#ink stained memories

[non-sense7774]

When your husband exists

[inkdemonapologist]

I just............. spend a lot of time thinking about how dangerous it would be to be a joey in the cycle...................................

[thebad-lydrawn-sanses]

How did Dream react to Ink blowing Dust's face away?

Dream, ranting: -AND HE- DID YOU HAVE TO DO THAT?? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?! Ink (calm color): i uh Ink (neutral color): i don't know what i did Ink (sad color): i'm sorry

[carpediembitchess]

like the stains of mint ice cream on my laced white mannequin like the stains of salty dew on my velvety Tigger napkin like the stains of blue ink on the creases of my palm like the stains of scarlet dye on the rubble of the bomb like the stains of idle whispers on strayed autumn roads like all the things we once loved and will never again know.

[teyvatians]

FINALLY updated the interest tracker after well over a year !!!

also gonna make a new tagging system while I got the ooc post up ! real tired of the old one .... been using it since my first first blog I think

[wickedzeevyln]

Attic in the Basement

The coldest day In November isn’t marked by a temperature drop, but by the stark realization that no summer awaits us. He embodies a museum, a vast collection of what-could-have-been meticulously curated, indifferent to the relentless march of time. His mind paints in number—an old warehouse before 5 a.m. Rolls of shrink wraps litter the floor, pallet jacks, dollies, and box cutters at rest.…

[pricklyjim]

———-———-———-———-———-———-———-———

In an AU where Optimus never regains his memory, and is kept as a mere clerk for Megatron... don’t mind that ink stain in the corner, the wind knocked my pen over.

•

Also, Megatron’s giving major ‘broke boyfriend’ energy with that back hug—good grief.

———-———-———-———-———-———-———-———

[senipsenipsenip]

Dipper sighed as he felt another pen crack between his molars. Great, Mabel was definitely going to make fun of him for the ink stains on his mouth when she got home. He could hear it now, Wow Dipper, I knew you were a nerd, but I didn't know if I left you alone you'd start kissing your homework.

Dipper sighed and threw the pen into the trash with the other three he'd already snapped. It wasn't fair - he spent the whole summer fighting monsters and saving the world, why did he have to learn the stupid Great Depression's effect on American Literature or whatever. He glanced at the calendar. Only a little over a month until winter break. Grunkle Stan and Great Uncle Ford had promised to try and make it back to Gravity Falls so they could host the twins for the holidays. Sure, they had only been on the open ocean for a couple of months, but the two of them decided it would probably be best to start with a shorter trip then build up from there. After all, despite their age, they were still rookies. Besides, there was nothing on the sea that would help jog Stan's memory other than Great Uncle Ford's questioning. Being on home soil would hopefully bring back some more of Stan's forgotten past.

Dipper's phone pinged. He frowned. That shouldn't happen. He had his phone on Do Not Disturb so he could finish studying. The only alerts that would still pass through were texts from Mabel, Grunkle Stan, or Great Uncle Ford. Mabel never texted when she was out with her friends, and it's not like there was a lot of cell reception out at sea. Curiosity peaked, Dipper unlocked his phone.

It was Stan. More specifically, Stan's boots on the deck of the boat. It was a video, and before Dipper could press play, three little dots appeared indicating Stan was typing. Dipper sat back and waited. It usually took Grunkle Stan awhile to type out his messages. He always blamed the too small phone screen, saying it wasn't designed for fat fingers and cataracts.

What does this mean?

Dipper frowned at the message. Was he asking Dipper to decode a message? Why wouldn't he just ask Great Uncle Ford? Unless...oh gosh was Great Uncle Ford in danger? Did they need help? Why wouldn't he call? Dipper turned his volume up as high as he could, pressing play with a sweaty thumb.

The video started on Stan's boots, but quickly shifted as Stan started pointing his phone at something on the...oh. The wooden planks Dipper had seen Stan standing on weren't the planks of the boat deck, they were floorboards for an outdoor patio. A patio that was full of people speaking...some sort of language. Something Nordic maybe. Geez, weren't they freezing? Maybe not because...Nordic.

The camera was pointed at the door separating the bar from the patio, specifically, the top right corner where a set of speakers had been hung. Oh, Dipper realized. He's trying to record the music. Dipper held the phone to his ear. Maybe Stan was trying to figure out a secret code in the lyrics? He was pretty sure he had told Stan all about that day when they saved Wendy from Robbie's horrible music. This sounded a lot different than Robbie's music though. It was way more upbeat and -

...comin' through, that girl is youuuu...

"Oh my God," Dipper groaned, letting his head fall to his desk. Of course. Of course that's what would be playing. Of course a Nordic bar would be blasting Icelandic Pop Sensation BABBA.

Now Stan's message made sense. He had heard the song and felt "The Itching". That's what Stan had taken to calling it when he could feel himself starting to remember something, but needed a little extra help making it make sense. Stan said it was because it felt like an itching in the back of his brain. Dipper was pretty sure he called it that because if he announced he had "an itch that needs scratching" it was always a fifty-fifty toss up as to whether he needed help with a memory or literally wanted someone to help him scratch himself. Sometimes it was both. Either away, Stan got a kick out of how many times he could trick Ford.

Dipper grimaced. Maybe he could get out of this one. After all, Stan doesn't need all of his memories...right? He could forget some of the more embarrassing ones.

It's a song by BABBA. He typed. It's called "Disco Girl." There. The fact Stan's going to know that Dipper can identify the song is embarrassing enough, he doesn't need to remember The Incident.

The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Oh. OK.

Dipper sat his phone down. There. That was that. He didn't need to feel guilty about how Stan somehow managed to sound disappointed with two words. Besides, he had homework to do. He was a busy guy. Yep, not gonna think about it.

His phone pinged.

Made me think of you.

Okay. Starting to feel guilty now. Dipper sighed. Even over text message, he could hear the tone of voice Stan would say it in. That tone where he would say something like it was just a careless aside so that you wouldn't think he was taking something seriously, so then you wouldn't take it seriously, so that he could tell himself you didn't take it seriously because you thought he wasn't taking it seriously and not because you don't take him seriously or care about him seriously or -

Dipper frowned. Maybe these English classes were doing something after all. Apparently all of that fictional character analysis made him better at analyzing his uncle.

He could picture Stan now, having already sat his phone face-down on the table, wondering why there was some memory of Dipper that Dipper didn't want to share with him. Oh man, he probably thinks Dipper's tired of helping out with his memories or something.

That's because you heard me sing it once. Dipper wrote. That should be enough to jog Stan's memory a bit.

The three dots. Heard or saw?

Dipper groaned. Maybe Stan was just messing with him. He probably remembered the whole thing and was just trying to get Dipper to regale him with the story again so he could laugh at him.

Whatever. Dipper would be the bigger man.

Both. You walked in on me after I got out of the shower. You really need to learn how to knock, man.

There. That should be enough. Hopefully Stan and Ford will get back on the boat and see a giant Kraken or something equally as awesome so Stan forgets all about this conversation.

He exited out of their message thread and opened up his thread with Great Uncle Ford. Whatever "clever" joke Stan wanted to make at his expense would probably take forever to write. Might as well take advantage of the good cell service while he knows they have it.

Hey! Are you with Grunkle Stan?

Three bubbled appeared. Dipper didn't have to wait long. Ford was a surprisingly quick texter.

Yes, we're exploring the town together. I take it you're the one he's been texting?

Yeah. He had an itch. Nothing crazy, just a song he heard this summer he couldn't remember the name of. Okay, he probably could have told Ford. Especially after learning about the whole Kiss-Bot incident, Dipper's BABBA incident definitely didn't come close. But c'mon, wasn't Dipper allowed to have at least one family member who thought he had a shred of dignity left?

He smiled. Probably not. After all, he was a Pines.

Ah, that explains his behavior then.

Dipper frowned. Behavior? Is he okay?

Oh yes, of course. My apologies if my language was alarming, Stanley says I tend to word things "dramatically". He's simply trying to ask the table next to us if there are any music stores nearby. I didn't realize children still used physical CDs.

Wait. Stan is looking for a music store? Why specifically mention children? Dipper typed slowly, wording his questions as discretely as he could.

Oh? Is Stan looking for a CD?

The bubbles appeared. Then disappeared. Dipper frowned. They reappeared.

Disregard my earlier message.

Oh they were definitely up to something. Two could play at that game. You don't live with a professional con man all summer and not learn how to get what you want out of someone.

Okay. Hey, Grunkle Stan showed me a bit of the patio. Can you send a video too? Would be interested in seeing where you are.

Of course. One moment, please.

Dipper sat his phone on his desk while he waited. Realistically, he should be working on his homework while he waits. It's not like he'll be able to focus on anything when Mabel gets home. But, it's not like he can focus on anything now, mind buzzing as much as it is.

After three minutes and fifty-three seconds, Dipper's phone pinged. He grinned and pressed play.

The video started pointing toward the other side of the patio. Made sense, Ford was probably sitting across from Stan at their table. Stan was nowhere to be seen though. He must have stood up to speak to the table next to him. Dipper could see townsfolk sat at their tables in heavy winter coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. Everyone was wrapped up in their own conversations, and while Ford panned slowly across the porch, Dipper recognized another BABBA song playing faintly in the background. The owner must have had a playlist going. There were fairy lights strung up across the porch, street lamps helping illuminate the night. Wherever they were must have been in the middle of some small town, probably no bigger than Gravity Falls.

"Ford!" Grunkle Stan's voice rang out. Dipper quickly held the phone up to his ear again. There was a loud metallic grating sound - probably Grunkle Stan pulling out his chair to sit down again.

"You're never gonna believe it!" Stan sounded excited about something.

"A moment, please, Stan," Ford murmured.

"We don't have to go to the music store! Those people didn't speak English but the guy who runs this place does a little. That internet translator did the rest."

"Google, Stanley."

"Whatever. Anyway, he said he'd sell me the CD he's playing right now when he closes up for the night."

"That's great Stan. Hold on a moment I'm just trying to film this for -"

"Dipper's gonna love this! I think. It's sort of coming back to me. I think that memory he helped me with, I think..."

Stan trailed off. Dipper pulled the phone away from his ear to see if the video had ended, but Ford was still dutifully scanning their surroundings with the camera. It looked like Ford had stood up, holding the phone high above his head to show Dipper the coastline beyond the porch railings.

"I think I told him I was proud of him that day." Stan's confession was quiet. But Stan quiet. Which meant loud enough to be picked up on Ford's camera.

Ford's movement stopped. "You did? Why?"

"Well. I sorta did. I think. He was tryna prove he was 'a man' or whatever, so I told him he was. He stood up for what was right even though no one else agreed with him. And then I think I uh...ripped my shirt off and showed him my chest hair. Maybe I should get him to fill in some of those blanks there."

Ford laughed. "I don't remember it taking much to get you to take your shirt off."

"I'm a gross, old man now, Ford. We'd all prefer if it stayed on."

Ford hummed. "So how much is the CD?"

"Eh, he wants like 500 Kroner."

"Seems overpriced."

"Well it's gonna be free."

Ford sighed. "Stanley..."

"What?" Stan cried indignantly. "He's obviously tryna scam me anyway! Besides, it's worth it. Dipper will love it! It's a CD of a band he likes from Iceland stolen from Iceland. Trust me it'll be worth the -"

All sound stopped. The video had ended. Dipper sat at his desk, a small smile on his face. He had been so worried about Stan remembering one of his more embarrassing moments but...Stan remembered it as a day that Dipper made him proud. Huh.

He exited the video and saw that Ford had sent him another message only a minute after sending the video.

Please disregard that video. Terrible audio quality, I have to retake it.

As Dipper began to type a reply, he saw three bubbles appear. He waited.

I'm going to infer that the delay in your response is because you didn't see my message in time and already viewed the video. My apologies, I forget how strong the audio quality of phone cameras are.

Three more bubbles.

Please act surprised.

Ah well. Dipper had omitted the truth a couple of times tonight. What was one more? He started to type.

Sorry, I was working on my homework while I waited for an answer. Guess I got distracted. Should I not watch the video?

Three bubbles. Ah, I see. Yes, that would be for the best. I'll take another video for you now. In the meantime, keep up the good work!

Dipper sat his phone back down on the table and picked up another pen. Might as well do a little more homework so he wasn't totally lying. But first...

He opened his message thread with Stan.

Need help with anything else?

Nope. Go to bed.

Dipper laughed. There it was. The curmudgeon was back, trying to hide the fact he was a big softie underneath.

It's earlier here you know. If anyone should be in bed, it should be you.

I'm old. I do what I want.

Okay old man. Love you!

Sap.

Dipper snorted and sat down his phone. A moment later, it pinged again. He glanced at the screen and saw it was another message from Stan. It was only two words, but they knocked together like flint and steel, lighting something warm in Dipper's chest.

You too.

AN: A continuation of this! I kind of just want to write a bunch of one shots going with this. Some ideas are brewing!

[charliemwrites]

Still thinking about yesterday’s post and the dynamic that fucking snatched up my brain worms in a vice grip.

Reader who is perfectly capable, has a well earned spot on her team. Who has safety net after safety net provided by the mere presence of the rest of 141. So much so that she doesn’t even remember what fear is. Living in that invincible bubble of “we’re the best because we look out for each other and we’re not going to let anything happen to each other”

And the day that bubble pops and you don’t even realize it yet. A chance encounter with a KorTac operative and you stole his kill right out from under him. Made eye contact in a shower of blood, maybe even threw him a cheeky grin, high on stims as you were.

You didn’t realize that you’d stepped outside the metaphorical bounds of your little safe zone, stepped right into the territory of a feral, untamed creature with sharp teeth and the scent of you cloying in his nose. A scent that made his blood sing a siren song of want.

It’s not just happenstance that you cross paths again. (Not that you know that). Hes been seeking you out, taking mission after mission in a dogged attempt to see you again. To see if it was more than a fluke.

And his impatience, his persistence, is rewarded with the silhouette of you, breaking a man’s neck with your thighs. (If the man weren’t surely dead, he’d wish he was for the crime of having your attention, of being smothered by your thighs, of being that close to your cunt.)

In your precious stealth gear, sleek and deadly, eyes sharp on the path ahead, not the shadow gathering behind you. He just watches you for a long while, soaking you up like a dry earth in a squall, letting you take root deep, deep within his being, in the place a soul should be. (You’re better than.)

He’s got your callsign now, whispered by one of your team members as their path intersects with yours. Narrowed eyes at the (too) friendly shake given to the hard mask covering your mouth and nose, the way your cheeks rounded with a grin beneath.

What was an interest has evolved instantaneously into an obsession. (Or devotion. Or love. They’re all the same to him, all the same kind of possession.)

He loves watching you fight as much as he loves watching you kill. He’s hard in his tac pants experiencing it this close, getting to feel each unforgiving strike in all the openings he leaves for you - invitations you always accept because you’re his good girl and you can’t resist, of course not.

He purrs when he gets you pinned to the wall, your eyes big, sparking with that animal knowledge that you’ve been bested by a bigger predator. That you’ve been won, claimed. To the victors go the spoils, and the only thing he’s lost is his restraint.

You’re panting and squirming beneath him, and he’s hypnotized, unable to do more than press closer, press harder to get you wriggling against him. Moaning softly when your heel digs a bruise into his calf, how you go still with a sort of realization.

“Again,” he rasps into your ear, “go on, pretty little hunter. Keep going. You’re so strong.”

But before you can, something over his shoulder steals your attention. Your eyes flick away from, where they should be. And he realizes that he been so consumed by you, intoxicated, that he missed the intrusion on your moment together.

In the aftermath, his gear smells like you. The place where he slipped his thigh between yours and pressed he swears smells like your cunt, heady perfume. He’s breathes it in as he fucks his tight fist, high on the memory of your strength testing itself against his.

He imagines the scent of him all over you in return. Going back to those men with his claim in your armor, wishes you’d taken the blade with you, his blood smearing your gloves, your shirt, your pants, staining your skin.

He cums to that thought, thick spurts all over a grainy print out of you from the op he first met you on, milky drops on the ink that forms your mask.

Soon, it’ll be reality.

[kingkat12]

nightmare (eric draven x reader)

WARNINGS: angst, mentions of blood, kinda spoilers?

summary: you were sure that your murder was a nightmare... all until you had to face the deep, dark truth of why you were waking up from it in the first place

word count: 1,018

I had no idea where I was when I finally awoke. 

It felt as though I had been sleeping for several days. Images from my supposed nightmare flashed before my eyes-- both of us getting choked out in plastic bags on his bedroom floor, Eric's muffled screams of struggle, the sound of my nails clawing against the wooden floors, trying to cling onto any last slivers of life. The memory made me press Eric even closer to my chest as we knelt in a pool of red, muddy water. He held me tighter than ever before, almost as though he had lived through my nightmare as well; because that's what that had been, right?

Just a nightmare. Nothing more.

However, I quickly realized something was wrong. I dared to look up at the sky, seeing the ruins of skyscrapers resembling our hometown of New York towering above us; this place looked like the equivalent of what would happen if humans abandoned the city. It looked like we were at an abandoned train station, with a thick, grey fog surrounding us. Eric's sobs brought me back, and I pressed him harder against me. "I just had the worst nightmare," I mumbled, my fingers digging into the back of his soaking wet coat. "I swear it was almost as though I was in hell just now."

With this, Eric's grip around me only tightened, and I could feel his lower lip quivering against my neck. "It's over now," he whispered, his words coming out with his next shaky breath. "You'll never have to go back there again."

What? I pulled away, taking his tear-stained face into my hands. "Eric, it was just a dream," My thumbs brushed over the ink he had smeared around his eyes and across his cheeks. "Baby, what happened to you? Why are you so..." It took me a few seconds to realize that it wasn't only ink. Suddenly, the strong smell of iron hit me like a wave-- it was blood. 

My heart sunk all the way down into my shoes; "Eric...?" I felt my hands give in to a tremble as I brushed over the blood trickling down from his forehead. It wasn't coming from an injury, and that was a relief... until I realized what that meant. He was practically sprayed in it from top to bottom. "What have you done? Where are we?"

Eric took my hands into his, a certain hollow look about him. "I've made a deal... And I did what I had to do to bring you back," 

My eyes immediately filled with tears, remembering the feeling of my soul getting sucked out of me and watching the same happen to the love of my life. "I'm so confused, Eric, what's happening?--"

The ground beneath us shook, and Eric immediately pulled me into a kiss, pulling me flush against his chest in an act of desperation. "My life for yours," he breathed in between flashes of aching passion, the taste of salty tears and blood mixing in with our kiss. "I did it all for you. Everything."

I grabbed his blood-soaked coat, pulling him away from me as I felt another sob build in my chest. "What did you do?" I cried, shaking him. A chilly breeze passed us, followed by the loud cawing of crows gathering in a circle above our heads. "Eric, please!" I recognized the coat from the time we first went to my apartment-- the flashing memories of our good days made the wait for his answer even worse. 

The coldness of the water around us made me shiver as Eric grabbed my face, tears streaking down his ink-stained cheeks. The beautiful man I loved, the man I wanted to marry, had never looked so broken before, and it was scaring me more than anything ever had. "I killed them all," he whispered against me, his voice lowering with darkness hiding in the depths of his words. "All of them. Every single one of them. And now the balance is restored, and you can get your life back."

It shook me to see a smile forming across Eric's lips, who now seemed to be finding solace in his actions.

My nails dug into the fabric of his coat, the sinking of my heart ensuing as I cried in his arms. Horror struck me as I realized that everything hadn't been a nightmare, after all. "No, Eric, no, you didn't!--"

"I did," he breathed, his words just as hollow as his gaze. Eric's soft smile only made my heart ache more; "I love you more than life itself. Knowing I have avenged you, knowing you will be safe, will allow me to rest."

"Rest?!" My cries grew louder, holding onto him for dear life as the crows above us became many more, the cawing persisting. "Eric, get up, let's just go!" 

Finally mustering the strength to stand up, tugging at the sleeves of his coat, I quickly realized he was stuck to the ground. Panic filled me as Eric didn't try to fight it, making no attempts to save himself from his destiny. "I love you," he breathed, holding onto my wrists as he slowly started sinking into the puddle, the smile remaining on his face. "Remember me."

I fell to my knees once more, wrapping my body around him as I sobbed. "Stop it!" The cry I let out was unlike anything I knew I was capable of, watching the heartbreak streak down Eric's beautiful, green eyes. "Get up, Eric, get up!" 

Eric's body was now halfway sunken into the ground, his grip around me loosening. "I love you," he echoed, pulling me in for one last tear-stained kiss.

After Eric disappeared into the ground, I clawed at the mud for what felt like hours, crying out into the foggy abyss. I didn't know where I would find the strength to leave, how I was supposed to live knowing he had sold his soul for mine, taking my place in whatever hell I had just been in during my few days of death.  "I love you," I sobbed, screaming my throat raw.

"Eric! Eric!"

[bangaveragewhitewine]

laundry day

Dad!Eddie Munson X Mom!Reader 

Laundry day in the Munson residence. 

Word Count: 1.1k

Author’s Note: After weeks and weeks of struggling to write, I finished something and I’m genuinely happy with how it turned out. It’s short, it’s sweet. I hope you like it!  

proofread by @specialagentmonkey (best!!), dividers by @saradika-graphics

Nimble fingers pluck freshly washed socks from the basket, pinching wooden pegs to hang them carefully from the washing line in the garden. 

You watch him with a smile on your face, thinking of his reaction if you had told him all those years ago that this was how it would be. Ink-stained and guitar-string scarred fingers that rolled joints with muscle memory alone, hanging out baby clothes on the washing line in the garden. Your garden. A green patch of land sewn up tight against the house; your home together, a few miles from the city.

You think he would laugh, deep dimples and that smoky cackle and perhaps a hopeful sparkle in his eyes, if you told him all those years ago that this is how it ends up. The two of you standing side by side, barefoot in the grass, hanging out baby clothes,  watching them flutter in the breeze against the big blue sky.

Do we make it out of here? I didn’t fuck things up, did I? Am I good… A good Dad? 

He places the pegs delicately to drape one of his t-shirts (black) next to one of her sleepsuits (pastel yellow), hanging by the toes. A pair of your undies, two pairs of his boxers, another pair of tiny socks.

Eddie cried the first time he held one of her socks. The gravity and weight of this tiny thing, its overwhelming magnitude. His world was forever changed after he held that scrap of white cotton. An intimidatingly small sock that fit in the palm of his hand, its pair laid out on the bed with the spoils of your shopping trip - vests and baby grows and mittens. 

“Why am I crying? What the hell, it’s so small?!” He had laughed through tears and you laughed with him until you held each other crying a salty blend of happy and terrified tears. And then Melody came and she cried and smiled and laughed, and she wore those tiny socks.

She looks just like him, follows him like his shadow. Dark curls, big brown eyes, impish mischief. He taught her how to headbang as soon as her neck was strong enough. Toddling now, she squats on her baby-fat legs and dips clumsily into the laundry basket to hand him one of her socks, then one of yours, one of his own, and on and on until the basket is empty.

“Thank you. Thank you, Mel. Thank you very much.” Letting her know her help is invaluable after every item is passed and pegged. 

She beams at Eddie with that sunshine-bright smile, appreciating his appreciation of her helpfulness. Sometimes she will look over at you, sitting on the picnic blanket full of forgotten toys and books, and wave or babble-tell you how helpful she’s being with one hand on her Dad’s leg to keep her steady.

“You’re such a good helper, Melody. Good job!” wiggling your fingers her way before she goes back to helping, handing Eddie one of her t-shirts.

“Dada.”

“Thank you kindly, Miss.” 

When he reaches down for the next item, mentally calculating how many pegs are left and how much washing there is still to hang, Melody reaches up without anything to hand him. 

“Up!” 

“Up? Am I hanging you with the laundry?” Eddie asks, hands on his hips. You bite your lip, smiling at their standoff.

“Up, Dada!”

He is easily weakened by her doe eyes and that pouty lower lip. A critical hit through the Melody-shaped chinks in his armour. 

He sounds more like Wayne when he lifts her, knees creaking and his back twinging, and settles her on his hip. A kiss and then another shared as she holds on tight, their heads together and you can’t tell where her curls stop and where Eddie’s begin.

“Is that better? See, these are the socks you handed me.” He pokes one with his finger, smiles when she shadows him. “Mama’s socks and Melody’s pyjamas. Daddy’s vest.”

He pinches a peg, hands it to her to inspect as you cross the garden to join them.  

“Hi, Mama.” Eddie smiles, warm like the sun, and draws you close with his arm around your waist.

“Hi, Daddy.” His unshaven cheek bristles against your lip, prickly but no less lovely than Melody’s baby-soft face as you dole out kisses. “Hi, darling girl.”

“Mama!”

Okay, maybe her cheek is a little more addictively kissable and you find your nose nuzzling the warm pocket of her neck until she’s shriek-giggling right in her Dad’s ear. His battle-worn eardrums from decades of heavy metal are no match for her, making his eye twitch. 

“Jesus. The pipes on this kid,” he tuts, blowing a raspberry on her other cheek for good measure until her laughter rings through the garden, mingling with your own in-love-with-life laugh.

Eddie’s laughter is low in his throat lest he unleash that near-dastardly cackle into the sky. The low rumble settles into your bones and you feel fit to burst with how happy you are. How lucky you are. 

Eddie’s fingers slip beneath the hem of your t-shirt, squeezing your waist as you curl against him. Three bodies swaying gently in the breeze like the clean clothes that flutter on the washing line. 

Barefoot in the green grass, you balance the laundry basket on your hip, passing the last few socks and vests to Eddie. Passing them slowly, you watch as he guides Melody’s little fingers to drape and peg them carefully. He murmurs praise against the crown of her head, presses proud kisses against the curls they share.

The basket is empty and you step back, admiring their hard work. A washing line full of clean clothes - band shirts and sleepsuits and socks in three sizes. There are bedsheets and towels and Eddie’s work overalls still to be washed, clothes to be ironed and folded and put away inside your little house. They can wait. 

For now, you stand and watch the laundry in the gentle breeze against the big blue sky. You think about the boy you fell in love with; the blush on his cheeks when you first held his hand and the way he smiled at you after the first kiss. You think of the late nights lying on his bed, dreaming out loud about the future and wishing on shooting stars and fallen eyelashes that one day those dreams would come true. 

Eddie is already looking at you when you turn your head. Thinking about the girl he fell in love with, thinking about how he would have smiled if you told him all those years ago that this would be how his life turned out; still side by side, hanging baby clothes on the washing line in your garden. 

thank you for reading! reblogs, comments & likes are cherished and adored

[frostbitebakery]

for @ferretrade

.Hashmarks

“I’ve seen a few troopers commemorating their kills with those,” Aayla comments, pointing her stylus at his collarbone where his shirt has slipped down.

It’s absolutely sweltering on this planet whose name Bly is saving in his long term memory just to avoid it in the future. Breathing feels like swallowing water, sitting still has him sweating more profusely than the 16-hour battle sims they endured during training. So of course his temp-regulating undersuit is shot to hell and their quartermaster is a mean bastard trying to teach him a lesson in taking better care of his stuff.

Bly had wanted to cry and beg for mercy.

Instead he had narrowed his eyes, nodded once in menacing silence, and turned back to his duties, hoping to instill at least some fear and regret in Q.

Aayla, his cruel savior, had crinkled her nose at him and offered a very large, very billowy shirt when he had sweat-squelched his way to their command tent. “It’s Quinlan’s, originally,” she had explained at his curious look. “He didn’t want it anymore.”

“Too many sleeves?” Bly had guessed hazardously.

So now he’s sitting in shorts and a billowy shirt at their shared desk, the collar constantly slipping off his shoulder because Vos is huge, and it’s an all-around aggravating situation. Except Aayla who’s lovely and can do no wrong, obviously. But who’s also taking an interest in his tattoos which Bly is not prepared for since his brain is actively melting.

“They’re for my batch mates,” he thus replies to her inquiry.

While the frown is settling into her features, her eyes flick down to count the marks.

Bly kind of wants to cringe. Oops.

“I thought batches were… decanted,” bless her for stumbling over that word, “in fives?”

He leans back, shrugs deliberately which has the added bonus of the shirt hiding the hashmarks again. “Now, yeah.”

“Cody, Wolffe, Fox,” she counts, her eyes boring into him. She’s like a massif with a bone, and there are moments Bly wants to be a chew toy. Sadly, this isn’t one of them. “I’m sorry about Ponds,” she says, means it with all her heart. “And you. I thought that was your batch?”

“Now. Yeah,” he repeats, half-smile lifting one side of his mouth. Does his best to not let the relief be palpable for her senses.

.Lightning

“Does it really have to mean anything when it looks this cool?” He almost cracks his neck trying to look at his back in the mirror. Lightning bolts strike out from his spine, wrapping around his upper arms like electric wings.

So cool.

“Your body, your choice,” Aayla says diplomatically.

Never mind the nay-sayers.

.Tic Tac Toe

“Ow,” Bly groans.

“Fucking tubie,” Squid hisses at him, bloody hands doing stuff way too fast for him to follow, “stop crying, it’s just a flesh wound.”

Holy hell, but the spots in front of his eyes do seem to grow larger. “You’re holding my innards,” he points out just as Squid throws away something bloody. “Don’t I still need that?”

“That was a wound pad, stupid.”

Wow, the black spots are in color now. “Mind the regs, soldier,” he slurs out.

Squid pulls a bandage - when did he do that? He’s incredible. He makes tattoos and medic stuff! - way too tight. “Commander Stupid,” he relents with another harsh pull. Bly pouts at him. “Congrats, you won the game.”

Bly weakly fist bumps the air. “Yay.”

.327

“Well,” he huffs out with a chuckle, leans back against the hull, “they’re my everything. Body, heart, soul. I’m ready to die for them.”

“They’re ready to die for you, too,” Aayla says quietly.

“Yeah.” He watches her roll the mug a trooper, long gone, made for her between her hands. “Wish they’d stop that.”

.Splinters

Squid wipes away the excess ink with ease and practice. “Well, it looks as stupid as you wanted it to. My work here is done.”

“Are you sure you can’t see the tattoo underneath?”

“Of course.” Squid pulls off the stained gloves, throwing him a judging side-eye. “No one will know what exactly you “hearted”, Commander.”

.Text

“Out of my way,” Aayla reads off his hand while he is unfairly under the influence of way too many drugs, “Rippin off my flesh, so you can’t recognize me, anymore.”

“I was an angsty youth,” he explains, maybe still sore about Wash forgetting the g in ripping.

She nods sagely. “That explains your taste in music.”

“I love polka.”

“No, the other one—“ She pats his hand which she’s still holding. His hand is so lucky. “Never mind. When you get out of here I’m introducing you to grunge and taking you flannel-shopping.”

His head is already nodding. His body is awesome at responding. “You’re like my sugar daddy,” he compliments her. Her and her twin. No, that can’t be right. He blinks and there’s only one Aayla again.

She snorts at him. “Showing you the holonet has been a mistake and keeps me up at night.”

.Flowers

“I wanna be a hi—,” Bly hiccups, fumbles with his drink before it goes all over Cody. “Hibi—“

“Hibiscus,” Fox suggests more drily than his drink.

“That one! I wanna be a hibiscus in my next life.” Just chilling in the sun all day, getting watered.

“I wanna be a spexcel sheet,” Cody says to the soaked through napkin which is stuck to his face but also to the table.

“We know,” the rest of them say in unison.

Man, being a hibiscus would be amazing. He will not remember this by morning.

Bly sits up in alarm at that revelation, spills his drink over Cody anyway. “I will not remember wanting to be a hibiscus,” he says, keeps his voice from wobbling by the skin of his teeth.

“You could write it on Cody the spexcel sheet to remember,” Wolffe suggests, pats Cody’s head when vague grunts of agreement sound from the napkin.

“Or,” Fox drawls out with a slow grin.

.

Bly very carefully tugs on the bandage with squinting eyes. The foil and adhesive separating from his skin is loud as fuck but needs must when it comes to facing the fallout of a drunken night. The bandage slowly reveals tender but well-healing skin, gold and a dark brown accentuating his skin.

He stares.

“This is not a hibiscus.”

[inkdemonapologist]

theres no context to this, sometimes u just want to imagine a dishevelled joey drew u know

[seelie-buddy]

Put your head on my shoulder

summary : alhaitham keeps you company after you had a tiresome day, but he doesn't realise when you drift off into dreamland

contains : alhaitham is glad to see you rest after you finished off a tiresome task ; fluff ; gn!reader, this drabble is written in second person

word count : 545

The solitary silence of Razan Garden allowed it to be the perfect place where Alhaitham could visit after his work hours. It was a place he often frequented as a student, and it was during one such visit, that he had met you.

So when the scene from his memories was recreated, as the last rays of sunlight danced on the horizon, he could only smile.

As his boots clicked silently on the stone path, he could see you sitting down beside the decorative flowers; your belongings were scattered hastily and your attention was devoted to frowning at the notebook resting on your thighs.

"What's wrong?" He asked as he approached you, making sure not to step on any of your stationery.

You glance up at him for a brief moment, and the tiresome look in your eyes was not foreign to him.

"I've been going over this equation for a while, and my solution is far from the answer."

Ah, so that's what was bothering you.

Alhaitham acknowledged your dilemma with a hum, as he glanced over your notebook.

The page was littered with numericals, lots of crossed out answers, and ink smudges.

"My entire project is dependent on getting these calculations accurate, and I've been trying for so long," you groaned, rubbing the heel of your palm over your eyes.

With how you managed to stain your hands with ink, Alhaitham was curious about how none got on your face. "When is it due?" He asked instead.

"The day after tomorrow," you answered, staring down at the miserable mess that is your notebook.

"You'll sort it out until then."

You looked up from the notebook and towards the other, who had already begun to read a book whilst you whined.

You hummed, repeating his words over in your mind. You'll sort it out.

Alhaitham's eyes drifted away from his book at the sound of your pen scratching against the page of your notebook. You began anew on a fresh, blank page; he smiled.

The sun, now fully hidden below the horizon, allowed the moon to light up the city. Alhaitham felt a weight against his shoulder, prompting his eyes to move away from his book.

Oh.

You were asleep.

How much time passed, he did not know, but he could wager up a guess of somewhere between an hour and two.

Your eyes were shut, and your hair occasionally flowed with the soft wind, and now that you were asleep, you appeared more at peace; undisturbed by the world, not a worry on your mind.

Alhaitham's eyes shifted from you to the notebook resting on your lap. The page was filled with calculations, but at the end, highlighted, was the solution. Running over the numbers in his head, he guessed you had finally arrived at the answer you were looking for.

In the life of a scholar, everyday was filled with competition and challenges; he was glad you had one burden less off your mind.

And he wouldn't allow the noise of the students walking through the garden disturb this peace you gained.

Without shifting much, he removed the headset he wore, and placed it over your ears. Now, Alhaitham smiled softly at your sleeping figure, you can rest without the world interrupting.

request, by🌙 anon :

hihi, i wanted to let you know that i enjoyed your recent diluc fic like alot♡

is it alright if i request something similar? as in, reader being tired and falling asleep on the character and they dont mind? if you dont mind could this be for like maybe al haitham?

also, could i be🌙 anon?

a/n : aww thanks nonnie! this was fun to write!!

p/s : If you have any other requests, don't hesitate to send in an ask!!

[mintmatcha]

Inevitable Things : chapter eight

aizawa x reader fic

cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks. Mentions of drug use

previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter

A lot of cheap black hair dye is just concentrated blue. 

The first time Touya dyed his hair black, you sat in the sink of his parent's bathroom and pointed out all the spots he missed. You were sixteen and love still tasted like his cinnamon gum. He stood in his tub, school uniform still on, collar and skin stained with ashy blue water that ran down from his scalp. Smears of it were somehow everywhere: against the tiled walls, across the front of his button down, and even down the span of the porcelain tub. The memory is drowned in blue, from the curtains to the twinkle in his eye.  A metaphor sits on your tongue whenever you think about it, too obvious to hold, too painful to ignore.

“Your parents are gonna be so pissed,” you said. Your own parents thought you were studying with your friends, instead of perched in your boyfriend’s private bathroom, door closed and away from the prying eyes of his younger siblings. 

“Whatever.”

He wasn’t skinny back then, before the tattoos, piercings and heroin. When he raised his arms to wash the sludge of boxed dye from his hair, the tiniest bit of pudge on his stomach stuck out from the edge of his shirt, but Touya was attractive enough -and unhinged enough- that no one ever used it against him. He was handsome in the same way his mother was beautiful: tragically, classically. A button nose, clear eyes, with almost transparently pale skin: loving him, being loved by him, made you feel like Jane Eyre.

“Enji’s been itching to remodel this bathroom anyway. It’ll give Rei a reason to get out of bed.”  His relationships with both parents were always so volatile, even before the fall. His mother bounced from overpresent and panicked, to completely absent, stuck in bed for seemingly weeks at a time. Touya said the whole cycle would never stop; it was because she hated the medications her doctor’s gave her, but also couldn’t live without them. Made the world too quiet, she said, couldn’t stand the quiet for too long. 

(Later, Touya found out how much he craved that quiet, how much he loved being alone in it all. He’d pick at the medicine cabinet until his dad found out and threatened to kill him if it happened again.)

With freshly black hair, Touya shook his head like a dog and splatters of blue water sprinkled across the bathroom. Wetness makes hair darker, but you know that even dry,  You giggled and it pulled out peels of laughter from him too, until you were both hunched over, giggling at nothing and everything all at once. He stepped out of the tub and inserted himself between your legs, hands coming to ghost over your face as he held you exactly how you needed. The spots where his ears were pierced were still and swollen, like unripe cherries. 

“Do you like it?” His smile was freshly straight-- or maybe his braces were still on at that point. The details have been revisited so many times that you’ve begun to forget them, but you have no doubt that he smiled-- bright and sweet and juvenile in ways he’ll never touch again. 

“I’ll miss the blonde,” you admitted. “But this is kinda cute too.”

He clutched you tight and you held him back, his head in your hands.  “You’re so fucking mean to me.”

And you kissed him quiet. And you kissed him until the taste of cinnamon was synonymous with the taste of being alive. There was a metaphor there, something too obvious, something  When he pulled away, your fingers were marked with him, dye running down your fingers and wrists, blue burying into your skin, so, deep, so vivid-

“Uh oh, did your pen explode?”

 Hizashi’s voice drags you back to the present.

Your hands are stained with ink. The bottom of your pen case is spotted in blue.

“Yeah, sorry, uh-”  You flounder a bit as you look around the front seat. Unlike Kaminari’s car, there’s no excess trash or tissues floating about to grab. 

“I have wipes in the glovebox, babygirl.” 

 You carefully pop it open. Hizashi’s car is nice - all black pleather and freshly vacuumed floors, with seats that recline all the way back. You’re careful not to ruin anything as you tug a wipe free and scrub away the stains, silently working until your skin starts to wrinkle. The sun has decided to peek out for the first time in a week, much to Hizashi’s delight; he’s been humming along to the radio since your apartment, bouncing from channel to channel as he pleases. The UA Conference and Exposition starts today and, if the GPS is correct, you’ll be there early enough to get your bearings before the fun begins.

And, if the GPS is correct, you only have 15 minutes to gather yourself before Aizawa Shouta enters the car.

After the incident, Aizawa had started working from home, either for his benefit or HR’s. His absence left a void in the office that was quickly filled with intern’s chaos. Turns out, Aizawa really was keeping them all in line all this time-- as far as you can tell, almost no work has gotten done since he’s been gone. That’s the real tragedy of it all: he’s terribly good at his job and the company probably couldn’t float without him. HR would have a nightmare of a time replacing him.

Not that you want him gone. 

You’re hurt, sure, but bringing HR into this mess would only open a can of worms and every little bug would link back to the fact you sent the man an unprompted nude. 

Hizashi turns the radio down, leaving you two alone with the whir of the wheels against the road. “You okay? You’ve been bleh all week.”

“Yeah, I’m just--” Sad, pissed, poor, lonely, pathetic-  “Nervous about this convention.”

It’s not a lie. As the week crept along, you found yourself more and more nervous for this trip, partially because of Aizawa, mostly because of everything else. You’ve never been to one of these events before-- what if you say the wrong thing, or miss a panel, or you’re not dressed well enough and you make the company look stupid? There’s so many silly little faux paus you could commit without even realizing it-

“Don’t be. It’ll be fun.” Hizashi glances over his pink prada sunglasses. As usual, he’s dressed well, donning a deep eggplant colored button down and freshly pleated black pants. “There’s a lot of things going on, sure, but there’s a bunch of things to see and swag bags to collect-”

He nudges you with his elbow until it teases a giggle out of you. 

“And there’s always rich, hot doctors looking for a weekend fling.”

“I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun with them,” you say.

“You’re the one who needs to have fun with them!” Hizashi says.  “You need a play thing to get your mind off of… everything.”

He grimaces at the last word and you wonder how much he knows about what's been happening in office.  Probably a lot; you haven’t told him, but you know how everyone talks. You both get quiet for a bit, then Hizashi starts up again, that seasick smile still on his face.

“I actually think if you guys would stop biting each other’s heads off, you’d be best buds.” he says, “I do! He’s a really good hearted guy when he isn’t-”

“When he isn’t calling my boyfriend a junkie?” you quickly correct yourself before Hizashi can react. “Ex boyfriend.”

“He feels bad about that. Really. He just can’t bring himself to apologize correctly-- I’ll make him tell you, you’ll see.”

“Hizashi, that sounds like hell.” You sink down into the seat with a groan. You can imagine Aizawa’s stupid, uncaring face as he’s forced to apologize to you during your almost three hour-long car ride. No escape, nowhere to hide. God, it feels like some convoluted punishment that an author would come up with for shitty fanfiction.

He pulls off of the highway into a part of town you don’t recognize. It’s more suburban, with neighborhoods right near the train stations. This air isn’t as rich as Toshinori’s neighborhood, but you can taste the money. 

 “Can’t he drive himself today?” you complain, watching the GPS click closer and closer to arrival time.

“Can you drive yourself?”

The question flusters you. “I could, but I don't have a car.”

“Then you just have to deal with it, sorry!” Hizashi hums a couple bars of music in between words.  “See? There’s something you two can bound over: being driven around by me-”

Very funny. If you guys were going to bond over anything, it’d be the fact that you- well--

Huh. Actually, you don’t know very much about the man at all. You know he likes yellow, that he works too hard, that maybe he likes cats… You certainly didn’t know he lived in a place like this.

Maybe he’s a secret serial killer. Or he kicks puppies. You don’t know!

Before you can work yourself into a tizzy, Hizashi takes a turn and you’re there. Aizawa’s house is smaller than you expected-- much smaller. It’s quaint, almost twee, and certainly not a new construct. It reminds you of old New England, this faded blue thing tucked onto the corner of a street. Nicely mowed lawn, small bushes in freshly turned soil: and you have to laugh at the thought of Aizawa doing physical labor. It’s painfully humble. 

Before today, it was as if Aizawa didn’t exist outside of Prome. He existed only in those four walls and the stories Nemuri and Hizashi told you over late night drinks.

…and, of course, in your text messages.

The flux of work and real life is always strange to handle-- especially your own. You try to keep the mess from spilling together. Their densities are different: work rises to the top when home keeps sinking below it.

You think of Touya and the ink stains on your palms.

A cat lounges in the window of the top floor, black fur brown in the sunshine as it stretches long. A hand ruffles it for a moment before disappearing and Aizawa Shouta is out of the house about a minute later, bag in hand. Unlike Hizashi, he’s not dressed up-- in fact, he’s dressed worse than usual. Sweatpants and a white t-shirt: he looks like he’s about to fall asleep, not present for a crowd. He takes a second to tuck a key under the mat before trudging over.

Leaning over you, Hizashi wolf whistles out of your window, loud enough your ears ache at the sound.

“Hey, sexy!”

“Children live in this neighborhood, Mic.” 

The older man throws open your door and looms down at you, no humor in his face. A beat passes before he clears his throat expectantly. His raven black hair makes you feel uneasy and you don’t want to figure out why.

“I need the front seat,” Aizawa says after a moment.

Of course he does. What a prick. Your head snaps to Hizashi, searching for backup, but he throws his hands into the air. 

“Do not bring me into this.”

“But I don’t want to move.” You huff and pretend to scroll on your phone, sucking your cheeks hollow in defiance. 

Aizawa’s lip twitches down. 

“Are you seven?”

“You’re the one demanding a front seat,” you shoot back.  “Do you get car sick? Like a toddler?”

“Are you done?”  

“I am.”

“Then move.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

With a rather hefty thunk, Hizashi bounces his head against the steering wheel. “Oh my god, are you guys going to torture me like this all weekend? Because I can’t take much more of this.”

“If she would listen-” Aizawa starts.

“Just tell her!”

Tell you what? You glance up and realize he doesn’t look annoyed. No, his brow is knitted up, his expression is mild. He’s fidgeting with the hem of his suitcase, digging his nail into the seam with a little tap-tap-tap-

He’s nervous?

Your first reaction is to scoff. Who cares that he’s nervous? Not you! Why would you care about some ancient, heartless cunt’s feelings?

But then he clears his throat and steps back, admitting defeat.

“I-” Shouta clears his throat again, voice low. “Fine. I’ll sit in the back.”

Dammit. God fucking damn it. You’re already unbuckling your seatbelt before he can move. 

“You can have the stupid seat.” Your attitude is gone, but you keep pretending. “But you owe me.”

Aizawa visibly relaxes, but he still sneers at you. “Whatever.” 

You two shuffle around each other and you banish yourself to the rear. It’s actually not bad; the seat is bigger and comfortable. You just didn’t want him to win. This is at least a win on your terms. 

“See? Hizashi sighs. “We can all be friends here! This is the ‘good vibes’ car!”

“This is not a ‘good vibes’ car. I know what you do in here,” Aizawa says as he sits. 

“You mean who he does in this car,” you mumble, not expecting to be heard. 

“No, I don’t.”  Aizawa says. “Because he doesn’t know the people he does in this car.”

You don’t laugh, but you breathe a bit heavier through your nose. Aizawa’s shoulders shake with a hint of laughter-- his own joke clearly hitting. Hizashi huffs, clearly more amused than offended.

“Just get in already, you jerks.”

Everything’s quiet until you’re back on the highway. Now, traffic is heavier as people pour into the roads for work. The sun is higher in the sky and the air is still cool post rain, humidity currently drained from the air.  You slip off your heels and tuck your legs under you. From directly behind Hizashi, you can catch a bit of his cologne-- or maybe it’s Aizawa’s? No, it has to be the blonde’s: it’s citrus, strangely sweet from a man’s scent. 

“House looks good.” Hizashi turns to his passenger. 

“Hm.” Aizawa doesn't settle back into the seat, but instead perches on the edge of it, gripping the little bar like a lifeline. In contrast, his voice is uncaring. “It’s fine. The girls are happy about the extra space, at least.”

Hizashi glances back at you through the rearview mirror, shit eating grin smeared across his face. “Shouta's told you about his babies, right?”

An unreasonable panic sets over you. “Human children?”

“What? No-- What?” Aizawa says, befuddled. “You thought I had children?”

“I don’t know!”

“I would have told you before we--- I have cats.” 

You remember the little darling you saw earlier. So, he really does like cats. Interesting. Frankly, knowing he isn’t some animal hating freak makes you feel a little better about everything that’s happened between you. He’s just a ‘you’ hating freaking.

 “Oh, I saw the black one in the window.”

“That's Sesame.” Aizawa says. “And there’s another one named Sushi.”

You snort.

“Yes, I’m a man with cats. I’m sure it’s very funny.” His voice lacks all ire when he can’t turn around and see you. 

“I didn’t think you’d pick such cute names.” you shrug. “I thought it’d be more technical like, I dunno. Motherboard. Linux. Keyboard.”

“You thought I named my cat Keyboard?” 

“Or something.”

He shakes his head and pinches his brow. “I don’t like computers; I just work on one.”  

“Speaking of work--” Hizashi anxiously cuts in before the conversation can turn sour. Traffic has slowed to a crawl, which is nothing unexpected. He lounges back, unaffected by how others honk and weave ahead. “How’s the presentation going?”

Aizawa slumps in his shoulders and groans. “Not quite as organized as I would like, but luckily it isn’t until tomorrow.”

“You’re co-hosting in that assisted mobility panel, right?  That’ll be a nice little warm up.” Hizashi says.

“Barely. That’s Tensei’s brainchild, so I won’t be speaking very much.”  

“What are you presenting on?” You know the answer, of course. You’re just trying to engage politely, for Hizashi’s sake.  “Our bed, right?”

“Partially.” Aizawa turns part way around, then changes his mind and faces front. The carsick thing must have been right on the money. “It’s more about patient care models and the efficacy of our upcoming monitoring systems for improving quality of life. I won't bore you with it.” 

You pull at your seatbelt. You don’t really want to talk to Aizawa right now, but he’s so well informed. “I’d like to hear it.” 

Besides, it’s part of your job to know these things, right? It wouldn’t be the worst thing to learn a little more about what Aizawa’s been up to this whole time. It seems like, despite all of his asshole behavior, he’s actually a pretty involved guy. An assisted mobility talk? Quality of life models? Could he actually be a good person underneath it all?

Aizawa gives you a nod, simple, but pleased. “As you know, it’s primarily to back up the paper that’s being published-”

Paper? What paper?

“But, essentially, I’m trying to convince a room of very smart people that I know what I’m talking about. Which, I do, but-”

Hizashi erupts into giggles. “You’re the worst public speaker.” 

“Thank you so much. I appreciate your vote of confidence.” Aizawa’s voice drips with sarcasm. 

“I assume our product is super good, right? That should make it easy.”

“Yes, it is, but it also isn’t. Once you figure out a method to collect data, anyone can do it. What turns a good advancement into a great one is what you do with the data.” The more he speaks, the more Aizawa’s back untenses and his legs stop bouncing.  “And convincing other people that you know what to do with all of this raw human data  is the hard part.”

He tilts his head as he continues, eyes focused forward. “This bed tracks body temperature, O2, blood pressure and pressure points, but it’s all nonsense until it’s correctly utilized. When should nurses intervene? If our model is overly sensitive, it makes nurses' jobs harder, instead of easier, and a stressed nurse negatively affects patient experience. Stress increases cortisol-”

You chime in. “And cortisol affects the cytokines, so it can delay healing.”

“How did you know that?” Hizashi asks, surprised.

“She’s smart,”  Aizawa waves it off. “But if the model isn’t sensitive enough, it won’t alert nurses at the right intervals, which can also be detrimental to patient health, especially in the ICUs and coma patients that can’t advocate for themselves.”

“And you think we’ve achieved a good balance?”

“I know we have.” The sun hits the side of his face, haloing the soft bits of stubble and highlighting the silvered skin of his scar. The gray bits of his beard are almost golden in the light, and , despite everything, you find yourself smiling just a bit. He looks different in this light, you think, even if its just in your head.  “But convincing everyone else is a different issue.”

“I believe you,” you say.

“That’s…” He fumbles for the first time.  “Thank you.”

Oh, you try to fight how you soften. Being easily won over has always been your downfall; it would be better for you to stay furious, stay vicious, but that fire inside you darkens just a bit. It’s that same fucking ship metaphor that Touya left you with: you’re used to rocky seas, you’re used to hot and cold, drowning and rescue, rocky and unpredictable seas-

The worst thing about habits is that you can see yourself falling into them again, but you still can’t quite escape the rut you’ve carved for yourself through their repetition. 

At least he thinks you’re smart. That sticks with you and buzzes in your chest. 

“You must really care about this stuff,” you say.

From what you can see through his dark curls and side profile, Aizawa’s expression is less pressed than usual. “Of course I do.”

“You guys!” Hizashi throws a watery tone into his voice, all for show. “I’m gonna cry! I love when my buddies get along.”

“We aren’t.” Aizawa is quick to interrupt.  “She’s just being polite. There’s no good will between us.”

Even though you don’t fully agree, you hum an affirmative. Sure, yes, there was a level of social obligation there, but to say there’s nothing positive between you is, well… Maybe it’s incorrect. Maybe it isn’t. 

The rest of the ride is filled with gentle conversation- nothing noteworthy, but nothing boring either. Mostly Hizashi and Aizawa bounce off of each other with little stories and memories- things about friends they used to know, tiny complaints about people around the office, how they miss Toshinori. Aizawa even laughs a couple of times: these deep, rumbling sounds, uneven in a way that sounds like he’s almost unfamiliar with the sensation of it. The two were college friends and you can feel the familiarity in how they feed off of each other.

 It’s simple, but nice, and you can see what Hizashi meant when he said you two would get along.  When he’s not at work, he could be-- 

“I’m sorry, I feel like I neglected you the whole time.” Hizashi says. Sleep had almost taken you away at that point.“I’m not trying to leave you out.”

“It’s fine-- I like listening.” You rub the grit out of your eyes, contacts sticky and dry.  “It’s like a free podcast.” 

“Most podcasts are free, baby girl.” 

The cityscape has changed. The buildings are taller, newer, shinier. It’s still the city, your city, but it has a different life than the outskirts. Gone is the touch of suburbia. If you were still young and fun and beautiful, you’d want to live here, feed yourself on culture and nightlife- 

Hizashi meets your eye in the rearview. “You’re smearing your makeup, by the way.”

“Fuck.” You try to unsmudge your eyeliner with no success. No, you aren’t a city girl, no matter how badly you’d like to be.

“It’s alright-- we have time to go to our rooms and touch up before the con starts. We each have our own room, right?”

“Mhm,” you hum. “I figured you two wouldn’t share.”

“You and Shouta would share before I shared with anyone. I take this weekend very seriously.”

“He does,” Aizawa confirms. “This is his Olympics.”

“You sound insane right now. It would be a huge liability for us to share a room,” you say.

“I am insane-- insanely good at sex.”

“Ugh.”

“Hizashi!”

It’s just after noon when you pull into the hotel’s valet. Even though the building is wedged into a city block, it’s massive and beautifully built, a marvel in its own regard. Blue tile is pressed into neat lines across the white walls, their polished shine dazzling in the low light of the lobby. With the high ceiling, it's something closer to a Grecian vacation spot than a hotel in the middle of a landlocked city. It’s luxurious, it’s rich, it’s… almost romantic. God, no wonder Hizashi gets laid at this place.

The convention hall is attached by a skybridge, this colored glass beauty hanging in the sky above where you enter. An employee catches you staring at it all with a knowing smile. Your skin itches with the idea that you look like you don’t belong here: suburbs girl, with her smeared makeup, gawking at the city. They can probably smell that you could never afford to go here on your own dime. 

Check in goes smoothly, of course. You’re organized and prepaid, so they hand you the room keys and wish you a wonderful stay.  The three rooms you’re given are spread between floors. Hizashi claims the one on the first floor for ‘easy access’ and you and Aizawa are on higher levels. You’re relieved that none of you share a wall; the vibrator you have tucked into your bag is still in the wrapping and you have no idea how loud it’ll be. It’ll be equally mortifying if a stranger hears you, but at least they won’t know who you are or what you look like. It would be a secret that died between you and them.

Oh, no. Is this too nice of a place to masturbate in? Are they going to kick you out for being a nasty little horny freak? No, they would have kicked Hizashi out years ago. Unless he knows a secret that you don’t-

“Come on.” Aizawa himself snaps you out of your spiral. Hizashi has already scurried off, leaving the two of you alone in the lobby. “The elevators are this way.”

You gather your bag and walk with him, matching his stride. He’s not a very tall man, maybe even a little short, but he marches as he walks, quick and forward and sharp. You almost have to jog to keep up. It seems like he notices this and slows his pace a little, but it might be in your head.

Neither of you say anything as you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

You check your phone, put it away, and then check it again. Aizawa presses the button again, muttering to himself. 

What is there to say at this point? Where do you even stand?

The elevator comes, the doors close. The floors tick up. You’re both facing towards the door, saying nothing. Muzak floats in the air and it’s gentle tickle feels urging, almost more empty than silence-

“I want to apologize.” Aizawa speaks so suddenly that even he seems a bit surprised at himself. Readjusting his body, bracing his arm against the railing, Aizawa doesn’t look your way, opting to jam his hand in his pockets and watch the floor.  “For it all.”

“It’s okay.” The answer is reflexive; it spills out before you can figure out exactly how you feel.

“It’s not,” he insists. “It’s just not.”

The elevator floats to a stop and the doors open.  It’s your floor. There’s so much to unpack between you, so much to understand about exactly what his apology is for-

“Thank you.” You grip your bag tight as you step out. “I think.”

A thick, warm hand envelops your wrist.  It’s grip is firm enough to turn you, but weak enough that you slip away as soon as you meet his face. Aizawa watches you; his deep, deep, dark eyes are locked on to yours and he tries to speak, mouth open but nothing coming out. He tries again, then again, before clearing his voice and shaking his head.

“Let’s pretend things are good between us.” Aizawa says finally, watching the floor once again-- and you have this awful feeling that what he’s saying isn’t what he really wants to say. “For Mic’s sake.”

You nod, swallowing this down, a beat too long. 

“I’d like it if we were normal too.”

“Okay.” The door slides closed as Aizawa says:  “For you, then.”

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Muse 🖌️| Ameond Tagaryen Headcanon

GOT/HOTD Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen marrying a noble who sketches/paints would look like:

To no surprise, your union to Aemond was a political alliance between your houses. Therefore you put on a brave face, accepted your duty, and courted the Prince for a short time before the wedding. In that time you learned a few things about Aemond, as he was rather reserved in the beginning, and you were the same. Civilized conversations, setting boundaries and expectations of the marriage, and promising not to cross the others line. 

Having fell in love with art at a young age, you were always sketching in your notebook when alone--as your father discouraged your hobbies and expected you act like the rest of the people in court. So, hidden behind the walls of your chambers or in an empty courtyard with a quill or charcoal in hand, you sketched the beauties around you. The Godswood, the Blackwater Bay. The Septa Baelor and the Red Keep. Committing the image of the Iron Throne to memory, you inked a page with the mighty chair. 

Beneath your bed you kept a trunk filled with oil paints, brushes, canvases, and other supplies you'd manage to accumulate by sneaking out to Flea Bottom with the one maid you trusted. (Not to mention you paid her a descent coin to keep your secret). All you sketched in your notebook soon took claim to a canvas. Capturing the beautiful scenery of King's Landing, you painted ships sailing in with a dragon flying in the background. Standing for hours from your bedchamber balcony, taking days or even weeks to finish the masterpiece. 

With each finished portrait, you yearned for the next. Spending all your coin and pawning off materialist things given on namedays to rather buy supplies. Soon the only person besides your maid who knew of your secret hobby/talent was Helaena. You'd often spend time with the Princess and her children that one day, when asked about things that made you happy, you told her about your art. She instantly became intrigued, requesting to see the sketches/paintings and after thinking about it you eventually did show her. 

Helaena was in awe of your work. "I've seen many paintings in the castle, and none have captured the King's Landing the way you do. You have an eye for beauty---I think you'd paint the family portraits better than the man they always hire." Soon your meetings evolved to you sitting by the windowsill sketching while Helaena focused on her embroidery while the children played. As a surprise nameday present for the Princess, you gifted her a portrait of her and the twins flying upon Dreamfyre. "This is the most thoughtful gift I've ever received. I shall cherish it forever and pass it on to my daughter when she's older." 

Around this time, you and Aemond's relationship progressed. You two went on walks, talked more and more with each day, and accompanied him to tourneys and banquets. Your admirations for him grew, turning into genuine love roughly four moons into your marriage. Long hours in the library, watching him train, and waiting for the other to arrive at the table before diving into your meal. Quality time became the thing you both valued in your relationship. Growing to compliments and light kisses to the cheek. 

Aemond had no idea of your talent. Yet he did often wonder where you'd disappear to for hours. He'd see the ink on your hands and assume you were writing letters back home. Then he noticed charcoal stains and oils on your clothes. Since your chambers were still separate, he had no knowledge of your supplies hidden under your bed or how there was an easel on the balcony where you often painted. 

It wasn't until he caught sight of the painting in the nursery that Aemond discovered your knack for the arts. Helaena had been embroidering while the children played, and you were having tea with the Queen, when Aemond asked his sister where she got the painting commissioned. Not realizing you hadn't told her brother, Helaena responded with, "Your spouse surprised me with it on my nameday. They painted it themself---Isn't it lovely?" To say he was stunned was an understatement. Aemond's jaw had dropped, scanning over the canvas with intensity, muttering so low Helaena barely heard him, "It is...exceptional."

On a mission to find you, Aemond hurried the halls with haste, now aware why you always had stains on your clothes and ink on your hands. Why you spent hours in the gardens and looked tired at breakfast. When he did eventually find you, Aemond simply said, "Why did you never tell me you liked to draw and paint?" Of course you were caught off guard, becoming nervous and shrunk under his gaze, "I did not think it was important. I was always told arts and music was not for someone of noble rank like us. I feared you'd be disappointed with me." 

Aemond was a little hurt you kept your love for art hidden but understood. And from then on he made it his goal to learn everything he could about the subject. Trading gifts of jewelry for oils, charcoals, and inks. Making sure you had enough parchment and canvases. Aemond never pressured you to show him your work, knowing how personal it is for an artist, and instead asked about your progress. Beaming at the way you instantly light up and spoke with pride. 

He had a feeling you sketched him in your notebook. Catching you glancing up at him multiple times when he reads in the library, your hand scattering across the page with ease. Aemond would purposefully maintain his position even when he's finished the book, as to not move and make you mess up. Smiling at the charcoal staining your fingers and silently hoping one day you'd allow him to see what inked your parchment. 

Completely unaware he became your source of inspiration. Your muse. You not only sketched Aemond reading, but him training in the yard. Him speaking to his mother, his brother. Aemond with the twins. Aemond watching Vhagar patrol the skies and feeding his horse. You were mesmerized with everything about him. The Prince who conquered obstacles that made you feel like you were the only person on the planet. Aemond was your heart and soul. He was your muse. 

And so on your 1-year anniversary, you surprised your husband with a gift he never would've expected. A painting of him and Vhagar. The one-eyed prince, known for his stoic nature, was nearly reduced to tears by the emotion consuming his entire being. His finger trailing over the scales of his dragon, the details of his riding gear and scar. How you managed to make it look like they were flying in the sky. You pressed a kiss to his cheek, "One day, if you allow me, I would love to have you sit for me for a portrait." 

And when that time came, Aemond sitting in his pristine clothes, bearing his sapphire eye to you as a proclamation of his love and trust for you, you brought out your finest oils and brushes. Painting the man you loved the way you saw him, a beauty in the eyes of the beholder. A muse to an artist.