#making a supportive post and tagging someone is a bit easier?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

All In 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power imbalance, low self esteem, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you meet a mysterious man on a night out with your sister. (petite!reader)

based on the winning option for this poll

Characters: casino owner!Bucky Barnes

Note: told myself to slow down, didn’t.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You finish your cocktail before you go into the concert hall. Roxie grabs a third and you pass, not wanting to run back and forth to the bathroom. Besides, you don’t really like the way the vodka stirs in your stomach and little behind your eyes.

The band is decent. You don’t know any of the songs and only vaguely heard of the artist they are a tribute to. Still, you enjoy the live show; you focus on their instruments and how they use them. You always wanted to be musical but never had a sense of tone or melody.

By the end of the set, you’re yawning. Your sister is on her fourth drink and you can’t tell if she’s swaying to the music or if it’s more than that. As the rows empty, you shuffle out with the rest of the concert goers. The bright lights of the casino greet your squint and your ears pulse slightly from the noise of the strumming and crashing show.

“Mm, so, what’d’ya say?” Your sister makes almost every word into one, “how do we spend this?”

She fishes out the chip and you give a sheepish frown. You almost forgot about it. You still think you should turn it in. You don’t feel right spending someone else’s money. You do that often enough, much too old to be living off your mom.

“Don’t be boring,” she warns, “jeez. It’s just cards. Odds are, whoever dropped it, would’ve lost it to the house anyway.”

She claps her hand around your shoulder. You pull back the sleeve of your cardigan to check the time. It’s after ten! You haven’t been out that late since... ever.

“I’m not boring,” you cross your arms and shrug her off. “I just... am different than you.”

“Boring,” she repeats. “You can’t spend all day in your room.”

Yes, you can. And you do.

You don’t argue. When she’s like this, it’s only bound to become a scene. There are too many strangers around for that.

“Black jack,” she declares and spins the coin. It slips from her grasp and falls between her feet. She bends over shamelessly in her dress to pluck it up. “Come on, let’s clean up.”

She struts ahead and you shuffle after her, nervously wringing the strap of your purse. Hopefully she loses it quickly and you can just retreat home in defeat. You catch up to her as she reaches the stairs. She giggles as she leans on the railing and you take her other arm, trying to support her wobbly steps.

“Want another drink?” She asks.

“No, think we’re good.”

“We?” She scoffs, “I’m fine.”

“Please, Rox, let’s just find a table,” you peek around as her voice rises a bit louder than you like.

“Pfft, fine, but if I win, I'm getting a drink.”

You nod. Go along to get along. That’s what your mother always told you when it came to your sister. She’s more like your father than she cares to admit.

You get to a table and she sits easily on the high seat of the tall stool. She lays down the single chip and the dealer offers to break it into smaller ones. She nods and shrugs. You envy how smoothly she just breezes through things.

You stand behind her. You don’t want to take up a seat and the stool is too much of a climb for you. You can see it wobbling as you attempt to hitch yourself up with the crossbar. You’re good, you shouldn’t get comfortable.

You listen to the shuffle of cards as your sister murmurs something you can’t make out. You can only hear the low drone of voices as you stand back. You sidle out of the way as a man claims the empty stool beside your sister. He buys in and another hand is dealt. Hasn’t she lost yet?

The man leans into your sister and you grimace. She turns her head to listen to him and she giggles. Your cheeks blaze hotly and you cross your arms and rock. Neither seem to notice you as they get closer and closer.

As the game progresses, you can only really make out what the dealer says; the different numbers that have grumbles coming from other players. You bring your hand up to pick at the button on your cardigan. The man puts his arm around your sister’s back, his hand on her hip as wiggles in her seat coyly. What about Tom?

You peer around awkwardly. Do you stop her? Remind her of the boyfriend that got her the tickets for tonight? You bounce in your flats and pause as you find someone else staring back at you. Or are they? Just as quickly as your eyes meet, the stranger’s eyes flit away and he’s back to chatting with another man. It’s the very same man who gave you the chip. Maybe her forgot you. That’s not a surprise.

You return your attention to your sister. The man has moved his arm between them and your sister squirms. You watch his elbow as he pulls his hand back. He’s touching her leg. She’s wiggling and suddenly, she shoves him away and screeches.

“EH! I got a boyfriend, perv! I said stop.”

Her voice carries along the high ceilings and you cringe. You back up, cowering away as she stands and the stool teeters dangerously. She fists her hand and you think for a moment she might just hit the guy. He scoffs and turns in his seat.

“Babe, just wanted to buy you a drink.”

“Whatever. You fucking creep!” She hollers.

“Ma’am,” the dealer calls from the table, “is there a problem?”

“Y-yeah,” she hiccups, “this dude had his hand up my skirt.”

“She’s drunk,” the man shakes his head, “listen to her.”

“I’m--” your sister’s denial catches in her throat, “doesn’t mean he can just touch me.”

“Ma’am, if you’re drunk, we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I’m fine. I'm not that...” She slides off the stool and stands, grabbing the chips in front of her seat and tossing them across the table. “You’re all a bunch of crooks.”

Her ankles tangle as she spins and she barely gets her balance before she storms away. Her strides are uneven as she bobbles drunkenly. You watch after her with wide eyes before you follow. She leads you into the bathrooms as she growls and grumbles. She slams into a stall and you stand outside.

You wait until she comes out. She’s quieter and her eyes are hazy. She washes her hands and applies a new coat of lip gloss.

“What a bust,” she pouts and rolls her eyes, “one more drink and we’ll go.”

“Maybe we should just leave now.”

“That guy was such a pervert,” she sneers at you, “you saw where his hand was.”

You nod, “yeah, I did...”

“So, you know I wasn’t being dramatic.”

“Yeah, but... everyone heard.”

“Oh fuck off,” she pushes your shoulder and stomps past you.

You feel bad. It’s not that she shouldn’t defend herself. You admire that she can, but she didn’t need to be so obnoxious. You trail after her into the casino. She heads directly for the bar. You hang your head and wait behind her. This time, she doesn’t offer you a drink. She’s mad at you now so it’s the silent treatment.

“Honey,” another man approaches, “how about I get that for you?”

“Huh?” She babbles, “oh, sure, baby, that’s sweet.”

The man offers his card to the bartender and orders a highball. He leans his arm on the tall bar top as he faces your sister. She bats her lashes at him and giggles as she pulls her drink closer.

“What’s your name, gorgeous?” He asks.

You blink. It’s like you’re not even there. You watch awkwardly, wishing the floor would swallow you up. Instead, you find an empty stool one seat away.

“Roxie,” she answers as you struggle up onto the seat. “And you, handsome?”

“Sam,” he returns, “what’re you drinking then?”

You notice him touch her glass along the brim but can’t see much else around your sister. She replies and his own drink is served. You shrink down and sigh. She’ll get her free drink and then you can just leave. You hope. You hold your chin as you dread another scene.

“Can I get ya something?” The bartender approaches.

“Er, water, please,” you choke out. He seems disappointed but gets you a glass.

You try not to overhear your sister and that man. It’s awkward and you hate this. It’s not the first time she’s done it either. The few times she’s brought you along, you’ve somehow become a third wheel. It reminds you of when you were kids and your mom forced her to take you with her somewhere. She doesn’t actually want you around, she’s genetically obligated.

“Woah, baby, you okay?” The man raises his voice and your sister’s body slumps. Shoot. No.

You barely get off the stool as the man clings to her drooping body. She giggles wildly as you tweak your ankle and rush over. That man, Sam he called himself, seems somewhat calm given the situation.

“Slow down, babe,” he chortles, “Jesus.”

She’s drunk. You knew she shouldn’t have had another drink. Your eyes meet Sam’s and he squints.

“You know her?”

“My sister,” you murmur.

“Oh, right, well...” he clears his throat and looks around, “you can take care of her then.”

“Wait--” you barely keep her up as she leans on you as she’s almost sideways on the stool.

He’s just leaving you? What the heck? You guess if he can’t get anything out of her, she isn’t worth the effort.

You sniff and struggle to slide your sister down to her feet. She’s heavier than you expect and her height makes her difficult to balance. You glance over as the bartender nears.

“Everything okay?” He asks sternly.

“We’re leaving,” you assure him, “sorry.”

“Five minutes,” he taps his watch face, “or I call security.”

You nod and move your arm around your sister’s back, “please, Rox, gotta work with me.”

She laughs again, “hey, where’d that cute guy go?”

“Please,” you beg again, “don’t...”

“Oh, hi,” she touches your faces and squeezes your cheeks, “baby sister.”

You hate when she’s like this. She’s always been a drinker, ever since high school when her friends would sneak out bottle from their parents’ stash. What was once an act of rebellion as a teen is now concerning as an adult.

“Excuse me, everything okay?” The timbre makes your heart drop and you nearly let go of Roxie as she leans in the other direction.

You look up. Oh god. It’s him. That dark-haired man in his expensive suit.

“I’m just... we’re on our way out--”

“She alright?” He points at your sister.

“Tipsy,” you utter.

“I see,” he pushes his hair back as it slips forward, “can I help?”

“Uh, you don’t--”

Before you can answer, he has your sister’s other arm. He almost lifts her entire weight off of you as he supports her against his shoulder. Your entire body is emblazoned in humiliation. You refuse to look above the floor as you’re certain you must have an audience.

You get your sister across the floor and into a hallway. There's an exit sign ahead but you're all turned around. The man stops you and Roxie.

"Where'd you park?" He asks, "this leads to Lot 5."

"Oh, uh..." you blanch. You hadn't thought of any of that. You slouch under Roxie's weight and try to see around her. "I'm not sure but... I don't drive. She was supposed to."

"Ah," he clucks, "and now she can't."

"Right," you agree glumly, "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? Why?" He asks.

"I didn't think... I let her--"

"Did you let her drink or did she make that choice knowing she was supposed to get behind a wheel?" He challenges.

"I guess... yeah. Sorry."

"Really, doll, no need to keep going on like that," he dismisses, "well, it's late and I can't in good conscience let you wander out with her like this. Especially if you don't have a way home."

"I could..." you begin. A taxi? You'd have to ask your mom to pay the driver when you get home. "Why would you... care?"

"Well, as the owner of this establishment, it won't look good on me if two pretty girls left and went missing," he chuckles then stops himself, "sorry, that's not funny. I just... we overserved your sister obviously so it's on us."

"Owner?" You gulp. You didn't think this could be any more humiliating.

"Bucky," he reaches around you sister.

You hesitate. You can't shake his hand properly as yours is around your sister so you just sorta grab his hand briefly and squeeze two fingers, retracting with another raze of embarrasment. You barely squeak out your name.

He repeats your name before he continues, "I'll get you two a room so she can sober up."

"What? No. That's... too much."

"It's late," he insists, "here," he pulls Roxie away from you as her head lolls and she snorts. He lifts her against his chest, carrying her easily. "I know a back way, just follow my lead, doll."

"Ummmmm," you drone and he waltzes back the way he came, hardly detered by the drunken body in his arms. You can only kick yourself and scramble after him. This night could not have ended any worse. Well, you guess it could if it went the way he suggested.

[fatesundress]

⭑ observations ii. tom riddle x reader

part i here.

summary. two weeks after your last encounter with tom shatters all of your previous observations, tensions are high, and eventually, something's gotta give. (it's tom. he’s giving head)

tags. smut (so. so much. minors BE GONE TO WHENCE YOU CAME!), fem anatomy + reader is referred to as a woman by someone, fingering, cunnilingus, piv, again implied tall!tom or short!reader (take it however you prefer), jealous tom does not understand friendship but then again neither does reader apparently, a little wine is had, the room of requirement is used shamelessly as a plot device, did i mention smut, i’ve lost my mind etc etc.

note. this is a part two, so go ahead and read the first part and come back if you'd like :) obligatory preface: it's safe to assume any smut i write within hogwarts is a university au — these people are all 18+ tyvm. also woahh was not expecting the love on my last post so thank you! i'm still trying to figure this whole acc out so support, questions, (requests? never done those before) anything is appreciated ♡

word count. 6.3k

The next two weeks are agony. You don’t, in fact, stop meeting with Godefrey to study, because you do, in fact, still need a good mark in Ancient Runes and for all his faults he can reach the tallest shelves and he’s a faster writer than you. Also, Tom Riddle is fantastic with his hands but this does not make him God.

You find pureblood politics a bit archaic. You find muggle courting a bit stifling. This leaves very little space for what took place between you and Tom in the middle of a corridor two weeks ago (you can’t stop wincing at how insane that sounds) and very little patience for his utterly original and not-at-all entitled request that you halt your studies with Godefrey. Godefrey doesn’t stick his hands up your skirts while the two of you are studying, doesn’t silence your gasps with a shush and a finger to your mouth, doesn’t — wouldn’t (you’re so imaginative when you want to be) — tell you to keep reading as his thumb draws circles between your legs, tell you to repeat the words that get caught in your throat, tell you how much he likes it when your eyes go dumb and glassy and all you can say is his name. So, really, Tom should have nothing to worry about.

“I swear,” Selwyn says, picking at a plate you don’t think she’s actually eaten anything off with how distracted she is, “he’s looked over here at least three times.”

You don’t dare glance at who you know she’s talking about. “You’re obsessed.”

Pot. Kettle. Whatever.

“Are you sure you didn’t do something to upset him in Potions? Didn’t botch something that might mar his perfect record?”

You flick her forehead and she scowls. “I’m not an idiot, Selwyn. I handle myself just as well in Potions as he does — he wouldn’t —” Wouldn’t have complimented your rapport if that weren’t true, wouldn’t have said you communicate efficiently, make a good pair, probably wouldn’t have — fingered you in the hallway? — yes, that too. Slipped your mind. So easy to forget.

You take a long exhale, and smile impassively at her. “I didn’t botch anything, trust me.”

She finally takes a bite of food. “Maybe I did something…”

And then she’s lost in thought again, eating now, at least, and you shake your head softly as you watch what are likely a million different theories flitting through her head.

“Morning,” Tom says to you when you enter Potions after breakfast, a delicate smile tugging at his lips.

You have, of course, trained for this. 

It’s your fifth — sixth? — time sharing a table with him since that night and it is somehow easier by nature and harder by anticipation (of what, you have no idea) every time. The first was terrible. Unsalvageable and without a silver lining. It had taken almost an hour that morning to charm the violent hues of red and purple spanning the column of your throat, and ultimately, the marks were so persistent you’d forgone the glamours and decided to just wear a turtleneck. You’d been fortunate it was completely inconspicuous to wear such a thing in December, but that was about all there’d been to be grateful for. You hadn’t been able to look at Tom all class and his hand had brushed yours once to take a phial from you and you’d flinched so sharply it would have shattered on the floor if he hadn’t caught it. And he’d smiled, like he’s smiling now, a soft, “Careful,” that honestly, for a short moment, made you want him dead.

Now you could speak just fine, look him in the eyes in practised intervals, and almost, impressively, make articulate conversation with him again. Make stupid comments about Slughorn and Lestrange and bear the weight of his grin knowing it was there for you.

His, he’d called you. A very funny thing.

“Morning,” you answer on a smiling sigh, sleepy but jovial all the same. 

You deserve applause for this.

“Tired?”

“Mhm — Essays for Ancient Runes are due Friday and it’s been keeping us up all night.”

His eyes flash with something you’ve yet to ascertain. Your research has been put temporarily on hold, scattered and splintered by the revelation that your first observation was, admittedly, a little bit off, and you have no means of figuring out a look like that when you can’t even begin to figure out anything else.

“Has it?” he asks, a tinge less friendly.

“Well,” you say, grinding the lacewing flies, “that’s commonplace, isn’t it? You take all sorts of advanced classes, I’m sure you understand the work it takes.”

“...Hm.”

That’s it. That’s all you get from him.

And if Selwyn’s concern over you botching your work in Potions wasn’t already, obviously dispelled, the glee on Slughorn’s face as he assesses your and Tom’s cauldron should do it.

“Brilliant! Just brilliant!” He claps a hand over Tom’s back, regarding you both with pride so thick it clouds his eyes, like he's drifted into a revery of the future (you and Tom, you expect, are his most prized graduates, making history under his name, proving his immense wisdom) before he appears to return to Earth. “Ten points between the two of you, hm? Very, very good — though, of course, no surprises there!”

He chuckles to himself as he evaluates the other students, and you catch a horrified wheeze of Godefrey’s name (bless his heart) as one of the cauldrons in the back begins to sputter and froth.

You look to Tom with some droll little comment at making it to the end of term with top marks, but his gaze is burning into Godefrey’s table in such a way you wouldn’t be surprised if it was what was causing his cauldron to boil.

Well. Perhaps not, then.

You and Godefrey hand in your essay that Friday with more relief than apprehension — you both decide it’s quite good — and you laugh loudly and breathlessly as he picks you up and thanks you a thousand times, spinning you until you’re dizzy. You refrain from making any promises to attend his Quidditch games, but he vows to let you have the snitch he catches.

And Slughorn, you come to find, was not exaggerating his elation at your skill. After trotting after you on your walk back from Ancient Runes to invite you to the last Slug Club dinner of the year, your spirits are high with the blissful satisfaction of a job well done and a night to celebrate it with.

You can breathe, finally, when it’s the last week of school before Christmas break and Selwyn’s zipping the back of a last-minute dress you purchased in Hogsmeade.

“Gorgeous,” Selwyn says with a grin. “Wish this school would have a bloody ball so I could really dress you up.”

“Buy a doll, Selwyn; you can dress them however you like.”

“You are such a —”

You burst into laugher, swatting her wand away as she pokes your side with it. 

“Just — go then, before I hex you.”

“All right, all right!” you concede, arms raised in surrender. “Don’t ruin all your hard work now.”

“Oh,” she calls on your way out the door. You turn and there’s a mischievous look in her eyes as she tucks her wand back in her pocket. “And do tell me before I leave tomorrow if Riddle stares at you all night.”

You groan as if it’s a truly abominable thing to imagine. Riddle, staring with those dark eyes of his? You, the centre of his attention? Ghastly. You daresay you’d never recover from the horror of it.

“Don’t leave before I tell you how remarkably uneventful a night it was,” you say with a sidelong glare, and leave before she can edge in the final word.

You have no idea what a Slug Club supper typically consists of, but you imagine for Christmas he’s gone a little further with his festivities. His office is glittering in hues of green and red and fleecy, snow-dappled gold. The lights overheard (some similar charm to the one in the Great Hall but a tad less complex, you think) drip and then vanish into the air like squeezed berries, and the berries — served with pastries and ice cream — taste like they must be enchanted with something.

Selwyn was right that the standard dress isn’t quite formal enough for a ball, but it’s… formal. The boys are in clean-cut dress robes and the girls are in fine gowns of different lengths. By the overwhelming number of them you recall being archetypes of Slytherin pureblood fanaticism, it makes sense how expensive they all look. You yourself brush up nicely, if not a bit more frugally, but you haven’t been to an event like this at the school yet, and that’s exciting on its own.

It’s another degree of training (is there going to be a marathon? Are you at war?), a step up from your preparations before Potions every other day, to be ready when Tom Riddle enters the room a respectable five minutes late with a gleam about him more captivating than any of the lights.

“Ah, Tom!” Slughorn exclaims, and ushers him into a seat you remark before Tom is even in it is discomfitingly near to yours. “We’re all here at last… Supper, then? Hope you aren’t too full already, I’ve got the House Elves running laps!”

You’re spared Tom’s closeness by a Ravenclaw couple sat in the chairs between you, their hands clasped under the table while they sip wine from their goblets, and you only realise the length of your observation when Tom glances at you from the spot over, and you startle yourself into reaching for your own goblet and pretending to enjoy Slughorn’s bitter wine.

You eat. You listen to cluttered, unending tales of Slughorn’s time at school and how he earned his post. You drink, and then you regret not drinking before eating because there’s only a very light, very nice buzz that warms you when you finish your cup, and the Ravenclaw couple is — oh, wait, it isn’t just them — they’re standing up to dance as a gramophone sparks to life and a low, dulcet instrumental begins to play. There are now two notably empty seats separating you from Tom.

What had you said this night would be? Blissful satisfaction? 

You couldn’t blame Selwyn for suggesting you’d blundered Potions — you didn’t feel exceptionally smart right now.

“I didn’t know you would be here tonight,” Tom says, pulling the chair beside you.

Where is the bottle of wine? No. Nevermind. You behave regrettably enough sober.

You manage a simple, “And yet.”

“...And yet.” His lips quirk before he takes a drink from his goblet. 

You lament for a second that you’ve only actually kissed those lips once. They spent a great deal longer on your neck.

“Will you be here over break?” he asks, and it isn’t an unreasonable thing to ask, you suppose.

“I think so. Why?”

“I’d like to know whether to expect you or not.”

Expect you… No, yes — revert to observation two: unusual is not an apt enough word for him.

It takes you a moment to conjure a response befitting polite dinner conversation. That is, after all, still what this is.

“I suppose you can. I’ll be busy, of course.”

Well, you didn’t say you conjured something good. It’s a big fat lie. Placating, vague, empty. And you suspect Tom knows that.

“Pity.”

Yes, he knows. He’s all quiet amusement again.

You stare off, satisfied to be left alone —

"And what is it that'll be taking so much of your time?"

“Well, I'm —” And now you have to build the lie — “I’ve told Godefrey I’ll attend to his Quidditch practise. Since the pitch isn’t in use.”

God, it’s so stupid it’s almost impressive — you don’t even know if Godefrey will be here over break, and you could have chosen any number of excuses that would pique Tom’s interest less than it’s apparently consistently piqued by the mention of your study partner. 

There’s that strange, indecipherable look again. Riddle is a perfect surname for him, you decide then, and you almost laugh at yourself for it, but that would probably not go over well should he ask what’s so funny.

“Have you, now? That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s hardly charity.”

“Hm, it’s kind of you to think so.”

You huff, tipping your goblet back to swallow the last meagre dregs of your wine.

“You look lovely.”

It’s just a little bit — just a tiny, straggling little bit of elderflower that captures your throat — and you cough into your goblet. “Thank — thank you.”

And, well, he looks lovely too. Obviously. Sickeningly so. You know little about his personal life but you’re positive he’s at least a half-blood, if not muggle-born, and it makes you wonder the influence of his renownedly plain black suit in a crowd of neat, long robes.

He manages with little effort to look better than all of them at their best.

His eyes drift over you appreciatively, quick enough not to be rude but — enough. (Enough that you daresay you might never recover from the horror of it.) You adjust under his gaze even when it’s situated on your face, far too heavy a thing for you to carry. “Does Godefrey call you lovely?”

What?

You blink at him, your mouth is probably open and you probably look stupid but he’s so… irritating. Yes, of course Godefrey calls you lovely. Godefrey tells you you’re the smartest woman he’s ever met (after his mother), and he drowns you with sherbet lemons at no cost, and he writes at the speed of light to match the quickness with which you recite your textbook, and none of it means anything. Tom is just —

“Unbelievable…”

He quirks a brow. “What was that?”

“I said you’re unbelievable, Riddle. Is it impossible for you to comprehend that I might have friends? That Godefrey is my friend?”

“Well, memory serves me right that you seemed a bit confused on the conventions of friendship last you mentioned it. Do forgive my uncertainty.”

He — that was —

“Well, that’s because we are not friends.”

“No.” He leans in. “We are not.”

You push your chair from the table with all the grace you can manage for such an abrupt thing: a tight, impersonal smile on your face as you walk away and approach Slughorn, only realising when you get there that your empty goblet is clutched in your hand like you’re trying to strangle it.

Whatever he sees on your face, he isn’t drunk enough not to frown at. “Ah, our newest gem — hardly seen you all night! Not leaving already, are we?”

You glance at the clock. It isn’t as though you’re being impolite by abandoning his party in the middle of the event. It’s quite late, the servers are stuck to the walls with little to do, and most of the room has divided into waltzing pairs.

“I’m taking my friend to the train station tomorrow, sir. Unfortunately I need to be up quite early.”

Yes, yes, it’s all so tragic. You’re depressed to go.

“Such a shame,” Slughorn frets, wobbling a tad and balancing himself on the wall. “You’ll be all right getting back? Not at all dizzy, are you?” His laugh is cleaved by a loud hiccough, and then he laughs even more. “My, well, I myself will need to be carried!”

“...I’ll be fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Oh, no trouble at all — there’s — hm… ah, Tom!”

No, no ��� is it bad you almost reach over and slap your palm over your professor’s mouth? Is it at all impressive that you don’t? You should look on the bright side in moments like these. You should admire your restraint.

But of course, Slughorn’s eyes don’t fall upon Tom for nothing. He's halfway across the room already, and Slughorn must have spotted him approaching to achieve this brilliant solution. “Tom can escort you back, no?”

Tom (unforgivably) is beside you now, a very mean, very pretty smile on his face.

“Not too much to ask, I should think? You know the castle best. Head Boy — sometimes I still can’t believe it!”

You look up at Tom and your jaw is clenched where you’ve since put down your goblet. There is too much tension in you to know what to do with, and he looks positively thrilled.

“It’s hardly charity, sir.” He holds out his arm.

You wonder what spell would catch him most off-guard if you were to blast him in the face right now.

Slughorn claps his hands together. “Ha! Yes, well… perfect, then! Off now, the two of you, off now. Do have a good — ” He hiccoughs again — “rest!”

You don’t even bother the diplomacy of smiling at Slughorn as your arm loops through Tom’s and you’re exiting the party. 

Neither of you say a word on the journey, and that’s very well.

If you could just get back to bed without speaking to him you may still consider it a good night. You may be able to push his strangeness and his entitlement and the annoying way his hair falls to another day, when he pesters you about Godefrey’s nonexistent Quidditch practise, which — come to think of it — you do think he told you he'd be headed home for the holidays. You really fumbled that one.

And then Tom’s thumb is brushing the bare skin of your arm and your walk stutters a bit. But he doesn’t mention it, and so neither do you.

And then he’s drawing down your elbow to your forearm so softly it almost feels like he isn’t touching you at all. He doesn’t mention it. Neither do you.

And then your arm, without really meaning for it to, is slipping from his and his hand is holding yours instead, feather-light as his fingers clasp yours and your breath is not the same as it was when you left.

He doesn’t mention it. He just keeps going.

His fingers work back up your arm and you shiver as they drag across your shoulder, gaze searing your neck as the soft digits find their way to your jaw, and you get the sense he’s remembering just how much he liked the taste of it, and you’re… you’re allowing it all again. You’re leaning in, you’re seeking him out, you want him flush against you and even that might not be satisfactory.

You are, in the end, a half-decent observer and a terrible liar.

You’re grabbing his hand with a small amount of direction and a great deal of meaning. You suppose it's because, historically, you’ve proven to have trouble with words in moments like these, and you don’t really know where you’re taking him but god, you know where you want him. Somewhere soft, this time, thick enough that you can fist your hands around it and melt. Somewhere he can hover over you, maybe hold you down a little, just until — maybe, miraculously — you might make him break a little too. Clamber over his lap. Make him yours.

“Tom,” you mouth, some question in the way your eyebrows knit.

The moment you say his name — the instant — he’s pulling you in, crushing his mouth against yours. And, ah, right, that’s what his lips feel like. You’d almost forgotten. 

This kiss is not chaste, hardly tender. It resists in that it asks you to push, to plead, to take this for yourself to prove how badly you want it, and he smiles into it when you do. And then, sated by your efforts, he lets you have him. You’re gripping the collar of his suit in your hands as his wander appreciatively over the back of your dress, pulling you into him as the kiss deepens. He’s savouring you like you’re something religious that’s been offered to him, and there’s the taste of wine on his tongue and you’re still here, aware enough that the symbolism isn’t lost on you.

“I've been thinking," he says between kisses, “about the way you felt when I touched you. I've been thinking about how long it might take before you need it again." 

You gasp at the sensation, and god, god, you've been wondering too, haven't you?

You’re pulling him impossibly closer and something hard is pressing into your hip and you clutch tighter onto his shirt as you moan into his mouth. You need it off, you think, and — has your dress been clinging to you like this all night? You need that off too. You need skin on skin. You careen him backwards without aim, your mind a muddled mess of all the many things your body is screaming it needs, like this is fucking imperative; to give it up would be catastrophic.

You suppose, based on what you’ve read, that that’s how the Room of Requirement works, but it’s still funny to think it would apply to this.

It hurts to remove yourself from him to watch in dumb awe as the door forms in the stone (to see the dark, languid shape of his eyes bearing down on you, the wet, stained pink of his lips), and Tom seems to recover from the revelation much faster than you.

His mouth is on yours once more, a hungry kiss; his free hand at your waist, guiding you through the door and shutting it carelessly behind him. 

He’s like fire against you, radiating as he presses down on you, his hand tangled in your hair and his hips flush against yours. You shiver as his mouth starts to move down (a cheap trick — he hasn’t forgotten how much you liked it the last time) from your jaw to your throat, as his lips trail down your chest and you're shivering into the warmth of him.

You’ve heard it said before, in some romantic sense, that it’s sometimes hard to tell where you end and someone else begins. 

This is not like that.

You've never been more aware of anything than the point where you and him meet.

You’re tugging at him blindly again, trusting in the nature of the Room like this isn't the first time you've been in it, and then you're stumbling down onto a bed you're quite sure wasn't there a moment ago (people say magic is a neutral force but evidently this is not the fucking case), fingers carding through Tom's hair as his body pins you into the mattress.

His mouth is molten hot as you squirm and pant beneath him, your breath coming faster than it ever has. Everything feels sharper and deeper and more intense under his touch, every sensation heightened until it's almost impossible to tell pleasure from pain, his tongue from his teeth.

How did it take you this long to do this again? To need him like this?

And his — you should really have the mind to see the mistake in all of this but perhaps that's for later — his fingers are pulling your sleeves down, propping your back to arch as he reaches under you to unzip your dress, apparently too impatient to sit you up and take it off properly so he just bunches it around your waist instead. There’s a moment where he stops to look at you, your chest exposed to him in the dim sconce-light, and then his mouth returns to circle your breast and you're biting down on a pillow to hold back the whimpering gasp that seeks to escape you. He hums around your flesh, and then he’s at your sternum, kissing a stripe to your belly button before pushing past the dress he's left ringed around your abdomen.

You shimmy under the weight of him to prop your head up — to see past the mass of silk that obscures his face from you as moves lower and lower, hands spanning your hips to keep you still.

His face hovers above your thighs, and he doesn’t move.

“Did you enjoy my fingers?" he asks. 

At that you freeze, thighs pressing together to bury the hand that's rising between them. 

Tom smiles. “Hm, you did." 

And then he spreads your legs apart, one hand pushing your underwear aside and regarding you with delicate, shameless appetite — something that might even be adoration: like this is all he ever wanted you to want.

“Do you think you'd enjoy my mouth, too?"

Words are gone. There's nothing left in you.

His head moves happily between your knees, holding them apart, pressing kisses to the base of your thighs. Your hands flail from the sheets, desperate to grip something else and you hold back a sound that feels like irritation and need at the same time. You need him closer, higher than this. He knows. You can feel his smile biting into your skin.

And then you manage a nod though you're not even sure he's looking at your face anymore (and what a picture to imagine he is) and you worry momentarily it won’t be enough for him — that he’ll ask you to be nice and say it out loud for him — but he hums with something merciful, and — his chin dips. You catch the smallest glimpse of his tongue before it’s on you, wet and slow and unrelenting and you say his name, but it’s a mewl; you choke on it. It sounds like a cry.

Pitiful, needy, undone. Just how he wants you.

You think all efforts to remain even remotely composed are thrown to the wind as soon as his tongue is lapping at you, fast and then slow, everything you want and not even remotely close. He sinks all his weight down as if he can predict the moment you'll writhe before you do — and you do. And with his grip he tells you to endure it. You only need him to say it with his hands and his mouth but he breathes back, licking his lips and he actually says it. “Be good.”

That makes your breath hitch and your cheeks swell impossibly hotter, and reality is a small glint in your peripheral where everything else is burning red. “Y-you’re—”

His mouth returns to you, tongue catching your clit in a drawn-out, agonising motion, and you gasp and lurch forward to inch through the sensation, craving more, more, more. Reason is lost on you, a throbbing familiarity forcing you to grind your teeth down on the pillow to stop yourself from telling him to — you don’t even know. Finish you. Abandon all reluctance. Just let you come as hard as you know he wants you to.

But he pauses, observant as he starts to work his fingers against you. Watching how your slick coats them like it’s the most enthralling sight he’s ever witnessed. Slowly, ever so slowly, he starts to push one inside of you, hearing your breath catch above him and the moan that comes tumbling out of your throat, pillow be damned.

You do your best to breathe through it, and you know he knows how to make you unfold like this, so the meticulous lightness of his ministrations tells you he’s trying to keep it from you now. You’re almost embarrassed about the fact that you’re dripping onto his hand regardless; his lips puffy, his gaze unnervingly, dizzyingly carving you in two.

“Just,” you rasp, clutching desperately at his wrist. “Tom, please.” 

Your begging must be music to his ears. (It’s a rare, unplanned fifth observation: that you think he’ll never get tired of hearing you say his name like that.)

He adds a finger. It’s encircling you, first, and no amount of restraint can stop the harsh gasp that leaves you, but then it’s his tongue and two fingers and he’s pushing into you how you wanted, and he makes a pleased sound against you, gripping you tighter with his free hand, still not allowing you movement and fuck, are you trying. What you're feeling now — the need, the want, everything —  is more than rational thought. Your mind goes blank, and all that matters is this, him, right here and now; nothing else exists, not even for a second. You moan, a low, throaty noise that's a little too loud, a little too intense; you can't recall if anything has ever come from you quite like it and Tom devours you at the sound.

More, you agree; it's almost an obsession in you now; more, more, please, anything and everything.

It’s the precision of his touch — not some bored, hurried transgression — that brings your hands helplessly to his hair.

“Tom,” you whine, holding him tight, and the purr of his mouth finding you again is something destructive.

As soon as you feel another swell of something deep down, your mouth is dropping open.

His tongue is sliding through you, fingers curling, and then your clit is in his mouth, and he’s watching you between your thighs as your eyes clench shut, and you’re coming.

Your voice breaks somewhere in the catastrophe of it. Your body spasms, electric down to every atom, and he pins you down through it. He doesn’t grant you the reprieve of escaping the frenzied, glorious torture of it. His mouth still lingers. His tongue moves thankful and unrelenting. 

He takes all of you, and you think this is destruction — creation — both. How terrifyingly similar they suddenly feel.

His lips are swollen and slick when he finally detaches them from you and you want to kiss him, but he’s leaning back to admire his work. You swallow, unable to blame him for it because you look down at yourself and — this is something else. You’re dripping down his chin. You're shaking. Your legs are still clenching around his torso. They’re holding him so tight you can’t imagine it doesn’t hurt.

But he just rolls off of you. Adjusts his trousers and your abdomen flutters and you think, don’t.

You don’t even realise you’re reaching for him until your hand is around his wrist and you’re still fucking sighing through the come-down, panting into the hot air.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, fingers damp on your chin as he holds you. You make a note that that’s the second time he’s done that. That you thought it was strangely intimate the first time and nothing’s changed other than how much more you like it.

And it doesn’t really feel like you can help it but crawl with gooey, trembling legs onto his lap. Doesn’t feel like you can help it when you lean in and capture his lips with yours, moan unabashedly into his mouth at the stiffness that presses against your core when you do, steal his tongue and the taste of you on it.

When he pulls away he’s looking at you like he doesn’t think you can actually do this. Like you’d just crumble the moment you tried.

A low, determined protest rises in your throat and you’re kissing him again. You’re unbuttoning his dress shirt, you’re trembling to reach for his trousers. 

When you can finally shrug his shirt off, press yourself against him, feel that skin on skin you wanted so badly, you find it somehow even more suffocating than its absence. You’re left wanting a more you aren’t able to even conceptualise, but you’re grinding involuntarily against him and his teeth are scraping your neck and he's hissing at the sensation, and — yes, there’s more.

Your breath is staggered when your hips stutter into a roll and you — fuck. You’re tugging desperately to remove his belt and he smiles against your throat as he takes your hands and guides them to him. You can feel his bulge against your thigh and you’re spreading your legs to usher him where you want, clawing at his chest without even meaning to.

Tom’s taking off his belt, and he’s pulling down his trousers just enough to bare himself to you, and maybe he’s right that you can’t manage it yourself but he stops his assistance like the intrigue of finding out is too good to resist. There's something both intimate and imperious, in a way, about the way he's looking at you now; it's a kind of focus and intensity and withheld hunger just for you; and you're more than happy to give yourself over to it, to let his hands and his eyes and his mouth claim you for his own. To claim him for yours, at last.

You do. You struggle for it. He’s very patient. 

But then it’s there — more — as you finally sink down on him and bite his shoulder and he shudders a low, pained exhale, his hands clutching your waist.

There’s a silent, suspended moment where neither of you move. The room feels entirely still. 

Your lips quiver over his pulse, and your stomach flips at the intensity of it, the undeniable rate of his desire beneath you. You smile against him now, like he always does to you, conscious enough to mumble into his neck, “Mine.”

Tom stutters inside you, fingers gripping you impossible tighter as you dare to think he even gasps. You dare to think he likes it.

And then one of his hands grabs your jaw and his kiss is searing. He thrusts upward and you cry into his mouth, searching to match his pace in a way that you appreciate, for once, he seems unlearned in. 

It’s all a bit messy, a bit new, palms in fists, in skin, in hair, digging for every part they haven’t already taken from. The sound in the back of Tom’s throat is divine, the feeling of him inside you as he slips his hand back between your legs — like he needs everything, like he knows you do too — it’s ineffable. It coils somewhere deep, touches something you didn’t know existed. Your hips are rotating, thighs still soft and slack from coming apart on his tongue, but you’re determined. It feels like finding even ground. It feels like something you deserve: to make him feel how you did.

Your head rolls back, eyes pinching shut in bliss, but Tom is there at your jaw again, forcing your blurry gaze back to him.

His hips are inching even further, the intensity of his pace as he adjusts to you making you dizzy. You think, realistically, there’s sound coming out of you, but you aren’t entirely sure when it’s so close to him, when your mouth is between his fingers and your ears are ringing and he’s looking at you like you’re made for him. 

“Mine.” And it isn’t a dismissal of your own claim but a confirmation that one will not be without the other. His voice is raw and breathy and something about the way he says it makes you contract inadvertently around him, hands swatting his chest like they don’t know what else to do. There’s just too much.

You recognize you’re trying to say something. Some plea, a moan, his name (is there anything else left?), but you’re just babbling into his mouth and he holds you there. He doesn’t kiss you. It’s your failing words against his lips. He swallows whatever syllables try to shape them.

It’s there again when you need it most; the heavy, swirling feeling inside you as he snaps his hips, his fingers returning to your waist with punishing firmness. His breathing accelerates, low in his throat, and you push harder against him. Your vision is gone again, head held in his hands to keep from rolling back so that, you suspect, he can watch defeat split you down the middle again — not over your shoulder, not with his head between your legs — with his eyes on yours, with every broken moan you let out so close to his face he can feel the breath of each one.

You’re grappling desperately at skin that doesn’t feel like enough, even though he’s rocking inside you, and you see the insanity of it, you see that it isn’t logical. Too much and not enough at once — you’re smart enough to know that doesn’t work, but it just is.

“Please,” you manage in a voice you don’t recognize. “Please, Tom, pleasepleaseplease —”

Had you said before it was foolish to call him forgiving? You take it back. He’s very eager to oblige you.

He finds some place inside of you and you don’t know quite what it is that he changes but it's new, uncharted, and you break there. You dissolve. You’re liquid in his hands as you sob, stuttering around him, trembling like you didn’t know was possible, and you swear — you swear you’re going to take him there with you. It isn’t that you could stop yourself if you tried but your body is gripping around him, fingers carving halved spheres into his skin, and you’re pushing down on him through the ecstasy — you’re forcing your eyes open so he can see you break, watch them flutter back all soft and pretty.

And you're sated by your ruin when it ruins him too.

The sound he makes is ragged. Undone. He can only bury it halfway with a kiss you think is actually more of a bite, twitching inside you as he fucks you through it.

You’re both lost in each other for a moment that feels detached from time, feeling his hips stutter to a halt, feeling your body soften. And he’s pulling out of you like it hurts, mouth falling open as he does. You wince at the loss, the sweet soreness between your legs, and you’re held only by the weight of him. You think — and you actually sway like the mere idea is too strong — that if it weren’t for his hands, you’d fall flat off the bed.

But he sort of lifts you off him, lays you down and watches you for a long time as if to decide something important before he's laying down beside you. You watch him too. His fingers brush your hair out of your face, and when there’s not a single curl left clinging to the sweat on your skin, he continues anyway. You let him trace your lips, your jaw, your nose, and somehow, a bit terrifyingly, your final observation: nothing about it feels unusual at all.

You did say he was yours.

[h0rr0rwhor3]

it looks good on you

masterlist

pairing: connor x short!chubby!female!reader

summary: (keep in mind that this is a wip that i will finish upon request!) after the android revolution and the reuniting of connor and hank, it only became a matter of time before the two were attached by the hip; whether hank was sneaking connor into crime scenes or as connor tagged along with hank while he bar hopped. as connor dealt with his curiosity and self-discovery, his emotions only got more confusing once he met [y/n], well that is, once he laid eyes on her. you would think that he and hank now being regulars at the jazz bar and café she works at would make things easier for him, but it seems to only grow his anxiousness, and even, his frustration.

warnings: size kink, dom!connor, sub!reader, uniform kink(?), sexually frustrated connor

a/n: like i had posted previously, this is a wip that i have not been able to work on due to lacking the energy and creativity to finish it. so i will leave the decision to my fellow readers on whether or not y'all would like a part 2! so if you guys would like a part two please let me know 😁! i hope you enjoy and thank you for the support on my previous smut!

it took a few months for society to recover at least a little bit after the android revolution.

protests against androids had only increased since then, many saying that the android revolution was the “resurrection of the devil”. cyberlife on the other hand had no choice but to let the deviant cases go, as the number of androids becoming deviant had increased rapidly during and after the revolution. many refunds were made to those who had immediately wanted to return androids, yet cyberlife had even requested to just let them go out, as the junkyard would only become incapable of proper cleaning at that point. cyberlife even started supplying android repair shops with extra parts, thirium, and even the more explicit parts that were originally dedicated towards eden club androids. these explicit parts were of course upon request privately.

ever since the revolution, connor really had nowhere to really go, this goes for many other androids. they had no money, clothing, shelter; so the only place connor thought of going was hank’s, as he didn’t seem to feel himself fit with markus and the others. he does not regret doing so either, as it seemed to boost hank’s mood rapidly. since then they have been inseparable, whether hank educated him on some of the best jazz songs, snuck connor into some crime scenes, or even gone bar hopping. it was a true bond.

recently both males had taken a liking to this place that had doubled as a jazz café and bar. it was android friendly which had definitely eased up connor. the owner ran the shop himself with the help of his niece.

her name was [y/n][l/n]. she was 21 and had been attending a university nearby. at least that was what connor had picked up on her. she had recently been working with her uncle as he had decided that her age was now appropriate enough to be working around alcohol. the legal drinking age was 21 after all. she had been under a few inches more than a woman’s average height and appeared more curvy. her hair framed her face in a way that almost made her appear fragile. her uniform dress reached down to her lower thighs, her short sleeves and collar outlined with a white stripe. the bottom half of her dress was pleated as her apron was tied wonderfully around her waist, defining her curves even more.

connor never identified such features actively before. hell. he’s never even spent as much time taking in the features of someone at all. when he had worked on deviant cases or looked around his surroundings it was usually a quick scan of the face and that's it. something about this woman had brought such a trance upon connor. the way she had gently moved parts of her body was such an intoxicating view. connor had no idea how to deal with these feelings of anticipation. these feelings of sublime.

hank had seemed to notice connor’s slight frustration. he had even picked on connor a few times for his obvious stares, comparing him to a lost puppy. it was hard to not notice the way he had looked at the female, you could almost see the holes his eyes dug into her, and hank wanted to put a stop to it.

-

“connor… look bud. it’s really not that hard. you just gotta talk to her, that’s all; ask her how she's doing, her favorite music/food… anything like that connor. just spark up a goddamn conversation with her for fucks sake. maybe even do your work with those... new fucking parts you got or some shit.” hank had been lecturing connor for the past 30 minutes now, growing frustrated with connor’s questions as he soothed himself with hard alcohol.

“well lieutenant, if it is so easy to speak to a woman, then how come you still have not m-”.

“you better not be going where i think you’re going connor. we’re talking about you here! not me. got it!?” hank immediately grew defensive with the question, causing a small smirk to grow on connor’s face.

“got it.” connor laughed softly, excusing himself to the living room as he left hank’s grumpy rambling to the kitchen.

the android settled himself on the couch comfortably as he closed his eyes, focusing on his thoughts. for once he could not analyze what the best approach would be. he could barely put together one attempt at befriending the woman. it was almost as if he was experiencing nervousness. anxiety. 

no. he was nervous. he could feel his thirium pumping through his body in a way that he felt like his system would drown. it was such an foreign feeling to him, his sensors tingling at the thought of being near her.

how she would look up at him, how she would smile softly as she speaks, how she would feel when she brushes against him, how she would feel in his hands.

he could almost feel his system overheat at the thought of the sensitive sensors in his fingers brushing over the fabric of her apron, of her dress, of her skin. the way goosebumps would grow on her skin with the cold sensation of his fingers. 

would her breath hitch?

would her body tremble at the ticklish feeling?

would she let out a soft sigh once the cold left her skin?

the thought of such vulnerable reactions aroused unknown feelings in connor. even though he didn’t need to breathe he felt his chest rising and falling shakily, the weight heavy on his throat. he could feel a tightening tension grow in his pants, startled by his body’s reaction. 

connor was aware of the effect arousal had on humans, but has yet to experience such a thing with his own after the installation of his new parts. the feeling of restraint caused him to grow frustrated. he glanced into the kitchen, seeing as hank had passed out on the table after a few drinks; it would have been unfortunate for hank to see him in such a state. 

getting up, connor made his way to the bathroom, gently shutting the door as he made his way to the lock, twisting the small knob. he thought of the best approach to handle his tension, shaking his head out of what would seem to be embarrassment. 

reaching his palm to his hardening length, he gently palmed his arousal, hips bucking into his hand. his head was thrown back as he closed his eyes, guttural, soft moans leaving his mouth.

just how would she act?

would she be obedient?

would the softness in her eyes drown with arousal as she was touched?

he unbuttoned his pants.

would she be embarrassed?

muffling her sounds with the back of her palm as she was filled with him. 

fuck.

would she grow a flustered expression at the thought of being with an android?

his pants and boxer briefs were pushed down mid thigh, his hand stroking his length sloppily. the sensors in his leaking cock driving him insane.

how would she sound?

how would she whimper as she's being gripped, as bruises form on her hips?

he could feel himself throb at the thought of easily manhandling her. gripping her plush hips, her thighs. the way her angelic expression would form such lewd expressions. his system stuttered as he neared his release, getting caught up in his own “imagination”.

he could only imagine how she would look wrapped in his coat.

her uniform hiked up her thighs as he towered over her.

the scent of their arousal mixed together.

the way she'd say his name.

fuck.

connor's hips stuttered as white stripes littered his hand, the lube-like substance staining his hand. his thirium pump shakily slowed down as he cleaned himself, washing off his hands. 

he glanced at himself in the mirror, taking in his expression, and gave his head a soft shake.

he really needed to settle himself, and figure out a solution, because this. this is not a solution.

[kredenakrejn]

Last update: 15d.10m.24y.

Welcome on my blog :D

Plz note, if I am not answering your ask for a longer while, I plan to draw something to that, and just don't have time to do it now

Trick or treat asks are welcome :)!

Pfp was made by my lovely friend Me! And the banner was made by also Me!

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✦ Side Blogs @Kre-UTMV-Art @Bad-Sanses-SMP @DailyGenoArt

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✦ Personal Tags #Ask #Krejn's Talk #Not my Art #Krejn's Art #MySona #MyOC #MaFren #Krejn's Post

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✦ About me

My name here is Kredena or Krejn I love nicknames too :3

My Sona's ref (I'll add it later)

Multifandom artist Mostly UTMV stuff for now But I also like: RotTMNT, LMK, HelluvaVerse, MLP, Tadc and many more!

B-Day on 13 of April

She / They

I am Aroace (Aromatic / Asexual) Maybe a bit Pan and Demiromatic too..? 'Am not sure

I will die / bite for my friends (they are like a family to me.)

Sometimes I use "we" but I am just one person here It's just sometimes more comfortable to write like that

I sometimes have problems with knowing what emotions I feel at the moment I sometimes over-react just to be silly Or sometimes I just feel empty

I work at McDonalds (save me) on Monday, Wednesday, Friday and every other Sunday

No problem with saying stuff about myself, just someone needs to ask

✦ Boundaries

If I say "I love you" I don't say it in a romantic way I only say it in a platonic way. So don't you dare think 'am flirting with you.

DO NOT USE OR REPOST MY ART ANYWHERE You may reblog it (some people think it's the same as reposting, but it's not.) You may use it if it was a gift for you You may use it if you asked me before that (but you NEED to credit me.)

If something is not clear about me Plz just ask I get sad when people just assume stuff about me

Plz do not use any images, gifs, or videos with smol children, when you talk with me They just disgust me, I can't help it

If you gonna hurt even one of my friends, you gonna have a bad time buddy.

Plz, don't add ship tags when there is none of 'em on the original post

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If you like what I create, plz consider supporting me on Ko-Fi! I will be making doddles for every donation :3

Before donating, plz note:

I have work, so I will not be able to draw the same secound you send me a donation, but I will draw something for you! (Just tell me what, in my DM's on Ko-Fi)

I will not draw N5FW, T-C3ST or PRO5HIP stuff, so plz do not ask me for it

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Yes I am kredenadark Some may be curious why I will no longer be active there Well, my old discord account got hacked, tho I was able to buy my data back (*cries*) I did not feel safe on my old accounts, so I decided to make new ones where I could, or change every emile and password I had I tried to recover form my old blog whatever I could, for some time, I will be just rebloging my old stuff, so I will not lose it too Becouse of the fact that before re-instalating my windows, I saved my files on the pendrive the wrong way, all the stuff from my laptop is gone, so all my WIP's are lost, sorry, I was not able to show them to you

[only-lonely-star]

Fic request:

Twobits little sister gets mad at their mom and runs away from home and ends up getting lost and terrorized by some Soc kids after she wanders into their side of town. Darry is over there roofing when he spots her wandering all upset and scratched up amd immediately goes into protective mode? I feel Darry is good with kids and I just want to see that more please 🙏

❤️ stay gold

୨୧ ☁︎ Too Young ☁︎ ୨୧

~ Darrel Curtis, Two-Bit’s kid sister (PLATONIC) ~

This is NOT an ‘x Reader’ story.

Warnings - I feel like classifying this as angst is a better description, so there are obviously a few warnings. Mentions of drinking, running away from home, minor pain inflicted on a small child, manhandling, harassment.

Summary - Karol Matthews has had enough, her plan to run away from home not going as expected. Luckily for her, a brotherly figure comes to her aid.

Author’s Note - This one is a bit of a longer fic compared to the other ones I have posted, so sorry for the long wait! Other requests may take a few days since I am a bit behind. Besides that, I thank you so much for this request! I could totally see Darry becoming protective when it comes to defending someone so special to him. I hope you enjoy it, Stay Gold! 💞

Word Count - 2.6k.

࿐ •°. *࿐ •°. *࿐ •°. *࿐ •°. *࿐ •°. *࿐

(Quick A/N: I try to keep things as accurate as possible to both the book and movie combined. For appearances I go based on the movie since it's easier for me to imagine. BUT it is canon that Two-Bit has a little sister although she is unnamed. I felt like this story would run much smoother if it was in a complete third-person perspective, making this not an 'x reader' story.)

Karol Matthews sat perched atop the armrest of the sofa, her wide eyes filled with curiosity following Keith's every move. He paced around the kitchen, absolutely raiding it and chugging down a cold beer before taking a seat beside his kid sister.

Keith couldn't sit still for the life of him, always buzzing around or out and about with his friends. His leg bounced up and down, sipping on his drink. It was obvious to Karol he was about to venture off and get into some trouble - but their mother didn't mind much. She practically supported his troubling antics from time to time.

Karol tapped on his shoulder, preparing her tiny voice to engage in conversation with him. Keith was zoned out, his consciousness coming back to reality at the gentle tap. He turned his head to face hers, a small grin evident on his face. "What's up?" he posed, the soft tone in his voice typical for her to hear.

"Where are you going?" Karol asked, her voice soft and quiet. She adored Keith and found him to be the funniest person she knew. Even at six years old, the girl had a slight understanding of what exactly her brother would be getting involved in. Late-night drives, smoking and drinking with his buddies, maybe even going out to see a girl. She was aware of the different blonde girls he would bring home, him swearing it was the same person each time - Kathy. She wasn't stupid, she knew they were all different.

"Going out with Dally and some others," he replied simply, expecting a soft sigh and for her to head back to her bedroom. Instead, she smiled and tapped his shoulder again.

"Can I come?" Karol's sweet voice spoke up, her enticing smile attempting to draw him in.

"No," Keith said, taking his free hand to ruffle through her blonde wavy hair affectionately. He found it rather amusing that she wanted to tag along. He chuckled and took another large sip of his beer as Karol pouted and let out a huff.

"Why not?!" she protested, demanding a real answer from him. Karol loved Keith and would rather spend her day out and about with him instead of being stuck at home. She crossed her arms and glared at her brother.

"You're too young," he replied, standing from the sofa swiftly, "Besides, Dally ain't too good with kids."

Karol's irritation only grew from there, souring her mood for the day. She tugged on Keith's arm like a lifeline - pleading to come along. "Please...? I'll be quiet!"

He shook his head firmly, stepping for the door without another word on the matter. He took a deep breath, "Heading out! Be back around seven!"

A woman's voice could be heard shouting back in response, stepping for the door before Keith could leave. "Six!"

She enveloped him in a side hug and kissed his cheek, staining it with a dark hue of pink lipstick. He grinned softly, smearing it off and turning the doorknob. "Six-thirty. Bye, ma,"

She let out a sigh, watching her son dart for his car - beer in hand and all. She turned to Karol with a lopsided smile. "What are we going to do with him? Hm?"

Karol sat back down on the sofa, a frown still intact. "I wanna go," she stated with crossed arms.

Her mother glanced down at her with a slight frown. "You shouldn't be hanging around those boys, you're way too young, honey."

Karol didn't like that. In fact - she hated being referred to as 'too little' or 'too young'. In all reality it was true; she was six years old and nowhere near old enough to befriend a group of teen hoodlums...even if they were her brother's best friends.

"I don't wanna be young! I wanna play with the big kids and be cool," she fumed, eyebrows sewn together and tiny fists clenched.

"Karol... you don't understand. Little girls shouldn't try any of the things they do," her mother shook her head, attempting to calm her down. It was obvious how badly this was affecting Karol's mood, sending the child into an upset rage.

"I'm not a little girl!" she shouted, hopping off the couch and reaching for the doorknob at a moment's notice. "And I'm running away from this place! I'll go find Keith on my own!"

Her mother only rolled her eyes. Karol had done this countless times - attempting to run off and merely making it down the street before she came crawling back. "You'll be back," she muttered under her breath as she watched her daughter pry open the door and step outside into the blazing summer heat.

Karol's dark expression meant business. She didn't intend on coming back this time, she was determined to prove herself as a big kid. With heavy stomps, Karol made her way down the sidewalk, thinking of where her brother could possibly be. He'd taken the car and everything, not even mentioning where he was heading off to. She turned her head around to notice the door had already been shut - stranding her outside for good.

"I'll show her,"

Karol continued on with her journey, wandering down streets she'd never been to before. Every house she passed seemed to appear bigger and bigger. The one-story shacks turned into two-story houses with beautifully painted fences surrounding them. She stared at a few in awe, wondering how she could manage to buy one of her own and prove she was all grown up.

All was well until a few snickers could be heard off into the distance. Karol turned her head and squinted to have a better look at the trio of teenage boys coming her way. Her mind instantly thought those could be Keith's friends. Maybe if she asked them where he could be then she could hitch a ride with them. Her tiny legs strode to stand in front of the boys, a charming smile on her face.

The first to speak up, a tall brunette with khakis and a white button-down, kneeled to her level. A sly grin arose on his lips, his voice coming out overly sweet. "Well... are you lost, kid?"

It was quite obvious Karol wasn't from the area. Her tattered sandals and colorful- yet floral sundress gave it away. No Soc child would wear something so bright and bold. The little girls were typically dressed head to toe in fancy skirts, headbands, and bows. Karol was a misfit.

"I'm looking for my brother," she beamed with a sweet tone in return, oblivious to the evil intent in his tone. The other boys circled around her as they stifled their snickers.

"Who's your brother?" the Soc asked with a raised brow at Karol's revelation. He looked to the other two, motioning for them to stand close by.

"Keith," Karol spoke excitedly, expecting them to immediately welcome her with open arms, "He said he was with Dally. Can you take me wherever that is?"

All three of the boys's ears perked up at the name. 'Dally' was an easy name to remember - recognizing the infamous greaser left quite a small crowd to narrow down from.

"I ain't ever heard of a 'Keith' who hangs 'round Dally," the slim and blonde-haired Soc spoke up, exchanging glances between the others.

The third boy shook his head, furrowing his brows as he tried to recall the person he had in mind. He ran a hand through his jet-black curls. "No, she means Two-Bit. That guy with the funny sideburns."

The brunette Soc who had originally spoken to Karol let out a soft snort. "Two-Bit..." he nodded along, testing out the name on his tongue. "He wear a Mickey Mouse shirt, kid?"

Karol's smile only grew, nodding to confirm that was indeed her big brother. "Yes! That's him!" Her arms pumped up in victory, a gleam of hope in her eyes.

The sight was precious, they didn't even have to push her for answers - she willingly gave them away. The boy chuckled dryly, standing to his feet with a smug smile. "Well since Two-Bit thinks it's funny to swipe cash that ain't his..."

The other boys had a similar look of cruel intent written all over their faces. The blonde boy stood behind her, a singular arm snaking around her small torso to lift her up. Karol yelped in confusion, not expecting such a move.

"Hey!" she hollered to them, her voice almost a whimper. She was roughly tossed in a soaking wet puddle of mud, hidden beneath the grass on a stranger's front lawn. "My dress..." she pouted, tears welling to her eyes.

The boys didn't hesitate to terrorize the poor girl further. They jabbed their hands into the muddy puddle, one holding her down as the other two slathered the mud all over her. She let out a wail, one that anybody in their right mind couldn't brush off.

"Tell your brother to not touch what ain't his next time," the Soc in the white button-down cackled, his hand running down the side of her cheek.

Just as Karol felt she couldn't take any more of the torment - pounding footsteps could be heard coming closer. Her screams and cries for help had paid off, and none other than Darrel Curtis had come to her aid. He grabbed the collar of the brunette's shirt from behind, scaring the other two off. They ran without hesitation, sprinting up the street the same way they came. The boy managed to slip out of Darrel's grasp, speeding off before he really had his world rocked.

Karol still sat in the puddle, wailing and hollering like she never had before. She truly felt those boys would help her find Keith. Darrel cursed under his breath until they were completely out of sight. He quickly turned his focus back to Karol.

Gently helping her up, he placed both hands under her arms to stand her back on her own two feet. He sighed and assessed the situation, looking over her body and face for any signs she was hurt. "You alright?"

Karol used the back of her hand to wipe away the overwhelming amount of tears that flooded her eyes. She nodded and tried to calm herself enough to speak. Darrel was no stranger to her, they had met numerous times before since Two-Bit was close friends with him.

"Darry~" she whimpered, clinging onto his leg as she went in for a hug. She cried softly against him and didn't show any intention of stopping.

Darrel was a bit taken aback, but he rested a hand on her shoulder nonetheless, patting it gently to bring her a bit of comfort. She was muddy all over and was soaking Darrel in the mess but he didn't mind it one bit. The poor child had to have been hurt from the way she had been screaming. "Karol, look at me."

She reluctantly tilted her head upwards to meet his eyes, her pout seemingly stuck on her face. His heart sank at the sight of the girl's dirtied clothing along with a few minor scratches along her face and arms. "What happened? Tell me everything."

He subtly maneuvered her arms off so that he could begin to walk her to his car. He held his hand out to her, opening and closing a fist to motion for her. Her small hand wrapped around his pinky finger, melting his heart further. He listened intently to her soft cries.

"I was looking for Keith...I ran away," Karol explained with a deepening frown, her mind racing with thoughts of him and how she could only hope he was safe out there.

"You ran away?" he echoed, his words almost full of disbelief, "Why would you do that, kiddo?" Darrel guided her to the backseat of his car, the last thing on his mind being the muddy mess she would leave behind. He followed her inside the car, grabbing a hand towel which was stuffed into the back pocket of his denim. He gently dabbed at her cheeks, mentally reminding himself to be gentle around the scratches.

Karol sighed deeply and glanced down to her lap shamefully. She winced every now and then, the burning sensation on her skin still lingered. "I don't wanna be a little girl anymore, Darry... I want to be like Keith. To be cool."

Darry's expression turned from one of shock to one of empathy. He could already imagine how left out Karol must feel. Her brother always out of the house and getting into all sorts of trouble with his friends, her mother housekeeping constantly and working hard to make ends meet. The Matthews' home could often leave Karol feeling lonely and unwanted.

"And you wandered all the way here... on foot?" he implied, the question sounding surreal to even ask a six-year old.

Karol nodded and watched as Darrel tried his best to finish wiping off the dried up mud from her arms. He was unable to do much about her dress - but what he could do was give her a ride home. He finished tidying her up, setting the towel on the floor beside her feet. He smiled at her warmly, his thumb gently running over her cheek. “Lemme take you home, get you all freshened up with your momma.”

Darrel had a tendency to be good with children, Karol being no different. His instinctive protective nature came in handy in situations like this. He would do so much as to drop everything in terms of his job to tend to Karol’s desperate cries for help.

The car ride home was mostly quiet, the soft music playing as Karol settled herself into the backseat, her head resting against the car door. Darrel pulled up, the car coming to a halt as Keith and their mother swarmed the vehicle in a panic. They were both worried sick - her mother expecting her to return moments after ‘running away’.

Darrel immediately emerged from the car, opening the backseat door and revealing the child to them. Two-Bit was first to sling her into his arms, a powerful hug between the two. He didn’t mind the crumpled clumps of dirt that fell from her body. “Karol - we were so worried about you…” he began, his voice almost a quiver.

Darrel smiled softly, admiring the sight of a little family reunion between the three. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and observed. She was set back down, stepping closer to Darrel in an instant. He crouched down in response and held out his arms for her. Karol obliged and wrapped her tiny arms around his neck, his hands rubbing her back soothingly. “Karol, look at me,” he whispered quietly, only for her ears to hear only.

She leaned in, the expression on her face displaying curiosity. Her undivided attention was on Darrel. “You are the toughest, bravest - coolest gal I know,” his tone was nothing but tender and loving with her. He was already aware of how she felt being babied and portrayed as nothing more than a little girl. He chose his words carefully, “And don’t you ever forget that, you hear? You’re just as cool as your brother… maybe even cooler.”

The wink he added onto those last words sealed Karol’s belief in. She felt a strange sense of newfound confidence within herself. Darrel had done more than just protect her today, more than scaring the boys off before they could harm her more, more than rushing to help assess the damage….

Darrel left her feeling important. She felt noticed for once, her strength revealing itself since the terror inflicted on her today. Karol tightly hugged him, her grasp not loosening a single bit as she prolonged the hug to its fullest.

Her soft voice whispered back, a smile plastering all over her face - the first one in a while, “Thank you, Darry.”

[bankholdup]

first off, i just want to say thank you all so so much for all of the love and support on the first part!! i have never gotten that much love on a fic before and it was so amazing to see so thank you! i have decided to expand on this, and already am working on part three. once i've finished, i'll post it here and on ao3. i'll be sure to link it here and on the original post. here is part two which is eddie's pov, hope you guys enjoy!

Part Three | read it on ao3

Part Two:

Eddie knows Steve likes him. It’s obvious, so very obvious. He had some suspicions or hope before, but ever since his birthday party Steve has been nothing but doting and sweet. Bringing him food, candy, little gifts whenever they see each other.

It makes Eddie’s stomach twist up in knots. He doesn’t know if these knots are good or bad- doesn’t even want to think about or acknowledge them too much. But he lets Steve keep being sweet on him, because frankly it’s never happened to him before. It seems innocent enough, right?

Eddie doesn’t do love, doesn’t even date. Hookups are so much easier for the most part. They’re perfect right up until someone wants more than Eddie wants to want or give. 

Maybe he’s a walking cliche, so screw it. Blame it on his old man, but he never exactly had a great example for how a relationship is supposed to go. Wayne has never dated since he took in Eddie, and Eddie mostly remembers his dad cheating on his mom. Memories of his parent's relationship featuring the yelling that would ensue and how their fights ended with stuff thrown around the house. 

So Eddie doesn’t want to date, and he never felt the urge until Harrington fucking came and tied his guts up in this uncomfortable knot anytime he came around. 

Steve asks him out. They’re just hanging out at Eddie’s trailer, movie on, snacks laid out, a typical Friday night. Steve’s comfortable in a dark green sweatshirt and jeans, but Eddie sees him fidgeting just a little bit, biting his nails and keeping his back a bit stiff. Doesn’t poke or prod, figures Steve will spit it out when he’s ready. Right after Steve gets up to leave and call it a night, Eddie behind him to walk him out, Steve spins around to ask if Eddie would maybe want to grab dinner with him tomorrow night.

The question is innocent enough, Steve could play it off like he’s asking him as a friend (Eddie is surprised he doesn't), but the tone and inflection and the way he stands conveys he means it like a date. Like he wants something more. Might as well rip that bandaid off for him now. Eddie tells him sorry, it wouldn’t work out and Eddie doesn’t do the whole dating thing. Steve looks heartbroken, just for a quick moment, before looking to the ground muttering out an apology. A good-bye and see you later is all he leaves Eddie with before walking briskly to his car and driving off.

Eddie may have done the right thing, saved Steve from heartache. He wasn’t even as mean about it as he usually has to be, but he can’t understand why he feel so fucking empty and sad about doing it.

tag list: @trashpocket (if anyone else wants to be tagged, just drop a comment!)

[gilraina]

Every once in a while I see someone saying that they "miss" podfic, that they wish podfic was a thing "again", and I'm so baffled by this, because there's more podfic being made now than ever before? Sure, podfic has always been a bit of a niche thing and it still kind of is, but on AO3, there's currently 47k works in the Podfic tag, and 56.7k in Podfic & Podficced Works, and most of it made from 2020 onward (over 30k in both tags). Not to mention all the people who don't post their podfics on AO3 and instead upload them to YouTube and Spotify (and some other platforms too, probably).

If you're so enthustiastic about podfic, then please stop telling everyone we're dead and instead go and listen to some of our work (and leave us some feedback when you do). And if your fandom doesn't have a lot of podfic, then guess what! Making a podfic is also easier now than it has ever been! Just grab your headset/laptop/phone and start recording! I know it's been said a thousand times before, in fandom and just in general, but if you want more of a thing, then you either have to make it yourself, or support and encourage the people who are already making it.

[yallthemwitches]

Final Jily/MWPP Head Canon Post (for now)

Some of which might see the light of day in my fic....who knows!

--In early 7th year when Lily was still not "officially" told about Remus, she used to sneak into James' bed and sleep there until he came back. It was the only time she would do so without permission (she slept there a lot generally but always with him already there), but she knew if she didn't seek him out herself, she wouldn't know if he came back safely or not. James of course wasn't angry about it and Sirius' loved to complain that he never found someone sleeping in his bed.

--Lily was a good singer and really loved to sing along to things or sing around the house. James, loving the Beatles, tried his hand at the guitar and turned out to play pretty decent. Lily loved it when he would make up songs on the spot (which were usually narrations of things happening at that moment.)

-- When Lily and James were publicly "official" they were inseparable and often showing more PDA than should have been accepted for the two head students. This only compounded Snape's hatred for James as everywhere he turned Lily and James were cuddling/snogging/kissing. ( A scene where Snape accidentally witnesses a bit more than snogging might occur in CitW--effectively causing a fight)

--I go back and forth on the now staple community canon that the Heads had their own separate dorms---but at the very least I think they had their own office and bathroom. Lily and James tag teamed making their office extremely decorated with movie/music posters ( Lily had a "Virgin Witch" film poster (1972)* which James loved so much and refused to take down despite McGonnagall not being very enthused by it) , books, a record player, quidditch stuff, and other items that generally interested them. They were widely considered the most "hip" head students in centuries by staff .

the poster:

--Peter was very perturbed by Lily's encroachment on his friend group. Not necessarily taking it to "Yoko" levels, but by the 7th year the marauders interests had shifted away from general merry prank-making and towards the war and ( in James' case) a future with Lily. In some ways Peter blamed Lily for the boys' new found political activism and didn't like the change in the dynamic.

--Turns out Lily loved James' hair despite years of complaining about it. During snogging/sex she would love to pull on it and have her hands through it. In public she would often run her hand through it or absently move bits of his hair out of his face. Seeing that she was so attracted to it, James' teased her endlessly about all the years of nagging she gave him and liked to tease that she was just jealous because she couldn't mess it up herself in those times.

--James stayed over at the Evans' twice:

The first time because Lily invited him over for Petunia's engagement party as moral support. Marge and Vernon's parents were present and upon seeing Lily and James he remarked how "he couldn't wait to see how she would find a way to muck the night up." James, who took that as a personal challenge, spent the evening bringing up the most uncomfortable conversations he could manage ("So Marge, what are your thoughts on Astrology? You look like a Gemini.") then set the home's fire sprinkler system off on purpose when Vernon and Marge were in the sitting room after expecting Lily and Petunia to wash up the dishes. Despite knowing full well what he was doing, Lily couldn't be mad about it and even accepted when James snuck back after saying goodbye so he could come sleep with her.

The second time, was her and James' engagement and things were much easier without the entire Dursley family there. James got to sleep there without secrecy and he was more than happy to rechristen Lily's childhood bed.

-- At Petunia's wedding, Lily was distraught by her sisters choice to leave her out of the wedding party. This only added to the dismal mood as the wedding was extremely boring with no music/dancing/ or general merriment and most people just mulled around.

Attempting to raise Lily's spirits, James charmed an idle record player to play the Beatles Twist and Shout in which he made Lily come dance with him. This caused other people ( who were desperate for something fun) to also start dancing and effectively started a real afterparty. Vernon was not happy, but secretly Petunia was happy to have a bit of liveliness...even if it came from Potter and her sister.

[crossovershipsandedits]

Please consider looking to see if characters have a canon orientation (like lesbian or gay man) before posting ships of them.

Hello! I hope you're having a wonderful day~

To address this ask, I first pose a question myself; Why?

The point of shipping, or really any fan creation, is to show your love and support for media/a character by expressing yourself, your thoughts and your theories/headcanon's through your work. The reason a lot of characters are loveable and popular is because they are fully capable of allowing fans to see themselves in them and see their versions without destroying the canon.

For example; If we look at Zoro from One Piece. As far as we're aware, bro has little to no romantic inclination. And yet his top ship is with another man on the crew, who happens to be woman loving Sanji. But it isn't something that feels wrong or out of place, because the ambiguity is there and their relationship is prebuilt, fans just need to figure out how it moves to romantic. The ability to see past the initial "Oh, Sanji loves women" and see the potential branches for this path. Yes, it's probably canon he legit loves women like that, but it could also be a trauma reaction based on his back story. Or it could ALSO be possible that he's bi/pan/etc

In short; Just because someone is shown a certain way, doesn't mean that's the only option. As fans we have the freedom to conjure up theories and beliefs based on the information presented to us.

Another good example would be Naruto. He's married to a woman, and yet it's still VERY much suggested that he loves Sasuke the same way. There is no "definite" answer. Assuming there is purely because of the canon relationships is a little closed minded in my opinion.

AND, even if it is stated, people change. We weren't born thinking "Oh heck yeah, dong". We develop our tastes as we grow and learn and experience new things. A great example would be Deadpool for this. He starts off in love with a woman (I'm speaking film wise by the way) and continues to love her, but very much over the course of their relationship begins to experiment and opens up that door for himself. Some people need to find the right person that makes them question themselves before they can confirm anything. Or, on the flip side, they need to see a lot of potential and not react lovingly/sexually to them in order to put the pieces together for aro/ace.

Life is a mystery bag of tags and labels that we as humans made to understand things better, and that's ok. Be who you are and love what/who you love. Be YOU

Anyway, I think I went a bit off tangent haha XD All I'm trying to say is, doors aren't entirely shut because of one thing or another. Fans can and will continue to express themselves and their thoughts through their loved characters, and that's ok. It's healthy even! I know people who use characters to test the waters for themselves because it can't hurt the people around them. It's harmless. A bit of fun, if you will.

I will always say this to these kinds of comments, ones where you should ask yourself "why am I bothering to send this?".

It is easier to keep scrolling past something you don't like, then drawing attention to it, and yourself, by commenting something that could hurt or upset an innocent person, and honestly makes you look like a silly grumpy guts :)

Keep sailing guys, gals and non-binary pals!!

[phillippadgettwrites]

Dropped Call, Chapter 2

Rated X / 3700 words / posted on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

They’re in Lakeland, Florida and it’s been pissing rain since they hit the tarmac in Tampa. Between the inability to keep his loafers dry, the fact that he forgot his glasses, and the lack of cable in his motel room, Mulder is in a seriously bad fucking mood. He even turned down dinner with Scully, something that is typically the highlight of his day on assignment, to spare her from his grouchiness. He always hates himself when he’s an asshole to her for no justifiable reason, and right now he doesn’t possess the capacity to regulate his emotions as effectively as he’d need to to avoid it. 

At this point, he’s come to the conclusion that the phone call was some kind of hyper-realistic dream or fantasy. Given, the facts don’t totally line up in support of that theory, but it’s easier to operate under the belief that it never happened than it is to accept the idea that it did happen but will never be spoken of, much less acted on. Easier than accepting that he unwittingly divulged graphic details regarding his sexual fantasies about Scully to Scully herself, and she was so horrified that she can only cope by acting as though the phone call never took place at all. 

But was she really horrified? His memory of the exact words spoken by each of them isn’t especially sharp, given that he thought he was speaking to Electra, but he’s pretty sure he remembers her asking him questions, goading him into sharing more. And he knows that he correctly recalls what she said about “enjoying other meals,” because by then he knew exactly what he’d done and who he was speaking to, and the high he experienced in light of her confession lasted well into the following day, right up until he knocked on her door with a paper bag containing tom kah gai in hand. 

She hadn’t acted strangely, aside from the general lethargy caused by her cold, and that in itself struck him as strange. She ate her soup, smiled at him while he detailed the creative ways he’d wasted time that morning in her absence, and then yawned and said she was going to take a nap. It’s not that he was expecting her to bring up the phone call or kiss him goodbye or something, but he thought things would feel…different. He certainly felt different. 

But weeks have passed, and she has more than fully recovered from her cold, yet there is nary a hint of increased sexual tension between the two of them. In fact, there’s been a distinct lack of their typical casual flirtations, almost like they’ve regressed. What conclusion can he come to other than she’s just not interested? She seems to want to pretend it never happened, and for lack of a better option he’s done the same. 

He calls the front desk again, hoping that he’ll get someone other than the exceedingly unhelpful young man who offered apologies regarding the lack of cable, but no solutions. After speaking to the night shift manager at length, his options are to move to a room clear on the other side of the complex, or go without. 

“Let me think about it and call you back,” he says, then slams the phone down on the receiver with more force than is necessary and flops onto the bed.

Within seconds the phone is ringing and he picks it back up, expecting to hear the night manager on the other end. 

“Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

He can hear the ghost of her voice through the poorly insulated wall between their rooms, a murmuring, indecipherable vibration. 

“Hey, what’s up?”

“I was going to ask if you wanted the rest of this pizza, but I kept getting a busy signal so it’s probably cold now,” she says. 

“I’ll never understand your aversion to cold pizza,” he says.

She makes a noncommittal little noise, and then they are quiet for a beat. 

“So who were you talking to?” she asks. 

Her voice is a bit higher than normal, giving away her attempt to appear disinterested in the answer, and that, in turn, piques Mulder’s curiosity. 

“Who do you think?” he replies, just to see what she’ll say. 

Scully scoffs as though this confirms what she already suspected. 

“Please send my regards to Electra,” she snarks. The reference to their previously unmentionable phone call sends a shock of adrenaline through him. He can’t think of anything to say, so he just doesn’t say anything. “What time do you want to head out tomorrow?” Scully says quickly, changing the subject, and he can nearly feel her embarrassment radiating through the wall. 

“Nine?” he suggests, and she grunts her agreement. There’s another pregnant pause, and he decides to seize the opportunity. “I told Electra about what happened,” he says, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

“Oh?” Scully says after a beat.

“Mmhmm,” Mulder replies, summoning courage. “She said you’re going to put her out of a job.”

Scully huffs an uncomfortable little laugh. 

“I highly doubt that,” she says quietly. 

They’ve never had an issue with awkward silences. As many hours as they spend in one another’s company, it’s just not possible to avoid lulls in conversation, and he’s long appreciated the fact that Scully doesn’t try to fill them with meaningless drivel. An unfortunate side effect of this is that on those occasions where they are intentionally avoiding a specific topic of conversation, the weight of those unfilled silences is practically unbearable. 

He wants to ask her so many questions. Why didn't she tell him it was her? Was she disgusted by what he said? What did her cryptic comment about “enjoying other meals” really mean? Is this a door she never wants to open, or does she just need him to open it for her so they can both walk through? 

“I’m sorry about that, by the way,” he blurts out, inexplicably compelled to keep them on this subject. “We’ve never talked about it, but I realize that it was probably really weird for you and…sorry.”

Part of him knows he’s fishing for information. If she accepts his apology, he can take that to mean that an apology was due. If she refutes the need for one, that will tell him something entirely different. 

She doesn’t do either of those things. 

“Well, I could have hung up,” she says, her tone inscrutable. 

“But you didn’t,” he says, equally ambiguous. 

“No,” she says. 

The silence is so fucking heavy it makes him feel sick. 

“Why is that?” he ventures. “Just out of curiosity.”

He hears her pull in a slow, deep breath and then expel it in a huff. 

“I’m not sure,” she finally says. He can’t tell whether she’s obfuscating. 

“Were you offended?”

“...No.”

“Surprised?”

“Very.”

“Was that surprise of the pleasant or unpleasant variety?” he asks, switching the handset from one ear to the other so he can wipe his sweaty palms on the bedspread. 

He’s listening so intently that he hears both the wet sounds of her tongue moving around inside her mouth in search of words, as well as the creak of bed springs as she shifts uncomfortably on the mattress.

“I’m not sure how to answer that,” she says after a time.

What the fuck does that mean? He wonders. He could logically conclude that she was into it, between the not hanging up, the asking of questions, and the hesitance to outright say whether it bothered her. But this is Scully, and the risk of making an incorrect assumption is not one he is willing to take. 

“How long have you been talking to her?” she asks, and at first he doesn’t understand the question. Talking to who?

“Oh, I was actually talking to the front desk,” he says, realizing that he never corrected her. “The cable in my room is out.”

“Oh,” she says. “So you didn’t really tell her about what happened?” 

Her tone is strange and foreign to him. She sounds uncertain, insecure almost. 

“I did, a few weeks ago.”

“Hm.”

“To answer your question, I’ve been talking to her for….I guess a little over a year now,” he says. 

This would typically be an embarrassing thing to disclose, but her active participation in a phone call of the same nature makes him feel like she doesn’t really have a place to judge. He also finds her curiosity regarding Electra compelling, though he can’t really say why. 

“Oh,” she says, sounding surprised. “That’s a long time. With one person, I mean.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

He can tell there’s something she’s not saying. Something she wants to ask him, or wants to know but is unwilling to ask. He has an overwhelming urge to tell her everything, to detail the ways that talking to Electra helps him cope with having to bury his feelings for Scully every weekday between the hours of 9-5, plus most weekends. He wants to tell her that it’s not just about sex, though it was the night he ended up with her on the line. That Electra knows exactly what Scully looks like, down to the little mole on her upper lip, and that she snorts if he manages to make her laugh hard enough. That for every time he’s jerked off while telling Electra what he wishes he could do with Scully physically, there were two phone calls where he kept his pants on and told her how tormented he is by his inability to get closer to her emotionally. 

“It’s not always like that,” he says, opting for a less detailed disclosure. “Most of the time when I talk to her, we just talk.”

“About what?” she asks, and he immediately feels his face get hot. 

“I feel like you already know the answer to that,” he says, equally mortified and irritated. It doesn’t seem fair for her to feign ignorance at this point. 

Scully is quiet, but he knows her mind is racing. He can feel it, a frenetic crackle against the shell of his ear. 

“I guess I do,” she says when he’s just about to ask if she’s still there. “I don’t want you to think…” she starts. He waits for her to find the right words. “I don’t want you to think I was offended or that I’m upset about what happened,” she says carefully. “I realize that it might seem like I am, so I just wanted you to know that I’m not.”

“Okay,” he says uncertainly. This is good news, in a way, but it’s also non-news. 

“I also owe you an apology,” she continues. “It was inappropriate of me not to tell you as soon as I realized. I violated your privacy, and I’m very sorry for that.”

“No apology needed,” he says. A beat passes. This is ridiculous. “Can we just—Look, I know this is awkward, and I know you’re a private person, but can we just—”

“I don’t think I’m ready to do that,” she interrupts him, her voice urgent and a little afraid. 

He takes a moment to absorb this. 

“You’re not ready to talk about it,” he says, and she hums in confirmation. “But you’re….interested? Open to it? Eventually?”

“Eventually,” she repeats. “Not now.”

“Okay,” he says, satisfied that he understands the situation. “I can and will respect that.”

“Thank you.”

“See you at 9 tomorrow?”

“Yep.”

He hangs up the phone and folds his hands over his belly, staring at the dusty popcorn ceiling as he thinks back through it all. A little smile plays at the corners of his mouth. Eventually isn’t something he can necessarily look forward to, but it’s a hell of a lot better than never. 

The phone rings, and reaches across the nightstand to answer it. 

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

Mulder’s eyebrows furrow. The voice is definitely female, but he can’t immediately place it

“Hi. Who’s this?”

The caller clears her throat. 

“Uh, this is…it’s Electra,” she says. 

A hot flush spreads out over his entire body, and there’s a slight ringing in his ears. 

“Hi,” he says, sitting up. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” she says. “What are you doing?”

He hears the vibration of her voice from the other side of the wall, the cadence of it a millisecond ahead of what comes to his ear through the phone. 

“I’m just relaxing,” he says. He suddenly doesn’t know how to behave. “I’m at a motel and there’s no cable in my room.”

“Oh no,” she says. “What are you going to do to entertain yourself?”

Her tone is awkward and unconfident, but he understands what she’s going for and plays along. 

“I don’t know,” he says, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. “Any ideas?”

“Well,” she says, her voice just this side of shaky. “You could tell me about another one of your fantasies, if you want.”

There is a rush of blood to his lap that makes him momentarily lightheaded. She’s really doing this. 

“Okay,” he says, but his mind goes blank. What is she hoping to hear? What if he says something she finds offensive? This is a lot harder when he knows it’s Scully he’s talking to. “Give me a second to think of something.”

“Last time we talked, you said you had other fantasies of the same nature,” she says hesitantly.

“I do,” he confirms. “I just…sorry, you just caught me off guard.”

“I can relate,” she says with just a hint of coyness, and that makes him relax a little. 

He lays back down on the bed and closes his eyes. If he’s going to do this, he has to pretend it’s really Electra on the line. 

“Okay,” he says. “Something that’s important to know for context is that she loves to take baths.”

“She?”

Mulder opens his eyes, taken out of the moment. He never has to specify with Electra; there’s only one “she” he’s ever referring to. 

“My partner,” he says reluctantly. 

“Oh,” she replies. “Okay, go ahead.”

Mulder closes his eyes again and lets the image of his fantasy fill his mind. The tiled walls of Scully’s bathroom, the bright smell of her lavender bubble bath, her dirty clothes in a heap on the floor by the tub. 

“One of my fantasies is that I stop by her apartment unannounced, and I hear her call out for me to let myself in. So I use my key, and once I’m inside she tells me that she’s in the bath.” He pauses to see if she has any commentary on this, but she says nothing. “I start talking to her through the door, which is something I’ve done a handful of times, but in my fantasy she tells me to come in.” Another pause. All he hears is her even breathing. “She’s in the bath, but it’s so full of bubbles that I can’t see anything. I sit on a little stool beside the tub and we keep talking.”

His heart is pounding. He can’t just say this to her. 

“And then what?” she asks. Mulder swallows. 

“And then…I end up touching her under the bubbles,” he says, glazing over the rest of the details and making use of a euphemism. 

Scully laughs a little. 

“I think you may have skipped some things,” she says gently, and he cringes. 

“Sorry. I don’t want to be too graphic.”

“Why?”

“I guess I’m worried I’ll offend you,” he says. 

“What if I promise not to be offended?” she offers. 

“Is that something you can reasonably promise?”

“I guess we’ll find out.”

“Okay,” Mulder says, sucking in a steadying breath. “I’m sitting next to the tub and we’re talking. After a while some of the bubbles start to dissolve and I can kind of see her body. Not details, just sort of the contrast of her skin, and—” he pauses, then forces himself to say the next part. “I can see darker areas, like her nipples and her pubic hair.”

Scully hums, an indication that she’s following along. That she’s listening. 

“She’s talking about how much stress she’s been under. I think in the fantasy I kind of know that she’s been having a hard time and I’m worried about her.”

“Interesting,” Scully says, her voice breathy. 

“Why is that interesting?” he asks. 

“Oh…just…I guess I find it interesting that her emotional state factors into your fantasy,” she observes without judgment. “That was also true in the previous fantasy you shared.”

He doesn’t miss the fact that she’s referring to herself in the third person. And she isn’t wrong. 

“So she’s talking about how stressed out she is,” he continues, shifting his hips around as his erection begs to be touched, “and I tell her I can help. I ask if she’ll let me.”

“What do you say, exactly?” she asks. 

He reaches down and gives his cock a squeeze. “I say something like, ‘I know what you need,’ and then I look at her body under the bubbles. I’m not very explicit.”

“Why?”

“Because in this fantasy we’ve never done anything like that before, so I wouldn’t just come out and say it directly. That would be too forward for her.”

“So you want it to be realistic?” she asks.

“Sometimes.”

“Okay, so you tell her that you know what she needs. What does she say?” Scully says, getting them back on track. 

“She doesn’t really say anything. Her eyes get wide, and she looks down and realizes that she’s slowly being exposed. She’s embarrassed, but she’s also excited.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s not telling me to get the fuck out of her bathroom,” he says lightly, and she laughs. 

“So what do you do next?”

“I reach out and touch her knee, which is above the water. And then I watch her face as I run my fingers down the inside of her thigh.”

“You don’t kiss her?”

“Not yet.”

“Does she stop you?”

“No. She just looks at me. Her eyes are still all big and her mouth is open. She’s breathing hard. And then she moves her other leg to the side.” He swears he hears the tiniest little moan slip through the phone. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“What?” she asks, though it’s unclear whether she’s asking what his question is or if she’s just confused by his divergence from the story. 

“When we talked before, when I told you about my other fantasy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Were you, um…did you touch yourself?”

She’s quiet for so long that he gets his dick out and gives it a few strokes before leaving it to rest, stiff and aching, against his belly. 

“Yes.”

His dick lurches, standing at attention briefly before it flops to the side. He doesn’t want to come before this is over, lest his post-nut clarity ruin the rest of the experience, so he tries to touch it as little as possible. 

“She moves her other leg to the side so I know without a doubt that she wants it. When I touch her, she closes her eyes and moans right away. Even under the water I can feel how wet she is. How slippery. I ask her again to let me help, but this time I say, ‘let me make you come, Scully.’”

She gasps a little, and he realizes that he used her name. He’s never used her name with Electra. 

“What does she say?” Scully asks, nearly whining. Her voice is high and tight, and he wants to know so badly if she’s touching herself again now. 

“She says, ‘we can’t.’ But she’s pushing her hips into my hand even when she’s saying it so I don’t stop. I know she wants it. I put one finger inside her and she just…she melts.”

“Oh,” Scully breathes out. It’s unclear whether it’s commentary on the story or a vocalization of whatever she’s doing over there. 

“I get rid of the stool and I kneel beside the tub so I can kind of lean over into it for leverage. And that’s when I kiss her. Or I try to, but she can barely kiss because of what I’m doing to her with my hand. I add a second finger and she’s throbbing like crazy.”

“Yes,” Scully says in encouragement. 

“Are you touching yourself?” he asks quickly, his tone unchanged from his narration.

“Yes,” she says again. 

Mulder squeezes his cock in his fist. 

“Me too.”

Another, “Oh.”

“I curl my fingers up towards her belly, and then I get my thumb on her clit. She’s holding on to the sides of the tub for leverage and practically fucking my hand, she wants it so bad.”

“Uh huh.”

He can’t hold back anymore. He strokes his cock frantically fast, pumping his hips up off the mattress as though thrusting. He no longer has the capacity to worry about how graphic he’s being.

“Then she comes. She comes so hard she can’t speak, can’t breathe. And her cunt is just…god she’s so tight. And all I can think about is how good it would feel to be inside her when she’s coming.”

Scully gasps, and suddenly the line goes dead. Through the wall, he hears a long, low moan, and then a series of high staccato whimpers. He explodes forcefully into his own hand, sending ropes of cum up as far as his chest and completely defiling his last clean T-shirt. He still has the phone propped against his ear and his cock in hand, slippery and quickly softening, when he hears a click, and then her voice comes back through the open line. 

“Mulder?”

He sits up quickly, which makes his head spin. 

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking, can we leave at 8:30 tomorrow? I’d like to stop for some decent coffee if we can make time.”

Mulder blinks stupidly, disoriented. 

“Uh, yeah, 8:30 is fine. Are you…you’re good?”

“Yeah, I’m great,” she says simply. 

“Okay. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight. Sleep well.”

Mulder sets the phone back on the receiver and looks down at his cum-streaked lap and belly. That absolutely happened, there is no doubt in his mind. 

[writingpuddle]

just had to say, i loved your tags on that post about the upperclassmen and how they treat kevin/andrew/neil. fandom tends to work on this "they're all assholes" beliefs, and it's not necessarily untrue. but i think people tend to forget just how unlikeable kevin and andrew are from the upperclassmens perspective. i think people also forget the upperclassmen didn't just blindly love neil. for all his faults, like you said, he was pretty chill. he was much easier to get along with and it helped massively that unlike kevin/andrew he actually wanted to make a connection with the upperclassmen.

im glad my tags resonated with you! i have this half-cooked thesis that maybe one day i'll get around to fleshing out about the difference between individual responsibility and collective responsibility that i always think about when i see this conversation pop up--something about how yes, we as a society have a responsibility to people who have been harmed to try and help them recover, but that responsibility doesnt actually apply to every individual person. in this case, the idea that wymack founded the foxes (an institution) in order to help people move forward and build a future doesnt mean that every individual involved in the foxes has to invest all their energy in that same goal. in fact its pretty wild to expect every beneficiary of a service to simultaneously provide it to those around them.

the institution has to be be fair, has to provide help independent of some arbitrary category of 'deserving' but individuals...dont have to do that. every fox signed on to escape their own nightmare, not to help fix the other foxes. the upperclassmen have no responsibility to reach out to kevin and andrew when they have been so hostile in return. wymack has to, because he made a commitment to doing so. the upperclassmen didnt.

and as you said--the question of why the upperclassmen were nicer to neil is straightforwardly answered by he wasnt mean to them. he was sometimes unnecessarily blunt or rude (if we got what we deserved we wouldnt be foxes) but he was also the one who gave them awed compliments when he first started playing with them. he was the one who said we can win this. he was the one who shut kevin up when he started to be negative.

he was easy to like. part of that was intentional on his part--not that he was intentionally being likeable, but he was trying to portray himself to be less antagonistic than he really is. he tells us quite explicitly that he is portraying 'neil' to be meeker than his natural instincts, so he hangs out with the upperclassmen and is mostly at least neutral in terms of social hangouts and when it comes to exy he is extremely positive. and despite his occasional snaps at the upperclassmen, he actually rarely lashes out when its not deserved. his temper is reserved for riko and people who support him. kevin and andrew lash out at the upperclassmen in their own ways, and avoid them in many other circumstances, for reasons that are often obscure without neils insider knowledge. it isnt morally wrong to like someone who is easier to be around.

'why are they nicer to neil' because neil was nicer to them. thats how human interaction works. doesnt mean andrew and kevin didnt deserve help--but the person to provide that was the person who made a commitment to do it, not the people who just happened to be--effectively--their coworkers.

to sum up: everyone deserves human decency from everyone, but not everyone deserves friendship from everyone.

i guess--i dont want to get too antagonistic about this myself, because i actually doubt that many people have super simplistic views on this topic, theres just the occasional oversimplified post that gains a bit of traction. but i do think theres also a very fascinating tendency for people to try and make aftg into a neat didactic story about reaching out to people to understand them because neil reached out to andrew and it worked (and arguably saved both of them). but aftg isnt didactic. its not a prescription for how to behave. its made up. in real life, if i met andrew and it wasnt my job to help him, i would avoid him like the plague. sorry. i love him as a fictional character and i love him because i know his story but holy fuck i would not spend a minute in his company if i didnt have to.

friendship isnt social work. emotions arent activism. the upperclassmen didnt owe andrew and kevin their sympathy or their time just because they were traumatized. you cant control peoples emotional reactions to how they are treated. kevin and andrew treated them badly. neil largely didnt. thems, as they say, the breaks.

[professionalspoonie]

Doctor's Appointment Guide

Dealing with chronic illness and doctor's appointments can be a tough combo. So, how do we make it a bit easier?

For many, appointments can be triggering, so consider doing something that brings you joy before heading in—talk to a friend, play a video game, or grab your favorite breakfast if time allows.

Ever find yourself in the doctor's office with a foggy brain, struggling to remember what you wanted to discuss? Note-taking is a life saver! Jot down your points, bring your notes to the appointment, and voila—no more leaving feeling like you wasted a trip.

And let's talk preparation. Bring a list of your meds and symptoms—those lists can get long, and it's easy to forget. Prep beforehand to avoid the frustration of trying to recall that one nausea med you forgot the name of.

Consider bringing someone close to you —a family member or friend. They can offer emotional support, help you advocate for yourself, and be that extra set of ears to catch what the doctor says.

Dressing for a doctor's appointment is also important. Comfort is key, layers are your friends. Offices can get chilly, and having a tank top underneath makes life easier if they need access—especially if blood needs to be drawn.

Speaking up for yourself can be tough, trust me I get it. If it's a struggle, practice with friends or family. Maybe have them tag along so you feel more comfortable speaking up for yourself.

Post-appointment, wind down and digest the info your doctor gave you. Write down tasks like picking up meds, scheduling follow-ups, or arranging referrals and tests.

These tips work for me—may not all fit all of your needs, but hey, sharing is caring. If you have anything that helps you personally feel free to share and help someone out! Hope all your appointments go well :)

[bloggingboutburgers]

Hi, I know it's been a while but it's allo (autistic? unsure what tag to use) anon here again. I just wanted to say congratulations on the project! I showed it to my girlfriend and she was really happy, when it comes out we will definitely read it together. I am proud to see you doing new and exciting things, and I wish you nothing but the best in your future endeavors! You're doing amazing already and I look forward to seeing you continue on whatever path you want to take with your creative work :)

Sorry I didn't message again sooner, things in real life have been... a lot. I still try to check this blog when I can. Your art is still adorable, and I also wanted to say thank you for your comics about fandom and the stuff that people say to aro/ace people. As someone who is very invested in media analysis(TM) and fandoms, I have noticed some behaviour that is really weird and uncomfortable, and it's good to see other people speaking out about it.

Also, not to decenter your experience, but the comic about labels really hit home for me. When I first got diagnosed it explained so much about my struggles and why I felt the way I did. It was groundbreaking to understand that I wasn't just a broken person or full of character flaws, but that things like sensory issues were just part of being who I am. I don't know if you meant it this way, but I really love the yellow colour of the thought bubbles and the little flowers. I know some people say it's pathologizing or too restrictive to cling to labels so much, but it really is a relief to be given something that helps you understand yourself and feel so much less alone. I am glad you were able to find your identity and community. It's so cool that now you get to make those posts, and probably reach others!

I just wanted to pop in again and say I love your stuff, and it's so cool to see other people loving and engaging with it too. I hope you have a wonderful day/night, passe une bonne journée/nuit <3

P. S. I hope that's how you say it, I'm using google translate.

Heyyyy!!^^ Thank you so much for reaching out again and for all the encouragement and support! I hope you and your girlfriend are doing OK^^ And please don't apologize for not reaching out for a while, I'm happy whenever you do at all but it's very fair to have a lot going on otherwise! If anything I hope things are a bit easier now, so to speak.

Also don't worry about decentering my experience by sharing yours when you relate! I'm a big believer in intersectional discussion, I think people from marginalised groups could benefit a great deal from standing together to defend common interests, and if we can relate to each other's experiences in some way even just a little, although we know and acknowledge they're all different, I'm sure we can go a long way. So I sincerely appreciate you sharing, honestly!! (I'm also really grateful you liked the way I graphically conveyed it, that is a challenge in and of itself^^)

Again, thank you so much for all the positive feedback and support, and thanks for taking the time to add some French in as well, very kind of you^^

Hope you have a great day ahead!

[roxtron]

Pinned post/About me thing

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you can call me whatever, i usually go by some variation of my username but i don't mind nicknames and stuff

he/they

i'm autistic so my posts will probably vary by whatever/whenever certain special interests/hyperfixations are stronger at the time

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A bit of info about what I post/reblog

i make original art sometimes but art block has been really tough so unfortunately i don't have a lot to post lately :(

besides that I'll usually make either rambling or analysis posts on whatever subject I'm posting about, usually fandom related. occasionally theories but that depends on if what I'm posting about really leaves room for theorizing.

I reblog pretty casually on here so it can range from stuff i find funny to stuff i think could use awareness, fandom-wise this blog somehow became pretty fnaf centered lol, not quite sure how that happened but i still consider it my main.

if i reblog other people's art or analysis I usually try to leave my thoughts in the tags, but sometimes I have a hard time thinking of what to say so sorry if I reblog your work and don't say anything/don't seem enthusiastic about it, if I reblog something it's because I adore it lol, I just don't always know how to put thoughts into words. <3

and as a side note, while I do try to check blogs of people I reblog in case it's a terf or whatever, sometimes you never know, so if I do reblog something from someone who's done something shitty don't hesitate to let me know with an ask or something because chances are I probably don't know lol.

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Boundaries stuff I guess.

I know DNI lists are annoying and pointless but whatever, if there's a chance it'll get people to leave me alone it's worth it. I shouldn't need to list obvious ones like terfs, transphobes, homophobes, all those assholes. But also, if you don't like one of my posts, I'd rather you block me and move on than hate reblog it. It's immature and annoying, and I won't hesitate to block people that do it.

Obviously I don't just mean "if you criticize something I post you're bad," I'm alright with criticism as long as it's respectful, but if you're gonna reblog just to say "look at this idiot" then fuck off.

Sorry about how aggressive that may have been but I don't wanna deal with stuff like that. I've dealt with it in the past and it sucks, if you don't like me, that's perfectly fine, but just block me and move on. Onto a more positive topic.. If you wanna use my art for pfps or anything that's really cool actually!! Ofc I'd ask for credit but if anyone did want a pfp of something I've drawn you can always send me an ask and I'll post a zoomed in version or something or make whatever edit you wanted so you don't need to worry about it lol Besides all that you don't have to worry about interacting with me, if you've got any questions whether that's related to me or my blog you don't have to hesitate to send an ask if you want :)

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Sideblogs

I've recently made sideblogs for other fandoms people don't follow me for here. I figured it'd be easier to separate them but mostly for spoilers' sake. Sure I try to spoiler tag but people aren't gonna block spoiler tags for fandoms they're not in if they see it and I'd hate to spoil someone for a series they could've had the chance to go into blind. That being said, please don't follow my other blogs unless you already know the spoilers for whatever fandom the blog's centered around. As much as I appreciate support I'd hate for you to get spoiled and I'd much rather wait for you to play the game yourself <3 (since as of now they're both video game fandoms..) @roxtron-kh (Kingdom Hearts)

@roxtron-gt (Ghost Trick)

----------------------------------------------------------- Woo I think that's everything! Finally I can get to the tags section of this long-ass post.. I wanna try to tag things more properly in the future, even if I'm not really big enough to warrant it, I still wanna be able to find my own stuff easier at least through the sea of reblogs, so if you're curious about any of my posts, here's a list of tags you can look through! I'm currently trying to update some of my old posts with tags so they can be added to the list.

[coffeehighallthetime-blog]

I am Kind Not Complacent Chpt 2

I am Kind not Complacent chpt 2

{prev},{next}

Heimdall gow x reader

word count: 6 k

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hello and thank you to every single person who has liked, commented, and reblogged my silly little story. I'm so glad I can make a few people smile and share my little fic. if anyone would like me to tag them to make finding the next chapter easier in the future please don't be afraid to ask!

as always, enjoy and have fun reading!

@engardeitsme as always, love bouncing ideas off and getting to share stuff with you before I post it! thank you for helping again! @lunaryasha @nokolla I hope you enjoy Thank you so much for your support and kind words <3

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

As YN got closer to the training grounds, Her limbs got ridged and her steps were more sluggish.

“Um, Mal?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think I can do this.” She froze in her tracks, whimpering as Mal tried to move her forward. She sighed and grabbed hold of the girl’s arm. YN leaned against her pulling, digging her heels into the mossy floor. “I-I mean I’ve only fought to get away, I don’t know anything about combat!” she looked up at Mal pleading, Her cheeks going rosy in embarrassment, “A-and I don’t know these people…” Mal huffed, looking back at Thor and Heimdall as they seemed to be waiting for YN, getting more and more annoyed the longer she took to get there. 

“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice really, do you? No come on, I'll introduce you. But you need to act properly. They are the Aesir princes and as someone under Asgard they now rule over you as well, you should know,” Mal tried to encourage the girl while also pressing it was important not to keep the princes waiting, “I’m sure they won’t go hard on you, dear little thing.”

“Oh? Are they nice?” YN asked, a bit hopeful. Mal looked at her as if she had grown a second head.

“Ni-? No, they’re princes. But you’re so small and sweet, so they may lose interest in you. Where did you say you were from again?”

“Vanaheim.”

“...Mmh,” Mal just hummed, now getting s bit nervous herself for the girl.

YN frowned at Mal’s lack of help. She almost felt like she was going to throw up. Meeting new people? who were mean? And she had to spare with them? 

“B-but why do I have to? Why now? I-I just got here, d-don’t you think-”

“Ah ah ah, don’t you go doing that negotiating thing. I saw what you did at breakfast. Now let’s hurry on, I rather not keep the Aesir princes waiting.” YN swallowed thickly, looking down at her feet as she allowed Mal to drag her the rest of the way. They stopped at the edge of the sparing area, where the dirt had gone wet and muddy from constant trampling. Thor quickly blocked a hit from young Heimdall and looked over at Mal and the girl. 

“Lord Thor, Lord Heimdall,” Mal lowered her head and put her hand on YN’s head to elicit a bow as well. “This is YN, a guest of the All-Father’s. She is to train with you today for an introduction to Aesir's fighting tactics.”

“Took you long enough, come here, I don’t have all day.” Thor didn’t even glance an eye at Mal, his focus purely on YN who gulped as he pointed to a spot at his feet. Heimdall didn’t even spare her a glance as he made his way to the opposite side of the circle across from Thor. YN felt Mal give her one more nudge as she finally moved to stand in front of the thunder god. 

“I will take my leave,” Mal stated, before turning back towards the great lodge. YN tightened her fists as she watched Mal retreat. Thor crossed his arms as the girl stood in front, craning her neck up at him. She gulped and dipped into a deep bow. ‘Just introduce yourself, don’t speak too much, and maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe they’ll go easy if I’m polite.’ YN thought she heard a scoff come from behind her at the thought. But that was impossible. 

“Hello, my name is YN of Vanaheim and I am the goddess of peace. I was brought here to-” She peeked up at the sound of Thor clicking his tongue in annoyance or boredom, she wasn’t sure. She swallowed thickly, focusing on her feet, “U-um to be of assistance in some way t-to the All-Father?”

Yn gasped at a sudden large hand on her shoulder, roughly twisting her to face the blond boy on the other side of the sparing circle, and nearly tripped into the mud as she was shoved forward. 

“Quickly, let’s see where you are. Heimdall, keep her face intact. We don’t want to be scolded by Father, do we?” YN could almost hear the smirk in Thor’s voice and tried not to show her fear as the boy in front of her picked up two swords, the blades dulled for training. He tossed one to the girl and she caught it before it hit the ground, surprised at the weight of it. YN was shocked as the boy seemed to disappear from in front of her and yelped as she was kicked sharply in the back, skidding in the mud but staying on her feet. She whipped around to see Heimdall starting to circle her, smirking with his lips but glaring at her intensely. 

“Gods you pathetic. ‘Maybe I’ll go easy if you’re polite’? Ha!” he laughed sarcastically, before sneering and rushing YN. She moved quickly to try and block, their swords straining against each other as he leaned in, overpowering her easily. 

“Wh-what are you talking about?” Her eyes widened as she processed his words. What would happen if she failed? Would she be shunned again, would she be shut out? Didn’t she want to go home? Why did the thought of isolation suddenly scare her so much?

She thought of how to get out of the stalemate, wanting to parry and jump back to put some distance so she could have more options. But as she moved to do so, Hiemdall was quick to twist her around and shove her back from him. While she stumbled, her back turned, he moved quickly again, grabbing her by a fistful of hair and kneeing her hard in the ribs.

“And thinking we could ever get along? That you’ll ever belong here? Don’t make me laugh. Crawl on your belly like a dog and maybe I’ll tell the All-Father to send you back to your hovel in one piece, Vanir scum.” there was venom in his voice. Even at this young age, godly strength knocked the air out of her and she sputtered, coughing up drops of blood onto his once pristine tunic. He scoffed in disgust and pushed her back. Her mind raced as her vision blurred. She dissected the situation, his movements, reaction time, and words. She caught her breath, feeling him approach again behind her, and whipped around, knocking him in the brow with the hilt of her sword. Heimdall stumbled back in a daze and stared at the girl in disbelief. He wasn’t planning on retaliation, so he had stopped reading her movements. 

He watched her as she panted, her face contouring into a snarl as she squared her shoulders and changed her stance from submissive to feral; like a beast trying to get away from a hunter. Desperate, scared, angry. 

“That’s a dirty trick,” she growled out, straightening to stare into his eyes, “you have some nerve crawling into spaces you’re not welcome.” he was caught off guard by the statement, shocked that she had found him out so quickly. Thor meanwhile just rolled his eyes on the sidelines, thinking his brother was a fool for talking too much and revealing his hand so easily. Heimdall flushed in embarrassment as he heard Thor’s thoughts prodding into his head and growled, lunging in frustration. YN was able to narrowly dodge and the two circled each other.

“You catch on fast,” Heimdall offered with a sneer.

“You talk too much,” YN bit back, guarding her body just in time as Heimdall attacked again. 

Thor noticed the following pattern:

Heimdall would always attack first, getting a few good hits in. he moved fast, and precise; then got cocky and didn’t remember to put space between him and his opponent. He had a bad habit at his young age of underestimating enemies and didn’t use his foresight as fluidly as he should be,(or so Odin thought, and told Thor to push him harder.)

YN was the opposite. She seemed to almost run away, backing away and refusing to keep her eyes off her opponent for as long as possible, and constantly whipping around to try and keep up. She would try to defend herself, taking a slash to the arm, or leg while protecting her core, and when Heimdall got careless she would go in to retaliate. Her movements were hard-hitting and violent, going for jabs hard enough to push Heimdall across the field or knock the air out of his lungs. That said, she was precise in her own way. Thor also noticed that as Heimdall seemed not to care where he hit the girl, aiming for arteries, joints, and soft spots; she only aimed for places that would discombobulate him, throw him off balance, and put space between them. Thor stroked his beard in thought, calling out to Heimdall. 

“You need to use your powers, Heimdall,” He scolded, “you underestimate too much, and you need to do so quickly, process the information, and act accordingly.”

“Underestimate?” Heimdall scoffed and dropped his stance to stifle a sarcastic laugh. YN stiffened at the mockery and growled.

“Well, what kind of god who can read minds lets his opponent land hits on him?” She barked, blocking another attack and ducking to elbow him in the side.  Heimdall was quick to pary and kicked against the length of her sword, knocking her off balance.

“Maybe you just think yourself too highly. What is a goddess of peace supposed to be able to do in a real fight? You haven’t attacked me once! Goddess of pushovers more like!” He cackled, nearly doubling over. YN dropped her stance, her cheeks searing red in anger and embarrassment. 

“Try goddess of logic and tactic, you oaf!” Her heart pounded in her ears as her anger started to rise. She wanted to stand up for herself. She wanted to reason with him. She wanted to rip his tongue out from his teeth and-

“Ooh! Such snark! Not very peaceful of you, Queen Kindness ~” 

“I’m warning you!” ‘Be calm. Be calm. Be calm. Don’t let your anger get the best of you. It will only end badly. Just breath.’

“Oh or what? You’ll sign a peace treaty? Bake me a cake? Cry and beg for forgiveness?” Heimdall was almost out of breath from laughter, and YN saw red. Suddenly time stood still as Heimdall’s laughter was cut off by a mound of mud flying into his face. YN watched satisfied as the dirt dripped down his chin and smeared down the front of his tunic. 

Thor snorted and threw his head in laughter as he watched Heimdall swipe his hand down his face, his fiery pink eyes searing holes into the girl's face. 

“I told you to shut up!” she shouted, She reeled her hand back with another pile of mud. Heimdall dodged, running at her full force and grabbing her face, slamming her down into the mud. 

“You repulsive little worm.” he snarled, watching her sink into the ground under his weight. With her face still covered under his palm, she blindly grabbed another fistful and slammed it into the side of his head, knocking him off of her and deafening him in one ear momentarily. Thor was wheezing, doubled over the fence. YN stood slowly, the weight of water and dirt seeped into her clothes and hair dragging her down. She looked down at her grimy hands and shook them once, spraying mud and hitting Heimdall with droplets of muck.

“I don’t bake cake” she stated, smearing mud off her face nonchalantly. “But you’ll find I’m quite good at mud pies,” She smirked as Heimdall shook his head, regaining his senses. The next three minutes were full of pure chaos.

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“ Sire, are you certain that Lord Thor and Lord Heimdall were the best suited for the job of testing the girl’s abilities?” A man with curved horns spoke, walking a foot behind Odin at all times. 

“Of course. Heimdall and her are nearly the same age, so it’s a fair fight wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes sir, but Heimdall is young and doesn’t know how to hold back at times. That with his fighting prowess and Thor’s…buffoonery, may cause a bit of disastrous cocktail.” Odin laughed at Mimir’s statement, holding his belly. 

“I always appreciate your bluntness, dear friend!” Odin regains his composure with a sigh, still smiling slightly. “That may be true, but I need Heimdall to read the girl’s mind. And because he is progressing so slowly, he still needs to be close and be able to concentrate, making the whole ordeal less than ideal. And Thor? He’s just grounded and I knew he would hate the job of babysitting.” Mimir frowned at this, not sure why Odin was so carefree about having his two most hot-headed sons be with their new guest. “ I fear Tyr or Baldur would go far too easy on the poor creature. I need results quickly to see where she stands. I just hope they haven’t beaten her too badly.”

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 Mud flew in every direction, both from wads being thrown at each other, or residual splatter from tackling each other into the ground and wrestling each other like feral little goblins.

“Ugh!! You are such a little weasel!” YN screamed as Heimdall managed to slip behind her, shoving mud down the back of her shirt, but not before she flipped around and tackled him to the ground, shaking his shoulders violently and slamming him into the mud. He growled, his eyes glowing as he flipped her over, pinning her to the ground under his hips and yanking her hair, smearing it with dirt. 

“Oh yeah!? Well, you’re nothing but a squawking raven!” 

YN reached up, yanking at Hiemdall’s mud-caked hair, pulling so they flipped and rolled across the floor. Heimdall elbowed her in the eye. She yelped and punched him in the nose, pinning him to the ground, and closed the gap between them. Her hands found home around his throat and she didn’t feel herself squeeze, tighter, tighter, tighter. Heimdall gasped for air, kneeing her in her already bruised ribs. She screamed out in pain, her grip loosening and Heimdall threw her off, making her skid into the mud, curling up in pain as her side throbbed. 

“Hey, alright, that’s enough,” Thor called, getting closer to the two, still chuckling at the state of his brother. Heimdall heaved, grabbing a sword that lay forgotten in the mud. 

“Heimdall, come on, put the sword down,” Thor spoke firmly this time, reaching to grab the sword, Heimdall yanked free of his hold and trudged over, raising the sword above his head to swing down, YN nursed her side and prepared to dodge and tackle him again. 

“Heimdall!”

“ What is the meaning of this!?” A voice boomed, making the children both freeze. YN watched as Heimdall’s eyes widened in horror, dropping the sword and stepping away from her immediately, getting down on one knee in the mud and bowing his head, eyes screwed to the ground. Thor followed, not even the hint of a smile on his face anymore. YN finally looked up, seeing Odin approaching with a scowl on his face, followed by a man with curved horns atop his head, his eyes shining with what looked like opals. 

Odin turned immediately to Thor, his arms crossed and his foot tapping as he waited impatiently for an answer. Thor straightened, deciding to look at the children instead of his father.

“They were just sparing, All-Father. Nothing but some roughhousing.”

“Roughhousing?” Mimir drawled out as he walked closer to YN. “They’re covered head to toe in filth. And this one’s eye is swollen shut!” He grabbed YN's face to get a good look at the bruising. He tutted and walked over to Heimdall, looking him over as well. Heimdall winced as the man checked his nose. “Oh lovely,” he spoke sarcastically, looking back at Thor and Odin. “his nose is broken!”

Odin sighed, bordering on a groan as he pinched the bridge of his nose. YN couldn’t explain it but despite what only looked like mild frustration, there seemed to be electricity in the air. She was not blind to the way Heimdall seemed to cower under his father’s gaze, and Thor seemed so small all of a sudden in the All-Father’s presence. The way everyone reacted to him unnerved YN and she hated the feeling of tension closing in on everyone.

“Boys, I told you to train her, not maim her. Mimir helps her up, will you?” 

Mimir gently grabbed her arm, helping her to stand, and walked her over to Odin’s side. 

“ S-sir it was my fault. I-I’m no good at fighting! I fought desperately and my temper got the better of me, I’m deeply truly sorry.” She tried to reason. Heimdall peaked up at her, confused as to why she would bother to take the blame. She didn’t know him or his brother. Didn’t she know what would happen if she spoke out of turn? Heimdall couldn’t help the pang of jealousy he felt at the way his father acted towards the girl. How his voice softened. Was she manipulating him? Heimdall tried reading her mind but he was still dazed from the scuffle the two had had. 

Odin cut off the girl’s apologies by holding his hand up, shushing her silently. 

“ I won’t hear it. You are a guest and in a strange new land. You were taken from your home and told to fight without any time to understand what was going on. I simply wasn’t thinking. And for that, I am sorry. I was supposed to come here to introduce you and watch you spar, not fight! But I thought to myself, ‘Surely my sons will do well in some friendly competition. I mustn’t worry so much!’ Isn’t that what I said, Mimir?”

“Yes, sir.” Mimir nodded, but YN felt his hand tense against her shoulder. Odin nodded and scowled at Heimdall and Thor, shaking his head with a sigh.

“But I suppose I was wrong to trust them with such a simple task.” YN was caught off guard as she felt Odin’s hand rest on her head.

“Are you alright, child?” YN looked up at him and nodded meekly. He smiled and pushed the girl over towards the two still bowing in the dirt. “Get up.” They stood quickly. Thor looked his father in the eyes, while Heimdall struggled to do the same, his hands squeezed tight at his sides. Odin nudged the girl forward. “I’d like all three of you to apologize to each other.” 

At this, the girl immediately bowed, apologizing for letting things get out of hand. Now that her anger had subsided all she felt was anxiety at the tension in the air. YN wanted nothing more than to apologize and hopefully get along with everyone. She turned to Thor and looked up with big round eyes. 

“ I apologize, Lord Thor, for not paying better attention to your encouragement and advice, and instead letting my nerves take over. Thank you for taking the time out of your day to teach me.” Thor let out a harumph, looking away. But then sighed and lowered his head in a passive bow.

“Yeah… sorry I didn’t keep a better eye on you both.” Odin scoffed, not satisfied but knowing that was the best he’d get out of Thor. He looked down at Heimdall expectantly, who just seemed to be frozen in place. Yn stuck out her hand as a peace offering. 

“I’m deeply sorry, Lord Heimdall. I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly.” Heimdall tsked at the statement and didn’t move. YN looked him in the eyes and he heard her thoughts.

‘I know you can hear me. Shake my hand, and play along. Unless you want to get in more trouble.’ He clicked his tongue in annoyance but with the nudge of her thought and the searing eyes of his father, he grabbed her hand and shook it.

“No my…lady…” he strained with a smile, his brow twitching “The fault is mine for thinking you could withstand a fight with me. I must remember that you are a woman, and therefore, weak and delicate. Like a baby bird,” She smiled back, squeezing his hand so tight that the tip of her fingers turned white. 

‘I’ll show you delicate, you little weasel.’She thought, her brow twitching as she pried her hands away and noticed him flex his hand subtly at his side to subside the aching of her anaconda squeeze.

“There, see? All better now! Mimir, take our guest to the infirmary will you?” Mimir nodded, guiding YN away. When they were out of earshot, Odin’s smile disappeared and he looked at his sons expectantly. 

“What have you learned?”

“She is reactive in her fighting.” Thor started his report, “ only attacking after her opponent makes a move. Otherwise, she’s a bit of a chicken shit. Kept running away from Heimdall until the only choice was to fight back.” 

“Hn…” Odin looked down at the younger boy. “So she was trying to run away and you still ended up like this? Honestly, Heimdall.”

“B-but father-“

“ I don’t want to hear it.” Heimdall shut his mouth stiffly. Odin repeated his original question, directing all his attention to Heimdall. The boy swallowed thickly and remembered her thoughts and the way they rushed one after the other.

“She…she’s a goddess, and she’s from Vanaheim. She wanted to avoid fighting me, kept trying to find a way to introduce herself, and thought being polite would stop me from hurting her. She kept trying to calm herself down, so I provoked her to see where she would go from there. She’s hotheaded and immature. I don’t think she can be trusted. You should just send her back.” Heimdall fidgeted as he spoke and Odin lost his patience, grabbing the boy’s chin roughly to look up at him. 

“Unfortunately that’s not in the cards just yet, son. She’s a child, and a goddess, therefore powerful and unpredictable. We need to keep an eye on how she grows and see if we can use her for the betterment of Asgard before one of our enemies finds her and uses her against us. You understand, don’t you?” Odin squeezed Heimdall’s chin as he posed the question. Heimdall whimpered slightly at the pain of Odin’s bony fingers digging into his skin and just barely was able to nod. Odin abruptly released his son, smiling brightly. “Good. So then, anything that we can use to get her to trust us? Get her to work with us?” Heimdall nodded again, reaching up to rub his sore chin. 

“She’s very lonely and pathetic…, which you can use to gain her trust, All-Father.  She seems passive in her solutions but she is also quick to anger and frustration so it would be important to keep that in mind during any negotiations…” 

Odin looked down at his son, taking in the information. He hummed in satisfaction and nodded.

“ alright. Good. I can work with that.” With that, Odin turned to walk away, paused, and spared Heimdall a glance over his shoulder. “Clean yourself up. You’re filthy.”

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“What’s his problem, anyway? Is everyone in Asgard as… volatile?” YN asked as Mimir prepared an ice pack for her. He snorted and shook his head. 

“Heimdall is a special cocktail of issues, lass. Best to keep away from him. He’s a spoiled little prince, and I’m afraid the way he’s going it will only get worse.” He walked over to her with a white cloth. He dipped it in a bowl of warm water, rang it out, and pressed it to the girl’s swollen eye. She hissed, pulling away slightly, but Mimir kept her head gently in place, blotting the wound. “Stay still, I know it stings but I need to get all the dirt and blood off.” YN stayed tense but allowed Mimir to clean the wound. There was silence in the room, save for the slow trickle of water from the towel being run out every once in a while. YN interrupted the quiet.

“Are you allowed to say that about the princes?” She asked meekly, looking up at Mimir with her good eye. He raised a brow, dipping the cloth in the water again and going back to cleaning.

“Are you going to rat me out?” He posed, grabbing the ice he had prepared and holding it up to her face. YN shook her head slightly and smiled as Mimir simply shrugged, “Then I have nothing to worry about. Besides, my loyalties lie with the All-Father, not his band of brats. Like I said, best to just keep away.” YN thought for a moment and shook her head, holding the ice to her face as Mimir walked away to grab some medicine for the cuts on her face.

“That doesn’t seem right. Why should they be able to do whatever they want at the expense of others? Because they’re royalty? They should be held to even higher standards considering the power they have.” 

“What we think is right and what will end up happening are two different things. Best to forget the whole thing to save yourself the disappointment.”

“And who taught you that? Was it the All-Father?” Mimir stilled, seeming to be in deep thought. YN pouted, guilty at the tension she had caused.“ I-I’m sorry.” Mimir shook his head, a smile returning to his face. 

“It’s alright. It’s just… you’re quite forward for a young goddess in a new place.” YN frowned at that. She wasn’t really sure how she was supposed to be acting. She had spent so long working off instinct, that it may have made her a bit blunt in her words and actions. Mimir let the silence hang as she fidgeted with her ice pack before deciding to elaborate.

“… I’m not from here… Asgard, I mean. Hel, I’m not even from the 9 realms.” He looked back at YN and chuckled as she straightened her posture, her interest peaked. “ I’m a Fae, a Goodfellow. I used to be a fool to a Celtic faerie king.” He got a faraway look in his eye, as he slowed the grinding of herbs. She swung her feet as she waited for him to continue, tilting her head in curiosity. “What’s a Fae? What’s Celtic?” Mimir snorted at this, shaking his head. 

“That’s too long a story. The point is that I’m an outsider, like you. And I wasn’t happy where I was so I left… things may seem rough here, but they are better than they were. That’s what I hold onto. This is all new to you, and new is strange. The All-Father told me a bit about your background. Going from complete isolation to being surrounded by people and sparing lessons is a lot, and I apologize for your rushed introduction to Asgard thus far.”

Yn nodded, thinking about her own home. There was nothing for her there, really. And though Heimdall and Thor were less than pleasant and Odin had not yet shown he could be fully trusted, there were already things YN felt would be hard to let go of. The food she was able to eat here, the feeling of a warm bed and a crackling fire, the sound of people moving to and fro in the morning. The sound of people living around her, unbothered.

“ Odin called you Mimir…that means wise one doesn’t it?”

“ yes. I am Mimir, the smartest man alive.” He said proudly. He saw as the girl raised her brow in confusion and chuckled, “I am the ambassador of the gods and the nine realms, I know every corner of the realms, everything that has happened, every language spoken, every moment in time past now.” YN’s eyes widened in awe, to meet someone who claimed to know so much of the world after she had been isolated from it for so long, it made her mind soar. YN pulled the ice from her eye and balled her hands together in anxious excitement.

“ Would you… Would you be able to teach me? Please?!” She pleaded, nearly shaking with excitement. Mimir pretended to think about it, stroking his beard.

“ Oh? I dunno, it’s a lot of information I’d be throwing at you. Could be a bit boring.”

“Yes, that’s what I want! I want to learn about the realms, I want to help build connections, That’s what Odin said I’d be able to do here! Will you please teach me, Mimir?” 

The truth was, he was tasked with keeping an eye on the girl and taking her under his wing. Odin wanted him to teach her about the relations of Asgard to the rest of the realms and see if she could aid in Mimir and Tyr’s growth of Agard’s connections. He looked back down at the girl, guilt buried at the back of his mind. She was only here to be used. But then, weren’t they all in some way? 

“I suppose I could use an apprentice. But don’t whine when you feel you're being thrown over the deep end.”

“Yes!” she cheered, hopping off the table. She bowed deeply, before looking back up at the man with a hopeful smile. “Thank you, Mr. Mimir. I hope that your teachings allow me to be more useful, so that I may continue to stay here. Maybe my first day was hard, but I’m sure I can find my place here.” She beamed, the pain of her wounds already subsiding thanks to godlike healing and the creams that had been applied.  She runs to the exit, hoping to find Mal. She wanted to tell her about her fight with Heimdall and tease her for being too scared to stay and watch. 

“Oi, wait, your eye! I need to put this on it!”

“I’ll be fine! I have to go! Thank you again, Mimir!” she gathered her things, a new skip in her step. 

“Ah ah ah, at least take it with you.” He grabbed her by the shoulder, handing her a metal tin with the cream he had made with the crushed herbs and some bandages. “The great hall! Tomorrow at 6 am. Do not be late!” he barely got it out before she left, the heavy door slamming behind her. 

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The sun had set in Asgard and YN was on her way back to her room from supper with Mal, who had apologized for leaving in a hurry and gave her an extra serving of potatoes as a sorry. 

YN yawned with a stretch. The swelling in her eye had gone down, but the bruising was now a deep yellow and purple. Mimir had also found out she had two broken ribs, but with the ointment and bandages he had applied, the girl felt fine and knew they would be fine by morning. 

YN was about to retire for the night, walking to her door, when she heard a loud hiss come from across the hall. She quirked a brow at the sound and turned. Dim candlelight flickered from under the door and YN walked over at the subtle sound of a pained groan. 

“Hello? Are you ok in there?” She asked with a knock. There was silence for a beat, and she knocked again, “Hello?” The person on the other side clicked their tongue in annoyance and YN could hear the loud screech of a chair dragging across the wooden floor. The door swung open and YN was met face-to-face with Heimdall, scowling with a blood-stained handkerchief over his nose. She tilted her head in confusion. 

“What the Hel do you want?” he grumbled, but his voice was slightly nasily because of his broken nose. YN had started to regret ever knocking but quirked a brow and pointed at his handkerchief. 

“You’re still bleeding.”

“No! Really?” Heimdall gasped in fain surprise.

“ I didn’t know we lived across the hall from each other.” She spoke again, ignoring his rudeness. Heimdall rolled his eyes and went to slam the door in her face. 

“Seriously, just get out.” She held her hand up to stop the door from fully closing. “What the- hey! I said, "Get out!”

“Why didn’t you go to the infirmary?”

“Tsk! Are you serious? I’m not a baby, I don’t need bandages and a cookie for staying still.” YN just rolled her good eye at the statement, pushing further against the door. “Hey!”

“You know we heal too fast for you to leave that alone. Your cartilage is going to grow back crooked.” Heimdall’s eyes widened at that, but he frowned as he looked away. 

“That’s not true. You're lying.” 

“Why would I lie about your nose growing back crooked?” YN watched him fidget in place. It didn’t take a genius to know that he cared about his vanity. The bright white shirts with gold trim and intricate braids in his hair when she first saw him were enough of a hint. And despite everything, she still wanted to make peace, if not to become friends then to at least have to worry less about being tackled at a moment's notice. Heimdall groaned in defeat, knowing she was right. 

“ Alright, fine then. What do you suggest I do, pestering raven?” YN sighed at yet another insulting name and crossed her arms.

“ May I come in?” She asked, annoyance obvious in her voice. Heimdall frowned but opened his door wider. Yn walked in and noticed the room was nearly the same as hers, save for a vanity in the corner of the room with the chair pushed back. She grabbed the back of it, dragged it over to the bed, and sat down, turning to Heimdall and patting the spot on the bed across from her. He shut the door and trudged over, sitting across so that their knees touched.

“Can you move the handkerchief?” Heimdall hesitated but slowly did so, his face showing discomfort as he removed pressure. His nose had in fact already started to bend slightly and YN couldn’t help the concerned hiss she let out. “ I really am sorry…”

“ Whatever. Just fix it.” His bright eyes glared through her.

“ I’ll have to break it again.”

“Like hel you will!”

“OK, if you don’t mind a deep bend at your bridge.”

“… fine.”

“What was that?”

“ I said fine already!”

She just nodded with a smirk, touching at the soft cartilage, and pressing it into place. Heimdall winced and tensed at each prod, his hands squeezed tight on his thighs. 

“If you keep scrunching your face, this won’t work.”

“Well, it hurts! You're doing it on purpose.”

“ I am not. Do you want a towel to bite down on?”

“ Shut up- ow! Hey!”

“OK, take a deep breath, This one is gonna be the worst but it should open up both nostrils so you can breathe better.” 

“H-how do you even know what you're doing is right?” 

“ I’ve been alone for a long time. I’ve always had to heal myself. And I’ve fallen on my face many times, my nose looks pretty good if I do say so myself.” She smirked slightly at him as he only gulped. YN grabbed the bridge of his nose and when he braced himself, she twisted her hand sharply, effectively knocking a piece of cartilage that had grown crooked out of place. Heimdall screamed as blood rushed out his nose. He brought the handkerchief back up to his face.

“Are you crazy?!”

“If I didn’t do that, your nose would have looked like a tree branch. Keep pressure on that for a moment.”She pulled the small tin from her pocket. “Look, Mimir gave me this to apply to my eye and ribs before going to bed. It will help with the pain.” She grabbed some bandages that were tucked in her pocket and ripped them into two strips, rolled them up into tight coils, and dipped the ends into the concoction. “Take that off, please. The bleeding should have stopped, and this will stop the soreness.” YN had started to think the boy’s brows were permanently knitted together in annoyance by this point as he moved the kerchief from his face. YN quickly pushed the wads of bandage up his nose to keep the cartilage from collapsing and to promote healing in the correct direction. That being said, he looked ridiculous and she couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled out of her mouth. His face went red and he pushed her chair away from him with his boot. 

“ Alright, you’re done, right? Get out.” he hopped off the bed, pushing her towards the door. 

“W-wait a minute, do you think we could-” she gasped as she was shoved out the door, but twisted and jammed her foot before it could slam. Heimdall let out an exaggerated growl, throwing his head back.

“Gods- now what do you want?” she swallowed thickly and offered a small bow. 

“My name is YN, goddess of logic, tactic and peace. I will be staying across the hall from you. I hope we can learn to get along.” She stood back straight and smiled nervously. Heimdall pulled together a sickly sweet grin.

“I am Heimdall, god of foresight, and my time is too precious to be wasted on you. Good night.” And with that, he swung the door wide open before slamming it in the girl's face. YN winced and then sighed in defeat, fidgeting with her hands.

“Good night…” she called softly back through the door. At no response, she turned toward her room to retire for the night. Maybe the next day would be better. 

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

[ducktracy]

JUST A REMINDER FOR THE POLLING: in the name of absolute fairness and objectivity, i’m posting every single Mel Blanc yell. that means Every Single Yell and, yes, obviously includes all of the deplorable racist ones as well. i’m making it my absolute priority to pair these with the appropriate warnings and trigger tags.

i know (and continue to hope) that these polls get spread around, and will obviously lose sight of those who are a bit more intimate with what i do on my blog and the research i cover. i understand that my posting these clips can be interpreted as an endorsement. i’m trying my best to maintain as much objectivity as possible with these polls, because, otherwise, the entire thing is worthless. so, that unfortunately means uploading those warts.

those following me know i’m currently in a years-long process of analyzing every single Looney Tunes short, and, like these polls, that warrants every single ones. i can obviously spare a little more subjectivity in those circumstances, and i do my best to consistently mark disclaimers that are much more poignant in regarding my condemnation of these caricatures and heinous acts. i really do not want to misconstrue perceptions and make it seem as though i condone these caricatures or cartoons through my posting of them. but, obviously i know that just by posting them, the harm is already done, and me saying “but i tagged it!” obviously doesn’t negate that.

i just don’t want it to seem like i don’t already know that. i absolutely do. just as i take accountability for what i post. as someone deeply invested in animation history and pop culture history, especially within the first half of the 20th century, the safety and comfort of my followers when dealing with this information is one of my absolute highest priorities. i’m certainly not immune from criticism nor making mistakes, and that’s why i absolutely advocate for those to let me know if i’ve ever said or done something harmful so i can rectify that as soon as possible. and i deeply appreciate those who have done so thus far. likewise, if anyone has any more efficient ways of making this an easier process, i’m all ears.

thank you for listening. i realize this isn’t fun, and i fully take responsibility for my posting. at the same time, i hope my intentions can be a little more clear. i’m incredibly grateful for the support and participation this little venture has garnered so far, and eagerly awaiting where it takes us. i just ask for your patience and understanding. thank you.