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blindmagdalena · 5 months ago

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Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter three)

18+ 3.8k. homelander x f!reader. pre-s1. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, forced relationship, slow burn, eventual smut. fic directory | AO3

Now that he's got you all to himself, it's clear that Homelander has no intention of letting you go. For the sake of your own survival, you have no choice but to adopt his madness and play along with his domestic fantasy.

Homelander is insane.

You don’t know how to reconcile the hero of Vought’s marketing with this man, whose very presence unnerves you. There’s something uncanny about the way he moves, speaks, even the way he smiles at you. It all feels simultaneously practiced, and yet like he’s never actually spoken one on one to another human being.

The sentiment spins in your mind like a record, the melody scratchy and discordant. It’s as though you’ve fallen into some kind of bizzaro dimension where up is down, the sky is green, and Vought’s golden hero is a delusional kidnapping maniac who premeditated your abduction to the point of filling his home with a perfectly curated wardrobe for you. Even the products in the bathroom mirror your own.

You are home.

The conviction with which he said it gives you goosebumps. In the moment you’d been numb, trapped somewhere between reality and dream. That feeling–some mixture of shock and whatever he drugged you with–lingers with you even now, like you’ll wake up from this nightmarish fantasy at any moment.

You smooth your hands down your body, now clad in unfamiliar silk that feels cool and expensive against your skin. The sleep wear fits you like a glove. It’s your favorite color. It could have been pulled straight from your own closet if not for the lack of wear and the undoubtedly exorbitant price tag. All for wearing to bed.

Bed.

Nerves flutter in your gut like caged birds. You give yourself one last lingering look in the mirror. Washed and lotioned with the menagerie of products left for you, you’re unable to stall in the bathroom any longer. You’re as “comfortable” as you’re going to get, and Homelander’s waiting for you.

The thought makes you shiver. You can still feel his hands on your wrists like phantom shackles. From the moment he snapped and grabbed you, shocking you with immeasurable inhuman strength, you knew you were going to have to proceed with extreme caution.

There’s something deeply wrong with him, and you’re terrified of what else he’s capable of.

What if you’re not the first person he’s done this to?

Worse than that thought, what if you’re not the last?

It’s a short walk back to the bedroom, the way lit by the dim spotlights that hang over the portraits that litter the walls. There’s an eeriness to the penthouse that makes you feel as though you’re walking through an empty museum after hours.

The glossy wood flooring is as cold as tile beneath your bare feet, every part of this place hard and manufactured. It feels more like an enclosure than a home.

Even more bizarre than the decor is the layout itself. You haven’t seen the whole place yet–he had insisted a tour was for daylight hours–but rounding the corner from the living room takes you to an open alcove that serves as his bedroom.

You hesitate in the open hall, struck by the sight of yourself reflected a dozen times over in the mirrors that make up his bedroom walls and ceiling, and Homelander himself already tucked into bed, his torso bare.

Your stomach flips. He smiles at you, beckoning you with a nod towards the empty side of the bed. Anxiety crawls up your spine like an insect with every step you take towards the bed, worsened by the open anticipation he watches you with. It goes against your every instinct to move closer to him.

Just as you reach the bed, he flips the blanket down for you. You tense, gaze dipping, but you’re relieved to find that he is not entirely nude.

He’s wearing sleep pants with a thin band that nicely hugs the sharp jut of his hip, following the slight curve of his stomach. He’s leaner than the chiseled exaggeration of his suit implies, but his strength is no illusion. His hand felt like a steel vice around your wrist, his pull like being guided by a freight train.

Homelander clears his throat and your eyes snap back up to his. You realize all at once you’ve been standing there in silence staring for far too long at his half-exposed body. Embarrassment hits in a hot rush and you mumble some kind of half formed apology, busying yourself with slipping into the bed, lingering at the edge.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, watching you settle on your back and tug the blanket over yourself.

“Like what you see?” he asks, smiling crookedly. Though he claims he has no intention of eating you, you wouldn’t know it by the look in his eyes. He has all the intensity of a bird of prey watching a rabbit skitter through an open field.

Not knowing how to respond, you stare wordlessly at him. You notice the asymmetry of his mouth for the first time, how it curves on one side.

Christ, why can’t you stop staring at him like this? Every time you try to formulate a response–something, anything–the words get jumbled up in your throat, threatening to choke you.

At a loss, you roll onto your side, putting your back to him and screwing your eyes shut. The bed dips suddenly and an arm slipping around your waist startles you into a jerk, your body going tense.

“Jeeze, so jumpy,” he laughs, breath hot on the nape of your neck. He pulls your body flush against his, your soft curves fitting seamlessly against his wrought iron edges.

His strength is impossible to ignore, inhuman and titanous. You can feel it in every part of him, but nowhere more keenly than in the flex of his arm as it encircles you, pinning you against him.

He sighs into the crook of your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

“I’ve really been looking forward to this,” he murmurs, his words nearly beneath the thunderous racket of your own heart in your ears. Your body is awash in heat, and not just from the flush rolling through you. He’s as hot as a furnace at your back, as if his skin conducts heat just as well as the steel he feels made from.

If there was any doubt before that you had no choice but to yield to him, it’s evaporated now. He could crush you without so much as a second thought if he decides you don’t fit whatever elaborate fantasy he’s created in his mind. He could make you disappear.

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging the shell of your ear with his nose. “I’m gonna take good care of you, okay?”

The pressure of a sob swells up in your throat, the reality of your situation folding in on you with the weight of the world, but you choke it back. Hesitantly, you place your hand over his forearm and squeeze, hoping it will be enough of an answer to appease him.

You feel his smile in the way he caresses the sensitive flesh of your neck with his mouth. In turn, he squeezes you against his chest like a child would his new favorite toy, covetous and possessive. It makes you wonder what sort of boy he’d been: was he the sort to be precious with his toys, or was he the sort who wore them threadbare before looking for the next new and shiny thing?

“‘Atta girl.”

Although sleep doesn’t come easily, it does at least come eventually. The room is dark, but not pitch black, and the ambient sounds of high altitude winds spilling in from his open windows are surprisingly soothing, better than the scratchy ocean recordings you usually drift to.

The exhaustion you experience in the aftermath of your abduction overtakes you, pitching you into a deep slumber. You spend the night dreaming a tumultuous mix of reality and nightmare, some aspects exaggerated while others play out perfectly as they were. The truth of your situation is nightmarish enough without any theatrics from your imagination.

Waking up in Homelander’s bed for the second time is no less disorienting than it was the first time.

Last night returns to you in bits and pieces, but nothing grounds you in reality as swiftly as the heavy arm looped around your waist, and the steady warm breaths wafting over the back of your neck, giving you goosebumps. His other arm is stretched out under your pillow, his hand resting palm up by the edge of it.

Is he asleep…?

“G’morning,” Homelander purrs, giving a firm squeeze around your middle.

Not asleep, which leaves you wondering how long he’s been awake, assuming the man actually does sleep. There’s been no lack of speculation towards how human supes really are or aren’t, whether they need to eat or rest the way regular humans do.

Especially those as powerful as Homelander.

The sleepy slur and fray of his voice gives you hope that he does, though. On top of everything else, it would be too unsettling a horror to learn that he doesn’t.

“Morning,” you give back after a beat, hating how meek your voice is. The tension in your body makes everything sound tight and forced. You see his fingers flex just before he curls his arm inward, hand clutching your shoulder to embrace you.

“I don’t know about you,” he says in your ear, lips brushing the shell of it as he speaks. “But that was the best damn night of sleep I’ve ever had.”

That solves that, you suppose.

The silence that follows makes you realize he was prompting you.

“Same.” The lie hitches in your throat like a hiccup.

Another pause, and then Homelander is shifting, uncoiling his arms from around you and lifting up on his side. With a hand on your shoulder he turns you on to your back, bringing you to face him.

You meet his gaze, but something about the look in his eyes turns your gut cold. There’s no softness in the lines of his face, not even thinning tethers of patience. There’s simply… nothing.

“Don’t ever lie to me,” he says, his voice set low and strangely hollow. “You’re free to do whatever you want. Except for that. Understand?”

Your throat clicks on a dry swallow. The weight of his stare makes it hard to breathe. You nod.

“Tell me you understand,” he says slowly, each perfectly annunciated word dripping with malice. There’s no pleading in his voice the way there had been last night. He’s composed entirely of cold and hard lines that make you feel caged, the bars shrinking around you.

“I understand,” you choke out.

Just like that, the lines at the corners of his eyes soften, crinkling with his smile. He leans in to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. The abruptness of the shift is enough to give you whiplash, leaving you dazed. For just a moment, he was another person entirely.

“That’s my girl,” he says, seeming to savor every word on his tongue. Dumbstruck, you watch him climb out of bed, swinging his arms in a slow stretch.

“Uhm,” you start, clearing your voice of the faint tremor in it. “I should, uh… Call someone. Work. They’re going to be worried if–”

“Already taken care of,” he cuts in, lifting his suit from the suit rack next to the bed. Your eyes dart to the crumpled one he shed the night before, still in a pile.

How many of those does he have?

“Everyone you know is under the impression that you had a mild stress-induced nervous breakdown, and are currently on an impromptu vacation in Europe, totally off the grid,” he says with a smile, sliding his hand smoothly through the air.

You pale. Whenever work came to be too much, you’ve joked about disappearing like that, but would anyone actually believe you have? You suddenly regret the plethora of hyperbolic existential posts you’ve made.

“Oh,” is all you manage to say, feeling sick.

Homelander, on the other hand, looks as bright as the morning sun. “So! Who’s ready for breakfast?”

Regardless of whether or not cooking is enjoyable, it’s always a reliable routine. Breakfast perhaps most of all. Eggs, toast, bacon and whatever fruit is in season. You find all these things and more in dizzying variety and proportion in Homelander’s lavish kitchen.

The eggs are large and brown, the bacon wrapped in butcher's paper rather than plastic, and cut in thick strips. The artisanal loaf of bread has a perfectly crisp golden crust, soft on the inside as you slice it. It’s everything you know, but elevated.

The opulence feels weighted. It makes you wonder how you could ever be expected to pay for any of this. How you could be worth any of this. Every ounce of silky butter you swipe over the piece of artisan toast in your hand feels like another smattering of grave soil peppering you from above, burying you deeper than you already are.

You don’t owe him for any of this. You didn’t ask for it. Regardless, you lick an excess smear of jam from your thumb–the color of it as red and vibrant as fresh blood–and all at once you are Persephone taking the pomegranate seeds between her lips. There is a terrible feeling of complicitness in this, despite that you’re only trying to survive.

Homelander lurks behind you while you cook, observing from a slight distance with an idyllic smile, his hands clasped behind his back. While you’re still wearing your pajamas, he’s wearing his hero suit again, the bulk of it returning to him his larger than life silhouette.

The silence he observes you in is unnerving, making everything else too loud in comparison. It would be nice if he’d at least sit. Instead, you’re keenly aware of the oppressive weight of his expectant gaze the entire time you cook.

“Looks delicious,” he says, his voice suddenly so close that you startle, the butterknife slipping from your hand and clattering on the marble countertop. His gloved hands cup your elbows and squeeze, soothing and overly familiar. “Oops-a-daisy,” he laughs, as if you’re just clumsy. His hands stroke slowly up and down your arms.

You snatch the knife up from the countertop and dutifully wipe away the jam splatter with a dishtowel. “I hope you like it,” you say distractedly, heart racing.

“How could I not?” he asks in that same low, pleased tone. He gives your arms an excited little shimmy before releasing them, reaching around either side of you to grab each plate. You feel his chest against your back, where he lingers just a second too long. “You made it just for me, after all.”

He moves away from you, taking the plates with him to the small round table near the floor to ceiling windows. The view from his penthouse is stunning–overlooking the entire city, all the way out to the waterfront–but it’s also dizzying. It unsettles your stomach to sit so close to the window, the size of them making it feel as though there’s nothing between you and a hundred story fall.

“You’re not scared of heights, are you?” He asks, settling down across from you.

You look from the window to him. He wastes no time splaying a cloth napkin in his lap and picking up his utensils, though he never takes his eyes off of you. You’re not sure he ever does. “Uh…Not particularly. I just don’t think I’ve ever been up so high,” you say, draping your own napkin similarly in your lap. Never has breakfast felt like such a formal affair.

“You’ll get used to it,” he says confidently, jabbing his knife into the yolk of his egg to spread over his buttered toast. “I’ll take you flying again. You’ll be conscious this time around,” he chuckles, flipping a piece of bacon on top as well.

Your gut tightens, toast paused halfway to your parted lips. You gawk at him. It’s difficult to comprehend how someone can be so beyond reproach, so intensely cavalier about something like drugging you into unconsciousness and kidnapping you.

I saved you. That his voice already lives in your mind–correcting you–is sickening in and of itself. Your already tenuous appetite vanishes, but you take a bite of the toast out of spite. The jam’s farm fresh sweetness is tart, though it’s offset perfectly by the savory sea salt richness of the butter.

It’s as exquisite as it is repulsive.

A crisp snap brings your attention abruptly back to Homelander, whose hand is still poised in the air, his thumb and middle finger pressed together. His hand falls away once he has your attention, his smile returning. “That good, huh? Looked like you went a million miles away.”

If only, you seethe, taking another bite of the toast. You use the moment to chew, swallowing the anger over being snapped at alongside your mouthful of food.

“It’s delicious,” you say, curating your words carefully. Don’t ever lie to me, his words echo again, helping you to shape a mental survival guide. Feeling his eyes on you, you meet them. His smile widens a touch, though you don’t think it quite reaches his eyes. He’s appraising you like one might an exhibit at a museum.

Glancing down at his plate, you notice he hasn’t really eaten his breakfast so much as he’s toyed with it. It’s all just cut apart, yellow egg yolk oozing slowly across the pristine white plate. “Is there something wrong with yours?” you ask with a lurch of anxiety. He’s drugged you once already.

“Not at all,” he beams with clean white teeth, hands resting in loose fists on either side of his plate. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

The strange earnestness of the compliment stuns you. “Thank you,” you say uneasily, still not convinced there wasn’t something in the jam, or maybe the butter.

His smile broadens and this time it reaches all the way up, crinkling his eyes at their outer corners. There’s a sort of pride in his expression that makes you feel like a dog that’s finally learned the trick he’s been trying to teach you.

“Whelp,” he sighs, clapping his hands together as he stands. “As much as I hate to go, duty calls,” he says, sliding his chair back beneath the table. Rounding it, he holds his hand out to you. “Walk me out?” he asks, his smile gleaming with predator charm. You only hesitate briefly before slipping your hand into his, reminding yourself to choose your battles wisely.

He lifts you to your feet with such ease it makes your stomach flip, breath hitching in your throat. He doesn’t let go of your hand, choosing to keep it snug within his grasp as he walks you through the decorated halls of his penthouse. There’s scarcely a space untouched by decor, making even these spacious corridors feel claustrophobic, dozens of carved and painted eyes leering at you as you pass.

The tour of the penthouse had been brief, awkward. He hadn’t especially known what to say about each room, giving you more facts about the artwork than anything. The lack of personal effects only make the place feel even more like a museum than it had before.

The only pictures of him were Vought promotional material. Not a single photo of him outside of his suit. No trace of family or childhood. Just The Homelander.

He holds your hand all the way up to a set of double doors made from dark wood, where he stops and turns to face you. “Thanks for breakfast,” he says with a picture perfect pearly white smile. Not a speck of food to be found. Uncomfortable with how fixated you’ve become on the condition of his teeth, you force your attention back on his eyes and nod.

“You’re welcome.”

He leans closer, and you have to fight the urge to lean back.

“Will you kiss me goodbye?”

You blink, the question striking you in the same way his compliment had, but for a different reason. In the wake of asking, his smile has lost that razor sharp edge it usually carries. Like his eyes, it’s softer now. More boyish. There’s a level of nervous apprehension in it that’s a stark contrast from his usual smugness. Yet again it hardly feels like you’re even looking at the same person.

Swallowing dryly, you bring your hand to the underside of his strong jaw. His skin is warm under your fingers, and he leans readily into your touch. You can feel the tension in the muscle beneath his cleanly shaven face as you turn it away, simultaneously moving in to press your lips to his cheek.

When you pull away, he’s staring sidelong at you, his face still turned away, his thin lips parted. For a beat, you think he’s going to be upset, but you realize quickly that the heat you see rushing to his cheeks isn’t anger. It’s a blush. Of all the ways you expected him to react, bashful was not among them.

“Okie-dokie,” he says, suddenly sheepish, and the tension in your shoulders drains as he relinquishes your other hand, busying himself with slipping off one of his gloves. “Should be home around 4:00, but I might be able to squeeze out closer to 3:00,” he says, tossing you a conspiratory little wink. As if you should be as excited as he is at the thought.

You watch him reach for a black plate next to the door handle, which he slides up to reveal a sleek number pad with a glowing blue circle, which he presses his thumb to. The circle turns green, and you hear a mechanism unlatch. Your stomach drops. All at once you understand why he brought you all the way to the door. He wanted you to see this.

“Pretty nifty, huh?” he asks, sliding his glove back on. “State of the art,” he says with a grin, pulling the door open. Over his shoulder, you see nothing but a long, long hall and a distant elevator at the end of it. You consider screaming down it to see if anyone might hear you, but the noise gets stuck in your throat. Even if they heard you, no one would reach you in time.

Homelander steps through the threshold, lingering in the doorway, leaning partially inside. “Don’t you worry,” he says, taking in the stricken expression you wear. He looks pleased with himself. “You’ll be perfectly safe. No way anyone’s getting in or out–aside from me, that is.”

He offers a few parting words, but they distort into unintelligible static. The door closes. That green circle turns blue, and the locking mechanism echoes in your ears like the slam of a prison gate. Turning around, you stare down the lengthy corridor you came from, your ears buzzing with the eerie quietness of the penthouse.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

#this chapter ran a bit long but yay! reader pov!#homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #x reader #homelander #my writing #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere boyfriend

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ladsheadcanoncorner · 9 days ago

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sfw first kiss headcannons please? 🍎

aww first kisses! this was so much fun to write! thank you for the ask, dear <3 i saw the apple emoji, but wrote for all five boys, so i hope that is still okay.

rating: sfw cw: kissing ✉︎♡: ask box open, tumblr users + anons

Xavier: -It sort of happens…accidentally? -Xavier has been ignoring your text messages, and you sent him some funny videos that you knew he would love -Since he just lives upstairs, you decide to take it upon yourself to make sure he is doing okay -When you knock on the door, it takes him a while to answer it. When he finally does, his hair and clothes are rumpled and he is rubbing his eyes -“Is everything okay? I guess I fell asleep early.” -His voice is that scratchy sort of sleepy and you feel your cheeks flush at how adorable he is -You: “Everything is fine, you just weren’t texting me back so I got worried.” -He smiles, eyes softening, and then invites you in -You’re sitting on the couch together and while you watch the videos you sent, he is starting to doze off again -You: “Xavier are you still tired?” Xavier: “Mmm, a little. Nap with me?” -When you agree, you both reach for the blanket that fell off the couch, and collide into each other, bumping heads -Giggling, you move to pull away, but Xavier tilts your chin up and kisses you -“I don’t want you to worry about me,” Xavier murmurs in between kisses. “I’ll always be by your side.”

Zayne: -This man has been stressed trying to plan the perfect time to finally kiss you -He’s thought about it since you were children, but never actually worked up the courage to do it until now -First, he plans to do it right when he picks you up to get the nerves out of the way, but when you answer the door you look so cute he feels tongue tied. He tries again at dinner, but a bunch of waiters come out singing ‘happy birthday’ to another table. Then he plans to do it at the coffee shop, but you point out that he has whipped cream on his upper lip, so he chickens out again -He resigns that it won’t happen today, but then you decide to take a different turn on the way home from your date, out across the bridge that overlooks Linkon City -He’s holding your hand as the two of you stare out at the water and twinkling city lights -He thinks: Now, just do it now. Don’t lose your nerve -You: “Zayne…I…” Zayne: “Yes?” -He is completely caught off guard when you stand on your tiptoes to give him a swift peck on the lips -When you pull away, both of you are furiously blushing and you stutter out some sort of apologetic excuse -Zayne takes this moment to cup your face in his hands and kiss you more tenderly, more gently, trying to infuse each moment with how much he has wanted this to happen for so long -You: “I was worried you would take it badly.” Zayne, chuckling softly and brushing your cheek with his thumb: “And I was worried I’d never actually get the chance."

Rafayel: -Rafayel is lamenting his lack of inspiration when you visit one day -Dramatic fishie moping around the house, wondering if he lost his talent, until he gets a lightbulb moment with that familiar mischievous grin -Rafayel: “You could always pose for me, cutie.” You: “Me? Why?” Rafayel: “If you don’t, these artist hands that bring magic and joy to the world will go unused forever.” -Cue eye roll, but you agree -You feel awkward, having never posed for a portrait before -Raf is looking from his canvas, to you, and then frowns. Holding out a thumb and squinting with one eye, he says, “You’re a little lifeless.” -You tell him it’s because you’ve never done anything like this and he laughs, hands in his pockets as he walks over to you -Rafayel: “You just need a little more color in your cheeks.” -He leans forward and silences the question you are about to ask with his lips. You’re stunned for a moment, but then you kiss him back, letting your arms loop around his neck and pull him closer -He pulls away, cheeks equally as flushed as you feel, and then says, “There we go, but I don’t know if my painting could possibly do you justice now.”

Sylus: -On your way to work one morning, you see a flyer about a local Night Market, and you text the details to Sylus -Sylus responds with: “Trying Linkon cuisine with a local? Hmm, alright sweetie. I’ll be back in town tomorrow. Be ready by 6:00.” -The next evening you arrive at the market, but angry gray clouds are starting to appear overhead. You brush it off, ready to enjoy your time with him -You meander all the way down to the end of the stalls (he orders one of everything that you say sounds good), talking about everything and nothing, trying to ignore the way your heart pounds in your chest whenever he catches you staring at him -You: “Want dessert? They have a cotton candy stall here that shapes it like different animals.” Sylus: “Sure, then I’ll have two cute kittens to look at.” -When the kitten shaped cotton candy is ready, Sylus holds it out for you to take a bite together -At this moment, the sky takes the perfectly inopportune time to open up, and it begins to rain -Sylus lifts his jacket to shield you from the rain as you run towards a nearby tree for cover. By the time you get there, the cotton candy has all but completely dissolved -Disappointed, you look down at the stick Sylus is holding and say, “I’m sorry about the kitten.” -Sylus, drenched from the rain, laughs in a way you’ve never heard before. A jovial sounding chuckle, that is loud and sincere and real -He tilts your chin up to look at him, brushing strands of wet hair out of your face as he leans in and says, "My favorite one is still right here in front of me.” -He brushes his lips against yours, tentative at first until you kiss him back, and then he lifts you off of your feet to kiss you more fully. -As droplets cascade from the sky, you wonder if anything will ever be as romantic as a first kiss in the rain

Caleb: -Let’s be honest, the two of you shared at least one kiss when you were younger -But Caleb wants a redo because no way that time you dared him to kiss you in the attic actually counts -He’s helping you clean out your closet, because you told him that he owes you a favor but also because he wants to spend time with you. He stumbles upon a big box labeled “Memories,” dusty and shoved up on the top shelf -When you come back into the room with lemonade for both of you, you’re mortified as he rifles through the box filled with your most precious memories -You: “What are you doing?” Caleb: “What, are you embarrassed about what I might find?" -He holds up an envelope with your ten year old handwriting scrawled “super secret future plan, DO NOT OPEN!” on the front. -You lunge towards him, needing to get the envelope away from him before he opens it and sees that your super secret future plan was a drawing of a house and two kids with him -In your determination, you haven’t noticed that you’ve fully straddled him until your chin bumps the top of his head -The fear of him discovering your secret dissipates, and it is replaced with a tension in the air that you can both feel -“You don’t have to hide anything from me,” Caleb says, nuzzling his nose against yours -Caught up in the moment of it all, you lean in and kiss him -Just enough to catch him off guard and just enough to snatch the envelope away -“Ha!” you say triumphantly, but the telltale blush on your cheeks tells Caleb all he needs to know about how you really felt -Still though…guess he’s going to need another do over

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charmed-quill · 13 days ago

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The Bet// F.W x Reader Part 2

authors note at end

Summary: Fred Weasley and y/n make a bet: whoever gets a date to the Yule Ball first wins. But what starts as harmless competition devolves into full-blown war.

Word count: 4.7k

Previous Part

Look, Fred Weasley wasn’t the worst person in the world to go to the Yule Ball with.

Not y/n’s first choice, not by a long shot, but also not the worst.

Still, standing in her dorm, adjusting her dress for what felt like the millionth time, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… off.

It wasn’t like Fred had never seen her in a dress before. They’d been friends for six years, of course he had.

But this?

This was different. The whole "dressing up" thing was throwing her for a loop.

The last time she wore something this fancy was her cousin’s wedding when she was ten, and even then, she had hated every second of it. She still remembered the way the lace had itched against her skin, how uncomfortable the frilly socks had been inside her too-tight shoes.

But this dress it wasn’t stiff or scratchy, wasn’t something her mum had picked out last minute.

It was hers.

And it looked…good.

Angelina had swept her hair into an elegant bun, leaving just a few soft curls framing her face, while Alicia had carefully applied her makeup, just enough to highlight her features without making her feel like she was wearing a mask.

Y/n barely recognized herself.

It was uncanny, looking in the mirror and seeing someone who actually—Merlin forbid—looked pretty.

She swallowed, fingers tightening slightly on the fabric of her dress.

It was just one night. Just Fred. Nothing had to change.

Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself, ignoring the way her stomach flipped at the thought of heading downstairs.

—

Fred stood by the fireplace, hands stuffed in his pockets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The common room buzzed with energy, students heading off to the Great Hall in clusters, adjusting dress robes and exchanging last-minute compliments.

George, Lee, Angelina, and Alicia had left just moments ago, after much teasing and knowing smirks thrown his way. She’ll be down in a moment, they had assured him before disappearing through the portrait hole.

But it had been more than a moment.

Fred huffed, glancing up the dormitory stairs. Had she changed her mind? He wouldn’t blame her. Their whole arrangement, or whatever you’d call it, was far from ideal. A last-minute truce , born out of mutual stubbornness and sabotage. He knew y/n hadn’t exactly been thrilled about going with him.

Still… part of him didn’t want to be left standing alone in the common room like some abandoned fool.

With a sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and took a step toward the stairs. If she wasn’t coming down, he’d bloody well—

The door opened.

Fred froze.

His words, his thoughts, everything slammed to a stop as y/n stepped into the warm glow of the common room.

She looked…

Merlin.

Fred wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, he’d seen her in dresses before, plenty of times.

But this? This was something else entirely.

The firelight cast a golden hue over her, catching on the delicate fabric of her dress as it moved with her. Her hair, swept up with effortless elegance, framed her face in soft tendrils, highlighting the curve of her jaw and the brightness of her eyes. Her makeup was subtle, just enough to make every little detail stand out, her lips, her cheekbones, the way her lashes fluttered slightly as she scanned the room.

She was beautiful.

And Fred?

Fred was stunned.

He barely managed to school his expression before she looked up, meeting his gaze.

"Got tired of waiting?" she teased, stepping forward, smoothing her hands over the fabric of her dress.

Fred cleared his throat, forcing himself to breathe properly. "Thought you’d done a runner," he said, managing a smirk. "Was ready to heroically charge up the stairs and rescue you."

Y/n rolled her eyes. "You just wanted an excuse to break into the girls' dormitory."

Fred chuckled, but it came out almost nervous, and since when was he, nervous around her?

His eyes flicked over her once more, like his brain was still trying to process that this was actually y/n standing in front of him.

"You clean up alright, y/l/n," he said, voice lighter, teasing, though there was something else beneath it—something even he wasn’t sure he wanted to acknowledge.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, tilting her chin slightly. "Just alright?"

Fred grinned, stepping closer, offering her his arm. "Don’t get a big head about it."

She huffed, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes, something challenging, something thrilling.

As she looped her arm through his, Fred couldn’t help but feel like maybe, just maybe, this arrangement wasn’t as terrible as he had thought.

—-

Fred and y/n stepped through the entrance to the Great Hall, and for the first time that night, neither of them had anything to say.

The entire space had been transformed.

The usual long house tables were gone, replaced by elegant round ones draped in shimmering fabric, flickering candlelight bouncing off crystal goblets and golden plates. The ceiling was enchanted to reflect a breathtaking winter sky, soft flakes of snow drifting lazily down before vanishing just above their heads. Ice sculptures lined the edges of the hall, carved into delicate figures that seemed to move when you weren’t looking. The chandeliers overhead twinkled like a thousand tiny stars.

It was… stunning.

Fred let out a low whistle, eyes sweeping over the scene. "Blimey," he muttered. "They really went all out, huh?"

Y/n didn’t answer right away.

She was still taking it all in, her gaze moving from the enchanted icicles hanging from the balconies to the grand staircase leading to the raised dance floor. She had never seen the castle look like this before, so ethereal, so dreamlike.

It almost felt unreal, like stepping into some sort of fairytale.

Fred glanced at her, catching the way her eyes shone under the candlelight, the soft parting of her lips as she stared in quiet wonder.

Something shifted in his chest.

"You alright there, y/l/n?" His voice was teasing, but noticeably softer than usual.

Y/n blinked, snapping out of whatever spell the Great Hall had cast over her. "Yeah," she said, glancing up at him. "It’s just… I dunno. I wasn’t expecting it to be so—"

"Romantic?" Fred finished, raising an eyebrow, his smirk playful but his voice lighter.

Y/n scoffed, nudging him with her elbow. "I was gonna say impressive, but sure, Weasley. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Fred chuckled, but he didn’t tease her back. Instead, he let his gaze linger for just a second longer than necessary.

The music swelled in the background, students filing in around them, laughter and chatter filling the air. The entire evening stretched before them, full of possibilities neither of them had really considered until now.

Fred shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on her arm before tilting his head down toward her. "Guess we better get on with it, then," he murmured.

Y/n met his gaze, something flickering between them that neither of them wanted to name just yet.

With a quiet breath, she nodded.

Y/n stood beside Fred, her hands clasped in front of her as she watched the champions and their dates take to the center of the dance floor. The music started soft and elegant, a slow waltz drifting through the air, filling the Great Hall with something delicate, almost fragile. The enchanted ceiling reflected the winter sky, stars glittering overhead like they had been placed there just for this moment. Snowflakes spiraled lazily down before vanishing into shimmering wisps of light.

It was beautiful.

She had never seen Hogwarts like this before. Had never felt this kind of stillness, this quiet anticipation that wrapped around her like a whisper. The usual laughter and chaos of the Great Hall had been replaced by something softer, something weighty in its beauty.

She stole a glance at Fred.

He was watching the dancers, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth like he was amused by the whole thing, but there was something else there, too. A quietness she wasn’t used to seeing in him.

And that was when it hit her

Something felt different tonight.

They had been friends for years, partners in crime, rivals in pranks, always pushing and pulling, always toeing the line between bickering and camaraderie. But this, standing here beside him in a ballroom full of flickering candlelight, the warmth of his arm just inches from hers, the way he had looked at her when she had walked down those dormitory steps,

It didn’t feel the same.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly. But it was new. Like she had stepped into something she hadn’t expected, something unfamiliar but thrilling all the same.

The music swelled, couples twirling across the dance floor in graceful, sweeping movements, and suddenly, she was hyper-aware of Fred beside her. Of the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides, like he was debating something.

She swallowed.

"Getting bored already?" she asked, keeping her voice light, teasing, as if nothing in the world had changed.

Fred turned his head, his gaze flickering to hers. He smirked, but not in his usual way, not in the way that made her roll her eyes or shove his shoulder. This was something softer, something amused and knowing all at once.

"Nah," he murmured, tilting his head slightly. "Just waiting to see if you trip over your own feet when we dance."

Y/n scoffed, nudging him with her elbow. "Bold of you to assume I’ll dance with you at all."

Fred chuckled, looking back at the floor. "We’ll see about that, y/l/n."

And something about the way he said it sent warmth curling through her chest.

She exhaled slowly, turning her attention back to the dancers, pretending she wasn’t thinking about the way his voice had dipped just slightly, or the way her stomach had flipped at the sound of it.

Y/n barely had time to protest before Fred was tugging her toward the dance floor, his grip firm but light as he grinned down at her, mischief dancing in his eyes.

"Come on, y/l/n," he teased, his voice low enough that it sent a strange, warm shiver down her spine. "Let’s show them how it’s done."

She rolled her eyes but let him lead her anyway, her fingers curling against the fabric of his robes as they moved into the sea of swirling couples. The candlelight flickered overhead, casting soft golden glows against the ice sculptures, the music swelling around them in a gentle rhythm.

Fred slid a hand to her waist, his touch lighter than expected, and lifted their joined hands. "Try not to step on my toes, yeah?"

Y/n huffed, settling her free hand on his shoulder. "I’d worry more about your own coordination, Weasley. We both know you’re all limbs and recklessness."

Fred chuckled, the sound low and warm, and for a second, she forgot they were in the middle of a crowded ballroom, surrounded by students, teachers, and swirling magic.

"You know," he mused as they moved to the beat, "I don’t think we ever settled our bet."

Y/n raised a brow, amused. "Oh? And what exactly needs settling? I’d say it was a draw at best."

Fred scoffed, spinning her suddenly, pulling her effortlessly back into his arms before she even had time to process it. "A draw?" he echoed, shaking his head. "No, no, no. I clearly won. You were the one who asked me, remember?"

Y/n narrowed her eyes, her fingers tightening slightly against his shoulder. "That is not how I remember it."

Fred grinned. "Sounds like selective memory to me, love."

She huffed. "Fine. Even if I asked you first, which I didn’t, you were already on your way to ask me."

"Exactly!" Fred said triumphantly. "Which means I still would’ve won in the end."

Y/n rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat behind it.

Because the truth was, she wasn’t even thinking about the bet anymore.

She wasn’t thinking about the competition or the weeks of sabotage.

She was thinking about the way Fred’s hand rested so easily at her waist, how effortless it felt to fall into step with him, how his grin softened when he looked at her now—like maybe this wasn’t just about winning anymore.

And that realization sent her stomach flipping in ways she wasn’t prepared for.

She exhaled slowly, focusing on keeping her voice steady. "You’re impossible, you know that?"

Fred smirked, tugging her just a little closer as they turned with the music. "And yet, here you are, dancing with me anyway."

Y/n swallowed, feeling that damn warmth creep into her chest again, curling beneath her ribs, making it increasingly difficult to remind herself that this was just Fred.

Just Fred Weasley.

Her best friend.

Her rival.

Her date.

And, Merlin help her, something about that last word felt different now.

Dancing with Fred Weasley was dangerously easy.

Y/n had expected him to be all awkward footwork and dramatic spins meant to throw her off balance, but instead, he led her through the steps effortlessly, his grip firm but light, his movements confident without being cocky.

The warmth of his palm at her waist sent a slow heat curling in her stomach, something she tried desperately to ignore.

Because it was just Fred.

Fred, who she had spent the last several weeks sabotaging. Fred, who had annoyed her beyond reason since they were twelve. Fred, who, despite all of that, made her laugh more than anyone else ever had.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because something had been shifting between them, something she had been too stubborn to see before tonight.

The music changed to something slower, couples swaying close, and Fred leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear.

"Alright, y/l/n," he murmured, his tone far too smug. "Who do you reckon is shagging who by the end of the night?"

Y/n snorted, instantly snapping out of whatever ridiculous romantic haze had been creeping up on her.

"Subtle, Weasley," she said dryly, shooting a glance around the ballroom.

Her eyes landed on Jack Carmichael and his date, who had definitely been sneaking off toward a shadowy alcove near the back of the hall. She nodded toward them.

"That one’s a given," she said. "He’s been trying to get her out of here for the last half-hour."

Fred followed her gaze, chuckling. "Bet you ten Sickles he barely makes it up the stairs before she tells him to piss off."

Y/n grinned. "You’re on."

Fred twirled her unexpectedly, pulling her back in a little closer than before, and she hated the way her breath caught.

Get it together, she scolded herself.

Fred’s eyes flicked toward the table where a few sixth-years were gathered, drinking out of goblets that definitely weren’t filled with pumpkin juice.

"Alright, new bet," he said. "Who snuck in the booze?"

Y/n scanned the room, eyes narrowing. "I’d say Nathaniel Burke, but he’s an idiot and would’ve gotten caught already."

Fred smirked. "True. So?"

She exhaled through her nose, thinking, then grinned. "My money’s on Lillian Moore. She looks too innocent. It’s always the innocent ones."

Fred laughed, his grip at her waist tightening briefly. "You know, y/l/n, you might be onto something."

Y/n opened her mouth to throw another sarcastic remark his way, but something in her chest twisted unexpectedly when he smiled at her.

Something warm, something alarming, something that had been creeping in for weeks without her permission.

Because suddenly she was remembering every little moment leading up to this

The way he had looked at her when she first stepped into the common room tonight. The way he had teased her but never once insulted her. The way he had waited for her reaction before taking her hand, before leading her into this dance.

And, Merlin help her, she realized all at once that this hadn’t just started tonight.

It had been building for weeks.

Every time he had grinned at her, every time they had gone back and forth with playful insults, every time their arguments had felt more like flirting than fighting

She had been falling for Fred Weasley.

And she hadn’t even noticed until now.

The thought was so overwhelming that she nearly stepped on his foot.

Fred raised an eyebrow. "That hesitation, was that you losing the bet already?"

Y/n blinked, snapping herself out of it. "Absolutely not."

Fred chuckled, shaking his head, completely unaware of the internal crisis she was currently having.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus on the banter, on the laughter, on anything except the fact that she was looking at him differently now.

Because the second she acknowledged it?

She knew there would be no going back.

—-

Fred leaned back against the wall, his butterbeer warm in his hands, the golden glow of the Great Hall flickering over y/n’s face as she took a sip of her own.

She was grinning, her lips still curled in amusement from whatever ridiculous bet they had just made, her eyes bright despite the dim lighting. She was leaning slightly toward him, like it was natural, like it had always been that way.

And maybe it had.

Fred took a slow sip of his drink, pretending he wasn’t completely distracted by her.

By the way she looked tonight. By the way she always looked, if he was being honest.

And suddenly, it hit him.

This wasn’t new.

This feeling, this warmth curling in his chest, the way he kept catching himself looking at her longer than necessary, this hadn’t come out of nowhere. It had been building, sneaking up on him so slowly he hadn’t even noticed it.

It was there in the little moments, moments he could suddenly recall with sharp, stupid clarity.

Like the time she had shoved a stolen Chocolate Frog into his pocket during first year, grinning as she whispered, “Take the fall for me, Weasley.”

Or the time she had patched him up in second year when one of his own pranks had backfired, muttering the whole time about “how much of an idiot he was”, but her hands had been so gentle as she wiped the blood off his chin.

Or the way she always seemed to understand him, even when he didn’t say anything.

The way she could read his moods better than anyone else could, the way she knew when he needed a joke and when he needed quiet.

The way she never treated him like a joke, even when he made himself one.

Fred swallowed, staring at his butterbeer like it held all the answers.

He hadn’t meant to feel like this.

Hadn’t meant to notice how pretty she looked when she was focused on something, or how her nose scrunched when she was thinking, or how her eyes lit up when she was about to start an argument with him.

But here he was.

And for the first time, he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

"Oi, Weasley," y/n nudged him with her elbow, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Fred blinked, forcing himself to smirk. "Y’know, y/l/n, if you wanted to get close to me, you could’ve just asked."

She scoffed. "Please, I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t passed out. You looked a little dazed there."

Fred chuckled, shaking his head. "Just thinking."

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Dangerous habit for you."

Fred snorted, taking another sip of his drink.

Yeah.

Dangerous indeed.

The Great Hall had gotten too much.

Too crowded, too warm, too many couples tucked into corners, whispering to each other like the entire world had disappeared around them. Everywhere Fred turned, there was some overly romantic display, some sickeningly sweet gesture, and Merlin help him, he needed fresh air.

So, naturally, he grabbed y/n’s hand.

"Come on," he muttered, already tugging her toward the doors before she could argue.

Y/n let him, though he could feel her curious gaze on him as they slipped out of the hall, the sound of music and chatter fading behind them.

"Where exactly are we going, Weasley?" she asked as they stepped into the cool night air.

Fred inhaled deeply, letting the crisp air fill his lungs. "Anywhere but in there. Too many people snogging like their lives depend on it."

Y/n snorted. "Jealous?"

Fred rolled his eyes, nudging her with his shoulder. "Oh, absolutely. Watching Kevin Whitby nearly eat his date’s face off was thrilling."

Y/n gagged. "Disgusting. Alright, lead the way."

And so they walked.

The path leading away from the castle was quiet, save for the faint sounds of the ball still drifting from the open windows. The stars above were bright, the sky clear, and the lake stretched before them like a dark, endless mirror. The wind was cold but pleasant, ruffling the edges of their dress robes as they followed the stone path toward the water.

It was… nice.

Comfortable.

Like they had done this a hundred times before.

And maybe they had, maybe not in fancy dress robes, maybe not with the weight of something unspoken pressing against Fred’s ribs, but it was still them.

Still easy.

They fell into natural conversation, talking about nothing and everything—making fun of McLaggen’s tragic dance moves, placing one final bet on whether or not Olivia Davies had smuggled an entire bottle of firewhiskey under her cloak.

But beneath it all, Fred could feel it.

That… thing.

That stupid, frustrating thing that had settled in his chest hours ago and refused to leave.

Because every time y/n laughed, something in him twisted.

Because every time she nudged him, teasing and light, it sent something warm rushing through him.

Because every time she looked at him, really looked at him, he felt like she was about to figure him out.

And that, that scared him more than anything else.

He had spent so long not noticing. Had spent years thinking of her as just y/n—his best friend, his competition, the one person who could match him beat for beat.

But now?

Now, all he could think about was the way she looked under the stars, how the silver light caught in her hair, how her lips curled when she was about to say something smug.

Now, he was noticing everything.

And he wasn’t sure he liked it.

Y/n nudged him again. "You’re quiet."

Fred blinked, forcing himself to smirk. "Unusual, isn’t it?"

"Extremely." She shot him a suspicious glance. "You sure you’re not getting emotional over all the romance in the air?"

Fred snorted, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Oh yeah, I’m the emotional one. Not the girl who gasped at the ballroom decorations like she walked into a bloody fairytale."

Y/n gasped again, but this time out of offense. "I did not—"

"Did too."

"Fred—"

"You even twirled, y/l/n," he teased, his smirk widening. "Don’t try to deny it, I saw it with my own two eyes."

She groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "I hate you."

Fred grinned. "No, you don’t."

Y/n turned to shove him, but he caught her wrist before she could, laughing as he held it up between them.

And suddenly

The laughter faded.

Not completely, not abruptly, but just enough.

Because suddenly Fred was staring at her, and she was staring back, and something about the night felt too still.

Her wrist was small in his grip, her pulse just barely thrumming beneath his fingertips.

For a second, just a second, he almost didn’t let go.

But then

He did.

And whatever had settled between them slipped away before it could take root.

Fred cleared his throat, shoving his hands back into his pockets. "Anyway. Should probably head back before George accuses me of running off and eloping."

Y/n snorted. "I dunno, Weasley. I think we’d make a pretty tragic love story."

Fred smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Tragic."

And as they made their way back up toward the castle, Fred ignored the fact that something about that word didn’t sit right with him at all.

They were just steps away from the castle doors when Fred couldn’t hold it in any longer.

It had been building all night, all week, really, if he was honest. Maybe even longer than that.

Every glance, every laugh, every stupid little moment that had felt so normal before had suddenly taken on a different meaning.

And now, standing beneath the stars, the castle glowing softly in the distance, it hit him all at once.

He loved her.

Maybe he always had.

Maybe he had just been too thick to realize it until now.

But now, now it was all he could think about.

Y/n was walking just ahead of him, her dress shifting with the breeze, hair slightly undone from the night, still looking as effortlessly beautiful as she had when she first stepped down the dormitory stairs.

And Fred, heart pounding in his chest, suddenly realized he couldn’t go inside without saying it.

Without doing something about it.

"Y/n."

His voice was quieter than usual, but she stopped immediately, turning to face him with a curious tilt of her head.

She hadn’t expected him to stop. Hadn’t expected his voice to sound so… careful.

Fred took a breath. Now or never.

"I—" He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, trying to find the words when really, there was only one way to say it.

"I like you."

Silence.

Fred barely noticed the cold anymore, heat rushing through his chest as he watched her eyes widen, her lips parting slightly in surprise.

Maybe he should’ve eased into it. Maybe he should’ve said it differently. But hell, there was no stopping now.

He took a step closer.

"I like you, y/n," he repeated, voice steadier this time. "And I—I don’t mean in the way we joke about, or the way everyone always thinks we do. I mean, really. And I think I have for a while, I just…" He let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "I was too much of an idiot to see it."

Her lips parted like she was going to say something, but nothing came out.

She just… stared at him.

Fred’s heart dropped.

Oh, hell.

Maybe he’d messed this up. Maybe he’d just ruined everything

But then

Y/n moved forward so fast he barely had time to react.

Her hands curled into the front of his dress robes, pulling him down as she kissed him.

Fred’s mind blanked.

For a second, he didn’t breathe.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t do anything except feel.

Because Merlin’s bloody beard, he hadn’t expected that.

But then, instinct took over, and his hands were at her waist, tugging her closer, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure she could hear it.

It was slow, softer than he ever thought a first kiss between them would be. No teasing, no sarcasm, just… her.

Just them.

The night was silent around them, the only sound between them the faint hitch of breath, the quiet shift of fabric, the snowflakes drifting through the air like the universe had planned this all along.

When they finally pulled away, Fred’s forehead rested against hers, his grin so wide it was almost ridiculous.

"So, uh…" He exhaled, still catching his breath, his hands still resting firmly on her waist. "Can I take that as a yes?"

Y/n laughed, arms still wrapped around his neck, eyes shining with something he had never seen before but desperately wanted to see again.

"Fred Weasley," she murmured, shaking her head fondly. "You are such a bloody idiot."

Fred smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Yeah, but I’m your idiot now, yeah?"

Y/n grinned, tugging him down into another kiss.

And Fred?

Fred was completely okay with that.

A/n: so I wasn't planning on writing a part 2 for this but so many people asked so I hope you enjoy this!!!

#fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfic #fred weasley #harry potter imagine #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction

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writa-anon · 10 months ago

Text

"is that.. supposed to be me?"

francis mosses (the milkman) x artist!reader

a / n ~ boom! first fanfic :3 i was a little inspired by uh.. myself LOL when i started playing tnmn i realized i was horrible at memorizing faces so i started drawing the characters to help me remember and it works sooo much. but anyway, super cute oneshot where they first meet, hope u enjoy :D

content included ~ isaack mauss, francis mosses, reader is an artist and doorman, no pronouns mentioned for reader, use of (y/n), shy n wholesome first encounter

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 4.10.24 | 1.6k words

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Another slow day at work, huh?”

A enthusiatic-ridden voice boomed, instinctively making me look up to meet the gaze of a strong-jawlined man. I cleared my throat and placed my pencil on the scratchy sheet of paper, sitting up in my chair.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gauss.” I greeted, grinning that customer-service smile.

“Good afternoon, (y/n). I assume work is treating you well?” He said before sliding both his ID and request form through the letter hole. “Only your third day and you’re occupying yourself with side hobbies!” He exclaimed, squinting a little to see my doodle through the glass screen. I chuckled a little as I examined his ID.

“Eh, yeah..” I sighed. “But this actually helps with my job, believe it or not!” I said proudly, pulling out the floor 2 folder to compare his ID number. “I’ve been drawing neighbors in order to remember their features better. It’s especially helpful because of my terrible memory.” I said, shaking my head. Isaack simply chuckled as I placed the folder to the side as I went through his request form.

“That’s pretty smart.” He commented. “Who have you drawn so far?” He asked, curiously tilting his head. As I went through the checklist as I idly thought to myself.

“Umm..” I hummed. “The Schmitts and the Mikaelys are definitely in here.” I finished up the last check before rolling back to my sketchbook, using my finger to thumb through the pages.

“Unfortunate. I haven’t been drawn yet.” He faked pouted. I rolled my eyes before flipping one or two pages before presenting the portrait to him.

“I’m not necessarily finish. Your face is pretty hard to encapture.” I sighed, looking at the smears of led blended together. Isaack was something of a character: a big prominent smile that is not hard to catch a glimpse of in a room full of people. His hair perfectly styled each morning that still manages to maintain its shape by the end of the day. His voice had depth to it, almost like he was born to be the daily news reporter for radios and TVs of all kind. He stared at the drawing in satisfied awe before leaning back.

“Wow, it surely is accurate!” He beamed. I smiled proudly before placing my sketchbook down.

“Thank you,” I politely nodded. I slid his ID back through the letter box. “Everything seems to be good to go. You’re allowed in, Mr. Gauss.” He nodded in his head in gratitude, but however, did not my window just yet. He took a minute to ponder, as if contemplating his next move, before beaming his teeth once again.

“Ah, before I go,” he quickly inputed. “is there by chance Francis Mosses is on today’s list? He’s the local milkman around here.”

I raised my eyebrow a little, not exactly sure as to why Isaack chose to bring up this person’s name. I shook my head gently before folding my arms in front of me. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gauss, but I’m afraid I cannot disclose that information for you.”

“—Ah, of course.” Isaack quickly fixed himself, putting his hands up a little in defense. “I understand. I was just curious is all. I’m sure you know him though, no?” Thinking for a minute, I’ve realized that this is a neighbor I have not encountered yet.

“No, actually..” I pondered out loud. “Huh, that’s interesting. I guess he works a morning or night shift because the name doesn’t really ring a bell.” I noted out loud.

“Interesting.” He muttered. “Well, keep the name in mind. He’s a rather interesting person, and I think you would find him just as interesting.” Before I could say anything else, he gestured a quick wink before walking through the unlocked door. I quickly snapped out my thoughts before locking the door back up again.

Isaack never really mentioned other names— it wasn’t necessarily out of character, but it felt a little outlandish. I looked down to see my pencil in hand again and blank surface of paper. My eyes trailed over to the paper taped on to the wall next to my window, realizing that Frances was in fact on today’s check-in list. Out of curiousity, I located his room number before surfing through the folders. After locating folder 3 and apartment 02, I was able to find more about him.

He was a slim, tall man with a crooked nose and ruffled brown hair. His eye bags were prominent from what I assume to be lack of sleep. As I stared at his picture, my hand moved by itself across my sketchbook, forming a circle to start defining out the headshape. I squinted slightly, trying to feel for each detail in his face. From the way his eyebrows were rotated a little outward, defining more of his tired expression, to the bump in his nose bridge, making it a bit more interesting to draw. It was mesmerizing, almost wishing I could sit here and draw his face in perso—

tap, tap!

I nearly jumped out of my seat. The pencil flung out of my hand, rolling off of the desk. My eyes flickered up—

and there he was.

My breath near caught in my throat as I stared up in shock. The man behind the glass was barely shocked to see my reaction. His white “milkman” hat rested perfectly on top of his brown hair with small curls slightly peaking out. I was swift to regain my composure in my head as I folded my hands in front of me with my legs crossed under the desk.

“Good afternoon, sir.” I smiled. “I haven’t seen you before. ID and entry request?”

He let out a small hum, barricaded by his pink lips, as he took out his paper and ID. He politely slid them through the letter slot before I took the items to examine.

“Mr. Francis Mosses.. Lives on floor 03.. Room 02.. Coming from work as a milkman.” I glanced up to look at him, comparing the photo ID to his face. His expression was exactly alike: tired eyes, slight frown on the lips, crooked nose, and a clean shaven face. I double checked with his file already on my desk, making sure that the ID numbers and the description aligned with his ID. “Everything looks good.” I confirmed as I slid his ID back to him.

“Mmm.. Thank you.” He hummed. I turned around to place his request form in a folder, but once I sat back up, I realized he was still standing at the window, curiously staring through the glass. I raised my eyebrow a little, confused as to why he was still lingering.

“I’m sorry, did I forget something?” I asked. Francis shook his head before pointing down at my desk.

“Is that.. Supposed to be me?” He asked. A tiny bit of emotion seeped into his voice, dripping in interest and curiousity.

“I— oh—” I looked down to see the rough drawing of Francis sitting at my desk, drawn with sketch lines still lightly defining his features, while the harder drawn areas sculpted his prominent details. “Yeah..” I mumbled. “I-I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable!” I exclaimed. “It’s just a way to help me remember faces and I was going through the files and I realized I haven’t met you before so I—”

“You make me look so pretty.” He mumbled, almost breathlessly. A faint pink color brushed his cheeks as he was unable to take his gaze away from the paper.

“W-Well.. I do aim for accuracy.” I chuckled, complimenting the man right back. My nerves had calmed down after noticing his calm demeanor. “You could keep it, if you’d like that is.” I offered. It would be awkward if I kept the drawing rather than give it to him— I mean— this is his first time ever seeing me and it was an awkward first interaction right off the bat. It was the least I could do for him. Francis nodded his head and in response, I tore the piece of paper out of the scrapbook before sliding it through the letter slot.

“There you go.” I smiled.

“Thank you..” He replied, graciously taking the piece of paper and admiring it once again. “Oh— um,” He quickly looked up to me. “What is your name? I’m sorry, I’m not really good with.. Introductions.” He trailed off, but something about his shyness and reluctant voice made me grin even harder.

“My name is (y/n). I’m the doorman in training for this building.” I greeted.

“Ah, of course. I’m Francis— Mmm..Though you already know that.” He said, shaking his head a little by the end of his sentence.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Francis. I’ll be seeing you around, I assume?” I said, sitting at the edge of my chair as I looked up at him.

“More often than before.” He smiled. It was the widest he’d grin throughout our whole conversation. Something inside me told me that he doesn’t pass around smiles like that easily. It made me feel accomplished in some sort of way. But with that, he departed from my window. I made sure to unlock the door and listen for the door closing behind him before locking it again.

Francis Mosses.

I think I have someone to look forward to on tomorrow’s entry list.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

really hoped you enjoyed! replies, reblogs, and even likes are super appreciated! thank you so much for reading :]

#thats not my neighbour milkman #thats not my neighbor #milkman #tnmn #tnmn milkman #francis mosses x you #francis mosses x reader #francis mosses #isaack gauss #oneshot #fanfiction #milkman x reader

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kiwibongos · 3 months ago

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danganronpa DISCO STYLE

ive seen people put mouthwashing and persona over disco elysium portraits so now its my turn to get nerdy with it

finished it the other week and holy shit what a game. cant stop thinking of those silly old detectives. my favs are cuno, cindy, and those church lads as well. theyre found family. the art style was kinda tough to grasp but it was super fun to do! i locked the fuck in on sonia

also symbolism description:

the scratchy/smudged background behind hajime symbolizes his fragmented mind as izuru, along with his generally stressed state within the killing game, but the bright halo behind his head symbolizes determination and levelheadedness to match his serious expression, along with a light on the right side combatting the shade on the opposite end, representing hope versus despair.

fuyuhiko's portrait is murky and stained with what resembles blood, along with an ominous shadow to represent his general brooding and rude attitude, but the bright light behind him symbolizes change and the hidden kindness and bravery inside of him that he grows to find.

sonia's portrait is soft and pale, akin to her personality; the blue smudges represent serenity, the yellow & white smudges represent loyalty and kindness, while the red panel sticks out the most to symbolize authority & strength above all else, to reflect not just her duties as a princess but her bold and bright personality.

akane's portrait is dusty/gloomy to symbolize her traumatic childhood along with the black rectangle to match it, but the blood-red tendrils also symbolize her brutal strength to spite that fact. along with that, she is not entirely casted in a dark shadow but a more neutral light, with brighter highlights to represent her high spirits, dominance and confidence on top of it. plus, she's still smiling! which may be because of total obliviousness and denial, or just because she's that positive lol

kazuichi's portrait holds his signature colors (magenta+yellow) but is smudged with what resembles oil melting over his body, and despite the fact that he's smiling, his expression is awkward and forced, his eyebrows permanently furrowed, lacking any confidence to show that he's clearly breaking. these factors represent his cowardly personality, how easily his composure cracks under any kind of pressure, even though he always tries to play it off cool.

and yes i did take inspiration from harry du bois on that one. the ... expression ...

#bongo art #art #digital art #illustration #danganronpa #sdr2 #super danganronpa 2 #danganronpa 2 #danganronpa 2 goodbye despair #fuyuhiko kuzuryu #hajime hinata #sonia nevermind #kazuichi soda #kazuichi souda #akane owari

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daily-hyosatsu · 1 year ago

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Adorable kid handwriting at a restaurant in Nishiogi. It says おとうさんのお店 Otōsan No Omise (Daddy's Shop), and it includes a sweetly funny minimalist portrait, drawn by a little kid, of a man with a lumpy head, tiny eyes, glasses, a scratchy beard, and possibly no hair.

The word おとうさん is usually written お父さん (and this place has been around at least a few years, so I bet the kid has learned the kanji by now). 父 means father, and it's read ちち or フ.

店 means store or shop, and it’s read みせ, だな, or テン. We’ve covered it once before, in a very interesting name.

#learning japanese #kanji #japanese langblr #父 #店

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hephaestiions · 10 months ago

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author reclist: toomuchplor

a few months ago, when i was coming back to fandom in earnest, i came across this post from @sitp-recs. explorations of faith, divinity and worship are some of the tropes i find most furiously compelling, so i had to jump into o come, all ye faithful as soon as possible. i did, only to fall headfirst in obsessive, wide-eyed, awe-inspired love. @toomuchplor writes a desire that's both slow and heady, relentless and gentle, all-consuming and a rest stop to breathe easy. i couldn't help but read through (most of) their catalogue in a matter of days. this author's thematic range is astonishing, their characterisations lead to delicious stories where two headstrong, wilful and perennially longing men crash, fumble and rush into achingly sweet love and burning lust.

what always spools me in with plor, though, is their use of circumstance, especially in longer fics. every fic has a premise iron-clad in its fascinating, inventive, raw and exciting potential. more often than not, i've found them doing something i haven't encountered before in fandom at all, or reworking a popular trope in ways that make you go, 'oh. oh, i never thought about that happening, how did i never think of that happening?'

i've loved everything i've read from them, but here's a selection of some of my absolute favourites that i'll be going back to, over and over:

i've got a beautiful feeling (everything's going my way) (E, 3.5k)

“I’ve got such a boner,” Harry says, voice scratchy, just slitting his eyes open now, turning his head on his pillow to face Draco. “Oh, lovely, good morning to you, too,” Draco says.

a slice of life like the plush inside of a ripe mango— a love that's mature, constant, beating like a strong heart. the filthy, hilarious, gorgeous portrait of harry and draco's married life— the familiarity of sex, the rush of wanting each other as much as ever.

o come, all ye faithful & all the angels cry amen (E, ~22k total)

In which Draco finds faith in the church, and Harry finds faith in Draco.

an achingly tender rumination on faith as love, and love as worship. one of the most heartbreaking and realistic depictions of the reckoning it would take for harry potter to accept he has found refuge and rest in draco malfoy's arms. i loved the non-chronological, dual timeline storytelling— that particular form works so well when there's a taut, twinging thread holding both narratives together, and harry and draco's gravitational attraction to each other, fraught in parts and at peace in others was the perfect anchor.

time and too much don't belong together (E, 23k)

A Malfoy family heirloom gets triggered in a raid, binding Draco Malfoy to Ron Weasley; neither of them is too chuffed about this.

a masterclass in revelations. the reader can tell, from the outset, there's more here than meets the eye. the reader can also guess, from the beginning, what the dynamic in the shadows is. tense and breathtaking writing, you know what's coming, but every time you're fed a morsel you cling to it with both hands. one of the most inventive takes i've seen on the lust potion/spell trope in this fandom, and done in a way that makes you want to see it over and over and over again.

polar night/midnight sun (E, 54k)

Harry travels to arctic Norway on the trail of dragon egg poachers, only to find he's been assigned to work alongside the only NorMagPol Auror north of sixty: one Draco Malfoy. It's been ten years since they crossed paths, and Malfoy isn't exactly what Harry expected or remembered. For one thing, he wears a lot more hand-knits? When a sudden winter storm strands the pair, unable to use magic to rescue themselves, they take shelter in a one-room Norwegian hytte.

exquisitely atmospheric. uses extenuating circumstances in some of the most delicious ways. builds character and interpersonal dynamics through those small little elements of storytelling (draco in knitwear! brynjar the dog! the mundane pillowtalk! the quirks of their miscommunication!) that go the longest way in having characters leap off the screen into your personal space. also the sex in this is absolutely mind-blowing, i was hooked on every glorious word.

truth to materials (co-written by lately) (E, 58k)

In which Harry learns to appreciate art and other pleasures of the flesh.

decadent. in premise, in language, in characterisation, just absolutely decadent. this version of harry, bewildered and captivated by draco's out-there artistry is one of the funniest and most endearing i've encountered in fic, ever. his head, so full of determination and good intentions and terribly flawed and completely believable thinking, was such a brilliant place to set this fic. and draco— lord. you know that moment of transition, that click, when a piece of art goes from something untouchable and distant to a soulful thing you keep close because you recognise it as a cultural, emotional response? this fic felt like a literary project trying to capture that click, except it's a shift in perspective about a person. draco— the cool, untouchable, subversive artist who becomes irrevocably, warmly, achingly human.

probationary action (E, 63k)

As part of the terms of the probationary contract, DRACO LUCIUS MALFOY shall submit for inspection his WAND on the last day of every month, such inspection to be carried out by a duly registered and fully qualified AUROR in the employ of the MINISTRY OF MAGIC, and such inspection to include a PRIORI INCANTATEM spell to ensure that no PROHIBITED MAGICS as heretofore described have been practised by the aforementioned probationer.

*incoherent screaming*. a fic that starts with a premise so lighthearted and filthy that you think it's going to be a long, kinky fic about two rather hilariously perverted men getting it on, except it also gets into some of the most resonant discussions of post-war revenge tactics and human rights neglect i've ever read. the dynamic between harry and draco is simultaneously so light and so weighted, this is a fic that holds you down and keeps you there till you're done.

in conclusion: an entrancing author, a gift of a writer. i can't wait to see what else they have in store for this fandom.

#drarry #drarry fic rec #drarry fic #drarry fanfic #geets recs #hpdm fanfic #hpdm #draco x harry #toomuchplor #haven't stopped thinking about this author since i first read them #so i thought i'd do something with that #also WHY has tumblr ruined the quality of my header #i am not a reccer forgive me the fact that i have no clue how to rec #i tried

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