#colored pencils terrify me

[numberonestuckyshipper]

[carbonateddelusion]

coloring killed my mom by running her off of a cliff btw. that's why everything is in black and white :,(

[aliidarling]

hey alii it’s your fav riooo!! :3 anyways no more silliness.. can you write where your getting stalked by Michael and he breaks in and fucks the brains out of u, oh and has a size kink/bondage? thank you i love u and your fics!!! 🩷

enjoy the silence

MICHEAL MYERS x fem!reader

nsfw content — pls scroll if uncomfortable

summary: myers decides to break in while you’re babysitting your friends younger brother

warnings: smut, p in v, size kink, bondage, knife play, sadism/masochism, blood

reminder reader doesn’t know the myers iconic mask because this takes place the night of his return in the og movie :)

nsfww content below !!

this years halloween wasn’t like last years, the year before and all the halloweens you’ve lived through. normally it was cheery, bright, with lots of candy and spooky costumes jumpscaring you at every corner. you’d always look forward for october 31st, the scariest day of the year.

your favorite day of the year. you were a horror fanatic, always binge watching horror movies and buying merchandise. friday the 13th was one of your favorite franchises, the slasher and gruesome scenes catching your eye from a young age. ever since then you’d always get excited at the mere mention of horror aspects.

you remembered years ago when the myers incident happened— when the perfect family down the block broke apart and crumbled into mere names you’d see on the newspaper. you were friends with the daughter, having a few classes with the upperclassmen which you two shared.

she was so sweet. always giving you pencils, helping you braid your hair, sometimes walking you home. she was too young to leave the earth. the reminders of that terrifying night rung in your head every halloween, slowly ruining the once colorful holiday for you.

now even fifteen years later, flashes of red and blue tainted the back of your mind as you sat on the couch of your best friends house. you had been ‘hired’ by your best friend to babysit his little brother. you didn’t mind— her brother, kilo, was a sweet boy. he was barely passing second grade, but you weren’t one to judge.

“you finish your homework, bud?” you ask the little boy who sat across from you. he looks up from his papers, crayons at his side with his papers covered in scribbles and his bad handwriting.

“almost!” he smiles, returning back to his homework and doodling. you hum and glance back at the movie playing in front of the two of you, the street lights illuminating the living room subtly through the blinds. you could hear the kids from the streets chatting, the giggling and the sounds of halloween night.

you hear a thud from the kitchen, making you frown. you pat the kids back and tell him to stay out, standing up and walking to the hallway. you enter the kitchen and look around, your eyes catching glimpse of a fallen plate on the ground. you shudder. your friend and her parents weren’t gonna be too happy with you about that.

“hey, kilo?” you call out, grabbing the broom and sweeping it up into a bag.

“yeah?” he calls back.

“i’ll let you keep your ipad in bed if you take the blame for me about this.” you hold up the bag of shredded glass sheepishly, trying to win over the little boy with the bats of your lashes. he hums in thought, tapping his chin before nodding eagerly.

you grin and give kilo a hair ruffle before ushering him up the stairs. he takes two stairs at a time before skipping into his room, the dark blue walls painted and his bed having star wars bedding. it was cute, you could tell his parents loved him.

“night night, kiddo. you need anything i’ll be downstairs, alright? i’m gonna be sleeping in your sisters room tonight.” you tell him gently, keeping up on your promise and handing him his ipad. he giggles and nods, quickly opening it up and ignoring every other word that drops from your mouth. you sigh and walk off, leaving the door open with a small crack. damn ipad kids.

the next hour is calm. you’re downstairs, handing out candy while catching up with your shows in her television. you’re happy she has cable. you’re quite comfortable in her house, you’ve been over so many times a part of you considers it your second home.

the sound of another thud grabs your attention. at first you think maybe kilo was being kilo and caused some ruckus, but you quickly realize it came from downstairs. you get up from your couch and walk towards the kitchen once again, blinking dumbly at the sight of the pantry door wide open. you swore you closed it earlier.

“this is creepy.” you grumble to yourself, stepping forward to slowly close it. once the click echoes, you stand there for another moment, a part of you expecting a loud jumpscare. the silence is anticlimactic and you sigh tiredly, dragging yourself back to the couch.

slumping back against the cushion, you wrap yourself in the throw blanket they have and hum, focusing your eyes on the television in front of you again. the streets have quieted down, leaving only a few determined trick or treaters that you’ve started to ignore when they ring. you’re too lazy to get up.

another few long minutes pass before you hear footsteps down the hall. you stiffen immediately and sit up, peeking over the top of the couch down the hall. no way kilo made those footsteps— they were too heavy.

fuck. did someone break in? it’s halloween night, you wouldn’t be surprised. lots of people always engaged in reckless behavior this night of the year.

“hello?” you call out, sitting up sheepishly and hugging the blanket around you. you peek down the dark, luring hall and shiver. you gulp down your nerves and let out another call. “kilo? i thought i told you to stay in your room, kid.”

silence answers you.

it’s creepy. too creepy. you don’t like this anymore. you want to go upstairs and check on kilo, make sure he’s okay and maybe sleep next to him in his bed. you were creeped out and wanted to make sure he was safe mostly.

a shaky exhale leaves you as you turn back forward, preparing to stand up to make your debut upstairs. you’re met with the terrifying sight of a man over six feet standing over you, his mask staring down at you emotionless.

you don’t scream. no. you stare up at him with a gaping expression, mouth open and eyes wide in terror. your heart skips several beats and your entire world goes radio silent, a ringing noise in your ears. you were paralyzed. paralyzed from fear. you don’t know what to do, your fingers suddenly feel like twenty pounds and your throat is dry.

oh fuck. he’s gonna kill you now, move dumbass!

another long second passes before you quickly move, sitting up and trying to jump over the back of the couch. he’s blocking the front, and his hand comes down to grab your shirt and manhandle you down onto your back again. the couch is a pull out so you’re thrashing around with your legs stretched out, fist throwing weak punches. he easily holds your wrist down and stares silently down at you.

tears fill your eyes, trembling in fear. you try and muster up the courage to speak but each words stays on the tip of your tongue, wavering shakily in your head.

“who are you?!” you finally managed to to shriek, fist clenched and your wrists being held by his large hands. his fingers were thick and long, his body well over six feet with a large amount of mass. the size difference was laughable.

his heavy breathing echoes in your ears, taunting you. he doesn’t answer your question, instead he slowly picks up his knife and drags it down your neck. the tip of his knife catches into your skin lightly and you whimper at the feeling. it stings.

his knife is dragged from your neck to your collarbone, tugging aimlessly at your collar. his movements hold no rush, instead ease and stealth. his mask is staring down at you as you bite your lip, muffling your pained sniffles as the knife nicks at your collarbone.

“why are you doing this?” you croak. he doesn’t answer.

the knife along your skin continues its journey down your stomach until it drifts along your pajama shorts, slowly creeping underneath the waistband and letting it snap against your skin. he’s inhuman, not making a single noise and instead drinking in each of your cries and reactions to his touch.

his grip around your wrists stiffen, gripping you tighter and holding you down firmer onto the couch. your hips squirm weakly before you’re shut up by the small nick he delivers to your soft skin. a silent warning.

the knife against your neck and the rope around your wrists is a reminder to stay quiet and still as he slowly sinks his cock inside you. it’s thick and girthy, the size belittling all the other boys you’ve ever touched. it hurts, the feeling of having your walls getting stretched by his mushroom tip.

a small sob leaves at the feeling, your hands tugging weakly at the rope, pretty tears covering your flushed cheeks. a burn in your pussy aches your lower body, thighs tensing up as he inches his way deeper and deeper. your cunt squeezes him tight and he doesn’t give any reaction other then his fists grabbing the cushion around you tighter, the fabric wrinkling.

“t-that hurts, hey— stop, slow down at least,” you plead pitifully. your voice is smaller then intended, your mouth forming an ‘O’ shape as the thickness has you going silent. you don’t have the bravery to complain any further, not after he pushes his knife a little closer to your neck. you go silent immediately.

the feeling of him sitting inside you still is only temporary before he slowly pushes out, leaving just the tip, before slamming back inside. he’s brutal with the way he buries himself deeply, making sure every centimeter of himself is squeezed tight. a moan you do your best to muffle escapes your throat.

he repeats the action again, slowly pulling out only to slam himself deeper again. somehow his tip presses against your g-spot, making you clench down and gasp. his hands grasp your waist, the difference in his fingers and your torso noticeable— he can almost fit his entire two hands around your stomach.

you were nothing compared to this big, burly man. not with the way he was holding your waist down and slamming his cock in and out, knife discarded by your side. your eyes roll back as you moan, lips quivering and producing noises you can no longer stop. not when he was this good at fucking you.

more slams of his hips had you clenching down, crying out for him to slow down and give you mercy. he was mean, battering your insides and plummeting his cock inside, like he didn’t wanna go a single second without being sheathed inside your warm cunt. he can feel the way your walls squeeze him and a low grunt escapes his throat, squeezing your waist tight.

one if his hands grabs your neck and squeezes, not gentle at all. you can feel your air ways get cut off and your eyes go wide. and your pussy tightens even more, making him cum deep inside. his load is thick and hot, painting your insides the creamy white color. it’s not surprising you immediately cum afterwards, the penetration and the warm stickiness making you cry loudly and release in his cock.

he slowly pulls his cock out and watches as the cream pie leaks out of your pussy, staining the couch fabric a dusty white. you shudder at the feeling of emptiness after being used to being stuffed full. a small hiccup leaves you, trembling still.

you gasp as one of his hands grab your thighs, holding it still while his hand slowly grabs the knife beside you. you stiffen in fear and shake your head, whimpering and pleading.

“please don’t— i was good— don’t hurt me—“ you’re shut up by him squeezing your thigh hard, a silent warning. you shut up, muffling your hiccups and cries. you watch as he slowly drags his knife to your meaty thigh and presses down with a little bit of pressure, making little lines. small droplets of blood drip down your thigh and you want to vomit.

he tilts his head down at you, silently wondering so many things. why were you crying? if you looked closely, he had marked his name. that was no reason to cry.

[couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name]

random percy headcanons:

wants to be the photographer friend SO bad and he technically is but like 70% of the pics come out blurry or weird bc there was a monster attack in the middle of them. his instagram is truly so chaotic looking.

literally always has seashells on him someone will ask him for a pencil or spare change and he has to empty all his pockets of shells to find it. drops his backpack and a bunch of shells fall out. kicks his shoes off and sand and shells fly out and his mortal friends are like percy What the Fuck

his eyes glow underwater!! bioluminescent king. no one told him though and he didn't find out until he joined his school's swim team and terrified everyone (he managed to convince them his contacts were having a weird reaction to chlorine lmao)

he really likes art!! he doesn't just pretend to for rachel's sake he genuinely enjoys painting with her. he likes splatter paint, collages and pop art styles the best. one day after splitting some edibles they realized percy could manipulate water colors and went CRAZY with it

will ask to be excused during class and comes back like an hour later with scorch marks all over his face bleeding from one of his ears covered in dust missing three fingernails rips in his jeans and a fat lip and the teacher is like percy what the actual hell were you doing in the bathroom all this time and he's just like uhhhhhh I have ibs

the brand from camp jupiter did unfortunately (for sally) Unlock something in him lmfao he keeps getting shitty little tattoos. usually stick-n-poke but someone's friends cousin's girlfriend's brother has a gun that gets brought to parties every now and then. most of them are sloppy but you can tell what they are HOWEVER he has one that was supposed to be a seal that came out looking like one of those shitty ms paint crying memes. annabeth laughed at him for ten minutes straight when she saw it.

he wanted to dye his hair blue but he was too chicken to bleach his entire head so he just did the tips. his hair is curly though so it looks absolutely ridiculous but he loves it

percy and annabeth get a crusty little yappy white dog in college and he carries it around like a baby lmao

back to his chaotic instagram, he's got so many pics of him like, relaxing at the bottom of the mariana trench or hugging a giant squid or riding on a whale shark and his mortal friends all think he's just really good at photoshop and this is a very specific bit he decided to commit to. they're always like lol percy where do you even FIND these pictures are you subscribed to like scientific journals for the laughs? but no he just took them all on his shell phone

has an ongoing prank war with annabeth's little brothers bobby and matthew but like it's Unhinged. they're playing 5D chess and she has no idea whats going on

weird tshirts!!! he loves them! like

shit like this or those 'women want me fish fear me' shirts, anything with a funny or incomprehensible slogan is going in his closet right along with his band tees lmfao

bought estelle a panda pillow pet when she was born 🥺

can NOT bring himself to eat seafood no matter how many times poseidon has told him its fine. he's like NO these are my FRIENDS JONATHAN WAS TELLING ME ABOUT HIS GRANDDAUGHTERS WEDDING LITERALLY YESTERDAY WHY IS HE ON A PLATTER DAD. they had to give up and just start eating normal land food at the palace every time he comes to visit lmfao

gets into horsegirl antics with hazel she NEEDS to know everything the horses have to say. they spend hours gossiping in the stables.

movie nights in the poseidon cabin were 10000% a thing and when he was missing annabeth and thalia and grover (and a few others) would still sleep in there every now and then and talk about how much they miss him :(

percy and beckendorf had the worlds most elaborate handshake

he DOES impulse buy stuff just because they're ocean-themed. stuffed animals, home decor, school supplies, clothes, you name it he bought it if theres like a fish on it

has more scars from crashing off his skateboard than he does from monster attacks

grover is somehow the only person who's ever noticed percy is severely claustrophobic

has a deep passion for adele. I can't explain this one I just feel and know it to be true.

he and annabeth both proposed to each other at the same time and they were SO mad about it they kept yelling over each other's speeches lmao

he can SING but he doesn't know it. sally keeps trying to record him singing to himself but something always happens to the camera and she loses the evidence

called chiron a brony one time and mr d thought it was so funny he was nice to percy for an entire week

the camp keeps trying to convince him to teach sword fighting lessons to the younger kids but he can NOT bring himself to swing a sword at a 9 year old so he keeps getting injured

has the most complicated iced coffee order in the world his go-to local coffee shop finally just put the damn drink on the menu and named it after him

he IS the quiet kid in the back of your math class that always has his hood up to try and hide his headphones and eats increasingly elaborate meals out of his backpack when the teacher isn't looking. one time someone caught him with a rotisserie chicken in the middle of a geometry final.

he argued that he DID have enough to share with the class

currently obsessed with the image of him knocking back a container of sea salt as if it was a shot and his mortal friends being like hey! what the actual fuck! and he's just like uhhhhh anemia kills!

its his birthday<3

[naffeclipse]

Paper Burn

Animator!Reader x Ink Form!Sun and Moon

Commission Info

I'm not normal about @pure-plum requesting a little hurt/comfort moment from my BATDR DCA AU called The Jester and the Tagalong! I also have to thank Plum immensely for teaching me about animating and what a character like the reader in this instance would do with their work! It was a great help and made the fic so much better for it! Enjoy an inky world that you and the jester are determined to endure <3

Content Warning for self-neglect, pain, and angst.

———

Your inky hands twitch after you jot a number down in the corner of the animation page. A cramp shoots a spasm of pain through your drawing hand and you’re forced to lay down your pencil, then catch it again before it can roll off the uneven table—the muscles at the base of your thumb ache. Sucking a breath between your teeth, you slide the pencil into the front pocket of your jumper.

It’s not enough. The sprawling stack of thin paper lies empty and the few pages you dare to spare for a rushed storyboard are almost crumpled in your offhand. You force your fingers to unfurl and slowly, methodically, fold the storyboards into your front jumper pocket. At least you can take a moment to flip what you do have. Inwardly, you cringe at the inconsistencies you’re sure to find among the pages, spurred on by attacks and sudden escapes to another workstation.

This is the roughest you’ve ever done storyboards and animating with pencils. You have no x-sheet, no light disk, and no peg bar. Inking will be an entirely different hill to climb, but you’ve done it before. Ink the lines and paint the colors, and then you’ll need to find cels. This is stepping farther and farther out of your realm of skills, but the robotic jester promises you that you both will find a way.

Desperation and urgency drip into you until panic overflows into your veins. Just the same, weariness fills your bones after animating for the better half of a day—if such a place as this possesses hours and minutes. The sepia and shadowy colors of Fazbear Studios stain every wall and crevice. You’ve memorized the routes through the sprawling building, each department a massive expansion to work and craft a proper cartoon.

There’s another part of this world you and the robotic jester avoid as much as possible. The Mega Pizzaplex. A living realm for the inky form of cartoon characters to stalk through, beings which you vaguely recall, mostly in keynote frames and final animation sequences.

No place is safe. Only safer. 

A heavy pounding steadily expands behind your eyes as taut muscles in your neck protest the improper angle at which you work. Moon had found an animator’s desk for you to work at, but the inky monsters that sprawl over every inch of this world with gaping, multiple mouths sliding around their glutinous forms, and violet, piercing eyes with vague shadows of bunny ears destroyed it.

This table shoved into a far, forgotten corner of the studio with cobwebs and spilled ink is as precious as each animation paper you’ve collected in runs for supplies. You need it. You need it as much as you and him need your happy ending.

Exhaustion creeps up your back. You close your eyes, rubbing along your temple once to coax away the pain. You cannot stop. There is no luxury for a break. You aren’t certain when more dark, tacky creatures will spill into your hiding hole and sweep away all your hard work in one breath. Worse yet, you must be vigilant for Vanny and Inktrap. 

The former is a dark disciple of the rabbit demon, and she works tirelessly to hunt you and the robotic jester down with the intent to offer sacrifices to Inktrap. The dreaded being also prowls the halls in search of you and your companion. 

Nothing terrifies you more than hiding, caught tight in Sun’s arms as he presses you deeper against the shadows of a wall, shielding your body with his as you both hold your breath. The trembling presence of Inktrap stalking near. You fear if he can’t hear your breath, he will sense the drum-like beat of your heart. 

But he has yet to catch you and the jester. Both of you will get out of here. The cycle will end.

There will be a happy ending for you both.

Don’t stop, you tell yourself. Keep going. Staring down at the current page, there are three figures scribbled in pencil. Two men and what you think—hope is you. The two men are vague recollections from your dreams, possibly memories. One wears a flat cap hat and the other has wild, unruly hair. You press your tongue to the inside of your teeth, overwhelmed by the many more frames you must capture of their figures. It has to be right. You straddle the line between quality and speed, and you just might fail both.

You want to remember more. Vague visions touch you as if you walked through strings of spider webs, invisible, but there, ghosting over your skin. You can feel it, but you can’t find it.

Tears threatening to push past your eyelashes. No. You swallow down the tightening in your throat and slide your pencil out of your pocket.

The first few lines are smooth, practiced, and settled into your muscle memory, but then the cramp returns with a vengeance. You bite your bottom lip and keep drawing. Another line. Pain spasming through muscle, turning to wobbling waves. Your hand closes in the ache. The pencil almost falls from your fingers.

A creak of hinges announces the door opening to your hideyhole. Your head snaps to the entrance. A tall shadow falls inside. Your hands immediately fly to the stack of animating paper, prepared to stuff them into your jumper and then free the gent pipe from where it hooks onto your waist, but the shadow becomes a sharp-tooth grin. Half dripping in black and stained in sepia, Sun strides into the room. He swiftly swings the door shut without taking his glowing yellow eyes off of you.

“There you are, calico," he says as if he didn’t leave you with strict instructions to remain here until he returns. The sound of his voice calms your nerves. His cords are familiar and strong. He possesses such life and heart to his tenor, and you’ve found he can only manage a stage whisper when he desires to be quiet while speaking. You like that. You like a lot about him.

Sun. One half of the robotic jester who stays by your side, surviving with you.

“Hi, Sunny.” You slowly sink back onto the stool which is a touch too high to sit properly with the table you’re bent over. Setting the stack of animating paper back down, you regard him with a smile that takes far too much energy to summon than you like. “Did you find anything?”

He strides inside, moving one crook of his arm and shifting whatever was stuck underneath his armpit into his two clawed hands. The ink of his mouth is dark and lined with sharp incisors curved into a constant grin. Half of his face drips dark ink. His long, lithe body reaches you in moments.

“Yes, and you won’t believe what I have for you,” he grins, bolstered, even in the depths of this sepia-colored purgatory. “I present dinner!”

Your mouth gapes open at the box, realizing the markings upon it are designated for such an entree. When he lifts the lid, you never thought the constant yellow-ting and black colors would ever look appetizing on food, but the full diameter of the pizza, uncrushed and toppings spared of smearing, triggers salivation to flood your mouth.

“Oh my goodness.” You want to touch it, to hold a slice in your hand, but a cramp returns, and your fingers cringe. Sun’s eyes dart sharply to the motion. Quickly, you lower your hand, “Can you feed me while I work? I don’t want to get grease on the papers.”

Sun’s eyes shift, narrowing before he closes the pizza box and carefully sets it on the table, away from your supplies.

“I have a better idea,” he says cheerfully. He takes your wrist and slips his other arm around you, sliding you gently off of the stool and onto your feet.

“Sun, I can eat and work,” you protest. Vague recollections float in the back of your mind through a fog of memories of late hours and coffee cups. Crunch time. “What are you doing?”

“Come here, sweetheart.” He eases you further away from the table. The room is long and narrow, but there’s enough light from overhead to cast your shadow alongside Sun’s. “You’ve been working really hard and we admire your dedication to the perfect sequence, but you need a break.”

“No, there’s no time.” You try to tug on your wrist but he doesn’t budge. 

You watch as Sun takes you by the hand. Gently, he spreads open your fingers as you try to hide the slight ache in the movement. He sets his yellow digit into your palm and begins massaging the pinched muscle. Your eyelids flutter underneath the sweet, almost painful relief from the cramp.

“We will make time,” he declares robustly. His gaze falls over you, softly glowing. “You’re going to save us. The least I’m going to do is take care of you before you run yourself into the ground.”

His fingers begin working over the rest of your drawing hand. His metallic fingertips knead gently into your inky skin, caressing softly over your joints and along the bones of your wrist. The ache calms under the gentle workings of the jester.

Though you long to stay very still and soak it in, you can’t.

“Sunny,” you protest softly. “Please. Let me do this.”

“After some rest,” he says gently but firmly. He boops your nose and then twirls his finger. “Turn around for me, calico. There, that’s it.”

He guides you by the shoulders, softly turning you in place. You do so reluctantly, and with your back to the jester, your eyes fall upon the pages and pages of animation you must fulfill. You must make it perfect. You must make it soon. Your breath picks up in the slightest, anxious, before Sun’s large hands fall upon your shoulders. 

The tension in your neck compounds until the pads of his thumbs, careful with his claws, begin digging into the taut cords of muscle bunching along the top of your spine. A soft groan leaves your lips against your will. 

“Sounds like I found a tender spot,” Sun chuckles softly, but there’s an edge of concern cutting underneath his tone. “We should have made you stop a few hours ago.”

“I’m fine,” you swear but it comes out tired. You would have lost so much time and there’s no telling when another wave of monsters will slip under the door and attack with yellow fangs and inky claws. Even now, you worry about precious seconds. You can lose all your progress in the blink of an eye. Sun and Moon would have to wait even longer for their happy ending. 

But Sun continues unraveling your soreness with rhythmic presses and releases, up and down your neck and over your shoulders. Gently, he turns you back to face him. Your heart beats heavy within you as he takes your hand.

“Sweetheart, if you burn yourself out, you won’t be able to animate, and you won’t be able to make our happy ending.” He lifts one hand to cup your chin. Lifting your head slightly to study you, his glowing eyes miss nothing. He brushes a thumb along the bottom of your lip. You want to sink deeper into his palm until you no longer hold yourself up, but you have to resist. You have to keep going.

“Now, how about some pizza?” He asks in a way that’s not asking as he guides you to the floor. “Come sit on my lap.”

There’s little arguing when he’s made up his mind. You want to fight but the thought of working up all your energy to take on an uphill battle when you’re hungry and exhausted and even the pounding behind your eyes is begging for relief is too much. It’s as if the entire world is against you.

No, not Sun. Never him and Moon. They are always with you.

“You can feed me while I work,” you give but it comes out weakly as Sun’s long arm slides the box off of the table. Settling you into the comfortable fabric of his striped pants, he balances you on his legs and the pizza in the other hand.

“How about I feed you and let you rest?” His voice calmly darkness into something rumbling and sinister. The yellow glow within his gaze vanishes for a brief moment. 

“Sun,” you say softly, but watch him go.

Your heart used to clench at such a sight. A constant fear of being left here alone in the never-ending cycle has never quite fled from the depths of your core, but you’ve learned to wait as Sun’s face begins to bubble with thick inky blots. His entire face darkens like a new lunar cycle until out of the melting dark ink manifests a crescent moon face. His pants shift from stripes to stars, and his claws slip lower, wrapping around your hip to hook you in place. A nightcap sits on his head. The end of it drips with ink.

“Hi, Moon,” you say softly.

A low rasp, sinister and dramatically enchanted as if to be upon a stage, drops from the new jester. “Eat. Before the pizza gets cold.”

His voice might scare children, or maybe just enhance how villainous he could be, but to you, his voice is comforting. You feel safe.

“It’s already cold,” you point out. There is hardly any temperature in the food here. Everything edible has sat and turned stale long before either you or the jester can scoop them up for a meager meal later. You’d rather not think about the number of lukewarm Fizzy Fazs you’ve drunk.

Even the prize of a full, un-squished pizza is still little. All the more reason to escape the cycle.

You wonder if Sun and Moon like hot pizza.

Moon uses his thumb to flip open the box and reveal the greasy sliced food. Even at room temperature, the pizza makes your mouth water.

“It’s good for you,” he grumbles gently like you’re a naughty child. His grip on your hip holds tight as he sets the pizza down and tears off a slice. The cheese thickly tears and you spy glistening, wet sauce underneath. A treasure, truly, no matter how old.

Your heart, however, squeezes tight. Emotion cakes your throat and you try to find the right words.

“Moon,” you say, “Let me up. I need to keep animating.”

“No.” He holds up the slice. His head, sharp teeth grinning, dripping ink down faces you. “You will only work yourself to the bone, doll. Eat.”

You push his arm away but you feel the tension underneath his metallic limb, how he only falls back because he lets you push him, not because you truly have the strength to stop him. His eyes narrow further. You hold his gaze, bottom lip trembling.

“You and Sun protect me while I work. You get hurt. You risk your own lives. This is too important,” you whisper. You clench him tighter in your grasp. “I can’t stop until it’s done.”

Moon slowly lowers the pizza back into the box. His hand, slick with ink, cups your chin. You find your hands falling onto him, holding on as if you might fall. The pressure behind your eyes becomes explosive. The few wet drops upon your eyelashes turn everything blurry save for the piercing glow of his yellow eyes.

“Listen to me.” His voice lowers, intimate and sharp, all at once. “It is not more important than you. You are ours. You are what gets us through this. We won’t let you burn yourself out because you want to keep us safe.”

There’s something there, on the tip of Moon’s tongue. You wait for more but instead, he leans back slightly, as if he already said too much.

“We will take care of you,” he says instead.

“But,” your voice cracks, “but it’s not fair.”

“None of this is,” Moon’s voice softens. His thumb softly slips along your cheek and swipes away an inky tear. Even your weeping is stained by this world. “Please. Eat then rest, doll.”

Another protest is on your lips, but the sob filling your throat cuts it off. Moon caresses your cheek. Weakness overtakes you, the threat of becoming extinguished before you can finish all the pages. Before you can animate yours and his happy ending. 

You’re so scared and exhausted. It spills out of you in dark streaks that stain your sepia-colored cheeks until Moon wipes them away. He starts humming, softly, sweetly, and you lay your head on his shoulder. He pulls you closer until he cradles you in his arms. A hundred things long to fly from your lips. A promise that you’ll do it. You won’t let yourself fail, and the desire for reassurance. That it is okay to rest, just for a moment.

“It’s okay, doll.” Moon murmurs as you weep into his ruffled collar. “I’m not letting you go.”

“Oh, Moon,” you wail, and it sounds so pathetic. You are wasting time. Yet, you have no strength to pry yourself from his embrace—as if he would let you.

“Shush,” he murmurs and kisses your jet-dark, shiny hair. “Calm down. Breathe. When you’re ready, the pizza will be here.”

You hiccup once. You nod, still hiding against him like a child. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“Will you sing me to sleep?” you ask, soft and breathy.

He pauses once. The tapered yet careful points of his claw stroke down your hair, and he breathes a heavy breath. You think he finds it hard to tell you no, at least when it concerns matters such as these.

“I’ll sing,” he decides, “After you eat.”

You nearly wince, but it’s only fair. Slowly, you straighten, still sitting in his lap. Pushing your hair away from your eyes, you nod. Moon gently catches the remaining tears staining your cheeks. A murmur falls from his constant smile that he doesn’t like to see you sad. You tell him the same. 

With a gentle hum, he picks up the pizza slice he left and holds it up to your mouth. You let him feed you, taking a bite and chewing slowly. Moon turns the slice to his sharp-tooth mouth and bites off a chunk. In his harmonic quiet, the two of you slowly eat through the pizza, your energy returning and your mind softening with the comfort of a full belly. 

It’s the best pizza you’ve had in the cycle.

His fingertips slowly work against your hip, rubbing the bone softly through your jumper. Before you can consider asking him to let you return to work, your eyelids grow heavy. Moon’s voice lifts to a gentle bass.

He sings you to sleep.

[thisismeracing]

Charlieverse | CL16

― Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!reader ― Word count: 2.1k ― Warnings: mentions of alcohol and Halloween costumes (clowns, werewolves, and others).  ― Summary: When Yn decided to go to a Halloween party with her best friend, Charles Leclerc, she did not consider that some of the fantasies would be so close to reality that they would terrify her. But one thing Yn had no idea about too, was Charles’ feelings for her. All Hallow’s Eve is not the most romantic scenario to confess your feelings, but it might be just the perfect one for them.

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There are many sayings about how sharing is caring, and how life feels bigger and better when you do so.

Charles knew this all too well.

He was used to sharing everything with you since he was a kid.

It all started after you forgot your snack at home. He was only five years old then, but he had two brothers so he knew exactly what to do. Little Charles offered to share his bag of colored goldfish and grapes with you. The next day you shared your coloring pencils with him. It started with simple things, and it grew as you both grew older. All through the school years, Charles and you were inseparable, even with his crazy racing schedule. You would take notes for him, he would bring you stories, and you would study together until late hours. You shared your fears, deepest feelings, and even the shame of being underdressed when invited to a party such as now.

“I had no idea people would go this hard,” you state, watching as the Taxi driver came to a halt in front of the big doors. Gathered in front of the mansion were people dressed as all kinds of gore Halloween beings, some of the makeup seeming too real to your liking.

“We can go back home and change if you want,” there’s Charles' tranquil voice. He is always the one to keep his patience even if the world is ending, and you love that about him.

You shake your head, “We would never find something else in time, plus, we’re together, so… here’s to another good story,” you point to your matching costumes, and Charles smiles.

You’re both wearing Spiderman costumes. Though it felt like the best choice, the easiest one, you should have guessed it was too easy and, therefore, not ideal.

Charles gives you one last wink before putting on his mask. You do the same just as he opens the door for you, and hand in hand you walk through the crowd into the house. You cling to your best friend’s arm trying to stay as far away as possible from some of the costumes.

“You sure you’re ok over there?” Charles asks when you’re halfway to the kitchen, and you tighten your grip on his hand.

You nod, “Yeah, just.. That werewolf costume seems too realistic.” And there’s no need for you to explain to him. He knows you like he knows the back of his hand, his favorite track, his most played song. Charles knows that someone planted a seed of fear about some creatures when you were little, and some of the stories have stayed with you even after you grew. It is a bit curious how despite your fears, you still love Halloween, at least the kind of parties you go to where people will dress in a way that clearly shows that they are human beings and meant no harm.

Were you supposed to guess that a certain crazy clown costume was a mere costume after seeing people being killed by those?

You wouldn’t stay to answer that question.

When you finally reach the kitchen, both of you take off the mask to your friends, hugging and making your rounds. Charles grabs you two a drink and you choose to stay there instead of mingling and risking bumping into scary figures.

“Can you get me another of these?” You mouth to Charles pointing at your empty cup. From across the kitchen, he nods, and a few seconds later he’s in front of you with a full cup.

“They were out of ice, is it ok if we share this one?” he asks over the music and you nod. You’re sitting on the counter, and when Charles turns to your friends he stands right between your legs. One of your hands goes to his shoulders, and you keep talking about your costume as if your heart weren’t hammering inside your ribcage, almost coming out from your throat the second his hand finds your knee, holding it so your anxious bounce can cease.

You gulp trying to keep your attention on whatever your friend is talking about because all your mind can focus on is your best friend’s hand on you, his body radiating warmth into yours. And not that it is unusual for Charles to touch it, quite the opposite, he loves to hug and kiss those he cares about, but it’s just lately your heart seemed to wish for a different kind of sharing.

It wants to share the secret touches. It wants to claim hungry kisses, tears of happiness, loud silences, and whispered mysteries. It is as if your heart created a reality where you had all of this with Charles.

Your own Charlie-verse.

The party keeps going in full swing, and Charles never leaves your side for over thirty minutes. He comes and goes always checking if you’re ok and if you want to go with him, but you choose the safety of the counter and your crowd of friends. The conversation is good, and so is the booze, from the kitchen you can see a bit of the living room and the pool area through the glass doors.

And it’s only when part of the girls decide to go dancing that you hop off the counter, and grab Charles’ hands following him in the direction of another crowd of friends. You’re tipsy enough to lace your fingers with his and to tighten your grip when you pass people dressed as clowns, werewolves, and with fake open wounds.

You end up in the pool area in front of Charles, he holds your body protectively against his, while his other hand has a cup you’re still sharing. The conversation is between the group, but every once in a while something will catch his attention and he’ll whisper about it in your ear, to which you’ll slightly turn your head, chuckle, and then answer him.

Though you felt a bit out of place at first with how everyone’s costumes seemed so extra compared to yours, you and Charles have had a lot of fun. So much so that you have given up going back home and decided to share a cab to his apartment.

Half of the ride a tipsy Charles is lecturing you with his “I told you so” about how he suggested you slept at his place and you denied it before the party. You just rest your head on his shoulder and pretend you are listening to his non-stop rant.

As it happens, the driver seems a bit uninterested in Charles’ rant because he turns the music on, and the last song that starts playing when he makes the curve into Charles’ street is Michael Jackson. You shriek and start jumping on the car seat.

“Chérie, it’s late,” your best friend tries to reason, but you just giggle.

“You have soundproof walls.”

“But not windows,” he tries again, and you playfully roll your eyes before getting out of the car wishing the driver a good night.

“Annie, are you okay?” you start to sing as you reach the elevators, and Charles just fakes a sigh, holding you close by the waist.

“So, Annie, are you okay? Are you okay, Annie?” you sing loudly until you reach the penthouse.

“Love, that’s not Smooth Criminal’s dance, that’s Thriller…” Charles holds back his laughter when you start a made-up choreography in his living room. “Oh mon dieu, you’re so precious.”

You giggle, smacking a loud kiss on his warm cheeks. While you make your track to the bathroom Charles goes to the kitchen.

“I’m using the guest bathroom! Go shower on the main one, you stinky!” you scream from the corridors and you hear his scoff, almost able to picture his eye roll.

You go through your shower on autopilot, brushing your teeth, and reaching for one of Charles’ shirts that are on the guest bedroom bed. Your visits have been so frequent you have everything you need there, but tonight you didn’t want one of your pajamas, you want to indulge in the daydream that your mind is harnessing.

When you reach your favorite Monegasque bedroom you can hear the shower still running, so you settle in the middle of his bed, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere in your head, there’s still music playing and your body seems to have kept a bit of the buzzing from the party. The distant noises coming from the open windows, along with the wind hitting the curtains lull you into a soft slumber, that only goes away when a door closes, you guess it's his closet, you smell his body wash and shampoo before he steps close to you.

There’s too much happening inside your head, so you choose to stay in silence while your best friend watches you attentively, eyes finding yours in a beat.

Charles, on the other hand, doesn’t have much in his head. He only has you. Your smell, your laugh, your voice, your body on his bed wearing his shirt.

“You’re the prettiest person I’ve ever seen,” his mouth works faster than his brain does, and just like that you’re staring at him in confusion.

It’s like his brain is shortcircuited.

Charles gets up from the bed.

He walks to the door, then turns around and comes back to your side. There’s a crease between his brows and you have known him long enough to identify it as worry.

“Sharls, what’s going on?”

“I’m not drunk ok? Before you say anything, I’m not drunk, I’m just tipsy like you,” he starts and you nod from your spot on the bed. “I am so sorry, but I have to tell you this, and I’ll completely understand if you don’t feel the same, but I have to take this out of my chest, Yn.”

Sensing how serious the situation is you sit up, legs crossed one over the other, hands tucked under them.

“I- uhm… See- It’s like this, I-”

“Charles,” you call.

“I’m in love with you,” he spills in a single sentence, but then he keeps going. “I love you so fucking much it’s starting to hurt the fact that I’ve been keeping it from you. And I don’t even know when it started, but I’m so used to sharing everything with you, I just.. I wanted us to share more. I wanted to share my bed with you, and my clothes, and-” he points with his fingers before you could say something, “And I know we already share those things, but I want to do it differently. I want to share romantically. I want to share my heart with you, Chérie, all of it. But I’ll understand if you’re confused or overwhelmed by my outburst, in fact… shit… I should have waited in case you wanted to go home right? Please, tell me that if you don’t feel the same you’ll at least get the farthest guest bedroom, I promise I won’t bother you, we’ll pretend it didn’t happen in the morning and I-”

“No,” you interrupt.

“Pardon?”

“I said no, I won’t sleep in the farthest guest bedroom.”

“Oh- then let me drive you, just…– fuck I can’t I drank… uhm I’ll–”

“No, Charles, stop,” you get on your knees on the mattress and reach for his arm, bringing his body close to yours.

“No, I’m not sleeping in the guest bedroom because we’re sharing a bed tonight. No, I’m not mad about your admission, I’m sharing my heart with you too. Romantically,” you confess.

His shoulders drop in relief, and you giggle, threading your fingers on his soft strands. Charles mutters something you can’t understand because you’re too focused on how his face seems different from this angle, after all the confessed words. He’s still your Charles, but he’s also a new Charles, and this knowledge brings a new feeling to your heart and stomach.

When his lips find yours, soft and warm, a contrast with his cold hands on your jaw and waist, he presses your bodies closer and hums in pleasure. You smile, unable to contain your happiness. He kisses you like you’ve never been kissed before, and when the air has made itself scarce, you part the kiss, foreheads still touching.

“So, Charlie, are you okay? Are you okay, Charlie?”

Charles throws his head back and laughs.

He knows how insufferable you could get once a song gets stuck in your head.

“I was struck down. You’re such a smooth criminal, Chérie. Stealing hearts around so easily.”

It is your turn to laugh.

“That was cheesy, but I loved it,” you mumble before pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I love you.”

────── ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL: Hi, lovelies! I hope you liked the piece, I wanted to add a huge shout-out to Delia (@struggling-with-delia on Tumblr) for proof and beta-reading this <3.  Let me know your thoughts on this piece *mwah*.  

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©thisismeracing ― do not copy, steal, or translate my work; do not repost on a different media platform.  

[minionwater]

it has been 22(!!!!) years since this cunt was first introduced to the public n he is in my opinion still one of the most terrifying most vile people ever put to paper. anyway, I’ve always liked this panel. the way kimblee’s alchemy is often done with the same posture + hand gestures an orchestra conductor would use has always been incredibly striking to me

edit: people are mistaking this for an edit which is honestly a HUGE compliment, but I want to clarify that this is all done by me on paper w traditional supplies! the panel is semi traced but I changed some accents around/removed speech bubbles n drew in what was behind them/etc + the mushroom cloud is all sketched in colored pencil :3

[word-wytch]

Don't Stand So Close To Me — Chapter 10

Eddie x Teacher!Reader

Chapter 10/? 4.6k. Series Masterlist

✏︎ Progress report — subtle strides in secret and deals not forgotten.

✏︎ Series Summary: Forced to move back home to Hawkins after your fiancé cheats on you, you begin to fall in love again with an audacious 20 year old metalhead, only there’s one problem — he’s still in high school and you’re his English teacher.

While you struggle starting over in a place you never thought you would return, Eddie struggles feeling stuck in a place he can’t manage to leave — until you offer to help him. Of all the lessons learned, the most important are the ones you teach each other.

✏︎ Series CW: forbidden romance, slow burn, true love, smut (18+ mdni), internal conflict, student-teacher relationship, 10 year age gap, mutual pining, sexual tension, emotions, drama, angst, character development, happy ending :)

Chapter warnings: flirting, rule breaking, mild exploration through touch, cheating mention

Monday, November 11th 1985

The fog was lifting in you. 

You could tell when the laundry beckoned to be folded after weeks of neglect. When the act of folding it was something you wanted to do.

When the boxes that had become part of the scenery in your living room suddenly seemed like they didn’t belong there. When you wanted to cook more than just things you could put in a microwave. 

You would wake up on the weekend and ask yourself what you wanted to do with the little free time you had in the space between the chores, and the errands, and the papers you had to grade. You would ask yourself what records you wanted to listen to instead of just turning on the radio to fill the space with noise. Instead of exhausting them all without consideration.

You had been asking yourself a lot of questions over the last two weeks. The loudest of them all — What am I doing?

You would ask yourself this question every morning as you brushed on your makeup and felt more beautiful than you could remember, even since before your life came crashing down this summer. 

You would ask yourself again as you sifted through your closet, as the hangers screeched against the metal pole to dig out a dress from the back that you hadn’t worn in ages. Cream colored linen, tea length, with short puff sleeves, a square neckline, and buttons down the front. It tapered at the banded waist and flowed outward in an A line. 

The question would rattle like a pinball in your mind as you stamped your punch card in the main office. As the receptionist complimented the dress that you had on.

It would sit like a weight in your stomach as you made small talk with the other teachers. As you sat in one of the old scratchy chairs in the teachers’ lounge that suddenly bothered you less and opened the lunch you found the energy to pack again.

It would echo in your thoughts like the clicking of your footsteps down the hallway. 

What am I doing?

It was a question you didn’t know the answer to. 

All you knew was when the wind caught your dress from the haste you made toward your classroom, the smile you stole from him as you passed brought silence to it. That the way he looked at you made all noise, all else, cease. That it made you feel as timeless as he said you were. 

There was a change in him too. It was subtle, as all things were in your relationship with Eddie Munson, but ever since some force beyond yourself possessed you to utter even the barest inkling of your feelings, he was bolder.

He would sit very close to you, oftentimes with his shoulder angled behind you. An action equally as thrilling as it was terrifying. He had done this before on a few prior occasions but never like this. Never for this long. 

He always took his jacket off so you could feel his arm graze against yours as he reached to turn a page or grab a pencil. 

He would do these things so often that there was a quiet, secret part of you that wondered whether it was time to rearrange your classroom so that your desk was out of sight of the doorway. You shot the thought down the moment it intruded. As long as the desk was within eyeshot, you could ration that the possibility of being seen would hold you both accountable and encourage good behavior. That was what you told yourself anyway. 

The problem was that Eddie Munson wasn’t that concerned with good behavior.

Every time he sat beside you, your eyes, in the closeness of his proximity, would find another feature to admire. 

Today it was the rips in his jeans. The way you could see his skin straining against the slits in the fabric. How your eyes could gather the strong angles of his kneecaps and for some reason, this was doing things to you. You would steal glances at them, down and to your right, as he leaned forward in his seat next to you. 

It was always next to you. It had been for the past two weeks.

He pointed at a drawing of a humanoid demon looking creature with horns and a tail in the monster manual laid out in front of you on top of his history textbook. 

“So this is the tiefling race, which is what I played years ago before I took over as DM. I was a tiefling bard, which is like a sort of, uh, musician spellcaster.” 

That was another change — how frequently he would get off topic, and how often you would let him. 

“Very true to life then,” you said with a little chuckle.

His lips curled into a hardened smirk to smother a blinding grin. 

“You think so?” There was a whisper of pink in his cheeks. 

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” you said breathlessly.

Then he did something he hadn’t done before — he put his arm around the back of your chair.

The animal inside you preened. 

Heart racing, you turned your head ever so slightly, allowing your eyes to trace the barely there stubble that peppered his jaw before they wandered to his lips — soft, broad, and still smirking. You were close enough to feel the delicate hairs that strayed from his wild curls brush your cheek. Close enough to feel the warmth radiate from his arm against the linen of your back, like a bubble of protection, or some other magic found in the pages sprawled out before you.

It was hard to think of anything else but you managed. “What do you think I would play?”

“Mmm.” His hum was a warm vibration at your ear. It sent a ripple to your core. Ringed fingers drummed against the back of your seat. “Well, an elf, obviously,” he chuckled. “As for class, let’s see…” 

You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, scanning you as the gears turned in his head. It was quiet in the room, and in the hallway. Quiet enough to hear your heartbeat in your ears. You wondered if he could too.

“See I wanna say wizard because they get their magic from reading books, but…”

You raised your eyebrows playfully. “But?” 

“I think you’re more of a healing type."

“Oh yeah?” Your soft chuckle filled the silence and you allowed yourself, for just a moment, to relax a little bit. To lean into the warmth of his strong shoulder, enveloped in the safety of the secret you both shared. You could catch his scent from this position more than ever. The warm musk emanating from under his arm. The whisper of shampoo and cigarettes. That soft, indescribable scent of his skin. It almost made you dizzy. 

“Yeah, like a cleric, only they get their power from worshiping deities and… I don’t know if that’s really you either.”

You hummed. “Where do you think I get my power from then?”

His voice was soft but certain when he answered. “Within.”  

Flutters — straight to your core.

“Maybe that makes you more of a sorcerer then,” he pondered, tipping his head towards you. His breath feathered your cheeks, lids heavy over deep chocolate eyes. 

You met them with a breathy chuckle, feeling so girlish all of a sudden. As if suddenly you were not behind the big desk, but a much smaller one. 

The pads of his fingers brushed your arm. So delicately that at first you thought it was just a consequence of their proximity, but when they began to trace tentative, tickling circles, it was evidently intentional. 

You swallowed, your skin beneath his touch like a livewire. Every delicate hair on your arm picking up on the movements of his calloused pads, amplifying them like a radio signal straight to the animal part of you. 

He held you in his gaze, eyes wide like a question. But when the corners of your mouth gave way, gave their soft permission, the corners of his did as well. As did the corners of his eyes, crinkling in that way you loved so much. 

His fingers got braver. The circles widened into strokes. His thumb got involved. Still, you could feel his heart pounding into your shoulder. Feel the nerves emanating from under his touch. Feel the want, the care, the ache, the frustration. 

It might have been seconds. Minutes. A small, stolen eternity.

Until a voice echoed in the hallway. Suddenly there was that question again — triggered like a pinball machine, loud and intrusive as it rattled in your mind. Your eyes shot towards the door. His followed.

Eddie took his arm away, and you wondered if the strangled whine that left your chest was audible to him too.

Silence prickled the space between you, ears attuned to the noise coming closer. Eddie’s eyes were fixed on the door, his strong brows furrowed in what you could only interpret as annoyance. The voices grew louder, then passed, fading into distant echos.

The footsteps left behind an ache. Palpable, pervasive. Eddie sighed and looked at you, to which you could only respond with a resigned huff of your own. You must have looked as pitiful as you felt, because what he did next took you by surprise. It always did, even if this time it was something he had done before.

He reached under the desk and grabbed your hand.

It didn’t matter that he’d held your hand before. It didn’t matter even if he’d held it a hundred times. Your heart still leapt in your chest. The pinballs still fired off inside your head with lights and sound effects. 

But when his warm thumb rubbed circles over your icy knuckles, slow and deliberate, soothing and caring, the sounds got muffled. The flashing dimmed. Until there was nothing but a landscape of bones, and tendons, and the meat of his soft palm. Nothing but the valleys of the space between his fingers when they ventured further than they had ever gone before — in the spaces between yours.

Your back might have arched. Your eyes might have rolled back into your head if you hadn’t closed them so quickly. You wouldn’t know because the only thing you were aware of anymore was the velvet interior of the space between Eddie’s fingers. How they filled the space between yours in a warm, comfortable stretch. 

There was a line and both of you had crossed it. Held hands and jumped over it like a broom. You knew it, he knew it. There was no going back. And knowing this, there was another question you had been asking yourself for the past two weeks — how far would you go?

Would it stop at holding hands? Eddie wasn’t exactly the patient type. You’d spent enough time with him to know that much.  

You opened your eyes to the classroom. Your classroom. To the rows of desks lined up like soldiers. To the chalkboards, and bulletin boards, and concrete walls. To the big desk in front of you. To the open door.

Pinballs again. Ricocheting like thunder. Your pulse in your ears, your stomach in your seat.

You glanced down at your hands intertwined, hidden from sight in the shadow of the large, looming desk. You admired how the heel of his hand cradled yours. How perfectly they fit together. The way your forearm rested against his, warm and soft. How secure it made you feel. There was a tug in your heart, deep and thrumming. You squeezed his hand for one more precious second… and let it go.

“I— I think we should, um,” you swallowed and gingerly shut the monster manual. The ache was back, shooting through your chest like daggers. 

Eddie looked at you, the loss of your hand palpable in the subtle pain of his expression. “Right,” he said plainly. There was a knowing there too, an understanding that replaced it more quickly than you expected. 

He scratched behind his neck with the hand you could still feel the ghost of. “So it’s uh, progress report day.” You could tell by the look in his eyes that he was going somewhere with this.

You raised your eyebrows. “I’m well aware.”

He tipped his head towards you. “I believe we had an agreement.” 

“Oh?”

“You don’t remember?” 

“Remind me.”

Eddie reached into the pocket of the jacket that hung on his seat and procured a paper folded into thirds. “You told me that if I got a B in any of my classes that you would let me read one of your stories.”

Your eyes widened. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

He squinted smugly. “You did.”

You glanced toward your grading binder on the upper lefthand corner of the desk and grabbed it, “If I’m not mistaken though, you have B- in my class,” you said, thumbing through the pages to find fourth period. “Yeah, see?” you pointed to it. “Technically not a B, all those missed assignments from September still count I’m afraid,” your voice was playful.

Eddie’s mouth curled into mischievous little grin as he opened the paper in his hands, “Oh I’m not talking about your class. I believe the agreement was for one class. Any of my classes.” He pointed to a line on the page. “I got a B in shop class.” 

You leaned closer, honing in on the clearly printed B above his finger. “It’s — it’s still not the final report, just a progress report.”

“It’s still an official report,” he said smugly. 

It was almost as if he could see the gears turning in your head, the dread setting into your features.

“See, I’ve kept the promises I’ve made so far,” he brought a hand to his chest, “I think it’s only fair that you make good on yours,” he said, squinting again.

You sighed. “Fine. I’ll bring it in on Wednesday. But… it’s— it’s not totally finished. There’s still quite a bit of editing that needs to be done and—“

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. More than fine. Captivating, actually, if it’s anything like the author.” His smile was tinted with childish excitement. His eyes with a warmth made you shiver.

You tucked your hair behind your ear to distract from the heat creeping into your cheeks. “It’s been forever since I’ve even looked at it to be honest. Years actually.”

“Glad to give you an excuse then.”

______

It was a typical Tuesday night. 

A typical night of the flimsy windows in Gareth’s tidy garage trembling at the raw, unhinged, cranked-up-to-eleven power of Corroded Coffin.

“Hand of Doom” was cleaning up nicely. Dave’s bassline was solid. Gareth’s drums were neat and timely. Jeff was nailing the chord progression. Eddie’s vocals were well equipped to handle Ozzy’s range.

You’re having a good time baby

But that won’t last

Your mind’s all full of things

You’re living too fast

Go out and enjoy yourself

Don’t bottle it in

You need someone to help you

Stick the needle in

There was a perfect balance of space for his vocals to breathe over the walking bassline, then crescendo into pure instrumental power. 

A power he could feel as he attacked the strings. An agency at his fingertips as they tapped out a howling melody over the chugging chords laid out for him by Jeff and Dave, over Gareth’s thundering kick drum. 

A power that could sweep him up and away, carry him far from the crushing weight of the stares of his classmates, far from the looks of disappointment on the faces of the other teachers, far from the heaviness of his feelings.

Swept away in a wave of sound, there was only space in his hindbrain for the patterns his fingers made on the fretboard. For his breath to leave his chest in wailing song. 

The last chord of rung out through Gareth’s garage with a thunderous rattle. 

All four of them looked at each other with smiles and nods. Gareth banged out an extra drum fill. Jeff chugged out approving strums. 

They were ready to take it to the Hideout.

“Nice work, gentleman,” Eddie shouted into the mic, met with whoops and hollers. “I think we’re ready for another, whaddya say, boys?”

More hollers and drum fills.

“How ‘bout Ace of Spades?” offered Jeff.

“No, Symphony of Destruction,” countered Gareth.

Eddie noodled out a mindless melody. “I dunno I’m thinking War Pigs.”

Dave rolled his eyes. “We just did Sabbath, dude.”

“Yeah, we just did Sabbath well,” Eddie pressed.

“Why don’t we do something different, like a Rush song or something?” suggested Dave.

Gareth snorted. “Rush isn’t metal. We’re a metal band, dude.”

Dave rolled his eyes. “Whatever, you couldn’t handle a Rush song anyway.”

“Could too, asswipe. You know what, yeah, let’s do Rush. I wanna see those fat fingers of yours fingers of yours find their way around the bassline,” Gareth laughed.

“Shut up!” Eddie hollered. “Everyone just think about it and we can vote on Saturday. We’ve got like half an hour before we’ve gotta leave anyway.”

“I can’t Saturday, remember? Me and Cindy are going to a movie.”

A low ooh emanated from the guys. 

“What ‘cha end up picking?” asked Jeff.

“Back to the Future. Cindy still hasn’t seen it.” 

Dave balked. “Seriously? Does she live under a rock? It’s been out since like, July, dude.” 

Gareth rolled his eyes. “Yeah, seriously. Cindy doesn’t go to a lot of movies, she’s into like… books and stuff,” he said, a touch of pride colored his voice.

“Ooh so cultured,” Dave taunted.  

“Dude shut up, you’re just jealous ‘cause I have a date. I feel like that’s a good one though, right? I mean it’s got action and a sorta romance but it’s not too serious?”

Jeff shrugged, “Yeah I dunno, do girls like those kinds of movies?”

Gareth gave a puff of air through his nose. “Depends on the girl, they don’t have a hivemind, Jeff.”

Dave snorted. “Like you know anything about girls.”

“More than you!”

Dave rolled his eyes. “You got one date you haven’t even been on yet — doesn’t make you an expert.”

That’s when three of them turned to look at Eddie.

Eddie glanced around nervously, “What?”

“You’ve like… been with girls before, right?” asked Jeff.

Eddie scratched the back of his neck, “Uh, yeah.”

Truthfully, Eddie would hardly consider himself an expert on women. But in a garage full of virgins, his few summer flings would render him one by default.

“Yeah, haven’t you like,” Dave raised his eyebrows suggestively, “Done it?” He gestured with his hands, his index finger moving in and out of the circle he made with his other.

The boys erupted in wheezing cackles.

Eddie snorted. “Yeah I’ve done it,” he said, heat creeping up his neck. 

“Ok then, so like, what should Gareth do on his date?” asked Jeff.

“Yeah what should Gareth do to… you know,” Dave chuckled lewdly.

Gareth scoffed. “Dude I’m not trying to score on the first date. Cindy’s not like that. Besides, I’m not a total sleazeball.”

By Gareth’s definition, Eddie certainly would be. He could count the number of actual dates he’d had on less than one hand. The number of girls he’d slept with on about the same. Actually, it was rare that a date coincided. There was the girl he met at a carnival the summer he turned 17. That was short-lived. Then there was another girl who spent July with her grandma at the trailer park. He was 19 then. They would fool around in the woods outside of Forest Hills before she moved on too. That winter he would meet another at the Hideout, just passing though. She never even called him back. Could he really consider any of them dates?

The boys quarreled amongst themselves and Eddie found his thoughts drifting as they always did — to you. The truth was he had no idea what he was doing. What he did know was how good it felt to be next to you. To touch you. To hear your thoughts on anything at all. To lace his fingers between yours and watch the sigh as it left your body. To pretend that you were his for one stolen moment.

What he did know was that he wanted to take you on a date. Like a real, proper date. He wanted to buy you flowers and open doors for you. He wanted to sit down across from you over dinner, to see your smile in a candlelit glow, to pay for it at the end. 

What he did know was that he’d never felt this way about anyone before. What he also knew was that he could do absolutely none of these things with you in public. 

But he did know what he wanted.

“I dunno, man. Just like, buy her a ticket, get her some popcorn, be a real person,” Eddie offered finally.

“And get a spot in the back of the theater so you can —” Dave turned around, moving his hands up and down his body like he was making out with his bass.

Gareth threw a drumstick at him.

______

It was a typical Tuesday night. 

A typical night of coming home later than you wanted after a pointless faculty meeting.

The breath you took in the crisp air outside the door to your apartment was deep and ragged as you turned the key. You could still feel the tacky chalk on your fingers as you pressed open the door. The echos of the questions you would answer over and over to raised hands still ringing in your mind. The adrenaline still coursing through your chest, tight and constricting. The mask that still weighed heavy on your face.

You shut the door behind you and removed your boots, and the mask.

The sun was going down already. Dim and quiet. Not a single sound for your tired voice to fight anymore.

It was nothing like your house in Indianapolis, the old craftsman bungalow that you had loved so dearly. A real house with character and charm. A kitchen with a big gas stove, and a dishwasher, and  actual counter space. A dining room with a table big enough to host Thanksgiving. 

It was a place would never have been able to afford on your own. Not on your meager teaching salary. Not in a city like that. 

You might have been able to afford something small here in Hawkins, if you’d saved for it long enough. One of those little one-story shoebox homes built in the 50s near the neighborhood you grew up in. But buying a house just felt so permanent. 

You hung your keys on the hook by the door. There was no character in the plain white walls of the entryway. None you could gather in the hall leading past the nook of your kitchen into the wood paneled confines of your living room. No space for a dining room table. 

But the carpet still cradled your aching feet. There were still your records, and posters, and television exactly where you left them. There were still your books overflowing on the meager shelves you were able to squeeze into your bedroom. You couldn’t take the built-in craftsman cabinets with you when you moved. There was a lot you couldn’t take with you, and other things you wished you could have left.

There was one box you hadn’t unpacked yet. It was sitting in your closet, pushed back into the corner under summer dresses and winter coats. It was a box you hadn’t even unpacked at your old place in Indianapolis. One of those boxes that traveled with you from place to place ever since you packed your dorm room up for the final time your senior year. 

Sliding open the slatted wood door, you reached under the clothing and dragged it out into your bedroom. It was not that big, but it was heavy.

You sat cross-legged on the carpet and hooked your fingers under the cardboard, folded in on itself to keep it shut without tape. It took a good tug to untuck one of the panels. Dust powdered the air as it sprung open. 

It was hard to remember the last time you’d opened it, let alone everything that was inside. You sifted through the contents as the memories returned to you.

There were a few notebooks, an old journal, a few Polaroid photos you had forgotten about. Just you and your roommate doing stupid poses, hanging off of the bunk bed you shared like children.

There were many things that were more or less junk. Things that at the time of packing you just couldn’t seem to part with, like an old party hat from your roommate’s 21st birthday — crumpled and creased under the weight of time. You remembered decorating it with her and your other friends at the table in the common room. You all looked ridiculous wearing them on the town, going from bar to bar, your bright colored hats standing out like beacons against the backdrop of the January snow. 

There were other things — a few postcards from friends brave enough to study abroad. A folded world map that once hung in the living room of your first apartment, the one you scrounged for with your best friend. In hindsight it was even smaller than the one you had now, and it had two bedrooms. It felt big to you then. 

That was before you met Dan. 

Before you settled into the craftsman he’d purchased in the historic part of town. Settled into routines and scheduled fancy date nights. Settled into planned family outings and weekends home in Hawkins where he would surprise your mother with news of his promotion at the law firm over dinner. News of the computer he’d purchased for you. News of your engagement.

Before you added more things to the box. Things that didn’t fit into you schedule anymore. Before you’d moved it here.

Before he left behind an ice in you.

There was one thing in the box that you expected to find. It was a black three-ring binder. Unassuming, but most important. 

You cracked it open and stared down at the first page of your novel, quietly bracing yourself for the contents. It had been ages since you’d looked at it. You wondered if the years of separation between the you of the present and the you who wrote it would determine whether it was actually any good or not. In your memory it was. 

You thumbed through the pages, silently critiquing your choice of verbs, your lack of variety in the dialogue tags, how tangibly painful it was for you to set scenes. 

The story was there though. That was the thing that mattered most. The verbs could be changed, better tags could be added, the scenes could be more fleshed out. But the story held water.

Most distinctly of all, you remembered the thrill of writing it. The rush of being flooded with ideas. The hours you would spend in the car that flew by in a vivid daydream on the weekends you visited Hawkins. How every song on the radio seemed to fit the telling of your story. 

There was a dreaming taking root in you again. Yesterday. Now. For the past two weeks. You felt it like the rush of wind that caught your dress as you glided down the hallway. The airy softness that pervaded your thoughts and made you want to dance.

You thought about the last time you felt this way.

The last time you did something for you and only you.

The last time you pursued what it was you really wanted.

______

A/N: You didn’t think I was going to leave Chekov’s unfinished novel sitting on the mantle did you?? ;)

A technical note — the tiefling race wasn’t introduced to the game until 1994 but we’re going to ignore that because I think it’s really fitting for Eddie. :)

As always, I deeply appreciate any and all comments -- keyboard smashing, theories, small novels, all of it. Hearing your reactions to my story fuels me in ways that I can only begin to tell you.

Please reblog and help others to find my precious creation! ✨

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[adrealucia]

hiiiiiiii

Can I pls request an art class Sean? Or maybe one night he can't stop drawing you? Super excited for pt 4 of New Beginnings btw!! (you inspired me to start a fic tooo hehe)

omg, I absolutely LOVED writing this, thank you so much for this req <33 and omg I am so happy to hear that I inspired you to write a fic as well! I hope I'll be able to read it hihi

Sean's muse

Art class was Sean Diaz’s sanctuary. The scent of paint and the symphony of pencils scratching against paper were his escape from the tumultuous reality outside. Within these walls, creativity reigned supreme.

Sean sat in his usual spot in the corner of the art studio, where he could observe without being observed. Today, the model posed in the center of the room, perfectly poised, but Sean’s attention was elsewhere. His eyes kept drifting to you, sitting a few seats away, completely absorbed in your work. Your presence had become his new source of inspiration.

You had joined the class a few weeks ago, and Sean found himself captivated by you from the moment you walked in. There was something magnetic about the way you focused on your art, the way you held your pencil with such intent, the way you furrowed your brow in concentration. He couldn’t help but steal glances, his curiosity growing with each passing day.

Today, he couldn’t resist any longer. His sketch of the model was nearly complete, but it lacked the spark that your presence ignited within him. His hands moved almost of their own accord, tracing the lines of your face instead. He captured the way the light danced on your hair, the curve of your lips, and the intensity in your eyes. His gaze flicked up to you, hoping you wouldn’t notice his stolen glances, but you were lost in your own world.

The class ended, and as everyone packed up, Sean hurried to gather his things. He didn’t want you to see his drawing. He wasn’t ready for you to know. He barely knew you, but already, you had stirred something deep within him.

Walking home, Sean's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts.

He replayed the way you looked in his mind, trying to capture every detail. The way your eyes narrowed slightly when you concentrated, the delicate curve of your smile when you were pleased with your work. There was a serenity about you that he longed to understand, a depth he wanted to explore. He had never felt this way before, this pull towards someone he barely knew.

When he got home, he dropped his bag and immediately sat at his desk, surrounded by sketchbooks and pencils. He had to draw you again, to capture that feeling that you invoked within him. Each stroke of his pencil was a tribute to the fascination he felt. He drew you smiling, lost in thought, and even imagined the sound of your laughter. He wondered what your voice sounded like, what kind of things made you laugh.

Hours passed, and Sean lost himself in the process. His room became a gallery of your images, each sketch a testament to his growing obsession. He knew he had to talk to you, to see if you were as incredible as he imagined. The thought of it both excited and terrified him.

For the next art class, Sean arrived early, his heart pounding with anticipation.

He rehearsed his words over and over, imagining different scenarios in his mind. He feared rejection, but the thought of not knowing you at all was worse. When you walked in, you took your usual seat, completely unaware of the effect you had on him.

Sean took a deep breath and approached you, his heart racing. "Hey," he said, trying to sound casual, though his voice wavered slightly. "Can I see what you're working on?"

You looked up, surprised, but smiled warmly. "Sure," you said, moving aside to give him a better view.

Sean studied your drawing, impressed by the skill and emotion you put into it. "This is amazing," he said sincerely, feeling a pang of admiration.

"Thanks," you replied, a slight blush coloring your cheeks. "I've seen your work too. You're really talented."

Sean’s heart skipped a beat. "Thanks. Actually, I was wondering if you might want to... I don't know, maybe grab a coffee sometime? I'd love to talk about art and, you know, get to know you better."

Your smile widened, and it felt like the sun breaking through the clouds. "I'd like that," you said, your eyes sparkling with interest.

As you both returned to your seats, Sean couldn’t stop smiling. The rest of the class passed in a blur, but he didn’t mind. He had taken the first step, and that was enough for now.

That evening, Sean found himself drawing again, but this time, he was drawing from a place of hope. He sketched the way you smiled when he asked you out, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about art. Each drawing was more vibrant, more alive. He imagined conversations with you, learning about your passions, your dreams, and your fears. He wondered what it would be like to make you laugh, to see you happy.

In his room, surrounded by his drawings of you, Sean felt a sense of contentment he had never known before.

You were his muse, and he was ready to explore whatever this new chapter might bring. He knew that these feelings were just the beginning, and he couldn’t wait to see where they would lead. With every sketch, every thought of you, he felt more connected to you, more inspired. He realized that art had brought him more than just a way to express himself—it had brought him to you.

authors note: this was just such a goood request!! I feel like Sean can get pretty obsessive when it comes to drawing or sketching so I hope I didn't write him too creepy. hope you liked it <33

[thecommunityfridge]

A Masterpiece Part 2: The Wrath of Dom

By Sunset Ursule Bassette @pinkducttape

CW: diapers, spanking, mouthsoaping, extreme punishments, unsanitary play

Special thanks to @mommyvalfie for giving me good (and terrifying) suggestions for punishments!

Sobbing echoed through the house as you sat, fighting to keep a stern look on your face as you watched your Little struggle to clean the unspeakable mess they had made. It was hard to believe they had actually done something so childishly naughty, but you weren't really upset. How could you be, when this was exactly the behavior you'd be trying to encourage for so long?

Now, yes, when you'd gotten home from a long day of work to discover your precious baby had coated the wall of your office in a rainbow of muck and crayons, you'd been mad.

Furious, actually. They had broken so many rules in pursuit of their "art" beyond just making a mess: entering your office, not having a diaper on, unsupervised art supplies, and you're sure you could come up with more if you wanted.

But as you tired out your hand paddling them, you calmed down pretty quick. They had been left unsupervised, and had gotten so adorably regressed as they tried to make you a surprise, it was hard to stay mad.

Plus, it had given you an excuse to exercise your sadism a bit, you smile to yourself, remembering the last hour or so...

The first order of business was to clean up the puddle your distracted diaper-dumper left. You made them watch as you wiped it up with a clean diaper, then you assembled their markers and crayons and colored pencils on the floor, and made them kneel, holding the now soggy diaper to the wall with their nose.

"Bu-but Mommy, w-what if I peepee agai-i-innn?" They whimper, sobs making them hiccup through the question.

"Well pissy-pants, you've already gotten in a lot of trouble for going potties all over the floor, if you don't want to be in even bigger trouble, you'd better do your best to pretend to be a big kid and not get all the nice art supplies Mommy got you all soaky-woaky, shouldn't you?"

Leaving them to the time-out, you quickly got to work cleaning up the most egregious and disgusting parts of your Little's art project, making sure to document the process thoroughly so you could show it off to your friends and their subscribers.

With all the most toxic things scrubbed off your once-pristine wall, you grabbed your baby and laid them down, taping them into the cold, soggy diaper they'd been holding up. They, of course, tried to protest, but a few spanks to their rapidly bruising thighs quieted them.

It took more than a few spanks to keep your beloved stuffie-humper under control when they realized the next stage of their punishment, but they could hardly refuse you, so in went the soap, and the scrubbing began, bringing you back to the present as you lost the fight against a smile.

Your sub was just so adorable, hands planted firmly on top of their head, bruises on knees, bottom, and thighs combining with abject humiliation to leave them weeping as they tried desperately to use their soapy tongue to lick the wall clean.

As you watched them, ready to reapply the soap as soon as they flagged, debating if the rest of the evening should start with an enema, you felt your heart fill with love.

They really were your masterpiece.

[darkbluekies]

A oneshot let's see if I do this right, can you do a oneshot of Hedwig meeting the reader? As in the start of it all I wanna see a little mini story of all that

I've got my eye on you

female!yandere OC x reader

Summary: A new students catches the eye of the popular, rich girl and she finds herself falling for you harder than she's ever done before. Hedwig comes up with a plan to lull you in and make sure you'll be hers only.

Warnings: none really, I think, maybe manipulation? Hedwig changes in front of reader (back towards them) but still-

Word count: 2.1k

Senior year. Only one more year until she’s free and gets out of here. She’ll go to Paris. Or Milan. Maybe travel around the world?

Hedwig steps into the classroom and greets her friends. Her father has forced her to go to a normal school to understand the normal people. They’re nice, but she feels like they’re not understanding her in the way her rich friends understand her. Hedwig can’t talk about her life in the same way without getting jealous looks. But she’s come to terms with it now. Her wealth isn’t only negative, she's gotten quite popular by it. If you don’t want her, you want to be her. 

Everything is normal … until she steps her foot into the art classroom for the first time this semester. Someone is sitting in the very spot she normally sits. Someone she’s never seen before. 

“Excuse me”, she says. 

The person — who happens to be you — looks up. 

“Yeah?” you ask quietly. 

“This is my desk”, she says. 

“Oh, I’m sorry … I didn’t know …”

You’re about to take your stuff and leave, but she stops you. 

“No, no, no”, she says. “It’s okay. You can stay. There are two chairs, aren’t there? I’ll sit beside you.”

“I’ll remember it for the next time.”

“Thank you.”

Hedwig's friend has to sit somewhere else. The friend gives you a nasty look before sitting down in the front of the class. 

You start working on your new projects. Hedwig glances over at your self portrait and finds herself smiling. 

“Pretty”, she says. 

“Oh, thank you”, you say quietly without looking at her.

“I don’t know what I should do. I can’t come up with something.” She drops her pencil down on the table. “My brain isn’t working.”

You look up from your portrait and meet her hazel eyes. 

“Why don’t you paint a scenery?” you ask. “That always works.”

Hedwig smiles. “What kind of scenery should I paint? 

You think. “Maybe … a winter landscape? You won’t have to use too many colors and details.”

“Thank you.” She blushes. “What’s your name, by the way? I haven’t seen you before.”

“Y/N, I’m new.”

“Really? No wonder I didn’t know who you were. I’m so sorry for not noticing you earlier.”

She can’t understand how she hasn’t. You’re gorgeous! How has she not noticed you until today? Now that she has, she can’t tear her eyes off of you.

“It’s okay”, you whisper, suddenly embarrassed. “I was actually trying my best not to be noticed.”

“Why?”

You shrug and look away. Hedwig can feel her entire body heat up. She looks down at your hand holding the pen and wants nothing more than to take it in hers. 

“You’re good at drawing”, she says when she realizes that she’s been staring at your hand for a few minutes. Playing it off as staring at your drawing. “It really looks like you.”

“Thank you.”

“Could you help me with mine?”

You nod and turn to her. Hedwig’s holding her pen and you take it out of her hands in a gentle manner that makes her heart flip. Your fingers brush against her hand and it sends electric shocks all throughout her body. She gulps and watches how you help her sketch out an outline of a few mountains before turning back to your own drawing. All nerves in her body are screaming at her to make you touch her again. She can’t understand why she’s suddenly feeling like this, but she knows that she needs more. 

“I-I’m Hedwig by the way”, she says quickly, desperate to pick up the conversation again. 

“I know”, you answer quietly. “Everyone talks about you.”

“Oh.” Hedwig’s suddenly terrified of what you’ve heard about her, maybe people’s gossip has made you dislike her already? She feels a weird longing for you to like her, to give her approval. “What are they saying?”

“They talk about you like you’re a celebrity. They’re talking about your parents and how they think your life is. I’m not really sure, I haven’t heard much.”

“Don’t listen. People are always talking.”

You nod and the situation grows silent again. Hedwig bites her lip. 

“Could you help me again?” she asks. “I don’t know how to do this.”

You give out a small sigh and turn to her again. Unlike last time, you place your hand over hers, guiding her hand and the pen. Hedwig can swear that her heart stops at the feeling of your soft hand against hers. She feels dizzy. 

WHen it’s lunch time, Hedwig asks if you want to eat with her. You nod shyly. You’ve never sat with the popular kids before and you don’t know any of these kids. Only Hedwig and you only met her an hour ago. To your surprise, she barely acknowledges her friends. Her full attention is on you, asking you where you’re from, what made you move here, how your family life looks like, what your interests are, what makes you scared and happy and what kind of person you are. Not a single time during lunch does she look away from your face. She has a sparkling hint in her eyes and a smile on her perfect face. 

The very next day, Hedwig looks up from her desk when you enter the classroom. She’s sitting alone today.

“Y/N, do you want to sit with me?” she asks and removes her bag from the chair beside her. “I saved a seat for you.”

Without answering, you sit down beside her. She’s quick to turn to you and ask you about your morning. 

“Y/N, would you like to come over to my house after school and study?” she asks. “We have a test coming up in two weeks and … I need a study buddy.”

You nod carefully. A bit of help on geometry wouldn’t hurt. And that’s how you come home to Hedwig’s gigantic villa for the first time. It looks more like a smaller mansion than a regular house. A white — almost yellow — Georgian house with lots of details. The entrance to the driveway is a pair of giant black gates to keep unwanted people from coming in. She has a chauffeur who drives her to and from school each day and he greets you nicely, adding honorifics. 

“My parents aren’t home”, Hedwig says over her shoulder as you enter the big hall.

A maid welcomes Hedwig home and offers to take your bag, but you shake your head, too intimidated by the sheer size of Hedwig’s house to be able to think clearly. 

You follow Hedwig upstairs, bag clutched in your hands. 

“This is scaring me a bit …”, you whisper. 

“What?” she asks in worry. 

“All of this … it’s a bit intimidating.”

Hedwig smiles reassuringly. “Don’t be scared. It’s not a museum, it’s a home.”

Hopefully it’s your home too, but Hedwig doesn’t say that.

“Are you hungry?” she asks and opens the door to her room. 

Even her room looks like money. 

“A bit” you admit.”

“Yeah, I noticed that you didn’t eat the school lunch”, Hedwig smiles and. “I don’t blame you. I’ll go tell the chef to prepare something for you, okay? He makes fantastic food.”

“You have a chef?”

“Yeah! You’ll love his food, I promise. He makes the best grilled cheese sandwiches you’ll ever have. I’ll go tell him to make some for you.”

Before you can stop her, she’s already darted out the door. You decide to pass the time by looking around her white room. You find pictures of her and alleged friends on cruises and yachts, her in pools and in the mountains plastered on the wall. This girl seems to have been everywhere. 

“I’m back!” Hedwig smiles and creeps up beside you. “What are you looking at?”

“Just your pictures”, you answer. “Are these your friends?”

“Yeah … they are. I don’t meet them as much because my father wants me to be in a public school with all the other children of our city. They go to a private school together. But I spend a lot of my vacations with them. We’ve been all around the world.”

“I can tell.”

“Do you like to travel?”

“Who doesn’t? I like to explore new places, but it costs a lot to go somewhere.”

“What’s your favorite place to visit?”

You shrug. “I haven’t been to so many places. What’s yours?”

“I really like Paris. It’s a beautiful city and they have such tasty food.” She turns around. “Should we study a little?”

You nod. You sit down at her desk and bring out your calculators.

A knock on the door interrupts you. It's the chef with the grilled cheese sandwiches. Hedwig thanks him and brings the plate over to you. Two perfectly grilled sandwiches are placed on the porcelain. Your mouth waters. 

“Bon appetit”, Hedwig smiles. “They’re all yours.”

“Thank you”, you say shyly but you don’t dare to touch them. Somehow you feel guilty.

“Y/N, are you okay?” 

“Yes … I just feel weird for making your chef make this for me.”

“It’s his job, don’t worry about it. Eat up now!”

This time, you dare to pick it up and take a bite. Heaven has granted access to your mouth.

“I told you it was good”, Hedwig smiles. 

You eat while you study and when you’re finally done, you notice how much time has passed. 

“It seems like you’ll have to stay here overnight …”, Hedwig says and the next sentence she says is nothing but a great lie. “The last bus has gone and my driver has finished for the day. Can your parents pick you up?”

You shake your head. They wouldn’t be pleased to drive you at this hour. It only makes Hedwig smile. Perfect. 

“You can stay here, my bed is big enough for two”, she says. “Just send a quick message to your parents and tell them that you’ll stay here.”

You sigh and do as she says. Your parents send you a heart back. They’re only happy that you’ve made a friend. 

You eat a delicious dinner in the kitchen made by her chef. It hits you that you haven’t seen her parents at all, but you don’t question it. From what you know about her, they’re busy.

When you’re going to bed, Hedwig walks over to her walk-in closet to grab herself a new pair of pajamas for both you and her. One of them being in your size. To your great surprise, she turns her back to you and removes her clothes. You gulp and try to look away in embarrassment. 

“S-Shouldn’t you go into the bathroom to change?” you stutter. 

“Why?” she asks and turns around. “It’s my room. Besides, if models can change in front of twenty people they don’t know … I can change in front of one person I hold dearly. But if you want to change in the bathroom, it’s down the hall. If you want to take a shower, there’s a white towel for you hanging on the hook.”

It sounds like she has planned this. Because she has. 

You do take a shower before you change into her pajamas and return to her room. She’s lying in her bed, scrolling on her phone. 

“We have to be up by seven tomorrow”, she says. “Otherwise we’ll be late to school.”

You nod and walk around the queen sized bed. This feels so wrong somehow. You’ve never shared a bed with someone before and especially not a beautiful girl who changed in front of you fifteen minutes ago. Hedwig turns off her phone and lies down with her front facing you. You try to mirror her motions and soon you're both lying down, facing one another.

“Goodnight, sleep well”, she smiles and turns off the light. 

Her fluffy sheets and soft mattress lull you into a deep slumber. Hedwig, however, can’t seem to be able to close her eyes. She’s staring at your features, wondering how she got so lucky to get you here. Her plan worked! She’s a genius! Soon, you’ll agree to be hers and these kinds of nights will be a recurring thing. Soon, she’ll dare to wrap her arms around you as you go to sleep. She’ll be able to kiss you and give you everything you want. 

Oh, Hedwig can’t wait until you’re fully hers. Then, no one will be able to take you from her, because what Hedwig wants, Hedwig gets … and so has it always been. The ones that cross her always get shoved aside one way or another. 

“You’re mine, my wonderful little Y/N”, she whispers and lets her fingertips brush over your cheek. “I’ll treat you so well, I promise. I’ll make sure you’re safe and happy. My beautiful Y/N.”

[rintaroll]

❝ INSIDE THE LINES. ❞

— during matsukawa's time babysitting your niece, more than a couple realizations occur to you.

⊱┊pairing. matsukawa issei x gn!reader ⊱┊tags. fluff, established relationship, reader has a 6 year old niece and works at the bakery, food mention, mattsun has a sleeve tattoo :], unedited ⊱┊wc. 1.3k ⊱┊note. cleaning out my drafts hehe this was back when i had my mattsun brain rot (OH btw while writing this he works as a tattoo artist in my mind but i didnt mention it anywhere)

© RINTAROLL

"issei, i'm so sorry-"

"it's fine," matsukawa waves his hand dismissively. his eyes flicker to the clock on the wall. "when are you coming home?"

"soon. i just have to frost the cupcakes and wait for the customer to pick them up." you pan your phone to the chocolate cupcakes, fresh out of the oven and still steaming hot.

"those look really good, babe." matsukawa muses.

you hear a small voice squealing from behind the camera. "i wanna see!"

your boyfriend chuckles, eyes trained on your niece, himeko, whose ears have perked up at the word 'cupcakes'. the six-year-old scrambles onto the sofa, comfortably nestling herself into matsukawa's side. her eyes widen when she finally sees the cupcakes in all their chocolatey goodness. "yummy..." she says, eyes boring into matsukawa's phone screen, unblinking and shiny.

you pan your phone back to your face. "they're not for you!" you remind her.

"i know!" himeko sighs dramatically, strands of hair falling onto her face. mattsun effortlessly brushes it back. "i have to wait for tomorrow so we can make them together."

"yes, that's right." you nod in approval.

"why can't it be tomorrow already?" she pouts. mattsun doesn't realize, but your eyes are trained on him while he stares at your niece while adorning an amused smile.

"hm," you ponder. "maybe if you sleep early tonight, then tomorrow will come earlier?" a sly grin forms on your lips.

himeko narrows her eyes at you. "that's not gonna work on me!"

you shrug. "worth a try."

matsukawa snickers at your failed attempt to trick her. "smart girl," he praises her before raising one of his hands, which is met with a high five from himeko. your niece then proceeds to stick her tongue out at you.

you shake your head, but there's a smile on your lips despite you doing so. she might as well steal your boyfriend at this point, you think to yourself.

you can almost remember the good times—when himeko was four and hiding behind your legs, while matsukawa was crouching in front of you. she was terrified, little hands gripping onto your pants. she told you he looked like a gangster, with all the tattoos covering the entirety of his right arm. "what if he kidnaps me?" she wailed once he leaves, to which you comfort her by saying that he won't. from her skeptic expression and her glassy eyes, it was safe to say that she was far from convinced.

and yet now here you are. with your boyfriend and your niece in cahoots, conspiring together to overthrow you someday.

"anyways, i was calling because she wanted me to tell you she finished her coloring book, isn't that right, hime?"

halfway through his words, himeko lets out an 'oh!' and jumps up from the couch. she picks up her coloring book off the floor, where it was surrounded by an assortment of colored pencils and markers in disarray. flipping to the last page, she proudly shows off her latest piece of work. "look!"

you gasp, genuinely admiring the effort she's put into coloring in the drawing of a fish. considering how she's just turned six, she's done a wonderful job in coloring inside the lines. "that looks so nice! did you do that all by yourself?"

"yep!" she chirps, nodding excitedly before stopping to ponder for a moment. "hm... i guess, uncle mattsun did help me color the amenomies..."

"anemones," matsukawa stage whispers.

"right, amenemones."

you and matsukawa bite back your laughs. "it looks really good, himeko," you comment, still smiling.

himeko nods absentmindedly. it becomes obvious to both you and matsukawa that her attention is not on either of you anymore. she goes out of frame as she continues to flip through her coloring book and zeroes in on her work, leaving matsukawa the only one left in view of the camera.

your eyes flit to the top of your phone screen, clicking your tongue when you read the time. "alright, i better go and start frosting. the customer will be here soon. bye, himeko! bye, baby."

matsukawa's heart flutters helplessly. he will never get tired of you calling him that. "see you," your boyfriend beams. although still engrossed by her coloring book, you hear your niece mumble a soft 'bye' right before the call ends.

pocketing his phone, matsukawa turns his focus back on himeko only to find her tiny lips curled into a frown. "something wrong, sweets?"

she looks up, with her brows all scrunched up. matsukawa feels his heart melt at the sight. "i'm out of pages. what will i color now?"

"i'll buy you another one tomorrow, okay?" he pokes her nose.

with a giggle, she scrunches her nose in effect. "okay."

an idea spontaneously strikes matsukawa. it might be one of the best ideas he's had in a while—the realization that himeko brings out his creative side more often than not quickly becomes an afterthought.

"actually, hime..."

her ears perk up, big eyes staring up at him. those big, doe eyes he has not learned how to say no to.

"i know something else you can color."

matsukawa was sure he saw himeko visibly light up when he offers his tattooed arm. he doesn't need to tell her twice. she expeditiously collects her markers off the ground—she's big enough to know that pencil colors won't be able to color in your skin!—and spreads them out on the sofa next to where both of them sit.

snuggled into his side, matsukawa has his tattooed arm around her as himeko starts to color in the tattoos from the ones on his forearm. "i'll make sure your arm looks extra pretty!" she exclaims excitedly.

"can you make it look as pretty as you are?"

himeko tilts her head to the side as she thinks of an answer. "hm... maybe. i'll try." the earnestness in her answer makes matsukawa chuckle.

as himeko continues, her inquiries about his sleeve don't stop. did it hurt? (just a little bit.) what's the meaning behind this one? (there's no meaning to that one. this one, however...) are you gonna get a tattoo of y/n? (i already did.) can i get one too? (matsukawa laughs awkwardly when he hears the last question, immediately changing the topic by asking her what her favorite color is. he doesn't want to get into trouble.)

the conversations tone down when himeko makes it halfway through matsukawa's forearm. he knows himeko turns quiet once she's focused. it's only when matsukawa feels her marker slip that he realizes that she has nodded off. making as little movement as possible, he closes the cap on the red marker that she was holding and puts it aside.

half an hour later, you tip-toe into your living room with the intention to surprise your boyfriend and your niece at heart. as you get closer, suspicions start to arise when you realize that it's awfully quiet.

wait, are they-

oh.

they are.

your heart blooms at the precious sight of matsukawa and himeko fast asleep on the couch. matsukawa's head is lolled back on the back of the sofa, his arms around himeko as she is curled up into his side. they look so comfortable and peaceful, soft snores coming out of the both of them with hideko's head rising up and down along with matsukawa's chest with every breath that he takes.

you just finished snapping a quick picture when realization sets in.

and no, it's not about how matsukawa has successfully won her over for good—that realization has set in a long time ago.

but it's realizing that you want to spend the rest of your life coming home to this sight. him dozing off on the sofa, waiting for you to come home, and maybe a child, or two, of your own curled up next to him.

vocabulary !

himeko is written like so: 姫子 in kanji. 姫 (hime) means princess, while 子 (ko) means child. mattsun's nickname for her is hime, which essentially means he calls her 'princess'.

[dontmindme-imjustfangirlin]

it's MY turn to share my ratgrinders theory

this has been stewing in my head for weeks and it has little to no support from what we've seen thus far but it speaks to me and may not be coherent but here it is. this got suuuper long so everything is under the cut.

what if the ratgrinders aren't evil or manipulative, what if they're just traumatized and in way over their heads and scared?

i just keep picturing them running in parallel to the bad kids' freshman year. just another group of six kids with powers and abilities they can't wait to learn to harness, to use; to make the world better and to help. arthur aguefort stands in front of them on the first day and tells them an adventurer is a violent wanderer. he romanticizes the adventure, the glory, the prestige. they go to their first classes, and kipperlilly sits two seats behind a goblin her height with a briefcase trying to hand out business cards with his phone number on them; hakinvar, oisin sits a row away from abernant, adaine in material components; ruben ducks his chin down to avoid his brotherdaduncle? henry and completely misses the tiefling girl stomping past the bard class door; mary ann boredly watches on as a half-orc three times her size sings at her barbarian instructor; ivy rolling her eyes when a braggart of a child cold-cocks a fellow freshman; lucy sits beside a redheaded girl who, in the rush of first-day jitters and habitually shielding her little brothers from her parents' vitriol, forgot to bring a pencil to class. of course lucy has one to spare.

i wonder how they met. who found whom first. if kipperlily, type-a and organized, presented everyone she met with a perfect four-year plan. day one to graduation laid out in color-coded sections, the school years broken down by quarter. maybe she found mary ann first, and mary ann went along with her because no one else had bothered to approach. ruben was two feet tall at best and could barely see over the crowd; he kept getting his feet stepped on until a frost genasi gently caught his wrist and healed his bruises with a soft burst of chilly, bracing wind. oisin's horns caught on ivy's bow as they passed by, and he apologized so profusely and earnestly she could only laugh. maybe kipperlily and ivy went to the same middle school, and kipperlily was so excited to see a familiar face she marched right up to her and oisin. maybe lucy noticed the strawberry plush keychain swinging from mary ann's backpack and approached to tell her how much she loved it. she had a matching watermelon, you see. they laughed, hopeful, right there on the sunny turf of the bloodrush field. they decided to call themselves the high-five heroes.

they were so excited to take on the world. they thought they were ready. and then the screaming started.

they'd been at school for less than a day, and the cafeteria was destroyed. the half-orc mary ann watched disinterestedly had been killed. the redheaded cleric lucy gave that pencil had died, too, blood staining the wood of the no.2. the lunch lady who smiled at ivy despite the grimace on her face had been killed. the counselor who said "welcome to aguefort" to oisin with a calming smile had been killed - murdered - by their principal, who immediately took his own life as well in order to bring the two students back.

an adventurer is a violent wanderer. but death and violence found them without warning, and without much wandering at all. the world was a vast and dangerous place. kids died on the tiled floor where they ate lunch. girls were going missing; the most recent one to go missing, penny luckstone, bore a terrifying resemblance to kipperlily.

the far haven woods were not very far at all, but they were safe. they were close to home. they stomped on rats and small elementals and this was not the glory they dreamed of, the rush of adventure or the thrill of wandering this vast world. this was not making the world better. but then even home was not safe anymore. the coach of the bloodrush team pulled half his athletes into a cult and tried to kill their fellow classmates. their assistant principal ended up being an evil dragon and defeated by the aptly named bad kids.

the bad kids, who for their part spent their freshman year murdering people in car chases, doing sick kickflips in abandoned mithral mines, releasing devils from gemstones, tearing up arcades, getting themselves arrested, and saving the missing girls and the world. as sophomore year rolled around, maybe the high-five heroes looked at each other and thought, surely we can do that. they thought they were ready.

their path hadn't been a glorious one, but they grew stronger nevertheless. mary ann never grew taller, but whenever she flew into a rage, she was scrappy and fierce and relentless. ivy's arrows always flew true. oisin bolstered their numbers with fey, elementals, constructs, once even the faded visage of one of his draconic ancestors. kipperlily ducked and wove between rats and put them down with quick slices, so rapid and humane they never felt them. ruben tuned his guitar to folksy ballads and inspired them to imagine they could be more than rat exterminators in the forest behind the school. and dear, sweet lucy, their glue, who kept them safe and healed their wounds.

sophomore year included a project worth a whopping sixty percent of their grade. this did not surprised the high-five heroes like it did the bad kids. preparations for this were baked into kipperlily's plans from the first day of school. ideas for projects were tacked up on her bulletin board and home and in sticky notes in all her binders. i wonder if the high-five heroes really cared what they did, just so long as it was something more that indiscriminately killing rats in the woods. lucy was a cleric; surely she heard whispers of the forgotten one, the god of giants whose name was stricken from the giants' records. maybe the name was hidden so well she had no idea why this god was one best left forgotten. maybe she thought even gods of rage deserved redemption, kindness, a second chance.

sophomore year flew by in a blaze of research and magic. oisin and kipperlily spent long nights in the library and on a rotating series of floors reading tomes of religious history. lucy prayed and communed with her goddess for information, snuck ancient giant texts out of the library and translated them for all to read. ivy and ruben weren't scholars, but their suggestions were occam's razor slicing through thousands of dusty pages of arcane theory and religious treatise. the simplest explanation is likely the right one. mary ann was as quiet as ever, but after long nights of reading, the high-five heroes would awake under soft, fluffy blankets, a plush nestled right up beside them.

when did things start to go wrong? when did ruben's lyrics take a turn to the dark and angry, the romanticizing of self-harm? when did kipperlily go cold and controlling, her thin-lipped smile an iron veneer over anything beneath? when did ivy's attitude turn disinterested and condescending? when did mary ann go into a rage and sneer, all teeth and claws? when did lucy realize they had passed a point of no return and return to the woods to revive the rats they killed, a small penance only she could offer?

what happened that night in the forest? the night lucy died? was it a ritual gone wrong, the culmination of a year of research trying to contact a dead god? was it a channeling or communion turned possession? something dark and evil came to the far haven woods that night. it took their dearest friend from them. was it a rage, this god possessing lucy and forcing the rest of the high-five heroes' hands? was it a gambit, the giant god of rage returning to snatch lucy's soul from her body as collateral?

learn my name, the god whispered that dark night. bring me back, and i will bring her back. you need my name to get her back.

they thought they were ready. they were so, so wrong.

what else could they do? where could they go? they could hardly tell anyone they killed their cleric trying to contact a dead god. arthur aguefort may have helped, but he is gone, running amok across time with his daughter. principal grix would disintegrate them all if he knew what they were doing.

maybe this, too, is where the ratgrinders' (or at least kipperlily's) disdain for the bad kids comes from. when two of their number died, arthur aguefort killed both a teacher and himself to bring them back. he stopped time for half a day to let them rest and defeat the dragon kalvaxus. he smoothed everything over after the bad kids broke out of jail. he risked war with a neighboring country - the second in as many years - because one of his students was detained illegally. the ratgrinders had none of the bad kids' chances or resources or connections. for the long, dark summer of no sun, that resentment festered. they needed a plan to get her back. kipperlily likes to make plans, and she has friends - angry, traumatized, terrified friends - ready to do whatever it took to get lucy back.

maybe the ratgrinders weren't ready before, but for lucy, they would do anything.

i just. do you see my vision?

[eldritch-spouse]

I don't know why, but the idea that little mimics may puff up to appear bigger and more intimidating, like a chameleon, popped in my head and made me laugh historically. Just the image that someone may have found a mimic (intentionally or intentionally) and the mimic will unveil itself just to puff up and hiss 😂

{sorry I hope this made sense 😔}

Oh yeah, if they're threatened they'll definitely do that.

Oh you thought that was your pencil case? Wrong. It's standing on its hind legs and flashing rainbow colors at you while it jumps around and screeches.

Adult mimics do this too. Sybastian hardly ever feels threatened enough to have to resort to such instinctual shenanigans, but he might unfurl into a truly terrifying mass of melding shapes and swirling colors, all teeth and claws and thorns as he brays and roars.

Needless to say, it's a lot more terrifying than a tiny little plastic cup squealing like a startled chipmunk and turning bright red in your kitchen, trying to T-pose at you.

When you become Sybastian's mate, some of his mimiclings may try to practice these displays on you. Syb pretends to be horrified, and he nudges you to do the same while a tiny cow bell hisses and pounces on your leg.

[persage]

TRUE COLORS - BRIAN "OTIS" ZVONECEK

'Cause my boy Otis deserves better

Summary:When you spend your time at 51, you draw Otis on the sly. Everyone notices it, except him. Until fate gets in the way

Word Count: 2.5 k

Maybe it's the way he moves his hands. Maybe it's how he moves the dark curls from his face. Maybe it's the way he wrinkles his nose when he's tired after the shift and starts working at Molly's, tirelessly.

Or it's the way he writes, with his head slightly tilted to the left.

It could be just the way the light fits between his features and makes him pure, bringing out his light skin stained by many small moles. Perhaps it's his dark eyes.

You really don't know. You just can't help but drawing him.

You'd like to draw his eyes after you've seen them even closer and realized how deep they really are, because you're sure they are, more than anything else in the world. Or, again, maybe it's the way he curls his lips as he smiles.

It's probably all together and he doesn't even realize it while a few meters away you're crouched on a chair, in a corner of the 51, almost invisible and your hand moves over a sheet and captures his image, without mistakes or smudges. You could be drawing Brian with your eyes closed by now.

"Are you still here?" Your half-sister, Leslie, asks, noticing you. You've been spending a lot of time at the 51 lately (and equally at the Molly's) officially because you're soon to be Boden's new secretary, secondly to spend time with Lesley. What you didn't expect was to find yourself spending most of your free time observing Brian, scribbling his face here and there, forcing yourself from time to time to portray other colleagues as well so as not to arouse suspicion. "Let me work Lesl" You reply, letting the pen run across the paper noisily. "Our Little Artist" Kelly teases you, ruffling your hair.

"When will you set up an exhibition with our portraits?" Herman asks, chuckling. "That wouldn't be a bad idea you know" Mills replies, winking. "Think about it y/n" You smile uneasily.

"I should find better models" You reply as Cruz and Otis - Brian - shake their heads. "Listen to the nonsense" Your eyes meet and you smile at him and he reciprocates before the siren of the imminent call forces him to leave. You sigh.

He fascinates you just like he torments you, you long for him and at the same time you are afraid to get to know him better. There's something sweet, genuine about him and you admire his courage and his work, but at the same time you're terrified because deep down what do you have to offer? What can make you interesting to him? You're just a failed student who needs to work here to make some money, a failed artist who has lost her inspiration, who can't help her sister in a difficult moment, who didn't get a degree, who can't control the emotions.

"You never color it" Boden has noticed one day, admiring your drawings. "I think it would ruin it" You have replied. The truth is that you are convinced that to do this, especially when it comes to Brian, you should need to see the color gradations of his skin, his face, his freckles or his eyes. It is incorrect to portray a subject and complete it inaccurately. You will use color on his drawings when and if you can see him at very close range. Closer than the Molly's counter or the 51. For now you settle for pencil or pen.

Sometimes you dwell too much on his well-defined lips. It's one of the parts you like to draw the most, after the eyes. Then you look at the finished drawing and wonder if you are experiencing something that will never happen, or not experiencing it at all. And with every call they come back with wounded expressions from a difficult intervention and some new scar on the body or the soul ans you wonder if it really makes sense to waste all this time.

It must be said : fate works in a curious way at times.

You're -again- drawing Brian, he's wearing his uniform and he's approaching the truck laughing with Mouch. The 51 is quieter than usual today and there are few calls, an unusual thing but you don't mind. You smile when Brian turns to face you and pretend to be focusing on someone else, momentarily terrified that he will think you're crazy. You place your pen on the table in front of you, tie your hair into a spooky ponytail, then start over with the care you reserve for important things. Brian  sighs, turning back in your direction, Mouch's hand on his shoulder as he shakes his head repeatedly. You wonder what they're talking about, you get the distinct feeling that it's you, and you feel your heart pounding in your chest.

Stupid little girl.

" Someone has a crush" it's a voice behind you. The worst voice you could hear in this situation: Joe Cruz. Brian's best friend, roommate, his other half.

"Of all of us Otis? Why?" Cruz sits across from you, a hand under his chin and an inquisitive expression on his face that does not hide his happy grin. And you're terrified, now there's no way Brian won't know about it now. "I don't have a crush. I draw all of you Cruz" you reply, trying to hide the blush on your cheeks.

"Yeah sure. You draw me once in a while, once of Herman, maybe three times of Kelly because it's particularly handsome, but I'm sure most of them are about Otis." You shake your head.

"What makes you think that?"

"I've been watching you Little Shay. You know, it's pretty obvious. You're not as good as you think at hiding." You open your eyes suddenly and feel your face get hot with embarrassment. Brian's eyes are still fixed on you and this with Cruz's words short-circuit you.

"If I were you I'd make a move" You need some fresh air. You get up and head for the exit, forgetting the notebook with your drawings on the table in a hurry.

When you come back for it, an hour and two cigarettes later, it's gone.

Two days, seven hours and a new notebook later, your half-sister has abandoned you at Molly's, a beer in front of you to finish and the light chatter of the last remaining customers. Someone sits next to you and lets their chair clatter to the floor. You don't turn around and stay focused on the beer because you know all too well who's next to you. Your senses alert, your heart furious. Brian.

"It's amazing" the voice is warm, but slightly high in pitch and secretly insecure. You shrug. "Thank you" you reply. Your brain is so muddy that you don't even wonder what it's referring to

"This is yours" now you look up and you see it. Brian's hand just reaching out to give you back the notebook. You stare at him dumbfounded. You admire the way the light falls on his face, how he smiled lightly and the lips you've always drawn so carefully, even more beautiful at that non-distance. For several seconds you don't say anything, but you stay still to study him, to study his colors, his embarrassed, sweet expression. Everything seems to stop to you.

"Otis, can you close?" Question Herman before leaving the pub, making you awaken and ashamed at the same time, realizing what you're getting into. You take the notebook without saying a word and start to get up and leave, but the boy's hand stops you, gently grabbing you by the wrist. It is soft, despite the hard work his skin is not rough. His warm skin seems to burn yours, leaving invisible marks.

You look at his fingers wrapped around your wrist, then at him, his dark eyes still fixed on you. He lets you go slowly, almost reluctant to break the contactn and you realize that he has the power to make you sit back, without saying a word.

"Sorry," you say sheepishly, looking away and letting your hair fall in front of your face to cover the blush on your cheeks.

"You shouldn't apologize" He replies, continuing to observe you. You feel his hand approaching your face, his fingers lingering near your hair, and you know what he's about to do, and you wish he would. You would like to him slowly pull your hair back, put it behind your ear, to let his big fingers slide against your skin and you would like to tilt your head to one side, to let yourself go to that contact. But he doesn't.

After a few moments he pulls his hand away, thinking maybe he's going too far.

Sure, your notebook is filled with portraits of him, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

"You're good" He whispers. "You're really good little Shay, you shouldn't waste such a talent." You just smile, let a sheepish chuckle leave your lips. Brian doesn't say it, but he feels like he's never heard a better sound in his life. He wonders how he didn't notice it before. Of course, as soon as you arrived at 51 he immediately set his sights on you, but he never really did it with an intention: partly because you are Shay's little sister, partly because he never thought he had any chance despite what Cruz said.

In short, Cruz doesn't always have brilliant intuitions when it comes to women.

Maybe Dawson's jokes could have enlightened him, sure, but anyway...Brian has never been a phenomenon with girls, in a barracks full of men like Kelly Severide why would you have to look at him? And instead you looked at him all the time, drew him so much that it filled entire pages, tracing his features with a pen and making him look much more handsome, bold, courageous, appreciable than he probably was. Because you see him this way.

"At first I didn't know whether to come to you or keep the notebook," he admits. "Then I thought it was a good excuse to talk to you."

"You don't need an excuse to talk to me Brian" you answers automatically, without thinking. He smiles, feels his heart melt in his chest. Hardly anyone calls him Brian, especially at the station.

"I needed to find the courage" he murmurs, clearing his throat. "It's easy in the barracks, between one joke and another but talking... I mean for real... It is different. Especially with someone like you"

"Someone like me?" you raise an eyebrow as he smiles. He is impossibly beautiful as his cheeks turn pink.

"An interesting girl, a curious one. An artist y/n"

"You're the only one who thinks of me like that. Artist."

He shakes his head. "That's not true, we all think so and if you start showing your drawings the whole world would do it" You shyly grab his hand which is still on the table.

"Thank you, you don't know how much this means to me." He hold yours back and intertwines his fingers with yours. He seems made to hold your hand, he seems born to grab you, to keep you close. And you wonder if hugging him gives the same effect, if even his lips are made to kiss yours.

"Listen, y / n ...." he takes on a serious tone of voice and you almost worry.

"Why have you never colored me? I mean, do you see me in black and white somehow? Does my aura tell you something? I'm not an artist, so I don't really know how these things work, but it scared me to death. Do you see me in any strange way?" he looks nervous

"Is that what worries you?"

"What else should?"

"I mean you find the notebook of someone who drew you too many times to count and you're worried about the fact that I don't color you?" you use a hint of sarcasm, realizing this confuses you.

Part of you feared there would be a different reaction, not anger knowing Otis, but at least a detachment, a rebuke. Anyone else would have been upset, but not him, he seems happy. He studies you carefully.

"You think I haven't seen you?" Your eyes widen and total silence envelops you. "What?" You're the one who doesn't understand now.

"Do you really think I haven't noticed that you spent your time looking at me and drawing me?" he shakes his head, amused by your shocked expression  "You've been going on like this for months, aren't you going to pretend that you don't believe me?"

"I..." You can't say more. He laughs and you look at him, and then start laughing , because Brian has written "liar" on his forehead. "No, you didn't understand a damn thing my dear Brian" You retort.

"Oh I don't, but Cruz does. It was just hard to believe"

"And why?"

Brian doesn't answer, he caresses his goatee thoughtfully and you understand that you won't get the truth. Not yet. "Because you're beautiful y/n, people like you fly too many meters higher then me. In short..."

"I've looked at you from the start, Brian." You confess, this time without shame, your will to make him happy is stronger than any embarrassment. You know he needs to know it, to realize his value, for once to be the protagonist, the hero of your story, of your drawings, of your life. Him and no one else.

When silence returns, he turns to you again.

"So? Why didn't you color me?"

"I've never colored you because... I had to see you up close, really close, to be able to color you the way I want" you simply reply and he opens his mouth to say something, but he can't formulate anything, not when you continue. "Modigliani painted empty eyes, without pupils, because he couldn't paint what he didn't know: the souls of the people he was portraying. He only painted those of his partner Jeanne. I suppose it's the same for me. I can't color you without knowing the your true colors, without knowing what undertone your skin is or the paths that the veins form on your body."

Without realizing it, you've started to run your fingertip along his wrist, where the vein pulsates under the skin.

"Do you think." His voice is hoarse, scratched with emotion and excitement. "Do you think you'll give me the chance to let you find out?" He asks shyly. You nod with a slight smile.

"Are you asking me out Brian?"

"I'm asking you for dinner, then let's see what happens."

"Only one?"

"Maybe more than one"

[insane4fandoms]

As thanks for our little chat earlier, here are some random headcanons on my EgoPats! Talking with friends always seems to get my creative juices flowing.

Caliban doesn’t have quite as big of a sweet tooth as irl Matt does, but he still appreciates some sugary stuff along with savory stuff (i.e. his and Murdock’s hit-targets). His favorite treats (aside from Diet Coke, because duh. He’s an Egopat, lol) are typically gummy alligators or gummy sharks. Yes, he always makes sure to start by biting the gummy’s head off, because that’s just how you eat gummies, okay? (This was actually inspired by that Gummy Food vs. Real Food Challenge on GTLive; it’s one of my favorite episodes, so many hilarious moments.) 

Penn is pretty interested in Vulture Culture. Yeah, his fossil-hunting already plays a huge part in that, but he’s just sort of fascinated by the skulls/bones of modern animals as well as those of prehistoric creatures. (Bonus points if the bones happen to have been painted for whatever reason.) Granted, they’d have to be ethically sourced for him to collect them, because he’s nice and conscious like that. 

Some of LeviathanPat’s traits/abilities are more instinctual than “at-will.” The biggest example of this: an extra eye that can sprout on his forehead, larger and darker than his primaries. While he can choose to grow and retract extra eyes (just like he can with extra mouths, limbs, etc.), this particular forehead eye only opens up when his emotions are running high, or when he’s in a serious situation. I guess you could say that the forehead eye is, in itself, a type of Sixth Sense. (Though, as a cosmic abomination, L.P. definitely has way more than six senses, lol. Also, this was inspired by one of the ways you’ve drawn him in the past, so…thanks!)

Penn loves gemstones and minerals just as much as fossils. Sure, his career is paleontology, but he just really likes shiny/colorful things on the side. He’ll occasionally keep pieces of fossil for his personal collection, but only on occasion, since, y’know, museums need fossils for their exhibits. So, gemstones are a little easy for that kinda stuff. (And, with that first headcanon in mind: have you ever seen that art trend where crystals are attached to or even grown on cleaned animal skulls? If not, they’re all over Etsy, so, you’re welcome, lol. But yeah, Penn would LOVE to get one of those.)

Along with helping Yancy out with musical stuff, Ozzie has a love for drawing. It’s just something he’s been doing since he was little, though he’s currently much better at pencil-work than painting. 

Patty does a variety of things in his off-time from dancing, but one of his favorites is sculpting. He’s had quite a lot of practice, but he usually tends to just make small pieces for decoration. This includes little clay charms for necklaces (yeah, he definitely made one as a present for Delux one time, lol. I’m thinking maybe…a little black fox? Obviously Delux can’t wear it when he’s working for fear of losing it on the streets or at a client’s place, but we both know he’d still appreciate it.) 

Despite being a terrifying outer monstrosity, LeviathanPat is sort of claustrophobic. This is due to all the time he was trapped in the underground tomb that Penn and Illinois accidentally freed him from. He usually spends a lot of time hunting outside at night (because of his whole window schtick), but if he ever finds an opportunity to actually go inside a place, then it’ll have to be good and spacious for him to be comfortable. (Along with his shapeshifting skills, LeviathanPat is also capable of sizeshifting, which he can use in a pinch. Though, due to his pride, he’d never even consider turning smaller than a human, lol). 

Ahhhh all of these are great!

Some of these headcanons are not much different than mine, you also definitely got me to rewatch the gummy vs real video, always makes me laugh to see Matt and Steph freak out over the gummy spider lmao

Here’s some small headcanons I had because why not

Penn would absolutely be a skull collector, but most importantly he would be a cat. Illinois would be chilling on the couch one day and Penn would jump on him and ominously hand him a deer skull and smile before walking away, leaving Illinois to sit there dumbfounded and a little scared of where the hell Penn got that.

I’d imagine Patty sleeping in the most pretzel like positions ever to be seen from humanity lol. Imagine being his roommate and walking into the room to see him sleep in a way like he’s posing for a renaissance painting.

Patty would also be a god at drag makeup. Like give this man a makeup palette and he’ll go face your face the vision of god.

I think Ozzy would be (and forced to be) Yancy’s costume designer when he wants to do a musical number. I like the idea of a brute muscle having the most patient hobby like art. I also think painting is much harder personally, but with a bit of good behavior, he’ll probably learn to paint watercolor.

Caliban, my man, would 100 percent horde all of the Diet Coke from others. Bro does NOT like to share when it comes to his treats. Even R.D. would make Caliban hesitate to give up his precious soda, but one look from her and he’ll melt and gladly hand one over. Azalea and Murdock on the other hand they’ll fight like cats for one. (Mad would get his head chopped off before he could even ask)

Now LeviathanPat, I got plans for him, but one funny headcanon is that while his shapeshifting is effective and sometimes in his advantage, he definitely got ran over one too many times by a random car. Not in his eldritch form, but maybe around like a bear size or deer when he wanders.

He also hates hunting season as he was also mistaken for a deer one too many times, and it was getting tiring or either killing or scaring off the hunters. I would also agree on LeviathanPat being claustrophobic due to him being trapped in the tomb, but one thing he may not find unnerving?

Possession, he’ll just have to find the perfect host to leech on…

And he had already laid his eyes upon him the moment the tomb was opened.