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fandomwritingbit · 4 months

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Returned (Scarf pt.3)

(Perv)William Afton x (f) reader

Pt.1 and Pt.2

Warnings: Smut. Obsession, corruption, boss/employee, pervert behaviour, masturbation.

Notes: an idea for a continuation spawned, idk if it's a good one lmao. Hope it's not too bad.

He has quite the amusing collection now, the scarf, salvaged as much as he could from his last time using it, and now these pretty fucking photos. On your hands and knees, leant forward to look through lost property, your skirt agonisingly tight over the curve of your arse, riding up enough that he can see the tops of your thighs straining against the thin tights you wear. He doesn't need the picture. Your perfect body is burnt into his brain at the moment, so vulnerable with your back turned like that, you had no idea what he could do. But of course the photos help.

He inhales the scent of you from your scarf. He should wash it to get rid of the tainting he's done to it, but then he'd lose your smell. And right now with his cock in his hand that seems a fate much worse than his long dried cum. If anything, it's better. Your perfume and perspiration blended with him. Fucking beautiful.

He approaches his end quick, he can't help it, lost in the photo and the mental embellishment of him closing the cupboard door behind him, locking you in with him. Shushing your confusion with a hand between your legs, ripping your tights, and sliding under fabric to reach your centre. Hot and wet for him. He'd tease you like that, rub that sweet little clit until you're begging him to make you cum. Then he'd stop, tasting you on his fingers whilst he grabs his belt and-

Sharp, almost aggressive knocking on his office door makes him flinch. Fucking really?! He's so close, cock twitching when he takes his fist away, quickly redoing his fly and tucking your scarf onto his lap. Fucking ridiculous. Can't have a moment's peace.

Well, you are at work. A nagging voice in his head pipes up and whilst it has a point, now’s not the time for it.

The door knocks again, and he snaps, "What?! Come in then!"

His business partner does as commanded and opens the door, standing confused in its frame. Great, Henry. The only thing that could sober his still throbbing cock.

Henry's eyes are wide from Williams' unexpected anger. "Are you okay?"

"What do you want, Henry?"

It wasn't Henry's fault. He actually brought good news, but it's hard to have a serious conversation when your dick is begging to continue what was interrupted. He's pent up, has been for a while, wanking to you is his momentary respite, he's sure that the only thing that would cure him at this point is a taste.

He was forced from his office to help with some technical issues that he's probably not qualified to do. Snapping at Henry that he's "a mechanic not a fucking electrician", which is probably one of his catchphrases at this point. It's as he's sticking his hands into an open light socket that you arrive for your shift, looking like a fucking treat. The step ladders he's standing on lends him a nice view of your bra peeking out under your shirt.

And when you greet him as bright as you usually do, asking him what he's doing, he decides he needs more.

But what can he do? How can he get his hands on that bit more? He considers his options. He could just get you in his office and lay his cards bare, hope to god you're obliging. Or he could continue playing the long game, satisfying his carnal needs until you're there to do it…

The obvious option is obvious.

The day after you're doing close again, not that you mind really, it's not a terrible shift. Not as easy as open, but better than second, you'll take that as a mercy.

You arrive ten minutes early, like a good little employee, giving you time to locker up your stuff and hang up your jacket. Pocket empty of course, you've learnt your lesson about leaving stuff accessible. The restaurant looks pretty busy already, and you internally roll your eyes, another rough one looming over you. Least it'll go quick.

Making your way to the back, you see your boss standing with another waiter, his arm resting on the door frame as he talks to them pretty sternly. Probably getting a telling off for something or other. You watch the scene for a moment before reminding yourself that it's rude to stare.

You can't help it, though. Every time you see Mr Afton, you're confronted by how off-puttingly attractive he is. It's his intensity, you think, an assertive powerfulness that inherently sends warmth to your core. Though you don't think that employee is valuing his intensity right now.

He sees you, and you smile awkwardly, not wanting to be involved in the bollocking, he'd smile back if he wasn't involved himself. His plan springs to mind, distracting him from what he's doing, making him wave the member of staff away.

William follows you to the staff area, unable to contain the malignant grin on his face, how blissfully unaware you are of his eyes glued to your form.

He darts into his office while you busy yourself with your belongings, reaching for the garment that started this whole fucking thing. Such a flimsy piece of fabric, it was a nightmare to clean, but he managed it. And now it holds no trace of you, or him for that matter, it's a tool for lure now, not pleasure. He holds it in a firm grip as he heads back to the rest area, eager to catch you before you slip away into work.

The office door bangs closed behind him, and you flinch, imagining him angry with someone else and about to take it out on you. Not that he ever had before, but you've heard stories of how much of an arsehole he can be when he's pissed off.

But instead of being greeted by a tight jaw and fiery eyes, the man is smirking with a mischievous glint in his eyes that you find stirring your abdomen. He's kept the scarf behind his back, just out of your view.

"Hi Mr Afton, you alright?" You ask as chipperly as you usually would.

"Just dandy, sweetheart." His smirk spreads to a wolfish grin, and heat rises to your cheeks accordingly. "I have something for you."

He makes you wait a beat of silence, watching your lips twitch about to ask him what, and that's when he produces your scarf, an instant adorable smile captures your whole face.

"My scarf! Thank you so much-" You reach for it and he snatches it back, its playful, but it reminds you to restrict your excitement. But you are excited, bordering on overjoyed, it was a gift that your friend can finally see you wearing, the fallout of losing it now avoided. You last that scarf nearly a week ago, to turn up now just feels like the best luck. "Where was it?" You ask, watching him hold it, the fabric looking delicate and breakable in his big hands.

"Someone put it in the wash with the server's towels, no idea why." He finally hands it to you, making sure to brush your fingers as much as possible, the slight touch immediately addictive.

"Weird." You reply, wondering why the hell it ended up there, but happy that the smooth material is back where it belongs. That lie isn't William's best work, it's okay, reasonably believable and on his part, blameless.

"Thank you." You say again, really meaning it. "For uh finding it and remembering that it's mine." Your expression is very genuine, relief and contentment, it stirs him. He did that. He made you smile like that. And he needs to do it again.

"How could I not, that colour does wonders for your eyes." Cliché but effective judging by how you can't quite hold his gaze, every few seconds glancing down.

You giggle, not expecting that kind of compliment from him. "Thanks... I guess I owe you one, you'll have to let me know if there's anything I can do."

"There is actually." He makes it seem like the idea just sprung to his head, not like he had thought about it in detail earlier, he was going to ask you, but you offering a favour works even better.

"Oh?" You say in acknowledgement, a little surprised but willing, you do owe him after all.

He was just dying to get you alone, and this was a pretty perfect ploy. His tone is purely diplomatic but there's something not so professional about the fox-like glint in his eyes. "Accounts are going for audit soon, I haven't the time to go over inventory books myself- I'm up to my neck in other shite to do. You think you could help me with that?"

You blink, this was massively above your paygrade and that thought must appear on your face because he continues. "It's just comparing Henry's intakes with my records, checking they match."

"Uhh, I'm happy to help, I've just never done anything even close to that." You try to verbalise your doubts and how you wouldn't want to make a mistake that could see you holding a p45 and on indeed.com.

He grins at your reluctance, turning his persuasion up a notch. "I'll show you through it, it'll save you an hour or so of the carnage out there." He's right, sitting quiet in his office seemed better than running around in service, but you're still doubtful.

"I guess… I can have a go..." You give in and pretty quickly he's guiding you into his office, the door closed behind the two of you.

You never spend much time in here, you're good at your job after all. There are touches of your boss in here, a coffee machine, ashtray, a family photo, but it's mostly clinical; which you understand, you'd never want to start blurring the lines between work and home too much either. You stand stiffly a step through the door, watching his lean frame bend down to open a filing cabinet, taking what he needs then banging it shut with his foot.

"Sit." He gestures to the chair opposite his, keeping his tone sweet, you're clearly nervous of him and you absolutely should be.

"Yeah alright." You speak as you do as told, a tight coil in your core. It's quiet in here, you can't even hear the pot washer banging trays down, which you'd been certain reverberated throughout the whole building.

Soon two folders are in front of you on the desk, one containing near perfect cursive handwriting, notes on stock all nightly usages written in red. The other's was harder to comprehend, the writing more rushed, joined up in harsh sharp lines.

"This," Mr Afton's points to the latter book, his form towering over yours, "is the balance sheet, which is based on the system figures, what stock we should have. The other one is Henry's recordings of what we actually have." You nod, that doesn't sound too complicated, though you're a little put off by the numbers on the scruffier side, you assume that's the value deducted, or added?

"Sorry about the writing, I know it's hard to read." He grins, the handwriting was one bad habit he hadn't been able to shake. You are quickly becoming another. Sitting in front of him now, like an apple ready to be bitten he swears to God.

"Oh it's not that bad." You give him a small smile, you're sugar-coating it and he knows it. "Which figures am I comparing?" You ask, feeling quite overwhelmed, this seems like a pretty important job and you don't want to fuck up.

"Item figures. Checking that what we should have matches what we do have." He goes through an example, using a highlighter to cross through the bottled Pepsi figures, and you mainly get it.

He glances at your expression, finding great amusement in the furrowed brow showing your confusion. All of a sudden a heavy hand is on your shoulder, thumb reaching to the base of your neck, it's not overly invasive but it has your breath quickening. "It's just a formality, I usually don't even read it, it's just for audit."

"But what if I get something wrong?" You ask tentatively, very focused on his touch. There must be something wrong with you today because you’re reeling from it.

"It's fine, I'll sign it. Your mistakes are my problem then." That's some reassurance you consider, he brings his head close to yours and his breath on your skin has goosebumps all over you. "Have some faith, you're a smart girl."

God, you smell so fucking good, your perfume or shampoo, he doesn't know but it's fucking intoxicating. Something sweet, vaguely floral, his trousers are tight on his crotch and the impulse to bury his face in your neck is strong. He can see how your breath has changed, your heart rate is higher than before, you must sense that his eyes aren't on the open books.

"Do the next one." He tries to keep his voice steady but it’s low with intention and mixed with the close proximity, you're riddled with guilty tension.

"O-kay." You mutter, really forcing yourself to focus and only half succeeding. It's pretty much the same thing he did, just with Pepsi max this time, you're highlighting it in confirmation that it's correct but your line jumps crooked when you hear him inhale. Your blood runs cold and hot at the same time, the intimacy sending a pang of need in your core but at the same time it's creepy, gross even, and you have to stifle a shiver.

Your mouth is dry but you can't just say nothing. "...Mr Afton?" Your voice is tiny, as pretty and flimsy as that scarf.

He sniggers, you want to push the chair back but you daren't. "It fucking kills me when you call me that." Your eyes go wide.

He pulls back a little, turning the swivel chair to face him and he's something to behold right now. Arousal darkened eyes that conflict you with wanting them off you, but at the same time having them look at you is so thrilling.

"Sorry." You mutter, completely out of the driving seat in your own mind, you just look at him, so startled you can't do much else. This is what happens to the mice your cat catches, you think, their heart beats so fast it takes all their energy just to manage it.

He recognises that look and mentally scolds himself for going too far, restraint is becoming a real issue around you.

"No. I'm sorry." He stands back from you, a safe distance back you both think. And although you thought that's what you wanted, you immediately miss the flurry of tension you were just wrapped in. "I shouldn't have asked you to uh- you can go."

You blink at him so he repeats himself, "You can go."

But you don't, maybe you're still frozen. Maybe you're not. It doesn't matter, you stand up slowly and look down at his shoes, trying to think of something to say. You should just go, be content that he realised how weird he was being and backed off, but your core is ravaged by the way he seemed so lost in you. You can't help but replay the chill you experienced. No one has ever been that into you.

After a second of this god awful silence he laughs, you sweet little thing, if you don't get away from him right now he's going to fucking devour you. And even if you want that, he doesn't. He wants you to melt all pretty on his tongue.

You step a little closer, managing to glance up at your boss, "It's... okay." His eyes flick on yours quick and before you can have a second thought he's in front of you, kissing you. Shakily you let him, kissing him back, the implications lost on the wind. You can't explain what about this is so different, your heart is pounding as he takes hold of your jaw, sliding his tongue into your mouth.

It's brimming with intention and you're so unaware of how he could fucking explode from the taste of your mouth, the pretty gasp that leaves you, going straight to his cock. Your back is pressed into his desk, your hands tight on his shirt, overwhelmed with the impulse to sit on the surface and let him in between your legs, the idea of it seems correct. William groans when a hand finds your hip, squeezing the flesh there damn near mesmerised. Your lips are so soft against his it's maddening.

The shrill ringing of the phone is the only thing that stops him pushing you back onto that desk. He's begging for it and quite frankly so are you.

Maybe the caller is merciful for you both.

#fnaf #william afton #william afton x reader #william afton smut #william afton x you #fnaf smut #fnaf william afton #steve raglan x reader #fnaf movie

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auteurdelabre · 6 months

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Code Broken (Chapter 2) Mean!Joel x f!reader

rating: explicit, 18+ mdni

summary: "Keep looking at me," he insists from between your thighs. His eyes are stormy, looking up the length of your body. You don't know what penetrates you deeper, his tongue or his dark, glittering gaze.

You only wanted to pull a silly prank on your neighbor, Joel. Who could have seen it ending up like this?

[AU where Joel Miller ends up in Jackson City by himself.]

warnings/tags: Extremely dubious consent, oral sex [f receiving], Joel is bad at feelings, Mean Joel, Dirty Talk

word count: 5.1k

a/n: Y'all, this whole series is pretty depraved (from my perspective) and much darker than my normal stuff. I wanted it as a challenge and I had a lot of fun doing the series, there's 5 parts so I hope you enjoy it. Comments and the like really make my day. xx

masterlist

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Chapter 2: House of the Rising Sun

Its months later, the beginning of fall in Jackson city. The homes are decorated with paper cut outs of black cats and witches. Streamers of orange and black curve around the poles of the canteen. Pumpkins are carved and placed on doorsteps in preparation for next week.

It's your favorite time of year here. The time after the oppressive heat of the summer yet before the blankets of snow that overstay their welcome a little longer each year. It's the time when you pull out your favorite knitted scarf and go for long walks within the expanse of the community.

Trish is getting married to one of the butchers in town. He's shy but quick to smile with white blonde hair that falls into his eyes.

As with most celebrations the entire community is invited and involved in some way. You're making the dress. The girls from work are joyfully putting together decorations, citing that these will be even nicer than the ones done for Tommy and Maria's wedding party. The event is still months away but you want it to be perfect. Trish means so much to you.

You have a basket overflowing with multicoloured foliage to decorate your home but when you notice a pale yellow groundsel amongst the sleeping earth you stop. You bend down and pluck the flower, marvelling at the softness of its plush petals. Under your fingertips they feel like the gentle lips of a lover.

The sudden, intrusive thought that comes with that unbidden thought causes you to scowl, crumpling the delicate flower in your fist. You drop its crushed body to the ground as you continue on your walk.

You know with the encroaching cold weather you'll have a lot to mend at the office tomorrow. Pants, jackets, curtains, blankets. You're never in need of something to do, that's for certain and you like that. You like a purpose, you like seeing people walk by in your knitted scarves or patched jeans. It gives you a satisfaction that just surviving from place to place for years never could.

You like the people you work with, they always invite you for a drink at the end of the week as if the job you all do is such a strain. As if you don't all work half a day, mending and darning around the circular table over coffee and laughter, taking turns using the sewing machine for the bigger projects.

It's at your job where you'd first met Trish who was bringing in a stack of fabric she hoped could be turned into curtains. She was one of the teachers of the younger kids, desperate to bring some color into the drab classroom she'd been given. You'd been new, shy and Trish had taken you under her wing. She had always looked out for you, always supported you.

It's why you want her wedding to be as perfect as possible. You know she would just borrow some nice dress a neighbor owns instead of getting one made by you. You know she wouldn't ask for the work you’re putting into her dress, but you do it anyway. Those extra touches mean something to you and to her.

The dress is far and above the hardest thing you've ever made. Designed it, sewn it, and cried in frustration over it.

When a pile of old lace had been brought in to the sewing room you'd squealed with delight and claimed a bit for yourself. It would be the perfect accent to the dress, only the lace is yellowed with age. You've tried a few home remedies but nothing gives it that snow white color you need. You'll need a bit of bleach.

It's that thought in mind that sets you off early the next day, your scarf wrapped loosely around your neck, your cheeks pink from the wind. You're heading for the general store before going to work, hoping you can find what you need.

The slanted wood roof comes readily into view just off the main square. You come at the start of every week to the general shop with its tall ceilings and solid shelves to see what can be salvaged for clothing or other textile needs.

Everything non perishable that gets salvaged in travels comes through the main building and sorted. Fabric, paper, soap, shoelaces just to name a few. Some of the older folks spend a few days but divvying up where each item goes - kitchen, stables, general shop.

You push the green door open, the familiar tinkle of the bell ringing overhead to announce your arrival.

"Here for fabric if any came in last week," you say with a smile to Ralph, one of the folks who mind the shop day to day. He's sitting on a stool near the side of the space reading an old paperback. He gives you a warm smile, showing off the whitest teeth you've ever seen.

"Just got a box yesterday."

He pops off his stool, the recent page of the paperback dog-eared for later reading. Looking at the yellowed pages you think back to the lace soaking in your sink at home.

"Oh and bleach if you have any extra. Just a little."

Bleach is a hot commodity here, used for everything from cleaning to drinking water if there's a need for it. But Ralph knows you wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.

"Might have a small container of it in the back. Gimme a second."

Your eyes drift to the back of the shop as he says this. "I'll browse for a bit, then."

"New ones in the lower right," he laughs while he heads to the storage in the back room, calling out to you from the space. "Lucky you came today, had a few people asking for extra fabric for the kids costumes last week."

"Really?" you ask, but you're not really listening to his reply. Your eyes are already going to the back of the shop that leads into the little lending library.

It's modest, barely bigger than an elevator but its shelves go to the ceiling and are weighted down with books. You've read almost all of them. This space is where books come to live, be read, returned, traded. It's one of your favorite places in your small world.

You step into this sanctum, greeted by the scent of aged pages and feel your heart skip a beat. It always feels so good to be here, to be surrounded by so many topics and worlds. These are world's you'll only see in the written word, a world with no outbreak, a world bigger than Jackson City.

Ralph asks you about your plans for today as you browse and you answer distractedly, dropping to a knee when you see a book you've never seen before in the lower right, just like Ralph said.

Jane Eyre.

You skim the back and read the summary: haunted mansions, an orphaned heroine, a brooding romantic lead? You decide this will be a good read for tonight in front of the fire.

You right yourself as the tinkle of the shop door sounds behind you. Something in the air changes, an electricity that you can't explain. It's like the world expands and contracts all at once and then suddenly you just know.

It's him.

"Morning Joel," Ralph says cheerfully.

"Mornin'."

The rumble of his voice is unmistakable. You'd know it even if you hadn't heard his name. That low rasp of Texas twang in the richness of his timbre. Your pulse skyrockets, the world growing quiet under the sound of your heartbeat.

Immediately you're moving to the far shelves, ducking your head and trying to regulate your breathing. Boxes are stacked at one end, meaning the odds of him sneaking up on you are minimal.

"Need help finding anything?" Ralph asks helpfully.

"Nah," Joel replies in that quiet, even way of his. "I know where the shampoo is."

His boots shuffle over the grainy floor, slow and deliberate. You haven't seen him yet which means he hasn't seen you. There's a chance you can just slip out unnoticed. You place the book on the shelf next to you beside the canned peaches. You'll come back for it tomorrow. Right now you need to get out as quickly and quietly as possible.

Despite living next door to him, in the past few months you've managed to stay off Joel's radar. After that horrible experience in his house you've gone to great lengths to avoid him. You go early to work during the week, you don't go to the movie nights anymore, you'd never been a big rider but now you don't even go near the stables.

Sometimes you might see him in the crowd during a meal but you're always able to avoid him, to duck away before his cold eyes land on you.

But here now? There are three of you in the shop. It's still early, most folks aren't even at their jobs yet.

You see the top of Joel's head over the shelving, his dark waves gliding until he finds what he's looking for in the hair care section. You catch yourself thinking of his hands massaging the shampoo into his scalp, his head tilted back under the water of the shower, rivulets of ---

Stop it.

"Here ya go," Ralph calls your name from the front of the shop. "All packed and ready to go."

You see Joel's head snap in your direction as your called and you press your forehead against the cool shelf in frustration. So much for getting out unseen. You take a beat, gathering your courage and your focus.

It's simple. Joel's on the other side of the shop. You'll just dart over to Ralph, grab the bag and go back to work. It's simple. You'll be fine. You won't look back.

Then you see it out of your peripherals.

Two dark brown boots stopping at the end of your aisle with a gentle scrape. You can't go backwards, the boxes behind you form a cardboard wall. The only way out is through, past the man with the wide shoulders and strong hands. Past the man who gave you so much only to immediately take it away.

He hasn't moved, hasn't said anything. You don't dare make eye contact with him. Your face flushes red, your head ducking as you shoulder past him. He makes no attempt to stand or shift back so it's easier for you. He just takes up space at the end of that aisle and you can feel him watching you maneuver past him, desperate not to touch him.

He lets you pass without issue. You think you're safe until you feel the back of his hand brushing your knuckles as you pass by. It's gentle, a ghost of a touch. You're not even sure it happened; a part of you is convinced you imagined it. But you don't slow, you don't look back, don't want to see if he's watching you.

You don't care even if he is.

Fuck him.

You mumble a thanks to Ralph, taking the heavy bag swiftly and rushing out of the shop. You're only steps away when you hear the door to the shop tinkle open and Joel's voice calling you by name.

You instinctively pause in the street, your eyes blown wide at the gravelled sound. But you don't turn to face him; you don't even tilt your head to show you've heard. But he knows you have all the same, his distinctive footfalls coming in your direction until he's standing front of you. Your eyes remain on the ground, on his boots.

He says your name again, this time softly. You didn't even realize he knew it. You refuse to look him in the eyes and decide his chin will do. He's so close you can see the spot he missed shaving just under his jaw.

He extends his full hand. "You forgot this."

You look down to see Jane Eyre, the book you'd been about to purchase, the one next to the peaches in his grip. How had he known it was yours? Your eyes swim over the cover before glancing back to his chin.

You have so much you want to say to him and none of it is kind. You want to scream at him for treating you so poorly. Want to punch him across the jaw for calling you pretty eyes and making you believe it. You want to shove and berate him until he confesses why he did it, why he went warm and then turned so cold. But you know you won't because there's a large chance you don't want to hear the answer.

He hates you. He was using you. He was fucking with you after you fucked with him.

Your hair stirs in the wind, twisting and knotting in it. You say nothing when Joel's right hand comes to touch a wayward strand, smoothing it between his fingers and if testing it. The shock of his nearness is broken by this gentle action and you take a large step backwards, your hair jerking out from between his fingers.

"That's not mine," you mumble motioning to the book.

Before he can say anything else you've turned and jogged off in the direction of your job, your heart smacking harshly against your ribs with each step.

///

In your house that evening with lace soaking in the bleach solution you pull on a sweater and pour yourself a cup of tea. When the tea is prepared you go to the fire with your teacup and a distant look on your face. You wish you had that new book but grab something else from your shelf instead.

It's the photo album, the one non necessity your mother brought with you from place to place. The only sentimental item that shows there was a time when the world wasn't on fire.

When you first got to Jackson city you looked at it every night. You spoke aloud to your favorite photograph of your mother, the one where she's laughing at the beach while the two of you build a sandcastle.

Now that it's been a few years since you arrived here you only look at it once in a while. It used to make you happy and bring you comfort when you first got here. Now when you look at the photos of your childhood all you can feel is robbed.

No prom. No college. No career as a graphic designer. No sweet sixteen party like the one you'd been planning when the world went to shit.

The day you'd come home from school to see your neighbor writhing in her front yard, tendrils peeking out of her mouth and straining for sunlight. That had been the day your mom had packed you up and . . .

You don't like to think about it. You thumb through the photos until you get to the second to last grainy image. The photograph that brings tears to your eyes and a pounding of your heart.

You close the album.

You drain your teacup; shuffle to put it in the sink. You peek at the partially submerged lace and smile. The bleach solution worked perfectly. The lace, once yellowed with age is now a beautiful white. It'll look perfect on what you've done so far with the dress.

You rinse the lace before placing it into a bowl of lukewarm water to sit in overnight and then head upstairs feeling warm but not contented.

You get to the bedroom and change into your nightdress, yawning. You feel strange, keyed up. Today has you feeling off kilter and you know it's because of your interaction with Joel Miller this morning.

You glance at the window that faces his house. It's propped open slightly to let the breeze in. You like the crisp air of Jackson city at this time of year. There is music playing faintly, The House of the Rising Sun. You draw slowly over to the window, bathed in the blue of the light. A cursory glanced tells you all the lights are off in Joel's home. He’s either asleep without turning off his record player or he’s out and left it on by accident. You’d bet money on the former.

You go to close the window when your eyes fall to something placed on the ledge of the windowsill. Your heart hammers when you realize what it is.

Jane Eyre.

The book you'd left with Joel Miller.

You frown, gripping the book and righting yourself. Still frowning you crawl under the sheets, your eyes scanning the book’s cover but not really paying attention. Joel obviously did this. Was it a message? A warning that he could enter your home at any time? Was it an apology for how he treated you?

You turn off the light, falling into a restless sleep.

Its hours later when you sense something isn't right.

There is a creak behind you and a hand is over your mouth, stilling and silencing you. Immediately you panic, flailing under the bed sheets.

"Don't scream."

Its him.

You know that if his hand wasn't over your mouth you would be. You'd be screaming shrilly in his face trying to wrench free of his grip. As it is, now that you know it's him you feel the panic subside, but only minutely.

"Don’t scream,” he repeats.

You nod, staring up at him in the darkness. He removes his large hand then he steps back, still staring down at you. You stare at him for what feels like an eternity before speaking.

"What are you doing here? In my room?"

"Fair is fair," Joel counters placidly. "You broke into my place, I break into yours."

You don't know what to say to that. This whole situation is so surreal. Joel is in your bedroom, standing at the side of your bed staring down at you with that familiar, heavy gaze. His frown deepens but his irises remain unreadable in the shadows.

“Why’d you run from me this mornin’?”

You sigh, rising to a seated position in the bed, bringing the blanket up with you. You never take your eyes off Joel as you do this, and he doesn't hide the way his eyes are sliding along your body.

You motion for him to take a seat on the edge of your bed, near your feet. Instead he comes closer, sitting inches away from your hip with his right leg crooked in your direction. The bed creaks under him and you glance down at his knee, so close to you. The coverlet of your bed, a delicate pale blue, is a stark contrast against the dark stonewash of his jeans. Your eyes move from his knee back to his face.

He's waiting for you to explain with his brows raised. You swallow finding your mouth impossibly dry. After a beat you manage a shaky reply, a half shrug.

“I dunno.”

There is a cleave between you, as wide a chasm if it physically existed. You hold tight to the blankets, not releasing them. You stare at your fingers gripping the fabric tightly.

“You do so.”

He leaves the words hanging there in the semi darkness.

You make a gentle sound of surprise when his hand tugs the blanket down out of your hands. His eyes drink you in, shivering in your nightdress. Is it from the chill or from Joel's gaze? You're not sure.

"The way . . . Last time," you utter quietly. The shame of that last interlude is still a stain on your mind, a humiliation you've replayed a thousand times. "Why?"

"I couldn't control myself," Joel explains without hesitation, his gaze dipping to the collar of your nightgown. "Just like I don't think I can control myself now."

You absolutely loathe the thrill that goes through you at those words. You despise that the low rasp of his voice and the soulful eyes combine to make your entire body throb. You wonder if Joel can tell, if he can sense the way your pulse has started tripping into a gallop.

But you need to say it. Need to explain that it wasn't okay how things ended last time. You keep your eyes on the blanket between you.

"You made me feel," you search for the words, glancing from him so you can think clearly. "Used."

There is a pause, a clearing of his throat. His voice drops a bit.

"I'm not a good man."

If you thought he was looking for sympathy that belief is erased when you look to see his challenging gaze fixed on you.

You search his face, looking for doubt or for pain or for something he's trying to hide and you see it all there barely hidden in his eyes. You muse that one day you'll learn more of his secrets, but for now you're content to wait.

You'll wait for his secrets, but not for his touch. You move up onto your palms and with a short crawl you close the gap between you. He sits still, watching you approach in measured breaths.

You press your lips to the side of his neck, knowing that kissing his mouth would ruin you. It would make it so much harder if Joel turns cold again. Instead you'll enjoy the quiet groan it elicits from him vibrating against your lips.

You move back, looking at him from under your hair in a way you hope communicates that he has permission to continue. There is a moment where he looks unsure, as if he’s fighting an inner battle. But then with a low growl he pushes forward, crawling over you and pressing you back until you're lying under him, your knees pressing into his sides. His body is heavy on yours but you don't want it any other way.

He's kissing your throat, wild open mouthed things that make you keen. His hips grind against yours as he kisses and nibbles. You feel the bulge grow in his jeans and this makes you groanw wantonly. When one large hand goes to cup your breast through your flimsy nightgown you whimper.

Then he's stopped, holding himself above you and breathing raggedly.

"I'm not a good man," Joel repeats. And now you see the hesitation in his eyes, in the way he looks at you.

You take his hand, still wrapped around your breast and slide it downward. He lets you do this silently, allowing you to move his wide palm down over your tummy, your pelvis and then finally . . . Over the soaking gusset of your panties.

"I don't need you to be good," you sigh.

This is all the encouragement he needs. His hand jerks your panties to the side, so desperate to continue touching you his finger begins sliding along your damp slit. It’s a short tease. You hiss as one of his fingers curls inside your cunt abruptly, the slick allowing him to slide in with ease. You jolt at the intrusion, your fingers flexing into his shoulders.

He stares down at you, your eyes creaking open to watch him. His face is neutral save for the way his dark eyes stay on your mouth. His fingers curl, coax, pleasure. His thumb taps your swollen bud and you give a strangled whimper. It feels so fucking good.

Your hand is at his belt buckle, preparing to undo it when his free hand bats yours away.

"We've done enough for me," Joel murmurs as his hands go to the waist of your panties, dragging them down slowly. They glide over your legs, the fabric leaving goosebumps in its wake as it trails down your body and is then tossed onto the floor.

You're lying back on your elbows watching this when he pushes you back into the bed. He follows you, kissing your collar with a dizzying softness. You arch as his mouth moves down your body, his hands teasing and grazing you everywhere until you feel about to unravel.

You give a ragged breath as he kisses you, just below your navel. Your skin twitches at the sensation of his facial hair rasping against the smooth flesh of your abdomen before he pulls back. Your eyes crack open to see he’s still fully dressed, not even palming himself through his jeans.

Instead he’s gripping your ankles and with a soft pull he brings you to the edge of the bed before he moves between the vee off your thighs. His eyes linger along your lower half, a tongue coming to trail the seam of his lips. His intent is clear. He's not going to stop at kissing your belly.

You draw your knees together, anxious. You're nervous. You know what he wants but you've never had a man do this before. You don't know what to expect and Joel seems to sense your hesitation. Much like your first time he's serious, all business. Warm calloused hands are on both your knees.

"Open for me."

It seems he feels most comfortable when he's in control giving orders. You can imagine that's how he survived outside the walls of Jackson City.

The blunted tips of his fingers dig into your flesh, a silent way to prompt you. You'll feel so exposed like that though, in front of Joel Miller of all people. He's so serious, so intimidating. And he's looking down at you as if he wants to consume you whole.

"Open."

His voice is a low purr, and his fingertips start to move in slow circles over your kneecap, gentle and stirring. You know you're absolutely soaked, probably dripping onto the blanket under you.

You swallow before you allow your thighs to fall open for him. His eyes dart down to your slick cunt, the trembling of your body, the way you're looking up at him with a look of fear and deep need.

You aren't expecting the almost pained look that crosses his serious features, the slack of his mouth as he hits his knees on the wood floor beside the bed.

"Fuck," Joel moans, his hands coming to grip the blanket on either side of you. "I need a taste."

Without ceremony he's gripping your thighs and moved his mouth between your legs, a flat tongue slipping between your slit. Immediately you arch back, the sensation fucking divine. Your head hits the pillow so quickly you see stars.

He holds fast to you, even when you begin to wriggle. He’s making soft groaning noises, kissing you, licking you there. You feel helpless to stop from opening your eyes and looking down the length of your body. The sight of Joel Miller between your thighs makes you moan,

You aren’t expecting Joel’s eyes to be open, fixed on your face as he tastes you. You expect him to look away, caught, but he doesn’t. If anything his gaze pierces you and he begins fucking you with his tongue. You had no idea it was possible.

You wish you could say you held out, that you were in control. But soon, too soon, you feel the warmth in your lower belly start to spread. As if he can sense it, Joel's mouth drags from your cunt to begin pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs.

You give a sound that is both pleading and desperate. Joel lets out of soft rumbling chuckle that you can feel grazing against your cunt.

"So impatient," he rumbles, huffing warm air against your exposed clit.

You let out a shuddering exhale. He's holding you with one arm over your abdomen; the second snaking is way between your thighs. His fingers comes to circle your clit as his lips move back between your legs, working together to bring you to the edge. Your head falls back sharply and you try to hold yourself back from bucking into Joel's greedy mouth.

"Keep looking at me," he insists from between your thighs. His eyes are stormy, looking up the length of your body as he tastes you. You don't know what penetrates you deeper, his tongue or his dark, glittering gaze.

"That's she is" he croons, his lips pressing sweet open mouthed kisses to your cunt. His fingers are removed and now it’s just him, his talented mouth pulling you deeper into the pleasure you can’t hide from. But it’s almost too much, the pleasure frightening you and you move to inch back from him.

His grip is steel and instead of his arm banding across your waist, he moves to your hips, holding you in place. His tongue is flicking now, causing choked noises to emit from you. Your entire body is trembling, and now Joel’s tongue laves your swollen clit.

"Give it to me," Joel groans. "I need it."

You arch up off the bed, your hands groping the blanket for purchase. You can feel yourself rocking into his mouth, your fists holding tight to the blanket on either side of you as you begin to give short, rasping cries as you stare at him.

"Give into it," Joel demands. "Come on my fucking tongue, pretty eyes."

Pretty eyes.

There it is.

You feel a cascading pleasure move through your limbs like water. Subtle at first, but then it spreads so quickly, so different than orgasms you’ve ever experienced. More potent, flooding the length of your body. The sensation is so overwhelming that you jerk at the waist, a loud wail of release echoing within your bedroom as you tremor against Joel’s waiting mouth.

You fall back, your eyes on the ceiling as you come down from your high breathing raggedly. You feel Joel’s warm hands slide down your waist, dragging along your legs until they reach your ankles. That's where they lift off, the warmth of his touch gone. Normally you would raise up, you would make some attempt at conversation. But this is Joel Miller and something tells you he doesn't care for it.

You know he won’t say goodbye. He won’t even acknowledge that he’s made you come so spectacularly you’re ruined for any future encounter. But when you finally raise your head and see your empty room you don’t feel as alone.

The book, Jane Eyre, sits on your side table.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #smut #fanfic #pedro pascal #joel miller #fanfiction #mean!joel #joel miller x f!reader

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classickook · 2 years

Text

safe in your arms | sherlock holmes

pairing: sherlock holmes x gn!reader

summary: sherlock can only fully relax when he’s in your presence so after he comes home from a frustrating case one day, he’s more than happy to be in your arms again. (based off this request by anon.)

warnings: fluff, non-sexual nudity, clingy!sherlock

word count: 0.8k

a/n: sherlock is pretty ooc here but it’s a nice change every once in a while! feedback is appreciated <3

where are you? -SH

you briefly glance at the short message sherlock sent and type back a quick response: at home, why?

no reply. no text bubbles, nothing.

it wasn’t uncommon for sherlock to be so short or distracted in his texts, but it worried you sometimes when he didn’t respond right away.

your fingers move across the screen with the beginnings of a new message when the door suddenly bursts open, followed by a very grumpy looking sherlock.

he storms into the flat with an exaggerated pout on his pretty pink lips and presses his back against the door after shutting it firmly closed.

you’re currently lying on the sofa and reading a book when the noise causes you to jump slightly, nearly dropping your cell where it had been balancing on your leg. “oh hi, sherlock,” you say sweetly. “you’re back early.”

he doesn’t respond. instead, he simply drags his feet toward you, ridding himself of his coat and scarf along the way, and quickly kicks off his shoes before moving to rest his lanky body on top of you.

you release a gentle ‘oof’ before marking the page and setting your book aside. “what’s wrong, hmm?” one hand caresses his back while the other reaches up to cradle the back of his head, fingers toying with his soft curls.

“people are dreadful,” he groans into your chest.

you giggle as you squeeze him in tighter, kissing the crown of his head and then resting your cheek there. “poor baby,” you coo teasingly.

“i’m serious, y/n,” he sighs, slightly aggravated and perhaps overwhelmed by the day he’d had. “i missed you today. i would’ve much rather stayed here with you.”

your hands still against his back. “really? but what about all the excitement of a new case? the game of it?”

he shakes his head, causing his curls to tickle your chin. “i don’t care. it wasn’t worth it anyway. a complete waste of time.”

you hum in response and sherlock practically purrs at the gentle vibration of it against his cheek. “i’m sorry today didn’t go well,” you sympathize. “but you’re here now and i’ve got you.”

“thank god for that,” he mutters oh so quietly, like he hadn’t intended for you to hear it.

sherlock had never been very fond of physical contact or intimacy, from what you’d heard amongst the others, at least, but he tended to be rather clingy around you, especially after a bad day like today. it brought a smile to your face to be wanted—needed—like this, like you were the only person who could bring him this level of solace and comfort, offering a safe space where he didn’t need to worry about prying eyes or carrying the mantle of the famous consulting detective.

here in this tiny flat with you, he could completely unwind and rest in your arms.

his large hands suddenly move beneath your shirt and along your sides until they position themselves under you to rest just below your shoulder blades, cupping you there with slender fingers.

silence settles about the room aside from sherlock’s soft breaths. you continue playing with his hair, applying gentle pressure as you lovingly massage his scalp and twirl your fingers around each messy curl.

sherlock then adjusts slightly before unexpectedly lifting the hem of your shirt and sliding his head beneath the fabric to rest on your bare chest, feeling the warmth of your skin and beating heart against his cheek.

you peer down at him beneath the collar of your shirt, holding back a laugh. “what are you doing in there?”

“just wanted to feel you,” he mumbles, breath hot on your skin and causing goosebumps to rise in its wake. he presses lazy kisses against your sternum and sighs happily.

sherlock rarely ever got this clingy, only on stressful days when he became overwhelmed by his thoughts and senses. he always turned to you in those moments, taking comfort in your embrace and your soothing words. the man wasn’t usually one for physical contact with anyone, unless it was you. you were different. you were special.

“read to me, please?” he asks quietly, voice muffled from where he is pressed into your chest.

you smile, running your hands up and down his back. “what would you like me to read?“

“anything. whatever you were reading before i came in. just want to hear your voice.”

“all right, darling,” you say quietly. “whatever you want.”

he snuggles further into your chest before a heavy yet contented sigh escapes his lips, and you shiver slightly at the way his long eyelashes brush against your skin.

“love you,” he whispers.

your heart flutters at his sincerity, so sweet and gentle with you. a tender smile pulls at your lips before opening your book to the page you left off on, feeling mutual comfort in sherlock’s presence. “i love you, too,” you reply softly and begin to read aloud to him.

#bbc sherlock #sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock fic #sherlock fanfic #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x you #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes fic #sherlock holmes fanfic #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock fluff #sherlock holmes fluff #requested #soft!sherlock

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lanawinterscigarettes · 5 months

Note

requesting fluff with dhawan!master x their gn! companion

I tried to make this extra cute and fluffy because I'm such a sucker for those kinds of things (also shout out to my bestest bud @your-next-daydream for helping me come up with this corny ass pun of a title. I love you sm <3)

The One Who Rocks My World (Dhawan! Master x reader)

Warnings: soft! Master (he might be slightly ooc due to a part in this where he gets a little emotional), teeny weeny bit of hurt/comfort, but mostly just lots and lots of fluff

"Ooh, let's go there!" You said in excitement, pointing at a random alien marketplace that popped up on one of the TARDIS console's many screens.

The Master merely sighed, knowing you wouldn't stop pestering him until you got what you wanted. He usually wasn't a fan of random, one off trips (he wasn't The Doctor) but something about you always made it so hard for him to say no.

"Fine, but we're staying for no longer than two hours, three tops. And I'm not buying you anything there." He said sternly, glancing up at you while he punched in the coordinates. "Do you understand?"

You simply squealed happily in response, clapping your hands together. "Yay! I knew you'd say yes!"

Less than twenty minutes later, the two of you arrived at the marketplace. You'd grabbed The Master by the hand and were already starting to drag him towards it before the TARDIS had even landed properly.

"Slow down, the market's not going anywhere in the ten minutes it'll take us to get there," he grumbled, though he made no real attempt to stop you, something he could very well do if he so pleased.

He lingered a little behind you, following you around from vendor to vendor as you oohed and awed over the different wares being sold.

"Remember, I'm not buying you anything, so don't pick anything up if you don't have the money to pay for it," he called after you, watching as you picked up a piece of fabric that was similar to a scarf.

You frowned slightly before putting it back down, knowing full well that even if you did have the money, you most likely wouldn't know how much to give them, and you had no interest in being scammed by some random alien seller, again.

The Master shook his head at your antics, smiling softly to himself. As irritating as you could be sometimes, he did have to admit he found it to be pretty endearing.

He turned to say something else to you before realizing you'd run off again, though to where he wasn't entirely sure. He was about to start tearing apart the entire marketplace looking for you before you suddenly popped up again, this time holding something in your hands.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to figure out what you had. "What's that in your hands?"

"Oh, I found it on the ground over there!" You said while pointing to a beachy area that was littered with small, multicolored stones. "It's for you."

He looked at you in confusion as he took the stone, not quite sure what to say. "What is this?"

"It's a rock." You stated plainly, doing nothing to actually answer his question.

"Yes, I'm well aware of that." He did his best to supress an eye roll. "I mean, why are you giving it to me?"

"Well, because I care about you," you stated as though it should've been obvious. "And you give gifts to people you care about."

That made sense, he supposed, though The Master never really did view himself as someone other people would care for. But, still. A rock?

"Why a rock?" He asked curiously, turning it over in his hands.

"Because it's purple," you simply replied, an unwavering smile on your face. "And you wear purple a lot, so I figured it must be one of your favorite colors. Plus, it reminded me of you."

Your words made him want to cry. You thought about him enough that you were reminded of him in even the smallest of things?

"It's- it's very nice," he choked out, blinking back a sudden onslaught of tears.

You frowned slightly, your forehead creasing in concern. "Aw, don't cry." You immediately wrapped your arms around him, pulling him in for a comforting hug.

He wasn't nearly as stiff as he was the first few times you showed him physical affection, but he was obviously still a little awkward about it, holding his arms out to the side while you hugged him.

He glanced yet again at the rock in his hand, watching as the mixture of colors shined brightly in the sun, like his very own kaleidoscope.

The purple color of the stone made him smile, and he very slowly did his best to hug you back properly, not missing the way you seemed to hold on for a bit longer after that.

If this was always what happened when you went on trips together, then he'd have to make sure to plan them more often.

Likes < reblogs | comments are greatly appreciated <3

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scribbling-dragon · 11 months

Text

That Damn Scarf

summary:

But Martyn is also definitely the guy he’s spent the most time around. And because of this, he would have thought he’d find the answer to the strange man he first came across floating in the sky (which is actually a lie, he’d been watching him putter around for a little while before that, but he didn't actually speak to him until he was several thousand feet in the air and approaching certain death by suffocation). But he still doesn't have his answer: why the scarf?

(ao3 link)

(12,489 words)

Scott has met, and spoken to, Martyn several times. He likes to think they're on rather good terms at the moment, with him poking his head, or his arm, or any other limb, really, in to poke at Martyn in a way of saying hello. Martyn then, often, pulls him all the way through the portals, dragging him (quite literally) into a conversation, or pulling him in to help with whatever task he’s doing that day. Most of which are very boring and are not things that Scott would normally consider doing, however, when he’s with Martyn he cannot help but smile and go along with it, enjoying the moments they spend together.

So, Scott likes to think they're friends- and rather good ones at that! He’s met several other people on his wanderings around the world, popping in and out of places, checking on the new faces he spies around. A few of them are interesting, catching his interest for a few minutes or hours, leading to him watching them from a distance, either until he got bored, approached them, or he noticed them.

Scott knows what a scarf is, obviously, but what he doesn't get is the purpose of the garment. Everyone pulls out a scarf, maybe some mittens and a hat too, when it gets a little bit chillier and frost begins to nip at any exposed skin and the winds turn sharper, more likely to cut at your face if you venture out into it with insufficient protection. It’s a normal response to bundle up and add a few extra layers, perhaps spruce things up a bit with how artfully you drape your scarf around your neck and over your shoulders.

Scott’s fallen victim to several nice scarves over the years, though most of those had been thin pieces of fabric, silken and floaty things designed to look pretty rather than keep the chill away. Not that he was particularly bothered by the cold, preferring to let it bite at his skin and find that he’s actually impermeable to their teeth of ice and snow. He hails from places far colder than what a little snow can achieve, it’ll take more than the measly winds to get him to cover up more.

So, Martyn’s scarf. Scott’s not actually sure why he’s so fixated on it, only that he’d noticed it once, taking a moment too long to fixate on the knitted garment; and just like that, it had snaked its way into his mind, capturing him in its threads and pulling his attention towards it when he has a free moment- every waking moment of his, not occupied by other things, has been consumed by the blue and slightly-darker-blue wool of Martyn’s scarf.

It is a very nice scarf. Obviously handmade, but made by someone that clearly knows what they're doing, possibly a master of their craft. Or maybe Martyn just bought it from some random person, and it was made in bulk with several thousand others that look exactly the same. But it also just looks handmade, and Martyn treats it carefully, as though worried it might get harmed by something. Scott has watched him tuck a loose thread back in carefully, neatly folding it back amongst the blues.

The only thing, and the thing that he’s focusing on, is that he’s never seen Martyn without the scarf.

He wears it seemingly constantly, always in the same way, with it a few scant inches from being tugged up to cover his lips completely- not that Scott spends long periods of time looking at Martyn’s lips, his scarf is just really close to his lips, and it’s hard to look at his scarf without also looking at his lips, and…maybe he does look at his lips. But only in quick, friendly glances that mean nothing more than watching Martyn speak and the way he shapes his vowels as he talks.

And he still doesn't know why Martyn even wears it! He doesn't get cold, something that Scott had been able to establish pretty early on, asking first why he wears all of the layers, then finding out just how cold Martyn was the time he clamped a bare hand down on the back of his neck. It had sent several shivers down his spine and forced him to squirm away from the ice blocks Martyn had pressed against his skin. Ice blocks that turned out to be his hands, which also turned out to be his normal (and healthy) temperature.

So, he doesn't need the scarf. Definitely not for keeping warm reasons, because Martyn actually explained to him how higher temperatures are bad for his health. Though only in the extremes, like deserts or the Nether. And he also doesn't enjoy hanging out in completely frozen environments, both for the lack of life there, and because the cold can still bite at him, just not as fiercely.

And yet he wears it! Scott’s has never, ever seen him without it- even that one time when it was really late at night, the moon halfway towards its descent, and he’d been stranded in the middle of nowhere and the first waypoint he’d managed to connect to was Martyn’s. And it would have been rude and cruel and not at all friend-like of him to kick a dear friend, like Scott, out in the middle of the night (closer to early morning, but semantics) when it was so dark and cold and dangerous.

And Martyn had been in his pyjamas, very obviously just woken up with quite spectacular bed-hair that Scott had to exert all of his willpower not to comment on (he wasn't going to risk being kicked out just because Martyn’s hair made him look like a parrot with how it stuck up at the back). And still wearing his scarf. Neatly tucked around his neck and trailing over his shoulder, a perfect compliment to the pyjamas he was wearing.

His ongoing theory, until recently, was that the scarf was simply a part of him. Scott had never met a chillager before he came across Martyn, and so he wasn't one to judge, nor was he one to question something. He much preferred to figure things out on his own, mainly because the satisfaction of eliminating all incorrect assumptions and settling on the most plausible (and usually correct) answer was something basically unbeatable.

He’d been able to eliminate that theory rather quickly, though he still went through several testing stages to be certain of his initial conclusion (he would much rather spend time determining that he was wrong than skip over it and find out that he was right initially).

He’d tugged at the scarf experimentally, twisting the fibres to see if it gained any reaction from Martyn. He’d done it before, definitely, but he had a concussion that time from one of the “Colins” that Martyn insisted on keeping in his cave-house, and had been a little too blurry around the edges to look for a reaction to the action. But on his second, and then third and fourth and fifth, attempt, when he still garnered no reaction from the man, he had to give up on the theory, crossing it off his quickly shortening list. The lack of response meant it obviously wasn't sewn into his nervous system, and Scott had seen him adjust it several times before, even if it was only a tiny bit, either tightening or loosening the material.

But he’d continued to tug and pull at the scarf, gently at first, then growing with force once he’d determined it wouldn't hurt Martyn if he did so- he may be carrying out tests to determine the truth behind the scarf, but he wasn't going to willingly hurt one of his friends.

And Martyn had only protested slightly (actually a lot, especially when Scott yanked at the scarf), but not enough to dissuade Scott from forming perhaps his worst habit in the entirety of his life.

His teachers would be so disappointed.

===

The sun was just warm enough to be uncomfortable, the sun bearing down with some force on the bare skin of his arms. He eyes Martyn from the corner of his eye, watching as he ambles along easily, hood still pulled up around his ears and looking entirely unbothered by the heat that seems determined to slowly boil his insides. He feels like he’s being slowly eased off of a simmer and onto a boil.

It leaves him feeling too hot in his own skin.

He trips, too focused on side-eyeing Martyn and questioning how the man hasn't melted into a little puddle yet. He pops back into place a few feet ahead, sparks drifting around him as he continues walking, backwards now, so he can squint at Martyn.

Martyn looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Did you need something?” His face isn't even a little pink, not at all betraying that he might be feeling a little on the toasty side. It’s also beginning to piss him off a little. He looks far too cosy, at too much of a comfortable temperature with his stupid scarf tucked neatly around his neck, brushing against the bottom of his chin.

He hums, spinning around so he’s walking forwards again and falling back into place beside Martyn. “Just wondering if your brain is melting into a puddle.” He makes a small, considering noise in the back of his throat, turning his head to continue squinting at Martyn. Martyn is watching him. “You look like your brain is melting outta your ears.”

Martyn stares at him, jolting to a halt for a second before his brain seems to reboot (maybe it’s not quite melted yet. Just…defrosting) and he starts walking again, jogging for a moment to catch up with Scott.

“What does that even mean?” He asks, sounding genuinely confused. His face scrunches up, eyebrows furrowing and forming a small crinkle between his eyebrows. Scott can't quite bring himself to look away, though he covers up this new and embarrassing discovery by grinning wide.

“Means you look like an idiot.”

Martyn goes a little pink in the face at that - though, Scott notes, unfortunately it doesn't look like the pinkness of his face is due to the heat. It looks more like- he teleports a few feet to the left, crossing his arms and frowning at Martyn.

“That’s not very nice of you.” He complains. He stops walking so he can plant his hands on his hips and frown at Martyn disapprovingly. “We use our words, not our fists to communicate.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martyn shakes his head. “I wasn't gonna hit you hard.” He pauses, then smiles at Scott, sidling a little closer, “Just a little tap.”

Scott reels back as Martyn flicks him on the nose, hands shooting up to cover his face, glaring at Martyn once he’s managed to blink the tears back from his eyes enough to actually bring Martyn’s face back into focus.

Martyn laughs at him, bending almost double at the waist as he laughs. It echoes around them, sending a few rabbits shooting off through the grasses, disappearing quickly into the browning grass. He frowns after them, watching the bobbing of their cotton-tails disappear. He’s got a recipe for rabbit meat somewhere, tucked away in one of the recipe books lining his bookshelves. He’s hardly had an opportunity to make any rabbit-based dishes.

The slowing of Martyn’s wheezing (sounding more like he’s choking and less like he’s laughing) brings him out of his thoughts, and he remembers to glare at him, lowering his hands from his face to properly achieve the full effect.

“Did your mother teach you no manners?” He cries, once he’s managed to gather himself sufficiently enough to be annoyed. “Or did you just grow up in a barn?” If he ever dared to flick someone on the nose (on the nose) back home, he’d have gotten a slap on the wrist and sent to his room for a week. His teachers would have also made sure to slot in some extra etiquette classes, just to rub salt in the wound a little further.

“My mother was a lovely woman,” Martyn huffs back at him. “She taught me plenty of manners, but she also told me not to waste them on rude people.”

“I'm not rude!” Martyn snorts a laugh at that. “I am not!” He has to jog to catch up with Martyn, following behind him as he pushes through the tall grass, carving a path for Scott to easily follow behind.

The grass brushes over the bare skin at his wrists, causing him to shiver and tuck his arms a little closer. He loves the plants of this realm far too much to be disgusted by many of them, but tall grasses are something that makes him want to claw his skin off when it brushes over him, skittering across his flesh like the similarly unwelcome bugs he’s come across recently. Simply the thought of the spiders is enough to send a shiver down his spine, crawling uncomfortably over his skin.

“You're one of the rudest people I've met.” Martyn says, turning his head over his shoulder to look at him. His scarf slips a little lower, exposing a pale flash of skin at his neck. It’s almost enough to make him swallow a look away, though the heat can be blamed on the sun, still trying to cook him from the inside out. Like his insides are soup and his organs the meat of it. He grimaces at his own analogy and looks away.

Looking away means he makes direct eye contact with the creeper lurking just to the side of them, fixing him under its beady stare. He stares at it for a moment, not even registering that his feet have stopped moving and Martyn has continued on in front of him, unaware of the creature waiting to put a dent in this horrible, itchy field.

It hisses, swelling slightly in warning. It’s all the warning he’ll get, and he grabs it with both hands and holds on, teleporting to Martyn and grabbing the closest available thing, dragging him forward and through another one of his portals, both of them tumbling through several feet away, tumbling over each other in the grass as Martyn yells something into his ear.

The grass brushes past every bit of exposed skin, and he feels several of his joints protest the movement, twisting oddly and promising him pain later if he doesn't use heat and pressure. He ignores it, ignores the scratching of the grass as it tickles him.

The explosion rocks through the air a moment later, causing him to wince and duck his head, far closer to Martyn’s face than he’s…ever been. Ever. Martyn’s staring up at him, eyes wide and hood halfway fallen off of his head, revealing his ridiculously fluffy deer ears. His scarf is still tucked neatly around his neck, though, not a speck of dust caught in its fibres.

“What,” Martyn wheezes out, “the hell.”

“There was a creeper,” he manages, still a little disoriented from the sudden, jarring teleportations- he hasn't gotten dizzy like this since his first few teleports. Certainly not after he’d graduated his first year. “Uh. Thought it’d ruin the day a bit if one of us got blown up.”

“You think?” Martyn’s breathing still sounds a little wheezy. His voice slightly strained as he speaks. “Might do a bit more than ruin the day.” Scott shifts slightly, knees digging uncomfortably into the weirdly soft ground…

He shifts backwards onto his haunches a little further, drawing back as he realises he’s hunched over Martyn, knees digging into his chest, faces far too close to be friendly. The sun is unbearably hot on his back, flushing his face with the heat and recent exertion.

His ankle twinges painfully as Martyn sits up, dislodging him from where he had been crouching. It brings them almost face to face again, because Scott’s still sitting on his legs, just below the knee, grass still itching at his arms as they shift about.

The smell of gunpowder lingers in the air, hanging heavy about their heads, even as the small particles of smoke begin to float back down.

Martyn’s hand wraps around his, slowly prying his fingers away from something. Scott looks down, finding the end of Marytn’s scarf clutched in his grasp, fingers digging into the material tight enough that his knuckles are white.

“Next time you decide to save my life,” Martyn says, a small note of humour lingering in his voice, “try not to yank me around by my neck, yeah?”

“I- yeah.” He shifts back a little further, pulling his hands back to himself once he’s managed to release Martyn’s scarf. “Course.”

===

Martyn almost walks off a cliff the next week.

He’d been speaking, saying something that Scott can't even remember anymore, after the adrenaline-fueled and anxiety-inducing five seconds that resulted from Martyn stepping off a cliff. It’s no wonder there’s so many stories about death in this realm, if people so easily fling themselves to their doom on the regular. Or if small accidents like this spell the end for most people.

Martyn’s foot slips, something giving way beneath his heel. Scott gets a brief moment of seeing Martyn’s face twist - morphing to something like horror - as their eyes meet, before Scott is lunging forward, reaching for any part of Martyn.

One hand curls around Martyn’s shoulder, the contact enough for him to snag onto Martyn with his powers, a thread coiling tightly around him as he releases him once more, staggering back from the cliff edge, not even giving himself a moment before he’s yanking on that thread, fingers twisting tight in it and pulling.

It gives way with a snap, and Scott becomes weightless. The ground below him rushes up, a mix of greys and darker greys, a few dripstone reaching up, eager to impale him. He twists, reaching for a spot on the clifftop.

He stumbles, feet coming into contact with the ground, jarring his knees hard enough to make him gasp, knees buckling as they decide they don't want to hold his weight up anymore. He winces as his knees hit the ground, lungs feeling too empty as he gasps, attempting to breathe properly again after…that.

“God, Scott,” Martyn sounds equally out of breath as he does. “I- thanks, thought I was a goner there.”

“You're lucky I was around,” he bites back, straightening up so he can see Martyn. One of his knees twinges painfully, as he rocks back to rest on his heels, one hand still planted firmly on the ground for balance. “Or you’d be a smear on the rock right now.”

“Alright, no need to rub it in.” Martyn grimaces. His hood has fallen back, exposing his windswept hair and flushed cheeks. His scarf trails loosely around his neck, no longer tucked snugly against his neck. Scott gets the odd impulse to tuck it back into place for him.

He clenches his hands into fists before he can make a move to act on that thought, snagging several blades of grass in one hand, almost ripping them free before he relaxes again, releasing them carefully and checking that he didn't damage them. He might hate their taller cousins, but the short and soft green grass is something that he’s found himself growing rather fond of.

“I need to put you on a leash,” he mutters, pushing himself to his feet. When he looks back up, Martyn’s cheeks look a little rosy. Possibly a little wind-bitten, but he looks fine otherwise. “If you keep wandering off, I’ll put you in one of those child leashes.” He threatens.

“You wouldn't,” Martyn denies. He looks confident in his denial, as well, which Scott supposes is fair; they've only known each other for a little while, and thus he cannot expect Martyn to understand how willing he is to commit to things, especially if it means he can stop getting an adrenaline rush when he decides to go a nice, leisurely stroll with one of his friends.

“I would,” he steps closer, grinning up at Martyn. They're close enough that he can almost feel Martyn’s breath on his cheeks. Close enough that he can study the odd, square shape of Martyn’s pupils (something he’s been meaning to ask about for the past while but has never managed to). “But,” he hums, glancing down, “I suppose this will have to do for now.”

He winds the end of Martyn’s scarf around his hand, pulling on the end a little, just to watch it tighten around Martyn’s throat. It’s closer to how he normally wears it, even if Martyn immediately grabs the scarf, tugging it away from his throat.

“Absolutely not.” Martyn loosens it a little further. Scott tugs at it again, watching how Martyn’s hands curl into his beloved scarf a little tighter, holding onto it.

“Why not?” He asks, tilting his head to the side as he continues to look up at Martyn.

“Because I'm not a child.” One of Martyn’s hands has come up to scrape at his hand, trying to peel his fingers back from where they're curled into his scarf. His gloves mean that Scott can't feel the bite of his nails, and so his attempts are rendered useless.

He seems to realise this, after several seconds of silence between the two of them as he fruitlessly attempts to free himself.

“Would a dog be better?”

“What?” Martyn stops his attempts, hand pausing where it hovers over his own. He can feel the cold of his hands seeping through the fabric of his gloves. His own fingers tingle in sympathy, and he almost winces at the thought of his hands being that cold.

“If I compared you to a dog rather than a child,” he grins. He already knows that the comparison is not better. He’d had a lovely conversation with Gem - a swarm, he didn't even know such a thing could exist - about dogs and how cute they are. She’d seemed quite enthusiastic about them, even if, to Scott, having a dog seemed rather inconvenient; you had to take it for walks and pay it so much attention. It was hardly self-sufficient, and they always seemed far too cheerful about everything. And a dog also seemed like it would create lots of messes.

So, not something someone wants to be compared to.

“No!” Martyn protests, redoubling his attempts to pry Scott away from his scarf. “No, that is not better.” He pauses, looking up at Scott, before he begins slowly pulling his hand upwards-

“Don't bite me!” He cries, yanking his hand back, releasing Martyn’s scarf. “What the hell, Martyn? Why?”

“You weren't letting go!” Martyn yells back, eyes wide and ears pinned backwards, looking almost startled. “I didn't know what else to do!”

“And biting me seemed like a good idea?”

“Yes!” Martyn clutches at his scarf, holding tight onto the fabric where Scott had held it, brushing a thumb over the material. “My teeth aren't sharp like yours, you’d be fine.”

“Human bites are some of the most dangerous bites in the entire universe,” he rattles off. “They're more dangerous than animals, due to the bacteria that live inside human’s mouths. As such, if a human bite breaks the skin, it can become infected.”

Martyn blinks at him, still holding his scarf. “And you just know this?”

“I only met humans recently,” he replies. “I wanted to be aware of the dangers. Especially if one tried to bite me.”

“You weren't letting go!” Martyn repeats, holding his scarf closer to his chest, clutching at it like it’s some precious treasure rather than a knitted item. Maybe it is more valuable to him than any treasure.

“Fine,” he sniffs, turning on his heel. “Come on.”

Martyn doesn't follow him, and he turns after a few steps to look at Martyn. Martyn’s regarding him with suspicion. “What?”

“Where are we going?”

“To my house, duh,” he raises an eyebrow. “Where did you think we were going?”

“Why are we going to your house?” Martyn asks, but he does take a step after Scott, and then another. Satisfied that he’s following him, he turns and continues walking.

“Because I have an actual kitchen. And because I have actual food, and I don't have creepers infesting my living room.”

“Leave the Coliny alone.” Martyn frowns at him as he falls into step beside him, matching him step for step. Scott smiles as he notices this, glancing down at their feet then back up at Martyn’s face.

He grins, and Martyn takes notice, pulling away from him with a suspicious look. “What?” He asks, glancing around them, as though worried another cliff is going to appear out of nowhere and he’s going to walk off of it. Maybe Scott would let him this time, just to remind him to look where he’s putting his feet.

“Look at you,” he sidles up beside Martyn, bumping their shoulders together. “You listened when I called you to heel, just like a good dog.”

He’s well enough accustomed to Martyn’s reactions by now, meaning he can duck and teleport away when Martyn swings an arm at his head, reappearing a few feet in front.

“Compare me to a dog again and I’ll bite you.”

“How violent.” He grins. “Guess we still need to work on a little bit of training for you.”

Martyn’s face is absolutely worth it. Absolutely. Even if he’s forced to, very politely, ask Martyn for some ice so he can reduce the swelling of his face. Martyn also gives it to him, which means that he’s already forgiven.

Martyn’s scarf is tucked neatly around his neck once more, but Scott’s fingers itch to tug at it again, just to see how Martyn would react. He holds off on that urge, for now.

===

“Woah,” he reaches a hand out to yank at Martyn’s scarf, pulling him back a step. “Watch your feet there. And your head.”

“I thought I told you to stop that.” Martyn slaps his hand anyway, but he does duck his head, watching his feet as he navigates the shaky-looking bridge. Scott chooses not to risk it, eyeing the half-rotten boards and teleporting to the other side, landing on the rock there silently.

Martyn continues to inch along the walkway, watching his feet and with his head ducked to avoid tangling his antlers in the chains above him. He takes his sweet time too, leaving Scott peering down the abandoned tunnels of the mineshaft in boredom, scanning around for any skeletons lurking around corners, waiting to stick an arrow in him.

The sound of Martyn’s hooves against the wood is loud, echoing around them and down into the darkness below the unsteady bridge. Scott glances back at it again, watching the way Martyn wobbles for a moment before stabilising again. He looks unsteady on his feet, placing them carefully as he makes his way across the yawning chasm.

In theory, he could have offered a helping hand in the form of a portal. But Martyn had slapped his hand, and there’s still a light pink mark on the back of his hand. It doesn't sting - it had only stung in the moment when Martyn had actually hit him - but he’s content to give Martyn his penance through this.

The wood creaks dangerously beneath Martyn, and Martyn apparently decides that he’s had enough of walking cautiously across the gap, because he launches himself forward, pushing off of the board, causing it to splinter, and landing on the other side with a clatter.

Scott barely avoids being crushed, dipping out of the way and slipping through a portal. A few sparks land on the ground around his feet, illuminating the area for a few moments before fading away.

“You could have killed me,” he says. Martyn gives him an unimpressed look, brushing his coat off as he peers back into the gap. The gap that is now no longer bridged by a dubiously stable plank. The darkness reaches upwards when Scott joins Martyn in peering over the edge, squinting as he tries to see into it.

A clattering sound reaches them, several seconds after the plank initially fell.

“But I forgive you,” he adds, glancing over at Martyn. “It’d be a shame if I had to go scrape your remnants off the cave floor. And so far down too!” He rocks forward, positioning himself more precariously on the edge, toes slipping just over the lip of the rock.

Martyn grabs at the back of his shirt, yanking him backwards and attempting to choke him. He coughs, ripping Martyn’s hands away from him once he’s certain he’s not going to send both of them to certain doom.

“It’d be a shame if I had to scrape your remains off the cave floor, too.” Martyn says, pulling his hands back towards himself. “It’d be far too inconvenient, and then you’d just be stuck down there for eternity.”

“I’d haunt you.” He retorts. “I’d haunt you so hard you’d be sick of me.” He pokes Martyn in the chest, just to emphasise his point.

“I'm already sick of you,” Martyn says, but there’s a small smile teasing at the edges of his mouth as he leans a little closer, reducing the distance between them.

“Oh really?” He leans back, finger still pushed into Martyn’s chest, keeping him at a distance. If Martyn really wanted to lean further forward, he could, very easily- Scott’s finger isn’t going to be enough to stop him. “If you're so sick of me, why didn't you let me plummet to my death?”

“Because I'm not rude?” Martyn responds, sounding almost confused. “Do you…kill people that annoy you?” He sounds a little more concerned than confused there, eyes searching Scott’s face.

“Only if they really annoy me,” he grins back up at Martyn, watching the way his eyes widen a little before he forces his face back into a more neutral expression. “Like, it’s definitely not a first resort. Or a second resort. Probably around a fourth or fifth solution to whatever problem. And even then I don’t really like doing it.”

“That’s weird.” Martyn tells him.

“Your sky is blue,” he responds. “That’s weird.”

“What other colour would it be?” Martyn asks. They're still stood in the abandoned mineshaft, feet away from the almost endless drop into the abyss. “Red?”

“Don't be stupid,” he scoffs. He’s not sure what Martyn wanted from here- there was some point to their visit here, but he can't remember it anymore. Martyn had only told him what it was once before asking for company. Scott would have offered company even if it wasn't asked for. Mainly because if Martyn gets shot by a skeleton, he wants to be there to witness it. “Purple is a far more normal colour. Or even just black.”

“The sky is dark at night,” Martyn says. His eyes flash a little in the darkness of the mineshaft, and, why didn't they bring torches? Surely having a torch would make this whole thing a lot easier- coal. That’s what they're here for. Martyn needed some more coal, and there was a mineshaft he hadn't explored yet. “And it turns all sorts of colours at sunset.”

“The sun is even weirder.” He concludes. “Don't even talk to me about the sun.”

“The sun is the most normal thing there could be!” Martyn cries, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You're telling me wherever you came from doesn't have a sun?”

“No.” Martyn’s eyes are unusually bright for how dark this corridor of the mineshaft is, their blue bright amongst the darkness. As blue as the stupid sky that everyone in this realm seems to be obsessed with. “There are numerous celestial bodies, but each of them are much too far away to have the same impact on us that the sun has on you. If the sun disappeared - permanently, that is - did you know you’d die? That would simply be it, the end of all life unless you could adapt to the colder temperatures and overall lack of food.”

“What a cheery thought.”

“Not really.” He shrugs. “Did you want coal or not? I'm fine with continuing to stand here and bicker, but I'm also pretty sure you disturbed a spider’s nest earlier when you broke that plank.”

“I- what?” Martyn had been beginning to step away from him, but he whips his head back around to stare at him with the mention of spiders.

“Spiders.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Can't you hear them?”

“No I can't hear them,” Martyn hisses out. “Why didn't you say anything earlier?”

“I thought you could hear them. And I thought you wanted to continue arguing more than you wanted to remain not poisoned.”

“Why would I want to get poisoned?” Martyn sounds almost distressed, like he’s rapidly reaching the end of his tether and is desperately trying to hold onto the last thread of his sanity. People from this realm often sound like this, though he’s not sure what the cause of it is.

“You drink alcohol, don't you?” Martyn narrows his eyes at him, but nods anyway. “See!” He gestures. “It’s a form of poison- or toxin, whatever, and your liver filters it, right? Most creatures wouldn't even drink alcohol if it poses such a risk to them, and yet you do so anyway?”

Martyn appears to mentally flail for a moment, before sighing and replying. “It’s…they’re not the same thing.”

“Could've fooled me.” Scott shrugs. He then reaches out and grabs Martyn’s scarf, yanking him downwards as a spider launches itself where Martyn’s head had been moments before. It sails right over his head instead, landing on the ground with an irritated chitter, circling around to try and bite one of them again.

He crushes it beneath his heel, driving his foot downwards until it stops making that awful screeching noise. One of its legs still twitches, just slightly, and he grimaces at the sight, pulling Martyn past the spider corpse.

“You're welcome,” he provides, when Martyn doesn't seem inclined to thank him.

Martyn scoffs, yanking his scarf back out of Scott’s hands without even a muttered thanks. “You could just tell me rather than pulling me around by the scarf.” He strokes a careful hand over the scarf, smoothing it against his chest.

“But you follow so easily,” Scott spins on his heel to face Martyn as he walks, watching the corridor behind him for any pursuing spiders. He doubts they'll chase after in revenge for their fallen brethren, but some of the creatures he’s encountered are also far more vengeful than he’d first considered. “And it’s far easier than letting you get bitten. Wouldn't it have been sad if you died of spider poison in a dingy little mineshaft?”

Martyn doesn't give him a verbal answer, but his withering look is enough of one anyway.

===

He pokes at the pot on the stove, watching as the lentils continue to bubble. He stirs them once more before covering the pan again, leaning to the side of the stove to read the recipe from the book. It had seemed like a rather easy recipe, but then he’d had to go hunting for several ingredients- a few of which he didn't have in his garden yet, so the seemingly simple meal actually turned into a short trip to find a mango.

He flicks over the page, turning to the covered bowl nearby and peeking at the mixture inside. It looks like the recipe says it should, as well as the few additional tips the villager had helpfully given to him when he was noting the recipe down in the first place. He pulls the ball of dough from the bowl it was resting in, admiring its increased size as he sets it onto the counter.

There’s a small groan from behind him and he turns his head to the side to peer at Martyn, watching how his guest slumps a little further into his sofa, turned to the side and leaning against the armrest rather than sitting on it properly.

His hooves are pressed up against the other armrest of his admittedly small sofa, leaving him looking scrunched up and uncomfortable. His notebook is open in his lap, several scribbled and crossed out lines glaring at him from the pages.

He doesn't say anything, turning back to the meal he’s making. He learned, a few weeks ago, that when Martyn gets like this it’s best to just leave him to it. Asking him anything will either cause him to sulk, or to go on a rant about the problem he’s facing, then solving it halfway through said rant and leaving the conversation unfinished to write…whatever it is in his notebook.

The lentils are still happily bubbling away when he checks on them again, leaving him free to divide the dough up into several, smaller balls. They get covered in flour rather quickly, from simply coming into contact with his incredibly flour-covered counter. He tries not to wince and think of the clean-up he’ll need to do once he’s finished.

He stretches the first ball of dough out, setting it into the pan before diverting his attention to the first experiment, leaning back and away from the steam that billows out once he removes the lid. He dips a spoon into it, blowing on the food before tasting it, humming a little at the flavour.

When he glances back at Martyn, he’s managed to contort himself so he’s leaning backwards over the arm of the sofa, hooves now planted firmly in the middle of his sofa and head almost brushing the floor. His scarf dangles in front of his face, blocking at least half of his notebook from view. But he seems unbothered by the position.

He dips the spoon into experiment number one again before stepping towards Martyn.

“Up,” he tugs at Martyn’s scarf, yanking him upwards none too gently. It forces him to rise from where his head is nearly brushing the floor, which is surely uncomfortable from all the blood rushing to his head, right? Martyn grumbles, and Scott yanks at his scarf again, a little harsher than before and probably in a way that’s beginning to cut off his air supply. He keeps half an eye on the spoon, watching to make sure it doesn't drip onto the floor.

Martyn grumbles, but sits up without any further complaint. He tries Scott’s new experiment too, not even pausing to ask what it is, simply taking the offered spoon. Scott doesn't get the opportunity to tell him that it’s hot, but Martyn seems relatively unbothered by the temperature of something fresh off the stove

He hums and offers the spoon back to Scott. “Nice. Got a little bit of a kick to it, what’d you make?”

“Uhh,” Scott spins on his heel, rocking forward on his feet to squint at the cookbook propped against his half-open window. He hears the springs in his sofa creak as Martyn flops back down onto his sofa, no doubt contorting himself into another wildly uncomfortable position. “A de-ahl?”

“A what?” His sofa creaks and he turns back to face Martyn again.

“A de-ahl?” He tips his head to the side. Martyn mirrors him, only upside down, his hair fluttering about his face as he looks up at Scott. He also looks like he’s got a headache (probably from sitting upside down for the past hour) with how his face is scrunched up. “It’s a soup thing with lentils in it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Martyn nods, then thwacks his head against the sofa and grimaces. “A dhal. You're saying it wrong.” Scott hears some kind of bone crack as Martyn adjusts himself, sitting a little more upright than before, but not yet actually sitting up. He seems to prefer sitting on the arms of his sofa than the actual sofa part of it. He would think this is just a difference between realms, but he’s had other guests capable of sitting on his sofa properly, so maybe it’s just a Martyn thing? Or maybe it’s because Martyn is here more often than he’s not and thus more comfortable, so perhaps it’s simply a familiarity thing?

“Dhal,” he repeats back to Martyn, then shrugs. “I got the recipe from a nearby village when I was perusing their markets and crop fields, ahm,” he pauses, eyes flicking back to Martyn. “I mean, looking at their crop fields. Admiring them.”

“You were stealing from their crop fields?” Martyn asks, sounding surprised, and Scott is ready with a no on the tip of his tongue, only to be interrupted by Martyn continuing. “Nevermind, I can totally see you doing that.”

Scott pauses, unsure of whether he should be offended by that or not, stopping with his mouth just slightly open as the words form. He settles on giving him an affronted look that will hopefully communicate how offended he is by the implication that he steals from villagers. The effect is ruined by the notebook blocking his sightline to Martyn’s face.

“You know Villager?” Martyn asks after a second of silence, lowering his book to look up at Scott.

“Yep,” he steps back to check on the dhal again, stirring it and checking on the lentils to see if they're soft enough yet. “Vocational course.” He turns back just in time to watch Martyn mouth vocational course to himself with some measure of disbelief, before plastering a grin on his face when he sees Scott watching him. “They said it would be nice with…nan bread?”

“Naan,” Martyn corrects. “With a h sound.”

“Thanks.”

Martyn hums in response, followed soon after by the sound of writing, of a pen scratching against the paper of a page. It’s an element of background noise that Scott had never chosen to pick up on before- there had been hardly any point when his day was filled with the sounds of people writing, scratching against surfaces to imprint their thoughts in whatever way best suited them.

And the ideas were all the same. Each fragment of information was taken from the same sections of the same libraries, each book read from cover to cover by every single person occupying those spaces. Each idea was the same, formed by the same hands and guided in the same direction. It was boring.

What would be the point of writing, when it was something that had been written a thousand times over? What would be the point in verbalising your thoughts on a topic if you were only commended for specific points, if those same points were reiterated over and over again, month after month, year after year. Only the higher-ups were able to make new discoveries, able to poke into topics that haven't been so thoroughly investigated- studied so carefully that every stone had been overturned several times already.

He finds himself paying attention to Martyn, though. He finds himself listening when he hums to himself, muttering words and beginnings of sentences beneath his breath as he writes. He scratches words out with the same energy, too, with an almost frenzied pace as his brain ticks and whirrs and finds better ways to phrase things. Better ways to communicate his newest idea.

He lays the food out on the table, leaning over Martyn at first, not quite catching his attention yet. His book page is open to a sketch of something that looks like a poster. The lines are messy and not joined together (a drawing that would not get any commendations from Scott’s teachers), resulting in an almost chicken-scratch look, but neater. It’s not a style of drawing he’s seen before, and not one he gets to study for much longer as Martyn notices him watching and slams his notebook shut, rolling over to face him.

“That’s not for your eyes yet,” Martyn says, grinning. “Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise.”

“I don't like surprises.” He says, turning back to the table, and the still steaming food, when he’s certain Martyn’s not going to just dive straight back into his brainstorming.

“You’ll like this one,” Martyn hops up to follow behind him, “promise.”

He’s grinning, wide, and in a way that makes Scott think that he is definitely not going to enjoy whatever surprise this is that Martyn has prepared for him. His grin looks like the “cheshire cat” that Martyn has compared him to several times in the past. He certainly looks too pleased with himself, and it fills Scott with a sudden feeling of dread.

“For some reason, I'm doubting the genuinity of your words.” He’ll have to revisit that village at some point and thank them for sharing their recipe with him. Touching his hands to the side of the bowl warms his fingers, chasing away the small chill that had been lingering since that morning.

“I'm hurt,” Martyn presses a hand to his chest and Scott rolls his eyes at the dramatism of it all. “You've wounded me, I don't know how I will ever recover from this.”

He snorts at the high pitch of Martyn’s voice, resisting the urge to roll his eyes again (he’ll probably end up giving himself a headache by accident) and looks down at his dhal, stirring his spoon idly. “What, want me to kiss it better?”

Martyn goes silent very quickly- even the sound of his breathing stops, and it’s enough to make Scott suspicious of what he’s doing now. He glances upwards, watching as Martyn very quickly begins coughing, cheeks flushed red as he angles his head away from the table.

He’s still holding a spoon in one hand, and Scott watches (with barely restrained amusement) as Martyn struggles to handle the spice in his food. He wasn't sure if Martyn had ever had spicy food before, but his knowledge of what a dhal was filled him with a little more confidence. Apparently, that confidence was unwarranted, as Martyn is struggling to get his coughing fit under control.

“Did you inhale some of the spice?” He asks. He goes for sympathetic but probably comes across a little more mocking. Martyn glares at him from one watering eye, face still a little pink.

He coughs once more, a pathetic little cough that probably did nothing to actually help. “Something like that,” he manages after a moment. He doesn't hesitate in picking his spoon up again, turning back to his bowl with a narrowed glare down at the dhal, as though it’s personally offended him.

He doesn't seem to struggle as much for the rest of the meal, though the pink of his cheeks doesn't fade completely and he won't make eye contact with Scott.

Personally, he doesn't think the dhal is that spicy. Probably because he barely added anything, leaving it as mild as he could without ruining the flavour.

===

“Why did I agree to do this?” Martyn groans next to him. Scott ignores him as best as he can, even when Martyn goes so far as to drape himself over Scott’s back, attempting to crush him into the ground. He pays no mind to the guests that are now staring at them. He thinks he hears Sausage make a choked-off little giggle sound.

He breathes in through his nose, and out slowly through his mouth, reminding himself that Martyn is his friend, and that he values his companionship, even if he can be insufferable on occasion. He must not do a very good job of looking calm and collected, because Sausage makes another weird, laughing sound behind him.

He shoves his shoulder into Martyn’s chest, jabbing him between the ribs as best as he can from the odd angle Martyn has reduced them to.

Martyn whines, rolling off of him and onto his own feet. Which are still perfectly capable of supporting him, he’s just a pain.

Scott ignores him as he finishes collecting the vegetables from this section of his garden, tucking them neatly into his wicker basket. It’s the result of a project he picked up a week or so ago, trying his hand at something new, just to see if he could weave something. The basket is a little uneven in places, but, personally, Scott thinks that it’s a rather good first attempt. And it fulfils its purpose of holding his vegetables.

“C’mon,” he grabs hold of Martyn, fingers winding around the end of his scarf. “You're helping me wash these.”

Martyn whines for a moment longer, before giving in and allowing himself to be dragged back into the house. The stares of their guests - why did he agree to host their picnic here? Who even came up with the idea? - are hot on his back, but he does his best to ignore them, striding into his kitchen with purpose.

He dumps the vegetables out onto the side, not even flinching at the dirt that follows them out. He releases Martyn, blipping to the other side of the kitchen to grab the knives he needs, before reappearing beside Martyn again.

“Knife,” he holds it out.

“I can see that.”

“Just take it.”

He washes the vegetables, because Martyn doesn't understand why the vegetables need to be washed- still doesn't, even after the lecture Scott gave him on health and the potential for harmful bacteria living on the vegetables. He admitted to eating carrots with dirt still on them, too. He didn't even see a problem with it, so Scott labelled him as a lost cause and moved on.

He’s also far better at cutting vegetables than Scott is, somehow still nimble enough even with his glove-clad hands. Scott can barely manage to cut vegetables neatly without gloves on, struggling with the dexterity it requires and balancing that with not cutting a finger off by mistake.

There’s a sound of something exploding outside.

He closes his eyes and prays that it didn't go anywhere near his farms, before flinging the window open and leaning out, hands braced on the edge of the sink to yell at either Sausage or Jimmy. It was one of them that much is certain, but he isn't sure which one of them it was yet.

Sausage is watching him with wide, guilty eyes. He’s holding onto Jimmy’s arms, keeping them high above his head and away from wherever it is that he stores his bombs. Maybe he should have reiterated his rules a little more harshly.

Smoke is wafting off of them both, but the crater is relatively small and has only singed the edge of one of his paths. He sighs, dropping his head down and praying to any god that is willing to listen to give him patience.

“If I come outside,” he speaks just loud enough for his voice to carry, but doesn't bother yelling. They're listening either way, Jimmy’s sunglasses slipping partway down his face to reveal his equally guilty-looking eyes. “And there is still a crater in my front garden, I am not going to be pleased with you.”

“Yeah!” Martyn joins in, grinning at him as he shoves his way to stand beside him in the window, pressing him up against the window frame. It digs uncomfortably into his spine. “Get that crater outta our garden!”

“It is not our garden,” he hisses, shoving at Martyn. Martyn shoves him back, pushing him into the window frame hard enough for him to wince. “It’s mine.”

“I'm here often enough for it to be mine.”

“No, you're not.”

“Nuh-uh, I'm here more often than I am at home. The Coliny pines for me when I'm away.”

“That’s your fucking problem,” he shoves Martyn back again, pushing him into the window frame. See how he likes it. “And it’s still my garden. You don't own any part of it.”

“I planted some stuff.” Martyn argues, pushing himself closer. Scott’s arms are beginning to ache from holding himself up and over the sink for this long, made worse by Martyn shoving at him.

“What did you plant?” He never let Martyn plant anything. Martyn doesn't even know where he keeps the seeds for his current crops.

“Nothing.”

“No, you just said-”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Yes you did! You just said you planted something. So help me god, what did you plant?”

“Nothing!”

(Sausage loosens his grip on Jimmy, far more entertained by whatever’s happening in front of him right now. He didn't think it would get any better than watching Scott lead Martyn around by his scarf- and for Martyn to let him. Jimmy doesn't seem to notice that his grip is loosened, as his hands don't return to his bomb storage compartment, instead choosing to continue staring at the fighting pair in the window.

Scott’s grabbed onto Martyn’s scarf again, yanking him, somehow, closer than they were before. They were practically pressed nose to nose before this, but now they're practically kissing. Or, they would be if Martyn didn't just grab a handful of Scott’s hair and yank at it.

“Um,” someone else pipes up from behind Sausage, he doesn't know who it is and doesn't turn around to find out, far too entertained by the people arguing while squished together in a window. “Do you think they still know we’re here?”

“I don't think they care.” Someone else responds.

Oh, this is far better than what Sausage thought would happen at this picnic. He agreed because he thought he might get to see them kill each other- but this is far more interesting (and baffling) than fighting each other to the death. He’s not actually sure what this is.

Someone makes a despairing sound, like their soul is being sucked out of their body, when Martyn headbutts Scott.

They disappear a moment later, in a cloud of orange and cyan sparks. Sausage is disappointed in the lack of entertainment, having to content himself with listening to the sounds of fighting that occasionally drift outside.)

(No-one comments when they re-emerge, clothes rumpled in a way that would imply something else if not for the bruise blooming on Scott’s forehead and the way they glare at each other.)

===

Scott’s not actually entirely sure on how he managed to end up like this; leaning over a stove as he watches the pot bubble away ominously. Perhaps not one of his better ideas to experiment in the kitchen while there’s a sick person in the house. But he also doesn't know what else he’s meant to give a sick person.

The recipe is for some kind of soup. He’s not entirely sure of the actual name of the soup, just that there’s chicken in it, and it’s filling his kitchen with a warm and inviting smell. Definitely one of his better first attempts, but the lack of complexity in the recipe itself may be what he needs to thank rather than his improving cooking skills- they've improved, definitely, but not enough to perfect a harder recipe on his first try.

He stirs it, sighing as the steam continues to drift upwards. The recipe was easy enough, at least, and he had all the ingredients he could need for it. And the villager had said it was perfect for when someone was sick. He’s not sure what makes something good for a sick person, but he’s not going to question the villager’s wisdom.

Something thumps above him, echoing around the entire house with how loud it is. It is then very suspiciously quiet, far quieter than it had been a few moments before. Almost as if someone is consciously choosing not to make as much noise, focusing on being as quiet as possible-

Something clatters down the stairs, but this time it’s followed by the sound of someone groaning softly.

He turns, setting the spoon over the bubbling pan as he plants his hands on his hips.

His guest looks up at him from the floor, some parts of him still encased in ice and immobile. At least he’s still aware enough of…his general everything to respond like that to falling down the stairs, rather than allowing himself to break a bone.

Martyn continues to grin up at him, from his position flat on his back at the bottom of his stairs. His rug is slightly disturbed, folded over at the corner. He doesn't seem bothered about the uncomfortable floor beneath his back, seemingly content with his position.

“Didn't I tell you to stay put?” He asks. He’s not actually sure why he asks, because the previous times he had bothered to question whatever it is that Martyn was attempting to do had only given him incomprehensible answers and left him more confused than he had been previously.

Martyn’s forehead crinkles as he puts visible effort into thinking, face flushed pink as his eyes trail along the ceiling, away from Scott’s face.

He uses the momentary distraction to stride across the kitchen, after checking the pot isn't at risk of boiling over, and hauls him to his feet again. He brushes him down, watching and dying a little inside as the chunks of ice fall onto his rug, already beginning to melt.

He steers Martyn over to one of the seats by the kitchen counter, sitting him and ignoring whatever protest Martyn is attempting.

He’d shown up late last night, several hours after the time they had agreed upon for dinner in the first place. Scott had eaten alone after half an hour went by and Martyn still hadn't shown up, preferring to eat his food while it’s still at least a little warm rather than stone-cold.

And then, lo and behold, three hours later, Martyn had shown up on his doorstep shivering and soaked through. It hadn't even been raining! They’d had a small heatwave that Scott had suffered through, Martyn seemingly content in his thick overcoat despite the blistering temperatures.

He was sick, rather obviously. Though it wasn't anything life threatening, and definitely not something that Martyn couldn't take care of on his own. But when Scott had attempted to kick him back out of his house, after determining he wasn't about to keel over (he wasn't heartless), Martyn had whinged and complained, clinging to Scott until he simply gave in and let him back into his house.

And he was still here today. No less sick and seemingly more miserable than before. He might even be a little bit more sick today, if the pink flush across his face is anything to go by.

“How do you even get a cold,” he complains, once he’s determined that Martyn isn't going to try and brain himself on the counter. “Your whole thing is being cold.”

“It’s not my thing,” Martyn says. His voice comes out odd, all congested and slightly wet. It takes all of Scott’s willpower for him not to wince at the sound of it. He pushes a glass of water across the counter a moment later, only warning Martyn not to drink it too fast- he is not cleaning up vomit today. Or ever. He’d prefer never having to clean up vomit.

“Then what is your thing,” he asks.

“Being cool,” Martyn grins at him, as though that isn't his worst attempt at a joke in a while. Scott stares at him for a moment later, waiting for the actual punchline and waiting for Martyn to come up with something better than that.

He doesn't, just continues staring at Scott silently.

“God,” he turns back to the pot, turning the heat down to let it simmer. “You're sicker than I thought. That joke was shit.”

“Was not.”

“Uh, yeah it was.”

“I’ve been thinking of that one for the past half hour,” Martyn protests. “Didn't you find it funny?”

“Not at all.”

“You're horrible to me.” Martyn sniffs, or maybe he’s just trying to breathe through his nose, Scott’s not sure. “And while I'm sick.”

“I'm horrible to you no matter what,” he’s not really. He could be much more nasty, could pick the right spot to poke and prod at until everything is sensitive. Martyn probably knows this too, because he did it to him once, once and never again because it left him feeling sick to his stomach for several days afterwards. “I'm not going to suddenly start being nice because you're feeling a little under the weather.”

“I'm not just under the weather, I'm dying.”

“Shame,” he hums. “And here I was, about to waste this soup on a dying man. Perhaps I shouldn't bother, if you're going to be dead soon.”

Martyn makes a noise that’s halfway between a groan and the sound of a wounded cat, followed quickly by the sound of his head hitting the counter. Scott panics for a moment, and yanks him back upwards, perhaps not as gentle as he normally is. Martyn whines a little at that too, eyes a little glazed over and unfocused.

He presses a hand against Martyn’s forehead, pulling his hand back almost immediately afterwards, wincing in sympathy at the heat radiating from him. Maybe he was more than a little worse than yesterday.

He turns back around, leaving Martyn to sprawl himself over his countertop, ignoring the small voice in the back of his brain that’s reminding him of how he’s going to have to disinfect it later and remove all the infectious germs from his cooking area.

He has to rummage through three separate cupboards before he manages to find what he’s looking for, emerging with a triumphant noise that has Martyn perking up, trying to get a closer look at what he’s holding.

“Here,” he holds the tablets out, offering two (he thinks it’s two? He can't quite remember the correct doses for humanoids, but it’s something like two? It could be three, but he’s sticking with two to be safe).

Martyn stares at the tablets in his palm, before slowly raising his eyes to him. The pupils are a little larger than they should be, and he still has that hazy look to his eye that suggests he’s not entirely there.

“Are you a drug dealer?” Is the last thing that Scott expects to hear from him, though.

“Sorry?”

Martyn’s eyes flick between his face and his hand, and the tablets in it, a few times. “Are you giving me drugs.”

He sighs, resisting the urge to brain himself on the counter as Martyn continues to stare at him. Trust that to be the first thing he thinks of in this situation.

“Yes,” he grits out. “But ones of the medical kind. The safe ones.”

“There are no safe drugs.” Martyn crosses his arms, leaning away from him. He seems to forget he’s on a stool as he leans too far backwards and has to lunge forward and grab the counter before he topples off of it entirely. “My mother taught me that, and my mother was a very smart woman.” He blinks. “Are you saying she’s wrong?”

“No, I'm-” he cuts himself off with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. It doesn't help as much as he hoped it would. “Just take the tablets, please.”

“My mother also said not to take drugs from strangers.”

“I'm not a stranger!” He shoves the aspirin tablets towards Martyn, “You are in my house because you dragged yourself here looking like a drowned rat, and so I'm trying to make you better.”

Martyn picks one of the tablets up, but doesn't swallow it. Whatever, a win is a win, and he’s pretty sure this is a step closer to the end goal. Whether than end goal is him strangling Martyn or Martyn getting better is still up in the air.

He turns to the soup, and when he turns back around again Martyn is still holding the tablets, looking at them like they're going to bite him.

“They're safe,” he says, trying not to sigh too hard. Sighing this often is probably bad for him. “I should know, I made them myself.”

“You made these?” Martyn’s eyes widen a little, gaining a little more clarity back as he looks at the tablets again. “How?”

“I'm not explaining it to you when you're sick,” he says. “It took me three years to learn how to do it like that, you're not gonna get it.” He winces a little at his dismissive tone, ready to turn around and add something on the end that’ll lessen the sting of his words.

“That’s really smart.” Martyn says, cutting off whatever train of thought he was having beforehand. “You're, like, really smart, you know that right?”

“I- huh, thanks.” He does know he’s smart, or at least above average. He’d done well in his classes, and his teachers had been pleased with his progress. Pleased enough to sanction his exploration of another realm, at least. “You're pretty smart too.”

“You think I'm pretty?”

Scott is glad he’s facing the stove at that point, and that he has the excuse of something cooking right in front of him for how warm his face suddenly feels. He needs to stop talking. Martyn is latching onto all the wrong parts of a conversation right now, and really, he should probably be sleeping.

“Didn't say that,” he steps around the counter, grabbing Martyn’s scarf (which he hadn't managed to get off of him. Martyn bit him for trying) and yanking. Martyn follows easily, feet tripping over each other as Scott leads him away from the kitchen.

It’s a task, getting him up the stairs without him falling back down, but he seems happy to follow when the alternative is getting his airway slowly cut off by his favourite garment.

“Sleep,” he has to hold Martyn’s shoulder down so he doesn't try and roll out of the bed. “You are sick and you are going to be so embarrassed when you feel better and remember this.”

“Why would I be embarrassed?”

“Because I'm going to remind you,” he pushes a little more of his weight down onto Martyn’s shoulder, just to emphasise it, and remind him that he is staying here. “You get up again and I'm videoing you for everyone else to see.”

Martyn grumbles at him, but flops over onto his side anyway, closing his eyes.

He’ll be back up thirty minutes later, threat forgotten, but the moment of peace is all Scott needs to finish the soup. And collect himself so he can stop thinking about the way Martyn had looked at him when he said pretty.

===

“You're insufferable, you know that right?” He tries to tip his head back, but Martyn keeps a firm hand on the back of his neck, forcing him to continue facing forward.

“I strive to be!” Martyn chirps in response. He’s not at all gentle in the way he’s braiding Scott’s hair, tugging at it just a little bit too hard for it to be comfortable.

Scott sits there and lets it happen, sinking into the feeling of someone playing with his hair, tipping his head back the slightest amount that Martyn is allowing. He relaxes moment by moment, listening to whatever song Martyn is humming under his breath.

It’s not a song he’s heard before. So much of the music of this realm is entirely different from anything he’s ever heard before, varying so much in the different sounds used despite using the same few notes that he knows. Every piece of music he’s ever been forced to learn had sounded the exact same, with perhaps a slight difference in pitch.

Every piece of music here has him feeling a different variation of emotions, sometimes an entire collection of them. It’s confusing, but in an almost good way. Everything in this realm seems confusing, far too much and far too little at the same time, so different from everything he knows and everything he expected.

He finds himself liking it more than he expected.

He winces as Martyn tugs at his hair again, waving away the murmured apology Martyn gives him in return. He’s not sure what possessed Martyn to do this, but he’d had the idea halfway through their dinner, voicing it moments later. Maybe most surprising of all was how easily Scott agreed, in exchange for Martyn drying the dishes and putting them away.

(He does that anyway, finding comfort in helping out when Scott won't let him in his kitchen. He’s been brought up with truly impeccable manners - whoever his mother is, Scott wouldn't mind meeting her - and cannot stand to take something from someone without giving anything in return. Scott doesn't quite understand the sentiment, seeing himself as offering the meal freely in exchange for company, but he’s also not going to protest help in washing up.)

“And…done!” Martyn leans back, Scott can feel the way his weight shifts behind him. He raises a hand to carefully feel along his hair, fingers drifting over the braid winding its way around the side of his head. He didn't think his hair was long enough for this, but Martyn somehow made it work.

“Thank you,” he twists around to direct his smile at Martyn. Martyn smiles back at him, a little softer around the edges than usual. Though maybe that’s just the effect of his hood being down for once and his scarf a little looser around his neck.

“It really suits you,” Martyn says, tipping his head to the side. One of his ears flicks, the furry ends catching the light and holding it between the fine hairs there. He still hasn't explained that part, though he’d made it clear that it was a separate entity from the cold that laces his bones. Scott hadn't understood his explanation- mainly because there hadn't been an explanation in the first place, but he hadn't dug deeper in search of one. The people of this realm are fascinating, but they're also insanely private with their personal affairs, preferring to hold things close to their hearts when those feelings cannot be accessed.

Scott finds that his own feelings have migrated closer to his chest in mimicry. His emotions are a tangled ball of thorns that he’s not looking forward to unwinding when he has to return. To unpick the knots that have snared themselves within that tangled ball of feelings and experiences is bound to tear them apart in places, leave them misshapen and incomplete.

Leaving them a tangled snarl of confusing emotions is preferable to him. It’s something for him to hold onto, to remind him of this experience once he’s left. Because he will have to leave, eventually, the days ticking by and counting down on an invisible clock.

“Thank you,” Martyn continues to watch him, even after his thanks. He feels himself growing a little warm beneath the attention - something else he hadn't experienced before now. Something he hadn't ever expected to experience.

He’s not sure what possesses him- maybe it’s something entirely out of his control taking over his body for a moment to push him forwards, to shove him from one door to another, forcing him through it before he can deliberate any longer. Or maybe it’s his mind taking a backseat for a moment, allowing his heart to push him forward.

His hand closes around the end of Martyn’s scarf, the fabric worn in all the right places beneath his fingers, in all the familiar places. He’s not sure how many times he’s held this scarf in his hand, exactly like this before. Far too many to count, probably not enough to mean anything.

He yanks, before his brain can kickstart and send him sprawling away, backpedalling in the hopes of saving whatever fragmented friendship they come out of this with.

He’s never kissed anyone before.

It’s nothing like what he expected, but somehow everything at the same time. Fireworks don't go off in the background, there’s no dizzying rush of adrenaline flooding his veins. Nothing like the few romance novels had described it as, nothing so extreme as losing control over yourself and sinking into the sensation of it.

He’s entirely aware, can feel the warmth of another person’s body beneath his hands, can feel the brush of skin against his lips, the slightest amount of pressure, before he’s pulling back again.

He shoves himself off of Martyn hurriedly, and would have had a rather undignified meeting with the ground if arms hadn't circled around him, dragging him back towards that warmth, that orbit that seems to drag him further and further in, no matter what he does in an attempt to distance himself.

He learned about black holes, on a whim as it was on none of the courses or optional modules that he signed up for. It just didn't cross over into his branch, didn't overlap with any of the courses he took. It wasn't anything he ever learned in a class, but it was something he studied anyway- some interest that had seized him and left him in what some may describe as a frenzy as he studied everything about the stars he could get his hands on.

Black holes drag anything and everything in, indiscriminate in what enters their orbit and is consumed. This slow dragging back towards Martyn, no matter how many times he tries to put a safe distance between them, reminders of his limited time here doing very little against the gravitational force Martyn seems to have swathed himself in.

But it is not the crushing force of some immeasurable celestial being. It is not how he imagined being dragged into a black hole would feel like. It’s more like the soft tugging of a hand, caught on the edge of clothing, or linked around a finger, urging him to return towards them.

Such a force should be easy to overcome, should be easy to break away from. And yet, Scott finds himself sinking back into the feeling every single time, coaxed back by the oddness that everyone he now surrounds himself with seems to possess.

“Where d’you think you're going?” Is Martyn’s only question, but it’s enough to drag Scott back into his orbit once more. Maybe enough to keep him there, this time.

#juno.writes #new life smp #new life smp fic #scott smajor #martyn inthelittlewood #trafficshipping #majorwood #nlsmp #nlsmp martyn #nlsmp scott

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dazed-diary · 6 months

Text

a/n: just a little something because i've been feeling quite winter-y lately (and I also felt like maybe posting after almost an entire year of absolutely nothing would be kinda cool too ig lol)

bkg x gn!reader - wc: .7k

warnings: it's katsuki so swearing lol u know the drill

katsuki is so cute bundled up in his winter clothes.

you’re also pretty sure he doesn’t realize it. the way his thick woolly scarf comes up to his red nose, the fabric almost covering it fully as he sniffles occasionally, its color nicely complimenting the shine of his eyes.

he looks quite grumpy in that state, usually preferring warmth over the cold because of his quirk, but somehow his scrunched-up face even adds to his cuteness, you think.

red eyes move from the scenery to you, narrowing as he huffs out a breath that materializes in a white cloud in front of him.

“what.”

you realize you must have been staring and break out into a grin. “nothing,” you say and bury your hands deeper into the pockets of your jacket as you tear your eyes away, looking over the scenery instead and feigning innocence.

katsuki huffs out a breath of frustration and takes a step towards you. “do i got something on my face, or what?”

you really have to bite back your laugh now, averting your gaze so he doesn’t catch the way the corners of your mouth quirk upwards. “nope,” you pop the p as you turn away from him.

“oi, what the fuck is it.”

his question sounds like more of a demand, the words are almost growled now as he tries to keep his voice down as if you two aren’t the only people on this snowy hill outside the city right now.

you know there’s no actual bite behind his words and the reason behind his agitation is merely his impatience and curiosity - which of course he would never admit to out loud, but you know him, and so you allow yourself to enjoy your little game for a moment longer, before you suddenly turn around to him and look him in the eyes.

“you’re just so pretty, katsuki!” you finally answer him, then, and watch in amusement as his eyes widen and his face turns red, before his eyebrows furrow and he takes a startled step back.

“what-“ he looks as if he’s seen a ghost, but composes himself quickly, avoiding eye contact. “oh, shut up.”

you laugh as he grumbles something unintelligible, the blush on his cheeks showing no sign of disappearing.

“what was that?” you ask, stepping closer and raising a hand to cup over your ear.

suddenly, he spins around and leans forward until his face is so close you can practically feel the heat radiating off of him, taking you by surprise.

“i said,” his voice is low, and as he exhales, his breath is forming a tiny cloud again, the air hot on your face, “you’re an idiot.”

you’re frozen in place, only able to watch as he spins around again and starts walking down the hill the way you came. you’re sure that by now, your own face must be at least as red as his, if not even more.

halfway down, katsuki stops and turns around, looking at you with a neutral expression. “you comin’?” he yells, seemingly impatient because you’re just standing there, but you know better.

his mask of nonchalance is good, but even from where you’re standing, you can see the way his eyes are still focused on your face, studying your flustered expression, a tiny smirk threatening to stretch over his lips.

the discovery pulls you out of your stupor, brow furrowing as you jog in his direction to catch up. “that little asshole,” you mutter to yourself, your own smile playing on your lips as you shake your head.

when you catch up to him, katsuki has a shit-eating grin on his face and you suppress the urge to roll your eyes at him.

“what’s wrong?” he asks with that false concern, barely bothering to hide his teasing tone.

“nothing,” you laugh as you jokingly elbow him. he elbows back, although softly, and it makes a warm, fuzzy feeling spread through your chest that drowns out the cold. in that moment, tiny, white snowflakes start falling from the sky, landing softly on the ground, the branches, and in katsuki’s hair.

“look, it’s snowing!” you take in the sight around you with a grin.

“yeah, i noticed,” katsuki grumbles, narrowing his eyes as he looks up.

you don’t think he realizes the way he buries his face further into his scarf, and it makes you laugh.

“what?” he asks gruffly, focusing his gaze back onto you.

“nothing,” you grin at him and take his gloved hand into yours. “let’s go home.”

he looks at you, an indecipherable expression on his face and for a moment, you’re unable to look away.

“yeah,” he says then, squeezing your hand. “let’s.”

#uuuuhhhhhhhh soooooo heyyyy #how's everyone doing?#('everyone' being the like two people that might stumble across this on accident lol)#uh anyways it's been some time #formatting is still as painful as ever on this site i see #but uh yeah #i've been writing this whole time it's just #longer things i'll never finish yk #writing is hard #hope u like it #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou katsuki fluff

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tblsomedoodles · 1 month

Note

If you don’t mind me asking, what traditional outfits would each turtle (family web au) like wearing?

I’m thinking like they have an outfit they specifically wear for a season (doesn’t have to be their favorite season just the season they wear it) or a social event.

Like Raph having this heavy layered with fake fur outfit for the winter. Idk I’m suppose to be sleeping right but I’m not, I’m thinking about turtles in fashionable clothing.

I'm actually really bad when it comes to fashion lol. (personally and with art. My idea of a cool outfit is when my hoodie and teeshirt match fandoms lol)

But i've got a few doodles of some types of things they would wear on like normal days.

Donnie pretty much lives in teeshirts and like those really comfy jeans that fit perfectly along. If he wears his jacket unless the weather is very much against it. He wears more protective clothing when he's working on mechines and the like. Usually overalls with at least a teeshirt, though he'll wear longer sleeves and gloves if he's doing something particularly dangerous. Winter, he has his regular jacket, a lighter winter jacket and a hat and boots. He doesn't like wearing scarfs or particularly bulky clothing, especially if he's working.

Mikey, on the other hand, loves bulky clothing. Bulky and patched and basically anything with some personality to it.

Leo will do either bulky shorts or skinny jeans, there's no inbetween. Usually some sort of tank top/sports jersey. He doesn't really like the cold, so his winter clothing is being bundled up to the point the only thing you can see is his eyes. Also a long ass scarf b/c he like how weird it is.

Raph actually dresses fairly nicely once Mama got him clothes tailored to him. (he was excited to finally be able to wear stuff that wouldn't rip the second he put it on). But for a while he wears button up shirts with vests and nice pants b/c he liked the way it looked and he hadn't worn anything like that before without destroying it. FOr winter he wears a lighter jacket than the rest, a scarf, and some earmuffs : )

for fancy parties, i'm not entirely sure. I think Mikey would wear as bright of colors as he could. Raph would wear something nice but not particularly standout-ish. Donnie something very basic without a tie or bowtie (b/c i don't think he likes fabric wrapped around his neck.) Leo is a bit of a gamble. He's either wearing the most eyecatching thing he could get his hands on, or he somehow got away with wearing sweatpants in protest. Depends on how agreeable he's feeling about said party lol.

Anyways, Thank you!!

#asks #tmnt #rottmnt #family web au #my doodles

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symphonicmetal101 · 1 year

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Winter Wonderland

Taking the OM Characters on dates in winter

(Specifically the mild Canadian winter we’ve had up here thus far lmao)

Lucifer - Dogs still need walking right? It can take quite a bit to pry Lucifer from his work but if you offered to take Cerberus out, he would gladly give up his pen and paper for a while to spend time with you and watch his beloved pet enjoy the snow like a puppy again. The first major snowfall of the year can be one of the best times to get Lucifer alone and see his walls come down so he can be his best goofy ass self around you. Walking trails of freshly fallen snow quickly get patted down as Cerberus gallops down them with all the grace of a tornado, sometimes leaving you and Lucifer with faces full of snow. He’ll keep that in mind next time, and keep his wings out so he can block the brunt of the snow that flies up from Cerberus’ frolicking.

Mammon - HAHAHAAA MAKE HIM PLAY CRACK THE WHIP! I've only played it once but it was a blast. A rope is tied to a vehicle (in my case a golf cart) and knots are tied to create grips. Yjust sit in your sled and hold on to the rop for dear life as the vehicle moves. The farther back you are, the bigger the turn is. If you let go you loose fjdjxjdj but its so much fun. He might gripe about his arms hurting after but nothing a warm shower and snuggles cant fix.

Levi - This man....god, good luck getting him out of his room. BUT there is a cute date to be had yet. You guys can go out to one of the fabric stores, that way y’all can touch all the fabrics to figure out what textures you like the best- so that when you guys get home you can make scarves to keep each other warm. When Levi needs it during the colder months - in or out of his room- he’s almost always wearing the scarf you made for him. If it’s too warm to actually wear it, it becomes a comfort item of his, so he has it on him at all times anyways. But he can’t deny the fact that knowing you’re walking around with something functional, pretty, and made with love from him feels amazing- you’re his and he’s yours, in and out of sight of each other.

Satan - I love this nerdy little guy, I love him I really do, if the side characters didnt exist, this is my main bitch right here lmao. I’m a sucker for a cold snowy day being an excuse to cuddle up together, watch snow fall and drink hot chocolate, but I’m gonna try just...just a notch to the left of that lmao...maybe just a bit more and because I feel like I need more chaotic Satan in my life, we’re getting more chaotic Satan. The great thing about starting fires in winter is that the snow is your extinguisher- so long as you don’t use too much gasoline/oil to start it lmao. With that in mind, Satan will take you to buy all compressed gas/air products like hairspray and show you how to make a flamethrower out of them. and explain the science behind it while beaming like the sweetest guy in the world. But if that’s a little too intense, he’s happy to make a campfire and let you throw different products in to change the colour of the flames, and again, he will explain the science behind it all.

Asmodeus - He’s right up there with Satan lskjdhfkjdhskj I love him. Though he has the capability of being just as if not more chaotic than Satan, all I’m getting right now is making a hot chocolate bar for just the two of you in his room- reason being he already had to enchant his room to keep scents from escaping due to a Lip Gloss Shortage Via Being Eaten committed by a certain little brother. So his room is a safe zone for food and drink, and its the only drink he’ll allow in order to keep his room as clean and nice smelling as possible. But he loves going to shop for the different syrups, the whip cream, the sprinkles, the different chocolates, the different milks, even a mini fridge and the aesthetic containers to put everything into. You guys frequently sit in towels and face masks, just sipping at your own and each others hot chocolate....though if you get a little whipped cream on your lip, he’ll be taking care of that for you too ;)

Beelzebub - God I want to go downhill skiing with this guy....and I’m sorry but this is because of my experience...I think Beel would be great at it, truly, and I believe he would be GREAT at teaching others, going ahead and skiiing backwards, holding your hands if you need it. Otherwise he’s happy to be racing down along side you. However, because of the most terrifying experience I had while I learned how to ski, he gets distracted looking at you, but the flimsy warning “fence” at the bottom of the hill is just that- a warning, not something solid to crash into. He ends up going right under, skis flying out from underneath him and dangling over the edge of a cliff, barely hanging on before trying to wiggle back up into safety. He plays it off fairly quickly, but makes sure he’s always at the bottom before you are so you never have to experience that. Then its the lift, and hot chocolate at the lodge.

Belphie - Making gingerbread houses....if it weren’t so much effort. He opts for rice krispy treats, the vanilla scent and flexibility he gets out of them are much more preferable for him. Also they are easier to mass produce so that his twin can eat some while you make structures out of them. They aren’t as structurally as sound as you would have hoped, and you share a laugh as the “house” collapses in on itself. You end up using a plastic cup to support yours, but Belphie just breaks a piece off to eat and slides the rest over to Beel, fully decorated and all.

Diavolo - SLEDDING OH MY GOD TAKE THIS MAN SLEDDING he has never known the joy and terror of hitting a jump you did not see when you started going down the hill and flying- however, he would refuse to go if there were children there simply because he knows he would run them over and they would not get up. To be fair, his weight and size may simply flatten any jumps on the hill???? but I want to hear the ungodly noise of surprise and terror of being unexpectedly launched to the fucking skies that comes out of a man of his caliber. Because after the first time, he’s intentionally hitting that jump repeatedly, and circumstances allowing, he will use his wings to glide lmao. With that in mind, if he has his demon form out I’m just getting the image of him barreling into a tree full speed and getting his horns stuck. In a daze (could you imagine if he fucking uprooted the thing?) and Barb fucking panicking trying to detach the prince from a fucking THICK tree. That or if there’s a lake at the bottom of the hill? And he can’t just pop the demon form out because of other humans around? God can you imagine the dumb smile he gives you while he’s literally sitting on thin ice, but the moment he shifts his weight shifts, he just hears a crack and yelps before going in the ice water??? He might not be able to use his demon form but theres no way in any realm he’s staying in that shit, by the time you “help” him out, he’s inexplicably dry and very warm. But he would be done for the day, please baby him after that. Basically this man doesnt think to stop his sled bc hes going so fast and its fun, consequences be damned. (Can you tell I think about him a lot? Is the pfp not enough? The people Im on discord with, did you know that Diavolo is my favourite? I love him. This is why Satan and Asmodeus are Not my favourite)

Barbatos - Polar dip. Barb thrives at night because its not until late he's relinquished from his duties as the princes butler. I'm also a firm believer that he likes cold water anyways. Also you see him in a bathing suit so tell me where the loss is. There isn't any loss. Whether you go in with him or cheer him on from the shore and hold his towel, simply being in your presence is enough for him. Moonlit kisses on the sand, trying to warm up after hes done and also...him getting to be a bit of a shit with that excuse, getting you cold and a little wet when he hugs you as soon as he gets out, laughing a bit over your shoulder as he says he was just too cold and a towel didn't cut it. Having a warm shower when you get home and just being very snuggly so neither of you get cold again for the rest of the night.....yeah (also one of my faves xjxjxjjdks)

Mephistopheles - Sleigh ride time! (Thank you @sophisticatedmarten for the inspo) Reindeer aren't quite horses, but they look so damn good in the snow and all dressed up, Meph can't really complain. The seats are plush and the blankets you two brought are fluffy and warm. The demon at the reins is well-practiced and confident, and its clear with how smoothly the sleigh moves. With just the two of you its the perfect time to drop the hottest gossip and exchange stories, but the route the ride is set to go on is absolutely gorgeous. Meph enlists your help in getting as many pictures as possible to capture the magic the season brings. Not only will this be good for RAD and the latest article he hopes to write, but it will be a good way to end the scrapbook he's been putting together for you meticulously with pictures from every date the two of you have gone on- as friends or otherwise- with heartfelt love letters sprinkled in between.

Simeon - Ice skating. Please. I feel like he doesnt know how. I don't either. But just the image of him struggling to balance so much that he pulls out his wings to balance more and ends up smacking some kid in the face by accident. Maybe Luke, who was going full throttle in a race with a friend. (He has more experience bc of school fieldtrips and totally for not self indulgent reasons regarding an angel child oc I have that is an avid figure skater. Yeah.) Simeon being caught by surprise and his wings poofing as he tries to draw them in so he can try and apologize to Luke, but Luke not giving a crap having laughed it off and already bolted again. But because his wings are out and puffed up you can't help but want to snuggle up to his side, hugging him with one arm and getting warmed up by his feathers. It only takes Simeon a couple of minutes with a lead before he figures it out, and the rest of the night is pretty mild. (Except when Luke tried to catch a snowflake on his tongue and Simeon had to catch him before he crashed into someone else)

Raphael - ok I still don't know him. Like at all. Hes a stranger to me. So I'm assigning a snowball fight to him. If you're on opposite sides get ready for him to never hold back and hit you without fail every. Single. Time. He has the most intense snow fortress you've ever seen. If he's playing on your side though? You'll find you won't have a single snowball hit you. He will block Every Single One and if he ever misses the person who hit you is his biggest target. He gets very competitive so you might have to step in before he packs it so hard the ball is just ice. Would go in with his bare hands, gets very soft and flustered when you insist you have to warm them up for him.

Luke - My sweet child!! The week before winter break you and Luke are seated at the table handpainting large wooden beads white, threading sturdy and pretty twine through three, and tying it off so Luke can decorate the little snowmen ornaments to give out to his teachers. There are lots of laughs and giggles, Simeon and Barb are likely there as well and bringing cookies and tea for when they convince both of you to take a small break. The cookies are leftovers from the batches Luke and Barb made earlier, to put into parchment paper wrapped with a ribbon.....to put inside of cute little origami bags. It's a lot of work, seeing as Luke keeps remembering more people he wants to give these little gifts too, but its a labour of love as the four of you get it done. Luke is able to go to bed satisfied and excited for the next school day to hand out his presents.

Solomon - I’m soft for this lovely bastard. And I like to think that every once in a while he also gives into the whims of The Child. So just spending the day between the three of you making snow-people, angels and demons. Solomon’s magic allows for the extra support and correction of lopsided wings or one horn bigger than the other. You find yourself singing about Frosty the Snowman and Luke is enthralled by the story, on the hunt for a silk hat to put on one of the snowfolk. Solomon can’t help but give you a small wink before enchanting the kids own hat and telling him to try it. Despite the suspicious look Luke gives him before trying it, his worry dissipates as the snow version of one of his friends comes to life, leaving him giggling. Thankfully, Solomon left it as a “timed” spell so that there would be no fighting the snowman back to get Luke’s hat, and so it wouldn’t run off. When the magic finally faded the three of you are worn out from playing all day that you all but collapse in front of the fireplace and snuggle a bit until Simeon gets home. Luke gets up and runs off, leaving you and Solomon to cuddle for a bit on your own.

Thirteen - hahaHA my wife I ADORE her grab the red food colouring and her hand, you’re on a mission to find some icicles and some unsuspecting souls. First things first is making a very realistic mold of a body out of snow, and some clothing that may or may not be Solomon’s cut to fit it underneath the icicles. She breaks one off, puts it through the snow dummys neck and dyes it red everywhere the “blood” ought to be. Now yes, the two of you are going to camp on the roof of this place and anytime someone tries to come over you hit the roof to make the icicles fall right before they get there. :) Its just a little dangerous its fine nobody will get seriously hurt. A/N: God I was so overtired writing this, apologies but not really, Im just happy to have been able to write something again. Things have been really stressful lately, would open writing comms but paypal isn’t working so yknow, I’ll find a way to get through it. About to head out on my little sisters Make A Wish Trip, with no fucking money for me to be able to spend because of how shit went down but Happy Holidays!!! Here’s to hoping everything gets better for everyone! Masterlist

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