgia of it.

The person you talked about in the letter is one I constantly aim to be and only hope I carry it out as well as you describe.

I’m sorry about your car by the way, I hope you have some place safe to stay as New York gets repaired.

Best Wishes,

Steve

You couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across your face as you read the letter, he had actually taken the time out of his day to write back which you didn’t expect ever.

You fold the letter and slide it back into the envelope, you put it in the first drawer on your left for safe keeping. You pick up the pen and begin to write him back.

Dear Steve,

I hope it’s okay if I call you that, I feel as if now we should be on a first name basis considering you saved my life. I also really appreciate the letter back, I agree there is something about a hand written that just sits differently but a good different.

I’ve always wondered what it was like to live in another time, if you have the time I’d love to hear more but if not I understand.

The twitter thing is a world of it’s own and while I am guilty of owning one, I still struggle on how to use it myself so you are not alone.

As for a safe place, I am back with my parents. Yikes. Not really though, it’s nice to be back with some home cooked meals and family. I suffered a few minor injuries and my mom was more than happy to take care of me when I came home. Getting out of New York was so hectic even finding a place to hide after you saved me was a journey on it’s own. I’m from upstate New York and only moved to the city a few years ago to attend school, now I’m not sure if my school is still even standing.

As for my car I’m sure it’s among the pile of rubble in New York I am still waiting on a call that they found it. My apartment in the city is the same way, I needed to find a new place anyway I guess now is as good as a time as any.

Thanks again,

Y/N

You sit the pen down along side the paper lifting it up to inspect it making sure it looked okay to send, no smudges, no spelling errors. You fold the letter carefully as you stand up walking to your fathers study to grab a envelope and a stamp. You address the letter to the address on the letter that was provided as it was different than last time, hopefully that would guarantee another reply.

You walk downstairs to the kitchen and your mom glances over giving you a smile, ‘’Who was it from?’’ She asks.

You glance down back at the letter in your hand, ‘’Nobody,’’ You tell her not really sure who to describe him as besides Captain America. ‘’I gotta go to the post office, need me to drop anything off?’’ You ask her but notice the smug smile on her face, ‘’What?’’ You say laughing taking a bite of the cinnamon roll she had on the plate in front of you.

‘‘Nobody huh?’‘ She says laughing, ‘‘You looked at that letter like it was golden,’‘ She tells you. ‘‘But I’ll take nobody for now I guess.’‘ She says laughing. ‘‘Whoever it is I’m just happy they’re making you smile,’‘ She says sweetly.

‘’Thanks for the breakfast,’’ You tell her graciously, ‘’I’ll be back later!’’ You call out as you walk out the door to head to the post office.

_______________________________

Ahhhh thanks for the response on the last chapter! As always if you want to be tagged message me or comment and I will add you! Thank you all for reading!

TAG LIST: @helenaeisenhower , @ultrunning , @imaginingbucky , @grincheveryday (If you would like to be added or removed please let me know)

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emgkheadcannons · 4 years

Text

So accidentally read this ask wrong from @positivecorrelation, and thought it was about them ending their beef, went with that, and wrote everything below this. I just rechecked the ask and realised what you were asking for. I will make it work.

I don’t have a set headcanon on how they make up, but one of my favorite ideas is that Cassie, and Hailie team up to end the feud. So I started writing an entire fic, but I really wanted to post this so here is the headcanon and most of the fic.

Cassie convinces MGK to apologise to Hailie, not her dad, since he wronged her first. She does it with perfect little kid logic, and Kelly wants to not only be a good dad but also a good example for his daughter, so he apologises to Hailie.

Hailie would be really happy she received an apology, and would decide that if a 9 year old can convince her dad to apologise, maybe together, and with a little outside help, they can get this feud to end.

This takes place sometime late February 2019.

Cassie hated that her dad was in a feud with Eminem. A lot of people are being mean, harassing him when he goes out, and booing him when he does ‘Rap Devil’. She has noticed that her dad isn’t as happy, and is acting different. He is sleeping more and more.

Cassie had an idea to help him though. If her dad apologises to Eminem’s daughter then that should make things better, not perfect, but it was a starting point. First she needs to find her dad, so she can convince him that he needs to apologise to hailie. She finds him easily enough in the living room, working on a song.

She starts by asking about the beef, and why they are fighting. Then she asked if he apologized, which she knows he did, but to the wrong person.

“But dad, but your tweet was about his daughter, not him. Shouldn’t you have apologized to Hailie instead?” Cassie asks.

Kelly freezes, thinking about what his daughter said. His tweet was about Hailie. She was the one he insulted, but he tried to apologize to Eminem. He never thought about how his comment affected her. If some kid had said something rude to his daughter, he would expect them to apologize to her.

“You’re right Cassie. I should have apologized to Hailie.”

“Then why don’t you? I bet she would appreciate it.”

“It’s a little too late for that now, pumpkin.”

“It’s never too late to say you’re sorry.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“No it’s not. You made a mistake, you acknowledged you made a mistake, now you just need to tell her you're sorry, and that you won’t do it again. See simple.”

“You are right again, sugar bean. How did you get so smart?” Kelly asks as he scoops his daughter up, as she breaks out into a fit of giggles.

Later that night, after he has put Cassie to bed, Kelly thinks about what she said. He really should apologize to Hailie for his tweet, but how could he get in contact with her. It’s not like Eminem, or anyone close to her will help him, and a public apology will look like a copout after all the feuding he and Em have done.

“Fuck. I can’t set a bad example for Cassie.”

He scrolls through his contacts on his phone, until he sees Travis Barker’s name. ‘Maybe he can give me some advice.’ He checks the clock; it was only 10:30, Travis should still be up.

After two rings he picks up

“Hey Kelly. What’s up?”

“Do you know a way I can get in touch with Eminem’s daughter Hailie?”

“Why do you want to get in contact with Hailie Scott?” Travis asks threateningly.

“I just want to apologise to her, nothing else. My daughter was asking about my feud with Eminem, and asked why I apologised to him, and not Hailie, since it was Hailie I tweeted about. I thought about what she said and it’s a good point. I wronged Hailie, therefore I need to apologise to Hailie, but I have no idea how.”

“So why call me?”

“For advice.”

“Okay. Let’s think. You could try DMing her”

“I highly doubt she would read a DM from me, if she hasn’t out right blocked me on everything.”

“Right. No one will probably give you her phone number. So maybe write her a letter.”

“A letter really. Even if I do write her a letter, I don’t have an address to send it to.”

“I can actually help with that. You just write the letter. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Okay, a letter it is.”

“Oh and Kelly, you better be telling the truth about this. I don’t mind helping you, but if this is just a way to get to Eminem by using Hailie, or something like that, I will personally drive your career into the ground.”

“Don’t worry Travis I am serious about this. I’ll leave the envelope unsealed so you can read it before it’s sent off.”

“Okay. Call me when you’re done.”

Kelly puts his phone down, grabs pen and paper, and starts drafting his letter.

It’s harder than he thought it would. Swallowing his pride, admitting his faults, and humbling himself is hard, but he finally does, and the letter shows his regret for his actions. Now he just has to find that nice stationary someone gifted him.

******

Hailie was sick and tired of all the attention she has been getting from her dad’s feud with Machine Gun Kelly. She prefers the quiet life she was making for herself, but now she barely got a moment of peace. What makes it even worse is that she has never seen her dad so angry, worrying that things will escalate beyond diss tracks and insults. Hailey doesn’t want anything bad to happen to her dad, because he feels obligated to defend her honor.

She knows her father’s beef with MGK isn’t just about the tweet Kelly posted back in 2012 about her being hot when she was 16, (Kelly says he didn’t know how old she was at the time), and that it was more about how disrespectful MGK was to her dad, saying he was better than her dad, and claiming how Eminem was hindering his career, banning him from Shade 45, and whatnot, but she was tired of this shit. Yeah MGK was a prideful idiot, who was full of himself, but her dad did block him from Shade 45, and some of his friends have decided not to associate with Kelly. When Kelly really did try to talk to Eminem in private, and end their feud, he threw it back in the blonds face, making Machine Gun Kelly double down, and release that diss track, ‘Rap Devil’. Her dad then destroyed him with ‘Killshot’.

While going through her mail, she notices a letter. She couldn’t think of who would send her a letter. Maybe it was a former classmate, or a thank you card. Shrugging she opens the envelope, and pulls out the paper inside.

The letter read,

Hailie,

I am sorry for the tweet I posted in 2012 about you being ‘sexy as fuck’, making you uncomfortable, and for apologising to your dad instead of you.

When I posted the tweet I didn’t know you were only sixteen, and when I found out your age I should have taken it down immediately, and apologized to you, but I didn’t. Instead I made a half assed apology to your dad, who I should have apologised to anyway, but for a different reason.

My daughter helped me see my mistakes, and convinced me that it’s not too late to apologise for what I did. I am going to set a better example for her. I have deleted the tweet, and I promise to never do something like that again. I will make a public apology, if that helps you, or if there is something else you need me to do, please tell me. I want to make up for what I did to you.

I was wrong for what I did, and what you had to deal with because of my actions.

I know I don’t deserve it, and that you in no shape or form have to give it to me, but I would like to ask for your forgiveness.

Sincerely,

Colson Baker, (A.K.A. Machine Gun Kelly)

Hailie was shocked. Machine Gun Kelly sent her a handwritten letter, to apologise for something he did years ago. No one else who had targeted and dissed her has ever apologised to her. Her dad sure, but never her. She rereads it just to make sure.

She opens up twitter, and the tweet is gone. Looking back at the letter, Hailie smiles. Maybe Machine Gun Kelly wasn’t as bad as she thought. She did want to know how he got her address though.

Going back to her phone, she reopens twitter, and goes to Machine Gun Kelly’s profile. She unblocks him, before opening her DMs.

I got your letter. How did you get my address? - Hailie

A few minutes later she got a reply.

I’m glad you got my letter. Don’t worry I don’t have your address. I gave the letter to Travis Barker. He’s the one who got a hold of your address. - MGK

Hailie frowns at her phone. Who was Travis Barker? His name sounds familiar. After a quick google search, she sees he is the drummer for Blink-182, and that he probably got it from Paul Rosenberg. Okay that made her feel better. Going back to twitter, she sees that she has a new message.

Would you mind if I told my daughter that you got my apology letter? - MGK

Hailie thinks about it before typing her reply.

Yeah, go ahead, I don’t mind if you tell her. This doesn’t mean that I forgive you though. - Hailie

I understand, and thank you. Again I am sorry for my tweet, and dragging you into this beef. - MGK

Hailie doesn’t respond. She debates whether or not to reblock MGK, but decides against it. He really did seem remorseful for what he did, and is trying to change to be better for his daughter. That gets Hailie thinking, if Machine Gun Kelly’s daughter can convince him that he needs to apologize to her, and not her dad, then maybe together they can get their dad’s to stop fighting.

Hailie has a plan to end this stupid feud, get her dad from being so angry all the time, and hopefully get her peaceful life back. She will need Cassie’s help, and a few other people too, for this to work. First thing she does is call up Paul Rosenberg.

“This is Paul.”

“Hey, Paul this is Hailie. Do you have a second?”

“Sure. What can I do for you?”

“First are you with my dad.”

“No. Should I be?”

“No, it’s better if he isn’t around for this. Did you give my address to Travis Barker?”

“No, he gave me the letter to mail. I didn’t read it though. He said it was something important, and asked me not to read it. Is everything okay? Was there something in there I should Know about?”

“The letter was important, and you did the right thing trusting him. I just wanted to know how he got my address.”

“Okay, I’m glad my judgement was good, but this has me a little worried. Will you tell me what the letter was about?”

Hailie debates whether or not to tell him. On one hand the letter was an apology to her, she doesn’t have to tell anyone about it. On the other hand, if she tells Paul nothing, he might tell her dad about it in concern, which would ruin her plans. She makes her decision.

“It was a handwritten apology letter from Machine Gun Kelly.”

There is a moment of silence before Paul responds. “WHAT!”

“You heard me. He apologized for the tweet he posted about me, making me uncomfortable, apologising to my dad instead of me, and for dragging me into this stupid feud. He even deleted the tweet.”

Hailie can hear Paul tapping on his phone, probably checking to see if it was really deleted. “Damn, he really did delete it. Do you know what brought this on?”

“Yeah, his daughter.”

“Okay, makes sense.”

“So you know how you have been trying to get my dad to end this feud with him, well this gave me an idea. I just need to know if you are in.”

“I’m listening.”

“If Cassie can change her dad’s mind, then I should be able to do the same with my dad, right? Right. So I need you to do a couple of things. I need a way to get in contact with Cassie, and her mom. I will also need you to back me up later on.”

“Okay I can probably get in touch with Cassie, and her mom. Give me a few days. And I will back you up but I will need more details.”

“I will tell you the details later. I need to make a few more calls.

Next people she recruits are Alaina and Whitney. They have noticed how agitated Eminem has been lately, and agree to help with her plan. He also ropes in Travis Barker, Tommy Lee and Elton John, to help them too.

Paul came through with Emma’s, Cassie’s mom, phone number, and an understanding that Emma will listen to her idea, but she decides if Cassie is involved.

Hailie explains her plan. She and Cassie were going to convince their dad’s to meet, in hopes of ending the beef. Colson already tried once, but Em turned it down. This is where Cassie came in. She needed to convince her dad that he should try again, that he should take the higher ground, and be the better person. You know, set a good example. Emma can help with this too. Hailie has the harder job of convincing her dad to do the same. That he has defended her, and should talk with MGK. Once they have convinced both men to meet, they will have to pick a date that works for everybody. They will have Paul, Travis, Elton, and of course Hailie and Cassie, there when the two meet. Hopefully having both of their daughters there will keep things civil long enough to get something done. Paul hopes a collaboration comes out of it, but Hailie and Cassie just want their dads to be happy again.

******

Over the next few weeks Hailie e-mailed, Cassie and Emma,over how to get the two rappers to end their feud.

******

Hailie, Whitney, and Alaina have been dropping hints, and saying things, about ending arguments, burning the hatchet, and letting bygones be bygones. Em is really proud of his girls, being so mature, but fails to get the hints. Whitney even stages a fight with a friend, with an epic apology, but it still goes over Em’s head.

Now it is time for Hailie to confront her dad on his feud.

She has made it this far, there’s no turning back now. Hailie straightens her back, squares her shoulder, and walks into her dad’s office determined. Her dad looks up from some papers and smiles. It’s nice to see him smile.

“Hey Hailie.”

“Hey dad.”

“What brings you over? Not that I’m not glad to see you, it’s just you have been busy lately.”

“I came to talk to you. It’s about your feud with Machine Gun Kelly.”

The smile falls off Eminem’s face and his eyes harden. “You don’t need to worry about that son of a bitch. I’ll take care of him.” He stands up and heads over to the window.

Hailie takes a deep breath. “No dad. It was me he tweeted about. Everything has gotten out of control, and I have now been dragged into your stupid feud.”

Em turns around. “I know sweetie, and I’m sorry for that, but don’t worry I am crushing that blond asshole. His career is practically over.”

“Dad, that's not okay. Yeah, he is an asshole, and he deserved to be knocked down a few pegs, but this is overkill.”

“Hailie, this is my business. What I do…” Em didn’t get to finish her sentence.

“No, this isn’t just your business. It’s mine too, and I get a say in what happens. Machine Gun Kelly wrote me a letter…” Hailie didn’t get to finish what

“HE FUCKING CONTACTED YOU. I’M GOING TO KILL HIM. THAT STALKING SON OF A…” Em yells, as he heads for the door. Hailie steps in front of him, blocking the exit.

“No you're not. Now calm down. We are going to finish this conversation.”

“Hailie Jade Scott Mathers you better move out of my way.”

“No dad. I am a full grown woman, not a little girl anymore, and you are going to listen to what I have to say. Yes he wrote me a letter. He did it to apologise for what he did. The tweet, the feud, everything. Do you know how many other people have apologised to me for stuff they said? Have expressed regret for what they did to me? Not how many regret having to deal with you, but feel bad for what they did to me.”

Eminem thinks for a second, but doesn’t respond. Hailie continues.

“None. That’s how many. Everyone says sorry to you, not me. He is the only one. He admitted that he should have given me an apology for the comment, and even though it is years late, he still said sorry. Even after this whole feud, ‘Killshot’, and everyone hating him, Colson Baker is a big enough man to admit when he is wrong.”

“Just because he said ‘sorry’ doesn’t mean…”

“No dad, he didn’t just say ‘sorry’, he swallowed his pride, took responsibility for it, deleted the tweet, asked what he could do to make it up to me, and asked for my forgiveness. He wants to be a better role model for his own daughter. Here, read it for yourself.” Hailie hands him the letter, and waits while he reads it.

Em reads the letter. The kid really did set his pride aside and ask for his daughter forgiveness. He rereads the letter just to make sure he read it right, and he did. He was still unbelievably pissed that Machine Gun Kelly was somehow able to get to Hailie, but after reading the letter he doesn’t want to kill the blond idiot anymore.

“Okay he apologized to you, what do you want me to do? Just let him get away with running his mouth?”

“You have already won. He admitted that he couldn’t respond to ‘Killshot’. He tried to contact you more than once to end it but you said no. What I want is for you to be like Machine Gun Kelly, swallow your pride and set a better example for Alaina, Whitney, and I, and at least meet with him, so this stupid feud can end.” Hailie says as she holds her dad’s satire.

Em looks away, and sighs. “I don’t really have a choice in this so I?”

“You do have a choice. You can be an adult and meet with him, or you can be petty, and Alaina, Whitney, Paul, Fifty, Royce, Elton, Dre, and I will be disappointed in you.”

“Of course you got everyone to back you up. Fuck! Fine, I will meet with him, but I am making no promises about ”

Hailie relaxes. She will take it. For all intents and purposes, her dad has agreed, and she is tired, but she has a sense of accomplishment.

“Thanks dad. I’ll have Paul arrange the meeting.” She turns to leave.

“Hey, Heilie.”

“Yeah,dad.”

She turns back around, and her dad has wrapped her up in a big hug. She returns it immediately, and stands there for a moment. When they finally break apart Em asks her, “When did you get so smart, Jelly bean?”

“I don’t know dad. I musta learned it from you.”

******

The day of the meeting happens. They are in a studio in LA. It’s a neutral location. Paul, Elton, and Travis are sitting in the room waiting on the others to arrive.

“So, do you think this will actually work?” Travis asks.

“I don’t know darling, but hopefully with their daughters here it will be civil.” Elton replies as he crosses his ankles.

A few minutes later Eminem shows up with Hailie, and he looks put out. “Alright where is the blond fucker?”

“Marshall! I hope you don’t plan on using that kind of language today. Colson is bringing his daughter, and she is only 9.” Elton scolds. Em sighs knowing better than to argue with Uncle Elton about this kind of thing, even though he is pretty sure that she has heard worse from her own dad. He slumps into a chair between Paul and Hailie, already feeling done with the day and this meeting.

Kelly walks in with Cassie on his shoulders, and she is just chatting away, and Kelly is listening to every word she says. He sets her down in one chair, and takes the one between her and Travis.

“Hi Cassie.” Hailie greets.

“Hi Hailie.” Cassie says with a wave.

Em looks between his and Kelly’s daughters, and then it clicks.

“Fuuuuc-dge, fudge knuckles.” Em has to correct himself remembering that there is a literal child present. Hailie and Travis are snickering. At least Paul and Elton are trying to hide their amusement at his outburst. Em looks over at Kelly who gives him a look saying ‘yeah me too’.

“Our daughters played us.” Em says.

“Yep they teamed up to gang up on us.” Kelly says as he nods in agreement.

Neither rapper speaks, and the silence gets heavier with each passing moment.

“Let’s get this over with.” Em says with a sigh. “Everyone else out. This is between Machine Gun Kelly and me.”

Everyone but Kelly and Cassie begin to protest. Cassie decides to take action. She nudges her dad in the side with her elbow, and whispers in his ear, “Remember Dad be the bigger person.”

“Thanks pumpkin.” He whispers back, gives her a hug. She then grabs hailies hand, and heads for the door. The others follow suit, until it’s just Em and Kelly in the room.

“I’m sorry for tweeting about your daughter. I’m sorry for those things I said about you trying to interfere with my career, and I'm sorry for the other awful things I said about you. I really didn’t mean for that tweet to be rude, but I now see how it looks.”

“Did you fucking practise.”

Kells scratches the back of his head, breaking eye contact, looking down, at the ground. “Yeah with my daughter.” He mumbles out.

“Why did you post that tweet about Hailie?”

“To be honest, I thought she looked hot in it, but I didn’t know how old she was. When I found out how old she was I was disgusted with myself, but didn’t know what to do.”

“Okay fine I can understand that you didn’t know her age before commenting, but it was still shitty.”

“I Know.”

“Don’t ever do it again.”

Kelly looks up meeting Em’s Glare. “I won’t.”

Em takes pity on him, seeing that he is being sincere.

“I’m sorry too, kid. I’m sorry I banned you from Shade 45, talked shit about you, and called you a mumble rapper. You’re not.”

“Thank you.” A soft smile appears on Kelly’s face. Em can’t help but think it looks good on the blond.

Em can’t help but smirk. He was going to have fun picking on Kelly. “Am I really your idol?”

Kelly goes pink, and looks away. “Shut-up.”

“Oh no. You really looked up to me didn’t you? You wanted to be just like me. I bet you had all my albums, and posters of me.”

“Yeah but they always say never meet your heroes.” Kelly freezes, not meaning to say that out loud, making Em stop. Yeah Kelly did look up to him. Kelly really didn’t do anything, beside the tweet. Em did hinder his career, and was an ass to him, but the entire time they were feuding, Kelly still said he looked up to him.

“Look I’m sorry I was an ass to you. You just wanted recognition from me. Instead I dissed you, called you a mumble rapper. You tried to end this multiple times, and I didn’t want to hear it.”

Kelly is still blushing but he is looking at Em again.

“Your lyrics aren’t half bad either.”

The blond lights up. “Really?”

“Yes, need some work but they are pretty good.”

“Thank you.”

They sit there again not knowing what to do. Then Kelly pipes up. “So does that mean our feud is over?”

“Yeah it’s over.”

“What do we do now.”

“N

Em grabs his phone and texts Paul. Next thing they know Paul walks in. “Now that that is out of the way, we can call this beef over. I will set something up for the press.”

The details are hashed out. Kelly is going to open up for Em later this year, and neither one is going to sing their diss tracks of each other. Kelly does get to keep the moniker ‘Rap Devil’, to Paul’s disdain. Em thinks it’s funny (read cute).

Everyone parts ways.

Hailie links with her dad’s arm as they go down the hallway.

“The way you were picking on him, almost felt like you were doing it to get his attention.”

Em blushes as the statement.

“OMG you do think he is cute, that’s why you don’t want to give up this beef.”

“No I don’t. He’s an asshole who needed to be taught a lesson.”

“Okay Dad whatever you say.”

She hurries on head, but turns and gives her dad a wink. A new plan in mind.

#emgk

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chuuyaaf · 4 years

Note

I have an angsty ideea how about a scenario with dazai having to distract his ex s/o that is a port mafia executive and very powerful while on a mission so the Ada could trick or defeat the PM and she finds out just when she gets a call ( interrupting them) Maybe like she really was hopeful/happy that dazai really came to see her but that hope gets crushed while looking in dazai's eyes in disbelief and he only said that his job is done and starts to leave but secretly want to run back to her?

Does this count as angsty? I hope so. I wouldn’t mind doing a part 2 if anyone wants one. Gotta love some good Dazai angst. -Zi ***

You had gotten a handwritten letter in your mail that morning. You recognized the writing immediately, but the message was much more exciting.

Meet me at our spot in the park, 6:00. I want to see you. -Osamu

It was a simple note, yes, but the thought of seeing him again made you happy. You had dated for a while back when he was an executive, but then he left. He had made a not so subtle attempt to get you to join him, but you denied and he disappeared the next day. You didn’t blame him of course, but that didn’t mean it made you happy. You still got a rose on your doorstep every so often. You had absolutely no proof, but you couldn’t help but think it was him. They were lovely. You still had some in a vase in your room.

So, now you were walking through the park, the sun low in the sky cast shadows on the leaves. Your ‘spot’ was near a small pond. He had asked you to be his girlfriend there. It held a special sentimental value to you hadn’t been since he left. Of course, you were still worried though. Dazai was with the Armed Detective Agency now. They were trying to take down the mafia at every turn. And though you trusted him, you kept your wits about you.

Hearing your name from a familiar voice dragged you out of your thoughts. He had arrived just on time.

“Osamu.”

“Belladonna.” He said, the same kind tone in his voice that you remembered from so long ago. “Lovely to see you again.” He smiled. You loved that smile. Seeing it again filled you with nostalgia, the need to make him smile over and over again.

“Not that I don’t love seeing your face, but why ask me here? It’s been years.”

His smile faded a bit and you missed it already. “I miss you. I suppose that’s it.” It wasn’t much information and you could see a slight flicker in his eye. It made you tilt your head, questioning his words.

“Dazai, it’s been-” You paused when your phone buzzed in a distinct pattern. You took it out, the screen reading “Higuchi” with a picture of the blonde woman smiling and holding a pistol. You answered quickly.

Dazai’s face fell and he reached an arm out to stop you, but you held your hand up.

“Good, you picked up.” She didn’t wait for you to say hello. “Where the hell area? Some Agency members got the bright idea to attack one of our offices. Get here now, we could use some firepower. And yes, Akutagawa-san is on his way.” The gunshots in the background made you flinch a bit, worried about her. You agreed to come and she hung up after giving you the address, one quite far from the park.

You stood up, ready to leave, and then it clicked. You get a random letter from Osamu, a man known for being quite crafty, to meet you at a spot away from the location he sent you. On top of that, it’s his friends attacking.

“You used me.” You said, turning to face Dazai who was now standing next to you. His eyes were empty. It made your breath hitch. The happy look from just a moment ago had disappeared, leaving behind a cold look.

“That was the assignment. Too bad I couldn’t stall longer.” He sighed, his eyes not gaining any more emotion.

You clenched your fists. A million questions ran through your head. Why? Did he want to do this? Why this torture?

“Tell me this, Dazai.” You said, unable to stop your fists from shaking. “Did you actually want to see me?” You asked, already regretting letting the words leave your mouth.

He paused only a minute. “No.” His eyes didn’t show any signs of lying and you turned away, running off towards Higuchi’s location. You didn’t notice the way his tensed shoulders fell the second you left. Or how he slumped back onto the bench, finally letting his guard down.

Bonus (?):

The fight had left you tired and a bit bruised. With you and Akutagawa fighting together, you were able to drive the agents off quickly, though they did manage to take a file or two with them. Lucky for you, it was only basic things they probably already knew.

You grabbed two guns from one of your drawers and put them in holsters on your hips. You opened the door to head to your office and paused.

A rose was on your doorstep.

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thebulletproofbangtanboys · 4 years

Text

Dirty, Rich, Beautiful (Mafia Leader!Namjoon x Captive!Reader)

Summary: Being the leader of the Mafia is nice. It means you get all of the money while barely putting your life on the line. This is what Namjoon loved the most. After the boys come back with you as a prize from the mission, Namjoon loves his job even more.

Word Count: 6k

Genre: Smut, Angst

Warnings: blood, violence (not rape), guns, Dom!Joon, dirty talk, torture kink, orgasm denial, panty stuffing, unprotected sex, oral (male and female receiving), some Namgi

They say cigarettes kill. Causes cancer or some other bullshit like that. They are full of toxins and tar that could destroy the lungs and mouth and whatever else.

It wasn’t like Namjoon or any other member of the Bangtan gang cared. Any of them would be lucky to live long enough to develop cancer from their habit. Between the constant gun fights with members from other gangs and illegal shit they did, it was only a short matter of time until one of them was killed. Besides, smoking was one of the few luxuries they had. The moment the cigarette met a member’s lips, they instantly felt at ease. It was as if their brain had already correlated the simple shape and feel of the cigarette with the comfort that the chemicals gave. To some, it was better than any other drug out there.

Namjoon thought all about this as he took the final drag of the cigarette, the cherry contrasting against the darkness of night that had settled on Seoul several hours before. He snuffed the butt of the cigarette in a crystal ashtray that sat on the marble balcony railing. Reveling in the thickness of the cigarette smoke, Namjoon looked on at the city.

The Bangtan mansion was situated high up on the outskirts of Seoul, so the city buildings looked like large, twinkling lights off in the distance. Somewhere out there in the midst of the city was Jungkook, Taehyung, and Hoseok. Namjoon had sent them out on an infiltration mission against their main rival gang: EXO.

About a week ago, the gang had received a letter in the mail with no return address. The letter was typed, not handwritten. It included some information on EXO and their plans to attack the Bangtan mansion. It also mentioned how EXO was going to attack and when.

Namjoon wasn’t quite certain if he should trust the letter or not. There was no return address, so he wasn’t sure if it was a reliable source. Besides, why would some unknown person send them this kind of information? Either way, Namjoon knew that he was not going to take any chances. He at once started devising a plan to infiltrate and destruct the EXO fortress before they had a chance to attack Bangtan’s. The plan was to barge in and kill as many members as possible all the while taking in prisoners. Hopefully, it was a plan that Taehyung, Jungkook, and Hoseok could pull off and come back from alive.

The air became chilly as Namjoon stood out on the balcony longer than intended. He shivered lightly before deciding to head back inside where the air was warmer. As he closed the door to the balcony, a final shiver of cold was sent up and down his spine, making him twitch slightly. He sighed lightly before heading downstairs. Walking down the large stone staircase, Namjoon saw Yoongi enter the mansion through the elegantly designed wooden, steel-centered front doors. He had just come back from a drug deal. He was the lead drug dealer of the group after all.

Yoongi looked up at Namjoon when he noticed the leader coming down the stairs. “Are the three back yet?” he asked, sticking his hands in his jacket pocket.

Namjoon shook his head. “Not yet. I haven’t heard from them, either, but all three of their trackers are still on, so at least we know that they are still alive. Jimin is still at the club with Jin scoping out some people to sell on the site. They shouldn’t be back until later, so it’s just going to be us for a while.”

Yoongi gave him a questioning look, and Namjoon just smirked. It wasn’t like the two were dating, more just like friends with benefits. Yoongi had a huge crush on Hoseok but was just too nervous to say anything, so Namjoon was just kind of a way for Yoongi to relieve all of his sexual tension. Don’t get me wrong, Yoongi was definitely attracted to Namjoon, and that was quite clear by the current hardening of his dick. Namjoon could tell that his smirk sent the right message as he saw the way Yoongi’s pants tightened over the growing length.

It wasn’t long until Namjoon was thrusting into Yoongi, both of them panting with sweat glistening their skin. The sweat made them look like they were made out of the finest jewels known to man. Moans and heavy breathing and slapping of skin against skin filled the otherwise silent room.

This went on for hours and several rounds. Afterwards, the two lay in Yoongi’s bed, both smoking their almost ritualistic after-sex joint. Foul smelling smoke filled the large room, and they sat in silence. Well, it was silent until the sound of the heavy front doors being slammed filled the empty halls of the mansion. It was then followed by the sounds of struggling and a female yelling. It seemed as if one of the groups of boys were back from their mission.

Namjoon sighed and looked over at Yoongi, giving him an apologetic look. He handed the joint to Yoongi before tossing the cream color duvet off of his legs. He quickly changed back into his navy business suit attire that was now wrinkled from laying on the ground for the many hours the two were fucking around. As he was buckling his belt, he heard a large crash come from downstairs like a vase had been knocked off of a pedestal and shattered on the ground. Namjoon huffed in aggravation and stuck his handgun in his waistband before swinging the door to Yoongi’s room wide open and marching out.

He made his way down the stone steps, almost slipping on one of them in the process. It wasn’t normal for Jimin and Jin to bring back a girl who wasn’t drugged and passed the fuck out, and all of EXO’s members and ally gangs were male, so Namjoon was quite confused by the ruckus. Unless EXO had some prostitutes at their mansion, there was no reason for them to have females over. Even then, why would the trio have brought back a simple prostitute? Unless…she wasn’t just a simple whore.

The screaming became quieter as the woman was brought further into the house. When Namjoon heard yet another door slam shut and the screaming cease altogether, he knew that this person was currently being brought down to the basement. The basement was where the interrogation room and cells were held after all.

Namjoon stopped at the end of the stairs, now contemplating whether or not he should go ahead and investigate. Maybe he should leave whichever group brought her here alone, so they could deal with her however they seemed fit. On the other hand, it was quite an uncommon feat for a captive to come back conscious.

The leader straightened out his suit jacket and walked towards the basement door. He decided that whatever he heard on the other side was going to determine what step he was going to take next. He put his ear up to the door and put a finger to his lips when he saw Yoongi walking up to him. Something then banged up against the basement door, startling Namjoon and making him jump back in surprise. Yoongi’s chocolate brown eyes widened at the scene before him. The two of them then heard yelling and more struggling on the other side of the door.

“Settle down, you fucking bitch!” the two of them heard Taehyung yell.

Apparently, it was the raid group that had come back with a prisoner. But, why would they bring one back that was female and not drugged? Namjoon needed answers, so he swung the thick, metal basement door open, pulled his handgun out of his waistband, and what he saw was not quite what he expected.

Inside was Taehyung, Jungkook, Hoseok and some female figure. Hoseok was the one who had obviously been thrown up against the door. He was laying on the ground a few feet away from the bottom of the stairs, clutching his shin with one hand and his shoulder with the other. Taehyung’s nose was bleeding profusely, clearly broken. Namjoon couldn’t see much of his nose since Taehyung was covering it, but through the slight space between his bloodied fingers, Namjoon could tell that Taehyung’s nose was now in an odd angle. Jungkook was holding the figure, clad fully in black, back by hooking his arms around the figure’s elbows. You tried to take a lunge at Taehyung, so Jungkook just took you to the ground. He sat on your back and moved your arms onto her back in a seemingly painful position.

“What the hell happened here?” Namjoon asked, raising his voice almost to a yell and lowering the gun.

All four people looked up to where the sudden, loud sound came from. The boys gave almost scared looks while you took the chance and used your strength to roll over, knocking Jungkook off of your back. In the process, you brought your left foot up and rammed the heel of it into Jungkook’s stomach, knocking the air out of him. You quickly stood up, but, despite being breathless, Jungkook took a hold of your ankle and pulled, knocking you back to the ground with him. You hit your chin on the hard floor, and it made your head start spinning and go fuzzy, quite like a blizzard in the Arctics.

By this time, Namjoon had made his way down the wooden steps and taken a hold of you. In one hand, he held the back of your shirt tightly, almost choking you with it. In the other, he held a fistful of your hair. Your scalp now felt like it was on fire, but you were still so out of it, you couldn’t really fight. In what little way your mind could come up with to defend yourself, you made your body go limp. This made your body heavier with dead weight, but this in return just made Namjoon pull harder on your hair and shirt. The only other thing your mind could think of was to actually cooperate, so that’s what you did…reluctantly and in a bitch way of course.

You were suddenly shoved, and you fell into a heap, twisting yourself in the process. How the hell did you go from a fighting badass to a rag doll being thrown around in a matter of seconds? Oh, yeah. The damn floor, which you were now on. The floor and you had never been friends. You were always tripping over your own feet or slipping down or up stairs. Either way, you always ended up on the floor. So, it was only logical that the floor would be your downfall in this case, no pun intended.

You looked up at Namjoon with a glare as he squatted down on the ground next to you. He glared back at you with his dark, demeaning eyes. He lightly traced a finger up your cheek before lacing his hands through your hair again. Then, a sharp pain crackled through your forehead, rippling through your skull, and everything was black.

After Namjoon had knocked you out by slamming your head into the floor, he placed his large hands on his knees and stood up. He then proceeded to drag your unconscious body across the cell and shackled your wrists to the wall. He looked at your now laid-back figure and huffed before walking out of the tightly barred cell.

A few feet later, he turned around and closed a large door that was built just like every other door in the house: metal encased with wood. This door was used to separate the cell and interrogation room from the rest of the basement. It was also used to provide an extra barrier between the captive and the outside just in case they were to escape.

Once Namjoon bolted the door shut, he turned on his heel to face the three members who had brought you in. Hoseok was sitting with his back up against the wall, still in pain. Jungkook was standing upright, clutching his stomach. Taehyung now had a jacket, Yoongi’s it seemed, held up to his nose to help capture the blood that still trickled out. Yoongi had since left the room, probably assisting Jin and Jimin with pictures of the people they had brought back for the black market; that is, if they had come back already. Namjoon glared daggers at the infiltration team.

“What the hell was that all about?” he asked sternly.

All three stayed quiet. They glanced at each other, wondering who was going to answer the somewhat tricky question. Namjoon huffed, realizing that none of them were going to actually answer him.

“Jungkook,” he shot, calling on the youngest member.

Jungkook sighed before straightening himself a little. He took a shaky breath as he was still trying to recover from the hard kick you administered to him not too long ago. “We did what you asked, Namjoon,” Jungkook sassed.

“You obviously didn’t follow procedure, though. She wasn’t drugged. You know how important it is to bring captives back unconscious. You practically gave away our location!” Namjoon shouted, getting angry.

“Look. We tried. We tried everything! But it seems like this girl immune to damn near everything. The entire ride back, we had her blindfolded, and Hoseok kept her down, so it’s not like she saw where we were going.”

“You know just as well as I do that any good spy or gang member memorizes the routes and distances. Hell! I taught you all that myself!” Namjoon threw his hands up in the air. He was now pacing the basement floor. “This is the exact reason why we do not bring captives back to the mansion unless they are unconscious! The rules aren’t just there for you follow them when you please! You follow them at all times, no matter what!”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?! We tried every drug we had, and she still wouldn’t go down! What else were we supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, maybe knock her the fuck out the old fashioned way?!”

Namjoon was absolutely furious at this point. His face had turned a bright shade of pink, and his dark eyes had turned darker, almost to the point of looking demonic. It wasn’t often Namjoon got royally pissed, but when he did, he was one of the scariest people on the planet.

“You three, just go the fuck back upstairs and fix yourselves up,” Namjoon growled.

The three looked at him pitifully before making their way up the basement stairs. Namjoon hated treating them that way. They were like brothers to him. But he was the leader of their gang. And rules were rules, and when they were broken, Namjoon had to make sure they wouldn’t do it again. He sighed to himself as he heard the basement door slam shut and click into place. He placed his hands inside of his suit pant pockets and sighed. He moved his mind from the boys to the girl who was now in their cell.

She was a mysterious one, that was for sure. First off, she was a female affiliating herself with EXO. As mentioned earlier, the only females that associated themselves with that gang were whores and spies. Secondly, she was apparently immune to all tranquilizers. The only way to put her out was through brute force. No prostitute would be immune to tranquilizers. That only left her to be a spy. But a spy for whom and why? Was she hired for or by EXO? Why was she in their mansion? What was her importance?

Namjoon pondered this, just staring at the thick door on the other side of the basement. He shook his head as if to erase his thoughts. He knew by the force he put behind the hit, you would be out for a while. He made his way up the stairs, hands still in pockets.

Early the next morning, Namjoon woke up to the sound of screaming. He scrunched his eyes and moved his pillow from underneath his head to on top of his exposed ear. It seemed to block out the noise, and just as he was started to drift off to sleep again, he heard the screams once more. He threw the memory foam pillow to the side and groaned heavily. He got up and stomped out of his room, making his way towards the basement.

As he walked closer to the basement door, sure enough, the screaming and yelling grew louder. Through the heavy doors, no sounds from behind them should be able to be heard anywhere in the mansion, nevertheless upstairs. He swung open the door open and instantly noticed the door to the interrogation room and the cell was slightly open.

He walked forward, his stride long and heavy before pushing the door open. Inside, he saw you chained to the floor while sitting in a chair at the interrogation table with Yoongi sitting in a chair directly opposite to you.

You were screaming at Yoongi, your face beet red with anger. However, you stopped as soon as you saw Namjoon in the doorway. As Yoongi noticed the sudden change in your demeanor, he turned around in his chair.

“Namjoon,” he simply said.

“What is all the ruckus about? It’s five in the morning!” Namjoon exclaimed.

“Nothing. I was just leaving.” Yoongi glared at you as he stood up from his seat.

“Good!” you shouted at him. “I never want to see your fuck-ass face again!”

Yoongi glared at you once more before moving past Namjoon to exit the basement. The leader watched as the second eldest member left the room before turning to you and taking Yoongi’s seat.

“Want to explain to me why I was woken up to screaming at an ungodly hour?” Namjoon hissed.

You built up saliva in your mouth before spitting a wad of it at his face in response. Namjoon was taken aback for a second before using the sleeve of his pajamas to wipe it away. He gave the now wet sleeve a disgusted look before he saw your own satisfied look. He stood up and instantly backhanded your face, making a cracking sound reverberate throughout the room. Your head turned at a sharp angle, and you sat there in shock for a second before slowly turning your head back to him.

A devious smirk was placed upon your lips, and you said, “Ooo. Kinky.” You gave out a laugh that would have most people worried about your mental health. You quickly silenced yourself before saying, “If you think you can hurt me that easily, you’re hilarious.”

Namjoon sat back down in his seat and leaned back in it, one arm resting on the back of the chair, the other stretched out before him on the table. “Well, considering it only took one hit to the head to knock you out last night, I would say otherwise.”

You shrugged. “I was tired after beating the dumbasses.”

Namjoon huffed. “So, we have a smartass on our hands,” he whispered to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked back up at you, placing his hand back onto the edge of the cold, metal table. “Well, since you have already woken me up and there is no way in hell I’ll be able to get back to sleep, how about we get this shit out of the way. So, why were you with EXO? What use to them were you?”

You leaned back in your seat and crossed your shackled arms across your chest. “I don’t think that that is any of your business.”

“Considering you are at my mercy at the moment, it would be in your best interest to not piss me off any more than you already have.”

“I’ve been told it’s a specialty of mine. If it’s not broken, don’t fix it.”

“Guess you leave me with no choice then.”

Namjoon stood up from his chair and walked over to you. He stooped down and unclasped your chains from the hooks in the floor. You watched him with interest. He was attractive, you decided. His face was small, rounded, and cute, almost like a baby’s face. His nose was wide and short, and his lips were plump. His hair, still mussed up from sleeping, was a dusty brown color. The vibe around him made you want to kiss those lips and run your fingers through his hair. This vibe of his was…dominant, strong, sexual. You loved it, and you wanted it all for yourself.

When he was done unhooking your chains from the floor, he yanked on them, making you fall out of your chair and onto the floor. You were now on your hands and knees, and Namjoon felt his dick twitch in the slightest as he saw you in this position. He quickly disregarded the thought. You were a fucking prisoner. One he just met yesterday at that. Besides, Yoongi fulfilled his sexual needs when necessary.

He yanked on your chains, signaling for you to get up. You did and shuffled behind him as he brought you over to a wall about fifteen feet back. There were hooks over there as well, but instead of them being on the floor, they were on the wall. One of the hooks, you noticed as you were brought up to the wall, was almost an arm’s length above your head. The other two hooks were lower on the wall, about ankle height, but they were roughly two feet apart from each other.

Namjoon took the shackles on your wrists and hooked them first. Next, he took the chains connecting your wrist and ankle shackles off, along with the chain that connected your ankles. Finally, he forcefully locked your ankles to the wall.

Surprisingly, you didn’t try to fight back as he did this. Then again, there had been plenty of times during sex that you had been tied up, so you guess you could say that this was almost a comfort to you. So much of a comfort that you could feel yourself growing wet in between your legs.

Behind you, you could hear Namjoon opening a door to what could possibly be a closet. Next came the sound of rustling of boxes, a small crash, some curses, and the slam of the door. You then heard the box being dropped on the table the two of you were at just moments before. There was some more rustling around and then the sound of footsteps coming up to you.

“Having troubles over there – ah!” you shouted as the unexpected crack of a flogger hit you across your back.

It didn’t hurt. In fact, you barely even felt it because of your thick shirt. It was more of a shock than anything else.

“I’ll be the one asking the questions here, alright,” Namjoon stated as-a-matter-of-factly. “Now, what is your affiliation to EXO?”

“As I have already told you before, it is none of your business.”

The flogger was hit against you back once more as a punishment of your retaliation, but you just stood there, completely unfazed. Namjoon seemed to have noticed this and placed the flogger on the table. He then came back up to you and took a hold of the collar of your shirt, right at the base of your neck. You thought that there was no way in hell he was going to be able to rip it off of you since the material was thick and well-made. However, you were proven wrong. In one fell swoop, your shirt was completely torn in half. Your back was now completely exposed, saved for your bra, which was quickly unclasped.

“Now,” Namjoon started, “I’m going to ask you one last time: what were you doing with EXO?”

“And I’m going to tell you one last time: it is none of your goddamn business.”

After what only seemed like a few milliseconds, your back was struck once more. This time, you felt every strip of leather hit you individually. It was painful, and most people would have found that discouraging, but it sent you on a sexual high. You moaned in pleasure as the initial sting softened and spread.

Namjoon noticed this loud, sex-filled moan come from your mouth, and he felt his dick twitch for the second time that morning. He stood there for a moment in thought before hitting your back once more. Since the hit was unexpected, your senses sky-rocketed at a much higher rate than they did before. This in return made your moan much louder than before, only to be followed by an erotic “fuck” spilling from your lips.

What Namjoon now felt was not only his dick twitching, but it was now growing harder, slowly tenting the front of his grey sweatpants. The wetness that was accumulating between your spread legs was just as bad.

“Hm? So you like this kind of thing then? To be whipped? Tied up? Spanked?” he asked, sultriness dripping from his words. He reared his hand back before forcefully slapping your ass.

You responded with a gasp mixed with a higher pitched moan. Namjoon’s hand didn’t leave your ass. Instead, he gave it a strong squeeze before he pressed his chest to your back. His chin was just above your left shoulder. You could feel his breath on your neck. You moved your chin, so you could see his face.

Your eyes met his. They held a different vibe than last night. Right now, they were dominant and lustful. The temptation was all too strong, and you leaned a little bit to crash your lips against his. To your surprise, he kissed back just as ferociously.

Soon, the two of you were having a heavy make-out session. The two of you forgot your standings: him a gang leader and you a captive. All that was on either of your minds was the building passion between the two of you. You were so lost in it. The feel of his soft lips on yours, his teeth grazing your lip with an occasional tug, the heavy breathing, the temperature of the room rising, and most of all: the heavy need for him to be inside of you.

Namjoon was feeling the exact same way. His once lightly twitching cock was now fully raging in his pants. However, before he was to put his dick in you, he secretly wanted to know how strong your blowing game was. He broke the bond between his lips and yours.

“I’m going to unshackle you now, but don’t get any smart ideas. You’ll be chained back up again soon,” he harshly whispered into your ear.

You were breathing deeply, finally able to consume some air that his lips had deprived from you. Your head was so dizzy from the lack of oxygen and amazement at what this man’s lips could do that you just simply nodded. You were in such a faze that you didn’t think you could escape even if you tried. Besides, he said you would be bound again once more, and you knew you liked that no matter what circumstance it was in.

Namjoon stretched his hands above your head and detached you from the wall. He did the same with your feet. He grabbed onto your arm with a firm grip and turned you around to face him. Your bra and shirt were now hanging helplessly at your wrists, putting your breasts on full display. Namjoon glanced down at your breasts and smirked to himself.

He looked back up at you, straight into your eyes, and he began to play with the drawstrings of his pants. “Get on your knees,” he demanded.

You instantly dropped to the floor, removing your torn pieces of clothing, and you came face-to-face with a large bulge in his pants. Namjoon pulled his pants down to his ankles, and you were greeted by the thickest, longest, angriest cock you had ever seen in your life. You licked your lips unconsciously.

“Do you want to suck it, slut?” Namjoon asked.

You simply just nodded as you reached your hand out and wrapped it around his dick. It was soft to the touch, but you could feel the hardened tissue right underneath. You were almost mesmerized by it.

You pumped your hand around his dick a few times. It was textured by veins, but it was still smooth to the touch. The slit at the head of his dick was already leaking precum. You took your thumb and spread the clearish, sticky liquid over the head. You then stuck out your tongue and ran the tip of it on the vein that was on the underside of his dick.

Namjoon breathed in deeply as you did this. You had barely even started your adventure with his dick, and you already had him this riled up. Not even Yoongi was able to get him going this badly so quickly, and Yoongi knew what a guy wanted since he himself had a dick.

Once you reached the base of his dick, you flattened out your tongue and ran it back up towards the head. The moment you made it back to the head you wrapped your lips around it. His dick was so ungodly thick that you thought you were going to have to unhinge your jaw like a snake. After adjusting your position on the floor, you dipped your head further down onto his length. Just as you thought, you could barely fit half of him in your mouth, even deep-throating him. You took whatever you couldn’t take in your mouth into your hand, and you began to bob your head slowly, your hand following rhythm.

Namjoon could feel his legs beginning to weaken under your touch. His lower abdomen was going into sensory overload as he felt himself getting closer and closer to bursting, but he wouldn’t allow that. Not yet. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled, causing you to gasp and pull off of him. Some saliva that connected your lips with the tip of his dick broke away, and it now dribbled down your chin.

“Such a messy little whore,” Namjoon muttered before stripping himself of his simple black t-shirt and practically threw it at you.

You wiped your chin before tossing it to the side. You stayed on your knees, looking up at him. He was obviously a huge dom, and when it came down to things, you were a pretty big sub. You knew how things went with doms like him, so you kept your stance, not wanting to upset him.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” he suddenly demanded.

It almost startled you, making your heart skip a beat. Despite your now racing heart, you stood up. You slipped your pants and panties off, not losing eye contact with Namjoon for a single second. Now, you two were in the complete nude, especially since Namjoon had stepped out of his sweatpants.

Namjoon grabbed onto your right upper arm and led you back to the wall where the shackles were. He nearly slammed you against the wall, causing your back to tingle at the sudden cold. He forcefully began to re-shackle both of your wrists and ankles. However, this time, instead of facing the wall, you were facing the rest of the room. Namjoon took a step back and looked you over and licked his lips. He bent down and picked up the panties you had discarded just moments before. He walked back over to you, and his panty-free hand slipped between your open legs. His fingers entered your soaking folds.

“Such a wet slut. This should be good,” he said gruffly,

He himself now got on his knees, which honestly surprised you. It wasn’t often a dom such as him pleasured you like this, especially when they had such a raging hard-on like Namjoon did. He pushed his fingers further into your folds, entering your core. You moaned in pleasure at the two fingers that had entered you. He pumped his fingers just like you had pumped your hand earlier. Your moans grew louder as he entered a third finger. Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore, his lips came in contact with your clit, and he started licking and sucking on it. Your moans were almost screams now.

“Namjoon, I-I,” you started.

The man in question suddenly pulled off and out of you. He leaned back on his heels. “You’re not allowed to cum until I say so. You got that, slut?” he asked. You swallowed and gave a simple nod. “Good.”

He then took the panties, which he still had in his hand, and slowly began to put it into you, practically replacing the emptiness which filled you after his fingers left. He stuffed you full, and only a small bit of panty was left to see the light of the room. Namjoon stood up and walked back towards the box on the table. As he was rifling through it, you gazed at him.

His ass was beautiful. More beautifully shaped than most girl’s asses you had seen over the years. His thighs were nice and thick, too. It would have been an honor to ride them, but you were a bit tied up at the moment. His back and arms and everything about him were muscular. Being a gang boss kind of demanded being fit after all.

After a moment, Namjoon pulled something out of the box, but you couldn’t see what it was right off the bat. When he turned around, you could clearly see what he held in his hands: a bright purple hand-held vibrator. You felt yourself get wetter and quiver slightly at the sight.

When he came up you, Namjoon turned the vibrator on the second lowest setting and trailed it lightly between your breasts, circled it around your nipples, and lowered it down to your yearning clit. The moment it hit your bundle of nerves, you let out a high-pitched moan. It felt so good. Euphoric even. Within just seconds, you were ready hit your climax. Apparently, Namjoon sensed this and took the vibrator off of your clit. You whimpered at the sudden loss of stimulus.

“No cumming unless I say so, remember?” Namjoon asked before giving your clit a smack.

You yelped in response. Namjoon turned the vibrator off and laid it on his heap of clothes a few feet away. He then removed the panties from you. They had soaked up most of your juices, but you were still surprisingly quite wet. Namjoon could see this by the glistening of your womanhood. He smirked to himself.

“I’m going to fuck you now like the whore you are,” he whispered in your ear as he gave his throbbing cock a few pumps of the hand.

He then lined himself up with your entrance and entered slowly. You both groaned at the feeling. The way he stretched you at gave a slight burn, but it was a good kind of burn. He easily reached your very core with how long his dick was. He then pulled out almost completely before thrusting back into you with great force. This instantly made your knees weak. If it hadn’t been for your wrists being shackled above your head, you would have surely crumpled to the ground. His pace has fast and hard, and you were loving every second of it.

Your breasts bounced with every thrust he gave. At one point, Namjoon decided to latch onto one of your breasts with his mouth. He sucked and licked it with such profession that the feeling in itself could have sent you over the edge.

You began whimpering once again. You wanted to release so badly but you couldn’t. You weren’t allowed to.

“Namjoon,” you panted and moaned. “Please. I want to cum. I need to.”

“Then cum,” he stated.

You let out the most pornographic moan that had ever left your lips. Your legs shook underneath you, and you felt yourself release. A few seconds later, you felt Namjoon cum inside of you. The feeling was wet and sticky, but the feeling was still blissful. The two of you rode out your highs, and you and Namjoon were left in panting messes. He pulled out of you and stepped away.

After the two of you caught your breaths, and he redressed, he asked you, “So, you want to tell me about you being with EXO now?”

You sighed. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever. I was fulfilling a favor for my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“Yeah. My brother. You might now him. He happens to be in your gang. He goes by Min Yoongi.”

“Min Yoongi is your brother?!”

Oh, shit.

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