#oh for the record they don’t have colourful hair all the time

[cuteniaarts]

Sometimes you just gotta redesign and badly doodle your old magical girl OCs that you haven’t touched since you were 11. It’s good for the soul

Doing this was sooooo nostalgic for me cause little baby 11 yo Nia used to ‘draw’ them in MS Paint over Equestria Girls bases off DeviantArt... calling that illustrations for chapters of a story I would post on wattpad that I never ended up writing... I am Not Okay with how old reminiscing on this makes me feel

Ref pic/background bc who has the spoons for actual original posing/bgs nowadays:

[haoboutyou]

for your convenience | kim mingyu

suggestive, fluff | 1281 words | alcohol mention, making out

mingyu’s got an unconventional solution to both your problems

“I still don’t understand how you’re still single, Gyu. My back is hurting from all the girls shooting lasers at me!” Yuju threw her head back in a laugh, bumping her shoulders into you playfully as she shouted over the loud music.

The man in question groaned in exasperation. “Not you too, Yuju. You’re starting to sound like my mom.”

“Oh my god, really?! I miss Auntie Kim!” Yuju squealed in joy. 

“I’m not kidding; she’s even set up blind dates for me!” Mingyu ran a hand over his face, whining. 

“Oh please. As soon as they find out about his golden retriever-ass personality, they’ll lose interest and make a run for it.” 

Next to her, Eunwoo smirked. He downed the drink in his hand in one go, wincing at the burn as he hooked an arm around Mingyu’s neck.

“You’re one to talk, Mr Dark-and-Mysterious.” Your cheeks are flushed bright red, evidence of the alcohol in your veins. You did a once-over of Eunwoo in his leather jacket, scoffing. “Remember when you cried because you stepped on a cicida?”

“One: I did not cry, my hair got into my eyes! And two: it was crunchy!” 

All you wanted to do tonight was get drunk, make out strangers and party hard with your friends. As soon as you entered Cherries, your little group had made a beeline for your usual table. Two cranberry vodkas into the night and you’ve found yourself twirling around your best friends on the dance floor, steps only a little wobbly as you bounced between Yuju, Eunwoo and Mingyu.

Actually, it was just you and Mingyu. Eunwoo had already retreated to the bar, and Yuju got lost on the crowded dance floor, probably grinding on the nearest hottie around her. Not that you minded one bit– you were the closest to Mingyu, anyway, so being alone with him wasn’t uncomfortable at all. 

Mingyu’s got a firm grip on your waist the whole time, ensuring your drunken self didn’t trip over your own feet. You were both mingling around, dancing along to the DJ and having the time of your life.

That was, until you spotted an unwelcomingly familiar figure by the bar, staring straight at you. The sudden chill that followed sobered you up in record time, halting you in your dance.

“Fuck, he’s here too?” 

Mingyu looked up to see where you were looking. “Is that Jaehyun? I thought you guys broke up months ago” 

“Apparently, he didn't get the memo,” you muttered.

You bit your lip, a nervous habit Mingyu noticed you formed a few years back. He couldn’t help but reach out, thumb caressing your lower lip to stop you from biting. He successfully managed to catch your attention; instead, you turned to look back at him.

“Y/n,” he gazed into your eyes, then towards the direction where your ex stood. “Do you trust me?” 

“Of course I do. Why did you a-”

Mingyu kissed you. 

He kissed you and now your brain is short-circuiting again, but for a completely different reason.

Kim Mingyu, possibly the most eligible bachelor in Cherries, just kissed you. 

Correction: he’s still kissing you. 

His hands gripped on both sides of your face, firm but gentle. His thumb softly caressed the apples of your cheeks as he angled himself to deepen the kiss. Somehow, his other hand found its way to the nape of your neck; tilting your head upwards and burying his fingers into your locks. 

You let out a gasp as he ran his tongue along your lips. It happened too suddenly; your hands were left to find purchase on his jacket, gripping for dear life. You, however, found yourself drowning in his scent; his warm and woody scent engulfing you whole. Kissing him back with equal fervour was a no-brainer– he made you lose yourself in him, with him.

He’s really good at it too, you realised, until he reluctantly broke the kiss. Cocoa-colour eyes stared back at you intently as Mingyu leaned his forehead against yours. The ferocity of the kiss left you both panting, a bright rosy flush gracing both your cheeks. 

The thumping beats and flashing lights of Cherries came rushing back into your senses. All around you, bodies continued to sway in rhythm, laughter and chatter melding into a rush of excitement as strangers burst your private bubble with Mingyu.

“Do you think he saw that?” Even between pants, Mingyu managed to look arrogantly charming, smirking proudly to himself when he realised he’d managed to render you speechless.

You suddenly felt shy, eyes flitting anywhere else but back at him. You took a deep breath, before using what little strength you had left to push him away. 

“Uh, well… I think so, yeah. Thanks, I guess.”

From the corner of your eye, you spotted your ex slinking back onto the dance floor after witnessing your bold display of affection. 

You sighed in relief, slumping onto Mingyu’s tall frame. He chuckled at how comically you do it, an arm wrapping around your waist to support you against him. 

“No, really. Thank you. I think he’s been following me because he thought he still had a chance.” you shudder as you recall the terrifying past month you just had– a stalker ex following everywhere you went. 

Mingyu peppered soft kisses on your neck, making sure to look over your shoulder into the crowd behind you. For good measure, you reasoned to yourself. You balled up your fists on his lapels, anchoring yourself to him. “I might have a solution to both our problems, y/n.” He’s got a finger twirling a piece of your hair now.  “Go out with me. I’ll make him, and all your other problems gone.”

“Oh yeah?” Now it’s your turn to scoff. “Like what?”

“Rumour has it you’re looking for a new place?” Mingyu leaned forward, speaking into your ear. His breath tickled, eliciting a shiver that ran down your spine. The club’s music seemed to muffle his deep voice even more, straining to pick it up amid the constant noise.

He nuzzled deeper into your neck. “C’mon, Y/n-ie. We already get along great with each other. Most people already assume we’re dating anyway.” He took in a deep breath. “Help me stop my parents from sending me on those stupid blind dates. Won’t it be a win-win situation?”

“You want us to fake date?”

“I want us to real date.”

You bit your lip back again. Your voice dropped down to a whisper. “That’s not funny, Gyu. Be serious.”

His smile softens. For a moment, it reminded you of the goofy kid you first befriended in high school.

“Is falling in love with me that bad? I wouldn’t mind loving you, personally.”

You stared back at him hard. It’s hot and humid in Cherries, but Kim Mingyu pulls off the sweaty sexy look way too effortlessly. Brief flashbacks of your short-lived high school crush on your best friend reemerged in your head. Besides… He did help you chase off your ex tonight. Knowing how persistent your ex is though, maybe keeping Mingyu around wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

“Y/n-ie, baby.” You were aware that the both of you were only slightly drunk; sober enough to understand the consequences of your actions, but tipsy enough to act on your desires. Mingyu seemed to pout harder. “Date me, please? I’d rather be with you than anyone else.”

You pretend to ponder a little bit more before finally making a decision. “Fine.” You shook his warm hand in yours, ignoring how your heart fluttered at how his large hand almost engulfed yours. 

“You’ve got a deal, boyfriend.”

divider credit

[ruershrimo]

k. nobara x fem!reader | two pretty best friends??

synopsis: nobara is nothing short of drop-dead gorgeous. you're really gay and super in love even though you think her affection toward you is merely platonic. but then an encounter during the sister school goodwill event makes you discover that you're also super oblivious.

seriously, how do you simultaneously keep those two up?!

word count: ~2.7k, tws: not really anything besides (noritoshi) kamo trying to hit on you??? it makes sense when you read it lol ('tw kamo' LMAO), reader throws shade (?) on mai and noritoshi, reader is called a ‘little mouse’ but more because of demeanour rather than,,, her figure,,,

you meet kugisaki nobara for the first time in the concrete jungle of tokyo. there, she looks like magic in a person, pure magazine model material: dyed brown hair cut girlishly short, wild and frayed at its ends like a paintbrush that had accompanied its owner for years; eyes the hue of a saccharine sweet milk chocolate bar; her back straight and confident, bold and all in place, as if she is where she should be and she knows this. the pinnacle of beauty, this girl is, perfect picture on the cover of vogue. 

she’s got skin that looks milky, silky; loved and kissed with her own tender, painstaking care, it seems. there’s a little bump on it— a blemish that goes unnoticed by the boys, covered by concealer, but it just makes her all the more beautiful. 

you’re barely able to talk to her. your brain goes blank as if it’s short-circuited, stricken and frozen in place. she opens her mouth and a melody sings mellifluously like a restaurant cabaret from an old record in your grandparents’ house. 

she’s magic. 

the second time you meet her, she drags you out shopping and you follow her like a magnet, not even bothering to make a begrudging reply. you’re hauled along by the collar, almost, and you let her. 

“I’m so glad that I’m not the only girl, honestly,” she states as the two of you walk along the pavement, “I can’t imagine having to handle those two all on my own, they must’ve been insufferable! actually, how did you deal with those idiots?” 

you have no idea how, actually. but the boys, savants in some ways yet complete imbeciles in others (oh they really could be bumbling idiots sometimes)— would never understand or comprehend this, any of this. no being of the male species would; they wouldn’t notice the way her eyes catch the light, her irises bursting into a kaleidoscope of colour, or the way she sits so confident of herself, position relaxed and powerful and self-assured. they wouldn’t have the mind to see these things, all right in front of them, and appreciate these traits, admire them. 

your words are almost caught in your throat; your reply comes out mangled and weak like asphyxiated fish from an iron net. “I– I don’t know, honestly,” you stutter, “I just, um, avoided them… but I guess it seems that they’re really close to each other already.” 

“...hey, you okay?” she asks, grabbing hold of your hand. your heart stops and nearly flatlines, heat pooling up in your cheeks. the summer air feels hot. yet it swelters you even more as she inches closer to you, her breath— mint mouthwash and grape-flavoured, mouth-cooling gum— nearly burning literal assaults on your skin. “no need to be shy. I mean, the two of us have got to stick together, you know!” 

“I’m– I’m okay, thanks. sorry.” 

she pulls herself away, and the little circle you have around you misses her in her absence, almost whining as you remind yourself that if she were to get any closer to you in proximity, you could possibly faint, or things could get much worse. 

“but seriously, if you’re a shy person, don’t let people pick on you or intimidate you!” she rolls up her sleeves, an impish yet valiant smile on her face, “I’ll beat them up if they do!” 

the third time you meet her, she’s teaching you a better way to do your makeup. something simpler, she says, a trick she learned online, something meant to mimic the stuff of movie stars and their picture-perfect, freshly-kissed lips. 

you don’t know how it’s gotten to this, though: your knees bent on the sofa as her legs are split on your lap (it looks less erotic than it sounds, you’re sure, but it still makes your brain feel like it’s being waved and wrung all over like a raggedy piece of cloth). she straddles your sides this way, snug between your lap and your stomach. 

“then you’re supposed to just dab it all around like this,” she continues, the blistering heat in your head spreading through your body pervasively as she presses her thumb to your lips, catching your breath in your throat. she places her hand on the side of your face, her fingers caressing your jawline and her thumb resting on your cheek, so close to your eyes that you can see it in your peripheral vision as you stare up at her, rendered a complete and utter mess. 

“come on, don’t be shy. stay still!” 

“sorry, kugisaki…” 

“hey,” she stops, her eyes boring into yours, unassuming and free of any sort of malintent, “don’t be so polite. you prostrate yourself too much, especially around me. seriously, don’t say sorry for everything, and just call me nobara, okay? we’ve got to help each other out— we’re both the girls of the group, the better half and all that. and we’re most of the only girls in this school. the ratio is crazy. so we’ve got to stick together and stuff, be comfortable with each other. no more apologies or self-doubts!” 

every bit of contact her skin has with yours lays a blooming garden of goosebumps on your skin, from your cheek, sliding all the way down to your shoulder. 

how could you act normal about this?

“see?” she asks, holding a mirror up to your face when she’s completed it. “you look beautiful! woah, I’m so good at this, honestly. it makes you feel pretty, right?” 

you’d never be as beautiful as her. for a long time, you’d thought you’d never be beautiful at all. 

but for once, you do. even if you won’t ever compare to her— and you guess nobody else ever could as well— it’s the way she says it, that gleam in her eye as she flashes you a grin while you marvel at how your face looks when it’s ‘dolled up’. you feel like you’re in a painting. like you’d been loved enough to be put in one. 

so you smile back at her, your teeth bare after years of covering your face in pictures and dreading when you couldn’t. she makes you believe that you could be beautiful. maybe that’s what real beauty is. that’s why she herself is beauty beyond compare. “yeah.” if you think about it and believe it enough, then you could embody it. like this, people would want you because you think they would. like this, you could be knockout because you think you could. you’d always known that her confidence factored into her beauty. 

“if you want, I could teach you how to put more makeup. it’s not that you need it to look ‘pretty’, but it would help you show others how you want to feel pretty. the reason why this looks good on you is because I did it to make your features stand out a little: see? you’ve got these gorgeous lips, so I made them look like that,” she highlights, “oh, yeah— want me to take a picture?” 

“you like kugisaki?” fushiguro asks. 

you remain silent. 

he rubs at his temples. “oh my goodness, you do. you’re in love with her.” 

“…not like you would understand,” you retort under your breath. he hears you anyway. 

“she’s so beautiful,” you start, sighing, “and so kind and confident. like she can walk into something and know exactly what she needs. she’s put together like that. and she does things with purpose. she doesn’t wander aimlessly or fight without a goal. she’s so good at makeup and fashion and resourceful when it comes to playing by her skills on the field, and she’s so outgoing and welcoming with people who she can get along well with, and she’s so warm—

“oh, I can’t stress it enough, fushiguro. I— she’s literally perfect. I like her so much, I-I feel like I’m on a cloud or something. every day feels like that.” 

“you’re down bad.” 

“I know,” you choke out pathetically. 

“but I’m pretty sure she already thinks the two of you are dating.” 

“…wait, what?!”

this happens, well— around the fiftieth time you meet her: 

sports festival preparations have been as lively as bubbles in soda pop lately, and you’re sitting down next to her, knees bent on the pavement, mourning a classmate you barely knew and the fact that he could have been a lifelong friend had he not been snuffed out prematurely. as you take another swig of your drink— green tea in the can so that she can have it too if the coca cola’s making her teeth have that weird, fuzzy, plaque formation-indicating feeling like always— she places her hand on yours. 

the heat on your cheeks, the barely formed but nearly forming sweat on your body. that stuff isn’t going to go away, ever. you’re pretty sure of that. even with a thousand indirect kisses from sharing food and even warming up to having her lying back flushed to your lap, it’s never going to go away. each time she looks at you, your gaze is transfixed on hers, your voice nearly comes out mangled, and you feel heat blossoming on the back of your balmy neck. 

“yeah?” you ask. 

“you know, [name], I love you. a lot. like, you’re really special to me,” she smiles warmly, a faint hint of red on her cheeks, just like the rose in her name— though that could just be your imagination. 

“...I love you too.” 

“heh,” she giggles, an impish, graceful, secure sound, like a kiss to your ears, your favourite song playing on the car radio in a memory from several years ago, “I’m glad!” 

it’s wonderful. 

your worst fears are never confirmed, but there are definitely things that give way to them. 

you’re quite sure that nobara herself isn’t like that— she does talk about having a boyfriend, but she doesn’t actually want to date a boy, you’re sure. the closest thing to a crush that you’ve ever seen her having is her admiration for maki— and you understand that. 

you respect maki: she’s impeccably smart, strong, and everything in between. yet her existence begets a small worry. if nobara crushes on maki and they end up together, what would be of you? 

the only thing you’d be certain of was that you’d keep loving nobara. you’d just want her to be happy, after all— all your tears and mourning for time spent on purposeless yearning, just to see that grin on your face. that would be worth it, a fair trade. 

but this is how you’re proven wrong, and you fall deeper in love with nobara after that. 

before the sister school goodwill event starts, the six of you (plus yuuji— you’d hate to admit it but seeing him again nearly made you break down in tears) have been given the opportunity to meet the kyoto students and welcome them. it goes about as well as you’d expected it to be— at least the physical portion of the fights and conflicts hadn’t already begun there. 

after having met them, you’re sure that half of them are out for blood here. they’re an eccentric crowd, but not just eccentric, per se— borderline terrifying. you’ll be sure to avoid them throughout and just focus on the plan. 

which is why you nearly sprint in the other direction like a deer from wolves when you see kamo noritoshi and zenin mai approaching you. 

and zenin mai has a stunning face. even if it can’t compare to nobara or her sister’s, she’s got a charm to her, a glint in her eye that you’re sure somebody else will appreciate someday. (just not you.) kamo is just there, his eyes closed for some reason even though you’re sure he must be fully capable of keeping them wide open, and his hair in an awful haircut that you fail to understand the appeal of. probably something traditional that his clan wanted. 

“oh?” mai says, a lilt in her tone. you’re going to get bullied, right? your stomach lurches forward and you nearly keel over, fainting— an all too familiar feeling. the popular people in school used to do that, especially the rude athletic boys. she would probably be popular among them, had she been born into a normal life. “what a little mouse. she seems like a doormat.” 

“zenin, teasing our competitors is unbecoming of members from our lineages,” he admonishes before mai groans. “shouldn’t you be with the other tokyo students?” kamo asks. 

why couldn’t you have just had to meet todo? he’d say that you had wonderful taste in women, you’re sure. why the girl with family issues and the guy with family issues and an atrocious haircut? 

“I, um— I got lost. but I don’t know if they’re going to have me anyway, I mean yuuji’s stronger than me so now I’m just going to be the weakest member there. anyway, um, nice chat, I’ve got to go, bye-bye—”  

“no,” kamo denies, “itadori yuuji besmirches the title of ‘jujutsu sorcerer���.” 

“and the title of weakling goes to maki, not you, I’m pretty sure,” mai says, “but you’re an adorable little thing. what’s your name— something-something, [name], am I correct?” 

what were they doing, completing their sentences like that?  did they practise their lines in the morning, staring in the mirror and repeating them over and over? they sound like people who’d be mentioned in the local family restaurant comedian’s shows— no, not even their shows, they’re not entertaining enough to be in their shows. they’d just barely be mentioned in passing in the bits so that five audience members could get an extra laugh they’d eventually forget about. 

“maki’s really strong, though,” you refute, trying to keep your mind calm “and yuuji, too. it’s hard fighting with them because nobody can ever beat them down, really.” 

“durability does not equate to power,” kamo claims. well, and then there’s someone like him, with neither. “and be confident of your own abilities. I can sense your cursed energy from here. it’s impressive,” he remarks. 

“...I appreciate the thought, but really, I have to go now—” 

“oh, stay for a while, won’t you?” mai asks, inching closer to you like a large ant from the corner of a room. how were insects always so good at slipping into houses and mentally impaired when it came to exiting them? 

kamo joins her, gripping your wrist. you’ll have to sanitise your hand and double-wash your sleeve now, especially after what you said (you’d be fine if mai was doing it, but why kamo? kamo of all people?) 

“ah, and this may seem rather spontaneous, but you’re rather beautiful.” really, it only sounds as good as it usually does if nobara is the one saying it. it feels like his words are assaulting your ears. “good luck.” 

“come on, don’t let her go yet—” 

“[name]! you okay?” 

it’s nobara. thank goodness, it’s nobara. 

“what the hell do you two think you’re doing to my girlfriend?!” 

girlfriend?! 

“oh, nothing,” mai goes, “just playing with her a little. she’s a doll. you picked well!” 

the only thing she can play with is her fucking audacity. 

“ugh— let’s go, [name]! don’t care about these people!” she pulls you along by the wrist. 

“I should’ve made sure you were okay,” she says as the two of you walk to the tokyo students’ gathering point. “I was worried! you’ve got to stick to us next time.” 

“sorry… but they really didn’t do anything. but, um… I think kamo tried to hit on me…?” 

“ew— with that haircut? hate it when twos go looking for tens.” 

“but um…” you hesitate, “about what you said, am I really… your girlfriend?” 

“huh?” she pulls back, “I thought we’d been dating for almost a month!” 

“wait, what—?!” 

“I even told you I loved you! we literally sleep on each others’ laps!” 

“I couldn’t tell if that was platonic or romantic or not! I mean, I don’t mean that I don’t want to date you, I just meant that I didn’t know—” 

“okay,” she exhales, “since we both need things to be clear. want to be my girlfriend?” 

“like, a girlfriend-girlfriend? like, going out on dates and stuff and um…” 

“yeah, a girlfriend-girlfriend. we can go out on dates and do even more than that, maybe,” she greens cheekily. 

“woah… I mean— it’s a dream, I—” 

“so it’s a yes?” 

“yeah—” 

she kisses you and it effectively shuts you up. her lips taste like a latte from the fancy coffee shop the two of you had visited two days before. to think that she’d seen it as a date, while you’d thought the whole thing was just another outing between ‘friends’... 

it’s the best feeling ever. 

this is going to flop too lmao but back at it w the low-quality posts but

[buzzyb33]

Hey!! Could I please request a fic for Danny Aarons?! Nobody writes for him and they should because he is absolutely beautiful! Maybe where you’re also a YouTuber and friends with Danny and pretty much everyone in the uk YouTube scene and it’s the night of the sidemen 10 year party and he confesses he loves u. Thank u!!!🫶🏻🫶🏻

Of course!! This is a great idea and I love my boy Danny.

Prompt: in request.

Warnings: swearing, alcohol, bit long, detail on reader appearance.

I sit at my desk as I record a Fortnite video with Danny, Simon and Josh.

I go through my locker as the three talk.

“Y/n hurry up and pick a fucking skin” Danny groans.

“Shut up Danny wait..” I respond in a distracted tone.

I scroll through my locker and settle on panda team leader.

I ready up and sip my water.

“Simon don’t take all my kills again either.” I shoot as I adjust my position.

Josh laughs and Danny speaks up before Simon.

“Wait- you two play together?” He asks a little confused to which Simon laughs.

“Thanks for watching my videos mate.”

-

Later on when playing I look at Josh’s skin and do the high five emote, Simon is still recording and he does the emote with me.

Josh laughs and pipes up “you coming to the party next week? I know you said you might but..”

“Hm? Oh yeah probably don’t wanna miss that- it’s important for you lot so-“

Danny cuts in quickly. “Can we go together y/n you don’t live too far away from me.” Simon hums in acknowledgement at Danny’s eagerness.

“Sure okay- I’ll message you, you can come mine and have some pre drinks with me.”

After that recording I did a few more on the same scenes to clear my schedule knowing how pissed I’ll get, recording a video with Deji just a simple TikTok reaction:

“Eugh- dej! That guy is so- mmmm- eww look.”

I say as beavo eating rice comes up.

“When I first saw him he actually made me physically gag at my phone- he’s rank.”

I say in a passionate tone and he laughs loudly.

“Would- you do the same content?” He cuts himself off from his laughs.

I chuckles and shake my head.

“Nah then I’d have to pay for an editor because I can’t watch myself do that..” I shake my head.

“Wait you edit all your own videos?” He says to me sincerely.

“And your other channels?”

“Yeah! I edit for my main, second and I mod my own social medias, while I pay Danny Aaron’s editor to do my twitch shit so- yeah,” I hum as I adjust my hair.

“Oh cool- Kay then.”

The next day when I was getting my clothes ready for the next day I got a FaceTime call from Danny, answering it wouldn’t be a problem, would help me pass the time.

I answer and smile into the phone, propping it upon my monitor as I logged around my room, AirPods in.

“Hey Danny!”

I call as I look for a dress.

“Hi- what you doing?” He responds, taking an inward breath.

“Pickin’ an outfit for tomorrow dunno to go for pink or white..” I let a ghost of a smile wonder on my lips as I shift through my many clothes.

“Pink- you look p- pinks a better colour especially in dresses, anyway.”

He says and I pop my head back into frame, my freckles dusting my face and light blue yes looking into the camera.

“Alright- yeah you’re probably right I’ll pick some stocking then we can talk, yeah?”

I pick a light pink play suit, white stockings and white flats, I put my outfit down and talk to Danny through it, after that I sat at my desk and spoke to him, a gentle tone in his voice which seemed to be only present around certain people.

“What’re you wearing Danny?”

I say after a couple minutes of silence on the call, my attention taken up by the sims.

“I dunno- cargos and a shirt. Yeah.”

-

The next day as I get out the shower, I put my clothes on and start on my makeup I get a knock on my door.

“Come in Danny! I’m in my room!”

I shout and I hear my door open and footsteps ascending toward my room.

He leaks his head round and gives me a cheesy grin.

“Hey y/n.”

He was in a crisp white shirt with a blue spray paint font smiley face at the back. He was in black cargos and to match his shirt, crisp white airforces.

“You look smart, Mr Aarons.” I smile and he smiles back, sitting in my bed.

“You look pretty, miss l/n.” He retorts, the grin not leaving his face.

We speak as I do my makeup, about videos, friends, family, us.

Mad I finish my makeup I order him to get the drinks from my kitchen as long as some glasses.

I smile as I face my chair toward the bed where he sits, pouring a vodka coke.

“You excited? I’m looking forward to it.”

I Say with a cheeky grin, leaning forward slightly and sipping it.

He smiles and nods.

I lean back and smile, flicking my light brown hair behind my shoulder.

“When should I call the Uber, n/n?”

“15 minutes let’s get the buzz.”

I grin at him.

Over the next 15 minutes, the two got laughs in, and Danny even getting a confidence boost.

In the taxi, Danny let his arm hand loosely across Y/ns shoulders.

Getting out the car and getting let into the party the two going their separate ways for a bit, the boys had rented a decent club in north London at a lot of people were there, A LOT.

Y/n went to go talk to george Clarkey and then Talia.

After mingling around she was getting tipsy and when in this state she got very giggly.

“H-hey-“ I turn around and find Danny’s eyes, his ones deep and hazy, clearly already intoxicated.

“Hi darlin’…” he murmured as his hands find my shoulders, his head falling slightly.

“Danny? You okay?” I say as I inch closer to him.

“Y/n- I just-“ he says and closes his eyes briefly.

“I think-“ he sighs

“I can’t help falling in love with you..”

I look at him and feel my face flush, I get on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek.

“I love you too..”

He smiles lazily and brings me into a passionate kiss, oddly coordinated from the intoxication.

I wrap my arms around his neck and he keeps moving his lips with mine, meanwhile, Ethan goes up to josh and elbows him slightly.

“Never guess who I just saw tonguing it on?” He says with an almost proud look.

“What? Simon and Talia? Vikk and Ellie? Uh- Lannan and ilsa?” He replies sipping his drink and side eyeing Ethan for a confirmation.

“Nope- Danny Aarons himself and miss Y/n l/n”

Josh sputters and looks at Ethan “fuck off.”

-

The next morning where Danny had stayed at Y/ns their words weren’t forgotten, a simple but gentle feel to the air, a new found tensions, just bellow awkward.

Finally approaching him as he was getting ready to leave she spoke with reluctance.

“Do- did you mean what you said or- well, and did, or was it just the alcohol, Danny?”

With no hesitation he shook his head: “I meant it, every word, every kiss, I- do love you- if that’s okay?”

I smile and feel my face heat up again.

“That’s okay..”

A/n:

IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. CHRISTMAS AND THAT 😭🙏🏽

Finishing up a request then another zerkaa fic!!

Requests are open!!

[hazshit-hotel-hater]

100 FOLLOWER!??!?!

Through the grapevine, through the phone line.

HOLY SHIT!!!! 100 FOLLOWER!!!!!!!!!!! I was not expecting to hit that in like.. a little over a month, that is genuinely insane. Thank you so much for following my hate filled journey 🎉

This art was for my friend because they’ve converted me into a voxelette enjoyer so this is their fault btw/j

The Analysis on this one won’t be too long because I don’t think many people are as nuts about longform content as I am so lets see how normal I can be

First of all, I wanted to give Velvette her natural hair and have fun with puffs and braids and twists and stuff instead of just straightening it and putting it in ponytails. She actually went through 5 hairstyles before I landed on this one and I’m fully convinced she’s responsible for making this art take 9 hours but its okay because shes cute ^w^ also I have made her into a silicone BJD doll with plastic hands for better posability and a little hole for holding accessories and stuff like how G5 LPS did. The lighter strands of hair are also supposed to look a little bit like yarn because I think I was subconsciously thinking about Lala Loopsies and it led to the button eyes and all that. Her shirt was based off Fluttershy’s colours and that is 1 because they look good and 2 my friend likes fluttershy. The stitches in silicone also might not make sense to some but to that i say. uh go look up a suture pad

Here is her little Colour analysis 🩷

Now for Vox (and technically still Velvette), his colour scheme is mostly purple actually, the blue light turns a lot of it .. well. Blue. So you cant see it much but im not lying I promise. I feel like Vox is very insecure but still being prideful at the same time while Vevlette is more sure of herself, hence the significantly less amount of blue. The only blue accents on her are her beads, eyeshadow and scrunchies and the “sloth” aspect of that is mostly just how little she cares about others opinions which kind if intern turns back to pride. Meanwhile Vox has a lot more blue, not because he doesn’t work hard, but the methods in which he does things. His employees do a LOT of managing and he doesn’t have to do much for marketing because yknow. brainwashing. It also correlates to his personal grudges and grievances getting in the way of his work like how he had a public meltdown over Alastor. His body is blue but his purple suit covers it, ie masking insecurity with self assurance. People wear clothes, Im very smart I know you can hold the applause./j Hes also buffer because where the hell else is all the wiring gonna go

Here is Vox’s colour chart (note the use of bisexual flag colours/j/j)

It’s kind of obvious but their eyes are both yellow in sections because capitalism and all that. Also I thought making Vox’s eye change into the screen recording symbol was clever because yea he is watching everything and also he is technically recording visuals into his brain and processing them so !

I didn’t know where to squeeze this in but theres a very faint tint of green in his screenlight for the envy aspect so do with that what you will. Oh and his buttons are little outlet plugs :3c

[bullet-prooflove]

"'Cause I'm dying to know all the places you've been" if it hasn't been done already? -Silnon

Tagging: @kmc1989

Terry keeps a record of all the places he’s been in a brown leather brown travel journey. He sketches pictures of the things he’s seen, annotating them with notes so he can go back the next time he visits. The edges of his mouth always twitch up when he’s drawing, it’s his happy place, the space where he finds his serenity.

You’re poring through the journal when he steps out of the shower, a navy blue towel clinging to his hips. You’re on the king sized bed, wearing the blush pink silk kimono he brought back from Kyoto last month. The colour looks gorgeous against your skin, your hair is tied back into a messy bun as you lie on your stomach.

“You’ve been too so many places.” You say as he sits down on the bed alongside you. “Do the cherry blossoms really look like this in Osaka?”

Your fingers trace over the drawing of the pretty petals fluttering in the park.

“They have a festival dedicated to it.” He says fondly, his fingertips brushing a stray tendril of hair back behind your ear. “I’ll take you in the spring.”

“Terry.” You say softly. “I can’t ask for that.”

“You’re not.” He reminds you, his thumb chasing over the apple of your cheek as he leans in close, his lips brushing over yours. “I want to share the experience with you, watch your eyes light up when you see it for the first time.”

You smile against his mouth, your fingers running through his damp hair as you shift onto your back drawing him down with you onto the mattress.

“Right now there’s something else I want to experience.” You tease, your teeth grazing his lower lip.

“Oh my naughty girl wants to play does she?” He whispers, his hand seeking out the belt of your robe, he tugs it gently and the fabric parts revealing your bareness. “Ok, sweetheart let’s play.”

Love Terry S? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[ryuichirou]

How do you draw Idia’s hair so good?? I struggle with the basic shapes so much!

Sorry for the late reply! Your ask got us excited because Idia’s hair is such a pain to draw, but also such a fun detail, and I’m very happy that you like the way I draw it <3

Katsu suggested to me to record a speedpaint, and uhh, here it is. Please, don’t mind the wonky anatomy and me horsing around with zooming in and out randomly. As you can see, I struggle with Idia’s hair myself and constantly redraw it until I’m satisfied or at least tired enough to say “eh, that’ll do”. In case you’re wondering, it took me ~25-30 minutes to do the hair, and the original video was 59 min long lol I always spend a lot of time moving, reshaping and redrawing details when I draw Idia…

I’ll also list some tips and thoughts about it based on the way I draw it…

The shape of Idia’s hair is not at all consistent. Even in Toboso’s art it looks slightly different sometimes, which makes sense, because Idia has magical fire hair and technically you could do whatever you want with it.

But some rules tend to apply each time. For example, even though Idia’s hair is long and seems naturally “heavy” because of it, the individual strands tend to be turned upwards, like fire would. Not every single one, but the shorter ones and the ones closer to Idia’s head tend to do so. 

It’s wavy, but not too wavy. If the hair starts looking too “soft”, add sharp edges, random strands sticking out, rough shapes, etc.

Oh, and it’s important to remember that it floats. This means, it doesn’t just go straight down, it does this weird “S” shape. It’s also hella long, I always forget just how long Idia’s hair is. If the magic fire logic didn’t apply to it, it would reach the ground easily. The volume of his hair is much bigger than I tend to remember too: it's quite thick and luscious lol So please give him lots of hair!

Tiny little flames + “holes” in the main ehh body of hair (wow there must be a way to phrase it better) make everything look good and more believable. Have fun with it. You might’ve noticed, I draw and redraw and move them around a lot in my speedpaint.

Obviously, I am no expert, and every artist I know draws Idia’s hair a little bit differently. The speedpaint doesn’t show it, but I always have some of Toboso’s artworks of Idia open when I draw him, just to make sure his design is not too off. I would definitely recommend looking at refs while drawing Idia (or anyone), and maybe even trying to redraw the hair from Toboso’s artworks once or twice as a study, it’ll probably make it easier to understand how Idia’s hair works.

You haven’t asked about the colouring, but I love colouring Idia’s hair, so I’ll talk about it a little. Colouring Idia’s hair is simultaneously the most fun and the most tedious part of drawing him lol 15 minutes of my hour long video is just me filling Idia’s hair with the base blue colour with a lasso (I refuse to use a bucket tool…)

But once you’re done with the base, this is where the fun begins. Because at this stage you can be pretty rough, just add in darker and deeper blues near the middle/core(?) of the hair mass. It doesn’t have to be very even or pretty, add some smaller dark spots; we personally really love it when Idia has this round little blob on his bangs. In the video you can see that I added it later on because I forgot about it lol

After the dark part is done, erase the ends of it a little bit with a soft brush. Not too much, we should still be able to see the shapes.

Then, on a separate layer set on overlay mode, with the same soft brush add some additional brighter spots, to make the hair look glowy. I used the same light blue as the base colour, and the overlay gives it a pretty hue.

And finally, add some white highlights at the ends of the strands. This is the stage when everything stops looking wrong and weird and starts looking like Idia, at least to me.

Phew, I think this is everything I wanted to say… I hope it was at least somewhat helpful.

Sorry for the long post, I just love talking about the drawing process. And about Idia too!

Once again, thank you for your kind words; I’m very happy that you like my art.

Have a good day!

[telvess]

Record of Ragnarok, Jack the Ripper x S/O (shot)

What a lovely day it was to enjoy a cup of Darjeeling tea. Jack headed to the restaurant, humming Mother Goose’s lullaby to himself. His mind was as clear as sky above him. It was crowded at this time. Who would’ve thought that even in afterlife humans would find something worth chasing. Well, Jack now also had a new purpose. Was it destiny or twist of a fate that the moment he thought about it, potential purpose simply collided with him? — Ah, my apologies — he mumbled, hearing loud ouch. Before him stood woman of average heigh, her auburn hair was blowing in the wind. She rubbed her forehead, turning eyes towards Jack. Colour of her soul became slightly yellow as she noticed his serious face. She might not have heard him. — My bad — her voice was weak. Jack immediately put on a smile, he didn’t mean to scare her. — Be not afeard — he said. A woman blinked as if she heard a ghost. In one moment her soul filled with red which Jack interpreted as confidence. — The isle is full of noises — she whispered with content smile. Jack’s eyes widened. — Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not. — Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices… — he began reciting with her. They both lowered their voices to better reflect the tone of the work. Red colour exploded inside a woman, passion completely took over. — That, if I then had waked after long sleep, will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, the clouds methought would open and show riches ready to drop upon me that, when I waked, I cried to dream again — they finished together. The woman sighed as if she had just smelled a delicious cake. When she looked into Jack's eyes again, there was pure joy in them. — William Shakespeare, The Tempest — she winked at him. — Act three, scene two — added Jack. — Isn’t it beautiful? She nodded with a broad smile. — I thought you wouldn’t get it when I started and think I’m a weirdie, but I just couldn’t deny myself! What a great surprise! — Indeed, meeting another person who can recite so finely word for word such a magnificent part… A shadow flickered across woman’s face. Her inner colour changed; intense red washed out, became faded. Jack interpreted it as an embarrassment. — Oh, I’m so sorry — her cheeks turned red — I think I might have made wrong first impression on you. You see… — she scratched her neck and with closed eyes said in a single breath — I don’t know much more about Shakespeare. She opened her eyes, her face was contorted as if she had eaten something sour. — How so? — I tried to read his work but… truth to be told, I don’t think I am bright enough to understand it. Language issue. I was born long, long time after him. Jack’s shoulders dropped a bit. — Disappointed, aren’t you? — she laughed. Jack smiled. — It’s odd you know that one. — Well, I heard it when I was a teenager and it kinda stuck with me. It’s sounds so beautiful I had to learn it by heart, but until today I’ve never said it out loud. Red colour brighten up again and her soul filled with passion that Jack shared. The loud noise of a passing car reminded them that they were both heading somewhere before this conversation started. They exchanged shy smiles and began to walk hand in hand in silent agreement. — You seem like man who is well-read — she said after awhile. — I have read all of Shakespeare's works. Woman’s eyes widened. — Really? — she sounded impressed. Jack felt a flush of heat in his ears that spreaded on the cheeks. — Be or not to be… — she whispered slowly, glancing at Jack in tense silence. — That is the question — he obediently followed, imitating the right tone of voice. — A horse, a horse! — her voice became more livelier, almost desperate.

— My kingdom for a horse! — he scouted with her. Woman giggled and Jack couldn’t have helped but admire how beautiful someone’s soul was when they enjoy themself. Just how wondrous it would’ve filled with fear-… no. That’s the past. What's done is done. He was living a new life now. — These are hackneyed — her voice brought him back to reality — Beside them I don’t know more except one. I really like… wait, how does it go, I don’t want to spoil it… Ah! To thine own self be true… — … self be true — he finished with her. — But I don’t know where is it from. — Hamlet, Polonius said that — Jack answered almost immediately. — Ah, Hamlet. My English teacher would kill me for not knowing that. She gave him another smile. Jack’s heart started beating faster. Where this heat in his belly was coming from? Almost as if he was wounded, but without blood and pain. Such strange feeling and that colour he was emitting… Jack couldn’t have interpreted it at all. — What’s your favourite quote? — Mine? — that question caught him off guard — Hmm… Jack never thought of that. He adored a whole lot of them. He knew what happen in every act of every scene but to chose one out of so many marvellous works… would it be even… fair? — I believe I don’t have one — was his reply. — Oh, come on! — woman scouted. — You must have the one you like a bit more, the one that stands out. Jack allowed himself to drown in the endless abyss of words. Maybe he had to choose his favourite work first to find it? Which one could it be? Shakespeare’s sonnets? That was his very first after all. If there was one good thing that Jack’s father did, it was leaving that book in the brothel. — Hey, stranger! — Jack looked around and realized that his companion wasn’t walking by his side anymore. The woman was standing few meters behind, pointing out side street where she obviously intended to go — What’s your name? — she shouted. — Jack. He felt unpleasant sting in the chest knowing that they had to separate so soon. — Jack… — she said, her voice was still confident, but Jack saw blue stains of disappointed in her soul — … the next time we meet, you will tell me your favourite part! A larger group of people showed up and due to lack of space, the woman had to go with the flow. But she was looking at Jack as she was walking away and didn’t stop until Jack nodded. And then she was gone. Jack didn’t even ask for her name.

[mirrored-movements]

Yandere HC

(Y!Miguel x reader)

Synopsis: What would Miguel be like as a yandere for a civilian reader?

Warnings: Mild(Not a lot of Yandere behaviour maybe just him being possessive) Unhealthy behavior, stalking, if someone irl does this to you- RUN

In the event that you have caught his attention he’d start with gathering information- first and foremost

Anything that was public access was in his hands in mere moments; favorite colour, favorite coffee shop, any pets- friends- family you had posted about? All of this was cataloged into the recesses of his mind

Proceeding past that he’d begin with more private things; health records, home address- even accesing the phone you used on a daily

And oh- was accessing your phone a bad idea; it practically started a snowball effect- the photos, logs, everything on it

It was then that he began to appear around your daily life, not in plain sight of course- he’s smarter than that, but in secret

If you worked at a coffee shop- expect him dropping in for a drink- Worked as a waitress? Suddenly he’d famished

Each close encounter visit was spaced out to an extent- in order to make sure you remained oblivious

After hours he’d spend his time making sure you made it home safe from the darkened shadow of buildings- following allong silently

He’d linger outside the fireescape of you apartment if you lived in an apartment- if you lived in a house he’d simly linger around where he could

He’s the watch and wait type of person for the most part

Would eventually sneak into your place of residence to a) watch you sleep, b) rummage through your belongings- he may feel inclined to swipe a few things just for his own enjoyment

If he begins to grow impatient of waiting he’d just act

Prepare to have the scare of your life as some 6ft something man appears in your home professing some strange love (Infatuation) with you

He’s been stalking your for days now- and he’d spiderman so don’t even think of running or calling for help because he’s already taken care of both

He’d probably feel a mix between excitement and lovesick upon finally being in your presence

Would most definitely wrap his arms around you right away (Struggling is futile)

He’d definitely smell your hair before nuzzing into the crook of your shoulder (Any noise you made really just made him want you more)

This man most definitely lets out a mix between a goan and moan as his senses are filled with you- your skin, your hair, your voice, smell- everything

Your pleads fall onto deaf ears

Would murmur words of comfort into your ear despite knowing you didn’t feel comforted at all

May want to kiss you then and there (You can decide <3)

Expect to be bitten- it’s the best way to transport you from your place to a much safer place (Don’t worry though his venom is only paralytic and he’d be sure to take care of you)

Say goodbye to anything you once knew

Because now- he’ll be the only thing you know, the only person you talk to- only person you touch-

You’re his and he’s never letting you go

----------------------

<Unedited>

[dreamy625]

One-shot - Barbie

Content: Casual drinking and smoking

Words: 2670

-----------------------------

Steve is considering a third drink and determinedly ignoring the clock over the bar as it ticks on from fashionably late to may-as-well-not-bother when he hears in a throaty drawl from behind him:

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns…”

His face breaks into a broad grin, “Barbie!”

“Don’t…” she kisses him on one cheek, “...call me Barbie...” and then the other, “Stevie.”

She hops up on the neighbouring bar stool and reaches for the pack of cigarettes in front of him.

“I knew it was you the second I saw your hair; still bulk-buying the peroxide I see!”

“Still putting your lipstick on with a trowel I see!” he counters, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand before waving to the bartender. “Gin and tonic, no ice, lime not lemon. And another one of these please.”

“So what brings you to my part of town? Do they not have pubs in Chelsea?”

“I’m supposed to be at a party. Industry bigwigs. Journalists. Mensch is making me go.”

“To prove you haven’t been kicked out of the band?”

“You’ve heard the rumours then?”

“Oh yes. But then I also heard you married a stripper and moved to Vegas, so…” she shrugs.

“That sounds more fun. Nah, it just goes on like it always does - do this, do that, don’t do that. The same old merry-go-round. Ages to go on the new record before we can get back out on the road again.” Their drinks arrive and he pushes a five-pound note across the bar. “And you’ve been conspicuous by your absence this past year, what have you been up to?”

“Oh you know, bit of writing, bit of design work. Plying my trade wherever they’ll have me.”

“How many countries this time?”

“Only three so far this year - Greece, Japan, and LA of course.”

“Ahh, jealous, I loved Japan. I’ve just gone back and forth to Dublin about four million times. Joe built his own studio,” he explains.

“Convenient.”

“For Joe it is. Phil’s in the US and Rick’s back in Holland, so the rest of us are clocking up a lot of airmiles.”

“You’ve not considered moving?”

“Nah, I’m settled where I am. Travelling’s good, but I want somewhere to come home to, somewhere that speaks proper English.” 

There’s something he’s carefully not saying and Barbara, of course, hears it loud and clear. “So where’s that American girlfriend of yours?”

“Which one?” asks Steve, lighting another cigarette and offering the packet to his companion. “Don’t matter anyway, answer’s the same - gone, got sick of me and buggered off to pastures new.”

“Oh sweetheart,” She pats his hand before reaching for the matches. “Always unlucky in love.” 

“Ain’t that the truth. Inexplicable really,” he looks down at the countertop before flicking his eyes up to hers, “when I have such good taste in women.”

Barbara laughs, not quite the reaction he’d been hoping for. “Very good Clarkie, have you been practising that?”

“Whaddya mean, works every time.” He turns his head to hide the blush threatening to colour his cheeks and motions to the barman for more drinks. Serves him right for assuming. Changing tack, he asks, “Are you here on your own?”

“Are you about to ask what a nice girl like me is doing in a place like this?”

“I know what you’re doing in here - chatting up strange men so you can pinch their cigarettes! I merely wished to enquire about your social arrangements.”

“Ah, very proper. I came in with some people from the magazine I’ve been writing for, but they’re going for a curry, so I guess I’m footloose and fancy free.”

“Good to know, thank you kindly.” He stubs out the cigarette, pondering his next move…

“Do you want to drink that?” She nods at the double brandy the bartender has just placed in front of him. “Or do you want to come home with me?”

“Can’t I do both?”

“From past experience, no,” smirks Barbara with a flick of her eyes down to his lap.

Steve blinks once before making the fastest decision of his life, pushing the glass back across the bar and dropping down from the bar stool almost in one movement.

A short walk brings them to a three-storey townhouse, not unlike his own, but this one, and the others in the terrace, has been split into flats and has the slightly dilapidated, uncared-for look common to buildings housing an ever-changing population of tenants. Barbara’s flat is on the third floor; high ceilings and fancy wallpaper, but just two rooms. Almost every time he saw her, she was living in a different short-term rental, squat, or half-empty house-sitting gig. The perpetual rolling stone, wherever she lay her hat was her home; although in Barbara’s case the ‘hat’ was three tea chests full of books and records, scarves and tapestries from far-flung places to cover every surface, and a stuffed parrot on a perch. Which meant that every place looked and smelt the same - like a poorly-kept antique store - and Steve would always feel himself being watched by a beady avian eye as he stumbled around in the middle of the night looking for yet another unfamiliar bathroom.

“So let me give you the tour.” Barbara takes three steps into the middle of the living room and does a slow twirl with her arms out. “This concludes our tour.”

“Nice. Frank’s looking well.” He waves to the parrot, so-named for its uncanny resemblance to Frank Zappa, receiving the usual glass-eyed stare in return. 

“So, d’you want a drink?” 

Steve shakes his head. 

“Or coffee?”

Another shake.

“Or…”

Steve smiles a lazy smile. “C’mere.”

Barbara tilts her chin up in mock defiance, but walks towards his open arms, peeling her coat off as she goes.

“I’ve missed you, Barbie.”

“Don’t call me…” The rest of the sentence dissolves into a muffled ‘mmph’ as Steve presses his lips to hers.

Her eager response is both exciting and warmly familiar - hers is a body he knows so well and returns to with delight - and as he works on ridding them both of extraneous clothing on the way to the bedroom, his only concern is picking the correct closed door and not ending up in a broom cupboard!

Later, satisfied and spent, with his girl curled up next to him and tracing drowsy circles on his chest, he lets his mind wander through memories of their long and convoluted relationship. 

Barbara had always roused a mixture of emotions. She was beautiful, charming, clever, and had a worldly sophistication that had been incredibly exotic to a boy who’d barely left Yorkshire. He’d been mesmerised by her from the first meeting, and the years of chance encounters and brief liaisons had done little to diminish her allure. On one hand, she was easy to be with, probably one of, no, the only, person he felt completely comfortable with. She didn’t expect anything of him, or want anything from him. Other than the obvious, which he gave gladly and enthusiastically. Even then, on the few occasions too much booze had made that impossible, she seemed equally happy to sort herself out (which in itself had been a notable lesson in his education in the ways of the modern woman). But on the other hand, why didn’t she want more? Why did she always slip from his grasp just when he’d started to believe that this was more than a dalliance? For Steve, who’d always fallen in love so easily and so completely, the only conclusion was that there was something wrong with him - why else would you so willingly let someone into your bed, but be so unwilling to let them into your heart? His only comfort was that she was, at least, consistent in her inconsistency; each time she would wriggle free but, eventually, there would be another postcard, another message on the answerphone. And each time there would be a tiny spark of hope; this time, maybe this time, she was tired of wandering… 

Steve woke to the sound of a lorry reversing, watery sunlight sneaking through the gap in the curtains, and absolutely no idea where he was. Then he registered the warmth of another body loosely spooned against his back and the familiar scent of Yves Saint Laurent Opium. Oh yeah. With a smile on his face he drifts back to sleep.

The second time he wakes is less peaceful - it sounds like someone in the street repeatedly throwing a tin bath down a flight of stairs.

Beside him, Barbara yawns and mutters, “Bin day.” And then, “What time is it?”

He gropes for his watch discarded on the bedside table and squints at the dial. “Just gone nine.”

She groans and rolls out of bed, lifting a silk dressing gown from its hook on the back of the door before vanishing through it. Steve hears the protesting grumble of an old cistern and then running water. Sliding reluctantly from under the warm heavy quilt, he picks up his shirt from the floor and, pulling it on, follows the sound to a tiny bathroom housed in what he can only assume was originally, before the advent of indoor plumbing, a cupboard. Manoeuvring past Barbara - standing at the sink squeezing toothpaste from a crumpled tube - he pisses in the practically antique toilet and pulls the chain. Putting an arm around either side of her, he rinses his hands under the running tap, giving an involuntary shudder at the icy temperature. He shakes off the water, ‘accidentally’ flicking a few drops at Barbara’s face, which makes her wrinkle up her nose, then wraps his arms around her. She squeaks as his cold hands make contact, but he just hugs tighter. Looking in the mirror above the basin, and trying to ignore whatever sticking-up tangle his hair has knitted itself into overnight, he studies their combined reflection.

When they first got together they’d seemed an ill-suited pairing - he, younger in both looks and life experience than his nineteen years, and she, at thirty, a woman in her prime living a life packed with travel and culture. To the casual observer they may have appeared more like teacher and student than lovers. But they shared the same slightly off-the-wall sense of humour, and the same hunger to see the world and devour all it had to offer, and they had been instantly compatible in the bedroom, so it had worked well enough in the short snatches of time they had together. Now, time and, let’s be honest, a less-than-healthy lifestyle, had turned Steve’s once boyish features into something still handsome but more weathered than one might expect at twenty-nine, while Barbara, aside from a few deepened lines around her eyes, had barely aged in the intervening ten years. Their faces in the mirror matched, they looked like a real couple. 

“Do you have to go to work?” When she shakes her head, the brush still in her mouth, he ducks his head and kisses her neck just beneath her ear. “Come back to bed then.”

Afterwards, propped up against crumpled pillows and sharing the last cigarette in the packet, Steve feels a rare sense of calm and contentment, clear-headed and with a pleasant ache in a few muscles he hadn’t given that kind of workout in a while.

“We could go out for breakfast? Or do anything really. What would you like to do?”

“What I’d like to do is lie on a chaise longue sipping a mimosa, but what I actually have to do is pack and fly to Buenos Aires at six o’clock.”

Steve’s face falls. “Buenos Aires? What for?”

“An editing job. One of those Rough Guide-type things.”

“When will you be back?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a one-way ticket.” She glances around the once-grand but now rather tatty bedroom. “I’m subletting my sublet, so there’s nothing I need to come back for.”

“Nothing?” asks Steve, trying not to pout.

“Oh darling,” she reaches out a hand and presses her finger against the protruding lip, “don’t look at me like that. I’ll always be there for you, you know that. It’ll just be on the other end of a phone line for a while. Or you’re bound to be in Argentina sooner or later.”

Steve drops his head onto her shoulder. He knows how this will go, how it always goes, but he can’t stop himself. “But what if I want more than the occasional phone call?”

He feels more than hears her sigh. “You can’t always have what you want.”

“But why not?”

“Because you don’t just want more, you want everything - the wife waiting at home with your dinner on the table, the 2.4 apple-cheeked children, a lawn to mow on a Sunday morning. You want happy ever after. And that’s not what I want. I couldn’t do that if I tried.”

“But it must mean something, that we keep ending up together? Maybe you are meant to be my fairytale ending.”

“Sweetie, we shagged in a closet the night we met, that’s not a fairytale, that’s a Jackie Collins novel!”

“That was your idea! I was nineteen, I’d never met anyone like you, what was I going to do? Say no? I’d’ve bought you a candlelit dinner if you’d let me!”

“You would as well. You were such a sweet little thing.”

Steve attempts to refute this with a growling sneer, but Barbara just laughs and pats his leg. 

“Anyway, my big tough rockstar, unless you’re going to help me pack, I think it’s time for you to get going. There’s probably still a couple of teabags left. I will forgo my usual disdain of domesticity and make you a cup of tea while you get dressed?”

“Ohh-kaay,” he agrees reluctantly, shivering as she throws back the duvet.

In the kitchenette, she hands him a mug of dark brown liquid. “Sorry, the milk was making a determined effort to become cheese. But it is Yorkshire tea so…”

“Aye, that’ll do. Glad you got something from me at least.”

“Everything else cleared up with penicillin.”

“Cheeky!”

Barbara starts to load plates, washed and unwashed, into a cardboard box. “Pass me those spoons would you.” She drops them haphazardly on top of the crockery. “That girlfriend of yours, is it really over?”

“Yeah. She went off with someone else. Bit of a relief if I’m honest. Not my best decision ever.”

“Not her, the other one, the model.”

“Lorelei.” Steve leans back against the fridge and gazes at the flaking paint on the ceiling. “I royally fucked that one up. No way back there.” 

“That’s sad. She seemed nice.”

“She is nice. Too nice. She deserves better.”

Barbara moves to stand in front of him. There is love in her expression, but also something steely. 

She reaches up and strokes his cheek. “You’re too hard on yourself. Your perfect girl is out there somewhere, I know it.”

“In Argentina?” he asks plaintively.

She shakes her head, “Don’t.” She takes the mug from his hand, pours the dregs down the sink, and adds it to the box. 

Steve understands that he’s being dismissed and picks up his jacket from the back of the chair.

“Now, do you want custody of Frank? I’m not sure the new tenants will appreciate him.”

Steve eyes the slightly moth-eaten bird without enthusiasm. “No offence Frank, but you’re not much of a substitute.”

By the door, he bends to pull on his boots, then pats his pockets - keys, wallet, matches, must remember to get more ciggies on the way home. 

“Bye then. Have a good trip.”

“I’ll write. Promise.”

“You’d better.” He pulls her into a tight hug and drops a kiss on her forehead. “Look after yourself, okay.”

“Don’t worry, I always do.” 

She slides back the bolt and opens the door wide onto the shabby, faintly cabbagey-smelling, landing. Steve looks back as he reaches the stairs, but the door is already closed.

-----------------------------

I’m sorry, I had to break his heart just a tiny bit :/

For context, irl Barbara Salisbury was Steve’s on and off lover from the very early days (she was a publicist for their first record company) until, well, it’s not clear if they ever stopped seeing each other. She was described as very independent and free-spirited and I often wonder how our romantic traditionalist coped with that.

[rancidpancakebatter]

Another Way to Fly-[P.P.] | Chapter Three

Pairing: TASM!college!Peter Parker x female!college!reader

Summary: You've been dating Harry Osborne for three years. You love him...but maybe not as much as you once did. Maybe not enough.

AU Where Norman isn’t as sick- he’s just an asshole- and Gwen didn't go to Oxford. Harry is functioning as an apprentice at Oscorp (He graduated with a master's in two years because of his studying abroad). You, Peter, and Gwen are all seniors at ESU. Because Peter isn't Spider-Man and Norman isn’t dying, the whole “Goblin” thing is scratched from the record, so Peter and Harry are besties.

Prompt: Based on an ask for my 200 Follower celebration

Word Count: 5.3k

Content Warnings: Swearing, Implications of sex

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As you walk in, Peter can tell that you are clearly irritated. You move stiffly, and your brows are furrowed slightly. To anyone else, they may believe you were just thinking about something, but Peter knew you really well. 

He met you about four years ago in the campus library. It was finals, and the building was packed with students pulling out their hair and silently sobbing at tables crowded with colourful worksheets and laptop charging cables. He had almost tripped over you, walking through the shelves on the third floor. You were hunkered down in the 150s of the Dewy Decimal System. Papers and textbooks were fanned out around you, and you typed away on your laptop, oblivious to the world as a soft melody spilled from your wired earbuds. 

Your head shot up when you noticed a foot land on a piece of paper before quickly hopping off, but still leaving a large, dirty footprint on your notes. You pulled out your headphones and looked up, ready to use all of your pent-up frustration and stress to rip the offender a new one, but before you could even start, his panic started spilling out. 

“Oh, Jesus. I’m so so sorry. Shit, uhhh lemme just…” He picked up your notes and tried to wipe them off, but the dirt just smeared. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there. You can have mine.”

The boy standing above you was tall, his curls flopping over as he moved his head around. You could tell he was lanky under his layered shirts and baggy jeans. He was pretty. You blinked a few times, breaking your train of thought to focus on what he said. 

“Are you taking Intro to Psychology?” You asked.

His face reddened slightly, “...No.”

You quirked an eyebrow at the strange man. “Then how could I borrow your notes?”

His mouth opened and closed a few times before a dry chuckle left his lips. “I, uh, I don’t know.”

Your irritation melted at the sight of this awkward man. He obviously didn’t mean any harm, and it’s not like your notes were ruined, just dirty. 

“What’s your name?” 

“Parker- er, I mean Peter.”

You laugh at his uncertainty. 

“Did you get a concussion on the way over here?” you tease. 

Again, the man flushes, “No.”

“So which is it?” You ask, “Parker or Peter?”

He blinks a bit, pulling a face like he’s trying to solve a riddle, “Both.”

“You’re name is Parker Peter?” You ask, your confusion only building. 

He buried his head in his hands, shaking it side to side, then pulls his hands away and sighs. 

“Can we start over?” You nod your head, and he does a little spin, reappearing with a smile splitting his face. “Hi, I’m Peter Parker, and I’m so sorry for stepping on your notes and then making it worse by smudging everything and being incredibly awkward.”

You chuckle, then tell him your name. 

“Cool, well, it was nice to meet you (Y/n). I’ll leave you alone forever now.” 

He turns to walk away, but you call after him. He turns with a look of surprise on his face. 

“You can join me if you want. There’s not many places left to study, and if you’re working, it’ll keep me from getting on my phone.”

Peter smiles at you and takes you up on the offer. You sit in silence for about two hours before Peter gets a phone call. You are only mildly annoyed by the interruption, and Peter looks embarrassed to have disturbed the peace. He gives a “Harry” directions to find him and begins packing up his stuff. 

A few minutes later, you noticed a shadow cast over you and looked up to see crystal blue eyes. You hold each other’s gaze for a moment before he finally speaks. 

“Hi, I’m looking for a really annoying know-it-all with a skateboard.” 

His smile gleamed in the light as he stood over you in a well-tailored dress shirt and slacks.

“Hey! I’m right here, asshole.” Peter exclaimed. 

The polished man only broke his eyes away from you then, walking around you and looking to Peter with a teasing smirk. “Oh! Hey Pete. Sorry, I didn’t see you past this beautiful woman.” 

Peter slugs him in the arm, and they hug.

Boys, you think as you roll your eyes.

“And this ‘beautiful woman’,” Peter says, “is (Y/n). I stepped on her notes and then made a complete fool of myself. She took pity on me and let me study here.”

You stand as graciously as you can with your left foot asleep. “Yeah, he even offered to replace my notes for a class he doesn’t take.” 

Harry laughs, and then his eyes roam over your body. It’s a quick scan, but it makes your heart race. 

“Psychology?” He asks.

You look between them, a little surprised. Peter matched your expression. “Yeah, Intro. How’d you know?”

“You hunkered down in the physiology section,” The blond says with a coy smile, “...and I think I’ve seen you in class before. Room 3304 with Professor Markle, right?”

You confirm his memory, and he extends his hand to you. “I’m Harry.”

That day you formed a little study group. You agreed to meet at the campus coffee shop on Wednesdays. You met Gwen, who seemed really nice- albeit a little too put together. You guys all got closer, and you brought up the idea of trying different coffee shops until you found one you all liked. 

That summer, you discovered Cafè Luna, Harry’s last name and its significance, about Gwen’s dreams of studying abroad, and that Peter had really good taste in music. You guys would get together and have Harry get you into different bars to see the local shows and drink. Eventually, it became just your and Peter’s thing, as Gwen wasn’t big into the music, and Harry couldn’t get behind the whole “eat the rich” message as much as he wanted to. 

Slowly you grew to be very close with Peter. You began to confide in him, and he, you. You learned about how his uncle had passed, and that it was just him and his aunt. You told him about growing up in Brooklyn. You were invited to Hannukah and Birthday dinners. May also had a Christmas dinner, and Harry kissed you under the mistletoe after months of heavy flirting. It was a good year. 

And now, Three years later, Peter knew better than anyone when you were peeved. Especially when you dramatically plopped into your chair next to his, letting your bag drop to the floor next to you. Peter also knew that asking you what was wrong was dangerous. Sometimes you snapped, denying there was any problem at all, or you would rant for hours on end (that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but regardless) until you were blue in the face. And with your arms crossed firmly across your chest, he thought it would be more of a snapping response. 

He also knew that there were a lot of things that could cause your sour mood. Sometimes it was a simple fix, like a greasy cheeseburger or a walk in the park, but sometimes it was much more complicated. He sincerely hoped it was a simple fix. 

“Hey, Led Head.” He tried, testing the waters. This was a nickname he gave you because you love Led Zeppelin.

“Hey, Pete,” You said with a slight bite, but it didn’t feel directed at him. You could’ve been explaining the difference between fettuccine and fusilli, and the chill would remain the same. 

“How’s your day goin’?” His Queens’ accent dripped into his words. 

He didn’t miss the sarcasm in your “Swell, how’s yours?”

“Eh, can’t complain,” Peter shrugged, tapping his pencil on his desk, “but it looks like you can.”

Just then the professor walked in, and any remark you could have made was silenced as you all tuned into the upcoming lecture. 

You try your best to focus on taking notes, but Peter notices the way you’re constantly fidgeting, one hand scribbling and the other tugging on your shirt, your skirt, your socks, etc. This goes on for the whole duration of the lecture, and after watching it go on for thirty minutes, Peter can’t stand it anymore. 

You feel a nudge at your arm and look up to see Peter hunched over his desk, leaning in towards you. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” You huff slightly, annoyed and not wanting to get into it right now. You still had another hour left of class, and you just wanted to get through it. 

“Come on, Heartbreaker,” Peter said, charm skating off his tongue. He was pulling out the big guns now. Calling in the “this nickname always makes you feel special, but only certain people can use it, and I’m one of them” nickname. This was a nickname he gave you because you loved Led Zeppelin, that song specifically. “You know better than to try and lie to me.”

Your shoulders deflate as you give in. 

“I’m just…uncomfortable.” you settle on. 

Peter props his head on his hand dramatically, waiting for you to expand.

“I had a sweater, but now it’s stained– probably forever– with my latte that I didn’t get to finish this morning, and my breakfast is probably still sitting in the middle of the road covered with tire tracks, and my tits are out, and my clothes are tight, and it’s cold, and I feel like I can’t breathe!” You harshly whispered all in one breath. 

Peter stifled a laugh, and you slugged him in the arm, now unable to suppress your general irritation any longer. 

“Alright, alright,” He says, pushing you away slightly. 

“We can get you some food and caffeine after class, but for now,” He pulls off his jacket and hands it to you. “You can wear this.”

You gladly take it, and as soon as you bring it over your shoulders, you’re almost overwhelmed by the smell of his cologne seeping into the fabric. You take an unashamed, long sniff. 

“Peter, what cologne do you use? This smells fucking amazing.”

Peter doesn’t answer, just shaking his head with a quiet laugh. 

“Seriously,” You say more to yourself than your desk mate, “I need to get Harry some of this stuff.”

You turn your head and see him giving you an “I can’t believe you,” look- a “You say the darndest things” look- and you start snickering. In turn, Peter also starts snickering. This exchange compounds exponentially until you’re both swallowing down full bellows of laughter. Your hand is over your mouth as a few choked snorts seep through the cracks of your fingers. Peter’s fist is pressed firmly against his lips, trying to seal the leak of laughter. 

“Excuse me.” Your heads raise, and the laughter in your throat dies at the pointed glare from your professor. “If you’re done flirting, I’d like to continue my class.”

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks, embarrassment flooding you as you sank into your seat and pull Peter’s hoodie tighter around you, as if to hide. Peter mumbled out a sorry, seemingly just as embarrassed as you. Your professor looked as if she was holding back an eye roll before turning back to the rest of the room, and continuing her lecture.  

You weren’t flirting. Of course you weren’t. And certainly not with Peter, one of your best friends and the best friend of your boyfriend since childhood. And he definitely wasn’t flirting with you. He was in a happy relationship with his high school sweetheart, who was truly an amazing girl- even if you two weren’t particularly close. The mere notion of you two flirting is laughable, improbable, and downright preposterous. 

You refused to look anywhere other than the screen your professor projected her slideshow on. You couldn’t focus on the presentation she had no doubt slaved over. You could see from your peripheral Peter looking over at you. You couldn’t meet his gaze. 

You were consumed by a tight feeling in your chest and a thought that made you sick. It was just there for a moment; it didn’t mean anything. It flashed across your mind the same way a “That’s a cool shirt” or “Do we need eggs?” might, but you felt guilty regardless. 

I want Peter to flirt with me.

It rang through your head- echoing and shattering the contents within. Your hand reached up towards your neck, where a thin ‘H’ rested above your heart. The metal felt warm to the touch; the edges feel sharp enough to slice your skin. 

I want Peter to flirt with me. 

You didn’t, obviously. That would be weird. It would ruin your friendship. It would ruin your relationship. You didn’t see Peter like that. Sure, he was pretty, and smart, and kind, and a tried and true “momma’s” boy, but you were never into him. And you’re not now. 

You took the jacket because he’s your friend. And as your friend, he offered it to you. To make you feel better, because that’s what friends do. They help each other and make sure they’re comfortable. And you were laughing because Peter made a silly face. And it’s funny when you’re friends make a silly face. It meant nothing more. Your professor called it flirting because she was upset, annoyed. Not because it looked like flirting. Not because anyone thought you were flirting. You certainly didn’t. And Peter obviously didn’t think so either. Because he wouldn’t do that. Because you’re just friends. 

The kind of friends that would force the other to sit down at a diner nearby because they have the best burger in town. And he’s completely right. Nothing in this world compares to Benny’s Burger Palace. 

You've probably seen a place like it though- a retro diner with rounded chrome trimmings on all the counters and tables. Checkered tiling, slightly yellowed from the years. Red, patched booths with the softest cushioning and well-worn vinyl. Benny’s got great shakes, is open twenty-four hours, and always sells breakfast. But they also sell- you guessed it- burgers. 

Benny had unfortunately passed away in the eighties. But since then, his son had taken over- Lenny- and the recipe was well preserved. Lenny was a big man with a shiny bald head, and a black apron folded in half and tied around his waist. He was always at the grill with a bright smile readied for every customer and a deep laugh that rattles through your chest. He recognized you guys as soon as you walked in and immediately threw some patties on the grill, telling you, “Your booth is open.” 

Your smile was lukewarm, though still appreciative. Lenny, of course, didn’t notice a difference. Peter did. You hadn’t said much since earlier when your professor called you out. You were very vocal, with your joy and your rage, so your near-silent brooding was nerve-wracking. The last time you were this quiet, you disappeared for a few days, then returned with bangs and a new tattoo. Then there was the breakdown a month later that resulted in you breaking up with Harry for two months. Neither of you liked to bring it up, and if anyone asked, you guys had been dating for three years. Peter didn’t even know why you had broken up. He just knew that you were mad, and you ended it. 

He had tried several times to spark a conversation with you and was confused as each attempt failed. You met each statement with a half-interested grunt or hum. And now he sat across from you while you played with your sleeves and stared out the window. 

“Hey, are you alright?”

You sighed, knowing he was eventually going to ask. You were never very good at hiding when you were in a bad mood. And your mood had worsened since that interruption in the classroom. Peter was your friend, but you realised you didn’t want to tell him what was on your mind- especially when you didn’t know what it meant. 

“Yeah, I think I just needed to eat something.” 

Peter didn’t quite believe you but accepted the answer, for now. 

“And some caffeine?” He offered. 

You gave him a small smile and nodded your head. Peter immediately flagged down your waitress to order a pot of coffee. 

She returned with a youthful pep in her step, ponytail bobbing and smile gleaming. Her eyes never left Peter as she dropped off the coffee and a small bowl overflowing with creamer, and then she reached across the table to move the sugar towards him. Peter politely thanks her, and she hangs around for a few awkward moments before she finally moves onto another table. 

You reach for the (single) mug she brought to the table, tucking your knees up to your chest as you fix your coffee. Once satisfied, you take a sip, the warmth travels from the inside out, and you can tell it’s a strong brew from just a small taste. 

You finished your first cup in silence, which was only broken now, by Peter, as you struggled to open more creamer cups. 

“So…is there something particular bogging you down…or is it just…a bad day?”

You pause in your stirring, thinking through the best answer. 

“Norman stopped by, unannounced, for dinner last night.”

You took a sip, feeling validated by Peter’s sympathetic wince. 

You told him all about him ogling you and every passive-aggressive (and not-so-passive) insult he threw your way. You told him about the fundraiser and the fit he threw over the food you had made. When you got to the “Adult Film” comment, Peter interjected. 

“Yikes! What did Harry say?”

Your face twisted like you had eaten something sour, and in a way, it felt like you had. As you spoke, you felt the bitter taste the words left on your tongue. You cleared your throat, making sure to “speak with your chest.”

“He didn’t say anything. He watched the food for me so I could go upstairs and change.”

Peter made a face of disgust, but just then your overly bubbly server returned. She placed each burger in front of you, and you ignored that Peter received more fries than you. Again, she tried to speak a little while longer, trying to ignite a conversation not realising she was trampling over the coals already set ablaze. 

You took a bite from your burger and you can taste the love and history seared in. As juice starts to trickle between your fingers, you get lost in this perfectly flavoured, flame-grilled patty. It’s so good you could eat it plain. But you don’t because you’re not a psychopath that eats plain patties. 

You’re so lost in your delicious burger that you don’t see the distracted way in which Peter is picking at his fries. There’s a question hanging from his slightly pouted lips; confusion resting on his brow. He lets you enjoy a few bites before eventually he decides that he did hear you right and that he needed clarification. 

“Wait…Harry didn’t say anything?”

You shook your head no as you swallowed your bite.

“He didn’t say anything?” Peter asked again. 

You nodded your head, quickly grabbing a napkin to wipe and cover your mouth. 

“What do you say to that? ‘Hey! Don’t say that!’” You scoff, “Like Norman would listen.”

Peter gave you a sad look before muttering a “Yeah, I guess,” before encouraging you to go on. You told him about the rest of the night (or at least the rest of Norman’s stay), before skipping to this morning. You told him about the outfit conundrum and the coffee-breakfast fiasco and when you finished, Peter let out a sigh, letting your words wash over him. 

“Damn,” he finally said, “That sucks.”

You hummed an “mh-hm” as you bit into your burger, then insisted that he share about his day around a mouthful of cheddar, beef, tomato, lettuce, and some in-house sauce you desperately wanted the recipe to, but knew you would never get. 

As you ate, Peter told you all about how Gwen is getting ready for England- about how stressful it is to get her ready in just six weeks. But also how sad it is knowing that one of his favourite people would soon be living in a different country for a year, and the best he could do was visit. 

He told you about how he needed to find a roommate, and he was considering Ned, someone he met at the Bugle, who was apparently pretty cool. He told you about his nightly phone call with May, which was funny, to you, because they saw each other all the time. Seriously. If Peter wasn’t home or at work, he was with May: helping her out with groceries, with the laundry, or fixing anything that squeaked in the house. It was really sweet. 

Peter then starts talking about other things, and you chew along as you follow his train of thought down every broken track and blindsiding curve. You honestly feel a lot better with food in your stomach. You forget just how hangry you can get. 

But as helpful as that burger was, you knew it was the company you shared that made you feel better. Peter Parker had once again worked his magic, and you felt loads better. He’s making you smile and laugh, helping you forget all the shitty hours before now. Time is now at a standstill. There’s nothing here but you and Peter, in your own little world. 

You feel a nudge at your foot and Peter wears a face of faux-indignation. You make your own face that reads, “What do you want?”

Peter fights back a smile, “You weren’t listening.”

You swallow your bite, “Yes I was, you were talking about your essay on some bacteria in the metabolism.”

“No,” he says kicking your foot again, “I was talking about the differences between Acrocanthosauruses and Carcharodontosauruses, but you were too lost in your burger to care.”

He breathes a dramatic sigh, imitating “every woman in a period piece ever” and the very reason he refuses to watch any of them with you. You smack his foot, breaking him from his false wallowing. 

“Was there a reason you were ranting about dinosaurs again?”

Peter returns the smack with a kick of his own. 

“Well, you would know that I was studying prehistoric plants in my botany class right now if you were a good friend.”

His words hold no ire, instead, they are spoken in a nasally, mocking tone. You kick him back, defending yourself anyway.

“I am a good friend! I’m paying for lunch and letting you rant about dinosaurs uninterrupted.”

Peter kicked your foot again with dramatically furrowed brows but a smile he couldn’t hold back, “I give you dinosaur lessons for free. You should be grateful for all that I share.”

You return the kick, “I am! I loved last week’s lesson on cephalopods-”

“The ​​Nautiloids, specifically.” Peter corrects, swatting at your foot again, “Cephalopods include a lot of things, such as squids, octopi, and cuttlefish.”

You roll your eyes at Peter’s triumphant grin. With no whitty remarks left you smack his foot again, this time a little harder, and stick out your tongue. Peter takes that as a declaration of war, and soon, a game of footsie breaks out. Towards the end of it, your pumping both of your legs as if biking while Peter does the same. 

You call a truce when Peter notices the waitress coming back over. Her uniform had changed since you first walked in. Now she wore her hair down, the chestnut waves falling over her shoulders. Her apron was folded over, much like Lenny’s, and her shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show she had cleavage without really showing it. 

“Hey, just wanted to check on you.” She says through a smile with way too much teeth, to Peter. Not you. She has only been looking at Peter, this whole time, who is of course, oblivious.

“I think we’re ready for the check.” You say shortly. 

The girl doesn’t say anything, just nods her head and promises to be right back. You pull out your wallet, card ready for when she returned. She passed the check to Peter when she returned, once again, ignoring you completely. Peter made a confused face before passing it to you. While you filled out the receipt the waitress tried once again to drum up conversation. 

“I’m Margot, by the way.” she stutters out. 

Peter is polite as ever, offering his name and his hand to shake. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I overheard you talking about dinosaurs.” You notice the way she’s leaning forward, all but shoving her boobs in Peter’s face. “I just think they’re so cool. What’s your favourite one?”

You felt an anger rise within you. Margot looked to be a few years younger than you, maybe eighteen or nineteen. She’s young and pretty and way too obvious. Couldn’t this girl just leave you guys alone? Were you just fucking invisible? Why couldn’t you just talk to your friend in peace? 

Before sweet, oblivious Peter could answer her, you snap, “He’s taken.”

The young woman looks at you with a sort of horror on her face as she straightens back up. She looks between you guys a few times as her cheeks begin to redden. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t realise-”

“No, not by me!” You almost shout.

 You want to slam your head against the wall. Why is it that everyone thinks you’re a couple, or want to be? Is being friends so crazy?

“Just in general. He has a girlfriend.” You lamely explain. “Who isn’t me, but is very real.”

She looks at you with a look that could be confusion but you take it as disbelief. 

“...okaayyy…” she says as she awkwardly steps away from the booth. You fell back against the cushioned seat, sipping on your coffee as you avoided Peter’s wide eyes. You couldn’t avoid his laugh though. He very obviously thought your behaviour was hilarious. In fact, he voiced just how funny it was that you “defended his honour.” That you chased off the waitress he was too oblivious to notice was flirting with him, all on his behalf. 

“You pulled a ‘me’ at the bar!” he choked out between gasps of laughter, clutching his stomach as he fell deeper and deeper into the seat of the booth, referring to all the times he’s had to step in when a guy just couldn’t take a hint. 

You didn’t say anything, just stomped his foot under the table until he got the message. You weren’t truly cross with him, merely embarrassed. But Peter got that, because he always did. 

And you were always grateful for that. Especially now as your walking Peter back to class as he tells you all about the dinner May is planning next weekend. She was making a five-course dinner to celebrate Gwen getting into Oxford and was super excited about it. It warmed your heart to hear Peter’s impression of his Aunt as she insisted all of his friends were in attendance. 

“Seriously dude,” Peter says with wild eyes and a finger pointed in your face, “you have to be there, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

You swat his hand away with a laugh and check his shoulder as you walk across the street, and passed the library. Peter laughs along with you and he’s happy to see you feel a lot better. 

Your smile is back and radiant, and your sass has returned. Along with that twinkle in your eye, the setting sun makes your irises glitter like river stones. There’s a slight rosiness to your cheeks from Jack Frost’s ruthlessness in these November days. And Peter was tracing the constellations he found on your face- mesmerized by the fables they told. 

Halfway through the story of when you stopped believing in Santa Claus, you got a call and both of your wonderment was broken. You can see the health and science building in front of you. But you feel it. A force that pulls you. Like a marionette on a string, you pull your phone from your pocket. 

“It’s Harry.”

You don’t know why you sound so sad when you say it. You didn’t mean to say it like that. Through a dead sigh and slumped shoulders. With a subtle drag at the corners of your mouth and a tightness in your chest. But you do feel bad, for not being excited to talk to him. You should be. 

You tuck your phone back in your pocket, deciding that you just like spending time with Peter, your friend, and you haven’t gotten to do that often. It’s not that you don’t want to talk to your boyfriend, you’re not avoiding him, you just didn’t want to say goodbye to Peter just yet. 

“He can wait,” You say more for yourself than Peter, but you feel like you’ve made the right decision as his smile stretches across his face. 

Peter beams and gives you a small thank you as you continue to walk Peter up the stairs. Once to the top, you stand across from one another, just smiling. You wrap your arms around your friend and he returns the favour. You bid him farewell, promising to see him next weekend and he promises to text you later. 

You can’t fight the smile on your face. Not when you open your phone again to see four missed calls and two text messages from Harry. Not when you pick up the phone and he lightly scolds you for not answering. Not as he tells you he has the driver circling around the campus because he got out of work early, and wanted to surprise you by picking you up. You can’t fight it when you finally get in the back seat. 

Harry grabs at the side of your neck once you’ve settled and pulls you closer to lay a strong kiss on your cheek. 

“Did you have a good day?” He asks. 

You can’t help but laugh as you tell him that you actually had a terrible day, “But I got lunch with Peter and that made up for a lot of it.”

Harry agreed, “Ole Petey Boy can turn any day around.”

You laughed along, “He sure can. It’s a gift.”

Before you can tell him what went wrong in your day, Harry is telling you about the amazing breakthrough they had at oscorp with a regenerative plant species. You don’t quite understand what he’s saying, but you know it’s good because of how excited he’s getting. And it’s rare to see him express excitement. 

He stops talking and looks to you for a response. You gasp, then tell him all about how amazing he is and how smart he is. He smirks, thanking you but trying not to let you see the compliments inflating his ego in real time. 

In an attempt to not look so big-headed, he said, “Well, I couldn’t have done it without my researchers- Gwen included. Which reminds me…My father wants to host another gala next weekend, to promote our breakthrough and announce the Marathon.”

Suddenly everything is bad again and you wish life would give you some kind of warning before your neck breaks from the whiplash. Harry notices the way your face falls and offers you comfort in his arms. You curl up against his chest as he absent mindly strokes your hair. 

“I’m sorry dear,” he offers, “I know you don’t like the Galas.”

“No, No, it’s not that,” you say with a sigh. “It’s just….May wanted to have this dinner, for Gwen, and she really wanted all of us there. And I promised I would.”

You rest your chin against his chest, batting your eyelashes over your hopeful gaze. 

“I’m sorry dear, I’ll be sure to send her flowers and a nice Piedmont.”

Your hopes are dashed. It seems you're going to a gala instead of a Parker family (and friend) dinner.

Tag List: @actuallypeterparker, @andrews-lovr, @barbecuetiddy @cherriescherriesred25, @heejinw0rld, @ilovemoonknight, @Isshecrazyorissheclever, @negasonic-teenage-asshole, @preciousbabypeter, @princesskittycatofmeowland, @purple-amaranthe, @raajali3, @rudy-the-winged-wolf, @scorpiolystoned, @supernerdycookietrashblr, @tayswiftlovebot, @wannapizzamymindposts, @whoreforklitz

[folkloreintime]

7 Days of Taylor Smut - Christmas Edition

Day 1 - ugly sweaters

summary: Taylor records Christmas Tree Farm in the studio, filth and hilarity ensues.

warnings: smut, oral, fingering, fluff, fem!reader

word count: 810

“Where every wish comes true…” Taylor finished the note of her new Christmas song with a smile. Turning to her producer she gave a thumbs up to him, “Was that okay?” She asked, taking the headphones off and walking out of the sound booth.

“Yeah, Taylor, that was awesome! We’ve got a Christmas hit on our hands.” He said enthusiastically while messing with different multi-coloured buttons. “Okay, break and then we’ll do backing vocals later today, yeah?” He said quickly while exiting the room.

Taylor spun around to you, her face plastered with a big grin “So? Did you like it?” She asked hopefully. “I loved it. It reminded me of when we spent that one Christmas on the farm, do you remember?” Sliding your hands around her waist, you drew her in closer, a glint of mischief swept across your eyes.

“I think I need reminding…” She leaned in and drew your lips in a kiss. It was soft at first, your lips barely pressed into hers but you could feel her smiling and her small giggles vibrated across your mouth. “Well, I remember a lot of warm nights by the fire.” You whispered in her ear, sliding your hands up and down her back, trying to catch a glimpse of her skin.

“No… I still don’t remember. I think I need a demonstration-“ Her eyes were fixed on yours as she wrapped her arms around your neck and leant in close “To jog my memory, you know?”. Fiercely, you took up her lips again, more passionately this time, looking for any type of interaction she could give you.

She moaned out and you began to take off her sweater. You pulled back from her as you heard a jingle in your hands. You looked down in your hands to see her sweater, adorned with tiny golden bells. You shook the sweater in amusement once more as the small bells clacked against each other. “Seriously, Tay?” You asked gawking at the hideous red and green jumper that had cats wearing Santa hats plastered all over it. “What?! It's Christmas!” She said incredulously, wholly defending her outfit choice.

You both laughed at her antics and soon enough your hands found their place on her warm milky skin trying to take it all in. “We don’t have forever.” She huffed impatiently, undoing the button on her pants to speed up the process. “Okay, Bossy.” You smirked as you dropped to your knees, removing her panties and tossing them haphazardly to the side.

You leant closer to her center, breathing in her scent. She placed two hands on the top of your head and pushed you further into her. Slowly, you placed your tongue on her pussy, moving up and down in fluid motions. You began to speed up, moving between sucking on her clit and licking around her slit. Her moans echoed around the room as she tightened her grip on your hair.

“Please.” She whimpered, begging for release. Her inclinations only spurred you on as you brought a finger up to her pussy. Languidly, you moved it into the hilt and licked all the way up to her clit before bringing it out again. You placed one hand on her thigh as you added another finger, still sucking on her intermittently. She groaned as you reached your maximum pace, your only thought in that moment was to bring her to climax.

Taylor’s grip on your hair tightened once more as you pushed her over the edge. You didn’t stop your movements all throughout her orgasm. “Oh, God.” She rolled her eyes to the back of her head, grinding down on your face to ride the last bits of her climax. Satisfied, you stood up and picked up her sweater. “Remember now?” You asked as you handed her the sweater, the bells ringing out at the same time.

She breathed out, trying to find the words as her mind felt frazzled. “I don’t know. Maybe if you treat me to a hot chocolate by the fire and another demonstration, I could?” She smirked at you as she adjusted her clothing back on. “Will you wear that sweater?” You raised an eyebrow at her, teasing her.

“Shut up.” She joked, but she had that Taylor-like glint in her eye that meant she was lowkey serious. “I’m getting you a matching one.” She pointed a finger at you.

“Let’s get you that hot chocolate. And some more demonstrations, of course.” You grabbed her and walked hand in hand out of the room, not commenting on her jingling sweater for fear she would get you an even louder one.

And she kept true to her promise for 2 days later she gifted you a fluffy red and gold sweater, adorned with 3 large bells and multi-coloured 3D baubles on the little green Christmas tree.

end.

Day 2 - sugar high

[timeofjuly]

i keep thinking of the scenario if electrician were to run into ppl of her past like izzy from new years… i like imagine her going “ bunny it’s been so long you look better then ever “ and electrician is like 😀 do i know you..? due to their gaps in memory (i’m also interested how much their memory will affect them as the story progresses, i myself suffer from the issue and being young it’s kinda scary sometimes 😞)

This ask made me write something! This is set pre-RTC in the earlier days of MC’s sobriety. They’ve just moved to New Ebott here. 

Read it on AO3 or read it below!

Licence

You’re leaving the DMV, of all the fucking places, when it happens. 

Most people hate the DMV but you had practically skipped into the place for your eleven am appointment, overcome with joy at the thought of getting your driver’s licence back. The public transportation in New Ebott is great and your ass looks amazing after all the cycling you’ve been doing when the weather is nice, but there’s something about the independence of a car that you’ve missed. With your licence back, your employment prospects won’t be limited to the boundaries of public transport and your stamina when pedalling. 

With your licence back, you’ll be able to go to school. 

That’s the thing you’re most excited about. School. College. University. Whatever. You just want to learn something, to use the brain that you’ve let go to shit. You don’t even care what - at this point, with your dismal record and embarrassing results from high school, you’ll take what you can get. 

You’ve wasted enough of your life and you don’t want to squander a second more. 

After tucking your brand new licence safely in your back pocket, you leave the DMV, still smiling, and make your way to the bus stop. You’ll miss catching it; all the drivers are lovely and it’s nice to be driven around the city, like your own personal tour. 

You’ve got time to kill until the bus arrives, so you open your phone and start scrolling through hundreds of second hand car listings. 

You’re not picky; you have a tight budget and will probably hit your fair share of curbs in it anyway, but it’s nice to look at the fancier ones and dream. A convertible sounds nice; there’s a bright red one for sale, way outside of your budget. You imagine the wind in your hair, the sheer cool factor of rolling down the street with the top down. Oh, or maybe a motorbike; you had loved your stupid, ugly little scooter, and a motorbike would be even better. And you’d get to wear all the sexy leather gear. Double win. 

“Oh my stars, do my eyes deceive me?”

The cold hand of panic twists through your ribcage and wraps around your heart, fingers taking hold and squeezing. 

You know that voice. 

You turn around.

On the sidewalk are two people staring at you with equally ecstatic expressions and you only recognise one of them. 

Izzy looks… well, she looks good, you suppose, clothes fashionable and scales polished to a sheen, though you can see a few of them are missing. The spines on her head are droopy, a little paler in colour than what you remember, and there’s a beadiness to her eyes that you never noticed before. 

You haven’t seen her in months but from how unfamiliar she looks, it feels more like years. 

“Damn, you’re looking good!” says the man you don’t recognise. 

And you know that you knew this person once, can hear the echo of his voice through the fog of your memory, even recognise his hands for the way they’d felt on your skin, but there’s something missing, something your stupid, ruined, useless brain is unable to grasp.

“Hey,” you say, affecting your brightest party-girl smile. “Long time no see.”

“Fucking hell, no shit!” the man laughs. He’s handsome, tall and very blond. “How’ve you been? You look so different.”

With each month you add to your sobriety, you’re told that with increasing frequency. You don’t really see it yourself - you feel like the exact same person most of the time. Worse, even. You’re horrible to be around when you’re in pain. 

“Good, really good,” you say. “How have –”

“Dude, I thought you were dead!” Izzy crows, looking delighted. “You just disappeared, like that.” She snaps her fingers, a jarring scrape of scale-on-claw. 

“Yeah, we all thought that Jesse threw the bunny out with the bath water,” the man says. His tone is light, like it’s a fucking joke or something. 

This person is a stranger to you. You couldn’t even guess his name if you tried. And yet he knows about that —

You tense. Pull a smile to your face. Do your best to shake off the phantom feeling of ice crystallising on the tip of your nose. “Nah, I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

And he laughs and so does Izzy and you laugh too, even though it feels like glass in your throat, because what else can you do?

“Well, I’m glad,” says Izzy and then she sweeps you up into a hug. She smells like old perfume clinging to unwashed clothes and you can feel a faint tremble in her hands as they grip your back. 

You hug back, even though you suddenly feel strange and unwieldy, like your arms aren’t your own. 

I want to go home, you think. Another thing you’d be able to do if you just had a fucking car and hadn’t lost your fucking licence in the first place. 

Izzy pulls back but then the man swoops in to take her place. You’re pressed to the line of his body, and though you’ve probably seen it naked, touched it all over, the feel of it is foreign to you. 

You let go first. 

“What’re you doing in New Ebott, anyway?” Izzy asks. 

“Just passing through,” you lie, because fuck if you’re letting her know that you live here now. “What about you guys?”

“Same thing,” Izzy says. “We’re crashing with Palyso at the moment, remember him?”

Nope. 

“Oh, yeah, totally.”

“Yeah, good guy, really funny. Hey, he’s actually having a party tonight, you should come! Just like old times.” The stranger waggles his eyebrows at you. 

You don’t need to remember the specifics to work out what he means. 

“Yeah, come with us,” Izzy begs. “Everyone’ll be so happy to see you. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

The itch you’re not allowed to scratch burns. It’d be so easy, so fucking easy, to say yes. What’s one night? You don’t even need to use; who says you can’t have fun sober?

The word yes sits in your mouth like a hot coal and then the memory of water, cracking with thin shards of ice, washes over it. 

The desire is gutted out. Not even smoke remains. 

“I’ll sit this one out,” you say. 

“Aw, c’mon, bunny! You’ve gotta—“

The sound of an engine rumbles behind you and your soul sings with relief. 

Thank you, timely public transportation of New Ebott. 

“This is me,” you say, hoping you sound apologetic. “It was nice seeing you guys!”

You don’t wait for a reply, practically flinging yourself onto the bus. The driver gives you a concerned look - you’re a regular and most of them know you by name  - but you just give her a reassuring grin, because you’re fine. You’re fine. You’re completely, one hundred per cent fine. 

You take a seat near the front and stare down at your hands. You think of the way Izzy's shook. The way yours had once. The way they don’t anymore. You hadn’t noticed that until now. 

God fucking damnit. 

Stupid, unwarranted tears prickle hot at your eyes and worse, there’s something sharp poking you in the butt. 

Fearing that you’ve sat in something that’ll rip a hole in your pants - wouldn’t that be your fucking luck - you lift your hips and grope blindly at your ass. 

Oh, right. 

You forgot that you wedged it in your pocket after leaving the DMV. 

You look down at your brand new licence, turning the shiny plastic card around in your hands. Your own face stares back up at you. 

You dig around in your purse and from the very bottom, unearth the remains of your old licence, kept purely for sentimental reasons. It’s cut clean down the middle, made unusable the moment you’d lost it, but the image of your face is still intact. 

You compare the two, side-by-side. In the new one, your face is fuller and your skin smoother. Your lips have colour to them and your eyes are bright and awake, the whites white rather than bloodshot yellow. 

In the new one, you’re smiling. 

Huh. You see it, now. 

You do look different after all.

[coffeeangelinabox]

Whumpril #6: Dizziness

“We know there were more of you,” the guard’s frustration morphs to aggressive. “You think the Domain doesn’t keep records!?” His boot impacts Cyrus’ midriff once more, and he can’t help it. He curls, whimpering and retching, tears springing to his eyes. 

“Just us,” he chokes out. “You caught my brothers. There’s no one else.”

Another kick and this time the toe of the boot digs into the bruise left on his sternum. “Do you want me to get an interrogator? Is that it? A beating not good enough for the great Cyrus Porter, you want us to flay your mind open.”

No. He really, really doesn’t want that. He’s reasonably sure he’s got cracked ribs. Another good kick might break them, and if he can get the guard to shake him…lung punctures, internal bleeding. It won’t be quick and it’ll be damn painful, but it’ll be over. To judge by the dizziness, he’s already been kicked in the head a few times, the lack of remembering such a thing only adding to its likelihood. If he can annoy this guard enough, it might even be quick. But it’s a fine line to walk, riling him enough to get brutally murdered in a filthy cell without pushing him far enough to make him want to watch Cyrus suffering under the handsknivesdrugs of an expert. 

“No,” he rasps, and almost asks for water and doesn’t. Weakness and dehydration can only be to his benefit. “No…and I don’t think you want to waste an interrogator’s time, either. I can’t imagine they take that too well.”

The guard reaches down, digging fists into the collar of the filthy jump suit and hauls Cyrus up. He’s not a small man, nor a light one. Only one of his eyes will still open, the other swelled shut with bruising, and the sudden elevation change makes the pain in his head and the accompanying sick wooziness increase. Still, he looks the guard over as appraisingly as he can. 

“Enhanced?” he asks, mockery colouring his tone. 

The shake he receives rattles his teeth. 

“Of course not, I’m not filthy like you!”

“You’re barely taller than my niece,” Cyrus retorts. “Enhancements or steroids, but there’s no way you should be dragging me around. I haven’t been here that long.” He pauses. Turns the taunting up another notch. “Compensating for something.”

Instead of the fury he had expected (hoped for) and the slam into a wall that might put a bone through an organ and end all this, the guard merely smiles. He takes one hand off Cyrus, fastidiously dusting off the jump suit, straightening wrinkles. He walks him back to his bed, pushes him into a seated position at the end of it and smirks down at him. 

“Only you three in that whole complex?” he asks.

“Yep.”

The three Porter brothers and no one else?”

“That’s right.”

“And their names are..?”

A secret there’s no point in keeping, they’d been walked out with him, forced to their knees alongside him. He’d had to listen to Hamish begging them not to shoot Romulus, not to separate them. Then darkness. Then here. 

“Hamish and Romulus,” he grits out. He can pretend to cooperate on this at least. If the guard thinks he’s giving up everything he can, well…

He really really doesn’t want to be given to the Domain’s interrogators. 

“So where’s this niece then?”

Cyrus’ heart stops in his chest. Of all the stupid- Oh, he blames what it is quickly becoming clear is a concussion for the error, but even so. He should be better than this. Should have known. 

“She…” he grinds his sluggish brain into action, even as the room spins and sways, the guard blurring. “She died. It’s not like known rebels can go to the hospital for injuries sustained during raids.”

The guard nods understandingly. 

Cyrus slams his eyes shut. The guards movement in opposition to the movement his scrambled brain is superimposing over the whole lot and making him feel even sicker. Behind his closed eyes rises an image of Rosie. Hamish’s girl literally, but they’d all raised her. Cyrus sees her now as the tiny girl she’d been a decade ago. Hair as black as nightshade tangled to her waist, always with smears and smudges on her face and clothes, cuffs rolled up because nothing ever fit, talking a mile a minute as a new project or idea occurred to her, and her endless interminable questions. 

But whyyyyyyyy, Uncle Cyrus. 

She’d be safe, she’d be safe no matter what he had to endure to make it so. Romulus swore up and down that Darrow was trustworthy, and they went way back to Romulus’ own army days, so he has to hold out, has to give her time to clear the system, to buy a new identity, to leave them all behind.

“If I ask the others about this niece of yours, will they tell me the same?” The guard sounds bored. He knows Cyrus is lying. 

“Yeah.” No. Hamish at least will never be able to lie that his daughter is dead. He’d choke on the words.

“Alright,” the guard feigns belief. “I’ll ask them. But if I hear anything different, I’m going to come right back here and start cutting parts off until you tell me the truth.”

“‘Kay.” He knows his disinterest sounds like bravado, but the room is whirling so much now that the guard’s voice sounds like it’s coming from the other end of a long tunnel. He’s barely clinging to consciousness. 

The cell door clangs. 

Run, Rosie. Don’t look back.

[hinny-canons]

@corneliaavenue-ao3 ‘s Several Sunlit Daylights

Debut: Stay Beautiful

Making paper chains for Christmas was always a long, but fun task. Ginny always took responsibility for it and she never used magic to make them.

She got all of her materials and set them out on the table and got to work.

Her work was stopped short when Harry entered the room and saw what she was doing. “Hey, Gin,” he said. “What are you making?”

“Paper chains,” she said, looking up at him. “I just started making them.”

“That’s nice. Do you need any help?”

Usually, Ginny would say no, since she liked to do it by herself. But this was Harry. She’d do anything to spend time with Harry.

She scooted over on the floor to make some room for him. “You can make them with me,” she smiled.

Harry grinned. “Great! You’re gonna have to tell me how first, though.”

She told him how to do it quickly and he caught on pretty quick. She came to realize that Harry was a fast learner.

“So, you’ve never made any Christmas decorations before?” Ginny asked, making a conversation.

“No, the Dursleys weren’t too big on making them yourself when they could just buy it.”

“They sound like no fun.”

“They weren’t fun at all. That’s why I like it here better, it’s more lively and happy.” Ginny was so happy to hear that Harry felt comfortable at the Burrow. He deserved to have a safe place. “And I love spending time with you and Ron.”

Hearing him say that he loved to spend time with her, made her heart flutter. Not to mention he was looking at her rather tenderly, his eyes like a jungle she could get herself lost in.

Ginny just smiled at him. “I love spending time with you as well. I think I’ve gotten to know you better recently.”

“Yeah, it’s been nice. However, I will never forget the time you had a crush on me and wrote me poems,” he smirked.

“Oh, please, forget it!” Ginny groaned. “It was the most embarrassing moment of my life, my poem about you read in front of everyone!”

“It was rather cute.”

Ginny looked at him. She couldn’t believe he thought it was cute! Eleven-year-old Ginny would die if she heard that. Fifteen-year-old Ginny however just has butterflies in her stomach.

“I’m glad you think that and never said it to my little self out loud. She would have died.”

Harry laughed. “No, it was a nice gesture. Most girls at school just like me because I’m the Chosen One, or whatever. None of them have said my eyes are as green as fresh pickled toads.”

Ginny stared at him in astonishment. “You still remember it!”

“Of course, I do! I still have the poem in my bag.”

Okay, Ginny didn’t know how much more of this she could take before falling head over heels for Harry Potter!

They continued making the paper chains when Ginny started talking again. “For the record, I don’t think girls only like you because you’re the Chosen One.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard the way the girls talk about you in the Common Room. They usually gush about how pretty you are or how sweet you are.”

Ginny saw the slight blush rise on his cheeks. “Really? Well, that’s new.”

Ginny looked at the way he smiled and got back to the paper chains. She knew he was very pretty and that he needed to hear it from someone. His hair is perfect, everyone knows that. His eyes are Ginny’s favourite colour. His smile is like the radio.

Does he know? Will he ever know?

“Well, I think you’re beautiful, Harry,” she blurted out.

Harry’s eyes lit up as he looked at her. “Thank you.” If his cheeks were red before, they were definitely red now. “I, uh…I think you’re beautiful as well. Very beautiful.”

Ginny felt like she was gonna melt in a puddle of happiness with how softly he was looking at her.

She wanted him to stay beautiful like this, looking at her like she was a treasure.

[sukunasun]

hi do you write dark content? is it possible we get stalker!geto pls!

sigh sigh...

its the competency for me...the amount of research he’s done, can't really be a stalker if you get caught, or if you don’t at least have a basic understanding of surveillance tech...it’s not difficult sure, where’s the challenge really when no one is safe, when information is so easily accessible, but he shouldn’t complain. after all what has years of experience given him? that he doesn’t go after every type of woman but the ones that happen to just have that little bit of resistance. enough to suspect, to be wary, but not enough that they wouldn’t fall for him. and maybe he genuinely likes you too, but only as someone to own and keep, i’d do anything to tap into that violent and psychotic level of devotion and love he’s so capable of. 

the layers will start to unravel eventually and he comes off a little bit on edge, unhinged too, so creepy how he has zero self awareness, that people are put off by him, "you can't keep threatening to kill the waiter," you say, a little worried at his violent outbursts, and how he's able to just revert back to being the sweetheart you fell for. calm and collected. the emotional whiplash is strong.—"you're right sweetie, i should have just killed him on the spot, that way i wouldn't have to waste my breath..."

the way he’s sending you random packages of the most specific items, how did he know the exact brand of perfume you use, or your bra size. the flowers he sends to your workplace are nice, but the messages are a little much though, there's only so many ‘i love you’s written on every square inch of scallop trimmed card a girl can handle, but still...nice nonetheless, beautiful even.

so expensive too, how could you say no, how could you return the boots you’ve been eyeing for months, your name left on a waiting list for the longest time and he’s managed to get them shipped to you in a matter of days. you wear the boots, the earrings, all these things he’s gifted you and he’ll take it as a sign of your approval, which is why he doesn’t think you’ll turn them down...not the drawings he’s made of the two of you entwined, holding hands or having him atop you, he’s even got the colour of your hair and eyes in the right shade. what an artist, and a writer too, or at least the ten-page fanfic he’s written will be a testament to his skill, pictorial the way he describes how exactly he jerks off to you, how he’d like to see the fear flash across your eyes for that split second he presses a knife to your skin, against fleshy thighs, should he carve his name there?— “i was just being poetic you know, i won’t actually do that stuff...” he laughs it off.  

and he loves listening in on your conversations, searching up every contact in your phone, everything he does leads up to this, to hear you say "oh i love him, we're soulmates, i hope we'll stay together forever,” and he can't help but smile. beauty is in the eye of the beholder and what he sees in you stems less from physical attraction but that you’d be willing prey, he’ll be patient, doesn’t care how long it’ll take because of the satisfaction he gets when it all comes together.

you’ll be so happy with him, caresses the photos he’s taken from dark corners, on a rooftop, some he’s stolen straight off your job website. pinned to his wall alongside maps spread open, coordinates he’s scribbled on a piece of scrap paper, bank statements and text messages, your blood test results and medical records, all the people who've wronged you framed in passport sized thumbnails, arranged in a neat, uniformed line, red crosses over the ones he's already taken care of...suddenly that annoying co worker who makes you work overtime has disappeared, and your ex-boyfriend hasn’t posted anything in awhile...but geto's a professional of course, never leaves a trail, whether by bullet or knife or his bare hands, he loves you enough to not get you in trouble, he wouldn't want that for you...

your eyes rake over them, it finally clicks—"you killed them,” you whisper, shocked. breaths puffing out hurriedly, your heart begins to hammer, pounding so loud you miss his thumping footsteps coming closer.  "i had to,” geto replies standing before his handiwork, the attention to detail, a whole masterpiece. 

he’s sympathetic, hates seeing you so upset, fingers coming up to graze over the picture of your ex-boyfriend, “he wronged you,” geto explains, then drags his hands to the next photo, fingers pointing to your colleagues, “and they were such a nuisance weren’t they? i didn’t like that they made you work so hard…i waited all night for you to come home,” his shoulders rise and fall as he lets out another sigh, one that carries memories of sitting by his multitude of screens displaying live footage from cameras he’s no doubt set up, wired microphones in every corner of your apartment. 

"i know you best, i’ve seen everything,” ; taking a nap at 2, then work on a dissertation at 4, his eyes never leaving you for a second. casually watching you while sipping on tea, eyes taking in your form lounging in a bed, plush pillows resting under your chin, against your hip as you tap away at your computer and knows just exactly what you're doing; he knows you’re catching feelings, that you have notes written out of date ideas and long, long letters you'll never send to him, 'bday gifts' and 'children's names' in a bullet point list, all the cute new outfits waiting in a cart, and there’s the porn...just that little thing he rewards himself with—indulges in the fact that somehow your tastes are very specific, why are tall men with long hair the only thing you search for, that you’re more inclined to, or that you specifically like listening to the audios with melodic voices, whiny men who get right up to the mic and beg. and sometimes it’s the other way around...how dark and depraved you are to like what he does to you, “we belong together, i can make you happy, aren't you tired of being alone?” he says then, after he’s wound the rope around your wrists and it starts to cut into the skin, he pleads, he cries, “i couldn’t live without you...we’re meant to be...don't you want to be loved?" knowing you waited so long to hear it.

——————————————————

(inspired by a few lil messages from a discord chat with @sandsorghum ! )