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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months ago

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the girl next door 37

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as age gap, manipulation, chronic illness, noncon/dubcon, coercion, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: A new neighbour moves in and upends your already disarrayed life.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself.

This lewk but silverfox

Steve’s glare follows you out the door. You don’t look back as you flit out with your roll of pencils and sketchbook. Peter stands casually at the bottom of the steps, his camera hanging around his neck. He smiles and you show your teeth. Your cheeks are tight.

“Hey, you okay?” He asks as he walks behind you.

“Fine,” you like.

He reaches around you to open the gate and you lead him out. You turn down the pavement and he comes up next to you as the latch clanks shut behind him. You shrink down as his arms brushes yours. Your steps are wide and stiff as your clothing rubs against your pelvis.

“You looked sad when you drove by so I thought maybe you’d like to see the frogs again.” He says.

“Oh?” You peek over at him.

“Uh, not that you don’t look nice. I like your hair.” He grins.

“Uh, yeah, Steve... Steve took me to the salon.”

“That’s really nice of him. Weird, he seemed a bit grumpy.” He remarks as he checks out his camera, walking casually without a glance ahead.

“Mm, yeah. He was.”

“But he still took you out for all that?”

“Yeah...” you drone. “Thanks for stopping by. I... don’t go out much.”

“Gets kinda lonely by myself. The frog doesn’t always show up, then it’s even lonelier.” He chuckles and you try to. You feel heavy.

When you get to the bridge, he goes to the railing and works at adjusting his lenses. You perch yourself in the grass, just at the apex of the rise that leads down to the river. You open your sketchbook to new page but don’t bother with your pencils. You don’t feel like drawing. Usually, it’s what helps you calm down but now you can’t even focus.

Peter snaps photos and points out the tadpoles rippling across the surface. You stare through the water, minnows speckling shadows onto the silt. It’s beautiful and peaceful. It’s a stark contrast to what you know awaits you at home.

“You sure you’re okay?” Peter asks as he leans on the railing and looks at you.

You nod and shrug. You can’t lie anymore. You bend your legs and toss your sketchbook beside you. You hang your head and cross your arms over your knees. The bridge creaks as Peter comes around. He lowers himself next to you.

“Hey, you know, it’s been a while and all but you can talk to me.” He says. “Is it your mom? She bad?”

“She... she has a nurse now. They take care of her.”

He exhales softly. “Mm,” he hums thoughtfully. The water babbles gently as he fiddles with his camera. “Is it Steve?”

You’re silent. Deathly so. Tellingly. You shift and grimace at the burn along your thighs.

“You uncomfortable or something?” He asks. “You’re fidgeting a lot.”

It's gnawing at you from the inside. You can't hold it in any longer. You're terrified.

“Peter,” you squeak. “I don’t... I don’t want you to judge me.”

“Judge you?” He chuckles. “For what?”

Your eyes glisten and you sniff, leaning your head back. You look at him slowly. “At the salon...” you quick avert your gaze and hunch down again. “They waxed me.”

“Oh? Yeah, your brows look pretty good.”

“No, my... my privates.”

He makes a strange noise, “really? Uh, I think yeah, a lot of girls get that done.”

“I didn’t-- I didn’t want it. Steve he... he made me.”

He sighs and sniffs. “Why would he do that?”

You raise your head and your tears spill out. His brown eyes are warm. You feel fuzzy.

“He touches me. Says things. Does things.”

“What?” He hisses. “Oh, god, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I asked for it. I... deserve it but... my mom needs help and he can give it to her.” You sniffle and wipe your nose.

“You don’t have to stay there. Oh god, you should come back with me. To my Aunt May’s. She remembers you.” He insists.

You shake your head, “I belong with my mom.”

He huffs, “you don’t belong there. Not with that. With him.”

“Please. Please. I can’t leave her. But...” you quaver at the thought in the back of your mind. “I’m scared.”

“Yeah, well, who wouldn’t be--”

“Please, just let me talk. And I’m sorry because it’s going to be really strange.” You shake your head and chew your lip. You think of last night and the car ride and all the things Steve promised. You want to hurt him too and you don’t know how else to do so. “Will you do it with me first?”

He garbles and winces. His breath turns shallow and he looks around, “do what?”

“Peter.” You touch his arm. “I don’t want it to hurt and I know you’ll be nice.”

“But... we... it’s a lot.”

“Oh,” you cover your face. “I told you it’s weird. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just... I can’t stop him.”

“Just come with me,” he pleas.

“I told you, my mom!” You snap. “It’s okay. I’ll... I’ll just... hold my breath.”

He wallows beside you. A tense silence rises between you, around you, consuming you. You’re embarrassed and you think he is too. You can hear him swallow.

“I’m... I’ve never done it before either so... I... I’m nervous.” He confesses. You slowly turn to him.

“Really?”

“Yeah, I just never got to it, I guess but maybe it’s not so bad knowing that neither of us... have?” His brows squiggle and he pushes his shoulders up.

You nod, “is that... are you going to do it?”

He bites his lips and his brown eyes scan around the grass and water.

“My aunt’s at home right now, we can’t really sneak in so...”

“It’s okay. We’ll do it here.”

“Here?” He gurgles.

“Yeah,” you reach for his hand and stand up slowly, “come on.”

He blinks widely and gets up. He wiggles his hand free and lifts his camera straps from around his neck. He follows you with his head down. You carefully walk down the incline to the river and dip under the bridge. There’s just enough dirt to stand on.

“How--?” He asks as he sets the camera on the wooden plank that braces the bridge.

“It doesn’t have to be romantic.” You unbutton your shorts as you turn your back to him. “I just wanna get it over with.”

“Hey, woah,” he draws your hand away from the denim and pulls you back towards him. “I don’t want it like that. Let’s take it slow, okay?”

You look at him pout. “Okay, slow.”

“Can I... can I kiss you?” He asks.

“Sure,” you smile without thinking. It doesn’t feel so scary. Not with him.

He guides you closer and puts your hands on his shoulders. He wraps his arms around you and brushes his nose down yours. His breath tickles you and he presses his lips to yours lightly. He’s shy at first. His tongue darts out then away, then out again. He grows bolder and you let him inside. He groans in surprise and delight.

You sigh into him and your body relaxes. You slide your arms around his shoulders and cling to him. He kind and warm and nice. You like the taste of him. You like that you can feel his heart racing. You like that his touch makes you tingle that way.

You can do this. That way when you have to face Steve, you don’t have to be there. Not in your head. No, you’ll just think of Peter and the river and the smell of pollen.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #the girl next door #series #steve rogers x reader #drabble #au #mcu #marvel #silverfox au #captain america #avengers #peter parker #peter parker x reader

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anemos-orca · 6 months ago

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The Harbingers Cat

Balladeer x neko!reader smut, MDNI

cw: smut, female reader, reader is the Balladeers loyal assistant, reader draws NSFW, humiliation, fantasizing, probably more qwq

Series Tag: #▪︎HarbingersCat

NSFW under "keep reading"

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Being the assistant (and a neko one at that) of the 6th Fatui Harbinger was not an easy job, but you couldnt deny how much you enjoyed your work. Despite how you sometimes slipped up or were given a shocking flick of electro for doodling on the job, working under the Balladeers direct command was, to say the least, fulfilling. He tasked you with medial jobs that were "below him" such as paperwork, greeting new cadets, and cleaning his workspace. You found pride in your work and were eager to please, each subtle word of praise murmured by your higher up fueling you into wanting more and more. It was such a rare thing that, whenever it did happen, it was like all your hard work paid off and you were rewarded with something worth more than mora itself- i mean, who gets praised by the Balladeer??

Scaramouche was amused by you and your strange willingness to do anything he asked. Sometimes he would make up a "job" so rediculous, it felt painfully obvious how fake it was- but still, you never questioned him. If for the sake of not having to sift through countless morons, Scaramouche could brush off your stupid little mistakes and your gross habit of doodling. Though, as time passed, he noticed that you were beginning to act... peculiarly. He would catch you mimicing his expressions, the way he walked, the way he talked- he couldnt deny how pathetically adorable it was. His little neko assistant bossing a cadet around just like how he would, only to turn around with a cute, satisfied smile (despite your efforts to contain the satisfaction of successfully copying your boss) like a kid who managed to learn how to make a sandwich just by watching their mom do it. He couldnt take you seriously, not with the way your fluffy little ears flinched away each time he snapped his fingers right next to them just to startle you. Not with how your tail would poof up in excitement at the most meaningless and fickle of things. Not with the way those stupidly expressive eyes of yours seemed to sparkle each time he would murmur the simplest of praises.

After even more time had passed, he would catch himself studying the little doodles you had made in days past- whenever you were being covered by some idiot who didnt know the first thing about being his assistant, they reminded him that he wouldnt have to deal with his medial tasks once you came back. He would never admit it, but he tended to be more annoyed with people on the days you were gone. He didnt understand the strange, relaxing effect you had on him, and it was irritating.

You werent a puppet like him, so being in lethally cold conditions all the time weakened your body just like it would any other mortal. Therefore, you were often given a couple days off every few weeks to recover. Scaramouche couldnt imagine what you could possibly be doing on the days you spent cooped up in your tiny room all alone, but he figured you just slept through it. Besides, mortal activities were not his concern.

However, that changed on the day you accidentally forgot your sketchbook in his office. You had already left- it was late and you finished filling out his paperwork for the day- but you didnt notice the precious item you left behind. Scaramouche knew how valuable it was to you, considering the fact that it was always in your little satchel and you never left it unattended, so it piqued his curiosity. Why was a sketchbook, of all things, your most valuable item? Such a stupid thing to do, to hold something so fragile and easily ruined at high value. Despite his subtle curiosity, he couldnt care less about what you did, owned, or carried, so he never demanded to inspect it. Though, given this perfect opportunity to quell his after-work boredom, he couldnt help but take a peek.

The Balladeer leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk with a relieved sigh, satisfied to have a moment of relaxation. He flipped the cover of your tattered sketchbook open and examined the first page, reading, "If lost, return to (y/n) at once. Inspection is strictly prohibited. Doing so will result in high punishment." He scoffed, imagining your stupid kitty ears flattening back in seriousness as you wrote. The first few pages after were filled with redundant doodles of the most random things- creatures, expressions, trees, a large amount of dogs and cats- but as he continued thumbing through, he began to see drawings of... himself? He narrowed his eyes and sat forward, raising a judgemental brow. They started out silly and cartoonish, but within the next few pages, he found well thought out, clean, almost realistic drawings of himself in quite the suggestive poses. He couldnt help but snicker, amused by the newfound knowledge of your apparent crush on him. The drawings of the next page were even more suggestive and lewd, but compared to what he flipped to after that, they seemed tame.

He had plans for that sketchbook. Imagining the mortified, humiliated, and impossibly embarrassed expressions youd make when he would reveal to you that he had seen the way you fantasized about his cock- the thoughts painted a sadistic smile across his face, and for the first time in a long time, he looked forward to starting a new day.

Scaramouches eyes widened and his amused expression grew as he laid eyes upon a completely pornographic drawing of himself that filled the entirety of the page- he was sitting in the very chair he sat in now, fisting his hardened cock, a scandalously pleasured expression spread over his face, and thick ropes of cum cascading over his desk. He had to admit, it was a good drawing, but all he could think about was the lustful expression and blushing cheeks you mustve had while creating such lewd art of your own boss. He wouldnt have guessed your massive crush on him even with your overly eager-to-please demeanor, only thinking his little neko assistant acted in such peculiar ways from vehement loyalty- and he found the idea to be rather entertaining. He finished flipping through your sketchbook, studying every nasty drawing you made of him and, in turn, began imagining his own dirty scenarios about making his secretly filthy assistant help him with more... physical tasks. It excited him, and he could feel his body heat up at the tought of it. Slyly chuckling to himself, the Balladeer shoved your sketchbook into the top drawer of his desk and left for the night, being sure to lock the door to his icy office so you couldnt sneak in and take back what was rightfully yours.

You, on the other hand, were not. The moment you set your satchel down in your little room, the lack of its familiar clunk sound due to your sketchbook being inside made your heart drop. You frantically searched every inch of your room, overturning and messing up every nook and cranny looking for that blasted sketchbook, but it was nowhere to be found. It was too late to go looking for it- it was past curfew, and if you were found snooping about, you would be punished and questioned. How could you possibly face another Fatui member and explain that, "Oh, im not being suspicious, dont worry! Im just desperately looking for my lost sketchbook that contains highly inappropriate art of the 6th Harbinger, my boss." You gulped hard, an overwhelming feeling of guilt creeping through your skin and into your bones as you remembered where it last was. His office. Your tail bristled and your mind began to race, panicing at the thought of what was going to happen tomorrow- surely he had seen it and flipped through the pages, infuriated that his stupid little kitty assistant was drawing porn of him. Was he going to kill you? Imprison you? Exile you to the fridgid wilds of your homeland? Archons, your heart had never beat so hard in your life. It felt like it was trying to escape your ribcage to run away and hide. However, no matter how much you stressed, there was nothing you could do except face the consequences of your actions in the morning. Your stupid, foolish actions.

#genshin fanfic #genshin x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #genshin scaramouche x reader #genshin impact scaramouche #scaramouche #genshin scaramouche smut #scaramouche smut #genshin scara #scara x reader #the balladeer #genshin impact #genshin #genshin x you #▪︎HarbingersCat #balladeer smut #genshin impact x reader

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okasuka · 15 days ago

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Damian wayne x Reader scrambleee !

The first bell of the day rang loud and clear through Gotham Academy’s towering halls. Y/N adjusted her glasses, clutching her worn leather sketchbook to her chest as she navigated the throng of students. Her tan skin and short, wavy hair with its signature red streak stood out amidst the sea of uniforms, though not always for the right reasons.

She found her assigned classroom just in time, slipping into the second-to-last seat in the middle row. Sliding into the chair, she sighed in relief—until she noticed the boy sitting next to her.

Damian Wayne.

He was unmistakable. His sharp green eyes and immaculate posture radiated an air of quiet confidence, and the way he carried himself made it clear he wasn’t to be trifled with. Y/N had heard whispers about him during her first week at Gotham Academy—son of billionaire Bruce Wayne, brilliant yet aloof, and rumored to have a dark streak.

As she opened her sketchbook, Damian glanced her way, his gaze lingering for a moment before he turned back to his notes.

“Good morning,” he said abruptly, his voice smooth but disinterested.

Y/N blinked, startled by his greeting. “Oh, uh… morning.”

There was an awkward pause before Damian returned to scribbling in his notebook. Y/N peeked at his page—several detailed sketches of a bird mid-flight.

“You’re good at drawing,” she blurted out, immediately regretting it.

Damian arched a brow, but there was no trace of mockery in his expression. “So are you.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed. “How do you know?”

“I saw you sketching in the courtyard yesterday,” he said simply, then turned back to his work.

Between first and second period, Y/N wandered through the hallway, still thinking about the strange conversation she’d had with Damian. She was so preoccupied that she didn’t notice the group of girls blocking her path until it was too late.

“Well, if it isn’t the new girl,” one of them sneered. Her blond hair was styled in perfect curls, and she looked at Y/N like she was something unpleasant stuck to her shoe.

Y/N tightened her grip on her sketchbook. “Excuse me.”

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” another girl asked, smirking.

Y/N tried to step around them, but the first girl snatched her sketchbook out of her hands.

“Hey!” Y/N protested, reaching for it.

The girl held it out of reach, flipping through the pages. “What’s this? Drawings? Wow, you must think you’re so talented.”

Y/N’s hands curled into fists as the group laughed.

“Glasses, tan skin, weird red streak in your hair—what are you, a cartoon character?” the blond girl taunted, shoving the sketchbook into Y/N’s chest hard enough to make her stumble.

“Give it back,” Y/N demanded, her voice trembling with anger.

“Oh, what are you going to do?” the girl mocked. “Draw us to death?”

Y/N didn’t think. Her blood was boiling, her knuckles itching for release. She swung her fist, connecting with the girl’s face in a satisfying crunch.

The blond girl staggered back, clutching her nose as blood trickled between her fingers. “You’re crazy!” she shrieked.

The hallway went silent, every student turning to stare. Y/N’s chest heaved as she realized what she’d done.

“Y/N.”

Her head snapped toward the voice. Damian Wayne stood a few feet away, his eyes locked on her with an unreadable expression.

“Come with me,” he said curtly, holding out his hand.

Y/N didn’t argue. She followed Damian down the hall, away from the gawking students. They didn’t stop until they reached the gymnasium, where he led her under the bleachers.

Once they were hidden, Y/N slumped against a support beam, her bloodied knuckles stinging. “Great. Now I’m definitely getting expelled.”

Damian crossed his arms, studying her. “Why didn’t you just walk away?”

“Because she deserved it,” Y/N snapped, glaring at him.

He tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “You didn’t hesitate. Most people would.”

“Yeah, well, most people don’t get harassed for existing,” Y/N muttered, wiping at her knuckles with the edge of her sleeve.

Damian pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. “You should clean that before it gets infected.”

Y/N hesitated, then took the handkerchief. “Thanks.”

There was a long silence as she dabbed at her knuckles, the tension in her shoulders slowly easing.

“You’re not what I expected,” Damian said suddenly.

She glanced up at him, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t back down,” he said, a hint of admiration in his tone. “Most people here are too afraid to stand up for themselves.”

“Well, maybe someone should,” Y/N said.

Damian’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Maybe.”

By the time third period rolled around, Y/N felt like she’d been through a war. She slid into her seat, grateful to have a moment to breathe.

Damian appeared a moment later, sitting beside her as if nothing had happened.

“So,” he said quietly, “are you always this impulsive?”

Y/N shot him a sideways glance. “Are you always this nosy?”

He smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Touché.”

The teacher began the lesson, but Y/N found it hard to focus. Every so often, she’d glance at Damian, only to find him already looking at her. Each time, her cheeks grew warmer, and she quickly turned back to her notes.

During a lull in the lecture, Damian leaned over, his voice low. “If you’re worried about what happened earlier, don’t be. The school won’t do anything.”

Y/N frowned. “How do you know?”

He shrugged. “Let’s just say I have… influence.”

Lunch came and went, and by the time the final bell rang, Y/N was exhausted. She was gathering her things when Damian appeared beside her desk.

“Come on,” he said, his tone brisk.

“Where are we going?” she asked, stuffing her sketchbook into her bag.

“To the manor,” he said.

She blinked. “Wait, what?”

“To the manor,” Damian repeated, already heading for the door. “You’re coming with me.”

Y/N stared after him, completely bewildered. “Why would I—”

“You’ll like it,” he said over his shoulder, cutting her off. “Besides, you owe me for cleaning up your mess earlier.”

She scoffed, jogging to catch up with him. “I didn’t ask you to clean anything up.”

“You didn’t have to,” Damian said, glancing at her with a smirk.

Y/N sighed, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Fine. But if this is some kind of trap, I’m kicking you in the shin.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he replied dryly, leading her out of the school.

The Ride to Wayne Manor

A sleek black car waited at the curb, its engine idling softly. Y/N froze when she saw the man standing beside it—a tall, stern-looking figure in a tailored suit.

“Is that—”

“Alfred,” Damian said, cutting her off.

Alfred opened the door with a polite nod. “Miss Y/N, I presume?”

Y/N blinked, clutching her bag tightly. “Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

“Welcome,” Alfred said warmly, gesturing for her to get in.

She hesitated, glancing at Damian. “You weren’t kidding about the influence thing, huh?”

“I don’t kid,” he said, climbing into the car.

With a deep breath, Y/N slid in after him, feeling out of place in the luxurious interior. Alfred shut the door and got behind the wheel, steering the car smoothly into traffic.

“So,” Y/N said after a few minutes, “are you going to tell me why I’m being abducted by the Wayne family chauffeur?”

Damian smirked. “It’s not an abduction. You agreed to come.”

“Under duress,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

“You’ll understand when we get there,” he said cryptically.

Y/N sighed, leaning back against the plush seat. Whatever she’d gotten herself into, there was no backing out now.

Arriving at the Manor

Y/N’s jaw dropped as the car pulled up to the sprawling estate. Wayne Manor loomed above them, its Gothic architecture both intimidating and awe-inspiring.

“Holy…” she trailed off, stepping out of the car and taking it all in.

“Come on,” Damian said, already heading for the front door.

Y/N followed him inside, her eyes darting around the grand foyer. Everything about the place screamed old money, from the polished marble floors to the intricate chandeliers.

“This place is insane,” she murmured.

“Wait until you see the training room,” Damian said, his tone nonchalant.

“The training room?”

He smirked. “You’ll see.”

A Sudden Sparring Match

The training room was massive, filled with mats, equipment, and weapons that looked both ancient and high-tech. Y/N’s eyes widened as she took it all in.

“Are you a superhero or something?” she joked, only half-serious.

Damian’s expression didn’t change. “Something like that.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “You’re not serious.”

He didn’t respond, pulling off his blazer and rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s spar.”

“What?” she asked, taken aback.

“You said you can fight,” Damian said, stepping onto the mat. “Prove it.”

Y/N hesitated, then set her bag down and joined him on the mat. “You’re not going to go easy on me, are you?”

“Would you want me to?”

She smirked. “Not a chance.”

They squared off, and Y/N was the first to move, throwing a quick jab toward his midsection. Damian dodged effortlessly, countering with a sweep that she barely avoided.

“You’re fast,” he remarked, circling her.

“And you’re annoying,” she shot back, lunging at him again.

They traded blows, the sound of their movements echoing through the room. Y/N managed to hold her own, landing a few hits despite Damian’s obvious skill.

“You’re not bad,” he admitted, a faint smirk on his lips.

“Thanks,” she said, panting slightly. “You’re not too shabby yourself.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not too shabby?”

Before she could respond, Damian feinted left, then swept her legs out from under her. She landed on her back with a gasp, and he pinned her arms above her head.

“Got you,” he said smugly, leaning over her.

Y/N glared up at him, her cheeks flushing. “This doesn’t count. You cheated.”

“How?”

“You distracted me,” she said, squirming beneath him.

Damian’s smirk widened, but his expression softened as their eyes met. The tension between them was palpable, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, with a sudden burst of strength, Y/N twisted her body, flipping him onto his back. She pinned his wrists to the mat, leaning over him with a triumphant grin.

“Got you back,” she said, her face inches from his.

Damian’s green eyes widened, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “Not bad,” he muttered, his voice quieter now.

They stayed like that for a moment, the air between them charged. Then, Y/N realized how close they were and quickly let go, sitting back on her heels.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, her face burning.

Damian sat up, brushing himself off. “You’re not exactly what I expected.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You’re full of surprises.”

The End of the Day

After sparring, Damian gave Y/N a brief tour of the manor, though she couldn’t focus much after their encounter on the mat.

As they walked through the halls, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “So… does anyone else know about this whole sparring thing, or is it just your secret hobby?”

He smirked. “Depends. Are you going to tell anyone?”

“Who would believe me?” she said with a laugh.

When it was time for her to leave, Damian walked her to the front door.

“Thanks for… everything,” Y/N said, feeling oddly shy.

“You’re welcome,” he said, his gaze steady. “Don’t let those girls at school get to you.”

“I won’t,” she promised, her heart skipping a beat at the softness in his tone.

As she stepped outside, Y/N glanced back at him. “See you tomorrow?”

“Definitely,” Damian said, his lips curving into a rare smile.

Y/N returned the smile, her heart feeling lighter than it had in days.

The Next Morning at Gotham Academy

Y/N walked into the school with a strange mixture of dread and anticipation. The events of the previous day still weighed heavily on her, but the thought of seeing Damian again made her heart race.

She adjusted her glasses as she reached her locker, trying to ignore the lingering stares from the students who had witnessed the hallway altercation.

“Y/N.”

She turned to find Damian standing there, his presence commanding as always.

“Oh. Hi,” she said, caught off guard by how quickly he’d found her.

“Hi,” he said simply, then glanced at her bandaged knuckles. “How’s your hand?”

She held it up, flexing her fingers. “Better, thanks to Alfred’s magic handkerchief.”

Damian’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Good. You’ll need it.”

“For what?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Sparring,” he replied, as though it were obvious.

Y/N laughed. “We just sparred yesterday.”

“And?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“And I’m sore,” she admitted, leaning against her locker.

“Excuses,” Damian said, smirking.

Before Y/N could respond, a familiar voice rang out behind her.

“Hey, loser!”

She turned to see the same blond girl from the day before, her nose bandaged and her face twisted with anger.

“Oh, great,” Y/N muttered.

“You think you’re tough, huh?” the girl sneered, stepping closer.

Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but Damian stepped in front of her, his posture rigid and his gaze icy.

“She doesn’t need to think,” Damian said coldly. “She is.”

The girl faltered under his glare but quickly regained her composure. “Oh, so now you’re her bodyguard? How pathetic.”

Damian took a step forward, his voice low and dangerous. “You should leave before you embarrass yourself further.”

The girl’s bravado crumbled, and she turned on her heel, storming off with a huff.

Y/N stared at Damian, equal parts impressed and amused. “Do you always have to be so intense?”

“It gets results,” he said with a shrug.

She shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “Thanks.”

Sparring Redux

Later that day, Damian led Y/N back to the training room at Wayne Manor. This time, she was more prepared—or so she thought.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked, tying her sneakers as Damian adjusted the straps on his gloves.

“Positive,” he said, tossing her a pair of gloves. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Y/N grinned, slipping on the gloves. “Oh, it’s on.”

They squared off again, the tension between them crackling like electricity. Y/N moved first, aiming a quick jab at Damian’s shoulder. He dodged easily, countering with a feint that nearly tripped her up.

“You’re holding back,” he said, smirking.

“Am not,” she shot back, lunging at him.

They exchanged blows, their movements growing faster and more fluid as they fell into a rhythm. Despite his obvious skill, Damian didn’t overpower her—instead, he seemed to be testing her, pushing her to her limits.

“You’re getting better,” he remarked, dodging a punch that came dangerously close to his jaw.

“Thanks,” she panted, her knuckles tingling. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Not so bad?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Before she could respond, Damian swept her legs out from under her, sending her sprawling onto the mat.

“Hey!” she protested, glaring up at him.

He smirked, offering her a hand. “Careful. Your guard’s slipping.”

Y/N ignored his hand, pulling herself up with a determined look. “Not for long.”

She launched herself at him, using his own momentum against him. To her surprise, he stumbled, and they both went tumbling to the mat.

When the dust settled, Y/N found herself on top of Damian, her hands pinning his wrists to the ground. Their faces were mere inches apart, and she could feel his rapid breath against her skin.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

“You’re… full of surprises,” Damian said softly, his green eyes locked on hers.

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t let go. “So are you.”

Their gazes lingered, the air between them thick with unspoken tension.

“Are you going to let me up?” Damian asked, his voice low.

“Maybe,” Y/N teased, a shy smile tugging at her lips.

Taking advantage of her hesitation, Damian twisted his body, flipping them over so that he was on top. Y/N gasped, her heart pounding as his face hovered just above hers.

“Got you,” he murmured, his lips curving into a triumphant smirk.

But instead of pulling away, Damian hesitated, his gaze flickering to her lips. Y/N’s breath hitched, and for a split second, the world seemed to stop.

Then, slowly, he leaned down, brushing his lips against hers in a soft, hesitant kiss.

Y/N froze, her mind racing—but then she melted into the kiss, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. Damian’s lips were surprisingly gentle, his usual sharpness replaced with a rare vulnerability.

When they finally pulled apart, their faces were flushed, and neither of them knew what to say.

“That was…” Y/N began, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Unexpected,” Damian finished, his gaze still locked on hers.

She laughed softly, her cheeks burning. “Yeah. That.”

He smiled—a real, genuine smile—and helped her to her feet.

The Evening

Later, as they sat together in the manor’s grand living room, Y/N couldn’t help but glance at Damian every so often.

“Stop staring,” he said without looking up from his book.

“I’m not staring,” she said quickly, though her flushed face betrayed her.

He smirked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, hiding her smile behind her sketchbook. Despite his teasing, she couldn’t deny the warmth spreading through her chest.

As the evening stretched on, the tension between them gave way to an easy camaraderie, their connection growing stronger with each passing moment.

And for the first time in a long while, Y/N felt like she truly belonged.

#damian wayne #dc comics #dc fanart #dc #dc robin #damian wayne x reader #dcu #damian wayne x y/n #fluff

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obsessive-valentine · 3 days ago

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The First Steps, Guided by Gentle Hands (PT 3)

Platonic Vampire Family + Fem!Reader - (Beaumont family saga)

Progress and Setbacks- You find yourself settling in and even enjoying some bits, including Dorian being a great big brother and the warmth of a mother. Though it isn't linear progress and you stumble during some parts. But don't worry, that's what parents are for -to steady you and help in their own ways. Part 3 to 5 Stages of Grief

The following months passed slowly, they weren't particularly unkind. You'd expected worse, to be honest, you settled quicker than you'd like to admit.

Lavinia is usually at your side or close by. The two of you became almost inseparable, Lavinia treating you with a motherly tenderness you hadn’t expected. But never fragile or demeaning, in fact, she encouraged questions and exploration -she was just there for your stability, not to shelter you or keep you captive.

Soren lets you grow comfortable, giving you space to settle and get used to a new routine. He'd make small talk when you're in the same room, but it never felt forced or pressuring. It was casual and kind, warm even.

Lucian is distant to but not the same kind-distant as Soren who's giving you space but is still there for you, this is a brooding-distant. If you caught his eye, he’d glance away with a scowl, or, on the rare occasion he lingered, his expression was unreadable—something guarded beneath the surface, like he didn’t know whether to see you as a stranger, an annoyance, or something else entirely. But he rarely made any verbal jabs, he knew better, where you are Lavinia or Soren are close by.

Dorian made up for his brother in spades though.

Dorian loves having a little sister, but more so a person who's fun and matches his energy. Don't get him wrong, it's not torture living with them, but they are a very formal and work-led family. Lavinia, ever soft for her sons, often played along with her dry wit, entertaining her wild child's antics. But those were just fleeting moments, and the other two are useless when understanding good comedy. This, however, is so much more fun, so much more human- games, laughing and getting in trouble.

There were games of cards sprawled out on the sitting room floor, stories told by firelight that had you snorting with laughter at Dorian’s theatrical gestures, and hours spent bent over your sketchbook beside you as he tried (and failed) to master the art of drawing. Your drawing book is now a patchwork of your steady drawings and Dorian's questionable scribbles.

“This is offensive,” he grumbled one afternoon, pointing to his attempt at a cat. It looked more like a misshapen potato with whiskers. “to cats everywhere. I should be ashamed.”

“You should,” you teased, stifling a giggle. “Poor Sir Whiskers. He deserves better.”

“Art critic and sibling tormentor?” He shook his head dramatically. “What have I created ?”

Your smile lingered even after the moment passed. It was a strange thought, but you were starting to feel a quiet sense of belonging here—especially around Dorian. He treated you as though you’d always been part of his life, his easygoing nature smoothing the sharp edges of your fears.

Lavinia often encouraged this unconventional form of bonding too. Once walking into the kitchen where you and Dorian were for one reason or another.

Except when she rounds the corner, she sees you both balancing spoons on your noses. She holds back a laugh at the absurdity that Dorian somehow convinced you into.

"Teaching her to balance a spoon on her nose? I'm sure Soren would approve." she raises an eyebrow.

Dorian doesn't remove the spoon to look at her, to focused. "It's a skill, mother. A very serious one, it's harder than it looks." he explains with a grin.

You pipe up though laughs -after dropping your spoon again, determined to get it right you pick it up-. "He says it's a significant motor skill. Apparently, it’s vital for survival."

Lavinia smiles, seeing you so relaxed and happy "Practical, then. Carry on."

The First Steps

But while life in this new family was slowly becoming no so strange, there were unkind 'events'. Often first steps are accompanied by stumbles-

The following months of adjustment weren’t linear. You struggled with the change—an identity crisis that seemed to gnaw at you in the quiet moments—and even the culture shock of living with the Beaumonts. Just as you felt like you were coming to terms with your situation, something new would pull the rug out from under you.

Drinking blood was the worst of it. Just when you thought you could settle, you had to face something that felt so foreign, so damning, that it brought back every fear and doubt. It was gross, wrong, and an impossible idea.

Having been raised in a traditional Victorian household, you likely held some sort of religious or superstitious beliefs too. That only made this so much harder to justify.

The first time Soren brought you the cup, you stared at it as though it might bite you. Lavinia sat beside you at the small table in a quiet room. Dorian sat lazily on a soft armchair not far, under the guise of reading a book, but his gaze was fixed on your face, trying to read your reactions. Your stomach churned, the smell of iron lingering faintly in the air.

“Better to start now,” Soren said, his tone firm but not unkind. He set the cup gently on the table in front of you, his hands steady. “It’s easier to manage this way before hunger makes it… harder.”

He straightens up, and his face softens at the sight of an unpleasant struggle they all had faced "Take your time, but you will drink some before you go to bed." He turns to leave, letting Lavinia handle this with her gentle nature.

But he pauses "This doesn’t define you unless you let it." A tense attempt at comfort. You wish it worked.

You sat in silence for a while after Soren left. Dorian broke the silence unable to sit in such a tense atmosphere.

“It’s stranger to think about it than to do it.” as though this were a completely ordinary conversation. “Once you start, it's just routine... instinct.”

“Dorian,” Lavinia murmured, though there was no real scolding in her tone.

“What?” He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s true.” But his face falls again when his attempt at lighting the mood fails, seeing you only tense up.

You wanted to glare at him, as your eyes began to burn and threaten tears, wanting to snap, but not able to take your eyes off the cup. How can you talk about this like it’s nothing? But your anger fell short. He’d been through this too. They all had. And now it was your turn. There was no getting around it, no more delaying.

Lavinia leaned in, drawing your attention back to her. “I know this feels impossible,” she said softly. “But it won’t ruin you. I promise you that.” The back of her gloved fingers gently brush over your cheek before stopping at your chin and holding it carefully between her index and thumb, forcing you to hold her gaze.

You blinked at her, tears burning the corners of your eyes. “How do you know?” Lavinia sighed at the sight of tears welling up, letting go of your chin to rub circles on your back.

“Because I’ve been where you are,” she said simply. “And I am still myself.”

Something about the certainty in her voice made your resolve falter. Lavinia—so calm, so strong—didn’t look wicked. She didn’t look lost. Maybe… maybe you wouldn’t either.

When you didn’t move, Lavinia stood, reaching for the cup and placing it carefully in your shaking hands. “Just one sip,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “That’s all I’m asking.”

You took as small of a sip as you could- And it was as awful as you were expecting, so foreign. The morality, the taste, the texture and the smell. But worst of all you hated that you weren't so hungry now, forced to confront that this is your way of life from now on.

Lavinia stood, smoothing her skirts before leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of your head. “That’s enough for tonight,” she murmured gently, her tone soft but brooking no argument. “Let’s get you ready for bed, sweet girl.” She placed a hand gently on your lower back, guiding your quiet, troubled self out of the room.

Your steps were slow, heavy with lingering unease, but before stepping into the hallway, you glanced back. Dorian sat where he’d been the entire time, unusually still—quieter than you’d ever seen him, almost forgetting he was there. His usual spark seemed dimmed as he watched you leave, his expression subdued.

He caught your gaze and offered a small, sad smile—an attempt at encouragement that didn’t quite land. It wasn’t pity, exactly, just the ache of watching someone he cared for fight battles he couldn’t help them win.

... Guided by Gentle Hands

You began getting glimpses of what life would look like when you finally settled in.

Soren took it upon himself to become a teacher, starting with history, though at first, it was subtle—nothing heavy, nothing overwhelming. He’d beckon you into his study, voice low but firm, and give you small tasks: 'read this chapter' 'tell me what you think about this passage' or 'write down your thoughts on that event'.

Soren understood better than anyone that boredom had a way of catastrophizing unpleasant thoughts, of spiralling them into something unbearable. It was practical, of course—he had always intended to educate you as thoroughly as he had Lucien and Dorian, and even Lavinia, though her education had been more self-initiated.

But at the heart of it, this was his way of looking out for you, by keeping your mind sharp and your heart steady so you wouldn’t lose yourself.

It was during your third week that he decided to begin. Your disorientation had started to wane, the constant aches dulling to an occasional discomfort, and you found yourself more active, less confined to bed and wandering the manor instead. You’d begun helping Lavinia with small tasks, rearranging shelves or folding linens, as though eager to distract yourself.

One particular night, when you were more restless than usual, Soren watched you quietly from the corner of his eye. The way you fidgeted and paced was all the indication he needed. After a few minutes, he stood, plucked a book off the shelf with deliberate ease, and turned toward you.

“Come with me to my study, child.” His tone left no room for argument, though there was no harshness to it—only purpose.

You followed him with confusion and trepidation, unsure of what to expect. The vastness of his study made you feel small at first—the towering bookshelves, the rich scent of old leather and parchment. But when you sat across from him, and he opened the book, it wasn’t as daunting as you thought.

The conversation began with history, his deep voice weaving stories of wars and treaties, discoveries and downfalls. -And it wasn’t long before the discussions turned, becoming less of a lecture and more of an interview.

“The tales say that vampires turn to ash in the sun,” you hesitantly said one evening, curiosity finally breaking through. “But Lavinia used to visit me during the day... that doesn't make sense.”

Soren gave a rare, almost amused look, his lips quirking faintly. “Those stories are highly inaccurate. We don’t turn to ash in the sun. It’s only irritating—burns, at the worst, if we’re careless.”

Another night, you leaned forward in your seat, bringing up another thought you had wondered about for a few days “You’re always so busy. Do Vampires have jobs?”

He inclined his head, choosing his words carefully. “The Beaumont name is very respected. That respect comes with responsibilities. It drags us into the political side of what you might call… the Vampire Court.”

“Vampire Court?” You echoed, both fascinated and wary of the term.

“Yes,” he replied, leaning back as though considering how much to say. “Though I’m afraid the details would bore you to sleep. Now, let’s return to the matter at hand.”

There was no mistaking the faint, teasing glint in his eyes as he steered you back to the lesson.

Soren didn’t seem to mind the curiosity. So one night, you dared to ask about his maker, your voice hesitant.

“Is your maker still alive?”

Soren paused, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “Yes, he is. A very smart and serious man, though…” He glanced at you, allowing a dry, almost imperceptible humour to slip through. “Let’s just say it’s best to delay that meeting for a while. He lacks certain… refinements.”

It made you blink in surprise before you stifled a small laugh, and Soren let the moment rest there, as if it had never happened.

One night, you’d muttered about how cold you always felt, after he had asked you how the discomforts are fading. Soren had said nothing at the time, merely watching with that inscrutable expression he always wore.

From that evening on, when you woke at sunset, your fireplace was already lit, your room warm -meaning it had been for a while. You assumed Lavinia had been the one to light it, never questioning the habit.

It took weeks before you pieced it together that it wasn't the ever-attentive Lavinia lighting it for you -but Soren, who took on the task personally and routinely before Lavinia could even get to it.

...

Lavinia had always been the one to openly express her love for you. At first, she was careful—never smothering or overstepping boundaries you weren’t ready to cross. Her affection came out in sweet words and soft nicknames, in the way she always seemed close by, never far enough to leave you feeling alone. Acts of service were her strongest language of love: brushing and braiding your hair, tidying your room up and helping you do up ribbons, laces or clasps.

Slowly, as time passed, Lavinia allowed herself to do more, indulging you in the ways she had always wished to but held back. A daughter to spoil in ways her boys were either too old for or too boyish for.

Lavish clothes, jewellery handed down from her own collection, teaching you things that feel more like an excuse to bond than a lesson Soren would set up.

And then there was the bear-

Lavinia had felt, more than seen, that something was missing from your room. It was lovely, of course—she had ensured it was as comfortable and homely as a room could be, with soft wallpaper in delicate florals, plush sheets, downy pillows, and charming decorations. But as she saw more of your personality shining through—your curiosity, your humour, the flashes of humanity you were holding onto with everything you had—she knew the space didn’t yet reflect you.

It was beautiful, yes, but far too serious. Refined. Grown-up in a way that seemed wrong for someone so young (Physically and/or vampire age). She knew it would grow to be yours and be filled with personality and trinkets, that you would grow to love it as you did your old home.

But she felt you need that comfort and self-expression now more than ever, and so she resolved to change that, one gift at a time, that would increasingly become more and more tailored to your likes and comforts as they learned more about you.

The first one was a bear, a necessary comfort item for many humans. Not just any bear though, only the best. She sat at her desk one morning, as the sun rose and you slept. Writing a letter to an artisan in Russia who she'd met during one of their many travels abroad, she knew he was the person to create what she envisioned.

She spared no detail, describing what she wanted: a luxurious, sturdy bear, hand-stitched from the finest materials, with features cute enough to be loved for an eternity and stitching strong enough to endure just as long.

And when it arrived, carefully packaged, topped with a bow.

She lifts the bear out of the box—a beautiful, exquisitely made stuffed bear, with jointed limbs and cute face. Its fur is soft and plush. It’s stitched with fine care, its paws and ears trimmed with delicate embroidery. The bear’s eyes shine black like little onyx stones, and it wears a velvet ribbon around its neck with a small, silver charm hanging from it—a subtle mark of luxury and craftsmanship.

That evening, when you found it sitting carefully on your bed, your steps slowed as you entered the room. You stared at the bear for a long moment, your fingers brushing hesitantly over its fur before picking it up. It was heavier than you expected, sturdy and real—yours.

Lavinia’s voice broke the quiet, soft from where she stood in the doorway, coming in to put some of your clothes away. “A companion. He came all the way from Russia to keep you company.”

You looked up at her, eyes wide with wonder and confusion at such an extravagant gift. Lavinia didn’t linger on your hesitation, though, her tone light but full of warmth. “It is a very special gift, crafted by hand in Russia by a master artisan. One of a kind. But,” she added, with the faintest smile, “very sturdy. Created to be loved. So take care of him.”

She left it at that, continuing through your draws, finishing her task of putting clothes away as if the expensive gesture was nothing. Lavinia made no fuss about it, didn’t press you to show gratitude or admiration, not because the money was no biggie or it was simple compared to some of her precious items in her room -but because she knew she’d see her efforts rewarded in time.

And she did.

The bear never ended up on a shelf, where so many precious things might go to gather dust. No, it stayed right there—on your bed, within arm’s reach. It was too precious to put away, too yours to display as though it were just a decoration. This was the first thing in your new life that belonged to you and you alone, a token of care and thoughtfulness meant for no one else. Not out of necessity or practicality like clothes, but simply because Lavinia wanted you to have something special.

The bear became a constant presence—sometimes tucked under your arm as you slept, other times sitting proudly on your pillow when you woke. And it wasn’t long before you gave him a name, a fitting one that matched his origins, like Misha. Misha would be treasured by you for lifetimes to come.

Maybe this isn't so bad, maybe you can learn to accept this new -unconventional- family.

Lavinia and Dorian's consistent and open adoration, Soren's subtle but firm love and even Lucien's own form of caring that begins to show in small acts (but thats for another day).

#vampire family #+reader #platonic #yandere #yandere oc

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gatorbites-imagines · 1 year ago

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Hello~!

So may I request a poly ghost face (from 1996) where they have an autistic trans!reader. Ik a lot (I'm projecting) the reader stims vocally by mimicking what they say, and they have a special interest (am like bugs, gore, sharks, dinosaurs, something around those lines yk? I feel like gore would fit) the reader rambles and rants Abt their special interest a lot! Just those kinds of things. I feel like you'd be able to capture this perfectly, thank you! Have a wonderful time zone :)

Poly Ghostface x autistic trans male reader

Headcanons

I always headcanon Stu as having something like ADHD, or just more hyperactive autism.

Been a while since I wrote about these two, huh? I’ve kinda missed em, ngl. Hope it’s alright I took some liberties with the hyperfixations :)

I can imagine that maybe you were friends with Stu when you were kids, because you were both “weird” in other people’s opinion. Stu because he was too hyperactive and could never sit still, and you because of your weird interests and how you were quite antisocial at times.

Time would pass, you guys would grow older. Stu would become someone popular, as his erratic and hyper personality becomes something others admire because he’s fun, whilst you stay being the weirdo with too much interest in medical texts, insects, and decomposition.

Neither of you meant to do it, but you would grow apart. Stu would get his new friends, specifically Billy, and you would stay by yourself burying yourself in your special interests. Its not strange to find you flipping through medical books or books about the horrors of war and medical malpractice. The more pictures the better.

When its not medical texts and war pictures with as much gorey detail as possible in the text and pictures, you can be found reading about death and the work of being a mortician, the way a body decays, and all that.

And when its neither of those things, you can be found looks at bugs, lifting rocks or moving trash to see what critters you can find. You have a sketchbook you like to draw in, three ones at that, one for each hyperfixation since you don’t wanna mix the information in them.

Its in the many niche medical books you learn about being transgender, and suddenly how uncomfortable you are in your own body makes sense. You don’t need any friends, or your families support to transition, that’s what you tell yourself at least.

You haven’t really had any real friends since you split form Stu when you were kids, and your creepy interests chase off anyone who might attempt to befriend you.

So, when you show up one day to school and openly tell people you are now a boy, no one really questions it, because why would they? You’re already weird, and compared to all your other quirks, being a boy is probably the most normal thing about you.

Through all these years you haven’t experienced as much bullying as you probably would have anywhere else, all thanks to Billy and Stu.

Stu because he still sees you as his friend in some way, and Billy because he’s fascinated by you. One day after you had come out, he walked behind you and saw you drawing detailed diagrams of top surgery in grotesque detail, and Billy has been hooked since.

At some point you and Billy would end up talking, one way or another. Maybe it was at the video store around Halloween one night, maybe the year Sidney’s mom died, and Billy would ask your opinion on the horror movie selection.

Youd grimace and say they sucked since the gore was so unrealistic, which Billy, the freak, would definitely ask into why you thought so. This would lead to you infodumping to him for a long time, going through multiple movies and explaining how its unrealistic and what would have made it better.

As infodumping goes, you don’t even realize how long you’ve been standing there talking to one of the hottest guy at your school about fictional gore, until Randy has to tell you guys that the store is closing soon.

You end up getting real embarrassed about wasting his time like that, which Billy is quick to tell you that nothing was wasted because he loved talking about it with you and hearing what you had to say. He would love to talk again some time.

You don’t really believe him, until he searches you out the next day in your shared free period when you are sitting outside drawing bugs and beetles, dragging Stu with him of all people. You haven’t actually interacted with Stu in a while, so you cringe and get jitters when he hugs you and gets into your personal space.

Its Billy who has to remind him of personal space, and before you know it, they’ve asked in about your special interests, and then they just sit back as you infodump and show them the pictures and drawings you have in all three of your sketchbooks, making the two Woodsboro killers fall for you harder and harder.

Time would pass and you three would start spending a lot of time together, Billy and Stu always hanging around you to listen to what you have to say, never growing tired no matter how much you infodump.

Stu would be the first to confess his feelings, as he feels fast and he feels strong, so one day when you two are laying on his bed and you’re talking about the difference between two beetles who look almost the exact same, whilst also talking about lungs and how they’re built, Stu just leans over and kisses you.

You would be so confused, until Stu tells you that he really likes you, he would even spill the beans that Billy feels the same way too. As if summoned, Billy would show up and Stu would be all like “right Billy? You like him too, right?” and Billy would facepalm cuz he planned on confessing in a much better way.

But hed agree and say he fell pretty damn hard for you, but neither rushes you in your decision as they know it’s a big step. I can imagine Stu also rambling about how hes always liked you since you were kids, even before you transitioned, and how he actually started liking you even more afterwards because you looked so much more comfortable with yourself and who you were.

At some point you would come to the conclusion that you felt the same way, and boom, now you got two boyfriends who like you for who you are, and would stab a bitch if they tried to disrespect you in any way, shape, or form.

When the ghostface killings happen, you wouldn’t be at the party since they are super overstimulating, but you would go to the hospital to check on Billy and Stu since they are the only “survivors”.

I thought it would be funny if you developed a special interest in the ghostface killers and started a fourth sketchbook filled with your notes and theories, but you would keep it hidden form Billy and Stu because you fear it would trigger their trauma, since you don’t know they are the killers.

The fourth sketchbook would also have rants you can’t put anywhere else, like how certain people have hatecrimed you because of your gender, or because you are “weird”, and how some dark sick part of your brain wants the ghostface killers to kill them.

At some point your boyfriends would find the sketchbook and go through it together, whistling as they see the detailed analysis made for each kill, and how you are so close to figuring it out. But when they read all the stuff you’ve written you never told them, it angers them that people have been hurting you without them knowing.

You wouldn’t have told them since you didn’t want to worry them, and it wasn’t their fight in your opinion. Billy and Stu decide that they have to pull out the masks once more, seems they have a couple of horrible people to get rid of for mistreating you.

Imagine your surprise when one night you walk into your room stimming with both your hands and repeating stuff that Billy and Stu said earlier that day, only to find not one, but two people wearing ghostface gear in your room.

It takes you a little too long to even spot them as you were scribbling in your death sketchbook, having gotten a sudden spark of inspiration on the way home from your apprenticeship as the local funeral home.

You almost get to scream before they pounce, never actually hurting you but clamping a hand over your mouth, their gloves wet with what you can smell is blood. After they make you promise to stay quiet, they unmask and reveal who they are.

You buffer like an old computer for a little too long, before smacking the shit out of both of them, wacking them in the chest for not telling you. Your opinion on death and murder are probably really twisted, and the people they’ve killed have either hurt you or you had no relationship with them.

It does light up every light in your hyperfixations though, and you might demand them to explain what killing someone is like, or what a freshly killed body looks like for your sketchbooks.

Billy would grin and try to kiss you, because how can you be so perfect? But you’d wave him off with a grimace and demand Stu explain once again what it was like stabbing someone so you can get it all down in your book.

I don’t know if youd join them as a third Ghostface, but they might take you along every now and then, letting you roam the place after they’ve done their thing if the chance is there. I could imagine them taking pictures of things for you too.

I’m imagining them both dressed up as ghostface, except no mask, both kissing at your cheeks and neck and being all lovey dovey and almost purring, whilst you are sketching down the different pictures and notes about them.

They love you so much, its insane. You’re gonna have them hanging on you for the rest of your life, sorry man, I don’t make the rules. Even if you move to another city and start studying to be a professor or like, investigator for the FBI, they would go with you. It would even help them in their Ghostface work as you are an expert in them not getting caught.

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dilutedconfusion · 10 months ago

Text

A Moth to a Flame

Eustass x F!Reader (Part 1)

Summary: Y/N is living on a small island in the New World. This takes place during the 2 year time skip, only a week after Kid has lost his arm to Benn Beckman. In need of supplies the Kid Pirates make their way towards Y/N’s island.

Warnings: Mentions of blood

Word Count: 2.8K

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Something strange was happening.

Or moreover you could tell something strange was going to happen.

The island you lived on was simple. People came, people left, and very few stayed. A pit-stop for the adventurers. A home for the sullen and normal.

You lived with your parents still. Tucked away in a relatively normal house in the more rural area. You could move out but money wasn’t something that flowed freely into your hands. You worked a decent job, had small little hobbies, and tried your best to fill your days with something that didn’t feel forced.

Forced.

That word pressed against your skin and into your ribcage. A strangulation of necessity, expectations, and lack of will. Even the things you loved to do were hard to do. Your brain is a whirlwind of outcomes desperately clawing at you to mean something. Like a single dandelion seed floating over the ocean. Looking for some place to land, hoping the wind will carry it long to find ground. But you supposed that the wind was starting to die.

Even still you reminded yourself of something deeper. The way the wind would trace lines through your hands and hair. Clothes flush with your skin as you stare out onto the ocean. Heels and rear digging into the sand as you watched the blue and green hues of the ocean churn.

Everything felt right. Everything felt like there was something more. Some kind of escape just out of your line of sight, far off into the horizon.

You sifted around in your bag lined neatly at your side. Unlatching the small buckle before flipping it open. Pulling out a bright green apple for a simple little snack. Your canines snapping through its smooth skin before sinking into the soft grainy texture. Sour juice spilling on your tongue and even dribbling a bit out of the corners of your lips. You wiped off your chin with your sleeve. Tucking your torso into your bent legs as you take a moment to just relax.

Something is calling me out there. You thought to yourself. Feeling that all too familiar sense of longing in your core. I just wonder what it is.

__________

It started off as a deep chill up your spine. Goosebumps spread greedily across your skin. Making your hand pause, clenching around the pencil a bit tighter. You shot your head up from your sketchbook. A maze of doodles and scratched out drawings not good enough for your taste. The sun was still relatively high in the sky. Blue tugging at the corners of your vision as you looked up at the fluffy clouds. They were floating so idly but right now you wanted to be anything but idle.

You shoved your sketchbook and pencil into your bag in a sudden rush. Slinging the satchel over your shoulder before haphazardly standing up off the shore. With your legs feeling rather numb and the sand not helping much you stumbled along. Trying to close the gap between you and the little town you lived in.

There was a trail through a less dense patch of forest. Despite this, the trail was covered in ferns and even some logs laying on their side. You made quick work of walking through the trial. Keeping your gaze downwards as you let out a little annoyed huff. The tree roots seemingly trying their best to trip you.

“What am I even doing?” You muttered to yourself. The forest of course was not responding so you continued on. “What the fuck do I think I have? Some sort of sixth sense?” You rubbed your face in annoyance. Brushing your hair back you let out an annoyed groan. Knowing that this tendency you had to let even the smallest intuitive feelings lead you was a way to spice up your life. To find danger or something new. It had led you to trinkets stuck in the earth, caves, and a hidden oasis. But you’ve scoured this island hundreds of times. Nothing was new anymore so why was your intuition freaking out?

Another deep crawling sensation prickled at the back of your neck. Your body trembling as you slowly made your way closer to the edge of the forest. The dark shadow of leaves and branches spread across your face before your skin touched the sun once more. Heels clicking against the makeshift cobblestone trail you made your way towards the first signs of town. Grain fields on either side of you crawling with loud crickets and cicadas. A bright red farm house and a big rickety looking windmill turning at a decent pace.

You lived in the New World but from the looks of it most would’ve thought it was some unnamed island in one of the many blues. It had a noble city, up on the north end near the island's cliff edges. But you resided in the south, though unlike other low income areas across the sea yours was managing its own. Even if parts of it were…less than safe.

Bounding down the trail you kept your senses on high alert. Almost expecting some sort of uproar in the village or a huge explosion to send the ground trembling. That sense of danger and adrenaline sliding down your throat as you swallowed hard. A bit disappointed to find nothing.

People were walking through the relatively clean streets. Children running in groups and bumping into passersby’s. Stalls with shopkeepers smoking underneath their canopies. The rough scent of smoke was only a trace in the air as the hot grills cooked up an assortment of dishes. Each leaving a puff of steam huffing out and into the endless sky. Savory and spicy scents lapping at your nose as you briskly walked through the street.

You managed to weave through the crowd, watching peoples faces and almost hoping for them to be filled with some sort of surprise. Shock? Maybe even fear? Just something to indicate that this feeling, that was telling you something big was coming, wasn’t wrong. Grabbing onto the strap of your satchel slung around your shoulder a bit tighter.

Well…if it's not here yet. Then it must be coming soon. You thought trying to convince yourself this wasn't a waste of your day off. Just another measly attempt to make this life of yours interesting. You made quick work and slid into an alleyway. Taking the quick route towards the docks. By the first signs of seagulls flying high in the air you knew you were getting closer. Their annoying squawks followed by the sounds of thumping hammers from the shipyard.

You made your way down one of the few docks. They were old, green and rather damp at the bottom. Having been built before you were born so they’ve collected quite a lot of kelp and green slime. The top rows of wood creaked loudly as you walked across them but held strong regardless. Your eyes set on the ocean ahead before a voice stopped you.

“You come down ‘er to watch the sea again?” An old man, one you knew pretty well, popped his head out of his small fishing boat. Walking along its deck with a hammer in hand and looking down at you on the dock.

You halted and looked up at him, a distant but pleasant smile on your face. “I suppose. Got a feeling.” You mumbled to him, eyes drifting back to stare at the ocean. The sun was a lot lower than when you had last paid attention to it.

“Another one of those aye?” He said, almost with a bit of judgment but his tone immediately brightened up. “Well hopefully you’ll find what yer lookin for. Can’t have a young lass like you just sitting at the docks her whole life can I? Gonna get ya hypothermia doing that.”

You rolled your eyes a bit at that but he gave you a big smile. Though you could tell behind those fluffy eyebrows and small shadow of his hat he was worried about you. “I’ll be fine. I won’t get hypothermia or scurvy just sitting by the dock will I?” You said, cocking your head a bit and giving a little smile.

The old man gave a sweet little chuckle, his chest rumbling as he laughed. “Sure hope not.” He replied, wiping the tiny line of sweat across his brow.

You gripped your satchel strap a little tighter taking tiny steps forward. “Well I have a jacket and plenty of vitamin c so I’ll be off. Don’t go staring at me as I work. I don’t sketch well under pressure.”

The old man gave a fake little pout at that. “Not even a little peek? Ya know I love em. What you make.” You gave him a warm smile and waved a dismissive hand at him.

“Maybe when I’m done. But not now. Plus by the looks of it you have something to work on anyways. Keep slacking and I’m going to tell your boss.” You said with a bit of sass before briskly walking down the long dock and away from the small man's boat.

“Whaddya mean?! I am my own boss!” He yelled back at you giving yet another hearty laugh. That warm chuckle ringing in your ears but eventually faded off. Leaving you with nothing but the smooth rhythmic sounds of waves and the rather annoying seagulls.

This was something you did often so getting into the perfect position was almost as easy as breathing. The wood nearly carved into the shape of your rear right where you sat on the edge of the dock. You took your shoes off. Tucking the socks delicately inside each shoe so as to not lose them. Before letting your feet hang and sink into the deep and brimy water below. Cold spikes slamming up your legs from the sudden change in temperature. You’d hiss just a tiny bit to force your feet and calves to deal with it. Succumbing to the cold until finally it became more manageable.

Grabbing out the same sketchbook and pencil form before you propped it up on your lap. Taking one foot out of the water and placing it on the dock as you bend your knee. Making the perfect easel in your case.

As you chewed your lip you thought about what to sketch. You didn’t feel like continuing what you had already drawn. A new page for a new feeling felt better. So you just glanced down at the off-white page. Hoping and willing something would just pop out at you.

Eyes rolling up to land on the sea ahead you felt another breeze whip at your hair. Sure you spent almost every waking moment of your free time staring out at the sea. You had just come from another spot on the more secluded shoreline. But it seemed to you that you could never stop staring.

Drawn out whispers talking of a wide eyed girl staring longingly at the sea. Rumors that you had a lost love who floated away. Others thought you were yearning for a life out at sea. Or even just calling you airhead so lazy you’d rather just waste your time than use it. But none of that was true.

Because it wasn’t a lover you were waiting for. You never knew love. Or at least never dabbled in it despite your past yearnings. So being alone wasn’t a problem. It was all you knew. But at the same time a life at sea, though something you fantasized about, was not your reason for spending hours at shorelines.

You knew you would most likely get sick in a bad storm. Even the thought of trying to succumb to sleep whilst the ship thrashed was nauseating. You would probably get homesick or at least crave solid land. And…you were well…weak. Stronger naturally due to your more chubby and sturdy body. Taller than short women but shorter than very tall women. Yet nothing about you screamed prepared to put your life at stake. Which was exactly what the sea promised. It's a stakes game out there. You knew that.

And to be honest you enjoyed the simplicity of your life at times. The fact that you were safe, well fed, and had a roof over your head was a blessing. It’s much more than others who were from more impoverished islands could expect. You had the time to let your mind wander. The time to sit idly or explore. The quiet life filled with mostly solitude was a comfortable blanket you had sunk into a few years ago.

So people would whisper. Frankly, you didn’t give a shit. Let them believe you were sick for a lover that you’ve never had. Or that you were a lazy woman bound to live in her head rather than in her life.

You knew what you wanted.

Or at least you knew you wanted to want something and whatever that something is was out there.

An image randomly popped in your head. Making you tilt down to stare at your paper distantly as almost if you were drawn in by a trance.

A tulip. You thought, hand tightening around your pencil. I’ll draw a tulip.

__________

“What’s this island's name again?” Heat asked, hand absentmindedly tracing the scars running across his cheek.

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” Kid grumbled in response, his single flesh hand clenching the banister as he stood underneath Victoria's jaw. The helm clasped in Heats hand as he stared at the Captains back in front of him. That distinct red coat billowing in the breeze. The waves splashed up periodically giving the two of them a nice balmy spray.

Kid’s sharp eyes narrowed on the blurry and slightly indistinct line of the horizon. Knowing full well a small patch of an island would soon spring forth. A port for his men to take rest and restock the boat. A chance to breathe.

It had been only a week since Kid lost his arm. Ever since that day things were tense beyond belief. The crew was struck with perpetual fear and even anger. Kid was so reserved and distant he chose not to speak the moment he woke up on the medical table after it happened. Ever since then each response was short and harsh. As if he was forcing himself to talk.

Forced.

Kid thought. He wasn’t forced. By no means did he regret what he had done. He didn’t think he would lose. He was aware of the risk he was taking the moment he laid eyes on Ben Beckman. Willing to give an arm and leg just to take his dream by the balls.

And give a limb he did.

But it wasn’t exactly the phantom pain or the lack of a limb making everyday a harrowing experience. It wasn’t relearning how to do things on his own or feeling nearly hopeless holding his beloved tools now that his limb was gone. That he scolded himself for needing help. That the pain each day was something he’d grunt and deal with. What made everyday so perfectly harrowing was the way the crew viewed him.

Forced pity.

Was a better way to put it in Kid’s mind. Sure they cared. Sure they wanted Kid to feel better and get back up from this. But he was already up. In fact the second he woke up without a limb in his ship's medbay was the minute he got up. No qualms. No quarries. Just up and at ‘em. Another day to make his dream come true and nothing was stopping him.

Even if he suddenly didn’t have an arm.

But the pity felt grotesque. His swollen and bandaged stump was rugged with scars. Just a bleeding reminder of his own failure. He had spent every waking moment slaving away at a prosthetic arm. It was nearly done despite the many chairs and walls Kid had kicked in during the process. A permanent sheen of sweat lining his forward since the moment it happened.

His mind? Blanking it out. His body? Barely able to wake up in the morning.

This island would be the first island they docked on after the incident. Their ship in desperate need of supplies and more medical equipment. After reapplying countless bandages, gauze, and ointment for a week straight it seemed none was left for the other crew members.

So they needed this. Scratch that. KID needed this. To get away from his crew for a little while. To feel some solid ground underneath his feet.

Finally a small speck of something broke free from the horizon. Kid having stood there staring out onto the sea for a concerning amount of time. Almost lost in a trance that Heat was too afraid to break.

Kids' eyes narrowed once more. Taking in the small island from a distance and the smallest hint of relief washing over him.

He didn’t know exactly what would help to get over this but he knew whatever it was, was on that island.

A/N: I realize the reader character is a bit…wallflower like I suppose? Sorry if that’s not your cup of tea but I promise there’s more to her then meets the eye later on. The exposition of this story was really there to just let you understand her longing. Hope it worked and thank you for reading <3

#eustass kid #eustass kid x reader #eustasscaptainkid #one piece eustass #x reader #one piece #one piece x reader #kid pirates

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reptileyan · 2 months ago

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It came from your backyard

For anyshiptober 🎃

Cw: death/grief, forced breeding, genital owch (not sadistic, this yandere worships you), alien.

The tree in your backyard has flowers that don't really make sense. They change shape from year to year, never seeming to bloom or die. They continue to grow, petals never fall.

Your parents used to try and make up a name for the type of flower, to take samples to some scientist or botanist or anyone who would put a name or a price to the oddity. The wood could not be cut, the bioluminescence not strong enough when your parents were around to photograph and impress anyone.

It seemed brighter when it was just you. Then again, you remember jumping feeling like floating when you were little, cheap food tasting delicious through the chemicals, movies lasting forever. Maybe children just experience the world differently.

Maybe the bioluminescence is just something you make up. Every time you go outside to draw, and your mom says you'll hurt your eyes like you aren't thirty-five and don't know that, and your dad tries not to laugh at you for singing and chattering to the tree like it can hear. For leaving music on when you aren't there.

They're there, fussing at you, every single day, and then they're not.

Your absence is enough to worry your dearest friend, two weeks go by, you're a homebody, never leaving for more than a few days.

You emerge from the house, unwashed and exhausted. You sit next to the tree, pull out a pack of stickers. You tell the tree you made them, and maybe it counts as art to use them.

You scribble on the page, on yourself. Stickers wander across your sketchbook, your body, onto the tree. You are lonely, and you don't want to get out there. You don't want to date, to make new friends. You want to have a family. To be left alone.

The tree is not your family, nor your friend. The tree does not listen. Something beneath does, and has been clawing its way out for well over a decade, your voice reminding it which way is up, that there are other living things. That it isn't alone.

You disappeared and it ricocheted from digging until it's body broke and bled and almost giving up, over and over, begging you with all it's starved, abandoned might to come back.

It really was going to give up, it told itself.

One quiet sentence about whether stickers count as art, and it's using it's remaining strength to finally crawl up, to see light for the first time since it crashed deep into the ground so many years ago, it aches and burns and it's been hours since it last heard you.

A long while goes by, it catches its breath, it can breathe and see again, nothing weighs down on it, it is free.

The plant overhead is beautiful, a bit mutated by leaking fuel but still achieving its goal of feeding and guiding the unfortunate passenger until it emerged. It has strange little symbols flaking off of it, which are dutifully studied. Bright, pretty colors. Appealing.

The building nearby is easy to break into, the owner of the voice easy to find, it can finally hear you breathe and whine in your sleep. All the little noises you make just by existing, they're beautiful. You're tutted over as though you are the one who's been worse off, more lonely, left behind. It remembers other voices, but those disappeared, and yours only just returned, sounding strained.

Poor thing. You're all alone too.

You've given it so much over the ages it spent underground, suffocated and weary. Company and music and a reason to keep digging. It wants to repay you.

It's starving, dying of thirst.

The tree will bear fruit soon, hopefully still safe to eat, mutation aside. For now the stranger digs through your home, searching through nooks and crannies to find the food you've hidden away. Clever little creature that you are, despite your rudimentary dwelling, your food is neatly organized and stored out of sight. The stranger is pleased, quickly eating and drinking its fill, washing the excess dirt off-thank heavens this planet has fluid that only stings a bit-and making its way back to you.

Its body taken care of, it wishes to tend to yours, and your loneliness.

You don't know what you're looking at when you wake up. You stare, and stare, trying to categorize it as if it'll all fall into place once you decide whether it looks more like a newt or a beetle or the villi lining your intestines.

It makes a noise, imitating random words.

"Sticker-gone-tired."

You blink.

It taps food to your mouth, some deli meat from the fridge. You eat. It chitters, and rubs your belly.

You wish to go back to sleep. You have no idea what's going on.

It hums a song from the 2000s as it categorizes your body, mapping it out, nudging anywhere soft and sighing in what you hope is appreciation. You wonder if it's rude to assume it's going to eat you.

The way its mouth opens is unusual, and feels like how you think ambrosia would taste as it's rubbed against your neglected cunt. It latches on, regurgitating excessive amounts of fluid into you until you're straining to not scream, skin taut and red, new stretch marks forming in front of your eyes as you're forced bigger and wider, beyond what you could imagine. Becoming an adult, settling into your body, and gaining pudge were nothing compared to this.

Your cunt is sealed shut with a painful, white-hot appendage. It takes you awhile to come down from the high that the pain brought, and days to forgive the thing that tormented you. You relent after watching it stay in the doorway as you drift off, only occasionally glancing at you with a soft coo, keeping guard over you but shying away when you draw near. You press a sticker to its back plate when you decide you're done being mad, giving it some of your art regardless of whether it understands the gesture. It solemnly adheres a blossom from the uncuttable tree to your collarbone with something akin to spit.

You decide not to brush it off. You were lonely, and now you're not, a strange being pattering around after you, more on the way if its delight over your belly growing means anything. You count six independently moving creatures inside you. You tell the thing it better pull its weight once the babies arrive.

It chirps "Pull weight, babies!", nuzzles into you, and hums a one hit wonder.

#yandere terato #yandere teratophilia #nsft #monster fucker #monster x chubby reader #monster yandere #anyshiptober #yandere nsft #insect terato #insect yandere #reptile yandere #reptile terato #alien terato #alien yandere

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stuffymcstuffsworld · 2 months ago

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The wonders of earth

Shichiro honestly had no idea where he was. He had never seen anywhere like this in all his travels. His curious talens collected samples as he cautiously walked along the unfamiliar terrain.

He couldn't sense any demonic energy. Infact... nothing around him appeared to be related to the netherworld. His eyes widen with fascination.

Suddenly, he hears footsteps. He turns and... he can't believe it. Is that? A... human? Standing a few feet away stood one. The tempting smell wafting off of them. Mouthwatering.

Saliva building up in his mouth he swallows. No. He couldn't eat them. Humans were so rare after all. It lifts their hand and waves.

☆Whatever you do, I'll do it too. Show me everything and tell me how, it all means something and yet nothing to me.☆

He lifts his own and waves back slowly. It says something, but he can't understand it. "Are... you saying hello?" He asks softly.

They take a step back wide-eyed. He quickly lifts his hands in surrender. "Don't go, I won't hurt you." The human tilts their head studying him.

☆I can see there's so much to learn. It's all so close and yet so far. I see myself as people see me. Oh, I just know there's something bigger out there!☆

They were so small. They looked fragile. The days pass by as he explores this new place. His new human guide leads him around. Always keeping several feet ahead of him.

☆I wanna know, can you show me? I wanna know about these strangers like me. Tell me more, please show me. Somethings familiar about these strangers like me.☆

A lagoon, the water pools around their feet. He stays at the edge, watching them catch fish. It was amazing. Everything was so different from the Netherworld. Even the fish was smaller and more delicate. They didn't even have any teeth! How strange.

☆Every gesture, every move that they make, makes me feel like never before. Why do I have this growing need to be beside them?☆

Before he knew it, his human had warmed up to him. They had relaxed and slowly came closer step by step. How lovely. His heart soared.

☆Oh these emotions I never knew. Of some other world far beyond this place. Beyond the trees above the clouds. I see before me a new horizon!☆

Sunshine, laughter. Huddling underneath his wings as the rain pours. Observing the night sky. Struggling to learn each other's language.

☆I wanna know! Can you show me? I wanna know about these strangers like me. Tell me more, please show me. Something's familiar about these strangers like me.☆

A field of flowers. A starry sky. Insects that they had called fireflies twinkling around. The large gargoyle being led. Tiny hands tugging on large talons.

☆Come with me now to see my world, where there's beauty beyond your dreams. Can you feel the things I feel right now... with you. Take my hand. There's a world I need to know!☆

Then... he woke up. Shichiro slowly sits up from his nest. He looks around. His room is just how he left it. He searches for proof that it was real. That it wasn't just a dream.

But he finds nothing. Yet... it had been so vivid. He couldn't help but draw his human. Their bright eyes stared back at him from the page.

"What are you doing?" He looks up to see Kalego and Opera looking at him from the door. "Hurry up and get ready. We'll be late."

He gets dressed. Opera snatches his sketchbook. "Who's this?" He blushes. "Uhh... it's just what I think a human would look like."

☆Tell me more, please show me. Something's familiar about these strangers like me.☆

Kalego also gazed at the drawing. "Mmm looks troublesome. How annoying." Opera smacked him. "Ignore him, he's just jealous. They look pretty."

☆I wanna know.☆

#welcome to demon school iruma kun #mairimashita! iruma kun #reader #balam shichirou #opera #naberius kalego #songfic #tarzan

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richincolor · 4 months ago

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We have a nice mix of genres available to you this week! Which of these books are you interested in?

Ash’s Cabin by Jen Wang First Second

Ash has always felt alone. Adults ignore the climate crisis. Other kids Ash’s age are more interested in pop stars and popularity contests than in fighting for change. Even Ash’s family seems to be sleepwalking through life. The only person who ever seemed to get Ash was their Grandpa Edwin. Before he died, he used to talk about building a secret cabin, deep in the California wilderness. Did he ever build it? What if it’s still there, waiting for him to come back…or for Ash to find it? To Ash, that maybe-mythical cabin is starting to feel like the perfect place for a fresh start and an escape from the miserable feeling of alienation that haunts their daily life. But making the wilds your home isn’t easy. And as much as Ash wants to be alone…can they really be happy alone? Can they survive alone? From New York Times –bestselling author and illustrator Jen Wang comes a singularly affecting story about self-discovery, self-reliance, and the choice to live when it feels like you have no place in the world.

The Dark We Know by Wen-yi Lee Zando – Gillian Flynn Books

Art student Isadora Chang swore never to return to Slater. Growing up, Isa never felt at ease in the repressive former mining town, even before she realized she was bisexual—but after the deaths of two of her childhood friends, Slater went from feeling claustrophobic to suffocating. Isa took off before the town could swallow her, too, even though it meant leaving behind everything she knew, including her last surviving friend Mason. When Isa’s abusive father kicks the bucket, she agrees to come back just long enough to collect the inheritance. But then Mason, son of the local medium, turns up at the cemetery with a revelation and a plea: their friends were murdered by a supernatural entity, and he needs Isa to help stop the evil—before it takes anyone else. When Isa begins to hear strange songs on the wind, and eerie artwork fills her sketchbook that she can’t recall drawing, she’s forced to stop running and confront her past. Because something is waiting in the shadows of Slater’s valleys, something that feeds on the pain and heartbreak of its children. Whatever it is, it knows Isa’s back… and it won’t let her escape twice.

Kisses, Codes, and Conspiracies by Abigail Hing Wen Feiwel & Friends

Tan Lee finds himself embroiled in an unusual love triangle, all while trying to defuse a heist, unravel a conspiracy, and navigate the most complicated babysitting assignment ever in this YA novel by national bestselling author Abigail Hing Wen. After a magical kiss at Prom, best friends Tan Lee and Winter Woo agree to cool it off, a plan that goes awry when their parents jointly head off to Hawaii and leave Tan and Winter to babysit Tan's sister Sana together. If that isn't complicated enough, Tan's ex-girlfriend from Shanghai arrives on his doorstep with money stolen from her billionaire father and thugs on her heels. Tan soon finds himself on the run, trying to out-manuever international hackers and protect his friends, family and sister - and his own heart.

The Maid and the Crocodile by Jordan Ifueko Amulet Books

The smallest spark can bind two hearts . . . or start a revolution. In the magic-soaked capital city of Oluwan, country bumpkin Small Sade needs a job—preferably as a maid, with employers who don’t mind her unique appearance and unlucky foot. But before she can be hired, she accidentally binds herself to a powerful god known only as the Crocodile, who is rumored to devour pretty girls. Small Sade entrances the Crocodile with her secret: she is a Curse Eater, gifted with the ability to alter people’s fates by cleaning their houses. The handsome god warns that their fates are bound, but Small Sade evades him, launching herself into a new career as the Curse Eater of a swanky inn. She is determined to impress the wealthy inhabitants and earn her place in Oluwan City . . . assuming her secret-filled past—and the revolutionary ambitions of the Crocodile God—don’t catch up with her. But maybe there is more to Small Sade. And maybe everyone in Oluwan City deserves more, too, from the maids all the way to the Anointed Ones.

Navigating With You written by Jeremy Whitley & illustrated by Cassio Ribeiro Maverick

Neesha Sparks is a disabled, vocal community activist with a passion for costume design. Gabby Graciana is an optimistic surfer - and, like Neesha, a new kid at school. When the two girls discover that they like the same manga series, Navigator Nozomi, they become more than just fellow new kids. But it was more than just having read the same book series--neither of them had finished it! Soon, they become new friends on a mission - to track down the remaining Navigator Nozomi books. This slice-of-life romance follows the two girls as they adventure across North Carolina to find each book, with their story intercut with the tales of Navigator Nozomi. Neesha and Gabby find more than just the books though—they find acceptance, friendship, understanding, and love.

#ash's cabin #the dark we know #kisses codes and conspiracies #the maid and the crocodile #navigating with you #jen wang #wen-yi lee #abigail hing wen #jordean ifueko #jeremy whitley #cassio ribeiro #new releases

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screamingcrows · 6 months ago

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Gift of Companionship - Albedo x f!reader

Crossposting this from my ao3 to provide context for a request I'm writing. This was originally written as a gift for my beloved mutual @missrhinedottir💙 Tags: fem!reader, mutual pining, first date, pure fluff, friends to implied lovers (the lover part will be obvious in the continuation lmao), hand holding - scandalous I know Summary: "It's a gift, I insist," his voice was filled with such certainty, the words making your heart ache, longing to just accept. Albedo had made a habit of visiting you while you work, the peace and attentiveness he brought with him quickly becoming a necessity for you. Minors, ageless, and blank blogs DNI, blocked on sight. Feed it to AI and get Chlamydia trachomatis

Counting the Chief Alchemist as a friend was a rare honor among the people of Mondstadt, ever polite albeit a little distant in his mannerisms. You'd always found it endearing how he'd dedicate countless hours to painting and drawing, tucked away in the nooks of the city as he immortalized the ordinary. It was how you'd first met, having noticed him hanging around your little shop you'd approached him one day.

He'd been startled at first, dropping several pencils as he'd struggled to gather his papers back into his sketchbook. The small giggle that escaped you had made him sigh, probably realizing he'd made a fool out of himself. The recovery had been swift, him showing his drawings and explaining his fascination with observing and drawing people going about their daily lives. 'Being human', as he'd put it.

The topic of all those pages filled with sketches of you had never passed your lips, the notion oddly endearing even if a little strange.

After that he'd been more open in his interest, pursuing conversation with you whenever he caught you on a break. Seemingly more than content to sit in your little workshop and keep you company as you worked. The work you did wasn't prestigious compared to his, at least by your own standards, yet he never failed to compliment whenever you finished a piece of jewelry or another delicate decoration.

Many weeks passed as you settled into comfortable routine, his company bringing a steadiness you had never noticed you'd been missing. It became apparent in his absence, the days he spent in Dragonspine like a cold rag on your heart. Rumors circulated the city, the Chief Alchemist was spending more time away from the mountain, yet it was still too much for you. The silence of your existence oppressive without the scratching of his pen to accompany you.

He brought a new invention one day, offhandedly placing it on one of your tables. A little machine wielding a combination of cryo and something you couldn't quite recognise to perfectly preserve flowers for your creations.

It was an element you'd wanted to incorporate in your creations since childhood, the imperfections of natural materials having always brought comfort. The excitement in his voice had been tangible, the faint traces of a blush visible on his cheeks as he'd realized you'd gotten lost in all the technical details. Clearing his throat awkwardly as he cut himself off and apologized, hands tucked into his pockets.

You'd been standing there wide-eyed, fighting to hold back tears at the gesture. Not only had he clearly been listening to your chatting all those days he'd spent quietly sketching or looking at all the materials in your workshop, he'd remembered. Before you could properly compose yourself, your arms had already found their home around his neck as you broke down in sobs.

His body had tensed, hands trembling as they found your shoulders and pulled you far enough back that he could look into your teary eyes. Worry was written plainly across his expression, his brow pinched together and his lips pulled into a thin line.

"D-did I.. do anything wrong? My apologies if it wasn't what you were looking for, I simply thought it would-"

"It's perfect Albedo"

Shaking your head and smiling you'd allowed yourself a final squeeze of the confused alchemist before you'd let go. You couldn't help but laugh, pacing back and forth as your hands wiped at your tears.

"No one has ever done something like this for me, it.. It took me by surprise, that's all. How much do I owe you? Oh this is perfect, I can't believe you could make something like this. Or rather, I could because you're a genius and everyone knows that, but I mean, that you'd be doing something to fulfill my wish is just-"

You cut yourself off, paralyzed by the expression on his face. Never had you seen such warmth in those pale blue eyes, his body looking much less tense than it had seconds before. He shook his head, hands waving dismissively in front of him.

"It's a gift, I insist," his voice was filled with such certainty, the words making your heart ache, longing to just accept.

"Albedo, I can't possibly... You must've spent a lot of time making this for me, not to talk about material costs"

He sighed, fingers tapping his lips as he thought. You were clearly too prideful to accept without giving something in return. He nodded solemnly as his mind settled on a compromise.

"In that case, I would like to receive the first piece you make using it, if that's agreeable? I've promised Klee long ago that she could get something from here when she got a little older,"

For some reason that offer only served to stoke your embarrassment, it seemed like a bad bargain on his part. There'd been a little back and forth with you trying to insist upon monetary payment, yet he'd shot you down every time you tried to persuade him that the things you made were hardly worth as much as his work. He'd simply shaken his head, sincerity burning behind his eyes when he kept explaining that it was more than a fair exchange in his eyes.

You'd invited him along for a trip to Starsnatch Cliff, firm in your insistence that he would have to join you in picking the flowers for your first trials. The nervousness in your voice had been tangible, it wasn't part of your shared routine, fear slithering along your spine at the thought of a rejection. Which in itself was silly, considering it was nothing more than a friendly offer.

Relief had flooded you with how easily he'd agreed, suggesting you leave as soon as possible. Nothing of interest was happening with the Knights today anyway, and it had been a while since he'd properly stretched his legs. Questioning his intentions was a game you didn't want to entertain today, wiping your hands on your skirt to calm your nerves.

You hardly felt presentable enough, but how could you tell him. Instead you paced back and forth on the street, Albedo having made you wait there while he went to grab something. Your chest tightened when he turned the corner, holding a woven basket in his hands as he proudly held it up.

"I had Sara pack this up for us," there was an uncharacteristic spring to his step as he closed the distance, offering you his arm to hold on to.

His smile faltered for a moment as you hesitated to place your hand on his arm, but he hid it well, averting his eyes as he started leading you out of the city. It was quiet for most of the walk, both of you slowly relaxing as the bustling sounds died down the further away from Mondstadt city you came. Your mind raced with possibilities, not wanting to say the wrong thing and ruin this... not date, you had to remind yourself, the voice in your head more chiding than you'd have wanted.

"It uh- you didn't have to bring food. I don't want to take up your entire day," you couldn't help but wince inwardly at how pathetic you sounded.

Your gaze flickered to Albedo, hoping his eyes would extend their solace to you. They didn't. His head was turned firmly away. The ground became a more bearable sight before you had the chance to catch the flush extending down his neck.

"You tend to forget to eat when you're focused. Low blood sugar could result in dangerous situations," he had to bite down on his tongue refusing to let on how much the thought of you getting dizzy and stumbling, tripping and falling down the cliff, made his stomach lurch in ways he hadn't thought possible.

The mere thought of not being able to see your sweet smile as you greeted him, your pouting lips when you concentrated, the apologetic look in your eyes when he'd spoken too much or too fast and lost you... He'd rather burn every sketch he'd made of you than resign to only ever seeing your expressions in them.

Nothing could do you justice, the picture of life itself in Albedo's mind. His hand tightened around the basket, and he had to take a deep breath to prevent himself from screaming.

You weren't much better off, cheeks flushed and hand twitching atop his arm. You fiddled with your skirt with your free hand, having no reply to his words. They rang true in your ears, the thought of him having caught on and planned for it making you feel a little giddy. The way he had said it so bluntly pushing down the shame you would've otherwise felt at burdening someone with your own shortcomings.

After spending a couple of hours picking out flowers with Albedo your nerves had calmed down, and the usual comfort he brought had long since flooded your system. Nothing felt wrong in his company, and you relished in the way you could speak so freely to him. He'd been more lively as well, taking your hand to pull your with him on multiple occasions, eager to show you what he found and tell you about various phenomena.

No doubt you would've made for a more interesting conversation partner if you hadn't been close to short-circuiting every time his fingers intwined with yours. He didn't seem to mind, the soft look never leaving his eyes when he looked at you.

You'd sat down against a large rock, having consumed the refreshments he'd brought. A pleasant weariness made your body thrum, the combination of fresh air, exercise, and your favorite meal making you relax. The view was beautiful, yet you noticed Albedo's eyes had hardly left you, his lips parted slightly as if on the verge of speaking. You closed your eyes, wanting a moment to gather yourself as warmth blossomed in your chest.

If only every day could be like this.

A hand tugged on your sleeve, bringing your body closer and adjusting your head so it lay on his shoulder. The soft locks of his hair brushed against your cheek, you couldn't stop yourself from inhaling his scent. Yet you dared not move nor speak, scared that this was nothing but a dream, something fickle that would vanish the moment your eyes opened.

His head came to rest against yours, and you felt his hot breath against your scalp, lips moving against your hair. His arm had snaked around your body, holding you against him.

"Forgive me, but I can't do this anymore," his voice was barely above a whisper, a strain evident as he spoke.

Your heart fell, a disgusting lump forming in your throat that threatened to strangle you. This was not a dream, it was a nightmare. You wanted to laugh at yourself for believing this time would be different.

His lips pressing against your hair and a warm droplet hitting your skin broke you out of your spiral for just long enough to realize that his grip on you had grown almost painfully tight, his voice shaky as he whispered a prayer.

"Promise that I'll never have to let go of you"

#albedo x reader #albedo kreideprinz x reader #albedo genshin impact x reader #x fem reader #x female reader #this is just pure fluff okay #crow with a pen #if the banner doesn't work again just know it's a screenshot of cecilias lmao #i tried I really did

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telvess · 1 year ago

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Hello Tess🫂❤️❤️ if it's not too much (and if you have time, of course)...can I ask for Hajun, Susanoo and Hermes headcanons with a painter reader? Especially if the reader likes to sketch them or paint them often...a little painter simp!

If you don't want to do it or don't feel like it, that's totally fine!❤️

Love ya!☀️🌻

Don’t I want to do this? I COULDN’T WAIT TO DO THIS! my first Susanoo request, I’m so excited!

I know you asked for headcanons, but I ended up writing scenarios as well, and they, hm… got out of hand. And so you know… before I fell for Thor, I had a weakness for Hermes, and now thanks to you it came back to me!😭😭😭

Anyway I hope you’re feeling better today, Sunny🌞

RoR: Painter!Reader (Hajun, Susanoo, Hermes) 🔞

Hajun

Let’s not pretend this is kind of person who would stop to look at a beautiful view.

Before he met you, he didn’t give an art second thought. After he met you? He thinks it's pointless, but there are works you show him that make his eyes widen for a split second. Hajun then goes back to pretending that it bores him to death…

If you really want to catch his attention, use bright colors and don't paint something boring.

You always make such a mess with the paints… He likes it.

Oh, you want to teach him to draw? Problems start with his I-don’t-care attitude, then you have to deal with countless broken pencils because he grips them too hard, and of top of that refuses to follow your instructions. Surprisingly Hajun isn’t the first who loses patience.

He's usually unaware that you're drawing him. It's nothing new that you're staring at him.

He doesn't ask what you're drawing, he has to look after his image, but when he thinks you're not looking, he takes a quick peek. Tease him and he will be offended.

Whenever you sketched Hajun, you always used as many thick lines as possible, to better reflect his demonic nature. This time wasn’t different. You sat down near his training ground - that is, simply any place that could have been damaged - and sketched him from the distance. You weren’t usually this obvious, but Hajun was too focused on himself to notice anyway… — Why do you keep peeking? — he asked right after you looked again. You looked at him over your sketchbook. — I’m sketching you — you explained simply, almost indifferently. Hajun stared at you with a dull expression, making you almost lose your cool. — Show me — he demanded, stepping closer to you. You did as he said. — It still needs some improvements, but generally I’m quite contented with… — That’s me? — Hajun interrupted you. Now you were the one with the dull expression on your face. Hajun sounded so serious that you took another look at your unfinished work. You saw very well reproduced facial features, proper body proportions, decent shadows and a good capture of his arrogant expression, something you were most proud of. Apart from the lack of horns and blood, it was impossible to understand how he couldn't see the striking resemblance. — Ouch! — you giggled — It resembled you! — you shouted, almost angry. — I don’t have such face — was his reply. You clearly don’t have a mirror either… you though, but didn’t dare say it out loud. — And my arms should be bigger — he added, pointing a dirty finger at your sketch. — Well, you aren’t tightening them now, are you? — you said, slightly annoyed at this point. You both stared at each other for a moment, until a strange tension began to build around you. You quickly glanced at your sketch and then at Hajun again. — Maybe… they’re not big enough — you admitted slowly — But I can fix it, if only you provide a right source. Hajun remained calm, almost too calm after your obvious provocation. — You may not know how to draw me properly, but you definitely know how to talk to me, little harlot — his calm voice irritated the hell out of you, but hearing that nickname gave you chills. — Come, you'll have to take a closer look — he grabbed your arm and led you towards the field. The sketchbook fell from your hand and landed on the ground. — My sketchbook, wait! — You don’t need it — Hajun didn't let you break free from his grip.

Susanoo

He would show interest in your art. Not necessarily a lot of interest. He may give the impression that he is indifferent to art, but he can actually appreciate beautiful works of art.

You can’t expect Susanoo to talk about art tho. It’s just not his thing. He may ask you questions about details, different methods of painting or the inspiration behind each work, but he will not take an active part in the conversation. He just tries to show you he cares (not about art, but you).

If you prefer to prepare your paints yourself, asks him for a help. He may be a little grumpy about it, but he wouldn't say no to you.

Of all your works, Susanoo likes motion painting the most. There’s something special about them. This frozen moment, captured in time. The more creative you can get, the better.

If you paint him, remember to be sure to properly convey all his grandeur and capture his majesty in all its splendour. Take it seriously, after all he isn’t some small fry.

You were chilling on a couch, practising in your sketchbook. Susanoo was expected to meet the other gods about Ragnarok in an hour, so you were all by yourself. So the timing was perfect to complete one of the hidden projects. Nobody could interrupt you or look over your shoulder, or at least that's what you thought… — Oho, that’s how you like me, girl? — you heard Susanoo’s husky voice right behind you and jumped up with a loud scream. The pencil fell out of your hand. Susanoo laughed out loud at your reaction. — It’s just a sketch… — you muttered. At this point hiding sketchbook or pretending you didn’t draw his exposed… things was pointless. Susanoo sat down next to you, his arm rested on the back of the couch. — Let me see… — he tried to take sketchbook from you, but your grip tightened — Don’t be shy — said Susanoo, and so you gave up. Susanoo looked at your unfinished work and studied it for a moment. His impassive face gave you no hint of what was going through his mind. — You could sketch me in any position, but I can clearly see what was your priority here. You giggled, trying to ignore your warm cheeks. But what you couldn’t ignore was his hand appearing on your thigh. His other arm, which had been resting on the back of the couch, now happened to be wrapped around you as Susanoo pulled you closer to him. The sketchbook fell to the floor, but you didn't think much of it because you were too busy kissing his hungry lips. Whenever Susanoo kissed you, he always gave his all. His tongue explored your mouth, his firm grip on your back, he liked to feel your body pressed against his, your warmth and the trembling he made you feel. It always put him in the right mood. While he played with your mouth, you caressed his crotch. It wasn't long before you felt a growing bulge under your fingers. Susanoo’s hand untied your obi and slowly slipped between the flaps of your yukata. The feel of his warm fingers on your breasts sent shivers down your spine. Before lust could completely consume you, you mumbled: — Aren’t you supposed to have a meeting with other gods soon? Susanoo opened his eyes between kisses, you knew you had angered him. — I don’t understand why you dragged them into this — he replied dryly and pulled you even closer so that you were sitting on his lap. — You will be late! — Yes — he kissed your chin, then moved to your bare neck — And I don’t see a problem with it. — You and your stubbornness — you whispered, feeling yourself slowly fall under his spell as his tongue licked your skin. Just as Susanoo thought as he squeezed your buttocks hard. Maybe a little too hard. You moaned, but the slight pain jolted your senses awake. You stopped a kiss, pushing Susanoo away. He watched in surprise as you covered your breasts and reached for your sketchbook. — You’re late — you announced, sitting up straight next to him — And I have to finish my sketch — you pointed at your sketch of him. — No, no, girl — Susanoo said in a voice that brooked no objections — You have to finish me. The real one, over here — he took your sketchbook and threw it away. You huffed at his demanding tone, but didn’t oppose when Susanoo pulled you to him once again.

Hermes

Since the beginning, you two always talk about art. Hermes was known for his musical abilities basically throughout the universe. You two have a special place for art in hearts.

Hermes likes to talk to you about painting, but he is quite demanding. Art is subjective, but don’t you think he wouldn’t notice if you get sloppy painting some particular part you don’t like. Oh, yes, Oh, yes, he’s gonna point that out.

If you don’t paint for some time, he notices it and asks you about the reason behind it. He encourages you for keep trying, especially if you feel stuck and lack motivation.

I feel like if you try hard enough, you could convince him to draw with you. Hermes would expect some kind of tutorial from you, but after his first work it turns out that he has experience and was just playing along.

Hermes doesn’t have favourite type of painting, because he believes that everything can positively surprise him, but he really enjoy seeing first raw sketch of your work and then its final version, for comparisons.

Sketch it as much as you want, at any moment and how you see fit. Hermes doesn’t mind being watched, in fact he really likes feeling your eyes on him.

Your favourite place to relax was the garden at Olympus in the morning, when everyone was busy with their duties or hadn't even started their day yet. You sat on a bench surrounded by perfectly trimmed hedges and trees, and the silence disturbed only by chirping of birds and the occasional wind whistling. You turned yourself off. Perhaps you shouldn’t. Otherwise, you would have notice earlier that someone appeared next to you. — That looks good — said Hermes in his flawless butler uniform. — I-I-I was just-! It’s… — you hid your sketchbook behind your back, feeling how you cheeks got warm. — A very good sketch of naked me — Hermes finished the sentence for you with a playful smile. You gave in to that smile, and burst out laughing. — Okay, you got me — you tucked your hair behind your ear — I was just practising silhouettes, and then I thought about you and… — you shrugged, embarrassed. — Well I supposed it’s my fault. I've been very absent lately, haven't I? Hermes sat down next to you. — You… aren’t you busy now? — you asked, a bit surprised, because you didn't remember the last morning you spent together. — I’m, but who would I be if I couldn't manage dozen or so minutes for you, y/n? — he smiled again, but this time it was a rare kind of smile that Hermes almost never presented. A genuine smile that wasn't the result of politeness or manners. — May I see the rest of it? — he asked. Without thinking, you handed over sketchbook to Hermes. It’s foolish of you to assume that he only wanted to see your unfinished work. — D-don’t! — you said, but it was too late. Hermes started to leaf through every sketch you had ever drew, including the inappropriate ones. And there was a whole lot of him there. You’ve shown him some of them before, but not every single one. After all, you didn’t want him to know this side of you… too well. It wasn’t lady like. — Well… — Hermes’ voice sounded as polite as always — It seems I’ve neglected you very much. Your cheeks burned to the core and Hermes clearly enjoyed that sight. His red eyes sparkled with joy, and if you weren’t so embarrassed you might have hit him for it. — I think you did… — you found yourself saying. You bit your lower lip. — Eh, what can I say? It’s all your fault! You’re such a good model — you shrugged, trying not to smile too broadly — My hands just want to draw you! Hermes stared at you for a moment. If you didn’t know him, you’d probably assume he was thinking of some sort of riposte, but years of being together had taught you that the only thing that could match his practiced politeness was his sharp mind. To your surprise, Hermes took your hand and started massaging it gently, the fabric of his glove was warm and soft. He caressed your fingers, touched your wrist, even checked your pulse for a moment. There was something very relaxing and natural about his moves, because for a moment you forgot how busy he was and that he would have to return to his duties soon. — Have I mentioned that my favourite part of your body are hands? — he asked you after a long silence. You shook your head in denial, which encouraged him to expand his thoughts — It’s not just the matter of these graceful fingers. Nor is it a matter of what you can create with them. I feel I adore them so, because whenever I’m bored with duties, I find solace in fantasizing about how these hands will take care of me later. Your eyes met again and you could have sworn you saw something rare in his pupils, but it was quickly hidden behind Hermes' playful nature. He stood up. — Well, I should get back to my duties now — he adjusted the flaps of his jacket — Please, dear, keep these sketches to yourself, because they’re very accurate — he winked.

#record of ragnarok #shuumatsu no valkyrie #ror x reader #snv x reader #ror hajun #ror susanoo #ror hermes #ror hajun x reader #ror susanoo x reader #ror hermes x reader #udj

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parkermunson · 2 years ago

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eddie dating an artsy person

your mind is messy, constantly working and full of ideas. it almost feels like it'll explode one day. but eddie has a way of helping you sort them

will sit next to you while looking at an art piece and suggesting ways to finish it/make it better

goes to every art show with you. whether or not you're showing work. he wants to support you no matter what

will let you sit in on Hellfire for inspiration. even lets you take photographs throughout the meeting when you notice how nice everyone looks under the lights

at first his friends snicker under their breaths when he lets them know about the relationship. then it becomes painfully obvious why you found each other– two kids with messed up heads, misunderstood by their peers but not by each other.

he'll let you draw on him. loves it actually. started wearing shorter sleeves just for this reason. he hates washing off your doodles at night but you'll replace them the next day

uses his money from dealing to buy you art supplies. makes you promise to make him something in return

will hang every art piece you make him in his room. when his walls run out of space, wayne gives the okay to hang his favorites in the living room

will get one of the first drawings you ever gave him tattooed. even if you aren't friends as adults, it'll make him smile

asks you for ideas on his campaigns and listens to you closely. he values your opinion greatly

when you get overwhelmed, he'll sit with you until you're ready to talk, break something, or move on

never ever makes fun of you. not your strange fashion, your mannerisms, your art. nothing. he likes it all. so much.

pushes you to apply to art school or a school with a great art program. doesn't even doubt for a second you'll get accepted. when you get the acceptance letter, he asks for your autograph, "because it could be worth something now."

you make a card for his birthday every year. he keeps all of them in a box in his closet. it's like a timeline of how your art progressed over the years.

is definitely a bad influence when it comes to impulsive ideas. leads to bad haircuts and terrible hair dye colors.

he poses for you often. it's one of the few times he's not jumping around causing trouble

your classmates notice how often you use him as a subject and think its cute he's so supportive

helps you set up for showings

relaxes you the night before showing a piece to your class

has definitely drank out of the paint brush water cup more than once

definitely used a drawing marker as a pen when you weren't looking

aside from being your subject, will also be your canvas. afterwards, you'll have the sweetest sex while cleaning him off in the shower

everytime he buys you a new sketchbook, he'll leave a note on one of the pages. you won't find it for a while, and it makes your heart flutter when you finally do

a big one– he'll stay up with you late at night when a certain idea keeps nagging at you. does his best to draw your thought process together until you can finally sleep

he just loves you and your creative brain so much!!!

#eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson hc #eddie stranger things #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things headcanons #stranger things hc #mandi writes #parkermunson

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angelicglib · 1 year ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ Champagne Problems ˚୨୧⋆｡˚⋆

[ᴊᴏʜɴ ᴍᴀᴄᴛᴀᴠɪꜱʜ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ]

[ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴘᴏꜱᴛᴇᴅ]: 27/12/23

[ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ]: Reminiscing about the past always leaves a bitter taste in Johnny's mouth. Especially when those memories include you.

[ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ]: 5,814

[ᴛᴡ]: hurt and absolutely ZERO COMFORT!!! Mentions/ implications of alcoholism, angst, implied family issues, suggestive content.

[ᴀ/ɴ]: Pain, suffering and agony. You are welcome.

THIS IS A REPOST !! I've had few issues with shadowbans and have moved accounts a few times (tumblr thought I was a bot) so, if you would like more stories from me, my new blog is @manicrouge !!

ENJOY !!

Please do not post my work to any other platforms, thank you.

────────── ⋆⋅🚂⋅⋆ ──────────

He finds it difficult to stomach as he looks out of the window on a train.

The return from deployment is always bittersweet. In particular, knowing he can return back to his hometown for a short while before having to eventually go back to the base.

But, all of that disappears as he’s sitting on the train, looking out the window as rain bats against it. His eyes can hardly make anything out, it’s far too dark for his eyes to make it much further than the outline of a mountain in the distance. His arms aching and he’s unsure how long he’s been looking out of it. He’s quite sure the sleeve of his jacket is completely soaked from the condensation dripping down the window, pooling on the window sill his elbow is resting on. Still, nothing changes his position, not even the shifts of the cart as it storms along the tracks.

In his chest, he feels his heart murmur at the thought of getting closer to home.

It’s been a while.

The silence on the train is unnerving as he turns his eyes away from the window for a moment. Across the aisle from him, there’s another traveller. His head is pressed firmly against the back of the chair as quiet snores escape his open mouth. As he focuses on him, he notes a glistening trail on his chin and grimaces, turning his eyes away from the man, directing his gaze back to the window.

Trains during the night-time are always strange, he was familiar with them when he first joined the army. Travelling to and from always seemed worse during the day, so, he'd opted to stay at the base for an extra day, leaving in the dead of night to catch the last train available home. There was no reason to leave during the day because at night, he knew he could sleep away all the worries, arriving home well rested.

But then something changed.

After another op, he returned to his schedule of sitting on the train at night, looking down at the sketchbook resting against the table in front of him. Holding a pencil in his hand, he busied himself with a sketch of a familiar face. There were the remains of a mistake engraved into the paper, odd rolls of the rubber sitting on the bend of his notepad as he readied the eraser in his hand in preparation for another.

His tired eyes were heavy as he observed the features of the man on the page, a small grin forming on his face as he thought about the reaction from the man when he saw him again. He’d probably only nod his head at his attempts of drawing him, noting that the details of his mask were a little janky, but that wouldn’t matter; the eyes were perfect. But Johnny knew he would still lie to him because being sincere was not one of his lieutenants specialities.

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’

Setting the pencil down, he raised his head to see you standing in front of him. You smiled at him with a small glass in your hand, holding the seat opposite to him to keep yourself steady. ‘It’s just cause there’s no one else here and my phone died,’ you explained, ‘I won’t make a peep, I promise,’ you added.

With a short nod, he motions towards the chair opposite to him, moving the pencil tin above his notepad so you had some space to place down your belongings. ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘be my guest, bonnie.’

So, you took a seat, placing your backpack on the chair beside you, setting your glass down. He observed the colour of the liquid, the colours faint as the bubbles raise from the bottom of the small glass, dispersing at the top. He recalled how odd he thought it was when he had first seen the funny little drink on the table, only knowing the train-line to serve water and the occasional cup of tea.

‘Champagne,’ you answered, following his eyes to the glass, ‘thought I’d treat myself.'

‘What’s the special occasion?’ he asked with a raised eyebrow, picking his pencil back up, resuming his portrait of the moody lieutenant. The train creaked at the cart turned slightly, and he caught your hand steading the drink. ‘Ye get a promotion?’

Looking at you again, he noted how you sunk your teeth into your bottom lip. Your eyes fell to the aisle and your chest rose as you took a deep breath. There was something about your apprehension that troubled him, the way your flushed cheeks paled left him wounded for a short while before he realised that he had no clue why he was thinking in such a manner.

It was her eyes, he reminisces while keeping his eyes trained on the window beyond the cart.

It's a bitter pill to swallow, the memories of you still wrapping around his mind as a kids train set does a families Christmas tree during the holidays. Looping round and round and round until it's put into a box. The season in his mind has lasted longer than the measly length of the month of December, spanning years (it seemed). It's torture, yet, despite it being so cruel, he dreads the arrival of the day where he finally has the courage to box you up and shove you to the back of his mind because that would be when he could begin to forget you.

Even after all the years that have passed, he finds his mouth moves as he recalls your response to his question when you had sat opposite to him on the train.

‘Moving out, actually.'

It was just as well everything happened for you on that day, you moved out the day he got the train home. Had anything been different, neither of you would have crossed paths and while agonising, he looks at the stars in the nights sky with an air of gratitude.

You admitted after a while, your eyes falling back onto him as you heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Been stuck in a shitty situation for a while, been sitting around waiting for a chance to get out of it and tonight just so happens to be the night that everything fell back into place.’

Your words haunted him during the night, appearing like a phantom in his dreams, calling out to him. The glint of gratitude in his eyes wavers.

Your words are soft as you spoke and he likened the look you gave him to one of the valleys he had witnessed when he had taken the day train home after his first deployment. A valley with a river right below it in the midst of shrubbery and trees. The water was blue, he could see it when he looked at her. The reflection of the sun reflecting off of the surface, mirroring the rocky trails of the mountains. The sight of such had left him breathless, just as you did when you took a deep breath, reaching out for her glass, bringing it to you mouth. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling a stranger my problems,’ you mumbled.

‘It’s nae an issue, lass,’ he responded, ‘happy to hear y’ got outta whatever was making ye so miserable,’ he confessed, ‘and Scotland, eh? Pretty place if y’ ask me,’ he said with a short laugh. You laughed with him before taking another sip from your drink.

He watched as you did so, noting the glint in her eyes as you moved your eyes away from him to his notebook. Pulling the glass away from your mouth, you placed it down with a hum, swallowing the last of the drink in your mouth, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. It's a charming sight, clumsy and amusing.

‘You’re good at drawing,’ you noted, pointing at the drawing, ‘is he a character of yours?’ you asked, motioning to the drawing of the man with the skull face. A short chuckle passed his lips as he rubbed the stubble on his chin.

‘Guess ye could call him that,’ he said, 'someone I know, actually ,' he confessed.

Your brows furrowed, wrinkles forming on your forehead as your eyes grew wide. Your hand ghosted the glass, wetting your fingers with the condensation dripping down the outside as you looked at him with glossy eyes. Fingerprints marked the glass as you forced your hand away.

'I'm so so sorry- I didn't mean it as an insult it's just-'

'Keep the heid, lass,' laughed the man.

You stared at him.

'Relax,' he said, noting the confusion on your face. Your tensed muscles softened as your picked up the glass off of the table, taking a big gulp, finishing the last of the contents in it. He frowns when he notices you shaking. You thought you had done so much wrong with a single observation. 'you weren't to know.'

'Does he really wear that mask?' you whispered as though Simon was right behind you, and had he been, Johnny could say with his heart that he wouldn't have been surprised; the damn man appeared out of nowhere all the time.

'Yeah,' he said.

'Is it part of his job?'

Your intrigue was adorable.

'No, he just prefers to hide his face,' he explained, 'suppose it makes work easier,' he said, nodding to himself. Despite his time knowing Simon, he never did know why he covered his face. Of course, it kept the human version of the man from the man who committed countless atrocities in the name of justice, yet, the point you brought up left him thinking for a short moment.

'You work together?' you asked, 'what do you do for work?'

'Part of the military,' he told you frankly, 'he's my lieutenant,' he added, although, he didn't care to tell you much more as he looked at the you with a furrowed brow, not wanting to leave you with enough time to respond to his confession, 'what about you, lass?'

'I write,' you said, 'I got a remote position at a publishing company, that's whats given me the money to move out.'

'I enjoy writin' from time to time,' he responded, 'not that good at it though, prefer drawing,' he uttered.

You were though, he didn't even bothers to think of your response because, truthfully, your humbleness in terms of your own talent was wounding to his own love for writing. As he would with advertisements, inwardly, he skips by all the small talk in his mind. It's cruel the way the mind works; memory was a burden to hold, yet as entertaining as a late night TV show which was to only be watched in secrecy.

'What's your name?' you asked, picking up another cup of champagne. He watched as you did so, lifting his own cup that you had gotten for him when you had excused yourself to the bathroom.

He kept his distaste of the beverage to himself, besides, it was free.

'Johnny,' he answered, ' and y'urself, bonnie?'

You answer accordingly, stating your name with a smile. Repeating your name, he finds it rolls off his tongue well and the longer he observes you, the more a conclusion dawned upon him.

'Suits ye well,' he complimented with a wink.

Rubbing his face with his hand, his breath fogs against the window of the train and he turns his head away, absentmindedly wiping down the window with the sleeve of his puffer jacket. In the meantime, he busies himself looking at the empty seat opposite to him.

In the blink of an eye, you're there, sitting across from him.

'When do you get off?' he asked.

'Last stop,' you answered, 'staying at a hotel for a few days before my place is ready... was eager to leave,' you said. As soon as the words passed your lips, he felt compelled to be a gentleman. That, alongside taking into account the trouble that could have occurred if you did walk to the hotel alone, besides, the least he could have done for you buying him a drink and keeping him company was help you find you way to your hotel.

'We can share a cab if ye want,' he offered, 'put my mind at ease, wanna make sure you get there safe, besides, far too cold for ye to be walkin', bonnie,' he said, biting the inside of his mouth as he awaited your refusal, only, you nodded your head and smiled.

'I'd appreciate that, Johnny.'

His memories blur for a while after that, and his cheeks flushed red as he recalls how you looked at him before you got out of the cab. Glancing at the same hand that paid the fare only far enough to go to your hotel he curses as he watches the memory of him getting out of the taxi to chase after you.

You waited for him at the entrance in hope he'd have a change of heart, and he recalls how delighted you were when he walked through the door and caught you standing there, waiting for him.

Truthfully, he knew he was in deep shit when he felt the way you wrapped around him, the way you called his name, and how pretty you looked underneath him. Even after years, it was difficult to escape the thought of your first night together. Perhaps it was the entire being strangers thing that made the sex much more enthralling than any other one night stand he had had, or maybe it was just you.

Shoulda never let her have me number, he thought to himself.

It was difficult to deny that there were only ever terrible times. Resentment bubbles and it turns the fondest of moments to the worse; there was something there for him to miss when he thinks fondly of you. Fondness makes forgetting a hell of a lot harder, at least it does for him, anyway.

He hardly even thinks about Graves anymore and he resents him.

He resents you too.

But whenever he thinks of you, he thinks of your laughter. And then the guilt seeps in and he curses himself for ever thinking so lowly of you in the first place. How fucking dare he do something so terrible. You deserve it, though, for all the shit you put him through: the bruised heart thats still bandaged up, the sleepless nights as he waited for you to come home, the drunken phone calls he would get while on an op.

All of it.

Then there was everything else: the moments you shared together, the sound of your laughter which would seemingly travel down the halls of your apartment and wake him whenever you spent the night together, the sight of you in his shirt while cooking breakfast in the morning and your excitement when you finally persuaded him to dance with you.

The last one was particularly difficult to forget. His fondness will never let him let it go, he's convinced.

In the depths of the night, you danced together. He acknowledged the look on your face as he held you in your arms, the laughter as he spun you around in a circle, pulling you away just for you to end right back in his arms. He'd never let you wonder too far, scared that if he lost grip of your hand, you would have disappeared forever.

It became a routine and he recalls all the times he had held you in his arms while dancing to a song by Sinatra or Aretha Franklin and all the times he saw you smile. All of those happy moments moulded into one, while only a few stuck out.

During that night in particular, he couldn't look away from your eyes.

Whenever he looked at you, he was started by the glint of colours in your eyes, reflective of the colourful lights you had decorated your Christmas tree with. Rather, instead of decorating the tree, the lights in your eyes worked well in decorating the brambles you called eyelashes as you looked up at him. Every time you blinked, he found the same glossy sheen he had seen that night on the train. Every blink seemed to edge you closer to tears, as though your eyelashes were antagonising your poor eyes constantly.

Then he smelt the liquor on you breath and was reminded of the underlining truth of everything.

You were always emotional whenever you had something to drink. It couldn't have been helped, it was simply who you were, and he was going to resent you for something you couldn't have helped.

'Yer oot yer face,' he mumbled, speaking softly to you as you swayed with one another to the low hum of music from your vinyl player. Neither of you noticed how the song skipped, far too busy with one another to notice such a flaw.

'English, MacTavish,' you answered, your tone gruff as you recalled the story he had told you about the man with the skull mask and the city soaked in blood. He chuckled, pulling you closer, resting his head against your shoulder, looking at you. You turned your head to the side to look at him too.

'You're drunk,' he said quietly.

'I only had a glass,' you answered abruptly. You tensed in his arms when you responded to him and he felt his head sink further down until it sat, burning in the acid of his stomach. 'I had it while I was making dinner; the sauce had some of it in,' you explained, turning in his arms so your chests were pressed against each others. placing your hand against his face. You looked worried in that moment, observing his features. 'You're not mad at me, are you?'

Placing his hand over yours, he sighed, 'nae, bonnie, just don't want ye to hurt y'urself,' he explained, pulling your hand from off of his face, planting a kiss atop of it, moving his other hand from the small of your back to hold your waist. 'Love you too much for ye to do that,' he said, letting go of your hand to place his fingers beneath your chin, forcing your head up so you were looking at him. 'Y'know that.'

'I do,' you weakly answered.

The only bastard 'I do' he ever got from your lips. It was laughable really as he looks back on that night, how the pair of you had been so close in your home, dancing together as though you were an elderly couple celebrating your 40th wedding anniversary together.

Think I'll live that long?

Probably not.

Had anyone from 141 been there to witness how he fell to pieces with you in his arms, they very well would have laughed until they were blue in the face. And the longer he looks out the window out on the Scottish countryside, he concludes he too would laugh at that man dancing with you for being such a smitten fool.

'Good,' he hummed, pressing a kiss against your lips. The were chapped, dry, but he didn't care. Instead, he deepened the kiss as the pair of you stumbled backwards, muffled laughter escaping you as you loosely wrapped your arms around his neck while he kept the pair of you from falling.

Moments of happiness seemed so common in the beginning.

The night trains shifted to day trains again.

He'd hit the ground running after returning from an op, only showering because he didn't want you to smell the remnants of war which stained him and his skin. Nothing kept him from seeing you, not even his distaste for the day train.

All of it meant that he could get home sooner; he recalled the sinking feeling in his chest whenever the trains were delayed by a measly twenty minutes. Love made him a different man, he realised, a man who enjoyed the day train and the man who loathed the night train.

'I thought you weren't going to be home for another couple of days,' you said, opening the door to see Johnny standing there with a bag on his arm. Dropping it, he pulled you into a tight hug, resting his hand against the back of your head as he swayed you from side to side. 'Did you get the day train for me?' you asked.

Pulling away, he caught sight of the smile creeping onto you face as he nodded his head slowly, 'didn't wanna wait longer than I had to,' he answered, 'saw a photo of ye in me wallet an' knew I needed to be here with you sooner,' he added, pressing a kiss onto your lips as your cheeks flushed red.

'You have a picture of me in your wallet?' you quietly asked when he pulled away for you. He smiled.

'Of course I do, bonnie,' he responded as though such was an obvious fact, 'need to see that face of yours every day, ye like medicine to me.'

'Really?'

'Aye, lass.'

Everything moved so quickly and it wasn't long before you were well acquainted with his mam.

Meeting his mother was the confirmation he needed to say that he wanted to marry you. No one else in the world mattered when he saw how you and his sisters bonded, and while sitting alone on the train, he clenched a his fist at the emptiness of the palm of his hand while imagining the light weight of the ring his mother had placed in the palm of his hand while he stood in the kitchen helping her prepare the Christmas dinner. It had been over two years since the pair of you had started dating when she did so, working well to convince him that the timing meant that something else in the universe had willed it to happen.

'Mam?' he asked, looking down at the ring in his hand.

The band was quaint, golden as an green gem stared him in the eyes as he squinted, holding it up to the yellow light of the kitchen. The elderly woman in front of him chuckled, patting his shoulder as she walked past him to open the oven.

'Well, she's the one, ain't she?' she said, speaking into the heat of the oven as she grabbed the tray of duck-fat potatoes with a stained tea towel.

'Ye think?'

'Gonnae no’ dae that!' exclaimed his mother.

'Don't do what?' he scoffed.

'Act surprised,' she scolded, 'it's in ye eyes, son,' she chuckled. 'Yer nana told me to give ye the ring when I thought ye'd found the right one,' she confessed, 'and with your father gone, 'ave got no reason to wear it, but she has,' she uttered, looking from out of the kitchen into the living room.

His eyes followed hers and he watched as you sat with his youngest sister. The pair of you chatted away, though his stomach twisted at the sight of you holding a glass in your hand.

'She's a good girl, Johnny.'

'Aye, mam, I know.'

'So, marry her.'

With his mam's words echoing in his mind, the memories always came to the one that caused all the air in his lungs to escape.

Nothing wants to stay whenever he thinks of that, and he's sure if he was wounded, all his blood would leave him in a second in order to stay out of the cycle in his head that always brings him back to this one thought.

He supposes, in hindsight, it was terribly foolish what he had done. His ignorance to pressing issues was immature and irresponsible, only, they were easy to ignore when he had his mothers ring in his pocket. But he noticed, years down the line, how you had dropped his hand when the pair of you had been dancing, all to go and get another drink because the glass in your hand was running dry.

The party was one you both had planned, only, you had done so to celebrate a win himself and the boys had had during their time away, and he had invited everyone with the intent of proposing to the love of his life.

In the moment, he had been so crushed. He recalls how his mouth was dry, the dull ache in his cut knee as he awkwardly remained kneeled as you stood and stared. The speech he had prepared disappeared when you turned your back on him and rushed away, leaving his ego bleeding as everyone looked at him in horror.

'I just... I don't know why you would do it,' you mumbled when you heard him walk through the door into the kitchen away from the guests.

He was silent as he looked at you, traces of a storm in his eyes as he fought off the urge to cry. His chest hurt as he looked at you with a glass in your hand, and he couldn't do anything but stand there and watch as you drank from it. 'I told you, Johnny, I fucking warned you and-'

'I thought ye would've had a change of heart, love-'

'Well I haven't!' you angrily snapped, slamming your glass down onto the counter, glaring at him. 'What, did you think just because I'd have a ring on my finger all of our fuckin' issues are going to disappear? You're a smart man, Johnny, stop trying to play the role of the fool. It doesn't suit you and it never will.'

You were just as embarrassed as he was. He curses himself while sitting on the train, thinking back to your flushed cheeks and teary eyes. It wasn't only because of the booze that time, it was because of him too.

'I- I'm trying, John, can't you see that?' you croaked, 'I'm trying but I can't be everything you want. I don't wanna get married... at least not yet.'

'Ye don't love me,' he blurted.

You snapped your head up, furrowing your brows as you looked at him with wide eyes. 'Is that serious what you think?' you shakily asked, disbelief etched into your features. 'So what? You think all the fuckin' nights I've spent worried that you're not gonna come home when you're away working were for-'

'All the fuckin' nights you spent with a bottle in your hand too, eh?' he quickly cut you off, retorting in a manner that had left you breathless, draining all the colour out of your face. 'Don't pull that card on me, bonnie, don't you fuckin' dare do it 'cause I worry more about you and your drinkin' habit than I do my own life when I'm out on the field- tell me how you think that's fair!'

You stared at him, your eyes drifting to the empty glass abandoned on the counter. It was unfair for him to pull that card, he was aware enough in the moment to understand it, but he was so utterly devastated that he chose to stand his ground. An apology wouldn't have mean anything even if he had said it.

'If ye loved me... you'd stop goin' to the bottle every time ye have an issue,' he bleakly said, 'but am not even sure if you would pick me over the drink anymore, bonnie.'

'How would me saying yes to you fix any of that?'

He stayed silent.

Reflection allows him to find that he only ever proposed out of love. He was aware of your issues, noting it was never always smooth sailing from either of you, but he supposes he just wanted to have proof that at least once, you would pick him rather than the liquor.

But he was stupid for ever thinking you were more than your champagne problems.

'Getting married would only complicate things between us, John. You know that,' you said after a while of silence, 'and clearly, we don't listen to each other... I'm sorry I embarrassed you today, and I'm sorry I keep causing you to worry- I'm sorry for being such a burden to you but you don't make it easy for me,' you uttered, rubbing your face with your hands, wiping away the tears that fell down your scarlet cheeks.

There was nothing else for him to say to you, and he's ashamed at the very fact that, in the moment you needed him the most, he walked out of that room and left you there crying, alone.

As the train turns on the tracks again, he ponders what would have been different if he had stayed there with you, only, he finds his mind drifting to the words on a page which confirms exactly why he was thinking.

He was only prolonging the inevitable.

As he turns to the final page in his notebook, he finds it difficult to breath as he retrieves the piece of paper he had pushed to the back of it, unfolding it. Pressing his hand against it, he leaves it to sit on top of the page marked with splashes of the drink you had spilled, unable to find the strength as he stares down at the words scrawled on the page.

A crude reminder of what became of his engagement.

'Johnny,

In time, I hope you'll forget about all my problems and find someone who you deserve. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused and I'm sorry for not being ready for you.

Give your mums ring to someone who deserves it and put the special ladies picture in your wallet instead of mine. For the sake of yourself and me.

I love you, Johnny, nearly too much, and while you will see my absence as cruel, know I see it as necessary and that's the issue; we never have seen eye to eye on a lot of things.

We're not ready for each other, I know you think it but you're too scared to say it, so I'll bite the bullet and say it for you. We're not ready for each other, Johnny.

Love shouldn't be a tug-of-war, and I grow tired for you watching as you always try and pull me to you. Besides, I heard your mother after you left the room, she said I was fucked in the head for not agreeing to your proposal and it leaves me wondering what type of person you've made your family believe I am.

I'm sorry I couldn't be everything you wanted, but know that everything I'm doing: leaving, writing this letter, not saying goodbye to you in person, is for you. You always said you hated goodbyes; they were the hardest part of your career, and I can't promise that I wouldn't run back into your arms the second you'd open your mouth and beg me not to go.

But I'm prolonging the inevitable by staying with you.

I'm making you miserable with my problems and that is not what I want you to do. You have a life, and you had a life before we met on that train.

All I ever did was make you worry and I don't want to do that anymore. I don't want you to worry about me, I just want you to move on and love and be loved. I'm going to work on myself and I'm going to get better because I know that that is what you want, and in truth, it's what I want too.

I love you and I fear I always will, but I can't have you, and I'm punishing you and myself by staying here.'

He turns his head away from the letter, looking back to the window at the small dots through the foggy water as he utters the last part of the letter under his breath. 'One day, we may meet again, perhaps the stars will align and you'll see me on a nighttime train back to your home town. And maybe then, I'll be ready.'

A breathy laugh escapes him, repeating 'And maybe then, I'll be ready.'

How appalling it would be when you realised that you leaving only resulted in the reversal of roles. At least, he likes to think he would have the strength to refuse you if he's to ever see you again.

When he turns away from the window, relieving himself of the pain of remembering all that has gone wrong in his life, he takes the letter from off of his notepad, folding it along the worn edges, pushing it back in a small slip at the back of the notepad.

Shrugging off his jacket, he put it on the seat beside him with a hard sigh, turning his attention back to the notepad in front of him. The nights long and his journey proceeds to drag his feet and he's unsure if he even wants to be back home or if he should have just stayed in the base until Price needed him next. But it's Christmas and he couldn't have left his family because of his own sorrow about something that happened years ago.

He just misses you more in the holidays, but he supposes that's okay as long as he doesn't let the phantom you left him with ruin everything. So, he picks up the pencil and pursues what he was doing the night you two met, only this time, there's a ghost sitting opposite to him, not the living thing that greeted him many moons ago.

His ignorance to the world around him keeps him from hearing the footsteps storming up the aisle after the train stops at a station. Even when the voice of a woman announcing the last stop enters his ears, he doesn't lift his head. All the noise culminates into a twisting storm, similar to how he imagines the billowing smoke exuding from a chimney on a winter night swirls in the wind. It's deplorable and he grunts as he attempts to chase the flurry of emotions away.

His efforts result in even more tension at the front of his mind as he looks into the eyes of the drawing he's sketching, realising just whose eyes he had depicted in the midst of his worry. Even after all the time has passed, he's impressed by the fact that he still remembers your features so well.

Always so difficult to forget, he supposes his contemplation proves such.

Then he hears it.

The very thing that works to break him free.

A quaint shaky breath.

A shadow covers his bulky frame, light peering from either side of the mass standing on the aisle holding onto the seat opposite him. Lifting his head, his lungs rattle in his chest as he realises the eyes he had been sketching in his notepad are right before him in human form, staring right back at him.

'Johnny?'

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