#Famous Square Captures | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pinkboaclub · 4 months ago

Text

Cowgirl

[READ PART ONE HERE! Scene Stealers blurb]

Summery: You and Harry are in university and are amateur (yet, famous) porn stars. Your friend invites you to a costume party, but you both can’t wait to get back to your dorm.

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: literally just smut, frat Harry, mention of alcohol consumption, fem!reader, this is from your POV so the girl in the photos doesn’t have to look like you !! just a reference for your outfit :), still set in a US university, though Harry is British.

An intense scent wave of alcohol hit you and Harry as you entered the house party. You made your way through the hands holding Red Solo Cups before finding your way to their drinks. Your friends were throwing a costume party, and though he was reluctant to dress up, Harry wore a dark burgundy plaid shirt to match your cowgirl dress.

“Are you drinking a lot tonight?” Harry asked you, as you looked at your collection.

“No, I think I’ll only have a little something. Are you?”

“I think I’ll only have a little too…I was hoping to get a little lucky tonight.” He wrapped an arm around your lower waist, cheekily pulling you into him and giving you a kiss on your neck.

“Oh, were you?” You laughed as his lips casually travelled around your neck.

“Of course, only if you were feeling the same way.”

“We’ll see, cowboy.”

Harry did not attempt to hide his eagerness throughout the night. When you were standing, his hands were on your hips or your ass, when you sat in his lap, his hands were up your dress, resting on your upper thigh. As the night continued and as his hands remained all over you, you felt yourself starting to feel the same. Riled Up. Hot and Bothered. Horny.

“Maybe we get out of here early?” You whispered in Harry’s ear, causing his body to perk up. He hastfully nodded his head and led you to the door.

Your pace only quickened as you raced up the stairs of your dorm room building, hand in hand. As you fumbled with your keys to unlock your door, Harry kissed every square inch of your neck.

“Laila’s not going to be here right?” He asked in between kisses, referring to your roommate.

“She’s still at the party…but we don’t have all the time in the world.” You replied as you opened the door, making sure to lock it behind you.

His lips were immediately on your as the lock on the door clicked.

He turned you around, pushing you onto the bed with a gentle force that made you gasp. The red dress you wore clung to your skin as he yanked it up, exposing you to the coolness of the room. His hands traced the curve of your waist, his thumbs hooking into the lacy thong that barely covered your dripping pussy. He pulled it down your legs, tossing it aside.

He dropped to his stomach on the bed as his eyes took in the sight before him, your legs shaking with anticipation. Harry leaned in, his breath hot against your skin as he kissed the inside of your thigh. You whimpered, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through your core. His tongue flicked out, tasting your sweetness as he moved closer to the center of your need. He took his time, teasing the sensitive skin around your pussy, making you beg for more.

As his tongue touched your clit, you gripped his shoulders, stopping him. "Wait," You panted. "You wanna grab the grab the camera"

A cheeky smile spread across Harry's face as he pulled back. "My little slutty girl," he murmured "Always thinking about the fans, huh?”

You bit your lip, unable to resist the urge to watch him as he stood up and grabbed the o camera from your bedside table. You knew it would take a few minutes to set up the tripod and get the perfect angle, but Harry looked too good to not capture him. The bulge in his black jeans was impossible to ignore, straining against the fabric as he moved around the room. You could see his excitement growing with every step, and the anticipation was making your stomach churn.

Finally, the camera was ready, the red light blinking at you from the corner of the room. Harry crawled back onto the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he positioned himself between your legs. He leaned in, his tongue tracing the outline of your pussy before delving in like he was starving. You felt like you could melt into the mattress as he ate you, his mouth and tongue working in harmony to bring you to the brink of ecstasy. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as you rocked your hips to meet his eager mouth.

He stopped, his eyes meeting yours with a knowing smirk. "You're going to have to be quiet, baby," he whispered, his voice thick. "We are still in your dorm room, remember?"

You nodded, a mix of excitement and embarrassment flushing your cheeks. Harry leaned in and kissed you deeply. He pulled away and whispered, "But I know how much you like it when they can hear you."

You pushed him off of you and sat up. Harry's eyes stayed in you with surprise and intrigue as he took in your newfound assertiveness. You slid off the bed, the white cowgirl boots making a satisfying sound as they hit the floor. Though they gave you a little confidence you slid them off and threw them aside. You strutted over to the camera, your hips swaying with each step, and turned it on. Your red dress clung to your body, your nipples hard and visible through the fabric as you faced Harry with a sultry look.

"Why don't you hold this for a while?" You handed him the camera. You watched him, his eyes hungrily taking in the sight of you, the lust in them making you even wetter. Harry took the camera, his grip tight as he looked at you through the viewfinder. "You want to show them how good of a little slut I can be for you?" You whispered, your voice low and seductive.

With a smile and a nod from Harry, you straddled him, your knees pushing into the bed on either side of his hips. Your red dress hiked up around your waist, giving him a perfect view of your bare pussy as you reached down to unbutton his jeans. You slid your hands into his boxers, gripping his cock firmly. It was already hard, the heat of it pulsing against your palm.

He groaned as you began to stroke him, your movements slow and deliberate. His eyes never left yours, the camera forgotten in his hand as he took in the sight of you, dressed but still open and exposed to him. You leaned forward, your breasts pressing against his thigh, your ass up in the air, and took his cock into your mouth.

You could feel him swell in your mouth as you worked him, your tongue swirling around his tip as you sucked. The taste of him filled your mouth, making you want to moan around his length. But you held back, knowing you were supposed to be quiet. Instead, you let out little whimpers of pleasure, muffled by his cock, that seemed to drive him even more wild.

His eyes were heavy with pleasure as you deep-throated him, your hands playing with his balls. His grip on your hair tightened, guiding you faster, pushing you down further until you could feel his cock hit the back of your throat, his breath becoming heavy.

But just as you felt him get to the edge, you pulled away, leaving his cock covered with your saliva. You straddled him again, this time with your dress still rucked up around your waist. He watched as you took his cock in your hand and positioned it at your entrance. Without a word, you sank down onto him, taking him inch by inch.

His hand immediately came to your thigh to guide you through your slow motions. Without even realizing it, your whimpers became louder, moans began to leave your mouth. "What did I say baby?" You ignored his demand for your quietness, his cock feeling too good inside of you.

Instead you lowered the straps of your dress, letting your braless breasts become exposed to him (a part of you thinking they may even distract him from your increasingly loud moans).

Harry's eyes slightly widened as he took in the sight, his cock twitching in response. You began to bounce on him, your tits bouncing in sync with your movements. His hands shot up to cup them, his thumbs brushing against your sensitive nipples as he filmed you.

You leaned forward, taking his hand and bringing it to your mouth. You sucked on his thumb, your eyes never leaving his as you did so.

As you watched his face express how much pleasure he was in, you felt the need to up the ante. You pulled off of him. Almost causing Harry to protest until he saw the determined look on your face.

You leaned forward, taking his cock and placing it between your tits. You started to titty-fuck him, the wetness of your pussy smearing across your skin as you did so. His moans grew louder as you squeezed your tits together around his cock.

You knew that this was a move that always got him off (and your viewers definitely appreciated it as well), so you made sure to keep it going until he was right on the edge. But you didn't stop there. You leaned down and took his cock in your mouth again, sucking hard as you continued to pump him with your tits. Harry's hand found its way back to your hair, pushing you down further as he started to thrust up into your mouth.

“So fucking good, Y/N. Perfect girl.”

You felt him get closer and closer to the edge, but just as you knew he was about to cum, you pulled away. Harry groaned in frustration, his hand slipping from your hair as he tried to catch his breath. You gave him a wicked smile as you lifted yourself up. You turned around and straddled him again, this time, you were facing away from him.

You hiked up your dress, revealing the perfect roundness of your ass, and slammed back down onto his cock. Harry's hands shot out to grab onto your hips to keep you steady. You leaned forward, placing your hands on the bed as you began to ride him in reverse, the camera capturing every bounce and jiggle of your ass.

"Going to be the star of the show tonight, hmm?" Harry murmured, his voice tight with need. You didn't answer, your mind focusing on your body and his pleasure. You could feel his cock pulsing inside you, and it made you want to go even faster. But you held back, enjoying the slow, torturous pace.

You heard him place the camera on the nightstand, pointing towards you and him, so he could have more hands on your body. Your pace quickened dramatically, almost like a reward for him for choosing to focus on you.

Though, your body began to tire quickly, your thighs burned, your thrusts became slower and shorter. Harry could see your weakness spreading.

“Where’s my confident girl? Getting tired?” He teased in a dominant way, causing you to mentally roll your eyes.

“No…just teasin’ you.” You mumbled, fully knowing you were lying to him. He caught on and grabbed your stomach to slowly lean you back onto him.

You succumbed, pressing your back into his chest and he held you in place. His hands found your breasts, squeezing and pinching your nipples until you were crying out. The camera sat just above your head, recording every moment of your passion. You looked over your shoulder, watching him watch you, his eyes filled with lust.

You reached and grabbed his hand, bringing it down to your clit. "Want you to make me feel good," you whispered, your voice soft but thick with innocence and desire. Harry's eyes never left yours as he began to rub your clit in tight circles, his other hand still kneading your breast. Your hips began to rock back and forth, fucking yourself on his cock as he pleasured you.

“God, Harry…I love it so much.” You moaned out.

“Yeah, baby? Like fucking yourself on my cock?” His lips brushed against your ear, you kept your eyes pinched closed and nodded your head.

The sound of your moans filled the room, no longer muffled by the need for quiet and discretion. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure crashing through your body, and you could feel the tension building in your core. Your moans grew louder, turning into cries of pleasure that echoed off the walls of the small dorm room. You have lost full control now, letting Harry and his thrusts control everything you did.

You felt the bed shake beneath you as Harry picked up his pace, his breathing turning ragged as he neared his own climax. The pressure was building, and you could tell he was getting close. But you weren't far behind. Harry's grip on your hips tightened, his own moans filling the room as he drove into you deeper and harder.

You leaned back into Harry's embrace, his hands roaming your body as he whispered dirty encouragements into your ear. "I know, baby...let go. Let that pretty pussy squeeze my cock."

The friction of his fingers against your clit was too much. You threw your head back and screamed out your release, your body shuddering with the intensity of the orgasm that crashed through you. You felt Harry's grip tighten, his own moans becoming more erratic as he felt your walls clench around him.

"You okay?" Harry asked, his thrusts halting to comfort you. Your head nodded in haste as your body was able to quickly recover from the powerful orgasm.

"M'gonna flip you over sweetie, get a shot of your pretty back with my cum on it."

You nodded, feeling a thrill run down your spine. He carefully flipped you onto your stomach, your dress now bunched up around your waist. You felt his cock slip out of you with a wet sound, and you knew he was close. Harry's hand as it gripped the base of his cock. You slowly started to grind your ass against him, slow circles on his thighs to help encourage the thrusts from his hand.

"Fuck, Baby," Harry groaned, his grip tightening on your hip. Your whimpers continued though you were not receiving any pleasure.

He painted your back with his cum as his release came. He watched it dribble down your spine, mesmerized by the sight, he reached for the camera. He adjusted the angle, capturing your ass still glistening from your own arousal, then panned to your painted back. His cheeky smirk grew as he took a step back to film your entire body.

"Maybe I won't clean you up," Harry murmured, his voice low and full of dark promise. "I'll just keep you like this, with your pretty wet pussy and my cum on your back, for everyone to see." You laughed and lightly kicked his leg.

He turned the camera off, deciding to go against his idea and grabbed a rag to wet in the sink before coming over to clean you. Once his cum was clean from your back, he helped you and your knees, which were beginning to sore, flip onto your back. As he continued to clean you up, your body became light and your eyes were heavy.

“Tired from all the riding you were doing?” Harry asked, your tired eyes staying closed as you laughed.

“I haven’t done that much work in a while.” You joked. Harry threw the washcloth into your dirty laundry and leaned forward to brush your hair away and kiss you.

“I know, the little pillow princess is all tired out from taking control.” You both chuckled as Harry continued to soothingly run his hand in your hair. “Let's get you out of this dress, cowgirl.”

Tags:

@mema10 @lizsogolden @harrrrystylesslut @tulips4harry @cloudyluun @dipmeinhoneyh

547 notes · View notes

dedeinthewild · 26 days ago

Text

george weasley x reader, friends to lovers

- “—I suggest you learn how to stand without a crutch.”

summary : it's like they can't function without that little interaction, the one that infuriates Snape but makes McGonagall smile at the sight. They're never distracting, and they work obnoxiously well together.

Sixth Year had welcomed them with open arms — with breakfasts in the Great Hall now turned into a refuge for stressed-out students, and hours lost in the library over pumpkin juice and ink-smudged notes.

Autumn had swept in with it the rising expectations of the professors, all preparing their students for the NEWTs they’d sharpen the following year. And so everyone had started wandering the corridors smelling faintly of scorched lavender from Potions class, reading letters from home while poking at dinner.

But there was something different in the air that year. Maybe it was the feeling of nearing the end of their Hogwarts days, or maybe the taste of freedoms they’d longed for ever since the Sorting Hat had first been lowered onto their heads.

That day, students were standing before Professor Snape, listening as he explained the use of new ingredients they'd cultivated during Herbology. He handed each of them a new textbook to keep. His black hair framed an expression even more sour than usual — the one he wore whenever Gryffindors were paired with Slytherins for the practical part of the lesson.

His eyes, predictably, drifted to the back of the classroom, to the same sight he’d been met with for years. George Weasley was standing there, spinning a quill between his fingers, while his loyal partner in green had her head gently resting against his arm — her usual place.

As if — be it summer or winter, whether they'd just witnessed a girl being petrified or the latest prank from that ever-famous Gryffindor trio — they always ended up there. On the shiniest tile of the Potions classroom floor, her voice low and steady as she explained the diagrams Snape had handed out at the start of class.

George always kept an eye on Snape. She, meanwhile, was already memorizing the measurements of each ingredient, with that soft smile she wore whenever something truly captured her interest.

She loved Potions. Or maybe — she loved every class, really.

They’d made it through the winter wrapped in their robes, and now the dungeons were warming with spring's return — that heady, reckless warmth that made you want to spill out onto the grounds, maybe even wander past Hagrid’s hut just because.

But Snape’s dramatics anchored them all to the floor. And he kept watching the way George and the Slytherin girl worked together — now seated, elbows brushing.

She was peeling a root. George was copying her notes, gripping his quill between thumb and forefinger, the other hand flat on the parchment to keep it still. When they moved to the brewing, George rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, stirring with a focus he had never once shown in Snape’s classroom. She had once again leaned lightly against his arm, reading instructions with a lock of hair slipping past her nose.

“Miss ____,” Snape drawled, voice dry as bone. “I presume Mr. Weasley is now your official emotional support twin?”

She didn’t look up, simply poured a vial of extract into the potion.

“Must I remind you that your role in this classroom is not decorative?”

“No, sir.”

Her voice was calm, respectful, measured. When she stood upright again, shoulders square, nobody noticed the way George took half a step closer — just enough to read over her shoulder again.

Around them, caldrons hissed and spit. One group’s potion billowed black smoke; another had achieved a murky green sludge. But beneath Snape’s ever-watchful eye, the pair — the pair he least tolerated — had brewed something perfectly clear, subtle, and steady.

They had met in third year, back when they'd started chatting in the hallway outside Transfiguration. Sometimes they’d trade chocolate frogs, sometimes just keep each other company between lessons — him with his half-muttered jokes, her with that crystalline laugh that rang through even the quietest corners of the castle.

By fourth year, they were hiding behind stone arches after mischief with Fred, then reappearing like nothing happened — her returning to being the straight-A student no one really knew, because there was always someone louder, someone flashier. But with George, she never had to be the best. She didn’t even have to prove she could be.

He handed her ink before she could ask. Waited for her by the common room door when he knew her day had been long, just to walk her down to the wooden bridge and sit there in silence until dinner.

“If your proximity to Mr. Weasley is required for his comprehension,” Snape said now, placing a hand on her shoulder as she adjusted the flame beneath the caldron, “I suggest you consider tutoring him outside of scheduled class hours.”

“I’m not tutoring him,” she replied, unshaken. She’d grown used to Snape’s tone — the way he never quite accepted that George was improving in his classroom. “He knows what he’s doing.”

Snape squinted at George through the veil of his black hair, as if he’d just caught him stealing dittany from his personal stores.

George, for his part, was silently slicing the last root, movements precise, mouth set in quiet focus.

Their sides touched — her stirring, him cutting — a small, easy closeness that spoke more than words ever could.

“Remarkable,” Snape murmured. “He’s learned something. And yet your elbow appears permanently fused to his arm.”

George didn’t even look up. His knife slid cleanly through the root.

Snape leaned in slightly, head between theirs.

“You may not be speaking,” he said coolly, “but some distractions, Mr. Weasley, are visible rather than audible. You take up more space than your marks suggest you deserve.”

The class reeked of burnt lavender, and yet the air was warmer than usual. The lesson ended — at last — and Snape made his final lap around the classroom.

He declared another group’s cloudy, oversteeped potion the best of the lot. Not theirs — even though he knew it was superior, flawless in technique and result.

He gave ten house points to a pair of Slytherins whose work didn’t hold a candle to theirs.

That evening, on the bench in the quiet courtyard, they laughed over it all — at Snape’s face, at his comments, at how he just couldn’t stand the fact that they worked better together than any student pairing he’d ever tried to engineer.

“And you, if you plan to succeed in this subject—” she imitated, dramatically, “—I suggest you learn how to stand without a crutch.”

The sun hung lazily above them, catching on the edges of the grass that George was fiddling with in one hand.

He lay almost fully stretched out on the lawn, nose scrunched, smiling lazily as he pretended to reread her notes.

She sat upright beside him, head tucked against the curve of his shoulder and chest — because that was always where she ended up.

And he never moved.

“You reckon,” she added, “Snape keeps a personal diary of all the ways he wants to sabotage our friendship?”

“With headings and bullet points.”

She picked a few little flowers from the grass, pressing them between the pages of her book, while George had abandoned the notebook beside them and closed his eyes.

“Daily entries,” she insisted.

“‘April tenth: Miss _____ smiled at Weasley again. Points deducted on principle.’”

And the Slytherin burst into that crystalline laughter—the one that had brightened George’s days ever since he handed her one of his creepy crawlies during Divination class a few years back. He looked at her, hands folded behind his head, lips parted in amusement.

“He probably cries into his robes.”

“We’re his worst nightmare,” she said, turning to rest her chin on the boy’s chest, her face tilted slightly, lit by the lazy sun that had begun to signal the arrival of evening—when fireflies flickered and seventh years dashed off toward Hogsmeade.

“And each other’s favorite person,” replied the redhead, reaching out to affectionately tap her nose, with no awkward pause, knowing how easy it was for them to spend time like this—without the heavy questions that might make things complicated.

“D’you think McGonagall finds us annoying, too?”

“She gives us house points when she thinks no one’s watching.”

George grabbed the notebook again, mumbling something about her handwriting being illegible, which earned him another smile from her and a delightfully witty comeback.

Still full of pumpkin juice and the delicious treats that always appeared on the Great Hall tables in the morning, they’d headed to Transfiguration class, where tall windows cast soft morning light across their faces. George had arrived first, walking casually, a bluish glint masking his freckles as he slid into their usual seat—always at the back, far right, behind Fred and Lee, who were certainly going to be late.

As usual, he laid down his parchment and quill on the desk, fiddling with the cap of the ink bottle while Professor McGonagall prepared the lesson behind her desk. She arrived a bit later, delayed by a Hufflepuff girl who’d asked her for help with a Herbology assignment that would otherwise have interfered with Quidditch. The light catching her face came in gold tones from the lower part of the windows, and she lingered at the doorway to grab a few more parchments before sitting beside the redhead. The usual scent of burnt lavender from the dungeons had been replaced by the warm aroma of wood and ink in the Gryffindor head’s classroom—but what hadn’t changed was how close the two of them always sat.

“Excellent, Miss ______” said the professor, her voice kind.

The Slytherin had just transfigured a matchstick into a silver pin under George’s attentive gaze, as he observed closely, memorizing everything she did even though she never had to turn to see him do it. When she noticed McGonagall standing in front of her, she paused for a second, moving slightly away from George, but the professor raised her hand slightly, as if to say not to worry, her glasses low on her nose.

“Mr. Weasley,” she added, “you seem to be concentrating harder in my class than you ever have before.”

“Suppose I’ve upgraded my seat, Professor.”

McGonagall had grown used to scanning her classroom, catching boys testing their wands and girls adjusting their hair when students from other houses entered. Most always sat in the same spots, forming patterns they assumed she didn’t notice—but her gaze often landed on that last row in the back-right corner.

Y/L/N and Weasley. They didn’t talk loudly or whisper like the others; they gave each other their full attention, absorbing one another. Perhaps McGonagall had been the first to notice how they always gravitated toward the same anchor point, their little corner.

And when the girl rested her head on the arm of the boy—so much taller and broader than her—it was never out of exhaustion or flirtation like others who slouched or bumped shoulders teasingly. She simply leaned on his shoulder, and neither of them ever seemed to mind. George never got distracted, even though he had never once paid attention with Fred. He didn’t look down at her or get lost in her—he just made sure she was comfortable, jotting down a few notes here and there. They had never been distracting—and never would be. But they were always noticeable.

“Five points to Gryffindor and Slytherin,” she said, “for correct technique… and improved discipline.”

George smiled as he watched her walk away. And let himself toss out a small joke that made the girl next to him laugh.

“Do you think she’s going soft in her old age?”

She handed him another parchment, amused. Every point their houses earned came directly out of Snape’s tally, who seemed increasingly unable to stomach watching one of his best Slytherin students bond so effortlessly with a Gryffindor—worse, a Weasley. He’d say she was competent, while George was just an accessory—and that his classroom was no stage for duets. All while George’s pinky wrapped gently around hers. And in all those times she handed him her quill, knowing exactly what he needed—or when he saved her from disaster, knowing she was brilliant but also hilariously clumsy—

George was improving, in all those evenings around the Gryffindor table, which had half-adopted her, one arm draped around her shoulders and his eyes on the napkin she used to explain things during the most random moments. And everyone saw the house points rising, despite Snape’s best efforts. And McGonagall was secretly pleased, her rare smile quietly revealing it.

By summer, they found themselves once again in the dungeons of the castle, the scent of potions embedded in their memories, cauldrons bubbling, students anxious over the final Potions class before their seventh year. In the very back—where the shadows couldn’t reach—two figures stood behind their workstation, shoulders nearly touching as if silently reminding each other that they worked better together than alone. Their table was perfectly organized, ingredients balanced with care, and a shared checklist sat between them—half in her writing, half in his unexpectedly neat script.

The potion they had to brew was the hardest of sixth year—so complex that a single extra stir could curdle the entire mixture.

Most students had already given up. A Ravenclaw girl declared her defeat after spilling a foul-smelling mess on the stone floor, while a few Gryffindors muttered frantically about smoke and whether they’d added the right amount of feathers. Through the chaos, Snape’s voice cut like a crow through storm clouds over the Black Lake.

Meanwhile, she and George didn’t need to speak.

He lit the fire; she checked the temperature with the back of her hand, consulting the list while the Gryffindor ground moonstone in the mortar. And the most remarkable part? They hadn’t rehearsed this potion. Not once.

His movements blended with hers like they’d done it a thousand times before. Three clockwise stirs, she added an ingredient, one counterclockwise stir, five seconds of stillness—then repeat. The potion began to glow with a pearly shimmer and its unmistakable scent filled the air. She glanced up at George, breaking free from their shared rhythm, just as his lips curled into a small smile.

The classroom had quieted. Even Snape’s sighs were audible now. Everyone else had given up. Lee had been the last, his hand trembling when he saw the professor approach.

When Snape finally stood in front of their desk—the one he loathed most—they didn’t even look up. Their potion spoke for itself, releasing soft, perfect-colored puffs just as the textbook described, no trace of cloudiness.

For once, there was no mistake. Nothing to criticize.

“I assume,” Snape said at last, his voice like steel cooled in oil, “that Miss ______ brewed this alone. Mr. Weasley’s hands appear clean, for once.”

They didn’t answer. George picked up the final vial and poured it into the potion without a trace of tension, while she checked the temperature with unmatched precision. And that’s when Snape saw it. The perfect timing. The shared glances. The subtle nods, exchanged like silent cues.

“Is there a reason,” he continued, quieter now, “that the two of you insist on treating this classroom as if it were… a coordinated ballet?”

At that, they finally looked up. Matching, quietly confident smiles on their young faces.

The potion was complete. There was nothing left to say.

As Snape walked away, she rested her head on George’s arm, and he drew a line through the last step of the recipe. Once again, they had worked beautifully—in silence.

That evening, they returned to their usual spot on the grass, backs against the bench. Fred had joined them, watching as she scribbled something into a notebook and handed it to George.

“What in Merlin’s name was that today?”

They laughed, and George crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for her to lean against him. And she did—this time looking up at the boy’s smile. At the soft freckles on his nose. The ones she’d come to love all summer long at the Burrow.

“I think he didn’t know what to do with us,” she said. “No insults left. No points to take.”

funfact: the first complete fanfic I've written on wattpad was about George, and writing this imagine was like reconnecting with middle school me

207 notes · View notes

starkenobi · 4 months ago

Note

For the 100 followers celebration, could you do a ficlet of Logan Howlett + reader kidnapped or hostage?

Congratulations and thank you 🥳🫂❤️

Gif by @richardgrimes

masterlist

thank you, sweetie! hope you enjoy the reading 💜

pairing: logan howlett x mutant!reader

warnings: violence description.

The warehouse was cold and dark, water pooling on the floor, and a terrible smell of something rotten. But you're trying hard not to focus on that last detail because it's definitely a dead body. Strapped in a chair, your wrists ached from the tight rope.

The least of your problems, the worst part was being captured by a group of idiots. They actually thought that demanding money in exchange for your safety was a smart move.

Sighing, you observe in silence your captors.

They had no idea who they were messing with.

No, not your biological family. Rich filthy people. They abandoned you a long time ago when they discovered your mutation.

Fuck them.

If you captors were trying to get money, it was a waste of time. Your biological family would laugh and ask them to kill you.

But your real family? They won't be happy.

No, scratch that.

Before they even know what's happening, there's one person that you know it's already on their way.

So you sit there, bored.

In your cute bloodied pijamas.

With a split lip, a swollen eye, a stab in the abdomen, and a sprained foot.

Well, you couldn't use your mutation to fight seven men at the same time, but you give them hell.

Cowards.

The first sign that the rescue had arrived was the loud sound of a motorcycle engine.

Rescue for you. Nightmare for them.

"The fuck was that noise?" One of the captors grumbled.

Then a loud bang sounded and the warehouse's door blew in pieces.

Show off.

Logan walked with his claws ready to fight.

He was furious.

The captors didn't stand a chance.

The two stupid enough to get closer were slashed by Logan's claws, red blood spilling everywhere, and yells became gurgling.

Frightened by the horror, they began to shoot.

Logan didn't seem that fazed by the bullets, gruting because of the impact, but he kept walking. With a high jump, Logan fell on top of a captor, the claw hitting square in the head.

Like a blur, Logan decimated the rest one by one. The screams and chaos were soon silenced.

Standing in the middle of the bloodied warehouse, Logan was beautiful and in all his glory.

Dammit, you loved him so much.

"I told you to stop looking for trouble, princess," Logan said as greeting, retracting his claws and approaching where you were tied to the chair.

You pouted. "I'm innocent this time, baby."

He chuckled. "If you say so. Let's get your wounds treated, yeah?"

"Are you gonna kiss it better?" You flirted but soon groaned in pain when Logan released you and picked you up. "Ugh, it hurts."

"Sorry, bub." Logan kissed your forehead, walking out of the warehouse.

"And the kids?"

"They're fine, Jean and Ororo are with them."

"Cool," you mumbled. Now that you felt safe, the pain and tiredness were catching you up. "Glad the plan worked."

Logan stopped for a moment, an incredulous look on his face. "You're prohibited from being bait again."

"Just jealous that I'm the famous one in this relationship." You retorted.

"Princess, shut up."

#logan howlett x reader #james howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #ficlet game #follower milestone #starkenobi writing #starkenobi milestone celebration

231 notes · View notes

vestaignis · 11 months ago

Text

Коломарес – самый фантастический замок Испании.

Испанский замок Коломарес – недавняя постройка, которую возвели в честь пятисотлетия со дня открытия Америки. Причем, строительство, начавшееся в 1987 году, возглавил доктор медицины Эстебан Мартин, который, как это ни странно, не обладал специальным образованием. Вместе с несколькими помощниками, которым ранее приходилось заниматься только кирпичной кладкой, он соорудил замок за 7 лет и в ходе работы освоил все премудрости строительства, это уникальное сооружение, позволяет проследить путь знаменитого мореплавателя через Атлантический океан. Автор проэкта и его помощники запечатлели в камне «Санта Марию», «Пинту» и «Нинью» – три корабля, которые приняли участие в плавании Колумба. Результатом столь кропотливого труда стал большой ажурный замок, площадь которого составляет не менее 1,5 тыс. кв. м. На сегодняшний день он является наибольшим памятником Колумбу не только в Испании, но и во всем мире. Любопытно, что при создании замка кроме кирпича были использованы мрамор, камень, стекло и даже древесина, из которой выполнили ряд элементов декора.

Это строение стало великим шедевром архитектуры, в смешанном стиле: византийском, римском, готическом и мавританском. И подобное смешение не простое совпадение, оно символично, потому что рассказывает об этапах развития страны и о многообразии культур, некогда населявших ее народов. Доктор Эстебан Мартин гармонично объединил в своем грандиозном сооружении элементы трех основных культур Испании времен Средневековья: христианства, иудаизма и ислама. Красота этой изумительной достопримечательности испанского курорта на Средиземном море в городе Бенальмадена, привл��кает на отдых множество путешественников из разных стран мира.

Кроме того, архитектор символически отобразил и другие события испанской истории. Например, «Фонтан влюбленных» посвящен королевской чете – Фердинанду Арагонскому и Изабелле Кастильской. Эти монархи после долгих раздумий одобрили планы Колумба по снаряжению морской экспедиции.Еще одной составляющей Кастильо де Коломарес в Испании является часовня Santa Isabel de Hungria in Colomares, сооруженная в честь Св. Елизаветы Венгерской и числящаяся в Книге рекордов Гиннесса как наименьшая в мире церковь. Площадь этой капеллы составляет не более 2 кв. м, поэтому во время мессы в ней помещается только священник.

Colomares is the most fantastic castle in Spain.

The Spanish castle of Colomares is a recent construction, which was erected in honor of the 500th anniversary of the discovery of America. Moreover, the construction, which began in 1987, was headed by the doctor of medicine Esteban Martin, who, oddly enough, did not have a special education. Together with several assistants, who had previously only had to deal with bricklaying, he built the castle in 7 years and during the work mastered all the intricacies of construction, this unique structure allows you to follow the path of the famous navigator across the Atlantic Ocean. The author of the project and his assistants captured in stone "Santa Maria", "Pinta" and "Nina" - three ships that took part in Columbus's voyage. The result of such painstaking work was a large openwork castle, the area of which is at least 1.5 thousand square meters. m. Today it is the largest monument to Columbus not only in Spain, but also in the whole world. It is curious that in addition to brick, marble, stone, glass and even wood were used to create the castle, from which a number of decorative elements were made.

This building has become a great masterpiece of architecture, in a mixed style: Byzantine, Roman, Gothic and Moorish. And such a mixture is not a simple coincidence, it is symbolic, because it tells about the stages of the country's development and the diversity of cultures that once inhabited its peoples. Doctor Esteban Martin harmoniously combined elements of the three main cultures of Spain during the Middle Ages in his grandiose structure: Christianity, Judaism and Islam. The beauty of this amazing landmark of the Spanish resort on the Mediterranean Sea in the city of Benalmadena attracts many travelers from different countries of the world to rest.

In addition, the architect symbolically displayed other events in Spanish history. For example, the "Fountain of Lovers" is dedicated to the royal couple - Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile. After much deliberation, these monarchs approved Columbus's plans to equip a sea expedition. Another component of the Castillo de Colomares in Spain is the chapel of Santa Isabel de Hungria in Colomares, built in honor of St. Elizabeth of Hungary and listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the smallest church in the world. The area of this chapel is no more than 2 square meters, so only the priest fits in it during mass.

Source: //kidpassage.com/activity/ispaniya/kosta-del-sol/zamok-kolomares?,/alandalus.ru/andalucia/provincia-malaga/benalmadena / castillo-monumento-colomares/,://balttur.spb.ru/countries/spain/ zamok-kolomares.html,/kuku.travel/country/ispaniya /dostoprimechatelnosti-ispaniya/kolomares-samyj-fantasticheskij-zamok-ispanii/,/portal.azertag.az/ru/node/20093, //www.tripadvisor . ru/Attraction_Review-g562812-d669392-Reviews-Castillo _ Monumento_Colomares-Benalmadena_Costa_del_ Sol_ Province_ of_ Malaga_Andaluci.html.

179 notes · View notes

twig-tea · 8 months ago

Text

East Palace, West Palace in ep5 of Blue Canvas of Youthful Days

I have been punched in the solar plexus by Blue Canvas of Youthful Days episode 5. So much happens in that episode that is overwhelming, from Qi Lu setting up a Netflix-and-chill date with the clear intention of making a move, to his putting on the famous film East Palace, West Palace (1996), to Qi Lu hiding Qin Xiao in the closet, to Qi Lu's panic at his father realizing he's been lied to, to the devastatingly practiced way Teacher Liu steps to Qi Lu being abused and handles his father, to the way Qi Lu shuts down, to the way QIn Xiao keeps sending mixed signals and Qi Lu calls him on it directly. And nobody else in this episode let me rest either; Tan Fan trying to ask Teacher Liu to wait for him and Liu brushing him off AGAIN, and Turtle trying to call out

@lurkingshan was already more coherent than I can be right now about what happened in the episode in her post.

So instead I want to focus on some queer cinema history that this episode evoked by using East Palace, West Palace as the film that Qi Lu shows to QIn Xiao.

For those who don't know, EPWP is considered to be the first realistic depiction of a gay man in film by a mainland Chinese production. It is to my knowledge the first time a gay man says "I love you" to another man on screen. It was made before being gay was decriminalized in China (1997), and it was filmed by an independent production company and smuggled out of China to France in order to be finished and distributed. It ended up at the Cannes festival in 1997, but the director's passport was seized and he was placed under house arrest to prevent him from attending. Despite pressure to pull the film, it still aired that year. In 1998, the Film Law was passed to prevent anyone from making films outside of the studio system (and therefore censorship review), effectively preventing anything like EPWP from being made in the future.

The film is about a gay man who cruises in the notorious bathrooms in the parks on either side of Tiananmen Square getting harassed by police officers (a situation extremely familiar to the historical queer experience in Canada [where I'm from] as well) and playing what I'd describe as a psychological game with one of them; A Lan kisses the cop, runs, and then gets caught a second time, and uses the second police confession as an excuse to tell his life's story in the public record, all while pushing the police officer a little further into deviance. As far as I'm aware, this film has been banned in China since being made and never shown (please correct me if I'm wrong about that!).

This is hitting me hard because of the much more recent history of Blue Canvas of Youthful Days itself. As most of you know, but I'll capture here for posterity, episodes 1-4 of this show aired on iQIYI (a China-based app) on August 6, and within 24 hours they were pulled from the app with no information about the future episodes being shown. When I watched episode 5 today, after waiting for it for 3 months, I was immediately hit with a wave of anger that this gorgeous, emotionally moving and powerful episode had been held back from public consumption for months, for the same reasons that the film being shown within the episode had been withheld from viewing in its own country.

Censorship is such an ugly thing, it's hard to articulate but the emotions around it are so strong because we know, when they pull or refuse to show media that depicts our lives, it's because they don't want our lives to be real; they don't want us to exist. It's a very real threat. And to have this episode--which is all about an abused boy who is in very real danger but so bravely insisting that he shoot his shot and take his best chance at love and happiness anyway, using the iconic confession scene from one of the most famous banned films in Chinese queer cinema history to do it--to have this episode be the one that was prevented from airing......I am overwhelmed.

In the scenes they watch in episode 5, A Lan tries to prevent the officer from uncuffing him, and then the officer lets him go, but A Lan doesn't go far and comes back. He declares his love to the officer's face, and demands that his love be acknowledged and not dismissed. And the officer does not know what to do with it and reacts with violence, which is partially what A Lan has been angling at all along. The show really played with this by having all three of the couples in the show stymied by having their overtures dismissed this episode, but we almost didn't get to see it.

I'm so grateful this got distribution now, and on multiple platforms. Blue Canvas of Youthful Days is airing Saturdays and Sundays on GagaOOLala and Youtube (note, as per @thisonelikesaliens's excellent language posts, the subs on Gaga are much better), and on Mondays on Viki. I know there is an avalanche of content right now, but this show is so good and worked so hard to make it to us, please give it some love!

#blue canvas of youthful days #east palace west palace (1996)#typed so that i can stop thinking it #queer history

97 notes · View notes

pathsofart · 24 days ago

Text

The artwork depicted is "Piazza San Marco" and was painted by Pierre-Auguste Renoir in 1881. This oil on canvas painting depicts the famous St. Mark's Square in Venice, Italy, with its iconic architecture and the vibrant atmosphere of the city.

Renoir's style, known as Impressionism, is evident in the way he captures light and color, using loose brushstrokes and vibrant colors to create a sense of movement and life in the scene. The painting is an impressionistic depiction of the square, with its architectural details and the interplay of sunlight.

#Pierre-Auguste Renoir #impressionism art #art #art history #classical art #painting #oil painting #history of art #art blog #european art

24 notes · View notes

sofiadragon · 4 months ago

Text

Dr Stone fic that is holding my brain hostage

I'm going to put this man into situations.

Time travel was essentially magic and therefore a completely unacceptable explanation. Unfortunately, it was the only explanation he had. Especially since Asagiri Gen seemed to have replaced his younger self. One moment he'd been laying on a concrete floor after being interrogated by a crazy American that ticked just about every box on the list of negative stereotypes, and the next he was fighting to escape fine Egyptian cotton sheets in the nine square meter high rise apartment where he lived alone.

It had been two weeks since he had been captured, and Stanley's reports weren't making Dr. X happy. The painted-on petrification scar had washed off when the unreasonable scientist became fed up with using the makeshift lie detector and let one of his buff lackeys convince him to switch to dunking Gen's head into a bucket to make him talk instead. They checked him all over after that, found only a body showing every sign of the years of labor and crafts he'd done, and freaked out. Gen named the village that was the capital of the Kingdom of Science accurately, honestly explaining to them that Ishigami village was named after one of the international space station astronauts who weren't petrified, but he wasn't believed. Dr. Xeno instead made a cascade of increasingly paranoid and incorrect assumptions about how Gen's kingdom was clearly founded by Ishigami Senku a generation ago and that Gen and the rest of the Perseus crew had been specifically selected and trained to use against Dr. X to take him down.

It occurred to him that he had probably been tortured to death, though that didn't explain why he was alive in the year 2020. Petrification and revival may have fixed him right up, but in that case he'd be waking up after Senku recovered and preserved his fresh-enough corpse, then later found a new medusa to petrify and revive him. He should be with the Perseus crew celebrating his undeath and not in his old apartment freaking out. It could also have just been a dream - a nightmare - but in that case he was staring down the barrel of a serious mental health condition. No sane person would dream up years of struggle to rebuild society, and all the people! All the details! Dreams just weren't like that, he knew far too much about psychology to think it was a particularly vivid dream.

His memory for dates was excellent so long as those dates were important, but after waking up in May of 2020 he realized he'd forgotten most of the lead-up to the end of the world. It had all been so ordinary for him at the time. Routine. He hadn't known anything strange was going on at all until he was petrified mid-performance.

He was able to pick up his life without too much trouble, but little conveniences he used to take for granted kept startling him at every turn. His electric toothbrush felt weird after years of chewing a bit of bamboo into a brush to clean his teeth. His clothes felt strange, especially the polyester costumes. He was more likely to try to make or go walk to get something he wanted than to order it delivered, he simply didn't think of it as the first option anymore and on top of that being a famous magician walking to get some ramen was very different from being one of the five generals of the Kingdom of Science walking through the village. He'd just about forgotten how to use the kitchenette, or more accurately had never really learned to cook more than a boiled egg from scratch until he only had campfires and wood fired stoves to work with.

He knew he wasn't doing things exactly how he had in what he half-hoped was an extended period of altered consciousness brought on by some crazy fan attempting to drug him. His manager was worried about how easily spooked he'd been that first week, and made some changes to Gen's schedule to give Gen full day off thinking he was merely in need of some rest. Gen went to the spa his manager booked and let himself be pampered in the morning, then loaded up a bunch of podcasts and spent the day filling his brain with all sorts of things he'd wished he knew a little more about at some point in the stone world. It was beyond strange how soft his hands were.

He'd found himself going on jogs because he felt too sedentary with all the modern comforts. His manager calling a car to take him everywhere he needed to go no matter how short the distance made him uncomfortable because he wasn't used to city traffic anymore. Everything was loud and bright. He found himself visiting a temple just to sit quietly in the garden and think, and couldn't resist fancy coffee or chocolate treats after so long without what he now recognized as exotic imported luxuries. At least the food was incredible.

In the beginning, his manager thought he was working out to keep his figure in line and look more toned on stage, so he warned Gen not to lose too much weight since Gen was already slight and nagged him about proper diet more than usual. After it became too obvious that Gen was anxious about something, and Gen had gently persuaded those who were most worried to blame a creepy fan that got under Gen's skin, his manager set up a weekly self defense class and canceled some of the morning interviews and rehearsals so Gen could work his anxiety out by literally working out. Gen was able to keep his cool through the show where he met Tsukasa and performed flawlessly both on television and off stage, convincing everyone that he was doing better.

In truth, he was less stressed because the schedule changes opened up the opportunity to act without anyone he worked with noticing he was suddenly stalking a boy four years his junior. He'd used every trick in his arsenal to get the information he needed to find Ishigami Senku without alerting anyone to his sudden interest in a nerdy schoolboy. The pictures he found online were mostly of an adorable chibi version of Senku that Gen had never really thought about, but must have existed at some point in the past. Senku hadn't sprung into being fully grown with encyclopedic knowledge of science like a god born out of stone, even if that was the literal meaning of his family name. It was also good that he could visit a jeweler without someone hovering over his shoulder. He'd have a hard time explaining the purchase if nothing happened, but better to cross that bridge when he came to it.

Then the swallows fell out of the sky, and he wrote a letter.

Well, to be perfectly honest, which he tried to be to himself even if his livelihood was based on illusion and misdirection, his first reaction to the swallows being petrified was to vomit and have a complete meltdown where he lay shivering and sweating on the bathroom floor of his small, posh, high-security apartment for an hour. That was good in the sense that he was found by his evening meal delivery and everyone thought he was severely ill and feverish rather than having a panic attack. An illness creeping up on him fit into the odd cravings and behavior he'd had since waking up in a 19-year-old body that had never seen a full day of hard manual labor, especially since Gen had "clearly been threatened by someone badly enough to be overstressed by it. I wish you would have given me the letter or email or whatever it was so we could chase them down; even the most angry fans tend to calm down if the police pay them a visit. We can dye your hair back to plain black if you want to be less noticeable, but we've put a lot of marketing money planning to unveil the two-toned look since you decided to accept the poliosis. This building has good security, so just relax and get over whatever cold you've caught quickly."

He was as ready as he could be when the birds fell out of the sky. Once he'd cleaned up the mess he made of himself while freaking out and convinced a doctor he was only mildly ill, he wrote a very odd letter. Thanks to his sick day, he could hand-deliver it to the office of Senku's school the very moment there was enough information available online to make the lies in it remotely plausible. Knowing the future certainly helped with crafting an iron-clad story.

To Ishigami Senku;

This is about the swallows turning to stone. For the love of all you find sacred, destroy this letter once you read it!

I am taking a huge risk sending this to a fifteen- year- old. I hope your reputation is accurate and you are intelligent enough to understand the stakes involved. I can't reach anyone else quickly. My specialty is the soft science of human behavior, psychology in all it's forms but also behavior analysis, and I freely admit I make most of my money off the shallowest of applications of that soft science. I finished school early because I had a chance to get a job that would eventually make me enough money that I would become free to do whatever I wanted with my talents. A lofty dream many who go into the entertainment industry share.

I'm certain someone like you has looked down to see who sent this letter already. You've either recognized me from my books and performances or not. If you have, you probably think what I do is stupid. However, my profession and greed are only important because of the position they put me in when I put on private performances for people with more power and money than good sense.

I apologize if this alarms you, but if you have any way of contacting your father you need to mention nital to him urgently and as swiftly as possible. Even if it is wildly out of context. Perhaps especially in that case, so it is more memorable.

Due to my profession and stage personality I am occasionally disregarded while people have important phone conversations they really ought not to allow to be overheard. The swallows? Military-minded people are considering it a terrorist attack, and there is a whole range of theories both online and among those people who really shouldn't be letting classified conversations get overheard. It covered the entire world. All of it! Every single patch of sky, tree branch, and even sheltered nests were unsafe. Every swallow in the world turned to stone, their interior structures preserved as can be seen with advanced imaging. People are talking about nitric acid and nital, but those experiments haven't begun yet. They want to set up some bunker somewhere, and there is the usual government bureaucracy requiring people to stack paperwork to the sky and stand on ceremony before anyone can start doing things. The people who have done the preliminary work are all individual curious people like yourself, and their work is being interrupted by being scooped up and shipped off to wherever their country's military thinks is safe. There may even be someone on the way to talk to you, which is why this letter cannot be found on your person!!

I may be panicking over nothing, I sincerely hope I am, but if everyone on Earth is in range of whatever it was that petrified all these swallows, and there is even a hint of a possibility that this could be tuned to affect humans, then there is only one group of people safe from a misfire and they need to know about possible reactions with nital and nirtic acid. The ones on the ISS orbiting high over our beloved blue marble. A message to them would be the ideal failsafe in case of the worst.

I feel the need to put great emphasis on this point: Everyone involved in national security and even international collaborations against terrorism thinks whatever did this was a test of something that could affect humans. No, I'm not writing down how exactly I know that, I don't need our military asking me rude questions. I'm just saying nobody is suggesting this was a mistake or natural phenomenon. While it might not be fired off with the intent of destroying humanity I have met some really, really intense eco-minded people who think all meat and fur is murder and that humanity is vastly overpopulated. I know exactly the kind of mindset that might drive someone to make something like this for destructive purposes, though of course it could also be a malfunction or mistake made while trying to do something altruistic. Humans are nothing if we aren't fallible, after all, and the same science that created the nuclear bomb can generate the power running an intensive care unit.

Even if you don't trust me on that: Given the probabilities, can anyone assume that whoever has this thing, whatever it is, is completely sane? That they have made no grand error or that nobody will spill cola on the controls?

In hopes this reaches you in enough time to matter,

Asagiri Gen

He didn't remember how long there was between the swallows being petrified and when humans were. He had been far too busy to even hear about them the first time around. Gen made it to the school and convinced the school secretary to deliver the letter to Senku before 10am and the green light came for them all the very same afternoon, which was disappointing. At most Senku would have had a few hours, and there was no guarantee the letter was passed on immediately. He was in his apartment when he was petrified this time, and he knew his face had frozen in a look of pure terror despite his best efforts. He hadn't noticed the light soon enough to suppress that instinctive reaction before he froze, and was stuck in an awkward pose as he re-dressed after doing some yoga.

After that, his life was a rerun for a long time. A long, boring time encased in stone. There was a lot to think about. A lot to plan and pick apart. It kept his mind active to re-run through all the details of his first life, looking at the cascade fo cause and effect and the webs of interpersonal connections he'd danced through. He also considered the difference between the showman's 'tada' stance he'd been frozen in before and the rather... suggestive pose he'd been in when he was petrified this time. When Tsukasa revived him, the first words out of Gen's mouth were a lie he'd crafted over centuries of planning.

"I said don't touch me!" Gen screamed as soon as he had the ability, and sucked in air like he'd been running for his life as he folded up to hide his most delicate areas. He'd never been terribly comfortable with nakedness, so it didn't even take much acting. Just a conscious decision to not hide that he was uncomfortable without clothes on. The petrification was explained, and Gen was sure to act suitably relieved and grateful.

"Was there an overweight older man near me?" Gen asked with nonchalance so false Tsukasa was sure to clock it.

"No, most of the people here are younger and in good shape. Was he important to you?" Tsukasa asked, the danger in his tone perfectly obvious to Gen.

"No, no, my manager had scheduled a... a private performance, is all, and... it doesn't really matter now, does it? One very long nightmare I'm glad to have awoken from," the implications clearly came through without him needing to say anything in particular more than that, and Gen's characteristic shallow showmanship as he helped Yuzuriha make his new clothes ensured that he wasn't interrogated about it afterward. The lie also biased everyone who heard it to believe that Gen would approve of Tsukasa's plan to smash all the older people.

It hurt his pride a little to imply he'd been petrified while he was being taken advantage of in such a way, but... well, it wasn't like it hadn't been tried, even if it had always been caught and stopped. He'd started performing quite young, and there were plenty enough creeps in the world. His manager had been better than that, but only just. He only kept Gen safe because Gen was a commodity that made him money and damaged goods didn't sell well. Still, Gen felt a bit bad when Tsukasa rewarded the way Gen had effortlessly started settling disputes and cutting down the amount of infighting among the first wave of revived athletes by bringing him to where the smashed statues were dumped to witness a very special smashing. Gen watched as his manager, who Tsukasa had somehow found, was broken into bits. He was glad it was easy to hide one strong emotional reaction with another more acceptable one.

"Thank you so much, Tsukasa," Gen said with relief and gratitude dripping from every syllable, because that was what he was expected to say. Ukou seemed to know what they had gone to do when Gen came back, and said a bunch of quiet things trying to comfort them both without letting on that he was a pacifist. His words amounted to how they would make their world a safer and better place where such things were unnecessary. Gen ended the conversation by physically turning Ukou and pointing out a particularly muscle-covered brute pressuring one of the revived ladies. Thankfully, she was strong enough to push him away, but the pea-brain didn't take the extremely unsubtle hint. Senku may believe every death was a tragedy, even enemy soldiers during a war, and Ukou was the same, but Gen felt no grief when that particular problem died in the war between the Kingdoms of Might and Science.

"Ukyou, you are a good man with strong morals, and I'm a petty creature just trying to survive, so neither of us believe a word of what you just said, do we?" It was a risk, but well calculated. Ukou didn't have anything he could say to that, and then Gen went to buzz like an annoying fly and distract the oaf so the woman could finish with the laundry she was doing and be free to leave.

Only a few hours later, ostensibly to give him time to process his own emotions after the death of his 'tormentor,' Gen was sent to see if Senku was really dead just as in the first go-around. He worked very hard to seem normal about it. Not too eager, not too resistant. He chose to do things much the same way as before. Both because it had worked and since he couldn't think of anything better. The ramen was worth the cost he knew he'd have to pay, anyway, since helping to make the iron would give him an in for more interaction and therefore more trust with both the village people and Senku. He mentioned wanting a cola to go with it, and was immediately held at spear-point. Nothing seemed out of place, Kinro even had his golden spear.

"Do you know this man?" Kohaku asked Senku.

"We never met for even a nanosecond, but I recognize him all the same. This is Asagiri Gen, a magician who wrote trashy psychology books," Senku identified him.

"Oh, you've read my writing? I'm so happy, though calling it trashy hurts. Surely you understand that not all of what I wrote is worth talking about with everyone. Some of it was only meant for a very particular audience, after all. Unlike this ramen, not all the things I made were intended to please the masses," he answered, and the brief moment of shock on Senku's face melting into understanding was so worth it.

"Not one millimeter of what this magician wrote was worth talking about, that's for certain," Senku said dismissively, but there was something playful in his tone already. Oh, Gen missed their banter so much!

"Oh, so harsh! Call me a mentalist, please. I'll gladly apologize for taking the ramen, so would you lower your weapons? I'm so scared I'm trembling," he said, babbling about the delicious scent and how he couldn't resist and how difficult and lonely life had been since he woke up. Kohaku, just as before, knew he was full of shit. That was fine, the only way to gain real trust was over time. Depending on how Senku saw things, Gen had started building trust with him three- thousand- seven- hundred years ago. Talk about playing the long game!

"Sure, whatever, I'll take your word for it," Senku's dismissive words cut off Gen's rambling, "but there is no such thing as a free lunch."

With that he was back. Back where things felt normal again, despite the world having ended. This was the sort of thought that should send any sane person directly to therapy, but sadly there weren't any qualified people available to help with Gen's obvious brush with insanity. It was nice seeing everyone again, even though they didn't know him. Thankfully he was skilled at keeping track of what information he'd given out and who he'd gotten it from.

Senku asked how Taiju and Yuzuriha were doing while Gen was pumping the furnace, and Gen thought he'd lasted a bit longer than he had the first time before his exhaustion became obvious. Not that a month of slightly increased exercise did much, but more that he was better at pacing himself and paying attention to his breath and body after so many grueling days of hard work. As before, Gen pointed out the attempted manipulation before reassuring Senku that his friends were fine.

"The tides have certainly turned now that I've seen this," Gen said later, after Senku poured out the iron bar. Then, he made the first major change. "I'm a shallow man, and I like to be on the winning side of any game. You have the sweet reward of ramen and science, but the work is grueling. Under Tsukasa the food is simple and work is easy, but I can relax with a harem after reviving some adoring fans. Additionally, you don't trust me, but Tsukasa is completely certain of my loyalty because he killed my manager for me."

"He murdered someone at your request?" Chrome asked, slack jawed. Kohaku raised her spear.

"No. He just... assumedyay that I would want that manager punished," Gen said delicately.

"What's a manager?" Suika asked, curious as always. "Was it a bad person?" Gen gave her a genuine, warm smile. Teaching Suika and the other children basic things like Morse Code while they were working as part of the craft team had been a genuine pleasure, even if he often complained that he wasn't a babysitter when they left him alone with the kids.

"A manager is someone who tells people what to do to complete a job. They tend to have multiple people they manage. You could say Senku was managing us during this project by telling each of us what sort of things we need to work on, but of course he is also educating you by explaining the why and how of it all so he is giving you something in exchange for your work. A manager usually just tells you to get it done, and they keep telling you what needs done for months or years to optimize how much you can do. Where you should go today, what is the highest priority, what I am allowed to eat, how to maintain my adorable body, who to talk to or not to talk to..." Gen trailed off, changing the pronouns as he listed things off and noting the reaction was exactly what he needed. Suika's curious smile had flipped to a frown despite her innocence, and even Kohaku looked a little sympathetic.

"Did you want it done?" Senku asked bluntly, cutting straight through Gen's misdirection.

"Not exactly," Gen said shortly.

"That's not an answer," Kohaku pressed, predictably.

"There are some oh so cute ittlelay earsyay here," Gen said, bringing his sleeves up to cover his mouth and turning away from the little girl toward Kohaku to emphasize that he wouldn't speak in front of Suika. "I met Tsukasa on a television special - that is, while I was doing my day job - back before it all. He knew the man's face and mine very well from that encounter, and my manager was an older man. That seems enough for Tsukasa, really, he doesn't want to revive any elders. He truly believes he is making the world better by killing the older, corrupt, generation that he blames for all the old world's problems." Gen was so focused on Kohaku, Ginro, and Kinro he missed Senku moving closer. He nearly jumped when he turned to see the boy was so much closer. He was so... small. It was weird to think that Senku had grown significantly during their acquaintance, but then he'd met Senku at age sixteen and it had been over three years, hadn't it? He'd gotten a fair portion of muscles from all the work, and a noticeable amount of centimeters in height, and filled out all around into a handsome man by the time they started sailing to America. The four-year age gap they started with was down to three thanks to Senku's earlier revival and even just the year he'd spent in the stone world had aged him quite a bit from the baby-faced photos of the obviously rich, spoiled science club president Gen had found online all that long time ago.

At the moment he looked mostly like an underfed boy, because that was exactly what he was, and Gen needed to remember that.

"Suika, can you bring some more water to drink? Can't have everyone sweating away to dehydration or they won't be able to work," the scientist said.

"Sure I can!" the excitable child said before rushing off. Senku stepped up close to Gen, deep into his personal space in a way that was incredibly uncharacteristic. Senku wasn't exactly touch-adverse, but he wasn't a tactile person and usually kept himself outside of arm's reach. What was this? Why the change? Gen found himself leaning away to give Senku space.

"What wouldn't you say in front of her?" Senku demanded, fire in his eyes. Senku was the pragmatist he claimed to be, but no matter what front he put on he was also deeply kind and had a moral compass as reliable as his sense of time. The reaction to Gen's suggestion was therefore also reliable enough to set his watch by it - if he still had a watch, that is.

"Private performances aren't always safe to describe around children," Gen said plainly, a tremble in his voice he couldn't quite iron out. It really was a distressing topic of conversation. He covered it the only way he could, by pouting and exaggerating his tone as he continued his explanation and obscuring his meaning with a lot of unnecessary things. "Clients don't always treat the merchandise gently. It's so rude! I'm delicate, you know, and the things I used to perform my illusions have to be perfectly maintained. Any little scratch or crack could ruin the entire performance. Glass and mirrors and precision designed mechanisms that ensure the audience never catches on to how I do any of my tricks. Why, I don't even know how long I'll take to recover from all the work you've made me do pumping that furnace! Such a slave driver, I'll develop calluses."

Senku's expression was wide-eyed, and the silent moment crystallized as fragile as a glass figurine. Gen couldn't help it, he trusted the man this boy would become with his life too many times to hold in the rest. He needed to smash this fragile vulnerability into a billion pieces, to master this moment and ensure they all understood he had no loyalty to Tsukasa's cause even if he shouldn't admit that directly just yet.

"I was - still am I suppose - nineteen. I'd been performing at least part time since I was fourteen. It's a cutthroat business, and what can you expect when something ettypray is put on display, but that people will want it. To own, to touch, to use... I'm told my statue was posed like this when Tsukasa found me, with a most unbecoming and terrible expression I certainly won't try to recreate." Gen mimicked the pose he'd been frozen in, pulling his leathery almost-kimono shut tighter and dropping down to sit properly with his legs under him, looking up with a mild and expectant expression as he gripped and shifted within his clothing to suggest he was fighting to keep it on. Gen didn't dare look away at Kinro, Ginro, Chrome, and Kohaku. Whatever their reaction, it wouldn't matter as much as Senku's, and if he looked away it would seem less honest.

"So he smashed the statue of your manager, because he was disgusting," Senku said, looking a bit pale.

"I don't understand," Chrome said.

"The village has some pretty strict rules," Senku continued, giving a slantwise answer when Gen didn't move a muscle. "That sort of thing has always been a crime."

"I think he was hurt by someone," Kinro whispered delicately. "Something well outside the old world's rules."

"Crimes happen all the time, it's naive to think making a rule forbidding something prevents it from happening entirely. You'll have to forgive me for not being reassured," Gen said seriously, but then softened his voice to something far more playful and silly as he stood. "At least being treated like an object for sale is something I'm well acquainted with, and I am currently up for sale. My job is to investigate and find out if you are dead or alive. You do want me to go tell Tsukasa that you are dead when I go back, don't you?" Senku would never get quite as tall as Gen, but at the moment the height difference was much more obvious and a tool he could use to his advantage since Senku kept getting so close to him. "All I have to do is say I didn't find anything threatening, just a primitive village, no worries, no rush, just enjoy ourselves as we stock up enough for winter that we can keep reviving statues! If I say something like that you'll have all the time you need to prepare. Or I could tell him the truth and the entire village will burn or bend knee to his army. Of course, if I don't return the second option happens in a week or so anyway."

"What's your price?" Senku asked.

"Something to spill on the controls," Gen gambled, then quieter. "Proof my trust wasn't misplaced."

"There wasn't time. I'd only just started experimenting on the swallows I found," Senku bit out through gritted teeth. It was quiet enough Gen wouldn't have heard him if he wasn't leaning close, quiet enough that even Ukyo would have to be listening carefully to overhear from any distance. "The letter was given to me at the end of the school day, and I went directly to the science lab to test it. I'd set up to make some gasoline from plastic earlier, so I didn't have what I needed ready in time."

"Did it make any difference at all?" Gen whispered, hating how vulnerable the question felt coming out of him even if he was able to keep his expression and posture casual for the audience.

"It was a good clue. Sped me up a bit, maybe, made me just that single millimeter more certain of my deductions when it counted." Gen could read between the lines. When Senku had been frustrated and alone, when his experiments failed, when he needed to dig deep and find the will to go on, Gen's hints had helped keep him motivated. Senku would have kept at it anyway, he was that kind of tenacious and he'd done it in the first timeline, but even the most dedicated people needed a bit of moral support now and then to keep them at their peak.

"For what it's worth, you make an excellent birthday present," Gen said cheekily, and louder. The others, especially Kinro and Ginro, very clearly did not like that they were speaking so privately. They liked the possessiveness of Gen's loud declaration even less.

"What?" Senku exclaimed, also disturbed by the phrasing as he took a defensive step back from their familiar proximity.

"April first, 5738! My three thousand, seven hundred and thirty-seventh birthday," Gen chirped, waving his arms dramatically as if throwing confetti he didn't have. "I saw the carving you made, and the house you built. Tsukasa wanted me to profile you based on what you left behind and talking to your friends, since there is no logical reason for me to know about you before. It was all very impressive for being on your own for most of it, and Taiju described what parts he helped you with after he woke up. A quaint tree house built sized for three people from the beginning, that's very telling Senku," Gen said playfully, moving with the aim to distract and dazzle as he often did on stage, glossing quickly over the hint of deeper meaning without dwelling on it. Thank goodness Senku was smart enough to realize Gen wanted exactly nobody to know about the letter he sent. The boy laughed at Gen's antics, the mood shifting away from such serious topics.

"I can say this for certain: you are an expert in your field. It is honestly terrifying, since our lives are now in your hands," Senku said. Gen very, very deliberately made sure not to look around, but he noted the reactions he could see in his peripheral vision.

"Tell me, what do you plan to do with those iron bars now that you have them? Swords? Shields?" Gen changed the subject. "Is it something the shallowest man alive can take comfort in?"

Senku had only just started explaining what they needed to make the generator when the thunderstorm started. Thankfully Suika had come back with water so Gen could again ask her for some flowers. He dazzled Magma when he came running as he had before to defend them from the superstitious idiots who thought the storm could be stopped if they kill the 'sorcerer' that started it. Gen did slip up a little in the rush to get things set up to make the magnets. Badly enough that Chrome noticed that Gen understood what Senku wanted done before Senku had completely finished explaining, but then they were all so excited by catching a lightning bolt and Chrome was suitably distracted.

Later that night, when Gen was trying to remember where the most comfortable places to sleep rough were, Senku caught his attention. This was new, he remembered having to eavesdrop on them as Senku explained who Tsukasa was and what his goals were in greater detail to Kohaku, Chrome, and Suika.

"You aren't on Tsukasa's side, not by one millimeter," Senku accused, not even bothering with a greeting.

"How do you come to that conclusion?" Gen said, considering how wet the moss was under the next tree.

"You are afraid of being overpowered, and want a life of luxury. You're in good shape, but among Tsukasa's people you're probably on the wimpy side of things. He'd be reviving people he remembered from professional fighting and sports first, am I right? So a bunch of modern-day gorillas who had the privilege of modern society so they could spend all day training. No breaks to work or do any of the thousand little chores the villagers have to do since they don't have meal delivery apps or running water," Senku explained. "All the luxuries of modern life you crave are in the Kingdom of Science." Gen didn't turn around, continuing to look for a decent place to sleep. With everything soaked from the rain, there weren't many good options.

"Trust is a delicate thing. It can be easily broken, but to grow it takes time. I've told you what I want from you, Senku-chan," Gen said, bending his tone to emphasize the childishness of the honorific this time. "Tsukasa thought he could capture my trust quickly by using a shortcut, but he did something repulsive in the process. Don't skip steps in the process, that is as true as when making some crazy machine that reinvents seven different scientific principles as when building relationships between people."

"That doesn't mean you are on Tsukasa's side," Senku pointed out.

"Not wanting him to be the dictator in charge of the rest of my life doesn't make me your most loyal follower. I've made it clear: I'm the most superficial man on earth, I only care about what benefits me. Do you want to know what I saw when I looked you up before the world ended? What I thought of the person I sent that letter to?"

"What?" Senku asked, put off balance by the sudden shift in topic. Shit, Kohaku was right there. Gen could only just make her out against the starlight. Senku didn't seem to have noticed her, but she'd certainly heard everything. Well, too late, he'd have to deal with her knowing that Gen had been in contact with Senku in the old world, but he would also have to give the answer that sounded as if she wasn't here that also accounted for her listening in.

"Spoiled rich child, given anything he asked for without hesitation and left alone to play with expensive toys, and later ridiculously valuable equipment going by your father's social media feed," Gen said harshly. "Tenacious, and sure of his own intelligence, and because of that likely egotistical to some degree, but with an unknown potential and unknown flaws. The trip to help fight diseases in Africa was sudden and confusing enough to those around you that I have to question the altruism a little, even if it was an inherently good and noble thing for a young man of means to do. That you faked your death to protect your friends says a lot about what you value, and my opinion of you has improved as I have learned more about you, but that first impression wasn't exactly stellar. I was a nervous wreck asking you for help, and if I'm not wrong about how you answered earlier you didn't even try to do the one thing I told you was of critical importance. The one thing that would have given us insurance."

"It's not like I could just call my dad up on a whim," Senku argued. "He was in space!"

"If you sent an email, or made a social media post, he would have gotten it eventually. Even if you were already petrified, he could have gotten it. How long do you think it took for all the power plants to explode or burn out? How long before the internet shattered? How long would their electronics have worked even after that? How many times would he read and re-read your last message or listen to your last voice mail?" Gen attacked Senku with everything he had. He needed to make this point now, to lay out Senku's actual flaws, few though they were, and then help him tomorrow anyway. "How long until they risked using the shuttle without ground control to guide them home?"

"I... I wanted to have something more than a guess. Dad probably... I should have sent the message. One of them might have figured out how to make it with a hint that clear. My dad wasn't who you think he was, he was just average, but that many scientists working together would have figured it out," Senku said, and Gen's soul was surely damned for making someone as stoic and cool as Senku choke up.

"I tried to gain your trust all at once and without a lot of time or effort, and see? It didn't work. Even with my best effort and all my magical tricks working in full force," Gen said, turning to face Senku. With only starlight peeking through trees he almost couldn't see each other, but the gods hated Gen enough to let him see the glint of a tear he'd pulled out of the young scientist. Time to say something entirely for the eavesdropper. "Ishigami Senku - named a god of stone under a thousand skies, you know so much but intelligence and wisdom are considered separate stats for good reason. You are not infallible. I am not infallible. We are human and all of us are similarly imperfect, just with different flaws. You will fail, as we all do, the question is only how often, and how quickly you can course correct after a major misstep."

"I get it, alright. I fucked up big time," Senku's voice in the dark was sharp with anger covering his hurt.

"No." Gen ensured his tone was firm with no room for argument. "You did what was logical, according to the facts you had. Would it have been better if you contacted your father as I asked you to? Possibly. We have no way to know what happened. Speculating would just waste time and energy. Passing on that information was a gamble I made. Doing it the way I did was my error. The information was helpful to you, which means the information the Americans had was accurate, but they clearly didn't have time to do anything with that information either or we'd have woken up under vastly different circumstances."

"The Americans?" Senku asked.

"That phone call, overheard while I cleaned up after one of my private performances. Some NASA doctor was being collected to head a team looking into the petrified swallows, worried that humans would be next. If you didn't do better than Dr. Xeno or whatever his name was and his team, that's certainly no great failure. With the time zones, they had a head start for certain and they didn't think to tell the astronauts about nital either, did they?" Gen said, trying to be as comforting as he could be now that what he'd needed to say was done with.

"You did." No. No, no, no. Impossible. Unthinkable! Senku couldn't possibly think of Gen so highly, it would be a disaster.

"Don't pretend to be a child throwing a tantrum about this when I know for a fact you are mature enough to understand this concept forward, backward, and inside out," Gen snapped, venom seeping back into his voice. "I'm me, and you are you. The venn diagram of all people to ever have my kind of specialty and people with hard science specialties like yours is practically two circles," Gen said with a chuckle. "You say science pushes humanity forward, and I agree, but it wasn't all lone geniuses pushing things forward. It was also people coming together in a push for shared goals. People with different talents and skills working together to solve problems and compensate for each other's flaws. You, your oaf of a best friend, and the crafty girl he really ought to propose to if only to keep the brutes Tsukasa keeps reviving off her. That's the sorcery I'm most familiar with, the weave of human relationships."

"Heh, I guess I am being unreasonable," Senku said. "No cheat codes, no shortcuts. Just hard work and perseverance."

"And no gods coming down from on high to give us advice. We poor mortals have to figure it out on our own, as usual," Gen agreed.

"Where are you sleeping?" Senku asked.

"Probably in this tree," Gen supposed, gesturing vaguely to a random one. "A bit of rope makes it safe, and the ground is too wet."

"Now you're the one being childish. Come on, Chrome's collection shed has room enough for one more exotic lump," Senku said, picking at his ear. "You're delicate ass will catch a cold out here and then who will get Tsukasa off mine?" Gen laughed at the crass language.

"Lead the way, though I reserve the right to change my mind if it's too cramped."

#asagiri gen #gen asagiri #dcst #dr stone #fake illness #mention of sa #time shenanigans #hurt/comfort #whoops no he dead #but then he's back alive and wondering how #asagiri gen POV #gen asagiri POV #my writing #fanfic #dr stone fanfic #sneak peak

52 notes · View notes

dr-spencer-reids-queen · 2 years ago

Text

The Only One Worth Posing For

Pairing: Matthew Gray Gubler x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~1.1k

Warnings: fluff

Summary: You're a famous photographer so you often get invited to red carpet events. Your best friend is an actor, and you've taken tons of pictures of him. The only problem is that he only poses for your camera.

Square Filled: “yeah, you’re cold. I’m giving you my jacket” for @spencerreidbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

Camera? Check. Extra lenses? Check. Press pass? Check. Supply bag? Check. Gorgeous pink dress you got just for this event? Check. You check the time on your phone to make sure you’re not running late, which you’re not. Your best friend should already be at the movie premier for his new movie, and you’re one of the photographers on the red carpet.

You’re a famous photographer that takes pictures of celebrities for events like movie premiers, the Met Gala, award shows, etc. Your career started in high school when you took almost all of the pictures for the yearbooks. Then, you took pictures of your friend’s graduation pictures and got paid less than one hundred dollars for it. Once in college, you took a lot of photography classes that allowed you to hone your skills and become better.

Someone saw your pictures on your college website and loved them so they got in contact with you, and that’s how you got your first job at a magazine. It took about a decade to get to where you are now and you couldn’t be happier. Along the way, you’ve met and hung out with a ton of celebrities including your best friend. You two met back when you were the photographer for the magazine, and you’ve been inseparable ever since.

Speaking of the devil, he texts you just as you are leaving the apartment.

Are you on your way?

just leaving now! be there soon xx

I can’t wait to see you :)

The message brings a smile to your face. He never fails to lift your spirits no matter how you’re feeling. He sent for a car to take you to the movie premier instead of you taking your own. When you get there, the place is packed with press, fans, and cars carrying celebrities.

“Thank you,” you smile at the driver and get out.

You head to the booth to check in and present your press pass to her. She confirms you’re on the list before letting you inside the area where the press is located. You set your bag on the ground and take out your favorite lens to use in times like these, the kind of lens that allows you to zoom in clearly even from where you are. The more popular you got, the more expensive equipment you bought.

You got here at the right time because celebrities show up not long after you get set up. Much like everyone here, you call their names in hopes they pose for your camera. You get a lot of good shots of very iconic celebrities like Johnny Depp, Jennifer Lopez, Morgan Freeman, Julia Roberts, and Sandra Bullock. The movie did so much press to make sure it is the most popular movie which is why so many celebrities are here.

You look to the left and see your best friend walk down the red carpet with a huge smile on his face. Matthew Gray Gubler. A man of many tricks. A man who never fails to make you smile. He looks past every person who calls out his name until he finds your camera. His eyes light up and begins posing for your camera and your camera only.

“Matthew! Look over here!” one of them says but he ignores them,

‘Stop it’, you mouth to him and his smile only gets bigger. What did you expect? He always does this whenever you’re in the crowd with a camera. He only cares about you and your career. If you can get good pictures of him, then you can sell them for a lot of money. People around you are frustrated with you and him but you don’t care about them.

Matthew leaves the red carpet and joins the group of celebrities who are hanging outside before they can go inside the theater. There are only a few more celebrities to capture, then you’re packing up your things. Apart from being part of the press, Matthew invited you as his plus one.

“Are you serious with Matthew?” one of the other photographers says.

“Sorry. Maybe next time,” you shrug.

You bring your case back to the town car that is still waiting for you, and you toss your press pass into the backseat. There is no reason for you to have two outfits when you can wear your red carpet outside as one of the press. You walk back over to the same booth and check in as a guest. She gives you your guest pass and you make your way into the area where all the celebrities are.

“I’m gonna slap that motherfucker when I see him,” you joke to yourself.

“Y/N! It’s so good to see you!” Shemar Moore smiles when he sees you.

“Shemar! I thought you were still filming S.W.A.T.,” you grin and hug him.

“I couldn’t miss this premier.”

“Where is Matthew?”

“Last I saw him was by the entrance to the theater.”

“Great. I’ll see you inside.” You leave his side and go find your best friend. He’s talking to one of the younger and newer kid stars, and you slink up to his side. “Excuse me. Mind if I borrow him for a second?”

“Sure. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

You pull him to the side and away from everyone for some semi-privacy.

“What the hell was that back there?”

“What?” he laughs.

“You can’t keep posing for my camera only.”

“You tell me this every time, and what do I keep telling you?”

“Mine is the only one worth posing for.”

“See? It’s law at this point.”

He leans in and kisses you quickly. You two have been testing the waters for a romantic relationship for the last couple of weeks. It’s been going well because you’re taking it at your own speed without the public knowing.

“You’re gonna piss off the other photographers.”

“I don’t care.”

He pulls you in and kisses you much deeper this time. You only allow two minutes to yourselves before you pull away from him. Goosebumps litter your arms and you shiver slightly under his gaze.

“You’re shivering. Are you cold?”

“That’s not why I’m shivering,” you say and shiver again.

“Yeah, you’re cold. I’m giving you my jacket.”

He sheds his jacket and slings it over your shoulder to provide you with warmth. He slides his hand into yours and pulls you toward the entrance to the theater.

“Let’s go watch this movie. Afterward, you’re gonna let me take you home.”

“We live together,” you giggle.

“Even better.”

“You’re a dork.”

“Only for you,” he winks and kisses your cheek.

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

646 notes · View notes

1111jenx · 2 years ago

Note

what are underrated fame indicators?

This is a lot of fun! Lets dive right in:

Some Underrated Fame Indicators:

Cancer Rising: To me personally, this is an extremely underrated fame indicators. With their MC being placed in Aries, people may forget that these people are HUGE trend-setters, go-getters and can attract attention effortlessly. Especially if their Moon and MC ruler is well aspected! Cancer Rising to me just simply radiate this influential yet ethereal and very relatable energy, this is the aspect where these people, despite being famous, doesn't feel out of reach to their audiences and can easily gain the masses' love. Cancer is often associated with nurturing, mothering, and caregiving. A Cancer Rising individual might exude a protective and caring aura, making them approachable and trustworthy in the eyes of the public. This can be especially beneficial for roles or positions that require a sense of reliability and trust.

Pisces Rising: Pisces is ruled by Neptune, the planet of dreams, illusions, and spirituality. This gives Pisces Rising individuals a mysterious and ethereal quality that can be very alluring. Their presence might be felt more as an undercurrent rather than an overt display of charisma. Pisces is often associated with the arts, especially music, film, and dance. Many Pisces Rising individuals have a natural talent in these areas, and their unique perspective can lead to groundbreaking work that captures the public's attention. Unlike more fiery and assertive rising signs, Pisces Rising individuals might not seek out the spotlight aggressively. However, when they do find themselves in it, their genuine and unassuming nature can be a refreshing change and draw people to them.

Venus 3rd House: Ahh I have discussed this before but the 3rd house, another social house, is soooo underrated comparing to the 11th house haha! The 3rd House also relates to one's immediate social environment and connections. Venus here can indicate favorable relationships with peers, neighbors, and especially siblings. These positive relationships can provide support, opportunities, or collaborations that lead to public recognition. Venus is also associated with the arts. In the 3rd House, this can manifest as a talent for writing poetry, lyrics, or any form of artistic communication. Such individuals might have a knack for creating beautiful prose or scripts that resonate with audiences. While some astrological placements indicate worldwide fame, Venus in the 3rd House might bring popularity or recognition in one's immediate community or local environment. This can be through local media, community events, or social networks.

Mercury sextile/trine Venus: This blend of communication and aesthetics can lead to success in media-related fields, such as journalism, broadcasting, or acting. The individual might have a knack for presenting information in a way that is both informative and aesthetically pleasing. Mercury sextile or trine Venus can also indicate an ability to learn languages with ease and grace, which can open doors to international fame or recognition!! Venus bestows a natural sense of social etiquette and grace. When linked harmoniously with Mercury, this can translate to excellent networking skills, allowing individuals to build beneficial relationships in their professional fields.

Pluto-ASC harsh aspects (conjunctions, square, oppositions): This is a very fascinating one to me! As individuals with this aspect often undergo significant personal transformations throughout their lives. These transformations can be public and can captivate an audience, leading to increased attention or fame. Going back to that idea, Pluto's energy, especially in hard aspects, can sometimes be associated with controversy or taboo subjects. While controversy can be challenging, it can also bring fame or notoriety. Pluto's association with power can make these individuals influential in their fields. They might be seen as trendsetters or as people who bring about change.

Aquarius Sun: Not sure if you guys expected this haha but I think it should definitely be discussed!! Aquarius is known as the sign of the humanitarian. Many Aquarius Sun individuals are drawn to social causes and activism. Their dedication to making the world a better place can lead to public recognition and respect. Those with their Sun in Aquarius might be at the forefront of technological advancements or digital trends, leading to fame in these sectors as well. Interestingly, instead of traditional media, Aquarius Sun individuals might find fame through unconventional means, such as viral internet content, niche communities, or unique platforms. While they might not seek out the spotlight aggressively, once Aquarius Sun individuals gain a following, it's often fiercely loyal. Their genuine and consistent nature can create a dedicated fan base or audience:D

Sun opposite Moon: The opposition can lead to a profound emotional depth and self-awareness. This can be channeled into creative endeavors, making their work deeply resonant and relatable to audiences. This creates a dynamic and multifaceted personality. These individuals often possess a captivating duality that can draw attention and intrigue. The struggle to balance and integrate opposing parts of oneself is a universal experience. People with this aspect might openly grapple with this tension, making them relatable and authentic in the eyes of the public. Point blank being extremely comforting for others!! The Sun represents the public self, while the Moon represents the private self. This opposition can lead to a life where one's private matters become public or where there's a significant interplay between public and private life, often seen in the lives of celebrities:D

Mars in water houses (4th, 8th, 12th): Mars in water houses gives individuals a deep emotional drive and passion. This can be channeled into their work, making it deeply resonant and impactful. Their creations, whether in art, music, or other fields, can touch audiences on a profound emotional level. The water houses are often associated with hidden or subconscious themes. Mars here can indicate a hidden reservoir of strength and resilience, allowing individuals to overcome challenges and rise to prominence against the odds. The 8th house, in particular, is associated with transformation and rebirth. Mars here can lead to intense and transformative conflicts or challenges that, when overcome, lead to significant growth and public recognition. With Mars in the 4th house, there's a strong drive related to home, family, and roots. This can translate into public ventures related to real estate, family businesses, or anything connected to one's heritage or background. Mars in the 12th house can give an individual a mysterious allure. Their actions might be behind the scenes or not immediately visible, but when they come to light, they can captivate the public.

Sun aspecting Neptune: The combination of the Sun and Neptune can give an individual a dreamy, mysterious, and ethereal charisma. They often possess a magnetic allure that can't be easily defined, drawing people to them. In the world of film, theater, or any profession where "illusion" or "make-believe" is central, these individuals can excel. They can effortlessly slip into different roles or personas, making them exceptional actors or performers. The visionary qualities of Neptune combined with the Sun's drive can make these individuals ahead of their time. They might introduce ideas, trends, or concepts that are initially misunderstood but later gain widespread acceptance. Neptune's compassion and desire for unity can drive Sun-Neptune individuals to champion humanitarian causes, leading to public recognition for their efforts.

Here are some that I can think of on the top of my head:D Thank you for such a great question beautiful!

love,

saint jenx

#astrojenx #astrology #astro notes #astrology observations #astrology notes #leo venus #leo #astro community #astrology community #gemini

576 notes · View notes

holewithinahole · 1 year ago

Text

Tiptoeing the leyline | Otto Octavius x reader

Summary: Back to your universe, Otto captures you while you're distracted. He notices the marks a certain Dr. Olivia Octavius left on you.

Ao3 Link

Warnings: shameless smut, no genitalia specified (reader), no pronouns specified (reader), orgasm denial, overstimulation, unsafe sex, rough sex, creampie, non-native writer

And yes, I wrote a somewhat sequel to my Olivia fic, after several months. The fixation on Octaviuses is never over, my guy. Again, not beta, I'm not native so very sorry for any weird sentences or mistakes. I'm not 100% happy with it but I'll never be so, enjoy! (I just have to embrace the fact that I'm a slut for them.)

You should have seen it coming. From a mile away, honestly.

It’s easier to convince yourself that you’ve simply been tired. Even someone with super strength and freaky spider powers had to draw the line at multi-dimensional travel and two days of non-stop fighting. Especially when it involved someone as ruthless as Dr. Olivia Octavius. Your imaginary audience could laugh all they want, but you dared anyone to try putting their entire focus on swinging webs and punches to a woman who had, mere hours ago, rocked your world so hard you saw stars. And see stars you certainly did when that bus hit you square in the chest during the battle inside the collider.

Ergo, you blame Olivia.

Your body is sore as fuck, and you're littered with bruises and a nasty bite mark on the nape of your neck. What’s the point of having rapid recovery if you don’t even have time for it? You also blame your inner sense of justice (you were aware of the irony of fucking a supervillain and then talking about justice). Disappearing from your universe for a few days didn’t stop the villains of the week from robbing the poor corner-of-the-street shopkeepers, and the super ones from plotting their evil schemes. No rest for the wicked? What about the brave, the awesome, the work-devoted?

“Am I boring you or something?”

You glance back at Otto. He looks appalled behind his small sunglasses. It’s almost funny.

“Oh no, please keep talking,” you say evenly, “‘gives me more time to come up with an attack plan.”

What’s more difficult to admit to yourself is how totally out of it you are when it comes to anything Octavius-related. You’ve been happy living in your little world of delusion before the mind-altering and deliciously traumatizing altercation with Olivia. But now? Every taunt, every tilt of the head looks like an invitation. Knowing there were alternate universes was pretty mind-altering as well, come to think of it.

“I’m curious to see how you plan to attack me in your current situation.”

Right. You push against the vibranium shackles holding you hostage in a chair. It was more for show if you were being honest; you doubted you could break free even with hundred-percent strength. Instead, you stare at the dirty walls of Otto’s new lair, trying not to focus too much on the flow of images his shiny actuators brought to the surface.

“Do not bother.” He lets out a bark of a laugh. “You’re completely at my mercy.”

You’ll give it to him though, he has been swift and efficient when he cornered you in a back alley and knocked you unconscious. In your defense, you did fight back against the actuator pinning you against the wall, but he said something and the next second, everything had faded to black. It was something insubstantial, something stupid and stereotypically evil like he’s famous for. Totally not something that made your heart skip a beat.

“I have to say,” he says conversationally, “I’m disappointed by how easy it was to catch you.” With two mechanical arms digging into the ground, he looms over you, the pans of his coat flapping against his naked skin. “You’re usually not that compliant.”

Don’t you fucking dare blush.

You tear your eyes away from his chest. “I was just bored out of my mind. Your tricks are getting old, Otto.”

He chuckles. “It worked in the end, didn’t it? Even if it wasn’t the desired effect.”

“If it wasn’t, why pull the same shit over and over again?”

“For fun.”

It leaves your mouth open dumbly. You scoff. “Failing is not what I’d call fun.”

Otto stares before lowering himself to the ground, soles tapping against the wooden floorboard. You’re trying your damn best not to meet his gaze, even protected behind your mask.

“What’s gotten into you?” He asks. “You’re never this… serious.”

It gives you a whiplash. “Uh?”

“Did I break something?” He muses to himself.

You certainly didn’t expect him to notice you were out of it, or care about it for that matter. Perhaps you’ve underestimated the man’s perception.

“All fine and dandy. Thanks for asking, Doc’.” Your tone is way too even to your liking.

You’ve always been a terrible actor and he sees right through your bluff. Which is saying something since he can’t even see your face. You make another attempt at breaking free but it only makes your suit rub against all of your bruises and cuts. Your wince makes the good Doctor raise a questioning eyebrow.

“So, I did hurt you,” he says, disbelieving.

“You kidding, right? You punch like a little girl.” That’s a big lie and also misogynistic.

Fuck, maybe Olivia was right.

You’re suddenly assaulted by a strong smell of damp leather as two fat digits slip underneath the edge of your mask and pull. “Hey! The fuck you think you doing—“

Does anyone grasp the concept of anonymity ‘round here? “Fuck, Doc’, I thought you were a bit more chivalrous than that.”

Otto doesn’t answer, inspecting your face. It’s making you uncomfortable how much he’s staring. Did he expect a model or something?

“I wasn’t expecting this kind of hurting,” he says. You frown, confused, but when he uses one finger on your chin to slowly turn your face away, you realize with horror he’s looking at the beautiful purple claim Olivia left on your neck.

“What—“ you sputter, withdrawing as much as you can. “That’s not what you’re thinking.”

“And what am I thinking, exactly?” Otto asks, evenly.

What is he thinking exactly? He barely reacted to your naked face, not even to gloat at exposing your biggest secret. And what do you want him to be thinking? That you have no game at all? What would be the point? If anything, you should be proud to show him you get any action.

He interrupts your inner monologue: “I wasn’t expecting the reason for your scattered brain to be sex.” You blush bright red. “I thought you had more self-control than that.”

His lips stretches, deliberately slow, displaying rows of straight incisors and sharp canines. “Unless you’ve been fighting an oversized bat.”

It would have been preferable at the moment. “Yes. You guessed it. How smart.”

Otto chuckles. “It probably wasn’t any good if you look this tense.”

“I have a good reason to be tense at the moment,” you hiss.

“I make you feel that way? My, I’m flattered.”

“You wish, Doc’.”

His hand glides on your neck, wrapping his fingers around your throat. A large digit presses down on the mark. “Perhaps, I do.”

Your bruised skin burns at the pressure but your mind burns even brighter processing what Otto just admitted; what he could be imagining as he traces the uneven blood crusts left by the sharp teeth of his counterpart. And your silence is even more telling; somehow even more than the quickening of your breathing, your pulse confessing everything to his touch.

“What do you want?” you struggle to say, mouth heavy.

He smiles, almost gently, but his eyes are predatory. You’re not unfamiliar with the look on his face and isn’t that a thrill. With Olivia, you could have used her actuators as an excuse for your actions; not that you had any intention to though. With Otto, however, the shackles are quickly removed and the raised eyebrow he offers looks like an opportunity for flight.

You don’t take it.

There he stands, the reason for sleepless nights, the unhealthy obsession you can’t wrap your mind around. He looks down and it feels intimate, almost natural if you could ignore your surroundings, the sensation of your suit, and the four red eyes watching you closely.

His fingers are back on the bruise, ignoring your question. “Who gave you this?”

You’re about to lie through your teeth when he adds: “No one important, I’m sure?”

Your spit is thick when you swallow. “Self-centered much?”

He laughs. “You don’t have to answer. You’ll forget them soon enough.”

Doubtful, you think. At the very least, you’ll be haunted forever by the juxtaposition of two universes. “Keep telling yourself that.”

You’re still frozen in the chair, free but still bound by the desire running rampant under your skin and his long fingers around your neck. He’s not even bothered by your comment; Otto has always been radiating confidence, and you know that if one person could erase Olivia from your mind, even for a moment, it’d be him. Fittingly. Her alternate self with whom you share a deeper bond, a long-term rivalry, a never-ending attraction…

He straightens up, hand leaving your neck and you feel a lot colder. In a smooth movement, he takes off his glasses, and you’re assaulted by the gentleness of his brown eyes. The same eyes you kept seeing alongside Olivia’s green ones.

“I want to erase all of this tension.” You realize he finally answered you when he says: “Now tell me, little spider, what do you want?”

There’s no way around it, is it? You can’t just admit you’ve been chilling in an alternate dimension with his alternate self and that you’ve been thinking about him every single minute spent running away and fighting. You can’t just admit you had the best sex of your life with a women-him who confronted you to the extent of the absurd and frankly unethical feelings you distil for your archenemy. You can’t tell him you’ve been fantasizing about the weight of his body, the strength of his hands, the thrill hidden behind each actuator… The thoughts are too much to bear or explain.

“You.”

The grin he gives you is enough of an acknowledgement.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Broad palms stretch across your back, feeling the dryness of your skin, dipping fingers in the tender joints of your muscles as you sigh. His silence almost feels reverent; a stark contrast with Olivia’s rough handling. She spent her time hovering over you, close but never touching, wallowing in the superiority induced by the distance between you. Otto however seems intent on pressing as much skin as possible to yours, enveloping you completely.

“Your back is surprisingly devoid of scars,” he comments.

Your haughty chuckle dies in your throat, distracted by the warmth of his hand snaking to your abdomen to pull you closer. “I always face my enemies,” you answer after a second or two.

His petting stops. “How brave.” The press of clammy skin and well-worn leather melt away the chill raised by his exploring hands. Not entirely because his breath bounces off the crook of your neck, and it’s so easy to get lost in the clash between warmth and cool. “What does that say about me?”

You understand belatedly the insinuation of your previous statement. “Is it trust?” He taunts, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Hell no,” you fire back, “you’re the last person I could trust.”

It’s a lie; you’ve met far shadier and far more morally reprehensible enemies than Dr. Otto Octavius. “I’m offended.” His fingers are running higher on your torso, leaving chills behind like a powder trail ready to combust. You’re not certain you’ll be able to survive this wildfire. “Killing you would be a waste,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Yeah, your life would be so boring without me.” You smile, stretching your numb arms.

“Indubitably.” The actuator holding your arms up loosens and your heart tightens at the admission. “Although—“

One fat finger from a hand you’ve, regrettably, forgotten press forcefully on your sex; its outline peaking scandalously through your suit. Your gasp is silent but your whole body tenses up against his chest. “—the same could be said about you.”

You swallow a snarky remark. Anything you say could incriminate you further, and your body already does an amazing job on its own. Thankfully, the Doctor is happy to keep the conversation alive: “Could we call this a truce then?”

You wouldn’t call a quick dirty fuck a truce. It’s a distraction, a wonderfully effective one. “As if!” You scoff. “You’re going to prison after this.”

Another finger joins its lonely mate, rubbing in tandem with the spandex against your pelvis. The suit is designed for comfort and to avoid chaffing despite being skin-tight (which you’ve never been more thankful for at the moment), but it’s not an efficient protection against the softness of his caress. You’ll soon want to rip the offending fabric off to press more forcefully on teasing fingers, but for now, you’ll hang on to the last thread of reason the suit provides you. Who knows if you’re not actually dreaming?

“You’re in no position to promise such things, I’m afraid.” He’s right and there’s nowhere else you’d like to be at the moment.

Otto retrieves his hand. “Hey! Don’t—” Your mouth snaps shut but it’s already too late.

You feel him straightening up, leaving your sweaty back to the cold air of the room. You can’t see him but you hear his chuckle and his actuators rattling.

“I see,” he says, “you’re just desperate.”

“Desperate for what? You?” Better dedicating yourself completely to the monkey business. “I’ve had the best fuck of my life two days ago, I’m not desperate.”

The claw holding your arms up retracts and despite the physical retrieve it offers you, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve played a role a bit too well. The shining eye of the actuator stares directly at your face, and you watch it stretch with dubious eyes— “Such a clever mouth.” – until it pushes you against naked skin, squeezing you back tight against Otto’s body…

“I’ve always thought a good fuck could humble you greatly.”

…and his unmistakable excitement. The remaining slivers of coherence leave you at the vulgarity of his sentence and the tantalizing, unique snap of his hips.

“Always?” Your voice is lost in a whisper.

His breath hitches, you’re almost certain of it. His nose brushes against your shoulder, and a hand snakes back over your abdomen as the actuator retracts, holding you even closer. It’s funny how you already are near losing your mind. Your eyes are open but you barely see, only the dark blur of the metallic beam on which you hold on. You’re completely helpless, bent almost in half by the weight of his body, trembling legs and shaking from anticipation; heady from his admission.

Otto hums and the sound vibrates through you. “Fuck, look at you.”

Desperate for the touch of a madman, two seconds away from panting like a dog from how fast your heart is beating, shameful…

“How could I not desire this?” His digits wander in the ridges of your muscles, the dips of your skin. His breath is hot and moist against your shoulder. “You entice me. I can’t wait to make you beg.”

The actuator fixated on your face moves closer, rotating his head in agreement.

“You’ll never hear me be—“

You startle. Another mechanical arm has taken hold of your suit, tugging before tearing it apart like a sheet of paper. A still coherent voice at the back of your mind fustigates you for ruining two perfectly good suits in less than seventy-two hours; the remaining ninety percent short-circuits. You realize, with no amount of dignity left, that your skin is dripping wet. “Shit.”

“Would you look at that?” You can’t look. You don’t want to look. “How flattering.”

The glide of his hand is disgustingly arousing, and you moan unabashedly when he finally – finally – relents and touches your neglected sex. It’s too good to be normal. Lost in your breathy whines, you think about Olivia and her sweet torture session. Even she hasn’t been able to tease such a strong reaction out of you this quickly. How fucked up are you?

Twice you left your body in the hands of an Octavius for experimentation, and you’re afraid this time will be the one that’ll leave you crawling back for more.

“So close so soon?” Otto tuts. “Disappointing.”

His touch stops altogether. You groan. “As lovely as it sounds to make you come more than once, I do intend on experimenting a little more with you.”

Damned Octavius-es! Loving to hear themselves talk, loving to drag things torturously slow…

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” you pant, closing your eyes to gather your thoughts.

“You’re a degenerate, aren’t you?”

He steps away, and you hear the squeaking of leather falling to the ground. You yearn to turn around and watch him in all his half-naked glory. Instead, a metallic arm wraps around your ankle, pushing your legs apart. You feel exposed, the cold air of the warehouse striking your wet skin in an overwhelming contrast. It gets worse when Otto puts a wide palm on the curve of your ass, spreading you and observing the way you part in an embarrassing, squelching noise.

You have no time for a witty comeback: he presses one thick finger into you. You gasp. The intrusion is more surprising than hurting, it distracts you enough from your upending orgasm. His fingers curl inside you, so warm, spreading you open with ease.

He hums pensively. “You feel tight. You’re certain you’re not lying when bragging about your last date?”

A date. You manage not to scoff. “There are other ways to have sex. You’re just old-school.”

Otto chuckles. “More fun for me.”

His mouth is back to your ear, and his affected state is unmistakable. “Let’s see how long you can last before you beg me to fuck your pretty hole.”

The next minutes are excruciating. You lose your voice and all sense of coherency. He fucks you harshly, curling, twisting, scissoring his fingers as you pant hot, condensed air. You could have ignored it (you could have) if he hadn’t been alternating between making sure you were loose for him, and stroking you ‘til you’re leaking enough to use your precum for his mistreatment. And all this time, you were being watched closely by the red eye of his actuator, held tight by two others.

Two delayed orgasms later, and three fingers deep in you, you are near your breaking point. You’ve lost track of time, lost control over your vocal chords and you’re secretly glad you’re not in an apartment right now. The neighbors might have complained.

“Nothing to say?” Otto asks. You can hear his shit-eating grin.

“F-Fuck. No.”

“As you wish.”

He spits directly on your fluttering opening before stuffing four fingers in. You definitely scream this time.

“Otto!” You don’t even recognize the sound of your own voice.

He hums in fake interest. “What is it, love?”

Your heart beats even faster. You hate him for that. He thrusts against your walls. “Oh, fuck!”

“Not even close, darling.”

Your moan sounds devastated. His other hand snakes to your front, stroking you with clever fingers and you feel yourself overflowing. You know you could come from this alone, but your half-delirious brain somehow craves more. You want the press of his soft body on your back again, and his bruising mouth on your neck. Perhaps even his teeth right where Olivia marked you. You want his warm hands on your aching skin, on the map of scars he left on you.

“Now,” he sighs, “what do we—“

“Please.”

His stillness attests to his surprise. You share the sentiment but you’re this close to losing your goddamn mind; you don’t really care anymore except for the chance of feeling him inside you.

“What do you want?” he hisses, stroking you impossibly harder.

“You,” you cry out. Otto disengages with an irritated sound. “Wait!”

He grabs your chin, almost choking you in the process. You realize your cheeks are wet. “I’ll leave you like this, you hear me?” His voice is harsh, raspy. “Now, be very specific, pet.”

“Fuck me!” What a pathetic display you make. “I can’t take this anymore.”

You look directly into the actuator’s eye. It gives you a thrill. “Please, Doctor.”

You register distantly his labored breathing, the slight tremor in his fingers when he releases you to get rid of his trousers. Despite having been thoroughly prepared, the filthy glide of his cock stretches you wider, reaching deeper parts of yourself. Your legs tremble and the only reason you’re not collapsing on the ground is the tight hold his actuators have on you. His arms wrap around your torso, and the furnace of his skin turns you to embers.

“Come on, just give it to me!” Even in your tormenting need, you somehow find it in you to be bossy. “Otto—“

He grabs your face forcefully, turning it towards him. His strong nose is pressed in your right cheek, and the encompassing heat of his breath tickles the corner of your mouth. You want to kiss his plump lips so badly.

“From now on, it’s Doctor Octavius for you.”

The stretch burns from lack of lubrication, but he plunges into you without any concerns. The snap of his hips is so strong you topple forward in a pitiful cry. Otto fucks you harshly, frantically while holding your mouth close to his. He pants through his nose and you respond in kind by moaning loudly. If you had more time, you’d have wished for Olivia to wreck you like this, to have you feel her skin as she fucks you. Her fingers, her actuators, anything to make you feel this full.

“Doc’,” you choke, twisting your neck to partially meet his chapped lips, “harder.”

“You greedy little thing.”

The actuators at your legs disentangle themselves, planting in the ground in a loud crack. The combined strength of Otto’s hips and his mechanical allies pushes you completely against the metal beam. You’re glad, unable to hold yourself upright as you’re assaulted by this indescribable force. Your screams speak volumes:

“Ah! Ah, shit!”

He’s now groaning against your cheek, sweat gathering on his forehead and running on your skin. The whole ordeal is disgusting and you want more. You need more.

Greedy. You’re so greedy.

In an unconscious movement, your numb hand releases the beam to bury itself in his damp bangs. It elicits a downright animalistic snarl from Otto, so you tug. Hard.

“Fuck,” he hisses. It sounds like pain but his hips shake, losing his rhythm.

The embers he created coil in your abdomen. Your limited movements don’t stop you from pushing against him, chasing the spark that’ll finally ignite you. You mutter disjointed sentences – ‘come on’s, ‘so good’s, and debauched iterations of his name – which he answers with more groans and moans of his own. You cling to him, breathing in the strong essence of leather and sweat, twisting your neck, even more, to meet his lips in an almost kiss, anchoring him closer and deeper until—

“Break down, sweetheart.”

He bites the scream you let out. It’s his words, this final act of stimulation, this echo of another universe, that lights you up. He catches your tears with his lips and you come, powerless against the intensity of the sensation. Otto follows you, pumping his spend inside you for what seems like forever. Your own clings to your trembling skin. You try to regulate your senses, still focused on the twitching of your muscles, on the throbbing length of his cock and his ragged breathing.

The actuators retract and you expect him to do the same but he stays anchored to you. The nuzzling of his nose against your cheek somehow manages to freak you out more than the aftermath of this whole conundrum. Your fingers in his hair relax, scratching his scalp in response to his caresses. Your neck hurts from the unusual position you force it into, but it’s the least of your worries when his mouth is right there.

Sadly, he steps away, slipping out from you in a deafeningly wet noise. Your legs fail you but you hold onto the metal beam, now warm under your touch. The contraction of your muscles has the unfortunate effect of letting his hot cum leek out of you, cascading along your thighs. Otto lets out a contemplative hum.

“You paint a pretty picture, I must say.”

His thumb dips into your flesh, spreading your sensitive entrance as more of him comes out of you.

You huff, straightening up. “Hands off.”

Your suit is in shambles on the ground; you look at it dejectedly. Olivia had the intelligence of divesting you of it, not ripping it to shreds. Men.

“Hard to take me to prison in this state, right?”

You turn to glare at him but you end up gaping at the two actuators throwing Otto’s leather coat on your shoulders.

“Thanks.” You try to summon your usual carefree attitude but you find yourself unable to. You’ve somehow been more easy-going with your life on the line and under the near-psychotic gaze of Olivia than you are now. You wonder what that says about you. “This doesn’t change anything. Next time, I’ll kick your ass so hard they’ll have to drag you to your cell.”

He laughs lowly. “’Sounds promising.”

He’s not insinuating—

You clear your throat, adjusting the coat around you to shield you from the cold seeping into your bones. You feel uneasy being watched so closely by three pairs of eyes. Otto hands you something: the ruffled mask he snatched off before. You take it.

“You know that the purpose of a mask is to hide your face?” you mutter, stuffing it inside one of his pockets.

He shrugs. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“…Sorry, what?”

It’s how you wear the mask that matters? Perhaps it’s better off… sometimes.

#otto octavius x reader #dr octavius x reader #olivia octavius x reader #otto octavius #spiderverse imagine #spiderman imagine

117 notes · View notes

eikaprime · 9 months ago

Text

M4rie

Another day, another day to ship Agent 4 with one of the Splatoon Idols. You can find this on AO3, or read the full text under the cut.

This is the second of six idol fics; the first, C4llie, can be found HERE or as Ch. 1 on the AO3 link.

M4rie

Art is not a waste of time. Prism folds up the latest letter from her parents (she stopped answering their phone calls weeks ago) and jams it in her pocket. She'll write back later, when she's not ready to spit at them.

Rent is due again tomorrow. So much for buying paints. She's keeping the lights on and eating ramen two meals a day, but what hurts is not being able to buy any paints. And with the Great Zapfish gone, electricity prices are rising. She's gonna need more.

This is depressing. She grabs her sketchbook (the last one she came here with, all the others are full and she can't afford more and this one's more than half full already, no don't think about it) and her favorite drawing pencil and hops a bus to the square. There, she spends a couple coins on a soda, sits in her favorite chair, and waits.

The elegant inkling is there again.

She's so pretty...

Prism sits with her phone on the table and sketchbook in front of her, using her phone so it doesn't look like she's staring. The umbrella. The kimono. Her white tentacles, tied back from her face; the red ribbon, dangling by one ear. She shades with quick, careful lines, and sits back at last.

It's not good enough. Prism glances from the page to the gorgeous inkling and back. It's never good enough, to capture how pretty she is. And she's always standing there, every time Prism comes back to the square. She must be waiting for someone.

She's probably already in a relationship. With a guy. A tall, strong, handsome inkling with short blue tentacles swept back in an elegant updo, with muscles that stand out beneath his tight shirt and a smile on his face as he leaves Grizzco. He probably gives her a quick kiss while she fake whines about salmonid slime and, after he takes a shower, they go out to dinner together and talk about their days. He's planning to propose next month.

Prism doesn't stand a chance.

The beautiful inkling smiles, and Prism realizes she's been staring. Oh cod. Her whole face burns and she looks away, fast, then back.

The beautiful inkling twirls her umbrella, winks, and... vanishes?

If that's not an invitation, Prism doesn't know what is. She jams her phone in her pocket and tucks her sketchbook under one arm, hurrying over. The beautiful inkling... was standing on a sewer drain. And swam down it.

Well, let it never be said that Prism backs down from a challenge.

~~~~

So, the beautiful inkling is named Marie, she thinks she's famous the way a lot of beautiful people think they are, and she's a secret agent. And now so is Prism, because she can't afford another energy bill. And also, because there are some really cool things to draw.

It's almost lunch time, so Prism takes a break. She sits on the railing by the superjump pad in Suction Cup Lookout and pulls out her new sketchbook, improvised from the insides of the envelopes her parents use when they write to her. A tree, the base and roots invisible, wrapped in a tentacle. The tentacle supports it; it grows from it. But it also traps the tree, away from the mountains on all sides...

“Distracted?”

Prism drops her pencil and almost falls off the railing trying to grab it; a strong hand grabs her hero suit.

“Let it go. It's just a pencil.”

“It's my last one,” Prism says, trying not to whine. She swings her legs back to the safe side of the railing, sketchbook folded and back in her pocket.

“It's just a pencil,” Marie repeats. She has a picnic basket hooked over one arm, the picture of elegance, and opens it. She offers Prism a sandwich. “Your favorite, tuna with lemon and garlic.”

Prism accepts the sandwich. She doesn't remember telling Marie her favorite sandwich, but it is. “Not just a pencil,” she says. “My last good drawing pencil.” She bites into her sandwich and almost moans. Cod, Marie must be a goddess. The goddess of sandwiches.

“Oh,” Marie says. “Sorry.” She bites into her own sandwich. When she chews, a smear of mustard on her cheek, she almost looks like a normal inkling, instead of a goddess. She swallows and asks, “What makes it a drawing pencil? Why is it your last?”

“They're expensive,” she says. “Good art things are graded, you can get lighter or darker lines with them. I usually stick to the H-level pencils.” She takes another bite of her amazing sandwich. “The lower numbered H's are great for sketches, and the higher numbers don't show through paints.”

Marie crouches over the picnic basket and emerges with two bottles of fizzy limeade. “You paint?”

Oh. “Yeah.” Prism finishes her sandwich and lays down on the railing, looking at the sky. She'd have to mix three or four different colors to match this shade. “I mean, not lately. Haven't been able to afford anything better than those squit packs for kiddies at the shell store. But we'll get zappy back, and prices will go down, and I'll manage.”

“I guess that explains why you main brush,” Marie says, and Prism sits up fast. “I've watched some of your matches. You're pretty good.” She smiles crookedly. “Could be great if you'd stop drawing on the ground all the time.”

“Hey, what's the point of a turf war if you can't draw hearts all over the base?” Prism asks.

Marie laughs. Prism hasn't heard her laugh before.

Marie has a pretty laugh.

~~~

Prism surfaces from the octoshower with a zapfish tucked under her arms and has to stop just to look at the sky. The stars are out; she's been down there for a while.

Marie's still crying over the headset.

A sigh rises through Prism, starting in her toes and leaving her empty. Callie, Agent 1, is down there. And Prism is up here.

Just a replacement.

Well, someone's gotta do it. And if she could tell her parents, at least they'd think this is worthwhile.

Prism gets a better grip on Little Zap-Zap and superjumps back to the canyon. There's a zapfish cage, all prepped and ready to go, by the bench; Prism places Little Zap-Zap inside. Listening to Marie like this feels wrong, feels like intruding, but she can't just go inside, so she turns off her headset and sets that on the cage... then sits down and looks up.

Stars. So many stars. The night sky isn't black, not really. Prism strains her eyes for the color she knows is there. In the shadows around the stars is the deepest blue, a blue that can suck you in and swallow you and make you feel like nothing matters. It's a blue she's never managed to make, no matter how she mixed her paints.

She doesn't know how long she sits there before the door opens. “Callie and I used to look at the stars together,” Marie says, her voice clogged.

“I never had anyone to look at them with,” Prism says.

“No one?”

Prism shrugs. “Some people make close friends, some people just... don't. I always had kids to hang out with at recess, and partners for field trips, and wasn't chosen last in gym or anything. And people showed up for my birthday and I got invited to a lot of parties. But I wasn't the inkblot others wanted on a sleepover, or to go to an amusement park, or anything.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“I guess?” She forces a laugh, her eyes on the sky. “I mean, from everything I know, you and Callie grew up together. Hard to say if you were best friends or squiblings, but either way, I never had that. How can you miss what you never had?”

“You must think I'm silly,” Marie mutters. “But Callie's... she's...”

“I do miss it,” Prism says.

Marie makes a tiny gasping noise, and she grabs Prism's shoulder, turning her until Prism's looking Marie straight in the eye. One of Prism's heart stops, because it's just not fair that Marie is so pretty, even with the skin around her eyes the slightest bit green from crying so hard. “You what?”

“I had my paints,” Prism said. “I had the television, and Blob Ross, and sneaking onto the roof to paint the landscape and I knew I was liked. But everyone else just, they all had someone who made them happier than they were alone. I used to wish I could have that, just once.” She turns away from Marie and gets to her feet, because this is a bit too personal. “But no use wishing for what you can't have! Come on, boss. You said the final area was Slimeskin Garrison, right?” Prism grabs her headset again. “Betcha I can find all the kettles before sunrise.”

Marie's jaw drops open and her eyes widen. It's the first time Prism's seen her speechless, and it makes her smile. She pulls on her headset and turns squid, ready to superjump, when Marie grabs her tentacle.

When Prism reforms, Marie's holding her hand. And she doesn't let go. And Prism tries not to read into it, but guppies, the prettiest inkling to ever ink is holding her hand.

“Don't go tonight,” Marie says. “Go home. You need to rest.”

“But Callie—”

“I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

~~~

The night after Callie's return is the best clam sleep of Prism's life. Or at least the past two weeks, since she basically moved into the Canyon Hut. Which, once she gets to her kitchen, is a problem.

She's completely out of food. And she left her sketchbooks there.

Shoot.

Well, it's—she checks the clock, oh g-zap, eleven in the morning, she really did oversleep. She'll get dressed, pop into the canyon for the couple outfits and the sketchbook she left there, grab breakfast at whatever cafe and turf until she's got enough for groceries.

That plan lasts until she pushes open the cabin door to find Callie and Marie sitting at the table, scrambled eggs in front of them both, and is stunned for a moment just how gorgeous Marie is with her tentacles tangled and sleep in her eyes. “Oh, you're Agent Four!” Callie says, getting to her feet. She hesitates a step away, then offers Prism a hand to shake. “We never made it back to Inkopolis last night, just too worn out, and I need to thank you.”

Prism shakes her hand. “Don't need any thanks, I'm happy to help,” she says. “Sorry, I kinda left some things here, and I need to grab them.”

“Oh, like your sketchbook? Your drawings are excellent!”

Prism stops dead, hand still mid-shake. “You looked at them?”

“Well, yeah.” Callie laughs and lets go of Prism's hand. “It was open on the table. You're a really good artist. And,” she leans close, “it seems to me that—”

“Callie.” Prism's never heard Marie use that tone before.

Callie giggles. “I just wanted to say, there were an awful lot of drawings of—”

“Cal!”

Just let Prism die right here. She wishes the cracks in the floor were big enough to slip through in squid form, and then she could slip into the earth, right through the Octarian bases, down and down until the earth swallows her.

Callie laughs again, but Marie's on her feet, pushing past Callie. “Here's your pajamas, and your sweatshirt, and both pairs of jeans and those t-shirts you wore, I washed it all,” she says, holding a bundle of clothes in her hands. “Thank you very much for stopping by I'm gonna get Callie settled back into the routine and take her to the doctor and crud howsabout you come back next week and we can do some recon just to make sure things are okay now bye!” She shoves the bundle into Prism's hands and keeps pushing, making Prism take a stumbling step back, out the door.

Prism knows when she's not wanted. Marie missed her cousin, they must have a lot to catch up on, between whatever torture Callie went through under the hypnoshades and Marie's new radio show. Prism turns to go, only to feel something hard in the bundle of clothes.

She peels away the top layer of clothes to find four sketchbooks, new. The barcode's been peeled off the plastic holding each one, tearing it, but Prism knows what they cost, she never goes for this brand they're too expensive they're too good. One of them's even the stiff tougher paper meant to hold paints, watercolors, even though Prism never told Marie the types of paints she used. And four individual brushes, H quality, each a different number.

Prism clutches the precious bundle to her chest and does not cry over it.

~~~

It takes Prism a month of patrols—of careful glances, of sketches of the landscape as cover, of refusing to stare at that crooked smile—for Prism to get a good drawing of Marie, not just a sketch. She thinks Callie knows, Callie's looked at her and giggled a few too many times, but she's also asked Marie just the right questions to make her laugh when Prism's got the sketchbook out. The final drawing she carefully, carefully transfers onto the sheet of canvas she splurged on, the one on sale for having a dented corner, and pulls out the tempura paints that are the best she can afford right now.

She captures Marie's kimono, the way it drapes and folds when she's leaning back on the bench. She captures Marie's parasol, carelessly dangling from one hand, almost to the ground. She captures the curve of Marie's neck. She spends hours mixing colors to get her tentacles just right, the way one half-fell from their bow the time she drew it, and the ribbon brushing her forehead. She even captures that cute little mole she'd like to kiss.

Marie, frozen in mid-laugh, her crooked smile wide and her eyes closed.

She wants to give it to Marie. She wants to ask Marie out. But if she's wrong... that could ruin everything.

But Prism is not a coward. She moved to Inkopolis by herself and she's a secret agent and a salmon run profreshional. She's started calling her parents again and only hangs up when they start talking about how she should be an accountant. Or a lawyer. Or whatever squit they want this time.

Besides, it'd be kinda creepy to have this on her wall. It's not some celebrity, this is her friend. And...

But when the time comes, Prism can't look. She desquids in the canyon on her day off, clutching the painting wrapped in brown paper, and walks over and shoves it in her hands "I made this, I hope you like it" and turns to run.

Only for a hand to catch the back of her shirt.

"And you don't wanna see me open it?"

Prism swallows down her fear. She doesn't answer, but when Marie tugs her shirt again, she turns around.

Callie's got the biggest grin on her face, and Prism looks away. She looks at the ground, her whole head the lilac of her ink and burning, as Marie unwraps the paper.

The silence when she sees what Prism made stretches forever. "I'm sorry," she says. "I, uh, I guess it's creepy, or,"

Marie grabs Prism's shirt, pulls her close, and kisses her. Smack on the mouth, the sort of kiss Prism's dreamed of for months, and she's too stunned to kiss back at first.

Only when Marie pulls away does Prism remember, and her burning face doesn't matter, because maybe she will get to kiss that cute little mole. "W-would you like to go for a picnic tomorrow?"

"Yes," Marie says. "I would. I'll—”

"FINALLY!" shouts Callie. "Cod, I was starting to think I'd need to get you together myself!"

#splatoon #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #squid sisters #splatoon 2 #splatoon fanfiction #M4rie #marie splatoon #marie cuttlefish #agent 4 splatoon #agent 4 #agent 4 fic

37 notes · View notes