#been sitting on these doodles for like half a year....no idea what to call this xover but im having ideas now feck.

[l0standn0tf0und]

damn perfect hair and damn marvelous eyes

george weasley x fem!reader (hints on short!bookworm!fem!reader)

words| +- 4400

in short|  classic story. George falls in love with his best friend. nothing more and nothing less

warnings| my english, angst, fluffy ending, mention of sex and long ranting about George's feelings

author’s note| it's supposed to be a short one. About 1000 words or so, but I got excited. and well, I tried to make it George's pov. because, you know, ✨️his pov✨️. also, it's my first scribbling in two years. enjoy))

He has been with other girls. He'd even said he has been with a lot of other girls.

There were a couple of girls he dated for a while. There were those he just fucked with. A quickie after a Quidditch match won't hurt anyone. It doesn't matter whether he won this match or not. He's well aware of the fact, that girls like him. But none of these so-called relationships were serious. Perhaps this was because he didn't consider any of them as something serious.

He tried this relationship thing because he was curious, what it's like to date a girl. But during his dates, bringing a cup, all painted with tiny violets, to his lips and listening to the chatter of his now ex-girlfriend, he thought that she'd never say such a thing and she'd never order such a lusciously sweet cupcake. And she wouldn't have dragged him to Madam Puddifoot's in the first place.

After smashing Hufflepuff to smithereens on the Quidditch field, he pressed some Ravenclaw's back to one of the walls in the locker room, pounding deep into her, hearing this girl's moans become louder with each thrust. He caught himself thinking about what her moans would sound like. Would she be filthy and loud underneath him or her moans would be more shaky and soft?

He wouldn't say any of these girls were bad, unattractive, or something like that. Just the opposite, all of them were great. But they simply weren't…her. She got deep under his skin, intertwined with his veins, and blossomed in his lungs. She was his Flower. That's how he called her.

George remembers clearly well how it started. No, not his feelings, they started so naturally, that he didn't even notice how he fell for her. George remembers clearly well how he started calling her flower. This happened back in the second year, during History of Magic. He was getting more and more bored by the second in that stuffy classroom. And there was nothing unusual about it. He got bored very easily. So he quietly began scribbling in the corner of her parchment. He remembers the angry look little Y/N gave him as she carefully pushed her piece of paper away from the redhead. She was also bored but did her best to focus on Professor Binns' words. But George continued, all smiling and trying to stifle his giggles caused by her irritation. At some point, his incomprehensible doodles began to look like something that resembled Professor Binns, but his glasses and mustache were abnormally large compared to everything else. She smiled, took George's hand, and carefully drew a tiny flower on his wrist, before returning her attention to Professor. It took him a while to find out what exactly she drew with so neat lines. It looked like an iris or daffodil, he couldn't tell exactly and she didn't know either. But after that she became flower. His flower.

And now George is sitting in the library. He came here to at least start an essay on Potions. Snape become ruthless lately, so it was easier to work in a group on this 5-page assignment about Golpalott's Third Law. That's how he, Y/N, Fred, and Lee ended up in the library. George knew that this was one of her favorite places at Hogwarts. Two and a half hours earlier, when they had passed Madam Pince's stern gaze, he almost unconsciously walked to her favorite table, between the Poetry and Reference sections.

George's re-reading the same sentence in the book for the seventh time. There's something about the idea that a whole product is greater than the sum of its parts, but he can't really understand its meaning because he's thinking about her. It would be more accurate to say that he's thinking about what Lee and Fred had said about her. The evening before, his twin, the only person in this world who was closer to George than Y/N, again claimed that his love was mutual. Fred constantly tried to push him to confess his feelings. His argumentation was always the same. Fred said that he’s older, which means wiser, and he sees everything, how she steals glances at his little shy brother in classes and how she blushes just as much when George is near. But that evening, Lee has added some new information, which George still tries to process and connects with everything else these two have been telling him through the years.

George returns to yesterday in his thoughts. He was lying on his bed again, hopelessly pressing his face into the soft fabric of the pillow, while these two opened the Pandora's box again. Sometimes it seemed to George that they were enjoying this ranting about his 'unrequited' love situation over and over again.

"Ok, look, if she felt nothing but platonic stuff, she'd not be this frustrated when she found out about you and Jane" Lee spoke in a devious voice, getting more comfortable on his bed.

"Wasn't it Jade?" Fred's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Doesn't matter, I mean this Hufflepuff blondie with the ribbon"

"She's Janis" George sighed. He remembered this relationship, which lasted just over a month or so. Janis was nice, but she talked a bit too much. And this black ribbon, which she constantly wore as a headband, pissed him off. He admitted that the ribbon matched well with her uniform and emphasized the brightness of her hair. But something was wrong with it.

"I thought she was Jade"

"Anyway, why are you telling me about this now?" curiosity and a slight note of annoyance were noticeable in George's voice "It was quite a long ago."

"Look, mate. I'm your friend, right?" Lee sat down, crossed his legs, and the blanket crumpled under his weight. One more movement and the red piece of cloth would end up on the floor. "But I'm her friend as well. She knows that I know. And knows that I overheard that conversation of hers. And I promised, I won't blab it to you…But as it turns out, I'm not the best secret keeper and I'm more of a friend to you than to Y/N"

To tell the truth, Lee was a great secret keeper. Just like he was a great friend. This made George seriously wonder why Lee broke the promise. And so unceremoniously 'blabbed' everything to him. What if he's really as blind as he was told and doesn't see obvious things. He doesn't deny the possibility that she liked him too. More precisely, he doesn't want to deny it. He hopes that Y/N also feels something that crosses the boundaries of friendship. Even if her feelings aren't as strong and all-consuming as his. As if time collapses into one tiny speck and explodes at light speed every time George sees her. He hopes for at least something, for at least a tiny feeling, a tiny sparkle in her heart that flares up at the sight of the tall redhead.

Many times he imagined and replayed in his head the moment he would confess his feelings. Tell her how all the sounds around become quiet when he hears her laugh, how each and every touch imprints and burns on his skin. He dreamed, how he would tell how much he loved her, that he could finally be honest and reveal everything that was in his head and heart.

But the younger twin thinks the stakes are too high. And maybe he's right because she thinks the same thing to herself. Even though George wants more, he doesn't want to risk everything he has right now. His eyes begin to water and a lump rises in his throat every time he assumes he could lose Y/N. His flower. He knows her too well to predict what would happen next if his feelings weren't mutual. Their communication will become awkward, they both will be cautious and afraid of saying or doing something wrong. And then, after some time of this weird communication, their connection will fade away. And even if his love is mutual, what if he and Y/N don’t work out as a couple? What then?

He can't let their previous and future years of friendship go down the drain. Y/N was the first person he and Fred met on the Hogwarts Express. And from the very first year and the very first greeting, the three of them became inseparable. Always together.

She wanted to be a prefect, so she avoided detentions and tried not to get involved in their pranks directly. But Y/N was always there, helped to plan each of their mischiefs, assisted with new inventions, and saved him and his brother from professors. George can't remember how many times she rescued them from Filch while she was patrolling the corridors. He was so proud of her last year when she finally received this little silver pin that gave her extra authority and responsibilities.

George can't imagine Christmas without Y/N now. She visits the Burrow every year and his mom adores her. Perhaps because Y/N helps with cooking more than anyone else in this house. But George can imagine in detail how hard his mother would scold him if he suddenly announce that Y/N won't come for winter break this year because he's an idiot and they stopped talking to each other.

It's not Christmas without having a snowball fight with her and Fred in the backyard. At some point, she always tries to throw Fred into the snow. But due to the obvious height difference and Fred's strength privilege, she never succeeds in this. So she's becoming the one who's giggling on the ground, covered with snow. George always laughs at this little performance while his very kind twin scatters her down with even more snow.

George's envious of his brother in some way. Fred has never seen Y/N as more than a friend or a second sister. He's envious that his twin's heart doesn't ache as much as his does. And his older brother doesn't have to make such a difficult decision. No, George doesn't wish his brother pain. No way. He just doesn't want to suffer himself. George understands, that he's not just at risk of losing her, but also at risk of depriving Fred of his best friend too. If he and Y/N don't work out, what will happen to her friendship with Fred? Yes, perhaps they will be able to maintain some thread of communication. But they certainly won’t be best friends like they are now. George wouldn't handle it. He believes that it's better to be content with the small moments he has than to lose everything.

"Where are you going?" Fred's question snaps the younger twin out of his thoughts. He's still in the library and didn’t even notice how the chair next to him became empty, as Y/N headed towards one of the sections.

“I need this book, about…” her words meet Fred's raised eyebrows "I just need another book"

A quiet “uh-huh,” sounds either from Fred or Lee as her back is already hidden between the shelves full of colorful covers.

George looks for a while longer after Y/N. If someone raised their head from studies or books and glanced at the redhead, they would see the gears turning in his head.

“I…” George moves away from the table. Legs of the chair slide across the floor with a quiet rustle. He tries to come up with some kind of a reason, but Lee is faster.

“We got it, loverboy in shining armor, go already and help your princess” In response George groanes, and a quiet "fuck off" slips from his lips as he heads after his 'princess'. He doesn't know why he decided to follow Y/N. He just wants to. Perhaps he simply feels calmer when she's around, she gives him a feeling of warmth and home just by being near.

And there she is, just three bookshelves away. George can understand why she likes spending time in the library, although he doesn't share this sympathy. It's quiet and peaceful here. High ceilings, impressive columns, and alive stained glass windows are throughout Hogwarts, but they look especially charming in this place. Perhaps it's the specific lighting or the huge number of cabinets filled with old parchment and colored bindings. And, to be honest, he likes the smell of books. There is something about that scent that the redhead can't explain.

Y/N walks along the shelf at the end of the bookrack. Her gaze runs along the top row of colored spines, searching for what she needs. Her hair is up in a messy, almost domestic, bun and secured with a wand. But some strands fell down, framing her face and descending down her neck. The tie hangs loosely around her neck. She undid it after half an hour in the library.

George just stands there and admires her for a while, unable to tear his gaze away. It seems to him as if a soft golden glow surrounds each curve of her glorious body. And this light calls him to come closer. None of the other girls looked like her in his eyes. He swallows, breaks out of this perfect trance, and quietly heads to her.

The girl stands on the very tips of her black shiny shoes. Her fingers almost touch that very book on the top shelf. "Why the hell do they always shove the most useful stuff so far away?" Y/N thinks to herself before long fingers touch the cover of the "Ingredient Encyclopedia". She sees as right above her head a familiar freckled hand takes the faded green binding from its place.

"You're welcome, flower" Y/N turns around at the sound of the voice and finds herself trapped between the worn books and George.

The corners of his lips lift slightly and the younger twin can feel the warmth approaching his cheeks. He can't control it and, to be honest, he doesn't care when she's only millimeters away.

Her "Thank you" is so quiet that George isn't sure she actually said it. Their eyes meet, and it seems to redhead that everything that happened next was in slow motion.

She just wanted to take the book. Such an innocent action. She inhales sharply as her fingertips accidentally brush his hand. He feels high-voltage sparks come from this touch and spread further throughout his whole body and explode where his heart is.

They both froze, not breathing and not breaking an eye contact. George could swear he was ready to give everything he had to live in this moment forever. Just standing next to her in an empty section of the Hogwarts library. Looking into her eyes, losing himself in their depths. And feel the warmth radiating from her hand on his.

Earlier, he thought he'd be nervous at a moment like this but he isn't. He just stares at her eyes, then at her parted lips. "George, don’t do it" he repeats to himself. His fingers shudder imperceptibly with the thought of taking her wand from messy hair, so her locks would fall freely on her fragile shoulders. "Control yourself". He's trying, so damn hard trying not to bury his hands into these shiny strands and pull her into a kiss. It takes all his strength not to. And George doesn't know what happened. Was it Y/N's rosy blush and his brother's words about mutuality flashing through his head. Was it her, standing so close that he could smell his amortentia coming from the girl.

But he gives up. George bends down, without even thinking about it, and presses his lips to hers

George pulls away even faster than he has leaned toward her. There is exposed fear in his widely opened eyes. Eyebrows are raised as the realization crushes his thoughts. His mouth opens and closes without making any sound. It seems that he's more shocked by his own action than Y/N herself.

He fucked up. He knows it.

Y\N stands there still. And this is the first time in the redhead's life that he can't read the emotions of his best friend. "Ingredient Encyclopedia" is still in her palm, but George abruptly pulls his hand away, losing all the warmth she provided to him.

"I'm…I'm sorry" is the only thing he mumbles before storming away from the book section, from the library, from her.

George almost knocks down a first-year with a blue tie when he rushes out around the corner. He fucked up. Y/N didn’t respond to his kiss, she didn’t react at all. She just froze in place. George doesn't understand how he could let himself do this. He shouldn't have. He heads towards the huge wooden door with such speed that some students' parchments fly off their desks. He doesn't notice this, nor the questions from Fred and Lee, that meet his broad back, nor the comments of the furious Madam Pince.

She appears around the corner shortly after George, calling his name. She throws the book on the table and quickly walks past her friends. The faded green binding slides across the wooden surface and lands near Lee's inkpot. Another millimeter and the small glass jar would have been knocked down and poured a black liquid onto the pieces of parchment, only half written with essay.

"For Merlin's sake, what is going on?"

“I'll bet you a galleon that George confessed to her and ran away” Fred speaks with a sly grin, shifting his gaze from the hurrying Y/N to his dormmate.

"Too much drama for these two, don't you think?"

"So…?"

"You're on" Lee agrees, moving the book away from his writings. He only managed to write the introduction and the beginning of the first few theses. It was far from 5 pages but it was at least something and definitely more than George wrote.

George walks through the library entrance. He feels like everything is crumbling inside him as he walks. The sound of his heart pounding in the ears muffles the voice calling his name somewhere behind the back.

"George!…"

He is supposed to be happy. He finally did what he had dreamed of for many years. He finally kissed the girl he was so hopelessly in love with. But instead, he feels as if a dozen Dementors attacked him. All of the hope and happiness have been sucked out of the world.

"George!…"

He'd better get away from here as fast as possible. He'd explain himself later. He'd better get to his safe space. But where should he go if he felt safe only next to her?

"George!….for Merlin's sake!….. I can't keep up with you!"

He recalls everything in his head, from what happened a minute ago to the first time he saw Y\N. He understands that all those happy moments, the tenderness, the memories they both made and the plans for the future, are all gone. He's so disappointed and so angry with himself.

"George!…"

"What?!" He stops and turns around, seeing the girl almost running along the empty corridor of Hogwarts, approaching him.

George heard her calling him. But he's not ready to face the consequences. Not now. He needs time to pull himself back together and come up with something. But he gives up. Again.

"What do you wanna hear, Y|N?!" His hands shoot up in a questioning gesture. "That I'm head over heels in love with you? With your damn perfect hair and damn marvelous eyes! With your damn angelic laughter, which drowns out all other sounds for me! And I even with the way your brows frown when you're concentrated!"

"Georgie…" He doesn't seem to notice her soft voice but continues. She wants to say something, but his confession is unstoppable. And she understands this, so she decides to just let him rant.

"Or do you wanna hear that you became a fixed point in my mind where my thoughts always come back to? That I randomly grin to myself like an idiot when I think about anything related to you. I don't know when exactly I fell for you. But it feels like I've always loved you. You're doing something to me, no one else ever could. You make me feel special and not just another poor Weasley or the second clown of Hogwarts. Every damn time you make me feel important because of who I am and not because I'm the beater or I'm the easiest way to get to Fred." His voice became calmer with each sentence. The irritated raised tone turns into his normal deep timbre, and then it will turn into a soft mumbling. " And you make all of my anxiety and worries turn off just by your presence. I was so fucking angry with myself and you did something I dunno how to explain. So now I can't be this angry. And you are…you are just….you"

She stands next to him. Almost as close as it was back then in the library. Perhaps if George wasn't so nervous, he'd realize that he liked the scent of books because it was her scent. Every time she left the library after spending several hours there, she had this slightest scent on her. It mixed with her perfume and shampoo, so it was impossible to separate and difficult to notice it.

"Are you done?" George doesn't know what to do and just nods his ginger head. Then she rises on her tiptoes and neat fingers finds the collar of his white shirt and pulls it towards her, forcing George to lean forward. Her lips touch his. Again. Only for a few seconds but this makes him blush even more, if it's possible. His freckles aren't this noticeable anymore.

The girl pulls away, the heels of her shoes meet the cold floor and her hands slide onto George's chest. But he continues to stand slightly bent forward, batting his eyelashes. She still has to lift her head slightly to look him in the eyes. In the future, this height difference will piss her off sometimes, but he'll enjoy it endlessly, liking this even more every time.

George stares deeply into her eyes, trying to understand what just happened. But he feels that he can breathe again. And somewhere inside, where his soul is, irises and daffodils and all the other flowers start to blossom slowly. Did she really kiss him? But earlier…

"But you've…." His eyebrows furrow as the puzzles are slowly coming together in his head.

"I was taken by surprise" She explains as she watches his face soften, lips rise into a wide grin that he can't stop. And why the hell should he stop it. "And you didn't give me time to understand what's going on"

George covers her hand with his own. That hand that's laying so peacefully on his rapidly beating heart.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, millimeters from her face. She can feel his breath on her lips, like a ghost kiss, dragging the moment before he crushes his lips down on hers into another real one.

Her lips are soft, almost silken, and pillowy against his own. This kiss is not just a peck, like the previous ones. This time George can understand that her lips are not exactly what he thought. Her lips feel thousands of times better than he could ever imagine. He finally feels relieve and all the world's happiness. All the happiness he supposed to feel. Happiness, that had been accumulating for a long time and didn't leave the palace of his dreams, Finally to escape to freedom. His palms find their place around her waist as he pulls her closer, forcing their bodies to collapse into each other, holding each other as tightly as humanly possible. Her hands shoot up to his hair, slowly letting her fingers slip into ginger strands. He kisses Y/N like he has never kissed anyone else before. With all the tenderness and love he has kept locked in his heart till this moment. George doesn’t see this, but he feels how the gray world around him is filled with colors again. The warmth spreads all over his body and his brain stops working properly.

This girl, this bright and breathtaking girl, is his. Their lips moved softly, delicately, and almost innocently before. But Y/N is driving him insane and intoxicate him with the sweet smell of her body. He can feel her hand slide to his nape and she lightly runs fingers up along his neck. Tiny soft moans escape his lips in the surprise of the goosebumps this action sent down his body. As a response, George brings up his freckled hands to cup her face. His calloused fingers caress her flushed cheeks as he nibbles her lower lip, not so hard to hurt, but enough for Y/N to feel it. Now it's her turn to let out a small, barely audible moan, which makes him break out into a shit-eating grin.

The girl gently pulls away, while George still holds her face in his warm hands.

"I love you too, Georgie. And your damn perfect hair and damn marvelous eyes"

Bonus:

He lets out a giggle caused by quoting. He's unable to open his eyes for a few moments after this kiss, a huge smile on his face

"But…"

"But…?" The question sounds teasing even though his voice is hoarse.

"We have an essay to finish. It's due tomorrow, and you haven't even written a sentence yet." she wrinkles her nose in a taunting way.

"Nooooo" Redhead lets out a groan, throwing his head back. "Don't make me do this, Flower"

"I won't write it for you" She kisses his pouty lips as a response to the puppy gaze he gave her. Y/N frees herself from his cozy grip and heads towards the library. "You'd better write at least something unless you prefer scrubbing cauldron instead of…let's say…sneaking into Hogsmeade."

George catches up with her a couple of seconds later. He slightly leans down just for a moment to catch her hand in his and intertwine their fingers.

"Y/N…." he tries this 'puppy gaze trick' again.

"Fine." She sighs in defeat "I will help you with a plan and theses, but you will write it yourself."

George breaks into a smile once again and brings her hand to his lips, leaving kisses on her knuckles. Well, the thesis for Someone's Third Law is at least something. Plus, he’s sure that he’s sure Y/N will write his essay as soon as she finishes hers. And, to be honest, Fred's too.

After some time, when they are a meter from the huge wooden door, George suddenly wonders.

"Galleons or Sickles?"

"What?"

"Galleons or Sickles?" He repeats, opening the door in front of Y/N

"Wait, you're wondering how much they bet on us, aren't you?"

George overtakes the girl, ending up in front of her, and leans down so that their eyes are at the same level. He shoves his hands into pockets and wrinkles his nose therefore mocking Y/N's previous actions.

"I'll bet a Galleon that Lee owes Fred a Galleon"

masterpost

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley headcanon #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley smut #george weasley x fem #george weasley x slytherin!reader #george weasley x you #george weasley x y/n #george weasley fluff #george weasley fic #george weasley angst #the weasley twins #weasley twins #weasley twins x reader #weasley twins smut #harry potter fanfiction

[toomuchracket]

ok idk what universe or how the circumstances lead to this. but im having dad matty brainrot. maybe girlie is busy and matty has to watch the kids but hes meant to be getting a new tattoo (maybe hes supposed to go with the guys, which is why he cant cancel). but he has to bring the kiddos with him and while hes getting tattooed another artist or maybe even one of the guys doodles on kiddis arm so they can match their dad :(

fuck it, og dad!matty universe! it's the last couple of weeks of the summer holidays and you're mildly concerned about the fact your husband is planning on taking your 6 year old and 8 year old with him and the boys while they get new tattoos (maybe to celebrate an album anniversary or some shit), but when george comes to pick them up he reassures you like "it's fine! it's a nice day, we'll go into the shop one at a time, whoever's not in can just be at the park down the road with dyl and lena". a good idea in theory, and it works for a little bit while matty's playing football with his babies and giving them piggybacks and whatnot; when it's matty's turn to go in and get his tattoo, though, elena's (who's been a bit more shy and reserved lately - you think she might be a bit nervous to go back to school) little lip starts to wobble like she's going to cry, and she clings to his leg and will not let go even when adam's like "el! we'll go and get ice cream, yeah? your dad won't be long, you know that". matty has to crouch to her level like "i'll be twenty minutes, munchkin. four bluey episodes long. that's all! my big, brave girl, you'll be alright without me for that long, won't you?", and she shakes her little curly head quite vehemently - when the sniffles begin, matty just hugs her into him and softly shushes her like "alright, darling, you can come in with me. but you have to sit nice next to me, yeah? no running around in case you get hurt". so then obv dylan wants to come in, too, not because she's also upset but because she's curious about the tattoos "cos you and mum both have them but i don't know how you get them" lol; she drags ross in too, because that's bestie, and he sits with a kid on each knee and patiently explains to them what's going on while their dad gets another tattoo. the tattoo artists are really sweet - the guy doing matty's is like "oh! it's nice to finally meet the two of you, it was me who did the tattoos your mummy and daddy got when you were both born" (a.n. i have no idea what these look like actually), which impresses them a lot. but he doesn't impress them nearly as much as the other girl, who they say looks like a tattooed isabela madrigal (she laughs really hard at this and calls them adorable) and who lets them look through the sample book; they both pick out the ones they'll get when they're big enough (matty shakes his head at this, but he and ross giggle. how could they not?), and the girl gives them a couple of little temporary tattoo strips to "take home and get mum to help you put on. i think i would save them for parties, though" (matty thinks this is a genius suggestion, because he knows full well his daughters would have begged for them to be put on immediately otherwise lol). the doodling happens between dylan and elena themselves, i think - one of them gets hold of a pen and says "let me draw on you so you can match daddy?", and her sister is like "YEAH and then i can do it on you", while matty's half crying at how cute they are and half stressing about taking them home covered in pen lol. but yeah, the girls are good as gold, so good that their dad can't not treat them to an ice cream AND a tango ice blast to share afterwards, followed by another run around in the park to tire them out before it's time to go home and then pick up mummy from work. a lovely day <3

#mads answers asks #matty asks #fluff asks #flatmate!matty #dad!matty #dylan #elena

[magniloquent-raven]

i wrote 1400 words of trans billy jerking off i hope yall enjoy him being horny and gross lmfao

**

Billy’s never been very good at resisting temptation, especially when it comes to his big stupid crush on Steve. 

He refuses to call it that, but that’s what it is. If it wasn’t he wouldn’t fucking be here, in Steve’s room, creeping on all his shit while Steve makes a beer run.

Not reading his diary or anything like that—mostly because he couldn’t find one—he’s just. Looking. 

He fiddles with the knickknacks strewn around on the simple pine dresser. Sneaks a peek in the top drawer. It’s full of row upon row of tighty-whities, not a secret to be found amongst them. He shuts it again with a sigh and moves on. To the dusty stack of magazines on the desk. There’s uncapped pens tucked next to it. The magazines are all boring. The ones with pretty girls on the covers are at the top of the pile, and the ones at the bottom are all finance mags with words crossed out and doodled over. 

He drops them haphazardly, and wanders over to the bed, perching on the edge of it.

And sitting there on the bedside table, tucked behind the clunky lamp, is a half-empty tub of Vaseline that Billy spends several minutes staring at while his brain shorts out. 

Okay. So. He knew he was probably gonna find something like that, he was kind of looking for something like that. And yet he still wasn’t prepared for real, tangible evidence that Steve Harrington lays on this very bed and touches himself. With those long fingers, slicked up and grasping desperately, lips bitten red and parted as he gasps, moans, not bothering to keep quiet when he’s all alone in the house…

Billy is both too buzzed and not buzzed enough to be doing this.

He runs his hand over the wrinkled pillowcase beside him. It’s some fancy high thread count shit, gotta be, it feels fine and delicate under his palm, soft as a summer breeze. Bet it smells just as sweet too. Like honey and clover and Steve. 

It takes him all of three seconds to throw dignity out the window—that ship pretty much sailed when he made a beeline for Steve’s room the second the front door closed behind him anyways—and lean down to bury his face in the scent. It’s everything he’s filed away under spank bank material over the years and more. All the whiffs of Steve’s shampoo he got in the locker room, the faintly lingering scent of hairspray and expensive leather, the overwhelmingly alluring musk clinging to him after basketball practice, when the collar of his shirt was askew and stuck to his damp chest, soaked with trickles of sweat that Billy wanted to chase with his tongue. 

His pillow smells like every wet dream Billy’s had since he moved to Hawkins. And all his stupid guilty fantasies about waking up next to Steve, all sunshine dappled and sleepy-eyed, gentle and domestic. Soft. 

Billy shifts a little. His briefs are damp, sticky, clinging to him in uncomfortable places, and he can’t help grinding his hips in a slow circle as heat builds low in his gut.

He’s been pent up all goddamn afternoon. Watching Steve’s long fingers as he rolled a joint, his pretty lips pursed and pink and looking so, so soft. Having to act like he wasn’t losing his fucking mind staring at the bit of chest hair peeking out of the unbuttoned collar of Steve’s stupid meticulously ironed polo shirt. And all the while, Steve had no fucking idea, sat there tapping Billy’s thigh with his socked foot, throwing a leg over his lap when Billy tried to bat him away, grinning oh-so-innocently with his dumb gorgeous face all lit up with mirth. 

Being that close to him always drives Billy fucking insane, and they spent hours like that, in each others’ space, brushing fingers when they passed the joint, Steve rubbing Billy’s hip with his heel occasionally, absently, like petting a cat you’re only half paying attention to.

Fucking maddening. 

Frustrating. 

God—

Billy turns, mussing the comforter as he moves his leg to part his knees and plant his ass right in the middle of the bed. He grips the pillow, toying with its seam, staring down at it, imagining Steve laying beneath him, his hair splayed against his pillowcase, eyes dark, his sides soft between Billy’s thighs. 

He’d slide back just a little and feel the hard bulge straining against Steve’s jeans. Rub up against him ‘til Steve begged him for more, ‘til they’re both soaking through their briefs and desperate for it.  

Billy presses into the mattress til his cock throbs and his breath hitches. 

He slides a hand under his shirt, up his own stomach, his chest, huffs a sigh when he hits smooth fabric pulled tight across. Rubbing the hard nub of his nipple through three layers of nylon and spandex is an exercise in frustration and a fucking tease. There’s a dull burn, a familiar building coil of heat, but it’s not enough. 

If he was smart he’d stay mostly clothed in case Steve gets back earlier than expected, but he’s not exactly thinking with his brain right now. He strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it behind him without looking to see where it lands, already halfway to stripping his makeshift binder off when he hears the soft thud of it hitting the floor. 

The last half is a lot of undignified wiggling to get the final sweaty layer off, but it’s worth it for the sweet bolt of pleasure that lances through him when he digs his nails into the soft skin around his nipple, and he bites his lip to stifle a groan. 

He wonders if Steve would be rough with him. Hurt him if he asked. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have to ask.

Maybe he’d sit up, his hands on Billy’s hips, pulling him closer, pressing his plush lips to Billy’s neck, his collarbone, his grip bruising but his kisses gentle, making his way down to the soft swell of Billy’s chest. And then he’d sink his teeth in. Biting, only where Billy’s always covered. Where he can’t show anybody for fear of discovery. Somewhere he can leave his own secrets safely.

Billy scrapes his blunt nails over his skin, eyes falling shut as he tries to imagine, tries to convince himself Steve’s really here, would want to touch him like this. 

He ruts against the mattress, it’s an awkward angle, hurts his knees to press so far down, but his breathing stutters every time he gets it just right.

With Steve’s scent all around him it’s almost, almost…

He grasps clumsily for the pillow, and shoves it between his legs. 

Would Steve go just as easily if Billy straddled him, framed his flushed face with muscular thighs and bore down on his waiting mouth, riding him ‘til he’s slick from nose to chin, messy and red-lipped and more than happy to stay between Billy’s trembling legs. 

Too many layers of fabric rub against each other as Billy moves, and he disentangles himself from his shorts, tossing them on the floor too. 

The backs of his knees are sweating, and his chest heaves with labored breaths. Hot, liquid pleasure buzzes in his veins, something possessive flaring in his chest when his bare skin brushes Steve’s pillowcase, blue cotton whispering against the softness of the inside of his thighs. He can smell his own sex, soaking through his briefs, his scent blending with Steve’s and making his head spin. 

He rolls the hard nub of his nipple between his fingers, pinching tight, moaning low in his throat. 

With one final, shuddering thrust, he comes, lips parted but breathless, wordless, eyes squeezed shut as it hits him in waves. 

He blinks.

The duvet is askew, as much as he smooths his hands over the corners of it he’s not sure he can put it back the way it was. He definitely can’t put the pillow back the way it was. He pulls it gingerly from it’s rumpled place between his knees, and eyes the wet patch he left right down the middle.

It should make him nervous. Fearful of discovery. 

It doesn’t.

He strokes a finger through the mess he left, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He’s still seated, catching his breath, sweaty and flushed in the afterglow, when he hears the front door open.

~~~tag list ppl @growup-thatbeautiful @spreckle

#stranger things #billy hargrove #trans billy hargrove #harringrove #pre-harringrove #a raven's writing desk #i drew this exact scenario and then wanted to write about it #i haven't finished the drawing lol

[brzatto]

I have some questions I wanted to ask :3c

I really love your Carmy drawing! You drew his sad puppy eyes and messy hair perfectly. Are you going to post any more art? 👀

I just started watching season 2 of The Bear and I was wondering how your rewatch was going. Any new thoughts after rewatching?

You're a Pacific Rim fan? 🥳 If Carmy and Richie were partners in that I feel like the Jaeger would immediately explode as soon as they were both plugged into it 😂 What are your AU thoughts?

helloooo <3

1. thank you!!!! ;_; as for posting any more art idk i doubt it >_< if i’m being honest i rarely ever draw at all and that doodle was just a one off but if i ever just so happen to do any more in the future then maybe! i’d like to get back into drawing more but the bear has pretty evidently manifested itself more in the writing side of my brain so

2. if i’m being honest i’m still on ep2 of my rewatch LMFAO every time i try and sit myself down and tell myself to watch it i end up finding an excuse to pull myself away. idk why i’m so mentally averse to it… what’s that thing called where people keep putting off things they genuinely want to do because that’s basically what’s happening rn. i do have a lot of thoughts and half formed posts in my drafts rn just from my first watch alone though i just feel like i should complete my rewatch before sharing them and then i keep… not doing that

3. i loooove pacrim it’s one of my favorite movies/universes ever. if i like a character or a pairing regardless of what the og media source is trust that i will be imagining them in a pacrim au… i’ve been toying with the idea for carmy and richie on and off in the back of my head since way back last year but i actually think it works pretty 1:1 with canon! mikey and richie being lifelong best friends and going into the pilot program together, finding out they’re drift compatible and becoming jaeger pilots together, mikey being kia, carmy always having this pipe dream of becoming a pilot and spending his childhood looking up to mikey and richie and wanting to be just like them but being deterred by something or another. maybe going through the program but because he’s naturally reserved and introverted he thinks he doesn’t have what it takes to be an actual pilot or that he’ll never be drift compatible with someone because he can’t really imagine connecting with anyone in that way. when mikey dies richie’s left in need of a partner but richie is richie so he’s not really compatible with anyone else until they offer to test carmy and lo and behold.. richie balks from it at first obviously because carmy’s just a rookie without any real experience in the field and he and mikey were pretty well established for years (if not just a little unorthodox) and internally half of him is unable to accept the idea of carmy being mikey’s replacement due to his grief and the other half of him is unable to accept carmy being mikey’s replacement due to his protectiveness of carmy (but he doesn’t mention or bring that up ever. i think their dynamics and history in pacrimverse would mirror their histories together in canon, but any genuine good intentions richie has is also probably overshadowed by his anger/resentment and he ends up lashing out a lot at the higher ups and keeping carmy at arm’s length the whole time this is happening. he’s just like.. not coping well. or at all for that matter) cue some very slow burn and mutually tentative bonding and richie always berating carmy for being “just a kid” throughout it and objecting about having him out in the field (not to his face or anything, probably not even with malicious intent or with the purpose of hurting carmy but carmy probably overhears or finds out anyways and resents him for it + feels all that self loathing and ineptitude because he knows he couldn’t live up to mikey either) and richie being given the ultimatum of either having carmy as his partner or being forced to retire but when they’re put in a tight spot they DO go out in the field together. something very dramatic and tragic happens because something dramatic and tragic is always happening in a pacrim au and it seems unlikely that they’ll both make it out and richie is adamant about carmy being the one who lives, still struggles with all that survivor’s guilt over mikey and wouldn’t be able to take going through it again, especially not with carmy. carmy of course is like… kicking and screaming and very much NOT willing to leave him behind and at the same time he’s ANGRY because all this time richie still doesn’t think of him as being capable nor does he trust carmy enough to be able to let him help and for them to go through this together. i don’t think carmy is as concerned as much about whether he lives or dies, or even really if richie lives or dies, i think whatever happens he just wants to see it through alongside richie. he wants richie to trust him, he wants them to be a team, and regardless of what happens to them he wants them to do it together meanwhile richie’s only priority is to ensure carmy walks away from this alive. at all costs.

since this isn’t necessarily a fic plot or anything just how i imagine a pacrim au for them would be like, the endings vary—richie deceives carmy/saves him against his will and has to deal with knowing he’s automatically lost all and whatever tentative trust carmy had in him leading up to this, either richie lives and he and carmy have to start again from the ground up bond wise (maybe they realize they can’t be partners after all and richie would rather retire than have to be put in a position like that again) (lawful evil end) OR carmy eventually forgives him and they work it out and continue being partners (lawful neutral end) OR richie dies and carmy’s left to deal with the survivor’s guilt instead. (neutral evil end)

alternate endings: carmy stays and saves richie instead—also up to you whether he lives or dies but in the event that carmy dies richie has to go through all that mess with mikey all over again and idk if he could like. mentally/emotionally/physically survive that (chaotic evil end) or carmy finally finally convinces richie to trust in him just this once and they combat the evil together and come out of it stronger and closer than ever (lawful good end). also if i’m being honest when i think of this au playing out in my head i surprisingly don’t think of them ever being explicitly romantic but they still have that air of weird unspoken homoerotic tension that they do in s1: richie still devastated and grieving and fighting a battle of internal conflict, carmy still rash and impulsive and oblivious, richie wanting nothing to do with carmy but still unable to stomach the mere notion of putting him at risk, carmy thinking richie is a washed up asshole but still desperately wanting his trust and approval. sometimes the pining is better ngl

#thank you SO much for asking me about my pacrim au…. it was nice to finally put these thoughts down somewhere since it’s basically #exclusively lived in the crevices at the back of my mind up until now #but yeah i think about it a lot. i fucking love pacrim and the whole concept and universe and lore… i actually DO think sydney would be #drift compatible with carmy too #it also makes me happy to know you liked my art you’re so sweet >_< #ask #carmrich #carmy x richie

[weyrwolfen]

Eidola: Chapter 17 - CT-25-9102 Sketch

Rating: T

Characters: Gen, Clone Trooper OCs, Captain Rex, Ahsoka Tano, and other canon members of the 501st/332nd

Warnings: canon-typical violence; references to self-harm, injuries, and substance abuse; PTSD; it’s post-Order 66 and nobody is having a good time (but they’re all working on it)

Summary: The mission was never to bring down the Empire. Not really. The mission was to save every single one of their chipped brothers. But if doing do helped break the Empire’s stranglehold on the galaxy? Well, that was just a bonus.

“Sketch! Sketch!”

Sketch, who’d been walking down the Scythe’s ramp, overfilled rucksack dragging at his sore shoulders, looked up to see Pry running full-tilt across the hanger bay, grinning like a loon. The other Reapers had stopped whatever they were doing to watch Pry’s progress, no doubt wondering what all the fuss was about.

“What?” Sketch called back, nudging the brother in front of him, Knots, to try to get him to start moving again.

“The bacta everybody brought back from Wadj was enough,” Pry gasped as he skidded to a stop at the edge of the ramp, panting like he’d just outrun a pack of commando droids. “The Captain’s lifting the rationing.”

Oh! Well, maybe that was news worth sprinting across base to deliver. “Does Canvas know?” Sketch asked, grinning wide enough to match Pry’s ebullient expression.

“He’s taken over one of the empty bunks. Come on!”

“I thought they were blue.”

“They were, but they were green before that.”

“How does that even work?”

“No idea. Some kind of Force osik.”

“What’re you thinking about getting?” That last question came from Pry, distractingly close to Sketch’s ear.

Sketch looked up from his flimsipad and found Pry peeking over his shoulder. They were both sitting on the floor, outside of the room Canvas had commandeered. It was in the section of the residential floors that had been given over to natborns and brothers with natborn families, but most all of them had already shipped out to Wadj, leaving the smaller, private rooms temporarily unclaimed. Sketch assumed that wouldn’t last for long, not with all the new Mandos arriving on base, but for now, this part of the base should be safe enough. Besides, Weaver had apparently signed off on the whole thing, so it wasn’t like anyone with any authority was going to come tell them they had to move.

Nano was inside with Canvas now, which meant that it was Sketch’s turn next. He had a lot of ideas, designs he’d been working on for ages, but he needed to choose one. Just one, to start. The rest could come later.

The brothers behind Sketch and Pry in line – Midge, Rancor, Vista, and a freshly cleared brother from the latest rescued batch whose name Sketch hadn’t caught quite yet – kept up their conversation in the background.

Sketch was only half-listening, letting their words wash over him, but Pry was still waiting for an answer, so he finally admitted, “I’m having some trouble deciding.”

“I heard Vader did it. Changed them,” the conversation continued, further down the hall.

“You’re serious.”

“Yeah. I mean, he wasn’t Vader then. It was before.”

“Huh. That’s karked up.”

“Understatement.”

Pry was eyeing the page in Sketch’s book. “That one would be pretty wizard,” he said, pointing at one of the smaller doodles in the lower, lefthand corner of the page. It was a drawing of a chipped stone knife, cutting edge crude and scalloped, with a handle wrapped in intricately-knotted cording.

In the second year of the war, Sketch had been stationed on a moon so remote it didn’t even have a formal name, just a number. XR-33-419 had been pretty boring, in all honesty. They’d been tasked with guarding a small base with a stockpile of supplies nobody had seemed interested in either deploying or stealing. It had been nice at first. He could draw whenever he wanted, and nobody was actively shooting at him, but after a while, the boredom had started getting to him.

Their CO, Sergeant Ellis, had been stationed there since the beginning of the war. Nobody knew who he’d pissed off, to get stuck with such a jerkwater assignment for so long. Sketch had liked him well enough, but he had to admit that their CO had come across as more than a little weird. The Sergeant had cultivated all sorts of obscure hobbies he’d picked up from watching holonet videos on a contraband datapad.

One of them was chipping primitive stone tools out of the surrounding volcanic rocks. Sketch hadn’t really seen the appeal at first, but after a while, he’d gotten bored enough with endless, uneventful patrols to give it a try. He’d never quite gotten the hang of it. The Sergeant had never stopped trying to teach Sketch, had actually been way more patient than Sketch himself had been, the couple of times brothers had asked him to teach them how to draw.

In the end, Sergeant Ellis had ended up making so many blades during those doomed demonstrations that he’d started handing them out to the other brothers on base. Sketch had carried his for the rest of the war, even after he’d been transferred back into a front-line battalion. It had even gotten him out of a tight spot once, when he’d been grabbed by one of the giant, semi-sentient plants on Felucia. Apparently, if you knew how to work it correctly, natural volcanic glass could be pretty kriffing sharp.

Force only knew where that knife was now. He had no memory of what he’d done with it, once his chip had activated. Probably chucked it in a trash receptacle somewhere, seeing as how it had been decidedly non-regulation.

He also didn’t know what had happened to Sergeant Ellis. He’d asked some of his brothers in the control center to check, but they’d never found anything. The designation number he’d known had been attached to a brother who’d died at the First Battle of Geonosis.

Maybe Sketch had remembered the number wrong.

Maybe the Sergeant was still stationed on XR-33-419, making his rock knives, except apparently Sketch had remembered the moon’s stupid designation incorrectly too. They couldn’t find any record of the place.

Maybe Sketch had knocked more than a few screws loose, during the chip or after. Maybe none of that had ever happened.

Kriff, he was going to have to sit down and chat with Sling again, wasn’t he?

“Yeah,” he’d said to Pry noncommittally, not wanting to talk about it. He flipped to the next page in his book.

Their brothers continued their conversation, which seemed to be annoying Pry, assuming Sketch was interpreting the glower his brother threw over his shoulder correctly. “So, now they’re green again.”

“Obviously.”

“Okay, but why are they green?”

“Maybe she changed them back?”

“How does that even work?”

“I don’t know. Whatever he did to them, but in reverse?”

“I’m going to get Commander Tano’s markings on my shoulder,” Pry finally said, turning his attention back to Sketch’s book. Some of the art wasn’t really appropriate for Canvas to use, detailed studies of ships or buildings or people Sketch had seen, so he flipped past those pages quickly. “Maybe in 44th silver? I think Canvas said the machine they found can do the fancy metallic stuff.”

Pry’s plan wasn’t exactly surprising, especially now that the Commander had given everyone her blessing to use her markings as a semi-official symbol of their operation. Or at least that was what Jesse had said on the flight back from Wadj.

Sketch had come up with a couple of designs incorporating her mirrored marks too, but he wasn’t happy with any of them just yet. It felt wrong, to only credit her for their work here and not the Captain, but referencing Rex was a little harder to pin down, graphically speaking. There were his jaig eyes, of course, but those had a kind of cultural weight Sketch wasn’t comfortable claiming for his own. Not without doing something to actually earn them. He’d been playing around with incorporating a pair of DC-17s, but it was all very much a work in progress.

But Pry’s comment about metallic inks did give him an idea. Sketch turned a couple more pages, looking for another half-completed design he’d been playing with, off and on, for weeks.

It didn’t take long to find it: a pair of crossed scythes, shorter-bladed and longer-handled than the purely agricultural variant. He’d first seen them on the belts of some local farmers on a few of the Mid-Rim agriworlds. That style of blade had apparently worked just as well on grain as pirates, and Sketch had figured they’d make just about the perfect symbol for the Reapers.

He’d only mentioned it to a couple of the others, but they’d all like it. Feathers had been enthusiastic enough that he’d insisted on renaming their ship. Sketch was supposed to float the design past Jesse and Ridge for approval, whenever he got around to finishing it.

He hadn’t realized they’d be able to get metallic tattoos. It got him thinking about the design again.

Maybe if he added a couple mirrored slashes, near where the handles crossed. That would be kind of reminiscent of the Captain’s jaig eyes without actually being them, and adding in the top half of the commander’s markings above that sort of filled in the visual dead space nicely. Oh, and he could continue her paired lines below the crossed scythes too. Now that was an idea…

The door next to Sketch swished open and Nano stepped out, a bacta patch peeking out from under the high collar of his blacks on the side of his neck. “You’re up,” he said, smiling down at Sketch, who was still sitting on the floor.

Osik! Maybe he’d have time to rough out the design for Canvas? He’d heard something about sanitizing the equipment in between uses. Or maybe he should just stick with one of his other designs, so he could finish working up this one?

“What does it feel like?” Pry asked while Sketch started to push himself to his feet, turning the question around and around in his head.

“It tingled some,” Nano admitted, starting to reach up to maybe rub at his neck, but he arrested the gesture before he’d actually made contact. “The improvised stuff we had on the Fearless used needles instead of lasers and stung a whole lot more.”

That was interesting. In the privacy of his own mind, Sketch could confess that he hadn’t realized there would be a difference. He bent over to pick up his helmet.

“Quartz said they used to be two different greens. Like, regular green and kind of yellow green.”

“Shouldn’t they have matched? I thought the colors meant something. You know, like spiritually.”

“I don’t think they do.”

“I mean, red means something pretty kriffing specific.”

“Yeah, okay fair. But I think that’s an exception.”

“Sith-flavored Force osik.”

“Exactly.”

“I swear some of the 91st said purple meant something about balance.”

“She got new crystals,” Pry said loudly, interrupting the ongoing debate which had continued, unabated, further down the line in the hallway. “She went into that Force temple and brought out a big chunk of kyber. So did everyone else on that–”

Sketch, who’d actually heard all of that straight from Jesse, didn’t stick around to listen to the rest. He just stepped into Canvas’s improvised studio and let the door whisk shut behind him, muffling the rest of Pry’s lecture.

Canvas looked up from whatever he’d been doing to the device in his hands, the intricate, geometric lines of his own facial tattoos crinkling at the corners of both eyes. “Got a design ready for me?”

“Uh, more like too many designs, and I’m leaning towards one I haven’t even finished,” Sketch admitted awkwardly.

“Well, let me take a look,” Canvas said, gesturing for Sketch to sit down on the stool next to him. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

The bacta patch pulled at the skin across the back of Sketch’s neck and down onto his upper back. It itched, but beneath his armor, there wasn’t a kriffing thing he could do about that right now. Honestly, he should have taken the stupid thing off hours ago, but he’d gotten a little waylaid.

The Martez sisters had arrived earlier in the shift to drop off their latest shipment and pick up the gold-plated pleasure craft which had been junking up the base’s exterior. Apparently there’d been some kind of haggling to be done with the chop shop owner who’d agreed to take the thing, because while he was very much in favor of earning credits and sabotaging slavers, the craft itself was well-enough known in certain circles to be a liability if it was recognized. Also, there’d been news of some sort, way too sensitive to discuss out in the hanger, amongst the rank and file. Commander Tano, Captain Rex, and both of their remaining Corries had disappeared off with the sisters to deal with whatever that situation was shaping up to be.

And that had left the hanger bay unusually light on clones this shift.

Which was bad news for Sketch, because firstly, he’d been saddled with doing an inventory of everything the Martezes had delivered, and secondly, one of the Mandalorians had cornered him in a dead end made by the walls of newly delivered crates.

Granted, she was a very small Mandalorian, but still.

“Do clones take foundlings?” the girl was asking, all sharp, bright-eyed curiosity.

“Uh…” Sketch said, sounding like a complete idiot, but in all fairness, he was kind of panicking on the inside. He wasn’t entirely sure what a ‘foundling’ was, but he was absolutely sure that Weaver would skin him as a warning to their other brothers if he did something to offend their guests. “What’s a foundling?”

The girl looked at him like he’d lost his mind. She was a tiny little thing, maybe three or four years old if Sketch guessed right. Or, what, seven or so, given that she was a natborn? In any case, she was wearing barely any armor, just a couple bracers and one spaulder over a utilitarian, blue-gray jumpsuit. It’d be cute, if she had been one of Sketch’s younger siblings.

But she wasn’t.

“Like, kids who don’t have any clan to take care of them, so an adult takes them in?” the kid said, sounding like it was entirely possible that Sketch was the stupidest sentient she’d ever had the misfortune of meeting.

“Uh, yes?” Sketch said, because that sounded like half a dozen examples on base, where clones had adopted natborn kids.

“Hmm,” the kid said consideringly, like he’d said something far more interesting that Sketch thought he had. “Do you have an Armorer? Because Lira says you do, but Rian says you don’t, because plastoid doesn’t count.”

Kriff, kriff, kriff. He had a better idea of what the kid meant by that, beyond the obvious. Armorers were like religious leaders, or something. Ori had sent around a memo, once a couple weird interactions had started going down between the Mandalorians and Buckler’s team.

Sketch punched a button on his vambrace, again, hoping someone on his squad would see his distress signal and come save him. He didn’t even care that this obviously wasn’t a combat situation. He needed kriffing exfil before he accidentally started some kind of diplomatic incident because he couldn’t figure out how to escape from a kriffing natborn kid without offending her, her natborn parents, who really should be watching their kid better, and whoever else fell in this cadet’s direct chain of command.

His brothers weren’t ever going to let him hear the end of this.

At the moment, Sketch didn’t really care. He didn’t see another way out, short of shoulder-checking the kid out of the way. She was planted right in the middle of his only exit, which was a complete shiny mistake on his part, except this was his base, his home, and he shouldn’t be getting ambushed by tiny Mandalorians here anyway.

“We have brothers who make our armor,” he hedged, taking another step backwards, but he was hemmed in on all sides by crates from the Silver Angel.

“Do you speak Mando’a?” the kid asked, crossing her arms across her chest and glaring at Sketch significantly.

Yes, yes Sketch did, a little. A very, very little. And he wasn’t about to demonstrate any of the words he used most often in front of a political timebomb of a natborn child who he absolutely could not offend.

“Sora! Where did you get to?” another voice cut in, and maybe that might have made Sketch relax a little if he’d recognized them, but he didn’t.

The kid’s face scrunched up, like she very badly wanted to stomp her foot or throw some other kind of tantrum, but she did turn halfway around and reply, “I’m over here!”

The voice’s owner appeared at the end of the row of crates, and of course it was another Mandalorian, except this one was an adult woman, fully-armored in green and blue plate. “I told you not to leave the ship!” she said, storming down the aisle between the crates, headed straight for the kid.

Headed straight for Sketch.

The back of his cuirass clacked against the crates as he took another involuntary step backwards.

A voice, which sounded an awful lot like Sling, was saying in the back of Sketch’s head, ‘Breathe. You’re safe. Just breathe with me.’

Sketch breathed, or tried to, as the Mandalorian woman stomped closer.

He hated this. He hadn’t been like this before. General Talmani had been kind. The natborn officers on the Synchronicity had been professional. Most of the civilians he’d interacted with had been fine. Some had even been nice.

But then his chip had activated, and then the nature of his interactions with natborns had taken a definite turn.

You’re safe. Breathe. You do not answer to them. They haven’t done anything, and if they do, you have the right to defend yourself now. Just breathe.

Kark every last square centimeter of all of this. He was not going to have his first panic attack in a kriffing year because he’d let himself get cornered by an overly-curious if overbearing natborn child and her parent? Sibling? Guardian?

Didn’t matter. She could be Lady Kryze herself, and she still wouldn’t be in Sketch’s chain of command. He was safe. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

He must have fuzzed out for a second, because it took him a minute to realize that the Mandalorian woman was lecturing the kid, not him. Unless he was really misjudging the angle of her helmet’s T-visor, she wasn’t even looking at him.

“… going to apologize to him. Right now,” she was saying, sounding very annoyed.

Which, what? That seemed like a trap.

“That’s not necessary, ma’am,” he found himself saying mechanically.

Both of the Mandalorians were looking at him now. The kid was pouting, and the adult’s helmet was tipped to one side at an angle Sketch might have called ‘assessing’ if he’d seen it on one of his brothers.

The datapad in Sketch’s hands was starting to creak in protest of how hard he was gripping it.

After a very long, very awkward silence, the woman reached up to remove her helmet, revealing what was, in all fairness, a very attractive, seemingly human face. Close-cropped brown hair, high cheekbones, rich brown eyes, and lips that seemed more prone to smiles than their current, small frown.

Sketch didn’t relax even a little, still every bit as tripwire tense as he’d been since the woman had first appeared.

She opened her mouth to say something, but the sound of heavy boot treads behind her drew her attention instead.

The choking, smothering feeling of panic loosened its hold inside Sketch’s chest when he saw the Republic cog on his brother’s helmet.

Jesse.

Thank kriff. Jesse would know how to handle this.

“What seems to be the problem?” Jesse said, sounding perfectly cordial. His stance was anything but.

Sketch didn’t miss the way the woman angled herself, where the slightest twist would put her armored body in between the child and either one of the troopers who were now surrounding her, but her voice sounded utterly calm, even casual when she said, “I’m afraid my little sister cornered one of your troopers with, I’m sure, a large number of highly nosy questions. For which she was just about to apologize.”

The child’s pout intensified, but she did look up at Sketch and mumble, “Sorry.”

Sketch jerked a small nod. “No harm done, ma’am,” he said in the same mechanical tone.

If anything, that made Jesse’s posture go even more tense, but none of that was obvious in his voice when he said, “That’s good to hear. Brother, could you join me?”

Something occurred to the woman then. Unhappy surprise flashed across her features before her eyes shuttered. She put a hand on her sister’s shoulder and turned, backing them both against the long line of crates, opening an obvious escape route for Sketch.

One foot in front of the next, measured and perfect. Above reproach. He even managed a marginal nod, conveying appropriate gratitude as he passed the two Mandalorians. He hated to give them his back, but Jesse was here. His brother, his team leader was here, watching over the situation. Sketch was safe enough, with an ARC as his backup.

When he got in range, Jesse took him by the elbow, his gloved and gauntleted hand solid and grounding.

Sketch took a shaky breath in the privacy of his own helmet.

“I hear you’ve finally come up with a design for a Reaper logo,” Jesse said as they started walking swiftly away, still sounding supremely casual. Sketch was grateful for the distraction.

The Mandalorians weren’t following them. Sketch looked back to check.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, sounding humiliatingly unsteady. “Canvas just finished up the coloring earlier this shift.”

“I hear he does good work,” Jesse said, steering them both towards the bay’s side door rather than the main exit. That led towards the medics’ area rather than the main part of the base, which wasn’t exactly surprising. Sketch didn’t have it in him to protest. He was having a bad reaction, way out of proportion with the severity of the actual situation. He knew that. Knowing didn’t make his heart stop pounding though. “We’ll have to compare notes, after you chat with Kix.”

Kriff, that was right. Kix had accompanied them back from Wadj. It was looking like their Reaper team had picked up a dedicated medic. Kind of a step down from being the functional CMO of their little operation, but Kix had insisted. Jesse certainly wasn’t about to tell his closest brother no, and apparently, neither were his former COs.

Sketch still winced a little. Kix could be kind of intense. “I was going to talk to Sling,” he said, sounding as sulky as the kid had.

Something about that seemed to amuse Jesse, given the angle of his bucket. “You can do that too, but you’re still seeing Kix.”

Kark.

Jesse liked the tattoo. So did all of the others.

Canvas had some kind of personal rule about not copying the same tattoos between brothers without explicit permission, but Sketch was happy to share. That was sort of the whole point of the design, after all.

Smaller versions showed up on Quartz’s shoulder and Mirror’s chest. List added a version to his armor. Feathers wanted Sketch to paint a bigger version on the side of the Scythe. Apparently some of Ridge’s team had gotten wind of it too, not that Sketch had seen what they’d done yet.

Kix surprisingly hadn’t insisted on benching Sketch, but it didn’t escape anyone’s attention that Sketch was always assigned a partner, when he was given any task which might bring him into contact with the Mandalorians on base. He might have protested being coddled like that if it hadn’t been such a relief.

When word of their next mission came down, a major raid on some kind of independent pirate enclave, Kix still didn’t flag Sketch’s file.

When pressed, their way-too-senior team medic had sourly pointed out that Sketch had proven time and again that he was perfectly capable of keeping it together when his mission involved shooting natborns. He just couldn’t kriffing talk to them.

“It’s not ideal, but what is these days?” Kix had said, which was abrasive as all kriff, but also weirdly comforting. If Sketch was a basket case, then at least he was in good company.

For an osik’la, independent pirate base on the shebs-end of Mandalorian space, their target apparently had some unexpected perimeter defenses.

“Hold on!” Feathers yelled over the ship’s comms even as the ship swerved to miss… whatever the kriff had just hit them. Not a missile. Missiles didn’t clang against the hull like that and not explode. Not unless something had gone badly wrong with their internal mechanisms, and clones just didn’t get that lucky.

They were already in atmo, which was a karking good thing, because all of them could hear the whistling howl of air ripping across a new hole somewhere in the ship. Whatever had happened had better not have cut across the Scythe’s new nose art. Sketch had worked hard getting it just right.

His absurdly misplaced priorities almost made him laugh out loud, but he knew it would come out sounding a little hysterical, so he swallowed the reaction back down.

On the other hand, they were already in atmo, which also meant that Dive’s rapid, irregular maneuvers were hitting Sketch’s stomach in a way they just didn’t in zero-G. He had a pretty solid stomach, as such things went, but there were limits. Oof.

“Coming in hot!” Feathers shouted again, which was the only warning any of them got before

the ship rolled to one side, dropped abruptly, and impacted the ground, metal screaming in protest as they skidded across whatever surface Feathers had picked as his emergency landing area.

Sketch must have hit his head, or something, because the next thing he knew, he was staggering out of the half-deployed loading ramp, blaster rifle in hand. The ship was tilted at an awkward angle, wedged up against a wall and listing over what looked like a drain culvert for a massively polluted stream. There was a Kom’rk fighter downed on the other side of the courtyard, burning ferociously and bristling with what looked like four giant, metal spears.

What the kriff? Is that what had been hitting them?

His vision swam a little when he jumped down to the flagstones, staggering to get into formation behind Jesse and the others. Definitely a head injury then. Great.

The only good news was that the base’s defenses got a whole lot squishier now that they were past the automated aerial systems. Pirates were, on the whole, a sloppy, undisciplined lot; and this group was shaping up to fit with that pattern.

Didn’t mean the whole mission went off without a hitch though.

Sketch was starting to feel pretty rough, maybe thirty minutes later when Jesse’s Reapers had reached the base’s large mess hall or cantina. Whatever was served here, alcohol was clearly a major component of it, given the round bar area which dominated the center of the room. Quad’s Raiders had already cleared the space, so the room should have been clear. This should have been mop-up, on the way to back up Ridge’s team, who had run into some pockets of resistance in the base’s brig.

Sketch’s vision was getting worse by the second, and his head was starting to pound, but he just happened to be angled the right direction to see the scrawny weequay peek over the edge of the bar.

A lot of things happened in very rapid succession.

Sketch shouted out a warning.

The weequay pointed something at Torque. It wasn’t a blaster, or at least it wasn’t any model Sketch recognized, but it was clearly some kind of projectile weapon.

His brothers swung around, pivoting their blasters towards the perceived threat.

Torque was raising his blaster too, but he wasn’t going to get it up in time.

Sketch was already moving, throwing himself at his brother.

A shot rang out, a loud crack instead of a sharp sizzle.

Something slammed into Sketch’s back, right as he collided with Torque.

The two of them went down in a heap.

Rings of blue light, stunning blasts in preparation for the possibility of civilians on base, flew over Sketch’s head, in the direction of the bar.

Sketch rolled off of Torque, trying to get his own blaster up, even from this awkward position. Nothing hurt, but something was definitely wrong. His arm wasn’t working right.

Oh.

Oh wait.

Now he hurt.

Right, because shock was still a thing.

There was a lot of shouting happening, but Sketch was having trouble following most of it, especially when Kix appeared in his field of vision and started tearing at the releases on his cuirass.

The inside of his chest plate, as Kix lifted it away, was red. That wasn’t right.

“Slug thrower,” Kix barked to somebody off to Sketch’s left. “Hold still,” he said, obviously to Sketch himself.

Sketch wanted to say something, maybe a joking, ‘Sir, yes sir,’ but all he managed to do was half-raise one hand. To do what, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Everything was hurting now.

Kix pulled something out of his belt, tugged the high collar of Sketch’s blacks down, and jabbed something into the side of his neck.

It was cold.

Everything went dark.

Waking up was a process.

Sketch’s head felt like it was stuffed with fluff. He was lying on his front, face pressed into a soft surface. It was unreasonably comfortable. Maybe he didn’t need to wake up just yet.

The next time he drifted back towards consciousness, he heard voices nearby.

“… Commander’s great,” someone was slurring. A brother. “’S her marks, see? Sort of. She lets us wear ‘em.”

“Is that so?” another voice asked, and even though it sounded soft and kind, it decidedly wasn’t a brother.

Sketch tensed, and something started beeping. He was still face-down on a cot, he couldn’t see what was going on. He tried to push himself up, needing to see where he was, needing to assess the current threat, when a hand landed in the middle of his back.

“Yeah, no,” another brother, apparently the hand’s owner, said. “You’re not going anywhere.” His tone was sharp, but the hand on Sketch’s back was gentle, even as it inexorably pressed him back down. “Mirror, I’m gonna need you to stop talking.”

“Sure thing, Kix,” Sketch’s brother, Mirror, said, still sounding very drugged.

Kix. Their medic. The medic.

Kriff, Sketch had been injured, hadn’t he? It was hard to remember.

The weight of Kix’s hand disappeared from Sketch’s back and the beeping sound stopped abruptly. “Mel, could you go check on Chat and Rico?” the medic asked, but the tone of voice made it very obvious to everyone that it wasn’t really a request.

“Of course,” the natborn, this ‘Mel,’ said. Sketch could hear footsteps retreating and a door opening and closing.

“Come on back down, Sketch,” Kix said, hand returning to the back of Sketch’s neck, heavy and grounding. “It’s just Mirror and me in here with you now.”

Okay. Okay, that was good.

“What happened?” Sketch mumbled into his… pillow? It was thicker than the ones he was used to. Softer.

“You got shot in the back,” Kix said dryly. “The slug just missed your subclavian artery, or else we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Don’t worry, we managed to dig it out and patch you back together well enough.”

The haze of the lingering drugs was fading just enough that Sketch was able to think through that information, at least a little. “Who’s ‘we’?” he asked. He didn’t think they’d brought any other medics on this mission. Maybe Kipp? He’d been training with the real medics lately, hadn’t he?

Kix was silent for a long moment, but he did answer when Sketch managed to turn his head to look up at his brother. “Mel has medical training,” he admitted, expression very serious. “You were never alone with them. I promise.”

Sketch couldn’t help the shudder that inched up his spine.

“Right,” he said, brain sluggishly working through the implications. At the moment, Kix was here, and that was enough. Sketch let himself relax, just a little.

Now that he’d had his attention drawn to it, he could feel the bandage across his upper back and shoulders. That… wasn’t great.

“Did it mess up my tattoo?” he asked, because that would be just about typical. He’d only just gotten the kriffing thing.

Kix snorted. “Nothing Canvas won’t be able to fix,” he said, sounding more than a little sardonic. “And we took the base, by the way.”

Right. The base. Yeah, that was probably a little more important. “Casualties?”

“Light, all things considered. Kryze’s people got the worst of it,” Kix admitted. “But we can go over that later, when you’re more likely to remember the conversation.”

“Yeah,” Sketch said, rolling his face back into the pillow. He was feeling awfully groggy again. “Okay.”

“I need to go check on my other patients,” Kix said, almost sounding apologetic, but he huffed a small laugh when Sketch managed to flap one hand in permission or agreement or something. “If you need anything, tell Mirror to call me.”

“S’that mean I can talk again?” Mirror asked, still sounding at least twice as out of it as Sketch felt. And he was getting sleepier by the second.

“Yeah, I guess it does,” Kix said with an audible sigh. “Try not to talk Sketch’s ear off though. He could use some more sleep.”

Wasn’t that the truth?

The admonition didn’t slow Mirror down for long though. Kix had barely left when he said, “Mel’s alright. The pirates apparently bought them off some Hutts. I know you’ve got issues with…” he paused, apparently recognizing that he was verging into dangerous territory, even in his highly drugged state. “Uh, the point is, they’re one of the good ones.”

Sketch wasn’t in the mood to unpack any of that. “What’d Kix give you?” he asked instead, because even in his own drugged state, he still wasn’t half as karked up as Mirror sounded.

“Dunno, Kix said they’d burned through the regular stuff on you and some of the Mandos,” Mirror said cheerfully. “I got some of the good osik from the pirates’ supplies.”

“Lucky,” Sketch grumbled into his pillow.

“But seriously, you don’t have to worry about Mel.”

Sketch didn’t bother to dignify that with an answer. If he thought about it too much, he was going to tense up all over again, and what he really wanted was sleep.

“They liked your tattoo design,” Mirror tried again, sounding almost hopeful.

That… wasn’t actually very comforting, but Sketch was having trouble pinning down why exactly. Other than his blanket aversion to natborns he didn’t know.

“Going to try to sleep some more,” he mumbled, hoping Mirror would take the hint.

“Right, you do that,” Mirror said cheerfully. “I’ve got the watch.”

That also wasn’t half as comforting as Mirror clearly meant for it to be.

AN: Apologies for the delay with this one. This chapter fought me tooth and nail. I did write a little vignette in the interim, just to try to kick myself out of wy writing funk though. It's called Lazarus and it's from Rex's POV during Echo's rescue on Skako Minor, in case you're interested.

I know that canonically there is already a clone named Sketch. I remembered him pretty early on while writing this chapter, but the other names I tried out just didn't fit. So no, they're not the same person, but also meh, my guess is in an army of millions, there are at least a few clones running around with duplicate names.

Other chapters are available here.

Dividers by freesia-writes using helmets by lornaka. More designs available here.

#eidola tcw fanfic #star wars #tcw #clone wars #the clone wars #star wars the clone wars #tcw fanfic #clone wars fanfic #the clone wars fanfic #star wars the clone wars fanfic #clone troopers #original clone trooper

[bearcreekhq]

MEET CARTER

Full Name → Carter Joseph Hudson

Age → 32

Birthday → July 7th, 1991

Order & Type → second, solo

Gender & Pronouns → cis man, he/him

Sexuality → heterosexual

Occupation → art teacher at Bearcreek Jr/Sr High School

THEIR STORY

(tw: military mention, death)

Being a military kid can be rough for most, growing up in a world where you never know when you’ll have to move to a whole new state, start over at a whole new school. And though he couldn’t quite explain it himself, Carter somehow made it look easy. Of course, he was a bit smoother in his younger days and making new friends just came naturally to him. It helped that he was also always easy to talk to and never judged anyone, always tried to lend a hand to peers needing some help and was never condescending about it. His parents had most definitely been raising him right.

Though he was born on a cold, snowy day and spent the first few years of his life in a state that got it’s fair share of chilly winters, Carter isn’t the biggest fan of the season. He was much more a fan of spring and summer, especially as he’d gotten into playing baseball - thanks to all the time he was actually able to spend with his dad. Though he handled the moving around pretty well, it was his dad being deployed that he struggled with. Especially if it was to an actively dangerous area.

When he was twelve years old, Carter’s worst nightmare came true. He’d come home from school and was getting ready to work on his homework, just like any other weekday, but as soon as he saw his mom’s face, he knew something was wrong. Carole had sat him and his siblings down in the living room to deliver the news that Christopher had died in an accident while deployed, and that was as much as he could remember from that day, other than the fact his eyes had hurt from crying so much. The following weeks leading up to them moving back to Bearcreek were all a blur.

It was no surprise that once he and his siblings were enrolled into what would now be their last new school, that Carole had arranged for them to all meet with the guidance counselor once a week, at least for the first few months. And it was within these meetings that Carter realized how much of a passion he had for drawing. He never really wanted to talk to the counselor during their sessions, so he’d only half-listen to her while he’d sit and doodle in his notebook. Which, eventually, this helped inspire his own idea for a comic - something similar to Calvin & Hobbes, that he called Joey & Topher. Joey, being based off of himself and Topher, a great dane, based off of his father.

Another thing that Carter started to use as a bit of a coping mechanism was humor. With him being a bit of an awkward teenager, still the same kind and friendly kid just…a little more on the clumsy side and very much a nervous wreck around a pretty girl, it was easy for him to poke fun at himself and make everything into a joke. In some ways it helped him even more with making friends, though on occasion there were some who just found him annoying. He didn’t let those people bother him though, it was their loss in his mind and he had the people around him that he needed.

When he was nearing graduation, Carter knew exactly what he wanted to go to school for. He knew he wanted to do something that would help young kids/teens, but he knew that the guidance counselor life wasn’t for him. What he did know, was that using art as his outlet was the best thing that could have helped him with his grief and so with a full ride scholarship to Penn State, thanks to his baseball skills, he majored in Art Education to become an art teacher. A couple of years after getting his degree, there was a full-time teaching position open at Bearcreek Jr/Sr High School, and he landed the job. He’s been teaching ever since. He spends his free time writing his comic series, though he’s never shown it to anyone and when he’s not drawing, he’s either taking his dog, a great dane named Scooby, out for walks or playing at the park.

#bearcreekhudson #death tw #military mention tw

[rush-wing]

ahem hem, soooo any OCs you have been ✨hyperfixating✨ on lately? or in general??

where do i start

It’s all d&d characters, all the way down btw. I’m a forever DM so I tend to make characters whenever the whim strikes but these guys never get played much, I just rotate them in my head sadly, waiting for the day…

I might throw you some art for visualisation but I’m still.. eh.. learning so enjoy little extremely stylised doodles

Everyone here you can find me reblogging things for over on @hearthkeep too!

First!

Is Jaisarie AKA Jaise – she was primed to be in a Saltmarsh campaign but that’s not going ahead now so she’s just sitting on the pier in my head, kicking her feet above the water idly. She’s my undead pirate : ) Jaise started unlife because I got my mitts on the Wildemount campaign guide and thought an Echo Knight’s echoes could make a fun reflavouring as something ghosty. Originally she was a Hollow One, but I’ve since altered her to the Reborn "race", but it’s all dead things at any rate~ She doesn’t know how she died, and isn’t sure she wants to know! Last thing she truly remembers is being dragged out of the ocean as bloated corpse, but the open gash on her neck and her abdomen seems to point to the idea that she was murdered by someone good at their job. Well, aside from glimpses of memories of an old crew she’s fond of, but she couldn’t pick them from a crowd if they stood right in front of her at the moment. I have some ideas for what she was involved in, but the great thing about this is I am pretty happy for any and all of that to go out the window for whatever a good game requires.

Second! Is a constant returner:

My boy Keats. He was my first PC I have made, so yess it’s trueee… he’s a bit special for me. I’ve played him the most out of anyone (which I can count on the one hand), and every time he’s just such a hoot to play. God I love him. And he’s “just” a half-elf battle master Fighter! (I will throw hands on anyone saying he’s boring for that though--) He’s an acrobat-turned-gladiator and a complete dumbass so he is big on stupid stunts, and most of the time, bounces right back up when he eats the pavement face-first. Honestly I think I just wish I had his confidence and bravado.

Third:

This is the gentlemen who I’ve been playing Thousand Year Old Vampire as - Madieren. He started out as a half-elven scholar from an isolated monastery dedicated to the study of magic, but he decided he liked blood magic and went off on a tangent. So you can call him a “vampire” of some description, but I refer to him officially as an immortal blood mage. I’ve had a lot of fun with him over the past few months, watching him evolve, go through the shit (his only student got murdered, has been kicked out of his home at least three times, oh, and had his arm accidentally cut off, just to name a few things), and eat his own hubris whole. He actually started life known as Alezaren, but due to certain shenanigans he’s shed his original name. Madieren ended his run making up with his rival who’s been chasing him down across the continent (who also ended up immortal due to the influence of one of the other player’s characters) and like there was only so much those two could stab each other before the tension went elsewhere.

And lastly:

This is Eon! He’s had a nostalgia resurgence after watching something last night and like I want to do something with him now but what??? I have an Eon-sized itch and I cannot scratch it!!!! Anyway, Eon is my sad wizard tiefling. Well, “wizard” in quotation marks because he’s technically an Eldritch Knight. Eon’s a blacksmith by trade, but dabbles in magic because there’s a quiet passion there for it that was nurtured by an eccentric mentor he hasn’t seen in a long time. So, yes, he has the tragic backstory, to the point I somewhat recently realised I gave an 8-year-old PTSD to get him so. Um. Sorry, Eon. He’s got a very stand-offish, stoic exterior, but he really is such a soft creature at heart. Eon’s my nerd. The oxymoronic buff wizard. I have a set of dice someone in my group made from scratch specifically for him so one day I need to play him so I get to actually roll them for him.

#asks #my ocs #my d&d characters #one day i'll play them.... #don't @ me that these are all pretty much subclasses of fighter #i like hitting things ok #fun fact: madieren was originally originally going to be me making a blood cleric #but i slapped my hand from the impulse because i have 8 PCs that don't get played I don't need more

[misswoozi]

Tattoos

Rating: Teen Pairing: Yeri and Chaeyoung (platonic!)  Words: 769 Author’s note: My anons have helped me create a wonderful AU in which student!Chaeyoung is best friends with barista!Yeri and my gorgeous girlfriend asked me to write this prompt in particular. There will likely be tons more in the future but here’s something to pique your interest! 

“Girl, can you just stay still? Damn.”

“Yerim, I am trying to watch the movie.”

“You’ve seen this movie a hundred times! Stay still! And don’t call me ‘Yerim.’”

Chaeyoung sighs and concedes, folding her arms under her head and closing her eyes. They’re both on the couch, Chaeyoung on her stomach and Yeri perched awkwardly on the edge of the cushion. They’re watching Sixteen Candles and, yeah, Chaeyoung has seen it a hundred times.

But what’s wrong with a hundred and one?

This is what happens when they drink. Chaeyoung gets so sick of her roommates that she sometimes seeks shelter in Yeri’s apartment, absolutely dumbfounded that Yeri is blessed enough to live alone.

“I’m jealous, you know,” Chaeyoung says. Her eyes are still closed, her head still in her arms. Yeri is squinting, tongue poked through her lips, focusing hard on the doodle that she’s creating on Chaeyoung’s skin.

“Jealous of what?” Yeri asks.

“Of the fact that you live alone.”

Lifting the marker for just a minute, Yeri snorts with laughter.

“You should be. Your roommates are insane.”

“Are you almost done?” Chaeyoung asks when she feels the felt tip touch her skin. “I have to pee.”

“I’d be done sooner if you’d stop moving.”

On the coffee table sits a pizza box and an empty bottle of wine. There’s ice cream in the freezer that Chaeyoung wants and her phone is buzzing away on the floor. But when Yeri gets an idea in her head, it’s impossible to tell her no.

“What are you drawing anyway?”

“You’ll see.”

“But I want to know now.”

Yeri ignores her and keeps drawing.

Chaeyoung is naked from the waist up, something that’s not particularly unusual when she’s over at Yeri’s. It’s not that either of her roommates are especially against nudity but Chaeyoung has lived with Nayeon and Momo for the last two years and she barely likes hanging out in their living room clothed.

(Before Nayeon and Momo, Chaeyoung had lived in a nice, off-campus apartment with a junior named Jimin. He was nice and clean and paid his half of the rent on-time but Chaeyoung couldn’t deal with the steady stream of handsome men leaving his bedroom every other day.)

Oftentimes, after two glasses of wine, Yeri will retire to her room only to return a minute later with a new, expensive set of markers that she bought at some craft store three towns over. Sometimes she draws in a sketchbook, other times she draws on the walls.

But tonight, she wanted to draw on Chaeyoung. She emerged with her markers and a creative twinkle in her eye and told Chaeyoung to strip and lay on the couch.

Confused but too buzzed and too tired to protest, Chaeyoung did as she was told.

And now, almost twenty minutes later, Yeri caps her marker and announces: “All done!”

“Thank fuck,” Chaeyoung muses, pushing herself up off the couch. But as soon as she moves, Yeri pushes her back down by her shoulders.

“Wait, you heathen.” She reaches to the coffee table, retrieves her phone and takes a few pictures. “I worked hard on this! Don’t you want to see it?”

When the pictures have been taken, Chaeyoung sits up and snatches the phone from Yeri’s hands.

In the photos, Chaeyoung’s lower back and portion of her right ribs are covered in small but intricate doodles – a love letter, a skeleton giving a peace sign, a UFO abducting a cow, a snake wrapped around a stop sign post, a bicycle, a daisy in a beer bottle.

“Christ, kid,” Chaeyoung says, running a hand through her hair. “You’re good.”

Yeri seems pleased with herself as she stands and heads towards the kitchen.

“I know,” she muses. “I’m the best. You want some more wine?”

Chaeyoung offers an affirmative grunt and zooms in on the photo. She feels especially drawn to the UFO (there’s something charming about the way Yeri draws animals) but it’s the daisy close to her hip that Chaeyoung thinks she might want to keep forever.

Yeri returns with another bottle of pinot, two clean glasses and a bag of Doritos.

“You like it?” she asks, nodding her chin to the phone.

“Love it, actually.” Chaeyoung peers up at Yeri just as she begins pouring. “Would you be at all offended if I got one or two of these permanently tattooed on my body?”

Yeri throws her head back and laughs out loud.

“I’d be thrilled,” she says, “but maybe make this decision sober.”

Accepting the glass from Yeri’s hand, Chaeyoung says, “Sober decisions? Why start now?”

#I STILL DON'T HAVE A NAME FOR THIS LMAO #okay #an anon said SCAU so that's what we're going with for now! #SCAU

[dine-on-nervine]

I hate how Xkit doesn't completely work with the new Tumblr layout yet

Have you stayed up past 3 in the morning this week? No, but I have been up until 1 or so, so I would be tired enough to sleep through the night.

What was on the last sandwich you had? It was a Carl's Jr. Super Star minus tomato.

What does the soap you use smell like? Mandarin orange and (supposedly) cedar.

Do you prefer to wrap gifts or use gift bags? I like wrapping gifts but in the last few years have gone giftbag.

The last person you spoke to, do you know their eye color? I probably do, however I don't recall who the last person I spoke to was.

Does anyone you know have their hair bleached? Not at this moment.

When you're on the phone, do you doodle? I do not but my grandmother would.

Is there anyone you know by the name of Frank? Former nephew-in-law.

Do you own a trenchcoat? Yes. Actually an Australian duster.

Name the hardiest piece of technology you own? Since I collect some vintage technology I probably own a few things that qualify as hardy. Can't say offhand that I own a 1940s Royal typewriter, the kind that were thrown out of planes during the war and fucking bounced, but do have plenty of stuff that held up well.

Have you ever written with a pen that had pink ink? I have but not lately.

Do you remember the last thing you took a picture of? The back of a car with Washington license plate "WHAT".

From where you're sitting, can you turn the lights off? Technically possible, if I stretch and roll my chair a foot or two.

When was the last time you accidentally slept in? So I have an alarm on my phone for 8:40am to wake up and 9:25am to get out of the house. I forgot to set the first alarm last Thursday... and thus woke up with the second. Manged to throw myself through the shower and into clothes within 10 minutes so still got to work on time.

The last argument you had, who started it? No arguments come to mind. There would have been one if the fucking idiot in my office were aware how much mad shit I was talking about him for being a fucking idiot.

Do you wear a ring on your left hand middle finger? I don't wear rings.

Can you remember the title of the song you last sang aloud? I admit it was "Girl From Ipanema".

If a stranger smiles at you, do you smile back? Yes, I work in retail.

Tell me the current time? 12:46am

Are you currently listening to music through earphones? I am listening to Astrud Gilberto (singer of "Girl from Ipanema") crooning "So Nice" across my PC speakers.

What color shirt are you wearing? Is it your favorite color? It's kind of tan but that's not my favorite color.

Do you own a pair of rubber boots? No.

Have you ever owned a tire swing? I may have at one time.

Does anyone you know own a bird that can talk? Not presently.

What make-up are you wearing currently, if any? None. Straight male here.

Name one thing you are glad you accomplished today? Got the Romex shelf resorted, and got the entire Orgill delivery put away.

Name one thing you wished you accomplished today but didn't? I maybe could have labelled the drip pans, but that's for Saturday.

Have you ever been afraid to call someone, even if you knew them well? I take incoming calls without issue. I haaaaate making calls to people I don't know and half the time to people I do.

Do you ever not speak to someone because you're afraid you'll annoy them? Probably.

Is there any drama going on in your circle of friends? I know of none. My bestie doesn't have much drama, just the occasional redundant bullshit but it's not dramatic.

Have you ever known a guy who caused a lot of drama? Quite a few people.

Is there anyone you know who wears their hair in pigtails regularly? Nope.

Personally, do you think you have a nice smile? I'm not ashamed of it.

Do you have a nervous twitch? I don't think that's one of my issues.

Does the idea of snowpeaked mountains and a large lake sound appealing? I live in Western Washington so those things exist nearby.

Pick any number that has personal significance to you? 0.

Have you ever lost your luggage at an airport? No.

Have you ever been on a rollercoaster that actually scared you? Yes, but more from the "Jane, stop this crazy thing!" perspective... had a sore neck for a week.

Do you know anyone who can fluently speak more than two languages? Yes.

How many windows are open on your computer right now? One.

Do you have a fairly fast or slow internet connection? I think it's pretty fast.

Have you ever gone in a sauna? A few times.

Out of these colors, which appeals most to you: orange, blue, or green? Green.

Have you celebrated your birthday yet this year? In three weeks.

Is there anything you're saving up for? but damn Temu and Shein are taking all my money. << ikr? Well, Temu here. Anyhow, I am going on a trip to Canada day on Sunday.

Are you taller than most of your friends? A few of them.

Know anyone with a really annoying laugh? I am sure I do but I'm not recalling who.

Have you ever punched someone and broke their nose? I have not.

What is the longest time you have gone without sleep? A couple days.

Have you ever been someplace tropical? Not really.

If given the opportunity, would you act in a commercial? Not in front of the camera directly, but likely.

You see an ant on the ground, do you squish it? Nah, it's just doing its thing. On my wall, though... it's dead.

Have you ever baked a pie? Yes.

What is your favorite social networking site? Tumblr, duh. <<

Who was the last person to call you? Girlfriend

Does anyone in your family tell funny stories? My father does on occasion. My sister's stories kill me.

Do you believe in finders keepers in most situations? Not if you know who lost it.

Is there a war memorial where you live? Pretty sure of it.

Has anyone in your family fought in any of the wars? Dad was a Marine in 'Nam. He has never talked about it.

Would you make any changes to your current bedroom? Yes, getting a new one... larger and in a different house without dogs.

Has a stray dog ever tried to bite you? Of course.

When riding a bus, do you prefer to sit up front, down back or the middle? I will sit anywhere.

Have you ever been on a cross-country train ride? Nope.

Are you normally a person to tell people off? Noo, I'm not confrontational at all. <<

Name an object that most would consider odd that's special to you? The mint green Ansco pocket slide viewer.

What animal have you always wanted as a pet but couldn't have? I wanted a lizard as a kid... just a small one like a skink or something.

Do you currently have any bugbites? No bugs have bugged me this year.

Is where you live on a boulevard, road, street, or avenue? It's a cul de sac that is a "street South", and for some reason isn't on Google Maps... enter my address and it wants to go to the other side of the neighbor's fence to the "street court East".

Is there currently any caffeine in your system? I hope it's worn off in the last 14 hours, I am going to bed after I save this! Oh wait, that was morning coffee, I was drinking Cherry Coke at 8pm so... yes, I am caffienated. Meh.

Look around, are things organized? I say so but that's not how others would see it.

Know what you're planning to do after this? It's 1:13am so I'm going to bed.

#100 ?'s

[lovemesomesurveys]

Have you stayed up past 3 in the morning this week? No, but the other day I was up until a little past 2. That's really late for me nowadays because ever since I got home from the hospital last year, I started going to bed around 10 or 11PM and sticking to that routine majority of the time. I used to be a night owl who would be up when the sun came up, so I've come a long way.

What was on the last sandwich you had? Turkey, Swiss, mustard, mayo, spinach, and pesto.

What does the soap you use smell like? Like.... soap.

Do you prefer to wrap gifts or use gift bags? I like wrapping gifts. Some gifts require a gift bag.

The last person you spoke to, do you know their eye color? Yes, he has blue eyes.

Does anyone you know have their hair bleached? Yeh, I've bleached my hair several times.

When you're on the phone, do you doodle? I'm never on the phone long enough to start doodling. My phone calls are rare and brief.

Is there anyone you know by the name of Frank? No, but I automatically thought of Shameless lol.

Do you own a trenchcoat? No.

Name the hardiest piece of technology you own? I'm not quite sure what you mean.

Have you ever written with a pen that had pink ink? Yeah. I actually just used a pink Sharpie recently.

Do you remember the last thing you took a picture of? It was a selfie.

From where you're sitting, can you turn the lights off? Yeah.

When was the last time you accidentally slept in? For me, sleeping in is like 11 or 12. I generally wake up around 9. I don't recall the last time I accidentally slept in, like I haven't missed an appointment or something. I love when I'm able to sleep in.

The last argument you had, who started it? I don't recall the last time I had an actual argument. I have disagreements and some bickering, which I had recently.

Do you wear a ring on your left hand middle finger? I do. I have a ring on most of my fingers (some have two) except for my left pinky and both thumbs.

Can you remember the title of the song you last sang aloud? "Numb" by Linkin Park.

If a stranger smiles at you, do you smile back? Yeah, albeit a small half smile most of the time.

Tell me the current time? 8:07PM.

Are you currently listening to music through earphones? No, I'm watching YouTube without earphones.

What color shirt are you wearing? Is it your favorite color? It's a light blue t-shirt dress.

Do you own a pair of rubber boots? No.

Have you ever owned a tire swing? Nope.

Does anyone you know own a bird that can talk? Not that I know of.

What make-up are you wearing currently, if any? None.

Name one thing you are glad you accomplished today? Ha, I didn't get shit done. I slept most of the day.

Name one thing you wished you accomplished today but didn't? I have a list of things I'd like to do, but just never get around to doing for some reason since I have nothing but time. It's the energy and motivation I'm lacking.

Have you ever been afraid to call someone, even if you knew them well? I get phone call anxiety regardless of who I'm calling. The only exceptions are my parents and brother.

Do you ever not speak to someone because you're afraid you'll annoy them? Yeah. It backfired majority of the time cause then they wouldn't talk to me either so we ended up just not talking and it messed things up. Like with guys I was interested in was when it backfired the most.

Is there any drama going on in your circle of friends? Yes. It doesn't really involve me, but I'm friends with the people involved so that makes things awkward and difficult. Plus one of my friends has her own drama she's dealing with and it's a lot.

Have you ever known a guy who caused a lot of drama? Yeah.

Is there anyone you know who wears their hair in pigtails regularly? Probably my little cousins.

Personally, do you think you have a nice smile? No, I'm extremely self-conscious about my smile actually.

Do you have a nervous twitch? My eye twitches sometimes.

Does the idea of snowpeaked mountains and a large lake sound appealing? It does. I live a couple hours away from a place like that and it's beautiful.

Pick any number that has personal significance to you? 8.

Have you ever lost your luggage at an airport? No.

Have you ever been on a rollercoaster that actually scared you? Yeah, I don't do roller coasters. Well, the only two exceptions are the Cars coaster and Big Thunder Mountain Railroad coaster at Disneyland. I love those. It's just the right amount of adrenaline rush I can handle, ha.

Do you know anyone who can fluently speak more than two languages? Yeah.

How many windows are open on your computer right now? I have two windows side by side cause one of them is YouTube and I like to watch videos while I'm on Tumblr or doing a survey.

Do you have a fairly fast or slow internet connection? >> it's fairly fast <<<

Have you ever gone in a sauna? >> I haven't, I think that level of concentrated humid heat would be a bit much for me <<< Gah, sameeee. I could not handle it. I don't do well with heat as it is. It doesn't sound appealing or relaxing in the slightest.

Out of these colors, which appeals most to you: orange, blue, or green? Blue.

Have you celebrated your birthday yet this year? Yeah, back in July.

Is there anything you're saving up for? I should be spending less and saving just because, plus the holidays are coming up, but damn Temu and Shein are taking all my money. It's a problem, ya'll. My fam will probably be getting presents from those sites this year lol.

Are you taller than most of your friends? Ha, no I'm always the shorty.

Know anyone with a really annoying laugh? Not that comes to mind. I don't particularly like my laugh, but I wouldn't say it's annoying.

Have you ever punched someone and broke their nose? I've never punched anyone or broken anything. I've never hurt anyone physically at all. Well, not purposefully anyway.

What is the longest time you have gone without sleep? Like 36 hours. I don't know how cause there's no way in hell I could do that now. I'm fighting sleep all day.

Have you ever been someplace tropical? No, I wish.

If given the opportunity, would you act in a commercial? I wouldn't do any acting. I did used to want to do commercial acting when I was a kid, though. I used to practice and pretend I was making one all the time lol.

You see an ant on the ground, do you squish it? Okay, call me cruel but when I was a kid I used to purposefully roll over them (in case you're new here, I'm in a wheelchair). But think about how many we all probably accidentally squish.

Have you ever baked a pie? No. I've never had any interest in baking one. I'm not a pie kind of gal.

What is your favorite social networking site? Tumblr, duh.

Who was the last person to call you? My mom.

Does anyone in your family tell funny stories? Yeah, a lot of my family members do. One of my aunts who I'm super close with is always making me laugh. My brother always makes me laugh, too.

Do you believe in finders keepers in most situations? No, I wouldn't necessarily say that. It depends.

Is there a war memorial where you live? Yeah.

Has anyone in your family fought in any of the wars? My papa did.

Would you make any changes to your current bedroom? Oh, I'd love to do a lot of changes but my room is too small and I have too much stuff.

Has a stray dog ever tried to bite you? No.

When riding a bus, do you prefer to sit up front, down back or the middle? I always had to sit in the middle cause that's the spot for wheelchairs.

Have you ever been on a cross-country train ride? No, but that sounds fun. I'd be interested in doing that.

Are you normally a person to tell people off? Noo, I'm not confrontational at all.

Name an object that most would consider odd that's special to you? Who knows, I have a lot of random knickknacks and stuffed animals and other stuff and I love 'em all.

What animal have you always wanted as a pet but couldn't have? I mean, if it were possible and I lived somewhere with the space and could be able to care properly for it, a giraffe would be an amazing animal to have.

Do you currently have any bugbites? No. I very rarely get bug bites, thankfully.

Is where you live on a boulevard, road, street, or avenue? It's called a lane.

Is there currently any caffeine in your system? Of course there is. It's me we're talking about, duhhh.

Look around, are things organized? No. There's definitely clutter. I need to go through things and try to gt rid more stuff and organize things.

Know what you're planning to do after this? I may play the sims, I'm not sure. Or scroll through Tumblr for a bit.

#personal #text #survey #surveys

[nandysfix]

Like it's yours • PART II

Denki woke up unusually early the next day. His first alarm hadn’t even sound yet. He took on the liberty of taking extra time to get ready, maybe for once he would have breakfast.

The events of the previous night were eating him alive. He felt like shit for not having the courage to tell Sato about Shinsou and the picture.

It was just a dumb mistake, he didn’t want to hurt his boyfriend over something he didn’t mean and Shinsou definitely didn’t care.

It would be better for everybody involved if the subject was to never be touched ever again. 

But the way Hitoshi reacted was… There was no good way of putting it, it was better than Sato’s. 

He felt so good about himself, it really was a downer that his boyfriend didn't enjoy his idea on the same level. Or even as much as his classmate.

But he wasn’t ready to give up, that was one of Kaminari’s kinks, there should be something the both of them would share the same excitement.

Maybe panties was a bit too much for a first time, he should probably start slow. But how does one exactly starts slow?

Google.

“Communication is key” Kaminari sighed, fuck.

If there was a machine that would allow his boyfriend to read his mind and understand the things he wants to try out in bed, Denki would spend all the money he doesn’t have on it.

Sex was never a taboo for Kami, he and his friends talked about it openly all the time. But Sato was always so closed of in this matter, it made Denki feel vulnerable.

Not in a good way.

Sato would always praise him in bed, ask if he’s liking what he’s doing, but after sex they barely talk about it. 

But that was about to change, because Kaminari started to build up his confidence and courage to have an open conversation about fetishes. 

Once he arrived at campus he sent a message to his boyfriend:

Kami: Morning babe, are you free tonight?

Sato: Morning honey, yes I am. Why?

Kami: Come to my room at 8

There. No way of going back.

He arrived first in class, chose the best seat close to the windows, and started working on his sketchbook to warm up for class. 

After Kami started practicing drawing with Sero his abilities improved faster than ever before. Hanta has been drawing ever since he was eight, so he had plenty of techniques to share.

Denki was so focused on his warmup he didn’t even realize the class starting to fill up.

“Oi, Kaminari” He heard a familiar voice call. The same smooth, low pitched and clearly tired voice that used to give him butterflies years ago.

“Shinsou, hi” He smiles nervously, for the first time moving his eyes away from the sketchbook. 

Hitoshi looked beautiful, as always. His intense half-opened eyes and discreet smirk almost made Denki’s legs shake. 

Fuck. Would he say anything about last night?

“Here, the notes I told you about.” Hitoshi handed him a black notebook with white handmade doodles all over the back and cover. “Basically everything I did for the typography project is in there, so I hope it helps you.”

Kaminari looked at him surprised, picking up the book with both hands.

“Oh, thank you so much. It’s gonna help plenty.”

“Don’t worry. Is this seat taken?”

“No, go ahead” Denki watched as Hitoshi sat down by his side, picking up his materials from his messenger bag.

“So, can I see what you are working on?”

“Yeah sure.” 

Shinsou analyzed his drawings with a hand on his chin, making some funny comments and giving compliments. 

God, Kami forgot how much he liked to hangout with Hitoshi.

“Morning guys!” Sero arrived, sitting by their sides. “Hey Shinsou, nice having you with us man, what’s up?”

“Hey man” He said, answering Hanta’s handshake. “Yeah, it’s been too long since last time we spoke.” Hitoshi smiled softly. “Kaminari accidentally sent me a meme yesterday and we started talking again.”

For a split second Denki felt shivers running down his spine, as Shinsou boldly lied about their interaction the day before.

“That’s on brand, I keep telling him to pay more attention to what he’s doing on his phone or he’ll get himself in trouble one day.”

Shinsou chuckled, Kaminari wanted to die.

“But I’m glad he made that mistake, it’s nice talking to you again. How have things been?”

“Things have been nice. I opened a tattoo studio.”

“Sweet.”

“I actually invited you guys to come to the opening party, but Monoma stole your invitations.”

“What why?”

“Well, you see…”

Shinsou then proceeded to explain everything to Sero. How his ex was very manipulative, jealous, how that affected all of his friendships, and how he thought his friends were the ones that didn’t want to be his friends anymore. 

The three of them kept talking until the start of the class. It actually distracted Denki from the anxiety of having a serious conversation later that day.

After leaving the classroom, Sero said he was meeting Mina to help shooting her new choreography. Before Kami could leave as well, he felt a hand grab his arm.

“Den-Kaminari, can we talk? Wanna grab lunch?” 

He looked Shinsou in the eyes, knowing exactly what was to come. 

“Yeah, sure. I know a good udon-soba place, we can go there if it’s okay for you.”

“Sounds good.”

The restaurant wasn’t far from university, and miraculously not many students frequent the place. The prices were as low as any fast-service house, but the quality was far superior. 

Once they sat on a table, the one further from other customers, and asked for their meals, the awkward silence finally made itself present.

After two minutes of no conversation Kaminari was starting to prepare to just ask about the weather.

“i don’t mean to intrude, but i feel like im already involved.” 

Shinsou dropped, knowing full well both of them just wanted that awkward dance around the subject to end at once.

“You don’t need to answer me, I’m just really curious…” He paused, taking a deep breath. The suspense killing Denki inside-out. “Is your boyfriend okay with what happened last night? Is he mad at you? At me?”

“I didn’t tell him.” Kami answered truthfully, but ashamed. “I… I couldn’t bring myself to it.” He couldn’t even look Hitoshi in the eyes anymore, not with what he was about to ask. “It was a mistake and- I would actually really appreciate if you don’t mention this to anyone… ever.”

His eyes moved back to Hitoshi. He was prepared for every single reaction the other could have, and ready to beg if necessary.

“Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. I’ll never tell.” Shinsou answered, locking his eyes with Kami’s.

And after hearing those words, Kaminari’s whole body released the tension. Hitoshi could clearly see the change in his posture and watery eyes. 

Shinsou’s chest tightened.

“Thank you, thank you so much.”

“Don’t worry about it. I think it’s better for both of us if this stays buried.”

That was a lie. 

“Yes, of course.”

That was also a lie.

Hitoshi looked like he still had too many questions in his head, but Kaminari didn’t think it was wise to ask.

The sooner this subject is done the better.

Before Shinsou could build up the courage to say whatever was going though his mind, the food arrived. 

And just like that the picture matter was forever in their past. Or so he thought. 

#shinkami #satokami #like it's yours #update #bnha

[princehrry-writings]

Daddy?

happy Easter if you celebrate it!! I've been working on this for a couple weeks!! It's the longest one-shot I think I've ever written.

word count: 5180

please please please flood my inbox with your thoughts and comments!! i want to know what you think!!!

warnings: some swearing (i think), absent birth father, single mom, nothing too serious.

“And who might this be?” He said softly, hoping that he wouldn’t frighten her.

“Tell Harry your name baby,” Y/n brushed a stray piece of hair away from her daughter's face who shied away behind her mom’s leg.

“Stella,” the little girl mumbled, fidgeting with the jeans she hid behind. He felt his heart flutter. She was just so freakin cute.

“It’s lovely to meet you Stella, m’Harry!”

“You talk funny.” The child said, making Harry laugh and Y/n gasp, scolding her daughter for being rude while trying not to laugh at her blunt comment.

“Stella Rose, that was not a very nice thing to say!” Y/n softly reprimanded.

“Sowwy Hawwy,” He chuckled, letting her know he forgave her.

or

Y/n is a single mom and Harry wants to be a part of the family.

.

.

.

Getting pregnant was definitely not something Y/n wanted to be doing at 20 years old. She had a boyfriend and the career of her dreams but as soon as the news broke, one of those things was no longer true. Her ex skipped town faster than she could even finish telling him she was pregnant, so Y/n was left to her own devices since her family was so far away.

She was a songwriter. She had worked with all the big names in the industry from Taylor Swift to All Time Low. She was known for being able to write in any genre, that’s what set her apart and why people were clawing at the chance to work with her.

And then she got pregnant. She kept writing songs until she was eight and a half months along but due to minor complications, her doctor had ordered her to stay home. So she did. She stayed home, had the baby, and raised her all by herself. Now that baby, whose name is Stella, is four years old and is traveling the world with her mom. Y/n had gone back to work when Stella was a year old. At first, she would leave her baby with a sitter, but eventually, she got to a point where Stella was old enough to come along to writing sessions and quietly color or play with toys in a corner. She really liked going to work with her mom. She got to see a bunch of cool places and meet a lot of nice people.

And one of those people was Harry Styles. Y/n had met him a few times back when he was with One Direction, had even tried to work with the band a few times but things never lined up right. But now he was making his second studio album and only wanted the best of the best to write with him so naturally, he called Y/n. Harry knew she had a kid but he didn’t expect her to bring said kid to a writing session. Harry didn’t really mind- he loves kids, but his friends had been known to curse a lot and he didn’t want to cause any harm to the child.

He made sure to give everyone a stern talking to, even though Kid already knew to hold his tongue (his little ones had repeated some colorful words a few times). He wanted everything to go right, needed it to. Y/n was more than just another songwriter.

“Y/n! I’m so glad you could make it!” Harry smiled as she walked into the studio. She smiled back, walking into his open arms for a hug.

“Thank you so much for having me, I’m super stoked to be working with you!” She said, slightly muffled by his neck. Harry looked down behind Y/n and saw a little girl that looked exactly like the woman currently in his arms looking right back up at him. When the two pulled away Harry was quick to kneel down to her height.

“And who might this be?” He said softly, hoping that he wouldn’t frighten her.

“Tell Harry your name baby,” Y/n brushed a stray piece of hair away from her daughter's face who shied away behind her mom’s leg.

“Stella,” the little girl mumbled, fidgeting with the jeans she hid behind. He felt his heart flutter. She was just so freakin cute.

“It’s lovely to meet you Stella, m’Harry!”

“You talk funny.” The child said, making Harry laugh and Y/n gasp, scolding her daughter for being rude while trying not to laugh at her blunt comment.

“Stella Rose, that was not a very nice thing to say!” Y/n softly reprimanded.

“Sowwy Hawwy,” He chuckled, letting her know he forgave her. Although he wasn’t mad, he understood Y/n had to teach her not to say things like that even if they were funny.

When Stella had settled at a table out of the way of the adults in the room with her coloring book and a juice box, the work began. Y/n and Harry sat at a piano bench ( he hoped she couldn’t hear his pounding heart) while Kid and Mitch, along with Jeff, sat scattered around the other furniture in the studio.

“So, I have a couple of ideas that I’ve been sitting on that I think you might like. You can look through this and see if there's something that catches your eye.” Y/n said, handing Harry a notebook. She tried to ignore the tingle she felt run up her arm when their fingers brushed. He flipped around the pages, noticing random little doodles in the corners and in between lines, and the somewhat messy but readable handwriting. He thought it was cute how she connected her s’s to her t’s and k’s when she wrote.

One page, in particular, caught his attention.

Golden, Golden, Golden

As I open my eyes

Hold it, focus

So you take me back to the light

I know you were way too bright for me

I’m hopeless, broken

So you wait for me in the sky

Brown my skin just right

“Is this a verse or a chorus?” He asked, pointing it out to her. She shrugged saying she didn’t really know yet but it would probably be a verse.

“I like it a lot,” He said and she smiled, picking up her guitar and strumming it to the tune she had thought of for the words. He listened and nodded along, already getting ideas for where to go next.

“I like the golden thing. I think that could be a good hook, something like we’re so golden,” Kid spoke up, tapping his fingers along to what she was playing.

“Or you’re so golden,” Mitch suggested. Harry and Y/n’s eyes widened at the same time, both looking up at each other when they heard the line.

“You’re so golden, you’re so golden…” Y/n hummed.

“I’m out of my head, and I know what you said about hearts get broken,”

“How about I’m out of my head and I know that you’re scared because hearts get broken,”

“I like that better, yeah!” Harry smiled, nodding along to the beat.

Y/n looked over 30 minutes later to see Stella had sprawled out on the floor with her arms folded beneath her head, first finger stuck into her mouth, and she smiled, breathing out a laugh.

“She’s so precious,” Harry murmured from beside you. Your gaze found his and the smile on your face widened a little bit.

“She is, isn’t she.” She said, pride present in her eyes.

“Looks just like you as well,”

“Yeah thank god, I don’t know what I would have done if she had ended up looking like her sperm donor,” Malice dripped from the end of her phrase. Y/n couldn’t even entertain the idea of her looking like the man who helped create her. That nerve was still a little raw, not because she had any remaining feelings, but because he had abandoned not only her but the beautiful baby girl who was napping not 15 feet away from her. She figured they were better off without him, yet her heart always shattered a little when Stella asked if she had a daddy like the people she sees on tv.

“I couldn’t imagine finding out the woman I loved was pregnant and then leaving her, any real man would have stayed.” His eyes were genuine, which she appreciated. Most people would say they felt sorry for her, pity dripping from their gaze, but she didn’t need pity, didn’t need people to feel sorry for her. But what Harry said was out of pity, he just honestly couldn’t understand how anyone would abandon a child.

“Yeah well, I guess I just wasn’t the woman he loved.” She said, looking back at her baby. Stella made all of that pain from when he disappeared worth it.

Harry wanted to be able to take that pain away.

---

“Hey I know it’s late, but I have this idea and I want you to hear it,” Harry’s raspy voice chimed through the speaker of Y/n’s phone. She glanced at the time, reading 1:30 AM, and sighed.

“Ok,”

“Come open the door,” He said.

“Wait what? You’re here?”

“Yeah, come on. It’s cold out here.”

“Ugh, hold on,” The woman sighed, hanging up and tip-toeing out of her room so her footsteps wouldn’t wake the sleeping four-year-old in the next room over. Her door was open and she was a light sleeper.

The door swung open and Harry stood there with a small smile on his face, burrowing as deep into his coat as he could to shield himself from the cold air outside.

“Hi!” His cheeky smile made Y/n’s heart flutter.

This was the first of many times he would show up at her place in the middle of the night.

---

Another night of Harry coming over late with a song idea he couldn’t wait to show Y/n, although now it was more he would come over after Stella fell asleep and the two would watch movies and talk, and sometimes write songs (even though the album was done).

The pair were perched on the couch in a heated conversation about whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza (it does and that is a fact not an opinion) when the sound of little footsteps caught their attention. They both looked up from where they sat at the sound of loud crying coming down the stairs, seeing a small child with tears barreling down her face, cheeks flush an angry red, first finger stuck in her mouth, teddy bear clutched tightly to her chest.

“Baby what’s wrong?” Y/n cooed, getting up and sweeping her into her arms. She went and sat back down on the couch, cradling the baby to her chest, brushing her hair out of her face, and rocking her back and forth.

“Scawwy dweam mommy,” She hiccuped into her mom’s neck, where she hid her face. Her tiny hands clutched onto her shirt, finger stick tucked between her lips.

Harry held back a coo at the little girl, feeling himself fall further and further for the little family of two sitting before him. He hadn’t been able to take his mind off of them since that first day he met Stella. He’d always had a schoolboy crush on Y/n since they first met all those years ago but knew it was one-sided when she introduced her boyfriend one of the last times they had seen each other. As fate would have it though, they found their way back to each other. Neither of them could deny the feelings they held, but Y/n was scared to bring someone into the picture because she didn’t want Stella to get attached to someone who wouldn’t be permanent. She was lucky her ex left before he ever got the chance to meet Stella, the kid had no clue what she was missing, therefore didn’t have any pain due to her absent father.

She would be lying if she said she didn’t imagine Harry stepping into that role. But she couldn’t ask that of him. He was at a time in his career where he didn’t have time to be the father of a four year old.

But life is full of surprises.

“Hawwy.” The baby whimpered and crawled off of Y/n’s chest, into his lap and snuggled her head right into him like it was where she was meant to be all along. His heart just about burst when the little girl fisted his shirt, tucking herself into him. His arms instinctively wrapped around her, cradling her into him and rocking her back and forth like her mother had been only moments ago.

Stella calms down almost immediately, to Y/n’s surprise. It usually takes her a while to console her baby from bad dreams, but all Harry had to do was hold her, and boom, no more tears.

“You alright petal?” He cooed into her hair, soothing his hand up and down her back to keep her calm. She nodded, letting out a huge yawn and closing her eyes, falling back asleep in his arms.

Y/n was astonished. Stella had never fallen asleep on anyone but her mom or her grandmother. She’s known Harry for a few months and was acting like he’d been there her whole life.

“Wow… she loves you.” Y/n whispered, not really meaning for him to hear but he did and his smile gave her the impression that he loved her too. But Stella wasn’t the only one he felt such affections for.

“Y/n....” He starts after a moment of silence, “I know this sounds crazy because we’ve only truly known each other for a few months… but I’ve had feelings for you for years. I missed my opportunity when you got with your ex but I’m here now, and I love you, and I love Stella, and I would do anything to stay in both of your lives if you’d have me. I want to be here for you, and I want to be here for her as well.” His confession shocked the woman sitting across from him.

Y/n was quiet, eyebrows furrowed in deep thought while she took in what he was saying. Trying her best to keep her fantasies of playing house with him at bay, she spoke.

“Harry, as much as all of that sounds lovely, you’re about to start press for the album and then go on tour. You’re not gonna have time to be in a relationship, and as much as I wish I could just jump into something like that, I can’t. I have her to think about…” She gestured to the toddler sleeping on him.

“She needs consistency, her life is already hectic enough.”

“So come with me!” He spouted, and then retracted a bit realizing he could wake Stella up.

“What?”

“Come with me! You two travel around already, so come on the press tour with me and then come on the big tour with me! I know this sounds impulsive and it’s probably the craziest thing I’ve ever said in my life ever, but I’ve never been more sure of anything. I know what I want Y/n, and that’s to be a part of this family. I want to be a part of your lives!”

“Harry, I-”

“Please Y/n. Give me a chance! I won’t let you down!” The gleam in his eyes shows her that he’s serious. He really does want this. Harry just hopes that Y/n can see just how willing he is, how much it would mean to him to have (what he already affectionately considers to be) his girls with him on tour.

It’s quiet, only sounds of Stella’s even breaths and the light noise of her sucking on her finger fill the room. Eventually, Y/n gathers her thoughts, mind made up.

“We’ll try it out… see how it goes….” She said, releasing a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding on to. Harry’s smile grew tenfold at her confession, reaching over and bringing her face closer to his to kiss her lips, careful not to wake the baby in his arms.

He had never been happier, Harry decides, than he is right now.

---

“Hawwy?” Stella’s voice catches Y/n’s attention from where she sits on the plane, in between her and Harry. She turns her little head to the man sitting in the aisle seat, big round eyes staring right into his.

“What is it, lovebug?” He asks, pushing her wild baby hairs away from her eyes. Y/n did her very best not to coo at the two of them. Harry had fallen perfectly into step with the mother and daughter, like this duo had been a trio all along. She was still hesitant to think of him as a father figure for Stella though, just because if things went south somehow, she didn’t want her baby suffering a loss like that (a second time).

Stella’s little fists rubbed at her tired eyes. She let out a small ‘hmph’ and laid her head on Harry’s arm, wrapping her own little arms around his.

“Awe you my daddy?” She asked and Y/n choked on her spit, looking back over at the toddler.

“Stella, baby-”

“I would love to be your daddy lovebug, but that’s not really up to me…” He spoke and glanced up at Y/n quickly, trepidation clear in his eyes. Harry was afraid he might overstep. Sure he knew that things were still new between him and Y/n but he wanted nothing more than for Stella to think of him as her dad.

“Who’s it up to?” Y/n could tell she was about to fall asleep but was fighting it in order to get her answers. She had adjusted to a more fast pace schedule quite nicely. She slept through most plane and car rides and absolutely loved being backstage at concerts. Harry thought she looked so adorable with her big noise-canceling headphones on. They had been on the road for a few months now, and it had been 8 months since Y/n decided to give him a chance.

“It’s up to mummy, baby.” He answered, his fingers tangling into his chestnut curls in a futile attempt to keep them out of his face.

Stella’s head immediately whipped to look at her mom, who sat frozen in her seat, not knowing what to do.

“Mommy, is Hawwy my daddy?” She repeated her question. Y/n had a feeling that Stella thought Harry was her real dad, the one that her mom didn’t like to talk about. She had to make sure there was no confusion.

“Not like you're thinking he is, baby. He’s not your birth dad, he didn’t help mommy make you, but if you want him to be your daddy, then that’s ok with me.” Y/n locked eyes with the man sitting across from her with a smile on his face. She was glad that they were flying private because she really didn’t need anyone ruining this moment for them. All her fears of this not working out felt stupid now.

How could she ever think that things with Harry wouldn’t work out? He was right where he belonged.

---

“Daddy!”

“Baby!” Harry knelt down to catch the running (almost) 5 year old, picking her up and spinning her around in his arms. They were in England for two weeks on tour. One for shows, and one so that Y/n and Stella could meet Harry’s mom and sister for the first time as a part of the family. Y/n had met them before as “a friend of Harry’s” many years ago, but they had never met her as Harry’s girlfriend, and they hadn’t met Stella.

Currently, Harry was in the middle of a show and Stella had just escaped her mothers arms side stage in favor of running to her dad. Y/n still couldn’t get over saying that. Harry is Stella’s dad. She doesn’t think that will ever get old.

No one knew how serious the relationship between Y/n and Harry was. The public knew they were together (after a very vague post on instagram of the mother/daughter duo napping with the caption “my girls”). Many people thought this was a PR stunt, just because it was so unlike Harry to post something like that. But he had actually confirmed in an interview that, yes, he was in a relationship with the songwriter and it was pretty serious. That was all he chose to say, in favor of keeping his secrecy, as he so famously loves to do.

What came as a shock to the audience was what the child had called Harry. They all knew about Stella, obviously, but no one would have thought that this child would think of him as her father. A lot of people didn’t like thinking about Harry being a father.

“What are you doing out here baby?” He said into her ear, making sure he could hear her over the loud noise of the audience. Most of them loved getting glimpses into his life, so the crowd was excited to see Stella out on stage and many thought it was adorable that she already thought of him as her dad.

“Missed you.” She said into his neck. The microphone had somehow picked up their little exchange and the whole crowd sighed a collective “awe” when she said that. She was perched on his hip with her little arms wrapped around his neck, her favorite place if she had to choose one. She was pretty small for a 4-year-old, most people usually thought she was younger.

Harry chuckled and saw Y/n standing there with a smile on her face. Mitch was giggling at the exchange and kept glancing back at Sarah with a knowing look of “That’s going to be us soon,” written on his face.

“I missed you too lovebug, but I’m in the middle of a show! I gotta send you back to mumma.” He said. Stella didn’t like that though, because as soon as the words left his lips she was clinging to him like he was her life force and the tears began streaming down her face. She didn’t like having to share her daddy. She just wanted to be held by him right now, and she’d be damned if she got anything but her way.

This amused everyone, the child's insistence to be in her father's arms, so he sighed and bent to her will because how could he say no to his baby girl?

So he walked over to her mom and got her headphones, slipping them on her, and walked back to his microphone with her on his hip, ready to start the next song.

“Harry and Stella” was trending on twitter the very next morning. No one could get enough of the father-daughter duo.

---

Y/n hadn’t been this nervous since she was about to give birth to Stella. She stood with her baby in her arms as Harry opened the door to his childhood home, announcing to his mom and sister that they were there. She had to wipe her sweaty palms on her jeans more than once.

Anne rushed out from wherever she had been, greeting the three of them. Stella had met Anne via FaceTime many times so it was not news to her (or Gemma) that Harry had stepped into the role of Stella’s father. She will admit she was surprised at first but then she was reminded that Harry had been in their lives for almost a year before Stella had asked the question. It wasn’t something that was rushed into.

Anne was very excited to be meeting her grandbaby and was very excited to meet the girl that had made her a grandmother.

Stella got shy, not being used to seeing “Nana” in person. Gemma had emerged from her spot in the kitchen as well, greeting everyone.

“Hello, my loves! How was the trip?” Anne said, kissing both of them on the cheek, her hand gently caressing the child's cheek in an attempt to get her out of her shell. Once she realized that this was her Nana that was standing before her, Stella reached out for Anne, silently asking to be held by her. Anne jumped at the chance, sweeping the baby into her arms and giving her a big hug, kissing her on the forehead multiple times, not being able to quell her affection for her first grandchild.

“It was good mum, Stell slept the whole way and traffic was pretty light,” Harry said, slipping his hand into his girlfriend’s, brushing his thumb back and forth trying to help calm her anxieties. For whatever reason, Y/n was worried that Gemma and Anne wouldn’t like her because she had come into their son/brother's life with a child, but it was clear that the two ladies loved the idea of Harry being Stella’s father.

“Oh, that's lovely!” She smiled, cuddling Stella impossibly closer to her. Y/n felt most of her worries melt away seeing the woman with her baby.

She felt silly for thinking Anne would be anything but happy.

---

Anne would not put Stella down for anything. The two were attached at the hip every waking second. Y/n was actually starting to miss her baby, but she appreciated getting to spend time with Harry without having to keep an eye on their little one. Gemma was absolutely smitten with Stella as well. She was very excited to be “Auntie Gem” as Stella had quickly adapted to calling her. Stella was very happy as well. She had never been around so much family in her whole life. She’d been so used to just her and her mom, and then just them and Harry, but now she had two whole grandma’s all to herself and an auntie she gets to call her own, something she never knew she was missing, that Y/n never thought her baby would get to have.

Harry was so happy to see his baby with Anne and Gemma. They had been bumped to spot number 3 and 4 on his favorite girl list, with Stella and Y/n taking spots 1 and 2. They didn’t mind one bit.

“Daddy, can we watch a movie?” Stella jumped up onto his lap as he and Y/n sat on the couch, just talking and enjoying each other's company. Y/n smiled at the girl, tightening her grip around Harry’s shoulders, resting her head in the crook of his neck.

“Of course we can lovebug! Go get Nana and auntie Gem and we’ll all pick one out together!” He replied, petting her wild baby hairs out of her eyes just like he always did.

“Auntie Gemma said to ask you if we could watch…” She paused for a second, her little finger tapping on her chin like she couldn’t remember what she was gonna say. Suddenly, she was up and running back to the hallway she had just come from. Y/n and Harry heard little whispers before she came running back out and plopped back onto Harry’s lap, on ‘oof’ erupting from him.

“This Is Us!” She finally said. Harry’s face dropped as he looked behind them to see Gemma standing there, trying to hold back her laughter. Y/n just started cackling and Stella was giggling even though she had no idea what was going on.

“Daddy’s in that movie baby,” Y/n finally calmed down enough to say to her daughter. The little one’s eyes lit up, her hands clasped underneath her chin. This was what she did when she wanted her daddy to say yes to her because she knew he couldn’t resist how adorable she was.

“Please please please!!!!!!” She whined, leaning in to place her forehead against Harry’s. She knew exactly how to get him. He caved every single time.

“Yeah, fine. We can watch it!” He finally said and all three girls cheered. Anne came in at the noise wondering what was going on.

“What’s all this?” She asked and Stella ran up to her, pulling on her

“We watching Daddy’s movie Nana!” She said, jumping up and down with a glowing beam on her face.

“Oh, are we now? Which one?” Anne asked and Stella paused.

“Daddy, how many movies awe you in?” She came back and crawled into his lap. She still had trouble saying her r’s. Her and Harry were working on it.

“Two, lovebug. But one of them you can’t watch until you’re older. It’s too scary f’you.” He said, cuddling his baby into his chest. She put on a little pout hearing that. She didn’t like when her daddy told her no, but this was something he wasn’t gonna budge on.

“Ok,” She sighed. All the adults thought this was adorable.

So they all settled in and watched the movie. Harry had a permanent blush on his face and Stella would jump up and down every time he was on the screen.

“Nana look!! That’s you!!” Anne laughed and nodded to her granddaughter.

“Yes, it is baby!”

“Mommy, why aren’t you in this movie?” She asked and everyone giggled.

“Me and Daddy didn’t know each other very well back then, baby.” Y/n laughed. Stella didn’t really understand but she didn’t say anything else.

The last few days had worn her out and that became very obvious when Harry looked down and saw his baby asleep on his chest, her first finger stuck in her mouth just like it always was when she fell asleep.

“Love, I’m gonna go lay her down, and then I’ll be right back,” Harry whispered, cradling the sleeping girl in his arms and slowly standing up. Y/n nodded, kissing his cheek before he left.

“He’s so good with her!” Gemma cooed, her face lighting up seeing her brother with his kid. A sight she was still kind of getting used to seeing.

“He really is…” Y/n smiled, “It was pretty instant too. Anytime he’d come over and she was still awake, he’d insist on putting her to bed, reading to her, singing to her, he’d bring her toys. She’s had him wrapped around her little finger since he first laid eyes on her.”

“That’s so precious,” Anne spoke up, coming to sit next to her, wrapping Y/n in her warm embrace.

“I can’t wait until you two get married!” Y/n laughed at Gemma’s confession, snuggling into Anne.

“All he has to do is ask, I’m ready to say yes!” What none of the girls knew was that Harry was standing right outside the living room, hearing everything that was being said. His mind raced back to his suitcase where a velvet box sat tucked away between all of his clothes.

He was hesitant to bring the idea up because it had only been a year, but the saying when you know, you know he thought.

He came back into the living room, acting none the wiser, sitting on the other side of the girl he was going to marry (she just didn’t know it yet), and cuddled into her just as she had cuddled into his mom.

“Daddy,” A small voice broke through the now quiet hum of the tv.

“Lovebug, what are you doing back up?” He asked, lifting the sleepy little thing into his lap.

“Scawwy dweam, daddy.” She said and he pouted, pulling her closer into his chest and snuggling her back to sleep.

Harry was exactly where he belonged in life. With his baby girl in his arms, and his Love by his side.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry x reader #dad!harry x reader #dad!harry styles #dad!harry #reader insert #harry x you #one direction #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles one shot #one direction fan fiction #one direction one shot #harry styles imagine #harry #harry styles fluff #friend!harry #friends to lovers #daddy? series

[monochromemedic]

I had been stuck in the Dark World for who knows how long. The days didn’t seem to matter down here. No sun, no moon, just the vibrant green grid that coated the sky that would twitch and surge with occasional frequency.  When I first got here, I fought hard to get back to the surface, to fight for any sense of normalcy, for home but after a while the dream began to fade. The options began to run dry when compared to the dangers that surrounded me. And so I settled. I survived. I searched for food, begged for shelter from kind Darkners. I did what I had to to live. The Queen was not an option. Whispers from Darkners told me how I was just what she was looking for, that would help her expand her reign to the Light World. As much as that would probably help me, I didn’t want to ruin the lives of others for the chance to see my family, as much as I missed them with every passing minute. The sound of bustling cars and the blinding lights of neon signs stung my senses, my palms pressing into my eyes to drown out what I could. Damn it this place never slept did it? There was always something, some sort of noise. Whatever bags I had under my eyes were probably made cartoonishly drastic with the lack of pure rest I was getting. ‘Supose it was better then being dead... My body felt heavy, and I knew I’d have to find a place to rest or I’d fall asleep mid crossing of a road and get run over by one of those goofy cars I’d seen. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad... I recalled the time one of the car’s rear bumped into a fire hydrant (or at least I thought it was) and made a squeaking sound. The darkness of a certain alley called to me, the silence a sweet lullaby to the roaring around me. Was it dangerous? Oh yeah. Was it stupid? No shit. Was I going to do it? The shadows the engulfed me were perfect and if it wasn’t for the underlying stench of garbage it’d probably be ideal. Still beggars couldn’t be choosers and if tonight was good enough I would have to consider having this as my permanent sleeping spot. My back slid against the cool wall across from the dumpster, eyes half lidded as they read the advertisements littering above. Why the hell did the Queen have ads anyway, if she wanted she could monopolize any products she wanted... Despite the quiet I couldn’t shake the feeling that creeped down my spine. The presence of something other then myself around me. I tried to close my eyes, I was in the city after all. It’d be concerning if I didn’t feel like people were one second from crawling up my ass. Though I had to admit I didn’t expect to actually feel something begin to touch me. My eyes snapped open, elbow prodding into a blurry shape that yelped and tumbled backward, it’s grasp my on shoulder tearing a hole in my already worn shirt in the struggle. “Hey! What the hell?!” I barked, standing over the perpetrator. My shoulders slumped when I saw what looked to be a doll staring up at me with wide eyes, an over exaggerated smile permanently spread across it’s face. The creature’s jaw opened wider with a clack, it’s small body shooting upwards to stand on it’s small pointed feet. “WOAH WOAH WOAHAH- [Live worms]!”   The darkner’s voice was deafeningly loud, a shrill tone that cut the air like newly sharpened blades. “ I THOUGHT YOU WERE [Roadkill]. NICE TO KNOW I WON’T BE [Sleeping with the fishes] T0NIGHT!!” Well he had a certain way of speaking that was obvious. What the hell was going on with him, he talked like he was constantly being cut of random clips of other people speaking. He talked like a youtube poop or any other shitpost that would randomly shove memes into them for a quick laugh. “You thought I was dead? I was just... I was... uh.” I looked around me, eyeing the dirt and debris. “I was... going to sleep... here.”  Dammit, telling people I had to sleep in such ratty places were always a blow to the ego but I suppose it was better then saying ‘Oh I was just sitting down here to die’ The puppet shook his head and waltzed over to the dumpster, his small hand smacking the side with a sense of pride. “ [Finders keepers, losers weepers] HUMAN, YOU PICKED A GOOD SPOT. TOO BAD [so sadd] I GOT HERE FIRST. THOUGH FOR A DEAL I SUPPOSE I COULD [Share the love~]” “Got here first... what are you talking about?” The Darkner let out a laugh, distorted echoes filling the air as he leapt inside, a solitary hand popping out to beg me to come closer. This was a terrible idea, but despite my best judgement I followed, and witnessed what I could only describe to be a makeshift bed inside.  The puppet laid on top of musty mats and raggedy rugs, a single stained pillow resting just beneath his head. My god was he living in here? The creature continued his laugh, lurching only a few inches away from my face. “ [Sweet deal] ISN’T IT? J3ALOUS, [baby]?”  I shirked back, cheeks reddening at the tone of his last word. I was most defiantly not jealous, in fact I was filled with remorse, something his pride did not help with. “It’s... uh something. I guess this means I’ll have to find another alleyway um, sorry for bothering you-” “SPAMTON.” “What?” His hand shot out towards my chest, fingers wiggling for a handshake. “SP-SPA MTON G SPAMTON, [Number 1 rated salesmen 1997]” He announced, an extra flair of bravado laced his titled. His hand was surprisingly warm for what it was made of but nothing that would be described as body temperature.  “Jenna. Also 1997.” “WHAT A YEAR. LISTEN LIGHT nER, I AM DEALSMAN [yes/no?]” “Um... y-yes? I don’t-” “THEN LET ME MAKE A DEAL YEAH? FOR ONLY [many] KROMER, YOU MAY STAY IN MY [Privately owned] ALLEY. IT’S A REAL [steal] YOU’RE ROBBING ME [deaf] HERE!” My brows furrowed as I searched his face for any context clues for what the hell he was trying to say. Kromer? What the fuck was ‘kromer’? The only thing I knew of currency down here was dark dollars not kromer... even if he did ask for dark dollars he didn’t name a price, he just said many. And the amount of dark dollars I had was zero. “Uh I don’t have kromer. I don’t even have dark dollars I’m kinda broke Spamton, in case you couldn’t tell from uh...” I trailed off realizing saying that sleeping in an alley wasn’t a very smart thing to say to someone who slept in an alley.  He seemed surprised by my words, beginning to tug on my coat, flipping my pockets to see if I was really lying. I had to push his mitts off me a couple of times, to which he eventually got the idea the way his hands began to rub at his extended jaw. “NO KROMER... WHAT CAN YOU DO?” “What do you mean?” He seemed to sense my change in tone, his grin beginning to wobble nervously “[Whoopsie daisy!] LET ME START AGAIN. DO YOU HAVE A [trade]? A [skill] TO [Exchange for goods and services]?” he croaked. I eyed the ground, rubbing the back of my neck. What the hell was I good at again? “I mean, I can draw, I suppose...” “ARTIST? WOW OWOW!” Spamton’s face lit up before digging in the dumpster, pulling out a few napkins and a ball point pen and shoving them into my hands. “WHAT A [trade] TELL YOU WHAT. YOU DRAW A [one-of-a-kind masterpiece] AND YOU CAN STAY THE NIGHT!” “You’ll let me stay... if I draw something for you on this napkin. Am I getting that right?” The doll nodded feverishly, basically hovering over my shoulder as I played with the pen. This was certainly the weirdest way to pay someone that I could imagine... well no but one that was in the realm of reality. I had to ask Spamton to give me some space a few time, the feeling of his breath on  my neck making me more then nervous as I drew. God he was like those kids in school that would ask for drawings but ten times worse with the amount of personal space he’d give you. Besides I needed something to draw and with nothing on the mind why not draw the most interesting thing in front of me. I held the finished doodle out to Spamton only to have it snatched out of my fingers so fast I swore we could have started a fire. “WOAH...” The puppet sank inside of the dumpster, his face softening  as for once in what seemed like forever the alley way grew silent. “THIS IS... ME?” “Yeah. Sorry I didn’t know what to draw, you kind of put me on the spot. Besides everyone likes drawings of themselves right?” I shrugged, being pulled away from my thoughts by an overdramatic sniffle. Was he... crying? Not quite, just damn well close. Spamton’s shoulders quaked as a warm smile returned to his cheeks, slipping the napkin into his pocket with glee. “SO GOOD... THANK YOU.” “It’s really nothing, honestly that was a pretty shitty drawing.” “WHAT? YOU’RE [&#!^]ING ME! THAT WAS [BIG SHOT]” He was screaming again, hands gesturing wildly about. “It wasn’t but thank you. I wish I was better to be honest. I’m not very happy with my art, not at all.” I turned away from his gaze, unsure of why I was overcome by a choking sensation building my throat.  Why the hell was I telling this stranger this sort of stuff anyway? I mean I could hazard a guess it was the fact that this was the longest conversation I had had with anyone since I had gotten down here but with how things were it could be some magic power the doll possessed to tell him my deepest darkest secrets. “YOU DON’T THINK THIS IS [Big?]” “No.” “WHY NOT?” “I don’t know. I just... I think it doesn’t look the way I want it to. Doesn’t look good to me, and I don’t know how to fix it. Which I guess is a little funny considering how long I’ve been drawing. Just keep... drawing and drawing and never improving, least not how I’d like. It’s just garbage to me.” Spamton’s face seemed to fall, his glasses fading to a dark inky black.  “YOU FEEL? NO GOOD AT WHAT YOU DO? YOUR [passion]?”  “Yeah.” A laugh ripped from his chest, his head lolling back with each chuckle. I felt my soul began to crack, a shame flooding my body with how hard he seemed to laugh. Did he find this funny? Humorous?  I felt tears prick my eyes as I snapped my head back to glare at him, his head glitching back to stare back at me. “YOU’RE JUST LIKE ME, JENNA. A [slime] A REAL [slime]!” With a quick motion the puppet jumped to the ground, his hand resting against my arm as he spoke.  “YOU’RE A REAL [BIG SHOT] YOU KNOW THAT? STAY AS LONG AS YOUR [Greasy little heart] DESIRES!” Well... that was unexpected. He’d really let me stay here as long as I want cause I was pathetic? Or did he just feel sorry for me? What was going on? And why was he calling me a slime... or us a slime?  “Oh... uh thanks? I didn’t think I was being  much of a big shot whatever that is but I apricate it. Really.” His head clacked with every little nod, leading me to a pile of cardboard boxes and patting them with the grace of a car salesman. “BEST [Seat in the house] ALL FOR YOU. [Night night forever]!” Spamton beamed, awkwardly swaying side to side before stumbling back to the dumpster a few inches away and crawling inside of it, much like a wild animal. I couldn’t help but laugh a little. This guy was weird. Kinda creepy but also kind of funny. I honestly couldn’t pinpoint a feeling on him but at least he didn’t want to hurt me just make weird ass deals and make me ‘big’. Did that mean famous? Was this guy so into my art he wanted to be some sort of manager? I rubbed my eyes and let out a yawn, the excitement of the day finally beginning to fade. God I forgot how tired I was, that little guy made me feel like I was gonna go into fight or flight.  “Hey Spamton?” “YES?” his voice echoed from inside the metal container. “...Thank you.”

#self insert #spamton #vent #idk im just thinking #just wanted something to do

[bluejayblueskies]

in the reciprocal

Words: 8.3k

Relationships: Jon & Martin (QPR)

Tags: Season 1, Scottish Safehouse, Light Angst, Queerplatonic Relationships, Gray-Aro Martin, Kiss-Averse Jon, Kiss-Averse Martin

Warnings: internalized arophobia, mild external arophobia, mild internalized homophobia, canon-typical Lonely depression and dissociation, teasing someone about a crush (in a friendly manner), mention of canon character death, Martin briefly pretending like he still has romantic feelings for Jon and participating in a romantic relationship that makes him uncomfortable (this is addressed and resolved)

Ao3 link in source

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Martin’s relationship with romance has always been … complicated.

He has distinct memories of his early teenage years, when the major topic of conversation had shifted abruptly to who had a crush on who and who had kissed who after school and who had asked who on a date. Martin had never really participated in those conversations, though that could be owed more to the fact that he didn’t have many friends than that he wasn’t interested.

Because Martin was interested. The idea of romance had always intrigued him—a fairy-tale thing where there was somebody who would choose you and love you and never let you be alone ever again—and he wanted, more badly than he knew what to do with sometimes, to be in love.

The world, as Martin quickly learned, was not a fairy tale. No matter how much Martin tried to pretend otherwise. In fairy tales, when people got sick, they eventually got better. In fairy tales, parents always loved their children and showered them with affection. (Or were villainous and cruel, locking their children away in towers and treating them like objects to be discarded. Though Martin was never fond of those stories.) And in fairy tales, love was always easy. It wasn’t something that had to be learned or forced. It was instead like breathing—nearly effortless unless you thought about it too much—and, like breathing, it was something that everyone did.

So Martin couldn’t understand why he was so bad at it.

Just before he’d dropped out of school to work full time after his mother couldn’t anymore, he’d been asked on the first and only date of his entire life. Nino had been his friend for nearly a year and a half, and Martin loved spending time with him more than he loved most things in his life back then. School was growing more difficult as Martin had to take on a second part-time job, his mother was growing sicker and shorter with her temper, and he was quickly coming to the realization that he was … different.

After all, he’d never once felt the same kind of affection toward the girls whose names he attempted to doodle in the corners of his notebooks as he felt toward Nino.

Coming to terms with the fact that his first real crush was on his very lovely, very male best friend was … hard. But one day, Nino had bumped his shoulder against Martin’s as they sat in the library and had said something funny that Martin has long since forgotten, and he’d found himself smiling widely. His heart was a stuttering mess in his chest, his stomach twisted up into knots, and … things hadn’t been so bad, then.

Loving Nino had felt safe. Looking back, Martin is sure that Nino had been able to read all of Martin’s stutters and flushed cheeks and clumsy attempts at affection for what they were, but at the time, it had felt like a private indulgence. Just another way for Martin to spend time with the boy who was gradually becoming the most important person in his life. (Behind his mother, that is. She would always come first.)

What was funny about the whole situation, in a way that was actually not very funny at all, was that Martin was even considering asking Nino out. He liked to fantasize about what it would be like—creating clumsy scenarios in his mind where he would slip a note into Nino’s backpack before they parted ways or blurt it out on their way to the tube or whisper it quietly under his breath in the library so that nobody else could hear it but them. He imagined what it would be like if Nino said yes, his face lighting up with a smile and his hand reaching for Martin’s.

He tried to imagine what would happen after that—the date, the kissing (which he could never quite picture without grimacing and pushing the image quickly away), the hand-holding, the…

Well. He actually wasn’t quite sure what was meant to come after.

(Like breathing. It was supposed to be like breathing.)

It was funny, except it wasn’t. Because when Nino pulled Martin aside on their way home one day, face flushed slightly darker than normal, and hesitantly asked if Martin would like to go to a movie with him in a way that was very clearly meant to be a date, Martin expected to feel happy. He expected to feel relieved, that he hadn’t had to muster up the courage to ask Nino himself, or nervous, that he was finally going to be pursuing a romantic relationship with the boy he cared so much about.

Instead, he felt … stiff. Uncomfortable, like his skin was suddenly just a bit too tight. He felt the sudden urge to hide, or maybe to run, or to vanish into thin air so he didn’t have to be standing here anymore, now desperately trying to avoid the eyes of the boy who had just bared such a vulnerable part of himself to Martin.

Confused, Martin tried to look within himself for that warm, stammering affection that had been there a minute ago and found it transformed into something awkward and tense and devoid of all desire for romance. But that didn’t make any sense, he thought as he stared blankly at Nino, who was becoming increasingly nervous, shifting from foot to foot as his mouth pinched into a thin, anxious line. He remembered liking Nino. He remembered the fantasies, remembered coming up with a thousand scenarios just like this one, remembered stammering and stuttering and wanting so badly to take Nino’s hand in his own.

It was like remembering a story he’d been told. Just a fairy tale.

“You … can just say no,” Nino said finally, and Martin felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the clear upset in Nino’s eyes. “If you have to think this long, it’s … probably not a yes. Is it.”

Yes, Martin tried to say. It’s a yes—of course it’s a yes, I’m just … surprised. Maybe things would make more sense if they actually went on a date. Maybe Martin would just … sort himself out. He was just surprised, or maybe in shock.

He loved Nino. He did; he knew he did. He just … had to figure out how to bring it back.

He didn’t get the chance. (Though, thinking back on it now, Martin knows that even if he’d tried, it wouldn’t have worked.) Nino pulled back slightly, hands going to the straps of his backpack self-consciously. “Right,” he said, sounding terribly embarrassed, and Martin felt himself mirroring the emotion. “S-sorry, I … I guess I was reading things wrong. I—I thought that you … never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Nino forced a smile then, and it lacked all the bright and shining things that Martin liked about it. “S-suppose I’ll … see you in school tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Martin managed to say. And then Nino was gone, and Martin walked home alone.

He dropped out a few months later. Nino said that he would call, but Martin has always been good at lying and even better at telling when somebody else is doing so. And Nino hadn’t been putting much effort into it.

That was … probably for the best. At least Martin didn’t have to feel that dizzying, sickening sensation of guilt and awkwardness every time he looked at Nino anymore.

So, there it was. The world was nothing like a fairy tale. His mother only ever got sicker, her affection for him only ever grew more a thing of the past, and love was…

Well, love clearly wasn’t for him.

That didn’t stop him from falling hopelessly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Sims.

.

.

.

Martin, as a rule, makes a habit of not talking about his love life. For one, because there is a distinct lack of it (a fact that he much prefers but doesn’t generally feel like explaining in detail). And for two, because Martin just knew it would turn into something like this.

Martin places his head in his hands to hide the flaming red of his cheeks. “Can we not talk about it?”

“I think we’re actually obligated to talk about it now,” Tim says with what Martin is absolutely certain is a cheeky grin. “Given that you’ve just admitted that your not-so-mysterious crush is Jonathan Sims.” He drops his voice to an exaggerated conspiratorial murmur. “Is he the one you’ve been writing poetry about then?”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Martin mumbles into the very clammy palms of his hand.

Tim, fortunately, drops the poetry topic. He unfortunately does not drop the crush topic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continues. “You’ve got good taste. The whole … sweater vest, ‘disgruntled professor’ vibe is attractive, and he’s funny, you know? In his own way.”

Martin lifts his head from his hands and gives Tim an exasperated look that he hopes screams can we please stop talking about this. Tim must misinterpret it as jealousy instead because he holds his hands up in the air placatingly. “Hey, no competition here. We’re just friends, and I’m not really interested in dating anyone at the moment.” A pause. “Though, I suppose if Jon asked, I wouldn’t say—you know what, that’s not helpful.”

“He is pretty hot,” Sasha pipes in from her spot on the break room couch. “I definitely get where you’re coming from.” Then, after Martin turns that same exasperated look onto her: “Just trying to show our support for the cause, Martin.”

“Yeah, well—don’t.” Martin stands, maybe a little bit too abruptly, and crosses the room to where the kettle sits on the counter. He fills it in the sink and then clicks it on, the blue light reflecting off the countertop and faintly illuminating his hands.

“Hey,” Tim says, leaning against the counter next to him and giving him a surprisingly serious look. “I’m sorry. If talking about this makes you uncomfortable, we’ll drop it.” He mimes zipping his lips closed and throwing away the key. “No questions asked.”

“I’m pretty sure talking afterward negates the ‘zipping your lips shut’ thing,” Martin says, which earns him an amused huff of laughter and a gentle elbow in the side. He finds himself smiling, if only briefly before it falls from his lips once again. “And it’s … fine. I’m not upset. It’s just…” He hesitates, considering, and settles on a suitably vague, “It’s complicated.”

Tim makes a noise of understanding. “Say no more, Marto. Consider the subject dropped.”

“Thank you.”

There are a few moments of silence between them, filled only with the gentle hum of the kettle. Martin reaches for the mugs, and as he pulls four from the cabinet, Tim says abruptly, “So wait—is that why you always bring him tea?”

Martin nearly drops the mugs. “Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim grimaces at him sheepishly. “I’m dropping it.”

Martin nods and pulls the box of tea from the cupboard. As he gets the mugs ready, however, he can feel Tim’s eyes on him, heavy and curious. Finally, it gets to be too much, and Martin sets the box down with a sigh. “I bring him tea because he never leaves his office and at least this way he’s hydrated. If you absolutely must know.”

“Caffeine is a diuretic, you know,” Sasha says from where she’s still sitting on the couch.

“Yes,” Martin says tersely, grabbing the kettle as it clicks off, “but it’s better than nothing.”

The tea isn’t related to the crush. It really isn’t. But Martin knows that the more he tries to make excuses, the more it’ll seem like he’s deflecting, which will just be counterproductive. So he prepares the tea and passes Tim and Sasha’s mugs to them. Then, fully aware that Tim and Sasha are watching, he grabs Jon’s mug and makes his way to his office.

He doesn’t knock. He found out his first week here that Jon doesn’t like it when people knock and prefers them to verbally announce themselves instead. It wasn’t because Jon had told him; Martin gets the feeling that Jon is too stubborn to admit to that sort of weakness in front of him. It was because of the subtle tension in Jon’s shoulders every time Martin opened the door after rapping three times on the doorframe; the way his voice sounded ever so slightly pinched when he asked what Martin wanted.

So Martin says, just loud enough to penetrate the thick oak door, that he’s coming in, and then, after a moment, he opens it.

Jon is sitting at his desk, mountains of papers and files stacked on either side of him. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s currently focused intently on something on the screen, the harsh white light of the LCDs reflecting off his glasses. He doesn’t seem to notice when the door opens, but when Martin takes a few steps closer and gently clears his throat, he looks up from the screen, blinking a few times as his eyes adjust to the dimness of his office.

“Ah,” Jon says, his gaze landing on the mug. “Right. You can…” He looks at the disastrously cluttered surface of his desk and, after some consideration, pushes a stack of papers to the side to make a mug-sized gap in the mess. “You can place it there.”

Martin does. He doesn’t mean to linger afterward. Even though things are ... better between them now that Martin is staying in the Archives and Jon seems to have softened slightly toward him, they’re not quite at the ‘hold a casual conversation’ stage of their relationship yet. Still, Martin finds himself standing in front of Jon’s desk long enough for Jon to glance back up from his computer, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Did you … need something else from me?” he says, sounding more confused than annoyed.

No, Martin means to say. I’ll be going now.

Instead, he says, “How are you doing?”

Jon stares blankly at Martin, like he doesn’t understand the question. Martin briefly curses his complete lack of a verbal filter at the worst times and purses his lips, telling himself that frantically trying to rescind the statement will only make things worse. “I’m … fine,” Jon says with a hint of incredulity in his voice, like he can’t fathom any reason why Martin would want to inquire after his well-being.

Good, Martin opens his mouth to say. Let me know if you need anything else.

Why he says instead, “I just … noticed that you haven’t been going home lately,” he doesn’t know. He hasn’t had a crush in so long—is this what it was like the last time? God, it’s a bit embarrassing, isn’t it?

Jon still looks bewildered, though there is an edge of irritation to his voice when he says, “There is a lot to do here, Martin. I assure you, I can take care of myself.”

“Right, yeah.” Martin fights the urge to rub his hand along the back of his neck, settling for the inside of his wrist instead. “Just … I know I’ve taken your cot recently, and if you’re not going home at night, I—I would hate to feel like I’m making you sleep at your desk.”

“You are not making me do anything. I can make my own choices.” Jon purses his lips for a moment before saying, more gently, “Besides, you … have more need of the cot than me at the moment.”

Martin can’t help the little shudder that goes through him at the reminder of why, exactly, he is in need of the cot. “Yeah,” he concedes. Then, because it’s only been a week or so and he still feels like he hasn’t said it enough: “Thank you again, for … for letting me stay here.”

Jon’s expression softens into something almost sympathetic, just for a moment, before growing closed-off and shuttered once again. Martin’s traitorous heart thuds in his chest at the sight, just like it had when Jon had listened to his story impassively and then matter-of-factly offered him the cot like it was the only logical thing to do.

(He hadn’t understood why he’d reacted like that—pounding heart, sweaty palms, cottony mouth—until that night, staring at the dark, cracked ceiling of the Archives and running Jon’s words over and over again in his mind. But it wasn’t surprising, was it? Of course Martin would find himself attached to his prickly, no-nonsense boss who kind of hated him the first moment he showed him an ounce of kindness.)

“It’s … really no problem at all,” Jon says, sounding a bit stiff in a way that’s hopelessly endearing, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Martin’s gratitude. Then, even more stiffly: “You’re … doing all right?”

The tentative concern in Jon’s voice is enough to bring a flush to the tips of Martin’s cheeks that he desperately hopes can’t be seen in the low light of Jon’s office. “Y-yeah. As well as I can be, I—I suppose.”

“Well,” Jon says in a businesslike voice, like he’s delivering a report, “if you need any further accommodations, please let me know. Given that this was a workplace incident and you were investigating the Vittery building on my request, the Institute and I are responsible for ensuring that you remain safe while you’re … displaced from your previous home.”

Martin has always been good at reading people. And for all that Jon wears various masks of professionalism and skepticism and authority, he’s still surprisingly easy to read. It’s easy to control an expression, to control a tone of voice, but Jon’s eyes are always so much more emotive than he probably means them to be. Right now, they’re flitting around the room, from Martin to the floor to his desk to the floor again, like they’re afraid to settle on one place for too long.

It’s easy to identify the emotion as guilt. It takes Martin a few more moments to place what, exactly, Jon is guilty for.

“It’s … not your fault, you know,” Martin says slowly. “What happened with Prentiss. You’re not … responsible for it.”

Martin expects Jon to brush him off—to tell him that he’s being ridiculous. He doesn’t expect him to say, with a voice that leaves no room for argument, “I am not responsible for Jane Prentiss’ presence in the Vittery building, yes, nor for the fact that she followed you home. But I would be remiss not to acknowledge that you encountered her while following up on a statement, per my request, and that I … was not as cautious as I should have been with regards to sending you on dangerous assignments.” Jon’s eyes are sheepish now, and a touch concerned. “I will be sure to take the appropriate precautions in the future, as it would be unacceptable for you to be injured or … otherwise hurt whilst performing your duties as an archival assistant.”

It’s not a heartfelt statement by any measure. Really, it’s just common decency, and definitely what should be expected from one’s superior in a line of work that is (apparently) much more dangerous than it appears to be on paper. But Jon’s eyes when they finally turn to Martin are softer than he’s ever seen them, even as his expression remains carefully neutral and professional, and it feels like Jon has just said something profoundly kind.

Martin’s heart has some stuttering, skipping things to say about that particular fact.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently. “Th-thanks.” He considers mentioning again that Jon really isn’t at fault for sending him into a building that, for all Jon knew, contained nothing more than a few very persistent spiders. But he doesn’t. Instead, he holds the little scrap of kindness he’s been given close to his chest, stammers something about getting back to work, and leaves Jon’s office before he says something embarrassing like I like it when you care or you have kind eyes or we could share the cot if you stay too late.

Tim wiggles his eyebrows at Martin as he takes a seat back at his desk, and Sasha gives him a much more subtle knowing look. Martin ignores both of them and busies himself with the statement sitting on the corner of his desk, diving back into the formatting he’s been struggling with all morning.

Jon is his boss. Jon doesn’t even really like him, when he’s not feeling guilty for almost getting Martin killed. It’s never going to work between them.

A bit of the tension bleeds out of Martin’s shoulders. His eyes drift back toward the door to Jon’s office—the golden nameplate outside it, embossed with Jon’s name, the frosted window, the old, warped wood—and he feels something light and comfortable settle in his chest.

Jon is prickly and lovely and blunt and awkwardly conscientious and completely unattainable. Jon is never going to look at Martin with affection in his eyes and ask Martin to run away with him to pursue a romantic, fairy-tale ending, and Martin is never going to feel that intense, awful discomfort that seeps into the gaps where the love once was. He can blush and stammer and imagine holding Jon’s hand and kissing the inside of his wrist and tangling his foot with Jon’s underneath a table, and nothing will change.

It’s never going to happen between them. And it’s better that way.

.

.

.

The car ride to Scotland is quiet. Jon keeps sneaking glances at Martin when he thinks Martin isn’t paying attention, as if Martin will vanish if he doesn’t keep a watchful eye on him. It should be irritating, but … maybe he’s right. Martin doesn’t feel fully here yet. He still feels empty and numb, like all of the emotion and life and things that make him him have been cut away, consumed by the salty fog that had filled his lungs and stung his throat as he inhaled.

Peter Lukas is dead. Martin had felt it happen with a sort of empty detachment—the ripples of fog as Peter disintegrated into nothing but mist and static. Jon hasn’t spoken about it since they left the Lonely, but Martin had seen the tension in his shoulders as they’d returned to their flats to pack and taken the keys to the car from Basira and made their way painstakingly through London traffic.

Martin had wanted to tell Jon that it was all right—that everything was going to be okay. But his throat refused to form the words. It took all of his energy to remain present and solid, and he just … couldn’t. So he remained silent and gripped Jon’s hand as tightly as he was able and focused on not giving in to the Loneliness that still lingered underneath the surface of his skin.

Now, both of Jon’s hands are on the wheel of the car, his fingers and elbows rigid and stiff. Generic pop music spills out of the radio, the signal distorted enough that Martin only catches about half of the song, the rest swallowed by static. Better than him, he thinks absently. Right now, he feels as if he’s only static.

He can’t remember if he was like this before the air opened wide in front of him and he was swallowed whole by the fog, the panopticon gone in an instant and replaced with nothing but endless gray. He was … close, he thinks. Every day, things grew dimmer, his own thoughts and feelings more difficult to get a handle on. It grew harder and harder to remember why he was resisting at all. What his goal was, other than to just … be alone. He thinks he would have forgotten entirely, had Jon not been three floors beneath him, alive and breathing and reminding him that he was doing this—all of this—for a reason.

It had been … lovelier than Martin ever could have imagined, falling in love with Jon. It grew within him like a garden, new flowers cropping up every day. Some were white and delicate, blooming in his lungs when he looked at Jon and felt the all-consuming need to bundle him up in a blanket and make him tea and hide him away from the things in the world that wanted to hurt him. Others were purple and angular, blossoming with every lunch they had together and story Jon told him. And some were red and thorny, roses with waxy petals that made Martin’s cheeks grow hot every time Jon said his name like it was special or treated him kindly or smiled.

So when things grew difficult—when the loneliness crept too close, when he grew too comfortable being invisible, when he had to look Jon in the eye and tell him that he didn’t want to see him—Martin retreated to the quiet garden in his soul. He ran his fingers along the petals and stems and leaves and reminded himself that he needed to do this, or he’d lose Jon again and the garden would shrivel and die.

It had been an easy decision, in the end.

There’s a soft crunching noise, and Martin breaks free from his thoughts to see that they’ve transitioned from the smooth asphalt of the motorway to an unpaved gravel road. It’s bracketed on either side by trees, and though the sun has long since set, Martin can still see the gentle swell of hills around them, outlined softly in the moonlight. He thinks, for a moment, that he sees fog, clustering around the bases of the hills and swirling around in tight eddies, but when he blinks, the image is gone.

“We’re almost there,” Jon says quietly. It’s one of the few things he’s said to Martin the entire trip. Then, after a moment: “It’s … rather nice out here.”

Martin supposes it is. The landscape around them had been a vibrant green before twilight had washed it out into deep blues, and there have been cows dotted around the fields, shaggy and brown and grazing contently. It’s a stark change from the grays and browns of central London, with buildings on all sides and people everywhere and no chance to ever really see the stars. If circumstances were different, Martin thinks he would be cooing over the cows and trying to get Jon to stop so he could take pictures and enjoying his first trip outside of England.

Instead, Martin just nods.

Jon seems to understand. He sneaks another glance at Martin—full of something soft that Martin, in his foggy state, doesn’t quite know how to parse—but remains silent for the rest of the trip. It could easily be a stiff, uncomfortable silence, but … it’s not. It feels companionable.

When did being around Jon become so easy?

Daisy’s cabin is small and squat, nestled between two hills and idyllic in a way that doesn’t match the rough-hewn, steel-eyed woman Martin had known. The inside is dusty and cold, and Jon mutters something about central heating before disappearing down the corridor and leaving Martin standing in the living room, staring at the place he’ll be living in for the foreseeable future.

The place he’ll be living in with Jon for the foreseeable future.

Martin feels something in his chest stir at that—a strange, twisting emotion that’s there and gone before he can put a name to it. He shivers, in a way he doesn’t think is from the cold, and goes to find Jon.

He … doesn’t think he should be alone right now.

They find an old, rusted radiator that miraculously still works, pumping out hot air with a groan of metal. Jon digs a set of musty sheets out of the linen closet and begins dressing the bed. Martin notes the lack of a second bedroom, and he thinks he might object to the implication that they’ll be sharing a bed if he weren’t aware of the fact that he might vanish if left alone for too long. (Or if he were himself enough to feel embarrassed. Or to feel anything.)

He doesn’t think anything shows on his face, but Jon’s always been keen, even more so now that knowledge drips into his mind like water from a leaky faucet. Jon’s hands flutter over the sheets for a moment before he says, “I … hope this is all right?”

Martin tries to find his voice to agree, but the energy required to summon it is too much, so he settles for a shallow nod. He doesn’t think it’s a sufficiently enthusiastic agreement, but Jon doesn’t question it. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, then says, “And … you’re all right?”

It’s a bit of a ridiculous question, really. No, Martin isn’t all right. No, there’s nothing Jon can do about it. No, he doesn’t know when things will be better. Or if they’ll ever be better.

Martin just looks at Jon, eyebrows slightly raised. Jon lets out a small, dry laugh. “Right. I … suppose that was a silly question. I—I meant…” Jon hems and haws for a long moment before finally saying, “Do you feel … safe, here? W-with me?”

That question has a much easier answer.

When Martin nods without hesitation, Jon visibly relaxes. “Good,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “That’s … that’s good.”

They stand there for a moment longer, the silence between them thick and heavy but not uncomfortably so. Finally, Jon clears his throat and says, “Well, I—I suppose we should rest then. We can … talk tomorrow?”

Martin nods and tries to smile. He doesn’t quite manage it, but … that’s all right. For now, this is enough.

Jon retreats into the bathroom, and Martin finds himself overcome with exhaustion. He slips into the soft pajama trousers he’d absently stuffed into his duffle bag, climbs under the covers, and is asleep before the sound of running water from the other room abates.

.

.

.

Martin doesn’t remember what happened in the Lonely. Things had been foggy and disjointed, slipping through his grasp when he tried to hold onto them. He barely remembers what came after, when Jon had led him away from the sand and the fog and the waves, his palm a searing heat against Martin’s. His first few days at the safehouse are spent in a similar fog, like each muscle in his body is frozen solid and he’s slowly attempting to warm them with a matchstick flame.

His third day is … better. His fourth, better still. By the end of the first week, Martin feels more himself than he has in months, if still acutely aware of the fog that now lives in his lungs and creeps out of his throat when he thinks too hard about what’s transpired or when Jon is out of sight for too long.

Martin remembers what it’s like to be happy. He feels it when he shuffles sleepily into the kitchen on their eigth morning in the safehouse and sees Jon standing in front of the stove, hair tied up in a neat bun and eggs sizzling in a pan in front of him. He remembers what it’s like to be frightened. He feels it when he wakes at night, shivering and shaking with the lingering memory of dreams of nothing but endless fog and aching loneliness.

And he remembers what it’s like to be in love.

He remembers it just in time to lose it.

The worst thing, Martin thinks, is that he’d almost managed to convince himself that it would be different this time. He knows, logically, that it’s not that simple. He’d done a little bit of research after what happened with Nino, reading through a few web pages on aromanticism before becoming overwhelmed and closing out of every single one of them. He tentatively returned to them a few years later after realizing that this wasn’t something that he was going to grow out of or move on from.

He had difficulties settling on a label, partly because of the sheer number of them and partly because he … didn’t quite know how to categorize his feelings. How could he categorize something that he’d only felt once before? Gray-romantic seemed the safest option, so that was the one he settled on.

(Not that he ever told anyone that he was arospec. It never seemed important, even when Sasha would needle him about his crush and Tim would make too-loud suggestive comments that could surely be heard through the door to Jon’s office.

… Martin misses Tim and Sasha. He thinks, if he’d had the chance—if he’d had more time—they would have been the first people he told.)

Martin knows that his relationship with romantic attraction is complicated. Yet somehow, he’s still found it within himself to hope that this time, things will be different. This time, when he tells Jon that he’s very in love with him and has been for a while, those words will continue to be true even after they’re spoken. (He ignores the fact that the actual thought of saying them aloud makes his stomach twist and his mouth grow chalky.)

But, just like with Nino, Martin doesn’t get the chance to try. Jon beats him to the punch.

“I … I love you,” Jon says quietly. He has Martin’s hand in his, and he’s holding it so gently Martin might cry. There were things Jon said before this moment—a conversation that has led them here—but Martin is having a hard time recalling any of them. All he can think is no, no, not now, not here.

His skin crawls. His hands are clammy, and he’s sure that Jon can feel it. He has the instinctive need to get away, but he’s also frozen in place, the lump in his throat sealing away all of the words that he should be saying.

He should be saying something.

The silence stretches on between them, the vulnerability on Jon’s face slowly morphing into concern. “... Martin?”

He sounds so confused, and Martin … he can’t. He just can’t. He doesn’t think he’ll survive the moment when that confusion turns to hurt.

So Martin swallows sharply and forces his hand to squeeze Jon’s and says, “I love you too.”

And he does, in a way. He wants Jon here, by his side, eating breakfast next to him and rambling to him about whatever latest thing has piqued his interest and listening to Martin describe the cows he’s seen on his walks. The thought of Jon leaving—of losing him, the same way he lost Nino—makes his stomach twist into knots, because Martin loves him.

Just … not in the way that Jon thinks he does. Not anymore.

And Martin can’t help but feel guilty about that fact.

Jon frowns at Martin for a moment more, like he can tell that something’s wrong but he’s not entirely sure what. Martin breathes out slowly and gives Jon as genuine a smile as he can muster, trying to convey that everything is fine. That nothing’s wrong—why would anything be wrong?

It must work, because Jon exhales slowly, his expression softening into one of the gentle smiles that Martin has grown so fond of. He rubs a thumb over the back of Martin’s hand in a motion that should be comforting but only reminds Martin of the fact that Jon is doing it because he loves him.

Martin thinks that Jon is going to kiss him then—isn’t that usually what comes after things like this?—and dread coils in his stomach. But Jon doesn’t. Later, Martin will find out that Jon dislikes kisses just as much as he does (though for different reasons). For now, though, Martin can only feel relief when Jon squeezes his hand once more before letting go and standing. “I’ll go make us some tea,” he says quietly, then retreats to the kitchen.

Thinking back on it, Martin wonders if Jon knew then. That something was wrong. But for now, he just feels relieved that he has the space he needs to breathe.

.

.

.

It’s their second week at the safehouse, just a few days after Jon told Martin that he loves him, that Jon finally sits Martin down after dinner and says softly, “Martin, am I … am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What?” Martin says, like he has no idea what Jon’s talking about. (Like a liar.) “No. What … what makes you think that?”

Jon wrings his hands together. He’s wearing one of Martin’s sweaters, and Martin doesn’t know how he feels about it. The clothes sharing is fine. The fact that Jon is clearly perceiving the clothes sharing as a romantic gesture is … less than fine.

Martin told himself that it would be okay if Jon perceived their relationship as a romantic one and Martin didn’t. He was good at pretending. And besides, how different could things be?

Very different, as it turned out. In all the ways that mattered.

Jon seemed to take any opportunity he could to touch Martin—a hand brushing against the small of his back when he passed behind him to grab a mug, an ankle nudging against his underneath the table as they ate, a head resting on his shoulder as they sat side-by-side and read. Martin had never been particularly touch-averse or touch-starved; touch was just … touch. He’d liked it when Tim had tousled his hair or when Sasha had thrown her legs across his on the breakroom couch, but he didn’t feel like he was missing out on anything on the days he went without any human contact at all.

Now, it’s all Martin can do not to flinch away from Jon’s touches, knowing that each one is delivered with love and affection that Martin can’t return. Though perhaps he hasn’t been doing as good of a job as he’d thought, judging by the concerned look Jon is giving him now.

There have been other things too—whispered I love yous in the early mornings and soft smiles that seem somehow more and little gestures that are so Jon but also so romantic—and Martin wants so badly to disappear back into the fog in those moments. But that … that wouldn’t be fair to Jon. It’s not his fault that Martin is like this, after all.

(It’s not Martin’s fault either. He knows this, logically. He’d spent a long time hating himself for what happened with Nino, for how he couldn’t just be normal and go on dates and enjoy something that the rest of society seemed to prize above all else. It had taken him years to finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t broken, and he couldn’t be changed. That this was just … who he was.

It doesn’t mean that sometimes, he doesn’t wish that he could be someone else. And he’s never wanted it more acutely than when he stares at Jon’s kind brown eyes and soft smile.)

So Martin lied and lied and lied. And he thought he’d been doing so successfully. But here Jon is, frowning at him, a careful distance between them, and Martin feels his chest begin to tighten.

“I just…” Jon begins, then stops. He looks down at the couch, studying the ugly floral pattern with apparent rapt fascination. Martin doesn’t know what to say, so he waits anxiously until Jon finally continues, “It doesn’t feel like you’re … happy. I know that things have been hard, a-and … it’s all right if you still need time after the Lonely, but it…” Jon swallows. “It feels like some of it may be because of me? W-when I touch you, sometimes you get … tense. And sometimes…”

“Jon?” Martin prompts after a moment, the word strangled by the growing lump in his throat.

“Sometimes,” Jon says quietly, “when you tell me that you love me, it … it feels like you’re lying.”

And the way Jon says it—tentative, with wide, hesitant eyes, like he’s the one that’s the problem—makes Martin’s desire to keep up the ruse crumble away in an instant.

It still isn’t easy to come clean. But he forces himself to do it anyway.

“It’s complicated,” he begins, then winces. Not a good start. Sure enough, Jon’s shoulders grow tense, and he shifts slightly further away, like he thinks Martin wants more space. Because he thinks he’s done something wrong. “You haven’t done anything wrong,” Martin adds quickly. It’s not you, it’s me, he thinks wryly. “It’s … not your fault.”

Jon opens his mouth—to say what, Martin doesn’t know. He barrels on before Jon gets the chance to speak, his haste making his words harried and blunt.

“I’m aromantic.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly surprised by the abruptness of the statement. After a long, awkward moment, during which it becomes abundantly clear that Jon is waiting for Martin to make the next move, Martin continues, “My relationship with—well, with relationships—i-is complicated. I-it’s, um … it’s hard to explain? A-and I don’t want you to think that I—I don’t care about you. I want to be here, w-with you, just…”

“Not in a romantic capacity?” Jon finishes softly.

Martin exhales heavily, feeling a bit like a hole has been punched in his chest and he’s slowly deflating. “Yeah.”

Jon is looking at him with soft, kind eyes, and Martin doesn’t know what to do with them. So he buries his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice coming out muffled.

“Hey, hey.” Jon’s hand brushes against Martin’s shoulder before pulling away quickly, and that just makes Martin feel worse. “You haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, I have,” Martin says into his palms. “I lied. I let you think that I—I was still in love with you, and … Christ, that was shitty of me.”

“I … do wish you had told me sooner,” Jon concedes. “But … only because I care about you, Martin, a-and I don’t want you to be uncomfortable around me.” He hesitates. “You … do know that I’m not mad at you, right? Th-that I wouldn’t have been mad, o-or upset, or hurt, if you told me that you didn’t feel the same way about me?”

Martin takes a deep breath, then another. “But I did,” he says raggedly. “For … for so long, I did. Ever since Jane Prentiss locked me in my flat for two weeks and you believed me when I told you about it a-and let me stay in the Archives. A-and I didn’t lie, in the Lonely. I did love you, a-all the way up until…”

Martin trails off. Jon lets the silence linger for a moment before saying gently, “If you don’t want to explain it to me, o-or if it’s hard, you don’t have to. But … if you can, I’d like to understand. For myself, a-and for you.” He wraps his hands tightly around his knees where they’re tucked against his chest. “This is important, and … I want to get this right.”

Martin exhales. He picks at a loose thread on the couch between them, focusing on it so he doesn’t have to meet Jon’s eyes and can pretend like he isn’t so extremely exposed and vulnerable right now. “I … I do want to explain. O-or I want to try. It’s … hard, though. Mostly b-because I’ve never had to explain it to anybody else? But also because … I don’t really understand why I’m like this.”

Jon opens his mouth, and Martin holds up a hand. “I know, I know—you don’t … have to comment on that.”

Jon closes his mouth and tentatively shifts so his knee is pressing against Martin’s. Martin waits for the tingling of his skin, the pins-and-needles discomfort, but it never comes. Maybe it’s because he knows that this is an act of comfort rather than one of affection. It’s … really nice.

He presses back with a sigh, feeling a bit of the tension and nerves drain out of him. “I—I get that love is difficult for me,” he says quietly. “I’ve just … always had trouble with the fact that what makes it difficult is that I’m someone who apparently never actually wants their love … requited. And if it is, I just … can’t anymore. It all goes away, a-and I just … fall out of love?”

Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him, inquisitive and searching, but Jon doesn’t say anything. There’s a moment of silence between them, during which Martin tries and fails to collect his mess of feelings and thoughts and emotions into something that he can verbalize. Finally, Martin sighs and says, “It’s ironic, isn’t it. I’ve loved you for so long, a-and I still do, but … not in the way you love me. Not anymore. And now you’re the one who—who loves someone w-who doesn’t … who can’t…”

“Oh, no, Martin.” Jon’s hand is covering his then, and it’s warm and gentle and lovely, and Martin could cry. “I’m not…” He hesitates, squeezing Martin’s hand once. “Well. I am still in love with you. In the … romantic sense. I—I don’t want to lie to you about that. B-but I also love you in … so many other ways. Y-you’re my friend, Martin, a-and you’re someone that I can trust. You … you make me feel safe, e-even when there’s … so much in my life that’s dangerous and unpredictable, and I know that you’ll … always be there for me when I need you to be. I want to be here with you, always. I would … be happy in a romantic relationship with you, yes. But I would also be happy to just be with you. In whichever way you will have me.”

Martin’s throat feels very tight. “Oh,” he says faintly. He feels a pressure at the corner of his eyes and realizes, with a flush of embarrassment, that there are actual tears collecting there. He stares hard at the lamp just behind Jon, trying not to let any of them escape.”You, um … you really … mean that?”

“Of course,” Jon says, like there’s no question to be had about the matter. “You are … such an easy person to love, Martin. In all the ways it’s possible to love someone.”

Martin tries—he really does—to keep the tears back. But it’s just … so much, and Jon is so lovely, and this is more than Martin ever thought he was going to be able to have. So he takes a shaky breath in, and on the exhale, a few tears slip free and trail down his cheek. He brings a hand up and scrubs them away, mutters a sorry underneath his breath, but Jon just squeezes his hand tighter.

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay, I’m … I’m here. I’m not leaving you.” Jon hesitates. “Provided that that’s … all right with you, of course.”

Martin can’t help the shaky laugh that escapes him. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Of course it is.”

Jon smiles, and Martin aches with it. “Good.” He nudges his knee gently against Martin’s. “Because this cottage would get very dull without you in it. Who would I talk to about all of Daisy’s awful romance novels?”

Martin laughs again, and it chases away most of the lingering tension in his body. “Be careful what you wish for. I’m going to start doing dramatic readings next.”

Jon’s eyes sparkle with humor, but his voice is sincere when he says, “I look forward to it.”

True to his word, over the next week, Martin does increasingly dramatic readings of the worn, water-warped romance novels stacked haphazardly on the safehouse shelves. (Skipping the, quote, ‘unnecessarily erotic’ bits to avoid Jon’s pinched look of discomfort and his own beet-red face as he stares down at words that should really not be used in a sexual context ever.) He bakes cookies, laughing when Jon drops the cup of flour he’s holding and ends up covered in it. He spends the first three walks after their conversation wringing his hands together before finally asking, in a series of nervous stutters, if Jon would like to hold hands while they walk.

“But not in a romantic way!” he hastens to clarify. “You just have very nice hands, a-and I’ve always liked the idea of holding someone else’s hand, but—you know, th-the romantic connotations of it aren’t … great, and … you know, now that I think about it, this was a stupid question, you don’t have to—”

And then Jon takes his hand and squeezes it gently, and Martin feels a warmth spread through him that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

That’s been happening a lot lately. He … doesn’t think he minds at all.

Then, a few weeks after their conversation, Jon turns over in bed to face him and says, without any preamble, “Have you ever heard of a queerplatonic relationship?”

Martin has, but only in passing, so he shakes his head. Jon explains, sounding very much like he’s reciting the wiki page for the concept, which is … more endearing than it has any right to be, probably.

“Does … does that sound like something you might be interested in?” Jon says nervously. “W-with me, of course. If that wasn’t … clear.”

Martin nods before Jon is finished speaking. “Yeah,” he says, maybe a bit too eagerly. Then, quieter: “Yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”

Jon smiles then, bright and wide and lovely, and it occurs to Martin—not for the first time, and probably not for the last—that he can have this. That he can be with Jon—maybe for the rest of his life, though that’s a … big thought that he definitely isn’t ready to look at head-on yet—without the dates and the kissing and all the other romantic gestures that Martin always thought were necessary for something like this. That they can be happy, together.

That Martin can have his fairy tale ending, and it doesn’t have to look like he’s always been told it should.

Martin smiles back at Jon, reaching across the bed to brush his fingers lightly against Jon’s. And for the first time in a long, long while, he finally feels like he’s home.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #(in a queerplatonic capacity) #my writing #my fic

[randomshyperson]

Wanda Maximoff x Reader - Land of Thieves #ChapterOne

Western/ Red Dead Redemption AU / Slow Burn / childhood best friends to lovers 

Gif is not mine.

Read on AO3 (English Version) 

Ler no AO3  / “Terra de Ladrões” (Versão Português)

Chapter warnings: explicit language, explicit violence. 

Word count for this chapter:  4002K

Summary:  When you were a child, you swore that no matter how high the reward in your head, she could always count on you. Life as an outlaw in the west is not easy, but you believe that train robberies are still easier than asking a pretty girl to dance. Land of Thieves, also know as your love story with Wanda Maximoff in the Wild West.

Pt.1 || Pt. 2 || Pt. 3 || Pt.4 || Pt.5 || Pt.6 || Pt.7 || Pt.8 || Pt.9 || Pt.10 || Pt.11

You were covered in mud and blood when you entered the saloon. Curious and judgmental eyes turned to you, but you didn't stare back. Stretching your back, you felt your whole body ache; the recent beating was sure to leave marks. Walking over to the counter, you threw three gold coins onto the wood, muttering in a mumbled tone "bath" to the saloon keeper. He nodded slightly, showing you the way to the restrooms. As you washed up, you grumbled against the recent cuts, but you were happy to know that you hadn't been shot. Your body ached, but without bullet wounds, you would be better in no time. A pretty girl who worked in the saloon smiled at you when she took your muddy clothes to wash them, and you looked away blushing helplessly. She handed you new clothes before she left. When you finished your shower, you put on the white silk shirt, and beat-up jeans that were handed to you. The boots were not new, but they were comfortable. You also put on spurs, but they didn't give you suspenders, so you left the shirt loose against your body, enjoying the lightness. Attaching your holstered belt to your waist, you checked to be sure your Schofield revolver was clean and locked before you holstered it. You walked to the top floor of the saloon, ignoring the curious glances cast at you on the way. You hoped that no one would recognize you from the reward posters, but you weren't so sure about that, since your face was quite exposed without your hat, which must now be somewhere lost in the middle of New Elizabeth, or on some thief's head. Whistling softly, you walked to the saloon balcony, watching the town below. Valentine is a ranching town, small and not very crowded. Lots of pedestrians, you observe. You light a cigarette as you watch the citizens go about their mundane lives, many opportunities passing before your eyes. You let your gaze wander to the town bank, a few meters ahead on the right of the saloon. You notice that security is low. Making mental notes about everything you could observe from there, you put out your cigarette, returning to the lower part of the saloon, toward the counter. - A whiskey and a beef stew. - You grumble, handing the bartender some coins. He nods in agreement and in a few minutes you get your meal. While you are sitting at the farthest table in the room, you listen attentively to the conversation of two men at the poker table, who have caught your attention. - My cousin saw the carriages in Saint Denis. Four horses in each, and he said that the riders were armed to the teeth." - The skinny man commented excitedly, his friend didn't look so happy. - Those damned bankers are like pests of the soil. You saw what happened to that southern town, I think it was called White Gate. - commented the man with the mustache, his expression frowning. - After the oil ran out, everybody lost their jobs. Stark closed the mine and the citizens began to starve. Almost everyone moved to the neighboring towns. Stark. The name was not strange to you, but you could not tell exactly where you had heard it before. You finished your stew, deciding that Steve would want to know about both the bank and the possible rich men who were visiting the town. Finishing your whiskey in one gulp, you stood up, leaving the saloon just as you collected your freshly washed clothes from the same woman who had brought them. It was hot and humid outside. Knight, your Hungarian half-breed horse, grunted with delight when you stroked his mane. You smiled at him before you mounted. You rode south, figuring you would have no trouble finding the new camp site, and trying to remember Bucky's instructions about where exactly they were. It took some time, but you finally found the camp. You dismounted Knight as you entered the area between the trees, walking calmly to the largest tent. Steve Rogers was like a father to you. When your birth parents died of cholera, you ran away from the orphanage the government put you in, and started living on the streets. You were only seven years old, but you were smart enough to hide in one of the garbage carts when the nuns weren't looking, and you ran away because you couldn't stand being beaten by the older children and your own teachers. You ended up somewhere in West Elizabeth, and while trying to steal some food, you were chased by two officers. But just as they were about to catch up with you, someone knocked them out. You smiled when Steve held out a big piece of bread and water to you. From that moment on, you lived with him. The Avengers gang became your family. Steve took care of you, and trained you as an outlaw. You learned everything that was essential to survive in the Wild West, from hunting to murder. And as the years passed, other people joined the gang, and you accepted them all as your family. When Steve saw you, he smiled tenderly, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief as he motioned for you to enter the tent. - So, kiddo, what did you find out in Valentine? - asked the man as you sat down in the opposite position, on a wooden chair. - They have a poorly protected bank. - You shrugged. - But you know how these small towns are, the risk is almost always not worth the gain. - That's too bad, we need money. Especially to buy medicine. You let out a low exclamation of agreement, you knew exactly how difficult the situation was. It had been a particularly difficult season for the gang. With Fury's death at the last service, and the move out of town to get away from the officers, you were still facing a wave of illness. Carol and Bruce had been feverish and bedridden for days, and Thor had been shot during an unsuccessful robbery. - I overheard an interesting conversation, though. - You say, and Steve looks at you curiously. - Some rich people are coming to Valentine in a few days. The name Stark was mentioned, have you ever heard of it? Steve's eyes widen in surprise and excitement. - Of course I have! - he exclaims. - Filthy rich folks there! Rich enough to lend us a little money without even noticing. - I think Stark is going to buy the oil mines at Heartlands. And he's staying in Valentine while he does the negotiations. - That's excellent. - Steve says, running his hand along his chin in a thoughtful expression. - If the deposit is made in Valentine, we will have the purchase money first hand. You nodded. - But even if the deposit is made here, the money is sure to be transferred to Saint Denis. - You retort, trying to think of all the details of the scam. - Which means that we have to steal the money the same day it is deposited, or we only stand a chance during the transfer. Steve stood up, walking around the tent with the same thoughtful expression on his face. - No, no. - He began to speak as if the alternatives were rapidly forming in his head. - The carriage will be extremely protected. In the gunfire, we can be very worried about not getting killed, which will give them a chance to escape to the city. And then we'll have no way to reach them there. You sighed, knowing that he was right. You frowned, trying to think of something, but Steve soon spoke again. - We need to do this while the money is in the bank. And we have to do it fast. - He says, and then walks to the edge of the hut, looking around the field. He whistles, attracting the attention of Peggy Carter, who is chopping wood, and when she raises her curious gaze to him, Steve beckons her to join him. - What is it, Rogers? - Peggy asks gently. You exchange a smile with her. - We've got a new hit. - He says, making room for Peggy to join you. - Is Bucky around? - He went out hunting a few minutes ago. The twins went with him. - Peggy says and you rest your face on your own hand, waiting for Steve to speak again. - Oh right. I'll explain the details to them later. - The blond man says, walking around the cabin to the table in the opposite corner, and he takes a pen and paper and begins to write down what you think of as a rough draft of the plan. - We will rob Valentine's bank then. - I thought that banks in small towns were not worth the risk. - Peggy commented with a slightly confused expression. - Ah, but we have a unique opportunity. - Steve remarked, bringing the doodle over to Peggy. - Howard Stark, big oil guy, is going to buy the Heartlands mines. The purchase money will be deposited in Valentine before being transferred to Saint Denis. I believe we will have about a few hours to rob the bank - Steve, are you sure this is a good idea? - Peggy assumed a worried posture. - We are short on snipers... - It's a great idea. - He interrupts, looking at Peggy seriously, but still maintaining a calm tone. - We need the money, Peggy. If this is planned correctly, we don't have to worry about the number of weapons. - I appreciate the confidence in my abilities, by the way. - You playfully push your shoulder lightly against Peggy, she smiles at you. - Of course I trust you, Y/N. - She answers, but her gaze is still worried. - We just need to be careful in this job. You spend the rest of the afternoon planning. It doesn't take long for Bucky to join you. He hands a deer carcass to Pietro, who carries it back to the supply hut. Steve repeats the plan, and you let your gaze drift quickly to Wanda, who smiles at you, and you feel something in your stomach drop. Blushing, you look away, turning your attention back to Steve. It is already night when you have finally finished working out the plan. Wanda and Pietro joined you at some point, and you had to mentally repeat to yourself to pay attention to Steve's words and not to the redheaded girl a few feet away. You didn't want your passion to cost your life or put everyone else in danger because you didn't absorb the plan correctly, but you were getting to this level of unfocused. You felt a light tug on your arm as you walked toward the fire, and found yourself smiling wryly as you faced Wanda already looking at you. - I got my first deer today. - She declared, looking up at you with bright eyes, a tone of pride and happiness in her voice. You raise your eyebrows in a pleased expression. - What? That's amazing, Wands. - You replied. - I told you that you would learn soon! I would have liked to have seen it. - We can hunt together. - She says, and you try not to show your nervousness at the thought of being alone with Wanda, but you don't disguise it very well, which makes Wanda confused, and she looks almost disappointed when she quickly adds - Pietro can come with us too. You blink a few times, believing her to be clarifying that she had no intention of spending time alone with you, and swallowing dryly, you nod in agreement. - Yes, yes. Sure, we should call him too. - You say taking a few steps back, hands in your pockets as you stare uncomfortably at the floor. Wanda bites her lower lip lightly, finding you extremely difficult to decipher. You spend a moment in silence, before she speaks again - We can go tomorrow afternoon if you have no business in town. You think about it for a moment, trying to remember if you had made any appointments, if any robbery opportunities had been signaled to you, but you can't think of anything. - No, it's fine. We can hunt tomorrow. - You say, trying not to be too embarrassed by the contented smile Wanda flashes at you. She was probably going to say it was marked, but Pietro interrupted the moment by extending a bowl of stew in front of her face. Wanda blinked a few times in confusion, but thanked her brother as soon as she grabbed the item. Pietro turned to you next, a relaxed posture as he took a sip of the beer he was holding. - What were you two talking about? - he asked, his tone curious. - It's rude to snoop, you know. - You teased, drawing a short laugh from Wanda, and Pietro rolled his eyes stubbornly, but smiled. - We're going hunting tomorrow. I'll show Y/N that I learned how to use the bow on some deer. - explained Wanda, looking at her brother. - Will you come with us? Pietro frowned, denying with his head. - Sorry, little sister. - He speaks seriously, but his eyes have a malice in them that you didn't know how to recognize. - I'd love to join you on your date, but I have an appointment. You and Wanda blush at the insinuation, but Pietro continues with a playful aura as he takes another sip of beer. Although embarrassed, you can't help but be happy to know that you would be spending some time alone with the girl. - Oh, all right. - Wanda says in what seems to be an attempt to sound disappointed, but her eyes sparkle slightly as she speaks. You don't notice, but Pietro smiles at the expression. - You're full of secrets lately. What kind of appointment? Pietro laughs, shrugging his shoulders. He walks toward you with a playful expression, and puts his arm around your shoulders, smiling at Wanda as he leans on you. - Your girlfriend taught me how to play poker and now I am famous, my presence is requested in Rhodes. I need to bet and win some money for this place. You choke slightly on the phrase and feel your face heat up, looking down at the floor. Wanda lets out a nervous laugh, and pushes her brother lightly, making him let go of you. - You mean lose money, don't you? - she teases. - Even Thor plays better than you, and he usually just flips the table. You laugh, risking a glance at Wanda, who has a reddened face and quickly exchanges a smile with you. Pietro rolls his eyes and walks past you, waving goodbye. Deciding that you should eat something, you nod to Wanda that you are going to the fire. She smiles and follows you silently

You didn't hunt very often. Although you were good at it, it was not your function in the camp. You were a gunslinger, and your jobs usually involved carriage robberies and trespassing, even the occasional robbery. You were always part of the team for the big scams. And then Wanda invited you to go deer hunting and you became an anxious mess. Stumbling out of your tent, you hurried to take a quick swim in the creek near the campground. It was important not to smell too strongly when you went out hunting, as the animals could more easily notice you. Coming out of the water with wet hair, you put on your clothes, leaving the suspenders hanging from your waist and a few buttons open on your shirt. You were feeling heated. You waited for Wanda at the campfire. She also bathed before meeting you, and she seemed slightly anxious when she found you. You smiled as you poured some coffee, and Wanda looked a little airy when she accepted the cup. You didn't understand why, but the sight of your relaxed appearance, your loose hair and your exposed collarbone was absolutely irresistible to her, making Wanda feel heated in places that were not appropriate. You joked that soon she would become the best hunter in the camp, and you were happy to make her smile. As you rode out of the camp, you smiled as you felt Wanda lightly tap her foot against yours, as you used to play with as children. Riding in silence for a few minutes, you enjoyed the gentle breeze until you came to a hunting spot. You descended from Knight slowly, stretching your body when you reached the ground. Wanda watched your shirt lift and reveal some skin, then she looked away quickly, her face red. You cast a curious look, thinking she was feeling heat. Grabbing your rifle stored on the horse, you watched Wanda take from Lily's saddle - her red sorrel - a longbow and some arrows. You walked in silence, heading for the shallow part of the creek beside you, where you could easily find deer. It was comfortable to be in Wanda's presence, even in silence. Neither of you had to say anything to know exactly what to do next, your body following her along the way as if you had done this many times before. One look and you knew when to wait, or when to be quiet. It didn't take long before you spotted the deer. There weren't many, and Wanda bent down in front of you to take aim. You watched her with admiration. She raised her bow, and you noticed the slight tremor in her hands and frowned. You came forward, also bent down, and stood beside her. - There's no need to be nervous, Wands. - You whispered softly. - It's just me. The trembling in their hands seemed to diminish, but it was still there. You moved closer, raising your hands to join Wanda's, helping her to keep a steady aim. - Take a deep breath. - You said against her ear, waiting for her to obey. - And then shoot. With her speech, Wanda let go. The arrow cut through the air with speed, hitting the animal straight in the head. A perfect shot. You smiled, and when you looked at Wanda, she was already looking at you. You were about to congratulate her on the shot, but Wanda hugged you by the neck, surprising you. You felt your face heat up and due to the shock, you didn't respond to the hug, your body seeming asleep for an instant. Wanda let you go quickly, her face flushed with apology. You were about to tell her it was okay, and maybe hug her back, then you heard an animalistic noise that attracted your full attention, a low growl that you knew all too well. Glad you had brought your rifle, you looked around, searching for the source of the noise. Wanda blinked curiously, but you didn't look at her again. Standing up, you held the rifle with both hands, your gaze roaming the surroundings. A moment later, the bushes a few feet away moved, and you watched the creature sneak through the undergrowth, only to run toward you the next second, preparing to jump. The sound of gunfire echoed for a few seconds after the shot. You let out the breath you were holding and watched the panther lying on the ground, just a few inches away from your feet. Wanda looked at you in shock, and you offered your hand to help her up. - Sorry for the scare. - You grumbled, walking towards the panther intent on retrieving the skin, which should be worth a few dozen dollars. - We always have to be careful not to become the prey during the hunt. - How did you hear it? - Wanda asked curiously. - Practice I guess. - You said, kneeling down beside the panther. - Every sound around us is important. - You explained - Pay attention now, for example. Besides my voice, what do you hear? Wanda seemed to think for a moment. - I can only hear water, I think. Maybe birds. - She confesses, you finish cutting the skin off the animal in front of you. - Oh, sorry. - You say quickly. - I forgot that I just drove all the animals away with the noise of the rifle. You laugh to yourself, and Wanda smiles at you tenderly. - Let's go after that deer. I'll teach you to hear the sounds another day. - You tell her as you stand up. Walking over to the dead deer, you observe Wanda kneeling beside the animal, drawing her own knife. - Bucky taught you how to skin? - you ask, watching the firm but still amateurish cut Wanda was giving the animal. - Yes, he told me to skin rabbits before he taught me to cut the deer during yesterday's hunt. - said the red-haired girl focused on the activity. You tried not to blush as you watched a drop of sweat trickle down your neck. - I learned to skin animals from him too. - You commented as you waited for Wanda to finish the task. - I was a little smaller, I think. - I guess it took long enough for us to learn how to hunt, didn't it? - Wanda joked, drawing a smile from you. It was true, hunting had been the last activity Steve and Bucky taught you. For some reason, teaching them to shoot was a higher priority than getting food from the wild. A moment later, Wanda finished, raising the deer leather in the air, showing off her work proudly. You laughed at her expression, signaling for her to step away from the animal. You handed her your rifle, and bent down, grabbing the carcass with both hands and throwing it over your shoulders to carry it to the horse. It was quite heavy, but you concentrated your breathing as Bucky had taught you, and managed to carry the animal to Wanda's sorrel. After placing the carcass on the back of the animal, you grunted when you saw the state of your shirt, completely covered in blood. - What's the matter? - Wanda asked curiously when she heard your sigh. - Pepper made me promise not to come covered in blood to the camp anymore. - You say, rolling up your sleeves. - She told me she would put me to sleep with the horses if I showed up like this again. Of course, she will probably just change my watch shifts, but it will still be a pain to hear the lecture. - You could have told me to carry the deer. - Wanda retorted, looking at you with a mixture of seriousness and guilt. You just smiled. - Don't be silly, I just need to clean up before I go back. - You said simply, and Wanda frowned in confusion. And then she choked in surprise, watching you pull your shirt over your head. You went around her body and towards the creek. It took Wanda a few seconds to snap out of her shock, then she turned her head toward the creek, her face flushed. You rubbed the fabric with your hands, watching the blood drip into the water. You put your shirt aside only to wet your own body, wiping any traces of blood from your skin. Completely oblivious to the shy mess Wanda had become as she watched you wash yourself. Finished cleaning yourself, you wrung out your shirt, getting as much water buildup out as possible. You put your clothes back on, feeling the damp fabric against your skin. Wanda stood in the same place you had left her, and you frowned when you saw her look quickly away from you, her face red. You suddenly felt very embarrassed, thinking that you must have crossed some boundary with her. Coughing awkwardly, you walked toward your own horse. You rode in silence back to the camp, you mentally going over the whole conversation trying to find what you had done wrong that made Wanda so quiet. You were surprised when you heard her singing softly. Smiling without looking at her, you slowed down the speed of Knight's gallop, trying to enjoy the moment to the fullest. Wanda continued to sing the whole way, and you tried to ignore the feeling of butterflies in your stomach

#wanda maximoff x reader #marvel reader insert #western au #wanda maximoff #wanda x you #wanda x reader #marvel imagines #red dead redemption au #Land of Thieves

[sunder-soul]

first of all your work is AMAZING- like damn that smut? 👀 but anyway- i’ve had this concept for awhile imagine that reader was the one who made the design for the dark mark for tom riddle? like y/n is an artist and likes to draw, paint, all that jazz, and she saw the symbol in like her dreams or something and decided to draw it. and then tommy boy sees it and takes a liking to it like, “...i could use that-“ i don’t if this is a weird ask or not but i thought it was interesting. 🥺👉🏻👈🏻

So this has been in my inbox for so long bc I just couldn’t crack how I wanted to tackle it and then yesterday BOOM I had an idea so here I am!! Hope you enjoy  💖

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. 

Consume

Summary: Reader looks into Tom Riddle’s tea leaves on an unlucky day in Divination. Something looks back.

Word count: 1.5k

Content warning: none.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

You’ve heard of the domino effect before, but never has it been so grimly demonstrated to you than in that exact moment standing in front of the entire Divination classroom with the only spare seat left opposite Tom bloody Riddle.

It started (or at least, as far as you can tell) an entire week earlier when you’d walked in on Ophelia Greengrass sobbing in the fourth-floor girl’s bathroom during second period. Up until then you’d not spoken more than half a dozen words to Ophelia across your entire time at Hogwarts, but it had felt wrong not to say anything – and as it turned out, Ophelia had been in dire need of someone saying something to her. She’d been dating Lestrange for a little over three months and by the sounds of it things were not going well.

So of course you’d comforted her as best you could but it was hardly surprising when she tentatively approached again you the next day, and the next, and the next, and then every single day for an entire week there had been a new horror story until yesterday you’d finally had enough and told her that she should break up with him.

That, of course, was why he’d confronted you in the corridor that morning on the way to Charms, angrily accusing you of losing him his girlfriend. And that was why you and Lestrange had been caught by Peeves with a watering can full of Bulbadox juice brandished gleefully in his spindly hands.

Which was how you both ended up in the hospital wing for the entirety of first period, Lestrange with boils all over his face and down his back, and you with them on your hands from where you’d managed to shield yourself.

You’d left Lestrange behind complaining loudly as the matron peeled back his school shirt, sprinting all the way up to the Divination tower at breakneck speed, throwing the trapdoor to the classroom open and scrambling inside, the trapdoor falling shut behind you, the very final domino.

“Sorry I’m late, Professor,” you gasp as you spin around to face her. “Peeves caught me and Lestrange!”

The class snickers.

“That’s quite alright, quite alright…” Cassandra Trelawney says, deep and ringing, “we have not yet started, take a seat with Mr Riddle and we shall begin…”

You freeze. Riddle…?

That’s when it hits you.

Lestrange always sat with Riddle in Divination.

And you’re so late that everyone else already has partners.

You turn to see Tom Riddle sitting at the back of the room looking at you with a polite but blank expression on his face. The class giggles again. The vast majority of Hogwarts students are at least somewhat in love with Riddle – beautiful, intelligent, polite Riddle, orphaned and poor but refined and successful. Better yet he barely speaks to anyone, leaving a lot of empty space of endless possibility for people to fill in with their personal daydreams.

He scares you.

Those horrible boys that hang around him remind you of flies hanging around rotting meat. And if they’re the flies, that makes Riddle…

You grit your teeth and step forward, weaving between the other tables and snickering students to take your seat, dropping your bag to the floor and eyeing the tea set on the small table apprehensively.

“Begin your readings!” Trelawney calls.

You frown and turn to Riddle questioningly. “We’re doing tea leaves?”

“Tasseography,” he corrects smoothly, leaning forward and picking up the burnished copper pot with one hand and pouring steaming tea into the little china cup in front of him.

You blink at him silently. There’s something manufactured about his face that you can’t put your finger on.

“Shall I go first or would you like to?” Riddle asks casually, pouring you a cup, too.

“I don’t mind,” you mumble, looking away.

Riddle sets the pot down and picks up his cup in long, elegant fingers, lifting it to his lips. “The instructions are on page seventy-nine,” he says after taking a sip, looking around the room disinterestedly.

You pull out your book and find the right chapter and scan the first few paragraphs as Riddle finishes his tea, sipping absently at your own, and by the time he finally hands you his cup your heart rate has finally returned to normal from running up eight flights of stairs.

“You have a scattered-type formation,” you say, checking it against the diagram on your page, “and it’s north-west oriented.”

“Mhmm,” Riddle says noncommittedly, his dark eyes level on the parchment before him as he takes notes.

You lean forward over Riddle’s cup and frown as you compare it to the pictures in the book. “That looks like shepherd’s crook,” you say, pointing to a cluster shaped like a pinched hook, “which means… either the responsibility to protect, or the exertion of power and authority over a group of people.”

Riddle scoffs very lightly, his lips curling into a slight smirk as he continues to write.

Something about it had clearly struck a chord with him, but you pointedly train your eyes back on your book. “Oh,” you frown, checking his cup again. “Or it’s the old glyph for seven.”

Riddle stops writing. You look up curiously at the sudden lack of his quill scratching evenly on his parchment to find him perfectly still, his eyes on your face. “Seven?” he repeats, tone distinct.

You nod and push your book around to show him. “The number seven used to be drawn like that, too.”

Riddle’s eyes drop to the page and linger there for a moment before he resumes taking his notes – though his expression is much more preoccupied than before.

But something in Riddle’s cup has caught your eye. Beside the shepherd’s crook/number seven is a lump of tea leaves so distinct in form that it’s almost comical – the round of the cranium, the square of a mandible, and gaps in the leaves to indicate two eye sockets.

“Oh,” you say in surprise, pulling your book back around. “Wow, that’s pretty clearly a…”

You trail off, frowning. You’ve noticed the tea leaves below it, the long twisting trail that leads directly into the skull’s mouth. A cold, creeping feeling is curling in your stomach as something about the image before you seems to move, you can almost see the thing writhing, it almost looks like a…

“How are we going?” Trelawney asks, suddenly right beside you.

You jump, looking up at her in panic. “Fine,” you say quickly.

She lifts her brows, assessing you thoughtfully. “Hmm,” she says, before glancing at Riddle. “And you?”

“Fine,” Riddle echoes smoothly. But he’s not looking at Trelawney.

He’s looking at you.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

The image worms into your thoughts like a deep root, twisting into places you don’t expect to find it and spreading itself out more and more. The dreams are first, and then the nightmares, and finally the night terrors. The skull hovers before you, its pitch, hollow eyes bore into you, the snake coiling endlessly with its fangs yawning wide.

Something about it is cold and evil, some sort of strange perversion of an ouroboros, the eternal snake broken by the skull’s mouth.

Consuming it.

“What is that?”

Your head snaps up from your parchment feeling like you’ve just been jolted awake from a deep sleep, and it takes you a second to process the sight of Tom Riddle before you, his eyes fixed attentively on the parchment strewn on top of the essay you’re supposed to be writing.

He’d caught you drawing it for the hundredth time.

“Nothing,” you say hastily, sliding it away under a book. “Just a doodle.”

Riddle’s eyes flick to yours. There’s a cold rigidity to his expression that you don’t like. It’s a coldness that feels horribly familiar.

For a moment you almost think he’s going to force you to show him, but after a long moment Riddle looks away and he’s gone, disappearing off further into the library. You exhale in relief and pull out the parchment again.

Drawing it made the thoughts go away for a bit, like manifesting the horrible thing distracted it from its need to live in your head. You lift your quill and carefully write a single word next to the skull.

Consume.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

The parchment goes missing the next day.

You never prove that he took it, never even mention it to him, but Riddle’s eyes have a cold glimmer to them when he catches your eye in Divination next, the smallest curl to his lips like he’s daring you to bring it up.

The dreams abruptly stop.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

When you see it next, it’s in a photo on the front page of the Daily Prophet beneath a terrified headline, a spectre hovering just like it had in your nightmares at school years prior. Except this time it’s real. This time it’s above the burning remains of the family home of a prominent Muggle-born politician and Voldemort’s name is a shadow on everyone’s lips.

You stare at it on the page, the snake writhing in ink, the black, hollow eyes of the skull, and you think about Tom Riddle’s cold smile watching you from across the classroom, his manufactured beauty, the boys that hung around him like flies around rotten meat.

He’s named it the Dark Mark.

#tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x oc #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle fic #dark tom #tom riddle fanfiction #harry potter #Minific #Prompt #Anon #consume #ambiguous house #artsy reader #gn reader #afab reader #seer reader #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle imagines #rivals