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girliism · 25 days ago

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girldad!art who is currently shopping for halloween costumes.

“are we doing family costumes this year?” art asked you. halloween was in a week and surprisingly spirit halloween still had a few costumes. “no, she said she’s too old for that now. she wants to be a zombie.” you told art, picking up one of the zombie makeup kits. art made a confused face. not many eight year old girls wanna be zombies for halloween. “why a zombie?”

you dropped the making up kit into the shopping basket. “patrick’s been binging the walking dead with the girls when he watches them.” you reveal, having only found out a while ago yourself. “remind me to have a conversation with him about that later.” art mumbled.

—

“can we trick or treat at lily’s house? her neighborhood has better candy.” your daughter spoke, interrupting you trying to do her makeup for the hundredth time. “yes, we can if you stop talking and let me finish this.” you told her and she immediately straighten up and closed her mouth. but because she was an antsy eight year old that only lasted a minute until she was back to squirming in her seat and asking you random questions.

you put the final touches on her zombie makeup before picking up the mirror flipping it towards her. “alright girly, take a look.” you watched as her eyes and her smile grew wider. “mommy, i look so good!” she took the mirror from you to examine her face up closer. “let’s go show daddy.”

—

you and art stood in the kitchen while your daughter hide behind the wall. “both of you cover your eyes and i’ll count to three.” she order the two of you. “but i’ve already seen your outfit.” you said. she stuck her little arm out and pointed a finger at you. “both. eyes. closed.” she demanded with a bossy attitude you liked to pretend she totally didn’t get from you.

after peeking around the corner and seeing that both yours and art’s eyes were closed she walked out to stand in front of you. “ok, open your eyes in three …two…. one.” you and art tore your hands away from your eyes. “look daddy, i’m you but as a zombie!” she beamed.

“you look amazing! oh my god.” art smiled at his daughter who stood dress up in an all white tennis outfit that had little dirt and blood stains and her hand holding a bloody tennis racket. “we used the picture from when you and uncle patrick won the doubles as a reference.” she said. “i can see that.” art moved to pick her up, an action that was getting a little strenuous given how big she was now but he hasn’t throw his back out yet so he supposes it’s still ok. “you found my old hat and everything. and look at this makeup, mommy did very good.” he turned to you giving you a smile. “how did you come up with such a costume?”

your daughter took a deep breath getting ready to explain. “well, first i was just gonna be a plain zombie but there was gonna be hundreds of zombies tonight and i thought that was too boring. so i decided to combine my two favorite things, you and zombies.” she said with a zombieish groan at the end snapping her teeth at art. you laughed at their antics before clapping your hands together. “ok, time for pictures so we can go.” art let her down to the ground and she ran off to get her tennis ball looking trick or treat basket before posing up a storm for you.

—

“whoa, zombie art donaldson. awesome costume kid.” patrick greeted the three of you in front of the zweig house before high-fiving your daughter. tashi and lily soon came out of the house. “who are supposed to be.” you asked lily. “spider gwen from into the spiderverse. see mommy let me put in pink clip ins.” she showed off the curly pink clips that blended in with her hair. “nice.” you gave her a nod of approval.

more pictures were taken of the girls in their costumes standing in front of tashi and patrick’s halloween decorations.

“candy candy candy.” lily and your daughter chanted, their arms hooked together as they skipped ahead of you and tashi. art and patrick hung a little further back. “hey, patrick can i take to you.” patrick hummed. “could you maybe not watch the walking dead with two eight year olds.” art suggested. patrick scoffed. “oh come on. we just got to season three things are getting good i can’t leave the girls hanging. plus i cover their eyes at any inappropriate part so don’t worry.” patrick patted art’s back. art shook his head mumbling an “ok.”

—

the girls circled the block at least three times to get as much candy before heading back to tashi and patrick’s house where they traded back and forth until they crashed on the couch.

art carried his daughter out to the car bidding good night to tashi and patrick. once at home and inside your held your arms out so art could pass your daughter off to you to get her ready for bed but art said that he would do it.

“sorry, we didn’t do family costumes. i know you wanted to.” she sleepily mumbled. she had her teeth brushed and pajamas on, face clean of all the makeup that art gently wiped off. “you don’t need to apologize i’m fine with it. plus your costume was way better anyway.” art pincher her sides lightly. she let out light giggles. “thanks. good night, daddy.”

“good night.” art tucked her in tight and placed one last kiss on her forehead before shutting off her lamp and leaving.”

(happy halloween!!)

#girliism #challengers #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson fluff #girl dad!art

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mrpenguinpants · 8 days ago

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Ttorschlusspanik [ Commissioned ]

[ Hcs for Dottore where the reader is very sleepy/sleep-deprived and is constantly falling asleep in battle, on dates, or maybe during research and experiments! ]

Word Count: 4k

Ayato Ver: Pale Blue Slumber Semi Part 1: Low Battery Warning [Masterlist]

Thank you so much for commissioning me! You’re so sweet, and I truly appreciate the tip, but I can’t accept this level of generosity. Please let me know if I went under the word count. Also, thank you for your patience—I got really sick this week and am still recovering.

Torshlosspanik. noun. 1. A desperate feeling that something desired is fading, missing, or being taken away. 2. A feeling of frustration when something one has is departing.

A slumbering figure, a nearly empty desk, and foreboding fabric are the greeting signs to the infamous lab. It’s ironic, really. The concept that the Doctor’s domain comes with a “receptionist” setup stationed in front of imposing steel doors, giving the illusion that this place is as normal—and as morally sound—as any other doctor’s office. At best, it’s laughable to think anyone would believe this place accepts patients willingly, let alone frequently enough to require check-ins. Yet, a shabby but sturdy wooden desk stands innocently in the corner of the entrance, its chipping edges lined with plastic chrysanthemums and white lilies. The artificial flowers are faded, their colors dull from years of neglect, as if mocking the very notion of hospitality. Behind the desk sits an equally worn-down office chair, large enough for someone to curl up in. Its fabric is stained and frayed from years of misuse, the cushion lumpy and barely holding its shape but still useable. All for a receptionist, if you can call them that, who spends more time asleep than actually working as an employee in this most unlikely place. Legs curled up on the seat, arms crisscrossed over the knees in a fetal position. A chin tucked towards the chest, hidden from the view of passersby. Back facing toward prying eyes, leaving only the pronounced slouch of their spine visible, an angle practically begging to develop scoliosis. But the most harrowing detail isn’t the position. It’s the unmistakable black-and-white fur coat draped over them like a blanket, the fabric’s presence carrying an air of authority and fear. A coat only gifted to the Eleven Fatui Harbingers. The desk itself is of no help either. There’s no clipboard, no pens, no paper-nothing that could even remotely resemble the tools of an actual receptionist. It’s an empty stage prop, barely held together by the weight of its own absurdity. And yet, for all its flaws, it stands as the gateway to a place no one in their right mind would willingly step into.

No one dares attempt to wake you. Successfully doing so is practically a death sentence, especially if you go whining to Dottore about the unprompted “alarm clock.” He has a reputation for ensuring the offender never makes a sound again. The only ones bold enough to try and emerge unscathed are his fellow Harbingers, though even they tread lightly when it comes to disturbing your slumber. It’s both impressive and deeply concerning how much of a deep sleeper you are. The bustling footsteps of agents pacing outside the lab, their sharp voices discussing assignments, don’t stir you. The deafening clangs of machinery, coupled with the revolting squelches of severed monster parts being dissected, fail to trigger even a flicker of awareness. Not even Tartaglia’s incessant yammering, loud enough to make glass shudder, elicits so much as an irritated swat from you. Instead, you remain in a state of unyielding sleep, utterly detached from the chaos around you. Your peculiar habit has become such a fixture in the lab that the staff barely remember you exist. You sit perched at their entrance and exit, as still and silent as a gargoyle guarding a forgotten ruin. To them, you are little more than part of the backdrop. A slumbering figure whose presence is a curious mix of ominous and benign.

While it's obvious that the answer to rousing you is to find Dottore himself, or one of his segments if he isn’t around, the interesting part is how you wake up. You're not immune to the initial dizziness that comes with awakening. When you finally open your eyes, blinking the sleep away from your eyelashes, you’re always disoriented. Your eyes feel glazed over, as though you’ve gone blind from keeping them closed too long. Yet, there’s always a common theme: you always reach out toward the nearest blue object. Whether it's an odd trinket or a test tube of acidic liquid, your hand automatically tries to grab it and pull it close to you. It’s part of the reason your desk is stationed outside the lab, away from anything potentially dangerous hidden behind heavy steel doors. Artificial blue has been on the rise lately. Luckily, in nature, blue is very rare. Less than one in ten plants has blue flowers, and even fewer animals are blue. Unfortunately, the biggest nuisance has blue eyes—dead as they are. Tartaglia may not like the doctor, but he does like you. Maybe it’s because your sleep demeanor can be categorized as cute, or maybe you remind him of the simple life in an organization that’s so uptight. Regardless, that little fox has been clawing at the wooden legs yapping for attention. It's only made worse you don't bother to dissuade him, only indulging in his playful antics. It's led to many, many, lectures from one particular segment.

It's fascinating watching how each segment interacts with your sleepy demeanor. While each segment has varying features and appearances, under the same clothes and mask, they would be indistinguishable if they stood still and never spoke. The only true way to discern them is through their actions and mental processes. Hence, it's easy to tell who is who by the way they go about holding you.

Omega is by far the least attentive or affectionate toward you. Perhaps it’s because he’s the most selfish of them all. There’s still an ongoing debate over whether his dislike for you stems from the fact that you stand in the way of fulfilling his desires or if his ambitions extend beyond simply overtaking the divine gaze. Or perhaps the divine gaze isn't actually his goal in the first place. Either way, it’s two sides of the same coin. When it’s Omega’s turn to fetch you, he does so as if you were any other patient. Completely beneath him. One arm rests behind his back, while the other holds a piece of paper clenched tightly in his hand. His mouth is set in a firm line as he gazes down at your slumped form. Although the air around him is calm and silent, it doesn’t take a genius to know that if he could get away with it, he’d drag you through the halls by your hair. Alas, that kind of act would get him permanently disassembled, so he settles for unceremoniously flipping you upright. The arm resting on the small of his back is removed and curls under your stomach. With one swift motion, you’re treated like one of Signora’s shopping bags. The sight of a limp body folded in half under an arm that surely digs into the stomach is the best way to know if it’s the Omega segment or not.

Beta, on the other hand. Beta. That maniacal and neurotic freak adores you but couldn’t care less about you. His research typically focuses on fusing humans with machinery to create “better versions” of themselves, and he fully believes in that philosophy. You would look so much better if he were allowed to be your sole care provider. If your drowsiness were caused by a medical condition like heart disease, asthma, pain, or a nerve condition, he could simply replace them, and you’d be perfect. If it were a mental issue, well, he’d love you no matter how unresponsive you might be. It wouldn’t be much different from you being asleep anyway. When it’s Beta’s turn to fetch you, he does so with a waltz. He walks purposefully toward your desk. Loud and firm, his hands fisted at his sides with unrestrained glee, swinging in time with each step. Even with a mask that obscures most of his face, it’s clear to see the overexcited grin stretching across his lips. It’s almost like there’s static buzzing in time with his artificial heart, fuzzy yet electrically sharp. There’s no fanfare, as soon as he’s within arm’s reach, he grabs the nearest piece of skin and hauls you out of the chair. By some miracle, you’re always still asleep from the rough handling, which is more than enough for Beta to wrap his other arm around your waist. Your chests press together, and he swings your body to and fro in his mad dance. The sight of a limp body dragged into a dancing plague that’s surely pulling your stiff joints out of place is the best way to know if it’s Beta or not. Beta has been recently banned from coming within a six-foot radius around you.

The original Dottore, Zandik, is a unique case. All of the segments originated from him but at different points in time. However, they are still parts of his thoughts and mannerisms. There really is no order in which the segments are ranked, as they can’t compete with each other. What’s more pointless than trying to beat yourself? You’ll still lose in the end. Zandik is a strange mix of every segment yet none at all. When he wants to see you, he does so slowly, with all the time in the world. His methodical steps echo lightly on the concrete floors of the lab, his arms still at his sides yet loose enough that the slightest wind could blow them away. It’s as eerie as it is tranquil. Everything about the original whispers of restrained patience—that when he arrives at the front of your desk, he simply waits. Usually, it takes you hours or even days to wake up on your own, but when it’s Zandik standing at the edge of your daydream, your eyes slide open. Small ripples in the pond. You’re still lethargic, blindly feeling your way back into your body as your eyes ricochet off the walls until they land on blue. A weighted hand reaches out to grab that ashy blue, and another hand meets your fingertips.

It would be cute if it were anyone else. The sight of a man with curly light blue hair, carrying a bundled-up figure dressed in a white coat with a fluffy black collar, legs dangling from either side of his waist while his hands rest on the lump’s presumed back and thighs. It would be so cute indeed, if it were anyone else but Zandik. But for him, it only looks lonely, despite the two of you pressed together.

The moments when you're awake only happen on two occasions: either you just happened to wake up at that time, or it’s check-up day. What kind of doctor would Dottore be if he didn’t conduct physicals for his only patient who manages to live long enough each year? The check-ups happen twice a week, always two days apart. Never past two days of separation. Ever. Your exact relationship dynamic with Dottore remains as obscure as ever as to why he cares so much. Whether you’re old friends who knew each other before Dottore set foot in Snezhnaya or even when Dottore was called a different name. Or maybe a dead lover resurrected as a zombie in the pursuit of selfish greed and glorious progress; both are possible options. The zombie theory at least explains why you’re constantly drowsy. The staff have never seen you eat anything before, and with the abundance of... zombie food, it's not outlandish as much as it is disgusting. The old friend theory would explain why you can stomach being around someone who can fly off the handle at any moment. The most willing yet unwilling patient. No matter how often Dottore has to wrestle you upright, only for you to slump back asleep the next second, he never loses his temper. If he has to strap you into a straitjacket and hang you from the goddamn ceiling to keep you sitting with a straight back, he will. But by no means will he get anything more than slightly miffed. If he has to force-feed you your medicine because you’re too loopy to remember how to swallow, he’ll shove his fingers into the back of your throat with nothing but a blank smile. The only good thing about your sleep-deprived state is that you’re probably so out of it that you can’t feel discomfort. It saves on using the limited supply of anesthesia the lab carries.

Dottore, for lack of a better word, is displeased with your constant need for sleep. He is deeply frustrated with each check-in and the stagnation of your results. For him, bad results are no different from good ones—they’re still a means of moving forward. Something that will tell him which direction to take rather than wandering around aimlessly in the dark. But in your case, there are no significant changes, as if everything he’s done has been for nothing. He could have closed his eyes and spun a wheel for the same results. The day before your check-in is always the calm before the storm because the staff knows that when the next day comes, they’d better keep their heads down or risk losing them. No one is quite sure if your sleepiness stems from mutated genetics or if it’s a side effect of being around Dottore for too long. Stir-craziness and breakdowns are common in the lab, whether among "patients" or "employees." Everyone eventually goes mad, cooped up within the same cell-shaded walls and working under possibly the worst boss imaginable. Add to that the fact that the Fatui don’t believe in “mental health” days, and with no coping mechanisms in sight, it’s unfair to expect anyone to function effectively. Most people eventually devolve into screaming or manic episodes. Perhaps your escape is more literal. A peaceful retreat from reality through sleep. You’re not even sure why you’re constantly sleep-deprived, especially when you spend more time slumbering than awake. At first, you thought you might be narcoleptic or taking the wrong pills; a diagnosis from scratch must take a long time, right? That was until Dottore bluntly called you an idiot. He told you it’s a bad habit to self-diagnose every minor inconvenience. You should let him do all the thinking and simply listen to him. And truthfully, with the haze clouding your mind, it’s too difficult to think clearly anyway. So, you nod and do as you’re told. It’s easier that way.

It doesn’t happen often, but it occurs more than it should, considering who Dottore is and the reputation he holds. If you wish to cross him, you’d better make it count—because it’ll be your last. He’s in the middle of a meeting with Pantalone, arguing over the lab’s finances when a frantic knock interrupts. Apparently, there’s been a scuffle at the entrance of the lab. To Pantalone's knowledge, there aren't any guards or any agents stationed at the doors except for that sleepy receptionist. Perhaps the doctor's staff finally had enough and decided to take their anger on someone who couldn't fight back? Pantalone's not a good enough person to not find amusement in the situation, infinitely curious as to what Dottore's reaction will be to all of this. Whatever the banker decided to gamble on, his expression doesn't twitch as he follows behind his fellow Harbinger as they walk leisurely through the halls, as if the world has come to a standstill. It’s almost amusing that when your life is potentially on the line, he suddenly decides to take a midday stroll. The only indication of his amusement is the slight shake in his shoulders, hinting at a silent laugh. Dottore punches in the lock code and throws open the steel doors before the automatic switch can activate, slipping through as soon as the gap is wide enough. He stops at the shabby wooden desk that’s now gained a few new dents.

This time, you’re curled up on top of the table, your office chair thrown across the room. Broken. It’s no matter, he’s been meaning to replace it anyway. The chair is just another expense to add to his name. He collects you into his arms effortlessly, and you instinctively sink into the familiar hold. A quick scan from head to toe confirms that you’re unharmed, save for a few strands of hair out of place. Behind him, Pantalone lets out a noise of approval as he surveys the scene. In the center of the room stands a robot with a striking design. A star-shaped frame with six triangular segments forms a perfect symmetry. Glowing cyan cores illuminate the metallic structure, positioned at its center and edges. The intricate details combine sharp, crystalline elements with mechanical precision, radiating an aura of both elegance and menace. As expected of the Doctor. Pantalone can’t help but wonder where this machine was hiding when Signora ventured to Inazuma. Perhaps if it had been deployed then, she might have returned in one piece.

Although Dottore no longer needs to sleep to survive, there are times when, as he passes by your sleeping form, he’ll pause. He stands still, staring for what feels like an absurd amount of time, meticulously detailing and recording every breath you take within a single minute. It’s always 17. Sleep occupies about one-third of a person’s life, a significant portion of time that, in Dottore's mind, could be devoted to something useful. Something productive, instead of wasting it frolicking in dreams that neither matter nor will change anything. Yet, even he can’t deny that, occasionally, a break from reality can serve as a fragile bandage over a wound that refuses to heal. A fleeting comfort in an otherwise relentless existence.

It’s as awkward as it is unnatural. Despite his title as "The Doctor", his hands weren’t designed for gentle touches of flesh and bone. Yet he tries. His fingers twitch involuntarily as he tilts your body to the side, just enough for him to slide in beside you. Carefully, he rests your body against his shoulder. He expects you to jolt awake, his shoulder is bony and hardly a suitable place to rest your head, even when compared to the flaky cushion of the office chair you’ve somehow grown fond of. But you don’t. Of course, you don’t. You simply lay there, your head nestled against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No protests, no shifting away, just stillness. The transfer of heat begins, as described by the laws of thermodynamics. Hotter, faster-moving molecules collide with cooler, slower ones, transferring energy in a quiet exchange. No fireworks, no blaring alarms, just the science of touch, as mundane and profound as ever. Zandik dares to lower his chin, letting it rest lightly against your head. His mask doesn’t obscure the quiet moment, though he can feel the unnatural curve of his lips twitching upward ever so slightly. Down here, in the deepest layers of the lab, not even the howling winds of Tsaritsa’s snowstorm can reach. It’s eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of your breathing. For a moment, he wonders what it would be like if you woke up now. If your half-lidded eyes would squint at him in confusion, or if you’d simply close them again, surrendering to the haze of sleep. But you don’t stir. Instead, he lets himself linger, suspended between an unusual warmth and the cold detachment of his own thoughts

"Breaks" are not something you can indulge in down in the labs. The closest the staff ever got was when one of the Harbingers passed away, and even then, it lasted only half a day before they were right back to work. Still, if you ask nicely, Dottore will nod toward an empty seat, silently giving you permission to make yourself comfortable. You take the opportunity to describe the dreams you’ve had while Dottore tinkers away in the background. You talk about a train whose tracks stretch far into the stars, far beyond the snow-obscured sky you glimpse through the scarce, frosted windows scattered about the lab. Sometimes, you dream of a whimsical city filled with cute shops and tiny bunny-like robots waddling through fissures in space. You’re certain he isn’t really paying attention, his hands busy with instruments, and his focus locked on his latest project. Sometimes, you suspect he forgets you’re even in the room despite your rambling. A small part of you wants to stamp your feet and pout like a child. After all, you’re only awake for a few fleeting hours each week, and even then, all he can think about is his experiments. His endless, obsessive tinkering. The man’s only "hobby" is experimentation, and you wonder if he’s even capable of entertaining anything else. At least Omega and Beta would give you some attention. Omega might tell you to be quiet with that dismissive tone of his, while Beta would enthusiastically scribble down every word you say, his excitement unnerving yet oddly gratifying. Still… your gaze drifts toward Zandik’s back as he works, the muscles beneath his coat shifting subtly with each precise movement. You pull your knees up against your chest, wrapping your arms around them as you rest your cheek against your folded arms. For a moment, you simply watch him in silence, the quiet hum of the lab filling the space between you. Eventually, your eyes grow heavy, and you let them slip shut. A faint smile tugs at your lips as you wonder where your dreams will take you this time. You wonder if Zandik would come with you.

On the rare occasion that Dottore chooses to sleep of his own will, most likely due to substances that induce drowsiness and force his body into a state of rest, it’s always a remarkably uneventful night. He doesn’t dream anymore, nor does he wish to. Dreams, like the past, serve no purpose to him now. On certain days, if he concentrates hard enough, he can faintly discern whispers from the other segments he's created. However, they are nothing more than distractions, a cacophony that only aggravates his already meticulous mind. When he wakes, it’s as though he hasn’t truly slept at all. His eyelids parted smoothly, his pupils sharp and alert as if no time had passed. Yet there is an unusual sensation, warmth. Dottore does not run warm, and the lab, built for functionality rather than comfort, certainly doesn’t harbor it either. He turns his head, curiosity fleeting, and finds you huddled against his side. Your arms are wrapped around his waist in a loose embrace, and your face is pressed against his chest, seeking solace in his stillness. The white coat with its black feathered collar, the one you wear more often than he does, is draped across your body, serving as a makeshift blanket. His hands remain clasped on his stomach, and he realizes with mild irritation that he can’t move without risking the possibility of waking you. For a moment, he lingers. The seconds on, and his mind races ahead to the tasks awaiting him. The pursuit of progress waits for no one, not even himself. Every moment spent lying in this bed feels like a year’s worth of lost discovery.

With calculated precision, he shifts. His movements are methodical, almost robotic, as he carefully bundles you in the coat, ensuring the hood doesn’t cover your face and obstruct your breathing. In a single fluid motion, he lifts you into his arms as he rises from the bed. He spares a brief glance at your sleeping form, red eyes devoid of emotion. Your breathing is steady at 17 breaths per minute—a rhythm he has memorized and measured countless times before. Still as serene as ever. But then, for just the faintest of moments, his gaze softens, almost imperceptibly, before he turns his attention back to the work that never ceases to call for him. What a peaceful way to escape the world, the thought as cold and clinical as his expression.

---

Hi, thank you for reading! I'll reblog this with further writer notes but I wanted to include the research bits in order of appearance. I can't guarantee the full accuracy but I hope I didn't get anything wrong.

Chrysanthemum & Lily

In many Asian cultures, especially in China and Japan, chrysanthemums are symbolic of death and mourning. In China, the flower is closely linked to the Day of the Dead, and in Japan, it is used in funeral rites. While in some contexts chrysanthemums can symbolize longevity or fidelity, their association with death makes them unlucky in certain circumstances, especially when given as gifts or during celebrations.

Lilies, especially white lilies, are often associated with death and mourning, particularly in Christian symbolism, where they are linked to funerals and burials. While lilies also symbolize purity and rebirth in other contexts, their frequent appearance in funeral arrangements.

Head-Down Position

The sleep position reader takes is a parody of the Head-Down position of babies in their third trimester. The head-down position (cephalic presentation) is the most common and ideal position for birth, where the baby’s head is facing downward, towards the birth canal. This allows the baby to navigate the birth process more easily.

Dancing Plague

Also called the Dancing Mania, this refers to a series of events in the 16th century where groups of people, primarily in Europe, suddenly and uncontrollably began dancing for extended periods, sometimes for days or weeks, often to the point of exhaustion, injury, or even death. The most infamous and well-documented outbreak of the Dancing Plague occurred in 1518 in Strasbourg, then part of the Holy Roman Empire (modern-day France).

Algorithm of Semi-Intransient Matrix of Overseer Network

The robot Pantalone sees is the early concept art for ^ but also known as the "Tomb Guard of the Desert King.".

The number 17 is considered unlucky in Italy because of its association with the Latin word for 17, which is "XVII". Rearranging these Roman numerals gives the word "VIXI", which means "I have lived" or "I am dead" in Latin. This gives the number an ominous connotation, as it can be seen as a symbol of death or misfortune.

Honkai Star Rail & Zenless Zone Zero

Yes, reader was describing these two games as their dreams lol.

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin dottore x reader #genshin impact dottore x reader #dottore x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin impact headcanons #genshin imagines #genshin impact imagine #genshin dottore #genshin impact dottore #dottore #il dottore #dottore headcanons #commission

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co-sharkie · 3 months ago

Note

I just saw ur post abt Scott, and I would like to request a fluffy fic or drabble, with Scott and reader hanging out at a bar with the rest of them after a chase, and reader manages to get scott to dance with her!! Thank you SMM!!

Yes!! Thank you sm for the request! <3

Dance With Me

Scott (Twisters) x F! Reader

Scott leaned against the bar with a drink in his hands as he watched the mass of people dancing. Tables and chair were pushed to the sides of the bar to leave a large open space where people were flinging their bodies around to a rhythm he couldn't catch onto.

Javi had the idea of stopping by a bar after a night of chases. Scott was planning to stay at the motel and not party, but Javi and his damn puppy eyes convinced him other wise. About an hour after Storm Par settled at the bar, the Tornado Wrangles came busting through the doors.

Almost everyone in the bar was ecstatic to see them and Scott quickly learned that they were regulars around here during tornado season.

Scott's eyes focused on one of the Tornado Wranglers he's had a few pleasant run-ins with. She was dancing with Lily, another one of the wrangles. Her body swayed with the beat of the country song playing. Her cowboy hat added an extra flare to her outfit.

He didn't talk with her much but she was not one of the wrangles who gave him issues. She kept the camera off of him and his team when she recorded and always gave them a smile. They ran into each other a few times at gas stations and had a quick chat about whatever crossed their minds at that moment. Scott never expected it to turn into a high-school crush.

Scott watched as Lily dragged her over to the bar to grab drinks. They ended up sitting on some stools that were close to him. After Lily left with an arm full of drinks for the Wrangler's table, Scott decided to approach the woman.

"Having fun?" He asked. He was a bit tipsy and he could tell she was too by the way she moved. Scott stood next to her and leaned his arm against the counter.

She smiled seeing him, a big dopey grin. "Yeah, you ever dance before?"

Scott shook his head. "No, I don't dance. But it looks like you sure do." They both laughed. Her at the idea of Scott seeing her flail around in a bar, and Scott because her laugh was infectious.

"You wanna come dance with me?" She set her drink down and turned towards him. He was close enough to feel her knee brush against his thigh when she turned.

Scott smiled and tilted his head. "I told you I don't know how to dance. Are you going to teach me?"

She leaned over to grab Scott's drink from his hand and slid it over towards hers. "I'll teach you how to dance!"

She took her hat off and plopped it on Scott's head. She giggled at his surprised expression. "Yeah, I think you'll catch on quick. Already look good in the hat."

Scott sheepishly smiled and helped her hop off of her stool. She dragged him into the crowd of people. "Just follow my lead!" She called out to him over the sounds of people and the music.

The song changed to a fast-paced rhythm. Her body and her feet moved quickly with the song and Scott couldn't keep up. He was always three steps behind her. She could tell he was getting frustrated with it.

Scott was watching their feet move against each other before he felt the tug on his arm. "C'mon, let's go over here." She pulled him to a corner of the bar with no one present. "Maybe it'll be easier to learn when there aren't people crashing into you."

She guided him step-by-step on a dance and he was finally getting the hang of it. Her hands never left his while they danced and soon Scott was able to keep up with her. "There ya go, city boy!"

Scott laughed at her enthusiasm. "It's more complicated than it looks." He admitted. It wasn't until he looked up from the ground that he met her sparkling eyes staring right back at him.

She had a soft smile on her face and her eyes were locked with his. Their hands still connected and their bodies closer than ever before. "It gets easier the more you practice. You should know that." She winked at him and Scott felt like he was going to melt into the floor from her charm.

"Think you could help me practice?" His voice was quiet but just loud enough for her to hear. "It wouldn't be a bad idea for me to know how to dance while I'm in Oklahoma."

"Yeah, I'll practice with you. Could teach you some more dances, too." Scott smiled and his hands moved from hers to rest on her hips. She moved closer to him. "Gotta wear the hat, though. Can't dance without it."

"I'll wear it." He chuckled. Scott had no problems wearing the hat as long as he got to be close to her. Her arms wrapped around his neck and their bodies swayed back and forth together. Scott didn't even realize a slow song had started, nor did he realized she brought him right into another dance.

#scott twisters x reader #twisters x reader #scott miller x reader

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maybe-moonchild · 2 months ago

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CH 2 𓆣 James Potter x Slytherin Reader summary: you could have worse company... you could also have less annoying company... WC: 4.5k ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Sixth year ended uneventfully.

You had a few more run-ins with Kaston, most involving insults, the occasional tripping or knock of your books out of your hand. The typical pure-blood ideology bullshit was sent Lance’s way too when he was around. Keith only hexed him once.

Classes went well enough after final examinations were completed and you received report of your grades. Packing up your dorm for the summer resembled shoving things into your bags the day before boarding the Hogwarts Express. That was it. Your sixth year was done and you had three whole months spending time with your family, enjoying the weather and exchanging letters with your friends until you got to see them.

Most importantly, you had three months of no magic.

You almost felt guilty how relieved you felt not being around wizards each day. You didn’t feel like you were behind, always playing catch up on their way of life.

Your new found peace ended with your Hogwarts letter calling for you to return at the end of August. Your parents seemed almost disappointed when you told them you wanted to go school shopping alone, your heart broke at the way their excitement fell, plastering on a smile and chalking it up to you just wanting to be mature.

You let them think that. It seemed a lot easier to let them believe instead of the fact that returning to Diagon Alley with your muggle loved ones seemed like they would just be in danger. So they agreed, making sure you planned your trip with Lance and Keith so you wouldn’t be on your own.

Flourish and Blotts was relatively busy, the once lazy feeling in the air associated with summer turning to an excited hum for the upcoming school year. You were still waiting on the arrival of your friends as you stood between the shelves. You hadn’t been able to refrain yourself from grabbing the most recent edition of The Daily Prophet and flipping through its pages.

Sometimes you wondered if the war was truly ever going to end.

It seemed as if you’d missed a summer of awful news; more disappearances of muggles and muggle borns, their families found killed in their homes. Hogwarts and magic had once been exciting, filling the gaps in your life with wonder the more you saw and learned. Along the years of whispered threats and hissed insults at your back, you felt like you’d been chased away from your prior love of the Wizarding World.

You were too enthralled in reading to notice a group of boys chasing each other into the store.

Sirius accused Peter of stealing his recently purchased sugar quill as they stomped through the store. James was too busy reading through the list of things he and Sirius were supposed to purchase today to keep Euphemia Potter from being cross. Remus hid his smirk behind the stick of the sugar quill hanging from his mouth.

When James glanced up from his list, the sight of you between the shelves they had just passed made him do a double take. For some reason, he just stopped in his tracks. He was staring, he knew that he was but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. You looked more or less the same aside from having gotten some sun and your hair gaining a little length.

It wasn’t like he was watching you in a weird way… just… watching.

“You going to go over there or just keep staring,” Sirius whispered in his ear before blowing into it. James jumped slightly as Sirius whispered in his ear, a scowl instantly forming on his face as he playfully smacked the back of his head.

Laughing at his own antics, Sirius leaned back, raising an eyebrow in question as he settled against one of the shelves.

“You’ve never been the quiet type before,” Remus murmured as he read the back of a book, “Even with Lily, you’d be tripping over your own feet to talk to her.”

"What are you-" James began, but the words got caught in his throat as he glanced up and spotted you once again. “This is- This is nothing like with Evans! I was just looking!”

Sirius snorted, “More like drooling.”

James’s mouth dropped uncontrollably, snapping shut in the hope that he could look unbothered.

"I was certainly not," he muttered under his breath, his confidence sounding more like false bravado.

“Want me to wipe your chin, Prongs?”

“Want me to smack you right in the store?”

Thank Merlin you were both far enough away and too engrossed in The Daily Profit to even look up.

Remus continued browsing the spines of books. “And yet, you are stalling,” he teased, not even bothering to glance up.

James was instantly on the defensive, his eyes narrowing as he shot Remus a dirty look. "Just because I'm not rushing over there doesn't mean anything," James muttered. His eyes returned to the piece of paper in his hands.

“Why don’t you go talk to her then?” Sirius smiled smugly, barely able to contain how humorous he found the sight. “Instead of standing here like an idiot.”

"Oh, he’s got it bad,” Remus hummed with feigned sympathy. .

“Is this how you usually land girls then?” Peter, a better actor than all of them, cocked his head to the side, “by staring at them from across a store?”

Sirius was nearly doubled over as he tried to stifle his laughter to keep himself quiet. Leaning forward to rest his forehead against the wood, Remus clapped a hand on Peter's shoulder, the both of them chuckling.

“You know, you’re a real git, you know that, right?” James hissed, his voice sounding more frustrated than menacing. He turned to glare around at the other Marauders, who seemed to be taking great pleasure in witnessing his predicament.

Scoffing, his face turned even redder, shoving the list back into his pocket. "I'll have you know I am a certified charmer." He tried to say this with confidence, but even Peter's words had chipped away at his normally impenetrable ego.

Sirius just laughed harder behind his hand.

"I was simply... trying to decide on the best way to approach her.” James was trying to maintain some semblance of his usual charm.

"You're not even approaching her," Remus pointed out dryly, his lips twitching with a barely suppressed smile.

The other three boys shared a look, one that had Peter and Remus slipping away while Sirius hung an arm around James’s shoulder.

“Listen mate, you’re getting too into your own head. Sure, she may not necessarily be the biggest fan of you and your ego, but she doesn’t hate you- in fact! Once in a while you make her laugh at your own expense.” Both of them moved in your direction, James finding himself nodding.

“So, remember you’re a gryffindor, quite being a big baby, and talk to her.” As Sirius finished giving his advice, he was all too ecstatic to give him a shove.

James stumbled forward, catching himself just in time to avoid falling directly into you. He could hear the sound of Sirius' laughter in the distance, but he ignored it as he found himself face-to-face with you when you had startled.

Both of your eyes were wide for different reasons, yours in surprise and his in… well also surprise but because he really hadn’t planned on having to catch himself on a shelf at the last second. At least he had crushed you.

You visibly relaxed at the realization that it wasn’t a threat, just an idiot.

One that you didn’t hate horribly.

“Hi James,” you drew out skeptically, amused nonetheless.

His strange behavior fell away to reveal his usual charismatic appeal as he gave you a roguish smile. James adjusted his arm gripping the bookshelf where it caught his fall to lean against it with his forearm. You were sure you had seen him like this many times before.

Usually it involved the Hogwarts library, Lilly Evans and an attempt at flirting.

“Hi.” As if he remembered that himself, he stood up straighter and cleared his throat. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You frowned in thought, “Is it? I didn’t think it was all that unexpected given most students do their shopping on the weekend.”

You were unaware that James was half listening to what you were saying, and half shooting a dirty look to the other Marauders when they peaked out from behind a bookshelf. You didn’t see it, too busy trying to make sense of James, something you gave up on long ago.

“Have a good holiday then?” James asked abruptly, grinning as he turned his attention back to you.

“I’d say so, spent time at home, a little bit of traveling with my family, relaxing,” you shrugged, “Nothing special. What about you? Heard Black moved in with you. Your poor mother.”

James let out a snort of laughter, a warm smile spreading across his face. You didn’t hesitate to feel as lively as he looked.

"Yeah, she was not thrilled that we accidentally crashed our brooms into her garden multiple times, but she loves us both nonetheless," he said with a chuckle, shaking his head. Even though the conversation about the situation was lighthearted, you knew that Sirius leaving the house of Black was no small event.

"As if I wasn't bad enough, they now get two of us.” He shrugged, his hands slipping into his pockets as he leaned back casually against the bookshelf. The sight of the other Marauders watching them from a distance was not lost on him, but he chose to ignore it for the moment. “So eh, yeah. I guess it was a good summer, It was great having Sirius there with me. He could always crack a joke that would make even a dementor laugh.”

“That’s good, I’m glad to hear it.”

A group of Ravenclaw girls slipped by, greeting you both before erupting into a fit of giggles once they’d passed. You were at least grateful to know that you weren’t the object of their laughter. The thing about being in James Potter’s presence was that he always outshined you. That was fine by you as long as it kept any negative attention from hanging over your head.

Clearly they were giggling about having successfully said hello to him.

“You finish your shopping then?”

A movement behind him caught your attention as you opened your mouth, “No, just started actually. Waiting to meet with Lance and Keith at The Leaky Cauldron in twenty minutes.”

"I think I have a couple left as well," he said a little too enthusiastically, clearing his throat with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Why don't we, you know, shop together?"

You raised an eyebrow at the offer. Sure, maybe James had been a witness to your moment of weakness last year, but it wasn’t like the two of you had even exchanged letters this summer. But he looked so earnest about the offer, you felt like saying no would make him look like a kid who just watched you kick a puppy.

So you smiled, albeit a bit unsurely, you smiled nonetheless.

“Uh, sure.”

He instantly brightened, bright enough to hurt your eyes like you had stared directly into the sun. Luckily, you looked away quickly as you peaked behind him.

“Will uh, your friends be joining us too?”

James whipped around to see Sirius, Peter, and even Remus sticking their heads out from behind a shelf. The sight was comical, looking straight out of a cartoon; even more so when they realized they’d been caught and jumped out of sight.

You found it amusing to watch how he nearly cringed. “I suppose they will be,” he sighed.

The five of you didn’t spend too much longer there, easily picking up the books you’d need for seventh year. You were pleasantly surprised to chat with Remus about books you had read over the summer, learning that he also enjoyed muggle literature. It made you more aware of how little you actually knew about The Marauders, aside from what was surface level. That was okay but you hadn’t expected to enjoy learning more.

Given that you still had some time before heading to The Leaky Cauldron, you didn’t mind stopping at another store or two to pass the time.

Up until Sirius mentioned stopping at Quality Quidditch Supplies. James was ecstatic at the idea, quickly involving you in the plan given the three of you were the quidditch players of the group. The two boys were too engrossed in their conversation about what broom polish they preferred to notice your sudden discomfort.

Sirius let out a loud exaggerated scoff, rolling his eyes as he turned to face you and James. "I could still outfly the two of you any day," he teased. “Come on, we’ll meet Remus and Peter at The Leaky Cauldron when we’re done.”

You opened your mouth, the words sticking apprehensively to the tip of your tongue. You urged yourself to say something, to even just feign disinterest and opt to head to Rosa Lee Teabag, just lie and say you really loved tea.

Instead, your mouth closed and your shoulders sagged in defeat as you followed behind Sirius and James.

You were quite familiar with Quality Quidditch Supplies, having frequented the store before each return to Hogwarts. The smell of boom polish was overwhelming when you opened the door, feeling like a sense of home. You couldn’t help but inhale deeply as the three of you stepped inside.

You half-listened to James excitedly discuss the new broom he’d gotten over the summer. There was no doubt it was the newest model, his parent’s religiously sending him off to Hogwarts with the best model available given he was a star player.

Normally, you would’ve been rolling your eyes; snorting out a sarcastic comment asking if that broom would be able to lift his massive head off the ground. You were just uncharacteristically quiet on the topic and it didn’t take long for it to be noticed.

James glanced behind him, looking for evidence that something was wrong. Your mouth was twisted into a little frown, teeth worrying at your bottom lip as your fingers trailed along the broom handles in the displays.

He wanted you to say something, anything. He couldn’t understand why you were so uncharacteristically quiet. Wasn't this your favorite subject? Quidditch had always been something you loved.

As Sirius announced that he would be going to look at new goggles, James hung behind when you stopped in front of a shelf. He reached over your head to pluck a jar of broom polish sitting over your head and pretended to be very interested in reading the label.

“You alright then?” James asked, glancing over at you in hopes that he sounded flippant on the topic.

You pretended not to hear him for a moment, humming in confusion so you could assess how closely he was watching you.

“Oh. Yeah.” You shrugged, mirroring his attempt at looking casual by picking up a bottle of broom polish and inspecting it between your fingers. Neither of you were doing a good job considering the air seemed to feel thicker in the face of the awkwardness.

You should just say it.

Afterall, he’d been witness to your tears at the end of last school year following your humiliation at the hands of Elias Kaston.

“I uh… quit… quidditch.”

From how big James’s eyes got and how quickly he whipped to look in your direction, you might’ve been speaking another language. You didn’t look up at him even though you could see how he was staring at you in complete shock.

James couldn’t have heard you correctly, because there was no way that you just said what he thought you did.

"You... you quit?" His voice was obnoxiously loud. “You quit? Why? Why on earth would you quit quidditch?”

A few shoppers nearby turned in your direction, concerned at the sound. You turned to look at him and raised a hand, hoping to placate James and his knack for dramatics. “Okay, okay,” you hissed, “Keep it down, would you? It's not that big of a deal.”

If Sirius would have been in the vicinity, half of Diagon Alley would have known by now.

“Not that big of a deal? Really?”

“Which it’s not.”

“You’ve been playing since second year.”

“Yes, James. I am quite aware of that.”

“You were captain last year- you won the final match last year!”

You shrugged, the action far too tense to be as dismissive as you tried to be. “I just wasn’t feeling it this year, I don’t know.”

No one would believe that excuse, especially when you turned away, picking up a different bottle of broom polish. It gave you an excuse to avoid his scrutinizing eyes that made you practically itch as you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

James’s lips pressed into a thin line, inhaling slowly through his nose and saying nothing. You didn’t need to.

He stepped closer, speaking passionately in a much lower volume. “You’re a better player than Kaston.”

“It’s not because of Kaston,” you scoffed. James continued, speaking over your protests and speaking louder as your lies continued.

“You’re a better leader.”

“Doesn’t matter, it has nothing to do with that.”

“You had the potential to lead your team to another cup this year.”

“Well, I already won, wanted to give you a fair chance,” you shot back, feigning disinterest. His hand shot forward to pull your distraction away from you, holding it out of reach when you attempted to snatch it back. You had to look at him then, see the disappointment in his furrowed brows and parted mouth.

“Are you really going to give that all up for an asshole like him?”

“I’m not doing it because of him!” It came out sharper than you had intended and you were immediately embarrassed; less so about the outburst itself and more because you felt stupid even bothering to deny it. James had been the one to see the effect your year as captain had on you last year when he found you in the kitchen, how defeated you were when you should have been celebrating.

Being the captain of the Slytherin team last year had been a disaster and you couldn’t imagine doing it again. But the thought of remaining on the team while Kaston took your spot of power-

Who were you kidding? You wouldn’t have made it through the first round of tryouts.

You bit back something sharp that wanted to fall from your lips and impale him, just so you would maybe feel better. That would’ve been wrong; James was clearly still trying to help. So you forced yourself to look away and chewed on your bottom lip to give yourself a moment to take a breath.

“I already told you last year,” you sighed, leaning back against the shelf and staring at your feet. “No one listened to me. There were times no one besides Keith showed up at practice. Do you know how many bludgers to the head I got last year? I stopped counting at 12.”

You opened your mouth before scrunching up your nose in the prospect of silence.

There was the other, bigger, issue.

You were going to spend the rest of seventh year keeping your head down. If it kept your family safe, then you would happily give up quidditch for your last year at school. Quitting hurt, you wouldn’t lie to yourself that you hadn’t shed many tears over the summer as your broom sat collecting dust in the corner of your bedroom.

Getting over the loss of your beloved sport? You would get over it eventually.

Getting over the loss of your family?

You would learn to be a spectator in the fan section.

James’s frown only deepened when he seemed to understand the copious amount of reasons behind your decisions behind it. He knew from first hand experience you were a phenomenal player- you had beaten him several times last year. You were clever, quick witted, and had a sharp eye for spotting opportunities to go for goal; it wasn’t fair.

Both of you stayed quiet for a moment, the sound of a bell chiming cutting through the weight of the situation.

He expelled all of the air from his cheeks, nodding slowly like he was coming to understand everything- at least to understand the best he could.

“Alright,” James finally said, his voice soft but determined. "How can I help?”

Out of everything you’d expected him to say, that wasn’t it.

“What?” you blurted out. Your confused scowl didn’t deter the intent look he wore. With a sigh, you ran a hand down your face. “James, you can’t do anything. It’s done. I turned it down. The only thing you can do is beat him this season.”

“No, I can do more than beat him on the field.” He stepped closer, ducking his head so he could keep your eye.

James didn’t want to just beat Kaston this season. He was going to obliterate him.

“Help me coach Gryffindor.”

You almost thought you’d misheard him. “I’m sorry, what now?”

“Help me this year with coaching the Gryffindor team,” he reiterated without missing a beat.

Oh, so you had heard him right.

“What? No,” you hissed back in an attempt to keep your surprise from projecting itself, “I can’t just… help you coach…” It came out less like a statement and more like a question.

“Why not?” James didn’t miss a beat. When you tried to turn away, his body moved to cut you off. “You know the Slytherin team better than anyone, and you're a damn good player. That's why you were captain in the first place, right?”

You pointed a finger at his chest and he wrapped his hand around your wrist. There was nothing you could do to escape the urgency in his eyes, like he was pleading for you to consider what he was offering.

“You want me to… what,” you asked tentatively, “Help you coach your team on everything I know about the Slytherins plays in hopes to beat them?”

To spill all of the secrets you’d learned the past six years? To work on plays with James, the captain of the Gryffindor team so that they would win?

Once you said exactly what he meant, he nearly beamed with excitement.

“Yes! You can help me figure out the best drills for the team, give me tips and advice, make sure the people I choose for the team are well suited for the positions I put them in. You can directly help take down Kaston on the field.”

You shook your head but he didn’t even falter. Not even the way you looked like him like he’d grown a third head made a dent in his glow. Burning, burning burning; he was glowing white hot like the sun and you were going to get burned.

"What do you think? I think it's a positively brilliant idea- one of my best yet," he grinned.

"I think that James Potter has officially lost his mind."

He just laughed, eyes never leaving your face as they scanned your expression. It was like when you watched him fall down the stairs, how he’d laughed and you’d wondered why you didn’t just throw yourself down them to see what was so funny.

“It's not just about beating them. It's about humiliating them.” As he spoke, James' tone grew firmer, his eyes gleaming with determination as his hands moved to shake your shoulders. "Imagine it, we’ll wipe that smirk right off Kaston's face."

Your doubt was clear but there was a flicker of something else- a spark of temptation.

“James, no,” you said sternly.

“Think about it.” “No, I will not-”

“Come on, just for a second; really think about it.”

“I am not entertaining this-” “No one even has to know you were involved! Think about how he would feel not being able to carry his team to victory after a muggleborn did it the year before.”

That made the rest of your protests die on your lips. James nearly grimaced, attempting to reel himself back in and not scare you off because you were considering it. Albeit reluctantly, you were at least thinking about the possibility.

“Think about it…” His eyebrow raised cautiously. “Think about how he’s going to feel when he realizes he can’t do something you did.”

How pureblooded Kaston would feel when he couldn’t do something a mudblood did.

Fuck.

“Fine. I’ll think about it,” you conceded. James somehow beamed even brighter, the feeling contagious as you laughed and he shook you enthusiastically again.

You tried to make your face more serious. “I’m saying I’ll consider it. I’m not saying yes but… I’m not saying no.”

“Brilliant!” His grip on your shoulders loosened, letting his arms fall to his sides. "Yes! You won't regret this, I promise. We're gonna destroy them this year, I swear it."

“I said *maybe*. I need to think about it. So it’s just… it’s a maybe.”

Both of you stayed like that, biting down on smiles and standing closer than you realized. This close, you could make out the knick of a scar on his cheekbone, so faded that it had to be from his childhood. Words to describe his beauty easily escaped you. Those words were harder to retrieve with the way he was watching you.

“I miss something,” Sirius said out of nowhere, appearing from behind a shelf with his bag of purchases and looking between you. Your trance was broken, both of you stepping apart.

James recovered immediately with a crooked smile.

"Yeah, mate, there's something going on," James responded, slinging an arm over your shoulders and guiding you towards the door. "Guess who just agreed to help... coach Gryffindor?"

“I did not agree.”

After only a few steps out into the street, busy with witches and wizards as they shopped, you gave up on trying to dislodge yourself from under his arm. You chuckled to yourself, James doing the same when you nudged his ribs with your elbow.

Sirius turned with a smirk as he led the group towards The Leaky Cauldron. "Just how friendly have the two of you been?” He asked, his tone mischievous.

“Shut it, Pads,” James replied. He got back at him by throwing his other arm over his friend's shoulder.

Sirius let out a yelp when he nearly spilled the quidditch supplies he carried.

“I’ve just convinced our dear friend here to help us obliterate the snake house. Imagine, all three of us working together. We'll crush them so hard they won’t know what hit them."

You rolled your eyes, “Can I just remind everyone that I am still a part of said snake house.

"Details, details," James grinned, dismissing that fact with a waive of his hand.

quid pro quo masterlist main masterlist

#james potter fic #james potter fanfiction #james potter x reader #james potter x you #the marauders #James Potter #marauders #moony wormtail padfoot and prongs #Remus Lupin #Sirius Black #Peter Pettigrew #marauders era #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #hogwarts #harry potter #aaron taylor johnson

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azzifudded · 3 months ago

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okay but this is a W starting lineup

got ines and paige switching out running point

u got our shootaaa azzi

then u got our 2 bigs dorka and lili

#ines bettencourt #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #dorka juhász #aaliyah edwards #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #pazzi

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ellecdc · 10 months ago

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Grounded (for til college)

CBBH-verse: Harry and Ron are read their Miranda Rights after the Flying Car Catastrophe of Second Year as requested by fans of the CBBH series 😊

Over the past eleven years, there have been many family meetings amongst the Potter, Black, Lupin, Weasley, Longbottom and Lovegood tribe.

A family meeting was called when a five-year-old Draco and Harry began fighting over who got to perform the big brother duties for Jasmine Potter, and then again a year later for Aurora Black.

A family meeting was called when every glass, vase, pot, and basket in the manor were turned over to 'stop nargles from hiding in them' (it was Luna).

A family meeting was called when someone moved all of the pots and pans in the house onto the roof (it was Harry).

A family meeting was called when someone started drawing moustaches on all of the pictures and portraits on the walls (it was James).

A family meeting was called when Fred and George pranked Neville by hiding his toad, Trevor. Each member of the household spent three hours looking for him – Lily later found him hidden in her underwear drawer.

Another family meeting was called for going through people’s underwear drawers.

Family meetings were called quite frequently, what with the number of members these families had within them. They were called for fights, for updates, for announcements and for check ins.

But there are two things that have never happened since these families began calling family meetings:

Never, not once, has James Potter ever called a family meeting. And never once has a family meeting been called whilst the children were away at Hogwarts.

Until today.

“Is it really necessary I’m here?” Regulus drawled as he leaned against the wall behind you in the headmaster’s office as he studied his nails. “I mean, I don’t even have a spawn to punish.”

“Sshh,” Remus spat loudly from his spot beside you standing at attention like a soldier. “You’re gonna get us in trouble.”

“Dad’s mad guys...” Sirius mumbled from your other side.

“Is it bad I kinda feel sorry for Harry and Ron?” you asked your husband quietly.

He shook his head in response. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so mad.”

“Please, 10 galleons he doesn’t even give them a warning.” Regulus added from his place.

Sirius scoffed. “Oh, you’re on.”

The murmurings were interrupted when the two twelve-year-olds were ushered into the office with Dumbledore and McGonagall trailing behind them.

Before anyone could make sense of what was happening, Molly Weasley stood from her seat beside her husband and began screeching.

“RONALD WEASLEY. WHAT ON EARTH WERE YOU THINKING?”

Ron’s face brightened to the likes of his hair as he tried to hide behind Harry. James stood beside Molly with his arms crossed.

“Okay, I know now’s not the time.” You whispered to your husband, “But James’ arms look really good when he stands like that.” which was met with an exaggerated nod of his head.

“When he’s less mad, we’ll tell him.”

“It was the platform! It was charmed or something and wouldn’t let us on and we missed the train!” Harry tried to argue.

“So, you opted to steal the Weasley’s car and drive it across the country!?” James asked incredulously.

Harry instantly deflated.

“It was reckless, it was stupid, it was dangerous.” He continued as he started to pace the room, eyes never leaving the forms of the two second years. You gulped loudly on their behalf.

“You could have been seen. You could have been hurt. You could have died.” He carried on.

“Your father is now going to be facing an inquiry at work and it is all your fault!” Molly added.

Remus’ eyes furrowed as he leaned into your side. “Well, I mean his father did illegally charm a muggle vehicle...” But you elbowed him hard when the death stares of Molly and James turned towards you.

“You have absolutely no idea the kind of trouble you could have caused. That you have caused.” Molly continued as she returned her attention to the boys.

“You two have always been mischievous, which I feel I have taken in stride because you are, after all, the product's of Marauders. But this? This exceeds mischievous. This borders insanity.” James said severely. You and Remus exchanged a wide-eyed gaze.

“Mr. Potter and I have discussed your punishments, young men.” Molly stated as she considered the two boys in front of her. But it was James who read them their sentence.

“You will spend the entire summer working at Uncle Moony’s bookstore.”

This was met with a “what!?” cried out from Ron, Harry, and Remus.

“Why do I have to be the bad guy?!” Remus cried in distress.

“I don’t think you are, Moons.” Sirius said with a chuckle. He turned to regard his friend when he saw a look of understanding cross your features.

“I think it’s Regulus.” You clarified for the werewolf with a smirk.

Sure enough, the three of you turned to see a disturbingly wicked grin spreading across Regulus’ face.

“They’re just lucky Lily was at work and couldn’t be here for this.” Sirius muttered as you all turned your attentions back to the boys. “They’d be working for Regulus ‘til college.”

#marauders come back be here #marauders au #marauders fanfiction #sirius black x you #sirius black x reader #self insert #reader insert #marauders era #marauders fix-it #marauders imagine #marauders blurb #harry potter second year #flying car catastrophe of second year

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lindsay00000008 · 5 months ago

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Ghost x Fem!Reader

DownBad!Simon Ghost Riley x JustAFriend!Reader

A little worldbuilding for ya. Enjoy! Maybe next will be a how-they-met drabble.

Part 3 (Prev)

CW: cursing, reference to solo hanky panky

“Beer?”

“Beer.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

So it turns out a honey glaze can catch fire in the air fryer. Who knew?

The Thursday Dinner Experiment dissolves into a slapdash affair of side veggies (sautéed onions, broccoli and peppers) with frozen beef and bean burritos as the main course. You and Simon settle on a movie to offset the stress of dousing the flames, have a couple more beers on the couch, and talk about the project Simon wants to complete before his next gig.

“Built-ins.”

“Incredible. Love a good built-in.”

His fixer-upper has been the highlight of his time off, it seems. Not a distraction, per se. You get the feeling he likes the act of creation, healing the house and seeing the effect of his work in measurable ways. He says he intends to sell it for profit, but those times you see him at work it’s a bit hard to believe.

“The roof is all fixed then?”

“Mm,” he gives a more-or-less wave of his hand, and you snicker.

“Remind me not to sleep over. Or would you hold an umbrella for me?”

He huffs and takes a swig of his drink.

“Oh, hey have you heard from Johnny lately?”

He gives you a look that seems to say o‘course I have, and you continue.

“Ok yeah, I just meant I haven’t been able to get ahold of him in a bit.”

“Some’n you need?”

“Um, it’s more like I owe him,” you chuckle. “He told me I could buy him dinner but he’s been slippery.”

Simon snorts, covering his mouth and nose before beer can spout forth.

“What?” You smile, bewildered at his sudden humor.

“Hmm. Johnny... yeah, you could say he’s slippery.”

“Is this a sex thing? Cause I remember that story Johnny told at the bar and it really-“

“Nah,” Simon can’t hold in his laugh this time, “Nah it’s not a sex thing. It's a... work thing. Inside joke.”

"Oh, haha..." You laugh faintly, that familiar, outside-looking-in feeling creeping up. You're not exactly sure what Simon does for work. You've been friends for two years now, and see him constantly for those periods of time when he's home, but there's still so much you're in the dark about. You don't need to know these things to enjoy your time together. And Simon seems comfortable separating his work from his daily life. Besides his attachment to his coworker Johnny, of course, the two closer than brothers.

Sometime you think they're in some kind of international mafia. Simon shows up after a month away looking like he's been steamrolled and blown up, with trinkets and treats from places far away. Specialty coffee, a tiny stained glass lamp, an ocarina engraved with a lily. The military maybe - but you've had friends in the military, a cousin who joined the marines even, and this feels very different.

Simon rubs his mouth, slotting the bridge between his thumb and forefinger beneath his nose, an action you've noticed seems to sooth him. Perhaps he's thinking the same things, feeling the secrets between you. You want to pull him away from the thought, show him you're fine with however much he can give you. Your friendship is all that matters.

"So he's good yeah? Just busy, then?"

"Hm. Bloke's fine, probably just joined a knittin' club or sum'in. I'll ask 'im."

"Hah. Well like I said, it's repayment, for that time he spotted me at Hooligan's. Don't want to be a bother."

Simon levels you with a serious look.

"He'd be a big idiot to turn down your offer."

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

"Why are you avoiding her, ya big idiot?" Simon accuses Johnny when he phones him later that night.

"Oh 'am the idiot? Yer the one who can't see 'am tryin' to give ye room to make a move on the lass."

"Fuck righ' off Soap, we're just friends. Thought the two o' you were friends too, but you're making her wonder."

"She'll ge' over it. But you won't ge' over it if she goes out with me and falls for my charms, no' will ya?"

"Gimme a break."

"Look. I like her. Which is why I'm backin' off. It's no' so rare for me to have a wee crush. But the second I saw you makin' goo-goo eyes-"

"I do not make-"

"Hush it, LT. 'Am just tryin'a give ye yer best shot. She's the first thing ye think of when comin' off deployment, yeah? 'Ah know, I see it in ye every time. One day you'll thank me."

"Look, just..." Simon speaks through a raging blush, his voice a grumble that sounds grumpier than he really feels, "call her back, would ya? Go grab a coffee or something. I'm not pressed. If she likes you... I'll deal. Don't count on it though. She's too smart for you."

"Sure LT. I'll do it for you, alright? Kisses,"

"Soap..."

"Yeah, LT?"

"Fuck off."

"'Night, LT."

"G'night."

Simon tosses the phone to the floor beside the bed and curses up at the ceiling, rubbing his hot face. His mind turns back to the wrestling that afternoon. The way he "accidentally" fell atop you when you tripped, how you were enveloped perfectly beneath his body, the way your eyes widened and cheeks flushed when you both looked at the salacious packaging spilling out of the nondescript cardboard box. Oh, how he wanted to tease you relentlessly. Give in to the desire to drag your pure, ladylike demeanor through the mud and then lick it all off. If he said the things he was itching to say, would you cover your ears, or laugh? Would you bite back? What would happen then, on that couch, if you hadn't scurried away when you did? The images take him away.

It's a long time before he finds sleep, his hands too rough and knowledgable to truly satisfy.

He can't go on like this. Not forever. But what else can he do?

Taglist:

If you've given me love in the comments or reblogs I've added you too! Thanks for the support! Lmk to add/remove.

@littleghostbride, @cmbghost, @anotherrickinthewall, @etherealinthewoods

P.S. About Simon's mask

My sister told me she was confused as to why Simon doesn't have a mask in these drabbles. I have the idea that he keeps his civilian life so entirely separate from work that he can't wear a mask all the time for fear people might make that connection. People know him in the field as the guy who always wears the mask, right? He has two identities. With the mask, and without. Ghost, and Simon. He does still wear a plain black KN95 on errands, citing health awareness (it's really his anxiety). But when he's comfortable at home or with friends (even at his favorite bar, sometimes), he takes it off. That's my headcannon, anyway.

#cod #cod modern warfare #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #lindsay00000008

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lushaletta · 11 months ago

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hide with me / james potter

pairing: james potter x fem!reader

warnings: mild swearing, mentions of mental health/anxiety, reader has a panic attack

summary: poorly written drabble in which you have awful anxiety and a lovely james.

a/n: i feel like this feels unfinished i’m so sorry… i clearly lost steam by the end but i hope you all like it! i am such a sucker for some james

⋆ ࣪. ⁺⑅ ⋰˚ *.ﾟ .˳⁺⁎˚ ˚⁎⁺˳ . ༺ ˖࣪ ˖࣪ ∗

It feels like the world is caving in on you. The ceiling is about to fall down and crush you under its weight.

The voices of those around have all mixed and faded into each other into a jumble of noise. You don’t quite know what Lily is saying, not even sure what Marlene is doing; you can hardly see anything.

A laughable attempt at taking a breath has you panicking more and you stumble out of Alice’s living room and onto her front patio as hot, salty tears sting your face.

The reason as to why you’re suddenly in this state has you confused. One moment, you’re fine and the next, you’re in full breakdown mode.

Fresh air. That’s usually all you need. You let the scent of pine fill your lungs, grounding yourself on the railing. You’re fine, you try to repeat to yourself. You’re fine.

“Hey,” a voice calls out. You whip around and spot a head of dark curls and pretty hazel eyes.

Him. You don’t know whether you’re happy or sad about his presence. There’s a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and he looks gorgeous as ever.

You’ve liked James a long time. Much too long. He’s liked Lily for longer.

You’re sure he knows about your feelings, you’d done a poor job at keeping them secret, and you’d be surprised if at this point he was unaware.

Remus knows because you’d confided in him first. He was sweet about it, stroking your hair and whispering kind words in your ear. Sirius knows from the “powers of deduction”, as he likes to call it.

“Hi,” he says, putting the cig between his fingers, flicking the ash off.

“Hi,” you reply, a little breathless.

He walks over to you, assessing your state. “Are you alright?”

He’s always been awfully caring. It’s half the reason you like him more than what’s healthy.

James knows your ins and outs. Your family history, all your favourite movies, how many freckles you have. He’s committed every part of you to memory.

He treats you like you’re fragile, like a porcelain doll. As if you’d break when dropped.

Maybe it’s self-righteousness. Maybe he’s doing it out of pity. Though, in this moment, it feels anything but.

“Just fine,” you whisper, staring at him so deeply it’s embarrassing.

“You ran off.”

You laugh a humourless laugh. “Did I?”

James nods, looking like he’s inspecting you. It makes you feel a little self-conscious.

A smile creeps across your face. It’s really only to conceal the awkwardness. “What?”

“I think we’re past the point of pretending everything is alright when it isn’t,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Will you tell me what happened?”

The bluntness of his words makes you nervous. He’s not typically so forward.

“I was overwhelmed.”

His arms lace around your shoulders. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, let’s go, then,” he says, decidedly.

It’s a tempting offer. Being dragged away from all the noise and instead spending the night with James, but you don’t want to disrupt his evening with your feelings. He likes these people. He’s comfortable with them. He’s not like you, you say to yourself.

“No. I’m fine, James, really. Please don’t worry yourself.”

“I was kind of getting tired anyway. We can grab food and you can sleep at my place for the night, hm?” he insists, putting out his cig.

He’s doing it again. That thing where he’s just being so considerate and kind to the point that it bothers you.

“I..” you trail off, looking at the stars instead of his eyes. They’re both really beautiful.

“I’d like for you to come with me, sweetheart. Let’s get away. Just for a bit,” he tries again, gently tilting your face towards his.

You’re going to come with him. You were going to the first time he asked, no matter what, but you need to hear that he wants it.

You crack a smile. “Okay.”

Before midnight, you’re in his car. It’s a bit beaten up and the engine takes a couple of tries before it starts, but it’s a charming vehicle. He’s ordering fries for you, doing all the talking you’re so hesitant to.

There are muffled voices over the speaker. “Just a moment.” James turns to you. “Want a coke, baby?”

You nod, tapping your fingers on the window and fumbling with the button of your seatbelt.

He hands you a paper bag.

“Thank you, James. I’m sorry you’re stuck with me instead of with Lily at the gathering.”

His face contorts into a look of slight confusion as he grabs a fry from your hand. “Why would I want to be with Lily?” It’s not that he doesn’t want to hang out with Lily, it’s just that you could’ve asked about Sirius or Remus or even Frank.

“I mean, you like her, don’t you?” you say, voice quivering. Afraid of the answer.

“She’s a nice girl.” It’s not a no. You’re crushed. You nod your head like you’re unsurprised.

A forced smile makes its way onto your lips. “You two would look good together,” you say, hushed.

His brow quirks. “What? No.” It comes out a little sharp, and he immediately softens. “No, it’s not like that. Sorry.”

“Oh.” You hate yourself for it, but you feel your body immediately relax in relief.

Now he’s the uneasy one. His fingers are tapping on the steering wheel and he’s clearly purposely avoiding your gaze.

“Listen—“

“—I’m sorry,” you cut him off. “Sorry, you first.”

The car comes to a stop at some dark parking lot. James turns to face you. “What are you apologising for?”

Even you’re not too sure. It’s a mix of a few things; Lily, forcing him to stay with you, your anxiety, interrupting him, even. A general apology for your.. you-ness.

“All this. I just want you to be happy, James. I’m really sorry for always making you do this. Comfort me whenever I’m overwhelmed like that.”

He blinks. “I’m happy when I’m with you, sweetheart. Why don’t you understand that I enjoy doing this? I love when we escape from those dumb gatherings and do shit like this. I love it. I love you, damn it.”

Your heart drops. No, it stops. He had to be drunk. He was driving under the influence, surely. A crime. That’s a felony. Your head was absolutely spinning.

You don’t know what to do but stare blankly at him as his face asks you to just say something.

“What?”

“I love you! I don’t even know where you got that whole Lily thing. I love you! It’s always been you!”

Well, shit.

You lower your voice to a whisper. “So do something about it, Potter.”

And he does.

#🎞 by.ivy #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagine #hp imagine #harry potter oneshot #james potter x y/n #james potter x you #james potter fluff #james potter x reader #james potter oneshot #james potter fanfiction #james potter #marauders oneshot #marauders fanfiction #the maraunders map

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