#My hands are stained with graphite but it was worth it

[dimensional-traveler3]

Fanart! :D

Fanart for @diroxide-art ! It's their Marxolor fan child, Eris!

I legit can't get enough of their Marxolor art so I just had to draw Eris because I can't not get her out of my brain

#Fanart #Kirby fanart #Kirby oc #Marxolor #⬅️ related at least #Doodles #I tried to draw her the best I could I hope you like it AAAA #My eraser and paper were suffering #My hands are stained with graphite but it was worth it

[yelena-belovas-gun]

Overworked (Natasha Romanoff)

Summary: You end up working a little too much.

Natasha Romanoff x fem!engineer!reader

Warnings: Overworking, tension, stress, anxiety, sickness, fever.

Requested by the following bao bun: @splat-tasha

Translations: 1. Detka: baby 2. Malyshka: baby girl 3. Dorogoy: darling 4. Moya lyubov: my love

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Honestly, working with S.H.I.E.L.D was very well paying, well-rewarding, and worth all the effort you put into it. You loved building things for the agents, coming up with new designs for weapons and bringing them up from graphite on paper into metal on gunpowder.

Natasha had to admit, though...you overdid it sometimes. You'd sometimes lose days of sleep over some new variation of a weapon, or while repairing a broken jet. Now, the bags under your eyes had pretty much become your personal accessory.

"Detka, please, don't overwork yourself..." she'd mutter against your hair as she cuddled your tired body after you'd finally let yourself rest.

"I won't, darling, I swear..." you'd mumble, but it would end up being a lie within the next two days, maximum.

This time, it went a little too far.

The entire day, you'd shown small signs that you were slowly falling sick from the amount you were working. Starting with your sudden loss of appetite, to blinking for a few seconds longer than any normal person would deem healthy.

"L/n, I need this ray gun fixed, asap," one of the agents said, handing you the said weapon. You shook your head to clear your foggy senses and nodded, taking it.

Later that day, Fury called you to his office and described a new kind of weapon they'd need for a stealth mission, and of course, you agreed to have the prototype ready within three days.

"Hey, Y/n, can you fix my pistols?" Maria asked you after that interaction, handing you a box. "For some reason, the safety isn't coming on on either of them since my niece messed with them, and I cannot have guns without a safety lock in the house..."

"N-no issue, Keya..." you mumbled, addressing her by the wrong name in your tiredness.

"Keya?" she raised a brow.

"Shit, sorry, I meant Maria..." you apologised, embarrassed. "I'm a bit tired, sorry. I'll have the guns fixed by tomorrow, no issue."

She smiled and thanked you, walking away.

You continued to walk around and work like a corpse, and felt the need for several cups of very strong coffee throughout the course of the day.

Natasha felt her gut telling her something was wrong, and decided to go and check on you.

And thank every merciful god that she did.

You were a mess, your workshop was like a hurricane hit it and it then got ransacked by an army of wild cats.

Nuts and bolts littered the floor, pages were scattered across two worktables joined together, grease stained the floor, and a concerning number of coffee cups were strewn around.

She heard the buzzing of a soldering iron and saw you at a worktable which had some of the surface visible. Your hands, which were normally so steady, were trembling, and you looked like you wanted to pass out as you fixed the safety lock of Maria's guns.

You got a phone call, and didn't notice Nat as you answered it, putting it on speaker.

"Hey, Y/n, it's Phil. Coulson," came the voice from the other line. "So, um, I know you fixed my car earlier this week, but I got into a bit of a scuffle...the engine's not starting up and I think I screwed up the oil tank while I was at it cause this bugger won't fill up at all."

You exhaled heavily, putting a grease-stained, and shockingly blistered hand to your forehead, making another black mark appear on your skin. "I'll come over tomorrow to look at it, Dave."

"...Dave? What the hell?" His voice sounded confused and irritated, making you click your tongue in annoyance and sigh.

"I'm sorry, that's the thirdtimetoday..." you muddled your words together as well, making him as you to repeat. "I said it's the third time I've messed up someone's name."

"No problem, just can you fix it?" He asked.

"Yeah," you bade him goodbye and cut the call, going over to your whiteboard, where an array of tasks and their deadlines were listed out.

Natasha was horrified to see how many of them were marked for each day.

"Y/n, what the fuck?" Natasha gasped, seeing your hand shake and seeing you screw up Phil's name spelling on the board thrice.

You turned around and gripped the edge of a chair for support. You had a headache, and now were too dizzy to stand.

"O-oh...h-hi, Tasha..." you smiled at her.

"Don't you 'hi Tasha' me, idiot!" She stormed over to you, but nevertheless took your greasy hand in hers tenderly. "Detka, you are so overworked..." she felt how cold your hands were and immediately checked your temperature.

Fever.

"And you have a fever!" She gasped, "Why didn't you tell me you were sick!?"

"I'm not sick...am I?" Your eyes widened as you looked at the board, panicking. "No, no, no, I can't fall sick! I have so many things to give by tomorrow!"

"Y/n," Natasha's voice was scarily firm as she held you in place, forcing you to look into her eyes. "I am taking you home, and you will rest, or else."

"But Tasha..." you whined, but she was having non of it.

"Moya lyubov, moya dorogoya," she sighed, petting your hair and speaking as if you were a five year old, "You need rest, otherwise you'll fall sicker. Now, go and wait in the car."

"...yes, Tasha..." you mumbled like a five year old, and walked off.

Natasha was like an angry mama bear as she stormed into Nick Fury's office.

"Nicholas Fury, how dare you run Y/n to such levels of exhaustion that she's fallen sick!" She exclaimed, seething. "She has a fever, she is literally stumbling around and surviving on unhealthy amounts of caffeine, and is mixing up people's names! How dare you treat her like a machine! she fixes machines, doesn't mean she is one!"

Fury sighed and remained calm in the face of the livid assassin. "Please, tell Y/n to keep her projects on hold, and that she has nothing to worry about because we will pay for this sick leave. Happy?"

"Very. Now if I ever see this happen again, I will commit murder, and it will be yours." She turned on her heel and stalked off, back to the car where you were.

She got into the driver's seat and kept you nicely warm in her jacket, till you both got home.

"Now, malyshka, please rest," she kissed your forehead and smiled after she'd tucked you into bed.

"Thank you, Tasha..." you mumbled. she lay beside you and gently stroked your hair, stopping after you fell asleep, and cuddled you to recovery.

Maybe overworking had it's own perks...

THE END.

#natasha romanoff #shield #natasha romanoff x reader #femreader #engineer!y/n #wlw #bisexual #lesbian

[webraciszekbastion]

hello there, can i request a cup of coffee and a chocolate cookie for vivia twilight and a (preferably male, if that’s okay) artist! reader? maybe reader always has paint stains on their skin/face/clothes and/or draws vivia often? have a good day, i love your writing!

Of course ! Thank you very much for these kind words. Honestly, I had plans for something similar involving the Rain Code characters. So I already had a few ideas and I hope you like it and thx for nice

parring: Vivia Twilight x male!artist!Reader

You met Vivia quite eccentrically. Vivia was tunneling back to the headquarters through one of the underground tunnels, where he spotted you. You were all in farbia and completely absorbed in your world.

Vivia approached you, watching you create a painting on the walls. You didn't realize that while you were painting, Vivia was handing you all the paint, brushes, rollers and other things you needed. Only when you finished did Vivia make his presence known with a long sigh of admiration.

Viva always likes to see you when your skin and clothes are stained with paint or colored chalk. You are so colorful, bright, joyful and full of life. Vivia can't explain, but it draws him to you.

When you pull off your T-shirt, Vivia plays, running his fingers over your body. He connects colored spots of paint, like in a game of "connect the dots." He knows you're ticklish and he does it on purpose. Your smile, your laughter are beautiful not to listen to it. It is like medicine for Vivia's eyes and ears.

Vivia is your go-to model for any occasion. He carries your portfolio of work, your paintings and all your art equipment. When you're in college and don't have something to work with, let Vivia know. He will bring everything to you.(He will scare a few lecturers when he ask where you have classes, but the most important thing is that your boyfriend brought you extra canvases.)

During your trip to the city, you are sure to make at least a few drawings and sketches of Vivia. When you wait for food, when you ride the bus or subway, when Vivia picks out a book. Every element of your day together will be immortalized in your sketchbook.(For a month you have already collected seven sketchbooks with the very drawings and sketches on which Vivia is.)

Vivia loves to take part in your attempts at new kinds of art. She especially remembers the day when, you wanted to try Bodypainting. Sitting motionless in just boxers was no problem for Vivia. For him it is important that he sees you at work, can feel your touch and look at your beautiful person. Your idea of making his body into an ocean, and painting his neck with his face, as an island of trash, he thought was an interesting interpretation and idea.(The beautiful blue that showed how much Vivia was worth to you, and the distorted gray on his face, all negative thoughts about himself. You were the only one who saw the blue in him, and in that moment Vivia loved you even more.)

When it was Vivia's turn. The man painted your whole body white. When he was finished, he tired to do, small letters from which short sentences were formed. Viva made you a living page of a book. Quite for a simple reason. Everyone knows that Vivia's favorite thing in this world is books.(Phrases like "My favorite", "Kanai Ward's ray", "Colorful plush", "Wants to live for my boyfriend" were formed on your body. Because of this, you didn't want to wash the paint off yourself.)

Moments such as combing through hair to get rid of chalk dust. Peeling stained skin from various mixtures. Washing off stains of paint, ink and graphite with your thumb. Others looked at you with distaste or embarrassment. Vivia, on the other hand, says you look adorable when you do this.

You know your boyfriend. That's why you know he's definitely sitting inside the fireplace at the agency. That's why, when he stays with you overnight, you give him massages. Viva never complains of pains or fatigue, but he will never deny himself this pleasure.(Of course, your cuddles don't end there. Vivia wants you as close as possible.)

Seeing your sadness and tears, Vivia is by your side and does everything to make you feel better. Without your smile, the city starts to rain again, it becomes sad and returns to that depressed state before Vivia met you.

In his contacts, he has fastened you as "Follower of Atua." Several times you asked about the meaning of this nickname, but each time Vivia smiled and said it was nothing.

When you are in a drawing trance, there is no contact with you. Vivia's favorite activity at the moment, is watching you and feeding you snacks. It's surprising to him that you don't even know you're eating but look like a hamster with full cheeks, and Vivia likes it.

You once stung him with a sand animation screening. You painted every important moment with Vivia. Sand perfectly showed, the transience and passing of moments, but Vivia enjoyed your show more and the moments together that will come in the future.

#master detective archives x reader #master detective archives: rain code #rain code #vivia twilight x reader #vivia twilight #rain code vivia #Vivia Twilight

[shugojima]

𝗢𝗶𝗸𝗮𝘄𝗮 𝘅 𝗬/𝗻  ♀️ 🍋

𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻, 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝘀.

════════════════════

Your classmate looked at you, his hand gripping tight around his pencil, the graphit tip drilling into his worksheet he asked

"You wanna know why I always zone out in class?"

"Yes! I want you to concentrate! We need to finally get this done. I don't wa-."

"I can't stop imagining how you'd look bouncing on my cock."

"What?"

Silence.

"And I know that I also made you think about it now."

"T-Tooru.... I don't!"

"Then why are you pressing your legs together like this?"

"Stop. Please..."

"Are you really that innocent or is it just a facade, hm?"

"W-we need to... do our presentation..."

"Sure, if you're able to concentrace that is."

Looking straight into your (e/c) eyes his hand reached for your thigh. He slowly moved it up to your private parts. Just to stop an inch before he actually touched you there.

Breathing heavily you blushed hard and tried to escape his intense gaze.

But no chance. His mesmerizing brown orbs hold you in place as he giggled slightly.

"You're almost too easy to break, Y/n."

His hand still high up your thigh he squeezed a little and as soon as he wanted to pull his hand away from you, you reached under the table and grapped his wrist, stopping him.

Looking at you, his brows furrowed, he waited for you to say something.

"You started it. Finish it."

"What?"

"You think you can make me horny asf and then just leave me like that?"

His eyes widened at your straight forward words.

"Right here?"

"We're in the last row and our teacher is almost sleeping."

"Fuck. Y/n... keep quiet, ok?"

"Mhm..."

Leaning in on you as if he was explaining something to you, he was close to your ear as his hand found its way to your clothed pussy.

Feeling the wet stain on it he smiled in victory.

Pulling the fabric aside he started to draw little circles around your clit making you whine slightly.

"Damn, you really are a dirty girl, hm?"

You felt his hot breath against your cheek as he watched a little amused how much you struggled to sit straight under his touch.

"So wet just because of me.... I remember you saying I'm not attractive at all. What about it now?" A wide, dirty grin on his face he slid his long finger inside your soaked hole and slowly moved in and out, slightly moaning in your ear, before licking along your neck.

You jumped a little in your seat and when you sat yourself down again, his long finger hit deep inside as he curled it.

"Fuck!"

"L/N-San!! Watch your language!" The teacher yelled as he woke from his little nap.

He eyed you closely, a little irritaded as to why you were acting so weird. With that deep red blush on your face you apologized when Tooru inserted another finger and mover faster.

"That was close, Y/n~..."

"T-Tooru... I- We can't do this. If we get caugh-"

"Then everyone will know how much of a whore you are for me?"

"Yes."

Grinning from ear to ear he stimulated your clit with his thumb as you grinded on his slender fingers.

"So you're my whore now?"

Nodding once you felt your high approach and threw your head on the table, one hand gripping tight on the edge, your other hand covering your mouth as your muffled screams vibrated against your palm.

Leaning in on you as you came all over his fingers he whispered

"Look ahead, babe. Seems like you've been disturbing the lesson."

Breathing heavily you looked up to see everyone starring at you two. His fingers still inside.

The teacher couldn't believe what he saw and looked at you shocked.

"YOU. TWO. PRINCIPAL. NOW."

Tooru finally pulled out of you and licked his cum covered fingers clean with everyone watching as he stood up, taking your hand in his.

"Worth it."

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #oikawa #oikawa torū #oikawa smut #oikawa toru x reader #oikawa x y/n #oikawa x you #oikawa tooru #haikyuu smut

[withoneheadlight]

| billy & will + pre-harringrove | full fic in spanish |

~

There’s an in-between. The high school and the middle school. A bare piece of land, yellowed from the lack of grass and the rough kiss of the sun and, right in the middle, an old shack.

It's a shabby thing that accumulates lack of re-paintings and excess of humidity but that’s out of sight, in that way of things that are just there but no one wastes time looking at anymore are.

That's where they meet.

Billy lights up a smoke. Slides his ass up an ancient, long retired desk, pasture now of the damp and rot, and leans against the peeling wood. Front and back-row seat to the long column of trees the wind’s rippling along on the other side of the wire fence. The ember warms up his lips as he inhales a deep puff and exhales a,

“You’re getting soft, Billy Hargrove”

He leans his head back and closes his eyes, ears on that ceaseless chirping of the bids that sews together the slow-passing hours of the days and nights of Indiana, and on the delighted screams from the middle-schoolers, remembering that, somewhere in there, there's a bunch of kids who will still be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the road. That maybe even Max could be one of them, if Billy hurries. That maybe he will too, if Billy is able to control that instinctive reaction that pulls his skin inward and screams at him to stopstopstop, that the soft skin shreds, falls apart so easily.

But maybe it can be both of them, if Billy manages to clench his teeth hard enough and keep on softening.

‘Cause soft skin hurts when it breaks but,

"Hey!"

Sometimes it’s worth it.

Will’s smiling wide. Stops running, abruptly, and then just stands in there, panting. He’s got a funny nose and giant eyes. The kind of bangs that make you wanna blow them out of his eyes even though what they're is too short, actually, and Billy’s always thought he'd do better in life if he didn't. Notice things. If he didn't see that widewidewidewide smile and could read it so easily.

"I've been dying to show you this!" Will kneels down into the grass, chopping out the words in between exhalations. Pulls at the zipper of his backpack, chest heaving, and he doesn't realize he's going to get dirt on the knees of his jeans or that Billy can read it. His relief. Of finding him in here and not just an empty desk. Of how for a kid every single day more means 'You care’.

(About me)

It was early December. Friday right after last period and one of those silly things that only happen in movies. Something so like scripted and choreographed that Billy nearly considered looking up at the ceiling to make sure John Hughes wasn't silently watching them, taking notes from above. They crashed in the middle of a corner. Billy sped up ‘cause he was in a hurry and the only way to catch Max in time lately was to intercept her right out of class. Will ‘cause he's always going like that, Billy knows now. Always a thousand miles per hour. Always verging on time-jump speed to then being the kind of kid who seems so quiet it's scary. They crashed. Hard. In the middle of that corner. Papers flying all over and a curse (Will) and a muffled groan (Billy) and they ended up pulling at the same paper one from each corner. A drawing. Trolls and wizards and a castle and an emerald-green light. A star in the distance, auguring bad omens. Billy forgot to be frightening and Will must have forgotten he was supposed to be frightened when he blurted out a,

"Fuck, Byers. This is frikin’ fantastic."

No fear or reticence or that way he sometimes has of bumping into words and stumbling, just a "Really?" eyes huge and bangs brushing against his eyelashes as he blinked when Billy also forgot he was also supposed to― well, supposed to be Billy Hargrove.

"’Got more?"

So now he skips English instead of Algebra, every Tuesday and Thursday. Sneaks off to that in-between place he knows no one wastes time looking at anymore to light up a smoke, same time as Will has his recess. And the kid doesn't always manage to shrug off of his flock of nerds but he’s lucky, some days.

And he brings the drawings.

Orcs and goblins and enchanted mountains on the northwest and it seems to Billy that there are more princes than princesses and that if there are any, they’re almost always sorceresses, almost always queens and that your attention gets hooked on their burning eyes, not in the clothes they’re missing and Billy feels like it's a small grain of sand, this thing they’re doing. Knows that someone’s already keeping a solid ground under Will's feet ('Joyce' he says it’s her name. And it stings, the way he manages to fit so much love, into such a tiny word). But it also seems to him that maybe it doesn't take much more, for Will, just a few grains of sand, to replace those that being a strange kid in a small town sick with apprehension for what it finds strange, takes every day away from him.

So Billy’s gotta have to clench his teeth ‘till his gums start bleeding ‘cause is that, or let his skin toughen up again. Is that. Or fucking everything up.

And ave María, Billy doesn’t want to fuck it all up again.

So he sucks on his cigarette. Hooks up an eyebrow. Waves his hand to hurry the kid up.

“Mmm. That’s how good you think it is, dickwad? ‘C’mon, got my next class in twenty”

Will flies over the papers. Head nodding and fingers skimming fast. Finds what he’s looking for and yanks it out, raises it up triumphantly in his hand. It’s the sword in the stone and he carries it up to Billy with wet knees and just a little mud-staining. It’s February and the sun’s burning brightly over all the wetness the night’s spent crying. The drawing is a huge dragon, wings made of leather and cartilage, spread out in eclipse in front of the moon, only a few silver rays illuminating the dark knight in front of it. Blue eyes lined in black, blond curls cascading down his back and Billy was clenching his teeth but they part now, ‘cause the figure looks too much like him to be a coincidence. A smile devours his whole mouth. Soft. A joke itching on the tip of his tongue. He grunts a,

“I’ve been called many things. But never this, Byers”

Only half his expression’s visible, eyebrows covered with those thick bangs, and Billy has to once again fight the impulse to blow them out.

“¿Hum?”

“Knight” he says, drawling the teasing tone out “In shining armor”

And It’s such a loss, all that hair. Because it’d pass unseen, if you don’t know him. The way his eyebrows spike up underneath and it burrows in between them, the eagerness of teasing back. But Billy’s lucky, ‘cause it’s been more than two months like this and Billy―

Knows him. Well enough at least. So it doesn't pass unseen to him.

“You know the drill, William. Spit it out. Can see you’re holding it up from miles”

Will purses his lips out tight. Looks like he’s trying but. Nah.

“Wouldn’t be that shiny '' scrunches his nose. Throws a meaningful glance at Billy’s disheveled looks. More thoughtful than not, way more intentional. But that's something he'll figure out when he grows up.

Billy cackles. Will's smile widens, satisfied. Hops onto the desk next to his. Billy offers him the cigarette.

“And―this?” Will shrugs inwardly. Glances up at him. Then down, at the exchange between their hands. Takes the cig in between two fingers and it doesn’t burn but he barely presses them against the filter, anyway, as if he’s afraid it would, all of a sudden.

"Retaliation," Billy half grunts, half laughs, and Will huffs, but swallows a deep breath to gather strength. Exhales. Takes a tiny puff and―

"Argg," coughscoughscoughs "This is. Ugh. It's awful. I don't know how you―” almost throws the cigarette back to him "Ufff, what a―" he hesitates "Yuck"

Billy snorts. Thinks about Max inhaling deep, no more than two weeks ago, eyes pining his in place. Breaking into a violent cough only a second later.

Billy pats Will’s back too.

“That’s good” he says “You better not like it” Will scrunches his whole face “And this too” Billy adds, shaking the drawing a little “This is good, too. Amazingly good, man”

Will. Stares. At him. One. Two. Three long seconds. And Billy hurts a little. With every single one. Three sharp stabs with that newly freed sword. A different kind of ' you care' each one: 'it seems so impossible to me (that you care)'. 'If you think so, maybe it's true (and I do care, that you think it)’. 'Thank you (for caring)'. And then. Those hidden eyebrows. Will’s cheeks puffing out a little when he bites the tip of his tongue and―

"Billy?" his eyes glint, heavy with ill-contained malice.

"Uh?"

"You're the dragon"

"You fucking ass―!"

Billy shoves him sideways. But Will just sways. He doesn't lose footing on that firm ground he’s standing on. Looks back at the drawing, hunches a shoulder up.

"But you’re the knight, too"

He says it in a tone that cuts straight through Billy’s chest Thank you he thinks, even though his soft skin is hurting. And he still doesn't blow hard on that bowl fringe from where it covers Will’s whole forehead but―

Stirs up all his hair instead.

“Eh!!”

“Hey, shitbird. Wanna see the one I’ve made?”

Will nods quickly. All contained-speed and reverberating and sometimes Billy doesn't know how so few people can see it, how big he is for his own skin and he thinks I wish, wish he'd accumulate enough grains of sand to raise up that firm ground under his feet, and get really, really high.

“Sure!”

He keeps it tucked away in the breast pocket of his jacket. Folded in upon itself. Same way he keeps everything else. Folds and layers and at the bottom of pockets no one ever looks at but.

He unfolds it to show it to Will Byers.

“Wow” Will says, and smiles up at Billy like Two months since we crashed against each other and I feel like I know you a little too, Billy Hargrove and Billy hit rock bottom but now at least Max and him sing AC/DC in chorus on the rides back home and Will's voice sounds like 'You're good' as he runs his fingertips over the graphite outlines of the skull and repeats, "Wow"

“Gonna have it done” Billy inhales a deep drag of Marlboro and 'Four Months to Eighteen' and for a moment it’s like he could feel the smoke curl up inside his lungs before blowing it out. The image is as pretty as it’s stupid. He glances at the open jaw of the drawing and thinks maybe he'd like a drag too "Have it healed for summer and―"

“What’s happening here?”

Steve.

Harrington.

Hand on his hips, preppy pastel polo lapels up, Ray-Bans holding up that way his hair swirls without really taming it. The twelve o'clock sun is shining sideways from his back and he's pretty. Painfully pretty. And Billy’s sure it's impossible that this redneck raised on corn and money amassed in dubious moral business is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen but sometimes he forgets. That it is impossible because. Fuck. It so seems like it. Light flicking on the ends of his hair where it curls. Under his ear. In the long curve of his neck. And the world doesn't halt and the birds don't stop chirping and the clouds don't part and no preternatural shit happens because this is the black hole where all the world's shit goes, Indiana. But. It so seems like it and,

Billy.

Knew how to breathe but that’s another thing he keeps on forgetting. Every time Steve Harrington passes him by.

He’s gotta force himself. To nod. To stop choking. When Will looks up at him with those big eyes. Questioning.

Apologizing.

Billy Hargrove, from freshly crowned local terror to―

“I was―” Will starts. Inhales. Presses his lips together right before blurting out the truth ‘cause he knows it's the only real way out "Showing Billy my drawings. Sometimes we―"

―the softie whose pride goes high up in his throat every time an eleven-year-old kid says 'Billy, this is good. It's very. Very good, Billy’.

"Sometimes we. Uhm. We―"

Will's already huge eyes get bigger, rounder. As if he’s just realizing that where he's stuck his foot keeps getting muddier, trapping himself all the way in. And Billy smiles lightly at him, sideways, so it’s hidden. From Steve Harrington. From all the world beyond. ‘Cause of that thing about facades and how hard they’re to maintain, when on one side is pressing what you're supposed to be and on the other, relentlessly, what you're hiding.

But Steve’s asking,

“Sometimes―what?” and Will’s eyes are fixed on Billy, two wide-open I’m sorrys and Billy thinks Fuck it, Hargrove. C’mon. Stop hiding.

So he’s the one who says,

“We share our drawings, Harrington”

And Steve.

He’s got those eyes.

They're like a troubled ocean in the heart of winter, those eyes. Hard, hard, hard. Imposing. But soft. So fucking soft. When something catches him off guard. Rolling stones in the breaker. And Billy wants to get swept up in them, like falling along the curve of a wave. Steve looks at him, and at the drawing in his hand, his eyes a swirl and, when he looks up, the calm. And Billy feels as those times when it seemed to him the waves wanted. To wrap around him. To catch him. Soft as the reflecting clouds. And Billy feels as those times when he’d let them. Carry him. Drag him to the shore. Safe and sound.

“Is that yours?” Steve frowns. When he does that. He looks the prettiest. And Billy's heart breaks. In tiny tiny pieces. Thinks This is what it takes, thinks Fuck, thinks, This is how things hurt when you let your skin get soft.

What you don’t have. What you want. What you could―

Fuck.

What you could love so bad you'd rip your own skin off, so they could touch your heart right with their own hands.

Billy nods. Will smiles. Steve’s frown softens and― waveswaveswaves. On an autumn morning. Waves lapping at the surface of an ocean of calm.

And now. Billy sings AC/DC with Max. His heart taking on water when his voice falls off-key and she clutches at her lungs, choking on laughter. Now, he sits in the back of an old shack halfway between who he is and who he should be and so, so very carefully turns at the pages of Will Byers' sketchbook.

And Billy Hargrove hit rock bottom one day in late October. Hit rock bottom and beat into pulp that pretty face he can't stop seeing in his dream. When he's asleep. When he's awake. Hit rock bottom and that's where he's going to stay. It's either that. Or risk coming up to the wrong surface. And it's easier, here at the bottom. Easier to see what matters, when you look up.

Here, Billy takes a breath. Deep. Deeper. Holds onto that air so he has something keeping him alive underwater when Steve snatches the drawing off his hands. Studies it carefully. Says,

"It's―Uhm. Well―" Grins "It's not. Beautiful. Like, conventionally." He eyes cut back to Billy and something in them breaks into whitewater, into that softness he can't help, as if everything else is as much of a lie as 'Billy Hargrove' and all those imaginary walls "But―"

He says ‘But’ and then. The bell goes off.

"Oh!" Will bounces on the spot "I have to―" he yanks the backpack shut "Class!"

He takes off. Running. Turning around right before the corner of the shack to wave at them, flashing one of those smiles Billy has involuntarily categorized as 'the good ones', wide and already almost panting again, before disappearing at the speed of light towards school and to, Billy hopes, be one of those few kids who are still going to be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the road. If they’re lucky.

(If Billy’s lucky)

Steve Harrington is still there, planted in front of him when the alarm stops.

"Can I bump one of those?" he asks, chin pointing to the smoke Billy's squeezing between his fingers. In the drift of his hair the Ray-Bans stay afloat, capsizing.

Billy bangs the base of the pack against his thigh, pops out a cigarette. Offers it to him. Scrapes his thumb along the wheel when Steve takes it to his lips, leaning forward and― It's broad daylight but in the thin glow of the flame it almost feels like it’s that exact instant when the world begins to fade, darkness turning wide-open spaces into narrow little universes: Steve Harrington and his red lips around the smoke and a small ache in the pad of Billy's thumb from keeping alive the fire and from wanting things with a bigger kind of ache, his heart cauterizing from holding inside the rage of knowing he's never, ever going to have them but―

"But?" Billy asks.

Steve grabs his wrist. Hollows out his cheeks. Inhales deep. Takes him a moment when he pulls away. To let go. Long enough that his fingers could read the way Billy's pulse is raging in his wrist, if he wanted to.

“But” And he’s smiling. Lopsided. He slips into Will's seat and stretches his neck toward the sky. Prolongs the wait. Exhales. "It's cute."

And then his gaze cuts down and he’s searching for him, with those eyes of his. For Billy, who can never stop looking at him so, when he finds him, finds him looking back already.

And Billy―

Billy.

"Cute?"

Billy. Blinks. His hand stops halfway from getting his own cigarette to his mouth. Stops his heart and it feels like time’s stopping too, in this narrowness Steve's presence has reduced the moment into. And he’s smiling big now. His eyes soft. Soft. So fucking soft. And Billy thinks,

You're getting soft too, Billy Hargrove. You want to let him shred off your skin, when Steve says,

"You," snorting a soft laugh, sun melting in his eyes like honey "With Will. Drawing."

Billy wants him to never stop looking at him like that. Wants to lean in, and kiss him.

"Shut up and smoke your fucking cigarette, Harrington" he growls.

And Steve rolls his eyes in a way that screams 'Gotcha, Hargrove', but leans his back against the peeling wood of the shack.

And does as he’s told.

(Next Tuesday, it's not just Will who shows up, when the bell starts ringing)

.

.

i just finished translating this and, since i had originally written this part as and stand-alone thing. here it is. idk if it's worth the work of translating it whole, or if i really feel like it but, we'll see!. i've been at war with life and writing this past few weeks but i've been missing you so much, fandom <3<3<3. hope you've been doing well.

also billy + will + drawing is one of my fav hcs and there are a few tiny things more that i wanna write? hopefully i will 🌟

#harringrove #billy hargrove #will byers #steve harrington #stranger things #billy x steve #steve x billy #billy & will #xharringrove

[shootybangbang]

In which peaches are eaten in more ways than one

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Explicit

[Prompt]: Arthur watches you seductively eat a juicy peach (from @outtricking)

[Ao3 Link]

———

The abandoned manor’s peach orchard is overgrown with tall grass and small white clusters of wild carrot blossoms. Most of its trees stand bare, choked with ivy, the vastness of their skeletons the only testament of their former grandeur. But here and there are straggled survivors, the majority of which have long since been picked clean by other travelers and passing wildlife. The only fruit left is strung up high in the topmost branches, hanging down golden-edged and plump. Ripe enough to make your mouth water.

“I don’t think climbing’s an option,” you say, pressing down on a tree’s lower branches to check its give. “We could get a big stick and try to knock ‘em off, or maybe you could just… uh… y’know… ”

You mime picking up an object and placing it on your shoulders.

Arthur sighs. “You want me to carry you.”

“It’s quicker and easier than anything else.”

“You ain’t paid me to be your horse.”

“That’s true,” you admit. At this point, the number of things you’ve had him do out-of-contract would probably fill a book. A decent person would concede his point and apologize. Instead, you try out a more oblique method. “And I’m probably too heavy for you, anyway.”

He gives you an irritated glance and shakes his head. “You tryin’ to bait me into provin’ you wrong?”

“Figured it was at least worth a shot,” you say, shrugging.

Arthur looks up at the top branches of the fruit tree, then at you, and works out a rough height comparison in his head. He sighs again and kneels down. “Alright then. Get on.”

“What — really?’

“Don’t wanna hear you complainin’ about this later is all.” He looks back in your direction expectantly. “C’mon. You want them peaches or not?”

You place a tentative hand on his right shoulder, leaning against him for support as you swing one leg over his left. “Then do I just… um… like this?”

“Yeah. Just like that. And now the other — yeah, there we go.”

Arthur steadies you by holding down your knees. He grips you firm but gentle, like a man trying to keep something frail and flighty from slipping between his fingers, and stands up.

The sudden shift in balance is startling. Your hands frantically search for something to hold onto for support, and you end up grabbing at his wrists as you reorient yourself. He stiffens at the contact, but says nothing.

When you’ve straightened your back enough to survey your surroundings from your new vantage point, you take a moment to appreciate the new perspective. “So this is what it’s like to be tall. Bet you run into a lot of spiderwebs.”

Arthur ignores this. “Can you reach ‘em?”

“Yeah, I think so.” You twist off a particularly large peach from a nearby branch and take off your hat to use as a makeshift basket, then swivel your hip to reach towards another that’s just barely within your grasp. “Too bad we’re not close to town”, you say, thinking already of possible desserts. “Sophia told me that over in Georgia they eat peaches with cream and sugar, and…”

For a while, you ruminate dreamily about peach cobblers and preserves, about the luxury of vanilla ice cream melting on latticed peach pie. And all the while Arthur clenches his jaw and tries as hard as he can to concentrate on what you’re saying in an attempt to divert his focus from the weight and warmth of your thighs atop his shoulders.

It’s something that he’ll carry with him for some time, he recognizes with a heavy pang of guilt. Something he’ll almost certainly keep carefully tucked away for later, when he’s alone in his own bedroll.

———

Late afternoon, you help him set up camp along the Kamassa River. After the horses have been watered and the kindling gathered, you both sit sprawled and weary against the ruined hull of an old boat half-sunk in the sand.

Resting his head against the sun bleached boards, Arthur briefly closes his eyes.

Through the woods comes the sound of cicadas, deafening in their multitude, ringing like an omnipresent hum, insistent and rhythmic in its cadence. Like a chant, a soft murmur of chitinous voices. Alongside it, the quick, clear notes of riverwater running through the rocks and the rustle of leaves overhead, the sway of branches arching from the wind in slow, lazy waves that merge overhead like a green sea.

And the distinctive scratch of graphite across paper. He drowsily cracks an eyelid open and angles his gaze downwards.

The battered notebook in your lap looks like it’s seen its fair share of miles. It’s tattered and dog-eared, with smeared ink at its edges. The leather cover is scuffed and stained, and the pages don’t quite sit flat, due to the occasional pressed flowers trapped between them.

He watches you scrawl out what looks like a brief itinerary of the day’s route, listing off landmarks passed along the road and detailing what flora and fauna you’re able to remember. Then little snippets of description that you cross out and rewrite with increasing frustration, disjointed but pretty little phrases littering the margins…

Your pencil stills. “You’re reading over my shoulder.”

“Trying to.” Arthur points to the corner of the page, where you’ve drawn a wobbly line with little stick trees atop it. Under it is a crude half-circle labelled boat. “This supposed to be where we’re at now?”

You bristle. “Yes.”

He gropes for something inoffensive to say, then opts for silence.

“Well, you’re the artist,” you say, offering him your pencil. “You draw it.”

“Sure,” he says, taking both notebook and pencil in hand. He flips to a clean page. “Not like I can do worse.”

Brushing sand off the seat of your pants, you stand up and stretch, raising your arms high and fitting your fingers together like interlocking gears. “I’m gonna go check on the peaches.”

———

The Kamassa runs cold, even in the dog days of summer. Earlier, you’d wrapped the peaches in sackcloth and submerged them in its waters, then ringed them tight with rocks to hold them in place. Now, you cut an inelegant figure as you crouch at the river’s edge and fish one out, cupping it thoughtfully against your palm to check whether it still holds the fading glow of afternoon heat.

You pick out the two biggest peaches in the pile before resecuring the rest, then seat yourself back beside him and proffer one to him.

Arthur shakes his head. He’s in the middle of sketching the sandbar in the middle of the river, drawing the shapes of shrubs and other assorted vegetation out from the blank paper expanse. “Don’t wanna get the page dirty.”

“Make sure you eat one later then,” you tell him. “So you don’t die in a ditch before I can hire you out again.”

He snorts. “Didn’t realize peaches could make a man bulletproof.”

“Ah, well… it’s more of a superstitious thing, really. Like knocking on wood or throwing salt over your shoulder.” A hint of embarrassment creeps into your voice. For a moment you seem almost shy — but then you toss a peach up in the air and catch it again, like a performance of the world’s worst juggling act, and it passes. “You give people peaches for good health and a long life. Considering your line of work, I figure you need all the help you can get.”

“Figure a decent gun’ll do me more good than any peach ever will,” he says wryly. “You eat ‘em both. God knows you need the luck just as much as I do.”

———

The rippled light reflected in the water is only just beginning to tint gold. The horizon edges pale, shifting slow to the soft, warm shades of early evening. But only the faint suggestion of it, a subtle gradation filtering in imperceptibly at the present, but that he knows will flood in all at once with the inevitable trajectory of the sun.

Golden hour, Mason had called it. Goes quick, but it’s worth it. I’ve known some photographers to set up camp and wait all day for just that little window of time.

The landscape itself feels soft and heavy, almost drunk from its own perfect interplay of light and dark. The clarity of day dims to a suggestion of itself, and everything is briefly gilded, momentarily transfigured into something striking and achingly pretty, and you no exception.

A sliver of sunset settles over your skin. A veil of amber, a veil of rose, both colors folding in on themselves like silk. The glint of light that reflects across your irises makes visible the ridged corona circling your pupils, the tiny crenellations and impurities of color. Bright and sharp as cut glass.

He watches you bite into a peach, and its dusk-pink skin breaks beneath your teeth with a wet, crisp noise as you tear through to the soft and yielding flesh beneath. Then you bite down again, and your lips are shiny with nectar now, dripping with it.

A clear rivulet of peach juice runs down your wrist like blood. You raise your arm to your mouth to catch it, then trace it back to its source with your tongue, and he can’t help but wonder at the taste — the sweetness of fruit mixed with the salt of your skin.

“Oh, these are really good,” you say with pleasant surprise. “Sure you don’t want one?”

Arthur tries to suppress the sudden twinge of arousal running through his body by staring very hard at a tree. “I’m sure.”

When he’s finally able to settle himself to a manageable level of sexual frustration, he forces his attention back to sketching. He lays out the wash of sand and silt that lies liminal between woods and water, then the ridge of grass that marks the river’s reach when swollen with rain and spring melt. The twinned, twisted alders on each shore whose roots hold fast to the ground as their boughs reach over the water and towards each other, like doomed lovers. The gaptoothed boat hull half-buried and long abandoned.

By the time he’s finished, both peaches have been reduced to their pits, and the light has begun its transition to a deepening red. A last brief cry of sunlight before it’s stifled by the cold blue of evening.

“It’s beautiful,” you tell him, when he hands the notebook back over. “If you finally get tired of robbing stagecoaches, you should do this for a living instead.”

He makes a dismissive noise, but there’s a clear look of satisfaction on his face. “You flatterin’ me because you want another favor?”

“No, I’m serious. This is pretty enough to belong in a book.” You touch your fingers to the page with the kind of care he’s only seen you lavish on the things he’s known you to hold very dear: the faded red hair ribbon, the well-thumbed guide to wildflowers, the thin jade pendant you sometimes wear tucked under your shirt… and now this — just an offhand scribble of his of no particular effort.

“I, uh… it’s a real rough sketch.” A flush of embarrassment colors his cheeks, and it’s obvious to anyone with eyes in their head that for him, compliments are a gift as rare as they are precious. “Next time you hire me out, I’ll sit down and draw you something proper.”

“I’d like that,” you say, and nod. “I’ll hold you to it.”

———

A few hours later, Arthur sits by the fire and tries to measure the exact depth of the idiocy he’s plunged himself into.

You’d gone to bed first, citing exhaustion. And he’d taken the time spent alone to jot down a few thoughts in his journal, attempt a handful of sketches, then inadvertently kindle in himself a desperate, hopeless need for intimacy so intense that, were he truly on his own, he’d not have hesitated to take himself in hand for relief.

It’s a foolish thing to do, encouraging his own infatuation like this. But the images are fresh in his head still and his hand itches to put them to paper, wanting to keep them somewhere beyond the whim of memory.

And so he traces with his pencil the soft, indulgent cast of your eyes as you’d cupped the peach in your hand, bringing it to your mouth with the simple decadence of Eve and her apple: the innocent gesture embodying something intensely sinful. Each bite near tangible in his blood, as though it were his heart in your teeth, its every painful beat an ache of barely suppressed impulse.

Then the drip of nectar down your wrist, the pink flick of your tongue lapping it up with a quick, smooth glide across your skin. Peach juice glistening on your lips like honey. And his own base reinterpretations of it all, distorting reality to innuendo and bringing to the surface things he’s only let himself imagine in the confines of his cot, with the tent flaps drawn tightly shut.

The weight of your thighs on his shoulders comes to mind again, and if he shuts his eyes he can nearly place himself into that oft-used fantasy of his — you, sat on the edge of a hotel bed with him knelt before you, whispering hoarse and breathless praise as he licks into you. Your fingers running through his dark blond hair as you speak to him like a favored pet.

The flat of his tongue running against your clit with slow, careful strokes. Your desperate whimpers as he draws the nub between his lips and sucks, the tremble of your body, the taste of your slick. The sound of his name on your lips, the syllables of it faint and shivery with pleasure.

And afterwards, the sight of you sprawled across the sheets, eyes dreamy and soft as you beckon him towards you. Take out your cock, you’d say. Show me just how much you liked doing that to me.

Arthur closes the notebook and walks down to the river. He dips his hands through its surface, the reflected moonlight there rippling into a bright mosaic of broken glass in his wake, then cups the cold water between his fingers and splashes it over his face.

“Dirty old man,” he mutters to himself. “Oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

When he reaches down to repeat the action, he brushes against sackcloth and automatically pulls the bundle of submerged peaches from the water.

Long life and good health, you’d said. He scoffs at the very notion of it. It’s a foreign concept for someone who’s taken so many lives that he’s all but guaranteed his own to be nasty, brutish and short.

And truth be told, it’s been a long time since he’s even bothered to think about any future for himself outside of the immediate. Not much to look forward to save the small, petty pleasures afforded to him, most of which have been bought with the blood of other men. Not much to work for, save the next big score. The promise of stability — it’s not a luxury afforded to the likes of him. Nor should it be, if a man’s fate really is weighed by his deeds.

He’s made his peace with it by now. Kept his expectations low and steered clear of personal commitments. So it’s really very stupid then, that he’s spent so much time nursing the seeds of his own wretched affection that they’ve already begun to sprout.

More and more these days, he’s caught himself marking down points of interest whenever he’s out wandering. Setting up the skeletons of future excursions in his head. And with each new meeting, the possibility of the next looms in him eager and expectant.

Arthur unwraps a peach from the sackcloth and brings it to his mouth. It’s sweet — sweeter than it has any right to be, growing as it has unattended and abandoned in that red Lemoyne dirt.

The cicada song has quieted to a whisper. Fireflies spiral in arcane patterns over the grass, blinking their silent messages through the dark. Night birds are calling, their sounds strange and strident over the rush of river water.

In the midst of all this, Dutch Van der Linde and all his talk of savage utopia seem further away than ever. More past than present.

He bites into the peach again and closes his eyes, savoring the taste. Long life and good health. Probably no more unfeasible than any other thing he’s had preached to him for the last twenty years. And not an unpleasant prospect, if the days spent are anything like this one.

No, he thinks to himself, pulling another peach from the bundle. Not a bad prospect at all.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #red dead redemption #rdr2 #fic #smut #my work

[izukyu]

𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐬 - keigo takami x reader

this is a birthday gift for my crackhead wine aunt, @waddle-yee​. katie i love u so much it’s unreal! i hope you enjoy the crumbs m’lady!

reblogs are appreciated bc i worked really hard on this, heart eyes.

pairing - keigo takami (hawks) x reader.

word count - 2.3k.

warnings - very vague manga spoilers for pro hero arc, possibly ooc hawks, swearing, and just. a lot of fluff.

summary - hawks needed to gain the public’s hearts once again, and attending a charity event seemed like the way to go, but falling for the cute artist in charge of him wasn’t something he planned on. 

★ - requests are open

“your ratings are falling, hawks”

being bothered during his lunch break wasn’t something keigo was particularly fond of. the one time of the day he could let loose in his office, ruined.

“is that so?” he could only hope his agent would understand his words in the midst of his chewing, making a point he was only half-interested in the newsletter.

“the hero public safety commission reached out, you need to get your approval up again before they intervene.”

keigo gulped.

what a mouthful. they were never good news - the last time keigo met with them he was deployed as a spy, for crying out loud. needless to say, he was still their subordinate, and rejecting their demands was nothing more than a heavenly reverie.

“so, got any ideas?” keigo put down his plastic plate, lamenting the unfinished state of lunch.

“well, there’s this charity event coming up, and they’re calling for - ”

“i’m in! send me the time and place and i’ll be there,” sadly. it’s not like he had any personal vendettas with charity events or the public per se, but the simple fact he had to be shoved into one to please his superiors was enough to leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

next time he’d attend to one of his own accords.

“i’ll send it to you by email.”

keigo gave the poor intern a frown, his eyebrows drawn. “just send me a text, sheesh.”

-

maybe if he had paid more attention to the text then maybe he wouldn’t be stuck in this quandary of graphite and stillness

“you do this to every guy you meet?”

you scoffed, eyes never once leaving the canvas before you. “yes, every model i work with is required to stand still, if that’s what you were wondering.”

keigo was glad he put on a smile from the start, or else you would’ve chewed him out for moving too much.

the event was still a couple weeks away, but portraits don’t grow on trees. in all fairness, keigo was a killer model - every magazine featuring him sells out within the hour, and the photographers he’s worked with never fail to shower him in compliments and praise.

his charm didn’t seem to carry on to drawings, apparently. as you’d put it before, he was but ‘an over-energetic city pigeon that would chase around little kids for fun at every given opportunity’.

oddly specific, but it got a chuckle out of him.

“i’m almost done, so just stand still for a little longer.”

“won’t be a problem, dove, i’m already a pro,” keigo had to suppress another snicker as you hid behind the canvas, your face growing warm at the dumb pet name. another tally for hawks in his imaginary scoreboard. although standing still for longer than ten minutes wasn’t something he could see himself doing ever again, teasing you would definitely be a must in the near future.

anything for your flushed, annoyed expression.

“your wing did the thing again.”

of course it did. keigo wailed silently, dreading the sound of your pencil meeting the cotton before you, scratching and imposing.

the passing of time seemed like a foreign concept the longer he posed in front of you, amber eyes preying on you. every movement, every speck of graphite staining your hands, forever engraved in his mind. you didn’t question his sudden quietness, too engrossed in finishing the first of many portraits you’d have to make for the event.

would every other hero be as jittery and energetic as the man standing before you? 

would every other hero grow uneasy at the idea of standing still for no longer than fifty minutes?

“alright, you’re good to go.”

startled, keigo nearly fell off the small stool. “oh, was that all?”

you felt your eye twitch, choosing to ignore his wit, ��it’s weird to think your portrait will probably go beyond five digits, someone’s gonna willingly pay to have those bushy eyebrows in their living room.”

keigo choked on his spit, coughs laced with laughter overruling the silence of the studio. “where did that come from?”

with a shrug and a triumphant smirk, you start to usher him out of your studio, “it had to be said, but you’re still cute, so i wouldn’t count it as a loss!” there were projects that needed your undivided attention and care, some with scary deadlines, and a birdman wasn’t exactly someone you needed to prioritize now. “see you at the event, yeah?”

“wait, hey, i wanna see what it looks like - ”

“no can do, have a great afternoon!”

before he could protest, he was already out and gone from your studio, the door nearly slamming on his wings. without much thinking, he turned around, his knuckles grazing against the door repeatedly. “c’mon, not even a sneak peak? i promise i won’t tell!”

someone clearing their throat behind him tore keigo away from the piece of wood in a heartbeat.

“endeavor-san, nice meeting you here! y’see, i left something inside, and i was just knocking so - “

“i don’t want to know.”

what was it with today and everyone interrupting him?

keigo snapped his fingers, “copy that.” from the corner of his eyes he spotted a neat pile of presentation cards, almost begging to be noticed and put to use.

fine, if you didn’t feel like letting him into your heart he’d just have to irk you over text.

knowing better than to bother endeavor again, keigo simply stepped out of the room, his fingers eagerly keying in the digits into his cellphone.

spoiler alert, it wasn’t you who texted him back, but your assistant was a delight, and set him up for another session after the event.

-

keigo has a strong, abhorrent opinion on wearing suits. they’re stuffy, constricting, and make his wings itch more than normal. despite having a custom-made, tailored suit, the sentiment of being under lock and key only ever went away as soon as he lost the jacket and shirt. something he couldn’t quite do in an event like this.

“what do you mean they’re running late?”

your second in command sighed, eyes still glued on their phone. from the brief texts they had shared, keigo would be proud to admit they’d found a friend in your friend, if that made any sense. “there were some supplies left in the studio, had to run back to get ‘em.”

keigo sighed. just what he needed in this trying time.

“but the portraits are already up if you want to check them out.”

oh.

among the sea of bidders inspecting the canvases on display, keigo’s feeble attempts to get a closer look were fruitless. his wings usually gave leverage when his height failed to do so, but flapping in such a close environment would bring more trouble than it’s worth.

with a defeated sigh (admitting to lacking in height was… disheartening) two of his feathers flew down to his feet, giving him the small boost he needed.

he most certainly didn’t expect to come face-to-face with himself.

minutes passed, and keigo remained under a trance. it was simplistic, the graphite morphing to cast an umbra on portrait-hawks. he could picture almost perfectly the light and shadow dancing together in both the canvas up for bidding and your skilled hands, the same ones that had left a nasty smudge on the back of his coat.

lo and behold, you were right, his unruly eyebrows were rather prominent.

“sorry for the delay, the traffic was horrible and the cab - don’t get me started on the cab,” you ranted as you walked through the busy hall, chanting apologies left and right. “the auction hasn’t started yet, right?”

“no, but there’s someone waiting for you.”

you furrowed your eyebrows. the people attending were either eager to see their favorite heroes in ritzy clothing or aching to take one of them home - in a canvas, of course. “don’t get me wrong, i love getting the work going, but i swear these deadlines are gonna be the death of me.”

“no need to fret,” keigo stepped down from his feathers, and you couldn’t quite read the expression on his face. happy? tired? finally becoming the paragon of tenderhearted? “i’m part of your schedule already, booked a sesh and all.”

“... you mean the one I just cancelled?”

his wings drooped almost comically, “the one you just what?”

teasingly, you pushed him back, consequently making him bump into someone else. “i’m just messing around, i’m actually looking forward to it.” you could only watch as he gave the person a brief apology, posing for a selfie milliseconds after. heroes.

“is that so? i thought i was a bad subject,” keigo tugged at his collar, making a mental note to burn the shit out of the suit once home.

“the worst, actually,” more people began migrating to the opposite side of the room before the auction started. “but you’re fun to be around, so i’ll manage.”

keigo couldn’t contain his smile this time. it wasn’t his signature snigger you’d have flooding your timeline after his photo sessions, rather just a simple, genuine tug of his lips.

“and maybe you’re kinda pretty, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

and just like that, the warm smile contorted into a smug smirk. “you got me there, dove! wasn’t expecting that to come out of your pretty mouth.”

you huffed, diving to give his cheek a good pinch before dragging him to follow the rest of the guests. “that’s one creepy way to phrase it. now take a seat, i’ve got to hand out a couple of endeavors and edgeshots.”

keigo, still savoring the compliment like a kid would with a sweet, took an extra second to process those words. “they got more than one?”

-

cut to his second private session. five minutes after your scheduled lunch break, some leftover fries and ice cream exiled to your desk.

“alright, something’s on your mind.”

keigo remained stationary. this time it was just a mere pencil in your hand, waltzing on the canvas without a worry on its nonexistent mind. calculated. precise. free. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

you sighed, tucking the pencil behind your ear, sparing the finished sketch a last glance before walking to the brooding bird before you. “your wings, they’re not doing the thing.”

“and what about it?”

“well, for one, it was much easier to jot them down, i can assure you they’ll look great once i paint them,” keigo shuddered as you stood closer, how did you even get a lead stain on your cheek? “but i think i know you well enough to deduce something’s up. you’re not even being a cocky cockatiel.”

keigo let out a long, long sigh. “i’m not a cockatiel.”

“and you’re not being yourself. c’mon, why’d you even come here if you’re just gonna be grumpy?”

a brief flash of cold, burning blue clouded his mind. “work’s getting to me, i guess.”

you weren’t a pro hero of any sorts, the only context you had regarding that chaotic world would come from whatever hashtag was trending, and the occasional hero dropping by your studio to talk business. nevertheless, you knew how to spot and comfort a gloomy friend.

“you wanna paint yourself?”

“what?”

that seemed to get his attention, and it brought a smile to your face. you bit your lip eagerly, “i need to go get some paints, but you look like you need some cheering up, so you’re not leaving this room without painting your own portrait”

keigo’s lip trembled involuntarily, your words tugging at his already-soft heart. “i’ve never - i’ve never touched a paintbrush in my life.”

“woah, not even at school?”

“homeschooled.”

your hand moved on its own, ruffling his naturally messy hair. “i’ll get you acrylic paint.”

he could only tap his foot anxiously in your absence, running a hand across his face. the commission, as per usual, found great joy to bother him through day and night, almost as if his suffering tickled their ribs. keigo wouldn’t mind playing the part of the asshole kid who took tickling way too far when it came to them, hero regulations and spy work be damned.

not to mention the dust-up he had with a certain cremated acquaintance a couple days back, leaving him featherless and vulnerable for a whole day.

but as you approached him once again, a number of paints cradled in your arms and pockets, keigo could feel the weight in his shoulders slowly mitigating.

“okay, what do you think feels like the way to go?”

thankfully, his wings could twitch to their content while wearing your apron. he would’ve been just fine painting without any safety measures, but your flabbergasted expression urged him to realize clothes are expensive.

keigo gripped the paintbrush with one hand, the other holding a red paint tube, “this can’t be rocket science, i got this.”

your boisterous laughter as he squeezed some paint straight into the paintbrush told him that maybe it was rocket science after all.

“it’s not a toothbrush, keigo!” god, he loved his name rolling off your tongue.

“oh my god, next time try cleaning the paintbrush before you start to paint with another color.” he was certain your giggles could keep him going through endless crimes and stacks of paperwork.

“hey, that’s cute, you’re using different colors for your suit.”

keigo chuckled, “can’t have the piss color scheme spicing up my living room.”

that was the final straw, and you both rightfully lost it. leaning into each other to prevent falling to the floor as a result of raw elation. even your snorts were adorable, your babbling a melody to his ears, and shrieks of amusement making his heart thump faster.

at the end of the day, keigo left the studio with a gorgeous painting, as you’d generously put it. the first time he’d truly felt unbound to everything to be forever remembered with a mess of colors and sloppy strokes hanging proudly atop his bed.

the first time keigo ever felt truly free on canvas.

★ - check out the rest of my works!

★ - wanna get tagged in my stuff?

general: @brattyquirks​ @quirkless-fics​ @tooloudarts​ @bringingpinkbac-k​ @thewaterlily​ @kittyatemytaco​ @nyantodamax145​ @iachan03​ @imconfusedanditsok​ @nishigo​ @torrpe​ @bakugo-baby​ @lovingshoto​ @yuueimagines​ @shigarakis-fifth-hand​ @uwus-for-bnha​

hawks: @witchy-anna​

#bnha x reader #hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #keigo x reader #takami x reader #hawks #keigo takami #keigo #takami #mha x reader

[thephantomofthe-internet]

Read Into Me Chapter 3: The Scarlet Letter

Steve Harrington x Reader

CATCH UP ON THE SERIES HERE

Word Count: 4,420

Warnings: Bad grades, swearing, anxiety, bullying

Tag List: @divinity-deos @thecaptainsgingersnap @wolfish-willow @scoopsohboi @herre-gud-nej @clockworkballerina​ @maddie1504​ @i-am-trash-so-much-its-scary​ @bajino-in-the-hole @buckysarge​ @wildcvltre​ @stanleyyelnatsiii​ @t0rmenta0​ @10blurredsmoke10 @unusuallchildd @n3wtscaseofniffler5​ @alwaysstressedout @peterparxour @linkispink1995​ @asharpknife @a-big-ball-of-idk​ @used-avocado​ @mochminnie​ @sledgy14​ @the-creative-lie​

Steve arrived first to Mr. Lawrence’s homeroom, his paper shoved to the back of his notebook. He was happy to have the distraction of Vicki and Tina jabbering at him. He didn’t want to think about his paper. English wasn’t his best subject, but he could hide it from his peers when it was just the teacher and him going back and forth on essays, him writing and them marking. Now, somebody was going to know that he wasn’t good at this. Nancy knew, of course, and while she didn’t say it she always seemed a bit judgemental over his lack of essay writing skill. She was good at everything; it made him feel like he was in good hands when they were together, like they both had something to offer. Apart, it made him feel stupid and secondary, like he was awful at everything. Truth be told, he didn’t exactly know what he had even offered to that relationship, looking back he couldn’t understand why he thought he was worth anything in a relationship at all.

When he sat down, the desk next to him was empty. Steve wasn’t usually early to class, so he was a bit relieved to not see you there. Maybe he could avoid the eminent roasting of his work.

You got to school late. You were absolutely drenched from head to toe. You had walked to school that day, and a sudden rainstorm hit you halfway through, soaking you before you could make it to the building. To make it worse, you’d decided to wear white for the first time in forever. You rushed to your locker in the hopes to change and luckily you’d left a stained sweatshirt there from the previous semester. You’d pushed your wet hair up and away from your face and rubbed away the bits of black eyeliner that had flaked down you cheeks. You looked like shit and you knew it. It was turning into a less than successful morning. You hadn’t even had a chance to look in your locker mirror once you’d changed. You were already late enough for class and didn’t need the write up. You rushed to your English class.

Everyone turned their attention to the doorway when you opened it. You hurried to your desk, keeping your head down and ignoring as Vicki and Tina laughed. You heard Tina say “She looks like a drowned rat.” But you chose to pretend that you didn’t. You were freezing; Hawkins High turned off the heating system mid-March and left the school to stew in whatever weather the state was dealing with to save the county a few bucks a month.

Steve slid his paper onto your desk, keeping his eye on the front of the room as Mr. Lawrence took up attendance. He’d written on the board in chalk ‘how to peer edit’ in thick block letters. You weren’t exactly enthused by the topic, but you were glad to have the dull class to doodle instead of actually listening. You flipped the paper in front of you, looking over Steve’s chicken scratch without really taking in any of the information. You slid it into your trapper keeper, passing Steve your own typed copy of the assignment. You’d made sure to keep the original at home, edited just in case Steve didn’t give you any edits. You left in some mistakes so he could get a grade, but you didn’t want to have to rely solely on him.

You flipped open your sketchpad slowly, keeping your eye on Tracy Lords curly mess of hair piled high on the top of her head like Medusa’s snakes trapped in a golden laurel, or in this case a braided headband. You pulled your graphite pencil from the pink pencil bag you’d sewn in freshman year home-ec. You started with the shape, trying to capture the exact strangeness pile, making little tight curls in the centre of the oval and spiralling in all directions. You felt a pair of eyes on your neck and you turned to see Steve staring over your shoulder. You pulled yourself and the pad inward, trying not to blush. You didn’t like people looking at your art; you hardly showed your work to anyone, even Samantha. All of your drawings sat in their pads, which piled up as the years went by, untouched and forgotten. If Samantha wasn’t allowed to see the pictures of her, Steve Harrington was certainly not allowed a peak.

“Alright, today if you and your partner are ready to begin, we’ll start editing our papers. If you aren’t ready, that’s fine but today is the only day that we’re doing in class editing so I would spend today trying to finish up so you can at least pass your papers on.” Mr. Lawrence explained. You sighed, closing your pad and pulling Steve’s essay from your trapper keeper.

“Now, we want to look for not only spelling and grammar problems, but also sentences that don’t make sense and confusing details within the essay. It’s not about how many big words you can use, it’s if you can accurately and dynamically give your reader information.” Mr. Lawrence explained. He took to the board, writing key points for his marking, specifically to edit in pen and give a letter grade for the paper.

Tina’s hand shot up “You want us to grade the paper? Isn’t that your job?” she asked, smacking her gum violently. Vicki snickered into her palm, reddish brown hair away from her face.

Mr. Lawrence shook his head “No no, I’m not taking your grade on the papers into consideration for my grade, instead I want us to give each other grades to mark the progress of an essay, to give your partner an idea of what the paper might be worth. It’ll be up to them as to whether or not they are comfortable with the grade or if they want to improve.”

You didn’t like that. Who the hell wanted their classmate grading their paper? This was a recipe for disaster. You uncapped your red pen with your teeth, chewing on the lid nervously. You looked over the page. You had made up your mind that you’d be nice. You’d want Steve to be nice to you. It was the least you could do.

But it only took a few lines to understand that this was not a good paper. Spelling and grammar mistakes galore, run on, confusing sentences, no clear subject. It wasn’t even a good story, hell it wasn’t even an essay it came off more like a point form list. As you added more and more red ink to the black, white, and blue it started as. The paper started to become a Jackson Pollack more than a lame essay for an English class, it almost felt beautiful instead of shitty to destroy his essay. It was as though you were turning into art.

Out of curiosity, you looked over at your paper to see how it was fairing. Steve was, as expected, chatting up Vicki from across the aisle, and he’d made two corrections on your page, both small mistakes you’d left in. You rolled your eyes, a pit of annoyance making itself known in the centre of your stomach, as bitter as the cyanide in a peach pit. You made your last two corrects before scrawling a large ‘D’ at the top of the page and initialling next to it.  

You flipped the paper over and pulled back out your sketchpad and brought it close to your chest, pulling your knee up to your chest and adding more curls to the back of Tracy Lords’ head, then focusing in on the braided headband until the bell rang. You flipped your pad closed and slid Steve’s essay back to him, quickly putting your stuff away.

“You mind if I take this home and give it to you tomorrow?” Steve asked, waving your essay in front of your face, nearly giving you a paper cut on the bridge of your nose.

You pushed the paper away, squinting up at him. “Yeah, whatever…” you replied, turning away from. You didn’t feel bad for giving him a bad grade now. He was still a dick head. “Don’t forget your paper.” You added, quickly making your way into the halls. You didn’t usually have the confidence to be snarky with anyone you didn’t trust, but something told you that you could handle Steve Harrington. Maybe it was just how awful his essay was, you felt like you could talk your way out of a fight.

Samantha grabbed your arm as you left the room, the pair of you thankful to have the same lunch period every other day. You hurried into the cafeteria. You knew well enough that she was on the prowl, eyes scanning the room for a certain figure.

“I think the band’s practising today, dude.” You said, taking an extra tray for Samantha and getting her serving of lumpy mashed potatoes and chicken surprise slopped on the plate. Samantha was looking for Robin Buckley, a junior on her soccer team who had drawn her attention as of late, and had been trying to get closer to her as of late, inviting her to join them for lunch every time she saw her and leaving you to third wheel.

“Yeah, probably.” She replied, taking the tray you held out for her and paid for her meal. “So, how’d talking sweet, sexy assignments with King Harrington?” Samantha crooned, batting her eyelashes up at you.

You rolled your eyes “Well, for one, we don’t talk period, and for another it’s fucking awful.” Taking your places at the table closest to the emergency exit, you settled into your routine of trying to choke down the awful cafeteria food. You grabbed your trays and had them filled with whatever horrific concoction the lunch ladies had come up with that day. You carried your grey and brown mushy mess to your table, a small four seater near the edge of the room, out of view from the popular assholes who liked the throw food.

“Oh? Is that what makes it awful? Not getting to enjoy the charming conversations he has to offer?” Samantha was trying hard not to laugh. Watching you squirm was hilarious.

“More like because I have to read his writing…” you replied. You jabbed your fork into what was supposed to be pot roast, but seemed to be ninety percent instant gravy and ten percent meat from an undetermined animal.

“Since when are you such a snob?” Samantha’s mouth was full of mashed potatoes, but the words rang clear.

“Since I spent my morning reading absolute dog shit about a vacation to Miami beach. It was pathetic! I mean, and I’m no critic, but if you’re going to write me an essay on your vacation, can you at least make it interesting?” you ranted. The more you talked about how awful it was the angrier you got about it. You spent so long on art and creating, you spent your time working hard and for someone to slide through life made your blood boil.

Steve didn’t usually spend his free time searching through the cafeteria for people, people usually found him. Tommy and Carol had already motioned him over, their new friend Billy already gone somewhere else, and Vicki and Tina had called for him to join them, but Steve had to handle something first. He didn’t really know what he was looking for, he wasn’t certain he’d find it in there, but there wasn’t any shame in searching. He would ask someone for directions, but it seemed that nobody knew or cared where you were at any time.

You gave him a ‘D’. A god damned ‘D’! He was flummoxed, he thought his essay was shit, he wouldn’t pretend that he didn’t, but he had expected you to be a bit kinder. That was like the unexpected rule of everyone in the class, to grade on the curve. But you went in hard. All he wanted was some answers.

He saw first a flash of pencil stained hands in the air, then the shine of your hair under the florescent lights. You were talking with your hands, making Samantha Cameron laugh hard. He’d never seen you that animated, it made him smile for reasons he didn’t quite understand.

He chuckled, coming up behind you in the hopes that your ease would stick around if he didn’t announce his presence. “You really gave me a D on my paper? What did I do to deserve that?” he asked.

Apparently, you really couldn’t smile when he was around. Both you and Samantha’s smiles dropped, your punky friend dropping her gaze as you were forced to turn around. “Oh…um…well I mean it…maybe I need to look it over again, I was probably being too harsh…” you stuttered, unable to keep yourself from burning up.  You prayed that he hadn’t heard what you were saying. That would’ve been awful.

“Hey, it’s cool, the paper’s no good, it’s no big deal.” That was a lie of sorts, when Steve saw the big red ‘D’, his heart dropped. And he really didn’t believe that you were as innocent as you seemed. You seemed guilty over something.

“Well…I’m sorry anyway. I didn’t mean to bother you…” you apologized. You hoped he’d go away; you’d never been more uncomfortable around a person than Steve Harrington. You didn’t know why, but something about him made gave you more butterflies than other people did, he scared you for reasons you couldn’t quite understand.

“You didn’t bother me, don’t worry.” Steve chuckled awkwardly. You wouldn’t look him in the eye, it was throwing him off. “So, listen, I don’t want to fail this class,” he huffed out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck “Could you maybe help me rewrite this thing?”

You looked to Samantha, unsure if you could even speak words anymore, but she was smirking into her pot roast. Absolutely no help at all. You tried to smile “Um…sure, I can’t promise I’ll be much help though…” your voice was hoarse and unsure of itself. You hated that you’d said yes, but you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse. What if he got mad? Or yelled at you? You couldn’t handle being ridiculed or yelled at, you’d die.

Steve chuckled “Any help I can get is good enough. I can meet you in the library after school, okay?” he said, turning his gaze to Tommy’s hollering from across the cafeteria. He waved him over with both hands, like a sailor on a sinking ship, trying to beckon Steve back to where he belonged. Steve nodded, holding up his index finger, he only needed one minute.

“Sure, yeah that’ll work.” You said, fiddling with a thread hanging from the edge of your grey sweatshirt. You’d painted a little pink flower on the inside of the sleeve. When Steve saw it, he couldn’t help but smile at it; it looked so sweet and earnest.

“Alright, I’ll see you then.” He left after that, heading over to Tommy, who was frustrated beyond belief. He took his seat easily, stealing the pudding cup off of Carol’s tray wordlessly.

“What did that freak want?” Tommy asked loudly, his eyes blown wide. Carol was painting her nails, not even bothering to look up from her work. Tommy made no attempts to hide his dislike of you. He’d expected his best friend since the second grade to feel the same.

“She’s nice, we’re doing an assignment together.” Steve replied with a shrug, pulling the plastic covering off the cup, sticking the plastic spoon into the vanilla pudding.

Across the room, Samantha grabbed onto your hands with a giddy grin. “Look at my little girl! She’s got plans, with a boy!” she squealed, swinging your arms back and forth over the table.

“Jesus, can you please stop acting so straight? You’re gonna scare Robin off.” You yanked your hands away, watching with a grin as she turned her attention back to looking around the room excitedly. You let your eyes find Steve in the cafeteria, the buzz of fear filling your ears. You couldn’t believe that you agreed to meet him anywhere. You wanted to disappear.

You couldn’t focus on anything for the rest of the day. Your mind had gone into a feral sort of panic mode, pumping fear through your veins and turning your palms cold. When the final bell rang, it took all your strength and courage to not run all the way home. You knew that if you didn’t show, the problem wouldn’t go away. You’d just have to deal with the results of ditching the next day, and if not done now, then you’d have to deal with it another day. You clutched your books tight to your chest, sitting on the bench outside the library, trying to keep the butterflies from bursting out of your mouth. Your hands kept coming to your hair, trying to fix it or keep it away from your ears, maybe just to comfort yourself. It had dried weird and you worried that it looked ridiculous.

You saw his shoes come up to yours before you saw his face, royal blue Adidas with white and red details and dirty laces. You noted your own dirty white Converse, marked with mud and lyrics to songs that Samantha wrote on the toes. “Hey, you ready to do this?” Steve asked. You looked up and nodded, swallowing hard.

You wouldn’t make eye contact with him again. It was really starting to freak him out. He didn’t know what he did wrong, but it seemed like you really didn’t like him. Still, you’d agreed to help him and he wouldn’t take that for granted. He’d read your essay twice and it was good. He didn’t know much about good writing, but he knew that Mr. Lawrence would like it, that it would get a good grade. And he wanted decent grades too, so he could get into college and get his dad off his back.

The Hawkins High library was fairly quiet after school, most students headed back home or to after school clubs.  Only a few stragglers remained, mostly using electric typewriters and returning books to poor Mrs. Mueller, who always kept the library open till four, waiting for her husband, the head of custodial staff, to finish his work. She smiled at you when you walked in. Mrs. Mueller was a nice woman who let you sit in the library during lunch and always checked in on you when you seemed alone. She was your favourite teacher, despite never having a class taught by her.

Steve chose a table in the dead centre of the room, dropping his blue bag on the wooden chair next to him and pulling out his papers. You carefully followed suite, folding your hands in your lap, unsure what to do with them. Steve smiled at you, sliding the essay towards you “So, what am I doing wrong?” he asked.

You narrowed your eyes, unsure where to begin. You picked up the paper, and then open your notebook, writing down everything the story seemed to be about. Steve watched you, utterly confused.  Once you had every down, you set down your pen. “Okay,” you didn’t look up from your paper, sliding the essay to the middle of the table. “Tell me what your paper is about.”

“What? You read it, you should know.” Steve laughed awkwardly.

“Humour me.” You replied, looking up slowly to meet his eye. Steve’s smiled dropped, looking at you for a second. You broke eye contact first, but he wished he had been able to hold it for a moment longer.

“Okay, well,” he took a deep breath “I wrote about my family’s trip to our cottage on Miami Beach, and I talked about what I did. Nothing much.”

“Okay, because what you actually wrote isn’t really about that. What you told me is that you went to Miami Beach, your parents own a dirty beach house that was your grandparent’s house and that they’re both dead, that your grandfather fought in World War Two and that the medals were framed in the house, that you met a girl on the beach but she didn’t like you, and that the flight was long.” You explained. You still couldn’t believe that he’d fit all of that into a page of work.

“So?” Steve asked. That was all true of his last trip. Mind you, that was way back in middle school and the details were hazy.

“So, that’s a lot of information that I don’t care about. You can cut all of the stuff about your grandparents, which takes up like half of it. And when you cut that, all I know is that the beach house is in Miami Beach and you met a girl and the flight was long. That’s not bad, but I’d like to know a bit more about it.” You said, taking back the essay from the middle of the page and crossed out every line about his grandparents.

“What do I say instead then?” Steve asked, watching as you crossed out half his page, trying not to sound defeated. You were basically saying that he had to start all over again.

“Well, tell me about the beach? Pretend like I’ve never been. What’s there to do, what’d you like about it?” you shrugged. You found yourself feeling a tad bit calmer; the butterflies had calmed their intense flapping and had let you breathe.

Steve sighed “I don’t know, I’m just bullshitting.”

“What’d you mean?” you asked.

“I mean, I didn’t go on there, I haven’t been to our beach house since I was a kid.” Steve looked away. He was embarrassed to have been caught in a lie, even more knowing that now he’d have to rewrite his whole paper.

“Oh…what’d you actually do on your break?” you hadn’t expected him to be lying about anything, a snow bird spring break trip sounded about right for his family, they were always bragging about their money.

Steve chuckled “Oh no, nothing worth writing an essay on.” You looked up at him again. He seemed a bit sad. You pulled another sheet of paper from your trapper keeper, setting it overtop the last one.

“Tell me about it.” You smiled at him despite yourself. He was bit easier to talk to than you’d imagined.

Steve swallowed, nodding despite himself. “Well, I mean my parents went to the beach house and I tried to throw a party, you probably heard about how that went.” He rubbed at the back of his neck.

“No…” you shook your head. Steve wasn’t expecting that. Everyone had heard about the failed party, he’d gotten shit about it for weeks.

“Well, I couldn’t get any supplies, so I cancelled and hung out with Tommy and Carol instead. We got drunk in my backyard and Carol fell in the pool. She was so pissed. Then, I pretty much just hung about town, helped my buddy Dustin beat Dragon’s Lair at the arcade.” Steve didn’t really like admitting how lame his life was, he purposefully left out how Tommy and Carol only hung out with him when he went to pick up some weed from his older brother and they wanted a hit off it. Admitting that his life wasn’t that great made him feel small and like it was out of his control, which was not exactly a good feeling.

“Okay, tell me about the little party you had with Tommy and Carol. What was the night like? Was it fun? Did you jump in the pool too or did you watch her fall and laugh?” You had written down the few details in a bubble tree and added more details as he explained his time more thoroughly. You managed to get a bit more information on both events, learning more about his friend Dustin and the game they played.

When he was finished, you slid the page over to him. He took it, eyebrow raised in confusion, but you spoke before he could ask any questions. “This is your blue print. I wrote down everything you told me; now just turn it into an essay. The whole trick about these assignments is that you’re telling a story, and to make it interesting you have to give us details, and not about your grandparents or other things that don’t add to the story at hand, about what actually was happening.” You explained, checking the plastic watch on your wrist. It was almost four and Mrs. Mueller had already passed your table twice, her silent warning to leave. Everyone else who had been there had long left and you became very aware of how alone you were with him. The butterflies started their flapping again, churning tides in your stomach.

Steve smiled “Okay, I promise it’ll be interesting though.” He chuckled.

You shrugged “I promise that it’s more interesting than what you had before.” You shoved your papers into your bag, standing quickly “If you want me to look at it again before you hand it in, just bring it to me in class, alright? The library’s closing so I should go.”

“You want a ride home?” you spun around to look at him, crossing your arms over your paint splattered sweatshirt. The rain storm of the morning was long forgotten and you didn’t know what the weather looked like now. A part of you wanted to take the ride, but a much bigger part of you told you to run away.

You shook your head “No, um my friend Samantha said she’d drive me after her soccer practise, she’s probably waiting for me.” You lied straight through your teeth, adjusting your backpack straps on your shoulders.

“Oh…sure, yeah, I’ll see you around.” Steve stood slowly, tucking in his chair. You waved politely and headed out. The rain had stopped, thank god, and you rushed to your locker, grabbing your wet clothes from your locker before making your way outside. The field was muddy, practise was probably cancelled. You took the long way home that afternoon, cutting through the woods and the muddy park to avoid being spotted by Harrington on the way and getting caught in a lie.

The afternoon had gone well. And that scared the shit out of you.

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[druid-for-hire]

Could you maybe do Orpheus and Eurydice’s first meeting in the apartments au from Orpheus’ POV? I’d love to see what was going through his head!

Orpheus is, quite frankly, falling apart.

He needs to nail this final project. Well–he’s done well enough throughout the year that even if he doesn’t get a high score, he’ll pass, and it’s not like job resumes look at your grade, they just look at where you graduated from and your degree; but Orpheus really cares about this, okay, and he loves his professor and he has to do this right or else everyone will be disappointed in him and he’ll just shrivel up and die.

And he’s well aware of the fact that that last part is just his anxiety acting up. But he feels it all the same, and knowing those things are fake doesn’t make the irrational feelings fake either.

So: he needs to get this right. The problem is that nothing he can come up with sounds right or feels right, and he knows what it should feel like–it needs to click–but it won’t. He can’t quite get there somehow, but he doesn’t know what’s wrong. Besides that, he’s written and erased off the paper so damn much that he feels it starting to wear away, and what he’s actually written  down is getting lost in a fog of imprinted and smeared graphite. There’s a coffee stain in the corner. He’s going to  have to re-copy all of this onto clean paper to hand in, but that’s doable. That’s just busywork. That’s fine. What’s not fine is how much trouble he’s having with this stupid project. (”Stupid” is an exaggeration. He’s just frustrated.)

He thought working outside on the balcony would make him feel better, but that hope is quickly shattered when the wind blows through his papers. He clambers in a panic to keep them all from flying off, banging into his own stuff, and manages to catch most of them–all except for the one page he’d been laboring over for the past three hours, which goes soaring right over the edge.

His desperate lunge misses completely. Off it goes, riding the wind currents. He’s not seeing that thing again.

Maybe it shouldn’t as big of a deal as he’s making it out to be. Maybe he’s overreacting. But it’s the last straw that breaks the camel’s back for him; Orpheus feels something in him snap, and all he thinks is oh, here it is, before he starts to break down.

He clutches the remaining papers to his chest and slumps in his chair, shoving the rest of the pages into a binder and feeling all of his stress bubble up and spill over as tears. He’s not one to cry with much noise–the fear of drawing attention to himself while so emotionally compromised means that he’s in the habit of holding his breath to stifle any and all sounds.

But he has to breathe eventually, so he does, and a sob slips out.

He expected for maybe one of his neighbors to hear. What he doesn’t expect is this: a call from below, asking, HEY! Hey! Is this yours? 

He startles, then scrubs hurriedly at his eyes and drops the binder full of paper that he’d been clutching to his chest. He rushes to the railing to fast he almost goes careening over, but falling over may have been well worth the price of seeing the girl with his missing page in hand.

She’s beautiful, is the long and short of it. Her eyes are so dark, so deep and powerful; the warmth he finds in them is… strange, in a good way. Her smile, though strange, is enchanting. Her hair rests around her face in a perfect messy framing, and she’s just… Orpheus takes one look at her and thinks, I can trust her.

But good lord, does she have to be leaning so far over the railing? “Oh my god. Uh. Y–yeah, that’s mine, uh, holy–hold on, I’ll come downstairs, please don’t fall over oh my god.”

Orpheus turns from the railing and picks up the binder, throwing it onto his couch as he hurries through his apartment and rushes to the stairs, descending to the lower floor and--not running, speedwalking, because he’s already kind of winded--to the door of the apartment directly below his.

He knocks, and the door is opened so quickly he almost punches her in the head.

Oh.

...

Oh, dear. If she was pretty before, she’s gorgeous up close.

... They’re both staring.

“… I have your music,” she mumbles, and passes him the sheet.

“… Thanks.” He probably looks like shit. He was just having a whole Ordeal a moment ago, and even before that was weeks of 4 AM nights spent both procrastinating wildly and frantically trying to work, poring over his assignments through a haze of exhaustion that didn’t help him at all but that he couldn’t seem to get the opportunity to get rid of. Eurydice is clearly a worker as well, judging by the eye bags, but seems to be taking far better care of herself than Orpheus. And it by no means makes her ugly. Or less pretty. He prefers this, in fact; it’s human. She may look tired, and her features may look soft, but there’s a steel in her eyes that reflects back at him, and just looking at her makes him feel... safe. Strong, maybe. Confident.

These are the thoughts he’s distracted with when he absentmindedly reaches for the paper, still left staring when he misses and his hand brushes across hers. They both recoil like they’ve been burned, and Orpheus feels the embarrassment start to well up in him, but oddly enough he doesn’t feel the same stabbing shame he might feel with anybody else.

Eurydice seems to easily shoulder off the shock of it. “Here.” She holds the sheet up higher, and he takes it this time.

Orpheus swallows. He takes a chance.

“Thanks,” he repeats. “Um, I gotta go study, but do you wanna talk again?”

And he watches her eyes light up, and she says, “Yes.”

The embarrassment is not erased, but it is drowned completely in the exhilaration he feels with that answer. She hadn’t seen him for more than a few minutes, and he invited her for another chat some time and she said yes, and she doesn’t look awkward about it, she looks more than happy in fact--and maybe he’s just reading her wrong, but a part of him stronger than his doubt is telling him that he’s doing it right.

Orpheus says, “Okay. Maybe not on the balcony. It’s kind of scary when you lean out like that.”

“I’m not sure we can do anything about that. I only ever run across you when we’re both on the balcony, ‘cause we never get to run into each other when we’re leaving or coming back into the building.”

“But can you lean back? For me?”

“Pfft. Fine.”

Orpheus isn’t sure if she’ll keep that promise, but that’s good enough for him. “Okay. Thank you so much for getting this for me,” he says with delight.

She shrugs. “It’s nothin’. Blew into my face anyway. Hey–I didn’t catch your name?”

Oh! “Orpheus.”

“Eurydice. Go do your homework, Orpheus. See you around.”

“Okay, Eurydice, you too.”

He turns away to the elevators and can barely contain himself for the glee he’s got; as soon as the doors closed and he can be confident in his privacy, he waves his hands a little and bounces on his heels and hugs himself tight and does a little spin.

Eurydice. What a name. Oh, god.

Oh, god.

#hadestown #hadestown au #hadestown fanfic #broadway #musicals #Anonymous #apartments au #my work

[blackirisposts]

Of Ghosts and Coffee Shop Whispers

This work is part of Spoopy October Writing Challenge 2019 (SOWC19) hosted by me, annnnnnd Happy Steve Bingo (HSB) by: @happystevebingo !!! ❤

Prompt: Day 6: Ghost for SOWC19 && Romance Novel for HSB ❤

Pairing: Darcy Lewis x Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes x OMC, Jane Foster x Thor ❤

Word Count: 2404

❤ Book Shop && Coffee Shop ❤

Reblog will include links and tags! ❤

Warnings: Swearing, Mild Crack and the occasional cameo ❤

A/N:  Special thanks to @pegasusdragontiger and @heartbreaker6995 for both shocking my brain into actually working and cranking out this fic ❤

Darcy’s eyes follow the blond man across the room as he moves to wait for his coffee order.  

“You’re staring.” Jane says, not looking up from the small wired contraption she was fiddling with.

“Yep.” Darcy pops the ‘p’ like the word’s made of bubble gum. “What a sight.”

Jane hums not fully paying attention to Darcy.

“Thor’s off world, your loss.” Darcy says with a slurp of her coffee.

“Thor?” Jane looks up and around in confusion.

Darcy pats her hand, “Off world, dear.”

“Right. I knew that.”

Darcy pushes a barely touched panini sandwich towards Jane.

“Eat, my scientific one. It shall give you strength!”

“Eat later. Science now.”

“Eat now. Science, well, also now?” Darcy sighed dragging her eyes back to Jane. “Don’t make me take whatever the hell that thing is away from you until after you’ve finished your no longer hot sandwich thingy.”

“I dare you.” Jane stares at Darcy.

“Jane.” Darcy arches a brow.

“Fine.”

“Love you too.”

Jane takes a few bites as she fiddles with her contraption.

“Still staring.”

“He’s still a sight to behold.”

“You stare at him whenever you see him here. Go talk to him. Dazzle him with your wit.”

“Yeah. That’s likely to happen.”

“Where else are you going to run into him? The lab?”

“No.” Darcy huffed, fixing her mass of curls. “Maybe a bookshop.”

Jane scoffs.

“You never know.” Darcy takes a drawn-out sip of her nearly empty coffee mug. “Okay, but if I ran into the glory of that in a bookshop, I’d die happy. . . oh, and then I could haunt the bookshop, too. . . okay, Jane. New plan!”

As Darcy dreams out loud, a half-asleep man in a stained purple shirt and black apron sidles up to her.

“It’s your lucky day then, Dee.”

Darcy squeaks in an undignified manner, startled by Clint’s sudden appearance at her side. She glares at him, her cheeks tinted pink. Clint’s an incorrigible gossip. And he will definitely tell Nat, another incorrigible gossip. This will not end well.

“Where’d you crawl out of?”

“I’m on break.” Clint shrugs and sips his coffee.

“You know something, Barton?”

“I could use more tips.” Clint arches a brow at Darcy.

“Ha! You’re lucky you make the best coffee in the city.”

Clint chuckles and takes the empty chair at their table, partially blocking Darcy of her glorious view.

“I might know a little something-something about a certain possibly haunted book shop on 66th street. If you’re planning on taking up an additional post to haunt it.”

“Possibly haunted?” Jane asks, suddenly interested in the conversation and not believing a word he says.

“Yeah. There’s like at least two ghosts. They’re—well they’re really annoying. Funny sometimes but mostly annoying.”

Darcy and Jane share a look and Darcy snorts turning back to Clint.

“So, what are you actually saying?”

“Maybe he’ll be there. Maybe he won’t be.”

“But?”

“But I’d check it out if I were you.” Clint grabs the empty cups and crumpled wrapper that once contained Darcy’s Danish. “You two check each other out far too much for you both to not have noticed yet. It’s driving everyone insane.”

“Whatever, dude.” Darcy rolls her eyes, biting her lip to keep her smile at bay. “If this bookshop is real, it’d be worth it to run into him there. Haunted or not.”

“Whatever you say, Dee.” Clint says walking back to the front counter.

“Okay, Jane, new plan. Same plan. Whatever.”

“Darcy. No.”

“Darcy. Yes.”

“Wait, what’s the address?” Darcy looks from Jane to Clint.

‘Look at your phone.’ Clint signs from behind the counter.

Darcy looks down to her phone to see the address and several emojis light up her phone.

“Who put this here?”

“You know who.” A tired voice replies, muffled by the rows of books.

“Dude. You can’t put this here.”

“I can. And I did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Fix it!”

“There’s nothing to fix. It should go here.”

“No. No, it shouldn’t.”

“Guys.” The tired voice calls out.

“You cannot put Tolkien in the romance section.”

“Yeah. I can.”

“No.”

“It’s totally a romance novel. You’d know that if you ever learned to read.”

“Guys!” The voice calls out again.

“NO!”

“Yes! He goes in every section!”

“Tolkien. Does. Not.”

“Yep. Every one. That’s what everyone wants to read anyways.”

“Oh my god. It’s like arguing with a wall.”

“Guys. Knock it off.” The tired voice shouts.

A barely discernable pair of ‘sorry’s are uttered without feeling. Hushed arguing can still be heard throughout the book shop that finally stops when a book is thrown down aisle slamming into a wall with a harsh thud.

“You done yet?” Darcy asks, tapping the end of her pen against the table top.

“Does it look like I’m done?”

“No. You’re never done. Even when you are, in fact, done.”

“What?”

“You started spouting equations when you were asleep. Remember? I recorded it incase it was something import.”

“I don’t remember that.” Jane eyes Darcy. “There’s no way I did that.”

“You did.” Eric taps his head. “I remember. It was odd. All your equations where correct but they had nothing to do with each other.”

Jane huffs. “Typical.”

“Nah, just proof you need more sleep, Doc.”

“I need more sleep? Or you want to go ghost hunting?”

“Maybe both?” Darcy holds both hands up defensively. “Can’t we have both?”

“Take the rest of the day off, Darcy.” Eric chuckles grabbing the pen from her.

“Really?”

“Yes.” He gives her an incredulous look. “Go have fun with the—ghosts.”

“I don’t think they’re—”

“I don’t want to know. Just call us if you need help or are pulled into another dimension again.”

“Thanks, ma dude.” Darcy bounces on her toes and presses a quick kiss to Eric’s cheek. “And you’ll take care of Jane-y?”

“Yes. Now, go before you convince yourself not to.”

“Alright, alright. Don’t science too hard.”

Darcy bites her lip, checking her phone one more time for address to the bookshop. The entrance is warm and charming. Totally inviting. Not that there was a bookshop that hadn’t agreed with Darcy yet.

The door chimes softly as the smell of fresh coffee and paper flood her nose.

“Yeah. This is a place I could call my forever home.” Darcy mutters to herself.

Not a soul in sight. Only books and a mismatched pair of leather chairs and a purple velvet couch.

Mismatched fairy lights hang crisscrossing overhead, leading to a small stage. A framed chalkboard sign reads: Poetry reading, Tonight 8pm.

Darcy snaps a pic and sends it to Jane and Eric, found my happy place.

She wanders farther into the bookshop when she hears it.

“Was the fair palace door—”

First it sounds like a whisper.

“Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing—”

Now a little louder. The disembodied voice sounded pensive, annoyed even.

“Flowing, flowing, flowing—”

Darcy’s curiosity gets the better of her and she follows the voice, stifling a snort when she hears it curse in frustration.

She hears papers moving and an irritated sigh.

Rounding a corner, she sees the source of the voice. Not a ghost by any means, but definitely something that took her breath away. Before her perched precariously on a stool is a rather large man in a rust colored sweater, his dark hair tied messily in a bun.

“That was really beautiful.”

The man looks up and blushes. “Th-thanks. I’m trying to memorize it before tonight.”

“You’ll get it.”

“I better.” He sighs, his voice dropping low in embarrassment. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“Oh, for who?” Darcy beams a toothy grin at him as his blush darkens.

He hands her his book, an anthology of Poe, open to the poem that he’s struggling with.

“It’s for my boyfriend, it’s his favorite. If I can pull it off, I’m going to ask him to move in with me, too.”

Darcy squeaks out a noise that makes him chuckle.

“I’m Bucky by the way.”

“Darcy.” She replies. “And that is possibly the sweetest thing I’ve heard all month.”

“I call bull, Bucko.”

“What the fuck now, Sam?” Bucky asks, features going neutral.

“No way.” The man referred to as Sam crosses his arms over his chest making himself look intimidating in the small book aisle. “You paid her to come in here and say that. Admit it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

Darcy snorts, drawing their attention. “You two don’t sound like ghosts.”

“What?” They ask in unison.

A low chuckle is heard an aisle or two over.

Darcy points in the direction of the laugh. “Now there’s your ghost.”

“Ghost?” Sam asks.

“A friend recommended this place, said it was haunted by at least two ghosts, annoying but sometimes funny. I imagine he was talking about you two. You’re not the boyfriend, are you?” Darcy asks Sam as she draws soft lines of graphite in his book.

“Oh, hell no. He wishes.” He chuckles, holding out a hand. “I’m Sam. I can only stand that man as far as I can throw him.”

Darcy takes his hand, offering her name in return.

“What the hell man? You know you can’t throw down like I can.”

“Knock it off, guys.”

“So, is he the ghost then?” Darcy snickers referring to the voice as both men roll their eyes at the phrase they’ve heard far too often.

“No.” Sam seems to pout. “You’d think so, but no.”

Darcy shrugs and hands Bucky the book back. “Here, try to memorize it in chunks, it has more rhythm that way, might be easier.”

“Thank you so much!” Bucky’s face brightens and he wraps Darcy in a quick hug, nearly crushing her. His movements startling her into laughter and cause Sam to roll his eyes.

“Why you gotta hug everyone, man. Some people don’t like it.”

“I don’t mind.” Darcy shrugs with a laugh. “Some people need kindness in physical platonic gestures.”

Sam hums, eyeing Darcy and then Bucky.

“What?” She asks confusion written across her face.

“You thinking what I’m thinking, Buck?”

It takes Bucky a moment, but he gets there. “Oh. Stevie. Yeah.”

“Who?”

“They’d be perfect together.” Sam nods, giving Darcy his sweetest smile. “You’d really love him.”

“No, seriously, who’s Steve?”

“For us to know and you to fall in love with.” Sam arches his brows at her.

“Hey, maybe then he’ll spend less time here giving us a hard time.” Bucky says, nudging Sam.

“Give the lady some room otherwise she’ll never come back here, ya crazy mutts.” Says the voice again, this time closer.

“What?” Darcy asks while Bucky shakes his head and goes back to his book. She looks to Sam who throws his hands in the air in mock defeat.

“We try and we try, Steve.” Sam says, his smirk growing into a full smile. “But we can only do so much for you, old man.”

“This is why business is erratic.” Says the voice, who Darcy is now assuming to be the Steve formerly mentioned. “You two aren’t sharing shifts anymore if you keep this up.”

“Uh oh, looks like you’ve upset the man behind the curtain.” Darcy quips, earning a fist bump from Sam and a chuckle from Bucky.

“Yeah! Good one.” Scott cheers coming around the corner, bowl of orange slices in hand. “Who’s the new girl?” he asks, offering everyone to take from the dish.

“Scott, be cool, man.” Sam shakes his head, grabbing a handful of oranges before walking out of the aisle.

“When am I not cool? I’m cool right?” Scott looks to Darcy, like she’ll back him up.

Bucky chuckles and disappears around the corner before being dragged into it.

Darcy laughs and nods, her words caught in her throat as Steve rounds the corner, rolling his eyes.

“You’re the coolest Scott.” Steve confirms, eyes tired until they fall on Darcy and light up. “Can you finish inventory in the back?”

“Can do Cap!” Scott mock salutes, shoving the large bowl into Steve’s hands as he leaves.

“Sorry about him.” He shuffles his feet a bit, suddenly shy at finding the ‘cute coffee shop girl’ in his shop. “’Bout all of them, really.”

Darcy shakes her head “You must be Steve?” Darcy smiles at the flush starting to color his cheeks.

“Yeah,” He says softly, smile as bright as she knew it’d be. “And you’re—”

“Darcy. It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

“How’d you survive the minotaurs that work here?” He asks, putting the bowl on an empty shelf, his free hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

“I know how to get around a maze with minimum casualties.” Darcy laughs, the sound feeling like a wave of sunshine rippling through his veins.

Steve can’t help but laugh with her. He should have listened to Clint and Nat and talked to her sooner.

“Would you—” He’s interrupted with a tap on the shoulder by a guy with a creepy yet happy smile holding three pizza boxes.

“We didn’t order anything.” Steve says with a confused look. “Wait. Guys? Did you order take out again?”

“No!” Come Bucky and Sam’s reply almost in unison, followed by a late and muffled ‘no’ from Scott.

“Sorry, man.”

“Smells good, though.” Darcy murmurs.

“Eh, thought I’d just say hi. This goes next door.”

“What?” Darcy takes a step closer to Steve.

“Hi. Wade Wilson.” The man says with a sigh of admiration. “Big fan.” And turns to leave.

The door hasn’t shut yet and they hear his voice again from the street.

“Fuck! I got distracted by those baby blues. What was my line? ‘Everything’s better with pizza?’ Fuck it, close enough! Can’t I do it again? Shit!”

“What the fuck was that?” Darcy asks, holding a hand over her mouth as she laughs.

“You keep the pizza, boss?” Bucky yells.

“Or are you two too busy making out already?” Sam sticks his head around the corner waggling his eyebrows.

“Why did I agree to hire you two?” Steve asks, giving Darcy an apologetic look.

“Wanna get out of here?” Darcy slips her hand into Steve’s.

“Yeah.”

“Buck!” Sam yells over his shoulder. “They’re holding hands!”

“Ha! Nat owes me twenty bucks!” Comes Bucky’s voice from behind the stacks of books.

“Coffee shop?”

“Coffee shop.” Steve agrees, his smile faulters. “Wait, do you know Clint?”

“Shit.”  

#Darcy Lewis/Steve Rogers #Bucky Barnes/OMC #bipspoopy19 #happy steve bingo 2019

[omg-foreverfilledwithweird-posts]

S.O.S (Tony Stark X Reader)

Summary: After being taken as a hostage of H.Y.D.R.A in order to learn more about S.H.I.E.L.D and your teammates, being Tony Stark’s soft spot for you, he decides to save you himself.

Author’s Note: I have been watching the Iron Man movies these last few days and realized how much I love the sassy Tony Stark, in this story Pepper doesn’t work for Tony, I love pepperoni but for the sake of the story, she gone. So I decided to write this and give myself a toothache at how fluffy it is. Enjoy this short and sweet story.

Word Count: 

Warnings: fluff, mild swearing, some violence, and more fluff

The sound of combat boots slapping on the floor advances into the lab, hitting the marble, linoleum floor and the tapping of sharp, impatient nails against a clipboard. Natasha arrives in the stale room full of machines whirring and Tony tinkering away on his suit, developing new gadgets and sketching out new ideas as usual, barely looking up at her even when she’s just a step away from him, looming over his drawing table.

He flips a page of a random manual nonchalantly, speaking calmly, “What brings you to my humble abode, Romanoff?”

She looks around the room, clipboard tucked under her arm as she surveys the millions of dollars worth of toys, “I wouldn’t say humble...” 

“I was attempting at being modest,” Tony says with a forced smile, eyes still glued to his work as the graphite pencil between his hand, flips idly between his fingers. “What can I do for you, Nat?”

“Was that another attempt at being modest?” she asks.

“More like polite, but whatever floats you’re boat, I guess,” he shrugs his shoulders.

She rolls her feline, emerald eyes, letting out an annoyed sigh, and sets the clipboard down on the table, “One of my best S.H.I.E.L.D coworkers was just taken hostage by H.Y.D.R.A operatives and they’re torturing her for information-”

“And how does that concern me?” he says, blowing the eraser shavings off of his sketchpad and putting the pencil to the paper.

“You didn’t let me finish,” she puts both hands on the desk now, auburn hair falling down her leather clad shoulders.

“You don’t have to,” he says, propping his cheek up with his elbow on the table, mind clearly elsewhere. “This sounds like a problem for S.H.I.E.L.D, you know... the people that employed her in the first place.”

She rolls her neck, looking at him with a bored expression, tapping the table, “Tony-”

“I don’t know what you want me to do here,” he shrugs once again, drawing away while she continues to get his attention.

She sighs again, “Tony-”

“I’m not going on some wild goose chase to get some terrorists that may or may not get me and this employee killed,” he groans in frustration and crumbles up the sheet of paper, throwing it behind him in his trash bin, flipping to a new page and pulling up ideas on his hologram computer.

“I’ve done that already once before,” he frowns. “If they’ve had her for long, then she’s already gone. I’m so-”

“Tony,” she says, raising her voice with him as if she’s a mother scolding an insolent child. “The employee is (y/n).”

He stops drawing and the pencil between his fingers snaps in half, clattering on the table when he finally looks up at Natasha at the mention of your name.

“I-I know a lot of (y/n)’s, Natasha,” he says, trying to play it off when he grabs another pencil from his drawers. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“(Y/L/N)... (y/n), (y/l/n),” she clarifies, once again, taking her clipboard back in her arms. 

He snaps another pencil in two, “Shit,” he mutters, pushing out his seat and walking over to where his suit is, stepping onto the platform that dresses him in the Iron Man ensemble for him. “Why the hell didn’t you say that in the first place?”

Nat smirks, folding her arms over her chest, “I didn’t know it would make a difference,” she lies. Yes, she did.

He turns back to her, holding his arms out on either side of him as all that’s left to put on is the helmet, slowly dropping from the ceiling, “It-it... it doesn’t, she’s just... a valuable member to the team, as you’ve already said.”

Natasha hums in response, nodding while her red lips curl smugly more and more. She steps up to him just as the helmet slides on his head.

“Do I need to go get the team?” Nat raises her eyebrows. “You know... the ones that employed her...” she mocks.

He bites back a snarky response, which physically pains him to so, “No...” he says, the front of the helmet closing.

“I’ll do it myself.”

~~~

He holds his arms at his sides, hand boosters providing his landing as his iron boots swiftly hit the ground, grabbing the attention of H.Y.D.R.A burly security guards, turning to hi, with their guns on the ready.

“Tweedledum,” Tony nods to the guard on the left before turning to the guard on the left, tilting his head, the helmet hiding his smirk. “Tweedledee. I’m here to pick up Alice.”

They share a look between each other, before looking at him with confused expressions, “Who?” one says in a thick, Russian accent, too dazed to pull the trigger on the mystery man in a metal suit.

Tony clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, stepping towards them, “Wha- Wait, I can do better than that, hold on, give me a second-”

They aim the guns at him, “Don’t get any closer.”

Tony stops, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t do that if I were-”

The man on the left fires the machine gun and hits the suit square in the chest before ricocheting back to him and nailing the man in the head, falling limp to the ground.

“...You,” he finishes with a loud sigh, holding up his arm and powering up the rocket launcher above his hand, the small but dangerous missile aiming straight ahead at the heavily locked door. “Okay, so the first guy was an idiot, I’m hoping you’re a bit smarter than that. I’ll give you a ten second head-start for you to run in the other direc-”

The man ignores his warnings and pays no second thought as he’s running straight on towards Tony, right in front of his aimed missile, ready for a fight. Tony rolls his eyes, having lost interest, and fires the rocket, the man’s eyes widening as he leaps out of view, the door bursting open with a cloud a smoke and a dramatic entrance from Stark.

“I overestimated you, Tweedle-Dee,” he turns around to say to him, lying unconscious on the ground. “But I can’t say I’m surprised-”

“Stop right there and put your hands in the air, Mr. Stark,” a H.Y.D.R.A operative says, machine gun on his shoulder and he points it at Tony.

“Hey,” Tony chuckles, looking around the room. “That rhymed!”

The men’s faces around are deadpan, paying him no mind as all of their guns are pointing towards him, awaiting orders to kill.

“Nothing? Really?” Tony asks. “Wow, tough crowd.”

The man disregards his joke and hovers his finger over the trigger, “Don’t move any further or I will shoot.”

Tony groans, “Jesus, are all of you guys shit-for-brains... or am I just lucky?” he quips, turning to all of the soldiers, lifting a dark eyebrow. 

He throws his head back with a soft laugh, “I’m going to be feeling this in the morning,” he whispers to himself before charging ahead, toppling over the soldiers and running down the hall as bullets fly around like a deadly rainstorm. 

He gets to a steel door, hoping to whatever higher power there is in the universe that you’re in this one, barreling through the door with his shoulder, sending it flying off the hinges. 

Tony searches the room before finding you in a rather compromising situation, leather, bodysuit similar to Natasha’s unzipped all the way down your torso, revealing a thin, gray tank beneath it and a deep, blue sports bra, dirt smeared on your sweat stained cheeks, hair a mess down your shoulders in ruffled waves, and your legs wrapped around a man’s neck in a choke-hold.

Tony’s eyes are wide and he taps his helmet, showing his face, “(Y/N)?”

You look up at the sound of the familiar voice and raise your eyebrows, “Tony? What the hell are you-”

The soldier underneath you takes your moment of hesitance to punch up your jaw, causing you to fall onto the hard, stone floor.

Tony’s eyes almost bulge out of his head, fear evident in his voice, “(Y/N)!”

You spit out blood and rub where he hit you, a dull, throbbing pain along your cheek, a bruise slowly blossoming, “Shit,” you mutter before sweeping his legs out from under him from where you’re laying on the floor, climbing on top of him and straddling his hips, returning the favor when your fist collides with his nose, knocking him out.

You swing your legs off of him and stand up, the other soldiers you previously fought, all lying unconscious on the ground. 

You face Tony and your chest heaves, “What are you doing here? I had it handled.”

“Clearly...” Tony says, still in disbelief as his eyes fall over the men you sent flying just moments before. “I forgot how badass you are.”

You tilt your head, shaking your head with a small laugh, “You still haven’t answered my question, Tony.”

“Well, I was told one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s finest was taken hostage by H.Y.D.R.A and took the matter into my own hands,” he says, walking towards you.

You look him over, old memories flooding back and you gulp, biting back a smile, “Really?” you ask, finding a hard time believing what he’s saying, it doesn’t sound like the Tony you know at all.

“Without a second thought,” he says, sincerely, catching you off guard with the look.

“I’m flattered, Stark,” you chuckle and Tony curses himself for letting it go straight to his heart, hitting him harder than when he hit that door.

“You, uh...” he nods, lost in thought from looking at you. “You... should be. I’m a very busy man and I had to cancel lots of things to fit this in.”

“I’ve missed you, old man,” you smirk.

He cracks a half-smile despite himself, “I missed you, too, kid.”

You turn away before he can see the flush in your cheeks, thanking the universe for the dirt on your face that covers the redness. “We should go, before they find out you’ve helped me escape.”

“So you admit I helped you?” his lips quirk. 

“Can we not do this right now?” you sigh.

“Do what?” he smirks, amused by how flustered you’re getting by his blatant teasing. You tell yourself you hate it, but the blush on your face says otherwise. “You’re the one coming onto me.”

Your eyes widen and you scoff, “Coming onto yo-” you stop yourself and let out a deep breath. “You know what, we’ll discuss this later when I kick your as-”

Soldiers storm into the room and Tony wraps his arm around you, shutting his helmet, the eyes lighting up when he looks down at you.

“Hold on,” he says, pulling you to his chest, your hands resting against the metal.

You frown, “Tony-” you start, unable to finish when you’re being flown off the ground, straight through the ceiling and roof, Tony’s arm shielding you from the debris while his other is still holding you securely.

He flies close to the clouds, wind ruffling your hair as you clench your eyes shut, wrapping your arms around his neck when you begin to slip from his grasp, breath catching when you catch sight of the city below you.

You shut your eyes, whispering, “Shit, shit, shit, shit-”

Tony chuckles, the sound vibrating through him, “Calm down, (y/n), I got you.”

You laugh wryly, still afraid you’ll fall when his grip on you tightens, “Calm down? I’m flying hundreds of feet in the air with the birds, being held only by Tony Stark in a fucking, metal suit and you want me to calm down?”

He loosens his hold on you and you squeal, wrapping your arms tighter around him and your legs around his waist. He laughs at you, smiling through the iron mask.

“Maybe you should hold me a little closer, there’s still some room you left between us,” he smirks.

“Fuck you, Stark,” you roll your eyes, tightening your hold on him when he begins to descend towards the Avengers tower, drawing closer to the balcony.

“Maybe later, sweetheart,” he winks through the mask, but you hear the smirk in his low voice by your ear as his feet hit the balcony, letting you go and stepping on the platform that takes off his suit.

You walk alongside him as the robot arms pull away the metal from his body, his eyes following your suddenly timid movements.

“Why so shy now, (y/n)?” he raises an eyebrow, stepping inside with you walking beside him, crossing your arms over your chest while you take in his lab. It’s been awhile since you’ve been here.

“Not shy, just...” you run your hands up and down your arms. “Just thinking.”

He sees you shiver and takes his leather jacket from his chair, stepping up behind you and hanging it over your shoulders, warming you up.

You turn your head to throw a smile at him from over your shoulder, “Thanks.”

He looks at you for a moment and clears his throat nervously, “No, uh... no problem. You got hit pretty hard back there,” he says, pulling his hands away and walking over to his fridge to grab an ice pack.

“Yeah...” you say, instinctively reaching up to touch the bruise that’s now adorned your cheek, coloring your skin in purple. “I’ve never seen you that concerned for someone before,” you say, running your hand along his shelves on your way to his desk.

He smirks, “You’re not just anyone.”

You look down and smile, tucking hair behind your ear while you sit on the edge of his desk, crossing your legs as he walks back over to you looking over his sketches.

“These are amazing,” you say, looking at him when he stands in front of you, ice pack in hand.

He looks at you and the soft smile that graces his lips is the one that’s only meant for you when a light pink dusts over his cheeks, “Oh, well... they’re not much, just future ideas, but... thank you.”

You grin, “Are you being modest?”

He rolls his brown eyes, lips edging into a smile when you continue to look at him for an answer, “Why does everyone think I can’t be modest? I can be modest.”

“Modest people don’t call themselves modest, Tony,” you let out a giggle that’s unlike you, but one that always seem to leave you when your around him. It’s like the child in him ends up bringing out the child in you as well.

He bites his tongue and gently presses the ice pack to your jaw, wiping the smile off your face, a pained wince leaving your lips when the cold comes in contact with your hot skin. 

“Tell me if I’m being too rough, alright?” he says, getting a little closer to hold it better for you, feeling guilty that if it weren’t for him distracting you from your mission, you wouldn’t have been hit.

“Do we need a safe word too?” you tease him with a small smile, enjoying how flustered he gets when you do so.

He darts his tongue out across his bottom lip and half-smirks, “You’re a lot more trouble than your worth, kid.”

You look at him while he stares intently at the ice pack in his hands instead of in your eyes, “You’re not that much older than me, Stark.”

“I’ve got an old soul,” he meets your eyes and you roll yours. “It makes me older than everyone.”

“You’re a child,” you chuckle.

“A child that saved your life,” he corrects you, fingers accidentally brushing against your jaw when his hand slips, calloused touch sending your head into over-drive. “A thank you would be nice.”

You want to argue but you see the fear in his dark eyes, the same from back in the interrogation room, that if something were to happen to you, so you cut your losses and look at him, “Fine... Thank you, Tony.”

“I... I didn’t quite hear you,” he says, cupping a hand over his ear. “Come again?”

“That’s because you aren’t wearing your hearing aids like you’re supposed to, old man,” you laugh loudly, making him smile. 

“You’re lucky I like you, (y/n),” he says as more a warning than a compliment. “If it was anyone else in there, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Yes,” you say, quieter this time when he gets closer. “Lucky me.”

Your noses brush and you realize you’re only a breath away from each other, the smell of scotch and whiskey on his breath from a day of work and your familiar aroma of rose and mint, even under the musk of sweat.

“What’d they do to you in there?” he asks.

“Just another day on the job,” you say, trying to laugh to lighten the mood but it comes out weak. “But I’m fine, really, they didn’t get anything out of me and were too preoccupied getting their asses kicked to interrogate me.”

“By you or me?” he smirks.

“Let’s just say it was a collaborative effort and leave it at that,” you offer and he agrees with a smile, one of the few genuine ones you get from him these days.

“Does this make us a... team now?”

“Oh, God, no,” you giggle and he grins. “Could you imagine, we’d butt heads constantly.”

“If I had to butt heads with anyone,” he looks up at you, faking seriousness. “I’m glad it’s with you.”

You throw your head back with laughter, wincing when your head pounds because of it, but you smile through it, letting him press the ice a bit harder, “How sweet.”

He half-smiles, “I missed your laugh. I haven’t missed your teasing, though.”

“You adore my teasing,” you smile coyly when the smirk on his face confirms your suspicions. 

Then you bite your lip and he catches the action, licking his own lips when his mouth runs dry, wanting to walk away before he does something stupid. But before his mind can fully function, your lips are brushing.

“(Y/N)...” he rasps, gulping audibly and the ice pack drops to the floor, neither of you paying any mind to it.

You’re cheeks are scarlet, lip caught between your teeth, and suddenly you’re a teenage with a crush all over again.

“We can’t...” you whisper and meet his eyes.

“I know,” he frowns thoughtfully, his heart beating loud enough for you to hear.

Natasha walks into the room, the sound alone enough to send you away from each other, Tony stepping backwards like your skin’s on fire.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose with a frustrated sigh, “What now, Romanoff?”

Nat feigns innocence with a hand over her chest in mock hurt, then she turns to you, “You got (y/n) back. And taking good care of her, too, I see...”

You roll your eyes fondly at your life-long best friend and walk over to wrap your arms around her, the comfortable scent of her shampoo enough to make it feel like home. 

“I would have gone after you myself but he insisted,” she whispers in your ear, but loud enough for him to hear as well, and you laugh quietly at the thought. 

“Insisted?” you turn around and look at him, smugness in your tone. 

Tony sends a deadly look to Nat for telling who only responds with a smirk and a pleased lift of her eyebrow when he says, “I didn’t insist, Natasha, I only... wanted to see if she was okay.”

You look at Tony and smile softly, an expression warm enough to relax him into looking back at you.

Nat points to the corner of her curling ruby lips, “You have some drool... right here, big guy.”

Tony flips her the bird on his way back over to his desk, ruffling through the scattered mess of his papers, and taking a sip of his left open scotch.

“So, (y/n)...” Nat turns back to you. “I have good news.”

“That’s a first,” you snort.

She laughs lightly, “Congratulations, (y/n)...” she hands you her clipboard. “You’re an Avenger.”

Your eyes widen and you grin widely, “Are y-you... are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” she smiles. “And you’ll have a mentor to show you a ropes, someone to help you around, and give you a feel for the team.”

You take the clipboard in your hands and you’re too shocked to speak, one of the few moments where you’re completely speechless, only one word finding you when you ask, “Who?”

It’s Nat’s turn to grin when she nods behind you, “Tony Stark, of course.”

Tony chokes on his drink.

#tony stark #tony stark x reader #tony #thor odinson #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #tony stark x you #bruce banner #hydra #marvel #avengers #AVENGERS ASSEMBLE #captain america #Steve Rogers #bucky barnes #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #loki laufeyson #smut #tony stark smut #infinity war

[sanctimoniousscrawlings]

Prompt #1 : Lull of the Forest

 Greenvale is quaint. At least that’s what the townsfolk say. Personally, I’ve never been fond of life here. Half the people here are ignorant and bigoted. They’re nosy and self-serving. Nine times out of ten I’ve found that the thick veneer of kindness and good ol’ fashioned neighborliness is born of duplicity, and to be quite honest it’s exhausting.

 I’ve been saving money to leave since I turned sixteen and got my first job in the town’s only book store- a tiny thing, barely larger than my room back in my apartment. I’ve been thinking of moving to a big city- it may be too crowded for my taste but I’ve found that it has the opposite vibe to small towns. People start out assholish and then turn out to be kind. It’s a pleasant surprise.

  Here I am ten years later with only half the cash I would need to get my own place somewhere I’d actually like to be. I’m scrolling through real estate sites and beginning to reconsider the whole roommate thing, much as I revile the thought of having to live with random strangers when my phone pings. It’s my best friend, Demeter.

 D: omg Riley did you hear  Me: oyg did I hear what?  Me: and are you sure I can’t convince you to come with me  D: Dylan is gone and certainly not, you know I can’t stand urban environments  Me: pls tell me he absconded from the woods with his tail between his legs and the only thing he left behind was a trail of urine  Me: I really don’t want him living next door to me again  D: ...  D: i heard the fairy house is a pretty grizzly scene  Me: wow  Me: guess i won’t have to live next door to him after all. neat.  D: i know he was an asshole but do you need to be so blase about it?  Me: only as much as he needed to chase me with a MIG torch  Me: look, i know you aren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead (but honestly he shouldn’t have been such a dick) and I wouldn’t wish death on anyone- but I definitely don’t have to care that he’s gone  Me: besides, he probably pissed off whatever’s in those woods. haven’t you noticed that when the people who live in that house are super cool, the hidden folk just play (mostly) harmless pranks- and they have never ever attacked children  D: no, they just kill the parents and steal the kids  Me: the bad parents. We both know the Bonners were abusing their kids. And pretty heavily. How many times did you call cps on them?  D: ...monthly. But that doesn’t make it right. Those kids are probably scarred for life- and scared.  Me: maybe. I think I might try buying the place tbh- I don’t even have half the money for a place in any of the cities I wanted to move to but I have more than enough for that place. It’ll be a dent in my funds, but I think it will be worth it.  D: what  Me: hear me out: I’m a misanthropist. They are clearly also not fond of people. Maybe we’ll get along. Plus, I can keep the deed to this place to protect the forest from the idiots in town moving in.  D: First of all that’s a stupid idea. Second of all, you’re too kind to be a misanthropist. You’re just a curmudgeon. A philanthropic curmudgeon.  Me: what  Me: that doesn’t even make sense  D: you’re grumpy af but I’ve never seen you do anything to cause even the people you hate the most harm. Hell, how often did you help Dylan with his homework or share your food with the delinquents who couldn’t afford lunch when we were in school.  D: the whole “I hate humankind blah blah blah destroy all humans” thing is just a front because you always had this complex about helping everyone and it kept backfiring. And then after Ashe...  Me: sorry, Demi, gotta go. I’ve got paperwork to fill out.  D: DON’T YOU DARE MOVE INTO THAT HOUSE I S2G RILEY ANDREW FERGUSON

 I know she cares but I really can’t deal with this right now. I’ve got a house to buy.

 For the next two weeks, I avoid Demeter. I love her but she’s overbearing sometimes and I’m not gonna let her talk me out of this. All the paperwork is taken care of and fortunately, my lease was ending at the end of the month so this should prove to be a smooth transition. All my packing is complete and I get to move into my new place in another few days.  My shift ended at the bookstore so I head back to the apartment only to find a grey slip of a man waiting for me.  “Riley Ferguson, there you are. Your presence is required at the law office of Paz & Squalor. If you have some time to accompany me there, I urge you to.” His voice was strained and gravelly. “It concerns the property in the woods.”  “Sure thing. Let’s go.” I wonder if there’s a hitch in the bureaucratic workings and if there is I’m damn well gonna sort it out.

 An hour later and I’m in Ms. Paz’s office. She peers across the desk at me with a grave look on her face and I can see that she’s mulling something over. The look of concern in her eyes is disconcerting.  She starts abruptly, clearly having decided to get on with whatever I’m here for. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Ferguson.”  “Loss?”  “Dylan Daniels. You are Riley Andrew Ferguson, correct?”  I nod, but the confusion on my face doesn’t assuage her concerns.  “He left the house to you in his will. And everything in it.” She opens a dwarer of her desk and pulls out an envelope, clutching it to his chest. “He also left you this.” She extends the envelope across the desk. “Sorry it took so long to get this to you. The police only found his will a few days ago- everyone was unaware he even had one until then. I just need you to sign some things.” She pushes a stack of papers and a nice pen across the desk. I’m too stuned to respond. “Riley.” She pauses and reaches a hand across the desk to squeeze mine. “I know this must be very hard for you. Take all the time you need.”  The next few hours are a blur. I find myself at my desk, clutching the sealed envelope. There’s no way this isn’t some sort of prank. He probably has the entire town in on it- they have always distrusted me here. People gossip about what sort of mental issues I may or may have. “He has the autism,” is the most favored line I hear from the elderly ladies at the old rumor mill. I am a hundred percent sure they don’t even know what autism is- and to be honest that gets to me far more than them actually suggesting I’m on the spectrum. There are worse rumors of course. I have schizophrenia and murdered my own family in a hallucination. Or I’m a sociopath and did it in cold blood. Of course, it doesn’t matter that I was asleep in the back room at work at the time- trying to avoid going home. My boss is a little scenile and his word isn’t good enough to assuage the good people of Greenvale.  They’d probably accuse me of doing Dylan in, too, if it weren’t for his proximity to the woods.  Deep breath. I open the envelope. There’s a letter inside. When I pull it out, another piece of paper drifts down to the floor. It’s stained with graphite- the pencil must have been smeared. I reach down to pick it up and freeze before I can. I recognize my own writing on the small paper. What the actual hell?  I pick it up and read it, wracked with anxiety. It’s a poem. It’s a poem I wrote in eighth grade. A flashback takes me back to when I wrote it. My first real crush on a guy. It was a boy I had P.E. with every year of middle school. I had just started dating a girl I rode the bus home with when I realized that I liked this guy and the poem quite bluntly reflected the turbulent emotions I was feeling at the time. I had a firm grasp on metaphors but even now subtly and nuance elude me when I experience emotion- which happens far more often than I would prefer. More importantly, why would he have this?  How did he even- I’m hit with another memory. I wrote that the day that little demon stabbed me in the hand with a pencil. I still have the black mark under my skin. Bastard gave me my first tattoo. He must have taken it from my binder when I was in the nurse’s office. Okay. But why would he keep this? It was fuel he could have used to burn me before I came out my senior year.  I remember the letter. With some trepidation, I begin to read it.

Riley,

 I was really hoping to tell you this in person. Frankly, I’ve been trying to for years but you evaded me at every turn. You can’t evade me at this one, though. My death ensured that- that is unless you’re not reading this and I misjudged your caliber on the whole fairy house thing. I don’t know, I figure you’d thrive there for some reason. I think Walt Whitman said something about the strongest tree in the forest is the one that sprouts against all odds.

 My eye twitches at the butchering of the quote and that he confused Walt Disney with Walt Whitman, but I carry on.

 Anyways, sorry not sorry for rambling. I like you. No, that’s putting it mildly. I think I’ve been in love with your weirdness since we first sat together in that class. I had hoped you wrote this poem about me but was too afraid to ever ask you about it. I know it’s no consolation for the animosity I displayed toward you, but I was just so terrified. Your presence left me unsettled and we got stuck together so much after that. So I reciprocated and instilled the fear in you that you put in me. It was wrong and I really am so sorry. Now you know how I feel, though. I bet the creatures of the forest got me. If I’m right, you owe me a kiss when next we meet, wherever that may be.

         Love,              Dylan Daniels. P.S. And I mean love. P.P.S. I know I got the quote entirely wrong. I bet you did that thing where your eye twitches when you can’t correct someone cuz you’re frustrated. That will be another kiss. P.P.P.S. No dictionaries were harmed in the writing of this letter. P.P.P.P.S. Well, I might have lit one on fire after.

 I feel disgusted after reading the letter. He was an asshole and a creep.  A knock at the door startles me into yelping. I catch my breath to answer it and Demeter pushes her way in.  “Sit. We’re talking.”  I do as she says; I’m still reeling from everything I just found out and Demeter is the last person anyone should ever piss off. She may be a kindly teacher and a great friend but not even the gods can save someone incurring her wrath.  “You got the house, didn’t you.” It clearly wasn’t a question but I nod quietly anyways. She sighs. “Well, if anyone from this town could thrive there it would be one of us, but still. What were you thinking?”  I stare into the nether. “I don’t know anymore. I don’t even want the house now,” I murmur. “It’s tainted. He even ruined the fairy house for me.”  “What do you mean? You knew he had lived there when you made the ridiculous plan to swoop in on it.”  I silently proffer the letter and poem without looking at her.  She lets out an incredulous whistle. “Well... He tried to put his heart in the right place. I think. Ooh, girl, this boy was a mess.” She pauses, squinting at the letter. “Wait. Did he leave you the house? Holy hell.”  Demeter stayed the night.  I woke up the next morning to a note on my bedroom door: I’ve reconsidered the roommate thing. Be back soon, packing my stuff.  If they didn’t already, the townsfolk were about to think Demeter insane, too.

 Days later and we were moved into the house, though I was still uneasy. He left a lot behind- including some nearly new furniture. Probably for the best given how spartan Demeter and I both lived. I brought a desk and computer while she brought house plants and a bed.   The house was old and quirky and had an air to it that we both adored. The rear garden was pressed right up against the old forest; with the fence having rotten away long since the tenants before Dylan had lived there, a new one was half built in its place- and wildflowers had overtaken most of the space. All except for one tree that sat in the center of our new yard, between the forest and the house. The entire rear half of the house had large beautiful windows that faced the forest, as well as a massive section of glass doors that opened up to the rear garden, almost like an entertainment area, thanks to the simple stone porch.  “Oh, I am so fixing this up.” Demeter sounded giddy, standing in the decrepit garden. “We’ve totally got this.”  “I hope so.” I can’t shake the uneasy feeling I’ve had all weekend. “I’m heading in to set up some of my supplies.”  I leave Demeter to her own devices and get to work in the back room with the enormous glass doors. After a few minutes, it feels as though the very air is weighing on me. I open the doors wide, not paying any mind to the dangers of the forest. Let them come, they’d probably make better company than 99% of the good townsfolk of Greenvale. The invigorating scent of the forest fills the room and I’m suddenly in the mood for oil pastels.

 It’s been a week now and I still feel trapped whenever I’m in the house. I feel as though I’m being watched any time I’m on the property. The eyes from the forest seem more curious than anything- it’s inside that I feel I’m in danger. After going on an unnecessary shopping trip for the umpteenth time since moving in, I decide to be productive and prepare a basket of food for those that dwell in the forest. Fruits, nuts, pepitas, and even some actual food I cooked up. I set the basket out back, near the treeline, and go back to the room I claimed for my studio. When next I look outside, the basket is empty and moved closer to the house.  I hope they enjoyed it.

 I get home earlier than Demeter and begin to make a habit of leaving food out for my new neighbors- including a dish of milk on my window sill. Each day, the basket is returned closer and closer to the house. I begin finding gifts of seeds, flowers, and odd trinkets in the returned basket. Demeter joyously nurtures the seeds into all manner of strange and exotic plants.  One day, when the house is feeling particularly stifling, I decide to go to the forest edge to get away from it. I find a cozy spot beneath a tree and start writing. I hear the basket being moved but I’m too in the flow to pay any attention- that is until I notice a curious fox looming over my notebook. I don’t want to spook it so I continue writing. Eventually, the fox lays its head on my wrist, watching the pencil soar across the pages. I suppress the urge to make a high pitched noise in joy at this blessing.  My trips to the forest edge became more frequent- as did the fox’s joining me. I started bringing treats for my new friend who cozied up to me as I worked. One day, when Demeter was out later for student conferences, I went out to the back porch- still outside but sheltered from the storm that had rolled in. I mistakenly drifted off to sleep to the sound of rain- and far more easily than I could have fallen asleep inside the house.  I awakened to find myself wrapped in a fine silk cloak lined with the softest fur I have ever felt in my life- and I pet a lot of cats. I also note that I am now inside and the doors are shut. It’s already morning, as well.  Demeter is in the kitchen, making herself a quick breakfast before she heads off to work.  “I’m glad to see you made it home safely. Did you bring me inside?”  “What? No, you were asleep on the floor when I got home last night. I feel like it’s the first time you’ve slept since we got here.”  I grunt noncommittally and leave the room.  Later on, I return the cloak, folded in the basket with yet another assortment of tasty goodies. This time I'm reading rather than working on one of my projects. The fox returns once more and- to my joy- curls up in my lap. I stroke his soft fur while I read and eventually I can hear the soft contented snoring of my vulpine buddy. I'm so comfortable that for the second day in a row I make the mistake of falling asleep outside.  This time, as the beams of morning sunlight drift through my eyelids, I’m in my room. The luxurious cloak is covering me once more and the fox is curled up next to my head. The Prompt Next

#part 1 #I've been at this for almost six hours and need to stop #writing prompt #Lull of the Forest #the prompt is the post before this one

[merigreenleaf]

AU Tuesday - “Stuck With You” Part 11 (The End)

(A few weeks late with this, but here’s the very last chapter of the Soulmate AU! For AU Tuesday I’ve been writing a multi-part story about all five of my main characters using the prompt: “A [platonic] soulmate AU where you have a black stain where your soulmate is supposed to touch you for the first time and it turns to millions of colors once they do.” The events are all [or mostly] canon to the series; the only real change are the soul-marks. These can really be read in any order because each part pretty much stands on its own. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3,Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10)

——————————

The door burst open and slammed against the wall with enough force to rock the wagon. Adair’s heart and hand jumped, causing his pencil to leave a dark line across his sketchbook. He erased and erased, but the deep gouge remained on the paper after the graphite had gone. If only the correction paint he’d tried to make had worked the way he’d wanted it to! Instead of returning a page or canvas to new, it only turned them invisible, which was even worse than permanent indentations on the page. At least he could draw over a line. He still had no idea where the invisible sketchbook had ended up.

It turned out that the line didn’t matter anyway. Blythe had crossed the room to give Sol a talking down- or possibly a talking up since Sol towered over everyone except his brother- for being reckless about opening the door. Adair sighed and closed his book. Blythe had been the perfect stationary model while she was inventorying seeds, but going into tirade-mode meant she wouldn't return to this until she cooled down. If past experiences were anything to go by, he had about twenty minutes before he'd be able to sketch her again.

Unless he could speed things up by taking away the source of her annoyance? He waved at Sol to get his attention, then winked to tell him that he had a plan. It was hit or miss if Sol would catch on to what a wink meant, but it was worth a try. “Hey, Blade? Sol's just excited because he found my paint. Let him go this time, okay?”

This was a stab in the dark, or at least a stab in a mildly dimmed room. Adair's yellow paint had gone missing from his bag this morning and he was pretty sure it was because his best friend had borrowed it. If any warm color went missing, it was usually in one of Sol's pockets. Sol always intended to return things, so Adair could never be too upset about this. Unfortunately Sol's intentions only lasted a few minutes before he forgot about them.

“I do? Oh! I do have it!” Sol poked through a dozen pockets of his vest before he found the jar and held it up triumphantly. “See, it's just like Addy said. I'm giving him back his paint. Just here for that. Yep, just returning my buddy's paint. That's definitely why I'm here. Giving him back his paint.”

Adair covered his eyes with his hand. At least Sol understood the winking thing now, but his acting really needed work. Etri laughed softly from his spot on the floor next to Adair and leaned over to whisper, “Subtlety will be forever lost on Solei. Watch.”

Blythe muttered an unamused grumble and began checking the wall for damage while Sol stepped past her and headed towards where Etri and Adair sat. Etri nodded once at Adair, then waved his arm in a wide gesture as he said to Sol, “Make the house for yourself.”

A big, toothy grin meant Sol misunderstood his brother’s scrambled idiom. “You want me to build a house? You’ve never let me build a house before! I can do that! I just need some nails and my favorite hammer and some wood and a couple of grapefruits and oh, some paint! Addy, do you have more-”

To Adair's relief over the state of his diminishing paint collection, Blythe closed the door and stopped Sol mid-sentence by talking over him. “I think Etch is inviting you to make yourself at home.”

“Oh! Okay, sure!” Sol missed the sarcasm in her voice just as he’d missed it in Etri’s and he hoisted himself into Dray’s loft bed. There he flopped onto his back with a comfortable sigh.

Now that Sol was safely in a spot that couldn't possibly make any more distracting noises, Adair opened his sketchbook. With Blythe pacing the wagon and muttering to herself, he would just have to switch to drawing Etri. A tornado could touch down next to the wagon and Etri still wouldn't put that book down. If there was one thing Etri was good at, it was being stationary. And if Adair managed to finish this sketch, then Etri would become stationary stationary.

Adair had barely touched the pencil to the paper when Blythe came over and nudged him with her knee, somehow managing to block all of the light coming through the window behind her at the same time his pencil scratched another errant mark. “Do you hear that?”

Adair tucked the pencil behind his ear and gave up for the second time. He should have Sol make him a little ball of light to hover over his head like Sol always had bobbing in the air while he worked on his inventions. Then it wouldn’t matter where Blythe stood or how close he was to the window. He didn't want to ask Sol about the sketchbook line problem, though, because Sol would likely try building a box around him to keep people out. Granted that would solve the problem, but not in the way anyone wanted, which was how most of Sol's ideas played out, now that he thought about it. “Hear what?”

“The hissing, yes?” Etri asked without looking up from his book. From the way he squinted, he could probably use the extra light, too. All the more reason not to put Adair inside a box.

Adair had assumed someone was making tea. Focusing on the sound, though, it wasn’t the familiar kettle and no one had been near the stove.

Blythe walked back and forth across the room as she tried to pinpoint the sound that seemed to be coming from somewhere to the right. “Sol, you didn’t bring a snake in here, did you?”

“No, that is not… I know that sound.” Etri dropped the book into Adair’s lap and jumped to his feet.

The act of being careless about a book worried Adair more than Blythe's pacing. He was pretty sure it wasn’t a snake and he couldn't have been right about the tornado. He wasn’t prone to premonitions. Truth be told, he wasn’t very good at postmonitions either because he never seemed to notice things until long after everyone else did.

Etri took a few steps forward and raised his arms as if grabbing something from the air. “It is-”

A thunderous boom shook the wagon and a storm of feathers and Sol filled the air. While the feathers drifted down like lightly falling snow, Sol went soaring from the bunk and landed heavily with an “oof” on Adair’s makeshift bed.

Blythe knelt next to him and touched his shoulder. “You okay?”

Sol’s voice was muffled by the blanket, but Adair was pretty sure he said, “Note to self: build Addy a futon because that coulda been a bouncier landing.”

Adair wasn’t sure what a futon was, but the last thing he and his fear of heights wanted was something bouncy for a bed. Knowing Sol he’d get overly enthusiastic about it and make it half-trampoline. Adair shuddered at the thought. He’d stick with his mattress on the floor, thank you.

Sol pushed himself up only to be gently pushed back down so Blythe could check him over. “That was fun! Can I do that again? Please please please, Blade?”

“No way. What is it with people setting bedding on fire around here?”

Sol made a face as she helped him sit up. His clothes were a little singed and his goggles sat askew on his forehead, but this wasn't anything out of the ordinary. “I didn’t do that. I mean, I guess I did do that because I was up there, but I didn’t do that do that. I’m pretty sure my bed’s never thrown me out before. Is Dray’s haunted?”

Blythe ignored that question and glanced over at Adair. He held his hands up, pencil in one hand and Etri’s book in the other. “I was sitting right here and you know I don't go up there.”

Etri caught their attention with a slight clearing of his throat and nodded towards the doorway. “No, this was the disaster of someone else.”

Dray shot a glare in his direction and came inside to put one of their red sequined prop bags in the cabinet under what was once their bed. “Technically it wasn’t on fire this time.”

Blythe snorted an unbelieving laugh. “Of course it wasn’t on fire. You completely blew it up!”

“I did no such thing. Heat-boy over there shouldn’t have been in my bed.” Dray tossed their hair over their shoulder and picked up the book that had fallen out of the bed along with Sol. Miraculously it was still in one piece. Adair was more confused as to why Sol was in one piece, though. Was the man made of rubber?

“What kind of idiot keeps explosives in their mattress?” Blythe harangue Dray as she followed them to the door. “If Etch hadn’t been here to stop it, that would have taken out the wall and burned the place down.”

Dray made an ambiguous “hmph” sound and walked out. Blythe slammed the door behind them, exactly the thing she had told Sol a thousand times not to do, and threw her back against it. “I have the most moronic sibling on the planet.”

Dray’s explosive tendencies aside, there was something here that no one else seemed concerned about. Fire couldn't hurt Sol, but still... “Isn’t anyone worried that Sol could of been hurt?”

“Like he doesn’t regularly blow things up himself. He’s fine.” When Sol stood up, Blythe turned her head to the side. “His clothes, not so much. Anyone got a spare pair of pants for him?”

Sol turned in a circle to try to see his own behind. “I thought it felt drafty. Hey, I think I invented new pants! Perfect for warm weather because they’ve got built-in veneration!”

Blythe tied Adair’s blanket around Sol’s waist with an expert knot. This was far from the first time one of them had to throw together makeshift legwear for him. “Ventilation, sweetie. And I don’t think those pants would fly.”

It came as a pleasant surprise when Etri sat close to Adair and wrapped his arm around his waist. Etri had become far more physically affectionate ever since they'd both learned that they had each other's soul-marks and Adair didn't think he'd ever get tired of this.

Too busy reveling in this closeness, Adair missed the perfect opening Blythe had left. Etri beat him to the punch. “I believe the pants flew well on him a moment ago.”

Blythe groaned. “You’ve been around Addy too long. You’re picking up his case of chronic puns.”

Two things Adair loved above all else-- excepting food-- were making jokes and snuggling, so it was with extreme reluctance that he set his sketchbook and Etri’s book aside and stood up. The hurt expression on Etri's face made Adair reach down and run his fingers through his friend's hair. “I’ll be right back. I want to talk to Dray for a sec.”

Etri squeezed his hand for a long moment before letting go of it with a nod. To be honest, Adair wasn't sure how much longer “friend” would be the relevant term for Etri, but that wasn't the friend he was worried about right now.

Blythe stopped him with a hand on his shoulder before he could reach the door. He wasn't a hundred percent sure her touches were platonic, either, but she was harder to read with this than Etri. Adair fully expected her to ask why he wanted to talk to Dray and was gearing up to defend his plan when she said in a low voice, “Tell Dray I’m sorry. I know they’ve learned better than to set fires indoors and this was an accident. It’s just… one of us could have been hurt, you know? Even if Sol's immune, the rest of us aren't.”

Except they were. As a healer Blythe's body healed any injury almost immediately. Fire and heat couldn't hurt Etri any more than it could Sol and he was half intangible half the time anyway. Adair was the only one in the wagon at the time who could have been seriously hurt.

She was worried about him. Adair hugged her tightly to show her that he understood. Blythe wasn't the type to talk about mushy feelings, but when she gave him a quick hug back, he knew he'd guessed right. “It's okay. I'll tell Dray.”

He found Dray sitting on the little porch of the wagon with their legs tucked up under their skirt, ignoring Adair's cat as she batted at their long hair. Their book was opened but equally ignored as it dangled loosely from their hands. They didn’t look up when Adair closed the door and walked the few steps over. “Can I sit with you?”

Dray only shrugged. Adair took this to mean okay, and as he tried to get comfortable on the cold floor, Dray shifted around so that they were facing him. Their makeup was smudged under their right eye and Adair wanted to wipe this away for them. He knew how much Dray hating looking less than perfect and how meticulous they were about their clothes and makeup. Dray was iffy about touch, though, and Adair still hadn't worked up the courage to come close enough to do this. Dray was so skittish sometimes and the last thing Adair wanted to do was scare them off.

The stare was unnerving and too piercing, and Adair got the feeling that Dray had learned this from Blythe years ago, unless it was the other way around. After a long moment where Adair had started to fidget, Dray finally said something. “Well?”

Adair blinked. He’d expected a snide comment as Dray's first words to him after the feather explosion and then Blythe's explosion. “Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to complain at me, too? That’s what Blythe sent you out here for, isn’t it?”

Adair glanced at the door. He didn’t think anyone could hear a conversation through it, so Dray must not have heard her. On the positive side, that meant no one inside could hear what was said out here, which would probably make Dray feel more comfortable. “No. I just wanted to talk to you. Blade did tell me to tell you that she’s sorry for yelling. She was just afraid you could of hurt one of us.”

Dray clutched at their chest and let out a gasp. “Blythe? Apologize for something? Did I stumble into a parallel world and wasn’t aware?”

“No, same world. Unless parallel-Sol also has that habit of losing his pants all the time.”

“I would imagine a Sol in any reality would find excuses not to wear them.” Dray picked at their nails before adding, “Look, I’m sorry about the fireworks. That was a stupid place to store them even if Sol wasn’t going to steal my bed.”

“I was thinking about getting a lock for one of the cabinets to keep it Sol-and-cat-free. You could put things like fireworks in there if you want. That wasn’t why I wanted to talk to you, though.”

Dray raised an eyebrow and tilted their head to the side. When the cat grabbed at their hair again, Dray scooped her up and dropped her into Adair's lap. She wanted no part of this, probably because Adair had no fun things to pounce on, and sauntered away. “Really. Then what was the reason? You four don’t usually make a habit out of casual chats with me.”

That was exactly the thing Adair wanted to talk about and the reason he'd followed Dray out. After some mental waffling about how best to bring this up, he decided to get right to the point. “You’re not going to leave us, right? It’s just… sometimes when you walk out the door it’s like you’re going to keep walking. I don’t want you to leave.”

Dray’s eyebrow shot so high that Adair thought the gold piercing might get stuck in their hair. They opened their mouth to say something, only to immediately close it again. Finally in a small voice they asked, “You want me to stay?”

“Yeah. I mean, you’ve got soul-marks to the others, but even without that I don’t want you to go. I like having you with us.”

Dray was staring at their nails again. Adair had no idea how they managed to keep them so polished and sharp when they were constantly dancing with performance props. That staff alone would have broken Adair’s finger in under five minutes, let alone a nail. Without looking up, Dray said, “No one’s ever said that to me before.”

Adair nodded his head towards the door. “I bet if you asked any of them, they’d agree.”

Dray snorted a laugh that was so very much like Blythe's. If ever Adair had doubted how much time the two of them had spent together, this was the proof.

“I mean it! Blade cares about you a lot even if she’s not really all that good at showing affection. Sol looks at you like you're the most amazing thing he's ever seen and he keeps asking us if we think you’ll let him share an act with you. Etch… okay, he acts like he doesn’t like you, but I’ve seen the way his mouth quirks into a smile when you’re bickering and he thinks you’re not looking. Darned if I know why, but he likes arguing with you.”

Dray’s own lips twitched at that comment. “And you?”

“Well, I definitely don’t want to argue with you or anyone else.”

Dray rolled their eyes. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

Adair grinned and draped his arm across Dray’s shoulders in a sort of small hug. This was the best way he could think of for answering that question and, considering the direction of the conversation, he hoped Dray wouldn't mind.

Dray went stiff for a second or two, then rested their head under Adair’s chin. Their body began to shake and Adair feared Dray was crying-- was the hug really that bad?-- until he realized they were chuckling. This was almost as unnerving because laughing wasn't something Dray did any more often than crying. “And to think that I was jealous of you.”

Adair gaped. What reason would anyone ever have to be jealous of a disaster like him? The only reason he’d ended up here with these carnies was because he’d been too dumb to keep his art from being stolen from under his nose. “What? Me? Why?”

Dray pulled away but wrapped their hand around Adair’s forearm. “Because you’ve known those dorky twins only as long as I have and Blythe much less, yet they all treat you like you’re one of them. I assumed since you were already in with them, that I couldn’t be, so there was no point in trying.”

Now Adair was even more confused. Dray's words didn't match the fact that they were still gently touching his arm. Was Dray upset at him or not?

Dray continued to talk, either not noticing that Adair had no idea what was going on or choosing to ignore that fact. “I wanted to pretend these didn’t matter, that I could go somewhere else. I left once and thought that I could do so again.”

Adair just stared. Somehow his plan to cheer Dray up had turned into … whatever this confession was. And he thought talking to Sol was baffling. “You can’t?”

Dray's hand dropped into Adair's and they used this to turn his arm over. “No. The five of us are all a part of this now. Don’t you see?”

A shifting rainbow covered Adair’s forearm where just minutes ago there had been a long black smudge: crimson flowed into brilliant yellow into forest green into chartreuse into deep indigo and back into crimson.  

Adair looked up into Dray’s face, always wreathed by painted red whirls that matched their red lipstick and coat. He did see it now. The yellow was for Sol and his love of light and gold glitter, and his tendency to use up all of Adair's warm color paints. Green for Blythe and her beloved garden that overflowed the wagon and grew on the patio at Adair’s back even in winter. Blue was his own favorite, the color of the sky on a bright summer day and the color that made his heart happy. Indigo, the color of Etri's celestial tattoos and as dark as the ink and the night sky that he loved so much.

This was why his soul-marks were so unlike any he’d seen before meeting his friends. This was why the five of them all had their marks turn into perfect rainbows. The five of them were each other’s soulmates and that was why it felt so right to have them all here with him.

He and Dray were the last piece. Adair squeezed Dray’s hand and a sense of warm belonging filled his heart when Dray squeezed it back. “So you’re not going to leave us?”

Dray scrunched up their nose and stuck out their tongue, making Adair wonder if it meant Dray felt like they belonged, too. Acting silly had to mean that Dray felt comfortable, right? “Of course not. You asked for it and you’re stuck with me now, just like you’re stuck with Blythe’s constant nagging and Sol’s constant lack of clothes and Etri’s constant brooding.”

Adair wouldn't have it any other way. “Just do me a favor and don’t tell Sol that. He’ll think he has to glue us all together.”

————————–

(I’m kind of sad that this story is over because it’s been such a big project for three months. I’m still not sure how a soulmate AU turned into a main project, but it was fun! I think I learned a lot by writing and sharing a chapter each week [err... minus this delayed update] without really outlining in advance, and it was a blast writing from POVs that I don’t use very often. I’m looking forward to working on new short stories now, though! Hopefully ones that are actually short since this one clocked in at 22k words total lol. I’ve already started one about Blythe and Dray and I’ll continue to share stories about these characters fairly regularly, probably once or twice a month. A big thanks to everyone who stuck by me for this all-too-long “Stuck With You” AU journey! <3

Tagging my short story people, although since tags aren’t working I’m probably going to reblog this a few times. I’m proud of finishing something that ended up so many chapters, so I’m hoping people see this. :)  As always, if you want to be taken off the list of people I tag when I share stories, let me know. If you want to be added to the list, also let me know. And please definitely do tag me when you share stories and excerpts and things, too! @ageekyreader @lynnafred @the-gay-hufflepuff @firewritten @joshuaorrizonte @writtenhastily @writerlydays @ava-burton-writing @josephmxa @megan-cutler @dragonscanbeplantstoo @alittle-writer @perringwrites @an-author-in-progress @aceduchessdragoness @madmooninc @thatwriternamedvolk @elliot-orion @wchwriter @lady-redshield-writes @shadow-maker @zachdoesawriting @blogherosix @reeseweston @bluemartlet @pen-for-sword @writer-on-time @ravenpuffwriter @forlornraven @siarven @ghostsmooches @worldbuildingwren @toboldlywrite @homesteadhorner @loopyhoopydrabbles @emptymanuscript @dreameronthewind )

#writing #writeblr #soulmate au #au tuesday #au story #short story #unexpected inspiration series #stuck with you story #UI POV: Adair #It's so strange to be done this story after working on it for so long!

[strawberryjmilk]

silence | yoon jeonghan

word count: 2870

this is based off of the greek myth: narcissus and echo  

mute!reader, angst

You didn't speak much - actually, you didn't speak at all. No one ever knew why you refused to speak. You didn't really know why you didn't like talking, either. But, you made it through life with a pen in hand, smile on your face.

Another thing you didn't know much about was Yoon Jeonghan. The boy was a beauty with a smile that could make flowers grow and a laugh that helped the sun shine through the clouds. He knew it, too.

Maybe his only downfall was he loved himself a bit too much.

You sat beside your friend Yeri, copying down your notes from class so they'd be neater. The library was quiet, only the occasional shuffle of papers or the light slam of a book. You sighed and trailed your pointer finger over the history lesson you were re-reading, making sure you didn't miss anything.

"And, there he is," Yeri spoke. A flock of quiet squeals and happy sighs broke the quiet barrier right after her sentence. Yoon Jeonghan walked into the library with a few of his friends, his head thrown back in a laugh. "Prince charming has blessed us with his presence, whatever shall we do?"

You knew she was being sarcastic. Like you, Yeri never really understood the hype about the brown haired boy. Sure, he was pretty - really, really pretty. But, he had a sour and teasing attitude you thought wasn't worth the heartache.

You grinned and wrote down your response on a blank piece of paper. Maybe we should bow and offer him gifts, I'm sure he'd be pleased! Yeri's cackle echoed around the room as you joined her, silent laughs escaping as your shoulders shook.

Jeonghan glanced in your direction at the sound of Yeri's laugh. His eyes barely glanced over the both of you before he turned back to his friends. You didn't notice, but Jeonghan thought your smile was pretty. But he knew his was prettier.

You sat in your art class, drawing daffodils and tulips across your page until your attention was called to the teacher. A live model project - that's what he introduced. You purses your lips in thought, thinking of who could be your model for a week or two.

Kim Taehyung came to your mind. Although, that was diminished as his friend Minhyuk was in your class and you knew that's who he'd talk to.

Wen Junhui would've been perfect for you to draw. You adored the boy and his soft-spoken nature to pieces. That idea flew out of the window, though, once you remembered he wouldn't be back from his trip to China in time.

You were sat at lunch now, snacking on your salad and writing potential models. Mingyu and Hyungwon were crossed out - you weren't really friends with either of them. Yeri sat across from you, amusement coloring her eyes as she watched you stress out.

"You have to come up with a theme, too?" She asked as she looked at your notes. You'd written down what your teacher said hastily, your mind preoccupied with potential models. You nodded and sighed before taking a drink of your smoothie.

I'll just have to pick a theme when I pick a person, you wrote down on a clean napkin. Yeri nodded in agreement even though the only art she was exposed to was the graffiti in the neighboring alleyways. They have to pose a certain way and I have to sketch them, but it's up to me after that.

"Sounds fun?" Yeri said. She just shrugged and took a bite of her own salad after stealing one of your cucumbers. You laughed behind your hand before leaning with your chin in your hand.

Maybe you could draw Jennie? She had a pretty, doll-like face that would be easy for you to perfect. Then again, her friend Nayeon was in your class, and she would probably talk with her.

"Hey, maybe you could ask pretty boy over there," Yeri said deviously. You turned to look at who she was referring to, a scowl on your face as you could see Yoon Jeonghan. "It was just a suggestion! He might be taken, anyways, but it still wouldn't hurt to ask!"

Don't be like this, you sighed as you slid the napkin over to Yeri. She rolled her eyes but still grinned at you anyways. You pursed your lips, allowing your eyes to drift back to Jeonghan once more.

It wasn't a terrible idea - asking the boy to model for you. He was perfect for the job - he had good proportions and he had a pretty smile and sparkling eyes. You looked back at Yeri with an almost guilty look.

"Wait, you're not really going to ask him, right?" Yeri said with wide eyes. You shrugged, playing with the napkin with names on it. No one else came to mind and you only had a month to complete the project. "Y/N, I was kidding! Bad idea - bad, bad idea!"

What's the worst that can happen - him saying no? Like you said, I can at least try, you slid the napkin to Yeri before walking to Jeonghan's table.

He was sitting with three of his friends - two you had a class or two with. You stopped and waited for them to notice you, smiling and waving when they did. Joshua - he sat beside you in biology - slid a napkin over to you once he saw you click your pen.

I hope I'm not interrupting you guys, you sheepishly wrote. Seokmin grinned at you before sliding over, patting the booth so you could sit next to him. I just have a question for Jeonghan.

"Oh? A question for me?" Said boy spoke. He was playful and you didn't know if that was a good thing or not. Jeonghan pushed his hair back before leaning his chin on his palm, grinning at you. "And what would Y/N like to ask me?"

You gulped. With Jeonghan sitting in front of you, escaping his gaze was out of the equation. You glanced to see Yeri biting her lip in concern like she always did when you were by yourself. You straightened your back and wrote your question on the napkin.

My art class is doing a project and I was wondering if you wanted to be my model. It wasn't a question, really, but it got your point across. You watched Jeonghan read your note slowly - you hoped your handwriting was neat enough for him to understand.

"A model, hm?" Jeonghan hummed. He ran his thumb over his bottom lip before looking at you. With a slight quirk, the boy began smirking at you and he almost seemed to be closer than he was before. "You know what? I like you, Y/N. So, sure, I'll be your model boy."

Thanks! Here's my number so we can start planning!! You were grinning as you stood to leave. You waved giddily at the four boys almost skipping back to where you and Yeri originally sat.

"He actually said yes?" Yeri's eyes were wide. You nodded and munched happily on your remaining salad, worries now evaporating with the wind. "And he said he liked you? The hell does that mean? Y/N, I swear if he plays you, I'll kick him between his oh, so pretty thighs."

Don't worry so much, Yer, you smiled. You patted the girl's hand lightly as she pouted. Yeri had been protective since the two of you met and, although it could be annoying, you still found it somehow endearing. I know you worry, but I'll be okay!

Yeri didn't say anything, she just glared over your head to where Jeonghan sat. You're sure the boy didn't even notice, but you appreciated her efforts all the same. Clapping, you finished off your smoothie before grabbing Yeri's arm and heading backwards to school.

You didn’t meet up with Yoon Jeonghan until a week later. He walked in as you had a pencil clenched between your teeth, hand stained with the light gray graphite. You looked up at him and could practically feel your eyes gleam - sketching the pretty boy would be a breeze.

“What do I need to do?” Jeonghan asked after he watched you grab your canvas and slide your easel closer. You pointed to the stool that sat a little ways across from you - you wanted to get as close as you could without being uncomfortable. Jeonghan dropped his bag beside the stool before sitting down, his eyes twinkling as they met yours.

You shuffled forward to move his upper body as you wanted. You tilted Jeonghan’s head gently so he was looking out of the window, almost in a daze. You motioned for him to place his chin in his palm and lean against the windowsill, remembering how nice he looked only a week ago. You nodded in approval when you took a step back to look at your work.

Now, just sit there and look pretty! You don’t really have a problem doing that, you wrote on scrap paper. Jeonghan grinned as he read it, his eyebrows wiggling.

“Oh? Does Y/N have a little crush on me or something?” The boy’s teasing tone caused you to roll your eyes as you began to outline his body. You merely grinned and shook your head before pausing.

Even you know how attractive you are, Jeonghan. It’s not a difficult thing to see. You smiled at him again before focusing on your sketch. Jeonghan didn’t answer - he sighed and gazed out of the window, seeming lost in thought.

You thought he looked prettier when he was oblivious and didn’t try to look good.

At the end of your little meet-up, it was already 6 pm and you had Jeonghan’s silhouette and hair sketched out. You were just beginning to draw his eyes when he yawned.

“Sorry, I guess it’s later than what we intended,” Jeonghan spoke. You sighed as you noticed the sun was beginning to go down - you needed that to perfect Jeonghan’s eyes. “Want to get dinner?”

Sure, let me just put this up, you shrugged. After washing your hands and getting rid of any pencil smudges on your face, you stood beside Jeonghan. He sent you a smile - that oh, so pretty smile that could make anyone weak - before leading you to where he wanted to eat.

While the two of you enjoyed your ramen, you noticed the giggles you released. You also noticed the way Jeonghan leaned forward to whisper jokes to you and the way he’d stop laughing to watch you laugh. But,  most of all, you noticed the way his eyes almost went hazy when he leant forward to wipe sauce from your cheek.

The next day wasn’t awkward as you’d expected it to be. You thought you’d be red in the face and stumbling over your own feet. But, in reality, you and Jeonghan acted the way you had before.

Except this time you two were a little closer.

You leaned in slightly so you could focus on Jeonghan’s nose, wanting to sketch it as realistically as possible. You let out an annoyed breath and leaned closer when you realized your sketch just didn’t look right. If you had been paying attention, you would’ve noticed Jeonghan’s gulp as his eyes followed your hand as you traced his nose with your finger.

Another few days had went by with you and Jeonghan meeting up. He teased you on your habits of tweaking your sketch until it was perfect. You always rolled your eyes at the brunette boy but sent him a fond smile when he wasn’t looking.

Stretching, you looked over your sketch in approval. You just had the lips left and then you’d paint it - only after thinking of the theme. It hadn’t crossed your mind - you were too focused on getting the focal point sketched out.

“Almost done, Y/N?” Jeonghan’s soft voice sailed through the quiet atmosphere. You turned to look at him and grinned when you looked over your sketch. Tapping your lips, indicating they were the last to do, you turned to grab your sharpest pencil so you could get them just right.

When you turned, you bumped in to Jeonghan. The way he was looking at you - gaze just as soft and gentle as the wind blowing outside - made your heart stutter. Your breath caught in your throat as his eyes danced across your face.

“Just the lips?” Jeonghan asked. You nodded and vaguely pointed to your sketch. Jeonghan’s gaze left yours before quickly meeting again. A sly smile etched its way to his face as his eyes began to gleam. “My, my, Y/N. You really know how to make me pretty, huh?”

I just drew what I could see, you shakily wrote down. It was odd being this close to Jeonghan - you weren’t sure if your trembling heart and caving lungs were good or not. You’re already pretty, didn’t you know?

Jeonghan just smiled before sitting down on the stool. You were going to lose daylight in a hour and you really wanted to get this project done. Sighing, you lightly traced Jeonghan’s lips with your fingers, making sure you knew where every dip was.

“Are you flirting with me?” Jeonghan raised an eyebrow at you. He scooted closer and soon you could see the small details of his face - the details you’d memorized flawlessly. You slowly drew your fingers away from his lips, quickly tracing out what you managed to notice.

And if I am? You teased back. Jeonghan allowed his smile to shine before it faded slowly. Your hopes that were lifting with each smile and glimmer of his eyes were slowly crumbling. All it took was one look at his expression.

The feelings weren’t the same on his end.

“I wish I could feel the same,” Jeonghan shrugged out. His eyes were vacant and guarded and distant as they looked away from you. Trained on the floor but you could still see that shine growing dim. “To be honest, I only know how to love my self. And I don’t want to learn how to let people in - completely in. I don’t want to give my self to anyone completely. I’m fine with just me and I’m sorry.”

Don’t apologize, you wrote down. Your note was smudged and shaky but you knew Jeonghan could still read it. He looked at you sadly before grabbing his bag and leaving, only calling out a quiet goodbye as he left.

Through your cracking heart and pounding skull, a theme came to mind.

You sighed and rested your head on Yeri’s shoulder. The girl had been like a rock for you - making sure you never delved deeper into the darkest parts in your mind. She patted your head lightly as the two of you walked into the art gallery where your painting was being displayed.

Your teacher had fallen in love with your theme as soon as you turned in your project. He asked if you wanted it to be showcased - only after a small push from Yeri did you say yes.

Yeri looped her arm through yours before trailing off to find your painting. She hadn’t seen it at all - she wanted to keep it a surprise for herself. When she did see it, however, she gasped before covering her mouth with her hand.

In front of you was a Yoon Jeonghan replica. He was looking wistfully out of the window to his left, eyes glowing in the setting sun. A soft smile was on his face and his cheeks were pink. Behind him, however, were grayed and wilted flowers. They were drooping and the gray was slowly fading in to the light beige sweater Jeonghan was in.

He was the only thing that was in color.

Below the painting was your name and the date you’d painted what you heard people calling a masterpiece. In loopy writing, right above your nameplate, was the title of your piece.

‘A Facade For Me.’

“What does the name mean?” Yeri asked. She shuffled the both of you back as a crowd began to swarm around your painting. You grabbed her pamphlet of the gallery, clicking your pen as you thought.

It’s about Jeonghan, you wrote down. You bit your lip, running through what you wanted to say without making the boy sound bad. It’s about how he’s convinced himself he’s the only one he needs. And it’s the acceptance from the viewer that sometimes a person really does only need themselves. Jeonghan’s facade - being alone makes him happy. The viewers facade - imagining that he’s just lonely and sad.

“I had no idea you could create something like that,” Yeri gaped. She then grinned before wrapping her arms around you. “My best friend is so creative and cute!”

Your eyes met Jeonghan’s figure as he stood in front of the painting. You could see people compliment him - for his looks or cooperation you didn’t know. He turned and his eyes met yours. You simply smiled at the boy, getting a small smile in return.

He knew he was part of the facade.

whoops here i go again w another mini series! im not giving myself a time limit though so lmao i hope you enjoyed! and thank you for reading ♡  

find more greek love story aus here! 

jeonghan | jihoon | seokmin | chan

#yoon jeonghan imagines #yoon jeonghan angst #yoon jeonghan au #seventeen imagines #seventeen angst #seventeen au #echo and narcisuss #kpop greek au #greek mythology au #kpop angst #kpop scenarios #kpop au #kpop imagines

[childlikemperor]

A PSA: protip from an artist to fanfic writers

you can always tell when a fanfic writer has never met or even seen an artist irl ever bc they ALWAYS. WITHOUT A FAIL. will have their artist character drawing with charcoal like casually and it feels kinda like a copout like yes i know there are charcoal artists out there but listen,,,, 95% of artists who like just draw on sketchbooks bc they love drawing actually hate charcoal charcoal is one of the most impractical mediums for sketching and it gets everywhere and it smudges all over ur sketchbook pages and everything else in your life forever so like really take into account what the profile of the character as an artist is and more often than not you'll find yourself realizing that no, no matter how lyrically you think the image of charcoal sketching would work, your character would not find it practical/worth the mess to carry around one or more charcoal sticks then have it MARK UP ALL THEIR EARTHY POSSESSIONS (sorry im really passionate abt this) just for sketching also PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF BUMBLEBEES dont use it as a synonym for graphite ok just dont just say graphite, say they were using a pencil i promise you itll feel better. ⚫️here's some nice alternatives to charcoal if u like a Messy Artist™feel to things + how to match them to your character based on my experiences w artists that use these mediums/myself: → ink has a similar edge of "fingertips smudged in black probably forever" but it's simpler to carry even though it also has that risk of staining everything you love, depending on how its used (as in, will they carry around a glass bottle of jett black ink and a brush in their bag/pocket or just have it in different kinds of pens?) + artist who use ink usually like a very finished crisp look to their work and are therefor usually quite methodical and have (or strive to have) steady hands even with fluid lines there's intent to whats going on. these artists usually sketch first (and rarely in graphite, usually blue or red colored pencil) so keep that in mind too. rarely will you see someone just straight up taking a brush pen to paper with no layout and if they do they have a very clear image in mind and outstanding control and understanding of where everything should go and how and where. →watercolor is less messy but it takes a bit more of a setup bc you need water and usually a palette. i use it quite a bit myself on my sketchbook and what i do is i just ask for/get glasses of water anywhere i go, get my paints and whatever scrap of paper to mix them on and im ready bc all i care about is my finished product and i usually draw in places where water is easily accessible (like parks w water fountains/stores w water fountains nearby, coffee shops, school, etc) but a lot of artists who have it as their *main* medium and have developed more practical setups over the years tend to have lil travel palettes that are tiny and easy to pack as well as waterbrushes and water bottles to fill them with all in all not too hard to carry around with minimal incident. people with watercolor as a main medium are usually more laid back and like things to look soft and dreamy (can be REALLY picky about paper tho) and generally just strive for happiness and like pretty things (if yr person is painting a landscape, its probably in watercolor since it dries fairly quickly and like i said isnt too hard to carry) →acrylic artists uhh... idk any other artists who paint w acrylic on their sketchbook so ill just speak for them ok WE JUST WANT THINGS TO LOOK GOOD OK WE WILL SUFFER FOR IT WE DONT CARE its a bit of a lot to carry depending on how many colors ur tryna have to mix but u gotta have at least ur 3 primaries and a black and a white (some artists work w yellow cyan and magenta but ppl swear by yellow ultramarine and red so idk ycm shows better online or if ur printing it out so it works for me bc i like my colors really really bright) and ur brushes so ye. + like i said folks who work with acrylic have a very specific look and feel they're going for and they dive headfirst into it, if something goes wrong, acrylic is usually quite opaque so it can be easily layered over once its dry, blending usually comes from mixing dif midtones so if thats part of their style they're probably quite patient/willing to sacrifice their patience for a good end product. some artists will mix their colors themselves bc they like the process or because they want very specific shades and those are the methodical fuckers who'll die for things to look the way they gotta look and also just really like the process (be it because it relaxes them or makes them think or whatever BUILD ON THAT W UR CHARACTER) and some just get premixed bottles of the colors they want and those are really focused on efficiency and laying paint down wherever they're painting and getting it done (so not so much the process but the act of painting or even just having art made) but i cant really speak for those too much then again thats between you and ur character →IF YOUR CHARACTER WORKS WITH COLORED PENCILS AS THEIR MAIN MEDIUM THEY'RE A WELL OF PATIENCE AND DESERVE TO BE CANONIZED. fairly easy to carry i mean i own like 100 of them and i just carry one big pencil case w them in so ye whats really tiresome is the process since u gotta go color for color and cant really cover too wide a surface w the pencil tip ever + usually daydreamers and, honestly, dayDREAMS, lovely patient folk who just really like color and enjoy the introspectiveness and calm of coloring. explore those dudes, they deserve it SUMMARY: TAKE INTO ACCOUNT THE MEDIUM YOUR ARTIST USES. THINK ABOUT STYLE. DONT JUST HAVE YOUR PAINTED MAKE ABSTRACT ART BC YOU CANT BE BOTHERED TO THINK OF ANYTHING BETTER TO DO WITH PAINT. IF UR NOT GONNA MAKE IT PART OF UR CHARACTER STUDY WHAT THEY MAKE ART WITH AND HOW AND WHAT ABOUT UR MISSING OUT MAN!!!!!! I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT!!!!!!! please give your artist characters the depth they deserve and remember us artists build half of ourselves because, through and around our art so to make that just a title of ours is kind of a disservice, your artist character wouldnt want that. visual artists feel free to add on to this!!

#jesus ive been writing this for like an hour i just got so fired up

[stimtoybox]

[image description: a white 16-link fake Tangle Jr sitting on a polished brown wood-grain bench. The Tangle is dirty, almost grey coloured, and the joins between each section have been blackened.]

Tangle Jr Experiments: Lubrication

Yesterday afternoon I took several knock-offs (including my broken GitD knock-off, pictured above) down to Dad’s workshop to try out a couple of lubricants. All the Tangles I took have a common flaw I’ve found in the lower-quality knock-offs, in that they’re very loose and refuse to hold a coil (the Thing) but they’re too stiff to hold in your hands and easily rotate. I dislike the first problem of floppy coiling, but it’s the second problem of stiffness that makes them unusable for me, as I have to force the plastic to twist and turn, putting extra stress on my hands.

We tried two different lubricants that we had on hand: graphite powder and Selleys RP7 Lubricant spray.

Graphite powder: it will loosen a stiff Tangle a little, but the mess it makes isn’t worth the small gains in movement. You have to tip the powder container over the joins and work it into the peg and slot, which is quite difficult and time consuming, and on anything except dark colours the powder stains permanently. As you can see in the above photo, the powder works itself between the peg and the slot, permanently discoloring the Tangle from underneath.

I was later able to scrub away some of the powder with a toothbrush, but the Tangle is permanently stained. I don’t recommend using this at all.

RP7: loosens a stiff Tangle fabulously. It doesn’t quite give my fakes the ease of movement possessed by the branded Tangles, but it’s close enough that I consider this a very acceptable mod for a cheap knock-off Tangle. It’s also very easy to spray the lubricant between the Tangle pieces - spray, twist the links, spray the next section, wipe down with a cloth when done. It took a minute or two to complete one Tangle.

The one drawback to this treatment is the smell. It’s not quite as bad as something like WD40, but it’s a peppery, chemical smell. I did wipe my Tangles down with a baby wipe afterwards, both to lessen the smell and remove the oily texture left by the lubricant on the outside of the macaroni pieces, and this took away some of the smell without lessening the ease of turning/rotation. After airing overnight, there is some smell remaining, but it’s only very bad when held right under my nose.

I’ve kept one knock-off as a control and lubricated two more, and the difference between them is remarkable. I can’t bear handling the control for more than a few seconds; I’m happy to play with the lubricated Tangles for minutes and more.

I’ll observe two things: RP7 isn’t specifically designed for plastics, so I don’t know if it will damage the plastic long-term. I also don’t know how long I’ll get before the lubricant needs reapplying. I also think that I need to try it on some printed Tangles to see if it messes up the paint/printing. So please expect updates on this later on!

As a way of making cheap, too-stiff-to-easily-turn knock-offs useable, though, this looks extremely promising, and I’m quite thrilled to discover that there might be a really easy fix for a too-stiff Tangle.

Disclaimer: do not try this on a Tangle to which you are attached if you aren’t willing to run the risk of potentially ruining it. I’m not yet at a point where I can confirm the longevity of this treatment! Additionally, if you do lubricate a Tangle, wash your hands after using it, especially if you’re about to eat, handle a chewable or engage in anything that involves your hands in contact with food or your mouth. You will be getting trace amounts of lubricant on your skin while using a treated Tangle, and that’s not something you want inside your mouth.

- Mod K.A.

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