#black lives matter wallpapers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yawnderu · 1 month

Text

Final Girl — Slasher!Keegan P. Russ x Reader (2/?)

cw: stalking, noncon. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

Your life was never meant to be a punishment.

"Are you listening?" The man in front of you asks the moment your gaze starts to drift off for the third time since you arrived at the office.

"Sorry. What did you say?" The dark circles around your eyes make you resemble a raccoon more than a human, the memories of your friends dying and their blood splattered all around the pale wallpapers. Images of nature that were supposed to be remembered as calming do the exact opposite, forever engraved in your broken psyche.

"Do you remember anything about the suspect?" The detective's voice is calm, laced with nothing but pure understanding and compassion, a man too passionate about what he does— and the man you're about to lie to, delaying the investigation of your friend's death just to save your own ass.

"Nothing other than what I've told you, sir. Everything is just so..." The pregnant pause makes him fidget with the pen in his hand, grey eyes focused on the way you look away from him, eyes squinting as you try to recall memories from that night, memories that are so painful he can see it written all over your face, making him feel a pang of guilt.

"It's okay. Call me if you remember anything else, yeah?" His warm hand rests on your shoulder after you get up, trying his best to give you a reassuring smile that is only met with weary eyes, making your way out without saying anything. There's hesitation in your steps, your heart almost beating out of your chest the moment you stop walking and look over your shoulder, briefly meeting his curious gaze.

“He had brown eyes.” Mr. Smith doesn't waste any time on adding the information to his notes, only making the guilt spread all over your insides like black mold, taking over what used to be your soul— it's all his now.

Your life was never meant to be a punishment, yet what do you call seeing the man who killed your friends everywhere you go? He's been taking over your entire life no matter how much you try to push the memories away, no matter how much you try to forget it all happened, only serving as a constant reminder that you didn't do enough.

Dreams colliding with reality isn't something new, yet your nightmares are so realistic that it almost feels like you were there. Even while you were hidden away in a dark closet, you can see your friends struggling against the much bigger, armed man, innocent bodies butchered while they were alive, a mess of limbs spread all over the rented cabin, blank eyes always staring at you, watching you run away and leave them behind.

Were you losing your mind? It all seems so real, to the point you're not even convinced you only saw your best friend die. Are you sure you didn't peek the kitchen the moment you cowardly decided to escape? The kitchen was blocked by a wall, and yet.

Cold water splashes all over your face, feeling the softness of your palm rub the skin, trying to come back to reality, to remind yourself that it's impossible to have seen the other bodies. The crime scene report is repeated over and over like a mantra, serving as a permanent reminder that you weren't there. No, not when only a body was found in the living room.

The person looking back at you in the mirror is a far cry from who you used to be. The dark circles in your eyes resemble more a dead girl walking than a real, healthy body, and perhaps that's what you are. If it weren't for the constant feeling of crippling dread and the tears spilling down your cheeks like a broken dam, you could've fooled a mortician.

The sound of your phone vibrating against the vanity brings you back to reality from your trip to Self-Pity Land, slapping some more water on your sweaty face before deciding to take a peek at the screen.

1:38 PM.

From: Ali💗

Almost there.

It's enough to make you scurry around the room, applying enough makeup to not make your friend worry, knowing that she wanted to get you out of the house just to give you a worthy distraction.

For what seems like the first time in forever, the corners of your lips tilt up into a smile the moment your friend wraps her arms around you, holding you close despite the odd stares you're getting from the people in the diner.

“Hey, you.” Her cheerfulness was contagious, to the point that even if only for a second, you get a sense of normalcy. A sense of community, despite your own feelings about the entire situation.

Your friend can talk for two. Something that you never noticed until now, listening to her ramble about anything and everything for the past hour. In a way, it gave you the chance to dissociate in peace, the words mixing together to the point they barely made sense anymore, completely entering one ear and leaving the other.

“He's looking at you.” Alina says in a teasing whisper, nudging you with her elbow. You give her a confused glance until she looks between the man and you, giving you the look.

Your gaze connects with a pair of baby blue eyes, forcing a sharp pain to cut through your soul. His eyes look too familiar, resembling the pair you see every single day in your nightmares. His entire demeanor screams ''cocky bastard'', manspreading on the seat of the table across from you, his arm propped up on the backrest.

“Awful timing, but I have to go.” Alina says with a small frown, though it quickly changes to a little smug smirk the moment she realizes the man is still looking at you. If she even notices your pleading gaze, it goes completely ignored as she gets up from the booth, giving you a strong, goodbye hug— and the stare from the man makes it clear that it might be the last one.

“Get some.” She teases in a whisper, quickly making her way out of the diner after paying for your drinks. You feel the urge to empty your stomach, yet there's barely anything there, only the slow-growing sense of pure dread the longer you keep staring at each other. Even when you force yourself to look away, you can see him staring at you from the corner of your eye, almost able to tell he has a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

Leaving a halfway done drink behind, you make your way out of the diner, hoping that being out with more witnesses can save you. Is that really him? You barely got the chance to see his eyes yet you never saw his face, starting to doubt yourself the longer your tired feet drag you around the street. He could be an innocent man falling victim of your trauma, simply looking to get laid— you could probably use that, too, yet his icy stare and cocky grin is carved into your damaged mind.

“Need a ride?” A deep, gravely voice offers, nearly giving you a heart attack the moment your eyes meet his. Your hand goes up to your chest, trying to calm your fast-beating heart even when he gives you a reassuring, charming smile.

“No, thank you.” Your tone is far too polite and kind, still wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt despite the fight or flight screaming at you to flee— to get away from the man you're now convinced is the same masked man who murdered your friends.

“Get in the fucking car, princess.”

The charming smile he was shooting your way is gone within a second, his icy gaze piercing through your soul now that he knows you saw through his bullshit. Your gaze drifts down to the hand lifting a part of his shirt up, revealing part of his dark, happy trail— and his handgun.

There's hesitation in your steps as you walk to the passenger's seat, already feeling the smoothie you drank starting to crawl up your throat, almost making you throw it all up, yet you do your best to hold it in, shakily getting into his car.

“… My house's up ahead.” You purposely give him the wrong address, trying to protect your family and yourself from the deranged bastard. The ride is eerily quiet, almost making you even more nervous than if he was trying to make conversation with you. There's no music playing, no humming— nothing, other than his fingers tapping against the steering wheel and his calm breathing.

“We're here.” Maybe you're reading him wrong, but there's hints of teasing bleeding through his deep voice, his eyes shining with mirth when you step out of his truck, making your way to one of the houses. You reach the front door after what feels like minutes, your hand shaking as you think of what to do. You can hear the engine of his car still behind you, not driving away even when you told him that's your home.

I don't want anyone else to die because of me. If someone opens the door, would he murder them too? He has a gun, and the way he brutalized your friends makes it clear that he's not afraid to get his hands dirty no matter the weapon. His loud laugh makes every single muscle in your body tense up, hesitantly looking back at him, the pure amusement dancing all over his face doesn't ease your fears in the slightest.

“Come back, sweetheart. I'll take you home.” And he stays true to his word, driving back in silence, his warm hand resting on your bare thigh. You don't dare look at it, simply staring out of the window, feeling every single callus on his hand while the scenery gets more and more familiar. The black mold in your soul spreads by the second, threatening to rot you from the inside out, bubbling up into a disgusting brew as he stops in front of your house.

Your eyes briefly meet his, his pupils starting to dilate the same way they did when he was done brutalizing your friends; just like a predator who has never failed to catch his prey. You never gave him your address— in fact, you didn't say a single word since you got back into his truck, yet he still found his way to your house.

It's all starting to make sense. Despite assuming it's all a product of your paranoia, you've been catching hints of the masked man everywhere you go, blue eyes always staring right into your soul.

“Not gonna invite me over for some coffee?” Technically, it is a question, yet you both know saying no to him is not even on the table.

“Sure… I can make you a coffee.” Perhaps inviting a serial killer is not the brightest idea, yet what other options do you even have? He knows where you live and the places you frequent, you're not safe anywhere. His hand drifts down to the small of your back as you open the entrance door, hesitantly letting him back into the only safe space you had, willingly allowing him to invade your life.

“Atta girl.” What should feel like praise from an older man only serves as additional mental torture, the sound of the door closing behind you making all hope of surviving him fade away.

“Come sit on my lap.” He walks to the living room as if it's his own home, not even asking for directions, simply being able to navigate his way around like he's been here before— deep inside, you know he has. Your nose starts to sting as he sits down on the couch and forces you to straddle him, your thighs around his, allowing you to feel all the muscle.

“Don't cry…” He taunts, only now making you aware of the hot tears dripping down your cheeks, your lips trembling as he pushes you closer by the ass, pressing your clothed cunt against his hardening dick. His face is buried on he crook of your neck, loudly inhaling your scent as his starts to grind against you, calloused hands roaming all over your pretty body.

“Wanna feel my cock?” The vigorous head shake you give him is enough to make him laugh, open-mouthed kisses planted all over your neck and shoulders, not caring about leaving any marks. You can barely register the sound of his zipper coming down until he's guiding your hand to his warm, hardening dick.

You're too shaky to even do anything about it, disgust and nervousness turning into a dangerous mix, yet Keegan is a patient man. A patient man who gently makes your fingers wrap around his shaft, guiding your movements to jerk him off, getting even harder underneath your touch. Low grunts and muffled moans are spilled right into your ear, clearly getting off despite your very clear fear.

“You're doing so good, princess…” He murmurs. Keegan's free hand starts to sneak his way inside your shirt, slipping past your bra, his thumb brushing past your hardening nipple. Your brain is able to recognize that fight or flight aren't options anymore, so just like a wild animal trying to avoid a fight; you freeze.

Your shaky breaths mingle together, only interrupted by the low groans he lets out, his hand leaving yours for the first time, leaving you unsure of what to do. Despite the tears falling down your cheeks and the muffled whimpers, your hand keeps moving up and down his shaft, not wanting to die by his dirty, blood-tainted hands.

Keegan's mind isn't broken enough to not know it's wrong, yet it has been broken enough to the point he simply doesn't care. Thrown away by his brothers in arms and the marines, he doesn't have anything else to lose. No life purpose, other than to bring others the same pain he has suffered for years.

A quiet whimper escapes your lips as he moves your hand away from his cock, using his tip to move your underwear aside. His free hand goes to the back of your head, encouraging you to hide your pretty, tear-stained face on the crook of his neck, fully muffling your cries the moment he penetrates you. His dick is way too thick for his own good— stretching you open forcefully, despite the way he's actually going out of his way to make it as painless as possible.

“Shh, it's okay, kid. Just enjoy it.” He whispers into your ear, running a reassuring hand up and down your back, starting to move inside you, as if what he's doing could be even remotely enjoyable. A low, throaty moan makes its way out of his lips the moment he manages to bottom out, your body responding to the forced intrusion by getting you wet, not able to register that you don't want it.

Breaking you apart is the closest thing to religion he's ever gotten. Keegan's lips crash against yours as his hips start to thrust up faster and deeper, growing more desperate by the second despite how wrong he knows it is. He shouldn't be enjoying this, yet he's just a broken, terrible man, the little sobs leaving your lips only making him fuck into you harder.

The human body works in odd, awful ways. You don't want this, yet every single nerve inside your cunt is being stimulated by his long shaft, sending signals to your body that make it feel much better after you got wet. The small moan that gets ripped out from your throat makes him break away from the kiss, amusement written all over his face.

Keegan's forehead leans against yours as his hips rock against yours, his breath hot against your face. From this position, you're able to examine his face, taking note of as many details as possible in case he decides to let you leave, no matter how slim the chances are.

Thick, black eyebrows, buzzcut, dark scruff covering his pale cheeks. High cheekbones, light blue eyes, no visible scars or moles.

You repeat it inside your head like a mantra, trying to use it as a replacement to keep your head occupied from the knot starting to tense in your stomach, tightening up more and more with each thrust. You know for a fact you're hating this, yet your body is betraying you, coating his cock with slick.

He pulls out only to slam himself back in, dragging more pathetic moans out of your lips the moment he hits your spongy cervix. The stimulation is enough to make you hide your face on the warm crook of his neck, biting your thumb hard to muffle your own sounds the moment you start tightening up around him, finally giving in to the stimulation.

Your teeth sink deeper into your skin despite the small whiny moan escaping your lips the moment your forced orgasm hits, barely conscious enough to register the cocky laugh above you, feeling his lips connect against your temple, his breath hot on your skin as he manages to pull out, shooting ropes of thick cum all over your stomach.

“See? It wasn't that bad, was it, princess?” You collapse against him with a loud exhale, not able to hold it together anymore.

“Why…?” It's all you can ask, and you're not even sure about the reason you're asking why. Why did he kill your friends? Why did he let you live? Why is he stalking you? Why did he force himself on you? Why is he caressing your body like you're made of glass, as if he didn't just destroy you into thousands of shards?

“Because I'm not right in the head anymore.”

Taglist: @h0ney-mushroom @bangtandaze @elentiyaiswriting @lollycotton @sleepydang @billiousserpent As always, thank you so much @moosch for the amazing art!! 💗💗 world-building with her has been so fucking exciting and I'm happy to finally be writing about Slasher!Keegan after we've been talking about it for months!!<333

465 notes · View notes

artificial-transmutations · 9 months

Text

Country Boys

Walter glanced nervously at the car clock as the black company car hobbled over ill maintained roads. He didn't mean to be so obvious, but the younger man on the passenger seat picked up on it immediately.

"Are we going to be late?" asked the young man with the carefully styled black hair and the immaculate suite.

"Probably", answered Walter. He, too, was wearing a suit as he had done on every working day for the last twenty years. His suit tidy as well, of course, although not quite as much as the one the trainee was wearing. His slowly graying hair was combed and neat, but over the years he had stopped caring too much about looking perfect. He was good at his job, but the real secret to selling insurance policies wasn't to look like a suit model. It was all about charisma.

"That's not what worries me, though. If they live that far out, they deserve to wait for a few minutes. Besides, it's a pathetic deal, only a minor upsell regarding a small farmhouse. Barely worth driving out here if you asked me."

Walters tone left no doubt on what he thought about it.

Harry, the trainee next to him, looked at Walter quizzically.

"But Sir, isn't it company policy to value each of our customers the same, no matter how big the deal is?"

Walter shot a disapproving glance at Harry and snorted, almost laughing. "Oh, come on, Harry. I'm sure you know that's bullshit. You need to figure out who is important and who isn't. A small farmer in the middle of nowhere? Not important, won't pay much anyway. The CEO of a multinational company like the one we are meeting this afternoon? Very important, that's where the money is." Walter made a hand gesture as if to swat away Harry's naive suggestion. "The farm they live on? Oh, I don't think it's even worth 50 thousand. But don't worry, it's good practice to make the deal if the client wants it. Still, if we spend too much time out here, we will be late for our actually important appointment."

Harry looked unhappy with the explanation but before he could answer, Walter saw a signpost. "Ah, that's them. It should be just up ahead."

He turned his attention back to the road and stopped the car. They had arrived at the driveway of the farm they were supposed to visit.

Before leaving the car and following Walter, Harry quickly checked his reflection in the rear view mirror. This was going to be his first sale today and he needed to look sharp for it! He straightened his suit, checked his hair one last time and finally got out of the car.

The small farmhouse was a real dump. It had seen better days and the garden was overgrown. Walter gave the impression of a man who didn't like being here.

"I can't wait to get back to civilization" he muttered under his breath, while Harry passed him and knocked at the door.

"Sir! We are from Gastins, the insurance company, we..."

He was interrupted by the farmer opening the doors. The man was massive, hairy and dirty. Harry couldn't really tell if he was smiling because of the dense beard that adorned his face.

"... talked on the phone." Harry finished his sentence, a bit quieter.

The farmer took a long look at the both of them before giving a grunt, somewhere between permissive and disapproving and went back into the house, leaving the door open.

Harry looked to Walter in search for reassurance, but the older man just shrugged and mouthed an inaudible "your client".

Straightening his back, Harry put on a charming smile and followed the farmer inside.

The interior didn't look much better than the outside. The furniture was mostly wooden and worn, but sturdy and well made. The old wallpaper looked like it hadn't been changed for the last twenty years and it felt like it might start peeling off any moment.

"Sir, my name is Harry, and this is Walter. We are from the Gastin insurance company." Harry introduced himself properly. "We already talked on the phone, and I have the necessary documents with me to discuss the expansion of your current insurance policy. If I may?"

After a nod of the farmer, Harry sat down on the kitchen table and opened his laptop.

He quickly checked his browser history to find the email he had been working on the night before and began his sales pitch. "Your current insurance coverage covers everything that might befall your house and your belongings, which is excellent. However, we here at Gastin Insurance also offer additional insurance for houses that you can buy."

Harry was excellently prepared and navigated the farmer through the new contract, making sure to explain everything in great detail so the other man wouldn't be surprised by anything that might or might not happen.

The older, bearded man listened carefully but didn't speak a lot. From time to time, he had a surprisingly clever question that Harry had no problem answering. Even though Walter, who mostly sat and watched the trainee, glanced at his clock more than once, Harry had the feeling this was going to be a sure deal.

So, it came as a big surprise when finally, after a good two hours of presenting the new contract, the farmer crossed his arms in front of his muscular chest and shook his head. "Sorry, kid, but no."

Harry swallowed. This wasn't the reaction he expected, and it certainly wasn't what he wanted to hear. "That... comes as a bit of a surprise, Sir. Can you explain why?"

The older farmer sighed. "Your paperwork checks out and you're an honest kid, but all in all, you're just a city boy, not a real honest and down-to-earth man. I've made it my principle to never trust a city boy and I'm not gonna change that."

Walter stood up, clearly annoyed. "Why didn't you say so from the beginning? You could have saved us all a lot of time. Now, if you'll excuse us..."

He didn't get to finish, because Harry raised his hand and interrupted Walter. "I'm sorry that you feel that way, Sir, but I assure you, both of us are absolutely honest and grounded men. Please allow us to prove it to you."

Walter looked at Harry and pointed at his watch less than subtle. This time it was Harry who mouthed a "my client." to him, making Walter roll his eyes.

The farmer was clearly surprised by Harry's request and scratched his beard. "I suppose. Tell you what. If you manage to repair the fence outside, I'll sign your contract, 'cause you're clearly a man then."

Harry nodded enthusiastically, while Walter looked at him with a disbelieving stare. "We will get right to it!" asserted Harry and was already at the door.

Grimacing, Walter followed the trainee, and only once they were outside, out of earshot of the farmer, he angrily began to speak: "What the hell was that about? We certainly don't have time to repair a stupid fence! Just let it go, that guy isn't worth it."

Harry turned to Walter, his eyes burning with determination. "This is my client. I have to prove myself to him." He went to a nearby shed and opened the door, grabbing a toolbox.

Walter watched the trainee for a moment, shaking his head, but eventually followed.

"Do you even know how to repair a fence?" Walter asked while looking at the tools.

"No, but I will learn." Harry said simply while picking up a hammer. "*We* will learn" he corrected himself and gestured towards the toolbox.

Walter sighed again and shook his head but grabbed a wrench and got to work on the fence anyway.

Although the ground was wet and muddy, the sun was burning hot from the sky and quickly, both men were pretty sweaty. Of course, a fine suit wasn't the ideal piece of clothing for manual labor, so it was only a matter of time until there were several mud stains and a few holes in Harry's jacket. The area under his arms was wet from his sweat, and he was feeling uncomfortable in the suit, like it wasn't fitting him properly. He took his jacket and shirt off, while Walter stared at him.

"What?" Harry asked, suddenly insecure about his body.

Walter shook his head again, as if to clear it, before answering. "You know, I didn't expect that from you."

"Better than ruining it", Harry replied and added: "Perhaps you should take off yours, too."

Reluctantly, Walter agreed and soon, both men were working topless. Harry couldn't help but be somewhat impressed. He had guessed that Walter would be weak and probably would sport a beer belly under his shirt. However, the older man was actually pretty fit. In fact, the longer they worked, the more details Harry noticed that somehow didn't fit the Walter he was used to. His toned muscles, his flat stomach, the light tan. No, something wasn't right.

When Harry looked to Walter's face, he would find his suspicions verified: Something weird was going on! Harry had been certain Walter had had graying hairs - but the unkempt hair on top of the other man's head was anything but gray - it was dark and full.

"Say, how old are you again, Walter?" Harry asked. His own voice sounded funny, too. Deeper somehow.

"32" answered Walter immediately. "No, wait, that's wrong. I'm... 31?" The last part sounded like a question, but it fit his surprisingly masculine and handsome body. However, Harry was more focused on his own appearance right now. His body looked alien to him: It was way fitter, tanner and broader than he was used to - and it looked somewhat older than he was used to, too.

"Is anything wrong?" The smooth and dark voice of his coworker, sounding like dark honey was new and Harry looked at Walter again. Surprisingly youthful, with a sweaty and muddy body full of muscles and a mildly concerned face was what met his eye. There was no doubt, this was a long way from the former Walter. Still, Harry couldn't look away. The masculine body with the light coating of hair and the five o clock shadow had him captivated. But the gentle and friendly brown eyes sucked him in, and he could hardly look away. What was happening to him? To them both? Harry had been certain he was straight, but when he looked at the other man, he felt butterflies in his stomach, and he could feel his body reacting.

"Hehe. Is that for me?" Walt asked with a hint of amusement and pointed down. Following his finger, Harry noticed that he had a clearly visible boner that was stretching his brown work shorts, mirroring the similar bulge in Walt's pants. Didn't he wear suit pants just some minutes ago?

No, that didn't make sense. He had never worn a suit in his life, that was city boy attire. He was a country man and only put on practical clothing and sturdy boots. However, that wasn't very important. He smiled and brushed his blonde hair out of his eyes before grinning at Walt mischievously.

"I think it's time for a break."

#male transformation #muscle transformation #dumbing down #straight to gay

384 notes · View notes

infamous-if · 1 year

Note

I’m curious what the RO’s homes/bedrooms look like because I think it can tell a whole lot about someone 🤔

I'M GLAD YOU ASKED. I was actually ruminating over what Sev's room/apartment, in particular, would look like the other day.

Seven's room is very dark to me. Black walls, a lot of band posters plastered everywhere. It's a mess but an organized mess. Very much what a music enthusiast's room would look like in a 2000s teen movie lol. They've never grown out of the 'fanboy/fangirl' phase so they'd just have posters all over, they have a dresser of vintage records on one side and a mirror full of photo booth pictures and photos of their life tacked to it. Their bed is never made, mostly because Seven is always in bed when they're home. Seven has clothes strewn just about everywhere but they claim to know where everything is. A lot of ripped-out pages of scrapped out song lyrics on the floor. My imagination of Seven's songwriting process is a lot of pacing, a lot of humming. They get their best ideas while doing other stuff like cleaning and cooking. Outside of their room, their apartment is also messy with a lot of novels strewn about. Seven is very sentimental so every gift they've ever gotten is on display. Their bathroom is clean but messy; just a lot of hair products and makeup everywhere. Seven's "I just rolled out of bed" look is a stylistic choice lmao

I can imagine Sev being a very annoying neighbor to have since they always have music on and they're always singing. Seven has never actually cleaned their place quickly because of all the times they stop to have a mini concert in their living room. Seven is fun when they're alone lol

Orion's is expectantly clean and very minimalist. His room is barren, a plain black bed with a metal headboard. He always has incense burning and has an air purifier and a lot of tech. Everything is spotless and there's not anything out of place. Orion's place is a lot of dark furniture, a lot of leather, and a lot of gray and white in terms of looks. He has a large glass balcony that he likes to do work on in the mornings. I imagine him to have a large closet with all just suits on one side and just...straight up black clothes on the other. Orion isn't one to wear anything colorful. His neighbors love him and want to connect with him but Orion is not interested lol More than a few times he'd come home and just plops himself on his couch and falls asleep due to how tired he was.

Sebastian's home is large but sparsely decorated. He has a big TV to play his video games on and it's what you'd think is a stereotypical young guy's place: brown couch, some video game memorabilia, and some sports stuff. He has a huge gamer computer setup he built himself. He uses it for games and for coding and general data stuff. Sebastian likes displaying all of his goodies and stuff and he doesn't touch Maya's room, which is much like Seven's in that it's super cluttered with music stuff and posters. Sebastian's house is what a default sims house looks like: nothing stylish, just generic furniture.

Victoria and G's is luxurious that leans more to anything that they like they just toss it in there. Huuuuge with plushy colorful couches and overpriced designer furniture. OH! If anyone has seen Cara Delevigne's AD...that's what their house would look like. Just chaotic everywhere with so many knickknacks and things that it's like an assault on your every single sense. Funky wallpapers, leopard rugs. A lot of that, surprisingly, is G's doing. G was very set on designing their house. They're barely home and live mostly in hotels anyway so it doesn't really matter.

August's is pretty generic; gray walls, purple bed. They live with their family (August was supposed to live with a roommate but I changed it to better fit their route) and Clare tends to be the messy one. I would say August's room is half and half, it's pretty empty but what they do have takes up a lot of space like their drum set and their huge speakers. The house is big (August's parents are pretty well-off as politicians) and very Grecian in appearance. August doesn't have much knickknacks and things like Seven. They're pretty detached to sentimental things like that. It's a very standard room, the centerpiece definitely being their drums. They have a huge computer set up, though, like a gamer set up like Seb's but they don't use it for games lmao

#reference #?#infamous cast #inbox #most questions have been very curious about the cast as people now rather than in relation to MC #fun!

247 notes · View notes

padfootagain · 1 year

Text

For Your Family

Here I come for a new request for my Comeback Event! This was an anon request for Sirius Black : “Hi! :)) can I request, please? Sirius Black+ Soulmates AU + Arranged marriage

It'd nice if reader's house is Slytherin (if not it's totally ok) Thank you so much lovely! 💚”

Thank you so much for your request, anon! I wasn’t so sure how to include an arranged marriage in the Marauders world, I hope you won’t be disappointed in the choice I’ve made to explain why the two had to get married. I’m not a huge fan of the whole pureblood thingy that’s quite commonly used… so I’ve tried to find another way.

I hope you like what I’ve written for your request!

****

Pairing: Sirius Black x reader

Warnings: set during the First Wizarding War, mentions of trauma, violence, and some sacrifices to be made to protect one’s loved ones. No actual depiction of violence, though. A make out session, but nothing explicit (still no nsfw here).

Summary: Your fight against Voldemort has gotten you into trouble, and now your family is at risk. Your only choice to protect your family is to separate yourself from them, and what better way to do that than to marry Sirius Black? After all, your families hate each other. But in a world of soulmates, faking a marriage is even more complicated.

Word Count: 5233

It’s funny how a life can be turned upside-down all of a sudden.

A matter of minutes, and everything stops, everything is destroyed, everything needs to be reinvented.

This is one of these moments. The moment when you lose everything that was familiar and need to reinvent yourself if you’re to survive. Weird feeling. Overwhelming. So overwhelming that you don’t really register the news when it falls on your shoulders. You don’t understand it. Or rather, you understand the words, your brain fathoms their meaning but the emotional connection is blocked. You’re numb more than devastated.

Strange.

“The only way to keep your family safe is to never go back. Show that you’ve detached yourself fully from them.”

“But they’re not on our side…”

“I know, but that doesn’t change anything. They’re not on His side either. Which means that He could still consider them a threat. Traitors. He could think that they are on our side too. Do you understand, Y/N?”

You stare at Moody and his strange magical eye, and nod. You understand. It’s logical thinking. You need to make sure that your family is out of any suspicion, or the Dark Lord will come for them. They’re already into hiding, but you need to make sure that everybody knows that your choice to fight in the Order doesn’t match their own fight. They are neutral in this war, and you don’t blame them. They don’t agree with Voldemort, they’re just scared.

You are too. Absolutely terrified. But what else can you do? You reckon that you won’t be able to live with yourself if you just hide with the rest of your family and do nothing.

“What can I do to show that there is no link between my family and myself anymore?” you ask Moody, dreading his answer.

But he shrugs.

“Building a family of your own could help. Show that you’ve moved on.”

By his side, Dumbledore is lost in thought. His electric blue eyes are fixed on a stain on the yellow wallpaper that covers all the rooms of your small hiding place.

You can’t go home anymore. It’s too dangerous. You’re trapped in this tiny apartment instead.

“I reckon that… Alastor is correct,” the old wizard suddenly breaks the heavy silence that had settled in the room. “You should build yourself a new family, or at least, fake it.”

“How do I do that?”

“I heard that your family hated the Blacks…”

“Rightly so.”

“But Sirius as well. Do they not?”

“Yes… they… they don’t like him. They don’t think he’s different from his family.”

“But we do know that he’s different, and Voldemort knows as well. Or at least, he is suspicious towards him.”

You slowly nod.

“He will soon have to go into hiding, right?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. The Potters are already hiding, and I reckon he will soon have to do the same,” Dumbledore nods, before setting his magnetic eyes on yours, and some invisible strength seem to be forcing you to stare back, you find yourself unable to look away. “Actually… this could be the perfect excuse to convince Mr. Black to finally hide.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dumbledore takes a moment to look for the right words, but when he speaks again, his idea doesn’t seem less shocking to you, by any means.

“Your family would probably push you away if you were romantically involved with Mr. Black. So, I recommend that the two of you pretend to be a couple for a while. You could both go into hiding after your wedding.”

“A wedding?”

“Yes, Ms. Y/L/N. A wedding.”

Sirius stares at you with round eyes, expecting you to break out of character and confess that you’re only joking. Because all of this has to be a joke…

“What do you mean getting married. For real?”

“Dumbledore said that we needed to get all the paperwork done, to make it official. That way, my family will get mad, and will be loud about it. They’ll push me away. And they’ll be out of trouble.”

Sirius shakes his head.

“We… we barely know each other,” he argues. “I mean… we’ve worked together on a couple of missions, but that’s it. We don’t even know each other from Hogwarts, you being in Slytherin…”

“There’s no need to be mean about that,” you interrupt him, but he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not, I’m just saying that we didn’t talk to each other back then. We’ve spent… maybe five days together. We can’t get married. Besides… we’re not soulmates. You’re not my soulmate. Who could believe that?”

“Look… I know it’s a big thing to ask from you. It’s… it’s a huge favour to ask…”

“It’s not even a favour at this point…”

“But my family is in danger, and I have no other plan.”

Sirius falls silent, and you seize the occasion to continue.

“Please, Sirius. We need to get married. We need to do it for real. We need to get all the official papers. We need my family and yours to know about it, so they can both be vocal about how despicable we are. We need to go into hiding together. And then, my family will push me away, and they’ll be safe. And after the war, once everything is calmer again, we can get a divorce, and get back to our normal lives. But this is my only chance at protecting my family. Please, I’m begging you.”

“It’s not that simple. Why would we get divorced? If we get married in the first place, it’s because we’re going to pretend that we are soulmates, that we are meant for each other. What then? Have you ever heard of soulmates divorcing?”

“We’ll confess everything. We’ll say that we lied, that we’re not soulmates, and that it was all to protect my family. We’ll tell the truth, get a divorce. And you’ll be free to go looking for the real love of your life.”

Sirius stares at you, at your eyes now full of tears you’re struggling to withhold and…

How can he say no?

You’ll just get a divorce once everything is over. You… you’ll just pretend. He needs to get into hiding anyway, there isn’t a choice anymore. It’s too dangerous for him, and he knows it.

People simply don’t get that he doesn’t care about dying. He doesn’t reckon he’s worth all the trouble of hiding him, of taking risks for him. He’d rather be the one on the front line.

But here you are now, staring at him with this desperate, broken expression written all over your features, and he genuinely feels like he’s your only chance.

He didn’t get the chance to have a good family, but you do. He knows what it means though, to be happy, to be loved and cared for by your parents. The Potters showed him that. And if he had to marry a stranger to ensure that the Potters would be safe, he wouldn’t hesitate. So, why would you?

Slowly, he nods.

“Alright. What papers do I need to sign?”

You stare at the ring on your finger, and there’s a lump in your throat.

You’re married. To an almost-stranger.

In the kitchen, you hear Sirius emptying a box filled with plates and glasses and knives.

You’re into hiding. That’s it. It’s done.

You look out by the window. In this small cabin, you’re surrounded by a deep forest of pine trees. It’s summer. Flowers are scattered across the patch of grass before your cabin. It’s sunny outside still, a late afternoon still bathed by bright sunshine.

In your hand, you’re still holding your family’s letter. You haven’t opened it. You don’t want to. You don’t need to. You already know what’s inside, no need to actually read it and make the pain a thousand times worse.

The sounds from the kitchen wane but you don’t notice. You don’t notice either when Sirius enters the living room, standing before the sofa where you’re sitting. You’re staring at the bright sky instead. It’s blue and infinite and the same as yesterday.

Funny how the world remains the same no matter what happens in your life…

“Are you okay?”

You jump as Sirius’s deep voice suddenly fills up the room. But you nod, lying, and he knows you’re not being earnest.

“You haven’t read it, have you?” he asks, nodding towards the letter still resting on your laps.

You look up sheepishly at him, shaking your head. He heaves a sigh.

“Do you want me to read it for you?”

“I don’t want to know what it says,” you confess in a whisper.

“I’ll just tell you if the plan is working.”

You hesitate one last time. You look at the sealed envelope, turning it in between your fingers. At last, you hand it to him, without looking at him.

He’s silent as he reads it. He doesn’t say anything, keeps an unreadable expression. It lasts for a few minutes: him standing next to the couch, motionless; you sitting on the sofa, looking away. Silence is everywhere, heavy, filling up all the space around you and inside you as well, from your heart to your lungs…

Finally, Sirius clears his throat, folding the letter again and slipping it back into its envelope. At last, you look up at him again.

He offers you a kind smile.

“It worked. Everything is going as planned. No need to reply to their letter. We’re fine.”

You nod, giving him a grateful smile as he gives you back the note.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

You’re not certain whether you feel relieved or devastated. Probably a little bit of both. Sirius recognizes this look on your face, he’s worn it often during his teenage years.

“What about a warm meal? I make some amazing pastas.”

“Really?”

“I do. Best of the entire Order!”

You can’t refrain a chuckle.

“How can I refuse such an offer?”

“You can’t.”

He notices that you’re staring at his left hand, and he shrugs as he answers to your silent question.

“We’re inside, it’s just us… no need to wear our wedding bands, I reckon.”

“Right…”

“I can wear it if it makes you feel better. But then… we have both agreed that this… is not real. Just… two colleagues hiding.”

“Two colleagues with the same name though,” you joke, a small smile playing on your lips. And it’s small and shy and barely there, but at least you’re not crying. That’s already a lot.

But you’re surprised when Sirius doesn’t laugh, or even smile. Instead, he sternly stares at you. You notice that he has clenched his jaw.

“One more proof that it isn’t real. I would never let my soulmate wear my name.”

“Really? Why?”

The muscles along his jaw jump. You see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to swallow. His stare is so intense, you can’t look away from his grey eyes.

“It’s a shitty name. A shitty family. I won’t let the person I’ll love my entire life suffer because of it the way I did. The way I still do.”

He doesn’t give you the chance to answer, and strides out of the room, going back into the kitchen. You remain sitting there, puzzled, for a few minutes. And when you finally get up to help him cook an early dinner, you haven’t taken off your wedding ring. It still sits there, around your finger.

You expected life with Sirius to be less pleasurable as it turns out to be.

He’s quite fun to be around. Quite charming as well. A shame he’s not your soulmate.

After all, you’ve always believed that you would know at first sight. Whoever your soulmate can be, you’re certain that you will recognize them in an instant. Love at first sight. No need to check any birthmarks, you’ll know. When you see them, you’ll know.

It doesn’t mean that Sirius has no effect on you, because he does. He’s charming, and attractive, and sweet behind his cold behaviour. You almost feel guilty for enjoying this time spent with Sirius. After all, your friends are risking their lives out there, but what can you do? It drives you mad to stay here, but you can see that Sirius feels even worse. He’s pacing most of the time these days. It’s been three weeks, and he’s like a wolf in a cage.

It's late now. Stars shining outside, above the canopy of pine trees that surround your house. There’s a full moon out there, Sirius is worried, even more than usual. You guess he’s thinking about Remus. That’s probably why he’s sitting in the little alcove around the window, his temple resting against the cool windowpane.

“You must be missing them.”

He turns to you with a small frown across his brow. There’s a pale light coming in from the moon, shining over one side of his features, while the rest of his face is coloured by the warm glow coming from the candles alit throughout the room and the fire burning in the hearth. He’s attached his hair in a messy bun, like he often does, and you can’t help the thought that forms in your mind. You like it when he wears his hair like that.

He looks handsome, and you wish you didn’t find him so attractive. Because he’s not your soulmate, you must remember that.

“Who are you talking about?” he asks you, tilting his head to the side a little in a questioning stance.

“Your friends. Your family.”

He snorts loudly.

“My friends, sure. My family, not at all.”

“I meant… the Potters.”

He falls silent again for a moment, before slowly nodding. When he speaks up again, his voice is deeper than usual, it has dropped down by an octave. The sound warms your soul and makes you shiver at the same time. Your heart beats faster all of a sudden.

“Yeah… yeah, I miss them quite a lot.”

“Remus must be having a rough night,” you add, nodding towards the moon.

“Yep. I’m worried about him. I hope he’s okay, wherever he is.”

He looks at you for a while longer, before speaking again.

“How are you feeling about all this?”

“All this?”

“Your family, I mean.”

You shrug. What else can you say? Sirius merely nods, and you truly believe that he understands your simple gesture.

“I’d rather be out there, though,” he goes on, and you can’t refrain a chuckle.

“I had noticed. You’re pacing so much these days, we’ll soon have holes in the carpet.”

It’s his time to chuckle, and you welcome the warm sound.

“Yeah, well… I’m not the type to simply… sit back and see how it turns out.”

“Hmm… it was already the case in Hogwarts, if I remember correctly.”

“Yeah, you can put it like that,” Sirius laughs.

You realize it’s the first time you hear that sound today. You reckon that’s a shame.

“You turned my hair purple once,” you go on, welcoming a more light-hearted conversation.

“Did I?” Sirius asks, laughing even more. “I don’t remember that.”

“Third year.”

He looks through his memories, but can’t recall the exact prank.

“I cursed your sorry arse so hard you stayed in the Hospital Wing for two weeks,” you add, and this time, Sirius’s face lightens with recognition.

“Oh! Yes! I remember that! It was totally worth it, the face you pulled!”

You’re both laughing wholeheartedly now, and it feels good. It feels nice to just relax, to forget about what is going on outside for a little while. You know this is ephemeral. It will be gone with the breaking of dawn, you have no doubts about it. Still… it’s nice. You bathe in that warm feeling, in the sound of his bark-like laughter, the sight of his eyes watering with joy. It’s a rare sight to see. You’re glad to witness it.

And as he looks at you again, sees you holding your stomach because of your loud laughter, your hair dishevelled and your clothes a little messy… he likes it. That sight. You looking comfortable and happy, almost as if the world wasn’t ending. It feels right. It almost feels like he’s meant to see you this way. He doesn’t quite know what to do with this feeling, but he welcomes it all the same.

“You know… it’s not so bad to be trapped here with you,” Sirius says as you both calm down.

He rests his back against the curve of the alcove again, letting one of his legs hang by the wall, while the other is bent, knee resting against the windowpane. He’s staring at you with his grey eyes burning from the light of the hearth, a crooked smile on his lips.

Your heart skips a beat at the sight.

“Yeah?” you ask back, a little too short of breath under his intense stare to gather enough strength to say anything more.

“I mean… It still sucks to be stuck in this cabin, don’t get me wrong. But I… I was quite… concerned about us living under the same roof. And I’m pleasantly surprised.”

“Me too, actually. You’re not as insufferable as I thought you would be.”

“Good to hear…”

“I have to admit though that… this is not exactly how I had imagined my honeymoon…”

He laughs at your joke again, and you soon join him.

“Yeah… me neither.”

“I bet you’d like a long journey across the globe. Or on an exotic island somewhere…”

Sirius shrugs.

“I don’t know… that does sound fun. But… I reckon that something simpler would be nice too.”

“Really?”

“As long as they’re happy, I wouldn’t care.”

He frowns as your smile changes from amused to tender.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “I just… You’re surprising, that’s all.”

“In a good way?”

“Yeah, in a good way.”

You exchange a smile, and Sirius takes a deep breath before asking his next question. His heart beats faster all of a sudden, he doesn’t dare look for an explanation for the frantic rhythm.

“Have you been looking for them, by the way? Your soulmate, I mean.”

“No, not really. What’s the point in a world like that? It would just… make it harder for me to focus on what needs to be done and… it would only be one more person to protect.”

“One more way to get hurt…”

“Exactly. Wrong timing. I’ll think about them once the war is over.”

“I like your confidence. The way you seem certain that you’ll survive all this.”

“What’s the point in thinking the contrary? It won’t help.”

“No… no, I guess you’re right.”

“What about you? Have you looked for them?” you ask him, and you don’t miss the way he tenses up. You regret questioning him about something so personal, but he answers anyway.

“No, I haven’t. Because of the war as well, of course. But also because… my family… it’s complicated. I’m just getting back on my feet after… all that happened with them. I’m finally feeling better. I don’t want to find them too soon, when I’m still recovering from all this. I don’t want them to be disappointed.”

He looks away in a hurry, rolling up his sleeves to reveal a series of tattoos colouring the pale skin of his forearms. He digs into the back pocket of his jeans to get a cigarette. He lights it up without his wand, nor a sound. You can’t help but smile. Sirius is an impressive wizard, a shame his family never told him so.

“I don’t think they would be disappointed though,” you answer so earnestly, Sirius has to look up at you again.

He blows a cloud of smoke before speaking once more, a sarcastic smile on his lips.

“Yeah, sure… traumatised guys are amazing partners to build a life xith, you didn’t know that?”

“I’m just saying that… if someone loves you, they will want to help.”

Sirius remains silent for a moment, taking another drag off his cigarette.

“I don’t know, I just… you’re talking about your soulmate,” you go on. “They should be there for you, no matter what happens.”

“I don’t want to burden them with all this.”

“Why not?”

“Because… because I don’t think they’ll be able to love me if I do.”

He lets out a wry laugh.

“The boys keep on telling me that… it’s all bullshit, they agree with you. But I don’t feel like that. I think… I don’t want to be a burden, that’s all.”

“You’re not a burden, Sirius.”

“Not to you, I’m not. You’re the one to owe me one!”

“True,” you smile at him, and he copies your gestures.

He blows one more cloud of smoke, and he seems to be relaxing again.

“Well… for all that’s worth… and it should count for something, as I am legally your wife… I wouldn’t be disappointed if you were my soulmate.”

Sirius quirks an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“No, I wouldn’t be,” you repeat, still serious, and you see him blushing a bit, but he doesn’t look away. “You’re a good man. Annoying but… good.”

He chuckles at that, but the smile that lingers on his lips is grateful, and you’re not fooled.

“Well, for what it’s worth… and it should count for something, as I am legally your husband,” he adds with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and yet you can see that he’s earnest, that he means the words he speaks out loud now. “I wouldn’t be disappointed either if you were my soulmate. Actually… I’d love that.”

You’re certain that your heart is going to explode by now…

And you hate yourself for being so happy to hear these words. You can’t imagine that Sirius is your soulmate. And yet… yet you realize now that you really, really want to kiss him…

You wonder what his lips would feel like upon yours. He would probably taste like cigarettes if he were to kiss you now…

You push the thought away, but it’s hard to do so when Sirius suddenly stands up and stares at you with such an intensity, he seems to be trying to read through your very soul…

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think you’re my soulmate.”

You quirk an eyebrow, half-amused.

“Okay…”

“No, I mean…” Sirius closes his eyes, trying to find the right words to express what he means.

He silently curses himself for being this clumsy. He takes one last drag off his cigarette and throws it in an ashtray, set on the coffee table before the sofa where you’re sitting now.

“I meant to say that… I haven’t felt instantly… pulled towards you, or anything of the kind. So, I assume that you’re not my soulmate.”

“I didn’t feel like that either,” you reassure him.

“And yet… I have to admit that… I like you. I… genuinely like you.”

You stare at each other for a moment, and he has to force himself to breathe when your lips part slightly in shock, because he wonders what they would feel like upon his and…

“So… I was thinking… would that be completely crazy if I asked you on a date?”

You stare at him in silence for a while longer, and Sirius starts to think that he’s ruined everything, when you suddenly start laughing.

“Sorry, I just…” you struggle to speak despite your laughter. “You… you’re asking me on a date when we are already married.”

Sirius chuckles as well, and a crooked smile lingers on his lips.

“Well… we’re legally married but… for the rest…”

“Yeah, not for the rest.”

“I’m not going to pretend that it would be forever, you and I,” Sirius goes on. “But I like you, a lot. I really do. And we’re stuck here, and we… are probably going to die. Sorry to bring down your everlasting optimism but…”

“Is the fact that you might be the last man I see truly the best argument you can come up with?” you joke, but Sirius blushes uncontrollably.

“No… I mean…”

He closes his eyes tightly again, buries his hands in his pockets, and takes a deep breath before diving.

“I like you. I’m attracted to you. I think that I could love you. That I… I’m already falling for you, if I’m to be fully honest. So… even if it’s not meant to be for a lifetime, as we have no idea how long we have left… I think it doesn’t sound like such a bad idea if we gave this a try. What do you think?”

You smile up at him.

“Well, I wonder what kind of date you could come up with as we are stuck here in this cabin…”

“Dinner? My famous pastas?”

You laugh, shaking your head, and it’s your turn to stand.

You have no idea what is happening to you, why you’re so bold all of a sudden. Maybe it’s his messy bun, the ink on his skin, the warm light of the fireplace that compliments his features perfectly… you’re not sure, but what you know is that you are now walking to him, and that you don’t stop before being so close to his body that the two of you are almost touching.

“Well, as you said, we’re married. We’ve been living together for weeks now. Perhaps we could skip the date.”

A smug smile appears on his lips, and under any other circumstances, you would find this annoying, painfully so. But not now. Now, you can only stare at his grey eyes as you see his pupils dilating.

“You’re sure?” he asks, and despite his crooked smile, his voice is soft and earnest.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

He raises his hand to brush his fingertips across your cheek, sending shivers down your spine and leaving your skin burning behind his feathery touch.

“If we do this, there will be no turning back. Are you sure?” he asks once more, and you notice the way his breathing has quickened.

“Are you sure?” you ask back.

“If I’m to be honest… I’ve been wanting this for a while now.”

“Me too.”

“So… you’re not going to curse me if I kiss you now, right?” he jokes, successfully making you laugh.

“No, Sirius. I won’t curse you. I might kiss you again, though. You’ve been warned.”

“Dully noted. But if you do that, I might want to do a little bit more than just kissing you. You’ve been warned.”

“That’s precisely what I had in mind.”

He grins at you, his hand moving to cup your face.

“You’re full of surprises, Y/N.”

Before you can speak again, he has leaned down to crash his lips against yours. Suddenly, he’s cradling your face in both his hands, and deepening the kiss, and you’re losing your fingers in his hair, destroying his messy bun.

And Merlin, you’re certain your body is going to combust, and your heart explode…

Meanwhile, Sirius reckons that he has found heaven on Earth…

How long do you spend kissing each other like this, standing by the fireplace? You’re not sure. Hard to tell. A long while, you reckon.

You let Sirius’s lips move down to drop soft pecks along your jawline, and further down to attach themselves to your neck. And while you can barely breathe at the feeling of his soft lips on your skin, of his open-mouthed kisses running across the side of your neck, of his teeth grazing the sensitive skin from time to time, your hands slip down the length of his back before reaching for his chest. You undo one of the buttons of his shirt, then another, then another, your fingers brushing his warm skin as they travelled upwards to undo yet another button of Sirius’s black shirt, and you feel him gasping against your skin under your trembling touch. He wraps an arm around your waist to pull you closer, and you can’t refrain a moan when he gently bites that soft spot at the base of your neck, right when the shoulder begins.

You push the piece of clothing off his shoulders, letting your hands rest on his neck to pull his face away from you, detaching his swollen lips from your skin just long enough for you to look at him, to the tattoos scattered across his torso and his arms, to look down and take in the sight of his chest and…

Your eyes grow round when they land on his waist. Sirius tries to slow down his heart as you stare at the birthmark that lays there, on his skin. Two circles intertwined. He frowns as you remain frozen, motionless, merely staring at him.

“You’re okay?” he asks, worried now.

But you look up at him with an aghast look painted all over your features, and before he can ask anything, you pull up your t-shirt, just enough to reveal the two white circles that adorn your waist…

It’s Sirius’s time to stare. He reaches to run his fingers on the shapes carved into your skin, but there’s no doubt possible.

Same shape, same colour, same placement, same size…

When your gazes meet again, you both seem equally shocked.

“Does that… does that mean…?”

But Sirius doesn’t have the strength to finish his question. So, he merely stares at you with his grey eyes filled with fear and questions, and you merely nod in response.

“We… we’re… you’re…” he tries to speak, but can’t.

You’re the first to break into a bright grin, and your eyes are suddenly filled with tears.

“I’m glad it’s you,” you let out in a breath. “I’m glad you’re my soulmate.”

Sirius smiles as well, and he throws back his head in an attempt to control the rush of emotions that washes over him.

It’s you. You’re his soulmate. He’s found you…

“And I just said that I didn’t want to meet my soulmate,” he laughs.

“Terrible timing, I have to agree,” you chuckle.

He looks down at you again, holding your face in his hands again, and his smile is filled with withheld tears. When he speaks again, his voice is hoarse, a little broken.

“Well… I guess it solves our issue with the divorce, huh?”

You can’t help but explode with laughter, and he does the same.

“Yeah, I guess… I guess this marriage is going to last a little more than a few months, after all…”

“Maybe I should start wearing that damn ring…”

“Could be a good idea.”

Sirius rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, enjoying the way your breath fans over his lips…

“I’m glad too, you know?” he whispers. “I’m glad it’s you. I wanted it to be you. I wanted you to be my soulmate. Please… don’t be too disappointed that I’m yours…”

But you laugh his remark away, wrapping your arms around his neck to draw him closer to you.

“I’m not disappointed in the slightest, Sirius. But…”

“But?”

“But I would truly appreciate it if we could resume our former activity now.”

Sirius lets out a loud laugh, that sounds strangely like a bark, and you love this sound… It’s infectious, it brings a smile to your lips.

“That can be arranged…”

And before you can add another witty remark, he’s captured your mouth with his.

*******************

Taglist : @reg-arcturus-black @unofficial-jaytodd-wife

#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black x y/n #sirius black x you #sirius black fanfiction #sirius x reader #sirius black fanfic #sirius black one shot #hp marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders #the marauders #marauders era #marauders fanfic #hp #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction

257 notes · View notes

donniesexceptionalmind · 6 months

Text

✨️A black hole 13.2 billion light-years away from us! ✨️

Credit to NASA, Chandra & the JWST

Chandra & the JWST captured the most distant black hole in X-Rays!

It shows the black hole as it existed 470 million years after the Big Bang, which was when the universe was at 3% of its current age!

The research team has found strong evidence that the newly discovered black hole was born massive.

Its mass is estimated to fall between 10 & 100 million Suns, based on the brightness and energy of the observed X-rays.

This mass range is similar to that of all the stars in the galaxy where it lives, which is in stark contrast to black holes in the centers of galaxies that usually contain only about a tenth of a percent of the mass of their host galaxy’s stars.

The large mass of the black hole at a young age, plus the amount of X-rays it produces & the brightness of the galaxy detected by Webb, all agree with theoretical predictions in 2017 for an "Outsize Black Hole" that directly formed from the collapse of a huge cloud of gas.

Outsize Black Holes are also referred to as heavy Black Hole seeds.

These black holes have masses around 40 million times that of our sun.

It's theorized thay they form from the direct collapse of a massive cloud of gas, unlike your typical black hole that's born when a massive star reaches the end of its life & collapses under its own gravity.

Galaxies theorized to host such heavy black hole seeds are referred to as Outsize Black Hole Galaxies (OBGs).

These galaxies are likely to be very distant, seen as they were when our 13.8 billion-year-old universe was somewhere around 400 million years old.

(Which matches with the newest observation.)

Yet, what is so special about them besides their age, size & name?

Their size compared to their age.

Typically, the existence of supermassive black holes is not unusual. They grow over billions of years.

Sagittarius A* had enough time to grow to around 4.5 million times the mass of the sun.

The black hole at the heart of a galaxy named M87 managed to get even bigger, sitting at around 5 billion times the mass of our star.

And BECAUSE these growth mechanisms are estimated to take place over billions of years, the discovery of similarly supermassive black holes that existed between just 500 million years to a mere billion years after the Big Bang is challenging. Those mass-gathering methods wouldn't have had the time needed to result in such gargantuan black holes!

And yet - ✨️THEY EXIST. ✨️

Scientists suggest supermassive black holes could've grown from light black hole seeds with masses around 10 to 100 times that of the sun.

Those light seeds would theoretically be born via the standard mechanism of stellar-mass black hole creation, namely the death & collapse of the universe's first generation of stars.

Also, early supermassive black holes could've grown from heavy seed black holes with huge masses around 100,000 times the mass of the sun.

These would've formed directly from the collapse of massive clouds of matter, thus skipping the "star stage" of other black holes entirely. GASP.

Astronomers refer to such black holes as "Direct Collapse Black Holes"(DCBHs) or "Outsize Black Holes"

Here's the wallpaper version freely available from the Chandra website:

*happily chirps*

Thank you for reading! 💜🍪

#donnies special interests #donnies exceptional mind #turtle net #nasa #why purple is better than blue #space photography #space is awesome #astrophysics is the best #donnies purple vibes #rottmnt donnie #autistic donnie #chandra x ray #black holes #space

60 notes · View notes

the-halloween-jack · 6 months

Text

ｒｅｖｅｎａｎｔ－ｔｈｒｅｅ

PART THREE OF 'REVENANT' SERIES Damon Salvatore x Winchester!Sister!Hunter!Reader The Vampire Diaries x Supernatural Mini-Series Synopsis: Y/N Winchester was tired of living in her brothers' shadows; she needed to do something for herself for a change. When she heads to Mystic Falls, a town she was always warned to stay away from, she finds she may have taken on more than she can handle. Will she be able to eradicate the supernatural from the uncanny town? Or will she find herself tangled amongst it? WARNINGS: Descriptions of Violence. Words: 2,064k Blog Masterlist / Series Masterlist <Previous Part | Next Part >

Monsters consumed her entire world; Y/N thought of them every day and in every moment. She would watch people as she passed them on the street and wonder if they harboured any grim secrets; monsters were considerably more common than one would expect. However, there was a time when this was not the case. As a young girl, she never fully understood why her family moved from motel to motel, never finding a home to settle in.

She and her brothers would stay in the shabby rooms, watching cartoons as their father disappeared for hours, only to return covered in grime and blood. Eventually, Dean joined in on these late-night escapades and soon after, Sam. They held hushed conversations over old-looking journals Y/N was never allowed to see.

She had never known anything different; it came alongside her life of greasy diners and dingy mattresses.

However, she had always known that something was wrong. Even at a young age, she was bright enough to know that normal fathers did not teach their children how to wield knives and set traps. And they definitely did not pass their six-year-old children handguns. Her small hands and feeble arms barely able to hold on as it recoiled.

On the morning of her eleventh birthday, her father had taken her to an old friend, saying she needed a specific tattoo and that he would not ask questions. The young girl was shocked. Y/N knew this was not regular for kids her age; she supposed they were only for grownups. However, looking back, she recalled her brothers receiving them as well. Her father hushed and comforted her as she cried in his arms; the pain was like nothing she had ever experienced. When she drew back from his embrace, upon her upper left arm was now a star, enclosed by a circle of black, simple flames. Her father had told her that 'it was a small amount pain for a lifetime of protection from things that would hurt her'. She shuddered when she thought of what these 'things' might be.

However, by her next birthday, she no longer had to wonder. Y/N would never forget the day she learnt about the frightening past-times of her family. It was a turning point in her life, something she could never change, no matter how many times since that moment she wished she could.

The tires of the Impala had rolled noisily over the gravel of the dimly lit car park. The motel's neon sign flickered, casting an eerie glow across its sleek, black metal as John Winchester pulled out onto the barren street. Inside the room, the air was palpable. Y/N remembered every detail of the night perfectly. The smell of old books and gun oil mingled with the acrid tang of old manchester. She recalled how the walls seemed to sag under the weight of time, the air thick with the scent of dampness and decay. She was supposed to be alseep as her adolescent brothers, Sam and Dean, sat hunched over a precarious table, staring fixedly at a map.

Across the room, Y/N lied on her side, back turned and clutching the pillow with white-knuckled fingers. Her eyes were wide, staring unblinkingly at the peeling wallpaper of the motel, the thump of her pounding heart reaching her ears.

Y/N Winchester, the youngest of the three, had always had a lingering suspicion that her family was disparate from that of a regular household. Their late-night departures and whispered conversations had all hinted at something dark, something they deliberately withheld from her.

But as she listened to the low humming of their voices, her whole world had unravelled. Monsters, demons, and things ‘that went bump in the night’ were real. And her family hunted them.

Dean's voice broke, brueque and urgent, breaking her from her spiralling thoughts.

‘We've got a lead on a group of vampires, Sammy. Pack your bags. We’ll leave in the morning.’ Sam nodded, his gaze fixed on the map.

Y/N's breath hitched. Vampires? She had always believed they were creatures of folklore and myth, the subjects of peoples’ nightmares. But suddenly, the reality of this fact became true for her. Had she not seen her father carve out intricate stakes? And replace the bullets in his guns with wooden alternatives? She had been too young to give any of these details consideration. Though as Y/N lay in the bleak corner of the room, absorbing the information her brothers had unknowingly disclosed, she felt remarkably obtuse.

Y/N sat up and allowed her consciousness to become known to her brothers.

Her voice had shaken, fear entwined between each syllable. ‘Vampires?’

She had wanted to say more, but her words caught in her throat.

Both heads snapped up, surprise and shock corroding their features. Dean's eyes widened, and he exchanged a quick, concerned glance with Sam.

‘Y/N, you shouldn't be awake,’ Sam had said, his voice holding an edge of distress,

‘No, I need to know,’ Y/N insisted, her hands trembling. ‘What else don’t I know? Why do you do this?’

Dean sighed heavily, the weight of this fretful secret hardening his expression. The brother did not know how their father would react to their carelessness; she should not have found out like this.

‘Sit down, Y/N. We'll explain.’

As they spoke and described the monsters of this sphere in great detail, Y/N listened, perturbed yet enthralled. Her childish, insular world expanded with each revelation; the bleakness that her family fought against was far more vast than she had any right to envisage.

The creatures from her childhood nightmares were real; her father and brothers took it upon themselves to eradicate these fiends.

As days bled into nights, the Impala sped down highways and quiet country roads, carrying the Winchesters from one hunt to the next as it always had, only now, Y/N knew why. She observed and learned, engrossed in every piece of information they shared.

Her father had attempted to teach her how to wield a gun many years prior, though he eventually gave up, her negligent demeanour discouraging. But with the threat of monsters now a burden upon her shoulders, Y/N reconsidered her juvenile disinterest and learned to fire a gun. She allowed the recoil to sting her palms until callouses formed.

She memorised incantations, reciting them like a mantra to banish unwelcome spectres. Once a foreign language, the lore became familiar, etched into her memory like the back of her hand.

As weeks turned into months, which then rolled into years, Y/N’s alteration became undeniable; she was a hunter.

Her knowledge was vast; her determination and resolve were unyielding. Yet, she would always be the neonate of the Winchester clan, never a hunter in her own right.

This fact was the catalyst for her departure to Mystic Falls.

Y/N Winchester hardly believed that a single town could have such a vast history of misfortune; why did this small quaint community hold such an aptitude for catastrophe? Vampires, Witches and Werewolves were just a few of the creatures that Y/N was sure stalked the streets of Mystic Falls, and with all of the disasters claiming innocent lives, she was almost certain that the uncanny town had its fair share of ghosts as well.

Over the decades, Mystic Falls' history bore witness to many tribulations. Tragedies were not at all uncommon for the abnormal town. Yet its reputation as a charming, radiant community still proceeded it. Y/N had to admit that maybe the council was more successful than she gave it credit for, only not successful enough for her hunters’ disposition.

She found it most curious that the Lockwood family, from what she could discern, had seemingly been cursed with lycanthropy for generations, and despite this, still participated in the council’s hunting of vampires.

Y/N’s research led her to Civil Hall, which housed the incredibly grim and macabre Founder’s archives.

Beginning in the early 19th century, the Founding Families, including the Salvatores, Lockwoods, Gilberts, Forbes, and Fells, laid the foundation for the thriving community of Mystic Falls. Their historical influence reverberated through the town's architecture, traditions and the very spirit that defined it. Y/N found that each family brought a unique facet to the tapestry of Mystic Falls. They built homes, a school, and a place of worship. As the seasons passed, Mystic Falls flourished, its streets lined with elms, its gardens ablaze with vibrant blossoms and the town square; a bustling hub of commerce and camaraderie.

Amidst this idyllic setting, the Founding Families recognized the coexistence of the supernatural world alongside their own, understanding that the existence of these paranormal fiends could not be known by the greater population. So they established the Town Council, set on eradicating these monsters from their picturesque town. Under their leadership and protection, the Council became the linchpin of Mystic Falls' unique social fabric. And although they attempted to cover the town’s dark secret with reports of ordinary things, it was a delicate balance and one that required vigilance and discretion. However, the holes in their stories did not go unnoticed by the young Winchester.

She had found that in 1864 during the Civil War, Confederate Soldiers had fired on Fell’s Church, believing the establishment had been harbouring weapons. Twenty-Seven people were killed. However, this report did not sit well with Y/N; its contents held many hallmarks of the recent ‘animal killings’. To the young hunter, it sounded like a coverup.

Y/N travelled to the forsaken church nonetheless, bearing an EMF Meter and salt. She was unsurprised to find that the building held no signs of the odious spirits you would expect. Though, beneath its old withering structure, lay an abandoned tomb; Y/N shivered, wondering what had been inside it.

Y/N was sure to return to the archives in Civil Hall as there was too much to look at in one session. And upon her second trip, she uncovered something that left her feeling uneasy. In storage were artifacts from a heritage display recently held by the Founder’s Council; within said display was a registry listing the names of the guestlist for the original Founder’s event.

The document had read,

'The Founding Families of Mystic Falls, Virginia welcome you to the inaugural Founders Council Celebration on this, the twenty-fourth of September in the year Eighteen Hundred and Sixty Four.'

Her gloved fingers skimmed down the old parchment until she reached a name written in an even, ornate scrawl. She felt her heart beating in her throat,

'Damon Salvatore'

No, she thought, he couldn’t be…

She hollowly noted the name of his brother 'Stefan Salvatore' stetched onto the aged paper as well. Y/N, heart sinking, recalled her initial suspicion of Damon on the night they met; she had felt saddened by the idea of him being a monster. Though, she had quickly ridiculed these ideas as she learnt of his surname. Y/N dejectedly reminisced Caroline’s warnings, and suddenly, she heard them in a new light.

'Y/N, he’s bad news; how many times do I have to tell you before the message sinks in?'

Y/N had thought Caroline’s dislike for Damon was due to some trivial gossip. Though was it possible her admonitions hinted at something much more sinister?

She shook her head as if trying to banish unwelcome thoughts; once again, she concluded that she must be overreacting. He hailed from a Founding Family; they did not take matters of the supernatural lightly. And besides, she had heard him talk of the animal killings with the sheriff herself. He could not be a vampire.

Perhaps these people on the registry had been namesakes for the brothers? Surely, in a community that valued its heritage so much, it would not be unusual to be named for your late ancestors? And as a hunter, how could her instincts be so wrong? So out of touch?

Y/N Winchester had not yet fallen in love with the blue-eyed man, though with each conversation and interaction, Y/N knew falling in love would be as easy as the phrase proposed; as effortless as falling down.

No, she thought, this time more confident, he couldn’t be.

TAG LIST: @venomsvl

112 notes · View notes

crookedkryptonitebeliever · 3 months

Note

i wonder if yves has a picture of us as his lockscreen wallpaper... if yes (or no), what picture would it be :0 ?

As much as Yves would love to just... plaster your face on everything he owns, he simply can't and shouldn't.

Yves didn't rise up the ranks by being nice and kind. He rose up by pushing others down. Naturally, he made an army of enemies over the years that would jump at the chance of abusing his weaknesses. It would be much safer to not expose any of his information at all, which sadly includes who he associates with regularly.

His lock screen is just a black background. His gallery contains no trace of you or him. Not even pictures that have accidental reflections of either face. All the metadata from his photos would be expunged.

He does not have any social media applications or games on his phone- not even digital maps. He has his GPS turned off at all times. Yves memorizes his all contact numbers by heart and he never gets a number wrong. His phone is just a slab he used to call or text (sometimes hack into other devices), Yves would delete his call logs, and text messages including yours after documenting all of them in their respective dossiers. When he isn't expecting any communication, his phone is always switched off. Sometimes, he would even remove the battery.

Truly crucial matters will be alerted through the pager hidden in his reliable bag.

That is why you never see him entertaining himself with his smartphone, Yves usually brings a book or a magazine with him. He's living as if he's still in the 80's. If you gave his car a shakedown, you would find atlases and a compass.

But that is just his public phone. He has a few that never leave his office. They're full of you. Videos, pictures, voice recordings, and backups of your messages. One of them is a carbon copy of your current phone, with all the same data you're holding. The other one is an old phone that you sold or lost, one of his precious artifacts of you.

His 'home' phone has pictures of your happiest moments on its lock screen and home screen. It doesn't necessarily have to be photos he took after meeting you. It could be a picture of you graduating high school, it could be a candid picture of you on a vacation trip when you were 8, it could be a picture of your reaction the moment you received your first 'adult' paycheck, it could be a photo of you trying marijuana for the first time, it could even be your baby photos if you weren't that happy in life.

However, phones that store your information aren't usually used as a phone. It just becomes precious data banks. And any evidence that he's spying on you will never be revealed, hence you will never know of its existence.

There is an exception, though. One of his phones is used to analyze what catches your eye on social media. It mirrors your screen in real time, he would record how many seconds you would linger on a post, how many times you rewatched a video, when you would do a double take, your scrolling speed and what exactly would you consume. He would connect the dots and correlate your media consumption habits to the circumstance on that day; would you scroll slower on a cold or hot day? Do you seek out food content if you're hungry or actively avoid it? Why did you rewatch that thirst trap video?

You can go through his phone if you want, but that means he gets to go through yours in return. And you're at a huge disadvantage here because you willingly give up your privacy to him while he gave you nothing. It's not like you have to, he's never on his phone and he's a recluse. What is there to discover?

You know Yves is much older than you are, he used to fuel his past cars with leaded gasoline for god's sake.

So you already expected that at some point along the way, he would comment on this generation's excessive usage of their gadgets. But that oddly never came, because your habits are a treasure trove of information. He would only deride the act if it's actively harming your health.

If you want to put his face on your lock and home screen, go ahead. He would be flattered. Profile picture? Sure. Yves would do some digital magic to make sure the wrong people never see it. As a social media post? Go ahead. Only those whom he knows wouldn't be a threat to you can perceive it.

Of course, just as any paranoid man would do, he would educate you on the dangers of releasing your information to the world. Giving you real-life examples where it could lead to horrifying results. But he would be lying if he said his heart doesn't swell at your willingness to brag about him to your friends.

Obviously, he's also stealing a copy of your lipstick-print-ridden face and printing a physical poster of it to frame in his office. He would openly display it if he obtained it by asking you, but he would hide it if he got the photo by hacking into your phone.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere concept #tw yandere #yandere x you #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc x reader #oc yves

41 notes · View notes

stabbyfoxandrew · 29 days

Note

Hey Aerie! I hope you're having a good week!! Could I have some Arsonist Neil? Are they gonna meet!? Or is Neil to anxious? Ahhh! I wish you a good rest of the week!

WIP Wednesday (3/27) | Arsonist Neil / Firefighter Andrew AU (Part 125)

Neil stares at his phone until it times out and the screen goes dim. What’s he supposed to do now? Keep poking the bear until Andrew eventually blocks his number? No, no. He doesn’t want that. He’ll… He’ll give Andrew a while to cool down, then try to explain how he’d freaked out about hearing a name that shouldn’t matter anymore.

How he’d asked the barista to borrow a pen to write a note, ordered Andrew a muffin as promised, and ducked out. He did the best he could. Or so he thought. Maybe he should’ve tried to stick it out. Part of him was tempted to just sit in the parking lot and wait for Andrew to arrive. Maybe they could’ve talked like that, just the two of them.

Maybe he’ll offer that. That they could try again. Somewhere… Less crowded. Somewhere Neil doesn’t feel the need to look over his shoulder. Like here, in the hotel room maybe. Well, actually that’s a terrible idea. Neil will think of something better. Some sort of compromise.

But what if Andrew’s already told his bosses about the arsonist he’s been talking to? And what if they can track this number somehow? Oh shit. Neil quickly turns off his phone and yanks the battery out of the back just in case. He’s not sure that could keep anyone from finding it, but that’s what his mother always used to do so he’ll just hope it works.

Neil scrubs a hand over his face and realizes it’s shaking. Fuck, he needs…

He needs to either burn something or talk to Andrew. And only one of those is an option currently. But it’s the middle of the afternoon. He promised his mother he wouldn’t light fires in broad daylight anymore. Okay, yes. Mary is dead. But. It was still a promise. Besides that, he hasn’t found a new place to burn yet.

Neil climbs up onto the bed and disengages the smoke alarm. Then he grabs his lighter and goes into the bathroom. He’s done this a few times before. When he had no other outlet for this demon that lives under his skin. He yanks down the shower curtain and drops it behind him, then stacks the extra toilet paper rolls in the bathtub and lights the top one.

It’s paper. And it’s dry. So it lights like a dream and catches quicker than Neil can blink. The flames are orange as the wallpaper and standing straight up, barely dancing because they’re inside with no wind to guide them.

But it’s still soothing. Still sort of beautiful. Almost.

He watches it until he can feel his fingers again. Until the outside of the roll has charred itself black and the bottom one starts to catch. The flames eat away at it, racing towards the porcelain of the tub. Neil snaps out of it just in time to cut the shower on and put it out.

It barely leaves a scorch mark. He can buff that out later.

He’s not sure if he can buff out this thing with Andrew.

#aghhh i guess you'll already know by the time you get down here but.. neil bailed TWT (these poor idiots are both so stupid i-)#btw muah!!! <3<3<3 #andreil #aftg #WIP Wednesday #Arsonist Neil / Firefighter Andrew #🕊️#answered #c-lion

25 notes · View notes

do-not-lick-the-walls · 2 months

Text

a devil put aside | chapter six - communion

masterlist | read on ao3

(gif via @goodsirs)

beelzebub x fallen angel!reader

summary: you have a drink with the council.

(she/her pronouns are used for reader, no use of y/n)

warnings: religious themes & trauma, strong language, drinking/drunkenness, some sexual undertones, peer pressure(?)

ineffable taglist: @sarcastic-sourwolf , @angelofthenight <3

a/n: sorry the end of this is kinda rushed, as I unfortunately have responsibilities other than this fic (boooooooo) which currently includes a lot of college auditions. Alas, in order to become the funny little gay on TV, I must sacrifice some of the fic about the funny little gay on TV. So it goes. Pretend it was all on purpose because she's drunk djdjdndjdjxjd

---

You're bad at a lot of things, but round two is looking like it's about to involve some of your worst.

Skidding through your first Council meeting has injected you with a nervous high, an unblinking energy that makes your teeth hurt and your fingers bleed while half-carved anxieties play catch with your pulse. You can't make it slow (will you ever tame the horrible throbbing of this heart?) the tha-thump is going too strong for that (will you ever get used to it?) so you're resigned to live out your agitation on this couch, picking at your nails until you're thrown back in the ring.

This backroom is surprisingly cozy, making it all the more unfamiliar. The light is warm here, rather than green, cast from several vintage lamps and the fireplace. Little statues, trinkets, and other curiosities decorate the mantle with a slice of the room's casual grandeur. There's a settled-in feeling to the place, telling you both that you're welcome and that you don't belong.

While Hastur and Ligur hang their coats by the door, Beelzebub sprawls out at the other end of your couch like a very relaxed corpse. They let out a sigh reminiscent of a balloon slowly deflating.

"Welcome to our little hideaway. Make yourself comfy," Ligur invites. With an effort, you cross your legs and lean back some. He does a much better job of it, flopping down on the sofa across from you, soon joined by an uneasy Hastur. Dagon perches on the arm of an old recliner.

"Eric, bring us a couple bottles!" Beelzebub shouts. (You flinch.) They're seemingly confident that whoever Eric is can hear them despite the closed door and whatever distance there may be. You don't question it. The past thirty hours have carried weirder stuff, and you're more concerned about what Eric's bringing.

At least you knew the rules of a meeting. Granted, it was the oddest meeting you've ever been in, but still, you had a basic understanding of the game. You've been in tons of meetings. It's a meeting. It's fine. You have no idea what the rules of "having a drink in the back" are, except that you're pretty sure drinking is one of them.

To calm yourself, you let your eyes wander the room some more. The dark, swirling brocade of the wallpaper is almost soothing to your nerves, as is the half-felt drag of your shoe's heel across the rug when you pull your foot back and forth. Oil paintings of evil's greatest triumphs hang proudly, and you wonder if they were just miracled into existence, or if somebody spent hours and hours on them. You wouldn't be surprised if someone had; subject matter aside, they're beautiful.

After the paintings, your eyes fall on a boxy contraption in the corner. It's placed atop a cabinet, lid propped open to reveal silver bits of machinery on the inside. Unsure if it's within the rules to ask aloud, you nudge Beelzebub, glance at the box, and raise your eyebrows.

They laugh. "That's a record player, doll."

"Oh." You pause. "I don't know what that means."

"Here," Ligur gets up and pulls an envelope from the cabinet, then a black disc from the envelope. He places the disc in the machine and fiddles around a bit with the silver pieces. Then, something clicks into place, and the box begins to make an unfamiliar kind of sound.

You scrunch your eyebrows together, frowning. "I don't..."

"It's music," Dagon explains. "It's playing a record."

"Oh." The tension in your forehead slowly drops away as you listen. It doesn't sound anything at all like the angel choirs you sing in. There's a heartbeat at the base of it. Not an unpleasant, flighty one, though, a steady bounce that's felt more than it's heard, like the constant pace of a perpetual motion machine. And over top of those beats, a funky, squiggly sound chases itself back and forth with abandon. It strikes an urge to do something in time with the whole affair. "I like it."

Just as you're starting to tap your finger a little, the door slams open, tearing a very un-demonlike yelp from you and sending your pulse into double-time.

"Alright, alright, alright! Got a nice selection for you tonight, Lords, all reds as always, got some lovely flavors here," says the intruder, a tall, skinny demon with his arms full of clinking bottles and glasses, and who is presumably Eric. You take a few breaths, hand to your chest, while he sets the collection on the coffee table.

Centuries of politeness-instinct makes you open your mouth to thank him, even though you don't mean it, but Beelzebub gives you a subtle kick, and you clumsily glare instead. Eric responds with an encouraging smile and a thumbs up.

"Very nice, very nice! You must be the Seraph, then! Nice t'meet you, I'm Eric. I'm kind of the everyman around here, you can find me pretty easy, so just call if you need anything, yeah?" He bombards, "How's hell for you?"

You open your mouth again, only to be cut off with variations of "Fuck off, Eric!" From four different directions. Eric doesn't seem to mind in the slightest, and gives you a cheery wave before he leaves.

"You'll get used to him," Dagon says, while you avoid watching Ligur pour the wine. "He's annoying, but he's useful."

A concerningly pleasant aroma floats through the air as the demons pass around their glasses. There's no cheat for this, no trick, and there's no calling for backup when your backup's handing you the cup. This trial is four against one. This is a hurdle you have to jump yourself.

You accept the full glass from Beelzebub with both hands, letting it nest in your palms. It's heavier than expected. You feel like a child, awkwardly holding something a little too big for her, and afraid of being punished should she drop it. Wine, blood, what's the difference when it's spilled on the floor? The cup you're cradling doesn't look too different from the pinpricks of red on the fingers that hold it.

Four sets of evil eyes are trained onto you. Curiosity, suspicion, apprehension, faith. The tempting, fruity aroma of sin kisses your nose like it did Eve, exciting your heart again before it even got the chance to fully calm down.

A smile ticks at the corner of Beelzebub's mouth. They hold out their glass. "Cheers. To you."

The glasses ring when they knock together.

The wine is sour on your tongue, then sweet after you push it down your neck, and it tastes like red. It tastes very much like you're not supposed to have it. Somewhere in your throat it catches, and you choke, then force it to stay down. You make a face.

Beelzebub laughs. "It's an aquired taste, love. Keep drinking, you'll come to like it."

You grimace, but take another sip. It's not as bad the second time, and you do better with the whole swallowing thing. Still not good, but not as bad. Maybe it can be appreciated, if you get used to it. You swirl around the glass, watching the red whirlpool form, then dissipate.

Hastur lights a cigarette by engulfing his entire hand in flame. "So, how are you liking hell?" He asks, tentative, as if poking a lion with a very long stick. You shift around.

What you want to say is, "It's hell, what do you think?"

You don't say that.

Instead, after an awkward pause and a mental dig, you blurt out, "I like the clothes."

Well, you landed somewhere honest. You do like the clothes. There's variety down here, styles, colors and shapes you didn't realize were options, all far more interesting to look at than heaven's raiment.

"I can see why," Ligur chuckles. "Beez dressed you nice. You look right well in them."

Beez???

"Wait, wait, hold on a second, is that---" Dagon sets her glass down, leans in, then falls back with a bark of laughter. "She's got their pin on!"

The room erupts into snickers, lighting sparks on your face. You look to Beelzebub for help, find them emptying their glass, and decide to follow suit. You can't pound it like they do, but your hands and the cup give you somewhere to hide.

"I knew you liked your new pet, Beez, but I didn't know you were already so attached!"

Wine sloshes out of your glass as you shoot to your feet, sputtering. "I am not a pet!"

"Ooh, bit fiesty, are we?" Ligur teases, then grunts as Hastur throws an elbow in his side.

"Shut it, all of you!" Beelzebub shouts. They pour themself another, buzzing, and tug you back down. "Don't mind, love. They're just teasing. If anything, means they like you."

Your face is still burning, but you calm a little as you sink back into the leather. This is not heaven. This is a different game, with different rules, you remind yourself, and finish whatever wine you didn't spill. Play the game.

Fiddling with the pin, you take a breath. You're bad at a lot of things, and choosing the right words might just be the worst of them.

You try anyway.

"It's okay that you're jealous, Ligur. I would be too," you joke, then immediately slap your hand over your stupid mouth. Beelzebub chokes on their wine.

But there must've been a miracle left in you, because he whistles high, and breaks into a grin. Relief untenses your shoulders. "I was right, you are fiesty," he laughs, "Beez, I take it back, I'm glad we didn't feed her to the hellhounds. She's fun."

You laugh along nervously, also glad they didn't feed you to the hellhounds, but keenly aware that it's not off the table yet. Still, you snag the golden piece of approval, and you let the want for more of it refill your glass.

"I told you all, she's got it," Beelzebub smiles, then turns to you, "Oh, careful there, love. It's your first time, and you're on an empty stomach."

Waving them off, you sit back and take a sip. It's starting to taste good, and the amused look you pull from them tastes even sweeter. Their arm rests along the top of the sofa, as if tempting you to come curl into their side. You drink.

Little shocks flutter in your fingertips as a pleasant haze rolls in over the next few minutes, and then much longer after that. For the first time in many days, you feel unheavy. Floating instead of falling, instead of sinking. You kick off your shoes and pull your feet onto the couch, pulse matching time with the music, to which you've started tapping your fingers along with. You're contented just to listen for a while. To the record player, and to the idle, demonic chit-chat.

Maybe you have another glass, or maybe you just make this one last a while, you're not really sure. Which is quite funny, now that you think about it. You should know that, but you don't, but that's okay, because it's fine. You laugh at yourself, and then again at the sound you make. When's the last time you laughed? It feels good, you should really do it more. No wonder you're sad all the time.

With that problem solved, you turn to Beez---the name makes you giggle again---to ask for another drink.

Oh.

Fuck.

You already knew they're gorgeous. This shouldn't be a surprise. But holy shit, are they beautiful, looking so at ease, so in control, sprawled out like they own the place. Which they do.

You want to touch their face. You want them to touch you. You want them to burn sunsets into you with their hands, kiss your neck like they didn't before. You just want them.

Their side is still open, inviting, and you give in this time. After all, why shouldn't you? They make an 'oomph' noise as you fall into them, then a squeak, then a "shut the fuck up," in response to a chorus of snickers. They're warm, they're beautifully warm, and they're safe. You're safe. You could bury yourself here.

"Alright, you're officially drunk, then," they laugh, "Should've known, you've got no tolerance for it."

"Mmmmmnnhhhnn," you respond.

"What's that?"

You sigh, wrapping your arms around them, and press in closer. If this is being drunk, you don't see what makes it such a sin. You're at peace, in safe hands, and free to stop thinking. It's an altar you'd worship at any day.

A hand runs down your back, and you remember what it is you wanted to say.

"You're so nice."

#fic #good omens #beelzebub #beelzebub x reader #good omens x reader #x reader #beelzebub good omens #good omens beelzebub x reader #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #ft eric my favorite little guy lol #poor eric everyone always tells him to fuck off

25 notes · View notes

sweetnsour1 · 2 years

Text

3:18:01

Fluff, Bakugou x female reader, part 1 of 6

part of the Drummer AU

You nibbled on another fry, wishing you could stomach something more substantial. You never could here. Something about the sound of live music rattled your senses. The way it vibrated through you was soothing, but the cost was always appetite robbery.

You licked your lips, catching the few stray granules of salt stuck in your strawberry gloss. You paused as you felt a sensation on the tip of your tongue, remembering too late that you’d used the plumping formula tonight. You shut your mouth tightly when you caught his gaze on you. Fuck, of course the hottest guy looked over here while your tongue was lolled out like a fucking dog.

“I think they’re up next!”

You tuned back into the chatter of your friends as a pink hand passed you another shot of fireball. This shit wasn’t your favorite, but they were the deal of the day. You let them clink their glasses with yours before you all tapped them against the table and threw them back. Sweet…so sweet. You laughed at Ochako and Hagakure as they coughed, nearly wasting a good deal, mirroring each other’s complaints of it burning.

Your eyes were drawn back to that brick wall, covered in layers of marker, but there was no sign of blonde hair. No red eyes watching you make a fool of yourself. Didn’t matter. You weren’t fucking here for that, and you definitely weren’t fucking here to worry about some random guy’s opinion of you.

You chomped down on another fry, not really sure what you were actually here for. Sometimes it was too perfect having a friend like Mina. She always knew when you needed to be dragged out of the apartment. She was like a fucking bloodhound when it came to sniffing out your shutdown avoidant bullshit. You wouldn’t even have a chance to break out the cat onesie or ignore her texts before she’d come rattling the lock of your front door with her key…that she kept forgetting to give back to you, and barge in with some outing you needed to get ready for.

This time it was some basement bar that some of her friends were playing at. Although that could mean friends from a decade ago or someone she met this morning. You smiled and ran your tongue across your lip, frowning at that same stupid sensation. Dumb. You were gonna lick all the gloss off at this rate.

You dusted the salt from your lap, glad you were wearing black denim as you realized that you’d probably just used it as a napkin, and slid off the barstool, waving off the simultaneous offers to join you in the restroom. You’d been here before. There was barely room in there for the people that needed to use it.

Smoke…none of it remained, but the scent curled around you still. You didn’t hate it, feeling like it belonged to the wallpaper in hallways like this. Dim amber lights etched the shadows on the textured walls, covered in framed pictures instead of patron scribbles like the rest of the bar. Someone shouldered past you on their way out…even that didn’t bother you. It was practically unavoidable with the small hall and sharp corners. This space demanded you to be a little rougher, a little possessive of the air you took up.

You hummed at your reflection, squinting one eye after the other…maybe you were starting to get a bit drunk. You shut both tightly, but your boots stayed planted and your body stayed steady. You opened them again to reapply that gloss, wiping the smears of it from the corners of your lip. You upheld tradition and shouldered past someone on your way out.

The bar had gone darker, but the lights flashing on the stage lit your way every few feet. Your smile fell as you realized your destination had become the loudest table in the bar. You couldn’t tell what they were shouting at first, a name you didn’t recognize…but it came out as a jumble of consonants with all five women starting it at different times. Their timing was terrible. You laughed, settled back into your seat and placed another fry between your lips. Their shouts were silenced by a quick pounding of the drums.

“Don’t use my fuckin’ first name like ya know me!”

The deep voice didn’t come through the speakers, instead making its way across the stage without any help from the mic. It came directly from the blonde drummer, his red eyes flashed for the moment the white lights settled on him. The hue shifted to a red glow, turning his spiked hair into almost a pink as his drumsticks pointed directly at your fucking table.

Your lips parted when his head tilted towards you. The lights flashed again, catching on his piercings, but shadowing his eyes. Your face heated as the fry you’d been chewing fell from your mouth. The drumsticks slid through his fingers. The movement looked lazy, but they ended with you as their new target.

“You.” His teeth flashed before he was tossed back into darkness. “You can say it for me tonight.”

Inspiration for this came from here from the lovely and contagious mind of @katsukikitten 🖤 thank you

Masterlist

Join the tag list

First AU attempt. Let’s see where the characters drag us.

#Bakugou #Bakugou au #Bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x female reader #katsuki x reader #bnha au #bnha imagine #bnha bakugou #Bakugou imagine #bakugou fluff

339 notes · View notes

vacantwatchers · 2 months

Text

He talks, I listen (He's in the shower and his skin glistens)

Rated M. Words 4.8k.

Behold. The sequel to Metal Church, Steve's POV. Read on Ao3 here

Steve lives in a trailer. It’s one of the few that live outside the limits of Forest Hills Trailer Park.

A double wide cream beast with brown trimming whose interior consists of alternating striped floral wallpaper and pine wood panelling. It was perched on the edge of a puddle masquerading as a lake.

Cop Lake, if you wanted to get local about it.

It was well known that Hopper lived there, and could be frequently seen on the porch popping pills to cure his ever present hangover.

The tail end of 1983 saw him moving in, body aching and face uncomfortably numb while Hopper's hand anchored him to the ground. He was a little under two months into being eighteen, concussed for the second time in a month. He was freshly away from his parents.

"I own the place outright," Hopper had said as he walked him up the steps and into the bowels of his new home. "I got a cabin a little ways from here and don't need this place anymore so it's yours for however long you want it. The hot water can be touchy and the pressure in the shower is piss poor, but it's your own space and you won't need to watch your back here."

Hopper had dropped the keys into his hand, told him he'd be by in the next couple of days with his stuff.

And that, well. That was that.

Steve had handed Hopper a list of items in the Harrington house that he'd bought and when Hopper returned, he'd had a smirk and items that definitely weren't on the list.

The entire stereo system was a nice touch.

It became a mission of his, transforming his new space from the interior of a grieving apathetic forty something year old to something that reflected his interests. That, okay that sounded harsh towards Hopper but the guy was grieving and he was apathetic to his personal surroundings. He was also the only fucking cop in the county who did anything about his dad, so no matter what he thinks of his decorating choices, he’s officially the only adult in this town he fucking trusts.

Guess it pays to have moved from the city and have no knowledge of the corrupt nature Harrington money breeds. Or. Well, it didn't breed, in Hopper's case.

Slowly, he filled the space with colour and warmth. Floor lamps to replace the mind searing top lights, bright vases from the thrift stores in Bloomington slowly filled with plants, which then slowly multiplied until his porch was screened in by greenery and the living room was more leaf than couch. Music and cinema posters, art prints, photos that were both framed and tacked to walls. New blankets and pillows and rugs.

Soft, bright, inviting things that for so long Steve wasn't allowed to have when he lived in his parents house.

(Never to be mistaken for a home.)

Things scattered around that served their purpose in reminding him that Steve was a three dimensional person, not a cutout of his father's ideologies. It all starred in the most important role possible, to demonstrate his enjoyment of things, of life. He made the trailer into a space that felt more of a home than the house he’d lived in for the first seventeen years of his life.

Sometimes when it's late at night, Steve thinks about the past, who he was, who he was perceived to be. Who his friends were and what could have been.

When the sweat is cooling in the hollow of his throat, and the tips of his fingers are buzzing, breath shuddering from yet another nightmare. When the grey black of his bedroom moves like static, Steve wonders what would have happened if he had gone to Tommy the first time all the Upside Down shit happened.

When he lays in the dark, yearning for a familiarity of years that had been lost because of shitty personalities swayed by public perception.

Would he still be dealing with the Upside Down if after that first time, after having Nancy pull back the safety and hold a gun to his face and fighting a flower headed nightmare, he'd gone to Tommy and looked at him the same way he had for ten years whenever he needed a hug. Told him everything that had happened, knowing that Tommy would scoff in disbelief but still listen to everything.

Going to Tommy, having that single touchstone to someone outside of all that shit, would mean he probably wouldn't have gotten back together with Nancy.

Which means no heartbreak in Tina's bathroom, no going to Nancy's only to be waysided by Dustin. No Dart, no junkyard, no demodogs, no fucking tunnels. No fight with Billy Hargrove because he would never have been at the Byers house.

No new family in Mrs Henderson and Dustin, Max and Robin.

Breathing in slowly, Steve decides that all the shit he's earned from associating with the Upside Down, the nightmares and insomnia, the blurred vision in his left eye and chronic migraines, the paranoia of tight spaces, of hospitals and doctors, of the woods behind his house. It was worth it all to have those fucking kids in his life, to finally feel like a being of considered worth rather than an object for his mother to pick up off the shelf and peddle to coworkers and society when she finally shows her face at home.

Sitting in the middle of his bed, holding his knees, Steve can't lie to himself though, can't say he doesn't wish he had someone familiar he could lean on in the depths of night.

Steve didn't fucking mean it like that though.

And then it kept happening like that.

Healing a torn up body was one of the worst aftermath things Steve has had to live through, worse than growing back his nails and getting fitted for his plate of false teeth. You don't realise how much movement is torso dominant until you're stitched back together all over. His entire body at this point was scarred; road rash and bites, claws and strangulation, fists and plates.

At least he's not still in a hospital bed.

"At least you still got your nipple, man."

Steve snorted and leaned back in the hard and slightly too small chair. "This is true. Would be a shame if I spent the money to get them pierced only to lose one of them."

Eddie nodded, eyes drifting down to look at chest and lingered there as if he enjoyed the view of his Springsteen tour shirt. "A damn shame indeed. Good thing both those pretties are still there."

"You looking at my nipples, Eddie?"

"They were out and about, what did you want me to do? Look at trees all night? There's a reason I gave you the vest."

"My modesty right? My nipples were too much for your delicate sensibilities, huh. I get it. It's hard to look away when they're your first pair."

"Fuck you, they were not."

"It's okay. I won't tell the guys mine were your first set."

"Shut up, I've seen plenty of nipples in my lifetime."

"The mirror doesn't count, rockstar. But I do think it's a shame you don't have a matched set anymore. Even if your scar is going to cool when it's all healed."

Becoming close to Eddie Munson wasn't at all what he expected to happen after a week in hell, but he wouldn't change it for anything in the world.

It doesn't take long for the obsession to start. It's minor, manageable, measly, many more ‘m’ words he couldn't think of but knew existed that explained that this feeling was absolutely normal and not at all getting out of hand. But he couldn't help it. Not when Eddie was incredible and genuine and himself all the time.

There were so many little things he did that Steve couldn't help but fixate on every time he sees, or even thinks about them.

Like.

Okay. Eddie has this terrible habit of hiding his face away.

He does it when he’s happy, when he’s excited, nervous, embarrassed, shy.

He’ll be enthusiastic and vibrant and then suddenly turn to the side as if to hide how wide his smile is, how bright his eyes glow when he’s in the throws of a story. He’ll lean into his hand to hide the sweet curl of a smile, will pull his hair forward and hide behind it whenever anyone even hints about how they remember who he is, acknowledge his existence beyond the D&D metalhead who was targeted by their fucking shithole town.

How anyone could ever forget though, when Eddie Munson commands the attention of a room, heads turning to follow their benevolent king as he walks and gestures, royal decrees and commentary dripping from his plush lips at every moment. The very idea of someone being able to look upon Eddie, see his elegant hands gesture and wave so expansively you could be forgiven for imagining it was because his hands were weighted down by those thick banded rings, and then forget him as soon as he leaves their sight– it truly didn't compute with Steve.

(God the lengths Steve will go to if just for the possibility that it would make Eddie flush that pretty pink and get all shy behind his hair.)

There's probably a reason behind it, something learned that isn't easily shaken. Something so deeply ingrained that it’s become an unconscious act.

The same way Steve stopped voicing all his questions in ninth grade because he was sick of everyone looking at him like he was totally brain dead and his teachers had started using him as an example of what to not do. He never understood what the issue was, because in middle school Mr Clarke had taught them that every question was worth asking in the journey to knowledge, no matter how simple or out of field.

The bell had rung and everyone else had left, all notions of science forgotten as soon as they'd passed through the doorway towards recess. Which was good, because Steve had asked a lot of questions and Tommy and some of the other boys had grumbled a lot. He'd stayed back, slowly packing away his pencils, to put more distance between him and his friends' memories of his stupid questions.

Mr Clarke had crouched beside his desk, after wiping down the board, his moustache moving up as he smiled. “Steve, your questions are a demonstration that you're engaging with the subject and have your own method of coming to the right conclusion. Everyone works things out in their own unique way. Never be afraid to ask when you don't understand something, for how would you learn if you do not seek the answers? Besides, most of the time, when you ask a question, one of the others might have been wondering the same thing. You were just the one brave enough to ask the question to lead you on in the voyage to knowledge.”

Steve had figured it had to be the same in high school, all questions being valid and showing his honest attempt at grasping what was being discussed in class, only to be met with sighs and questions about why he was never paying attention. As if he didn’t have countless notes. As if he didn’t go home looking at his homework and textbooks and assigning novels that he couldn’t understand, that made him cry from frustration which made the letters swim around more than usual and cry harder because now he had no chance.

It was something he's only now starting to approach, tentatively asking questions and voicing his thoughts, because for once he has people who will answer his questions. Sure, it's a shaky roll of the dice sometimes when Henderson wants to answer him helpfully and give him a run-down of something, or be a little bitch with his answers.

Robin though, Robin is the platonic love of his life, she listens to him - his winding thought trains that bounced around randomly about shit that she wasn’t into. She listens to it all. His thoughts and his questions, responds with rapid sentences answering every question in consecutive order to how he asked them. Sometimes it feels like her words tumble over each other in the air with how fast she talks. She watches him as she talks and when he doesn’t understand something, his eyebrows scrunching together and his mouth scrunching with them, she rolls it back and tries to restructure everything for him until he does.

Eddie though.

God.

Eddie looks at him and it's like for the first time someone is paying attention to what he is below the surface. When he talks to Eddie and sees him actively listening, nodding and humming and watching with those eyes, something behind his ribs tightens and drops, radiating a warmth he just doesn't know what to do with.

Eddie just–

He listens.

And while he does, he hides his face. His hand with those long ringed fingers covering his cheek and his mouth and stretching over the tip of his nose. Pulling and holding his hair. He leans on to his palm and looks up at him with those pretty, pretty brown eyes that are always so fucking shiny. That glint at him like they're backlit by stars.

Ringed fingers gripped at the hair Steve ached to touch constantly.

Eddie was pacing across the small living room of Steve’s trailer, ranting about his chances of graduating once again being in the shitter. The next pivot past his coffee table saw Eddie dropping down to sit, full weight in the motion. Steve tried real fucking hard to not feel jealous of his own furniture when his (love– sunflower– sweetheart– light of his life– moon–) friend was stressed and covering his face to muffle, badly, a scream.

"I was in class with you man, how did you do it? Because I'm drowning, I barely have my nose out to breathe, and I always thought you were in the same boat as me."

Steve thought back to high school, to the incomprehensible letters and texts that would float in his brain for an hour before leaving behind only chemtrails of interesting sounding words or sentences.

The way he'd move through the bottleneck of student crowded halls to lean beside the dumpsters by the back parking lot at lunch and suck down cigarettes to disrupt the buzzing in his hands and chest that always came when he was nervous or overwhelmed. Multiple times a week the side door would open and different teachers would step out already shaking out their own pack of smokes only to look up and freeze at the sight of him.

Steve leaned back into the couch.

"I'd smoke by the dumpsters with my teachers and talk about class."

He'd stand there, finding shapes in the exhaled clouds as a lighter passed back and forth and he asked all the questions he was too nervous to voice during class. Because it wasn't middle school anymore, and the voyage of curiosity had run aground on the jagged rocks of ninth grade.

He wasn't the smartest, answers took longer to meet his aching grasp, connections misfiring often from misread and misunderstood textbooks. And if there was one thing Steve didn't want to hear, it was something being repeated in his classmates that he already heard at home.

"I think they were a little more lenient with me because we'd discuss it during those breaks. I had a chance to ask my questions and they could see I was trying to grasp the shit we'd gone over, I could verbalise my understanding. I just couldn't figure how to put it in writing, which is what they fuckin’ graded."

Eddie pulled away from his hands and blinked at him slowly. "You smoked. With our teachers."

"Yeah." Steve shrugged. "There's only so many times they can say to cut it out before they just give in to the knowledge that I would still be smoking, it'd just be somewhere else."

"Are you telling me I should smoke with Ms O'Donnell and maybe I'll be able to pass this year?"

Steve shrugged. "I don't know man, I don't remember her coming out to smoke. But if you see the teachers, just like, start asking questions, I don't know.”

Eddie's too-pretty eyes dug out a piece of his soul with nothing but their weight. "This is seriously how you graduated?"

"I mean, yeah. Mostly. The only classes I understood were the maths ones and biology." Eddie's face smoothed into a smirk and he couldn't help but shiver. "Not like that, dude. I just liked learning about how bodies and lifeforms function. Like the bug thing I went through as a kid."

"You went through–" Eddie blinked. "What is a bug thing?"

"You know, like. Life cycles of wasps from pupae to insect, the different beetles and why some develop long range defence attacks and some don't. Bug thing. You didn't go through that? It like, it ties in perfectly with the dinosaur, dragon and Egypt thing."

Steve had watched Eddie fall back into the couch and was now pinned in place, much like the framed rhinoceros beetle Dustin gifted him last year that hung above his key rack, by his amused smile.

"Full of surprises aren't you, big boy."

God Steve was so screwed. He could feel how hot his cheeks just got.

Redirect, redirect, redirect.

“Anyway. Half the time it was our science teacher Mr Schecter out there, but you know him. He takes over half the subjects when the other teachers can't come in. I swear the guy knows more about the subject matter than they do most of the time. They talk to each other to bitch about us, might as well show them we're trying in our own ways."

Eddie blinked his big, stressed out eyes at him. "Mr Schecter. The guy who for a semester taught Home Ec, Chemistry and for some godforsaken reason, P.E., would help me with this."

Steve shrugged and slid further down into his cushion, absolutely not for the reason that it caused his knees to slide against Eddie's.

"Man likes to teach and he knows a lot. He also stress-smokes like I do, so half the time I was walking outside, he'd either be a minute behind me or already out there."

"I'm trying to wrap my head around you knowing so much about our teachers' scandalous habits."

Steve snorted, opening his eyes to grin at Eddie. "When I couldn't find any of our teachers, after school I'd go down to the middle and hit up Mr Clarke because that man knows a lot and knows how to explain it well. I'd also sometimes find him smelling mighty familiar. If you catch my drift.”

He doesn’t know when his filter for not saying everything that lived inside his mind wore away, when the idea of finally speaking the truth into existence became a thing. Maybe after the fifth conversation with Robin, where she quite hypocritically pushed him towards making that move with Eddie because it was a sure thing.

“Oh so you’re quoting me to me now, are you? That’s rich, Robin. How’s your thing with Vickie going?”

Robin groaned and leaned back, knocking over the fresh stack of tapes with her flailing elbows.

“It’s different for me, you know that. But with Eddie? Come on, the guy walks around bowing to ladies and saying flattery works on me. One of his favourite bands is Judas Priest, Steve. You’ve seen the posters. You and I know that lead singer is in the leather scene, we’d be fucking blind to not see that. Eddie walks around flagging, for fuck’s sake.”

“I get that. I know that guy is in the leather scene. Eddie has a magazine with his picture in it where he’s wearing like, seven studded belts. And we can speculate all you want, but I also don’t think Eddie knows he is flagging, or what flagging even is, because I’ve alluded to that shit and he just goes all confused big eyes on me, and then I just get lost because he has really pretty eyes.”

Somewhere around the twelfth time they circled around their victorian era longing and sighing over glimpsed ankles, they came to a compromise.

“He was putting on his jacket and as he did, it pulled his shirt up and I– he has little dimples on his back and between those and the way his bullet belt falls across his hips, I couldn’t look away. He turned around and asked me if I was good because I kind of zoned out for a minute thinking about using the belt as a hand hold to yank him closer.”

“Great, you’re looking at his back and I was looking at her collar bones and thinking they’d look so pretty with hickies.” Robin pushed away from her side of the counter to land at his side, shoulder to shoulder. “God, we’re still pathetic. I think we should just,” she scrunches her face and sighs, “we should just go for it. Fuck it. I have Fast Times 53 minutes, 8 seconds; and you have Judas Priest and flagging. This is the closest we’re going to get to landing our devious queer romances in this tiny town. The worst that can happen is we play it off as a dare.”

“So we go for it, full overt operations with our babes, dazzle them with our combined personality and pray it works? And then move to a city when you graduate on the off chance all this falls through?”

Robin bumped their shoulders together before she slumped down, her cheek pressing into the uncomfortable seam of his work vest. “Sounds like a plan, if we’ve ever had one.”

There was never a situation in which Steve would be done spending time with Eddie. And the night everyone had gotten together to celebrate his graduation, he made sure Eddie came home with him for their own after party.

Made sure Eddie knew how proud of him Steve was, that he never gave up.

Also that he took his, admittedly, weak advice. “Smoking with the teachers helped, huh?”

Eddie grinned, “I can’t believe it did, man. Mr Schecter is a surprisingly cool dude, he explained so much shit to me.”

“I’m glad.”

“You helped too, you know?”

Eddie moved in, the heat he radiated through his open leather jacket, and just in general, was like a warm line down Steve’s side. Which was a nice contrast to the cool breeze coming off of Cop Lake.

(Two years he's been living there, but the name had stuck. Steve genuinely didn't remember the lake's name.)

“You’re the one who explained all that maths in ways I would understand. Gave me those scenarios for english that made sense. Too bad I was already passing biology though huh, big boy. Would have liked to see what demonstration you would have worked out for me there.”

Internally, Steve was crouching down and screaming into his hands.

Externally, his fingers reached out to loop through the chain hanging from Eddie’s belt and tugged ever so softly.

“I told you, it’s not that kind of biology. Those demonstrations are saved for a rainy day.”

Eddie swayed impossibly closer. “Oh yeah? What would I have to do to unlock just prestigious lessons from you, sweetheart.”

Shit he didn’t think this far ahead.

What have they talked about recently that he could relate this to?

Think, think thi– Bingo.

He smiled, “I’m sure you could think of something. I heard your campaign just picked a paladin and you’re giving him and one of your favourite NPCs, how did Dustin describe it? Tension?”

Oh, what he wouldn’t give to watch Eddie flush so pretty and turn to tuck that soft smile into his hair every day for the rest of his life.

Somehow, that wasn’t the moment that pushed them together. Eddie was remarkably stubborn when it came to his moves.

They would dance together at every moment, Steve setting something up, a little hidden gem for him to find, and Eddie would find it and go with it, but move no further.

Steve would sit on the couch and have his arm on the couch behind Eddie, and Eddie would lean in, press their legs together.

He would use the magnets Max bought him for his birthday to write the filthiest poems he could think of, and come back after dropping Eddie home safe and sound to Wayne, to find more added on. That time, he had to take matters in hand for a while because the fucking imagery Eddie painted behind his eyes with those lines was…exquiste.

His favourite activity to do during the pursuit of (his love– baby– starlight– good boy–) Eddie was to lay back on the tangled mess of covers and pillows, and listen to Eddie talk.

There was something about Eddie’s voice that just sunk deep under his skin and curled through his bones in a satisfying way that left him aching for more.

When he got deep into a monologue, excited with everything he was saying and the fact that Steve would never bear to look away, Eddie would jump up and move his whole body as he talked. Hands flying about, fingers pulling shapes to suit the topic, hair cutting behind him as he spun around.

Those days, Steve would learn about what Eddie liked about music, who his favourite bands are and for what reason; he would learn what was going to happen in the next session of both D&D campaigns Eddie was running. One with all of Hellfire and Erica, the second with just his boys. Because he liked that he could go harder and a little more raunchy with them.

When the stream of consciousness would trickle to an end, and he saw that Steve was comfy and in no rush to leave, Eddie would walk over and crawl onto the bed to lay beside him. He would reach out for whatever book they were on and begin to read aloud in that deep, slow voice he no doubt practised.

All these perfect moments, and it wasn’t enough to have Eddie close the distance.

Could he have closed it, pushed the moment to that oh so perfect conclusion he was aiming for?

Sure.

But a small part of him had been seeing if Eddie ever would, and came to the conclusion that Eddie would need an explicit, this is happening, no doubts about it, please do me now moment.

So he made the tapes.

He took three hours out his day to make the perfect compilations, and had a little too much fun recording a tasting sample for Eddie, so much fun he’d almost forgotten to hit record.

He took to the pictures, labelled the tape inserts, delivered the instructions, and revelled in that pretty dazed look that rose from calling Eddie a good boy.

And then three hours later, when Eddie ran up the stairs to his trailer, he yanked him inside.

He got to explore just how much of that black bandana Eddie knew about and show him those more in depth biology lessons.

Eddie’s little back dimples looked beautiful when his back arched, the little whines settled in his chest so perfectly when he would whisper all those names Steve had held tight behind his lips for so long, his voice so pretty when he moaned. When he dripped his pleasure, body trembling gently as they both relaxed into the bed, breathing heavy and warm into each other's shoulder.

Seeing Eddie in his space, bathed in the soft warmth of his floor lamps, skin glistening from his shower, Steve knew that it was a view he wanted to have the pleasure of seeing for the rest of his life.

Robin looked at him from across their breakfast, smug. “The tapes worked huh?”

Steve nodded as he swallowed his coffee, taking in the dark pink spots peeking out from the collar of her Stacey Q t-shirt, mostly obscured by her leather jacket. “Kiss of the Spider Woman worked huh?”

She grinned. “It did. I can’t believe the movie you guessed would fit the movie night would do it.”

“It has the silhouette of a naked lady on the front, of course it would do it.”

“I guess we aren’t as pathetic as we thought.”

He bobbed his head, because while they weren't pathetic in the sense that they finally got their person, they undoubtedly were still pretty pathetic and stupid smitten when it came to them because he just couldn't hold it in any more.

"Holy shit, he smells like heaven, and oh my god, I like him so much."

Robin snorted into her juice and thunked her glass down, choking on her laughter. "He does not. He smells like cigarettes, leather and whatever cologne he bought on a whim. Vickie is the one who smells like heaven."

"She smells like baby powder and that floral hand cream you bought her."

"Exactly! Heaven!"

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #stobin #stranger things fic

25 notes · View notes

the-fiction-witch · 6 months

Text

Laundry

Media The Queens Gambit

Character Benny Watts

Couple Benny X Reader

Rating Flirty

I was sitting on the small ottomans in the basement that Benny called home, Next week was Paris and we were going together as Co-Champions this year. He had graciously offered his apartment so I didn't have to book a hotel so we could train and prep for the games ahead. Plus I wanted to come to New York for some shopping anyway. But this place isn't exactly what I imagined... then again now thinking about it, I'm not sure I did imagine Benny to live any better than this, but it's just a little jarring when it's true. I glanced away from my book and looked around the grey dimly lit basement, the shower in the corner, no sofa, frosted window to the bedroom, the kitchen not much more than a fridge, a counter and a single stovetop. And there he sat utterly in his element at his table no shoes but still black socks, his dark jeans his belt sat comfortably his knife in its holster, a black t-shirt with his green textured shirt on over it with the sleeves rolled up, his chains against his chest and his arms, rings across his fingers, he sat his coffee cup on the table fixed his facial hair and focused back to his board moving the piece he had been contemplating for the last ten minutes.

"Benny?" I asked

"Yeah?" He asks glancing up

"I don't mean to ... pry into your personal business -"

"But you're going to?"

"I am going to," I nodded "Do you actually live like this?"

"Yeah?"

"This isn't like some elaborate prank? And this is like where you store your chess board or something and you actually have a decent semi-detached townhouse in Queens?" I asked

"You're really struggling with this aren't you?"

"I'm just... curious."

"I like it"

"I mean I know New York isn't the cheapest place but..."

"But ?"

"But come on. I cannot repeat this enough: your shower is next to your fridge. You wash your ass beside where you make food. You have a window in your bedroom. That's not wallpaper that's just concrete"

"I like it"

"Really? Because I'm pretty sure you can afford better"

"Are you now?"

"We're co-companions I know how much you earn. Unless you're getting a bonus because of your additional appendage"

"Appendage?" He asked looking confused

"Your penis"

"Oh. No y/n, price money does not differ between appendages"

"Every other job I've ever worked does"

"The chess federation doesn't give a damn about appendages y/n"

"Still..."

"I like this place"

"...that brings up a good point actually... I'm not seeing a washing machine. Anywhere?"

"No,"

"Is there... a secret Washing machine?"

"No"

"Okay, do you need to go to someplace in the building and do laundry?"

"You wanna do some laundry?"

"Yes please"

"Alright, get your stuff," he says getting up and heading into his room, I gathered my laundry unsure what to do with it all and he returned with a large drawstring bag "Throw your stuff in here," he says dropping it on the floor with a thud

"In there?"

"Yeah"

I pulled the bag a little to peek inside "Ahhh I'm not putting my laundry in with yours!"

"Why not?"

"Because that's gross!"

"But we're taking it to clean? So what does it matter?"

"It just does Benny!"

"You can put it in the bag or you can carry all your laundry by hand, up to you"

I sighed and out of my clothes, getting my bag and my shoes as he got his shoes and his jacket grabbing the bag and putting it over his shoulder

"Come on then," he says heading out so I followed him he locked the door behind us and we headed up to the dirty New York streets I followed him down the pavement past cars and trash bags for a good while, it felt like we'd been walking forever at least ten blocks by now until finally we arrived at a little hole in the wall laundromat between a record store and a pizza place we headed inside and it was much as you'd expect a little place with a line of washers on one side and dryers on the other a few tables and chairs in the middle and the back wall has a few vending machines on it and a change machine in the centre.

"This is where you do laundry?"

"Well yeah?" He shrugs slipping his jacket off throwing it over a chair and bumping the bag In Front of a machine heading to the back getting change from the machine "You can pop the first load on" he says throwing me a coin from the machine

"I am not touching your underwear"

"I didn't ask you to,"

I sighed and put the first of what I'm sure will be many loads in "washing powder?" I asked

"Uhhh cherry blossom, clean linin, or tropical?"

"Whatever cheapest"

"They all the same"

"Cherry"

"Alright, here," he says getting it from the machine and throwing it over so I put the laundry on and sit at the table

"So we're just gonna sit here all day?"

"Yep"

"Why not go back to the basement?'

"Because by the time you walk back to the apartment, it'll be time to turn around and walk back and the machine will just have finished" he explained sitting down too "It's up to you"

"Fine" I sighed "Why do you come here though? It's dead and it's so far from your apartment? You're not telling me this is the only laundromat in New York?"

"I like this place, it's quiet. Everything is machined so I don't have to deal with people, it's cheap, and the place next door does great pizza"

"The more I get to know you the weirder I think you are Benny" I sighed

"Thanks?"

'It wasn't a compliment"

"I'm taking it as one" he shrugs getting a deck box from his jacket pocket opening it up pulling out a very nice deck of cards which he shuffled in his hand "You can pick"

"Poker"

"AHH nothing to bet with I don't play poker unless I'm better try again'

"fine rummy then" I answered so he shuffled and dealt the cards letting us play for a while "Why do you use this place? really?" I asked as he put the next load on

"You really wanna know?" He sighed

"Yeah,"

"Fine" He sighed sitting back in his seat, "The Guy who owns this place, and the two places next door"

"The pizza and the record store?"

"Yeah, he's also my landlord"

"Okay..."

"So long as I pay my rent I get free pizza and free records, he even takes money off my rent when I do my laundry here"

"Hu... What a nice man"

"Yeah he's great, and I like helping him out. he's doing his best to make it on his own and get out of the family business"

I was confused a moment before it clicked "Holy god- If your landlord is a maf-"

"Yes. His dad runs the New York Mafia. He wants to go straight so I'm more than happy to help"

"Your life is insane"

"At least it's not boring."

"I'd argue this is incredibly boring"

"I don't know, I like the quiet routine of it all"

"Had it ever occurred to you Benny that you're boring?"

"I think I'm pretty damn excited"

"Do you? Really? Like honestly Benny?"

"My life is very exciting."

"Sitting in a laundromat for six hours? Watching your underwear go round and round?"

"I don't know," he says "I've heard many lovely ladies complimenting the excitement of washing machines"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm sure many ladies find washing machines exciting." He says

"Do they?"

"I have read."

"Read?

"I have read. Such."

"Ohh in your pervy penthouse magazines?"

"I'm simply saying most girls would like being able to sit on a washing machine for a few hours"

"I doubt that"

"I don't know, I'm sure this would be more exciting if you sat yourself on the washing machine" he smirked

"That's not a real thing Benny"

"I'm sure it does" "Its not"

"You willing to prove that?"

"I'm not sitting on a washing machine to amuse you"

"It's not going to amuse me it's to prove if it's true or not"

"You're disgusting" I sighed getting up and grabbing my bag "I'm going next door for pizza,"

39 notes · View notes